Creola's Moonbeam (17 page)

I was beginning to suspect that the same kind of mystery surrounded Beatrice, a lady who didn’t even admit to having a last name! More likely, she simply avoided the subject.

Comparing the two, Creola and Beatrice shared traits beyond their secretive backgrounds. Each has made an impact on me. Each rarely thought about herself, but was concerned about the well-being of others. Each woman had a great zest for life and an enormous love for those around them. Importantly for me, however, was that both women had a knack for bringing out what was and is the best in me.

Now
here
was a theme.

I began to type.

by Honey Newberry

To me, Creola was always Creola. She wasn’t black, she wasn’t white; she was simply
herself
. Throughout the turbulent years of integration, I tiptoed around any mention of the racial turmoil whenever Creola was present. Creola kept to the same undeclared decree. A decade would pass before I addressed the subject of prejudice face to face with her.

Weary of the invisible but impenetrable wall between us, I finally decided to approach Creola. After I was grown, I called her at home and drove the fifty-mile distance that separated us. Over and over, I practiced what I was going to say. I re-thought, worried, and almost changed my mind about broaching the issue at all. Rehearse as I did, I still couldn’t come up with exactly what to say. I just knew I was determined to say
something
. On I drove.

As I had done so many times, often with Beau and our children alongside me, I pulled into Creola’s front yard. The dust of Georgia clay covered my car like a crimson cloud. As it settled, I could see Creola waiting on the porch of her weathered but tidy clapboard house. Geraniums in clay pots lined the steps, and two large lacy ferns hung from the rafters. Creola had likely been out there for an hour or more, anxious, and unquestionably praying for my safe travel. She rose to her feet and grinning, came to the top of the steps holding wide her still strong arms.

“It’s sooo wonderful to see my Moonbeam!”

As the two of us sat sipping sweet tea, we discussed the things of our lives. We talked of family, of shared memories, of illness, of day-to-day events. We also talked about the weather, a favorite subject of hers. She’d always loved summer storms, relished the excitement!

Creola’s weather radio, a gift years ago from Mother and Daddy, broadcast reports around the clock. I could hear it playing from inside. Never much of a television watcher, Creola readily admitted that she enjoyed her weather reports. “Technology,
pfffttt
. Why ‘technology’ is just another word for the devil,” she insisted with a spit. “But I do appreciate the Butlars’ fine, fine weather gadget. I like to know what the heavens have coming next.”

“Oh Creola, there’s just nobody else like you.”

“’Course not, child. The good Lord makes us all different.”

I nodded. We sat quietly for a moment. I looked around her yard. “I see you have firewood still left from the last year.”

“Ready for the next. Hope it won’t get too cold, though. The last ice storm kept me inside for way too long. Couldn’t get to church.”

I studied her old pecan tree and two sweet gums. Her flower beds were bursting with buds. “Looks like your daylilies are close to blooming.”

“Ummm hum.”

I was just making small talk. Creola sensed it. “Why have you come to me on this day? Anything wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, but you know me, Creola. I do have something on my mind.”

“Best get it said, then.”

“You and I are so close. I can talk to you about everything in the world, everything short one subject.”

Creola’s cautious eyes peered into mine. “You’re not having troubles with Beau, are you?”

“No, heaven’s no!”

“Thank the good Lord for that. For years I’ve grieved myself brittle-boned over Mary Pearle’s unhappy choice. One of these days, she’ll see that man for the scoundrel he is. I was almost hoping that was why you came today, to tell me he was dead!”

“Creola Moon, I can’t believe you said that.”

“I’m telling the truth like it is.”

“Crellie, please don’t get me started on Edgar today. You and I always egg one another on. We’re gonna have to stop talking so viciously about that man.”

“Like I said before, it’s simply so.”

“You’ve always seen him clearly, while I continued to wear rose-colored glasses much of the time. Guess the ‘little sister’ in me recalled their wedding, their romance, how handsome Edgar seemed in my eyes back then. Why, I even used to believe that Edgar’s daughters might manage to soften their father. I hoped that having a family would make Mary Pearle and Edgar happy.”

“Doesn’t work that way, sorry to say. I was like you, though. I always wished the darlin’ babies would improve him. But a man like Edgar isn’t about to change. Not in his nature.” She shook her head. “I just praise the Lord that my Priceless Pearlie’s girls have all of their mother’s goodness and not one ounce of their father’s badness.”

“I agree.”

I sipped iced tea then twisted a little gold ring I wore on one pinkie. Showing it to her, I said, “See, it fits perfectly now. Remember when I was eleven and you gave it to me to replace the ring I lost? I keep it with me always.”

“Of course, I remember. Don’t recall ever seeing a child so upset about losing anything. I’d have given you my head to dry those tears! It fills me with joy to see you wear the ring.”

“I wear it often, Creola, especially when I’m talking in front of an audience or reading to a group of people. Anytime I’m nervous about something. It remains my good luck talisman.”

She looked at me harder. “So, my Moonbeam, why do you need good luck sitting on my porch?”

I took a long, deep breath. “Creola, something has been eating at me for years. Most definitely, this is a very difficult subject.”

Creola’s eyes locked on mine. It was as if she were trying to help draw out my clumsy words. “Keep talkin’.”

“There’s an uneasy barrier between you and me.” I closed my eyes. “The racial barrier.”

Silence.

“Neither you nor I have ever acknowledged our differences, Crellie, nor have we let them interfere with our love or respect for one another. I hope not, anyway.” I cleared my throat and took another sip of tea. I also twisted my ring.

“Crellie, I want to apologize to you if ever, with insensitive words or selfish actions, if ever I’ve offended you.” I gulped the tea. “Darnit, Crellie, I guess I’m trying to apologize for being ignorant. No, it’s not that, either. I suppose I’m trying to say I’m sorry for being, ummmm, for being naive. Oh heck, Crellie, I’m apologizing for acting, well, acting so ‘
white
.’”

I never felt more self-conscious. Or any whiter.

Before I could make a worse mess of my well-intentioned efforts, Creola stopped me. Taking my hand, the dignified woman responded. “There is nothing to forgive, baby girl. We are all God’s children, you and Crellie. You are white because God meant for you to be white. For the same reasons, He planned for me to be a person of color.”

I listened.

She smiled. “And you and I both know that everyone falls short of His plan in one way or another. Us included. But unhappily for us, Miss Moonbeam, because you and I are also created to be different, we may never completely understand one another. Just believe, more than anyone else on this earth, you will always be tied to me like my very own.”

Tears welled up. “Crellie, I couldn’t love you more if I were.”

“That I have always known. You weren’t born of my body, child, you were born of my heart. You must always understand there is no black and there is no white where you and I are concerned. That little ring, the one you are about to twist into shreds, that ring sealed our bond years ago.”

I relaxed my fingers and placed my right hand in my left.

Creola rocked back in her seat. “I’ve pondered about this, well, let’s see, this
situation
, too. Try to think about us in this way: We are like two big trees standing side by side.

I nodded toward her yard. “The pecan and the sweet gum?”

“Yes, you’re getting it! Our leaves, our roots, our barks are different. As close as we stand to one another, and as much as we care about one another, we will never be the same. Not on this earth, anyway. But, dear girl, we remain in our good soil, again side by side, sheltering one another, and standing tall together. We always will. Now, how about a piece of cake?”

“I’d like that a lot.”

We ate most of Creola’s apple cinnamon cake. Like us, the cake was a fine mixture of a lot of good and tasty ingredients.

Nothing else needed to be said.

But on my way home that day, I questioned my intentions. Guilt? Asking for forgiveness? At least, Creola and I had removed one stone from the wall. Honesty between two people was a beginning. I would never come to accept or to understand the narrow-minded prejudices of other people. I only knew that my relationship with Creola was one nourished with love, trust, forthrightness, and mutual respect. I hoped those shared qualities would forever keep open my mind.

My fingers flew over
the keyboard as a story about Creola came to life. It wasn’t birthed on the pages of a typewriter, something I did momentarily consider in honor of tradition. But just as sweetly, CREOLA’S MOONBEAM, printed in large, bold type, filled my computer’s screen.

It is particularly gratifying for me to write about people I love. In fact, so enthused was I that I wrote well into the night, sleeping only briefly. The sun was already toasting the sand as I scurried down onto the beach. Not only had I missed the usual passersby, but I was also too late to meet Beatrice.

Honey Newberry, either you don’t write a single word or you can’t make yourself quit
.

That said, I know my patterns well enough to understand that these obsessive traits often produced my best work. Plodding along the shoreline, my mind naturally drifted back to Creola. It suddenly dawned on me that her story could well be turned into a book. For once, Creola didn’t comment, but a pelican flew overhead as if to say, “I agree.”

I watched a family splashing about on a raft and decided such a book could appeal to both adults and to children. When I used to read to Mary Catherine and Butlar, it was always pleasing any time the story was as intriguing to me as it was for my children.

I picked up a shell and skipped it out across the water. I laughed, excited. As Daddy used to say when a project suddenly started going well, “We’re cookin’ with gas, now!”

by Honey Newberry

Creola had promised me and Mary Pearle that, come rain or shine, we were going to the zoo in Atlanta. Sure enough, we awakened to the sound of raindrops on the bedroom window.

“Don’t you be fretting, darling girls. Of course, we’re sticking to our plans. Your mother says it’s all right with her as long as there’s no thunder and lightning. But you two have to wear your galoshes
and
keep your raincoats fastened. And we must get home well before dark.”

“Yes, ma’am!” we chorused.

“Don’t you know, those animals get mighty lonesome on rainy days. Not many children come to visit them when it’s wet outside. Yes, my darling girls, I’m almost grateful for this gloomy day because we’ll have the zoo park all to ourselves.”

Because Creola didn’t drive, we would take public transportation for our outings in Humphrey and for our trips into Atlanta. Much of the fun of going to Atlanta for me was riding on the Greyhound bus. Mary Pearle didn’t share my enthusiasm. She thought it strange that Creola made her sit up in front with me while she rode in the bus’s very last seat.