episode, Aunt Sophie becalmed herself a little and entered into the spirit of the season. After all, she must supervise the blowing up of hog bladders for children to pop over the fires; there were her slaves who would sing for her company and they had to be practiced; not to mention baking to be done, turkeys to be readied, and dances to be planned.
W E WENT home with Ma and Pa after two days to keep our own Christmas. And so Sis Goose and I had to ride out again to get the holly and evergreens. We popped the corn to string on the tree, the tree that Sam the overseer brought in because Gabe never made it home in time. Part of that holiday included the visit Sis Goose and I paid to the hoodoo woman.
Every Christmas season it was our job to bring Mercy Love her gifts. Pa picked out what she was to have because all year long she kept him apprised of what the weather would be. Several times a year, when the sky was blue, he'd take up his cane and put on his best frock coat and cravat and walk down to the quarters to visit Mercy Love. Sometimes Sis Goose and I would go with him, one on
each side, holding his arms. But we'd wait outside the small log cabin, if we went along, for him to come out.
"Rain," she'd tell him. "Lots of rain. The moon is tilted downward so the water can come out."
"In how many days?" Pa would ask. And she'd answer, "Count the number of stars in the halo around the moon."
She was always right, Pa said. You could set your clock by her predictions, whether they be about storms or drought. To a cotton and wheat and corn planter, this meant more than gold.
So Christmastime Sis Goose and I took her tokens of appreciation from Pa. Actually, he kept her supplied regular-like in shanks of ham and bacon and a possum or two for her pot, potatoes and sorghum, and even rum. She especially liked rum.
This year we took a ham bundled in burlap, a side of bacon, and a heap of sugar cookies. She ate like a ranchhand, that woman, and she was the skinniest little bit of a thing.
She kept an owl in her cabin. Her husband had long since died and she said she buried him standing up and facing west, with his jug of corn likker at his feet.
I don't know where she got it, but when we visited she always had candy for us. Peppermint and wintergreen.
Her small log house was surrounded with hedgerows of Cherokee roses, an evergreen with the sharpest of thorns. No animal or human could get through unless you knew
the place on the side where there was a break in the hedgerows and you could shimmy through sideways.
Of course she could see the future. That goes without saying. She did it with cards or with tea or by reading your palm. I got the feeling they were only props and it all just came inside her head.
This time it was still early in the day, but the darkness was already threatening. She had candles lighted all over her cabin. And seated on the table, right next to her, was Sasquatch. He peered at us with eyes as impenetrable as a backwoods swamp. He was a snowy owl. I'd looked him up in one of Pa's books. His Latin name was
Nyctea scandiaca.
And he was a rare bird that sometimes honored Texas with his appearance.
He ruffled his feathers and raised his wings, showing off his wingspan.
He would never fly again. He'd come to her with a broken wing, which she'd mended. But whether it was not mended right or he refused to leave her, she would never know.
"Like with some people," she told us, "it's better we don't know."
She wore something black that draped around her and she smiled at Sis Goose. "How you doin', little girl?"
"I'm fine, ma'am."
She would not take her eyes off Sis Goose. It was like I didn't exist.
Today she was reading tea leaves. And as she peered at them in the bottom of the cup she said to Sis Goose quietly, "You ready to meet your papa?"
Sis Goose smiled. "I haven't seen him since I was a knee baby. Why would I see him now?"
"Only he knows that. Maybe he come to fetch you home."
"I don't
W E WENT home with Ma and Pa after two days to keep our own Christmas. And so Sis Goose and I had to ride out again to get the holly and evergreens. We popped the corn to string on the tree, the tree that Sam the overseer brought in because Gabe never made it home in time. Part of that holiday included the visit Sis Goose and I paid to the hoodoo woman.
Every Christmas season it was our job to bring Mercy Love her gifts. Pa picked out what she was to have because all year long she kept him apprised of what the weather would be. Several times a year, when the sky was blue, he'd take up his cane and put on his best frock coat and cravat and walk down to the quarters to visit Mercy Love. Sometimes Sis Goose and I would go with him, one on
each side, holding his arms. But we'd wait outside the small log cabin, if we went along, for him to come out.
"Rain," she'd tell him. "Lots of rain. The moon is tilted downward so the water can come out."
"In how many days?" Pa would ask. And she'd answer, "Count the number of stars in the halo around the moon."
She was always right, Pa said. You could set your clock by her predictions, whether they be about storms or drought. To a cotton and wheat and corn planter, this meant more than gold.
So Christmastime Sis Goose and I took her tokens of appreciation from Pa. Actually, he kept her supplied regular-like in shanks of ham and bacon and a possum or two for her pot, potatoes and sorghum, and even rum. She especially liked rum.
This year we took a ham bundled in burlap, a side of bacon, and a heap of sugar cookies. She ate like a ranchhand, that woman, and she was the skinniest little bit of a thing.
She kept an owl in her cabin. Her husband had long since died and she said she buried him standing up and facing west, with his jug of corn likker at his feet.
I don't know where she got it, but when we visited she always had candy for us. Peppermint and wintergreen.
Her small log house was surrounded with hedgerows of Cherokee roses, an evergreen with the sharpest of thorns. No animal or human could get through unless you knew
the place on the side where there was a break in the hedgerows and you could shimmy through sideways.
Of course she could see the future. That goes without saying. She did it with cards or with tea or by reading your palm. I got the feeling they were only props and it all just came inside her head.
This time it was still early in the day, but the darkness was already threatening. She had candles lighted all over her cabin. And seated on the table, right next to her, was Sasquatch. He peered at us with eyes as impenetrable as a backwoods swamp. He was a snowy owl. I'd looked him up in one of Pa's books. His Latin name was
Nyctea scandiaca.
And he was a rare bird that sometimes honored Texas with his appearance.
He ruffled his feathers and raised his wings, showing off his wingspan.
He would never fly again. He'd come to her with a broken wing, which she'd mended. But whether it was not mended right or he refused to leave her, she would never know.
"Like with some people," she told us, "it's better we don't know."
She wore something black that draped around her and she smiled at Sis Goose. "How you doin', little girl?"
"I'm fine, ma'am."
She would not take her eyes off Sis Goose. It was like I didn't exist.
Today she was reading tea leaves. And as she peered at them in the bottom of the cup she said to Sis Goose quietly, "You ready to meet your papa?"
Sis Goose smiled. "I haven't seen him since I was a knee baby. Why would I see him now?"
"Only he knows that. Maybe he come to fetch you home."
"I don't
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