A clean sheet wasn’t going to make one tiny bit of difference.  If she could speak, she would shout it out, shout with a force that would blow down the metal door.  Blow that stupid storm-cloud door off its hinges, send it skidding like a flattened bobsled to scar the polished floors and nick the railings on the stairs.  Hell, she might shout loud enough to send the door plum' through the railings.  There was a time she could.  There was a time when neighbors put up storm windows in July to keep her voice from shattering their gee-gaws.  Even so, Elinor Mason had had to replace the glass on her mantle clock when it cracked at precisely 11:04 p.m. the night before Hazel was hauled away.

They came for her in a van.  Albert made the call.  He would be sorry for that.  He would. 

At the end of twelve weeks, they stopped gagging Hazel.  Oh, it didn’t happen all of a sudden.  They’d try, every now and again, between ice water baths and shock treatments, to leave the wild woman’s mouth free of wide, white bandages.  Rita Hughes was pretty certain an eardrum, her right one, would never be the same again.  Rita was cafeteria help and all the woman had done was bring a tray into the room.  Hazel, the sticky white leftovers of removed tape making a long square around her mouth, had rolled a green pea or two around on the plate with her fork, then let loose with a volley of epithets about This Shit Wasn’t Fit For Pigs.  The mouth was taped back up, the restraints buckled back down.  No, it didn’t happen all at once.

After six months, Hazel took a cab home. 

Albert was watering a nice little garden out in back.  The okra was blossomed out and he was considering where he might find Hazel’s recipe for fried okra bread.  No one made fried okra bread like his Hazel.  Fact was, no one else made fried okra bread—period.  He was considering how his Hazel, when she wasn’t gone haywire with misery, was a pretty fine gal.  A pretty fine cook.  Fact was, Albert was missing his Hazel.  He was deaf, pretty much, Albert was.  Rita Hughes would understand why, if the two of them ever met, and commiserate with him about eardrums and such. 

So the cab dropped Hazel off and she could see, plain as day, that the front gate had been repainted, the missing picket replaced.  When she pushed against it, that gate swung open, easy as pie—he’d fixed that loose hinge, her Albert had.  And the front stoop was just as tidy as all get out and their house address numbers, the six that always swung down to make of itself a nine, well, they were polished and the six was screwed down and as surely a six as ever there was one at 3826 Mirror Lane.

Inside, Hazel took a fair share of time standing in front of her sink.  There was a window over that old porcelain sink with a view out to the back where Albert was handling a hose.  It was the same old sink she’d been dragged away from, oh, sometime back—she couldn’t recall just when.  But it seemed to her there’d been a whole lot of wear on that sink, chips and such in the surface that weren’t there no longer—not by sight or by touch.  She was running her hands along all that white smoothness and watching Albert running that water out in back right up till the minute he turned with his hose and headed toward the house.

Now, it needs to be said that the neighborhood had enjoyed not having to shutter their windows throughout the spring and early summer, and it was with some trepidation that they came to understand Hazel was back among the living.  But some time went along and the only real bothersome noise was lawn mowers on Saturdays from all up and down the street.  Albert, he brought bags of okra over to any neighbor who had a liking for it, and Hazel, she hung a hummingbird feeder out alongside the arched trellis over the little picket gate.  She kept red sugar water in it and kept a close eye on that feeder and never let it run too low.  And Elinor Mason came knocking just before Thanksgiving with a tin of fudge she’d made extra just for the two of them.

Hazel had studied the tin where she held it from Elinor’s handing it over and she must’ve had a quizzy look about her because Elinor said, “Oh, never mind now about it.  I just wanted to show my respects.”

That Christmas Hazel took Elinor over a basket of fried okra bread.


It was some time in February when that van rolled up to park in front of 3826.  Elinor can’t recall the exact date, but it was a Thursday and pretty much midday—and quiet.  The driver got out and another fella, just as big and burly, both of them wearing white pants and white shirts just as pressed and crisp as any mother would ever want her boys to be seen in.  Those men went through the picket-fence gate and disappeared up on Hazel and Albert’s front stoop.  There were trailing roses that kept Elinor from getting any sort of real clear view.  But after a time she saw, sure as shooting, who they had in hand when they left. 

It was Albert. 

Hazel’d said he was acting a little queer.  Well, not “said” so much as reacted by looking off in sort of hang-dog ways whenever Elinor asked after Albert.  Hazel was never much of a talker.  Seemed like she went from shouting to stone quiet after her vacation.  Old Albert, now he was a talker, and folks had to wonder if he could hear himself, sort of like an echo, on the inside, seeing as how he couldn’t hear what others said to him, like Rita Hughes when she related to Albert about the screamer they’d had in the previous year who had the same exact last name as he did, and was they related?

Poor, Albert. Personally, I would love to see what challenges you as you seem to make writing look effortless.  Are you willing to share the fried okra bread recipe?  I promise to pass it on down to my Alabama kin.

Hey, you -- it's all a challenge!  I made that up about the fried okra bread -- is there really such a thing? 

As to this little foray into the world of Elinor Mason and her neighbors, Hazel and Albert -- I'm wondering if the complete lack of any physical descriptions of these characters is a bad thing?  Or does reader get enough of a sense of them by what's there?  Or should I make them more visible, image-wise?  This post is first draft, and if it has some promise, I'd love to work on improving . . .

lynn

Courtesy of the Food Network -one of my fav sites:

Kaye's Okra Fry Bread Recipe courtesy Paula Deen
Show:  Paula's Home Cooking
Episode:  Cooking School 
 
 
 
 
 
1 cup cornmeal
1 cup self-rising flour
2 teaspoons salt
2 1/2 cups water
1 (16-ounce) bag whole okra, sliced into 1/2-inch rounds
1/2 cup chopped Vidalia onions
1 tablespoon clarified butter, plus more as needed

In a large bowl, whisk together cornmeal, flour and salt. Whisk in water to make a thin batter. Stir in okra and onions.
Over medium heat, add clarified butter to a cast iron skillet. Use a small ladle to pour batter onto skillet. Pan should be hot enough to make batter sizzle. Cook until underside is browned, about 3 to 4 minutes, then flip and brown on the other side. Repeat with additional batter, adding more butter as necessary.


PS Lynn - loved it. I got inspired to work on my own version also.

OH, I do hope you do, Lavonne.  And looky, looky, Sherry!  There is a recipe and Lavonne has offered it here . . . Who would'a ever thought? 

Looking forward to your "A Clean Sheet Wasn't" post, L.
Sherry, you ought'a try one, too.  Make it a poem instead of prose.  There are no real rules except that it start with those words.

Thanks, girls -- lynn

Oh goodness... Vidalia onions, my grandmother's favorite on any given day.  This takes me right into her kitchen, amongst a blazing Georgia afternoon with no air conditioner, and I am already sweating just remembering those days!  I may have to try this one!  Uh oh.... stumped at what 'clarified' butter is... do you mean the real thing?  ;-)  Can you clarify??

Laura

Clarified butter is butter that is cooked and as it simmers the oils separate from the butter solids.  When I was in culinary school we would often be found skimming these solids from the top of the pot. It does not burn as easily as regular butter. Clarified butter is also called drawn butter. I especially like it with steamed seafood served with minced horseradish,  tobasco and lemon wedges.

My grandmother made okra bread and for nostalgia I'll make a batch to share with my southern husband and mother.

Thanks for starting this foodie topic and I think I will try this using prose.  I am presently in a journaling workshop and stepping outside boundries a little. 

Take care of you,
Sherry

HA! 
been here Lynn, much enjoyed. always.

(my momma drives me crazy with okra, have to drive 40 miles to the farmers market to make her shut up, but love her all the same.  not much time left they say and I do her a great disservice in my illness of late - breaks my heart, it surely does. to see her gather what strength is left in the effort to remain my momma and jump on me-
 feet first, straight up.  "Rest," she says, "lay it down and let it go")

Is that what it takes to make Momma shut up?  Whew, glad to finally know and to have a farmer's market just a few miles away.  OK, sorry.  I'll go now.

Sherry

lol. don't know about your momma Sherry, but mine- will haunt me past the passing.
I'm more than grateful for that.

"You just get one ride around the sun"
and I could be Pluto and still feel her warmth.
the good, the bad, the ugly, but- forever- my mom.
wish I could say the same for my own children... but no.

I make sure she knows it beforehand, not after.  everyone should.

babbling as usual. ha! my mother was mean as molasses stirred thick on a iceberg.

Hi Sherry,

I just realized I missed this posting and your more than gracious explanation of Clarified Butter.... thanks for letting me know, as I had NO idea!  And this recipe... sounds yummy for a southern girl.  Take care, Laura

a clean sheet wasn't

quite

what i
expected

from you

unexpected --- sometimes that's not all bad.

thanks for the look, john

lynn

Well, here's my contribution. Still sort of rough.

[/b]

A clean sheet wasn’t anywhere to be found.  Stanley searched the linen closet for ten minutes and turned up nothing suitable. Pillowcases, hell there were fourteen of them, but not one sheet.   Why didn’t she do the laundry? Hell, why didn’t she have more than one set of sheets?  His mother had twelve sets for Christ sake.

Frustrated, he went to the dining room to rummage through the tablecloths. He ran across the red-checkered vinyl cloth they had used last summer at the cape. As he unfolded it, the scent of grass and salt air hit his nose.  They had laughed until they were sick that day, too much sun, food, and wine. 

Another thing she should have washed he thought. 

He laid the cloth in the middle of the kitchen floor, got the electric knife from the cupboard and then spent the next two hours carving and slashing at the body on the floor.  Some of the bones could not be cut with the knife so he used a hand saw instead. He left the head whole but stuffed it into the black plastic trash bag so he wouldn’t have to see the eyes.  Soon the bag was full and he tied it closed. To be sure of no leaks, he placed it inside a second and third bag and then hauled it to his truck. It wouldn’t do to have blood leaking from his truck. He knew of a dumpster that would be a convenient place to leave his grisly package.  Several large pieces of meat, including the heart were placed into the freezer.

Though a slightly guilty feeling was gnawing at him, he shrugged it off. So what if she had those big doe eyes. She wouldn’t be staring at him anymore. Stanley looked in the utility closet for the mop and bucket along with the rag bag and some ammonia.  Suddenly the house seemed too quiet and he began to hurry.  In the kitchen, he filled the bucket with cold water, poured in the ammonia, and winced from the smell.  But he began to mop and it wasn’t as easy as he had envisioned.  A month ago, when he started planning, he had not taken into consideration the mess that would present itself.  It reminded him of that Cat in the Hat story.  You know, the one where the pink bathtub ring grows and grows until it takes over the house? 

Well, the Cat cleaned up his mess so Stanley figured he could do the same.  He began to work in earnest and when he stood back to survey the room, he was satisfied.  Not a speck of blood remained.  He smiled to himself and went to the bathroom to take a shower. 

The drive took about an hour and he was unobserved when he awkwardly carried the lumpy heavy bag to the dumpster.  Back in the truck, he felt his little project was finally complete and he could go back to his quiet house to relax.  It would be worth it. About 7 pm the phone rang, it was her mother. “She’s gone for a few days – with some girl friends. I’ll tell her to call you when she gets back.”  Fat chance, he thought. I won’t be relaying that message.  He hated her mother and she was a lot like her mother.

He slept in the recliner that night.

He was lucky to have heard the bedroom radio alarm from the basement. He roused himself, showered, dressed and went to work. Another uneventful, boring week lay ahead of him. At least he’d had a nice weekend. As he turned onto his street that evening, he saw light in the kitchen window.  He knew he had turned it off; someone was there. Waiting.

Unlocking the door, he walked through the dark house and into the kitchen.  “You may as well throw those antlers out right now and WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY TABLECLOTH?” Doreen screamed.

Lavonne!
wunnnnderful!