"WHO SHOT J.R.?"

 

(A very close facsimile of the Original cake, which was 14" across)

• Leah and I have been harking back to some “old” TV shows in the past little while, and just now we mentioned the “Who Shot J.R.?" DALLAS episode that everybody in the audience was so avidly awaiting.   The seasons were different, then, in 1980 (yes it was 45 years ago), and usually consisted of 25 or 26 episodes, then re-runs for the off-season.  And the last season had ended with J.R. lying bleeding on the floor, with nary a glimpse of the culprit. The plot was discussed in pool rooms and beauty parlors,  at school events, ball games, and even 
• out at the smoking spot outside the Methodist

Besides, I'd seen the havoc those new TV series could wreak, with the tale of two ladies at the Beauty Parlor tying up over a magazine with Nick Nolte from Rich Man, Poor Man.   And I'd personally witnessed the time at P.T.A. meeting when the long, lanky Town Alderman tried to step OVER the folding chairs between him and the aisle to get his wife home on time about three weeks into THAT show.   Rumor was that he had to wear an "appliance" for a couple of weeks, but I wouldn't know about that.    

 Well, we had been hired to cater a small Wedding Dinner for a young couple---I don’t remember which one had been married before, but they didn’t want a “Big To-Do,” just a nice evening at the Country Club for about thirty friends, with a pretty Fall-decorated cake and delicious Cornish-hens-and Dressing dinner.  

As time went on toward the date, I was asked quite a few times at the office about timing re: getting home to see the show, and once, “When you gonna let us out of there?”    Since I was certainly not in charge of anything but the food, I had no answer for them.

But I DID think of one thing that might calm the waters and assure that no one missed the show.  We put together a little Movie Night plan, carrying both the new AirPOP, the old popcorn popper, several BIG salad-bar bowls, a big package of quart-sized Dixie cups, several flavors of popcorn salt, and  several pounds of Orville's Best---all unbeknownst to the Bride and Groom.

 

As the dessert was being served, and some folks hitting the dance floor, we started the poppers to work, with butter melting in a big pan and all that unmistakable scent of POPCORN in the air, filling those enormous pans and hoisting them to the warming shelves on those big Franklin ranges.

 When it got on toward nine o’clock, everybody had suddenly decided to stay on and watch in the big lounge, and a surge of refills at the bar and tea pitchers and Coke Machine preceded the crowd into the TV room, with chairs and cushions brought from every room in the club, and all those folks in their evening finery lounging on furniture, the floor, several on laps and handy leaning-spots all over the room.

We passed out cups of popcorn and lots of paper towels, set out the rest of the bowls and toppings, and went our way back to the clearing of tables, to hearty applause for our unexpected treat, and shouts to befit an Ole Miss/State game when the shooter was revealed.

 

I heard nice things about that unexpected lagniappe to the experience for years, and the surprised and grateful Bride and Groom remembered us with a handsome tip.      

PAXTON PEOPLE XXXI: DIANNA BRIGHT

 

Dianna Bright has a purple color scheme in her kitchen, with a bosom-swell of plums printed on the curtains, the tied-on cushions in the captain’s chairs at the breakfast table, and the little crocheted-hanger-on-one-end dishtowel swinging from the oven door.  She has two shades of purple placemats, which she alternates round the table, and sets the table for two anew after every meal.  She gets a fresh plate, bowl, cup and saucer out of the cabinet while the last ones whirl through the dishwasher, and puts the matching napkin back into a ring beside each plate. 

She’s house-proud and cookin’ proud and takes elaborately-concocted, wonderful casseroles and salads to Church Suppers and Missionary Society luncheons and can set out gorgeous tea-trays for Eastern Star, with all the tee-ninecy sandwiches spread right to the edge of the bread and lined up in pretty patterns and formations that she finds online.

 Somehow, after her “raisin’” in a very small shotgun house with three siblings, and the attendant lack of many grace notes in the discordant symphony of their days, Dianna has a flair for gracious moments, and she loves to have a pretty house, set a pretty (and lavish, as the occasion may call for ) table, and almost most of all, she likes things to MATCH.    None of the modern love for all things old, for her, nor a bit of rust paired with even the most exquisite lace would sway her, and she just doesn’t quite get the craze for the vintage items which cost more love and money now than they ever dreamt in their Duz-box and Kroger-giveaway beginnings. Except for matching "china," which she occasionally finds at yard sales or Goodwill.  

She likes SETS of things---full service for eight “Everyday” dishes stand in her left-hand kitchen cabinet, remarkably intact for the twenty-one intervening years since her Wedding Shower. 

Numerous small sets for four are arranged in the dining room's room-wide Hutch Wall, built by her husband Havlon, who is known best for the beautiful hutches and built-ins he creates right in people's dining rooms---any size, any space, with shelves and drawers and carving satin-smooth as fine furniture.  He has a habit of always signing his work on the back, even if it means just writing his name on a board he's about to nail on a wall. 

Dianna will trade dishes out for holidays and seasons, as long as all the salad plates and butter dish and cream and sugar are of the same pattern.   She keeps that table set, and it BRIGHTS her to look at it and know that things are in order.  It MATTERS.  

 

 And that mattering is a far remove from doing her homework at the old oilcloth kitchen table of her growing-up years, with its bottles of Ketchup and Tabasco atop the faded-pattern oilcloth flanking the long-used old steel “silverware” standing in the well-worn coffeecan, the small bristle of toothpicks in a silver Garrett snuff can, and the fluffy pouf of krinkly, translucent one-ply paper napkins in their stingy pinch-box with “UNITED GAS CO,” on its fading green plastic, allowing one thin sheet each for a meal.  

Diana remembers, and like she swore all her childhood and teens, she’s DOING BETTER.             

APRES LE DELIGHTFUL DELUGE

 

                             The Golden Light that seems to strike our lawn only during Halloween, with decor and candy courtesy of Leah, from a decade past.   (Looking back in after making lunch, and there appears an uncanny complete ME almost, with two sweater sleeves and a long black apron.   Several brooches (which I have several of, but Chris always knew I'd love them for the gift and the lovely of them, but they would reside on lampshades and curtain fringes).   Hold your eyes just right and there she IZZZ.

There's something about the light this morning---this crack-the-cusp and slide into November---that the door revealed as I opened it to the front lawn.   There were only leaves there---damply scattered though there'd been no rain.   Only leaves to remark the eager little hordes who graced our porch last night.   Something about those small beings---four hundred of them, usually, and surely that last night---they left absolutely nothing in their wake.

No abandoned beer cups, no wrappers or forlorn band-posters nor ticket stubs---yet-to-concert young 'uns assured the absence of emptied BICS and the limp exhaustion of light wands and necklaces---just the same grass with the same leaves.    The lawn was untrodden and smooth, with their wake pristine as water closing after a boat.  And there WAS a tide---in fact quite several, and perhaps a budding tsunami a time or two, but they honored the lawn, and scurried all the way to the driveway turn to get to me, between the two lanterns marking the walk-posts, and right to my lap with my feet dangling from the porch.   They had seen me in my gaudy glory, immense pink witch hat with veil, pink outfit from cardigan to slacks to clogs, with stripey witch stockings in between, as generations have seen me  and anybody else of the house, year-to-year, since we moved here in 1997. 

The schedule for the "town" is listed as 6 to 8, but a lot of Mamas have gotten the word about the rich pickin's in our little area, and a cavalcade of cars and SUVs begins before 5:30, when I'm usually out, in every weather but pouring, with handy carpet-panels aligned along the porch, for any sitting helpers who come along.   The firsts are some of the littlest---tee-ninecy ladybugs and small pirates and enough princesses to re-stock every Kingdom on Earth should there be a shortage.   One wee Buzz Lightyear so small as to be merely a happy lower-case "bz" strode his toddler steps up to me, grinning wide, and the plethora of comic and cartoon and HERO UNIVERSE and after-school TV and astronomically diverse little characters made their way into my heart. 

The tides DID ebb and flow, with little lapses when I just sat and rocked out to the EVERYTHING HALLOWEEK neighbor's soundtrack of Monster Music---I even stood up and danced to Time Warp one time when the lawn was not filled with Kiddos.  And Monster Mash---even the Next-Door Parents didn't believe I knew the words to Monster Mash and could approximate a bit of Boris's accent.

But when the surges came, they came BIG---twenty or thirty would come up the driveway, minding their manners, and a great colorful sway would be in front of me, almost every one with a Happy Halloween, or How You Doing? and absolute respect for the moment---nobody grabbing, nobody pushing---just a quick reach and drop into bags and pumpkins, and somehow the THERES were replaced with the Next In Lines, and it went so well, it was as if they'd practiced both approach and depart with precision.    The smiles and the happy faces at the shining silvery packs of sweets---and my waving up of all chaperones, caretakers and other grown-ups, with "Drivers always eat!"---what fun and shrill little thank yous, and over-shoulder shouts of thanks from that minimultitude---one of my high spots of the year.   I didn't hear a single protest or wail or loud voice all evening, save for the friendly greetings of the once-a-year recognitions.   

Shy teens-and teens-plus DID sort of shrink a bit til I always said, "You're NEVER TOO GROWN-UP" and then there were great smiles.  And some old familiars DID scan around the porch for Paxton, and inquire "Where's your TURTLE?" missing her presence from other years.   Every one brought a gentle pang, but the evening went on beautifully.    I stood up and carried the pan to the sidewalk entrance whenever I saw a visitor who might have trouble negotiating that small space, or toddler whose proud parent hung back and let them SHINE.  

And thus I met the COSTUME OF THE YEAR---I have at least one memorable one every year, and unless it's an absolutely Hollywood-perfect attire and makeup beyond the pale, it's almost always a thought-up or Homemade one that catches me.    The little family---two littles in charming costumes, and a Mom and Dad, with Dad trundling a full-size garbage bin, shiny with aluminum foil of its crafting on the dolly, and with a clever sign I cannot quite recall, with a tiny being inside who rose up on cue and waved his arms.   What a thought, and what a loving, albeit uncommon, piece of workmanship and deft navigating of all these crowded blocks, of that sweet Daddy for his child.

And so it went---not a whimper, not a scowl, not a blip---one more lovely Halloween in this little neighborhood.   We closed the doors and turned off the lanterns at about 8:15 and went in to have our dinner of two baked potatoes with fixin's awaiting in the oven.   Perfect evening, once again.  

    

                    From a Decade ago:   Sweetpea, grown too tall from her pumpkin of the years before, attended as a Jack-o'-Squash, and was astounded to meet Violet in our own front yard.