In a previous post I told about the shot-gun house in which we lived in Kosciusko, Mississippi. It was almost at the end of Mill Street. The other end of Mill Street was at the bottom of the hill at the cotton mill where Mama worked as a weaver. She considered it a privilege to have a job, even though it wasn't easy working in the mill. She earned less than a dollar an hour, and had to endure hours without a break even to go to the bathroom.
The environment of the weaving room was not quiet and pleasant. It stank of oil and grease that kept the looms running. The looms didn't just hum as you might expect of such machinery. With the deafening sound of the shuttles flying back and forth and the looms banging and clacking, I wonder how my Mama came out of those years of working in cotton mills with her hearing intact. In those days, companies were not required to furnish personal protective equipment for the ears or for any other body parts. Serious injuries happened from time to time. Besides the noise and physical dangers of shuttles flying like pointed bombs across the weaving room, the air was full of cotton fibers; Mama used to come home with so much cotton in her hair that she looked like a grannie instead of a young mother.
She would walk up the unpaved, rut lined Mill Steet to our humble house, sit down on the couch, take off her shoes, and Jim and I would climb up on either side of her and snuggle. Usually she would read to us for a little while and then we would go outside and play, while she and Aunt Berl talked. I remember hanging back one day and listening to their conversation.
"Mr. Newell is the meanest man in the world," I heard Mama say. That was the only words that were clear to me. The rest was way over my head. But that was enough. I was going to take Mr. Newell to task for being mean to my Mama. I knew that Mr. Newell lived across Mill Street and a little bit down the hill from us. I saw him every day when he crossed the street to our side, walked around the back of our house, and headed up the hill toward our outhouse, carrying a bucket in each hand. I knew vaguely that he was on his way to milk the cows back there somewhere beyond my scope of knowledge. I had always thought he was a nice old man. He never had been mean to me. He usually smiled at me, though he didn't talk to me.
When Mr. Newell came by that day, I was standing right in his path, frowning at him as he approached. He smiled at me. "Hi, how are you?"
He stopped, waiting for me to move out of his way. I stepped back off the little path, and looked him right in the eye boldly. "My Mama says you are the meanest man in the world."
He looked surprised. Very surprised. "Aww," he said slowly, shaking his gray head. Then, gripping his buckets tightly, he went on up the hill, out of sight around the outhouse and away to wherever his cows were waiting.
"There!" I thought. "He better not be mean to my Mama again."
I went inside and didn't say anything to Mama about my conversation with Mr. Newell. Somehow, I figured I had fixed him, and things would be better. He didn't really look mean to me. Maybe he had changed his mind and felt bad about being mean to Mama and wouldn't do it again.
When Mama came home from work the next day, she seemed in a pretty good mood. She sat down on the couch and brushed her hand through her hair, pulling out a handful of cotton fibers. I climbed up beside her, and she took my face in her hands. "Jean," she said gently, "did you say anything to Mr. Newell yesterday?"
"Yes. Was he mean to you today?" I hoped he hadn't been.
"Oh, Lord," I heard Aunt Berl whisper loudly from the other side of the quilt frame.
Uh-oh... was I in trouble? Mama shook her head, and then started laughing. I looked at Aunt Berl, who was biting her lip.
Mama said, "Jean, the Mr. Newell who goes behind our house and down to milk his cows is not my boss at work. His son is my boss. But what did you say to that old man?"
Now I realized I had not known to whom I was talking out there. I told Mama what I had said, and she nodded. "Did you know that I could get in a lot of trouble because you told someone what you overheard me saying?"
I shook my head. She continued, "Mr. Newell that you talked to is a very nice man. You might have hurt his feelings..."
"Well, I thought he hurt your feelings..." I defended.
"Just remember this: you are too little to know what you're talking about. Just keep your mouth shut from now on, to someone you don't know..." She was not really mad at me, I could tell.
"How did you know I talked to him? Did he tell you?" I asked.
"No. He told his son, my boss."
"Did he make that mean ol' Mr. Newell stop being mean to you?"
"That's none of your business. Just don't repeat stuff you hear in this house. Ever again. Period." I could see Mama meant it.
"Okay," I said, glad it didn't look like I was in really big trouble.
After I left, I heard Mama say to Aunt Berl, "That old man got all over the boss, asking him what he had done to that little girl's mama..."
I smiled. It would be okay. Old Mr. Newell would make young Mr. Newell quit being mean to my Mama. I sure was glad I didn't get a whuppin' though.
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