![]() ![]() One summer afternoon, sweet-milk fresh in my memory, she stopped at the Store to buy provisions. She was one of the few gentlewomen I have ever known, and has remained throughout my life the measure of what a human being can be. The action was so graceful and inclusively benign. When she chose to smile on me, I always wanted to thank her. A slow widening of her thin black lips to show even, small white teeth, then the slow effortless closing. Flowers to ruffle her dress, let alone snag her skin. ![]() Her skin was a rich black that would have peeled like a plum if snagged, but then no one would have thought of getting close enough to Mrs. She was our side’s answer to the richest white woman in town. She was thin without the taut look of wiry people, and her printed voile dresses and flowered hats were as right for her as denim overalls for a farmer. She had the grace of control to appear warm in the coldest weather, and on the Arkansas summer days it seemed she had a private breeze which swirled around, cooling her. Bertha Flowers was the aristocrat of Black Stamps. ![]()
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