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?