Looking at the line of small, different colored, but “look alike” houses, she made a face of distain, not considering that her own lodgings were of lesser worth. Needing the money because a few of her old rich white ladies had died, she now worked for a poor white family. She remembered well her mama telling her that there was only one thing worse than being white and poor and that was being black and poor.

Belle Ann Bracey didn’t know any rich black people, but she knew some rich white folks. She knew plenty of them. For years, she had pressed and sighed over all their fine, frilly dresses, household linens and such.

Thinking now of Miss Catherine Taylor’s pretty new blue and white church dress, purchased at the finest store in Jackson and advertised in the paper as the “very best in 1950’s style,” Belle Ann smiled again and did a little dance in her mind, though her feet continued their forward walk along the already warm blacktop. The temptation had been too much when she had seen it hanging there in the closet. As soon as Miss Catherine left for her garden club meeting on Tuesday, Belle had slipped that pretty thing over her head. Smoothing it down over her hips, she had, in Belle Ann’s own words to her sister, sashayed right out into the hall and looked at herself this way and that in the big gold framed mirror.

Belle Ann often went through the many rooms of her rich ladies’ homes, touching everything in wonder and even bragged to her friends when any new pretty thing was acquired. It was as if such beauty and wealth belonged to her also.

Her friends said that they were happy for her, but she knew no truth could be found in that story. They were as jealous of her as she was of her own sister, Martine, who worked for the Mayor’s wife. She worked for her full time, though, and Belle Ann was always quick to remind her that since she ironed, exclusively, she wasn’t required to handle any dirty underwear, any soiled clothing at all, for that matter. Such a reminder served to set the record straight, she thought.

Bragging rights were an important benefit of working for the rich, but there was no bragging about working on Palmer Street. Quite the opposite, it was best not to let on to anyone that you worked in such a less affluent section of town.

Belle Ann crossed the street and turned into the driveway that led to a small yellow house and a yard full of white children. “Doorstep born and as wild as anything,” she muttered under her breath before thinking that one couldn’t help but feel sorry for their mama.

Miss Ginger Farmer was a pretty woman, but pretty wasn’t going to last much longer if she didn’t quit popping out those little heathens, Belle Ann thought. Eight, the last time she counted. She then whispered to herself, “Just counting them would wear anybody out, and, lawdy, here she is, PG again!”

After speaking with Ginger Farmer and unfolding the ironing board and plugging in the iron, she took the starch prepared damp clothes out of the refrigerator and began her work. Her right arm and wrist, encircled with gold bangle bracelets, moved with precision in a jingling fashion.

It wasn’t long before a small, pale faced girl with red, tight curly hair sauntered through and stopped at her usual place, in front of the ironing board.

She looked just like Little Orphan Annie, thought Belle Ann. “Good Morning, Miss Marlene.”

“Morning, Belle Ann.” Marlene looked up with a pale freckled face and returned the greeting before looking back down to the smooth gliding motion of the iron as it pressed down onto a skirt and passed over it, performing some sort of magic, smoothing the damp wrinkled cotton, turning the fabric into a shiny slick piece of art.

No one could wield an iron like Belle Ann. Fascinated with her skill and soothed by the whole process, Marlene, Ginger’s twelve year old sister, who lived a street over, loved to watch her at work. She had tried many times to match her as she ironed her own clothing, but her efforts always fell far short. The problem was that she would leave off from ironing one smooth spot of cloth and move to the next and iron it, only to find wrinkles, once more, in the first spot.

Belle Ann finished off a little boy’s shirt and then picked up a dress belonging to Ginger. Fitting it onto the small end of the board, she began to iron after spitting out a mouth full of snuff dribble into an old tin can. Shaking her head, she muttered “Ummm! Ummm! Ummm!” and compared to herself the skimpy little dress with that of the fine fancy church dress belonging to Catherine Taylor. This little cotton rag is nothing compared to that fine dress of Miss Catherine’s, thought Belle Ann. She grinned and thought that it didn’t matter much, anyway, since Miss Ginger had about outgrown it with her PG state getting just about to the advanced stage.

Belle Ann looked up and watched as Marlene took a chocolate bar from her skirt pocket. Tearing one end open, she took a bite as she continued to maintain her watch over the ironing.

“Can I have a little piece of your Hershey, Miss Marlene?”

Marlene looked down at the candy bar, her only sweet until tomorrow. A nickel a day was allowed, charged at Finch’s store, and she wasn’t sharing it with anyone, even if they did iron the best in the whole county.

“No!” No explanations given, no more interest in the gliding iron either. Marlene took her candy bar and herself straight out the door.

“More like the Wicked Witch of the South than Little Annie,” muttered Belle Ann before starting to sing along with the big table radio that was filling the little house with the words of “Big John, Big Bad John.”

Lunch time arrived and the nails in the walls of the bedrooms were now full of freshly ironed hanging clothes, works of art that Marlene was now fingering like a connoisseur, leaving small indentations and creased trails along each piece of smooth slick cotton.

Taking her hard earned four dollars, Belle Ann headed out of the door with an uplifted spirit and a whole afternoon of town up ahead with a new dress to get out of lay-a-way. She left, going as fast as she had come, past the little white heathens and out into the hot black-topped street, she walked -- though in her mind she danced along.

Turning onto Turner Street, Belle Anne met Jessie Butler who was prim and neat as always in her white uniform. She worked for Dr. Spenser’s wife and was the envy of every home worker in town. Everyone, including Martine, would have just died to be able to wear a white uniform.

“Good morning, Miss Jessie,” said Belle Anne.

“How do,” returned Jessie with her nose lifted high like there was a bad smell in the air.

“What you doing on Palmer?” She got the question out before Belle Anne could get past her.

“Oh, I just took a short cut,” a quickly recovering Belle Anne replied.

Let her laugh, thought Belle Anne, I only iron and I don’t handle anyone’s dirty underwear, be they rich or poor -- and she stepped right on down the street, mind dancing.

Gilda Griffith Brown is a retired nurse living in Canton, Mississippi. Besides writing for USADEEPSOUTH, she has written for Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal. She has also authored, compiled and published The Scofield Letters: Texas Pioneers, a history based on some old family letters.