“Nice pictures.” Mack said to his daughter.
“They’re called paintings, Daddy! Not pictures.”
Mack’s wife chimed in, “We’re off to the bathroom for a time out!” She wrangled two unruly boys.
It was hard for Mack to return to New York City. He thought about the life he once had there and the woman in it. Now he was back and the woman was the reason. Shelby was an artist from Austin, Texas who made the leap from unknown to known. She was doing what she hated most, mingling. Mack was an arms length from her when she saw him. Gulping from the glass of Beaujolais, she poked him in the ribs. “What do you think? Does my art show any promise?”
He turned and faced the woman he had always been in love with. “It’s not your best, but it’s good.” Mack winked. “Nice to see you again, Shelby.”
The little girl ran to her. “I saw your picture in a magazine! Someday I want to paint as good as you.”
“You mean well. Paint as well.” she corrected. “Mack, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“This is my daughter, Harbour Joy.”
Shelby and Mack locked eyes on a secret buried years ago.
Monica exited the restroom with two year olds on each hip. One side of her dress was hiked inside her panty hose and smudged lipstick from little boy kisses on her face. “Hi. I’m Monica, Mack’s wife. You must be Shelby.”
“Nice to meet you. You have your hands full!”
“That’s for sure.” she laughed. “I’m so impressed with your work, just brilliant.” The boys, bored, started fighting. Monica divided her time between the adults and the children, ever the consummate mate. “Rocky! Did you bite your brother again?” She shook her head and tightened them on her hips, dodging the blows they hurled at each other. “Pardon me, back to the lavatory.” Grabbing a tissue from her purse, she dabbed  a bloody nose. 
In the space left by Monica’s absence, Shelby asked Harbour, “Would you like to see my work first hand?”
Harbour gleamed. They took each other’s hand and headed down the rows of paintings. Mack walked behind them, admiring how similar they were. Blond hair, blue eyes, muscular legs, as though they belonged together.
“Harbour,” Mack interrupted them, “Will you get Daddy some punch? I want to talk to Shelby for a minute.”
Harbour huffed. “Okay, but I get her back.”
Shelby laughed, “You got it!”
Mack stood in front of her, hands clasped at his waist. “I see you still wear cowgirl boots.”
She smiled. “Does that surprise you?”

“I couldn’t afford to buy the one’s you’re wearing.”

“I gave the ones you bought me to charity.” She teased.

“The boots and I have something in common.”

“Don’t do that, Mack. Please. There’s no need to open a can of worms.”  Shelby kicked the floor like Texas dirt. “Why did you name her Harbour Joy? That was going to be the name of our daughter.”

“Talk about  letting worms out of the can! What difference does it make, Shelby? I don’t have the answer. I just knew she was meant to be.  Things didn’t turn out the way I thought they would. You were supposed to be her mother.  I didn’t believe in you, I guess.”

“No, Mack, you didn’t believe in me, yourself or us. That’s why I had to leave. It’s not important anymore. You have a beautiful family. You have Harbour Joy. Things work out the way they do for a reason.” As strong as she sounded, as strong as she hoped to be when this moment came, tears welled her eyes and she turned away. “Tell your wife I’m glad you could make it. Get the little one a rabies shot.” she smiled, wiping a silent tear. Shelby gained strength as Harbour made her way back. “Harbour! Come give me some sugar!” She held her close while looking into Mack’s eyes. “Back to mingling again. I am so glad you came by to see my pictures.”

“You mean paintings.” Harbour corrected.

“You’re right, Harbour Joy.”  Shelby said  as she walked away.

“And one day you will paint as well as me.”

The twins ran to  Mack. “Daddy! Can we go now?” 
“Monica, I think we should head back to Austin. A week in New York City is enough.” Mack picked up the boys and kissed his wife. 
“Where is Shelby?” Monica asked. “I want to thank her for inviting us.”
“She had to leave…”
Her cowgirl boots kicked concrete on a New York City street. It wasn’t the same as Texas dirt.

Monty took her hand. “You haven’t worn  your wedding ring in  twenty years. I wasn’t sure if you still had it.”                    

 Priscilla handed it to him. “I want Lily to have it.”

“She’ll have it one day but not today.” He slipped it back on her finger.   

“You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?” she asked.      

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  A storm was moving in, thunder interrupted the silence.                                                                                                                  

“I love you Governor  Jackson. You do know that, don’t you?”  

“I never doubted it for a minute.”    

“Priscilla, please don’t leave.”   

                                                                                                                                                                         ”Monty, kiss me.  I’m here now.

The television at ‘I Dream of Jenny’s Salon’ was tuned to a game show when the special news report broke in. “Wouldn’t you just know it?”Jenny sighed. “Right when they’re announcing the grand prize winner.”  Three men were being arrested for breaking into the Democratic National Committee Headquarters at the Watergate hotel. Jenny shook her head,”Now why would they want to ruin our programs over something like that? Tomorrow, nobody’s even going to remember.”

 Priscilla walked in the door. “Morning, girls. Did I miss seeing the grand prize winner?” She didn’t care about politics or Washington DC on June 17th 1972. The only thing she cared about was keeping her cereal down.  She never understood morning sickness when she threw up all day long.

“Hon,why are you here?” Jenny asked. “Isn’t today your birthday?”

Well, yes m’am it is. Tonight is the Baptist Ladies pot luck supper and Bitty Barker just had to have her perm and color done this morning. So here I am, but I may be leaving early to surprise Monty.   He pitched in that big baseball game in Houston and got home last night. I think I’ll run by Lucky’s Liquor and pick up a bottle of Cold Duck and some ginger ale.” 

“Well good for you. Hope that Cold Duck doesn’t cool down the bedroom!” Jenny and the hens clucked in unison.

“Not a chance!”  She couldn’t wait to get home. Tonight was the night; Monty would find out he was going to be a father. 

“Changing the subject sweetheart,” Jenny said, “but does Bitty still use number nine Silver Bells on that hair of hers? We’re running low.”

“I’m afraid so. Such a shame too. She looks like an ailing Christmas tree that threw up tinsel.”  Priscilla shook her head.

“And here she is right on time. Good night nurse, that tinsel sure has tarnished. Well, Good morning Mrs. Barker! What a lovely dress you’re wearing. Is it new?” Jenny asked.

“This old thing? Heavens, No! Bitty placed her hands on her hips and posed. “I’ve had it for years, but Pooch says it flatters my figure so I just keep on wearing it. I want to keep my man interested.” she informed the ladies. Bitty had been married to the town pharmacist, Prescott “Pooch” Barker for almost forty five years. He kept his wife well supplied with nervous pills and she looked the other way when he supplied them to all the other nervous women in town. Pooch’s  nickname was rightfully  earned by being an old hound dog who sniffed out every bitch in the county. Bitty believed it to be a canine term of endearment due to his last name being Barker.

Priscilla pumped the bar under her chair lowering it to accomodate the diminutive Mrs. Barker. “Please have a seat, m’am while I mix up your silver bells.” Every week Bitty treated herself to a hairdo, a new Photoplay magazine and a bit of gossip with the ladies at the beauty parlor. The talk  these days was about Priscilla’s husband, Montgomery Jackson. He was the the town’s claim to fame having been recently drafted into the major league. At high school baseball playoffs in 1968, the three television networks sent their sports broadcasters to watch him pitch. When all eyes and television sets were glued to him, wives in town grumbled at their husband’s for taking over the TV sets. The men said that  soap operas  would be on tomorrow but a  hometown baseball player interviewed by the national news was  once in a lifetime. The last time the town had that much attention was when Rupert Roberts overbred his hogs  and a piglet was born with two heads. Rupert and his pig became local celebrities when their pictures appeared in ‘Texas Farm and Ranch’ magazine. The article noted that two headed pigs produce twice the number of  tamales as the one headed ones. A hometown boy putting a town of twelve hundred citizens on the map trumped even the two headed porcine.

Priscilla  had been in love with Montgomery Jackson since the eighth grade. He was adorable with coal black curly hair, blue eyes and dimples. They were a handsome pair; she the head cheerleader and he the star baseball pitcher. Priscilla could hardly wait to finish high school so they could get married and start a family. In spite of having little money and nowhere to live they ran off and got married the week after high school graduation.   Priscilla enrolled in cosmetology school  to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. When she received her diploma from ‘The Texas Hair and Nail Institute’ in 1969, it was hung proudly inside of I Dream of Jenny’s  Salon. Priscilla worked six days a week and took classes at the local community college at night. The future looked bright. She was determined to get her law degree and Monty had  a promising career in baseball. He was being courted by every college and university in Texas and six other states he never even heard of.  A baseball contract with a full scholarship was on the table, pen  in hand. Montgomery Jackson stood and announced, “Thank y’all, but I think I’ll see if anything better comes my way.” He  wouldn’t go to  Oklahoma because playing baseball  in a stadium anywhere besides Texas was like a southern Baptist turning Episcopalian  because their church pews were more comfortable. His hard headed determination paid off his freshman year when he pitched his first game for Texas against Oklahoma. It wasn’t a no hitter, but it was close. He not only had an arm to pitch, he could swing a bat too. Montgomery Jackson was a force to be reckoned with and  nothing could stop him. Nothing except a small town beautician with a revolver in one hand and a bottle of Cold Duck in the other.

“So, Priscilla,” Bitty asked sarcastically, “How are your folks doing? I never see them around town anymore.” Priscilla looked down.“They’re just fine Mrs Barker. Thank you for inquiring.” Priscilla Martin Jackson came from a family most called trailer trash. Her daddy scoffed at those snooty folks saying that he lived on his own land in a double wide paid for by pumping petroleum into rich people’s cadillacs. His strong suit was that he was likeable. Other than that, he drew a losing hand. Joe Martin owned the local  Phillips 66 gas station and folks dropped by even if they didin’t need a fill up. They enjoyed chewing the fat over a hot cup of coffee or a cold Frosty rootbeer. He always had a story to tell, most if not all greatly exaggerated. With a gas can in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he would spit on the ground. “You know one time this feller, a travelling salesman came by here. He was selling some of them buy one get one free funeral plots. It sounded like a deal of lifetime, so I got myself six of them. He was a happy guy because he made his monthly quota in one damn day. But he was a nosy old so and so too. As soon as I paid him he looked me straight in the eye curious as to why I needed that many graves. I told him it was due to me being married six times.”

“So you plan to bury all your wives?” he asked.

“Yes sir. That’s my plan alright. Sooner the better and all at one time if I can.”

Priscilla’s folks divorced when she was three years old. Her Mama  schooled her in the worthlessness of men from the day her daddy walked out the door. She eventually learned to ignore her mother’s bitterness, realizing that it came from a hurt so deep she could barely reach it anymore. Coming from the wrong side of the tracks didn’t deter Priscilla from following her dreams. She was high school Salutatorian and if not for choosing marriage over college would have been  accepted into almost any university. Voted ’Most Likely to Succeed, she was President of the honors society, student council and her class; she was destined for success. Pretty didn’t come close to describing her. She was  striking and poised, but approachable and down to earth.  Unlike the ladies at Jenny’s salon, her blond hair was nature’s gift and her  green eyes  put the cherry on top of the sundae. Priscilla didn’t believe marriage and motherhood would be an obstacle in becoming an attorney; the word failure wasn’t in her vocabulary. As soon as Monty’s salary could support them, she would quit working at the beauty parlor and concentrate on her family and education. For the time being, it was  hair in the daytime and  classes at night.

Priscilla turned the chair around to face the mirror. “I swear you look twenty years younger!” Bitty was admiring her new hairdo when the beauty shop door was thrown open by Priscilla’s mother in law, Shirley Jackson. Clutching the bright red scarf tied tightly on her mile high blond hair, she shrieked! “COVER THOSE HAIRDOS, GIRLS!” A twister was  two miles away heading toward town. The ladies  grabbed their hairnets and tried to fight their way out of the salon. Within a matter of minutes it made it’s way straight down main street. After all was said and done, the ladies walked outside and began picking up the remains of their  Mercury Marquis’s and Pontiac Bonneville’s. Not one hair on any Miss Clairol Natural Blonde head was out of place. Jenny said it was due to God’s grace,  composition shingles and Aqua Net’s new and improved extra hold hairspray.

Shirley put her hand over her heart,”I’ve lived in Texas all my life but I still can’t used to those damn things!”   Shirley Jackson worked at the diner in town. Her customers loved her because she always greeted them with a smile and and a “How ya doin’ Hon?”   A pencil was  stuck behind her ear but she never held a pad or got  one  order wrong.  Shirley was a hard working woman who deserved more than life gave her. Inside the  pocket above her left thigh was a pack of Juicy Fruit gum that curbed her cigarette cravings and semi-disguised the smell of bourbon on her breath. Her life was nothing like the characters on her favorite soap opera.  When she was seventeen years old, Shirley married  Rusty Jackson and gave birth to Montgomery ‘Monty’ Jackson  three days after the Justice of the Peace proclaimed his parents husband and wife. Rusty worked at odd jobs and employed or not ended up at one of the topless bars in town by four o’clock in the afternoon.   Ignoring her husband’s philandering, Shirley remained loyal to him and the promises she made a lifetime ago. As the saying goes, “Texas tornadoes and divorces cause somebody to  lose a trailer house.”  When Monty and Priscilla married, she was worried. As much as she loved her son, he was after all his father’s son too. He loved the ladies and they loved him back.

Priscilla sneaked  in the back door. “Surprise! I took off work early and picked up some bubbly for tonight.” Priscilla kicked off her heels and unbuttoned her blouse.  The eighteen year old Dairy Maid trainee was half dressed sitting on Monty’s lap. “Who the hell are you?” Priscilla screamed. Opening her nightstand drawer she clasped the leather holster, unfastening it.  The girl grabbed her uniform and the Hi, I’m  Suzy–’My cones are the Biggest in Town’ name tag and ran out the door.

“Priscilla sweetheart, now you put down your daddy’s gun and hand me that bottle of wine before somebody gets hurt. Nothing happened, I swear.” Monty reached for her, she pulled away.

“How could you Montgomery Jackson? How could you  just when we were talking about having a baby? How could you on the new imitation leather sofa I just got out of layaway?”  She ran to the bathroom and offered the toilet her breakfast cereal.  Throwing everything she could into three Piggly Wiggly sacks, Priscilla walked toward the door. “You don’t deserve me or our child.”

“Priscilla, please don’t leave! I’m sorry, baby. It will never happen again.” He stood in front of the door blocking it.

“You’re right. It won’t happen again.”  She released the safety on the gun and stuck the barrel down his boxers. “Now, get out of my way before something gets hurt.”  It was three blocks to the bus station. Surely there were a few women in Los Angeles, California who would appreciate the latest styles from the ‘Texas Hair and Nail Institute’.

The bus stopped. Priscilla opened her eyes and looked out the dirty window. She was finally in Los Angeles. “Now what do I do?” Stretching her legs and yawning, she grabbed her belongs and walked inside the terminal. Priscilla stuck a few city schedules inside her purse and boarded the first bus that pulled in. “Good morning, sir.” She paid her fare and sat down. The driver nodded never saying a word. “My goodness, there are so many stop here in Los Angeles!” Moving forward, she whispered to the  driver, “Sir, may I inquire about some information and locations?”

“I guess I did. So, how long has it been?” she asked.

“Since we married?”

“No, since those young folks dropped by.”
“It’s been quite a while.” He said.

“I can’t place their names, but they looked familiar. It will come to me in a minute.” she assured him.

“Yes, Mother. It will come to you.”

“Mother” she repeated. “She’s been gone quite a while hasn’t she? I sure  do miss her some days.”

He led her to bed, kissed her as he had for 56 years. “Sweet dreams, my rodeo princess. Sweet dreams”

Christmas is not about receiving presents. It’s about giving gifts. Memories.

My grandfather was a soft spoken Swede with a heart of gold but little in his pockets. He worked hard and never complained, grateful for what he had. He lived in the same house with the same woman for fifty four years. It was a modest house and it suited him. He had a big garden and a small tool shed. His overalls were stained with motor oil and his socks smelled like stale  corn chips. He had no grand aspirations that I was aware of but  I never asked. Fixing lawnmowers on cool mornings and eating luncheon meat with rat cheese at 4 o’clock in the afternoon made him happy. He was a man of few words, not demonstrative but his twinkling blue eyes spoke volumes. He may have hugged me, but I really can’t remember when.

My grandmother Ruth passed away in spring and half of him went with her; cancer was taking the rest. Cat had to remind him every day  at four o’clock that it was time for luncheon meat and rat cheese. He lost interest in tinkering, retired his riding lawnmower inside the dark, sad workshop,closed and locked the door.  Cat disappeared,night after night he called for her. Night after night she answered but he never heard. One week turned into two.

The last time I saw him, I said, “Why don’t  you work on the lawnmower  for a while? I think it would do you good.” We opened the workshop and Cat ran out. She had survived weeks on  rainwater and an occasional rat  within paw’s reach. His blue eyes welled with tears as he  placed her in his lap and started  his lawnmower for the last time.

My grandfather Hilding passed on one month and three days after Cat. I  wonder if they ever discussed the meaning of life when they were all alone in the workshop. I wonder if they ever spoke at all. I doubt it.

They didn’t need to.

She replied,”Whatever you want. Why do you feel you need to label people?”

“Because I don’t want to say anything that will offend anyone.”

She thought for a moment. “I suppose  making sure you don’t offend anyone so you don’t look bad is the reason? Do you know how it feels to be called the ‘N’ word? Do you know what it’s like for your child to be more qualified than another but rejected because their name is LaVonna?  Do you understand the humiliation of being followed in a store because everyone who is not white must be shoplifting? The characters in your stories are hired help, Sheryl. They called your daddy ‘Mr. Ray Jr.’  He called them by their first names. He was their boss and they were mammy’s.”

I screamed,”How dare you! How dare you say that!  I never cared about what color they were. It didn’t matter. I admired LaVonna and Mary, they were family and I loved them!  DO NOT  EVER CALL THEM MAMMY’S AGAIN!”

She said, “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Stop trying to be ‘politically correct’. You write from the heart. You are color blind and anyone  who reads your stories sees that. Stop apologizing and trying to fix things. It’s not your fault for wanting to but there are some things you will never understand.”

“Okay, this is it. If I go out with you again, will you leave me alone?” I asked.

We went to see ‘Catcher in the Rye’ at a tiny theater in Austin. It was a ‘one man’ play, and  I do mean ‘One Man’. The  headliner collected tickets, popped the  popcorn, served soft drinks, pulled back the curtains and then went on stage. Terry and I sat on uncomfortable metal folding chairs. There was no air conditioning, just three fans pointed toward the audience and one at the stage. Following the performance, we walked through a maze of tunnels in downtown construction. It was dark and a little unnerving. We were near the end when an obnoxious drunk approached me. Terry held my hand and shoved the guy away. I wondered if the doctor I was dating would have done the same. I doubted it.

Terry and I have been together for thirty years. Being seated by the restaurant restroom no longer bothers me. He still finishes my plate and always holds my hand.  First dates are kind of  like shopping for a car. Test drive as many as you possibly can, but don’t choose the new Mercedes if the 1955 Ford makes you happy.