With my first cup of coffee, I sit at the kitchen table, pushed up next to floor-to-ceiling windows, and look out and beyond our property back to a little red barn in the field behind us and soak in the dawning of another one of God’s perfect mornings. No matter the weather, all mornings are good. Means you woke up on this side. Can I get an amen?
My wife, Jana, knows how important the waking-up hours are to me. It takes me a while to get with it. What happens in the morning affects the rest of my day. I’m not much for any kind of unnecessary noise. Mornings should be tranquil: birds, trees, fresh air, clouds hanging from a blue sky. The Almighty’s living and breathing creativity is incomparable.
A few times a week, Jana throws birdseed under the trees and around two birdbaths out in our backyard, and here they come. All kinds of birds: cardinals, blue jays, finches, a family of robins, a battalion of sparrows. They’re spread all across the yard up to the fence.
Sometimes, there’s a little whisper in my mind that reassures me I made the right decision to leave Los Angeles and move us back to my home state of Tennessee. Only here can I get away from the crowd and back to my roots.
If the mood’s right, unencumbered thoughts of fond times and memorable people pop up out of nowhere. This morning, I got to thinking about a couple of country women, Mrs. Perry and her neighbor, Ms. Iney. Her real name was Inez.
Both were alone, wrinkled, short in stature and well into their 70s. If you got up close to either one of them, they smelled kinda like Avon cologne and mothballs. Although they were pleasant enough, you could see some sadness in their eyes.
In the 1950s, I lived in the country – the best living there is. I was the kind of kid who just couldn’t sit still. There was too much out there. When Mom decided that my chores were done, I hit the door running. My little black dog and best friend, Prince, ran alongside me.
I would sprint all the way up our little dirt road, across the skinny two-lane and over the red rock bridge before I slowed to a walk. It was a shortcut to our very small town. Everybody knew everything about everybody who lived there.
Just beyond the bridge, over to the right, lived Mrs. Perry. The back of her white-shingled house sat up above the creek. Her front yard stretched from just past the bridge all the way around to Ms. Iney’s backyard.
Mrs. Perry had a couple of fellows build a 6-foot-tall wooden fence between the two yards. I assumed for privacy. If you were in Mrs. Perry’s front yard, you could hear Ms. Iney on the other side pulling up weeds and grunting.
The two women had known one another all their lives and, at one time, were best of friends, yet very seldom spoke. Mrs. Perry told me that they had gotten “all talked out” years ago. That made sense to me.
Mrs. Perry always had a treat for Prince. Not a dog biscuit or a cookie. She’d head to the door and say, “Here, just stay put, and I’ll be right back.” Within a minute, she’d return and hand me a biscuit dipped in milk gravy or a piece of chicken. Before I gave it to Prince, I took a bite or two. He and I shared things. I’d thank her and head off toward town.
Almost always, she’d holler out “Merry Christmas” and remind me to be a good boy, because “Santy Claus” was watching me.
Mrs. Perry’s house was decorated for Christmas 365 days a year. She kept a wreath and a bell on her front door and a string of Christmas tree lights across the front porch roof. Inside were several wind-up Christmas music boxes, an aluminum Christmas tree and three or four red stockings hanging from a fireplace mantel.
It was her thing. She obviously loved Christmas. I found it odd but kind of cool. I reckoned that when you got to a certain age, you could live the way you wanted. She loud-hummed Christmas songs and smiled real big. Constantly.
I did a little work for her, mostly running errands or bringing boxes from the back porch and inside her house to the front porch. She’d sit in her rocker, rummage through them, pull out a couple of Christmas ornaments and a few other Christmas items, then have me return the boxes to the back porch and inside her house to the “Christmas Present Room.”
Mrs. Perry’s house was pretty on the outside but pretty bad on the inside. Everywhere you looked were stacks of Sears Roebuck boxes and catalogs, old clothes, stacks of outdated, yellowish-colored newspapers and a record player. Just above the brick fireplace, which was bordered by peeling-off, rose-flowered wallpaper, was a painting of Jesus. He appeared to be looking straight at me.
To get to the “Christmas Present Room” you had to walk past the fireplace, around the steps leading to the upstairs, down a small dimly lit hallway and then turn left.
There were several dips in the floor caused by tree roots and time. You had to watch your step. Mrs. Perry had cats that hung out in the hallway and were hard to see. No telling how many times I stepped on them. They’d let out a screech that could wake the dead. Every time they did, I bumped my head on something.
Ms. Iney was always out in her yard pulling weeds or handling a push mower and a scuffed-up wheelbarrow. She got up with the birds, put on her brimmed hat and was out in her yard as the sun came up. If any of Mrs. Perry’s cats wandered into Ms. Iney’s yard, she’d run them off.
Prince and I were not allowed in Ms. Iney’s yard. She was protective of her front-yard flower beds and backyard vegetable garden. She’d say, “Don’t be bringing yer dog in my yard. I don’t need no urine stains.” That was a head-scratcher. I had to ask somebody what urine meant.
Once in a while, Ms. Iney would throw twigs and small limbs over her back fence into Mrs. Perry’s yard and pay me a quarter to take it down to the creek. If Mrs. Perry saw that, she’d go into her house and turn up the constantly playing Christmas music on her three-speed record player.
Even though both ladies were about the same age and height, there was one very large difference between them. Ms. Iney had a huge derriere. So big that a lot of them called her Ms. Hiney. I never did.
There was something, sort an uncomfortable vibe, that I felt when I was around either one of them. I stopped dropping by.
Not quite a year later, Mrs. Perry passed away. It was then that I heard Mr. Jenkins telling the men down at Whiteside Drug Store about the feud between Ms. Iney and Mrs. Perry.
It had started decades ago. After the sun went down, Mrs. Perry’s husband would jump over the little fence that separated the two properties, and he and Ms. Iney would fool around. Mrs. Perry knew about it. One Christmas Eve, Mrs. Perry’s husband jumped over the fence, suffered a heart attack and died.
What a story, huh?
Email Bill Stamps at bill_stamps@aol.com. His books “Miz Lena” and “Southern Folks” are available on Amazon.