Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser

by Rita Mae Brown

  Kenny crawled up onto the tractor. Wade and I got on behind him. You’ve seen the ads: “Nothing runs like a Deere.” It’s true. John Deeres are the best tractors in the world and gruesomely expensive, but they run forever. This particular model, with its two small wheels together in the front, was already close to twenty years old. The tripod design worked fine for row crops on fairly even ground. A pitch and roll in the ground made for heavy going.

  Those old tractors didn’t have power steering and sophisticated hydraulics. You needed to be strong to steer one, which was an effective deterrent in keeping children off the machines.

  I’d extracted a promise from Kenny that if he failed, I’d get to clean out the contents of his piggy bank. Wade informed me the piggy bank was empty. So I bet on his stag-handled pocketknife. I wanted his air rifle, but I knew he’d never part with it.

  The deal set, Kenny pulled out the choke and flicked the small lever on the right. The old tractor rumbled; a cloud of black smoke belched from the exhaust pipe in front of us. He pushed in the choke, pushed down hard on the clutch and shifted into what he thought was first gear, but wasn’t. He somehow popped it into third.

  When he lifted up off the clutch—he was standing up to reach it—he sat down hard because that tractor reared up on its rear wheels, lurched forward and shot down the plowed field.

  Big Ken flew off the porch, followed by Dad and Uncle Mearl. The women, smart thinkers, ran back in the house for hydrogen peroxide, methiolate and bandages.

  “Downshift,” Wade hollered.

  Kenny, straining to hold the machine between the rows, couldn’t even think of it.

  Every time he ran over a row we flew up like birds off a line, only to resettle in our various positions: Kenny on the seat. Wade hanging on behind and me clinging to Wade.

  I looked behind. The PTO wasn’t turning. I bailed out.

  Wade, frozen, clutched his brother’s waist. Kenny was running out of field. He turned right to swing back, but he couldn’t turn the wheel the whole way, so instead of a U-turn he turned at a right angle and the tractor flew straight for the steep drainage ditch by the side of the dirt road.

  I raced after the tractor. I should have been scared for the boys, but I was too busy enjoying the spectacle. I knew Kenny was going to smash its nose into that ditch, and he did. The machine stood up, nose down, then settled with a heavy thump, rear tires spinning, more smoke billowing out of the exhaust pipe. Kenny hung on. The way he stayed in that seat was a miracle. Wade was thrown clear into the ditch.

  Kenny, although shook up, was far more worried about his father, who bore down on him.

  Big Ken leaped into the ditch, reached up and clicked off the tractor. He yanked Kenny out of the seat, taking the strap to him in front of all of us.

  When Big Ken lost his temper, you shut up fast.

  Little Kenny bawled. By the time Aunt Mimi reached the ditch some of Ken’s anger had abated. Now Aunt Mimi was bullshit mad. She climbed down in the ditch, grabbed Ken’s arm and told him to lay off.

  He listened.

  Dad and Uncle Mearl inspected the tractor. Dad thought Ken wailed at the boys too much, but he said raising a son was a hard business. You couldn’t coddle boys, but you didn’t want to brutalize them, either. I took from that that Dad was glad to have a daughter.

  Mom and Aunt Mimi took the boys back to the house to clean them up, dress their scratches and scrapes.

  I squared off at Uncle Ken. “I bet him he couldn’t drive the tractor, so you’d better beat me too.”

  An instant silence fell over the four of us in the ditch.

  “Oh, you did?”

  “I did.”

  Dad moved next to me just in case. “Didn’t you think about what could happen?”

  “No, sir. I was tired of him bragging that he could drive it, so I bet him he couldn’t.”

  “What did you bet?” Ken, shirt off and looking twice as powerful, asked.

  “His stag-handled pocketknife against my piggy bank.”

  “Well, I guess you won yourself a stag-handled pocketknife.”

  “You aren’t going to strap me?”

  “No. He didn’t have to listen to you. Now go on and get your knife. You tell him I said so.”

  The men pushed the tractor out of the ditch, no easy task. The front grille was pushed in, one headlight was snapped off and there were other odds and ends of damage. At least it wasn’t going to cost a lot of money to fix it.

  That night I slept with the pocketknife under my pillow. Mother told me I ought to give it back.

  I said I’d won it fair and square. He wouldn’t have given me back my piggy bank if he’d won.

  I kept the knife.

  I did, however, take some money from my piggy bank and buy Kenny a lime-colored plastic squirt gun, which he immediately used on me.

  25

  The Marrying Kind

  St. Rose of Lima witnessed Julia Ellen’s blowout wedding to Russell. Every time Aunt Mimi considered the cost of this heterosexual extravaganza she needed smelling salts.

  “They could have just eloped,” Mother would say, snapping her back to her senses.

  “Julia, don’t be ridiculous.” Then Aunt Mimi would once again wade into the voluminous guest list.

  Not a seat was empty in the church. Julia Ellen truly was a beautiful bride and Russell a stunning groom. Having been a tank man in the army, Russell had a certain manly swagger. He was scared at the altar, though, which I thought funny as I sat in the second row, behind Aunt Mimi, expensive Belgian lace hanky dabbing her eyes. The mother of the bride looked as good as the bride.

  Even Dad got misty. I tried to concentrate, but my mind soon wandered. Mother pinched me to stop reading the hymnal.

  Once out of the church and in the car on our way to the reception, she dug into me.

  “If you throw food, yell at anyone or do one thing rude, you are getting dragged back to the car and you’ll stay here. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This is the most important day of Julia Ellen’s life and I don’t want you acting a fool.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Someday you’ll be married and you’ll want everything perfect.”

  “Not me.”

  “Oh, la.” She threw up her hands. “Our little hermit.”

  “I believe her,” Dad said.

  “Believe her? You encourage her.”

  “No, I don’t.” It was rare for Dad to argue with Mother. “Some people are made for marriage and some aren’t.”

  She whirled around in the passenger seat to fix her light gray eyes on me. “This will change when you become a teenager.”

  “I don’t want to be a teenager. I want to be grown-up right away. I don’t even want to be a kid now.” I was telling the truth.

  “Somewhere out there is a little boy who will grow up to be your husband.”

  “I’d rather have a horse. Teddy blood, Mom.”

  Dad laughed so hard he dropped a wheel off the road.

  “Butch, watch where you’re going!” Mother, fussed up from the wedding and helping Aunt Mimi morning, noon and night for weeks, was testy. “This will all pass,” she said as she settled back in her seat.

  I stood up and leaned over the seat. “Mom, men are too much work.”

  “Well—I—”

  Dad started laughing again. “Honey, I hate to admit it, but I think we are too much work.”

  Mother’s lipstick red lips curled upward. “If you love the man, he’s not too much work.”

  “I don’t want to cook. I don’t want to clean. I hate ironing and I’m not sitting around the house, Mom. I swear.” I punctuated this with a childish saying the boys and I said when we swore sometimes. “Ein swine.”

  “Ein swine you.” She flipped her lace hanky at me. “Say, did you see that handkerchief of Sis’s?” This was addressed to Dad. “Cost twenty-five dollars if it cost a penny.”

  “She could b
low her nose in a Kleenex.”

  “She wasn’t blowing her nose, she was wiping away tears of joy. You need a lace hanky for that.” Mother was fishing for an expensive handkerchief.

  “Uh-huh.” Dad smiled.

  “She was crying tears of relief,” I piped up.

  “Since when did you get so smart?” Mother studied her handkerchief.

  “Since I started listening to you.”

  They both laughed as we pulled into the already overflowing parking lot, where space had been reserved for us.

  “Mom, don’t you want to know why I don’t want to get married?”

  “I heard why.” She checked her makeup in the passenger visor mirror.

  Mother wore light makeup. Too much meant you were cheap, like wearing big jewels during the day. A lady didn’t do such crass things.

  “I have other reasons.”

  “Make it short.” She pretended to be interested, which was good of her.

  “All that work you do in the house disappears. Daddy’s work stays. Like the time Daddy, Uncle Mearl and Uncle Kenny built the fence. It’s still standing. The wash just gets dirty again.”

  “The tulip bulbs stay.” Mother rolled her lips together after applying her lipstick.

  “She’s got a point, though.” Dad winked at me in the rearview mirror.

  “She’ll get a point in her head if she doesn’t behave today. If Kenny or Wadie teases you, walk away and don’t tease them back. And don’t speak until spoken to. You know what’s right and wrong. Come on.”

  I behaved like a perfect little lady, which weighted me down with boredom. Julia Ellen was so happy and people cried all over again at her first dance with her father. Later I danced with the boys. That was better than sitting around waiting for some adult to praise my manners.

  Children’s pronouncements are often brushed aside, but I meant what I said about getting married. The other issue that bothered me was losing my name. Julia Ellen was now Dubbs. Dubbs is a good enough name, but I liked the name Brown. I was determined to hang on to my last name.

  Later that spring the county-wide track meet held at York Catholic High School found me entered in the broad-jump event. I was the only grade-schooler in the meet, but our physical-education teacher had entered me. Mom, Dad, Aunt Mimi and the boys sat in the stands. It was cool and misty. All we had in those days were sneakers like PF Flyers or track shoes with cleats. I wore sneakers since we couldn’t find cleats small enough to fit me. I remember hearing my name called over the loudspeaker and then running and jumping for all I was worth. Each contestant got three tries. The girls from West York High, William Penn High, Red Lion, Hanover High and York Catholic were mostly juniors and seniors. I didn’t even have a uniform, like the Catholic-school kids’ green-and-gold ones. I wore navy blue shorts and a white T-shirt.

  I placed fourth in the whole county. When I was handed my green ribbon, my name and the name of Valley View Elementary School were called out and everyone applauded. It was tremendously exciting, but I had to contain myself. Showing off would have brought down Mother’s wrath.

  Later, one of the physical-education teachers, I think from William Penn, spoke to Dad. She told him I had exceptional athletic ability and she looked forward to the day when I’d be a freshman at William Penn.

  Mother liked my small victory, but anything to do with sports made her nervous because of my natural father. Then too, Juliann was a fine rider. However, Mother loved sports—she was a fanatic—and eventually that overrode her fears. Still, she didn’t want me to resemble my natural parents in any fashion.

  I harbored no illusions of athletic glory. I wanted to play any sport girls were allowed to play, and I played baseball and football with the boys in pickup games. I leaped bareback onto any horse or mule that would stand for it. I’d never ridden in a saddle and knew I wouldn’t as long as I was under Mother’s roof.

  I loved sports. I loved competition. I loved the feeling of speed when a horse rolled from a canter to a flat-out gallop. The only female athletes I’d seen or read about were Babe Didrikson Zaharias, Patty Berg, Pauline Betz and Alice Marble.

  Each of those women was by then in her thirties or forties. I knew of no female athlete in her teens or twenties, and I don’t think anyone else did, either.

  I wanted to support myself. I knew sports wasn’t the way, but I was often sad as a child and young woman because my athletic ability couldn’t fully flower.

  The gods had other plans for me.

  26

  Red Sails in the Sunset

  The dreadful piano recital, a fact of life for most children of a certain class, held little fear for me. We were too poor to afford piano lessons. Thank you, Jesus. However, we gathered at Aunt Mimi’s for her concerts.

  Aunt Mimi, not a hair out of place, served hors d’oeuvres, or “horse’s dubers,” as she and Mom called them. Uncle Mearl mixed drinks. If the weather warranted, the party lingered on the porch. If it was cold, we huddled in her pretty living room. The kids played catch, tag or hide-and-seek. At twilight we played kick the can, one of the best games ever invented. When you were tagged and dragged to “prison,” you might be released if a team member burst forth from hiding and kicked the can before getting tagged himself. What a glorious sound, that can rattling across the lawn or down the street.

  Fried chicken, ham, barbecue, steaks, beans, coleslaw, deviled eggs and, even better, pickled eggs were served. We’d sit with our plates on our knees, eat, laugh and argue.

  Eventually a guest would say, “Mary, why don’t you play something for us?”

  If no guest parroted these lines. Mother usually picked up the cue.

  Aunt Mimi would shake her head. “I can’t play. Ask Julia Ellen.”

  “Oh, Mom, you can play,” Julia Ellen would reply.

  “No, no, I’ll turn on the radio.” Aunt Mimi would rise.

  “Oh, please, Aunt Mimi.”

  “Yeah, play for us, Mom,” the boys would say. Even though she was their grandmother they called her Mom, and she could have indeed passed for their mother.

  The chorus would swell. She’d demur. Finally, bowing to social pressure and “only to please you,” she’d swoop to the piano, pick up her skirt and fling it over the piano bench as she sat down in one smooth motion.

  Then she’d root around for sheet music. Julia Ellen would walk over and suggest a tune. Aunt Mimi would flatten out the music, then, with a dramatic pause, lift her hands and drop them to the keys.

  After the new pieces were played, she’d take requests: “Night and Day,” “School Days,” “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.” She especially enjoyed songs from her childhood.

  We’d sing. She’d sing. She and Mother would sing a duet. Then the men would sing. Then Mom and Dad would sing. We kids would sing. Then we’d all sing the chorus.

  Between selections she’d apologize for lack of skill, only to be shouted down. Shaking her head in disbelief, she’d launch into another Tin Pan Alley melody.

  The Buckingham sisters, hospitable to a fault, battled each other for attention. They loved being surrounded by people. Everyone was married or dating, but some of their friends were gay.

  One particular couple attracted my attention.

  He owned a popular restaurant in town. A broad-chested man with curly hair, Millard wore expensive clothing. He didn’t shop in Hanover or York, he headed to Philadelphia. His wife, Ann, a petite, peppy, really nice-looking woman, was also impeccably groomed. They were everybody’s favorite. Witty, energetic and well-traveled, they were also smart enough to allow Aunt Mimi and Mom to be the stars when they visited either of the sisters’ homes.

  What I knew of the world outside York County and Carroll County was what the World War II vets told me and what I read. Ann and Millard spoke not of war, but of theater, symphonies and clothes.

  Mother once told me they were “that way.” No one said “homosexual” or “gay” or “faggot” or any such term. Somehow you kn
ew what “that way” meant. In Mother’s eyes they were worldly and smart. They married, built a great team. Those two worked a room in tandem and whatever they did on the side was their business.

  Mother’s attitude about gay people was the same as her attitude about everything: “You lead your life and I’ll lead mine.”

  But you absolutely, positively had to get married. Maybe his lover lived in the house, or next door, or maybe hers did—it didn’t matter. You still got married, marched to parties together and worked together for a greater goal. Mother, so shrewd in so many ways, demonstrated yet again why she moved so easily within all social circles and. among all types of people. She didn’t judge. As long as you displayed good manners, you were welcome.

  A gang of Dad’s buddies from his youth were musicians, which is funny because Dad, apart from his beautiful deep singing voice, wasn’t musical. Most of these men, every one of them heart-stoppingly handsome, were gay. They were all married. Some of their wives were lesbians, some were straight.

  Mother’s anger was reserved for the men who didn’t tell women the truth. If a man told you his true preference and you accepted it, fine. Lying was another matter. She hated liars wherever she found them, except when it came to lying to me about my natural father and siblings.

  Curious, I asked Dad what he thought. He shrugged his broad shoulders. “God doesn’t make mistakes.” How typical of Dad to place this on a different, higher plane.

  If any of the gang had showed up with a same-sex partner, I don’t know how my family would have reacted. In those days, no one would have dreamed of such a thing. A proper facade was part of good manners.

  Neither Mom nor Dad rushed things. If I had a question, they answered it. They didn’t burden me with knowledge I didn’t yet need or want. Outside sources weren’t yet weakening the family patterns. Radio standards were very high, and no one even swore on the air. Newspaper standards were also high, and although television was just starting up in terms of being available to many people, the content was both creative and responsible.