Grandmother Draper's House

It was 1997, and I had stopped wrestling on the wrestling team, stopped playing football and lacrosse, and my old lacrosse stick just stood in a corner in my room next to the saxophone, which was a family air loam given to me by my grandmother Draper, who is my father's mother. The only sport I did was weight lifting, and my body looked the part. I maintained a part time job at the Mc Donald's that sat in front of Carver Center for Arts & Technology. The MC Donald's was situated to the right side, and a two lane street intersected with York Road in Towson Maryland that flowed directly into the front parking lot into Carver. If you didn't know that street culminated into Carver's parking lot, you would soon find out to your dismay if that was not your destination, but, for those people who treasured the knowledge espoused within Carver's walls were ecstatic about arriving once again to Carver.

I was a junior, 11th grader, at Carver. My writing preference bent towards novels. Poetry was something I did on the side or for assignments. Don't get me wrong, poetry was good, but at that time novel writing was better. News reporting was not even in my thought process. Amid these youthful times, I fancied myself on writing novels because of the intellectual creative planning and writing it took for me to accomplish the completion of a novel. In addition to novel writing, I used my journal writing to explore the vacations I had in Virginia.


Grandmother Draper spent the majority of her life working and living in Martinsville. From what she told me, she got married to my grandfather when she was 19 years old. Now, it would seem kind of young to get married at 19, but during the 1920, this was normal. According to my grandmother, grandfather was a carpenter. Assisted with his skills in carpeting and some supportive fellow carpenters, Grandfather Draper built the house that they raised their children in. The house stands till this day, and my Uncle Clyde owns it now. I recount the times when I was a young boy, and my father would send me to my grandmother's house, so I could learn about the life he lived. There was a long rocky paved driveway that connected the main road of the neighborhood to the side of the house. As one drove from the street to the side of the house, the forest made its way comfortably to wrest near the last tree trunk adjacent to the driveway. A few large iron disks like flower pots aged with mold and rust sat tilted halfway in the dry ground with old weather warren out dated flowers and weeds for passer Byers to see. It wasn't a spectacular sight, but it was something for people to see. As perceived by my child like eyes, which were under the age of 10, Grand mom Draper's front yard was a lengthy grassy yard. She had two trees firmly planted in the ground at the end of the yard, and on numerous occasions Cherie, who is my sister, our friends from Grandmother's neighborhood, and I used those trees like they were goal post. We played soccer, football, and whatever other sport came to mind. I distinctively remember my sister and I dug a while in the ground in front of the swing chair, that comfortably sat about 4 people, who desired to swing back, and forth as if they were in a rocking chair. This swing chair sat underneath the tall braches of a tree that we used for shade from the sun during the extremely hot days. If my recollection is correct, and my recollection is about 17 years old, Cherie and I buried a broken GI Joe man, and a one legged Barbie doll about 2 to 4 inches underneath the earth. I don't know why we chose to do that, but I speculate it was probably part of some made up game. To accompany the plethora of games we had made up, Grandmother Draper owned an old rusty wheelbarrow, and we yearned to wheel ourselves around in it. I think Grandmother Draper convinced her son, who was my Uncle Clyde, to clean the rust off the wheelbarrow because once it was returned to us after our previous usage of it, it was practically rust free. It had a wobbly front wheel, which was probably from being used to hull heavy loads to various locations. That day it was going to be used for hulling two little children across the grassy front yard that my sister and I previously used for playing sports. As a youth, my sister was a cheerful and radiant young girl who did what most girls her age did. She chatted with her friends, giggled with other girls, and probably made fun of boys. Since she was the female and I was the male, and let us not forget that she demanded things to go her way, she was the first to enjoy the ride in the wheelbarrow. As expected, I was the mule, and so the mule road the wheelbarrow around the front yard, across the rocky driveway and into the sparse forest that rooted itself in the land known as Grandmother Draper's property. As expected it was finally my turn. Cherie was to be the mule this time. My sister wasn't as strong as me, but she gave it her best, and the entire experience culminated with the wheelbarrow flipping over, and the little boy Bobby, known as me, tumbling to the ground. Apparently, my sister had gotten board with pushing me around the yard in the wobbly wheelbarrow, or she lost her grip, but either way the fun was over. It was time for dinner, and so we went in.

Grandmother's house comprised of numerous objects, and some of them could be labeled artifacts. When one entered through the front door, a staircase leading into the dark second floor, which comprised of 2 bedrooms that were built for usage for my father and my uncle for when they were mere children were situated to the right of the second floor. On the left of the small hallway that separated the two rooms a room designed for a female resided. Upon entry into that room, once could see that it embodied a friendlier atmosphere and even a female touch that the two boys rooms didn't have. I do recount on numerous occasion sleeping in the less friendlier child appealing room, which of course was the room my dad and uncle slept in when they were children. I remember that room was furnished with 2 beds for two people, a bookcase, and on one side a small lamp hanging from the ceiling. During the summer time, the room would get hot like an oven, and at times it was unbearable. As a result, if I desired to take a nap during the day time, I had to sleep on the couch down stairs in the living room. But, I didn't mind. For some odd reason, my grandmother had a bronze statue of former President Abraham Lincoln's head. I tried to go to sleep, but that head of old Abraham Lincoln embodied a ghost like mentality, and it would just stare at me, and we were alone in the dark. I tried turning his bronze face around so he could enjoy staring at the door instead of me, but for some odd reason, my child like mind perceived him as a peeping Tom who occasionally took an opportunity to look back at me. Old Abraham was a peeping Tom and a nuisance, and I had to convey the message in a bold manner to grand mom and Cherie, who slept in grand mom's comfortable beautifully lighted carpeted room.

”So why do you want to sleep in here? You have a room up stairs," grand mom told me as she looked up from her covers that covered her and Cherie from the bottom of the bed to the tip of their chins. I asserted," I like it here. It's comfortable. Besides, you're my grandmother I want to keep you safe." Cherie, who was once sound asleep, cracked a laugh, and so did grandmamma. "What you afraid of the dark boy?" said grand mom. "No, no not me. I just wanted to be near you," I explained. She smiled and approved, and with my pillow and covers in hand, I made a wresting place on the floor near their bed. Finally, I was safe, and that head of Abraham Lincoln was no longer a problem. Besides, there were more artifacts within the walls of grandmother's house than the bronze statue of Lincoln's head, but of course that was the most frightening of them all.

The living room was adorned with a piano that my grandmother used to play and practice various hymns and church songs for when it came time to perform for the small town church in Martinsville Virginia. The church was like many building, in the fact that it was literally miles away from its nearest neighbor. A windy black paved road transverse through the woodsy neighborhood. This road stretched passed the church and some how it made its way to the large interstate, but we rarely traveled that far. Most of our stops in that direction comprised of the church and the dilapidated house of Aunt Oak less and Aunt West. At this small town Church, most of the people in the neighborhood would go to receive religious healing, as it was explained to me. Not to mention, most of the people were some how related to me. They were long distance cousins, from my father's side of the family. Even the white brown headed preacher was some how related to us according to what my grandmother told me. A few people who frequented the church, and resided in the neighborhood were not related to us, but they were family anyway. Within the walls of this church, the quire sang, the church pianist played, and the preacher preached. For some reason my grandmother didn't play piano in the church choir. When I ask why, she said that she was retired, and it was time for the younger generation to take over. One of younger people, my Cousin Oscar, lived the majority of his life in the small town of Martinsville Virginia. He spoke with a strong country accent, and I found out through another cousin of mine that Oscar thought my high top fade, which was 4 inches high, looked like a corn stalk. But it didn't matter, even when he looked at me, laughed and then proceeded to walk on pondering about the height of my fade, I knew there was something the country folk didn't know, and that was that high top-fade was in. Eventually came the slanted fade, and I had that too. My dad was not a fan of it, but he permitted me to wear it. He knew that it was a phase in my life. Once again, it was life. The life long history within grand mom's house that now leads me to another story about the Iron cast stove.

A heavy iron cast stove sat in the kitchen of my grandmother's house. It was retired from use many years ago, and it stayed their as a reminder of the house's past. I remember it being a small black stove with silver iron on the handles, and once gazing your eyes upon it, you knew with certainty that grand mom's house was an artifact in itself. On one of the many summer nights, right after sun set, when the cricket started to sing their songs, Grandmother Draper had dinner cooked. No, she didn't use the black cast iron stove that had been incorporated into the belly of the house upon its construction. Rather, she had a more modern stove, and next to it a sink and next to that a washer and a dryer. Yeah! Grandmother's house was equipped with every modern necessity. Cherie assisted grand mom by placing the silver wear on the table. Clyde and I assisted in eating the food. We weren't much help in preparing the food, but when it came to eating, we made up for the lack of help. Grand mom's table was covered with a plethora of delicious home country cooking. Sweet potatoes, baked potato, fried chicken, broiled chicken, turkey, beef, green beans, corn; mixed vegetables, and corn bread were on the menu. Not every food was seen every day, but everyone received their portion for that day, and we were grateful for what we had. Whoop! Some how amide all of the cooking, mixing, and then eventually eating, we had forgotten about our domestic blond fury ball friend, who took the opportunity to remind us of his presence. That greedy blond fury ball opportunist plotted to relieve Uncle Clyde of his hearty plate of food. Without the slightest per, or wag of his hairy tale, he jumped from the table to seize his prize. Uncle Clyde, who was a former military man, was not going to tolerate any social disorder within the family ranks. Before Cherie and I perceived what happened, Uncle Clyde had back slapped the hairy opportunist from the table, saving his food from being consumed by his subordinate. Our friend was no longer an opportunist as his legs face upward and he crashed side ways into that ancient iron cast black stove. "What you do that for?" I questioned. "You want him eating from your food," my Uncle Clyde said while looking at me for a response. "Oh," I said, and we continued eating as the fur ball, who was now the rejected one, hobbled out of the kitchen. Normally, Uncle Clyde was a calm tranquil individual, but every body had their breaking point. I understood his sentiments. No animal from the lower depths of the evolutionary scale would touch his nourishment. It was not just us that understood that logic, for it now dawned upon the cat too.

Back at Carver:
Journal entries were a major aspect of the Carver writer in learning. During that time in my life, I didn't perceive my travels to Martinsville, Virginia as being an exciting aspects of my life, but now that I have lived a while and I have learned to express myself better, I am able to relay the most mundane of events in the most exciting manner. I thank Allah for sending me to Carver.