Akansas Delta Ramblings

Driving Miss Naomi

I knew I was in trouble when Miss Naomi, an octogenarian friend of mine, wrote me an e-mail recently. She promised me a meal out at Charlotte’s in Keo as an enticement to drive out to her house in Scott from Maumelle. Now natives of Little Rock all know that Charlotte’s has the most delectable pies in all the world to sell. On any given day, one can walk into the restaurant and see and smell in the bakery case beautifully-laden meringue pies of all kinds—coconut cream, chocolate cream, banana cream—along with several choices of cakes—chocolate, red velvet, and Italian cream. The sweet scents of chocolate and sugar waft through the air, and it is all one can do to wolf down a quick sandwich to get to the dessert choices.
On this particular day, Naomi asked if I would drive her over one day soon to Des Arc. I knew that she was working on a project to photograph dying towns in the Delta and to write about their past and present history. As I munched on my parmesan-encrusted bread with its filling of turkey, avocadoes, and a special dressing, I heard myself saying, “Well, I can commit to one trip perhaps, but I don’t know if I can for the other forty-nine towns you want to write about.” Miss Naomi was happy, I think, to have new traveling companions (my husband was invited also) since her previous partner, Charlie, had died unexpectedly the month before. “Now when we go on the trip, I’ll buy you the best catfish dinner you ever ate.” Once again, I knew she had me at the word “catfish” this time.
We started out for Des Arc the week before Thanksgiving. Miss Naomi was already emphatic that we would not be getting onto the interstate but would take the back roads instead. Miss Naomi’s assistant, Rhonda, who is a jack-of-all-trades, helps her by cleaning her house and taking her on errands to Wal Mart while at the same time working as a waitress at the 76 Station and being a full partner at her husband’s farm. She put one of Miss Naomi’s three walkers into the back of our little Vibe, made sure bottled water would be taken on the trip, and seemed happy when I told her I had brought along some sugar-less pumpkin bread since Miss Naomi has diabetes.
Our first stop in Des Arc was the court house where we took a couple of pictures and the sign in front of it with Miss Naomi’s throwaway camera she had brought for the occasion. I had hoped to use my digital camera to get some better pictures perhaps, but as usual, my batteries were dead. We next went to the Lower White River Museum for a few pictures and took photographs of a number of dilapidated, empty houses in the little town. By that time, we were ready for that “best catfish ever” downtown at a little diner named T. J.’s. The restaurant filled up quickly even before noon with all kinds of working men who had no doubt come for the blue plate special of hamburger steak, as well as many hunters in their camouflage since deer season was in full swing. The trucks outside the window were loaded with shotguns in the back windows and deer stands. We enjoyed the perfectly cooked catfish, hushpuppies, and cole slaw before we walked a few steps down Main Street to try the door of the thrift shop in town. The sign said it would open at 1 p.m.
Since we had about forty-five minutes to kill before then, we drove to another nearby town on Miss Naomi’s list for research—Cotton Plant. We took a number of pictures, finishing the roll, and headed back to Des Arc to “go junking” as Miss Naomi called it. When we arrived back in Des Arc, we noticed a number of ladies already in the shop, examining everything from clothes to old knives to designer perfumes. “These perfumes,” said the clerk to everyone who walked close to the counter, “sell here for $15 each; they are $75 at department stores.” I stopped to examine the brands and saw they were indeed name brands like Liz Taylor’s “Diamonds,” Calvin Klein’s “Escape,” and others. One woman put her wrist to my nose and said, “Here smell this; doesn’t it smell good?” She then proceeded to buy several bottles and then announced, “I want some more, but I’ll have to go home and pick up some more pecans to sell before I can come back.”
Miss Naomi discovered a number of small items to buy such as a Santa Claus mug for a relative who collects them, an old Elvis Presley LP of hymns, and a knife made in China for another. She was happy with her bargains. Even I could not resist the enticing items before me and carried out of the store two white sacks of dishes and bowls originally sold at Pier One. They were delicate glass dishes decorated with blueberries with green leaves surrounded by yellow trim. My husband, who is not a fan of thrift shops, had sat in the car while Miss Naomi and I were “junking.” He just shook his head as I deposited my sacks alongside the walker in the back of the Vibe.
Miss Naomi regaled us on the trip with many stories about her distant past as well as her present life. She was a student at the University of Iowa writing program years ago. Her doctor has just given her a bit more time since she was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years back. Miss Naomi told us that day that she had already visited Des Arc and Cotton Plant for pictures and research a few months back. My husband and I wondered each to ourselves, of course, what the purpose of our presence had been. Did Miss Naomi just want to have a day trip with good friends? Did she need someone to listen to her own memories of the past and to listen to her concerns about the shorter, darker days which lay ahead for her? Heck no . . . we both concluded it was all about the food. When we left her back in Scott, we knew once more we had been had with her initial promise of tasty, delectable dishes. We watched her as she plodded up to her doorstep with her walker, “Now remember, Miss Naomi, we want to try that other great catfish place in Georgetown soon.”

A Memory From the Past at Year's End

The Legend of Addie Faye

I haven’t thought about Addie Faye for over fifty years until recently. It was at ZaZa’s when my granddaughter and I started talking about popularity, always an important subject for a twelve-year-old. When asked my advice about how to be popular, I immediately began telling Caitlyn that she should be a friend to all people, regardless of race or class. She should work hard to make sure no one was excluded. She should speak to all she knew in her middle school hallways and call them by name. It was only then that I remembered where I myself had learned such traits; it was from Addie Faye Sullivan, a senior in my rural delta high school. She was indeed a queen and a legend at West Tallahatchie High School in 1957.
My grandfather had died in the spring of that year, and my worn-out, depressed waitressing mother decided the three of us—she, my sister Judy, and I—should move in with my grandmother to live. I was just completing my seventh grade year at E. E. Bass in Greenville, Mississippi, and was in that pre-adolescent stage of life. Not only was I gawky as a 5’9” kid of around 100 pounds, I had naturally curly dirty-blonde hair with the highest forehead ever recorded in history I was sure. My hair frizzed frequently in the damp fall days in the delta. I had also just started wearing glasses since my vision was near being considered legally blind. Nevertheless, I was determined to make the best of the move and began meeting new friends as an eighth grader.
I noticed Addie Faye immediately as a cute, short vivacious senior. As she walked down the hall every day, she would call each person by name and say hi. I am still not sure how she learned my name, but soon I was added to the list of junior highers who admired her greatly. Oh yes, I had heard about Addie Faye that fall—how she had just had a baby girl out of wedlock (it was after all 1957, and no one, except Addie Faye, kept their babies back then. Other girls went away to visit their “aunts” for a few months and then returned all slim and trim with no babies in their possession). The whole experience though had cost Addie Faye the head cheerleader’s position since a mommy cheerleader couldn’t be expected to yell, “Can you make it? Can you take it? Can you Tallahatchie shake it? Can you boogy to the left? Can you boogy to the right?” It would not be appropriate according to the school administrators.
I continued to observe Addie Faye’s friendliness to all in spite of her own exclusion in some circles. I did not have much success making more than a friend or so that first year since I was still unbearably shy. Not many people back then lived with their grandmothers who were in their 60’s without a mother (ours had decided to work by that time in Memphis) or a father (ours had been absent since we were quite young). With Judy’s encouragement, however, I decided upon a bold step: to run for the position of student council treasurer. I decided to ask Addie Faye to be my campaign manager. We put posters everywhere throughout the school; we glittered letters to hang across the hallways saying, “Sims for Treasurer.” We even had cards printed to promote my candidacy.
The final day of the campaign was to be for speeches. Mine I knew was rather dull and standard, “Please vote for me for treasurer; I’ll do the best I can for you,” I stammered as my knees clapped together in a strange rhythm which I was sure could be picked up over the microphone. My voice, never strong and confident at that time, was barely above a whisper.
Addie Faye’s speech on my behalf, however, was magnificent. While I can’t remember all the great things she said about me personally, I knew that I was swelling with pride as I heard those words. She ended the speech with Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If.” You remember how it goes, “If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs, and blaming it on you, / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance for their doubting too / If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, / Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies. / Or being hated don’t give way to hating. / And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.” By the end of the poem, the rural students, who weren’t exactly college material, were on their feet clapping thunderously. The next day, of course, the election took place, and the votes were counted. I waited nervously for the votes count, hoping that I would get enough votes not to be humiliated.
I lost the election that day by seven votes to a sophomore boy, but I gained something much more important: a newly-found confidence for myself and a respect for all the women who go through tremendous odds and still emerge as victors. In my eyes, Addie Faye has always been, and will always continue to be, a delta legend.

The Ever-Changing Cast of Characters

This week we have heard on the news about the changing nature of families in the United States. It seems that the number of people getting married is actually decreasing. We are now at 51% married couples. Many do not choose to marry for a variety of reasons we are told. One of the most important as we know is the recession (or depression as Paul Krugman, the economist, would say). More couples in a higher economic class marry compared to couples in a lower class.

While visiting with my friend Pat yesterday, we were sitting in her den, and she was explaining the stockings on the mantle which were already waiting for Santa's goodies. I noticed that on several that instead of having an embroidered name on them, they had a large white card with the name printed. She went on to explain that the cast of characters in her family was ever-changing. While I don't remember the actual names, the conversation went something like this, "Patty was married to Jimmy but now she is married to John," and so on.

I began thinking about my own family and realized that her perception is very true. We began with four of us--us and our two children. Kimberly was with her partner Stef and later with her partner Sheri. They now have a six-year-old son Cole. Chris, our son, was with his wife Carrie and had two children, Caitlyn and Charlie. Now he is with Meera and her two children, Ethan and Emma. Most families in the U. S. are now blended in any number of ways. We simply do as Pat has done, keep putting new cards on the stockings.

Knock Knock Knocking on Heaven's Door

A popular topic in the past few years for filmmakers has been an end-of-the-world scenario. I am thinking of three that I have recently seen--A Serious Man, Take Shelter, and most recently, Melancholia. The latter is still haunting me. There is no question that the cinematography is outstanding as one watches a series of scenes at the beginning showing many figures literally stopped in their tracks as a small planet named Melancholia heads toward a collision with earth. Three characters are featured: one is a young bride suffering from severe clinical depression who cannot will herself to go forward each day, her sister who also suffers from giving care to this young woman, and a scientifically-minded husband who is assuring everyone that the planet will miss the earth and just be a beautiful spectacle in the sky. The ending shot of the planet hurtling toward earth is magnificent.

The theme of the film brings to mind several alternatives that one can have as he or she anticipates the end of life as we know it. The depressed woman becomes oddly serene and almost looks forward to the end of the world; she becomes obsessed with the wonder of it all. The sister becomes increasingly anxious as she wants her young son to have a life beyond the present moment and seeks all possible alternatives to escape death. The husband chooses to die early when he realizes his scientific calculations have been incorrect. An additional fourth character, the son, longs for a magic cave where all will be saved.

It seems that the director of the film has captured the reactions most of us would consider if we knew the world would be ending immediately. The symbolism seems clear that the son's view represents the hope of religion and faith that this life on earth is not all there is. Christians believe in a heaven where all will live eternally. Having no hope seems to be the saddest way to live one's life I have always thought.

An Oppressed African Refugee

While reading an advent book for Christmas, entitled Christmas Is Not Your Birthday by Mike Slaughter, I noticed that the author described Jesus as an oppressed African refugee. It seemed so appropriate since the Gospels speak of the time shortly after Jesus' birth where He and his family had to flee to Egypt in order to escape the wrath of King Herod. Africa was a place of refuge for Christ until the time came when He could be safely brought back to Nazareth.

In the conservative Christian community, we sometimes turn a blind eye to the needs of the African people. We typically use the excuse that there are so many needs in America to concentrate on--certainly not those in Darfur. I have probably been guilty of this type of thinking as well. Being able to picture Jesus, however, as an oppressed African refugee somehow changes the scenario for me.

Yes, we still have to be careful about the charities we send our donations to since there is sometimes corruption associated with them. We need to research those we choose to send our money to in order to ensure that the money will be used well.

Why Not Chimney Sweepers?

While on my morning walk up to Majestic Point yesterday, I heard a discussion about presidential candidate New Gingrich's 100 ideas an hour. I was reminded of the famous line from Romeo and Juliet about Mercutio--that he speaks more in a minute than he will listen to in a month. This time Newt indicated that poor children, ages 14 to 16, could be used as janitors in order to replace the union janitors currently employed. My mind went back immediately to the William Blake poem entitled, "The Chimney Sweeper," in which the persona is in heaven already and lamenting that fact. It's common knowledge that young children in pre-modern times were used because of their size to clean chimneys. As a result, many did not live until adulthood.

I tried to apply this possibility to my own childhood as a poor child growing up in the Mississippi Delta towns of Greenville and later Tutwiler. My current primary care physician tells me now that my chest x-rays show a lesion caused most likely by childhood tuberculosis that mysteriously calcified over. I wonder if I could have survived as a child working as a janitor around a lot of dust, asbestos, lead, and so on.

Newt's idea is simply ludicrous. There is no need to return to Charles Dickens' Nineteenth Century England.