when i was just a little girl…
…my paternal grandma taught me to cook what she called succotash. her recipe read – – stew canned tomatoes with chopped onions, seasonings and skin-on, bone-in chicken (‘cause skin & bones add flavor) until the meat falls off the bone; add freshly shucked corn and lima beans; simmer until the beans get soft. she put some bacon fat in hers, something i decided to forego as an adult, not because i don’t indulge in a little pork every now and again. i just don’t have that canister of bacon grease that both of my grandmothers and my great-grandma had as permanent fixtures on their kitchen stoves. what a blessing to have known them all, to learn basics at their hip that, when i became an adult, allowed me to create my own dishes from passed down deliciousness or keep preparing each recipe exactly as i was taught. either way, with every mouthful i savor ancestral nourishment.
…on special occasions, my maternal grandmother would pop the cork and let me have a little sip of the pink Cold Duck she poured into crystal champagne saucers. tingling to the nose and tongue memories that, when i was a grown up woman, i’m sure contributed to a love for the sound of a bottle of cold sparkling brut champagne being opened, signaling the celebration of something, or nothing in particular.
…my maternal grandfather would let me drink the last corner of Lowenbrau, his favorite beer, just before Johnny Carson signed off. my sister and i got to stay up late when we visited my grandparents. i grew up and for a long period of years i never counted, was a night owl, hootin’ long after twilight had dimmed the sun. that is until a mindful enlightenment transitioned my being into an early bird and i discovered – – better, more coherent songs are sung in the hours before and just after dawn.
…i fearlessly climbed the huge magnolia tree on the side of my grandparents home in Hampton, VA. white blossoms overwhelmed the warm southern summer air with a scent that intoxicated me. my sister and i would scramble to open the screen door, our short arms barely long enough to reach the handle, then navigate the five steps that, in a child’s eye, were very steep. nothing could prevent us from getting outside to get ourselves up in that tree! nowadays, my joints laugh whenever i get to thinking about climbing any tree, sometimes pitch a bitch as i ascend a flight of stairs. but my soul smiles at the sight and smell of big white magnolia blossoms each time i see them spread out like huge saucers amidst the branches that cradle them. they whisper memories that remind me to keep reaching, no matter my fears.
…i shuffled out to my grandma’s side yard in northeast D.C. to break off a switch from the yellow forsythia bush, pulling honeysuckle flowers from the adjacent vine to suck sweet nectar under hot July skies before quick stings, like those from a bee, stung the back of my tanned legs. at least that’s what i thought it felt like and thankfully, have never known for sure since i’ve never been stung…at least not by a bee.
…iced tea or cola was sipped over summer conversations that i didn’t understand as an adult slowly rocked a white-framed metal glider with cushions patterned in muted florals from the 50s. my legs barely reached the edge of those cushions as i sat waiting for the first sight of lightening bugs to float amongst the warm evening air fragranced with the smell of roses. something about being on that porch was comforting to me when the only thing required was to just be young and let the adults watch me grow. on that veranda was a haven separate and apart from whatever was happening beyond the latticed privacy wall, down the wooden stairs, and on to a concrete path that led to steps that would take me to a world where older waited.
…of four and a half maybe five, i played for hours outside in the rain on the sidewalk in front of our southwest D.C. apartment, my swim suit drenched as was my hair. my mother seemed to be not at all concerned with how wet the braids that hung to my shoulders were. neither was i. there was nothing in the world i need concern myself with at the age of four and a half maybe five, certainly not wet hair or what my body looked like in my two piece as i splashed and laughed with my sister and neighborhood friends. hair and body consciousness, worrying over looks period, were issues on a future horizon that i wish had not been mine to tackle, or at least had come with a few shades of adjustment before i arrived.
…every Easter, a big basket stuffed with colorful strips of cellophane awaited on Sunday morning. fat jelly beans, Peeps, little chocolate eggs wrapped in pastel foils, malted milk balls, and maybe a toy of some sort rested alongside the eggs we dyed the night before. my maternal grandparents saved one of mine, a turquoise blue, in their dresser drawer for years. i found its faded shell still intact after they both had passed. my paternal grandma often made matching dresses for me and my older sister to wear with the new hats, gloves, and shiny patent leather shoes laid out for church. as we grew older, the 22 months that separated us in age began to be a determinant that pushed us apart. age ain’t nothin’ but a number meant nothing to either of us girls who grew too old for baskets waiting when we woke and knew for sure there was not one thing cute about being dressed like twins.
…who was not yet old enough to really understand that cartoon characters weren’t real, i wanted to marry Top Cat. You know, T.C., the indisputable leader of the gang. T.C. was hip, cool, streetwise, smart-assed, and really kinda cute. he was a smooth operating bad boy who got into trouble with Officer Dibble, but always managed to get out of a jam with his fast talk and charm. maybe it was the original D.C. block girl in me that made me sit up and take note whenever T.C. hit the screen during Saturday morning cartoon hours. or maybe it was just the way he wore his hat all cocked to the side. i grew into having a thing for hats… and questionable choices in men.
When i was just a little girl, i asked my mother, “where are the brown people?” the move from D.C. to Fort Dix, NJ was one of those que sera sera events that i did not will to be. it was my initiation to a future i wasn’t prepared to see, let alone understand as i waited for her answer. culture shock was a foreign concept to my first-grade self as she took her first steps into what would become a life of encounters with what will be, will be revelations and eventually realize they are part of everyone’s journey. what will be, will be is a piece of the foundation on which we build each time we learn that what’s ahead cannot be seen until it manifests and, more importantly, that whatever’s on the horizon isn’t always something we can control. that we must navigate in, around, up, over and through each engagement until we figure out what is in our control or let go so that que sera sera can move into full effect. it’s a lesson in life, a state of mind, the words in a song that introduced itself when I was just a little girl looking for people who looked like me.
************
Are you a Black woman writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.
