God gave us memories that we might have roses in December. (Barrie)
When I was growing up in the small mountain valley town that I’ve described before, the woman who lived across the street from us was called Ole Miz Crist. Although when I knew her, she probably wasn’t as old as I am now, I never heard her referred to as anything other than Ole Miz Crist. And she had to be the cleanest durn woman, or so I thought as a seven year old, that I’d ever seen. I’d kneel on my knees on the sofa, leaning my head on my arms and looking at her out the window, watching her sweeping her porch, her steps, her yard, sometimes even the street. I can still feel the scratchy feel of the sofa slip covers as I sat and watched, and smell the slightly musty odor of the sofa.
I was as obsessive about watching her as she was about sweeping. She fascinated me. Wearing a shapeless, colorless house dress, her browny-gray hair in a bun, she’d sweep and sweep. I never talked to her, only watched and wondered. When my big sister was just a tot, (and I just a gleam in my parents’ eyes), Ole Miz Crist caught my sister running away from home, going to the lawn party to which she’d been the previous night. Before taking her home, she gave my sister a good paddling and talking to, and that story gave her even more mystique in my eyes — daring to spank my big sister! Wow.
I wonder why some people and events from childhood linger in our memories and dreams, while thousands of other happenings are lost to us. I wonder what they represent to us. I also remember the neighbor lady to the right once threatened to hit my mother in the head with her shovel (that was indeed impressive), and that the neighbor baby to our left used to lay on a blanket in her yard drinking Pepsi from a baby bottle. That same girl threw her doll down our outhouse (yep, I’m that old!) and was roundly spanked by my dad after he fished it out.
And the memories of teachers — the first grade teacher who smacked me across the face for talking and giggling — the fourth grade teacher who had a gall bladder attack in class, and had to sit at her desk with her head down on her arms while she waited for a substitute to come, while we all watched in ghoulish curiosity and some satisfaction (she being the one who cracked us over the head with her geography book, my best friend once getting it for sucking her thumb) — the one who took me aside and suggested I start wearing a bra (oh, the embarrassment) — the one who always sent me downtown to pick up her medicine.
When I smile fondly (or wince) at these memories, I also wonder what children of today will remember about me. If anything. Am I enough of a character to warrant a memory of any kind? Maybe my crooked left eye (I only found out yesterday from a doctor that I had one!). Maybe my menagerie of animal friends. My cookies? I hope I’m bequeathing some memories somewhat more interesting than those, but if so, they’re probably of a nature I’d rather not know about.
Ole Miz Crist is long gone, I’m sure. I never knew what happened to her, but maybe today she’s amongst the legions of guardian angels entrusted to keeping the world a tidy place. She would’ve liked that, I bet. Or maybe she’s like the Old Woman in the Sky my mother used to tell me about when I was little, cleaning and shaking her down pillows and creating the snowfall. Maybe Ole Miz Crist sweeps that heavenly broom, and those flying gravels and dirt create the miracle of glittering hail.
Yeah. She would’ve liked that. Sweep on, Ole Miz Crist.
