Vicki Lane's Blog, page 39

Rabbit Rabbit

 

Miss Birdie and Spivey Coles

                                                                                                         

 The warm spice cake was in her basket, wrapped in a blue teatowel, and its rich and evocative aroma brought back memories of otherHalloween visits. Elizabeth breathed in the spicy scent and tried to ignore thelump swelling in her throat. Once again, it was time to fulfill her promise toMiss Birdie.

The path to the little graveyard atop the wooded ridgeseemed longer and steeper than ever, and Elizabeth stopped several times toenjoy the view and to breathe.

So many changes—over there, Dessie’s place had new owners whohad let the once pristine fields and roadsides grow up in a tangle of weeds andsaplings. Just beyond that ridge, the old Bailey place was being transformedinto a conference center dedicated to some esoteric form of spiritual healing.Farther up the road, was an alpaca farm. All the old neighbors were gone—to livewith children, to nursing homes, or just gone, to this graveyard or another.

Elizabeth sighed and continued her climb. I really need totalk to Birdie, she thought, as she reached the end of the road and saw thegravestones dotting the gentle swell of the ridge.

Why, honey, you didn’t need to come all the way uphere. I’ll talk to you everywhere you might be.

The voice seemed so real that Elizabeth started and lookedaround. No one else was there, just the almost bare trees and the wind rustlingin the falling leaves. She made her way to the rustic bench Phillip had installedthe previous year and took out the journal she’d brought with her. It’s beena while since I read any of Birdie’s journals –too busy with here andnow, alas. I need some there and then.

She spoke into the cool autumn air, “Birdie, I’m tired andheartsick. This election . . . the flood and what it did to s many folks . . . thestate of the world and the fear that things are out of control have me in a badplace. Birdie, I miss you and your stories. I brought your journal with me,thinking this would be a good time and place to read some of it and find alittle peace.

A gust of wind ruffled the pages of the open composition bookin her lap and Elizabeth looked down. And Birdie spoke.

‘Ol’ Spivey Coles was the hatefulest feller youever seed. He lived a ways down the branch from us and was as crooked as a dog’shind leg. He kept a little store and, though didn’t no one like to trade withhim on account his prices was so high and he’d cheat you soon as look at you,every now and again, when a body run out of something and couldn’t take thetime to go to town nor to wait for the peddler to come by, well, you’d go on downto Coleses and try to keep your wits about you so’s he didn’t get no advantage,beyond the prices which, like I said, was shameful high.

It was Cletus’s sixth birthday and he was set on havinghim a birthday cake. I laid out to make a white cake with butterscotch icingand come to find out my tin of baking powder was missing. I looked high and lowbut didn’t do no good. And you can’t make a white cake without baking powder,now can you?

So down to Coles’s store I went. Cletus was tailingafter Luther in the high field, and I hoped to get back and get his cake in theoven before they come in for dinner.

The store was set back from the road a little—a shackledyold place mostly held together by rusty tin signs for chewing tobacco. Thebench out front was empty for once. They was usually a bunch of shiftless oldfellers loafering there and I had dreaded having to pass by them as they wasbad to say ugly things. But I could hear the clink of horseshoes around back wherethey liked to play so thought I could make my purchase right quick and be on myway.

Ol’ Spivey Coles was behind the counter and he giveme a snaggle-toothed grin. ‘Why Miz Gentry, you purty little thing. Don’t seeyou in here much. What fer ye?’

‘A small tin of baking powder, please,’ says I,and he lays it on the countertop. ‘What’ll you take fer it?’

That grin got wider. ‘Why, I’ll take-’ and he comeout from behind that counter, pulling down his pants till his ugly old thinga-pointing right at me.

I backed away from him till I was up against a bigold open barrel of flour and him still a-coming. ‘You best stop right there, Mr.Coles,’ I said. ‘What if I was to scream?’

‘You scream and them fellers out back’ll want sometoo. Best you just pull up your skirt and lean over that barrel.’

‘Well,’ says I, ‘how do you mean? Like this?’ AndI leaned back against the barrel.

He spit on the floor and came at me, meaning tograb me by the shoulders and turn me. Quick as anything, I kicked him betwixthis legs and jumped to one side. He doubled over and I got behind him andtipped him into the barrel, which was mostly full. He was kicking and carrying onbut his noise didn’t amount to much. I grabbed my tin of baking powder and lefta dime on the counter. Then I noticed the jug of sorghum he kept there and tookit over and dumped it on top of him. ‘Maybe that’ll sweeten you some,’ says I.

I pulled his nasty old pants off too and put themin my basket.

When I stepped out the door, I could hear thehorseshoes still a-chinking and I went on my way. At the church, I stopped and threwthe pants up in the big maple by the road. Then I went on home and baked mycake.

The way I heared it was when the fellers grewtired of horseshoes, they went in the store and saw old Coles’s bare buttsticking out of that barrel and him a kicking and swearing up a storm. When theyfinished laughing, they pulled him out and, I mean to tell you, they say he wasa sight on earth, what with the flour and sorghum ‘lasses stuck to him.

When they asked him what happened, he said it musthave been an earthquake struck as he was heading for the outhouse. I reckon hedidn’t want them fellers to know it was a woman done him like that.

That evening I told Luther about it, and he wentround to Coles’s and warned him that if he didn’t pack up and get out of thecounty, we’d tell the story in church so folks could pray for him.

Ol’ Coles moved to Leicester in Buncombe and thepants stayed in the tree till they rotted They always gave me a good feelingwhen I passed by.

Chuckling to herself, Elizabeth closed thejournal. “Thank you, Miss Birdie. I needed a story where the good guys win.”She stood and, taking her basket of spice cake, began to weave her way throughthe headstones, leaving a morsel of cake on each one. At the stone for Birdieand Luther and Cletus, she left an extra big slice

Such Beauty

 

Blankets from the Military

This is Spirit Week at school and Monday was Cowboy Day. Everybody dressed up western style even the teachers. And the policeman wore a cowboy hat with his regular uniform.

I wore my Princess Cowgirl hat,

And a flannel shirt and my Dolly Parton T-shirt that says Jolene Jolene Jolene Jolene Jolene Jolene.
An exciting thing happened. The Army (you know, the Military) gave all us kids big fluffy blankets because of the flooding. Even if our houses hadn't flooded.
                                                                                       
Last week the Army people brought boxes of snacks for all us kids.

                           After Meema and I read library books, I drew a picture of my plan to make strawberry and milk popsicles. Meema gave me a bunch of popsicle sticks to take home. 
Tomorrow at school we are dressing up like what we want to be. I am going to be a singer with my sparkly shoes and a pretty dress and a microphone (a pretend one.)
I wonder if the Army will bring more stuff.

                                                       
                                                                         

Early Morning, Thanks to Jenny

 Because Jenny likes to run around and howl, we try not to let her out on her own recognizance till after nine. And she's up by seven thirty. So this means a leashed stroll out back to attend to the necessary.

Could be worse. These days the leaves are falling, swirling gold around us till I feel like Danae in the myth. It's kinda magical--but hard to capture on camera when a hound is pulling at you.

Still, the increasingly bare trees are etching lovely patterns against the pastel morning sky and it's a pleasure to be out in a beautiful fall dawn.

Past Potpourri

                                                                                  

                                                                              

                                                                                 

  

Addressing the Elephant in the Room

                                                                        

                                                                        

I had a picnic lunch with a very old and dear friend the other day. Friends since junior high, apartment mates in college--we were in each other's weddings.

She's always been pretty religious and for some time her political views have skewed right. So, when we do see each other, religion and politics have been a no-go area. 

Until now. 

I, and a lot of folks like me, have wondered how supposedly nice, decent folks can support the Former Guy--especially now that he seems to be operating sans filter, and more and more members of his former administration have been revealing unpleasant and disturbing things about him.

So, I thought, while munching on the very good chicken sandwich she'd brought, here's my chance to find out.

We'd been talking about the hurricanes and FEMA and disinformation in general and seemed to be on the same page. 

I leapt in and asked who she was voting for.

Long pause. "You don't want to know."

I assured her that I did--that I wanted to understand the mindset of a devoted Christian and really nice person who would vote for someone like the Former Guy. I suspected that abortion would be the main reason, but she said she also liked the GOP's policies better. She also more or less discounted the FG's words, as in, he won't do a lot of the things he talks about.

"It's Vance that worries me too," I told her. "Him and Project 2025."

She told me Vance didn't have anything to do with Project 2025 and was surprised when I told her he'd written the foreword.

There was more back and forth--still civil but going nowhere. I told her that if I prayed, I'd pray for her-- and that opened up another can of worms. She hadn't realized that I was no longer the church-going believer I'd been sixty-some years ago. 

But we hugged and parted amicably--each shaking her head at the folly of the other.

Along the Branch

Still beautiful, if you don't look too close and see all the plastic and trash and uprooted trees.






 

At Least We Still Have Autumn

 

Awash in Trepidation

Two more weeks--or longer, maybe much longer-- till we find out if our country is going to stay comparatively sane and prosperous or if it will veer into authoritarian rule for and by the wealthy and the religious right.

The Former Guy--with his rambling, incoherent, vulgar lies is bad enough. A man I wouldn't allow in my house, a man I wouldn't accept a French fry or a roll of paper towels from, a man who is deteriorating in real time--and the race is still close.

But the threat of JD Vance taking over, should this shambling hulk be elected then declared incompetent (a thing that should have already happened, but the GOP is happy to run this clown show as long as the audience is entertained) Vance is the truly scary one. Smarter than the Former Guy, deeply cynical and ambitious, with the soul of a Spanish Inquisitor, Vance and his attachment to Project 2025 would mean a dark future for freedoms in the USA.
And on top of these fears is the sadness I feel, knowing how many people who consider themselves good and kind and moral--who are, in fact, good and kind and moral for the most part--will vote for a ticket that does not reflect their morality, will vote for a man who lies as easily as he breathes'
Jesus wept.