The Accident

Just before the Friday afternoon factory whistle blew on a perfect summer afternoon, Curtis Melanson drove his pick up truck with the wooden sides down the hill at breakneck speed and missed the corner where our blackberry patch met the road. Ruthie and I, playing jacks on the whitewashed side porch, watched in awe as the guard rail bent and crumpled and the truck catapulted over in a double somersault. We didn't see it land but the crash was deafening and it was followed immediately by a massive explosion that shook the ground and sent a mushroom cloud of black smoke and flames into the innocent air.

For a second or three, there was dead silence except for the burning wreck, then all hell broke loose. Factory workers poured out like ants, all running hell bent for leather for the beach. Nana pushed the porch door open with such force that it sprung its hinges.

“HOLY JESUS CHRIST!” she shouted, “GIRLS! INSIDE! RIGHT THIS SECOND!” And then she was flying down the front path without waiting to see if we'd obeyed. There was a second explosion and we watched in stunned silence as bits of fiery debris spit into the air. They popped like firecrackers and left little curlicues of smoke when they fell back to earth. The factory siren was screaming urgently by then and in the background my mother was trying to make herself heard to Elsie at the switchboard.

'I DON'T KNOW WHO IT WAS!” she was screeching desperately, “JUST SEND DOC!”

The ferry, halfway across the passage when the truck went over, had revved its old engines and was headed for the wreck, its airhorns blasting. To the distress of those aboard, Cap had cut the scow loose and a half dozen whale watching tourists and their vehicles were adrift, open mouthed and horrified. More than one, I realized sickly, was filming the mayhem on the beach, death being far more fascinating than a school of whales.

That night, Nana made Ruthie and I pancakes and strawberry shortcake for supper and let us sleep in her room. My mother drank a little more than usual. Locals came and went until well after dark when the fire was put out. The whale watchers were rescued, Curt's body was pulled from the truck and sent to Doc's and the following day, they hauled away the wreckage the tide left behind and Jayne's sent a hearse from the mainland. Uncle Len and a handful of fishermen tore down the mutilated guardrail and rebuilt it. Ruthie and I watched all this from the safety of the sunporch, feeling shell shocked and somehow violated. We couldn't bring ourselves to talk about what we'd witnessed, not even to each other, and my grandmother watched over us like a hawk, waiting I think, for some sign of emotional spillage. Even if she'd known how to begin the conversation, it wouldn't have come to much. Ten year old girls aren't meant to witness violent death and we had an unspoken agreement to keep our nightmares to ourselves so Nana just watched, waited, and worried. June was over and then July came and went and still Ruthie and I kept silent. We had tea in the playhouse, we collected shells and picked wildflowers along the cove road. We took the dogs for walks and played paper dolls with cut outs from the Spiegel catalogue. We went to the show on Saturday nights and Sunday school the next morning. We played dominoes and Parcheesi and even jacks, learned the newest Brenda Lee songs and reread The Waterbabies. Twice. We stayed away from the part of the beach in front of the house. We didn't talk about it, we just stayed away.

In August, the province declared Curt Melanson's death an accident, just a small mention in the mainland paper but it caught Nana's eye. It didn't stop the whispers right away - in a small village, there are always whispers - but it was now official and the suicide rumors quietly faded out. Life went on, as life always does, and in September as we were packing to leave, Ruthie and I finally gathered our courage and walked down the path, across the road and right up to the guardrail.

We stood and held hands, watching the incoming tide wash over the familiar rocky coast and wondering if we would ever play there again. Then we hugged and said goodbye.

Early Childhood Education

Nana was laid up with a bad case of the shingles that summer and after the first three weeks, the only thing more extreme than her suffering was her mood. She was pale and shaky, not able to stand the lightest touch of clothing and in a temper so black, we daren't even to pass by her room. Between the pain and the frustration of not being able to run her household, she was often reduced to rages and and angry tears. I'd never seen her cry before and it was a shocking sight. I found myself almost feeling sorry for my mother who could only hover helplessly and wring her hands before giving up entirely and calling in Pearl and Vi to bring order to the chaos.

The aunts descended on us like two smooth running buzz saws. In a single morning, the wash was done and hung, meals were prepared and neatly stored in the old refrigerator and the entire house had been thoroughly swept, dusted, polished, and aired out. A list of daily chores was tacked to the back door. Miz Clara arrived later that afternoon with her trusty basket of herbs and homemade remedies - and a new bottle of Calamine lotion - and over my grandmother's fierce objections, got her painted up and into fresh bedclothes and a clean nightgown.

“It ain't no use fightin' over this, Alice,” she said firmly, “I reckon I kin outshout you any day of the week and twice on Sunday so hush up and git some sleep. I ain't interested in listenin' to yer hollerin' nohow. Doc McDonald's in Westport birthin' a baby and he ain't gon' be here til after dark.”

“Don't want no damn fool doctor!” my grandmother snapped, “Don't want you here neither! Git and leave me be!”

“Mebbe you jist need the bedpan,” Miz Clara offered with a less than innocent smile and that was the moment she won. A dead silence fell between the two women, a silence so complete I could hear them both breathing. The curtains at the bedroom window rustled softly in the sweet, summer air. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and I thought I could hear the faint engine noise of the ferry pulling in.

“Clara.” My grandmother's voice, weak but stubbornly clear, “If you take one step toward me with that wretched, godawful thing, I swear I will throw it at you.”

“You'll let the doc in?” Clara persisted, “You'll do as you're told until this passes? You'll let people help and stop being such a.........”

“YES!” Nana howled, “FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, YES!”

“Good!” Miz Clara beamed, shaking out a couple of 222's from their familiar, brown vial and pouring a glass of apple juice, “Now take these and see if you can't sleep a bit until the doc gets here. I do believe we've had enough persnickity for one day.”

It was nearly full dark when Doc McDonald's red pick up truck turned down the driveway and pulled in next to the old Lincoln. Nana was sulky and ill tempered but true to her word, she consented to being examined and even reluctantly agreed to take the medicine he left.

“Bedrest, antibiotics, and calamine lotion, my dear,” he told her briskly, “This is as nasty a case as I've seen in a dog's age but you'll come through it in another couple of weeks, I imagine.”

For my mother, peeking around the corner from the kitchen, the timeframe was too much. The color drained from her face and I watched her clutch white knuckled at the door frame for support.

“A couple of weeks?” my grandmother echoed listlessly and Doc patted her hand encouragingly.

“For it to run it's course, yes'm,” he nodded, “But I reckon you'll be up and around in a few

days. Just don't overdo. I'll look in on you again in a week or so.”

Much to everyone's relief, Nana was up - albeit in her nightclothes and bathrobe and only for short periods of time - and giving orders just two days later. Being corset-less and makeup-less, she refused to see anyone except Clara and contented herself by watching over us like a hungry hawk with a checklist. It was, I realized without really understanding why, oddly comforting and I've often thought this was an early lesson about order and routine and and that old devil, control. Even when they're wrong, it's hard to let go of the lessons of childhood.

Dick & Charlie's Tea Room

Prohibition was well before my time, of course, but there are still remnants of it to be found in certain forgotten places. Back in the day when there was a still on every bend of the bayou, Dick and Charlie's Tea Room was the kind of place where if the whiskey didn't get you, the alligators surely would.

Today it's a fishing shack sitting on the edge of the lake, overgrown with Spanish moss and framed by cypress trees, still reachable only by water. It's hand lettered, famous sign is still nailed to a tree:

House Rules

There ain't none.

There never was none.

There ain't gonna be none.

In the bright light of day and some 90 years after prohibition, it's hard to see much except a ramshackle and scarred up old fishing shack on a Texas lake. But as daylight begins to fade and twilight moves in, the view from the opposite shore begins to soften and change. The last rays of sunlight twine and slither through the cypress trees, giving the place an eerie glow and making me think of flappers and rum runners and barrel house piano blues.

Oh, the tales I imagine the old place could tell but the calm water and the alligators keep their secrets.

Ten Items or Less

There were two things on my mind as I waited for the cashier in the “Ten Items or Less” line at the grocery store - I was wondering how much colder my feet would have to get before frostbite set in and I was hoping I had enough cash to pay for my pork chops, chili and soup without having to dig for my checkbook. I was distracted and anxious to get home and I only looked up and around out of idleness but even then what caught my attention was not the man but the filthy, yellowish jumpsuit with the hood. He wasn't so much wearing it as he was encased in it, like what the bikers wear in winter, I thought, quilted and insulated. I wasn't so sure about warm.

What I could see of his face was thin, pale, deeply lined and smeared with dirt. Bedraggled wisps of hair hung onto his forehead, some reached nearly to his eyes, and I wouldn't have been too surprised to see something crawl out from his tangled and matted beard. He moved slowly and stiffly to lay his purchases on the conveyer belt - three plastic bags of ramen noodles, one package of bologna, a box of Lil Debbie's sweet buns - his hands were patchy and splattered with dried mud, the nails ragged and grimy. There was a slight trembling to them. The cashier, herself bundled up in a jacket with a bright red muffler wound 'round her neck and tied in a cheerful bow, asked if he'd found everything he needed. He nodded and allowed as he had. She smiled and wished him a Happy New Year and he returned the greeting but what remaining teeth he had were random and blackened with decay and the words came out slightly slurred.

She pretended not to notice, bagging his purchases, handing him his change and telling him to stay warm and come back soon.

I was headed home to a relatively warm home, a dinner of pork chops slow cooked in broccoli and cheese soup, and a houseful of animals who would give me a loving welcome. The car wouldn't be warmed up until I got home but at least I had a car. And a job. And a place to shower and sleep and be safe. My feet, cold as they still were, wouldn't be that way much longer.

Sometimes a reminder to be grateful is nothing more than noodles, bologna, and sweet buns.