Have you ever had a number to stick out in your memory– an age, a year or an address? Well, my
most vivid memories have an address-211 Warren Street. “Warren Street”, as the family
would affectionately call it, was the beautiful home of my grandparents.
It is a place of joy, mystery and history. This large beautiful
craftsman’s style home, built in the 1930’s, was
my grandparent’s pride and joy. Just as
picturesque any Norman Rockwell painting of the
American dream, it was their 1954 dream come true
when this Black couple with their 5 children purchased a
home in Atlanta, Georgia.
My grandparents loved this home. My grandmother made sure, even
with 5 children, the home was immaculate. Every wood floor was
polished, window was sparkling and couch was covered with plastic. Even
though she worked part time as a domestic worker, was an active church
member as a choir member and usher and was the neighborhood’s on-call
babysitter, she did find time for one hobby, one joy- tending her garden.
My grandmother loved her garden, but nothing meant more to her than her fig
trees. She was always tending to them in every season watering in the
summer, fertilizing in the fall and pruning the limbs in winter. All that work
was a passionate love affair. But as her age progressed and strength
weakened, it became harder and harder to care for her beloved
trees. So it was not strange that when she became ill her main
concern was her fig trees.
“Honey, wheel me to the garden. I need to love on my trees.”
“Grandma, what is it about those trees?”
“Well, they are not meant to grow here. The weather is either too hot or too cold. Many
would consider them go out place, and maybe that was why I have an affinity for them. Because
I have always been out of place.”
I thought, “Out of place. This must be the rambling to older woman. She is the certain of our
family with 5 children, 13 grandchildren, and 27 great-grandchildren. She could never be
replaced.” But if I only knew the history, I know now. It would be too clear.
My Grandma Norma was an orphan among family. The product of incest, with a relative and her
fourteen year-old mother, she was branded as unwanted from birth, especially by her mother. As
a child, Norma always wondered why she did not live with her mother or her siblings, but she did want to live with her so called “family.” Because her mother, Clara, was emotionally
distance, unkind and cruel toward Norma for just existing. There was nothing Norma
could do to satisfy her biological mother. Instead Norma lived with her aunt and uncle,
who adored her.
It delighted her aunt’s heart to have a child after so many failed attempts to be a parent.
Aunt Helen and Uncle Norman loved Norma as if she were their own. With them Norma had
a childhood, love and encouragement. Aunt Helen taught Norma to sew, cook and tend to a
household, so she could be a good wife one day. But Uncle Norman had bigger plans for
Norma of being a teacher. See Uncle Norman was a self-educated Black man, who loved
classical literature and could moderately read Latin. He would have Norma recite Shakespeare
and annotate the daily paper’s editorial. He used every conversation or moment as an
opportunity to stretch her mind and build character. The character building came from his
nightly reading of Bible stories. This was Norma’s favorite part of the day. It was almost
like no one else was more adored than her. To Norma he was the smartest and kindest
man she in the world. Her life was perfect, until Aunt Helen suddenly died. This
devastated Uncle Norman because he had lost his soul mate, and soon he would loss
his daughter.
Two days after the funeral, Clara came to the house.
“I want my gal back.”
“Your gal?!,” shouted Uncle Norman.
“Yes, my gal! She ain’t gonna stay here. Not with you!
Norma could not believe it. Her thoughts raced, “My mother wants me. She really wants me.
But why? This woman hates me.”
Uncle Norman then forced Clara out into the front yard. He then
stood firm and spoke steadily as to not raise his voice. “I am not
giving her to you.”
“I am not asking! You know you own me. So have her ready
today.”
Norma waited for Uncle Norman to fight for her and tell that evil
woman to go away. In her mind, imagined him being a gallant
knight, slays the witch and saves the princess.
But there was silence, then the creak of an opening screen door.
Uncle Norman walked through the house to the back door. He
looked almost weak as if his steps were heavy. As he walked to the
garden, he called in a somber voice. “Girl, come here. I need to talk
to you.”
Norma slowly walked to her Uncle as he sat in the garden under a fig tree. She knew by the look
on his face that she was leaving. It was the same look of disbelief he had since her aunt’s funeral
–a look of confusion, anguish and a family loss.
In the same kind and endearing voice he used to tell Bible bedtime stories, he asked Norma to
come sit. “You see this tree. It is big and strong, but when it’s little it needs a lot care. Fig trees
are not meant to live in Georgia. But with the care of watering and protecting it from weeds, the
weather or bugs, it can survive. In fact, it will live longer than any of the plant you see here in
this garden. It can bear fruit for generations.”
Then with a hesitate voice Norma asked, “Please let me stay?”
“I’m sorry, but it is time to go with your mama. Child, I married your aunt, so I am not
blood family” with a sigh he began to stumble over his words. “I know your mama can be hard,
but there’s a lot of hurt there. And hurt people are folks who did get enough love. ”
“Hurt from what?”
“Things you are too young to understand. But don’t let her hurt change you. Promise
me.”
“I promise.” Norma wanted to argue, but she knew it was decided.
And the promise to remain unchanged was never broken. My grandmother’s story would not
end happily. Instead, she would spend her adolescences being a maid for her “new” family. But
she viewed her role as necessary to grow the family. Fulfilling her mother’s every request of
preparing all the meals and caring for her siblings was life.
My grandmother is the most loving and caring of person in my family. She
functions as the master gardener for the family tree. Her words and actions
water the spirits of her children and grandchildren. Now in her senior
years, she can look at the fruits of her garden. The question for my life is–
what I have grown. “ Am I nourishing my children’s’ spirits, watering
their souls or planting seeds of love in their hearts? Do I provide my sons
with what’s needed to grow confident men, loving husbands or joyful
fathers?” The decades hold the answers.
The kids’ childhoods are very different from my grandmother’s. There are no dark secrets or
mean relatives present in my children’s live. My husband and I try to protect our three boys’
childhoods–their innocence. This world is so full of bad news, mean words and depressed
people that it is not easy to shelter my babies’ eyes and hearts. So I like my grandmother, make
a conscious effort to teach my children moral behavior and act it out daily.
My grandmother would say, “Pour good things into your children, so only the
best can grow.” It has taken me 30 years to understand that “Pour good
things.” So it is my turn to pour love, understanding, kind words, and
patience onto my boys. I am so bless because I now have my own garden of little people who spirits, minds and bodies I must grow. Then, one day I will be my grandmother
and seat and “watch my fruit.”