COMING TO AMERICA

The giant oak trees canopied and locked branches

from one side of the street to the other;

and the Confederate jasmine climbed the white trellises,

their fragrance sweet as sugar pie cooling

on the back porch banister of some old pre-Civil War mansion.

 

It was another emotional time for me. Leaving my kids in England. When Sean was just a lad, he said to me: “Dad, cry and get all them tears out of you.” 

            If only that were possible, then and now.

My ties to America were subtle at first. Dartmouth Park in West Brom. The Earl of Dartmouth visited America and brought back seeds. He planted them and huge trees still grow in Dartmouth Park, a reminder of England’s connection to America. I walked in the shade of those trees when I was a lad, never dreaming I would go to America one day. I’ve driven past the Asbury House thousands of times. Francis Asbury was the first Methodist Bishop to America. He lived in West Bromwich. Well, Great Barr anyway, about two miles from the original West Bromwich, the Old Church at the top of the Newton Road. The Wesleys preached in Wednesbury and West Brom in the market place. In hindsight these landmarks were my connection to America. When I think of the spiritual heritage that I neglected when I was in England, I wish I could recall the days. But no one cared enough to plant a seed in me much less water it. And I needed that. For I was no saint. Nowhere near. Life in a pub was like Sodom and Gomorrah at times. A proverbial den of iniquity. I saw things I should never have seen. Unspeakable things, so I’ll not speak of them. It’s neither in my best interest nor yours, my reader, that they be mentioned.

            Even before my mother died, it fell my lot to be left to myself while Mom and Dad ran the pub. The days were long for them and I had to entertain myself. I knew what was expected of me and I made certain I followed the rules. But in my spare time, it was football. Like the rules of home, I knew the rules of the game, the subtle moves that would get me to the goal. It was in me. I would take that and much more to the USA.

           Times were getting tough. The stock market was down. It wasn’t looking good for me in business. I had been successful in soccer, and that was my first love. All signs pointed toward success in America. My dad admired two countries outside of England—France for their lifestyle, and America for the ability to make dreams happen. He always said, “Son, those Americans, they got it bloody right, eh?”

From manuscript Gibbo's Story
Jane Bennett Gaddy

Posted 15th November 2010 by Jane B. Gaddy