When I was a little girl, I didn’t know any better; I asked her if her blood was brown.
Looking back, it wasn’t a fair question – my blood wasn’t white for heaven’s sakes. It wasn’t that I judged her skin color, either; I simply noticed it was different. I got in trouble for asking, but not from Callie. She understood and appreciated my curious heart and just chuckled the way she did, with every bit of herself.
Callie worked for my grandmother as housekeeper and cook from before my childhood memories began. Her husband, Kephus, was gardener and handyman, but he died when I was four and I don’t remember him, except for that one picture…black and old and tattered, the man and the ancient image.
Callie was one of the most consistent fixtures in my life. During my mother’s wicked five-year battle with cancer, we stayed with my grandmother a lot; Callie was always there. In a cruel succession of events, my grandmother died the year after my mother, and rather than relieve Callie of her duties, my father continued to employ her. When my brother got married, he hired her, too.
She mostly sat in the kitchen or watched her stories by then, but they were offering her backpay for years of service.
All the money in the world couldn’t compensate her for what she gave us.
What Callie lacked in cleaning finess she more than made up for in the kitchen. Though I have her recipes for Chewies and tea cakes, I’ve never been able to duplicate them; her feathered rice, though, is one of my children’s favorites. And then there were those “Callie Biscuits”…you’d have to grow up on them to fully appreciate: punched the size of a 50-cent piece, they were hard and dry but oh-my-lanta, we begged for more.
Once she tried to teach me how to cut up a whole chicken.
Graceful hands cut through bone and sinew like counter-soft butter and it was then I realized I was witnessing something special: she was an artist, creating.
Later when I would attempt a try, I’d end up throwing the damn mutilated bird in a pot of boiling water, and settle for a second-rate casserole instead of Callie’s fried chicken.
It was never about the fried chicken, though. I was trying to conjure home.
Callie taught me beyond the kitchen. She never spoke ill of another person. She’d look to the bright side if I voiced complaint. She was loyal to her friends and family, doing for them whatever she could with the little she had. She went to church every Sunday and believed that God was good and knew what He was doing.
Her life was an offering, a liberal outpouring of kindness to others.
Years later when I began reading The Shack, it’s not surprising I saw Young’s Aunt Jemima God with Callie’s face.
But soon enough I would learn something that would break my heart and make me wish I had the power to reverse time and right at least one injustice.
* * * * *
Years after Callie’s death, my brother bought my grandmother’s house. Built in the 40s or 50s, it needed a lot of work. I was startled to learn about one of the renovations–
“We fixed up Callie’s bathroom.”
I didn’t know Callie had a bathroom.
Take a trip with me….
Linoleum-covered stairs to the basement sat atop a huge fan–we called it an attic fan but it spun in the basement and I can’t quite figure that part out right now. To the right of the stairs was the door to the concrete-floored laundry room, illuminated by a single, exposed lightbulb.
Walking past the washer and dryer, on the other side of the attic fan was the door to the furnace room. In it sat the oil furnace, which somehow heated the radiators that warmed the house. I never went beyond the furnace room because it was dark and cold and scary to me.
I never knew there was a room on the other side of it.
Callie’s tiny bathroom.
A toilet, a sink, and a single exposed lightbulb overhead.
How did I not know?
When I read The Help and later saw the movie, I grieved the injustices and prejudices Callie must have faced. My God, WE HAD A MAID’S BATHROOM; there was little solace that at least it was indoors.
When I went home and visited her as an adult, she never complained. She never let on that she was treated differently.
When I married, Callie sat in the second pew, the one behind the parents’ favored position.
When she died, I morned, grateful my siblings lived close enough to honor her by attending her funeral.
My blood is the same color as Callie’s and in all the ways that matter, we’re family.
Loved this, Robin, because it brought back such warm, find memories of my grandmothwr’s maid, Zoes. I don’t know how to spell it but we called her “Weesee”. When she died 3 generations of her “White Family” (her term of endearment) sat amongst all the brown skin with a wealth of emotion and a lifetime of loving memories. I also have a picture of her and me and my wedding day!
Tiffany,
Did you follow any of the controversy when the Help movie came out (and I guess, before, after the book was published)? There were those who were critical, in part due to Stockett’s writing voice, but also in general for how many white people resonated with her story.
My point is that I was a little wary to write this; except for the fact CALLIE WAS MORE FAMILY TO ME THAN SOME OF MY BLOOD RELATIVES! The love ran deeper. Certainly, more complex, but the older I got, the better I understood that.
Thank you for reading; every time you share your thoughts (here, FB, incourage, etc.) it makes me want to make time to get to know you better
. xo
I don’t get a chance to read all your posts but I am so thankful I read this one. Isn’t it amazing that for all the schooling we have, it is the life lessons that teach us the most. If we are willing to learn.
Shannondoah,
I hope you know when you slip me an email reply or comment outright, it THRILLS me
. You’re one of my few RH friends that do 
. Which makes me hope our paths cross again in the future–do you know about the Cliffhanger reunion? It’s a possibility for us to go….
You’ve made a great point: to learn, we have to be willing. My earnest prayer is that I remain open to seeing the gold that is right before me
.
Hey there !! I love your blog. Somehow whenever I want to comment on a post, the system doesn’t allow me to do so. Let me say everything I’ve been dying to say:
Your words are magic.
Never stop writing.
NEVER. EVER! You are a gift, and inspiration.
Okay, so yes, I did read The Help. I am always appalled at the things we didn’t know of our past and the way our elders handled everything with grace.
I didn’t grow up in the South, nor have I ever been. But, the way you write about Callie & growing up, I’m there. I’m in grandmother’s house. I’m understanding how tender Callie was toward your family. I’m missing my own grandmother through stories like this, she died at age 57 to cancer. Heaven will be a glorious feast with only the shared blood of Christ.
Kamille,
I. hate. cancer. It kills, steals and destroys so it must be an incarnation of satan >:(. I lost my mom and both grandmothers to it (so I’m especially sensitive when I hear a friend who understands this loss the way I do).
Your comment touches me because how you describe its effect on you is what I hoped to accomplished (but wasn’t sure I did). Thank you for taking time to tell me
.
Oh, my, Calypso.
Oh me oh my oh dear. YOU have blessed me with your comment generosity! You cannot imagine how much it means to me, how encouraged I am from your kindness. I think any writer would agree to be told that by even one person? A rare gift, not to be taken for granted.
Thank you for the treasure you gifted me with this morning.
xo
Hello!!
Oh my gosh!! You’re real!!
Thanks for stopping by my blog. You are too kind for words. The fact that you took the time to read my little goofy post makes my heart burst.
You are writing royalty. Yes, you are!
Whenever I try to comment on your blog, all the buttons to comment and post are grayed out. I don’t know if it’s an issue with Typepad and my IE browser. I’ll figure it out eventually.
So honored to have the ability to read and comprehend and be blessed with your work.
Again.. don’t stop writing.
Ha! I *think* I’m real. Three little bodies running on the streets hope I’m real. And my husband would look pretty silly kissing air if I wasn’t
.
You continue to bless me and I’m grateful for you!! Thank you for your comments that fill a tank that was close to running on empty
.
It’s so hard to know what to do next after we uncover some really big issues in our past that may have wounded people we love. Thanks for sharing this story Robin.
Ed, ESPECIALLY when we discover them when it’s too late to do a blasted thing about it. That being said, I suppose we can always allow those things to shape up in a manner worthy of their cost.
(Grateful for your words, Ed. The funny and the poignant.)
You are truly a gifted writer. I HATE to read but every time I read something you have written, it draws me in and I actually keep reading.
Hi friend, I loved this post. Not only did my grandparents have a maid, we also did. I have wonderful memories of her. She has always lived with in a few miles of us, even lived in our tenant house for several years. Fortunately, we did not have the separate bathrooms, but I can remember when her grandsons would help with the yard work, etc, they would always eat outside. Paige was and still is special to me. I am thankful my children know her well too, as she does still help my mama from time to time. I too, have pictures with her at my wedding. She didn’t really do the cooking as my mama rocks in that dept but she loved us from the time mama and daddy brought us home from the hospital. She was always there when I got off the school bus, etc. And the braids in my hair in some of those awful school pics…yep, those were made with the hands of our “help”. My youngest now loves to get Paige to braid..or plait..or corn row her hair!
Thanks for brewing up memories
Thank you for sharing about Callie, Robin. She seems like a wonderful woman, full of life. It’s hard to know what to think or feel when we learn about shocking revelations in our own families. I don’t have the first clue on how to respond, other than to say love carries us far and I’m sure Callie loved you and knew she was loved in return. It doesn’t mean the injustice didn’t matter but well, you know what I mean.
Such a tender/hard story that reflects so much of the culture of the times. What a great gift to have a talented, loving, extra member of the family, especially when your family carried such sadness. Progress on these issues has been painfully slow and those of us who have never lived in the south cannot really even wrap our minds around all the layers of this story and so many others like it. Thank you for sharing it, Robin. And thank you for the photos – wonderful to see.
beautiful to see life as it was through eyes of how it is now. keep writing.
Robin, My mother had Mary when she was growing up. My grandmother died when my mother was 6 months old and Mary was a constant in my mother’s life.
When I was young we had Janey. When I was ten Janey found employment at the hospital. One morning as I laid in the bed recovering from child birth, a black woman brought my new born to me. When I looked up, I realized it was my Janey. She was now in the nursery caring and loving my baby as she had me long ago. I loved Janey so much, I I think she has gone home to the Lord. I have looked for her but she is not to be found.
What a great story. Thanks for sharing, how special Callie was in your life. You grew up with her and probably never put thought into where she went at night when everyone was asleep.I’m sure the love and affection she had from your whole family was very touching and meant a lot to her. You can never think in hindsight, she probably made you a more non-judmental person today. How nice for you to have had such a constant person in your life
Thank you for sharing such a tender, sensitive and true account. This makes my Christmas MUCH better.
Loved this story. Amazing.