Just Plain Folks Read online

  “Hey, Alvesta,” Aunt Maribelle cried out, “Garland called and said he’s going to be tied up all day, so I guess you and I got to get this thing together. We better get started ’cause we’ve got a lot to do.” She turned to me at last.

  “Good morning, Daughter.” Since she only had one son, she called all sixteen of her nieces “Daughter.” It was meant to be a term of endearment, but it could also sound like a reprimand. Today it came across as an afterthought.

  She shoved the big pot of greens into my hands and gave me the unspoken directions to put it into the “frizerator.” I was starting to figure that this young’un’s responsibilities for the day were to do as told, ask very few questions, and do very little planning. This was going to be a long weekend.

  I looked around the kitchen after I put the pot away. The black iron stove had been there at least fifty years. The floor was warped, and the linoleum had started to venture in its own direction and curl inward. It might have been yellow once, but over time, countless footsteps had worn it almost black. There were islands of bright spots that still lingered, remnants of beauty refusing to be forgotten. The entire house was not supposed to have made it. It had been built by folks who didn’t know where their next dollar was coming from. It hadn’t been designed for a family of twelve, either, but it held them, all very near and very, very dear. Despite the hardship of being a “colored folks’ dwelling” in a town determined to make it prove its worthiness and fortitude day after day, it had performed its duties honorably.

  There was no shame here, I thought as I surveyed the humble surroundings. Sharecroppers had dragged bone-weary bodies through these narrow doors, and the house had been here for them, arms open wide and a pillar of strength to lean on. Everybody always had a warm bed in which to rest a bit, and, thank you Lord, even with a shelf full of nothing, no one ever went hungry. These very windowsills had once held mason jars full of nickels that had, amazingly, put four Burneys through college. No, there was no shame here. Not even in the midst of the decay, the piecemeal patchwork, and the much-needed mendings. Some would say it was past its prime, but I realized it was a testament that transcended time. No, there was no shame here.

  It was becoming clear to me. This was what it was all about — black history in the making. Not just the often-repeated facts, but the genuinely heartfelt feelings. I was a little ashamed of myself. I had planned to use my “influence” on the planning committee to suggest that we move the family reunion next year to a community center near Greenville with a caterer and a live band. It was just so difficult coming back year after year now that Aunt Bessida was no longer here and neither was Grandpa. It was hard to look at the old oak tree out back and not remember that it was where he sat every day for forty years — that tree that he told all of his dreams to, amid the shadows where he buried all of his troubles.

  Now I’d changed my mind about suggesting we move the reunion. I guess no matter how hard you try or how far you run, you really can’t leave your loved ones behind. Not even in Greenville, in a community center.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Uncle Alvesta, who threw at least one hundred pounds of fish in the sink right in front of me. I jumped back so I wouldn’t be drenched in the process.

  “Uncle Alvesta, what are you doing?”

  “This is the fish for the fish fry.”

  “Well, couldn’t you have had them cleaned at the docks? They do that, you know, for just a couple of pennies a fish. Who’s supposed to clean all these fish?” I didn’t realize it, but I must have been screaming, because Aunt Maribelle came running in so fast you would have thought I’d announced that the house was on fire.

  “Daughter, we always clean the fish ourselves, that way we know they’re clean.” She wiped her hands on a rag she had tied around her waist. (I always give her an apron every year for Christmas. I wonder what she does with them.) “Here, let me show you.” Her impatience was showing. “You clean ’em underwater. Slice the head off, slit it down the middle, clear out all the guts, and scale it. It won’t take us more than a couple of hours. Really, Daughter!” There it was, that “Daughter” that sounded like a cuss word.

  Someone once said, “The family is one of nature’s masterpieces,” but I wondered, as I rolled up my shirtsleeves and grabbed one particularly large, very slimy fish, if whoever it was had an Aunt Maribelle or an Uncle Alvesta.

  AFTERTHOUGHTS

  I was fortunate recently to have the opportunity to work with a science museum on the creation of an exhibition of African American inventiveness. As I toured the final showcasing, I couldn’t help but feel an incredible sense of pride in the men and women whose work was on display. This was true genius! We were aware, of course, that we had but touched the surface of the vast arena called “inventiveness,” but let’s face it, we had limited space. Then, I didn’t realize how much of the story there was left to tell, but now I know that inventiveness goes way beyond the Webster’s Dictionary definition of “originating a product out of individual ingenuity.” I strongly feel that inventiveness can also include the resourcefulness of a people. I think it’s that very resourcefulness, the ability to make do and get it done, that we celebrate at each and every family reunion.

  My granddaddy would surely smile if he knew that the modest little wooden house that we all called the “homeplace” is now known in academic circles as an example of vernacular architecture. A vernacular structure is not built from detailed blueprints or by formally trained hands, but rather created from the blood, sweat, and tears of simple folks who use only hand-me-down knowledge about how best to keep the wind and rain off your back.

  How I love that humble dwelling place, that simple little shack where Granddaddy lived. With its cozy familiarity, its worn interiors, and its sharecroppers past, it seems to me to be the grandest of places. It was filled with the enormity of ordinary folks and their never-ending dreams. No matter how fine our homes were in the North, they took a backseat to that place in Carolina that connected us to something larger and more significant than ourselves. I know how lucky I am. It seems like some folks have to search the world over to find themselves, but I have never been lost. I simply have to keep my eye on a little white house in the heart of Farmville, North Carolina.

  Call Me by My Name

  “Lorraine Harriet.” I said the name with all the authority I could muster, speaking directly to my reflection in the bedroom mirror. Still wasn’t right.

  “Lorraine Harriet.” I said it this time in a sexy whisper like the perfume models I’d seen on television. Nope, still wasn’t right; sexy just didn’t go with the thirteen-year-old face looking back at me.

  “Lorraine Harriet.” I pronounced it with my best Southern drawl, dragging each syllable on round the room and back again. Even worse; the name just didn’t fit, hanging loosely around me like one of my cousins’ baggy hand-me-down outfits hanging in the hall closet. The Lorraine wasn’t too bad; not so common that you ran into yourself coming and going, and different enough that it had a touch of class. It was the Harriet. Who in the world would put Harriet next to Lorraine? “Your mother,” the mirror answered back.

  My mother had probably still been groggy when the nurse came around and asked her what she wanted on the birth certificate. After all, she had just had twins and must not have been too with it at the time. What other explanation could there be for such poor judgment? Surely she hadn’t been thinking of the future, the day a thirteen-year-old girl would have to pick this name up and try carrying it around. When you’re little, it doesn’t matter, but when you’re thirteen, that’s another story. Thirteen-year-olds have enough problems without trying to squeeze into a name that just doesn’t fit.

  Loretta Doris, my twin sister, was standing by the bed, putting the last few items in the suitcase. This was the first year we had been allowed to shop for and pack our own clothes for the family reunion. Loretta had decided to do the packing for both of us to be sure we would be ready on time. I wondered if L
oretta gave any thought to the fit of her name? Nah! Loretta wasn’t one to give second thoughts to things that already were. She slammed the suitcase closed with smug satisfaction.

  “Lorraine Harriet.” I sang it this time like a lyrical Sunday hymn. Nope, even Jesus and the Holy Spirit couldn’t help this name. If my sister was wondering why I was walking around saying my name like a broken record, she didn’t say anything — just walked out of the room to gather together the toiletries.

  Once I’d asked my mother why she had chosen these names for us.

  “Loretta and Lorraine seemed like cute twin names,” she said.

  “But why the Harriet and Doris? That’s where you went wrong.”

  “I named you after my mother, Harriet, who died on Christmas Day when I was only sixteen years old,” she said. “And of course, Loretta is named after me.” I felt a little better after the explanation, but I still couldn’t help wondering if the after-birth grogginess might not have had something to do with it.

  We left New York later that evening and traveled all night, finally arriving in Farmville just before breakfast. Bone-tired and dead on our feet, we wanted nothing more than a soft, warm bed and a few hours’ sleep. Aunt Maribelle, Aunt Bessida, and Uncle Garland were seated at the table having a Saturday breakfast Farmville style: fish and grits. The fish were fried golden brown and smelled delicious. The grits had been sprinkled with cheese, and there was a big plate of cornbread in the center of the table. Maybe I wasn’t so sleepy after all — a quick shower and a change of clothes woke me up enough to face the family.

  Aunt Bessida Lee. There were lots of Lees ’round Farmville. It was one of those names that popped up a lot — like Mae. I guess when you’re busy having twelve and fifteen children, there isn’t time to be creative. Just find a good solid name and tag along a Lee or a Mae and be done with it. Easy.

  Now Aunt Maribelle, that one was a little off the beaten path, and Garland was one for the books. It sounded like a fantasy forest or a state park. Grandma must have really been out of it when she came up with that one.

  Aunt Bessida’s two sons, Will Alvesta and George William, came into the kitchen just as I was reaching for a plate. Better hurry, I thought, or the two of them will polish off the whole stack of fried fish. Those boys could really eat. Will Alvesta had been named Will for his father and Alvesta for my uncle Alvesta. That fit ’cause he had the same sneaky grin as Uncle Alvesta. Now, George William was named after my grandpa George. That worked, too, ’cause he was quiet and thoughtful like Grandpa. As for the William, I wasn’t sure.

  Now, in the South there are a lot of women named Sis and, oh yeah, a lot named Baby — lots and lots of them. Nicknames are so common here that they don’t even have to make any sense. Once I met this little boy out in Grandpa’s yard when I was about six. He looked like he had good possibilities for a playmate, so I hurried to catch up to him before he crossed over to his yard. He was holding a little boy by the hand who looked to be about three years old.

  “What’s your name?” I screamed to stop him in his tracks. “Mine’s Lorraine!”

  “Name’s Noah Junior, but everybody calls me Jimmy.”

  “If your name is Noah, why do they call you Jimmy?”

  “Just do.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked, pointing to the chubby three-year-old, who was staring at me like I had something stuck in my teeth.

  “He ain’t got a name. We just call him B.B.”

  “B.B.?”

  “Yeah. Baby Boy.”

  “Baby Boy! You mean he don’t have a real name, no name at all?”

  “Nope. Mom says she ain’t got round to it yet, but soon as she thinks of one, she’ll let us know. Meantime it’s B.B.”

  “I see,” I said slowly, not really understanding at all. How could you have a child and forget to name it? I even named my dolls, all of them. Never forgot one. Well, maybe it would work out for the best, though, ’cause when his mama finally came up with one, it’d really be great. After all, she’d had three years to think of one. Bet she’d do better than Lorraine Harriet.

  Noah walked on ’cross the field to his home, but he came back later with friends — Jonatho and Dub, which was short for “W.,” which was short for William. Man, these folks even cut up initials! He also brought a little girl named Eleanora, who was called Doby, and a sweet little girl named Doretha whom everybody called Piggy. I would have been quite offended, but she didn’t seem to mind a bit. It was amazing how these folks could re-create themselves just by changing their names. We played together that day and became good friends. Every year that I go back, I seek them out for at least one good time.

  I finished my fish and walked out to the yard. Since everybody was eating now, it would be the only time that I would be able to steal a few minutes of peace and quiet before the weekend got into full swing. The thick green grass felt like a soggy carpet beneath my bare feet, somewhat disgusting but also kind of refreshing. I was surprised to see Grandpa sitting in his chair under his favorite tree. I’d thought he was resting inside.

  “Hey, girl,” he said with a slow, weak smile. He never bothered to learn all of our names. I guess thirty-three grandchildren were just too many to remember. He did make note of whom we belonged to, and that was enough.

  “You one of Doris Fay’s little yellow twins. When did you get here?”

  “’Bout an hour ago. They made some fish, you want me to get you some?”

  “Nope, already ate.”

  “What you doing, Grandpa?”

  “Talking to my tree.”

  “Talking to your tree? Does it talk back?” I giggled.

  “Nope, that’s why I talk to it, ’cause it don’t talk back. If I got something in me I need to set free, I don’t tell it to nobody ’cause colored folks got loose lips, and you may hear it again, on down the road. But a tree will hold on to all your secrets ’til the Lord comes by and picks ’em on up.”

  I was about to ask more about this tree business when Cousin Lela walked up and gave Grandpa a big hug. “Do you know who I am?” she asked me, like it was the million-dollar question. Every year at reunion time, grown folks you hadn’t seen for a year or more seemed to find great amusement in tormenting you with the game of “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re my cousin Lela,” I responded quickly. Hah! Couldn’t fool me. Score one for the young folks. I remembered one year asking my mother how Cousin Lela was related to us ’cause I couldn’t quite follow the blood line. “She isn’t actually kin,” my mother explained. “Her mama had to go up North to get a job, and she couldn’t afford to take Lela along with her, so she brought her to Mama to keep awhile till she got on her feet. It was only supposed to be for a few months, but it wound up being ten years. She was raised up along with the rest of us and we just called her ‘Cousin.’ Far as we are concerned, she’s ‘family.’”

  “Cousin Lela, they made some fish this morning for breakfast. There’s probably some left, if you haven’t eaten.”

  “Actually, I was hoping for one of Bessida’s fish and grits breakfasts. I’ll be right back, Papa George.” Now, if she’s Cousin Lela, shouldn’t she call him Uncle George? This reunion stuff was one big brain teaser.

  “Grandpa, what kind of person was Grandma? I have her name, you know. I’m Lorraine Harriet.”

  “Your grandma was something else — spit and fire, and a looker, too. First time I saw her, she was visiting her people down this way and she came to our church. Sat right in front of me. She had on this wide straw hat, so big it blocked my whole view. Couldn’t even see the preacher, but to be honest, I wasn’t listening no way, just kept thinkin’ ’bout the girl under the big hat. Hadn’t gotten one look at her yet, but she sho’ smelled good, like a springtime flower garden. I kept wondering if she was as pretty as she smelled. I knew I would have to wait until after church to really look at her, and I couldn’t wait. That was the longest service of my life. When the minister gave that final prayer,
I jumped up real fast and moved into the aisle before she could get away. When she finally turned around, she was pretty, just like I thought she’d be. Smooth brown skin, two sweet dimples, and nice white teeth — couldn’t stand a woman with a raggedy mouth. She had on a yellow dress, and I noticed that she was a good-sized woman, not one of those little bird women. Nice hips, too, good birthin’ hips, and strong arms. I figured she could really move a plow if she had to.

  “Yeah, she was my kind of woman. I asked her what her name was, and she said ‘Harriet.’ Prettiest name I ever heard. I told her mine was George and I was a Snowhill Burney.

  “I asked her if I could come by later after supper and swing on the porch with her. She smiled real shy-like and said she guessed that would be all right. I told her to look for me at six o’clock, not a minute after. That evening we sat and just swung back and forth. She took her hat off, and I could see her hair. Made sure it wasn’t too nappy. Sometimes a woman wears a hat like that ’cause her hair is all napped up, but not Harriet. She had a nice thick braid, kind of twisted on top some kind of way, and she still smelled good all them hours later. We sat there just swinging, not too much talking, but that was fine.

  “I decided right then and there that we made a right fine pair, and if she wasn’t spoken for, well, I was speaking up. I told her we ought to get hitched. She seemed right surprised, said if we was going to get married, we ought to wait at least a week. So we waited one week. Planting time was comin’ round, and I didn’t have a whole lot of time.”

  “A week, Grandpa? How could you know you were right for each other in a week?”

  “What’s to know? She was pretty, went to church, came from good folk, and was sweet as pie. She had good plow arms and wide birthing hips. I knew that first night it was right. Waited a week ’cause she wanted to.”