late at night when the
children, all ranged from
six months to preteen

--a baker's dozen in all--

were still and asleep,
ms jennie prided herself
in seasoning the vegetables

just right. . .

for mr franklin wouldn't have it
any other way

and so ms jennie jus' kep' on a-workin'

she would stretch--
an' yawn; she jus'
kep' on kep' on a-workin'
'cause no way could
ms jennie let mr franklin down,


her family was first,
and her husband and children
called her "blessed",

yes they did. . .

and whatever she put her hand to
always had good flava.


This one particular night
'round all hallow's eve 1923
when one had to look out for
the ghost riders, it was
harvest time an' ms jennie
took up an extra bushel
of carrots and cabbage and celery
to make extra soup, enough
for about 33 quarts of mason jars;

--one for every year Jesus was alive--

she tiptoed down to the root cellar
where it was nice an' quiet
so's all the commotion
wouldn' wake up mr franklin

naw-SUH! for a noisy kitchen at
2 a.m. would NOT set him in
the proper mood at all;

it was a must that he be refreshed
so he could meet and greet
at the market place,
take care of family business
that kept ms jennie
and her 14 children
in the finest of finery
for a freedman of that day

an' she never gave it
a second thought how
from before the rooster crowed
to after she ironed her children's
clothes to ready them for school,
she did what a Godly wife
was 'spose to do

and even in the summer solstice
when radiant dixie heat
scorched her brow and
sweat would roll down
and the saline from her
walnut browned skin
would sting her outer conjunctiva,
ms jennie never even went to
the well to cool herself
from the hellish
south georgia heatrays
she just would stretch,

wipe off the flowing sweat
and jus' kep' on kep' on a-workin'
'cause no way could
ms jennie let mr franklin down,

her family was first,
and her husband and children
called her "blessed"

yes they did. . .

'cause whatever she put her hand to
always had good flava;


Well the moon was
fully loaded,
and ms jennie hiked up
the hem of her skirt,
tucked it inside her
her laced petticoat
and ever so saintly
walked barefoot
down, six feet down
to that dirt root
cellar floor,

her steps had a certain surety
as if she was executioner
commissioned to behead
several guilty heads of
cabbage and strip the skin
off the stalks of celery,
along with serving sentence
to castrate carrots as if
standard procedure in the
Mason Dixon Garden Codes
to any dark root to mix colors
green and orange together
in the same garden,
the results of which would be
mulatto ivy.

So ms jennie went to the
kitchen drawer, and pulled out
her grandmama's Rosewood-handled
multi-purpose butcher knife,
tarnished with the blood
of chickens and hog parts,
it was preciously wrapped
in cheesecloth as if
lying in wait for a
special ceremony;

she put the knife
blade side outward inside
the front right pocket of
her faded red gingham housedress
older than her eldest child.


Once down below,
she unloosed the knife
rolled the blade carefully,
and proceeded to execute,

1 by 1

each head of cabbage,
each stalk of celery,
and each bunch of carrots,

all numbering

14

and late into the night
ms jennie, alone,
in the root cellar,
would jus' yawn,
an' she jus' would stretch
an' jus' keep right on
keep right on on a-workin'

cause no way could
ms jennie let mr franklin down,

for they are all angels now as
she waits for mr franklin's
newest seed to harvest

and that harvest will be called
"Flava"

because family was first,
and on the day of ressurection
her husband and children
will rise up and
called her "blessed",

yes they will. . .



© 2004 by cynth'ya lewis reed Remembering Rosewood