Do Better

The day was clear and surprisingly quiet. As my mind drifted, it felt like everything was in slow motion. The single bird in the bluest of blue skies drifting off past my sight line, a glimpse of the highway in the distance and flowers. I am looking through the car window taking in a day that I have never seen before and will never see again. It is a day that changed my life forever.

I open the card door thinking back to the days where she would sit and write. “Jean, where are you today?” I would ask. She was so preoccupied that it seemed like she would forget I was in the room and fully engulfed in her own thoughts. Her large hands were always of comfort to me, they were the gateway into hugs, a good neck massage when I was stressed, and now holding the pencil commanding it to tell "it" in every twist and turn. Surely, this/it would be the next great story about life below the Mason Dixon line recounting stories of whisky and snuff and all-night Saturday night and the required Sunday morning church in white gloves and shiny patent leather shoes story. Partying all night and making sure you did not fall asleep in church because if you did you were now a part of the sermon. Southern preachers can shift from the Be Attitudes of Matthew and Luke to a Jezebel warning in half-a-hoop. You know that aha, deep from the back of the throat he talking real good hoop, enough to jar you and know for sure you are, in that moment, the focus of all the church mothers and the deacons. From the stories it seemed like a lot of meddlesome folk but, there was a connectedness that seems to be missing today.

Every now and then, I would hear a story about friends at a juke joint and Uncle Jr. who would get drunk and tell the same stories over and over and over again. Uncle Jack was always the ladies man and never wanting for company. You know, “company”. These were Jean’s brother/cousins and she loved them dearly. Their sister Lela was just as feisty and my mother-Jean and they grew up together. Jean’s stories about her sister/brother cousins and all the people she hung out with were always entertaining. I so hoped she was spilling all the beans as she wrote. I imagined her adding the details that she would leave out when telling the stories in good southern homes. No matter what part of the south you were from, you knew that you did not discuss politics, religion and sex in polite company. What exactly did that little slim black notebook hold?

The era of juke joints, all week Sunday revivals. shiny patent leather shoes and white gloves was before my time; it was when people would ask “who are your people” when meeting someone new and warn of the wild shenanigans of that family down the road who was a little too loud, missed church and had a gun toting cousin who was always showing it off. That cousin, always had a jail time story and was described as "crazy as a road lizard". From the stories and the news reports and all that we know that happened and some stories that will never be told, it was no easy living. There was the dance of being colored in America, redlining and blatant discrimination but somehow, the stories were also filled with joy. People loved on each other, helped their neighbors and made sure everyone had a good Sunday meal. Ministry was bible based; ministry was also family connectedness and the stories that bind. Is it possible for me to miss days that I never experienced? “Dee”, Jean would say to me, “Mr. Charlie would be under the shade tree telling a good story and we gathered around listening with our 10-cent soda pops. We watched him, take out his gum and stick it to the sap in the tree so he could take a good long swallow of his orange crush. He continued telling stories making all the kids laugh and giggle." Now, I am picturing this thinking this is awfully gross: I do not say anything for fear it will mess up the flow of her story. I imagine kids sitting around a large red maple tree, blooming beautiful and showing off among the poplar and oak trees, children on crates and in the grass having a good time at the feet of a round bellied, tall good natured man with a twinkle in his eye and hands that were big and rough indicative of a life’s journey and work.

When she wasn’t recounting the stories of her childhood we would laugh together about nothing and everything. Jethro Gibbs, the Miss-America pageant, politics and people were oft times the topics. Outside of television shows, and news, I could always talk about a good day or a bad day at work, life’s challenges and my hopes and desires. She would sit in this big gray looming leather chair and smile and laugh as she guided me to working hard, twice as hard because that’s what black people have to do. Now that I think about it, this was a glimpse into how she was mistreated at her job or hardened because of life’s battles and abuses. She did work hard and she provided for me. My love runs deep-she is the first person I loved.

Growing up with her and my grandmother, they always dressed nice and liked nice things. I inherited that and have a shopping problem. Jean warned me against spending all my money. “Dee, stay out of the stores”. Of course, she would turn around and say here’s my card go by you such and such or do you need any money? Wait, was she my dealer and my sponsor? To be in her aura, I found a joy that is really indescribable. I felt safe and empowered; she was always uplifting, guiding and scolding sometimes in one breath. How did she do that? If I did spend a little too much or budgeted wrong-she would send money and tell me to “do better”.

“Do better.” It was the answer to a B or even an A in a class. She felt that if I got an A then, I could get an A+. Her mantra of do better was meant as an encouragement for me to stretch past my current achievement. She once explained to me that even if I got a C, wasn't considered for homecoming court or did not win a contest, if I did the best that I could that is all that she could or would ask. I live my life now with a “do better” attitude; I ask what if and how can I do better. Because I only compete with myself, I am always improving. I really appreciate the lessons and knowledge she provided. A visit home to be with my mom was always therapeutic; it cured whatever was ailing me at the time. At least it was historically therapeutic; she could always make it right and get me straight that when I found myself catawampus. This time was different. I was even dressed differently: I wore a black ball gown skirt that I had had for over 20 years. We, Jean and I, were together in a TJ Maxx when I first moved to NJ and she told me to buy it. The skirt was $25 and she knew what she was talking about, it was a good investment. I wore the blue jean jacket with the strategic tear on one shoulder (it was designed that way), a simple black shirt and a brooch and matching earrings that I got from a second hand store down from the house (she did like a good thrift find). The pin and earrings were round with alternating triangles of gold and onyx. I topped off my outfit with an elegant black fascinator with netting over the face. The cool air hit my face as I stepped out of the car and saw the faces of her co-workers, our cousins, and my friends at the grave of my mother. My husband sang a beautiful song and the pastor laid my mother to rest into the ground. This visit was different, this was the last time that I would see my best friend.

My mother’s friend Fiorella slipped me a black book after my mother was lowered into the ground. There were no words that passed between us as I felt the slim black notebook she held it for a moment and softly, released it. I slipped it in my bag and continued with the pomp and circumstance of the day. Greeting people and thanking them for coming, trying to make mental note of everyone that would need to receive a thank you card and feeling the inside of my body heat up and a heart shred into pieces. A piece of my soul had left my body and my breathing was labored because the reason for my breath was gone. As I went about the rest of the week, I was numb and distraught. I smiled and interacted and planned out the next phase of my life. I was sure that I would not be able to live because there is no living without the woman that had loved me for so many years.

On the flight back to my northeast home, I looked in my bag and saw the book. Over the days, it had slipped my mind. I cautiously opened the pages as I heard off in the distance, “would you like a beverage?” It was not so distant as the flight attendant asked again and I realized she was in front of me waiting on an answer…I muttered something about a hot tea with lemon and caressed the key to my heart. A black book was the key to a lifetime of laughter and memories. I begin to read as she recounted the story of her prayers to God asking Him to let her live to see me grow up. She talked about the speech competitions and the dance recitals like I actually made it to the senate floor or Alvin Ailey-which of course, I had not. My mother left me a message of love and do better. I read it often and sometimes I just hold it near my heart. In the last few months of her life, she talked to me about saving money and being sure I would have enough for a “rainy day”. Jerry (my husband) and I had bought a house years before and knew nothing about keeping a house fund and the unexpected repairs but the wisdom of my mother prevailed. She talked about this in that little black book and then, there were numbers…bank numbers. I found the local branch and told them that my mother left me instructions with some numbers; the man who was helping me tapped, tapped, tapped on his keys. He waited. Tapped again. As he peered over his computer, this talk dark haired Latin man who seemed like he may have once been the athlete du jour told me my mother had left me $20,000 and a note on the account that said “do better”.

In the later days, I would find more of her notebooks with notes linking me to my heritage and people from long ago. Some of the names I remember and some were foreign to me. I am grateful for the stories and the ministry and covering of the little black book.