The Keys to the Highway by Frederick K Foote

The Keys to the Highway by Frederick K Foote

Back in the day, when I was a snot-nosed little rascal growing up in the country, the old folks used to say stuff like, “Homer Hall, how you let all these kids keep up so much ruckus? Where’s your mind, boy?”

And I would look around at the eight or nine kids racing around in a neighbor’s backyard while their parents held a loud as hell harvest celebration inside.

I would respectfully reply, “Sir or Mam, I’m not in charge of these kids. Some of them I don’t even know.”

“Damn, boy, you the oldest one out here. If you ain’t in charge, then who is?”

I want to say, “No one,” and I want to say, “How you know I’m the oldest? I don’t even know that.” but I think his real point is, “Someone has to keep some bit of order. And I appoint you.” I take it as a compliment of some kind. If I don’t accept the assumptions and my selection, the old folks will run our show. They’ll shut us down. Sit us down and shut us up. I can try and avoid all that.

“I guess I am, Sir or Mam.”

“Damn right, you are. Ain’t you learning nothin’ in school?” And the old one would stomp back into the house.

I whistled the kids to me. Some came, and some kept right on playing.

“Listen, old folks say we got to keep down the noise a little—”

“Who you think you talkin’ to Homer? You ain’t my momma or my daddy.”

“I don’t even know you, boy. You try to mess with me, and I’ll kick your skinny, Black ass, sucker.”

“You was making as much noise as anyone, Homer.”

I shake my head in frustration. “Listen, you sorry ass little niggers can be loud as you want, but the next time old folks come out here, we’ll be breaking off switches and linin’ up for lightnin’ strike licks on bare legs. We’ll be making a different noise then, I bet you.”

“I ain’t scared of no whopping. That don’t mean shit to me.”

I point to the back of the yard runin’ about fifty yards to the creek. “We could move back down there and be just as loud.”

Most of the kids are considering this idea.

“Hey, I ain’t scared of no whopping’ either, but they be drunk, and we get another beatin’ when we get home. I don’t need two beatin’s tonight.”

“You tellin’ the truth there, man.”

“Yeah, you right. And they’ll have us sitting along the side of the house like we church mice. Let’s move on back.”

I turn to the girl who said she wasn’t afraid of a whoopin’. “You stay your loud ass up here and see what happen.”

“To hell with you, Homer. You can’t order me around. Try that and you’ll really see a beatin,’ nigger.”

And we moved back and played for a while.

&&&

My four younger siblings were at the kitchen table, and Momma said, “Okay, we need you in the fields so only one of you can go to school for all of us. Who should that be? We were all shouting and waving our hands to be the one to go to school.

Momma turned to me, “Homer, you the oldest. You tell me who it should be.”

I blushed. I was so proud that Mama trusts my judgment.

Of course, I think it should be me because I’m the oldest. But before I can speak, Momma reminds us, “Now, whoever this is, they have to come back and teach us all what they learned. They got to be a good learner and a better teacher.

Salome raises her hand, “Momma, I’m the smartest one. I should go to school. I mean, that’s just common sense.” Salome folds her arms across her chest and smiles like the thing has been settled.

Hector snorts in derision. “No way, Momma. Smarty-pants is a sour puss and ain’t got no patience with people ain’t as smart as she is. And in her eyes, no one is as smart as she is. No way can she be a teacher, Momma.”

Imma adds, “Hector, right, Mamma. Salome be a bad teacher and mean too.”

Salome stands and points at Hector, “Hector, you’re as thick as a brick and as dumb as—”

Momma says, “Salome, sit and listen.”

A frowning Salome sits.

Mara makes her case. “Momma, I got a bad back—”

Salome snickers.

Imma laugh out loud.

Hector says, “You just lazy, girl. You ain’t got no bad back.”

I can’t help chuckling.

Mara snarls at us. “I just would be more helpful at school than here. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Salome snaps back. “You ain’t gettin’ no reward for bein’ lazy.”

Pa comes in and sits at the table. “I can hear you folks all out in the field. And I can tell you one thing. It won’t be Homer at that school. Homer just 11, but he works like a man. I need him with me.”

Mamma put her hand on Pa’s. “Ajax, if it comes to it, I will be your field nigger. The girls can do the housework.”

Pa looks upset.

Mama looks resolute.

They both turn to me.

I swallow hard. “I need to think on this, okay?”

Mamma says. “You got until after supper.”

After supper, I take a deep breath and turn to Mara. “Mara, you go to school.”

There are groans and moans from the other kids, but Pa raises his hand for silence.

Pa says, “Explain, son.”

I take another deep breath and face Pa. “If you say something to Mara, a week later, she can speak back your exact words. Right?”

Everyone nods in agreement, and Mara shines like a star.

“So, she brings home everything the teacher says. It be like havin’ the teacher here.”

Salome adds, “And she got to copy down everything the teacher puts on the board.”

Mara says, “Yeah, I can do that. I can.”

Hector adds, “And she got to take our questions back to school.”

Mara enthusiastically nods in agreement.

I turn to Hector, “You taught us to play the flute, and you taught us how to make flutes.” I continue, “Imma, you as patient as a saint with the animals and the babies. You can teach us about patience, and we all be teachers and students.”

About a week into school, Salome confronted me as I was sloppin’ the hogs.

“Homer, our folks favor you over all of us, and that ain’t right.”

“Why you say that like you mad at me?”

“I heard Mamma say, “She was goin’ a see you in school come hell or high water. I’m the smart one, and everybody knows it. I’m the one that should be goin’ to school, not a dummy like you.”

“Salome, just because people ain’t as smart as you don’t make them a dummy. You need to—”

“Homer Hill, don’t you dare tell me what I need to do. I hope you fall into the feedin’ trough, and the hogs eat every last bit of you.”

&&&

Mamma did eventually get me into school, but I was not really school material. I have my own wife and kids. I’m a janitor and do a little writing, and my passion is fighting for civil and human rights. I do all right.

Salome was made for school and has a microbiology Ph.D. to prove it.

Imma is a nurse and a good one, from what I hear.

Hector teaches music at our community college and has a band that we all love to go hear play.

Mara does something for the government that she can’t talk about, and she plays a mean game of tennis with her bad back and all.

The girl who wasn’t afraid of a ‘beatin’ was our first Black district attorney and is now running for governor.

Pa died in a tractor accident while I was in the Army.

Mamma got her BS degree at age 65 and is working on her master’s.

I’m still listening to old folks, and they are still giving me the keys to the highway.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Frederick K Foote 2023