When a Man Finds a Wife …

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From Lullaby Laura to All:

Hey, to all my friends in cyberspace. It has been placed in my heart to write a little some-something on relationships, and as I go along, I want your input because I know you are from diverse backgrounds and for the most part, very opinionated in the constructive sense. I appreciate you for that quality and uniqueness. I know some of you have obtained your letters of higher learning, but I ask that you keep your points simple. Don’t try to rewrite the literary work or bash another’s comments. For some reason, however, I feel I’m spinning my wheels knowing all of you –you are going to say whatever you want, anyhow. This work is different in that I want you to feel the inner most guts of the characters spill over in the novel. This might not be politically correct, but this is how I feel it. Love you! Enjoy!

To Lullaby Laura from Mother Katos:

Baby, I heard you were writing a novel. Now Laura, you know I knew you before you were born, and I pray you just keep your mind stayed on Jesus. You don’t need the enemy to infiltrate your mind with any thoughts outside the Bible. Folks only need the WORD; no extra-curricular reading or writing. Now, I was instrumental in you going past high school; so, I believe in you having good success, but don’t cloud people’s minds with foolishness, you hear?

From Lullaby Laura to Mother Katos:

I hear you Mother—loud and clear. Keep me in your prayers.

To Lullaby Laura from Wild in Chicago:

Girl, strut your stuff. You are saved; you know your limits. And if you know of some skeletons in old lady Katos’ closet, include them in your book and spice it up.

To Wild in Chicago from Mother Katos:

I know who you are, WILD IN CHICAGO. Funny thing is - you haven’t ever been outside the city where you were born-nowhere near Chicago. You better know that I am God’s anointed and the Word says, “Touch not MY anointed and do My prophets no harm.” (1 Chron. 16:22-KJV) I’m glad, however, that you have learned to read and write.

From Wild in Chicago to Mother Katos:

Are you Mother Katos or Sister Clay who stings like a bee? I felt that through the lines. Good night Lullaby Laura—that woman will keep you up all night.

From Lullaby Laura to All:

Here it is gang. The first chapter starts with my Granny Jean, my daddy Carlton, and my mother Dorothy.

To Lullaby Laura from Mother Katos:

CHILD, WE CAN READ! We know how to pick out characters and follow them along—WE’RE NOT SLOW.

To Mother Katos from Lullaby Laura:

Sorry Mother.

Younger Years

“Carlton, like Mother Moseley at our church always says, ‘Those people were sinning when you were born and they will be sinning when you’re gone,’” said Granny Jean to my father for the millionth and second time.

Carlton Simpson is my father. He’s described by my mother, Dorothy, as her dark chocolate baby. Though out of sight, mama is always in hearing distance of any conversation in the house. Her tiny petite frame moves swiftly through the house, whether there’s an emergency or not. She just can’t seem to move at a normal pace. Papa says it comes from her rushing to the dinner table to get the biggest piece of chicken when she was young. Mama loves the chicken breast.

“You listen to your mother, Carlton. There’s no use in fretting about what you can’t change,” added mama to an already heated discussion.

The first voice speaking was Granny Jean, my grandmother on my father’s side. Granny was the wife of a preacher and Carlton being the only child and a male, gave granny high hopes of daddy becoming a man of the cloth. Granny Jean is light near white in complexion. Her Black, Indian, and Hispanic heritage and Carlton’s father’s African and Italian descent inspired many a conversations around our round dinner table. I always felt I had an up-close and personal seat in the United Nations’ discussions.

Mama never let me leave the table without having an input. She would ask, “Laura, what is your take on that?”

Whether she realized it or not, she added immensely to my active listening skills, so much so, that my teachers throughout elementary and middle school would comment on my report card. My family respected each other’s right to say something, but they reserved the right to agree to disagree and move on.

“Boy don’t you be worrying about them---just make sure your soul is right with Jesus,” said Granny Jean to dad as he stressed about people living a riotous life.

“Mama, I got something on the inside telling me to shout from the roof top to people everywhere—THAT JESUS LOVES THEM,” daddy proclaimed.

“Son, I’m not telling you that Jesus isn’t talking to you, but if you go on our roof top, your BLACK TAIL will be on the kitchen floor,” replied granny emphatically.

We live in a red brick Colonial type 4-bedroom, 2 ½ bathroom house with black and white awnings that always alert us quickly when it’s raining outside.

“I’ve been telling you to fix that roof from sunrise to sunset and you haven’t done it yet. I know Jesus is concerned about souls, but He’s also concerned about the roof caving in on us. And what are you going to tell God why you killed Dorothy, your sweet, loving wife; me, your god fearing unadulterated fireball mother; and Laura, your only beautiful, sanctified, precious child?” “Now the prayer band at Amberstone Pentecostal Holiness Church prayed until fire almost came down from heaven to provide what you needed for the roof. That was the same week, HALLELUJAH, that you got the bonus from your job. THANK YOU JESUS!”

I used to love to see granny praise the Lord. Granny raised her arms and the fat would jingle in step with her shout. She would open her mouth wide and let out a praise that would send chills down my spine.

“Now I know you are not lazy,” said granny as she pointed her finger at dad. She had one finger pointed and the other ones holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup, about to drink it.

“You are a good man, a good husband, and a good father. Your daddy raised you to provide for your family. I believe you are just preoccupied with preaching rather than deaconing.”

“DID GOD CALL YOU TO PREACH BOY AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?” She took a big slurp of the soup, wiped her mouth with a large dish towel, and blinked her eyes as daddy moved away from her at the table.

“Carlton, Jr., if you have an inkling that you are to carry the Word,” she said as she got up from the table and pulled her long Pentecostal dress up slightly above her cotton slip, “let me know and I’m going to go down to Minnie’s dress shop and get the prettiest dress with the best lace money can buy. That dress will be the talk of the town,” she said before gracing her hips back in the chair.

“But mama, I haven’t heard a call from God,” muttered dad as he tried to convince granny that she was barking up the wrong sanctified tree.

“Well,” responded granny, “if you asked God to order your steps, you have to be prepared to get those feet a moving.”

“Mama, save your money. God has given this deacon,” pointing to himself, “not preacher, a thirst for souls like all of us should have--- but in the meanwhile, you know as well as I that I can squall.”

Daddy slapped his right knee, took a text and immediately started preaching until granny broke out in a shout. Daddy grabbed the guitar, mama got on the piano, and I, Laura Fredericka Simpson, joined in singing. My folks weren’t rich, or poor; they were just happy, spiritual people.