I was small and white. Jenny was old and black. She took care of me when I was little when my great aunts that I lived with were away at work. I played with her grandchildren at our home there in the country. Together we would climb the high magnolias, explore the woods and play all day. On hot afternoons we would take our baths in the yard in big galvanized buckets. Jenny would call us in and their would be fried chicken on the table. Together we would eat in the kitchen. And I remember noticing how her grandson cleaned his chicken bone clean and wasted none. I began to do that too. Some time later I moved away to live with my mother. And when I would return Jenny had gotten older and was no longer working. But my aunt would say “call Jenny. She wants to make a pie for you”. And I would go to see her and sometimes the pie would be cooked already. Other times we would go out and pick the blackberries together. Jenny always said it was good to include a few that were red. Sheafs the best pies I ever tasted, so I guess she knew what she was taking about. I learned a lot from Jenny. I learned that a black woman could love me and that I in turn could love her. It was a special kind of love that stood in sharp contrast to the hatred I saw around me. That hatred I so detested. I knew it was wrong. That was her gift to me.