First & Foremost

First and Foremost



    As far as I’m concerned, life couldn’t have started much sooner than my fourth birthday.  At that time, my mom and I were living in Detroit right on the border of Highland Park.  We shared a modest looking “two family flat” with my grandmother and a continuous shuffle of familial co-stars that moved in and out of the background.  Aunts, uncles and cousins came and left as freely as March winds blew through the front yard.  An oak tree that seemed to tower over our miniscule patch of land, stood as sentry and welcoming committee on the curb, between two pocket-sized squares of grass.  The cement path must have been painstakingly crafted with yard sticks to create those five perfect squares that divided the small sea of greenish brown allowing access to our porch.  The house, looking very much like the rudimentary sketched square with a triangle on top, rested wearily between an orphaned red brick house and a more juvenile looking home that kindly asked for space with a chain-link fence.  Two bushes puffed up beneath the living room window like giant green cotton balls, serving as itchy havens for wayward balls and flying discs.  During the summer, the silent length of a dark green water hose crept from their depths hissing minute sprinkles of lost water.  The wooden porch stood strong through every season, but the chipping blue paint along the banister confessed its years of loyal support.  That “L” shape always seemed like an extended arm, begging company to stay and sit in the comfort of this small outside room.  With no protection from the lingering winter winds, most visitors felt compelled to walk through the flat brown door instead.

    Stepping inside always transported me from that little house on a big city block to the solitary confines of royal residence.  Somehow, the sketchy outside camouflaged the expansive inner sanctum.  At times I would enter only to be enticed by the seductive aroma of fried chicken, collard greens, and black eyed peas.  The smell laid out a trail around the staircase, over the hardwood of that spacious living room, passed the cramped confines of the carpeted dining room, to the unnatural green glow of Grandma’s kitchen.  Other times, my family would wage war on my olfactory organs with the inhumane production of chitterlings. During these moments, no love reflected in the afros and smiles of hanging pictures could keep me from fleeing home.  I would return when the crime scene was relieved by the hauntingly flavorful scent of sweet potato pie.  The day in question, however, would be set aside for the unruly clatter of the hand mixer against one of my mom’s unyielding glass bowls.  Today, there would be cake; eventually.  At those specified moments, I remember an unusual hush surrounding the whole of the two-story home.  Up the majestic wooden stairs, my mother was resting inside a room that always seemed darker than dark should be.  The blackness of her room spilled into the hallway as I checked to see if she was awake.  She slept.  I, on the other hand, was too eager to sit immersed in the overwhelming blue of my own room across the hall. Rather than wake her, I stepped softly on my cotton-covered toes across the whining wooden floor to delve into the hidden secrets of our bathtub with my new toy boat.  The red and green vessel was an indication of my own personal Christmas.  Detached from the rest of the world, I sailed silently on the cool, calm March waters.