Summer in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  As I stared transfixed into Grandma’s intense, bird-like eyes, I realized that she’d presented me with the greatest opportunity ever to do her proud, to be her golden grandchild. I could feel a silly grin spreading across my face. Wordlessly, Grandma took a section of the Mossy Creek Gazette off the counter and slid it toward me. It was doubled back to a banner headline on the politics page.

  Matriarch Throws Summertime Fundraiser.

  “It looks like Ardaleen is giving a fancy garden party to raise money for Ham’s next run for office.”

  “Two hundred dollars a plate,” I observed, scanning the article. “I’ll bet Ardaleen will be putting on the dog but good.”

  “Yep. She’s already got Ruthie polishing silver and starching table linen. Sounds like this luncheon will be the social event of the summer down in Bigelow. I could get tickets, you know.” Grandma rubbed her chin and rolled her eyes heavenward, looking like the sweetest little old lady you ever helped across the street.

  “Grandma,” I said. “What are you doing for lunch next Saturday?”

  GRANDMA’S PORTABLE oxygen tank fit nicely onto the back of Casey Blackshear’s motorized wheelchair. Casey was happy to make us the loan since she preferred her manual one for daily use. Wheeling the chair helped keep her arms in shape for softball, she said.

  Grandma looked as cute as pie in her new cotton dress with flowery print. The big straw hat was a bit much, but she’d decorated it herself with millinery fruit from the Michael’s store in Bigelow and was so proud of it that I didn’t have the heart to tell her how ridiculous she looked. I myself was clad in a demure suit and pumps.

  Our plan came close to being scrapped when Grandma almost dumped herself into the freshly-turned flower garden while practicing doughnuts in her driveway. When I was satisfied that she had mastered the wheelchair’s steering mechanism, we loaded it into Grandma’s minivan and headed south, to Bigelow.

  The elegant, stacked-stone mailbox of Ardaleen’s fake English manor house was decorated with an ostentatious floral display. “Where is my baseball bat when I need it?” Grandma muttered.

  “No use stewing over that again. We roasted celebratory marshmallows over what was left of the Mercedes, remember?”

  She gave me a beatific smile. “I remember.”

  The shady residential street was lined with fine cars in both directions. Beautiful tents had been set up in Ardaleen’s garden. Catering staff hurried among the guests at linen-covered tables. I explained to a valet that I preferred to park the minivan myself to make sure I could maneuver the wheelchair in and out, and he waved me toward a side street bordering Ardaleen’s yard. “There’s a very accessible entrance through the wrought-iron gate by the peonies, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. It looks perfect.”

  “For making a clean getaway, you mean,” Grandma said when we were out of earshot.

  I neatly backed into a place on the street nearest where the tables were set up, then got Casey’s chair out of the back and helped Grandma get seated. I looked down at the elfin old lady in her flowery dress with her huge straw hat that Scarlet O’Hara might have rejected as too gaudy. “Try to be inconspicuous,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. Ardaleen will be so busy she won’t notice me at all. And if she does, I’ll just create a diversion for you by picking a fight with her and making a big scene.”

  “Okay,” I said, checking my watch. “The guests should all be seated within ten minutes. I’ll take the house and you take the garden. Are you sure you won’t mire up? The motor makes that chair kind of heavy on sod.”

  Grandma waved a dismissive, white-gloved hand. “It hasn’t rained in ages. I’ll meet you back here as soon as I can.”

  Ducking under the hat brim, I kissed her rouged cheek and watched her roll off toward the cash bar.

  AS I SLIPPED INTO the house, I scanned the crowd of milling guests for Ardaleen, Ham, or anyone else who might recognize me. The coast remained clear as I walked unnoticed through the kitchen, which was bustling with caterers’ assistants.

  Ruthie, the spying maid, had told Grandma that pepper pods could be swiped from one of two locales. A few pods were ripening on plants tucked among the gardenia shrubs in the garden, and a couple of dozen were drying in a screened porch off the kitchen, where plants were potted and flowers arranged.

  Unfortunately, that was also where Ardaleen’s surly little dog was locked away to keep him from gnawing the ankles of the guests. At first I took him for a jumpy sort of dustmop. He had that long, stringy hair that obscured his eyes and made you wonder how he could see. But see me he did, because the minute I entered the room, he advanced on me as menacingly as his painted toenails and hair bows would allow. I hadn’t seen as sorry a representative of the canine species since Ingrid Beechum’s Chihuahua, Bob, got picked up by a hawk and urinated all over Mossy Creek before he was rescued.

  “Good dog,” I muttered unconvincingly. The dog bared its teeth and issued a throaty growl. He probably had been a good dog before Ardaleen got him groomed to look like the canine equivalent of Liberace and the humiliation just made him turn plumb sour. And if all that wasn’t undignified enough, the name etched on his water bowl proclaimed him to be Pierre.

  “Chill out, Pierre,” I said.

  I looked around. Lo and behold, I saw the bunch of chili peppers strung up in a loop and hanging on a peg at eye level. I also saw a broom leaning against the wall just within my reach.

  Pierre took my grasping of the broom as a threatening gesture. Either that or just general effrontery. In any case, he poised to charge. I managed to snag the string of peppers off the peg with the broom handle, but when the dog sank his teeth into my shin, I flinched just enough to drop the pepper necklace—right over his head. And I screamed just enough to alert Ruthie, who opened the door from the kitchen to see what was the matter, allowing Pierre to bolt as if he were Cerberus fleeing the gates of hell.

  “Good gawd!” Ruthie exclaimed as I raced past her with the broom. Pierre shot across the kitchen amid the startled caterers, executed a tight turn around a chopping block and skittered out a side door, while gnawing on the string of peppers that dangled around his front legs. I followed as quickly as I could, almost upsetting a huge tray of pecan tassies borne by a petite woman who squealed, “Dios Mio!”

  I’d lost sight of the dog by the time I got outside so I slowed my pace to a casual saunter. I still had the broom tucked behind my back in case Ardaleen spied her dog and figured out why he was wearing a pepper-pod necklace with his hair bows. Poor Pierre would be feeling the effects of the peppers pretty soon. If he dealt with stress like Bob the Chihuahua, he would be in a nervous urinating frenzy that might put a damper on the flow of political contributions, depending on whose legs got in the way.

  That wouldn’t bother me. I wouldn’t vote for Ham Bigelow for dog-catcher.

  As I scanned the tables and milling guests, I saw a fuzzy bit of movement over by the manicured swimming pool. I sidled around the edge of the stone patio toward the pool, still grasping the broom behind my back. Poor Pierre was shaking his head violently, having discovered that his neck was too short to drink from the pool without falling in. He grasped one of the peppers in his teeth and shook his head as if in revenge. I winced for poor Pierre, who began to foam at the mouth.

  But that’s when I sneaked up on him and, for his own good, mind you, nudged him into the pool with the broom. He went under only for a second, just long enough for the pepper string to float to the top so I could snag it with the broom again and stuff it into my purse. I then got down on my knees and scooped Pierre back onto dry land, hoping the dunking had relieved his stinging eyes, nose and mouth.

  I don’t know if it accomplished that, but what it did accomplish was to make his humiliation complete. The dunking seemed only to have enraged him all the more, as it plastered his formerl
y glorious hair to his body, revealing the puniness of his true form. In the course of a few seconds, he went from simply looking like a sissy dog to looking like a sissy, half-drowned, wharf rat.

  It was at that point that somebody screamed, “Look! A rabid possum!” I guess the sight of a dripping rodent staggering around the pool with his eyes rolling back in his head and foam forming at his snout was too confusing for genteel visitors from the wildlife-deprived skyscrapers of Atlanta. The sight of Ardaleen pushing her way through the crowd and screeching, “Pierre, darling!” got my feet to moving, and I lit out in search of Grandma.

  Darting around the hedgerow that separated the patio area from the rest of the grounds, I looked back over my shoulder and saw Ardaleen bend down to pick up Pierre, who vigorously shook the water off his coat and all over Ardaleen’s silk suit.

  I spied Grandma in the garden, her wheelchair mired up halfway to the axle, spinning the back wheels, spraying mud all over the general area including herself, and going nowhere. “They’ve been irrigating, dammit!” she yelled as I reached her.

  “Did you find all the plants?” I seized the handles of the chair and began to drag her out of the mud.

  “Yeah. They’re in my purse, but I couldn’t fit all the peppers in there.”

  “So what did you—” It was then I looked down and saw lovely, real, green peppers nested amongst the plastic grapes, plums and berries on grandma’s hat brim. “You’re a genius,” I breathed with pure admiration.

  “Pshaw,” Grandma said with a little wave, her formerly pristine white glove covered with expensive garden loam and Georgia red clay.

  We headed for the minivan as fast as we could and nearly made it when Ardaleen planted herself right in front of us. Next came the anxious-looking governor himself, accompanied by two burly state troopers complete with campaign hats, crew cuts and scowls.

  “I know what you’ve done,” Ardaleen said imperiously. “Hand over those peppers.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Grandma challenged, her chin thrust out defiantly. Her dress, handbag and hat were speckled with mud, and when she tucked a stray strand of hair under her hat brim, she left a reddish streak on her forehead.

  “It’s as plain as the oxygen-tubed nose on your face that both you and your granddaughter have your bags stuffed with my peppers. Now give them back.”

  “Now, Mother,” Ham soothed, “Mrs. Gilreath has considerable influence in Mossy Creek, and after all the misunderstandings from last fall, we don’t want to overreact—”

  “She stole my chow-chow peppers!”

  Grandma eyed Ardaleen, a decidedly uncomfortable Ham, and the troopers. Then she reared her head back, took as deep a breath as her damaged lungs would allow and yelled as loud as she could, “Let me by! I’m fixin’ to have one of my spells!”

  I glanced toward the tents. Many of the luncheon attendees were staring our way. Good. I clasped my throat. “She’s running out of oxygen and she forgot her inhaler!” My own shout elicited concerned looks from the guests. Then I glared at Ardaleen. “Are you prepared to shake down a little old lady on oxygen in front of your guests, Ardaleen? Governor? How do y’all think that would go over with the campaign contributors?”

  Ham linked his arm through Ardaleen’s. “Let it go, Mother.”

  Ardaleen’s face contorted into several expressions before finally freezing in a forced smile. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Get out of my garden.”

  I grabbed the wheelchair’s handles and headed Grandma toward the van. From behind us, we heard Ardaleen’s parting shot, “That hat looks ridiculous.”

  Grandma raised a hand in a parting gesture. It was not the Southern beauty queen wave.

  MANY HAVE SAID that Grandma is full of spit and vinegar. I don’t know about the spit, but after hours of tasting and perfecting the batch of chow-chow for the fair, I’m reasonably certain that she is, at least, full of vinegar. I know I am. After helping her procure the peppers, I also had to help her prepare the chow-chow, to make sure she wouldn’t overdo it and get too tired.

  Since her secret recipe had been breached long ago, she had come up with a variation that featured a new secret ingredient, which she decided should be moonshine from a local supplier. The result is quite remarkable, I must admit.

  So much so, we not only expect to win the competition at the fair, but we’ve decided to go into business marketing the chow-chow. Here in town you’ll be able to buy it by the pint jar at the Mossy Creek Grocery, Mama’s All You Can Eat Café and various gift shops, but we’re working on a deal with Piggly Wiggly to sell it across the southeast.

  With that, plus the Internet sales we expect from Grandma’s website, we may do well enough for me to quit my programming job and move back to Mossy Creek, living with Grandma, which would just tickle me pink.

  We have a lot more fussing to do.

  The Mossy Creek Gazette

  215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia

  From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager

  Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope

  The Cliffs

  Seaward Road

  St. Ives, Cornwall TR3 7PJ

  United Kingdom

  Dear Vick:

  You aren’t going to believe this but one of your long-lost Salter relatives has come home to Mossy Creek. I told you about Mamie Brown going into the Magnolia Manor Retirement Home. Mamie’s children put her house up for sale. Then Mamie’s long-time “friend” and neighbor Grace Peacock broke her hip. Now Grace shares a suite with Mamie at the nursing home. Grace’s granddaughter, Emily had been living with Grace for some time. Now she’s decided to stay on in her granny’s house since she likes her job as Mayor Ida’s assistant. She’s getting into the spirit of Creekite life and has even signed up with the new dance teacher to take lessons when the teacher gets her studio open.

  But Emily is a little perturbed. Her new neighbor—the new owner of Mamie Brown’s house—is Sagan Salter, a handsome young professor of anthropology from the University of Oklahoma. He’s related to a Salter who married into the Cherokee Indian tribe over 150 years ago. We’re not too clear about what he’s doing here. Eventually, I’ll get the story. You know how charming I can be. If charm doesn’t work, I’ll worry it out of him.

  The only thing I can say now is that Emily and Mr. Salter seem to be developing the same kind of friendship that their former house occupants enjoyed. In other words, watch out for the fireworks. In the meantime, I’m off to interview a little girl named Therese Stroud. She insists she has a secret to tell me about her family. You know I can’t resist a secret. More later.

  Katie “Snoop” Bell

  Chapter Six

  THERESE and the STROUD WOMEN

  “We will be friends forever, just you wait and see.”

  —Winnie the Pooh

  NOT MANY PEOPLE in Mossy Creek could sing every stanza of I’ll Fly Away without the hymnal and get all the words right. The number steadily decreased when you limited it to people who were only ten-years-old, well, almost ten. I could do it because I was a Stroud woman. At least, that’s what my mama said. Personally, I was still not sure if I wanted to be a Stroud woman, or if I’d rather take my chances being known by my daddy’s people, the Taylors.

  When she married my daddy and they were presented to the congregation as Mr. and Mrs. William Taylor, Mama stopped the preacher dead in his pronouncing tracks and told one and all that she would have nothing to do with changing her name. She said as long as she stayed a Stroud, she had a good idea who she was.

  “I’m going to need that name as a reliable excuse for being crazy one day,” she said. Besides, she wasn’t comfortable giving up who she was, or would be, for any man. Daddy agreed, seeing as how he didn’t have much of a choice right there in front of every Stroud from the surrounding counties. It wasn’t like
it had never been done before, just not in Mossy Creek. At least his daughters got the Taylor name a few years later.

  From what other folks whispered, being a Stroud just meant you were tackier than a flea market and mean as a snake. I’d not lived long enough to be forced to pledge my allegiance one way or the other. It worried me though, because the women on my mama’s side—except Mama, of course—all seemed like they got trapped by kids and dirt and lazy husbands who didn’t ever make enough money to pay the electric bill. They wore loud clothes and too much perfume, like talismans against failure.

  So maybe I’d choose to be a Taylor. I wouldn’t wear loud clothes or perfume even if it meant I’d be more famous than Elvis Presley. I figured if I decided to be a Taylor, the worst thing that could be said about me would be that I was boring.

  When you’re stuck with an eccentric family and only four feet tall, you don’t count for much. You can’t even ride the good rides at the Bigelow County Fair. Most folks in Mossy Creek didn’t pay me much mind. But that was all about to change, because tomorrow I’d have been on the earth for a whole decade, and that meant I was on the verge of Arriving. My family was always talking about people Arriving, like the person doing it had just come into something big. I figured living for ten years ought to get me something, so I was expecting my birthday to be the Arrival of Therese Taylor.

  That’s me.

  MY MAMA WORKED as a teller for Mossy Creek Savings and Loan. She didn’t have many close friends except her cousin, Ingrid Beechum, who owned the bakery, but she smiled and waved at everybody we passed on the street. I knew she felt their snubs and knew about their behind-the-hand comments concerning one crazy Stroud act or another. But my mama never bowed her head. I think she wanted better for her girls, wanted them to fit in and be upright citizens that folks wouldn’t call troublemakers. The problem with that was my granny, Georgia Stroud. Mama would always be her mother’s daughter, no matter how good-willed she might try to be, and there weren’t many people who could tolerate my pot-stirring granny.