And They All Lived Together in a Little Rowboat

I got a story Momma told me, a kind of  sensitive tale that I am not sure the politically correct would endorse, but it needs telling because it could have happened to anyone, especially if they had the misfortune to be born in those days. So pay attention, Ruby, Tigger, Babbie, Charlie and Gen.  You’ll want to remember this one.

Most of the locals just called him Touched-in-the-Head.  Born breach, deprived of oxygen, his mother struggled to deliver him.  The good midwife did her best but his mother haemorrhaged to death, as was common in those times, without doctors and or Caesarean Births.  Even years later, in the early 1950’s, there was no hospital, babies were home birthed and Good Luck with that.

Touched-in-the-Head never quite functioned the same as the rest of the world. Although he could walk, he had jerky, rapid movements.  He talked in such a rush, that you were still trying to put together the first part of his sentence when he was finished the last part.  Today he would probably be labelled a ‘savant’ because he had the memory of a genius, whatever he heard he never forgot, such as the genealogy of not only his own family but every person in the neighbor hood. It was like family trees took root and grew in his head. It was astounding, but then he was just Touched-in-the-Head.

The one good thing in his life was that the orphaned baby was taken in by his Aunt and Uncle, who were childless. That is what families did in those days. No one really could fathom his brain, but still everyone sensed his intelligence on divergent levels. 

The school system in those days could not handle anyone different (a problem, even today), so his Aunt and Uncle home schooled him, teaching him to read and write using the Bible and the Hymn Books, as well as taught him basic math skills.  If anyone dropped by at night, they would find him, even as an adult, sitting in the corner reading the Bible out loud, or belting out the hymns, like ‘Jesus loves even me’, at the top of his lungs, in the dim light cast by the oil lamp, because his Uncle did not believe in that new fangled electricity. It was too dangerous.  Touched-in-the-Head, being the scientific type, might stick his finger in the socket.

Touched-in-the-Head was always disappointed in himself because he never could drive a car.  He would take the locals to his now empty barn and ask, ‘Can you see them?’ ‘See what?,’ they would ask, playing along with his fantasy. ‘My two cars, a black one that I drive, Monday to Friday and a red one I drive Saturday and Sunday. Red is my favorite color so I drive it only on the weekend.’

Even after all those years passed, the locals remember the miracle that took place each time  Touched-in-the-Head would ask if they could his cars.  It seemed, if they would just squint their eyes, and believe, a crack in the barn roof would let through a beam of sunshine, a rainbow of colors and they swore, they saw them – two convertible roadsters, parked side by side, one blackest black, one cherry red.

Touched-in-the-Head was a reminder that it takes looking past the outside packaging, to the contents inside.  We may be surprised about the riches contained inside of a most unassuming present, wrapped in brown paper, tied with binding rope.

Remember: There but for the Grace of God go You and I,,,,,