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 Sunday Dinner

Seems like ‘fore I was born, there were three things I knew; that the Ball family had land, the Ball family was and will be, and that Sunday dinner would be served promptly at 11:30. I didn’t want to miss it.

Sunday dinner in the country was a feast set on a while damask cloth. Pa Gene had told Mammy when they married that he’d never eat off oil cloth. Imagine, two meats instead of one! ….fried chicken and fall apart roast with gravy, rice, candid sweet potatoes, tiny butter beans that were grown in the garden, stewed corn, green salad, rolls, hoe cake all nice and crusty and hot from the griddle, chocolate pie—the chocolate so dark it was ebony—not to be confused with the pale imitation mocha stuff. Then came the most delectable of all desserts-- “pudding pie”—banana pudding to anyone but me and always gigantic glasses of iced tea with mint and lemon.

Conversation lagged as we ate our way through the bounteous spread of food. “Pass the butter beans.” “May I have the butter?” was the extent of it. Puss, My maiden aunt, (known to the rest of the world as Carrie) would hover over us exclaiming, “that’s not it to eat!” –never would she join us at the table after cooking the wondrous repast. I wonder if she really convinced herself that “it wasn’t fit to eat” after the whole clan heartily devoured nearly every morsel in the briefest of time. Anyway, she would pick over what was left as she set it in the cupboard where it would be available later for the first person with the urge to nibble .

Gradually everyone would struggle out to the large screened porch that ran the side and front of the house. Rocking chairs lined up like lonely sentinels came to life and matched their groaning to the occupants as they rocked their dinner away.

I would race to the swing and curl up on the pillows and gradually lapse into a daze as I made the wooden womb move from side to side.

 The vacuous conversation would drift over my head—I could hear my Aunt Fay talk about her “regularity” and another aunt mutter in polite response. Uncle Henderson would talk about the swamp and how the cows were doing and how many mules were left or how the oil well crews were ruining the land. Pa Gene would say, “You chaps don’t know a thing,” and proceed to tell them what was needed to be done. Mammy would just keep her peace, rocking and reflecting.

As I would near sleep, I would want to ask Mammy to please stick her teeth out at me tonight before we went to bed.  Everyone quieted down—semi asleep in their chairs, a lone car breaking the silence rudely blowing dust clouds as it raced down the gravel road.

I lay there motionless nearly caught by sleep, seeing the oak trees dance—their garlands of Spanish moss gently moving as a summer breeze comes into maturity as a rain storm.

And I am gone—back into today—a world apart but yet still a part of me.

Jane Robbins Kerr

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Walls of Memories 

The sign reads Jackson Gallery open 10--6 Tues.—Sat. I climb the stairs rather curious about this Mississippian’s collection of photographs concerning Delta Juke Joints. These Juke Joints conveyed memories of the Honkey Tonks where I danced during college—the 45 Club, Silver Spur, Dew Drop Inn. No way was I prepared for the pictures of dives in the Delta—a side of life that I had never experienced.Wonderful tin signs with mottos to live by were nailed on poles by the pool tables, vivid art work was painted on the cement walls by the patrons, beer signs, smoky haze, blank stares—the Delta for these people was not only the vast flatness of the land, but a flatness of life and spirit mirrored in their eyes. I hear a lone juke box wailing the blues—telling the tired old story of worn out love, the need for a good woman. Swigs of beer—a pull at a cigarette—long stares into nowhere—the pain assuaged for a moment. forgotten is the story of no money, food stamps, too many children, no future, sameness of life. Thank God for the Juke Joints.

I pass the Juke Joints and see the walls lined with photographs to my past. Memories swirl when I eye the caption underneath the first picture—“Front porch near Saunders Carson‘s home Crawfordsville.” I am pulled into the space of my college years in Columbus when Saunders was Johnny Reb personified. He was soft spoken, charming with his heavy drawl—just the kind of man that thrills your Mama but ten years too old to be testing out the new crop of freshmen girls year after year at the “W.”

The wild eyes of a young black boy grab me. Labeled “A Baptism at Crawfordsville,” his eyes could attest to finding the Lord or scared to death of being dunked in the river. Who knows? Next comes the Sisters(I call them the Vestal Virgins). lovely, tall young black women in long, flowing white cotton dresses with white bathing caps clinging to their skulls marching down to their Baptism. Then pictures made around Artesia come into view—porch scenes—one of a black woman and her dog—the other of four coke bottles and a box of matches. I remember the Artesia of years ago and Sunday dinner at my boy friend’s house. Back then there were about 500 people in the town, lots of hay grown in the area and harness races some weekends. The Artesia that I saw last year during my college reunion was a dead end—turn to the right there was the Artesia Café hand lettered in sharp contrast to the new post office across the street. Turn left and the Artesia Hardware Store looms in hand letters. Houses are in disrepair—a lone soul on the street—a deserted hamlet in that rich Black Prairie Belt.

The show ends—a wonderful collection of old memories captured by this apt photographer—Birney Imes. A thanks to him for reminding me that a part of Mississippi will always be etched on my heart.

Jane Robbins Kerr