Elizabeth’s hands testify to more than
age and arthritis. The fronts are dark chocolate, verging on charcoal. Slender and
angular, they resemble a distant aerial view of small mountains – five frail boned
ridges, with valleys of loose skin and knobs of enflamed knuckles. Her
fingertips, after decades of shining and scrubbing, have regained some of their
softness. These are hardworking hands – hands that have creased countless khaki
pants, spanked several misbehaving bottoms, and rolled some of the South’s
finest homemade biscuits.
When Elizabeth first began working in
the Compton home some fifteen years ago, Mama’s focus was on raising four
children under the age of six; keeping a clean house was secondary. Elizabeth, up
in age even then, was a godsend. She has been wadding up newspaper to clean
windows since she was sixteen, when she and her mother worked together in one
of South Carolina’s now famous plantation homes, which was then owned by my
cousins. The maintenance of the grand colonial house, once kept by slaves, did
not decrease after the Civil War. For a small paycheck, Elizabeth kept it
shining.
After the home was sold, she continued
to work for various branches of the family tree, where she had the reputation
of being stern and uncompromising. Family members from the generation above me
still become being locked outside of the house while Elizabeth dusted and
mopped. My siblings and I, beneficiaries of her more mellow years, were able to
remain in the house, but we instinctively steered clear of Elizabeth’s
migrating work zone. Today, her body belies her years; she looks twenty years
younger than her actual age of eighty-seven. While four Compton children have
transformed from babies and toddlers to teenagers and young adults, Elizabeth
faithfully keeps up her Tuesday and Friday cleaning routine.
It may seem like a crime to hire a maid the
same age as my chair-ridden grandmother. Employing Elizabeth is more like
helping out a family member, though. Given her age, what she accomplishes is
amazing, but it is certainly not up to maid-for-hire standards. Mama has been
going back behind her for years, re-shining the front doorknob or smudges on
the windows that Elizabeth’s weaker eyes can no longer see. The number of brand
new clothes she has shrunk in the dryer or stained with Clorox can be
frustrating, but now we are more cautious about what we once carelessly tossed
in the hamper. These days, Elizabeth straightens more than deep cleans.
Everything looks nice on Tuesday and Friday afternoon, and proceeds to descend
back into an unkempt tornado within twenty-four hours. This job is her only income,
though, and even if she folded clothes for twenty minutes and spent the next
two hours eating a tomato-mayonnaise sandwich and watching TV on the couch, we
would continue to pick her up for work twice a week.
Once I asked my mom if Elizabeth could
really do anything well anymore. “She can iron. And she makes y’all do what you
should be doing already.” I had to laugh because Mama is right. With a toothy
grin and happy cackle, Elizabeth excels in two activities: ironin’ and fussin’.
Once Elizabeth has thrown out the refrigerator’s perfectly good leftovers and
made a little breakfast for herself, she places the ironing board in front of
the TV like others set up tent, as if she may be there a while. She refuses to
learn to use the remote and always yells for someone to turn on The Price is Right or a dramatic soap
opera. “Up that volume for me, too, please.” With starch and steam, she irons
crisp creases into the fronts of khakis and the collars of button downs. My fifteen-year-old
brother, the only Compton son, takes no particular interest in his apparel or
appearance, but Elizabeth wants her men looking extra sharp. While everyone’s
clothes are ironed on Tuesday, only “Master Cain,” as Elizabeth affectionately
calls him, has his pants ironed also on Friday.
There is a mixture of dread and
entertainment when Elizabeth shows up. Dread, because we don’t like to clean
the bedrooms and do chores for her. Isn’t the point of a housecleaner to clean
the house? Why are we straightening everything before Elizabeth comes? In essence, Mama argues, so she doesn’t
have to. We are also entertained, though, because twice a week, Elizabeth rules
the house, making much ado about nothing whenever she can. “I’m gon’ fuss,
now,” she always reminds us. She knows that with her age, she has earned the
right to do and say what she wants, and she takes full advantage of her
position in the family.
One of her favorite fussing topics is
the outfits we don before leaving the house, which, according to her, never
suit the weather. If it is raining and we have sandals or shorts on, she’ll
rant about catching pneumonia if we don’t cover up. Once in high school, I came
downstairs in a formfitting dress for a class presentation that day, and
Elizabeth compared me to the voluptuous 1920s actress and singer Mae West. Though
I am not that curvy and rarely wear dresses, ever since then I have been “Miss
Mae West.” Sometimes I wonder if she knows my birth name anymore.
House rules don’t allow yelling up or
down the stairs, but no one stops Elizabeth from hollering all the day long.
She will request, question, or complain, but everything she says is really a
command.
“You strip yo’
sheets yet?”
“Bring those
clothes down fo’ me dahlin’. This ol’ lady’s knees can’t go up n’ dawn these
stayahs all day.”
“Grab me some
mo’ hangas, please.”
“Y’all keep
these lights off, now.”
Without dilly-dallying, sheets are
stripped, stairs climbed, hangers brought, and lights turned off. Even the
dogs, who are not well-trained, obey her.
Elizabeth tells it like it is. Whenever
she thinks parents are not disciplining their children enough, she asks
condemningly, “You ‘fraid o’ yo’ own child?” A few months ago on the Charleston
city bus, Elizabeth sat cramped between two young people, her patience
dwindling with every unnecessarily loud word her preoccupied neighbor bellowed
into the cell phone. She made a fuss for a bit, but the gal ignored her and
continued talking, so Elizabeth moved to another seat. When the phone
conversation ended, the young woman turned to her and, with a hint of attitude,
asked what the problem was with talking on the phone. That day, Elizabeth
happened to be taking her kitchen knives to be sharpened, and without a moment’s
hesitation, she whipped one out and began ranting at the woman to leave her in
peace throwing in an “I don’t play” several times. As she recounted this story,
incredulous listeners retorted that this was a serious crime. It did not seem
to phase her. “I don’t play,” Elizabeth repeated, and we all know it.
The only thing Elizabeth is better at
than fussing is living. Her work has kept her physically active, but her
friends keep her soul alive. She will never turn down a party, particularly if
there is a dance floor, James Brown boogying, and good drink. One would be
hard-pressed to find an eighty-six-year-old with smoother moves than Elizabeth.
Her southern cooking – plates of creamy mac n’ cheese, collard greens, baked
beans, country ham, homemade biscuits, and sweet potato casserole – is to die
for, literally. Butter is always the secret ingredient, and no calories are skimped.
While the likelihood of a physical heart attack increases with every bite of
this “soul food,” the spiritual heart never felt so satisfied. Elizabeth has
been singing in her AME church choir for over sixty years, and after the
fiftieth year, she was honored with a plaque for her dedicated service. After
her great-grandchildren, the congregation is her extended family, and along
with the normal Sunday service, she rarely misses a funeral or prayer meeting. She
is overwhelmed by the kind gestures of friends, but she doesn’t realize it is
the natural order of things – what goes around comes around.
As for the Comptons, she often tells us
that she loves us and that she prays for us every day. Then she reverts to
fussing, reminding us to say our prayers, too. Every year for our birthday
growing up, she gave us a card with the respective number of dollar bills for
our years of life. She always signed it the same way: “I love you. -Old Lady
Elizabeth.” It was repetitive and predictable, but the love and monetary
sacrifice in those cards was tangible. For each of Elizabeth’s special occasions
– her birthday, holidays, a visit from her son – she asks me to make her one thing:
a lemon pound cake. She doesn’t share it with anyone, preserving the extra
portion in the freezer to savor one slice at a time. When I place that wrapped
pound cake in her weathered hands, it is as if I am signing a card to her. For
all your fussing, for all your care, “I love you. –Miss Mae West.”
