Maude's Hope: Against the Storm

A serious minded Maude at left.

Twisters are a part of life across the  flat fields and prairies of  North Texas, and the residents take it all in stride, except for a long ago introspective child named Maude Terry. Within any darkened sky, the little girl watched for dark funnels of destruction, as  hail  plummeted  the tin roof of the tiny frame house in open field. She waited for disaster, certain it would come.

In Spring,  an occasional  black wedge pointed a deadly finger to the earth and morphed into the  mindless monster ...something almost alive in its  intensity. No one is left to tell us what  Maude  may have experienced, but I am certain the dread of  twisters plagued Maude for many years.You see I came to know her as my mother's great aunt many years later when I was a small child.


By the time I came along, Maude was married to Hope Gill,  her second husband, and had moved south to Deep East Texas. She and Hope settled down next door to be near our family  in a little community springing up around the Southland  Paper Mill.  The Gills' marriage was an idyllic union. Hope  gave Maude security, and she provided him with a   home filled with lace doilies and doo-dads, waxed floors and a pantry filled with canned vegetables from the garden .

 In her later years, Maude was like a little bird who had forgotten its song and never learned  to soar. Standing well under five feet tall,  quiet and quick , she was the exact opposite of Hope who was lumbering and boisterous....a Major Hoople type.  Hope was confident and aggressive, while  Maude was  serious and restrained. Yet both were alike in their love for children and treated Joe and me with affection. We loved to visit  their sunny little kitchen which often provided freshly churned ice cream. If I was shy about accepting a dish of it,  Hope would set things straight: "Better have some ice cream, little gal. It'll make you purty!" How could I refuse?

Each week, Mother sent brother Joe over to buy fresh eggs from Maude, who was able to provide herself with a little mad money compliments of  productive hens. One giant white chicken  decided to follow me home. I gave it the predictable name of Henny Penny.It became my own special pet and followed me about. Ours was a happy alliance with the relatives next door, and all was peaceful...for awhile any way.

Maude's tornado watch never ended. A sudden thunder storm or  straight wind would cause her to scan the sky and warn  the neighbors: "Storm's a'coming!"
She would run back home to keep her eagle eye on our roof top television  antenna  as it swayed in the wind. If ever it was askew, she would trot over  to tell us in her tremulous voice. My father would patiently cajole her by saying she need not fear, that  he was aware of it. She appeared to be disappointed in his lack of  concern.Yes indeed, wind fired Maude  up like  nothing else . It was as if the violence of storms sparked a primitive  part of her inner being. Sometimes it seemed  a funnel cloud whirled up from within her tiny body,.from somewhere deep and dark.

  Maude finally hit a home run with her emergency weather bulletins. That was the day Daddy   loaded us up in the Chevy  in an attempt to outrun  some suspicious dark mass in the sky. He drove as fast as he could safely do so, as Joe and I stared out the back window fearing a make- believe monster that suddenly dissipated.  It was  such a disappointment.  I don't know how far we traveled,  but we  came home late to business as usual. The house still stood, and the garage, which  leaned, had done so  for awhile any way.  I  wished there had been at least a moderate disaster, maybe a few limbs down, anything to make my father's wild journey less embarrassing . Although I could not see Mother's face in the front seat, I remember the sound of barely contained laughter. Aunt Maude was having a maddeningly merry effect on her great niece, much to my father's consternation.

Maude's surprise in-person weather updates built to a crescendo  before  we got a proper bathroom. Privacy was difficult to achieve when the only place you had to bathe was   an aluminum wash tub set on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. It was tricky to say the least. We never knew when Maude would charge over to rattle the back screen door that  led to the kitchen/make-do bath to deliver her  weather reports. Sometimes my father barely escaped being caught racing from the bath water.


Something had to be done. Finally, Hope Gill saved the day. He decided to take matters in his own beefy hands. Before the next Spring,  he set out to dig  a huge wide hole in the Gill's back yard. Enough was enough. Maude was  wreaking havoc with her obsession.  He decided to provide Maude  with the safe haven and sense of security she craved. It was a fine thing. Yes, indeed.  Hope Gill was going to build his little wife a storm cellar.

Now everyone knew Hope was no builder. I 'm sure he had help with the concrete room that was to be Maude's underground shelter, but he doggedly  stayed right with it. The project brought to mind the time Hope worked on their garage roof and fell through. I witnessed the entire event. There was a loud crack of the framing and a loud PLOP! when the big man hit ground. I heard his desperate screams as Maude rushed outside  to help lift him up. Considering his inept history,  everyone around the paper mill wondered how  Hope was  going to  finish such a remarkable achievement as a storm cellar. The neighborhood was abuzz the day construction began.

Nevermind the naysayers. Hope was on an inspired mission, and the shelter was finally finished without incident.Trouble was, it was never used for its intended purpose. The refuge became a fabulous  hiding place  for me. I can still smell the acrid aroma of cement and visualize the  shelves loaded with Maude's  canned goods and emergency supplies. I may have been the only one who  found a purpose for that underground room. Yet just knowing it was there seemed to give Maude a sense of safety she had never had. I guess that's all she really wanted.

 I am sure there are those who thought Hope was a fool, but he paid no attention.  There were a few   shelters in Deep East Texas, and no one  else in our neck of the woods had thought it necessary to build one. Everyone knew tornadoes were scarce in the Pineywoods, and mild when they did touch down. Yet Hope was strong in his resolve, and Maude was happy. The pep in her step returned, her ice cream maker churned away, and peace returned to our house too.

Long after I grew up and left home, I was told that Hope had passed away. They found him propped against a big shade tree on the banks of the Trinity River, fishing pole clutched in his hand,  eyes closed peacefully, a smile on his face. From bits and pieces heard here and there, I learned that Maude had begun to lose her grip on reality with the passing of her Faithful Protector. Mother found her wandering  the roads, trying to get to the grocery store and  picked her up and took her there in the car.

"I just wanted to get me some candy," she whispered peevishly as she clutched her coins tied up in a starched white handkerchief.

 Mother found her along the road on a hot summer day in a state of frustration. When  asked  what was wrong, she  announced " I was trying to go to church, but  nobody was there, and I was locked out! "
Mother  explained that it was not a regular day for worship services, unruffled her feathers and brought her home.Sometimes I think Maude  lost her compass when Hope died. Finally,  our special friend and relative passed on to a place where there were no more dark clouds, no more worries.

Decades passed, and the old storm cellar became obscured by overgrowth, and  its wooden door rotted away. New folks moved into the neighborhood, and no one knew it was ever there. But I remembered. For it was I who  made use of its underground depths when the world above was off kilter. It was I who knew what it really represented. After all was said and done,  that old cellar was a cement monument, one man's tribute to the love  of  his life. Maybe that was all it needed to be.

                  

STAYING BETWEEN THE LINES

Note:  The following essay has been rewritten from the original, which was published in the Houston Chronicle "Texas Magazine" in 2002...JFH.

 It all started with first grade in 1950. It was to be the year I learned many things, not the least of which was to conform... or suffer the consequences. There was no escaping the rules, and being a shy and obedient six year old,  I wanted more than anything to please the adults in my life. I knew that if I did everything my parents and teacher told me, I would go to Heaven.

The indoctrination began on that very first day of school: "Learn to color between the lines...like this," Teacher said as she held up a classmate's artwork displaying  a neat blue band across the top for sky and a neat green band across the bottom for earth. My picture, on the other hand, displayed a sky and earth whirled recklessly together  with colors more common to a 64 count crayola box than nature. First Grade Rule Number One:" Color Between the Lines".

There were  other new rules that went against the essence of childhood... although in later years, the rules made more sense to me: No wading in the creek. No climbing trees. Without these outlets, we turned to watching the janitor's hogs. It being a somewhat rural area, it seemed not at all unusual for Mr. Pigg ( yes, that was actually his last name) to pen up his porkers behind the school and feed them the ton of scraps from our  lunch. It began to be a source of entertainment to watch the animals  scarf down our cafeteria leftovers...especially the green peas which comprised over half of the swill.

 Lesson #1: Nothing really fun lasts forever. Teacher decided we needed  organized  "social" games, like "Red Rover" and "Farmer in the Dell", neither of which made sense to me, but I followed along  Obviously, watching pigs feed was never going to be an actual part of recess if she had her way.

 By the time Teacher got us under control, it was time for the Spring Pageant. The boys and girls selling the most tickets would be crowned kings and queens for each grade. With the number of realtives I had, it was inevitable ...but still a shock to me:  I somehow ended up  Queen of the First Grade. My relatives bought up every ticket I had with little effort on my part...often wrenching it from my sweaty little paws. I wasn't sure what went with that title, but I had to be the best queen I could be  Me...who was so bashful, I hid behind the door when strangers came to our house.

My coronation costume was as unique as the person who made it. "Aunt Ruby" was a distant, elderly relative on my mother's side She bustled into the house one day with tape measure,  crepe paper, and inspiration. She had come, she said, to "whip up the stage dress" It was  to be a creation of tier after flouncy tier of  buttercup yellow crepe paper, which when finished, stood out stiffly and crinkly.... and wonderful.


The King of the First Grade was  to be crowned "King Charles", although some of the other boys called him various other names. He and I were given rules for entering the auditorium and standing in place on stage.  Things had to be done  "THE RIGHT WAY" Teacher said. "Children remember...kings must stay to the left and Queens to the right. Always." When the music started, we were to walk with the rest of elementary school royalty to the stage. We were to stand next to floor length, torch-like candlesticks, complete with lighted candles  atop. There was to be a crowning ceremony, and then we would traipse off stage.  How difficult could it be? There was no way we could mess it up. All I had to do was remember that critical "Stay on the Right Side Rule". I focused on it with all my might.

The night of the pageant, I arrived at the school auditorium with my family. Decked out in Aunt Ruby's creation, I floated into a feminine gaggle of taffeta and lace. I was the only one wearing crepe paper... yellow at that. I was like a renegade canary in a flock of doves. King Charles arrived with hair slicked down, wearing a bow tie, holding flowers. He stumbled toward me after a gentle push from his mother. I had no idea why he was carrying a bouquet in place of his usual water pistol. For some reason, he handed them to me. I thought maybe he wanted me to hold them for him, because he was embarrassed.

Suddenly piano music drifted out from the auditorium, and the older kids pushed us to the front. I remember nothing about walking down the aisle to the stage. I have no idea if I  remembered  that critical " Right Side Rule" or if I even remembered to breathe. My brain had been flash-frozen by fear.

Somehow, I ended up on stage before a packed auditorium, standing next to the torches whose flames burned brightly in the darkness. I felt sick with sheer, mindless panic. My knees began to shake, and the crepe paper flounces rustled like a cornfield in  a windstorm. I was about to end my reign by keeling over... or worse...throwing up in front of hundreds of loyal subjects. There went my kingdom in one swoop of indignity.  I couldn't even get myself  crowned without flubbing it. In an effort to steady myself, I grabbed the candleholder for support. So desperate was my grip, that as I swayed to one side, I pulled the lighted taper toward me...a sinking girl-queen grasping a flaming life line.

 I heard one huge common gasp from the darkened auditorium.

"Move!Move!Move!" ... "Oh No!" came the shouts. All I saw were the whites of hundreds of eyes...all focusing on me, the Queen of the First Grade. Ha, that was a joke.What a miserable queen. Then I heard the wooden seats flipping up in unison and imagined the entire audience storming the stage.

 I knew what I had done! I had forgotten the Right Side Rule. Everyone else knew it too.


"Trade places quick," I whispered to to King Charles. "I'm on the wrong side!"
The dazed boy-king actually obeyed, maybe for the last time in his life. I handed him back his bouquet. I had held it for him long enough. He looked at me dumbfounded but took the posey of viloets  and held them in front of him with shaking hands. I knew I was going down fast. My crepe paper dress rustled harder. My shaky legs began to buckle, and  as I gripped the other floor length candlestick, it began to move with me.  The flame felt warmer and warmer, as my cardboard crown shifted with each sway of my shaking body.

Now people were out of their seats and shouting  at me. Was there no pleasing them? Hadn't I finally remembered the Right Side Rule?  I looked off stage to Teacher for direction, but  her mouth was opened in a silent scream of horror. I knew as soon as she came to her senses she was coming to take away my crown. Suddenly, someone rushed the stage and huffed mightily in an effort to extinquish the candles. It was all too much. The curtains closed, and my reign had ended. I had failed miserably.


Mother looked both distraught and relieved as she talked to Teacher. I picked up words like "fire," "candles", "crepe paper". Mother was saying things like "If I had only known..."

That's when Truth wormed its way down into my petrified brain. At last I knew the truth.

After the most exciting pageant in school history  came to an end, life went on as usual. Teacher looked at me with eyes filled with pity. She even let me draw and color as I pleased, although her mouth tensed at the idea of running over the lines. I learned a lot in first grade, but I never learned exactly what was expected of me. Even now, I tend to run beyond the borders of convention...just a little... still... always... looking for that line.I just know it's there somewhere.