a slice of memoir
I am standing with Aggie Ray at the bus stop. I don’t know why we are here or where we are going. Aggie Ray, big as a mountain with black hair parted in the middle and a face like a storm cloud, has brought me here. We had to walk a ways and I’m tired but one thing I know: don’t whine to Aggie Ray. She’s my babysitter and, somehow, my relative, but I am not sure how. She is keeping me while my parents paint the house they just bought, near the school where I will go to kindergarten in September.
I do not know when is September. I know it is summer now. The sidewalk is hot and Aggie Ray’s face is red like a rose, and sweaty. Still. Storm cloud. Warning.
I am not the only kid she keeps. There are others but they’re all bigger and they run around and sometimes knock me over. I try not to cry any more because Aggie Ray just calls me a crybaby. She shames me in front of the others for not being able to tie my shoes. And for other things…
Daddy says she sometimes eats a stick of Blue Bonnet margarine for snack and I have tried to watch to see if that’s true but I haven’t seen it yet. I don’t want to get in more trouble.
But today it’s just Aggie Ray and me when the bus pulls up with its loud WHOOSH and nasty exhaust. I gag and cover my nose; I am funny about smells but I remember Aggie Ray and pull my hand down.
It’s a good thing, too, because just then she grabs hold of my hand, bends low, and looks at me with them dark eyes that feel like knives although they aren’t even touching me. She growls: “When we get on this bus, you tell them you’re four years old.”
She’s made a mistake. I had a birthday not too long ago.
“I’m not four. I’m five now,” I tell her, but she squeezes my hand, hard.
“I don’t care. You tell them you’re four, hear me?” she hisses, as the bus door folds open.
I can’t help it.
I start to cry.
She hauls me up the steps and drops her fare in the box, as the bus driver says:”Well, now, what’s the matter with you, little girl?”
Oh, I can feel the steam coming from Aggie Ray’s big body and the power of her big, hard hand.
I am just so proud to be five. I don’t want to say I’m four.
It’s a lie.
And so I blurt it out to the friendly-faced driver…
“I AM FIVE.”
Gimpo bus fare box. Wikipedia Commons. CC BY SA 3.0
Suffice it to say I survived.
I realize now that Aggie Ray didn’t want to pay my fare; riding was free for four and under. And I wasn’t much past four.
I still don’t recall where we were going, or why, only that I was being told to lie. Usually kids have to be taught to tell the truth. I really was so proud to be five. To have to say I was four seemed more shameful than not being able to tie my shoes, or the other things…
I have no remembrance of a consequence. It is best. Aggie Ray is long gone now. She did have redeeming qualities, as well as a difficult life. Last time I saw her, she was ill and frail, but she came to hug me with a big smile.
Perhaps it’s unfair that this is my clearest childhood memory of her.
But it was unfair to me, and I knew it even then.
Perhaps I should say “unfare.”
Be that as it may… fare-thee-well, Aggie Ray, in your final destination.
I didn’t use your real name.
I didn’t think it was fair.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
lit bits and pieces 
Wow…such a vivid memory. You really captured all the details in your memoir slice. I sure hope you write more of these slices. I loved it!
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Thank you, Aggie – it is a clear memory for me and I recall the sting of it – of several things – even now. I’ve thought about writing it for a long time. The hardest part, believe it or not, was trying to come up with a name for “Aggie Ray” – sorry for the coincidence with yours! I was looking for something with a similar feel, if that make sense. Her real name was one that meant “pretty” and, well…a misnomer. Likewise (as I suspect you know!) Aggie means good or pure, and so again, a misnomer for this character. But not for you. 🙂 Thank you for your gracious and encouraging words!
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I thought it was such a coincidence that my username and your fictitious name were the same. My real name is Jennifer, so no harm here. 😊
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Lol – perfect!
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Wow, such detail and voice! You hooked me right from the beginning and I wanted more and more. I felt like I was there with Aggie Ray and you. I love how your memory brings Aggie Ray alive:
“The sidewalk is hot and Aggie Ray’s face is red like a rose, and sweaty. Still. Storm cloud. Warning.”
“she grabs hold of my hand, bends low, and looks at me with them dark eyes that feel like knives although they aren’t even touching me. She growls: “When we get on this bus, you tell them you’re four years old.”
“Oh, I can feel the steam coming from Aggie Ray’s big body and the power of her big, hard hand.”
I love your honesty:
“I’m not four. I’m five now,” I tell her, but she squeezes my hand, hard.
“I am just so proud to be five. I don’t want to say I’m four.
It’s a lie.
“I AM FIVE.”
Fran, I LOVE your slice! Keep going with this. Thank you for sharing and your inspiration.
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I wanted to tell the truth but also to tread carefully, Gail – thank you so much for this response. This is my favorite kind of writing.
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The present tense of this old memory works so well. It’s a long ago memory but still so present.
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This is my favorite kind of writing, to be honest. I have to submerge awhile and try to see things as they were then. Sometimes I recall or “see” other things I haven’t thought of in years… I know memory can be imperfect, but many parts are close enough. And being told to lie about my age – that’s very clear.
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This story is gripping; I can see it so clearly, right out of a movie scene. You captured your perspective as a five-year-old so well that we were all standing on that bus stop, looking up at the mountain of Aggie Ray. Letting out my breath now!
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Thank you, Chris – honestly, this is my favorite kind of writing. Aggie Ray was always surrounded by kids. I’d like to say she just had the non-nonsense way of southern discipline but truth is – she was mean. I saw her the last time at a family funeral when I was fifteen and almost didn’t recognize her; she was in bad health. I felt sorry for her.
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Thanks for sharing. That line, eyes like knives, really stood out to me.
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Thank you for telling me that. Piercing, they were.
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Fran, my gracious! I was right there with you looking into the face like a storm cloud with them dark eyes. This is such a real, live, emotion-packed moment of a slice. I love the play of words with fair and fare. Eating the stick of Blue Bonnet seared the image of her in my mind. I could then see the dark hair, slightly greasy, and the big girl that she was. What a memory – thank you for bringing this moment of your childhood today and sharing it.
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Thank you, Kim. I’ve intended to write this for a long time. That margarine part had to be included – it stuck in my mind although I never saw it, myself. Even as a kid that made me feel sick. I daresay the image you have perceived is realistic…paint a faint smudge of dark hair above her lip, too, and you’ll have it, for sure.
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Wow – such a clear, strong memory and you brought it to life so vividly.
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Thanks so much, Becky . The memory has resurfaced from time to time. I am happy to have finally written it.
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Fran, your memoir is so vivid, like it was yesterday. I can understand that you were proud of your age and that telling a lie was wrong. Sometimes, are memories are wrapped in things that should not have happened and this is one of them. I hope you are adding memories for Scout and the little one (Michah-did I spell the name right?) to savor when they are grown.
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Thank you again, Carol. Children are naturally proud of things like their ages and small accomplishments – it doesn’t take much to crush their spirits. This is something I am deeply mindful about as an adult. I seize every opportunity to spend time with Micah (spelled like the Old Testament prophet) and Scout, for they are changing every day and thsi time cannot be bought back! I preserve moments in writing for them all along.
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Fran, I agree with you. Time passes by so quickly that our writings are their memories in print.
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Wow, Fran, unfare, unfair. Oh, my, your writing always strikes the heart. I was on pins and needles throughout, and the present tense kept me on the edge of my seat even more. Beautifully told. And I was so glad you blurted it out. You kept your voice in tact, at that young age. This line got me ready for the storm: “Aggie Ray’s face is red like a rose, and sweaty. Still. Storm cloud. Warning.”
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I am surprised that my five-year-old self had the courage to stick to my conviction – I was somewhat shy then. Thank you for your words, Denise!
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I have to say that I was terrified of Aggie Ray. You created her so vividly and I felt the fear of your five-year-old self. I was relieved to read you have no remembrance of a consequence. Wonderful word play with fair, unfare, and fare-thee-well (which was magnanimous on your part).
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I was terrified of her for a long time and didn’t like staying with her, as I was a target. My parents didn’t get it. Little kids can tell tall tales sometimes, but sometimes… we need to listen. Thank you for these words, Ramona!
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Such a visceral slice. We feel the depth of your emotion and the way children are taught how to be fair and truthful and then totally cannot understand when someone older orders them to lie (for whatever reason). You describe Aggie Ray so adeptly, no empathy at all. I love the play on ‘fair, fare’. Some childhood memories are so painful!
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There are many painful parts of childhood and I’d much rather focus on the happier times, yet recall what author Frank McCourt wrote: “The happy childhood is hardly worth your while.” I think the overcoming carries immense value to others as well as ourselves.
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You’re so right. I would never advocate a difficult childhood, but so often it can be the making of a person. Thanks for the reminder of Frank McCourt, such a great writer!
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