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  JUST PLAIN FOLKS

  JUST PLAIN FOLKS . Copyright © 1998 by Lorraine Johnson-Coleman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN: 978-0-446-93058-1

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1998 by Little, Brown and Company.

  A different version of this book was published in hardcover by Summerhouse Press in 1997.

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook edition: February 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  This book is dedicated to my husband,

  Lance Coleman,

  and my four small children,

  Larissa, Lauren, Lance, Jr., and Latrice,

  whom I love with all my heart.

  LISTEN MY CHILE

  I know you think you been raised ’cause you grown now

  but a mama always got to wonder

  what else can I say to my child who is black?

  I know what you’re thinking

  She’s been talkin’ my whole life,

  it’s time to let well enough alone, to trust me, to let me be,

  but you know your mama, and I couldn’t rest,

  not even with the Lord hisself,

  if I thought I left my task unfinished or even one word unsaid.

  Did I tell you that no matter how tough the task,

  how high the steps, or how hard the journey,

  it’s OK to get weary? — but you ain’t walkin’ this walk alone.

  You always got my footprints to guide you

  ’cause I been down this road before.

  Now I know your feet ain’t mine

  and we can’t step into the same shoes

  and I know too you gonna find your own way —

  all I’m saying is that you ain’t by yourself.

  Have I told you I’m sorry

  ’cause I wasn’t always the one who lifted you when you fell,

  healed you when you ached, or helped you when you hurt?

  But sometimes making that way out of no way just took all I had.

  Every once in a while I had to leave the mothering

  to God’s own guardian angels — them other mamas,

  the aunties, the sisters, the grannies and the nannies —

  but you know you was loved

  and chile, I’ll always be your mama.

  Chile, I been granny to yours,

  Mama to mine,

  Mother to the motherless,

  and missus to my man,

  but I never stopped being my own woman.

  I got feet that been trampled, and blisters on my blisters,

  but I can still kick up the dust, walk a mean high-heel strut,

  and cross my legs with the uppitiest of women on a

  first Sunday morn.

  Chile, no matter how tough things get —

  and they gonna get mighty tough —

  You got to keep going. You ain’t gonna make it

  stopping short or standing still.

  Sometimes being a woman is so tough,

  you gonna feel like you trying to dance on quicksand

  or catch up to the moon

  but trouble’s always coming, and you can’t stop it

  no more than you can hold back the tears

  or sweep up the ocean with a raggedy old broom.

  But you gonna make it, the Father above told me it would be true.

  ’Sides, I wouldn’t be looking for nothing less

  ’Cause I’m expecting at least that much out of you.

  —Mama

  Contents

  Introduction

  Kinfolks

  Journeys Home

  Call Me by My Name

  Sorrow’s Kitchen

  The Freedom Garden

  Homefolks

  One of the Homegrown Angels

  Gettin’ Ready

  Three Sixes

  Every Other Tuesday Off

  Women and Men Folks

  Hitched

  Sophie with the Gold Tooth

  Miz Lullabel, the Devil, and the Sunday Hat

  Lost Love, Last Love

  The Bluesman

  One Uppity Blues Woman

  Young Folks

  The Colored Water Fountain

  Nobody’s Chile

  Hush-a-Bye

  Little Boy Blue

  Little Cinder Lea

  Willy Did It

  White Folks

  White Folks

  Hagar’s Children

  Sara’s Precious Babies

  And the People of a Town Go Round and Round

  Church Folks

  Sister Mabel

  Brother Jake

  Mister Jim

  The Reverend

  A Final Say

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  I think that I must have gone through my midlife crisis very early in life. I was only thirty at the time. It’s the only explanation that I can come up with for wanting to turn my comfortable middle-class existence upside down. I started looking at the things that had been a part of my thinking for years, and suddenly they weren’t making sense. I’d always appreciated my African American ethnicity — that was never an issue. It was just that suddenly my understanding of this thing called heritage wasn’t adding up to what it was supposed to, and I couldn’t understand why. I’d read the appropriate books, studied the available literature. I knew all the significant dates and places that any aware and progressive-thinking African American was supposed to know. I took the right history courses in college and even managed to memorize the “I Have a Dream” speech. I went to all the black history programs I could, but I watched with growing annoyance as we talked about those same twelve or so black folks who supposedly made up all of our history.

  To the outside world, it appeared as if I were progressing along a preordained path, and it would be only a matter of time before I was a contributing member of some prestigious African American civil-rights or social organization. That was the plan, but the path took an unexpected turn.

  Because my roots are Southern, I had a particular interest in the heritage that comes from that part of the country. Despite what I was being taught, Southern history for African Americans had to consist of more than the brutality of slavery and the struggle for civil rights. There had to be more folks and diverse events in there somewhere — more interesting communities, more stories, celebrations, and triumphs in the middle of the historical struggle that I’d studied.

  There was a reason that at the most upscale African American events, collard greens were usually served. And I can well remember that in the midst of some of the most educated and formal presentations, there was usually a lapse, be it momentarily, into a li’l homegrown wisdom like “tell the truth and shame the Devil.” There appeared to be a great deal more to this heritage talk than anyone was saying, and I was determined to find out what it was. Zora Neal Hurston and her work provided the first glimmers of evidence. I figured there should be someone new to pick up her torch and run with it, so I made that my mission.

  The journey into this understanding began five years ago, and it hasn’t been an easy trip. It has taken me to some places I had never before imagined, and to some places I’ve always known. It allowed me to meet some people I could never completely describe,
but could never forget, either. It required that I stop playing a proud African American and really become one, as I came to realize that three hundred years of black history rested squarely on my shoulders. And that means history as it relates to our experiences in this country and understanding how these are indeed linked back to the motherland. So I have come to appreciate that worn headrag and what it has meant for us as a people as much as I celebrate that kinte cloth and its ever-growing significance in our communities.

  I really did think I had made it, or at least was on my way, when I became a happily married, successful, and somewhat well-educated woman. I didn’t realize that making it was still a long way away. I would still need to touch the hearts and souls of some black women from the past and then try to understand what they understood in order to be any kind of decent woman today. It really wasn’t enough to be an African American woman — I would also have to be comfortable with being a perfectly ordinary, quite commonly sensible, and absolutely awe-inspiring colored woman before I could possibly come close to succeeding the way my grandmamas had done. I would need their truths, their honesty, and the kind of faith that can come only from another time.

  At last, I found the kind of wisdom I’d been searching for in Farmville, North Carolina, the ancestral home of my kinfolks — amid the cottonfields, tobacco barns, and dilapidated shacks. It started there, but I quickly began branching out. I went to other rural places and talked to even more folks, and I graciously accepted all that they were willing to give, and they gave me so much. They let me in, allowed me to borrow their kin, lifted me so I could peek over their shoulders, inspired me to listen to their stories, and looked the other way as I stole some of their secrets. By the time my research was done, I had more good stuff than I could ever share word-for-word, so I took it all in, added a lot of imagination, and then expressed it as best I could in my very own way. These stories are the result of that effort.

  It would be rude and irresponsible to take folks’ valuables and then just leave them vulnerable to harm or danger. It’s the same with these tales of living, loving, and learning. I have told the story, yes, in a way that I am quite proud of, but I am also smart enough to realize that that is not nearly enough. There is still the possibility of misinterpretation despite the best of intentions on both our parts, and I didn’t want that to happen. So, after each story or section, I have added a short essay that allows these stories to be placed within a proper cultural perspective.

  I have surely been blessed, I know that. But blessings are no good to anyone unless you pass them on. I’ve had the good fortune of being taken through the back door of the most personal of places by some really good folks. These are diverse experiences here, and I don’t want you to miss a single one. Some of these stories make you feel “oh so good,” and others, well, they force you to swallow down some sorrow or hold back some rage. But then again, isn’t experiencing all of those kinds of feelings what living is all about?

  Kinfolks

  Journeys Home

  It was trying miserably to be inconspicuous, failing in its attempts to be subtle with its demands and softspoken with its commands. The beautiful beige envelope had been tossed casually on the kitchen table with the rest of the day’s mail, but even in the midst of the many, it was arrogant in its presence, insisting that I devote my full and immediate attention to it. I moved the other letters aside and slowly picked it up. It was that time of year again, and I knew it even before my eyes could fully focus on the elegant raised lettering. Mama at her best, I thought, as I slowly opened the invitation — calligraphy, vellum paper, and even a tissue liner. A little much given the nature of the occasion, but no one ever could tell Mama a thing.

  The invitation was clean, crisp, and straight to the point — clear evidence of Mama’s no-nonsense style. All this show and no little extras — not even a short Bible verse or a thought-provoking lead-in. Not one to waste energy on the nonessential, Mama believed that if you had something to say, you just took careful aim, spat it out, and let it land where it may.

  The Burney-Green Family

  cordially invite you to their annual

  Family Reunion

  at the homestead.

  No address was given, not that one was really necessary. We all knew the place. No need to read any further. I knew the date, and I was sure of the time. Some things are about as regular, inevitable, and bittersweet as the ending of summer’s long, lazy days — like a good daughter’s obligations; like a family reunion.

  I wondered if, since I am a member of the Burney-Green family, technically this meant I had sent an invitation to myself. Lord, who was I kidding? This was none of my doing. These were clearly the markings of a queen mother, and there was nothing cordial about it. Although not actually printed on those breathtaking sheets, the message was quite clear, the summons quite specific, and the tone really quite firm: Be there!

  Farmville, North Carolina, is down east near Goldsboro, round ’bout Greenville, and a holler from Snowhill. Like the folks who live there, it lays kinship claim to just about anything near it. There was a sprinkling of newly constructed homes among the now deteriorating wooden ones. On this visit I noticed they had added one extra stoplight downtown, and some of the stores had been given a facelift. At one time there had even been talk of adding a strip mall and a new hotel right on the outskirts of town, but so far nothing concrete had materialized. Other than these few “progressive” changes, Farmville looked just like it had the year before. That was fine with me, though. It was comforting to know that Farmville was there when I needed it, and right where I’d left it, despite the fact that I had moved miles beyond it.

  Farmville welcomed me in its usual August way, a greeting with sunshine so bright, a heat so hugging, and humidity so mugging it could set your carefully curled head all the way back to its natural kinky nap. The tar-licked roads seem to stretch on endlessly, like the lazy summer afternoon. The old folks were sitting on the front porch, waving me on with one hand and swatting flies with the other. The overgrown gardens that used to provide pickings for a full year now just rambled aimlessly until they met up with a mile-high cornfield. Even the pungent smell of tobacco seemed as strong and familiar as a musty old friend. There were no street signs way out in the country — just follow the shallow ditch ’cross the railroad track, pass on by the Williamses’ old drinking well, go beyond H. B. Suggs Training School, turn right at the Holiness Church, and proceed a quarter mile straight ahead to the homestead.

  It was only eight o’clock Saturday morning. Most of the family wouldn’t be arriving until much later in the afternoon, in time for the fish fry. Only the planning-committee members were required to be here this early. This was the first year that a “young’un” (young at age thirty?) was allowed to serve among the illustrious group, and fortunate or not, I was the chosen. No one was here yet. That was good. It was a definite point in my favor that I took my duties so seriously that I was the first to arrive. I wondered if Aunt Maribelle would acknowledge the fact and give me my due.

  The entourage began arriving at nine o’clock. I had been sitting in my car, trying desperately to sleep but mostly engaged in active combat with the relentless Carolina mosquitoes and gnats, which could flesh out fresh meat and swarm with a vengeance. It was a losing battle. I was just about to call it quits and leave when I spotted Uncle Alvesta’s pickup pulling in next to my car. As usual, he slammed the door to announce his arrival, stumbled, and then kicked the dirt as if it had somehow offended him. At fifty-five, he was of average height, somewhat pudgy, very thick around the middle, with a pleasant enough face and a grin that reeked of so much mischief you always wondered what he had just been up to. He had more money than God, but he was a simple man. He always wore black hard-toed shoes, dark-blue work pants, and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. His missions in life were to make even more money, to be the best electrician in Washington, D.C., and to cook the family-reunion pig.

  “Hey, cotton picker,
” he said with a smirk, kicking dirt on my brand-new sneakers and arrogantly waiting for me to rise to the bait. I have never picked cotton, I shouted at him silently. He’s my mother’s brother, I reminded myself as I shuffled my feet to knock off the excess dirt.

  “Hey, Uncle, where’s the rest of the family?” I even forced a smile that was probably a bit too wide. I figured out for myself that my cousins probably didn’t want to hear his mouth for six straight hours. One thing for sure: my cousins had plenty of sense.

  “They’ll be here later, in time for the fish fry. Hey, what’s up? Ain’t nobody here yet?” (What was I, chopped liver?)

  “Apparently not. Oh, spoke too soon. Here comes Aunt Maribelle.”

  Aunt Maribelle must have scooted out of the car in some kind of hurry because she was already halfway ’cross the yard, and Uncle Milton was still trying to open his door. Not easy moving that fast when you’re carrying a ten-gallon pot of, my guess, collard greens. Why we couldn’t make Aunt Maribelle understand that it wasn’t necessary to cook greens in New York and drag ’em halfway ’cross the country was beyond me. She had probably convinced herself that if she didn’t bring them with her, one of us “young’uns,” in a fit of madness, would probably run down the road to one of the local black caterers who made greens just as good as Aunt Maribelle’s and sold ’em so cheap it would save a lot of trouble. The idea had merit, but not to Aunt Maribelle. Her greens, and her greens alone, would be served at the family reunion, and that, as they say, was that.

  At sixty-four, Aunt Maribelle was short and stout, with a youthful face that had cheekbones so high and so wide there was no room for wrinkles. She had a beautiful head of thick, healthy hair, and when she was so inclined, she could do wonders with a jar of grease, a hot comb, and a lot of too-tight curls, strategically placed all over her head in untouchable, neat, even rows. Unfortunately, she rarely had the inclination. Instead, she usually wore a wig that looked like she had thrown it up in the air, closed her eyes, and waited for it to land any which way it wanted to on the top of her head. Today she must have dressed in the dark. She was wearing one of those “work dresses” — the hem was torn, and the dress hung raggedly around her legs. She hadn’t bothered to put on stockings, but instead wore knee-highs. I knew this because they didn’t quite make it to her knees, but clung midcalf in fierce desperation. She was a very sweet person most of the time, and the rest — oh well, you can’t pick your relatives.