Patricia McKissack - Porch Lies: Tales of Slicksters, Tricksters, and other Wily Characters

Whippoorwills, lightning bugs, and homemade peach ice cream trigger memories of my childhood summers spent at my grandparents' house in Nashville, Tennessee. The squat whiteframed house at 3706 Centennial, next to the Tennessee State University power plant, sat comfortably on the property as if it was resting in an easy chair. Looking at the house from a distance, I always imagined that the two side windows, the center door, and the sagging porch formed a big happy face, smiling a welcome to me when I rode my bicycle down the long front walk. Skipping up five steps placed me in my favorite spotthe porch swing. There I could read for hours or listen to someone tell a story about sneaky foxes or things that went bump in the night.

I spent a lot of time listening in those days. In the evenings when dinner was done, the dishes washed, and the dish towels hung out to dry, my grandparents Mama Frances and Daddy James spent the rest of the evening on the porch. Sometimes if there was a baseball game Mama Frances hooked up the radio in the living room window so we could listen to the play-by-play in the cool. We were loyal fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers, the first major-league team to sign a black playerJackie Robinson. We all cheered loudly each time Jackie came to bat, and we never missed a game.

Sometimes there was a Marian Anderson or a Mahalia Jackson concert on, and while my grandmother listened, my grandfather and I were forbidden to say a word. Shhhh! Mama Frances whispered, as if she was actually in Carnegie Hall and didn't want us to disturb anyone. Listen, she told me, and remember the sound of greatness.

On those hot summer evenings, it was not uncommon for family members, friends, and neighbors to drop by for a visit. Some were invited and others just stopped when they saw us sitting out front. My grandmother always had a pitcher of lemonade or iced tea and homemade tea cakes prepared for all visitors.

Some of these visitors loved to tell stories, or porch lies, as we called themtales of humor and exaggeration told to listeners of all ages gathered together on the porch. When the teller's eyes grew mischievously large and bright and his or her hands became as animated as a puppeteer's, we knew that a porch lie was in the making.

Mama Frances always welcomed us kids to join the circle of grown-ups, with the strict understanding that we were to remain unobtrusive. Somehow we managed to sit still in spite of our excitement.

The radio was shut off and all we could hear was the melodic sound of a storyteller's voice. I was especially delighted when the story was a slickster-trickster tale about some wily character who used his wits to outsmart his opponents. I like to think of each of these slicksters as a cross between a Mississippi bluesman and Brer Rabbit, though there were a few women as well. And whether it was someone fast- or slow-talking, a well-dressed city slicker or an innocent-looking country bumpkin, all were gifted with a silver tongue tarnished by an oily reputation. No matter how bad these characters seemed, however, they managed to charm their victims and disarm their critics with just enough humor to take the edge off their unscrupulousness.

Among the many porch lies I heard, the most memorable were about Pete Bruce, a man my grandfather knew in the 1920s. Pete was sly and devilish, but always funny. Whenever we were unsure of ourselves, or when our ever-changing world collided with our concepts of justice and honesty, Daddy James would summon up Pete Bruce. He used Pete Bruce as a vehicle to teach a value, to encourage us to think critically, or just to entertain us by putting a little joy in an otherwise gray day.

And that is my intent, too.

Although these stories contain the essence of truth, they are fiction from beginning to end. I have drawn from my grandfather's models of the slickster-trickster character, and I have expanded the myths, legends, and historical figures who often appear in the African American oral tradition and placed them in my own original porch lies. Smart and charming Mingo Cass, easygoing Link Murphy, and yes, even prim and proper Mis Martha June are my creations.

So now, let your own imagination take you to the front porch of your mind, much like the porch at my grandparents' house. Find a comfortable spot; pour yourself a glass of lemonademade with fresh lemonsand enjoy one of my porch lies, just as I savored the ones I heard years ago.

Patricia C. McKissack

Chesterfield, Missouri

2005

Dedicated to Daddy James,
who introduced us to Pete
Bruce at the old house on
Centennial Boulevard in
Nashville, Tennessee

Mis Martha June was a person I thoughtincapable of telling a porch lie. I was wrong. Always prim and proper, she was a churchgoing woman who spoke in quiet, refined tones with her mouth pursed in the shape of a little O. She was never without a dainty pocket handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, which she gingerly used to dab perspiration from her brow. A woman of Mis Martha June's qualities did not sweat.

She owned a bakery that was known for having the best coconut cream pies in the worldsame recipe her mother used, and her mother before her. And no customer was more faithful than a wily character named Pete Bruce, about whom she loved to tell stories. He was considered the prince of confidencers, and the idea of Mis Martha June having anything to do with the likes of him was about as odd as a fox and a hen striking up a friendship.

Pete Bruce was the worst somebody who ever stood in shoes, Mis Martha June always began in her quiet manner. But then she'd add quickly, I'll be the first to admit, however, he could make me laugh in spite of myself, especially when he threw one of his million-dollar smiles my way.

Here is the rest of the story as she told it long ago on our front porch, on a late-summer night.

I was near 'bout ten years old when I first laid eyes on Pete Bruce. He was a full-fledged rascal and I knew it! If you went by looks alone, Pete Bruce was pleasing enough. Had a nice grade of hair, wore it slicked back with Murray's hair dressing oil and water; had plum black skin, even darker eyes, and a devil-may-care swagger. As I recollect, he always loved big Stetson hats, flashy cars, and loud suits. Stood out. Pete Bruce liked thatstanding out, being noticed and all.

Mama sold coconut cream pies to passengers at the bus station back then, and her reputation as a super baker was known far and wide. Most people called her the Pie Lady. I helped Mama on weekends or when I wasn't in school, so folk started calling me Li'l' Pie. And a few people still call me Pie to this day.

It was an ordinary Tuesday morning when Pete Bruce stepped off the bus. Hot! My goodness, it was hot as blue blazes. Yet I noticed that this man had on a suit, fresh and crisp as if he'd just taken it off a cleaning rack. How come he looks so neat when everybody else looks like they slept a week in their clothes? I wondered out loud.