On Zion's Hill

  “She fluttered a wave and lay back quietly, eyes closed. All ready to meet her Maker. About midnight, Gramma opened her eyes, looked around and exclaimed with astonishment, ‘I thought I’d be gone by now!’ She wasn’t.”

  The whole group of counselors released a laugh, but beckoned Lily to go on.

  “Gramma humphed and decided she must not be ready. So she asked my mom and Aunt Ceci to help her sit up on the side of the bed. Gramma had begun to perspire enough to dampen her gown and bedclothes. She wanted clean everything. We found a fresh gown, my aunts gently washed Gramma and dressed her while my cousin and I changed the bedclothes. We got Gramma re-settled.

  “Then, sitting silently, circled around her bed, we waited, satisfied that all that could be done had been done. No singing this time. We’d also given up praying to keep her against her will.

  “Within an hour, Gramma made her transition and slipped over into eternity. With acceptance and joy, our family witnessing her peaceful passing, we just murmured almost in unison, ‘Praise the Lord. She’s gone home.’”

  BY THIS TIME, THE COUNSELORS SAT with their heads bowed in reverent response to the testimony. They were torn between feeling sad for Lily at the loss of her beloved Gramma and rejoicing that God had taken her surrounded by her family, just the way she wanted to go. Miracle number three.

  However, when they looked up and saw the beatific look on Lily’s face, sitting in peaceful resignation, having just recounted the death bed experience, they instinctively reached out and held hands. No one said anything for a full minute, and then quietly Brother Ralph prayed a short prayer for Lily and her relatives who probably would be a little sad this first year back on Zion’s Hill without the matron of their family.

  Thinking of time spent that afternoon with Gram, his own widowed grandmother, gave Ken pause. He wishes he’d taken the time to ride by and see his mother’s parents, Mom Bessie and Bubba. It could be the last time.

  Tuesday

  6 - Ken and Angie

  KEN DIDN’T come up to the grounds until late Tuesday afternoon. He’d worked early in the garden, and then returned home to study because the library was closed. Thankfully, he had the place to himself because his mother was out with her Bible study group praying for the Wednesday Women’s Day service.

  While in the Air Force, Ken had enrolled in correspondence courses to keep his academic skills sharp. He didn’t want to lose his edge from high school during his tour of military duty, and though the correspondence classes weren’t hard, they reminded him how much there is out there to learn. Still, the first year at Penn State had been more challenging than he thought it would be even after those tech classes in the Air Force. So, he’d been using the summer to preview for organic chemistry.

  Basketball at college takes so many hours a week – what with time in the gym, practicing, traveling and playing all over the Midwest and Southeast. He has made the varsity team for the coming year, and he hopes to be a starter. That means getting into shape both physically and academically.

  He also knows how much mental time and emotional energy it takes for both. That’s another reason he doesn’t want to get involved with women at this time. They can wait. Well, will Angie wait? He likes what he’s learned about her so far. Maybe he can learn something more about her family, too, this afternoon. She probably will hit it off with his sister, Thia, who is about the same age. Ken even considers inviting Angie to come along when the youth counselors and their guests, not dates - not on a date - go bowling Sunday night.

  THAT AFTERNOON, KEN AND ANGIE FIND A BENCH TO SIT alone, but not far from the hullabaloo of children playing on the nearby swing set. They’ve already talked about the service Monday and his studying this morning, and who and what she saw from the ice cream stand.

  “Ken, you got a middle name?”

  “Yeah. It’s Holley.”

  “Holly, like at Christmas?”

  “No, H-o-l-l-E-y. I’m named for my great, great uncle. He was in the Ninth Calvary.”

  “Ninth Calvary? What’s that?”

  “The Ninth Calvary were Buffalo soldiers, an all Negro Army unit. My uncle was one of the first park rangers in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. You know, after the Civil War lots of former slaves continued to serve in the military. Uncle Holley never married. We’re not really sure where he is buried. Anyway, there’s a male child in each generation named Holley. I’m the oldest male cousin, so I am named after him. You know, to carry on his name since he died before he had a son of his own.”

  “Well. That’s a nice tradition. To keep a name going in the family for that many years. Not many colored families can go that far back, can they?”

  “Not many that I know about.”

  “We have a different tradition in our family. My father’s mother, a Cherokee, was Angel Grace, but they named me Angela. I’m here with my mother’s mother. Her name is Jeanette. That’s my middle name. Jeanette. It’s a tradition in the family to name the first grandchildren after the grandparents.”

  “So are you the first granddaughter on both sides of your family?”

  “No, just on my father’s side. That’s the same with my brother. He’s the third. You know, because my dad is named Isaac after his dad, so he’s a junior, and my brother’s Isaac, the Third! Huh? Sorry. I’m babbling. Not giving you time to talk, am I?”

  “No. That’s okay. You’re really proud of your family, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” she replies, rising when he does, and accompanies him up the gentle incline opposite the tabernacle and over to the food concession to get a snack. Carrying their cups of colas and a cone of French fries to share, they meander back down to a table near the playground. Though out in the open, it’s really more private.

  The playground swings are set up on a low sloped knoll, just across the dirt road leading from the parking lots near the bottom of the hill, up to the rows of cottages further on the hill, before the road curves around the tabernacle, and back around and down the hill. Other roads swivel even further up to the small one-room tin cabins perching on the scrubby hillsides.

  Between a row of food stands and the tabernacle, is a grassy expanse with green slat-back benches. Folks congregate between services. In the day time scads of seniors sit with their grandchildren chasing each other around and behind their benches. It’s quite a physical challenge for older people on Zion’s Hill to climb the steep hills back to their cottages between the various meetings held in the tabernacle. Consequently, a goodly number come down for the morning service, attend Bible study classes, and then go have lunch in the dining room before returning to their various sleeping quarters for an afternoon nap. At night, this flat grassy space is where younger folks mingle to see and be seen.

  The seasonal cottages, trailers, and dormitories surrounding the tabernacle often are Spartan… with only the basics, furnished with twin beds or cots, a toilet area with a face bowl for washing up, and often, protruding from the walls, round head nails or hooks to hang up clothes. Suitcases are just shoved under the beds. Some places may have a card table and a pair of folding chairs, but few of these temporary domiciles are large enough for comfortable seating, nor open enough for fresh breezes on those hot and humid August days.

  Occasionally a family may fit out their kitchen with a two burner hot plate and something to keep food cold. It is seldom anything more than a picnic cooler with ice bought daily to store milk and juice, a pound of grapes, a few peaches or plums or to chill bologna for sandwiches.

  Every once in a while, in the packed dirt yard or concrete pad porch, one will see a cast iron Hibachi or a small charcoal grill for hot dogs, hamburgers or chicken. However, that kind of cooking takes more time than most folks want to spend during the short week on the grounds. Thus, the booming business at the food concession stands where throngs line up for quick meals prepared by someone else. That’s also why Angie usually has a line waiting outside the window of the nearby ice cream stand where custome
rs mosey after eating their fill of fast food.

  Cozy groups of benches invite small groups to sit and reminisce about years gone by, to discuss the music and sermon from a recent service or gossip about those who attended it. Adjacent to this grassy space and across the dirt road from the row of small fast food vendors is the square eight by eight feet ice cream stand where Angie will return to work later this afternoon.

  FOR NOW, SHE ENJOYS SITTING DOWN THE HILL, away from the oily fumes from French fries and fish sandwiches, the pungent smoke of grilling hamburgers, and the cloying smell of nearly full trash cans. They’re spaced strategically for folks to throw away greasy waxed paper from sandwiches, ketchuppy napkins, greasy conical cups from the fries, and other leftovers of soggy bread crusts from sandwiches, and the soft bottoms of ice cream cones.

  She still is incredulous that Ken sought her out this afternoon. He’d come up yesterday and now he’s back again. They’ve talked nearly non-stop since starting to share their light snack.

  Angie has learned that his summer job in the steel mill lasted only for June and July and that’s the reason he was free to work at youth camp the first part of August. Brother Ralph, the director, called when last minute sign-ups exceeded the camper to counselor ratio required by the state camp licensing bureau. And being camp counselor did help Ken fill the days before returning to college for his sophomore year. It added to his small cache of savings, too.

  The athletes have to report back the last week in August, which means Ken has been free this interim week. She’d wondered, because he seems to be a conscientious man, physically fit, and smart enough to be doing something besides hanging out on the campgrounds. Not that Angie minds. He’s really good company and handsome to be seen with, too.

  KEN AND ANGIE SIT COMFORTABLY, basking in the gentle winds whispering through the tall grasses in the uncut fields just beyond the playground, and watching the frilly Queen Anne’s lace bow gracefully to each passing breeze. What a delight to see this field adjacent to the camp grounds has not been shaved and trimmed, but left in its natural state. Angie pops another grape into her mouth, savoring the firmness and the sweetness.

  “How thoughtful of you Ken. These make a lovely dessert. I’ve had enough ice cream to last for an eon, and it’s only Tuesday.”

  “No problem. My neighbor sells them at a stand on the road in front of his house. I know they’re fresh.”

  Between sampling the grapes himself, he tells her about the small mobile home in which his family lives. Without a job this week, the challenge is nearly more than he can abide. Once everyone gets up and moving around, the cramped space becomes a cauldron for short tempers.

  “Just one more week”, he says, “before heading back to State College. I usually go to the library in the afternoons, but today the library is closed. To get out of the trailer, this week, I’ve been going up to my uncle’s farm to work in the family garden.”

  “It must be really hot out there this time a year. I’m a city girl, but know that’s got to be a scorcher of a job”

  “Yeah, it is. But, it’s a relief to Mom. I go pull weeds, hoe the rows to keep the soil loose, and then pick whatever’s ripe and bring it home. She’s canning the green beans and tomatoes to supplement groceries over the winter. She makes pickles sometimes, too. You ever heard of chow-chow? She makes that, too.”

  “Chow-Chow? What’s that?”

  “I’m not sure what all’s in it, but it tastes like relish with lots of chopped vegetables, sort of sweet and sour at the same time.”

  “Sounds yummy. Do you put the chow-chow on hamburgers?”

  “Oh, no. We eat it with cooked greens – you know, mainly collards and kale. I prefer them to turnip and mustards. We have all four kinds up in the garden and the rest of the family eats all of them. Growing up we were expected to eat whatever was set before us, but since I got out of the Air Force, my parents no longer insist. So…no turnip or mustard greens for me!” he exclaims.

  “Does your mother can greens, too?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. Does yours?”

  “No. Mine doesn’t do much with vegetables, but she does can jams and jellies. That’s about it. Oh, if somebody brings by fresh fruit, she may can a few jars of say, peaches and applesauce…but not vegetables.”

  “No vegetables at all. Not even for soup?”

  “No. My mother had bad luck with vegetables spoiling…you know, getting all black and gushy, oozing out of the lid. That put her off from trying vegetables anymore.”

  And so the conversation continues in casual chit-chat. Sitting so close to the playground, she finds herself casually monitoring some of the boys and girls from the children’s program.

  Sarah Anne, a rambunctious nine-year old can’t resist pumping her swing so high the chains look about to snap. She digs her blue Keds into the crusty ruts under the swing, leans first forward, pushes hard, shoves off, then curls backward, throws her head back, stretches her skinny brown legs board-straight, and swoops up into the air, singing her heart out. “Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me for the Bible tells me so!” Her ebullience thrills the soul, but nearly stops the heart.

  Not surprisingly, Ken’s glance drifts to the nearby court where the young guys try shooting basketballs into the orange hoops. Both activities remind Angie and Ken of their time that age.

  As they talk about those experiences, Ken disciplines himself, resisting the temptation to go give the guys a lesson on how to hold the ball and where to aim it so it sinks more often through the frayed nets. He’s quite content, sitting and sharing grapes with Angie. All too soon, though, it’s time for her to get back to work, and they prepare for the hike back up the hill to the ice cream stand.

  “What’re you going to be doing while I’m working? You heading back down to your place until time for service?”

  “Not today. I’m meeting some of the guys from youth camp. We’re going to shoot hoops over at the high school.”

  “Wish I could come. I’d love to see you play. Lily says you’re pretty good.”

  “I do OK. I like it. It keeps me in shape during the summer and gives me something to do and keeps me out of that trailer. You can imagine what it’s like with four adults living in that hot tin can.”

  “You all been living in the trailer since you were in high school? That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been away for almost five years – in the Air Force, you know, and now a year at college. It won’t be much longer for them though. My folks got the basement poured earlier this summer. They capped it right away so they could start working on the plumbing and heating. My mom wants to have a kitchen, bathroom and a couple of bedrooms down there so they can move in and get out of that trailer. My stepdad even plans to put in a brick fireplace. Everyone’s getting a little impatient, though, and our tempers ignite more quickly now.”

  Ken clams up, a little embarrassed. While what he’s shared is true, he doesn’t want to sound as if he doesn’t appreciate having a place to stay during the summer, a place that doesn’t require a financial outlay. He’s a grown-up now, and at his age, his parents could be asking him to pay rent.

  Angie and Ken gather up the cups, napkins and paper bag and walk over to put their trash in the nearby wire mesh receptacle. He presses the lid down tight. Here, at the edge of the campgrounds, critters come out at night. No use taking the time to throw away trash only to have raccoons scatters it all over the place. Angie leads the way back up the hill, resuming their conversation.

  “I can’t imagine living that tight with my family. There were six of us and we’d be at each other’s throats on a regular basis.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know what you mean. But my folks’ve been planning this home for a long time. It’s their dream house and they refuse to take short cuts or accept second best. That’s one of the reasons I went to the service right out of high school. Since the steel mills have been closing around here, jobs are scarce and inconsistent.
My stepdad kept getting laid off, so he decided to go back to school and learn a trade.”

  “Really? That’s cool. What’d he study?”

  “Oh, he’s always liked working with his hands, you know, on motors and fixing things. He’s a welder now and doing fine, but he’s new there, not making top salary yet. In the meantime, they wait. They’ve got my younger sister starting her first year of business classes this fall, so I’m glad I got that basketball scholarship, even if it doesn’t cover all my expenses. That’s why I came back here and put up with the tight quarters. I’ve been working twelve hour shifts and trying to save it all for school. It’s not all that bad at home. Just tight.”

  By this time, they’ve reached the ice cream stand. They say their a tout a l’heures knowing they’ll see each other later.

  BOTH WONDER WHERE THIS RELATIONSHIP IS GOING. They have similar family backgrounds and similar academic goals…both are committed to completing their college education before doing anything else, they both have to work to pay college expense, and they’re both Christians. But, they also live in different states: Michigan and Pennsylvania.

  “YES, MAY I HELP YOU?” Angie calls to the pair next in line who are so busy talking they don’t realize the man ahead of them has paid and gone. “What would you ladies like this afternoon?”

  “Ah, darlin’, I’ll take two scoops of that black cherry. I just love me some black cherry, don’t you, Lucille?” the first lady says to her friend, without looking at the sign listing the flavors and prices. “We don’t have this gourmet flavor at home in Harlem, and I get it every time I come up here to Zion’s Hill. What you want?” She flutters her hand and rushes on. “I’m buying today. My treat.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Hattie,” her friend replies reaching inside the scooped neckline of her loose flowing dress. “I got my money right here.” Leaning on the wooden ledge of the pass through window, the portly lady huffs, exhausted from the effort of extracting that leather change purse from between her breasts. She leans towards Angie, “Do y’all have cups? I want mines in a cup.”