10.18.09
Ghost of John Brown
On the 150th Anniversary of the Raid on Harper’s Ferry
The Ghost of John Brown
By WINDY COOLER
When my truly dear White-Alabama-Granny was spitting mad the worst she would hiss under her breath, with an emphatic foot stamp, was “John Brown!” She took his name deep into her throat, her eyes hot with rage as her toast erupted into flames, once or twice destroying the little oven on her worn used-to-be-white countertop. My Granny couldn’t cook at all, and toast turned carbon, covered over in scalded milk, was often our daily bread. It was given to us right before we were forgiven our trespasses. She served this with an eviscerated chicken and dull colored collard greens, glistening with pig fat, set upon a backdrop of faded cloth placement. “John Brown!” I probably thought, at age five, upon being served this putrid dinner. This was the meal, she told me, that my grandfather had called “Shit on a shingle.” She would whisper the word “shit” and tittle a bit in the telling. I think she must have loved the excuse to say something so naughty.