Bonanza
Jo
Ann
Beard
MY
GRANDMOTHER
MARRIED A
GUY
NAMED
RALPH,
about
a
year
and
a
half after
Pokey,
my
real
grandfather,
died
of
a
stroke
in
the
upstairs
bedroom
of
Uncle
Rex's house.
At
Grandma and
Ralph's wedding
ceremony
a
man
sang
opera-style,
which took the
children
by
surprise
and
caused
an
uproar
among
the
grandchildren,
who
were
barely
able
to
sit
still
as
it
was.
Afterwards,
there
was
white cake
with
white
frosting
in
the
church basement
and
bowls
of
peanuts.
My
mother and
my
aunts
were
quite
upset
about
Grandma
marrying
Ralph
barely
a
year
after their
dad had
died.
They
sat
in
clumps
in
the church
basement,
a
few
here,
a
few
there,
and
ate
their
cake while
giving
each other
meaningful
looks,
shaking
their
heads
ominously. My
grandmother,
a
kind
woman,
was
way
above
reproach.
So,
it
was
all
Ralph's
fault.
He
took
her
to
Florida
on a
honeymoon,
a
place
where
no
one
in
the
family
had
ever
been.
There
was
an
ocean
there.
They
walked
the
beach
morning
and
night,
and
Grandma
brought
home
shells. She divided them
up
evenly,
put
them
in
cigar
boxes
and
gave
them
to
each of her
thirty-five
grandchildren.
The
cigar
boxes
were
painted
flat
white and
pictures
cut
from
greeting
cards
were
glued
to
the
top:
a
lamb,
a
big-eyed kitty,
a
bunch
of flowers.
I
always
imagine
my
grandmother,
on
that
trip
to
Florida,
walking
in
the
foamy
tide,
picking
up
dead
starfish,
while
Ralph
sat
silently
in
a
beach
chair,
not
smiling
at
anyone.
When
we'd drive down
to
Knoxville for
a
visit,
everyone
would
be
hale
and
hearty,
the
food
eaten,
the
iced
tea
drunk,
the
new
rag rugs
admired,
and
then
we'd
pile
back
into
the
car
for
the
hour
ride home.
Ralph
was
always
grouchy
and
harsh,
with
big
fingers
that
he
pointed
at
everyone
while he
talked.
As
soon as we
pulled
out
of the
driveway,
my
mother
would
look
at
my
father
and
say,
"That old
sonuvabitch,
I'd
like
to
kill
him."
One time
I
went
to
visit
Grandma
and
Ralph
for
a
week
right
after
having
learned
how
to
whistle.
I
whistled
at
all
times,
with dedication and
complete
concentration.
When
I
was
asked
a
question
I
whistled the
answer,
I
whistled
along
with
people
as
they
talked,
I
whistled
while
I
worked,
I
whistled while
I
played.
Eventually
they
made
a
rule
that
whistling
was
forbidden
in
their house.
I
felt
bereft
and didn't
know
what
to
do with
my
52
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lips
if
I
couldn't
whistle.
I
would
blow
gently,
without
making
a
sound,
while
helping
my
grandmother
get
dinner.
She
must
have felt
sorry
for
me
because
she said
once,
kindly,
"Honey,
you
can
whistle
when
you're
outside."
But
that
was
no
comfort
to me.
Part
of the
joy
of
whistling
was
knowing
that
it
was
always
available,
you
carried
the
equipment
right
on
your
own
face.
If
I
couldn't
whistle
at
all
times,
then
I
didn't
care
to
whistle
outdoors.
I
couldn't
wait
to
get
home,
where
no
one
could make
me
do
anything.
Grandma
and
Ralph
both
worked,
so
when
I
went
to
visit
I
had
hours
and
hours
each
day
to
occupy
myself.
Grandma
took
care
of
senior
citizens,
some
of them
younger
than
she
was,
shut-ins and
disabled
folk who
needed
company
and
assistance
with
some
of
the
necessities?cooking,
talking.
She
was
a
volunteer.
Ralph
was a
butcher and
a
sheep-shearer.
He
drove
a
panel
truck
out to
people's
farms
and
killed
their
cattle
for them.
Eyes
like
pebbles,
tanned
face
pulled
into
a
knotty
smile,
bald head
glinting
in
the
sun,
a
foot-long
knife
blade
aimed
at
unsuspecting
furred
throats. After
wards
he
would
use a
garden
hose
to
spray
out
the back of
his
truck. White
walls
and
floor,
pools
and
spatters
of brilliant red.
I
glimpsed
it
once,
without
knowing
what
I
was
looking
at.
I
remember
thinking,
"That looks
like blood."
It
never
occurred
to
me
it
was
blood.
The
sheep,
after
being
sheared,
stood
stunned,
in
masses,
their sides
heaving, long
cuts
and
gashes
on
their
pink, exposed
skin. The wool stank
like
crazy
and
lay
in
mounds
everywhere,
gray
and
filthy.
I
was
taken
along
on
his
sprees,
sent
off
to
play
with
complete
strangers,
farm
children,
while he
went to
work
with
his
long
knife,
his
buzzing
clippers.
I
was
known for
being
sensitive
to
the
plight
of
farm
animals and bunnies
killed
on
the
road,
but
I
steadfastly
refused
to
acknowledge
what
was
taking
place
on
those
visits.
I
went
along
with Grandma
sometimes,
too.
I
saw
a
lady
who
slept
in
a
crib,
curled
like
a
four
year
old,
so
tiny.
She
stared
out
from the
bars
at
me
with blank blue
eyes.
My
grandma
helped
her husband
turn
her
over.
Their
living
room
smelled like
pee
and
something
else.
We
had
a
covered
dish for
the husband
in
our
trunk and
I
carried
it
in.
The old
woman
had
white hair
that
stuck
up
in
patches
on
her head.
I
couldn't
get
over
that she
slept
in
a
crib,
and
I
couldn't
stop
looking
at
her.
My
grandma
called
out
to
her
before
we
left.
"Eva!"
she
called,
"we
brung
Walter
your
noodle-ring!
But
it
don't
taste
nothing
like what
you
made;
I
didn't have
pumpernickel
so
I
used white!" The
words
of
grown-ups
rarely
made real
sense
to me.
But
53
Eva
understood,
and
smiled
faintly
at
us,
her blue
eyes
staring
through
the
bars.
"Oh,
I
got
her
smilin',"
my
grandma
crowed. Walter walked
us
out
to
the
car
and stood
while
we
drove
away,
a
wide
man
in
overalls and
a
pressed
shirt.
He
waved
to us
by touching
his
temple gently
with
two
fingers
and
then
pointing
them
at
us.
I
waved
back
at
him
that
way.
But
mostly
I
stayed
behind,
at
their
house,
and wandered
through
the
rooms,
picking
things
up
and
putting
them back down.
There
were
unimaginable
treasures
there,
old
things
that
you
didn't know the
purpose
of,
beautiful
spindly-legged
furniture,
and
things
with
exotic,
lost
names.
Chiffarobes
and
highboys,
antimacassars and
lowboys.
Every
surface of
every
wall
was
covered,
and
nearly
every
inch of
floor
space
was
too.
Only
in
the
middle
of
each
room
was
a
cleared
space
for
living,
a
more
or
less
empty
zone.
Jars
of
buttons,
every
kind
imaginable,
homemade
ones,
bone
ones,
small
pink
and
white
ones
("Them're
for
a
baby's
dress,"
she told
me),
enormous
black
ones.
They
were
endlessly
fascinating
to
me,
all their
colors
and
textures,
the
satisfying
churrr
as
they poured
out
of the
jar
and
onto
a
table.
I
didn't
quite
know what
to
do
with them
then;
they
seemed
to
call
out
for
some
special
kind of
play,
something
that would
lend
itself
to
a
pile
of buttons.
But
I
could
never
think of what
to
do with them
next,
so
I
would
put
them
back
in
the
jar,
put
the
jar
back
on
the table
or
shelf
or
closet
that it
came
from,
and
wander
on
to
the
next
thing.
A
small drawer
in
a
small
dresser,
long
thin
tools with carved
handles,
a
whole
bunch
of
them
rubberbanded
together.
"Them're
buttonhooks,"
she told
me,
"from
when
you
had
buttons
on
your
shoes."
I
didn't
know
what
she
was
talking
about
and
set
them back
in
their
small
drawer,
closed
it.
On
almost
every
surface there
was
an
antique
vase
with
a
bouquet
of flowers
in
it,
set
in
the
middle
of
a
starched
doily.
Beautiful,
exotic
blooms,
all
plastic,
all covered
with
a
heavy
layer
of dust.
"They
throw
'em
away,
just
like
they
didn't
cost
money,"
my
grandma
would
explain.
I
spent
long
days
of
blistering,
stupefying
boredom
in
that
house,
opening
the
refrigerator
and
staring
into
it
forty
times
in
an
afternoon.
Butter, milk,
bowls
with
clumped
food
visible
through
their
Saran
wrapped
tops.
There
was
stuff
to
eat to
make
you
go
to
the
bathroom,
stuff
to
drink
to
make
you go
to
the
bathroom,
and
then
several
things
to
make
you
stop
going
to
the
bathroom.
Nothing
sweet
whatsoever. She'd
make
a
batch
of
cookies before
I
came
and
put
them
in
the
fat-chef
cookie
jar.
I
54
would
eat
all the
cookies
on
the
first
morning,
and then hunt
relentlessly
the
rest
of
the
week
for
something
sweet.
I
would remember the
cookies?
greasy
peanut
butter
ones
with,
peanuts
stuck
in
them,
or
chocolate
chip
ones
with
oatmeal?with
a
kind of
hysterical
longing.
I
couldn't
believe
I
had
eaten
every
one
of them
the first
morning.
What could
I
have
been
thinking?
I
ate
sugar
cubes from the
sugar
bowl,
one
every
hour
or
so.
They
were
actually
too
sugary
and each
time
I
ate
one
I
swore
I
wouldn't do
it
again.
But
another
hour
later
would
find
me
creeping
sock-footed
out
to
the
kitchen,
lifting
the
plastic
lid
of
the
sugar
bowl,
and
selecting
another.
Sometimes
I
would
jump
energetically
on
the
beds,
two
twin
ones
that
were
in
the
room
where
I
slept.
I'd
kung
fu all
the embroidered throw
pillows
onto
the
floor,
and
then
jump
and
jump
and
jump,
saying
a
Chinese
jumprope
chant: "Chicka-chicka
China,
sitting
on a
fence,
tried
to
make
a
dollar
outta
fifty-nine
cents,"
until
I
was
so
out
of
breath
I
had
to
collapse
on
my
back
and wait for the
rotating
fan
to turn
in
my
direction.
Oh,
the
rotating
fan.
The
lovely rotating
fan,
something
that
moved
of its
own
accord
in
the
dead house
during
the
long
afternoons.
I
would
set
the
rotating
fan
on a
footstool
in
the
long,
narrow
bedroom.
My
job
was
to
feed
Kleenexes into
it
and then
pick
up
the
shredded
pieces.
By
the end of
one
of
those
stultifying
afternoons,
I'd have
an
empty
Kleenex
box
and
a
whole
wastebasket
full of soft
pink
confetti. Once
I
took
an
ancient roll of
toilet
paper
out
from
under
the
skirt
of
a
knitted
doll
that
sat
on
the
back
of the
toilet.
I
thought
I
could
start
one
end
of
it and the
fan
would
suck it
through
and
I
could
just
stand back
and watch without
worrying
about
my
fingers.
It
was
too
papery,
though,
not
soft
enough,
and it
didn't
work.
A
big piece
tore
off and flew
through
the
blades
without
shredding.
Nobody
ever
questioned
where the Kleenexes
went
when
I
was
visiting,
but
once
my
grandma
gave
me
another
white-painted cigar
box that
was
full
of
handkerchiefs,
neatly
pressed
and folded.
Every
kind
imaginable:
flowered,
embroidered,
ones
with
Scottie
terriers,
ones
with lace
edges,
the
whole
bit.
They
ate
terrible
food,
things
mixed
together
that weren't
supposed
to
be. Mashed
potatoes
with
corn
in
them,
pieces
of
white
bread with
gravy
poured
on
top,
peas
and
carrots
in
the
same
bowl.
And
Ralph's
eating
was
an
all-body experience.
He'd
have
a
dish towel tucked
into
his
collar and
55
hold
spoon
and fork
in
his
enormous
paws.
He'd
get
something
on
the
spoon,
a
great
gob
of
potatoes,
say,
and then
open
his mouth
as
wide
as
it
would
go,
like
a
bird
in
a
nest
getting
fed
a
chewed
worm.
He
had
deep
creases
on
either
side of
this
mouth,
and
as
he
chewed
gravy
would
run
down the
gullies
in
rivulets,
land
on
the dish towel and
stay
there.
It
was
an
amazing
and
horrifying thing
to
watch.
I
had
a
sensitive
stomach
and
sometimes,
sitting
across
from
him,
eyes
carefully
averted,
fastened
on
the
Aunt
Jemima
potholder
hanging
on
a
hook
or
a
pan
lid with
a
screw
and
a
block
of wood
jimmied
up
for
a
handle;
at
those
times,
just
hearing
him
eat
could make
me
gag.
I
was
in
the
habit
of
rising
from
the
table and
walking
around the kitchen
every
few
minutes,
breathing
through
my
nose
to
keep
from
gagging.
Then I'd
sit
back
down,
pick
up
two
peas
with
my
spoon,
and
put
them
in
my
mouth. This
is
what
my
grandma
said
to
me
once:
"Eat
your
chicken,
why
don't
you?
And don't take the skin
off,
that's what's
good."
They
were
trying
to
make
me
eat
something
with
skin
on
it.
At
my
own
house,
everyone
knew
enough
not
to
say
skin
in
relation
to
food.
My
grandma,
when she
was
cooking
dinner,
would
send
me
down
to
the
fruit
cellar for
jars
of
home-canned
stuff.
Then when
I'd
bring
them
up
she'd
open
the
jars
and
smell
the
contents
thoughtfully;
sometimes she'd
have
me
take the
jar
outside
to
where
Ralph
was
and
have
him
smell
it. He
always
said the
same
things:
"There ain't
nothing
wrong
with
that,
tell
her,"
or
he'd bawl toward the house
as
I
was
walking
back
in, "Maw,
that'll
be
okay
if
you
cook
it
a
little
longer!"
Once
she served
me
red
raspberries
that
she'd
put
up;
poured
them in
a
plastic
bowl and
put
cream
on
them.
As
I
started
to
dig
in
I
noticed
that
there
were
some
black
things
floating
around.
"Grandma,
there's
bugs
in
this,"
I
said. She
came over
and
looked
into
my
bowl,
head
tipped
back
to
see
out
of
the
bottoms of
her
glasses.
"Them're
dead,"
she
told
me.
"Just
push'em
to
the
side;
the
berries
is
okay."
And
I
did,
and
the
berries
were
okay.
At
night
we
watched
one
show
on
TV and
then had
to
go
to
bed,
when
it
was
still
a
little
bit
light
out.
They'd
go
in
their
room
and
my
grandma
would
come
out
.with
her
nightgown
on
and her
teeth
out
to
tuck
me
in.
It
was
awful.
I'd
be
lying
stiff
as a
plank
under the
bedspread
and
here
she'd
come,
without her
regular
clothes
on,
with her
arms
and feet
exposed,
her
mouth folded
in
on
itself.
"G'night honey-Jo,"
she would
lisp,
pat
me
on
the
shoulder and
turn
out
the
light.
And there I'd
be,
while
they
snored
up
56
one
side and down the
other
in
the
room
across
the hall. I'd
tiptoe
all
over
the
bedroom,
gazing
for
a
while
out
the
window,
watching
the
sky
turn
black,
the
stars come out.
I'd
quietly
open
all the
drawers of all
the dressers
in
the
room,
take
out
things,
examine
them,
put
them
back.
I
didn't
dare
jump
on
the
bed,
although
sometimes
I
said
"Chicka-chicka
China"
to
myself
out
of
boredom.
I
tried
counting
sheep
like
on
the
cartoons,
but
I
couldn't
concentrate,
couldn't
for the life of
me
imagine
what
sheep
looked
like.
I
knew but
I
didn't
know,
just
as
I
couldn't
conjure
up
the
faces
of
my
long-lost
parents
and
siblings.
I
was
wide
awake,
staring
out at
the
vast
Milky
Way
while
the
grown-ups
snored
on
and
on
and
the
moon
rose
and
sank.
The
strange
thing
was
I
always
asked
to
go
there.
I
don't remember them
ever
inviting
me,
or
my
parents
suggesting
it.
It
was
me.
From
far
away
the
idea of their house
was
magical
to me:
all
those
nooks,
all
those
crannies,
all
those
things
to
play
with?the button
jars,
the
lowboy
with
a
little drawer
full of
marbles,
the flower
arrangements,
the
rotating
fan.
So,
every
July
I
got
dropped
off
on a
Sunday
and
picked
up
the
following Sunday.
By
Tuesday
I'd be
counting
the
hours,
sitting
on
the
backyard
glider,
staring
at
the black lawn
jockey
and the
flagstone
path
that
took
you
to
the
garden,
the
broken bird bath with
a
pool
of
rusty,
skanky
water
in
it.
Their
yard
had
as
much stuff
in it
as
their house
did,
only
the
yard
stuff
was
filthy,
full of
dirt and
rainwater.
The
last time
I
went
there
my
parents
drove
off
on a
Sunday
afternoon
as
I
stood
on
the
gravel
sidewalk
and
waved,
already regretting
my
visit.
My
grandma
fed
us,
dinner
was
the usual
ordeal of
gravy
rivulets and
tainted
food,
and
then
they
turned
"Bonanza"
on.
I
lay
on
the
living
room
floor,
in
the cleared-out
space
in
the
center;
on
either end of the
couch
were
Grandma and
Ralph.
She
was
crocheting
an
afghan
and
he
was
sharpening
a
stack of scissors.
We
were
watching
my
favorite show. The
dad, Ben,
had
a
buckskin
horse
with
a
dark
mane
and
tail,
Hoss had
a
thin-legged
black
one,
and
Little
Joe
had
a
pinto
pony
with
an
intelligent
and
young
face,
just
like Little
Joe
himself.
They
had
Hop-Sing
for
a
servant,
in
place
of
a
mom.
Back
home
my
little brother
would be
humming
to
himself
through
the whole
show,
"Umbuddy-umbuddy-umbuddy-ummm
Bo-nanza,"
and
everyone
would
be
telling
him
to
shut
up.
My
mom
would be
smoking
her
cigarettes
and
drinking
beer
out
of
a
bottle;
my
dad
would have his socks
off
and
be
57
stretching
his bare
toes,
drinking
his
beer
out
of
a
glass.
My
sister
would be
trying
to
do homework
at
the
dining
room
table.
Here
I
was
with
Grandma
and
Ralph,
staying
up
one
hour later than
I
would the
rest
of
the
century-long
week.
Little
Joe
falls
in
love with
a
school teacher
who
comes
past
the Ponderosa
in
a
buggy.
He
kisses her
a
long
one,
it
stretches
out
forever
in
the
silence of
the
living
room.
There
isn't
a
sound
from
behind
me,
on
the couch.
No
one
is
moving
while the
kiss
is
going
on.
It's horrible.
I
look around the
room,
at
the
pictures
that
cover
every
inch of wall
space,
my
aunts
and
uncles and
their
families,
framed
sayings
from the
olden
days, plaques
with
jokes
about
outhouses,
a
pair
of
flying
ceramic ducks with
orange
beaks and
feet,
and
on
and
on.
Too
much
to
look
at.
The
pecking-hen
salt and
pepper
shakers,
the
donkey
with
a
dead
plant
coming
out
of his
back,
the
stacks
of old
magazines
under
tables
and
on
the
seats
of
chairs.
Underneath
me
are
three
scatter
rugs,
converging
their
corners
in
a
lump
under
my
back.
Rag
rugs,
one
of
them
made
from
bread
wrappers.
Hoss
Cartright
saves
the
school
teacher when
her horse shies
and
now
she's
in
love
with him.
Little
Joe
tries
to
punch
Hoss
out
but he's
too
little.
Behind
me
my
grandmother's
knitting
needles
click
together
in
a
sad
and
empty
way,
Ralph's
breathing
is
audible
over
the
scratch of scissor-blades
on
stone.
In
the
dim
circle
of
light
that
I
lie
in,
my
head
cushioned
on
an
Arkansas
Razorback
pillow,
I
feel
completely
separate
from them because
of the
simple
fact
that
in
seven
days
I
will be
rescued,
removed
from this terrible
lonely
place
and
put
back
in
the
noisy
house
I
came
from.
It
occurs
to
me
that Grandma and
Ralph
have
nothing, they
don't
even
enjoy
"Bonanza"
all
that
much,
they
just
turned
it
on
because
my
mom
told
them
to
let
me
watch
it.
There can't be
anything
for
them
to
enjoy,
with
their
long
empty
days,
full of
curled-up
old ladies
and
dirty
sheep.
They
don't
even
drink
pop.
I
am
crying
on
the
floor,
the
tears
go
sideways
and land
coldly
in
my
ears
or
on
the velveteen
pillow.
I
can't
bear,
suddenly,
the
way
the
television
sends
out
its
sad blue
light, making
the
edges
of
the
room seem
darker.
A
coffee
can
covered
with
contact
paper
holds
red,
white and blue Fourth
of
July
flowers,
taken
from
a
dead
person.
I
wish
suddenly
that
my
grandma
was
dead,
so
she wouldn't
have
to
knit that
afghan
anymore.
The
rest
of the
year,
while
I'm
back home
and
playing
with
my
friends,
this
is
where
my
grandma
is,
her
needles
going,
her
teeth
in
the bathroom
in
a
plastic
bowl.
58
My
ears are
swimming
pools,
and
I
feel
trapped
suddenly
inside the small
circle
of
light
in
the
center
of
the
room.
I'm
tiny
Eva,
watching
Little
Joe
Cartwright through
the bars of
my
crib,
I'm
a
monkey,
strapped
into
a
space
capsule
and
flung
far
out
into
the
galaxy, weightless, hurtling
along
upside
down
through
the
Milky
Way.
Alone, alone,
and
alone.
Against
my
will,
I
sob
out
loud.
I
turn
over
and
weep
into
the Arkansas
pillow,
wrecking
the velveteen.
Suddenly
my
grandma's
hand
is
on
my
hair,
her
poor
sad and
empty
hand,
the
knitting
needles
have been
set
down.
There
is
telephone
talk,
and muffled
comments
from
Grandma
to
Ralph,
from
Ralph
to
the
person
on
the other
end
of the
phone.
My
nose
is
pressed
against
the
pillow
and
I'm
still
crying,
or
trying
to.
I
suddenly
want to
hear
what's
going
on
but
I
don't
have the
nerve
to
sit
up.
My
clothes
are
gathered,
the
television
is shut
off,
I
am
walked
outside
and
put
in
the back
seat
of
their
great
big yellow
car.
In
the
back
window,
there's
a
dog
with
a
bobbing
head
that
I
usually
like
to mess
around
with
when
I'm
riding
in
the
car.
I
don't
even
bother
to
look
at
it. I
just
stare
out
the
back window
at
the
night
sky.
After
about
a
half hour
of
driving
we
pull
over
and
sit
at
the side
of
the
road.
I'm
no
longer weightless,
but
unbearably heavy,
and
tired.
My
dad
pulls
up
with
a
crunch
of
gravel,
words
are
exchanged
through
open
windows,
quiet
chuckles,
I
am
placed
in
the
front
seat
between
my
parents.
We
pull
away
and
as
we
head
toward
home,
the
galaxy
recedes,
the
stars
move
back
into
position,
and the
sky
stretches
out
overhead,
black and
familiar.
They've
decided
not to
hassle
me
about this. "What
happened,
honey?"
my
mom
asks
once,
gently.
"'Bonanza' made
me
sad,"
I
reply.
59
