![]() She wrote books for children and teen-agers, studies of race and social life, like “Big Star Fallin’ Mama,” a series of short portraits of titanic, genre-changing singers such as Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday. Hettie’s books were as tall in subject matter as she was small in stature, but you couldn’t tell anyone who loved her that she wasn’t the tallest woman in the room. After all, by the time we met, in the nineteen-seventies, she had been supporting her children for years by writing books. And what was better than sitting near Hettie’s rooftop garden drinking lemonade (with honey!)-there wasn’t a grain of refined sugar in the place-and listening to Hettie talk about where food could be gotten at a fair price or good clothes marked down, and the business of art? She knew everything there was to know about style, and survival. ![]() But Hettie’s place was always a harbor and what was better than listening to the women of the house laughing at what one said or was about to say? Actually, they didn’t laugh so much as trill, like three birds sitting on a branch in sunshine. ![]()
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