Seneca Rock

Seneca Rock

Postcard sent from my grandfather to his estranged wife in December of 1943.

The legend reads “Seneca Rock 900 feet high, overlooking old Seneca Indian Trail or Warriors Path, which was the Indian Highway from New York to the South in West Virginia.”

A climbing friend of mine has “been to the top of that rock more times that I can count via a hundred different routes. I have no doubt some of those Native Americans took a detour to the summit too. The right-hand peak is only about three feet wide at the top, a person can sit with each foot dangling over the opposite valley.”

The postcard reads in a crimped script:

Darling-

Arrived as usual, O.K. Will be in Montgomery for part of next week, so don’t fail to write. Do you still remember? Keep smiling.

Be seeing you.

          Love Del.

It was one of two mailings sent from Mullens, WV in the same day. A letter and this card went to two different addresses in Mon City. He was either unsure exactly where she was staying or simply wanted to cover all bases.

He was thirty eight at the time and had three kids who had been shipped off to his mother.

Mulberries

The mulberries stained hard-deep purple bruises across the back of my shirts. Ma never minded though. They were her Dad’s trees and we only saw them when we visited the old place. She kept a few of the stained shirts, clean otherwise, in a drawer and would have me wear them around the apartment where we lived in town. She’d hug me and run her hands over the splotches which I couldn’t feel but she could. She’d whisper “Daddy” and sometimes cry.

I climbed one of those trees once. Not too high-I was a little kid-but high enough that the inevitable fall left me splatted and dazed, flat on my back. Lying there, the sun leaking through the purple flecked leaves, a man took shape. A man I wouldn’t meet for years.

He was big and dark, up from the Islands to live with his daughter next door for the summer. He was wearing a clean white T-shirt that stretched sorely across his bulk. The sun glistened off his head as he picked mulberries into a dented pot from a tree in the park across the street.

“Daddy!”, his daughter cried her accent only revealed when she was agitated. “Don’ pick the berries! People up here will tink you too country!” She said this running in her bare feet. His smiling eyes caught mine.

“She say dat til she taste da pie…” he said. Then he laughed a rolling rumble that I couldn’t help but join.

January 19, 2018

anna

Anna Yanni was born 22 days after my father in 1931.

She never had a Christmas morning where-as the only child

The room would be full of gifts for the gift.

She never played in the yard or worked in her grandfather’s garden.

She didn’t go to school.

Never acted in the high school production of Best Foot Forward,

Never went to art school-never drew a thing.

Didn’t spend 18 years in the Army Reserves

Pushing and being pushed.

Never worked,

Never laid a brick.

Didn’t marry, raise children,

Worry, love, be paralyzed by fear.

Be proud, prideful or exult.

Yell!

Work, play, fish

Have friends, have family,

Watch the Steelers,

Live, love, laugh, drink,

Die at home.

Maybe that last. Probably.

For 16 days why even leave Heaven?

Who booked her on that cruise?

Who was little Anna sent to serve

Or to save?