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.

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.

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.

Can I Get An Amen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Betty Jean Smith

2. Rosemary Jackson

3. Emily Anne Garret

4. Barbara Lunsford

5. ESTELLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watching and Weighting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost in Translation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cardstock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brain Freezers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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