All Gods Children Have Shoes

URR URR URR URR URRRHHH!!!. My eyes still close as I cuddle up to grandmother and try to drown out the throaty cock a doodle doo of Mr. Rooster. Sure sounds like poor Mr. Rooster just have a cold or it’s just that there is not too much cock doodle doo left in him. How old he is I am not sure, but his comb is starting to erode and is now starting to look white and rubbery. In between the crowing I listen to grandmother snoring. I am glad she is snoring. What would I do without her? Opening one eye I watch her as she sleeps. Her mouth is wide open showing that one tooth. Amazing how she uses that one peg to rip though a dumpling. She always hopes her kids buy her some fake teeth but I think she does just fine…
Then I remember. Yes! It’s Christmas day. My mind is going wild. Just what if? What if my mother Elvie shows up today? What if she surprises me? What if she brings me a pair of shoes? Jeepers Creepers! Could today be the day she shows up with a pair of shoes? I got up and tiptoe into the living room and for the zillionth time look up at the black and white portrait of my mother holding my brother. I mentally try to morph my face into hers but I cannot picture the resemblance. She is beautiful. She looks nothing like me. A little eccentric if you must. Boy, if she comes back today I could be the envy of all my friends. I would never be seen as the little barefoot motherless picni again.
I tiptoe back to the bedroom where grandmother is still sound asleep. I lean over and whisper in her ear. “Grandma, Elvie might come back today”. I jump back as she swats at me. “Nonsense!” I put my head out the window and listen to the blare of the neighbor’s stereo, and sing along to ‘the end of the world‘ by skeeter Davis . There is feeling of holiness in the air. After all today is the day Christ was born. I continue singing as grandmother roll out of bed and start to get ready for the day. As I help fasten her bra I check out the different shades of her skin. The paleness of her trunk reminds me of her German father and the tan color of her limbs and face reminds me of how long she labors in the sun to keep food on the table. She puts her farm clothing on which includes a banana-stained shirt, her familiar red plaid skirt and black boots. She tells me she is heading out to get some yams and will be back to roast yam and salted fish for breakfast. My chore is to clean up the house and ‘borrow’ firewood from the farm next door.
Grandmother went off for the yams and I am off to steal, err, borrow wood. I got to the property line and inspect the area seeking out any signs of the barefoot farmer. He hides very well but the sun often reflects off his machete exposing his hideout. Feeling pretty sure he is not around I flatten myself on the ground slithering under the barb wire, and anxiously scrambling for a few dry branches, I found some and and toss them over the fence unto our property. “He hem, Listen tief. Me chop up tief you know!” YIKES! THE BAREFOOT FARMER!!!! With no time to crawl under the wire I jump over the fence, ripping my skin in the process. I slap my palms together as I landed back on our side of the property. Yep. Another clean getaway.
Grandmother scrapes the salt off the fish and I got the fire going blowing as hard as I can, mentally measuring my efforts by the amount of ashes blowing back into my face, hair and nostril. Grandmother throws the salted fish on the fire and a piece of purple yam. One has not live unless they have experience the aroma of roasted salt fish. Grandmother makes a strong cup of black coffee for herself and a cup of hot chocolate for me. She squeezes out the milk from gratered coconut through a pillowcase and wrings sugar cane juice into our hot drinks. Sitting on the huge rocks in the basement, we enjoy our Christmas breakfast while trying to figure out the next meal. Grandmother plans to haul in some corn and I need to grater more coconut for corn pudding. I love corn pudding, plus after grandmother squeezes out the milk from the coconut I get to share the leftovers with the hen and the rooster. I just add a little sugar cane juice to the ‘trash’ and Ta! Dah! My favorite snack.
As I sip my hot chocolate I hear a car going by. I wonder whose car is it and where is it going. I know the sound of each car because only a few people in the neighborhood own one. Then I hear a loud bang and the flapping of wings. Could it be…? Grandmother and I ran up to the street. Oh no! There in the street is our rooster bloody all over fluttering up and down. Then of course the one last flip. Grandmother has that familiar look on her face. The one that says there is a God. She picks up the fowl, makes the sign of the cross and heads for the kitchen. She summons me to go to Mother Fleure spring for a pot of water. Good time for me to get away.
I got home with the water on my head and the bird is sitting in a pot reeking with the smell of cayenne pepper, marjoram and thyme. Grandmother is already happily drunk tumbling across the kitchen as she sings Amazing Grace. Even though I feel trustful of Grandmother I am not sure we should be eating this rooster. There’s something about a feathered pet being killed by traffic and then eating it. When I question Grandmother she let me know God sent us this meat and I should not be questioning God, because there’s fire and brimstone in hell and she could slap me to hell and back. I have no plans for hell and after all, she is right. Even though a little rubbery the rooster turns out to be delicious and plentiful. Grandmother sure knows how to keep me alive. So really then, who cares about mothers? Who need shoes?
For the rest of the day I sit by the window peeking out as kids walk by in their new Christmas outfits and brand new shoes. Grandmother tells me its best to stay inside. She continuously reminds me not to put my cheek in my hands because people will think I am worrying about something. She put me in her lap and rocks me back and forth as she tells me wonderful stories about my mother. Don’t worry she said. She will come and get you one day and bring you shoes.
I believe her. There is no reason not to. And when my mother comes none of my friends will call me barefoot Shitona Flipona ever again. I will be the happiest little girl in the world.

The following video is one of my little girl favorites. Please enjoy. Kapeesh?
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My brother, dog Christie and me

As Mr. Cole looks on Mrs. Cole hands me the little package of green and brown tobacco leaves and shoo me away. “Picni (Picanny) go home to your grandmada”. Mr. Cole true to form butts in. “Yes little gal, its Christmas Eve and you know its not wise fa you to be on di street afta dark”. I pretend to ignore Mr. Cole even though I can feel the chill of his eyes as he looks me over. Christie, my ever loyal dog, snarls at him. I stuff the plastic bag in the pocket of my grandmother-made dress, wave them ta-ta and starts to hop skip and jump home. Christie runs alongside me.
Holdup! Stop! Turn around! Christie’s ears popped up! Even she is in on this. There on the ground sits a piece of pink, already chewed bubble gum. Priceless. There is a God. Three feet away is a lump of dried up dog poop but its old and really, I don’t see it. The rich pink tells me this gum was hardly chewed and freshly spat out. I pick up this treasure, brush off the few pieces of pebbles and pop it into my mouth. It’s hard as a rock and a little crunchy but just in time for Christmas. Perfect. I now have proof to show my friends that I really do have a mother and she sent me gum from Canada.
I got home and grandmother is alone in the bed room pitter pattering and listening to Christmas carols on the radio. She is petite and beautiful and as usual nicely dressed in heels and a small church hat as if she is expecting someone to show up any minute. My brother and uncle are not around. She starts to yell as I hand her the tobacco. “What took you so long and why are you chewing your damn cod? I hope to God you didn’t pick up gum again. Don’t you know dat crap mek u sick?” I roll the gum under my tongue and I open my mouth wide to show her. Nothing in there. She appears dubious as she turn away and start to separate the dried tobacco from the green leafy part. I watch her as she stuffs her pipe and lights it against the open flames of the kerosene lamp. The tip of her long salt and pepper hair singes and she bothers to put out the fire and tuck the hair under her hat. She gets ready to sit but momentarily pauses to blow the smoke through her nose. She then settles deep in her rocking chair and puffs at her pipe making a ‘smack smack’ sound.
She has a familiar look of worry on her face. I love this woman. Even at six I can understand somehow she carries a deep pain that I often wish I could carry for her. After all she’s is all that I have. She often put together dresses of many colors made from mostly old curtains for me. She makes sure I have something to eat. If tobacco was food I am sure she would share it with me. This morning for example we did our usual routine. We sat and waited for mother hen to ‘cackle’. My job is to chase the hen away, wait for the egg to get hard, then gives it to grandma who makes it soft boiled. She shares it with me equally which makes me love her even more. She is absolutely selfless. I know she did not have to share it with me since my mother was not providing for us and grandmother had already raised five kids of her own.
I sat on the bed quietly watching her while listening to the radio in the background. Away in a manger is playing. I listen to the words inserting my own lines …Little Winona lay down her sweet head… Grandmother beckons for me to sit in her lap. I love sitting in her lap where she rocks me back and forth and tells me family stories in a comforting way. I don’t mind the smell of the tobacco fumes because this is her. This is what I know. And this is her time to tell me stories about my mother.
I sneak the gum out of my mouth and stick it under the chair. It will still be there for me on Christmas day. I climb into her lap. I want her to tell me again about my mother. My mother Elvie was very gifted and painted the house in her twenties. She could play the guitar and piano like no one else. She was beautiful and the envy of the neighbors. I listen wishing I knew this mother. She told me more about the family, one unusual story after another. We are not like the neighbors, just not very normal. Even though we are poor the stories are rich and hopeful.
My grandmother tells me of the money she inherited from her father’s property. The money, she said was used to help send some of her kids to college and to buy herself a car. She tells the story of how Elvie’s paternal family took her away her as a child. She wanted her back so one day as the young Elvie played on the sidewalk grandmother and a friend drove up, ployed her with a bag of candy, yanked the screaming Elvie into the car and drove away. Wow. She had to abduct her own child? She repeats this story with obvious pain. I wish I knew more but that past life was bigger than a six year old.
Grandmother empties the ash and refills her pipe. My eyes caught the tattoo on her forearm. It is heart shaped with the world love under it. She is so cool. There is not another person around with one. I want to hear the story of the tattoo again. She retells the story of a white man who was her father’s friend and as he was hanging out doing their tattoos she begged to have one. She was about eight but she got it. She wanted this story to be a hush-hush because some neighbors think it has to do with voodoo and she has to keep her reputation. She is the queen of voodoo. I know better but my lips are sealed.
At times though I cause my grandmother to drink when she tells me stories but I still want to hear more. What about my daddy? Grandmother mood changes as she waves her finger at me. “Don’t you ever talk about that worthless bastard. Now why would you ask about dat wretch? I told you he’s a battyman (derogatory word for gay) and him could care less about you”. I become quiet. I remember the lesson taught at school and at home. Children must be seen and never heard. I did not want grandmother to get anymore upset. I don’t like what happens when she is upset. Very soon I know she will be angry about anything and everything and her wrath and anger will be on me.
I picked up a book to read. I need to stop fretting. My grandmother hates when I fret. It is one of those things that she tells me makes her drink. “Take your hands off your chin. Don’t you know you can’t let the neighbors know you are worrying?” I remove my hands fast. I’d better. My hands in my chin could easily earn me a slap across the face. Grandmother reminded me my mother is coming back. “She is away working and cannot provide for you this Christmas but lord child one day she will. She had to leave to make herself better and get away from your ugly father.”
I got up and stare at the mirror. I can hear the Christmas carolers from the Anglican church coming our way. I turn and peek out the window. A sea of glowing candles goes by. A forever heavenly sight. I turn and look in the mirror again. Do I look like my beautiful mother or my ugly father? I wince and hold my stomach as it growls. I kiss grandmother goodnight, brush the dirt off my crusty feet and curl into bed. I moan as I continue to hold my stomach. Grandmother takes a piece of sheet and ‘ban’ my belly. “Just gas,” she said. “Don’t worry. Your mother one day will provide for you”. She reaches for her brandy bottle at the bedside table. She gave me a swig and then drains the last few drops unto her outstretched tongue. She seems to think a little brandy is healing and I don’t doubt her for a second.
I listen to the carolers in the distance…
Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child.
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

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An overwhelming feeling of euphoria engulfs me as I look around the table. The pot roast is gone and there is a lot of light chattering. Even though I cooked the dinner I lightheartedly wash a few pots and pans and then lumber up the stairs to my room feeling exhausted and pregnant. Good reason for the exhaustion because, well, I am pregnant. Barely old enough to drink legally, but very pregnant.
Flicking the lights on I quickly scan the room making sure it’s safe to enter. Seems all clear to me. As I close the door behind me I twist the knob as if to lock it even though I am fully aware there is no lock. De ja vu to the home where I grew up where there were only draw curtains making my room an easy invitation. Proceeding into my bedtime routine I position the wooden wedge with my feet and kick it into place, tightly securing the door. There! That should do it. I push the bed against the door providing a double security but there is still an uneasy eerie feeling as I continue to check every nook and cranny in the room to make sure I am alone. What about the top shelf in the closet? It’s a tiny space but sure as hell possible someone could hide there in a fetal position. I am pretty sure I had already checked the four corners of the room but what the heck why not again. Better to be safe than sorry, right? One corner could prove a fatal mistake and who would take care of my cousins Richard, Nixon and Leon if I get killed? They told me if it wasn’t for me their life … And what about my precious grandmother who is depending on me? Okay, just to be sure. Just one more-full-sweep.
Winona, come on don’t be neurotic. You have been behaving like this since before puberty. No wonder your grandmother tried to bash your head in with the broom stick when you acted like this. It’s enough to drive anyone nuts. She might have been right. Someone must have put obeah (voo-doo) on you for you to be acting so irrationally.
Okay, I’ll crawl into bed but I will leave the lights on just in case. And oh yeah I forgot to brush my slowly decaying teeth again but now that I have secure myself why should I open that door. Not good because my old kindergarten teacher told me to make sure I take care of my teeth because ‘you like to laugh so much’.
Zzzz. I feel them coming on as a wave of thoughts rush through my head. A few decaying back teeth should be no problem but should I brush them? Well, I am very sure the clean feeling would help me sleep a little sounder. Bah humbug, never mind the teeth but I could do one more thing. I could double check the windows to see if they are locked. It won’t hurt. Definitely that would make me sleep better. But really my focus now is to absolutely positively make sure no one is hiding in this room. Just a teeny tiny double check that the door is really wedged. This behavior is my problem. I’m not hurting anyone.
Zzzz. Tomorrow I get up and go to work. Thank God my job helping Mrs. Feinstein clean is not as taxing as my previous job as a security guard. That job of going up and down the 14 floors of the Kresge building at Harvard School of Public Health is as nauseating as could be even though there is some plus to it. Locally Harvard is known for its good food as much as it is known nationally for its endowment and when the academics have late meetings there’s always food left behind. What a waste! I looked forward to my night shift and the remaining scraps of victual which of course, there is always enough for two. Figure I saved the housekeepers some trouble. . . But they fired me because I told them I was tired of climbing those stairs at nights. They could have at least credited me for turning in the wooden rifle I found on a couch on one of the top floors.
Zzzz. Then I heard it! A slow creak. The bed nudged slightly. Panic and fear grip me as I try not to self suffocate. I hear the creak again. A foul odor saturates the air as my bed gives way. The door swings open and there’s a tall dark shadowy figure standing in the door. Something is holding me back from screaming. I am watching as his steely eyes and chiseled face morphs from himself to my uncle to my principal to other abusers. He grits his teeth as he mutters something, something about ripping the damn baby right out of my stomach. He raises the knife with the rugged saw like edges into the air and brings it down in slow motion twisting it as if ready to carve out a pumpkin. Darn it I’m in a straight jacket. My body temperature becomes erratic producing what seems to be blood sweat and tears destroying my permed straight hair. I get up and let out a bloodcurdling scream. Lord! Thy will be done!!!
But…there is no one in the room but me and of course my bed is still up against the door. I feel utterly drained as I sob myself to calmness. Winona it’s only another nightmare. Just a continuous, endless, lingering, reservoir of pain. When will it go away and what am I afraid of? I just recently came home from boot camp and I am trained to help protect the United States of America. At Fort Dix and Fort Jackson I loaded thousands of bullets in my A1 rifle and my machine gun. I dug a foxhole and wove hundreds of shiny golden bullets around my shoulders and waist and pumped them down range at man made enemies. I learn how to and am able to throw a grenade without missing. Certainly I would know how to protect myself if I was a participant in the war of Israel and Hezbollah so what could I possibly be afraid of now?
Plus ha! There are nuns living upstairs. In this women and childrens’ shelter (Little Sisters of the Assumption, Dorchester, MA) Sister Ann makes sure this is a safe haven. The door is locked at nights with a staff member on the watch. The dead beat Jamaican father and his mother live blocks from this shelter but if his mother tells him this is not even his child what must a poor lad do? He is such a hands off person why would I even have constant nightmare of him digging the baby out of my stomach?
Zzzz. I better get some sleep. I need to focus and get myself out of this predicament I am in. I need to create friends and family here in the United States but I am shy and lousy doing it. I am tired though of being slave to my nightmares. I need closure to my past. Thank goodness I read self healing books. Ah, The Courage to Heal. My self diagnosis at this moment is obsessive compulsive disorder secondary to post traumatic stress disorder. Well, just one more time. Let me double check under the bed. I have a creepy feeling someone is lying in wait under there.

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The three room house (two bedrooms and a living room) sits on a tight half acre of land in Craighead. Besides me, the cast of this house includes my uncle who is one of my mother’s brothers, my grandmother who is my mother’s mom and my brother who is three years my senior. My grandmother and I share a room and across from the living room/dining room my brother and uncle share another.

In my room is a tattered mattress with a spread of many colors grandmother stitched together from leftover patterns. A kerosene torch made out of a soda bottle and newspaper, and a box of matches sits on an antique looking bedside table next to the bed. Books of different genre from the Bobsey Twins to Shakespeare to Agatha Christie are neatly stacked against the wall under the table. A curtain in the doorway leads to the living/dining area where a glass table separates the living room from the dining room. A classy black and white picture of my mother holding my brother hangs on the wall in the living room area. The other bedroom is set up similarly as my bedroom.

The front of the house is painted in pink and yellow with a blue strip at the base. I fell the pride and awe of this artistically painted house (painted I was told by my naturally gifted mother). The red polished verandah extends the length of the three rooms giving the house a much larger look from the front.

Our always presentable lawn is slightly longer than the verandah. In the center of the yard, carved out with silver painted stones, is the word ‘WELCOME’. On Saturday mornings I become one with the machete as I skillfully weed and pull at unwanted crabgrass. This is one way I contribute to the household with the hopes that my uncle and grandmother will be proud of me.

On one side of the house there is a luscious garden planted by my uncle and often gingerly attended to by my grandmother. On the other side is a dilapidated log kitchen with a makeshift door hanging off its hinges. Inside is a hearth consisting of three huge stones placed together to hold up our Dutch pot. An unlit kerosene torch sits on the mud floor beside a few pieces of wood and alongside a bucket of spring water.

Towards the basement and to the lower side of the house we have a huge tub where we take baths. It’s not enclosed so there is little privacy and certainly not enticing for a little girl. A huge drum is sitting next to the tub and close to the house in the hope of collecting rain water from the roof. Bird poop, heat and God knows what else from the roof gives the drum water a funny taste. Certainly does not taste like the water from the Mother Fleur (see chapter two). And, Yee Gad! There’s the slum dog millionaire latrine in the back! There’s ever hardly enough old newspaper inside to clean up properly or enough time because the fears of having the roof coming down on you while your pants are down…

Further down in the back part of the property are all different kinds of mango trees and, of all things, barbed wire erected by the neighbors to separate our property from theirs. When the rain falls the mangos are sure to unload on the property line. All a hungry little girl has to do is carefully stake out the area, make sure the old and mean barefoot farm hand with the glistening machete is not in view, then crawl into the rainy gutter while ignoring the scraping of the barb wire, reach over and snatch those juicy fruits. Never mind the rips and tears from the barbed wire because my bag is usually full with the loot as I head back home to my waiting grandmother.

On our half acre of land my grandmother cultivates coffee, cocoa, sweetsops, sour sops, grapefruits, oranges, sour oranges, lemons, limes, bananas, coconuts, yams, and the list goes on and on. One of my favorites is the jackfruit tree. Its bark yields a white gummy paste that I often mix this with sugar and ta-da!  Bubble gum! Grandmother raised chickens and interestedly probably the biggest goat to be known. Looking back I am glad she had the foresight to do this. For milk and oil there is coconut. For sugar there is cane. For meat there is often a rooster. As the Jamaican saying goes, every mikle mek a mukle (every little bit counts).

See you next week. Winona

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My Hometown

Craighead, my hometown, is located in Manchester in a mountainous, cool and misty region of Jamaica part of what is condescendingly dubbed “di country” by the more sophisticated Kingstonians. “Craig” is a small town about a mile long with several gravel side roads and has a thickness of about 1500 people.  The people range from small farmers to brilliant teachers who are generally friendly but because the houses are closely grouped together they have the tendency to mind each others business, at times too much, which often leads to a quarrel here and there.

Across the street facing my verandah are small mountains. If I strain my eyes hard enough at the thick vegetation, at times I am able to the catch a glimpse of the scattered small homes and their inhabitants. Standing at my back door I can look over yonder to see Manchester’s bordering Parish Trelawny. Halfway between Craighead and Trelawny runs one of Jamaica’s sixteen rivers, the Hector River. Along its fruitful banks there is a small-scale cultivation of crops such as sugar cane, bananas, coffee, yams, Irish potatoes, mangoes and oranges. The Hector River is a much needed source for the people of Craighead for fishing, swimming, bathing and for doing laundry. It is reachable by foot or donkey using one of the gravel side roads or smaller, muddier man made paths.

In the middle of the town and down a gully and atop a much rumored sinkhole sits the Craighead All Age School that accommodates kids up to fifteen years old. The students are from Craighead and bordering smaller towns like Bigwood, Chudleigh, Carter and Buckup and even from faraway distances such as Norway and Pike. It is a larger school that is made of concrete and painted with beautiful colors. There is a large playground and two outside latrines. The girls wear blue and white tunics and the boys come to school in their neatly pressed khaki outfits. School starts at 9 AM and breaks for lunch at noon for an hour (most kids go home for lunch) and then goes from 1PM to 4PM. The level of education offered is very good but some people choose to keep their kids home to help out on the farm.

Further down is the local post office where kids routinely line up for the red van, waiting with the hope to get a letter with money from a family member living abroad. The postmistress knows each and every kid and their family. She sorts out the mail and hands it to you as your turn comes in line.

And then there is the slew of churches, Pentecostal, Baptist, Seventh Day Adventist, amongst many others. The church with the most following though is the Anglican Church. This stone chapel sits atop a hill overlooking Craighead about a mile from my home. Because of the hilly location I can hear the loud bell ringing and even different parts of the service on Sunday. Also following the English tradition it gives off a creepy toll when one of those followers passes away.

The ‘Confidence’ bus goes by at about 4AM. It provides service from the country to Kingston and if you miss that bus that’s it. There’s another bus that runs more locally going the opposite way and takes you to the next major town of Christiana which is 7.5 miles away. Kids who are lucky enough to go to high school board that bus to the Christiana Secondary High School in Christiana or to the more academic high school Holmwood. There’s not much transportation in Craighead so one can often tell the time by the rooster’s crow or by which bus or whose car is going by.

There are two street lights marking the beginning and end of Craighead and because we live at one corner we are lucky to have one them looming over our yard sending brilliant light through my windows and into my bed during the night. The other street light which marks the end of the mile stands in the square, a big shopping area consisting of three family owned grocery stores that sell among other items salted codfish, salted mackerel, corned pork and smoked herring. The square is also a stopping place where the decorated truck with its large music system comes around yearly offering a monetary prize for the best dance couple. This is a good old time where people congregate and show their strut. The winner of the contest becomes the enviable talk of the town, at least until the next dance.  Less often a truck showing a movie will pop by in the square. This is where I saw “To Sir With Love” the only movie I saw as a kid. I remember sitting on the ground with a couple other hundred people watching the movie and thinking “oh Lulu”.  Sigh…

Bordering one side of Craighead is a small town called Bigwood. About a quarter of a mile from Craighead in Bigwood, down a gravel road is the Mother Fleure spring.  Mother Fleure is a natural spring and the main water source of Craighead (collecting rain water in drums is another) and the surrounding neighborhood. This spring sits on the Fleure property but the Fleures donated this much needed water to the neighborhood. To store this water a concrete tank was built over it and for access to the water a heavy metal pipe was placed below the tank enabling us to fill our pots and jugs with this glistening and extremely cool forever flowing water.  Even the wasted water makes a small river bed where watercress and fruits grow.

People with donkeys travelled for miles to come to Mother Fleure to fetch water. It’s not uncommon to see women with buckets of laundry on their heads appearing to be on a mission. Later you can catch these women singing along to Harry Bellefonte’s songs as they lay out their ‘bleached and blued’ white laundry on the grassy banks of the Mother Fleure while their little girls play jump rope and eat fruits that grow along the well nourished bank. Growing up and being part of that I often felt rich and blessed.

My Hometown

Craighead, my hometown, is located in Manchester in a mountainous, cool and misty region of Jamaica part of what is condescendingly dubbed “di country” by the more sophisticated Kingstonians. “Craig” is a small town about a mile long with several gravel side roads and has a thickness of about 1500 people.  The people range from small farmers to brilliant teachers who are generally friendly but because the houses are closely grouped together they have the tendency to mind each others business, at times too much, which often leads to a quarrel here and there.

Across the street facing my verandah are small mountains. If I strain my eyes hard enough at the thick vegetation, at times I am able to the catch a glimpse of the scattered small homes and their inhabitants. Standing at my back door I can look over yonder to see Manchester’s bordering Parish Trelawny. Halfway between Craighead and Trelawny runs one of Jamaica’s sixteen rivers, the Hector River. Along its fruitful banks there is a small-scale cultivation of crops such as sugar cane, bananas, coffee, yams, Irish potatoes, mangoes and oranges. The Hector River is a much needed source for the people of Craighead for fishing, swimming, bathing and for doing laundry. It is reachable by foot or donkey using one of the gravel side roads or smaller, muddier man made paths.

In the middle of the town and down a gully and atop a much rumored sinkhole sits the Craighead All Age School that accommodates kids up to fifteen years old. The students are from Craighead and bordering smaller towns like Bigwood, Chudleigh, Carter and Buckup and even from faraway distances such as Norway and Pike. It is a larger school that is made of concrete and painted with beautiful colors. There is a large playground and two outside latrines. The girls wear blue and white tunics and the boys come to school in their neatly pressed khaki outfits. School starts at 9 AM and breaks for lunch at noon for an hour (most kids go home for lunch) and then goes from 1PM to 4PM. The level of education offered is very good but some people choose to keep their kids home to help out on the farm.

Further down is the local post office where kids routinely line up for the red van, waiting with the hope to get a letter with money from a family member living abroad. The postmistress knows each and every kid and their family. She sorts out the mail and hands it to you as your turn comes in line.

And then there is the slew of churches, Pentecostal, Baptist, Seventh Day Adventist, amongst many others. The church with the most following though is the Anglican Church. This stone chapel sits atop a hill overlooking Craighead about a mile from my home. Because of the hilly location I can hear the loud bell ringing and even different parts of the service on Sunday. Also following the English tradition it gives off a creepy toll when one of those followers passes away.

The ‘Confidence’ bus goes by at about 4AM. It provides service from the country to Kingston and if you miss that bus that’s it. There’s another bus that runs more locally going the opposite way and takes you to the next major town of Christiana which is 7.5 miles away. Kids who are lucky enough to go to high school board that bus to the Christiana Secondary High School in Christiana or to the more academic high school Holmwood. There’s not much transportation in Craighead so one can often tell the time by the rooster’s crow or by which bus or whose car is going by.

There are two street lights marking the beginning and end of Craighead and because we live at one corner we are lucky to have one them looming over our yard sending brilliant light through my windows and into my bed during the night. The other street light which marks the end of the mile stands in the square, a big shopping area consisting of three family owned grocery stores that sell among other items salted codfish, salted mackerel, corned pork and smoked herring. The square is also a stopping place where the decorated truck with its large music system comes around yearly offering a monetary prize for the best dance couple. This is a good old time where people congregate and show their strut. The winner of the contest becomes the enviable talk of the town, at least until the next dance.  Less often a truck showing a movie will pop by in the square. This is where I saw “To Sir With Love” the only movie I saw as a kid. I remember sitting on the ground with a couple other hundred people watching the movie and thinking “oh Lulu”.  Sigh…

Bordering one side of Craighead is a small town called Bigwood. About a quarter of a mile from Craighead in Bigwood, down a gravel road is the Mother Fleure spring.  Mother Fleure is a natural spring and the main water source of Craighead (collecting rain water in drums is another) and the surrounding neighborhood. This spring sits on the Fleure property but the Fleures donated this much needed water to the neighborhood. To store this water a concrete tank was built over it and for access to the water a heavy metal pipe was placed below the tank enabling us to fill our pots and jugs with this glistening and extremely cool forever flowing water.  Even the wasted water makes a small river bed where watercress and fruits grow.

People with donkeys travelled for miles to come to Mother Fleure to fetch water. It’s not uncommon to see women with buckets of laundry on their heads appearing to be on a mission. Later you can catch these women singing along to Harry Bellefonte’s songs as they lay out their ‘bleached and blued’ white laundry on the grassy banks of the Mother Fleure while their little girls play jump rope and eat fruits that grow along the well nourished bank. Growing up and being part of that I often felt rich and blessed.

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Tracy

Mom!

Winona.

Yes Trace?

Tracy.

If my friend Jamilia calls can you tell her I made Jerk pork for dinner?

Winona.

Is there a reason for lying?

Well I told them even though I am Italian American, you raised me Jamerican and I know how to cook a mean jerk pork.

But Trace—

I know mom. It’s not my fault you didn’t teach me. I told Jamilia and Tania I am Jamerican and trust me they believe just about anything I tell them.

Hmm. Not to worry I am not answering the phone ‘cause I am working on my blog.

Blogging? Mom, that is so American. What are you blogging?

I am blogging my story.

Are you sure?

Are you sure what?

Mom do you know everyone in the world could be in our business?

You were always so private about our business why now?

Oprah can speak up so can I. McKenzie Phillips can speak up so can I?

But see McKenzie’s family is saying she is delusional and is now trying to embarrass them. Why not just stick with nursing. You are a good nurse, your patients love you and with nursing you at least get a paycheck. And who wants to hear about some Jamaican woman or some Italian kid and their struggles?

First of all I’m not just some Jamaican. I am a survivor just like you are a survivor. And you should by the way write your own memoirs.  I love the part where when you were hungry you would go into the corner restaurant and ask for a cup of hot water take a bottle of catsup off the table and ta-da! Tomato soup! And then you walk out with the condiments off the table for another meal. Tracy you still do that mess. You my dear are still stuck in survival mode.

Yep (giggling noises), I learned how to survive didn’t I?

Look kiddo. I cut my hours down at the nursing home so I can write. You know who encouraged me to write? My patients. Whether they were artists or holocaust survivors their stories are always so inspiring. I would love to tell them about my machete weilding grandmother, my father’s polio, the mother I remember meeting once and how I survived malnutrition. I would love to share my story on what it felt like to be stalked and how I survived rape. How about my journey to America and how I ended up in the Army? And there’s the story of the Irish family who rescued me after I became homeless and pregnant. But no, when my patients ask me about the scars on my face I have to divert their attention. Easy of course, because I just burst out with some Frank Sinatra song and when they give me that pained look I just tell them I am getting ready for American Idol. So of course, all that leaves me with one thing to do and that’s to blog. Trace I could wait until I go to heaven and take it out on God or just blog my story here on earth.

Take it out on God?

Imagine the scenario. I’m banging on the Golden Gate. BANG! BANG! BANG! The Big Guy sends one of his assistant out to find out what my problem is. I told the assistant I want to talk to God himself.  The assistant insists that he needs to take a message. I bang on the Gate again. “Go get God because I am not leaving until He comes out!” Poor fellow he’s shaking like a leaf goes in and returns with God. Grinding my teeth I pound that Man with one question after another. Why did you let me suffer as a child? Why didn’t you answer my wish for somebody to adopt me? Why did you let my mother abandon me leaving me to always be googling for family and roots?  When I googled my mother Elvy Lena Senior why did it show up under obituary? And why did her obituary not list her as having three kids me being one of them? Now that’s pretty ugly? And then to top things off why do you reward me and everyone else which such an ugly thing as death?

Oh brother.

You better believe it. I wouldn’t let him get a word in. I would just continue to let him have it.

Uhhhh.

I said, Sir you could have easily won the peace prize way before Gore did and make everything green but instead you gave us a touch of beauty and then want to demolish it with fire?  How could you? Why? Why? Why? What’s your thought process?

How do you think God would respond?

I think he would summon his guards and have them wrestle me to the ground kicking and screaming. After he had me in control that narcisstic guy would read to me all the good things He did for me. “See that one inch scar across your nose and that other little scar under that eye? I protected you so many times from someone trying to kill you. Then I arranged for a flight for you to freedom and like other immigrants you did not even have to seek asylum. Look at you. I even think I sprinkled water from the fountain of youth on you. How often do people tell you they like your smile? I gave you a brain and a little knowledge of technology. If I were you I would tell other people your story and let them know how much you called upon me and how much I helped you. Now child you are chipping the gold on my gate. Please don’t start messing with the pearls”.

Then He walked way yelling over his shoulders, “And remember I had my only child Jesus stoned to death and then nailed to two logs. And unlike you he was a pretty good kid. Don’t mess with me.”

That’s scary. You would turn around and run right?

Jeepers. I’d be crazy not to. But I would yell back at him. “Fine, have it your way, buster, um—err— buddy, but so you know All God’s children should have shoes!”

Mom, do all Jamaicans think like you?

I am not sure. I do know though that I use to get whooped in class for making the other kids laugh during lessons.

Go ahead mom. If it makes you feel better blog away!

Coming up.  All God’s Children Have Shoes.

Filed under: ALL Gods Children Have Shoes

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