A Southern Place (29 page)

Chapter 24/Epilogue: Pansy, AL, 1995

Ms. Mary Jane Mullinax

Sometimes it’s just time to move on. Uncle Cal talked about getting out, Mama talked about it, but I guess I’m the one that finally did it.

I sold the house on stilts to a nice Mexican family, looked like three or four families, but their money’s just as good as anybody’s, I say. Folks in Nolan are still talking about it, but they can just keep talking. That’s one place I
won’t
be visiting anymore.

I realize now that Uncle Cal was right: We should’ve left Nolan a long time ago. I still can’t believe the things I see here every day that I bet won’t happen in Dumas County for another hundred years. To me, Nolan seems trapped in time, owned by some unknown god calling all the shots, and anyone choosing to stay there is a pawn. If that kinda life is okay with you, I guess Nolan’s an okay place to live. But finding out that there are places where I can be just as good as anybody—I never had a clue my life could be this “normal,” and respectable, and—good!

Here in Pansy, there’s single parents who still finish school, get real jobs outside of bars and factories. And their children get invited to birthday parties, Bible school, and Vacation Reading Club. We got us a Neighborhood Watch, and it’s neighbors looking out for each other, not spying and gossiping about each other. People of all colors go to the same church, and public schools are good schools for
all
children.

Strange thing—the same Flint River that flowed by my little house on stilts followed us out of Georgia stopping just next to the state line. I felt a little sad thinking that the muddy water I’d considered almost a family member wouldn’t be going with me, watching over me as we started a new life, but maybe that was a good thing. It was time for greener pastures, cleaner water, and a place where our little family could grow.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, in real towns, a person really
can
start over.

I still think about Nolan, our house on stilts, Mama and Uncle Cal. But my family is with me wherever I am, and I like to think we
all
have us a fresh start. Like Mama said, the past is all just water under the bridge. I think I finally know what she meant.

I still think about Mr. Foster, sometimes. Poor Mr. Foster. There was a time, back when I worked for him, that I kinda pretended like Mr. Foster was my real daddy. Ain’t that crazy? I mean, once I spent a little time with him I realized it was just a kid’s dream made from bits and pieces of small town talk, the kind where everyone guesses and nobody knows.

But in a way I wish he had’ve been, since what he did for me gave me the greatest gift I’ll ever receive. My treasure, and the joy of my life.

I finally went back and finished school. I work in an office and have health insurance, dental insurance, and a pension plan. I own a home, pay bills, pay taxes, go to church, and live like respectable folks, the way Mama always wanted but never quite got to. And here in Alabama, not a soul knows or cares what happened in Nolan.

Gotta go now, my boy’ll be getting off the bus any minute. Oh yeah, my baby lived, and he’s in second grade, goes to Cub Scouts and made the Honor Roll at Pansy Elementary.

I named him after the two best men I ever knew: Calvin Phillip Mullinax. He looks like my Mama, with a little of me, a little of Uncle Cal, and—well, he got the best parts of everybody.

He can sing like an angel, plays the piano, and wants to learn the violin! His piano teacher says he’s a natural talent, and he practices everyday, without being told—he loves it.

I so wish my Mama could see him, her and my Uncle Cal, but I like to believe they can. And little Calvin’s Daddy—God rest his soul—maybe he’s found peace, wherever he is, and can enjoy seeing that the best part of him lives on, too.

The folks in my family had some hard times, there’s no doubt about it, but they did the best they could with what the Lord gave them. That’s all any of us can do, I reckon.

My Calvin, he loves to hear stories about the kinfolks he’s never met. He likes the ones about the home place, his beautiful granny, and his daddy, the rock star. He even likes to hear about the floods, riding boats down main street and such. But when he’s tired, or scared, or holding out for his favorite, there’s only one story that’ll do.

“Tell about Calvin,” he’ll say. “The
other
Calvin—with his cat, and his dogs, and his pirate hook—in his house on stilts . . .”

My boy. The sum of all the people I’ve loved. Every now and then, things
can
work out right.

Acknowledgements

A writer can publish only one book as a
first,
and a part of me believes I should thank everyone who has influenced me to the good, bad, or in-between in my quest to earn being called an “author.” Since I don’t think this idea is actually doable, I will start with the most obvious: The whole of Baker County, Georgia, where I lived my first twenty years.

From the ever-present farmer’s voice that lives in my head (otherwise known as “Daddy”) to Virginia Jones, the favorite high school teacher who suggested I “should write a book,” the voices of Newton, not Nolan, nurtured me, taught me, and gave me the words to relive it all again. Thank you, Baker County, for the real slice of Americana I envision when I want to see the world as inviting, interesting, and inherently good. Special thanks to the farmers who explained huge concepts to my narrow realm of understanding—Clifford Allen, Vann Irvin, and the late L.T. Simmons.

I’m forever grateful to Suzanne Kingsbury, fiction author and book doctor extraordinaire, who shared both technical and personal support in this journey. Many thanks to the faculty and administration at Spalding University, where I enjoyed the single-most exciting experience of my second half-century. Mentors Roy Hoffman, Rachel Harper, and Silas House not only agreed that I
could
write a novel but cheered me on and held my hand while I did so, as did fellow writers and new best friends Michael Morris and Angela-Jackson Brown.

Thank you, Rhonda Cooper, for not only explaining first-hand the mechanism in a prosthetic arm, but for sharing your pains, embarrassments, and triumphs in facing physical handicaps in a small town. Several years ago, a kind and helpful group of gun-intelligent members of the Zoetrope Writers Community helped me craft an imaginary gun collection, a perfect list for this book. And without the Atlanta Writers Group, I might still be writing letters to would-be agents who send back the same, tired rejections.

It is with highest appreciation that I thank my agent, Amanda Wells of Sullivan-Maxx Literary Agency and ALL my new friends at WiDō Publishing, acquisitions editor Allie Maldanado, editor Summer Ross, and managing editor Karen Gowen. You have made a dream come true and opened the door for “the rest of my life,” I hope.

On the strictly personal side, I most of all thank my family. Amber, my beautiful vigilante, you are an excellent proofreader, idea-bouncer, re-reader, and friend. You know me better than anyone. Meredith, my red-haired brainchild, you play a mother’s best devil’s advocate, and you’re the biggest reason I strive to do my best. I want to one day make you feel just a fraction of the pride I feel for you. Joe—these Baker County stories are as much yours as mine, in fact, I can’t really remember where my tales end and yours begin—they’re too deeply entwined to separate. Thank you for your words, your wisdom, and for just being such a special part of my life.

To all my friends and loved ones—Thank you for giving me the life I live. This story is a small token gift back to you . . .

Author’s Bio

Elaine Drennon Little spent thirty-odd years as a piano teacher, lounge musician, and public school music educator before retiring to the life of a writer. Her previous print publications are all in journals and magazines for music education. Claiming her 2010 MFA from Spalding University as her “middle-age gift to herself,” she currently lives in North Georgia with hundreds of books and her three-legged cat, Ahab.
A Southern Place
is her first published novel.

elainedrennonlittle.com