I grew up in the North, and identify comfortably with changing seasons accompanied by the occasional harsh winter and a progressive mindset rooted firmly in the Industrial centers that at one time thrived this side of the Mason Dixon Line. Yet my actual roots – the essence of the ancestral thread that defines me, lie in the Up Country dirt roads and Woodland Forests of Chesterfield County S.C. where my parents were born, and where I spent my childhood summers when my Grandmothers were still alive. Never knew my Grandfathers – Jacob died eleven days after I was born, and Huey Jr. passed when I was only One. But I knew everything there was to know about them – as conveyed by my parents and the quiet recitations of Grandmas Lula and Rebecca, respectively. Way down South…where Tobacco and Cotton Fields stretched for an eternity of Miles on either side of the road that led out of town, and where Cicadas trilled on the warm breeze of evening and the smell of Pine and Cedar filled our nostrils as we sat on Ma Beck's porch, watching darkness close a seal-tight lid on the remote, rural fields that surrounded our family’s land…terrified and transfixed, as she told only slightly embellished tales of our Elder's encounters with the Haints that inhabited those woods. During the day it was always hot – to the point that the sand would burn your feet if you dared to step out of your sandals. My cousins did it all the time, but it typically didn’t take long for me to give up my feeble attempts at conformity, as my tender feet had never quite conditioned themselves to that degree of abuse. &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
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During the week, we ate Box Lunches at Vacation Bible School; flirted with the pretty girls, and took care to avoid the retribution of the ugly ones - mad because their amorous advances were never reciprocated. On the way back to Grandma Lula’s house, we avoided the patch of ground beneath the tree where the freshly slaughtered Hog bled out before being disassembled for the parts used to make Ham, Chitterlings and Sage Sausage. Later in the afternoon, Grandma’s sing-song voice would call for us to come home, and the pack of us would arrive at her back porch, just as she was about to slice up a giant Watermelon with the shiny, Silver Machete she kept inside her back door. We would relieve ourselves in the woods while ‘on the run’, but were forced to make other arrangements when a more deliberate elimination was required. Visited only when absolutely necessary, the Out-House was just down right scary. It had been placed inside the pen where the Hogs and Chicken Coops were maintained, and once you entered the gate, you had to take care not to step on the aluminum pie pans covering the traps that were set out for coyotes and stray dogs. Securing the latch behind me, I was always afraid I’d fall down into the damn thing – horrified as I imagined what inhabited the squishy darkness below, a mere four to six feet down, beneath the rough, wooden seat on which I was perched, gasping from my playful exertions...then predictably gagging on the smell and stifling July-in-South-Carolina heat that hung heavy inside the confines of that narrow, wooden box.
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During the week, we ate Box Lunches at Vacation Bible School; flirted with the pretty girls, and took care to avoid the retribution of the ugly ones - mad because their amorous advances were never reciprocated. On the way back to Grandma Lula’s house, we avoided the patch of ground beneath the tree where the freshly slaughtered Hog bled out before being disassembled for the parts used to make Ham, Chitterlings and Sage Sausage. Later in the afternoon, Grandma’s sing-song voice would call for us to come home, and the pack of us would arrive at her back porch, just as she was about to slice up a giant Watermelon with the shiny, Silver Machete she kept inside her back door. We would relieve ourselves in the woods while ‘on the run’, but were forced to make other arrangements when a more deliberate elimination was required. Visited only when absolutely necessary, the Out-House was just down right scary. It had been placed inside the pen where the Hogs and Chicken Coops were maintained, and once you entered the gate, you had to take care not to step on the aluminum pie pans covering the traps that were set out for coyotes and stray dogs. Securing the latch behind me, I was always afraid I’d fall down into the damn thing – horrified as I imagined what inhabited the squishy darkness below, a mere four to six feet down, beneath the rough, wooden seat on which I was perched, gasping from my playful exertions...then predictably gagging on the smell and stifling July-in-South-Carolina heat that hung heavy inside the confines of that narrow, wooden box.
Sunday services were not optional, and my Father and Uncle would sit in the front row with the other Deacons – My Mother, both Grandmothers and my Aunts in the row just behind them…and our imaginations would invariably wander to the Iced Tea and Coconut Cake we knew would be served up after a dinner of Fried Chicken, Collards, Fried Corn with Buttermilk Biscuits and Pinto Beans - all while the assembled, saved souls sang passionately of Solid Rock and Sinking Sand. After the service, we would make the obligatory walk through the adjacent cemetery to pay homage to the relatives and loved ones who’d passed on before us, and I was always struck with an immediate and powerful awareness of the rows upon rows of Black/White/Grey stones that bore chiseled evidence of the surname that was my own. And it was at that precise moment of comprehension when I began to fully appreciate the fact that this was the place from whence I had come; the foundation upon which my value system and cultural identity would be defined. These simple folk...descendans of Share Croppers and Slaves - blended from a miture of West
African, Scottish and Native American blood...that lived peacefully out in that quiet country, miles from the convenience of running water and paved roads.
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These were my people...and I was their son.
African, Scottish and Native American blood...that lived peacefully out in that quiet country, miles from the convenience of running water and paved roads.
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These were my people...and I was their son.
