Brown and White Children

Tucked in the Southeastern corner of Massachusetts, sits the tiny hamlet of Buffumville. The village sprang up around a small textile mill next to a beautiful lake. The water from a fast moving stream that ran off from the lake had once powered a paddle wheel. But the mill and the wheel, that at one time had been the heart of Tucked in the Southeastern corner of Massachusetts, sits the tiny hamlet of Buffumville. The village sprang up around a small textile mill next to a beautiful lake. The mill, built from large fieldstones, was thick with ivy that had inched its way to the roof. the village, now sat idle, useful only to the ivy and a few birds that nested on the paddles. A chain had long ago been looped through the handles of the large oak doors and fastened with a now rusted padlock.

Scattered randomly around the lake and the mill, like dandelions dotting a lush green lawn, where the 10 or 15 houses and one rusty quancit. The houses were mostly white, mostly old, and kept in good repair. The kitchen of one of the larger houses served as the village's general store. Boxes of canned soups, bags of flour, sugar, salt and cans of shorting where stacked in boxes along one wall. The counters on both sides of the sink were crowded with boxes of penny candy, cigarettes, gum, peanut butter, jelly and aspirin. Face soap, toilet tissue, shampoo and tooth past were kept in a box slid under the table. Cash was kept in a cigar box on the table at the elbow of the woman that seemed always to be cleaning vegetables.

The lake was large and clear with a falls that fed the stream and the paddle wheel at the mill. Its banks were full of people all year long, summing, skating, ice fishing. Everyone went to the lake. Except me, mom was afraid I would drown. So the lake was off limits.

We lived about a half-mile from the lake in one of the smaller white houses, which we rented from the man that lived in the house next door. We had a big back yard with a long cloths line, tall grass and wild flowers. The landlord had a billy goat that he kept tied out back. Better than a lawn mower he would say. Every once and a while the goat would break free and eat my mothers wash right off the line. Mom would come in the house sputtering and cursing the goat holding up a sheet or towel with a hole in it.

Like every house we ever lived in, this one was kept spotlessly clean. Mom's floors were scrubbed clean and then waxed and then buffed to a high shine on her hands and knees with a towel rapped around a brick. They were so slick that mother would put strips of adhesive tape on the soles of my shoes to keep me from slipping.

The beds were made with hospital corners mere minutes after we got out of them. Every few weeks the windows were washed and clean curtains hung and all the furniture was polished every other day.

You could tell what day of the week it was by the particular household choir that was been done. There was a day for everything. One day to wash all the cloths and another to iron everything the goat didn't eat. If she's ironing it must be Wednesday my dad would say.

I was kept as clean as the house. Starched, ruffled dresses, knee stockings and French braids. French braids were a form of torture invented by Canadian nuns. Mine were always so tight that my eyes slanted making me look slightly Asian. There were always ribbons tied in perfect bows at the end of each braid. Each time I left the house mom would repeat the same warning, "Don't go near the lake and don't get dirty". Of course these were the two things I wanted most to do. After all I was 5 years old.

Directly across the street from our house was the only hill in town. At the top of that hill sat Aunt Margie's farmhouse. It wasn't much of a farm as farms go. But to me it was Oz. It was a whole different world at Aunt Margie's. A world I loved to be in. There was a large garden, a hen house, a pigpen and a barn with several cows. The grass in the yard was almost as tall as I was and hid something called a cesspool that everyone warned me to stay clear of. I was told that you could tell when you were too close by the smell.

Margie wasn't really my aunt but my mother wouldn't let me call grown-ups by their first names and Margie didn't want to be called Mrs. Late. So it was decided that I would call her aunt Margie, which made everyone happy, including me.

Aunt Margie was married to a short black skinned man named Albert. Everyone in the town said he was Portuguese, but I always thought people only said that because everyone knew that a white woman wasn't supposed to marry a black man. I figured that since everyone loved Margie and Albert they had to find a way to make the whole thing acceptable.

I guess he could have been Portuguese, but he looked black to me. He had skin as black as the top of Margie's stove, a wide flat nose, large lips and kinky hair. So if he was Portuguese I didn't understand what the difference was that made him ok when a black man would not have been.

When Albert wasn't tending his garden he just stood up against the sideboard next to the kitchen sink, smoking his pipe. He smiled a lot and smelled like pipe tobacco but he didn't say very much at all. When he did speak his voice was so soft that I never knew what he said. Albert was the first black person I had ever known or Portuguese person ether.

Margie was a big woman. Close to 400 pounds I would guess. She was quite a bit older than my mother and not as stylish. She wore simple flowered housedresses with black tie shoes and white ankle socks. She always had an apron on with a dishtowel hanging from the side. Short black hair that I believe she cut herself and wore no makeup.

Mom, on the other hand, was slim, pretty and wore stylish dresses with full skirts, nylons, high hells, red lipstick and big hats that I loved to try on when she wasn't looking. We were quite stunning when we both got dressed up and went shopping, me with my starched dress, knee socks and French braids and Mom in her big hat.

Margie and Albert had 12 beautiful coffee colored children, some of whom had odd names like Adolph, Booboo, Pickles, Beady, Junior and Rosy. Margie's house was not like ours. It was clean, but there was no shine on her floors. In fact most of the pattern on her linoleum had vanished long ago leaving lots of black patches. The only place that still had recognizable pattern was under furniture. The finish on the wooden pieces was worn down to bare wood.

Fabric on cushions was faded and ripped with stuffing poking out here and there.
The curtains didn't match and there was no lace tablecloth or centerpiece on the kitchen table. Just a simple flowered oilcloth with paper napkins, salt and pepper shakers, and jars of strong smelling condiments grouped in the center.

Although mom came to love Margie as everyone did, I don't think she approved of her and her brood at first. "She has way too many kids and they all have dirty faces." and not a French braid in sight. But Margie decided to befriend mom anyway, and if Margie decided to be your friend she didn't leave you much choice.

There were lots of rules at my house. No running, no jumping, no loud noises. There was no sitting on the beds after they had been made and you had to wash your face and hands a lot. Oh yes, don't go near the lake and don't get dirty.

When mom wasn't washing, polishing and cleaning she was sewing new curtains and slipcovers or painting woodwork. I wasn't good at rules or housework. I tried to help, but to this day I can't do those hospital corners. Mom would get exasperated trying to keep me amused and keep up with all the housework. If Margie was around and mom got flustered with me she would scoop me up and say, "land-sakes give me that child". I'll take her home with me, mix her in with my bunch, and then you can find something else to polish. She would laugh and carry me back to her house in her big soft arms.

Margie would replace my ruffled dress with one of her kid's simple cotton print dresses that would be several sizes to big for me. My knee stockings and polished shoes would be put aside in favor of well worn sneakers, also a little big, and the braids and ribbons would come out letting my eyes resume their original shape and freeing my hair.

"Go child, go and play" she would say. I would be off to blend in with the little brown skinned, dirty-faced children. We would run thought the house squealing with delight. Rolling around on their beds and hitting each other with pillows. Sometimes we even jumped from one bed to another. The beds were side-by-side dormitory style that made jumping great fun. If mom had seen me, she would have fainted.

Mom tells me that occasionally she would catch sight of me running thought the tall grass with 4 or 5 of the little brown kids. My hair blowing free in the breeze, toes clinched tight to keep the sneakers from falling off and my nose up sniffing the air to keep from falling in the cesspool. She said she would think too her self "If I didn't know better, I'd think that was my Dianna." I know how she felt. I could hardly believe it myself.

Mealtime at Aunt Margie's was an adventure. There was a long table in the kitchen with 15 or so chairs. At dinner Albert would just lean against the sink smoking his pipe overseeing his brood. Margie would sit in her big rocker, which was next to the black stove. There would be a loaf of fresh baked bread with butter at each end of the table, bowls of vegetables from Albert's garden and a platter of meat in the center.

Every one would talk about the day's events while passing the meat platter around. This is where I learned to sop up gravy with a crust of bread and talk with my mouth full. There was no talking at our dinner table. Margie always baked a sheet cake, which she frosted right in the pan. Once the pan hit the table hands come from all directions and was empty in seconds.

After dinner Adolph had to "slop the hogs". This was truly a wonderful adventure. They kept what they called a swill bucket; otherwise know as garbage pale, next to the sink. Adolph had to bring it out back to the pigpen and dump it into the trough. I got to follow along. This delighted me. Partly because I got to be with Adolph, who I had a terrible crush on, but mostly to climb up on the rail and watch wide eyed as the pigs devoured our leftovers. I was always a little afraid that I would slip out of the oversized sneakers into the pen. But the danger was part of the fun and I knew Adolph would save me.

I loved Aunt Margie and all of her dirty faced-kids and even Albert who didn't speak much but always had a warm smile. I loved the worn linoleum and the big kitchen table with the red flowered oilcloth. I loved the pigpen and even the cesspool. I loved sleeping two to a bed dormitory style. I loved that when I entered the kitchen through the big red front door and took a deep breath; I could smell something wonderful cooking on the big black stove. And I loved that Aunt Margie would be sitting there in her big rocker, arms outstretched to greet me with a hug.

We moved out of Buffumville when I was 8. I went back to Aunt Margie's for weekend visits until I was well into my teens, still sleeping two to a bed with her kids. As I grew older my crush on Adolph also grew. Beady and I became best friends and spent hours sitting on the tire swing that hung from the big maple tree in the front yard, talking about boys. I would pretend not to notice Adolph because he never noticed me.

When Margie had her 13th child, she named her Dianna after me. My mother had another baby too so I had a brother. He never really got to know Aunt Margie and I was glad. Aunt Margie was mine and I didn't want to share.

When Albert died the whole town shut down and came to his funeral. I was pregnant and living in Connecticut at the time, but mom and I were there. It was hard to see Margie and all her children so sad. I had never seen any one of them unhappy before. I had never been unhappy when I was with them. I couldn't help wondering who would tend Albert's garden.

By the time Margie passed away I hadn't been back to the farm for years. She has been gone now for over 15 years. Just last week while having lunch with my mom and one of her friends, I found out that the friend that had joined us for lunch was once married to Booboo. I told her about the crush I had on Adolph and we all laughed.

Today I received a letter from mom containing pictures of Adolph as a boy. Her friend asked her to send them to me. She said Adolph bought his mother's old farmhouse and is refurbishing it. I don't think I'll visit when he's done. I can't imagine Aunt Margie's house with new linoleum, no cesspool or pigpen and worst of all no Margie.

Today I live in a home that is partly like moms and partly like Aunt Margie's. I have my own beautiful brown-skinned son whose father was defiantly not Portuguese. He is all grown up now, but when he was a little boy much to his grandmother's consternation, he ran through the house with his scuffed shoes and a dirty but happy face. My only regret was that we didn't have a cesspool or a pigpen or Aunt Margie.