Chapter 1

When I was three and Bailey four, we had arrived in the musty little town,

wearing tags on our wrists which instructed—"To Whom It May Concern"—that

we were Marguerite and Bailey Johnson Jr., from Long Beach, California, en

route to Stamps, Arkansas, c/o Mrs. Annie Henderson.

Our parents had decided to put an end to their calamitous marriage, and Father

shipped us home to his mother. A porter had been charged with our welfare—he

got off the train the next day in Arizona—and our tickets were pinned to my

brother's inside coat pocket.

I don't remember much of the trip, but after we reached the segregated

southern part of the journey, things must have looked up. Negro passengers, who

always traveled with loaded lunch boxes, felt sorry for "the poor little motherless

darlings" and plied us with cold fried chicken and potato salad.

Years later I discovered that the United States had been crossed thousands of

times by frightened Black children traveling alone to their newly affluent parents

in Northern cities, or back to grandmothers in Southern towns when the urban

North reneged on its economic promises.

The town reacted to us as its inhabitants had reacted to all things new before

our coming. It regarded us a while without curiosity but with caution, and after

we were seen to be harmless (and children) it closed in around us, as a real

mother embraces a stranger's child. Warmly, but not too familiarly.

We lived with our grandmother and uncle in the rear of the Store (it was

always spoken of with a capital s), which she had owned some twenty-five

years.

Early in the century, Momma (we soon stopped calling her Grandmother) sold

lunches to the sawmen in the lumberyard (east Stamps) and the seedmen at the

cotton gin (west Stamps). Her crisp meat pies and cool lemonade, when joined to

her miraculous ability to be in two places at the same time, assured her business

success. From being a mobile lunch counter, she set up a stand between the two

points of fiscal interest and supplied the workers' needs for a few years. Then

she had the Store built in the heart of the Negro area. Over the years it became

the lay center of activities in town. On Saturdays, barbers sat their customers in

the shade on the porch of the Store, and troubadours on their ceaseless crawlings

through the South leaned across its benches and sang their sad songs of The

Brazos while they played juice harps and cigar-box guitars.

The formal name of the Store was the Wm. Johnson General Merchandise

Store. Customers could find food staples, a good variety of colored thread, mash

for hogs, corn for chickens, coal oil for lamps, light bulbs for the wealthy,

shoestrings, hair dressing, balloons, and flower seeds. Anything not visible had

only to be ordered.

Until we became familiar enough to belong to the Store and it to us, we were

locked up in a Fun House of Things where the attendant had gone home for life.

Each year I watched the field across from the Store turn caterpillar green, then

gradually frosty white. I knew exactly how long it would be before the big

wagons would pull into the front yard and load on the cotton pickers at daybreak

to carry them to the remains of slavery's plantations.

During the picking season my grandmother would get out of bed at four

o'clock (she never used an alarm clock) and creak down to her knees and chant

in a sleep-filled voice, "Our Father, thank you for letting me see this New Day.

Thank you that you didn't allow the bed I lay on last night to be my cooling

board, nor my blanket my winding sheet. Guide my feet this day along the

straight and narrow, and help me to put a bridle on my tongue. Bless this house,

and everybody in it. Thank you, in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ, Amen."

Before she had quite arisen, she called our names and issued orders, and

pushed her large feet into homemade slippers and across the bare lye-washed

wooden floor to light the coal-oil lamp.

The lamplight in the Store gave a soft make-believe feeling to our world

which made me want to whisper and walk about on tiptoe. The odors of onions

and oranges and kerosene had been mixing all night and wouldn't be disturbed

until the wooded slat was removed from the door and the early morning air

forced its way in with the bodies of people who had walked miles to reach the

pickup place.

"Sister, I'll have two cans of sardines."

"I'm gonna work so fast today I'm gonna make you look like you standing

still."

"Lemme have a hunk uh cheese and some sody crackers."

"Just gimme a coupla them fat peanut paddies." That would be from a picker

who was taking his lunch. The greasy brown paper sack was stuck behind the

bib of his overalls. He'd use the candy as a snack before the noon sun called the

workers to rest.

In those tender mornings the Store was full of laughing, joking, boasting and

bragging. One man was going to pick two hundred pounds of cotton, and another

three hundred. Even the children were promising to bring home fo' bits and six

bits.

The champion picker of the day before was the hero of the dawn. If he

prophesied that the cotton in today's field was going to be sparse and stick to the

bolls like glue, every listener would grunt a hearty agreement.

The sound of the empty cotton sacks dragging over the floor and the murmurs

of waking people were sliced by the cash register as we rang up the five-cent

sales.

If the morning sounds and smells were touched with the supernatural, the late

afternoon had all the features of the normal Arkansas life. In the dying sunlight

the people dragged, rather than their empty cotton sacks.

Brought back to the Store, the pickers would step out of the backs of trucks

and fold down, dirt-disappointed, to the ground. No matter how much they had

picked, it wasn't enough. Their wages wouldn't even get them out of debt to my

grandmother, not to mention the staggering bill that waited on them at the white

commissary downtown.

The sounds of the new morning had been replaced with grumbles about

cheating houses, weighted scales, snakes, skimpy cotton and dusty rows. In later

years I was to confront the stereotyped picture of gay song-singing cotton

pickers with such inordinate rage that I was told even by fellow Blacks that my

paranoia was embarrassing. But I had seen the fingers cut by the mean little

cotton bolls, and I had witnessed the backs and shoulders and arms and legs

resisting any further demands.

Some of the workers would leave their sacks at the Store to be picked up the

following morning, but a few had to take them home for repairs. I winced to

picture them sewing the coarse material under a coal-oil lamp with fingers

stiffening from the day's work. In too few hours they would have to walk back

to Sister Henderson's Store, get vittles and load, again, onto the trucks. Then

they would face another day of trying to earn enough for the whole year with the

heavy knowledge that they were going to end the season as they started it.

Without the money or credit necessary to sustain a family for three months. In

cotton-picking time the late afternoons revealed the harshness of Black Southern

life, which in the early morning had been softened by nature's blessing of

grogginess, forgetfulness and the soft lamplight.