by Rhett DeVane
“It’s an idea, Evelyn. It’d save you some postage.”
Evelyn jumped up and pecked Holston on the cheek. “You are my favorite Yankee genius! I knew if I laid it out to you, I’d see a way through! Mama can call the folks she wants to invite personally, and we’ll put out a — what’s it called? An APB? — to invite the folks we might miss.”
Holston watched Evelyn head for the door. “Was there anything else you needed? Some other unsettling dilemma I can stumble upon an answer for?”
She spun around so quickly, her multicolored skirt resembled a rabid wildcat caught in a blender. “I’d dang sure lose my head if it wasn’t tied on! Mama wants to record her memoirs for the party. Hattie said you have some kind of little tape recorder. Can we borrow it?”
“Certainly. A new box of tapes, too. You’re welcome to them. I bought them with the intention of recording my thoughts to transfer to the computer later on, then never touched them. I guess I just like to put pen to paper. I usually end up scribbling notes to myself on anything available, then I use the word processor to edit and help with my spelling.”
Holston rummaged in the bottom drawer of the computer armoire and removed a small cassette recorder. “The mike’s built in. Just push here and start speaking. I’m no technology geek. It’s a no-brainer to operate.”
She rested one hand on his shoulder. “You’re an answer to prayer, Holston. I’ll get this back to you as soon as she’s finished with it. Also, I have a number of old family pictures of Mama and Daddy when they were younger, some of the cousins from up home, the grandkids, and folks Mama’s known over the years. I wanted to do some kind of presentation at the party. You know, to surprise Mama.”
“That, I can help with. Between Hattie and me, we have enough computer knowledge and software to put the pictures on disk. Hattie, I’m sure, can put together a PowerPoint show that will tie them all together, complete with captions.”
Evelyn clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! I think this is goin’ to be fun! I didn’t much warm up to the idea at first…but, Mama’s dead set she wants her hundredth birthday party right away.”
Evelyn stared out Holston’s window into the meditation garden. The magnolia blossoms hung like oversized white cotton balls on the branches next to the house. “She’s got it in her head that she’s not gonna make it to see a hundred.” Evelyn’s bereft expression betrayed the anticipation of grief.
“Evelyn, none of us have any guarantees on how long we’ll be here. If your Mama wants this party, the best we can do is kick up our heels and celebrate with her. Every year we live is just icing on the cake, anyway.”
Evelyn nodded. “Yeah…well. I’ve gotta get back to my sewin’. It doesn’t do it by itself.” She chuckled. “Although, Joe swears that new computerized machine has a mind of its own. He won’t even stay in the room when it’s over there sewing up a storm all by itself.”
“When you get to be my age, even circlin’ the drain is exercise.”
Piddie Davis Longman
Chapter Six
From the Twin City News:
Piddie Longman’s “Purt Darn Near A Hundred” Birthday Party
Friends and relatives of Liddyanne Davis Longman, fondly known to all as Mrs. Piddie Longman, are invited to attend a covered dish dinner in her honor. The social event will be held at the Fellowship Hall of the First Baptist Church of Chattahoochee on Main Street, Saturday, July 21, 2001 at 12:00 noon. Anyone planning to attend must RSVP with Evelyn or Joe Fletcher by July 14th. Please plan to bring a covered dish or dessert to share.
The Hill: Hattie
Housework is the closest thing to perpetual motion on God’s Green Earth. My mother had passed that tidbit of wisdom down from my maternal grandmother, Ida Gwendolyn Brown Gibson. Since my mother was forty when I pushed my way into the world, my memories of my grandmother were dim — a frail, sweet woman with a downy-soft halo of white hair, already paralyzed on her left side from a stroke. Her nursing home room had been dotted with school pictures of her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Ida remembered names, dates, and the tiny minutiae of our lives until her death at the age of seventy-five.
Bobby and I grew up hearing the wisdom of Miss Ida. Always make your bed and wash your dishes before you leave the house every day — then, your place will look decent in case someone stops in for a visit. Pretty is as pretty does. Wear clean underwear and wash behind your ears. Never forget to praise God on high for the good that comes your way, less it will take another path.
Though I resisted her wisdom in my know-it-all youth, Ida’s legacy became mine. Through my single years, I kept a tight reign on clutter — not quite to the point of pathology, but pretty dang close. The kitchen was always clean; a place for everything, and everything in its place.
The addition of a child into our household tossed the Good Housekeeping Award right out the window in its gilded frame. At first, I battled to maintain the previous level of order: toys in the toy box, dishes in the dishwasher, and soiled clothes in the hamper, sorted and awaiting laundry day.
One afternoon, I tilted. Relaxed. Let go. Let the air out. I was the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy doused her with water. Melting…I’m melting…all this beauty. What have you done?
Holston and I became accustomed to picking our way through a minefield of pop beads and rattles. Shammie nestled into her new niche amidst the discarded stuffed plush monkeys, bears, and bunnies. Spackle learned to post himself near Sarah, awaiting dropped cookie goo and spit-up strained split peas.
Leaving the house took hours of preparation. We needed a team of hired workers to clean and dress Sarah and to round up the assortment of toys, bottles, diapers, extra clothing and bibs and anything else in the house we might remotely require to keep us sane and Sarah from looking like a throw’d-away.
The morning of Aunt Piddie’s party, I had the additional burden of preparing food. By the time we loaded Betty with Sarah’s supplies, extra folding chairs, the computer, and two boxes containing the contributions to the feast — two apple pies, spinach lasagna, homemade garlic rolls, and a hummingbird cake — it was ten minutes till twelve. The Lewis family unit would walk in precisely at noon. By that time, Jake would be in an absolute high rollin’ boil.
The First Baptist Church Fellowship Hall
A Southern dinner-on-the-grounds covered dish party can only be fairly compared to a cruise ship midnight buffet on steroids, minus the ice carvings. The cavernous fellowship hall of the First Baptist Church was fully decorated to resemble a French sidewalk café, if one was to somehow be magically deposited in Chattahoochee in the middle of the summer. Three rows of small round white linen-draped bistro tables were interspersed with larger tables with seating for up to eight. Clusters of tall parlor palms and Boston ferns created intimate niches between the seating areas. A backdrop of ivy-laced white trellises fostered the illusion of a garden party, or perhaps a spring high school prom sans the rampant hormones and rock band.
The order-from-the-fancy-scripted-menu façade was shattered by the presence of three long rows of buffet tables in the middle of the room. Two separate side tables held drink selections: iced tea so sappy sweet it could make your fillings ache, soft drinks, water, and strong brewed coffee. A twelve-foot sideboard awaited the deluge of homemade cakes, pies, pastries, and gelatin desserts. At the end of the room, a long table reserved for Piddie and the immediate family was draped with Evelyn’s handmade tablecloth. A large projection screen was positioned in the corner, awaiting Piddie’s surprise this is your life video presentation.
Promptly at noon, the food-laden guests began to arrive. Jake and Stephanie flitted between the buffet tables, making sure the casserole dishes were plugged precisely into the culinary jigsaw puzzle of meats, main dishes, vegetables, starches, breads, and desserts.
Jon Shug Presley greeted us at the side door of the fellowship hall. “I’m glad you guys are here. Maybe you can calm Jake down a little.”
Holst
on unloaded the baskets of food from Betty’s rear compartment. I handed Sarah to Jon and grabbed the computer case. “Anything wrong?”
“He keeps checking his watch and wringing his hands. Most of the food and guests have arrived and Piddie’s not here yet. Joe came on up with their food, but Evelyn’s still at home helping Piddie get ready. Seems she’s moving kind of slow today.”
I smiled. “Probably doing her hair. You know that takes some time.”
Shug Presley shook his head. “I don’t have a good feeling, Hattie. Piddie’s color hasn’t been right the last couple of times I’ve seen her.”
“Pid’s an ox, Shug. She’ll make it, congestive heart failure be damned. Besides, it’s my understanding that a person can live for several years with all the new medications they have now.”
Jon shrugged. “I suppose I’m just being a mother hen again. Can’t help it. The nurse in me won’t give me any rest.”
“You bring Elvis today?”
He shook his head. “Too many people. Some folks might not take too kindly to a little dog being around all the food. Anyway, this day should belong to Piddie, and Elvis demands so much attention. I left him at the mansion with a new chewy bone. He’s perfectly happy.”
The noise level inside the cavernous fellowship hall had reached a fever pitch. Jake stood at the end of a buffet table, gesturing wildly and barking orders to Stephanie, Tameka, and Moses. Laughter and chatter mingled into a joyous din. Clusters of folks dressed in their Sunday best dotted the room waiting for the arrival of the party-girl guest of honor.
Jake scuttled toward us. He wore a black tuxedo with a floral print cummerbund and matching bowtie. A shiny black cane with a carved silver handle completed the ensemble.
“You look like Gene Kelly,” I said.
He propped both hands on the cane and swayed from side to side. “And you, I suppose, are Ginger Rogers. Sister-girl, you are late!”
“C’mon, Jakey. Calm yourself. Pid’s not even here yet. Show me where to set up the computer, and I’ll be ready to roll in five minutes, tops. Holston’s taking care of the food, and Shug has absconded with my child.”
In the few minutes it took to connect the laptop computer and test run the PowerPoint presentation, the room filled to capacity with casserole-bearing guests. I spotted my police officer friends from Tallahassee — Chris, Kelly, and Cathy — as well as a good number of Tallahassee Memorial Hospital staff, our friends Patricia and Rainey Hornsby with their adopted Chinese daughter Ruth, and my ex-lover, Garrett Douglas, with his daughter Jillie.
A murmur of surprise followed by applause wafted from the far side of the hall. Evelyn wheeled Aunt Piddie, resplendent in a flowing yellow chiffon gown with appliqued daisies, into the room. Evelyn was smartly dressed in a linen skirt with a matching sleeveless jacket in a muted shade of lemon yellow. When a beaming Mandy stepped into the room behind them, the reason for the delayed entrance was clear — Piddie’s hairdo. Dyed to match her dress, the ice cream cone-shaped mountain of buttercream yellow curls reached a height of two feet. Dainty silk daisies were interspersed between the layers.
My aunt’s hair had long been her one true trademark; the stamp of individuality. The towering style was commonly referred to as a beehive, but Aunt Piddie’s coif went far beyond the capabilities of any bee nature had ever invented. Her style was reminiscent of a termite mound’s towering architecture; layer upon layer of carefully constructed curled and sprayed locks reaching toward heaven.
Piddie set up shop by the front door, welcoming friends and distant relatives as they milled into the hall.
I made my way through the press of bodies to stand behind her wheelchair. “You look like the best part of a summer morning,” I whispered in her ear.
She patted her temple with a bejeweled hand. “Like it? Mandy had a little trouble with the color. Kept comin’ out dark yellow — like a road sign. She had to do it over twice! I been up at the spa since early this mornin’.”
I kissed her lightly on one cheek. “It’s beautiful — just like the girl who’s under it.”
Piddie waved her hand. “You don’t have to go on so! You’re already in my will.”
A wave of party guests surrounded Piddie.
“You’d better watch it, lady.” A smooth male voice cooed in my ear.
Officer Rich Burns, ex-high school beau and family friend, stood behind me. “Wow, you wore your dress uniform. Piddie’s gonna love you for that.”
He tugged at the tight collar. “It’s hot as hell in it, too. But, I know how much your aunt adores a uniform, so I’m making a sacrifice.”
I glanced behind him. “Where’s Carol?”
“She and the twins are on the way. I brought the food over. The girls were fighting over what to wear when I left the house.”
I shook my head. “You poor thing. You’re outnumbered three to one. Just wait till they hit puberty and the hormones start raging.”
“I’ll just head on out to the Hill, grab a pole, and head to Mr. D’s fishpond.” Rich’s blue eyes twinkled, then he frowned. “Oh, no…,” he said.
A wiry gray-haired woman pulling a rolling cart was heading our way.
Zelda Bunch, local lunatic — one of the few that really needed to be locked up. “Officer Burns!” Zelda called out. “You haven’t been around to investigate my stolen property yet!” She halted her cart and glared up at Rich.
Rich’s tone was gentle. “No ma’am. I’m going to send someone out first thing Monday mornin’, Miss Zelda. That’s a promise.”
She squinted and pursed her thin lips. “I’ll be calling you by nine, if someone’s not out by then.” She rolled her cart off in the direction of the buffet tables.
“She still think aliens are stealing her stuff?”
Rich shook his head and smiled. “Nope. It’s the FBI now. Claims she’s missing clothes off her outside clothesline — a couple of blankets, I think. Last time, it was her underwear. She’s convinced the FBI’s watching her, stealing her belongings to drive her insane.”
“Seems to be working.”
He nodded. “We have a whole drawer at the station full of her complaints — the Zelda Files. Keeps life interesting having someone like her around.”
I straightened a corner of his collar. “Sounds like she calls you a lot.”
“Lately, it’s escalated. Seems to happen in the summer. Probably just the kids out of school, bored and up to mischief. But, heaven help me, why anyone would want to steal Zelda’s underwear is a mystery to me.”
I laughed. “Maybe it’s some kind of right of passage. Who knows? You and I used to slip into old man Jones’ yard and steal pears off his trees, remember?”
“Yep. A life of crime…you and me. At least we could eat the pears, though.” Rich patted me on the back. “Let me go call and check on my girls. I’ll be back.” He leaned down and pecked me lightly on the cheek.
A half-hour went by before Jake managed to shuffle Piddie, Evelyn, and the throng of well-wishers away from the doorway toward the front table. The buffet tables strained under the load of food as the last of the guests trickled inside.
Jake was the first to spot the stately thin blonde woman standing at the entrance to the fellowship hall. Dressed in a crisp mint green linen suit, she glanced around the room with an uncertain expression. A young long-haired man appeared beside her, supporting a large camcorder.
“Oh my Gah,” Jake muttered. “Sister-girl, check out the front door.”
Jake’s shock spread to me when I realized her identity. The attractive young woman was Karen Fletcher, alias Mary Elizabeth Kensington, my cousin from Atlanta. No one had seen Karen since her college graduation, at least not in the flesh. I’d often caught a brief glimpse of her on Georgia Metro Public Television and had a difficult time equating the finely-dressed woman with the clipped British accent with the North Florida cracker I’d known in childhood.
Evelyn was fussing with a wrinkle in the intricately-decorated linen ta
blecloth. A ripple of chatter moved through the hall. Silence fell as the guests realized the potential for a good melodrama. Evelyn’s face paled when she finally glanced toward the door where her estranged daughter stood. Always the refined genteel Southern lady, she rushed to greet Karen.
“Miss…umm…Kensington. I’m so glad you could make it! I’m Evelyn Fletcher, Piddie Longman’s daughter.” Evelyn extended her hand. “And, this is your camera man, I assume.”
Karen, a.k.a. Mary Elizabeth Kensington, smiled and shook her mother’s hand. “Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you for inviting us. My producers thought this would fit in with a feature film we’re preparing on aging in America. I’m sorry I didn’t have adequate time to formally respond to your invitation.”
“No matter. Come on up to the family table. We’ll make a spot for you.”
Evelyn presented her daughter to the crowded room as if she were introducing a complete stranger. “Everyone, some of y’all might know Mary Elizabeth Kensington from the Public Television Station up in Atlanta. I invited her to attend our little party. Let’s all try to make her feel welcome!” Evelyn initiated the applause and the stunned crowd joined in.
Karen/Mary Elizabeth held up one hand to still the applause. “Thank you, thank you. Just pretend we’re not here, now. We’ll be filming off and on.” She moved to the far end of the family table and began to speak with her cameraman, pointing to various areas of the room.
Elvina Houston, seated beside her lifelong friend at the family table, leaned over to whisper into Piddie’s ear. “This oughta be interestin’. Now, with Zelda Bunch and your granddaughter here, and countin’ the one Ginny Pridgett brought for dessert, we have a total of three fruitcakes at your party.”
Hank Henderson leaned back contentedly in a folding metal chair and rubbed his distended belly. The country cooking would be one of the few things he’d miss about Chattahoochee. Truly one of life’s grease-dipped pleasures; none of that low fat, low sodium crap his HMO doctor tried to pawn off for the sake of preserving his health. He allowed his gaze to roam the fellowship hall. The role of local esteemed legal counsel allowed him, when needed, to call up the little dirty secrets of the fine citizens of town. Unlike Mandy at the beauty salon, he kept his information confidential; reserved for the occasions he needed a little extra push to power a personal agenda.