Freezing at the 29th parallel

It's a phenomenon not seen in these parts in years. Too early, and too often to be a hurricane? Right you are. It is the weirdness that embraces the Great State of Texas when we get the exciting/frightening/" fix me a martini kind of news known as Potential Snow Flurries. As you may have heard, last weekend was nearly 80degrees and beautiful. I, the Fabulous Ma'am, decided to go uber domestic and work on my garage. My  housekeeper Josie Feliciano, was make great progress inside, happily doing some salsa to the beat of the Hoover, so I felt it best to get out of her way. The garage was calling.

Tom Berenger was at the gun range ( we have a new recreation center that is loosely based on a Chuckie Cheese place. Replace Big Gulps with Beer, and that scarey Mouse show with shooting ranges and you pretty well can see the appeal) so I had time on my hands and needed to feel I was tackling my organizational impairments. Things started out slowly but soon I was in my happy place. Stacking, packing, organizing, just like on HGTV. Had the box of clothes for the resale shop that mysteriously kept leaving, visiting Josie's Ford Focus, and returning empty. Can't really see Josie in size 9, 3 inch mules, but she seemed so accomodating today, who was I to stop the dream? After 4 trips to the Focus, I was seeing a clear path and Josie had made her last dance around the living room. I came in, took a shower, and started dinner .Company would arrive at 8pm. Around 5:30, I noticed my back was a little stiff. Grabbing a pinch of a muscle relaxer, I stopped to moisturize before going downstairs to the pork tenderloin. An hour later, TomB gets home, showers, and starts the first batch of Lemondrop martinis. My back wasn't doing the rebound I had hoped for,so I sipped a little martini in hopes of a synergistic effect. Now, I know what you're thinking. The Fabulous Ma'am is living dangerously.Not to worry. Let me explain.

 This medical advice came years ago from an elderly neighbor who told me that when caught in dire straights, such as pain and hosting a party at the same time, you should look up what constitutes an overdose of pain meds , and then take 2 less.  Wait an hour, check for a pulse,  and then have a drink. Since this woman had been such an influence on my early married life, I always took her advice.  The lady in reference was Mrs.Owen. Not Owens, Owen. No S.  She lived across the street from me. 85 if a day when I moved in, she always gardened with her HUGE diamond rings in her brassiere. She said they were the only 2 suckers a girl could trust.  She drove one of those schoolbus length Lincoln Towncars that you get when you have white Barbara Bush hair, a small handgun, and hard liquor at 5pm. Mr.Owen had passed away decades before but continued to represented in the boudoir through a portrait that hung over her bed. She said if he couldn't be in the bed, he would always be over it. On her dresser,a framed picture of Ronald Reagan. The only two men she would ever have considered sharing a bedroom with.
Mrs. Owen taught me the importance of having a sterling pattern that matched your mother's and sister. That way, you could easily accomodate a seating of 36 without any worry. It is important to be prepared. Also, place your tablecloth on the table as soon as it is pressed, a fold line down the middle is acceptable, but by spraying a mist of water, it will settle. Also, you should have your T-Bills with a man your husband trusts. ( at this time in my larvae state, I didn't know what a T-Bill was, let alone who my husband would trust with one or some. How did T-Bills come, anyway? Did you get them in eaches or dozens, or just how?) Since we lived in a neighborhood that was built in the late 1920s, Mrs. Owen had once been a newlywed on the street and now felt it her duty to make sure this generation of new housewives avoided the pitfalls that she had already manuvered.  When my neighbor down the street announced she was expecting a baby, Mrs.Owen said "A baby. My Word! You've not even been on vacation".

 She was quick to come running across the street when she saw me pulling weeds. She said she was hoping to find the reason for me being on hands and knees, was morning sickness. When I explained I had not been on vacation so this was not a possibility, she was livid. This did not look good. I should not be seen looking like a field hand. Where was my man? My husband, she wanted to know where was my husband? Why would she be looking for him?  No!!! Your MAN. The person whom you trust with pruning, planting, and transplanting. My Man. My Mr.Winston. That's who she was looking for. My Man.

Mr.Winston looked like he had been in grammar school with Mrs.Owen. Together they made sure her corner lot of Thomas Road was always perfectly manicured. She knew the name of every type of magnolia tree that grew in Jefferson County. Her daylilies were legend and you knew you had been accepted into her world when you opened your door and found bundles of lily stalks, wrapped in the morning newspaper. Mr.Winston would be back across the street, ready to wave when the gift was received and then report back to Mrs. Owen.

Mrs. Owen had come from a community in Houston known as Rice. Mr.Winston had come from Rice when God was a boy to tend Mrs.O. He traveled back to West Rice University twice a month to make sure  Mrs.Owen's daughter's yard was also acceptable in that realm of propriety. Little Miss Owen, we heard, had a crew that worked under the supervision of Mr.Winston. This daughter was born when Mrs.Owen was 45 years old. Mrs. O. told me the day  Dr.Rubenstein gave her the news, she went to her attorney and made out her will, and then made reservations for dinner at the country club. She knew she would die and wanted everything planned out for Mr.Owen. He was a busy man.

Now I know you are thinking "Driving Miss Daisy". Not hardly.  Mr.Winston rode in the back, braced for flight, as Mrs. Owen slammed the pedal to the metal and made the 80 mile trip in under an hour.  On one of their trips to Houston, Mrs.Owen felt she might be having a heart attack, so instead of pulling over or even letting Mr.Winston drive, she continued on the 610 Loop until she came to an acceptable neighborhood. When the Lincoln finally came to a stop at the ER of Twelve Oaks Hospital, Mr.Winston went on a stretcher right next to Mrs. Owen. She was having chest pains, but he was verging on a heart attack. Both were back in the front yard in the spring.


I loved to visit for a "toddy" and listen to her speak of a time long ago. Randolph(Mr.O) and Mrs. O were both "old South money" but had known bad times. In her living room hung a shadow box with an elaborate fan displayed in it. She said it had come from Randolph's people, originally from the French branch of the family.The court of Marie Antoinette (Mrs. O felt Marie was a hussy. I digress). During the Great Depression, Mrs. Owen noticed Randolph taking it off the wall and wrapping it as if a package. He explained a man from New Orleans was offering $500 for the fan, and it made more sense to make the deal, than to worry and hold onto something that was frivilous. Mrs. Owen said they would always regret the sale, the money would be gone, better times would come, and the fan was part of the family heritage. She personally found it borderline vulgar, but it was from Randolph's people.  Somethings, memories, are worth more than money. As always, she was right. She and the heirloom fan outlasted the Great Depression, The War, the other wars, and eventually Randolph. And Ronald Reagan. 

When I walked over one morning and told  her I was leaving the neighborhood she was quiet. She asked me not to share any details, it didn't matter. It wasn't her business. Besides, she had known him longer than I had and greatly preferred me. He was not considerate about the sound of his car on a Sunday morning while she shared time with Billy Graham.

My winter in the neighborhood with Mrs. Owen and Mr.Winston was my first experience of being a homeowner during a snowy ,hard freeze. For some reason, today's impending freeze makes me think of being that naive housewife. I remember Mr.Winston came over and wrapped my pipes, covered my camellias, and asked that I watch to make sure Mrs. Owen didn't drive. He had hidden the keys but he knew if she got it in her mind, she would get that car started.

Today, I sound more like Mrs Owen than the person who learned so much over mixed drinks. It didn't work out being a housewife. I wasn't meant to be a spouse to a house. I was meant to be strong, formidible, large & in charge. Tom Berenger is The Man. And he knows it's best not to be in the backseat when The Fabulous Ma'am is  behind the wheel. I can't drive 55. But that is another story for another time.Stay warm,
I remain,
The Fabulous Ma'am