Just An Old Sweet Song

Mom always said that Dad had a knack for finding just the right house for us all- when we'd have to move.

And he did it again-in Georgia. In 1961, we moved into 961 Park Place. The house sat on a long broad avenue-with trees lining the sides-an arboreal parade. Along the street, there were wide concrete sidewalks-laid in sections with big grooves every three or four kid paces. These sidewalks were just perfect for playing that rather morbid childhood game, 'Step on a crack, break Momma's back'. A long concrete path snaked to our front door, crumbling in spots, the grass heaving through in little mounds.

The house was huge-had to be to fit all ten of us kids.  It had high ceilings and impossibly tall windows that gave the sunshine full run of the house. There was a center stairway that soared three floors with a shiny banister that traced its path upward- in glistening mahogany. It was our daily stolen pleasure to ride down its smooth spine.

The rooms were all large and square as boxes, begging for oriental rugs and sumptuous sofas, not that we had any of those lying around. My room-shared with three of my sisters-was high on the third floor with creaky wood floors and lots of windows. The neighbor's house was so close, we could easily see into their private spaces. We once saw an old lady take off her bra and put on her nightgown. Her white drooping breasts hung to her waist, more than we wanted to see somehow. It put us off of peeping for a long while.

There were mammoth pecan trees in the yard, too. Those trees were glorious, with huge limbs, like outstretched arms, ready to hold three or four climbers aloft at a time. 

On hot Georgia afternoons, we would collect windfall pecans in old paper bags. Dad would pay us a whole quarter a bag. A nutty egg hunt could take up a whole afternoon. 

We would unload the day's haul onto newspapers laid flat on the kitchen table.  Mom would get out the nutcrackers, and we'd place each warm brown nut across the ragged jaws. You had to squeeze the handles-not too hard-just enough-while you held the pecan- lest it shoot away like a stray bullet. There in that kitchen, with the afternoon sun dropping below the trees, small hands wielding nutcrackers cracked away.

Small hands were good for this work. With grumbling stomachs, we'd have to restrain our urge to gobble up all the warm nuts, fresh out of their shells. But one by one, we'd crack, peel and pile them-until the big wooden bowl was full to the brim.  After an eternity, Mom would pour melted margarine over the lot of them, and sprinkle the glistening nuts with salt. We would then be allowed the sinful pleasure of gobbling greasy pecans by the fistful.

A porch wrapped around the face of the house and my sisters and I would play under it. There were dirt piles there-and doodle bugs and ants-little bug societies that kept us busy for hours watching their ceaseless toil at squat-close range.

Green lattice boards screened us from view and we were able to eavesdrop on our teenage brothers' conversations about kissing- and spy on them as they lit up cigarettes. They'd try to look real cool as they practiced how to pinch the cigarette, stretch their lips tight, and then inhale without choking on the sweet bluish smoke. Once, they heard us giggle and we had to scramble out the other side, yelling for Mom, three of them hot on our tails.

It was there, under that porch, where I hid the ugly red oxfords that my Mom brought home for me. We had all endured the paper foot tracings before her trip into town to buy us all new shoes. Probably for Easter. We'd stand on a splayed open brown paper bag, and she'd trace the contours of each of our feet. 

"Almost done!" she'd say, as she'd slide the pencil down the side, round the heel, curve into the instep and then go up and over the tiny mountain ranges of our toes to the finish.   Each by each, we would squirm, giggle, protest and then leap off the paper, dive onto the couch, and bury our heads in a sea of pillows, muffling laughter.

"Honestly! You are all kooks!" my Mom would say. And then off she and Dad would go-happily sans the kids-to find shoes based on paper foot tracings.

I wanted white go-go boots with fish net stockings, just like Susan Bartlett. But she brought me oxfords! I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it, still. She thought I'd like them because I had wide feet. I didn't. The oxfords are probably still there under that house, wondering where I went.

There was a huge open porch on the back of the upstairs part of the house, too.  From that tree- top perch, we looked down onto our flat, wide yard and beyond the fence. There, over the fence, was a home in stark contrast to our own. This tiny shack appeared to be cobbled together with wild abandon and maybe some scotch tape and string. The walls were raw sheets of plywood and other odd lengths of board- tacked on willy-nilly. There was a crudely cut window or two, covered with thick plastic. Big sheets of corrugated metal made up the roof. I used to wonder how nice the rain might sound on that roof. 

Outside the shack, in the yard, there was a large black cauldron that seemed to be belching steam all the day through. A fat lady-with skin as black as coal- would tend to it-stirring it slowly- with a long stick that she held tightly with both hands. 

We thought she looked like the lady on the syrup bottle. She wore a long skirt, with an apron, an old white blouse, and even a kerchief tied in front. Off and on-all day long it seemed-she would go out and stir that pot with a big circular motion- a rhythm, round and round slowly-like the moon going 'round the earth. 

And she'd sing. Not any song I had ever heard. But I liked it. It was more like really deep humming-long sad tired notes that came up from her belly-and seemed to hang in the air. She never looked around; she just seemed to be focused on whatever was swirling around in that big pot. When she'd come out of the shack, one of us would run and fetch the others, "She's out there! The witch! She's at the cauldron!"

"She's probably boiling up a kid," my brother once said. We ran to Mom and reported the story, our eyes and guts filled with horror. She just laughed.

"Oh, don't be foolish. She's just doing her wash. Watch and see. She'll hang it all up on that old clothesline there-see? It's tied between those two trees. I watch her, when you're all at school. All that work. Wish I had an extra machine. But she'd need electricity for that. Not many people could do all that in a day-not in this day and age."

Sure enough, she did just that. Lifted each piece out with that stick and laid it on the grass. When the steam stopped rising, she'd twist and wring each piece by hand-and then hang it over the line- all the while singing that same sad song.

There were kids living there too, but they never ventured over the fence to play.  Not that we'd know what to say or do if they did. We were unaccustomed to their wide brown faces and their kinky hair- all knotted and tied with strips of sheeting. Sometimes we'd dare to go down by the fence and peer through the honeysuckle vines at them. They'd spy us too and run away laughing and screaming in high squeals, their Mom shushing them and swatting at them, saying, "Now leave me be, chirren!" as she hung the clothes.

One night, we awoke to the smell of smoke. Mom was yelling, all panicky. 

"Get up!  Get up, everyone!  Kids, get up! Tom! We may have to get them all out of the house! There's a fire!"

My Dad and Mom were out on the back porch by the time we clambered down stairs, in sleepy twos and threes, to see what all the fuss was about. Out there, in the darkness, a sky-high wall of flames roared, sending wild chunks of flame and sparks into the pecan trees, igniting the lower limbs.

"The shack! Tom! The shack! It's on fire! Oh my GOD! Call the fire department!" 

We little kids stood dumbstruck on our high porch, box seats to this tragedy unfolding. My Dad and my brothers ran through the yard with buckets and blankets. Mom and we girls watched them approach-black figures backlit in fiery orange-and then stop at the fence-the fire too hot to get any closer.

A wild, panicky scream rose over the roar, "DADDY'S IN THERE! DADDY'S IN THERE!"

We watched in horror. There- awash in that orange raging light- was the woman with the kerchief. She was wild-jumping and rocking and crying and screaming.

"DADDY'S IN THERE! OH, LORD!  HELP US!" The children cowered in the woods, there under the clothesline sagging with damp sheets, shirts and mismatched socks.

Too late- the firemen came. 

In the soft light of dawn, all we saw was smoke, rising from a pile of debris.  And the lady in the kerchief, moaning and rocking.  Moaning and rocking-her children huddled with her under the clothesline. 

Written By: Patricia Fowler 1/08