Authors: Virginia Brown
“If Robby did that, I’d use
hot
wax on his ding-a-ling,” Rayna observed, and we all got a good laugh out of that. Everyone in Marshall County knows Robert Rainey would rather cut off his afore-mentioned part than mess with anyone else than Rayna. I’ve never seen a man more in love with his wife, except maybe Daddy with Mama. Not to say Rayna and Rob are sickly sweet about it, though. They’re both independent people with independent interests, lives, and friends. They just know how to balance their relationship and keep the excitement alive.
It was one of those spectacular late February days that Mississippi produces just to remind residents why we choose to live here, with warm sunshine, soft breezes, and a false sense of spring. Weather here has an often wickedly turn of humor. People start shaking mothballs and cedar out of their summer clothes, get out the lawnmower and make sure it’s ready for Bermuda grass, and begin sprucing up gardens. Then winter slams back with a vengeance, bringing ice and hail, weather reports of coming snow that usually don’t quite materialize, and bone-chilling wind that cuts to the bone. The day before could be a pleasant seventy-two degrees. The next, an icy twenty-two.
“March first is tomorrow,” Bitty reflected, “so we’ve only got six weeks to get the houses listed and ready for the pilgrimage. Cady Lee printed up the brochures this year. She found a place that’s doing it for twenty percent less than we paid last year. Of course, we can always add The Cedars at the last minute with a quick print of a flyer once I get Sanders to sign the papers.”
“Do you think there’ll be enough time for that?” Rayna asked. “I mean, with the details that have to be confirmed, inspection, insurance verified and all that.”
“I’ve got everything done but his signature on the bottom line,” Bitty said. “I just have to get that and we can expedite it. I mean, the house needs hardly anything done at all. We have the history of it all written out, highlighted historical data, and a few personal details I was able to find in the museum archives. Sanders can add whatever he likes, and we’ll print that out, too. I imagine he’ll want to focus on his ancestors’ involvement, but that’s okay.”
“There’s always been rumors about his great-great-grandfather being a carpetbagger,” Rayna said. “But of course, that’s our history, too. Good and bad, we can’t rewrite it and no one should even try.”
It was a matter of complete agreement that revisionist history is a disservice to current generations as well as past.
“Philip spearheaded a campaign to have state funding ended for historical research,” Bitty said darkly. “Not just to spite me, though I’m sure that was the biggest perk, but to get votes from people who don’t like certain parts of history. I think he even tried to rewrite a few pages of it.”
“You’re talking about General Forrest’s third cousins or whatever asking Philip to have portions of the Mississippi school history books rewritten, aren’t you,” I said.
“Actually, those people weren’t even related to him. They just had the same last name and thought they’d get some easy money if they filed a lawsuit for slander. Idiots.”
“Well, like it or not, Nathan Bedford Forrest not only owned slaves, but he traded in them at times, just like he did mules,” Rayna said. “It’s awful, I know, but back then, even General Grant owned slaves. Why, when Grant occupied Holly Springs, his New York wife brought her own personal slave with her, and made no bones about her not being freed. After the war ended, General Grant had to be forced by law to free his slaves. Forrest just gets a lot of bad publicity because of the Ku Klux Klan.”
Bitty shook her head. “That was an act of idiocy in retrospect, though I’m sure at the time Forrest had some kind of reasoning for it. I mean, something needed to be done about all the criminals running around the South after Union troops moved out and the carpetbaggers came in. It’s historical fact that Forrest removed himself from the Klan when they began committing random acts of murder and violence. Of course, most history books don’t mention that fact.”
“Why, Bitty,” I said in surprise, “I had no idea you even cared about actual history.”
“Well,” she said, “I’ve been doing a lot of research since working with the historical society. And of course, Forrest only lived fifteen miles away from here in
Ashland
, so there’s a lot about him in the museum.”
“New
Salem
,” Rayna said. “Forrest lived in New Salem.
Ashland
was built a couple of miles over after the Yankees came through and burned down New Salem. Governor Matthews named the new town after his Kentucky plantation. It was called New Salem when Forrest lived near there.”
“But his home place was where Ashland city limits are now, I think,” Bitty said.
I felt very uninformed. Maybe I’d heard all this growing up, but none of it had stuck. One thing about a certain element of small town citizens is their addiction to local history, their pride in their forbears’ part in it, and a determination to educate as many as possible. Every town, north and south, east and west, has these citizens, and if not for them, far too many personal histories and historical data would be lost. Thus the purpose of National Historical Societies.
For some reason, all the discussion about Nathan Bedford Forrest tickled the back of my brain with a reminder that there was something I should remember. I hate it when that happens. It makes me feel as if senility has hit and soon I’ll be gibbering in upstairs windows and trying to fly. Anyway, my brain kept making some kind of connection between Forrest and the senator, but I didn’t know why. Of course, thinking about Philip Hollandale made me think about him lying in a pool of blood in Sherman Sanders’ foyer, and that was unpleasant.
“Hellooo? Trinket? Have you been beamed up?” Bitty was asking, and I gave the lame excuse:
“I was just thinking.”
“Hah, I thought I smelled something burning. What’s got you thinking so hard your eyes are all squinty?”
I didn’t want to go into the details about Philip laid out in Sanders’ foyer, so I said, “My lunch. I didn’t take time to eat breakfast.”
“Let’s walk over to Phillips’ store and get a burger,” Rayna said, and we all thought that was an excellent idea.
Phillips, the former saloon-slash-whorehouse-slash-grocery store now serves hamburgers, cheeseburgers, fried bologna sandwiches, homemade fried fruit pies, and a variety of sandwiches and fried vegetables. Of course, the prerequisite choice of sweet tea or unsweetened is offered, as well as bottled drinks in a big cooler against one wall.
The interior is a historical buff’s delight. Big metal signs from the thirties to the sixties hang on the walls, old farming implements decorate odd corners and wall spots, and old-fashion wood shelving holds racks of chips and an assortment of mass-produced desserts. Ceilings are at least fifteen feet high, and bead-board walls and a low ceiling enclose an added bathroom right off the rectangular dining area. A gigantic wasp nest hangs from the dining room ceiling by a cord, but without current residents. Tables are plain and round except for a trestle table set by the front window. Right over the trestle table hangs a corkboard with clippings from local papers and the
Memphis Commercial Appeal
attesting to the fine quality of the cheeseburgers offered at Phillips. Chairs are eclectic. A long bench that looks like it came from the railroad depot sits in front of the counter, providing comfortable seating for those waiting on take-out orders.
I ordered the cheeseburger and a fried pie, Bitty—no doubt watching her weight—had a fried bologna sandwich and fried vegetable sticks, and Rayna ordered a grilled cheese with bacon sandwich. Of course, we all had sweet tea, though I did eye an Orange Crush in the cooler.
While we were eating our lunch, two of the Divas came in to pick up their take-out order. I only recognized one of them, but as I’ve said, there are so many new or forgotten faces now in
Holly
Springs
that it’s not that unusual for me.
After a spate of greetings that involved a couple of hugs, Bitty looked at me and said, “I swear, I don’t know where my manners have gone. Trinket Truevine, this sweet young thing on the left is Melody Doyle. Melody grew up here, but went off to college in Georgia, found a job and a boyfriend over there, and just came back about—what, six months ago, wasn’t it?”
“Seven,” said the sweet young thing with a smile, “though I come and go since I work up in
Memphis
a lot. It’s very nice to meet you, Miz Truevine.”
She properly waited until I put out my hand, and then gave me a nice, firm shake that was still soft enough to be ladylike. Obviously, someone’s taught her well. It’s a bit complicated at times, but there are rules about this sort of thing that I try to remember and usually forget, so I’m always impressed when someone a couple of decades younger is paying attention.
Melody is quite pretty in an understated way, with flashing dark eyes, shiny hair, a slender figure shown to advantage in snug jeans and form-fitting sweater, and a face with a little bit too much make-up to hide a few spots on her skin. She also has a little bit of an overbite, in an attractive Gene Tierney resemblance. If you don’t know who Gene Tierney is, you’re under fifty and don’t watch very many old movies. Trust me; Tierney was a great beauty in her day. I put Melody’s age at mid-thirties, but only because of her eyes. There’s something quite mature about her eyes. Maybe it’s the few corner lines that suggest she’s a regular smoker.
When Bitty started to introduce me to the other young lady, we both said at almost the same time, “We met Saturday.”
Cynthia Nelson is a newcomer to the
Holly
Springs
area, having just moved into
Snow
Lake
, a community and corporation between
Holly
Springs
and
Ashland
. It’s about ten miles east of
Holly
Springs
, five miles west from
Ashland
, situated on a two hundred acre fresh spring lake that sports dozens of homes on the lakefront and backs up to the
Holly
Springs
National Forest
. It’s mainly retirement homes, weekend homes, and hunting and fishing cabins that used to be seasonal. But in the past few years, families wanting a slower pace of life for their children and themselves but within commuting distance of Memphis or even closer locales have been moving in to the corporation. Cindy is one of the latter. Her husband, I’m told, works for a major satellite dish company, and Cindy stays home with their two children and a menagerie of animals. Their house is right on the lake with a dock, a pontoon boat, a fishing boat, and a heavily wooded lot; they get free satellite, and Cindy drives her school-age children all the way to Marshall Academy in Holly Springs, because it has a better school system. Having seen the Ashland schools, I must, alas, agree with her. An air of shabbiness and neglect hangs over the high school despite the best efforts of dedicated teachers and the local school board.
Cindy is cute, bubbly, but not silly. Before the entertainment began at Saturday’s meeting, we’d enjoyed a discussion about William Faulkner, writing, and the occasionally tedious but always rewarding value of keeping a journal. While I don’t bother to date my entries or write everyday, Cindy prefers a daily account of events that may run from a single sentence to pages of impressions, emotions, or just venting. We share that last trait.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” I said to her, and I could tell she felt the same. Cindy has light brown hair, gray eyes, a no-nonsense way about her, wears a minimum of make-up and casual clothes that are nice but not flashy. In some way, she reminds me of my daughter Michelle who’s younger than Cindy’s thirty, but as my mother would say, “has an old soul.” Both young women seem to know what they want from life and aren’t afraid to work for it.
Melody and Cindy have been volunteering at the historical society copying old documents and getting data entered into computers.
“I can’t stay long,” Cindy said when we invited them to sit down with us for lunch, “since I have to pick my kids up at two-fifty-five, and before that I have to pick up Pudgy from the vet.”
“Is Pudgy a dog or a cat?” Rayna wanted to know.
Cindy laughed. “Neither. He’s a hamster that foolishly decided to bite our cat. Until then, the cat had been accepting if not terribly excited to have Pudgy in the family. Fortunately, I think both of them just wanted to get away from the other. Dr. Coltrane said there’s no real damage.”
“Dr. Coltrane?” Bitty frowned. “I thought I knew the names of every vet at Willow Bend Animal Clinic. Is he new?”
Nodding, Cindy said, “Sometimes he’s in the clinic, other times he’s out tending to cows, horses, or whatever.”
Melody leaned forward, her voice lowered and her eyebrows waggling a little. “I’ve heard he’s absolutely
gor
-geous! I’m thinking of adopting a dog or cat just so I can meet him.”
“How old is he?” Bitty asked immediately.
“Um, I’d say in his late forties, maybe,” Cindy replied, “but only because of the dates on his framed diplomas hanging on the wall. He looks much younger.”
Bitty’s smile was absolutely feline. Have I mentioned she’s very resilient?
“Well,” said Rayna, “the new foot doctor who just opened up an office over by the bank and health clinic is quite attractive, too. Of course, he’s only in his late thirties or early forties, I think. There’s a candidate for you, Melody. Doctors always make a good living, even when they’re podiatrists.”
Melody blushed a little. “Truthfully, I’m not sure I’m ready to date quite yet. You know. My last break-up was pretty bad.”
“Heavens, sugar,” Bitty said, “don’t let any grass grow under your feet. You won’t get over the last one until you’ve tried out the next one. I should know. I’ve had four of the worst divorces in the history of
Mississippi
, and I can truthfully say that men are like buses. If you miss one, another one will come along in ten minutes.”