Praise for Milam McGraw Propst
“The madcap adventures of the Newberry family race from laughter to tears and back again. The entire book is a vibrant affirmation of life and love that will make you want to find your own Dear Ones’ and give each and every one of them a hug.”
—Jaclyn Weldon White, author of Whisper to the Black Candle and Mockingbird in the Moonlight
“Milam McGraw Propst is likely to join the ranks of Lucy Maud Montgomery and Laura Ingalls Wilder.”
—Joyce Dixon, Southern Scribe
“Milam McGraw Propst has written a honey of a book - sweet and rich with characterizations that spring to life.”
—Jackie K. Cooper, reviewer, author of Halfway Home, radio/TV commentator
“Don’t miss this delightful, heartwarming journey into friendship.”
—Haywood Smith, NY Times bestselling author of the Red Hat Club series
“CREOLA’S MOONBEAM provides us twinkling eyes through which we see . . . into the life-giving forces of cut-a-rug dancing, triumphantly hope-filled, eternally ingenious older women. May we all SHINE ON with the sass, vinegar, guts, honesty and spirit of these extraordinary sparkplugs!”
—Charlene Ann Baumbich, author of the Dearest Dorothy series
Creola’s Moonbeam
by
Milam McGraw Propst
BelleBooks, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
BelleBooks, Inc.
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
ISBN: 978-0-9768760-3-8
Copyright © 2006 by Milam McGraw Propst
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.
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Cover design: Martha Shield
Interior design: Hank Smith
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
1956, The Year of the Bathing Cap
Chapter 3
The Wedding
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Creola at the Beach
Chapter 6
Roofers from Hell
Everyone in the Cemetery Isn’t Dead
Chapter 7
Missing Nestle
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Visit
Little Sisters at the Zoo
Chapter 11
A Ring and A Promise
Chapter 12
Lady, You’ve Got Galvanized Nipples
The Dog Fort
The Bomb Scare
Chapter 13
The Funeral
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Real Estate
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About Milam McGraw Propst
Dedication
On the occasion of her 90th birthday, July 23, 2004,
I am indeed honored to dedicate my new book,
Creola’s Moonbeam, to my cousin and dear friend,
Ociee Annette Nash Robnett.
Poet, family historian, musician, mother, wife, and grandmother, Ociee Annette has been a gift to me.
A model of courage, endurance, and strength,
she follows in the footsteps of her aunt and namesake,
my grandmother, Ociee Nash Whitman.
Chapter 1
Creola Moon was butterscotch in color and built like a biscuit, the flakey kind of biscuit that has lots and lots of layers. She and her family had come to Georgia from the exotic realm of New Orleans. Creola’s distinctive grin — missing a tooth — filled most of her pie-round face. Her zebra-striped hair made her easy to spot each morning as she walked the short block down the tree-shaded Georgia street and into my anxious arms. I was a small white girl, and she was the large black nanny who raised me.
Creola was the first and most dear friend I made. She remained in my life for nearly fifty years as a confidante, mentor, encourager, and advisor. It was Creola who taught me the art of storytelling. I called her Crellie.
Crellie rarely called me and my sister by our given names, Harriette and Mary Pearle. She coined Moonbeam as her special name for me, while my sister became Priceless Pearlie. We girls loved the fun and the mystery of having unique names. I, most especially.
To me, she was my Crellie. I was her Moonbeam.
I admit it: I talk to her spirit. A grown woman, talking to ghosts. For one thing, I’m old enough that I don’t always sleep soundly. Years of listening for babies to cry and for teenage drivers to pull up in the driveway laid that groundwork.
Today, for example, I woke up in my suburban Atlanta home well before the sun. My husband, Beau, was away on a business trip. Woke up. That’s a lie. I’d been awake most of the night tossing and turning, thinking, making trips to the bathroom, drinking water, and returning to bed to repeat the pattern. My decision was firm.
Sliding out of bed, I jumped into my warm-up suit and running shoes. I grabbed my latest manuscript from the bedside table, tiptoed down the hall, and hurried out the kitchen door. Lifting the garbage can lid, I hurled the papers into a smelly stew of last night’s meat loaf, coffee grounds, egg shells, rice, and butter beans.
“Good riddance to you!”
Flashlight in hand, I headed out for a long, quiet dawn walk. I needed the exercise. I also wanted to remove myself from the temptation of going back to rescue eight weeks of fruitless writing. The truth be told, my book of short stories read like garbage. The hodgepodge, whose sole connection was the same typeface, Arial, belonged in a galvanized can.
Two hours later, I stood sipping hot green tea and watched as the sanitation worker dumped the trash into the back of his truck. The always warm and cheerful man secured his load under the tarp and grinned at me. His white teeth gleamed in the early morning sunshine.
“’Mornin’, Miz Newberry.”
What my heart heard him say was, Sure you want me to take this to the dump? After all, you did work eight long weeks on it.
Stop! I almost shouted.
What came out was, “Good morning to you.”
Beep, beep, beep, beep. His truck rolled backwards down our drive. Several pages of my manuscript flew out from underneath the tarp, gravy-stained and peppered with flecks of coffee grounds. I noticed the print was faded to a blur.
A blur. The perfect analogy.
A squirrel scampered across my feet. Surprised, I jumped back. Then I addressed the bushy-tailed rodent, admitting the truth to him-or-her, and to myself.
“I never could knit together those dern stories.” Balling up the escaped pages, I tossed them back into the empty trash can. Slam dunk. Hooray.
I went back inside, walked to my desk, turned on the computer, and pulled up a file. Mouthing a drum roll — Da, da DA — I pressed delete.
Honey Butlar Newberry’s book of short stories. Gone.
I wondered, do other writers respond to failure with such drama? If I could author an entire book, why couldn’t I perform the simple feat of weaving together a few stories about my family and our house? In the beginning, the idea
sounded easy enough.
Then I freaked out.
Regret gripped me. I considered the numerous events I’d missed because of my self-imposed commitment to get those stories published. Alas. Neglected visits with friends and family, lost time with my husband, ignored art shows, and far too many unseen movies. Egads, I’d even bailed out of our bridge club’s annual girls’ trip. A major mistake.
My remorse intensified as I tallied up the calories ingested from boxes of crackers, nuts, and cookies, not to mention the harmful caffeine in the gallons of tea and diet cola drunk. My net weight gain was eight pounds or one pound per week. Groaning, I clutched my well-defined love handles. Pinch an inch? What rhymes with “fistful?”
And fun? None.
All for what? My project was en route to garbage hell while its computer file floated aimlessly in cyberspace.
After a few moments of irrational planning, I vetoed going out to the Fulton County garbage dump. Honey Newberry, a fifty-some-odd-year-old writer with three-inch roots of gray hair, climbing over mounds of other folks’ refuge, did not paint a pretty picture. Having my hair colored was something else I’d failed to schedule during my writing binge.
I then chastised myself for not recycling. If I’d only separated the paper from the cans, like a good citizen, then I could have so easily driven out to the county’s recycling center to retrieve the manuscript. No smelly garbage to crawl through, just paper, mounds and mounds of it, but paper, nonetheless.
Sadly, recycling was no longer an option for the Newberry family. My fault, too.
A few weeks prior, as I’d hurriedly backed out of the driveway in my Jeep, I rolled over the regulation green plastic bin, completely destroying it. I replaced the bin with a blue one from the hardware store, but it seems that was unacceptable. They only pick up what’s in their containers, which ended the Newberry family’s single environmentally correct habit. Ever since, all the trash, plastics, old newspapers, spoiled food, and dead chipmunks had been relegated to the same dismal destination — the galvanized can outside the back door.
I digress.
At present, the computer felt like a heavy ball and chain to me. Thoughts of putting my fingers back on the keyboard made me cringe. I was far more enthusiastic about other activities. There were friends to meet for lunch, the kitchen to paint, my family to enjoy, a new sofa to purchase, and my most favorite work-related activity of all, giving talks. My calendar had several scheduled. I checked. Ah hah. I had one on Thursday week.
Feeling out of control — likely due to a total lack of sleep — I attempted a more productive dialogue with myself. A therapist might call it an affirmation. To me, it was simply Creola talk.
Look at you, Miss Moonbeam! You’re running around this house acting as foolish as a goose. You best quit second-guessing yourself. Now, get busy and show folks exactly what you can do! Get back to your writing!
“Not this time, ma’am,” I said aloud. “I have a speech to give.”
Typically, my audiences are made up of adults, generally adult women, many of whom have already read my books. Some are even eager to meet the author. I feel like something of a rock star on those occasions.
This was different, however; these were children. Children are unpredictable. They unnerve me. When I give speeches to children, I am a wreck.
Not only is my audience children, they were middle-school students. For me, it’s much easier to talk with two hundred adults than it is to communicate with five young people. There I stood at the podium with three-hundred-fifty pairs of eyes — teacher-coerced eyes — politely awaiting my appearance.
Shaking in my shoes, I certainly intended to do my best. Children are scary, yes, but they are also ever so important to me. There could be a promising writer, another Margaret Mitchell, in the group. I had a responsibility.
Right, Creola?
Carry on, Moonbeam, I could hear her saying. Her encouragement sustained me.
My friend Martha, the teacher who’d invited me, began her introduction. “Mrs. Newberry is our Career Day speaker, a special lady, and a real author.” As Martha continued, I smiled confidently and secretly wondered about whom she was saying such nice things. I laughed to myself. If only those trusting teachers and their bright-eyed middle-schoolers had witnessed my recent creative meltdown, they’d have bolted from the school auditorium.
Martha was about to conclude her part of the program. How was I to act? Surely as a professional. Down to earth, approachable? Or should I behave like a famous person, one who is completely “cool and with it?” To begin with, I didn’t feel famous. Secondly, using those words, “cool and with it” told me I definitely was not. I ultimately went with being myself.
As any practiced speaker feigning confidence will do, I took the microphone, looked pleasantly into the sea of faces, and began. I talked about creative writing, about the value of keeping journals, about being persistent in the face of rejection, about character development, and so on. Things went fine. I concluded my talk and asked if there were any questions. Pleasantly surprised at the teenagers’ enthusiasm, I happily responded to their queries concerning the characters in two of my books.
Had I a favorite character?
That was easy. “My grandmother, the heroine in my first novel.” I urged the audience, students, and teachers alike, to write their own stories about older persons they loved.
A hand flew high, and a young lady breathlessly announced, “I already have, Mrs. Newberry. I wrote a story about my dad, who is reeeallly old. When he was a little boy, he only had three channels on his TV!”
The young people ohhhed and ahhhhed.
I countered, “Guess what? My family didn’t even own a television until I was six-years-old!”
Silence.
I may as well have told the audience I’d arrived by ship. Was it the Nina, the Pinta, or the Santa Maria?
Perhaps in a generous effort to help me salvage my reputation, one thoughtful eighth grader changed the subject by asking another question. “Mrs. Newberry, who inspired you when you were in school?”
Another obvious answer for me. “Why, my high school English teacher, Miss Kate. She was also our school newspaper’s sponsor, and because of her, I worked for several papers before I began writing novels. Look around in this auditorium. I’m certain many of you have special teachers of your own. Thank you for the question; a good one!”
The students followed my advice. Some smiled at teachers, who glowed in response.
I was back on a roll.
A young man, a handsome fellow who bore a striking resemblance to Harry Potter, raised his hand. “Tell us please, Mrs. Newberry, what are you working on right now?”
I’d been caught. I wanted to interrogate him. Young man, exactly who encouraged you to ask me that question? Was it a teacher? Was it my friend Martha?
Wait a second; it was Creola, wasn’t it! I’d always believed my beloved Crellie was more compassionate than that. Spirits are supposed to be compassionate, aren’t they? Hold on, young man, do you know my sister? Ah ha, it was my older sister, Mary Pearle. She’s been after me for months to finish my book of short stories. I just know Mary Pearle ordered you to push me. The conniving shrew!
What I did say was even worse. I responded, “Another good question. Actually, I’m going to the beach next week and will return at summer’s end with a book of short stories.”
Who said that? Not me! Had I been possessed by Creola? I wanted to back away from the podium and sidle off the stage. Hundreds of eyes were on me, including the eyes of the teachers. They can smell the truth, I thought. I’d thrown the stories away. My tentative beach trip was planned exclusively for rest and relaxation. I was in trouble. Honey Newberry had told a big, fat lie! Now I was going to be forced to write more stories during the summer, because I’d made the announcement to an entire room full of trusting children!
Three weeks later, off to the beach I went. To rest. To work. To escape those probing eyes.
>
I could hear Creola chuckling.
Chapter 2
I stood in a condominium overlooking the beautiful Gulf beaches of Florida, but my attention was on myself. I’d left Beau at home in Atlanta, thankfully. Naked, I gazed into the bedroom mirror. Students, teachers, writing, family, war and famine, world chaos — those concerned me not. A crime had been committed. Someone had stolen my youthful body and replaced it with one of an aging fat woman.
The tag on my Magik-Slim promised my brand-new, magically slimming swimsuit would take off ten pounds. I was a desperate woman. I took the bathing suit from its shopping bag. Right foot, left foot. I stepped in, wriggling and tugging, until up over my thighs rolled the black, floral-splashed suit.
“Curses on all cookies and crackers. Curses on sitting too much, munching and typing. Curses on summer.” Sucking in my stomach with a gasp, I jerked upward until my ample form compressed into the slim suit. “It’s magic all right. It’s turned an ordinary woman into a giant bratwurst.”
I wandered into the bathroom and viewed myself in that mirror. It was not a pretty sight. Each of the suit’s orange, pink, and purple tropical blossoms had been strategically positioned to emphasize every major figure flaw — my ample butt, my small boobs, and my fat belly. Thank you, Magik-Slim.
I squeezed 50 SPF sunscreen onto my palm and slathered it over my lily-white body. Actually, that’s lily-white with brown splotches, more akin to the hide of a giraffe. I remain determined to hold my own against a lifetime of well-earned sun damage. A childhood of unprotected play outside, coupled with the slathering on of iodine and baby oil, followed by college years devoted to tanning on the roof of the sorority house, had accomplished its mission.
That said, it frequently occurs to me that, were all the age spots to run together, I might just have the perfect tan. My unyielding dermatologist, Dr. Cox, vehemently disagrees with the concept.
Only when covered from forehead to toe with the cream, he insists, am I sufficiently protected from the rays of the sun. As usual, Dr. Cox wins. Donning my floppy straw hat and long-sleeved white shirt, I paused to again view myself, this time in the entry hall mirror. Was I expecting an improvement?
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