During my last trip home, I found out that my great-grandfather (or “jidu” as I say) used to be a stunt motorcyclist in the circus. This is what happens when I innocently look through a photo album in my family:
Me: “Wow, great Jidu seems to like his photos (circa 1918 in Michigan City, Indiana)
taken next to motorcycles.”
Mom: “Yeah. Well, my dad always said he loved motorcycles.”
Me: “Did he own a motorcycle shop or something? I mean, he is on a motorcycle in most of these photos. And look at this one (pointing to a bunch of men in knickers standing proudly in front of a fleet ot motorcycles.)”
Mom: “Oh? No, I don’t think so. I think he used to drive motorcycles in the circus or something.”
Me: “I thought he worked for the Pullman company?”
Mom: “He did.”
Me: “And then he owned a grocery? When exactly did he have time to ride motorcycles in the circus? And, how does a motorcyclist become a grocer? Are you SURE?”
Mom: (exasperated) “I don’t know. Ask your grandfather.”
Considering some statements from the aforementioned “grandfather,” I doubt I will find a credible answer:
“From your favorite furry friend (and lover)”
--inscription on 2004 Christmas card from Grandfather to Grandmother.
“This family sucks!”
--70+ year-old grandfather after finding only store-bought bread available for breakfast.
“What? (Chuck/Dad/Jidu) can you turn it down? It’s too LOUD!”
--common familial request when sitting in the family room where the TV is blaring WWII documentaries and/or Fox News.
“See you in the spring!”
--Grandfather to me (granddaughter) when only 9 and afraid to ski down a “black diamond” hill (i.e. difficult, scary and advanced for a beginning skier).
“I guess we’ll just have to buy you G.I. Joe clothes.”
--Grandfather to uncle after uncle feared he was shrinking after watching “The Incredible Shrinking Man.”
“Where is my bird?! Dad??”
--Aunt after Grandfather let her pet canary fly to its death in the middle of a Michigan winter because she didn’t clean its cage.
So, I suppose a life in the circus is not so farfetched for my family. I always thought we were strictly working class laborers making our way up the food chain. I was told both my great-grandfathers came over from Lebanon in the early 1900s, lived in Michigan City, Indiana (lord only knows how or why they both ended up there), worked for the Pullman company and made their way to Detroit to work on the Ford assembly line. Such a story I can live with. Seems feasible. Enough detail. Occasional references to someone “knowing” Al Capone. A good and solid Story of American Immigrant Hardship. Then, it all unravels. Slowly:
Me: “Why did Great Jidu #1 leave Lebanon?”
Mom: “I think it was because his sister killed his dog. So he had to leave.”
Me: “Hmmm. That’s strange. Was he that attached to his dog?”
Mom: “How would I know? It was a long time ago. Maybe he just wanted to leave.”
Me: “But what did the dog have to do with it?”
Mom: “Maybe that was the last straw?”
Me: “Wait. Why did she kill his dog?”
Mom: “You know how Muslims are about dogs.”
Me: “But wasn’t Great Jidu Muslim?”
Mom: “Of course. Haven’t you seen his prayer beads? I might have a picture of him with them somewhere. . .”
Me: “Yeah—but why would he have a dog if he wasn’t supposed to?”
Mom: “Who knows? He was just a teenager.”
Me: “And he felt strongly enough to leave the entire country.”
Mom: “He loved his pet.”
I am shocked anyone would want to join a circus in my family when it already is one.
I want my gossip! - 2005-08-17
Goodbye, BGT! - 2005-08-08
hell hath no fury like a awriting workshop - 2005-08-01
My Love Don't Cost a Thing - 2005-07-14
Kiss My Grits! - 2005-07-06
