May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

Prologue: The Stitchin

The historical events and characters depicted in this novel are presented with as much accuracy as possible. Inasmuch as the fictional characters that make up this story are placed within the context of non-fictional events, creative liberties have been taken.

Gertie’s settin in her chair, th’rickety one what makes more noise than a old sycamore tree tryin t’stay up in a storm, an she’s at her stitchin again, same as she is most nights, no matter how tired she get. An there’s you watchin her, same as always, only littler now, only ten years old or roundabout. Still you tired like you always is now that you gots t’work in th’fields all day long, steada th’part days you usedta work
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Gertie works more’n anyone on th’place same as ever, at it ’fore sunup, cookin oatmeal or cornbread or th’sometimes bacon Massa Wilkens gives for th’field han’s breakfas’. She don’ make you get up wit her no mo’ t’help out, not since you started workin th’fields all day long, now that you ten. So Gertie gotta go to th’well an get th’water herself these days, then do th’cookin, then watch after th’littlest ones while she’s makin th’midday an evenin meals all th’while. An still, all that don’t matter none when it comes to her stitchin … they’s always time fo’ that
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Ain’t but a trickle a’light comin from what’s left of th’fire, first real one of th’season now that it’s gettin on harves’ time. Still, she’s pullin that needle through, th’big needle wit th’eye fat enough so she can thread it now, now that her eyes ain’t what they was. An you lay on your bed, not so tired as usual since maybe it’s Sunday an there ain’t been any workin in th’fields today. So you lay there an watch Gertie insteada sleepin straight off, listnin to her hummin … doin her stitchin. She got her bad leg propped up on a pilla on
toppa th’stool, got her bad arm, wit th’scars burnt wrist t’elbow, holdin th’circle frame of her stitchin. An you wonder ’bout how she do it, not th’stayin awake or sittin up when she’s tireder than a plowmule, or even how she do it wit one bad leg an one bad arm … cause you seen her do too much for too long t’even think on that anymore
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No, you wonderin th’same thing you been wonderin for as long as you seen her stitchin, wonderin how she can tell what she makin outta all those little bitsa thread the Misses give her. The best of ’em ain’t nothin but scraps, an the whole thing ain’t nothin more’n a piece a’blank white cotton cloth gettin stitched all over wit them scrapsa thread. By a woman wit one good arm an one good leg, tired as a plowmule all th’time, stitchin wit a too big needle, ’side a fire mostly goin out. An still she pokes ’at needle through one side an out th’other, like she don’ even hafta look at what she doin pract’ly. An from roun’ dis side a’that circle frame, th’one the Misses give her, all you can see is a whole messa threads, wit all they diffren’ colors, hangin ever which way
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The Misses give her some a’that fine silk thread what th’white folks use fo’ they clothes, an Gertie mixin it in right along wit th’cotton an even bitsa th’gray wool thread what she use to mend th’sacks for th’sweet taters. Don’ matter none to Gertie whatever she stitchin wit, she jus keep on stitchin
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An then, when she get done wit one a’them threads – which is plennya times, cause they ain’ nothin but scraps from th’start – well, she turn th’frame ’round th’other way, sets it on her lap an ties it off best she can wit th’one good hand an th’one what’s always givin her a hard time. Then she’s back at it again, fiddlin a new bitta thread through that big-eyed needle, then tyin it off best she can, an pushin it through th’one side an out th’other
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You seen what her stichins end up lookin like. You seen th’three of ’em what ended up in the Misses’ own dressin room in The Big House. An seen th’ones what Miss Frances an Miss Carlotta got in they rooms. Not that you seen ’em there in The Big House ’course, cause you ain’t never been inside it, but you seen ’em ’fore even Miss Carlotta an Miss Frances an even the Misses got t’see ’em. Cause you seen ’em when Gertie firs’ said they was done. Like you was one a’them poor ol’ shepherds ’round Bethleehem ’at got to see th’Baby Jesus soon as he was born. ’Fore th’Three Wise Men even showed up. An they was th’same ’zact pictures as what ended up in The Big House, ’cept for th’fancy frame an how the Misses calls ’em embroideries when they in The Big House. But Gertie say they jus’ stitchins when they out here wit you an her
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You got plennya questions ’bout this partic’lar stitchin, an they burstin out from inside, same as always. Cause, from ’round where you layin down on yo’ bed, all you can see is th’messa threads hangin loose, a bitta red tied off wit a bitta blue, a bitta yellow findin its way … somehow … to a bitta green, an on an on … th’fine silk from th’white folks’ mendin tied off wit a bitta cotton, or wool even. Like as if the Misses’ dress was bein patched up wit a piece a’them sweet tater sacks. An it don’ make no sense. None. Justa messa bits goin ever which way. So you ask her, interruptin her hummin, fiddlin yo’sef onta one side an proppin yo’ head up wit an elbow planted inta th’pilla
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How you know whachu doin Gertie? you ask
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Been at dis fo’ a looong time she says, an starts a’hummin again
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Naw, you say, I mean … how you know whachu stitchin when it don’ look like nothin but a buncha threads ain’ got nothin t’do wit each otha? All I can see is a whole buncha scraps, red an green an black an yella an blue an all. Little bits. Silk an cotton an wool an such. An justa whole messa knots an tangles all along th’back. It don’ look like nothin from over here!

An den she stops hummin an stitchin altogetha. Looks at you like she does when you ask her th’kindsa silly questions you do … like why th’water in th’stream out back always run in th’same direction … or why some clouds drop all kindsa rain an some don’. She shakes her head side t’side an smiles a little. Starts hummin again, an pushin that needle through a few mo’ times. An you figure you ain’ gonna get a answer to this here question, th’way you sometimes don’ when she know you gonna unnerstan soon enough … once you get growed up some mo’
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So you flop offa that elbow an onto yo’ back again, listnin to her hummin. It’s anotha minute or two, or maybe mo’, you can’t tell when it comes to layin there listnin to her hummin, peaceful as it is. Then she stops, an you look over sideways seein her tyin off anotha thread
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You cain’t tell nothin ’bout whachu seein when you layin over there, she says
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Cain’t tell nothin ’bout nothin in dis worl’ when all you seein is th’knots an tangles an ever’thin’ goin ever which way, lookin like a buncha mess. How you gonna unnerstan’ when you layin’ dere seein jus’ th’messa it all, when th’mess only one parta it, no matta how it seem sometime? Cain’t see how all dese little bitsa thread be connected togetha, jus’ like all th’bitsa yo’ life gonna be, cause you ain’ lookin at it the way it meant t’be seen
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An then she smiles. Not th’big kinda smile what comes wit laughin, but
th’happy, looka what I did, sorta smile you give her first evenin you worked in th’fields all day by yo’sef. An then she turns ’round that stitchin she been workin on so you can see it straight off. An it’s pretty as a picture ever was. Dey’s a green field wit’ flowa beds an some trees that look like they jus’ wakin up at th’starta spring, an off inna distance is a nice big house, one you ain’t never seen befo’ like Gertie jus’ made it all up in her ’magination. It’s got a big ol’ porch ’cross the front an looks like they’s folks on it, colored an white folks it seems, some settin in chairs an some standin up too, only it’s so far off ’at they’s no faces on the folks a’tall, jus’ they tiny little bodies like they was ants or somethin’. An ’cross th’toppa it is a sky all th’colors a rainbow eva was … an you smile, seein sucha pretty picture as this
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Gertie’s smilin too … bigger now than befo’. Dis here, she says, what aaaall dat mess look like … when you gets t’seein it frontsways
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