Who you ringin'? (Part I)

When I was growing up on the farm in Carlisle County, everyone had wall telephones. They were very old, even for the fifties, so I suspect the phone company dumped them on country people, who were glad to get any kind of phone.

We were on a party line, and to distinguish who was being called, every family was assigned certain "rings." Ours was two long rings and one short ring; Maw Maw Wilson's was two longs and two shorts. And so on.

Trouble is, our phones were out of order much of the time. Either a tree had fallen onto a line (which took the phone company weeks to remove); a phone had been left off the hook; someone had unhooked the line to our neighborhood so the phones on Hwy. 123 would work. Or some such problem.

When the phones were working, though, it was great. I loved eavesdropping on fellow party-liners; it was like an ongoing soap opera.

Until Mother caught me.

"Get off that phone, Brenda Gail," she whispers, "Now!"

Just about everyone on our party line eavesdropped at one time or another, although Mother and Maw Maw seldom listened unless someone had taken ill or a tragedy had occurred. At times like those, everyone was on the line (like a conference call): "They don't expect her to live through the night." "He was eat up with cancer; they operated on him, but they just had to sew him back up."

Miss Ora eavesdropped all the time. How do I know? She and Dummy lived just across the field from us, and they had a rooster who had a very strange crow (like he had Laryngitis, or something like that). I could hear him crowing across the field and through the phone. But I felt a certain commoradory with Miss Ora, the two of us quietly listening together.

Although most of her phone conversations were boring, I did enjoy hearing the orders Miss Ora left at McKendree's Grocery for her husband: "When Dummy comes in there, tell him to get a loaf of Sandwich bread, a dozen eggs and some Pepto-Bismol."

Sometimes she ordered hamburger "meat," Martha White self-rising flour, cornmeal. One day she added cake flour to the list, and I pictured her stirring cake batter with one hand and holding the receiver with the other, the dysphonic rooster crowing just outside her window.

Gertie and Miss Ninnie had interesting conversations: "I wasn't feelin' so pert this morning," Gertie says, "So I took a Milltown." "Law me, I was just gettin' ready to take one myself," says Miss Ninnie, "I feel a migraine comin' on."

Aloha's mother-in-law (who was also my great-aunt) lived near each other, and they talked each day: Your bedroom light was on at three o'clock this morning," Aunt Mary says, "Was one of y'all sick?" Aloha hesitates and clears her throat: "Looks like it's gonna be a nice day."

Men in our neck of the woods seldom talked on the phone. When they did, their conversations were short. And boring. They talked very loud, as if yelling at each other through megaphones: "Yeah, okay," shouts Daddy, "Alright, then." They never said goodbye; when the conversation was over, they abruptly hung up.

Not so for the women. If there was a conversation going on about someone they knew, they butted in: "Ruby?" says Gertie, "Who're y'all talkin' about?" "When did she take sick?" adds Dorothy.

Occasionally, someone had to make a long distance call, which required "getting through" to the Bardwell operator. One person was seldom able to get the job done, so an all-points plea went out: "Could somebody help me ring Central?"

Eavesdroppers up and down Laketon Road began simultaneously cranking their phones. Again and again. Their reward was listening in on a conversation between the caller and someone far, far away. Maybe Clinton, or some other distant place.

Sometimes our phone began emitting faint, sputtering rings, like it was sick. It was impossible to make out who was being called, so several party-liners picked up their phones, always using the pat phrase: "Who you ringin'?"

Kids seldom talked on the phone. Phones were for adults. If Mother was unavailable, we were allowed to answer, but that was all. It didn't make much difference, though. Most of our friends didn't have phones; if they did, we would have had to call long distance. And long distance was only used if someone's house was burning down or a close relative was dying.

Which is why what Terry, Pitty, Mary Ellen and I did one summer was so out of character for us. I take full responsibility, though. The whole thing was my idea.

To be continued...

Pouting

I caught Dudley hightailing it across the yard this morning, a huge hamhock clenched between his teeth. He was very perturbed when I took it away from him. He's been pouting ever since.

Happy Valentine's Day

Let there be spaces in your togetherness
and let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea
between the shores of your souls.

~Kahil Gibran~

William Shatner: Kicking & Rolling

While surfing the TV channels the other night, Bill came across William Shatner. He was interviewing Larry Flynt on his talk show, Raw Nerve.

"Shatner's face is red," Bill laughed, "You think he's been drinking?"

"I wouldn't doubt it," I said, "I once saw him when he was feeling no pain."

It was in the late eighties, and Victoria, a good friend of mine and a lover of horses, wanted me to accompany her to a Hollywood charity horse show.

"It'll be fun, Brenda," she said, "Go with me!"

I finally agreed, but I almost backed out when she told me the admission was one hundred and twenty dollars, payable in advance.

"That's a lot of money, just for a horse show," I said, "Besides, I might not even go. I want to see the sights."

"But that includes the private reception," she said, "Not just anyone can get in!"

A couple of weeks later we were flying to L.A.

As soon as we checked into the hotel, Victoria headed to the horse show. I spent the day touring Universal Studios, strolling down Rodeo Drive, checking out the Hollywood Walk of Fame and other places I had read about in the movie magazines I so coveted as I was growing up. After a while, though, I got tired of roaming the city alone. So I decided to go to the horse show.

I was shocked when I arrived. It didn't take me long to realize this was not just any horse show. Riders sat ramrod straight in their English saddles, guiding sleek, high-stepping horses over three-foot fences. They rode with grace and style, rising and falling in their saddles as though they and their horses were one. Next came stoic gentlemen in two-wheeled carts, followed by women in four-wheeled carriages, trotting gracefully around the arena. Both horses and women had attitudes, and they were dressed to the nines, diamonds glittering from fingers, necks, and ears.

"Well, look who's here!" Victoria said.

A horse was trotting out of the shadows, William Shatner in the saddle.

He was an excellent horseman and his horse performed well. But his best performance would come that evening. At the Hollywood reception.

We dressed carefully for the event. I wore a pant suit (borrowed from Victoria's mom, who gave me free reign to her extensive collection of formal wear). It was black silk, with huge shoulder pads. So huge, in fact, that my shoulders looked as wide as John Goodman's. (I was in style, though; it was the-bigger-the-better eighties)! I slipped my feet into black spike heels (hoping I wouldn't trip) and clipped on my huge gold earrings. Victoria looked like a star herself in her little black dress and black hose, many gold chains draped around her neck.

We were met by crowds of people upon our arrival, flash bulbs popping, scents of expensive perfumes drifting through the air. A doorman stood at the entrance, checking the list before removing the chain and allowing guests to enter, and limos as far as the eye could see were depositing impeccably dressed women and their handsome escorts at the curb. One was Miss America. I remembered seeing her on TV, tears rolling down her cheeks as they placed the crown on her head.

Behind us in line were Patrick Duffy and his wife.

"Where are you ladies from?" said Patrick. (He must have heard our accents!)

"Paducah, Kentucky."

"Oh! I've been there!" Mrs. Duffy said, "I performed there when I was in a ballerina troupe."

"Wish we had brought our cameras," Victoria whispered as the doorman checked our names off the list.

Inside, champagne flowed from a gigantic fountain, chocolate from another. Tables were loaded with lobster, crab, shrimp, black caviar, white truffles, hot and cold hor derves, salads and vegetables of all descriptions. Chefs hovered nearby, grilling steaks and slicing standing rib roasts.

I was overwhelmed. "The buffet alone is worth that hundred and twenty dollars!"

"Nothing but the best for the beautiful people!" said Victoria.

As we were being shown to our table, we passed model/actress Christina Ferrare and her Greek billionaire husband, Tony Thomopoulos. "Hi," he said, "How are ya?" Christina smiled and nodded.

Victoria and I looked at each other. "They act like we're one of them," she said.

In a corner, I spotted Frank Loggia, who played the mafia boss in Scarface. He was obviously being interviewed; the man with him was taking notes. I considered stopping by and telling him how great his performance was in Scarface, but I didn't want to appear to be a star-struck fan (even if I was; the man was very sexy!).

The band was cranking up as we finished eating, so we moved to a table near the dance floor. Christina and Tony were nearby; her plate was piled high and she was eating with great gusto. "Honey, bring me another plate!" she called as he headed to the buffet.

There was a big crowd at the next table, one of whom was a tall, slim man in a tuxedo. He seemed familiar, and when I looked closer I realized the man was Lyle Waggoner from the old Carol Burnett show. He looked at me and grinned. I smiled back, just being friendly, when all of a sudden he began moving his eyebrows up and down, his grin becoming lavicious.

Oh, my god, Brenda, he's trying to flirt with you!" Victoria said, "With his wife right there!"

Victoria was soon having problems of her own. A David Niven look-alike and his beautiful young date had joined us at our table. He pulled his chair closer to Victoria, staring at her with goo-goo eyes.

His young companion scowled and turned to me. "I've just about had it with him," she said, fondling a diamond necklace lying between a pair of the largest silicone breasts I had ever seen, "He does this every time we go out!"

The band began playing Bob Seger's Old Time Rock & Roll, and beautiful people from all over the room jumped up and headed to the dance floor. William Shatner and his wife were already there, she swaying like a graceful swan, he standing at attention, a surprised look on his face.

Across the room, I watched Patrick Duffy and his wife leave, his hand at her elbow; Tony Thomopoulos was heading toward the door, motioning to Christina, who was still eating like a starving trucker. She grabbed a couple of shrimp and stuffed them into her mouth before catching up with her husband. Lyle Waggoner, his back to his wife, sat staring off into space, as was Miss America, who was sitting all alone. Frank Loggia had apparently left the premises.

"Brenda!" Victoria said, stifling a laugh, "Look at William Shatner!"

He was pressing his body to his wife's, pelvis moving up and down, from side to side. He let go of her and backed up, gyrating and spinning, dropping to his knees, ending up flat on his back, feet in the air, body rolling back and forth. His wife began clapping and dancing around him as he lay on the floor, the beautiful people joining in, clapping and swaying, moving backward to give him more room as he kicked and kicked and rolled around and around.

A Note From Sarah

Sarah and me in '73

My heart is heavy tonight. I've lost one of my dearest friends.

Although Sarah Mae had been in declining health for years, I had no idea the end was near. My previous post is about the trials and tribulations of our first job, and a little over a year ago I posted about our days at business college (Mutt & Jeff).

Memories of our times together have been running through my head all day. And tonight, as I was thumbing through my old high school yearbook, I came across something I had forgotten: a note on the last page.

March 11, 1958

Dear Brenda,

When you sit down and start to write something like this, the first thing you do is start recalling all of the wonderful years that have gone by. During our twelve years together, I can remember more good things than bad. Such things as the many times one of us was sick and had to take the other home, staying out of school and sneaking down to the cafeteria to get stewburgers. We never accomplished anything by doing those things, but it sure was fun, wasn't it?

Yes, those were the days, and we're still making memorable events in our last year of school. I think the thing I will remember most about it is your constant chatter about 0*. How could I ever forget when I'm reminded of it every hour on the hour we're together? But I don't mind. In fact, I enjoy it. To this, "best wishes," and I do think someday in the near future you will have satisfaction.

You know, we haven't always run around together, but it seems like we've been best friends for our lifetime up to now. Oh I can think of ever so many wonderful things that we've done together since we were "silly" sophomores, our trip to Kentucky Lake junior year, hayrides, and ballgames.

I only hope that we will always be as close as we are now. Maybe we will because, after all, we're going to have to live together in Memphis!

Love always,

Sarah Mae

PS When you get old and ugly and your friends turn to someone new, remember you will have one friend who is old and ugly too.

Sea of Love

As Bill and I were dining out a few days ago, I watched the waitresses scurrying here and there, and I was suddenly transported back in time to my first job.

Sarah Mae and I had just turned eighteen and were attending business college. We were making good grades (even if I abhorred the idea of someday being a secretary!), making new friends, enjoying the attention of Paducah boys, going to parties.

There was only one problem. We were short on money.

We needed new cinch belts, flats, the latest lipsticks in shades of grape and violet. (And a tube of that white stuff, which was applied over the new shades to make them look frosted.) I also wanted some of the new brush rollers. And Nestles hair tint, which would give my auburn hair the brilliant red tones it so desperately needed.

Our parents were already paying for our schooling and books and rent. We couldn't expect them to shell out more money.

There was only one solution.

We spent the next few days applying for jobs at all the downtown stores: Woolworth's and Walgreen's, Paducah Dry Goods, Montgomery Ward's, Penney's. But they all turned us down. Lack of experience, they said.

We were ready to give up when we noticed a new diner going up on Broadway. We watched their progress on our way to and from school each day, and one day, as they were carrying in a new jukebox, we had an idea. Maybe we could get a job there before anyone else applied!

"Y'all had any experience?" the short, chubby owner said. He was smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings, gazing up at them as they dissipated above his bald head. He looked like a white Fats Domino.

"I worked at the Hut in Bardwell for a long time," Sarah Mae said. (A week.)

Fats blew another smoke ring and cast a suspicious look in my direction. "What about you?"

"Uh, well, yes" I said, "Yes, I have." (Liar, liar, pants on fire! )

"Alright, then, y'all come on in here Monday at three," he said, "You'll work until we close at nine. The pay is fifty cents an hour, plus tips."

We rushed toward the door before he had a chance to change his mind.

"Y'all are gonna have to have white uniforms and white shoes," he called, "At your own expense!"

As we left our apartment the following Monday afternoon, I was stepping high in my stiff, foam-soled shoes, a feeling of confidence washing over me as I gazed down at my crisp white uniform. I had a job; I felt all grown up, responsible.

The feeling didn't last long.

The restaurant was packed, waitresses rushing here and there, plates perched all the way up their arms. "Two blue-plate specials," one yelled, "Three hamburgers-through-the-garden and two orders of fries," yelled another.

Looming ahead was Fats. He was wearing a white coat and chef's hat, chubby arms wrapped around his barrel chest.

"Y'all go on back to the kitchen," he said, "Lila'll get you started."

Steam hit us in the face as we entered the kitchen where Lila was flipping burgers, tossing french fries into sizzling grease, gazing at orders through fogged-up glasses. Her face was crisscrossed with wrinkles and red as a beet.

She took off her glasses and wiped them with a dish towel. "I'm so tired I couldn't fart if I had the wind," she said.

We began giggling, but Lila never cracked a smile.

"One of you take them tables on the right," she said, putting her glasses back on, "The other one can take them tables on the left."

We looked at each other, eyes wide.

"We can do this," I whispered.

"We can," Sarah Mae said, "Sure we can!"

We threw back our shoulders, smoothed our new uniforms, and took off, with no idea of what awaited us.

It was a good thing.

Sarah Mae charged a man seventeen dollars and fifty cents for a blue-plate special and coffee. She apologized and corrected his bill ($1.75), but he gave her a dirty look and took back his tip. Then she took two orders to the wrong people. Their loud complaints brought Fats waddling from the kitchen.

"That better not happen again!" he yelled, "Ever!"

I dropped a plate of food in front of a table where two haughty women held court. And then I slipped in the mess and skidded all the way across the floor, stopping just before colliding with Fats.

"Straighten up!" he yelled.

After the diner closed and we were preparing to leave, Fats tossed two brooms at us. "Sweep up the place," he said, "It's part of your job."

He waddled over to the jukebox and put a quarter in. As we began sweeping, the strains Sea of Love filled the restaurant. After it played five times, he put another quarter in. The song was still playing when he locked the door behind us.

"I've never been as tired in my whole life," Sarah Mae said, as we trudged home, "But we can't quit."

"Oh, no," I said, trying not to limp. My new shoes had rubbed blisters on the backs of both feet. "No, we can't quit."

The next few nights were more of the same. I spilled soup on the knee of a man in a suit; Sarah Mae tripped and almost knocked Lila down as she was carrying a three-layer cake to the dessert table. (The cake was saved; Lila's nerves were shot.)

The following night, Fats put me behind the counter. All stools were filled, so customers kept me running from one end of the counter to the other. When a nice little man in a hat ordered a cup of coffee, I was so distracted that I began pouring the coffee into a saucer.

"What in the name of god are you doing?" yelled Fats.

I quickly corrected my mistake, but as I nervously set the coffee in front of the little man, the cup and saucer were rattling.

"Calm down, hon," he said, giving me a sympathetic smile, "You're doing fine."

Suddenly, everyone's attention was drawn to the other side of the restaurant, where Sarah Mae had dropped two baskets of dinner rolls.

Fats rushed to her side. "All them rolls ruined!" he squalled, shaking his head, "What a waste of money!"

That was quite a waste. For him. If customers didn't eat their rolls, he made us take them off the plates and serve them again. Really.

After we finished sweeping the restaurant that night (Sea of Love playing over and over, of course), Fats took us aside. "Here's your paychecks," said, "I'm not gonna be needing y'all anymore."

Sarah Mae and I were giddy on our way home.

"I'm kinda glad I'm going to business school, now," I said, dancing down the sidewalk, "I sure don't want to be like Lila and spend my whole life working in a place like that."

"Hey! We've got fifteen dollars apiece," Sarah Mae said, "We can buy those new lipsticks and a pair of capris and a cinch belt!"

"And some brush rollers and Nestles hair tint!" I said, "Thanks to Fats, Mr. Sea of Love!" I spun around, my hand a make-believe mic, "Come with me, my love, to the sea, the sea of love,"

"I wanna tell you," Sarah Mae chimed in, "How much I love you..."

The Apple Of My Eye

Chase

* * *

When Chase was little, he often spent Friday nights with me. And one of our rituals on Saturday mornings was heading over to Red's for fresh, warm doughnuts. I let him pick them out, so we usually ended up with just about every kind of doughnut in the place.

I snapped the above picture in July, 1991, when he was six years old. He was carefully bringing the doughnuts into the house, his chocolate milk resting on the hood of the car.

My grandson is 25 years old today. We will all celebrate at his mom's tonight, and I am so looking forward to it.

He's the apple of my eye.