“Elmyra Holstead has completely lost her mind!” Mother ranted as she entered my house through the kitchen door, returning early from her weekend trip to the opera in Natchez. “You will not believe what that woman did!”
That’s my mother, Alsace Lorraine Metcalf Ripley, whom everyone calls Mama Rain. Well, except for the ladies her age. They don’t call anyone ‘Mama’; they just call her Rain. She’s been living with us since her housekeeper and best friend, Covaletta Turnage, died and left her alone. Daddy died back in 1978, so it’s just been her and Covaletta all these years. She decided to come live with us as she doesn’t trust anyone with her things because everyone is ‘just trash’. Besides, she’s afraid no one else could keep the secret of where she hides her pocketbook (in the vegetable crisper – she read it in Erma Bombeck – but don’t tell her I told you).
Excuse my manners; I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Cady McIntyre. Actually my full name is Catherine Dyanne Ripley McIntyre, but everyone calls me Cady; pronounced like lady, of course. Normally, my life is about as exciting as canning peaches, but today looked as if it was starting out to be another story.
“What’s she done now?” I asked, knowing full well that her best friend has a tendency to commit faux pas.
“First of all,” she fumed, sitting down at the whitewashed shed door I had made into a table in the breakfast nook, “she shows up in a sundress with a dickey, looking like who’d-a-thought. Then she has the gall to make me sit next to Geneva Landrews, who swears she has prostate cancer and wants to describe the symptoms to see if I agree. Finally, she conveniently forgets to tell everyone that there’s been a change of plans and we’re not seeing ‘Carmen’!”
“Well, what did you see instead?”
“’Oh Caltucker’ or somesuch!”
“You mean ‘Oh, Calcutta’?”
“If it’s got all the naked people”, she frowned, “then that’s the one. Then she was so moved, she said, that she jumped up onstage and took off all her clothes! Well, except for the dickey; her hair was too big.” Mother, although petite (5’2”) is a spitfire. She doesn’t really look like anyone famous so she’s hard to describe. If you were kin to me, I could just say she looks a lot like Great Aunt Frankie, except for thinner, but that’s not going to help you one bit unless you’re from Jackson, Tennessee, which I’m betting you’re not. But if you are, then you probably know. To help you as much as I can I’ll just say that she doesn’t like “old lady hair”, you know the kind that gets fixed once a week, usually Saturday, her wardrobe is almost more fashionable than mine and she is six kinds of crazy when you get her mad.