This is the PRIVATE notebook of Janey Pate

I guess I could write about Mama but I don’t know where to start. There’s so much to say. Mama’s friend Paulette used to tell her, “Girl, when you got it, you got it. And you have got it all.” (I do not “have it all”. Even with my boobs, which came in last summer, I do not have half of “it all”.)

Mama’s sister, my Aunt Jennie, showed me a couple of Mama’s old yearbooks once. In the Opa Locka, Florida High School Annual of 1960, Mama was in all the clubs: Honor Society, Young Ladies Club, and of course, Cheerleading. I couldn’t count how many pictures there were of Mama in that book! Her dark hair was curled sometimes and pony-tailed at others. She was the prettiest of all the cheerleaders- tiny in her uniform, almost hidden by her pompoms.

The 1961 yearbook wasn’t nearly as good. There was only one picture of Mama and her back was to the camera. I asked Aunt Jennie, “Why aren’t there more pictures of Mama in this one?”

Her face turned red. “Well, Janey,” she said. “She was- uh- sick a lot that year.”
What Aunt Jennie didn’t say, but what I figured out later, was that my older brother Bobby was born later that year. That’s what was making her so sick. And when Mama started to show they kicked her out of school. I think that’s really dumb. First of all, if someone gets pregnant in high school, isn’t it a sure sign she hasn’t been educated enough? And second, with a baby to take care of- doesn’t someone need MORE education, not less? I think that high school really let her down, but when I asked her about it she changed the subject. Mama keeps things to herself. I guess that’s one way I’m like her.

On top of being beautiful, Mama can do anything. No one can cook better, not even my Aunt Rita with her fancy kitchen. Mama’s chicken and dumplings are about my favorite meal in the world. She cooks the chicken until the meat melts off the bones. Her dumplings are fluffy but sturdy at the same time. And never, ever soggy. All topped with a thick gravy that holds the flavor of the juicy chicken skin.

She can sew, too, but not so much anymore. When we lived in Georgia, she made curtains for all the rooms in our trailer. She sewed my sister Debbie and me matching pantsuits. The fabric was half-off and the same green of the pine forest behind our trailer with bright yellow blotches like splattered paint. The shirts were long enough to wear as dresses so one outfit became two. And she always made us our Easter dresses.

Mama could walk forever over the streets of Bethlehem, Georgia and never tire. In winter, she led us through the woods, collecting pinecones for making Christmas decorations. In summer, we hiked down I-29 to fetch a loaf of bread at Quigley’s Stop-N-Shop. Plants drooped in the steaming heat, cicadas creaked all summer long. Mama never slowed except to take a pebble from her shoe. Cars and trucks rumbled past; pick-ups heaped with bushels of vegetables, hot rods blasting hillbilly music, tractor-trailers hauling lumber. More than once, men pulled over and offered us rides. They’d call Mama “Miss” or “Ma’am” and tip their hats. Some of them were handsome, too. One looked like Elvis Presley. He cruised by in a fat black convertible, his head swiveling as he passed. His brake lights glowed as he backed up and his tires raised dust from the dry red shoulder of the highway. As he rolled closer, I heard Johnny Cash on the radio but Mister turned it down to talk to Mama.

“Mighty hot, ma’am. You and yer younguns want a ride?”

Mama gave him her soft smile, like she didn’t want to hurt his feelings by turning him down. “No thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Mmm hmm.”

I wanted to say, “Let’s go Mama. Go and never come back,”- away from the trailer park, and having no money and most of all, Johnny. But like so many of my other thoughts and secrets, I kept this to myself.

Finally Mister shrugged and left. He lifted his hand in a slow wave as he drove off, eyes on his rearview until he disappeared down the road.

I guess it was for the best. Even if we had gone with him, it probably wouldn’t have helped. Mama did not have good luck with men.