Catfish Alley
summers
with Mama for a couple of years. Mama would pile us into the old blue truck and
we'd rattle down the
River Road before sunup when everything was still misted over with fog from the
river. We never drove in the main driveway of the plantation. We took the back
road and parked behind the barn with the rest of the help.
    Everyone except Mama was black. Mama chatted and
gossiped with the maid and the gardener like they were old friends. I guess
they were, since they'd all been working for the family for years. The black
people didn't get to bring their kids, though. I remember one time I asked Mama
why. She said the lady of the house was not about to have a bunch of
pickaninnies running around the place looking like the Stanleys were still
keeping slaves. I was different. I had manners and I needed to learn how to
cook.
    When I asked Mama why, she was shocked. "Why,
because every woman needs to know how to cook, Chere! How a girl gone catch a
man if she can't cook?"
    But I didn't have much interest in cooking. I was too
busy taking in every possible detail I could about how wealthy people lived,
ate, moved, and talked. I made it my mission to be as visible as I could to
Mrs. Stanley. I wanted her to see that I could be different. Mama let me bring
her things like coffee and muffins in the morning. As I got older, Mrs. Stanley
started asking me to help her with her correspondence or to bring her things. I
copied the way she talked and her manners with other people. She was a lonely
person. Her sons had both died in World War II and so she never had any
grandchildren. I decided I would become the granddaughter she'd never had.
    I refocus my thoughts on the present, go around to help
Grace out of the car, and we start up the steps. Before we reach the top, the
door opens and a tall black woman, who looks about the same age as Grace, comes
out onto the porch. She wipes her hands on her apron as she hurries to meet us.
It's surprising how agile she is for her age. When she reaches us she laughs
and throws her arms around Grace.
    "Grade! It's so good to see you. This is quite a
treat, getting to visit with you twice in one week!"
    Grace returns the hug and gives her a big kiss on the
cheek. These two old women act like girls with their hugging and chatter.
    "Adelle, I would like you to meet my new friend,
Roxanne Reeves," Grace says as she gestures toward me. Adelle extends her
hand and I shake it. She has a powerful grip for an old lady.
    "I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Reeves," Adelle
says. "Y'all come on in the house."
    As we follow Adelle, I notice that the wicker furniture
on the porch is antique, and in a style popular in the early 1900s. Other than
needing some minor recaning, it's in good shape. The windows that I can see as
we cross the porch still have their original wavy glass. Good. At least she
hasn't replaced them with those ghastly aluminum windows.
    The entrance hall is wide with rooms on either side.
Adelle brings us into the room off to the left. "We'll sit in here for now
and y'all can tell me how I can help you," she says.
    We sit at a small oak table laid with china in a
pattern I recognize as late-nineteenth- century Appalachian Rose from
Tennessee. I can't help but get excited. What other treasures does this woman
have in this house? She probably doesn't know what a gold mine of antiques
she's sitting on. People might actually want to see this. The room is a little
stuffy; those old gold velvet drapes are looking a little threadbare, but
they're passable.
    "I don't use this room very often anymore, since I
don't have many visitors," Adelle says. "Is this where
your father saw patients?" I ask.
    "Oh,
no. This was where we received guests. Papa saw his patients in the room across
the hall. I'll show you when we've finished our coffee. Grace, I have a
surprise for you." Adelle removes the cover from a lovely cake plate —
probably made in the early 1900s — to reveal a delicious-looking cake.
    "Oh,
Addie! My

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