The Old Hotel, part five; I am Confused, Is That a Problem?

I awaken, sticky with sweat. Brain waves slowly pick up pace and I come to beta consciousness. Reality coalesces slowly, through the fog of surreal dreams. My sister, Carol and cousin Banty awakened earlier and have left the shabby room. Some of the clay wads still stick to the ceiling. Others fell to the floor during the night, thuds which punctuated my dreams. The fallen ones lie, like plastic turds around the floored mattress.

I dress in my designated room, #10. Find cold pork and eggs and grits in Aunt Kat's kitchen. Then wander down the front steps to Mama Gordon's room.

Grandmother's room is one of the ones that get cleaned. Aunt Kat is sweeping. "You will always be my pwecious babee," says Aunt Kat and envelops me with a perfumed hug. She wears Avon's 'Ruby Silk" that comes as a cream scent in a spiffy red jar. Kat's face is expertly painted with Avon products, which she sells, she is a walking ad. She wears a blue on blue floral print, cotton shirtwaist dress. Patent leather ballerina flats and matching belt. Her hair is permed, tortured into stylish curls. Silver locks streak the brown curls. Good Christian women do not dye their hair, like hussies. That is just wrong. Wrong even though Aunt Kat doesnt believe that God is as mean as some people say that he is.

"Look, Mama, it is our wuverly babee Jan," Kat hollers in mega decibels to get through to the old lady, Belle Gordon.

Kat looks like my Mother. Strangers recognize Victoria and Katherine as sisters. Same blue-gray eyes, finely wrought bodies, dainty features in perfect oval faces. Both look beautiful and are good Christian women. The difference is that Kat is a sweet soft heart, a Christian saint; and Victoria is a devout Christian soldier, battling evil devil influences daily. God assigned the souls of her four children to Victoria's care and she takes this mandate very seriously indeed. Belts and supple switches are the weapons to drive the devil from her children and make them as pure as white snow. Red whelps on tender bottoms prove her allegiance to the Holy Father.

This sweat dripping, August, 1956, day in the dark heart of Mississippi, Kat is cleaning her ancient Mother's Old Hotel Room. Victoria is in an office across the rail road tracks, typing up a legal brief.

Belle Gordon wears a clean, faded, old fashioned, long cotton dress and a sweater. She is rocking in the Nursing Chair. A low, dark polished wooden chair designed for breast feeding babies. This chair has accompanied her along her wanderings on the path of broken hearts and busted brains.
Belle nursed nine children at her bountiful breast, rocking in that low chair. Actually, eleven children, if you count the two angels who went back to heaven after only a short earthly stay.

Mama Gordon asks me to thread needles for her. She can still hand sew and mend clothing, but she cannot see the eye of the needle. Her hands have a fine tremor. I thread three needles with thread measured by my extended arms. I knot the thread and place the needles in a pincushion home made from bright scraps and stuffed with cotton from the field.

Then my grandmother sits peacefully as I fix her hair. I pull out hair pins. Her white, charcoal streaked hair falls to her waist. It has never been cut. It smells like fertile earth. I brush for one hundred strokes and then, retwist the bun.

She is a heart. A big sweet heart. Her heart has been tempered by pain and sorrow and joy. Preacher Gordon was not an easy person to live with.