Momma used to tell me, "That hardheaded man insisted, insisted mind you, that I wear that horrible hat."
The hat was almost as big as Momma and you could see it was fake because as tall as it was no real cowboy could've wore it without getting it knocked off his head every time he rode under a tree or some telegraph wires.
Momma told me that some man used to drag the midget horse all through her neighborhood with a camera and if your momma or daddy signed a piece of paper he'd take some pictures of you, then come back in a couple of weeks so you could buy them. Momma wasn't looking like she had rocks in her jaw because the hat was so fake that a real cowboy would've laughed you out of town for wearing it, she was mad because the hat was so dirty.
When she used to tell me about it her eyes would get big and bunny, like the whole thing happened the day before yesterday instead of all those years ago. She'd start moving around our apartment real quick, picking things up and putting them back in the exact same spot.
"Filth!" she'd say about the hat. "Absolute filth! Why, the thing was positively alive with germs! Who knows what type of people had worn it?"
I'd say, "I don't know, Momma?"
She'd say, "Who knows how many years it had been worn by who knows how many sweaty little heads?"
I'd say, "I don't know, Momma."
She'd say, "The entire band on the inside was black and I'm sure it was crawling with ringworm, lice and tetters!"
I'd say, "Yes, Momma"
She'd say, "And that horrid little photographer didn't care, do you imagine it ever occurred to him to wash it?"
I'd say, "No, Momma."
She'd say, "Of course not, we meant less to him than that horse he mistreated so."
I'd say, "Yes, Momma."
She'd say, "But your grandfather insisted. To this day I cannot understand why, but he insisted, insisted..."
I'd say, "Yes, Momma."
We had that conversation a lot of times.
Me and Momma having the same conversations lots of times is one of the main things I can remember about her now. Maybe that's because when she'd tell me these things she used to squeeze my arms and look right hard in my face to make sure I was listening, but maybe I remember them because those arm- squeezing, face-looking times were the only times that things slowed down a little bit when Momma was around.
Everything moved very, very fast when Momma was near, she was like a tornado, never resting, always looking around us, never standing still. The only time stuff didn't blow around when she was near was when she'd squeeze my arms and tell me things over and over and over and over.
She had four favorite things to tell me, one of them was about the picture and another one was about my name.
She'd say, "Jojon is your name and don't you ever let anyone call you anything outside of that either."
She'd tell me, "Especially don't you ever let anyone call you Jones, I may have some problems but being stupid isn't one of them, I would've added that dy onto the end of your name if I intended for it to be there. I knew what I was doing, Jones is a dog's name or a name that someone's going to use on you if they're being false-friendly. Your name is Jojon, period." I'd say, "OK, Momma."
And she'd say, every single time, "And do you know what a bud is?"
I always answered, "Yes, Momma" but it was like she didn't hear me, she'd tell me anyway.
"A bud is a flower-to-be. A flower-in-waiting. Waiting for just the right warmth and care to open up. It's a little fist of love waiting to unfold and be seen by the world. And that's you."
I'd say, "Yes, Momma."
I know she didn't mean anything by naming me after a flower, but it's sure not something I tell anybody about.
Another thing she'd tell me was, "Don't you worry, Jojon, as soon as you get to be a young man I have a lot of things I'll explain to you." That didn't make me calm at all, that was Jojon Crichton's Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life and Make a Better Liar Out of Yourself Number 83.
RULES AND THINGS NUMBER 83
If an Adult Tells You Not to Worry, and You Weren't Worried Before, You Better Hurry
Up and Start 'Cause You're Already Running Late.
She'd tell me, "These things I'm going to explain to you later will be a great help for you." Then Momma'd look hard in my face, grab a hold of my arms real tight and say, "And Jojon, I want you always to remember, no matter how bad things look to you, no matter how dark the night, when one door closes, don't worry, because another door opens."
I'd say, "What, it opens all by itself?" She'd say, "Yes, it seems so."
That was it: "Another door opens." That was the thing that was supposed to have helped me. I should've known then that I was in for a lot of trouble.
It's funny how now that I'm ten years old and just about a man I can see how Momma was so wrong. She was wrong because she probably should've told me the things she thought I was too young to hear, because now that she's gone I'll never know what they were. Even if I was too young back then I could've rememorized them and used them when I did need help, like right now.
She was also wrong when she thought I'd understand that nonsense about doors closing and opening all by themselves. Back then it really scared me because I couldn't see what one door closing had to do with another one opening unless there was a ghost involved. All her talk made me start jamming a chair up against my closet door at night.