Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

"Going to the porch," we'd say. "Sitting on the porch." "On the porch," we'd coo, feeling expansive, like we lived in an oasis rather than an industrial ghetto.

When it rained, our porch became a wet, slippery gray. But that didn't dampen our ownership pride. Anchored by the six concrete steps and foot-long landing, we, kids, lived recklessly and joyously.

On our porch we played jacks. In front of it, we played hopscotch, our squares drawn with colored chalk. We never fretted about skinned knees, bone-jarring hops.

When traffic slowed, we'd play Double Dutch in the street. Sometimes Grandmother would join us, and I'd laugh outrageously, thrilled to see her hair bobbing, her skirt and white apron ballooning like a girl's, before she'd go into the house to fry chicken or smother chipped beef with gravy.

We thought we were a typical family -- though nothing like the Dick and Jane I'd read in my first-grade readers. They were white, we were brown; and nobody we knew said, "See, Spot, run."

Grandmother and her husband, Reverend, Rev for short, ruled the roost. Rev was stepdad to my father and aunt, both single parents (my dad, divorced; my aunt, widowed because of a barroom brawl). Brother and sister had returned to their mother, children in tow. Two daughters for Pop -- me and my sister, Tonie; a daughter and two sons (all under six) for Aunt Delores -- Aleta, Jerome, and James. All of us folks strained the contours of the house. There was never a place to just be. Never any privacy. You were always running into, stumbling over someone. The bathroom was the only place that guaranteed solitude, but even then, a knock would arrive and a thin voice call, spiking high, "I've got to go. Please."

Dad worked day shift; my aunt worked nights as a nursing assistant. Rev, on weekdays, poured molten steel and, on weekends, preached gospel for any church in need of a temporary preacher.

Grandmother, stuffing us with food, surrounding us with love, was the glue holding us all together.

Our Pittsburgh sky was always overcast with gray steel flakes. Our roads were broken cobblestone with faded metal tracks for clackity-clack streetcars. Fourth of July, we placed cherry bombs in the tracks, hearing them burst while the driver cursed and clanged his bell.

Inside our house, there was always a warm glow. A sense of forgiveness, understanding that we were children and were expected to raise a ruckus.

Grandma could holler, "Pick up your shoes"; "Scrape your plate"; "Don't slide down that banister again"; "Watch your mouth!" and make us still feel loved.

At night, our neighborhood became mythical. A long, thin street with weak streetlamps, bright fireflies, and soulful aromas of collards and fatback, fried onions, and sugar snap peas. A magical place where for an all-too-brief time, Grandmother raised me and taught me about life.

I didn't realize we were poor. Didn't know that other neighborhoods didn't have rats as big as cats. Wasn't everyone behind in taxes, mortgage payments yet, no matter what, paid the two dollars for burial insurance and fifty cents to hit the numbers?

"I dreamt number eight -- play that."

"Six. Nine. Two. Six-nine-two. Rolls off your tongue like butter."

"My daughter's birthday is eleven July. My birthday's five August. One-one-five. That oughta win at least a dollar."

Whoever hit the numbers gave a chitlin' party. Grandmother won the most, so she always kept a supply of frozen chitlins, hot sauce, and crackers.

"Cleanliness is godliness," she'd say, defrosting the chitlins under cold water. I swore I'd never eat those nasty, smelly things. Pig innards. Old-time slave food. The leftovers that Master threw to his overworked slaves. But all the adults loved them, even though Grandmother had to wash them not once but twice, then three times clean.

Still, I knew what Grandmother meant.

Cleanliness meant you and your house were in order. Grandmother fought the never-ending struggle with soot, with mounds of laundry (including my father's bloodstained butcher uniforms), with flatware caked in dried grits, and greasy frying pans that needed scouring. The house was never clean. It was more than one woman could handle -- struggling to care for an extended family. Grandmother couldn't work fast enough, hard enough to keep her house and nine bodies clean. But she fought the good fight.

"Let me see your ears."

I'd bow my pig-tailed head and fold my ears forward.

"Good."

I polished my patent leathers before church too. Took pride that my nails shined. My underwear was clean. And my shoes sparkled and clicked from metal taps on the heels.

When I was dumped into the bathtub with my sister, Tonie, and cousin Aleta, I never played splash, only scrubbed my knobby elbows, knees, and picked the lint from my belly button.

Was I Grandmother's favorite child? I like to think so. But it's a lie.

"Grandma don't play favorites. I love you all." Her children. Her children's children. Her neighbors. Her neighbors' children. Everyone was God's children. And Grandmother loved us all. Each and every one.

And because of her loving, the whole neighborhood loved her back. Called her "Grandma." Men would tip their hats, boys would sometimes bow, and girls and women would kiss her cheek like she was rare. And she was.

"Evening. Fine evening, Mrs. Thornton."

"Yes, praise Lord."

"It's been another good day."

"So saith the Lord: 'Be blessed and ye shall receive.' "

"Grandma Thornton, I love you."

"I love you too."

"Can I borrow sugar?"

"Anytime, baby. Anytime."

"I think I'm pregnant."

"Put your feet up. Call on the Lord."

Grandmother would listen to any troubles, but never gossiped. She was better than the confessional. She'd tell us children to "run and be hush" while she listened to secrets sinners were reluctant to tell God. Grandmother was in the flesh; nonetheless, when the session of confessing was done, Grandmother would remind the sinner, "Jesus loves you."

Summer nights, after a while, my youngest cousins would swoon, dry up like petals burned by too much sun. Rev would carry them to bed. A boy-child would be tucked under each arm. Afterward, he'd shuffle down the stairs and sit at the dining room table for hours, smoking Camels and drinking cold black coffee. This was a signal for Aleta and Tonie to scoot inside to watch late-night movies. Cagney, always a gangster, shouted, "Stick 'em up"; Bob Hope, goofy and drab, played a ukelele. They liked it best when Fred Astaire danced and spun his Ginger Rogers.

Grandmother and I would sit on the stoop, on the misnamed porch, studying the stars, the cars that turned onto our street, and neighbors, like us, trying to escape the heat. Sometimes, we'd snap pole beans for tomorrow's dinner, or wave fans with photos of a white Christ crucified. Or a rosy-cheeked Mary looking serenely at her baby.

If I pressed her, Grandmother would play hand clap games. "Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. She asked her mother, mother, mother...for fifty cents, cents, cents...to see the elephant, elephant, elephant..." My small hands smacked against her calloused hands: "Jump over the fence, fence, fence..."

When I tired of Miss Mack, I insisted we do a few rounds of "A sailor went to sea, sea, sea to see what he could see, see, see..." I must've driven Grandmother mad. Yet she always said yes to my silly games. "Jewell, child, yes." Hearing Grandmother whisper those three words summed up all my comfort, my joy at being safe within the boundaries of her love. "Jewell. Child. Yes."

Even when Grandmother was young, I believed she was old. Truth be told, life had taken its toll on her body -- diabetes, high blood pressure. Her upper register was filled with fake porcelain teeth. Years of sacrifice as a single parent (before she married Rev), then more years of making sure her children's children had -- whether it be food, medical care, a roof over their heads -- had taken its toll. Only ageless thing was her love. Her spirit was young like her soul.

I cherished my outside time with Grandmother, pinching myself both to stay awake and for sheer happiness at being alone with her.

I always sensed Grandmother was happy, too, enjoying her respite from the day, even though she'd be up again by six.

"Tell me stories."

"I've told you before."

"Tell me again." And she'd hug me to her bosom and never fail to oblige. "Did I tell you the blackbird's tale?"

"Yes. Tell me again. Tell me like you told me the first time."

She'd smack her gums. And I swear a hush fell shimmering, straight down from the sky.

"This is an old, old tale. My mother told me. Her mother told her."

We were cocooned on the porch: Grandmother, sitting tall on the top step; me, sitting one step below, my chin even with her knees.

"Blackbirds were the slaves who flew back to Africa. Every time you see a blackbird, you should think of a slave who set himself free."

"Have blackbirds always been ex-slaves?"

"No. Didn't begin until two centuries ago. Eighteen hundreds, down in Alabama. Hundreds of slaves were picking cotton, suffering under Master's care, all of them singing about the need to go. Singing about 'Crossing the River Jordan.' Or 'Go Down Moses, let my people go.' All these Christian songs they'd been taught. They sang, too, about trains and 'How long they'd been gone? Baby, how long?' ...