Day One

It’s October 26^th, and my Grandpa Ray Mickan sits across from me at his wooden kitchen table. I wrap a small blue quilt from the hall closet around myself because the air vent blows right above me. I sit with my feet under me in the wooden chair so they don’t touch the chilly laminate wood floor. Behind me sits the refrigerator, with its freezer door covered in pictures of children and grandchildren. To my left, a single window above the sink looks out to the backyard. Grandpa has finished off his toast with sugar-free jelly and Smart Balance, and his morning cup of coffee. I, too, had my breakfast of champions—Cocoa Puffs.

Neither of us know how to begin, so he just starts talking. His voice is deep, yet rhythmically soothing. It is just loud enough to hold your attention. His words are tinged with a country twang expected of his upbringing—not the thicker drawls of deep west or east Texas. His first memory, as a three-year-old, is a story of how he remembers bawling because he was stuck in an unfortunate place by the pin securing his diaper. The vividness of his retelling is astounding, as I have been to known to struggle to think about what took place yesterday. He continues by telling me stories about his childhood. He tries to stay in order but when he talks about his Uncle Alfred, it sparks stories of later in life. We decide to go ahead and tell those while he’s thinking of them. My fingers race across the keys, keeping with the speed of his words. He gives thought to each sentence, and pauses at the crucial parts of the story to give me time to catch up.

He tells me not to worry if he doesn’t look me in the eye, because that’s how he gathers his thoughts. During our interviews, Grandpa will look out the sole kitchen window to his right and survey the landscape as if he’s seeing the past unfold outside. His thick, aviator eyeglasses magnify his brown eyes. He moves his tan, husky hands with the gestures of the stories. Occasionally, he’ll place his head in his hands to gather his thoughts and seem to doze for a moment, but will quickly lift his head a minute later and continue right where he left off.

He tells me of a time with no electricity, when they took baths once a week in water that was heated by a fire on the stove. Usually they would take baths in the same water in which they washed their clothes. I try to picture it but it seems so foreign. I can’t imagine that kind of life taking place on this very same plot of land—his parents stepping on the same soil that’s around us today. 

In order to imagine his life as a child, I have to strip away the huge yellow warehouses made of sheet metal that now contain his old cars, tractors, and our toys, and replace them with his childhood home. I would also have to remove the house Grandpa built when he and Grandma got married, strip the pavement from the road, and downsize many of the huge pecan, oak, and mulberry trees to saplings. The “gameroom” where Grandpa keeps his antiques, PacMan, pool table, would have to become a bar. The metal fence that lines his property would certainly not be there either. The shop, Mickan Motor Company, which his father, Daniel Mickan, built in 1927, seven years before Grandpa was born, would be a bit smaller. However, like present day, it would be full of familiar faces from around Williamson County. It seems like a completely different place, yet still the same old soil. I struggle to grasp all of it.

That first day, we complete about five pages in Microsoft Word. Grandma comes from Mickan Motor Company at about 6 o’clock, where she’s been conducting the finances and managing the cash register, and sees Grandpa dozing off during a story and hints that it’s time to call it a night. After we watch the evening news and Grandma leads a devotional, I head to my bed. All I keep thinking is, “I’m writing a book.” I used to laugh in amazement at the fact that I was going to write a book, and now there are actual words on a page.

Grandpa and I