a fugitive and vagabond for all his days on the earth.”
Preacher had my attention, but I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. He paused, took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his face, and glanced out the window toward the big oak trees. I sat up straight and thought, yes, he’s thinking about iced tea and fried chicken, too.
He continued: “Yes, my friends, look around you and see who has the curse of the mark of God.”
I slid up on the edge of my seat and gripped the back of the pew in front of me. I certainly wanted to know who God had cursed and what kind of mark He had put on them. In case I ran into one, I definitely wanted to recognize them. My itching, hunger, and thirst were gone as I anxiously waited for the preacher to reveal this great secret.
His voice was rising now as he abandoned the lectern and walked to the left side of the podium, directly in front of Old Man Cliff Creel. “Who among us are the vagabonds and the fugitives? Who among us bear the mark of the curse of God?”
I was beside myself, thinking, why doesn’t he just tell us?
Preacher’s voice was a roar now as he pumped his fist into the air. “I ask you, who among us tills the earth, but it no longer yields its strength to them? It’s the black man! He wears the mark of the curse! My friends, it’s the niggers!”
I was astounded as I heard Old Man Cliff Creel yell, “Amen, brother.”
The sermon was concluded and Brother Benny called everyone to their feet to sing the closing hymn. Every once in a while he would break in, and as only the piano played softly, he would invite people down to the altar to be saved or rededicate their lives to Jesus.
I don’t know whether it was my prayer to be released or the food outside, but no one wanted to be saved that day.
Finally, mercifully, it was over. Everyone was outside, smiling, talking and eating. I knew where the best food was. The fried chicken and the butter beans were my mother’s, then I helped myself to Aunt Ola’s potato salad and Aunt Lillian’s banana pudding. I cleaned my plate and drained my iced tea along with Fred and Robert on the tailgate of Uncle Curtis’s pickup.
Through it all I kept thinking about the end of the preacher’s sermon. I had never heard of the land of Nod. I thought black people came from Africa, and I was glad they had, because somehow they had managed to bring some okra seeds with them. Without them, there would be no fried okra.
There were a lot of questions in my mind, but I knew this was not the time, the place, and there was not a person—then I thought, Jake! I had to figure out a way to get to the sawmill, today!
Almost immediately opportunity presented itself. While cleaning up my mother told me, “Go get on the truck. We’re going to visit at your Uncle Curtis’s for a while.”
“Can I just walk on home? I want to see if Ned and Daddy are home yet. See what they got.”
“Well, I suppose. You just be careful.”
During the confusion of everyone packing up I snatched a chicken leg and a pulley bone, quickly wrapped them in a piece of used wax paper, and stuffed them into my pocket. Just before leaving, I took off the hurtful shoes and tossed them in the back of the truck.
4
I dashed into the woods just past Miss Lena’s store. When I reached the first pile of logs, not yet in sight of Jake’s shack, I stopped dead in my tracks. I heard a strange, rhythmic, melodious, wonderful sound—one I had never heard before, and I liked it.
The sound stopped. I stood frozen in my spot and waited for it to start again. It didn’t, so I walked on past the far end of the sawmill and there was Jake, sitting on a block of wood, staring into his bed of hot coals with his old guitar resting across his knees.
He looked up at that moment and I said, “Hello, Jake.”
“Ted! Well, now, don’t you look nice. You been to church?”
“Yeah, we had dinner-on-the-grounds today.”
“Been a long time since I been to one of dem, but I remember all dat fine food. I was just getting ready to fry me up a couple of flapjacks. I ’spect you too full to join me.”
“Yeah, I’m stuffed. But I brought you a couple of pieces of fried chicken to go with your flapjacks.”
“Lawd have mercy,” Jake said as he unfolded the wax paper. “You be Mister Ted from now on. Bless yore little heart, Mister Ted. Why you do dis?”
I wanted to tell him that I had always been taught to offer a gift if you wanted something, and I did want something from him. I wanted answers, but I didn’t know how to explain this, so I just said, “I don’t know. Just saw all that food and thought you might like some.”
“You mind if I go ahead and eat dis chicken? Dem flapjacks can wait.”
“No. Go ahead.”
I watched while Jake ate his chicken, threw the bones into the fire, then wiped his hands on his handkerchief. Only then did I feel it was appropriate to question him. But the questions the preacher had raised could wait, because I had to know about the music. “Jake, you were playing your guitar and singing before I got here, weren’t you?”
“I sho was. You heard me?”
“I sure did.”
“You like it?”
“I liked it very much, but I never heard anything like it before. What kind of music was it?”
“Why, dem wuz de blues. I wuz singing de blues.”
“What in the world is the blues?”
“Well, now, dat’s kinda hard to explain, but I goings to try. De blues is something deeper dan a mood. It—it comes from heartache caused by want, need, hurt, loss, hard work, sacrifices, and things like dat.”
“Why would you want to sing about stuff like that?”
“You just full of questions today, and dat’s another tough one. I s’pose singing de blues kind of makes dose things not seem quite so bad, plus it’s a reminder that they do exist.”
“Can just black folks sing the blues?”
“Shoot no. White folks can sing ’em too. I’ve heard ’em do it.”
“Where do the songs come from?”
“I just makes ’em up as I go along.”
“How in the world do you do that?”
“I be happy to show you. Dis’ll be yo’ song. You just pick out a subject.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Sho you do. Pick out something like being hungry with no food, some kind of hard work, or—”
“How
