Dear Hank Williams (2 page)

Frog is the biggest eight-year-old pest in Rapides Parish, but if it weren't for my little brother, I'd die of boredom. And since Aunt Patty Cake won't let me have a dog, he'll have to do.

Trying not to suffer from my predictable surroundings,

Tate P. Ellerbee

 

September 3, 1948

Dear Hank Williams,

M
RS.
K
IPLER'S BIG PLAN
about getting Japanese pen pals for everyone didn't seem to go like she'd hoped. Almost every kid came to class today with a different pen pal in mind. Everyone except Coolie Roberts and Theo Grace Thibodeaux, but they always forget their homework anyway. Mrs. Kipler looked like someone who didn't get any cards in her Valentine box. I have to admit, when the kids shared their pen pals' names, I could see why she was disappointed.

Verbia Calhoon picked her grandmother who lives in an old plantation home in Baton Rouge. Big deal! Most of the other kids selected their uncles, aunts, or cousins who live around Louisiana. The only person who picked someone out of state was Wallace Scott, who chose a cousin from Bay St. Louis, Mississippi.

You could have heard a fly land on the windowsill when Wallace puffed out his chest and said, “My daddy said you're a Red communist if you choose to write anyone from Japan.” He narrowed his eyes and stared around the class like he was daring someone to object.

The room grew quiet except for the sound of a few nervous kids' desks scraping against the floor.

Mrs. Kipler stared at Wallace. She said, “The war is over.”

Wallace stared back. Nobody can do the staredown like Wallace. He didn't blink once.

Finally Mrs. Kipler turned away and told us to get out our arithmetic books. None of my classmates selected anybody near as exciting as you, Hank Williams, someone who I believe will be very famous one day. I have a radar for good talent. You can bank on it.

Banking on the future of the sure-to-be-famous Hank Williams,

Tate P. Ellerbee

PS—Please write back soon.

 

September 8, 1948

Dear Hank Williams,

I
ASKED
M
RS.
K
IPLER
if we had to share our letters with her, and she said, “No, though I hope you will. I think we will all grow from learning about other people, but I realize letters are personal possessions.” That's what she said. Here's what I think: Mrs. Kipler is like most people around Rippling Creek—nosy about other folks' business. But she knows that reading other people's mail is against the law. Plain and simple. Mrs. Kipler doesn't want to get arrested.

Don't worry, Hank Williams, I won't share our letters. Who knows what could happen after we've been writing for a while? I might tell you some big secret, or you might tell me something that happens behind the scenes during the
Louisiana Hayride
. So feel free to write any and all gossip.

The only person who has had a response from her pen pal is Verbia Calhoon. Wouldn't you know it? As expected, she came to school and bragged, bragged, bragged. She asked Mrs. Kipler if she could read hers aloud. Mrs. Kipler looked as pleased as punch and said, “Why, certainly, Verbia.”

Verbia made such a production of standing, smoothing her skirt, tossing her blond curls, and reading her letter filled with boring details. How interesting could an old lady be? Her grandmother wrote about how she got her hair done and went to lunch with her old-lady friends at the Capitol's cafeteria. Mrs. Kipler got a big kick out of that part. She stopped Verbia's reading and reminded us that it was our state Capitol in Baton Rouge where Verbia's grandmother had eaten. When I got home, I told Frog about her letter. He fell fast asleep. The only interesting part was when her grandmother said she was going to buy her a French poodle. I hate to admit it, but that part made me jealous. It's not fair that somebody like Verbia can get a dog and I don't have a chance in the world of owning one. I'd be the perfect dog owner.

Mrs. Kipler said this week we're supposed to write to our pen pals about our family. My family would take a dozen letters to explain, but I'll do my best to squeeze it into one. Here we go!

My momma is in the picture-show business. That's why she's been away so long. She's busy starring in a film. When she comes home, she will buy me all kinds of pretty dresses and shoes. The kind that Verbia Calhoon wears. I'd tell you Momma's name, but Aunt Patty Cake doesn't like me to talk about her to anyone. I guess she thinks it's bragging. And I wouldn't want to ever be accused of boasting like those Calhoons.

I can tell you this. Momma always smells like gardenias, and she's beautiful. She has the sort of hair that women ask for at Hazel's Cut and Curl but walk out of the beauty shop looking like young chickens starting to shed their soft feathers. They look kind of blotchy. That's because they made the mistake of agreeing to a Toni perm from Hazel. Some folks say Momma's a dead ringer for Vivien Leigh. And she can sing so pretty. That's where I get my talent. She always seems to have another life going on inside her head. Sometimes I'll catch her in a daze, wearing a mysterious smile. Whenever I ask, “Momma, what are you thinking about?” she'll usually say, “Oh, I guess I was a million miles over yonder.” Now it feels that way because she's been gone so long.

My daddy is a photographer, and he travels the world, taking pictures of lions in Africa and blue-ribbon jars of bread-and-butter pickles at state fairs. You've probably seen his photographs in
Life
magazine or
National Geographic
. He forgot to pack his pair of lace-up boots, and Frog insists on wearing them everywhere, but they are too big for him. I'd reveal who my daddy is, but again, I can't because of Aunt Patty Cake. She's the boss. With both of our parents away most of the year, Frog and me live with her and Uncle Jolly.

Are you wondering why we're living with my great-aunt and -uncle instead of our grandparents? Well, it's because of the most tragic story. You see, Momma is not the only famous singer in our family. My grandparents were well known in the church world. They were Dewright and Dottie, the Gospel Sweethearts. On their way home from singing at a revival in Waxahaxie, Texas, their car got a flat. As if that wasn't bad enough, they had the sour luck of it happening right around the bend in the road. A grocery truck didn't see their car and swerved toward them. Grandpa and Grandma were killed instantly.

Once, I asked Uncle Jolly about that evening. His eyes got all watery, and he said, “I still can't step foot in a church for fear that I'll hear the choir singing ‘Just a Little Talk with Jesus.'” That was my grandparents' theme song. The offering plate overflowed whenever they sang it. Sad subjects tend to stay buried in this house, so I never ask about them anymore.

After they died, Aunt Patty Cake raised Momma. She was already raising her little brother, my uncle Jolly. He's a lot younger than Aunt Patty Cake and more like a big brother to Momma than an uncle.

Momma says Aunt Patty Cake was a looker in her day, but I can't see any trace of it. She's tall like Momma and is on the skinny side. Her salt-and-pepper hair is twisted on top of her head and held in place with about a hundred bobby pins. She doesn't wear much makeup herself, only a quick swipe of Rose Petal Pink lipstick (if she remembers). Which is mighty peculiar when you consider she's a sales representative for Delightfully Devine Beauty Products.

Aunt Patty Cake is like the sun. No matter what happens, you know that when you wake up, the sun is going to be there. Oh, there may be clouds trying to block it from shining, but the sun will be up in the sky, a big ball of fire burning, no matter what. The sun is so stubborn, the moon has a time getting rid of it. And when the sun finally slips past the horizon, you know it's there waiting to rise again. That's Aunt Patty Cake. Some folks call her dependable and find that an admirable quality, but I think it's better to possess some mystery, like Momma and me.

Aunt Patty Cake is strict about house rules. She's never written them down, but I know the list by heart. Here are the top three:

1. Do your chores without being asked.

2. Be nice to your little brother. (No matter what he does!)

3. No pets, especially dogs. (Even if it's the sweetest, best dog on the planet Earth that would never, ever dig up her flower garden or poop on the porch or stink from dog sweat.)

As you might've guessed from his name, Uncle Jolly has a big belly that hides his belt buckle. He has chubby cheeks that people probably wanted to pinch when he was a baby, but now they're starting to droop south. If there is anything Uncle Jolly is talented at, it's getting his heart broken. His first girlfriend left him for another feller a long time ago. Ever since then, Uncle Jolly seems to be addicted to heartbreak. He falls in love faster than Aunt Patty Cake burns toast. (Every time she makes it!) Almost as quick as Uncle Jolly falls in love, the woman breaks his heart.

That's when Uncle Jolly drives to the Wigwam and partakes in his second love—whiskey. We know Uncle Jolly has had his heart broken when we discover sofa cushions scattered on the floor and Aunt Patty Cake's straight chair pointing legs up. He leaves a trail through the mess where he's staggered to his bedroom. Aunt Patty Cake calls it “Jolly's Path of Heartbreak Destruction.”

These days, Uncle Jolly has a girlfriend—Dolores Stanfield. She calls her hair “auburn,” but it's as purple as an eggplant. And she may be skinny up top, but her behind is wide enough for a picture show to play on it. She's as prissy as they come. When I first met her, she held out her hand daintily as if she wanted me to kiss it. I squeezed and shook hard. Her fingers were icicles. She laughed like she'd swallowed a hairpin and said, “Cold hands. Warm heart.” I can tell you for a fact, that ain't the case. So, Mr. Williams, don't pay any mind to Uncle Jolly's opinion of your singing. He can't pick a good woman or a great singer. The only thing Uncle Jolly is an expert at is plant cuttings.

Last but not least, let me introduce you to my little brother, Frog. No, that's not his real name. His birth name is James Irwin after Uncle Jolly, but before Frog learned to walk, he learned to jump. He would squat, keeping his palms pressed on the floor. Then he'd lift his behind, bounce a few times, and leap forward. He'd work so hard at it, his cheeks puffing up like a frog's. So he came by the name real honest. I have a few other names for him—Devil, Pest, Rascal, Brat, Troublemaker, Villain, Holy Terror, Scamp, Monkey Brain. Usually I call him Frog.

He thinks most food smells funny. Sometimes before going to the dinner table, he sneaks into the bathroom and dabs Uncle Jolly's Vicks VapoRub under his nostrils. He claims it keeps him from smelling food he doesn't like and getting sick to his stomach.

Frog acts like he's my shadow and follows me everywhere, wearing our daddy's big ole work boots, all the time asking, “Whatcha doing, Tate?” or “Whatcha thinking, Tate?” I wish he had a friend his age that lived next door instead of Mrs. Applebud, who's younger than the moon but older than anyone buried in Canton Cemetery (except for Mr. Applebud). If Frog had a pal, maybe he wouldn't be asking “Whatcha, whatcha” all the time.

Hank Williams, did you have a pesky little brother? If so, please tell me that they outgrow this stage.

Well, that's my family. We may not be perfect, but as Uncle Jolly says, we're like flypaper. We couldn't get unstuck from each other if we wanted. We're together through the good and bad. Swear to sweet Sally, we are.

Until next time,

Tate P. Ellerbee

PS—Please write back soon. Half the class have received letters back from their pen pals.

 

September 9, 1948

Dear Hank Williams,

D
ON'T YOU BELIEVE
there are some downright evil people in this world? For example, a certain person I know with the initials V.C. is a perfect example of how some people may look pretty on the outside, but they are uglier than a mud fence on the inside.

This afternoon at school,
Verbia
V.C. announced that she was having a back-to-school sleepover party at her house. She handed out pink invitations. Every girl received one before lunch. Every girl except me. I was just thinking who'd want to go to a silly party at her house when she held out an invitation. There was my name—Tate Ellerbee, printed so pretty across the front of that envelope. I should have known it wasn't a genuine gesture when she didn't say, “Sure hope you can make it.” But for about a zillionth of a second, I got a little excited. I even pictured me with a bunch of curls on my head, laughing with all the other girls. I guess V.C. caught a glimmer of that excitement on my face and couldn't wait to burst it. She said, “My momma said I had to ask you. She said you were the most pitiful thing with such a tragic life.”

Hank Williams, you will be proud to know what I did next. I tore her invitation in half and slugged her in the gut. I should have put all of us out of our misery and aimed toward her vocal cords. It would've been a great improvement. Of course, I forgot that she is also a big tattletale. I ended up sitting in Principal Salter's office until Aunt Patty Cake arrived. She walked into his office, red faced, looking so hot that she could have melted a block of ice in Antarctica. Mr. Salter said, “I think washing every blackboard in the school would be a fair punishment.” “More than fair,” said Aunt Patty Cake. She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the linoleum.

There I was with a mop bucket filled with water and a rag in my hand, going from class to class. My arm got real sore, but I'm the kind of person who can find the upside in things. I decided to make up songs while I washed away numbers and letters. When I was finished, Mr. Salter told me I wouldn't get off easy if it happened again. I wanted to ask him, What's the punishment for being a downright mean person? But I didn't.