The Evolving Species
me of black patent leather, a charming Southern drawl, a Rhett Butler with little black bag. For an upset tummy Dr. Ravenol prescribed sips of tepid Coca-Cola. My mother forbade soda because I didn’t drink enough milk. So whatever else was wrong with me, I pled collateral damage. Dr. Ravenol winked and wrote down the remedy on his prescription pad. My mother had to comply. I worked Nanny the same way for Nehi orange. Bad choice; the artificial color stained my mouth, a dead giveaway. On Lee Street I learned about race. My mother noticed a tall, slim, quiet 18-year-old black woman sweeping up hair at the beauty shop. Annie kept an eye on me while Mother had her perm. My mother asked around, then hired Annie to live with us in New York and take care of me while she worked. Annie and I shared the tiny second bedroom. She became a force in my life. We traveled Manhattan on the subway and bus. She told me stories about her childhood that I didn’t understand. Freed from race restraints, Annie developed confidence — “uppity” was the word some used back then. On her days off Annie took classes — French, not typing. During the summer she visited her family in Greensboro, and I languished on Lee Street. Sometimes we’d go uptown on the bus. Annie took my hand and led me to the back because it was cooler there, she said. After I started school, Annie was snapped up by another family, then another. By then, she looked like Naomi Campbell. In time, she worked as a governess for millionaires’ children, sailed on yachts, rode in limousines, traveled to Europe. Somewhere, I have postcards and one last picture of Annie — tall, slim, her white hair pulled back in a bun, her shoulders draped in a challis shawl like a Russian ballerina. Annie taught me how to plot a passage and follow through — all the way to the front of the bus. I witnessed the ugliness of urban sprawl on Lee Street. In the late 1940s the city appropriated my grandparents’ front lawn to widen the now-industrial thoroughfare. They cut down the old shade tree and ran a sidewalk a foot from the front porch. This broke Nanny and Granddaddy’s hearts. Mine, too. Nanny died soon after, then Granddaddy. Then my uncles sold the property and fought for years over the proceeds. The house is long gone, but you know what? Although I gave up soda I can still kill a beetle between my thumbnail and forefinger, like Granddaddy taught me in his garden behind the dusty, worn-down, memory-impregnated house on Lee Street. OH Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and O.Henry magazines and grew up visiting her grandparents in Greensboro. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
April/May 2012
O.Henry 57