Milepost 10: Closer To Fine

“Pink Dogwood, II”

charcoal & acrylic on canvas

24” x 24”

2021

Rounding the courthouse square of Blairsville, Georgia, I shift in my seat, pat the steering wheel of my Honda encouragingly, and prepare for the climb over the mountain. Unless I end up behind an RV or stuck in traffic once back on the interstate I’ll get down to Atlanta in a couple hours, well before it’s time to Trick-or-Treat with my nephews. 

“Hey, Siri, text Reese, please,” I instruct politely, looking down at the console, expecting to see my phone and realizing it’s not next to me where it should be.

“Sure. What do you want to say to Reese?” Siri asks, lighting up at the ready and revealing my phone’s location.

“Oh thank God,” I say aloud, seeing it over on the passenger side dashboard, relieved I haven’t left it back at the cabin. Hollering over in its direction, I dictate the message, “Going over the mountain and down 985 - period - Tell my taters I’ll be there by lunchtime - exclamation point”

I must’ve set it there while pumping gas, moving things around. It’s obviously charged and connected to my car speakers, so there’s really no need to pull over and retrieve it. I can still place and answer calls, send and receive texts, and play music hands-free, so it’s really a non-issue.

Siri prepares the text and asks, “Ready to send it?” her voice coming through the car speakers loud and clear.

“Send, please ma’am,” I reply, level-toned this time since she’s obviously close enough to hear me.

“Message Sent.”

“Thank you, Siri.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies cheerfully.

It’s been a while since I’ve taken this route. This is the old-timey way my family traveled when I was a kid before the construction of I-575. That beeline takes you north of Atlanta through Jasper, Ellijay, and Blue Ridge. The scenic pathway I’m on, Highway 19 or 129 (depending your direction), is a steep, curvy, two-lane road that tops Blood Mountain, one of Georgia’s highest peaks, before winding its way back down again. Along the way it cuts through the Chattahoochee National forest, passing state parks, hiking trails, and turnoffs to tourist havens like Helen, Georgia’s Swiss-style alpine village, Dahlonega, site of Georgia’s nineteenth century gold rush, and Cleveland, home to Dr. Xavier Roberts’ BabyLand General, birthplace of the Cabbage Patch Kids, all cultural experiences to behold.

“DING!” chimes my phone. 

“My God!” I call out reflexively. I knew the phone was connected to my car speakers, but damn. That was loud! Maybe I should pull over and silence it while I have the opportunity, or maybe not. Deciding against it, I ask, “Siri, please read my last text.”

“Reese ‘Liked’ your text message, ‘Going over the mountain and down 985. Tell my taters I’ll be there by lunchtime!’”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, mirroring my politeness.

The year is nearly over. Summer and fall were a whirlwind, both gone in a blink and much busier than last year of course, now living in vaccine euphoria. The summer necessitated repeat trips back to Georgia, one in both June and July. Then I was home awhile before returning to the mountains mid October for what I hope will become an annual fall sabbatical.

Realizing I’m riding in silence I ask Siri to cue up some music. 

“Hey Siri, shuffle the ‘Mileposts’ playlist in iTunes, please,” I request.

“Now shuffling ‘Mileposts’ playlist in iTunes,” Siri responds. After a brief pause she announces, “Here’s ‘High On A Mountain’ by Loretta Lynn & Jack White.”

“Coinkydink. Well done, ma’am,”  I say, thanking her.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, as she adds a beat to our travels.

The purpose behind June’s trip was twofold; I needed to deliver several paintings in Atlanta and then get on up to the North Georgia Mountains to celebrate Dad. It’s both his birth month and Father’s Day, so we combined them into one big weekend. He and Julie (affectionately known as JJ by my family), Brother & Reese, my nephews (Tater & Lil Bub), their canine, and I all made our way up to our family cabin for the dual celebration. 

High on a mountain top

We live, we love, and we laugh a lot

Dad churned ice cream and took naps. JJ made Deviled Eggs and played on her iPad. Brother, his boys, and their pup skipped rocks on Lego breaks. Reese snuck away to read when off-duty, and I baked a cake to mark the occasions.

The cake was nothing fancy. I just stirred up and baked a box of (gluten-free) chocolate cake mix and then iced it with Chocolate Butter Frosting, a go-to from an old Betty Crocker cookbook. Chocolate Chocolate cake is a Hudnall family tradition. This was Mama’s doing, usually for birthdays, beginning when Brother and I were kids (though previously enjoyed with gluten). It just so happens to pair beautifully with Dad’s homemade vanilla ice cream, a rare treat that makes kids of us all. 

I recruited my taters to decorate it, though not before they had licked the bowl and the beaters clean, per tradition. My mother always employed M&Ms for decoration, spelling out names and ages, adding pops of color here and there. I tried to explain this approach to the boys, but they opted for more of a piled-on, full-coverage aesthetic for their Paw Paw’s 2021 Birthday/Father’s Day cake because “he’s that many years old.”

Suffice it to say, it was a wonderful visit, much-needed family time after forgoing so many opportunities last year, especially gathering in a place so familiar, so dear to us all. I grew up playing in our cabin’s field, picking wildflowers for the supper table, searching gravel for shiny mica, and poking sticks in the stream bed, hunting for treasure. Our old hollow, just a big open field on a little pond enclosed by mountain-hugging lob-lolly pines and dotted with walnut trees is our Georgia home away from home — Walnut Hollow as my parents so named it. 

“TA DAAAH!” 

My phone rings again unexpectedly, pausing Loretta, hitting me at full volume, and scaring the bejesus out of me. Suddenly, I have a sinking feeling. I should’ve pulled over when I had the chance. 

“Holy Zbornak!” I exclaim, trying to maintain focus on the road ahead. “What in the world is my cousin texting me for this early?!” I ask myself incredulously. “It’s not even 8am in Natchez. Hey, um, Siri, could you read my last text message, please?”

Siri kindly responds, “Sure. Sadie Ellen said, ‘I’m having your favorite for breakfast - party face emoji - eggs emoji - shrimp emoji.’”

I could have told you who texted me based on the, “Ta Dah!” alone. I assigned Sadie that text tone ages ago, being that she is an avid texter with lots of daily announcements. Needless to say, “Ta Dah!” is the sound I hear most often.

I gave her this special ring tone so that I could differentiate her calls and texts from others during work hours in an effort to know when to pause what I’m doing or continue on. I used to silence all notifications, but I realized I might miss an actual emergency, so instead, I’ve settled into the habit of checking my phone after every second or third “Ta Dah” as they’re usually only minutes apart, arriving via rapid fire. Thankfully, as of yet, we’ve been spared any such drama. Odds are she’s texting about food or the weather. 

Most often I receive pictures of her meals, weather reports for cities where various family and friends reside, or reminders for events printed on our family calendar like birthdays and anniversaries. Typically, I’m confronted with strange food pairings, but since she’s proud of what she “cooks,” mealtime being a favorite pastime, I feign excitement about her creations by offering up supportive emojis in response. Truthfully, I’m grateful to know how she’s spending her day, and admittedly, her creativity tickles me.

As far as what “my favorite” is I’ll have to wait until I can pull over to see if I‘ve guessed correctly. I’m betting that whatever awaits me isn’t my favorite. Most likely I’ll find myself looking at microwaved eggs atop something unusual like shrimp cocktail or fruit. Were I not driving I’d reply with a picture of an opossum or armadillo, but for now a handful of emojis will have to do.

“Siri, reply to Sadie, please.”

“What would you like to say to Sadie Ellen?”

“Your favorite - exclamation point - sparkles emoji - skunk emoji - thumbs up emoji”

“Ready to send it?”

“Send, please.”

“Message sent.”  

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t mention it.”

My parents acquired their piece of Appalachia in the early 1980s, having fallen in love with the mountains after a trip with church friends. Originally, they had a single-wide trailer towed to the edge of their field. Then a couple years later they constructed a modest log cabin with a few bedrooms over a cinder block basement. Before it even had windows or doors they were sharing it with friends and family far and wide, inviting all their kith and kin to come share in the peace they’d found high in the mountains.

Folks up here know what they’ve got

High on a mountain top

“TA DAAAH!”

“Sweet Jesus! Ol’ girl is on fire this morning,” I worry aloud.

I really should’ve pulled over when I had the chance. Her text assaults are a daily occurrence, so I really should’ve anticipated this. I just didn’t expect to hear from her this early. Recovering, I take a deep breath before asking Siri, once again, to read the last text message received. 

“Of course. Sadie Ellen says, ‘You are a ham Jamey Hudnall - laughing face emoji - meat on bone emoji - thumbs up emoji.’”

I guffaw and smile, taking it as a complement. She’s not wrong, and she means it lovingly. She can get away with calling me an old ham because, as the old saying goes, it takes one to know one.

Sadie’s superpower is levity (unbeknownst to her), and she wields it like a pro. Her life’s love involves anything which gives her the opportunity to ham it up with family (texting included), garnering as much attention as possible in the process. That’s what powers a true ham — an audience. And in front of her peoples, our girl is a bone-in, spiral-sliced, brown sugar-glazed, honey-baked HAM.

It might be dangerous to poke the bear under these circumstances, so I’m just gonna keep quiet, cross my fingers, and hope she moves on to other family and friends. If I encourage her she’ll start firing off more texts, and since each one is announcing its arrival at full volume through my speakers with little to do to stop it other than turn off the music and ride in silence, I’m just going to keep quiet and hope for the best. Otherwise, she might send me over the edge, literally.

High on a mountain top

Where the rest of the world is like an itty bitty spot 

My Mississippi cousins drove over to Georgia in the summer months, stopping first in Atlanta to ride roller coasters at Six Flags and buy glow sticks at Stone Mountain’s Laser Show (cultural experiences to behold as well). Brother and I often brought church and school pals up; both of our scout troops camped in the field. My parents rented it out occasionally and auctioned off weekend visits to raise money for the annual church preschool auction. Rarely did a weekend pass without a visit from one group or another.

The most frequent guests were gal pals of Mama’s, circles of Methodist women on retreat, soaking up a weekend in the mountains away from their husbands and children to commune with other women. Mostly, they’d lounge around in pajamas and drink coffee (read: wine), participating in a craft project Mama dreamed up, creatively paired with a devotional or two. Many ladies have shared memories of being coerced into waxing fall leaves for fall wreathes, a common ruse my mother designed to encourage fellowship and foster meaningful, spiritual growth, an approach that yielded a festive, handmade souvenir and a dose of self confidence. 

I ain’t comin’ down, no, never, I’m not

High on a mountain top

After a couple decades of heavy use, my parents redesigned their cabin in preparation for their retirement, adding luxuries like a dishwasher, garbage disposal, and extra beds and bathrooms, anticipating the arrival of grandkids somewhere down the line, a hope manifested into our Tater and Lil Bub. But life had other plans for my family. Mama died and her ashes scattered long before the boys came, leaving Dad to grandparent and maintain all they created together on his own.

He spent much of his first year alone at the cabin, recovering, recharging, and reassessing, leaning into the peace they had created there together, settling her estate, acknowledging memorials in her name, writing Thank You’s, and learning how to move forward. When he finally came down from the mountains he’d decided to continue on with their plan to live a bi-state retirement and hold onto both his Georgia mountain cabin and his historic Mississippi home, vacillating between the two with the seasons as he and Mama had planned, albeit, now on his own.

Well we lay on our backs and we count the stars

‘Cause up here, folks, Heaven’s not that far

Like family, our little log cabin has witnessed so many of our joys, our growing pains, and our losses. Both of us now forty, having already reared two little Hudnall boys into grown men, it’s now repeating the process with two more. Though I had imagined this outcome in my youth, experiencing it now as “Uncle Jamey” feels simultaneously fated and yet, somehow, unbelievable. Life surprised me in that way. I’ve now lived long enough to see history repeat itself.

High on a mountain top

“TA DAAAH!” 

Another one of Sadie’s texts arrives with the force of a full brass band.  

“Lord, that one moved right through me,” I mutter, rattled, trying to stay focused on the road ahead. 

I’d mute the damn thing if I could reach it. Why did I set it on the passenger side?! Damn, that was thoughtless. I’m pinging all over this mountain. If I remember correctly, there should be a runaway truck ramp coming up. Maybe I can swing in there real quick, or actually, maybe Siri could rectify the issue for me?

With all the hope in my heart, I hurl an instruction to the morning’s MVP. “Hey Siri, please mute my phone.”

“Sure,” she replies, stopping music she’d just restarted.

“Okay. That’s not the outcome I was hoping for. Um. Never mind. Siri, please silence my phone?” 

Again, not the outcome I was hoping for as she restarts the music. 

“Alright, um, Siri, just read my last text, please ma’am.”

She replies with, “Sadie Ellen texted, ‘Reese says you get breakfast for lunch - knife and fork and plate emoji.’”

Acting as both my personal assistant and PR representative without request, it’s clear she’s texted my sister-in-law, Reese, to find out what’s on the menu for lunch this afternoon down in Atlanta. As mentioned, food and the weather, they’re both fervent hobbies and life-or-death concerns. 

If the lil’ ham didn’t have my heart, I’d grant myself the peace of leaving my phone on silent 24/7, but knowing I’m part of her daily regimen, I’ve toughed it out all these years since her mother fell ill and left her behind. I just want her to know someone’s always around if needed, so what’s happening is really my own fault. After all, I’m the one always telling her to, “Text me later!” 

Wondering if I should just let this last text sit unanswered, I think better of it, now suspecting that particular approach might bring about the opposite effect and elicit even more texts. So again, I request, “Siri, please reply to Sadie.”

“What would you like to say to Sadie Ellen?” she asks, same as before, seemingly unfazed.

“bacon emoji - party face emoji - pancakes emoji”

Initially, I thought it a waste of time and energy to memorize the names of all the emojis Sadie and I use most, but I’ve never been more thankful than I am now, traversing this mountainous road, communicating hands-free. It’s been helpful at times in the studio, but today it’s finally proved to be worth the brain space, and honestly, I think Siri’s impressed.

“Ready to send it?” she asks.

“Please send, Siri.”

“Message sent,” she affirms.

“Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, same as always, before cueing up another tune.

We all returned to the cabin in July but with a few welcome additions: my cousins, Lara Lee & Sadie (aka “the girls”), and our Aunt Paula, their godmother. It was only the second time we’ve been able to get together since forfeiting Paula to Carolina. When she left Natchez for Thanksgiving last year she never came back, permanently relocating to be with family in her hometown of Columbia, a disappointing but inevitable development after a challenging 2020. 

Loving you so

I was too blind to see

You letting me go

We’re all still adjusting to her move. Much like the cabin, my Aunt Paula’s been a constant throughout my life, especially across the years I’ve been in Natchez. Ours is the story of how Mama’s lifelong best friend eventually became mine, too, thanks in part to the curveballs hurled our way by Father Time. 

Forcing goodbyes we’d long feared, Paula and I ended up weathering our shared losses together, nursing our hurts with the girls over cocktails at Happy Hour, the longstanding weekly tradition once shared with those we loved and lost. For the last six or seven years, we’ve pressed on, just the four of us, working to keep an old tradition alive, desperately clinging onto a piece of our shared past.

But maintaining her three bedroom, two bath house and yard finally proved too much for Paula, and so her South Carolinian sister, “Claw Ida” (as Sadie’s apt to spell it — “Claudia” for the rest of us), dispatched family to Mississippi to pack up Paula’s lifetime of treasures, move them over to the other side of Georgia, and put her house up for sale. 

But now that you’ve set me free

It’s gonna take a miracle

Yes, it’s gonna take a miracle

The move was no small undertaking. My Aunt Paula had her some treasures. Across the years she, Kenny, and Mama (read: legendary trio) would slip out of town to go junkin’ (read: antiquing). The three of them would barrel south down Highway 61 to Woodville, St Francisville, New Roads, and beyond, stopping in every little shop and flea market between Natchez and New Orleans. Rare was the occasion anyone returned empty handed — Mama with a basket or crock for the cabin, Kenny with antique barware, and Paula with milk-glass, a footstool, or something commemorating a royal British coronation or jubilee. 

Decades of Paula’s junkin’ treasures, combined with her dense array of fashions, family heirlooms, varied holiday decorations, and splurges from the Dollar General, filled every nook, cabinet, and cranny of her home, creating quite the chore for her family when it came time for the big move. They figured the best tactic would be to deconstruct the house and then group like items in piles — baskets here, lamps there — which proved wise but yielded a couple surprises. Upon final count there were twenty-seven footstools in Paula’s house, a fact that amuses me endlessly because it rings with her oft-used declaration, “As God is my witness, I’m going to be tall and thin in my next life!” 

With her most treasured treasures en route to South Carolina, the girls and I came in and packed up items they had thoughtfully left behind for us — a couple armoires, antique barware, and their Aunt Girdie’s matching dining room table, chairs, buffet, and china cabinet set. After our sweep though, Paula generously donated her remaining possessions to various Miss-Lou charities, appliances included, everything except her 2003 Buick Oldsmobile. 

That (nearly vintage) beaut was sold off despite having only logged 43,000 miles across its eighteen year existence. For Paula the car was a point of pride, often encountering old men at the gas station or the Pig(gly Wiggly) who’d politely inquire about the model year and mileage of her handsome Buick before requesting, “Lady, please call me when you’re ready to sell this car!” 

Simply, once retired, my Aunt Paula only drove to church, the beauty parlor, the Pig, and Happy Hour. And with the damn pandemic the car hadn’t been backed out of the driveway in more than a year (except for that one time). It sat so long it eventually developed a flat tire and a dead battery (which proved quite helpful actually). Truth be told, Lara Lee and I had been driving Miss Daisy most everywhere the last couple of years (because of that one time) and since it was clear she wouldn’t be driving on the harried streets of busy Columbia, we found her chariot a new owner, and her Buick stayed behind in Mississippi.

 Yes, it’s gonna take a miracle

Though long overdue, our cabin reunion was partially circumstantial. Of course we’ve been looking for an opportunity to reunite, to be with our Aunt Paula, but it was the girls’ mother, Ellen, who brought us back together. We ascended the mountain to spread her ashes.

Unintentionally, we’re just now getting to the spreading phase, seven years post-Ellen. Back to back illnesses followed by her passing ushered in a complete restructuring of life for her family, much like happened with mine post-Mama. Simply, all that restructuring just ate up all those years, moving forward being the victory in the moment, headstones and ashes to come later.

But thankfully, we’ve finally completed our first task, soon to be followed by a pass through Anna’s Bottom, the strip of Mississippi floodplain just north of Natchez from which Mama’s family hails. Our next scattering, however, will include lots more folks (the cabin being a bit too far for most to make the pilgrimage), everyone being in Mississippi already. 

“Favorite Aunt Ellen” as she was known (after waging a successful campaign for the title) would’ve rolled her eyes at any big fuss, but having been present to help spread Mama’s ashes at both the cabin and Anna’s Bottom and then inter them at the Natchez City Cemetery, she felt she’d appreciate the same done for her. At least it’s what she said she wanted or, maybe in the end, just agreed to. It’s hard to say for sure, though, I can add that sometime in her last year she asked if having a headstone for my mother had made a difference to me, wondering if there’d be any benefit in it for her girls. I affirmed that it had, especially during the holidays. After all, cemeteries are really more for the living than the dead.

But it surprised me she’d considered forgoing the custom. I guess some things don’t seem so important when faced with your own mortality, but oh the irony had she not! The woman was our family genealogist, a Kentucky Wildcat and Ole Miss Rebel with a Masters Degree in Library Science! She’d combed through centuries of records detailing our family history back to the other side of the Atlantic, leaving each of us with a bound, printed reference listing our relation to countless relatives, so Ellen — more than any of us — could appreciate the significance of etching family names into stone, not for the ego but for posterity. 

Inadvertently, she created a priceless handbook for a “Natchoosian” like myself, someone kin to countless old Natchez families but with very limited knowledge of those connections (being that I’m “from away” as native Natchezians would say, having been reared a world away in Atlanta). Unintentionally (though blessedly), Ellen ensured I wouldn’t accidentally find myself trying to date a cousin (withhold your Deep South jokes, please — my dating pool is a puddle at best) as all I’d have to do to rate a stranger’s dating potential was refer to my handbook. (“Let’s see… Hmm… Double third cousins twice removed. NOPE. Move along!”) 

“TA DAAAH!”

“Jesus, cousin!” I wail. “I’m traversing a curvy mountain road. Ugh!” I huff, thoroughly annoyed. Yet again, I feel compelled to ask, “Siri, read my last text, please ma’am.” 

And yet again, pausing the music, potentially annoyed by Sadie’s interruptions, too, Siri says, “Sadie Ellen texted, ‘It’s sunny in Atlanta - sun with face emoji - thumbs up emoji.’”

“Well, she’s not wrong about that,” I acknowledge, having enjoyed the crisp, bright, cloudless morning of my travels thus far. “Siri, please respond to Sadie.”

Wondering if she’s considering declining any further requests, Siri, again, shows up for duty and replies, “What would you like to say to Sadie Ellen?” though slightly delayed this time, worrying me that she might be googling how to sever my brakes.

“Actually, not a damn thing. Never mind, Siri. I’m gonna let this one sit and mellow. We’re almost to the top of this mountain. Just skip to the next song, please ma’am.”

Siri shuffles the music again, landing on  “Too Late To Turn Back Now” by Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose, the very tune that gave rise to the playlist. 

My mama told me 

she said, Son, please beware

There’s this thing called love

And it’s everywhere

Blood Mountain’s crest lies around the coming bend which will finally provide a place to stop and allow for the opportunity to rectify this phone situation. The summit is marked by a stone structure built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Depression known as the Wasali-Yi Interpretive Center. It serves as one of the first stops along the southern end of the Appalachian Trail which happens to cut right through the building, creating the only covered section of the entire 2200+ mile route. Originally a dining hall and inn until the 1970s, local efforts were required to save it from the wrecking ball. It’s now home to a hiking outfitter.

Being that it is one of the first designated stops along the southern end of the trail, the site is covered in gear deemed too heavy or non-essential by overzealous hikers. Folks learn quickly that one only carries what they truly need to survive in the mountains. Countless travelers have left behind heavy backpacks and cookware, folding chairs and the like just miles into their journey. Think you’re gonna read that heavy novel? Maybe learn to play the harmonica instead.

I find myself phonin’ her at least ten times a day

It’s so unusual for me to carry on this way

As I’m approaching the turnoff to the Wasali-Yi Interpretive Center, intending to pull over, mute my phone, and put an end to Sadie’s harassment, I see the turn into the tiny parking lot blocked by a passenger van. 

“Damn it!” I holler out in frustration. 

Braking, thinking I can wait a moment for the passenger van to move, my hopes are immediately dashed as several vehicles come flying ‘round the bend behind me.

“DAMN DAMN DAMN!” I curse in defeat, fuming, while passing the turn. 

Ready or not, I’m headed down the other side of Blood Mountain.

And I’m tellin’ you

It’s too late to turn back now

“Well okay. Fuck it. Put on a happy face, Jamey Hudnall. What’s the old adage? Going up the mountain tests the engine, coming down tests the brakes?”

I shift my Honda into a lower gear and attempt to readjust my attitude.

I believe, I believe, I believe I’m falling in love

Our first evening at the cabin together, reunited, we all lined up on the porch in rockers with cocktails, awaiting the Lightning Bug Show. That’s what Mama called the ascension of the fireflies from the grassy field into the tree tops as dusk turns to night. Thousands blink their little tails excitedly, searching for a mate as they rise. It’s a beloved summertime tradition not to be missed, an hour and a half of Mother Nature’s pure magic on full display, the perfect backdrop for our camaraderie.

So while the fireflies did their thing, we did ours. Giddy over being back together, powered by cocktails, we each shared our updates. The girls detailed their marathon trip from Natchez to Columbia to retrieve Paula. Paula filled us in on all things “Claw Ida” and Carolina. JJ shared the goings on back in her hometown of Asheville, North Carolina. Brother & Reese kicked up their feet and enjoyed the company of adults while their boys entertained us with their enthusiasm, streaking back and forth across the field with their pup, chasing fireflies with their Paw Paw. In the grand tradition of Happy Hour, I ushered in the tall tales and reminisces.

“You know your mother paid me twenty-five cents an hour to babysit the two of you, right? Like it was the 1970s or something?! All you could buy with a quarter in 1990 was a phone call or a handful of gum balls.”

Sadie laughs at the mention of gum balls. 

“No way! We were easy money. All we did was jump on the trampoline and play Super Mario,” Lara Lee challenges. “And you were playing with us, getting paid!”

“That’s fair, I guess,” I concede. “But not the hourly rate. Your mama got me for a steal,” I counter.

“And bologna and cheese sandwich. Mmm,” Sadie adds.

“Where were you while they were playing, John?” Reese asks her husband.

“I guess off in the woods or on the levee shooting things with Joseph, Jeffrey, and Charlie somewhere,” he answers.

“Well, that makes sense,” his wife replies. 

Looking up from her iPad, JJ says, “Someone tell us an Ellen story.”

“I want to hear the one about her twisting both of her ankles,” Reese requests. 

“Do you remember the details?” I ask in the direction of Ellen’s eldest daughter.

“I get that one confused with another story,” Lara Lee answers.

Taking the reins, I recount, “Well all I remember is that Ellen was at a party somewhere and it had been raining. I think she slipped and slid down someone’s grassy lawn hitting a road sign or a mailbox along their front walk. Beyond that I only recall her saying she was drunker than Cooter Brown when it happened.”

The porch erupts in laughter at the mention of Cooter Brown, whomever he was, the namesake for overindulgence in our family.

“I can think of a good one. Do y’all know Mom’s story about driving into that hole?” Lara Lee asks the group, giggling, about to fall apart from laughter.

“Oh my God! Tell it!” I plead, trying to focus in on the details of a cloudy memory.

“Mom drove in a hole.” Sadie says, jumping in, telling the whole story. 

Rolling her eyes at her sister, Lara Lee says, “She was delivering Wednesday Night Suppers to the shut-ins, backing out of Billie Ann’s brother’s driveway on Melrose Montebello Parkway, and she drove straight into that drainage ditch right there, taking a left but missing the turn lane. Remember?”

“Oh my Lord!” Paula exclaims, having forgotten the story. “You Junkins are always driving into holes!”

Julie chortles at our track record of disappearing into holes. 

“Haha! Are you hinting at Uncle Buster backing his truck too close to the bluff’s edge in the Bottom and rolling in backwards?” I direct to Paula.

“Who’s hinting?!” Paula retorts, sipping her bourbon and ginger-ale with a devilish grin.

“Auntie’s mind must’ve been on her remaining number of stops. There’s no way anyone could’ve overlooked that gargantuan, gaping, concrete trench running down the middle of Melrose Montebello Parkway,” I offer, providing an excuse for Ellen.

“Who knows?! But she drove right in it, sending Wednesday night Suppers flying all over the inside of her Ford!” Lara Lee cackles.

“Dang. What was on the menu that night?” Brother asks, concerned for his aunt’s upholstery.

“Baked chicken, rice & gravy, peas, and a roll,” Lara Lee shares. 

“Peas went everywhere!” Paula adds, suddenly recalling the melee. 

“We kept finding dried up little green peas in her car for ages,” LL recounts. “Mom even had them all in her hair and clothes!”

Sadie giggles at the memory of her mother wearing little green peas. 

“It was literally a hot mess, wasn’t it?! But the best part was Favorite Auntie E trying to recount the story at Happy Hour. It took her five tries to get it out, laughing through her tears,” I share, doing same. “Remember, y’all?” 

“Mom said she could barely stop laughing long enough to call the Ford place for a tow,” Lara Lee adds.

“I can hear that raucous laughter now,” says Paula. “Even bald from chemo she could still laugh heartier than the healthiest among us.”

“That’s the damn truth. Can’t keep a good Junkin gal down!” I declare. 

“How about our New Orleans trip? The one after Mom finished chemo the first time? We laughed lots on that trip. Do you remember that one, Aunt Paula?” Lara Lee asks her godmother.

“Is the pope Catholic?!” Paula responds, incredulous at the suggestion she might not remember.

“Our ‘Fuck Cancer!’ trip to the French Quarter? I sure as hell do,” I add. “Thanks to the buzz I acquired your mother had to extend my checkout time. I couldn’t confront the sunlight. God bless her. That was a painful drive back to Natchez. I was pretty sure I’d never eat fried oysters or Crystal Hot Sauce ever again,” I confess, feeling a bit queasy at the memory. 

“That’s where Sadie had that whole fried catfish. At the restaurant where Jamey got the fried oysters. Remember?” Lara Lee asks her sister.

“Woof. Please don’t mention the oysters.” I plead, setting my cocktail aside.

“Definitely!” Sadie replies enthusiastically, having never met a catfish she didn’t like, well, except for this particular time.

“Oh my God. That was epic. I really didn’t think she was going to eat it,” I say.

“Pass on fried catfish?” Paula asks, rhetorically. “That doesn’t sound like Sadie to me!” 

“Well, to be fair she was duped by the menu. They brought her an entire fish — head, tail, and everything in between. Knowing what was coming I snapped a bunch of photos as it arrived at the table, capturing her full range of emotions as she realized that the big fried football giving her the evil eye was to be her meal. Oh the look of disappointment on our little ham!” I say in Sadie’s direction.

“Remember that?” Lara Lee asks her little sister, laughing.

“Oh yeah! So good,” Sadie replies, laughing, too.

“Maybe in the end, but the pictures tell a more nuanced story. Ol’ girl went from shock to bewilderment to incredulity to hold-my-Diet-Coke determination to deep satisfaction. Weren’t nothing left afterwards but a plate of bones! Looked like she was telling fortunes!” I recount for the group as the cocktails kick in.

“I love fried catfish,” Sadie reassures us.

“Oh we know, babe. I’ve got the pictures to prove it. I’ll have to go grab my laptop and dig those up. Y’know, I haven’t had a fried oyster since, though I eventually made friendly with Crystal. What’s it been, eight years now?”

“I can’t believe it, but yeah. Something like that. It’s been even longer since we’ve all been up here in the mountains together,” Lara Lee states.

“That can’t be true! Really?” Paula asks.

“The last time we were here, Mom was here too. We came to spread Aunt Faye’s ashes. Remember? And Mom got toasted!”

“Oh God. I remember. I was pouring her wine,” I share, feeling slightly responsible. “Your mama was on a tear that night, but in her defense it had been a tough day, for sure.”

“We missed that part of the evening,” Reese says. “John and I were already in bed, I think.”

“Yeah. We missed that,” Brother agrees. “But I think it’s because we had to go back to down to Atlanta. Y’all stayed another night or two after we left, right?”

“We did, but y’all were here that night, just already in bed like Reese said,” I confirm. “Katherine was here with us, too. Remember? She came to help spread Mama’s ashes and prop up her old friend. But it was just me, Auntie, and LL still standing upon the final round of drinks that night.”

“I just remember she blamed it on that pink wine everybody drank back then. Mom had you keep it in the freezer for her so it would get slushy,” Lara Lee recollects. 

“Mom’s favorite,” Sadie affirms, knowingly.

“When they drank from a bottle it was that Beringer’s White Zinfandel. Otherwise it came out of a box. Christine loved it too,” I recall, summoning further details from the corners of my mind. “Remember, Aunt Paula?”

“Oh absolutely! “I can picture Faye, Ellen, and Sister dispensing it out of the fridge over a wine glass full of ice,” Paula remembers. “Gag me with a spoon!” she says, rattling the ice cubes in her bourbon cocktail.

Sadie points to Paula and laughs at her displeasure. 

“That night Mom drank the whole dang bottle, a double-size,” says Lara Lee, now working on an admiral buzz of her own.

“A ‘man-sized’ bottle she called it,” I correct her. 

“And after she got to the bottom of it she said she was going to make a quick stop by the bathroom,” Lara Lee begins.

“And NEVER returned!” I cackle, stepping on her punchline.

“And NEVER drank pink wine again!” Lara Lee says, reclaiming the memory. “She said she must’ve floated up the stairs to the loft that night!”

“Like Dracula! Haha! Her feet never touched the ground!” I howl. 

“So is that when she switched to Bud Light Lime?” Brother asks.

“Yep,” Lara Lee confirms.

“Oh, that’s too funny,” Reese adds. “I wondered about that on the way up here.”

“I loved teasing her about transferring her affections from wine to malt liquor. Because once she pledged her allegiance to it, she never looked back,” I wax on. 

“And she called them her BLLs,” Lara Lee adds.

Waxing further, I add, “And I can see her pleading with the Ramada to stock them for Happy Hour. Once they included them in their inventory I don’t think they ever ran out! Haha! She was the only one who drank them. I don’t think they even put them on the menu. They just left them in the back corner of the walk-in fridge for Auntie! Methinks she may have even purchased them herself and let the bar sell them back to her. Lordy, what a woman!” 

“There was no one like her. Well, except Aunt Faye and Aunt Kaye, too, of course” Lara Lee shares with love.

“Yeah, all three sisters were something else. Hams in their own right! Damn they were so fun together. What trouble!” I share, delighting in the memory of all three sisters side by side. 

Brother chimes in with, “And all three of them sounded EXACTLY the same on the phone. I could never tell them apart until the advent of Caller-ID.”

“You’re right about that. It still bowls me over any time I talk to Aunt Kaye. There’s a little piece of Mama and Ellen in there somewhere.”

“Sweet Jesus, I wish we had some of Kaye’s cheese straws! She’s the queen!” says Paula. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t make this trip. I would’ve loved to have seen her.”

“Me too! There’s no one like our Aunt Kaye,” I proclaim.

“Courtney always called her a pusher!” Lara Lee laughs, recalling Kaye’s daughter’s ribbing.

“Haha! Yeah she did. Cousin Coco was right on the money. Kaye can talk you into second or third helpings of crow if she wants. No one can tell her no! How ‘bout three cheers to our Courtney?!”

We all raise our glasses in honor of our dear cousin, a martini-loving, legal eagle lawyer extraordinaire, my Aunt Kaye’s daughter, who reveled with us on this cabin porch more than once, but who, like Mama and Ellen and so many others, left too damn soon.

“All those Junkin girls are like that,” Paula asserts from a lifetime of firsthand experience. “Just the best friends a gal could hope for. I have missed them both so much. And Kenny, too, of course.”

“And Christine!” adds Sadie.

“And our Louis,” adds her sister. “Has anyone talked to him?”

“We hear from him pretty often. He’s as happy as a clam ministering from his flip phone. He spends his days checking on folks near and far, including us,” Paula shares.

“I can confirm that. He and I talked the other day, and he was far more interested in what was going on with me in Natchez than he was in talking about himself. Here’s to Louis and Christine,” I cheer, being that repeated toasts is a Happy Hour tradition that increases with the rate of refills.

Lara Lee, knowing that this is her moment to repeat her mother’s oft misquoted toast, takes the lead, raises her glass to us and says, “Here’s to good times and better friends!”

“TA DAAAH!”

“JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL.” I shout in surrender. “Siri, sorry, but please read my last text again.”

Siri pauses the music, yet again, and reports, “Sadie Ellen said, ‘It’s my Birthday in 24 days. I getting iPhone 13.’”

“No ma’am!” I cry. “Not birthday texts!” Instinctively, I know she’s going to start rattling off gift requests, one text at a time, and that, without question, will put the final nail in my coffin.

Sensing that Siri is also over our text exchange, I tread lightly, asking her to combine a few celebratory emojis in hopes that this will appease my text-loving cousin, prevent any further notifications, and avoid Siri’s wrath. 

“Ready to send it?” she asks, sounding terse.

“Please send. Sorry,” I reply. 

Siri neither responds to my last comment nor makes any effort to return to the song she was playing, moving me along instead. 

Forget your troubles, c’mon get happy

You better chase all your cares away

Shout hallelujah, c’mon get happy

Get ready for the judgement day

Our first full day together at the cabin, we did as Lara Lee and I had planned — completed the task at hand. That’s what Mama or Ellen would’ve done, spread those ashes early on at the beginning of the trip, put any tears behind us, and get busy celebrating our reunion with casseroles, cocktails, and fellowship.

The sun is shining, c’mon get happy

The Lord is waiting to take your hand

Shout hallelujah c’mon get happy

We’re going to the promise land

Gathering in a circle on the edge of the field, we all held hands, and I said a prayer of thanks for Ellen Junkin Saunders. Then, one by one, I placed a small amount of her remains into everyone’s cupped hands, we dispersed individually, and moving all about the peace of the hollow, we returned Ellen to the earth.

It’s all so peaceful on the other side

“Hey Siri, please skip to the next song,” I request, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. Again, Siri shows up for duty.

Coming ‘round one of the last sharp curves of Blood Mountain, finally approaching the valley floor, I allow my mind to drift from Ellen to all I hope accomplish in the coming weeks before heading back to Mississippi. I need to get all these new products photographed and added to shop at junkinandhudnall.com. I’ve gotta wrap up this year’s Christmas card and get it to the printer asap, but most pressing, I have to finish Milepost 10. 

I teased it months ago on social media believing it was nearing resolution, but over the summer and fall I found myself rewriting it and rewriting it, over and over, ad nauseam, trying to do right by my Favorite Aunt Ellen. My hope is that Draft #7 proves to be the last and final version so I can finally share Pink Dogwood, #2 officially and move into 2022 with a clean slate.

It’s been a year since I was last able to seclude myself up on this mountain, but like last fall, all this time alone has done me a world of good. I’ve created some of my best work up here, painting and writing. The mountainside is blanketed in a peace that’s hard to come by in downtown Natchez, everyone being right on top of one another there. But up in this corner of the world most outside lights and sounds are snuffed out by Georgia pines, making way for the lightning bugs, deer, and turkeys to do their thing without interruption. Nestled between two ridges, our ol’ stack of logs is the ideal place to get back to nature, commune with your spirits, and listen for the Creator.

I went to the doctor

I went to the mountains

And with Paula now residing in Carolina and Sadie involved in a day program, for the first time in a long time I find my needs in an unusual position — at the front of the line.

I looked to the children

I drank from the fountains

But this opportunity has come at a cost; our Happy Hour crew has dwindled down to three despite years’ worth of efforts to carry on, and now I find myself a witness for (what appears to be) this legendary group’s denouement. 

Having gathered with these legendary revelers (read: the sages of my time) across ten years in a place I never expected to call home, what’s to be said of the last men standing? Of their love? Their efforts? Their stories? How can I ever repay them for cobbling together what Mama didn’t live long enough to impart? For restoring something made half back into a whole? 

There’s more than one answer to these questions

Pointing me in a crooked line 

I’ve tried to pay their love forward, stepping into Mama’s and Ellen’s shoes when it seemed like our family needed it — births, showers, birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, relocations, illnesses, funerals. From casseroles to Christmas trees, a shoulder or applause, I’ve tried to be of use where I can. 

Holding space for them down here, for myself, for Tater & Lil Bub, my family, has revealed itself to be a part of my purpose. And though I’ve questioned my staying in Natchez a thousand and one times, I couldn’t have supported my family in this way from anywhere else on Earth.

How fortunate that grieving, broken, twenty-something, the one drowning in student loan debt, struggling to monetize a new degree, thoroughly shellshocked over his mother’s lighting-quick illness and passing, landed in the company of angels when he did. How very easily the road could have forked off in another direction.

But like this mountain highway, my path has not followed a straight line. It was only after finally giving into a foreign urge to write about my family, my art, my grief, did I find myself at home, working from the very desk where my mother penned her sermons. Once begun, too late to turn back, all I could do was lean into it and hope and pray and trust and believe that my being in Natchez was as I dared proclaim after arriving at Milepost 1 — as “sacrosanct.”

Living in that belief, passing on opportunities to leave across the years, I’ve stayed the course, documenting and sharing my experience in paint and prose, anticipating the day that this journey might finally make sense and validate all I’ve endured, all I’ve sacrificed along the way.

And the less I seek my source for some definitive

Closer I am to fine

My experience assures me that tomorrows are a gamble. I may not live long enough to see my taters become men. I may never find Dolly Parton-sized financial success in painting or writing, but when they put the quarters over mine eyes and my labor is done I’ll hit the heavens knowing that leaning into my faith produced a trove of tall tales and images that’ll someday inform our little Hudnall boys all about our legendary revelers, their namesakes, why they were so beloved, and why that matters. For now, that alone is justification enough to have existed at all.

“TA DAAAH!”

“Siri, you know what to do,” I say, grumbling.

“Sadie Ellen said, ‘Are you there yet? - magnifying glass tilted left emoji’”

Sensing an opportunity to curb our exchange, I choose to tell a white lie and reply, “I sure am - exclamation point - sparkles emoji - party face emoji - thumbs up emoji”

Our Junkin sisters believed in the healing power of laughter, infused their everyday with magic, and refused to take life too seriously, even when faced with the unthinkable. When hurt or bothered, Ellen was always the one to challenge, “Honey, c’mon! Will it really matter in five years?!” the answer almost always being, “Of course not.” It’s only life after all.

Through their deeds, words, and prayers, they taught us to be kind, laugh hearty and often, write your “Thank You” notes, cook a legendary casserole, and revel in the moment. 

With a little luck, maybe by Christmastime we’ll have sprinkled Ellen throughout Anna’s Bottom, clearing the way to gather for her interment, and then finally, after all these years we’ll be able to say that we completed what was asked of us.

“TA DAAAH!”

“I’m filing harassment charges the moment I pull into Atlanta, Sadie Ellen!” I blurt, beyond exasperated, though again, I ask politely, “Siri, please read my last text.”

“Sadie Ellen said, ‘Send a picture of you lunch - eggs emoji - bacon emoji - pancakes emoji,’” calling my bluff.

“DAMN IT,” I huff, admitting defeat. But suddenly, a mirage? No! A miracle! A paved shoulder up ahead! “OH HALLELUJAH!” I rejoice. Finally, a place to pull over to silence this damn phone and end my suffering! “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, shepherds! Thank you, wise men!”

Pulling off the road, screeching to a halt, I finally come to a complete stop after half an hour of unrelenting “Ta Dahs!” Unbuckling my seatbelt and reaching across the console I grab my phone from the passenger side dashboard and immediately switch it to “Silent.”

“HA! Announce every meal, snack, forecast, and celebration! Each and every one will be noted and answered later, but your time in the passenger seat has come to an end, Hambone!” I shout with glee, mimicking the “smiling face with open hands” emoji. 

Unlocking my phone, I find myself immediately confronted with the picture of Sadie’s breakfast from earlier — microwaved eggs atop a wheat tortilla, three boiled shrimp, a Kraft single, a squeeze of mustard, and a handful of blueberries — a square meal, but certainly not my favorite. I’d rather eat fried oysters.

Digging deep for the kindness to share some validation (avoiding the well of aggravation I’ve been drowning in on this mountain), I take a deep breath and type out the message, “YUM! YOUR FAVORITE! - shrimp emoji - blueberries emoji - heart emoji,” and then press “Send,” ignoring her request for a picture of the lunch I won’t be having for miles to come.  

Buckling myself back into my seat, foot on the brake, I shift my Honda back into “Drive” and double-check that my phone has truly been silenced before placing it next to me on the console. I take another deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly. Finally, peace. 

But my phone immediately lights up again, notifying me of yet another text received from the Mighty Ham, just minus the mind-rattling text tone this time. I flip my phone over, face down, ensuring I won’t be notified about anything by anyone on this drive again. Period!

“HAHA!” I laugh aloud childishly, self satisfied, grinning ear to ear like the Grinch. “Nothing but music, memories, and fall leaves ’til I reach the Hudnalls! Siri, skip to the next song, please ma’am! Tally-ho!”

Pulling back onto the road, I look up to the heavens, and say, “I’ve earned some peace, so quit your laughing, Ellen! Shrimp with cheese and blueberries is fine, but we both know what she deserves is a HAM buffet! Smoked ham! Ham biscuits! Ham Salad! Ham sandwich! Green eggs and ham!…”

*   *   *   *   *

Few home cooks could rival the talents of Favorite Aunt Ellen (although her sister, Kaye, could certainly giver her a run for her money if challenged). She taught me to make both Grammaw Helen Mae’s Muscatrolla as well as her beloved Cornbread Dressing. There’s nothing she couldn’t accomplish in the kitchen.

Having the prescience of her end, having fought two long, hard battles for her health, Ellen chose to spend her final days in her own bed at Quitman House in Anna’s Bottom. Determined to leave something tangible behind for each of her nieces and nephews, she chose to handwrite the following recipe on notecards, ensuring our holiday table wouldn’t be disgraced by some facsimile. My two additions are (1) a suspicion that the pain meds may have interfered with the oven temperature listed. Methinks FAE meant 350° as I’ve waited hours for the dressing to set while baking at 300°. (2) She softened the vegetables in the microwave with a pad of butter, though I generally do this in a skillet, but we’ll just keep that between us.

Prepare and enjoy with your family, friends, and neighbors. Make drinks. Give hugs. Share your tall tales. We’ll be doing the same each holiday, giving thanks for Ellen, her indomitable spirit, and her recipes for years to come. Lesse le bon temps roule!

Favorite Aunt Ellen’s Cornbread Dressing

• 1 recipe Southern cornbread

  (found on Martha White’s Buttermilk cornbread mix)

• 1 chicken breast + 2 thighs

• 3 slices white bread, cubed

• 3 stalks green onion, chopped

• 2 stalks celery, chopped fine

• 1/2 to 3/4 yellow onion, chopped 

• 1 can cream of mushroom soup

• 1 can cream of chicken soup

• 3 cups chicken broth

Make cornbread. Cool and crumble. Boil chicken until very tender. Debone and cut into bitesize pieces. Microwave each vegetable separately until barely tender. Combine all ingredients and stir until thoroughly mixed. If you use homemade chicken stock add salt to taste. Otherwise, dressing will have plenty. Bake at 300 45-60 minutes. Serves about 10 if you, Joe, Jeffrey, & Kyle aren’t at the table. Freezes well in Ziplocks. When I cook for the whole family I multiply the recipe by 4.