He paid for his coffee with the exact change and asked, “Where you from, girl? That’s some kind of accent you got there.”
I smiled. A fine Southern gentleman, but such an unsophisticated ear.
“I was born in Georgia, sir, but when Daddy died my Mama went and married herself a Yankee and took me North with her, but I’m back now and I’m sure this speech affliction will clear up in no time !”
He laughed and waved through the screen door, “See you soon.”
For the rest of that day I thought about Mama. I thought about Ish, the woman Daddy hired to do our ironing, tidy our house and tend to Mama. Oh, the grand times we shared. Back then our day began once Daddy left for work, you see, Ish and Daddy didn’t get along at all.
It was an incident in 1955 or there about that caused the hard feelings between those two. As I recall Mama and Ish were hiding behind the kitchen curtains listening in horror as my Daddy stood on the front porch armed with a ball pean hammer screaming,
“You better be delivering a package, boy!” Answer me, boy, if you know what’s good for you!”
The man trembled and lowered his eyes when he replied,
“I’s pickin’ up soiled diapers at the Richardson’s, suh. Be done and outta here in no time, suh. I promise you dat, suh.”
Daddy was foaming, “You better be, boy, else I’ll string you up by the neck with piano wire!”
Ish was shaking when she whispered, “The devil dipped that man’s tongue in vinegar. He don’t like my kind no how, no way.”
Mama, bless her sweet Georgia heart, suggested biscuits with butter and honey and a pot of tea. That calmed our housekeeper some.
Like her kind or not, Daddy was forced to keep Ish on to press, tidy and tend to Mama. You see, Mama was ‘fragile’. Calling a woman ‘fragile’ rather than ‘crazy’ is a genteel tradition in the South. In today’s parlance you might say Mama “had a lot of baggage”. Yes, indeed, my Mama lugged around a complete set of Samsonite her whole life, bless her heart.
Daddy was forced to pay Ish to do what Mama wouldn’t.
Mama didn’t press shirt collars or put a shine on parquet floors. I never saw her darn a sock, take up a hem or replace a button. She didn’t change bedsheets, wash dishes or polish silver. She never hung a curtain, scoured a bathtub or went (on her own) to the Piggly Wiggly to buy groceries. Mama insisted that her fingers cramped up all stiff and gnarly if she handled dirty dishes and dusting the rungs of our captain’s chairs caused her to have wheezing episodes. Ish liked to tease my mother, “It’s a good thing you’s movie star pretty!”
Mama and Ish were best friends and their priorities were in perfect sync. Reading movie magazines preoccupied the best hours of any given day for these two good hearts. They adored Miss Elizabeth Taylor. They never called her, “Liz” because Mama read in a Screenplay magazine that she loathed the nickname. I loved Miss Taylor too, but Annette Funicello of Mouseketeer fame was my idol at the time.
Come to think of it, Annette Funicello was directly responsible for my leaving kindergarten after attending for only nine days. Every weekday afternoon when Mama and Ish wanted to discuss grown women’s business they sat me in front of our television set and I watched “The Mickey Mouse Club”. I was mesmerized. Annette’s hair is what intrigued me, so black, so round, so curly. I wanted her hair.
Boy, now that I think about it, Mama and Ish sure did indulge my every whim. Mama sent Ish to the drugstore to buy a home permanent kit. Together they mixed the foul smelling ingredients and saturated my straight hair with the chemical soup then wound my hair around the curling rods so tightly my eyes were almost on top of my ears. They agreed to leave the solution on my head an extra thirty minutes, since my hair lacked even the slightest hint of a natural curl. The results: perfect lamb like curls all over my head. I preened in front of the mirror, but before long I started to cry, “It’s not black! My hair has to be black!’
Mama didn’t like me whinging, claimed it set her nerves on edge so she and Ish turned my brown hair a shiny ebony using liquid shoe polish. I went to school the next day just knowing that my classmates would instantly recognize the resemblance between me and my favorite Mouseketeer.
It was a shame that the principal of my school didn’t watch “The Mickey Mouse Club”. He sent me home at lunch time with a note for my mother to read. Mama read that note, tore it up and pitched it into the kitchen trash can. She grumbled something about allowing a child’s creative juices to flow at will as she double dipped the shoe polish applicator into the inky liquid and touched up my color. I never went back to kindergarten.
My birthday came and went, I turned six years old. Ish baked a devil’s food cake and I ate three pieces knowing full well that I was allergic to chocolate. It was early November before I could stop using the calamine lotion that soothed my hives. We spent Thanksgiving at Mama’s only sister’s house where I sneaked a sip of my aunt’s champagne cocktail and threw up. I’ve not touched champagne since. Christmas was still exciting for me despite a playmate telling me that Santa Claus was a fraud, never existed. On the first day of the New Year Mama let me circle all the significant days to come on the new calendar and the first meaningful event I circled and still do, was Academy Awards night.
After the hair coloring mishap my routine was the same every morning. I’d meet Ish at the kitchen door and help her get her bundles to the old maple wood table. For all the years she crossed our threshold she never arrived empty handed.
“I knocks wit my elbows,” she would brag.
Ish would start her work day by propping up the ironing board in front of the bay window, God forbid she should miss the “goin’s on” in the neighborhood while she was pressing old vinegar tongue’s shirts. She let me spit on the iron to make sure it was hot enough to glide across the wrinkles without dragging. Ish was finished with her ironing in no time at all, you see, she only pressed the collars and sleeves of Daddy’s shirts; Daddy was a carpenter and wore overalls exclusively.
Ish would hiss, “I’s like ta sooner fry a frog an’ eat it head first ‘fore I fuss with shirt tails nobody’s gonna see!”
She did, however, pay attention to detail when starching Daddy’s sleeves and collars. My Daddy never did notice that his shirt tails were as wrinkled as the palms of my hands after my Saturday night bubble bath. He sure did rip at his armpits with a vengeance though and there were some evenings he’d scratch so furiously he’d ask Mama to check him for lice. I used to try my Sunday sermon listening best not to laugh.
Once the ironing was put away Ish unpacked her shopping bags. On one particular day there were three crumb buns dusty with confectioners sugar, hand lotion infused with cocoa butter, the latest movie magazines and a slightly bent out of shape rhinestone tiara that Mama asked to borrow for her Academy Awards party, which was just days away. Ish made a pot of tea and Mama read aloud to us from one of the movie magazines.
“Princess Grace of Monaco hosted a charity gala wearing a periwinkle blue ball gown designed especially for her by Oleg Cassini.”
One by one I picked the sugary crumbs from my cake and pressed them onto my tongue as I looked at the photographs accompanying the article. Cary Grant was in attendance looking as debonair as ever.
“M’m, m’m, m’m.” Ish made that sound every time she saw a photograph of Cary Grant.
The second feature Mama read reported that Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher were thinking about buying a larger home in the Hollywood Hills to accommodate their growing family. If only Debbie knew! Hedda Hopper announced that Susan Hayward was preparing to go on location in the desert somewhere for the new movie she was starring in. Mama had to take a moment to compose herself because she misted up recalling the tear jerkers Miss Haywood had previously starred in. We “oohed “ and “ahhed” at the photographs on the following page that featured Audrey Hepburn loping up a narrow mountain footpath somewhere in Europe. We vowed to visit the Continent someday soon. Mama always saved the Miss Taylor stories for last.
“Listen to this, dears. Elizabeth Taylor and producer husband, Mike Todd, had dinner at the Brown Derby with her mother and brother visiting from England. Miss Taylor’s friend of many years, actor Roddy McDowall, joined them.”
The photograph was lovely, five happy people with coffee cups and pie slices in front of them. Our keen eyes detected the unused silverware and still folded napkins on the table. We concluded that it must have been a publicity photo. The last article Mama read that afternoon declared that Miss Taylor was the only woman in the world with amethyst colored eyes. That was yesterday’s news for fans as devoted as we were.
When Mama finished reading she decided to go over the itinerary for her Academy Awards party. Her guest list was the same every year; me, Ish, her only sister and Barbara Sue Hession. Barbara Sue Hession used to take me out for an airing when I still needed a baby buggy to get around. Mama decided that fancy finger food served buffet style would suit the affair just fine. I looked forward to the spicy little meatballs that you popped into your mouth on the tip of a plastic sword shaped toothpick. Highballs would be served upon request to the grown ups and Barbara Sue Hession and I would sip ginger ale from the good champagne glasses, the ones rimmed with twenty-four carat gold. Mama reminded Ish to pick up a case of beer for her sister.
“She can take home anything she doesn’t drink, dear.”
Ish hollered up from the cellar.
“Yo’ sister be goin’ home empty handed!”
I had pre-Academy Award chores to tend to. I feather dusted the folding chairs that were pulled out from under the staircase. Ish taught me how, by using Dunson’s Hair Pomade, I could cover the scuff marks and restore an almost new shine to my Sunday only patent leather shoes. My last chore was the easiest, choosing a dress to wear to the party. I just knew that my mint green flower girl gown that I wore for my eldest cousin’s wedding would look smashing. Selecting accessories proved more difficult for me; I finally settled on a charm bracelet from the five and dime and my lucky shamrock ring with the adjustable band that didn’t turn your finger green, provided you didn’t sweat too much.
Party day finally arrived. Ish prepared the food early on. The folding chairs were situated theatre fashion, three in the front row and three in the last. I dressed up the candy dish with a paper lace doily and fanned out the Irish linen cocktail napkins. Ish set the buffet with Mama’s wedding silver using her eyebrow tweezers to loosen and remove the old wax from the candelabra before securing the new candles into place. We made ice cubes three times that day to fill the bucket on the cocktail trolley. As Ish was filling the ice cube trays with faucet water I heard her ask Mama.
“Where old vinegar tongue gonna be tonight?”
Mama examined her manicure.
“Don’t you worry, dear. He’s spending the night at his Daddy’s place. Some sort of card game planned.”
Ish sighed, “Thank you, Lord!”
Mama double checked her party list and when she was certain that all details were attended to she announced, “Dears, we’d better get ready for the party!”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
At six-thirty our guests arrived. Mama came close to a fainting fit when her sister came through the vestibule with her two small boys . My aunt apologized.
“ I am truly sorry, sister, dear. Their Daddy refused to be left alone with them. I’m parched, dear. What’s to drink?”
Townsfolk whispered that my two cousins “were evil little cock knockers just a waitin’ to sprout horns”.
By now Mama was hyperventilating and near tears. Lightning quick, Ish snatched up the oldest boy and grabbed the bottle of the Tennessee bourbon from the serving cart. She stuck her index finger into that bottle of hooch and soaked it for a good minute before she rammed her whiskey drenched finger into my cousin’s mouth and rubbed his gums with as much vigor as a wish maker rubbing a genie’s lamp. She repeated the process with the younger boy. My cousins eyes were thick with pixie dust before you could say, “May I have the envelope, please?”
Mama recovered nicely and the party began. Barbara Sue Hession turned on the hi-fi and we all danced the cha cha to music by Louie Prima and Keely Smith. My aunt kept us laughing with her Tallulah Bankhead impersonation. Ish sang along to a Dinah Washington record and sounded amazingly similar to the songstress; we gave her a standing ovation. I contributed to the festivities with my rendition of “Over the Rainbow” but, Mama cut short my performance after one verse and whispered, “You dance so much better than you sing, dear. Practice your dancing and you could be the next Mitzi Gaynor.”
Barbara Sue Hession played her Elvis Presley records and squealed hysterically when Mr. Presley started to sing. Once she regained control she taught us the newest rock and roll dance steps. I asked Barbara Sue Hession why she went berserk when Mr. Presley sang and she couldn’t give me an answer, but told me that some day I would understand and sure enough, the day the Beatles arrived in America and I wriggled for a space by the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel I understood perfectly.
That evening Mama looked beautiful in her lavender gown with the satin spaghetti straps. She reminded me of the lilacs that I picked from the bush in our front yard. Mama even had her peau de soie shoes professionally dyed to match her purple eye shadow. The rhinestone tiara nestled regally on her head and shimmered when she stood near the candelabra casting miniature rainbows every which way.
Ish wore an ankle length tangerine colored sheath with a slit up the back revealing her shapely calves. Tiny bits of brightly colored metallic confetti floated in the see through plastic heels of her evening pumps. I begged Ish to save those shoes for me and she promised that she would. Ish was the life of the party that night and she only stopped dancing when her forehead began to drip sweat. When she perspired her skin was the same color as the buttery cinnamon toast she made for me on cold winter mornings.
We repaired to our assigned seats as the Academy Awards were about to be presented. Joanne Woodward, Red Buttons and Alec Guiness were among the Oscar winners that evening. We applauded wildly for them and solemnly recited the Academy Awards mantra for the losers.
“It was an honor to be nominated.”
The party ended after midnight. Barbara Sue Hession collected my cousins from the den and wedged them lengthwise into their red wagon for the short walk home. Ish was wrong, my aunt didn’t go home empty handed; she took the bottle of Tennessee bourbon with her. Ish blew out the candles and settled in for the night on the sofa once Mama and I went upstairs to get ready for bed. Mama slathered on her Abolene cream to remove her make up as I danced around the vanity table wearing the rhinestone tiara.
Someone started banging on the front door and by the time Mama and I made it down the stairs Ish had already answered. It was the sheriff. He removed his hat before he addressed Mama.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you Ma’am, your husband has been hurt. He’s at County General Hospital and he’s in bad shape.”
Seems Mr. Mueller, the owner of the “Dandy Dixie Diaper Service” ran Daddy down while driving home in one of his big trucks. Mr. Mueller claimed that he forgot his driving glasses at the golf club where he had been attending a membership meeting and never saw Daddy crossing the road. Shoot, everyone in town knew that those meetings were nothing more than a night out of carrying on for the good old boys, nevertheless, the tragedy was recorded as an accident and not one person assumed that Mr. Mueller got off easy because his daughter was married to the mayor’s son.
Daddy had both his legs amputated above the knee. He suffered a stroke and lost all of his motor and speech capabilities. Ish became his primary care giver and what a fine nurse she turned out to be. Why, she was so concerned for Daddy’s safety when he was in his wheel chair she went ahead and braided him a makeshift seat belt using old piano wire she found in the shed and if that home made harness tore up Daddy’s neck all raw and bloody she slapped some Crisco on that wound and had him healed up in no time at all.
Ish liked to wheel Daddy into the garden and set him near the rose bushes when they were in full bloom and if those nosy bumblebees lit on Daddy and stung him, she didn’t interfere , after all, Daddy had no feeling since the stroke. She often left Daddy in the sunshine near the fish pond for hours and she always seemed amused when she retrieved him.
“Why, suh, you’s sweatin’ jus’ like me when you made me climb up dat rickety old ladder ta wash da windows durin’ dat blazin’ hot spell last August. ‘Member, suh?”
One afternoon when Ish was hanging wash I heard her laughing with Evie, the neighbor’s maid.
“Can’t wipe his nose, can’t wipe his bottom. Now if dat ain’t da Lord gettin’ even wit da devil.”
Daddy died before the winter of ’59 and what a blessing that was because the wheels of his chair froze up if even a mite of cold weather blew into town. Besides, having him in the house all day long during the winter months set Mama’s nerves to twitching (plus she couldn’t stand having her furniture banged up by his wheel chair when Ish shifted him from room to room. )
My Daddy’s misfortune didn’t put me off the Academy Awards, as a matter of fact, I haven’t missed a presentation since. Last year I invited my teenaged daughter to join me in perpetuating my annual tradition. I told her that not a Christmas, not a Fourth of July was ever as magical as watching the Academy Awards with Mama and Ish. My daughter gave me her one word answer she has for anything that I ask her, “Boring!”
This year I rummaged through my closet and rescued the box labeled “Oscars”. I carefully removed the rhinestone tiara from its tissue paper pillow and placed it onto my head. I slipped my feet into Ishs’ evening pumps with the confetti filled heels and watched the Academy Awards alone.
Coreen Falco
© 2015 Coreen Falco
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