A Journal of Writings - SABES

MY ACE BOON COON
Maria Fowlkes
MARIA FOWLKES
Karen was one in a million, my ace boon coon. Some may know this slang word from the
past, and others may not. The terminology means my best friend. I could go and talk to
Karen about anything and trust it was our secret. On the other hand if she asked me to do
something and I became stubborn about it, the look she gave me was quite serious, one of
those looks such as, if looks could kill you would be dead, so you dared not disobey her.
Karen was a very jolly person; when she laughed she laughed hard to the point when tears
would come out of her eyes streaming down her flushed cheeks. She in turn would make
others around her laugh even if what was said was not so funny to them. Karen had just that
kind of personality.
Reminiscing the past just like it was yesterday. Karen would take me roller-skating in this
huge beautiful park downtown, called the Boston Commons in Massachusetts. During the
summer it was fun time for roller skating and during the winter for ice-skating. Well on this
particular summer day I took a bad fall coming down a hill. Karen had warned me ahead of
time not to go up any hills. Just the same, I went. I struggled holding on to the benches
going up with the weight of the skates on my little feet holding me back with each step I
took. Karen was sitting on the bench at the bottom of the hill. Finally, I reached the top. I
let go of the bench that I was holding to keep my balance. I thought? Well so much in
listening to Karen, just when I was going to say “wee!! Here I go!” A big gush of wind hit
my small frame from behind and all of a sudden I went flying down the hill. Before I could
scream “Karen!” Out of fright, I came down like gangbusters collapsing to my knees at the
bottom of the hill. My falling, like that, was hilarious to Karen. She laughed so hard I
thought she was going to have a heart attack.
Quite naturally, I had a big hole on the knee section and another hole on the elbow section
of my two-piece summer suit. When Karen finally got control of herself she got off the
bench and hurried to my rescue, helping me up with both of her hands. She said, “Little
Rye, are you okay?” I gasped for air, from crying so hard. I replied “yeth” for my English
was not perfect; I had lost some of my baby teeth in growing up.
Grasping more memories from the past, Karen was a great cook. Some of her delights
would make your mouth water. I could hardly wait to sit down for dinner. For once again
I knew I would leave the kitchen table satisfied, stuffed and in agony from her scrumptious
cooked meal.
There was one thing I did not relish, and that was getting my hair groomed. Karen was
heavy handed and to make matters worse I was tender-headed. Every stroke of the comb
combing through my long thick black hair made my scalp feel like it was on fire. I would
cry every time. But once Karen finished my hair she would kiss me on the forehead and
say, “I hope I did not cause you too much misery little one,” and then she would pause and
say. “You can go and play now.” And off I went running, so glad to be out of that seat.
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