Child of the Mountains

6





It’s about having nothing to do and my real smart brother.




SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1953

Aunt Ethel Mae done got herself another sick headache. Seems like she gets lots of them these days. “Don’t let no light in, Lydia,” she whispered to me. I brung her a cold cloth and closed all the curtains in her room.

When she gets them headaches, she gets real pitiful-looking, with her face all chalky and her eyes shut tight. I put a bucket aside her bed in case she throws up. Today’s Saturday and Uncle William didn’t have to work at the coal mine. When she gets like that, he just says a bad word and takes off somewhere in his car. I ain’t sure where he goes, but my mind does get to wondering about it sometimes.

I stayed here with Aunt Ethel Mae, waiting for her to get to feeling better. I wished I could go out for a walk in the woods. I figured I’d play with that big brown dog down the street. He always trots over to see me when I walk to and from school.

I wish I could find me a kindred spirit in Confidence like Anne of Green Gables had. But I ain’t got no friends here at all. In Paradise, I went to a one-room school. Kids of all ages studied together. We was more like brothers and sisters than students that just happened to be in the same school. We played together at recess and after school, even if a couple of us had spats from time to time. I had me lots of good friends there.

But in Confidence, the school is bigger. They’s three classrooms with three teachers, even though it’s one great big room with two thick curtain dividers to section off the classes. I be in the section for fifth and sixth graders with Mr. Hinkle on account of being in the sixth grade. The kids hang out in little groups at recess. I don’t know iffen any of them play together after school. I sure ain’t invited iffen they do.

Today, when I tried to slip outside to get me some fresh air, Aunt Ethel Mae heared the screen door creaking. “Lydia, is that you?” she said in a real sad and quivery voice. “Could you be a dear and bring me some water?” I drug myself back inside, a-hanging my head like a whupped hound for trying to sneak off and leave her.

I couldn’t even turn on the radio. She told me, “Lydia, turn that racket off. It makes me feel like somebody’s hitting me on the head with a hammer.” To be honest, it makes a body glad for homework. At least then I had me something to do asides sitting real quiet on the couch.

After we found out about BJ being sick, I done most of the taking care of him when I weren’t at school. Mama and Gran had work to do, so I didn’t mind none. Mama said I was just a little thing, but I could change diapers faster than anybody she’d ever seen. I felt real proud about that. I didn’t tell her I changed them fast on account of them smelling something awful.

Mama got small checks from the construction company and the government after Daddy died, but it weren’t enough to make ends meet. Gran took in sewing, and Mama took in washing. “We ain’t got a lot of money, but we got us each other,” Gran liked to say. “That makes us’uns rich!” She was sure right about that. We had ourselves some fun, even when we was a-working real hard.

Gran had this old-timey sewing machine. She got it cheap at the end of World War II when a clothing factory she worked at in Charleston shut down. She would whistle hymns like “Amazing Grace” and “Rock of Ages” in time to her feet pumping the sewing machine, up and down, up and down, up and down. Mama would join in with her mourning-dove voice while she scrubbed clothes on the washboard and pulled them through the wringer. I learned to sing tenor a little, but most of the time I just liked to listen to my mama’s voice. I’d pat, pat, pat BJ on the back and bounce, bounce, bounce him on my knees in time to the music. That would help him cough up some of that there sticky, nasty stuff that made it hard for him to breathe.

When Mama finished up with her washing and had hung the clothes on the line to dry, she would get out her dulcimer and sing the melody of some sweet, sweet tunes. Gran would get out her stitching and start to quilting. Then she’d mix her deep alto voice into the songs. I’d get the recorder Daddy made for me afore he passed on, and we’d make us some fine music.

Gran always said, “We can’t let our sad rob us of our joy.” And we didn’t. We sure had us some good times, even with BJ being sick so much. He weren’t even a year old when he started dancing to the music and trying his best to sing along. Gran said he learned to talk faster than any baby she ever done saw. And that’s a lot of babies! The first word BJ ever said was sassy-pras, and he was just three months old. I guess that’s ’cause Gran always said she was going to fix herself some sassafras tea. He must of just liked the sound of it.

BJ giggled up at Gran and grinned without a tooth in his head. Him and Gran was alike that way, not having no teeth. “Sassy-pras!” he shrieked.

I thought we would lose Gran right then and there. She fell back in her rocker with her hand covering up her heart. Mama started fanning her with the funeral parlor fan. I runned to get her some cool water from the well.

Gran finally comed back to herself. “Tarnation!” she said. “How did that baby ever spit out that word?”

Mama saw that Gran was okay, so she went over and picked up BJ. Then she sat with him on the couch. He showed his dimple, smiling up at her. Mama smiled back. “You’re just going to have a lot to say to us, ain’t you, BJ?”

They locked eyes. “Sassy-pras,” he said again, real soft and slow-like.

“That’s right, BJ. Sassafras,” Mama told him. I think Mama and BJ talked in ways that only they could figure out.

BJ was always right smart. After he learned how to walk, him and me used to go out in the woods. He’d point to every tree, animal, bird, and flower in sight. “What’s that, Lyddie?” he’d ask.

“That’s a cardinal, BJ.”

He’d nod. “That’s a carnal,” he’d say. “What’s that?” He’d point again.

“That’s Queen Anne’s lace.”

“That’s keen ann lace. What’s that?”

“Them flowers are rhododendrons.”

“Road in them ones. What’s that?”

“That’s a weeping willow.”

He stopped walking and looked at me. “How come the tree is crying, Lyddie?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know what to say to most of them questions BJ asked. And he was full of them.

One day when BJ was three years old, we got supper ready after church. BJ sat on a chair at the table, watching us. “Mama, my Sunday school teacher said God made everthing. Who made God?”

Gran dropped the plate of fried apples she carried, smack-dab on the floor. The plate spun around like a top and them apples went everwhere. “For pity’s sake!” she said. “Where does he come up with them things?”

I was afeared BJ might get hisself a whupping for saying something like that.

But Mama just smiled at Gran and sat down beside BJ. “BJ, there’s some things that just be way beyond the knowings of even the smartest people in the world. But the smartest people in the world have also figured out that they don’t know everthing there is to know. All of us, even the real smart ones, is a-going to have some surprises when we see God face to face. That’s going to be a special day, don’t you reckon?”

“Yep, Mama, I reckon so.” BJ grinned and gived her a hug. Then he skipped out the back door to play.

Something else happened when BJ was three years old that showed us how smart he was.

BJ had to stay in bed for a few days, and he hated it. Gran said most of the time BJ was a busy bee, flying everwhere, never staying long in one place. But when he took sick, Gran said he was the queen bee, ordering all us worker bees to do his bidding. “No, Gran, I’m the king bee,” BJ would say.

For sure and certain BJ became the king bee. He’d have me read to him in bed. One day, I started up a new book. It didn’t take long afore I felt tired. I wanted to go outside and play jacks with my friends. I figured I would skip over some parts. The first time I tried it, BJ said, “Wait, you skipped some of them words.”

I fibbed a little. “No, I didn’t,” I said.

“Yep. You did so.” Then he read me what it was supposed to say.

My eyes got as wide as flapjacks. “BJ, how did you figure out them words?”

“That’s easy. It’s just talk wrote down.”

After I found out BJ could read by hisself, I didn’t think I needed to read to him no more. But Mama told me I would have to be his friend as much as his sister when he took sick. I feel bad sometimes when I think that Mama had to make me spend time with BJ. I sure wish I had BJ here with me right now. I’d read to him and play his favorite game, paper covers rock, as much as he wanted.

Mama asked Doc Smythson to call the school board to ask iffen BJ could go to school early on account of being so smart. They sent some man to the house to give him some tests. He said BJ was one of the smartest kids he ever did see. BJ was already reading like a sixth grader, so they let him start school even though it would be two whole years until he was six. I’m glad BJ got to go to school afore passing on, even iffen he had to miss a lot of days because of his sickness.

BJ sure did drive them teachers crazy. One time he got sent to the corner for asking one of his questions. “Mrs. Andrews, I saw two toads mating at the creek on the way to school. They been locked together like that for a couple of days. How long do you think it will be until the female lays her eggs and the male gets offen her back?”

Mrs. Andrews turned red as a ripe tomato and huffed herself up like one of them toads. “Into the corner right now, young man,” she said as she grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the stool. She plopped a dunce cap on top of his head.

BJ was real upset. Gran explained to him that lots of grown-ups don’t like to talk about sex, even when it’s between animals. “Don’t you pay that fuddy-duddy no mind, boy,” she said. “You just come to your mama or me iffen you have questions like that.” BJ and me called our teacher Mrs. Fuddy-Duddy after that, but just between the two of us.

BJ started scratching his head a couple of days after wearing that dunce cap, and Mama found lice crawling around in his hair. She had to wash his head with some special soap that Doc Smythson gave her. Then her and Gran had to bleach all his sheets. She walked to school with us the next day and told Mrs. Fuddy-Duddy, “I never want you to use a dunce cap on my children again. Iffen you need to punish them, it’s fine to send them to the corner, but no dunce cap. Am I understood?”

Mrs. Fuddy-Duddy stared at her, and Mama didn’t wait for a answer. BJ made a few more trips to the corner, but he never wore a dunce cap again.

* * *

BJ’s being smart got him into lots of big fixes. He was five years old when we was woke up in the middle of the night by some loud popping noises coming from the cellar. It sounded like somebody shot off firecrackers. Mama yelled for me and Gran and BJ to get out of the cabin. She picked up the shotgun and headed for the cellar. “Mama, come with us!” I shouted. I just knowed we had ourselves a robber down there.

“No, you all go on now. I’ll be all right.”

I started to pull BJ toward the door, but he jerked away. “Mama, wait,” he said. “Don’t go yet. You don’t need that gun. I done something real bad.”

Mama popped the rifle open and dropped it to her side. She looked hard at BJ. “What did you do, son?”

“Come on. I guess I’d best show you,” he said.

We opened the door to the cellar and peeked in. Busted-up jars laid around everwhere. The root beer that me and Mama and Gran had worked so hard to make and store up for the winter covered the ceiling and walls.

Gran shook her head. “That child. I should have knowed” was all she said. Then she went back to bed.

Mama had her hands on her hips. “What happened, BJ?” she asked.

BJ held his hands behind his back and looked down at his shoes. “Mama, I read in one of Lyddie’s science books about fermentation. I snuck some raisins in the jars of root beer afore you put the lids on. I had to see iffen the sugar in them would make the root beer ferment. I think it works,” he said as he looked around at all them root beer splatters.

Mama put her hand over her mouth and coughed. From where I stood, I could see a grin creeping up around her hand. “That was a very bad thing you done, BJ,” Mama said.

BJ still looked at his feet, but he had a hard time keeping his grin down, too. “I’m real sorry, Mama,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

By that time, I thought I would bust. I ran out the back door and let all the laughing pour out.

BJ did feel real sorry when he had to clean out the cellar. He said the worst part of his punishment was having to listen to Gran preach about the evils of demon liquor while he scrubbed the walls.

When Mama and me sat on the porch shucking corn one summer, I asked her how come BJ got borned so smart. “I think the Lord decided that BJ needs to live his life faster than most folks,” she said.

I was afeared to ask what she meant by that. But deep in my heart, I’d already done figured it out.