by Fannie Flagg
And as Elmwood Acres, the new trailer park, is now completed, many worry that it will attract tornadoes to our area. Husband Herbert tells me this belief is just an old wives’ tale. I hope he is right. My question is, “Why can’t things stay the way they are?” I like our town just the way it is. Husband Herbert says progress is good for everyone, but sometimes I do wonder.
Oh, how we hate these long, cold winter days. Just a reminder, houseplants are such a lovely way to bring nature inside. A begonia, azalea, or hydrangea turns a dark room into a festival of color. And does anyone remember the lovely collection of blue glass violins with blooming ivy that Dorothy Smith displayed in all of her windows? Oh, dear, I must be getting nostalgic in my old age.
Is it my imagination or is time just flying by? It seems only yesterday that my daughter, Norma, was a baby. Now she is a grown-up young woman with a daughter of her own.
By the way, on our recent trip for husband Herbert to see his heart specialist in Chicago, I was most impressed with the new stylish form-fitting navy-and-white outfits the stewardesses were wearing. Très chic!
* * *
Ida could not say so in her column, but she was not only concerned about the new trailer park attracting tornadoes to the area. She was also concerned about the certain class of people it had brought. One family in particular. She had seen the mother (who had three front teeth missing) beating the living daylights out of her five-year-old son named Luther. True, he had kicked her in the grocery store when she had tried to take his candy bar away from him, but the language she had used and the names she had called him were not the kinds of things usually heard in Elmwood Springs. Except maybe from Tot Whooten. But Tot’s salty language had not been directed at a child. And her use of certain words could be understood and forgiven, under the circumstances.
Poor Tot. After she’d put up with her drunken husband for years, he had finally sobered up, only to run off a year later with a younger woman named Jackie Sue Potts. Tot was in such a rage over it that everyone’s hair was a mess for months. She had given Verbena such a tight permanent, Verbena couldn’t get a comb through it.
People in Elmwood Springs had always loved a good joke or a tall tale and told a lot of them, so they were always suspicious that someone was pulling their leg.
So in 1969, when Mr. Clayborn came up to Still Meadows and told them that an American named Neil Armstrong had just walked on the moon, almost nobody believed him.
“Sure, Willard, we may be dead, but we ain’t stupid,” said Old Man Hendersen.
“No, I’m telling you, it really happened. I saw it on television. And he even talked. He said, ‘One small step for man, a giant leap for men.’ Or was it ‘mankind’? Something. But believe me, it’s true. I’m not kidding. I swear.”
“Oh, sure, Willard. And my grandmother has three heads.”
Even though they suspected Willard was kidding with them, they all looked up at the moon that night and wondered if it could really be true that a man could get all the way up there and walk around.
—
A FEW WEEKS LATER, when Jack Look came in by way of a stroke, the first thing they asked him was, “Did a man really go to the moon?”
“Oh, yes, I saw it on television from the moon. Neil Armstrong.”
“And he talked up there?”
“He did.”
“I told you so, you bozos,” said Willard.
When that unbelievable information turned out to be true, the old guys stopped even wondering what they would come up with next. After going to the moon, what else was left?
Hundreds of body bags were being stacked in the back of trucks, ready to be shipped home. It was another sweltering day, and some of the soldiers on duty were stoned, and the others making out the tags might as well have been, they were so tired. They had been there far too long, and mistakes were being made.
As usual, Lucille Beemer greeted the newcomer. “Welcome to Still Meadows. I’m Lucille Beemer. What is your name, dear?”
The boy seemed confused. “Uh, Jackson. C.J. Where did you say I was?”
“Still Meadows. Still Meadows Cemetery.”
“Am I in New Jersey?”
“No, you are in Missouri.”
“You’re kidding…”
“No.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to be. I’m in the wrong damn state. I’m from Elmwood Hills, New Jersey.”
“Oh, dear. Well, honey, I just don’t know what to say. But if it makes you feel any better, we are honored that you are here.”
Rusty Hagood, another recent arrival, over in plot 431, realized what must have happened and jumped in. “Hi, buddy. I just got back from Nam myself. What happened? Where did you get it?”
“Phnom Penh,” said C.J. They had a long chat, and Rusty introduced him around to all the other vets, including Gene Nordstrom.
Later, C.J. was exhausted from talking to so many people and settled down for a nap. Before he went to sleep, he thought about his odd predicament. Oh, well. He hadn’t much liked New Jersey—at least not the part he came from. The only relative he had there was an older half sister, and she never liked him much, so he guessed it was all right. These people seemed nice. He figured he might just as well hang out here as any other place. He had always wanted to go to the Midwest. An army nurse from Iowa had been mighty nice to him once. Mighty nice. So what the heck?
1971
The next arrival at Still Meadows didn’t wait to be greeted; she just jumped right in. “Hello, everyone. It’s Ida Jenkins. I’m here far too early, but that’s another story. I just wanted to say that now that I am here, feel free to ask me about our latest project.”
“What’s she talking about?” asked Bertha Gumms. “What project?”
Mrs. Bell said, “Oh, she was the president of the Garden Club. I guess it’s a Garden Club thing.”
“I don’t even know who she is.”
“Well, just be glad you didn’t have to deal with her. She ruled that club with an iron thumb, and if she wasn’t happy with the way your yard looked, she was known to come to your house and clip your hedges.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Bell. “One time, when I was out of town, she had four of my camellia bushes dug up and replanted where she thought they would look better.”
“Did they?”
“Yes, but the point is she didn’t ask.”
“Ah.”
Ida called out, “Is that Mrs. Bell over there?”
“Yes, it is. Hello, Ida.”
“Hello, dear…I just want you to know that your camellias are holding up very nicely. I had a little talk with your husband’s new wife…your friend, what’s her name? She was not watering properly, but I straightened her out.”
“Onzelle Deasen?”
“Yes. Anyhow, your husband is holding up very nicely as well, although, I must say, everyone was just a teeny-tiny bit surprised when Lloyd remarried so soon after you died, but alas…you know men. I’m just glad my Herbert went first. I would hate to be in your shoes, having another woman move into my house so soon. Weren’t you surprised? Mrs. Bell?”
“I didn’t know he had remarried, Ida.”
“Oh, well…good to catch up with you, dear.”
After a few moments, Ida’s husband, Herbert, who had come up earlier that year, said, “Ida, don’t you ever think before you speak? Now you’ve upset Mrs. Bell.”
“Well, I don’t know why she would be upset. It’s not like he married a stranger or anything.”
It was true. The woman Mr. Bell had married had not been a stranger. However, when he passed away a few years later and arrived at Still Meadows, he received a very chilly reception from the first Mrs. Bell. He didn’t think he would ever see her again, much less have her find out about his second marriage. Oops. And he had bought the plot on the other side of him for Onzelle. This spelled big trouble. When she died, he was going to be stuck in between both wives for eternity. Lord, help him.
>
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, Ida said to her husband, “Herbert, you know I’m glad to be with you again, dear, but I am quite worried.”
“Ah, about Norma?”
“No. My column. Now that I’m gone, how will people find out the news?”
She needn’t have worried. Cooter Calvert’s daughter, Cathy, who now ran The Elmwood Springs News, had taken over the column, writing under the byline “Chatty Cathy.”
1972
As an only child, it had been hard for Norma to lose both parents. First her father, and now, only a year later, her mother had suddenly succumbed to a rare case of leukemia. She missed her mother very much, even though she had driven her crazy when she was alive.
Now she was just tired. She had been left with the daunting task of having to sell her parents’ old house and clear out all four of her mother’s storage bins. It had taken forever. Why anyone would want nineteen sets of dishes and seventy-six bird figurines was beyond her.
After her uncle Will Shimfissle passed away, Norma more or less insisted that Aunt Elner sell the farm and move into town. Ida had hidden the family Bible, so nobody really knew how old Elner was, but she was far too old to be living alone. Norma wanted her to move closer to her, so she could keep an eye on her. Aunt Elner finally agreed. “All right, honey, if it will make you feel better.”
Elner sold the farm to a friend, but she kept some of her old furniture, one old orange cat, and a few of her favorite chickens. And Norma so wished she hadn’t. Nobody in town kept chickens anymore, and she was afraid there might be complaints.
Norma had wanted Elner to buy one of the brick townhomes on the new side of town, closer to the new mall. But Elner bought the Warrens’ old house in the older part of town, with a fig tree in the side yard. She said, “I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t have a front porch to sit on and a nice backyard for my chickens.”
As it turned out, her neighbors were not bothered by the chickens at all. In fact, they got a kick out of hearing Elner sing to them. This morning, she had treated them to a rousing rendition of “When You and I Were Young, Maggie,” and everyone enjoyed it. Despite their recent move to town, her chickens just kept on laying eggs in remarkable numbers. And thanks to Elner, not one of her neighbors ever had to buy eggs (or fig preserves) again.
It meant a longer ride to Elner’s house for Norma, but one of the nice things about Elner moving to the older part of town was that she already knew her neighbors. Merle and Verbena Wheeler, who owned the Blue Ribbon Dry Cleaners, now lived directly across the street from her. And to the right of her was Ruby Robinson, a retired registered nurse, and her husband, John. Tot Whooten and her ninety-two-year-old mother lived on the other side. And they were all quite social. Their houses backed up to a large open cornfield, and when the weather was warm, they would bring their plastic chairs and sit in Elner’s yard and watch the sunset together and drink iced tea, or a beer, if you wanted.
They didn’t need a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign. Between the fact that Verbena was nosy and that they all kept an eye out for one another, a burglar wouldn’t stand a chance in hell on that street. Consequently, Elner never locked her doors, a fact that made Norma somewhat concerned. But Elner said, “Honey, a burglar would be doing me a favor; I have too much stuff as it is.” It was true. Her house was a mess, and, of course, she never kept it as clean as Norma would have liked.
One day, shortly after Elner moved in, Norma noticed a large Maxwell House coffee can full of dirt sitting in the middle of Elner’s kitchen table. “Aunt Elner, what is this? Did a plant die?”
Aunt Elner laughed. “No, those are my worms. I brought them with me. They’re my pets, but they don’t know it…and they’re the cutest things. Every once in a while, one will stick its little head up and wiggle it all around. Oh, they just tickle me to death.”
“You have pet worms?”
“Yes, and they’re so easy to keep…give them some bread crumbs and throw in a few coffee grounds once in a while, and they are happy. Oh, honey, speaking of that…guess what I have for you? I found it just this morning in my yard.”
“It’s not a snail or a worm, is it?”
“No, it’s a four-leaf clover. I said to Merle, I said, ‘I’m giving that to Norma.’ I have it in the icebox.”
Norma sat at the table, staring at the can. “Aunt Elner, do those worms ever crawl out?”
“A few times, but I just pick them up and put them back.”
“Aren’t you worried about germs?”
“Oh, no. The table’s clean.”
Driving home, all Norma could do was thank God her mother hadn’t lived to see it. If Ida knew that her sister had a can of worms sitting out on her kitchen table, she would have been mortified. Norma had been only mildly horrified. But then, Norma was a clean freak. If you were visiting Norma and lit a cigarette, she emptied your ashtray before you finished it. She tried her best not to. She tried not to look; but she couldn’t help it. One day, she asked her daughter, “Linda, do you think I have obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mother. Doesn’t everybody clean their venetian blinds with a Q-tip twice a day? Duh!”
Norma sighed. “Well, it’s your grandmother’s fault. If my room wasn’t just perfect, she would say, ‘Do you want people to think you were raised in a pigsty? Only common people live in a dirty home, Norma!’ ”
Norma had read up on this need for perfection in a Psychology Today magazine. Her mother was clearly “shame-based,” and had passed it down to her.
She knew exactly where her behavior came from and how silly it was, but, on the other hand, if she didn’t clean those blinds, who would? She wasn’t drinking or taking drugs or robbing banks; she just had a thing for Clorox.
And at least she could laugh about it…sometimes….Well, once in a while…maybe. But really, she didn’t see a thing funny about a dirty house. Besides, cleaning gave her something to do. She didn’t understand why Linda and Macky made such a big deal out of it. Other people had hobbies; hers was cleaning. What’s so terrible about that? And why were there fingerprints all over her refrigerator door? As she was wiping the handle for the fourth time that day, it occurred to her she probably did need psychological help, but then, who didn’t? Everybody had their little quirks. Aunt Elner had pet worms. Of course, Macky had thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. But Aunt Elner could do no wrong, as far as he was concerned. He just loved her to death. Every morning before he went to work, he stopped by her house and had coffee with her. What the two of them found to talk about was a mystery to Norma, but Aunt Elner was always calling the house night and day, wanting to talk to Macky. And she had no concept of time. Sometimes she would call as early as five-thirty A.M. wanting to ask him something or tell him some stupid joke she’d heard.
Just this morning when she had called at the crack of dawn, Macky had picked up the phone and said, “I don’t know, Aunt Elner. Why did the armadillo cross the road?” Then he laughed and hung up the phone. Of course, Macky could go right back to sleep but she was up for the entire day.
And she didn’t care why the armadillo crossed the road.
1974
Michael J. Vincent was in Chicago for a business meeting with the advertising company that handled his father-in-law’s dairy. He was going back to Elmwood Springs that afternoon, but before he left town, he had to buy the wife something. Tomorrow was their sixth wedding anniversary, and the old man would be watching him like a hawk.
Before he married Hanna Marie, he had assumed her father would build them a home of their own. But the old man had more or less blackmailed him into moving into the big house with them. “It will be yours someday, and her mother and I can spend what time we have left with our daughter.” So now Michael was just biding his time, playing the game, and waiting. Hanna Marie and the mother were easy. Pleasing the old man was getting harder and harder.
He walked into the store, brushed the snow off his s
houlders, stopped by a jewelry counter, and motioned to a pretty salesgirl. “Hey, honey, come here. Pick something out from this group of stuff and wrap it up.”
The saleslady was confused. “But, sir, don’t you have a preference? Would you prefer rubies or emeralds or…?”
“It doesn’t matter; just pick something. I’ll come back and get it. Where are the cuff links?”
“Two counters over.”
It really didn’t matter what he bought the woman. She mostly stayed alone in her room all day, doing her charity work and fooling with those damn cats the Shimfissle woman had given her. She didn’t need anything. He was the one who needed things.
He and Hanna Marie had been born the same year. Her father had given her anything she wanted. He’d been raised across town on the south side of Chicago in a filthy one-bedroom tenement cold-water flat, the sixth of eight screaming and yelling brothers and sisters. The only thing he’d ever received from his father was a smack across the mouth and a kick out the door when he was fifteen. The day he left, he’d vowed two things: One, he’d never have kids, and two, he would never set foot in that apartment again, and he hadn’t. A few years earlier, he had driven by the back of the building, looked up at the gray, rickety wooden stairs, and wondered if any of the family was still alive. He hoped not. If they knew he had money, they’d try to get some of it, and that was not going to happen. He’d worked too hard for it.
He had started working at age thirteen, being a lookout for the guys running numbers, making pretty good money, but it wasn’t enough. It seemed to him that he had been born with his face pressed to windows, looking inside at how the other half lived. His one burning ambition had always been to get on the other side of one of those windows. And he was determined to do it any way he could. Lie, cheat, steal…or even marry a rich girl.
Michael didn’t like going back to Chicago. He’d had a bit of a sketchy history there. He’d gotten a job at an advertising agency and was doing well. So when the girl in the office had told him she was pregnant, it had irritated the hell out of him. Then she started making noises about marriage. She was just some secretary. He made a plan to meet her at a little restaurant close to where they worked so they could talk it over.