A culture translated for outsiders looking in, as farce for the lazy.

My grandmother had the softest and sweetest smelling hands. She smelled of the roses she tended and the dirt they grew in. Dark, musty, bayou soil.

Bending down to me, she puts her hands around my chin, wipes my always-wild hair out of my face and says, “Cher, ma koer, go tell paw lunch’s ready. And then come wash up.” I run like the wind. Flying through the yard. Singing at the top of my lungs, “PawPaw!” “Lunch is rrreeeeaaaddddyyy!” He steps out of the shade of the barn, out from behind the boat, wiping black goo off of his hands and arms.

We walk to the hose and wash our hands off together. He is sweaty from work, me from play. When he hugs me he always squeezes me to his face. His rough stubble scratches my cheeks. I didn't mind that though. It was comforting. He smelled of grease and the kind of sweat that sticks. “What Maw cooked today? I hope its some bawle’ shrimp?” I shrug and we walk back to the house together. Anytime grandpa walked into the house, he would call the dog. They always had a poodle. This one was Jean. “Awwwee Jean. Vini Jean.” We walk the dog. Then go in together to have lunch.

My grandmother is gone now. In her absence, my grandfather has become unkempt and a voracious hoarder. But, his stubble still scratches my face when he hugs me close. I used to think their way of speaking was something to shy away from. I was taught that it made us seem less educated, less intelligent. That never felt good to me. But, I fell in line. They too would tell us scary stories of their fingers being whacked by nuns. “English!!!” 

I sit here under this oak looking up at low hanging moss and I wish I could hear my grandmother say it one more time, “Cher, ma koer, go tell paw lunch’s ready.”