An Elderberry Fall (19 page)

Simon rose early. He would tend to the chickens and care for Robert while I was cooking and attending to the household chores. It was as mundane as it had been in Jefferson. It was a lonely quest keeping house. All day I took care of everybody, and Simon and Robert thanked me with wide smiles.

“Are you cooking for Thanksgiving or are we eating with the Halls?” Simon asked as I finished washing the last dish and turned it over to drain. Although it was my first Thanksgiving in Richmond, cooking a big feast had never crossed my mind.

“Momma wants us to come to Jefferson,” I quickly responded. “We can invite the Halls to come home with us. They don't have anybody. Mr. Hall said all of his family is gone from around here.”

“…a white lady staying at May Lou's?”

“Yes. We are all God's children, right?”

“You know what I mean. The people of Jefferson don't take too kindly to white women and colored men. Too many colored men have been killed because they settled with a white woman. I don't need any trouble.”

“They will be at Momma's. They are not going to church with us. Besides, we are only going to stay one night.”

“Next year, we are going to have dinner here.”

“I can't cook all those pies and cakes like Momma.”

“You can learn. Maybe you should ask her a few questions while we are there.”

“Questions?”

“Yes, ask her how to make some of her recipes. She will tell you.”

Me being at home had him in some sort of daze. His imaginings of me cooking and cleaning and having a dinner feast did not sit right with me. I didn't mind cooking for my family, but Simon seemed to be a bit overboard, almost excited when he talked about me preparing delicious dishes for him, especially the kind Momma made. The next thing he would want to do is invite the entire Colored League to sample my cooking.

T
he Halls had a hard time making the decision to go with us to Jefferson County. Mrs. Hall was fine with the idea, but Mr. Hall had some deep reservations.

“I don't want no trouble down there. Folks can't understand us.”

“Everybody knows it, George,” she said. It was the first time I'd ever heard his name. Most of the time, she referred to him as Mr. Hall.

Then he added between puffs of his pipe, “We would have had a much better life had we gone to Canada like we planned. People don't understand us. I'm sort of glad we don't have children. I know they would be mistreated.”

“George, why are you bringing up all of that? The child just wants to know if we will be going with them to her momma's for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you. People down South are different. Hell, the people right here in Richmond barely speak to us.”

“We are used to it. After thirty-five years, nothing surprises me,” she said, smiling and shaking her head at the same time. “Carrie, we would love to go.”

She cut her eyes over at Mr. Hall. He grunted, but didn't dare say anything else.

I was so excited to hear her answer. After being around them for
the past eight months, I had forgotten about the color difference. They treated us like family and we did the same for them. Mrs. Hall would often bring up homemade cookies. Her oatmeal cookies were mighty fine, but no one could make them like Momma. It was the thought, anyhow, which mattered. The only two white ladies I'd known before Mrs. Hall were Mrs. Ferguson and Mrs. Gaines and neither of them had a knack for cooking. I supposed it was the reason they hired someone else to do the job.

Robert sat between me and Simon. Mr. and Mrs. Hall sat in back. It was a good morning, the temperature hovering around 68. It was warm for a fall day, especially since two days before the snow flurries had been dusting the rooftops and blanketing the ground. There was a breeze stirring, and the trees were leaning to the left. Everyone was ready to go when Nadine walked up to the car.

“Y'all going somewhere?” Nobody saw her come out of the house. She showed up from nowhere.

Nobody was quick to answer her. I sucked my teeth and Simon inhaled.

“Where y'all going?” she asked again.

“We will be back tomorrow,” Simon answered, without telling her everything.

“Okay! Well, I'll watch everything until y'all come back home.”

“We won't be gone that long.”

“Okay,” she answered in a sad tone. “I'll see y'all when y'all come back.”

When Simon pulled off, Nadine was still standing in the street. It was the first time I'd seen her since I'd come back home from school.

The Halls had never traveled to Jefferson County. The only place
they frequented was Petersburg on occasion, and Washington, D.C., they said. A place like Jefferson surely was not a place they even imagined visiting.

When we came to the point where the paved road became dirt, Mrs. Hall sat straight up.

“We really are going to the country. I haven't been in rural areas since I was a child. Upstate New York has plenty of places with dirt roads. I remember as a child taking a long trip by train to Niagara Falls. We traveled through small cities and all I would see was small shanty houses and lots of farmland.”

“I grew up in a rural area,” chimed in Mr. Hall. “I never liked it. I found the lifestyle boring and too safe for me. That is the reason I joined the service. I had to figure a way out from the South.”

“Do you think most people are like us, Mr. Hall?”

“What are you saying?”

“Well, I wanted to leave, too. I didn't like the mundane way of living, especially after my papa died.”

“I reckon all of us are searching for something. Living in the country makes it easier for the mind to wander. Every day is the same. Repetition can bring on boredom. And who wants to live a boring life?”

“It's not like you do so much now,” Mrs. Hall commented.

“I know. But, if I want to do something like take a walk to the corner market or go to a picture show, it is all very convenient. Folk in the country never see picture shows. Some of them have never been anywhere but from home to church. It is an isolated life.”

“Some people enjoy the isolation,” Simon said, and then added, “I wouldn't mind living in the country again. Robert would have plenty space to run and play. Carrie could can our food. I'd do the farming.”

I cringed at his comment. Amazing how he felt about country living when he was the one who was the first to leave.

“I think it is a place I could visit, but living down here in the brush is something I couldn't do. I suspect I would be bored stiff. I couldn't walk to the market,” Mrs. Hall said.

“Most people don't own a car, so they use a horse and buggy,” Simon volunteered.

“I'm fine with that. Folks ride them in Richmond,” Mrs. Hall said.

Finally Mr. Hall added, “I guess where there is love, I could stay. As long as I am around good people, I possibly could live in the country.”

Everybody, including little Robert, broke out in a chuckle. Going home was not hard. I loved it there at times. The star-filled skies and the fresh air was good for anybody. It was the repetition of work that bored most folk. And knowing most of the men would die from heat strokes and exhaustion made me sad.

Route 460 led us straight through the heart of town. There was a seed and feed store, a post office and a courthouse. Along the James River was a farmer's market where farmers came to trade goods and services. It was also the place where the tobacco farmers hauled their crops after harvest.

We rode past the Fergusons', but I was embarrassed to point out Momma's place of employment. I supposed the Halls knew most of the women were domestic workers. It was mainly why there was so much racial tension. Colored folk did all the things the white farmer felt he was too good to do. It was those memories which inspired me to leave. I knew I would leave even before Mr. Camm walked into our door. I knew I would leave in primary school when Mrs. Miller told us about Washington, D.C., the nation's capital. Her stories thrilled me. When my brother John left for school, I would be leaving right behind him. Simon had his ideas,
and so did I, and living in the country was not one of mine. I had my own plans for my future. I thought playing baseball was his goal. I envisioned me home in the country alone with Robert and the four walls, and him traveling the globe, stopping in occasionally while I became a house slave.

Momma was on her way into the house when we pulled up in the yard. In her hands were a bunch of baby turnip greens she'd harvested from her winter garden, and a few onions.

“Mrs. Mae Lou, let me get those,” Simon said, hopping out of the car. He opened the door and took the greens out of Momma's arms. She walked over to the car.

“Y'all get on out.”

She saw the Halls. “Y'all come on in.”

Mrs. Hall got out and followed Momma into the house. Simon and Mr. Hall got the bags out of the trunk, and I picked up Robert.

Inside the house was the aroma of food being prepared. The sweet potatoes were boiling on the wood-burning stove and the mixture of scents had my stomach growling for food. Mrs. Hall quickly found a seat in Papa's high-back chair.

I could sense a bit of discomfort in her. However, she handled it well. Her pale white skin was now pink . . .I suspected it was because she'd never visited the country before. Momma came into the sitting room. “Come on in here, Mrs. Hall. Let's get this dinner started.”

Mrs. Hall glanced around the room at Mr. Hall who had taken the luggage into the boys' bedroom, and was sitting comfortably on the davenport with his pipe in his hand.

“Go on, honey. I'll be right here.”

“Where can I wash my hands?” Mrs. Hall asked, getting up from the chair.

“There's some warm water on the stove. I put a towel and cake
of soap on the bed in the other room. The washbowl is sitting on the vanity.” Mrs. Hall appeared lost as she walked toward the bedroom. I got up and followed her down the hallway.

“Mrs. Hall, you need any help?”

“No, I got it. It's been years since I've done this, but I can do it.” She chuckled before going into the bedroom.

Momma heard us and commented, “It ain't hard to learn to wash your hands.”

“Momma!”

“I'm kidding, Carrie. Folks from the city don't know about our ways. We don't have running water inside. Our water comes from the well.”

“You are right,” Mrs. Hall said, as she entered the kitchen. “I haven't poured my own water in a long time. I do remember when my daddy put the water pump inside our kitchen. We pumped water straight from the well and we thought it was a miracle. I was a little girl.”

We all chuckled while Mr. Hall and Simon discussed baseball in the sitting room. I had never heard Mr. Hall make so much chatter. We could hear them all the way in the kitchen.

After Mrs. Hall had taken a seat at the table, Momma handed her a paring knife and some Irish potatoes she had been keeping in a sack underneath the house. She said if you kept vegetables in dark, cool places they would last awhile. She canned them, too, except she liked the fresh ones for potato salad.

“I haven't been around this many people for the holiday in a long time,” Mrs. Hall said, peeling the potatoes like a professional.

“What on earth do you do for the holidays?” Momma asked.

“George and I usually have dinner alone. I usually bake a chicken and we have pumpkin pie for dessert.”

“I'm glad you came down here. My other son is coming home and Ginny will probably come for dinner tomorrow. We like to gather together for the holidays.”

Momma was right. I remembered the holidays. We would have the entire church over to eat. Momma was the best cook around and she knew it. She and all the women would gather in the kitchen and everybody had a task. I even helped with the peeling. Preparing a good meal was one of the things she took pride in and it would be so tasty, people would say that she “put her foot in it.” One of the things she took pride in was preparing a good meal for her guests. And tonight was not any different.

As Momma bounced Robert vigorously on one knee, I couldn't help wondering how she really felt about a white woman sitting at her kitchen table. Mrs. Ferguson was the only one who'd ever been in Momma's kitchen. Several times I had witnessed her in the same kitchen chair as Mrs. Hall, drinking coffee, once when Mr. Ferguson drove Momma home in his Model T Ford, and again the day Papa died. Neither of the times did Momma smile, yet this time, it was different. On her first visit, Mrs. Ferguson asked me, “When you grow up are you going to cook like your mother?”

Momma didn't say a word. I was only coming through the kitchen on my way to get a glass of water. All the times I had reluctantly walked down the dirt road past the blackberry patch with Momma to cook and clean her house, she had never said so much as a word to me. Most of the time our only communication with her was when she gave a directive like “don't forget to dust under the table; I got company coming.” Momma's response was always, “Yes, ma'am.” I would cringe. Mrs. Ferguson never even peered my way without batting her lashes and frowning as if she were in pain.