I guess that would be me

The first time I was accused of lying involved a school assignment concerning family trees. I was seven years old, yet it feels as if it occurred just yesterday. When I completed the assignment, my tree looked exceptionally lopsided as I knew very little of the paternal side of my family (with only Mama Booth and Grandpa listed), but my maternal side showed many roots, numerous grandmothers, and three grandfathers.

My second-grade teacher patiently explained the concept of a child, two parents, four grandparents, and possibly one or two surviving great-grandparents. When I attempted to explain that I had Grannymama, Big Mama, Granny Steele, Mama Booth, Granny Hanks, and Granny Hall, the teacher looked at me, sighed, and simply stated, "That's impossible." Then she walked to the front of the classroom and announced that "Shirley apparently has an overactive imagination."

I started crying, elephant tears tracking down my cheeks, and I didn't speak aloud to anyone at school for two years. Looking back at the episode now, I'm amazed how something so silly can be so exceptionally traumatic to my seven-year-old psyche and would quite literally guide my footsteps for the rest of my life.

My earliest memories are of living with my maternal grandparents. The household was made up of Granddaddy and Grannymama; Uncle Johnny; the twins, and their sister Rita (my mother) and me. Mama was rarely at home — she worked shift work at the local nylon plant where she met my stepfather, David E. Hall. When Mama wasn't at work she was sleeping; but, even then, Grannymama never told me I had to stay quiet.

I sat in front of the big floor fan watching the spinning blades, singing "Ahhhhh" to the sound of the blades humming. Johnny would scoot up close to me and we would spend hours watching the blades spin and listening to the differences in sound and tone between Johnny's voice and mine.

Sometimes I danced in dust bunnies that flurried in the sunshine while Grannymama swept the dusty floor of the Gonzalez Community House or beat the throw rugs hanging on the clothesline while Johnny asked if we could drive the logging truck when Granddaddy got home from work.

Our house was built originally as a meeting place for community activities in Gonzalez, Florida. There weren't any walls, just one huge room with beds partitioned off with hanging quilts and a kitchen sink stationed in the far-right corner of the oversized room with flour-sack curtains hiding the few pots and pans stored under the sink cabinet. Granddaddy somehow managed to rent the house, and Mama moved back in with her parents while she was pregnant with me and my father was away in the Navy.

Grannymama was the official babysitter since she was watching over me as well as her own child, Johnny. The twins were twelve when I was born, and Johnny was ten, but because he had cerebral palsy, his tiny frame looked more like that of a six-year-old. Johnny's crutches assisted his walking, but he could maneuver those crutches and swing his body in just such a way that he always outran me.

Uncle Johnny was named after Big Daddy, John B. Godwin. Johnny was more like an older brother than an uncle and he loved to tell me secrets. We often climbed into Granddaddy's log truck, Johnny driving and me set up as look-out, and, in our imaginations, we travelled all over both Escambia Counties, Florida and Alabama.

As Johnny pretended to clutch and shift gears he'd ask, "Have we come up on the crossroads yet?"

I would lean forward, peer out the window, and reply, "Nope, we ain't at the crossroads, we're just now coming up on Palafox, we ain't made it to the diner yet."

We would travel on, Johnny pretend gear-shifting and me giving directions, past St. Regis Paper Mill, where we would hold our noses from the pretend stink of the pulp-mill. Then we continued up Highway 29, with mile after mile of never-ending pine forests. Finally, we pretended to drive all the way into Century and over the viaduct into Flomaton, leaving northwest Florida and entering southern Alabama, both states sharing the same county name of Escambia.

One afternoon as we pretend drove north, Johnny teased me about my last name. He explained how we were related, and how everyone in the house had the last name of Moye except Mama and me. Johnny told me about my Daddy and how much he loved my Daddy but that we had to keep it secret because my Daddy was on a secret mission for the United States Government. He was working undercover to prove a conspiracy and clear the Booth name with the Lincoln assassination. Johnny whispered that we had to keep it a big secret, and he stressed the word, "BIG."

"Your Daddy is going to be famous," Johnny whispered. "Him and Rita took me to the drive-in, and Ples bought me a foot-long hotdog, but it kind of tasted a little funny and I think it's because the bad people were watching us, even then."

"When was that, Johnny?" I asked with amazement.

"It was when Ples came home from the Navy. It was the Navy that gave him undercover duties and that's why he can't tell us where he is." Johnny replied, nodding seriously.

We journeyed on, in our minds, turning right onto Highway 31, then left onto Upper Creek Road passing our Aunt Johnnie Mae's house across the road from their pallet plant. We often giggled about the company being named...