of Maman ’s false eyelashes on her.”
It is around ten in the morning and things are already hot. You can smell the morning sun hitting the grass and bringing up smells like lemon. I lean my head back and smell things, wherever I am. To me, smells are like an invisible person that a lot of people forget is even there. I would rather lose my eyes than my sense of smell.
“I can’t wait till we have our Indian names,” Teensy says.
“Tonight is the night,” Caro says, and she closes her eyes and leans her head back in the hammock.
“Ooooh,” Necie says, “I hope it’s not too dark in the woods.”
“ Of course it’ll be dark,” Teensy says.
“It will be dark as velvet ,” I say.
Necie’s eyes grow big. Caro reaches out and grabs her like a monster out of nowhere, and she lets out a squeal.
I can smell all Mother’s flowers, and I can hear everything from my spot in the hammock. Someone beating rugs a few doors down, lots and lots of birds, a fly buzzing, and Mr. Barnage’s truck rattling down the street. I know the sound of all the automobiles and trucks in our neighborhood.
Mother’s honeysuckle mixes in with the smell of her gardenia and butterfly ginger, and makes it smell so sweet out here on the porch. The Rose of Montana vine that Mother has trained to climb across the porch ceiling is just drippingwith flowers. She takes cuttings other people throw away and puts them into old coffee cans, and pretty soon they take over our porch and yard with blossoms. My mother can grow any flower in the world, and she knows all their names too. Our whole yard is full of camellias, Mother’s pride and joy. And she’s got all kinds of roses and white and purple periwinkles and a potted kumquat that she brings inside during the winter so it won’t freeze. If there is one thing my mama loves to do it is work in the garden. Father and my grandmother Delia make fun of her. They call her a field hand. Necie’s mama always asks Mother to join the Garden Club, but Mother won’t. She says her club is the Altar Society. Most of her flowers end up on the altar at Divine Compassion, not in our house.
In the spring and summer, I live out on this porch that’s surrounded by flowers. Come the warm weather, Mother and Delia’s maid, Ginger, set up two beds at the end of the side porch with the mosquito netting that drops from the ceiling, then Mother sets up a little night table and a boudoir lamp and we all take turns sleeping out here. When my girlfriends come over to spend the night, Mother makes Pete and his pals move back to his room and lets us sleep out here. My favorite nights in the world are the nights I have my girlfriends over. That is when I sleep my best, hardly a nightmare at all when my buddies are with me.
Sleeping on the porch is the best thing in the world. You fall asleep with the sound of crickets, and you wake up with the sound of birds chirping. When you’re still half-asleep, they sound like a waterfall. If Huey Long himself came to visit, the porch is where I’d put him. We don’t have servants fanning us here in Thornton, although sometimes we try to get Ginger, my grandmother’s maid, to fan us with Delia’s vetiver hand fans. But she says, “Go soak your head, that cool you off.”
* * *
It is evening and we all play cards after supper out on the porch with Pete and Mother. Father has business tonight, and so he didn’t come home for supper again.
My brother, Pete, teases us all the time. He keeps making up names for us. He calls Teensy “Tinky,” and calls me “Stinky.” Caro he calls “Karo Syrup.” And Necie he calls “Knee-sie” and points to his knee and then his eyes like he’s playing charades. Pete is two years older than us and big and strong, and has foxtails that fly from his bicycle.
After four hands of Crazy Eights, Mother says it’s time for bed. We all say goodnight and put on our gowns and Mother comes out to make sure the mosquito netting is draped
It is around ten in the morning and things are already hot. You can smell the morning sun hitting the grass and bringing up smells like lemon. I lean my head back and smell things, wherever I am. To me, smells are like an invisible person that a lot of people forget is even there. I would rather lose my eyes than my sense of smell.
“I can’t wait till we have our Indian names,” Teensy says.
“Tonight is the night,” Caro says, and she closes her eyes and leans her head back in the hammock.
“Ooooh,” Necie says, “I hope it’s not too dark in the woods.”
“ Of course it’ll be dark,” Teensy says.
“It will be dark as velvet ,” I say.
Necie’s eyes grow big. Caro reaches out and grabs her like a monster out of nowhere, and she lets out a squeal.
I can smell all Mother’s flowers, and I can hear everything from my spot in the hammock. Someone beating rugs a few doors down, lots and lots of birds, a fly buzzing, and Mr. Barnage’s truck rattling down the street. I know the sound of all the automobiles and trucks in our neighborhood.
Mother’s honeysuckle mixes in with the smell of her gardenia and butterfly ginger, and makes it smell so sweet out here on the porch. The Rose of Montana vine that Mother has trained to climb across the porch ceiling is just drippingwith flowers. She takes cuttings other people throw away and puts them into old coffee cans, and pretty soon they take over our porch and yard with blossoms. My mother can grow any flower in the world, and she knows all their names too. Our whole yard is full of camellias, Mother’s pride and joy. And she’s got all kinds of roses and white and purple periwinkles and a potted kumquat that she brings inside during the winter so it won’t freeze. If there is one thing my mama loves to do it is work in the garden. Father and my grandmother Delia make fun of her. They call her a field hand. Necie’s mama always asks Mother to join the Garden Club, but Mother won’t. She says her club is the Altar Society. Most of her flowers end up on the altar at Divine Compassion, not in our house.
In the spring and summer, I live out on this porch that’s surrounded by flowers. Come the warm weather, Mother and Delia’s maid, Ginger, set up two beds at the end of the side porch with the mosquito netting that drops from the ceiling, then Mother sets up a little night table and a boudoir lamp and we all take turns sleeping out here. When my girlfriends come over to spend the night, Mother makes Pete and his pals move back to his room and lets us sleep out here. My favorite nights in the world are the nights I have my girlfriends over. That is when I sleep my best, hardly a nightmare at all when my buddies are with me.
Sleeping on the porch is the best thing in the world. You fall asleep with the sound of crickets, and you wake up with the sound of birds chirping. When you’re still half-asleep, they sound like a waterfall. If Huey Long himself came to visit, the porch is where I’d put him. We don’t have servants fanning us here in Thornton, although sometimes we try to get Ginger, my grandmother’s maid, to fan us with Delia’s vetiver hand fans. But she says, “Go soak your head, that cool you off.”
* * *
It is evening and we all play cards after supper out on the porch with Pete and Mother. Father has business tonight, and so he didn’t come home for supper again.
My brother, Pete, teases us all the time. He keeps making up names for us. He calls Teensy “Tinky,” and calls me “Stinky.” Caro he calls “Karo Syrup.” And Necie he calls “Knee-sie” and points to his knee and then his eyes like he’s playing charades. Pete is two years older than us and big and strong, and has foxtails that fly from his bicycle.
After four hands of Crazy Eights, Mother says it’s time for bed. We all say goodnight and put on our gowns and Mother comes out to make sure the mosquito netting is draped
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