Dark Grandfather

In his house, when I was small, he approached me with dancing eyes and a devilish grin, while rotating his extended index finger in a continuous circular motion pointed at me. Closer and closer he came chanting, bore a hole, bore a hole, bore a hole right there, by which time his finger was poked into my belly. I felt confusion and fear.

This stunt was repeated frequently. Most commonly at the start of a visit and again as I prepared to leave. It was meant to make me laugh. It never did.

Not really understanding what “bore a hole” meant, nor the fact that it was three separate words, I was only clued into the sounds themselves as if they were one long word - boreahole, boreahole, boreahole – and a poke in the stomach.

Scary.

Once I understood the phrase and had the word ‘bore’ defined it was still: Scary

Remembering this as an adult, I see it as a violation of my young body.

Grandfather was always looking for approval, applause, laughter. He was a needy, frustrated performer. He was short, obese, and bald, constantly smoking a revolting cigar.

When checking this disturbing memory out with my sister, I was startled to learn that she DID find the antic funny and, in fact, performed "bore a hole, bore a hole, bore a hole," on her own kids as well as nieces and nephews.

Her response called to mind a judgment that I’d heard from others numerous times in my life, "You take things too seriously, Rosemary. Lighten up for god's sake. Lighten up. Lighten up, girl!"

Or maybe the "bore a hole" memory got painted with a blacker brush after I later connected it to the for-true and real teen-years of inappropriate sexual skirmishes endured from the dark grandfather on Saturday afternoons when I was forced to go to his house for fixed chores: cleaning his house, bathing my demented grandmother and shopping for groceries. The chore time was usually capped off by a sexually aggressive wrestling match in his vestibule. His cigar-tasting mouth open, he tried to poke his tongue through my clamped-tight lips. Eventually I could wriggle free, open the front door and race down the marble steps.

Oh, and five dollars. I did what I thought I had to do for five dollars.

Every Saturday I went back for more.