This iReport is part of an assignment:
Brush with greatness
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Posted February 7, 2009
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Stockbridge, Georgia
Stockbridge, Georgia
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My Dad The Fixer Upper
Brandon's dad, Mr. Ezekiel Jones III, loved to fix things. There was just one caveat: he wasn't good at fixing anything! But Brandon was too young to recognize that. To him, Mr. Jones was a genius. Young Brandon used to watch with utter amazement as his dad, the mighty handy-man, pulled apart the kitchen stove, radio, stereo, television or anything that was broken around the house, then magically put each piece of metal and wire back together again. Little Brandon didn't realize that none of the items ‘fixed' by his dad ever worked quite the same way again. Ever! One day at school, Brandon's fifth grade teacher, Ms. Jackson, asked each student in her class to draw a picture of their hero and write a few lines to describe why he, she or it was so amazing. Some of the kids drew pictures of their favorite cartoon heroes like Bart Simpson, Mickey Mouse and Skoobie Doo; others sketched Batman, Iron Man, Spiderman, Superman and every other popular superhero of comic book fame. Ms. Jackson, energetic and blithesome, had recently graduated from college with a Bachelor's degree in Early Childhood Education. Her eyes still had the idealistic glow of the new teacher who would inspire her students to become the great leaders of tomorrow. A few years at Eastside Elementary would, of course, transform her into a stressed-out, short-tempered screamer who couldn't wait for the hands on the big round clock above the chalkboard to hit 12 and 2. Then the bell of freedom would ring; and oh, what a wonderful sound it would be! For Eastside Elementary was the school for children with special needs from every county within a fifty mile radius of the town of Jupiter, one of the poorest in the state of Tennessee. Jupiter was once a booming mining town back in the early 1920's after a farmer noticed shiny little stones sparkling in the sunlight along the banks of the Wolf River that flowed from the rolling hills of Mississippi into Tennessee. That farmer, Ezekiel Jones (or Ole Zeke), became one of the wealthiest gold miners east of the Mississippi. His discovery triggered a mad rush of prospectors and their families into Jupiter from states as far away as Virginia and Florida, hoping to strike it rich. And many did. Within a few years, Jupiter became a bustling community of miners, teachers, ranchers, farmers, merchants, bars, brothels and restaurants. A two-mile cluster of wooden buildings large and small, hugged both sides of Ezekiel Road, a dusty trail named after the old farmer and the luckiest man in Jupiter. However, after a few years of prosperity, the gold dried up deflating the Jupiter boom. Most of its twenty-five hundred residents shipped out of town, many heading west over the Mississippi river into Oklahoma where more reservoirs of gold had recently been discovered. Ezekiel Jones, little Brandon's great grandfather, stayed behind with his family and went back to farming the land. Rumor had it that Old Zeke was a high-roller and had squandered all of his wealth on booze, women and poker. Unlike many small mining towns that disappeared after the gold mines dried up, Jupiter persisted thanks to the grit and determination of a few ranchers and farmers, including Brandon's grand father, Ezekiel Jones II, the son of Ole Zeke who married Hyacinth, the daughter of a Methodist preacher from Georgia. Hyacinth bore him four children, with Brandon's dad, Ezekiel Jones III, being the last one. Brandon was relieved his dad didn't name him Ezekiel in keeping with the family tradition . He would've been the laughing stock of every kid at Eastside Elementary. He already had enough on his plate as is. Fortunately, Brandon's mom, Mrs. Lucille, had threatened his dad with divorce if he dared name their first born son Ezekiel IV. It wasn't long before Mrs. Lucille noticed that something wasn't quite right with Brandon. At two years old when most kids were walking, talking, running and playing on swings in the local park, Brandon just sat and stared at everyone with large blue eyes that hardly ever blinked. Mrs. Lucille also noticed that Brandon's muscles appeared flaccid and weak and that he could barely raise his arms. Then she observed an unusual enlargement of his calf muscles. She decided that it was time to take Brandon to see a medical doctor who specialized in childhood disorders. Jupiter's one and only family physician, Dr. Luther Washington, was eighty years old. He had told Brandon's parents that their son probably had Polio an incurable disease but he had no explanation for Brandon's delayed speech. He referred them to a pediatrician in Chattanooga, Dr. Susan Summers who diagnosed Brandon with Duchene Muscular Dystrophy and prescribed some special braces for his legs. She also recommended specialized speech and physical therapy. After a few years of intense therapy, Brandon finally started to walk and talk. And talk he did. It was as if a levee had broken in his brain and all of the words trapped within came rushing out. Brandon sat at his desk at Eastside Elementary, a desk specially designed to accommodate his disability. He loved to draw and spent most of his time at home sketching everything from pigs and horses to houses and trees. Mrs. Lucille helped him hang his masterpieces on his bedroom wall. She told him the room was his private studio and that one day when he became rich and famous, his bedroom would be replicated in a museum in Paris, France with all of the great artists like Picasso, Rembrandt and Van Gogh. It wasn't unusual for children afflicted with rare diseases to develop exceptional gifts of artistic expression. Brandon was definitely one of them. His drawings were simply breath-taking. No one believed that a seven year-old could draw images with such beauty, detail and precision from his head. Meanwhile, Brandon was focused on the project at hand, a drawing of his hero. After thirty minutes or so, he announced to Ms. Jackson that his project was done. Brandon's teacher stared in awe at the drawing and a tear trickled down her cheek from the corner of her eye. The title of Brandon's poster of his hero read: MY DAD - THE FIXERUPPER The drawing depicted his dad in his favorite straw hat, navy blue dungarees, red cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves revealing his hairy muscular forearms; Mr. Jones was bent over his old wooden work table, eyes focused intently on an object on the table's surface; his hands were extended towards the object... The object on the table was an image of Brandon standing unaided without braces. Mr. Jones' huge hands hovered over his son's head. Brandon's blue eyes were opened wide, filled with the purest joy. He was smiling from ear to ear. Below the picture, Brandon wrote: My Dad is my hero because he fixes everything and one day he'll fix me too. ~~~ By Pablo Poet/ Author of The Drummer in Me, My Poor Dad and Behcet's in Black. http://www.poeteez.com/ 2/7/2009
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