dontravis.com
blog post #495
Courtesy of Dream Time
Thanks for your comments regarding last week’s post about a computer scam I fell victim to. Apparently some of you have had similar painful experiences.
This week, I wanted to give you a second peek at Donald T. Morgan’s novel, Miasma. As was I, Don was raised in Oklahoma, and his writing certainly revives memories of my birthplace.
On November 5 of last year, we gave you a peek at the prologue and first chapter. Same warning as last time: some of you might take offense at some of the language, but it sounds true to my ear as a reflection of those times. In this selected reading from Chapter 2, the little girl confronts the old White man who lives on the hill. She doesn’t know it yet, but at that moment, her life takes a dramatic turn.
To give a little background, ten-year-old Miasma has gone downtown to the white part of Horseshoe Bend, Oklahoma to pick up the mail and go to the library where she’s previously discovered the librarian Miz Loring doesn’t object to occasional Colored patrons. On her way home, she is loaded down with the mail, a Montgomery Ward catalogue, and a magazine from the library. As usual, she sings as she walks, partially because she likes singing and partially to hide her fear of being outside the confines of the more familiar Colored Town. The Tizzie mentioned is her best friend Letitia Dean, more commonly called Tizzie or Tiz.
****
MIASMA
By Donald T. Morgan
Miasma was puffing a little and not singing at all by the time she approached the big white house. The old man was still there, but he was sitting in a rocker on the porch. For the first time, she realized the house didn’t face the road, it sat facing the side street. She glanced around. All of them did on this stretch of her journey, presenting a side view of the houses.
She saw the very minute he
spotted her. He sort of started in his chair before getting up and tripping
down the steps to wave her over.
Miasma’s stomach did a funny
little dip. Maybe she oughta play like she didn’t notice, but then he called
out, and she had no excuse. Butterflies replaced the empty feeling in her gut
as she altered her steps. If The Man told you to do something, you did it or
you bugged out and made sure to never see him again.
She stepped onto the side
street and walked along the verge between the man’s fence and the embankment that
dropped down to the road she’d been walking. She halted in front of him with
the wire fence between them.
“Yessir?”
“I wanted to tell you that you
have a marvelous voice. Don’t ever stop singing. It gives me a great deal of
pleasure, as I’m sure it does many others. Sunday mornings, I sit out here on
the porch and listen to the choir in the church at the bottom of the hill.
Lovely music. At times I imagine I hear your voice among them. Do you sing in
the choir?”
“Yessir.”
“What’s your name, child?”
Miasma Elderberry, sir.”
The man looked startled for a
moment before smiling broadly. “Lovely name for a lovely young lady. My word,
that looks like a heavy load you’re carrying.”
She shifted the cumbersome book
to the other hand, almost dropping the February edition of the library’s
magazine. “Yessir.”
“Is that a Montgomery Ward catalogue?”
After she nodded, he went on. “Ah, Monkey Ward’s wish book. Do you look through
it and dream?”
She shook her head. “It’s for
my mama.”
“Does she buy from it?”
“Uh-uh. She just looks and
wishes. Don’t know why.”
He tapped his nose. “Let me
take a guess, Miasma. You’re a reader, aren’t you? I see you have a National
Geographic there. Do you read that?”
She nodded.
“And why do you read it? Are
you looking for places to go?”
“No. But maybe someday.”
He smiled. “And it’s like that
for your mother. She reads the wish book because for a few minutes she’s in
another place.”
Her mouth dropped. That made a
lota sense and raised the fine hairs on her arms. Mama escaped their little
house just like she did.
“As to your awkward load, if
you’ll wait here for a minute, I think I can help. Will you do that?”
“Yessir. Uh, what’s yours?
“My what?”
“Your name.”
He doffed his hat. “Excuse my
rudeness, Miasma. My name is Horace Parsley. Most people call me Ace. Can you
do that?”
“No, sir, but I can call you
Mista Ace.”
He beamed. “How wonderful. I
like that. Mr. Ace. I surely do.” He hesitated. “How old are you?”
“Turned ten last month.”
“A May baby. Delightful.”
She studied him as he walked
to the house. Nice looking man despite the wrinkles. ‘Bout as tall as she
imagined her daddy would be. How old was he? She shook her head. Could be
fifty, could be eighty. She could never tell about a Whitey.
A few minutes later, he came
out of the house and handed her a green canvas satchel with a strap that went
over the shoulder. “Put everything in this, and it’ll make it easier to carry.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll bring it
back when—”
“It’s yours, Miasma. It’ll
make your books easier to carry when school opens next fall.”
“Yes, sir. It will.”
“And now,” he said. “Here’s
something in honor of a very important birthday. Everyone’s tenth birthday
should be special.” He held out his hand and opened it.
Miasma’s breath deserted her.
She felt like she was drowning. A piece of jewelry rested in his palm. A pin
fashioned as two musical notes, one white and the other yellow. Clear stones
and green stones alternated down the center of each, catching the light and
glistening when he moved. When she finally drew enough air, she whispered. “I
couldn’t.”
“Of course, you can. It’s
Age’s gift to Youth.” He clasped her hand and placed the pin in it. “The green
stones are emeralds, and the white stones are diamonds. Emeralds are your
birthstone. Every girl should have something with her birthstone on it.”
“Diamonds? Emeralds.”
He laughed, and it was a good
sound. “They’re chips. Not worth much except as sentimental value. But one note
of the pin is sterling silver and the other eighteen carat gold. I ought to
know. I made it myself.”
She examined the glittering
pin in her hand. “You made it?”
“Oh yes. I’m a jeweler, you
know. Or was. Sold my store a year or so ago.”
“You had a whole store full of
jewelry?”
“Yes, indeed. But all that’s
in the past. I have a few pieces left to remind me of my former life, but I’m
retired now.”
Her heart about went crazy.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Now, now. No more sirs. You
know my name, use it.”
“Thank you, Mista Ace. Thank
you again and again.”
“Now put it in your satchel
and take good care of it. Whenever you wear it, sing your heart out.”
She left feeling like she was
going to faint. One side of her head fought with the other. Was it all right to
take a gift from the man? Nobody did something for nothing. What did he want
from her? She wrinkled her nose. Liked her singing, he’d said. She shrugged. Oh
well, she had a good feeling about the old man. He had a good heart. She was
sure of that. He didn’t leave her cringing on the inside like when she talked
to most Whities.
At least her load was made easier
by the satchel. The bag was great, but the pin! It was wonderful. She bet most
of the White girls—those that stuck their tongue out at her downtown—didn’t
have nothing so fine. Tizzie was going to be jealous. Miasma smiled and broke
out into song. Tizzie would get over it.
****
Voices
and people from my own past. I can hear them and see them clearly. I enjoyed
the read. Hope you did too.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!
A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter:
@dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
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