A Legacy of Lines

It’s your 100th birthday.
I stare beyond the sheer green and white curtains of my bedroom window. They flutter in time with the leaves blowing on the tamarind tree in the backyard. Even with my failing eyesight I can still see all the ridges, creases and cracks in the dark brown bark. That’s what my skin looks like. The texture is different from the roughness of the tree though, much softer, as a result of using essential oils on a daily basis all my life. But after a century of living I am truly grateful that I have these marks. They tell a story that most people don’t live long enough to write.
Some people tell stories with their mouths using beautiful words. Others use their pens to craft novels and short stories. Me? My story is found in my skin. In every line, wrinkle and scar. They weave in an asymmetrical pattern to tell the tale of grit, courage and survival throughout my lifetime.
I sit up in bed and give the good Lord thanks for this day. My one hundredth birthday. I’ve seen it, heard it, lived it all. My family planned a party for me. That’s for them I’m sure, because what could I possibly want at my age? I have them around me. Kids, grand kids, great grands and a great great on the way. The best gift a centenarian could ever wish for. At least they know better than to make it a surprise. They made that grave mistake when I turned ninety and almost robbed me of my last ten years. I had a minor coronary.
I reflect on my life and admit to myself that despite the difficulties I faced I am a truly blessed woman. One of my earliest memories is of a short, curvy, mahogany-hued woman wearing a long-sleeved blue dress with an apron over it. She would pick me up and pat my back, sing this one song over and over again that I later came to learn was Amazing Grace.
One day I was reaching for her when her back was turned. She was stirring something in a huge black pot that smelled divine and I remember having this urge to go to her. So I started to toddle on legs like a man full in his cups. For the very first time. I stood behind her and said, “Mama” just like she taught me and she whipped around as fast as The Concord taking off with the ladle still in hand. She wasn’t expecting to see me right behind her though. And some of the stew on the ladle dropped right on the big toe of my left foot. I screamed something fierce. I don’t quite recall what happened next but that is the first scar I got on my body.
“Edna Marie Johnson don’t you dare climb up that tree, young lady!” I heard my mother saying in her stern no nonsense voice. It was December 17, 1918, the day of my sixth birthday. Mama was trying to bake me a cake and get dinner ready for us. And by us I mean me, Mama and my Daddy. I didn’t remember him much at that time. He left to go to fight during World War I when I was just two years old. He came back the day before my birthday.
I remember staring up at a tall honey-coloured gentleman with thick black hair and a trim beard. He had one dimple in his cheek that matched mine exactly. Mama leaned down to me and said, “I know it was just us for a long time Edna. But your Daddy is back and you have to learn to listen to him like you listen to me. Now go hug him and tell him you love him.” His beaming smile encouraged me to make the necessary steps over to his side. He stooped down to my level and squeezed me like he was trying to get the last of the toothpaste out of the pouch. I fell in love with the first important man in my life on that day.
He was a strong soldier. Brave and daring. I wanted to be just like him, my Daddy that I didn’t even remember. I couldn’t go to war but I could climb trees. Even though Mama warned me not to. So I did. I don’t even really remember slipping. I just remember the thud that jarred my body and the crack that sounded like Mama snapping green beans. I spent my sixth birthday in the hospital. The cast came off six weeks later but the jagged scar on my right arm remained to this day.
“Grammie,” I hear a soft voice say from my doorway. I’m disturbed from my musings as I look up at my only great grand daughter Aria. It’s like a throwback to some eight decades ago when I was her age. My eyes travel over her physique to her outfit and that’s where the similarities end.
“You young people have no pride, Aria. Not even the poorest person in my neighbourhood allowed threadbare clothing to be seen by all and sundry on the road.” The disgust in my voice is evident as I stare at her knees and upper right thigh through her jeans.
Her head goes back and the laugh that never fails to warm my old bones rings through the room. She waddles over to me and kisses me on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Grammie. Have a lovely day.”
She picks up some coconut oil, a comb and my hairbrush and starts working on my corn rows for the party. We live in the cocoon of silence that’s warm and comforting between people who know and love each other. When the last plait is in place she puts down her tools, stares into the eyes that are so much like her own and gently traces the deep creases on the outside of my dark brown eyes. Laugh lines I call them. They were put there by the man that caught my attention when I was nineteen years old. He was five years older, a mechanic by the name of Charles Turner. We married in 1935. He was big and strong with a voracious appetite — in all things. Our union produced five children, four boys and one girl.
We were happy. But then the world decided it needed another war to settle its problems. Just like my Daddy my Charlie went to war. He left in 1942, four months after the twins were born. He never came back and left me a widow at thirty years old with five children under the age of seven.
My mouth tightens briefly as I reflect on that difficult period. The deep grooves around my mouth started to become etched into my face during that time. They never left.
“What’s wrong, Grammie?” Aria’s voice is a welcome intrusion on those dark thoughts.
I pat her hand gently. “Nothing baby. After one hundred years of living you learn nothing’s never right nor wrong. It just is and we do the best we can while we can with God’s help. You remember that, child.” I stare pointedly at her rounded stomach which is housing my great great grand daughter. I hope I get to see her. She’ll be the last of my blood I would hold and love before I leave this earth. Of that I’m certain. If only I can hold on another two months. I pray that she doesn’t have any difficulties with the birth.
Almost unconsciously my hand traces over my lower stomach to the scar that came from my girl Ruby. She was breached and I had to be cut open to get her out. I should have known her start in life was an indicator of how much trouble she would be. I shake my head at the memories of trying to raise my kids on my own. They were respectful and hardworking but Ruby couldn’t resist trouble. And it usually came on two legs with a deep voice and a truckload of muscles. Had she listened to me she wouldn’t have left the land of the living after taking a spill from the back of Henry Greene’s motorcycle. That was in 1970. I collapsed when I got the news and opened my forehead on the corner of the dining room table before I went down. Another scar. Another badge to show I had lived, suffered but survived.
I slam shut and lock the door on those painful memories. Envisioning the sea of forgetfulness that God had assured me my sins went to, I throw that key into those waters for the day.
Aria helps me get ready. I wear a fine peach gown with my white stockings and white sandals. A lovely white hat trimmed with a big bow on the side sits atop my freshly coiffed hair. This is the dress I wore to Daniel’s — Aria’s oldest brother — wedding just three months prior.
“Here’s your cane, Grammie,” I hear to my left. My vision is receding like my last boy’s almost non-existent hairline but my ears are sharper than a needle. Already I can hear the noise level rise, a strong indicator that the house is filling up with my legacy. Mine and Charlie’s, God rest his soul. It took over seventy years but I will soon see him again and I take comfort in that. But not today. Not even for at least another two months, God willing, until I cradle that baby girl in my arms. Then the Lord could take me home.
We move at a pace that would make a slug laugh but slow and steady wins the race. I make my way into the dining room and my already slow progress is hampered by my blood surrounding me, hugging me, smothering me with kisses. The sweetest song ever goes to the tune of “Ma” sung by three male voices. My boy Robert died from cancer in 1993, leaving his twin brother Edward as well as Michael and James. It mixes with “Nana” from my ten beautiful grand babies. All of them are still alive. It is followed by masculine blends of “Grams” from my seven male great grands. Aria is the only one who calls me “Grammie”. They are all joined by their spouses and significant others who offer up the same sentiments.
I finally settle into my old rocking chair in the corner of the TV room and breathe a sigh of relief. I thought I had worked hard as a seamstress throughout my life but this short walk is arduous for this little old lady. The journey to my seat reminds me of the frailty of life and how close I am to the end of my rope.
I watch the extension of myself spread across the room and I’m reminded of the ripples created in gentle waves by skimming a small stone across the water. Eventually the stone sinks but the ripples continue after.
There is a book press next to me that displays some of our memories captured over the years. I spend many days looking at them and reminiscing over life, the good days and the bad ones as well. We need them both or it wouldn’t be called life I suppose. I reach for the wedding picture of me and Charlie that sits in the middle of them all. Eyes fixed on the features forever stamped on my heart and soul, I feel his strong hand around my waist, smell his fresh sandalwood scent and hear his booming voice telling me to smile for the photographer.
It seems as though the closer I get to the end of my cycle the more I remember the beginning of it. We started all of this. I think of his war wounds and what he’ll have to tell me about his story. I consider mine, too numerous to count, more internal than what’s seen on the outside. I can’t wait to show him all that he missed. “Happy birthday Edna Marie Turner,” I whisper to myself with pride. “You did good.” I survey the room again filled with a plethora of ages, colours and voices and repeat to myself, “You did real good.”
Renée Padmore is a primary school teacher and writer. She currently resides in her native island of Barbados and enjoys writing music as well as leading worship at home, across the Caribbean and in the USA with her husband Brian. To learn more visit brianpadmore.info.
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