Deere John

"Oooooh nephew, you better turn on Channel 4." When my Aunt Narlena calls I am always amused that she refers to me by our family relation and that she is convinced we share the same broadcast stations despite the hundred miles that separates Western North Carolina from the Piedmont. "You are not gonna believe this."

Since the advent of expanded cable, my Aunt Narlena has devoted her retirement to unearthing the contemporary broadcast equivalent of the circus sideshows she religiously visited during the post-Depression era. Her discoveries fill phone calls, written correspondences and make for lively dinner conversation. "I tell you what, that half-tree man reminded me of those two Siamese twins that were joined back to back and worked down at the Park'n'Shop on Monroe Street. Did you know Ralph Leonard custom built those check-out lines so those two girls could each be a cashier? Oh, I use to have the hardest time deciding which line to go to. They both had the sweetest faces." The hirsute lady and sword-eating man of her youth have now been replaced with overly tattooed business owners and round-the-clock news coverage.

"Can your eyes believe it?" My explanation of channel differences could not convince my aunt. "Lord nephew, it's Dahlia. She's lost her ever-lovin' mind. Who would have thought my one-and-only sister-in-law would be riding down Wilkinson Boulevard being chased by the police. Who would ever believe that?" Narlena paused and then continued, "Looks like she has on a really purdy pajama set." Knowing the great state of North Carolina had seen fit to revoke the driver's license of my Aunt Dahlia after a curious accident with her Cadillac, a goat, the Carother's Funeral Home garage and two empty whiskey bottles, I asked, "Is . .she . . driving?" My Aunt Narlena sighed, "Well, she's on her John Deere."

Dahlia resembles nothing of the beautiful flower of her namesake. She is tall and stick thin with wild streaks of white in her pitch-black hair. Her boned arms and legs seem simultaneously brittle and lethal and her often frantic pace rhythmically repeats a noxious mantra of "snap or be snapped." Negating her pale complexion, Estelle will often wonder, "Do you think she is a Cherokee?" Stereotypical native behavior and a life dedicated to Southern Comfort are the sole explanation for her non compos mentis.

Through a course of events confusing to even her relatives, Dahlia escaped the mill villages of Lowell, North Carolina and, after several brief marriages, including one to my now-departed uncle, found herself with a large house on Cramer Mountain, a textile mill and an only child, Beaumont. While she was married to my uncle, she lived in a house that shared a large number of back acres with ours, separated only by a fence. During the summer, when not playing with Beaumont, Estelle and I would look out of our glassed porch, drink iced tea and watch Dahlia's daily antics.

Dahlia single-handedly catapulted a washer and dryer set into the backyard and vowed to only wash clothes at the Miller's Sudz'n'Foldz. "They Lawd, will you look at that," Estelle whispered when Dahlia chain-sawed a robust oak tree onto my uncle's Town Car. There was no marital bliss between Dahlia and my uncle and soon their arrangement led to her salvation of Southern Comfort, shopping and sheer craziness due to his indulgences of secretaries and gambling, both at which he excelled proudly and exponentially. After one announced dalliance, Dahlia swore off proper attire for silk pajama sets and robes. This has been her uniform since the early 1980s.

Dahlia's burgundy velvet smoking jacket released the flowing legs of her lavender pajama pants that barely covered her delicate ankles. Her brocade metallic slippers revved up the tractor motor as she ferociously drove inch-deep tracks through the backyard. The tractor wheeled frenetic lines and circles through the backyard as Dahlia had one hand lifted to the air securing a bottle of Southern Comfort. "Hell yeah," "Son of a bitch," and "Wooooooooooo" could be heard across the yards as the jerking motion of the John Deere tractor produced mounds of red clay and shattered scraps of mutilated grass. Yes, Mr. Frost, good fences do make good neighbors.

As a child, Dahlia frightened me. During family getting-togethers, she would take my infantile cousins and toss them high into the air while releasing a guttural laugh before catching the falling child at the last minute. "Come here and let Dahlia eat your toes," preceded a pretend feasting on the child's small feet leaving the room filled with Dahlia's awkwardly deep drawl and shrill baby laughter. Looking at my intact toes, I was sure Estelle had never let Dahlia near me. Then in a swift second, it would be over and Dahlia would retreat to a dark corner of the room, cry and then have a fainting spell. Her flair was alarming to all and my Mamaw, rooted in the pews of the holiness church, had only one excuse, "That Dahlia is eat up with the devil."

"Uh-oh mama, here she comes." At times, the devil would cross the fence. The imminent apocalypse was signaled with the way Dahlia slammed the side door of her house. The side door was in direct correlation with her visit. She would then briskly walk, bottle in hand and pajamas flowing toward our house. My screaming was meant to warn my family as if to say "Quickly, let's grab our favorite things and get in the Volvo and go before the beast descends upon us" or, if Dahlia's pace was a bit slower, "The tornado is approaching, we better go get hid under the basement stairs with the flashlights." After a chastising look non grata, Estelle would head to the back porch and warn, "You can come on over Dahlia but don't bring your firewater onto my yard. It's not acceptable and I will not have it." Her tone, even though baring a stern warning, was sweet. Without a flinch, Dahlia would take one last swig, drop the bottle and easily hop the four-foot high fence. I bet Mr. Frost knew nothing of Dahlia when he penned his poem.

"My that is a handsome pajama set," Estelle would often begin and Dahlia would ease into the wicker love seat, her tension relaxing into the soft floral cushions and her milky white skin hiding under the awning over the porch. "I'll get you some coffee and a warm towel, hon. It will make you feel better." Secured in my bedroom, images of Dahlia would couple with my Mamaw's holiness exegesis of, "That Dahlia is eat up with the Devil," and I would pray the she-beast would not kidnap Estelle and return to the underworld, leaving me orphaned with Dahlia's defaced back yard to forever haunt me. Forsaking the atari, I would pray for what seemed like several silent hours and often emerge to see Dahlia jump the fence and return home.

Once during a seclusion that lasted unusually long, the hush gnawed at me and I decide to bravely leave the confines of my sanctuary. Praying only goes so far. I crawled to the edge of the stairs and perched on the landing, spying out the large glass window overlooking the back porch. I expected to see Dahlia throwing geraniums or digging up marigolds or shredding lawn furniture as Estelle strategically ducked out of the way from her fury. Instead I saw a tear-stained face and a broken posture slumped towards Estelle. Their hands were clasped over each other's and I could hear Estelle's lilt, "It's gonna be alright Dahlia. Have yourself a good cry, it will make you feel better. You can tell me." I realized the sanctuary was on the back porch and I retreated to my room.

Estelle's shoes always gave her away when she climbed the stairs, her presence announced with every step. "Is Dahlia gone?" I whispered, peeking my head from my bedroom. Estelle revealed nothing of the visit or of the tears or the feel of Dahlia's bony hands clasped in hers. "Oh, I drove her home a while ago." I was shocked that Dahlia had not walked back, jumping the fence to return home. Equally shocking was the lack of fear present in Estelle's voice that was replaced with compassion and then silence. We both stood with Dahlia's tortuous yard as our backdrop. "She did have on beautiful pajamas today," was Estelle's only closing comment.

"Narlena, where on Earth was Dahlia going on a John Deere riding lawn mower?" I had to ask. "Well, if you must know, she was going to the A_B_C store," Narlena's voice was secretive and low as if she was hiding critical, yet, shameful information about Dahlia's trip to the Alcohol and Beverage Control Commission stores of the state of North Carolina. "She had asked Beaumont to bring her over some of the stuff she drinks and he wouldn't. So she told Beaumont that she would drive his truck into the Catawba river before she asked him for another thing. That's when she hopped on her John Deere and headed down that mountain. It's only about a mile really from her house. She rides it all the time to the Harris-Teeter." Narlena exhaled deeply signaling her acceptance and concerns for Dahlia.

"Oh nephew, you're gonna need to watch channel eighteen Sunday night. They are gonna have these women on who have gone through fifty-'leven husbands and can't have children so they adopt real, live monkeys and raise them as their very own children. It's called "Baby Monkeys" or "Monkey Children" or "Monkey Babies" and it's gonna be good." Putting down the phone, I was curious about Narlena's viewing advice about women who were so distraught and lonely that they would do something drastic and absurd like adopt a monkey and raise it as a child. Who would ever believe that?

Can I Get An Amen?

"Of course, I am upset Nora. How could I not be very, very upset?" Estelle was holding her phone with one hand, shaking her head vigorously and holding her other arm straight in the air signaling her "sheer and utter frustration." One thing and one thing only causes Estelle this much strife: The Baptists.

Before I was born, my parents left the Holiness and Pentecostal churches prevalent in the Appalachians for the sophistication and sanity of the Southern Baptists. First Baptist was steadfast in our lives. Wednesday evenings filled our schedules with fellowship dinners, Royal Ambassadors and choir rehearsals. Sundays brought Sunday School felt board stories, robust and hearty hymn singing and a Georgian-inspired sanctuary where morning light glistened on the pastor whose close resemblance to Christopher Plummer's Captain von Trapp made the sermons equally eloquent and romantic.

Summers were no respite for our work as Southern Baptists with church picnics and pig pickin's, building houses for the poor, canning food with widows and the firm grasp of Vacation Bible School, that bastion of Bible story boot camp and macaroni art. Church was life and life was church. This became evident at the Country Club pool, the summer oasis for many members of the Women's Missionary Union and their offspring. Once, confusing Sunday's sermon about Peter's lack of faith contributing to his potential drowning and the previous night's bedtime story, The Little Engine That Could, I stood on the edge of the kiddy pool with water barely at my ankles, clad in floral swim trunks and orange inflatable floaties, earnestly praying, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." Each time as I stepped out on the pool water, it was the floaties that sustained my buoyancy, not my faith. Soon other children abandoned their ritual of Marco Polo for a game of Peter on the Water. Religiously, these were the salad years. Then, the 1970s ended.

The 1980s brought many ill-conceived changes for the Baptists and borrowing from Toole's post-suicidal novel, Estelle began referring to the Southern Baptist Convention as the "Confederates and Dummies." Gone from the pulpit was the allegory and eloquence of Reverend Captain von Trapp and in this vacuum the formulaic, three-point tirades of "the new preacher" did not fill the void. Singing all stanzas of the hymns slowly vanished and sparse choruses accompanied by the hand waving of new congregants arose amongst the flock. Estelle and other members of the Women's Missionary Union ignored the encouragement to abandon their efforts with the local needs of migrant men for hulling coconuts as primitive banks to be used for the annual Lottie Moon offering for foreign missions.

Estelle's first descent was in reaction to four words heralded from the pulpit: "She was a hooker." Autumn had ushered in the falling of leaves and the social standing of Mary Magdalene. "It's in the true word of God for all to read and behold," the preacher's rant continued. Estelle's body stiffened and her face became terse with The Look. I feared that she would secretly stretch her arm and miraculously reach "the new preacher" from her perch on the front row and grab his abounding flesh twisting with a retributive and stinging pinch.

After the service when socializing had ceased, the car door closed with the simultaneous explosion of "Where did that jackass go to seminary and what kind of person uses the word 'hooker' in mixed company?" The showdown began. "Truth be told Mary Magdalene supported that whole lot. Is that where he's getting that garbage? Oh, just because she could afford to carry a bagful of boys that wouldn't work she is a hooker? Believe you me, I know hookers and I know my Bible. Mary Magdalene was most certainly NOT a 'hooker?'" The last word mocked the slow and wide Texan accent of the minister. "By Crackies," the audible warning that Estelle was fired up filled the car. "I've heard more sensible preaching out of the Merita bread truck."

There was no retreat in this crusade as made evident by the following Sunday's church announcements. This week for "the new preacher" did not bode well for Estelle when in his call for deacon nominations, he stated , "Before we nominate let us pray and ponder on the words found in First Timothy. 'Let the deacons be the husbands of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well.' These are the true qualifications for the men representing our church." In one simple didactic prayer, and following the new fundamentalist surge, women deacons were obliterated at First Baptist.

Poised for retaliation, Estelle had predicted such a move and was ready for action. During the prayer, I kept my eyes open enough to view Estelle and her fury. Her pen was drawn and attacking the five slots on the deacon nomination ballad. As the congregants prayed she caught eyes with several other of her sister-friends, signaling a coup. I watched her pen as she scribed:

1. Betty Jean Smith

2. Rosemary Jackson

3. Emily Anne Garret

4. Barbara Lunsford

5. ESTELLE

The prayer concluded with the congregation's "amen" having a slight feminist tone.

Conrad Garett called Estelle midweek with shocking news from the deacon's meeting. "He_did_what?" Estelle continued, "Well that jackrabbit." Although securing ample votes from the congregation, Estelle and her fellow suffragists had been excluded and discarded from the nominations. Shockingly, their names only found solace in the bottom of the choir room trash can. "What? The new preacher just threw them out?" Her inquiry of Conrad Garret was short and her gaze void and quiet. There was no news to joyfully sound.

Checking her lipstick in the mirror of the foyer, Estelle delicately filled the lining with an appropriate fall shade of plum. "Where are you off to?" My dad was not prepared for Estelle's stoic response, "I made an appointment with the new preacher. It's about time we had a talk." The meticulous application of plum was the soldier preparing her weapon for battle. Silence lingered and my dad understood there was no chance for armistice. He stuttered, "Well . . .uh . . .I'll pray."

Sitting in the pastoral study, ankles crossed and hands resting in her lap, Estelle listened as the new preacher explained his Biblical stance on the subjugation of women. To these upstart Baptists, the women of the Bible were only vessels for reproduction, conniving adulterers, or prostitutes. Her rebuttal of biblical heroines continually being dismissed by the south Texan, Estelle resigned her battle knowing to save her strength for the war.

She grabbed her pocketbook and firmly stood, her pants suit was well tailored and graceful. She straightened her coat and then met the eyes of the minister. "There is one more thing. A few Sundays ago you referred to Mary Magdalene as 'a hooker.' You were wrong. She was a strong woman who offered not only her financial support but her love to Jesus and the church. Young man, I know many women, including me, who have given their money and support to the church and that new children's building is proof of it. I assure you we are not prostitutes unless you have a new definition of the word. And if that is the case, what does it say about men like you who take our money?"

These were the last words exchanged between the minister and the congregant.

The new preacher left the mountains for the more docile landscape of south Georgia and Estelle's attendance is now elsewhere. The Episcopal church is more welcoming to women and she will snidely offer that "Baptist is what you are when you struggle. Episcopalian is what you are when you've made it in the world." Yet, she misses the hymn singing and the eloquence of a well-delivered allegory coupled with the emotions and passions of Baptistry. There was a reason Lot's nameless wife looked back.

Estelle's voice was pitched high and loud, "That was Nora Ridges from First Baptist and you will not believe what she had the nerve to ask me." I was still and silent being careful not to provide further agitation. "She wanted to know if she could cancel my subscription to 'Road on the Journey,' you know, that devotional I still get because your dad and I don't go to church there that much and it would save the church eighteen dollars a year." Nora had clearly crossed a line with her mention of monetary savings and my mother's attendance record. "Eighteen dollars! Eight_teen_dol_lars! Well, I just told her. Is First Baptist that hard up for money? Good Lord Jesus on the cross, I still pay my tithes to them and donate money for their building fund and they can't spend eighteen dollars on my spiritual well-being! That is the love of Christ in action." There was silence and then a sigh, "Those Baptists get me riled up."

The next Sunday found me at the breakfast table reading the paper when Estelle waltzed by calling for my dad to start the car. "Oh, I am going to First Baptist this morning. It is deacon nomination Sunday." Annually, Estelle attends deacon nomination armed with her Bible, her pen and the names of five godly women; it is an event that she never misses.

Although her nominations are never allowed on the ballot at First Baptist, she continues to volunteer with the local migrant and immigrant populations, she takes care of her elderly parents and the elderly parents of her friends, she visits the hospitals and donates clothes that would be the envy of the Junior League to the battered women. All of this and she is still the wife of one husband, ruling her children and houses well. Yet, for the Baptists, she is missing a pivotal chromosomal letter and is therefore left out of the deacon pool. I think they are the ones missing out.

Watching and Weighting

"I am fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat-fat-fat FAT," Estelle declared at the dinner table. For the first time in her life, her 5'3" frame was above a stone's weight and her dress size was no longer the equivalent of a toddler's age. "All my weight has come back," she continued referring to the few pounds on her fuller frame as a family member who was clearly estranged, unwanted and unwelcome.

I have heard people use this phrase my entire life. "Lord, all her weight has come back," seems to indicate a surprise visit over which the host has little control. Gently, it allows that one could wake up one morning and mysteriously find an extra thirty to fifty pounds of girth that would only be met with her friends covertly inquiring, "I wonder what happened?" It is as if one's no-good, no-job having, womanizing, always drunk husband has decided to abruptly return from his nefarious adventures in Holly Springs. It is all dead weight.

"I'm gonna have to buy pants with rubber in the waist," Estelle's rant continued. Despite her proclamation for elastic-waisted pants, I was sure Irene from Bella Donna would never approach Estelle's dressing room with anything above a size 8. In fact, friends, strangers and sales girls from Knoxville to Neiman Marcus would still assert her to be "tiny." "Good Lord Jesus on the cross, I got biiiiiig." The last word being completely guttural and lasting almost a minute. Obviously, Estelle thought they were all wrong.

Driving down Four Seasons Boulevard in late summer, many teens who have never left the Appalachians haven mistaken my mom's Navigator for images of hip-hop icons perpetuated by MTV. "I bet I even have the sugar." Estelle's hands gripped the mahogany steering wheel and the speed increased during her self-diagnosis of diabetes. We were into day two of this hissy fit and I was glad the windows were tinted and that every policeman from here to Jackson county knew her on a fist-name basis.

Somewhere between the Bojangles and Wanda's Fruit Stand Estelle found a solution. "Do you have time to go to Rose's Plaza?" Being unsure why she inquired, I was shifted mid-air as Estelle crossed four lanes of traffic and headed to the shopping center that everyone still referred to by the name of the now debunked discount store. I was still silent as the Navigator stopped inches from the glass store front decorated portent: Weight Watchers.

My family has a long relationship with Weight Watchers that dates back to my grandmother. Neither removing her crown nor sash as a former beauty queen from South Carolina, my grandmother was most likely a founding member of a secret organization of which vanity was its sole purpose. Never struggling with her weight, she stepped from the stage into the church-basement meetings as a supporter of her friend, Dottie. In her role, she dutifully weighed in and then would drag poor Dottie off to Lineberger's Fishery where she delighted in fried delicacies of the Calabash while never topping a size 6. Dottie was sentenced to salads and my grandmother's exclusive brand of comfort, "It must be glandular." We call her Big Granny because of her personality, not her waist line.

"You're going with me. Get out of the car," Estelle remedied. I had not seen her this serious about a health issue since she diagnosed my self-induced alcoholism contracted during my tenure at a Baptist seminary. Recounting that escapade, I got out of the car.

"Welcome to Weight Watchers," the matronly, yet extremely thin, woman chirped. "How can I help you?" Estelle looked at the woman and cocked her head as if she were trying to figure out the rhetorical nature of her inquiry. She slid down her sunglasses and met the young mother's eye. Estelle has this disturbing ability to cease the sound of any given word during a sentence while her mouth continues to form the syllables. She saves this super power for words of shame: homely, ugly, fat. Moving uncomfortably close to the young woman, she invoked this gift. "I _am_fat," her voice was low and soft with the last word left to the young woman's ability to read lips.

Stepping on the scale, Estelle was proud and determined as her secret conference about weight found her crouched and huddled near the youngster and her scale display. Her whispered tones did not influence the young woman as she blathered loudly, "You really need to drop no more than six pounds. Good for you." I feared for that young woman's life as she breeched a cardinal sin of discussing a lady's weight in public.

It was my turn and I stepped to the scale noticing Estelle had come to my side. With a curt smile, the young woman wrote on a piece of paper and folded it. My small waist provided no reason to fear the paper being secretly handed to me. I opened it and was shocked at a number that revealed the scales at the health club were off about nineteen pounds. Estelle patted my shoulder and sighed, "really, you don't look that biiiiiig." I was the new Dottie.

Estelle was tenuous as we sat in the folded chairs amongst fellow members darned in floral print capris stretched over their burgeoning bellies and feet overflowing the constraints of flip flops. "Maybe this wasn't my best idea, "Estelle whispered as she religiously straightened her St. John's knits and clasped her latest Cole-Haan purse. "Let's stay for the meeting," I was barely convincing as I resigned to my new life of side salads.

"Congratulations to Neelah. She lost the most weight this week at 1.8 pounds." With this announcement, Estelle's stance changed. Gone was the meek and uncomfortable resignation of being fat and in its place the fierce competitor for vanity. Estelle gives little parlance to the world of sports and pronounces the grunting and sweating of females on a playing field as "purely vulgar." Yet, with this swift announcement of a weekly weight-loss champion, a yearning akin to a young Michael Jordan championing the Tarheels to an NCAA championship was released. Her sunglasses pulled down and her eyes telling all next week that will be me, oh yes, it will be me.

The fury of the week was aided by Estelle's religious dedication to working out, her pocket calculator and tracking her caloric points. "Two points under," my dad and I heard many nights throughout the week. In the Midwest for business, I received a text that simply read, "Off to workout. I feel great because my trousers are already SO BIG! How are your points? Love, Estelle." Michael had surely passed her the ball.

"God, I can't wait to weigh in," Estelle cheered as if she was physically restraining her hand from slapping me the high five. Flowing in her Neiman Marcus de rigueur she stepped to the scale. Hands held high and an audible "Yesssssss!" filled the room. Obviously, Estelle scored and it glowed on her face as she waltzed pass me, smiling on her way to find seats.

Content with my progress, I walked to Estelle already circled by five women seeking her advice. This resembled a ladies prayer meeting more than a gathering of food addicts. "Trudy, you can do this." Estelle's petite hands clasping and comforting the discouraged woman. Within minutes, Estelle had prescribed care obviously missing in the woman's life. "You have me now and we will get through this together, Trudy, but you have to help me." Sometimes, you witness Estelle's true super power. She makes you feel like the most special person on the earth. Trudy smiled, not releasing my mother's hand as she moved to her side as the meeting began.

"Congratulations to Estelle. She lost 3.8 lbs! This is her first week too. Tell us about it." Still holding Trudy's hand, Estelle stood and softly spoke, "This is really for all of us whether it is your first week or fifth year. It's about believing and I really believe in me." At this point, I could see that Estelle was the daughter of a beauty queen. She continued, "I lost the weight because I had support and people who cared and reminded me I should care and I kept thinking about how bad it feels to be fat. People make fun of you and you feel awkward and odd and you don't like yourself. I just want us all to feel good about ourselves and believe. I just believe." The room fell silent and Estelle squeezed Trudy's hand.

After the meeting, we climbed in the Navigator and I broke the silence with the common, "Well, what did you think?" Estelle responded, "I loved it. It was like AA but better." The confusion on my face expressed the shock of my mom's familiarity with AA. "Oh, I used to go with my clients all the time." I sighed realizing this should not have surprised me. Estelle is always there when you need her. She continued, "How did you do this week?" I smiled and slowly said magic numbers, "Three_point_two!" Again I heard the familiar sound of victory for her, "YESSSSSSS!"

"Oh there is one more thing." These words fell out of her mouth as she turned the mahogany steering wheel. "What about that woman talking about mixing those cheddar rice cakes with fat free lime jello? Lord, I thought I was going to vom-ick. You know, I think she might be from New Jersey. She better be careful with that foolishness or her weight might come back."

Lost in Translation

In the middle of China, it is apparently difficult to find canned tuna. "I can't understand the labels. Everything looks crazy. I bought 'Happy Swallow' and still don't know what it is," recounted my friend upon his arrival to a small village outside Qindao. Being away for long periods in another culture requires numerous social adjustments. Sometimes these culinary perils are monumental challenges to our dietary customs. He finished his lament, "I just want something to eat that reminds me of home."

When I was nineteen, I fled from the South to Vienna, Austria as part of "that allegedly elite university's" study abroad program. During weekly phone calls, Estelle graciously suffered through numerous stories involving the Roman Ruins at Michaelerplatz, waltzing at the Staatsoper and weekly escapes to the Prater before launching her inquisitions. "Did your write a thank-you note for those opera tickets?"Her questions were always more reinforcements than reminders. "Please, make sure you are using good manners. I don't want people thinking you don't have good home training."

The approaching Easter holiday coupled with a heralding account of surviving an elephant pummeling in the Austrian countryside motivated my mother's first visit to the Austrian capital. "What in the Lord's name were you doing consorting with gypsies? Do you think that is appropriate? Your father and I will be there the Wednesday before Easter." Although a very reputable faculty member assured Estelle that my one-time stay in a hospital was, in fact, the result of a swift thrashing of an elephant's trunk, that gypsies were not my colleagues, that my grades were actually exemplary and that my manners were impeccable, she still stood firm on international travel.

Arriving at the airport thirty minutes prior to my parents' arrival gave me ample time to create international scenarios involving Estelle and her ability to attract the chemically dependent, developmentally challenged and socially insane. Worry, rightfully so, is a genetic trait in my family. The sea of passengers deplaning could not overshadow my father's over-six-foot stature and his head topped the henna-colored hair of the Austrian women before him. Estelle was nowhere to be seen. As he slowly approached, I could see the hand rest of a wheelchair firmly gripped with its occupant shielded by a group of women obviously over-stuffed from years of streusel. Imagining my mom in need of medical attention during an international flight paled me.

Making my way to the crowded gate and pushing my way through of forest of grey tweeds and lederhosen, I soon spotted the contents of the wheelchair: a large, ivory-colored purse with bamboo handles. With my heart slowly restarting, I heard the all-too-familiar lilt, "Well, I surely have enjoyed talking with you." Estelle was walking with a portly older woman hand in hand. The elderly woman's tottering indicated she was in greater need of the wheelchair than Estelle's pocketbook. "Well, this is my son. He is here studying and I am here now to makes sure he is behaving himself. Brian this is Barb'ra. She just visited New Jersey and I told her the next time she came to the United States that she must stay with us in the great state of North Carolina. It was so nice talking with you, hon. Now, you take care." The women, as if they were old friends accustomed to Sunday afternoons talking on the front port, hugged. My dad, still ushering the designer purse in a wheelchair, and I exchanged glances. Estelle had arrived.

We had not made it to baggage claim before Estelle announced, "Now Sunday, I am going to make a huge Easter Dinner for your friends." After eight hours on an airplane, most people are ready for a modicum of respite but Estelle is ready for luxury shopping and planning social events involving sixteen or more guests. My dad and I were shocked not at her energy but at her intentions to enter a kitchen. To Estelle the kitchen is a plague that fleeces time and an acceptable waist line from its victims. "Now, baby who do you think we should invite?"

I was unsure of the translation of a Southern Easter dinner in a world where Gerhardt, Franz, Annalise and Farahilde trumped Colby, Jackson, Anna Carol and Bethany. Equally uncertain was the making of ambrosia salad, a mixture of coconut, cherries, mandarin oranges and cottage cheese that is a staple at family reunions and church dinner-on-the-grounds. If a polite "yes ma'am" and "yes sir" are verbal indicators of good home training, ambrosia is the culinary equivalent.

Entering the Vom Fass market on a Saturday afternoon, Estelle began gathering sundries for fried chicken, green beans and macaroni and cheese. When visual clues failed her gathering, she would ask for my assistance. "Ask the butcher for a whole cut up chicken." She would smile proudly as if I were translating at the United Nations and not simply asking for poultry. "Now, ask that lady over there if she has any half-runners." With each question, she would graciously smile at the grocer and conclude the conversation with her unique and lengthy pronunciation of "danke."

With her list surprisingly almost completed, Estelle viewed the last item needed for her Easter fanfare: cottage cheese. My mom has no fear in asking complete strangers for assistance; however, this is not a comfort we share. "Ask that lady where the cottage cheese is." I replied, "I don't think I know the word for 'cottage cheese.'" Her shock indicated another failure of "that allegedly elite university."

I did my best talking about curds of white cheese traditionally used by dieters with no success. Already flustered from my attempt, the abrupt reaction to my inquisition stunted any further probing. "I don't think they have cottage cheese in Austria, mom." Estelle does not accept defeat. "Oh, I know," my mother's voice testifying her solution, "cottage is a little house. Ask that lady if she has the little house cheese. She'll know what we need." The woman, startled by my mother's inflections and insulted by my inquisition of dieting cheese, quickly turned and scuttled towards the bottles of white wines on the next aisle.

Taking cue from my earlier queries, Estelle set out to gather cottage cheese as best she could. "Haben . . .zie . .any kleine' . . haus . .kase?" The young woman stocking mineral water was befuddled at the German slowly leaking from Estelle's mouth. Estelle began to draw a simple house in the air to aid her attempts at international communication. The young girl's confusion was speechless as I am sure her mind was wondering why a small woman, clad in sunglasses was asking for a little house cheese while waving her petite fingers in the air. "That's o.k. hon, I'll ask someone else." The Austrian girl left transfixed at the scene of the international incident.

Through the Vom Fass market echoed the lilt of "Haben . .zie any kleine' . . haus kase." Speaking slowly and loudly was not aiding the conquest. I too was immobile as Estelle's intent was now equivalent to Sherman's march. Yet, unlike the good people of Atlanta, the Austrians could meet any annoyance with a curt discharge instead of a hissy fit. Unstoppable, her campaign continued as she inquired of what seemed all of Vienna's 1.7 million citizens. Not sure why these citizens were confused and determined not to leave the store without cottage chese, my mother continued fearlessly and loudly, "Haben . . .zie any kleine' . .haus kase."

When my mother calls my full name there is equal immediacy and manipulation in time and prosody. My first name with its normalcy of two syllables is given only one and my monosyllabic last name becomes indefinite in syllabic production. This take several seconds droned in a high-pitched flavor. "Brine Cr-i-i-i-s-ppu" rang throughout the grocery store halting the actions of all. "Brine Cr-i-i-i-s-ppu," a second time and I thought this must be signaling a distress apocalyptic in nature. Singed Austrians lifeless in the aisles could be possible. I ran towards the aural beacon, dodging thankfully non-charcoaled customers confused by the cries of my name hanging midair.

Estelle looked both triumphant and serene holding the tub of Breakstone's. "Brine, do you know what they call 'Cottage Cheese' in Austria?" In the silence, I could hear the returned activity of customers throughout the grocery store. My attention returned to Estelle and her trophy, "Cot-tage Cheese." Imported from Texas, the red and white container signaled victory. Vienna would not be burned.

Easter dinner gathered seventeen people into the small apartment where their arrivals were accompanied with vigorous handshakes, hugs and Estelle's genial welcome that included, "Now, this is just our way of saying thank you for being friends with Brian." Tables hosted a bounty of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, green beans and plump buttermilk biscuits. Language was not the only barrier conquered during her Viennese travels. At each place setting, a small salad plate contained a dollop of ambrosia salad. My parents habitually charmed each guest with stories of my childhood and life in Horse Shoe. The lines between Vienna and the mountains of Western North Carolina were blurred. It was nice to have something that reminded me of home.

"This salad is very delicious, Mrs. Crisp," Annalise uttered in her stilted English. "How do you prepare it?" The question was evidence of the speaker's years of formal English study." Estelle's response hid the peril encountered at the Vom Fass crowded with Saturday shoppers armed with a foreign tongue. "Well, thank you. It's just some coconut and fruit and cot-tage cheese. You can pick those things up almost anywhere."

Imitation of White

"What about white socks or a white shirt?" My inquisitor,not from the United States much less the South, exhibited his confusion about not wearing white pants or white shoes after Labor Day, a notion simply known as The Labor Day Rule. The bewilderment on his face surely was akin to the those men and women of the Supreme Court who had to decipher the complexities of scheme liability, voter identification or, as in 2003, the true copyright of Victoria's "little" Secret.

"No, " I began. "It is just white pants, white shoes and linen clothes." Evidently, his silence questioned this sartorial discrimination. I continued, "Really, you can wear a white shirt anytime. It's great with a sweater or jacket year round." With his look, I knew instantly this was the same confusion indicting poachers of their ease and ability to club a baby seal. "Oh, and you can't wear sandals." I had made the kill.

The swan song of white linen flowed through the backyard on Sunday as my family soaked up the tepid mountain air unmoved by wind or sun. Estelle's strategically placed glass trifles charged with local apples and mums adorned tables already prosperous with crowder peas, barbecued chicken and my grandmother's potato salad. "Laaaaawwd have mercy, look at these tables," declared June. This commentary was for the place settings and not the food. The vacuum of Estelle's desire to stand over a stove is over filled with her ability to set a table. She is the only woman I know who utilizes the multiple of eight exponentially when purchasing silver, china and water glasses. "You never know when you will need these" was her almost apocalyptic acquittal the day she purchased forty-eight ramekins.

That evening found Estelle and her sister in the den lounging on opposite couches and clad in floral pajama sets with Estelle's reading basket open. The wicker chest resembling a casket-sized picnic basket contains back issues of my mom's current magazine subscriptions: Ebony, Essence and Jet. Seeing my mom read a magazine with Michelle Obama, Queen Latifah or Spike Lee on the cover has become common place in the past several years. Estelle will tell you that her favorite Christmas Eve was when the traditional pageantry and communion was put aside for popcorn and a viewing of Ice Cube's Friday After Next. Last month, while away presenting at a conference, I received a phone call from Estelle that initiated with "Did you see the BET awards last night?"

This should surprise no one. Since being very young, I can recall Estelle's aural diet of Roberta Flack and the Commodores was acoustically and racially different from the Southern Gospel Quartets preferred by my grandparents. Estelle lived through integration and shunned the norms of xenophobia for her newly found friend, Joanne. Estelle still recalls funny stories of two girls enjoying careless rides in my grandfather's Cadillac while secretly quaffing the unmentionable sin: Cigarettes. To my grandmother Joanne became known solely as the reason my mother forfeited cotillion classes. "Why would I go if they wouldn't let Joanne in?" She still protests. If Estelle's racial awareness was birthed in music and schooling, it matured several years ago when she sold one of her estate lots to Mrs. Miriam Jackson and her husband, The Right Reverend Collins Jackson.

"I just sold some of the land to the nicest lady," Estelle recounted. Miriam and her husband had relocated from Beaufort where Reverend Jackson had been a long-standing Methodist minister. Like most everyone, they moved to Hendersonville to retire. Selling the land to the Jacksons signaled Estelle acknowledging good home training, no drunkardness and the ability to pay the rather outrageous land value. In a single signing, Estelle integrated the neighborhood.

Estelle and Miriam had much in common: only sons, a love of reading, husbands who were overly involved with video games and the Lord's work, and an unequivocal endurance for shopping. Estelle and Miriam were fast and true friends enjoying each other's wit and wisdom. During a meeting of the Women's Missionary Union, one of Estelle's peers commented on her new relationship with the wife of the old Methodist minister. "Really I think it is wonderful and I, myself, I don't see color." Estelle looked the woman up and down slowly before exhaling a slow , "So I have noticed."

Soon, Estelle and Miriam began delighting in mornings at the country club pool and casual dinners of poorly cooked salmon at the club's pro shop. With Miriam as her companion, Estelle would invoke her guest privileges as much as possible without overstepping the twice-a-week boundaries. In order for Miriam to have open accessibility to pool side chatter and Thursday night's Prime Rib dinners, Estelle sponsored the Jacksons for membership to "the club."

It was with horror that Estelle received the news that her sponsorship of Miriam had been denied. "Well, those jackasses!" This is one of the very few obscenities Estelle will let slip out when she loses her temper and I had seen her this livid on only few occasions. I knew this action would not be without recoil.

Once, on a visit home from that "allegedly elite university," Estelle and I were visiting my good friend Susan and her mother on the porch of their bed and breakfast, the Hendersonville Inn. During our porch talk, a teen stopped at the light yelled a racial epithet towards an elderly woman crossing Third Avenue. Susan's mother lowered her head as Susan and I were stunned and immobile. "Well that jackass" boomed from Estelle's voice as she made a straight shot for the stopped car.

"Oh dear Jesus, go get the phone and call the sheriff," Susan's mother shuddered. We knew this call was for the safety and well-being of that teen boy. Too late. Estelle had the over six foot teen out of his car with her finger vigorously shaking in his face. The whole street was stopped with other cars frightened to honk their horns at the petite woman in St. John Knits yelling "that is about the most shhtupid and ig_no_rant thing I have seen in my life." The tirade continued "What kind of home training do you have yelling that nonsense on the city street? It is just not appropriate" her voice echoing from the library to the court house. The teen's blushed face was lowered briefly before her, "Now look at me when I am talking to you. Now I suggest you get back in that car, get yourself a job and think about a thing or two before you go yelling craziness out and about of your car window again. Do you understand me?" The sullen boy cautiously returned to his car and proceeded through the light with his window rolled up.

The individuals rejecting the Jacksons' application for membership could not be solely chided on the downtown streets for their ignorance. Although I am sure Estelle entertained that idea, her solution adhered to my grandfather's almost unintelligible old saw, "i' ya cain be' um, jine um (if you can't beat them, join them)." Estelle, through ample charm peppered with Machiavellian endeavors, became the newest member of her country club's committee for new membership.

Of all the committee members, Estelle is the one whose interpretation of "an association of mutually compatible people" varied from the historical norm. While this made the Jacksons' efforts for membership impossible, it fired Estelle's desire for integration. "Miriam, really, who needs those jackasses?" Estelle has expanded her protest as she now only uses her club membership with Miriam as guest-in-tow. The other day as I was off to work out at the exercise room, she suggested, "Hey, why don't you take Joe or Vladimir with you?" Most people take an iPod to the workout room, Estelle takes a middle aged African-American nursing student or Ukrainian refugee.

Perplexed by her presence and unable to unearth her, the committee still includes Estelle. She is gracious in her protest of "qualified" applicants. "Is someone who made their money through questionable businesses involving night time entertainment in New Jersey really upholding the ideals of this club? Well, it just seems a little trashy." Her latest round of nominations included the African-American police chief, the former Jewish mayor and the gay wine merchant. Although neither a prohibitionist nor a wine aficionado, she respects a level-headed business plan, the proclivity to say "thank you" and the accoutrements of Brooks Brothers casual attire.

Last night, Miriam walked over to the house as she usually does for a glass of tea. In the living room you could hear the mutually compatible laughing and discussing the events of Labor Day. "Narlena does look good but her mind is going . . well, she is ninety-six and still drives," Estelle sighed. "Oh you looked so elegant in those white pants. I loved those." Miriam's sentences are more like songs in tones and inflection. Estelle just graciously smiled, acknowledging her friend over her glass of tea. Miriam continued, "White pants are my thing, girl. I like khakis but I wish I could wear my whites all year round." The women finished their tea and laughter with Estelle walking hand-in-hand with her friend to the front door before she promised, "I'll call you tomorrow, hon." She then went to her bedroom and gathered the folded white pants and white sandals for a resting place awaiting an Easter Resurrection, a time when saints and white pants arise.

Late Monday evening the chime on my phone indicated a new text message from my friend still confused about The Labor Day Rule. It simply read "What about white socks?" Being the only kid in ninth-grade gym class who wore argyle socks with his gym uniform was a source of much ridicule. Estelle's disdain for white socks is still summed up with "That is just not appropriate." After a few moments of finger fumbling, my reply was short: "White socks are o.k." Some rules are meant to be broken.

Love's Labor Lost

Downing Court is rivaled only by Grand Central Station this morning as Estelle is preparing for Labor Day. By noon holy rollers, tobacco farmers and debutantes will arrive to celebrate the last of summer and the initiation of apple season. Now,it is the Ukrainian handy man, the housekeepers, the two yard people and the interior decorator all a-buzzed, droning around their queen, Estelle, whose crown is a hat that could easily shade a quarter of an acre.

My grandmother, Big Granny, thinks no holiday is complete with out fifty-'leven odd relatives gettin' loud, lovin' each other's necks and gorgin' themselves on her famous-at-five-churches potato salad. My grandfather, Poppy, thinks no holiday is complete without corn liquor. It does temper the humidity and has the amazing ability to cajole niceties between those who speak on tongues with those whose language is often indecipherable but way more colorful. I just hope this year the rifles stay in the back of the trucks during the singing of "When We All Get To Heaven."

As I was sipping my coffee this morning, Estelle peeked onto the sun porch. "It's the last weekend to wear white pants, hon." I smiled and acknowledged her sentiments. Gone is the leisure of summer and the sobering work of fall and winter is upon us. "By the way, can I see your calendar? I need to arrange for the decorator and caterer for Thanksgiving and Christmas." Sobering indeed.

Here's to Labor Day and that last glorious weekend of summer. Estelle's respite is a prelude to her pressing matters: Reforming the membership guidelines at her country club so her non-white friends can join her for Prime Rib Thursdays, her annual suffrage of deacon nominations, and planning her two-week sojourn "somewhere just tropical." That is a heavy load amidst the bereavement committee and Friday hair-fixin' appointments. At least, I know she will not be wearing white pants.

Cardstock

Over the years, Estelle has imparted a litany of her prescriptions for acting appropriately, self-care and good home training. No matter how far from the Appalachians I have wandered, these mantras have followed me and have been delicately accompanied by Estelle's soft lilt echoing their importance. It is as if my own Marley's ghost is whispering "always use cloth napkins, always use cloth napkins. . .say yes ma'am and yes sir . . . never drink beer from a bottle."

With certainty, I have used these axioms to justify myriad frivolous actions. "Always wear nice shoes" validated a lovely pair of Pierre Hardy loafers purchased on the third floor of Barneys. As a preferred customer, I get personalized birthday and holiday gifts from Kiehl's when it is Estelle who should be thanked because she instilled the importance of skin care to her only child: "Always have a clean face." Some children can tell you about their first bicycle or first pet. I can tell you about my first time being introduced to Clinique's three-fold system of cleanse, tone, and moisturize with Estelle and Mrs. Louis Avery.

Even though I am in my late mid-thirties, referring to my elders, friends of my parents, or anyone more than seven years my senior by their first name still makes my stomach cramp. This self-imposed digestive disorder would be accompanied by Estelle's infamous, afore-mentioned look if I ever called Mr. Hollbrook the common "Bob."

During my tumultuous undergraduate years when I was lost in a world of the over-privileged and alcohol, Estelle's offerings displayed her frantic worry as a mother. "If you are lonely, read the Bible and if you're hungry, well, just make yourself a sandwich." Sometimes she would invert these relaying all of our befuddlement. Estelle only reads the Bible at church and views the kitchen as the hallway between the living room and the den. I can even recall a rather awkward moment when my mom presented me with a beautifully wrapped box, darned in intricate ribbons and quietly drawled, "Now Brian Crisp, don't_be_dumb." She left the dorm room and I opened the wrappings to find a box of condoms.

At her core, Estelle is a care giver who notices the slightest niceties in the world. Even in those moments when life erupts and threads are pulled and wits are beyond their last end and she really knows not what to say or do, she wants to offer an anecdote to make it all a little better. To her, offering nothing would be the same as concession, an option not taken for family or friends.

The art of the thank-you note is one of the pinnacles of expressing her endearment. About the same time Santa Clause was debunked, I was shocked to learn other families did not collectively gather on December 26th to write thank-you notes for the footed paisley pajamas or spiced fruit cakes rendered from seldom seen relatives. That was enough to incite a riot and sullen an eleven year-old's holiday. Often when returning from a dinner or social outing, Estelle's line of questioning resembled, "Hey there, did you have a nice time? Have you sent a thank-you note?" We send thank-you notes, always.

Estelle herself has a space in her office that would produce nothing less than envy from Crane and Company. Papers, stamps, seals and cards are available to match any social situation that needs proper gratitude. Her flourishing handwriting matches the sincerity of the note. As a recipient of many of these treasures, I can vouch for the attention given and the joy produced. One of my personal favorites simply said, "Brian, You always make me laugh. Thank you. Estelle."

Over the past week I have received an abundance of e-mails filled with very kind words about these quirky stories. It has been wonderful to read comments by old friends and equally as moving to read comments from complete strangers. I cannot really mail out 113 cards but I wanted to say thank you. I hope you continue to read and share these stories. I have delighted in telling many of them over the years.

Last night, I told Estelle about the blog and people's feedback and was charmed by her response. Her voice pitch is celestial when she receives a compliment and returns with a well-mannered, "why thank you." She paused and then asked, "Now why on earth would anybody wanna read about me?" This is the same woman who while shooting a rifle at snakes in the backyard was calling 9-1-1 because the pregnant runaway teen in the guest bedroom was giving birth. Now, you can't put that in a card.

P.S. Vladimir showed up for his first day of work today.

Brain Freezers

Estelle's invitation was too subtle, "How about you and I go to this brain class on Tuesday evening?" This sounded harmless and accompanying Estelle almost anywhere is rather enjoyable. I agreed.

Gathering Estelle Tuesday afternoon, I was , as always, struck that she looked like she was on her way to afternoon tea with Anna Wintour and Simon Doonan rather than on her way to the Holistic Health and Family Center on lower Seventh Avenue, a street that housed the community mission and the fallen greasy spoon, the Chicken Shack. Her sunglasses impeded any speed of finding the Lexus in the basement's darkness. She balanced in opposite hands her beloved Blackberry and her equally loved Cole-Haan pocketbook looking like Lady Justice had been on a recent shopping excursion to Neiman Marcus.

The car was barely out of the garage before she announced, "Julia Child was a true lady." I grinned slightly and quickly mastered to where my copy of "My Life in France" had vanished. At the onset, Estelle's accolades for Julia Child surprised me for one simple reason: Estelle does not cook.

Estelle's childhood was not in a "servantless American" home. She had Essie, Lilah and Leila, who was also her grandmother, as cooks, playmates and surrogates as my grandparents traveled ad nauseam. I am sure these women were more concerned with keeping Estelle clean and in starched crinolines than teaching her about fried apple fritters, shrimp and grits, or brunswick stew. Her attempts to domesticate herself as a child were met with sweaty matriarchs pancaked in flour, wringing their hands on embroidered aprons, walking heavy footed and declaring, "now Miss Linda, you get on out of here. This ain't no place for you." She was never allowed in the kitchen, a lesson she has taken to heart and one battle to which she graciously conceded.

"She knew two licks of nothin' when she moved to France, " Estelle continued. I acted as if I had neither read the book nor seen the rather half-baked "Julie & Julia" retelling. "That woman had to learn another language and how to boil an egg, all at the same time." I knew neither of those would be an option for my mom. "She did well."

Living with Estelle for thirty-odd years, I have learned to interpret her nuances. She was admiring Julia Child because she was self made. She learned a language, mastered cooking and then influenced the Western World's view of eating. No small coup in the world of man. Julia Child surmounted obstacles and graciously presented a more delightful and joyful way of eating and living. As with any obstacle, there had to be moments of doubt, frustration and a full-blown hissy fit or two. Yet, we just saw the laughter and the passion; Julia Child kept her hissy-fits private. Estelle echoed, "Yes, Julia Child is a lady."

I inquired, "What did you think of Julie Powell's blog about Julia Child?" Quickly, my mother shot me what my family now refers to as the look. Her smile vanishes, her glasses slip down to reveal the hyper arching of her eyebrows and her entire face tilts to the slightest angle washing a frightening pale that trumps Estee Lauder. This stance signals with little words Estelle has something to say.

"I think her language is not becoming and her writing just not appropriate." Estelle in a short quip had just announced that Julie was not a lady. She wasn't finished, "She is from Texas after all."

I am surprised of my mom's interest in attending a class because of her negative school experiences. She doesn't even like Sunday School. Going to school in rural North Carolina in the 1950s and 60s, she was labeled "learning disabled" due to dyslexia and , due to ignorance, Estelle was driven from the classroom as quickly as she was from the kitchen. It is a struggle that she has kept very private and it is a struggle that has made her a wonderful advocate. I am sure this was a trait Estelle wish I had not inherited.

During a too warm May before I was to begin high school in the fall, I was called to the principal's office to discuss class selection. The discussion turned quickly into a lecture and exclusion from a desired literature class. The final pronouncement had me in tears as the gaunt face expelled, "your reading ability makes me think you're not that smart." As a thirteen year old, I knew nothing but to cry and tell Estelle. I am not sure what transpired on Estelle's visit to this principal; She would never say. Yet, I do know that I was allowed to take the class and, subsequently, she also sent that particular principal a personal announcement whenever I would graduate from, what she called, "an allegedly elite university" with another advanced degree.

Almost twenty years ago my mother found herself with her only child leaving home, a job that was both a love and frustration ending and my father struggling with health issues that would cause an early retirement. Doubt, frustrations and full-blown hissy fits were the norm. Surmounting these obstacles, she started a small cleaning business and kept her trials as private as that conversation with the school principal.

Today the business has grown to be a rather successful venture with Estelle's panache stamped over the entire undertaking in three states. Recently, I have watched her console employees during the recession, tailor services to this growing elderly community and reach out and volunteer her services for local charities. It is a joy to watch her walk onto a new construction site in wedges with a Gucci pocket book and stand shoulder to shoulder with rough necks and good-ole boys laughing and charming her way into new business. No small coup in the the world of man.

We entered the classroom and the attendant provided us with ample paper material as we took to our conference room seats. My mother lagged in seating because she greeted many of the attendees as if they were congregants at her church. It is odd to go to a place where you don't hear ,"Well Estelle it is delightful to see you."

She finally seated herself and we exchanged chatter about the next day's activities before the rather large speaker stumbled to the front of the room. "I am so excited you all want to do something good for your brain. Let's start. I am noticing that you are all seated comfortably and many of you are leaning to one side. Do something different with the way you are sitting." The brain evangelist continued, "Change sides, be more alert. Do something good for your brain."

I shifted my body to the opposite side and then glanced at Estelle. Sitting straight forward, she elegantly moved both of her legs from the left to the right. Very subtly she crossed her legs at the ankle and kept her always welcoming smile. I couldn't help the reply of my mind, "This lady already has."

A Southern Lady in President Yushchenko's Court

For as long as we have lived in the house, we have had a handy man. Like the evolution of humankind preceding the dawning of great monoliths, I would argue my family most likely had a handy man before this house was completed. This comes from Estelle's need for continual home improvement, her keen eye that creates very odd jobs and the fact that the men in my family have a proclivity towards books rather than buzz saws.

When it comes to installing, fixing and just plain tinkering, my father and I are a useless lot. My dad is occupied, nee obsessed, with his ritual of books, movies and television shows. His current compulsive diet of Lindsay Lohan's "Parent Trap," recorded episodes of Lil Kim on "Dancing with the Stars" and rereading Michael Pollan while chomping on a Little Debbie cake has negated all concerns for home upkeep. I am not much better. Being back in NC and writing a book, I cherish my spare time for gardening,cooking and breathing in the mountains. Even if that excuse was not valid, I would be more inclined to watch "Au Revoir Les Enfants" seven times in a row than figure out the difference between ratchets.

In our failures, Estelle has taken on the task of home improvement and performed it with memorable flair.

The first Handy Man we had was not one but a band of five brothers whose genetics favored almost identical traits in appearance and consumption of corn liquor. We could never tell them apart and simply referred to them as "The Short Brothers." These brothers worked rather diligently when they weren't passed out on the lawn. Even this passing out had its function since my friend Michael and I would use one of the drunken vagabonds as home base in our afternoon games of freeze tag.

As all people, The Short Brothers loved Estelle and out of respect and admiration, they would never let her see them drink from the clouded mason jar. Due to the State of North Carolina, the Short Brothers were forever banned from moving vehicles, including riding lawn mowers, and had to walk every where. After several fatal accidents involving walking, railroad tracks and flat bed pick-up trucks, Estelle decided she could not live with such blood on her hands and the remaining Short Brothers were dismissed from employment.

Soon there after, Oscar arrived. Oscar was a prelude to all the foreign films I would digest beginning in high school. He was slight with curled, grey hair and overly tanned skin. His chinos with roped belt, cardigan and navy bandana signaled a sophistication unknown to the Blue Ridge Mountains. His English drunk with heavy French accent was unparalleled to his skill. He could roof, sand floors, paint, garden, landscape, fix cars, tame electricity and any and everything my mother sent his way. As a child, I thought Oscar single handedly rebuilt France after WWII. Yet, like a character from a Godard film, Oscar had tragic flaws: A severely broken heart and one leg.

Oscar stood only a few inches taller than my mother and soon became ever present. Being picked up from junior high in an old pick-up truck was a titch more elegant when a one-legged French man was behind the wheel. My cohorts from student council would ask, "Who is that?" I would replay only with his name and let the mystery of the l'homme francais linger. Oscar's refusal to wear his prosthetic leg aided the racing pubescent minds.

During one September malaise surrounding the waterfall and fishpond in the back yard, Estelle unearthed more mystery than mud when knee-deep in water she asked gently, "Oscar, do you still have family in France?". This middle-aged man had lost more than a limb in the war. Returning to the loss of his family displaced Oscar and had him fleeing to find some solace away from France. The tears of the teller and the listener were matched. My mother experienced her own call to arms.

"Deeeeeaaaan!" I am sure her yelling, throwing off weeding gloves and making straight way for the house as she dripped water and algae startled Oscar as much as it alerted my dad. "Oscar's moving in." And he did.

Oscar lived down the hall in a large bedroom, sitting room, small kitchen and bath. From this spot, he became more and more involved in our lives. When we went to our nightly dinners at Clifton's, Oscar was there. Around the kitchen table playing Monopoly, Oscar was ironically the boot. Oscar and my grandfather would take turns trumping each other's war stories at family reunions. Oscar's one leg frightened my bratty cousin to death and he used that to all of our advantage. He knew when to make an appearance to quiet the tantrum-prone child.

Oscar was the first to arrive when I was rear-ended on Mountain Road. His appearance simultaneously brought fear to the large, toothless woman who rammed into me and comfort to my mom and dad who arrived minutes later. They found Oscar beside me performing the French inquisition to the dispatched officer. "No, no, no , no zee chile could 'ave been veree 'hurt, no?"

Oscar lived with us until he had to move into a nursing facility. Everyday Estelle would take him a paper and sit and talk. Smiling, she would ask Oscar's opinion about house upkeep. "How long do you think the roof will last?" "When should we rebuild that retaining wall?" She was there a few months later when he closed his eyes and never woke up.

Oscar fixed many things over the years and afterwards there was no steady handy man. How could there be? I like to think my mom fixed some things with Oscar too. He was able to stop wandering and we all loved him and celebrated everything about him, even his one leg.

That is family, be it blood or not. Estelle has taught us to look beyond flaws, stick together and make it all better. It doesn't matter if you can't hold a buzz saw, manipulate a ratchet, or if you just have one leg. Still you matter.

Late last night, the doorbell rang and echoed throughout the house we heard "Well hello Vladimir." My dad turned off Lil Kim, put down his Little Debbie and Pollan diatribe. I recessed from writing. We peered to the foyer where Estelle's 5'3 frame was shadowed by a giant from the Ukraine. We over heard the thick accent talk about car repair, roofing, heating systems and a litany of house upkeep. Then Estelle, with the crackling of tea pouring over ice, asked , "Now, what about your family . . . "