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Archiver > APPALACHIAN-LIFE > 2001-02 > 0981685947


From: "teaberry" <>
Subject: Re: [AppalLife] My Hillbilly Novel
Date: Thu, 8 Feb 2001 21:32:27 -0500


Carla, I love it. Please continue to write and let us read this material.
-----Original Message-----
From: Carla Scott-Mason <>
To:
<>
Date: Thursday, February 08, 2001 8:39 PM
Subject: [AppalLife] My Hillbilly Novel


>Sorry I've been away from the list for a while. I just hate it when my day
job keeps interfereing with the life I really want to live!
>
>If you folks don't mind, I'd like to submit the chapters of my novel as I
finish editing them. There's a few chapters toward the middle that require
drastic rewrites, so they may take longer to post. Please let me know if you
see glaring mistakes anywhere, like I'm unsure in this first chapter whether
it's fica or ficus in regard to the tree.
>
>My first draft of this novel is in the hands of a publisher already, but I
want to try to get the final editing done before I hear back from them.
Maybe posting it will keep me motivated. But remember this is not to be
shared with the world at large -- or even anyone in the next room.
>
>Carla
>
>
>
>
>WILD WOMEN
>by Carla Scott-Mason
>
>Chapter 1
>
>The world is full of wonderful possibilities, Honey. When people tell
>you life goes downhill after your sixtieth birthday, that life's a
>bitch and then you die, they're just wallowing in their own bad
>choices. You need to stay so busy picking and choosing what makes you
>happy you form a barrier against other people's miseries.
>
Abigail Benson -- 1995
>
> I've often wondered whether Abigail has the gift of prophecy or
>whether she's just known my family for so many years it's easy for her
>to guess what's going on in our minds. Until recently, Mother's answer
>to every complaint, from politics to parenting to public
>transportation, had always been "Life sure has a way of going down
>hill, now don't it?" But it's Harley's motto that makes me wonder
>about Abigail. He didn't start saying life's a bitch and then you die
>until he came back from Vietnam, and to my knowledge Abigail hasn't
>seen or heard from Harley since way before then.
> I can't tell you how often this particular quote has given me
>courage over the past four months as I tried to decide whether to go or
>stay. I can tell you I'll never need a bookmark to find it. This
>particular handwritten book of quotations opens to the exact page with
>only the slip of a fingernail at the top edge of its wounded spine. To
>be honest, I've had Abigail's words memorized for most of these four
>months, but there's an added quality when I can see the words, touch
>the page. And I do just that as I sit behind the steering wheel,
>surrounded by potted plants, big and small, I'm bequeathing to Mother.
> Whether Abigail is prophetically gifted or not, her letters have
>always honed right in on whatever needs I had at the time of their
>writing. Her intention for these particular words were to give me the
>handholds I needed to pull myself out of a pit of depression that had
>overtaken me. I'd been one month away from my sixtieth birthday, it was
>the ninth anniversary of Philip's death, my only child was having
>trouble with sobriety, and I was beginning to think I'd already given
>and received the best life had to offer. I guess you could say I was
>wallowing in my own miseries.
> Abigail's words alone may have been enough to pull me out of that
>particular pit, but she had also gifted me with my first wild woman
>book: When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple. I read it from cover
>to cover then went in search of my own wild woman books. Before you
>know it I had a whole collection, and soon found myself whistling up
>and down the halls of the Tech Lab, my arthritic knees supporting a
>much lighter step, if not the exact skip of my youth. An attitude
>adjustment is what Abigail had called it.
> Mother, on the other hand, thought I was headed down the deep
>dark path of insanity. Not because I was happier or healthier than I'd
>been in years, but because my life-long dream of moving back to
>Kentucky had also been rejuvenated. Mother hated having her beliefs
>called into question -- and change doesn't make her one bit happy,
>either. "Life sure has a way of going down hill, now don't it?" was
>quickly replaced with, "Honey Malone, you're headed straight for
>trouble, you mark my words!"
> It didn't matter to Mother that I was sixty-three years old and
>hadn't asked her permission to do anything in over forty years. From
>her perspective, I had no business quitting my job so close to full
>retirement. From my perspective, I was plain old tired of working
>inside the walls of the missile industry when I wanted to be out on the
>street, marching with the demonstrators who always invaded the coast a
>few weeks before every nuclear launch. From Mother's perspective, I
>should be ashamed of myself for leaving my only child to fend for
>herself, even though Carol was thirty-two years old with enough
>education for two or three kids. The real kicker, though, was Mother
>considered it absolutely juvenile that I'd go traipsing off across the
>country in an effort to recapture my youth, never mind that I'd longed
>for the mountains of my birth even in the best of times during my
>forty-year marriage. The decision to move had more to do with getting
>back to my roots than in recapturing my youth, which is not the same
>thing at all.
> I looked again to Abigail's words for courage, but only noticed
>the smudges and stains my many touches had left on the page. I placed
>the book on the seat beside me and tried to stay centered on my
>accomplishments of the day, the week, the past four months. It didn't
>work. No matter how you looked at it, I still dreaded this Last Supper
>with Mother, the final crucible before breaking clean of the past and
>moving toward my future. At least Carol, loyal daughter that she is,
>would be there to defend me against Mother's single-minded prophecy
>that I was headed straight for trouble.
> I turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse.
>When I looked over my shoulder to back out of my parking space, I was
>slapped in the face by the baby ficus I'd placed on the floor behind my
>seat. Slamming on the brake didn't help a bit -- several plants on the
>back seat spilled muddy water over the upholstery. Not a good sign. I
>rebalanced the floral arrangement on the passenger seat, a gift from my
>office mates, took a deep breath, and was so intent on seeing around
>all those plants I didn't have a single farewell thought as I backed
>out of a parking spot and drove away from the apartment complex I'd
>inhabited for eight years.
> When I rounded the curve at Harlock Road, I could see Mother
>watering her pink hibiscus that grew along both sides of the driveway.
>That's what Mother always did just before she started supper. Another
>of her habits was to turn the hose on me, and I hit the window button
>just in time to guard against the stream of water that slammed into the
>side of the car.
> Mother dropped the hose and dodged sandy puddles as she made her
>way to the car. Dressed in hot pink pedal pushers and Max Factor, her
>gold bracelets jangling up and down both arms, she would have been
>perfectly color coordinated with her flower garden had it not been for
>the bright red nail polish flashing through the holes of her tennis
>shoes, like strawberry pots at the height of summer.
> "Almost got you good that time, didn't I?" Mother said, like it
>was a new game instead of a nine-year-old ritual. The first time she'd
>aimed the hose at me I'd gotten soaked through the opened window and
>was so startled I'd mowed down two hibiscus bushes. You'd think she'd
>have learned her lesson by now.
> "Yes you did," I said, wondering for the umpteenth time if I
>should be concerned about her failing memory. When she opened the door,
>I handed her the floral arrangement. "Put these somewhere until we
>unload the car."
> Mother eyed the arrangement before placing it on the hood of the
>car. "Kind of extravagant, aren't they?" That was another expected
>remark. Mother has no limits when it comes to buying plants and trees
>that can be put in the ground, but she thinks it's a waste of money to
>buy flowers guaranteed not to last more than a week.
> With one hand instead of two, Mother grabbed a second baby fica
>from behind the passenger seat. When it fell to the ground, the plastic
>pot ripped and mud shot straight up to speckle Mother's white cotton
>blouse.
> "I just can't believe a daughter of mine is capable of doing such
>a foolish thing," she mumbled, as if my decision to move had something
>to do with the mishap. She wiped her glasses on her shirttail then
>pointed in the direction of the pond. "Put this one out there," she
>said, then used both hands to lift out a potted palm.
> "Honey Malone," she said as she lifted, "you're headed straight
>for trouble." She carried the palm to the side of the house and let it
>thump to the ground. I was halfway to the pond with the shattered fica
>by the time Mother returned to the car for another plant. She didn't
>let that keep her from finishing her statement. She just raised her
>voice to make sure I heard, and I mouthed the words right along with
>her: "You mark my word!"
> I hugged the plant against my left hip and grabbed a shovel that
>leaned against the rusted aluminum storage shed. Things have a way of
>thriving when placed in the right environment, I thought as I started
>digging. This baby would be at least twelve feet tall by my next visit.
>I beat down the last scoop of dirt and returned the shovel to the shed.
> Mother had already gone inside, so I retrieved the floral
>arrangement from the hood of the car and dodged puddles as I made my
>way to the back door. "Enjoy them, Mother," I said, placing the
>flowers on the kitchen table. "They should last at least a week."
> "Why don't you take them with you?" Mother was up to her wrists
>in floured chicken pieces. "Abigail might enjoy them."
> "They'll just die...wilt...in the car."
> "Not if you keep the air conditioner running they won't."
> "My air conditioner goes off as soon as I cross the state line,
>Mother, and I may never turn it on again."
> Mother is famous for The Look, which always befits the "crime"
>and clearly conveys that the use of words is beneath her. Like now.
>How can a daughter of mine be so unbelievably silly? She was probably
>tired of hearing my litany of Florida things I'd be glad to trade for
>Kentucky things. Like the smell of wood smoke from a fireplace instead
>of the smoke from lightning strikes, your valuables within easy reach
>in the event of evacuation. Like the aches and pains of arthritis
>caused by cold winters instead of year-round humidity. Like being able
>to live without air conditioning.
> "Let me go wash the itch off my arms and I'll help you with
>supper," I said. As I made my way to the bathroom, I could have sworn
>Mother mumbled something about Harley being late for supper. Surely I
>misunderstood. I was still drying off my arms when I marched back into
>the kitchen. "What did you say?" The table was set for four. Not
>good.
> "The potatoes still need to be peeled," Mother said.
> I hated to bring up the subject, but any information was better
>than none. "Did I hear you say Harley's coming for supper?"
> "Of course Harley's coming for supper. You're his only sister,
>aren't you?"
> As if such nonsense mattered to Harley. I threw six of Mother's
>home grown potatoes into an aluminum bowl.
> "He'll just be late. Problems with his airboat or something," she
>said, shaking the flour from her hands.
> I did as much damage as you can do with a potato peeler, then
>dumped the dirty spuds into a pot without rinsing them. Mother grabbed
>the pot out of my hands before I made it to the stove.
> "What have you put him up to this time, Mother?" Harley was not
>one to place himself in any situation that had even the slightest
>chance of becoming emotional -- unless he was on a mission, of course.
>Like the time Mother made him drive all the way to Michigan to convince
>me I needed to move to Florida after Philip died so I'd be near family.
>I guess he thought waiting a full seven days after the funeral would
>give me enough time to get over my grief. His inane stabs at humor fell
>on deaf ears and he finally joined me in a good cry somewhere between
>Atlanta and Jacksonville. I haven't seen that side of him since then.
> "I don't know what you're talking about, Honey Malone," Mother
>replied as she covered the rinsed and quartered potatoes with water and
>handed the pot back to me. "Maybe he just wants to say good-bye."
> "Harley hates good-byes, and you know it."
> "Don't you think it's time you give up all your hard feelings?"
>Mother poured enough oil into a cast iron skillet to cause her doctor
>to have a coronary. Hillbilly to the heart, she swears her country
>cooking is the reason for her longevity. She also swears I could have
>avoided breast cancer if I hadn't cut all the good stuff, like fats and
>sugars, out of my diet.
> "What's hard feelings got to do with it, Mother? It's a simple
>fact. When 'Harley' and 'airboat' are spoken in the same sentence, the
>missing third word is 'booze.' And when Harley's drinking, while I'm
>sure there's a woman or two on his mind, I guarantee I'm not one of
>them."
> "Don't be so hard on him, Honey. He just don't like hospitals."
>Mother has a way of nickel and dimeing you to death when you're trying
>to point out the root of her upsets, but she has no problem narrowing
>her shots when it comes to pointing out the root of mine.
> "There you go protecting him again," I said, pulling my own
>nickel and dime routine. Some things are definitely learned from our
>closest role models.
> "It's my job to protect my kids," Mother said with finality as
>she stomped across the room and re-adjusted the flame I'd put under the
>potatoes. "Especially from each other. I swear, I never thought I'd
>see the day ..."
> "Yeah, right." Mother could justify her meddling with the best
>of them. That's why Harley kept his visits short and sweet and
>usually by telephone. At least with Carol here for supper there'd be a
>more even playing field.
> We finished the meal preparations in silence and were setting the
>table when we heard Carol tapping her horn down the driveway. Mother
>handed me the bowl of mashed potatoes and flew out of the house. I just
>smiled. For all her problems in the past, Carol had turned out pretty
>calm and level headed. There was no way Mother would get her to side
>against me.
>

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