That night Mister Judson went to bed at the usual time. He told himself that he wasn’t studying on nothing about what Miz Lullabel had said, but then he remembered what his daddy used to tell him: “You watch out for them colored women, son, you just never know what one of them’s going do.” So he pretended to sleep and started snoring real loud. Miz Judson, on hearing them loud snores, started grinning. Finally he was asleep, or so she thought. She climbed out of bed real careful-like so she wouldn’t wake him. She didn’t know Mister Judson was watching her every move. When she got to the drawer she found them clipping shears with no trouble at all. She turned around and walked over to her husband’s throat so she could cut off some of them whiskers, put them in her shoe, and walk all over that man! But before she could start to cutting, Mister Judson jumped up and yelled loud enough for the whole world to hear, “They told me about you, and you sho’ won’t be killing me, not tonight!”
Sad to say, I hear they been fussin’ ever since. Neighbors say that they sound like two alley cats fighting over a chicken bone.
Well, the next day Miz Lullabel Lee was a-setting on the porch, rocking back and forth. Once again, the Devil came riding on down the road on his horse. He stopped right in front of Miz Lullabel Lee’s house, but he didn’t get down off his horse, and he sure didn’t get too close! He stood on back a ways. Miz Lullabel Lee wasn’t bothered, not the least little bit. She was tickled.
“Devil,” she said, “you ain’t being too neighborly. Why don’t you come and set awhile? I got a seat right here,” and she pointed to her best chair. “I been expecting you,” she said, and she grinned real wide so you could see every one of her teeth, and I do declare that’s all she had — one!
“Oh no,” said the Devil, shaking his head so hard you would’ve figured his horns would come off his head. “Any colored woman who can raise more hell than me is a dangerous woman, and I ain’t got no business anywhere near ’em.” With that he took the new hat and threw it clear through the air till it landed at her feet. And that Devil took off faster than the wind. Miz Lullabel didn’t feel no shame, no shame at all. She picked up her new hat and pranced back and forth across the front porch.
The very next Sunday, Miz Lullabel picked out her prettiest dress and put it on. It went perfect with the new hat. She went to church and just showed out, I do tell you. There just ain’t no understandin’ that woman. She sat right behind the Judsons, and every time Sister Judson kicked Brother Judson or Brother Judson elbowed Sister Judson, Miz Lullabel Lee grinned a real big grin. Then she looked up at the heavens and asked, “Lord, now who said the Devil don’t go to church?”
You see what I mean — evil is all around, everywhere you turn. That’s why you can’t let a whole lot of folks get to mixing in your stuff. Lord, the Devil sure is busy. Yessirree, always busy.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
Folk tales exist in every culture and for most of human history were the way of passing on wisdom from generation to generation. This oral tradition existed long before the written word, and it continues today. For many, the African American folk tale is synonymous exclusively with the Brer Rabbit tale. But we African Americans were far more creative than that, and we always gave the supernatural a free rein in our folklore. The Devil was frequently personified and made quite human; we taunted him as much as he taunted us, and often we emerged the victor. The famous “John” stories are some of my favorite slave tales, as our ancestors created their own venues for besting their white masters, even if the victory was limited to their own imagination.
Folklorists such as Zora Neal Hurston and J. Mason Brewer were among the first African Americans to collect African American folklore and recognize its cultural significance. “Miz Lullabel, the Devil, and the Sunday Hat” was one of the tales collected by Zora Neal Hurston, but the story itself has been around a long time, and she herself didn’t create it — she just documented the version she was told. Like any good storyteller, I have taken this tale and put my own twist on it.
When I perform this story, I always include an introduction that allows the listener to imagine those people and that place. “We’re in North Carolina, and the year is nineteen twenty. We’re sitting on the front porch, a bunch of country folks entertaining ourselves on a hot summer evening, when all of a sudden Miz Martha’s sixteen-year-old daughter comes running down the walk as excited as excited can be. She’s got big news, and she can’t wait to share it.
“Mama, Mama, guess what, I’m getting married! I’m getting married, Mama — ain’t that wonderful?”
Miz Martha then looks at her daughter and shakes her head in disbelief. “Girl, you don’t know nothin’ ’bout marriage. You can’t take care of yourself, much less nobody else. You ain’t got what it takes to be getting married.”
But her daughter disagrees. “Yes I do, Mama. I got all I need. I got the man, the preacher, and the Kool-Aid — I’m getting married.”
Miz Martha shakes her head again and then she says slowly, “Sit down, chile, I got some things to tell you. First, this thing called marriage is between you and him. If you let a third person in the middle of it, you’ve got nothin’ but trouble. You got to understand that — and to make sure you do, I’m gonna tell you a story. Well, you see, one day Miz Lullabel was sittin’ on the porch …” And so the truth-telling begins.
Lost Love, Last Love
Pauline and Jimmy. Jimmy and Pauline. Them two there was quite a pair, yessirree. Now Pauline was a sweet, sweet girl, and she sho’ deserved better than Jimmy. I tells anybody who will listen that I ain’t got no time for a man I got to raise ’fore I can love him. You just can’t bring up no already grown man, ’cause that little bit you can give him as a woman ain’t near ’nough to make up for what his mama ain’t do for him when he was a boy. If you find a man that still got to be raised, well, you best to let him go on his way. That there ain’t nothin’ but a problem waitin’ to happen.
Now, ’far as Jimmy went, I knew him ’fore he even knew hisself. He was my late husband’s mother’s second cousin’s fourth son outta six — and even though he was kin, it didn’t make me one bit of difference. He still wasn’t no good — born on the wrong quarter of the moon, that’s what I say. Soon as that boy started to smell hisself good, he was cuttin’ up capers. I tell you, Old Man Satan must be the silent partner in the ownership of some folks, and he had a strong hold on that one for sho’! He pranced around here like he was the only rooster who knew how to crow, and he didn’t mind a-cock-a-doodle-dooing every chance he could get.
I tried to tell Pauline all this and then some, but she just wouldn’t listen — nope, not to one single word. Jimmy was as long, lean, brown, and smooth as one of them fancy chocolate bars, and the minute Pauline laid eyes on him, I could see that she was busy tryin’ to lick up every drop. She told me that she had to have him, and Lord bless her, she got him, too. Scarcely five months later, they was married right in her daddy’s front yard. Well, maybe I should say that she was married but he sho’ wasn’t, ’cause ’fore the ink was even dry on them marriage papers, he’d already started slipping around. I don’t know how he managed it with all that other that he had going on, but he got Pauline with four babies. One, two, three, four, and they come together, one right behind the other.
Since Jimmy was so busy spreadin’ his lovin’ from pillar to post, Pauline had to work two jobs just to keep that family going. Lord have mercy, she worked so very hard, but it still wasn’t enough. What she couldn’t do, the other women round here pitched in to help do. ’Course we had to sneak our helpin’ out of the sight of Jimmy, ’cause he wouldn’t do but didn’t want nobody else to, neither. It sho’ was a sad thing watchin’ Pauline wear herself out like that for them children and that man. Seem like sometimes a woman’s done got herself so low down till she ain’t got sense enough to know she’s been kicked or strength enough to get back up before she’s licked. Yessirree, that was Pauline.
Now, as for Jimmy, he ain’t never had no s
taying power. He was like a feather tossed carelessly into the wind, adriftin’ here and there and never makin’ it nowhere. So it wasn’t no surprise to anyone here when we got word that Jimmy done made his way clear up to New York City. Told some folks that he had to go so he could make him some big money. Well, he must’ve gotten hisself lost with all them riches ’cause we ain’t never seen any of it down here, nor did we see Jimmy hisself for ten years or more. He went on up there and found him a new somebody to rub up next to and a brand-new place to hang his britches. But God don’t like ugly. “Sin,” my mama used to say, “will sho’ ’nough slow-walk you down.”
Well, Jimmy got all that heartache throwed right back at him. After a while, he got sick, too sick to keep makin’ the big money. And that hussy sent him right back to Pauline. She had chewed him up and spit him right back out when the sugar done gone. But Pauline was such a good girl and she turned out to be a fine woman, too, so when he showed up on her doorstep all broke-down and used-up, she took him right in. It must’ve been too late for Jimmy, though, ’cause he didn’t last long. He was dead ’fore the month was out.
Of course, Pauline called me to help her with all the ’rangements. I was her friend and he was my kin, so I told her I would do whatever she wanted me to. I got to tell you, though, I done put away a whole lot of folks, but I ain’t never seen nobody put away the way Jimmy was.
The morning that Jimmy passed, Pauline carried him on down to Joyner’s Funeral Parlor. Actually, she didn’t carry him the way most folks carry somebody. Rather, like, she dragged him! That man died right in her bed, and before the body could even get cold, Pauline had grabbed him by the shirt and commenced to draggin’ the man directly down Main Street, the way you haul a full sack of cotton. Everybody’s lookin’ and she’s steady draggin’ Jimmy on behind her. She had this wild look in her eyes and the strength of two mules. Mr. Joyner told me that sometimes a crazy person will get every bit as strong as they is crazy, and I reckon that’s what happened to Pauline.
I wish I could say that was the end of the madness, but sad to say, that was only the beginning. After she left Joyner’s, I followed her back to the house, and there was a headstone a-settin’ right in the middle of the floor.
“Pauline, have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind?” I asked. “What’s that doin’ in here?”
“I don’t believe in no last-minute shoppin’,” she says. “I had Bill bring it on round when I saw Jimmy was fixin’ to pass.”
“But it ain’t got no name on it, Pauline. You can’t put no marker out that ain’t got a name on it.”
“You don’t know as much as I thought you did,” and then she looks at me like I’m the one outta my head. “If you put Jimmy’s name on there, the Devil will find him for sure.”
“Pauline, the Devil already done found Jimmy. They probably been hangin’ out together all along. I’d be willing to bet you on that!” But no matter what I said, she still wouldn’t listen, just walked on outta the room.
The next day things went even more cockeyed. I come out to the graveyard to find Pauline and to make sure everything was set for the service. There she was up in that tree that was overlookin’ the grave, puttin’ liquor bottles on every single limb!
“Pauline, what in blue blazes is you doing now? And where did you get all them liquor bottles? Girl, you don’t even drink!”
“The kids got ’em for me. It took ’em a good while, though, ’cause they got to go through every trash can in town to get all I needed, but here they is. Ain’t they something?” Then she smiled and went on back to decorating.
“Pauline, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this in all my life.”
“When the soul rises up it goes to what it know, and all that joker ever knew was a liquor bottle and a good time. When he gets ready to leave this time, he won’t get too far. Ain’t no way he’ll pass all this Jack Black, and then I got him! I sho’ do. I got him.”
I didn’t want to upset her ’cause in the state of mind she was in, there was no tellin’ what she might do so I left the liquor bottles and Miz Pauline alone. The service went fine, though, and that was a blessing. Not too many there, but the few that were there were a nice surprise. Afterward, I thought it would be best if Pauline went back to the house and rested herself a bit, and I said so. But what did she do? She and them four young’uns climbed up in that tree and commenced to picking them liquor bottles off the limbs.
“Pauline,” I said, real quiet-like, “what are you going to do with all them bottles?”
“Take ’em home, of course.”
“What for, sweetie? The service is over now.”
“For the first time in more than ten years, I have my husband back, and he ain’t gettin’ away easy this time. I figure I’ll put this Jack Black right next to my bed ’cause I just know a little piece of him is in there. Now when I leave this world, you can let him leave, too. Hopefully, though, we’ll be going in two different directions, if you know what I mean.” Then she winked at me and strutted happily down the road.
Later that month I went on by to check on her. I rang the back doorbell and waited. ’Course them liquor bottles were still there astaring at me, but I didn’t pay them no mind. Pauline come out lookin’ like a million dollars, and I was sho’ glad that she was doing so much better.
“Girl, you sho’ is lookin’ good,” I told her.
“Ain’t nothin’ like havin’ a man around again. Chile, there ain’t nothin’ like that.”
“You got a man? You don’t say. Who is he? Do I know him?”
“You so crazy,” she said with a laugh. “It’s Jimmy, of course. Did you say hi to him?You’ll hurt his feelings if you don’t at least speak.” And then she looked down at all them liquor bottles. Well, just then Mister Jones comes up to drop off the milk she had asked for. Pauline grabbed the milk and was headin’ in the house. “Y’all go ’head and visit with Jimmy. I’ll be right back,” and in a lickety-split she was gone. I looked over at Mister Jones and he looked at me. Then he looked down at all them liquor bottles scattered hither and yonder. Now, Mister Jones got plenty of good sense. “Jimmy?” he asked. “There ain’t no Jimmy here. What in the world is she talkin’ about?”
“Please don’t ask no questions,” I begged him. “Whatever you do, just don’t ask one thing. Just say, ‘Hey, Jimmy,’ and keep on going, but please don’t ask no questions.” Well, he did just that and then he left with the oddest look on his face that I ever did see. Love sho’ can do strange things to folks, can’t it?
Yessirree, strange, strange things.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
Bottle trees like the one mentioned in my story are a reality that is clearly the product of Southern black culture. Once a frequent sight along the Mason-Dixon landscape, bottle trees today are a rarity and are as likely to be produced by rural whites as by blacks. Now they are simply remnants of an innovative past, yet another example of the ingenuity of black folks as they re-created themselves many years ago on this land, then foreign to them.
Bottle trees were a part of a rich African legacy, a folk-art tradition with roots a thousand years deep. As early as the year 900 A . D ., Africans made bottles and other forms of glass art and hung these objects on trees and huts to ward off evil. African Americans retained the tradition and often hung their bottles on cedar-tree branches to trap unwelcome spirits. When the wind blew, so the story goes, the spirits moaned and cried long into the night. Sunlight dancing through colored glass has been a fascination for people for generations, and these prisms were obviously bright spots in a sometimes otherwise bleak existence. Given the spiritual significance of this wonderful folk art, perhaps Pauline was on to something after all. Maybe, just maybe, a li’l piece of Jimmy’s soul was indeed captured by that Jack Black bottle. We may never know for sure.
The Bluesman
It was raining, the sound drumming softly through the room, dripping and shattering like large teardrops. The big black man looked out the window and
stared aimlessly into the dreary evening. He took another gulp of bathtub gin, trying once again to drown out the bleakness that seemed to surround him. Despite his best efforts (three full glasses of Mister Jim’s real good stuff), he realized that he was still sinking further and further into the dark hole he called his soul. He knew it wouldn’t be long now before he reached rock bottom.
He could go on across the hall and seek some small comfort in the loving arms of the beautiful woman he called Lady. No names, he’d insisted when they’d first met. Even when she’d tried to press him for some small clue to his identity, he would give nothing away, so she remained Lady and he would forever more be her Song Man. She’d wandered into his life two nights ago (or was it three?) in a cloud of smoke, laughter, and cheap perfume; he had been alone and so was she, so why not be alone together? Why not indeed? His hand shook and the ice clinked together softly. Alone together — some would say that that was an impossibility, but the big black man who lingered sadly in the shadows knew that not only was it possible, it was the story of his existence. He’d spent what seemed to be an entire life trying to bury loneliness and despair in a sea of waiting audiences, momentary pleasures, and lowly song lyrics.
Alone with someone together. That might be kind of nice about now. He wondered what his Lady would do if he sauntered on across the hall and suggested that they try it for the evening. He laughed and then stumbled. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea after all. He was a lot more tore up than he thought. Nobody needed to be anywhere near him when he was like this. Best if he stayed alone alone this evening.
He did have another woman. She wasn’t new or novel, however, like the one ’cross the hall. Hell, he’d known Estella Mae since the cow jumped over the moon. ’Course, long time knowing didn’t guarantee any real understanding ’cause he could no more figure that woman than he could predict the makeup of the Lord’s next day.
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