Dear Hank Williams

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  Momma says Aunt Patty Cake was a looker in her day, but I can’t see any trace of it. She’s tall like Momma and is on the skinny side. Her salt-and-pepper hair is twisted on top of her head and held in place with about a hundred bobby pins. She doesn’t wear much makeup herself, only a quick swipe of Rose Petal Pink lipstick (if she remembers). Which is mighty peculiar when you consider she’s a sales representative for Delightfully Devine Beauty Products.

  Aunt Patty Cake is like the sun. No matter what happens, you know that when you wake up, the sun is going to be there. Oh, there may be clouds trying to block it from shining, but the sun will be up in the sky, a big ball of fire burning, no matter what. The sun is so stubborn, the moon has a time getting rid of it. And when the sun finally slips past the horizon, you know it’s there waiting to rise again. That’s Aunt Patty Cake. Some folks call her dependable and find that an admirable quality, but I think it’s better to possess some mystery, like Momma and me.

  Aunt Patty Cake is strict about house rules. She’s never written them down, but I know the list by heart. Here are the top three:

  1. Do your chores without being asked.

  2. Be nice to your little brother. (No matter what he does!)

  3. No pets, especially dogs. (Even if it’s the sweetest, best dog on the planet Earth that would never, ever dig up her flower garden or poop on the porch or stink from dog sweat.)

  As you might’ve guessed from his name, Uncle Jolly has a big belly that hides his belt buckle. He has chubby cheeks that people probably wanted to pinch when he was a baby, but now they’re starting to droop south. If there is anything Uncle Jolly is talented at, it’s getting his heart broken. His first girlfriend left him for another feller a long time ago. Ever since then, Uncle Jolly seems to be addicted to heartbreak. He falls in love faster than Aunt Patty Cake burns toast. (Every time she makes it!) Almost as quick as Uncle Jolly falls in love, the woman breaks his heart.

  That’s when Uncle Jolly drives to the Wigwam and partakes in his second love—whiskey. We know Uncle Jolly has had his heart broken when we discover sofa cushions scattered on the floor and Aunt Patty Cake’s straight chair pointing legs up. He leaves a trail through the mess where he’s staggered to his bedroom. Aunt Patty Cake calls it “Jolly’s Path of Heartbreak Destruction.”

  These days, Uncle Jolly has a girlfriend—Dolores Stanfield. She calls her hair “auburn,” but it’s as purple as an eggplant. And she may be skinny up top, but her behind is wide enough for a picture show to play on it. She’s as prissy as they come. When I first met her, she held out her hand daintily as if she wanted me to kiss it. I squeezed and shook hard. Her fingers were icicles. She laughed like she’d swallowed a hairpin and said, “Cold hands. Warm heart.” I can tell you for a fact, that ain’t the case. So, Mr. Williams, don’t pay any mind to Uncle Jolly’s opinion of your singing. He can’t pick a good woman or a great singer. The only thing Uncle Jolly is an expert at is plant cuttings.

  Last but not least, let me introduce you to my little brother, Frog. No, that’s not his real name. His birth name is James Irwin after Uncle Jolly, but before Frog learned to walk, he learned to jump. He would squat, keeping his palms pressed on the floor. Then he’d lift his behind, bounce a few times, and leap forward. He’d work so hard at it, his cheeks puffing up like a frog’s. So he came by the name real honest. I have a few other names for him—Devil, Pest, Rascal, Brat, Troublemaker, Villain, Holy Terror, Scamp, Monkey Brain. Usually I call him Frog.

  He thinks most food smells funny. Sometimes before going to the dinner table, he sneaks into the bathroom and dabs Uncle Jolly’s Vicks VapoRub under his nostrils. He claims it keeps him from smelling food he doesn’t like and getting sick to his stomach.

  Frog acts like he’s my shadow and follows me everywhere, wearing our daddy’s big ole work boots, all the time asking, “Whatcha doing, Tate?” or “Whatcha thinking, Tate?” I wish he had a friend his age that lived next door instead of Mrs. Applebud, who’s younger than the moon but older than anyone buried in Canton Cemetery (except for Mr. Applebud). If Frog had a pal, maybe he wouldn’t be asking “Whatcha, whatcha” all the time.

  Hank Williams, did you have a pesky little brother? If so, please tell me that they outgrow this stage.

  Well, that’s my family. We may not be perfect, but as Uncle Jolly says, we’re like flypaper. We couldn’t get unstuck from each other if we wanted. We’re together through the good and bad. Swear to sweet Sally, we are.

  Until next time,

  Tate P. Ellerbee

  PS—Please write back soon. Half the class have received letters back from their pen pals.

  September 9, 1948

  Dear Hank Williams,

  DON’T YOU BELIEVE there are some downright evil people in this world? For example, a certain person I know with the initials V.C. is a perfect example of how some people may look pretty on the outside, but they are uglier than a mud fence on the inside.

  This afternoon at school, Verbia V.C. announced that she was having a back-to-school sleepover party at her house. She handed out pink invitations. Every girl received one before lunch. Every girl except me. I was just thinking who’d want to go to a silly party at her house when she held out an invitation. There was my name—Tate Ellerbee, printed so pretty across the front of that envelope. I should have known it wasn’t a genuine gesture when she didn’t say, “Sure hope you can make it.” But for about a zillionth of a second, I got a little excited. I even pictured me with a bunch of curls on my head, laughing with all the other girls. I guess V.C. caught a glimmer of that excitement on my face and couldn’t wait to burst it. She said, “My momma said I had to ask you. She said you were the most pitiful thing with such a tragic life.”

  Hank Williams, you will be proud to know what I did next. I tore her invitation in half and slugged her in the gut. I should have put all of us out of our misery and aimed toward her vocal cords. It would’ve been a great improvement. Of course, I forgot that she is also a big tattletale. I ended up sitting in Principal Salter’s office until Aunt Patty Cake arrived. She walked into his office, red faced, looking so hot that she could have melted a block of ice in Antarctica. Mr. Salter said, “I think washing every blackboard in the school would be a fair punishment.” “More than fair,” said Aunt Patty Cake. She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the linoleum.

  There I was with a mop bucket filled with water and a rag in my hand, going from class to class. My arm got real sore, but I’m the kind of person who can find the upside in things. I decided to make up songs while I washed away numbers and letters. When I was finished, Mr. Salter told me I wouldn’t get off easy if it happened again. I wanted to ask him, What’s the punishment for being a downright mean person? But I didn’t.

  I reckon V.C. knows I’m not going to be attending her back-to-school slumber party.

  Rubbing my sore arm with loads of BENGAY,

  Tate P.

  September 11, 1948

  Dear Hank Williams,

  SOME NIGHTS, I lie in bed and listen. The night carries all kinds of sounds—an owl hooting, crickets chirping, and frogs croaking. If I listen careful enough, I can hear Momma singing “Oh, My Darling, Clementine.” And when Aunt Patty Cake begins to snore and Uncle Jolly slips off to the Wigwam, I sing with Momma like we did when she was here.

  I’ve got a nice voice too (Momma told me she could hear the big potential in my vocal cords). For some strange reason, it’s only when I’m here in my bed that my voice comes out sweet and sorrowful like Momma’s. In front of other folks I get nervous, and it comes out like a pig caught in a barbed-wire fence, squealing out the high notes, croaking through the low ones. That’s why I hardly sing outside my bedroom. The last time I did was when the youth from our church went caroling this past Christmas. The choir leader asked me to stop belting the songs so loudly (which I believe was his way of letting me know my singing was not up to his standards).

  But I’m determined to
let my best shine through. I know I have talent, and when people have talent they should share it with the world. Just like you, Hank Williams. If only I could take voice lessons at Miss Mildred’s Music Shop. Then I would be in top form for the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest.

  Miss Mildred wears cowgirl outfits like Dale Evans in the Roy Rogers movies—blouses with western yokes and skirts with white fringe. She owns enough cowboy boots to match every outfit. She buys bottles of Bouquet of Roses cologne by the dozens from Aunt Patty Cake, which explains why she smells like she’s bathed in the stuff. I want to tell her that for a more subtle effect, she should lightly spray it in the air and walk underneath it, but Aunt Patty Cake won’t let me. Miss Mildred teaches piano and voice when she isn’t selling guitar picks or sheet music. Aunt Patty Cake takes me there every Tuesday after school for thirty minutes of piano.

  Miss Mildred never teaches me a song worth singing. Instead we practice scales with silly words like Here we go up a road to a birthday party. I believe music should fill up inside a person like air and make them think they’re so light, they could float to the clouds. Hank Williams, that’s the way you sound when you sing, like you’re a part of those words coming out of your mouth, heading toward the sky. All practicing scales does is make my fingers ache. The whole time I’m thinking, I wish Miss Mildred would teach me voice lessons. Once, I asked her, “Miss Mildred, how about we use half my lessons for singing?” Do you know what she said? “Tate, some voices aren’t meant to be heard.” Well, I was fit to be tied!

  Clearly, Verbia Calhoon has a voice that Miss Mildred thinks should be heard by the world. She thinks Verbia is going to be a big star, and so does Mrs. Calhoon. Mrs. Calhoon claims she is not only Verbia’s mother but also her manager. That means she buys big stacks of songbooks for Verbia and arranges for her to sing solos in church every third Sunday. If I had all those voice lessons, I could do that. When my momma comes back from making that movie, she’s going to see to it that I get the best voice teacher in the parish. We’ll probably have to drive all the way to Alexandria, but Momma won’t mind, because she knows I’m capable of singing like an angel too.

  The songbird from Rippling Creek,

  Tate P.

  September 13, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  IT’S BEEN A COUPLE of weeks since I sent you my first letter. I’m wondering if you haven’t answered any of my letters because I was disrespectful by using your first name. I reckon I forgot because they call you Hank Williams on the radio.

  I should have written “Mr.” in front of your name. Anyway, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I want you to know my momma raised me right. Frog is a different story. Momma slipped up some on raising him.

  Everyone has heard back from their pen pals, except for Wallace and me. (I doubt he wrote his cousin, because he said the whole pen pal idea was stupid.) Even Coolie and Theo Grace got letters all the way from Japan. You should have seen the red-and-purple stamps on their envelopes. They had pretty designs and funny symbols that Mrs. Kipler said were Japanese words. Theo Grace’s pen pal drew a picture of a rabbit on the back of hers. The teeth looked so sharp. Coolie read his aloud, and everyone laughed when he got to the part where his pen pal asked if he knew Hopalong Cassidy. He’s a big movie star. How would we personally know him? I’m sure my momma has met him, though.

  This week, Mrs. Kipler said we should write about how we spend our day when we aren’t in school. Did I tell you I was a cosmetics model? There ain’t a woman around Rippling Creek that hasn’t gotten a dab or dose of the Delightfully Devine Beauty Products that Aunt Patty Cake sells. Sometimes I ride with Aunt Patty Cake when she makes her calls. We start on the outskirts of Rippling Creek and wind our way through the backwoods until we meet the other side of town.

  The only place Aunt Patty Cake doesn’t drive to is Pine Bend, where the colored folks live. Once I asked her why. She looked annoyed and said, “I don’t have to, because Constance gathers their orders and brings them to our house.” That didn’t really answer my question, but I can tell when Aunt Patty Cake is finished explaining. Besides, I think I know, anyway. Uncle Jolly says a white woman should never be caught going into Pine Bend. He makes it sound like there are murderers living there.

  The other day Sudie Cartwright wanted to know what Tequila Sunrise Peach rouge would look like. Aunt Patty Cake rubbed two tiny dots on my cheeks. Mrs. Cartwright put on her glasses and came in so close to my face, her wiry eyebrows were inches from tickling me. She quickly straightened and said, “I’ll take two pots.”

  When we drove away from the Cartwright house, I asked Aunt Patty Cake, “Why didn’t you try Tequila Sunrise Peach on Mrs. Cartwright’s cheeks?”

  “Honey, did you see the rough condition of her skin? Reminds me of crepe paper. Sudie wouldn’t have bought a single pot, but when she saw the rouge on your flawless cheeks she got caught up in the fairy tale.”

  “What fairy tale?” I asked.

  “The fairy tale that maybe her fifty-seven-year-old cheeks could look as dewy fresh as your eleven-year-old ones. The beauty business is based on fairy tales, and every woman hopes they all come true.”

  So, see, Mr. Williams? I’m in the fairy-tale business too. Think of me as a fairy godmother without the wand. When we got home after making the rounds, Aunt Patty Cake went in the house, and I headed into the yard. Frog darted out from behind the magnolia tree next to the pasture fence. He’s always hiding and trying to scare me. But instead of saying, “Boo!” he asks, “Whatcha got those pink dots on your cheeks for?”

  Lord, I wish I had me a dog. If I had a dog, he would be loyal and true and wouldn’t ask me a billion stupid questions.

  The main reason I like to make the rounds with Aunt Patty Cake is so I don’t have to be around my pesky little brother. At least his bicycle is out of commission and I don’t have to worry about him trying to race that knucklehead Rudy in his convertible.

  Your fan and Delightfully Devine Beauty Products model,

  Tate P. Ellerbee

  PS—If I was a fairy godmother with a wand, I’d grant you three wishes. I’ll bet your first wish would be to become the most famous singer in the world.

  PPS—I like the song you sang on the Louisiana Hayride this week. Aunt Patty Cake still wonders what you look like.

  September 14, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  THANK YOU FOR THE autographed picture! I was hoping for a letter, too, but I ain’t complaining. I’m probably the first person in Rippling Creek who could recognize you on the street. Aunt Patty Cake said, “I knew he’d be pretty.”

  Uncle Jolly took a quick look at your photograph and said, “Yeah, good thing he’s a pretty boy, because he can’t sing.” I probably shouldn’t have told you what Uncle Jolly said, but remember that comment came from a man who ain’t that pretty. Besides, Uncle Jolly can’t recognize talent the way I can. He only likes those sad heartbreak songs.

  Maybe someday you and Momma could sing in a cowboy movie together like those Hopalong Cassidy or Gene Autry movies. And you’re a lot better looking than Gene Autry. People would line up around the block to see that show. Thank you again for the autographed picture. I’m mighty proud to have it, and now I have something to tell them at the post office when I mail another letter if they go to snickering again.

  Your fan,

  Tate P.

  PS—Aunt Patty Cake said we could hang your picture over our Emerson radio.

  September 15, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  A LOT OF FOLKS are going to the railroad crossing in town to wait for the Clyde Beatty Circus on its way to Alexandria. The circus will be riding the Missouri Pacific up from Opelousas and will reach our town around three thirty in the morning. Folks are going to get up in the middle of the night and wait along the tracks, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elephant’s behind or a clown waving out the window. If you ask me, those folks are plain ole ridiculous. Seeing a blur of train cars
rush by is nothing like sitting under a big top and watching a genuine circus.

  Uncle Jolly is taking me and Frog to Friday night’s performance. That’s if Frog doesn’t chicken out. He’s afraid of clowns. Frog is always afraid of the things he shouldn’t be and brave about the things that he should fear.

  Anyway, let those crazy folks get up while it’s pitch-dark and stand near the railroad crossing. I don’t care if Verbia’s mother is serving creamy hot chocolate to everyone like it’s a big party. I’ll be home sleeping sound in my bed, and when Aunt Patty Cake tells me to get up for school tomorrow morning I’m going to jump out of bed and say, “Ready for duty, ma’am!”

  Sweet dreams,

  Tate P.

  September 18, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  THE CLYDE BEATTY CIRCUS was amazing! Just as I predicted, Frog wouldn’t go. Yesterday afternoon when Uncle Jolly and me headed toward his truck, Frog took off and hid behind the magnolia tree. He had to stay and watch Aunt Patty Cake sack up her Delightfully Devine orders. At least I got out of that chore. Although I really don’t mind helping her sort the products. It’s fun to match up the lipsticks and rouges with the people who ordered them. Some of them select entirely the wrong color, but folks can be stubborn. And like Aunt Patty Cake says, “It’s all a fairy tale anyway.”

  Back to the circus—it would have been perfect if Uncle Jolly’s girlfriend, Dolores, hadn’t come along. She is clearly not the circus type. She acted all uppity, making Uncle Jolly place napkins on the seat before she plopped down her big rear end. She kept fanning herself with her program and saying how the circus smelled like a chicken house. But after Uncle Jolly bought me some pink cotton candy and the music started playing, I forgot she was there.