“Get up,
get up, get out of bed. Get up, get up, you sleepyhead,” my mom
cheerfully sings off-key early on a Sunday morning. My eyelids
become slits and look toward the music. I see bright orange and
yellow polyester flowers. They are attached to a form-fitting
sundress walking towards my bed with my mom’s long tan brown legs sticking out
below. I pretend I’m asleep. She doesn’t have her
shoes on yet. Has she done her makeup? I risk
squinting one eye open and look up towards the blinding light. I see
her dark shiny hair that is straight like mine, perfectly in place, and parted
down the middle. Her cheeks and lips are red. No ugly
dark circles. Even half-asleep, I can see that my mom is already
made up. She looks so pretty. And she is just
about ready for church.
For me,
it’s a different story. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes from
closing, and my pink sponge rollers crowding my ears are making it hard to get
comfortable on my pillow. One presses into my skull as I roll over and
it hurts. I lie in my twin bed wishing my mom would turn the light
off and go away. “Come on, Sweetie, it’s time to get up,” my mom
says. She’s energetic, like my own personal
cheerleader. I’m a ragdoll in a coma. Before I’m ready, she
pulls off my pink checkerboard sheet and coaxes me to sit me up in
bed. I slouch down and sigh, reluctantly letting her peel off my
soft blue nylon nightgown. She goes to my dresser and gets out a
pair of white bloomers then to the closet for my prettiest blue
dress. I raise my arms instinctively, and she wedges it on
over my head. Then one by one she unhooks the roller
clasps. All of the sudden I have long red curls. “It’s so pretty,” I say
as I glance in the mirror. I look so pretty. Mom
brushes my hair gently with her fingers, because she knows anything else will
ruin it and return me to my board straight hair. If we’re lucky,
it’ll look like this for a whole hour.
I wake up
a little more as I hear the satisfying sound of snap, crackle and pop – a
quartet of the Rice Krispies and ice-cold skim milk. “These are
yummy,” I say to my mom with my mouth full. “They sure are,” she
says with a smile, “but don’t talk with your mouth full. “ I sit on
my red booster seat and crunch, crunch, crunch as I watch my
mom. She raises her big bone white bowl to her lips and tips it up
to get every last drop of milk. I do the same with my smaller
one.
“Time to
go,” my Daddy says. “We’re already late.” He’s looking
for something. Then he sees me, and he smiles. “Hey
Curly.” “Hey Daddy,” I reply. “Niki, where are my keys? Have you seen my
keys? I put ‘em somewhere. I thought they were right
here. Is this your set?” It is definitely her set. His could be anywhere. He
picks hers up and puts them in his pocket. Then he heads back down
the hall to the bedroom to get his big leather Bible and flimsy Sunday School
lesson.
I hop off
my chair as my mom reappears with socks and shoes in hand. She has
my shiny black Mary Janes and my white socks with the frills. I love
them both and sit still as she buckles them. They hurt a little, but
they are so pretty I don’t care.
Out of
the kitchen cabinet, mom pulls mint green offering envelopes and the coins that
go inside. I watch her fill out the front. “Bible? Yes,”
she says out loud and checks a tiny box. “Sunday
School? Yes.” I wish she would let me do the
checkmarks. “Can I do it?” I ask. “Can I write my
name on it?” “Uh-huh, but you have to hurry,” she says as she opens
the junk drawer to look for my thick red pencil. “Here you go, Sweetie. Your
name goes right here on this line.” Holding my pencil between my
second and third finger, I concentrate on writing all the
letters. My forehead wrinkles, and I look up. “It won’t
fit. I made it too big,” I whine. “ Oh, it’s fine,” Mom says,
“just finish it here. It doesn’t matter.” Convinced, I
put my O and N downstairs below the other letters then happily move on to the
licking and sealing which is a little bit bitter but totally worth it.
The
screen door slams lightly behind us as we walk down the steps to the
carport. I climb into the front seat of our maroon 1977 Chevy
Impala. It’s coated with pollen. On my knees, I scooch to
the middle of the hot black bench seat and sit on my bottom between my two
parents. I twiddle my soft white quilted diaper and rub it against
my cheek as my Daddy backs us down the driveway. I like the cozy
feeling of being tucked in between two giants, their elbows at eye level.
I wanna see the water tower where I flew that pretty kite with Daddy, I think to myself. But I can’t see over the
dash. “Daddy, remember when we flew that kite?” “Ye-ah,”
he replies slowly. “Remember? You held it, and I ran
really fast. Really fast. That was fun,
whatun it?” “Mm hm," he say. “Can we do it
again?” I ask. “Mm hm,” he says again. “When?”
I want to know. “I don’t know, Curly. Maybe next Saturday
if it's nice out.” “Ok,” I reply as I get up on my knees just in
time to see the water tower. Fifteen years will pass before a
five year old will be required to sit in the back seat of a car, and it will be
at least ten years before any of us dons a seatbelt.
As my
parents chatter away about my dad’s dental practice, my mom hands me my small
pink New Testament with gold writing on the front. I unconsciously
pull out the thin satin bookmark and rub it back and forth between my thumb and
forefinger as we drive a whole three miles to church.
I get
outta the car and run ahead of my mom, because I know where I'm
goin'. Across the pavement, under the breezeway, up the stairs, and
through the swinging doors I go and run straight into the legs of Miss Lollie Jackson. She
laughs with delight and smiles from ear to ear like she’s my grandmother.
“Well, hel-lo Shannon. How are you doing
today?” “Fi-ine,” I say in two syllables smiling back at her as I
make my way past the nursery window to my kindergarten
classroom. Just a few years ago she was changing my diapers.
I smell
paint at the water fountain as I stop to get a drink. I look
sideways while slurping and catch a glimpse of big easels set up in my
classroom. It feels like Christmas. They look like the
expensive easels in the Sears catalogue that I saw when I made a list for
Santa. I’m happy, because painting, with my fingers or a brush, is
my all-time favorite activity. My heart almost bursts with
excitement. It’s too good to be true.
I’m late,
so the rest of the kids are already singing and sitting on carpet squares in a
semi-circle. I put my bible on the bookshelf with the others and
make sure Miss Mize remembers
to put a gold star on a poster indicating my attendance. She puts
another star on the poster for bringing my bible. I notice I don’t
have the most stars, and I frown. I want the most
stars. But I quickly get distracted. I’m thinking about
the easels.
We sing
another song. How much longer til we get to paint? The
songs seem to go on forever. I’m gonna paint a butterfly, a
yellow and green one. With purple dots on the
wings. Or a rainbow. Yeah, maybe a rainbow, so I
can use all the colors. Miss Mize
passes out dark blue rhythm sticks that are neatly ribbed and interesting to my
fingers. I love the sound they make as we drag them across each
other. Now the songs are interesting, because I’m in a band with all
my friends. We play our instruments and sing loudly about how much
Jesus loves us.
Jesus
loves the little children
All the
children of the world.
Red and
yellow, black and white,
They are
precious in his sight.
Jesus
loves the little children of the world.
Soon Miss
Mize ties a paper apron around my neck and back. Then she fills my
palette, a flimsy white paper plate like the ones we use at
picnics. I boldly paint a pretty picture with a butterfly and a
rainbow. When I’m done, I write my name in all capital letters on
the bottom right hand corner. It’s on a really big piece of butcher
paper, and I don’t know how to move it. “Do you need some help with
that?” Miss Mize asks kindly as she walks over. “Yes
m’am. It’s too big,” I say. She kindly helps me carry it
to the hall, so it can dry lined up on the floor nexta all the others.
To pass
the rest of the time, we hear a story about Joseph and his coat of many
colors. I want a coat like that. He’s so lucky. Little
did I know his life would get way worse before it got better. I had
no idea that being favored by his father would lead to betrayal, slavery, and
wrongful imprisonment. I just knew I wanted a coat like his, a coat
of many colors.
After her
Sunday School class lets out, my mom comes to pick me up. “Look
Mom! Look at my picture. It’s this one,” I say and point
to the floor. “That’s so pretty, Shannon. I love all the
colors.” “Me, too,” I say, proud that she likes it. Then
I see my dad’s slow gait coming towards me down the hall. “Hey
Daddy, look what I painted,” I say loudly to make sure he can hear
me. “Ahh, my goodness. What a pretty
butterfly! Did you do that all by yourself?” “Of course,”
I say. “You’re good, “ he says, “A chip off the old block. You
must be my daughter.” I grin in response. “I am,” I
giggle. His praise makes me happy.
When we
get home, my mom secures my artwork on our avocado refrigerator, front and
center. Then she opens the door and pulls out the fixins for a cold
plate – rectangles of Hormel ham, homegrown tomatoes from Granddaddy's garden,
extra sharp cheddar cheese, and a Vlasik pickle. “Can I have two
pickles?” I ask her. “Yes. Here you go,” she says and
pulls another one out of the jar. I eat it all.
“Dad says
we should wash the car today. I guess we’ll help him do it," my
mom says, “go get your bathing suit on.” I walk ten steps to my room
and look through my messy drawers for my red, gold, and blue one
piece. I put it on like a pro and return to the kitchen. “Shannon,
go find the bucket,” Daddy says. “Where is it?” I
ask. “Probably under the sink in the kitchen,” he says. I
eventually find it in the carport. Mom comes out and shows me how to
fill it up with soapy Cheer detergent. It burns my nose and my
eyes. It is surprisingly pungent. But I like the clean
fresh smell and the mesmerizing growing heap of blue-tinged
bubbles. My dad walks by and throws a few rags in the bucket.
Underneath
the hot Alabama sun, we wash the car together. Mom is in a green and
white halter top and hot pants. Dad has on nondescript shorts and a
white short-sleeved V-neck undershirt. He sprays me with the hose
when I’m not looking. “Ahhhhh,” I shriek. It’s freezing
cold. Then I start to giggle. “Dad-dy, sto-op,” I say,
trying to sound strong and serious. But we are all laughing as I wipe
the water out of my eyes. Next he shows
me how to use the cool bristle brush on the tires and tells me how to soap and
rinse, one section at a time, top then bottom, fast before it
dries. “The last part, rinsing fast, is really important,” he
says. I take the brush from him and scrub the white ring on one of
the tires. Dad looks on, as he rinses the roof, and praises my
work. Mom is soaping the hood. “Want to rinse the hood for
Momma?” he asks. “Ye-ah,” I say loudly and smile. He
hands me the hose then lifts me up at just the right angle, so I am tall enough
to do it. I’m a beginner. He’s the expert. And
he enjoys sharing his method. Mom is quietly helping and working twice
as fast as either of us. She’s ready to get this job done.
The air
is thick and heavy, like a summer blanket. My curls are long gone,
but I don’t care or notice. I’m safe in my mom’s arms in the
shade of the carport. After the final rinse, my dad walks over and
puts his arms around both of us. “What do you think,
Curly? How does it look?“ he asks. “Good,” I
say. “It’s not yellow anymore. It’s sparkly and
shiny.” “Um hm,” he replies. “It’s about time,” my mom
says, and they laugh in unison.
We stare
out at the driveway in comfortable silence as the sweet smell of honeysuckle
rides in on the breeze. I drink it in. My eyes search for
a resting place, and they happily find one. The grass green hose is
spilling water on the driveway like a never-ending fountain.
l
*i can barely remember where my keys are, so this is a work of pure fiction, based on a true story. 