My grandmother’s housekeeper, Elizabeth, used to tell me, “Sweet Child, you was special made by da Lord. Day ain’t but one a you.” Then she’d lean forward, pat her knees and start laughing, laughs that came from her belly. Then I’d start laughing. I’m pretty sure Elizabeth and I held some kind of record for the most laughter in one day.
Elizabeth was a stocky-built, black woman. Most of the time, she wore a scarf tied up around her head and a red-and-white checkered apron, along with long dresses and comfortable black shoes. If she and Aunt Jemima stood next to one another, you’d swear they were twins.
Elizabeth had a big light up smile coupled with compassion and understanding in her velvet voice. When I was a little boy, any time I had a problem with anything, she always seemed to come up with a remedy. She was the very best at making everything “all better.”
I was not quite 6 and living with my grandparents on their farm in Middle Tennessee. In the mornings, when Grand Mom, Miz Lena, took off to check on her hired hands out in the fields, I stuck around the house with Elizabeth. I’d follow her from room to room. We talked about all kinds of things. Mostly, it was me asking her questions and her answering them.
I remember asking her where colors came from. If you think about it, that’s a difficult question. Not for Elizabeth. Right off the bat, she told me that all the colors of the world came from God. As a matter of fact, almost every one of her answers included God. She smiled real big and said, “Sweet Child, da Lord paint da sky and da creeks wiff da same brush.” She was always saying delightful things like that.