black bodybuilders & musclemen
Andrew, A Short but True Story
When I was very young ... starting at three years old up through the time I had finished Kindergarten and then continuing on though my elementary school days, and fiinally reaching far into the early days of my young adulthood ... I had a wonderful black friend. This relationship continued until his death while I attended my second year of college. His name was Andrew and loved him with all my heart.
Andrew worked many years for my parents. He drove our family car and gardened for my family. My mother and Andrew even kept a wonderful vegetable garden for many years. He never married. He was a lone man and rarely took a day off to see his own family and I cannot remember ever of him having a visitor of any kind. He was always with us and a part of our family for more than several wonderful decades. He is rock in my memory.
He was the kindest man I have ever known. He was a large man and very muscular. His coloring was very black, that deep beautiful color of black of which there is no other match to be found in nature, maybe velvet.
The feeling that I had and continue to have for Andrew, still affects me and those feelings are more like a father mixed with being my very best friend. He accepted me exactly the way I was, and required no change. The last time I saw Andrew, which remains a vivid memory, was while I was a college student, and that unfortunately was the time of his death.
My father, hardly ever home and always consumed with his work, was often gone somewhere. But Andrew was there and he often played my father's role. Years later, I learned that my mother really didn't know where my father was either. She knew what his work entailed to some extend and she accepted that. But she never talked of those times, which must have been lonely for her, until much later, during her twenty or more years of being a widow.
My father paid little attention to me, never read a book to me, never let me sit on his lap, never told me he loved me, never kissed me or told me he was proud of me, just mostly acted as though I wasn't around. He was never unkind to me or yelled or chatiesed me, he just didn't seem to see me. And when he was at home the household was tense and everyone seemed to 'walk on eggs' while my father retained his reclusive nature.
I do believe that my father resisted me because of the name my mother chose for me, even before my birth ... my fahter wasn't there when the name was choosen ... that name was Larry Faye.
Whenever I saw Andrew, out in the yard or washing a car, I would run to him because I knew he would do what I asked. He humored me. I would run as fast as I could back into the big house and find several of my little books. Then I demaned Andrew should stop his work and read to me. Kindly, he always did.
He would pick me up, so easy, like 'pig in poke' under one of those powerful arms of his and in his other hand held the books. He would carry me over to where we sat together in a covered swing on the patio. He read to me while I sat parked on this kind-hearted giant's lap, bouncing for joy! I learned to snuglle with him, because I would place my ear tightly on Andrew's thick muscular neck to listen to his deep booming voice while he read. His voice mesmerized me. More often than not, I would suck my thumb and fall asleep in his strong arms while he read in the warm sunlight..
When Andrew made a mistake while reading, I quickly caught the error and corrected him and made him read it again. He wold laugh about that and ask how I knew he had made a mistake because I certainly did not know how to read. I told him the truth, that I had memorized all my little books in my room. Then he always replied with chuckle, "You are a smart little pest" and rough up my blond curly hair.
Andrew had a small gym set up in one of the empty garage stalls, below the appartment where he lived. The garage was a separate building located a short distance awayconnected to the big house by a breezway If I were outside, and that was often in Southern California, I would see Andrew head out to his gym to exercise. I watched and waited in ernest. Sometimes he would call to me to go with him and I would be so excited when he boomed, "Want to see my muscles grow, Pest?" You bet I did. Andrew often called me the "Little Pest," it was his nickname for me.
I was on cloud nine being invited to watch him lift weights and indeed I thought I could see his muscles grow as each of his big muscles hardened, pumped and relaxed with every lift and rep. He always sat me on my own little stool, which he kept nearby for me, and there I sat, while I watched him lift. Finally, I would get so excited, I jumped off that stool. I would yell out at him in my excitement, "Andrew, make a hard arm so I can swing on it!" He would laugh very loud and he always amused me by pumping up his enormojus bicep. Soon I would be swinging on his giant bicep like the monkey and pest I was. But he never seemed to mind at all.
Today, I can still bring those loving memories back at will. I loved the feel of him and his smell too, and just his presence made me feel happy, wanted and loved and very safe
Well now, you know my secret. This story about Andrew, my black father, in my mind anyway ... tells a lot about who I am today. His memory for me is always the happiest. And I feel blessed to have been loved by such a kind man as a little chld ... and I still love and cherish his 'acceptance of me' as a life long gift.
Larry Faye Estes.
.
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