Tim crouched in the corner of his cell. Arms wrapped around his knees, back pressed hard against the wall. Fear and tension stiffened his joins. All around him he heard the sounds of the ongoing riot; banging, cursing, yelling and screaming. He was on the fringe of a warzone and there was no escape.
He was sure the guards had abandoned their post hours ago, or maybe he was growing immune to the sounds of their tazers or the smell of their smoke bombs.
‘They’ve given us up for dead!’ he thought ruefully.
The very people who were supposed to keep this place regulated had fled at the first sign of trouble. Tim wished he could have fled too. The fringe of hell was no place for a guy like him. For anyone, really.
The warning alarm had been droning for so many hours that he hardly noticed it anymore. It was simply a part of the chaotic mix of screams, blaring sirens, and bi-lingual curses, which slowly began to lull him into a restless, but inevitable sleep. God, it felt like years since he’d last slept.
“And I’ll never sleep again if I don’t stay awake!” he said aloud to the empty cell. He checked his waistband to make sure the homemade shank was still there. Devon, his cellmate, had given him the rudimentary weapon, before he ran out to join his gang in the fighting.
“Protect ya’self, aight? I ain’t tryin’ to get a new cellmate ‘n shit.”
“Thanks!” he yelled to Devon’s retreating back. Without the 6’3, 280 lbs other man in the cell, it felt empty and strangely enormous; enormous enough to hide something, which could kill him. As soon as Devon left, Tim clamored off the top bunk and desperately tried to push the steel bed against the cell entrance. It may not stop anyone for long, but it would hopefully deter them and send them off in search of someone else to rough up. But unfortunately Tim wasn’t built like his cellmate. He was only 5’10 and 165 lbs, barely. Definitely not strong enough to move the 200 lbs steel bed frame the 10 feet across the cell to block the door. No all he managed to do was create a little pocket between the bed and the wall of the cell for him to crouch in.
And that’s where he’d been crouching for almost 9 hours. Tim’s lower half was going numb, the stone on the floor and walls were cold, despite the typical California weather. There was no heat or light, besides the low-level blue of the emergency lighting. Water and power were the first things to be cut-off during the melee. The flickering shadows he saw in the hall came from one of the many fires that were burning throughout the prison compound. Ghostly orange flames wafted by casting shadows of 20 foot tall men-like creatures. Truly the fringe...
The sound of breaking glass had died down within the last hour or so. He assumed it was because all the windows that could be broken were. Still no sign of the sheriff or riot police to come in and stop this. Perhaps they really were waiting for the Blacks and Latinos to finish each other off. Waiting and hoping. But where did that leave him, a scrawny half-Black, half-Mexican? Were they waiting for him to be killed off too? Was he just par-for-the-course? When they found his body would just be another dead nigger? Or another dead beaner? Or just another dead darkie? Either way, it was clear that he would be one less problem for the California Penal System and that was really all they cared about.
They didn’t care why he was there, or if he was ever going to get out. Sometime Tim felt himself not caring, not believe that he would ever get out. Sometimes, just sometimes he wished he wouldn’t. Shit was tough in prison, but it was really tough outside.
He could still remember the sentencing hearing, his useless jackass of a public defender smiling at the judge as Tim was sentenced to 15 years, eligible for parole in 10. Tim remembered all too clearly.
He remembered the night that started it all; March 8th. He remembered how hungry he was. He was at the bottom of his luck and there was no way up. He couldn’t go back to the shelter; the last time he was there was a random sweep for people with warrants out for their arrest. So it was off-limits, at least for a while. But, back then he was so determined to avoid jail.
So there he was, cold (yes even California gets cold at night), hungry, and overwhelmingly depressed. He’d been to another one of those useless career centers that day. It was impossible for him to find a job though, with the economy being so shitty. It’d been 5 months since he got laid off. In 5 months he went from renting a decent apartment, to fighting with dogs on the street for a bone from the garbage. But even that was rare, most nights it was just the overwhelming hunger. He learned quickly the pecking order of homelessness. Who got which garbage cans; who could hold signs where. Oh he learned, mostly the hard way.
He wished he’d never run from those cops which got him his arrest warrant. But, he was new on the streets, he just been laid off a month before and cops scared him. He learned growing up, that men in a uniform meant trouble for anyone darker than a glass of milk. So he ran and they chased him. But he was quicker than they were, or maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t worth it them; another homeless spic, in city overrun by the dirty sweaty unwashed masses. He was just one of many problems to them. Another number to be reported, another warrant to be issued, another indigent to be lock-up for the crime of being poor. Another body on the fringe.
So that is how he found himself, on March 8th crouched under a rose bush, his Dodger’s jacket (the last thing his father ever brought for him before he died) spread over him like a blanket. A pain in his right side made him realize, he’d probably lain on a rock. Rolling over, he tried to get back to sleep; he needed to be awake soon, to make sure that he wasn’t found on anyone’s property come sunrise. This time the pain was in his left side; a dull jabbing, that he absently swatted at with his arm. Then he heard it, a woman’s voices gasp.
‘Shit!’ he said as he scrambled to his knees, ignoring the pain of his face and arms being scratched by the thorns on the roses. And there she was, a middle-aged woman, maybe Latino, maybe white, he wasn’t sure at the moment, holding a broom that she was using to jab him in the ribs like some sort of dead animal.
“I’m sorry maam, I was just tired, and so I thought I’d lie down. I’ll be on my way now. “He blurted out in a rush. Grabbing his jacket about him, Tim moved into a crouching position, getting ready to stand up and run off the property. He felt the damp spots on his pants and shirt where the moisture from the ground had soaked into his clothes.
In a flash he stood up, but just as quickly the woman, either startled or angry, let out a shriek to wake the dead. Without thinking Tim leaped forward and grabbed her with his hand over her mouth. He just wanted her to be quiet. He just wanted to leave and not make a scene. But it was too late. Lights were coming on in the surrounding houses, neighbors were coming to investigate. He let he go and turned to run. But even that was not to be. As he turned around he heard the sirens and the now-too-familiar flashing blue and red lights. The woman must have called the cops before she decided to poke at him. The sirens and strobe-like lights sped down the block.
He could have run had he been stronger. Maybe he could have run and gotten away too. But it was hard to focus and think quickly when you hadn’t eaten in three days. Hard to motivate your feet to move when your stomach was so empty it felt like you inhaled a balloon. He hardly even noticed the cramping anymore. But he noticed the lightheadedness, the subtle feeling that something was just beyond your grasp. Some great idea was on the fringe of his consciousness, some idea like running away, some idea like not sleeping on someone’s property; some great idea, just on the fringe of his thoughts, which was only accessible through a good meal and proper bed.
But no sleep and no food make it very hard to focus. So Tim stood there, he stood there as the officer forced him to the ground, handcuffed and threw him into the back of the car. He felt like he was still standing, like time itself just moved around him, but he was still in the same place, when he heard the charges read against him: breaking and entering, resisting arrest, assault and battery, criminal trespassing, evading a warrant. The world shifted around him and he was still standing there.
“How does the defendant plead?”
“Guilty, your honor.”
His lawyer couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just sleep on the street, like a “decent bum” his words, not Tim’s. Tim didn’t explain to him that he didn’t know what a “decent bum” was. He didn’t explain to him that bums got arrested sleeping on the street. He didn’t explain that being a decent bum was what got him his first arrest warrant. It was a crime to be homeless. Tim realized, all too well, how guilty he was.
But that brought him back to now; crouching against a brick wall, sort of like he crouched underneath that rose bush, all those months ago.It seemed the worst of the rioting had died down. He wondered who’d won – the Blacks or the Latinos. Tim was in the new “mixed” cell, in which inmates weren’t automatically segregated by race; some shit about the Supreme Court deciding it was unconstitutional. It wouldn’t matter to him, who won, or who lost. He was on the racial fringe too; one of the only guys in here who hadn’t been in a gang since he was old enough to stand. Caught between two races, he’d never fully belonged to either. Caught between two worlds and now he was crouching in the shadow of hell.
He was on the fringe of society. Cast away like so much useless refuse. Cast away to be caught up in the dragnet called prison; caught up so the rest of the world could go on living their lives. Maybe on the 6:00 news they would catch a story about a riot at “Chino.” Maybe they would hear about the homeless interned in prison for being poor. Maybe someone would hear his story. But he doubted it. He was on the fringe and the only way left to go was down.
Check out the two articles today’s story was based on:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/10/us/10prison.html?bl&ex=1250049600&en=7d16ba3057e2733a&ei=5087%0A
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/09/opinion/09ehrenreich.html?pagewanted=1&_r=2&ref=opinion
Monday, August 10, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Windowpanes
I didn’t remember this, but being here reminded me, of a time when we walked hand-in-hand together and no one said anything. We were young and innocent and no one would think to question our motives. Everywhere I went you went too. Together we were inseparable holding hands, skipping, and jumping; doing whatever it was that we damn well pleased.
It was autumn this particular time, your hand was clutched tightly to mine. Running across the street to the park, a strange light shone in your eyes. A light that I am sure was reflected in mine. We were two kids on a grand adventure and no one was going to stop us. That house across the street from the park (do you remember it?); the house with the huge windows that took up most of the front. You stopped suddenly in front of those humongous windows and let my hand go. I was hurt and for an instant I was confused that suddenly autumn had turned to winter and our spring had soured into fall. But in front of those windowpanes you stopped and looked at me, the queer light of excitement suddenly replaced with a new light. You looked so beautiful then, reflected against those windowpanes with the sun shining on you, like a cherub of God. You took my hand again and stepped closer to me, too close, but not close enough. I swear I felt your heart beating through your clothes, that jacket your mom made you put on so you wouldn’t get a chill in the brisk autumn air. Your other hand raised and looking at you in those mirror-like windowpanes I saw you lean into me. I smelled the shampoo in your hair; I knew what was coming, even if I didn’t know. A kiss; and you tasted like hot chocolate and peanut butter, an intoxicating combination. We stayed like that, neither of us knowing what to do, but knowing just enough to make it right. We closed our eyes and let our bodies mingle, becoming one before the windowpanes.
You died that day. A car accident took your life when we left the park. You flew up so high in the air and then falling like an angel back to Earth. Your neck snapped and then your eyes went black, red blood streamed from your body growing in a pool around you like some crimson flower. When they took you away in that body bag, a part of me died as well, a part of me that will never be recaptured. We were two kids, and now I am one alone. Even here in this graveyard I don’t feel as close to you as I do when I am walking past a window in the glorious sun on a crisp autumn day and I catch the reflection of two boys who thought they had forever.
It was autumn this particular time, your hand was clutched tightly to mine. Running across the street to the park, a strange light shone in your eyes. A light that I am sure was reflected in mine. We were two kids on a grand adventure and no one was going to stop us. That house across the street from the park (do you remember it?); the house with the huge windows that took up most of the front. You stopped suddenly in front of those humongous windows and let my hand go. I was hurt and for an instant I was confused that suddenly autumn had turned to winter and our spring had soured into fall. But in front of those windowpanes you stopped and looked at me, the queer light of excitement suddenly replaced with a new light. You looked so beautiful then, reflected against those windowpanes with the sun shining on you, like a cherub of God. You took my hand again and stepped closer to me, too close, but not close enough. I swear I felt your heart beating through your clothes, that jacket your mom made you put on so you wouldn’t get a chill in the brisk autumn air. Your other hand raised and looking at you in those mirror-like windowpanes I saw you lean into me. I smelled the shampoo in your hair; I knew what was coming, even if I didn’t know. A kiss; and you tasted like hot chocolate and peanut butter, an intoxicating combination. We stayed like that, neither of us knowing what to do, but knowing just enough to make it right. We closed our eyes and let our bodies mingle, becoming one before the windowpanes.
You died that day. A car accident took your life when we left the park. You flew up so high in the air and then falling like an angel back to Earth. Your neck snapped and then your eyes went black, red blood streamed from your body growing in a pool around you like some crimson flower. When they took you away in that body bag, a part of me died as well, a part of me that will never be recaptured. We were two kids, and now I am one alone. Even here in this graveyard I don’t feel as close to you as I do when I am walking past a window in the glorious sun on a crisp autumn day and I catch the reflection of two boys who thought they had forever.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Jones Family History... The Beginning
The following story is a chapter of my family’s history. Some of the names have been changed, but the stories are all true or as true as they have been told to me. Enjoy.
Hello, my name is J. Bryan Jones, but most people just call me Bryan. I’d like to introduce you to the characters and stories that I call my family history. The next couple of weeks we’ll focus on my father’s family, but don’t worry, we’ll get to my mother’s soon enough. But before I begin to tell you their stories allow me to introduce them briefly. We will start with my great-grand parents on my dad’s side; the Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur and his wife the Marquise Vivien Beaucoeur. Reynaud was born in 1893 in Marseille, France and Vivien in 1899 in Paris, France. They had two children my grandmother Rosalilé, who was born in 1918, and her older brother Victor, who was born in 1916. Both of these children were born on our family estates in Provence, France.
My grandfather Jackson Jones was born in 1910 in Augusta, Georgia. My grandmother and father had 11 children including my father; from the eldest to youngest: Jackson Jr. (1935), Savannah (‘36), James (Feb.’37), Elisabet (Dec. ’37), Reynold (’39), Samuel (’40), Peter and his twin sister, Sherry (May ’41), Reginald (’42) (my father), Perry (’52), and Lily (’57). From these children only seven grandchildren were produced. Sherry’s daughter Jennifer (1979), Reynold’s two children Richard (1983) and Katrina (1993), Savannah’s two children Tobias (1987) and Alicia (1989), Lily’s son Oliver (1997), and of course me (1985). Now that you know the players, let me tell you the stories.
My family’s lineage is old; our family claims to be entitled nobility since before the French Revolutionary War. Whether or not that is true, I am unsure and couldn’t verify it without plenty of old birth certificates and family Bibles. But what is true is that after the Bourbon Restoration ended in 1848 following Napoleon being ousted from power, there was a decree for previously entitled French nobles to reclaim their titles. Only about 300 or so families in the entire country did that; one of them of course being mine.
You see we apparently curried enough favor, or licked enough boots, whichever, to earn a marquisate in the South of France in the region known as Provence. I have never been there for reasons which will become quite obvious later on. But from what I hear it is quite beautiful, as most of the South of France is. For those of you who don’t know you’re French Peerage and nobility, a Marquis is a step below a Duc (Duke in English) but above a Count. So without being royalty it is the second highest title one could have held in France. While that is all fine and dandy, it is ABSOLUTELY worthless.
After the French Revolution the monarchy and all royalty was abolished. Napoleon reinstated a form of nobility, but when the House of Bourbon fell in 1848 nobility and noble titles were banished. However, a group of people known as the “Ultra-Royalist,” which is simply code for rich white men who didn’t want to give up power got a decree passed in 1852 that anyone who could prove with the appropriate documentation that they used have an official title as a Peer of the realm was able to claim that title after being sanctioned by the French government. However, it simply meant you could go around calling yourself Duc or Marquis, but there was absolutely no power associate with the title.
My great-great grandfather decided that he could not do without his title and petitioned the French government to allow him to use the title Marquis du Beaucoeur. Apparently he had the paperwork to back-up his claim and he got to use the title. Which passed down through primogeniture, meaning the eldest male inherited the title regardless of who was the eldest child, unless the only heir was female, and then the French government allowed the title to pass to her. Remember the purpose was to preserve old, rich white MEN’s power. Nonetheless, this was how my great-grandfather found himself Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur.
Sorry about the French history and politics lesson, but it was necessary to understand where my family comes from. It provides some small context to the bizarreness that they exhibit later on. When my great grandmother Vivien was married to Reynaud, she was only 16. Her family, were moderately well-off business people, who thought that the monarchy was coming back and figured it would make sense to marry their only daughter off to someone with some sort of title in front of their name. At this point Reynaud was 22 and overseeing the family’s vineyard. Oh yes, I forgot to mention the estates in Provence make their money off of wine and olive oil.
Like any profession that is tied to the land, even the wealthy sometime experience hard-years. Apparently 1915 was one of those years. The Great War had just broken out (WWI) and Europe was basically a mess. Reynaud’s family needed the money that Vivien’s family were going to provide and poof my great grandparents found themselves hitched, and probably without as much as a “would you like this” from either of their parents. Fast-forward three or so years and along comes my grandmother Rosalilé, born just about the end of WWI, Rosalilé got to experience firsthand America’s rise to “superpowerdom.”
Apparently, mind you I’m hearing this 4th hand, since I’ve never met Rosalilé, but apparently she was a stubborn and strong-willed girl. Rosalilé wanted to experience life and etc. etc. all things proper French girls of that time shouldn’t be doing. She never cared too much for poetry or music, or husband hunting. In fact she didn’t even, prepare yourself, care about wine and oil-making! *Gasp*! Scandalous! Her parents, being absolutely fed-up with her shenanigans, completely ignored her and concentrated all their efforts on her elder brother granduncle Victor. Uncle Victor at least showed an interest in the family business, and also a knack for oppressing the working class grape-pickers at the vineyard, which probably earned him bonus points.
There is this darling story about Uncle Victor and a worker. Apparently it was grape harvest time, which is arguably busy, but this worker had the nerve to tell Uncle V that he had a young wife who had a fallen ill with consumption and he would like to leave early to spend time saying his goodbye since it was likely she was going to kick the bucket. Again, this is 4th hand, since I’ve never met Uncle Victor either, but my generous Uncle listened to the man’s story, with seeming pity. Then proceeded to tell him that since his wife was going to be dead very soon anyway, there was no point in him leaving to spend time with her. Instead he should continue to pick grapes because he knew “de quel côté son pain est beurré sur”, which side his bread was buttered on. He could either spend time with his dying wife or actually have a job to support himself. Obviously the choice was self-evident to my uncle; after all, his wife was dying anyway, what good was she compared to paying job. Understandably the worker didn’t agree, causing my benevolent and merciful uncle to chase him, literally CHASE him, off the estate wielding a riding crop. Mind you this was not a short run to the front door; the vineyard is probably about 120,000 ACRES, which is around 187.5 Sq. MILES!!! Yes, it probably wasn’t the entire length of the vineyard, and he probably didn’t chase him the entire way. But just imagine even part of that distance being chased by a crazy man with a leather whip. Note how the crazy continues.
Either way, while her brother was chasing poor farmhands, my grandmother was falling more and more in love with this new land of opportunity called America. So she does what any logical 16 year old does. She runs away! Yep, she runs away to a country where she didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the culture, didn’t know the people, oh and let’s not forget HAD NO MONEY. Because in her brilliance she decides to pack her suitcase, probably full of poofy dresses and hats, boards an ocean liner in Marseilles and sales across the ocean with barely enough money for her ticket and hopefully a meal or two.
But, be it by Luck, Providence, or Divine Intervention this particular ocean liner was bound not for New York like most were, but it was bound for the quaint colonial city of Savannah, Georgia. Where, as Luck/Providence/God would have it, my grandfather Jackson Jones was working as a longshoreman. And this, my friends, is where my family history truly begins…
If you like this story, want to know more about my family, or simply want to hear more about French history tune back in next week.
Hello, my name is J. Bryan Jones, but most people just call me Bryan. I’d like to introduce you to the characters and stories that I call my family history. The next couple of weeks we’ll focus on my father’s family, but don’t worry, we’ll get to my mother’s soon enough. But before I begin to tell you their stories allow me to introduce them briefly. We will start with my great-grand parents on my dad’s side; the Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur and his wife the Marquise Vivien Beaucoeur. Reynaud was born in 1893 in Marseille, France and Vivien in 1899 in Paris, France. They had two children my grandmother Rosalilé, who was born in 1918, and her older brother Victor, who was born in 1916. Both of these children were born on our family estates in Provence, France.
My grandfather Jackson Jones was born in 1910 in Augusta, Georgia. My grandmother and father had 11 children including my father; from the eldest to youngest: Jackson Jr. (1935), Savannah (‘36), James (Feb.’37), Elisabet (Dec. ’37), Reynold (’39), Samuel (’40), Peter and his twin sister, Sherry (May ’41), Reginald (’42) (my father), Perry (’52), and Lily (’57). From these children only seven grandchildren were produced. Sherry’s daughter Jennifer (1979), Reynold’s two children Richard (1983) and Katrina (1993), Savannah’s two children Tobias (1987) and Alicia (1989), Lily’s son Oliver (1997), and of course me (1985). Now that you know the players, let me tell you the stories.
My family’s lineage is old; our family claims to be entitled nobility since before the French Revolutionary War. Whether or not that is true, I am unsure and couldn’t verify it without plenty of old birth certificates and family Bibles. But what is true is that after the Bourbon Restoration ended in 1848 following Napoleon being ousted from power, there was a decree for previously entitled French nobles to reclaim their titles. Only about 300 or so families in the entire country did that; one of them of course being mine.
You see we apparently curried enough favor, or licked enough boots, whichever, to earn a marquisate in the South of France in the region known as Provence. I have never been there for reasons which will become quite obvious later on. But from what I hear it is quite beautiful, as most of the South of France is. For those of you who don’t know you’re French Peerage and nobility, a Marquis is a step below a Duc (Duke in English) but above a Count. So without being royalty it is the second highest title one could have held in France. While that is all fine and dandy, it is ABSOLUTELY worthless.
After the French Revolution the monarchy and all royalty was abolished. Napoleon reinstated a form of nobility, but when the House of Bourbon fell in 1848 nobility and noble titles were banished. However, a group of people known as the “Ultra-Royalist,” which is simply code for rich white men who didn’t want to give up power got a decree passed in 1852 that anyone who could prove with the appropriate documentation that they used have an official title as a Peer of the realm was able to claim that title after being sanctioned by the French government. However, it simply meant you could go around calling yourself Duc or Marquis, but there was absolutely no power associate with the title.
My great-great grandfather decided that he could not do without his title and petitioned the French government to allow him to use the title Marquis du Beaucoeur. Apparently he had the paperwork to back-up his claim and he got to use the title. Which passed down through primogeniture, meaning the eldest male inherited the title regardless of who was the eldest child, unless the only heir was female, and then the French government allowed the title to pass to her. Remember the purpose was to preserve old, rich white MEN’s power. Nonetheless, this was how my great-grandfather found himself Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur.
Sorry about the French history and politics lesson, but it was necessary to understand where my family comes from. It provides some small context to the bizarreness that they exhibit later on. When my great grandmother Vivien was married to Reynaud, she was only 16. Her family, were moderately well-off business people, who thought that the monarchy was coming back and figured it would make sense to marry their only daughter off to someone with some sort of title in front of their name. At this point Reynaud was 22 and overseeing the family’s vineyard. Oh yes, I forgot to mention the estates in Provence make their money off of wine and olive oil.
Like any profession that is tied to the land, even the wealthy sometime experience hard-years. Apparently 1915 was one of those years. The Great War had just broken out (WWI) and Europe was basically a mess. Reynaud’s family needed the money that Vivien’s family were going to provide and poof my great grandparents found themselves hitched, and probably without as much as a “would you like this” from either of their parents. Fast-forward three or so years and along comes my grandmother Rosalilé, born just about the end of WWI, Rosalilé got to experience firsthand America’s rise to “superpowerdom.”
Apparently, mind you I’m hearing this 4th hand, since I’ve never met Rosalilé, but apparently she was a stubborn and strong-willed girl. Rosalilé wanted to experience life and etc. etc. all things proper French girls of that time shouldn’t be doing. She never cared too much for poetry or music, or husband hunting. In fact she didn’t even, prepare yourself, care about wine and oil-making! *Gasp*! Scandalous! Her parents, being absolutely fed-up with her shenanigans, completely ignored her and concentrated all their efforts on her elder brother granduncle Victor. Uncle Victor at least showed an interest in the family business, and also a knack for oppressing the working class grape-pickers at the vineyard, which probably earned him bonus points.
There is this darling story about Uncle Victor and a worker. Apparently it was grape harvest time, which is arguably busy, but this worker had the nerve to tell Uncle V that he had a young wife who had a fallen ill with consumption and he would like to leave early to spend time saying his goodbye since it was likely she was going to kick the bucket. Again, this is 4th hand, since I’ve never met Uncle Victor either, but my generous Uncle listened to the man’s story, with seeming pity. Then proceeded to tell him that since his wife was going to be dead very soon anyway, there was no point in him leaving to spend time with her. Instead he should continue to pick grapes because he knew “de quel côté son pain est beurré sur”, which side his bread was buttered on. He could either spend time with his dying wife or actually have a job to support himself. Obviously the choice was self-evident to my uncle; after all, his wife was dying anyway, what good was she compared to paying job. Understandably the worker didn’t agree, causing my benevolent and merciful uncle to chase him, literally CHASE him, off the estate wielding a riding crop. Mind you this was not a short run to the front door; the vineyard is probably about 120,000 ACRES, which is around 187.5 Sq. MILES!!! Yes, it probably wasn’t the entire length of the vineyard, and he probably didn’t chase him the entire way. But just imagine even part of that distance being chased by a crazy man with a leather whip. Note how the crazy continues.
Either way, while her brother was chasing poor farmhands, my grandmother was falling more and more in love with this new land of opportunity called America. So she does what any logical 16 year old does. She runs away! Yep, she runs away to a country where she didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the culture, didn’t know the people, oh and let’s not forget HAD NO MONEY. Because in her brilliance she decides to pack her suitcase, probably full of poofy dresses and hats, boards an ocean liner in Marseilles and sales across the ocean with barely enough money for her ticket and hopefully a meal or two.
But, be it by Luck, Providence, or Divine Intervention this particular ocean liner was bound not for New York like most were, but it was bound for the quaint colonial city of Savannah, Georgia. Where, as Luck/Providence/God would have it, my grandfather Jackson Jones was working as a longshoreman. And this, my friends, is where my family history truly begins…
If you like this story, want to know more about my family, or simply want to hear more about French history tune back in next week.
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