Sainted Memory

About Saintie

Among my most cherished early childhood recollections are those of a woman called Saintie.

One certainly would not have called her a black woman, as her skin was the most wonderfully warm and luminous soft brown. She could lay claim to being born of a slave who was brought to America from Africa, but the term “African-American” was not in my vocabulary, nor in hers.

It was the early 1950’s, in rural southern Alabama. If asked in those days, I would likely have responded (as was taught to me as seemly and meant most respectfully) that she was a gentle and lovely “nigra lady” who cared for my family – one whom we loved and thought of AS family.

There was so much about Saintie that to me was lyrical. So poetry is my only way to bring her once again to life, to provide some small insight into the beauty of her simple legacy. Please allow yourself to feel and enjoy her presence.

“Sainted Memory”

Most days
she made the trek to our house
arms laden with freshly laundered linens that
she’d taken home for ironing
sheen of moisture on her big and brown and years-lined face
ample bosom heaving slightly from
the long walk across the fields

Her choice, she’d say
to start her day with the joy of God’s creation

She would
sing while she worked
scrubbing hardwood floors, burnishing grandmother’s silver service,
plumping featherbeds
voice warm and deep and redolent of river baptisms and tent revivals

while our lavish theatrics of pirates or dragons or captive princesses
staged beneath the big old oak across the yard
were incongruously scored with strains of
“Swing Low… Sweet Chariot” or
“On a hill… far away stood an old… rugged cross”

Typical long-lived summery days

But, now and again the hours were graced with a special serendipity

Our gleeful hurry only slightly hampered by her lanolin grasp
tugging and cajoling her to greater haste
up the swept-clean path to her own tiny house

tarpaper walls atop random cinder blocks
sagging porch with splintery rails festooned with ribbons of trailing morning glory
where two old curs chased rabbits through their dreams in the shade

Within were
smells so rich and full

of cedar, and snuff, and wax, and rosewater, and herbs, and
lemon oiled wood
of yeasty loaves beneath embroidered cloth
of the morning’s ashes cold upon the hearth

We’d see her clever handiwork in bright and billowy curtains
in starched and curling crocheted scarves and elegant needlepoint
in the intricate patterns of cozy quilts upon the iron bed
in gleaming mismatched china cups and ancient polished brass

Lunch of gumbo, golden cornbread, freshly churned butter
savoring taste and texture

or maybe chicken and dumplings, salad greens, and fruit with clotted cream
with always icy water drawn from her creaking well

Then
lazily replete, piled on the quilts in the middle of her big soft bed
Saintie’s melodious voice a resonant orchestration for a vivid imagery
we’d bring to life the flowery names
lovingly, painstakingly penned in the yellowed pages of her treasured family bible

Years nurtured, not spent
rapt
before stories of valor of knavery of deprivation of plenty
of toil of tears of love of vengeance
of early death of wizened age of lofty goals attained
of grand dreams crushed

colorful history with no bane of color

Blissful
with our untutored yet learned mentor
servant by trade and training, almost literally by birth

She who enriched our lives beyond imagination

Our beloved and sainted Saintie
of cherished memory