Okay. So I come from Earthquake Country and that scares the beejesus out of anybody who’s never been in an earthquake. It’s like the Apocalypse and the Four Horsemen Come to Git Ya. Out-of staters think the earth cracks open like the Grand Canyon and small children and cherished pets are never seen again. Whole towns disappear and fall into the ocean. Well, that hasn’t happened yet although people have been squashed under bridges, and as they lay dying, ne’er-do-wells ransack their cars and take their wallets and anything else of value. Mostly, though, earthquakes just rattle things up a bit; a few cans get knocked off of shelves in the grocery stores; some windows get broken and people’s nerves are shot for a few hours. The thing is: They come without warning. There are no earthquake sirens. No high-tech tracking on the television stations; no Pete Thompson telling you when to head for the basement if you have one. Just slam. All of a sudden your feet go out from under you and it’s over before you’ve even figured out what it was. The real blockbusters only happen every 10-20 years and the death tolls and injuries are minimal compared to other natural disasters.
But tornados? Shut the hell up! They happen every year, several times per season. Talk about whole towns being blown away and small children and pets disappearing. They really do. How do you get used to having your roof blown off every year? So, I knew I had to prepare and prepare good.
First of all, what does one wear to a tornado? Will I be able to hear the sirens over the TV murder I’m usually watching on Lifetime or TNT and they don’t do up-to-the-minute warnings? Do I have a “safe room?” No. I have a bathroom with no window so that’s going to have to do even though it’s on an outside wall. What do I need to stock? How long will I be stuck in there? In bad earthquakes, the ones that usually happen in Peru and Pakistan, people are often trapped for hours and days. How will anyone know if I’m dead? Hard to tell some mornings. But I didn’t know anybody then and who would think to look for me?
And so, putting all of my bleached blonde faculties to work, I devised a plan. If I’m going to die in a tornado, let me go happily and in comfort. Keep it simple. In the linen closet I placed a bottle of Perrier, a corkscrew and a cheap California pinot noir. Oh, and some tennis shoes and a leash and some Milk Bones. Happily, the first couple of years, I had no need for the equipment and forgot about it as I went about the business of building my new life. By 2007, I wised up a little, having seen some pretty devastating stuff down here.
By then, I had put some low-lights in my hair and could think better. What if it happened here in Maumelle like it did in Dumas? I’ve got 20 trees in my back yard, mostly pine that crack like twigs in the wind and smash houses in half. I called out the tree guy and had him take down the one that loomed most precariously over my house; the one that would bisect my life, and left the others that would only demolish the kitchen on the north side or smash me flat in my bed on the south side. The decisions one makes in this life….Then I went to Circuit City and got conned into buying one of those crank-em-up weather radios. Feeling empowered, I stocked the bathroom with a comforter and pillows to cover my head if my dog and I had to cower in the bathtub, a crowbar and axe in case I had to bust my way out from under a bone-crushing pine tree, tuna, dog food, flashlight, peanut butter, a can opener, first aid kit, extra shampoo, canned ravioli. Being from Good Pioneer Stock on my father’s side, I was going to survive, by God. And intrepid explorers on my mother’s side. My Uncle Octave was on the Greely Expedition to the North Pole and the story goes that the survivors survived by eating up their traveling companions. Not being one to devour my neighbors for any reason whatsoever, I instead decided on the tuna and canned ravioli.
It was only a matter of time before a tornado sliced through Little Rock. Long-time residents gloried in regaling me with tales of tornados past that had taken out whole neighborhoods and Harvest Foods and sent cars flying across Main Street. Well, spring of 2008 seemed fairly tame to me until that night when I was visiting friends in Cammack Village. Something didn’t seem quite right. It was raining a little but the vibes in the air gave me what they call down here the willie-nillies. Californians are big on vibes and when you get one, you better act fast. I made a polite but speedy exit and headed across the bridge to Maumelle.
It was the most astonishing light show ever. Even San Francisco nightclubs of the 1960’s couldn’t compare. Miles-long, serrated bolts cracked the sky and splintered light on the river. I could hardly keep my eyes on the road but my hands stayed firm on the wheel to keep the winds from blowing my little Toyota into the roiling waters below. Get the hell home. It may be pretty but it’s dangerous and you are so in for it. Alone. You and your little dog, too.
Screeching into the garage, I went straight for the TV. The networks were ablaze with reports as the tornado ripped up from the southwest, through Bryant and Benton, then straight into Cammack Village where I was visiting not 15 minutes before. Cranking up the TV to full volume, I grabbed my beagle, Simon, who was sleeping on the forbidden sofa and ran for the bathroom. Yanking open the linen closet I pulled out the comforter and pillows (the wine was long gone) and threw them in the tub along with the dog. I grabbed the peanut butter and the crow bar from under the sink and along with my cell phone, leaped in the tub and slammed the door shut. Time to call my only child, Eyren Michaela, in Charleston and bid her farewell.
Having heard the reports on CNN, she was just about to call me. The vibes again.
“It’s five minutes from Maumelle. I’m a goner. I am so sorry I never bought you a Lite Brite and that I grounded you for using the F-word. I never taught you to pray. I never taught you how to handle money. I never taught you how to use power tools. Your cooking stinks and it’s all my fault. And I’m so sorry I yelled at you when I was trying to teach you to drive and ride a bike and for all the kites I couldn’t get to fly that crashed into the ground and made you cry.”
Simon was starting to squirm among the pillows, turning around and around, trying to nest. He was distracted by the open jar of peanut butter and licking it off my fingers, sticking his nose in the jar to get bigger portions. I wasn’t going to fight him. I’d share my last drop of peanut butter with the most loyal, true-blue man I’d ever known.
“Mama,” Eyren squeaked, “I can hardly understand you. Are you eating peanut butter again? You’re not going to die. You can’t. You haven’t bought me a Lite Brite yet and I still owe you a trip to Italy and you can’t die until we get there. And back.” She knows, most of the time, not to argue with me when I’m insane.
“Yes I am. I am so dead. And I never took the time to tell you how sorry I am.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Everything I ever did or didn’t do. I’m sorry I divorced your wretched father and that you never had a daddy. I’m sorry that your hair turned green when I tried to give it new life with a cheap box of hair color. I’m sorry I never taught you to pray. I’m sorry for all the times I made you eat fish and pork chops and that I read whole passages out of The Grapes of Wrath to make you feel guilty. I should have let you eat more French fries. The sirens are blaring! I hear trains coming! All hope is dead and so am I. They’ll find us in a few days. Decomposed, reeking of peanut butter. But at least I have on a cute outfit.”
By now, the dog was standing on his hind legs, pounding on the shower door to get out. My cell phone was blowing sky high as friends and family tried to reach me from both coasts.
“Vaya con Dios, my precious baby girl. I have never loved anyone as I have loved you. I’ll wait for you in our next life and we will be safe. You’ll have a daddy and never have to eat pork chops. It will be in Mexico or somewhere where it’s always warm and the breezes are gentle. Listen for me in whippoorwill songs. (I wouldn’t have known a whippoorwill if it landed on me with a business card). Feel my love when you look into the eyes of your first born child. I was never perfect but my love for you always was.
“Mama?”
The cell phone died. If you think this was maudlin, imagine the conversation if I had found that bottle of wine.
The TV, still at full volume, started giving reports that the tornado was bypassing Maumelle. With stiff knees from crouching in the tub, I cautiously slithered out and headed for the living room. The wind was subsiding and I watched in astonishment the amazing technology that tracked, to the block, what neighborhoods were still in danger of touch down. Mine was not in the mix. The house phone rang. It was my neighbor across the street, checking in on me. She comforted and reassured me that we were not in danger. She detailed the course tornados take from southwest to northeast. She laughed with me. Probably at me but was too refined to let me know. She told me I can always come to them. They were there for me. Always. Southerners to the bone. Just checking in on their neighbors. I’ll bake them a pie in the morning. It’s what Southerners do. Pie. Pah. No matter how you say it, its significance runs as deep as that river I cross each day. I won’t even use the ready-made crust. I’ll make it with my own hands and set it on my kitchen windowsill to cool. And when I take it to them the screen door will slam behind me, resounding the unmistakable protection of the Southern home.
I called my daughter from the house phone to tell her we survived. There was a lot of peanut butter involved but we were, indeed, alive and well. I didn’t put in the part about how I really wasn’t sorry I divorced her father or that if I had to I would read Steinbeck until her ears fell off if that would make her more grateful for all she had.
“You ever going to get me a Lite Brite? Oh, and by the way, Mama, your love is perfect. Sleep tight.”
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
Monday, September 7, 2009
THE MAMA INDUSTRY OF THE AMERICAN SOUTH (MIASma)
Being reared in California by a Louisiana mother is a sure-fire road to schizophrenia or just about any other mental impairment. The cultural forces are in constant collision with one another and trying to act like you belong when you know better is a damn, lousy set-up.
When I uprooted myself from my fifth-generation California family and allowed the Louisiana ghosts to rise up and claim me, I was more prepared than most for dealing with the Mama Industry of the American South (MIASma). Mama is as pervasive as the humidity and the scent of dogwood in the spring. And my mother wasn’t just any Southern mama. She was French Catholic from southwest Louisiana and brought up primarily by a nursemaid from the Caribbean. Talk about collisions: French Catholicism laced with voodoo? Oh, and the etiquette edicts of the old French families were as rigid and unarguable as the Ten Commandments. I never knew if Mama’s commandments were based in bad luck or bad manners but I knew better than to take any chances.
1. Thou shalt not ever pass the salt without the pepper.
2. Thou shalt not ever place a hat on the bed.
3. Thou shalt not address an adult by anything other than sir or m’am.
4. Thou shalt not fail to RSVP.
5. Thou shalt not give a sharp or pointed object as a gift.
6. Thou shalt not cut all your meat at once.
7. Thou shalt not fail to cross yourself when a hearse passes by.
8. Thou shalt honor thy mother (daddy is optional but if he buys lots of jewelry then he gets equal honoring).
9. Though shalt not ask personal questions of people.
10. Thou shalt not repeat to anyone what goes on in this house.
1. Thou shalt not ever pass the salt without the pepper.
2. Thou shalt not ever place a hat on the bed.
3. Thou shalt not address an adult by anything other than sir or m’am.
4. Thou shalt not fail to RSVP.
5. Thou shalt not give a sharp or pointed object as a gift.
6. Thou shalt not cut all your meat at once.
7. Thou shalt not fail to cross yourself when a hearse passes by.
8. Thou shalt honor thy mother (daddy is optional but if he buys lots of jewelry then he gets equal honoring).
9. Though shalt not ask personal questions of people.
10. Thou shalt not repeat to anyone what goes on in this house.
California kids just didn’t get this stuff and neither did their parents unless there was a Southerner in the backstretch somewhere. They thought I was being sarcastic when I said sir or m’am. They thought I didn’t like their cooking if I left a bite on the plate for Miss Manners. They didn’t know why I clammed up when they asked me how much my father paid for his car. And unless they were Catholic, they really didn’t get the part about the hearse. They just didn’t get it and it’s not their fault and Jesus loves them, too.
The devil, like mama, wears many faces. They are as varied as spots on a blue-tick hound. You think you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all? Uh-uh. They’re of all ethnicities and religions: Italian, French, Hispanic, African-American, Middle Eastern, Asian, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist. Sorry if I left anyone off the list---it’s the bleach factor again. There are two imperatives that run through them all: The importance of inducing guilt and fear of motherly reprisal. But as I said, down here it is an industry and reaches into every level of one’s being, thus the preponderance of country music lyrics written on the subject. Why, even trains and pickups aren’t mentioned nearly as much as mama. And there ain’t no song saying “There Ought to be a Hall of Fame for Pickup Trucks.” But there’s one for Mama. Swear to God.
And don’t think for a minute that they are all chubby, cheery faced darlings in hand-knit sweaters and calico dresses. They can be tall and stringy with machete-sharp eyes. They can be wearing anything from Escada to Escape-from-Rehab wear. Socialites, floozies, soccer moms, young, old, wise as Solomon, dumb as a bag of hammers, professional women, secretaries, retail clerks, power brokers or senators. It just doesn’t matter down here. If you have given birth, you are a Mama and your rights are up there with the Bill of Rights and would have been written in if there hadn’t been a bunch of dumb-ass men who forgot all about their mamas when they were writing it. And they should have known better, even then, because down here, you just can’t get elected to public office unless you have a Really Good Mama Story.
And it has to involve sacrifice of the highest order. There might be a random constable or state rep who managed to slip in without a good mama story but they are the exception. If your mama was a Supreme Court judge, by God, she would just shut those boys down if you were starting in the game against Central or performing your first ballet recital. It doesn’t matter if she were waiting tables or running a corporation or anything in between. Her children came first. Tell us about the whoopin’s she took so your sumbitch step-daddy didn’t take it out on you. Tell us about all the sumbitches she didn’t marry so you wouldn’t have to have a step-daddy at all. Tell us about how she always believed in you even when you didn’t make the team or get picked for Homecoming Queen. Tell us about how her car broke down on the way to the doctor and she carried you a mile in the snow. Tell us about how she went without her heart medications to buy food for the puppy she let you have when she could barely afford to feed you. Tell us about how she slapped the principal’s face when he said you cheated on your math test. Tell us about how she went to college for the first time at age 40 to set a good example for you. Tell us about all the toys she put on lay-away at K-Mart and paid for all year so you wouldn’t think Santa thought you were bad. Tell us about how she always expected the best from you. Tell us how many days she was in labor giving birth to you. Tell us how she said you weren’t poor, you were just on adventure. Tell us about how you’ll never forget the look on her face the day you graduated high school.
It helps a lot if you really know how to uncork a good story, and there’s no story like a Southern politician’s Mama Story, but most of all, what we want to know is that you never forgot where you came from. You came from Mama.
And don’t go thinking for even a moment that the power of Mama comes just magically up from nowhere. We have this all worked out for the future generations. We gather and meet to advance the causes of society, politics and the will of God. We gather for church meetings and women’s club meetings, charitable organization and business meetings and the scheduling all hinges upon the goings-on of the key players’ mamas. If the meeting starts at 2:00 p.m. but the chairwoman’s mama has a (hair, doctor, plumber, handyman, pedicure, dog grooming, dentist) appointment at 3:30, well, you can bet your last piece of sweet potato pie that meeting is going to get moved or postponed to accommodate Mama’s schedule. Don’t even ask why Mama didn’t check with her daughter first to see if her appointment time was convenient for her. Convenience is not a consideration when it comes to a daughter’s duty to deliver and collect her mama. After all the sacrifices, the least we can do is arrange our days to suit our mamas. And God help us if her perm doesn’t turn out right. We’ll be hearing about it at the next three meetings.
Of course, we all want to be informed if anything unfortunate befalls any of our mamas. Because then cards, flowers and casseroles must follow and not a minute too soon. We don’t even have to officially cancel a meeting if anybody’s mama gets caught in a tornado, has lung transplant surgery or gets shot by a drunken deer hunter. Word is out faster than you can say cyberspace and we all just know not to show up anywhere except at said afflicted mama’s house. We’ll lift trees off roofs, harangue the surgical nurse manager into giving us the update, take in the 50-pound miniature poodle that Mama so adored, bake a casserole, roast a side of beef, make soup, cookies, whatever is required because don’t you just know something’s going happen to our mamas any day now and we are going to want to cash in our chips. Even if our very own mamas have already gone to Jesus, we are still in debt and will be until the day we die and then it’s up to our daughters to carry on the tradition. There’s a reason folks say, “Slap Your Mama!” when something turns out really good.
Convenience also knows no place in the life of any mama’s daughter. Take the impromptu visit, for one. I actually got disinherited over this one. Of course, Mama started disinheriting me when I was 15 for coming home late from a date. She probably disinherited me for at least six or seven other transgressions over the years but always rewrote the will after much drama, tears and recriminations. But the last time, she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease and forgot to make yet another codicil to the will and I just won’t go into the high-impact legal aerobics I had to perform to get back in it.
Mama, as you can see even through this small window, drove me completely out of my mind. There was no escape. No breathing room. And yet, I would gladly rip the highlights out of the hair of any bitch that hurt or criticized her unfairly. Note: I refer to women as potential critics. Men just plain knew better than to say a word. The price was way too high.
Anyway, at the time of my last disinheriting, I was by then a single mother, working 40 hours a week, no child support and no nanny. Saturdays, then, were all I had to do all the errands, housecleaning, and other business of living items. Usually, I would get up, have coffee, and not think about anything more than Mr. Clean before launching into my duties. And then she would land on my doorstep. Always bearing gifts of some kind or the other. Now, most people would think this was so sweet and wonderful. And it was, save for the fact that she expected me to stop dead in my tracks, make more coffee and give my absolute, undivided attention to her nonstop monologue because she was not, I repeat, was not interested in a damn thing I had to say. God help me if I were to suggest she come into the kitchen while I washed dishes or swept the floor. That might mean my eyes and undivided attention were not fixed on her.
Back in the day before caller ID I could lay money down on the fact that if the call wasn’t for my teenage daughter, it was Mama. One night, after her seventeenth phone call to me---that’s another thing---you do not fail to answer the phone when you know it’s Mama---I stupidly suggested she call prior to visiting me.
“Far sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.”
I didn’t see or hear from her again for two weeks. It was like waiting to see if I’d caught chicken pox. One day, she just picked up right where she left off and life went on, as usual, until she started forgetting where I lived and what my phone number was. And then, somehow, my privacy and personal space didn’t matter all that much. When she checked out of today and floated back to some other time and thought she was still 23, all I wanted was my Mama back. Inheritance or no, just please come back. Even for an afternoon. I’ll put down the mop and broom. I promise.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
Monday, August 31, 2009
GOOD KILLIN'S
Seems to me an awful lot of living things get killed down here. In a state of barely three million people, there is a disproportionate amount of people who go and get themselves killed. I’ve pondered a lot of factors. It’s not that people don’t get killed a lot in California. But there are a gazillion people there and somebody’s bound to get killed somewhere in that state every day of the week. It’s just that with so many people, it’s not so in your face.
Down here, it’s often personal or at least just a little too close for comfort because chances are I know someone who knew the victim. Or at least her sister’s hairdresser knew him. Now, I’m not just talking about murders, though it is pretty scary to think of all the people who do get murdered down here and in far too many cases, nobody knows why. Money, revenge, sex and drugs are the usual motives no matter where you are. But there also are all the suspicious tractor accidents, deer hunts gone awry, falling off ladders cleaning pine needles out of gutters, getting sucked into conveyor belts at the chicken factory, big-rig versus motorcycle collisions, drownings down at the lake, and construction accidents. Then, when all is said and done, I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop somewhere and hear it straight from the man on the street that often has a better grip on it than the police.
“That old Gunther Sparks just plain needed a good killin’.”
How does one need a good killin’? And what is the difference between needing killin’ and needing a good killin’? Needing to be killed is not something you hear much of on the coast. Naturally, in order to better acclimate to my new culture, I had to find out. This is not easy because most people here grew up with the notion and don’t know why it is. It just is.
Most of it has to do with being stupid or mean. My uncle, Judge Benjamin Pavy, (Looziana side) always said there were two things he couldn’t stand, and the two things were different every time he said it but most consistently they were: 1) an ugly woman and 2) a stupid man. I really have a problem with the idea that a woman should be killed just because she’s not pageant queen material but I think it does happen. That is, she probably could have gotten away with cheating on the Little Man a lot longer if she had been pretty but it is a big hit to The Boys when a woman of little beauty, or, God forbid, excess weight gets it going with anyone other than that besainted man who took pity on her and slipped that Kmart diamond on her finger some years back. After all, what about that Southern Law of Physics: The bigger/uglier they are, the slower they run? Talk about stupid. Any man who believes that qualifies for a damn good killin’.
But on the matter of other ways of getting yourself killed---nobody down here ever just gets killed---they get themselves killed, like she bought movie tickets for the serial killer and shared popcorn with him before he took her out back and slit her throat.
Then there was the man who was setting some kind of trap for some hapless animal, could have been a duck blind but what do I know about duck blinds? He was up in a tree, got his foot caught on something, fell over backwards and dangled dead from the rope around his foot until he was found by some passing teenagers on their way to get into mischief and thus pave the road for their own future killin’s.
The chicken factory deaths defy all understanding. So you didn’t get the little metal tag around the leg of that one chicken. So what? Let the chicken slide. So you get in trouble and suspended for a day or two. Big deal. That is a bitsy little old price to pay compared to one’s life. Why anyone would hurl themselves on the conveyor belt to capture a tagless chicken and go get themselves tangled up in the thing that pitches the chicken into the chicken wrapping machine? Why, oh why? What chicken is possibly worth that? Hop aboard the Stupid Train, ya’ll!
Stupid is more about how you got yourself killed versus why you went and got yourself killed. Mean is the why of it all. Pit bull mean. Feral cat mean. Gorilla mean. Rabid poodle mean. That’s mean and folks the world over can be as mean and ugly as they are stupid but this is where the why of needing a good killin’ asserts itself in the vernacular of the American South. You just can’t interact or get anything you want without some nod to niceness. Being nice and a good Christian is big currency down here. There’s a lot of doing unto others as you would want done unto you. Lots of smiling and passing the while as you slowly make it clear what it is you really want. About the only place you make a direct order is at the fast food drive-thru. You just don’t ask to try on that $1900 dress the same way you say, “One burger, large fries, no mayo and NO mozzarella sticks.” Mean is what you do behind everybody’s back unless you are so mean it just spills out of your every pore or runs down your face like tears falling from a man who just got the death penalty pronounced on him.
What qualifies as mean is pretty much the same here as anywhere. It’s just that being mean in the South where everybody is so damn nice gets you into trouble a lot faster. Kicking dogs. Stealing pain pills from your grandma. Beating the crap out of your kids. Laughing at your daddy’s funeral. Calling Santa a fat-ass in front of the kiddies. Calling your teenage daughter a fat-ass for any reason. Cheating on your crippled wife. Embezzling from the Arkansas Children’s Hospital funds. Talking old people into buying all new windows for their double wide and then running off with the goods (of which there were none in the first place) and the money. Switching out the vodka for water in Gramps’ last bottle of Popov. Telling your son you ain’t really his daddy because no son of his could be that stupid. Making fun of people who have no teeth.
Eventually, one of those folks on the receiving end of any of that nastiness is going to get even. Or their daddy or mama or big brother or sister-in-law is going to do it for them. And it will usually involve a gun because guns are quicker and cleaner but every now and then, a knife or a baseball bat gets into the picture and it gets ugly real fast. You go and do any of those mean things I just mentioned and you just better be prepared to square off with Jesus in the near future. And, by God, you do any of this, you do need a good killin’ and not even this California girl is going to question the why or how of it all.
Except when it comes to animals. That’s where I am stumped. After all, I come from Northern California where, if a rabbit goes missing, they put out an Amber Alert. So all this whoop-de-doo about fixing to go shoot Bambi, Thumper or Donald Duck really gets to me. I even have, and probably always will, a visceral reaction to road kill. I have to tell myself that the dog, cat, possum, raccoon, armadillo or whatever is really just sleeping on the side of the road. Never mind the blood or the little bunny ears flapping in the wind to remind me where a rabbit once was.
It wasn’t but a couple of weeks ago, I saw my first dead-on-purpose deer in the back of a pickup truck. My daughter and I were enjoying a lovely Sunday drive to Petit Jean Mountain to take in the fall colors. I stopped at a convenience store gas station and when I got out of the car, I saw Bambi lying flat out, eyes open, dripping blood onto the pavement. There were two men and a woman standing there in the middle of God’s own sunshine talking real proud-like about how they took him down. My knees buckled and my head went light and funny and I made it to the bathroom just in time. When I came out, I knew not to look at the truck but there was no way I could drown out the conversation about what good chili-jerky-steak he was going to make.
Now I know that using deer for food is a good thing. It’s about as organic and clean as it gets. Killing animals to sustain life is as integral to survival as sipping water from a cool, mountain stream. It beats the hell out of frying up some packaged thing that was squashed into a corral or coop with a thousand other of its type, being fed steroids and antibiotics. At least the wild deer, rabbits and ducks get to live free and die proud, doing what they do. This is so much more humane than mass producing animal flesh. I know all this but I just can’t quite get it into my heart yet. It still just doesn’t feel right. What I probably never will get right is why people just go out and shoot squirrels and other varmints just for the sheer pleasure of the shooting. Ooooooh weeeee. You bigger and badder than that rabbit? That make you feel like a man? If so, well, like all those people on the receiving end of that nastiness I just mentioned, something out there is going to know you need a good killin’ and it’s going to get you good. Ain’t no revenge quite like Nature. Didn’t see that quicksand? Oooops. Oh yeah, thinks that Mama Bear, you smell just like that sumbitch what shot my baby.
It just goes against Nature and Jesus to go around killing stuff that doesn’t need killing. And it follows that it goes against Nature and Jesus just as bad to let people or varmints off the hook when all they need is one, swift, good killin’. It just all makes more sense to me now, in that down home kind of way.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
Down here, it’s often personal or at least just a little too close for comfort because chances are I know someone who knew the victim. Or at least her sister’s hairdresser knew him. Now, I’m not just talking about murders, though it is pretty scary to think of all the people who do get murdered down here and in far too many cases, nobody knows why. Money, revenge, sex and drugs are the usual motives no matter where you are. But there also are all the suspicious tractor accidents, deer hunts gone awry, falling off ladders cleaning pine needles out of gutters, getting sucked into conveyor belts at the chicken factory, big-rig versus motorcycle collisions, drownings down at the lake, and construction accidents. Then, when all is said and done, I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop somewhere and hear it straight from the man on the street that often has a better grip on it than the police.
“That old Gunther Sparks just plain needed a good killin’.”
How does one need a good killin’? And what is the difference between needing killin’ and needing a good killin’? Needing to be killed is not something you hear much of on the coast. Naturally, in order to better acclimate to my new culture, I had to find out. This is not easy because most people here grew up with the notion and don’t know why it is. It just is.
Most of it has to do with being stupid or mean. My uncle, Judge Benjamin Pavy, (Looziana side) always said there were two things he couldn’t stand, and the two things were different every time he said it but most consistently they were: 1) an ugly woman and 2) a stupid man. I really have a problem with the idea that a woman should be killed just because she’s not pageant queen material but I think it does happen. That is, she probably could have gotten away with cheating on the Little Man a lot longer if she had been pretty but it is a big hit to The Boys when a woman of little beauty, or, God forbid, excess weight gets it going with anyone other than that besainted man who took pity on her and slipped that Kmart diamond on her finger some years back. After all, what about that Southern Law of Physics: The bigger/uglier they are, the slower they run? Talk about stupid. Any man who believes that qualifies for a damn good killin’.
But on the matter of other ways of getting yourself killed---nobody down here ever just gets killed---they get themselves killed, like she bought movie tickets for the serial killer and shared popcorn with him before he took her out back and slit her throat.
Then there was the man who was setting some kind of trap for some hapless animal, could have been a duck blind but what do I know about duck blinds? He was up in a tree, got his foot caught on something, fell over backwards and dangled dead from the rope around his foot until he was found by some passing teenagers on their way to get into mischief and thus pave the road for their own future killin’s.
The chicken factory deaths defy all understanding. So you didn’t get the little metal tag around the leg of that one chicken. So what? Let the chicken slide. So you get in trouble and suspended for a day or two. Big deal. That is a bitsy little old price to pay compared to one’s life. Why anyone would hurl themselves on the conveyor belt to capture a tagless chicken and go get themselves tangled up in the thing that pitches the chicken into the chicken wrapping machine? Why, oh why? What chicken is possibly worth that? Hop aboard the Stupid Train, ya’ll!
Stupid is more about how you got yourself killed versus why you went and got yourself killed. Mean is the why of it all. Pit bull mean. Feral cat mean. Gorilla mean. Rabid poodle mean. That’s mean and folks the world over can be as mean and ugly as they are stupid but this is where the why of needing a good killin’ asserts itself in the vernacular of the American South. You just can’t interact or get anything you want without some nod to niceness. Being nice and a good Christian is big currency down here. There’s a lot of doing unto others as you would want done unto you. Lots of smiling and passing the while as you slowly make it clear what it is you really want. About the only place you make a direct order is at the fast food drive-thru. You just don’t ask to try on that $1900 dress the same way you say, “One burger, large fries, no mayo and NO mozzarella sticks.” Mean is what you do behind everybody’s back unless you are so mean it just spills out of your every pore or runs down your face like tears falling from a man who just got the death penalty pronounced on him.
What qualifies as mean is pretty much the same here as anywhere. It’s just that being mean in the South where everybody is so damn nice gets you into trouble a lot faster. Kicking dogs. Stealing pain pills from your grandma. Beating the crap out of your kids. Laughing at your daddy’s funeral. Calling Santa a fat-ass in front of the kiddies. Calling your teenage daughter a fat-ass for any reason. Cheating on your crippled wife. Embezzling from the Arkansas Children’s Hospital funds. Talking old people into buying all new windows for their double wide and then running off with the goods (of which there were none in the first place) and the money. Switching out the vodka for water in Gramps’ last bottle of Popov. Telling your son you ain’t really his daddy because no son of his could be that stupid. Making fun of people who have no teeth.
Eventually, one of those folks on the receiving end of any of that nastiness is going to get even. Or their daddy or mama or big brother or sister-in-law is going to do it for them. And it will usually involve a gun because guns are quicker and cleaner but every now and then, a knife or a baseball bat gets into the picture and it gets ugly real fast. You go and do any of those mean things I just mentioned and you just better be prepared to square off with Jesus in the near future. And, by God, you do any of this, you do need a good killin’ and not even this California girl is going to question the why or how of it all.
Except when it comes to animals. That’s where I am stumped. After all, I come from Northern California where, if a rabbit goes missing, they put out an Amber Alert. So all this whoop-de-doo about fixing to go shoot Bambi, Thumper or Donald Duck really gets to me. I even have, and probably always will, a visceral reaction to road kill. I have to tell myself that the dog, cat, possum, raccoon, armadillo or whatever is really just sleeping on the side of the road. Never mind the blood or the little bunny ears flapping in the wind to remind me where a rabbit once was.
It wasn’t but a couple of weeks ago, I saw my first dead-on-purpose deer in the back of a pickup truck. My daughter and I were enjoying a lovely Sunday drive to Petit Jean Mountain to take in the fall colors. I stopped at a convenience store gas station and when I got out of the car, I saw Bambi lying flat out, eyes open, dripping blood onto the pavement. There were two men and a woman standing there in the middle of God’s own sunshine talking real proud-like about how they took him down. My knees buckled and my head went light and funny and I made it to the bathroom just in time. When I came out, I knew not to look at the truck but there was no way I could drown out the conversation about what good chili-jerky-steak he was going to make.
Now I know that using deer for food is a good thing. It’s about as organic and clean as it gets. Killing animals to sustain life is as integral to survival as sipping water from a cool, mountain stream. It beats the hell out of frying up some packaged thing that was squashed into a corral or coop with a thousand other of its type, being fed steroids and antibiotics. At least the wild deer, rabbits and ducks get to live free and die proud, doing what they do. This is so much more humane than mass producing animal flesh. I know all this but I just can’t quite get it into my heart yet. It still just doesn’t feel right. What I probably never will get right is why people just go out and shoot squirrels and other varmints just for the sheer pleasure of the shooting. Ooooooh weeeee. You bigger and badder than that rabbit? That make you feel like a man? If so, well, like all those people on the receiving end of that nastiness I just mentioned, something out there is going to know you need a good killin’ and it’s going to get you good. Ain’t no revenge quite like Nature. Didn’t see that quicksand? Oooops. Oh yeah, thinks that Mama Bear, you smell just like that sumbitch what shot my baby.
It just goes against Nature and Jesus to go around killing stuff that doesn’t need killing. And it follows that it goes against Nature and Jesus just as bad to let people or varmints off the hook when all they need is one, swift, good killin’. It just all makes more sense to me now, in that down home kind of way.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
YONDER MOUNTAIN
Conditions were perfect for my first foray into the autumnal splendor of the Ozarks. Just a quick trip up Highway 7 to leaf-peep and back in time for Tux ‘N Trees—the black-tie event that officially heralds in the holiday season in Little Rock. My friend Dawne, owner of a popular formal wear boutique, found me the perfect gown and with the help of her magician seamstress, Maria, deftly fit it to me with the precision of a civil engineer. Ah, it was to be a fine day and an elegant evening in the Old South with my good friend, Susan and a host of good ole girls.
With Simon, my beagle, napping serenely in the back seat, I headed up I-40. The trip between Maumelle and Conway, while never truly inspiring, on this fine morning filled me with a muted joy. The sun came up and lifted the eeriness out of Lake Conway and all those trees that stick up out of the water. This is an alien sight to me. Trees just don’t do that in California. They grow on land, not in water. And the sight of them always invokes visions of evil water moccasins and one-eyed Cajun conjurers who bury chicken feet under willow trees on the night of the quarter moon. But on this morning, it was a grand sight and I was delighted to see it with new eyes.
Finally past Ruby Tuesday, McDonald’s, and countless box stores, I veered north onto Highway 7. It’s one of those highways that suddenly turn windy and narrow and you really do have to pay attention. Locals take some of those curves as if Jesus Himself were behind the wheel. It’s also dotted with one-mule towns with funny (to a Californian, anyway) names like Booger Hollow. I could hardly wait. They’d never believe this in California. I felt smug being privy to such a sacred place. They’d be amused but jealous. We would stop in Booger Hollow and I’d get out and have coffee and bacon with the locals. I’d put honey and lots of butter on my biscuits and pray that I’d still be able to fit in my ball gown. Maybe I’d buy jars of homemade pumpkin butter and fig spread.
The trees and colors stupefied me, though they had probably peaked the week before but still, they rivaled New England where I’d once spent a week traveling alone with a busload of characters that would require a whole book in itself to describe. Bright golds and burning reds. Ash, burning bush, sugar maple, birch and other trees I didn’t know what they were, saturated me with delight and gratitude---gratitude that I made this amazing leap of faith into a land of people and places as foreign to me as Qatar, and yet, familiar in that sense Americans have of belonging to their land, wherever that might be. It felt like I was in the heart of it all, among simple folk with profound wisdom. People who knew how to live with and apart from their neighbors. People who had no compunctions about putting their washing machines on their front porches or keeping their Christmas lights up all year. Finally, I saw a sign that read, “Booger Hollow – ¼ Mile.” Ah, the Promised Land. It had been a long time since the last bathroom stop so my eagerness to reach my destination was more than a longing for biscuits and bacon.
Booger Hollow was everything and more than my imagination could hold. Except for one thing: It was shut down years ago and was in a state of such disrepair as to scare the bejesus out of the most intrepid traveler. Deserted. The General Store was everything it was supposed to be. Peeling red paint and a sign that dangled precariously over the slanted porch. Spider webs covered the windows and rusty buckets rolled noisily along the sagging porch, propelled by God-knows-what because there was no wind. Talk about the willie-nillies. To the left, about 300 paces, was an outhouse with a huge sign that made no bones about it being an outhouse. And there were warning signs about it being condemned and warning signs about it before it was condemned. But my physiological imperative gave me no choice. I just plain had to go.
Trouble was, the stairs and porch and boards supporting the “commode,” if you will, were rotted and full of holes. I dared not think of what lay beneath. And I didn’t want my little dog falling in one of them so I picked him up, tucked him under my arm, made my way up the stairs, and prayed to SweetBabyJesus the whole way to keep us safe. Imagine trying to maneuver the steps of relieving oneself in a deathtrap outhouse with a beagle under your arm and you will never complain about anything, not ever again. We made a careful escape and again, I was filled with gratitude, this time for just plain having survived the ordeal. Filled with the Holy Spirit and upward prayers to the Blessed Virgin, I was stunned to hear gunshots in the woods behind me. Guns? Jesus, Joseph and Mary! I’ve gone and stumbled into some moonshine pit and there’s a hoard of hillbillies, all cousins, in overalls with no teeth and guns heading my way. I ran for the car, dog still under my arm and feeling as if it had gained 50 pounds in three minutes, I hurled both of us into the car and sped away in true Southern fashion: unbelted and leaving a cloud of dust in my wake as my tires whirled gravel into the mist behind me. No biscuits, honey, bacon and local color for me. Just get me the hell out of here.
It was about five miles up the road before my heart stopped doing push-ups in my chest. To my left was a rest stop overlooking a huge valley of trees and pastures. Time to stop again and just take it all in. Didn’t think there’d be much chance of guns gone awry up here. And besides, there was a Department of Forestry heavy equipment driver taking a break in his tractor or whatever it was. Feeling safe, we wandered along the path and beheld Arkansas. Back in the car again, I thought I’d just drive a few miles up the road before heading back to get ready for the gala. I stopped at the sign to let a van turn into the stop. Just then, I saw Fate unfold itself in the form of a battered, 1979 blue Ford pickup truck with an illegal trailer full of firewood careen around the bend at full throttle. There was no way he would be able to stop in time to prevent a massive rear-end collision with the van. Being a man of action, he swerved to avoid the van, glanced off the rear driver’s side and slammed into the right front side of my bumper. Paralyzed at the knowledge that I was about to meet up with good ole Baby Jesus, I sat in suspended animation as my car was hit and spun around 90 degrees in the opposite direction.
Pitched out of my autumnal reverie, I was rapidly heading for the cliff instead of the highway. The sound of my front bumper being torn off was nothing compared to the sound of my dog slamming against the interior back door. I watched stupidly as the driver tried to correct the trajectory of his errant pickup which by now was swerving across both lanes and heading for a ditch on the other side of the road, the trailer wagging back and forth like a hound’s tail on a scent.
There was a moment when everything stopped dead as the shock set in. Exploding from the truck came Jacky Joe McFessel, his wife and her sister-in-law from another marriage. By the time they reached my car, I was out on the pavement, checking on Simon. No bodily damage to either of us. Mercifully, no damage to anyone. The van’s occupants slowly emerged--- a trio of professors from Seoul, who, like me, were out for a lovely weekend drive.
“M’am? You okay? Oh Lordy! I am so sorry. Oh Lordy! Are you sure you okay? How about that little dog there? He okay? Oh, praise Jesus, oh thank you Jesus for sparin’ the lives of these folks and me too and my wife and Judy Lou. Oh look what I done to your car. Please forgive me. I got insurance and they’ll take right good care of ya. You can count on it. I’m Jacky Joe McFessel and this here’s my wife, Greta, and this is Judy Lou her sister-in-law from her other husband.”
The professors joined in the introductions and in their perfect Oxford English accents, confirmed that they, too, were uninjured. The Forestry driver, quickly assessed that there were no injuries and got on the phone to the state troopers. Help was on the way. When I reached in my bag for my cell phone, I noticed that Susan had called at precisely the same time as the accident. Woooooo. Eeeeerie. I was able to reach her in spite of communications not being all that great up on yonder mountain. She said she’d be right there. I said no. I don’t even know where I am and trying to tell you is impossible. She argued that I shouldn’t be stuck up on some mountain with a squashed car, a nervous beagle, and a bunch of strangers. I assured her that they were all fine folk, sorry as hell for troubling me and ruining my day, but fine folk nonetheless. If I had let her, she would have come. Tux ‘N Trees notwithstanding. What’s another gala when you’ve got a friend stuck in a ditch. And when you’re sitting on a stone wall, five miles north of a place called Booger Hollow, with Chinese professors, good country souls, and forestry workers, the differences don’t seem all that great. You’re all in it together, sitting in the same sunshine, basking in the same miracle that kept us all from being road kill.
The wait for the troopers and the tow truck would have been interminable had it not been for the kindness and concern of the McFessel family. Why, they told me their whole life stories, including the part about the brother who had kidney transplant, praise Jesus, following his last car accident. The professors stayed pretty much to themselves, musing on the nature of accidents, of which there are none, not really. Well, Jacky Joe, Greta and Judy Lou wanted to know what I was doing for Thanksgiving and said they’d be right proud if I joined them, if I had a mind to. Fascinated by my peculiar accent, they were delighted to learn I was from California and wanted to know how many movie stars I knew. I lied. A lot. I told them all about Brad Pitt and Elizabeth Taylor who doesn’t get out much these days. The state troopers and the tow truck drivers showed up just in time to prevent me from getting in any deeper.
The tow truck driver hitched up my car and helped me into the cab, gently placing Simon in my lap. The trip down the mountain to Russellville was what one would expect, save for the beagle fur flying all over the cab and being asked if I were married or what. All the rental car agencies were closed. But through a friend of a friend, the driver found a lady who was willing to come into the dealership where she worked on her day off to set me up with a car. This is Arkansas. This is what I came here for. I came here to find out who my friends are. And down here, there’s one ‘round every bend.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
With Simon, my beagle, napping serenely in the back seat, I headed up I-40. The trip between Maumelle and Conway, while never truly inspiring, on this fine morning filled me with a muted joy. The sun came up and lifted the eeriness out of Lake Conway and all those trees that stick up out of the water. This is an alien sight to me. Trees just don’t do that in California. They grow on land, not in water. And the sight of them always invokes visions of evil water moccasins and one-eyed Cajun conjurers who bury chicken feet under willow trees on the night of the quarter moon. But on this morning, it was a grand sight and I was delighted to see it with new eyes.
Finally past Ruby Tuesday, McDonald’s, and countless box stores, I veered north onto Highway 7. It’s one of those highways that suddenly turn windy and narrow and you really do have to pay attention. Locals take some of those curves as if Jesus Himself were behind the wheel. It’s also dotted with one-mule towns with funny (to a Californian, anyway) names like Booger Hollow. I could hardly wait. They’d never believe this in California. I felt smug being privy to such a sacred place. They’d be amused but jealous. We would stop in Booger Hollow and I’d get out and have coffee and bacon with the locals. I’d put honey and lots of butter on my biscuits and pray that I’d still be able to fit in my ball gown. Maybe I’d buy jars of homemade pumpkin butter and fig spread.
The trees and colors stupefied me, though they had probably peaked the week before but still, they rivaled New England where I’d once spent a week traveling alone with a busload of characters that would require a whole book in itself to describe. Bright golds and burning reds. Ash, burning bush, sugar maple, birch and other trees I didn’t know what they were, saturated me with delight and gratitude---gratitude that I made this amazing leap of faith into a land of people and places as foreign to me as Qatar, and yet, familiar in that sense Americans have of belonging to their land, wherever that might be. It felt like I was in the heart of it all, among simple folk with profound wisdom. People who knew how to live with and apart from their neighbors. People who had no compunctions about putting their washing machines on their front porches or keeping their Christmas lights up all year. Finally, I saw a sign that read, “Booger Hollow – ¼ Mile.” Ah, the Promised Land. It had been a long time since the last bathroom stop so my eagerness to reach my destination was more than a longing for biscuits and bacon.
Booger Hollow was everything and more than my imagination could hold. Except for one thing: It was shut down years ago and was in a state of such disrepair as to scare the bejesus out of the most intrepid traveler. Deserted. The General Store was everything it was supposed to be. Peeling red paint and a sign that dangled precariously over the slanted porch. Spider webs covered the windows and rusty buckets rolled noisily along the sagging porch, propelled by God-knows-what because there was no wind. Talk about the willie-nillies. To the left, about 300 paces, was an outhouse with a huge sign that made no bones about it being an outhouse. And there were warning signs about it being condemned and warning signs about it before it was condemned. But my physiological imperative gave me no choice. I just plain had to go.
Trouble was, the stairs and porch and boards supporting the “commode,” if you will, were rotted and full of holes. I dared not think of what lay beneath. And I didn’t want my little dog falling in one of them so I picked him up, tucked him under my arm, made my way up the stairs, and prayed to SweetBabyJesus the whole way to keep us safe. Imagine trying to maneuver the steps of relieving oneself in a deathtrap outhouse with a beagle under your arm and you will never complain about anything, not ever again. We made a careful escape and again, I was filled with gratitude, this time for just plain having survived the ordeal. Filled with the Holy Spirit and upward prayers to the Blessed Virgin, I was stunned to hear gunshots in the woods behind me. Guns? Jesus, Joseph and Mary! I’ve gone and stumbled into some moonshine pit and there’s a hoard of hillbillies, all cousins, in overalls with no teeth and guns heading my way. I ran for the car, dog still under my arm and feeling as if it had gained 50 pounds in three minutes, I hurled both of us into the car and sped away in true Southern fashion: unbelted and leaving a cloud of dust in my wake as my tires whirled gravel into the mist behind me. No biscuits, honey, bacon and local color for me. Just get me the hell out of here.
It was about five miles up the road before my heart stopped doing push-ups in my chest. To my left was a rest stop overlooking a huge valley of trees and pastures. Time to stop again and just take it all in. Didn’t think there’d be much chance of guns gone awry up here. And besides, there was a Department of Forestry heavy equipment driver taking a break in his tractor or whatever it was. Feeling safe, we wandered along the path and beheld Arkansas. Back in the car again, I thought I’d just drive a few miles up the road before heading back to get ready for the gala. I stopped at the sign to let a van turn into the stop. Just then, I saw Fate unfold itself in the form of a battered, 1979 blue Ford pickup truck with an illegal trailer full of firewood careen around the bend at full throttle. There was no way he would be able to stop in time to prevent a massive rear-end collision with the van. Being a man of action, he swerved to avoid the van, glanced off the rear driver’s side and slammed into the right front side of my bumper. Paralyzed at the knowledge that I was about to meet up with good ole Baby Jesus, I sat in suspended animation as my car was hit and spun around 90 degrees in the opposite direction.
Pitched out of my autumnal reverie, I was rapidly heading for the cliff instead of the highway. The sound of my front bumper being torn off was nothing compared to the sound of my dog slamming against the interior back door. I watched stupidly as the driver tried to correct the trajectory of his errant pickup which by now was swerving across both lanes and heading for a ditch on the other side of the road, the trailer wagging back and forth like a hound’s tail on a scent.
There was a moment when everything stopped dead as the shock set in. Exploding from the truck came Jacky Joe McFessel, his wife and her sister-in-law from another marriage. By the time they reached my car, I was out on the pavement, checking on Simon. No bodily damage to either of us. Mercifully, no damage to anyone. The van’s occupants slowly emerged--- a trio of professors from Seoul, who, like me, were out for a lovely weekend drive.
“M’am? You okay? Oh Lordy! I am so sorry. Oh Lordy! Are you sure you okay? How about that little dog there? He okay? Oh, praise Jesus, oh thank you Jesus for sparin’ the lives of these folks and me too and my wife and Judy Lou. Oh look what I done to your car. Please forgive me. I got insurance and they’ll take right good care of ya. You can count on it. I’m Jacky Joe McFessel and this here’s my wife, Greta, and this is Judy Lou her sister-in-law from her other husband.”
The professors joined in the introductions and in their perfect Oxford English accents, confirmed that they, too, were uninjured. The Forestry driver, quickly assessed that there were no injuries and got on the phone to the state troopers. Help was on the way. When I reached in my bag for my cell phone, I noticed that Susan had called at precisely the same time as the accident. Woooooo. Eeeeerie. I was able to reach her in spite of communications not being all that great up on yonder mountain. She said she’d be right there. I said no. I don’t even know where I am and trying to tell you is impossible. She argued that I shouldn’t be stuck up on some mountain with a squashed car, a nervous beagle, and a bunch of strangers. I assured her that they were all fine folk, sorry as hell for troubling me and ruining my day, but fine folk nonetheless. If I had let her, she would have come. Tux ‘N Trees notwithstanding. What’s another gala when you’ve got a friend stuck in a ditch. And when you’re sitting on a stone wall, five miles north of a place called Booger Hollow, with Chinese professors, good country souls, and forestry workers, the differences don’t seem all that great. You’re all in it together, sitting in the same sunshine, basking in the same miracle that kept us all from being road kill.
The wait for the troopers and the tow truck would have been interminable had it not been for the kindness and concern of the McFessel family. Why, they told me their whole life stories, including the part about the brother who had kidney transplant, praise Jesus, following his last car accident. The professors stayed pretty much to themselves, musing on the nature of accidents, of which there are none, not really. Well, Jacky Joe, Greta and Judy Lou wanted to know what I was doing for Thanksgiving and said they’d be right proud if I joined them, if I had a mind to. Fascinated by my peculiar accent, they were delighted to learn I was from California and wanted to know how many movie stars I knew. I lied. A lot. I told them all about Brad Pitt and Elizabeth Taylor who doesn’t get out much these days. The state troopers and the tow truck drivers showed up just in time to prevent me from getting in any deeper.
The tow truck driver hitched up my car and helped me into the cab, gently placing Simon in my lap. The trip down the mountain to Russellville was what one would expect, save for the beagle fur flying all over the cab and being asked if I were married or what. All the rental car agencies were closed. But through a friend of a friend, the driver found a lady who was willing to come into the dealership where she worked on her day off to set me up with a car. This is Arkansas. This is what I came here for. I came here to find out who my friends are. And down here, there’s one ‘round every bend.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
AN ARKANSAN DID SOMETHING AND THERE'S A PARTY
"An Arkansan did something and there's a party so be at the Breckenridge...."
That was the message on my voicemail. A call to action: Put on a pretty dress, a big-ass smile and come on down to the Breckenridge cuz some Arkansan I can’t remember his name but he made a movie and it’s a big deal and there’s a party and you just never know who’s gonna be there. Slam. Click. Get that dress over your bleached-blond head and move it, girl.
Three years ago, I would have just held the phone out from my face, stared at it, said, “Whatever,” poured yet another glass of wine and turned on Lifetime to see who murdered whom and how they figured it out, smoked a half pack of cigarettes, forgot to eat dinner, gone to bed and awakened in the morning wondering what to do with my day.
Well, no more. I’m in the South, by golly. I ain’t in California no more, either. Why, you can’t swing a dead cat around here without getting invited to do something even if it’s something you never heard of and can’t pronounce it right anyway.
It won’t be a mystery for long why I left the paradise of over-priced real estate and settled my bony ass down in the most incredible, fabulous town in the whole United States of America and plan to die here and have my ashes pitched over the Arkansas River, Dillard’s, the Flyin’ Fish, and a whole host of my other favorite places I’m not telling about because it might give people the creeps knowing there’s a dead woman’s ashes sprinkled around and not only that but she’s a Yankee. Apologies to Dillard’s and the Flyin’ Fish but I had to start somewhere.
They said I’d be back in six weeks. Three years later, I am still here, feet cemented to The Rock. They still don’t get it but that’s okay. I get it and that’s the whole point. Here’s what my California friends said when I told them I was moving to Arkansas:
“They have no teeth there.”
“They all drive pickups with gun racks and they really do shoot people.”
“What the f@^$%???”
“They don’t have Best Foods mayo. Only Hellman’s. You can’t eat Hellman’s.”
“You’re just in love with Bill Clinton.”
And these are educated, well-traveled people? It’s okay; they just haven’t been here yet and besides, Jesus loves them, too.
Well, I never made it to the Breckenridge but I don’t remember why. Maybe I was still in shock over my recent trip to Kroger’s. Unless you’ve been to the San Francisco Bay Area, you just can’t get it how rude people can be in a place that’s supposed to be so laid back and friendly. If you nod and say hello to a stranger on the street, they either dial 9-1-1 on their cell phone or look straight through you as if you were standing there holding a “Watchtower” magazine with a beseeching look in your eyes. So, being in a Kroger’s and having people apologizing to me for getting in my way when I was the one who accidentally bashed their ankles
in with my grocery cart, well, that was a true treat for me. You’ll understand why I was so surprised at the reaction I got from the checker when I asked where to find the canned pumpkin.
She was about my age (I ain’t giving numbers but let me tell you I am as well-seasoned as a Sonny Williams steak). And it was obvious her life had been a lot harder than mine. She was tall and lizard-thin with graying hair that looked like it had been beaten senseless by a hair dryer. Through her rimless glasses peered these tiny, close-set blue eyes that had not seen a whole lot of beauty. They reflected many a whoopin’, harsh words at too young an age, a lot of loss and the kind of look you get in your eyes if you’ve ever been kicked out of a pickup truck in a Motel 6 parking lot. Yes, it was all staring at me and waiting for my next dumbass question.
Hands on her precariously pitched-to-the-left hips, she snapped, “Check the bakin’ aisle.”
“The bacon aisle? You have a whole aisle for bacon?” My head was spinning. Well, this is Razorback Nation…Arkansas…pork rinds…Hogs…they take pork that seriously here?
It was a stand-off. We stared at each other for a full 30 seconds, stupefied at each others’ mental vacancies.
“C’mon,” she snarled, shaking her head and leading the way for this alien with the funny accent that came from God only knows where.
As we passed the flour, the sugar, the nuts and the oil, it started to come clear.
“Oh, I am so sorry; you must have said the baking aisle! I was looking at the canned fruit and vegetable aisle.”
“Of course I said the bakin’ aisle. You bakin’ a pumpkin pah, ain’t ya?”
“Well, actually, I was going to make soup.”
“SOUP?” Lord God Almighty. What next? She must be some kind of Commie,” disgusted and muttering as if I weren’t even there anymore.
On the drive home, I had to remind myself why I came here. Get my elevator speech ready. But I didn’t need it, not really, because it all came straight to mind and straight from the heart. Where can I go to find all in one place?
Natural beauty?
A state capitol but not a major metropolitan area?
Good quality of life?
Lack of congestion?
Affordable housing?
Major university?
Good medical services?
Lots of good democrats?
Cha-ching! Little Rock, AR!
Now, don’t all you reepubs stop reading here because I outed myself as a yellow dog democrat. Why, one of my best friends is as republican as they get, works for the RNC, is an officer for the Young Reepubs, owns a Gluck and shoots as straight from the shoulder as she does from the mouth. This woman has a permanent reservation on my living room sofa and in my heart. And then there are all my coworkers and we love each other to shreds. Love them so much I didn’t even gloat when the election turned in my favor. Dint even want to.
My friends still didn’t get it when I tried to explain Arkansas to them because even I didn’t know what was waitin’ on me down here. Even with all those rational reasons tucked under my belt, there was still something else calling me here.
“But you live in Sonoma for God’s sake. Do you know how many people the world over would sell their children for the chance to live in the California wine country and to live the life you live?”
“No, how many?”
“Dunno. But it must be a lot. Look at all the tourists. Just look.”
I looked. That was part of the problem. The Sonoma Valley, in 1999, unlike the Napa Valley, was still pastoral, easy and its conscience guided by simple agrarian rules: Keep your word. Do business right. Be friendly. Respect nature. It was a lot like the South in many ways. That was the draw. The Napa Valley is over-marketed and snotty as a preschooler with allergies. If you don’t own vines or haven’t bought your way in with real estate or planted yourself in the wealthy merchant class, you really don’t count for much. Just come buy our wines, over-priced French provincial/Italianate home décor, quichey little boutique clothes and get the hell out.
Trouble is, there’s only one road in, Highway 29, and one road out. Limos and Hummers crammed the road from Yountville to Calistoga until finally, the tourists started spilling over into the Sonoma Valley, otherwise known as the Valley of the Moon, and decided to settle there, imploding the town with yet more development and sucking up the water table with more vanity vineyards. And the one road in and out of the Valley, Highway 12, became another Highway 29. What once took 10 minutes to go from the outreaches of Sonoma to my home, now took 25 minutes. This was getting to be a no-brainer.
“What about all the racists? You’re going to go postal the first time you hear someone use the N-word and really mean it.”
“Like I’ve never heard it here? You don’t have to use the word here to be a racist. Look around. How many blacks and Asians live here in Sonoma? About 13, all told. We have whites and we have Hispanics and ninety percent of the Hispanics work the fields and if they didn’t, you think this economy would survive selling jewelry and French linens? Get me the f@*# out of here.”
This politically correct hypocrisy was every bit as offensive to me as the N-word.
Did I really live here? Was this all in my head? Some fragmented delusion, saturated by fine wines and creamy pate? Why didn’t I see this coming? When I ran screaming out of Silicon Valley to what I thought was the Promised Land, I was not prepared for the hoards behind me. I was running to something, not away. For a while, I thought I’d found it. And I did. I lived the life. I bought the French linens, festooned my house with grapevines and olive branches. I planted lavender and made sachets and bouquets for my friends. I fought the fight to keep the casinos out of the cow pastures. I shopped at the organic farmers’ markets and drank fine pinot noir in the plaza watering holes.
But when my house tripled in value in just six years, and the 817 square-foot shacks down on the highway in Boyes Springs started selling for over $300,000, it all came clear. California had lost its way.
The solution was simple: Sell the house, pack up bag, baggage and beagle and leave this to people who could deal with it. I was no longer one of them.
It was hard to release all that delighted me about my birthplace. As I drove the highways to Santa Monica to pick up my daughter for the trip, I tried not to react to the stunning coastlines or remember all the time I’d spent at the beach. I looked past the bougainvilleas that flood over the freeway sound walls. I let myself smell the fruit, sea-air, produce growing in the Central Valley, redwood trees, and flowers and plants that don’t grow anywhere else on the planet. They coalesce into one note that rings in the shape of my psyche, as if all notes on the scale are playing at the same time. I let myself have that one more time. It would never smell like this to me again.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
That was the message on my voicemail. A call to action: Put on a pretty dress, a big-ass smile and come on down to the Breckenridge cuz some Arkansan I can’t remember his name but he made a movie and it’s a big deal and there’s a party and you just never know who’s gonna be there. Slam. Click. Get that dress over your bleached-blond head and move it, girl.
Three years ago, I would have just held the phone out from my face, stared at it, said, “Whatever,” poured yet another glass of wine and turned on Lifetime to see who murdered whom and how they figured it out, smoked a half pack of cigarettes, forgot to eat dinner, gone to bed and awakened in the morning wondering what to do with my day.
Well, no more. I’m in the South, by golly. I ain’t in California no more, either. Why, you can’t swing a dead cat around here without getting invited to do something even if it’s something you never heard of and can’t pronounce it right anyway.
It won’t be a mystery for long why I left the paradise of over-priced real estate and settled my bony ass down in the most incredible, fabulous town in the whole United States of America and plan to die here and have my ashes pitched over the Arkansas River, Dillard’s, the Flyin’ Fish, and a whole host of my other favorite places I’m not telling about because it might give people the creeps knowing there’s a dead woman’s ashes sprinkled around and not only that but she’s a Yankee. Apologies to Dillard’s and the Flyin’ Fish but I had to start somewhere.
They said I’d be back in six weeks. Three years later, I am still here, feet cemented to The Rock. They still don’t get it but that’s okay. I get it and that’s the whole point. Here’s what my California friends said when I told them I was moving to Arkansas:
“They have no teeth there.”
“They all drive pickups with gun racks and they really do shoot people.”
“What the f@^$%???”
“They don’t have Best Foods mayo. Only Hellman’s. You can’t eat Hellman’s.”
“You’re just in love with Bill Clinton.”
And these are educated, well-traveled people? It’s okay; they just haven’t been here yet and besides, Jesus loves them, too.
Well, I never made it to the Breckenridge but I don’t remember why. Maybe I was still in shock over my recent trip to Kroger’s. Unless you’ve been to the San Francisco Bay Area, you just can’t get it how rude people can be in a place that’s supposed to be so laid back and friendly. If you nod and say hello to a stranger on the street, they either dial 9-1-1 on their cell phone or look straight through you as if you were standing there holding a “Watchtower” magazine with a beseeching look in your eyes. So, being in a Kroger’s and having people apologizing to me for getting in my way when I was the one who accidentally bashed their ankles
in with my grocery cart, well, that was a true treat for me. You’ll understand why I was so surprised at the reaction I got from the checker when I asked where to find the canned pumpkin.
She was about my age (I ain’t giving numbers but let me tell you I am as well-seasoned as a Sonny Williams steak). And it was obvious her life had been a lot harder than mine. She was tall and lizard-thin with graying hair that looked like it had been beaten senseless by a hair dryer. Through her rimless glasses peered these tiny, close-set blue eyes that had not seen a whole lot of beauty. They reflected many a whoopin’, harsh words at too young an age, a lot of loss and the kind of look you get in your eyes if you’ve ever been kicked out of a pickup truck in a Motel 6 parking lot. Yes, it was all staring at me and waiting for my next dumbass question.
Hands on her precariously pitched-to-the-left hips, she snapped, “Check the bakin’ aisle.”
“The bacon aisle? You have a whole aisle for bacon?” My head was spinning. Well, this is Razorback Nation…Arkansas…pork rinds…Hogs…they take pork that seriously here?
It was a stand-off. We stared at each other for a full 30 seconds, stupefied at each others’ mental vacancies.
“C’mon,” she snarled, shaking her head and leading the way for this alien with the funny accent that came from God only knows where.
As we passed the flour, the sugar, the nuts and the oil, it started to come clear.
“Oh, I am so sorry; you must have said the baking aisle! I was looking at the canned fruit and vegetable aisle.”
“Of course I said the bakin’ aisle. You bakin’ a pumpkin pah, ain’t ya?”
“Well, actually, I was going to make soup.”
“SOUP?” Lord God Almighty. What next? She must be some kind of Commie,” disgusted and muttering as if I weren’t even there anymore.
On the drive home, I had to remind myself why I came here. Get my elevator speech ready. But I didn’t need it, not really, because it all came straight to mind and straight from the heart. Where can I go to find all in one place?
Natural beauty?
A state capitol but not a major metropolitan area?
Good quality of life?
Lack of congestion?
Affordable housing?
Major university?
Good medical services?
Lots of good democrats?
Cha-ching! Little Rock, AR!
Now, don’t all you reepubs stop reading here because I outed myself as a yellow dog democrat. Why, one of my best friends is as republican as they get, works for the RNC, is an officer for the Young Reepubs, owns a Gluck and shoots as straight from the shoulder as she does from the mouth. This woman has a permanent reservation on my living room sofa and in my heart. And then there are all my coworkers and we love each other to shreds. Love them so much I didn’t even gloat when the election turned in my favor. Dint even want to.
My friends still didn’t get it when I tried to explain Arkansas to them because even I didn’t know what was waitin’ on me down here. Even with all those rational reasons tucked under my belt, there was still something else calling me here.
“But you live in Sonoma for God’s sake. Do you know how many people the world over would sell their children for the chance to live in the California wine country and to live the life you live?”
“No, how many?”
“Dunno. But it must be a lot. Look at all the tourists. Just look.”
I looked. That was part of the problem. The Sonoma Valley, in 1999, unlike the Napa Valley, was still pastoral, easy and its conscience guided by simple agrarian rules: Keep your word. Do business right. Be friendly. Respect nature. It was a lot like the South in many ways. That was the draw. The Napa Valley is over-marketed and snotty as a preschooler with allergies. If you don’t own vines or haven’t bought your way in with real estate or planted yourself in the wealthy merchant class, you really don’t count for much. Just come buy our wines, over-priced French provincial/Italianate home décor, quichey little boutique clothes and get the hell out.
Trouble is, there’s only one road in, Highway 29, and one road out. Limos and Hummers crammed the road from Yountville to Calistoga until finally, the tourists started spilling over into the Sonoma Valley, otherwise known as the Valley of the Moon, and decided to settle there, imploding the town with yet more development and sucking up the water table with more vanity vineyards. And the one road in and out of the Valley, Highway 12, became another Highway 29. What once took 10 minutes to go from the outreaches of Sonoma to my home, now took 25 minutes. This was getting to be a no-brainer.
“What about all the racists? You’re going to go postal the first time you hear someone use the N-word and really mean it.”
“Like I’ve never heard it here? You don’t have to use the word here to be a racist. Look around. How many blacks and Asians live here in Sonoma? About 13, all told. We have whites and we have Hispanics and ninety percent of the Hispanics work the fields and if they didn’t, you think this economy would survive selling jewelry and French linens? Get me the f@*# out of here.”
This politically correct hypocrisy was every bit as offensive to me as the N-word.
Did I really live here? Was this all in my head? Some fragmented delusion, saturated by fine wines and creamy pate? Why didn’t I see this coming? When I ran screaming out of Silicon Valley to what I thought was the Promised Land, I was not prepared for the hoards behind me. I was running to something, not away. For a while, I thought I’d found it. And I did. I lived the life. I bought the French linens, festooned my house with grapevines and olive branches. I planted lavender and made sachets and bouquets for my friends. I fought the fight to keep the casinos out of the cow pastures. I shopped at the organic farmers’ markets and drank fine pinot noir in the plaza watering holes.
But when my house tripled in value in just six years, and the 817 square-foot shacks down on the highway in Boyes Springs started selling for over $300,000, it all came clear. California had lost its way.
The solution was simple: Sell the house, pack up bag, baggage and beagle and leave this to people who could deal with it. I was no longer one of them.
It was hard to release all that delighted me about my birthplace. As I drove the highways to Santa Monica to pick up my daughter for the trip, I tried not to react to the stunning coastlines or remember all the time I’d spent at the beach. I looked past the bougainvilleas that flood over the freeway sound walls. I let myself smell the fruit, sea-air, produce growing in the Central Valley, redwood trees, and flowers and plants that don’t grow anywhere else on the planet. They coalesce into one note that rings in the shape of my psyche, as if all notes on the scale are playing at the same time. I let myself have that one more time. It would never smell like this to me again.
Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner
HOW SHE BLEW THAT POPCORN STAND
It all starts here. A fifth generation Californian, I was done, done, done with the congestion, the waiting, the 120-miles-per hour-screaming-in-your-face culture---the aggression, the competition. I was exhausted. The beautiful agrarian culture I grew up in was slammed down by high technology, seemingly overnight, and I felt like I had fallen down the rabbit hole in my own town. OUT! But where? Where can I go to find a simple way of life, affordable housing, good university, a state capitol but not a major metropolitan area, lots of natural beauty, fairly decent climate, and a lot of good democrats? CHA-CHING!! Little Rock, AR. I sold my over-priced house, packed up my old station wagon, bag, baggage and beagle, shipped some things to Little Rock, picked up my daughter in Santa Monica and started the Road Trip to the Promised Land.
Look for my series of short stories that chronicle these adventures. You won't be disappointed.
Look for my series of short stories that chronicle these adventures. You won't be disappointed.
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