collarbone, and the worst of all-the left side of my head got dented. Correction: The worst of all was that I becamean orphan that night. My mama and daddy made it out of that wagon, but not for long. (See earlier statement about luck. This would be a perfect example of the bad version.)
So that’s it in a nutshell. All that I can remember, anyways, about the night I became what Grampa calls NQR, which is his pet name for Not Quite Right, which means-brain-wise-I’m not doing so hot.
The Louisville Hospital sent him this letter dated July 10, 1970. I found it balled up in the glove department of his truck.
Dear Mr. Murphy,
As a result of the brain injury she incurred in the auto accident, early indications are that your granddaughter is experiencing difficulties with word usage, reasoning skill, attention span and disinhibition. Currently, we’re not certain if her memories are repressed as a result of the trauma or physiologically based. Only time will tell how much of the damage may be permanent or how much is
The rest is ripped off in a jaggedy line. But what I think those hospital folks were trying to get at is:
Words and their meanings can elude me. Elude: To avoid. (I remembered that one last week when a catfish spent most of his morning eluding me, the little bugger.)
I’d never use the words “lightnin’ speed” to describe my thinking.
Reverend Jack says my mind gets to wandering more than the Israelites.
I have an awfully hard time putting the brakes on my motoring mouth.
And my memory, well, it’s sorta hit-and-run.
“The brain is mysterious,” the hospital doctors told Grampa when he came to pick me up. “Current research indicates that keeping her mind stimulated may help regenerate the neurons and…”
“That right,” Grampa said, blowing Lucky Strike smoke in their faces. (He also suggested the doctors do something I don’t believe is humanly possible with their mysterious heads and their mysterious asses as he wheeled me out of that hospital so fast I swear, the wheelchair laid rubber.)
Now before you go off feeling sorry for me like most everybody else does, I want you to know that all is not lost. Though I’ll confess to wavering at times, I haven’t thrown in the trowel. Of course, I’ve been trying to better myself on a daily basis, but reaching this lofty goal wasn’t of a vital nature ’til just recently. After Miss Lydia, my spiritual advisor, a woman of such astounding powers that she may chat whenever she wishes with those who have passed over to THE GREAT UNKNOWN, informed me of a horrible, heart-gutting situation. “Your mama’s not resting in peace, your mama’s soul is restless,” she wailed over and over, her chest heaving.
Just in case you’re not familiar with the goings-on of the dearly departed, what Mama’s supposed to be doing is gazing down at her baby girl from on high, fluttering her wings in pride, her halo shooting off sparks of joy. She’s not supposed to be pacing the stars, wringing her small but strong hands. Even though Miss Lydia tried to comfort me by telling me that it’s not my fault, I don’t believe her. That’s exactly what she would say, her being the heart of Land of a Hundred Wonders. No, I’m positive Mama’s restlessness is on account of me. Because I’m NQR.
So that’s why #1 on my VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO list is to prove that I can get Quite Right again. I figure I’m gonna have to set my hook into a heck of a plan in order to convince Mama. Ya know, something splashy. Like winning one of those public Scrabble tournaments they hold over in Appleville the first Sunday of every month. Or maybe reporting an awfully good story. It can’t be something normal-like. It’s gotta be something near miraculous in nature. Like me surviving the crash. Miss Lydia tells me all the time I’m a living, breathing miracle.
At the current time, I’m leaning toward that reporting of an awfully good story plan ’cause you’re never gonna guess what I found on Browntown Beach this morning on my way to Land of a Hundred Wonders. Not the usual trout with what-the-hell-happened eyes. Not a soggy boot with gnaw marks neither. Or even a crushed-up can of Falls Beer. No. Could be I stumbled upon the kind of story that’ll get lips flapping far and wide. I can perceive it all now. “I swear, the McGraw gal’s better at reportin’ these days than a twelve gauge,” folks’ll say, trumpeting my Gazette headline loud enough to be heard all the way up to the Pearly Gates. “Can you believe how much righter she’s gotten?”
Lord. I believe I’ll move that public Scrabble tournament plan to my back burner for the time being. Now that I’ve had a chance to think this through, this awfully good story plan appears to be the answer to my prayers! Yes, indeedy. Start scouting for a nicely cushioned cloud to set your restless self, Mama. ’Cause that dead body? It’s gonna be our ticket to Quite Right heaven.
Black and White and Red All Over
Every Friday afternoon you can pick up a copy of Gibby’s Gazette at Top O’ the Mornin’ and other important locations throughout Cray Ridge. Like Loretta’s Candy World- Home of the Best Chocolate-Covered Cherries in the Universe and Beyond. Washateria keeps a stack near the detergent dispenser. And there’s always a neat pile on the counter of Ye Olde Boo Store. (The k fell off a couple of years ago and Mr. Deacon, ye olde owner, isn’t in any hurry to replace it. He gets a kick out of lecturing visitors that they’d be better off “quenchin’ their thirst for knowledge” when they come sniffing around for bourbon and find nothing but good books instead.) In my humblest of opinions, the absolute finest of those knowledge quenchers is one called-The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation. I used to be the editor of my high school newspaper, so I believe Grampa gifted me the book the day I got out of the hospital to keep my brain, like those doctors suggested, “stimulated.”
Like always, we’re busy at the diner, feeding the regulars and even the not so regulars. The fans are whirring overhead and the smell of frying eggs is strong when Senor Bender, a teacher of Espanol up at the high school, eases down onto his usual counter stool along with last week’s copy of my Gazette. I can’t waitress ’cause our customers get all kinds of irritable if I disremember and bring ’em home fries when they order grits, but along with wiping tables, I am permitted to get folks situated.
“How’s the best-lookin’ girl in Grant County this mornin’?” the Senor asks when I pass him the menu. (You can’t tell just by looking at me that I’m NQR. The scar on the left side of my head is blanketed by the chili bean hair I got from my daddy and my celery-colored eyes are from Mama, so all in all, I believe I’m considered somewhat appetizing.)
“Why, I am just g-r-e-a-t,” I say, showing off my outstanding service smile and superior spelling skills. “Muchas gracias for askin’, you bastard.”
“Gibson!” Grampa shouts outta the kitchen peek window.
Uh-oh. (The only time he calls me by my Christian name is when I’ve done something just the opposite.) “What?”
“Home… home on the range… where the deer and the antelope play…,” Grampa begins singing so loud that I bet the folks in Mercer County are tapping the toes… “where seldom is heard… a discouraging word…”
Him doing that? That does NOT mean Grampa’s a music lover. No. Sad to report, that singing is a secret code we got between us to let me know that I’m cursing and should quit ASAP. And it is too discouraging.
I bend down to explain to the Senor like I’ve been taught, “I was in a car crash that banged up my brain so now it’s got a blue streak runs through it.” Goodness, this man has real nice hair. Good and greasy. “Please accept my deepest of apologies. I’m workin’ on it.”
“Apology accepted, like always,” he says after a sip of the coffee one cream I set down so
