Grin and Bear It

My family loves natural disasters and I propose that our one common attribute that does not thwart the core of Mr. Darwin’s theory is our shared proclivity towards acts of nature: mudslides, snowstorms, tornadoes, forest fires and hurricanes.

As a child, I remember my parents taking much pleasure in our home design with many hours focused on multiple routes to the basement. Paying little attention to the substantial living quarters they would walk the grounds and inspect every nuance of the future tornado shelter. Drenched in knee-deep mud, my dad would proclaim, “Yep, this baby’s going nowhere.” Estelle’s dainty and diamond-clad hands rub the concrete walls like most women rub mink. Obviously, my parents would have thrived in the post-World War II craft of bomb shelters.

This trait can be traced to my grandparents. Their own natural instincts for travel were always heightened upon hearing reports of inclement weather. A forecast of flooding would easily invoke a three-hour back roads drive to Balsam or Boiling Springs. Although our summer beach time was carefully rationed to avoid over exposure to the sun, my grandmother endorsed standing hours upon end on rickety piers during strong storms. To this day, a coastal getaway has me dutifully packing a heavy raincoat.

Apples, or in our case, hail storms, fall not far from trees. When being courted by graduate schools, I neglected the milder climates for the potential winter antics of Minnesota. Sadly, the natives void of much emotion and acclimated to bitterness and snowfall didn’t share my passion for traversing the terrain. “Come on guys, wouldn’t a nice drive around the lake be great during this record-breaking snowstorm?”

Estelle has easily transferred this trait to the art of vacation planning. My grandmother, Big Mama, taught her to plan by asking such easy and natural questions as “is the resort near a volcano? When was the last recorded mudslide? What are the chances for seismic activity?” Estelle is a quick study. Annually, she and my father cruise for several weeks from Miami to Belize. This is their time to unplug, neglect the worry of aging elders and enjoy a vacation that resembles a hybrid of the cast of Dynasty cruising on the Pacific Princess. Cat fights are optional. Embracing our family values, they religiously embark for the high seas during the height of hurricane season.

This usually serves no problem. “I would hardly call Hurricane Arthur a hurricane.” Estelle pronounces the word ‘hurricane” in a drawl that places harrowing emphasis on the first syllable while subsequently lessening the effect of the next two until the last syllable is soft, welcoming and void of the harsh long vowel sound which is replaced by the lazy schwa so common in Southern speak. Who needs fear and who needs that final e?

Worry is never an option since, wherever we are in the world, we call between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 9:00 p.m., Eastern Standard Time. Most sensible families operate on the motto of No News is Good News. However we operate with the understanding that no phone call is the equivalent to kidnapping, spontaneous combustion or succumbing to a vice that leads to death or an innermost village in the jungles of Nigeria. It is simultaneously inconvenient and comforting to receive a middle-of-the-night phone call with Estelle’s voice screaming over gust winds “Really, who was the jackass that thought 125 miles per hour wind is a strong hurricane? Do you remember Hugo? Now that was a great storm.”

As their annual sojourn continued, the ships on which they traveled became smaller and the storms became more violent. Traveling with 50 couples while experiencing amenities only imagined by Princess Grace trumped the larger ships feigning royalty with namesake only while hoisting thousands of overweight Americans dreaming of all-you-can-eat buffets in the pristine all-inclusive resorts of Jamaica and Las Vegas.

“Hurricane Dean is the largest storm to hit Belize since 1931.” Nina Totenberg’s exact and overly articulated “hurricane” caused me to pause and look at my phone, checking the settings and the volume of the ringtone. The phone was silent. NPR is one of the reasons my family will never operate on No News is Good News. Our proclivity towards natural disaster is matched by our ability for selective hearing. Renee Montagne’s prattle is unrecognizable unless it is inclusive of earthquakes or tsunamis.

“Hi, it’s Brian and I heard Belize was experiencing rain and I just wanted to check on everyone. I’ll talk to you later.” My family reserves the title of hurricane for the likes of Hugo and Katrina. Everything else is just a little storm. I thought a simple voicemail would elicit a return phone call and, thus, reduce the Totenberg-induced anxiety. The phone was silent.

“Hurricane Dean has been upgraded to category 5 and is expected to hit Belize . . . “ All things considered, Robert Siegel’s baritone was not aiding. The phone was silent.

For three days, the phone was silent as the journalists from NPR taunted their stories of Hurricane Dean and the impending demise of my parents. Motivated by fear, I refused to turn on News Hour with Jim Lehrer. The phone was silent . . .

No News is Good News? I doubt it. Dismayed that Car Talk would switch their focus from the Ford Fiesta to hurricanes in Belize, I opted for silence and watched my mobile phone.

“The shoes on my feet, I bought ‘em. The clothes I’m wearing, I bought ‘em.” I fumbled my fingers over the phone trying to sacrifice Beyonce signaling Estelle’s call. “Where have you been? Juan Williams has me believing you were swept away in some God-forsaken windstorm.”

Estelle chuckled at my worry. “Lord Jesus, that thing was no Hugo and I told your father if they were going to name a hurricane after him they could have at least picked one that was a little more virile. That thing barely ruffled my sarong. We felt Hugo all the way in the mountains. Now that is a category 5.” I was comforted that the storm chasers were unharmed. “We are having the best time. Seriously, this is the best trip of our lives.”

I smirked, fear resigned and inquired, “How’s the new boat?”

“Oh we had to be evacuated to a larger ship and that was the best thing that has happened since white bread.” There was a pause as Estelle’s voice lowered and she asked, “Brian, do you know who the bears are?”

“The football team?”

“Hmmmm, no.”

“They have animals on the high seas?”

“Lord,” Estelle couldn’t believe my inability to answer her inquiry. “I thought you of all people would know. Bears are large, hairy, gay men.” I paused and wondered if I should reply about my familiarity or if that would lead us into a territory best left undiscussed between a son and his mother. “Anyway, those boys on that allegedly luxury boat got all scared during that windstorm and we all had to be evacuated. All these supposedly ritzy ladies from the west coast were crying and I couldn’t stand another moment of that. Do they not have rain in Los Angeles? So I told the concierge we would go anywhere as long as I didn’t have to see some 60-year old marm with too-long hair in a ponytail answering to the name of ‘Gidget.' Well, we got transfered to The Bear Nation cruise.”

Experiencing a shock greater than any hurricane could every deliver, I asked, “Did anyone else from your boat join, uh, the Bear Nation?”

“Lord no. It’s just me and your father and about two thousand bears. There are Polar Bears. Those are the older gentlemen with white or gray hair. There are the Black Bears and those are the boys who are African-American, Latino or just really, really tanned. There are the Grizzly Bears and they are kinda big, you know, like your uncles. Then there are the Otters. I'm just not sure but they are all real nice and sexy. They are so friendly and they like your father.”

At this moment, I longed for Cokie Roberts to interrupt with a heart-warming tale of volcanic eruption.

“But the bears LOVE me. We have been to parties and those boys can dance. They wanted me to participate in their belly-flop contest but I told them I’m a lady and I don’t get my hair wet in a swimming pool. We’ve had a costume ball and played drag bingo. I had to tell one of my friends just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should wear a cocktail dress. All that hair doesn't look good with sequins. You'd love it. They are all very skilled at karaoke. Tomorrow we are hiking some waterfall and native ruins.”

My need for a Cokie Roberts intervention was diffused and we ended the phone call so Estelle could attend to the shuffleboard court with her new following of various bears and otters. The next day Estelle sent a picture to my e-mail. Amongst several large, hairy, gay men in various means of undress was my mom wrapped in a sarong and wearing a large sun hat. All hand-in-hand as they were climbing rocks in some lush paradise. No News is Good News? Well, only if your family vacation is in an all-inclusive gated resort with no signs of inclement weather.

Her Social Network

Estelle has joined Facebook. Add her as a friend but please know what to wear on your sleeve. Fashion is preferable to religion. Don't peddle your personal life, just your business (for instance check out Crisp Consulting + Coaching). I will say it's quite funny to hear her say "Guess who wants to be my friend? You know the little dark-headed girl that was in my Sunday school class in the 80s . . . . "

If you wanna ride in my Mercedes, boy . . .

After a summer of politely declining casseroles and baked hams as well-intended comforts for death and broken hips, Estelle needed a stress release. In America, families look to distraction as a regular avenue for diminishing stress. Our streets are filled with lycra-clad housewives slowly jogging in over-sized sunglasses, men wearing plaid trousers that only see the light of the golf greens, and suburban white kids nodding their heads to the latest underground hip-hop sensation with the precision of robots. Our cultural DNA is linked to pioneers who escaped hardships and torments by enjoying the thrill of riding the open fields shooting everything from quail to bison. Estelle has one such favored endeavor: shopping.

The mathematics of her pastime possess both beauty and logic: the bigger the stress, the bigger the purchase. This logic can be correlated to her life and, in turn, categorizes all her possessions. There is a particular St. John Knit suit that signals the closing of her first large commercial account for her business. The two weeks in Belize was her reward for providing single-handed disaster relief during an event we simply refer to as "my cousin's wedding." There is the Hans Wegner chair that correlates with my finish of graduate school. There is an over-sized Gucci tote that reminds us all of my second journey to graduate school. I got the degrees and Estelle got the prize.

Cutting my beets during our weekly Thursday night dinner at the Hendersonville Country Club almost resulted in a lost appendage when Estelle sighed, "I think I wanna new car . . . " My father almost choked on the overly-baked prepackaged Ore Ida french fries that the Pro Shop passes off as "hand cut." After avoiding the need for a tourniquet and the Heimlich, our eyes met and acknowledged that after a period where my grandparents suffered a broken hip, two back surgeries, dementia, a funeral complete with alcoholics, Pentecostals and a caliber of family insanity usually found deep in the tales of Faulkner, Estelle needed something pretty and big. "I like that new Mercedes. Oh, and I saw James Duluth's commercials where he says he treats folks like family. I remember when I would take you two to the pool. Lord, from the looks of those commercials, he's put his weight on."

And with one run-on sentence we were given our marching orders. As with the logic found in her purchase power, there is also logic and order within the process of the purchase. In an unspoken fashion, we play our parts. I am always relegated to research and wing man. My dad is the good cop possessing the comforting smile and demeanor of a calm and caring hardworking Appalchian native with a charisma and stamina only surpassed by Former President Jimmy Carter. Finally, Estelle swoops in for the kill. Soft and slow with a warm smile, she delivers a final blow that is akin to the beheading of the male praying mantis by its mate. Simply, she enjoys the sport of the hunt and the kill of the purchase.

Returning from the car dealership, my dad's demeanor was unmoved and silent. Estelle looked up from her desk and asked gently, "Well, did you play ball or did the boys just dribble?"
My dad smiled and replied, "They have what you want but it is at another of their lots and they won’t move it for another 45 days." Estelle peaked over her glasses and stopped her working.

At this moment, I realized this is the bizarre manner in which my parents flirt and show affection. Yes, you will see them hold hands, steal a kiss and say rather kind things to each other. Yet, the sparks fly when they tag team a business deal or money transaction. The hunt and kill to them is an aphrodisiac that should be tasted by the protagonists of those recently chaste Mormon-inspired vampire movies.

"Price?" Estelle smirked.

"Not even close," was my dad's groan.

"Do they know I am paying with cash money?" Estelle has said the words "cash money" long before they were adopted by gangsters and rappers.

"I left that part out." My dad's voice was stern, deliberate and a little too much like he was playing a role inspired by Donald Trump and Ron Jeremy.

Silence.

"Be ready at 9:30 tomorrow morning. We have an appointment." Pointing her attention at her wing man, I could see her mouth watering as she picked up her Blackberry and dialed. "Hello Randy, this is Ms. Crisp and I'd like to buy a car. I believe my husband spoke with you earlier today. I'll be in at 9:30 tomorrow and could you have James join us and tell him Estelle said hello." She finished the call and I sat back and marveled at another modern hold up by my parents, Bonnie and Clyde.

Sitting in the paneled office with two car salesmen and James Duluth was tense. Estelle had chauffeured us around in junior high before he got cool and I got chunky. Now, skinnier than most women my age, let alone men, my mind wandered with thoughts of Estelle declaring, "Lord, he's put his weight on." I had not seen James Duluth since my departure from high school. His graying hair and placid skin fell flat as he recounted a story about his wife, their kids and his adventures as a Sunday School teacher. Looking at his shoes,common with thick soles reminiscent of orthopedic prescriptions, I could only think "Well, thank God I am churchless."

The car-dealer-now-church-goer launched in, "Well, what can we do for you little lady? We thought your husband was buying this car."

I wanted to grab his words and quickly stuff them back in his bloated mouth. Was he really this inept? Like a small-time crook who meets the mob boss for the first time, his bravado was both misplaced and insane. Boys, the big guns are here and she's wearing a skirt and carrying a Chloe handbag.

Estelle smiled rather delicately and started, "James you are partially correct. I am small framed and I don't have a penis."

As wing man my job is always to look stern and austere. This becomes incredibly difficult when your mother packs words like cops pack heat. Then she went in for the kill.

"Of my own."

James looked as if Sunday School nor life had prepared him for Estelle. In truth, they probably had not. She continued, "Now here is where you are wrong. I don't need my husband to buy a car for me. Now, if you little boys are ready to talk shop and sell a car, let's get on with this. I have a business to run."

The men sat silently with mouths open and Estelle glanced at me and winked. She continued her proposal. Refusing to pay document charges or transfer assessments, she fairly offered more than the lowest price I had found on the internet and graciously delivered her variable, crossed her legs at the ankles and waited.

James, obviously still not the orator, stuttered "Well, I don't know . . . I mean. . . . I need to . . . what was that price?"

Estelle was deliberate in delivery, "James, if I get up, you will see neither me nor my money." The great hunt, indeed, of squirrels, rabbits, bison and , apparently, car dealers. Like any good hunter, she relished in the moment, sitting still and silently. The room was frozen as if Medusa had just turned the men to stone.

The eldest car dealer stammered, "You gotta deal."

Estelle smiled and giggled as if to say "Thank you. Now, gentlemen, here are your heads."

She retrieved a large stack of bills from her handbag, licked her finger and began to meticulously count. She paused, graciously pretending a demure manner, "I'm sorry. You do take cash money, don't you?"

The car is being delivered on Tuesday.

Estelle Calling

To be honest, I have, thus far, lived the majority of my life without a mobile device. These three by five machines are everything but mere phones. Telephones are for conversing and now the landscape of communicating involves e-mails, navigating programs, stock market applications and the short-charge blip akin to a grammatically-slaughtered smoke signal known as the text message. Longingly, I remember the days of going to dinner, a movie, or even church without the threat of a buzzing and vibrating piece of chrome being within a long arm's length. With the advent of the mobile device has come the demise of manners and common sense.

Although Estelle single-handedly runs a large business from her Blackberry, she still insists on the phone etiquette that served as the criterion of our lives during an era void of mobile devices. Thus, when the ringtone heralds after three rings, in a most pleasant voice you will hear, "Good day, Crisp residence." My voice is often so pleasant that it is mistaken for a sultry stay-at-home vixen. My sing-song lilt causes much gender confusion when I reply to the welcoming "I am glad I am speaking to the lady of the house" with "This is Mr. Crisp." The silence shields neither the confusion nor the embarrassment of the cold-calling solicitor.

"We make business or social calls between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m." Estelle reminded me of this mantra often during my teen years. To this day, a phone call after 9 p.m. starts to be socially questionable and implies an approaching lecherous nature while a call in the early morning hours is equated with natural disaster, family imprisonment, death or a combination of all.

Estelle is a firm believer that the phone is not appropriate for all conversations. As a teen, she often reminded me that "some conversations are not meant for the telephone and should be handled in person."

These constructions have served my family well. At times my friends are amazed at my phone etiquette that transfixes my baritone into a celestial paragon of home training. "Oh my God, you're always so pleasant on the phone. How did you learn that?" I raise my eyebrows and cock my head slightly implying the unspoken answer: Estelle. Longingly my friends' eyes widen as if tears would plead "Oh, if she were only my mother I could graciously avoid Craft-o-Matic Bed salesmen, stop those humiliating text messages and detour those late-night booty calls."

Although Estelle could offer a successful boot camp for manners and the mobile device, she wields her own Blackberry like a Samurai with a personally-crafted sword. Appropriately, she makes appointments, answers e-mails, and orders accessories from Neiman Marcus. Simply, used wisely, the mobile device has made life easier.

At the red light, Estelle unloaded her Blackberry while commenting, "Let's pick up soups and salads from 828 Cafe on the way home." Riding in the passenger's seat of the Navigator, she quickly dialed the restaurant and spoke like a descended angel. "Good evening Claire. This is Mrs. Crisp and I would like to place a dinner order for pick up. Yes, thank you. I will hold."

I accelerated the Navigator through the intersection as Estelle covered the receiver of the Blackberry as if she didn't want the Muzak version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" to be offended by her whispering to me during the conversation. "This will be so much easier than cooking." Her whisper was soft and angelic as a precaution to an unexpected return to the conversation.

South Asheville is plagued with frequent traffic lights. While stopped at the next intersection, Estelle was silent, smiling and swaying slightly to audible rendition of "Careless Whisper." The reminiscing of nostalgic '80's classics was interrupted with a very factual, "They must be busy. I am still holding."

Less than a half mile later we were stopped at another red light and accompanied by overly synthesized rendition, if there is such a thing of "Betty Davis' Eyes." Estelle's voice became audible and punctuated losing the angelic whisper and the concern for offending Kim Carnes. "This_is_a_long_time_to_hold."

"This_is_RIDICULOUS," blared from the passenger's seat. For a moment, I was confused if Estelle was barking about the wait time of the original version of Christopher Cross's "Sailing" muffling from the Blackberry. Naturally, I inquired, "Do you want to go somewhere else?" Apparently, to Estelle, this inquisition was equated to treason of Benedict Arnold proportion. She looked at the timer on the mobile device and roared, "SEVEN_MINUTES_AND_THIRTY_EIGHT_SECONDS. Oh no. We are going by there. This is NOT acceptable."

Gingerly, I steered the Navigator toward the restaurant and prayed that upon arriving we found 828 Cafe hard pressed with a commotion befitting the surprise visit of a foreign diplomat or horrific disaster. "No wonder they couldn't get back to the phone the delegation from Tonga is dining." Or it would soothe Estelle's growing temper to see the restaurant burned to ashes with the only surviving relic the still-connected telephone with line two blinking repetitiously.

I played the scenarios in my head while edging closer to the restaurant. Estelle was silent, her foot tapping rapidly while a saxophone clumsily bellowed Quiet Riot's "We're Not Gonna Take It" through the speaker of her Blackberry.

Pulling into the restaurant parking lot my fears were realized: the parking lot was virtually empty. Before I could engage the emergency brake, Estelle was making a straight shot to the front door with the Blackberry still adjacent to her ear. I quickly followed suit, starting my prayer "Turn around bright eyes. Every now and then you fall apart."

Burning turmoil and an Tongan delegation absent, the hostess cheerfully greeted Estelle with "Welcome to 828. I am Claire. How can I help you?" I prayed these would not be the young siren's last words. With Blackberry still glued to her ear, Estelle was strict and direct. "Claire, please get your manager now." The young woman's lips started to move but were stopped with Estelle's command that was long and louder, "NOW."

The stereo effect of the restaurant's speakers and the Blackberry simultaneously echoed a daunting acoustic version of "Another One Bites the Dust." Returning with a middle-aged man in a dark suit, Claire was rightfully silent and visibly frightened of the petite woman still holding the Blackberry.

The man began, "Good evening, Mad . . . "

Before the sentence could travel through the air Estelle inquired, "Where is your phone?"

This was met with silence and a confused look. Still holding the Blackberry, she asked again, "Where is your phone?"

The man looked to the phone adjacent to the hostess station. It was monolithic and silent. The only sign of operation was the white light repeatedly blinking. Curious about Estelle's refusal to retreat from her Blackberry, the manager stuttered, "the . .the . .the.. ph-phone is right over here. Do you need to use it?"

"Answer the phone," Estelle commanded.

Reluctantly, the manager pressed the blinking light and with the vulgar intonation of a used car salesman said, "Thank you for calling 828. How may I help you?"

Speaking into her Blackberry, Estelle's voice again became light and angelic. "Good evening." As she started, the manager looked her direction with a face that prayed for the floor to open allowing a safe passage across the River Styx as an escape from the fury that was yet to come. "This is Mrs. Crisp and I called for a take out order 17 minutes ago. When I called, I was put on hold and have been holding for a long time. As a business owner, I need to tell you this is NOT an appropriate way to treat a customer." At this point, I chuckled at the smile Estelle used while talking on her Blackberry and looking at the manager.

Stunned into silence, the manager was able to slur, "Mrs. Crisp. I am very sorry. I am going to get off the phone and help you."

"Well, thank you." This was the voice used frequently on phone calls. The same voice that is used at country club card games and garden parties. "Thank you for taking my call. I look forward to speaking with you again. Bye, bye." Her smile continued as she lowered the Blackberry.

"Uh, bye . . uh bye," fell out of the nervous manager's mouth as he dropped the phone. For the next few minutes the restaurant staff circled frantically assembling a take out order that was fit for the delegation from Tonga, or a queen. The other patrons, a sole elderly couple was amused. Bags were filled with salads, soups, bread, and a red velvet cake. "Please Mrs. Crisp allow us to treat you. There is no need to pay tonight."

"Well, thank you," Estelle sighed as she slipped a 20 bill in the tip jar. "And thank you for taking my phone call." I chuckled as I grabbed the two bags of food while the restaurants speakers chimed, "She's a maniac, maniac . . . "

Simply, some things cannot be handled on the phone.

Six Feet Under and Three Sheets to the Wind

Standing in front of her meticulously organized closet, Estelle holds up her small French clutch. The ruffled leather pouchette is embroidered with metallic flowers and dangles from a studded wristlet. Looking intently at my father and me, she simply asks, "Is this too much?" Emerging from a space equivalent to a normal sized Manhattan apartment, the closet is a draped warehouse of Estelle's supreme mantra: looking good is feeling good.

My dad and I look up from our sections of the newspaper, both silent in our reaction. We know Estelle's solicitation is for sheer amusement and not serious since my dad's sartorial adventures are limited to one thousand and one interpretations of golf attire and since my youth negates any seriousness of my opinions.

She holds the clutch against her monochromatic St. John's tunic, wrap, and pants. "It's never too much, boys." Our signal to follow her to the Escalade, the car that is envied by both teens and rappers. "I'll drive the Escalator tonight."

Friday's standing dinner reservation at the Hendersonville Country Club had been shifted to a newer restaurant on Main Street. The newspaper's recount of local merchants feeling the pressure of the recession and larger corporations has prompted my mom and dad to whole-heartedly support their fellow capitalists. "To this day, I will say Walker's Hardware would be there on King Street. if it hadn't been for that Wal-Marts," was my dad's consistent introduction to lectures on local business practices and like all good Southern gentlemen, he will pluralize many a single entity.

Sitting and scrutinizing the menu, our silence was broken. Ignoring the menu, Estelle's French clutch waved through the air and throughout the restaurant her voice carried, "Rucker. . . . .Rucker . . . Rucker." Louder and louder.

Confused and staring blankly at each other, my dad and I thought my mother was suffering from a momentary lapse of manners and yelling mispronounced profanities at near-by patrons of the seven o'clock seating.

"Rucker . . .Rucker. I'm over here." Standing at our table was a giant in a dark suit. Because of his palor and overly-starched shirt, his age was somewhere between late twenties and death. Estelle continued, "This is Rucker Shipman. He's the new mortician at the funeral home."

Although my mom and I have much in common, my father and I share a dark and inappropriate humor that is steeped in cultural references. At the mention of giant's occupation, I knew we were thinking the same thing: Lurch.

"Please Rucker, join us for dinner." The words escaped Estelle's mouth, inviting adventure to which we were now so accustomed.

"Well, I say, I say, that would be simply grand, Mrs. Crisp. Mrs. Crisp that would be simply, I say, Grand. But I am meeting two of my colleagues for a nightcap," the giant's words were as long as his inseam.

"No worries," Estelle dismissed. "These boys won't mind at all." In one swoop of the Lanvin clutch, my dad and I were relegated to the proverbial back seat. "Let's pull up some chairs."

Within minutes our quiet table of three expanded to a table of five. Our routinized Friday evening dinner occasionally accompanied by a glass a wine was now peppered with three gentleman in dark suits, somber faces, and pastel ascots. Their silvery baritones formed a unison request of the bewildered waitress, "three gin and tonics, please."

The gin and tonics briefly touched the table before the triune of funeral directors proposed a toast, "Here's to Mrs. Crisp. I say, she made what could have been a rather, I say, a horrible week into what I say into a pleasant ending. I say, here's to you." The gin and tonics raptured our mineral waters in the air with the mystery of Rucker's linguistic oddity and Estelle's own undertaking remaining in the air.

"Here, here," the white-headed undertaker with the purple ascot uttered. "Let's have another round," he noted to the waitress. Her face perplexed at this gathering. The mortician continued, "You were quite wonderful with Mrs. Mabel Watkins."

"That is really quite sweet of you, thank you." Estelle can be more than gracious when she wants. She continued with compliments, "You remind me of my wonderful Uncle Wesley. He was a doll." The funeral director blushed and I immediately thought of the mentioned Uncle Wesley. When Uncle Wesley wasn't engrossed in teaching Latin at the University of South Carolina, he was volunteering his time and talents at local funeral parlors doing hair and make-up. Impeccably dressed always, a normal day could find Uncle Wesley in a salmon-colored linen sport coat, yellow shirt, pink paisley ascot with white pants and shoes. Estelle was correct, his incarnate was at dinner.

With more gin and tonics in the hands of the undertakers, Estelle commented, "Mrs. Mabel Watkins was fine. She just needed someone to listen to her." Estelle will easily dismiss praise.

Rucker, interrupting his gin flow, persisted, "no, no, no, I say. I say, we have been working with her for six weeks with, I say, little to no success. I say, you worked with her for two hours and , I say, changed our worlds." Gin briefly to lips, he then continued, "How did that all happen?"

The smaller of the three who was wearing a plaid ascot and matching pocket square continued, " I thought we would never please Mrs. Mabel Watkins. We buried her husband, Mr. Walter R. Watkins, over six weeks ago. Every time I would go to her home she would accuse me of eating half of a ham or a cake or a plate full of biscuits. Do I look like I could eat a half of a cake?"

The table was silent as we looked at the man's portly sphere enclosed in a striped shirt and plaid ascot.

Rucker interrupted his gin intake, "I say, the last time, I say, I went in her rambling old house, she accused me of eating a bowl of snap beans and a plate of turkey legs."

At this point my dad and I were confused about the intersection of a thought-to-be-insane widower, three gay morticians, stolen food, and Estelle. Snidely, I couldn't refuse, "I say, what happened?"

My dad coughed nervously at my remark while more gin warmed the throats of the three. Ascots must not be too warm. Estelle, giving my an eye that was keen to my taunting, did not let conversation lapse. "Last week Rucker called and asked if we could send a cleaning crew to Mrs. Watkins' home. We do this from time to time. If a grieving family needs extra help, the funeral home will hire us. So, last Wednesday I scheduled a cleaning with Mrs. Watkins' son, Troy. He lives over in Clyde now and, I think, rarely checks on his home-bound mother."

At this point, my dad and I expected most anything. The ascot-clad crowd nursed another round as she continued.

Well, Wednesday afternoon Evangeline called from Mrs. Watkins' home. There was a serious ruckus happening and all I could hear was 'Ms. Estelle. Please come really quick. White lady is crazy.' I was trying to get my nails done but that was serious so I went all the way over to Mills Gap Road."

When I got there, the whole crew was standing outside and Mrs Watkins had a rifle and was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch." The only sound at the table was the clanking ice of an empty gin and tonic glass as Rucker signaled the waitress for another round. Estelle continued, "So, I got out of the car and looked at the crew and told them to calm down and let me handle all of this. Lord, that woman was a mess."

The red-faced man in the purple ascot inquired, "were you at all frightened, Ms. Estelle?"

She looked at the blushed crowd, "Well no. I carry a pistol in my pocket book." At this point, my dad and I chuckled. Although my mother is a certified pistol packer and a great shot with a rifle, she has never owned bullets. She will, however, tell you the pearl handle matches her Tiffany necklace and bracelet.

The story unfolded, "I walked up to the porch and said 'Mrs. Watkins, how are you, is there a problem?' The elderly woman put the rifle in her lap and said 'I'll say. Your Mexican wants to open up that there door to my husband's bedroom and I ain't having it!'"

"I ss-ss-ssay, theeeey Lord," Rucker's words were slurred as he ordered another round.

"Well first I told her that Evangeline was from Antigua and, therefore, could not be a Mexican. Then I asked her when the last time that door had been opened and she told not for three years. Her husband had gone into assisted living when he was diagnosed with cancer and she had just shut-up that bedroom and moved upstairs. Then I told her we had to get in that bedroom to clean."

"Oh, my. Drink please,"slurred purple ascot as he signaled the ever-busy waitress.

Estelle eyeing the gin classes continued, "I just took her hand and told her I would go with her to open the door or I would do it by myself but that it had to get done. So, she said she wanted to go with me. I told her I would hold her hand and it would be o.k. So I called over Evangeline and the crew and we all went to the bedroom. Lord, and I looked down and we were all holding hands. Even Joe, my new handy man."

Plaid ascot began to chuckle, "That is sssure ssweets of you, Ms. Estelle."

"Well," Estelle paused again to let the waitress deliver another round of gin and tonics to the funeral crew. "I opened the door and couldn't believe my eyes. There was a full-grown woman in the bedroom asleep smack in the middle of the bed. Well, she shot straight up and started screaming. Then Mrs. Watkins started screaming and hollering. Then Evangeline started screaming and crying. Even Joe shouted."

"I say, say, I say. I say," stumbled Rucker. All I could think was "really, you don't Rucker." He then asked, "well, well, I say, what did you do, do, I say?"

"I told them all to shut-the-hell-up. All the screaming was getting on my damn nerves. Then I asked the lady in the bed who she was." Estelle smirked. "That lady had crawled in that window two years ago and had been living in Mrs. Watkins' home since and she would sneak out and steal food from the pantry and stove. Her name was Lavonia and her husband had died three years ago and she had nothing."

"Honey, did you call the cops?" My dad wanted to know.

"The police? Why would I call the police?" My mom looked at my father as if his methodical logic had once again failed. "No, I called Seventh Street Mission. Anyway, they came down and Lavonia has a home. Mrs. Watkins has her house straightened and cleaned and is not crazy for thinking someone was eating her food."

"Well, well. I say, I say, I say, I say that is a miracle, I say," Rucker's repetition lengthened with each drink.

"Miracle," Estelle dismissed, "I just opened up a shut door. Rucker, you'll learn. Sometimes, you just need to hold someone's hand and help them turn the knob."

Silence fell on the table for a brief second.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind," The portly man started singing and soon the trio was belting with drinks raised in the air.

"Here's to Ms. Estelle, I say," shouted Rucker

The trio continued, "Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet,

for auld lang syne."

The singing continued as we excused ourselves from the table avoiding sloshing gin and falling ascots. We left the restaurant and crossed Fifth Avenue towards the car. Estelle flung her purse in the air and laughed, "Just think boys, I thought this pocketbook was too much tonight." She laughed as she climbed in the car.

Estell-o-grams

For those of you who have had the pleasure of meeting and interacting with Estelle, you know first hand that her wit, as far as we can all tell, is not intentional. With an ample styling of grace, she simply says and does what she wants to while somehow thinking of others while doing it. This type of living drove Kate Chopin's protagonist into the sea never to return. No wonder Estelle hates being enclosed by water. Yet, she is gracious in her life full of charity, industry and the pampering of self with weekly hair appointments and the comfort of St. John knits.

Over the past week or so, I have compiled a few things that she has uttered. These sayings, to her, are heartfelt. To the rest of us much laughter has erupted as we have stopped and given pause to her wisdom.

Life has a way of providing much insight, even if it arrives unexpectedly from a petite woman clad in layers of cashmere and digging frantically in her Gucci pocketbook.

It takes more than a shot to raise a child or ground a drunk. Upon hearing about Bill Gates' plan to vaccinate all the children of the world, Estelle had a good, old-fashioned hissy fit and uttered her sentiment. Although she is an advocate of eradicating disease, she is even more of an advocate of, as she would say, Home Training. A shot, in Estelle's mind, does not guarantee a good life.

No manners is worse than no money. The antidote to this, of course, is good Home Training. With the advent of too-readily available mobile devices, wearing sweat pants in the grocery store, and informally replying with "yep" or "nope," Estelle utters this phrase often. The other day while checking out at the boutique grocery store, the cashier answered Estelle's greeting about the sunny afternoon with "yep, I guess so." In a quick minute, Estelle placed her pocketbook down and said, "Now, now Ms. Lady. When someone is friendly with you, regardless if it be a customer or a stranger, it is in everyone's best interest that you show some respect and be cordial. Let's try this again. It sure is a nice day outside, isn't it?" The stunned cashier uttered, "Yes ma'am. Yes ma'am, it is really pretty." Hence ended the lesson.

She's an Indian nickel trying to be the British pound. I will not defend Estelle's use of non-politically correct language. I will say her statement was not in direct reference to Native Americans, but, in reference to a rather loud woman carrying an obvious Louis Vuitton knock-off handbag. The shopper was making a rather raucous scene about her declined credit card. This, of course, violates one of Estelle's mantras: pay with Cash Money. Thus, seeing obviously dyed and bleached hair, a stab at pretension with a faux handbag, and the public playing out of the economic crisis did not sit well at all. Her frustration and commentary, although silent, read on her facial expression like the clearly definable images from the drive-in movie that can be seen all the way from I-85. Was it right for her to reinforce British Imperialism or lessen the plight of the Native American? No. Did it make a point in outright humor? Trust me, it did.

If it's a snake, don't call it a bunny. Estelle calls it as it is and encourages everyone around her to do the same. Saying these words always serves as a prelude to a perceived universal truth to follow: "Those shoes are ugly;" "She's put on her weight again;" "Lord, he's a drunk." This may sound biting but she always says it with a rather slow and thoughtful drawl and it reminds me that people show their true nature and it is our responsibility to believe and accept it.

These phrases and many more live with me in all aspects of my life: business meetings, grocery shopping or driving around an again-flooded Banner Farm Rd. Lay aside their regional humor and find clear guidance and solid advice. At first you may feel uneasy adopting these axioms, but, trust me, they work. So, the next time you find yourself with cash money, trying on something daring in the dressing room of Neiman Marcus, ask yourself, "Does this make me look like a two-dollar whore in a ten-dollar church?"

Snakes Alive.

While recently walking down Charleston's King Street, Estelle's ring tone beckoned a quick answer. "Brother, I'm going to Haiti." Stopped dead in my tracks somewhere between Lacoste and Louis Vuitton, I could only muster a barely audible, "What?"

For such a drawl, Estelle can rapidly deliver a deluge of information. "Brian, they gonna need good people to help with orphans and old people. Lord knows, I am both good willing and able-bodied. The Episcopalians are going and I_am_going_with_them."

Disaster calls, Estelle answers.

Estelle handles crises better than contentment. In the spring, when the sun is half lit, the air temperate, and the trees barely blossomed, Estelle's approach to daily life will be melancholy at best. Yet, if per chance, a spring flood collapses the wall of an assisted living complex washing colostomy bags, lung tanks, and octogenarians tightly gripping their walkers down stream of the French Broad River, then Estelle shines. Her commands will be forever gracious, her concern genuine, and her ability to organize and implement the actions of many will be nothing short of miraculous.

For these latter reasons alone, she has chaired the Bereavement Committee of her church for more than fifteen years. At the start of her tenure, the committee was twelve people responsible for organizing a single month of responsibilities. With the start of a new month, began the start of a person's responsibilities. Over time, and I would say intimidation, the committee became a mere six people with five of the members guiding one month and Estelle performing six months of service. "I take October through March because more people die in those months. I read that in the double A, R and P."

Fire, floods, cancer, a proverbial Sodom and Gomorrah of disease and blight serve as no impediment for Estelle's ability and desire to help. There is only one darkness that invokes her fear: snakes. Like Eve, that creature curses Estelle.

Hospice recruited Estelle with more vigor than Dean Smith recruited James Worthy and Michael Jordan. Her ability to listen to people and sympathize with their struggle became her slam dunk and she accepted a starting position with Team Hospice.

After her first home visit, she phoned. Always welcoming her Southern charms during my time in the Midwest, I inquired about her new do-gooding. "Good Lord Jesus and Baby Jesus, those_people_are_dying." Hospice was not synonymous to death in Estelle's life. "And do you know what?" In the South, that inquiry is eternally rhetorical. "Most of them have pets. They are just worried sick about who will take care of those dogs and cats when they pass onwards. I can't say that I blame them."

Even though I was twelve states removed, I could hear Estelle's mind formulating a rescue. Before I could suggest such an idea, she chimed, "I tell you what. I'll make sure that is one worry that need not be."

So it was for six months. Estelle provided a caring hand and assurance that the puppies and kittens of the soon-to-be-very-mortal would be placed in good homes. "Daddy's passing was so much easier since you found a good home for Uncle General." Estelle received such compliments with her smile, holding someone's hand, and relaying, "It's the least I could do."

Thursday morning in late March found my apartment windows covered with snow when my phone rang. "Lord, guess where I am off to, Baby Boy?" Estelle rarely says hello to family members forsaking that pleasantry for the substance found in familiarity. I was silent knowing again the code of Southern rhetoric. "David_Perry."

Growing up, I was never allowed to walk down pristine Fourth Avenue because of David Perry's ill-fitting and unkempt bungalow. An additional half mile was part of my daily bike route to school because Estelle insisted I never ride by this house. My first memory of David Perry was his stroll in front of my dad's office. He was walking with an accordion strapped to his chest and screaming to high heavens, "It was Saturday night and I killed my wife. Killed her dead." He would stop momentarily and squeeze the accordion releasing a cacophony of sounds before resuming his walk and tirade, "I killed my whole family and then shined up my broadax."

"Are you sure it's safe to go to David Perry's?" I had to ask.

"Well, I dont think Hospice would ask me to go if they thought I would be endangered and such."

"Maybe, I don't know, you should take someone with you." Although it is rarely needed, I am always protective of Estelle.

"Baby, I am taking Carol." My mom at 5'2" and 115 pounds is a giant next to Carol who is two inches less and whose only form of protection is a shell of Aquanet hair. "Barbara Gene said he had a pet. I think its name is Squeaky or something like that. I'm sure he wants her to find a good home."

"If he hasn't killed it with an ax," I sighed.

"Brian_Dean_Crisp, you watch the way you talk about the almost dead. I raised you better than that."

With the prolonged utterance of my full name, Estelle resigned to complete her Hospice duties of finding a home for Squeaky. Expecting to hear from her in a few days about the peaceful passing of another saint due to pet placement, I was shocked when my phone rang ten minutes later.

"Sweet Lord Jesus weeping on the Cross. Do you know what?" Again, I was silent. "Squeaky_IS_A_SNAKE!" Hearing the word snake, I could only recall Estelle's last encounter with the reptile. She was leaning out the third story window with a shotgun taking target at a green snake curled on the ledge of her garden's retaining wall. She's a good shot.

"Oh," was all I could muster. Unlike Estelle, I am usually of no comfort.

"And I'm not talking those little black snakes you used to dig up by the lake. Oh, no, no, no, no. This thing was biiiiiiig." Surely it was since Estelle made a one-syllable word multi-syllabic. She then commanded Carol, "Carol, what kinda snake did they say that was?" Faintly, I could hear Carol's muffled drawl. "That's right. Brian, it is a nine-foot-long Burmhanmanese or somewhere python." Estelle was never fond of geography.

"How did Mr. Perry get a Burmese Python?" I was curious.

"Well, I reckon we will never know. Lord, he's in bad shape. He didn't even comprehend we were in his house. Albeit, we didn't stay that long with the snake and all." I wondered if the snake would lead to Estelle severing her relationship with Team Hospice. "Do you know anyone who needs a big snake?" I guess not.

With usual rigor, Estelle began working on Squeaky's placement. The Humane Society was no help and if Wendy Metcalfe had not known Estelle personally, she would not have humored her call to the Salvation Army. "Well, they didn't have such a problem when I donated all those Gucci purses," Estelle would later comment.

After four phone calls to the North Carolina State Zoo, Estelle finally connected with a zoologist who could discern she was more sincere than certifiable. This can be a curse in our family. We simply experience a phenomenon and then when relating it over the phone, others seem to think we are insane. Apparently, most families never start a phone conversation with "Good morning, I have a nine-foot-long female Burmese Python named Squeaky that needs a home," or "Hi, I just got out of the hospital after being knocked unconscious by an elephant at a gypsy circus, but I am O.K."

Intoxicated with her drawl, the receptionist at the Western Reptile and Nature Center replied, "If you aren't crazy, we'd love the snake." Estelle's reply was earnest, "Ma'am, I am not crazy. I'm with Hospice."

A few days later, Estelle had organized Hospice volunteers, widowers, and a reptile specialist to converge upon Fourth Avenue. Mr. Perry's family had gathered. They were very much alive and living in Michigan, which seems to be a somewhat better alternative to his mythological ranting accompanied by the accordion. His daughter thanked Estelle, "I know my dad was a bit odd and I can't say thank you enough." Neglecting to mention her anxiety of snakes, Estelle's reply was humble, "Well we all smiled when your dad played accordion."

As the family rested in the now cleaned and spotless front room, Estelle went into David Perry's room. She took his hand in hers. She caressed it as if her touch could ease his difficulty of breathing or subdue his bitter coughs. "Mr. Perry. I wanted to let you know Squeaky has a new wonderful home. We made sure she had a habitat at the Western Reptile and Nature Center. I am sure many people will view her with wonder."

Recently, Estelle took her great nephew to the Western Reptile and Nature Center. "And this Grayson is Squeaky. She is a nine-foot-long Burmese Python." Wonder indeed.

Up and Running

Hey y'all, as we would graciously say. The past two months have had me traveling and working on several big projects and devoting time to academic writing. Sadly between work and the holidays (Estelle's social season, well, or one of many), I have had little time for curious storytelling. Yet, as I pulled into Horse Shoe Tuesday evening, I found a wonderful box of goodies from lovely Indiana compelling me and my pen (well laptop). This glow of recognition was short lived as I immediately staged an intervention for Estelle's declaration of Haitian aid that was complete with the air waving of plane tickets and inquiring if she should check a rifle at the Delta counter.

I would personally like to thank the U.S. Government for discouraging the Episcopalians from a too-soon trip to Haiti.

Tomorrow should bring the first of new stories with "Snakes Alive," a lovely encounter with hospice, The Bereavement Committee, and a nine-foot long, orphaned python named "Squeaky."

Thank you for all your support of these stories and all your warm wishes for Estelle and other mythical women of the South.

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.