In the bitter, biting cold of a southern winter many years ago, I was born - a squalling brown baby girl, eyes wide open and gazing towards my future.
I grew in great measured bounds, from bouncing baby to a brown-eyed little girl. I was curious, and was consumed by a thirst to know-why did the rabbits nibble in our family garden? How was I able to walk straight and tall, but my Papa inched forward only by leaning heavily on his cherry-wood cane? And why did I fear so greatly the strange woman who harrumphed past our gate early every morning, muttering to herself constantly? She was like an apparition in living color, a ghost topped off in the color of the sunset--I was astounded by the Lady in the Orange Hat.
Whenever she passed, our mutt, Blackey, would set up a noisy racket inside his pen, roused to alarm at the sight of the old woman ambling along. She was bent and twisted; her feet seemed barely able to pull the rest of her worn body forward... each step was a labor for her. She usually wore a faded housedress, scuffed black boots my Grams called "old-timey," and her signature bright orange hat, crowned with a plume of tan and white goose feathers. The hat seemed as much a part of her head as her ears or (never visible) hair. I was both frightened of her, and drawn to peer at her through our front picture window as she paced by.
One particular summer, Papa and Grams decided I was old enough (and brave enough, I reckoned) to walk to the store by myself, about a country mile up the road from the house. Delighted at first by my new freedom, I skipped along the dusty road at least once every day, waving to every car and person I met. Soon enough, Grams began to send me out with a shopping list, and my trips to the store, bedazzlement faded, took on the same every-day dullness as any other chore.
On a Tuesday morning, with sweat gathering in the soft flesh between my thin collarbones and behind my ears, I set off to the market, armed with a shopping list and a head full of girlish musings to keep me company. Singing and swinging along, I didn't notice the Lady in the Orange Hat until we were almost face-to-face. I stopped abruptly, and lowered my head. What to do now? I thought to myself. She shuffled towards me, then stopped and pushed the brim of her hat back to reveal a wrinkled but not unkind face, the color of water-stained parchment. "You David & Ella's grandgirl, aintcha?" she crackled, and reached out to me. I instinctively recoiled, and stilled my heart, which was beating a staccato African drum solo... ba-bump, bump-bump, ba-bump. "Yes ma'am," I mumbled, head still angled to the earth.
The old woman chuckled, and then inhaled deeply. "You be careful out 'chere by yo'self," she said, and I glanced up quickly to see her lift the tangerine hat off her head. A tumble of wavy, tea-colored hair suddenly flowed past her stooped shoulders and rested in the middle of her bent back. Where did all that hair come from? I thought in wonder.
She fanned her head with the hat, and the feathers trembled and swayed in the hot air. The cascading curls rippled in the wake of her fanning, and as she reached up to scratch her scalp, tiny curls twisted around her leathery fingers; each curl an old friend, rushing to embrace a welcomed companion. Again, she extended her hand in my direction, and this time, though I flinched, I did not draw away. Her fingers were dry and warm, and she placed the tips of them under my small chin. "Keep yo' head up, chile," she said. "Never look down on yourself... make people know yo' pride in yo' walk." Without another word, she replaced her hat, tipped it to a peculiar angle, and concealed the secret chestnut locks once more. The Lady in the Orange Hat smiled, and walked on down the road.
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