Tell Me You Love Me

The year was punctuated by periods of anxiety about my father's health. Early in winter he slipped in the muddy barnyard. In trying to catch his balance, he grabbed for a nearby post and caught his hand on a rusty meat hook. The injury left a deep, wide gash that he insisted upon doctoring with Epsom salts dissolved in hot water. I knew my parents were concerned about infection. I overheard them talk about watching for red stripes running up his arm. However, the wound healed nicely.

Several months later when cutting wood, Daddy misjudged the direction a tree would fall. A big limb knocked him to the ground. Bruised and badly shaken by the accident, he limped around for months, insisting that nothing was broken.

Later he developed a hacking cough. Over and over Mama urged him to see a doctor. “It's nothing,” he told her. “Just a little cold.” Instead of getting better, the cough persisted, but Daddy continued working as usual.

Our family gathered in the yard to watch Daddy build a birdhouse in the big tree near the house. Hershel and I had pestered him about building a birdhouse for several weeks. Spring arrived and birds flew around looking for a place to build nests. Daddy wanted to encourage the birds. He talked to us about what wonderful insect eaters the wrens and martins were, especially when baby birds hatched. Although Daddy was a busy man, he yielded to our urging and took time off from the spring plowing to build the birdhouse.

He had climbed the high ladder when two women dressed in bright clothing came walking down the dirt road. All of us watched the two strangers. As they approached I saw they had dark skin and wore bright long skirts and gold earrings.

Mama whispered to us, “Those women are gypsies.”

We children had never seen gypsies before and were full of questions: “Who are gypsies? What are they doing here? What do they want?”

“They're people who travel around from place to place and tell fortunes,” Mama answered.

“Tell fortunes? What's that?”

“They try to tell what's going to happen to a person.”

“Can they really do that, Mama?

“Shhh-they'll hear you. Let's see what they want.”

The gypsies turned into our yard and asked if they could tell our fortunes.

Mama said, “No, we do not want our fortunes told.”

We were startled when they started describing Daddy’s personality. “You've got a quick temper,” they said, “and you always insist on having your own way.”

She was right in everything. Daddy's face turned bright red. We children were intrigued and started begging, “Please, Daddy, let the gypsies tell your fortune!”

“No!” Daddy's eyes flashed. “Don't have money for such a thing!”

The older gypsy responded. “Fella like you should have your fortune told! You work too hard and too fast!” Every word was true. We wondered how she knew.

“Person has to work hard to take care of his family!”

“But you've been too tired. And you've been coughing a lot.”

“It's just a little cough. Don't mean nothin'.” Daddy answered firmly.

“Not so, not so! Anyone in your family have tuberculosis?”

“My health is fine!” Daddy answered a bit too quickly and fear must have gripped his heart. His sister, Clara, was dying of tuberculosis.

“I see darkness in your future. You give me a little money, I can cure that for you.”

“Don't have money to spend on such a thing. Got no money for fortune tellers!” I could tell that Daddy was angry. But we children started pleading with him anyway, “Please Daddy, let them help you!” I noticed the straight hard line of his mouth and knew he would never relent.

“I'll make you well, just take a few dollars.” The gypsy persisted.

“I've got no money!” my father retorted.

“Oh, yes, you have. I see money buried close by!” As the words were said my father glanced quickly at my mother.