She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Read Online Free

was soon to find out. The hand bell rang out, recess was declared, and we raced to the jungle gym and began our ascent from opposing sides so that we would meet at the very apex, leaving the other children behind and below. There was precious little time for me to spill, so breathlessly I rattled off as rapidly as possible every last detail of the illustrious anticipated festivities, my majestic involvement, and the imperative call for confidentiality. It’s a strange lesson to learn so young, but one man’s fortune is sometimes another’s fertilizer. Leann’s wide-eyed, incredulous stare met mine as she shuddered.
    “That’s
it?
That’s your big secret? You’re going to wear a tooty-fruity costume and give flowers to complete strangers, and
that
is supposed to be fun? Whoop-de-do! I’d rather clean erasers.”
    Stunned and shattered, I could only muster a paltry retort. “Oh yeah … well, I get to miss a whole day of school.”
    “That,” she replied, “could be rather groovy.”
    “No duh, but you can’t tell anyone. I mean it. Not Miss Fife. Not even your mom.”
    She promised, but said that she found the entire affair “rather silly” and “rather unimportant.”
    At quite a significantly early age, Leann had modeled her persona after Kay Thompson’s “Eloise.” She had a little pug dog like Eloise, and a turtle like Eloise, and frequently overused the word “rather,” just like the mischievous, bobby-socked heroine of the Plaza Hotel.
    Descending the monkey bars, I felt slightly relieved to have finally told someone, but dismayed by her reaction, disappointed that she hadn’t found my news “rather fantastic and rather extraordinary, don’t you know.” However, Leann always spoke her mind and always kept her promise.
    Finally the anticipated day, April 23, arrived, and by the time I woke up, Jay was already on the bus to school, Dad had dashed off to work, and Mom was in the painstaking process of “putting on her face,” while Oralea, now cooking breakfast, had come to help with the frantic preparations and organization of the day. She was a diminutive, speedy, and dynamic cocoa-complexioned lady witha smartly cropped Afro slightly graying at the temples. The early symptoms of osteoporosis had given her a slight hump and a bowing of the head, so that her dancing eyes always appeared to be looking upward, focused to the heavens. She was the most requested caterer at the finest catering company in New Orleans, and she met my parents while arranging the trays of hors d’oeuvres for their engagement party. They took an instant liking to each other, and had gotten along beautifully ever since. No party or special day was complete without Oralea, and when, in years to come, we moved into a big new home of my father’s design, she decided to work for our family full-time. Although my mother was the “lady of the house,” it was Oralea who singlehandedly ran the entire show. I idolized her amazing coiffeuring skills. Throughout the week, her hair would change in length, cut, and color. I didn’t know then that they were wigs; I just thought she was incredible.
    She made the best sunny side up eggs, coddled in a pan of butter, alongside creamy cheese grits slathered with even more butter, and thickly sliced salty Virginia fried ham. While I lapped it up, she reminded me of my manners, telling me to slow down, this home isn’t a barn, to use my fork and knife, that they weren’t put there just for decoration, and then coyly declared, “So, little mister, tonight’s parade’s the big affair, you’re going to get all done up and ride that big ol’ float with your Nan-Nan’s girl LeeLee. Honey child, every eye in the whole French Quarter is going to be fixed on you.”
    It suddenly occurred to me that while a minuscule partof me was a tad apprehensive of the approaching parade, the vast majority of my small soul was consumed with the idea of being the focus of hundreds, possibly thousands,