Belledeer
Written by Linda N. Gordon
In the center island of a cul-de-sac sits a brick home with slate shutters and English ivy growing up towards the roof. Inside, antiques and heirlooms, a waft of damp cedar and chimney smoke. Painted table lamps, warm hued persian rugs, and drawers in need of oiling. Marble-topped dressers with dull pencils, used flash cards, tiny broken tea sets, and faded school pictures. Mature oaks line the property with colossal trunks and filled out limbs, hearty magnolias, and pines that let in tiny slits of sunlight on the moss-covered patio. When the weather turns, branches threaten the roof. Iron benches unsuitable for sitting, giant ferns held by verdigris patina pots, and two blooming white crepe myrtles. Everything is overgrown, especially the ivy. Occasionally I’d come home to a ladder propped against the house, evidence of my father’s trimming duties.
To be enveloped in something, with brush and branches cracking beneath, the scent of clove from oily red magnolia seeds, the place I go when I return. A cocoon of familiarity, the horn of the crosstown train in the distance, my mother drinking Folgers at the breakfast table, abandoned warehouses with broken windows, and a whole town of people sleepwalking. The shadow that casts on everything. My mother narrowed her gaze when she wanted us to change, and often we did. Then she gave up when we were too far gone. Cicadas buzzed in the distance as the neighbor called her dog in at dusk.
Autumn with its tender shedding, the staccato voices of children in the street. Unfinished puzzle pieces left out on a coffee table waiting to be joined, the patio screen door held open by a rusted silver washer. We drank mint iced tea outside with our bare feet brushing against the bogor moss and talked about people from church who felt more like family than friends.
Christmas Eve was an open house. We hosted both sides of the family for a buffet dinner with pork tenderloin and twice baked potatoes beside our colored-light Christmas tree adorned with homemade ornaments. It meant so much to people. My mother collected holiday dishes with Santa heads and presented a long table of desserts: Christmas tree cookies, a caramel cake, and iced brownies. Stories were told that everyone knew, we sipped cider and cocoa by the cone shaped fireplace while high pitched, echoing laughter traveled up the stairs. All of us were connected by blood, marriage or shared children.
After church on Sundays we gathered at my grandmother’s house. She fed each of our friends at least once. Known for her homemade biscuits and pound cakes, an invitation to her table was rarely declined. Everyone was welcome, and the more you ate the better she liked you. She enjoyed a full table, and with five children who all had their own children by then, this was easily attained. The women around me cooked and nurtured and cared for everyone like dutiful mothers and wives. The men sat on sofas and upholstered chairs in the living room while the women brought their drinks and side dishes and sauces to the dining table. The children were to set the table. White cotton napkins with french lace trim and a large “C” embroidered into the corner. My little sister rummaged through the china cabinet drawer until she found a tiny engraved silver spoon. She used it to poke through viscous green jello to get to the little sliced apples in the center.
When I was older my mother and I would go to the next town and shop at the antique mall. Most of their traffic came through on Saturdays, then on Sundays they’d be closed. The Lord’s Day. It was best to visit these places in spring since there was no AC in the summers. Concrete floors and a warehouse of history. What cost $25 there would be thousands in the city. Preserved sets of children’s books from a century ago, intricate needlepoint foot stools, cotton lawn textiles, Motown records, and full silver tea sets with ornate serving trays. We always made our way to the glassware and usually left with a few gems. The shopkeeper showed us turquoise and opalite jewelry in the case below before we left.
In July the mosquitoes were bigger than pennies. They found heels, ankles, and meaty thighs and hovered there. Bug repellent did little to prevent leg welts by dinner. Most nights we’d return home around dusk, watch Nick at Nite, and eat something from the freezer. My mother folded towels while we ate pizza bites.
My sister stayed. She and her husband host trivia nights in their home, their cats hide under the beds while guests shout out capital cities and baseball teams from their living room. I go back every year to visit, otherwise I feel like a traitor, like they won’t keep welcoming me if I’m away too long. I still need their open arms, need to remind myself it’s all still there and not just some place in my memory. The desolate boulevard through the center of town, the old-timey hymns sung by a scant acapella choir, the curves of the Natchez Trace with yellow wildflowers lining the pavement for miles, and all the people who are able to stay in that place, to live in those woods without flinching.