The Sittin' Up (16 page)

I
often think back to the summer of 1940 and I realize how much the world changed, just like Mr. Bro. Wiley said it would.

When the land was dry, the grown folks gathered the little 'bacco Ole River didn't wash away. Ma and Baby Wiley got to stay home a whole month, just like Papa promised. Fall came and so did cotton season. Ma strapped the new one on her back and joined Papa and the others in the field. Me, Pole, Sara, and, yes, Ralph only saw them in the evening. Our hope, Mr. Creecy, kept his promise too. We stayed in school.

Miss Dora Mae and all the womenfolk sang songs and filled their sacks with cotton along with the men. Miss Moszella cut back on her eating so she could work in the fields too. Seem like Miss Lottie Pearl left the hillside a nicer woman. Mainly towards Miss Florenza, who never wore red again. Uncle Goat stopped lying and began coon hunting with Mr. Creecy, Mr. Jabo, and Papa. Mr. Gordon continued to bury the dead and helped the living become dignified. Mrs. Creecy and Mrs. Gordon came to the Low Meadows more often to teach the women how to read and be more than field hands. They asked the men to join the classes. Soon the sharecroppers could count their own money.

Two years after graduating from high school and working to save every dime, I went off to Shaw University. It was the fall of 1947. The same year white folks broke their promise and tried to hang a colored man name Buddy Bush in Rich Square, but that is another story.

I graduated with honors and went on to law school at North Carolina Central University. Pole went off to Saint Augustine's College where she graduated top in her class. Ralph finished high school and joined Willie as a porter. Baby Wiley grew into a fine young fellow who wanted to farm like Papa. He said farming was in his blood.

He learned to be a good Low Meadows man. Coy and Barb Jean went up North and Sara did too. The last we heard from First Lady Florenza Hornbuckle her daughter was modeling and married to a rich French man. Sara's mama never sold another drop of liquor and she loved being Reverend Hornbuckle's wife.

Me and my bride, Dr. Martha Rose Stanbury, traveled back to the Low Meadows for years to come. We still go down to the river to talk about old times. We stopped in town to rejoice in the fact that all the
WHITES ONLY
signs are gone. Then we walked up to the hillside to visit Real Kill, the town drunk, who lost his way. We talked to Mr. Bro. Wiley, who made it his life's mission to show us the way. Many things happened to us and our town because an old man who was once a slave died. His death changed us all in some way.

Just like Bean and Pole, my mother was raised in the little town of Rich Square, located among the lowlands of eastern North Carolina. Like all the towns in Northampton County, Rich Square is filled with communities that have unique traditions, that is to say, their own way of doing things. Sittin' ups—wakes for the dead—are one of those traditions.

You see, before Northampton received its first black undertaker, Mr. P. A. Bishop, in the early twentieth century, the white undertaker would embalm the body, but he would not keep the body at the funeral home. The colored folks would take their dead loved ones back home and place the body in their living room until the time for burial. In the early 1950s, Mr. Joe Gordon opened his funeral home and allowed our folks to respect the dead in his nice parlor. But for generations to come, people in our sleepy town continued to bring the body home that final night before the funeral. It was their way of keeping the tradition of our ancestors alive.

The custom of bringing the body home one last time would fade away over the years, but not the sittin' ups. From my childhood I remember the sittin' ups that we attended all over Rehobeth Road, where I was born and raised. When someone died, the first thing that happened was the funeral director would come pick up the body. Mr. Gordon would leave quickly with the dead. The next day, he would return with the white flower of death to hang on the door. The flower was a symbol to let the neighbors know that old man death had come and taken someone away from us. Mr. Gordon would also leave lots of chairs to place around the house for the coming guests to sit in. After he made the perfect setting for the anticipated company, the crowds would gather every night for a week. The grown-ups talked about everything from who would sing the lead songs at the funeral to where the body would be laid to rest.

Despite the sad occasion, the children had a good time. We ran around, ate as many sweets as we were allowed, played games, and looked on wondering when or if a grown-up would get to crying. The shouting was exciting to us and a person fainting was like watching a good Western movie. I am so glad that I was a professional eavesdropper, because it has allowed me to pass this story of the Low Meadows and my people on to you. You see, a sittin' up really wasn't for the dead—it was for us, the living. For us to have something to hold on to. Something to laugh and cry about. Yes, the sittin' ups were for the living.

Thanks to all of my angels that made this house a home! My mother, Maless Moses, and my nine siblings, Barbara, Daniel, Johnny, Scarlett Ohara, Larry, Leon, Loraine, Gayle and Jackie. I love you with all my heart!

For my sister and friends . . . Iris Moses, April Russell, Marie Showers, Wanda Linden, Stephanie Ponteau, Sandy Washington and Kim Abnatha, you all motivated me in some special way.

The progress of writing is only one step of telling a story. Thank you to Stacey Barney at Penguin and her team for the hard work you put into
The Sittin' Up
. Karen Roberts is the light of my life for each book that I write. Thanks, Karen! Thanks to Christa Heckle and all the agents at McIntosh and Otis.

My mentor Dick Gregory, you said this thing would happen. Thank you for keeping the torch burning bright for me.

And for all the folks back home that love this little girl from Rehobeth Road . . .

I love you too!