Mayberry, My Hometown

The following is a post I originally wrote in 2010, but given the passing of Andy Griffith, I felt it worth repeating.





♫ My hometown is the greatest place I know,
Where the people I find
are gentle and kind
and the living easy and slow. ♫

These are the opening words to the song Bee Taylor and Clara Edwards wrote as a tribute to their hometown, Mayberry, North Carolina. Their hometown, my hometown.

There were many people responsible for The Andy Griffith Show: Sheldon Leonard, Aaron Ruben, Richard Linke, Bob Ross, Frank Myers, Sid Hickox, a splendid cast and crew, and a host of some of the era's greatest script writers. Though all these persons contributed immensely, I give my greatest thanks to Andy Griffith, himself, without whom there would never have been the classic sitcom.

I grew up on The Andy Griffith Show.  Back in the days when families had only one television set, our entire family would gather in front of our little black and white portable on Monday nights and watch Andy together.  As a family.  It didn't matter if the dishes hadn't yet been done or homework finished; it was time for Andy and things of lesser importance could wait.

When Andy decided, after eight seasons in the top ten, to leave the series while it was still on top, the show evolved into Mayberry, RFD. Andy made several guest appearances, but the star became Ken Berry, as farmer and councilman Sam Jones. Andy reportedly stayed on as a story consultant, a role he had played, uncredited, since the beginning; indeed, he contributed to the writing of many, many scripts. The Andy Griffith Show, already in daytime reruns, went completely into Rerun Land, where it has stayed...for forty six years.

I watch Andy at every opportunity, even though I know every episode, even though I can quote much of the dialogue, even though I can tell when a scene has been deleted, or lines have been cut, in order to make room for more commercials. My children grew up watching Andy, and I attribute the wholesome goodness, the solid principles of that show, for much of their fine character. The moral values of The Andy Griffith Show are deemed so great that many churches have adapted the series into their Sunday School lessons.

It was a simpler time. Even though the series was set in the sixties, Mayberry was unaffected by the volatile nature of the rest of the country: there was no sex, no drugs, no war in Vietnam, no race riots. Maybe that's why it stayed on the top of the Nielson ratings charts for so long - maybe Americans needed that weekly escape from the harsh realities of the era. Maybe that's why, to this day, it still flourishes in reruns - maybe we still need that escape to a place where the pace was slower, the people kinder, and all dilemmas were resolved in thirty minutes.

My hometown? No, not really, for Mayberry is, after all, a fictional little hamlet. But I feel more ties to Mayberry than I do to my real hometown; indeed, to any town in which I've ever lived. I know every business in town. The courthouse, where Sheriff Andy Taylor and deputy Barney Fife hold dangerous criminals - like town drunk Otis Campbell, who has his own key and is allowed to lock himself up and let himself out.  Floyd's Barbershop, where the men of the town gather to gossip and play checkers. The Mayberry Security Bank, where guard Asa Breeney sleeps soundly in a chair in the corner.  Walker's Drugstore, the Grand Theater, the Mayberry Hotel, the Snappy Lunch, Mr. Foley's Grocery, Fred Goss' Dry Cleaning, the All Souls Church. I know the houses of each citizen: Andy's two story house, where he lives with son Opie and Aunt Bee; Mrs. Mendlebright's Boarding House, where Barney cooks illegally on a hot plate; Mrs. Wiley's, where socialites gather for dances; the Darling cabin, way out in the mountains, reached by crossing the Robert E. Lee bridge (a tree that fell over a shallow spot in a creek.)

Some of the program's greatest moments involve...nothing. Nothing more than Andy and Barney sweeping up the courthouse and having aimless conversations; nothing more than the family sitting on the front porch after a full meal, humming and strumming guitar. And some great moments involve the zany antics of overzealous Barney, who is allowed one bullet only, and must keep it in his shirt pocket.


There were classic hilarious episodes, like Barney's First Car, The Pickle Story, The Great Filling Station Robbery, Barney and the Choir, Dogs, Dogs, Dogs, The Loaded Goat, and virtually anything involving Gomer Pyle, the Darling family, and Ernest T. Bass. But my favorite episodes involve strangers to the town, strangers who stumble upon a town stuck in time, and learn a lesson about themselves. In Man in a Hurry, impatient businessman Malcolm Tucker's car breaks down just outside Mayberry on a quiet Sunday morning, and, of course, the only thing open in Mayberry on Sunday is the church. Mr Tucker becomes outraged at the townsfolk, desperate to get to his important business in Raleigh, but by the day's end, he has learned to appreciate the slow pace, the friendly people, the generosity he's offered. Or Bailey's Bad Boy, in which spoiled young man Ronald Bailey sideswipes a farmer's truck, and is arrested and detained in the Mayberry jail. His lesson comes from watching Andy's firm but loving discipline of Opie when Opie breaks a window with a baseball. Or Sermon For Today, in which a visiting minister preaches to the congregation to "slow down, take it easy, what's your hurry?" He never realizes that Mayberrians have always lived by that adage.

Even though Andy was the sheriff, most of the episodes dealt with home and family and small town values. Barney Fife summed it up accurately in the episode Andy on Trial, when he said, "...when you're a lawman and you're dealing with people, you do a whole lot better if you go not so much by the book, but by the heart."

By the heart. That was the message that The Andy Griffith Show drove home.

I owe Mayberry and Andy Griffith a debt of gratitude; for teaching me and my children patience, kindness, a sense of fairness, and for entertainment value that simply cannot be matched.

Many of the cast and crew are now deceased, but they will forever be young on screen and in memories. What a legacy.

Thank you, Andy.

(Added July, 2012, after Andy's passing, and paraphrasing lines from Opie the Birdman:)

Cruising With Willadean - Part I

Creamy walls shine pink with soft flattering light, lending to a refined hush in the spacious dressing room.  A tall woman almost hidden by the voluminous white wedding gown she carries crosses the dense carpet soundlessly and disappears behind one of several heavy draperies. At the far end, a man and woman in business attire relax in plush arm chairs, she reading a magazine and he tapping muffled messages into his netbook.  Barely perceptible strains of a familiar Bach melody waft through the room.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, agitated voice behind the drapes cuts through the serenity:  "Dante!  Git your silly ole tail in here, I cain't git this zipped up!"

No, she's not getting married, but Willadean is back.

When she announced a few months ago that she and some of the ladies from church would be going on a winter cruise, Dante immediately took charge.  He was the most traveled among us, he had been to the Caribbean twice, he knew cruise lines inside out.  Atlanta, he stated emphatically, was where we would go for her wardrobe; he had connections and with his help, Willadean would be the belle of the seafaring ball.

To this day, I'm not quite sure how he managed to bamboozle me into joining them, but early one Saturday morning, I found myself throwing an overnight bag into Monica's SUV and climbing aboard next to Miss Scarlett for The Big Atlanta Shopping Excursion.

The first thing Willa had to get, Dante insisted, was new foundation garments.  No, she could not go to Walmart, she needed "quality."  "You got some good stuff, Willadean Jean," he said, "but you ain't showin' it to its full potential."

"Don't you go talkin' 'bout my stuff, you devil," she reacted instinctively.  "You still a man an' it ain't fittin' for a man t' talk 'bout no women's stuff, silly-tail-lazy-tail-no-good-tail-ol'-heathen..." 

"You might want to try a thong," the lingerie salesclerk recommended, and when we all expressed our contempt for such garments, she hiked up her skirt right there in the ladies' dressing room and showed us how comfortable she was in her own.  "It just gives you such a sense of freedom," she insisted, completely ignoring the look of horror on our faces. We found it impossible to avert our eyes when she bounced away a few minutes later, her freedom most obvious under a clingy pleated skirt. 

Now that Willa had the proper foundation on which to build, Dante took us to one store after another.  "You'll need two formals and two semi-formals," he had begun before she had interrupted.  "I got plenty o' nice Sunday dresses."

"You plannin' on goin' to church on this ship?"

"No..."

"Then the church dresses are stayin' home."

We went in and out of so many shops over the next two days I lost count.  True to his word, Dante did know someone at most places.  Sometimes it would be a clerk, sometimes a manager.  Sometimes he'd tell the floor manager that he was good friends with Miss So-and-So in accounting or Mr. So-and-So at "the main office."  I didn't question him and neither did any of the store personnel.   In one store, Willadean found several gorgeous dresses, but they were miles out of our budget, and Dante wasn't familiar with anyone on staff.  "Come on, we gotta go somewhere else...where's Miss Scarlett?"  Dante looked around and spied our little Southern Belle batting her eyelashes at a handsome young clerk in Better Suits.  Taking her aside, he whispered loudly, "Miss Scarlett, you know that man?"

"No," she began.

"You workin' on gittin' us a discount?"

"No..."

"Then tuck them boobs back where they belong and git in th' car!"

With Christmas and New Years' just behind us and new stock not yet in, slim pickings were to be had at most larger stores.  We found the best selection and prices at an incredible little consignment shop.  Willadean bought several pairs of shorts and t shirts, a couple of cute pairs of capris, and a new-with-tags knee-length black cocktail dress; Monica bought at least a dozen outfits; Dante found scads of dress slacks in his size; Miss Scarlett spent over $300; I bought a pink tutu for Zoey.

Willa bought shoes.  ("I ain't wearing them snake skin shoes, them's hootchie-mama shoes, gimme those with the gold heels and diamonds.")  She bought jewelry and hats and sunglasses.  She tried on several evening gowns, but nothing was quite right.  Monica and Dante were kept busy running back and forth between dressing room and floor fetching various styles and sizes.  In the dressing room of one large mall store, my heart went out to a woman in the next stall as she pitifully insisted that she did NOT need a bigger size.  "Oh, alright," she finally conceded, "bring me a 6."

A 6.  A 6 is bigger.  My heart jumped right back in place.

In the hotel room that night, Dante had Willadean do a fashion show for us all.  "You need some help in there?" he called into the bathroom.

"You stay outta here, you devil!" she called back.  She strutted out in one outfit after another.  Dante would make little suggestions here and there; he was amazing with his advice.  "This scarf," he said, throwing a paisley fringed number over his arm, "will be divine wrapped...like...this..."  He stood back to critique, adjusted it slightly to one side, and...it was perfect.  When she stepped out in her black cocktail dress, he said wearily, "Willadean Jean, where's your new black bra?"

"It ain't no never mind o' yours where it is..."

"You need it with this dress; it just don't hang right with the white one."  He insisted she change, and when she did, yes, there was a noticeable difference.  "See?"  he said, steering her toward the full length mirror on the door.  "Slump your shoulders down a little...there...now that's how the other bra looked...straighten up...see how much better?"

"Silly tail, lazy tail..." she mumbled her way back into the bathroom.

After exhausting all other possibilities the following day, we took a tip from one of Dante's store clerk friends and found ourselves at an intimate bridal shop.  He would call the owner himself and arrange a discount.

This place was LUXE.  It simply exuded elegance and charm, and the selection of formal gowns did not disappoint.  Dante charmed the clerk and when he returned with the news that the discount would apply to anything except shoes and jewelry, Miss Scarlett was already in one of the pink dressing rooms trying on a wedding dress.

"What's she trying on wedding dresses for?" he asked indignantly.  "She fixin' to marry husband number 5?"  And spying Monica with a white gown over her arm, too, he cried out.  "Mabel Corrine!  What are you DOIN?!  YOU'RE MARRIED!"

"Shhhhh!" she admonished.  "This ain't for me, it's for Scarlett.  Y'all go help Willa."  And off she flew into the pink recesses.

Willadean was holding a white tulle number in front of her body.  Dante glared down at me.  "Y'all are outa control."  

In my defense, all I was holding was my purse.  

But I did have a glance at the Alfred Angelo Collection.

We got Willadean steered in the right direction.  She liked this color, didn't like that style, liked the fabric on this one, couldn't stand the texture on that one.  She took three gowns into the dressing room. She called on Monica, on me, on the attendant.  Miss Scarlett stepped out three times in fuller-than-full white skirts, and I had to admit, she was gorgeous.  Mr. Businessman's tapping on his netbook slowed and finally stopped each time she emerged.  Willadean grew more and more irritated; she wailed that she'd never find anything.  "Do you HAVE to do the formal dinners on the cruise?" I ventured.

That remark was not well received at all.

After roughly an hour, Dante slipped away and returned with two more gowns.  "But she already said no to this one," I began, and he said yes, he knew that, but it was going to be the best one on her, she just didn't know til she could see for herself, and that we would tell her it wasn't the same one, see this little broach?  And he pinned a small rhinestone-embellished cross to the bodice.

It did the trick.  As soon as she saw that cross, she fell in love with that dress.  "It's just like Jesus sent me a sign, ain't it?"   And the next thing we knew, she was calling for Dante's assistance in the confines of the pink dressing room.

"Now don't you be lookin'..."  "I ain't lookin'...suck in, Willadean Jean..."  "I AM suckin' in, you ol' silly tail..." "You're gonna need a bigger size..."  "NO!  This is the one The-Lord-Our-Savior-Jesus-Christ wants me to have!..."  "The-Lord-Your-Savior-Jesus-Christ don't want your big ol' butt hanging out on the ship when these seams split, now lemme get a bigger size!"

Well, let me tell you, when the bigger size was fetched, and Dante successfully got Willadean into it, she just blew us all away.  That gown really was made for her.  The sweetheart neckline was deep, but not so deep that she felt she'd go to Hell for wearing it; gathers cinched with a large rhinestone buckle on the right side disguised the waist, falling gently to the floor to add fullness to the skirt.  The fabric swished pleasingly, and a ruffled jacket made it appropriate for cool evenings on deck.  The dress was magical; she was beautiful.  My hand was at my throat, as she swished and turned and admired herself from all angles in the tall mirrors.  

"My butt's as big as Jennifer Lopez," she said.  "Bigger," Dante mouthed.

Spell broken. Back to reality.

"Wait'll I tell Hoyt I helped Willadean Jean get dressed," Dante said on the way back to Nashville.

"Wait'll Hoyt sees her in that dress," Miss Scarlett said.

"Ya'll ain't right," Willadean smirked, "y'all silly-tail-lazy-tail-..."

________________________

Part II of Willadean's Cruise coming soon!

Sharing Our Stories

When I was seven, my father left us to go to Vietnam. To do an extensive photo journalism project on the war. It would probably be an award winning story and would most likely be picked up by large publications, maybe even the New York Times or Life Magazine.

When I was ten, I found out it was all a lie.

____________________________

These are the opening lines of the novel I'm writing, my first foray into that world.  I began last spring, worked diligently for several weeks, and didn't look at it again until a few weeks ago.

Slim to none are probably the chances of publication, but I'll never know until I try.  And writing is only one tiny notch below chocolate in terms of comfort and therapy, which is why I have decided to devote all my writing time for a while to my book.

Yes, this means I'll be taking a break of indeterminate time from blogging.  I'll most likely visit from time to time, when I go brain-dead from writing and research, or when I need a bit of inspiration from some of my favorite bloggers.  I may even post something every once in a while if I need a break.

Don't give up on me - I'll be back.  In the meantime, we all have a story to tell about that tragic day ten years ago.  Please share yours...

_________________________________________________

Where Were You?
(edited from a post of the same title two tears ago)

September 11, 2001. My generation's "Day That Will Live In Infamy." The day we Americans realized that we were vulnerable, that we could be attacked and killed with no warning; that a clear warm Tuesday morning could be turned into a bloody nightmare in the blink of an unsuspecting eye.

Some moments in history are forever frozen in our minds, and we remember exactly where we were, exactly what we were doing when we heard the news. Those moments for me include the shooting of President Kennedy, the death of Elvis, Princess Diana's car wreck, the explosion of the Challenger, and, of course the terrorist attacks of 9/11.  I remember far too clearly the images of the planes hitting the towers, the towers crumbling, the Pentagon in smoke, the bravery of the passengers in Pennsylvania, the firefighters entering the burning buildings.

It was my day off. Mama and Daddy had asked me to ride with them in search of a special type of sausage which apparently could be found only in Dickson, Tennessee. The TV was on for company as I cleaned the house - TV Land - all my old favorite shows - Andy Griffith, I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, Gilligan's Island.  No need to actually sit and watch them, for I know them all by heart.  Oh, there were occasional moments when I would perch on the end of a bed or the arm of the couch, cleaning supplies in hand, realizing that a favorite scene was coming up.  But for the most part, all my old fictional pals were playing to an empty audience.

Satisfied that the house would pass the white glove test, I was ready to relax before my parents arrived. Little House on the Prairie came on, and I positioned myself on the couch, tucking my legs comfortably underneath. But as soon as I saw the title, May We Make Them Proud, I knew I couldn't watch. This was the episode in which the blind school catches fire, and Alice Garvey and Mary's baby are trapped upstairs and burned to death. Unlike most episodes, I had seen this one only once. Because of that scene, the one showing the old school engulfed in flames, and Mrs. Garvey, the swaddled baby in her arms, screaming from an upstairs window. No, I couldn't watch this. After Lucy's and Gilligan's hilarious lighthearted shenanigans? When my house was all shiny and clean and smelling of Scrubbing Bubbles and Lemon Pledge? No way. I turned the tv off and waited for my parents on the front porch.

Blue skies, white fluffy clouds; September warm; it was a picture perfect day. The porch swing creaked as I savored the relaxing moments. As Daddy's car pulled into the driveway, I rose to go inside and get my purse and keys.  But they surprised me by quickly stepping out of the car. "Have you got your tv on?" Mama cried across the yard. "No..." I began, but she cut me off. "Turn it on, turn your tv on CNN!"

What in the world... I obeyed, and had the tv tuned to CNN as they entered the front door. And that's when the world changed. The second tower had just been hit, and every American citizen knew we were under attack. We sat horrified for hours, as we watched the story play out on our 19 inch Emerson. I forgot my manners and offered my parents something to eat and drink only after they'd been there well over an hour.

The irony didn't hit me until later: I couldn't watch two fictional characters die in a fire, but I watched thousands of real people lose their lives the same way.

I imagine the remainder of my day and the days that followed were pretty much like yours: glued to the tv, images of the towers in flames, that choking cloud of dust and ash as the towers fell...over and over and over...

Even now, ten years later, we look at those pictures with a mixture of horror and fascination. And perhaps still a sense of wonder that it actually happened, right here, right here at our back door. I see those pictures of the buildings on fire, of people who chose to leap to their deaths, but I still can't watch that episode of Little House.

So share your stories, please: what were you doing on September 11, 2001?

Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant

She'll never take a prize for her beauty, but that's okay with me - neither will I.  We're both past our prime, but grateful we've gotten this far.  Yes, we've acquired our fair share of dents and dings along the way, but we live with them and keep a'goin'.

She's a '96 Nissan Altima, and I love her. Plain and simple.

We met when she was only two years old and still looked brand spanking new.  Oh, she was a pretty thing then, yes indeed, deep glossy black with a plush gray velour interior and polished walnut veneer on the dash.  So roomy, front and back; plenty of leg space.  Mirrors on the sun visors and entry to the trunk from the back seat.  Even the dashboard clock worked.  I knew from the moment I slid into that soft seat that we were meant to be.

How many times has she taken us to Florida?  How many miles has she logged on weekend excursions; ferrying me to work and back?  She's endured the hot sun, sleet, and snow, and been pelted with hail more than once.  She delivered me safely home during a tornado, even though her roof was bumped by a trampoline as it flew across the road.

Yes, she's served me well, and it shows.  Her coat has lost its luster, and there's a small rusty fissure on the passenger side. The large dent in the back still reminds me to make sure the garage door is up before I back out.  Inside, the seats are worn, but perhaps even more comfortable than ever.  The clock loses a minute or so every month, and my Tchaikovsky tape has been stuck inside the cassette player for going on five years now.

Every time she turns over another thousand miles, I give her an encouraging pat on the dash.  She earns her praise.  Every time she reaches another milestone, I snap a picture.

So she's no longer shiny and new.  She doesn't have individual climate control, an in dash navigation system, or voice recognition anything.  Shoot, she doesn't even have a cd player.

But she has my heart.  And appreciation.  For now and many miles yet to come.

August Seventeenth

(This post was copied from last year's August 17 post.  All photographs are mine, but some have been previously published.)

Happy August 17th.

We all have our little quirks, our little oddities that mark us as individuals and distinguish our personalities. I have perhaps a few more little quirks than the average bear.  I never step on cracks.  I will not pump gas from even numbered pumps, and I prefer to pump from number 7 or 3.  I automatically play Scrabble with license plates - I get excited with a tag that reads, for instance, 111QXZ - "That's a 28-pointer!" I'll exclaim, whereupon Fred either ignores me or rolls his eyes.

I remember the oddest, most useless facts, like the name of the unseen and once-mentioned Mayberry resident who was said to have carved his name on the old cannon in the town square (Tracy Rupert) and obscure lines from Gilligan's Island and I Love Lucy, yet I have trouble remembering what I had for dinner last night. I hate talking on the phone and I eat sandwiches in a circle, clockwise. I also separate my potato chips, Cheetos, and popcorn by size and shape, and eat them from least perfect to most perfect, and I separate my M&Ms by color, Ms DOWN.

And I always celebrate August 17th.

Why August 17th, you ask? Is it my birthday, or anniversary? No. First kiss? No. First date? No. Birthdate of a long lost love? A beloved aunt? The day I got my first car? No, no, no.

No, August 17th is special to me simply because it sounds so beautiful. Now, I usually get some strange glances here, and if right about now you find that your eyebrows are raised a bit, that's alright. I'm used to such curious looks.

But say it. Go ahead, say it out loud. August 17th. See how pretty that sounds? August 17th. It's beautiful. It sounds like blue skies and fluffy white clouds, sailboats on crystalline lakes, fields of wildflowers waving with a gentle breeze, children romping happily in bare feet, and groups of pastel clad ladies in wide brimmed hats, sitting in the cooling shade of white columned front porches, sipping lemonade from chilled glasses.

 
Baskets of fresh peaches and roses in creamy white milk pitchers. 

Butterflies with stained glass wings, fragile dandelions catching the breeze, lightning bugs in mason jars.

 
Today is a work day for me, but before I leave for the post office this afternoon, I'll sleep late, watch I Love Lucy, take the dogs out and laugh at their playful antics, snuggle with Spooky, water the flowers, and enjoy the cooler air that is promised this week.  I may order Chinese and take it for dinner for Mamacilla and myself.  Or bake some shortcakes and top them with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

So it's a low-key celebration.  No fireworks, no back yard barbecue, no gifts to open.

August 17th.  It's all about simple pleasures.

Happy August 17th to you all, my friends.

Miss Scarlett

There was a time when a meal wasn't a meal unless it included a meat, a starch, at least one green vegetable, bread, and dessert.  At least, that's what I was taught as a child of the female persuasion in the South.  My tutelage included not only the three R's: reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic, but also the three F's: feeding, feasting, and frying.

At my mother's elbow, I cultivated the fine arts of frying chicken, of baking brownies and cookies from scratch.  I perfected those culinary necessities of life: fudgey chocolate frosting, pound cake, fried okra. Oh yes, Mama's willing apprentice was well-versed in creaming corn straight from the field, snapping beans on the front porch, dropping buttermilk cornbread batter into a sizzling cast iron skillet.

I graduated from the Southern School of the Fried Arts at the top of my class.  Yes, I was the consummate Southern cook.

Until I met Miss Scarlett.

"Miss Scarlett?"  Dante said with obvious disdain.  "That's so...cliche.  I thank she looks like...maybe a Cherileen Grace."

"I wouldn't even know how to SPELL Cherileen," I shot back.  It's MY blog, and she's gone be called Miss Scarlett."

So there.

No, she bears no resemblance to Margaret Mitchell's heroine of the Old South, but Miss Scarlett is the Southern Belle personified.  She's blonde and blue-eyed, petite, but curvaceous.  The extra 20 or so pounds she carries is well distributed.  She looks 28, admits to 38, but has twin 15 year old grandsons. 

Clearly, math is not her best subject.

In high school, she was head cheerleader.  She had won seven beauty pageants before she was 17.  It goes without saying that she was homecoming queen and dated the entire football team.

Actually, Dante threw that last bit in.  Miss Scarlett says, "a few of the boys on the team," but Willadean raised her eyebrows and Dante voiced Willa's opinion.

Like many of the women at the Post Office, Willadean has...mixed feelings...about Miss Scarlett.  "That ole flirt," she's said time and again, as Miss Scarlett bats her long eyelashes and sashays toward a man to do her bidding.

Dante: "Willadean Jean, you wouldn't thank Miss Scarlett's that big 'a flirt if YOU could butter them men up like that."

Willadean:  "You ole fool - I c'n butter 'em up good as she can!"

Dante:  "Yeah, but Miss Scarlett's usin' real butter; you're usin' Blue Bonnet in a tub."

Somehow, Miss Scarlett wears clothes that are at once demure and provocative, and she rarely wears the same outfit twice.  Most of us wear our absolute rags, then protect said rags with a Union supplied heavy denim apron; not Miss Scarlett.  She wears pastels, she wears white, she wears silk.  No apron. She can pull her long blonde curls up into a hair clamp in three seconds flat and look like she just stepped out of a salon.  And she goes home looking as fresh as she did when she walked in the door.

"Well, you'd look fresh as a daisy, too, if you didn't do no work, Ethelmae," Dante remarked.

"Oh, she works," Monica stated emphatically.  "She works reaaaal hard...at gettin' other people to do her work."

She's charming, she's bubbly, she's cute as the proverbial button.  Her accent becomes more delightfully Southern when men are around, almost to the point of being a Hollywood mockery of our treasured native tongue.  She can cry on cue and somehow, when she gets mad, it's almost as if she's PRETENDING to be mad...which makes it all the more endearing and boosts a man's ego even higher.  I've seen her pout when old Grumpy wouldn't give her the time of day, then stomp her foot in his direction and give him the tearing-up-you're-gonna-make-me-cry-I'm-so-mad-at-you face.  And, lo and behold, that made old Grumpy stop in his tracks, turn around and APOLOGIZE (you have to know Grumpy to understand the emphasis,) and then not only do what she had wanted, but ask if there were anything else while he was there.

Sometimes when we have a parcel too heavy for any of us, I'll say, "Miss Scarlett, get out there and do your stuff," and she'll have a man-in-a-trance in no time flat.

According to Dante, "those boobs o' hers sure have saved us a lot o' heavy work."  Willadean puffed up at this statement and declared that the boobs The-Lord-Our-Savior-Jesus-Christ had given HER were every bit as big as Miss Scarlett's.

Monica's eyes widened and the corners of her mouth twitched as she pointedly stared at Willadean's considerable sagging upper half.  That's when I said loudly, "NOBODY SAYS A WORD!"  and we froze like statues.

In spite of her flirtatious ways and avoidance of work, I find it impossible not to love Miss Scarlett.  Sure, it's all a show for the men, but she opens up with the ladies at times, and she's just plain fun, if still a bit superficial.  And we know we can count on her for any celebration.

"Party?  Birthday?  What kind of cake do we want?"  Miss Scarlett volunteers in a flash.  "Hmmm...he loves fishing and camping...I could do a full sheet cake with a raised tent and some shrubs made of fondant, and I can do him standing on the shore with a fishing pole in a lake...marzipan...and I can use brown sugar for the sand and...oooh!  How 'bout a little candy rock firepit and we can put some real short candles inside it for the campfire?!"

Her homemade brownies are nothing short of Heaven, and she makes the most divine zucchini bread.  Cupcakes?  They look like they came from a gourmet sweet shoppe.  She even makes her own doughnuts.

"My Mama always said the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," she's told us. 

Miss Scarlett has been divorced four times.

So she's got me beaten in the kitchen.  And I can't hold a candle to her charm and beauty.  But as Willadean pointed out, "She sho cain't hold on to a man."

And Dante's conclusion?  "Blessed are they that have held on to Fred for 30 years."

Amen?

Twelve Hours

(Note:  The part of Prince Eric will now be played by Wolverine.  My son-in-law was unhappy with his allonym and asked that it be changed into something more suitable to his personality.  After tossing out several of his suggestions, including KILLFACE, I reluctantly agreed to Wolverine.)


Thursday, July14


8:44 am.

Somewhere a cat is meowing...wait...that's not a cat...it's the ringtone of my cell phone, still in my jeans pocket in the closet.  I try to focus my sleepy eyes on the clock beside the bed.  The meowing stops, but almost simultaneously, the house phone rings.  Suddenly wide awake with expectation, I glance at the caller ID...YES!  It's Ariel!  And the only reason Ariel would be calling this early would be...

The baby's coming!

Excitement spurs me into action.  My first grandchild will be born today!  Let's see...priorities...call Fred, bathe, dress, pack the laptop, the camera, an overnight bag just in case; put down plenty of food and water for Jude and Spooky; call the relatives; put out the alert on Facebook.

My first grandchild.  My baby is having a baby.  My baby...

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It's 1983, and I'm rolling out of bed late, almost 9:00.  Today is my due date...and laundry day.  Lacking our own washer and dryer, we must make a run to the laundromat.  But wait...something's wrong, very wrong...or very, very right.  It's just a little trickle, but I can't seem to control it.  Fred takes a small load of necessities to the laundromat while I place a call to my midwife.  She instructs me to come to the hospital...my water may be leaking, rather than breaking, but they'll need to check...

_____________________________________________________

11:58 am

Ariel looks as beautiful as ever, lying half asleep on her side, courtesy of some good drugs.  Wolverine is calm, definitely not the stereotypical harried father-to-be of tv and movies.  "Are your parents on their way?" I ask, and he assures me they'll be leaving Pennsylvania as soon as his father gets a little sleep. Wolverine (Lord, whatever possessed me to agree to that name?)  refuses our offer to bring food or take a break; he rummages through his bag and messages Ariel's back with a funky little bug of a vibrator.  She's dilated to 3, her water has broken, and the contractions are regular and occasionally strong.  Watching the fetal monitor, I announce now and then, "Ooh, there's a good one!  Good thing you can't feel it."  Ariel opens her eyes to glare at me and tell me she CAN feel it.

Oops.

______________________________________________

1983, and I'm in my hospital gown, attached by various wires and tubes to alien devices.  A doctor I don't know comes in to check me and confirms that my water is, indeed, leaking.  I'm dilated to 4, but the contractions, though sometimes strong, are not yet regular.  "You must have a high threshold for pain," he says, as a strong one washes over me, and I simply watch in amazement the little spikes on the fetal monitor.  Doc decides he will start a Petocin drip.  NOW I am in pain.  The nurse tells me I can have "a little something" if I'd like.  "No, I'm having natural childbirth," I begin, and she assures me it's just a little something to take the edge off; it will help me relax and won't affect the baby at all.  "Alright," I reluctantly agree, and in a matter of minutes, I'm half asleep.  I can hear Fred and Mama conversing, speaking excitedly when I have a strong contraction.  "I'm so glad she can't feel it," I hear Mama say.

___________________________________________________

2:19 pm

In a fair amount of pain, Ariel has asked for and received her epidural.  She has dilated to five, but no longer feels pain, only pressure. Wolverine is at her side, helping her to turn from side to side every half hour.   It's cold in the room, and I've had my jacket zipped up for hours. Wolverine is shivering.  I suggest he run to Walmart and buy a hoodie, but no, he'll stay right where he is, thank you very much.

____________________________________________________

1983, and the contractions are getting stronger and lasting longer.  Fred helps me breathe through them.  Natural childbirth - what the heck was I thinking?!  This HURTS!  Fred periodically nibbles on snacks from my bag.  I am allowed only ice chips, and I shiver even as my dry mouth relishes them.

____________________________________________________

4:59 pm

Ariel is still dilated to 5, so Fred suggests we go out for dinner.  Incredibly organized, Ariel has compiled a list of all restaurants in the area and their proximity to the hospital.  So many choices....

Fred:  "Just tell me where Cracker Barrel is."

Before we leave, I take off my jacket and hand it to Wolverine.  "It's not very manly, but at least it has long sleeves."   The sleeves, far too long for my short stubby arms, are a much better fit on him.

_____________________________________________

1983...I thought I was prepared for this.  We did Lamaze classes, I read all the books, watched Gloria Stivic give birth on All In the Family.  She was hilarious; how come nobody ever talked about just how much it HURTS?  Exhausted, cold, and hungry, I try focusing on the baby...will it be a boy or a girl?...and feel renewed strength surge through my body.  I can do this, I can do this...

____________________________________________________

7:20 pm

Fred is upset because I didn't wait downstairs for him while he parked the car and smoked.  "My daughter is in labor, and I'm not missing it," I tell him hotly.  Cracker Barrel had a few long sleeved pullovers: bright orange UT, blue MTSU Raiders, and a bejeweled spectacle with birds and flowers and a biblical verse.  We've bought the MTSU shirt and now present it to Eric Wolverine, who accepts it gratefully and returns my jacket.

Ariel is tired and hungry, but still feels no pain.  This epidural thing is a miracle. 

________________________________________________

1983...I can no longer sleep between contractions; they're too close together.  One begins as quickly as another ends.  This natural childbirth is a crock.

________________________________________________

8:21 pm

The doctor comes in to check Ariel and finds she's fully dilated and ready to push!  I am once again amazed that Ariel has gotten to this point without the pain I experienced.  Amazed but grateful.  "Who's staying in the room?" the nurse asks, and Wolfy (there, that's better) speaks up immediately:  "Just the two of us."  I'm secretly relieved they had already discussed this.  "The next time I see you, you'll be a mommy," I say, as my eyes blur with tears.

__________________________________________________

It's 1983.  Yet another doctor has come to check my progress.  This is one of the downfalls of having no health insurance:  the midwife I've been seeing at the public health department these many months is not allowed to deliver my baby; no, my baby will be brought into this world by a doctor I've never even met.  He seems friendly enough and informs me a young intern will be assisting.  "You can come in, too, Grandma," the nurse tells Mama as she wheels my bed down the long hallway.  "NO!" I want to scream.  I love my mother, but I want this to be a private moment between myself and my husband.  And the doctor.  And the nurse.  And the young intern.

But I'm too shy and polite to speak up, so Mama dons a gown and joins us in the delivery room.

The urge to push has become uncontrollable, yet takes such a long, long time.  "There, now look right there," the doctor finally says to the young intern.  "Do you think she needs an episiotomy?"

"I DO!" I yell, surprising myself.

"Well, the lady thinks so, so let's do it."  The pressure is so great, I never even feel the cut. 

"Okay, look up at the mirror...your baby is coming!"   I want to see this...I've been waiting for this moment all my life, but the young intern is in the way, and once again, I am too shy and polite to ask him to move.  I miss the moment.

"It's a girl!"  At 9:04 pm, Ariel is placed gently in my arms.  Oh my goodness!  Never in my life have I felt such a surge of pure joy, such an overwhelming force of emotion.  This 5 pound, 5 ounce strawberry blonde bundle holds such power as to overcome all memories of pain, all feelings of exhaustion and cold and hunger.  I touch her ears, her nose, her smooth skin, and I lift her tiny hands and marvel at her fingers.  She is quite perfect, my baby...

____________________________________________________

8:44 pm

After twenty minutes of pushing, Zoey is born!

We've actually waited quite a while.  It seems little Zoey swallowed quite a bit of amniotic fluid and had a bit of trouble breathing, so she was whisked immediately away to the nursery.  Wolfy is there with her, the nurse informs us, and suggests that Fred go there while I see Ariel.  "Looks like she's got your red hair, Grandma!" the nurse calls.

Ariel is tired, cold, and hungry, but all she wants is to hold her baby.  "7 pounds, 10 ounces, and strawberry blonde hair," she says happily. "She has my eyes."  I keep her company for a bit, then head for the nursery. A man who looks like Santa Claus is hurriedly motioning.  "Better hurry if you want to see the baby!" he calls, and even though I have no idea who he is, I rush as quickly as my injured knee and feet will allow. Once there, he takes me around the corner, PAST Fred, and shows me his own newborn grandson.

That's one proud grandfather.

And Fred is another.  He's hogging the good spot for picture taking through the nursery window.  Using his cell phone.  Hey!  I've got the REAL camera, let me do it!  But he needs pictures on his phone to send his sisters, his cousin, his friends.

Zoey is directly in front of us, the nurse moving her arms and legs and jotting notes on her clipboard.  "She looks so cold," I say to Fred, noting her blue feet and hands, but they gradually warm to match the soft pink of her face and torso.  Wolverine is hovering over her, love written plainly on his face, and Zoey is holding his finger.

It's almost 3 1/2 hours before Zoey is brought into Ariel's new room.  I won't get to hold her tonight.  It's late, and Fred has been awake 21 hours.  Ariel has to investigate Zoey's ears, her nose, her tiny fingers and toes, and then have her first lesson in breastfeeding.  I'll hold her Sunday.

Twelve hours.  Twelve hours that forever changed my life.  Twelve hours that changed my daughter's life.  Twelve hours that I will never forget.

Welcome to the world, Zoey.

In Daddy's arms...3 days old.

Holding Mommy's finger.

Daddy loves his little girl.

Perfect profile.

And now....

...from Zoey's first professional photo shoot, by Sweet Sarah Photography.  Sarah is WONDERFUL.  See more of her work here:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sweet-Sarah-Photography/211665298869196

The End Beginning.