Dear Hank Williams (3 page)

I reckon V.C. knows I'm not going to be attending her back-to-school slumber party.

Rubbing my sore arm with loads of BENGAY,

Tate P.

 

September 11, 1948

Dear Hank Williams,

S
OME NIGHTS,
I lie in bed and listen. The night carries all kinds of sounds—an owl hooting, crickets chirping, and frogs croaking. If I listen careful enough, I can hear Momma singing “Oh, My Darling, Clementine.” And when Aunt Patty Cake begins to snore and Uncle Jolly slips off to the Wigwam, I sing with Momma like we did when she was here.

I've got a nice voice too (Momma told me she could hear the big potential in my vocal cords). For some strange reason, it's only when I'm here in my bed that my voice comes out sweet and sorrowful like Momma's. In front of other folks I get nervous, and it comes out like a pig caught in a barbed-wire fence, squealing out the high notes, croaking through the low ones. That's why I hardly sing outside my bedroom. The last time I did was when the youth from our church went caroling this past Christmas. The choir leader asked me to stop belting the songs so loudly (which I believe was his way of letting me know my singing was not up to his standards).

But I'm determined to let my best shine through. I know I have talent, and when people have talent they should share it with the world. Just like you, Hank Williams. If only I could take voice lessons at Miss Mildred's Music Shop. Then I would be in top form for the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest.

Miss Mildred wears cowgirl outfits like Dale Evans in the Roy Rogers movies—blouses with western yokes and skirts with white fringe. She owns enough cowboy boots to match every outfit. She buys bottles of Bouquet of Roses cologne by the dozens from Aunt Patty Cake, which explains why she smells like she's bathed in the stuff. I want to tell her that for a more subtle effect, she should lightly spray it in the air and walk underneath it, but Aunt Patty Cake won't let me. Miss Mildred teaches piano and voice when she isn't selling guitar picks or sheet music. Aunt Patty Cake takes me there every Tuesday after school for thirty minutes of piano.

Miss Mildred never teaches me a song worth singing. Instead we practice scales with silly words like
Here we go up a road to a birthday party
. I believe music should fill up inside a person like air and make them think they're so light, they could float to the clouds. Hank Williams, that's the way you sound when you sing, like you're a part of those words coming out of your mouth, heading toward the sky. All practicing scales does is make my fingers ache. The whole time I'm thinking, I wish Miss Mildred would teach me voice lessons. Once, I asked her, “Miss Mildred, how about we use half my lessons for singing?” Do you know what she said? “Tate, some voices aren't meant to be heard.” Well, I was fit to be tied!

Clearly, Verbia Calhoon has a voice that Miss Mildred thinks should be heard by the world. She thinks Verbia is going to be a big star, and so does Mrs. Calhoon. Mrs. Calhoon claims she is not only Verbia's mother but also her manager. That means she buys big stacks of songbooks for Verbia and arranges for her to sing solos in church every third Sunday. If I had all those voice lessons, I could do that. When my momma comes back from making that movie, she's going to see to it that I get the best voice teacher in the parish. We'll probably have to drive all the way to Alexandria, but Momma won't mind, because she knows I'm capable of singing like an angel too.

The songbird from Rippling Creek,

Tate P.

 

September 13, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

I
T'S BEEN A COUPLE
of weeks since I sent you my first letter. I'm wondering if you haven't answered any of my letters because I was disrespectful by using your first name. I reckon I forgot because they call you Hank Williams on the radio.

I should have written “Mr.” in front of your name. Anyway, I didn't mean any disrespect. I want you to know my momma raised me right. Frog is a different story. Momma slipped up some on raising him.

Everyone has heard back from their pen pals, except for Wallace and me. (I doubt he wrote his cousin, because he said the whole pen pal idea was stupid.) Even Coolie and Theo Grace got letters all the way from Japan. You should have seen the red-and-purple stamps on their envelopes. They had pretty designs and funny symbols that Mrs. Kipler said were Japanese words. Theo Grace's pen pal drew a picture of a rabbit on the back of hers. The teeth looked so sharp. Coolie read his aloud, and everyone laughed when he got to the part where his pen pal asked if he knew Hopalong Cassidy. He's a big movie star. How would
we
personally know him? I'm sure my momma has met him, though.

This week, Mrs. Kipler said we should write about how we spend our day when we aren't in school. Did I tell you I was a cosmetics model? There ain't a woman around Rippling Creek that hasn't gotten a dab or dose of the Delightfully Devine Beauty Products that Aunt Patty Cake sells. Sometimes I ride with Aunt Patty Cake when she makes her calls. We start on the outskirts of Rippling Creek and wind our way through the backwoods until we meet the other side of town.

The only place Aunt Patty Cake doesn't drive to is Pine Bend, where the colored folks live. Once I asked her why. She looked annoyed and said, “I don't have to, because Constance gathers their orders and brings them to our house.” That didn't really answer my question, but I can tell when Aunt Patty Cake is finished explaining. Besides, I think I know, anyway. Uncle Jolly says a white woman should never be caught going into Pine Bend. He makes it sound like there are murderers living there.

The other day Sudie Cartwright wanted to know what Tequila Sunrise Peach rouge would look like. Aunt Patty Cake rubbed two tiny dots on my cheeks. Mrs. Cartwright put on her glasses and came in so close to my face, her wiry eyebrows were inches from tickling me. She quickly straightened and said, “I'll take two pots.”

When we drove away from the Cartwright house, I asked Aunt Patty Cake, “Why didn't you try Tequila Sunrise Peach on Mrs. Cartwright's cheeks?”

“Honey, did you see the rough condition of her skin? Reminds me of crepe paper. Sudie wouldn't have bought a single pot, but when she saw the rouge on your flawless cheeks she got caught up in the fairy tale.”

“What fairy tale?” I asked.

“The fairy tale that maybe her fifty-seven-year-old cheeks could look as dewy fresh as your eleven-year-old ones. The beauty business is based on fairy tales, and every woman hopes they all come true.”

So, see, Mr. Williams? I'm in the fairy-tale business too. Think of me as a fairy godmother without the wand. When we got home after making the rounds, Aunt Patty Cake went in the house, and I headed into the yard. Frog darted out from behind the magnolia tree next to the pasture fence. He's always hiding and trying to scare me. But instead of saying, “Boo!” he asks, “Whatcha got those pink dots on your cheeks for?”

Lord, I wish I had me a dog. If I had a dog, he would be loyal and true and wouldn't ask me a billion stupid questions.

The main reason I like to make the rounds with Aunt Patty Cake is so I don't have to be around my pesky little brother. At least his bicycle is out of commission and I don't have to worry about him trying to race that knucklehead Rudy in his convertible.

Your fan and Delightfully Devine Beauty Products model,

Tate P. Ellerbee

PS—If I was a fairy godmother with a wand, I'd grant you three wishes. I'll bet your first wish would be to become the most famous singer in the world.

PPS—I like the song you sang on the
Louisiana Hayride
this week. Aunt Patty Cake still wonders what you look like.

 

September 14, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

T
HANK YOU FOR THE
autographed picture! I was hoping for a letter, too, but I ain't complaining. I'm probably the first person in Rippling Creek who could recognize you on the street. Aunt Patty Cake said, “I knew he'd be pretty.”

Uncle Jolly took a quick look at your photograph and said, “Yeah, good thing he's a pretty boy, because he can't sing.” I probably shouldn't have told you what Uncle Jolly said, but remember that comment came from a man who ain't that pretty. Besides, Uncle Jolly can't recognize talent the way I can. He only likes those sad heartbreak songs.

Maybe someday you and Momma could sing in a cowboy movie together like those Hopalong Cassidy or Gene Autry movies. And you're a lot better looking than Gene Autry. People would line up around the block to see that show. Thank you again for the autographed picture. I'm mighty proud to have it, and now I have something to tell them at the post office when I mail another letter if they go to snickering again.

Your fan,

Tate P.

PS—Aunt Patty Cake said we could hang your picture over our Emerson radio.

 

September 15, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

A
LOT OF FOLKS
are going to the railroad crossing in town to wait for the Clyde Beatty Circus on its way to Alexandria. The circus will be riding the Missouri Pacific up from Opelousas and will reach our town around three thirty in the morning. Folks are going to get up in the middle of the night and wait along the tracks, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elephant's behind or a clown waving out the window. If you ask me, those folks are plain ole ridiculous. Seeing a blur of train cars rush by is nothing like sitting under a big top and watching a genuine circus.

Uncle Jolly is taking me and Frog to Friday night's performance. That's if Frog doesn't chicken out. He's afraid of clowns. Frog is always afraid of the things he shouldn't be and brave about the things that he should fear.

Anyway, let those crazy folks get up while it's pitch-dark and stand near the railroad crossing. I don't care if Verbia's mother is serving creamy hot chocolate to everyone like it's a big party. I'll be home sleeping sound in my bed, and when Aunt Patty Cake tells me to get up for school tomorrow morning I'm going to jump out of bed and say, “Ready for duty, ma'am!”

Sweet dreams,

Tate P.

 

September 18, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

T
HE
C
LYDE
B
EATTY
C
IRCUS
was amazing! Just as I predicted, Frog wouldn't go. Yesterday afternoon when Uncle Jolly and me headed toward his truck, Frog took off and hid behind the magnolia tree. He had to stay and watch Aunt Patty Cake sack up her Delightfully Devine orders. At least I got out of that chore. Although I really don't mind helping her sort the products. It's fun to match up the lipsticks and rouges with the people who ordered them. Some of them select entirely the wrong color, but folks can be stubborn. And like Aunt Patty Cake says, “It's all a fairy tale anyway.”

Back to the circus—it would have been perfect if Uncle Jolly's girlfriend, Dolores, hadn't come along. She is clearly not the circus type. She acted all uppity, making Uncle Jolly place napkins on the seat before she plopped down her big rear end. She kept fanning herself with her program and saying how the circus smelled like a chicken house. But after Uncle Jolly bought me some pink cotton candy and the music started playing, I forgot she was there.

When the elephants marched in, I couldn't help but think of my daddy and wonder if he ever took pictures of any in Africa. (Remember, he's a world-renowned photographer.) The elephants lined up straight as a row of dominos. The trainer raised his stick, and they stood on their hind legs. Dolores's face turned paper white when an elephant pooped ten feet away from us. Now, that was better than watching a blur of elephant butts racing by in train cars.

The tightrope was my very favorite part. This morning I gave it a try myself on the thick oak branch that stretches high above the ground. I held on to the branch above so I didn't fall, but someday I won't have to. Practice makes perfect. And in case you're curious, I'm still practicing my singing. I've decided I'll sing “Wildwood Flower” in the talent contest. When the Carter Family sings that on the radio, I can't get the song out of my mind. I find myself humming it all day long. Which reminds me—it's time to listen to you. The
Louisiana Hayride
will be on in fifteen minutes.

So long for now.

Your loyal fan and oak-branch walker,

Tate P.

 

September 20, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

I
'VE DECIDED TO BE
my own voice coach until Momma comes home. Seeing those tightrope walkers and other brave circus performers reminded me that anything is possible. I almost forgot that. Don't
you
ever forget.

I've been practicing in front of the magnolia tree. Frog is my audience. He's always following me anyway. Figured I might as well give him something handy to do. Now I'll have to put up with him asking, “Whatcha gonna sing next?” At least Frog is an appreciative audience member.

No one knows I'm singing in the talent contest yet. Not even Momma, who I know would be proud. I want it to be a big surprise. I still have to practice my piano every day. We don't have a piano yet, but Momma has promised to buy us a baby grand first thing when she's finished with the movie. For now I go next door to Mrs. Applebud's house. Mrs. Applebud is old enough to have a mess of grandchildren, but she doesn't have any, only a son who is serving in the military over in Japan. I reckon that's why she likes it when I come over to practice. She makes me peanut butter cookies. Frog doesn't eat any, though. In fact, he won't come in the house. He follows me to the door, then takes off. Some little kids are afraid of old people. I guess he's one of them. Every time I gobble down those cookies, I think, Frog doesn't know what he's missing.