Angies Preserves Pt. 01

Wow. Ten days of camping and canoeing with six grands ranging from eleven to 22 will flat wear your ass out. We had days of sunshine and warm weather, ate lots of fresh fish and had a blast. Now that I'm home and rested it's time to post another story. As a young man the following statement was said to me when I thought I had all the answers without all the facts.

"Son, there aint nuthin worse than the things you know that just aint so."

I was smart enough to know what he meant. We all make decisions based on what we think we know, even if what we know isn't true. Much like this story of two people who knew they were meant to be together but held back because of preconceived notions. This is a story about a very successful black lady and a common run of the mill white guy. Nothing more, nothing less. Please read it for what it is, a romance story.

Angie's Preserves part one

Staring out my third story office window I have a view of the small city where I reside. Our city's not huge by any standard, and truth be told, there are but a few buildings in town with a third floor. To my left is the full parking lot for Angie's Preserves employees. A company I have the privilege of saying that I own. Lock, stock and barrel as my mom's late sister Doris would say. Angie isn't my name, far from it, my given name is Skye. Yes, like the blue sky above. I was born with blue eyes, which, from what I've learned is quite rare in dark skinned people. My daddy insisted that I be called sky, so they changed the spelling slightly and here I am.

Angies Preserves is named after the one I referred to as Aunt Angela, the lady who graciously put up with all my shenanigans as she raised me from the age of ten until adulthood. She's not with me anymore, age and sickness stole her from me just over eighteen months ago. At the ripe old age of thirty I found myself all alone in this big wide world. My dad was a black man of French descent, my mom was from Egypt having darker colored skin like my father. As for me? I'm what auntie used to say was a smooth light chocolate, with rare blue eyes and long dark hair.

Following the death of dad's parents my folks immigrated to the states in their early twenties. With inheritance money they bought a small grocery store in an area known as the inner city. It wasn't the safest place to do business, but as I'd heard my father say many times, "Everyone deserves to have decent food at a decent price." Their little store catered to the local neighborhood enjoying loyal customers and a good report within the community. I say community because even though we lived in a large city, neighborhoods tend to develop into their own community of sorts.

There were the Iverson's who still had a functioning bakery, the Weissmans who ran the local butcher shop and Steinson's Hardware. Not a chain hardware store, one of the old ones with bins full of nails, screws, bolts and on and on. There were things hanging on the walls that were as old as the store, things I had no idea what they were supposed to do. The only business owners of the neighboring fifteen or twenty blocks that weren't black were the Weissman's. It was the winter I turned ten that my world changed exponentially.

Considering the fact that we were a family-owned grocery store I was expected to work alongside mom and dad in the evenings if I didn't have homework. Stocking shelves, sweeping floors, helping bag and carry out groceries, simple and yet helpful things. I was helping an older lady I knew only as Granny Iva put bags of groceries in her Red Flyer wagon, (one of the cool ones with the wooden sides). We were outside the front door to the side when my world changed. Three loud noises rang from within the store, Granny Iva grabbed and hid me behind the bushes along the street. I recall clearly how she muttered over and over.

"Lawdy, lawdy, not agin." Then she cried softly saying, "These be good folk."

She kept me there while the thieves and takers of my parents' lives jumped into an old beat-up Chevrolet and sped down the street. Granny Iva's arms were holding across my chest as I stared at the doorway, she wasn't about to let me go inside. When the police arrived mere minutes later I bolted free from her grip and ran inside. Imagine the horror to my innocent eyes as they drank in the lump of deceased flesh that had been my father and a writhing moaning body that was my mothers. Standing in shock I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, in fact, I don't recall crying. That came later when reality hit.

I was literally numb as I stood frozen in time, it was Granny Iva who broke that spell as her arms encircled holding me tight to her bosom attempting to shield my young eyes from the tragedy before me. I remember the authorities moving us outside where they were asking Granny Iva numerous questions. Iva wasn't what one would call schooled, and yet in the haste and turmoil of the moment she had memorized the license plate of the fleeing car.

She also knew who one of the robbers was. They had the culprits in custody within hours. My father was dead, my mother struggling to stay alive and my world turned upside down for a measly $168.47. To keep me out of the system Granny convinced the authorities that she would take me home with her and care for me until my mom's sister arrived from California. She had immigrated a few years before my folks and with her husband owned an olive farm.

My Aunt Martha had been with me for two weeks following my ordeal. She knew she couldn't stay to raise me and I didn't want to go live on a farm thousands of miles away. The lady that lived behind our store had been my sitter since I was born. Aunt Martha, mom's sister, suggested I stay and be raised by her. Having passed all state requirements my former babysitter, Aunt Angela as I called her, was now my legal guardian. My mother survived the shooting but died the day my dad did. Not physically, it took two years for the loss of my father to kill her. The facility where she was cared for was on my way home, I went to see her every day after school and in the summer. She was riddled in pain, both physically and mentally, in the end she simply wasted away and left this earth in her sleep

My folks had life insurance but not much. Fifty thousand on each which became less once all the funeral costs were covered. Angela had a POA to cover anything pertaining to me and before mom died she made Angela POA over everything including her finances. To Aunt Angie's credit she kept meticulous books. Every expenditure, every receipt, anything having to do with me, or mothers finances, was recorded and kept in an old safe so heavy it was on wide steel wheels.

The store had been leased to a young middle eastern couple and doing well. When mom died Angie sold it to them, putting the proceeds into an education fund for me. The public school I went to was basically all black students, there was a smattering of different colored kids, but by and large the populace was dark skinned. Because I have blue eyes the assumption was generally made that somewhere in my families past there had to have been an interracial marriage with a Scandinavian person. Which was complete BS, though it wouldn't have mattered to me.

What the morons didn't know, or care to find out, is that blue eyes in black children, though rare, are not unheard of. I was never one of the popular girls, I was slow developing physically still wearing the equivalent of a training bra when I was sixteen. The running joke was that I was as flat as the blue sky, which was not only an embarrassment, but a cruel play on my name. I had a slender waist, a nicely shaped butt, and firm legs without anything to go with them. Ignoring me was easy. I don't recall having more than a few friends all through my early years.

And don't even ask about a date or being asked to the prom, not gonna happen. With mother gone and no family to keep us in place we moved the summer I turned 18. To a small city of about eight thousand in the heart of farm and produce country. It was a new place where we knew no one and it didn't bother me in the least. I'd been having a period since I was fourteen, but that was the summer I began to develop. By the beginning of my senior year I was wearing an A cup bra thinking I had knockers like Dolly Parton. When you're flat as a board anything seems large.

The first thing I noticed in our school of just over 400 kids was that the number of dark-skinned kids was nearly non-existent. There couldn't have been more than forty of us total. Which for the most part didn't really matter. Of course there were the narrow-minded idiots like you find anywhere, but by and large we were accepted as kids with different colored skin. I made more friends in the first two months of being at that school than I had my entire time at the old place.

I don't think it was intentional but most of us black kids hung together. Others would sometimes join us, but we were more apt to be seen in a group with other dark-skinned kids as opposed to being in a mixed group. My first big surprise came when I was asked to the Homecoming dance by a boy named Todd Struthers. His dad was a big shot of some sort, or so I'd been told. What no one bothered to clue me in on was the fact that I was supposed to be the next notch on his belt, he was going to take the cute black girls cherry. It was at the dance that a white girlfriend of mine followed me into the stall of the girl's bathroom.

I had no idea what was going on and was about to panic when she closed the door behind us. She put her finger to her lips telling me too be silent. Opening the door enough to peak out and assure no one else was there she turned back to me.

"Skye you need to know that Todd is going to try and screw you tonight. My brother is good friends with him and heard him telling the other guys on the team that you were gonna be his next... oh, forgive my words... piece of ass."

My mouth must have been hanging open so far I could have sipped soup from a saxophone. I found myself caught up in the sheer shock of her statement. I finally spoke so softly I could barely hear myself.

"But why. Why would he do that? He doesn't know me, I've never kissed him or even been near him until tonight. Other than him asking me to homecoming he hadn't spoken more than five sentences to me until he picked me up earlier. Why? I don't understand."

Her answer floored me. I had falsely been under the impression things were different in this out of the way place.

"Because you're black and he's never screwed a black girl. In fact I know a lot of guys who want to screw a black girl. Any black girl. They don't care, they just want to say they screwed a black girl."

My bladder was ready to explode as I gently pushed her out of the booth. Sitting with my dress bunched around my waist and my panties at my knees the tears dripped onto my clothes. Why, why did they have to be racist pricks? It was the opposite in my old school, and yet the same. Black guys wanted to screw the white girls, this was the same old bullshit, just a different town. I called Auntie and asked her to come get me, I wanted nothing to do with these racist assholes.

As I was waiting outside who should suddenly appear but Todd wanting to know why I was bailing on him after he'd spent money on me for dinner, a corsage and what he called "fun" afterward. I think my answer floored him.

"Because I'm not about to be the next notch on your belt. Never speak to me again."

Auntie pulled up as I was turning away, I climbed in the car and began crying. I told my story as I blubbered the sordid tale of woe and deceit. I changed once we were home and sat next to her on the couch, with her arm around my shoulders she let me cry it out. When the sniffling ceased she sat me up looking at her face.

"You know not all boys are like him don't you? Doesn't make any difference in skin color, they're either nice, or they aren't. I dated a white man after my Eldridge went home to Jesus. One of the nicest men I've ever known, he just couldn't commit. Which in the end caused our relationship to end. He wasn't a skirt chaser, just afraid to make a lifetime commitment. He would have stayed my boyfriend for life if I would have been willing to have a lover with no strings attached."

I looked at her, "That might be auntie, but I'm never going out with a white man again. If I go out at all it will have to be with a man of color, like me."

With a heavy sigh she pulled me back into her embrace, arm around my shoulder, her hand softly stroking my cheek.

"Don't be too hasty Skye. Maybe time will heal the wounds you feel now."

With a hug and kiss on the cheek I bid her goodnight with my resolve being stronger than ever. No white boys for me. If I couldn't find a black boy I wanted to go out with, I'd just stay home. I also made a promise to myself that in the future I would be self-reliant, not having to rely on anyone but myself for success. The incident with Todd made me the school pariah amongst the "cool" kids, I could have cared less. Finding myself home all the time I wasn't in school I needed a hobby or something challenging to do.

My answer came from next door in the form of an eighty year old black lady named Dorcas, after the biblical woman found in the Book of Acts. Living in a warm climate also meant that early vegetables and fruits were becoming available. It had been a warmer than normal spring which brought about the ripening of strawberries a week or two ahead of most years.

Dorcas had come over to ask if auntie and I would like to go berry picking with her on Saturday morning. By the time we quit she had four flats in the back of her station wagon. Bringing them into her kitchen I asked.

"What will you do with all these berries Miss Dorcas?"

She chuckled and responded in her old southern way of speaking.

"We gon put a bunch in a bowl fo you and yo auntie take home, then we gon make jelly wit da rest. Run some cold watah in da sink chil' and hep me wash dese here berries."

There were seven colanders full of freshly washed berries when we were done. It dawned on me that she'd done this before. Who else would have seven colanders? With a big smile she patted my back and hugged me.

"We gon have fun in da monin chil', you be here by sevn'. We gon make jelly and jam."

Thus began my journey into the world of jelly's, jams and preserves. We hit every craft show and flea market available that spring and summer selling everything we made. We prided ourselves for weekly selling nearly everything we would bring. Word was spreading about how great our products were. What set that summer apart from the spring was the county fair coming up in late August. Auntie and Miss Dorcas encouraged me to enter our products in the fair.

I didn't want to only submit what everyone else would, I wanted something different. It was Miss Dorcas, who with a gleam in her eye, told me about how her grandma would make elderberry jam. It was the right time of year and she knew of a woods where we could find some. One of the things that set our products apart from so many others is that we used pectin instead of gelatin. The first two batches were a disaster, by the third I had most of my mistakes figured out which resulted in my jam taking first place at the county fair. I carried that blue ribbon with such pride as I walked across the platform.

With numerous fruits ripening the fall turned out to be a boon for my little cottage industry. Auntie helped me get all the paperwork filled out for licensing and a facility that would meet health standards. That facility ended up being a rented bakery that had been closed for years. With minor changes and upgrades to equipment we passed the health inspection. Up to that point we'd been using what money we made off our sales to cover everything. Renting a facility was going to require more than that.

As we contemplated what to do I asked if we couldn't use the money in my education fund, or at least part of it. Miss Dorcas piped in before auntie could answer.

"You need go to school chil'. Don't be like this ole lady who aint got no education. You go to school and learn dem numbers an how to run a business. Den you be ready to make jam all da time."

Auntie sat staring at me with a smile, "She's right you know. How about this, you take some courses on finances and business management at the local tech this year. There's plenty of money to cover the schooling and operating expenses while you get started."

I did as they suggested, enrolling in courses for finances and business management. No. There wouldn't be a diploma hanging on my wall, but then I didn't need a diploma to make jelly. It was close to Christmas when I met Andrew, a second-year student in auto mechanics. He was tall, strong, and most important for me, he was black. We seemed to hit it off from the moment we'd met at the student lounge. We dated through the holidays and into the new year. To that point our romantic endeavors were mainly kissing and a bit of touching. The first time he put his hand on my breast I swooned, that is until he foolishly commented on how little my tits were.

Yeah, we parted ways after that. I went out with a few other guys and found none of them interesting. I was determined to not give up my virginity just because I might feel lonely. By the time classes were finished in the spring my jam and jelly business had increased two-fold. I was now thinking of hiring someone to help me meet the demand for my product. I also needed a brand name that was exclusively mine. After much discussion we settled on using aunties name, registering our business name with the state we were officially known as Angies Preserves.

After the first year of business I was delightfully surprised to realize I was in the black, barely, but still in the black without having to dip further into the money still in my education account. I wasn't dating at all, who had time for such frivolities? That's when I met Dennis, the new black dentist in town. I didn't need to go out with him more than three times to know it wasn't going to work. He was a nice enough man with good looks and an appealing personality. But there was no spark. I didn't mind going to dinner with him, but I couldn't in my wildest imaginations see myself in bed with him.

As involved as I was with growing the business dating took a back seat. By the time I was 27 I had moved to a larger facility and employed ten people. With fruits and produce readily available locally for the better part of the year I was able to make sure quality standards remained high. We were now distributing directly to more than 40 stores in a hundred-mile radius. I'd basically sworn off men and I wasn't interested in women from a romantic point of view. I had resigned myself to being with auntie until, or when I might meet mister right.

I had hired Dolores as my marketing manager, one with a diploma on the wall. She was the one who helped me launch the brand nationwide in geographic stages. When we had a solid foothold in one part of the country we would then move onto the next area. She also encouraged me to branch out with other organic items. Honey and maple syrup were two of our fastest movers. Each came from independent farmers from out of state and contracted solely with us.

Miss Dorcas had been ill most of that same yea,r finally succumbing to death in March. Auntie had been working at the county courthouse and made the decision to retire shortly after. She was still living with and inspiring me to never look back when I bought the old tire plant at the edge of the city. It had been closed for over a decade.

I bought it for a song, stuck over a hundred grand into it, met all the current state codes and opened what would be Angies Preserves permanent home. It was from that very facility I was now looking at the world below. The business now occupied my time to the point I no longer did anything but work. I had hired a young lady originally from Japan as my CFO, she was sharp as a tack and as absorbed in the job as I was. In the past I had heard stories of oriental people not liking blacks, I wondered if her being Asian and me being dark might be an issue, that was quickly discarded. Leslie was as dedicated to the business, many a night she and I sat for hours finding ways to make things work.