just a little thing

This is a story about two Mothers, mine and a lady named Mrs. Johnson. But there’s way more involved than just a tale of two women.

For most of my early life I remember Mom had at least 18 long-sleeved white shirts per week to wash, starch, refrigerate overnight in a plastic bag, sprinkle, and iron. Long before the days of permanent press, she sat at the ironing board every Tuesday from just after the rest of the family left for work or school until lunchtime, when she started cooking whatever it was we would have for dinner, and then it was back to her chair and the electric iron that did not have a steam function but did have a wicked heavy black and white cord. As she ironed the shirts for Dad and my two brothers during the afternoon, she watched soap operas. Back then, most of the soaps were on for just fifteen minutes, with only a couple lasting for thirty. During the summers when I was out of school, watching her favorite as she sweated away in the back room of the un-air-conditioned shotgun house we called home, I learned about heartbreak and joy with long-suffering Nancy Hughes, Grandpa, Bob (the hard-working-good son) and Lisa (the scheming-conniving-lying-pouty-lipped-low-neckline-peignoir-wearing-oh-lord-how-I- wanted-her-wardrobe slut), and the rest of those usually endearing just like us but sometimes dastardly folks in Oakdale, IL.

As Mom got older, she was less and less able to do the chores around the house. My sister and I did most of them, but for a short time the ironing was accomplished by outside help. A wonderful woman named Missus Johnson (and, no, I never knew her first name) came each Tuesday to spend the morning in the den at the ironing board. It always gave me great pleasure to sit on the sofa and watch her work and listen to her sing gospel songs. I went to her home once, located on the “other side” of Georgia Road, down a little unpaved rocky crooked trail occupied on both sides by what we politely called “shanties.” Visiting Mrs. Johnson was a one-time-only thing, and thinking back I’m sure it had to do with Mom’s battle with ovarian cancer. During that visit I met Mrs. Johnson’s daughter. I sat out of the way in a plastic chair at their red-topped-chrome-legged kitchen table and looked with amazement at the myriad braids protruding from the little girl’s head, each tied at the end with a scrap of red ribbon. Well, there’s only so much you can do with looking around at your surroundings without looking like you’re looking around, and so I asked Maybelle if we could play with her dolls. She shook her head and said, in a no nonsense matter of fact tone of voice, “Don’t got no dolly.” I was aghast. In my world, every little girl had a least one doll to play with, most had several, including the one definitely not for play that was dressed in bridal splendor and sat glassy eyed upon my bed during the day.

We went back to my house at the appointed hour, me holding tightly to Mrs. Johnson’s callused hand as we crossed the busy street. I remember it felt so good I didn’t want to let go. And so, to humor me, she did not insist. Together we skipped down 52^nd Way, swinging our arms, singing Jesus Loves Me.

A couple of days later, I said to Mom, “Why doesn’t Maybelle have a doll?” “Who’s Maybelle?” Mom asked. “Mrs. Johnson’s daughter,” I answered. “I didn’t know she had a daughter,” Mom replied. “Oh, yes,” I continued, “Mrs. Johnson has to leave her at home by herself while she works, because there’s no one to watch her, but she says Maybelle is a good girl and never gets into any trouble. But when I asked her if we could play with her dolls, she told me she didn’t got a dolly. Why do you think that is?”

Mom was silent, lips set firmly together in a look I knew promised only bad news if I pursued the subject, so I dropped the idea of further discussion.

That Saturday afternoon, after Dad came home from collecting insurance premiums, the three of us got in the ’53 Plymouth and drove to the Downtown Birmingham Sears and Roebuck (or, as Dad called it, Sears and Rareback) located in what I always thought of as the end of the world. (The store was between 1^st and 2^nd Avenue North and 15^th and 16^th Streets.) Mom hobbled into the store, holding onto Dad’s arm for support, while I trailed along behind. The store was the biggest I’d ever been in and there were so many things to look at that I quite forgot who I was with, and Dad had to come find me. We left with Dad carrying a large paper bag and me holding onto Mom’s belt so I wouldn’t get lost again. Daddy put the bag in the trunk, but I remember he didn’t take it out when we got home. No, I didn’t ask what was in the bag; if I was meant to know, they’d tell me.
On Tuesday afternoon, when I got home from school, Mom called me into the big bedroom at the front of the house, handed me “the bag” and told me to give it to Mrs. Johnson after she finished the ironing. I confess, I peeked. In the bag was a beautiful bride doll, wearing a dress very similar to the one my own doll wore, complete with a flower circlet and tiny veil, and a little string of pearls around the dark brown neck.

I did as I was told. Mrs. Johnson opened the bag and looked in. The look of astonishment on her face was something I wish I could have captured for posterity. Now, frankly, I don’t remember if Mrs. Johnson ever came back to our house after that, but I will always remember that one particular day. It was the first time I ever saw someone laugh and cry at the same time.

In the grand scheme of things it was nothing big, just a little thing. Nobody covered it on the news. There were no selfies involved. Just two mothers, two daughters, two dolls, and one small act of kindness.  But they are all joined for eternity and the memory of it has affected my life's choices for these 60+ years. I've never told this story before; today seems like the perfect time.