“De's
chil'ren today gots no respect, dey don'- you tell dem you see
sum'tin and 'is Grandmere senile. Grandmere supasticious ol' Creole.”
The old woman pulls her ornate shawl closer over her frail seeming
shoulders. Time worn and line ridden- her face is a testament to a
life well lived, rather than some beauty commercial.
“Dey
say 'Grandmere, dey bones is supasticion- dey don' say nothin'.
Dey be no such thing as HooDoo- you jus' ol'. An'
fo' dem- mebee dey righ'- me own daughta- mah blood runnin' in heh
veins tell meh des no such t'ing. She don' los' dey sight afore it
was said an' don' fo' heh. Dem spirits was all roun' her de las'
visit me- I BEG her de las' she come not ta leave; but Mere jus' a
crazy ol' cajan- what I know 'bout de weatha dat da fo'casta's didn'?
“I
knew she was goin'- I did. Dos'e spirits- me own mama with um- dun
tol' me- warn me- brace me-I s'pose since she was goin' one way or
t'other. De rains started righ' afta she left and dey road washed
out- heh cah with it.”
Her
long gray hair is pulled back into beautiful braids and on the end of
each is what she calls a juju-
a luck charm. One is a clear quartz. There are feathers, stones,
beads, and even tiny beautifully carved bones dancing in the masses.
She
shakes her head, sending the trinkets tinkling against each other
merrily. Her hands, ancient with age, but seemingly steady as rocks
lift the delicate bone china cup from its saucer in age old fashion.
Though we sit in a hotel room at a tiny linoleum table. The coffee
certianly isn't Creole's best- she drinks as if we are in her
greeting parlor with a treasured guest. A greeting parlor which no
longer exists- because I just burned it down...
