Novel
Fleadick-Chapters one and Two

One of the first things I remember about my grandfather, Frank Donald, was that he always called me, "Fleadick", and he meant it affectionately. He was also fond of singing funny old southern songs, his favourite went like this: " I've got a dog that's skinny as a rail, he's got fleas all over his tail, every time his tail goes flop, the fleas on the bottom all jump on top." It wasn't until I'd grown up that I  had any conscious awareness of this flea business and what, if anything, it might mean. I can't ask him about it now, for he's passed on, and even if I could, no doubt he'd have no answer. The question itself would just confuse him. You see, he was a simple man. Some would say a simpleton. But I didn't care. He was my Popo and I loved him.

He was born in Virginia, under mysterious circumstances. There were rumours he was the bastard of a wayward heiress' indiscretion with a sailor, who shipped out, leaving her with an illegitimate bun in the oven. Therefore, he was put up for adoption. The other story is more likely, that young Kitty took a roll in the hay with a railroad man and to cover it up, her mother, Daisy Lucy, claimed the brat as her own. Daisy Lucy ran a thriving business; a boarding house next to the railroad tracks, and she was a shrewd mistress. Frank spent his uneducated youth running wild in the countryside, skinny dipping, and catching crawdaddies. He was a handsome fellow and looked the part of a young Scotsman with ginger coloured hair and blue eyes. He grew up, left home and went to work running a truck as a deliveryman for the Blue Ribbon Bread Company. He liked the freedom of the road, delivering a wholesome product to homes and businesses. His greatest pride was that the White House was on his route. Those were different days- when a lowly breadman could cart in two dozen loaves and gossip in the White House kitchen without suspicion.

One afternoon Frank arrived with the bread and there eating a sandwich was President Truman, himself. He complimented Frank's bread and my grandfather, always one to chew the fat, told the president an off colour joke. It could have been a big mistake, but the president roared and almost choked on his ham and cheese. Only an idiot could have gotten away with it. Such was my grandfather. Soon they were stretching their legs in the rose garden, for my grandfather had always wanted to see it. This was one of the highlights of Frank's life and he loved to tell this story, only through the decades he embellished it bit by bit, so by the time Frank was in his ripe old seventies, he'd been invited to put his feet up on the President's desk and smoke a Cuban. Then Truman begged him to stay the night in Lincoln's bedroom, but he had to decline because the missus was expecting him home. My Nana would scoff and harrumph at that, but Frank's eyes twinkled so, we loved to hear him tell it.

The dark chapter in Frank's life had come before my grandmother. The first Doris was a pretty little gal and he'd married her young and had three children with her. They had a nice little bungalow and she stayed home with the children as he ran his route every day. It turned out the milkman was running his route, too, only he was delivering more than milk to the Donald household. Coming home early one day, Frank discovered he was being cuckolded, a word he wouldn't have known the meaning of, but he threw that shameless hussy into the street. He was deeply wounded and left with three children to bring up by himself.

Meanwhile, as if running on some strange parallel track, my grandmother, Doris Bigham (whose story I'll relate in a bit) had just found her own husband, Frank's unfaithful act and devastated by his indiscretion, she'd left him. Broken hearted she turned to her faith for comfort, for she was a devout Baptist. Little did she and my grandfather know, but fate was about to throw the two of them together, beneath the same steeple. So, another pair of Doris and Franks joined together in holy matrimony. They were both southerners from humble backgrounds, willing to work hard. I asked Nana what attracted her to Frank and she simply answered, "He needed me." Being a romantic, I'd hoped she'd say he was funny and handsome, but it seemed the strictly practical had been her motivation. "That harlot left him with three children and he needed a wife, a good wife." At that she set her jaw and looked stern as if she were facing the task at hand all over again.

 I was the kind of kid who asked too many questions, all kinds of questions, relentless questions. Sometimes people answered them just to make me go away. "What were his children like?" "Did they like you?" "Did you like them?" "Did they miss their hussy mother?" "Did she ever come back?" "Why'd she like that milkman better than Popo?" "Did she marry that milkman?" "I wonder where she is now."....Finally, Nana huffed out the truth. She told me that her stepchildren were hateful, resented her no matter what she tried to do, but most of all, despised the child she and Frank bore together; my mother, Margaret Ann.

My Nana was generally a gentle, kind woman. But she never forgot an insult. Buried deep in her southern heart was a book of resentments and God, help you, if your name was in it. She could recall verbatim every disrespectful word ever uttered in her presence. If she was reminded of it, the book flew open to that particular page with invisible fingers and with the force of a vortex she would start spinning, faster and faster, crushing everything in her path as she howled righteous indignation. It was truly a sight to see. A spectacle, even. Her chosen word of ultimate, final and complete condemnation cast from her mouth with a hissing spit, was, "Putrid!" Once something was thusly stained with this powerful judgement, it could not be salvaged, nor was salvation of any kind possible, even by baptism.

Raising Frank's children was a thankless job and she was relieved when the two girls ran off to marry early and the boy joined the Navy. She had high hopes for her own daughter, Margaret Ann. "Get yourself an education", was my Nana's motto throughout her life- she said those words to me, even on her deathbed. She'd achieved her high school diploma and associates degree against all odds, and her pride in having done so was fierce. She's grown up in rural Georgia, one of four siblings to struggling parents. Her mother, Lula, had married beneath herself, for love, giving up her dowry and inheritance to joyfully jump into the impoverished arms of Ernest Bigham. Of the few material things she brought to the marriage; a pair of gloves for each day of the week and one for evening. They languished in the bottom of her bridal trunk as she picked cotton under the brutal sun beside her husband., her lovely hands ruined forever. They were sharecroppers, moving from shack to shack with their meager belongings in tow. My Nana didn't like to talk about it much. She wasn't one to complain about the deprivations of her childhood, but as she sat snapping beans on her porch, I'd ask question after question, ‘til she finally told me what I wanted to know.

Her mother became the neighborhood midwife. "She birthed the black and the white", my Nana told me proudly. Late night banging on the shack door more than likely meant Lula had to ride the nag up the mountain or into some dark valley where a woman lay sweating in labour, no money for a doctor. Then there was Ernest's short foray into bootleg whiskey running. He apparently didn't have the knack for it. To get him out of jail, Lula had to give the sheriff the last of what she'd saved from her comfortable girlhood; her father's gold pocket watch. The whole family worked tirelessly on other men's lands to make ends meet, but somehow they never did. The children had to take turns going to school, for there was only one pair of shoes and Mama didn't want the family shamed. Scotty, Nana's big brother pulled his own weight, but Vaneta was deemed too pretty to work. She might freckle or muscle up and be ruined for catching a beau. Being prettiest and idle made her vain and hard to live with. She slept in while the others rose at dawn to work the fields and thought herself above such humble labour. She was the first to get a new dress on those rare occasions Mama could afford to buy a length of Calico. The dear hope was she might catch a prosperous eye in town or church, that might overlook her humble roots for the beauty of her bloom. If she made a decent match, it could greatly help the family, and at the very least make her one less mouth to feed. What wasn't faced was the sheer silliness daily encouraged by sparing her any useful employment and puffing up her vanity. No man found the qualities she had in abundance very appealing and she remained single, dying an old maid. But I have gotten ahead of myself.

Nana's most interesting sister, was Annie-Dell, who threatened to ruin all. Something wasn't right in her head. When Lula would be out back pinning wash on the line, Annie-dell would burst from the backdoor wielding a broom, shouting suspicions and slurring obscenities, thwacking her poor mother over the head. She was either sullen, with dark eyes furtively watching the movements of those around her as if she expected some violence might be done at any moment or she was accusatory- insisting her mother had put poison in her soup or that her siblings were stealing the straw from her mattress. She grew worse and worse, until one Sunday, she stood and pointed at Preacher Duncan and swore he was actually Satan himself! She could see his horns! Up to this point, Ernest and Lula had managed to keep their family trouble quiet, but now it was out and they were fit to be tied. Lula wept at the altar and prayed the Lord Christ might intervene in this most evil matter. She and Ernest met in private with Preacher Duncan and a course of action was decided upon.

Salvation through baptism must be their path and so they chose the next Sunday after services and before supper. Word got around and the folk of the county gathered on the grassy banks for they'd heard a possessed woman was to be delivered from Satan. The church people came to support the poor Bighams and to see what it looked like when a devil jumped out of a body. Some said he wouldn't jump out at all, he'd drown. That made some, who owned property along the river nervous, for depending on the current, just where would this demon wash up? There was much speculation as the  Bigham's nag, Nelly, came dragging the rickety cart loaded with the forlorn Bigham family. They were dressed in their Sunday best. Vaneta wore a wide brimmed straw hat and smiled at everyone as if it were a party. The humidity and heat made everyone sweat. Flies buzzed around Preacher Duncan's wet face. His robes were heavy and warm as he faithfully went over the particular text in the bible he felt might be most compelling. His lips moved, silently going over what he felt moved to say as a vehicle of salvation..

Finally, the Bigham family climbed down out of the cart, all but Annie-Dell, and the crowd parted. Scotty had a bb gun hidden in his britches, thinking he might shoot that demon iffen he got a chance. Apparently, several of the men had been thinking the same as the boy and shyly hid their rifles behind them which alarmed Lula. She feared the guns might be for Annie-Dell. "What in sam hill do these men have rifles for? At a baptism, no less", she whispered to Ernest. His eyes went through the menfolk and stared at them hard, as if to warn them. "Don't you worry, Lula, no one's gonnta hurt Annie-Dell." Annie-Dell stubbornly sat back in the wooden cart alone. She squinted down at the proceedings with suspicion. She wore a secondhand, homemade white dress that was two sizes too small with stains on the bosom poor Lula had tried to bleach out. It made Annie-Dell look pudgy and about to burst at the seams. The way her jaw jutted out didn't help matters. She was no beauty but sitting in that cart, she looked almost freakish. Doris stood with Scotty and their parents. She bowed her head and begged Jesus to save her poor sister's soul. At the muddy river bank, Preacher Duncan began and all the men took off their hats to hear him speak.

Preacher Duncan's voice started off calm, like a small blue flame. The summer sun was whipping down on every head bowed in prayer. Duncan's voice rose, gathering force, the full conflagration of hellfire and brimstone raged from his lips. The Primitive Baptists were well acquainted with the Devil's ways and intimately knew every path to Hell a man might walk by intention or foolish ignorance of the mighty peril of sin. It took a preacher of tremendous dramatic ability to truly move a congregation that had been condemned so many times and in so many ways. Preacher Duncan was that man. With flair he pointed at the crowd an accusatory finger that made many wince and shouted, "Sinners, all! Condemned to suffer the relentless and obscene agonies of eternal hellfire and damnation!" Several of the male folk, especially the younger, felt a strange thrill go through them upon hearing the word, "obscene" and trembled with fear. "Your flesh and the flesh of your beloved children shall melt from your bones as the Devil turns the spit and laughs at your torment! He delights in the fruits your sins provide for him! Naïve, ignorant foolish sinners! There is only one path to salvation and it is placed high and narrow where few will be blessed to earn the right to walk it! Shameful fornicators, full of deceit- you are dark-hearted instruments of the Devil and yet you know it not! Even now I look into each of your foul faces and see not one who is worthy of the salvation of Christ! Our generous and loving saviour holds out the purity of his heart for all and you dare reach for it with filthy hands Bow your heads lower and beg His forgiveness, though you don't deserve it. None of you does and doubtless, our merciful Lord will not give it. Let us be grateful as despicably tainted with sin as we are, that he listens to our prayers at all!

Having sufficiently browbeaten the crowd into humble submission (many swayed with uplifted arms, crying, "Help me, Jesus") Preacher Duncan felt pride swell in his heart, for he had done the Lord's work well. Finally, he got down to the business at hand. "We have among us, a most wretched woman, possessed of the Devil- Annie-Dell Bigham. Through the power of Christ and baptism, we shall drive this demon out- if Annie-Dell has faith and is willing to be saved." Everyone turned to look at Annie-Dell who was picking her nose and eating it. "But first, let us lift our voices in hymnal praise, so that God's angels will be among us and lend their strength and beauty to our endeavor this day and witness this miracle of healing!"

Everyone was so impressed by Preacher Duncan's vigour, especially on so hot a day, without so much as a sip of lemonade. So the folk strove to match his enthusiasm and sang out with loud voices, sweat trickling into the ears, between breasts and down backs- all wondering if after the baptizing they might just risk skinny dipping with a demon themselves, iffen it would cool them off. The singing was done and Preacher Duncan called for Annie-Dell to come to him. But she wasn't coming down out of that cart for nothing. Her face screwed up and she started mumbling about , "That there's the Devil and I know it, he don't fool me none" and she was wringing her hands, her eyes rolling back in her head something awful. Ernest went and tried to sweet talk her down. "Come on down, honey. It's just Preacher Duncan wanting to baptize you in the river. He ain't going to hurt you none. I wouldn't let nobody hurt you."

But she started kicking and cursing and screaming, "He'll drown me dead, he will. He's a demon. See his horns? Can't you see ‘em?" The Preacher nodded to a few strong looking men in the crowd and they made their way to the cart to take Annie-Dell by force, if need be. "Please don't hurt my baby", cried Ernest and Lula sobbed as they watched the men seize Annie-Dell as gently as they could. She was spitting and scratching, her fists flew in all directions and a swift kick took the breath out of one poor fellow. They carried her down to the river, wading all the way in, ruining their shoes. All the while, Annie-Dell was screaming, "Help! Murder! Rape! I'm being molested! I have witnesses!!!" Everyone was whispering and talking in low tones for no calamity of this sort had ever been seen. Lula wept on Ernest's shoulder. Doris and Scott looked on anxiously. Vaneta powdered her nose. In waist deep water, the men held Annie-Dell so the preacher could read the Baptism rites and then they dunked her under at last. Everyone held their breath waiting to see what or who would come up. Seconds passed and the men started reaching down into the water and circling around themselves empty handed. Preacher Duncan spun and almost put his face under he was so alarmed. A look of horror came over his face and completely flustered, he shouted to the waiting crowd, "She done swum away like a snake!"

Excitement went through the crowd like wildfire. A clamour of voices, some speculating on how long she could hold her breath and where she might pop up. A group of young lads broke into bands to run the banks in each direction searching. A clutch of old women whispered ominously that Satan had taken her and she'd never be seen again. Two hours passed with no sign of her and the crowd dispersed. All that uproar had made folks hungry. Lula and Ernest departed from the scene with one less child, Nelly slowly pulling the rickety cart homeward. Back at the Bigham shack, hearts were heavy. No one felt much like eating, except for Vaneta. Lula and Ernest sat up as late as they could and then turned in. There were fields to be worked tomorrow despite their heartache. Dawn came creeping through the homespun curtain and my grandmother, Doris was the first to open her eyes. She looked across at Annie-Dell's bed and there she was! Mouth hanging open, snoring like a weasel. She never did tell where she'd gone nor how. And no one spoke of it ever again. It wasn't long after, Ernest and Lula reluctantly committed Annie-Dell to the mental institution. She was diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia. I guess no amount of dunking would ever have fixed that.

Chapter Two -A Bare Breasted Polynesian With Glued On Modesty

Chapter Two of Flea Dick-  The bare breasted Polynesian doll with glued on modesty.

I don't know if my Nana minded me asking her all those questions the way I did. Mostly, she was exceedingly patient. Her hands were always occupied with some task or other and she ended up answering me in an almost off-handed sort of way, as if her mind were actually in her fingers, so her mouth had been freed up to speak. Along with wanting the answers to important matters like, why didn't anyone ever marry the pretty Vaneta, I also wondered how on earth people got along in the olden days without electricity, television and refrigerators. Oh, and telephones. "Well", my Nana would say, and she could make one word last for several long seconds, like she was pouring honey from a jar, "I don't rightly know ‘bout Vaneta, but she got along alright." "What'd she do?", I asked. "Just lived alone is all. Had to be real frugal with the money the government sent her." What was she like?",   I wanted to know. "Oh, she was pretty much like anybody else, I expect." I hated those kinds of non-answers my grandmother was so adept at giving. "No, Nana, what was she REALLY like?"  , I insisted. "Was she weird?" "Weird?",  Nana looked at me with alarm and an underlying suspicion that let me know I was onto something. "Yeah, like Annie-Dell?"  "Naw , she weren't as bad as all that."  "Well, how bad was she?" "She just kept to herself, like. Wouldn't leave her house, is all. She was scared of spending a penny, so she ate dry oatmeal three times a day." "Didn't she ever want to come visit you and Frank?" "Well, we sent her money for the trip once, said she could drive up from Tennessee, make one stop overnight and be here the next day."  "Did she come?"  "Lordy, no!" , laughed Nana. Then she leaned into me and whispered, as if someone might suddenly appear to overhear our conversation, "Vaneta said she couldn't sleep in any motel for fear a nigger might have laid his head on the same pillow." Then she tsked and shook her head,

Doris was proud of having been raised in the racist south and not having succumbed to such ignorant, hateful thinking. At any mention of racism, she'd chime in loudly, " I worked for fourteen wonderful years for a real shiny black fella and he was the nicest man you'd ever want to meet! I've got no problem with blacks!" But back to the questions I'd been pestering her with. "What did people do if they couldn't watch t.v.?" , I asked her. That was a serious question in my mind, for every morning we sat staring at cartoons like "Speed Racer" and "Kimba" and all the best ones like "Bugs Bunny" and at night, I couldn't imagine not watching, "Bob Newhart" and "Rhoda" and "Charlie's Angels" and, oh, my God, my favourite show ever, "Carol Burnett"!!!  Besides, I knew she liked to watch, "Lawrence-gag-Welk"...She told me folks didn't miss what they didn't know about. There was no t.v. and when it got dark, people were tired and went to bed. After working all day and then doing chores, folks wanted to get some rest. Maybe on a Saturday night, they might sit up and tell stories or if someone had a guitar, they might sing. Candles were expensive. Homemade candles didn't give good enough light for reading unless you had young eyes. People went to bed. "Is that why they had so many more children back then?" , I asked precociously.

Nana changed the subject to refrigeration right quick. "We didn't worry so much about things going bad as folks do now", she said. "If something really had to be kept cold, Mama'd put it in a jar and I'd run to the creek and wedge it between some sturdy stones. But, if it started raining, I'd have to hightail it back to that creek quick or it'd be swept away and I'd get a lickin'." She told me how Mama made all their clothes and when each thing had been outgrown and handed down to the last and couldn't be worn by anyone or repatched, it was turned into a quilt or a rug. Nothing was ever thrown away. "What about Christmas?" I was really hoping she'd tell me that on that one special day all this poverty would let up somehow and like magic, the abundance of every child's fantasies would come true for the Bigham children, too. "Oh, yes!"  , said Nana,   "How we loved Christmas!"  "Did you get a lot of presents?"  , I asked hopefully. "We surely did"   ,  smiled my grandmother.  " An orange and nuts! "   My face fell at hearing that lousy answer. "Is that all?   , I felt truly disappointed. "You couldn't get fruit in the wintertime like you can now. It was a delectable luxury. Each of us ate our orange as slowly as we could. We savoured every bite! And then there was one Christmas when our parents had enough to buy us a beautiful red wagon. Now that was really something!" I had a red wagon just like the one she described and it was fun to pretend with and pull friends around in. Sometimes I put the cat and the dog in it to see how long they'd sit as I pulled them for a pet parade.

School and education were subjects Nana enjoyed speaking about the most. The one room school house was where her girlhood heart  longed to be every hour her raw fingers were picking cotton in those burning hot fields. The Bigham children were allowed to attend school on a rotating basis, sharing the one pair of shoes, the one chalkboard and stick of chalk. The plan was that whoever had gone to school would then teach the others what they had missed. Unfortunately, this scheme didn't work very well, for Doris was the only true student in the house. Annie-Dell was too disturbed to be sent, Vaneta paid no attention to lessons, but winked at the boys and passed notes all day, and Scotty was a big, beefy simple fellow who wanted to be in the fields sweating next to his father. Doris alone, pined for books and learning. She knew it was the only way she'd ever escape the poverty of rural Georgia.. She wanted a better life for herself, but with the system her family had in place, it was hopeless, and no one expected her to continue past the eighth grade. In secrecy, Doris went to the school house and confessed her situation and aspirations to the school mistress. Fortunately, she was met with sympathy and generosity. The teacher lent Doris a set of books and gave her a syllabus to guide her in her studies. Rushing home, she hid the books under her bed and went to do her chores.

By dripping candlelight, Doris stayed up most every night studying, teaching herself what she needed to know to pass the test which would grant her a high school diploma. Lula and ernest noticed the stock of candles decreasing and complained bitterly, so Doris was sure to add candlemaking to her chore list. She managed to accomplish in two years what is normally done in four and passed the test, receiving her diploma. She was the first in her family to do so and with tremendous pride, she bought a bus ticket for Washington, D.C. and promised to send money home. She never picked cotton again.

She loved to tell me that story because it proved to her that all things are possible if you work for them. The key to freedom is education was her motto and she was a staunch believer in the right of everyone having equal access and opportunity to get some. She was a fierce civil rights supporter and a feminist ( though she'd have balked at being called such an ugly thing). But in some ways, she was also a walking contradiction. Her strict Baptist upbringing made her fearful of the unconventional- her church was mostly white and very conservative. She believed passionately in missionary work and no doubt would have eagerly traveled the world witnessing for Jesus, if she hadn't had a family to raise and bills to pay. She contented herself by giving presentations to missionary women's groups throughout the area, using a collection of dolls called,  " International Dolls for Christ". I remember she kept them all in her cedar chest. There were dozens and dozens of them- I don't know how many, supposedly a doll for every country on the planet, dressed in native garb. Despite the intricacy of their costumes and detailed props, the strange thing was that each doll's face had exactly the same features. The African doll had very dark skin and was dressed authentically, but her facial shapes were Caucasian. And she came with a set of tribal drums and a little monkey.

Being a child, I only saw the play value of each. The cute little Chinese doll had yellowish skin with bright round eyes, a china men's hat and red silk jammies. She had her own adorable rickshaw. When Nana began telling me about the wonderful missionary work being done in each country, all I could think about was switching their outfits and trying some of Barbie's clothes on them. I bet none of them had ever gone for a spin in a hot pink convertible! Nana's breath sucked in sharply and she looked at me disapprovingly. "These are tools, child. Instruments of the Lord's work in countries all over the world where sinners are being brought to the path of salvation. They are not toys!" "But I promise, I'll be really careful!", I whined, grabbing the Polynesian doll. "Nana, why is her hair glued over her chest like this?", I tried to lift it up a little and look under but it wouldn't budge. "Don't do that!"  , hollered my red faced grandmother. Then regaining her composure she explained that Polynesian women don't wear blouses like normal ladies do. "Do they wear underwear?"  , I asked as I flipped her upside down and dug around in her grass skirt. " Child. Your mind is not appropriately focused. I use these dolls when I make presentations at meetings of the "Associated Women of Baptist Missionary Magic" and everyone loves to see these dolls and learn a bit about other countries- so, in a way, these dolls are ambassadors for the native land each represents."  "Oh". I said, eyeballing the Native American doll with her black braids, fetching buckskin ensemble and tiny brown faced  babe in a papoose. "I like this teepee and totem pole but the little buffalo is kinda scary." "Well" , Nana said, "realism is very important when we're trying to understand the people we want to save." With that she put the dolls back into the cedar trunk and never let me touch one again.

That cedar trunk held an endless fascination for me and whenever I could, I'd lift its heavy lid and sit before it like an altar, digging out its mystical treasures. Nana had saved so many wondrous old things and I loved old things, the way they smelled, the way they made me feel connected to other times and other places.  As if the world was bigger before I'd entered it and could be so again. What was most amazing to me was that I could actually touch this feeling, hold it in my hands, just by reaching in. I don't know how many times throughout my childhood I went through that old chest, but each time, I found something I hadn't found before so there was always a feeling of fresh adventure  every time I raised the cedar lid. There were dresses from my mother's girlhood that were so lovely; a white velvet frock with red satin sash at the waist and matching bonnet. Oh, to have worn such delectable ensembles! There were dozens of very old pairs of gloves (Lula's?) and hand embroidered handkerchiefs.

Then there were the magnificent costumes, all made by Nana for my mother when she had danced in recitals and such. My mother had studied Ballet, Jazz and Tap and was quite the dancer, so my grandmother outdid herself when she sewed the costumes for her darling Margaret Ann.. I took out the pale blue satin bodice that burst into rough netting at the waist- the tutu. The accompanying photo of my mother en pointe, wearing it and beaming made me wonder what her life had been like before she had me. My favourite costume was  red velvet and had a 1920's, racy  flapper-inspired feeling. The bodice was sequined along the bosom and hips and then red fringe fell along the front- shorter there to show the legs and longer at the sides and back. Black fishnets and a jaunty cap from which a saucy red feather arched out, made it the best in my book. There were even fingerless gloves! In the photo, my mother looked as if she was about to start tap dancing til dawn in her silver high-heeled tap shoes. Oh, how my sister and I would beg her to put on those shoes and tap dance for us in the kitchen. Her rhythmical arrangements were a wonder, making old linoleum sing and it was magical how something so silly could suddenly make us all feel so happy once again.

My mother has the cedar trunk now, but I don't know what she keeps in it. My Nana left it to her and I suppose it might be mine someday. It's funny, my grandmother's fixation on getting an education. Her last years were spent in the clutches of terrible Alzheimer's. She no longer knew who she was or who any one was. The storyteller was gone. The history keeper, silenced. I went down to visit my mother and of course, to visit Nana, though I had no expectation of her remembering me. When we entered the room she looked into each of our faces and then she took a second look at mine and her face lit up. Her pale blue eyes had a look of recognition so strong that for a moment I thought she had recognized me. Then she said, " You're the one who's teaching those little children down in New Orleans, aren't you?"  Thrown a bit, I simply answered, "Yes, I am."  Then she looked at me vry closely and said, " They're very exuberant learners, aren't they?", and at that she laughed a little. Trying to smile, I said to her, "They sure are, Nana."  Then she said very matter of factly, "I don't know how you stand the heat down there."  "Oh, don't worry, Nana. We have good air conditioning."  I wept like hell once we were in the parking lot.