Under The Jimbilin Tree: The Memoir of a Jamaican Girl

By Diana Budhai

A young girl comes to the realization that although she has been abandoned and starving, she has been taught the values required to live a life of decency and goodness. She has an epiphany that set her on the road to strength and independence in Under the Jimbilin Tree. Without resources, her goals seem unattainable yet she persists and celebrates each small step that gets her closer to "that great America." Propelled by her pact with God, made while eating jimbilins to quench her hunger, she never gives up. This amazing true story brilliantly illustrates that anguish and deprivation are not always a deterrent to success. Instead, such hardships can be excellent motivators in life's long road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887936123

Book preview

cover.jpg

Under The Jimbilin Tree

The Memoir of a Jamaican Girl

Diana Budhai

Copyright © 2023 Diana Budhai

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88793-601-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-612-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

The College Years

Chapter 2

The Proposal

Chapter 3

The Marriage

Chapter 4

Another Turn in Our Journey

Chapter 5

Albany, New York

Chapter 6

The Psychic

Chapter 7

Troubles Ahead

Chapter 8

The First Sign

Chapter 9

In Search of Healing

Chapter 10

Machito's Legacy

About the Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my son, Machito Budhai, who has been the inspiration for this book and indeed an inspiration in my life. My son and I shared a life of an unbreakable bond of love and respect for each other throughout all our lives. How and why this love and respect for each other existed is a mystery to me. Some give me credit for it; I give Machito the credit for being born a good person. What is clear is the rich and fulfilling experience this bond brought us as we meandered through the twists, turns, and sometimes the horrible challenges that life can throw at us. He was as proud of me as I was of him, and I am glad that he gave me the title of Mommie in his young years and Mom as he grew up. My love goes with Machito forever.

Part 1

Growing up in Jamaica

Acknowledgments

I am deeply indebted to Machito Budhai, my son, whose love, friendship, and encouragement inspired the writing of this book and whose support and assistance made it possible for me to remain vigilant throughout the many challenges, both personal and technical, in telling this story. I am also deeply thankful to my amazing friend Mary Coonradt for her unfailing, gracious assistance during my many cries of frustration when my computer refused to cooperate with my illogical commands. My gratitude to the following friends and readers: Larry Claflin, a dear family friend and visitor to our beautiful island of Jamaica, who kept me moving through the writing process with his suggestions and encouragement. Special thanks to my best-ever supervisor, Dr. John Ebersole—may he rest in peace—for giving this book the last review and providing even more encouragement to move ahead with its publication. I am ever so thankful for my many friends and family, like my aunt Ness and her daughters, my dear cousins, my last living brother, and the many colleagues whose interest and eager desire for the completed book, motivated me to repress my shyness and share these experiences widely in Under the Jimbilin Tree .

Chapter 1

Ending Up in Schoharie County, New York

Living in Schoharie County, New York, is perfect for me. This is considered farm country, and my little house is way off the beaten track, on a mountainous dirt road, bordered on the right and back by state-owned land, so I am secure in the fact that no one will ever be able to build next to me. There are no other houses in close proximity. All around our house are tall pines and thick woods and no people to disturb my serenity. Some distance up the road, on the right, is a cabin owned by an elderly couple who live in New York City. Occasionally, during the summer, they spent weekends here, but I know that after retirement, they might live here permanently. Fortunately, our properties are far enough away from each other and separated by woods that blocked the view from our house. I was lucky to find this secluded little corner of the world for a price one would pay for a garage, and I scooped it up in 1986, knowing that my son and I could fix it up to look like a cute country cottage. How I ended up here, from my birthplace on the island of Jamaica in the West Indies, is a long story. However, when my son, Machito, and I saw this property, we knew instinctively that we had found our forever home.

Schoharie County is the sort of place that attracts residents from New York City and Long Island who would somehow find out about this well-kept secret and would drive north in the summer to experience life that they imagine would be like living in the Little House on the Prairie. In the fall, they would come to pretend that they were deer hunters and scare the living daylights out of me with their shotguns until I got used to it. Out here, there was no garbage pickup and hardly any house-repair businesses to call on when the need arose, so my son and I taught ourselves to fix plumbing, put up plasterboard, paint the house, and burn our garbage. Even without the amenities of city life, this land was pure gold to me. For some years now, I've talked about making my 6.7 acres into a minifarm but never found the time to plant even a small garden. My son was busy working and completing a college degree and my job as a college administrator, along with my 120-mile commute to Albany and back each day, left me only the weekends for home chores and much-needed rest. I always envied men who had wives to do their laundry, clean the house, do the grocery shopping, and prepare meals for them. I often wished I had a house-husband to do my chores, but alas, I am divorced and had neither the time nor the inclination to bother with having a man in my life at this time. My experiences in the field of marriage had led me to believe that I am too fiercely independent to be marriage material. I recognized unabashedly that I am highly intelligent and quite capable of making my own decisions. Even as a child, I resented the power that men enjoy in world culture, and I resisted the idea that I should be subservient to anyone. Men seem to clutter up my life and my path to my goals in life. I was content with the single life for now. Perhaps later, when I have accomplished more of my goals, I will consider having a partner.

I suppose it's my Jamaican roots that instinctively drew me to owning land and a home, no matter how humble that house would be. For many of us Jamaicans, education was the only way to secure that dream so, whether rich or poor, going to school was an important part of our culture. My experience at Hart Hill, under the jimbilin tree, served as my impetus to work hard in high school, which won me a scholarship to Emmanuel College in Boston, Massachusetts, and my heart in those days was set on returning home to be a teacher and eventually a high school principal. That was my plan to bring about my dream of owning my home in the hills of New Castle or somewhere in the Blue Mountains in Jamaica. Many Jamaicans journey to the United States or England to get an education or to find work so they could put away a nest egg for that piece of land. Jamaicans, as a whole, believe that America is the land of opportunity, of milk and honey, and that there is no limit to one's earning power where there is a willingness to work hard. Even the jinals, those Jamaican swindlers, at home who had one intention, which was to get enough money to buy a piece of land, raise some chickens, plant essential foods, and build a house to keep the rain off your head as many would say. Driven by this dream, the recent practice of capturing unused land and building on it, without regard for rightful ownership, has become a challenge for law enforcement in Jamaica. The police would chase these people off the land they do not own, and the next day, they would be right back building that little house so they could live the life of a landowner even without paying for it. Only two things would successfully drive off these land capturers, the threat of obeah which is the calling of spirits, called duppies, to unleash their power to harm or kill their targets, and the threat of gunmen who would not hesitate to eliminate them and recapture the land for themselves. Gunmen were now the major contributors to the recent violence spreading across the island and which is destroying the safety and beauty of this little island paradise.

My well-laid plans of returning to my island home were not to be. I never dreamed that I would settle down in the United States, but the road of life has a way of taking unexpected twists and turns. So after many years of difficult assimilation into American culture, I now love this little corner of Upstate New York in the United States.

I always looked forward to my morning routine on the weekends. With my hot, delicious cup of coffee in hand, I made my way out onto the deck and settled into the cushions of the swing my son had bought for my sixtieth birthday. It was late June, and I enjoyed the quiet coolness of my deck. Closing my eyes to enjoy the early-morning concert of the birds, I was suddenly annoyed by the persistent ringing of the phone. Running through the kitchen toward the study, I thought, Darn, I should get a cordless phone. I am always behind the times when it comes to keeping up with technology. Everybody has a cell phone now, and I don't even have a cordless phone. Bit by bit though, technological advancements eventually force us to think we can't live without the new gadget, and eventually, I would resentfully cave in and get the new device. As I ran for the phone, I thought, Ah, well, old as I am, I can still run.

I grabbed the phone on what may have been the hundredth ring.

Hello.

Yu Bredda dead, answered a voice speaking in Jamaican patois. The sudden shock paralyzed my thinking. I had three brothers, which one could be dead!

What? Who is this?

It's Stephen, Dee. Sorry to frighten you like that, but Eddie died about four days ago.

Four days! Well, we'll have to hurry with the arrangements. Why didn't you call me sooner? We'll have to call Mickey in Jamaica and ask how much he can contribute to the funeral expenses.

None a dat necessary, he said, lapsing back into Patois, which is out of character for Stephen since he hardly ever spoke in Patios, our Jamaican broken English dialect.

Out here in Phoenix, if the body is not claimed within three days, it is carted off to the desert and buried in a common grave, especially if the person was a known street bum by the cops. That's what they do with vagrants, and Eddie had become a well-known drunk and a vagrant out here. I didn't know about his death because I was away in Vegas for a few days, so my Indian friend who works at the hospital couldn't reach me. He is the one who always kept me abreast of Eddy's hospital activity. At any rate Dee, I couldn't afford the funeral expenses.

But you wouldn't have had to take care of it all. There are three of us. Mama is turning over in her grave, seeing one of her children in a common grave, in the middle of nowhere, where nobody can pray over him.

Yes, I know. He hesitated then went on, Well, Dee, I have to run. Someone is giving me a ride to the VA hospital, and he is here now. We'll talk again soon.

Why are you going to the hospital? Is something wrong with you?

No, just a routine visit for diabetes. Talk to you soon.

I went back out to the deck and stared at the now cold, distasteful cup of coffee. I knew this day would come, but the finality of it caused the grief to surge through me. I fully expected it to happen, but at this moment, it felt new and shocking.

Alone now, in the quiet of the summer morning, I heard the breeze sweeping through the trees across the road, a sound so much like the waves of the Caribbean Sea, that it always succeeded in carrying me back to years gone by, to my childhood days in Buff Bay and Saint Ann's Bay when I lived by the sea on my island home, Jamaica. This time, though, news of Eddy's death triggered deep memories, and my thoughts went all the way back to our lives when we were no more than babies before I was separated from my mother and three brothers.

*****

It was really Eddie that my aunt Keris wanted to steal from my grandmother's house while my mother was away. If Eddie hadn't put up such a ruckus the day when Aunt Keris convinced Mumaa, my maternal grandmother, to allow Eddie to go with her for a little vacation, he would have been the one to be raised by her and Uncle Ken instead of me. When Aunt Ker turned to me, I was quiet, and she took that as acceptance of her vacation stunt. Just short of a week before the vacation was to begin, Mumaa had raised her voice to Aunt Ker's messenger who was sent to get me.

No, no, Dee will not go on that motorized contraption so you can tell Keris that I will not send Ruby's child on that noisy, oversize bicycle all the way from here to Mile Gully. Is she crazy!

So four days later, the same man showed up again, and this time, he was taking me in a horse-drawn buggy to Aunt Ker's house. This was 1943, and motorcycles were just becoming popular among those who had a love of vehicles of speed and danger.

Mickey had some four-year-old advice for me as Mumaa was putting my few pieces of clothing in a paper bag.

Dee, don't let anybody see you cry and if anybody farts with you. Just kick them in the ass and tell them to fuck off.

We all knew that these were bad words that we couldn't say near grown-up people, but we said them when we were among other children. My journey from Albion to Mile Gully was scary, but I was used to keeping things in my mind and keeping my mouth shut. I didn't speak to the driver the entire way, even after he introduced himself as Mr. Moody and even when he asked me if I needed to pee-pee. Every now and then, he spoke to me, but it was rather like speaking to himself since I paid no attention to him.

It was now dark and the rhythmic clippety-clop of the horses' hoofs on the now-silent road made the journey seem ghostly and frightening, but I was determined not to let this man see me cry. The shortcuts he said he was taking were so narrow that the buggy brushed against the trees when we went too close to one side or another of the road. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he said, Here we are, Miss Dee!

It was very dark when we arrived, but a little group of people had gathered in Aunt Keris's dining room to look at me, the baby that Mast Ken and Miss Ker had adopted. I was tired and uninterested in the attention and comments of what a pretty little dolly and how quiet she is. I just wanted to get away from everybody. I didn't know them, nor did I like any of them. I just stood there with the echo of Mickey's words swirling around in my head. Little did they know that this quiet, pretty little baby doll was telling them all to fuck off and they would soon find out that I was quiet on the outside, but when I wanted to let out what was going on inside, I was a little hellion.

I had my own room for the first time, and the house was large and airy and everything was bright and shiny. I got to like my new home even though I missed my brothers. In Mile Gully, I was free to wander wherever I wanted. The village was small with only an occasional vehicle slowly puttering through, sounding the weird horn, ruggle, ruggle. Once in a while, there would be a horse-drawn buggy or a Parry-cart clippety-clopping down the narrow main road. The public works building was attached to our house, and in the yard, behind the main building, there were outbuildings for the lorries, parry carts, and storage for animal feed, tires, tools, and parts for all sorts of equipment and repairs. The mule pen was some distance behind all the buildings because of the smell emanating from the pen. Our house was upstairs, with a porch overlooking the street. Underneath our section of the house was a shop that also served as a bar and across the street was a narrow lane that led to the Methodist Church. A short walk behind the church was a primary school, and there were a few homes tucked in behind trees and bushes off the main road. Everyone knew me and treated me as if I were a special little princess, and I knew that it was because of their respect for my uncle Ken. He was special, so I was special. As the person in charge of the public works department for that area, my uncle Ken had hired almost everybody in the village, except for a few farmers. They depended on him for their livelihood, and he was always patient as he taught them how to do their jobs. For that, they all liked him and looked up to him with a great deal of respect and admiration, which they showed by the way they greeted and spoke to him. They also brought him and Aunt Ker gifts of fruits and foods that grew on their properties.

It was 1943, and even though I was just three years old, at my own insistence, I was enrolled in the primary school, run by the Methodist Church across the street. I liked school except when it rained. Dark clouds, thunder, lightning, and rain were the most terrifying things in my three-year-old world. I always felt that I would be killed by lightning and washed away in a horrible flood, and I would cry and try to hide under the desk. That was the only time I didn't care about crying in front of others. After my first uncontrollable crying during a rainstorm, Mr. Blake, the principal, got in the habit of sending me home quickly, escorted by one of the older children at the slightest appearance of a cloud in the sky.

At first, I had one major problem in Mile Gully. I didn't like Uncle Ken even though he seemed nice and gentle. There were times when he seemed so full of authority, and I wasn't used to having a man in my life. I lived with women as authority figures after my father left us when I was less than two years old. My mother was in charge, then she took us to my grandfather's house where my grandmother was in charge and appeared to be the head cook and bottle washer. My grandfather was a quiet man who never said much and who loved to sit on the veranda smoking his pipe with a far-off look on his face. If we bothered him too much, he sometimes put on a stern face, and we would scamper off, leaving him to his daydreaming or whatever he was doing. So in my world, men were either nonexistent or silent and stern.

Shortly after arriving in Mile Gully, my morning routine was to go out into the kitchen while Uncle Ken was having breakfast in the dining room and curse at him to the maid and yard man who would be there having their bread and coffee or tea as they called it. In Jamaica, all hot drinks were called tea, no matter what it was.

Him is a rassclaat, I would say. My cursing would cause them to choke as they held back laughter, and as I went through the list of the worst words I knew, they would get themselves into such a state that they looked like they were having convulsions. Their stifled laughter would continue until quiet tears rolled down their cheeks.

Where yu get dem bad words from, Miss Dee? Who learn yu?

This would only encourage me to show them how many more bad words I knew and this would send them into more rounds of whispered, hysterical, laughter that would sound like quiet screams.

Waaii, Miss Dee, yu mek mi belly hurt mi.

This would go on until Uncle Ken rang the bell, signaling that he was finished with breakfast, and Carrie would wipe her eyes and try to compose herself before going in to clear the table.

Aunt Ker was a social butterfly and, as often as she could, would sneak off to Mandeville, the capital and big town in the Parish of Manchester, to visit with her sister, Aunt Alma. Alma Rebon was the manager of the most elite store in the parish. On those occasions when Aunt Ker felt like taking me along, I was allowed to play in the display window with the dolls because I was dressed like the dolls, bonnet and all, and I was about the same size as the big dolls in the display. When I moved around in the window, I would attract a crowd of startled passersby who thought they were watching some sort of mechanized doll that moved around. Many would come in to ask about the baby doll in the window that could sit and stand all by itself. The unbelieving person would argue.

No sah, I don't believe yu. Let me show yu which one I mean. Aunt Alma would call out.

Miss Dee, open the case and come out. A lady wants to meet you.

Laughter would ring out throughout the entire store at the discovery that I was a real child, and invariably, the inquirer would become a customer before leaving. The store owner, a British lady, thought I was a very good advertising technique and wanted me to spend as much time as I wanted in the display window, to my delight. Occasionally, I would fall asleep among the bevy of dolls, and once a woman came to buy me, the sleeping doll that looked so lifelike, and I had to be awakened to prove that I was a real child, again to everyone's amusement. I loved my job as a window display doll and was always amused when I attracted a crowd both in the store and outside the display window.

It was on one of Aunt Ker's excursions when she wanted to stay with her sister for the weekend that she ditched me and sneaked off to Mandeville, which provided the occasion for Uncle Ken and me to become friends. I would raise the worst ruckus when Aunt Ker sneaked off without me. I would usually stop screaming for a moment after some little distraction, but this time, I was really annoyed, so I screamed my loudest, stomped my feet, and allowed nothing to distract me from creating the worst commotion in the house. All the time, I was thinking, That will teach that damn Aunt Ker to sneak off without me. Eventually, Carrie, the maid, sent for Uncle Ken. Since his office was connected to the house, he arrived within minutes, and I thought, What the fuck does he think he can do about it. He can't bring Aunt Ker back nor can he send me to her. He tried to console and distract me, but when nothing worked, he started to lose his temper, and he raised his voice, which just infuriated me more, and I screamed even louder. Then he lost it and slapped me on what he used to call my little jill-bread, meaning my small bottom that was no bigger than a dinner roll and cost only a jill or three farthings. I stopped screaming immediately, looked him dead in the eye, and wet myself all over the floor. My anger must have looked like pain instead of defiance.

Yes, I thought. You clean up that piss now. How dare you hit me, you son of a bitch!"

Uncle Ken looked frightened and called out in panic to the maid.

Carrie, help me here! Do you think I struck her too hard…too high…too near her kidneys? Jehovah! I hope I didn't hurt her. He sounded frantic, and I loved it. I just stood there looking at him, taking deep hiccuping breaths, all the time thinking, Son of a bitch! my favorite cuss word. As Uncle Ken changed my wet baggy and clothes, all the time cooing like a damn bird and hushing me even though I wasn't crying anymore, he didn't look so formidable to me now. He picked me up and walked around with me in his arms, rubbing my back and constantly asking if anything hurt, as I silently stared at him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that I was all right.

Hours went by. He never went back to work, and as night approached, he helped me into my nighty and played Bumble Bee games, which involved lots of tickling, and it was a game I loved, which would send me into screaming laughter. As it got darker, he lit the lamps around the house still carrying me around as if he was afraid to put me down. He had Carrie bring in a light supper before she left for the night. Then he read bedtime stories of Anansi, the Jamaican folklore about the tricky Spider-Man until I fell asleep. The next morning, he was up before I was and came into my room to ask if I had any pain. I shook my head no, and he lifted me out of bed and carried me to the dining room and told Carrie to bring in some cornmeal porridge for me when she brings in his breakfast.

You should have breakfast with your uncle Ken this morning, and you should keep me company every morning, he said pleasantly. We ate together, and he chatted with me throughout the meal. He was now my friend. From then on, we had secret jokes about everything to which even Aunt Ker was not privy. The cussing in the kitchen stopped, and no one could say a wry word about my uncle Ken. I was now his staunch supporter, and I followed him everywhere, even to work when possible.

About six months after I had arrived at Mile Gully, Mama Ruby got off the bus in front of the house, one Saturday afternoon, to everyone's surprise. After the kissing and greetings, she announced that she had come to get me. She had found a job in Kingston and had come to get all her children. She sounded like a mother hen gathering her chicks. Uncle Ken came from his office, pretending to visit with her, but I could tell, just from how he spoke, that he had come to convince her that this was not the time to take me back. He kept saying that I was in school, that I had friends, that I had just settled in and a change would be too disruptive right now.

Let her finish out the school year and perhaps this coming summer may be a better time to transition her back to you. This will be easier on you too, Ruby. It will give you time to get settled with the boys before you have to contend with her too.

Well, I came all this way for her. I really think she should come with me now.

Let's have dinner and decide later on. You'll spend a few days with us, right? Aunt Ker said.

No, I have to be on the bus tomorrow back to Albion, as I told you, I have to be back in Kingston by Monday for work.

Later that night, Mama Ruby reluctantly relented under Uncle Ken's persuasive argument, and it was decided that I would stay another year. The next morning, Mama Ruby left, and my vacation continued.

Tell Mickey I didn't cry, I said to her as she kissed and hugged me amid her goodbyes. Now that Uncle Ken and I were friends, I was happy to stay, but I still missed Mickey, Eddie, and Stephen.

*****

Diana, what's the matter? I snapped back to reality, out of the dream state of my memories, and looked up to see Jason, my step-grandson, staring at me oddly. I realized that tears had been streaming down my face. As I wiped the tears off my face, I replied, I just heard that my brother Eddie died a few days ago.

Does Machito know? he asked.

I shook my head no in reply.

As Jason ran back next door to tell Machito, my son, I wondered how life would have been different for Eddie and me if he had gone with Aunt Keris that day. I wondered how our Hart Hill experience had influenced the outcome of our lives. I have heard often that we are responsible for our choices in life and that these choices dictate how our lives turn out. However, I have often wondered if some so-called choices aren't forced upon us in such a way that we have no choice in the matter. Isn't it possible that what could look like a choice, could actually be preordained? In this case, we could not be completely responsible for who we become or how our lives turn out. In graduate school, I learned about and contemplated the free will versus predetermination dilemma and could never tell which, in my estimation, explained why people turned out the way they do.

In the case of Eddie and me, it is clear that we had no choice in selecting our parents, genetic makeup, country of birth, culture, race, class, nor economic condition into which we were born. These are factors that imprint our psyche in our early years and serve as the foundation that sets a course for the rest of our lives. I often think that these conditions act like a GPS that directs human beings along their life path. Once the system is set, either a miracle or an extraordinary feat of strength and a sense of self-determination can overrule those instructions and such feats rarely occur. My brothers and I had no choice in the matter when Mama, out of desperation, sent us all to live with our father at Hart Hill. The year and a half that I spent there made me think more deeply about myself and my life. It seemed that Mickey, Eddie, Stephen, and I sprung from the roots of that huge jimbilin tree in front of the house as if our individual GPS was set by circumstances that we certainly did not and would not have chosen because it led to an insufferable set of circumstances. It is interesting, however, that having had the same experiences, each of our lives turned out so differently.

Again, my thoughts were interrupted as Machito arrived. He sat beside me in the swing.

Hey, Mom, sorry to hear about Uncle Eddy. He spoke slowly as he continued, I know you feel bad, but at least Uncle Eddy's suffering is over. Nobody can say you didn't do all you could to help him. You went way beyond what anybody else did or would have done. He hesitated, What do you always say, ‘When men do their best, angels can do no more?' You've always told people to take the positive road of life, so now you have to take that road for yourself.

I knew he was trying to console me, but it made me cry even more. He knew that I was not a person who cried when things got rough. He put his arm around my shoulders and rocked me gently.

You know, Machito…, I began.

Yes, I know him very well. He always managed to get a little laugh out of me with that tired old joke.

I have been thinking that I should write about our lives, not necessarily for others, although I think our backgrounds and experiences would surprise a great many people and might impact how other young people live their lives, but I would like to write it for myself and our family. I think Eddie's death has inspired me to do it now.

Hey, that's great, Mom. I've been telling you for years to write these stories of your life. I find them interesting, and I bet others will too.

Thank God for the great relationship I was fortunate to have had with my son. Machito and I loved each other and despite his wild adventurous teenage years when I had to use my iron fist to keep him from getting into too much trouble, we remained close throughout his life. We always talked honestly with each other, no matter what was going on in our lives. During the wild years, I fought against what I perceived were the American values of fierce independence and permissiveness and tried to instill in him my Jamaican values of appreciation for family and community, respect for elders, compassion for others, and the value of education and ownership of the land. It was not an easy job raising him in the dual culture of his American birth and my Jamaican roots. Sometimes these values seemed to contradict each other, and we argued over what I saw as American permissiveness and boldness, bordering on the rudeness of American youth. I preferred to have conversations with Machito, but once in a while, I had to establish who the parent was and give a stern lecture.

I make the rules around here, and you will follow them until you have your own home. I am the parent until the day I die, so don't think you dictate what you will or won't do. I decide what is right and wrong regardless of what you think.

Machito always accepted my occasional lecture and never gave me any back talk. On issues of respect and compassion for others and the dangers of drugs and alcohol, I was unrelenting, and he yielded to my strong will. When he was very young, I used to dread the years to come when I knew he would try drugs and alcohol and prayed that his respect for me would keep us close and on the right path.

After a while, Machito got up to go back to his house next door and paused.

Let's go to the Middleburgh Diner for a late lunch. I know you have to grieve, Mom, but I don't want you crying all day by yourself. I'll come back over for you around one o'clock, okay?

I nodded and smiled at the thought that my son was trying to help me handle the grief that comes with the death of a loved one.

I continued to sit there letting my mind go back to Eddy and his tortured life as an alcoholic. It's as if I had been recording our lives mentally since I was a child of three. Sometimes it was as if I stepped outside myself and observed the goings-on in my life, as if I were watching a cinema, understanding much more than adults around me suspected. The pictures remained indelibly etched in my mind, even when I didn't have the wisdom or experience to give meaning to my images. Throughout my life, I would have aha moments when understanding caught up to my memories and mental pictures. This trait of listening, watching, and recording had become part of my way of being. At this moment, I drifted back to my earliest memories.

Chapter 2

Leaving Mile Gully

It was October 1, 1944, and I had celebrated my fourth birthday seven days ago, with a cake and four candles. Now it was seven o'clock in the morning, and I was already dressed. My hair was pulled back, plated, and tied with a pink satin bow to match my best pink organdy dress, with matching pink socks and black patent leather shoes. I was made to sit at the far end of the long mahogany dining table watching the hustle and bustle of moving day taking place around me in the house. I desperately wanted to get up from the prison seat and go outside to see what was happening in the public works yard, but I was under strict orders from Aunt Ker not to get up from this chair and nobody disobeyed her orders, especially when she had on her bullfrog face. Uncle Ken was sitting at the other end of the table, leisurely reading the newspaper and having his usual breakfast of a scalded egg and two slices of well-buttered toast or occasionally fried breadfruit. Today, it was toast. I had always been intrigued by the pretty little eggcups and tiny spoons that looked like playthings and the ritual of tapping the top of the egg with the tiny spoon, carefully removing the shell to form a hole, then sprinkling a little salt into the hole before spooning up the soupy egg. He usually followed each spoonful of soupy egg with a bite of toast or breadfruit. They couldn't get me to eat that nasty-looking scalded egg because it looked like a slimy raw egg to me.

Looking at him, you'd think that Uncle Ken had nothing to do with anything going on around him. My aunt Kerris was snapping orders to the moving men and having a fit about certain boxes. Every now and then, her voice rose to a shrill scream when she shouted the word fragile to the men who would smile and politely ignore her. She had given up on appealing to Uncle Ken to please speak to the men about being careful with her good china, her precious tea set, or some other of her possessions, so now she just shouted orders at them herself. These were public works men and Uncle Ken knew them well. Once in a while, he would just clear his throat and say off-handedly, without looking up from the newspaper, Careful there, men. It's Miss Kerr's delicate things, and the men would reply, Yes, Supa. Aunt Ker, on the other hand, wanted them to know that the household was her domain, and they had better get it through their heads that they would answer to her if any of her precious things got damaged.

James, if I find one piece of my bone china broken when I am unpacking in Gordon Town, I'll come back to Mile Gully and break your damn blasted neck. Today, she didn't care about cursing in front of me.

Uncle Ken finally pushed back his chair from the table. As he folded the paper, he said to no one in particular, A few more of our men in the RAF went down today. The Royal Air Force can't say that Jamaica didn't do her part in the war effort although I suspect that Churchill will think that the contribution of this small colony is not significant enough to give us credit. Oh well, history may not show it, but some of us will remember. I wasn't sure what war was all about, but the word war always sent me into a state of panic. I always expected soldiers to come marching in to kill us, and I was always compelled to run to a window to see if they were coming so I could hide under the bed before they marched into our house. Micky had said that soldiers would just burst into your house and kill you with a big gun. Boom! Just like that, and you are dead! He should know he was a whole year older than me. Today though, I couldn't run. I would just have to sit here and be killed because I was ordered not to move from this chair. Uncle Ken rose from the chair, again clearing his throat. He gave me a wink and a smile. I felt more secure about the soldiers with him there since he and I had become good friends.

My uncle Ken was a public works man and as a foreman. He was the chief officer of this small hamlet in the Parish of Manchester. Having done such a good job, he had just received a promotion to the position of superintendent in the public works department and, with that, came a transfer to Gordon Town, a larger town and more responsibilities. My aunt Kerris was happy with the news of the move because Gordon Town was close to Kingston where she could have a more active social life. She could go shopping or visit with her sisters, many of whom lived in St. Andrews, which was just a stone's throw away from Gordon town. Mile Gully, on the other hand, had been a long way from most of her sisters, and the distance had made her shopping sprees less frequent. In Mile Gully, her visits to family were limited to Aunt Alma and my grandparents, the only ones still living in Manchester.

I snapped to attention as Uncle Ken stood up and started toward the door, he paused and turned toward me. Want to come with me? he asked. Glad to get up from my prison, I started to move but glanced nervously toward the bullfrog face. Uncle Ken saw the hesitation and called out to Aunt Ker, Miss Ker, Miss Dee is coming with me. Aunt Kerris replied sharply. Well, she had better not get dirty. I have no time to dress her again before we leave. I have to get dressed too, and time is… She barely finished what she was saying when she went into another high-pitched shout at one of the men. I ran toward Uncle Ken, and we went down the stairs quickly into the public works yard.

Don't worry, he said, your aunt Ker loves giving orders, and anyhow, we'll be leaving in half an hour, so the excitement will be over soon.

Stepping from the shade of the house into the blazing hot Jamaican sun, which had so illuminated the public works yard, I had to squint to make out the scene in front of me. When I could see clearly, I was surprised to see that the yard was filled with all the men my uncle supervised. They had all gathered in the yard to say goodbye to him. All the Lorry drivers, the road men, the yard men, and those who took care of the horses, mules, and carts shook his hand and said how they will miss him and that they hoped the other boss would be as kind as he was. Mr. Levy was the last in line, and he shyly approached Uncle Ken and said, I will never forget your kindness, Mr. Bygrave, and you too, Miss Dee, he said, bending down to me, you probably saved my life, so I won't forget you either. He was referring to the incident a few months before when I had found him lying on his back on his desk writhing, with foam coming out of his mouth. When I couldn't wake him, I ran to the house to get Uncle Ken to come and see what was wrong with him. I had learned later that Mr. Levy had been having an epileptic seizure and was chewing on his tongue and choking on phlegm. Uncle Ken had turned him slightly on his side so the phlegm in his mouth and throat would drain out, then he put a spoon in his mouth to prevent him from chewing on his tongue any further. When it had been all over and Mr. Levy was out of his stupor, Uncle Ken asked him why he had never told anyone that he had epilepsy. He had answered sheepishly that he thought he would not have been given the job as an assistant foreman because, as it was, he was only nineteen years old, and to add a special kind of sickness to his application would have killed his chance of being hired, especially in that high-level position. Uncle Ken had said gently, Nonsense, man. We can't help sickness. You are a good and honest worker. You've got to have confidence in your ability. Nothing else matters. I could have been watching out for you all this time. Then he said pensively, You could have choked to death if Miss Dee hadn't found you.

Although I was not yet four years old, I remembered thinking that Mr. Levy was very young and very handsome, so for a few days after that incident, I seized every opportunity to ask him questions about epilepsy just so he would pay attention to me. Now he shook my uncle's hand, saying, God bless you, sir, and thank you for everything you have done for me. I hope I'll work for you again, someday. Miss Dee, God bless your little heart, and thank you.

By the time Aunt Ker came down the stairs all dressed, with lipstick and everything, people from all over the village had arrived to say their goodbyes. Mr. Blake, the principal of my school, Miss Minot, my teacher, the families of the workmen, and even people I didn't know were all gathered around Uncle Ken. Grandpa, as everyone called him, was among the crowd. He was a short stocky old white man with a big head and long white beard who always went barefooted with ragged clothes and used to scare me to death. The village people said he was a poor German farmer. I didn't know what that was, so I just stayed away from him. He had a farm nearby and would come over with plantains, yams, sweet potatoes, okras, and a host of vegetables to sell to Aunt Ker, often giving her extra fruits as a gift for me.

You were a good customer, mistress. I'll miss you he said to Aunt Ker.

They all wanted to talk about how good Uncle Ken had been to all of them and wished him well in his new job in Gordon Town. They wished Aunt Ker much happiness in her new house and patted me on the head. I felt like I was a puppy or something. Aunt Ker kept thanking them in a hurried voice, all the while, tugging at Uncle Ken's shirt sleeve impatiently. Finally, she said with a tight smile, Well, we really must be going. We won't get there until nightfall if we don't leave now. Then she pulled me along and lifted me into the public works lorry, then onto her lap. Mr. Moody, who was already in the driver's seat, was revving up the engine. Getting the message from Aunt Ker that she was finished with the amenities and ready to go, Uncle Ken climbed in beside her, waving to the crowd, and we were off.

Mr. Moody, go slowly. We have to conserve gas with this war shortage going on. Did you remember to bring an extra tire? I don't want us to have to spend the night on the road in this lorry, he said laughing.

Yes, Super. I have everything under control, sir. I'll get you there today. Don't worry! In my young and yet informed mind, I had become aware of the respect and admiration people had for Uncle Ken and I felt proud of him.

The route I am taking is down through Williamsfield to Porus, then through Spanish Town, to Kingston then up through Mona Heights to Gordon Town. That sounds good, Super?

That sounds perfect, Moody, especially since I want to make a stop on Hagley Park Road in St. Andrews before we begin the drive to Mona Heights, replied Uncle Ken.

By eleven thirty, the tropical sun was mercilessly hot, extracting every drop of moisture from our bodies, soaking the arm-pits of everyone's clothes as the lorry bounced along the bumpy country road toward Kingston, on the way to Gordon Town. After some time, the silence was broken suddenly.

What time is it? I think we should stop for lunch and take a short breather from this heat, said Aunt Ker. Everybody agreed. Mr. Moody said we had been driving for more than two and a half hours, and it was time to get some petrol. Uncle Ken, looking at me, said it was time for a pee-pee break. I giggled, but Aunt Ker said crossly, Ken, don't teach the child to use such words. You won't think it's funny when she starts saying things like that in front of people. Turning to me, she said, Just say you need to go to the bathroom. Uncle Ken straightened his face immediately, pretending to be serious, which was comical, but he gave me his usual wink when she wasn't looking, and I giggled quietly. I always got car sick and was happy to get out of the Lorry and walk about. We had come to a little shop, with a petrol pump by the roadside. All along the road, we passed little stands where higglers sold corn, both roasted and boiled, coconuts which they chopped open for the refreshing water inside, sweet coconut drops, guava cheese, tamarind balls, gizzadas, bullas, and all sorts of fruits.

Mr. Moody took us a little further from the petrol pump to a big shade tree and after unloading the basket of food that had been prepared for the trip, Mr. Moody drove back to the little shop to get the petrol while Aunt Ker set out the lunch she had prepared on a tablecloth on the grass. Pretty soon, Mr. Moody was back with ice and some bottles of aerated water, and my favorite flavor, cola champagne. He brought back ice-cold Red Stripe Beer for Uncle Ken and himself. The lunch of Bully-Beef sandwiches, boiled eggs, Pickapeppa sauce for the sandwiches, and for dessert, a sweet-potato pone. The sight of food made me sick just as I was starting to feel better from my motion sickness. The only thing I wanted to eat was a mango, but we had none, and Aunt Ker wouldn't let me have one anyway for fear it would drip all over my nice clothes. Uncle Ken had to come to my aide again when Aunt Ker insisted that I had to eat something. All I wanted was the cola champagne with lots of ice. After a little rest, each person went into the bushes for their pee-pee break. When it was my turn, Aunt Ker showed me the trick of stooping to pee in the bush without wetting my clothes and my shoes and socks. Then we were on our way again. As we traveled, I noticed the beauty of the lush, green vegetation of my little Island home. We passed banana trees and sugarcane fields, which seem to go on for miles along the roadside. Lots of coconut trees dotted the landscape.

Road trips can be tedious and time-consuming because although Jamaica is only 146 miles long, from east to west and 51 miles at its widest, from the North Coast to the South, getting from one point to the next can be a long and laborious feat. The island is mountainous with about twenty mountain peaks and ridges. A central mountain range runs along the center of the island from east to west, and there are two other ranges that run from north to south both in the eastern and western sections. Nearly half of the island is over one thousand feet above sea level. The highest mountain, the Blue Mountain, peaks at 7,402 feet above sea level. Sugar Loaf is the next peak at 7,000 feet, Mossman's Peak at 6,700 feet, and Saint John's peak is at 6,332 feet. Most of the other ranges rise from 5,000 to 1,000 feet above sea level. Traveling along the coastal towns is the only way to avoid the mountains in Jamaica, but a large number of the municipalities are dispersed throughout the inland regions, making it impractical to travel only along the coastal plains.

In addition to the long uphill climb over the mountains, the roads are very narrow and winding with many landslides and falling-rock zones. Most journeys are slow and require vigilance and constant use of the horn to alert approaching vehicles that may be on the opposite side of the myriad of blind corners. In some areas, the road is so narrow that only one vehicle at a time is able to pass, forcing the other to pull over and make as much room as possible for the other to scrape by. I could never put my arms or head outside the window because Uncle Ken used to say that Jamaicans are crazy drivers, and they'll chop my head right off if it is hanging even an inch outside. So while a trip may sound short in distance, a great deal of time and energy is expended getting to one's destination on the Island. Moving day was a long, hot, tedious, and serious matter that sucked the energy right out of a person before it was all over.

When we got into Kingston, it was three o'clock in the afternoon, a six-hour trip with one short stop for lunch. We arrived at Aunt Edna's house on Hagley Park road in the Parish of St. Andrews, where I learned that I was to spend the night. This part of the plan had not been revealed to me until after we had greeted Aunt Edna and Uncle Oscar and were sipping cold drinks. It's customary in Jamaica for drinks to be served when anyone drops by. Usually, the men would have rum and ginger ale over ice or cold red stripe beer while the women and children would have lemonade or a soft drink and Aunt Edna was Miss High Society, so out came the drinks, with cheese and crackers. Mr. Moody was served out on the veranda while everyone else sat in the drawing room. I met my Cousin Peter for the first time. I was not in the habit of making a fuss about things, but I raised my objections quietly to Uncle Ken, figuring he would be the most sympathetic to my situation. After all, I didn't know Aunt Edna and Uncle Oscar. I didn't want to stay with them. He said that it would be best for everyone if I were out of the way while all the furniture was unloaded and the major unpacking was done and that further driving would probably worsen my car sickness. I did not like that at all, especially since Aunt Edna looked very stern and Uncle Oscar looked even worse.

No, I whispered to Uncle Ken, I don't want to stay here. He looked at me pleadingly.

This is your cousin Peter. You'll have someone to play with until tomorrow when we come to get you. I knew then it was useless, so all I could do was pout quietly. I never cried in front of people, and I knew well enough that when big people decided on something, children had no say. Just like how I came to be living with Aunt Ker and Uncle Ken. Nobody asked me about that, but here I am. I spent a very unhappy night wondering if this was to be another vacation with Aunt Edna, but the next morning, as I sat on the veranda pretending to listen to Peter babble on about the wonders of his new toy truck, Uncle Ken drove up the driveway to get me. I was awash with relief as I hugged him around his leg so tightly, he begged me to let go before I cut off his circulation.

Gordon Town was northeast of Kingston and bigger than Mile Gully. As usual, a house and a vehicle came with Uncle Ken's job. The public works property at Gordon Town included the superintendent's house, which was separated by a low stone wall from the public works yard, the stalls for mules, outbuildings for vehicles, and an office building for Uncle Ken and the office clerks. A river flowed behind the entire public works compound, and I was forbidden to play down there without supervision because flash floods could occur without warning. Once, I actually did see it become a raging muddy river during a few days of heavy rain, so I heeded the warning and told Shirley, my cousin when she came to visit that we must watch the river when we came down to play.

The post office was across the street from our house and Aunt Ena, another one of Aunt Ker's eight living sisters, was the postmistress so we would visit her once in a while. I knew that Aunt Ker, my mamma Ruby, Aunt Ena and Aunt Edna, Aunt Nesta, and Aunt Gloria were sisters, and they had two other sisters, living in America, named Aunt Doris and Aunt Alma, and one brother named Uncle Noel who were all living. I didn't know them all, but I had heard stories about them all. I had also heard that there was another sister named Ina and another brother named Alan who both had died when they were teenagers and a baby who had died in childbirth. In all, my maternal grandmother had given birth to twelve children. That comprised the Lewis family. I loved listening to grown-up conversations especially when it came to gossip about the family. I was most fond of listening to Uncle Ken's talk of politics and Jamaican history with his drinking buddies.

My Lewis grandparents, Alan and Mary, had sold Utica, the large family estate, as their daughters got married and the last one left home. It was the custom in those days that a decent dowry had to be provided for each girl if she