Not so long ago and
far away in another life, I was a storyteller. Here’s one of the stories I
often told this time of year:
Once upon a time, a long, long time
ago, I was a little girl in Alabama. Some things were the same then. Mamas and
Daddies loved their children. Spring came every year. Elvis was the King of Rock
and Roll. Some things were different. Little girls almost always wore dresses.
My mother made all of my clothes. Everybody we knew went to the same church
every Sunday. Twice.
I was the youngest child in the
family by many years, almost as young as a grandchild. I was not unappealing to look at, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a ready smile. Unfortunately,
I also had a busy brain and a mouth to go with it, and was forever asking
inconvenient questions at inconvenient times.
My mother,
God bless her, loved dressing me up for church on Sundays. So did my teenaged
sisters. I guess they thought they might as well have some kind of fun out of
me in exchange for putting up with my behavior for the rest of the week.
So on Saturday nights they picked
out my dress and slip and shoes and socks and underwear. They bathed me and
washed my hair. They slathered my hair with Dippity-Do and filled my head full
of itchy, pokey brush rollers. It was all more of a trial than any
four-year-old should ever have to endure.
But on the
Saturday night before Easter, these
ridiculous rituals would go into overdrive. My mother would have been working
for weeks by then, making her idea of the perfect Easter outfit for her baby.
One that that bristled with lace, embroidery, puffed sleeves, ribbons and bows.
My mother and sisters would turn me into a pastel petit four for the day, an
overly frosted little pink and white
cupcake with blonde hair. An Easter confection.
Of course,
I did not want to be a little pink and white Easter confection at that time in
my life. Back then, my goal was to someday, eventually, grow up to be a horse
and/or marry Elvis Presley. His magazine photos were plastered all over the
walls of the bedroom I shared with my big sisters.
To that end, I got together with my
imaginary friend, Darlene, every day. And when Darlene arrived, it was the
easiest thing in the world to pretend Elvis up for a visit to our house, as
well. Once there, he would very obligingly play whatever game Darlene and I had
gotten going, with my dog, Chipper, and my pet chicken, Irmengarde in tow. Darlene
and I could always count on Elvis to liven up an otherwise dull afternoon.
But, oh, those Easter weekends! The newness of those clothes! I hated the scratch of lace. I hated the binding of ribbons and elasticated
puffed sleeves. And the unforgiving white patent leather shoes. And white
cotton gloves, for goodness sake. And a straw hat with an elastic strap under
my chin. Horrors.
I failed to understand how the
wearing of castoff boy's britches and tennis shoes and a t-shirt to church on
Easter Sunday could prevent the Easter Bunny from coming or Jesus from rising
from his tomb. It was all very confusing.
But my mother and sisters were on a
mission. A mission to try to make me the cutest little Easter brat at Mamre Baptist Church. So,
with my hair let down and combed out, they worked me into new underwear, socks,
shoes, gloves, and confectionery dress. Then I was made to stand on the little
bench in front of my mother’s dressing table, where I could see myself in the
big, round mirror from head to toe, and be admired by all the females of the
family.
So there I stood on the Easter
Sunday morning of my fourth year, a successfully potty-trained human being who
had left her high chair far behind. Stuffed into itchy, binding clothes, my
stiff, sprayed hair in a perfect “flip” around my shoulders, I felt like
some sort of sacrificial lamb to fashion. Oh, the indignity.
I stared in the mirror, feeling my
pre-school gorge rise, until finally, I exploded. First I kicked off the shoes and
wrenched off the gloves and socks. I threw the hat across the room and began
to tug at the ribbon around my waist. Next I pulled the hated dress over my head, that object of all those hours of my poor mother's loving work. As I tugged and wriggled and twisted off those clothes, I growled and whimpered like a caged animal.
And then there I was on the little
bench, staring up at my mother, wearing only my little white cotton slip and panties. My face was
blotchy, my hair enmeshed in tangles from the struggle to disrobe. Without a
sound, my sisters melted out of the room.
From the doorway, my mother stared
back at me, outwardly calm, inwardly seething. But she had been a mother much
longer than I had been a child. She was much smarter than I was. And more
patient. As she opened her mouth to say something, the kitchen phone
rang.
“You stay right there and don’t you
move, young lady. I’ll be back to deal with you in a minute.”
So I stood, sniffling and trembling
with anger. Darlene appeared. I began to tell her my troubles. My mother soon
returned and stood at the door, watching me talk to the empty air around me. My
abandoned clothes had come to rest in various unlikely places around the
bedroom she shared with my father.
Curiosity being one of my foremost
character flaws, I turned my attention to her. “Who was that on the telephone, Mama?”
I asked, still sniffling.
My mother’s expression changed then.
Her eyes took on a shrewd look. She was wise enough to recognize an opportunity
when one presented itself.
“Who that was on the phone, young
lady,” she said, “was Elvis.”
I stopped sniffling. Darlene disappeared
back from whence she came in an instant. My mother had my full attention now.
“Elvis heard about the outfit I’ve
been sewing for you this Easter. He wanted me to take a picture of you wearing it.”
Here my mother nonchalantly studied the nails on her left hand. “I told him I’d see
what I could do, but not to expect too much, because you were cutting up such didoes
about it.”
I exploded again, this time into
action. Running around the room, I gathered up the hated clothes, talking a
mile a minute about how I’d have them on before she knew it, how I’d comb my
own hair and buckle my own shoes, and if she would just go get my brother’s
camera, I would stand very, very still, and smile real pretty, and be good the rest of the
day. No. I’d be good forever and ever. And ever. Amen.
Mother disappeared down the hall
and shortly returned with the camera and my sisters. They made a couple of adjustments
to my ensemble and took me outside. Darlene waited for me there in front of the
camellia bush. And that’s where my mother snapped my photograph. For the King.
Then my family piled into the car and
headed to church like every other Sunday of our lives. Darlene waved us all the
way down the road to the turnoff.
I’m sure my Easter basket was
lovely that year. I’m sure I hid eggs and ate candy and had a wonderful day.
But what I remember most about that Easter is imagining the look on Elvis’s
face, all the way up in Memphis, when he got my picture in the mail. At
Graceland. Who really wants to be a horse when they grow up anyway?
I have lived through a fair few
Easters since that one. I think about those years sometimes, of my family, and
the world we knew then. I think about Darlene. She must surely be getting as
long in the tooth as I am, these days. I miss her.
Not long ago, I visited Graceland.
I did not see my photo there. I’m sure it must mean that Elvis carried it with
him always, perhaps in his wallet. I like to think he could see Darlene in that
picture with me. That Elvis Presley had the only existing photo ever taken of the
two of us together, all those years ago. I like to think that somewhere out
there in the cosmos, it’s with him, still.
 |
| Still hates breaking in new clothes. |
Happy Easter. Thanks for coming.
Come again soon.
Leann
