| A Word Edgewise by Mary Joe Clendenin |
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| A Word Edgewise by Mary Joe Clendenin |
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I SHARE MY FATHER'S GENES
It's strange how often thoughts of my dad come across my consciousness, after all, he's been dead forty-six years. But the influence he left on this daughter has patterned my life. Just this week, while son Patrick was visiting some of us were sharing stories and many chuckles of laughter from a book, REMARKS, by Bill Nye, copyright 1898. A picture came to mind of dad reading from it to us, almost beyond reading because he was so tickled he shook like a dog with a short tail. We checked his signature in the front of the book and read, "Mr. Sweeny's Cat." When dad got to the part about the cat, Dr. Mary Walker, strolling through the plate glass door he had to stop until he could breathe normally again--we knew the routine, because he had read us the story many times.
You see, Mr. Sweeny was a druggist who set a plate of fly paper in the window of his store to "gather a few quarts of flies in a deceased state." Since that window was a favorite place for Dr. Mary Walker, the cat, to sit and conjure up memories from past lives, she jumped into the window landing with all four feet in the fly paper. She sat down to consider her predicament--and thereby got the fly paper stuck to her person and tail like a sail. She went out through the plate glass door. No one saw her exit, but pieces of fly paper and bits of brindle hair were adhered to the shards of glass. Then scraps of hair and fly paper were found from Baltimore to the Grand Canyon. It's unlikely Dr. Mary Walker ever returned.
I think I must have inherited dad's imagination, because even without the funny picture in the book, I can imagine the look of surprise on the good Doctor's face. Dad did enjoy tall tales and books in general. He read to us often, and it was like opening doors to other worlds.
Joe Fitzgerald was a square man; square shoulders, square face, square feet (he went bare-foot most of the time), with deep-set hazel eyes accentuated by bushy grey brows. From pictures, I see that he had black curly hair when young, but I never knew him then. He was 49 when I was born and grey before I took note of such things. He had me to run the clippers over his head about every two weeks, when I got old enough. He was square of build and not tall, about 5'9", and my fishing buddy in the summer when budding and other nursery business was laid-by. While he took his afternoon nap, I dug the worms and we would go, almost very day, to Greens Creek, or Alarm Creek, or maybe to the Bosque,. He drove while I held the cane poles balanced between the hood and fender of the car and under my window. We counted ourselves successful if we caught a few perch.
Dad was a man of square character, too; honest in dealings and dependable. The fruit trees he sold were guaranteed to be true to name. If a customer paid for an Elberta peach, three years later when it bore fruit, it produced Elberta peaches, not some other variety. After all, he cut the budwood, we budded the seedlings and labeled the rows. He knew what variety was where.
One of the things I learned from dad was not to judge people by appearances. He had friends from many places and settings, Governor W. Lee O'Daniels, practically all the farmers of the county, nurserymen from several states. He, himself, was one of those people who never considered stylish clothes to be important, and in his overalls and slouchy shirt was often judged to be ignorant. He played games with people, making them place judgment and proving them wrong.
I think I learned to love the science of growing things, the wonder of nature, from dad who was an early soil conservationist. He laid off terraces on old over-worked land, planted soil building crops, used organic fertilizer, built water conserving dams, worked with nature. But dad was also a worrier. He worried when it didn't rain, and then worried because it wouldn't quit raining, so they could plow.
Yes, I think of dad often. He didn't talk much, but liked to write, as evidenced by articles to various papers and magazines and a bulk of correspondence. Not one to show his feelings or tell me he cared, I knew he was proud of me and loved me. I was rather a pest many times, but he carried me for miles on his shoulders when I was small and wanted to go with him to check out a field or sample the ripe peaches. We both got bathed in juice and sand stuck to the juice, but that didn't mater, Mr. Joe kept alert to the needs of his fields.
Peafowls, peasants, parrots, chickens, guineas, other birds--except crows--found a haven at Fitzgerald's nursery. He had fence rows left for quails and built Martin houses for bird families. The only hunting allowed was for rabbits which ate the bark from little fruit trees and crows which stole the pecans.
Yes, I carry many Fitzgerald characteristics; most I'm proud of--and I think of dad when moods darken minutes, when books call to me, when the wonder of nature makes me feel lacking, but desiring to find answers. I read about frogs and remember his stories. People ask about Jenny, the ghost of the McDow Hole, and I remember that he was the first to write about her. Forty-six years? How could it have been when I feel him still looking with pride at this strange daughter of his. It must be in the genes--I hope.