NaNoWriMo Ends

Today is the last day of the official National Novel Writing Month. Those of you who encouraged me to give up writing a novel and stick to short stories will be relieved to know I followed your advice.

My novel was going to be a compilation of short stories anyway, with one sort of novella plopped in there for chits and giggles. I got sidetracked toward the end of the month with preparing a story to be submitted for a contest, and let the novel writing lapse. By the time I felt the story was ready, I realized I'd fallen too far behind in NaNoWriMo to ever catch up, and I gave up.

There's always next year, or next month, or sometime in the future. Sigh.

Happy note: I wrote nearly 40,000 words and had a lot of fun, so it wasn't a total loss.

Go visit Richard Cooper's blog. I think he has some happy things to say!

Vagaries

When does style and point of view become more important than the meat of the story itself? I've been preparing a story for a contest and ran it past a dozen fellow writers for comments and suggestions to improve it. The results were positively paralyzing. Conflicting. Frighteningly so. My point of view was this, and that, and wrong, wrong, wrong. I rewrote and rewrote, and still it was "inconsistent."

I had faith in myself up to a point. I believed I was correct. But after so many experienced writers banged the same drum, I began to waffle. Finally I just cried. I couldn't understand what was inconsistent, or wrong, about it. I wouldn't be entering the contest if I didn't believe I had at least a rat's chance in hell of winning or placing. So if I couldn't even keep to one point of view (by some's standards), what chance do I stand of placing in a contest? Will the judges agree with my associates? Will they agree with me?

Finally, I sent the story to an excellent editor whom I trust implicitly. She told me that many writers are confused about points of view and that my story was perfectly fine, that I maintained a consistent POV and not to worry about it.

But now I'm concerned that the judges might not understand as well as she did.

Some of you are reading this thinking, "Why doesn't she just believe in herself and follow her gut?" That's what I'm going to have to do. But it staggers the mind that either I or my associates have such a poor grapse of what points of view are that we differ so widely.

It's enough to make one stop writing altogether. Seriously.

How Much Is My Blog Worth?

My blog's value has increased by approximately $600 over the past week. Potential advertisers, take note! My stock's rising... ~~GHC

My blog is worth $4,516.32.
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The Three Dimension Luck and Power Test

You Are Balanced - Realist - Empowered

You feel your life is controlled both externally and internally. You have a good sense of what you can control and what you should let go. Depending on the situation, you sometimes try to exert more control. Other times, you accept things for what they are and go with the flow. You are a realist when it comes to luck. You don't attribute everything to luck, but you do know some things are random. You don't beat yourself up when bad things happen to you... But you do your best to try to make your own luck. You have a good deal of power, but you also know the pecking order. You realize that working the system does get you further. You know who to defer to and who to control. When it comes to the game of life, you play things flawlessly.

The Three Dimension Luck and Power Test

Leprechaun Infestation

 

Leprechaun Infestation

I discovered a rotten banana in the cat food container about a year ago. The children threw their hands up. “We don’t know anything about it, Mom.” My husband scratched his head. “Sure beats me.” The cats lack opposable thumbs, so I knew they were innocent. At the time I explained away finding the banana in a sealed plastic tub by accusing gorillas in our midst of planning to take over the world. For a year I felt safe as long as I didn’t spot long hairy arms or spy large primates swinging from tree to tree.

Then something happened to shatter my false sense of security.

While gathering outdated magazines, newspapers, and other objects to be tossed, I came across a long brown paper bag, the kind used to cover an elongated bottle of spirits. Since we don’t indulge, my curiosity was piqued. I peered inside and found a receipt dated five months ago. Stranger still, it came from the WSLCB store on NE 78th Way in Vancouver, Washington. The receipt further declares that “Terri thanks you.”

It’s slight less than 2,500 miles between my house and Seattle, so this paper bag didn’t just waft in on the autumn breeze and land in my living room. Of course, no one in the family knows anything about the bag or the receipt. It’s doubtful any of them traveled 5,000 miles roundtrip to purchase a fifth of whiskey given all the liquor stores in close proximity to our house. I can’t see anyone in my family starting off as a teetotaler then making the leap to Irish whiskey right out of the chute.

Now I fear a leprechaun is behind this mysterious receipt.

It makes sense. We all know leprechauns hide pots of gold at the end of rainbows, and they have an affinity for Irish whiskey. Legend says if a person is lucky enough to see and then capture a wee, six-inch-tall leprechaun – a Herculean task in itself – the small creature is beholden to grant a wish, up to and including revealing where his gold is hidden. A little-known secret is that he may buy you off with a gold piece to release him. As soon as he’s free, your coin will turn to dust. How tricky leprechauns are!

To further complicate matters, the species is split into two distinct groups, the leprechaun and the cluricaun. Leprechauns are shoemakers and guardians of ancient treasure. Cluricauns are for lack of a kinder word, thieves. They will steal or borrow nearly anything under cover of darkness. One source I checked said they raid wine cellars and larders. I wonder if a cluricaun went to the liquor store in Vancouver and gave Terri a magic gold piece for the fifth of whiskey, knowing all the while the coin would turn to dust as soon as he left? Even worse, these leprechaun cousins sometimes harness domestic animals and ride them throughout the countryside at night. Makes me wonder if perhaps our poor hamster Henry’s untimely death resulted from one too many midnight rides at the reins of a cluricaun.

This could explain several family mysteries. We could blame Henry’s death on the cluricaun(s). The reason we can’t find our keys? A cluricaun took them. The disappearance of the children’s homework, pencils, odd socks, and even that one pair of tennis shoes are all understandable once we realize there are evil leprechauns. Same with the pizza box discovered under the living room chair last year, and the chicken bones found behind the sofa that no one admitted knowing about.

I feel a bit guilty blaming everything on the cluricaun and I still have my doubts. But what better explanation than a cluricaun traveled 2,500 miles, lugging his fifth of Irish whiskey, so he could wreck havoc in my home?

Sure explains all the blarney around here. 

R.I.P. John F. Kennedy

Dear Beloved Children,

There are moments in our lives that stand as milestones -- births and firsts, and deaths and lasts. Your first day at school, first kiss,
last day before moving on, the last time you see someone – those moments are burned into your memory. Someday when you see your firstborn's face the first time, the impact of what I'm telling you will settle on your soul, along with understanding.

The monumental historical "event" so far in your lives is September 11, 2001, when the World Trade Center towers went down, the Pentagon was hit, and other brave souls died in Pennsylvania. Remember how I urged you to write in your journals? For the rest of your lives, you will be asked where you were and what you were doing when that happened.

I was in first grade when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Mrs. Martha Markowitz was my teacher. How I loved her warmth and kindness! She had a comforting laugh that never mocked. She made me feel safe and "okay" even though I didn't fit in well with the other children.

It was naptime that Thursday. We had our heads dutifully down on our desks, pretending to be asleep. I found myself watching the undulating heat rise from the radiator, warping the scene outside the
classroom window. This was my usual naptime activity, imagining another world on the other side of this steam curtain.

Jennifer Drake was in my class also. She loved horses, even more than I did. We were both horse addicts, collecting sets of stallion, mare and foal families of Appaloosa, Pinto, Morgan, and whatever horse families the Breyer company produced. I used to go to her house to play, and I knew her father was an architect. They had a baby grand piano in a totally black and white room with bubblegum pink carpeting. We weren't allowed in that room, but I always sneaked a peek.

Jennifer was odd, like me, and didn't fit in well with the other children. Unlike me, she could make her eyes pop out of her head and
then put them back in. She also knew how to roll her eyes so only the whites showed (she had an older brother).

Back then, everyone knew everyone else's parents, or at least their mothers. People tended to stay in one house all their lives and you were stuck with whatever role you found yourself falling into at a young age. I was doomed to be the weird, smart girl with the odd parents.

Anyway, it was during naptime and Jennifer's mom burst into our classroom holding a red transistor radio. A transistor radio was about the size of the palm of your hand and a marvelous thing to have back then. She rushed in, and I noticed her hair wasn't neatly combed like it normally was. Her eyes were wilder than I'd ever seen, and I thought
offhandedly that maybe that's where Jennifer learned her cool eye tricks.

Mrs. Markowitz stood up as Mrs. Drake rushed towards her. I knew immediately something bad was wrong. "Jack's been shot," was all
Mrs. Drake said. "Jack's been shot." I remember Mrs. Markowitz began to cry, and so did Mrs. Drake and Jennifer. Two of my classmates' fathers had died already that year -- unusual, I know, but since it was the first time I'd been in school, it was 'normal' for my experience. I wondered why someone had shot Mr. Drake.

We were all sent home and school was cancelled for several days. Nothing good was on television; newscasters and solemn men with shaky, gravelly voices and the same picture of some people in a car over and over again. Mom wouldn't talk about it, and I wondered how important Jennifer's daddy must have been for us to get out of school because he was shot. I also wondered who shot him, and why.

Coincidentally, President Kennedy was also shot that day. He died. He had a daughter my age and a little son my brother's age. I felt sorry for them, and for Jennifer and her brother, and for my other classmates
who had lost their fathers.

It wasn't until we went back to school the following week that I learned who "Jack" was and found out that Mr. Drake was just fine. I still felt sorry for the President's children and my classmates who had lost their daddies. It turned out to be only the beginning of many children's daddies dying -- Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy, Medgar Evers, Dwight Eisenhower, Harry Truman, all those Vietnam soldiers, those black men who were burned and tortured down south, and many more.

As bad as things may seem to you now, I remember thinking it was normal to get out of school because someone had died. I remember images on television of helicopters and men on stretchers, of dead bodies hanging in trees, or chained to trees, charred and tortured. I remember watching the evening news as police dogs attacked men and women and police hosed down crowds of blacks who were only trying to assert their rights. I remember college students protesting, being shot by fellow students in the National Guard at Kent State. I remember young men having to go to Vietnam when they weren't yet allowed to vote.

This was all normal to me, this was my childhood. My personal confusion wasn’t unusual in light of the country’s collective confusion.

What I figured out was freedom had a high price, a dear cost, and to ensure freedom one had to pay that price. I fly my flag proudly and speak my mind freely with respect and deference to all those children's daddies who gave their lives so that I retained that right. Some of
them gave their lives inadvertently, some with full knowledge. Kind of like the folks in the Trade Center towers, and over Pennsylvania.

Remember their children.

Are You Dumb?

Are You Dumb?

NaNoWriMo Update

30,227! WOOHOO! I'm just amazed that I've gotten this far.
NaNo-ers Rock On!!!

What Mood Are YOU In? How Much Is My Blog Worth?

Your Mood Ring is Light Purple

Clever Witty Sharp

Mood Ring Generator

I was feeling much sharper, wittier and more clever before I took this test...

My blog is worth $3,951.78.
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27,582 Words, But Who's Counting?

I didn't get the feedback I wished for on my daily postings, so I decided to chuck it and stop posting my daily writing for NaNo. It's coming along well. Even with the lost days in the hospital and right after that, I've caught up and am on track, even a skinch ahead today.

I'm finding NaNo to be a far more lonely experience than I'd anticipated. Some writers live where there are NaNo parties, and others have support groups. Heck, I can't even find statistics for West Virginia writers on the NaNo site!

I finished my 2005 Bad Holiday Letter and subbed it tonight -- subbed it the other day to another publication. It's met with a lot of acceptance on Zoetrope, so I hope it'll be accepted. I could use the moolah.

The novel is still going full-swing. Lydia's party is rocking, Lucy's doing her job turning the church ladies against one another. Lila's passed out upstairs, the teenagers are out back getting stoned, and confusion reigns! Carey's the only one having a peaceful evening; he's in his den smoking his pipe and sipping on whiskey. What will happen next? Only the muse knows completely. She's let me in on some of it but I'm still waiting for all the details.

I'll let you know what she comes up with. ~~GHC

Gorilla Warfare

Here's a little ditty to tide my readers over until I can get back ontrack with "The Party Line" and NaNoWriMo. It's called "Gorilla Warfare" and was first published in USA Deep South. (There should be a link on the lower right to USA Deep South, where you can read the edited version).

Gorilla Warfare

Today I found a moldy banana in the cat chow container. My children declare they know nothing about it. Apparently some escaped gorilla is hiding in my home hoarding food in my plastic containers, waiting to take over the world -- or at least my little corner of it.

Today’s banana discovery is as bewildering as the chicken bones under the sofa cushion were last year. Then, I assumed wolves were planning to take over. Now my home is under attack by primates. That would explain the tangle of clothing drooping out of bureau drawers and creeping across the floors in my children's rooms. Wicked apes are donning my teens’ clothing, attempting to fit in with the general population. This could also explain the phenomenon of "sagging" that is so popular today, where young men wear the largest possible jeans as low on their hips as possible without them falling off.

I used to think sagging began as a gang joke. An unsuitable recruit begged to join. The gang put their heads together and said, "Okay, Julio, if you wear Fat Manuel's jeans for one week with no belt and don’t use your hands, and they don't fall off -- well, you're in." Julio wanted so badly to fit that he ignored the jeers and taunts from others in the ‘hood. He shuffled through with Fat Manuel's size fitty-fo' jeans on his narrow size t'irty-two hips for a week and won his prized bandana.

Now I realize ill-fitting garments are the result of animals in our midst wearing clothes, trying to blend in. How else did that rotten banana get into my cat chow container? If you still have doubts, talk to a middle school teacher. Children never lie to their parents, but those gorillas, well, you just can't tell.

Remains of the Fall

While in the hospital, I wrote two poems, an editorial, and a political rant, as well as working on my book. Here is one of the poems. ~~ GHC

This one was inspired by the bitter gusts of wind on Thursday and the many tattered and peeling birch trees that dot CAMC's front circle -- a place of contemplation and congregation by nicotine addicts. ~~ GHC

Remains of the Fall

A stand of birches leans
Waving in the wind
Its tan tatters
Waving in the wind
Birch bark peeling
Waving in the wind
Shreds shivering
Waving in the wind
Remains of the Fall
Waving in the wind
Welcoming Winter

What I Wrote In The Hospital

I won't post the very last bit that I wrote in the hospital because I don't want to give away the actual one-two punch ending. I wrote the raw ending of the entire story (I promise, I'll get back around to picking up at the party. There's lots more fun in store there).

This section takes place the day following Lydia's party. Without further ado, here it is:

* * *
The Party Line Hospital Section

The musty scent of walnut husks hung in the crisp morning air as Carey walked Timmy.

“You’re mighty perky this morning, old Tim.” The gray-muzzled ___breed___ trotted from one leaf pile to the next, sniffing and pawing, his stubby tail beating (keeping?) time with his heart. The deeper into a stack Timmy nosed, the faster his little tail wagged. Dogs are such simple, pleasant creatures, Carey mused. Not a day goes by that Tim’s not at the door waiting for me with a wag and a happy handshake. He guided the __breed__ toward home.

Once inside the Glunger’s sunny kitchen, Carey wiped Timmy’s muddy paws with a rag. He heard Lila unevenly shuffling around in the upstairs hallway.

“Do you need help getting down the stairs, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Carey, please. I feel a little woozy this morning.”

Carey reached the top of the stairs just as Lila tottered into the bathroom. She slammed the door and moments later, flushed the toilet four times in rapid succession. Lila hollered through the door, “Carey, I need to breath my teeth and I’ll be right out. Just you wait until you hear the crazy dream I had last night!”
* * *
When Lila stepped out of the bathroom, she stopped in a puddle of pure sunshine in the upstairs hallway. Her chestnut hair blazed in the light streaming through the big bay window.

“When was the last time you wore your hair down, Lila? I’d almost forgotten how it shimmers like burnished copper in the sunlight.”

Lila beamed.

“Why, Carey Glunger, when was the last time you spoke such blarney?”

Carey tilted his head and grinned like a mischievous boy. Arm in arm the couple made their way down the stairs. Carey felt more protection of Lila than he had since Lydia was tiny. Lila was amazed at the effect her hair held after all these years of marriage.

“Why don’t you sit down, Lila, and I’ll fix us both some tea?” Carey suggested, guiding his unsteady wife to the breakfast table.

“Tea sounds good; I don’t feel like eating this morning.” Lila sat and traced the ruffled paprika border of her placemat with her finger while Carey filled the teapot with water and turned up the heat on the stove.

“Carey, I feel ashamed that I missed Lydia’s party.” Tears fell onto the placemat, leaving deep orange circlets where each landed.

Carey set the kettle on the burner. Sitting down, he slid around the bench until his hip met hers.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, wife of mine. We’re going to have some tea and then you’re going to regale me with the details of that wild dream of yours.”

Lila leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“You’re something else; did you know that?”

“Yes, and the world remains unsure what else it is that I am; did you know that?” He laid his hand over Lila’s and stroked her left ring finger until he reached her wedding band. He was relieved that Lila initiated their familiar ritual. Carey knew he’d been forgiven for “the situation.”

The kettle whistled. Carey slid out of the booth and sang while he filled their cups. “Tea for you time, then me for you time.”

Lila giggled. “Hand me my tea and let me tell you this dream before I forget it.

“It all started with me lying in bed. I was asleep and a noise outside my window woke me up. I stepped into my slippers and slipped my robe on and I noticed you weren’t in bed. In my dream I wondered why you weren’t there, and I felt confused.

“I opened the shutters and peeked outside. It was nighttime, and I saw dozens of cars leaving the house. They were going down the driveway and down the street. As far as I could see there was a red line of taillights that twinkled until it disappeared over the horizon.

“There was a commotion in the front yard and I looked away from the cars. When I looked down to see what the noise was I could just make out what looked like two women in long party dresses, rolling around, wrestling each other. They were pulling each other’s hair and screaming. It was terrible!

“I ran back to the bedside stand and put my glasses on to try and see who they were. I could just make out Dottie Jennings’ face, and then I realized the bony woman in the fight was Sylvia Landry! Their beautiful dresses were ripped and soiled, and they were rolling around down there in the ivy bed like two angry little boys.

“I was shocked at their conduct and I called out, ‘Ladies, please! What are you two fighting about?’ and Sylvia raised her head – her hair was a terrible mess – and she blubbered, “Dotty’s been spreading terrible rumors about me!’”

“What happened next, sweetie?” Carey stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea.

“I leaned out the window and told her, ‘Good; it serves you both right,’ and I slammed the window shut and closed the shutters, and then I woke up.”

THE END

Epilogue

Fifi barked as the letter carrier let the brass mailbox door clank shut.

“Shush, Momma’s darling girl Fifi,” Sylvia crooned as she limped to the door to collect the day’s mail.

Fifi continued barking fervently. If she could just escape from her grotesque body, the wooden wagon and Sylvia, she’d exact a severe punishment on the invisible beast who left his droppings on Fifi’s property six days a week.

On her way back to the chair, Sylvia stopped to inspect her battered face in the foyer mirror. Her split lip had an ugly black line where it had begun to heal. Her left eye was still swollen closed and surrounded with bruising despite the comfrey compresses and ice pack she’d applied all day Sunday. She’d missed church – heck, she could barely drag herself to the bathroom in time. A random thought crossed her mind and she wondered if Marvin would have to build a wagon to transport her to the bathroom.
(Sorry to have to leave you hanging...Thanks for reading. ~~ GHC)

Nov. 8 & 9th -- Where Are The Posts??

In case you've been following along (and from my visitor report, it doesn't appear that anyone has been), you may have noticed there were no posts for Wednesday and Thurday. Good excuse. I was in the hospital on the neurological floor at our local medical center. I had a series of TIAs (mini-strokes) early Wednesday morning and got rushed to the emergency room and subsequently admitted. During the past two days I've had a CT of the brain, an MRI of the brain (with diffusion, whatever the hell that means), an EKG, an echocardiogram (maybe this is the one with diffusion, I lost track), a doppler vascular study of my carotid arteries, oodles of bloodwork, potassium supplements in my IVs because my potassium was low (again). The good news is my blood sugars and blood pressures were great!

I have some little residual effects. I stick the wrong word in my writing every so often (so indulge me if I make a gaff) and my speech is much more hesitant and bizarre than usual (pity my family). I lose my balance here and there but overall, I'm just as good as ever.

I scribbled some things in my legal pad while in the hospital which need transcribing. Here is a poem I wrote. Enjoy, or ignore. ~~ GHC

Life Flight Helicopter Landing at CAMC 1:50 p.m. 10 November 2005

The foreboding roar approaches;
I was outside smoking
When the warning blared:
"Level Three Trauma ETA two minutes."

Long blades beat as the
Pilot maneuvers to set down.
I watch as autumn leaves
Scurry away.
They whisper, "Hurry! Hurry!"
A weeping willow
Twists in anguish: "Save him! Save him!"

All's quiet for a minute
I envision the nurses' waiting hands
As they take the stretcher
From the copter
Cradle it in their arms
And race downstairs to E.R.
As relatives race down I-79
Urging, "Hurry! Hurry!
"Save him...Save him!"

Nov. 7

Here you go. Enjoy! ~ GHC

* * *
Just as soon as Terri finished powdering her nose, she searched for Mrs. Glunger to offer last minute help with the party arrangements and realized immediately that Lila was so heavily intoxicated that when she walked, she resembled a rubber-legged cue ball with lacquered red hair. Lila’s lipstick had melted – possibly from the 100 proof Smirnoff she’d been sucking on all day – and had made acquaintance not only with the region directly beneath her lower lip but had become quite friendly with her chin as well. Terri was shocked to see that Mrs. Glunger’s entire lower face was Coty Passion Rose Red.

As soon as Lila spoke – some indistinguishable jumble of endearments – Terri took control of the situation. In order to save Lila the embarrassment of having her guests see her in such a compromised condition, Terri steered Lila back into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Glunger, you’re looking a bit flushed. Have you made all this food by yourself?”

Lila muttered something and swung around. Spying her half-empty glass on the countertop, she leaned forward and lost her balance. She promptly smeared her lipstick further when her face met the kitchen tiles. With that uncanny ability that drunks sometimes have of coming out of what seems like certain death or injury completely unscathed, Mrs. Glunger sat up and shook her head.

“I must have lost my balance, Terri. I’m feeling a little woozy.”

This was Terri’s break. “I think you’d better lay down for just a bit, Mrs. Glunger, until you feel better. Linda Jean and I will take good care of everything. We’ll check on you in just a bit and make sure you’re okay. Let me help you to your room.”

With this Terri firmly led Lila up the back staircase and down the hallway. She flipped on the overhead light and helped Lila off with her shoe – she’d lost the other on the way up. Terri settled Lila on her side in bed, thoughtfully facing her to the outside, and placed the wastebasket within easy reach just in case Mrs. Glunger got a case of the urps. No need in having her wander around by herself in her condition, Terri thought. She pulled the covers up and gave Lila an affectionate pat on the hand. As she turned off the light, she made sure to hold the latch in by twisting the knob as she closed the door. Lila was already fast asleep or passed out -- whichever way you wanted to put it – and Terri didn’t want to get her stirred up again.

In the meantime, Linda Jean was greeting guests as they arrived. Mr. Jennings dropped Mrs. Jennings off at the door and returned home, thankful for a few hours without his wife’s helpful reminders of honey-do’s. He planned to go out to the fridge in the garage and dig out those two beers he’d been hiding since his last fishing trip. He’d been waiting for a couple of hours with Dorothy gone where he could sit back and pretend to be a man. Dorothy handed her massive wrap to Linda Jean and placed the gift she’d brought on the table in the front room.

“Why, Lila’s outdone herself. The Japanese lanterns outside and the crepe paper streamers – everything is just lovely!”

“Thank you. I’m sure Lila would be pleased to hear you say that,” Linda responded. “Why don’t you go on into the dining area and help yourself to the hors d'oeuvres? Lila made those herself, too.”

Dorothy lowered her double chin and glanced around the room as if she was looking for the source of a particularly foul odor. “Where are Lydia and Lila? You’d think they’d be at the door to greet their guests.”

Linda Jean allowed Dorothy’s wrap to drop onto the floor.

“Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Jennings.”

Mrs. Jennings lunged for the ancient fur piece. “Please be careful with that, Linda Jean. It belonged to my mother.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s delicate. You can’t be too careful with something as old as that,” Linda Jean purred.

Dorothy made a noise that sounded like a cross between a cough and a choke. Her head whipped around as she looked at Linda Jean. She continued to eye the young woman while her mind scrambled to determine if the comment had been intended as a direct insult.

“Please be careful with it.”

“I will, Mrs. Jennings. I’ll treat it like it was my own.” If it belonged to me, I’d burn the mangy, moth-eaten piece of crap.

Dorothy moved on to inspect the buffet. She was delighted to be the first guest to see the spread laid out. It was always her goal to be the first guest to arrive at these parties. Now she’d be able to make snide remarks about how poor Lila’s display skills were, or how few pigs-in-a-blanket there had actually been to begin with, or how little punch and “No wonder they ran out so soon.”

Silvia Landry was the next church lady to be dropped off at the door by a husband who was thrilled to have an evening free. Mr. Landry actually peeled rubber as he started down the Glunger’s long circular driveway. Silvia was one of those eternally trim women who often sighed in mock despair and complained that she just couldn’t keep weight on. The truth of it was that she rarely ate more than a mouthful of anything, she drank like a fish, and existed by and large on Pell Mell non-filtered cigarettes, bridge, and gossip. The only love of her life had been a repugnant pied French bulldog named Fifi. While bulldogs as a breed are a matter of personal preference, what made Fifi so repulsive was her corpulence. She weighed over 45 pounds when the normal weight of a French bulldog was 22 to 28 pounds. Instead of loose flaps, Fifi’s skin wrapped so tightly around her body that she resembled not so much a fat dog as a medicine ball filled to capacity and in danger of bursting at any time. Fifi was a playful puppy but her stubby legs were soon overwhelmed by her massive weight, and she was unable to walk by the time she was two years old.

Sylvia had Mr. Landry make a little wagon in his woodshop so she could take Fifi outside to relieve herself. This was an intricate procedure in place whereby as soon as Fifi whined to go outside, Sylvia donned a pair of oversized black rubber chemist’s gloves – which made look like an anorexic mad scientist of sorts. She wheeled the wagon outside into the yard. Then she shoved Fifi to the rear of the wagon so the dog’s hindquarters hung over the side, and waited for the dog to finish. When Fifi seemed ready to go inside, Sylvia actually wiped the dog’s nether region with Scott toilet paper and left the whole mess in place as “compost.” Mr. Landry had long since learned to search out pockets of white paper wadded compost before he mowed the lawn after one unfortunate incident which is best left to the imagination.

Linda Jean smirked when she greeted Sylvia at the door.

“Looks like your hubby’s got someplace to get to in a hurry, Mrs. Landry.”

Sylvia’s face darkened. “That’s mighty presumptuous of you, young lady. Where are Mrs. Glunger and Lydia?”

“Lydia had to run to Big Star to get some last minute things and Mrs. Glunger had a little accident. She’s resting right now. I imagine she’ll be down later. Allow me to take your sweater so you can go on into the dining area and get something to eat. You look famished.”

Sylvia’s mouth gaped open at Linda’s candid observation. “Your mother would be ashamed if she knew the things you do,” she hissed under her breath. Sylvia set Lydia’s gift on the large table and turned to walk away.

“Well, your mother would be ashamed if she knew the things you do,” Linda Jean retorted. Sylvia tossed her head and walked through the hall toward the dining room.

Terri joined her friend at the front door. “I heard what you two were saying. Good for you, LJ. That woman is atrocious. Lila’s passed out dead asleep. I think she’s already had her party.”

“It’s a damned shame too, after she’s been sober all these years. These biddies need taking down a notch or two.”

“Here comes Mr. Glunger now. I’m glad he’s back.”

“Me, too. For awhile, I thought all three of the Glungers had checked out on us and we were going to be left to fend for ourselves.” Linda lit a cigarette and offered one to Terri.

“No, thanks. You know I can’t smoke in front of these witches. My parents would have a fit if they knew. Wouldn’t that be a sight with all these nasty women snooping into everything – not just the medicine cabinet and refrigerator, but the dresser drawers and closets too!”

“Yes, they’d make the Glungers out to be Mr. And Mrs. Capone, with a machine gun in every closet and a slot machine in the basement.”

Terri invited Diana Scherr and Nancy Marx inside. They had carpooled to Lydia’s party in Nancy’s dull orange Ford Pinto. Although the Pinto was a sorry excuse for an automobile, at a time when few women drove and fewer still owned their own vehicles, Nancy’s wheels bestowed a rare autonomy and unique standing among her peers that was unusual at the time.

While Claudia Jennings and Sylvia Landry were part of the old guard, Diana and Nancy were the young Turks of the phone tree. While they appreciated the efficiency of the party line, they realized it was doomed to obsolescence and favored a more modern form of female terrorism, the lunch club. A core group of members would invite an unsuspecting woman to join their esteemed group for lunch. The new woman, thrilled to be selected by the “in-crowd” and eager to please, would end up divulging her family’s innermost secrets over a three-martini ladies luncheon. The lunch club devoured women at the rate of approximately one a month, and rarely retained one of the ladies as a permanent member.

Diana handed her offering to Terri and leaned in to give her a weak hug.

“How is married life treating you, dear?” She pointedly scrutinized Terri’s abdomen. “Are you two planning to start a family soon?” She smiled, just broad enough to seem genuine but not so wide that it made her eyes crinkle. God forbid Diana should get wrinkles. No smile was worth that price.

“Just fine, Mrs. Scherr. I’ll put your present on the gift table. Please see yourself into the dining room and help yourself to the hors d'oeuvres.” Terri returned the subdued smile and excused herself.

“I’ll be right back, LJ.”

Nancy strode to the gift table and poked around at the other presents before adding her own to the stack. She lifted the large box and checked its weight, then set it down. She picked Linda’s gift up and shook it. Without embarrassment, she opened each unsealed gift card and read its message before ambling to the dining room.

Linda whistled. She’s a real piece of work, that one.

Soon the guests came through the door in waves. Linda faithfully accepted their gifts and sent them to congregate in the dining room. Thirty minutes after the party was due to begin, the dining room was overflowing with Christian ladies of every shape and size. They hovered over warming plates of crispy fried peg-legs and tooth-pick-skewered pigs-in-a-blanket like jackals preparing for a kill. They munched on crudete’ dipped in French onion dip, and sipped sherbet punch out of Lila’s best leaded crystal punch glasses as they sized one another up.

Lila had proudly set out the fine linen napkins that her own grandmother had woven from flax spun, stretched, boiled and bleached before being woven into the incredible fine-textured cloth – all while she cared for her fourteen children and kept her Victorian household in order. Party guests daintily dabbed the corners of theri painted mouth with one of these napkins, not caring if the crimson or fuschia stain could be removed. All across the room critical remarks could be heard. Where was the hostess? Where was the guest of honor? Where was the host, for God’s sake? Isn’t it sickening that Lydia married a nigger? I can’t believe Carey and Lila had the nerve to give her a bridal shower.

* * *

Carey parked behind Eric’s Cadillac and together, he and Lucy dashed up the back steps unseen by the guests in the dining room or those arriving by the front entrance. Mr. Glunger caught Terri’s attention and asked how things were going.

“Well, we’ve been basically sending the guests to the dining room to fend for themselves. Mrs. Glunger fell in the kitchen and I put her to bed. I imagine she’s out for the night, sir, and Lydia and Eric aren’t back yet.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. The troops have arrived. You just go out there and get something to eat. Don’t let those old piranhas gobble you up. Bite ‘em back if you have to.” Carey squeezed Terri’s shoulder.

He strode to the front door and joined Linda Jean.

“I hear you’ve been holding down the fort. Back-up has arrived, young lady. Get yourself something to eat and enjoy yourself. You’ve done a great job.”

Linda Jean grinned. “You couldn’t have paid me not to do it, Mr. G. It was great.”

The chatter of feminine voices in the dining room ceased as Lucy Brown strode in the door.

* * *

Lucy Brown was a distant descendant of the Neurs, a group of cattle keeping tribes located on the western side of the Nile in the Sudan. These tribes were known for their exquisite physiques and great stature – the women were often more than six feet tall, while the men topped seven. She was statuesque, nearly six feet tall, and required even more real estate due to her girth. Her teeth were even and straight. They were strikingly brilliant when contrasted against her ebony skin. True to her genes, Lucy had a distinct underbite that lent an air of menace whenever she set her jaw in disdain.

Lucy’s jaw was set as she stared down these fine Christian women.

She placed her hands on her hips. “Um, um, would you take a look at this?” she said to no one in particular. Lucy clucked her tongue and moved toward the peg legs.

“Excuse me, lady. Thank you.” She elbowed her way in behind the table and began to re-arrange the food. Dorothy Jennings reached for the tongs. Lucy snatched them before Dorothy could pick them up.

“Oh, lady, you don’t want these tongs. That scrawny woman over there sneezed on ‘em right before you got here. Hard tellin’ what kind of disease she’s got, if you know what I mean. Might have consumption or something, wormy as she is.”

Dorothy glanced in horror at Sylvia Landry. Sylvia sneezed into her handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. Dorothy snuck a quick look at Lucy’s face before sidling away from the hot food area. Lucy chuckled to herself. She was pretty sure she saw the fat woman shudder.

* * *

Lydia parked the Impala in the back garage. Eric carried the small bag into the kitchen and Lucy set the sherbet in the freezer.

“Come on, buddy. It’s show time.”

Lucy led Eric into the dining room. It had been surprisingly quiet for such a large gaggle of women before they entered. When Lydia called out, “Hello, ladies, and thank you for coming to my party,” the only sound heard for a full five seconds was the burbling of the punch fountain and the fork that fell off Mrs. Landry’s plate when she turned around and saw Eric. Eric thought his heart would surely burst through the front of his white shirt and roll across the floor. He wondered if his body would remain standing or slump over right away. Linda Jean put both her hands over her mouth, afraid she would laugh out loud and spoil the moment. Terri wondered if the Glunger’s family history of mental illness had peaked to a final mad fruition in this one generation. Lucy Brown stood behind the peg leg tray, tongs raised defiantly as if daring anyone to say a negative word. The whole caucus of women jumped in one startled movement as Carey pounded out the first chord of the Happy Birthday Song on the family piano.

Only Eric, Lucy, Carey and Lydia’s friends sang the first two lines. A few stunned ladies here and there weakly joined in, and by “Happy birthday to you,” only a dozen voices were heard.

Carey mugged “And many more” like Al Jolson, to Lydia’s delight. She applauded her father’s playing and curtsied to show her appreciation.

Carey turned his attention to the room. “Ladies, it’s rare to see this large of a turnout of such fine, upstanding citizens unless there’s free food available in abundance – oh wait, there is!”

The comment was reacted to with a few nervous titters and giggles.

Carey then bumbled over to the punch bowl. “I wonder who paid for all this grub? Oh wait, it’s me!” and he turned his pants pockets inside out and feigned a horrified face.

He was rewarded with a few more giggles and some chuckles this time.

“I’d like to welcome you to my home. I’m sure you all know how to act. No biting, clawing or scratching. Without further ado, I’m escaping to my den. Good evening, ladies.”

Lydia led the group in a round of applause.

“Thank you, Daddy, for this wonderful party.”

Carey walked to his daughter’s side, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back, girl. If you need me, you know where to find me.” He turned to Eric and extended his hand. “Good to see you, Eric. I’m charging you with staying by my daughter’s side until I return. You capice?”

Eric beamed. “I’m beginning to understand, Mr. Glunger. I’ll take good care of her.”

Lucy arrived with a tray of drinks. “Would you like a cup of punch, sir?” She grinned at Carey.

“Not unless it contains two ounces of good Irish whiskey.” Carey saluted Lucy. “

You’re in charge, my friend,” and he slipped away.

* * *
Lydia announced that everyone should make their way to the main room where there was more comfortable seating. The gift table took up nearly one wall of the room. All the gifts from the church ladies were wrapped in white or silver paper. Many of their presents were festooned with wedding bells, or white doves, or nested hearts. All of the gifts from Lydia’s friends were wrapped in colorful paper and ribbon.

The presents were severely segregated along the lines of color, with all the white and silver presents on one end of the table and the colored gifts on the opposite end.

Lucy circulated from room to room, first with a tray of drinks, next with a platter of snacks. She listened keenly to the ladies’ conversations noting who said what about whom. When she offered Mrs. Jennings a cup of punch she commented, “So you’re Mrs. Jennings!” Lucy chuckled as she walked away. Dorothy Jennings was so shocked she could only stand and stare with her generous jowls dropped.

Linda Jean decided the party needed some music and put some records on the stereo. Terri slipped upstairs from time to time to check on Lila, who was still unconscious. The tension in the house was making Terri nervous, and she decided to excuse herself and sit outside on the patio. At last she was able to smoke a cigarette in peace without fear of the news getting back to her parents, who were on a two-week vacation in Acapulco that Terri’s father won in a raffle down at the Moose club.

* * *

Lucy offered Mrs. Landry a clean ashtray. As she began to move away, Sylvia heard the maid mutter under her breath, “That big woman sure was right. This one looks like she has tuberculosis. Coughs just like it, too.” Mrs. Landry sputtered and took a deep long drag on her Pell Mell which triggered a choking fit that attracted an unusual amount of attention from the other ladies. One or two moved away from where Sylvia was standing and another lady covered her nose and mouth with a hand-embroidered handkerchief. Sylvia could only keep coughing and pray she didn’t bring up phlegm this time.

The birthday girl’s personally invited guests were outnumbered by the party line guests. The young people stood in clusters whose numbers ebbed and flowed as the young men and women moved from group to group, laughing and talking about their lives. LJ, Lydia and Eric made their rounds, giggling over the oddity of standing in the midst of all these cackling old ladies outside the church’s dark, oppressive gothic walls. Lydia was kissed and wished a happy birthday so many times that her powdered blush had worn away but she didn’t care. She gave Eric a good squeeze every now and then, and he kissed the top of her head or hugged her back.

On the other hand the church women were breaking into smaller clumps and eyeing each other suspiciously. Confusion reigned. If you were to walk past the church ladies, you might catch snatches of conversation:

“Are the Careys so cheap that they combined the girl’s birthday and wedding reception?”

“Is this is wedding reception or a bridal shower or a birthday party?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.”

“Someone said Dorothy Jennings ate over forty peg-legs!”

“Where the hell is Lila?”

“I heard she had a fall. I think she’s just embarrassed to show her face.”

“Did you hear that Sylvia Landry got tuberculosis from her dog?”
* * *

Each of the older women had received a snow white party invitation embellished with embossed silver hearts personally addressed and mailed by Mr. Glunger’s secretary which read:

You are cordially invited
To a reception held for
Lydia Elaine
Given by her parents
Carey Allen and Lila Reece Glunger
To be held
Seven O’Clock P.M.
Saturday September 28th
At the Carey Allen Glunger Home

Diane Scherr turned to Nancy Marx and hissed, “Did you bring your invitation? Doesn’t it say this is a bridal shower? I’m sure it says this is to be a bridal shower. I brought the little slut a damned toaster oven!”

Nancy dug in her petite woven basket purse. “Here it is. Well, no, it doesn’t come right out and say it’s a bridal shower. I just assumed because it’s white and it has silver hearts… Hell, I bought her a blender!”

Lucy shoved a platter of sweets between the two women. “Would y’all like something sweet?” When both declined, Lucy moved on but murmured, Y’all look like you could use a drink!”
* * *

Aunt Henny's Hints for Saving Time During NaNoWriMo

Here are some truly helpful hints on saving time for writing during NaNoWriMo from my alterego, Aunt Henny:

1. Don't bother feeding the family. They can probably survive for at least two weeks on their accumulated body fat. If not, they'll figure out a solution to the dilemma.

2. Don't bathe. With the raving and ranting you'll be doing anyway trying to work out that nasty plot quirk, no one will dare come close enough to notice your poor hygiene.

3. Don't change your clothes. (See #2).

4. Drink caffeinated beverages. This will serve to give you that little "zing" that should carry you through those last niggling 350 words each night.

5. Don't take your medication. This should inspire your muse to invite her friends, the troll, the faerie, the wood nymph, a huge black hairy spider that crawls around just out of the corner of your eye, the big purple monster that lives under the bed, and other colorful creatures who may serve to keep you company and/or inspire new ideas.

If you need more hints, please check with me. I'm sure I can come up with additional helpful ideas. ~~ Aunt Henny

Nov 6

Oh lord, I'm so far behind as far as keeping up with 1667 words per day! I mean, who's counting, but I should be at 10,002 today and I've only got 6,552. I did write my quota for today and I'm STILL two days behind. Oh well, I'll keep plugging and I've got time to catch up. I really want to acheive this goal.

Anyway, enough of my whining. Here's what I wrote today. Remember (the standard caution) this is totally rough, raw, and you'll need to go back to November 1st and read backwards in order to get the whole story if you're just joining me.
~~GHC

When she finished explaining her and her dad’s plan, Lydia leaned back against a lamp post and inhaled deeply, enjoying the harshness of joint’s smoke as it rushed through her windpipe and filled her lungs.

“My god, Lydia, you can’t be serious,” was Terri’s initial response.

Linda Jean chortled and blew smoke out through her nostrils.

“Oh my god, this is gonna beat anything I’ve ever seen! You’re a genius.” She choked with laughter as smoke poured out from her mouth then began coughing spasmodically. Lydia snorted through her nose at Linda’s discomfort. Terri, catching a little contact high and seeing the exquisite irony of the Glungers’ scheme, chuckled with amusement. Linda Jean stopped coughing but her eyes had watered, causing her mascara to run. “Damn it to hell, now I have to redo my makeup.”

Just then a brilliant red older model Cadilliac Fleetwood Eldorado convertible that had been kept in marvelous condition thundered up the driveway.

“Who’s driving that? Gosh, it’s gorgeous,” Terri oohed.

“Who do you know with a car like that, Lydia?”

“If I’m not mistaken,” Lydia grinned like an imp, “That would be Eric Brown riding up on his red horse to save me from the mean ole Christian ladies of Edgewood Hill.”

Terri laughed so hard she nearly fell off the picnic bench she leaned on. Linda Jean started coughing again and had to re-apply her mascara a third time. Lydia sashayed down the drive to meet Eric.

The driver of the Eldorado shut off its powerful 340-horsepower V-8 engine and stepped out to meet his hostess. He was remarkably tall, more than six-four, and credited with 240 pounds at his last high school football weigh-in. Every hair on his head was carefully picked into place and smoothed down with Afro-Sheen. It glistened in the patio lights and white paper party lanterns Mrs. Glunger had placed with such joy around the yard just the day before. Eric’s smooth brown skin blended into the evening’s darkness, but that just caused his brilliant white slacks and sweater to stand out that much more. He’d even worn matching white leather buck shoes and white socks, at Lydia’s request.

“Oh my God, you look marvelous, Eric!” Lydia threw her arms around him and gave him a huge hug. The big man kissed her on the cheek.

“You look especially lovely yourself, girl. Um, um, turn around and let me see what you’re hiding back there.”

Lydia giggled and spun around. “You like?”

“I like it just fine,” Eric purred. Both young people laughed. Terri and Linda Jean joined the couple.

[Greetings/blah blah Terri goes into the house to pee; Linda Jean goes into the house to get a drink and chat with Lila.]

“Do you have any questions? I know this is going to be weird for you, and I appreciate what you’re doing for me more than you’ll ever know.”

“You say your Daddy’s okay with all this, right? I don’t want to get shot and killed up here on this hill tonight.” Eric said with a smile but there was a seriousness about him that belied his amusement.

“Absolutely. Daddy and I cooked this whole thing up, and I told him about this part of it the very first day. He nearly fell off his chair laughing. He laughed so hard about it that some old lady jumped and spilt her tea all over her dress. He had to offer to pay for her dry cleaning bill.”

Eric laughed but he still had a mental image of Mr. Glunger developing a drunken case of amnesia and punching holes in Eric’s ’65 Eldorado with a .44 magnum – or worse still, punching holes in Eric himself.

Headlights blinded the couple as a car climbed the Glungers’ driveway. Lydia shaded her eyes and watched as more cars crept up Mathews Avenue. Several guests were arriving at once. It was time to notify Mama. She gave Eric a quick squeeze for reassurance.

“You just stay close to me. It’ll be dicey but it’s gonna be funnier than hell; just you wait and see.”

* * *
Lila was on her fifth vodka Collins by the time Eric Brown pulled into the driveway. Though she had half a gallon of vodka left, two bottles of club soda, a lemon and a half, and her supply of sugar was practically endless, she was about to run out of maraschino cherries. Only two shriveled runts remained at the bottom of the glass jar. Carey had gone down off the hill for some last minute errands and he still hadn’t come back. Lila didn’t know where he was or how to contact him and damn it, she needed more cherries. She stumbled out of the kitchen and stuck her head out of the back door and hollered for Lydia.

“Honey, Mommy needs you to run to the store and pick me up something real quick-like before the party starts.” Lila blinked as the headlights struck her line of sight.

“I was just coming in to let you know some guests were arriving, Mama. I’ll be happy to run to the store for you. Daddy’s not back yet, is he?”

“No, sweetheart. Hello, Eric. It’s very nice to see you again. How is your mother?”

“Oh, she’s doing very well, Mrs. Glunger. Thank you for asking.”

“Lydia, get some money from my purse and run to Big Star and pick up two bottles of maraschino cherries. Better get another half-gallon of sherbet while you’re at it. Seems like we always need another bowl of punch, don’t we?”

“Yes, Mama. Terri and Linda Jean can help you greet the guests while I’m gone. Hopefully Daddy will get back any time now. I’m gonna take Eric with me to keep me company.”

Before Lila could respond, Lydia grabbed Eric’s hand and dragged him off. She led him to the family garage on the backside of the hill. It was a convenience in cases like this. While the main driveway was occupied with visitors’ cars, the family still had access and egress via the back garage. Lydia and Eric climbed into her Impala and off they went to the Big Star to fetch Lila’s groceries. Lydia gunned the Chevy’s 327 engine and raced it down the gentle rolling curves of Edgewood Drive. She passed Carey a quarter mile down the hill. They tooted their horns at one another and Carey saluted as Lydia and Eric waved.

“Damn, Lydia, that looked like my mother with your dad.”

“It is. Don’t worry about it; you’ll see. This is gonna be fun – I promise.”

Eric wasn’t used to the hilly roads or Lydia’s familiarity, coupled with her aggressive driving, and his stomach felt queasy. He fumbled around for the seat belt.

“You won’t be offended if I put on the seat belt, will you?”

Lydia laughed. “No, you go on ahead. I’m not a bit offended, but we’ll be fine. I drive this road three or four times a day and twice at night.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she reassured him.

* * *
Carey had picked Lucy Brown up on time, but the errands the two of them had to run had taken longer than he’d expected, and he was late for the party. Lucy directed him to her girlfriend Jamaica Samson’s house so she could borrow a formal maid’s uniform. She’d chatted with Jamaica while she changed into the dove gray dress, buttoning the many closures on the double-breasted bodice as Jamaica fussed about what a foolhardy idea this whole scheme was. Lucy laughed at her friend’s reticence.

“Jamaica, I’m telling you, this’ll be rich. This is gonna be like taking candy from a baby. Don’t you worry about me none; I can handle those witches. They walk around all highfalutin and smile in your face. Then they get on their phones and spread those lies and poison around and hurt that little girl’s reputation. Then they think they can get away with it and come smile all up in the girl’s face! Why, they done drove Miz Lila back to drinking, and she’d been on the wagon for ten years! No, ma’am, it ain’t right. They’re gonna get a wake-up call tonight for sure!”

Lucy put on the frilly starched apron and tied it around her ample middle.

“Good thing you’re as fat as me or I wouldn’t be able to get this thing on.” The women shared a laugh. Jamaica cocked her head and pursed her lips as she looked Lucy over.

“You is about as wide as me. We don’t miss too many meals, does we?”

“Not me, and not you neither.”

Lucy finished dressing and pinned the stiff white cap to her hair. She stood in front of Jamaica’s mirror and examined her reflection.

“Lord have mercy, Jamaica. Lucy Brown’s a maid tonight. Look out, world.”

Lucy gathered her clothing and shoved it in a brown paper bag she’d brought along. With a huge smile on her face, she strutted back out to Mr. Glunger’s car.

Carey bounded out of the car and opened the passenger side door. He bowed and gracefully swept both hands towards the interior of the car in invitation, as if she was royalty.

“Lord have mercy, Lucy Brown. I’d never have believed it but you look for all the world like a formal maid. Boy, the party line’s in for a surprise tonight.”

“Yes, Mr. Carey, I believe they’re gonna reach a wrong number for sure.”

Carey and Lucy burst into laughter.

“I can hardly wait. Let’s get this party started.”
* * *
Come back tomorrow night for the next exciting installment! ;-)

Nov. 5

Only got about 567 words done for NaNoWriMo today but I wrote at least 3,000 in bulletin board posts on Zoe!

Again, the following will only make sense in context if you've been following the story since November 1st. And remember, it's RAW unedited writing. -- GHC

* * *

Linda Jean Wallace and Terri Strother were the first guests to arrive. Friends of Lydia’s since childhood, the three young women were closer than peas in a pod. Linda was an ornery girl who, like Lydia, refused to conform to social standards of the time and often shocked the ladies of the party line with both her conversations and her demeanor. Terri, on the other hand, was the epitome of conformity as far as the party line ladies were aware. It was a huge joke between the girls because Terri had been the first of the three to smoke a cigarette, have a sip of beer, and unbeknownst to the community at large was two months’ pregnant right now even though she’d only been married for two weeks. To be totally fair, the three girls had each done their share of drinking beer and wine, smoking pot, kissing boys and smoking cigarettes. It wouldn’t be polite to discuss their sex life but suffice it to say that there wasn’t a virgin to be found among them.

Terri brought a huge box wrapped in pink paper slathered in roses with a gigantic pink bow. Linda came with a shirt-sized box that was efficiently gift-wrapped at Glunger & Reece by Mrs. Effie Lawson in the gift wrapping department. Glunger & Reece conveniently offered free gift wrapping service for any purchase made in the store. Lydia greeted both girls with a squeal of delight when she saw the gifts.

“Wow, Terri, that’s huge! What did you do, pack your dirty laundry in a box for me to get rid of?”

“Heckfire, Lydia, you have enough dirty laundry of your own. I don’t think you could handle any more.”

“Good one! I see you made the supreme effort, Linda Jean. What did you do, remember right before you left home that you had to bring me a present?” Lydia teased.

“Caught me red-handed, Lydia. Actually I remembered and bought this a week ago but forgot it and had to go back home and get it.”

Lila chose this moment to stop nursing her vodka and Diet Pepsi in the kitchen and come into the main room to greet the guests.

“Mom, you don’t have to come out yet. It’s just Linda Jean and Terri. They’re early. Go back in the kitchen and relax.”

“Hello, Mrs. Glunger,” Terri said. “You look lovely in that dress.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Glunger beamed. “You look very pretty yourself. Why you’re practically glowing. Married life must agree with you.” Terri blushed appropriately.

“Good evening, Mrs. Glunger. You’ve done a bang-up job decorating the house and everything.”

“Thank you, Linda Jean. It was Mr. Glunger’s idea for the cotillion theme – all white and everything. I’m glad you like it.”

“Mom, we’re going to go out on the patio for some fresh air. I’ll let you know when everyone arrives.”

The girls retired to the backyard patio where Linda Jean proceeded to roll a joint without further ceremony. Terri declined because of the baby and all, but Lydia and Linda Jean indulged. Within minutes they were relaxed and giggly. Linda Jean regaled the others with tales of her escapades working at the Hemingway Law Firm, and Terri shared some foibles of marital life. With the marijuana-enhanced buzz, lost files and burnt coffee suddenly seemed hilarious and the three were in a fine mood when Lydia decided to let them in on the big secret.

Nov. 4

Again, this won't make much sense unless you've been following the November 1, 2, 3 posts. -- GHC

The rumor that the Glungers were holding a post-wedding shower for Lydia originated in Mr. Glunger’s own housewares department. A wormy spinster with a shrill voice by the name of Camille Carson was in close proximity as Lydia noted her preferences in the Bridal Registry. Camille’s life had lacked impact or importance since she’d drawn her first breath. She’d been a puny child but was never sufficiently ill enough that her parents fawned over her. The only notable aspect about Camille was her name, which her mother had chosen in a post-partum drug-induced haze. At the time Mrs. Carson instructed the hospital secretary to inscribe it on the birth certificate, the name had seemed terribly romantic. Within a month of sober reflection upon her lapse in judgment, her mother regretted naming Camille for the world’s most famous terminally ill courtesan. By then the child’s name had been entered in the court’s official records and the Carsons decided it would be more embarrassing to initiate a legal name change than to finesse the gaff. Later in life when the voice teacher handed Mrs. Carson back her five dollars and explained she couldn’t do a thing for Camille’s screeching articulation Mrs. Carson had made light of it, claiming “Well, one can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, can one?” That had pretty much been the story of Camille’s life.

So when Camille overheard Lydia and Carey in Housewares, she realized she’d picked up on the scoop of the year if not the decade. This is confirmation that Lydia did marry that boy, and I’m the first to know about it! Camille hurried down the stairs and dashed to the payphone on Mezzanine so she could call her girlfriend and share the news flash.

Within minutes, the phone tree was in full swing. While August had been a notable month, September was panning out to be exceptional in its own right. All across the Edgewood area women were clucking their tongues about what a scandal that Lydia was. Her poor mother! I don’t know how she holds her head up any more.
* * *
Lila Glunger closed her address book and ticked off the guest list. It would be a squeeze if everyone showed up but it was Lydia’s 18th birthday party and Carey wanted it to be special. Carey was usually so tight-fisted but this time he’d given Lila carte blanch – no doubt because of “the situation.” Carey had really bent over backwards for this party. He’d moved heaven and earth and had invitations rush-printed at the store. He’d even suggested a cotillion theme, all white balloons and streamers. Lila was caught up in the fun and since there was only two weeks before the party date and she had so much to arrange, she’d nearly forgotten about the ugliness of the week before.

Carey had even volunteered to have his secretary address and mail the invitations. All of Lila’s bridge club members, the ladies aide society, the church ladies, the country club women, and Lydia’s friends had been invited to celebrate with the Glungers. The menu was decided upon and the decorations purchased. Now all that was left to do was to sit back and wait for the party to begin.

Nov. 3

I'm a writer, but not a well-educated one. Sometimes I feel like a stranger in a strange land. I live my life as if I'm a small child full of bravado gained from wine residue stolen out of party glasses, and I'm standing stark naked in the middle of a group of grown-ups. I have their attention and I know I want to tell them something, but I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to say.

I came up with a fun idea for a story today at lunch. I'll try to post the raw version later. -- GHC

November 2nd Installment

To get anything out of this, you're going to have to backtrack and read the post from November 1st. Please realize this is raw, unedited, RAW writing... (cringe) -- GHC

Second day of NaNoWriMo:

Lydia and Dwayne Wiggins graduated in May. Dwayne went on to college, his tuition partially funded by money he saved selling Amway. Mr. Glunger convinced Lydia to stay at home and not waste his money going to college when she’d surely drop out in a year or two and get married. She moped around the house all through June as one by one her friends either married or prepared to go off to college. In July Carey presented Lydia with a peace offering -- her own car. It had belonged to Carey’s maiden aunt, Elizabeth Glunger, another in a long line of General Motors products purchased from the local George German Chevrolet dealership. Miss Elizabeth had purchased her Chevys from Mr. German for over thirty years and would continue to patronize his business as long as she lived.

Carey arranged the title transfer between Elizabeth and Lydia. Because Mr. Glunger believed entitlement or outright gifts weakened the character, Lydia would make a token $43 monthly payment to her great aunt before she owned the car outright. It was an electric blue 1969 Impala coupe, flashy enough for a seventeen year old and conservative enough to suit her father. The Impala had a respectable 327 engine and Lydia enjoyed its pick-up on the winding roads of her hillside community.
* * *
Two friends of Lydia, Delia and Arnold, got married the last Sunday in August. Arnold had recently bought a new Volkswagen bus to accommodate his rock band instruments. Arnold was particular about his personal appearance and the condition of his instruments, and he expressed concern about the wedding party marring the VW’s shiny new finish with shoe polish and shaving cream on the wedding day. It was customary to slather newlyweds’ cars with off-color messages made with shaving cream and white shoe polish. Lydia told Delia and Arnold they could conceal the van and use her car to drive away from the church, retrieve the VW and then take her back to her car. It sounded like a simple enough plan.

The wedding reception took much longer than usual, mostly due to Arnold’s pickiness. Someone in the wedding party basted his going away pants’ zipper as well as both pant legs. Furious, he demanded the pants be returned to their original condition before he and his bride snuck away for their honeymoon. This entailed someone finding an iron and re-pressing the slacks while Lydia and the rest of the wedding party waited around in the late August heat and humidity.

It took even more time for Lydia to escape the persistent wedding party who by this time were intent on seeking out the groom’s car so they could annoy him even further. She employed every trick she knew, crisscrossing from one end of town to the other, and eventually succeeded in losing their pursuers. It was one in the morning before she finally dropped her friends off at their own car.

The wedding preparations had begun before nine on Saturday. By the time Lydia arrived home, it was nearly two a.m. Sunday. Exhausted, she parked the Impala on the street in front of her parents’ house and went inside to bed.

The neighbor ladies woke up Sunday morning expecting nothing more exciting than a thick newspaper and possibly some juicy gossip later on in the ladies’ meeting at church. What a banner day it was! Parked in front of the Carey’s house was Lydia’s bright blue Impala, besmirched with “Sock It To Her,” “Congratulations,” and “She Got Him Today, He Gets Her Tonight.” Wilted crepe paper streamers hung from the car’s antenna and a shoe polish message on the back window declared “Just Married.” There were perhaps other conclusions that might’ve been made but the worst possible assumption was that Lydia had married the “black boy” who picked her up each week throughout the school year – despite the fact Dwayne hadn’t been around for more than more than three months.

Benefit of the doubt be damned, the Sabbath peace was broken and the phone tree put in motion. Whether it was standard black telephone or frivolous white Princess model, phones were jangling and every woman in the Edgewood Hill area was contacted with the scoop of the decade, except for poor Mrs. Carey. The scandalous, shocking news was whispered about over sausage and eggs at breakfast tables before Sunday school ever convened that late August morn.

Oblivious to the impending explosion, Lydia slept until early afternoon when Carey and Lila Glunger arrived home from church.
* * *
Lila Glunger had awakened that on that fateful Sunday morning in a good enough mood. Her husband had risen early to walk the dog and, seeing Lydia’s car still decorated from the festivities of the night before, waxed nostalgic. Carey had sought and won Lila’s rare intimate approval and the two of them had tangled the sheets while the rest of their peers sat on hard wooden chairs in Sunday school and studied the book of Timothy. After fixing Carey’s favorite breakfast of crisp bacon, fried eggs over easy, and biscuits with strawberry jam, Lila and Carey had flirted with one another as they enjoyed a rare meal alone together. Upstairs she hummed while she painted her face and on the way to church Carey whistled “If I Were A Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. The usual summer haze didn’t make its appearance until later in the day, so the cloudless blue sky added to the Glungers’ jovial mood.

Carey let Lila out in front of the church and parked the car. Stands of people were grouped outside, enjoying a last minute cigarette or conversation before the sermon commenced. At once Lila noticed the body language of the crowd seemed odd. As Carey sauntered to join her, her sense of unease increased. A chill traveled her spine and she glanced down at the front of her dress to be sure she hadn’t missed fastening a button. There was very little that could be more embarrassing than to blithely walk up to the entire congregation with one’s bodice exposed. No, her buttons were all in place. The sense that something was out of place remained with her although she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She glanced at Carey. His fly was zipped. Diana Scherr said something to Nancy Marx behind her hand. Nancy tittered and flipped her hair. Both women cut their eyes at Lila then turned away. Something was definitely wrong.

Before Lila could catch anyone’s attention to ask what was going on the final bells rang, signaling the service was about to begin. Carey extended his arm, Lila laid a gloved hand on his sleeve and together they entered the sanctuary through the rear doors and made their way to their usual pew.

CHAPTER TWO

(stuff – Lila finds out in the ladies room)

Once the full impact of the gossip struck Lila and the horror of it sank in, she fervently prayed to the Good Lord Almighty God that this horrible lie and terrible injustice be undone post-haste. She pleaded, reminding Him of her faithful tithing and church attendance. She humbly reminded Him of the many bandages she’d rolled for the lepers in Bangladesh, the dolls she’d made for orphans in Appalachia, and how she always baked cookies for the ladies aide society luncheons even when Claudia Jennings called her at the last minute. Despair set in and she realized God was unlikely to work a miracle of such magnitude for the Glungers. In truth Lila doubted such a miracle was possible.

Lila’s practical side kicked in and

Lila studied her reflection in the bevel-edged mirror in the ladies’ lounge. The war paint she’d so joyfully applied this morning had made her feel younger when she gazed at her likeness at home but now it made her feel dirty. She definitely was wearing too much makeup for a woman of her age and station. Lila used her handkerchief to scrub off the mascara and rouge. Once she’d removed the offending decoration, she powdered her face and re-applied her lipstick. It was time to paste a smile on and move forward. If nothing else, Lila Glunger had backbone. She allowed herself one tiny shiver of fear before stepping out of the relative safety of the lounge and facing the outside world.

Horrified, she grappled with the reality that the family’s standing in the community was forever lost and she sought to seat blame. Lila’s internal accuser flipped through a virtual Rolodex of blurry community faces until one face snapped crisply into focus – her husband’s. This entire fiasco was Carey’s fault. If he had driven Lydia to Junior Achievement in the first place none of this would have happened.

[expand on this]

Carey trudged to the parking lot to retrieve the car. Where just an hour before he’d felt on top of the world, now his chest felt heavy. He had a sinking feeling it would be a long time before Lila would permit such intimacies again --- if ever.

It’s a well-established fact that letting a wild horse out of its corral is easier than recapturing it. So it is with gossip, true or not. The not-so-well-meaning ladies who so eagerly spread the word of Lydia’s scandalous marriage were just as uninspired to douse the wildfire once it took hold. Within a week there were whispers of a possible pregnancy.

Despite the total and complete absence of Dwayne Wiggins’ presence at the Glunger house or any evidence suggesting that Lydia had moved or was preparing to move away from home, people continued to cling to the belief that what they’d heard over the back fence post was true.

Lila called and canceled her and Carey’s reservations at two of the local Labor Day soirees; she simply couldn’t bear going out in public under the current circumstances. Carey tried to joke with Lila about the situation.

“The whole thing will blow over in a week or two, sweetheart. No one with any sense can swallow this falderal, Lila. Lydia’s still going out on dates, for God’s sake!”

Carey Allen Glunger, don’t you patronize me. This is a serious situation. We’ll be blackballed for certain. All my hard work… the parties I’ve given, the work I’ve put in at church – why, I’ve worked my fingers to the bone bringing this family’s standing up to what it is. And you’ve ruined it, ruined it I say, all because you were too cheap to drive our daughter to her meetings. You’ve brought shame upon my head. I can never go out in public again. You caused this mess; you’d better clean it up!”

Carey was relegated to the guest bedroom until “the situation,” as Lila now referred to it, was corrected.

“I don’t care if you’re still sleeping there in your retirement.”

Mr. Glunger had no doubt Lila meant every word she said. The guest bedroom was a nice enough space, but he had no intention to be denied the charms he’d worked so hard to earn. He had to formulate a plan.

CHAPTER THREE

Lydia’s life remained essentially unaffected by the phone tree’s latest gossip. She found that shoe polish, once baked on a car’s finish by the brutal August sun, was nearly impossible to remove. Carey suggested that she try using rubbing compound. She followed his advice. The rubbing compound removed a good bit of the reflective layers where the shoe polish had been. As a result, if she leaned her head at a certain angle, she could still see dull blue telltale remnants of “Sock It To Her” on the Impala’s passenger side.

Lila had long ago turned Lydia’s raising over to Carey – both her daughter and husband were headstrong and neither cared a fig about social niceties. Carey wore a suit coat and tie only to please his wife, and Lydia rarely wore a dress. Lila’s self-imposed sequestering following “the situation” had had no impact on Lydia’s day-to-day life.

But Lydia felt sorry for her father. He was definitely suffering the effects of the party line problem. Lydia noticed the guest bed covers were rumpled in the morning when she got up and figured her mother had kicked her dad out of their room.

The Friday following Labor Day, Lydia decided to drive downtown and have lunch with her father to cheer him up. She parked in front of Glunger & Reece, stopping briefly to admire a pair of deep purple velvet trousers on the mannequin in the store’s front window before walking through the revolving doors. One of the vulture-ous clerks made a bee-line toward Lydia before recognizing her and falling back a step.

“Oh, hello, Miss Glunger.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Stockton.”

Lydia despised professional department store clerks. She perceived them as a vicious lot. She could recognize them anywhere. Every hair was plastered in place. Their makeup was always perfect, reminding her of a death mask. Their voices were sickeningly sweet, their conversation always fawning but pointed solely toward a sale. If they deemed a customer unworthy or unable to afford an item, the customer would often be snubbed. Sometimes Lydia disguised herself in patched jeans and a big floppy hat and roamed her father’s store just to see how long she’d be ignored by the clerks.

In those days elevators were hand-operated. The departments located on each floor were announced by an elevator attendant. Lydia enjoyed hearing the floors announced by Miz Lucy, a kind black woman who’d worked at Glunger & Reece since the store first opened. Lydia much preferred riding the elevator over the store’s escalator since the time she’d gotten her dress caught in it when was she five years old. Lydia hugged Miz Lucy.

“How are you today, ma’am?”

“I’m pretty good, Lydia. How is your mother?”

“She’s fine, Miz Lucy. How is Eric? I haven’t seen him graduation.”

“He’s doing real well, got a good job at Carbide. You going up to see your daddy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lydia let her mind drift to “the situation” and her father’s dilemma as Miz Lucy called out the floors: “Mezzanine – accessories, toiletries, fineries and housewares; 2nd – children’s, boys’ and girls’ shoes…” She began to formulate an idea.

Miz Lucy announced “Fifth floor, credit department.”

“See you later, Miz Lucy.”

“Bye now.”

Lydia brought the seed of the idea she had on the elevator to Carey.

“Daddy, since I’m supposed to be married, shouldn’t I have registered my preferences on the Bridal Registry? Where are all my presents? Why didn’t these fine upstanding Christian women see fit to send me wedding gifts if they really do believe I’m married?”

Carey guffawed so loud that it startled a blue-haired woman at the next table. She clattered her tea cup in its saucer, causing the tea to slosh down the front of her pale yellow two-piece faux Chanel suit.

“You’ve got something there, girl. Let’s put our heads together and see what we can come up with. We should be able to turn the tables on these old biddies, satisfy your Momma’s broken heart, get me back in my own bed, and get you some recompense to boot.”

The two chatted nonstop for over an hour, ignoring their roast beef sandwiches. After lunch, Carey escorted Lydia to the housewares department where she spent the remainder of the afternoon gleefully choosing and registering her preference of silver, cutlery, wine glasses, china pattern, casual dishes, cookware, linens, towels, and a set of American Tourister luggage. At Carey’s urging she registered for a toaster, blender, mixer, iron, warming tray, electric skillet, and a vacuum cleaner as well. Mr. Glunger made a call to stationery and placed an order for invitations. Immediately afterward he called Bream’s Florists and had a dozen pink roses delivered to Lila. He reminded her to follow through on her part of the plan.

“Well, my daughter, I think this scheme has a chance to set things right. What do you think?”

Lydia giggled. “Either that or totally ruin the family, Daddy.”

Carey took a deep breath.

“True.”

NaNoWriMo Begins - Nov. 1

Here's a snippet of what she's written today. I hope you enjoy it.

Tentatively Titled: How Lydia Glunger Ruined Her Daddy’s Reputation

Lydia Glunger was the mischievous, nonconformist child of prominent dry goods and sundry businessman Carey Allen Glunger. Both were products of the South and the sixties, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. The social network was so well-organized that if she were to huddle beneath Mrs. Landry’s willow tree and sneak a puff from a Kool filtered cigarette at three o’clock, every Christian woman in a two-mile radius knew Lydia had smoked by three-oh-five. Despite a generous helping of Dentyne by the time she walked in the kitchen door at three-fifteen, Lydia’s mother already of Lydia’s indiscretion.

The way news spread so efficiently in those days was by way of the phone tree. Mrs. Jennings called up Mrs. Wallace, who then called Mrs. Rectenwald who had three ladies on her party line. Those three ladies scurried to their respective back fences and spread the news to their closest neighbors who, in turn, dashed inside and phoned their friends and spread the news. Poor Lydia didn’t stand a chance. The phone tree was faster and more powerful than Dentyne.

The worst part of the phone tree was its propensity to embellish the crime. At the drop of a lacy handkerchief, a simple cigarette snuck under the willow tree could balloon into a pot party by the time the news made its way around the community. An innocent conversation between a boy and a girl behind the gym could get blown up into a passionate tryst. The old game of Gossip came by its name honestly.

Lydia’s parents trusted her, partly because she was forthcoming about her activities and partly because her father had pretty well beaten into her the importance of maintaining the family reputation (if not her own). In short, for the most part, she was a good girl despite the occasional filtered Kool.

A generally tolerant attitude about sex, cigarettes, beer, wine, and even pot prevailed, but white girls who associated with black boys were doomed to stand at the end of the reputation line. Lydia didn’t go out with black boys – none of them ever asked her – but every Monday evening Dwayne Wiggins drove his pale yellow Nova from the “darker” side of town up tree-lined, winding Mathews Avenue in order to take her to Junior Achievement meetings.

As far as her snoopy neighbors were concerned her association with Dwayne was scandalous. In order to torture them further, each week she dashed out the front door in patched Land Lubber hip hugger blue jeans, breasts gleefully bouncing beneath her skin-tight T-shirt, and hopped into Dwayne’s car. He’d rev the engine (at her request), often spinning his tires but always making a lot of noise, and off they’d go to JA.

Mr. Glunger tolerated this unusual arrangement mostly because he didn’t want to give up the use of the family car for three hours every Monday evening -- that and he knew nothing more went on between Dwayne and Lydia than the weekly carpooling. He was a practical man. Despite Mr. Glunger’s tolerance, the neighbor ladies clucked their tongues and gossip about Lydia abounded. Carey Glunger had developed a scornful disdain for the community’s crones and their gossip as a result of dealing with them in such close contact at his dry goods store through the years. He knew that most members of the fairer sex were kind and loving, but he held no fondness for the bitter spiteful hens who spent their days whispering behind their hands, stirring up trouble. He encouraged Lydia to shock that faction of old biddies at every opportunity. Some fathers bond with their daughters through dancing. Carey Glunger bonded with Lydia as a result of their mutual disdain for mean-spirited women.

Lydia paid little mind to their whispering. When she did respond, it was only to devise ways to raise their ire.
* * *
Lydia and Dwayne Wiggins graduated in May. Dwayne went on to college, his tuition partially funded by money he saved selling Amway. Mr. Glunger convinced Lydia to stay at home and not waste his money going to college when she’d surely drop out in a year or two and get married. She moped around the house all through June as one by one her friends either married or prepared to go off to college. In July Carey presented Lydia with a peace offering -- her own car. It had belonged to Carey’s maiden aunt, Elizabeth Glunger, another in a long line of General Motors products purchased from the local George German Chevrolet dealership. Miss Elizabeth had purchased her Chevys from Mr. German for over thirty years and would continue to patronize his business as long as she lived.

Carey arranged the title transfer between Elizabeth and Lydia. Because Mr. Glunger believed entitlement or outright gifts weakened the character, Lydia would make a token $43 monthly payment to her great aunt before she owned the car outright. It was an electric blue 1969 Impala coupe, flashy enough for a seventeen year old and conservative enough to suit her father. The Impala had a respectable 327 engine and Lydia enjoyed its pick-up on the winding roads of her hillside community.
* * *
Two friends of Lydia, Delia and Arnold, got married the last Sunday in August. Arnold had recently bought a new Volkswagen bus to accommodate his rock band instruments. Arnold was particular about his personal appearance and the condition of his instruments, and he expressed concern about the wedding party marring the VW’s shiny new finish with shoe polish and shaving cream on the wedding day. It was customary to slather newlyweds’ cars with off-color messages made with shaving cream and white shoe polish. Lydia told Delia and Arnold they could conceal the van and use her car to drive away from the church, retrieve the VW and then take her back to her car. It sounded like a simple enough plan.

The wedding reception took much longer than usual, mostly due to Arnold’s pickiness. Someone in the wedding party basted his going away pants’ zipper as well as both pant legs. Furious, he demanded the pants be returned to their original condition before he and his bride snuck away for their honeymoon. This entailed someone finding an iron and re-pressing the slacks while Lydia and the rest of the wedding party waited around in the late August heat and humidity.

It took even more time for Lydia to escape the persistent wedding party who by this time were intent on seeking out the groom’s car so they could annoy him even further. She employed every trick she knew, crisscrossing from one end of town to the other, and eventually succeeded in losing their pursuers. It was one in the morning before she finally dropped her friends off at their own car.

The wedding preparations had begun before nine on Saturday. By the time Lydia arrived home, it was nearly two a.m. Sunday. Exhausted, she parked the Impala on the street in front of her parents’ house and went inside to bed.

The neighbor ladies woke up Sunday morning expecting nothing more exciting than a thick newspaper and possibly some juicy gossip later on in the ladies’ meeting at church. What a banner day it was! Parked in front of the Carey’s house was Lydia’s bright blue Impala, besmirched with “Sock It To Her,” “Congratulations,” and “She Got Him Today, He Gets Her Tonight.” Wilted crepe paper streamers hung from the car’s antenna and a shoe polish message on the back window declared “Just Married.” There were perhaps other conclusions that might’ve been made but the worst possible assumption was that Lydia had married the “black boy” who picked her up each week throughout the school year – despite the fact Dwayne hadn’t been around for more than more than three months.

Benefit of the doubt be damned, the Sabbath peace was broken and the phone tree put in motion. Whether it was standard black telephone or frivolous white Princess model, phones were jangling and every woman in the Edgewood Hill area was contacted with the scoop of the decade, except for poor Mrs. Carey. The scandalous, shocking news was whispered about over sausage and eggs at breakfast tables before Sunday school ever convened that late August morn.

Oblivious to the impending explosion, Lydia slept until early afternoon when Mr. and Mrs. Carey arrived home from church.
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What do you think so far?