A Sunday on a cloud

It had been sweltering hot all day, in the hundreds the radio said. I didn't see much of the outside as Mama pulled down blinds in every room to keep us from roasting inside. I had the responsibility to turn on fans in the house. I proudly executed that task, running from one room to the next as fast as I could.  We lived in a spacious five-bedroom ranch and, being just the two of us, we didn’t use all the rooms. I still turned on the fans in the extra rooms. Once I completed my round, I stood still in the middle of the hallway and for a moment listened to the steady rhythm of the rotating blades coming from all directions.          

Mama had explained to me that the house could not take off, even if all the fans were on. I still thought it was possible. Or maybe hoped.  At age nine, imagination ruled my thoughts and its wonderful creations trumped any known laws of nature. The world was magic and full of wonders. The house taking off would make for an exciting new adventure. We could pay a visit to Re, the Egyptian Sun God I learned about in school. Today would be a perfect day, his day, Sun-day. 

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As if to honor his sweltering highness, I often imagined that if one day the house slowly rose to the heavens—the fancy word for sky—it would be on a quiet Sunday morning, when almost everybody else in New Orleans was attending church. We wouldn’t try to stop it. I wouldn’t. I’d convince Mama that there was a perfect place for us in the sky; a fluffy cloud where we could settle comfortably. Just the two of us! 

Another thing I learned in school is that the higher the altitude, the colder it gets. That’s why you have eternal snow at the top of mountains.  And I guess clouds are mostly white because they are high enough to trot around in cold air. High altitude is like a giant refrigerator with no door for colorful magnets or ugly school art.

Our house floating on a cloud, we would never have to run fans or pull down the blinds. Temperatures would be always pleasant—we’d pick a cloud not too high or too low, one spending its time in the most agreeable altitude—and we could play hours of hopscotch or four squares outside and read or take afternoon naps in a hammock we’d bought especially for that. We would be perfectly happy, safe on a cloud, just the two of us; a glass of lemonade in one hand and slow-melting chocolate in the other.

  Ceiling fans at full blast and blinds down helped a little in the early morning, but by ten o’clock it started to get too hot and Mama had to turn on the air. We were definitely not on a cloud, more like at the center of a volcano.          

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That day, we ended up staying at home, playing Mad Libs, listening to the radio, dancing, singing, telling each other stories, and trying to guess which one were true, which one were false. Mama was good at guessing. She also said that my made up stories were too far fetched to seem real and my real story too serious to seem made up. Mama was honest with me, I liked that.

When she asked me what I wanted for supper, I didn't realize it was that time already. We had so much fun, Mama didn’t even notice lunch time had gone by. With the blinds down, it was hard to tell if the sun was setting and if we were supposed to be hungry yet.

I told her I was full from drinking lemonade all day. We had used twelve lemons to make four large pitchers. Making lemonade was easy, and it was another one of my responsibilities. I squeezed three lemons carefully; making sure seeds didn’t drop to the bottom of the pitcher. I added half a cup of cane sugar, poured water, and stirred twelve times clockwise, or until the tiny sugar crystals were all gone. I was also the one who tasted the final concoction—big word for drink. Mama didn’t like it too sweet, I did. I made sure the lemonade was just right.

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Mama never put me to bed with an empty stomach. It was one of her few cardinal rules.  Even if all I ate was a bowl of fruits, she made sure the day ended on a healthy meal. That’s something she’d learned from the dames blanches when she was a kid. She also learned that three meals is a big deal and we only had two that day.

"How about milk soup, perfect day for that?" She smiled. A real smile this time.          

Mama didn’t just have an amazing smile, she was the most beautiful woman on the planet and, if one day we did ascend to the perfect temperature cloud in the sky, she’d be the prettiest mother in the heaven. Beware Athena! 

Today, she was wearing the traditional dames blanches silk gown but had tied a red sash with beaded fringes around her slender waist. She was barefoot, her toenails painted red, and she didn’t wear her head scarf. She’d attached her long dark hair in a pony tail. Her olive skin was the last touch of that Creole perfection.

Our family was very Creole and had been Creole long before it migrated to Louisiana. We came from France, through Acadia. Our blood had all the colors of the rainbow, and Mama said that when it rained we looked even more beautiful, because our curls were prettier and our skin got shinier.

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I always said yes to milk soup, still my favorite summer meal to this day. Under Mama's supervision, I grabbed a couple of large ceramic bowl with the hand of Seshat, the funny hand with two thumbs and the seven star rosette in the middle of the palm. Mama and I each had a bowl with our name hand-written on it. They were our favorites. The blue (mine) and yellow (Mama’s ) bowls were drying on the dish rack, easy to reach when I stood on my toes.                    

I helped myself with three large spoons of cane sugar, two hands of bread chunks, poured milk and stopped just before I made a disaster. I made a smaller serving for Mama. She never ate too much. I did. Hungry or not, hot or not, sweaty or not, I always helped myself with three servings of milk soup. It was so refreshing and to my young mouth, it surpassed ice cream, milk shake, or soda.

After dinner I bathed, brushed my teeth, untangled my hair, and donned my nightgown. When I got back to my room Mama was switching off my tablet. My vitamin drink was on the desk; in a bigger glass than usual. There was something else in the room and I couldn’t believe I didn’t see it right away! A new white summer dress was on my bed and new red Mary-Janes were on the floor. We are going to town! I thought.

I didn't bother asking, Mama had read my mind, and she was beaming, glad to see my little body shaking with excitement. She liked to surprise me and that’s why she never told me when she’d decided we’d spend the evening in town. All day, she would pretend it was just a regular day and I’d have to be in bed at eight, but then there would be a dress on the bed—not always a new one though—and we’d take the streetcar to town for a night in the city.

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New Orleans was so much quieter when most people went home early to rest for the next day at work, and when tourist were preparing themselves to head back home with a bunch of souvenirs that would remind them of their visit until they visited again and bought more souvenirs.                    

I took off my nightgown and changed into the new dress as fast as I could, nearly falling over on the bed. When I was done, I faced Mama, swirled around a couple of times, each time concluding with a low curtsy and a near perfect smile--I was missing one of my front teeth. She smiled, clearly amused, and charmed.

She charmed me back. I wanted to please her and see on her face that I was everything in her life. I tried hard to make her feel that she was everything in mine. Her presence reached deep into my innocent soul. We were still one. I was part of her, she was part of me, the deepest part. When I held her hand, hugged her, or cuddled against her tummy, I felt her heartbeat echoing in mine. At times, I could feel it when she was in another room or when I was three blocks away at school during the day. She charmed me by being here for me, by seeing herself in me, by never stopping a moment to give me life.                    

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"I've got a present for you," she said handing me a flat blue box the proportions of a travel size board game. She had kept it hidden behind her back the whole time. I opened it, shaking with excitement; it was soft to the touch like velvet. Inside was a silver medallion mounted on a gold necklace. I'd seen it before. It belonged to grand-ma Salome. On one side it had a person’s face with a big nose and a crown of leaves, and on the other side was the hand of Seshat waving inside a circling inscription that wasn’t English, or French and Spanish, the two languages I was learning at school.

The inscription could have said “I’m with stupid,” I didn’t care because Stupid had her first real necklace around her neck and it was beautiful. I already had silver earrings and a bracelet also in silver with Anastasia carved on it, but all my necklaces were my bead creations or bad creations depending on my artistic moods. This one wasn’t made out of recycled plastic. It was an ancient family heirloom. For sure much older than Mama.

She helped me put it around my neck. She smelled of lavender (her perfume) mixed with roses (her lotion), and her sweet, natural scent. She never smelled strong even after a day spent sweating in the yard and three rounds of hopscotch under the Magnolia tree. I gave her a hug, squeezing her as hard as I could, and asked if I could borrow some of her perfume. I had my own, it was called Anais, Anais, and smelled really sweet like vanilla ice cream, but hers was more grown-up, more sophisticated, a perfect match for my new necklace.

"Drink your vitamin," She said standing up and reaching for the glass on the desk, "I’ll get the perfume."

She handed me the drink, and left the room. The vitamin tasted different, not really like oranges, more like lime and vinegar mixed together. It didn’t matter I made sure I didn't drop any of it on my white dress. Yuck! My stomach was letting me know that it wasn't happy. After a few seconds, I even felt a little light-headed and had to force myself to burp in order to avoid bursting out. But that was quickly forgotten.                              

"Where are we going?" I asked standing up, when Mama re-entered the room. I knew what she was about to say, but I never tired to hear it.

“Tram and town,” she smiled. “Let's go, the Big Easy’s waiting for us."