Imani/Introduction
"He that drinketh strong beer and goes to bed right mellow, lives as he ought to live and dies a hearty fellow."
-- by Anonymous
I was born in the wagon of a traveling show
We were gypsies of a sort. Not Roma. New Age travellers of the 21st century. My birth mother was among the inner-city youth who, fuelled by punk spirit, anarchist philosophy and a hate of Margaret Thatcher, clambered aboard a fleet of battered old vehicles to shun the trappings of the modern world for a life of nomadic freedom. I was born in the mid 1990's into such a life and was given the name Imani Williams by my mother
My momma used to dance for the money they'd throw
My mother, along with others, would raise money for fuel by performing for the crowds that were inevitably drawn to us. They were, among other things, musicians and dancers, people who used folksong and story telling for entertainment, having eschewed the electronic forms. These sorts of gatherings eventually brought clashes with the police, drug busts and and fury at the criminal justice act.
Papa would do whatever he could, preach a little Gospel, sell a couple bottles of Dr. Good
It was from my father that I first picked up my love of brewing. He wasn't really my father. He adopted me after marrying my mother, but he was good to me, and is the only person I can imagine in this role. When I was old enough, I would assist in the mixing of his 'potions' which were mostly alcohol. Moonshine bottled as medicine. I loved to help him. Mixing various spices with the hops or roasted grains is an art form and appealed to my childish imagination magical elixers, wizards and knights fighting evil dragons. I grew up pretty wild, like most Traveller kids, but unlike them, I remained so even after they were moving on to more acceptible forms of play. My folks always said I was a little fae.
Picked up a boy just south of Mobile
A little back history here. My folks hadn't married yet. My mother rode with a few others in an old beat up bus. Sometimes they picked up hitchhikers along the way. On this occasion, the man they picked up was hitching rides out of Alabama. The caravan was going in the same direction and he promised fun and good times.
Gave him a ride, filled him with a hot meal
It was required. The Travellers picked up on the hospitality laws of myth and legend. A code of honor, so to speak, among gypsies that insisted they provide for fellow travellers on the road.
I was 16, he was 21, rode with us to Memphis
Mom was pretty young, that's for sure. A runaway to join the mysterious travellers who had passed through her town a year or so before. An older couple looked after her, having recognized her free spirit and need to see the world as something akin to their own.
'And papa would've shot 'im if he knew what he'd done'
Papa. Pappy. The man I often called grandfather. He was very protective of my mother, but she was enamored with the hitchhiker and snuck off into the woods with him one night. Summer Solstice. Beltaine. It was, from all reports, a magical night for her and I was born nine months later.
