Call Me Jonny Bon

My pappaw called me Jonny Bon. I'm not sure where he got it. I had no idea at the time but I now know that in French "bon" means good. Perhaps it just rhymed. But, oh how I wish I were known by all as "good jonny"; by those close to me, my friends, my family, my wife. I suppose Ode shortened Jonathan to Jonny as a term of endearment. The oldest son of his youngest daughter. He must have thought something of me, fondly. I know I did of him.

I broke more than a few eggs and probably BB-gunned a chicken or two those few weeks in the summer we spent on his farm. Got tangled in the electric fence and herded by the goats gruff that ranged those sassafras few acres of northeast Mississippi. I was fascinated by farm implements and the recycled freezer full of feed corn. The green repainted John Deere tractor that sat in the barn infested with wood-boring wasp was held in high regard by the boy from Oklahoma. On those humid southern days the sultry breeze that drew across the pebbled red-clay soil smelled of cedar, dog dander, and ammonia from the chicken scat in the hen house. And I wandered around, exploring.

During the wet Christmas season I recall the musty dampness of the oil coated triple branched dog lead restraining the stocky beagles eager to hound the swamp rabbits until they returned home only to be greeting by a lead-shot bouquet. The smell of skinned rabbit guts is still familiar to me, not haunting but humorous, as I still use it to describe the fragrance of whoever it was that let one go in the car. I also still carve walking sticks for my would be tom-girls in the fashion that pappaw did for me while we waiting for the rabbit to come back. I noticed and worshipped the out-of-doors skills he had for farming and hunting, breeding and trading.

I remember too his anger, how he let me know his thoughts the times I broke the eggs or ground wood on the bench grinder, or when he was upset with Mammaw Ritter. I heard the stories of how he once beat a dog to death. I heard my dad speak of his meanness and saw it too at times. Once when our family visit ended abruptly, upsetting Mammaw, I think I recall him slapping her to get her to calm down.

Guess what. I can whittle a walking stick in no time. I can plant a garden full of yellow squash and a bumper crop full of tomatoes. I can make useful things out of leather and wood and I can be mean and hateful. Terrifying is the word Areli used last week to describe my correction of my six and eight year old daughters. I was flattered but mostly I was just described by what she had said. And the fact is, that's not how I want to be. But it is and I can't seem to help it when I want to the most. And when I miss it I'm sorry and all I want is for some one to call me good. Say, "hey Jonny Bon, what to help me feed the goats? I'll let you scoop the feed." Where has Jonny Bon gone? How can he get back?