Within this world apart, my childhood revolved around Lizzy. I took my first steps within her vigilant reach. Hers was the first face I saw nearly every morning. She dressed me, gave me breakfast, and stood with me to wait for the school bus to kindergarten, then first and second grade. When I was old enough to play on my own in the yard and woods or down by the creek, she’d call out for supper and wait by the kitchen door, smiling. John David, I knew it was you comin’ cause I could see your blond hair bouncing in my direction. Now go wash the world off your hands and face. Mostly I was John David; sometimes, when she felt affectionate, I was Master John, and at times Boy, as in, Boy, I am going to beat the tan out of yo’ hide.
She was a tall, thin woman, probably no more than ninety pounds, raised in Alabama. She could frost your spine with just a few words, but most of the time she had a slow, almost languid demeanor. She carried herself elegantly, even though I rarely saw her wear anything other than a thin white uniform. She never did anything without a small clot of snuff pouched in her lower lip. She also mumbled from sunrise to sunset, emitting a rumbling, incessant tremor that caused the small bump of snuff in her lip to bounce slightly.
Throaty sounds such as, Eh hmm, oh yes, mmm hmmm, Lohd have mercy, were used like conjunctions between each thought as it made its way from her mouth. When I was little I nearly lived under Lizzy’s apron strings, so my childhood was punctuated by Mmm hmmm, his mouth overloaded his butt … Lohd, Miz Lipscomb make me go round my elbow ta get to my thumb … oh yes, there ain’t much meat on that bone, now is there? … Eh hmm, put yo wishes in one hand and manure in another and which one gonna fill up first? …
Her room was next to mine in the back of the house and each night I took comfort in hearing her slow, rhythmic walk up the back steps from the kitchen. In one hand she’d have a can of Budweiser; we were all practically weaned on the stuff. In the other, she held a round, silver tin of snuff between her thumb and middle finger, so she could flick the tin with her wrist. She did this in a way that caused her pointer finger slapping the top of the tin to pack the finely ground contents, like black ground coffee, to one side. The slapping of the tin kept time with the thud of each of her hard-soled shoes hitting the next wooden step.
She’d stop mumbling long enough to lean into my room and say, Master John, time you were asleep, then go into her room and sit with her beer and snuff, mumbling to her small black-and-white TV. In the summer of 1969, when I was ten years old, I remember watching the first moon landing with her on that old TV. The whole while she mumbled, C’ain’t be … Snowball’s chance in hell they’s really on the moon … Just you watch, whole damn thin’s made up …
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