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Delta Child By Shannon Rulé
From the age of three, I was reared at the edge of the cotton field. It was one of those new subdivisions where brick houses sprouted up like dandelions in dry dirt. Not a tree nor a blade of grass until they laid it in like squares of green carpet. I watched the cotton seeds as they were planted, grown, checked, sprayed, prayed over, cussed at, defoliated, and finally harvested. During the harvest time, the cotton picking machines went late into the night, those with lights did. Like miniature cities all lighted up against the blackness of the sky, unbroken by skylines or trees. Places there had names like Shelby and Shaw, Bourbon and Beulah, Sunflower and Marigold, Midnight and Grace. A hill meant the levee. The library was the William Alexander Percy Memorial Library. Our dances were called cotillions but that was later. Summers were long and hot just the way I liked them. Daily I sat on the curb waiting with my dime for the snow cone man as the jingle-jangle of his big square truck rounded the corner. I would yell out, “bubble gum, please.” That was a bright blue snow cone that left your lips and teeth blue all afternoon. It was good, cold, and sweet. That was a time when “going outside” was all the explanation that a mother needed. Near to the sundown hour, the fog machine came around that same corner to kill the swarms of mosquitoes. Every kid in the neighborhood ran with wild abandon into the fog; playing “hide and seek” and running into each other, laughing, and filling our lungs with DDT. Someone’s mother might holler out, “Don’t get too close now.” She meant to the flame that leaped out the back. There was no thought of the poison in the air. Afterwards a supper of pot roast, butter beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and this gosh-awful dessert my momma made. It was colorless, canned, fruit cocktail with graham crackers crumbled on top and a dollop of whipped cream sprayed from a can. The graham crackers got soggy. I can’t stand the sight of that colorless, canned, fruit cocktail to this day. Baked desserts were only for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Dashing out of the house in the moonlight, neighbor’ kids gathered for a game of kick-the-can. We played, sweated and laughed until the mothers one by one called everyone in. Some mothers had a special whistle that alerted their clan that our night game was over. Occasionally the moms would pull out webbed lawn chairs, circle up and talk while we played. Once I remember my momma was showing everyone she could still walk on her hands. When she came down she almost cut her toe off on a sharp can. I was still at the age where things like that didn’t bother me. Your momma walking on her hands. From the time I learned that girls and boys would marry, I announced that I was marrying a “rich Delta planter.” I stuck to my conviction for a long time and almost did. After graduation, I informed my momma that I wasn’t going to college. I was marrying the hopefully soon-to-be rich Delta planter. I sported a diamond ring on my finger to prove it. She said that I was going to college. With a big whine I persisted, “But I am not college material!” To which she responded resolutely, “You were salutatorian of your class. You are college material.” I went on to college. I lost the boyfriend, gave back the ring, got my degrees, perfected my speech, traveled foreign countries, lived in one, and eventually married a French speaking “foreigner”. Though I loved the South, especially the one that books are made of, I tried to bury it within me. Eventually I came home to my native South and brought the foreigner with me. I have since watched my “Southernisms” take on a life of their own. Occasionally I am tempted to give the Delta child that lives inside of me her very own name. For she has her own thoughts and language. I don’t ,however, for I fear that there may be more than just one. Visiting my Delta home I thought how beautiful it was. I was struck with the thought that you could see for miles and no one could sneak up on you. Why you could see them coming and serve dinner before they even reached the driveway. I have fallen in love with words like “butter bean” and use it at every opportunity. I slide it out across my tongue and let it linger in the air and watch people smile. To fully appreciate this you should say the word “butter” drawn out for about three seconds before you go on to “bean”. You should be sitting on the front porch or at least imagine yourself there. I say “near ‘bout”, “fixin’ to”, and “scared half-to death”. I understand that a “pool” just may mean a pond for swimming or fishing. “Can you pass the snap beans, please?” Once at a party in Montreal, Canada, I was telling a story and “slap dead” unexpectedly flew right out of my mouth. It brought the whole room to a halt like freeze frame on a VCR. Another time I was discussing the country of Israel. When I said Israel pronounced like “Is ril”, my foreigner husband asked me just where that country was? Long ago those words humiliated me; now they bring me comfort and rest. I think now it’s all in the coming back. It is not in the doing of life that is so enjoyable but the memories of the doing. The memories can be done over and over again. They grow sweeter and sweeter with time. They are expanded in parts and contracted in others and made more and more perfect as the days now swiftly pass. The goodness is in the remembering. And did I say, in the taste of fresh butter beans… on the front porch… on a hot, mid-summer’s day.”
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