Many people have asked me about Mrs. Cooper, who took a hairbrush to my pampered behind within a week of my arrival in Tennessee, that first summer so many years ago. Since she had no qualms about paddling me, a relative stranger, did she ever spank anyone else outside the family? Well, as I have stated, her influence on the community was profound. She was a keen judge of character and yes, she didn't hesitate when she thought a sound spanking would do someone some good. Even if that meant spanking under rather dramatic circumstances...
I recall one incident around Christmas, my favorite time of year in Colbyville. How I would look forward to those magic days! After Indian summer and hunting season, there'd be a special chill in the air that would herald the coming of the holidays. Handmade evergreen wreaths would make their appearance on stately doors all over town, and each door, it seemed, opened on a log fire lit to lend an extra warm glow to some festive gathering. There, over cups of julep or spicy eggnog, relatives and friends would gather to sing a carol or reminisce about Colbyville Christmases past. It was all as traditional and comfortable as only a country Christmas can be.
No small part of the season was the Christmas concert presented by the Elm Street Methodist Church Choral Society. No need to tell you which formidable local matron with a rich alto voice was also president of the Society. Mrs. Cooper had been a mainstay of the choir since its inception.
It was my first year in the choir, my first year in Colbyville as a married woman. Ray and I had set up housekeeping in the second-floor apartment in his aunt's old place in town. The kitchen was miniscule, I complained to Cheryl, so she invited me to join her in her mother's kitchen, turning out the dozens of cookies that would grace hostess' tables, church suppers, and old folks' homes over the next few weeks. It was a convenient excuse for us to spend hours together working and gossiping...oops, I mean "catching up." The chief topic that winter was Paige Whitfield, the Choral Society's star soprano.
"Paige isn't much older than Cheryl, Roberta. It was such a shock, Mrs. Whitfield going so suddenly. Has it been over a year already? She was the pillar of that family, Roberta. Mr. Whitfield..." She shook her head. Harold Whitfield was a good man, but lost without his wife. Lately he was out too late at night, and drinking too much.
"Lord knows Paige doesn't go to him for guidance. Without proper supervision, it's not surprising that she's been acting the way she has. Young girls today, they go off to college and come back thinking they know all about being a woman."
"Yes, mama, I agree," said Cheryl, barely suppressing a grin as her mother launched into a lecture.
"Forget to mind their elders, lose all respect."
"Yes, mama."
"A fine state of affairs!"
"Yes, mama."
Mrs. Cooper peered at her daughter intently.
"Do you find me amusing, young lady?"
"No, mama, of course not."
"Good, dear, I hoped not. Oh, look, you dropped a pecan."
"Where?"
"There, under the table. Bend down, you can just see it."
"Where? I don't see any-..."
SMACK!
"Ow-w, Mother-r!!"
The juicy part of Paige's story was that she had taken the money she had inherited (Mrs. Whitfield's side of the family was rather well off) and bought a slick, red sports car, and soon began spending her weekends in Nashville. Paige was star-struck, a small-town girl who thought she should be a star. She had a decent voice and she certainly had the looks: good height and figure, long blond hair, and cheekbones to die for. I would have been happy having any one of those attributes, but Paige wasn't. She wanted more than what Colbyville and the Choral Society had to offer. But instead of doing the hard work necessary to develop her talents, she devoted her time to making connections and seeing the "right" people.
That was all her business, of course. All I cared about was that she was an excellent soloist, and that made us all sound good. At least I thought it did. The other topic that dominated our kitchen conversations were the disheartening comments about our Fall Concert that had appeared in an unsigned review in the Nashville Eagle. The article heaped praise on "Paige Whitfield, a truly remarkable soprano," who "succeeded in spite of a lackluster chorus backing her up." Well! You can just imagine how we all felt when we read that. All of us were insulted; some took the criticism to heart, and the seeds of self-doubt were planted. Nothing we sang seemed to sound right and each found someone else to blame. As if Mrs. Cooper didn't have enough to do, what with ordering new gowns and getting the programs printed-- she now had to deal with thirty or so females who were on eggshells every time they got together.
Tempers flared one evening at rehearsal. In the middle of a solo, Paige stopped and turned to the soprano section, hands on hips.
"Who's flat?" she inquired imperiously. "I think it was you, Cheryl. Please, do be careful!"
There was an audible gasp of shock. No one had the right to correct the chorus, except the director, let alone single out a member. I knew what a firebrand my friend could be so I quickly dug my nails into Cheryl's arm.
"Just let it pass, Cheryl, please. Consider the source."
She bit her tongue, then looked at me and nodded, but I could see the incident would not be soon forgotten.
Just a week later came the night of the concert itself. Cheryl and our mutual friend Edna Carter were with me in the loft of the Old Church, the annex which had originally housed the congregation, but which was now rarely used. We had on our new gowns, lovely floor-length dresses of rich burgundy velvet. The rest of the choir were downstairs in the regular meeting hall where we held rehearsals, but Edna, Cheryl and I had just had to get away. I mean, here it was--our big holiday concert, the church beautifully decorated, the choir in gorgeous new gowns--yet our hearts really weren't in it. Rumor, accusation, and worry had taken its toll on all of us. The bad review in the Eagle, our shaken confidence, the tense, fractious rehearsals-- we were downright gloomy on a night in which we should have been on top of the world.
I was giving Edna a final lookover while Cheryl stared moodily out the side window.
"Our prima donna has arrived," she announced. "Late, of course."
Edna and I continued fussing till Cheryl fairly shrieked, "She's got a man with her!"
Paige had pulled the car up at the corner of the quiet street, where there was just enough light to reveal that there were indeed two figures inside, now locked in a passionate embrace. After a hot goodbye kiss, a tall, well-built man discreetly let himself out and began walking to the church. Evidently, he and Paige could not be seen going in together.
"Who is it, who is it?" the three of us cried as we jostled for position at the tiny window. The figure was nearing the brightly-lit entrance of the church.
"I don't know him."
"Never seen him!"
"Ohmigod, it's Cousin Ewan!"
Cheryl and I drank in all we could as the tall stranger strode up the steps and into the church. Then we turned on Edna.
"And who, pray tell, is Cousin Ewan?"
"Mother's first husband had an older brother, use to live out near Monroe. Ewan's his boy. They moved to Nashville years ago, but we still run into them now and then."
"Nashville?" Cheryl asked. She looked thoughtful. "What does he do?"
"Oh, he works for one of them newspapers."
Cheryl and I stared incredulously at Edna. Cheryl took her by both shoulders.
"Edna, is he a reporter?"
She nodded.
"It wouldn't be for the Nashville Eagle, would it?"
"Eagle? Bugle? Can't say for sure, Cheryl. You know I don't bother much with the newspapers."
"Edna, you ninny, don't you see? It was Ewan who wrote that crummy review, just to please that blond vixen. I can just picture the two of them cooking the whole thing up. They figured they'd just use us country bumpkins to advance their own careers. They think they're so smart! I could just spit!"
"Oh, Cheryl," laughed Edna, "don't be impressed by Cousin Ewan. He's just a local boy. My mama says, 'No matter where you go or what you do, everybody comes from somewhere.'"
Cheryl paused a second.
"Edna, sometimes you almost make sense, that's why I love you so. Cousin Ewan's a local boy and Paige is just a small-town girl."
A smile spread across her face.
"A small-town girl who needs a whippin'!"
She turned quickly and made for the stairs.
"Cheryl, where are you going?" I cried.
"I'm telling Mom!" she yelled gleefully.
Part II
[Photo: A Warm Welcome by photogramma1 at flickr.com]
