by Rhett DeVane
Margie and John walked up the lane carrying their offerings: a five-layered coconut cake and a cooler filled with homemade vanilla pecan ice cream. When the catfish were cooked and piled high in tinfoil-lined pans, Bobby whistled the signal for me to cook the fries.
Like many of my parents’ cookouts on the Hill, the timing was perfect. I drained the last of the golden brown fries and moved the hot grease to the back burner to cool, just as my brother completed his cooking outside.
Bobby stuck his head in the kitchen door. “You done in here?”
“Comin’ right out,” I called.
Leigh and I carried the hot french-fried potatoes and chilled cole slaw and a heaping bowl of potato salad to the food table. Along with the towering platters filled with beer-battered fried fish and hushpuppies, the table held three types of salad, sliced deep-red homegrown tomatoes, bread and butter pickles, and the two cakes.
“Who’s gonna say the blessing?” Joe asked.
Piddie scowled. “Don’t even start up, Evelyn. Nobody here wants to eat cold fish.”
Evelyn sighed. “Oh, Mama.”
“I’ll say it,” Bobby offered.
We bowed our heads.
“Lord, thank you for our good fortune, for the food we are about to partake, for the help of all our friends and family. Please watch over us as we go through this day. Take care of those who’ve passed on ahead of us. In the name of our Lord, Amen.”
“Amen,” we echoed.
Aunt Piddie’s loud peal of laughter startled everyone.
“Mama?” Evelyn rushed over to the wheelchair. “You okay?”
“Whew! Lord-amighty! Of course I’m okay. Why is it…ever time I do somethin’ out of turn, someone thinks I’ve got that Old-timer’s disease? I ain’t lost my mind. Not yet, anyways. Somethin’ just popped into my head…clear as a bell…just like it was yesterday! You ’member the time we were out here for a fish fry a few years back? Margie and John, y’all were here. I remember it well. It was a big to-do. Some kinda church thing. Tillie was runnin’ ’round like a chicken with her head cut off — fetchin’ stuff, makin’ sure everyone had what they needed. You know, the hostess is always the last one to set down after everyone else is situated. Well, your daddy, Mr. D, was sittin’ down already with a big plate of food, and he realized he didn’t have anything to drink. He started to yell for your mama to bring him some iced tea. ‘Tillie’, he bellered like an old cow, ‘bring me some tea!’ Well, Tillie didn’t hear him the first time, I guess. He kept callin’ it out over and over. When your mama turned around, and I saw the look in her eyes, I knew trouble was brewin’. She’d just taken all she could take, I reckon. She walked over real slow and deliberate, grabbed up a full gallon pitcher of sweet tea, and tumped the whole dang thing over his head!”
Everyone laughed, some of us nodding in remembrance.
“We were all quiet as church mice for a minute or two waitin’ for him to pitch a full-fledged conniption fit. He just sat there, tea drippin’ off the end of his nose, T-shirt wet to the bone. After a while, he started to laugh. Then he said, ‘I reckon I got what I asked for.’ We all joined in laughin’ then, since he was takin’ it so good.”
Piddie wiped the joy-tears from her eyes. “He ’scused hisself, went inside to wash up and change clothes. He came back outside, sat down like nothin’ ever happened, and we all finished eatin’. I reckon it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed.”
We settled the babies into highchairs with plates of food. Spackle took a position at the base of Sarah’s seat, awaiting the inevitable globs of food that would fly his way. Elvis sat at Jon’s feet, patiently watching for a handout. Even Shammie lowered herself to attend the family function. I pinched off a few soft pieces of fish and put her with her plate in the fenced-off pool yard away from the greedy canines. Conversations ebbed and flowed around the table, mixed with compliments to the various cooks.
“Great cocktail sauce, whoever made it!” Joe called out.
Jake shot a nah-nah-nah-boo-boo look in my direction. I rolled my eyes in return.
“Who made this funny-lookin’ mixed-up salad with the little crunchy stuff?” Mandy asked.
Evelyn pointed to her husband. “Joe did. He’s taking up cookin’ as a hobby since I’ve had my business to run.”
“It’s called ‘Fu Mi Salad’. Easy recipe. I’ll give it to anyone who wants a copy.”
Mandy looked pensive for a moment, as if she was considering whether or not to bring up a sore subject. “By the way, Evelyn…have you heard when the film Karen made of Piddie’s party’s gonna be aired?”
Everyone turned to watch for Evelyn’s reaction. “Actually, Karen’s assistant called me this mornin’. He said it’ll probably air in early October. They’ll be sending me a notice of the exact date. I didn’t talk directly to Karen…to Mary Elizabeth.”
“Well,” Piddie said, “I can’t wait to see how we all look on TV. Mandy was all worried the camera wouldn’t pick up the shade of my hair.”
Mandy chuckled. “Some things are just better in person, Miz Piddie. I don’t think I’ll ever match that exact shade of yellow again!”
Piddie patted her hair. “It was a sight to behold, I’ll tell you.”
“Speaking of always being a sight to behold, where’s Elvina today? I thought you said you invited her.” Jake’s brow furrowed.
Piddie shook her head. “She’s off somewheres in Alabama at a funeral. Help me, that woman goes to more layin’-outs than Carters has little pills. I’ve promised to fill her in on any good gossip we come up with while she’s gone.”
By the time we made it to the cake and ice cream, everyone was filled to capacity, lolling on the long benches like fat pigs lazy in the summer sunshine. Bobby and Leigh positioned a circle of folding chairs under the shade of the pecan tree, and we reminisced as we digested and picked our teeth.
Holston left to answer the phone. When he returned, his expression revealed the serious nature of the call.
I stood and met him halfway. “Honey, what’s wrong? Who was on the phone?”
“Claire. Her mother passed away yesterday morning.”
I hugged him. “I’m so sorry. I know you really thought a lot of her.”
“I’d like to attend the funeral.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
Holston leaned over and kissed me. “Thank you for understanding. I love you, Hattie Davis Lewis.”
“Back at you. When will you leave?”
Holston sighed. “I’m going to go call the airlines. If I can, I’d like to get a flight out first thing in the morning.”
“Okay. Go do what you gotta do.”
Holston walked back inside the farmhouse.
“Everything okay?” Mandy asked when I returned to the circle.
“His ex-mother-in-law passed away, up in New York.”
“That’s too bad. It’s never easy getting that kind of news. Is he all right?” Evelyn asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. He’s going to try to fly out tomorrow to attend her funeral.”
“He’s never talked much ’bout his first wife,” Piddie said. “I kinda got the idea she was a bit of a pill to swallow. But, I’ve often heard him comment on her mama. She sounds like she was a fine lady.”
“Do you need for us to go on home so you can help him pack?” Stephanie asked.
I shook my head. “No, Holston wouldn’t want y’all to do that. He’s so used to taking off on a moment’s notice — he has to go up every now and then to meet with his editor, you know. He keeps a travel bag ready to go. It won’t take him long to pack. Then, he’ll join us.”
As the conversation resumed, a nostalgic wave washed over me. I recalled the numerous times over the years when I had sat under the old tree surrounded by a circle of family and friends. The faces changed. People were added. Some were taken away. The love remained the same.
“Hey,” Jake said, “why don’t we go see the gazebo? That is the whole reas
on for this cookout, after all.”
We formed a procession with Jon’s SUV, Bobby’s pick-up, the town car, and Margie and John’s ATV bringing up the rear.
“I grabbed your guitar,” Bobby said as he settled behind the wheel. Leigh and I were crammed hip to hip on the pick-up’s bench seat beside him with the babies in our laps.
“I haven’t played in years.”
Bobby winked. “You’ll remember the basic chords. It’ll come back to you.”
“Glad you have confidence in me, bro.” I gestured over my shoulder. “By the way, what’s under that old green tarp in the back of the truck?”
“Our gazebo-warming gift,” Leigh answered.
We pulled the vehicles into a line in the freshly-grated drive circling a stand of stately pines. Since the ground was soft, Bobby and Jon carried Piddie to the gazebo, then settled her into her wheelchair. From the back of his truck, Bobby unloaded two new white ash rocking chairs and two old porch rockers he and Leigh had stripped and refinished.
“Here you go!” Bobby said as he placed the rockers on the floor of the screened room.
Jake and Jon followed with two of the fullest, most lush Boston ferns I’d ever seen.
“I’ll pop out and feed them, Sister-girl. You’ve been known to kill delicate plants from ten paces away.” Jake used a battery-powered screwdriver to install two wrought iron hooks for the hanging ferns.
Evelyn presented a 3 x 5 foot appliquéd flag. Joe tapped two small nails above the door facing the pond and hung the colorful banner. The scene in the center of the cloth depicted our farmhouse on the Hill surrounded by trees, framed by the outline of two interlocking hearts.
“Stephanie, Mandy, and I weren’t sure what to give you, so we went together and bought these little wooden side tables,” Wanda said.
John and Margie sat a large cardboard box by the door. “This is a ceiling fan — the kind that can stand the elements out-of-doors. We’ll come down and hang it later on.”
“It’s beginnin’ to look like home.” Jake motioned for Jon to bring the folding chairs from the back of the 4Runner.
Holston joined us shortly. After everyone had ohh-d and ahh-d over the waterfall and design of the gazebo and the series of decks, we settled into the rockers and chairs.
Jon studied the orange-tinged sky. “Sun’ll be going down soon.”
“No problem,” Bobby said. “I brought a Coleman lantern from the shop. We’ll have an overhead light in here as soon as I install the ceiling fan.”
He brought the lantern and both guitars from his truck.
Jake moaned. “We’re not goin’ to sing Kum-Ba-Yah, are we?”
“Only if you’re a pain in the butt,” Bobby said.
“I’ll be good, I promise.” Jake traced an imaginary halo above his head and smiled angelically.
Bobby smirked. “I should’ve thrown you in the fishpond years ago, when I had the chance.”
Jake dabbed dramatically at the corners of his eyes. “I just hate it when we fight.”
After a few missed licks and twanged strings, I got the hang of traversing the guitar’s fretboard. I had put the instrument down several years back to spare my over-worked hands and forearms. Now that I no longer banged a computer keypad for the state all day long and had trimmed my massage therapy practice to part time, I could afford to use my hands to play.
The dusky early evening in the gazebo on the hill by my father’s pond was one of the rare times to save in memory forever; relished like the sweet, first taste of a summer peach when I closed my eyes and let the syrup dribble down my chin. All of us sitting around in a circle, lantern light painting fancy shadows on our faces, swaying and singing. Half the time, we lah-la-lahed and laughed when we couldn’t remember all the words. Old songs —folk, gospel, country. Blowin’-in-the-wind, lost-my-baby-and-my-best-dog standards.
Hands clapped and feet stomped in time as Bobby’s guitar cut out the tune and I struggled to follow his lead. The new generation at our feet raised their young voices in wordless song to match ours. Two dogs, one mutt and one pedigree, yipped out of tune.
Piddie summed it up. “I reckon if I died right here, right now, I’d die happy.”
“Elvina got herself one of them fancy food processors here a while back. She’d chop up the devil hisself if he fell in it! She makes up this salsa dip for the football parties. It’ll put hair on your chest, then rip it right back off. Eat too much, and you’ll have to take a fan to the privy with you to keep from settin’ the woods on fire.”
Piddie Davis Longman
Elvina Houston’s Fires-of-Hell Salsa
Two 14 ½ ounce cans diced tomatoes (drain the water out and save)
One bunch of green onions, chopped up
Four or five fresh jalapeno peppers, chopped up. Use less if you’re a wiener.
¼ cup lemon juice
Two cloves garlic, minced
One bunch of fresh cilantro, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
2-3 dashes hot pepper sauce (optional)
Put the two cans of tomatoes in and process a few seconds. Add everything else and let that thing rip! Don’t let it go on too long, or the whole thing will blend down too far. You want it a little chunky. Here’s the thing – if you want the salsa to be on the mild side, scoop the little seeds and white stuff innards out of the peppers. That’s the part that makes the heat. You can leave off the hot pepper sauce, too, if your stomach can’t take it. If the salsa is too thick, add a little bit of the tomato water you drained out to start with. Serve it up with tortilla chips and lots of something to wash it down with.
Chapter Eleven
The Hill: Hattie
Since his flight to New York was scheduled to depart Tallahassee Regional Airport at 8:20 AM, Holston prepared to leave the farmhouse by 6:30.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can after the funeral. I may try to meet with my editor while I’m up there. It’ll save me a trip later.” He kissed Sarah and me goodbye. I watched his car ease down the lane until it turned onto Highway 269 and disappeared.
“I guess you’ll have to settle for having breakfast with your crab-cake mother, hmm?” I tickled my daughter underneath her chubby chin.
Sarah giggled and blew spit bubbles. If they could somehow bottle the delighted innocent happiness of a baby, I’d buy a lifetime stock of the magic elixir. Shammie sauntered into the kitchen and whirled around my feet until I opened a pouch of kitty tender turkey cutlets with gravy and dispatched her to the feeding bowl.
“Why don’t you and I have breakfast on the porch?” I asked. Before we moved outside, I placed a small pan filled with water on the stove to heat for steeping teabags. No Southern Belle worth her salt ever allowed the home to be without a freshly-brewed gallon of tea.
I settled Sarah into her highchair with a bowl of Cheerios and milk and watched her alternately eat and wear her morning meal. My healthy start consisted of a day-old cinnamon bun from the Madhatter’s Sweet Shop and a cup of strong coffee. The way I had it figured, the meal covered two of the important food groups: sugar and caffeine. In the distance, I spotted Margie walking up the lane carrying the daily paper under one arm. She waved when she saw us and turned toward her house.
The birdfeeders were unusually vacant for first thing in the morning. I crammed the last bite of roll in my mouth, wiped the crusty sugar from the corners of my lips, and rose to refill both hanging feeders with seed from a five-gallon can at the corner of the porch. A little birdie sentinel must have been perched nearby. As soon as I returned to the rocker, the magnolia branches were thick with birds taking turns dipping, diving, chirping, and having the aviary equivalent of shoppers at a discount department store blue light sale.
Spackle did his part to help make after-breakfast cleanup easy. He captured the spilt milk and clots of soggy cereal that made their way to the wooden planked porch floor.
“Now missy,” I said to Sarah as I extracted her from the chair, “you and I
have to go feed the fish.”
The early morning mists swirled over the water of the fishpond. I parked the ATV at the top of the hill next to the gazebo and gathered Sarah in my arms. Bobby and Holston had moved the barrel of commercial fish food from its old spot on the earthen dam to the edge of the lower deck at the edge of the water.
“Come and get it!” I yelled, banging the side of the rusted drum with a pipe.
The musky scent of fish teased my nose as the surface of the pond began to ripple. I removed the heavy cement-lined lid, scooped an old coffee can full of the round pellets, and swung the can in an arch through the air. The moment the floating pellets hit the water, the catfish rushed to feed. Sarah giggled and clapped her hands. The fish scooped pellets into their gaping black-whiskered mouths before flipping and diving underneath. In a few minutes, every piece of food had disappeared, and the water smoothed into a mirror of the surrounding trees. Though I’d watched this spectacle hundreds of times growing up, it still fascinated me.
Sarah and I rocked in the screened gazebo, enjoying the solitude of the deep woods. Understandable, why this had been my father’s favorite spot to unwind at the end of a workday. Distant noises carried in the early morning air. The roar of the locomotive engines switching boxcars three miles away at River Junction Crossing sounded deceptively close-by, as if I could walk to the rise of the hill and see them jockeying back and forth. From the direction of the farmhouse, I heard Spackle’s distinctive high-pitched bark.
I gathered Sarah in my arms. “We’d better get on back, Sarah Chuntian Lewis. Sounds like we might have unannounced company.”
Halfway through the overgrown field beyond the edge of the woods, the rear of the farmhouse came into view. Alarmed by the thin line of dark smoke streaming from the roof, I gunned the ATV’s accelerator. I screeched to a halt in the front yard and rushed with Sarah balanced on one hip to the front door. My worst fears were confirmed; the kitchen was on fire!
