The Fall of the Communion Cloth Caretaker

               Reasons for her stroll down the street from her house two doors up are inconsequential, but answer the question of why Mildred would go to Margaret's front door. 

              She said that, after the heavy rain, she thought the soggy grass and standing puddles might soil her shoes and splatter her stockings if she took the familiar route across back yards to the back door. Therefore, she walked down her driveway, down the street, and walked on the concrete sidewalk that led to three steps and a screen door at her daughter’s front porch.

               The screen door wasn’t locked, so she pulled it toward herself and promptly lost her balance. From the top step, she backed up to navigate the door’s swing, caught her heel on the outside of the step, and ker-plunk. She tumbled right into the boxwood shrubs lining the front porch.  They’d grown from tiny plants and now provided a slight cushion.

               The screen door slammed. Margaret heard something and while she was expecting her mother’s visit, Mildred always came to the back door. The front porch door slamming shut was most likely a result of the wind. Then she heard what sounded like a loud cat mewing, “You-hoo!” but then, the cat called her name, “Margaret!” She hurried to the front porch and looked toward the door. She saw nothing.

               That was when she heard, “Margaret, down here.” The position her mother was in made it impossible for her to free herself from the clutches of the shrubs. Margaret swallowed an aghast laugh and turned it into, “Oh, Mother!” and hurried forward to extract Mildred from the boxwood branches. Stockings torn, arms and legs scratched, nerves shattered, Mildred could barely help in her own rescue.

               Once out of the shrubbery and leaning on the arms and shoulder of Margaret, the duo made their way to the kitchen table where Margaret gingerly placed her mother into a chair. She got a cold cloth for her head, wiped her arms, and patted the scratches on her legs.  Margaret then refreshed the cold cloth, one of the family cure-alls, and left it for her mother to place on her forehead as she sat whimpering and moaning.

Mildred G. Horne, 85th birthday, March 26, 1975

               “Mother, I have to finish getting dressed. I’m going to pour you a glass of wine to settle your nerves.”

               “Oh, no, I don’t drink wine.”

               “You drink Mogen-David, so you can drink this.”

               “The doctor told me to drink just a thimble-full once a day for my heart.”

               “Well, this doctor is telling you to drink this for your nerves.  Just sip on it and I’ll be right back.”

               Margaret left a tumbler of red wine on the table in front of her mother and waited for her to put the glass to her lips, which she did all the while wrinkling up her nose and pursing her lips to suggest how terrible the stuff tasted.  “Just sip on it, Mother.  It’ll calm you down.”

              
The communion-cloth-caretaker of the Camden First Methodist Church was an obedient soul. Margaret swore she was gone less than ten minutes and when she returned, Mildred had finished the tumbler of wine and admitted that she might take "just a thimble-full" more…for her nerves.

Water Power

            

Ouachita River at Camden- Margaret Horne

See and hear it at Mammoth Spring. Stand amazed at what the harnessed flow once provided. Compare it, fleetingly, to Lake Mead and Hoover Dam, the Colorado River and the Grand Canyon. Recall how the Ouachita River often takes Highway 7 from Arkadelphia to Camden. Reflect on the devastating 2011 flooding at Memphis and the number of locks put in place as the Old Man visited Beale Street and Riverside Drive. Remember how rivers hunger for land. The Black River, the Current River, the White River, and the St. Francis River gorged themselves with northeast Arkansas farmland.

Thing is, beyond what man can do to delay the inevitable, the water will come. From the Mighty Mississippi’s enormous drainage area, it will drive steadily south. Whether man builds anything to stem the flow or not, the muddy menace will plow through, gaining depth and strength, power and speed. Man is reduced to a watchman as he recognizes the inevitable: water will have its way.

Ouachita River - Old Bridge at Camden and Hwy 7

Growing up in the Queen Cityon the Ouachita River, attending college at Henderson in Arkadelphia where we sunbathed and sometimes fogged up car windows along the Ouachita’s banks, spending my professional life in the city where the Delta begins, and retiring near the St. Francis tributary, river water speaks a language I understand. Perhaps that is why reading The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America touched me, carved a permanent inlet.

Crystal Bridges Art Museum -Flood of 1927

Politics, power, and pride made decisions in 1927. Lessons were learned. Still...

People build in flood plains; prognosticators forecast crest dates and depths, and newspapers feature stories about levee systems

People figure the odds and take the risk.

People lose, though, when standing against a rising river's trek to the sea.

Partying Priorities and Puzzle Pieces

               Never a hard-partying kind of girl, I look to New Year’s Eve with a sobering recollection of my first New Year’s Eve as a parent. 

               As young adults, couples greeted the New Year in each other’s homes, having dinner, eating chips and dips, sipping adult beverages, and watching the ball drop at earlier and earlier hours. Add a baby or two to this mix of partying and parenting and the story of the Last Whoopty-Do New Year's Eve springs to mind.

           

David was right at four months old when we received one of those fantabulous invitations for a New Year’s Eve. It was a glittery event complete with Dinner, Dancing, an Open Bar, and Breakfast at the Pinnacle Club (Top of the 100) in Memphis. Of course, we said, “YES!” and plans were underway. The most critical component of the plan: a baby-sitter.

            Talk about friends. Our next door neighbors volunteered for David to spend the night at their home. After all, they had a couple of young children who would be sleeping away and they did not plan on going out on the town, anyway. Again, we said, “YES!”

            What a trip! The “in crowd” boogied and gyrated around the dance floor in the most current form of group line dancing and slow dancing, all to the music of a live band. The night flew by. We called our neighbors and David was sleeping like…well, a baby. “Remember,” we said, “if he wakes up, don’t turn on a light, don’t speak to him, just give him the extra pacifier, and he’ll go back to sleep.”

            The last of the real party-goers, we drove home sometime after the midnight celebration and breakfast, an early hour on New Year’s Day. We fell into bed about 2 AM. At 3 AM, the phone rang and we heard, “WAAAHAAHHAAA!” in the background. “NO!” we mimed with a silent scream.

This baby wanted his mommy. In the driveway, David was passed over to welcome the New Year in his own home. He was wide awake and smiling that smile I’ve never been able to refuse. He did not go back to sleep until the Tournament of Roses Parade was winding through Pasadena.

            I was bleary-eyed and in one heck of a cranky mood. It was the last time we said, “YES!” to a New Year’s Eve Late Night Party ‘til You Drop Event. Partying on New Year’s Eve became a dinner out with kids completed by the highlight of the evening: a luscious dessert, most likely laced with double chocolate, whipped cream, and a cherry on top.

New Year’s Eve Party Priorities do change. Tonight, David is beyond a pacifier and my husband and I are fitting the final pieces into a puzzle Richard gave him and we all started on Christmas Day. Talk about a night of togetherness. It makes for a much happier Black-eyed Peas kind of morning. 

December Storms

December weather must have offered Camden, Arkansas, one heck of a ride in 1931. December can bring snow mounds or storm debris; it’s ever so chancy in Arkansas.

Under a tornado watch at the moment, I sit in my comphy writing and reading chair at home in Clay County, thinking of how many warm Christmas seasons I’ve witnessed. The December of the Smurf Car is one, the pedal-car gifted to David by Thomas one hot Christmas Day, I recall. We opened the windows rather than turn on the air-conditioner in Memphis.

During another fateful December, we out-distanced a tornado outbreak, driving from the Pyramid’s showcase of the Arkansas Razorbacks basketball team toward home with sirens blaring around us. The tornado tracked east as we drove that same direction, but paralleled our Walnut Grove Road to the south, headed for the Dogwood subdivision and Houston High School in Germantown rather than Walnut Grove Woods in Cordova.

It’s not a new thing, this unsettled, warm weather. Mid-South Decembers are volatile, to say the least.

In one of the chapters in The House on Harrison Street, a December tornado tears up the Methodist Church and the Ouachita County Court House in Camden, Arkansas, both situated across the street from the house where Mother and her brother Gordon huddled with their parents, their grandmother, and their aunt, Janie:

“Get up! Get the children. Downstairs! Quickly.”

Ella Gordon must have been startled awake as the wind howled with a deafening roar. Her daughter and son-in-law awoke, also, and Claude bounded out of bed, sensing what was just out the front window roaring toward Harrison Street. As he approached the bedroom door, he heard his mother-in-law, “It’s a tornado! Everybody downstairs! I’ll get Janie.”

            Claude must have grabbed Gordon, age six, and Mildred jostled Margaret, age 8. A mid-December storm, December 12, 1931, surprised everyone.

            Shaken awake by fear and the roar outside, both Margaret and Gordon hurried with their parents and grandmother down the stairs, most likely toward the back hallway, the lowest point in the house, the smooth concrete, cold storage area used to keep all the jams and jellies, peas and beans the family canned and preserved. They could have stolen a peek outside as they were hustled past the windows in the stairway; they might have gaped at the hundred year old trees being whipped about, their naked branches reaching toward the ground.

            The storm didn’t last long. It jumped and hopped neighborhoods, picked up, set down, wrecked havoc through any area it touched. What must have been an especially violent tornado, the first ever for Camden, tore up the downtown area; the beast reigned destruction wherever the funnel landed. Damage was significant throughout the incorporated area, even in a south neighborhood around Chestnut and Maple Streets. One child was killed in the outskirts of Camden where the storm made its exit. Many residents of Ouachita County close to Camden City Limits were severely injured, and property damage registered in the tens of thousands of dollars, hugely devastating in that era.

            Tornados usually form in volatile air masses and follow a southwest to northeast path, carving a trail of destruction where they choose. Camden, positioned on the Ouachita River bluffs, experienced this tornado that must have moved about indiscriminately because it arrived from the north and traveled south, hitting Greenwood Cemetery located in the north part of the city, inflicting wind damage on its trek to downtown.

Photo: Ouachita County Historical Society archives. First Methodist Church, December, 1931. Visible is Jefferson Street. Harrison Street runs perpendicular at the center of the photograph. The fencing surrounds the Court House property. (According to church records, the Board of Trustees had debated renewal of storm coverage just two weeks prior. They voted to renew the policy and dodged the bullet of financial devastation.)  

It dropped on top of the Methodist Church, gutting it west to east, threw debris onto a car dealership and garage behind the church on Jefferson Street. After smashing cars and caving in the dealership, the massive storm jumped across Jefferson and demolished the “pride of Ouachita County,” the gorgeous, massive, red brick court house built in 1888 and completed the following year.

            The children and their parents, their grandmother and her sister and ward, their aunt, lived across the street from this devastation and their home suffered only roof damage, wind damage, and took scattered debris from the rampage into the yard. The Courthouse was gutted; only a few of the outer walls remained standing. The bronze statue of Justice which stood atop the courthouse pergola was found near the river, south of town.

            The Methodist Church suffered the same fate with the sanctuary completely blown apart. The communion table inscribed IHS was lifted by the wind, removed from the altar, and transported to the court house lawn. There it was set down, intact, with little damage whatsoever. The steeple somersaulted down Jefferson Street.

From their shelter inside the house on the corner of Harrison and Jefferson, this huddled family watched the devastation. They knew they had escaped injury and possible death, left to ponder how such disaster could occur immediately across the street and their home be left virtually untouched. How the house must have shuddered and ripped, yet bravely stood against the horrors of the rampaging wind.

It withstood other horrors, too, including a fire ten years later. But that’s another story.

The House on Harrison Street will be available in early 2016.

Kitchen Saints: The Gordons at Christmastime

           I have called on the Gordon kitchen saints once again.

Gordon Rocks have been made (double batch) and shared. Christmas would be incomplete, however, without another traditional favorite of the Gordon clan: boiled custard. If the South is not your home, if your stomping grounds are not from around these parts, you may be unfamiliar with this traditional delicacy.

            Custards are often baked into pies or refrigerated and eaten with a spoon like a pudding. Not so for boiled custard. Taken either sip-by-sip from a small fancy-shaped glass or used as the base for egg nog, boiled custard is always served at Christmas gatherings of the Gordon family. The gentle thickness of boiled custard is just right for putting a little milk-like mustache on a toddler’s lip; boiled custard initiated a babe into the folds of Gordondom.

Ella Gordon and family lived across the street from the Methodist Church where she occupied a front pew and had a women’s missionary society circle named in her honor. Ella Gordon was a “t-totaler,” a duty and obligation lady, but at Christmastime, all bets were off. Ella sent for “good whiskey.” 

Mind you, she never bought it herself. She sent a man to the liquor store and listened for the secret knock at the door so Aunt Bessie might retrieve the hooch. The whiskey or brandy was not for drinking, but for cooking. That's altogether a different situation, don't ya' know. The liquor would “cook out,” and the finished product would be all the more moist or flavorful due to the addition of the booze.

Lifting the lid to the cookie tins filled with Rocks could set a sober person into a spin with one whiff. Egg nog shared with little Gordons on Christmas Eve sent them to their beds earlier than they had planned – about passed out from the nog’s not-so-secret ingredient. Thomas would literally stagger to bed, all the while begging for more.

Ella Gordon, also known as Banmama, carried on the tradition of Rocks, Boiled Custard, a multitude of confections, and batch upon batch of salted pecans kept in a Mrs. Seay’s Candy Box. She and her girls also made fondant, shaping colored fondant balls into ovals and pressing pecan halves on either side. Pam and I have tried to replicate a caramel candy known as “Tattee’s Candy,” but we grew impatient and let it remain Tattee’s Soup, still delicious, filled with goo-gobs of chopped pecans, and laden with sugar.

            Banmama also made a Nut Cake during the holidays. The Nut Cake made with lots of eggs, a bit of flour, a healthy cup of pecans, plenty of sugar (a Gordon absolute), also called for a tumbler of “good brandy.” Upon first reading the recipe shared by Mrs. W.W. Brown, Mrs. Chas. Gordon, and Mrs. S.B. Lide, I thought the notation indicated a “thimble” of brandy.  

In re-reading the list of ingredients, it appears this is a fruit cake without the fruit, but plenty of nuts and quite a bit of brandy. I modified the recipe to bake a cake similar to one that a writer friend’s mother made and it is cooling on a wire rack in my refrigerator, waiting to be served with a dollop of whipped cream (or Cool-Whip).

            Baking with recipes gathered from family recipe books brings a warmth to me as real as if my great grandmother, grandmother, her sisters, and my mother are all in the same kitchen. I am in tune with these women and their laughter, their enjoyment of the Christmas season, their unbounded generosity never more present than at Christmastime.

            And, dear cousins, for the record, I also made several batches of palted secans.

Joy Come To You

Joy Come To You - published Clay County Times-Democrat - December 16, 2015

               “Mom, can I open just one little-bitty, teeny-tiny present now?” Small fingers held almost together show about one teeny-tiny inch. “I just can’t wait ‘til Christmas!”

“Christmas Eve will be here before you know it, and you can open one of your presents. Don’t go snooping under the tree. You know what that’ll mean.” Under her breath she chuckled, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” The child did not understand her humor.

How marvelous to be the lucky child who counts gifts under the Christmas tree and opens one on Christmas Eve. Luckier still is the child who can con a sibling into snooping and peeking; it’s a risk because searching through the closets could result in a gift’s prompt return to the store.

Adults celebrating family food traditions prepare tins of candies, cookies, and favorite Christmas dishes following generational recipes. During this joyous December time frame, the kitchen counter is laden with specialty items enjoyed at no other season of the year. Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without Aunt Bethany’s green Jell-o salad.

The tradition of allowing children to open one gift on Christmas Eve, one gift before bedtime, began several generations prior to this one. Pajama sets, most likely patterned Christmas pajamas only Aunt Gladys could love lay nestled in tissue paper; no toy requiring assembly or batteries appeared on Christmas Eve. “Now, put on your PJs and hurry to bed. You know Santa won’t come if you are awake!” How many children never went to sleep, insisting they heard reindeer prancing and sleigh bells jingling! “I’m asleep, I’m asleep. Really, I’m asleep!”

Christmas is filled with family traditions, special events children remember and replicate when they have children and Christmas seasons of their own. One tradition I enjoyed involved the beauty of The Peabody Christmas Tree. We dressed up, spruced up, and traveled down to the The Peabody lobby where ducks paraded. The decorated tree occupied a substantial portion of the lobby, reaching beyond the mezzanine. A musician dressed in a tux serenaded on the Grand Piano, entertaining the holiday-happy crowd with Christmas tunes. We took photographs, sipped specialty coffees, and gulped soft drinks, usually adorned with a long-stemmed cherry, and let the glittery ambiance wash over us.

We’d also map out a route to follow, thrilling at all the houses and yards nominated as “best of the season.” We’d drive by the fancy displays, the addresses advertising orchestrated lights and synchronized music. The Starry Nights drive-through spectacular always topped the Christmas To-Do list.

One tradition held from my own childhood became my own family’s most important tradition: the candlelight Christmas Eve service at our church. Traditional hymns rang out Gloria! Scripture readings foretold of the holy infant’s birth. Families from near and far lined the pews as lights dimmed to Silent Night, the final hymn. We looked at the glow upon each face among all the families represented there.

Traditions change because families change; circumstances dictate new traditions. It’s important to embrace that change and create new traditions when the opportunity arises. Several churches in our small community offer a Christmas Eve service. There are plenty of festive and colorful light arrangements designed for car tours. The drive-through display at the old Air Force base in Blytheville, Lights of the Delta, is lovely. A home between here and there, in Steele, MO, Lights on the Z, showcases synchronized music and lights with donations going to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, always a worthy cause. Driving around to admire Courthouse Square lighting and upgraded downtown lights can contribute to a lovely evening for adults and children.

As for my grown-up family, I’ve taken to entertaining them with iconic Christmas movies, complete with games and awards, such as membership in the Jelly of the Month Club and our Christmas tree housing a Ty-baby squirrel. A grandchild once received a gift-wrapped bar of soap after guessing a correct answer attached to the question about Ralphie’s bad word. “You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out,” was the classic response to any request made during that evening. Dinner and desserts always coordinate with the movie of the year. Laughter of adults and children mingle, creating memories and new traditions. What Mom would come up with for the next year left family members puzzled, but in good humor.

Family gatherings make great traditions, regardless of the season or the reason. When children are involved, plans need not be elaborate or costly. An antique Advent Calendar passed down from grandmother’s childhood, the proclamation of good tidings of great joy read aloud, a simple moment of planned reflection, a prayer together for Peace on Earth, a grateful acknowledgement of continued health, any heart-felt, shared event is special. The children will remember.

Make memories, honor heritage, celebrate childhood, and magnify the advent of the Holy Child. Capture the wonder and twinkle from a child’s eye and put it in your own – for today, for always, for yourself and for your children. Let joy be your tradition.

Color Me Christmas

Christmas colors reduce anxiety. Red does not signal alarm; instead, Rudolph’s nose comes into focus. Golden yellow candles with evergreen holly adorn light posts throughout our small towns. Lighted angels and fabricated representations of the Holy Family add warmth to winter scenes. Neighborhoods brighten; downtown businesses sparkle. Royal purple candles are placed within Advent wreaths. Christmons in luxurious symbolism adorn ten-foot trees which add a regal appearance to churches in the area. Towns are awash in Christmas colors.

Color and Christmas go together like peas and carrots, Forest Gump would suggest. Coloring pages keep little ones entertained while adults breathe deeply to the count of ten. The eight crayons are all any child would use to give Santa a red suit and the elves a short green costume. Brown reindeer frolic on white snow and Frosty’s eyes are coal black.

Children find a way to graduate to the hefty box of 64 crayons, giving children 56 extra crayons to crush into carpet and jam into pencil sharpeners. Memory of coloring, especially coloring at Christmas, stirs smiles and invites reflection on a simpler, calmer time.

Perhaps that’s why Adult Coloring Books are the hot item for Christmas this year. Said to reduce stress and provide hours of pleasant memories, Crayola and other coloring companies are capitalizing on the adult who longs to return to childhood, even for a few moments.

In my case, I don’t think coloring would relieve stress. As a child, I was slow to develop fine motor skills and was intimidated by displayed art projects produced by classmates. They never colored outside the lines and their color combinations were delightfully pretty. They outlined first and shaded within the outline, to create a masterpiece worthy for the bulletin board. My rendition of a birthday cake showcased the entire cake in jet black with brown squiggles around the bottom edges. My parents thought I needed psychotherapy. When asked why my cake was colored black and brown, my answer was most logical: chocolate cake.

Lately, on the internet and in retail stores, I’ve been intrigued by books of black and white designs, ready to spring to life with color. Intricate designs, mandalas, kaleidoscope patterns provide opportunities for adults to create meditative art. I’ve looked at the patterns and while I’d enjoy coloring those pages, I feel sure I’d stress out; I’d see someone else’s design and think I should have colored mine like theirs. Old habits die hard.

This Christmas, do enjoy the brilliant colors, reflect on outward and inward beauty, and find ways to reduce stress. Perhaps the best way to accomplish that goal is by spending time with a child of any age; coloring pages are optional.