"Mama's Little Black Book"

'That's odd; rain only falls down these parts two times a year.' said Rose, to which I then replied, 'Mama always said rain is like honey; it falls down slowly and sticks to your windowpane like glue.' My momma was always philosophical like that, creating stories and songs, inventing new passages to unedited chapters in her little black book, and creating new plans for tomorrow without a worry for today nor care for yesterday. Momma was very intriguing like that- Until she wasn't.

The way I figured, the rain could've lasted for the next year, would not have paid me no- never mind. As I see it, it was mama's way of elevating our spirits and showing hers in her very own metaphysical way. The way I saw it, mama was still here even four years later after her bout of the stage (4) cancer won the war between her life and her death. The most incredible memories I have of mama is her lifting up her little black book, filled with blank pages, and pretending to read as if the words would somehow-someway transcend from her thoughts onto the pages telepathically. 'Life will someday be perfect again,' mama would say as she passionately stared at the little black book while simultaneously sipping and nibbling at her chamomile tea and buttermilk biscuits. In her heyday, mama was the best-looking gal to ever be raised in this small town of West Richnard, Alabama. Folks from all over the southern country would come just to see mama in all her glory sing the tunes of speakeasy hymns. Mama, Sara Jean (Shaunte-suevete) Parker was very angelic like that- Until she wasn't.

Papa, On the other hand, was never much to talk about. Some folks 'round town maybe would even call him average. However, I like to say that mama was enough, and papa was just alright. See, mama never mentioned papa to Rose nor to me, but folks around town always had a story to share about papa and his generous ways when us girls would pass through Charlottes' square every weekend. Mama, perhaps, saved the stories to spare us the misery. Or, maybe, mama chose to keep papa's memories to herself because all of the folks in West Richnard decided not to. Whatever the reason, I'd like to think that mama was just enough, and papa was just alright.

On March 15th, 1954, mama was diagnosed with cancer that had started in her Right Breast and then journeyed far and wide within her until her presence became lifeless and unremarkable; but yet, throughout the war of her life and her death, mama found ways to keep her soul alive and dignity intact- Until she didn't.

But, as the days became shorter and the nights became longer, I began to wonder and ask my mother questions about her childhood- Was it pleasant? Was it filled with songstresses and musical men? What heartbreaks and heartaches did she endure? Was West Richnard, Alabama, the same way that Rose and I knew it 50 years ago? What was her childhood like?

Surprisingly, answers to those questions about mama's life poured out of her like sweet-honey rain. And, to my surprise, her childhood was not-so-pleasant; she suffered major heartbreaks and heartaches, her aunts and uncles served their bodies plenty with booze and cigarillos, her parents owned several speakeasies across the entire length of the Chatasupsi river. And West Richnard, Alabama, was the place she called home after running away from home.

When asked about the little black book she always carried around, mama replied that it belonged to a fellow from West Richnard, named David Lee Parker, who captured her heart and cherished it until the day he was called home. Immediately, more questions rushed to my mind so fast, I began to see everything in twos. More questions regarding My father, David Lee Parker, a man of great and honorable ways, made me very curious down to my bones. Mama didn't answer most of my questions about papa, but she shared with me a story so profound to her that would eventually lead to my own everlasting happiness.

Mama proceeded to share that on May 17th, 1938, after fighting with an uncle about ownership to the speakeasy's owned by her parents on the Chatasupsi river, she ran away, leaving all the hurt and pain she knew behind, and headed up the river to a better life. After four long days, she ended in West Richnard, Alabama, where after sleeping under a Willow tree, she ventured off into the city streets adorned with bright-sparkling lights, ragged & greasy cobblestone roads, loud & boastful music, and honey-like sugary smells of fresh-baked Lane Cakes, and Sweet- Cinnamon Rolls.

While journeying through the night, overwhelmed by the beating of her heart, trembling of her hands and feet, and eyes burning from a sensory overload, she hurriedly walked into T. Lee's Speakeasy Joint, and after what seemed like an eternity of bumping past strangers dancing and laughing, she finally reached the bar where she came face-to-face with the most handsome black-fellow she ever had seen- David Lee Parker. After a few years' passing, mama and papa grew closer and closer together in a union of love and honor. To some folks, papa was common, but papa was the moon, the stars, and the sun to mama.

Back in 1947, shortly after papa and mama got hitched at Rev. Clark's Church-house, papa gained a strong appreciation for creative writing, so-much-so, that to the delight of papa on his 34th birthday June 23rd, 1948, mama scrapped together enough rocks and marbles and went down to Susie Pickens thrift store, and bought a little black book for papa to begin creatively writing in. Moving forward to 1952, the year that my twin Rose and I bounced into this world, and the same fateful year that papa was summoned to his eternal home. Mama began to creatively write in the little black book that papa once owned. Until she didn't.

Flashing forward to 1974. Two-decades have zoomed by since mama was called on to her eternal home, and it feels just like yesterday that Rose and I inherited this house on Oak Dr. that papa had built for our family long ago.

'Liiiizzzzyyyyy'!!!!! Rose screamed so loud that I jumped hard out of my trance- wait, how long have I been looking out of this window at the rain? I thought to myself as I proceeded to go into the kitchen to see what caused Rose to scream my name so loudly and abruptly. Walking briskly into the kitchen, I noticed something very off about her; naturally, Rose was a taciturn, humble, and reserved woman. Now it was as if she ingested a bottle of whiskey and became someone new. Rose then stated, 'Remember when we were little girls, and mama said that papa had a little black book, well….' Just spit it out, Rose! I replied, partly annoyed that I was broken out of my peaceful, nostalgic moment for this. 'Well, mama left us a key with a note attached.' 'Wait, hol' up, you screamed my name for this'! I replied, even more annoyed. 'No!!, Rose exclaimed. Mama left us 20,000 dollars in the upstairs attic and told us to split it in two ways- 10 thousand dollars each for you and me. Isn't that great!!

At that moment, I felt speechless, utterly lost for words, it was as if I could still see mama in the forefront of my mind lifting up her little black book, filled with blank pages, and pretending to read as if the words would somehow-someway transcend from her thoughts onto the pages telepathically inscribing that 'Life will someday be perfect again.'

All of these years later, even after the death of papa and mama, my children's birth, the marriage of Rose and Mr. Johnson, and the inheritance of twenty-thousand dollars, I can still feel mama's beautiful, kind, joyful, and nurturing presence. Creating stories and songs, inventing new passages to unedited chapters in her little black book, and creating new plans for tomorrow without worrying today or care for yesterday.

And, as I return to the window seat at which I sat, to look outside on this third day of rainfall that only occurs two times a year in this southern town of West Richnard, Alabama, I begin to whisper softly to myself 'Mama was absolutely right- rain is like honey, it falls down slowly, and sticks to your windowpane like glue.'