Prologue
Before I was old
enough to read, Momma had me hooked on fairy tales. She bought a new one for me
each month out of the small social-security check she received after my
father's death. She rocked me to sleep reading my favorite ones each night. I
loved The Glass Mountain, Cinderella, and
Snow White. I was only four years old
when my father died one cold Christmas Day in a charity hospital.
Four years
earlier, I'd been born in a charity hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana. We
never had much, but I'd not yet realized that. To me, before Daddy died, we had
everything.
We lived in a
small town on South Third Street in a rambling white apartment house. We only
rented, but I didn't realize what that meant at the time. To me, we were rich,
for I was rich living in my make-believe world of fairy tales, rich in sunshine
and fresh air, swinging in my board-and-rope swing underneath the giant pecan
tree in our front yard.
I was a happy
little girl who had everything she could possibly want. I had a doting daddy a
loving momma, and a precious little sister, who was only four months old when
our daddy died. Daddy rocked us and sung us to sleep, singing about our
beautiful blue eyes, or Mother would read and rock us to sleep with fairy tales.
My world was rich, happy, and content. I wanted for nothing. Little did I know
then, that my life would be no fairy tale. Happy endings were all I knew.
We had a small
front porch, and hummingbirds flew right up to the wild azalea bushes, pink
honeysuckle, that grew alongside it. I'd try to catch those cute little birds,
but Momma and Daddy told me to leave them alone, or they'd hurt me. I didn't
see how anything so cute and tiny could hurt me, but I did as I was told, being
the good little girl I was. Daddy said he was proud of his good little girl for
leaving nature in peace.
I was an
outdoors child who bounced up early to run outside into the sunshine and yell
for Daddy to push me in the swing he'd made for me, underneath the old pecan.
It didn't matter to me that it wasn't a store-bought one like my neighbor had.
For, my daddy pushed me so high that my tiny feet nearly touched the
low-hanging branches. I'd squeal with delight and scream. "Push me to the
sky, Daddy!"
Daddy would
laugh and say, "That's my girl. She already knows the sky is her
limit."
My neighbor's
shiny new gym set sat untouched and unused in her backyard. No loving father
took the time to push her. She said her father was too busy making a living to
buy her and her mother all the finer things in life. Her daddy was more
important than mine because he was such a busy man with an important job. She'd
tease me and brag about how she'd have so many nice things and all I'd ever
have was what Daddy could put together for me with a board and some string.
"Your daddy isn't important. He doesn't even hold a job, but my daddy
works all the time," she'd brag. My swing is prettier than yours. Mine
cost more. Yours is just an old cheap board-and-rope swing, homemade at
that."
I'd run home
crying to Momma and tell her all the mean things she'd said to me.
"Now, now,
child, don't cry so." Momma patted my shoulder and hugged me. "You
wear your heart on your sleeve. Don't let her have her way. That's what she
wants, to see you cry. Tell her, Sticks and stones will break your bones, but
words will never hurt you."
I dried my eyes,
ran outside, and yelled the words across the street that Momma told me to say.
She responded.
"If words don't hurt you, why do you run home crying to your momma, little
girl?"
My friend was
older than me and in school. She said she wanted to become a teacher when she
grew up. Sometimes she'd practice on me. I liked her then, and I was curious to
learn as much as I could from her. She taught me how to count and taught me my
ABC's. Thanks to her and Momma's reading to me, when I started school at five,
I could count, say my ABC's, and knew all the nursery rhymes and fairy tales by
heart.
I practiced for
Daddy, and he was so proud of me. He bought me a little red-plaid book sack to
begin first grade. Today they're called book bags or backpacks, but it was not
a backpack like the ones known to students of this age. It had a small handle
and was carried like a briefcase. I'd fill it with my fairy tale books and
pretend I was going to school. I still had a year to wait before I would
actually start, and Daddy always told Momma that he wanted to make sure I had a
book sack to start school with, just in case anything happened.
I had no idea
what he meant. Momma thought he was giving me the book sack much too early,
since I still had a year before I would begin school, but I was tickled over it
and played school while I waited to begin the real thing. Little did I know
then, school would play a very large part in my life.
I didn't
understand why Daddy didn't work like other fathers. Momma told me he received
a check each month because he was disabled, whatever that meant. But, Daddy
didn't seem disabled to me. He was able to play with me, swing me, sing to me,
and walk me to the store. He could do all kinds of things. In my eyes, Daddy
was king. He walked on water. I was his little princess, and he had me spoiled
rotten. If I decided I wanted watermelon at 12:00 o'clock at night, he'd let me
have some. When Momma fussed at me for something, I'd run to Daddy crying. He'd
pet me and make me feel better.
Daddy had a
special chair. It was an old green overstuffed one, and I could curl up in it
and get lost, which is exactly what I did when Daddy wasn't home and Momma
fussed at me. After Daddy died, when Momma hassled me, I'd run to his chair.
Somehow, I felt like I was still with Daddy when I curled up in his chair and
cried my eyes out.
The year I was
four years old is the year I remember best about Daddy. I can't remember much
before that year. It was such a good year in the beginning. Little did I know
that before I turned five, Daddy would be forever lost to me. Daddy took me
with him nearly everywhere he went that year. If I didn't get to go with him,
I'd sit in the swing he made for me and watch the road and wait for his return.
My mother, Alice
Myrtle, would tell everyone, "Magnolia is the apple of Edbert's eye."
It was plain for the world to see that I was Daddy's little girl. Momma named
me after the beautiful white flower because she and Daddy got married in
Magnolia, Mississippi. I often asked her to tell me about how she met Daddy.
Her eyes would take on a faraway look, and she described how she met him on a
Greyhound bus. She was from the small town of Springfield, Louisiana, and he
was from Brookhaven, Mississippi. Momma always told me it was fate that they
met that day.
Momma was a
strawberry farmer's daughter, and Daddy was the son of a cotton planter.
Destiny brought them together. They had so much in common. They both loved
pretty sunshiny days, the country, and watching flowers or plants grow.
Before Daddy
became sick and disabled, he worked at a New Orleans shipyard. He stayed in the
city during the week while he worked and came home on the weekends. This was
when I was very young and we were living in Mississippi beside my Grandma
Russell's, Daddy's mother. My father's brother, Uncle Ernie, took over the
cotton farm in Mississippi.
When I was only
four years old, we visited Uncle Ernie's farm before my Daddy died later that
year. Uncle Ernie let me use a smaller sack than all the other pickers and told
me that I could help pick the cotton. I was tickled and proud because I had a
job and could earn my own spending money. I carefully filled my sack, and he
paid me twenty-five cents for each one I filled. I didn't make very much money
because I soon played out, and I didn't fill very many sacks. I think I ended
up with a dollar.
Uncle Ernie
liked to play with me like Daddy did, but he wouldn't spoil me like Daddy. He'd
bounce me up and down on his knees and let me climb onto his back, so he could
give me piggyback rides. However, if I tried throwing one of my temper tantrums
that always worked so well on Daddy, Uncle Ernie would say, "Cry a little
louder," and he just ignored me. At first, I'd scream and yell and cry
just as loud as my little throat and lungs would allow, but I soon realized
that it'd get me absolutely nowhere with Uncle Ernie. He just sat on the porch
in his rocker, laughed, and said, "Come on. Cry a little louder. You can
do better than that. We can't hear you."
At first, that
made me that much madder, and I cried that much louder, but finally my throat
ached, and I was out of breath and red in the face. The worst part was that
it'd all been for nothing. I finally had to give up in the end because I never
got my way with Uncle Ernie.
Now, Grandma
Russell was a different story, and I missed her after we moved away. She
spoiled me like Daddy did, and she let me play with whatever I wanted.
Momma told me I
got into her kitchen cabinets and tore off all the labels from her canned
goods. Grandma just laughed about it and said we'd have a surprise each time we
ate. Momma fussed at me and threatened to whip me, but Grandma just said,
"Oh Amelia, (used Amelia for mother's name) kids will be kids. She's done
no real harm."
I was spared a
whipping, but Momma said, "You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady.
Now Grandma won't know what she's opening."
Another time I
was at Grandma's house rocking in my little red rocking chair Daddy surprised
me with on his last weekend trip home. I rocked away as hard as I could. The
next thing I knew, the rocker turned over, and my head hit the floor.
Momma and
Grandma both came running when they heard my cries. "You're okay,"
Momma said. "Lucky for you, you've got a hard head."
Funny, but I was
to be called hardheaded many times after that, but I didn't yet know it. One
day my own husband would tell me that I was one hardheaded woman.
The last thing I
remember about my early Mississippi days was the way I loved to play outside in
Grandma's front yard with the little doodlebugs that looked like little
Volkswagen cars. I was fascinated by the way they rolled up their tiny bodies.
Momma thought I should be ladylike and play with dolls and keep clean all of
the time, but I loved the dirt and the mud. My favorite pastime was making mud
pies. I can remember Momma running outside many a time and yelling,
"Magnolia, you're certainly no flower blossom. Just look at how filthy you
are, young lady. Get yourself inside and cleaned up this very minute. Why I
named you Magnolia, I'll never know." Hands on her slim hips, her hazel
eyes flashed in fury.
When I was a
little older, I'd always reply, "Because you and Daddy were married in
that pretty little Mississippi town." She'd laugh at me surprised that I
remembered.
Momma would
always say, "Why can't you be more like your sister, young lady?"
Those hazel eyes of Mom's flashed green with anger. Her shoulder-length reddish
brown hair glowed more red than brown with the sun, but she soon found a boxed
solution to keep her hair what she termed brown. It looked black to me. Mom
ranted. "She plays with dolls and keeps clean. You act like a tomboy,
always playing outside in the dirt and wanting to play with boys' cars and
trucks instead of your baby dolls."
After we moved
from Mississippi, my aunt who hadn't seen me since I was four sent a huge box
of toys for Christmas. My sister had all dolls, tea seats, and doll clothes. I
had all boys' toys. Trucks and cars, not one doll. "Momma," I said,
"my aunt thinks I'm a little boy. She don't even know that I'm a little
girl." Tears ran down my cheeks because she knew what my sister was and
had sent her all her favorite toys.
Momma tried to
make me feel better. "Magnolia, perhaps your aunt remembered how much you
liked to play with cars and trucks when we were in Mississippi. Don't worry. I'm
sure your sister will let you play with some of her dolls and tea sets."
"I don't
want no baby dolls. "I'm too old and big for a doll. I wanted skates for
Christmas, and I didn't get any, so I'll just make skates out of those big
stupid trucks."
Momma just
looked at me and shook her head. "I hope you don't break the trucks or
your legs. I didn't get you roller skates because I was afraid you'd break a
leg and now you come up with your own."
I took a big
yellow dump truck and a red fire truck and put one on one foot and the other on
the other foot. Then, I skated across the living room with trucks on my feet.
Momma said,
"I wish she'd sent you dolls like she did your sister. If you'd been more
ladylike I'm sure she would've. She must remember how much of a tomboy you
always were. Girls should be girls." Momma tossed her hair and with a
swing of her hips, flounced to the kitchen.
When we grew
older, we played school. Like my friend had once taught me, I practiced on my
sister. "It's not fair," she'd cry. "You always have to be the
teacher. Why can't I be the teacher sometimes?"
"Because
I'm the oldest, and I know more than you." We played school underneath a
huge shady tree in the pecan orchard. It branches served as the roof of the
schoolhouse, and many times they served as the roof of our playhouses.
Momma always
declared that she could tell the weather by my moods. Dreary weather depressed
me, but sunshine seemed to mirror my very own spirit. I loved to awaken to a
fresh, sunshiny day, with the sun streaming through my bedroom windows. I loved
to look out the door and see the sun smile down and listen to the birds sing
their happy morning tunes. Once, before we moved back to Momma's neck of the
woods, Daddy bought a piece of land in Angie, Louisiana. We lived in a rent
house while we were working to build our own home. I would bounce up early,
ready for the fresh air and sunshine. "Momma, it's daylight. Let's get
up!"
"It's just
little daylight, Magnolia. Go back to sleep and wait for big daylight before
you wake me up." That was Mom's way of getting to stay in bed a little
longer. I'd have her up at the crack of dawn when the roosters crowed, if I
could.
When we lived in
Angie, Mom told me I got into her kitchen cabinets one night while she and
Daddy were watching television. They didn't have many groceries, and I took all
of her rice, sugar, and salt and dumped them into toy pots. I pretended to cook
on my little green kitchen stove. She said she had a fit when she discovered me
because I had her rice, sugar, and salt all over. It was scattered on the countertop
and a trail ran from the kitchen to my bedroom. That's how she found me. She
followed the mess from the kitchen and there I was stirring rice, sugar, and
salt together to make a gumbo. She said that's what I told her I was cooking.
Momma declared
that my face was like an open book. She could always tell if something was on
my mind, or if I was upset about something. In later years, I recall how she
said she could tell from the way I walked home from school each day if I'd had
a good day or a bad one. If I came down the sidewalk with my shoulders sagging,
my head hanging, and my eyes downcast, she knew that something bad had happened
to me at school that day. If I had a good day, I'd come strutting down the
sidewalk like a cocky old rooster strutting his stuff with my head held high.
Words gushed from my mouth before I got inside the door. I just couldn't wait
to tell Momma what I was excited about. Momma said she always hated to see me
coming with my head down because she knew something bad had happened. She said
I was like a flower, either blossoming or wilting. I'd say, "I should be.
After all, you named me after a flower."
"Yes, and
little did I know it at the time, but it was a perfect name for you. Sometimes
you droop like a flower wilting or dying. Other times, you seem to sprout or
spring open like a flower blossoming." She smiled. "Perhaps I
should've named you blossom."
"I like
Magnolia better. Besides, I think it's rather romantic to be named after the
little town where you and Daddy were married. It's full of beautiful magnolia
trees. Momma and Daddy had taken me on a Sunday drive once during the spring of
the year to that pretty little Mississippi town. It seemed to me that Momma
meeting Daddy was like a fairy tale, especially the way she told the story of
them meeting on the Greyhound bus. But, like my own life was to be, Momma's was
no fairy tale either. However, at that time, I was still living in my fairytale
world of make believe, and I loved Momma's romantic stories.
I'd grow up
loving romance novels, perhaps because there never seemed to be enough romance
in real life, at least not for me. Danielle Steel was one of my favorite
romance authors. Many others were destined to follow. I went from fairy tales to
romance novels like a runaway roller coaster and got what little romance I
could out of life from the characters in my books. In years to come, a country
music singer would come up with a song about a Louisiana woman and a
Mississippi man. I'd tell Momma that each time I heard that song I'd think of
them, since she was a Louisiana woman and Daddy was a Mississippi man.
Daddy never got
to hear the song, but Momma loved listening to Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn
sing it. She was a country music lover and reared me on it. I like other types
of music, too, but country is my favorite because it tells stories about life,
and I listened to it from childhood to adulthood.
I loved to
listen to Momma's stories about Daddy. Her stories were all I had left after
his death. She had a way of making him come back to life for me, with her hazel
eyes sparkling as she told me stories about their happy times and life
together.
She told me how
Daddy always showed up loaded down with surprises for both of us. He'd come
laughing inside, glad to be home with us once again and say, "How's my two
favorite girls?" He'd grab Momma and hug her until she thought he'd surely
break her small bones in two. He'd pick me up from the crib or playpen and head
to the rocker. "Got to make up for lost time and sing to my baby girl."
Eventually,
Daddy sold the house in Angie and the one in Mississippi. He sold the one in
Angie before he completed it. He moved Momma back to her home state so she
wouldn't have to be away from her family. She could be closer to all of her
relatives in Springfield, Louisiana, her hometown. I often wonder if Daddy
moved us back because he knew he wasn't going to be around much longer, and
Momma would need her people.
When we first
moved back, he had a job at a New Orleans shipyard, where he worked until he
became disabled. At first, we lived in a tiny house in Springfield. I remember
Daddy taking me fishing with him when we lived there. I watched the ducks swim
on the water, and the chickens followed us to the river. Daddy showed me how to
bait my cane pole with a real live worm. He took me fishing and taught me how
to bait my own pole when I was only four years old.
From there, we
moved to a rambling white apartment house on South Third Street. I lived there
until I lost my Daddy at four years old on Christmas Day.
The last week
Daddy stayed in the city, Momma and I went to New Orleans to surprise him. I
was too little to remember the trip, but I was all ears when Momma told me
about it after Daddy passed. She was reminiscing about happier times.
"When we
got to your daddy's room in that boarding house, I knocked on the door, but he
didn't answer at first. I pounded and pounded and finally I heard him coming to
open the door. He'd been sleeping with the gas heater on in that room without a
crack in the window. It's a good thing we went to visit your Daddy when we did,
or we could've lost him sooner. I had to crack the window and let the fumes air
out of that room. He was so surprised and glad to see us. There, by the side of
his bed, was a big walking doll he'd bought for you. He had his gifts for us
and thought he'd be bringing them home and surprising us as usual. This time,
we surprised him though, because we didn't wait for him. We caught a Greyhound
bus and went to him.
I loved
listening to Momma's reminiscing about the olden days, what she called the good
old days, when she was a little girl growing up on my grandfather's strawberry
farm in Springfield, Louisiana. I loved those strawberry tales about how hard
my Grandpa and Grandma Threeton worked on their strawberry farm. Years later, I
found out they really weren't tales at all, but truth. Most of all though, I
loved listening to her tales about Daddy and how good he was to us, how happy
we'd been, once upon a time. Just like a fairy tale, there was a once upon a
time, but unlike a fairy tale, we had no happy ending. All we had were our
happy memories.
The little girl
Momma had reared on fairy tales would one day grow up and discover just what a
cold, cruel adult world the real world could be. She'd soon find out how cruel
life could really be and that real life was, indeed, no fairy tale. Though she
dreamt of Prince Charming who'd ride up and rescue her on his white horse just
like the fairy tales described, she was not destined to meet her own Prince
Charming, at least not for years. Then, just when she finally thought that she
had, their lives were interrupted. Later, she'd often wonder where had all the
fairy tales gone?
Sadly, one day it'd
be her who'd tell her own child that life was not fair and that he may as well
face it. She'd grow up saying life was not fair and having someone tell her
over and over that no one ever said that it was. The words, "Life is not
fair, Kid," would often ring in her ears.
But until the
time she was four years old, life was fair and good. Everything came up roses.
She was the princess of sunshine, and her daddy always told her, "Your
sweet smile is like a ray of sunshine; don't ever lose it."
Little did she know at the time, as she beamed
that smile at her daddy's loving eyes, that one day in the near future, there'd
be no more sunshine for her. Her world was getting ready to cloud over, and the
blue skies would turn gray. She had many storms to batter, but for the time
being, her life was storm free, and she could happily smile for all the world to see.
B. J. Robinson writes Southern fiction from Florida where she lives with her husband and pets, a golden cocker spaniel, Sunflower, a golden retriever, Honi, and a shelter cat named Frankie. She's an avid reader and passionate writer. When she's not writing, she's reading and reviewing books.
