Milepost 9: It’s Gonna Take A Miracle

“Grammaw Helen Mae On Horseback, I”

charcoal & acrylic on canvas

16.5” x 16.5”

2020

I’d feel better if she’d just text me back. She’s got to be up and moving by now. It’s after 10am. I’ll ride over there and knock, or maybe I‘ll just call, although, I try not to before lunchtime. I really don’t want to be a bother, but I need to know she’s okay, that she hasn’t fallen, left a burner going on the stovetop, or opened the door to some grifter. I’m hoping she just left her cellphone in her purse again. 

“Just text her once more and exhale,” I tell myself as I begin typing out the message, “Made my Aunt Paula some chicken salad! Holler whenever and I’ll swing by and drop it off.  Emoji - Emoji - Emoji”  

Damn this pandemic. My obsessive worrying is graying what’s left of my hair. I’ve got to better manage this stress, but I just have my hands full these days ensuring she has all she needs, keeping my bills paid, and maintaining some semblance of sanity. I can only imagine, but I bet this is what parenthood feels like — endless worry.

Truth be told, the timely death of Paula's car battery was the best thing to happen in months. “Thank you, Jesus,” I whispered when she told me the news. Just to know that she won’t encounter Natchez behind the wheel (and vice versa) is a major relief. At least now I know where she is (unless she decides to head out on foot).

I hold my breath, close my eyes, press “Send,” and say a little prayer that the message finds her safe and sound. After a few seconds I peek through squinted eyes to see the text I just sent now marked as “Read,” indicating that she has seen this last message. I turn my focus skyward and say, “Again, thank you. Sorry to be a bother.” Paula’s home, her cellphone’s charged, and her internet is working. It’s going to be a good day.

I set my cellphone down anticipating an emoji-filled text in response, but it rings instead. 

“Hello, precious! Good morning to you. I began texting you back, but then I thought, ‘Oh, hell, I’ll just call him.’” 

“Well, good morning to you! How’s everything in Duncan Park?” I ask, relieved to hear her voice.

“Hunky dory. I just had a piece of toast, you know, so I could take my meds. You did say I needed to eat something first, didn’t you? I mean, isn’t that right? I think I remember you saying that when you refilled my pillbox. Now I’m just having a second cup of coffee with Hoda and Kathie Lee as they wrap up the Today Show. They’re still taping from their very own living rooms if you can believe that! WHAT A WORLD, I say! What a world! What’s happening downtown?”

“Not a thing. Just making a list of to-dos. I boiled a chicken and threw us together some chicken salad. I was texting to see when would be a good time to bring it by.”

“Praise the Lord! I just saw your text, precious. I know I’m repeating myself, but I could sell it door to door! Really, Jamey, it’s divine, old-timey even.”

“Well, thank you. High praise, indeed, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that! I’ve still got a few grant applications floating around out there. Hopefully, I won’t have to peddle my cooking just yet, though it’s nice to know I’ve already got a customer.” 

“It’s all gonna work out, precious. I know it will. I’ve been saying my prayers.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but sooner would be better than later. You know what’s hard to sell during a pandemic? My art,” I share playfully, disguising my worry. “So keep sending up those Methodist prayers for me. Hopefully, the art gods are listening.”

“Of course, precious, but seriously, if push comes to shove, you can bank on that chicken salad.”

“I appreciate it, but let’s give it another month before I open up shop and send you out knocking on doors.” 

“How is your work? What’s happening in Jamey’s Dream House? I know it’s something wonderful,” she says with love.

“Things are fine, moving along. I’ve started working on a piece of my Grammaw, you know, Helen Mae. I was going through old photographs and found one of her on horseback if you can believe that. I’m guessing it was taken down at Quitman somewhere, probably in late fall or winter since she’s wearing a coat and it’s so overcast. Here, I’ll text it to you really quick so you can see.”

“Let me get my glasses, precious” she replies. “I know they’re around here somewhere. I leave a pair in every room.” A short moment later, “Oh! Look at her up on that horse. Ha! She’s so young!” 

“The photograph’s neither dated nor is a location listed, but I’d bet my Honda it was taken in the forties down in the Bottom somewhere. Where else would my Grammaw have found a horse to saddle?” 

“Precious, you know it is. There’s no other logical explanation I can think of. I would take it as fact.”

“And I will. Thank you! That’s what I was thinking. What on earth would I do without my Aunt Paula?” I ask, realizing I’ve been wondering this more and more lately. “Sincerely, I’m ever so grateful to you for your helping me fill in the blanks and unknowns in my family history. It’s gotten so much harder to confirm these kind of things without Ellen here.” 

“You’re welcome, precious. I’m just happy to be able to remember! Ellen would be proud too.”

“Well, I promise to help you remember as best I can. Together, we’d make a decent trivia team so long as the questions were about us! Should anything else come to mind, give me a holler, please ma’am.”

“Of course, precious, but send it to Louis too. His memory is so much sharper than mine. Truly, his is infallible. You know he can recount every moment of every football game he and Frank ever played for Natchez High, play by play.”

“Oh, I know! I can hear him now… ‘Jamey, we trailed Vicksburg by three with twenty-five seconds left on the clock when, out of nowhere, the wind and rain died down just as the ball was snapped…’”

“Exactly!” she says, amused. “Remember, his vision’s not as strong as his memory, so I don’t think he could see the picture if you sent it to his phone, and to be honest, I’m not sure that ancient flip-phone of his even receives pictures,” she communicates with a slight air of superiority via her first smartphone. “But I bet if you were to describe it to him he could provide you more information than any other living person. Plus, of course, he and Sister were two of your grandparents’ closest, lifelong friends, from high school on, you know, so if anyone can tell you about Helen, it’s Louis.”

“True. I’ll give him a call. I need to check on him again anyway. When we talked a couple of weeks ago he said his nursing home was still virus-free, thank God, but that he and the other residents still weren’t allowed to leave their rooms. Can you imagine? It’s been months now.” 

“Bless his heart! When I get weepy and lonely and hopeless over staying home alone I have to remind myself that it could be so much harder than sitting on my couch in my house with my Cokes and Hallmark movies. We’re really very blessed. I mean, here I sit having a second cup of coffee while watching the Today Show with Hoda and Kathie Lee.”

“Ain’t no doubt about that, and I’m so grateful we have each other! This would be no fun alone,” I share, thankful to have someone to talk to every day despite the errands it adds to my to-do list.

“Who’re you telling?! It really makes me wish Louis still had Sister. I know with his phone ministry he stays busy calling and checking on folks, but Sister would be such comfort during all this, you know, if her mind were still strong.”

“What do you reckon she’d think of this pandemic?”

“Oh, she’d have made everyone in that nursing home three masks apiece by now,” Paula declares assuredly.

“You know should would’ve!” I agree, laughing. “I can see it now. So when’s a good time for me to drop off your chicken salad?”

“Anytime, precious. You know where I’ll be!”

“Haha! True. Well, I’ll be by before lunch, and I promise to call first so as not to catch you off guard again.”

“It’s fine, precious. Go on and use our secret honk if I don’t answer. You know, sometimes I have my TV volume turned up too loud to hear the phone. After the Today Show I like to put it on my favorite TV music channel, #886, Easy Listening.” Paula draws out the vowels in “Easy” to emphasize its agreeableness. “I can hear it from any room in the house while I’m busy piddling.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call first and then use the secret honk as I pull in. See you in a little bit.” 

The “secret honk” was Uncle Kenny’s brainchild. It was a simple way to let Paula or Mama know he had arrived or was passing their house, kind of like a secret handshake. It was just one of their “secret” things, a private language between friends, akin to their “secret” phone ring from the 1980s and 90s. 

While our honk is top secret, I can share that the phone code was quite simple. Call, let it ring once, hang up, then call back immediately. This indicated to the receiver that a real somebody was calling and not some salesman (keeping in mind this was long before Caller-ID was a thing). Kenny and Paula proudly claimed that this method thwarted many a determined telemarketer across the years, and Mama, being in on the secret, was perfectly happy to play along, calling in from Atlanta, letting it ring once, hanging up, and then immediately calling back.

“Oh! Wait! Precious! Did you hang up? Are you there? Hello?!” Paula calls out, the pitch in her voice going up with panic.

“Hey! I’m still here!” 

“Oh good! Precious, I forgot to tell you, and you won’t believe this, but I am out of Cokes of all things! I think I only have one left. You know that NEVER happens. Would you please, please, pretty please pick up a twelve-pack for me? I’ll write you a check.” 

“You’re out of Cokes?! I’m surprised I didn’t read about it in the Natchez Democrat this morning,” I rib. 

“Didn’t you? The reporter left an hour ago,” she teases right back. “I approved the headline, ‘Retired English Teacher Depletes Quarantine Coca Cola Reserves: Natchez Descends Into Chaos!’”

“Sounds dire. I’ll go ahead and leave now to beat the rush. One twelve-pack or two?”

“Make it two or three or four if they’re on sale. I think I saw something from the Piggly in the mail about a sale. If I’m going to write a check, might as well be for more than five dollars.”

“Consider it done. Need TP or anything else? Ice cream?”

“No, precious, thank you. Just Cokes. Well, actually, bring some toilet paper. We’re still in the midst of a pandemic after all. We may have to use it to barter our way out of the country if things continue to worsen.”

“Good thinking! TP is on the list. Call or text if you think of something else in the next half hour. I’ll see you shortly.” 

“Alright, my champion! LIVING for my chicken salad. All I’ve had this morning is a piece of toast, you know, to take with my AM meds. You did say I needed to eat something first, right? I think I remember you saying something about that.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s best.”

“Well, good on me! This ol’ chemo brain is firing on all cylinders this morning. Okay, precious, picture me having a second cup of coffee. I’m just watching Hoda and Kathie Lee wrap up the Today Show. They’re both taping live from their very own living rooms if you can believe that!”

*   *   *   *   *

“Uncle Jamey!”

“Hey tater! What’s happenin’?”

Smartphone in hand, I’m face to face with the eldest of my two little nephews. Though no longer new, the technology still amazes me, and we’ve leaned on it heavily this year. It’s come a long way from the portable bag phone with the magnetic antennae we’d affix to the roof of our vehicle, the one we were only allowed to use in the event of an emergency (like a flat tire on the interstate or an accident), lest we were willing to fork over the small fortune it cost to use it. 

But with this little device, like a gadget from a Bond film, I can actually see my tater’s beaming face, and before our call has finished, he’ll have carried me all over the house, taking me into his pillow fort, racing along the floor with his Matchbox cars, and into his room so he can “read” me a story. Though he’s only five, he manages the tech like an old pro, already having worked out all its capabilities and explaining to his ol’ uncle how to shape-shift his face into that of a monkey or walrus or frog (which he finds unapologetically hilarious).

“We’re playing Hot Wheels City! Me and Daddy attached T-Rex Rampage. Do you wanna see it?”

“Definitely, booger! Show me what y’all put together.”

“It’s so cool, but SOMEONE keeps messing it up,” Big Tater says, hinting at who that someone is by the way he said it.

In the background squeals my littlest Atlanta Banana (a nickname coined years ago by my Aunt Kaye for Georgia Hudnalls after her sister married and moved there with my father to start their family). “I TALK Uncle Jamey!!” 

“NO! It’s MY turn first! You’ll hang up!” Big Tater yells, immediately exasperated.

The camera frame begins moving wildly as he maneuvers away from his little brother, working to keep Mommy’s cellphone out of reach, and I hear clear indications of a swiftly approaching meltdown. Suddenly, the phone drops to the floor, face down, and the screen goes black. I can’t see the action, but I can hear what’s happening, and as anticipated, an emotional collapse ensues. 

My sister-in-law’s voice cuts through the commotion. “Boys, enough! I told y’all to share.” Speaking to the littlest Hudnall she reassures him, “Baby, it’s okay. You’ll have a turn, but it’s your brother’s turn first. He was here to answer Uncle Jamey’s call.”

“Nooooooooooo!” 

“Where are you going?! Come back, baby! You’ll get a turn. You just have to wait a minute.”

Lil’ Tater’s voice trails off accompanied by his quickening footsteps as he tears out of the room in protest. The cellphone, abandoned on the playroom carpet, becomes bright again, and a brief view of Big Tater now guiltily refocused on Hot Wheels City streaks across the frame before the phone’s camera flips around to reveal my sister-in-law’s exasperated countenance.

“Hey. Sorry. It’s been quite a morning here,” she says pushing hair behind her ears. “We’ve surfed two meltdowns already. We may have to move our weekly FaceTime call to a little earlier in the day if you can manage it. The last hour before nap time typically brings out the worst in your brother’s children.”

“Haha! My brother’s kids, huh?”

“Correct… on days when they act like this.” 

I live for this weekly FaceTime with the Hudnalls, especially during this damn  pandemic. Connecting with my taters is like being gifted a bird’s eye view of my own childhood, two brothers close in age surfing fits and fights and fun and all. The similarities, both physically and at play, warm this old Xennial heart. Plus, time spent with my sister-in-law, Reese, my bestie, long before my brother won her heart, is guaranteed to brighten any day.

“Of course! Move Nephly FaceTime to whenever works for y’all. You know I’ll be here unless I’m with Aunt Paula. So what’s the latest east of Alabama?”

“More of the same, just trying to keep my children from killing each other while, you know, simultaneously getting my oldest through kindergarten on a laptop.”

“I hate that for him and for you. Kindergarten was so much fun, and it’s only uphill from there! It’s such a damn shame he’s missing out on that experience and poor Lil’ Tater’s being deprived of preschool. Truly, I never believed we’d still be dealing with this pandemic once the new school year rolled around. March feels like a year ago.”

“Tell me about it. His teacher is great, and he loves her. We both do, but with my youngest running around in the background, Mommy’s going to pull her hair out,” Reese confides. Working to hide her exhaustion, taking a deep breath, she says a little teary, “It’s just so unfair, and I know we can’t complain. We’re blessed beyond belief to have what we need, to not be sick or in dire straits like so many others, but I just hate all the experiences he’s missing out on. He won’t ever get any of this time back.”

“I hear you. None of us will. It’s heartbreaking, truly. Hard decisions for everybody right now, especially those in school, but at least he’s had the benefit of having you, an actual teacher, work with him one on one, and Lil’ Tater has to be ahead of the game from watching over his brother’s shoulder,” I add encouragingly. “But yeah, lots more changes as we move into this latest phase of the pandemic.”

“Like me not teaching for the first time in almost twenty years. I still can’t believe it. Who’d have ever thought I’d have to leave my job to stay home with my boys and basically homeschool my oldest!?” she shares with deep, unresolved frustration. 

“But Big Tater was well prepared, right? And you said he’s adapted with ease?” 

“Both of my boys have adapted well. I’m proud of them. Kids are resilient. I just wish things were different. I’m so tired of worrying about it all, especially your brother.”

“Lord, I know. If I could afford to pay him to stay home I would, though, I can barely care for myself these days. He still handing it all well?”

“Better than the rest of us. I don’t know how he keeps cool with the patients. I know you and I couldn’t.”

“That’s an understatement. As suggested, I’d I have to inject bleach to achieve peace of mind. I guess my sanity is fortified by being self-employed. I work from home, so home I stay. Besides the grocery store, gas station, and liquor store, I have nowhere I have to be other than with Aunt Paula, and no interactions means no worries for the two of us. Plus, you know, I’ve got my own set of clippers to buzz this big ol’ melon, so short of flush cash reserves, I have everything I need right here.”

“I’m envious of your errands. We have everything delivered as you know, so I’m sure you can imagine how damn small this house has gotten. It’s just been me, these boys, and the dog for months, and now with this added layer of virtual learning, I’m becoming more and more desperate for some kind of break.” 

“Well, when Dad leaves the cabin to come back down here to Natchez, y’all should go up there to the mountains. Nothing but space and acreage to spread out. It’d do y’all some good to get out of that house and let the boys and their pup run free in the field.”

“John and I talked about it recently, and that’s the plan. I had to remind him that we’re going stir-crazy. He leaves the house to go to work everyday, overlooking the fact that we’re still in here, months later, day in, day out.”

“Just remind him. I bet he needs a break from that hospital as badly as y’all need out of that house. Lord knows I would. I mean, I haven’t been to the cabin in nearly two years, and I’d trade all my paper products for the opportunity to go up there, but as you know, I’ve got my hands full down here.”

“I’d like you to see you get a break as well. I’m sure you’ve been pulling your hair out, too. How are Paula and the girls? Did you ever get her meds straightened out?”

“They’re all fine, and yes. I did. Seven phone calls to all the doctors and three trips to the pharmacy drive thru later, we’re finally good for another three months, thank you, Jesus. Mostly, I’ve been trying to get her out of the house as much as possible, at least every other day, so we’ve been taking picnic lunches in the cemetery of all places. It’s been nice actually. It’s allowed us to spend real time together, not just on the phone. It’s been good for her, me too. We’d ride around more but I don’t think we need to spend a lot of time in the car together, despite the masks and cracked windows. We’re still doing Happy Hour on the patio with the girls once a week though.”

“How’s that going?”

“Well, my backyard isn’t the Ramada, but we make do. I think it’s been good for everybody. Honestly, I think I miss access to seasoned bartenders most of all. What I wouldn’t give for a true Old Fashioned. My friend, Haley, makes the best in Natchez.”

“Mmm. That almost sounds worth the eight hour drive,” she says, semi considering it. “Please give ‘em all our love, especially Aunt Paula. John’s been worried about her.”

“I promise, but tell him not to worry. With the girls’ and my efforts combined, all is well for the time being. Lara Lee takes care of her big grocery hauls and Sadie texts her regularly. It’s gonna take a miracle, but we’ll make it through if we all keep on. The only way out now is through, right?”

“I don’t see any other way,” Reese agrees with a sigh, bucking up, steeling her resolve. 

“So where did my taters run off to?! I’m dying to know about Hot Wheels City and T-Rex Rampage.”

A loud thud interrupts us. Reese reflexively turns away from the phone scanning the house behind her for the source. Big Tater hollers from another room, “It wasn’t me, Mommy!” as crying crescendos in the background.

“Hey, things are already starting to fall apart here. I need to go,” she says quickly. Hollering over her shoulder into the household she commands, “BOYS!! Tell Uncle Jamey bye!!”

Dual goodbyes ring out from a distant room, one guilty and one teary, hinting that the thud was minor at best. 

“Sorry. We love you. Tell Aunt Paula and the girls the same. I’ve gotta go see what these boys have gotten into. I’ll have them call you back once we get it together over here.”

“I love y’all. No worries if not. They’ve already made my day. Just tell my brother I love him, and please remind him that I still need to ask him about his Grammaw memories.”

“I will if I can remember. Go ahead and text him just in case. We’ll talk to you next week if not later today. We love you!”

“I love y’all too! Bye.”

“Bye!"

The phone disconnects, the screen goes black, and I hear myself chortle. My taters provide levity even in the worst of times. I wasn’t kidding. They’ve made my day. I hold my breath a second and say a prayer for the Atlanta Bananas, especially Reese. God knows, she deserves a medal for holding down Fort Hudnall, and for my big brother, what thanks could suffice for his returning to that hospital every day during all this?  

*   *   *   *   *

“Hey! Good afternoon! My Aunt Paula is looking dar(ling) in that new face mask!”

“You’re a lying rascal, but I’ll be gracious and say, ‘Thank you.’ I know you’re really thinking, ‘How can she leave the house with her hair looking like that?!’ cute face mask or not.”

“No ma’am! No indeed, and truly, I’m no better. You can’t tell because of this handsome face mask, but there’s a graying wooly beard under this thing in desperate need of attention. It’s hiding a multitude of grooming sins. I’m full-on Grizzly Adams behind this thing, I promise.”

“Haha! Well, no one is scared of your beard, but this hair! Glory! Just avert your eyes,” Paula commands.

“If you say so,” I obey, quickly changing the subject. “So, good news, I remembered to call in our order before leaving the house this time. The Malt Shop should have it ready when we get there. You’ve got a Big Daddy hamburger, Cajun Curly Q’s, a Jumbo Coke, and a chocolate shake in your near future. ‘You’re favorite,’ as Sadie would say.”

“Your favorite! Ha! Did you get that picture of her lunch today?” Paula asks.

“Did I?! I’ve been LIVING for your critique of her latest culinary creation.”

“All I’ll say is that grape jelly on grits and eggs is NOT my favorite,” Paula shares politely.

I anticipated as much and fall over the steering wheel in a fit of laughter. 

“That’s what I thought you’d say! She sure plays loose and fast with all that, ‘Your favorite,’ business. The other day she texted me a picture of a bowl of shrimp-flavored ramen noodles gilded with a heap of Parmesan cheese and labeled, ‘Your favorite.’ Did you get that one? Really, it’s not fair to criticize considering it’s traditional to top pasta with Parmesan, but methinks the world ain’t ready for her combination.”

“I saw that one, too, and cringed. Hers is a distinguished palette, indeed! But we’re fortunate that she texts us pictures of all her culinary creations. I look forward to it, actually, and I’m happy to know what she’s up to. Plus, it reminds me to get my kicks where I can in this quarantined existence. Maybe I’ll start putting parmesan on my breakfast cereal,” Paula shares playfully.

We cackle through our face masks as I back us out of her driveway, both feeling privileged to be a part of Sadie’s daily texting regimen. Receiving pictures of her lunch proves that the world is still turning, the sun still rising, and thus her microwave still heating, regardless of the pandemic. I welcome her creations as daring, edible, abstract art. Her (microwave) cooking is avant-garde in my eyes. Soon the South’s greatest chefs will be topping their grits with jelly. Just wait and see. 

We make our way to the Malt Shop drive thru, the beloved vintage burger shack on the edge of downtown Natchez, and in quick time we’ve paid and claimed our order via contactless exchange (more or less). Such transactions have become commonplace for us during the pandemic. Ask us about any contactless to-go menu in town. Paula and I have pulled through them all. 

After a quick inventory of our order I point my Honda in the direction of the Natchez City Cemetery. Unexpectedly, it’s become the site of what I imagine will prove to be some of this lifetime’s most memorable shared meals, not because of the food, but rather, the location, the accoutrement, and the company. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve started holding my breath as we pull in. I just know that some of the people who have slowed down to gawk at us like caged zoo animals are going to have warmed to the idea of a picnic lunch in the cemetery. Mark my words, one of these days we’re gonna round the corner to find that someone has claimed our coveted spot, unceremoniously,” Paula worries aloud.

“You know, I’ve actually had the same thought. It’s so peaceful and the late summer weather’s been tolerable in the cool of the shade. Wouldn’t it be wild to find someone else picnicking out here? As an alternative, I’ve considered setting our card table and folding chairs along the bluff somewhere, but that’s a big gamble. We don’t have enough Cajun Curly Q’s to feed all of Natchez. Besides, the point these days is to avoid other folks’ cooties, so the dead make better lunch companions in the midst of a pandemic in my opinion. Plus, I have to admit, the perplexed faces of all the cemetery visitors we’ve made eye contact with gives me great joy. Do you think they see us as a couple of ghosts?”

“Who’d come back from the dead to eat a burger at a card table in the cemetery?!” Paula asks incredulously. If I come back for a meal I’m haunting your kitchen,” she declares. 

“Aw! High praise, indeed. Should I put out anything in particular for you? You know, like an offering of sorts?” I joke.

“Your pimento cheese could summon the dead. Start there,” she says with a wink. 

We pull through the cemetery gates, round the corner, and descend down to the newer sections. Both of us crane our necks to see if today is the day our fears will be realized. Thankfully (though unsurprisingly), our lunch spot is vacant. 

I pull my Honda off the paved drive and throw it into park, hop out, pop open the back hatch, and begin unfolding our setup in the shade of an alley of crepe myrtles. I’ve gotten this down to art now; pull apart two folding chairs, turn the card table face up and watch the folding legs fall into place beneath it. Add a bottle of hand sanitizer, distance my chair back a’ways from Paula, and voila! — Instant pandemic picnic. 

Paula emerges from the passenger seat, removes her face mask, and carefully canes her way across some uneven turf the few steps from the car to the table. As she gets settled in her folding chair, I start up some music on my phone and begin divvying up our order. The playlist kicks off with the theme from, “A Summer Place,” my phone’s choice, as she roots around in her purse. 

“Not to worry. I brought a roll of paper towels,” I assure her, anticipating her needs. “I finally remembered to just leave some in my car.” 

I always give Paula the lion’s share of the napkins. She prefers a generous fistful and will manage to use them all. I feel the same way about the little packets of ketchup.

“Perfect, precious. You know I’ll use every one.” With our food now laid out before us we both sanitize our hands before digging in. “I never thought I’d be having a picnic in the Natchez City Cemetery. If Uncle Sidney could see me now, he’d be rubbing his eyes in disbelief! You know, he was the caretaker here for many, many years.” 

“I remember you saying that. His was a short commute from Clifton Avenue, huh?!”

“Very true!” Paula agrees, taking a sip of her Coke. “And he’d come home at lunchtime to a hot meal prepared by my Aunt Girdie. Can you imagine?! Folks don’t really do that anymore, you know. Them some old-timey ways.”

“Not hardly. Sounds agreeable to me though. A hot lunch is always welcome in my belly.” I tear open the first of many little packets of ketchup and squeeze its contents onto my Big Daddy hamburger, remembering to ask, “Have you thought anymore about that picture of Grammaw Helen Mae? You know, the one of her on horseback that I texted to you the other day?”

“No, precious, but I did get to thinking about some of our good times last night as I was heating up the tamales you brought me from Fat Mama’s. It took me back to your Grammaw’s house with Kenny and Faye. Oh! We always had a wonderful time at Helen’s! Raise your hand if I’ve already told you this, but we’d meet there on Friday evenings and have drinks with her while waiting on your mother to drive in from her teaching gig down in Baton Rouge, you know, before she was married.”

“You mean before Dad roped him a Junkin girl?” I joke.

“Haha! Right! One of those Methodist Junkin girls.” 

“The rest of the family’s all Catholic, aren’t they? Thanks to our Irish roots? Can you believe that had never occurred to me before now?!” I blurt as the realization sets in. “I mean, duh! Sister Mary Junkin wasn’t wearing a costume,” I add, now both equally annoyed and disappointed with myself. “So I guess ours is the only Protestant branch, huh? Must’ve been Great Granny Clarabelle’s doing?” 

“Right. Y’all are the heathens and the rest are all Catholic. And yes, you can thank Clarabelle for that,” Paula affirms. “She was mighty devoted to Jefferson Street. Lived right around the corner. I can see her in her church pew now readying herself, flipping ahead to the first hymn listed in the bulletin.”

“Believe it or not, I can see that too. My memory is long, despite the college years being blurry, and our family trips to Natchez live on in full color. When visiting, if we were in town on Sundays and not in the country John and I would sit with Great Granny Clarabelle in her pew or with Nanny and NeNe in theirs, you know, Ruby, Dad’s mom, and his Aunt Cornelia, but never with my Grammaw. She wasn’t there. Church wasn’t really her thing, huh?”

“No. Church wasn’t Helen’s thing. She had her spiritual needs met elsewhere I guess, probably in conquering the New York Times’ crossword puzzle in ink. I think she figured that Clarabelle’s efforts were enough to indoctrinate her children and just let her mother-in-law take the reins.”

“It worked!” I joke, the proof being in the pudding. Both Mama and Aunt Kaye went through seminary, Mama later becoming ordained and Kaye being tasked with her church’s congregational care. Aunt Ellen prepared communion and helped manage the Angel tree at Christmas, and though my Uncle Buster wasn’t a regular churchgoer, he dependably showed up to hear his sister preach anytime she was scheduled for the pulpit (and usually found himself at Walmart on Christmas Eve purchasing bikes and dolls for all the unclaimed angels left behind on the Angel tree upon his sister, Ellen’s, request). 

“Didn’t it, though?! Clarabelle helped make it stick for sure. ANYWAY, I was going to say that Helen would have picked up tamales for us and left them wrapped in newspaper to warm in the oven while we all sat and laughed about our week over lots and lots of drinks. The four of us could go on for hours before our bellies sent us crowding around her Formica table to eat and sober up. There’s a picture of us from one of those nights somewhere, though, I don’t remember who ended up with it.” 

“Formica! Haha! You know that can’t be uttered in my presence without acknowledging the obvious.”

“What?” Paula asks, confused.

“One of y’all taught a Formica, right?! Who was it? You, Kenny, or Mama?”

“Haha! Precious, if only I could remember, but you’re right. One of us educated sweet Formica.”

“It does have a nice ring to it,” I offer honestly. 

“Oh absolutely, and truly, her full name really was Formica Dinette, believe it or not!”

We both have to halt our consumption to cackle, likely an uncommon release in the city cemetery, but at the moment no one’s here to judge us for it. 

“I’ll be tickled by that ‘til the day I die. Y’all have passed on some damn good laughs to your nephly over the years,” I share with deep gratitude.

“Well, it’s nice to be remembered! I bet Formica would agree,” Paula says, grinning. “Cheers to her,” she adds, raising her jumbo Coke.

We raise our styrofoam soft drinks reverently in Formica Dinette’s honor, wherever she may be. 

“So I called Aunt Kaye the other day to check on the Jackson folk and to ask about Grammaw. I caught her in the kitchen pressing out cheese straws.”

“Sweet Jesus, Kaye’s the queen of cheese straws! I’d trade my whole lunch for a handful,” Paula declares enthusiastically.

“Without question! Mine never turn out quite like hers despite the heavy duty press she gifted me along with, of course, the coveted recipe.” 

“Did you ask Kaye about Helen’s New Year’s Eve parties? We did talk about that, didn’t we? I mean, didn’t you ask me about her parties? I think you did. I maintain that they were legendary, really. Everyone always had a good time at Helen’s!” Paula says, nodding her head, beaming at the memory.

“I did, and she confirmed all that you shared. Does Eye of Round Roast and Asparagus Casserole sound familiar?”

“YES! I can see Helen’s buffet in my mind, and I’m portioning out real estate on my plate. Oh Jamey, those nights live strong in my memory, truly! Helen would fix a ton of food and we’d all have too many drinks and she’d get to playing that piano and folks would sing. It was such a good time. I miss every last one of those rascals so, so much, especially since life screeched to a halt this year. I keep thinking of how wonderful it would be to call Kenny or Faye and gripe about our circumstances. How’s it that just you, me, and the girls are all that’s left of our Happy Hour crew? Where’d everyone go?!”

“Look around!” I reply with humor, trying not to sound grim. “They ain’t far from where we’re lunching.”

Paula responds with a gesture, tilting her head to the side and smiling with surrender.

“Time really works both ways, huh? It takes as much as gives,” I offer, filling the silence of the moment, knowing that if anyone can relate, it’s Paula. 

Making eye contact, we share a knowing nod, and softly, she adds, “Indeed.”

A minute or so passes before Paula says, “Lord, I miss our weekly routine, and as this crazy year drags on it’s so hard not to think back. I really miss Sunday church, Wednesday Night Supper, Fridays at the beauty parlor, and Happy Hour at the Ramada. I just keep telling myself I KNOW we’ll get back there, back to real life, but when I go to my door and look out I see people driving up and down the street like it’s a normal day, and I feel like we’re the only two people still staying home.” 

“Well, we kind of are since the lockdown ended, but that’s okay. There are other folks staying home and keeping distance for similar reasons. A good number of folks from our church are, too. It’s just how it has to be for some of us right now until there’s some real leadership to guide us through all this. We’ll ride through downtown and along the bluff again on the way home, and I’ll point out the folks I see wearing masks. Most people are, and our new mayor is leading by example. Leadership makes a difference, I believe.” 

Paula sighs and sets down a fry she was working on before saying, “The Jackson news reports the daily infections and deaths seven nights a week. How could anyone possibly bury their heads in the sand over this?! Thousands of Mississippians have died now. THOUSANDS. I guess the naysayers just want people like poor ol’ Paula to either stay home forever or risk it all for gallon of milk. Who cares about the old lady in Duncan Park who’s been homebound for months and months?! I’m becoming convinced that it’s a conspiracy! Those are quite popular these days, you know.” 

“Well, maybe some folks just don’t have family or friends with health issues, grandparents, or older neighbors to worry about,” I suggest, suppressing my honest beliefs, knowing that half of Natchez just thinks the other half is crazy, each seeing the other’s response to the pandemic as proof.

“Hell, or friends or family battling cancer or some other wretched thing!” Paula shares from experience.

“Well, maybe you and I have just seen so much illness in our circle that we forget most folks haven’t spent as much time with the immune-compromised as we have,” I say, trying to muster some understanding.

“Or said as many goodbyes as we have!” she adds, supporting our indignation. 

“True,” I reply, setting my burger down, my appetite now gone.

“Seriously, God bless all those folks weathering this while enduring chemo or radiation. I’m so thankful that’s behind me! I still thank Jesus everyday. I can’t imagine going through that right now.” 

“Right?! And this very moment there are folks from church doing just that, battling cancer, and it seems half our congregation can’t be bothered to help in the slightest way, to perform the simplest, kindest of acts, to just keep their damn cooties to themselves. I swear I’ll never understand it. Mama would be in disbelief over her family, friends, and neighbors strutting about in joyful defiance, pounding their chests with righteousness. Lord, what would she say?” I ask rhetorically, though Paula provides an answer.

“She’d say, ‘Bless their hearts!’ That’s what Faye would say, and she’d say it in the way where you actually mean, ‘I’m praying for you selfish, heartless, you-know-whats!’” 

“Haha! Perhaps she would,” I allow, pausing a moment to picture Mama doing just that.

Leaning back from the card table in my distanced folding chair I grin, remembering how she’d respond to aggravated Atlanta truck drivers trying to get around our Volkswagen van on I-85/75/285/20. Raging, they’d lay on their horn and, when finally passing, would aggressively present Mama with their middle finger and a choice word or two. Without blinking, she’d just smile and wave excitedly like she’d just encountered a long lost friend, and the effect was always the same… disarming. Bewildered truck drivers would speed on wondering how anyone could misinterpret what they had just yelled and signed. Mama had an answer for everything.

Channeling the best of her, I add, “Well Lord, forgive ‘em for they know not what they do.”

“Amen,” says Paula reflexively, returning focus to her burger and fries.

“You know, the other day I got to thinking, surely there are folks around here that remember when that chlorine barge sank just south of the bridges way back when, or bridge, rather, given the year it happened. It was long before my time, but the story goes that, had the river gotten into it, a chlorine gas cloud could’ve smothered all of Miss-Lou to death. Do you remember that? From what I read it took months to bring the barge up off the riverbed. The community was on standby all that time.” 

“Not first hand, but we can ask Louis. I do recall that the National Guard had to swoop in and issue everyone gas masks, preparing for the worst. Can you imagine folks refusing to wear masks under those circumstances?!” 

“Ugh. In this day and age, I can, sadly, but to be fair, the flu kills more people each year than chlorine gas clouds.”

“Haha! You’re wicked, but you’re right. Some facts are indisputable, and we must treat them as such. That must certainly be true. Murderous chlorine gas clouds are rare to my knowledge. I just wish people would wear the damn masks and keep some distance like Hoda and Kathie Lee keep encouraging on the Today Show every morning!”

“Well, hopefully, folks that haven’t will begin to,” I say, knowing it will take a miracle to unite a divided community.

“I mean, c’mon, Jamey! C’MON! Our parents, well mine, but your grandparents, were called to war! TO WAR. Do you hear me?! We were called to stay home and sit on our damn couch or wear masks if we’re allowed out and to keep some distance. THAT’S ALL! How hard is that?! Sweet Jesus, can we PLEASE snuff out this virus so I can get out of my house and back to the Piggly and Dollar General! I’m so ready to shop for myself again. My entire kingdom in exchange for picking out my own produce! God Almighty, hear my prayer! I just want a banana that meets my expectations.”

And just like that Paula has revealed her deepest desire during our extended quarantine, one likely shared the world over by folks in her position. 

“I mean, I know the Piggly’s been missing the witty lady with the big ol’ purse that likes to slowly wheel up and down every aisle, and I bet the Dollar General’s stock has dropped without my support,” she imagines. “There’s probably a board room full of people pointing at charts with lines CRASHING to the bottom as someone shouts out in desperation, ‘Where’s that lady we depended on to fill her trunk with placemats, decorative dishtowels, Cokes, chips, chocolate, and toiletries?!”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re on the brink of filing Chapter 11 like everyone else.”

“ANYWAY,” Paula says in conclusion, indicating that this conversation has nowhere else to go, lest we both really tap into our well of frustration and let loose. “Enough of all this. We’ll go mad trying to understand the disregard people show with pride. I KNOW we’ll get through this. We just have to keep making do and saying our prayers. It’s gonna take a miracle, but God willing, we’ll get there if we stick it out. Sweet Jesus, I KNOW we will.” 

With the case argued and nothing left to add to our disbelief we both return focus to our burgers, fries, Cokes, and milkshakes. A light breeze moves in to cool us down, and in our silence I notice carefree songbirds are singing along with the playlist on my phone as they pick a little and talk a little. Their chirping, combined with a bite of this and a glug of that, helps to bring Paula and me back to center.

“I just can’t believe I’m sitting at a card table in a folding chair eating a burger in the cemetery! If Uncle Sidney could see me now, he’d be in complete disbelief! You know he was the caretaker here for many, many years.”

“I believe I did know that. I bet he had him some stories.”

“Oh indeed, and he lived just around the corner from here. Well, you know, Sister and Louis’ house over on Clifton, with my Aunt Girdie.”

“His was a short commute to work, wasn’t it?”  

*   *   *   *   *

“Louis!”

“Hello?”

“Louis! Hello! It’s Jamey Hudnall.”

“Well, hey, Jamey! How in the world are you?”

“I’m fine, sir, just fine. Checking in again. We’ve been thinking about you down here. How are things up near Jackson?”

“Well, just fine, son. Pretty much the same as the last time we talked. I still can’t so much as stick a foot out in the hallway because of this virus. We’re all still cooped up like zoo animals.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Louis. Y’all still can’t leave your rooms at all?”

“Nope. We’re still in lockdown here. Everything comes to us, our meals, meds, and doctor visits, too.”

“Gosh. That can’t be easy. Paula and I are still staying home, too, as you know, and I must say she’s a trooper. There’s just not a lot we can do together given the circumstances. All we can do is tough it out until better options come along. How’re you passing the time?”

“Well, Kathy bought me a new turntable so I can play my 33s, and it’s got amazing sound. I’ve got some Leontyne Price opera records I put on, and man I’m telling you, you can hear it all over this room. You wouldn’t believe it! I told my neighbors across the hall just let me know if I play it too loud, that I’ll turn it down, because I do like it loud!” 

“That sounds wonderful, Louis. Music is a big part of my day, too, especially in the studio while I work. It sure can lift the mood. I bet it’s a nice break from watching TV every now and then, too.”

“Absolutely, especially for someone who can no longer see well enough to watch TV or read much like he used to. Mostly, it’s nice to receive packages and mail again! When this all started they wouldn’t let anything from the outside world in, including parcels. I tell ya, it’s a welcome change in protocol, yessir. You know, there are a lot of folks in here whose well-being is dependent upon visits and care packages from family and friends from the outside world to keep ‘em going. We still can’t have visits, but at least we can receive packages again.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Y’all have endured so much up there, more than the average person, for sure. Since y’all can receive packages again, is there anything you need? Gluten-free snacks maybe?”

“No sir. Not a thing. I’m fine. Thank you.” 

“Has the kitchen staff improved on your gluten-free meals?”

“Hell no! I’ve been here so long you’d think they would’ve figured it out by now, but it seems I have to send at least one to two meals back a week these days if not more. Lo and behold, the tray arrives and it’s pasta or chicken pot pie or something else I can’t have.”

“Anything I can do? Want me to call somebody?”

“No, son. They’ve heard from me plenty. I don’t know what the problem is, but Kathy is on top of it. They know her by name now.”

“Well, alright sir. Holler if you do, though.”

“I certainly will.”

“So, Louis, I’ve been working on a story and painting of my Grammaw, Helen, and I and thought that you might be able to answer some questions for me again.”

“Of course! Let’s talk about something more interesting than my supper. What do you want to know about Helen?”

“Being that y’all were all friends such a long time, I guess I was just wondering what you could tell me about my grandparents’ marriage. Your perspective is different from everyone else’s being that y’all were all high school pals, you know, and I guess I’m just wondering what happened. Why did they split up? I remember Mama always saying they were just better apart. I asked Dad recently, but he couldn’t tell me much. He said he felt like they probably stopped being compatible as a couple.”

Louis lets out a deep sigh before saying, “Well, Jamey, Frank and Helen had been going together since high school, just like me and Chris, so they had been together a long, long time before they split up.”

“But they stayed friends after the divorce, right? Mama was always proud of that. And as a kid, neither John nor I ever realized that they weren’t married, despite living in separate houses. It just never occurred to us, kind of like Kenny and Paula. We always saw them together, so we just assumed they were married. After all, they were Uncle Kenny & Aunt Paula to us, so we never had reason to question it. I was nearly out of high school before I knew otherwise.”

“I’m not surprised you thought that! I think most people assumed they were a couple,” Louis replies amused.

“So do you reckon Frank and Helen just drifted apart?”

“To be honest, Jamey, I don’t know what happened to their marriage. I do recall Chris once saying that Helen didn’t like being left behind.”

“Left behind? How do you mean? Where was my Paw Paw Frank?”

“Everywhere, off hunting or fishing, on an oil rig in Bolivia, you name it. When I was still working for the bank I travelled quite a bit, and I used to run into Frank all over… Monroe, Jackson, San Antonio, Baton Rouge.” 

“What was he doing in all those places?”

“I guess he had business to take care of. He was buying cattle the time I ran into him in Texas. You know, once he had that little plane he flew it everywhere. I remember him tellin’ me, ‘Hoss, the sky’s most peaceful first thing in the morning.’ It just called him out of bed.”

“So I guess that means Grammaw, um, Helen, was all alone in the Bottom while he was away?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I doubt it. There were lots of families sharecropping down there in those years. It’s not like it is today. So I imagine she was never too far from other folks while out in the country, but she was likely at Quitman house alone with your mom, Kaye, Buster, Ellen, and of course, Mammy. It was the being left behind part, I think, that didn’t sit well with her.”

“Were you surprised when they divorced?”

”Well, son, yes and no. They loved each other, I’m sure, but they weren’t always a good match. They both had a temper, and they both liked that bourbon whiskey.”

“That I know. Mama recalled some rough arguments from her youth.”

“I’m sure she saw plenty. Frank had a tough time financially with the farming in their early years. It couldn’t have been easy for either of them, and I’m sure the kids got an earful of their troubles from time to time.”

“And afterwards, Helen had a hard time accepting the divorce?” 

“She did. Helen was just crazy about Frank. Always was from the time she was a school girl.” 

I hear a loud knock in the background and Louis tells me, “Hold on a second, Jamey… Yes ma’am?” he hollers out away from his phone. I can’t make out what’s being said, but he responds with, “Please ma’am. Anything without wheat flour, but corn and rice are fine… Sorry about that, Jamey. The nurse was asking me about my supper again. Somehow I’m the only celiac sufferer in this whole place, and they’ve apparently got to reinvent the wheel for every meal.”

“That’s hard to believe, Louis.”

“Who are you tellin’?! Just bring me some grits and eggs and call it a day! Now, where were we?”

“Helen after the divorce.” 

“Right. Well, Jamey, one day this woman walked up to me at the bank, and said, ‘Hello, Louis.’ I said, ‘Hello, ma’am. How can I help you?’ and she said, ‘Louis, it’s me, Helen.’ Jamey, I didn’t recognize her. Her color was off and her shape was different. She didn’t look like herself at all. Not one bit.”

“Reckon why?”

“I don’t think she’d been living right since the split. Hadn’t accepted it yet, I suppose, and it just showed all over.”

“So it was really tough for her, huh?”

“I believe she knew it had to be, but I think it broke her heart all the same. Took her a long time to bounce back, but she did, eventually.”

I had suspected this about my Grammaw, that there was a disappointment there, not that she ever let on, especially not to her grandchildren. I only suspected because of little things said and implied across the years, but having it confirmed feels heavy.

Honestly, other than to see about our Louis, I think that’s what I was looking for in our call today, for some understanding about my Grammaw, to get to know the woman who became the warm, caring grandmother of my youth. And what I learned is actually what I already knew, that Helen Mae was one tough lady. She may have had her some struggles, but she survived them.

“And she never remarried?”

“No sir. Never did.”

I overheard on apron strings this meant that Grammaw “carried a torch” for my Paw Paw Frank, though it would be years before I understood what that actually meant.

“But Frank did remarry, although, I never met the woman.”

“Yes. He did for a short time,” Louis replies, pausing a moment before adding, “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

Taking my cue to move on, I ask, “Well, Louis, what do you remember most about Helen? Maybe her New Year’s Eve parties? Paula says they were legendary.”

“Indeed they were, but what I remember most is all that hair!” he says chuckling.  “More hair than anyone I’ve ever known. Thick dark hair. It was lovely.”

Surprised, I’m tickled by his response. It’s funny because the same was said about my mother, my brother, myself, and my nephews. We were all born with a full head of dark hair, though Grammaw and Mama got to keep all theirs. The crown of mine seems to have come with an expiration date.

There’s another knock in the background, and Louis responds with, “Come on in. What have y’all got for me?”

I’m assuming the nurse has returned with his supper. 

“Well it must be my lucky day! Jamey, I’ve got a tray of blackened catfish with plain white rice, mixed vegetables, and a sherbet. It’s a miracle. I’m gonna have to let you go, son. There’s cause to celebrate tonight.” 

“Of course! Enjoy it, Louis. It’s good to talk to you. Thank you for this. Take care of yourself up there. I’ll check in again soon. Love you.”

“You too, Hoss. Call anytime. I think your call might’ve been good luck for me tonight!”

*   *   *   *   *

Alright, I’ve got the fans going, the tables placed, the chairs spaced, napkins out, Paula seated and served, and music playing. This is Happy Hour in 2020. 

I’m determined to maintain some sense of normalcy for our little group, and this is the closest thing to what we had. It’s not (what was once) the Ramada (and now the Hotel Vue and Pilot House Lounge) nor the Castle at Dunlieth, but my patio meets our needs for the moment, though I don’t know what we’ll do once the weather turns cold.

“Where’s your drink? I feel like I’m the only one drinking!” Paula asks.

“Haha! Well, you are at the moment since you’re the only one out here. Lemme run in and grab mine. I’ll only be second. Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, precious. Just waiting on you.”

“Don’t blink. I’ll be right back.”

I run in the backdoor to the kitchen and wash my hands for the hundredth time today. Looking through the window above the sink I watch Paula as she takes in her surroundings. Most everyone else would be staring down at their cellphone; Paula’s looking up into the canopy of the crepe myrtle that shades our patio, grateful to be out of her house it seems. 

God willing, we won’t be surprised by rain again like we were last week. Take it from me, it’s a long walk from the back patio to the street on a cane after some cocktails. By the time I finally got Paula to the car we were both drenched to the bone, and on the drive back to her house she confided that she was soaked right down to her step-ins. (Step-ins!) I belly-laughed so hard I nearly wet my own. 

I dry my hands, grab a coozie, and stuff it with a cheap beer from the fridge. “I’m back. Sorry to leave you out here alone. I thought the girls might’ve gotten here by now.”

“Nope. Not yet. I wonder where those rascals are.”

“Couldn’t be far. Sadie prefers to stay on schedule as you know. I guess it just depends on whether Lara Lee got off work on time or not.”

Lara Lee works at the hospital. She was in telemetry but was moved off her floor at the onset of the pandemic, forcing her to choose between scanning entrants to the ER for COVID-19 or to find a new line of work. I applaud her bravery, though naturally, this has produced a bottomless well of worry for her, Paula and me, and of course, what it means for our Sadie. But it’s never been our nature to exclude anyone from Happy Hour, so regardless of our circumstances (pandemic included), I’ve had to figure out how to safely bring us all together. 

I’ve placed my faith in a high-powered industrial outdoor patio fan accompanied by a trio of everyday indoor household fans. They’re arranged like an audience facing the girls pointing away from Paula and me. Every fan is set on its highest speed. Lara Lee and Sadie will be seated on one end of the patio, and Paula and I will be on the other. It seems to be the most logical solution even if the excessive movement of air ends up snatching the girls bald. They’re country girls though, the kind that wear shortsleeved shirts and shorts in winter, so they can handle some wind. Honestly, it’s been so damn hot this year, they’re getting the benefit of a breeze, so unless I’ve managed to pick up the virus at the grocery, the gas station, or liquor store and am now blasting it relentlessly into their faces at eighty miles an hour, then all will be well. Besides, the primary goal is to keep the cooties away from Paula.

I sure wish this damn pandemic came with a handbook. I second guess all my protocols despite running them past the doctors, nurses, and techs in the family. There’s no real consensus though. What’s acceptable prevention for some isn’t for others. It’s all a guessing game unfortunately. Essentially, everyone stays distanced. There’s no physical contact (regardless of our desperate need for hugs). No one goes inside except for me and Paula, and both of us must wear a mask when we do. No one shares snacks, nor do we pass cellphones around to share pictures, posts, or articles, and why would we? We all have phones, so we just text them from one end of the patio to the other. Honestly, if I could put us all in bubbles, I would. At least then we wouldn’t have to sit so far apart. 

“Here! Cheers!” Paula commands, raising her drink in my direction.

“Cheers! Happy Happy Hour! How’s your drink?”

“Perfect, precious. Thank you.”

Paula totes her “liq-liq” (liquor) and a couple of canned ginger ales with her from home. I make her drinks, always have. I was put to the task the moment I could legally partake with their circle, and I’ve been mixing their drinks ever since, though now, just for Paula.

“Are you missing the lime? Sorry. I forgot to pick them up when I went by the Piggly for your Cokes.”

“I think I can still choke it down,” she says jokingly. “So where are the girls? They really should be here by now.”

No sooner had Paula wondered this aloud when we hear the familiar clomp-clomp-clomp of the girls in their rubber Crocks coming down the walk along the side of the house accompanied by the jingling of small bells. Lara Lee is still in her work scrubs, and Sadie’s sporting her usual uniform — a t-shirt that says something about being a country girl from the South, bright shorts featuring a tropical print, and Mary Jane style Crocks with socks yanked way up high, reaching for her knees. 

If only all things in life were this predictable! I could’ve imagined every element of her outfit except for the theme of her socks. Her collection is vast, so it’s challenging to guess which pair she’ll choose. Truly, it’s dependent upon her mood. They tend to match her disposition, predicting her outlook for the day, and it seems as though today she was feeling Christmasy, choosing a pair with matching jingle bells at the ankle. 

“Well, hello! Air hugs! Air kisses,” Paula offers. “Wait! Where’s your drink?”

“Right here!” Lara Lee responds, holding up her enormous styrofoam cup for Paula to see. “I’m having a frozen drink from the Hammer’s drive thru. That’s what took us so long. We had to drive through the beer barn in Vidalia to get me a Fruit Loop.” 

“A WHAT?! What on earth is that? A cereal smoothie?”

“No! It’s a squirt of all their flavors mixed together, plus an extra shot of alcohol.”

“Attagirl!” I say, cheering on her adventurous spirit. “Taste the rainbow.”

“Should I have a taste?” Paula asks with the excitement of a sorority girl at a tailgate.

“NO MA’AM. Better not. Cooties, you know. We’ll get you a small one next time,” I say, raining on her parade, solidifying my status as the Grinch of the pandemic. 

“Oh that’s right. I keep forgetting about the damn virus. Oh well. Just describe it to me from over there.”

“Well, it tastes like the Crunch Berries in Cap’n Crunch cereal to me,” Lara Lee explains.

“Well, I’ll have to use my imagination. I’ve never had Cap’n Crunch before,” Paula replies.

“Oh, you’re missing out. It’s a decadent treat, especially with whole milk. Grammaw always kept a box in the cabinet for her grandkids. Brother and I looked forward to it greatly since we didn’t get sugar cereals at home. Between the two of us, we could easily consume a whole box if no one was looking,” I wax nostalgically, seeing Grammaw’s oversized cereal bowls in my mind.

“I love me some Honey Bunches of Oats,” Paula declares. “Sometimes I’ll pour a bowl and snack on them without milk just to have something in my belly before I take my meds in the morning.” Turning to look directly at me she asks, “RIGHT?” demanding confirmation.

“Exactly,” I reply approvingly. “That’s best.”

“It’s either that or toast. I don’t feel like cooking an egg or anything in the morning anymore. I like something quick and easy. Wait… am I the only one drinking? Where’s your drink?” Paula directs to Sadie.

“Right here,” she responds with a smile, picking her Diet Coke up off the patio from beside her Crocked feet.

“And you?!” she demands of me.

I raise my cooozied beer can from my lap so she can see it.

“Don’t you need another one? I feel like I’m the only one drinking,” she says again, becoming annoyed with us, assuming a lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m three sips away. Do you need a refresher?”

“Yep. In about three sips as well. You can take mine with you when you go for yours,” Paula instructs. “So how was your week?” Paula asks Lara Lee, now holding court on the patio.

“Good. Hot,” she shares, typically cryptic. You have to pull details out of the girls. 

“Hot?” Paula asks, coaxing her to elaborate. 

“We’re still at a table outside the ER. That’s where they have us scanning people for COVID as they come in.” 

“Scanning their temperature? To see if they’re running fever?” Paula asks, seeking clarification.

“Correct. On their foreheads. And most people register higher than 98.7 because it’s so hot outside. I have to send them into the shade or to their car to cool down before scanning them again. They can’t come in until they pass the scan test.”

“Have there been a lot of COVID patients?”

“More lately,” Lara Lee shares.

“Is that scary to you?” Paula asks. She’ll ask this every week. 

“I wear a mask, but if I’m gonna get it, I’m gonna get it,” she replies casually, making me cringe, worrying me to no end. I say a quick prayer for her as I always do (but primarily for her sister who doesn’t have a choice in the matter), knowing their angels are working overtime. I just have to accept that we’re all going to handle this pandemic in our own way the best we can, despite my urge for control and desire to bubblewrap the ones I love.

Redirecting, Paula asks, “And what have you been up to Miss Sadie Ellen?

“Christmas Cards.”

“It’s October, girl!” Paula counters confusedly.

“I got late start,” Sadie explains.

“Well then,” Paula says to no one specifically, wisely choosing not to investigate further. She finishes the last sip of her drink and passes her rocks glass off to me.

I take it from her, chug the last couple sips of my beer, and head in for our refills.

Though now inside I can hear Lara Lee ask Paula, “How was your week?” 

And I hear Paula respond as I gather the ice, bourbon, and ginger ale to refill her glass. 

“Same as always. Sunday I ‘went to church’ on TV. You know, I watch the sermon from the Presbyterians in Jackson and then tune into the Baptists to hear their choir. They’re truly spectacular, though it’s strange to see them all singing in masks. And then later in the week I reorganized a shelf in my den, piddled in the kitchen, and cleaned out my closet of clothes to donate.” 

“You’ve been busy,” Lara Lee says.

“Gotta stay busy doing something,” Paula insists. “A girl can only watch so many Hallmark movies before it’s time to put on some ‘Easy Listening’ and find something to get into. Right, Sadie?”

“Right,” agrees the other Hallmark junky of the group, though the one less likely to turn it off to find something else to get into.

I reemerge with Paula’s drink and another beer for myself.

“And what has our Jamey been up to this week?” Paula asks.

Setting her drink down in front of her on a fresh cocktail napkin I share, “Let’s see. I started working on a painting of Grammaw, and I’ve got a few others in progress, a commission or two. And I’ve been trying to figure out what to do for the Christmas card this year. I was thinking about photographing the Christmas Spode your mama gifted me before she passed,” I say to Lara Lee.

“That’d be pretty. I love mine,” Lara Lee says, now thinking of her mother.

“Do you wanna show us now?” Paula asks. 

“Well, there’s not much to show, really. It’s not far enough along. However, I do need something from the two of y’all,” I direct to the girls. “In addition to the painting I’m also working on a story about our Grammaw. Do y’all have any stories or memories of her you’d be willing to share? That you wouldn’t mind me writing about?”

Without skipping a beat Lara Lee offers, “Hanging out with her when I got my hardship license. The state allowed me to get it at fifteen like all the other cousins in the Bottom so I could drive me and Sadie into town from the country for school. When we’d come over in the afternoon she’d send me to the Fish Fry to pick us up fried catfish dinners. I remember she only ever ate one or two pieces of hers though. She liked it better the next day. Loved her some cold, fried catfish right out the fridge.”

“Mmm,” says Sadie, having never met a catfish that she didn’t like.

“What do you remember about Grammaw, Sadie?”

“Mmm. Your favorite. Muscatrolla.” 

“Yes ma’am! Definitely my favorite,” Paula happily agrees, taking advantage of the rare occasion where their favorites truly align. “It’s the very definition of ‘comfort food.’ What’s not to love?”

“Mom usually made two at a time, one for supper and one to freeze for later,” Lara Lee recalls.

“Just leave me alone, and I could eat a whole pot of it,” I declare. “And just to solidify my place as y’all’s favorite nephly/cousin, coincidentally, I had to keep from eating a whole pot earlier… because I threw some Muscatrolla together for y’all to take home for supper tonight.”

“YAY!” Sadie says gleefully, raising both her hands above her shoulders like she’s hitting the first drop on a roller coaster.

“Hot damn! My champion!” Paula says in celebration. “I was wondering what I would dig up for my supper tonight. I sure didn’t want toast or cereal again!”

“Thank you,” says Lara Lee. “I appreciate that. We were going to hit a drive-thru, but now we can go straight home which is great. I’m dying to get out of these scrubs.”

“Well, good. I love to feed y’all, and I’ve been wanting some Muscatrolla myself. Been thinking about Grammaw a lot lately, and I thought it’d be a nice treat for all of us. Picked up the ingredients this morning when I went by the Piggly to get Paula’s Cokes on sale.”

“Thank you, precious. You’re too good to your girls.”

“Well, what would I do without y’all? We’re a team! Just remind me before y’all go, and I’ll run in and get everybody’s pan. Don’t y’all leave me here with all of ‘em. They’re not safe should I tune into Netflix later which is highly likely post Happy Hour.” Turning to Paula I ask, “Would you like me to top off your drink? I’m gonna run in and pull the Muscatrollas out of the fridge so they’ll heat up faster for y’all when you get home.”

“Sure, precious,” Paula says, handing me her nearly half-empty glass. “Might as well freshen it up since you’re going in again. Please go heavy on the liq-liq this time. With some Muscatrolla in my near future I’ve got an extra reason to celebrate tonight.”

“Will do,” I reply, heading inside. 

Back indoors, I pull the pans of Muscatrolla out of the fridge to take the chill off and begin freshening up Paula’s cocktail. Outside I hear her direct to Lara Lee, “I feel like I’m the only one drinking! Did you bring anything?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m drinking a Fruit Loop from the Hammers Drive thru.”

“I KEW THAT! I knew that. Why’d you let me ask you that again?! Nothing wrong with me! May I have a taste?” Paula asks. “I’ve never had a… what did you call it? A Fruit Loop?! Sounds like a cereal milkshake.”

Jumping into action I knock on the window overlooking the patio and shake my head, preventing an exchange of cooties. They all turn to look at me, Paula instantly remembering that she shouldn’t have asked for a sip of Lara Lee’s drink. “NEVER MIND!” she shouts in my direction. “I was kidding, just seeing if YOU”D remember!” she says, attempting to cover her tracks.

I exhale, feeling like the grinch again, but shrug it off. I didn’t ask for this role. It was vacant, there was a need, and I filled it. Sometimes life just makes our choices for us. “Sweet Jesus, prop me up. I know we’ll get through this. It’s gonna take a miracle, but this too shall pass,” I hear myself say, realizing I’ve become some version of the middle aged Methodist women that reared me. For a moment I‘m horrified. How did I let that happen?! That wasn’t the plan, but I sigh with resignation and follow it up with acceptance. “Embrace it, Jamey Hudnall,” I tell myself. “The only way out now is through.” 

Gathering our drinks, I put one foot in front of the other and head back outside. We’ve got one or two rounds left in Happy Hour before the evening is over, and I need to update them on the Atlanta Bananas, Louis, and Aunt Kaye and family. Sadie will be tickled to know that I got to go inside Big Tater’s pillow fort this week — let’s see how much I can get her laughing. Plus, I’d better start thinking of where Paula and I can pick up some lunch next, lest I get finger-wagged for dropping the ball. I know she’ll be asking any minute now. Maybe a sandwich and some pie from Mammy’s Cupboard will help me maintain my “champion” status another day. This damn pandemic has me overdue for a slice of Banana Caramel Pie, and I’d say Paula’s earned a slice of her favorite, Coconut Meringue. Besides, we can’t leave our “secret” place open for too long. That prized cemetery picnic spot isn’t going to claim itself, and we’re practically part of the tour now.

Grammaw Helen Mae’s Muscatrolla

Being the eighth of ten grandchildren on the Junkin side (and growing up away from my Mississippi kin in Georgia), I missed most of the things my cousins remember about my Grammaw, like sewing dresses for the pageant, playing the piano, hosting her Bridge club, or cooking and entertaining. I know from the burns on the piano keys that she must’ve spent plenty of time there, but I don’t recall ever hearing her play. And although I ended up with most of her sheet music, those that remember tell me she actually played by ear. 

Mostly, I recall her snuggled into her worn antique high-back chair with her feet in house slippers, propped upon the footstool she needlepointed herself. It’s where she spent her days fearlessly conquering the New York Times crossword puzzle in ink with her signature all-caps, teeny-tiny script, enjoying cigarette after cigarette as daytime television played throughout the day, keeping time in the background. I adored her and loved being at her house. She was gentle and kind, loved a good laugh, reveled in her grandchildren, smelled of cigarette smoke and fabric softener, and answered the phone with a friendly, “Yello!” 

The one common memory of Grammaw Helen Mae that I share with all ten of my cousins is that of her Muscatrolla, one of the rare dishes she was still cooking by the time I arrived on the scene. At its simplest the recipe has only five ingredients (though, like Sadie with her microwave cooking, I like to gild the lily and add onion, bell pepper, and occasionally, another can of Tomato soup). My best guess is that she discovered this recipe in a Reader’s Digest during the 1980s. She was an annual subscriber and followed the publication religiously, often receiving free gifts for her dedication such as reader-submitted recipe cookbooks, sheet music for the piano, and stacks of crossword puzzles. 

She prepared this in one big ol’ pot, the same one she’d use to boil the pasta and brown the meat, finally dishing out servings from there. Her progeny does the same, though one of her daughters, my Aunt Ellen, if not serving directly from her stovetop (but carting it off to a covered dish instead), would spoon the mixture into a 9” x 13” casserole dish, cover it with shredded cheese, and heat it through until the top had lightly browned. Either preparation is fine, but most of us lack the patience to assemble and bake. Simply stand over the stove and indulge.

MUSCATROLLA

1 package Shell Pasta

1 lb Ground Beef

1 Onion, chopped

1 Bell Pepper, chopped

1 block Cheddar Cheese, grated

1 can Cream of Mushroom soup

1-2 cans Tomato soup

Boil 1 package of shell noodles. Drain and set aside. Brown ground beef with chopped onion and bell pepper. Drain fat from beef, and add salt and pepper to taste. Combine ground beef mixture with cooked noodles, Cream of Mushroom soup, Tomato soup, and the shredded cheddar cheese. (Use only half the cheese if you plan to serve in a casserole dish. The remaining half will be sprinkled across the top). If you are serving directly from the pot, get a bowl or a coffee mug and dig in! For those opting for the casserole presentation, pour the mixture into a greased casserole dish, top with remaining cheese, and bake at 350 degrees until the top has lightly browned and the dish is heated through. Curl up with the New York Times crossword puzzle (and an ink pen if you’re as confident as Grammaw Helen Mae) and enjoy!