Monday, October 27, 2014

FLIGHT SCHOOL








On our Adventure walks, we’re always on the lookout for Fairy houses and activities, and so when we spotted this tall thin door into a tree, we realized we’d happened on a treasure:  these secret doors slide silently back, revealing a perfectly wonderful scene---the many, many tiers of a Fairy School, its vast heights providing high halls in which the little flightlings practice their takeoffs and landings, their swoops and swirls.

 

The inside is one great chamber of towering ledges, some of each kind of surface from which a fledgling flyer might be expected to have to use for takeoff:  Grassy plains, with soft landings and gentle errors, til the little wings catch  their wind;  tree limbs and lacy bushes and crannies in the rock, as well as stony ledges over great chasms, as the little ones grow in verve and skill.   There’s even a water-ledge, its surges held magically from the overflow, each drop hanging precipitously yet never falling onto the balconies below, as the tiny mer-fae burst   from the water masquerading as minnows, spilling silvery droplets as they rise.


*
 

 

 There are delightful classes in floating down on frilly filigree of banisters, ornate brims of opera-boxes, shelves of books and shining glassware.   Specially chosen cadets are schooled in Royal Comportment, for gracing velvet cushions and behind-the-throne lounging ledges built into the back of every royal chair, for quick consultation or immediate dispatch, or just for the fun of having such magical friends close at hand.

And there are indoor-type launches and landings as well, for learning the genteel art of set-down on carpet, stairs, marble floors of great halls.   There’s a special course in Hover-and-Float, for secret landings inside flowers or  behind sugar-bowls and muffin-stands on tea-tables.

 
 
 

 
 Myrea Pettit painting

 

  One afternoon features special guests, for it’s dedicated to alighting gently and safely on the shoulders of Folk-friends. 

      *



All these charming scenes reside behind that pale green door, as tall as the gates of fabled cities, rising in tiers of colour and form, as the patient trainers lift and guide, console and cheer, teaching their wee charges to fly.

 


GRADUATION PROMENADE    Yume Cyanhas

And when those doors glide open, the glitterings and gleamings, the magical spells and the delight of flight---those are too much for most eyes.  But when you’re lucky enough to be there for the opening---when you’re quick, and when you BELIEVE---THEN you’ll see something you’ll never forget.
 
 
 

 

*The two fairy stairways are the magical constructions of a young lady named Eliza, whose talents are legendary, and whose artistry amazing.   And of her delightful creations, moirĂ© non. 



Tuesday, October 21, 2014

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY IN SEPIA


It’s well known in the South that we rely on our PEOPLE---our relatives, our friends, our confidantes and closes and chums, and just the word encompasses more than Streisand ever dreamt.

 

Our People are the ones who raise us, raise us up, shore us up, look after our welfare til we’re up on our feet, tend and scold and feed and arrange and hug.  They're the ones we went to visit in our first high-top shoes, the names on tattered envelopes smelling of time and Toujours Moi, the first owners of the dresser scarves, the battered jelly strainer, the tiny lapel watch from nursing school, the Magical Teapot which still mystifies.   They may be five-generations-back and mere myths in the mist, but we know them by the stories and the memories, the names on the back of crumbling photos, the pale spider-crabbed script in a musty Bible, the faded-to-gray pictures in an equally worn album.   We DO need our people---those hard-working, far-back farmers and hunters and folks of field and plow; the men who logged the woods and the women who met the noon train with their hot dinners to sustain them.

 

And my memories of our people mostly run to the female side—the Grandmothers and Aunts who took a hand in our raisings, teaching us manners and math and cooking and faith.    They are the WE of me, thank you dear Mrs. McCullers, and the long line of those stalwart, sensible, good-hearted, laughing women with their snuff and garden hoes and way with crochet, their black-skillet wisdom passed on with the skillets themselves---those are mine, and I’m so thankful.

 

Today, I happened to look in on Angela’s blog, with photos of her friend’s daughter’s wedding, and was treated to such a charming Sepia Sentimental Journey of family memories that I hope you’ll look in.   A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, indeed.

 

 

Thursday, October 16, 2014

MR. WOLFE HAD THAT RIGHT


Part II of Miss Florrie's Caffay

The stone was still here beside me on the desk, just now as I sat down with my first cup, and I gave it a fleeting fond glance before I tuned in to the world.   It’s on a white paper plate, for just as I went out to retrieve it from the hosta bed yesterday, the sun went scurrying behind a great bank of clouds, from which it has not peeked even a ray from then til this.    I brought the small bit of concrete into the house, its white flat scrabble-tiles intact and stuck tight, like a raft on an iceberg, and put it beneath the big sunny light of the breakfast table, with all the white surround to reflect and enhance.

 

The color in yesterday’s picture was chosen from about nine offered in a little peacock-flash of color icon on my phone, and I chose it because it was almost the perfect sepia of the pictures of that time---didn’t a lot of us think as we looked at pictures of Grandmas and Aunts and Uncles in their prime, looking out sternly from the black blotter-pages of those wide scrapbooks and heavyweight small albums---didn’t we imagine that the whole world of our forebears must have gone on, day after day, living and dying, commerce and love and cooking and art---in those pale goldy-tan tones?
 



That's my Mammaw, top right. 

When I returned from getting my second cup, I reached out a hand and laid it gently on the cool tiles, still rock-solid these eighty-something years, and felt the unyielding flat IS of it---that Mississippi mosaic which has been just THERE for life and death and wars and unrest and times of unspeakable heartache and joy.   The flat little unassuming face of the tile, with its two-faces-of-the-coin colors, and that pound of gray concrete poured and laid by long-stilled hands---that’s just something to think about.  This piece, had Chris not found it, would have still been there in that hot Delta sun season after season, amongst the other rubble of the site, or brushed and shoveled into a pile of like shards, tumbled back into the earth, with no meaning, no use, no history worth remembering, and nobody to care.
 



I’ve been reading the Outlander series, about a woman in 1945 who was transported back two centuries into warring Scotland, merely by touching one of the historic Circle Stones she was visiting on holiday.  And as I held my hand today on that cold flat bit of my own history, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the doorway---that portal to 1957, with just a whiff of hamburgers frying, a burst of loud laughter from a tableful of hard-working men echoing down that kaleidoscope corridor, and the bright red and white of Miss Florrie’s Caffay, set in a movie of Time and Place and music and colour and the innocence of our teenage selves.

 


It would be close in that windowed space, the crowded  booths lively and loud, the air redolent of good coffee and burgers frying and the whiffs of Woodhue and spray-net and Miss Florrie’s Toujours Moi.   An underlying note of winter-long woolens and barely-aired mothball-stored items, as well as the Vitalis and Aqua Velva aura surrounding the leather-jacketed young men.  Scent and colour is as vivid in the the scene as the Rock ‘n’ Roll on the radio and the wasptail pepper-sauce in used Tabasco bottles on the tables.

 


 
 
Just being in the place for an evening, a quiet supper with the family, the men with their after-work hair slicked down, speaking across the aisles, and the Mamas admiring a new baby two booths down, was a homey thing.  My parents ordered The Special, and I the requisite hamburger---disappointed, somehow, that it came naked on a plate, without the crackly little wrapper to release that singular, tongue-curling mustard-pickle-and-onion scent when it was rustled open.    There was no rush, no splendor to the evening, just relaxing in a familiar place, plates pushed back and a cup of coffee alongside a slice of Pearlene’s pie, and the world was as right as it was gonna be for a while.
 

 

  

 
 
 
 

But I know I wouldn’t want to retrace it.  Not for all the decades between, not for the do-overs or the remarkable Firsts or the wonderful moments, the missed opportunities---nope, wouldn’t return.  Not for any disappearing dreams of yesterday, but it’s fun to imagine.  Perhaps for a Friday night or two, after a ball game, flushed with victory, and when the energy and the reds and whites and voices were like fireworks under a roof, or a quiet afternoon with girlfriends, our four sets of petticoats subdued beneath the table, as we sipped Cokes and shared secrets.  Ginger would lean close and whisper, "There's a baw-eh, and he LIKES you,” and that first   little heart-swell of romance would flutter into being.


 
 

 

But there’s no returning, no re-take, no second spin of the wheel.    There’s just so much a rock, no matter how embued with nostalgic magic, can do.
 
 
 

Sunday, October 12, 2014

MISS FLORRIE'S CAFFAY




A post on my friend Jeanne’s blog on Saturday brought to mind an indelible character from the past---a pink-cheeked flower container reminded me of someone I used to know.   Miss Florrie had our town CAFFAY, up on Main Street, and wore high heels and slim skirts and pretty silky blouses, with her Miss Clairol RAVEN BLACK up-do and two perfectly round circles of reddish rouge. I always think of her when I see doll cheeks or clown cheeks with such perfect rounds of red.

 

The caffay had several big store-type windows, with maybe six formica tables and those paddy-back-and-seat-to-match chairs of the era, as well as a shining bar, bigger than the one at the drugstore and not nearly as high, right at sit-on-a-stool level to eat one of those incomparable hamburgers, or a quick breakfast for the folks who worked in the stores and shops up and down the street.  


 

The floor is an indelible memory, of the tee-nineciest black and white tiles all laid in, boot-tracked and oxford-scuffed despite the daily mopping, and was known to have had quite a few dance steps spun across its small expanse, in and around the chairs and tables, when a good song came on the radio.   It was always fun to approach one of those big windows from way across the railroad track, especially on a getting-twilight evening, and see all the young folks gathered in those bright squares of light---that blast of red-and-white from the tables and booths made a triptych of colours and shapes, flexible and moving---as pretty as Dan Dailey and Betty Grable in Technicolor at the Sunday matinee. 
 



The caffay offered a good old Southern noon dinner, from the hands of Mattie and Pearlene, who had trod the boards of that kitchen from our parents’ days; those two round laughing women with  their shiny dark faces and white nylon dresses could turn out some scrumptious fried chicken and peas and cornbread, serving great ladlesful onto those divided plates, even though the crockery levees did little to save the potato salad from the chicken gravy, or the cornbread from the juice of those tongue-curling beet pickles.  The plates came out of the kitchen, held level and straight, with Mary Olive or Nancy trying hard to keep an errant thumb from the food, and were set down on that shining red counter or table as gently as a noon-o’clock rush could allow.

  


Huge, carb-and-grease meals, endless gallons of sweet tea, and loud laughter punctuated the farm and politics discussions at most of the tables, as the store-clerks and bank tellers and city hall workers had their own quiet lunches together---a simple bowl of beans and cornbread, or a Paminna Cheese sandwich, and silently returned to work, their token dimes under each plate at the counter, perhaps a quarter from a planter or lawyer at a table.




But Miss Florrie now, she was a character---nobody could remember how many husbands she’d had (one twice), and we girls all wanted to watch sometime as she got her makeup on.   We could just visualize her in her bedroom, sitting down in a black slip and mules to that three-fold mirror on her dresser, reaching out with ease to the bottles of foundation, the small round compact of rouge.   A good rub with the little puff-pad, a little shake to remove the extra, and then a perfect circle, bright as an apple on each cheekbone, like the Kewpie dolls on the Punchboard at Aunt Lou's store. 



 A couple of us had dolls with such gaudy countenances, and we always referred to them as Miss Flow-rie dolls, kinda wishing and kinda shuddering away from the idea of being old enough to decorate our own faces in such a manner.

 

We talked about her a little bit, in young-girl fashion, wondering idly if she put on her Maybelline like the teen girls in the bathroom at school---wetting that tee-ninecy red doll-toothbrush under the faucet, or spitting onto the little ridge of black mascara in the box.   A scrub down the channel, then an eyebrow-held-up with one finger, as  the mascara was scooped on from beneath in that curvy lift that deposited the sticky black onto lashes and skin.  We were mightily interested in the mechanics of the so-mysterious older privileges accorded our elders, and I’m sure we stared at Miss Florrie an inordinate amount, for I can remember that she was a bit of a caricature, as well as an almighty presence, with her bright cheeks and black-ringed blue eyes, and that impossibly black hair held up by all those crinkly pins.








A little bit like this, but a deep dark melted-and-poured coal black---a black beyond the midnight dreams of Miss Clairol herself.    Now imagine a little red clown circle high on the cheek, and it’s CLOSE, even to the immaculate outfit.

 

She always smelled nice---not a whiff of fried chicken or the scent of boiling broth or chopped onion (all of which wafted from the pass-through to the kitchen, but which somehow bypassed her magnificently pristine self), and she was as immaculately dressed and wrinkle-free, with her lipstick and rouge as smoothly red at closing time as at breakfast.







She was an institution in our town, a character and a landmark (Meecha at Miss Florrie’s) and a congenial, welcoming presence in that small corner caffay.  I don’t know when she WASN’T there, and don’t know when she closed or passed away or moved, for we were up here by then.   When we went back for my class reunion several years ago, we found only a bit of rubble where the bright fragrant old gathering-place had stood.

 

Chris wandered for a moment, bent, and picked up something from the concrete foundation.   He came back and handed me a heavy little souvenir:  A four-inch piece of that so-remembered floor, the tiny black and white tiles still dignified and smooth---I like to think that the little scuff top right is maybe from our Saddle Oxfords or one of the cool guys’ motorcycle boots. 

 

And there you have it---Full Circle from a cheeky little flowerpot to bit of the past which has lain for years in my own flowerbed.  It’s nice having a memory I can hold in my hand.


Sunday, October 5, 2014

SCRIBS AND SCRATCHES




Since receiving the set of five new books a couple of weeks ago, there’s been a great gray blur in my brain---I liken it to that hazy fingerprint thing they put on the TV screen to obscure the faces of the innocent.  Nothing to talk about, nothing to relate.   We’ve had some wonderful times together, some lovely gatherings for meals and little parties; there’s been a little “work toward” some houseguests who have had to cancel (babies due to arrive in a few days!!) and a tiny bit of muchmuch MUCH- needed Fall house-straightening for the closing-in to come. 

 

But no words come, so I just ramble amongst little snips from my journals, of bits and pieces I jotted down when the ideas and phrases came to me in a “Hey---I can use that someday,” but which seem to fit into no rhyme nor reasonable prose.   They’re just snips and snaps which don’t relate, but seemed like a good idea when they came to me. 
 

Perhaps sometime in future I’ll have reason to use them; probably not. 

 

Wine in a box:  Cardbordeaux---say it fast enough and it sounds as if it would be in the same set of furniture as Cabernet

 

 

Marquetry: A vegetable stand under a tent.


 
 

Prostitality:   Parties for the sole purpose of getting guests to buy stuff

 
. . .as many lives as Dent-slain Agragag.

 

I’m prone to acrobatic sentences.

        <><><><><><><><><>

I could never be a critic of anything, though I can think of wildly witty and scathing and apropos reviews of books, television shows, movies, people’s behavior and fashion and words, usually five minutes or the day after the proper time (if there COULD be a proper time to take it upon myself to offer an unsolicited opinion).     I chuckle over the dishpan at an unsaid bon mot or barb, telling and true, and I’m glad for the missed moment of opportunity which saved my manners once again.  But writing down and putting out there such reviews and criticisms as I read and hear, with no holds barred, no bridge unburnt, no prisoners taken---I’ll never have heart nor mind for such verbal vivisection.
    

 

 


OH, and beaten biscuits---I've made them. Once. Just as an experiment on a lazy Saturday morning. They're like a cross amongst a Ritz cracker and a dog biscuit and a Communion Wafer---the really hard, tough kind found in Baptist churches, which, if they weren't tiny enough to get back there and crunch between your back teeth, would do some serious dental damage. Or hang out like a mint until they melt sometime between the grape juice and "Just As I Am."
 
 
 
But just sitting down “to write something,” without having an idea before the start, feels like the typing equivalent of Ustinov’s Poirot in “Evil Under the Sun,”  strutting hobble-footed across the beach stones, puffed out and parading in that hideously magnificent bathing costume, wetting toes, oar-stroking with his windmilling arms and emerging, wet-to-the-knees with his invigorating pretense to exercise which had impressed no one save himself.
 
That’s what it feels like.
Moire non I hope, when the new season of COPS demands its blur back.