Jagged Destinies

These were hard times for my father, Grandmother and the nation, as well. The country was in the midst of a depression. From the encouragement and promises made by our new president, many were looking for new horizons.

There was no great fortune left by Sidney McCaffrey, my Grandfather, when he died during the mid 1920’s. The homestead and the dilapidated farm equipment that was left to, Flo, my Grandmother, left her in a temporarily manageable position. The two story clapboard house with the wide front porch looked out on to what was once green farmland. The house had worth but it was only a place to rest and die. The land held significance and was as valuable to Granny as life itself. Even as newlyweds, my grandparents plowed and planted; their life was centered around the land. Their fruit cellar had always been stocked from their productive harvest. Many stored jars of edibles weighed heavy on the dark cool shelves. From babyhood my father had accompanied them to the market by wagon and years later by truck to where the produce was sold. In time he was taught to work the land and tend to chores after school. Much to Granny’s dismay, farming held little interest for her son. It was the journey to the market with all its animation that aroused him. The market meant excitement as people scattered about, lifting their crates to and from their vehicles, women wearing printed dresses without aprons, rustled by. Ankles were exposed. High laced up shoes were becoming a part of the past. It was an erratic sight, the giggling caterwauling girls as they circled and skipped about the streets, and the horns blowing in different directions. he considered these days a marveled grandeur and absorbed the reality in full. The farm with its picturesque beauty and fresh aroma from the jostled earth lacked these stimulants. No longer was the phonograph in the hermitage parlor enjoyable. The voices with imaginary faces from a black pivoting disk became merely reposeful. During these early years my father often sat on the porch steps and contemplated. He stared into space beyond the green fields and dreamt of the many places he had read about. He had a wandering heart. Now he was a man and had responsibilities.

I chose to believe that, my father, was one of the millions of Americans that took to the open road looking for work. I was a week old when Granny assured him I would be cared for.

"Carl, don’t worry about Emily and me, we’ll be fine." These were the words he heard when he departed from us.