Following traditional beach etiquette, the woman and I had begun by nodding greetings to each other for a couple of weeks. Our polite nods next became hearty “Good mornings!” and had now progressed to the point where I actively looked for her each day.
This day something else happened. The birdlike walker stopped some fifty feet down the beach and turned a cartwheel. For a split second, I feared she had taken a fall. I rushed to her aid.
She sprang to her feet and threw her arms in the air as if she’d scored a touchdown. “I have grand and marvelous news on this glorious morning!”
I halted, looking around to see if this rather strange exhibition had been for another person. No, the large bird was definitely performing for me. Now rethinking my tendency to be friendly, I cautiously approached her.
“Are you all right? I was concerned you might be hurt.”
“What? Me hurt? For heaven’s sake, I’d never allow for such a thing. I’m the very picture of grace!”
“Apparently so.”
“Should I assume that you don’t turn cartwheels when life is being especially good to you?”
“Actually, no. No, I don’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because I can’t?” My voice rose on can’t as if I were asking the woman’s permission to confess my inability.
“For goodness sakes, I’ll teach you. It’s rather simple.” With that, she turned three more cartwheels.
I applauded. “So, tell me, what is this remarkable news?”
“My dear, you can’t escape so easily. My announcement must be delayed because I’m on a mission. Charming beachcomber, I must instruct you in elementary gymnastics, first.”
“Thank you, but it’s not gonna happen. Trust me.”
I had a flashback to elementary school gym class where I suffered humiliating defeat as my body failed to flip, twist, turn, or perform any skill beyond a front somersault.
The woman frowned in frustration. Her intense look of disappointment made me think of Creola.
I stood at attention. “Okay, but you’d best step back or you might get hurt.” I gingerly put my hands palms down on the sand. Kicking like a mule, I threw my feet up into the air and came down on my back with a resounding thud.
The stranger bent over me. “A fine first effort!”
“Oh, you think so, do you? I’m just glad I didn’t break my neck.” I looked around for a jeering audience. The beach was mostly unpeopled. For that mercy, I was abundantly thankful.
“Try again, but this time, I’m going to help you. Here, give me your feet.”
Determined more than self-conscious, I staggered upright, bent over, placed my hands in the sand, and raised my feet, one at a time. The woman gripped me by the ankles and shoved. “All right, over you go!”
Indeed, over I went. It was my first cartwheel in a half century of humiliating efforts. I shouted and cheered as if I’d won Olympic gold. “Did you see that?”
“Yes! How graceful you were!”
“My lord, is anybody else looking?”
“And what difference would that make? As a matter of fact, an accomplishment is all the finer with an audience!”
“You know, you’re right.”
Like old friends, the two of us strolled up the beach together. The wind was in our faces. A cool breeze energized me.
“I do feel rather silly.”
“My dear, you must get over that. Life is far too short to worry about whether or not you’re being silly.” She paused. “Ah hah, methinks it’s more what other people think that concerns you?”
“Not really. Well, maybe so.”
“The truth is, we all might get a great deal more accomplished were we to act as suited ourselves. That is, as long as we stay within the laws of common civility.” She added, “If we must!”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Listen to me, my young friend, and you’ll learn to get more out of life. I’ll guide you from my own rather lengthy experience.”
“All right, then. Do you practice what you preach?”
“There is no other path for me. Now, when are you going to ask me about my show of jubilation?”
“This very minute. I’m afraid I got caught up with my cartwheel, our cartwheel. Enough! Please tell me your news.”
“My son, Jennings, called this morning, and he’s coming for the weekend! The darling boy works so hard he hasn’t a moment to spare. Naturally, his phone call merited my joyous display.”
“Naturally!”
“Now, tell me about your children. I see you’re a mother, too.”
“You can see that? It’s because I’m out of shape, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about? Your shape is fine. I believe you could use a self-confidence tune-up!”
I felt my face heating from embarrassment. This total stranger seemed to look inside me. I wasn’t sure I liked that. I’d once consulted a psychiatrist when I was trying to deal with the stresses of caring for aging parents. Even with a professional sleuth seated across from me, I’d managed to maintain my optimistic and controlled southern persona. My consuming fear for our parents’ plight remained comfortably imprisoned behind my smiling and hopeful mask. No, I wasn’t about to open up to this lady, either.
She peered harder at me. “I only deduced that you’re a mother because of the way you watch after people, specifically the way you watch after children on this beach. You see, I’m a skilled observer of humanity. I don’t merely walk on the beach, I take notice of what’s going on. I’ve noticed how you keep an eye out for others. Yesterday, I watched you run into the water after a child’s lost bucket. Such actions demonstrate your concern.”
“My, but you are observant. Yes, you’re right. I was worried about the toddler. He was ready to chase his bucket right into the water. I could see his mother was preoccupied with her younger child.”
“My point exactly.”
“I’ve noticed you, too. You and I walk at the same time every day.”
“Kindred spirits, dear, we are of kindred spirits.”
My embarrassment faded and I began to feel invigorated. Although she appeared much older than me, my new acquaintance was amazingly youthful. What a perceptive mind she had. And such a positive attitude! A good attitude is such an important quality; what’s more, her spunk was beginning to rub off on me. Hadn’t I just turned my first cartwheel? And this with the help of someone who was at least twenty years my senior!
“Where does your son live?” I asked.
“Oh, Jennings, such a precious boy! My Jennings lives in Atlanta. He works for a large company there. But I must confide that his heart is really in the arts. He just cannot discover a way to liberate himself from the corporate world. His real vocation is in writing. I say never fear, for Jennings is young, not yet forty.”
“Young. Not yet forty.” I suddenly felt younger. The crane woman was like a fresh breeze.
“What do you do, young lady?”
I didn’t want to admit what I did because of the inevitable next question, “What do you write?” Which was often followed with, “Are you writing something now?” I wanted to nip that in the bud so I replied, “I’m simply on vacation and enjoying every minute of it. I feel so rejuvenated by the beach. Sometimes I return just to fill my lungs with salt air. The first time I step onto the sand, particularly after a long winter away, I feel plugged into some sort of energy. Weird, don’t you think?”
The woman cut her eyes at me. “One must feed one’s soul, especially if one is creative. We are all creators in one way or another.”
Her message was unmistakable.
Had this casual meeting had been arranged by the spirit of Creola Moon? Crellie had always been a wise old owl to me. I almost wanted to cup my ear and listen for a wwwhooooo from amongst the nearby palm trees. That feisty owl was somewhere nearby. For certain. I could feel her presence.
“You remind of someone,” I said.
My wa
lking companion smiled at me. “Like you, I too am best fed by the salt air and sea.”
I found myself trying to pinpoint her curious accent. It had the flavor of an English person’s, yet it was also not anything I readily recognized. I only knew she was not from the South. I nearly bit a hole in my tongue when I heard myself inquire, “So, where are you from?”
How Southern was that?
“My dear, I’m from the Continent by birth, but I am currently from Every Place. She mouthed the words as if every place were her country. I’m neither fish nor am I fowl. I am happy at sea or on the land. I’m at home anywhere I am home. And you, dear, where is home for you?”
Wishing to appear somewhat worldly to her, this Georgia native replied, “Well, ma’am, for the entire summer, my home is right here on this beach.” I immediately wanted to swallow back the “ma’am” word. Ma’am was certain to expose my country origins.
“And your name, dear, what’s your name?”
“I’m Harriette. Harriette Newberry.” Harriette? What was I trying to keep from the woman? “And yours?”
“Now there’s a thought provoking query for you, because I have numerous names. To some, I am Beatrice, to others, simply Bea. There are those among my dear ones who call me Aunt Beattie, or Madame B. I decree that you must choose your own name for me.”
“I like Beatrice. It was the first you mentioned. In my opinion, it becomes you.” I wondered why the lady hadn’t shared her last name. Who was I to question? Hadn’t I just given the woman an alias?
“That’s fine, dear, but do pronounce my name like thus, Be-AT-trice. Please put the accent on the ‘at’.”
“Be-AT-trice. I’ll practice. Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice!”
“Very good, Harriette. You are doing the name its justice!”
“Thank you very much,” I said with flourish.
“But, my young friend, I must bid you a very good day. So farewell, for the present, darling Harriette.”
I was disappointed that our conversation ended so abruptly, but I politely bid good-bye. Actually I said, “Bye-bye now.” I bit my tongue. How Southern can you get?
We traded a wave as I walked in the direction of the condo. I was glad I’d finally introduced myself to the eccentric beachcomber. What an encourager was Beatrice! I would scratch from my To Do list the formerly unlikely accomplishment of Learn to turn a cartwheel.
Did you make a note of that, Creola? A cartwheel! I know you were watching.
I again lamented the fact that I’d not been named for my elegant Aunt Mary Pearle Butlar Armstrong.
Drat, did I really say, “Bye-bye?”
Chapter 5
I inhaled the fresh ocean air and, settling back into my beach chair, took a sip of my un-iced, all-but-boiling diet drink. At least, no bee had fallen into the can. I’d swallowed one once, at the beach. I was very thirsty, too much so to go upstairs for ice. The bee-less drink suited me fine.
Moonbeam, why on earth did you give Beatrice your old name? Even worse, why didn’t you tell her you were an author?
Were? I thought. Curious. My work in past tense? I pulled my hat down over eyes to hide from my own negative thoughts. Go away, Crellie. I’m resting.
The sun sparkled through the holes in my straw hat. I closed first one eye then the other, playing a game of illusion that my hat was moving back and forth. At an angle through the tiny holes, I could see the sun, a passing cloud, a flock of birds. It was intriguing, what simple pleasures a person could experience when away from the phone, the computer, and the demands of busy days.
As if on cue, my cell phone rang. “Oh, hello, Beau. What’s going on?”
He was busy at work, everything was fine at home, and by the way, he did have some news. Not good.
“Oh, no! Are you sure you have to cancel? I was sooooo looking forward to your being down here.”
After hearing my disappointment, Beau promised he’d come the following weekend.
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“That sounds threatening,” growled my husband. “Tell you what, for good measure, I’ll tack on Monday as a bonus.”
“It’s a deal, and you don’t have to cross your heart. Oh, Beau, guess what?” I didn’t expect any guesses from him. I knew my husband wasn’t much for playing guessing games, especially when calling from his office. “The woman of your dreams actually turned her first cartwheel!”
“Uh, that’s nice. There goes my other line. I gotta go.” It’s not unusual for Beau to skirt over such an announcement.
“I said a cartwheel, Beau Newberry.” I stood up as if he could see me. “I learned how to turn a cartwheel!”
“Didn’t know that was a big priority of yours.”
My husband was the poster person for the typical man. I could forgive him for that. I’d learned to be accepting of his obvious flaws, and he of mine. Besides, since my hysterectomy a few years earlier, I had not been nearly as sweet-natured. Beau had made admirable adjustments. It had been at least three years since he’d pushed my buttons by asking, “What’s wrong with you, sweetheart? Do you need your hormones?”
Saying goodbye, I eased myself back into the chair and continued to watch the world go by through the holes in my straw hat. The sounds of the gentle, rolling waves carried me back in time.
Another of my short stories refused to evaporate into the ether.
Creola at the Beach
by Honey Newberry
It was 1952, and our family was vacationing at the beach. Mother and Daddy, Mary Pearle and I held hands and ran, squealing, into the Gulf. We played for hours before wolfing down a picnic lunch of bologna and cheese sandwiches, soggy potato chips, lemonade, and homemade peanut butter cookies. Food always tastes better near water.
The only negative thing about our annual two-week trips to the beach was that Creola could never go along with us. Year after year, she insisted that she couldn’t be away from her own family for so long. That wasn’t altogether true, but I wouldn’t understand why for some time.
Creola would tell wonderful stories — scary ones — as well as stories that made her Moonbeam and Priceless Pearlie laugh so hard we’d roll backwards and often right off our seats. More than once, as a child, I have to change my clothes because I wet my pants laughing.
Creola didn’t mind washing my pants, so she said. She’d declare that the wetting of my things was her responsibility in the first place. “I made you laugh too hard, child!”
Even so, she expected me to assist her in the task. I especially liked when Creola lifted me up to hang things on the outdoor clothes line. I would take the wooden clothespins from my teeth and carefully secure them on either end of each piece of laundry.
Once the sheets and towels and all the clothes were hung securely on the line, Creola, Mary Pearle, and I would run through the billowing material. I’d pretend to be aboard a ship just off the coast of some far, exotic island. I was the vessel’s captain, with Crellie and Priceless Pearlie as my crew. The best part was when we danced about among the “sails.”
Mother vehemently disapproved of our nanny’s telling us ghost stories, some of which were tinged with the voodoo tales of her native New Orleans. Creola regularly promised Mother that she’d stick to lighter subject matter, and I think she honestly meant to. “I surely don’t want to frighten my darlin’ girls, Missus. You know how I love these babies.”
When we pleaded and pleaded, our softhearted nanny would often give in once our mother went out for a day of bridge. We had to promise Creola we’d have no bad dreams. For good balance, at the end of a particularly terrifying tale Creola would tell us a funny story. We sisters not only needed one to counteract our fright, but also as something that we could share at the dinner table to the appreciative audience of Mother and Daddy.
“Miss Moonbeam, Priceless Pearlie,” moaned a dramatic Creola one rainy afternoon. Her hands extended, her eyes dilated to solid black with the full whites showing. “That evil ghost is c
oming up our basement steps all the way from the back of our loud, loud fire-breathing furnace. He gonna eat us up alive!”
“Oh, Creola,” we yipped in unison, then snuggled as close as we could to her on the living room couch. “Hold us tight!”
“Now, darling children, you know how your sweet mother — may The Angel of Good Luck bless her bridge game — feels about our ghosts. I dare not scare my baby girls on this dark, most stormy day.”
“Crellie, I’m not scared, not one bit. I’m almost seven, you know!”
“And I’m already nine,” puffed up Mary Pearle, “so you know I can take it!”
Creola took a deep, heavy breath. “Listen, do you sweet little ladies hear something?”
“No, s-s-surely not, Creola.” I stammered.
“Yes, I do!” said my sister.
She tapped her foot. “That ghost is walking closer to us, babies!”
“Oh, Crellie!” We screamed as we dove under a pair of throw pillows and just missed cracking open our heads on one another.
“Lord have mercy, my babies, are you hurt?” She cradled us. “Your mother is right. It’s best that your old Creola not say one word more!”
“Oh, Crellie, please keep telling us!”
“Pleeeeaassse!”
Sighing, she gave in. “Well, get yourselves ready, because he’s coming closer, and closer, and closer, stomp, stomp, and closer, stomp.”
I wanted to squeeze myself under a seat cushion. Yet, shaking as I was, I knew full well this was the most fun in the whole world.
“Closer and closer, stomp, stomp.”
“Crellie.” I couldn’t let out a breath.
Mary Pearle squealed and put another throw pillow over her head.
Creola grabbed us and shouted to the ceiling, “Gotcha!”
Mary Pearle screamed like a banshee. I jumped off the couch and screamed, too, as I ran in circles around our living room. Creola picked me up and, collapsing back on the couch, we laughed and laughed. Had it been a sunny day, even Creola’s clothes would have been on the line drying when Mother got home from bridge.
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