MISS FLOY AND SARGE

 

Miss Floy Whitten is Paxton's other writer for the county paper; her Floy’s Flittings has its own little lattice-roses-bordered corner on the inside back page, and her regularly-printed poetry rhymes “hand” with “time” and the meter changes line to line, stanza to stanza. She leans toward flowers and trees and old times, and mostly Christian topics.   Her late husband, Frank, was the Farm Agent for the county, driving from farm to farm every day, and buried in piles of mysterious paperwork of numbers and bushels and bales and acres  at the office.   He was one of six brothers in a big, laughing, gathering family, who all took Miss Floy right to their hearts the minute she said “I Do.”    And his several Aunts treated her like a daughter all their days.  Miss Floy's own daughter is Amanda Bridger, the young woman who caters parties around Paxton.

Miss Floy is newly retired from the county Welfare Department, where she worked for thirty-something years. She’s still known as the “spare-made” lady amongst the clients who came into the office, in contrast to the abundantly-contoured Mrs. Waddell who lives way out in the country over at Expedia.

Miss Floy wears her hip-length silvering hair in a beautiful upsweep reminiscent of a Gibson Girl, the soft roundness of it like a shining brioche, and the effect completed by the little round bun atop. When she works in her garden, it’s as if a beautifully-coifed woman from the Gay Nineties has suddenly donned saggy-butt jeans and an old shirt, picked up a hoe, and landed for a time amongst the bean-rows, with the sun glinting from that glorious hair.

She calls people for news from their section of the county, and will sit there with the phone tucked aside her cheek, writing down the names and places they’ve been. And if there’s been a party---she’ll put down every detail, including tablecloths and menu and the honorees’ attire. If they haven’t been anywhere special or if they’ve just had their in-laws over for supper, she’s happy to jot down the recipes for the pot roast and Bundt cake, and print that---sitting there as serious as Scripture, getting every word, every step, taking down Cream a’ Mushroom like it’s foie gras, and asking “Now do you cream the Parkay first?”

Miss Floy will also shell your beans and peas and pick out your pecans; she keeps her flour and sugar and coffee and other dry goods in a Camistry Set on her red-formica counter.   And one of the prize wedding presents for any Paxton bride is a set of Miss Floy's crochet-edged pillow-slips, with the variegated edgings and little patterns stitched around the edge with a stencil-foot on her Singer.


She has a happy little dog named Sarge, taken in a year ago when her sister at Moon Lake fell heir to her elderly neighbor's three Pee-kanese. The old lady hadn't been able to care for the dogs very well in her last days, and the two females cost Sis ninety dollars apiece at the vet just to have that long, clotty hair got back in order. Miss Floy took one look at that miserable, tangled mass of long blonde hair on the little boy dog and had him clipped, high and tight. Even his long flowing ears are squared off at the bottom like the little Dutch-Boy on the paint can, and his muscular little body, clipped close to show his stance, looks so much more like Pug than Peke, it led to her nephew's calling him a Puke. He doesn't seem to mind, and seems to REALLY like his haircut.


And Miss Floy also writes little vignettes of local interest for the REA newsletter, published every month by the Power Company, and has quite a following amongst the rural set. Her piece on the Civil War autograph book, amazingly carried by Mr. Morris Steele's great-grandfather from his injury at Shiloh all the way through incarceration at Ft. Warren, collecting autographs and messages on every page, from Generals to guards to doctors to fellow prisoners, was picked up by the Commercial Appeal and printed almost word-for-word, though they DID send their own photographer to make the pictures.

PAXTONISMS

 

Do come and sit at our table---you're welcome any time. The coffeepot stands ready, the tea kettle can reach a cheery boil in the time it takes to reach down a teapot, and there's usually something sweet in one cake dome or another.

You may or may not understand the language, for it's foreign to many of our visitors, at least the first time---we speak Southern, and it translates easily.

Some of the things you hear may be:

I Wishta gosh-----I do sincerely hope.

I hopeta shout----- I couldn’t agree more; it's as fervent as my hope of Heaven.

Hind Wheels of Destruction-----My first MIL’s description of either a messy house or the looks of a lady whose grooming left something to be desired.

Omtombow-----I am speaking of . . .

Hissy fit-----Angry outburst ranging from actual hissing at the object of wrath, when others may overhear, to a screeching, plate-throwing tantrum. Usually indulged in by females, but a Good Ole Boy, who has witnessed these all his life, may surprise you with quite a creditable one of his own, on occasion. Such as being on a charter boat and having the marlin get clean away. With his $700 Star Chair Rod.

Screamin’ heenie-----Ditto, but starts out full-blown, without any of the hissy buildup.

Slick over cloudy-----Raining and gonna get worse.

Come up a wind-----Started to storm.

Commenceta rainin’-----Began to rain, especially spoken by someone WAY out in the field when the storm started.

Takin’ on-----Crying or wailing or gnashing of teeth.

Don’t let on-----Do not dare speak of what I just told you.

Havin' a Dog in the fight-----An interest beyond curiosity in whatever’s happening. If the proceedings will affect you personally, you can complain, speak up, or sue. Otherwise, hush up about it.

Lit a shuck-----Ran fast, usually AWAY from something. Paralleled by Bat-outa-Hell.

Puttin’ on the dawg-----Putting on airs; or dressing, entertaining, or purchasing beyond your means.

Puttin’ the big pot in the little one-----Entertaining a big crowd.

Might could-----Perhaps I’ll be able to.

Ditten GO to-----Did not meant to.

Don't know Pea Turkey-----Has absolutely no knowledge of the person, place, happening or idea. (but is usually willing to talk lengthily about it, anyway)

Ain't seen Hide nor Hair of him-----Have not been in his presence, nor have I even waved at him in the road

A Coon's Age-----A LONG time, as referenced by the supposed years of a long-lived raccoon. Spoken mainly to someone you haven't seen in a while----Why, I haven't seen YOU in a coon's age.

Drunk as Cooter Brown-----WAY past inebriated, up into the territory of the mythical (or factual) Cooter, who seems to be the epitome of tosspots

Great Day in the Morning!-----Exclamation of surprise, shock, or admiration, depending in inflection

Shine-----Moonshine---the clear, distilled corn squeezin's sold in quart jars from the back of pickups. Usually in the dark.

I DO declare!-----Exclamation of mild astonishment. I'd totally forgotten the froufraw when my Sis' college roomate was all up in arms that her Not-from-the-South Sister-in-Law was about to name the new baby niece Heidi Claire. Poor thing just didn't know. I don't remember how that came out.

I Swannee!-----I DO declare, but exasperated

You DO beat all-----Also depends on the inflection and voice---can be a form of approval, in expressing admiration or thanks. In an exasperated tone---getting close to ON MY LAST NERVE.

Which brings us to various levels of anger:

There's spittin' mad, and there's "it 

flew all over me," and there's "I could 

just pinch his head off," as well as 

"so mad I could fly." REALLY bad 

occasions are reserved for "I could 

just go to bed and eat Velveeta right 

out of the box."   

There is one more that just popped out

 of my mind and mouth one hot day;  Leah 

says it makes MY kind of sense.  "He's 

mad enough to go out in the yard and 

shoot PEEPS off a stump."  

And Chris' personal favorite: The 

famous last words of Good Ole Boys:

"HEY, Y'ALL!!  WA-CHIS!!"

POPULATING PAXTON

 I've long had a whole townful of folks circulating through my head---they're folks I've known, or would like to, or composites of two or three interesting or memorable characters of the past or present.   Perhaps forty of them have been introduced in here, and on my PAXTON PEOPLE blog, and I hope to someday combine the whole town into a story or two.   I get going describing folks---their talents, their houses, their attributes and afflictions, and their interactions with other folk, and I can do pretty well up to the point of GIVING THEM SOMETHING TO DO.   A Plot.   A Story that would be worth reading, interweaving lives and actions into some semblance of a book.   Someone will suddenly come to me, with a whole personality and whims and a life of their own, and it seems as if I've actually known them, and there's no trouble putting down whatever comes to mind, but then there they sit.   

And I have whole gaggles of Paxton folks circulating through my head---church folks and townfolk and folks scattered on their farms and little bits of land. They are from memories, wishes, and imagination, with no insinuation of which is which, since they feel like long-worn quilts from a fragrant old cedar-chest: scraps and pieces of whole cloth, aprons and dresses and shirts and a bolero or two.  There might be a small swatch from the minuscule Barbie-skirt on Harliss’ plate, or a small snip from the MOTHER pillow sent from Japan by Carey Luke Bishop, while he was overseas.  Perhaps a bit of lace from one of Mrs. Keen's dainty handkerchiefs she always had tucked into the sleeve of her silky blouse.   The imaginary black-as-night silk cloak swirled in Miss Mavis’ wake makes an appearance, as well as a whole section of pattern composed of bits from prom dresses, bridesmaid’s dresses, piano recital dresses for generations of Paxton girls, all from the trusty needle of Mrs. Barbee.   The tales behind the stitches in all those generations of Hope Chests in that small town could populate a library, and and I want so much to tell those stories.

 

  All the pieces are separate, thus far, of different colors and patterns, velvet and gingham and denim and suede---good broadcloth and flimsy voile, taffeta and bridal satin folded with khaki, ancient woolen---blue and gray,  sailcloth, stars and stripes, but just as I've never put needle to cloth with any useful or beautiful result, it's an uphill climb to get them all cut and sewn into a quilt pattern and a story and a town.

I'm workin' on it. 

SONNETS AND ROSES

 

About this time twenty years ago, we were in England. Headed for Scotland, of course---the coveted trip of my lifetime, planned for decades.   Our first real stop was at Stratford-on-Avon, home of the Bard, and we toured his home and gardens, with a lot of picture-taking and exclaiming at Anne Hathaway’s lovely thatched cottage. We gazed up at the Juliet window in his house, its mullioned shutters open over the little balcony, and as we entered, we were swept up in a tide of the very young “Up With People”-type crowd that had surrounded us in the airport, their red polos and khakis their admission to the club.

I lost sight of everyone in my tour group, so I just explored at my leisure, seeing the canopied bed (a rope-suspension affair that I cannot fathom being comfortable, no matter how many geese were sacrificed to the mattress), and the rough tables at which I imagined seeing him penning his magnificent verse. The fireplaces still held ashes, the candle-drip still clung to yellowed, bent tallow, and the windows looked out upon the colours of Spring.

I stood for a moment in the Juliet-window, not imagining a young swain come to sweep me away, but trying to grasp the universe of ideas and words and contexts which must have whizzed through that amazing mind as he gazed out. His words poured onto the paper, onto the stage, into minds and hearts and down through wars and changings and evolvings of our world, making the phrasings and idiom of yesteryear into a part of our own vocabulary, sometimes understood, sometimes lost to Time, but an integral part of today’s theater and language, fresh as from the Globe.

I wandered on through, emerging into the gardens. Our guide had said that we had two hours to see the site and the town, with a hand-waved direction toward the souvenir shops branching out on almost every street. I stepped into the first shop and bought ten postcards and a tiny, pocket-sized golden book of sonnets.

Walking out and around, I headed away from commerce and tourist confusion, in the direction of the big parking lot where waited our bus. Within a couple of blocks of there, I spied a little gravel-paved courtyard within a small gateway, which framed an enormous yellow rosebush with branches reaching up to the housetops. I couldn’t resist stepping in for a moment, and since the sign advertised only weekday hours and the "closed" sign on the door greeted anyone who might enter that deserted, walled place, I realized that my Saturday presence would probably be of no bother to anyone.

Whilst all my traveling companions were strolling and looking, buying garish bits and pieces of take-home and send-to memorabilia to commemorate their time in this place, I walked to a low stone wall encircling the plot, sat beneath the great golden umbrella of roses, and read all the sonnets in the Summer sunshine of the place they were created.

Try buying a keychain or a coffee mug that can top that.

WILTED LETTUCE SALAD

If you had any kind of garden in the South, a warm Spring morning could engender a craving that lasted for a whole morning of hoeing and watering and maybe picking those first tender little mustard greens or early lettuce or spinach; just thinking of that gentle vinegar tang and the bacon dressing could keep you craving so's you could finish up or at least get to a good Quittin' Place before eleven.  Small green onions, still akin to chives---those are worth picking early, before their growth is fully on them. A cousin-onion or two, fifty-cent-size white ones above the dirt and beginning to widen their shoulders,   a handful of little ruby radishes unearthed gleaming in your hands, lots of grabs into the mustard-bed---these comprise one of the glories of the Southern cooking lexicon: Wilted Lettuce Salad.   You can even put in a pan of crusty cornbread while you're out picking, so as to get the oven done early and the heat abating in the house. 

It’s a last-minute dish, with the cool little greennesses washed and spun and snugged into a bag with damp paper towels, or it cooperates quite well with a quick trip to the garden to pick the best leaves, then a sluice of cold water and a dry-patting with paper towels, and not even a trip into the house. Set the patio or arbor table, put out all the food, pour the iced tea, THEN bring out the dressing and dress the salad at the last possible second.

Use any lettuce but iceberg to make this salad. Redleaf and frilly Simpson are good. Any combination of looseleaf lettuce or arugula or spinach meld beautifully. And best of all, if you can get away with it: the tiniest, just-unfurled leaves of curly mustard, with the bittery-ness not QUITE developed, just enough to punctuate all the mild shyness of the little lettuces.  It takes a LOT of greens, folks, because of the shrinkage in the heat of the just-poured dressing, and also because there's a tendency to just fork up great mouthfuls of the tender vegetables with that salty/vinegary tang, more than if they were just greens from the pot-likker or pole beans in their juice.   

You can start the bacon frying while you go prepare the lettuce and slice thin-thin little moons of the onion,   Get the bacon crisp, remove to drain, then crumble, but leave all those drippings in the skillet. Make sure the drippings are still hot; stir a teaspoon of sugar into a good glug of cider or wine vinegar (or rice vinegar, our favorite), along with a scant teaspoon of salt. Then pour this gently into the hot skillet, stirring with a long spoon.  

Have the torn greens in a big deep bowl, with the sliced onions and any other additions you choose. Pour on the hot dressing, add the bacon, toss quickly and serve---the aroma will make you swoon.  Set one of the chillun to grinding the peppermill over all while you toss and serve the tangy, more-than-salad mouthfuls with thick wedges of cornbread or thin, crisp ones---the marriage of limpening vegetables, in the best possible window between freshly-picked and gently cooked, is an unctuously sumptuous amalgam reached by few ingredients, with each lifted higher by the other.  

This sublime dish was the favorite of a neighbor, made in a huge crockery bowl with the heft of five bricks, and called "Wil-did Leddis Sallid" by her family. She sometimes threw in a several chopped boiled eggs, and the lagniappe was the saved-til-last treat: dipping that big ole long stirring-spoon into the bowl, hearing it scrape gently across the crockery, and spooning up some of the luscious, vinegar-y, bacon-y bowl-drippin's onto your cornbread.

A wonderful restaurant here used to make the dressing, bringing it out hot and fragrant in its own little pitcher, for pouring onto your spinach salad, which already had slices of the whitest lengthwise mushrooms, rings of red onion, and a little dish of crumbled bacon for sprinkling,. Each addition led the next, with the whole warm dressing/cool salad mixed at the last second and eaten while the flavors and temperatures were still at their best. That’s the closest restaurant version to the centuries-old Southern treat.

I'm thinking a table set out under our arbor space, candles flickering in time with the fireflies, and wide soup-bowls of this salad set before each guest, a gentle-fried egg atop, with a quick grind of pepper, and some thin cornbread wedges snuggled alongside for sopping up the last delicious juices.      I can't BEGIN to think what course could follow that. Maybe just a whole punchbowl full of Strawberry Shortcake---for four.