Tuesday, July 28, 2009

MISS KATHRYN'S DIAMOND

Memory of a frenzied phone call at work once, years ago, from Miss Kathryn Roseberry (an older married woman with a perfectly good husband, but who was still known as Miss, as were many of the older women of the time). We younger wives and matrons could call them by their first names, but only by appending the “Miss”---never “Mrs.”

She’d been in an absolute fantod for days, having lost the quite large stone from her engagement ring, and had searched high and low, still wearing the ring with its sad empty clutch of prongs standing there like a wistful Disney-Frog-Prince coronet. She'd come into our office several times, and would pry and poke around, to the extent of going into the trash can once, even lifting out the sag of the big grounds-stained coffee filter in her fingertips like an overfilled diaper.


She'd made her way up and down the street, stepping into stores and offices, taking Mr. Slim's big ole square EverReady flashlight out of her purse and looking under desks and into corners to see if her stone might have rolled that far. We'd see her on the street, kicking a rock, looking down down down, her glasses sliding from her sweaty nose to end with a little bungee jerk on the end of their rhinestone chain.

You'd have thought the Kohinoor had been purloined and secreted somewhere in our small town, and SHE was the explorer commissioned to ferret it out.

She called me one day, having been in for her “Standing Appointment” at the Swirl ‘n’ Curl, and having her quite sizeable updo “done” in its weekly intricacies of swoops and hairpins and enough Aqua Net to plaster Paris. She’d also had her manicure, those dark old talons shellacked within an inch of their lives in a deep red, which rendered her every gesture a blur of crimson. You could always tell who had just had her nails done, by the position of their hands on the wheel, or how they sorta scrambled for their keys or wallet with the sides of their thumbs, so as not to disturb the not-quite-dry polish.

I answered the phone, to hear a babble of excited words, uttered in what I quite possibly believe was one breath:

“I FOUND IT!!! I FOUND it!!! I opened the door on the right hand side, and it TWINKLED at me!!! It was just a-shinin’ in that dirty flowboard over there by the gas pedal! I leaned in so quick to get it before I lost sight of it, I knocked three a' four pins outa my hair on the stirrin’ wheel and the gearshift!


I come up with it, though, my hair just a-hangin’ and my fingernail polish done scratched all to Hell, from grabbin’ so hard in that sandy carpet.

I’m just tickled to death! I was afraid I was gonna hafta go clear to Memphis to find another one, or else wear this ole hole on my hand forever, one.

I feel like if I hadn’t-a gone by Cissy Mae’s with those fruit-jars, I never woulda found it, cause when I opened the door in her yard, the sun hit it just right, and it woulda done been eat up by the vacuum cleaner next time Jonah washed my car!

Thank you, JESUS!”

Thank you, indeed. He was even mentioned in the ad she took out to impart her good news to the whole county.

Small miracles.

4 comments:

Keetha said...

Nothing like a small town and a good news story!

Nail said...

"A good time was had by all!"

racheld said...

Yep. That's the way news was reported back where we're from.

And that's my Sis echoing the closing line from every party report written up by one local reporter, who also always opened her column with a Bible verse and closed the column with a recipe.

Southern Lady said...

That sounds like an episode right out of the pages of Mayberry, Rachel. So funny!