The early spring morning of March 17th, 1987, began like any other day. I awoke, got my child up and ready for daycare and got myself ready for work. Like any other day I would take the short cut across the train tracks to get quickly to the daycare and return for carpool ride for work.
As I walked along holding my son’s hand the usual scent of the neighborhood flooded my nostrils. Garbage, spring blossoms and smoke, there was an empty next to my apartment building and at times there would be cars ablaze throughout the night. Needless to say, there were no cars the previous night.
On this day the scent was somewhat different, it smelt more of a house fire. I arrived at the sitter which was about a ten-minute walk. “Verona”, I asked “it smells as if there was a fire in the neighborhood last night”. She responded with a quick sniff in the air then said, “No, I don’t smell anything and there was nothing about a fire on the morning news”. I chatted a little then said goodbye. I had to walk back near my apartment to be picked up for work. My steps were a bit brisker knowing I would be left behind if I was not at my location. But the strong stench of that smoke from a house fire was bothering me. I arrived just in time to see Patsy pulling up in her little red hatchback ride. I got in the car and said my usual greetings to Patsy and Denise, at times another individual was with us Laura, but she was not riding with us on this day. For a while I was unusually quiet “Everything okay with you Vee?” Denise asked. “Yeah, but don’t you smell that?” “Smoke” I responded. “Nah Vee, you smell too much”, said Denise chuckling. As we got closer to work, again I asked, “Sure you all can’t smell that?” “Vee, shut up, ain’t no, smoke, no house fire, you really smell too much”. “Alright then, but I keep smelling it, like burnt rubber and flesh.” Then the burst out in laughter, “oh come on Vee.”
I was quiet the rest of the way, but the smell lingered. Maybe it is in my head after all, there is always a fire, whether a car or a house. Just somehow this was different. We pulled up at the Registry of Motor Vehicles where we worked. Parking back then was easy and available at that time of the morning. We had to at work at 7am so we found parking. I got out and before I could say another word “Still smelling smoke Vee, “ chimed both Patsy and Denise and yes, they were both chuckling. I laughed a bit and replied.” Yup” “we are not in Roxbury anymore, how could you still be smelling smoke?” Denise asked unbelievably, and then followed up with “what have you been smoking?” Again, I chuckled. We were now downtown Boston five miles away from Roxbury one of the neighborhoods of Boston, where I lived. I could not shake the smell.
We walked together in the building, exchanged pleasantries with the Registry Police standing at the desk and took the elevator towards our office. We worked in the Data Correction division of the registry and yes, there were a lot of data in need of correction. At this juncture there was a new system being implemented ALARS. Our department was charged to amend all, and any data entry errors. That morning I walked in, said my usual hellos and began putting my personal items in my desk drawer. I turned to another co-worker and asked the question of the morning. “You smell smoke, right?” I received a blank stare and a firm response of “nope.” Ok fine and kept on.
Just then I heard my supervisor Hellen called out “Veronica,” before she could say another word; I began with my defensive response. “Oh, come on Hellen I am early today see, look at the clock.” The look on her face was somewhat different. Not the usual tilt of the head waiting to hear my excuse for being late. Even though I was not late that morning, I had a habit of being late primarily in the winter months whenever I took the MBTA. At times I took a cab to avoid being late, that’s when Patsy offered to carpool. The look on Hellen’s face was not about being late. Job performance, I would not think so I was considered one of the best employees on the job. Hellen was not smiling; she had a dismal look and was not chomping on her cigarette as she normally would as smoking was allowed in the workplace then.
“Let’s go inside Anna’s office” said Hellen in a low yet trying to be comforting tone. Anna was the department director. As we walked together, I heard the oohs, aahs, and whispers of “what did she do?” I was not liking this, what did I do now? Hellen’s look made me nervous. “What’s going on? “I asked as she placed her hand on my shoulders and began talking. “There was a call from your mother in New York this morning.” “Why did she call here?” again lowering her voice “you had already left for work, and she thought you were already here”, Hellen continued. There was a fire in Jamaica your grandmother,” she paused, “ went back to save her cat a beam fell on her, she did not make it.” Suddenly I felt like I was in a trapped space, all I could do was scream, bellow. I felt out of my body and lost. I felt Hellen hugging me, then the office phone rang, Hellen reached out and answered it, then handed it to me. “I wanted to tell you”, the voice on the other end cried, “Why didn’t she wait, are you okay?” It was my mother crying her heart out. I was now crying uncontrollably. I glanced around everyone from the office had a look I could not fathom. I felt my whole world had collapsed. All I had was a visual of a fire, Mama running to save a cat, a burning beam falling and ending her life.
The moments following the news became a blur to me. I began operation on auto pilot, all I knew was I somehow got home from early release. I did not immediately pick my son up. I waited until the end of the day, I sat in shock just crying and reflecting.
Loretta Johnson, many called her Miss Lor, affectionately known to me as Mama, is gone. How, why? NO! NO! NO! Not her!
Mama was my heart and soul, my champion for my causes. She helped me fought my battles when bullied. She taught me how to be strong; she was my doctor, teacher and taught me right from wrong. She was not my biological grandmother; I was taken in at two months and three weeks old. I had always known I was adopted, Mama made sure of it. I knew my biological mother, Nora; I was told she was my nurse maid until I was weened then she left. Years later I found out she was just a fifteen and was raped. Her mother did not want Nora in the home, so she was left to live on the streets of Trench Town one of the tough ghettos of Kingston, Jamaica. She would sit daily at a shop piazza asking and hoping someone would come along and take the baby. On this particular day, with the usual crowd around her, one of the men ran up to Marjorie who was passing by telling her there was a little girl giving away a baby. Curiously Marjorie walked over looked at the baby and mom then took them home with her. According to Marjorie she could not resist the baby’s big, bright shiny eyes that stared back at her. Marjorie was 19 years old at the time. Her mom Loretta greeted her with “where are you going with these pickney?” Well, it became home, I understood Nora took me and ran left once, but realized it was a big mistake and returned.
I was a sickly child, the stories I heard from eating my hair, to having staying in a dark room were horrible to say the least. Never knew that was about, never asked. Somehow Mama made it well. My recollection, she was not that much into doctors, home remedies worked just fine for her. I was always being lifted and carried somewhere if she could not do it herself, she would ask. Mama was 4ft 11in tall if that but in my eyes she as a giant, even when I got taller than her, she was my protector. She had a cure for all my ailments. Tonsils, the dreaded ripe banana was sliced, placed in a diaper cloth, heated over the lamp and tied upward around my neck. I am surprised I still like bananas. I was given alum to gargle which made my throat numb. I also had really bad ear infections, the kind that ached badly and had puss oozing out of my ears, to the point I would wake up with messy pillows. We were given medication in a bottle with dropper attached, it was not pleasant. All types of tea tonics you name it I drank it. Her favorite method of treatment was an ocean bath. Now, this was not my favorite because of the journey. In the event I was too ill, whether ear infection, terrible fever she would take me to see a doctor. You had to be there early in the morning sat on a bench and waited for your name to be called. Many times, they never got to my name so we returned home. The following morning would be a trip to the ocean.
Mama would wake me about 3:00-3:30AM we got dressed and had to be at the ocean before sunrise. The part of the journey I hated was trekking through May Pen Cemetery, this was a short cut, and we then crossed the train tracks to Greenwich Farm. I never really calculated the distance, for me it was a good distance. If I was too tired or weak to walk, she would place me on her shoulder. Once in a while we had someone accompany us; this happens if I was quite ill. She never liked me resting in the cemetery. Each time we got to the train tracks I would panic. The specific path we had to take was over a gully, I was always afraid I would fall in. She would reassure me and coax me over, then at the last minute tell me to hurry the train is coming. Never saw a train!
Once over the tracks it was all clear from there. I could smell the salty air of the ocean and hear the waves splashing. Whenever we arrived, the fishermen were already there with their boats and fixing their nets to hit the ocean. You could hear the songs of the morning from the sea gulls flying overhead and the fishermen with their transistor radios. I am usually the only little girl there that time of the morning and they all knew me there. Time for the ritual bath.
Mama would take me by the hand; we waded out to the water. I was never afraid; I knew she was an excellent swimmer. She would hold the back of my head and I was dipped three ties no more, no less! Well, there would be a lot of coughing, crap out of the nostrils, tapping of the back, knees and shoulders then we waded back to shore. Honestly, I always felt worked over but as the day passed, I felt fine. Mama would make a day of the trip; I would be fed by some of the catch of the local fishermen. Butterfish, red snapper, doctor fish (flounder). I could not eat much of the fish but there was always other type of food. After a long day we would be ready to leave by 3pm or, she would fill one bottle with ocean water for home then we left.
The journey back was always easier; we would stop and shake the plum trees in the cemetery. She would often say, don’t eat any that fell on a grave.” That suggestion fell on deaf ears, because the good plums always did. After much shaking and picking we kept on home.
For me Mama was the consummate teacher, she taught me to read and write. I often heard her say she only had a basic school education. I was given books for my level, but her major method was for me to read the Bible. She would have me reading a Psalm and her all-time favorite Revelation Chapter 6 about the 7 seals. Now that just put the fear of God in me at a very early age.
She was my champion and protector. Being an extremely quiet child, I was bullied a lot. At school at times before class ended for the day I would get the signals, a balled-up fist which motioned to both eyes and mouth. At times I would be the first one out the door and ran like the wind. It depended on which direction I ran; at times I would meet her coming towards me. She knew something was wrong and I had to walk back and point out the bully. On occasion when I get caught in the crowd of bullies, I would hear someone shout, “Her mother is coming.” Somehow, I never saw her. I found out later she would make it to school before dismissal and hid somewhere to see who would pick on me.
In my eyes Mama knew everything. It made to sense lying to her she found the truth and my behind would pay. Yes, I was disciplined by her., it was not always pretty. They were accumulated whippings, what I did wrong on Monday may not get dealt with until Friday. Every word was a belt, “Did….whack! I….whack! Not….whack!” thankfully they were not essays, but it surely felt like it. One such incident has become a life lesson for me. Each Christmas I was giving a doll along with a porcelain tea set amongst other gifts. Somehow my tea sets would be either broken or lost by February. We had moved to a new tenement yard and behold the neighbor’s daughter had plastic tea set laying all about in the yard. Each day I would make a trip over or through the fence and collect a piece of her tea set. A few times Mama saw me with them asked where I got them. I would boldly tell her; “Auntie bought them” she would respond with an “hmm” and moved on. Unknown to me I was being watched! Finally, when she thought I had collected enough, I sat comfortably enjoying myself with my plastic tea set, again she asked the question, “Pat where did you get those?” and true to form my response was, “Auntie bought them.” She then scooped them up and grabbed by the hand and we both headed to the neighbor’s house. There was the owner of the tea set a several other people there. Imaging the utter embarrassment as I had to return all the pieces and apologize for stealing, but that was not enough. Out came the belt which she had in her bosom, I could hear the laughter from the neighbors with each blow of “Do ….whack! Not…whack! Steal…whack! The embarrassment of that day lasted for a very long time of course; I was often teased by the little girl next door until we eventually moved.
She was nurturing and the best caretaker, I never felt like I did not belong. Mama did what was called “days’ work”; she washed others clothing also known as a washer woman, cleaned houses, or took care of a sick person. I was not sure of her wage; all I knew there was always food. I had never had to go to bed hungry. Mama was a great cook and quite often had large pots cooking, I was the only child so why? I would see why when she would place food in a carrier a three-tier container and brought food to others. She cooked for people who needed it. At times others would stop by, some on a daily basis, knowing she would feed them. I liked the term the used, “me jus’ a pass through”, sure, every day at 3- 4 pm. I learned one thing through all that eat my meat first, if someone stopped in and there was not enough, my meat, chicken or fish was being cut in half. Dare I complain, frown or cry. My logic was if chicken was for dinner, I refuse to have porridge because someone else stopped by. Let them have porridge. That was Mama, always there for someone else.
She was an animal lover; she brought home stray cats, dogs, ducks or chickens. She accumulated quite a few, somehow the dogs never stayed, whenever there was a lightning and thunder, they would disappear never to return.
We moved around a lot; I think we lived on almost every street in Trench Town before I was six years old. At age 6 I left Trench Town to live on the North Coast Falmouth, Trelawney. Must have been there for 9 months or more then I returned to Trench Town for a while. Mama was glad to have me back but that was short lived. I was now permanently going to live in Montego Bay with Marjorie who at the tie I called Auntie. I would later call her Mom after she legally adopted.
At age nine I was placed in boarding school, Lyndale Home for Girls in Highgate, St. Mary. Marjorie had received her visa and was migrating to the United States of America. Mama wanted me to live with her, but Marjorie for whatever reason felt I would have been safer in boarding school.
I saw Mama very little, but all that she taught me I held up. Oh, I missed her so much standing up for me, again, I ran into bullies. I was one of the youngest girls at the home of fifty plus staff. I resided at the cottage, which housed the girls aged nine to twelve. It was custom, not necessary for us to place a bath pan or basin outdoors in the sun to take a bath. There was a running shoe, but we just liked it and thought it was a cool thing to do. This Saturday afternoon I had placed my bath path outdoor and along came the resident bully to challenge me for it. I knew it was mine so a held on, she snatched it, spilled all the water and punched me square in the mouth. I was too afraid to fight back, plus she had an older sister built like a linebacker. I just stood there crying, with a bloody lip. A few of the girls tried to come to my defense but it was useless, they did not want to get hit either, the all too familiar scene of me getting beat up and a crowd.
Through the noise of the crowd, I heard the bus stopping at the gate, only if there is a visitor for the home there would be a drop off. I kept on crying when I heard the all too familiar voice asking for Pat. It was Mama; she had come for a visit, what great timing. No one had seen her visit before and was asking whose mother is this. I ran towards her and seeing my face she was quite angry. She took me by hand and demanded to know who did that to my mouth, I was so happy to point her out. Well, let’s say fist flew, I got to punch the bully, and Mama addressed the sister. I never had another incident; they feared her just popping up another day.
She rarely visited after that; at age twelve I was able to visit her. She had relocated to Seaforth, St Thomas the town of her birth. I spent the summer with her and had a great time. I met her mother who was 100 years old at the time but looked great. I could see where Mama got her youthful look strong personality. I was shown all the land she had inherited, Mama had eleven other brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles but no child of her own. I returned to boarding school and would not see her again until age sixteen.
My visa to travel to the United States was now granted, Marjorie came to get me, and we went to St. Thomas to say goodbye. “I know you will not forget me”, she said “I am asking you do not forget your mother Nora either.” We stayed with her for two days then heads to Montego Bay where I remained. I was given the option to remain; Marjorie had to get back to the US for work. Two and a half months later I arrived on May 31, 1979, and yet to return to Jamaica.
Mama’s teaching, nurturing and inspiration never left me. I corresponded with her and even though I never heard her say I love you; I knew she did.
At age 18 after I graduated high school, I left home. My mom and I had a mountain high valley low relationship. She resided in Bridgeport, Connecticut and I moved to Boston, Massachusetts where I resided with a family friend.
Life threw many curve balls at me, but all that Mama had taught me kept me strong. I gave birth to my first child and her desire was to have me send him to be with her. Mama loved children. It was not meant to be, that ill-fated March morning the news might have been two.
Later that night after the news, I spoke with Mom; plans were being made to fly out to Jamaica for the burial. I do not attend funerals, I will pay my respects to the family, maybe attend the wake if body is not there but I am not going grave side. At that point in my life and to this day I have only attended one funeral. My boarding school superintendent’s sister died; all the girls had to attend. I could not opt out; I was in the choir. I attended and being alto I was seated in the rear. After the song we were all to march single file around the casket. Well, me being me, everyone went right, and I went left. I heard the hush and whispers but did not care. I was not looking that dead body. Two months later her husband died, as luck would have it for me it down poured the day of the funeral. I took the dress that was to be worn, went out and lathered it in the mud, then hid. That was my way out. Nevertheless, I was punished.
Mom made plans and went on without me, furthermore my passport was stolen it would have taken a while for a replacement. The day mom left was an emergency flight out. I had sleepless nights since I heard the news. This night was a little calmer for me. I was not crying as much and I might add the smell smoke, burn tire and flesh I initially smelled, never stopped.
I fell sleep after much tossing and turning and began dreaming. In my dream it was Mama, there we were at the ocean, I was no longer a child but an adult. We left the ocean and were heading for home. We took the same path we did as a child. When I got to the tracks it was her having a difficult time getting across. I reached down scooped her up as she did to me as a child, I stepped across, she was a bit heavy. I finally got to a clear grassy mound with a huge tree; I walked over and gently laid her down under the shade of the tree. Her body’s form was not that of flesh and bones but that of cloud, or smoke formation. The scene then changed where I could see her lying in a casket, but her body was chopped up as if with a machete. Her head was not attached to her but to the side with major cuts. I was frightened by the look, and I turned away. I then turned to view the body again it was like lumps of coal, it was badly burnt. I began screaming and woke up startled. Strangely my arms were in the same position as I laid her to rest under the tree in my dream.
I had a few days off from work. I would take my son to daycare and spent the rest of my day either moping or a friend wound come and get me with the intention of cheering me up. All the while the stench of smoke would linger around me. Each person I asked they had no idea what I was talking about. I never brought it up again.
Days had passed, I returned to work and Mom had returned from Jamaica. Our first conversation was just lengthy sobbing. She would try talking but we both would just burst into tears. After many days she was able to talk about the burial, the family and thinks mama did to make us laugh.
She left out details about what she saw and the state of her body. I would ask but she would change the subject. During one of our daily chats, I told her about my dream then I asked, “Mama did not die in the fire, did she?” Mom became extremely quiet and began sobbing; again, I asked and pleaded with her to tell me the truth. “How did you know?” she asked, “who told you, you were not supposed to know.” Mom was trying to protect me the best way she knew how, at age seventeen I was diagnosed manic depressive (bipolar) and she did not know how that news would affect me. She knew the bond I had with mama. We continued talking and I shared in depth the dream and told her of the scent of smoke I had the day of the news and continued to smell. She disclosed experiencing the similar smell since she returned but could not get over the dream I had.
Finally, she told me the truth. Mama had been taking care of an old man known to everyone as Mas George, he may have had dementia we were not sure. They lived in a place called Buckingham a few miles from her hometown. As it was her custom, she was a protector, you would think at age 74 she would be resting in a rocking chair somewhere. In any event Mas George had valuable land that other wanted. This he intended to will to his daughter upon his death. Somehow the daughter’s husband/boyfriend saw the value and wanted to speed up the process. Mama knew what they were up to and kept discouraging them. To scare her, one particular night they came and set afire one of the chicken coops, a few of her chickens perished but she was able to save the rest. They had ceased for a while, but the daughter’s husband was determined to get the place. There were arguments back and forth and mama was eager to protect Mas George’s right to his property. Not that she needed it; she had many acres left to her by her mother and father. Mama just loved taking care of others.
It came to a climax one night Mama heard intruders outside the house, she went out along with Mas George to investigate. There were two men who began setting fire to the chicken coop, this time they had machetes. She ran towards them to stop them, but the first one swung at her with the machete, it caught her head. Whoever it was kept swinging, she called out for help but to no avail, Mas George was in no position to help her, he ran. She was decapitated. Mom informed me at the site it took them a while to find her head. A few days later Mas George was found bloody and when asked gave an account of what happened.
I am not sure if I wanted to hear the truth of what happened that night. My life hero was gone, she died doing what she did best, protecting the weak, sick and bullied.
My life was drastically changed after that, sank into severe depression and engaged in some risky behavior. Somehow, I have always heard her voice reminding me God had laced me on this earth for a purpose and at the pointed time He will reveal it to me.
I was not able to attend her burial or say my final goodbyes but if only in my dreams returning from the ocean one final time, crossing the tracks. There under the cool shade of a tree she was laid to rest.
VP Holmes Art 
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