Blue Skies, Red Birds, and White Magnolias

By Ann H. Brand Ed.D.

Sarah Crook, a plantation owner’s wife, and her best friend and neighbor Nita, a black woman, are as close as any friends
could ever be. Although the color of their skin is different, they share the same sass, the same can-do spirit, and the same
loyalty to each another. Theirs is a friendship that defi es what is expected of a woman, traditional Southern conventions,
and the segregation of the time period. Yet their friendship lasts their whole lives through.
In many ways, the two women are intertwined over the span of several generations. The arrival of Sherman’s army
changes their family dynamics. The Ku Klux Klan has an impact on their personal safety and livelihood. Education shapes
the future for their children and grandchildren, and a lopsided system of justice leaves the future of some family members’
lives hanging in the balance.
Sarah’s granddaughter Holly is blind at birth. Nita’s granddaughter Neely becomes her playmate, companion, and
confi dant. Much like their grandmother, the girls live in separate households but share a common spirit and an undying
frindship, depending upon each other for support as they enter adulthood and face personal challenges.
When the Reverend Steven Canon, a Northerner, arrives in the rural North Carolina community of Saw Mill Cove, he
sweeps Neely off her feet. Their relationship is out of the ordinary and troubled from the get-go. Steven has a secret that
he must keep hidden from others in order to be successful, and he uses Neely as a means to an end.
After Grandmama Nita and Mama Tress catch wind of how the reverend has mistreated Neely, they take matters into
their own hands. Grandmama and her friend Laura must appear before a grand jury while Mama Tress is tried not once, but
twice for the reverend’s demise. But things aren’t on the up and up in Anson County; the justice system is fl awed. A sheriff,
judge, coroner, surprise witness, and clerk muddle the proceedings. As a result, Tress becomes a scapegoat.
Once Neely is on her own, free from Reverend Canon, she has an opportunity to spread her wings in New York City.
She makes choices that allow her to be true to herself and fi nd contentment. From that point on, the choices that she and
her daughter, Lillian, make in regard to the snake oil salesman named Steven Canon are risky and fi lled with drama.
Our Blue Skies, Red Birds, and White Magnolias chronicles four generations of strong women and proves what can
happen when a woman trusts her heart and mind to make a right decision.
—Paula M. Sheard, Editor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543436310

Ann H. Brand Ed.D.

Ann lives with her two dogs, Eddie, a Parson’s Terrier, and Lizzie, a Standard Poodle. Her home overlooks a marsh that is fed by the Lynnhaven and Chesapeake Bays. She is a retired public school science teacher and middle school assistant principal. She has traveled to all but one continent (Asia) and all of the 50 states in the US. Her education is from Tusculum College, Greeneville, Tennessee; Eastern Kentucky University, Richmond, Kentucky; Th e College of William and Mary, Williamsburg, Virginia; and Peabody College at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee. Th e love of her life is Parry (Parinya) Narkprasert, the young man from Bangkok, Thailand, whom she welcomed into her home while he completed his secondary education in Virginia Beach and undergraduate degree at the University of Virginia. Ann currently volunteers as an RV Host (cleaning fi re pits and greeting travelers) in several diff erent Virginia State Parks. When not volunteering at a Virginia State Park, she and her two dogs travel throughout the US with the WIT (Winnebago Club).

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Copyright © 2017 by Ann H. Brand, Ed.D. 764683

ISBN:       Softcover       978-1-5434-3632-7

       Hardcover       978-1-5434-3633-4

       EBook       978-1-5434-3631-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 07/18/2017

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Cast Of Characters

Town Residents

Lawyers and Judges

Important Locations

Introduction

Section One

Blue Skies as told by Neely

Section Two:

Red Birds as told by Tress

Section Three:

White Magnolias as told by Lillian

Afterword

About the author today …

About the editor today …

To

Billy Alvin Hedrick, Private First Class World War II,

my father

and

Florence S. Hedrick,

my grandmother

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

. . . to a dear friend, Robert Lee Walker, who lent his support.

. . . to a special English teacher who made the entire book possible. My thanks, Paula M. Sheard, for editing my work. Without your genius there would have never been a novel.

. . . and to Elizabeth Rose, who was the inspiration for Ann and my dearest friend, for as long as she lived.

Blue Skies, Red Birds, and White Magnolias

by Ann H. Brand, Ed.D.

Edited by: Paula M. Sheard

PROLOGUE

Few things bring peace and contentment to children like being raised by a grandmother. I was no exception.

When I was born, my grandfather managed a sand and gravel pit in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. While I was an infant, my family lived on the property of this sand and gravel pit. Each morning I was handed over to my grandmother who influenced all I would become.

A few years later, we moved into a run-down plantation farmhouse that my grandparents purchased. It lives on in my memory as a picturesque setting of hundreds of acres of fertile, sandy soil canopied by blue skies, fields peppered with small flocks of red birds, and a landscape dotted by hundreds of gigantic magnolia trees.

Yet this same house and land, just a hundred years earlier, was the site that allowed wealthy landowners, unscrupulous men, an opportunity to commit one of the most heinous, reprehensible acts against human beings, slavery, all while inheriting the fruits of one of the most beautiful states in the Union, North Carolina.

The cotton, the slaves, and the Civil War painted a picture that will never be forgotten by Southerners like me. I, too, had to realize that I

was linked to the dishonor and the deception.

As an adult, I investigated and learned the truths about the injustice that was endured by both white and Black women. I found that the total disrespect that was pervasive among generations of men toward the female gender was perpetuated because women were not provided with many things, but specifically, an education. An education meant that they would have had the power to make consequential decisions.

My story is a fictional tale that starts with two women, both grandmothers. Each was an intelligent, resourceful, and clever woman who knew that without an education, her granddaughter would have few, or no, choices.

Their story does not end; it just slows down, halting for the moment. I needed to move on to other journeys. What you, the reader, will find is the lines on these pages provided me with many opportunities for honesty and forthrightness.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The Two Families

Nita–matriarch of the family, born 1801

          Tress-Nita’s daughter, born 1824

                  Neely-Nita’s granddaughter, born 1859-married the

                  Reverend Steven Canon, a Northerner

                          Lillian-Nita’s great-granddaughter, born 1879

Sarah–matriarch of the family, born 1803; Nita’s dearest friend who is married to Colonel Robert Crook Sr.

          Robert Jr.-Sarah’s son, married to Carol

                  Holly-their daughter, Sarah’s granddaughter, born blind at birth 1859

                  Eddie-their son, Sarah’s grandson, born 1863

          Abigail-Sarah’s unmarried daughter who lives at home, born 1826

Residents of the Community of Saw Mill Cove

Jim-also called Little Jim, runs the sawmill

Tim-Jim’s son, marries Lillian May 10, 1899

Clyde and Lesley McCabe-husband and wife who work

Sarah’s farm

Mary Beth Clark-a young schoolteacher who is a neighbor of Sarah and Nita

Pete, Matt, Max, Johnny, and Lew-Mary Beth’s 5 able-bodied brothers

Town Residents

Laura-a close friend of Nita

The Berry boys-dig up the reverend’s grave

Miss Milly Morrison-aids Neely in her time of need

Mrs. Lilly-works in the Records department at the courthouse and helps the Reverend Canon with the church’s finances

Old Sam-owner of the junk shop

Sheriff Watson-Sheriff of Anson County, NC

Deputy Allen Martin-in charge of the local jail’s inmates

Dr. Nicholas Grant-attends to Neely during her pregnancy, Holly’s biological father

Old Dr. Nick-Dr. Grant’s father

Lawyers and Judges

Attorney Edwards-North Carolina State Prosecutor during Tress’s trials

Dr. Snyder-Neely’s mentor, an English professor at Bennett College who also serves as Tress’s defense attorney

John Paul Henry-a good friend of Dr. Snyder who teaches at Fisk University; he teams up with Dr. Snyder to serve as part of Tress’s defense team

The Honorable Judge Ingram-presides over the grand jury hearing and Tress’s first trial

Judge Nottingham-from Richmond County, presides over Tress’s second trial

Important Locations

Eddie and Jim’s Sand and Gravel Company-established 1884

Canon and Watson’s Sand and Gravel Pit-established 1885

The Saw Mill Cove Community–later is home for Nita, Tress, Neely, Lillian, and Jim and his family

*The farmhouse-homeplace of Sarah and her spouse, Colonel Robert Crook Sr., and their children: son Robert Jr.—and his wife, Carol; daughter Abigail; and their grandchildren, Holly and Eddie

*Nita, Tress, and Neely also lived on the property prior to moving to Saw Mill Cove.

INTRODUCTION

Dear Holly,

In a matter of days, evidence will be heard and the fate of my grandmother, Nita, and her friend, Laura, will be determined at a grand jury hearing. They are to be questioned in regards to their role in the death of the Reverend Steven Canon, my estranged spouse. Will keep you informed.

Always,

Neely

P.S.

The body, that the coroner and the sheriff identified as the reverend’s, floated up on the river’s edge near your grandmother Sarah’s property.

Sheriff Watson is convinced that Grandmama Nita and Laura are responsible for the death; thus, the grand jury hearing. If he can’t pin it on Grandmama, he’ll surely go after Mama Tress as the culprit. I certainly don’t mourn over the reverend’s death. He was an evil man.

Times are hard, Holly. The Klan is in control and its members are men that we know. Five Blacks have been hung in the state for crimes against whites. So far, no women have been hung … but there is always room for a first.

I’ve been told that you are coming to see your aunt Abigail next month. Can I see you after your visit?

As always,

Neely

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SECTION ONE

Blue Skies as told by Neely

Sitting next to my grandmother in the courtroom today is her friend, Sarah, who is the widow of the plantation’s owner. Sarah’s spouse was killed by members of Sherman’s army in March of 1864. The two of them have been loving friends and companions since they were in their early thirties.

Sarah is Holly’s grandmother. As alluded to in my letter to Holly, my grandmother, Nita, has been accused, along with her friend, Laura, of being responsible for the death of my estranged spouse, the Reverend Steven Canon. The hearing is taking place in Jonesboro, NC, a small town, located six miles from Saw Mill Cove where my family has lived since 1864.

The courtroom is filled will every smell known to humankind. There is a row of 23 men that make up the grand jury. They are all white men. They are smoking, chewing tobacco, and spitting in jars, but each one’s movements are as silent as a church mouse’s. They have been here since 10:00 A.M. Now, it is almost half past eleven.

There is only one person who is not here that I wish could be, and that person, as you can tell from my letter, is my friend, Holly. At the moment, she is on her way back home to our county to visit her sick Aunt Abigail. Holly has been in England for years, studying at the Royal School for the Blind. When she’s in America, she lives in New York City. If my letter reaches her, before she leaves New York, I hope to get to see her during her stay with her aunt.

Holly became the center of my life when I was just four years old. She captured my heart and soul, from the moment I was first given the responsibility of watching over her as she blindly struggled to find things in her sandbox. We were the closest of friends. Because she was blind, she had no idea that we were not the same (in any respect). Holly and I would sit in her sandbox, where we would play for hours on end. During all the time that we spent together as children, she had no idea of the injustice that separated us. We were just two children who sat side by side in a box of pure white sand, surrounded by our toys and our stuffed animals. We were happy; we had no idea what life would bring us.

The last time she and I were together, she reminisced about the day that we were given the liberty to be companions. She spoke aloud that she sensed that both of us had been extra happy. Her voice was gentle. She ran her tiny hands across my face and said that she loved me. I remember how her hands had felt warm and soft to the touch. Blind from birth, Holly knew only what she touched, smelled, heard, or tasted. Did I mention that her flaming auburn hair bounced like a million little springs on top of her head? Everywhere that I went, she wanted to be, too. I recall how her mother, Carol, told her to take my hand and hold on tight, so as not to fall.

My mother Tress told Grandmother Nita that we looked like twins. Although I was classified as a mulatto or a Negro on a census sheet, my face was light brown; my hair wavy and black. Except for our hair color, I would have had to agree. We did, indeed, look like twins.

Since my birth, my family had lived next to Holly’s house. The houses were separate and did not resemble one another in any manner. Yet, the two households were identical in the amount of love that filled them. Holly’s grandparents had built a farmhouse on a large amount of property in our county in North Carolina. It was big, beautiful, and drafty. Rugs, soft chairs, and lights made everything inside look so warm and cozy at night. Our home set only yards from hers. Ours was plain and sparse. Inside, we had a few chairs, too, but you felt the hard wood seats when you sat in them. We had a fireplace to keep us warm. It was used every day, even in the summer, for cooking.

The people, or slaves, whose Holly’s grandfather had inherited over a period of years from his own great-grandfather, lived in small houses down the road from ours. My grandmother Nita had been freed at the age of 25 by the person that owned her. This meant that all her descendants, like my mother Tress, would never be classified as slaves.

The other human beings, who were slaves that lived on the farm, made Holly’s grandfather a wealthy man before the Civil War. As mentioned before, he had acquired these large land holdings in North Carolina, along with the slaves, from his own father who, in turn, had been willed them from Holly’s great-great-grandfather.

These people fell into in the same category as farm equipment. They worked the property winter, spring, summer and fall. The slaves and their children were bought and sold on a daily basis. Family bonds were severed, tears were shed, hearts were crushed, and hate festered.

The workers were the conduit for the agricultural product that was exported to the North and to England. That product was cotton. At a certain time of the year in NC, it seemed cotton grew upon every inch of the sandy soil. It looked like snow when the buds opened. Male and female slaves spent all day picking the bolls. It was then weighed and sent to mills by the train that came through the county. Sometimes, it was carted to local mills by horse and wagon.

Thinking back, I remember the first time I was asked if I’d like to help Holly. We went to a funeral. I realize how strange that seems. Our joy of being together was not overshadowed by the outpouring of sorrow displayed by her family or the scent of flowers permeating the air. Her niece, a small child of Holly’s own age, had died of typhoid fever. Grandmama Nita asked me to hold Holly’s hand, to watch over her, to make sure that she didn’t fall. All of us walked up a hill behind the farmhouse to a beautiful spot sheltered by several kinds of trees. There were little bluebell flowers, the type that peek out in the spring, poking through the grass. And there were readings and songs.

After the service was over, Holly and I walked back to the house. We stretched out inside her extended sandbox and quickly fell off to sleep. When we awoke, hand-in-hand we walked to my house where the two of us ate rice covered in molasses. Holly loved rice and molasses. Even to this day, it is still my favorite dessert.

Later that evening, we once again returned to the gravesite with our grandmothers, Sarah and Nita. Then, on our way home I saw a magnificent red bird perched on a tree limb; it was singing so beautifully. Holly, I said, do you see that red bird?

No, Neely, don’t you remember? I don’t see yet. But I can hear it sing. Neely, don’t you think it makes pretty sounds?

That moment and that exchange of words would define our entire friendship. Holly would be the ears and I would be the eyes. From that time forward, I counted the seconds until Holly would be with me again. She was constantly laughing and singing; there was no hint of a sorrowful tone in her voice. Unlike the shoes that I wore, her little pair had soft leather bottoms. She would say that her shoes helped her dance—and dance she did! Holding hands, we’d circle and skip until we became so dizzy that we’d fall down. Any time of day, you could find the two of us playing outside, skipping, dancing, and singing to our heart’s content.

Although the memories of those days are foggier now than I would prefer, I still think of them. Today, I’m almost thirty years old, but those days are as tender to my soul as they were the moment that they occurred.

My grandmother, Nita, told me that Holly’s grandmother had made plans for getting a teacher for Holly. Since Holly was now four years old and still couldn’t see anything, it was time for her to start learning many things, like how to read. I realized then that this was the best news I’d ever heard! This teacher would be familiar with ways to teach the blind to read. Grandmama said he would be arriving soon to tutor Holly. He’d show her how to read from a book with words printed on the page made with raised bubbles. I learned later that the bubbles were called Braille.

Holly’s new teacher was a visiting student from France. France was the country where Braille originated. He had studied at a college for men in North Carolina. There was nothing about him that I liked.

Grandmother Nita said that if Holly didn’t mind, I would take her to class each morning and sit with her. Classes would be held in a grand room in their house, called the library, a spot that I’d never been. She said that maybe that I would pick up some words and get a little learning about reading and numbers. Little did she know, or maybe she did, that I would become one of the first of my race to become well-educated.

Each morning I’d wake up early, put on my best frock, put on the shoes that my grandmother had gotten for me, and meet Holly in the kitchen where she would be eating her breakfast. I was elated and so was she. Holding her by the hand, I’d lead her to the great library. Holly, my only friend and constant companion, would learn how to read Braille. I would learn English and a little French.

When the teacher arrived, the first thing that I noticed about him was that he smelled awful. His odor was a lot like the animals in the barn, but much worse.

His voice sounded strong. He would take Holly’s hand and press her little fingers along the row of raised bubbles on a page. The teacher always started his lesson with the alphabet, and, from that knowledge, she learned to trace the groups of bumps that represented letters. Gradually, she was able to combine letters in the alphabet to make several words, and then she learned to use these words to make sentences. The teacher would ask Holly to say her letters aloud. Sometimes, he would ask me to write them at the same time with a white piece of rock, called chalk, on a black slate board. Although she couldn’t see, Holly understood the letters and recognized the words quickly. Her teacher would say to her that she was a fast learner. I hoped that he would say that to me, too, and, once in a while, he did. This routine went on for more than two years.

Sometimes after our classes, Holly and I would lay on the carpet in the library. I would talk about our new words until one or the other of us dozed off to sleep. Her dark world was my bright one. Our lives had meaning, and that made me forget my loneliness. For the first time, both of us knew what it was like to have a dear friend, to feel for the first time the joy that comes when you care deeply for another human being, and to have someone you could always look forward to doing things with.

Although the Braille teacher came for a long time, Holly learned to read, but she didn’t learn to write. Yet, I learned to read and to write. Whatever I had written I’d read to Holly later. If Holly had a thought, I would write it down for her. She would laugh out loud and say that she loved to hear me read. I wanted so badly to tell her that I loved it, too, but I didn’t. There was true joy on her face when I’d read to her.

Even though Holly could describe neither the flowers in the garden, nor the rain, nor the print of our dresses, she could tell me what the flowers smelled like, what she felt when the warm rain touched her face, or what the soft cloth felt like that made up our dresses. I would write down as many of her feelings as I knew the words to express.

Today, those writings help to fill my lonely days. Few writers write feelings; most of them focus only on descriptions of objects, places, and times. To write about that which you feel, comes only if you have actually experienced that feeling, I am sure. To write about those that you love, comes only if you have loved them. I loved Holly. She and I lived in our own world. Although she couldn’t see, her intelligent manner and her gentle soul made it almost impossible to know that she was blind. She didn’t know that during that time I was classified as a mulatto or Negro and, consequently, placed in: a different column, a different category, and a different position in the line called life. She knew only to laugh, to dance and to fill our moments with hope, a hope that would always spring eternal in my heart.

Often, Holly would ask me what I was seeing. I would tell her that I saw the fields with their trees and the sky with its clouds. She would tell me that the wind was blowing. This fact was not important to me. I would share with her that the leaves were moving around like dancers on a stage. She would tell me that she heard them. The sound of the leaves never became a part of my world, but it was always an important part of hers.

I accumulated a vast amount of written material while Holly and I were young children. Now that I’m grown, I cherish these writings and realize what a source of inspiration they could become to a child, whether blind or full of sight, whether Black or white, poor or wealthy. What was said and jotted down could be important to a child who dreams of moving beyond the limitations of their immediate world.

We were female rarities: two girls on their way to becoming educated females. During this era, an education was provided only for male children. Despite this, the facts were I was a mulatto and my friend, Holly, was blind. An education for both of us meant that there was a possibility that we would one day make our own decisions.

Those two girls will make contributions, Grandmama would say. She leaned towards her best friend and keeper-of-secrets, Sarah, and added, They’re too smart and kind not to succeed. You know they will make a big difference in our world when they grow up.

Holidays were extra special for us. Thinking back on them, I recall that Holly’s entire family would come to visit her grandparents. The relatives would sit around a large table and talk and talk and talk. Voice recognition and tones were Holly’s source of information. She processed many bits of news and gossip during meal times and always made a point to share them with me. She knew who had bought new clothes or recently had a new baby. Her memory was flawless. I’d write down every word that she’d reveal.

Although she and I lived in a separate houses, nothing ever divided us. My mother Tress was fond of Holly’s father, and I sensed that they had had many special moments together. I rarely recall ever seeing Holly’s dad with Holly’s mother, though. Her mama worked each day at the store in town.

Even as a small child, I realized that Holly’s mother and father were not the center of her world. I hardly recall her spending much time with either of them. No one in Holly’s family resembled her in the way they looked. Both her mother and father had black hair and dark eyes, but little Holly had flaming red hair and eyes of crystal blue. Years later, I learned why.

Holly’s father had one sister who stood out in our world. That aunt wasn’t married and she lived with Holly’s grandparents. I called her Aunt Abigail. Her entire existence revolved around taking care of others. She was dearly loved by both Holly and me.

Aunt Abigail loved wearing long fur coats, hats, and earrings. She had a great laugh and smoked cigarettes all the time. She showed off her cigarettes in classy holders. Her voice was gentle and kind. Much like Holly’s, her touch was wonderful and delicate. After my grandmother Nita, and Sarah, Holly’s grandmother, Abigail fell third in line as the woman who was in charge of all the vital activities of the farmhouse. If there was a decision about what to cook, or where to go, it was Abigail’s call.

At times, when the entire family was together, some of the adults would grow very loud and start talking over each other at the same time. They’d drink what Grandmother Nita said was red or white wine in tiny, skinny glasses. They would discuss the crops and activities that had taken up their time. War and Abraham Lincoln were the topics that got them going the most, Grandmama would chuckle,remembering their fiesty arguments. MamaTress agreed. Topics such as land and property became central to their conversation when everyone had had a bit too much wine to drink.

The South grew crops of cotton that were shipped to England, Grandmother said. The North had factories and made products like wagons, guns, and ammunition. We, the South, made clothes and uniforms with our cotton. She added that Holly’s grandfather often said that the South must keep the Negroes or they’d lose it all.

When I was with Holly, I’d ask her what war meant. She would always say that she didn’t know. When she asked her mother to explain the word, she wouldn’t talk about it. I learned very early on, in our world, things that were not discussed were the things that people feared the most. It was the Southern way.

Secrets keep us sound, but sick, Mama Tress would say to me.

But those secrets will get out one day, Mama, I protested.

During this period, I thought of nothing but Holly’s bubble books and of listening to her read to me. She was getting good and fast at reading the letters that made words and sentences in Braille.

I told her that I was now able to write any word that described things around us. She wanted me to write about everything that I saw and that I did. If she heard a bird singing, she wanted me to write about it. Once, she asked me if I’d draw her a bird with the chalk, so that she could run her fingers over the powdery shape of its outline. She’d ask me to describe my dress and hers. I have no lace on mine, like your dress does, I said. Then, she’d ask me to tell her what lace looked like. I tried to explain that it was many threads that made a pattern. Next, she wanted to know what a pattern was. The questions were endless, and, of course, I didn’t always have the answers.

Holly was quick to smile and she’d start to laugh over the smallest things. When she laughed she’d often jump up and start to dance, turning round and round in circles. It worried me. I never knew if she’d run into something or fall down. I was protective of her every move.

As a young child, I wondered why she always acted so happy. I was a grown adult before the answer finally smacked me in the face: she had been provided all the necessary elements to make a child healthy and happy. She had plenty of chances to develop on her own. She had opportunities to build self-esteem. Her confidence in her own self-worth blossomed, because she was loved and praised for her accomplishments, regardless of how large or small each one had been.

In the fall of 1863, Holly and I both were five years old. The war had started. That same year Holly’s little brother was born. He cried a lot, and I mean, a lot. His name was Eddie. I told Holly that his baby hair looked like wisps of cotton in a pod. Always curious, she asked me what a cotton pod was. I tried to explain that pods grew in the fields on stalks, and when they opened, the cotton would pop out of them. The cotton was then pulled from the pod by the farm folks and placed in a big, burlap bag to be emptied into a heaping pile and weighed.

Of course, this would only lead to more questions, that would require more answers, along with many others that she had which would pop up in that brilliant brain of hers. I loved the questions and the time it took to build an answer that she’d eventually grasp.

The idea of the farm workers always produced the most questions. Why had she never met a farm worker? she would ask. Why couldn’t the two of us go into the yard and talk with them? I’d patiently explain that neither one of us would ever be allowed to go into the fields. Why not? were always the next words out of her mouth.

When some of my answers didn’t satisfy Holly, I would try to change the subject. The tree leaves were always my first go-to as a diversion. It was a topic changer that I relied upon often.

The fall will bring the most wonderful leaf changes, I’d murmur. On our walks Holly would hold my hand, and I would lead her from tree to tree, helping her see the leaves like I did. I would pull off a few of the different kinds of leaves and guide her fingertips over the leafy edges. This is a maple, I would say, and this is a magnolia. Next, I’d explain how groups of leaves were arranged on the stems, to help when recalling their names. That meant then explaining the meaning of the word shape, and stem, and so on and so on. You know, Holly, the leaves on the magnolia never turn colors and always stay green. As soon as I said it, I knew clearly that I had crossed into an area that she would never be able to understand: color.

Color—a