Day 108
I was at the library earlier and noticed as I was going in that the last of the lilacs out front were fading quickly. They are one of my favorite flowers and it is always a springtime thrill to have them bloom. The blossoms usually coincide with my birthday but this year, it seems everywhere, the flowers and spring came early … and the spring blooms which usually are still so perky and sweet have already faded and are gone.
For the past two weeks I have so enjoyed the bushes around that building. There are 33 (or so) and all were dotted with the purple multi-flower lilac clusters nestled amongst the dark green heart-shaped leaves. The last of the blooms are very few now, far from the extravaganza of blooms and heady fragrance from a week or so ago. The bushes encircle a courtyard in front of the great pillars out front and when in full bloom it was almost too much to sit in the courtyard or even at one of the side chess tables in the lawn as the air was so perfumed. But today, as I was going in, the breeze was just right and lingering in the air was the faintest scent of lilacs.
One gray, mizzly, perfectly glorious day in late April of 2004 I, for whatever reason or inclination, sat down at my kitchen counter and picked up a pen. For the next five hours I let flow out of me, onto my yellow legal pad, the following story. I don’t know where it came from … it just kind of poured out of me. Here is Part I. Enjoy.
The Scent of Lilacs …
She plopped the pitcher of lemonade down so hard on the table beside me that a lemon seed popped out and landed on the porch floor by my chair. She was in a “do-not-bother-me” mood so it was best not to say anything – not even good-bye.
I sat and looked at that lemonade in its familiar rounded glass container; if I stuck my head over it the sweet-sour tang tickled my nose. Aunt Grace made perfect lemonade – hers was always squeezed fresh with just the right amount of sugar. She always added ice cubes, from that metal tray I had so much trouble with, and sprigs of mint from that scraggly herb patch near the back door – if the ground would give them up – and slices of lemon … paper-thin.
I stuck a finger into the pitcher and swirled the mixture around until a lemon slice bobbed to the surface. I plucked it out, licked off my fingers, and held the slice to my eye. I thought since it was so thin I could see through it – but no, all I could see was yellow.
I leaned over and poured myself a glass. I knew it would have sparkled in the sunshine, but I was up on the porch, and at least for now, still in the shade.
It was a nice porch, considering the size and age of the house. Uncle Lester had added it on soon after they bought the place, eons ago. I never knew him; he died before I was born. Mama said, “Uncle Lester must have been 300 years old, if he was a day.” I missed Mama. I missed her in the early mornings and late in the afternoons when I was alone. And at night, before I’d fall asleep, I’d pretend I could feel her cool hand on my forehead brushing back my hair. I pretty much missed her all the time; I couldn’t but help it. I looked down at my legs – they were my constant reminder.
My thoughts floated to “Aunt Hattie”. Oh, Aunt Grace’s neck hairs would bristle when I called Miss Hattie that – which was partly the reason why I did – to rile her! Mama said it was a good thing I had a lot of Daddy in me because I had the curse of the Elder women – hard, cynical, rile some and outspoken (though I was mostly just outspoken – even when I was really little). It was obvious to me that Aunt Grace had nothin’ but Elder in her. And the other part of the reason was that Miss Hattie was more like family to me than any family I had now. The Elders were not a close-knit bunch. I was closer to Miss Hattie than anyone else I knew. Everyone said Miss Hattie was “as sweet as pecan pie but with more sugar”. She was old and wrinkled and kindly. And colored. That’s why Aunt Grace had such a fit when I referred to Miss Hattie as my “Aunt”.
“It ain’t proper to infer that a colored folk would be of any relation to us. It’s indecent I tell you – downright scandalous. You’ll get people to thinkin’ and makin’ up stories. And it just ain’t right. Hush up, child.” That’s what Aunt Grace would say. (Like she, of all people, would care about scandals!) People were more likely to make up stories about the man in the moon than about Miss Hattie. Everybody knew her and liked her – ‘cept maybe Aunt Grace. But Aunt Grace didn’t seem to like anybody. Personally, I didn’t care if Aunt Hattie was purple, she was good and caring and I’d call her “Aunt” whenever it pleased me. Secretly, I think Miss Hattie liked it, too, because it made her feel like she belonged to someone (because, unlike Daddy, she had no remaining real family).
I often wondered why Aunt Grace wasn’t more kindly towards her. Miss Hattie had excused her by saying that that was how things were. People were not born not liking others – they learned it along the way and regardless of how life was some people could only see what was outside and not what was inside a person; and it was that which was inside that made them special, no matter what was on the outside. Still it bothered me … they’d known each other forever, as they both were so old and about the same age, and Miss Hattie lived only a mile or so down the road. I could hear Aunt Hattie saying “… then you’d go to the fence. When you see’d the sign that you can’t no longer see them letters – the red un, not the blue un – you’d go right and then you sees the path that goes down to the river. You’d just keep a-goin’ and you’d find me.” Miss Hattie told me so many times how to get to her house I could do it in my sleep – and in my sleep, dreaming, I could still walk.
(Watch for Part II.)