“Obvious, was it?”
“Do you remember the day I turned the cartwheel? Well, that was this old girl’s blatant attempt to meet the famous, yes, that’s the famous Georgia author.”
“I’ll be darned.”
“Now, Mrs. Newberry, will you please sign your book for me?”
“Of course, I’d be honored.”
She presented the book to me along with a gold pen. I wrote:
“To Beatrice, may this be the beginning of a meaningful and joy-filled friendship, one which started with a cartwheel! I hope you will enjoy this little yarn half as much as I am enjoying my visit with you on this glorious June morning.
Fondly, Honey Newberry”
“Lovely,” Beatrice said.
I looked into the wise woman’s eyes. “I must tell you the truth, Beatrice. I’ve not been writing lately.” I confessed to her as fervently as if I were confiding in a priest.
She smiled. “That’s something I hoped you would discuss with me. It can be most freeing to bare one’s soul to a stranger.”
I eyed her in disbelief. “You’re hardly a stranger to me, Beatrice. Tell me, what gave you the idea I was struggling?”
“Ah hah, the fine art of deduction. When I went to the bookstore and saw a display of your novels, I noticed that it had been more than three years since your last work was released. Your reluctance to tell me your real name when first we conversed convinced me that something was amiss. I’d like to suggest that your lack of output may benefit from a strong shot of Beatrice joie de vivre!”
It was as if the woman were reading my mind.
Creola Moon, you had a roll in this, didn’t you?
“You’re off in dreamland, Honey Newberry. Tell me, my author friend, what seems to be your problem?”
“Nothing specific. It’s as if I’m out of gas.”
“Ah hah! You’ve done the right thing by coming to the shore. I know, because I’m blessed with the friendship of many creative people. It’s as simple as this. Your vessel is empty, yes. However, time by the sea — and away from your typewriter — will surely serve to refill that vessel.”
“Sounds as if you’ve been there, too, eh, Beatrice?”
“Dear girl, I’ve been everywhere at one time or another. It comes from living a very long life. Gracious, did I say ‘typewriter?’ Now that’s proof positive I’m as old as the sand!”
“Typewriter, hmmm. That’s an idea. Beatrice, do you think I should trade in my computer for an old-fashioned typewriter? One author-friend of mine absolutely refuses to abandon his trusty Underwood. The man insists that computers are nothing but a curse, and feels that all publishers should ignore anything written on one. He also says that no decent writer with any pride in his work would be caught using such an easy method!”
“Poppycock. Your friend is simply too set in his ways. Methinks it could be that the proud fellow is fearful that he’s not technically adept enough to learn how to use the computer.”
“Could be.”
Taking my last swallow of juice, I said, “I appreciate your encouragement, but I don’t want to spend all our time discussing me. Let’s just say that, for the present, I’m a professional beachcomber!”
“Whatever you decide, dear.”
Something about her glance, not unlike Creola’s familiar knowing look, told me she and I weren’t finished with the topic.
“Now, Beatrice, would you mind if I took a quick tour around your home?”
“Of course not, but may I suppose we are merely going to take a short break from the subject at hand, err, the subject of beachcombing?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
“I can be a formidable force, Madame.”
“And I can be a hard nut to crack!”
“Let’s call it a draw for now, Mrs. Newberry. Please feel free to acquaint yourself with everything and at your own rate of speed.”
“I’d be happier were you to grant me the pleasure of a guided tour.”
“Gladly, I’ve rested long enough.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Beatrice?”
“I’m always all right, dear girl. Besides, walking amongst my treasures invigorates me.”
Beatrice and I strolled about the living room. My friend handed me a beautifully hewn wooden mask. “A young artisan in Africa presented this treasure to me, oh, some fifty years ago. Isn’t it stunning?”
“Quite stunning.” I gently moved my fingers over the intricate features.
Beatrice selected a bowl from a grouping near a window. “This bowl was made by a gifted Native American potter from Santa Fe. One can almost sense her euphoria in the creation of such a marvelous piece. I’d think you might share a similar feeling as you fruitfully script a novel?”
I made no reply. She smiled wickedly.
An hour later, Beatrice and I were still touring the living room. Each painting, each sculpture told a story, a story of the artist and a story of Beatrice’s acquisition of the piece. I found myself to be as intrigued with the stories as I was awed by the beauty of the art. Beatrice’s face took on the most soulful expressions as she shared tales about her exceptional collection. The woman was a storyteller. Several times, she wept as she looked upon her possessions.
To my surprise, I wept along with her.
My spirit was coming to life in the art-filled cottage. I’d always flourished on emotional expression. Being in Beatrice’s home was like drinking from a cool mountain spring. Even as a young child, I would weep at the splendor of a finely done painting or from the sounds of beautifully performed music. I was once labeled “cry baby” by an insensitive classmate when I shed tears upon hearing the words of a stage actor’s perfect rendering of a line. I paid no attention to the silly boy. I was too engrossed in the play to be bothered. Nothing lifts me higher than the triumph of another’s soul reaching her artistic best.
It was as if Beatrice’s art collection were passing that power on to me. Beatrice was the conductor of a great, artistic, symphony orchestra, while I was seated as first violin.
Beatrice studied me gently. “I gather you are enjoying the tour?”
“I have no words to adequately express what I’m feeling.” I wiped a tear from my cheek. I closed my eyes, exhaled, and cleared my throat. “Some of this work, Beatrice, is yours, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. A couple of my pen and ink drawings are stuck around here somewhere. There’s nothing spectacular to show you, however. Here, do take a look at this painting. Can you not taste the tartness of the crisp green apple?”
“A Granny Smith, no doubt!”
“Possibly.”
“Please confess, Beatrice. Tell me which works are yours.”
Beatrice would take no credit for anything. She only emphasized that the sculptures, the paintings, and the weavings were exceptional acquisitions from her ‘Dear Ones.’
“Jennings?” I pried.
“My son’s talent lies more in his prose and poetry. Sadly, one of the difficulties that holds back the boy is his humble reluctance to share his remarkable gifts with others.”
Like me, you mean. I thought it but didn’t say so.
For a few minutes more, Beatrice showed off one piece then another. Often, the artist’s name was kept secret by her determined placement of a thumb or her reluctance to turn over the sculpture. The work itself became the focus of our conversation; its beauty, its line, and its form captivated her concentration. Yet Beatrice would passionately talk about the sometime nameless artist’s life, about his struggle, and, most emphatically about his triumph.
“Writing must bring its own challenges?” she asked.
“They call it ‘work’ for very good reasons,” I replied.
“Please assure me that the agony of your exercise is eradicated by an appreciative readership?”
“Most certainly. For me, one generous compliment can cushion hours of editing angst! Beatrice, are you being honest when you insist that you are not
a writer? You are too well aware of creative trials to be a novice.”
“As I mentioned before, I’m a merely student of human nature, that’s all. Oh, perhaps I may have written a poem here and there, but nothing to match your charming novels.”
I smiled. “I don’t believe a word you say.”
I paused to admire a pen-and-ink sketch of an unusually handsome older man. On the bottom right, I was certain I saw the name “Beatrice.” On a second sketch I saw the letter “B,” and on several others, “Bea.” Again and again, a version of my friend’s name appeared. As if it were an unspoken rule, I intuitively knew not to push Beatrice for an explanation.
I clearly understood that I should take the woman just as she was with no questions asked and without coercing her to share her secrets. I’d simply appreciate Beatrice for the person she was willing to be. Anything that she wanted to reveal, I would cherish.
The mood was suddenly broken when Beatrice made a pronouncement. “This has been a lovely visit, but I realize you have other things to accomplish, as also is the case with me.”
I glanced at a clock. “Oh my goodness, I’ve stayed far longer than I intended! Thank you, Beatrice, thank you very much. I cannot tell you what this day has meant.”
“My joy, dear.”
We walked toward the door.
“Oh, one last thing, if I may. Tell me about Jennings’s visit.”
The enchantment washed from her face, Beatrice sighed. “Dreadful. In fact, he didn’t come at all.” She stood erect, and with a shake of her head, she gathered herself saying, “Jennings knows well that his mother understands. And forgives.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Beatrice threw back her head. “And what, pray tell, do you have to be sorry about now? Young lady, have you ever taken a count of all the ‘sorry’s’ you say in a given day?”
“No, ma’am. Maybe I should.”
“Well, it could do you some good. In truth, I relish my son’s absence, for it gives me extra time to anticipate his next appearance.”
“Yes, of c-course,” I stammered. “I should go now.”
Beatrice nodded.
I waved sheepishly, turned, and walked slowly down the beach. I deeply regretted the negative end to an otherwise perfect morning. Not only had I overstayed my welcome, but I’d also brought up a painful subject which destroyed the day’s magical mood. I hurled a broken shell as far as I could. It landed with a splash. “Honey, you should have had enough sense to realize Beatrice would have told you if she wanted you to know.”
We all have our sad secrets, Creola whispered.
The phone was ringing as I entered the condo.
“Beatrice, here!”
My spirits lifted at the sound of my friend’s upbeat tone. “Hello! I’m so sorry we ... that is, I’m not ‘sorry,’ but —”
“Young woman, just so you understand. I’ll expect a short story from you by week’s end.”
I didn’t bat an eye at her demand. “Consider it done!”
I put the phone down and gaped at thin air.
I could hear Creola chuckling.
Chapter 10
I turned on the computer. The logo came up. Ball and chain. Beatrice’s challenge weighed heavily. No! Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, actually Beatrice’s challenge weighed lightly. This day, lightly was the more fitting adverb for my rejuvenated outlook.
Had the morning provided such an intense aesthetic experience that the fog finally lifted? Creola, what do you think? Had I just been depressed all this time, as Beau suggested? Who knew? Not me. I could only compare my improved mood to watching the mist on a mountain lake as it gives way to brilliant sunshine.
The screen saver came into focus. A close-up shot of Nestle’s face greeted me. I could almost hear our dog’s tail beating against the study’s floor. For nearly fourteen years that faithful dog had curled up next to me as I wrote.
I had to give credit to Beatrice for her encouragement and for sharing her magnificent art collection with me. And Creola, I have you to thank, too. As always, your spirit plays a role in all that I do.
I looked at the screen saver once again.
“Nestle, I am getting back to work.”
The first thing I pulled up were a few random notes I’d made a long time back concerning Creola. Her face focused clearly in my mind’s eye. I could almost feel her touch, hear the whisperings of her voice. Creola’s laughter would fill a room as her energy flourished seemingly without limit. Yet there was something in her carriage that spoke of pain and suffering, courage, faith, and strength. Those were the traits I later learned to appreciate.
When I was a child she was the ideal playmate, one with endless stories, a source of games and ideas of things to do, but also a source of strength, who cared for and cherished our whole family. As I grew up and met challenges in own life, Creola became a fountain of wisdom for me.
Music had always played an important role in our family’s life. I could remember many nights when Mary Pearle and I were young and we spent evenings together listening to dance bands on the radio. As they often did, our parents would get up and whirl in one another’s arms around the living room. Naturally, we joined in as the four of us spun about in circles!
“Dear, just take a look at your daughters,” beamed Daddy. “With your good example, these two girls will soon outshine their old man!”
A picture of myself, Mary Pearle, and Creola came before me. Many an afternoon after school, the three of us would roll back the living room rug, turn on the record player with a stack of 45’s, and dance around to the music of every recording artist from Elvis to the stars of Motown. By the time Mary Pearle and I enrolled in dance class, we could have taught every step.
How such a chubby lady as Creola could move around so gracefully, I would never understand! Clapping and lifting her feet, turning and strutting, Creola taught us everything she knew about dancing. All the time, she encouraged us to make Mother and Daddy believe that they were our skilled instructors.
I stretched my arms and leaned back in my chair. Creola, you had to have been well into your forties in those dancing days. I could almost hear her chuckling. Now I was so much older than she had been when I judged her to be downright decrepit!
Yes, she was definitely laughing.
What a difference the visit with Beatrice had made. Thinking about my age didn’t depress me nearly as much as it had only one day before. I was beginning to appreciate the wisdom that comes with passage of time. Thank you, Creola. You’re accomplishing your mission. You, too, Beatrice.
I cannot count the number of discussions Mary Pearle and I had concerning our nanny. As little children, we only knew that Creola shared every day with us. She simply appeared from the bus stop and, other than telling us funny stories about her parents, never mentioned anything about herself. We were adults before we even saw where she lived.
Our childish theories of her origin ran the gamut from a runaway nun to a former striptease dancer, and from an earthbound angel to an actress who, bored with stardom, escaped from Hollywood to live in Humphrey.
Mary Pearle once suggested that Creola’s surname of Moon was made-up.
“Moon is all about magic spells. It’s obvious to me, little sister!”
I disagreed. I believed that Creola’s last name had a heavenly connotation. “Mary Pearle, you’re wrong about spells. I know that the moon is filled with angels, angels just like Crellie. For some reason, she wanted to leave the moon, so she hitched a ride on a falling star.”
“Sure, and landed right here in Humphrey?”
“Yes, to be here with me.”
“With us.”
“Okay, with us.”
I was beginning to suspect that the same kind of mystery surrounded Beatrice, a lady who didn’t even admit to having a last name! More likely, she simply avoided the subject.
Comparing the two, Creola and Beatrice shared traits beyond their secretive backgrounds. Each has made an
impact on me. Each rarely thought about herself, but was concerned about the well-being of others. Each woman had a great zest for life and an enormous love for those around them. Importantly for me, however, was that both women had a knack for bringing out what was and is the best in me.
Now here was a theme.
I began to type.
The Visit
by Honey Newberry
To me, Creola was always Creola. She wasn’t black, she wasn’t white; she was simply herself. Throughout the turbulent years of integration, I tiptoed around any mention of the racial turmoil whenever Creola was present. Creola kept to the same undeclared decree. A decade would pass before I addressed the subject of prejudice face to face with her.
Weary of the invisible but impenetrable wall between us, I finally decided to approach Creola. After I was grown, I called her at home and drove the fifty-mile distance that separated us. Over and over, I practiced what I was going to say. I re-thought, worried, and almost changed my mind about broaching the issue at all. Rehearse as I did, I still couldn’t come up with exactly what to say. I just knew I was determined to say something. On I drove.
As I had done so many times, often with Beau and our children alongside me, I pulled into Creola’s front yard. The dust of Georgia clay covered my car like a crimson cloud. As it settled, I could see Creola waiting on the porch of her weathered but tidy clapboard house. Geraniums in clay pots lined the steps, and two large lacy ferns hung from the rafters. Creola had likely been out there for an hour or more, anxious, and unquestionably praying for my safe travel. She rose to her feet and grinning, came to the top of the steps holding wide her still strong arms.
“It’s sooo wonderful to see my Moonbeam!”
As the two of us sat sipping sweet tea, we discussed the things of our lives. We talked of family, of shared memories, of illness, of day-to-day events. We also talked about the weather, a favorite subject of hers. She’d always loved summer storms, relished the excitement!
Creola's Moonbeam Page 10
