Chances Are

Not long ago Pitty Pat and I were discussing our favorite songs, and she mentioned how much she loves Chances Are, by Bob Seger and Martina McBride.  It's the theme song from Hope Floats, starring Sandra Bullock.

I'm with you, Pitty.  It's one of the most beautiful love songs ever.     

Shopping With Miss Muriel

Patsy, Mary Ellen and I went to town with Maw Maw Wilson many Saturday afternoons as we were growing up.  And we were thrilled when she took us to Stockton's Drygoods Store.

Stockton's had been there for as long as I could remember.  I loved the jingle of the cowbell above the door signaling our arrival, the familiar creaking sounds the old wood floors made with each step we took. 

To the left of the store were bolts of fabric stacked high on shelves; to the right was the men & boys department, where the sharp smell of denim filled the air.  As we moved deeper into the store we were met by the overwhelming scent of new leather.  It was coming from the "foot attire" department, where Mother took us each fall to buy school shoes.

By the time we entered our teens, they had opened a "women & young ladies" department.  They had all the latest styles, and we could hardly wait to get there.

Bonnie, the sales clerk, greeted us with a smile.  "Hello, Miss Muriel," she said in her soft, pleasant voice, "Your granddaughters sure are getting big."  

"How you doin,' Miss Muriel?" called Wilbur, "Pretty day, isn't it?" 

Wilbur was Bonnie's husband.  He stood, arms folded across his thrust-out chest, gazing around the store like a security guard.  He seldom moved from his position, and I often wondered if there was a worn spot there, like the faded-out linoleum in front of my great-grandmother's gigantic cook stove.

Maw Maw usually stopped to chat with Bonnie and Wilbur, and any other customers who happened to be hanging around, and then she arranged herself in a straight-back chair just outside the dressing room door.

My sisters and I attacked the clothes racks like cops searching for criminals among the poodle skirts and crinoline petticoats, trying on one outfit after another, darting in and out of the dressing room, gazing in the mirror, turning from side to side, discussing in great depth which outfit we should choose.  Maw Maw never questioned our choices.  Unless she thought a skirt was too tight.

After we made our selections and Bonnie began ringing them up, we stood in awkward silence, dreading what was to come.

"Maybe she won't do it this time," I whispered.

Patsy rolled her eyes, "You know she will."

Maw Maw cleared her throat.  "I'm buying a lot here, Bonnie," she said, "An awful lot."

Bonnie's right eye began to twitch. 

"That adds up to quite a bit."

Bonnie hesitated, eye twitching faster.

"Quite a bit."

Both of Bonnie's eyes were twitching, now, and she looked as if she were ready to take flight.  

"Do you think you could come down a little?"

Bonnie stopped, fingers poised in mid-air.  "Well, Miss Muriel, I don't know..." 

Maw Maw stared at her, eyebrows raised. 

"Miss Muriel," she said, rubbing her eyes, "We just got these things in..."

Maw Maw lifted the price tag of one of the skirts and stared at it. 

Bonnie sighed.  "Well...I'll have to talk to Wilbur." 

She hurried to Wilbur, where they talked in hushed tones, casting furtive looks in Maw Maw's direction.  Finally, she dissolved into the recesses of the store and Wilbur moved forward.

His face looked as though it had been scrubbed with a Brillo pad and there were comb marks in his thick, wavy hair.  He stuck his forefinger between his neck and stiff shirt collar and began working it back and forth.  "Now, Miss Muriel," he said, "These things are new arrivals."

"Yes, Wilbur, I know they are." 

"So, naturally, they would be a little higher..."

"I've been buying things here a long, long time, Wilbur."

"I know you have, Miss Muriel, I know you have..."

He lifted a sleeve of one of the blouses and rubbed his finger back and forth across the fabric as if judging its worth.  "I just don't see how we can come down on these things, Miss Muriel," he said, shaking his head, "Since we just got them in."

"Is Irby here?" 

Irby was the owner.  Maw Maw knew him well.

Wilbur hesitated, then he pulled a large white handkerchief from his back pocket.  "Yes, Miss Muriel," he said, mopping his brow, "Irby is here."

Nothing was said for a few seconds, and the silence was very uncomfortable.  My sisters and I gave each other guarded looks.  

He took a deep breath.  "Well, Miss Muriel, I think we might could do a little something."

As we walked out the door with our marked-down purchases, I heard Bonnie call out to Wilbur:  "Does Miss Muriel need anything else?"

"No," said Wilbur, "She got everything she wanted."

Happy Mother's Day, dear friends.

~Auguste Rodin~

                                                              

Olive Kitteridge

I just finished a very interesting book. Olive Kitteridge, by Elizabeth Strout, is presented in a series of short stories within the ongoing story of a woman's later years in life. It was a hard book for me to get into; I kept reading a little and tossing it aside, but after a while, I couldn't put it down.

The short stories are about the lives of residents of a small town in Maine, all tied together with one individual: Olive Kitteridge, a retired school teacher.  She is a big part of some of the stories; in others, she is barely mentioned.  But she is a very strong presence. 

The most poignant part of the book is when Olive is in her seventies, looking back on her life.  Although she is lonely and tired, she acts self-righteous, hateful and superior.  She thinks people around her are only trying to make her life miserable, and often wonders why all these things keep happening to her. At times, you want to slap her big sarcastic face; other times, you completely understand what she is thinking.

Elizabeth Strout's writing is gutsy and powerful, emotional and moving. I won't soon forget Olive Kitteridge.

Rose Kennedy and Her Family

I recently came across a book about Rose Kennedy I didn't know existed, and it does not paint a pretty picture of the matriarch of this once powerful family.

Rose Kennedy and Her Family was written in 1995 by Ted Schwarz and Barbara Gibson. Schwarz wrote the biographical account, and Gibson (Rose's personal assistant for ten years) added first-hand accounts of incidents along the way. Some are amusing, but many are rather disturbing.

Rose was very vain. When pictures of the Kennedy family were taken, she refused to sit next to the younger women. "They make me look older," she told Gibson.

She was a tightwad. Although the Kennedy children had trust funds (between 30 and 300 million each), Rose griped about how much money they spent. And she was constantly upset about wasted electricity. She ordered the help not to turn the lights on until dark.

Rose often gave her old clothes away and took them back. "Remember that blouse I gave you last year?" Gibson heard her tell a family member, "I want it back; please bring it to me." (Incidentally, she gave her threadbare bras to Gibson. But she never took those back!)

She never felt she was as good as the Brahmins of Boston, who looked down on Irish immigrants. She spent her life trying to impress them, but she ended up as snobbish as they. She always referred to Gibson as "The Secretary," and when The Secretary accompanied her to Mass each morning, Rose made her sit in the back of the church. (Because that is where the help is supposed to sit, she explained.)

Ted was Rose's favorite. In her eyes, he could do no wrong. When her youngest son came callin,' she greeted him in full makeup, hair done, acting flirtatious. When her daughters visited, she often greeted them in her robe, hair in curlers. She did not approve of drinking, so when the girls slept over, they sneaked bottles of wine to bed with them. (I'll bet Teddy never hid out to do his drinking!)

Rose disowned her oldest daughter, Kathleen (Kat), when she married a man who was not of the Catholic faith. After he was killed in WW II, Kat began a love affair with a married man. Sadly, they were both killed in a plane crash. Joe attended the funeral, but Rose refused to go. Her death was God's punishment for marrying outside her faith, Rose said. (Judgmental people irritate me no end!)

Rosemary, the eldest Kennedy daughter, was the most attractive of all the sisters. But she wasn't competitive in sports (much to Joe's disdain), and didn't excel in her studies (much to Rose's disdain). Rose tried to work with her, to no avail. Gibson says evidence now proves that Rosemary was never retarded, but simply suffering from dyslexia.

Rosemary had another problem, one the Kennedys never talked about.

"She had 'unbridled sexuality,' which was absolutely forbidden if you were a Kennedy woman," Gibson says, "If, however, you were a Kennedy man, apparently, you could become president or at least a senator."

Joe nipped that in the bud. He authorized a lobotomy, which rendered his daughter drooling and severely impaired." (Talk about double standard! He encouraged his sons' unbridled sexuality!)

Because of his numerous affairs during their marriage, Rose was very bitter toward Joe. She showed neither concern nor empathy when he suffered a stroke, and she seldom went to his room. When his nurse insisted on bringing Joe down to have breakfast with her, Rose ignored him. After he suffered his last stroke and was near death, she went on with her regular schedule. She went up to see him hours later, and then she took a long walk before authorizing the nurse to call an ambulance.

Rose traveled extensively, even when her children were sick. As a child, President Kennedy was in frail health, forced to spend much of his time in bed. But she left him with the help and went on her merry way. "Mother was never there when I needed her, ever!" JFK once said, "She was either in Paris buying clothes, or on her knees in some church!"

Be that as it may, Rose lived to be almost 105 years old.

The Sounds of Country Music

Yesterday, I was thrilled to learn that Hank Williams had received a Pulitzer Prize! The country legend was praised for "his craftsmanship as a songwriter who expressed universal feelings with poignant simplicity and played a pivotal role in transforming country music into a major musical and cultural force in American life."

I couldn't agree more.

I went to sleep each night to the sounds of country music when I was a child. Radio station WCKY came to us all the way from Cincinnati, Ohio, which seemed a continent away back then. Sometimes it came in as clear as a bell; other times it faded in and out, depending on the weather between Western Kentucky and Cincinnati, I suppose.

That was before we got our first TV, so Mother and Daddy spent their evenings reading various books and Time, Look and Life magazines, often reading tidbits aloud to each other. The radio sat on the end table next to Daddy's worn swivel rocker, and I think it played until they went to bed. But I had no way of knowing for sure. I was fast asleep by then.

It was always summertime back then, it seems. And after Pitty Pat, Mary Ellen and I ceased our nightly whispering and giggling, we drifted to sleep to the sounds of country music, frogs croaking in the swamps nearby, our parents' soft murmurings drifting from the living room, the fluttering of the leaves in the old Cottonwood trees just outside our bedroom window.

Hank Williams was everyone's favorite, and I loved the sad ones: Your Cheatin' Heart, I Can't Help It If I'm Still In Love With You, I'm So Lonesome I could Cry, Take These Chains From My heart. His mournful voice came from deep within his soul, his music like sad and lonely people trailing along behind.

I still love the sad ones, and my all-time favorite is Cold Cold Heart.

I'm listening to it now. And far, far away, I hear my parents' voices, frogs croaking, and the fluttering of the leaves in the old Cottonwood trees just outside my bedroom window.

Six Minutes

If the doctor told me I had only six minutes to live,

I’d type a little faster.

~Isaac Asimov~