Author Information
Mama Hildegarde
Mama Hildgarde always did have a way with words. She
knew how to take a sentence, and in her own simple
way, spin it into a silken thread then laden it with
sparklin’ beads. A bright beacon in my child-hood,
she’d delighted my siblings and I for hours on end
between sips of sun tea and the creak of her ol’
rockin’ chair.
I remember one day when I was four years old. It was a
typical South Carolina summer, hot and humid. I’d
spent the cool part of the day with Mama, pullin’
weeds from the small garden she kept nestled along the
fence. My legs were sweaty and itchin’ from okra fuzz,
and the taste of sun-warmed tomatoes was still ripe on
my lips.
Now we sat on the screened-in porch takin’ a breather.
My feet dangled bare and free under the porch swing.
The sounds of mosquitoes tappin’ to get in, and wind
chimes joined the chorus of ice chinkin’ against a
frosty mason jar and the “krik-krik” of the ol’
rockin’ chair.
Mama Hildgarde sat regardin’ me from under the brim of
her gardenin’ hat. She pulled her garden gloves from
her hands, first one, then the other. She took one
long swallow of her cold, brown nectar and ran the
back of her hand on her forehead.
“That was good work you did out here, Billy.” She
patted her lap.
I didn’t need a second invitation. My gingham sundress
flew behind me and the aged wood, warm on my rough
feet, flew beneath me. Soon I was in my special haven,
my head on Mama’s big bosom and my thumb in my mouth,
still tasting of dirt and tangy grass juice.
“Did I ever tell you about the little girl who sucked
away her thumb?” Mama asked, taking another long
draught of sweet tea.
I moved my head side to side, as much as Mama’s soft
chest would allow me and pulled my thumb from my mouth
with a pop.
“No. No, child. You go on and suck on that thumb. It’s
more of a comfort to you than anything else will ever
be when you’re grown.”
Relieved, I put the thumb back in it’s cradle between
my teeth and tongue and settled back to hear a story.
“It all began…”
