Tuesday, August 8, 2017


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BACK even before my Mother and Daddy first married, she worked in a tiny small-town grocery store---Aunt Lou’s, in fact, with all the goods anybody could need save for ready-made clothes and shoes.    Aunt Lou had the only “market” in town---her store was the only one to “cut meat” for sale, and Mother learned early to break down those sides of beef and pork and cut them into steaks and roasts and ribs.     

Mother also made a small-pond name for herself at the County Fair over in another neighboring county where one of her girlfriends lived.   There were all sorts of penny-games and contests and prize pumpkins and pigs and pickles and pies. One of the contests was held by the local family who did all the meat-butchering for the area for many miles around.   You’d raise your pig or steer, take it to their farm, and they’d deliver your Winter supply of meat in neat, slick-paper packages, with the bacon and hams kept to be smoked to your order and a date projected for you to come pick them up.

As well as being prominent in church and township, they were also a local landmark, with huge cut-outs of pigs and cows and sheep attached to the top of an enormous board-fence which surrounded most of the cattle-lot.   You could give directions to your house:   Turn left at Nolan’s, and again at the Pentecostal.   Everybody knew them by name and reputation for such fine meat.

They also made your sausage---Winter or Summer style, gut-stuffed and smoked firm and lasting, or loose-pack delivered in whatever clean pan or tub you handed them when they took custody of your ill-fated pig.   And there were links---hundreds of the little pink twists---WAY before Jimmy Dean, we were all enjoying “baby-links” in our part of the country.     Even our city cousins up in Memphis had no such delicacies in their big markets, like Montesi and Seessels, and loved the little sticks of sausage when they visited us.

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Nolan’s also  advertised by product---like a Viking-hall edition of the bite-sized  store-samples today---great heaps of their Brats and Franks were cooked atop mounds and mounds of fried onions and peppers at every fair, carnival, barn-raisin’ and Camp Meetin’ for counties around---you could smell that marvelous aroma from WAY down the road, and followed your nose to the irresistible.    Literal “word of mouth” brought them a booming business in all sorts of endeavors.

Other sausages were made by their old family recipes---Bratwurst and Knockwurst and my favorite---those tee-ninecy little two-inch pink poppin’-weenies all strung together like long beads with a knot between.   Those things were the tastiest of their wares, to me, with their tight little skins giving a decided POP when you bit them, and the most delicately tender insides, fragrant with garlic and I’ve-never- figured-what-else.   Opening that big Revere–Ware skillet lid and seeing a pan of Mammaw’s homemade kraut with a big spiral of those small pearly weenies simmering atop was a Happy-Meal to our family.    I’ll bet kids today don’t feel as pleased to see their favorite pizza drive up to the door.

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But Nolan’s had a distinct product which was their biggest seller:  Baloney.  Everybody knew Nolan’s Baloney, and I don’t know HOW they made enough pounds of the stuff for all the demand.  Aunt Lou sold tons of it in her store---every single slice cut by hand---why, the town didn’t hardly “get electric” until 1940 or so.    And Mother could handle those big butcher knives as well as anybody.   She’d reach one of the long, keen blades from their side-slot, sometimes give it a little gingerly test with her thumb, slide that big knife delicately through rind and flesh, and cut you off twelve sandwich-sized slices as neat as you please---every one exactly the same thickness, one side to the other. 

And she could CUT A POUND of Baloney.  Slices or one piece---no matter, and she didn't need to keep flopping another bit onto the scale-platform.  When she laid down her knife and did that squint-squat to look at the numbers---they balanced. Every time.

She’d not had much kitchen training, save for killing and cleaning a chicken nearly every Sunday morning of her life, shelling mountains of beans and peas, and snapping all the snap beans. Her cooking mostly ran to being allowed to measure wets and drys, or stir a pot or two, besides washing up each and every dish by hand, but my Mammaw just could NOT countenance letting her loose with any kind of knife, “because of her bein' left-handed, and all.”  She just didn’t do it right, or even LOOK right doing it, according to Mammaw, and that was that.

But Mother could cut meat to the ounce, as she proved several times at the Fair and a barn-raisin or corn-shuckin' or two.   The usual prize was a whole stick of that good Nolan's baloney, and she never failed to bring home the prize.

We had it in sandwiches, in ground-up sandwich spreads, sorta pinked around the edges into little pinwheel-shapes and fried for breakfast or with a good thick slice of hoop cheese laid on to melt, and slid onto the platter with six or so mates to set down for a quick supper with jacket potatoes and dill pickles.   (Come to think of it, we had PICKLED BALONEY, as well, all cut into cubes and marinated in a good strong brine for a couple of days in the fridge).  It was a beer-lover's hors d'oeuvre, let me tell you.   A bowl of that brought out to the pit where a group were tendin' an all-night pig-roast---oh, my, Porky Nirvana.  And if you forgot the forks, you'd hear an immediate chorus of snicks as half a dozen pocket-knives were opened to begin joogin' in that bowl.

 Mother just had a Know-How.   That hefty knife, which she’d washed and scalded and sharpened herself nearly every day for ten years, seemed a bit too big as she drew it from the side-scabbard on the butcher-block.   She’d squint down the blade with the eagle eye of a watchmaker, checking its angle and edge, then set that big five-pound cylinder of baloney on the board.    A little nudge to the angle, a press to ensure a solid seating, and then she’d lay the knife gently along one of the imaginary lines her eye had sectioned the big cylinder into.    A sure lift of the shoulder, the gentle descent as that scarred old knife cut through the perfect spot like slicing pie.

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Every time.   And she could cut that pound into equal-six, or equal-eight, depending on how many around your table that day, with each so fairly divided that there was never a squabble amongst ‘em.      There’s a Musical Gift, and a Literary Bent, as well as a Leaning-Toward-Law or Medicine or Military, and they all garner their praise and enhance their owners.   But a natural born talent, now, like whittlin’ out a swan, or charming an owl, or even cutting baloney---that’s a Purentee GIFT.

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Saturday, July 29, 2017


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Thank you to the several people who e-mailed recently to ask why I don’t publish my blog, or at least some of the Southern stories.  I so appreciate the great compliment and confidence, but I’m not at all a plot-smith.   And though I’ve had lovely reactions to the small bits I write for LAWN TEA, it’s just descriptions mostly, and you can stay interested for JUST SO LONG in colours and expressions and postures and events; you gotta have a PLOT.

There are vast MASTERS of that, who weave stories out of whole cloth, with warp and weft swayed to accommodate truth or lie, deeds or thoughts. Close-up or back-up-and-squint, their stories have pattern and sequence, woven through with threads which provide texture and strength to the whole.   And then there are those who patch their stories out of the frayed edges all the way around, winding and darning until the tale rings true, if thin.  Somewhere in there, I guess I must work around the selvage, not matching up with the whole picture and having none of the pattern, just some mismatched threads.  I think I just skip-hop around the periphery of stuff,  knitting up a few little flowers there, embroidering a pile of leaves amongst the snarls, some hard-as-a-hickry-nut moments in the knots, or some fronds of lazy fern-waves behind the sheers.

It’s the centrals, the life-patterns and the true colours of the REAL that evade me.   Just prinking a plot together would probably stretch my feeble brain and drive me to making voodoo dolls.   It’s like me and card games---I can trump whatever you put down there, but haven’t a clue in Killarney what to lead with next.

Adjectives are my friends.  Never met many I didn’t embrace and claim for my own, and since there are so many, I scatter-shot them haphazardly across hill and dale, with plenty left for the ditches and the ruts.   I know all about spare prose; I read the tight, terse words, strung together like perfect pearls.  Given one of those exquisite sentences, I would be struck by the purity and absolute perfection of the statement.  If the same thought were my own, I’d be throwing in descriptives right and left, seeing in my mind all the intricacies of the idea, but losing those pearls right off the string into a great mudhole of modifiers.  In my hands, “Call me Ishmael,” would have deteriorated into this great doily of introduction up to and including bows and curtsies, and that whale-hunt would have outlasted Ahab, Whale and Pequod.

But a plot, now---that’s just not in my telling.  I’d start out a few lines, then veer wildly between whatever I’m reading now, maybe some Ivanhoe, a bit of Grafton, three lines from Hamlet, a little Reacher, a little Captains Courageous, some stolen string theory, a smidge of Princess Bride, a page or two of Tarzan, and wild wavers between Idgie Threadgoode and Raylan Givens.   All the while visualizing, as I do, the diverse group of all the fabulous character actors whose faces and voices would fill the parts.

 There are supposed to be less than half a dozen plots in the known world anyway, and they’ve been used and re-used and re-written and convoluted and plagiarized and re-purposed til the cows come home.   Don’t writers ever worry that the exact set of circumstances they’re writing so feverishly about, with all the new-to-them labors of their harried, fertile brains, might have been published in 1898 or 2004, by some housewife from Little Rock, still unknown and stuck with several hundred languishing copies?   There they’d be---not having read those particular stories, with a year’s worth of work and re-write and edit and submissions and rejection slips, all finally accepted by HarperCollins and ready to go---and then falls the ax on the whole deal.

I'll just hang right here, overdoing the descriptions, with nowhere to go but down another prosy path too overgrown with words. 

I received three books yesterday, by Rick Bragg, new-to-me author whose Southern prose will make your eyes bug out and tear up and go REAL wide at the same time your heart is just stricken with the moment, it’s so good.   One of those “Where Has This Been for So Long?” kinda writers.  

Says I, who spent about five hours Thursday peep-reading page after page of his work from quite a few Amazon books with the little doohickey you can click for a sample.    I came out of that trance pure-Dee drunk with words and phrases I’ve heard and used all my life, all arranged anew like anagrams of what I thought words should say.   It didn’t matter which books---I’d just keep at one, drinking it all in, til it ran out, then on to the next---different title, different plot, but OH, that self-same gift for making you sit up and take notice and remember and marvel and tremble some.

I’m going to go keep reading now---All Over But the Shoutin'---one of three which arrived yesterday, new and shining like treasure tumbling from the box.   Now THERE’S a WRITER.  He uses lots of words, as well, but they’re spare and apt and exactly right.   The plot of this one, since it’s autobiographical, is as old as Adam and Eve, but so wonderfully told in his Southern phrasing and stark sentences---a gift seldom found.  I devoured half the first one last night, in this quiet room with no sound save my turning pages and Chris' small finger-waves at his Nook, with an occasional soft sigh from me, marveling at the genius of a line.   I don't think Genius can describe this.

Thank you, Latane, for the introduction.

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Sunday, July 16, 2017


All photos by the incomparable Marty Kittrell, who has explored Mississippi for years, camera in hand.  

Any drive through the Delta will yield quite a number of small scenes away-off in the fields---the brave shapes of compact churches which seem to populate these rolling acres more freely than tractors sometimes.   They’re mostly deserted, these last small gathering-houses of the locals, as the ebb and flow of population mimed the changes in the state---prosperity or poverty, as they carried the denizens to greener fields, so to speak, or as the young’uns moved swiftly away in search of jobs and a better life, the members remaining slowly took their places in the small plots of the surrounding cemetery.  

This one reminds me of a dissatisfied baby with a Kewpie curl , standing on his little concrete feet.

The last time I was down there, in 2004, you could still see the withering husks of old country churches across the fields---their white paint dimmed to gray by time and heat and field-dust.   So many of them seem to be put down like little chalk Monopoly pieces, with no rhyme or reason in the middle of a REAL Nowhere, with the narrow gravel of their ingress hidden by rolling rows of cotton and beans.  And many of them are deserted now---stripped to the echoes, as the exodus of the farm-folk and country-dwellers emptied those timeworn pews.   Even when I still lived there, countless empty edifices raised their bowing heads above that rich black gumbo, still humbly waiting for the faithful to return.   And many a beautiful topiary of the encroaching kudzu has, at its center, a small chapel, still with altar, pews, and choir-loft nestled within.

One of the great mysteries to me was always the leaving of things---it was as if one night after services, there was a mysterious mass departure from the Chapel of St. Mary Celeste.   Many a small building still holds hymnbooks, offering plates, the necessaries for Lord’s Supper, even notices on the wall and the flyaway dimness of printed programs blown down beneath the pews like the dried leaves on the porch.

These wonderful old-to-me plates which held wine/grape juice for The Lord’s Supper are a neat successor to the Chalice, the Cup of the really olden years.   I love the idea of them, and I love the inset glisten of the tee-ninecy cups, but the whole affair, from felty bottom to small Cross-shaped finial on the lid, always strikes me as a charming meld of carousel and centrifuge.   I wonder why someone didn’t rescue this tray, and take the cups away in it.  I wonder more how they got all those wee jiggling cups home without breakage.

Some of the structures have lost walls, roofs, steeples, and weather has savaged the contents, with all the paper and wood frayed by the elements    The pews still stand, sagging with the years; old number boards and banners hang their messages from decades past, and the floors creak their remembrance of footsteps long stilled.   

A few of the places seem still bright and the congregation just dismissed---you can practically hear the notes of "What a friend . . ." ringing across the pews as the Sunday suits and the bright hats nod their way out. 

Except for the languishing pianos.  They seem to take the abandonment hardest, with the yellowing keys and the dust sifting in. I think they are the saddest relics, with their once-bright varnish bubbled and chipped, and the yellowed keys swelled above the key bed like protruding teeth. 

They're used to the human touch and that symbiotic pairing which makes the music; without the hands to play them, they die---they faint---they fail.

There should be a State Commission for the gentle removal and preservation of all the frangible religious artifacts left to the wind.  I'd write my Representative for that.

Sunday, July 9, 2017


Henery Edward Newman & Siblings- L to R -Etta, Henry, Myrtle, Pryor B, Lucy, Sam, Bessie, Uncle Brick, & Loraine

Left to right:  Aunt Eddie, Uncle Bud, Mammaw, Uncle Peabo, Aunt Lu, Uncle Sam &  Aint Bessie (twins), Uncle Brick and Aint Lo    One brother Uncle E passed away as a young father, in 1929   I made this picture with my Brownie camera in 1958, the last time they were all together.

Today marks the 1200th post on LAWN TEA, and as most have been, it’s mostly memories.

There’s just something about Summer that always reminds me of Family Reunions.   The familiar-yet-seldom trek over blacktops and through the Sunday-morning sunshine beating down on the sleepy little towns on the way.   That last long gravel road, with the dusty foliage almost brushing the doors of the car---I don’t think I ever went out there once, without the windows-down, minutely-microscopic grit of road-dust between my back teeth.  That hill-dust was different, somehow, from Delta dust---ours would billow out behind your car, but you could still SEE the car.  Hill dust grew as you went, into this opaque screen obscuring road and landmarks, and marking your passage like a great tawny-red bubble floating down the road.

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Then there was the first glimpse of the weathered green roof and the old silvery board-and-batten of the house which saw ten children raised and out into the world.   The house was on a little rise, surrounded by a good hardy grove of trees, but with only one big old window-fan in the house, and the heat of the day beating down on the big dusty yard, we had an annual glimpse of the REAL feeling of the place where our Mammaw’s Mother and Daddy built their first home. 
The only picture I know of the original house, with Great-Grandma Romy on the left+ and eldest daughter Aunt Eddie center, holding her two baby sons. Clockwise above:  Uncle Peabo, Uncle Bud, Uncle E, Mammaw,  twins Uncle Sam and Aint Bessie, then Uncle Brick and Aint Lo.  Aunt Lu is the one in gray at Mammaw's elbow.

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I can still smell the ingrained wood-smoke in the living room, with the huge crocheted 48-star Flag sagging its weight over the unused-in-decades fireplace, and the saggy-butt old couch and chairs with the prickly flocky velvet.   Uncle Peabo and Aunt Katie last lived in the house, as I remember from my teens, and were in residence til they passed on.  I assume that there was eventually an indoor bathroom, but the old cistern-for-wash-water and the stovepipe well were still in use when we were last there in the early Sixties.    

Not our cistern, but photographed by my dear friend Janie at Southern Lagniappe

I used to love going to those old gatherings   Sometimes I’d make three pound cakes on a Friday.  And have a new scratchy dress for the festivities on Sunday---somehow you just didn’t wear comfortable Summer clothes to a Reunion.   Well, some of the young City Cousins, more avant garde than we in every respect, especially in THEIR minds, sometimes did---all pool-tan and comfy in cotton shorts and sleeveless shirts, but it was incumbent on “our side” to maintain a ladylike decorum. 

So, while everyone my age was up trees or running headlong-can’t-stop down the grassy hills of THE OLD HOMEPLACE, I was setting tables and fanning flies away from the watermelon and watching after babies.   My kinda fun.

Everybody brought those aluminum-frame lawn chairs---the ones with the seats like they were made of stiff seat-belts, light and collapsible for transport in those wide-trunked Chevvies and Fords, along with the big Igloo coolers and quilt-wedged gallons of sweet tea.   Aunt Lo always brought a single gallon of her pickles---a vinegary jug of  naked cucumber slices floating like strange pale cogs in a yellowed aquarium.   How we kids crowded around her as she set down the big wide-mouthed jug, and how we hovered like the small bees drawn to the brine.  We understood their allegiance to the stuff, as they floated and drowned in ecstasy in the spill-over pool created by dip after dip of our eager spoons. 

The tables were always planks laid on sawhorses, with well-cloroxed sheets spread on, with one big one for the food (always organized, by Southern Command and Sovereign Decree, by plates and silverware at the end, and a succession of meats and casseroles, then bowls and pots of vegetables, followed by cold stuff and salads.  Desserts would be spread in a grand array, already cut by careful hands beforehand, to avoid mess AND clumsy swipes of knives and spoons by the inept.   Somewhere hovering between salad and sweet were the “congealed salads,” those inevitable Tupperware bowls and molds of anything you could rightfully stir into Jello.   The choice of whether it WAS one or t'other was up to family custom, and breezily accepted by one and all as “just their way”).
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The laughing and talking and hugging and catching up were a mighty thing to behold---all those descendants of the same little couple married so young, and she a widow so soon, with ten children to raise.  The meetings-at-car-doors and long lookings down the drive for faraway kin, coming all the way from Memphis and Alabama and that long bus trip from Indianapolis for the farthest-away sister were moments of anticipation and relief, and the greetings and shouts across that familiar  yard were probably far beyond any childhood noises the elder generation playing there ever made---all ten of them together.

 The brothers and sisters were all hearty laughers and mostly loud talkers, as were quite a few of their own offspring, and it was a wonderful time of gathering.  

With our own seven now scattered into seven states, it’s an absolute given that we’ll not gather that way often, and never in the heat of that Mississippi past, as we’re all-but-one gone from there now, moved all around the country, with our own lives to carry on, and so many miles, so many miles.   Only a very few of our now-family have ever been to that Old Homeplace, for the house was torn down in the seventies after it had stood sagging into Time for many years.  The only remnant of that little farmplace was the yellow brick of the chimney, salvaged by Daddy when the new owners tore down the house, and used to cover one wall of the sunroom in our own family home.  I used to stand at that wall, running my fingers along brick and mortar, wondering where in the structure of the chimney was this piece of my history I was touching, and what wars and tears and family celebrations IT had seen as it warmed my kin, cooked their food, dried their clothes, in the century-and-more since it was molded and laid.  Now that childhood home, too, has been sold to other folks, yea these twenty years past.  

 I wonder how many memories remain to the cousins of my generation, how many tell their children of that old spot where it all began, how many remember the Aunts and Uncles, how many have only the small pixel quilt-patches of strange faces and forgotten names on hive-sites where family histories are kept and shared.   Sis keeps “our” site, doing the research and the annotations and computer work, keeping the dates and facts in order.

And I only jot down memories, adding them to the trove of information and history, hoping I’m not the only, not the last.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017


Remembering other days, other times of celebration, and especially thinking of the newest family member gone off to serve her country.

From countless renditions, innumerable versions of the song---the original which started it all, and remains the one which makes our hearts beat most with pride in our country.  It's a 99-year-old song, timeless and true, and this is the lady who sang it best.

Saturday, July 1, 2017



Friday, June 30, 2017


Connie Ehrlinger lives in a nice brick house just outside Paxton, with her husband, two children and a fluffy little Pom named Cherie.   Connie favors Olive and mustard and butter yellow colours in her home and in her clothing, with quite a few outfits of well-cut slacks  with sleeveless paler blouses in the same shade of those foody colours which never really remind you of food.  She wears a narrow gold chain and tiny earrings, and always smells of Estee Beautiful and of Doublemint, which she’s been known to snap as she watches eagerly in conversation, ready for the next activity to be planned or to begin.   She “wants the most GO for her money,” and will hop right in with you for a trip to VP for bread, as quickly as to making a weekend of it at the Pepperell Outlet Stores.    

Connie steps right smartly around town in little leather shoes, loafers or sandals or wedges, according to the occasion, and has a nice Hamill-cut in the same shade of Clairol Strawberry Blonde she’s worn since 1986.  She likes  minimal makeup---just a little horizontal blush and a bronzey Clinique lipstick, and she’s on the go.

She has her kitchen laid out with exactly one of each item she might need, with a certain Tupperware especially for the Five-Cup she takes to Church Suppers, or one little handled pan for the box of “cornbread” Stove-Top she carries in her quilted blue “casserole toter” in cooler parts of the year.

   She does not have the Cookin’-Proud gene of her Mama Ole Mrs. Youngblood, nor her sister Carlisle, though they all do “favor” each other remarkably, with quick smiles to show their charmingly-overlapped canines, and the same interested hazel eyes. 

Unlike Carlisle, Connie is just a little bit ignorant of things---not a reader, doesn’t care for crafts or anything that takes a while to finish.   Her taste runs to The Bachelor and the whole gaudy gamut of Housewives and a lot of reality things like Pawn Shops and Hoarders.   House Hunters is the ne plus ultra, and HHI the creme---she has them on DVR back a couple of years, and once erased Varon’s whole collection of R. Lee Ermey, because the “box” was almost filled up.

Connie is a planner.   A new calendar gives her the same gentle thrill that a new tablet and pencil used to give Carlisle---a whole new blank world to hold her dreams.

  She keeps calendars and a daybook with precise notations of every event, appointment, anniversary date and practice, as well as the due date of every bill, renewal, or library book.  She has THAT kind of analytical mind---one which Keeps Up With Things, but which hasn’t much patience for news or any books beyond Taste of Home and Southern Living.   She’ll stand with one hand on her hip in the kitchen, looking days and weeks ahead at her calendar, shoving her gum forward in her mouth and stretching it around the tip of her tongue, reminiscent of the days when she actually DID blow the best bubbles in the schoolyard.

Then, she’ll grab a pen and her book, check off an item or two, notate a couple more, close the paper-laden book with the THONK finality of a job done, and place it with the several in the drawer of her little kitchen desk spot, all in the space of time it took to boil the water for the Minute Rice. 

Connie does everything this way, and that’s why she’s been secretary and/or Treasurer of every organization in town except the Masons and Lions.  She KEEPS UP.   Carlisle got the imagination and the words; Connie got the numbers and the ORDER.   And neither would change places with the other on a bet.  

Wednesday, June 21, 2017


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Start spreadin’ the NEWS..!

Our new little GRAND arrived yesterday, in NEW YORK CITTTY!

She and her parents are doing fine, and we’re all so Blessed.

Friday, June 16, 2017


The five sisters:  Aunt Eddie, Mammaw, Aunt Lu, Aint Bessie, and Aint Lo

A little more about Mammaw’s Sister, Aint Bessie (she of the Ole Fly fame).   She was a fun, lively woman, when we would be all gathered for talk and meals, but she became mysteriously stricken with a great weakness and pain of limb upon every rising from the dining table.   I think that most of my opinions and views in those days were formed and shaped by Mammaw---the greatest caretaker and influence in my life.   Probably Aunt B's being a younger sister gave her some leeway that Mammaw didn't get, for growing up, the younger girls were mostly exempted from the field work and cooking and washing for all that big family of young-uns.  Since all I really knew of Aint B. came from her maybe-twice-yearly visits, I sorta leant toward Mammaw's view that she could help out, if she'd just get up off the couch.

Aint B. had a plump little figure and some beautiful clothes.   She took a morning bath which required bringing in the big old #2 tub from the back porch (not by her) and filling from the kitchen faucet, and then everybody out of the house while she bathed (usually Mammaw and I were out in the garden, hoeing or picking something to cook or to can).   And she had lovely skin---she carried a bag with lotions and her perfume and hair stuff in it, and she slept in a big hairnet to keep her permanent pretty.   We could come back in when she got into her housecoat, and I'd empty the tub, pitcher by pitcher, into the sink, then take the tub out, while I watched her lotion arms and legs and put cream on her face, and later a little puff of powder and tiny dab of lipstick.  

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Then she sat down to wrap her legs.   She had roll after roll of gauze or cotton strips or some white fabric that she rolled round and round her legs from knee to ankle before she pulled on her stockings and rolled her garters on.   She took all that off to sleep, re-rolling the little rounds and sticking in a pin.

She kept repeating like a mantra about her Milk Leg she'd contracted, and how sore they were all the time (I wonder now if it was something like phlebitis, and that kept clots from forming like surgical stockings).  And her legs were just really pretty underneath all that wrapping, so I, too, thought she might be exaggerating her malady a bit more to account for her not being able to clear away or wash dishes or cook, and that she had to get right up from the table after every meal and go lie down and elevate her feet on a pillow.

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And I envied the HECK out of the fact that she had a "standing order" for a case of Co-Colas to be delivered and set on her back porch in Mobile every morning.   She drank twenty-four six-ounce cokes in a day's time.  And guess what lucky person got to run over to Aunt Lu's with the wheelbarrow every day to get that case of cokes?   And back for three or four more trips, for bananas or Bromo or the Pinkham's that she forgot to bring.  I even had to go get ice a time or two, because we ran out so often, filling up those big tea glasses with Co-Cola, and all.

(Looking back, I wonder if the reason she stayed with Mammaw all the time, despite the impossibly-tiny house, might have been ME).  

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The three rooms were Kitchen at the back, with a good sized rectangular wooden dinner table and six chairs, the Middle Room, which held Mammaw and Grandpa's double bed on one wall, with a BIG round black pedestal Dining Table under that saggy-screen window and the beehive in the wall that you could hear humming.   There was a big pump organ on the third wall, and the fourth, of course, was taken up with the head of the bed and kitchen door, with a space somewhere in there for a good-sized wood stove---a really pretty, curvy one, like an immense black vase with pipes in the middle of the floor, all taken down for Summer, and creating a marvelously-open space.    The belly of the stove had a garland of raised-up rose buds, one of which had tattooed a permanent "rose" on Uncle Samalee's beeehind when he was about four, and had just gotten out of the tub and bent over to get his drawers on.  

The front room had another double bed on the north wall, a couch where I slept on the opposite, covering a never-used closed up fireplace with a doilied-and-what-notted mantel, which would take you unawares; if you sat up wrong in bed, it would conk you in the noggin.  The bed was Aint B's, and there was also an across-the-corner dresser to the "suit" along with a chest of drawers, and a pretty maroon-brocade platform rocker with a chunky metal smoking stand.   I just cannot imagine. 

Aint B. had her own little built-in maid-servant every Summer trip, for I fetched and carried cokes and cake-on-a-saucer and a funeral parlor fan and her purse and her hair-scarf and her magazines---she was the first person I'd ever seen who bought those Romance and Screen and True Story magazines, and I was fascinated. 
   She told fabulous stories of the city, of the streetcars and the train station and all the big stores and the parades.   And they went right down to the water and bought their shrimp right off a boat.   Not quite the enchantment of Aunt Eddie's Indianapolis (I was fated to be here), but I was rapt, all the same.  

People from all over town would drop by and sit on the porch with Aint Bessie, and she held court every day til the sun got too hot out there, or she'd get her "parasol" ---Mammaw and all the Aunts had a big black umbrella for shade, and they all called them parasols--and venture around the block to Aunt Lu's store or up or down the street to people's houses.  She'd go to whatever doings any one of the three churches was putting on---luncheons and teas and watermelon-cuttings---all functions that Mammaw wouldn't have even come in out of the hot garden to attend. 

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from the internet---her silhouette, size, white hair, and certainly looks like Mobile to me

I know that the bit about The Fly painted her in less-than-her-best light.  I think it's just my memory of that one particular day---I was maybe eight, and I can STILL hear her say, "Look at that OLE FLY!" and the sound of the flappy old worn-out swatter hitting the equally fragile screen, right before the immense cloud settled on that good dinner.

She and Uncle Les adopted their nephew when his mother died shortly after childbirth.  They lived in Mobile, and I think I remember Uncle Les had something to do with shipyards.   Ron never came with Aint Bessie, but would ride the bus by himself later to come for a couple of weeks with Mammaw, Aunt Lu, and Aint Lo---who all lived that small Delta town.   What an adventure that must have been, and him not yet ten years old.  I envied that freedom, and still to this day LOVE the sight, sound and scent of a GREYHOUND.