by Beth Hoffman
“It’s true, Mama. I swear.”
“Well,” she sniffed. “Some people have more money than sense.”
I flashed her a look. “Some people appreciate art.”
Neither one of us spoke for a long while, stubborn mules that we were. But the beauty of the day wouldn’t allow me to stay mad, so I perked up and said, “I have a wish, Mama. Wanna know what it is?”
A good ten seconds passed before she replied, “What?”
“That you’d come for a visit. I bet you’d like Charleston. The houses alone are enough to make your heart ache. You could visit Grammy Belle, too. You haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“I don’t like to travel,” she said, starting another row on her knitting. “And your grandmother had a home here. It was her choice to go down there with you. Why don’t you bring her the next time you come for a visit?”
I turned and looked at her. “I wish I could bring her here, but you don’t have a bathroom on the first floor. And with her wheelchair it’s—”
“If she hadn’t got that wild hair and gone down there with you, she wouldn’t have fallen and broken her hip.” Mama let out a huff as she worked the knitting needles faster and faster. “Now look where she’s ended up, in a nursing home.”
“It was an accident, Mama. She missed a step and lost her balance. It could have happened here, too. C’mon, don’t be sour. Please come for a visit. It’d make me so happy.”
I waited for her to say something, but the clicking of her needles was her only reply. Picking up the laundry basket, I walked into the house and let the screen door slam behind me.
After putting the dish towels away, I closed the drawer and bleated, “I bet Adele Stafford’s house is just as plain and cold as she is. She probably sleeps in a damn coffin.”
A little laugh skipped in through the open window.
To Mama the words “carriage house” probably translated to “garage.” Most likely she envisioned me sleeping on a cot next to a lawn mower, and unless she saw where I lived, nothing would convince her otherwise.
For nearly five years I’d been renting a nineteenth-century carriage house. Set behind an old mansion on Rutledge Avenue and constructed of brick and stone, it was as charming as it was private. A steep stairway led to the second-floor living quarters, where all the rooms had nine-foot ceilings framed by plaster moldings. There was even a little screened-in porch off the kitchen that cantilevered over the garden. When a breeze came along, the scent of jasmine whirled in through my open windows.
I walked down the hallway and stepped into my mother’s bedroom. Everything was the same as always—scrubbed, washed, and pressed to perfection. Other than the matching brush and comb lined up neatly on top of her chest of drawers, the room lacked anything personal.
Years ago Daddy had kept the Bronze Star he was awarded after WWII displayed on his bedside table. When I was a little girl, I’d sometimes sneak into my parents’ bedroom and lift his medal from its velvety case. I loved the feel of the grosgrain ribbon and how the five-pointed star sat cool and heavy in my hand. But after that terrible autumn night in 1977, Daddy put the Bronze Star in his drawer, and I never saw it again.
I set a stack of sheets and pillowcases on Mama’s bed, grabbed the empty basket, and headed downstairs. From the kitchen window, I saw the familiar old green-and-white Rambler careen into the backyard and come to a stop beneath the oak tree.
Stella Rose was here.
She and Mama had been best friends since first grade, and while Mama had grown thin and brittle over the years, Stella Rose had grown soft and round. When she smiled, it looked as if two big thumbprints had been pressed into her cheeks. For as far back as I could remember, Stella had always worn full-skirted floral dresses, and today was no exception. A riotous print of poppies swirled around her thick calves as she climbed out of the car.
I dropped the laundry basket on the kitchen table and rushed out to greet her.
“Teddi!” she cried, opening her arms. We hugged and swayed as if we were about to set off in a waltz. As she held me, I became a child again when I closed my eyes and buried my head in her softness.
Stella stayed for the rest of the day. After the sun dipped behind the trees, the three of us had chicken and dumplings for supper, and then Mama pulled her playing cards from a kitchen drawer.
“Want the radio on, Mama?”
“Yes, but not the news. I can’t stand hearing about the Gulf War. Makes me nervous.”
I fiddled with the radio while Mama shuffled the cards. When I took my seat at the table, Stella said, “Teddi, how’s your work?”
“It was rough after Hurricane Hugo. But once the insurance settlements started coming in, people flocked to my shop. You wouldn’t believe how many antiques I’ve restored . . .”
We played three-handed euchre, talking and tossing our cards on the table while oldies from the forties played softly in the background. I could hear the tap-tap-tap of my mother’s feet keeping rhythm to the Andrews Sisters and Glenn Miller. When Stella won yet another hand, Mama dropped her cards on the table and pushed back her chair. “Anybody interested in coffee and pie?”
Stella’s face lit up. “Pie? Oh, count me in, honey. What kind did you make?”
“Rhubarb.”
“Mama, you made my favorite?”
She didn’t say anything, but as she measured coffee into the pot, her lips edged toward a smile.
While Stella headed up the stairs for the bathroom, I sat quietly and watched my mother pull plates from the cupboard. It occurred to me that maybe her way of trying to build that bridge between us was different from mine. Maybe we were working on the same bridge but approaching it from entirely different directions.
“Mama, I’m going to take Eddie for a walk. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I pushed open the screen door and said, “Come on, little boy.” His nails clicked across the linoleum floor as he scurried to join me.
The moon was round and fat, and a light breeze tickled my skin. Outlined against the sky was the barn, its white paint weathered away to reveal the original gray siding. For more than a hundred sixty years, it had clung to its stone foundation, sheltering animals from the elements, storing farm equipment in its belly, and supporting mountains of hay above its wide-beamed shoulders. It was the great-granddaddy of the Overman homestead, and for all my life I had admired its staunch beauty. I slowed my pace when I came to Daddy’s old workshop. Though cancer of the liver had taken him from us four years ago, it felt like only yesterday. I stepped through a tangle of weeds and pressed my palm against the locked door. “I miss you, Daddy. I miss you every day.”
Around the silo Eddie and I went, picking our way along an overgrown path that edged the woods. The air was alive with the chirring and flutters of night.
When my brother and I were little children, Grammy Belle often walked us into the woods. Twigs crackled beneath our feet, and the trees would reach out their branches and give us a poke, as if to say hello and remind us to visit more often. As we worked our way deep into the shadows, my grandmother would point out the treasures—clusters of jack-in-the-pulpit, spotted green tree frogs, and wide fans of fungus. One evening when we were sitting on a rock, a cecropia moth landed on the toe of my shoe. Grammy winked and said it was giving me a blessing.
My grandmother taught us to honor the woods, to enter its wonders with respect. She told us to never intrude or cause any harm, saying we were Mother Nature’s guests and to mind our manners. One afternoon the three of us were hiking and came to an ancient black walnut tree. My grandmother stopped and patted its rough bark. “A powerful healing force lives deep within these woods. Whenever you children are hurting or can’t make sense of things, just come out here and spend some time with the trees. Give their trunks a good strong pat. When you go home, you’ll feel better.”
I pressed my small
hand against the tree, looked up at the sunlight filtering through the leaves, and absolutely believed her.
I believe her still.
And tonight, as I gazed into the dense woods, I took in a slow breath and gratefully accepted whatever offering might come my way. I thought about that old saying, how we can never go home again. But I think it’s more like a piece of us stays behind when we leave—a piece we can never reclaim, one that awaits our next visit and demands that we remember.
TWO
At the age of ten, I got a glimpse of my destiny. It happened on a steamy summer’s day back in 1964.
What I remember most vividly was how the legs of that old chair poked up from the weed-choked ditch. And how, when I pulled it to the side of the road and stood it upright, its threadbare seat exhaled a tired puff of dust into the air. Even beneath the layers of dirt, I could see that the chair was beautiful. A dining chair, I guessed, the kind that once sat in a fine home and had seen lots of fancy dinner parties, birthday celebrations, and holiday feasts. The arms were curved and graceful, and the back was shaped like an urn. What that chair was doing in a rural Kentucky ditch is something I’ll never know, but I wanted it something fierce, so I took it.
Finders keepers.
Though I was a good half mile from the farm, I hauled that chair all the way home. First I looped my arms through the chair’s arms and carried it on my back like a wounded soldier. When it got too heavy, I dragged it behind me. The air was hot and thick with humidity, and when the wind kicked up, it was like walking toward a blowtorch. But that old chair was mine, and nothing was going to make me leave it behind.
When I finally arrived home, light-headed from the heat and parched with thirst, I lugged the chair up the dirt driveway and into the backyard. As I set it in the shade beneath the oak tree, Jigs, my dog, did a happy lope-hop off the back porch and greeted me. I loved him up for a minute, took a long drink from the garden hose, and then collapsed on the grass. Jigs sprawled out next to me, and we just lay in the shade enjoying each other’s company. While scratching his ears and wondering how I’d fix the seat of the chair, I heard the squeak of the screen door.
I looked up to see my mother step onto the porch. Her sundress hung limp in the heat, and her sweat-dampened hair was pinned high off her neck. She shook out a rug, draped it over the porch rail, and looked at me. “Where in the world did that come from?”
“I found it in the ditch, down by Will Fowler’s farm.”
“Clear down there—how’d you get it here?”
“I carried it.”
“In this heat?” Mama walked down the steps to have a better look. “Oh, Lord. It’s junk, Teddi.”
“No it’s not. It’s beautiful.”
“I never know what you’ll haul home next.” She threw an unfavorable glance at Jigs and shook her head. I wrapped my arm around his neck, pulled him close, and met her eye to eye. Jigs licked my face.
My brother and I had found him at the edge of the cornfield the previous summer. He’d been shot in the rump and was whimpering and limping something awful. We lifted that poor dog into the wagon and carted him home, and when Mama saw us coming, she got upset. She said we couldn’t afford a dog, much less a vet bill to fix one up. But Daddy had a soft spot for animals, so he paid the vet to make Jigs well again. Sometimes when Mama wasn’t looking, he’d even slip Jigs a piece of meat from his supper plate.
Mama gave my chair a flat-eyed look, then reached down and lifted my hand. “I see you’ve been messin’ with my nail polish again.”
Right when I thought she would make me go inside and take it off, the deep chug-chug of Daddy’s tractor sounded. Mama and I turned to see it appear from the side of the barn. Puffs of gray smoke lifted into the air from its tall exhaust stack, and Roxy was hunkered down for the ride.
Earlier that summer, Daddy had taught Roxy to do something amazing. After folding an old blanket and setting it on the front of the tractor, he tied it down with twine. When he had it just right, he whistled for Roxy. She was big and beautiful and loved my dad something awful. Roxy was a Brahma chicken—fluffy white with feather pantaloons that went all the way down to her toes.
Daddy lifted Roxy onto the blanket and taught her how to ride on the front of the tractor. She’d hook her long toenails into the wool, shake her tail, and then nestle down and get comfortable. When she was ready, he’d fire up the engine of his tractor and off they’d go, bouncing along the path that led to the cornfield. Roxy sat up there like a feathery pom-pom, all plump and proud. There was no mistaking how much she liked it.
I thought it was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, but whenever Mama saw Roxy and Daddy out in the field, her lips would thin or she’d roll her eyes. Sometimes both. Mama said Daddy spent more time talking to that chicken than he did talking with her. I never knew anybody could get jealous over a chicken, but there you have it.
While Daddy headed down the driveway toward us, Grammy Belle stepped out to the porch carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses. “Got some nice fresh lemonade,” she said, walking across the lawn and setting the tray on the picnic table. She waved her hand in the air to get Daddy’s attention.
“What do you have there, honey?” Grammy asked me.
“I found it in the ditch. Isn’t it pretty?”
She pushed her glasses up on her nose and leaned close. “Oh, it’s a beauty.”
“I’m gonna fix it up and put it in my bedroom. Will you help me, Grammy?”
“Why, sure I will.”
Just then Josh, who was covered in mud and smelled like the pond, came running up with a bullfrog hugged to his chest. Mama stood, her face expressionless as her gaze traveled from Grammy and me to Daddy and Roxy and lastly to Josh and his frog. Then she looked down at Jigs. Mama shook her head and went back inside the house.
My grandmother and I worked on that old chair for hours, bleaching off the mold and scrubbing every inch. The more I cleaned, the more I loved what I saw. I pointed to a row of carved flowers at the top of the chair. “How’d they do this?”
“It takes a real old-time craftsman to do that kind of detail. They have lots of special tools. Some as tiny as the ones dentists use.”
In my imagination I could see the steady hands of a man working a piece of wood, carving each flower patiently and smoothing his fingers over what he’d just done. It was while we oiled that old chair and buffed it to a satiny sheen that I began thinking about what it might be like to fix up old furniture and sell it in my very own shop.
On Saturdays after breakfast, Mama would shoo everyone out of the house so she could mop the kitchen floor. Josh would head for the woods, Grammy would put on her straw hat and wander to her flower garden, and I’d whistle for Jigs. We’d hop into the old green pickup and wait for Daddy to climb in and crank the engine. Then the three of us would set off for town, bouncing our way down the road with the windows opened wide.
Our first stop was the bank. Daddy worked real hard, most times putting in seven days a week. He had lots of land for crops of sweet corn and hay, hay so rich with alfalfa that fancy horse farms in Lexington sent trucks to take every bale he made. He also had a shop on the side of the barn where he repaired things—lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners, and even the occasional toaster. Just about everybody in our town had brought him something to fix at one time or another. Often he’d come in at the end of the day looking so tired I thought he’d collapse, yet I don’t recall him complaining.
After stopping at the post office, we’d head for Gilson’s Farm & Feed, where Jigs always got a rawhide chew bone, Daddy got a stick of jerky from the glass jar by the cash register, and I got a Coke from the soft-drink machine. Sometimes we’d take the long way home, and I’d push the floor mat aside with the toe of my shoe and watch the pavement zoom by through the hole in the floor. If I got lucky, we’d pass a yard sale. And Daddy, knowing how much I loved to fix up
old furniture, would pull to the side of the road until the weeds brushed against the belly of the truck as he slowed to a stop.
We’d climb out, and he’d hand me a few dollars and say, “Okay, Peaches. Go find somethin’ good. Take your time, I’m in no rush.” Then he’d draw a cigarette from the pocket of his blue work shirt, light it, and lean against the chubby wheel well of his truck.
I’d trot off to see what I could find—a little telephone table, a rocker, or even an old spin-style piano stool. Then Daddy would load my treasure into the back of the truck and we’d head for home. We didn’t talk much, sometimes not at all, but we always chewed whole sticks of Black Jack gum.
I spent my summers fixing up the things I’d found. When I’d collected a fair number of pieces, I’d set them by the side of the road along with a For Sale sign I made. Jigs and I would sit in the shade of the maple tree and wait, and sure enough, some of the tourists who came to hike through Daniel Boone National Forest or spend a weekend at Hemlock Lodge would stop and have a look. They seemed happy to part with their money, and some of them even gave me a tip. When I was fifteen years old, there was $482 in my cigar box, every penny of it from my furniture sales.
One day I was in the library and discovered a book where page after page showed how to hand-paint furniture. Techniques called strié and marbleizing filled my imagination, and there was a section about trompe l’oeil that made my head swim. When I came to the chapter about upholstering the insides of drawers . . . well, that did it. My destiny spread out in front of me as clear as a brand-new day.
It wasn’t until I began teaching myself to paint furniture that I realized I had some semblance of talent. I’d practice the techniques described in the book, taking notes along the way. When I messed up and all but ruined a chair or a table, I’d strip off my mistakes and start over.
During nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d tune my transistor radio to a classical-music station, turn the volume down low, and fantasize about the shop I’d own one day. Year by year my fantasy grew, and by the time I was seventeen, I envisioned myself scouring the countryside for all sorts of chairs, chests, and tables. I’d be known for my artistry and keen eye, and I even went so far as to imagine that I’d be famous.