The Basement: An Augusta Story

Every time I opened the door to the basement stairs, I was met with a dank odor. The smell reminded me of the Missouri Caves found not too far from our St. Louis neighborhood. Dad took my brother, sister, and me there once on a weekend drive. A long staircase led from the cave’s entrance to the deep underground cavern. The space was so damp that water dripped from overhead and seeped along the bumpy walls. The intense quiet scared me. It was as though secret stories from the past lurked among the pointed stalagmites and stalactites. Our basement at home didn’t have weepy walls or salty columns growing in it, but the steps leading down were steep and creaked when I made my way down. Don’t slip. I thought to myself.

* * * *

Upon arriving each weekday morning, Augusta greeted us with a cheerful hello, then walked to the end of the hallway, opened the basement door, and moved down the steps to a small dressing room. A thin threadbare rug covered the cold cement floor and an upholstered chair sat in one corner of the room, Augusta hung her own clothes with coat hangers on a metal rod as she changed into her white cotton uniform, then checking her appearance in a wall hung mirror. She was an attractive woman and carried her ample figure with assurance. 

“More of me to love.” I could picture her thinking to herself while smiling at her reflection. Her complexion was a warm shade of brown, her cheeks lightly freckled, like mine. I liked her special fragrance, not perfumy, but earthy, hinting of spice.

In 1945, my mother had answered an advertisement that Augusta had placed in the local newspaper, seeking employment as a housekeeper.

“Your mother and I bonded the very first time we met,” Augusta told me. “She greeted me at the front door and welcomed me inside. It was as though we’d known each other for years.” 

Her stated job was to help with the housework and with us kids. But her role in the family became much more. During those early years of my parents’ marriage, when my eldest siblings, Peggy and Tony, were just toddlers, Mom began experiencing mood swings ranging from lows to highs, with no explainable reason. In those days, there was no diagnosis of Manic Depression and no way to predict that her swings would intensify over the years until she finally appeared to be two different people, morphing from wild euphoria for months at a time to a long period of deep depression, hardly able to get up and dressed every morning. 

Augusta, in contrast, carried an aura of steadiness, competence, and empathy. Her presence in our daily lives eased some of the anxiety my family members felt living with Mom’s unpredictable mood swings. The overall mood of the family lightened when Augusta was in the house. Dad smiled and might crack a joke. Augusta appreciated his clever, good humor and laughed warm, lighthearted laughter that brought smiles to all our faces. Mom, too, seemed more relaxed and less anxious. I think she saw Augusta. as a trusted teammate.

Our family grew during the ten years following Augusta and Mom’s first meeting. Peggy and Tony were joined by the twins, Joan and David, in 1947, and finally, I was born in 1955, the surprise child, seven years after the twins. We five Husch kids adored Augusta. She listened to our daily goings on, sometimes just nodding her head, other times offering her insight into the concerns of our young lives. She became an anchor, tethering us to a safe shore when the waters of home were rough.

When Mom’s depression filled her like dampness seeping through the walls of the Missouri caves, it pushed out her joy, and she disappeared from our family orbit, but Augusta remained—dependable and loving. She had her own large family, too, her husband, Emmett, and her son, Johnny—near Tony’s age—along with many nieces and nephews. And they held her in a place of highest esteem. Augusta was this kind of woman: smart, capable, and caring.

One summer afternoon, I passed the kitchen and saw Augusta and Dad sitting together at the table, talking in soft, serious voices. I didn’t join them but passed by slowly and walked quietly upstairs. I noticed the door to Mom and Dad’s bedroom was closed, unusual for the middle of the day. I went past without looking in or knocking, then continued down the hall to my room. My stomach felt uneasy as I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out the window at the wind blowing the branches of the maple tree in the backyard.

Before long, Augusta came into my room and sat down beside me. Her arm felt warm, brushing against mine.

“How would you like to come home with me today and spend the night at my house?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Pack your bag. Don’t forget your toothbrush, and bring play clothes for tomorrow.” 

Dad’s face looked worried behind his attempt to smile at me as I came downstairs with my blue and white overnight bag. He picked me up and hugged me.

“Have a good time with Augusta, Sally. We’ll see you tomorrow.”  

Augusta parked in front of her duplex, and we held hands as we walked up the steps to her door. She made dinner, and her son Johnny ate with us. He had a friendly smile and asked about Tony, who was close in age to him. They were both nearly twenty now. Sometimes, when he was a little boy, Johnny came with his mom to our house and played with Tony and Peggy.

Augusta made a bed for me on her couch, close to her bed. I liked knowing she was right there as I went to sleep. In the morning, after a bowl of cereal, some girls from her neighborhood peeked their heads in and asked Augusta if I could come outside and play with them. She looked over at me. I looked at the two little girls in the doorway. They held a jump rope and looked at me with eager eyes.

“May I?”

“Sure, you may.” Augusta chuckled and opened the door for me.

I was welcomed into a cluster of girls around my age, nine or ten. They skipped down the front steps and began a jump rope game. A girl was positioned at each end of the rope, chanting rhythms and rhymes, motioning to me to run in and jump. They were expert, steady rope turners, making it easy for me to run under the rainbow of the upswing and begin to skip rope. At first, they turned slowly, but seeing that I could make it over without tripping on the rope, they increased the speed of their chants and of the rope turning. Faster and faster until I missed. We collapsed together in a puddle of giggling girls. The next thing I knew, they had moved on to a clapping game. One of my new friends grabbed my hands and pulled me up. They began calling out new rhythmic rhymes, this time clapping hands and slapping knees. Any lingering worry of Mom’s closed door wafted away into the air with our songs.

I had no way of knowing that twenty years later, I would start a community children’s chorus and introduce the rhythms and rhymes of the clapping games I’d been introduced to that sunny afternoon in Augusta’s neighborhood. Augusta drove me home later; my nervousness vanished, replaced by a content, tired feeling. Mom greeted me at the door. Her voice was the quiet one she used when she was Down-Mom, but she gave me a good hug, and life went on at our house on Polo Drive. Months passed, and Mom’s mood lifted.

Augusta always stood to do the ironing in the basement, a naked light bulb on a chain lighting the ironing board. I remember watching her use a spray bottle of water to dampen Dad’s cotton shirts before she carefully ironed and hung them on the sturdy metal clothes rack. She taught me things I would need to know in the future when I was living on my own. It was Augusta who explained to me that prior to adding clothes to the washing machine, they must be separated by whites and colors.

One day I opened the door to the tiny, dank smelling bathroom tucked under the stairwell. The toilet bowl had a rusty ring around its water line. I crinkled my nose and turned away, wanting to escape. It didn’t seem fair to me that Augusta should use this room to relieve herself. After all, she scrubbed the bathrooms on the first and second floors of the house. She placed fresh towels in the linen closets and dusted everything, even the windowsills, with great care. Even then, as a child, I wished Mom and Dad would paint the walls or add a rug in the basement, some touches made with the intention of soothing the soul and fueling the heart of Augusta, who soothed and fueled all of us. In fairness to the dingy room, it flooded during hard rains or snowstorms. Not inches of water, but small puddles here and there. Still, the space could have been spiffed up and brightened a bit for Augusta.

 Growing up on her family’s farm in Mississippi, Augusta was one of thirteen siblings. She spoke warmly of her mother, Lillie Grady, a no-nonsense woman who directed a crew of her own children and their cousins to bring in eggs from the hen house and vegetables from the garden as she prepared the large noon meal for the family each day. She always made extra, for Lillie was known to welcome anyone passing through to join the family for dinner.

Augusta told me the children on their farm ran barefoot all summer. She said her father, Dave Grady, had a twinkle in his eye and enjoyed his children’s antics, letting them take penny candies from the general store he owned in town. It wasn’t until I became a teenager that Augusta shared a scary story from her childhood in Mississippi.

The Grady family, although well-regarded for their successful farm and country store, had to keep an alert eye out for Ku Klux Klan raids. Sometimes, on dark nights, Dave and his brothers reached for their loaded rifles when hooded men on horseback surrounded their farm, wielding torches and hollering threats. Augusta whispered this to me in a low voice.

“At those times, we huddled together, terribly afraid. Fear clouded our home and shushed our laughter.”

This was the first I had heard of the terror imposed on black people in the South, on families just like ours, who only wanted to feel safe going about their daily lives. My stomach clenched as I imagined Augusta, a little girl, being so scared.

I liked to follow Augusta around the house and talk with her as she worked. But one day, I didn’t hear her moving anywhere.

“Duddy?”

This was the nickname my brother Tony had come up with at age two, unable to pronounce Augusta.

“Duddy, where are you?”

After peeking into each bedroom, I ran downstairs, calling her name again. No answer. Then I heard a muffled sound coming from the basement. Augusta sat hunched on a stool near the wash tubs, her arms wrapped around her middle. She was rocking slowly back and forth and weeping. I inched closer.

“What’s wrong, Duddy?”

She lifted her damp face, and I saw her bloodshot eyes and furrowed brow. She pulled my small body into an embrace.

“My mother has been sick. These past few weeks, she’s been failing fast. My sister called me early this morning to let me know Mother died in the night.”

I had never seen Augusta so sad, and my heart ached along with hers as we hugged and she sobbed. We stayed a while in the basement, not saying anything more. Finally, Augusta rose. “Go on upstairs, Honey. I’ll be up soon.”

A short while later, I heard her climbing slowly up the basement stairs. She wore her own green sweater and tan skirt. Her favorite black felt hat sat atop her head, tilted slightly. One of her many talents, along with gardening and cooking, was as a seamstress. She designed and made most of her own clothing. She had an artist’s sense of color and style. I liked seeing her now in her own outfit and soft hat. She gave me a long hug before leaving that afternoon.

“Thank you, Child.”

I looked at her, surprised, and some warmth nestled beside the sadness I felt. Augusta was always there for me when I lost my mother to the black hole of depression. Was it possible that my nine-year-old presence beside her in the basement had soothed her sorrow a bit as she grieved the loss of her beloved mother? I sure hoped so.