An Ounce of Prevention

For the third time in my life, I have had a car accident. Fortunately, I have never been in the car during these accidents. My car has always been parked and I have been somewhere else usually within a five to ten mile radius. This Saturday was no different. While grocery shopping with my friend, we received the call. The whispery feminine voice relayed broken tones, "Uhhh what color is your friend's car? . . . .Oh here are the police." We left our cart mid-aisle and returned to the house to find a large moving van a top the driver's side of the SUV. This scenario had blocked an entire city street and neighbors from surrounding blocks circled to offer assistance, prayers and green bean casseroles.

Upon seeing the crash I could think of Estelle's voice inquiring one of her most pivotal concerns:

Do you have on clean underwear?

Estelle is obsessed with cleanliness and presentation. She has built an empire around these two ways of being. No one sets a table like Estelle. Her bathrooms are more inviting than most people's dens. Her home is a peaceful and welcoming sensation of sight, sound and smell. The detail of her appearance is immaculate with the blending of perfectly matched shoes, pocketbooks and scarves. I have personally witnessed her housekeeper ironing her slips, camisoles and other under garments that I cannot mention in mixed company. All this says to the world "This is a place of solace and order." When everything seems crazy, going to Estelle's makes it all right and you know that this stalwart is solid and unmoved to its very foundation, literally.

Thus her adage of prevention, Always wear clean underwear , is more preparation. Just in case I am in an accident that will require the jaws of life to disembowel my car and paramedics to remove my gnarled body from the scene, my pristine undergarments will announce to all medical personnel, "this boy has good home training, treat him well." I am positive doctors and nurses will stand amazed at the starched creases on my hip bones and comment, "this gentile son of the confederacy must be critical to the fate of all humanity." Another may comment, "Look, his underwear is from Neiman Marcus, he must be good people."

Taking a deep breath, I walked through Saturday's crowd towards the behemoth at rest on my car. On the back side of the moving van was a robust middle-aged man with his hands over his head moaning. His sons, attendants in waiting, were fanning large sheets of paper over their father and offering him water and a nerve tablet. The man's shaking and wailing indicated a full-fledged hissy fit. I assessed rather quickly that here lies the poor soul that ran atop of a SUV on his way to retirement and a life of ease.

Before I could make it to the back of the truck, I was interceded by a woman more suited for gardening than moving and a female officer dispatched to the accident. The female officer waddled towards me wiping her squared bangs from her overly sweating forehead. Her smile was a prelude to her long drawl of "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be Estelle and Dean's son, would you?" This was an invitation for the gardner to remove her Jackie-O inspired sunglasses and proclaim "Well, they Lawd I wouldn't had recognized you from Adam's house cat." Before long, the two women and I were chatting about the cool summer and the recent changes in the mountains while my friend looked on in amazement and the man on the truck continued his nervous breakdown. I am sure this more resembled a church homecoming than the scene of an accident.

While completing the report, the officer continued, "now you tell your uncle Rayliss he and I gotta get back to deer huntin'." At this point I was certain this was the officer's way of indicating that it was all going to be fine and that she also lived with another woman who happened to drive a truck for the UPS. "Yep, I gotta new bow with about a 40lb pull . . . ." Definitely the UPS.

I thanked everyone when I signed the police report and assured all I would tell my mama and them hello. Then, I walked over to the man on the truck bed. His moan had lessened to a whimper as he sat with his worldly possessions packed behind him. His teenage sons rolled their eyes, a gesture that I thought was more ungrateful than cool. I put my hands on the man's shoulder and calmly said, "Mr. Flint, I am Brian Crisp and I just want to make sure you are o.k." The man looked up with his tear-stained eyes and no words. It was this silence that was needed.

Finally, he stood up, lowered his head and mumbled, "I am so sorry." I patted his upper arm and reassured him all was just fine, no one was hurt, we had insurance and that accidents happen to us all. He lifted his head a bit and his smiled indicated a bit of relief his sons could not offer. He was going to be o.k., as was I . . .right down to my foundation.

I walked away and pulled out my phone preparing to call Estelle and relate the accident's course. She would need a few minutes for her own hissy fit concerning the safety of her only child. I was sure of the on-coming question, "Were you wearing clean underwear?" I thought it best not to tell her that I wasn't wearing any at all.

A Name By Any Other Name

"Now, what's your mom's name?" This is a question that throws me into the realm of wondering if the inquisitor is ready for the much needed verbose answer that will explain my mother's name. Like going to the corner store, nothing is ever simple and straight forward in the South. I take a breath and exhale, "her name is Linda but everyone calls her Estelle (the emphasis is on the first syllable)."

This is where the befuddled gaze begins.

My mom has been Estelle for over 20 years; everyone calls her Estelle:

Her sister

Her sister-friends

My dad, her husband (those are not synonymous in the South)

Her parents

Her friends at church

My friends

Her employees

Everyone, including the sheriff of Laurel Park who after pulling me over for going 37 mph in a 35 mph zone, recognized me and warmly replied, "Well, how is Estelle?"

All 5'3 and one hundred or so pounds of her is Estelle and we have a mildly developmentally delayed, recovering addict to thank for it.

During the Reagan era and before the advent of cell phones, my mom was a social worker assisting and coaching developmentally delayed individuals, battered women, runaway teens and recovering addicts with functioning in daily life. Needless to say, the doors to our home were always open and our dinner table never dull. It was during this time that the phone calls began.

"Uh yeah, how you . .is Estelle there?" the graveled voice would quickly ask. "I'm sorry but there is no one here by that name." The caller would hang up before I could finish the sentence. My dad and I would exchange many complaints about the annoying requests for Estelle. I was convinced it was an evil junior high prank and my dad concerned it was a wayward church goer or unhappy employee.

One evening during dinner my mom was counseling a recovering addict on table manners and body language when the phone rang. Seeing that her lecture in cloth napkins would be disturbed by no act of God, I answered the phone.

"Uh yeah, how you . . is Estelle there?" again the voice barked.

I began my usual, "Please stop calling there is no one named Estelle . ." Before I could finish my petite mother was jumping up, grabbing for the phone and proclaiming "Oh that is me, that's me . . "

My dad, the addict and I were shocked as my mom began a phone conversation that was akin to comfortable chatting with her summer pool friend Patsy Jane. The bigger shock came moments later when we heard "Yes you must come for Thanksgiving. We would have nothing less" The mysterious graveled-tone voice would be joining us, my always and very proper grandmother and extended family members involved in the holiness church for Thanksgiving.

To get ready for Thanksgiving, most mothers make shopping lists for the grocery stores and gather recipes from various sources. My mother prepares by gathering the most eccentric and woebegone characters to be present around the table. How many people can say they have broken bread with a preacher, prostitute and an octogenarian fueled by a life-line of oxygen around the same table?

With the feast only minutes away and footsteps sounding on the basement stairs, I anticipated that the mystery caller would soon be revealed. This was akin to tuning into "The Love Boat" weekly to see who would be setting sail on the Pacific Princess for fun, love and mayhem. Except this particular episode found Charo on hiatus and in her place a wiry, African-American, middle-aged, developmentally challenged woman, with thick, round glasses, large braids, a rather ill-fitting Norma Kamali hand-me-down from my mother and a noticeable proclivity for scratching her neck named Melody.

My mother was famous for whisking in her guests moments before dinner service. My aunts' speculation attributed this timing to my mother's aberration of cookery. I always suspected it was an avoidance of any social interaction with family. Simply, fainting great aunts, tongue-speaking revivalists and drug addicts do not always mix well given long periods of parlor talk. This Thanksgiving was no different. Our family began to gather for a traditional prayer of significant length before gorging on creamed corn, fried turkey, biscuits and dressing when my mom slipped into the circle with Melody. My delight was seeing my mom squeezing Melody next to my great Aunt Narlena who surely thought this was a savage that her ladies missionary union was so fervently determined to save.

Even though my great-grandfather softly called, "let us bow our heads," my gut said no way. I wasn't missing this for the world.

"Dear and Glorious Heavenly Father, "his voice roared with an echo of saints whispering "yes, yes, Jesus."

"We are once again gathered Lord and thankful to be with all these children . . " My eyes were fixed on Melody and her twitching between my mother and Narlena. Being around addicts from my mom's profession and thrice-removed family members, I knew Melody's spasms were from a substance not so heavenly.

My great-grandfather's prayers were masterfully inserted with dramatic pause as to let the empty spaces be filled with choruses of "touch him Lord" and "yes, yes, hallelujah."

"And Lord before we begin this bounty we want to pause and thank you for all these undeserved and fruitful blessings." This is a pause, in retrospect, I am sure my great-grandfather wish he had not taken. In this long, seemingly forever frozen moment Melody started a twitching in her leg and right shoulder that indicated either a severe seizure or a true touching of the holy ghost. As the Kamali dress writhed like a cheap dancer in one of those bars down on fourth avenue, Melody's voice let out a shriek and the room fell silent.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu Estelle . . . . .I FARTED."

Within a moment, my mom defused the situation by holding Melody closely, calming her torrid movements and whispering "Don't worry. Me too."

It was from that moment on that my mom became Estelle. Linda really never fit. It never showed the caring, the bravery, the power, the humor or the humility. Estelle sums it up succinctly.

Some of us are lucky and are born with names that really fit who we are. Some of us, over time, grow into our names. A few of us are lucky and have our names given to us from the most unlikely of people. The next time when a near crazy person calls your phone and asks for someone whose name you do not recognize, instead of harshly cutting off the caller just politely say,"hold on and let me see if she is here."

We'l Hey, How Y'all Doin'?

As long as I have been walking the earth, I have heard the women in my family greet old-time friends, strangers and sworn enemies with a single salutation, "We'l hey, how y'all doin?" Often this single phrase can take up to a minute because it is always coupled with neck hugging, voracious upper arm patting, fervent fan waving or the silence of a half smile and piercing eyes that beckon for your deepest emotions and request for a piece of cobbler, a MoonPie or a cold drink.

Simply, true ladies in the South do few things without production or sincerity.

Thus, I say "How y'all doing?" At the moment, I am fresh out of MoonPies but I can offer the occasional spin of my ladies of the South. For years, I have told charming, humorous and blatantly honest stories about these women. At parties, my social anxiety is eased somewhat when I offer a quip about my mom's endeavors in the avenues of gun control by refusing to purchase bullets for the small pistol she carries in her designer purse. I feel a little more charming when I relate my grandmother's simultaneous ancestral obsessions with the French monarchs and Robert E. Lee. Many have smiled when I recount fond Thanksgiving memories flavored with the stench of smelling salts because fainting was served in a portions that rivaled only the dressing.

This is my attempt to praise the wisdom, humor and hysterics of these women. They have taught me well and I hope their lives are as refreshing as a cold drink from the corner store. My mother would be proud to know that regardless of how many times I have told these stories all over the world that I have never, and I mean never walked down a street and smoked a cigarette at the same time.