Creola's Moonbeam

by McGraw Propst, Milam

  Creola’s weather radio, a gift years ago from Mother and Daddy, broadcast reports around the clock. I could hear it playing from inside. Never much of a television watcher, Creola readily admitted that she enjoyed her weather reports. “Technology, pfffttt. Why ‘technology’ is just another word for the devil,” she insisted with a spit. “But I do appreciate the Butlars’ fine, fine weather gadget. I like to know what the heavens have coming next.”

  “Oh Creola, there’s just nobody else like you.”

  “’Course not, child. The good Lord makes us all different.”

  I nodded. We sat quietly for a moment. I looked around her yard. “I see you have firewood still left from the last year.”

  “Ready for the next. Hope it won’t get too cold, though. The last ice storm kept me inside for way too long. Couldn’t get to church.”

  I studied her old pecan tree and two sweet gums. Her flower beds were bursting with buds. “Looks like your daylilies are close to blooming.”

  “Ummm hum.”

  I was just making small talk. Creola sensed it. “Why have you come to me on this day? Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, but you know me, Creola. I do have something on my mind.”

  “Best get it said, then.”

  “You and I are so close. I can talk to you about everything in the world, everything short one subject.”

  Creola’s cautious eyes peered into mine. “You’re not having troubles with Beau, are you?”

  “No, heaven’s no!”

  “Thank the good Lord for that. For years I’ve grieved myself brittle-boned over Mary Pearle’s unhappy choice. One of these days, she’ll see that man for the scoundrel he is. I was almost hoping that was why you came today, to tell me he was dead!”

  “Creola Moon, I can’t believe you said that.”

  “I’m telling the truth like it is.”

  “Crellie, please don’t get me started on Edgar today. You and I always egg one another on. We’re gonna have to stop talking so viciously about that man.”

  “Like I said before, it’s simply so.”

  “You’ve always seen him clearly, while I continued to wear rose-colored glasses much of the time. Guess the ‘little sister’ in me recalled their wedding, their romance, how handsome Edgar seemed in my eyes back then. Why, I even used to believe that Edgar’s daughters might manage to soften their father. I hoped that having a family would make Mary Pearle and Edgar happy.”

  “Doesn’t work that way, sorry to say. I was like you, though. I always wished the darlin’ babies would improve him. But a man like Edgar isn’t about to change. Not in his nature.” She shook her head. “I just praise the Lord that my Priceless Pearlie’s girls have all of their mother’s goodness and not one ounce of their father’s badness.”

  “I agree.”

  I sipped iced tea then twisted a little gold ring I wore on one pinkie. Showing it to her, I said, “See, it fits perfectly now. Remember when I was eleven and you gave it to me to replace the ring I lost? I keep it with me always.”

  “Of course, I remember. Don’t recall ever seeing a child so upset about losing anything. I’d have given you my head to dry those tears! It fills me with joy to see you wear the ring.”

  “I wear it often, Creola, especially when I’m talking in front of an audience or reading to a group of people. Anytime I’m nervous about something. It remains my good luck talisman.”

  She looked at me harder. “So, my Moonbeam, why do you need good luck sitting on my porch?”

  I took a long, deep breath. “Creola, something has been eating at me for years. Most definitely, this is a very difficult subject.”

  Creola’s eyes locked on mine. It was as if she were trying to help draw out my clumsy words. “Keep talkin’.”

  “There’s an uneasy barrier between you and me.” I closed my eyes. “The racial barrier.”

  Silence.

  “Neither you nor I have ever acknowledged our differences, Crellie, nor have we let them interfere with our love or respect for one another. I hope not, anyway.” I cleared my throat and took another sip of tea. I also twisted my ring.

  “Crellie, I want to apologize to you if ever, with insensitive words or selfish actions, if ever I’ve offended you.” I gulped the tea. “Darnit, Crellie, I guess I’m trying to apologize for being ignorant. No, it’s not that, either. I suppose I’m trying to say I’m sorry for being, ummmm, for being naive. Oh heck, Crellie, I’m apologizing for acting, well, acting so ‘white.’”

  I never felt more self-conscious. Or any whiter.

  Before I could make a worse mess of my well-intentioned efforts, Creola stopped me. Taking my hand, the dignified woman responded. “There is nothing to forgive, baby girl. We are all God’s children, you and Crellie. You are white because God meant for you to be white. For the same reasons, He planned for me to be a person of color.”

  I listened.

  She smiled. “And you and I both know that everyone falls short of His plan in one way or another. Us included. But unhappily for us, Miss Moonbeam, because you and I are also created to be different, we may never completely understand one another. Just believe, more than anyone else on this earth, you will always be tied to me like my very own.”

  Tears welled up. “Crellie, I couldn’t love you more if I were.”

  “That I have always known. You weren’t born of my body, child, you were born of my heart. You must always understand there is no black and there is no white where you and I are concerned. That little ring, the one you are about to twist into shreds, that ring sealed our bond years ago.”

  I relaxed my fingers and placed my right hand in my left.

  Creola rocked back in her seat. “I’ve pondered about this, well, let’s see, this situation, too. Try to think about us in this way: We are like two big trees standing side by side.

  I nodded toward her yard. “The pecan and the sweet gum?”

  “Yes, you’re getting it! Our leaves, our roots, our barks are different. As close as we stand to one another, and as much as we care about one another, we will never be the same. Not on this earth, anyway. But, dear girl, we remain in our good soil, again side by side, sheltering one another, and standing tall together. We always will. Now, how about a piece of cake?”

  “I’d like that a lot.”

  We ate most of Creola’s apple cinnamon cake. Like us, the cake was a fine mixture of a lot of good and tasty ingredients.

  Nothing else needed to be said.

  But on my way home that day, I questioned my intentions. Guilt? Asking for forgiveness? At least, Creola and I had removed one stone from the wall. Honesty between two people was a beginning. I would never come to accept or to understand the narrow-minded prejudices of other people. I only knew that my relationship with Creola was one nourished with love, trust, forthrightness, and mutual respect. I hoped those shared qualities would forever keep open my mind.

  My fingers flew over the keyboard as a story about Creola came to life. It wasn’t birthed on the pages of a typewriter, something I did momentarily consider in honor of tradition. But just as sweetly, CREOLA’S MOONBEAM, printed in large, bold type, filled my computer’s screen.

  It is particularly gratifying for me to write about people I love. In fact, so enthused was I that I wrote well into the night, sleeping only briefly. The sun was already toasting the sand as I scurried down onto the beach. Not only had I missed the usual passersby, but I was also too late to meet Beatrice.

  Honey Newberry, either you don’t write a single word or you can’t make yourself quit.

  That said, I know my patterns well enough to understand that these obsessive traits often produced my best work. Plodding along the shoreline, my mind naturally drifted back to Creola. It suddenly dawned on me that her story could well be turned into a book. For once, Creola didn’t comment, but a pelican flew overhead as if to say, “I agree.”

  I watched a family splashing about on a raft and decided such a b
ook could appeal to both adults and to children. When I used to read to Mary Catherine and Butlar, it was always pleasing any time the story was as intriguing to me as it was for my children.

  I picked up a shell and skipped it out across the water. I laughed, excited. As Daddy used to say when a project suddenly started going well, “We’re cookin’ with gas, now!”

  Little Sisters at the Zoo

  by Honey Newberry

  Creola had promised me and Mary Pearle that, come rain or shine, we were going to the zoo in Atlanta. Sure enough, we awakened to the sound of raindrops on the bedroom window.

  “Don’t you be fretting, darling girls. Of course, we’re sticking to our plans. Your mother says it’s all right with her as long as there’s no thunder and lightning. But you two have to wear your galoshes and keep your raincoats fastened. And we must get home well before dark.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” we chorused.

  “Don’t you know, those animals get mighty lonesome on rainy days. Not many children come to visit them when it’s wet outside. Yes, my darling girls, I’m almost grateful for this gloomy day because we’ll have the zoo park all to ourselves.”

  Because Creola didn’t drive, we would take public transportation for our outings in Humphrey and for our trips into Atlanta. Much of the fun of going to Atlanta for me was riding on the Greyhound bus. Mary Pearle didn’t share my enthusiasm. She thought it strange that Creola made her sit up in front with me while she rode in the bus’s very last seat.

  “How come you do that, Creola?”

  “My dear, it’s so you girls can see what’s just ahead. I choose to be in the last place so I can see what’s behind,” instructed Creola. “You never know what might be catching up to us.”

  Mary Pearle was getting old enough to understand the real reason, but I never questioned the seating arrangement. To me, Creola was the source of how best to plan everything. Mainly I enjoyed riding way up high and considered little else. I liked to look down into the cars stopped at traffic lights. “Makes you feel real big,” I pointed out to Mary Pearle. Mary Pearle felt plenty big enough already and much preferred the front seat of an automobile.

  As well, my sister got irritated with me for frequently embarrassing her. That day, as a case in point, just on the outskirts of Humphrey, I stuck out my tongue at a little boy in a car stopped beside the bus. The boy just happened to be in Mary Pearle’s class in school.

  In response, he put his thumb in his ear and made a face at me and at Mary Pearle, too. Mary Pearle was simply appalled by the whole incident. It was bad enough that her younger sister called the classmate’s attention to their sitting in the Greyhound, but it was even worse that she’d acted like such a little brat.

  Creola came forward, shaking a finger. She spoke to me for starting the disturbance and to Mary Pearle for acting stuck up. “I’ll tell you something else,” Creola concluded, “that little boy would likely give up his week’s allotment of cookies to be coming along with us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Creola returned to the back of the bus.

  The rain had become but a gentle mist as we ran to the zoo’s ticket window. Each of us pulled Creola by a hand.

  “Do slow down, young ladies, or you’ll be out of energy before we go inside!”

  “The lions first!” squealed Mary Pearle.

  “No, the elephant,” I argued.

  “He smells too bad. Let’s go to Monkey Island.”

  Taking her hands from us, Creola intervened, “Don’t you know, girls, the black bears will be the most excited of all this day?”

  “Why’s that, Crellie?”

  “It’s as simple as this. Bears just love the damp weather. It reminds them of the days they roamed free in the Smoky Mountains. The mountains are washed with rain nearly every day, and the bears miss that refreshing wetness. They will be frolicking to beat the band on this soggy morning.”

  “Let’s go to see bears!” Off we skipped. Creola followed behind, chuckling and scurrying as fast as her feet would carry her.

  Just like Creola said, the black bears ran and rolled around on their backs and climbed up and down their tree. It was a fake tree, one anchored to the stone floor of their pen. Those playful bears didn’t seem to mind.

  “Why is it that the bears had to be taken away from their mountains, Crellie?” I asked. “Don’t they get awful homesick? Aren’t they missing their families?”

  I always remembered Creola’s answer.

  “My Moonbeam, I’m sure they do miss the other bears. I’m pleased to hear that you care so much. But you mustn’t concern yourself.” She put arm around me and said, “Listen to old Creola, now. I believe these bears are willing to sacrifice for you and for all the other children. The good Lord gives them courage so you and your sister and the other visitors can enjoy seeing them and learn about their ways. They’ve likely gotten accustomed to their new way of life, and you know they get lots of good food to eat, too. Just watch them. Look! Didn’t that small one up in the tree just smile at you?”

  “I guess so.” I wasn’t convinced, but I hoped Creola was right about the bears being content.

  Mary Pearle took my hand and said, “Harriette, I’ll go see the smelly old elephant if you really want.”

  Creola smiled. “You’re a sweet girl, Priceless Pearlie. Priceless, too, is my little Moonbeam. Yes, Lord, there’s much about my own way of life that I have grown accustomed to. Maybe I’m just like that grinning bear who climbs the cement tree.”

  Chapter 11

  Why I hadn’t written about Creola before now was beyond me. The time has a way of making my plans for me. But I could hardly hit the computer’s keys as fast as memory dictated. Oh heck, I’ll admit it, Creola was ready for me to write, and she was whispering in my ear, cheering me on.

  Most heartwarming of all, I was reliving the joyful time of being Creola’s Moonbeam.

  Happily lost in the 1950’s, the phone’s ringing was like a slap in my face. I despised being interrupted when I was on a roll. Still, it could have been an emergency involving Beau or one of our children, so I answered.

  “Hello,” I said flatly.

  The voice on the other end greeted me with a cheery, “Good morning, sleepyhead. I missed you this dawn.”

  Had it been anyone else at the beach, I would have begged off saying I was busy with my new book. The caller, however, was Beatrice.

  “I’m truly happy you called. You’ll never believe it, but your inspiration was the very tonic I needed. I’ve begun a story and am two chapters into a full-blown book!”

  “I’m not the least bit surprised. I could see the light coming into your eyes yesterday.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course, I did.”

  I wondered if my friend could be my guardian angel in disguise, but I immediately dismissed the idea. I realized that the angels I’d known about hadn’t been married an undetermined number of times. Besides, my angel’s job had already been taken by Creola.

  “Now, my productive author-girl, you must ignore my untimely interruption and get back to your passion. My news shall wait. I’ll call you in a day or two. No, even better, you call me when the time is right.”

  “No, ma’am, I shall not! You’ve got my curiosity going now.”

  Beatrice hesitated. Then, “I did want you to come by. But I certainly didn’t mean to halt your progress, particularly now that you’re generously giving me the credit for breaking the evil spell.”

  “Exactly, Beatrice. That spell would still be holding me hostage had it not been for you. I’ll be right there.”

  After saving the story on the computer, I hopped on my bike.

  “Faster than a speeding bullet?” said Beatrice as she opened the door. “Oh, I see, you came by wheel. Do come in.”

  She offered me a diet drink and reached for something on the mantelpiece. Turning around, Beatrice handed me another one of my books. “Would you autograph this one for me, please?”


  I was all too happy to sign the book, but was also somewhat puzzled. “Where did you get this copy of Spinster’s Petticoat? It’s been out of print for years.”

  “Oscar found it for me.”

  “Oscar? Who’s Oscar?”

  “He’s an old Scottish fellow, a dear friend of mine.”

  “A member of the famous group of ‘Dear Ones’?” I asked.

  “The dearest,” Beatrice replied.

  I could only speculate what that must have meant. “I see.”

  “Oh no, you don’t see!” Beatrice laughed. “He’s a darling man, but his red hair keeps him out of the sun most of the day. As a result, the dear fellow haunts all the local merchants, the book store being his favorite spot. You may recall, I mentioned that a friend was in the shop when you came by looking for summer lodging?”

  “Ah, so that was Oscar?”

  “Quite so. Sonny and Oscar. Each had a hand in telling me about you. Anyway, following my faux pas concerning your Aunt Harriette, I immediately dispatched him to find your Aunt Harriette’s story. After my impertinent comment, I felt compelled to read about the somber woman! There’s little wonder Auntie Harriette never married.”

  “You didn’t find it funny?”

  “Well, I suppose I did snicker a time or two. How about the chapter where the nearsighted fellow came to call on her and mistakenly attempted to escort her bewildered mother out the front door instead!”

  “The truth is, the young man would have had a much better time with Grandmother than he had with my aunt. It was such a shame Granddaddy stopped him!”

  “Dear, dear, had I but known about maiden Harriette, I could have given her one of my husbands!”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “Now, Mrs. Newberry, you are in dangerous territory.”

  I desperately wanted Beatrice to talk about her marriages but that subject was clearly taboo, beyond her wry references here and there. I smiled at her. “I should go down to the bookstore. I really owe Sonny and Oscar a word of thanks.”

  “Nice idea, dear,” said Beatrice. Her mind seemed elsewhere.