How I Became a Storyteller

So, instead of 3rd grade, still another tangent, this time based on a conversation this morning with my wife. I mentioned my penchant for story-telling and she laughed and said, “You’ve always been a storyteller.” I think anybody who has spent ten minutes around me would agree.

So it occurred to me, where did I pick up that custom? Well I need look no farther than my parents and my grandparents for that matter. I remember on weekends, friends of my parents would show up. They would play dominoes, drink beer, and tell their stories, oftentimes well into the morning hours. I would sometimes sit nearby and listen. Now I confess a certain sadness in my heart. It doesn’t seem like people do this much anymore, but once upon a time, that was what people did. I can still see my Dad sitting back in his chair, working a toothpick in his mouth, then a little tssst sound he made with his teeth, as he began a story. After a time, mom would relate one of her own, sometimes related, sometimes not, then others would chime in as well. Not just a statement of fact, mind you. They would map out the characters, fill in as many details as possible, create moments of conflict and weave in resolution, sometimes with laughter, other times with serious resolution. Both came from big families, and their brothers and sisters were just the same. At reunions, it was a non-stop din of voices, gathered in clusters or together around the table, each outdoing the next.

I thought, on this occasion, I’d share a story my Dad told us years ago. At the time, he was a child living on a farm in NE Texas where they were all workers in the field as sharecroppers. Their school would go until harvest season when they would all turn out to pick cotton from sunrise to sunset. Well there was a fellow who owned a farm next door to where they stayed. One day after coming in from the fields on a hot summer day just at sunset, he goes into his barn, where he sees an enormous rattle snake. Quickly he takes a hoe and chops its head right off, less it bite one of the milk cows. Then he puts up his equipment to go in for supper.

Sitting at the supper table, he shares the story with his wife. She suggests, why not go out and chop its rattles off. She could do something with it. Out to the barn he returns, knife in hand. Well you know how snakes tend to still move around for a while after they die. He found the snake’s moving body, grabbed it, and sliced off the rattles, handing them over to his wife when he got back inside.

After a hard day at work, he slept like a baby. Next morning, he arises. He heads out to the barn to feed and milk the cows. Walking inside he looks down, when a look of surprise and horror crosses his face! There was the beheaded snake he had killed. One thing though… Its rattles were still on the lifeless body. Apparently, he had found the mate the night before, slicing the rattles off a life snake. I can remember shuddering with delight hearing that story.

My dad and I had lots of issues growing up. But I credit him with my love for a good story, especially the true ones! Just a biographical note here. His school only went to the tenth grade. After that he was packing up to move to Alaska. But at the last minute, his Aunt Johnnye and Uncle Luther who lived in Amarillo offered him an opportunity to come stay with them and finish high school as long as he worked and payed his way. He did that, finished high school, got some college before the war and met my Mom there, who had her own story for arriving in that Panhandle city. Dad became a surveyor and worked with the Army Air Corp building airports during WWII in the Pacific. Mom built bombs for a time after working for an insurance company, and later after the war, my dad had a lifelong job as a surveyor, mom working in his office in our home. Where I could grow up and hear their amazing tales.

Some Thoughts on Growing Old

On July 9th, I celebrated my 72nd birthday. Now despite the increased pain I was feeling that day, in a way it was a sigh of relief. Mom had died at the age of 71, and the haunting specter of DNA was always in the back of my mind. Yeah, I know that it sounds silly, but… well it is what it is.

Today, in many respects I’m much happier now than I’ve ever been. I’ve love, community, friends, and well, it is possible to live with pain and still find happiness though. Plus it all beats the alternative, at least for now.

So wait a minute. This is a memoir blog, and we were about to start with the third grade back in Tyler. What’s this all about? Well, one of the things old people have to reckon with is their own mortality, and no amount of assurance about how I’ve still got years ahead of me changes that uncertainty. This past week I had a conversation with another woman around my age. I was laughing about living as the old Hebrew blessing says, to the age of 120. She looked me square in the eye, and said, “you know, I don’t think I want to live that long.”

So I never allow a chance for a serious conversation to slip by. I thought for a moment and responded, “I think you may well be right.” No, this is no dark death wish, and I am truly happy. But there are realities to face. The body and mind over time deteriorates. Already, I’m alternately using a walker or a wheelchair, and pain is mostly constant. Most recently, I got a diagnosis of Mild Cognitive Impairment, which can get better, may stay the same, or more likely will lead to dementia. Today I choose life, and I am by nature a stubborn sort. But I can imagine a day when it will be the right time to let go and leave this earthly body. That’s keeping it real.

There are things one has to do at this age. I’ve got a medical directive written, including my wishes if I do move into dementia. I’ve a will that I am going to revisit soon to be sure I’s are dotted and t’s are crossed. I’ve shared my funeral wishes. And quietly I’m pushing my wife to do the same. I’ve put off but need to get on with an ethical will to leave for family, some estranged. This memoir is another step, wishing again how I wish the stories of my elders had been written down, for memory fails over time.

Too much of a downer? That’s because our culture too often runs away from the realities of our own mortality. I remember a time when death was seen differently. I can recall as small children my grandfather on Mom’s side laid out on the kitchen table with coins to keep his eyes shut, for all to see as we had pallets on the floor and slept nearby in the living room. Then some years later, my Grandpa on Dad’s side was dying of cancer and he had us come in, one person at a time, to pass on whatever wisdom he wished to share, young and old alike. Then after he died, we all took our turn sitting watch over the body until he was buried.

I share these stories because I feel death is the one thing every one of us will experience, and it makes no sense to run from it. Mind you, I prefer our Jewish custom of burial within 24 hours, but there is also a complete system for mourning and comforting those who survive after we are gone. Today, I choose life. But this memoir would not be complete without these realities set in the here and the now. I have had to attend a lot of funerals in my 72 years. But I have so many blessed memories of each one of those lives for which I sat and mourned. I’d have it no other way. Even as I write this, I feel my beloved Skip standing over my shoulder, nodding with approval. Skip z”l of blessed memory passed away in August of 1997. But he is still with me. As are so many others. There is much more to say about growing old, and over time I will do just that. However.....

Next time: Back to Third Grade stories

Move to Wiley St in Tyler

Caldwell Zoo, Tyler, Texas

I recall well the move to Wiley St in Tyler. It was a new home and no grass had been planted yet. It had a large front and back yard, with a steep terrace that descended to the street. The road itself was covered in tar pitch and would not be asphalted for some years later. That tar would be so hot in the summers, and we would pick up speed on the drive to run across to avoid burning our feet. Each summer the bottoms of our feet would take on the black color of that tar. Over time our feet would toughen, enough to survive the sticker burs in the weeds across the way.

We had pecan trees in front, back, and on one side of our house. We never suffered from a shortage of pecans. Towards the back was a persimmon tree, and some years later, we put in a pear tree as well. Behind the garage was my domain, which will be talked about in a future post. We also had a garden plot towards the rear of the back yard.

Around the time we moved, I began kindergarten at Caldwell School. What was really cool was it was also the site of Caldwell Zoo. How many kids get to go see monkeys, tigers, and a llama who loved to spit at us while attending kindergarten? On my first day, we were instructed to observe playground rules. So of course, immediately I headed up the slide the wrong way. ::chuckling:: I got to spend my first afternoon at school in the corner with my nose in a circle as punishment. It wasn’t the last.

One vivid memory was when Dad hired someone to plant the grass in our yard. He was an old African American man who went by the name of Grasshopper. A word of explanation here. This was East Texas and the year was 1953. We were in the midst of the infamous Jim Crow laws and he was the first black person I had ever met. While he worked, I wandered out to watch, and he quietly encouraged me, showing me how to plant the grass and weaving the most wonderful stories. After all these years, I don’t remember the story lines at all, but I feel a gentle warmth recalling his telling of them.

Not long after this came my next encountered with Jim Crow. Mom had taken me to downtown to shop. The store had a soda fountain there and we sat down to get a bite to eat, but I was thirsty and didn’t want to wait on the waitress. So off I wander to the water fountain. I climb onto the steps and start to drink when this huge hand clamps onto my shoulder. This guy is yelling at me about how I could get some sort of horrible disease. I’m frightened out of my wits not knowing what’s going on as he pulls me over to my mom. He then begins to lecture her on not letting her son drink out of the “colored” fountain. Lecturing my mother was a huge mistake. She never tolerated fools easily and I truly think he would never try that stunt again. But then she showed me the difference between “white” and “colored” water fountains and explained that right or wrong, the law insisted that we use the “white” fountain. The same was true of restrooms I learned. Okay, I’m around 6 years old. None of this made any sense. Hadn’t I personally taken our glasses of water to Grasshopper? Didn’t he use our restroom during the time he was there. I didn’t have a word for cognitive dissidence but it was sure there.

I began school at Bell Elementary. At this point I still enjoyed school. I started learning to read and write. In the midst of all this, I managed to fall out of our pecan tree and broke my right arm. Okay, back story here. I was born naturally left handed, but my parents as was common in those days, trained me to be right handed. My cast covered my lower right arm and part of my right hand, exposing only parts of my fingers with which I had to write. My teacher actually suggested based on my poor handwriting that I be held back a year, believing I was a slow child. My Dad was furious and would have none of it. So I went on to the second grade. Later on, over the next few years, achievement tests and IQ testing showed I was not slow at all. I have to smile, recalling my parents wouldn’t let the schools share with me my IQ scores. They didn’t want me to get the big head. Life was still pretty good, up until the third grade. What happened then will be covered in another post. One hint. It began a prolonged ugly part of my childhood that took years to overcome.

Camp Then and Now

In writing this blog, I won’t guarantee my posts will always be chronological. This entry is one such case. Note, the photos here are screen grabs from a 16 mm film, in these cases circa 1957 or so. That is why they are a bit fuzzy. The full video, entitled Dad’s Home Movies can be found here:

https://vimeo.com/30914026

So here’s the story. This past weekend I went to Camp Herzl, a Jewish camp with a long history of its own. At the age of 71, it was a very different but still lovely experience. Thank you Rachel Orzoff for giving me this idea!

Camp was definitely a “thing” in my childhood. From around age 8 I went every summer. Initially I attended a day camp. Joe Demmer’s day camp was located on Lake Tyler where for several weeks each summer we would be picked up each morning by a counselor then brought home that afternoon. The journey itself was pretty amazing, and I still remember a place on the ride called thrill hill. The counselor would put the petal to floor going down, and at the bottom before heading up there would be a lift off the seat and a feeling in the stomach followed by laughter. At camp we learned many skills. We learned to handle guns safely and shoot them, archery, canoeing, and this was where I learned to swim. After age 11 I went to scout camp and indeed camping became something that would carry on for many years after entering adulthood. There were the camp customs as well, things like calling Kool-Aid, the drink of choice in those days “bug juice” and the outhouse was referred to as a KYBO, “keep your bowels open.” Yeah kind of gross, but for a bunch of kids, it worked. Campfires and talent shows were part of the experience.

Reflecting back, I believe the appeal was beyond just loving camping. It offered me ways to get away, to become grounded, and I had the skills to be competent in those environments. From starting a fire, creating a space that was both safe and comfortable, and always, making time to be one with the natural world around me. Outdoor living, in what was a difficult childhood, became a respite where I could go deeper to find myself.

In scouting, we often went to camp Tonkawa, but on occasion traveled to SE Oklahoma and SW Arkansas as well. In those journeys I found a love for mountainous terrain as well. I did pretty well in scouting, earning the Eagle Scout award, God and Country, and Order of the Arrow, an honor camping group. During these times, I was away from the bullies, and I found a certain closeness with others that evaded me in my school life. Memories include swimming in a river, doing a mile swim, the first half mile upstream and the other downstream. Or learning survival skills. Later I was a junior leader in a troop that attended the National Jamboree some years later (1964) at Valley Forge. All of this was put to use on camping journeys with family and on my own throughout most of my adult life.

This past weekend, I looked forward to going to camp once again. Located on Devil Lake in Western Wisconsin just over a hundred miles from Minneapolis, this period known as a Shabbaton was at once both spiritual and a place to truly rest. We arrived that Friday afternoon, gathering at the lake for Friday night Shabbat services. I was with people I know and love and sitting out there on that deck overlooking the lake was so peaceful.

But much had changed for me as I have entered old age. Back and leg issues leave me pretty much confined to a wheelchair. The congregant leader overseeing the trip and corralling the young folks gave me lifts to the service and back on a golf cart. Moving on the gravel road, much less on the uneven ground was difficult. We gathered in the hall for activities before going to bed.

Early the next morning we had services and Torah reading by the lake. Then back to the hall later for lunch, more opportunities etc. While I could not get around, I was surrounded by nature. My much-desired grounding was taking place. I struggled to get about in my chair, and the full realization that much of what I so loved over the decades simply was not possible. I started to head for my room, when I encountered the Rabbi. She stopped to talk with me, and picked up quickly on what was happening. She said, “You’re grieving aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I responded, knowing that like all grief it simply had to be felt in order to move on. I left, entered my room, and cried my eyes out. No more hikes into the deep woods, our mountain paths leading miles from civilization where the food had to be tied up in a tree to discourage bears. Truly I get a bit misty even typing it here.

After a good cry, I left the cabin, pushing myself in my wheelchair as if to exorcize my demons, and it seemed to work. By the end of the journey the pain of loss had subsided and a realization that at certain spaces, I can still commune. Some parks have paved trails and sometimes a piece of what I once knew can be retrieved. And at least so far, my memories remain intact. I joined Jen and Joel and Joel composed with some input from the two of us, a song about our journey to Camp Herzl for the talent show that evening. I captured footage of parts of the show on video, and a link will be attached later. Camping is not only about fun and friendship, but touching base with self as well. All in all, a very fulfilling journey, leaving me grateful to my Shir Tikvah congregation who were with me at every turn, a portrait of what real community can look like.

Age 5 and 6 Move to Tyler Texas

I was four years old. Daddy’s job has him transfer to help survey in the East Texas oil field area. Initially we moved to a rental home on West Sixth in Tyler, before at around age 6 moving to Wiley Street. That latter move took my life in a very different trajectory which I’ll talk about later. But the Sixth St address left me with fond memories. My best friend there was Becky Biggs who lived across the street. Her dad was a barber during the day, and he worked on bikes in his spare time. The two of us were known to create mischief on occasion. Like the day we threw rocks at passing cars. Who knew one would circle around, and as I headed for my house, he followed close behind to speak with my parents. One scolding, an apology, and a butt whipping later, I got the message. I hoped they didn’t call Becky’s parents as well. I suspect they did though. She never said.

One day we were playing out beside Becky’s house. The weeds were tall, and our imaginations were full. Suddenly I looked down, and there was an alligator staring at me! We both ran screaming to her Dad. He came around, hoe in hand to investigate. We stood at a safe distance, still shaken a bit. Carefully he entered the weed grown space…

Then…

He started laughing! I’m talking a deep full laugh. Uncontrollable belly laughter that seemed to never end and we looked at each other and wondered how he could laugh in the face of a treacherous gator! Then he explained… Kids, this is no gator. It’s a lizard. It won’t hurt you at all. It seems the imagination can magnify one’s vision considerably. A story that would live forever.

So did I mention he was a barber. My barber. For years after that, I’d enter the barbershop and quietly cringe as he replayed the story for everyone there in the shop that day. Oy.

Two other things come to mind from our time on Sixth Street. Going over to Joey Lowe’s place and I strangled on a tough piece of asparagus. To this day I can’t put it in my mouth without an instinctive gag reflex. The other event was, well, HUGE.

Word was spreading through the neighborhood. In those days you knew all the neighbors and they knew you. We’d get together for regular social events as a neighborhood. We all came together when the doctor living across the street came home missing a leg from the war in Korea. Not like now when I know the tenants downstairs and the woman who runs the daycare across the street, but no one else on my block. Anyhow, we all rushing to a neighbor’s home three houses up from us. Inside everyone was gathered in rapt amazement staring at a small screen maybe 12 inches or so, watching people on the screen talking as we stared in amazement. This was the very first tv any of us had ever seen. So okay, we had radios. My dad even had a record making machine with which he had recorded me singing Tennessee Waltz when I was three. But this was something we couldn’t have even imagined. In retrospect, I can see both the good and the bad. I wonder if our attention spans began to shorten around that time. In my lifetime between television written for immediate gratification rather than a slower character development and information bombardment without sufficient context, it seems for humanity to have become an issue. I recall many years ago, a speaker at a Dickens festival, his grandson actually, said his grandfather could not be published today. Short and concise is ever the demand, sacrificing delicious pages getting to really know the characters. Still, our eyes were opened to a larger world in our small provincial town of Tyler. Things would never be the same.

One other thing happened, and I would be remiss in not telling that story. Momma got pregnant, and soon enough after, she had a little boy named Marlowe. Self-disclosure here. I wanted a sister. But when he came it was just as well. I had a brother, and despite being his pain in the derriere throughout our childhood, I love him dearly. The stage was set for our move to a new home in Tyler’s south side. To be continued in another post.

Betsy Ann, Girl Talk, And Ensuing Confusion

The year was 1950 and I was 3 years old. My next-door neighbor was Betsy Ann. We were besties… actually only’s because there were no other children in my neighborhood. In her back yard we would run and play, make mud pies, chase each other amidst squeals of delight until Mom would holler for me to come on home. Other days were spent in her bedroom, having tea parties, playing make believe. I would change into her Sunday best dress and I was the mommy, she the daddy. That is until one day… I heard Mom speaking with her mother and then she came up the stairs, walking in and seeing me dressed in the silk and lace as was little girl’s style back in that day. Roughly she commanded, “Get on your clothes and come home!”

Nothing was said then, but there was a strange look on her face. Later that night, she came in to tuck me into bed. She kissed me good night and said, “That’s my little boy.”

“Mama?” I quietly said. “I’m a girl.”

There was that look again, then anger. “No, you are not! I don’t want to hear any more of that nonsense from you again, do you hear me?”

Her voice frightened me. I nodded yes. There were no words for transgender in those days. It wasn’t until two years later that the news spread across the country of Christine Jorgensen who had reassignment surgery in Europe before returning to America. I’ve no idea whether my parents saw it or not. I do remember so clearly the details of that night however, even at such a young age. That look on her face? I only realized years later that what I saw in the face of the strongest woman I’ve ever known was fear. Starting that night began a performance lasting for decades as I tried to be the little boy, then man that they wanted me to be. Even though I knew deep inside it wasn’t true. As I suggested, it’s not like we had words for what was going on. I just no longer knew who I was, and the search to find out would be a painful one. My parents set out starting then to as I laughingly today call it, “butching me up.” Cowboy clothes and toy guns. Footballs for presents. I would often in the years to come, leave the house with the latest toy six shooter, then lend it to other kids while I would prefer making a house out of an old box, living in my imagination albeit without the gun. There was no one to play football with and when Dad tried to play catch with me, he learned early on that sports just was not my thing. Bless his heart he would get so frustrated, despite my really trying.

Photos from that time often betrayed a sadness in those little eyes. Still, I gave it my best shot. I’d be the best boy ever… until I didn’t. Circa ’51, we packed up and moved to Tyler, Texas. There I would grow up in the Rose Capital of the World, located right next to the East Texas oil fields. Texas would bring new challenges, and a new accent, the one I carry to this day. I’ll pick up the story there in my next post.

Earliest Memories

As we age, only a few memories fully stand the test of time. Sometimes moments of joy, other times moments of fear. Probably my earliest memory was riding one day in Illinois (I know it was Illinois because I was a toddler at the time), and we pulled over by a large crevasse with a steep incline. Daddy tried to get me to come closer to the edge, but I was frightened out of my wits. “No!” I screamed.

He seemed frustrated, and the next thing I knew, he swept me up in his arms, carried me to the edge and held me out to look, all the while yelling at me to stop crying. Mom intervened, but I was shaken to my core. The tears just flowed for a time. Looking back, I’m sure Dad was sorry, but in that time, sorry was not something many men said. Indeed, with age, I’ve learned to forgive a lot. He had a huge temper, and on occasion he could be wrong. Like the rest of us.

My next memory was of my playing in our home. We rented from a woman who lived in a room upstairs. Mom had the front door latched and was busy cleaning house. Quietly I pushed a chair to the door, climbed up in the chair and unlatched the door of our Olney, Illinois home. There was a hospital across the street and beside it could be found a filling station, and they guys who worked there were always nice to me, offering a candy bar and sometimes a toy. A busy highway ran in front of the house. Off I went, crossing the highway and to the service station. They called mom. “Mrs. Wicks, are you missing someone?” Not long after, she was there threatening to wear out my britches, amidst profuse thanks to the station employees.

Other memories pop up on occasion. There was a separate breed of white squirrels in Olney, and they were protected by law. They would literally eat out of my tiny hand and I would get so excited! Then there was the day during a brutal winter when a large sewer rat entered our home through the coal heating ducts. We shoveled our own coal, or rather my Dad did. I walk into the kitchen. He’s staring at me on the kitchen table, from my perspective assessing me as a possible meal. He runs towards me and again, screams and panic. To this day, I react to rats or mice with a rush of adrenaline favoring flight over fight.

On another day, I’m outside playing as Mom is raking leaves and burning them in the gutter on the street. There was an empty basket lying around. What a perfect toy. I put it over my head and am walking around blind to where I was going. I step on the curb and tumble right into the fire! I jump running for dear life, Mom chasing me, and my sleeve on fire. She finally catches me and throws me to the ground, using her coat to smother the flames. Besides my birth, the first time I get to visit a hospital conveniently across the street. Some second-degree burns, but I heeled without any scarring. Somehow, I always had to learn life lessons the hard way.

I remember the little girl next door with whom I played. I’ll say more about that in my next post. What happened would affect my life for decades to come. I can speak today of things totally beyond my ability to make sense of for so very long. Two back to back experiences would be transformative in my world view. But that’s a whole other story.

What's In a Name

In my last post, I mentioned the name I was given at birth. Few who did not know me before my gender transition have heard that name before. At one time I referred to that as my “dead name” but not anymore. I suppose with age, I’ve processed the pain I felt during those years. I’m also very comfortable in heart and soul, and I suppose that past does not feel so threatening. It’s a bit like gender transition, when early on I strove to live the feminine energies within, ignoring the rest. I believe many of us possess both the feminine and the masculine within but gender roles and expectations tend to polarize us.

My birth name was Grady Roland Wicks II, named after my father. It served as a good place holder while I sorted out who I really was. I went by Roland during those years, but please do not call me that now. I think the reason why is obvious, but for those who do not understand, it negates the gender journey I had to take to be true to self.

In the Hebrew Bible in the book of Bereshit (Genesis), we see people regularly changing names as their roles within the Biblical narrative comes to fruition. Abram becomes Abraham which means exalted father, father of a nation. Jacob (which means supplanter, held by the heel) becomes Israel (he who struggled with G-d and prevailed). Sarai is renamed Sarah etc. It was clear that names in those days had meaning, and I believe still do.

Most of us carry the name that was chosen by our family, though some do change their name. My wife for instance did not care for her middle name, so she took the name Willobeth for her middle name, in tribute to a beloved aunt in my family. I’ve been blest in this life to get to choose my name not once but twice in this lifetime. When I began transition, I chose the name Jessica Rolanda Wicks. This was by a court order which also changed my gender identifier on my documents. I go by Jessica or Jessi or Jess, but my legal name is Jessica. My reasoning was simple. I have always appreciated women who are strong in mind and heart. There was a news reporter at the time named Jessica Savitch. Then there were other Jessicas, like Jessica Tandy and Jessica Lange, strong women in their own right. Rolanda was chosen to carry that piece of my former life going forward.

But… another opportunity for a name change presented itself. When I completed my conversion to Judaism, we are called to choose a Jewish name. I spent some time soul searching that one. But eventually I did. My first name is יסכה (Yiskah). It means foresight, being able to see the potential in the future. She is mentioned only once in Genesis 11:29, the daughter of Haran, niece of Abraham. That she was mentioned suggests her importance at the time, perhaps as a prophetess in that small community. It can be pronounced Yiskah or Iskah. It is the earliest form of the name Jessica. My middle name is רחל, Rachel, which means Ewe or Sheep in Hebrew, but my derivation is my Mother’s name. Her name was Rachel, and to me it represented a tremendous inner strength and is a tribute to her memory. While her feelings about homosexuality, never mind transgender were clear, and she once said that should she ever find out either my ex or I was gay, she would go to court to take our daughter. So I could never share that with her, but regardless she was in so many ways a good woman and her strength in the midst of adversity was an amazing teacher for all that was to come. We became quite close in her later years and I miss her terribly. My father taught me to debate and see both sides of an argument. My Mother taught me how to cook, and served as a model of inner strength. So today I am known alternatively as Jessica or Yiskah Rachel, and this woman found herself in the experiences of the woman formerly known as Roland. Names mattered to the patriarchs and matriarchs, and to me as well.

My Roots

I suppose any decent memoir should begin saying a bit about how I came to be. fI certainly believe what came before forms us in ways we don’t always realize.


My Dad, Grady, grew up in a small agricultural community called Forest Hill near Petty, Texas. His parents (and he) worked in the cotton fields as sharecroppers. How did this come to be?


The Wicks side goes back to Southeast Tennessee, and before that, Alabama and Virginia. The earliest verified ancestor on that side dates from the early 1800’s. There’s a Wicks Cemetery Road still by the old homestead near Fayetteville, Tennessee. Some of them were killed in the Civil War, but Dad’s grandfather made his way to Bonham, Texas. After his wife died, he remarried a much younger woman. Hard times and some family drama (that younger woman I mentioned) left my Grandpa Jimmy Wicks to take up sharecropping to survive. I’ve got lots of stories about him and his wife Ollie, but I’ll work that in later. It was hard work and harder times for Dad growing up. He was all prepared to move to Alaska when he finished the 10th grade (the school didn’t go longer than that in their rural community and sharecropping was not his dream job by any stretch). Instead though, his Aunt Johnnye and Uncle Luther convinced him to come stay with them in Amarillo where he could finish school, though he would have to work to pay his way. He agreed and there he finished high school and one year of college before the war started.


Mom, Rachel Ann Williams Wicks, grew up on a farm in Southern Arkansas near the town of Bearden. Her family came there from various areas in the south and east. One line in her ancestry traces all the way back to the 1500’s where our forefathers worked in the constabulary at Windsor Castle. For years I had heard we were related to the Tudors, but my research shows that story probably found its origin because our family worked where they did. Mom was one of the most independent minded women I’ve ever known, with a fierce temper and the heart to back it up. In her rural Arkansas community when she was 17, a preacher “preached her into hell” and she knew she needed to leave. She packed up on her own, moved to Little Rock where she attended business school. After finishing that she moved to Amarillo, and that is where she met Dad.


In Amarillo mom found a job with American General Insurance and her desk was by the window on the second floor. Across the street was a service station. There my Dad worked paying his way in college. This was an era before air conditioning, and he saw her and would walk across the street and talk with her. Eventually he asked her out to go dancing and she said yes.


Funny story here. He had already asked someone else out. So he arranged to set the other woman up with his brother, so he could date Mom. The other person was not too happy though she did go along, but my parents to be hit it off right away. On Christmas Day, 1940, they drove across the state line and were married at Duncan, Oklahoma by a Justice of the Peace.


World War II happened in ‘43, and Dad was sent to California, then to the Pacific where he worked in an engineering unit with the US Army Air Corps building air strips at various islands during the war. Mom worked in a bomb factory for a time, and when he came back, well, like a whole lot of other folks back then, they began to think about a family. Dad had a job as surveyor and they were living in Oklahoma City for a time.


There in Oklahoma City at St Anthony Hospital at 8:11 PM on July 9, 1947, I was born. Named Grady Roland Wicks II (after my Dad) with the gender marker saying “boy.” I would go by the name Roland, they decided. They got that whole gender and name thing wrong, but how could they know? Mom and I stayed in the hospital for a week before coming home. Nothing was wrong, but they just did that back then. The total bill was less that $200.00. Imagine that today! It was on that hot July day that my story began to play out. Those stories coming in future posts.