When the elephants marched in, I couldn’t help but think of my daddy and wonder if he ever took pictures of any in Africa. (Remember, he’s a world-renowned photographer.) The elephants lined up straight as a row of dominos. The trainer raised his stick, and they stood on their hind legs. Dolores’s face turned paper white when an elephant pooped ten feet away from us. Now, that was better than watching a blur of elephant butts racing by in train cars.
The tightrope was my very favorite part. This morning I gave it a try myself on the thick oak branch that stretches high above the ground. I held on to the branch above so I didn’t fall, but someday I won’t have to. Practice makes perfect. And in case you’re curious, I’m still practicing my singing. I’ve decided I’ll sing “Wildwood Flower” in the talent contest. When the Carter Family sings that on the radio, I can’t get the song out of my mind. I find myself humming it all day long. Which reminds me—it’s time to listen to you. The Louisiana Hayride will be on in fifteen minutes.
So long for now.
Your loyal fan and oak-branch walker,
Tate P.
September 20, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
I’VE DECIDED TO BE my own voice coach until Momma comes home. Seeing those tightrope walkers and other brave circus performers reminded me that anything is possible. I almost forgot that. Don’t you ever forget.
I’ve been practicing in front of the magnolia tree. Frog is my audience. He’s always following me anyway. Figured I might as well give him something handy to do. Now I’ll have to put up with him asking, “Whatcha gonna sing next?” At least Frog is an appreciative audience member.
No one knows I’m singing in the talent contest yet. Not even Momma, who I know would be proud. I want it to be a big surprise. I still have to practice my piano every day. We don’t have a piano yet, but Momma has promised to buy us a baby grand first thing when she’s finished with the movie. For now I go next door to Mrs. Applebud’s house. Mrs. Applebud is old enough to have a mess of grandchildren, but she doesn’t have any, only a son who is serving in the military over in Japan. I reckon that’s why she likes it when I come over to practice. She makes me peanut butter cookies. Frog doesn’t eat any, though. In fact, he won’t come in the house. He follows me to the door, then takes off. Some little kids are afraid of old people. I guess he’s one of them. Every time I gobble down those cookies, I think, Frog doesn’t know what he’s missing.
You can bet Verbia Calhoon will enter the talent contest too, which means I’ve got to practice a lot. It’s hard to beat a girl with perfect golden curls and big blue eyes. When she sings, people fall under a spell and get the false impression that she sings good. They are getting curls mixed up with singing on pitch. If Verbia sang on the radio, people would be turning the dial even if it meant they had to listen to static. And she would never, ever—not in a zillion years—be asked to sing on the Louisiana Hayride.
I’ll be listening to your voice Saturday night. Maybe one day I’ll sing good enough to be on the show with you. Won’t that beat all?
Until then, I’ll be singing for Frog at the magnolia tree.
Practicing to perfection,
Tate P.
PS—When Aunt Patty Cake saw me writing you, she asked, “Do you know how much stamps cost these days?” I don’t think three cents is that much when it comes to friendship.
September 23, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
YOU HAVE A NEW FAN! When you sang “Lovesick Blues” the other night, Uncle Jolly dug out his handkerchief and blew his nose real hard before announcing, “That’s the best dern song I ever did hear.”
You might have gathered Uncle Jolly’s girlfriend, Dolores, broke up with him last week. I didn’t particularly care for her anyway. I don’t know what Uncle Jolly saw in her. She was always telling him that he should do a hundred sit-ups every morning to get rid of his belly. Uncle Jolly can find someone better than her.
Back to that song—whoo-eee! That was something how you yodeled and sounded like you had a big ole sob in your throat waiting to come out. I wanted to learn that song, but there was so much whooping and hollering and clapping, I couldn’t hear all the words.
I’ve got to run because Aunt Patty Cake and I need to make some Delightfully Devine calls. She wants to win the contest they’re having for the person who sells the most containers, by May 1, of their new face powder, Dream Dust. The winner of the Delightfully Devine Dream Dust Derby gets a weeklong trip to New York City!
Truth be told, Aunt Patty Cake doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d want to go to New York City, but she is wearing out the tires on her car making her rounds. When the sample product came in last week, she took the soft pink pouf that comes with it and patted my face. Some of the dust flew up my nose, and I had a sneezing fit. “You need to hold your breath,” Aunt Patty Cake said. Swear to sweet Sally, the things I do for this job!
Afterward I walked outside for some fresh air. Frog was sitting on the front porch swing. He was wearing those awful boots again. He took a glimpse of me, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Then he dashed off running. “You look like a ghost!” he yelled. I waited until he ducked behind the magnolia tree. Then I tiptoed over and hid, squatting on the other side of the trunk. After a while, he carefully peered around.
“Boo!” I shouted.
Boy, Frog sure can run!
Waiting by the radio,
Tate P.
PS—Please sing “Lovesick Blues” again. And again and again.
September 27, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
CONSTANCE WASHINGTON came over today to place a Delightfully Devine order for the Pine Bend folk. She drives to our house every few weeks so Aunt Patty Cake can write up the orders Constance has gathered. I asked Aunt Patty Cake if she wanted me to model the new products for Constance, but she only said, “No.” I don’t understand why, when she makes like my cosmetic modeling is such an important part of her business.
Constance has pretty skin—dark as a cup of Community Coffee—so she wouldn’t be a candidate for the Devine Dream Dust Powder, but I think the Siren Red lipstick would be perfect on her. I told her that too. Constance said she might give it a try. Aunt Patty Cake told her she’d give her a tube if she wanted. She appreciates Constance’s big orders.
Today Constance brought her daughter, Zion, with her. She looked like she was ready for church, wearing a yellow dress and about a dozen tiny yellow bows in her black braids. Zion is eight, like Frog. But do you think he would stick around and play with her? Of course not. That meant I had to entertain her. While Aunt Patty Cake took Constance’s order, I asked Zion, “Do you want to listen to me take my voice lessons?”
She nodded and followed me over to the magnolia tree. I was glad the tree was far enough away from the house that Aunt Patty Cake couldn’t hear. I wasn’t ready to tell her about my plans to sing at the talent contest.
Zion settled on the ground, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.
All of a sudden I felt shy.
This was not like singing in front of Frog. This was someone I hardly knew. Did you feel that way when you sang on the Louisiana Hayride for the first time?
I took in a big breath, and then I started singing “Wildwood Flower.” Zion sat there, not moving or smiling or frowning. I couldn’t tell what the heck she thought of my talent. When I finished, she didn’t clap or say a word.
“Well?” I said. “What did you think?”
“Did that song make your insides quiver?” she asked.
I told her, of course not. I wasn’t a bit nervous.
“That’s what I figured,” she said. “You ain’t singing from your heart.”
“What do you know?”
“My daddy say when you really care about your singing, your insides quiver like there be butterflies flying around in your belly. My daddy knows. He be a good singer.”
My cheeks burned. “Well, Frog likes my
singing,” I said.
“Frog?” She acted like she’d never heard of him. And I know she knows him. She’d been over here with her momma when I was practicing my piano lessons at Mrs. Applebud’s.
“My little brother, Frog, remember him? He likes my singing just fine.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You sing for Frog?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’d be here this very minute, but he ran off when he saw the likes of you.”
Then Zion’s momma called out to her. She looked relieved to leave my voice lessons. No wonder Frog took off.
Singing from my heart (always!),
Tate P.
PS—I’m curious. Do your insides quiver when you sing on the Louisiana Hayride?
October 1, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
I GOT TWO ENVELOPES in the mail today. The first had another autographed picture of you. I don’t know why you sent me a second photograph, but I sure do thank you just the same. If you don’t mind, I’ll send this picture to my momma, which brings me to the second envelope. I received a nice long letter from her. And oh, you should hear the things she’s doing. She is very tired because it’s hard to be a celebrity.
For instance, Momma begins her day before the sun comes up so she can exercise. (Actresses have to keep their slender figures.) She can’t tell me about the movie yet because she’s under contract to not talk about it. The movie people are worried folks would leak all the exciting parts. Then nobody would stand in line and pay for a ticket and a box of popcorn. They’re probably right. If I told only one person and asked them to promise and keep a cross-their-heart-and-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-their-eye secret, they probably wouldn’t. Then they’d blab and blab so much about the movie, half of Louisiana would catch wind of it. And if Verbia Calhoon ever heard, Lord help us. If you don’t want it told, don’t tell Verbia. Her loose lips could sink ships.
Frog asked me to read Momma’s letter three times. “When is Momma coming home?” he asked. “I miss her something bad.”
Well, the way he said that made me wrap my arms around him and hug so tight until he said, “I can’t breathe, Tate.”
“I’m going to squeeze all that lonesomeness out of you,” I said. When his face turned red as ripe tomatoes, I let go of him.
Then Frog fell back on the floor and burst into a giggle fit. I know how to get Frog’s mind off the sad stuff.
Keeping my lips sealed,
Tate P.
October 3, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
TODAY WAS OUR CHURCH’S annual Squirrel Gumbo Fundraiser. There is nothing better than a good bowl of squirrel gumbo to remind Rippling Creek that the air will soon have a nip to it. Aunt Patty Cake likes this time of year too, because her customers start ordering jars of rich cream to keep their skin from drying out. She says, “Nothing’s better than Old Man Winter for the beauty business.” I have a hunch Aunt Patty Cake prays for a cold front during the silent prayer time at Sunday Morning Worship services.
Frog likes this time of year too, because he loves baked yams. “They taste like candy,” he claims.
I like baked yams too, but I’ll take my candy with chocolate and peanuts, thank you very much. What is your favorite candy bar, Mr. Williams? If you write and tell me, I’ll save up my money and buy you one. I figure you have to spend all your extra money on guitar picks and strings. But don’t worry if you can’t find time to write a thank-you note. I know you’re awful busy.
Uncle Jolly says he heard that when you’re not singing on the Louisiana Hayride, you’re playing all over the state in high school gyms. I wish you’d come to Rapides Parish. A lot of singers perform at Bolton High School’s auditorium in Alexandria. If you did come to Rapides Parish, I’ll bet Uncle Jolly would take me to hear you. I reckon all that performing is why you haven’t had time to answer any of my mail. You can still keep sending me pictures if you want. Only, can I have a different one next time? Maybe a photograph of you facing the opposite direction? That way I could hang it on the wall next to the other. Then, when folks stop by, I could tease them and say, “Did you know Hank Williams has an identical twin?”
I sent Momma the last picture you gave me, and she said all the women on the movie set thought you were a living dream. I hope that doesn’t make you blush. But I wanted you to know that you have admirers all the way to Hollywood, California.
Although you haven’t had time to write back, I hope you don’t mind if I keep writing. You’ve become a habit I just can’t break. Hey, that sounds like the title of a song! You’re welcome to use it, if you like.
Dreaming of a Baby Ruth candy bar,
Tate P.
PS—If you do use my idea for a song, could you write at the top of the music sheet, “Title by Miss Tate P. Ellerbee”?
October 6, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN writing all these letters without telling you what the initial “P” in my name stands for? I know you must be dying to know. The name is kind of embarrassing, but we’ve become close enough these last few months, it would seem a downright shame to keep it from you. Okay, get ready—the “P” stands for Pete. Are you done laughing yet?
There’s a story behind that name. I’ll tell you the short version. I am named after my daddy, who goes by Big Pete. When Momma gets mad at me, she calls me Little Pete. I prefer Tate P. myself or just plain Tate.
Sometimes when I’m not rehearsing my song, me and Frog play like we’re spies for Governor Earl K. Long. If you are a spy, Rippling Creek is probably not the sort of place you’d want to be assigned. The most exciting thing that happens when we’re spying is seeing Rudy Branson speed by in his new convertible. His grandmother left him a pile of money when she passed away.
For a while that was the talk of Rippling Creek. “What do you reckon Rudy is going to do with all that money?” Well, it didn’t take Rudy long to hightail it to Baton Rouge and come back with a brand-new Chrysler Town and Country beige convertible. And ever since then, he can be seen speeding all over these parts. He drives it in the afternoon for his paper route and to show off.
When Rudy first started driving the convertible, Frog couldn’t resist the chance to try and beat him. He’d wait on his bicycle at the end of our driveway, and when he heard Rudy’s engine he’d place his right foot on the right pedal and rise on his toes on his left. When he heard Rudy approaching, Frog’s back straightened. Seconds before Rudy reached him, Frog pushed off and started pedaling, his legs moving like windmill blades, his upper body leaning over the handlebars. Of course he never caught him, but Frog was determined to try. The first time he pushed off so hard that Big Pete’s boot slipped off his left foot. He lost his focus, and he wobbled a few yards before falling on the road and scraping his leg.
I told him if he insisted on wearing those silly boots that were ten times too big, he’d better tie the laces. He never, ever listened to me. Now he can’t race Rudy because his bicycle is nothing but a wad of metal from the close-call accident. (Frog is like a cat—he has nine lives.) And I don’t care how much he begs, he ain’t using mine. He’ll have to be satisfied spying on Rudy from our yard when Rudy zooms by.
Usually the only folks we spy on are coming and going from the cemetery. Saturday after I was done practicing my piano lessons, Mrs. Applebud asked, again, if I would go with her on her cemetery walk. “No, ma’am,” I said, “but I sure do thank you for asking.” I should have known better than to practice this close to Mrs. Applebud’s two o’clock visits.
I left, but I knew Mrs. Applebud would cut yellow mums from her yard, then head across the street. It takes her so long to cross that I worry she’ll get hit by a car. My heart goes to thumping real hard when I see her take those tiny steps. Slump shouldered, she studies her feet, never checking to see if anyone is coming down the road. Somehow she always makes it to the other side.
So as you can see, being a spy for the governor is not all it’s cracked up to be. If Frog ha
dn’t wrecked his bicycle, we could pedal off and find some Reds to follow. But I don’t much feel like doing it by myself, and Frog is too big to ride on my handlebars. Still, you never know what could happen across the street between burials and cemetery visits.
Your fan,
Agent RC Cola (aka Tate P.)
October 11, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
I GUESS BY NOW you know the Cleveland Indians won the World Series. Uncle Jolly says he couldn’t care less. “The day the Alexandria Aces make it into the World Series is the day I’ll get excited,” he says.
Silly Uncle Jolly. Doesn’t he know minor-league baseball teams will never be in the World Series? Uncle Jolly rarely misses an Aces home game. When he has a girlfriend, he goes with her. When he doesn’t, he sometimes takes Frog and me. Uncle Jolly carries his baseball glove because he’s determined to catch a foul ball. Never has. Probably never will. But that’s okay. At least he’s trying.
I root for the Aces too, but one day I want to go to a World Series game. I’ve never been somewhere where there are tens of thousands of people. I figure it has to be exciting if all those people want to be in the same place. The only places I’ve been where there are a lot of people are the Clyde Beatty Circus and the Rippling Creek May Festival.
I’ll bet the mention of the festival makes you curious how my personal voice lessons are going. Don’t worry, I’m still practicing, practically every day. I need to be in top form for the talent contest. I must be getting better, because Frog used to put his hands over his ears when I reached the high parts, and now he doesn’t do that. Although his left eye does squint a little, but I think that’s a nervous tic that for some strange reason surfaces when I sing.
Your fan,
Tate P. (who is going to a World Series one day)
Dear Hank Williams Page 3