Post 20: Natalie At The Creek

In summer, Mae would take an extra bus, detouring to the local farmers’ market to shop for fresh produce for our family, particularly for pole beans or fresh tomatoes for my father. For this, Mae refused any payment. But Mama, in kind, would send Mae home with a bag filled with pork chops or the occasional steak, bottled beer, and cigarettes, plus some extra cash. It was an arrangement that grew out of the dignified generosity of two Southern ladies: one black, one white.

For decades prior to becoming populated with houses situated on generous lots, our neighborhood had been a single parcel that held my grandfather’s farm. A small but earnest creek ran through the large field across the street from our house. It was the same creek that my mother and Aunt Camille had played in, fished in, and fought in according to well-embellished stories of their childhoods. It was only natural that we would gravitate toward the creek on a hot Saturday afternoon.

Mae would warn us against the dust and the mud (and pony manure) that was a constant affront to her endeavors to keep our clothes “presentable.” Despite Mae’s cautions, and led by Natalie’s infectious imagination, we were destined for the creek and everything it had to offer inquisitive children with an afternoon to kill.

That particular Saturday before Easter, Natalie, the inventive one of the bunch, led my sister and me down the path that crossed the pony field, past the swamp (an actual mud hole with lily pads and snakes), and onto the small dirt service road that led to the Creek House.

The Creek House, enjoying no particular creativity in its name, was exactly that: a two-room shack situated by a creek. Decades before, it had housed seasonal laborers on my grandfather’s farm. Constructed in the ’20s of rough-hewn whitewashed pine, the building stood in disrepair. Its sagging corrugated metal roof was red with rust. The front door drooped at its hinges, and the windows held only broken glass, if any at all. Long ago abandoned, it now housed a few sticks of furniture, a filthy rag rug, and a promise of delight. We were strictly forbidden to enter the Creek House. So, this was precisely where we went.

Inside, Natalie led us cautiously through the myriad of spider webs and loose floorboards.

“If we fall through here, Mama will kill us,” I warned. Despite being a proficient follower, I was also a quoter of rules and reminder of consequences, just enough so that I could almost ruin any sense of getting away with something or the satisfaction we might have felt in the process.

“Oh, shut up.” Kit, weary of my caution and the heat, was sharp. She was, underneath it all, a loving big sister, but frustrated that her little brother was so often inserted into her time with Natalie.

“Oh, c’mon, Kit. Leave him alone.” Ironically, Natalie was the main if not the only reason I was even invited to the creek, or, for that matter, on any number of our other expeditions.

“Yeah. Leave me alone.”

Natalie suggested that Kit and I wait on the porch. She had to pee, and the makeshift toilet in the Creek House would have to do.

“Look at what I found,” she said, meeting us a few minutes later. “I’ll bet it’s an old cook pot. See, it’s got a handle and everything.”

Kit and I were in no position to challenge Natalie’s assessment. What we saw was a very large enameled pot about twenty-four inches around and almost as deep. Whatever its intended use, it had likely accommodated either large batches of soup or the baths of small babies, or both.

Mesmerized by her find, Natalie jumped from the porch to the sand and headed for the shallows of the creek, her toes sinking into the fudgy brown mud that lined its banks. Kit followed, and I headed straight for the rocks that formed a stepping path to the other side.

“Stay off the rocks. If you fall in, Mama will blame me,” Kit warned.

Ignoring Kit, I skipped expertly from one flat slab to the next. I was on the other side before she could object again.

Not to be outdone, Kit followed my wet footsteps, and would have made it across except for when she turned to show off for Natalie. I helped Kit out of the freezing water and up the bank, away from the mucky mud and onto sandy ground. Natalie could not contain her laughter and the harder she laughed the madder Kit got.

“Stop it, Nat. Stop laughing, or I’ll tell Mama you pushed me. I mean it. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry, Kit.” She knew Kit meant business, and Natalie quickly regained her composure. “Come back across and we can use my cook pot to wash the mud off our feet.” Natalie demonstrated by dunking the pot into the creek, filling in almost halfway with one movement. Then, as if stepping into a perfectly drawn bath, she lowered her left leg into the water, swished it around, and withdrew a somewhat cleaner leg with a tan skim, leaving the water a murky mahogany. Before Kit and I had reached Natalie, she was clearly conducting one of her many “experiments.”

“Watch this!” she commanded, fascinated with her own movements. She proceeded to add two handfuls of rich muddy clay to the pot, and then carefully filled it with creek water. Steadying herself with a stray sycamore limb, she stepped completely into the cook pot with her left leg, swirling it in the viscous brown mixture. Then, careful not to wash off the mud, she slowly removed her leg, stepped out, and repeated the process with her other leg, followed by each arm, almost up to her shoulders.

“See. I look just like Mae.” Natalie was proud of her transformation and, to my eyes, her once-pale arms and legs now did, indeed, resemble Mae’s dark mahogany color.

“That’s not right, Natalie. It’s just not right. Just stop it and wash that off.” Something told Kit that Natalie shouldn’t be imitating Mae this way, the kind woman who only an hour earlier had made us tuna sandwiches and butterscotch cookies.

Undeterred, I wanted to try. Natalie, ignoring my sister’s protests, egged me on, helping me balance as I stepped into the pot, stepped out, and then stretched my arms as far down as I could, aiming for maximum coverage.

Natalie inspected me for missed spots, did some touch-up work, and then declared me done. Kit shook her head, threatened to tell on us both, and finally left for the house in a fit of frustration. Natalie and I were over-the-moon pleased with ourselves. “Let’s go show your mama and Mae!” Natalie loved an audience, and she was eager to stage her reveal.