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.