Well, it was clear that my wilting flower needed some fairly immediate tender loving care. All right, I’m coming — no need to start fussing. I could just pick off the few withering blossoms that dangled rather disgracefully from its pitiful little limbs; that might spruce it up a bit. Then after it was looking somewhat presentable, at least decent enough for company, Miss Addie from across the road could tend to it whenever she came by to check up on the house. Now that Grandpa was gone and there was nobody here except on family-reunion weekend, Miss Addie was kind enough to look after things year round. It worked out pretty well, too, because she had nine children, all living at home, so coming over here was probably the only peace and quiet she ever got.
I could just leave her a note if she didn’t come by and say hello like she usually did. I looked over at my bleak little bucket beauty. Somehow just giving it a glass of water didn’t seem to be enough. After all, it would still be dependent on the kindness of strangers. Maybe I should plant it outside in Grandma’s use-to-be garden, and then it could fend for itself. The Lord would provide the essentials, and then this spunky little foliage could take it from there. The downside was that the old garden out back hadn’t been looked after for years and years.
I ventured out back and discovered that I was right: the place was a mess. The small family plot that had given so much and asked for so little was now like a gracious old friend who had outlived her usefulness and then been tossed rather carelessly aside. She was still a beauty, though. Her face was aged now and rather weather-beaten, her features worn to almost nothing, but still there remained strength and courage chiseled amid the time-honored old grooves. The long, lush vines, vibrant green leaves, and brightly colored blossoms that used to make up her marvelous crowning glory now lay mangled, tangled, and disheveled in a sidelong heap. Sadly, she looked woefully unkempt. She used to be quite the sassy lady as she ambled throughout this entire place, just strutting about like a proud peacock on patrol, but she was tired now, and unabashedly dragging. Well, it was obvious she wasn’t able to take care of herself. She deserved our devotion and desperately needed my attention, but she was too proud to beg, and I really couldn’t blame her. She knew we had been raised to do better than this. Grandpa always said that he believed in praising the bridges that helped carry him over, and if I listened carefully, I could still hear him a-talkin’ and a-testifyin’.
“Girl, get you some dirt,” he told me one day while crawling on his hands and knees, lovingly running his fingers through the damp ebony soil. “Colored folks ain’t got too much they can call their own, so the only chance we got for making it is land. Our folks just took off north like there was some promise of a better day, but I’ve been there and I ain’t seen nothing too special. Yeah, they come back driving big cars and spitting first-class, but like I said, I done been there and seen it all for myself. Folks living on top of each other and paying for the privilege of borrowing somebody else’s own. They call it rent. I call it foolish! Just give me a little black earth like this here, and that’s good enough for me.”
“But Grandpa, didn’t you ever want more and get angry when you didn’t get it?”
“Well, I guess the Lord didn’t see fit to give me too much, but I got my soul, a little common sense, too many know-it-all kin, and this here parcel that’s all mine. Ain’t nobody gonna take it from me, neither, ’cause long as I got it, I can take care of myself. Now sometimes your soul can wander astray, your good sense can go on holiday, and your kin can crowd up on you, squeezing away at your peace and tranquillity — but the land will never let you down. T’ain’t really much difference between a good acre and a good woman — you take care of her, and she will take mighty good care of you. This here lady has been taking care of me and mine for many a year. Now, you young folks got it a whole lot better than we did, so you better dig in, grab hold, and make something of yourself — something that will make you grin from the inside out. Then get you a few dollars, put ’em away for a rainy day, and pray the bank don’t fall with your money underneath it! But baby, you only gonna pass by this way one time, and sometime in your life, you got to get you somethin’ that will be there for you when the going gets rough or the times get tough. Where do you think all them fancy-dancy colored folks gonna end up when the white man decides to take back them few trinkets he give ’em? I’ll tell you where: right back here in Dixie, nose to nose with all they tried to run away from. You listen to Grandpa, ’cause I believes in lifting them up that help carry me over, and this woman of mine” — he patted the ground affectionately — “she done loaned me her back on many a dark and cloudy day.”
Now, as I cradled the pot, I realized that I had two damsels in distress on my hands. Well, I’d best see to it that Aunt Clo had a spot to lay her weary head, and what better place than nestled in the bosom of an old family friend?
“Oh, look over there, Aunt Clo,” I whispered to the plant. “There’s that sweet little whippoorwill again. What a beautiful black bird! His husky little singing voice reminds me of Uncle Earnest lettin’ loose on one of his wonderful blues songs. I still remember Uncle’s music, even though I haven’t heard it since I was a little girl. Listen, Aunt Clo, isn’t that just soothing to the soul? You know, a lot of folks believe that when some black people die, their spirit comes back in the way of a whippoorwill, forever searching for home and ever ready to sing their lowly love lyrics for anyone who cares to listen. Do you think that could be true, Aunt Clo? According to Miz Addie ’cross the way, that same little bird comes back to this spot every year at family-reunion time.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Aunt Clo, if that bird somehow managed to capture a little piece of Uncle’s soul as it was on its way to Heaven? The family was so brokenhearted when he left home. He didn’t have much more than two suits, two dollars, and his one stringer, but he was determined to make his way to fame and fortune. To leave like that, during those tough times when every family round here needed every able body workin’ just so they could make it, and Uncle Earnest decides to take off — Aunt Leana told him that if he left, he might as well keep going for the rest of his days, because he would never be welcomed home again. I guess he took Aunt Leana to heart, ’cause that’s just what he did, and nobody has ever heard from him again.
“Oh, I remember that every once in a while I’d hear Uncle Pete humming one of his little songs, and if I caught him in just the right mood, he’d even teach me the words. Lord, Uncle Earnest was something else, wasn’t he?
I got me a song
that sings ’bout the blues in me.
Blues as blue as the deep, deep sea.
Got me a song
that sings ’bout the sorrows of the soul.
Sorrows as dark as a big black hole.
I got me a song, got me a song
And I aim to sing it
yeah sing it,
all this day long.
“You know, Aunt Clo, even if there isn’t one shred of truth to that old superstition, I’m going to just believe that over there is Uncle come home again. It’s comfortin’ to know that despite all the bitterness, in the end, family is family, and it’s all that ever matters. Some way or another blood always rises to the top, even if it has to climb over some stubborn obstacles. If my family history is correct, Aunt Leana wasn’t the only one whose temperature would rise whenever Uncle Earnest’s name was mentioned. I seem to remember you being quite angry at him as well, so I guess that end of the garden is out of the question, or the two of you will take what Grandpa called the beautiful earth beat and turn it into a hot raging rhythm — and I wouldn’t want that!
“But where to put you, Aunt Clo? Over by the fence looks like a good place. That’s where the vegetable garden used to be, but it’s mighty close to the cornfields where all the lovers used to meet — it might offend your Christian sensibilities. It sure is a pretty spot, though, and you’d be near all those wonderful wild herbs; they would surely help your aches and pains. You would also be ne
ar the well, and what I used to call that ‘patch of mourning glory’ ’cause of Aunt Maribelle’s habit of sneaking back after a family funeral when she thought none of us was looking, swiping flowers off the gravesites, and replanting them out here. I used to think it was creepy, but now it seems great that everyone who has left us in one way is still here in another — kind of like you. But that means Uncle Joe is over there, and he’ll tease and taunt you until you’re screaming for a moment’s peace, though at least you would never be bored.
“Then there’s that spot over there. It’s a nice spot. I know it firsthand because when I was ten years old, I went digging for Great-grandma’s silver that you said was buried out here somewhere. I was sure that had to be the spot because I noticed for years nothing ever grew there, but unfortunately I came up empty-handed. Boy, that sure is one heck of a story about Great-grandmama Catherine and that silver. Imagine a black woman bold enough to steal away from slavery during the height of the Civil War. Determined to leave thirty years of hardship with more than just the clothes on her back, she sailed right out the door with the white folks’ silver. Just tucked that silver underneath her unmentionables and walked right on out the door — and walk she did, over three hundred miles, here to Farmville. Married her a preacher, and much as he hated it, she flaunted that misdeed by using that silver every chance she got. She wouldn’t even listen to the church folks who told her that the silver was sinful and that eating from it would tarnish her soul. She told them straight out that she wasn’t scared of the Devil or the white folks neither, and as long as her back remained scarred, her skin stayed black, and her life was still hard, then she had a right to eat her collards on the best there was. Spunk to the backbone, Aunt Clo. I tell you, we Burney women are something else.
“Too bad Great-granddaddy wasn’t nearly as bold, or we might know where that silver is today. He was so scared that some kind of evil was going to land on them that he would bury that silver after each and every time Great-grandmama used it. Buried it out here for good the day she died, and refused to tell anyone exactly where it was. But it’s out here somewhere if all we’ve been told is true. Maybe you’ll get lucky and end up near it. Might as well live large while you can!
“Look over here, Aunt Clo, all them pretty dandelions. This was the spot where the rose bushes used to be. All of them beautiful roses caused quite a stir around here — poor colored folks with the most beautiful flowers in town. Poetic justice, if you ask me. Now there’s nothing here but weeds and wildflowers, but Grandpa would say that these are every bit as beautiful as his roses because it’s all God’s handiwork. I really think this is the perfect spot for you, Aunt Clo.”
It didn’t take but a moment to dig the shallow hole that was needed for the new dwelling place. The earth was still damp from the morning drizzle, so the soil was cooperative and moved quite easily. “Well, Aunt Clo, you certainly seem pleased with your new surroundings. Nothing like a little sunshine to warm your spine and some fresh air to cool your heels. I should have known — you always were the prissy one in the family.”
It was getting dark, time to be getting back. Now which was the best way out? Looking for an easy exit was interesting not only because of all the different pathways that had been etched in over the years but because of all the understandings that were so deeply ingrained there as well. You could see that some folks took the long, scenic way round, others efficiently went through the middle, and some kind of dragged their way through, while others seemed determined to run over everything, stirring up the dust the entire way. But like the spirits that lingered here, each pathway was a testament that neither in living nor in dying was there ever an easy way out. The Burneys were survivors, though, and no matter what, we’d always made our own way.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
The African American garden tradition took hold in the South during slavery and has held its own ever since. Yams, okra, collards, and other plants from West Africa grew in small provisional gardens that slave owners often encouraged and sometimes ignored. For many enslaved Africans, these gardens were the difference between survival and starvation, and their unique African traditions displayed themselves proudly in these cultural landscapes. Sugar cane, ground nuts, and watermelons grew together, usually sharing a rather small plot of land.
This comingling technique was not only distinctive and intriguing in its appearance but also highly effective as a way of cultivating edibles. Mixing different plant types, rather than separating them into neat little rows as the Europeans preferred, seemed to create the necessary “garden climate” for bountiful harvests. Layering plants next to one another according to their different heights apparently reduces the insect population and discourages diseases and weeds by shading them out. This method also efficiently conserves soil nutrients and moisture.
The slave garden was very much a part of the plantation landscape. The enslaved Africans often worked their gardens in their free time and sometimes sold their vegetables at stands along the road or at the town market. Most often, the garden provided much-needed food. The ability to garden and maintain their gardening traditions gave the enslaved some sense of independence and allowed them to retain some small measure of humanity.
Gardening was then, and still remains today, a significant part of the African American experience. Following the harvest, the canning and freezing of fruits and vegetables have become family traditions. Kinship around food is as essential to cultural tradition as it gets.
I have incredibly fond memories of my mother’s oldest sister wearing her big hat and dragging her New York–born niece to yet another field to pick the perfect strawberry or in-season butter bean. She was ill, getting more and more feeble, and was fully able to get someone else to do this for her, but that was out of the question. She had to feel the dirt underneath her fingernails and the sun across her back. She had to personally pick the vegetable and place it in her ragged old sack. She didn’t know any other way. She loved the land, the beautiful black earth, and she thanked God for the bounty He delivered each and every season. These were blessings pure and simple, goodies that with a little faith and some loving care could be ripe and ready for the taking. There didn’t seem to be much joy in the eating if the getting wasn’t personal. My aunt, like so many others, took it personally — very personally. My folks, they talk to their plants, whisper wisdoms to trees, and sing to wildflowers. Maybe that special place the land held within their hearts goes beyond just the handpicking of foodstuffs — but goes clear back to Africa, where the belief was that everyone who left this world left a little something of himself or herself behind for Mother Nature to nurture and protect.
This was the purpose and inspiration for “The Freedom Garden,” to pay tribute to the land and to my folks in a way my aunt and my granddaddy would have appreciated. Every time I walk past a collard-green patch or a cottonfield, I smile because I know there are some remnants of my people still out there somewhere.
Homefolks
One of the Homegrown Angels
Sister Nellie moved on around the tiny grocery store, making sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. She couldn’t understand why so many folks liked to shop at the new supermarket way ’cross town. It was so big that all you did was wander around trying to figure out where you just come from and if this was someplace you had just been. After a while, you got so tired and confused that it was all you could do to find the quickest way out. It wasn’t till you got all the way home ’fore you realized you ain’t got one bit of shopping done. Didn’t make no sense, least none that Sister Nellie could see, especially since it was so easy to shop at Jimmy Lee’s.
“You got everything you need, Sister Nellie?” asked Jimmy Lee. “Just holler if you need something, you hear?”
“Thanks, but I’m still looking,” she said back. The tomatoes didn’t look too hot this week. Mister Jimmy Lee must be fussing again with Sister Clara and had to go to Rosa for his tomatoes. Rosa was sweet as she could be, but everybo
dy in Farmville knew she didn’t know a thing about vegetables. These were too small and didn’t look too juicy. These had to be Rosa’s — Nellie would know them anywhere.
“Mister Jimmy, what you and Sister Clara fighting ’bout this week?” she asked. “I thought you two would be married long ’fore now, but the way you two keep feudin’, you won’t never get that chance to say ‘I do.’”
“That’s got to be the stubbornest woman the Lord gave to this world,” Jimmy Lee answered. “I’ve tried to marry her, God knows I have. All I did was tell her that I wouldn’t mind marrying her, but first there got to be a few changes… .”
“‘Changes’? What kind of changes?”
“Well, it just don’t seem right, me being a man of God and taking up with a woman who smokes a pipe and swigs moonshine. And she don’t just swig it, she makes it, too! Every time I go see her, she’s got carloads of folks comin’ round blowing for her special brew. It ain’t right, I tell you. It just ain’t settin’ well with me, and I can’t have all that in a wife.”
“I see. What did she say when you explained all this to her?”
“Well, I didn’t rightly explain it, now that I think about it, ’least not like I’m explainin’ it to you. I kind of lost my head before I got the chance to say too much.”
Just Plain Folks Page 4