Milepost 13: Moon River Cha Cha
“Aunt Paula’s Cocktail Linens, I”
acrylic on paper
16” x 16”
2024
Laird’s Funeral Home, Natchez, Mississippi
December 28, 2023
Good afternoon, ya’ll. My name is Jamey Hudnall. I am part of Paula’s extended or adopted family, and were she here in this moment I imagine she’d say, “What a revolting development!”
For those of you who knew Paula, you know she had a phrase to suit any circumstance, and having been asked to speak here today, I challenged myself to recall as many of her sayings as possible. “Ain’t no hill for a stepper,” right? So feel free to count them or add a DING! as we go along. Sadie, I know you’re “sober as a judge,” so keep count for us, girl. We’re already up to three.
Some of you may remember that Paula spoke at my Uncle Kenny Hathaway’s funeral back in 2006. Kenny & Paula were lifelong pals and colleagues, and his unexpected passing shocked us all, especially the folks at Vidalia High School where he and Paula taught English together for decades. And though unimaginably difficult, Paula bravely stepped up the day of his funeral to pay tribute to her best friend. She looked out onto the congregation just as I am doing now and said, “Y’all need to pull yourselves together! Enough of these tears and sad faces. Kenny would disapprove!” and I am reiterating her sentiment now. As Paula would say, “Enough of y’all’s ‘crynin’! Count it all joy!”
Paula was my aunt, appointed by my mother, Faye, also a dear, lifelong friend of Paula’s. So truthfully, Paula’s family and mine aren’t blood-related; we’ve just been close for decades. Mama’s parents, Frank & Helen Junkin, and Paula’s older sister and brother-in-law, Christine & Louis Foster, were tight pals going all the way back to high school, way back to the early nineteen hundred and forties. Their tight-knit bond was passed down through the generations which, I am happy to say, is still evident today. Just look at all of us gathered here together now, “one ferris wheel and a corndog away from a state fair!”
Now, “raise your hand if I’ve already told you this,” I’m an artist, a painter, and occasionally, I write little short stories that I refer to as “Mileposts” to go along with certain paintings, providing a little backstory to their creation and development. Writing about my work was a foreign urge at first, an aspect to my studio practice that I hadn’t anticipated, but I found myself besieged by a very persistent call, pushing me to start writing about my art and my family for some unknown reasons. Once I relented, I found there was one significant concern. I realized that I would need some help making sure I didn’t make a fool of myself in print. Thankfully, I had a ringer in my corner, a forty-plus year veteran of high school english, my Aunt Paula.
Though she didn’t quite grasp the reasons I was doing any of this writing in the first place (and to be honest, neither did I), she patiently helped me shuffle commas around as we tiptoed through Milepost 1, and by the time we arrived at Milepost 6, I believed she could see what I was trying to do better than I and convinced me that I didn’t need to rely on her help anymore. My words to her in that moment were, “‘Are you ludicrous, Leroy?!’ Do you really think I can do this without you?” And Paula replied with, “Is the Pope Catholic?”
Perhaps she had tired of my need for reassurance, or maybe she really thought I was ready to spread my wings, so to speak, but eventually, I could see her wisdom at work and moved forward on my own. Now, having arrived at Milepost 12, I will always be grateful for her encouragement and support. It set me off on an exciting new trajectory, something I didn’t know I was capable of doing… and probably needed. Plus, it added another layer of texture to my studio practice.
And so this is why I stand before you today, because “I’ve been knowin’ Tater Jones!” and Claudia asked if I had something that I could share, the obvious answer being, “Do the Baptists have a church van?”
I had a number of Mileposts to choose from to honor my friend, our dear Paula. In addition to being my editor, she also played a BIG part in my little stories. And though it was tough choosing the right passage, I settled on one that always makes me smile. The following is an excerpt from “Milepost 10: Closer To Fine” which is paired with the painting, “Pink Dogwood, II”.
To set the scene it describes a trip to our family cabin in the North Georgia Mountains to spread a portion of my Aunt Ellen’s ashes, Mama’s youngest sister, Paula’s dear friend, and one of the corner stones of the Krewe of Happy Hour, Ellen Junkin Saunders…
We all returned to the cabin in July but with a few welcome additions: my cousins, Lara Lee & Sadie, 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.
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 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.
The move was no small undertaking. My Aunt Paula had her some treasures. Across the years she, Kenny, and Mama would slip out of town to go junkin’. 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 Girtie’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 Paula’s Buick stayed behind in Mississippi.
It was always my hope that Aunt Paula would find a way to make it back to Natchez, and though this is NOT what we had in mind, I am grateful that she is home. I’ve missed her as dearly as the rest of my Happy Hour family — the folks that taught me how to achieve a dark roux, feed a crowd, stock a bar, and deck the halls — Kenny, Mama, Ellen, Christine, Louis, and Paula. And now, they’re finally all together again. So look out, Natchez City Cemetery! Trouble is in town. Chapter Meeting is back in session.
I’d like to thank Paula’s family for allowing me to honor her today. Know that we love y’all dearly, and please remember that in times of sorrow to worry not, for Paula did not leave us without an example to follow. Of the many funerals Paula and I attended together, I observed her offer the same words of comfort to the bereaved each and every time. With love she’d say, “Though I am sad for you and sad for me, I am happy for them!”
And so today, I am happy for Paula. After all, she would insist that we, “Count it all joy!” Count. It. All. Joy. That’s the attitude she embraced each and every day, and it served her very, very well.
Should you like to read more about Paula’s and my adventures and the Krewe of Happy Hour, you can find my work at jameyhudnall.com. And should you care to know any of Paula’s sayings I couldn’t repeat in this setting, you are welcome to buy me a beer! Thank you.
* * * * *
Aunt Paula’s BLT Dip
My Aunt Paula wasn’t a passionate cook, but she could entertain with the best of them, effortlessly throwing together elaborate spreads for small gatherings with a quickness. Blink and her coffee table is now crowded with napkin-lined baskets of Zapp’s Voodoo flavored potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, Tostitos, and pretzels, Ritz crackers, Triscuits, Wheat Thins, and pork rinds all paired with an earnest apology that, “This is just what I had on hand, y’all. Sorry it’s nothing fancy!”
Yet accompanying all this would be cream cheese smothered in pepper jelly, roasted nuts, candied nuts, divinity and fudge (all locally sourced if you will), and without fail, she’d gild the lily for good measure, adding in assorted mini Hershey’s chocolates and a few Hostess cakes and/or Little Debbies, their brightly colored frosting charmingly reflecting the nearest holiday.
This was all accomplished on her “bum knee,” hobbling back and forth, up and down a big step from her kitchen to the great room with purpose driven by love. I don’t recall how the bum knee came about, but I can hear her repeating (after a couple libations) how Mama was supposed to coach her through a replacement but didn’t live long enough to get her there too, so she just never had hers fixed — hence the hobble. And hobble she did with the assistance of a cane, in and out of the Pig(gly Wiggly), the Dollar General, Friday afternoons at the beauty parlor on the way to Happy Hour, Sunday church with the United Methodists, and brunch at the Carriage House.
Although that ol’ bum knee complicated things it never slowed our mostest hostess, especially when preparing for company. Picture candles and festive paper hand towels in the powder room, illustrative cocktail napkins, fancy glassware, and garnishes at the bar, music beaming in via satellite, a roaring fire ignited by remote. Paula was a party on two legs (albeit, one steadier than the other), but much like Kenny, Mama, and Ellen, she could make a flat tire fun. They all had that gift and shared it heartily.
Rarely would Paula’s smorgasbord contain more than one make ahead item (something requiring more than just un-packaging), but there were a few recipes she’d take the time to put together herself. Topping the list for me is her BLT Dip. By no means is it a challenging recipe (I mean, it’s not Turducken), but there are a few tasks required to get from recipe to appetizer. That’s why it's beloved, because Paula troubled herself with dirtying-up and cleaning a few things on a bum knee just because we loved it so. (Plus, it has bacon.)
Disappointingly, her actual recipe is unknown. I’ve checked with family and friends, and our best guess is that she clipped it out of an issue of Southern Living or the Natchez Democrat. Perhaps it was printed on the back of a packet of Ranch seasoning? Unknown. Foolishly, I never thought to ask. Alas, with everyone’s input I’ve cobbled together something that resembles a Happy Hour favorite.
Y’all enjoy it! Pair my Aunt Paula’s BLT Dip with family, friends, and good times. NOW, “Where’s your drink?!”
* * * * *
Aunt Paula’s BLT Dip
8-10 slices of Bacon, cooked & crumbled
1 8oz package Cream Cheese, softened
1 cup Sour Cream
1 cup Mayonaise
Cherry tomatoes, sliced & diced
Green Onions, sliced & diced
Dash of Worcestershire
Ranch seasoning to taste
Cracked Pepper to taste
Thoroughly combine ingredients and spoon into a pretty dish.
Refrigerate until ready to serve.
Garnish with crumbled bacon, sliced scallions, and diced tomatoes.
Pair with assorted crackers, pita chips, and/or toast points.
* * * * *
Should you find yourself scanning the ingredients list
and wondering why lettuce isn’t listed in Paula’s BLT dip,
it’s ‘cause she weren’t ludicrous, Leroy!
Save the “rabbit food” for a salad, she’d say.
The “L” in Paula’s BLT Dip stands for “scaLlions,”
obviously.