Dem Fields is Ripe for Harvest

So I’m in Jackson, MS, picking up dry cleaning from a laundry I’ve never used before.

Behind the counter are two women. The first, a fifty-something white woman, looks at me and tilts her head as a preying mantis might. I avoid her, walking right up to the younger black woman who is popping a new spool of printer paper into the cash register.

“Help you?” the younger woman asks.

I give her my name.

I can feel the older woman staring at me. Eventually, she says, “You sure are lucky, getting to be out and about on a beautiful day like today.”

I glance at her, agree with a smile, and look away.

Meanwhile, the younger woman has returned with several bag-draped hangers. “Six shirts, five slacks. That it?”

Across the room, the older woman says, “Yeah, on a day like today, dem field’s, they’s ready for plantin’.”

I freeze. I glance at the younger black woman; she glances up at me.

“Yep!” the older woman says, adopting an even thicker, more exaggerated Southern Back Dialect, “dis time-ah year, dem fields, dey’s ready for da plantin’!”

The younger black woman gives me a look that says I have to work with this crazy lady every damn day.

I nod my sympathy, take my dry cleaning, and flee.