Unit 12 - Everyday Use for your grandmamma
Everyday Use for your grandmamma
I will wait for her in the yard that Maggie and I made so clean and wavy yesterday afternoon.
A yard like this is more comfortable than most people know.
It is not just a yard. It is like an extended living room.
When the hard clay is swept clean as a floor and the fine sand around the edges lined with tiny, irregular grooves, anyone can come and sit and look up into the elm tree and wait for the breezes that never come inside the house.
Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners, homely and ashamed of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eying her sister with a mixture of envy and awe.
She thinks her sister has held life always in the palm of one hand, that "no" is a word the world never learned to say to her.
You've no doubt seen those TV shows where the child who has "made it" is confronted, as a surprise, by her own mother and father, tottering in weakly from backstage.
(A Pleasant surprise, of course: What would they do if parent and child came on the show only to curse out and insult each other?)
On TV mother and child embrace and smile into each other's face.
Sometimes the mother and father weep, the child wraps them in her arms and leans across the table to tell how she would not have made it without their help. I have seen these programs.
Sometimes I dream a dream in which Dee and I are suddenly brought together on a TV program of this sort.
Out of a cark and soft-seated limousine I am ushered into a bright room filled with many people.
There I meet a smiling, gray, sporty man like Johnny Carson who shakes my hand and tells me what a fine girl I have.
Then we are on the stage and Dee is embracing me with tears in her eyes.
She pins on my dress a large orchid, even though she has told me once that she thinks or chides are tacky flowers.
In real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands.
In the winter I wear flannel nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day.
I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man.
My fat keeps me hot in zero weather.
I can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing; I can eat pork liver cooked over the open tire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog.
One winter I knocked a bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill be-fore nightfall.
But of course all this does not show on television.
I am the way my daughter would want me to be: a hundred pounds lighter, my skin like an uncooked barley pan-cake.
My hair glistens in the hot bright lights. Johnny Car–son has much to do to keep up with my quick and witty tongue.
But that is a mistake. I know even before I wake up.
Who ever knew a Johnson with a quick tongue?
Who can even imagine me looking a strange white man in the eye?
It seems to me I have talked to them always with one toot raised in flight, with my head turned in whichever way is farthest from them.
Dee, though. She would always look anyone in the eye.
Hesitation was no part of her nature.
"How do I look, Mama?" Maggie says, showing just enough of her thin body enveloped in pink skirt and red blouse for me to know she's there, almost hidden by the door.
"Come out into the yard," I say.
Have you ever seen a lame animal, perhaps a dog run over by some careless person rich enough to own a car, sidle up to someone who is ignorant enough to be kind of him?
That is the way my Maggie walks.
She has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, ever since the fire that burned the other house to the ground.
Dee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure.
She's a woman now, though sometimes I forget.
How long ago was it that the other house burned?
Ten, twelve years? Sometimes I can still hear the flames and feel Maggie's arms sticking to me, her hair smoking and her dress falling off her in little black papery flakes.
Her eyes seemed stretched open, blazed open by the flames reflected in them. And Dee.
I see her standing off under the sweet gum tree she used to dig gum out of; a look at concentration on her face as she watched the last dingy gray board of the house tall in toward the red-hot brick chimney.
Why don't you do a dance around the ashes?
I'd wanted to ask her. She had hated the house that much.
I used to think she hated Maggie, too.
But that was before we raised the money, the church and me, to send her to Augusta to school.
She used to read to us without pity, forcing words, lies, other folks' habits, whole lives upon us two, sitting trapped and ignorant underneath her voice.
She washed us in a river of make-believe, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn't necessarily need to know.
Pressed us to her with the serious way she read, to shove us away at just the moment, like dimwits, we seemed about to understand.
Dee wanted nice things.
A yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school; black pumps to match a green suit she'd made from an old suit somebody gave me.
She was determined to stare down any disaster in her efforts.
Her eyelids would not flicker for minutes at a time.
Often I fought off the temptation to shake her.
At sixteen she had a style of her own' and knew what style was.
I never had an education myself.
After second grade the school was closed down.
Don't ask me why. In 1927 colored asked fewer questions than they do now.
Sometimes Maggie reads to me.
She stumbles along good-naturedly but can't see well.
She knows she is not bright.
Like good looks and money, quickness passed her by.
She will marry John Thomas (who has mossy teeth in an earnest face) and then I'll be free to sit here and I guess just sing church songs to myself.
Although I never was a good singer. Never could carry a tune. I was always better at a man's job.
I used to love to milk till I was hooked in the side in '49.
Cows are soothing and slow and don't bother you, unless you try to milk them the wrong way.
I have deliberately turned my back on the house.
It is three rooms, just like the one that burned, except the roof is tin:
they don't make shingle roofs any more.
There are no real windows, just some holes cut in the sides, like the portholes in a ship, but not round and not square, with rawhide holding the shutter s up on the outside.
This house is in a pasture, too, like the other one.
No doubt when Dee sees it she will want to tear it down.
She wrote me once that no matter where we choose to live, she will manage to come see us. But she will never bring her friends.
Maggie and I thought about this and Maggie asked me, Mama, when did Dee ever have any friends?
She had a few. Furtive boys in pink shirts hanging about on washday after school.
Nervous girls who never laughed.
Impressed with her they worshiped the well-turned phrase, the cute shape, the scalding humor that erupted like bubbles in lye.
She read to them.
When she was courting Jimmy T she didn't have much time to pay to us, but turned all her faultfinding power on him.
He flew to marry a cheap city girl from a family of ignorant flashy people.
She hardly had time to recompose herself.
When she comes I will meet-but there they are!
Maggie attempts to make a dash for the house, in her shuffling way, but I stay her with my hand. Come back here, I say.
And she stops and tries to dig a well in the sand with her toe.
It is hard to see them clearly through the strong sun.
But even the first glimpse of leg out of the car tells me it is Dee.
Her feet were always neat-looking, as it God himself had shaped them with a certain style.
From the other side of the car comes a short, stocky man.
Hair is all over his head a foot long and hanging from his chin like a kinky mule tail.
I hear Maggie suck in her breath. Uhnnnh, is what it sounds like.
Like when you see the wriggling end of a snake just in front of your toot on the road. Uhnnnh.
Dee next. A dress down to the ground, in this hot weather.
A dress so loud it hurts my eyes.
There are yellows and oranges enough to throw back the light of the sun.
I feel my whole face warming from the heat waves it throws out.
Earrings gold, too, and hanging down to her shoulders.
Bracelets dangling and making noises when she moves her arm up to shake the folds of the dress out of her armpits.
The dress is loose and flows, and as she walks closer, I like it.
I hear Maggie go Uhnnnh again.
It is her sister's hair. It stands straight up like the wool on a sheep.
It is black as night and around the edges are two long pigtails that rope about like small lizards disappearing behind her ears.
Wa-su-zo-Tean-o! she says, coming on in that gliding way the dress makes her move.
The short stocky fellow with the hair to his navel is all grinning and he follows up with Asalamalakim, my mother and sister!
He moves to hug Maggie but she falls back, right up against the back of my chair.
I feel her trembling there and when I look up I see the perspiration falling off her chin.
Don't get up, says Dee.
Since I am stout it takes something of a push.
You can see me trying to move a second or two before I make it.
She turns, showing white heels through her sandals, and goes back to the car.
Out she peeks next with a Polaroid.
She stoops down quickly and lines up picture after picture of me sitting there in front of the house with Maggie cowering behind me.
She never takes a shot without making sure the house is included.
When a cow comes nibbling around the edge of the yard she snaps it and me and Maggie and the house.
Then she puts the Polaroid in the back seat of the car, and comes up and kisses me on the forehead.
Meanwhile Asalamalakim is going through motions with Maggie's hand.
Maggie's hand is as limp as a fish, and probably as cold, despite the sweat, and she keeps trying to pull it back.
It looks like Asalamalakim wants to shake hands but wants to do it fancy.
Or maybe he don't know how people shake hands.
Anyhow, he soon gives up on Maggie.
Well, I say. Dee.
No, Mama, she says. Not Dee, Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo!
What happened to Dee? I wanted to know.
She's dead, Wangero said.
I couldn't bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me.
You know as well as me you was named after your aunt Dicle, I said. Dicie is my sister.
She named Dee. We called her Big Dee after Dee was born.
But who was she named after? asked Wangero.
I guess after Grandma Dee, I said.
And who was she named after? asked Wangero.
Her mother, I said, and saw Wangero was getting tired.
That's about as far back as I can trace it, I said.
Though, in fact, I probably could have carried it back beyond the Civil War through the branches.
Well, said Asalamalakim, there you are.
Uhnnnh, I heard Maggie say.
There I was not, I said, before Dicie cro, pped up in our family, so why should I try to trace it that far back?
He just stood there grinning, looking down on me like somebody inspecting a Model A car.
Every once in a while he and Wangero sent eye signals over my head.
How do you pronounce this name? I asked.
You don't have to call me by it if you don't want to, said Wangero.
Why shouldn't I? I asked. If that's what you want us to call you, we'll call you.
I know it might sound awkward at first, said Wangero.
I'll get used to it, I said. Ream it out again.
Well, soon we got the name out of the way.
Asalamalakim had a name twice as long and three times as hard.
After I tripped over it two or three times he told me to just call him Hakim-a-barber.
I wanted to ask him was he a barber, but I didn't really think he was, so I don't ask.
You must belong to those beet-cattle peoples down the road, I said.
They said Asalamalakirn when they met you too, but they didn't Shake hands.
Always too busy feeding the cattle, fixing the fences, putting up salt-lick shelters, throwing down hay.
When the white folks poisoned some of the herd the men stayed up all night with rifles in their hands.
I walked a mile and a half just to see the sight.
Hakim-a-barber said, I accept some of their doctrines, but farming and raising cattle is not my style.
(They didn't tell me, and I didn't ask, whether Wangero (Dee) had really gone and married him.)
We sat down to eat and right away he said he didn't eat collards and pork was unclean.
Wangero, though, went on through the chitlins and corn bread, the greens and every-thing else.
She talked a blue streak over the sweet potatoes.
Everything delighted her. Even the fact that we still used the benches her daddy made for the table when we couldn't afford to buy chairs.
Oh, Mama! she cried. Then turned to Hakim-a-barber.
I never knew how lovely these benches are.
You can feel the rump prints, she said, running her hands underneath her and along the bench.
Then she gave a sigh and her hand closed over Grandma Dee's butter dish.
That's it! she said. I knew there was something I wanted to ask you if I could have.
She jumped up from the table and went over in the corner where the churn stood, the milk in it clabber by now. She looked at the churn and looked at it.
This churn top is what I need, she said.
Didn't Uncle Buddy whittle it out of a tree you all used to have?
Yes, I said.
Uh huh, she said happily. And I want the dasher,too.
Uncle Buddy whittle that, too? asked the barber.
Dee (Wangero) looked up at me.
Aunt Dee's first husband whittled the dash, said Maggie so low you almost couldn't hear her.
His name was Henry, but they called him Stash.
Maggie's brain is like an elephants, Wanglero said, laughing.
I can use the churn top as a center piece for the alcove table,”she said, sliding a plate over the churn, and I'll think of something artistic to do with the dasher.
When she finished wrapping the dasher the handle stuck out.
I took it for a moment in my hands. You didn't even have to look close to see where hands pushing the dasher up and down to make butter had left a kind of sink in the wood.
In fact, there were a lot of small sinks; you could see where thumbs and fingers had sunk into the wood.
It was beautiful light yellow wood, from a tree that grew in the yard where Big Dee and Stash had lived.
After dinner Dee (Wangero) went to the trunk at the foot of my bed and started rifling through it.
Maggie hung back in the kitchen over the dishpan. Out came Wangero with two quilts.
They had been pieced by Grandma Dee and then Big Dee and me had hung them on the quilt frames on the front porch and quilted them.
One was in the Lone Star pattern.
The other was Walk Around the Mountain.
In both of them were scraps of dresses Grandma Dee had worn fifty and more years ago.
Bit sand pieces of Grandpa Jarrell's Paisley shirts.
And one teeny faded blue piece, about the size of a penny matchbox, that was from Great Grandpa Ezra's uniform that he wore in the Civil War.
Mama, Wangero said sweet as a bird.
Can I have these old quilts?
I heard something fall in the kitchen, and a minute later the kitchen door slammed.
Why don't you take one or two of the others?” I asked.
These old things was just done by me and Big Dee from some tops your grandma pieced before she died.
No, said Wangero. I don't want those. They are stitched around the borders by machine.
That'll make them last better, I said.
That's not the point, said Wanglero. These are all pieces of dresses Grandma used to wear.
参考译文——外婆的日用家当
外婆的日用家当
我就在这院子里等候她的到来。我和麦姬昨天下午已将院子打扫得干干净净，地面上还留着清晰的扫帚扫出的波浪形痕迹。
这样的院子比一般人想象的要舒服。
它不仅仅是一个院子，简直就像一间扩大了的客厅。
当院子的泥土地面被打扫得像屋里的地板一样干净，四周边缘的细沙面上布满不规则的细纹时，任何人都可以进来坐一下，一边抬头仰望院中的榆树，一边等着享受从来吹不进屋内的微风。
麦姬在她姐姐离去之前将会一直心神不定：她将会神情沮丧地站在角落里，一面为自己的丑陋面孔和胳膊大腿上晒出的累累疤痕而自惭形秽，一面怀着既羡慕又敬畏的心情怯生生地看着她姐姐。
她觉得她姐姐真正是生活的主人，想要什么便能得到什么，世界还没有学会对她说半个"不"字。
你一定从电视片上看到过"闯出了江山"的儿女突然出乎意料地出现在那跌跌撞撞从后台走出来的父母面前的场面。
（当然，那场面必定是令人喜悦的：假如电视上的父母和儿女之间相互攻击辱骂，他们该怎么样呢？）
在电视上，母亲和儿女见面总是相互拥抱和微笑。
有时父母会痛哭流涕，而那发迹了的孩子就会紧紧地拥抱他们，并隔着桌子伸过头来告诉他们说若没有他们的帮助，她自己就不会有今日的成就。我自己就看过这样的电视节目。
有时候我在梦里梦见迪伊和我突然成了这种电视节目的剧中人。
我从一辆黑色软座垫大轿车上一下来，立刻被人引进一间宽敞明亮的屋子里。
屋里有许多人，其中一个身材高大威武，满面微笑，有点像著名电视节目主持人约翰尼.卡森的美男子迎上来和我握手，并对我说我养了个好女儿。
然后，我们来到台前，迪伊热泪盈眶地拥抱着我。
还把一朵大大的兰花别在我的衣服上，尽管她曾对我说过兰花是很低级的花。
在现实生活中，我是一个大块头、大骨架的妇女，有着干男人活儿的粗糙双手。
冬天睡觉时我穿着绒布睡衣，白天身穿套头工作衫。
我能像男人一样狠狠地宰猪并收拾干净。
我身上的脂肪是我在寒冬也能保暖。
我能整天在户外干活儿，敲碎冰块，取水洗衣。我能吃从刚宰杀的猪体内切下来、还冒着热气、而后在明火上烧熟的猪肝。
有一年冬天，我用一把大铁锤击倒一头公牛，锤子正打在小牛两眼之间的大脑上。天黑之前，我把牛肉挂起来凉着。
不过，这一切当然都没有在电视上出现过。
我的女儿希望我的样子是：体重减去一百磅，皮肤像下锅煎之前的大麦面饼那样细腻光泽，头发在炽热耀眼的灯光下闪闪发亮。
而且，我还是一个伶牙俐齿的人，说起话来妙语连珠，就连约翰尼.卡森也望尘莫及。
可是，这是个错误，我还没醒来之前就知道了。
谁听说约翰逊家的人士伶牙俐齿的？
谁能想象我敢直视一个陌生的白人？
和他们讲话时，我总是紧张不安，随时准备溜走。我的头总是转到离他们最远的方向。
不过，迪伊就不这样。她对任何人都不畏惧。
犹豫不决可不是她的本性。
"我看上去怎么样啊，妈妈？"麦姬的声音传来。她那瘦小的身躯几乎被一件粉红色裙子和大红罩衫全遮住了，人有躲在门背后，身子给门遮去一大半，我好容易才看出她来。
"快出屋到院子里来，"我说。
你有没有见到过一个跛了腿的动物，比如说一只狗，被一个粗心莽撞的有钱买得起汽车的人压伤后侧着身子向一个愚昧的对它表示关切的人走去时的样子？
我的麦姬走路时就是那个样子。
自从那次大火烧毁房屋之事发生后，她一直是这个样子，下巴贴近胸口，眼盯着地面，走路拖着脚。
迪伊生的比麦姬白一些，头发也好看一些，身材也丰满一些。
她现在已是一个成年女子了，不过我经常忘记这一事实。
那座房屋被火烧毁是多久以前的事？
十年？十二年？有时候我似乎还能听见燃烧的火焰发出的呼呼的响声，可以感觉到麦姬用手紧紧抓住我，看到她的头发冒烟，她的衣服烧成黑灰一片片脱落的情景。
当时她的眼睛瞪得大大的，亮亮的，反射出闪烁着的火苗。还有迪伊。
我远远看见她站在她经常从其中挖树胶的那棵香枫胶树底下，望着屋上最后一块烧成灰黑色的木板朝着烧红了的滚烫的砖砌烟囱方向塌下来时，她脸上呈现出一幅非常专注的神色。
你干吗不在那堆废墟上跳个舞？
我当时像这样问她。她对那所房屋恨得要命。
过去我以为她也讨厌麦姬。
但是那是在教堂和我筹钱送她到奥古斯塔上学之前的事。
那时她常给我们读点什么，读时毫无同情之心，将文字、谎言、别人的习惯以及整个生活强加于我俩。
我和麦姬毫无办法，一无所知地困坐在那里，她的声音凌驾于我们之上。
她对我们灌输一大堆编造出来的事物以及我们不需要掌握的知识。她严肃地强迫我们听她读书，把我们两人看成傻瓜一样，刚有点似懂非懂的时候又把我们挥之而去。
迪伊好打扮。
中学毕业时她要一件黄色玻璃纱连衣裙穿着去参加毕业典礼；为了与她用别人送我的一套旧衣服改制的绿色套服配着穿，她又要了一双黑色浅口皮鞋。
她要什么东西时总是不顾一切地拼命地要，不达目的不罢休，
她可以一连好几分钟不眨眼地死瞪着你。
我常常是费了好大的劲才克制住自己没把她抓着使劲摇抖。
到十六岁时她的言谈举止开始形成自己的风格，她也知道什么叫时髦。
我自己从未受过教育。
我上完小学二年级时，学校关门了。
别问我为什么：1927年时有色人种不像现在问这么多问题。
有时麦姬给我读点东西。
她温厚地、结结巴巴地读者，因为她看不清楚。
她知道自己不聪明。
正如姣好的相貌和金钱一样，机敏也没有光顾她。
不久她就要嫁给约翰·托马斯（他有一张诚实的面孔和一口像长了苔的牙齿）。
麦姬结婚后，我将闲坐在家里，也许只对自己唱唱教堂歌曲，尽管我从来唱不好，总是走调，我对于男人活儿倒是更在行。
我一向喜欢挤牛奶，直到1949年我的肋部被牛顶伤了为止。
母牛生性恬静、动作缓慢，不会伤害人，除非你挤奶时动作不得法。
我故意背对这房子。
这房子有三个房间，除屋顶是锡皮的外，其他方面都与被烧掉的那所房屋一样。
现在再也找不到做木瓦屋顶的了。
房子没有真正的窗户，只是侧面墙上挖了几个洞，有点像船上的舷窗，但又不是圆的，也不是方形的。窗格子向外开，用生牛皮悬吊起来。
这房子也像那所被烧的房子一样建在一个牧场上。
毫无疑问，只要迪伊看见这所房子，她一定又要毁掉它。
她曾写信告诉我说，无论我们选择何处定居，她都会设法来看我们，但却不会带她的朋友上门。
麦姬和我对这话考虑了一会，麦姬突然问我：妈妈，迪伊什么时候有过朋友的呀？
她有过几个朋友的。有的是在洗衣日放学后到处闲荡得穿着粉红衬衣的鬼鬼祟祟的男孩子；
有的是从来不笑一笑得神经质的女孩子。
他们为她所吸引，并崇拜她的得体的言语、她的漂亮身材以及她那像碱水里的起泡一样的尖酸幽默。
她还为他们读书。
她在追求吉米的那段日子里便没有时间来管我们的闲事，而是把她的全副挑刺儿的本领全部用在他的身上。
可他很快娶了一个很差劲儿的、出身于愚昧而俗气的家庭的城市姑娘。
当时她难过得很，冷静不下来。
她到这儿来时我要去迎接--但他们已经到了。
麦姬拔腿就要往屋里跑去，
她的腿看起来总是那么齐整，
强烈的阳光很难看清。
但我第一眼看见从车上下来的那条腿就知道那是迪伊。
好像是上帝亲自为她特意定做的似的。
从车子的另一边走下来一个矮胖的男人，
他满头的头发都有一英尺长，从下巴颏上垂下来，像一只卷毛的骡子尾巴。
我听见麦姬吸气的声音，听起来像是呃音，
就像你路上突然发现一条蛇尾巴在你脚尖前蠕动时发出的声音。呃。
接着我便看见了迪伊。这样大热天里，她竟穿着一件拖地长裙。
裙子的颜色也花哨的耀眼，
大块大块的黄色和橙色，亮得可以反射太阳的光线。
我感到我的整个脸颊都被它射出的热浪烫的热烘烘的。
耳环也是金的，并且直垂到肩膀上。
臂上还带着手镯，当她举起胳臂去抖动腋窝部衣服上的皱褶时，臂上的手镯叮当作响。
衣裙长大宽松，迎风飘荡。当她走近时，我觉得挺好看。
我听见麦姬又发出呃声。
这次是为她姐姐的发型而发的。
她姐姐的头发向羊毛一样挺得直直的，像黑夜一样乌黑，边上扎着两根长辫子，像两条小蜥蜴，左盘右绕在耳朵后面。
瓦-苏-左-提-诺！她一边说着，一边拖着长裙步态轻盈飘然而至。
随着她的一句阿萨拉马拉吉姆，我母亲和妹妹！那位头发垂至肚脐眼的矮胖男人也笑着走上前来。
他作势要拥抱麦姬，但麦姬下的往后退，直到我的椅子背挡住她的退路为止。
我感觉到她身子在发抖，抬头一看，只见汗水从她的下巴上直往下滴。
别站起来，迪伊说道。
因为我长的肥胖，站起来颇需费点劲。
你瞧，我身子要挪动挪动才站得起来。
她转身往汽车方向走回去。我可以透过她穿的凉鞋看到她的白生生的脚后跟。
接着他拿起一架拍立来照相机瞄过来。
她很快蹲下去抢拍了一张又一张的照片，选取的镜头都是我坐在屋前，而麦姬缩成一团躲在我背后。
她每拍一张照片总要认认真真地选好镜头把屋子拍进去。
当一头奶牛走过来在院子边啃青草时，她立即抢镜头把它和我和麦姬、房子一起拍了一张照片。
然后，她将照相机放在汽车的后排座位上，跑过来吻了吻我的前额。
与此同时，阿萨拉马拉吉姆正在努力拉着麦姬的手行礼。
麦姬的手像鱼一样软弱无力，恐怕也像鱼一样冷冰冰的，尽管她身上正在出汗。而且她还一个劲儿地把手往后缩。
看起来阿萨拉马拉吉姆是想同她握手，但又想把握手的动作做的时髦花哨一点。
也许是她不晓得正当的握手规矩。
不管怎么说，她很快就放弃同麦姬周旋的努力了。
喂，我开口道。迪伊。
不对，妈妈，她说。不是迪伊?是万杰罗·李万里卡。克曼乔?！
那迪伊呢？我问道。
她已经死了，万杰罗说。
我无法忍受照那些压迫我的人的名字个我取名。
你同我一样清楚你的名字是照你迪茜姨妈的名字取得，我说。迪茜是我的妹妹，
她名叫迪伊。迪伊出生后我们就叫她大迪伊。
但她的名字又是依照谁的名字取得呢？万杰罗追问道。
我猜想是照迪伊外婆的名字取得，我说。
她的名字又是照谁的名字取得呢？万杰罗逼问道。
她的妈妈，我说。这是我注意到万杰罗已经开始感到有点厌烦了。
再远的我就记不得了，我说。
其实，我大概可以把我们的家史追溯到南北战争以前。
噢，阿萨拉马拉吉姆说，您已经说到哪儿了？
我听到麦姬又呃了一声。
我还没有呢，我说，那是在‘迪茜’来到我们家之前的事，我为什么要追溯到那么远呢？
他站在那儿咧着嘴笑，目光朝下，用人们检查A型轿车的眼神打量着我。
他还和万杰罗在我的头顶上空频递眼色。
你这名字是怎么念的来着？我问。
您若不愿意，就不必用这个名字来叫我，万杰罗说。
我干吗不叫？我问。如果你自己喜欢用那个名字，我们就叫那个名字。
我知道这名字起初听起来有点别扭，万杰罗说。
我会慢慢习惯的，我说，你给我再念一遍吧。
就这样，我们很快就不再提名字发音问题了。
阿萨拉马拉吉姆的名字有两倍那么长，三倍那么难念。
我试着念了两三次都念错了，于是他就叫我干脆称呼他哈吉姆阿巴波就行了。
我本想问他究竟是不是开巴波(理发)店的，但我觉得他不像是个理发师，所以就没有问。
“你一定属于马路那边的那些养牛部族，”我说。
那些人见人打招呼也是说“阿萨拉马拉吉姆”，但他们不同人握手。
他们总是忙忙碌碌的：喂牲口，修篱笆，扎帐篷，堆草料，等等。
当白人毒死了一些牛以后，那些人便彻夜不眠地端着枪戒备。
为了一睹这种情景，我走了一英里半的路程。
哈吉姆阿巴波说，“我接受他们的一些观念，但种田和养牛却不是我干的事业。”
(他们没有告诉我，我也没开口去问，万杰萝(迪伊)究竟是不是同他结婚了。)
我们开始坐下吃饭，他马上声明他不吃羽衣甘蓝，猪肉也不干净。
万杰萝却是猪肠、玉米面包、蔬菜，什么都吃。
吃红薯时她更是谈笑风生。
一切都令她高兴，就连我们仍在使用着当初她爸爸因为买不起椅子而做的条凳这种事情也令她感兴趣。
“啊，妈妈!”她惊叫道。接着转头向着哈吉姆阿巴波。
“我以前还从来不知道这些条凳有这么可爱，
在上面还摸得出屁股印迹来，”她一边说着，一边将手伸到屁股下面去摸凳子。
接着，她叹了一口气，她的手放在迪伊外婆的黄油碟上捏拢了。
“对了!”她说。“我早知道这儿有些我想问您能不能给我的东西。”
她离桌起身，走到角落处，那儿放着一个搅乳器，里面的牛奶已结成了酸奶。她看了看搅乳器，又望了望里面的酸奶。
“这个搅乳器的盖子我想要，”她说。
“那不是巴迪叔叔用你们原有的一棵树的木头做成的吗?”
“是的，”我说。
“啊哈，”她兴高采烈地说。“我还想要那根搅乳棒。”
“那也是巴迪叔叔做的吗?”巴波问道。
迪伊(万杰萝)仰头望着我。
“那是迪伊姨妈的第一个丈夫做的，”麦姬用低得几乎听不见的声音说。
“他的名字叫亨利，但人们总叫他史大西。”
“麦姬的脑袋像大象一样，”万杰萝说着哈哈大笑。
“我可以将这搅乳器盖子放在凹室餐桌中央做装饰品，”她一边拿一个托盘盖在搅乳器上，一边说道。“至于那根搅乳棒，我也会想出一个艺术化的用途的。”
她将搅乳棒包裹起来，把柄还露在外头。
我伸手将把柄握了一会儿。不用将眼睛凑近去细看也可以看出搅乳棒把柄上由于长年累月握着搅动而留下的凹陷的握痕。
那上面的小槽子很多，你可以分辨出哪儿是拇指压出的印子，哪儿是其他手指压出的印子。
搅乳棒的木料取自大迪伊和史大西住过的庭院中长的一棵树，木质呈浅黄色，甚是好看。
晚饭后，迪伊(万杰萝)走到放在我床脚边的衣箱那儿，开始翻找起来。
麦姬在厨房里洗碗，故意延挨着不愿早出来。万杰萝忽然从房里抱出两床被子。
这两床被子是迪伊外婆用一块块小布片拼起来，然后由迪伊姨妈和我两人在前厅的缝被架上绗缝而成的。
其中一床绘的是单星图案，
另一床是踏遍群山图案。
两床被子上都缝有从迪伊外婆五十多年前穿过的衣服上拆下来的布片，
还有杰雷尔爷爷的佩兹利涡旋纹花呢衬衣上拆下来的碎布片，
还有一小块褪了色的兰布片，大小只相当于一个小火柴盒，那是从依兹拉曾祖父在南北战争时穿的军服上拆下来的。
“妈妈，”万杰萝用莺声燕语般的甜蜜声调问，
“我可不可以把这两床被子拿走?”
我听到厨房里有什么东西掉落地上的声音，紧接着又听见厨房的门砰地关上的声音。
“你何不拿另外一两床呢?”我问道。
“这两床还是你外婆去世前用布条拼起来，然后由大迪伊和我两人缝起来的旧被子。”
“不，”万杰萝说。“我不要那些被子。那些被子的边线都是机缝的。”
“那样还耐用一些，”我说。
“这一点并不重要，”万杰萝说。“这两床被子都是用外婆曾穿过的衣服拆成布片。
Key Words:
witty ['witi]
adj. 富于机智的，诙谐的
shove [ʃʌv]
n. 推，挤
soothing ['su:ðiŋ]
adj. 使人宽心的；抚慰的 v. 安慰；减轻痛苦
streak [stri:k]
n. 条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹
alcove ['ælkəuv]
n. 凹室，壁龛
参考资料：
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(1)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(2)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(3)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- http://www.kekenet.com/Article/201605/44131shtml
- http://www.kekenet.com/Article/201605/44131shtml
- http://www.kekenet.com/Article/201605/44131shtml
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(7)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(8)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(9)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(10)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(11)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第一册(MP3+中英字幕) 第12课:外婆的日用家当(12)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
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