Homer and Me

The New Place

The lead wagon in which we rode lurched up the narrow, gully-washed lane.  We all strained to get a first glimpse of our new home through the low-hanging branches of maple and sweet gum trees that bordered the roadway on both sides.  Papa, driving the team, said it would be a while yet but all leaned forward anxiously and I started to rise to my feet.

“Duck!” came Papa’s warning - too late.  I grabbed for Homer as a limb almost knocked me from the wagon.  Blood ran down into my eye from a small cut above it, and a welt began to form on my cheek.

Mama, holding the twins in her lap, looked over her shoulder.  “Oh, it’s you!  I thought Homer was hurt.  Homer, you lay back.  And you!”  She glared at me.  “You know better than to catch at a limb.  Sit down.  I’ll tend to you later.”

Homer squeezed my arm in sympathy.  My throat was tight and choking but I knew that crying would get me nowhere.  I shoved the pillow we had been sharing toward Homer.

#“Here,” I whispered.  “She wants you to have it.”

Blood and tears mingled to wash down my face.  Homer looked pained, and he dabbed at the mess with his handkerchief and put his arm around me.  We pulled the pillow close against us.  It seemed that whatever happened to me was of little consequence to anyone but Homer.  He was different.  My bother loved me.  From as far back as I could remember, he had been the one who cared about me and took my side in any problems that concerned us.  Five years my senior, he had learned early in my life to “mind the baby,” which I had been before the twins arrived.  By now, in nearly six years together, the bond between us had grown steadily stronger.  He was the only one who knew I could talk, which I could do as well as most.  But I just found it far more rewarding to listen.

My mother never called me by my name; Ressie.  Papa had named me and she suspected that the name was that of a woman in his past.  Papa wouldn’t explain and Mama resented me as well as the unknown lady.

Mama and the other members of the family believed there was something wrong with me.  “It can’t talk,” she’d say, as though I wasn’t a person.  “Poor thing, how could she?  She’s  . . . you know,” and the finger would touch the forehead.

A midwife and nurse, Mama always spoke worriedly of me but never showed the least affection.  At every opportunity she spoke of “Lung Sickness,” glancing sideways at me.  “It probably won’t be with us long.”

Skinny, frail and poorly, in Mama’s terms, my birth had followed shortly after the death of a beautiful, plump and beloved child.  I think Mama never forgave me for failing to replace her loss.  Luckily, or disappointingly, I was never ill.

Homer, the younger son, was the only boy to follow five girls.  Since there were plenty of girls among the thirteen children.  I could understand Mama , favoring Homer.  But it seemed to me and Homer, ever my protector, that Mama and the girls singled me out especially as the target of all their ill feelings. 

Homer and I shared our dreams and plans.  He even looked to me for counsel.  I was happy to be accepted and respected by at least one person.  Oftentimes I got us both into trouble with Mama. But Homer never laid blame on me.

Bumping along in the wagon, side by side, I dared not raise up again to see ahead, and at last with a jerk, the wagon pulled to a stop in front of our new home.  All eyes turned to the wide veranda.  A huge black man got up from an old chair and ambled down the steps and over to the wagon.

“How do, Mr. Crenshaw.  We did all you said.  Scrubbed the place and aired it out.  Shore a big um’!  There’s fresh water sett