STARDUST---A PAXTON PEOPLE STORY

 Miss Peg Ogletree has a little place just outside of Paxton, on the old homeplace owned by her family for generations. She’s the last of the lot now, with her only brother lost in Vietnam at nineteen---just three months between the time he stepped off that plane into the smothering heat, and the time his metal box was slid into the cargo hold of another for the trip home.

Chunks of the farm have been sold off bit by bit when times got hard in years past, slowly eroding the borders down to the twenty acres surrounding the house and creek like edges of a melting floe, until only her small island of green and flowers was left. She owns the place, free and clear, along with four dogs, a windmill pump, two tractors, a ten-year-old red GMC pickup and a little waterfall brimming the creek.

She is a wiry, wire-haired Sixtyish woman, in loose-butted jeans and a checked shirt smelling of Ivory Snow and clothesline drying; she scrapes her flyaway hair back in a severe ponytail every morning, pinning the ends under into a neat bun, but by day’s end, after seeing to the chores all day, running the little tractor with the bush-hog for cutting the several-acre lawn, chasing two escaped chickens out of the melon-patch, and hoeing out the pole beans and the squash hills, the springy tendrils have escaped and sprung into a sunlit silver halo around her head. Her skin is sun-browned, with an astonishing lack of wrinkles for her age and her outdoor activities; her eyes are a backlit icy blue, with a glint of interest and easy amusement.

She plays the old gap-toothed piano which sits in the end of her dining room---the old foot-patting Baptist Hymns, smooth waltzes from times ago, like Let me Call you Sweetheart and The Band Played On and Que Sera, Sera, and always, the piece that she played in her Senior Recital in High School. It was her Daddy’s favorite, and he had whistled the tune almost every day of her life, as he drove through the fields, moved irrigation pipe, worked in his workshop.

Mr. Ogletree would enter the auditorium hat in hand, nodding to friends and neighbors. He’d take an aisle seat on the far back row, just waiting out the first dozen or so pupils, enduring the 1-2-3 Waltz and the Mexican Hat Dance and, if there happened to be a boy amongst the performers, there was sure as shootin’ to be a startling version of Halls of Montezuma never before heard by any Marine living or fallen in battle. So far, Mr. Ogletree had heard nine of those interpretations, and winced every time for the battering of the notes and the tempo.

He’d squirm a bit in the hard flip-seat where he’d sat in his own schooldays, waiting for the moment she’d appear in the light of the stage---his GIRL.

And all those lessons, all that practice with the repetition of the same drilled scales competing with the sounds of What’s My Line and Lawrence Welk, all the recital dresses commissioned twice a year or shopped for in TOWN by her Mama with the discrimination and care of selecting a wedding gown, all the times she’d needed ferrying to Mrs. Carpenter’s house for Saturday lessons---those moments all melted into a shine surrounding his Girl, as she smiled and sat down and began to play. Just for him.

It was Stardust, all nine pages of the special arrangement, all learned in afternoons and Saturdays and times when her Daddy was out of the house, practiced furtively, with the pages of music whisked immediately away into her sock drawer so he would be surprised at the performance.

And he was---he sat there looking down that long straight center aisle at her in the golden light of the stage, as she played the first few notes, drinking in the melody of a song he’d only heard on the radio and television. And played, for HIM, by his child. No one noticed when he reached unobtrusively into his hip pocket for his handkerchief, or when he wiped his eyes.

It was a moment of moments in his life, one of those experiences seared into his consciousness with the golden hue which had surrounded his meeting her Mother, and of Peg’s own birth.

And years later, as his family gathered around his bed for his last moments, the strains of Stardust drifted into the room, as softly as the Spring wind stirring the pale curtains---his Peg at the piano, playing her Daddy Home.

SAVING FOR NICE

 

AUNT LUCY'S NIGHTGOWNS. My Mammaw was from a family of ten, and my mother had a favorite aunt amongst them. Mother always included her in in the gifts at Christmas and birthdays, and she was always so sweetly appreciative of the lovely nightgowns and bed jackets and slippers. I don't suppose many folks today would even know what a bed jacket is---they were lovely lacy or fluffy and soft very short jackets made to match the nightgowns. They came in sets, so that a lady who was ill at home or in the hospital could sit up gracefully in her bed with her jacket on for visitors or a doctor's House Call, shoulders warm and modesty satisfied.

I so well remember helping Mother and Aunt Lucy's daughter clean out the bedroom after Aunt Lucy passed away, and the sacheted chest drawer that held at least a dozen neat gift boxes, still holding those gowns and bed-jackets---"Saved For Nice," and for trips to the hospital.

And in a sort of wardrobe deja vu later in the seventies, I discovered a great stack of similar boxes nestled into Grandmother White's dresser drawer, when I was helping her to pack for a hospital trip. Still in the tissue, still in the box.   At least she chose two to pack and take with her.  

I like to think that perhaps just pondering all that silky apparel, with the sumptuous lace and the shining fabric, gave the lives of those two hard-working women a little version of a Hope Chest, or a Something Beautiful to dream on, pristine and luxurious, just waiting for an occasion.    

We do too much "Saving for Nice," sometimes, when that NICE could transmute Ordinary into Wonderful or Glorious.

THE LUCK BUSH

 

The arbor room is shaggy with overgrowth, and is slow to give up any of it---still jungly green, shady and with a chill deeper than any part of the yard.  The Summer Shade of the place is welcome and langourous, but the scant sun-peeps through this Autumn overhang leave it cold and not as inviting.    The floor is covered in brown, with very little of the outside golds and oranges making their way into the sanctum, and the chimes scarcely sing.    Even the wooden chairs have darkened, and the cheery yellow of the brick floor is subdued beneath the drifts.

But there are lovely vistas to be had---whole palettes of warmth and glow.   You could just sip these scenes like hot cider.

 Our back-door Luck Bush is doing her ruby-red thing right now, turning in her Summer-green gown for a red-velvety number which could grace any number of Fall parties---especially the one being thrown all over the neighborhood about now.   And we had, and still have, a sweet little ceremony which accompanies each departing guest and family member.  Keirsten started the custom, way back in the early 00's, when they lived with us for a time.  

Whenever anyone, family or guest, headed for a vehicle to leave, one of us outdoors would go to the bush, grabbing a leaf and handing it in through the window.   Every car Chris ever drove had an ever-crisping pile of little Luck Leaves wisping their way into crumbs in the console and ashtray, for Sweetpea took up the torch and kept him supplied with one per exit, every day that she was here.    And we'd hand her one, as she left us in the afternoon. 

The sitting-room windows are shaded in green in Spring and Summer, hazing into a rosy glow as the Autumn changes come.   The changing shade and the carrying on of a sweet little tradition---handing out Good Luck and Traveling Grace in the form of greenery or reddery from grubby little hands---those are family things, our own things, which make this Home.   And every time a Luck Leaf goes into a departing hand, my heart goes with it.

THAT SOUND

 

A little drift away from the drifts of leaves, to waft back into the past---those long-ago times, far-ago memories.   Those of you who know me from BEFORE know that we catered and arranged decades'-worth of weddings when we lived in Mississippi, and I have spoken of that many times on here.   Just this morning, I was captivated by the reminiscence of a Mississippi uncle, as he "Gave the Bride Away," in one of those beautiful ceremonies.   His recollection and his words are simply music, evocative of such a swell of pride and hope and amazement that I asked if I could share.   I DID share in that moment he's describing, probably a hundred times during those years, and his words are spot on---they cause an intake of breath to match the quiver of the air, the silent awe, and the sheer beauty of that moment in Time.  

"Once all the attendants were in place, the rear doors of the sanctuary were closed in preparation for the arrival of the bride. Our clue to be ready to process proudly down the aisle was the organist and pianist playing "Holy, Holy, Holy." As the rear doors to the north center section of the sanctuary were opened and guests rose to their feet, Felicia and I began our walk. Trent got two pictures of us within our first few steps, though I barely remember him being there.

There's a sound generated by hundreds of people moving, almost in unison, from a seated to a standing position that's hard to describe. It includes the rustling of cloth rubbing against cloth, of air being sucked into open mouths and nostrils, of feet moving as people turn to face the bride, and of soft whispers of those unable to contain their joy. When the doors opened, it felt as if that sound were being pulled into corridor where we stood. We were bathed in that unique and wonderful sound, while it resonated with the music from the same sanctuary. No doubt, it was the sound of love." WAYNE CARTER, FACEBOOK, OCTOBER 9, 2023

And I simply had to answer," OH, Wayne, Your words and memories put me right there---those days of a hundred weddings---you know me---the lady barely there, with the gentle touch between your shoulder blades as the music swelled and it was time to step out with the bride? I stood in countless vestibules, side rooms, Sunday School rooms, Sanctuary alcoves and hallways, sending down a rustle of bridesmaids, the small feet and flowers of the tiniest attendants, and my touch onto the gabardine seemed to kindle that sacred sound as they rose in honor of the Bride. And you've captured The Sound perfectly. Something about that micro-moment of hesitance, that sway of pews, that rising of the air and stir of attention---that's a moment in the time of a marriage on which everything before and after is balanced pinpoint in Time. Young folks still inquire about the secrets of such a happy marriage as Chris and mine---I realize now that I spent countless moments, unsuspecting years, seeing other folks down the aisle, absorbing the magical mysteries of That Sound, waiting for him to come into my life. 

HAPPY OCTOBER

 

FROM AN OCTOBER POST THIRTEEN AGO, AND THE LIST HAS ONLY GROWN LONGER:

October gave a party,
The leaves by hundreds came;
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.

The Sunshine spread a carpet
And everything was grand;
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
-----------------George Cooper

I’ve always thought that the year should start in October instead of January. January just grabs ahold of you in an icy grip, keeping you befuddled with the aftermaths of the holidays and all that work and cooking and traveling and celebrating. January is a Pipsissewah of a month, a cold-in-the-head, car-won’t-start time of year, with grumpy people with their heads down struggling against wind and umbrella and ice, the mere feat of standing erect on skiddish streets a burden and a task.


But OCTOBER, now---October is just the best time of year there is, with the golden days and the whish of leaves and the turnings, turnings. The leaves turn and the birds turn South and the time turns from shorts and sandals to comfortable sweats and that favorite old sweater, taken out for the first time in two seasons, snugged on in a cool twilight, as the savory scent of something-in-the-oven wafts out in welcome.

Just walking around outside is a marvel---the air feels silky on your skin and the sun lights gently upon your hair, with a different scent, a different FEEL to everything---better and better as the season progresses. The sight of the harvesting, the change in the produce of the markets, the farmstands offering the crisp fruits and the cider and the huge orange bulk of pumpkns and gourds---we just went to one today, picking out two more cushion-mums, a loaf of wheat bread, six apples, and a watermelon-green-striped gourd like a bashful goose.

Somewhere a long time ago, I read a quote something like, “If I have but one month left to live, let it be October.” I would echo that---it’s always been my favorite time of year, with the air and the light and the rustle of leaves and just the OCTOBERNESS of it. Not because it’s cooler after the summer heat (which is important), not because it ushers in the Holiday Season (also a good thing), and not because of anything in particular which happens or has happened then (though we DO like Halloween).

That’s not it. The month has a personality of its own; it stands on its own, unlike any other time, and I’d know it with my eyes closed. There’s a huge daily enjoyment to the month, with all the sheer exuberance of the color and the brightness---you can just BE in the moments of it, and just enjoy. A simple walk around the neighborhood takes on a different slant---swishing your feet through the leaves, or seeing the swirls of leaves as they drift down like snow, or admiring the Autumn blooms and decorations on the neighbors’ houses and lawns.

Things to do the first few days of October:

Bake cookies with Sweetpea.  (Note from today---we celebrated our three birthdays on Sunday with a fabulous "cake" of cheesecake brownies, baked by HERSELF).  

Go to Waterman’s Farm to climb the haybales, go through the cornstalk maze, and ride the hayride to the pumpkin patches.

Bake a Bundt cake---a beautiful golden-yellow one, fragrant with vanilla and cinnamon.

Decorate for FALL around all this PINK that has invaded the house during all that Home-Staying time with access to ETSY and AMAZON.  

Simmer this beautiful Corned Beef for several hours in its tangy brine, then add in carrots, baby potatoes and wedges of tender cabbage---serve just at twilight on a cool night. It would be enough just to enjoy aura and the scent all day---there’s a satisfaction and a contemplation to having something savory going for supper, and knowing that it will take time and that things are progressing as they should.

There are lots more, and I’d love to hear YOURS.


HAPPY OCTOBER, EVERYONE!!

THE TELLIN' TREE

 The Tellin’ Tree two doors down is flaunting her sun-kissed rosy cheeks for the past few days, letting us know that FALL is approaching with these even-cooler days and nights. She's always the first to blush, the first to swirl down her leaves, the first one we head for to scuff our feet through the piles on the sidewalk.

September has been absolutely glorious, with all the sun-filled days, the cloudless blue stretching overhead with nary a thought of gray, and the temperatures just begging us to be out and about.

The sounds outside during this dry, cool time have been of slow-breeze drifts of leaves, just beginning to do their earthward dance, settling onto the arid crispness of already-sere lawns and skittering down the drive and sidewalks toward the unabashed ivy, green as always, wending its way across the lawn at a yard’s pace a year. It’s still all green in the yard, but of a subtler, more subdued hue, with a lot of yellow to the mix, especially in the rampant grapevine stretching from house to garage to outbuildings to trees.

I swear, that stuff is really a strain of kudzu, transported up here on our shoes or tire-treads, covering our landscape like an abandoned homestead in the South---those old silver-gray buildings, bushes, stark-standing trees, and long-chuttered-their-last John Deeres gone to rust---all engulfed in the green tide until the whole landscape is like one of those baby-toys made of soft fabric, with the little farm buildings and trees and fields just gentle lumps on the landscape.

I do believe, if the whole Earth fell apart, our little piece of it would be just sitting here, all of a piece, in a monkey-barrel hug by all the grabby-toed ivy on the ground, and tenacious tendrils of grapevine---one big wad like those Come-See balls of rubber bands advertised on saggy signs along highways the Interstate passed by.

There’s a comfort to the changes of Fall---a settling-in, a tamping-down, as if the energy of all that Spring and Summer growth and activity has smoothed into completion with the changing of the moon. There’s no more grabbing of towels and sunblock in a rush to head for the pool, or great need to keep the flowerbed weeds at bay, or the nudge to pick whatever’s overgrowing the garden. That season’s winding down so fast now that I'm feeling the pull of the "COME OUT!" this day---this last day on the cusp of October, to go this weekend in search of a pink pumpkin, a gallon of cider, a great bouquet of colorful dried corn and shucks for the porch. Three birthdays to late-celebrate tomorrow---first time we did that in our favorite Month---OCTOBER!

All reaction

FOURTEEN YEARS LATER AUTUMN SUNDAY

LEAVES AND ACTORNS SWISHED UNDERFOOT IN A LONG-AGO WALK, AND PICKED UP BY SMALL HANDS TO ARRANGE FOR OUR SEPTEMBER CENTERPIECE.  

FROM THE FIRST YEAR OF LAWN TEA, SEPTEMBER 2009, WHEN THE AIR WAS BRIGHT AND THE LEAVES STIRRING, THE GOLDEN DAYS STRETCHING ENDLESSLY INTO TIME:

 The day seems brighter than lately, though the patio and back yard are awash in damp brown leaves. Our biggest tree is molting onto the lawn, sidewalks, driveway, concrete, and all lawn furniture, in none of those blown-glory splashes of color which grace this time of year.

These are clingy leaves, sticking to chair seats, welcome mats and door-screens, susssshed up into drifted piles in corners and against the stems of hostas, cactus, fern, sifting down into the big balls of lavender mums like drab confetti, and hitching a ride on your feet all through the house.

We're headed out in search of farm stands---the ones we've always looked in on, the new ones sprung up since last Fall, and some of the naked ones passed by all through Summer and Spring, with their promises of Apples and Pumpkins and Gourds and beautiful corn freckled for Autumn. Those faded signs, those deserted premises with vines grown over locks and gates, with weathered tables and slanted platforms ready for baskets of bounty, the lettering of the signs faded to whispers on the wood---I hope they've sprung to life again today.

We'll follow little hand-lettered squares stuck on posts along the road, avid for the PUMPKINS 1 Mile, then 1/2, then the Turn HERE, much as long-ago travelers craned through windshields for the next line of a Burma Shave verse or for the welcome WELCOME of the familiar Holiday Inn star. We'll squint, step out onto gravel or grass or mud, and look at the largesse with the enthusiasm of Spring gardeners peering for green in the Earth.

A touch of smooth squash-skin, the heft of a delicata, the funny whorls and color combinations of a Turk's hat---those speak Fall and crisp sunshine and something cinnamony in the oven. Just one halved acorn squash, its center pooled with melted butter and maple syrup, with a little scatter of cinnamon and nutmeg around the rim---the scent and the knowledge of the preparations---that brings a comfortable presence to a house on a cold day.

Pumpkins---Cider---a warty gourd-no-two-alike---perhaps a small smooth white pumpkin for the graceful white compote; that silhouette and shading is a lovely thing to contemplate for its days of plump roundness, and later dropped to break chunnnck in the far-back garden, a delicacy for the birds and raccoons and the waddly old possum who lives beneath the boat.

Prospects are often far more beautiful than the gleaning, but today, we're ready to see what will come.

PAXTON PEOPLE: MISS DOVIE CALDWELL

 

Like many of my PAXTON PEOPLE,   Miss Dovie Caldwell is patterned on a lovely older woman from my home town---Miss Maud Claussen  (MRS., of course, but as so many women who taught Sunday School or kindergarten, or shadowed their married daughters through life by living with them for decades, thus mostly being around the generations much younger than herself, she had the honor of a MISS before her given name, out of respect).   Mrs. Claussen was the mother of our dear Frieda Sanford, who taught scores of us in school, then lingered on to teach many of our children.   

Now to MISS DOVIE:    Miss Dovie is a tottery little thing, always in dresses a bit too big, shoulder-pads of her saved-from-the-Seventies polyesters hanging from the shoulders of her small frame like the plastic shells fastened onto kids in Peewee Football. She favors pastels and uncomfortable scratchy fabric, with too-bright-for-daytime rhinestone buttons, and matches her accessories to her garments with various low pumps from Payless and a close-enough-color purse grabbed from the rack as she stood in line to pay.

She doesn’t see well, but she can take her magnifying glass and look at the cover of a crochet book and duplicate each and every stitch, turning out doilies and dresser scarves and pineapple tablecloths by the yard. The great flurries of Coty from her powderpuff, slapped to her withered cheeks and falling into the furrows like dust in the cottonrows, outline the wrinkles in a much-too-hearty PINK for her sallow complexion. The tiny hairs on her upper lip quiver with their burden of the silky grains, like a bee’s feet after a long day in the blooms.

She is a kind woman, and crochets the most exquisite baby outfits for every young one in her county-wide list of acquaintances---no baby shower is complete until the flat box from Miss Dovie is opened and admired. Little girls get a pink jacket, booties and bonnet; little boys, the obligatory blue, with a tiny head-hugging cap, its bill perhaps three rows wide. For showers before the birth, she always has a good supply of yellow or green items, all matched up and ready in tissued boxes she orders from ABC Distributing.

Many a Miss Dovie ensemble has been shadowboxed at Tamyra's Frame and Gift Shop, for hanging in the child's room, long after the child outgrew the tiny garments. Prospective Mamas not of Miss Dovie's acquaintance hint broadly to friends who are, hoping to be included in the long list of recipients of that coveted gift. Why, even the traveling photographer Olan Mills sends around twice a year knows a Miss Dovie outfit when he sees it. And the ladies in her Sunday School class went in together one year for Christmas and got her a box of fifty little cloth labels to sew in the clothes---a white silky tag with two tiny doves, one pink and one blue. They figured that would hold her for her lifetime.

Though she has never ventured out of town in the car by herself, she flew to Germany once, in her seventies, to visit her GrandDaughter’s family, stationed there with the Army. She had a wonderful time, going on tours and a boat ride up and down the Rhine, and sitting primly in Biergartens with the young folks and their friends, swaying to the irresistible music. She was finally prevailed upon by two handsome young soldiers to let them buy her a beer, and she would never let on, but she sorta LIKED it. It was easier going after she drank most of it, cause that big mug was WAY heavy til she got the level down a bit

Miss Dovie is a sedate, quiet woman, clad in demure dresses and a ladylike demeanor, though she WAS once heard to utter the words "Rich Bitch," in reference to a pushy, loud woman they saw berating a confused young clerk in Goldsmith's---this so startled her daughter and the other two ladies in their shopping party, and indeed Miss Dovie herself, they all had to go sit for a few minutes in the mezzanine, to compose themselves and stifle their giggles.

Her daughter tutored the middle Ellis boy after school a couple of days a week, and Miss Dovie grew to like the young fellow. For Christmas that year, she crocheted him a sweater, a really nice one, out of thick cotton yarn. It had a red bottom band, collar and cuffs, and the rest was white, with blue reindeer capering across the chest. He loved that sweater, and out of gratitude or habit or sheer clinging to a gift he really liked, he wore it EVERY day to school. The other kids teased him about it, but he was the sort of kid who was comfortable in himself, and in that sweater, and just didn’t care what they said.  He even wore it after the dryer went out, and his Mother had to hang the thing on a big padded hanger up in the ceiling beams above the fireplace, sometimes having to iron the neckline dry before she went to work. He loved that sweater, and Miss Dovie loved how he loved it; she'd never felt such gratification from any piece of her work. Though he's grown now, she has a picture of his small self in the sweater, stuck into the plastic mirror-frame doohickey on her dresser, along with pictures of her grandchildren and of The Late Mr. Caldwell, gone these thirty years.

Miss Dovie lives with her married daughter, and they’re Methodist, but she wishes her church had the good loud singing of the Baptist church, and the wonderful Second-Saturday Church Suppers, instead of subdued music and quiet quarterly gatherings muted as the footsteps on the carpet of her own church. Miss Dovie always takes a Tupperware of red Jello, though her daughter carries a tuna casserole “for the family” in her nice blue padded toter; Miss D. still likes to contribute something, and she eats two “dressed aigs” whilst she’s there, for they never have devilled eggs at home.

Her hands are crooked and small, with knuckles too big for her fingers and little blue veins mapping her fragile skin. They are beautiful old hands, the stuff of etchings, with a lovely pale glow to the tops and satiny, shiny palms, and it’s a blessing she resists the urge to cover the veins with a floof of powder, as well.

BELATED BOOK REVIEW--WINTER'S BONE

 

Winter’s Bone---Though a grim, desperate story, this is quite possibly the best putting-together-of-words in all my reading life. The craft and flow of the words is absolute genius, with gems of phrase on every page.    You can feel the cold and the pain and desperation of the questing; you walk the snow-path with bleeding feet, hear the "Begat" line as if it were your own list of blood-kin.  Wounded and weary, you make yourself stand up to the fierce, pragmatic women doing the bidding of their implacable patriarch.  There's the distinct tang of  burnt gunpowder in the air and the gall-bitter scent of squirrel guts as you hunt and clean your meager dinner, and you'll come away with a smoky-shack, hard-life mountain twang to your inner voice.   

I have not the words for Woodrell’s words, and cannot tell you enough how impressed I am.   Who could ever forget Ree Dolly?

Still September

Closer and closer to bidding a gentle Farewell to Summer, though afternoons are stretching wider than wide with a pink light that just says LINGER.   Summer HEAT has a way of smothering AND enhancing a lot of the glories of the season, like watching those tiny green tomatoes swell just from sunrise to sunset, gaining in girth and juice and promise, and of course:   Home Grown Tomatoes---totally a Reason for a Season.

SWimming is good, and ice cream, and coldcold watermelon, and dancing in the sprinklers, as well as sleeping with not much on but a fan.  Popsicles, bike rides, A/C, cold wet washrags just wrung out of the ice chest and slapped on the back of your neck at the lake.

 Wide-hipped funeral parlor fans and a big old umbrella at a ball game.  Little kids giggling as THEY race in and out of the sprinklers, the hose, the front door nekkid, with those joyously-scared, gleeful screeches. 

A big gray weathered picnic table in the shade, home of cookout suppers, watermelon cuttings and fish fries for three generations---all spread up with the usual Summertime fare of whatever each family is partial to, potato-salad being the closest-guarded secret in the bunch.

That dusty corn patch with the brand-newest ears and the crackly-smitttch of the husks as you peel them back to expose the rows of milky pearls.   The eager hunt when little children find out the secret hiding places of radishes and carrots, spotting the tiny gleams of colour beneath the flourish of stem, and unearthing them with the fervor of an Easter Egg Hunt.  We’ve had so many standing in glasses and jars of water in the fridge we didn’t have room for the milk and eggs.  

 Driving along country roads with the windows down, feeling that unmistakable shift in coolth when you pass a grove of trees between you and the sun.   You can just feel the trees breathe their coolest breath onto you from those untraveled havens.     Flowin' wells with the coldest, clearest water on earth, and even if you don't want a drink, you sure want to take off your shoes and let it gush over your feet. 

A big old hand-crank freezer out in the shade on a Sunday afternoon, when the city cousins come out from town, ready to look down on your country raisin' and remote location, and leave wishing THEY lived near a swimming hole, good climbing-trees and all those watermelons, right there to choose from.

The tiny translucent golden thumb-plums and the huge musky purple ones swelling with a surfeit of Summer juices, and the blackberries and dewberries plumping in the bramble, enough to make braving the thorns a lesser thing than leaving all that sweet temptation for the birds.

The look of Southern shade on a Summer afternoon, as the shadows across the lawn grow longer and more ancient, somehow---something about the dying of the day brings shadows totally different from morning shade, with the sun-slants and more lazy colours---we'd know what time it was anywhere. 

 The scent of a backyard grill or a real barbecue pit, sending up the scent of smoky pork like incense to Heaven.  I've never done it, but I'll bet sitting up all night in a rattly aluminum-and-weave  foldin' chair beside that big brick pit or fancifully-shaped-and-painted rig, as a whole pig relaxes in the heat and becomes succulent and tender, falling apart like shattered roses---I'll bet that experience, with the attendant cooler of beer, the Vy-eenies and crackers and hoop cheese and the tales told again and again, to the same close folks as last time---doesn't that seem a thing for a Bucket List? 

THE FRONT ROOM

 

Mammaw’s first house had but three rooms, leading right on through,

From front door out to back porch, as all shotgun houses do.

The middle room had a table, round and black on sturdy feet,

With her bed across the north wall; in the corner stretched a sheet

 

To make her only closet, and a parlor stove at hand,

With a big Rococo organ, draped in aprons, hats and fans,

And over time that organ pealing out those hearty swells,

Took on a close resemblance to a melted carousel.

 

 

To the back there was the kitchen, with an oilcloth old as Time,

With Amana stove, the fridge, and Hoosier cabinet in a line.

The back porch had the mop, the broom, the washtub on a nail, 

And a little wooden stand to hold the wash-up pan and pail. 

 

For, as far back as a memory, those had stood there in that place,

And every one who entered knew to wash their hands and face,

And give a lick-and-promise with that time-worn brush or comb,

To pay the homage due the entrance to their Mother’s Home. 

 

But the FRONT ROOM, (living room, bedroom, nursery when I was small)

With its bedroom suite and couch and chair, LIFE writ every wall.

On the Dresser dainty doilies with a red-thread scarf to match,

And on the wall beside it, a stuffed bass---a lucky catch.  

 

Above the sofa hung an uncle's old M1 Garand,

And on a shelf beside it on a little marble stand

Was another uncle’s Purple Heart, beside his tin canteen,

Still in use for hikes and camping, still a valiant Army green.

 

And the sent-home-from-Korea silk-embroidered pillow case,

Inscribed “MOTHER” in the middle, with a framing of red lace,

Even Grandpa’s platform rocker had a scarf across the back,

With the week’s worth of COMMERCIALS down beside it in a stack.

 

And his spit-can so discreetly on the porch all cleaned and shined,

With his plug of Red-Man in a hand-stitched bag with hearts entwined.

For he never smoked or chewed during the day, although he could,

When you stand so close to clients, it’s important to smell good.

 

Dull grenades and shiny wasp-tails on the What-Not by the spoons,

With the tiny wooden outhouse Salt-and-Pepper’s crescent moons.

The velvet red pin-cushion of a turtle on a rock,

Sat beside a rosy teapot, whose reverse side was a clock.

A Gas Company match-striker in a cactus stood to hand,

With the cigarettes and matches over on the Smoking Stand.

And a swaying Navy-blue-flocked silver-script "GOD WILL PROVIDE,"

In the gentle oscillation of the humming fan beside. 

Through the smoke and dust of Memory, these things shine through the gloom,

Of that house that held my Childhood, and the PAST in That Front Room.   

SSSSIGHTS AND SSSSOUNDS

 I have such a love for the sssss of September’s beginning, as with all words which go so gently into the air like dandelion fluff.  September.   Susurrus.  Sigh.  Season.   South.  Silver.  Sibilant.   Soothe.

And the beginning of the month itself, long such a beacon to me through the heat and humidity of those Southern Summers, is something of a calendar day to a lot of folks, I’m learning.   I’ve seen blogs of special  dinners and garden parties and teas, in these just-past two days, all celebrating the closing of the Summer season, and the belling-in of the coming parade of holidays in swift array.  But the joys of Summer---somehow abruptly snapped and zipped shut in so many places by this Labor Day weekend---closed down and boarded up by the calendar, as if mere Time controls weather and mood---that’s always seemed strange to me, like trying to tell a toddler he’s sleepy just because it’s eight o’clock.

 We’ll celebrate this weekend with a burger or hotdog just because, thinking wistfully of the days of Ganner's incomparable ham wafting its intoxicating aromas from the grill.   The weather IS, indeed, magically changed by a wand of wind which blew in these perfect blue skies and sixties breezes with this once-in-a-century Blue Moon, after such a hot and wet season as we’ve not seen in a long time.  

But somewhere, here and there and around, the sights and sounds and scents of Summer linger like that last ray of sunset, reluctant to dip away and fade out.   And the ones I remember most are the ones of long ago, still vibrant and beautiful, in my dreams:  

 A barefoot-stomped yard with the patch of zinnias against the shed---Big Ole Bubba-Flowers, zinnias, in their stiff, Raleigh-ruffed gaudy colours and a hardiness to the petals and wiry stems that will outlive many a graceful foxglove and tissue-curled snapdragon.

Chickachickachick of an old rotary mower as the rusty silver blades cut a path through the ankle-high grass; the Summer skrish of yard-broom sweeping the grass to the ends of the rows. 

The sound of the big old pecan trees in our yard, way up high in the hot, dusty boughs, as I hid from Mother to read through a lot of those long Summer days.   The scrunch of separation as two small grubby hands divided a Popsicle, the sharing and the inevitable drip offset by the deep draw of eager lips.  The whitening of the ice as the dyed juice was sucked away, like the fading shine of sand when the tide withdraws.  

The coppernickel tang on your hands, the smells and sounds of slingshots and marbles and BBs and all the other tools of a child’s happy trade.  Snap of slingshot, hiss of ball bearings or rocks through the air. 

Satisfying smick or thunck, depending on target.  Click of marble on marble.  Deeper toned THUNK of throwin-knife into a target or post.  Smack of ball into glove and crack of bat-meets-ball.

Which-a-which of the old tall-necked copper lawn sprinkler, peeping up through the grass like a preying mantis as the water-drops fly. 

The steady, solemn hum of fan-blades suspended in a white-raftered church; the unobtrusive wielding of wide-hipped funeral-parlor fans as the sermon rises in tempo and tone, and the competent, officious rush of white-clad, no-nonsense Lady-Ushers to the side of the faithful, too-overfilled with the Spirit and fainting from a combination of heat and zeal.  How I loved those purpose-in-life, take-charge women, with their calm caring and their confident air.  

The sweetest thunkch as a shade-cooled watermelon falls under the knife, giving up its heart on a battered picnic table.   The life-affirming hum of Clover-drunk bees playing accompaniment to the best of Summer Music:  the splashes and happy shrieks as children frolic through sprinklers and run heedless through another Summer afternoon.

And the open-windows sleep-sounds of a million peep-frogs, and settling into your pillow as the last dreamy sound of the day is the comforting midnight moan of a faraway train.

NOT MUCH OF A PLOT, BUT LARROQUETTE'S IN IT

 

Those are the words I heard John Larroquette say to maybe Johnny Carson many years ago, about the epitaph he wanted over his grave.  So clever and apt.  

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 as the action goes on 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, with segues into once-removed, 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 Reacher brawl, some Odyssey, 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. S'all I got, folks.