Mrs. Garrett's Front Porch
Part 3
by Darrell Smith

Kenny Walker, George and I were bored and rough housing in the front yard when a car approached us carrying a load of teenage boys. The car slowed down to a near stop while they stared at us for a moment and shook their heads to each other in some kind of recognition of something unspoken and clandestine, then slowly drove away. Geoge asked us, "what was that about?" We shrugged our shoulders signaling that we didn't know - although I had my doubts, I was pretty sure I did and didn't want to say. Kenny, I'm sure has seen that look before, that disapproving shaking of the head, that smirk, the rolling of the eyes and manufactured disgust. He didn't seem to take it personal.

It was just a moment later he said, "I don't think they like polaks or hillbillies." Even at seven years old we knew that it was a funny thing to say to break the ice. Although the experience itself was brief, it was nonetheless foreboding and made me sad. There was something going on that I just didn't have a full grasp on, yet. Later that day, I asked Mrs. Garrett if she saw what happened. She did. I had questions, and we talked. After our discussion about the boys in the car which encompassed much more than shared here, she said, "I think we can talk about something else now." She changed the subject at just the right time.

My old friend had a folksy demeanor - a very easy home spun style of getting her point across. She knew a lot about the human condition from a perspective of one whom experienced the short end of life's abundance. Never did she complain or seek pity or blame from anyone, nor apologized for being who she was. On many occasions she said "who we are is an act of God."

In one of our meetings after a long silence between us, she leaned in and said, "Boy, you are going to have to quit thinking of yourself as just some hillbilly kid, and don't you pay no mind to folks saying y'all are white trash." Direct and to the point. Ouch. Shall I turn the other cheek now? Pretty easily, I guess, she saw through the false bravado and the I-don't-care-what-people-think façade. The hillbilly part I understood, but the poor "white trash" part kind of stung. I added the "poor" to the white trash tag because I knew we were.

"George," she said, "He has a bit of an accent and him being a "DP has its own set of built-in handicaps." Looking at me, she narrowed one eye to a slit while raising the brow of the other, and said, "It'll mess with your head, mind you." A "DP" for the uninformed, was officially the shortened version of how the government identified a Displaced Person, an immigrant or registered alien arriving in the U.S. after the war, but on the street, it just meant dumb polak. Even at seven years old, I knew I'd rather be called a stupid hillbilly than a dumb polak and knew also it would take heavy mental toll on anyone forced to bear it like a modern-day scarlet letter. It was mean and saying it was tantamount to proclaiming superiority, as only the shallow and narrow minded can do.

What many people never knew is that my buddy George, seven-year-old George, spoke three languages. His mother was German, his father was Polish and he was fluent in their native tongue as well as English. I learned in later years that George's dad was relocated from Poland to Germany by the Nazi's as slave labor. Without being paid, they had him work in a factory where he met and fell in love with his bride to be. As a German, she was paid a wage and able to provide clothes and medicine and shared her meager food source to keep him alive to the end of the war and whatever fate awaited them in the future.

Mrs. Garrett made sure I was aware that Kenny couldn't hide who he is and assured me his path would be different and much more difficult than mine, especially in those days. His future will be filled with unavoidable trials of assimilation even in the enlightened so called liberal northern states. I knew it was true, I also knew he didn't have a mean bone in his body and didn't deserve the road ahead, nor did his parents. Kenny's dad was a large robust man with a laugh to match and his mom was quiet and charming. My visits to his house were filled with good humor, fun and good food.

"Okay, stop right there, I said. Why do you do that?"

"Do what," she asked in earnest.

"Sometimes you use good English and other times you don't - but it's kind of like you do it on purpose."

"Is that so? In what way?"

"When you said "mind'n they" parents, instead of their parents." I hardly finished my observation, when she cut in, in a tempered scolding manner, "Boy, I've been here for a great many years and I can talk anyway I see fittin - don't you dare…, why, you're one to talk about how I talk…" with a quickly spoken Yes Mam, I shut that down as quickly as I could and never questioned her mannerisms again. Not in front of her anyway. After a moment of silence, she said, "did you get those wires like I told you to get?"

"Yep," I replied.

"Don't yep me, a yes Mam every time would be nice. You ain't no Little Lord Fauntleroy, that's for sure." I didn't want to ask who or what the heck a Fauntleroy was, but I did acknowledge her request, if only to prove I had the ability to exhibit good manners every so often.

After a few moments of listening to her rocking chair squeak, I did ask her a question. "Why weren't you at the wake or attend the funeral? You know those peoplewell enough." Busy attending to her crocheting she didn't answer. "Mam? Mrs. Garrett?" The only sound was the creaking of her rocking chair. She was lost in thought and our counseling session was over for today.

The wires she spoke of were to become the stems of roses she taught me how to make using red, yellow and green crepe paper, bunches of which were to be given to the old people at the nursing home. I always thought that was funny - her referring to them as old. Before the summer was over, I was an expert at assembling the flowers made from what I had cut, wrapped and tied together with sewing thread. She talked over the noise made by the back and forth of the rocking chair over the loosening boards of the porch while occasionally sipping orange pekoe tea from a tall glass filled with ice. A little bottle of Pepsi and freshly made brownies at the ready was always my inducement to join her.

She told me story after fantastic story of her youth, her family… negro, Indian, slave and Freedmen, of campfires and Klan fires, making her own clothes, about brave and handsome husbands and beaus, and so many other adventures strewn with measured doses of hardships and joy with a bountiful number of kindnesses received from events she experienced first-hand. Most were stories of tender and fragile relationships proportionate with those that were sorrowful and frightening, all of which undeniably meaningful to her, as they were inspiring, captivating and intriguing to me.

In our lifetime some of us are lucky to enjoy a sampling of all of those things. She had lived through all a human being should be subjected to and endure and I can confirm her conviction that all were blessings from God. Never did she speak of hatred or jealousy for a life she couldn't or didn't have. To this day I wonder if her grandkids knew as much about her as I did.

My well-meaning and learned friends point out, sometimes in an all but too condescending of a manner, that many of her stories might have been embellished somewhat. No doubt I concede the possibility. Most anecdotal tales and yarns are told with the anticipation of eliciting certain reactions from the listener. My reaction to her narratives was consistent - my body leaned forward and my eyes looked deep into hers as I breathed through my mouth and fidgeted in my chair hanging on to each word.

That is how my summer in 1957 went - an old neighbor lady shared amusing stories and advice and unbeknownst to me, a certain amount of counseling in disguise, to a kid that couldn't keep his mouth shut, his feet still or his mind wandering.

What about the details of her stories, you say? I'll tell you when I'm ninety-seven.

END.

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Bio

In 1991, a story about his Mr. Smith's father was included in the book Angel Letters, by Sophie Burnham. Mr. Smith grew up in Cleveland, Ohio and relocated to Oklahoma City in 1982 where he is a real estate broker and investor.