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Colored Memory (some prose for Nan)
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Colored Memory (some prose for Nan) |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738
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I can remember being prejudiced as a child. I remember, that I once ate beets--tossed in vinegar and spice, until, the other kids said, "Ew..." I wasn't much of an activist then;I simply passed the beets. There's not much shame in that, because a little kid can get hurt, just for liking beets. The other kids will hover when the parents aren't around--waiting, to kick you for eating beets. One skinny child could sway the entire critical mass of the non-beet-eaters...and so? I passed the beets. Decision was easy in those days. Life was filmed in 8mm black-and-white. Children had questions, but were not allowed tongues. So should the winds of a parent's folly change, we followed the lead. We trusted to glide on velocity's break--our parents' wings, going where the wind blows. So it was, when my mother took a job; I was dejectedly deposited on the doorstep of my wicked grandmother. My life was over. And yet? "God does not shut a door without opening a window." (I can say that in cajun french--I just can't spell it.) My grandmother said that all the time. Of course, I didn't understand a word. What the hell did I know? I SPOKE ENGLISH. But she lived in a wondrous house. A shot-gun house. This, mon amis, is a house, without halls. A simple construction of one room behind the other. Imagine, first, a front porch. There is a screened door that would lead to a living area, which opens onto a dining/kitchen area, and now? The only concession to a hall would be the privacy wall of the bath (some houses, it wasn't even attached to the house--I thought my Grandma-maw rich) and then door-to-bedroom, door-to-bedroom...finally leading to the back porch. The conception of the name "shot-gun" house was that someone could stand on the back porch, and if all the doors were open in the house, they could blow away another body, in a clear shot, standing in the front door. Somehow, this explanation was not soothing to a child. I wondered where Grandma kept her shot-gun. They wondered why I would not enter the house from the front porch. There's a reason for everything, if you look hard enough. So..my mother began her working career, with a daily regimen of unwrapping me from her leg, as she dropped me off at dear Grandma-maw's. The old lady and I struggled to understand each other, but the french all sounded like scolding to me. Every day, I sat in misery, and she would feed me incredible meals of fresh broth stew of crab and shrimp, and seasoning that she made me pick from her garden. And every day? I would infuriate her by puking her delicate roux all over her tufted leather couch. (I was a nervous and sickly sort of child, even then.) I was a child in Grandmaw Hell. I was--les miserables... I believe it was a Monday, when I was learning to stir the flour for the roux for the lunch that I would puke, that I first heard the sound of Marguerite's voice. She sounded like faeries to me, her voice, drifting in from the breeze, and every note from her throat was like wiping sweat from my brow--and I forgot the terror of burning Grandma's roux, and let the breeze of her wash over me. She was singing in ENGLISH. She was singing to a dog at her feet while she hanged her laundry on that old "pull" line. She was singing, "How Much Is That Hound Dog In The Window?" Miraculously, the dog barked in just the right timing. I looked up amazed, to see, Grandma-maw there, screaming in French. I had burned the roux. In that moment, I broke my vow of silenced terror, and as she screamed, I screamed--and I watched as Marguerite, my angel, dropped her basket from her hip and flew to my rescue. I noticed the dog came too, growling. She opened the back screened door so fast it didn't squeak--I was amazed. I tried to sneak out of that door every afternoon and could not move it an inch without a tell-tale yowl of springs. But there she was--all goldenrod hair and blue eyes of Irish--speaking French--no, yelling French--giving Grandma-maw some of her own hell back. I will never know what was said that day, but that is the day I became the charge of Marguerite. She was my white knight, and I was rescued. I learned everything from her. I learned how to cook a roux, while counting in syllables of song...I learned to watch as she pinned the clothes on the line--I learned to pull the line in perfect timing to the cadence of her song-to-dog. I learned the difference between shallots and tall grass in the garden. I learned to go "pluck her a leaf" from the tall Bay tree providing the front porches with shade. She taught me to tell when the Japanese Plum would be ripe, just by the smell, alone. She showed me the secret place where she grew blackberries--a place my Grandmaw-ma never prowled. She was my blue-eyed angel of a song off-key, and we were buddies. The grocery was just down the street. I was enthralled that Marguerite had her own private shopping cart, there, by the steps of the side door. She parked it as carefully as a Lincoln Continental. I was proud to push it down the street by her side. We were buddies, and I remember the glow of her hand wiping sweat from my brow, as she prattled on, bird-like, chirping in her never ending song. This became ritual. We were in trust to each other, and I learned everything there was to know about her household. She learned almost everything about me, too. The only thing, she didn't notice about me, was the thing she didn't know. That was the art of reading. I don't recall how many trips we had made to the grocery. We entered the store from the "back entrance"--the side most convenient to the neighborhood. Again, I am not sure when, but one day I noticed the signs above the water fountains. They used to say, "whites only". I knew the "white" from my crayon box, and I knew the "only" from the street signs my dad would urge me to read. Those words were gone. Above the fountain, was a new sign that read, "Colored." Not only did I notice this--I was fascinated. I was more than fascinated. I wanted to drink from that fountain, the way that children want things to this day. So I said, "Aunt Marguerite" (for she was my aunt) "I'd like to drink from that fountain." (I'm not kidding, I was that polite as a child.) I saw shadows pass over her face as she said to me, in a voice so brusque, that I didn't know her--"NO." "But why..." I began my ramble...I was a "why" kind of kid, but had never questioned her before. I was shocked when I felt the pinch of her hands around my arms, lifting me and placing me into the basket--so I wailed. I pitched the kind of fit that gives a body head-aches. I kicked the insides of the buggy. She smacked me. I wailed louder. She cussed me. I screamed. The she cussed me in FRENCH. I whimpered. I was pitiful in the store. She was embarrassed too. I had been her perfect protege'--she had been my perfect angel. We now hated each other. It made us both sad. Finally, she pulled the cart over, and pulled me out, and asked, "Now, chez, what's on your mind?" She stooped to look my blue eyes direct with hers. I put my little fists on my skinny hips defiantly and asked, "Why? I wanted the fountain! It was free...why?" She said, "That was the colored fountain, chez..." "Oui-yes, Marguerite, I know...why can't I have colored water?" She stood and put her hand on her forehead, and laughed backward, and I was perplexed. She laughed until tears poured down from those sparkling blue eyes. Then she straightened herself and said, "Come." We went to the checkered bar, where there was a lady, dressed in pink and white stripes, and Marguerite said to her loudly, "Give this young lady some colored water! I think, maybe...strawberry colored!" She was talking too loud. She thought I was dumb. I knew something was going on, but I accepted the pink soda bottle, (it DID have a bent straw) and then, I climbed back into the grocery basket, and for the first time ever, Marguerite pushed the buggy home. She didn't mind. In fact, she seemed happy: "See how much better that is than that old hot water, chez?" My blue eyes met her blue eyes, and I nodded until she looked away. I craned my neck to see the sign again:"COLORED". I wondered of the taste. This one is for Nan--as her poem, "Signs" triggered this memory for me. That was almost two years ago, and I related this story to her on icq, she said it would make a wonderful piece of prose. Well Nan, I hope I did it justice. This one is for you. and...THANK YOU. [This message has been edited by serenity (05-14-2002 08:37 AM).] |
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| © Copyright 2002 serenity blaze - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
I'll be back tonight for an indepth read, but from what I scanned...dang if I'm not pleased to see this. For Nan. Huh! Me, too! |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
YES!!!! me girlie wrote more prose  I'll be back later when I can take my time and inhale  *skips out singing* "You outta KNOW" hehe |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Well, I won't let this delectable bit go without reading it now!!! I love this story Karen!!! THIS should be submitted. PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!!!!! |
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Janet Marie Member Laureate
since 2000-01-22
Posts 18554 |
We trusted to glide on velocity's break--our parents' wings, going where the wind blows ========================= that sentence caught my eye...and held me... it encompasses so many thoughts and images... truly a beautiful poetic thought.. then as I read on...and understood the intend of this story, I came back to it.... thinking to myself a parallel ... tho when you used that analogy it wasnt your intention, but what I was thinking is that, it is from our parents that so many of "us" often learn our first "prejudices" or where the seeds of indifference to others differences are planted. It was for me anyway.. and it always bothered me. Somethings shouldnt be passed on like heritage. Ok..Im rambling...see what your writing does to me...makes me moth-giddy This is beautiful honest writing me twin... and it begs to be continued...I feel so much more blowing on Marguerite's winds...and your breezes as well.  |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
Hey...thanks all for over-looking the obvious technical problems in this piece. Sigh...wrote it "straight to keys" again! Lots of clean up and re-arranging to do here before I'm happy with it...sloppy stuff. But I am glad that the content seemed to please, and yes, Jan..that was MY intent...smiling at you for being so astute. Gawd, but I love you people. Yer all so good to me! Thank you. |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
I'm supposed to be writing...and here I am, reading... good. Very very good! |
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Nan
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-20
Posts 21191Cape Cod Massachusetts USA |
This is a wonderful piece, Karen - I'm truly honored to have been its impetus... Darn - I never get to talk to you, it seems... I don't use ICQ all that much now, as it's not terribly compatible with my new computer... This story is quite colorful in its own right, ya know.. It looks like you didn't need much from me to put together a keeper.. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
Hey Nanners... It means much to me that you like this...and forgive me for taking so much time to take it off of the back burner! (smile...I have learned to cook things SLOW) Hugs to you, with my appreciation and gratitude once again. |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
i read this several days ago, and for SOME reason forgot to reply (silly me). i like this a lot Karen. i think, however, that you could do a little mroe to emphasize your feelings on this matter. it seemed, ina few places, a little detatched... and i know you, and know that's not you.  hugs |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
hey C...I was wondering...and? this was just remembering...hmmm. I tried not to interject my adult feelings into my childhood memory too much--I realize it's not a "power" piece, um...if you have the time? Could you e me regarding exactly and where what you mean? I am already rethinking this piece...I would love to hear your input on where you think the weaknesses lie... and snuggles lovie...thank you! |
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Mysteria 
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
Well if you are slow-cooking the simmering of this one turned out mighty good. I can see the viewpoint from which you wrote it, and I liked it muchos. Big Kanuk Kudos Karen  ~*~ Carpe' Diem ~*~[This message has been edited by Mysteria (05-16-2002 07:25 PM).] |
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Kethry Member Rara Avis
since 2000-07-29
Posts 9082Victoria Australia |
serenity, I loved the childlike innocence of this piece and the wording is fantastic. Keth Here in the midst of my lonely abyss, a single joy I find...your presence in my mind. Unknown |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Interesting...enjoyed reading this...lots of Asian people live in Hawaii and when the Koreans talk to one another it often sounds like scolding...I ask my girlfriend why she is mad and she says she's not...it sounds that way...James |
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