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“““An An Anabsorbing absorbing absorbingand and andmoving moving movingexploration exploration explorationof of ofthe the theeffect effect effectof of ofenvironment environment environment on on oncharacter.” character.” character.” ONATHAN ONATHANG G GALASSI ALASSI ALASSI,,,poet poet poetand and andtranslator translator translatorof of ofGiacomo Giacomo GiacomoLeopardi Leopardi Leopardi — — —JJJONATHAN and and andEugenio Eugenio EugenioMontale. Montale. Montale. Smith/Kerr Smith/Kerr Smith/KerrAssociates Associates AssociatesLLC LLC LLCPublishing Publishing Publishing 43 43 43Seapoint Seapoint SeapointRoad Road Road Kittery Kittery KitteryPoint, Point, Point,tME tME tME03905 03905 03905USA USA USA 207 207 207439-2921/bizbks@aol.com 439-2921/bizbks@aol.com 439-2921/bizbks@aol.com www.smithkerr.com www.smithkerr.com www.smithkerr.com
““As “As Asspellbinding, spellbinding, spellbinding,nuanced, nuanced, nuanced,intricate, intricate, intricate,evocative, evocative, evocative,and and andabsorbing absorbing absorbingas as ashis his his highly highly highlycrafted crafted craftedmetal-and-wood metal-and-wood metal-and-woodsculptures, sculptures, sculptures,John John JohnSnyder’s Snyder’s Snyder’smagical, magical, magical, magnificent magnificent magnificentHill Hill Hillof of ofBeans Beans Beansisisisaaaswirling, swirling, swirling,recursive recursive recursiveAmerican American AmericanJourney Journey Journey through through throughthe the therivers rivers riversand and andwoods woods woodsand and andfields fields fieldsof of ofaaaboy’s boy’s boy’sformative formative formativeyears, years, years, along along alonghighways highways highwaysof of ofperception, perception, perception,memory, memory, memory,language, language, language,and and andexpression, expression, expression, asking asking askingwhat what whatitititmeans means meansto to toimagine, imagine, imagine,yearn, yearn, yearn,experience, experience, experience,and and andlove.” love.” love.” — — —D D DAVID AVID AVIDM. M. M.D D DARST ARST ARST,,,investment investment investmentanalyst analyst analystand and andauthor author authorof of of six six sixbooks, books, books,including including includingThe The TheArt Art Artof of ofAsset Asset AssetAllocation Allocation Allocationand and and The The TheLittle Little LittleBook Book Bookthat that thatSaves Saves SavesYour Your YourAssets Assets Assets “““John John JohnSnyder’s Snyder’s Snyder’sHill Hill Hillof of ofBeans Beans Beansevokes evokes evokesan an anera, era, era,aaaway way wayof of oflife, life, life,long long longpassed passed passed into into intohistory. history. history.Recounted Recounted Recountedin in invivid vivid vividdetail, detail, detail,with with withphotographs, photographs, photographs,candor, candor, candor, affection, affection, affection,humor, humor, humor,this this thismemoir memoir memoirbrings brings bringsto to tolife life lifethe the thevoices voices voicesand and andstruggles, struggles, struggles, the the thestrengths, strengths, strengths,the the theindustry, industry, industry,of of offamilies families familiesand and andcommunities communities communitieslong long longgone. gone. gone. ItItItisisisaaastory story storythat that thathelps helps helpsus us usunderstand understand understandand and andappreciate appreciate appreciatethose those thosewho who whocame came came before before beforeus, us, us,and and andalso also alsohelps helps helpsus us usunderstand understand understandour our ourown own owntimes times timesbetter. better. better.You You You will will willbe be bepleased pleased pleasedthat that thatyou you youread read readit.” it.” it.” — — —R RROBERT OBERT OBERTM M MORGAN ORGAN ORGAN,,,author author authorof of ofGap Gap GapCreek Creek Creek
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“““Memoir Memoir Memoirdone done donewell well wellisisisaaawonderful wonderful wonderfuland and andnecessary necessary necessarycontribution contribution contributionto to to culture, culture, culture,and and andHill Hill Hillof of ofBeans Beans Beansisisisamong among amongthe the thebest. best. best.These These Theseare are arebeautifully beautifully beautifully written written writtenand and andskillfully skillfully skillfullylayered layered layeredstories stories storiesthat that thatspring spring springfrom from fromaaaplace place place beloved beloved belovedby by bymany, many, many,the the themountains mountains mountainsof of ofNorth North NorthCarolina. Carolina. Carolina.The The Thestories stories stories have have havethe the thedelicate delicate delicaterichness richness richnessof of ofchocolate, chocolate, chocolate,made made madeeven even evenmore more moredelicious delicious delicious by by byJohn John JohnSnyder’s Snyder’s Snyder’shonesty. honesty. honesty.IIIvery very verymuch much muchenjoyed enjoyed enjoyedthese these thesereal-life real-life real-life adventures adventures adventuresof of ofaaaplace place placeand and andtime time timegone gone goneby, by, by,told told toldwith with withpathos pathos pathosand and andlove.” love.” love.” — — —JJJANISSE ANISSE ANISSER RRAY AY AY,,,author author authorof of ofEcology Ecology Ecologyof of ofaaaCracker Cracker CrackerChildhood, Childhood, Childhood, A A AHouse House Houseof of ofBranches, Branches, Branches,and and andothers others others
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“““IfIfIfyou you youhad had hadthe the thesort sort sortof of ofadventurous, adventurous, adventurous,bittersweet bittersweet bittersweetchildhood childhood childhoodthat that thatmany many many children children childrenonly only onlydream dream dreamabout about aboutafter after afterreading reading readingLaura Laura LauraIngalls Ingalls IngallsWilder Wilder Wilderbooks books books in in inschool, school, school,John John JohnSnyder’s Snyder’s Snyder’sHill Hill Hillof of ofBeans Beans Beanswill will willbe be beirresistible. irresistible. irresistible.From From Fromthe the the tremendous, tremendous, tremendous,larger-than-life larger-than-life larger-than-lifefather father fatherto to tothe the thestiflingly stiflingly stiflinglycruel cruel cruelAunt Aunt AuntBess, Bess, Bess, Snyder Snyder Snydertransmits transmits transmitsthe the theimages images imagesand and andfeelings feelings feelingsof of ofaaaunique unique uniquechildhood childhood childhood wonderfully.” wonderfully.” wonderfully.” — — —LLLYDIA YDIA YDIAC CCROWE ROWE ROWE,,,University University Universityof of ofIowa Iowa Iowa
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P AR T I
The Mountains May 1934–August 1940
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LATE AFTERNOON The sun will soon be down. The lake, its water almost black, lies in the shadow of Adams Mountain. We are at the porch rail watching for Daddy to come home from work in the red truck. I walk back to Ma’s bedroom. She is sitting at her dresser plucking gray hairs and crying. “I’m getting old,” she sobs. “I can’t pull all the gray hairs anymore. I’m turning gray. My youth is gone.” I just stand silently behind her. Ma’s birthday is August 16, 1899. I know what good times she had at Winthrop College during the World War and when she taught school in Conway, Gastonia, and Hendersonville, little towns that are only names to me. She sits with her mother’s pewter mirror in one hand, tweezers in the other. Her hair is short and bobbed, held in place with curved combs that match the contour of her head. I see grey hairs she has missed. The late afternoon sun is level with the window. Ma, her bureau, the bedspread, and the wall in front of her are caught in soft golden light that illuminates drifting particles of dust. I watch them float through the shaft of light between us. “The work is killing me. I can’t keep it up,” she cries. “It’s made me old before my time.” She moves the hand mirror until it reflects the back of her head in the big one. Spotting the sprinkling of grey hairs I have already seen, she starts crying harder. I edge away and go back to my brothers who are at the porch rail waiting for Daddy to show up in the red truck. “Ma’s pulling gray hairs again,” I tell them. They don’t answer. We don’t talk to each other about Ma and Daddy. We hear the red truck pulling up Morgan Creek past the rock Daddy dynamited to widen the road. Once bright red, now faded and dull as rust, the little Chevrolet pickup crests the hill Ma and Teddy, 1933. across the dam. Coasting to a
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stop, Daddy cuts the motor and swings out, a roll of blueprints in his hand. He is wearing khaki pants, high-topped shoes, and a felt hat. The chain of his gold Elgin dangles from his watch pocket. Daddy is the boss. He pulls out the Elgin to shout “Twelve o’clock, Dinner Time!” or “Six o’clock, Quitting Time!” when it is time for his men to stop for dinner (our name for lunch) or go home. In the 1920s, Daddy built vacation camps for workers of the big cotton mills down in South Carolina. He put in our lake for Judson Mills. When they ran out of money during the Depression Daddy bought the place for himself and his partners in The Little River Land Company. Now he builds summer houses for people who come up from Greenville for the cool mountain air. He does all “the figgering” for his jobs, and makes blueprints that start out wet and turn blue when he hangs them on the clothesline to dry. He surveys land with a brass transit that slides into a mahogany case padded with patches of green felt. When he surveys, he wears a pith helmet to shade his eyes while he is looking through the telescope. Often, while watching him screw his transit to its long wooden tripod, Ma tells us, “Your daddy got the highest score ever made on the North Carolina Land Surveyor’s test. He’s a genius, but he doesn’t charge those rich dogs enough.” If he hears her, Daddy always replies, “I don’t like to charge more for my work than the average man can pay.” Ma counters, “but they are rich and we need the money.” “I give every man a fair price,” Daddy says, and that ends it. He crosses the dam with his blueprints and goes to the kitchen where Ma has his supper waiting, without a word to us. We tumble down the stairs into the little yard between the house and the lake and begin “winding up the sky,” which is spinning around and around, faces up, until we are drunk and the evening sky is swirling like batter in a pan. We spin and shout, getting dizzier and dizzier until we fall to the ground. Daddy finishes his supper. He goes upstairs to listen to H. V. Kaltenborn on his little walnut American Bosch radio. Ear pressed to the speaker, he will be trying to hear Kaltenborn’s grim voice through the static telling about Munich, the Germans invading Poland, and war about to break out all over Europe. We know how mad he gets at the static and anything that interferes with hearing Kaltenborn, but we are drunk from winding up the sky and keep on spinning, screaming, and falling. Suddenly, he is at the rail of the porch above us. His features are hard and angry. “Cut that racket!” he shouts, “or I’ll come down there and transmogrify your paraphernalia.” Then he hurries back inside to his American Bosch.
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We have gotten in trouble before when Daddy was listening to the news. We know what will happen, but he is out of sight up there listening to Kaltenborn, and we resume winding up the sky, hoping he won’t hear us. The living room door flies open. Daddy rushes out and bounds down the steps in a fury. “I told you to quit making that racket. Now, you’re going to get a strapping,” he shouts. Reaching Teddy first, he takes him by the collar with one hand, unbuckles his belt and strips it from his pants with the other. Swinging the belt, he says, “I’ll teach you to disobey me when I tell you something!” Leaving Teddy crying, Daddy grabs me. He begins to swing the belt and I run in a circle around him to stay ahead of it. Soon he loosens the hand that is holding me because his khaki pants have started to fall and he has to catch them. This, and my dancing around, makes him madder, and he shouts, “I’ll give you something to remember,” but he needs three hands, one to hold me, one to hold up his pants, and another to keep on strapping. He turns me loose and begins to re-thread his belt. I run inside where Teddy has already retreated. Chib gets off without a strapping because he is little. When Ma comes upstairs after washing the dishes she says, “You shouldn’t have disobeyed your Daddy.” NIGHT It has gotten dark and we are sitting upstairs in the living room around the fireplace. From outside intrudes the never-ending sound of water over the dam. Ma is giving us our baths one by one in a tin tub on the hearth while Daddy reads beside his little square table. Lying on its lacquered, mirrorsmooth top are two soft gray squirrel skins he tanned with alum and salt. Above the door is the black bear he drew in charcoal and framed with split mountain laurel. The chimney he built with protruding rock shelves to hold his Indian head carvings disappears in the darkness above before it pierces the roof. A coconut rests on one of the stone shelves. On its smooth husk he has charcoaled the head of a lion with a giant mane. Daddy built the house for himself before he married Ma. “Back when I was batching and had time aplenty to read and carve and paint and memorize poetry,” he says. Daddy thinks everybody should memorize poems. I look at all the tiny words in his poetry books and think this is another thing like surveying, carving Indian heads, and pouring concrete dams that I will never be able to do. Ma says he used to write poems but one day decided they were
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no good and burned most of them. Daddy is 19 years older than Ma. He likes to say, “I was born October the fourth, eighteen and eighty-one.” When he was a little boy he used to go to the cabin of Aunt Liddy, who had been a slave, and beg her to tell him stories about Africa. One of the poems he didn’t burn is called “Aunt Liddy.”1 Here by the fire, his bald head shining in the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp, Daddy begins reciting poems he knows by heart. Leaning back in a little red straight-chair, his voice rising and falling mournfully, he goes from one to the other. “This is ‘old’ Pope’s ‘Essay on Man,’” he says: Lo the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind; His soul proud Science never taught to stray. . . . Daddy says there was an Indian village near the washed out place where we find arrowheads after every hard rain. He keeps them in a candy box next to the cookie tin full of pocketknives he gets for being a good customer of the lumber company and hardware stores. He says it is a shame the white man ran the Indians off their land. All of Daddy’s carvings are of Indians, peace pipes, arrowheads, and the blossoms of wild mountain plants. I know the poems he likes best are either about dead people or how soon we will be in the cemetery with them. He swings into Knox’s “Mortality,” Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeing meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. When he recites Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” he looks straight at me with a little smile. I think he is smiling because he wants me to understand that everybody, including me, has to die. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour— The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Clearing his throat he starts “The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam.” Ma shakes her head and says, “Ted, I don’t know how in the world you can remember the whole thing.” Daddy’s voice goes on ever more mournfully until it seems he will never finish. I don’t understand the poem but like the title, “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,” which I say over and over to myself. Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly—and the Bird is on the Wing. He is finishing with Blake’s “The Tyger,” our favorite, even though it sends chills up our spines. Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? I see the tiger’s burning eyes in the red coals as we crowd the fireplace before kneeling to say our prayers and dashing to our cold bedroom in the back. Pulling up the covers, I imagine a panther coming down the moonlit hill and crashing through the window to get me. I heard Bill Perry Masters tell about panthers. “Painters,” he said, “holler in the night like a woman screaming. If you’ve ever heared it, it’ll not leave you for the rest of your life.” Bill Perry lives in East Fork, miles back in the mountains. He trapped the wildcats in the cages at The Wildcat Filling Station. “I remember, as a boy,” he says, “the time we wiped out the last den of wolves up there on what’s now the Greenville watershed.” I am always scared back in that dark bedroom. Sometimes I dream about panthers and sometimes I am surrounded by dozens of green and yellow snakes coming out of their dens, like the ring-necks that Ma kills with a frog gig when they emerge from the rocks of the dining room chimney. In winter it is so cold our breath comes out like white smoke. When the wind blows hard, I see the leafless trees whipping and groaning in the moonlight. Those on the hill outside and thousands of others to the top of Middle Mountain sway and roar in unison like a giant train, so loud I can no longer hear the water going over the dam.
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Late summer nights are loud with the shrill sound of katydids whirring until the first frost. To me they sound like thousands of rattlesnakes coiled in the darkness, warning, as I lie sleepless, that they are about to strike. MORNING Daddy leaves for work in the red truck before we get up. We are in the downstairs dining room finishing our Cream of Wheat and sausage. Ma is sitting in a chair writing letters on a Whitman’s Sampler box, her silver fountain pen scratching back and forth across pale blue stationery. Without looking up, she says, “I’m writing Cousin Ludie McGee this morning. I haven’t seen Ludie in a coon’s age. What good times we did have together back in Laurens when I was young and gay.” Whenever she has a few minutes while Daddy is away, Ma writes to people we have never seen like Cousin Ludie McGee. My brothers and I go up to the porch to wait for Celia McGaha, who will be coming over from her house by the highway to help take care of us. Celia, in her straight white dress, walks the quarter mile up Morgan’s Creek to our cabin every day. Her father, Joe McGaha, farms the bottomland along Little River for Daddy. It rained last night as it does almost every day in summer, filling the woods with the rich smell of decaying leaves. The narrow ruts are freshly scoured, sand and pebbles frozen where the rivulets stopped. She passes the tall wheel of Daddy’s gristmill where water from the blocked millrace spills into the rhododendrons below, leaning into the cool breeze that always flows down the hollow of Morgan Creek. From our high porch overlooking the lake, we see her crest the little ridge across the dam, then turn, and come toward us, her free hand running along the locust railing of the bridge. Slung across her shoulder is a flour sack bulging with a jar of milk and butter from the McGaha springhouse. Celia’s hair is blonde and straight. It is parted on one side and cut squarely just beneath the lobe of her ears. I am crazy about her. She has been taking care of us for as long as I can remember, but Ma says she will probably marry H. P. Clark who has a good job at the tannery. In 1938 when she is eighteen, I am four. Celia arrives, looking up to us with a big smile. I run down the steps to meet her. Easing the flour sack from her shoulder, she bends and hugs my neck. The milk and butter go into the icebox. It is “fish and juice time.” After they serve us a tablespoon of cod liver oil washed down with orange juice from our baby cups, we go outside with Celia while Ma resumes writing letters.
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Daddy’s gristmill with overshot wheel.
Chib, Teddy, and me, with Celia by the lake.
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Celia carries a big pink blanket with satin borders as we cross the dam, looking down into the deep green water of the lake on one side and the sloping concrete of the spillway on the other. I bring our battered book of nursery rhymes. The lake is sparkling in the sun. We stop in a grassy spot beside it. Celia lofts the blanket and floats it down, flushing grasshoppers in every direction. We collapse around her on the blanket. The grass beyond is alive with bugs and grasshoppers singing in the summer sun. Soon they are hopping onto the edges of the blanket. We flip them back into the grass. “Don’t touch the big’uns; thump ’em off ” Celia warns. “They’ll spit tobacco on you, and hit’s bitter, I’m a telling you.” We lie back and Celia begins to read. The grass beyond the blanket’s edge rises like a little forest. Above it is the bluest sky I have ever seen. Snow-white thunderheads are beginning to pop up behind Adams Mountain. Teddy and Chib go to sleep. Celia stops reading, falls back on her elbows, and lets her head drop so that her hair hangs down and is worried by the breeze. I grasp a handful of this silken gold and Celia lets me stroke it. I hope the day will never end. . . . warm sun, rasping insects, gentle breeze, and Celia’s soft hair spilling through my fingers, but the thunderheads against the blue sky over Adams Mountain are turning black and growing larger. We return to the kitchen. Ma is licking stamps and sticking them on her letters. Celia will take them to the mailbox and turn up the flag so the mailman will stop and start them on their way to Ludie McGee and Ma’s other friends from far away. Dropping the letters in her flour sack, Celia tells us goodbye and heads home. I catch glimpses of her white dress through the trees until she disappears, retracing her steps down Morgan Creek.
DROPPING THE DISHRAG Celia isn’t coming today. Daddy is at work and we are alone with Ma. Teddy, Chib, and I are playing downstairs on the dining room floor. Ma, wearing cotton stockings and one of her homemade gingham aprons, is tearing around the kitchen cooking dinner. She makes a lot of racket when she works . . . slams the oven door, clangs the cast iron lids open with the lifter, and pounds her heels into the floor as she moves back and forth. When a stick of wood gets stuck in the stove, she shouts, “Gosh dang, this work is killing me,” as she knocks it in with another one.
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Suddenly it is quiet in the kitchen. We look through the door. Ma has caught up. The pots on the stovetop are steaming and you can smell cornbread baking in the oven. She is sitting for a minute in a straight chair in front of the cast iron cook stove. Her legs are clamped tightly together. Bent over, elbows on her knees, hands on her cheeks, she is crying. “What’s wrong, Ma?” “I’m thinking about Mama,” she sobs, shaking her head and wiping away the tears. “Dear sweet Mama. She was the most wonderful thing in the world. Oh, you’ll never know how much I miss her; you’ll never know. You couldn’t know,” she cries. We just listen when she talks about “Mama.” “Mama was married to Mr. Augustus Hart, a very successful lawyer in Simpsonville and had everything in the world to look forward to,” she says, “but he died young, leaving her with three small children. Mama took what little money there was from his insurance and opened a boarding house in Laurens where she raised your Uncle Ed, Uncle Gus, and Aunt YY. It was hard work and she barely got by, but she gave them all a good Christian upbringing. Everybody in Laurens loved Mama and called her ‘Miss Anna’.” Ma gradually gets over her sad spell. I’m seeing the faded brown picture on her bureau upstairs where “Miss Anna” looks out sadly at something in the distance from a little black frame. She has soft eyes and a blunt nose like Uncle Ed. Her hair is wound up in a bun on top of her head. Her blouse is pinned together at the neck with a big oval brooch, and her body swells at the bottom of the picture. “What about Weeladdie?” Teddy says. “They called my father ‘Weeladdie’ because he was Scotch,” Ma says. His name was Colin McKenzie Clark. He came to Laurens from Halifax, My mother’s “Moma,” Anna Eliza North Carolina, to work for the railBoseman Clark, April 2, 1859– road and boarded with Mama. He January 15, 1930.
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was only 24 and Mama was 38 but they fell in love and got married and that’s why I’m here.”* “And Weeladdie always brought you chocolate?” I ask, wanting to hear about it again. “Oh yes, indeed he did!” Ma says, smiling. “Weeladdie would come home from the depot every night with a bar of chocolate in his pocket for me. He was the sweetest thing. How I loved him!” Talking about Mama and Weeladdie makes Ma feel better. She goes back to work, saying it will soon be “chocolate time” for us. She keeps Hershey bars in a tin box for “chocolate time.” Halfway between breakfast and dinner, she takes it down and opens a bar, peeling back the silver foil until, mouths watering, we can see the little squares embossed with Hershey. Carefully she breaks them apart and hands a piece to each of us and takes two for herself. “Oh, how I do love chocolate,” she says, smacking her lips as she puts the rest of the bar away until “chocolate time” tomorrow. Ma goes back to the kitchen and begins washing bowls and pans, racing over them with the dishrag as she stands, looking out through the curtains toward the lake. Then, we hear her shout with excitement. “I dropped the dishrag! Company’s coming!” she exclaims. Ma says company never fails to come when you drop the dishrag. We look out across the dam to see if they are already here. They aren’t, but Ma worries they will be here any minute so we race upstairs to get ready. People hardly ever come during the week because they would have to drive 40 miles, all the way up the mountain from Greenville, but Ma loves company and she is sure somebody is on the way on account of dropping the dishrag. She begins scurrying around, furiously straightening things up while we sit on the benches in front of the windows watching for the car. * The Laurens Advertiser December 23, 1897: A Beautiful Home Wedding—Hart-Clark At three o’clock on last Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Anna E. Hart and Mr. C. M. Clark, of this city were married in the presence of their relatives and intimate friends. The ceremony was performed by the Rev. Robert Adams of the Presbyterian Church. The bride wore an exceedingly becoming traveling gown of dark green cloth. Miss Janie Poole, the Maid of Honor, a handsome silk costume. Immediately after the ceremony Mr. and Mrs. Clark drove to Clinton to catch the Vestibule for the north. Mr. Clark is telegraph operator and train dispatcher for the C.N.&L. railroad at this point and is popular and highly esteemed by a large circle of friends. His wife is a charming and lovable woman, with friends innumerable to wish her well.
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Hill of Beans
“Who in the world can it be?” she asks. “I wonder if it’s some of my cousins from Louisiana? But why didn’t they write first? Maybe the letter was lost.” Then she has it. “I bet it is your Uncle Ed. It would be just like my brother to drive up here without saying a word.” But no one appears, not Uncle Ed, not her cousins, the Thibodeux’s, no one. Ma begins to worry. “Well, it’s two o’clock and if they’re not here by three they’re not coming because nobody is going to drive back down that mountain in the dark,” she says. Three o’clock passes and company hasn’t come. Ma is distressed. She loves company but her friends rarely come except on summer weekends. She grabs her broom and begins sweeping furiously. The broomstick brushes across her leg and she screams in pain. “Gosh dang! I’ve hit my birthmark,” she shouts and falls into a chair to pull down her stocking, exposing the big birthmark just above her knee. It sticks out like a blackberry with seeds of different sizes, some purple, others black and full of blood as a swollen tick. Ma worries about her birthmark but she is afraid to have the doctor cut it off. “Oh my, it’s bleeding. I’m going to die of cancer. I know it. Dr. Jerdon told me it would turn to cancer if I hit it. Oh Lord, I’m going to die,” she cries. She puts merthiolate on the bleeding birthmark and binds it up with gauze and tape. We follow her back downstairs to begin making supper. First Ma has to wash the dishes from dinner, and when she finishes the last one she raises the dishrag over her head and slams it to the floor as hard as she can. It hits with a violent splat. We keep quiet until she picks it up and starts rattling around the kitchen again.
COMPANY COMES It’s a warm summer morning. Ma has been up since dawn sweeping, dusting, cleaning the glass chimneys of kerosene lamps, and setting the table. Everything is on the stove or in the oven. Company is finally coming— friends who have rented a house at Caesars Head. “They’ll be rolling up any minute,” she predicts, dropping into a rocker on the front porch beside Daddy who remarks, “I’d just as soon see