My Brother Bill.

This has been a difficult post. It has been through several re-writes and it still does not feel right, but here goes...

Of all of my siblings, Bill’s childhood was the worst. He happened to have been born darker than the rest of us, and our father, in his infinite wisdom, or was it ignorance, prejudice, or just plain stupidity, declared that he was not the father and Bill was not his child. He totally disowned him, accusing our mother of infidelity. It was probably what caused the rift, which became a part of my earliest memories (see my first post). Bill was literally banished from our house, though our mother was not. For the most part, he was raised by our grandmother, called Aunt in Lucky Hill, St. Mary. There were periods when he lived with us, but these were not very frequent and I do not remember him staying with us very long for any one period. In fact, although he was only a year younger, I can only remember two periods when we attended the same school. For most of his childhood, Bill grew up away from his family.

I can only imagine the bitter hurt, resentment, and animosity he must have felt growing up.

For my part, I never really thought much about it while I was growing up. It was the way things were. I lived in Ocho Rios with our mother and father, and Bill lived in Lucky Hill with Aunt, his grandmother. Occasionally, I had to spend time with Aunt in Lucky Hill, and Bill would spend some holidays with us in Ocho Rios, and that was that. When my parents finally divorced, the separation became more permanent, and we hardly ever saw each other. But even then, I never thought much about how he felt being from his mother and father. I never thought of it as unfair, wrong, or unjust; it was just the way things were. Yes, I was glad that I was living in the town of Ocho Rios and not in the bushes of Lucky Hill. But that was the extent of my perception of any inequity.

It was not until I became a grown person that I saw the injustice. It was not just that he had to live in the country with its seclusion and lack of amenities, no running water, no electricity, and the never-ending chores, while I lived in a fairly suburban area with all the amenities of a Jamaican middle-class lifestyle. It was more than that, much more. I can only imagine the exclusion, the feeling that you are not wanted, of being left out, excluded from your own family, a throwaway, of being forced to live as a part of another family for most of your childhood. His hurt and resentment must have cut deep. I know it would have been for me. If the shoe were on the other foot, and I am keenly aware how easily that could have happened, I would have been a total delinquent, with a chip that would have landed me in a grave or a prison a long time ago.

Surprisingly, Bill became the ultimate gentleman. I have never heard him mention a hurt feeling or any derogatory sentiment against our father. Throughout his life, he gave him the utmost respect. He visited him often, even when he was a grown man and did not have to; he still visited him. In fact, I think Bill was the last one of us to have visited him before he died.

Now that I have grown, I have a lot of emotional feelings surrounding this issue that I am still trying to sort through. This blog is a part of that. I cannot undo anything that has happened, nor love my father any less, but I do question his actions. Even if he believed that Bill was not his child, he could have welcomed him more and made him a more integral part of the family!

The good news is that Bill is still my kin and a finer gentleman, a more caring person, a more devoted father and, a more loving brother would be hard to find!

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My First School Fight

I don’t remember how it all started or what it was about really or even who won for that matter. I just remember that the gauntlet was thrown, my pride was at stake and the whole school was turning out to see me muster up and defend myself or turn tail and be forever known as a coward. The latter was simply out of the question so I had to muster up. The danger was not so much the fight but how could a God fearing Jehovah’s Witness who went out every Sunday to his neighbors to preach of the benefits of peace be caught in a fist fight. Somehow if I was to do this I couldn’t let Aunt (my Grand Mother) know as I would get a whipping when I get home and worst I could never let my father get even wind of it for I would get an even more terrible whipping. The latter was a tough one as a little ways down the road from where the fight was to take place was the grocery store owned by my aunt (real aunt, Aunt Lila, my father’s sister) and my father regularly stopped there on his visits to Lucky Hill. My fear of my father was tremendous as a kid and it was a close toss up weather to back down from the fight versus running the risk of my father hearing about it. But my pride was at stake and goaded on by my friends I chose to fight and face the consequences

I don’t remember my contender’s name but we agreed or more likely dared each other to show up after school out on the main road just outside of the school premises. This was the established arena for settling through physical combat differences that were too big to ignore or to reconcile through words. Ours must have started in the morning for I remember that by lunch time the whole school was abuzz with the news of the evening entertainment of my ensuing fisticuff. Secretly I was hoping that the whole thing would not happen so I was devastated when by lunchtime friends started asking me about this upcoming fight. I had figured that contender (he was the Headmasters son) would not risk engaging in a fight anywhere near to the school for surely he knew that his father as the Headmaster (principal) of the school he would have to come down on him pretty hard to dispel any show of favoritism. I guess I figured wrong. I remember that by evening the whole school was talking gleefully about this fight. I might have put up a good front but internally I was devastated and would have welcomed any out.

But evening did come and the big school bell signaling the end of the school day did clang not with normal sonorous clang of celebrating ‘school is over!’ but more the daunting clank of a church tower warning of an impending disaster. My stomach did churn and I was sure everyone could see beyond my posturing front to the fear in my face and the trembling in my knees. I think that day I felt that if the earth could have opened up and swallowed me it would have been a good thing. But non such happened and the inevitable moment did arrive. I had to leave the class room.

Walking outside I remembered being surrounded by my supporters. It was like the entire school was equally divided into two camps. I could see like half the student body was already outside of the school gate and the other half was waiting patiently for me to emerge from my classroom. Then on queue they surrounded me and escorted me out the school gate and into the arena. The moment of truth had come!

Sorry folks but I honestly do not remember much more of the fight itself or the eventual winner and looser. I think I must have one or fought valiantly for after that I was no longer a part of the background scenery but was allowed to now play with the bigger boys.

That was my first school fight and I can only remember fighting two more times, once at Ocho Rios Elementary school and that was against my best friend at the school, both before and after the fight; the second time was against my older brother, I had to show him who was boss, he was a year younger than me.

Next time I will try and fill you in on him.

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My Time At Lucky Hill

My times at Lucky Hill were mostly day trips with an occational summer vacation here and there. But one time I had to spend a whole year there for I remember going to Jeffery Town school there and in fact getting into my first school fight.

I can’t remember the circumstance under which I was sent to Lucky Hill to live but such was the life for myself and my nearest sibling. We both had episodes where we spent a lot of our childhood living away from our parents. His periods in Lucky Hill were much longer, more frequent and emotionally daunting than mine. But none the same I found mine was non the less vexing. Even as a child you realise that Lucky Hill life was not attracting. It was bush; there was no electricity, no running water, only an out door latrine and the kitchen was a shack with dirt floor and only wood fires, no stoves. I think I must have been about the age of 8-9 years old then and in fourth or fifth grade/class. I don't know the exact age I was then or what grades the school covered (it more than likely covred everything that was considered elementary or primary education) I only remembered that I was not old enough to play with the bigger boys but also was not in one of the younger grades.

Life in Lucky Hill meant hard work. A typical school day meant getting up before the sun comes up, and doing your chores around the house. This could mean going to the river to get water, chopping wood for fire for the day, finding the goats or donkeys or whatever animals that were tied out in one of the fields closer to the house and moving them to newer and fresher pasture or helping out in the kitchen to get the morning meal going. These were the chores for the smaller kids, the older ones had to go father and do a lot more. Only when your chores were all done that you could you could then wash up and put on your school clothes and go to school; which was a good three mile walk. When school was over there was no staying back for sports or any extra activities. You expected to hurry home to get your evening chores (planting, picking, weeding, feeding, etc.) done before night fall.

Then on Friday all activities reached a new frenzy as the final preparations were made to get ready to go to market on Saturday. All the stuff that you would be selling had to be gathered from the different fields and the hampers packed and ready for next morning. It was also the night that you did your cooking of coconut oil. This was our main cash crop so all hands were needed. Everyone would be up half the night grating, straining and boiling the extracted coconut milk down into oil. Then early next morning while it was still dark out you would be awaken to get the donkeys loaded and your bundle that you would be carrying on your head ready and then off to market you would go, trudging behind the donkey. And market was no 'round the corner, it was miles away.

Going to market to sell was not a favorite time for me. I was never any good at it and felt totally out of palace. It was not my thing then and is still not today. I am not sure why but I saw no thrill in it nor was I any good at it. Fortunately, either because of my resistance, demeanor, performance or simple ineptitude but I was not frequently selected to go to market. To this day I still find the task of selling very daunting. My wife just has to mention her intention of having a garage sale and I will find every excuse to disappear for the day.

But what I found even uglier than going to market was walking behind the donkey. This felt like the lowliest of the low and this feeling has stuck with me through the years. It became my point of reference for every disappointment. When I was in high school and could not afford football boots or track shoes or just lunch money for that day I always felt that things were still not so bad for at least I was still not walking behind a donkey. And even today when I am passed over for a promotion or endured some perceived slight my knee-jerk reaction is to turn the situation into a positive and commend myself on my accomplishments of how far I have come… from walking behind a donkey.

Do not get me wrong, Lucky Hill was not all that bad. For one, you were never alone. There were five of us kids there, so you were never doing a chore alone and being kids you could make a game out of anything. Even the night before market when you would stay up half the night boiling coconut oil would be fun. We would all be sitting around the fire, husking, grating, straining and cooking; everyone would be working but at the same time we would all be talking and telling stories and before you know it the night went by. We did not know it then but it was quality time, a bonding that cemented the family structure. I guess it is a part of what I am trying to recapture in these bloggs.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about my first fight. I will save that for next time.

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Amy Davis Taylor #2

I can’t believe that almost two months have passed since my last entry. Keep this up and this effort will turn into one of those great start but no follow-through and that is not me. I want to keep this going for a long time but to make it easier I will make each entry shorter, relax the chronological order and write as the spirit moves me.
With that said, I want to go back to Aunt (my grand mother Amy Taylor) for a while.
My last entry was more an introduction but one of the things that I have been rolling around in my head for the last two months was how formidable that woman was.
I can still picture Aunt in her work boots and probably with a basket on her head, a switch in one hand and in the other a rope tied to the donkey before her. The donkey would be loaded; two hampers across its back filled with yams, cocos, dasheens coconuts, bottles of coconut oil, maybe some fruits, a couple of eggs and definitely a couple of bunches of bananas. It would be Saturday morning and she would be on her way to market. There would be one or two of us children in tow to help her. Now someone looking at this picture might think poor woman, how unfortunate her life was, especially knowing that she hardly had an elementary education.
But reflection on it over the last few weeks I have come to the realization that Aunt was pretty well off, at lease compared to her peers. Her house was not a mansion but it was one of the few concrete houses in the district. She might have been cash poor but that was because ever extra penny she could get she would invest it in purchasing land. I don’t have a good count but from memory she had several tracks of land sprinkled all over the district.
One in particular, in an area called Halifax was several acres and was exceptional in the variety of food it produced. She cultivated mostly bananas and coconuts there but it was the first place I saw coffee beans, the only place I ever picked cacao and worked through the whole process of turning it into chocolate (which she sold in the market); she also planted yams, coco, dasheen (which she turned into Bami) as well as a number of fruit trees that just about grew wild. Then there would be one or two cows tied out there, often in calf or getting ready for market. Halifax was a beauty. The only problem with it was that it was a hike to get to. This was tough especially if it was your chore to go there to milk the cow before school. But once in Halifax the pickings were great interms of variety and bounty.
Aunt might have looked like a poor higgler woman eking out a subsistence living but the more I think about it I realize that she was a shred business woman. Until now I always saw her as this basic country woman with a love for wearing men work boots and doing hard manual labor but she could well have been one of the wealthiest of my ancestors! Still, living in Lucky Hill with Aunt was no panacea; it was work, work and more work. I will try and tell you a little about that next time.

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My Great Grand Mother

Directly across the street and about a mile away and also on the very peak of an even higher hill lived Aunt’s mother, my great grand mother (Gran Mumma, I think is what we called her). I remembered very little about her and it's only recently that I re-connected the lineage and realized that she was my Great Grand Mother. She was pretty old, frail and very much inside most of the time so I did not see much of her. She must have been pretty old by time I was born and I saw so little of her so nothing significant stands out and now I can't put a picture of her back in my brain as much as I would like to.

The house I remembered though. In the back, that was the side facing the road, we played cricket, with bats made out of coconut bough and a ball from anything you can device. On the other side of the house was the front door. Next to it was a great big wooden barrel or steel drum for catching the run-off rain water from the roof. One time this drum got infected with mosquitoes laying their eggs so a thin layer of kerosene oil was poured on the surface of the water to kill the mosquitoes (it prevents them from breathing). So in order to get to the water below the this film of Kerosene oil you were suppose to dip your container below the surface and full it before bringing it back to the surface. That way you would not get the kerosene oil on the surface in your container. Try as I might, I could never do it right so every drink I took I would get the taste of kerosene oil. That taste have stayed with me all these years and that is what stands out now in my memory when I think of my Great Grand Mother.

You see, at Lucky Hill water was a precious commodity. For everyone in the district, my grand mother and great grand mother included, water had to be carried from a river on your head. So you treasured it. To get water from the river you would take a container (one that would be fitting for your age and size) and you would go down to this river (it must have been more than a mile away) and you would fill it up and get it on your head and trudge all the way back. Heaven help you if you spilled it for you had go all the way back and do it all over again. I remember a particular part of the trail where the soil was a very red clay (much like my now beloved North Carolina soil) which became very slippery when wet. Invariably, someone would loose a load and that made it slippery and before you know you had a domino effect. It was especially treaterous when it rained for then it was not unusual then for several of us kids to loose two or more loads before successfully negotiating all the way home. That was just some of the hardships of Lucky Hill but I have to come back to that later as I am sort of getting ahead of myself.

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Nemiah Taylor (Daddy)

Aunt was married to Nemiah Taylor (my grand father). We all called him Daddy. He had two other children before the marriage (their names I do not remember) but my mother was the only child from the marriage. He was always a quiet man, in the background but hardly ever heard. He was a carpenter by trade in his early years but became more of a cultivator with Aunt later on. I do not know if he built the original house (two rooms) in Lucky Hill but I knew he did all the additions.

The house sits on the very top of this steep hill about a quarter of a mile from the road (the main road running from Jeffery Town to Gayle). The hill was so steep that not even my father who prided himself on his driving expertise with a Land Rover, could ever get a vehicle up there. To get up there you had to negotiate this very curvy and narrow trail that was filled with rocks and roots and stumps and sheer drop-offs that was just plain scary. But as kids we made it up in the middle of the darkest night without a lamp, and in the days you would come flying down at break-neck speed with only a few skinned knees now and again.

The unusual thing about Daddy was how homely and quiet he was. He was not a Jehovah Witness but he never got drunk, never swear, never stayed out late and I never hear him raise his voice, better still, I do not think he ever ventured beyond the parish of St. Mary. As a carpenter he hired people so in the mornings there would be several people waiting on him and they would go to the job site, him carrying a wooden tool box. They would be back before night fall but he would stay home and did not go out until next morning. That was Daddy, quiet and homely. That sounds very much like me today! That is scary!

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Amy Davis Taylor (Aunt).

Aunt was not my real aunt, she was my grandmother, my mother’s mother; but everyone called her as Aunt, even non relatives. How she got the title I do not know, for she was an only child so she could never be a real aunt to anyone. I guess the title was a Jamaican form of showing respect and at the same time showing appreciation or gratuity. But it was in no way a sign of familiarity for Aunt did not allow familiarity from anyone. She was a strict, bible quoting, no nonsense of a woman.

I have no dates on Aunt but I remember her being old from I was a kid. She never seemed to have aged more as I grew older; only her hair, it got a little whiter. She was a strapping woman, big bosomed and round, with strong hands and ample girth, but not fat; she was all muscle I think. She would work from sun-up to sun-down in back breaking man’s work of cultivating and clearing bush and caring for cows and donkeys, and still come home and cook. Although there was never a contest I am sure she could out-work most men. Aunt was a woman, but she was also a farmer, cultivator, ’higgler’and a mother to varying number of children. She was a special woman. She would plant and cut bananas; dig yam, coco and dasheen; and husked, grate and cook coconut into coconut oil; and she could keep going all day. Then on Saturday it was off to market behind a donkey to sell her wares and on Sunday it was to Kingdom Hall. Those were some of my most poignant memories about her. But the most memorable part was her attire.

For the most part she dressed like the typical Jamaican women from thr 'country parts' of her day, cotton dress, often with a apron around the waist or hanging from the neck and a cotton scarf tied around her hair which was always neatly plaited beneath the scarf; a typical attire But on her feet would be a pair of men’s black leather working boots! I all my years I do not remember ever seeing Aunt in a pair of ladies shoes or even slippers, the boots were a constant. If she was going to the fields she would wear the boots but if she was going to Kingdom Hall or to market she would still wear the boots, but then they would be highly polished. At home she would wear the older ones and without laces, that were her slippers. The truth is though; men’s boots never looked out of place on her!

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