Welcome June 9, 2003 Issue

Porch-step thoughts

Bettie Gray

THE FLOWER BED by the side porch of my grandmother's house in Dallas, where my family lived when I was little, was lush with deep pink four-o'clocks. I sat on the steps looking at them, the summer afternoon sun warming the top of my head and the neatly patched knees of my pale blue overalls, thinking four-year-old-girl thoughts.

The rest of the family was inside the house, where it was darker and cooler. But it was the time of day when the four-o'clocks would be open, and, hot sun or not, I didn't want to miss the peak of their bloom. I loved their name, the way they looked, and the way they smelled. And I loved to watch the heavy-looking bumblebees as they hovered, then settled, on one flower, and then another.

I don't know why, maybe I was a little hungry, but my thoughts switched from four-o'clocks to jello. Maybe it was the pink color of the little blossoms that made me think of the strawberry gelatin we sometimes had our supper. Mammy, my grandmother, often stirred fruit and something creamy into the jello she made for us. We called this concoction pink stuff. And we all liked it.

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