Dear Hank Williams

 

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This story is dedicated to my grandfather

Henry Mitchell,

June 2, 1915–July 7, 2014.

 

September 1, 1948

Dear Hank Williams,

W
ELCOME TO THE
great state of Louisiana! My name is Tate P. Ellerbee, and I'm writing you from Rippling Creek in Rapides Parish. That's a long way from Shreveport, but our radio is tuned to KWKH every Saturday night. I've been listening to you on the
Louisiana Hayride
ever since you first performed on the show last month. When you sang “Move It On Over,” swear to sweet Sally, I felt a wiggle travel down my whole body. The upbeat chorus made my little brother, Frog, and me dance around the room. Uncle Jolly said he'd heard better singers, but don't pay him no mind. He's a lovesick man.

Aunt Patty Cake liked your song too. She stared up from her copy of
True Confessions
and asked, “What do you reckon he looks like?”

Today was the first day of school. My new teacher, Mrs. Kipler, has glasses as thick as Coca-Cola bottles. I guess she's real smart and wore out her eyes from all that reading. I had to bite my tongue to resist the urge to suggest Delightfully Devine's black eyeliner. It would be just the thing to bring out her brown eyes.

Now, here's the exciting part of this letter. Mrs. Kipler told the class, “This year new worlds will unfold in front of you, and you'll see your own world through fresh eyes.” Right that minute I was ready to pack a suitcase for the trip. Then she said it would happen through writing letters to a pen pal.

Some of my classmates groaned. Wallace Scott groaned the loudest, but he's a bully and I guess he wanted to start the year off reminding us of that fact.

Mrs. Kipler told us we could pick our own pen pal but that she hoped we'd let her assign each of us one. She promised they would be from a special place.

That minute I knew exactly who my pen pal was going to be. Guess who, Hank Williams? I've picked you! Since you sing on the
Louisiana Hayride
and I'm going to sing at the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest, we already have something in common. You and I are going to be great buddies. It's funny how things work out, because before Mrs. Kipler told us about our pen pal project, I'd planned to write you a letter. The Monday after I heard you sing, I rode my bicycle over to the post office and asked the postmaster, Mr. Snyder, to look up the address for the Shreveport Municipal Auditorium. He finally gave it to me, but not before I answered a bunch of nosy questions about why I wanted it. (If you ask me, Mr. Snyder knows entirely too much about everyone around Rippling Creek.)

This letter will have to be top secret because Mrs. Kipler asked us not to write yet. She's assigning topics for our first few letters so that we can learn to write interesting correspondence. She clearly doesn't know a thing about me, because I
am
an interesting person. And interesting people always have something curious to write about.

I'll write again, real soon (probably tomorrow).

Your fan and new pen pal,

Tate P. Ellerbee

 

September 2, 1948

Dear Hank Williams,

T
ODAY
M
RS.
K
IPLER ASKED
if any of us had chosen a pen pal. You'll never believe this: I was the only kid who'd picked one. A lot of people in this world don't have gumption, but I do. Here's the funny thing, though. When I told her your name, Mrs. Kipler scrunched up her face and asked, “Is he a distant cousin?” I had to explain that you sang every Saturday night on the
Louisiana Hayride
. She looked as dumb as a bell without a ring.

“Don't you have a radio?” I asked her. She didn't answer. She kept asking me questions, wanting to know how I knew you. “I'm going to get to know him,” I told her, “because we're going to be pen pals.”

Her voice got all soft. “Tate, let's talk about this at recess.”

Then Mrs. Kipler faced the class and told them she had a very important announcement about who their pen pals could be. Somehow she'd made connections with a teacher all the way over in Japan who had students who wanted to write to American children.

Wallace Scott stood. “Japan?”

“Correct,” Mrs. Kipler said. “Now sit down, Wallace.”

He was not happy about that choice. Wallace's daddy's uncle died in Pearl Harbor, so I guess you can't blame him for thinking that way.

Mrs. Kipler's brains must have frizzled from her last perm. We just got out of a war with those folks. I'm not about to share my life with the enemy. I remember when I was four years old, the soldiers from Camp Claiborne marched past our house in the mornings. Aunt Patty Cake would have a pot of coffee ready for them. Before we saw them, we heard the
stomp, stomp
sounds of their boots pounding the road. When we did, we'd walk outside, Aunt Patty Cake with the coffee, Momma with the cups and cream, and me with the spoons.

The men's leader would yell, “At ease!” and the men would settle on the side of the road. Aunt Patty Cake made her way down the line pouring coffee. They'd have to take turns with the cups because we only had five, but they didn't seem to mind. Nobody had ever asked us to do it. Aunt Patty Cake said it was a small way of doing our part.

Once, one of the soldiers lifted me and settled me on his shoulders. He marched up and down the stretch of road in front of our house.
Stomp, stomp, stomp
. I remember noticing tears in his eyes when he put me down. Later I asked Aunt Patty Cake and Momma, “Why was that man crying?” Aunt Patty Cake said, “He probably has a little girl like you at home, Tate.”

So you see, Mr. Williams, even if you weren't my pen pal, I couldn't write someone from Japan. I'd feel like I was betraying those men who passed by our house every morning.

Which brings me to the next point. Mrs. Kipler said in our first letter we should tell you about ourselves and where we live. She said, “You may not think you live in a fascinating place, but to other people, especially those living across the world, Rippling Creek is exotic.”

Exotic? I'm an optimist. I look at a glass half-f, but Mrs. Kipler must see it all fogged up. Rippling Creek is anything but exotic. And despite that Mrs. Kipler tried to convince me at recess that writing you was a waste of time when I could be learning about another culture, I'm going to keep you as my pen pal. So don't worry, Hank Williams. You and I will be closer than double-first cousins because we'll learn about each other and how much we have in common. So without any delay, I'll tell you a little about me and the anything-but-exotic Rippling Creek.

First of all, I've got plain brown hair and brown eyes, which seems ordinary, but people say I'm starting to look like my momma. My prayers must be working. I know I'm supposed to pray for the sick and the lost souls, but I can't help it. Every night I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper to heaven, “Please let me be beautiful and sing pretty like Momma.” Since I'm only eleven, there's hope for me yet. By the way, what do you look like, Hank Williams?

Rippling Creek is a speck on the Louisiana state map about eighteen miles south of Alexandria. Don't picture a busy place like New York City or New Orleans. Most of us live in the country. Hardly anyone lives in town. The town of Rippling Creek has a post office and one gas station. You can't include Hazel's Cut and Curl, because her shop is inside her house on Fish Hatchery Road.

Rippling Creek has tall longleaf pine trees everywhere that give off a clean scent like fresh-cut grass. Even though it's named Rippling Creek, we don't have a creek here named that. There is Hurricane Creek, Catfish Creek, Marty Porter Creek, Boot Creek, and No-Name Creek. If I was mayor, I'd call No-Name Creek Rippling Creek, but I'm not mayor. When I am, that's the first thing I'll do.

For now, I live on Canton Cemetery Road, straight across from the cemetery. Our home is the little red brick house with the torn screen porch door (that Uncle Jolly never gets around to fixing).

Living a stone's throw from the cemetery may seem depressing to you, but the location is actually prime real estate. It's the only place you'll eventually see almost everyone from these here parts. Every few weeks someone is bound to die, and practically everybody around Rippling Creek attends their funeral. Not me. I don't go to funerals. It's not because I'm afraid I'll cry, either. I'm not the crying type. I like to think of the deceased before they became that way. I reckon they'd like me to remember them that way too.

That doesn't stop other people in this house from going, though. Aunt Patty Cake is the queen of funeral-goers. Every time someone dies, she'll not only go to their funeral, she'll show up at their family's house later with a pecan pie. And when Uncle Jolly isn't working as a supervisor at Hopkins' Azalea Nursery (where they grow the prettiest azaleas in central Louisiana), he's the weekend cemetery groundskeeper. Saturdays, he mows the lawn and tidies up the grave sites. He tries to enlist me as his helper. “No sirree,” I tell him. I don't want to spend my Saturdays throwing away dead flowers.

Uncle Jolly's not the only person asking me to go to the cemetery on a regular basis. Mrs. Applebud, who lives next door, wants me to accompany her on her two o'clock visits. I feel awful bad about her husband dying, but whenever she asks, I always tell her, “No, ma'am. Thank you, kindly.” I can see all I want of the cemetery from my front yard. That doesn't stop her from asking, though. Whenever I notice it's almost two o'clock, I hide. Thank goodness she's predictable like everything else in Rippling Creek.

Here's what I mean. Every morning, at seven o'clock, Mr. Gayle Rockfire drops by for a quick cup of coffee with Uncle Jolly and Aunt Patty Cake. And each school day, Frog and I catch the bus out front at eight o'clock. The Missouri Pacific passes through our town at nine thirty, one o'clock, and five o'clock and in the middle of the night at three thirty a.m. And in case you forget, the engineer sounds that awful whistle at the crossings. Rudy Branson throws the
Alexandria Town Talk
at the end of our driveway at four o'clock every afternoon except Sunday. And come Sunday, every person I've ever known in my entire life (except Uncle Jolly) is sitting on a pew in Rippling Creek Southern Baptist Church. So as you can see, life in Rippling Creek is predictable, predictable, predictable.