Would Carson McCullers Write a Murder Mystery?

In the short hallway between my living room and kitchen I have a mirrored buffet table, atop which sits a photo of my parents cutting the cake at their wedding.  There is also a photo of my niece, beautiful on her late spring wedding day last year.  This photo is propped against my parents’ frame as it was only recently obtained when I gifted it to myself after I arrived at my sister’s home for Christmas.  Mailing things in a timely manner is not my sister’s spiritual gift.

Never giving them more than a cursory view most days, last night they brought to mind a particular wedding, many years ago in a small community in Southwest Mississippi.  Tylertown is where I say I’m from as it is where I graduated high school.  A tiny community west of town called Mesa (mee-sah) is where we attended Mesa Baptist Church, the location of my dear sister’s nuptials to one Jody Darryl Thomas.

The wedding date was set for Labor Day weekend to ensure they were married before Darryl set sail for Navy boot camp, which I’ve been told is not very strenuous as long as you can swim and/or float with any amount of skill.  The wedding itself was pulled together in quick fashion by my mother and Ann Simmons, flower arranger/event planner/family friend/saint.  I was asked to sing as part of the blessed event.  My sister was of course excited about the wedding and her beautiful dress but she was most fond of her Precious Moments music box that was to be the wedding cake topper.  It was indeed a wondrous thing and I was tasked with ensuring it’s safe arrival atop the cake in the downstairs fellowship hall at our church for the reception, which consisted of only cake, Jordan Almonds and punch the same color as the bridesmaids’ dresses, as we are Southern Baptists and that is how we roll.  The chosen colors were apricot and candlelight.

The morning of the event, I was resplendent in a borrowed caramel leather sport coat and moss green chinos and a moss green and rose pink plaid tie as dress clothes were not high on the list of necessities for those with meager means.  While I sang like an angel, the voice was somewhat disembodied as I was hidden behind a rather large fern, of the kind found usually in zoos and/or wildlife refuges. The genesis of the idea to hide me behind this Amazonian flora was never revealed due to, I can only assume, a secret pact between Ms. Simmons and my sister.  They are not talking, y’all, but I am not still bitter or anything.  Truly.  I only mention it for the sake of the big picture.

As I was already dressed when we arrived at the church, I was tasked with ensuring the cake was properly placed next to the fountain of punch, made apricot by adding orange sherbet to pink lemonade, by the ever-resourceful mother-of-the-bride.  The baker and her husband had been in the basement by themselves.  I made my way down the stairs and turned the corner to see a black and white plastic monstrosity sitting atop my sister’s wedding cake.  It took me a minute to process what I was seeing.  It was something akin to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, with mother-of-pearl seagulls attached by wiring, allowing them “life-like” movement.

My poker face failed me and the baker asked what was wrong.  I motioned to the eyesore and said in an urgent whisper, “Whatisthat?  Whatisthat?  Ohmygod, Whatisthat?!?!”

Unbelievably, she asked, “What?” as if she did not know.

I said, “That…THING on top of the cake!  Where is my sister’s Precious Moments cake topper?!?!”

She looked crestfallen and said, “Oh, that?  We accidentally dropped it.  It’s broken.”

I inhaled so sharply her hair and apron moved toward my mouth.  I said very slowly, “Please tell me you are kidding.  This is a joke, right?  She will kill you, you know.  She will.  It will be unpleasant.  It will be painful.  You’re going to die.”

She just stared at me.  Her husband walked over and said, “It’s not that big of a deal.  We got a replacement.  It’s free of charge.”

I turned and said in my most condescending manner, “Oh, good, I’m glad it’s not that big of a deal.  And, yes, I see you’ve replaced it with what I assume is one of your brood’s art projects, but my sister is expecting a Precious Moments music box cake topper atop her cake.”  Gaining momentum due to fear of said bride, I continued, “And you’d better go find a more appropriate replacement because THAT…HORROR (motioning to it) is no one’s idea of a proper replacement and I assure you I will not be here when she comes downstairs.  She will kill you.  In your face.”

Hearing the beginnings of some sort of ruckus my Mother started down the stairs, asking, “Dusty, is anything wrong?”  With a bride’s overly-sensitive hearing, my sister said, “What?  Something’s wrong?  With the cake?  What’s wrong with the cake?”

Faking a lighthearted laugh, I practically screamed, “Oh, Shontyl.  Ha Ha. Relax, sister of mine.  There’s nothing wrong with the cake.  Don’t come down here, its bad luck for a bride to see the cake before the wedding.”

Skeptically she said, “What?  No it’s not.”

“Yes it is, I read it somewhere.”

                “Ugh.  Whatever.”

                “You’re so funny.  Go fix your hair.  I’ve GOT this.” 

                My mother looked at me quizzically and I mouthed, “Do. Not. Let. Her. Down. Here.”  And I gave her a smile like you give when you realize you’ve forgotten your wallet while on a date.  Turning to the baker’s husband, I said, “Shouldn’t you be on your way?  You have a music box to purchase.  Precious Moments.  Go now.”

                He whined, “But its Labor Day weekend.”

                “That’s not my problem.  I’m trying to keep both of us alive.”

                “She can’t be that bad.”

                Chuckling, I said, “I see you have mis-assessed this situation.  And you’re right, she might not kill me, but one or both of you will perish.  Please leave now.  I’m not telling you again.  Don’t make me start cussing all up in the church.  I’m not Methodist.”

                Looking fearfully at me, as she heard shoes on the stairs, the baker turned and said, “I hear someone?  Is that her?”

                “You're closest.  Are they wearing a white dress?” I asked hurriedly shooing her husband out the door and into the mini-van.

                “Not white.”

                “Is it the color of the punch?”

                “Yes.”

                “Then it’s a bridesmaid.  Everyone knows the bridesmaid dresses match the punch.  Are you a Yankee?

                We were able to shift the focus from the cake to the wedding itself.  It went off without a hitch.  I did not protest the fern placement and sang my heart out to “The Wedding Song” and Debbie Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes”.  It was 1989, y’all.  That was a “the song”, do you hear me?

                I don’t know how he did it, but in the end, clumsy baker-husband found a reasonable facsimile of the music box.  It wasn’t Precious Moments but it was close enough to fool my sister until after she returned from her honeymoon.  By that time I had returned to school and have been afraid to broach the subject.  I truly hope she didn’t kill that man, although if she did, I understand.

I wonder what Carson McCullers would say?

100% Pure Grown...

               I am not your typical movie viewer.  I tend to favor documentaries and independent and foreign films over most wide releases, unless it’s related to Star Wars or Harry Potter.  Don’t get me wrong, I have watched all sorts of movies, but usually only after significant coercion and with the promise of a discounted ticket.  Just like exercising or watching college football, I can sometimes be bullied and/or shamed into participation.

                This past weekend was the limited release of Maggie Smith’s newest movie, The Lady in the Van.  It is based on an Alan Bennett novella and is geared toward an audience just a wee bit different than those watching Ride Along 2.  One of the perks of preferring movies like this is the crowd tends to skew older and concerns about waiting in line and the possibility of sold-out status are usually non-existent.  When I arrived at the theatre and discovered a line snaking down the sidewalk and around the corner of the building I was confused.

                As I worked my way across the parking lot, I started to notice the audience was mostly female and mostly elderly.  I’m talking elderly like they may have driven an ambulance during WWII, just like Queen Elizabeth and Miss Smith’s character in the movie.  The accessory de la foule was an oxygen tank discretely encased in a Vera Bradley purse.  As I stood in line, I wondered would my time be spent surrounded by a more mature crowd or would it be like the time I found myself unwittingly at the mall with Payton during a Victoria’s Secret sale?  I pondered if there would be quiet older women, smiling pleasantly or would there be older versions of mean girls and nerd girls and party girls and snitches?  I focused on the female as, counting myself, there were five men out of approximately 100 movie fans.

                There were friends grouped together some complaining about having to wait, others raving about Maggie Smith and reminiscing about her breakthrough role in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and the first of her two Oscars.  There were those who mistook her for other people, like Geraldine Page, who is deceased and Olympia Dukakis, who is not.  There were mean girls gossiping about people both absent and, based on the judicious use of sotto voce, in attendance.  There were of course, tattletales who were talking about the ones who arrived later than their friends and seemingly cut in line and also about those who blatantly cut in line.  One group of tattlers even pointed out a “cutter” to the management of the theatre in an attempt to have her barred.  And there was the small group wondering aloud of the alcohol selections (as this theatre serves wine and beer) and snickering about contraband flasks.  There were a few plotting seat provisions with their companions. Of course, there were also normal women waiting quietly, scrolling on their phones or lost in their own thoughts. 

             I am definitely more mature than I was in college, but I also have days where I feel as if I’m faking my adulthood and no one is questioning it because I am, in the vernacular of my family, “pure grown.”

             Do we grow up or do we simply age?  I think the answer is both.  What do you think?

Rabbit, Resolve

              As a new year is upon us, most people resolve to do things they know they are not going to do, such as lose weight, go to the gym, be better people, etc.  I have long been an advocate of making good changes throughout the year, whenever the evidence suggests a change is needed.  I don’t know if this is because I have a pragmatic personality or if there were something in my past which haunted my subconscious?  All I know is I recently found this when I was going through the Scrapbook my mother made for me many years ago.

 

 

 

This was written when I was in second grade, at the tender age of seven.  I feel sure I truly meant to feed those rabbits and I remember owning them for a very, very short time.  It appears the upkeep and well being of those rabbits was a sore point with my mother as I was uncharacteristically succinct in my resolution.  I didn't even illustrate it, y'all.

I feel the conversation went thusly.

Dusty (dutifully completing his homework):  “Mommy, what does resolve mean?”

Mommy: “It’s when you promise to do something.”

D:  “Oh, ok.  I have to resolve to do something this year.  My teacher said.”

M:  “You need to resolve to feed those rabbits we bought you and your sister.”

D:  “That doesn’t sound fun.  I want to resolve to do something fun.”

M:  “Write it down, son.  I want to see it in writing.  In 1978 I resolve to feed my rabbits.  That is all you will have time to do.  That and making your bed.  Now go find your sister (dutifully avoiding her homework, I feel sure).  She's going to write it, too.”

D:  “Yes, ma’am.”

I remember the rabbits disappeared quite suddenly one day and I’ve never known if it was due to my lack of feeding them and their subsequent death or if we were disinterested and they died from neglect or if my mother tired of us “forgetting” we had them and sold or gave them away.  I truly do not remember interacting with these rabbits other than the day they arrived.   And this is from a kid who played with Legos too far into high school to admit; if I liked something I was invested, y’all. 

Only the souls of those poor rabbits  know their fate.   If my sister knows, she’s not telling. 

You see why I don’t resolve to do anything, people.  It could lead to death or worse…chores.

Legos, Career Options and Lying Children

               I would like to think I was not a bald-faced liar at the tender age of 11, but I recently came across something which bears discussion.  While looking through my scrapbook, I found an essay I wrote for a sixth grade assignment stating I wanted to be a welder when I finished school; just like my Dad.

                Maybe I was pandering in my bid to be #1 son, but I’d like to believe I was not so conniving.  The Dad has accused me of renouncing my heritage but there are things I like which are “his” things.  I really do enjoy listening to country music, from the 60s through the 80s only.  I requested to dress as Buck Owens on Halloween in third grade.  I already had the Hee-Haw overalls was it such a giant leap to imitating Mr. Owens?  I would never have been Roy Clark; he had weird hair and The Dad was a vociferous critic of everything Roy except his musicianship.

                It could very well have been I was unfamiliar with other occupations.  I was aware there were career options based on my extended family:  carpenter, farmer, and welder.  Lawyers, Doctors and the somewhat vague “Businessman” (like the fathers on TV), were careers I didn’t feel were available to me as they were “not us” and something you did if you lived “in town”.  I assumed my future was for me to continue the family tradition.  What that tradition was I was uncertain and most assuredly not inclined to inquire.

As an aficionado of Legos I was adept at designing the most intricate of homes, to include porte cocheres and dormers, and for several years had imagined being an architect, once I found out those were the people who designed houses.  I don’t remember if I believed I could be one, however.  Playing in your room and making a living doing something were concepts I hadn’t yet reconciled.

When I was specifically asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” my most emphatic answer was always, “Indoors.”  I was tired of sweating the in Louisiana heat (later Oklahoma heat, then Texas heat and finally Mississippi heat.  Is it any wonder why my first job outside the south was in Alaska?). I just wanted to work inside with the “bought air” which is how The Dad describes air conditioning.  How I would get indoors and what I would do to stay there, I was uncertain.  I simply knew if I were committed enough to chance a belt-whipping to hide in the front hall of my Aunt Penny’s house enjoying even a limited amount of AC, I’d definitely attend whatever school was necessary for whatever length of time was required to remain bereft of excess body moisture.  No one can pull off cute while perspiring, much less someone who was having enough trouble pulling off cute in Husky-sized Tuffskins. 

I have no way to explain my career path other than God wanted me to work in healthcare.  He has allowed me to excel in my chosen field and now I am a healthcare executive, which is something I still don’t necessarily believe even though I’ve been in this position almost a year.  I find so much fulfillment helping Veterans every day and I thoroughly love what I do.

I have to assume if I did harbor inclinations of actually becoming a welder, they were sweated out of my system by the time I started high school.  And the blue collar options winnowed themselves naturally after my lack of interest/aptitude with animal husbandry at home and Woodshop at school.  I went to college as it’s what I believed smart young men did to escape the boonies.  I was unaware of the field of federal healthcare as a possible profession.  I originally applied for my student position as a source of income while finishing my Master’s degree.  In Education Administration, mind you.

I sometimes wonder if I would have had a different journey or career if I had only prayed about college before I went.  If I had prayed about my major, the school I was choosing, or my career path?  I know God has plans and I know He knows the mistakes we’re going to make and I think He allows us to take our sometimes convoluted routes to the eventual place we’re supposed to be. I don’t know if I was destined to work in healthcare or whether God placed me where I could have the most impact, when I finally stopped running in ridiculous circles and actually listened. 

If God can make a success out of a stubborn, sweaty, lying 11 year-old, He can make a success out of you.  All I know is when I listen to Him, I’m good to go.  Since he invented ideas, I know he has plenty and I can assure you they are better than all of ours, combined.  Just ask Him to tell you His plans and see what He says.  You may be surprised.  You'll definitely be scared.  You will ultimately be happy.

Since I am apparently having church all up and through here, I guess it’s time I closed and let y’all get to the buffet.  Can I get an Amen?

Legitimate Over-reaction?

                Several weeks ago I suffered through a particularly virulent stomach flu.  It wasn’t much fun but I came out the other side nine pounds lighter so I was feeling like one of those under-fed girls from Devil Wear Prada, but in the good way.  They should figure out how to bottle stomach flu and sell it as a weight loss program.  Am I right?

                I don’t often complain about being single, but when you are sick, it’s a bummer.  I know Jesus is all I need, but He is not going to run out to the Rite Aid and pick up my chicken soup, whether it’s for my soul or not.  So, I am standing in line to buy my medicine and other illness accoutrement when I remembered I needed new air freshener for my car.  Even while unwell, I am multi-task oriented, y'all.

                I selected “Clean Linen” by Febreze, as it has a crisp light scent.  I chose the little clips you affix to your air conditioning vents.  When I got in the car, I immediately unwrapped the package, activated the container, plugged it in and turned on the air conditioner as it is Southern California and we don’t actually have weather like the rest of you poor folks in other parts of 'merica.

                You know how air fresheners are REALLY STRONG when they are activated?  It smelled as if someone had shoved a Tide Pocket in each of my nostrils, and not in the good way.  Trying to keep all fluids inside my body, I had to immediately roll down all the windows and drive with my head hanging out in the air like your pet dog, drooling ever so slightly if I'm being honest.  And I already looked a mess, having pulled onto my person the closest clothes to me when I realized I had to leave my home even though I was deathly ill. 

                Imagine the sight of me wearing jeans, a 3/4-zip pullover sweater and a baseball cap from the United States Senate.  I realize this outfit is de rigueur for tech CEOs but in my world I should have been moving furniture or hauling hay. 

                In order to not have an accident in my car or on the roadside, I was forced to hang my head out of the window, driving at a high rate of speed, half-woozy from my illness, attempting to escape a suffocating cloud of clean.  Thankfully I made it home in time to relieve myself. Now, however, every time I smell “Clean Linen” or its cousin “Fresh Laundry” I immediately have to use the bathroom. 

                My sister has the same reaction when she hears rap music. 

               

A Legacy of Cuff Links

             Each time I wear a French cuff shirt and must choose the appropriate cuff links, I see among my options the ones my father gave me several years ago.  They are vintage, silver with a band that wraps around the cuff and one of my favorite pairs.  He tells me he wore them when he married my mother, admittedly his best life decision (not necessarily hers).  It made him happy to give me something I appreciated as I have seemingly rejected most everything else, including his presence in my home after a wearisome three years.  He wants to leave a legacy; to live forever through memories and in the hearts of his children.  But you don’t have the luxury of choosing your legacy.  A legacy is decided by those most impacted.

               I recently learned crying about death does not count against a man when it comes to visible emotions.  Of course, this information was shared by a fictional character (Victor Maskell) who was a stoic Irishman masquerading as an Englishman.  If Mr. Maskell is to be believed, my father, an actual stoic Irishman, has never cried.  I did not bear witness to my father’s tears prior to my mother’s death almost 16 years ago, not even at the death of his father, an admittedly bitter and unhappy man.   My mother was the love of my father’s life and he has yet to recover from her passing and I wonder if he ever will.  Since her death, he has cried on a consistent (sometimes daily) basis, seemingly unaware.  I’ll catch him staring into the middle distance, tears flowing.  When I ask what’s wrong he jumps as if I have jolted him awake and gives an accusatory stare, confused by my concern and the inexplicable moisture sliding down his cheeks.

                I often wonder if some of his tears concern me.  As the oldest son of the oldest son, I was unknowingly saddled with the responsibility of becoming everything he was and achieving everything he had not.  I rejected the former and accomplished the latter, but not in the way it was expected.  I’m too different; more like my mother than him.  To be honest, I have traits of both.  From him I inherited my sense of humor, my temper, a gift for generosity and oddly short legs.  From her I inherited a smile that almost hides my eyes, a talent for design, the ability to find a bargain and a knack for organization.  However, being “like my mother, but a boy” is not something to which a Thompson man should aspire or so I've been told, with varying degrees of insistence.

A lifetime of miscommunication and hidden feelings led to an almost non-existent relationship.  Living with him for three years as an adult led to the startling understanding of how alike we are.  We have repaired our relationship but he has attempted to revise our history through specifically misremembering watershed moments.  Those episodes he cannot convincingly rewrite, he has continually attempted to rectify through gifts as the words he wants to use escape him.  The legacy of the Thompson men is not one of verbosity; yet another example of my dissimilarity.

                He has told me before he is intimidated by me because I’m so different, so much smarter and “fancier”.  And I understand what he means.  I am unlike him in so many fundamental ways it’s difficult for people to believe we are related.  I don’t know why I’m different but I always assure him I am proud to be a member of my family and to be from where I'm from.

I want him to understand I’ve moved past the point where I need paternal reassurance of my value.  I needed his unconditional love when I was younger.  I never felt it and was a broken as a result.  You can’t un-break a heart, but you can grow beyond those feelings, and I have.  And no matter how many times I tell him, he continually wants, and tries, to right past wrongs.  His repair system is based on gift giving, so I accept the gifts; to do otherwise would bruise his perilously fragile ego.

It is through sheer force of will these particular cufflinks have become part of my heritage.  One look at the photos of my parent’s wedding will clearly show my father is not wearing cufflinks.  My response to his attempted alternative history is to feel extraordinarily loved. 

He is leaving a legacy, only in ways he can’t imagine. 

Faux Crocodile Waste Baskets and the Literary Elite

              This past Sunday I was feeling a little more country than normal because I was craving red meat like a son of a gun.  My brunch buddies and decided on Outback because most non-chain steak houses are closed for lunch and I am a sucker for a fried onion, y’all.  Don’t judge me. 
 

              Afterwards I had nothing planned other than a quick trip to the grocery store and a car wash, because my car was in need of a cleaning, people.  The dirt had reached critical mass.  The only thing around here resembling rain is, well, actually nothing around here resembles rain.  It’s as dry as Yankee stuffing on Thanksgiving, said the proper Southerner who made dressing like God intended.  And mind you, my car is spotless on the inside.  I keep my gold faux crocodile waste basket regularly emptied.  Your question to me may be why I have this in my car.  My response would be, “What color would you choose to complement a chestnut interior?”

                Prior to provision acquisition I frequented my favorite car wash place.  It’s one of those automatic washers which pull your car along a belt so you can literally do nothing while cleanliness occurs all around you.  I decided to check Facebook to see what’s going on in the lives of those friends who I haven’t unfollowed due to their ridiculous rhetoric about guns or politics or both.  And for the record, when it comes to politics, I am decidedly con.  I find most politicians repugnant or, at the very least, untrustworthy and exhausting. 

                To my surprise and delight, I found Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) was having a book reading and signing in Pasadena, home of Big Bang Theory and about 30 miles from the particular spot where I sat gliding through the foam.  And it started in 45 minutes.  And I needed to see her (1) because she has written two hilarious books (Let’s Pretend this Never Happened and Furiously Happy) and (2) I wanted to introduce her to my blog.  My hope is to turn my blog, this one right here, into a book, y’all. 

                For those not living in the Los Angeles area, most people can get 30 miles in about 30 minutes; around here, not so much.  I knew I had to leave immediately to even begin to arrive within a reasonable amount of time to meet, much less hear Ms. Lawson; who is honest, hilarious and a writer like I want to be.  As I am always appropriately attired, I didn't have to give my clothes a second thought.  It's times like these when I am glad I never leave home in anything less than a fantastic outfit.  I knew every minute counted so I did not return home to retrieve her books, naively thinking I would pick up a copy at the store.  I bypassed the free vacuum with purchase and raced toward Sheldon and Leonard’s ‘hood.

                I arrived at the location much more quickly than I would have thought possible without a TARDIS, only to find they were sold out of both of her books.  I chose to purchase a “Be Awesome Today” journal in electric salmon leather as I can always use a new journal and I felt Jenny would approve.  And two and a half hours later, she did.