Read Online Katani's Jamaican Holiday by Annie Bryant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annie Bryant
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dressed up, and their skirts fell below the knee. I had to admit my blue dress was much more appropriate than a miniskirt. It seemed like church was a place to show off your best clothes. Some of the women wore hats in styles I had never seen. I had to bite the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing. Those hats were so baaad! One even looked like it had purple batwings coming out from the side.
Like Cousin Cecil, most of the men wore full suits, even though the sun already felt as hot as one of those big ovens in the Bliss Bakery. Selvin wasn’t wearing a jacket, though. I figured that he, like Olivia and me, liked to do his own thing.
We parked the truck at the bakery, and Selvin left us briefly to go into his house for something. Then we started walking up the narrow lane to the church. “It’s not too far,” Selvin promised.
Olivia whispered in my ear, “When a Jamaican tells you somewhere is ‘not too far’ or ‘just around the corner’—watchout!” Sure enough, the lane was about a mile long, I hoped Grandma’s shoes wouldn’t hurt. She had “very delicate feet,” which she was fond of telling us—a lot. I was glad I had put on comfortable sandals when I’d had to change my outfit.
We passed two small, rundown-looking houses before Olivia told me gleefully that the next house was Ol’ Madda Bird’s home. “Um, who?” I asked, completely bewildered.
Olivia slowed down, grabbed my hand and, lapsing into patois, whispered, “Ole Madda Bird, she blind. She come here long time ago. No one know where she came from, or anything about her.” I felt a chill go up my back.
“Every day, all she does is sit on her veranda carving birds out of wood. She lives alone except for a little mangy dog that barks every time anybody passes her house.”
“But how does she live?” I asked. “I mean, how does she get money and food and stuff?”
“Somebody comes and takes the birds to sell and brings her supplies and stuff. But nobody in the village really knows much about her,” Olivia continued. “She has some of the birds hanging on the veranda. Wait till you see them. We think she is a witch.”
“Olivia,” I hooted. “There are no such thing as witches, girl.”
Olivia giggled. “I know it, but you know, it’s fun to be afraid sometimes.”
We walked slowly, to let the adults get farther ahead. When we reached the house, which was set back a little way behind a ragged wire fence, Olivia bent down as if she were fixing her shoe, so that I could get a good look at Ol’ Madda Bird. The shabby little wooden house was surrounded by bushes and seemed a little sad. The morning sun had not yet reached it, so it was in shadow. On the veranda were severalwooden birds of different sizes, hanging from the ceiling, like an advertisement: “We like birds at this house.”
Even from this distance I could see that they were very beautiful. Fortunately I had managed to squeeze my camera and my notebook into the fancy purse I was carrying, so I could snap a pic and scribble a quick note.
The birds swayed and spun gently in a little breeze and seemed to be looking around as if they were watching all that went on. I guessed that’s one of the reasons why the children thought Ol’ Madda Bird was a witch and were afraid of her. Me, I could hardly believe that a blind woman could carve so well. I wished that Isabel were here with me now so she could see the beautiful art this old blind woman was creating. Of all the BSG, Isabel would appreciate what it took to make these birds.
Ol’ Madda Bird sat in an old wicker chair on the veranda. Her head was wrapped in a turban, and she wore a shawl around her shoulders even thought it was already about ninety degrees. She was carving on a piece of wood in her hand. She must have sensed that we had stopped and were staring at her, because she raised her head and seemed tolook straight at us through her very dark shades and called out, “Who is it? That you,
Like Cousin Cecil, most of the men wore full suits, even though the sun already felt as hot as one of those big ovens in the Bliss Bakery. Selvin wasn’t wearing a jacket, though. I figured that he, like Olivia and me, liked to do his own thing.
We parked the truck at the bakery, and Selvin left us briefly to go into his house for something. Then we started walking up the narrow lane to the church. “It’s not too far,” Selvin promised.
Olivia whispered in my ear, “When a Jamaican tells you somewhere is ‘not too far’ or ‘just around the corner’—watchout!” Sure enough, the lane was about a mile long, I hoped Grandma’s shoes wouldn’t hurt. She had “very delicate feet,” which she was fond of telling us—a lot. I was glad I had put on comfortable sandals when I’d had to change my outfit.
We passed two small, rundown-looking houses before Olivia told me gleefully that the next house was Ol’ Madda Bird’s home. “Um, who?” I asked, completely bewildered.
Olivia slowed down, grabbed my hand and, lapsing into patois, whispered, “Ole Madda Bird, she blind. She come here long time ago. No one know where she came from, or anything about her.” I felt a chill go up my back.
“Every day, all she does is sit on her veranda carving birds out of wood. She lives alone except for a little mangy dog that barks every time anybody passes her house.”
“But how does she live?” I asked. “I mean, how does she get money and food and stuff?”
“Somebody comes and takes the birds to sell and brings her supplies and stuff. But nobody in the village really knows much about her,” Olivia continued. “She has some of the birds hanging on the veranda. Wait till you see them. We think she is a witch.”
“Olivia,” I hooted. “There are no such thing as witches, girl.”
Olivia giggled. “I know it, but you know, it’s fun to be afraid sometimes.”
We walked slowly, to let the adults get farther ahead. When we reached the house, which was set back a little way behind a ragged wire fence, Olivia bent down as if she were fixing her shoe, so that I could get a good look at Ol’ Madda Bird. The shabby little wooden house was surrounded by bushes and seemed a little sad. The morning sun had not yet reached it, so it was in shadow. On the veranda were severalwooden birds of different sizes, hanging from the ceiling, like an advertisement: “We like birds at this house.”
Even from this distance I could see that they were very beautiful. Fortunately I had managed to squeeze my camera and my notebook into the fancy purse I was carrying, so I could snap a pic and scribble a quick note.
The birds swayed and spun gently in a little breeze and seemed to be looking around as if they were watching all that went on. I guessed that’s one of the reasons why the children thought Ol’ Madda Bird was a witch and were afraid of her. Me, I could hardly believe that a blind woman could carve so well. I wished that Isabel were here with me now so she could see the beautiful art this old blind woman was creating. Of all the BSG, Isabel would appreciate what it took to make these birds.
Ol’ Madda Bird sat in an old wicker chair on the veranda. Her head was wrapped in a turban, and she wore a shawl around her shoulders even thought it was already about ninety degrees. She was carving on a piece of wood in her hand. She must have sensed that we had stopped and were staring at her, because she raised her head and seemed tolook straight at us through her very dark shades and called out, “Who is it? That you,
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