and I was eager to be starting the fifth grade in the fall. One day, Grandmother wasn’t feeling well. She went and got in her bed, and Gladys told me she was alright and just needed to rest for a while. I read to her at night for a few days. But then, she seemed to get sicker and sicker, and in a few weeks, she was dead. It happened so quickly. I could not believe it. The funeral came and went and still I did not believe it. Gladys sent for my father. She didn’t know what else to do with me, so she packed up my things and put me on the porch, and I waited there until my father drove up in his old pick-up truck to get me.
Chapter Five
The first morning after Melee came to stay with us, I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon frying in the kitchen. I am always amazed at how quickly the sense of smell can take me back to my childhood, and the memories invoked are never purely happy. Most of the time, I try to evict from my mind as soon as they enter, but this morning I allowed them to drift in and set up temporary residence. Lying in bed, I kept my eyes closed and saw a picture of myself as an eleven-year-old boy.
It was 1934, and my mother, my little sister Gracie, and I were living in Ida Mae Wilson’s boarding house in Savannah. My father was on the road to Atlanta, trying to scrape together enough to buy more wares to sell, and he had left us behind. I didn’t mind. It was one of the few times when I could rest from our nomadic existence. When I felt that we had a home, even if it wasn’t ours.
My mother helped Mrs. Wilson with the cooking and the washing and in return she allowed the three of us to sleep on cots in a small bedroom next to the kitchen. I used to earn pennies searching through garbage cans and parking lots for empty coke bottles and sometimes run errands or deliver milk for shopkeepers. Mrs. Wilson made breakfast each morning for the boarders and anyone else who wanted to pay the 15 cents. The eggs came from the chicken coop in her back yard, and Mrs. Wilson would serve them up with grits, biscuits and strong coffee. Mrs. Wilson’s sister lived on a farm near Americus, and visited on occasion, bringing bacon and ham from one of her slaughtered pigs. It was those times I loved the most, because my mother would hand me a biscuit with two small pieces of bacon tucked inside and send me to eat on the back steps. It was often the only meat I would eat for an entire week. I loved the way the bacon grease soaked into the biscuit, making the crumbs cling to my fingertips.
Sometimes homeless men, wanderers and vagabonds, would come to the back steps and eye up the food in my hands. They’d ask me if I had any left, and I’d send Gracie inside to tell our mother. Mrs. Wilson would come to the door, usually with a pie tin full of scraps and leftovers and hand it out to the men. They’d scrape every last bite, and then take a drink from the garden hose, before tipping their hats and going on their way. Sometimes Gracie would perform for them while they ate. At six years old, she was a laughing angel child, her hair done up in curls so she could be just like Shirley Temple. She would beg me to take her to the picture show and sometimes I’d have enough to pay the 20 cents for both of us. She loved Bright Eyes , and she’d dance and sing “On the Good Ship Lollipop” to the delight of these weary, downtrodden men, many who had little girls of their own somewhere, waiting for their daddies to send home the money that never came.
One day Gracie was dancing around the kitchen and fell. She was crying really hard, and when my mother picked her up she noticed she had a fever, and carried her back to her little cot. She stayed there for days, complaining of a headache, and I would visit her and promise to take her to a picture show as soon as she got better. A few nights later, she tried to get out of bed for a drink of
Chapter Five
The first morning after Melee came to stay with us, I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon frying in the kitchen. I am always amazed at how quickly the sense of smell can take me back to my childhood, and the memories invoked are never purely happy. Most of the time, I try to evict from my mind as soon as they enter, but this morning I allowed them to drift in and set up temporary residence. Lying in bed, I kept my eyes closed and saw a picture of myself as an eleven-year-old boy.
It was 1934, and my mother, my little sister Gracie, and I were living in Ida Mae Wilson’s boarding house in Savannah. My father was on the road to Atlanta, trying to scrape together enough to buy more wares to sell, and he had left us behind. I didn’t mind. It was one of the few times when I could rest from our nomadic existence. When I felt that we had a home, even if it wasn’t ours.
My mother helped Mrs. Wilson with the cooking and the washing and in return she allowed the three of us to sleep on cots in a small bedroom next to the kitchen. I used to earn pennies searching through garbage cans and parking lots for empty coke bottles and sometimes run errands or deliver milk for shopkeepers. Mrs. Wilson made breakfast each morning for the boarders and anyone else who wanted to pay the 15 cents. The eggs came from the chicken coop in her back yard, and Mrs. Wilson would serve them up with grits, biscuits and strong coffee. Mrs. Wilson’s sister lived on a farm near Americus, and visited on occasion, bringing bacon and ham from one of her slaughtered pigs. It was those times I loved the most, because my mother would hand me a biscuit with two small pieces of bacon tucked inside and send me to eat on the back steps. It was often the only meat I would eat for an entire week. I loved the way the bacon grease soaked into the biscuit, making the crumbs cling to my fingertips.
Sometimes homeless men, wanderers and vagabonds, would come to the back steps and eye up the food in my hands. They’d ask me if I had any left, and I’d send Gracie inside to tell our mother. Mrs. Wilson would come to the door, usually with a pie tin full of scraps and leftovers and hand it out to the men. They’d scrape every last bite, and then take a drink from the garden hose, before tipping their hats and going on their way. Sometimes Gracie would perform for them while they ate. At six years old, she was a laughing angel child, her hair done up in curls so she could be just like Shirley Temple. She would beg me to take her to the picture show and sometimes I’d have enough to pay the 20 cents for both of us. She loved Bright Eyes , and she’d dance and sing “On the Good Ship Lollipop” to the delight of these weary, downtrodden men, many who had little girls of their own somewhere, waiting for their daddies to send home the money that never came.
One day Gracie was dancing around the kitchen and fell. She was crying really hard, and when my mother picked her up she noticed she had a fever, and carried her back to her little cot. She stayed there for days, complaining of a headache, and I would visit her and promise to take her to a picture show as soon as she got better. A few nights later, she tried to get out of bed for a drink of
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