| Aunt Lee was my grandmother. Everyone called her Aunt Lee. She was born in 1900 but we were never sure of the exact date so we celebrated her birthday on January 1. She was born in Barbados, West Indies and moved to New York City as a young woman to be with my grandfather Papa who was also from Barbados. But Papa had left Barbados many years before to work in assorted places to earn enough money to send home to Barbados to his family. His last job before moving to New York was as a teacher in Panama during the building of the Panama Canal. Aunt Lee was six feet tall with hair like grey corn silk glistening in the morning sun. Her eyes were shaped like almonds and she often looked off into the distance with her nostrils flaring slightly as though she could see and smell Barbados from the small apartment in Harlem, New York where she, Papa, my Aunt Marian, my mother, my father and I lived. Our Harlem address was 480 Convent Avenue. Iroquois was the name of the building. The Algonquin was the next building over. The names of the Indian nations were carved in the stone above the doorways of the buildings. My mother, father and I moved to the Lower East Side of New York when I was about three years old. The Jacob Riis Housing Projects were believed to be the next step towards owning a little house in the Bronx, Brooklyn or Queens, but that never happened for my family or countless families like mine. But that is another story. Aunt Lee's hands were gentle enough to caress the face of a newborn baby without waking her, and I also imagined that they were strong enough to simultaneously pull five stalks of sugar cane from the Barbadian earth without leaving a trace that they had ever been there. Aunt Lee's complexion was the color of sweet potato pie and her whispers filled my world with the light, delicious imagined fragrance of freshly ground cinnamon. Aunt Lee taught me the importance of knowing how to shift gears to meet situations instead of staying stuck in one mode. For example, I remember going to the ice cream shop with her one fine spring day. Aunt Lee engaged in pleasant conversation with everyone she came in contact with. She seemed to know the intimate little details of their lives and she listened when they talked -- really listened. Never in hurry. She was a kind, thoughtful and genuine woman. When we returned to her apartment building after ice cream, Aunt Lee stopped at her mailbox in the lobby of her apartment building, opened it, removed a large oval stone and wrapped her fingers around it making a formidable fist. I asked why she put a rock in her hand and she answered matter-of-factly that, "If that bitch on the third floor gives me any crap today I'm going to knock her teeth out." Well, the lady on the third floor didn't bother Aunt Lee that day or any other day as far as I know. I continued to spend week-ends and holiday vacations with Aunt Lee and Papa in their Harlem apartment long after my mother, father and I moved to the projects. Those were magical times. There was a little wooden map of Barbados in a stand that sat on top of the radio back in the days when radios were enormous and considered pieces of furniture. On nights when I stayed over, Aunt Lee had the habit of waking me hours before the city began to quake and rumble. I slept on the couch in the living room just on the other side of the French doors to Aunt Lee and Papa's bedroom. Aunt Lee and I would walk through the sleepy neighborhoods that were bathed in the incredible indigo that permeated Harlem at that hour. Our destination was the park that stretched along the Hudson River. Aunt Lee was always mysterious silent when we first reached the river. I knew that she was thinking about home, about Barbados. I gazed at the spaces between the gentle waves that were beginning to take on the color of the rising sun. Aunt Lee would begin to speak softly as I continued to stare at the river. I could actually see Barbados on those magical mornings. I saw the flying fish rollicking in the Caribbean and darting in and out of the morning fog. I saw Aunt Lee diving for what she called sea eggs and other gifts from the sea. On our walk back to 480 Convent Avenue, Aunt Lee would recite her favorite poems and psalms, and share little bits of wisdom that sustain me to this day. A couple of weeks before Christmas, Aunt Lee would always take me to Gimbel's and Macy's department stores to pick out a new suit of overcoat. When I was very young I used to feel a little guilty about these shopping trips because I knew that Aunt Lee didn't really have that much money. One day she explained to me that Christmas was a special time and that I was not to worry about money. She would tell me, "We squeeze our pennies fifty-five weeks a year. There should be one week when you can get what you want." I accepted Aunt Lee's explanation the same way I accepted her call to wake up and get dressed while the sun was still asleep. When I picked out a suit or coat that had a reasonable price tag Aunt Lee would look at me and ask if that was what I really wanted. I couldn't lie so I would wind up with these incredibly exquisite articles of clothing. The suits usually fit pretty well, but not perfectly. Aunt Lee had the little Gimbel's tailor follow us around with his measuring tape draped around his neck. I would stand up on the platform and he would make the necessary marks for alteration with tailor's chalk. I felt like I was the prince of Gimbel's, and I was. Aunt Lee died in the summer of 1973. The plane ride from Wisconsin to New York was long and sad. After the funeral my mother handed me a tattered pale green bank book. The name "Lang Kenneth Haynes" was on the cover. The account was started on March 11, 1949, my birthday. Through all of her money struggles, caring for other people's children, cooking in their kitchens and mopping their floors, the only withdrawals that were made from my account occurred about two weeks before Christmas for the years 1950 through 1972. It has been many years since Aunt Lee passed from this earth but not a day goes by without my thinking about her. Thank you for the opportunity to share a little of my grandmother with you during Women's History Month. |
| Simple things/Lang Kenneth Haynes Not a day |
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