Genre

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Reminiscence: Clorey Passed Away

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1

I was born in the early 1940s in Texas. I lived with my family in the same house until, at 18 years old, I went away 1,100 miles to college. Among my earliest memories are recollections of “Clorey.”

(Note: I have no idea how she spelled her name, but this spelling captures what it sounded like to me as a kid.)

My family was not badly off financially, although Dad – who was an academic - had to borrow against his life insurance every July or August when he had no regular paycheck coming in. We were among the last of my friends to get a t. v. in our home and always bought used cars (sometimes not really “gently used” at that). Mother managed household and incidental expenses carefully to stay within a budget. So, we may have been comfortable enough, but we also may have lived close to the bottom threshold of that status.

Even in our neighborhood, however, and in fact among most of the families of my friends, households typically had hired help: at least – like our family – an occasional “yard man” and a part-time maid. That remained true in our case right up until my mother’s death in 2001. In that year, the same African-American woman who had come to work for my mom at least 20 years earlier was still coming over twice a week in the morning to dust and vacuum, help with the laundry, and so on; and the same African-American man who had come for a long time to mow the lawn, rake the leaves, and so on, was still coming by once a month.

2

Clorey was our maid when I was growing up. I have the impression that as a toddler and young child, I spent about as much time with Clorey as I did with my mother.

I remember Clorey’s changing the bed clothes and throwing them with the other laundry into the big basket in the hall closet, and heaving the whole pile of them down the stairs. I remember Clorey and Mother hauling the clunky, bulbous washing machine out from behind the kitchen table, hooking it up to the kitchen sink faucet, stirring in “bluing” with a thick stick, doing something about starch, and eventually hauling the wet clothes in a big basket out the kitchen door and down the steps to the gravel driveway, to the gate in the chain-link fence, and on to the rear of the backyard, where Clorey hung the wet clothes on the line. I remember the wooden clothes pins, some of them in Clorey’s mouth, as she worked.

I believe that Mother did most of the food preparation, but on occasion Clorey would make me a peanut butter sandwich. (I don’t remember jelly and still prefer peanut butter sandwiches without it, to my wife’s consistent surprise.)

I don’t think I ever accompanied Clorey in the hot afternoons when she shuffled up the street, joined one by one by other maids from other houses as they made their way to wait at the corner for the bus heading downtown to Sixth Street, where I later learned they would change buses outside the Woolworth’s store to head on to their homes in East Austin.

I have a clear memory of Clorey’s hands and feet, and of the way she talked. She was a big woman - well “fat” would be fair to say - a fact emphasized by the contrast with my mother who was not thin by any definition but who was less than five feet tall and seemed tiny compared to most adults. (She also wore a girdle every day, while Clorey did not.) Clorey’s skin was quite a bit lighter than the nearly-black skin of John the yardman, whose young son John Jr he brought with him sometimes, to play with me. Clorey had a few white spots on her hands, feet, and neck, just as my mother later developed dark spots on her hands, which we called “liver spots.”

Clorey’s feet gave her pain, as even I as a small child could tell. Her feet were wide and flat. She padded around, puffing a little, sighing now and then. She always shuffled, in slippers. She may even have worn her slippers out in the street and on the bus; I don’t remember shoes at all.

3

When Clorey died, I was maybe 10 years old. For my parents, her death raised several tough questions about our attending the funeral. Even though I was certainly not part of the conversation, I remember sensing that Mother and Dad were struggling about it. On the one hand, this was Clorey, an integral member of our family for a goodly number of years, maybe particularly close to little “Byron”; on the other hand, I was only a small child and besides had never been to anyone’s funeral. Would the funeral only intensify my grief?

Also, the ceremony would be in Clorey’s home church, in the African-Americans’ part of town; would her white employers be welcome? Would we be a distraction from the solemn rites she deserved?

They couldn’t ask just what the impact of Clorey’s dying was on me, of course. But I believe this was my point of view: Clorey was there one day as usual; then she wasn’t there the next day. That was like a Saturday or Sunday. It was like afternoons and evenings too. Also, I had a little more of my mother’s attention after Clorey died. These may or may not have been the reasons, but the fact is, for whatever reason I don’t recall feeling any grief.

Well, the final decision was for me to go to the funeral after all. My older sister must have gone too, but I don’t remember that. Although I don’t think the experience “scarred me for life,” or anything like that, I certainly do remember it.

4

We were naturally dressed up in our best Sunday clothes. (It was not a time for anyone to be comfortable, in any way.) And it was dreadfully hot, as hot and humid as late August. We were all sweating a lot.

It was in a little white clapboard church on a dusty, unpaved street on a hillside, in a neighborhood of small modest wooden houses without much room for yards. A lot of people were making their way towards the church; we parked a couple of blocks away, uphill of the church. Boy, it was hot!

This was the first time I had seen the little fans stapled onto wooden sticks sort of like long tongue depressors. We were each given one when we entered the church. There were still people behind us, but the little sanctuary was already packed. The folks on the back row made room for us. Did they know who we were or why we were there? No one addressed us; everyone was polite. I think they may have been pleased we had come; my dad often seemed to find a way of “doing the right thing” in ways that surprised and impressed people.

As for me, I was mainly fascinated by that brightly colored fan. It had a Biblical scene pictured on one side; I recognized that type of picture from the story books they had us read in Sunday School. On the other side were lots of words printed in short lines centered on the page, one above the other, poems, from the psalms perhaps. Everyone around us was fanning themselves. I did likewise; it made a little breeze.

We were the only white people in the room, and by now the place was jammed, every corner, every aisle. In the front before the altar was a long box, Corey’s coffin though I didn’t even know what a coffin was. I knew we were there for Clorey’s funeral, and what a funeral was must have already been explained to me by then. I knew that Clorey was in that box.

I am sure there must have been a minister in some sort of gown, and he must have spoken. We must have sung hymns. But what I remember was the intense heat, the fact that everyone was wailing and crying, and the way that every so often, someone would cry out and wave their hands. With Mother and Dad on either side of me, I wasn’t frightened, but I was excited. How could you help being excited?

I don’t remember what all the service was, but the last thing that happened was that people from the congregation started coming from the right side down front and walking by the coffin. They would look inside and cry more. Some of them would shout out and hold their heads. Some had to be helped along so that they didn’t fall down, overcome with sadness. My parents must have been trying to decide whether we would go down too.

Then some of the ladies who were about Clorey’s age started to reach into the coffin. At least once, one of them grabbed up the body inside and hugged it, crying and shouting out. They were hugging Clorey, I knew.

My father led us down the crowded aisle when it seemed to be our turn. He lifted me up to look in. Yes, that was Clorey. She had her eyes closed. We moved on.

5

It was a little cooler outside than it had been in the church by the end. The other folks were shaking hands with one another, the women hugging each other. No one seemed as emotional anymore, but they were still sad. We must have been too. I don’t think anyone spoke to us, but many of them nodded solemnly as we walked by.

I still had my fan with me.

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