In Search of My Mother’s Garden

Inspired by In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens by Alice Walker 

Our father, in moments of wit or jest, often described Our Mother as “ a pretty thang.”  And she was. She was also spirited, maybe even a little vain and naive, and sometimes, a wee bit goofy. She loved her hair (she said it was her glory), her hats, her home and her husband. These were also the things that gave Our Mother a lot of sway with our father, which, occasionally, she leveraged. Nevertheless, he was her protector, her provider and her partner. And these were not just words; they were evidenced in his attitude and behaviors. Conversely, she was the keeper of  his home, his children, his dreams, his secrets, and his best self. These were not just words either.

I have to be very careful not to idolize Our Mother in her absence more than I did when she was a very real presence in my life; and, in the interest of full disclosure, I must say that I am not always able to do so. There were so many different parts of her that she merged into the whole that was HER, that even now— some thirty or forty years later— I still stand in awe of her and wonder why I am not her, or more like her. I saw her navigate some very difficult terrain and emerge with mettle and resolve. I saw her religious and spiritual convictions meet our youthful obstinacy and teenage years with full command.  I saw her giggle and get excited about our school activities.  I saw her stand up for herself.  I saw her become a captain, summon a team, take the lead and care for her soul mate through the long, lonely journey that is Alzhiemers. I saw her mourn the loss of a child, and stand squarely on faith for the recovery of another one. I saw her lock arms with neighbors, relatives, friends–-no matter their status–offering whatever aid, assistance or friendships the circumstances dictated. And she prayed. A lot.  Our Mother had a prayer life, a spiritual life and a husband that rivaled any warrior, anywhere; and she did not hesitate to call any one of them, or all of them, into action.

Our Mother came of age in the Alabama backwoods, in the 1920s-1930s, when women in general, and Black women in particular, had no status, no accomplishments of note and no real definition for self worth. While white women struggled for the right to vote;  Black women were struggling for the right to their person. It was the Jazz age: flapper skirts, the Charleston and the T-model Ford. From the cotton fields of Alabama, I am not sure that Our Mother even knew there was a Bessie Smith or a flapper shirt; never mind a Great Gatsby. Somewhere in the world, a stock market might have even crashed.

By some act of fate, my parents managed to exchange life in the Alabama backwoods for one on the Mississippi gulf coast. This was a real opportunity for them to reimagine their lives; and they took it. There was industry there and a job for Dad and school for us and dreams for them and plans for us and a chance for them to nature those dreams and make those plans come alive. This was the turf on which I came to know Our Mother. I watched her navigate these spaces: home, family, school, community, HERSELF. These were her gardens; the canvas on which she immortalized each aspect of her life;  and she was (I’m trying to think of the word)?? amazing! I watched her stand in her knowingness, her womaness, her sacredness, her uniqueness and; when I go “in search of Our Mothers gardens,“ I find legends. 

All the many ways that Our Mother buffeted the tempestuous times of our lives,  evidenced, by itself,  a profile in courage. But when the waters were calm, —which they usually were—, she was pure poetry in motion.  This was on full display during holidays, and on occasions that were sacred to her.  At Christmas time,  Our Mother  moved, enthusiastically, into her holiday rituals. She would get started early;  commanding and cleaning walls, windows and floors. Afterwhich, the decorating would begin.  Our father would go into the woods, cut a Christmas tree and drag it home for a complete makeover. Strings of popcorn were the lights; home made drawings and construction paper cut-outs were the decorations, and some little cute thing was the angel. Any variety of whatever we thought was pretty found a place on that Christmas tree. 

And then would come the cooking. 

In the kitchen, Our Mother was part “little girl” and part “commander in chief.” The  kitchen was always her domain, but during the holidays, it became her sanctuary. She spent hours, days, even weeks in her food preparations. She had a knack for mixing food stuff, and could make a meal out of almost anything. She could make almost anything taste good too. The secret was in her knowingness.  She did not consult books or recipes, rarely measured anything and did not hurry or fuss. Instead, she had the authority of a well paid chef and moved around like a well oiled machine.  Get that big roaster, it needs more nutmeg, just a little tad of butter, too sweet, wash collards three times and turnips, four, another pinch of salt, not hot enough, too much sugar,  that looks about right, add a little more coconut,  I said yams, not sweet potatoes, needs a bigger pan, can’t taste the cinnamon, that’ll doooo, scat! And finally…Bon appetit!

Christmas was one of our two big feast times (Easter was the other one). Our Mother didn’t know about those people (Puritans) who came from somewhere (England) and evicted some other people (Indians) from their land; and now we were supposed to be having a big party to celebrate them (Puritans).  Along with a plethora of tuition debits, there was fierce competition for the one steady income that came into our house; so Our Mother used money in the best way she knew to meet the high demands. Christmas and Easter were the two celebrations that merited her time, energy and some of that money.

So maybe we were poor; maybe we weren't. Maybe we just didn’t see poverty or know it, or maybe we just didn’t care. Actually, it was all of the above. Twelve of us lived in one noisy, small house; the place all of us still call home; ate mostly from a garden that always had something growing; raised chickens, hogs and a cow; slept two to a bed in rooms that had two double beds; wore each others clothes and shoes whenever someone grew out or someone grew in; got one toy each at Christmas; got a ride to school when it rained or the Bayou Bridge overflowed; picked up and sold pecans when we wanted some new thing or wanted to go to a football/basketball game and the dance that followed; got a nickel to put in the Sunday school collection plate; picked, ate and sold blackberries; made meals from the government’s surplus;  got ten cents to buy school lunch; and –most notably– dined, imbibed and digested one clearly defined message: their way or the the highway. 

We were socialized in a completely racially segregated community; and all the important institutions in our community were black. White people were all around us, but they played no significant role in our lives.  We were never taught to love, hate, or fear them; but I think we always knew that white people were privileged. I don’t think, however, we really knew what privileged truly meant; until one day, a boy named Emmitt Louis Till changed everything. 

I was about nine or ten when I found  Our Mother, sitting in a chair, holding a Jet Magazine and crying and moaning profusely. When I was able to get the magazine and look at it,  I saw that she had been looking at a picture of the body of a person lying in a coffin. The body didn’t look like anybody I knew, so I couldn’t figure out why Our Mother was so distraught at seeing it. Through the paper thin walls of our overstuffed rooms, I had overheard a discussion between her and my father about a Black boy being forcefully taken from his grandfather’s house, but, at that time, I couldn’t make any sense of their conversation.The figure in the coffin didn’t look like a kid at all. Still, I sensed that there was a link between my parents’ conversation and that picture.  I later learned that a young boy named Emmitt Till had been dragged from his grandfather’s house; and his body had been found, face down, floating in a river. That year, 1955, I learned what it really meant to be privileged.

The killing of Emmitt Till– and all the publicity and brouhaha that came with it–, sent Our  Mother to a new place in her uniqueness. In our community, the races had always coexisted amicably and with a  clearly defined line in place. After Emmitt Till’s killing , however, Our Mother was bombarded–daily–  with some new details about the gruesomeness of the crime or the attitude of the justice system that was supporting it. This upset every part of her equilibrium and she was aggrieved.  Nightly, I heard her telling Dad about something she had read in the newspaper or saw in the Jet Magazine.  She was crying and praying a lot during that time and our names came up often in her conversations and prayers.  Finally, a branch of the NAACP set up an office in our  church, and both my parents followed their marching orders and became civil rights activists; encouraging the participation of their children, neighbors and friends, and remaining so until their health declined. It wasn’t that Our Mother had never experienced racism or didn’t understand its nuances: she did. But now, she had her own progeny, and the first member of her traceable genealogy was soon to be leaving for college.  The idea of something threatening his life, or her hopes and dreams for us was more than just a new twist on an old theme. It was a bridge too far. 

Looking back over those years, I feel a strange kind of appreciation for the turbulence of the times; knowing now, that unearned suffering can be redemptive. However our country defined our blackness, the women of my generation forced our nation to come to terms with the uniqueness of our cultural characteristics and to pay attention to our demands for social justice and economic parity.  My memories of the burnings, lynchings, and assassinations of people who looked like me are real, yet more enduring is how the adults of Our Mothers’ generation  managed to create their own niche, a world that nurtured and made sense to them; a kind of invisible fortress — hidden in plain sight—that protected us from the cruelties of the outside world. That world was our neighborhoods,  churches and our schools. At home and at school, we were surrounded by all those things that come from having both of your biological parents at home and from having explicitly stated and clearly defined rules and boundaries from teachers, parents and neighbors who had a vested interest in education and children.  This is Our Mothers’ legacy.

In her declining years, we all became Our Mother’s caregiver. Often, I would bring her to my home in Georgia and keep her there for a while. We would sit by the fireplace and talk–women to women– for hours. I had transcended the daughter's space and had become–in some sense– her equal. I had so many questions and we giggled like teenagers at some of the stories she told me. She told me some things about the life that she had before any of us: how she met and married our dad, the Old Dump house and her mother, Myra;  about  Grandpa Jeff and Carrie and SD and  Roscoe Locke and Miss Eula, and all those people (and things) that I had been hearing about throughout my life, but had never gotten to know up close and personal. I will be forever grateful for this time.

Our Mother’s life was not always phenomenal, and the world was not always kind to her.  And that’s not okay. But more importantly, she was always kind to it. She was the product of a broken home, a fractured childhood, and negligence on many levels. Still, she was one of those “headragged generals, that Alice Walker memorializes and I idolized. She worked very hard to be present in our lives, and I think now, in doing so, she was reconstructing some of the shattered pieces of her own life. To God be the glory!

In her last days,  Our Mother maintained her grace, charm, and sense of humor.  In a voice barely audible, she still commanded her troops. Sometimes, when her obstinacy met my determination,  I would playfully drape her cane around her neck, and we would both laugh ourselves into submission. These days, when I remember her, I see her clearly, a montage of memories: Her smiling at me with three heavy, dangling plaits, hanging clothes on the clothesline, sitting alone and quiet in the den in deep thought, excitedly answering a Jeopardy question (in the form of a question), standing opposite me at the train depot when I was leaving for college, feeding my baby from food chewed from her own mouth, the smell of her perfumed hugs at my wedding, her and my dad’s 50th wedding anniversary celebration, crying at my dad’s funeral, watching me fix her meal, letting me change her clothing,  knowing that we were saying good-bye.

In Loving Memory

Eula-Eartha-Bobby-Tom-Sara-Willa-Arlean-Synella-Fred

Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies  Prov. 31:10

They were women then 

My mama's generation 

Husky of voice-

Stout of 

Step 

With fists as well as 

Hands 

How they battered down

Doors 

And ironed 

Starched white 

Shirts 

How they led 

Armies 

Headragged Generals

Across mined 

Fields 

Bobby-trapped 

Kitchens 

To discover books 

Desks 

A place for us 

How they knew what we 

Must know 

Without knowing a page

 Of it 

Themselves.