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.

LOVE THAT RED

 

I've been simply mesmerized in a vast collection of photos lately---mostly old ones, for another blog subject to come in its time, and in re-reading a friend's blog this morning, I was so caught  up in his story of a staid English uncle so enamoured of a lady that he caught a train from London to Scotland in 1928, simply to have luncheon with her.   If anything came of their romance, my friend never knew, but Uncle DID buy a house near her, and lived out his long life in the Highlands, leaving behind an enormous English country house and great rooms of furniture, which his family inherited.

The atmosphere of that Perhaps Love Affair was palpable in his words, for he writes exquisitely of beautiful things and people and times, that I could see the haze of smoke in their air, the scent of Winter-long furs and Toujours Moi and dustings of face powder, with a little rim of unblotted lipstick on the unfiltered cigarette paper left in the ashtray.

 

It so reminded me of some of the women in my own family, whose great presences were punctuated by scents and colours---good perfume and wafts of Coty powder, and one Aunt whose lipstick fascinated me so as a child and teen, I could scarcely look her in the eyes, for staring at the odd configuration of her bright lips:

 

(from my own blog---a memory from a far time, published several years ago):   Her red nail polish matched her lipstick, which was put on with the oddest little down-strokes side-by-side in the middle, higher than her own lipline, then by doing a big old theater-mask-mouth which stretched her bottom lip TIGHT while she did a corner-to-corner Revlon swoop (Love That Red). That lip totally covered, she bit them tight together, transferring a coat to the top lip. The original two little pointy places right in the middle stood brightly high like the tops of angel-wings, their line of demarcation flowing into the flat dryness of a sifty layer of Coty powder which clung to the downy hairs of her upper lip.

She was the Aunt of the Purse Peke, a perfect canine armful of happy spun-gold and exuberant licks, and the longtime owner of a monkey which reached his demise by the Winter-time perch around a floor lamp which slowly decimated his tail and thus he went.   At eight, I wrote him a little epitaph for his grave out in her garden.  "HIS TAIL WAS COLD.  HIS TALE IS TOLD."   

She was also loving Sister-in-Law to her husband's two "afflicted" brothers---the term of those days to convey an unfortunate condition, usually from birth.  They were both handicapped, and she was a true, helpful, uplifting Sister.  And her "other" sideline which got her and her husband talked about and into the calaboose---perhaps moire non, when more mature subjects are discussed.   

THE STOCKIN' BAG

(Prelude Precaution:   I have no idea how all the search clicking was inserted into this post.  Pray do not click on them, for I know not where they go, nor do I endorse their presence here).

I’ve spoken so much of my Mammaw, of the garden and the swang and the Stow-ries, that I’ve seemed to pass over the three-months-a-year that we had my other Mammaw---Mammaw B., with us at our house.  Daddy was the only one of her children who chose to stay right where he was raised (a great swath of his teen years they lived way out in the country, but still near the same town).   Our house was built on the block where he was born, in the house catty-cornered back next to the railroad, and our lots contained the playground of all the neighborhood boys, with the remnants of their tree-house up the big oak in our front yard all my life.  

His four surviving siblings all moved to Memphis when they were grown (two older brothers died in the Flu Epidemic of 1918, ages five and seven), and sweet Aunt Maggie passed away when I was about fifteen.   So they settled it that Mammaw would rotate the year, with times at each house, and ours fell across the Summer months.   I was always of the opinion that Mother chose those months for her because we had an enormous garden right there on our yard, plus big pea and corn patches out at the country place, and since she didn’t fancy her Mother-in-Law’s company too much anyway, setting her down with a pan of peas or beans to shell every day  was a good way to keep her useful. 

And when she didn’t have her hands in the Pea-Pan, or in the cooler months, Mammaw would crochet---that woman could could use that needle like Stravinski with the baton---she could take a stick and a string and crochet a 3-D version of the Sistine Chapel, I thought. And she had my sly way of going up to the drugstore to sneak a look at the magazine and or comic-book counter, standing there running her eyes over the PICTURES---not the directions of all the stitches---and come home and get going on that pineapple or that pear blossom or star, just from seeing and counting those stitches.   It was the most magical thing I’d ever seen anybody do, and I still marvel at the gift.

And she made me one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever owned---a green silk “stocking bag” with tiny pastel flowers---I’d heard and read of silk---all those little worms working and making that magical thread, but this was the first I’d ever held in my hand.   And you COULD hold it---it was about a foot long, handle-tip to bottom, but with nothing in it, that ethereal stuff could be held entirely in my hand, not a stitch showing.  Those slim skeins of shimmery green looked like they could have been threaded onto the old Singer for sewing.

 She’d say, “Now this is for your Hankachiffs, for now, but it will be your Stockin’ Bag when you get grown, to keep them from getting runs.”

Little did she know of the dreams I’d dreamt of those slender boxes of Fifteen Denier, laid pressed and folded shimmery in the Specials Case at Lipson’s---that great treasure-house of scents and fabrics and shoes.  All of us little girls loved to peek into those mystical drawers of such ethereal wares, we were sure they were not of this earth, for what human could knit such fey cloth as to read through?  And a hint of something to come---something so femininely mysterious about tucking such secrets beneath your skirt---we all marveled and awaited our own turn at such secrecy. 

We mooned for those unreachable garments from the time we could tiptoe high enough to see the contents of those tempting boxes on Aunt Lucy’s shelves, as well, in there in the mysteries such as a box or two of Coty powder, fancy little combs and brushes, and little display of those odd small pull-tab nipples bought for a dime by poor Mamas to use on Co-Cola bottles for their babies’ milk. I can still smell the air from that treasure-cave when the door slid open---a mixture of my Sunday-School-Teacher’s cologne and a new doll’s skin. 

And lo, at about sixteen, we would be seen at church with leg-sheen like no other---having pulled on our our first pair of stockin’s and our ladylike manners with them. 

I’d never put any of my stockings in that lovely silk bag---I was too struck on practically IRONING the things to get them back to their pristine lay-down fold in that box---every single one in its own---I remembered perfectly which in which, where we bought them, or who all gave me each of those five pairs for graduation, and treated them accordingly.   That bag still had handkerchiefs and neck scarves and once a little secret ring for quite a while, and that was purpose enough.

 And not until the advent of mini-skirts and the time at Ole Miss beautiful Rose Clayton (later to become a Senator’s wife) accidentally flashed her racy garterbelt and stocking-tops to the entire audience at Fulton Chapel on Sorority Choir Contest night, did we slowly and unwillingly make the change over to Panty-Hose.    Pity.

 

 

TAAK, DECEMBER, 1946

 

Sometimes in an everyday day there comes along a bit of lagniappe, beyond the bright sun down the stairs and the call from a long-ago friend---a charming and beguiling thing which just causes your breath to slow and all the sounds around you to grow still. . .

This is one such, a lovely missive which has been somewhere in the world since I was four years old, and which, until now, had hovered unseen and unread, just beyond my vision, like a quiet sunbeam across the rug.    I’m not familiar with the writer, and I cannot wait to delve into her words---I’m afraid if I find her right this minute, I might just dive in like digging a spoon into a whole pie.

I just cannot tell you, so see for yourself.   A Thank You note for a Christmas gift from a friend, written by author Sylvia Townsend Warner to Alyse Gregory, in December, 1946.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dearest Alyse,

Usually one begins a thank-letter by some graceless comparison, by saying, I have never been given such a very scarlet muffler, or, This is the largest horse I have ever been sent for Christmas. But your matchbox is a nonpareil, for never in my life have I been given a matchbox. Stamps, yes, drawing-pins, yes, balls of string, yes, yes, menacingly too often; but never a matchbox. Now that it has happened I ask myself why it has never happened before. They are such charming things, neat as wrens, and what a deal of ingenuity and human artfulness has gone into their construction; for if they were like the ordinary box with a lid they would not be one half so convenient. This one though is especially neat, charming, and ingenious, and the tray slides in and out as though Chippendale had made it.

But what I like best of all about my matchbox is that it is an empty one. I have often thought how much I should enjoy being given an empty house in Norway, what pleasure it would be to walk into those bare wood-smelling chambers, walls, floor, ceiling, all wood, which is after all the natural shelter of man, or at any rate the most congenial. And when I opened your matchbox which is now my matchbox and saw that beautiful clean sweet-smelling empty rectangular expanse it was exactly as though my house in Norway had come true; with the added advantage of being just the right size to carry in my hand. I shut my imagination up in it instantly, and it is still sitting there, listening to the wind in the firwood outside. Sitting there in a couple of days time I shall hear the Lutheran bell calling me to go and sing Lutheran hymns while the pastor's wife gazes abstractedly at her husband in a bower of evergreen while she wonders if she remembered to put pepper in the goose-stuffing; but I shan't go, I shall be far too happy sitting in my house that Alyse gave me for Christmas.

Oh, I must tell you I have finished my book—begun in 1941 and a hundred times imperilled but finished at last. So I can give an undivided mind to enjoying my matchbox.

Sylvia

P.S. There is still so much to say...carried away by my delight in form and texture I forgot to praise the picture on the back. I have never seen such an agreeable likeness of a hedgehog, and the volcano in the background is magnificent.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Present Day musings on that long-away and far-ago gift:    What a fabulous missive to receive for a present, beyond a mere THANK YOU---it carries all the charm of the small treasure and the imagination of a talented writer, and can you not smell the sawdust of those golden small plies of wood so intricately joined and mitered?  

I love to think that this small trinket has been passed down in that family, still treasured and kept perhaps behind glass, in memory of those two women of the past, and their friendship or kinship or fond regard of each other.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

LAWN TEA, OCTOBER 20, 2025  POST #1400

FLIGHT SCHOOL

 

On our Adventure walks, we’re always on the lookout for Fairy houses and activities, and so when we spotted this seeming scar on the tree,  we realized we’d happened on a treasure:  See that tall, thin line extending casually from top to bottom?  That is the Ingress:  the magical doors which slide silently back, revealing a perfectly wonderful scene---the many, many tiers of a Fairy School, its vast heights providing high halls in which the little flightlings practice their takeoffs and landings, their swoops and swirls.

The inside is one great chamber of dozens of towering ledges, some of each kind of surface from which a fledgling flyer might be expected to have to use for takeoff:  Grassy plains, with soft landings and gentle errors, til the little wings catch  their wind;  tree limbs and lacy bushes and crannies in the rock, as well as stony ledges over great chasms, as the little ones grow in verve and skill.   There’s even a water-ledge, its surges held magically from the overflow, each drop hanging precipitously yet never falling onto the balconies below, as the tiny mer-fae burst   from the water masquerading as minnows, spilling silvery droplets as they rise.

 There are delightful classes in floating down on frilly filigree of banisters, ornate brims of opera-boxes, shelves of books and shining glassware.   Specially chosen cadets are schooled in Royal Comportment and Matters of State, for gracing velvet cushions and behind-the-throne lounging ledges built into the back of every royal chair in every kingdom, for quick consultation or immediate dispatch, or just for the fun and honor of having such magical friends close at hand.

And there are indoor-type launches and landings as well, for learning the genteel art of set-down on carpet, stairs, marble floors of great halls.   There’s a special course in Hover-and-Float, for secret landings inside flowers or  behind sugar-bowls and muffin-stands on tea-tables.

  One afternoon features special guests, for it’s dedicated to alighting gently and safely on the shoulders of Folk-friends. 

All these charming scenes reside behind that pale green door, as tall as the gates of fabled cities, rising in tiers of colour and form, as the patient trainers lift and guide, console and cheer, teaching their wee charges to fly.

And when those doors glide open, the glitterings and gleamings, the magical spells and the delight of flight---those are too much for most eyes.  But when you’re lucky enough to be there for the opening---when you’re quick, and when you BELIEVE---THEN you’ll see something you’ll never forget.

           GRADUATION PROMENADE

                YUME CYAN

NEARLY SEVENTY YEARS

 

Pretty near SEVENTY years ago---September 26, 1956, my best friend Linda got her Mama to drive us to the Tupelo Fair to see Elvis perform. We were just  in High School, and like many a young’un of all eras, we got together on the phone the night before, to decide on what to wear. Sitting there in our September-night houses, with perhaps the fan going and the heat of the day subsiding, we threw all sense to the nonexistent winds and chose to wear our new black skirt-and-sweater sets, bought for the new school year---both sweaters were long-sleeved wool, pushed up to the elbow, and hers was angora. We got dressed the next morning and off we went, confident in our sophistication, the curl of our immaculate ponytails, and our stylish outfits, decades ahead of Fernando’s infamous “It’s better to look good than to feel good.”

It was HOTTTT, even early morning, even in the car. They had a BIG Oldsmobile, with the flip-forward front seats for getting into the back. It was dark green with white leather seats, and her whiny brother had to ride in the front because he got carsick---which was fine with us, because neither of us wanted to be stuck in the back seat with him, anyway.

We’d first hoped that Linda's Mama would go and visit with her sister, who lived there in town---but the even more fervent hope was that she wouldn’t go off and saddle US with Little Brother while we had mature lady-things to do. But he wanted to stay for the Fair, and so they both stayed. We had matinee tickets, because we had to try to get home before dark.

We carried a picnic lunch in a big carrier, and we had to take it in when we went through the gate, so we took turns carrying the thing, and baby-sitting it when the others would go on the rides. I don’t think she and I ate a bite, for the show started about 2 p.m., and we were just so nervous to go and get into a good spot. No reserved seats---no seats at all in a lot of places, and as we entered, Randy started to whimper and pull back, because of the crowd, surging and already screaming all around us, and Mrs. T. had to stay behind with him, as we went WAY forward. The stage was a big plank platform, and all these years I’ve remembered it as a flatbed truck, somehow---maybe there were wheels visible. It was all open in the sun, and I’m sure we were limp as dishrags by the time we got as far front as we could.

We were WAY early, and as we stood in that September sun, with the sweaty, nervous crowd pressing ever close and closer, I could just feel the fever in my clothes---that wooly outfit, so chic and so sophisticated, was just intolerable, and the sweat was running down our faces. We’d grabbed a few each of those awful brown NIBROC “towels” in the restroom---the ones like pinking-sheared grocery bags, and we were steadily trying to dab our foreheads and not let anyone see, as the Coty powder from our dollar compacts dissolved and our Tangee lips must have looked like teeny-bop Riddlers.

There was none of the fanfare of later years---no dramatic 2001/Zarathustra and strobing lights---they just announced him, and there he was---Elvis, beginning his first number. And we were vindicated: The King was wearing almost an exact duplicate of our own outfits (he was in pants, of course). Despite the darkness of his own clothes, he just shone, up there in the sun---his hair was closer to REAL hair at the time, hardly distinguishable from any haircut in our acquaintance, and he was SO beautiful.

His shirt looks black in the picture, but I swear it was a deep, sapphire-y blue, kind of glinting as he turned and moved, gleaming almost electric sometimes in the depths, like the changes when you blow onto a cat’s fur, with the light hitting the velvet just right. I heard later that his Mama had made that shirt, and it was no big deal at the time, but now, it’s a thing of rare grace to think of---that just-starting-out Most Enduringly Successful Show-Biz-Personality-of-All-Time, wearing a garment made by his beloved Mama on her old Singer. And he was proud to wear it.

We were two shy small-town girls, in every sense, and would never have intruded ourselves onto anything, but somehow we were RIGHT BENEATH HIS FEET, right up at the front of the stage, with fans who were screaming and crying and reaching fervently toward him, as if to Touch His Garment. Flashbulbs were popping and the music was blasting, and he was gyrating and we were literally burning to death inside those infernal wooly clothes, and it was like no other experience I can imagine.

And of the continuation, MOIRE NON.

SWEET AND LOVELY

In addition to shirking my attentions to my own blog, I’ve missed out lately on a lot of the wonderful ones I’ve enjoyed over the years.   One of these is CAKE WRECKS, and there's a cheer-you-up, BRIGHT you, in a little story-in-cake.

The tiny, timeless characters from all over the world of baking are simply the sweetest ever, and the little poem to accompany is spot-on perfect.

https://www.cakewrecks.com/home/2017/5/21/story-time-sweets.html

RIPPLES FROM ANOTHER TIME

 

REFLECTION FROM TEN YEARS AGO---You know how you meet someone and instantly that person becomes a part of your life-memories, even though you never see them again, nor they ever think of you as well.   Just a small encounter at a restaurant, a child of such grace and charm that her tiny being captured my heart in that moment.   Often in these ten intervening years, I've wondered if she's doing well in school, or is she happy and dancing, or perhaps she's had a wonderful something in her life that would BRIGHT me to know.   However, wherever, I hope she is still that beautiful young lady whose small touch on my day has resounded in such a strange, welcome way, and I wish her WELL.  

From September, 2015:  Leah and I had been to Sunday lunch at a salad restaurant, and she had lingered with a takeout-container to collect some for her lunches of the week.   I stood in the lobby, and met a small girl whose sweet smile and fabulous, luxuriant hair simply captivated my interest.  The waiting line was sparser, but still going through, and I looked down and across the divider to see the most beautiful child---a little girl of about three, with the most astonishingly-beautiful hair---just a shining waterfall up in a tight band---not a ponytail, somehow, but across the width of her head and cascading down way past her waist.  She reached up, several times, lifting it by the sides and letting it fall sumptuously through her little hands as if she luxuriated in that special gift she carried.   Almost exactly like this, except not in "made" curls---more a cascading ripple of small gleaming waves, and the young lady was much tinier.

She turned and we smiled at each other.    I said, “You look very pretty today.”    She ducked her head, looked up, smiled again.     Catching a glimpse of the two Disney characters on her tiny shirt, I said, “Oh, do you like Elsa and Anna, too?   We do.”

She held her shirt-front out from her body for a look, and grinned.   “You know, we like them so much we had a FROZEN birthday party for my granddaughter,” I said.    Her Daddy had been smiling at the interchange, as she and I talked of the movie and the two sisters, and I went on to tell her about the party decorations and how much fun we had had.

He said,   “Her birthday’s tomorrow, and mine was yesterday”---then we got into the Happys and the “Mine was a few days ago, and Caro’s is Friday,”  with good wishes and general congratulations all around, like a bunch of happy Shriners at convention.       Isn’t it a marvel what just a smile among strangers will enkindle?

She still comes to my thoughts in happy dreams, this unknown little one, and so, wherever you are, Baby Girl, I hope you have had a wonderful decade, and wish you a future as bright as your smile.

A REAL HISSY-FIT

 

I’ve contemplated defining some Southern terms like “might could” and “come up a cloud,” before going on with adding any more characters to the Paxton census. But recently I read an etiquette question from a young woman who went to her first pitch-in lunch since she moved to the South.

She’d taken a cake as her contribution, and as everyone had been asked to take home whatever food remained on or in the dishes they’d brought, she picked up her plate with a bit of cake left, thanked the hostess graciously, and started for the door.

The hostess called out, in front of all the other guests, “Hey! You’re taking my PLATE!” Guest answered that was indeed her own plate---she’d brought the cake on it. Hostess replied, even more loudly, that it certainly WAS her plate, because it had a Christmas tree on it---going on in that vein, all but calling the guest a liar and a thief.

Embarrassed and chagrined that her first party in her new town had made her the center of such a spectacle in front of ladies she hoped would be her friends, the guest removed the Saran from the bit of cake and showed the hostess the plain white plate. Hostess made no apology beyond a grudging, “Well, it LOOKED like mine.”

The letter-writer asked if that were common behavior (and as my Mammaw would have said, it was VERY COMMON, indeed, but it certainly is not the norm where I come from). I answered her post, saying that it was NOT the usual way of doing things, and that the hostess certainly owed her more in the way of an apology than a four-year-old might be coerced to offer.

Then I explained an almost-entirely-Southern phenomenon---in other regions it might be called a fantod, or a “going off” or just plain RUDE. Down South it’s called a Hissy Fit.

You, My Dear, may have had your first (I hope) and last (more fervent hope) encounter with what is known as a Hissy Fit. And a very amateurish attempt, it was, pitched by someone who has not obtained her proper HF credentials, much like the hangers-on of Rock Stars and Movie Idols.

She THOUGHT she could, but failed miserably. She attained merely Rude, and SHE was the spectacle.

Southern Belles learn the power of the properly-thrown Hissy Fit in their cradles, and use them to good effect and AT THE PROPER TIME---in case of absolute, dyed-in-the-cotton rudeness from someone, or when they see another creature, human or animal, being abused. Gray areas less or more than these are cause for contemplation, reflection and consideration before throwing or refraining. A mistaken dish, no. An overheard bit of gossip, perhaps.

Catching Bobby Ray kissing Sissy Maud---Oh, Yeah.

A REAL Southern Belle KNOWS the difference, and is a model of calm and mannerly decorum, unless dire circumstances require. Some circumstances do require a Dressing Down, a Blessing Out, a taking-to-the-woodshed. Yours, however, did not do Any Such Of A THING.

Your hostess was NOT Raised Right, was probably a THAT CHILD, left to run roughshod over everyone in sight, and was exhibiting TRASHY WAYS.

She is a true blight on Belledom, and would be cut dead at any Garden Club, Debutante Ball, Fishfry, Huntin' Camp or Eastern Star South of the M&D. Her lack of apology is certainly no surprise. I apologize on behalf of Belles everywhere; we do not hold with such nonsense, No Sirree.

I truly trust that you will not have any further truck with such a hussy.   I'll bet she even put dark meat in the chicken salad.

PAST PERFECT

 There’s a dry whisper to all the memories of the Aunts and some of the Uncles of my childhood, for their clothes and shoes and selves seemed crisp, somehow---the fabrics and nubby  linens, the book-edge cuffs and sharp pleats of the men’s pants.   Serge and gabardine and woolens are serious cloth, not like the frivols of today’s miss-matched cottons and all those man-made, unmemorable plasticky garments sported by the young.  

Everything seems so SHINY, now---so plastic, from lips to startled eyebrows to hair, from clothes to shoes and sparkling arrays of color enough to piece a rainbow.   Faces have a greasy texture, somehow, carried on to the glint of the most microscopic glitter in rouge and lipstick---with my Hot South history of life, I cannot fathom how it would feel to be swathed in all that shine.   

It seemed to me that the adults of those earlier times, with their hair, clothes, powdery skin---all seemed to be made of dry fabric, as if they spent their days pinned on a line in the wind.  

Even lively and laughing, they seemed preserved, somehow, with the little dust of powder on the ladies’ faces, the pencil-swoop of eyebrow, and the tissue-blotted lipstick a matte effect, in contrast to today’s glows and shines and all those modern glittery, gleamy cheeks and wetnesses of lip smeared and dabbed on at random moments, morning to night, while driving, in conversation, balancing purse and phone and applicator deftly, not missing a beat as that small wet wand swoops across a tightened lip, between children’s schedules and plans to meet Sherri-with-an-i for  lunch.

OUR ladies sat at Vanity Tables, carrying their taste for tulle-and-net-covered dressers way past their teens and into their married bedrooms, and the poufy effect was enhanced by all the powder puffs and atomizer bottles and dresser sets of comb, brush and mirror, all laid out as part of the room’s décor---all with their own perpetual haze of sifted-down face-and-body powder lending a soft focus to the entire scene.  A matching ashtray was quite a part of the arrangement, as well, holding a few lipstick-tipped butts as casually as the little china box held bobby pins, and the smoke-drifts added their own oddly inoffensive-then note to the perfume's bergamot and rose.  There was such an aura of forceful feminity to those dressing areas---an almost overwhelming sweetness to the smoke and the scents, like opening a long-ago perfume bottle with but a dried golden film in the bottom.

 They sat down and tended to things, those ladies in their boo-dwars, with everything to hand right on the countertop, and every gesture and application a serious business.

 The foundation swooped and smoothed just so, the powder, the tiny round rouge puff maneuvered delicately over contour of cheek, and the practiced touches of the lipstick, with the final lip-clench over a bit of Kleenex to avoid smears on glass or cigarette.   

   All the younger Aunts but one---my dear Aint May-ry-on-the-other-side, she of the soft  smooth skin and fine blonde hair, contagious laugh and forward-tilt in her pretty white pumps, a dry rustle to her own crisply-ironed cotton blouses and skirts---all those other Aunts smoked, as did my Mother and Daddy. And since I saw these relatives so seldom, and then always with all of us in our Sunday Clothes--“dressed-up” to me naturally meant a nice spray from the Chanel or White Shoulders bottle, the smooth hang of their luxurious fabrics in unfamiliar greens and browns and taupes, or some soft-toned mustards and yellows, and the ethereal suggestion of just the faintest wisp of Chesterfield or Kool.   It was simply a fact of life, that scent-addition encircling almost every adult in the family---either the honest sweat-and-khakis of a hard work-day, or Sunday clothes with their own dry-goods-store aroma mingling into the Old Spice/Coty/Shalimar/My Sin and smoke.

I loved to watch my visiting Aunts get dressed for the day, especially Aunt Cilla.   She had the most wonderful wardrobe of them all, from Goldsmith’s and Lowenstein’s in Memphis, all cut to fit her tiny frame.   She’d hang her things in the closet as soon as they arrived, in hanging bags-to-match-her-Samsonite.   Those smooth tobacco-brown cases held wonders never imagined by Aladdin in that cave---pale stockings-with-seams, all in a pink satin bag to keep them safe from runs, and stacks of pastel undies and gowns and dusters and the tiniest bedroom shoes of velvet and and beadwork and lace, cuddled into the Overnight Case with tiny satin sachet poufs tucked in.   Her real shoe-case was a square puzzle-box thing that folded out in several directions to display a half-dozen pairs of beautifully polished leather shoes---mostly peep-toes or sling-backs with heels which raised her height to at least 5’2”.

And the dresses and pants and little jackets with peplums, or that one darling “military-style” one which was a deep blue, cut off sharply at the waist, with gold buttons and the smallest hint of little epaulettes.  I remember she wore that one occasionally just around her shoulders, striding down our little main street in her perfectly fitted slacks and fabulous shining shoes. 

She was FROM there, but no longer OF there.   Being “from OFF” separated her and Uncle Jed from the rest of us, into a cool, sanctified place, of wide streets and hedged lawns, of brocaded spindly chairs and sofa (as opposed to our chunky, wide-armed prickly-covered COUCH and chair-to-match.  I remember that Daddy complained from Day 1 that you couldn't balance a glass or plate on the slopy arms of those things.

 Even having been ordered from Sears in Memphis and delivered on the TRAIN did not imbue ours with such cachet as the stately, delicate furniture in the still, sea-green living room in her House on Parkway).   It was, and still is, the absolute in décor and gracious living.

And if I could replicate it, I’d go there and simply DWELL, swinging along on my own two merry little clothespins.

SUMPTUOUS SUNDAY SUPPERS

 

I’ve always wondered about the people who had Sunday Night Suppers.   When I was a child and teen, those were portrayed in magazines and TV commercials and cookbooks as a meal apart from any other, with chafing dishes and pale trays of Welsh Rarebit and Chicken Veronique cooked and served right there on the coffee-table by chic women in Hostess Gowns.

Even the attire was special---long robish Auntie Mame dresses  sweeping  the floor as the ladies daintily stirred and arranged the food, floating past their smiling, well-groomed children in a cloud of Chesterfield smoke, while they all conversed or sat neatly awaiting Disneyland on their pale-ivory Jetson TVs. 

My Mother had a robe kinda like that, a long pale pink quilted one, a gift from Aunt Cilla, and I longed with my heart that she’d wear that some Sunday night and we’d cook in the living room, all fresh food for special, instead of the perfectly wonderful leftovers from the good Sunday Dinner we’d had right after church.   

Never happened.  Though the books and magazine were couched in terms of "taking the trouble out of all the planning," for those special weekly evenings, our own leftovers WERE certainly perfectly good.  Even a Day of Rest could leave you too tired to cook again, and Mother would no more have worn that robe to cook in than she’d fly. 

 I loved those pictures, and coffee-table cooking or serving, in those rooms of stick-legged furniture amongst the knotty-pine walls and pyramid lampshades and drifts of Arpege seemed an exotic thing to me, like people sitting cross-legged on carpets in India or Arabia, around an ornate communal dish.  And of course, Sunday Night Suppers were even more elegant.

 Instead of being in Church for the fifth hour that day like me, in the same clothes and with the same folks---neither of which were as fresh or bright as their first appearance at Ten O-clock Sunday School, I imagine.

And that all the classy folks were home on Sunday nights, freshly dressed for Supper and graciously anticipating that gentle, rich fare.   And it always happened at Six O’Clock.   Nobody told me that, and I didn’t read it.   It just WAS, somehow, the Right Time.

All the magazines listed small, easy-to-prepare egg or chicken or cheese dishes, some with their own specific bread or biscuits, and sometimes the almighty TOAST POINTS to serve as cushion beneath those lovely concoctions.    Things with sauces were lavishly portrayed, as were NESTS of things---rice or grated potatoes or mashed potatoes or chow mein noodles, to cuddle all those splendid sauced things in.

After all, chafing dishes were invented especially so you could put a can of mushroom pieces and a jar of paminna in most any chicken dish, and call it a la King.

There were often crepes, one time savory and another, sweet.  And THAT one I had a hard time getting.  I’d MADE crepes, and you certainly didn’t rely on the iffy Fahrenheit of a Sterno can, not if you had a dozen crepes to turn out, and then the sauce besides.

Anything in a casserole dish that you could nap with white sauce and brown was perfect for a Sunday Supper.  Extra points for a little Colman’s in the sauce.

And always, always, the green peas.  Everything required peas.  And never had I ever seen such a green pea in my life---the bright fresh color in the pages was tiers above the gray-green softness in the School Day can, and even the short-term crop of English Peas we grew in the Spring were shelled and boiled and creamed into canned-pea gray.   I guess if I’d peeked into the pot, somewhere between TWO MINUTES and BABY FOOD, that heavenly color might have shone for an instant.

Things in Rings were immensely popular, and that's all I have to say about that.

There was usually a light, colorful dessert of daintily cut fruit or fancifully-molded sherbets or Jello.   Both salads AND desserts were of the fiddly-poo sort, with nary a normal cake or pie in sight.   And they had NAMES.   The above is called "Cut Glass Salad," and it's usually made with several different colors of Jello, made separately, cut into cubes, and then folded into whipped cream or Kool Whip with more Jello to make it set.  And all cooks know that that lady above had to go around and wash the face of every pee-diddly cube of that Jello up there to get it to show through.

Perfection salad also comes to mind (though seldom voluntarily), and though I like every one of the ingredients, together it seems a misbegotten match, too much like putting Italian dressing over marshmallows and beets.  This one, like most of the others of my childhood, reminds me of a mother Horta and her babies.  

There always seemed to be a plate somewhere of tiny weenies on picks, or crab puffs and exotic-sounding devils-on–horseback in the timer-set Tappan as you took your ease, awaiting a mere TING and a graceful bend and sweep to waft them to the living room.  

Good Luck on that, with the folks that I knew.   Knew personally, that is, for I never doubted that there must have been people named Carstairs or Langdon or Van Something who surely enjoyed such sumptuous evenings. 

And of What They Were Watching:  Moire non.