The Chipmunk who Smiled at Me

 I woke early that morning and wandered downstairs.  I was six years old.  As I walked outside I saw Bitsy, our beloved mackerel-striped tabby, walking about the yard with a little furry creature in its mouth.  Horrified, I ran down the back stairs and caught Bitsy and gently pulled the poor critter from its certain doom.

It was very cute, and as I walked back upstairs noticed him smiling at me for saving him.  He was brown with a tail sort of like a squirrel, only smaller.  And it had a pair of beautiful stripes on its back. I smiled back.

"It's all right," I said.  "I'll take good care of you."

"Gosh, six-year-old I, thought.  It's actually smiling at me."

"Yes, you're safe now," I told it.  "See? Everything's all right."

I brought it inside with the intention of showing my prize and act of kindness when it bit the shit out of my finger.  What I'd thought was a smile was a warning:  "Don't mess with me."

I screamed and dropped it.  It ran off to wherever wild animals run off to when they're inside a house.

I ran up to my parents' bedroom.  I shook Mother's shoulder and said, "Mother, wake up.  It bit me."

I'd never seen her sit up so fast from a deep sleep in my life.  "What bit you? Where?"

"I don't know," I bawled.  It was kind of like a squirrel.  Bitsy had it in his mouth and I saved him, but he bit me."

Panic rising in her voice, she asked, "Where?  Where did it bite you?"

I held out my bloody finger for her to see.  "But it was smiling at me.  I save him from Bitsy."

"Oh, God, she said.  "Howard.  Wake up.  Something bit Elodie.

I thought I'd get some Bactine and a band-aid and that would be it.  But no.  It was imperative we find this creature.  Mother told our maid, Augustine, what had happened, and told her if she found anything dead in the house to save it.  "Whatever you do, don't throw it away.  It might have rabies.  

I'd never heard of rabies before.  She made an appointment with Dr. Calhoun to come in and start a series of rabies shots.  At that time, the shots were given in the stomach or abdomen area.

We entered Dr. Calhoun's office to the familiar alcohol-infused air that always smelled like spotless, clean pain.

"Baby," said Mother, "We've got to give you a shot or you might get really sick.

I was a skinny child without an ounce of fat on me.  It took three nurses and my mother to hold me down as I screamed while I was injected with a huge needle right in the abdomen, in which every muscle was tightened.  I'd never felt such pain in my short little life.  It was unimaginable pain.

Then Mother informed me that I'd have to have 13 more shots in the stomach every day until it was finished.  I could catch rabies and that could kill me.  Maybe dying would be better.

Mother sent me off to school the next morning, but all I could think about was that next shot.  It was akin to torture.  By the time school let out, I was trembling with fear.  I got into the car.

"I've got good news," said Mother.  "I asked Augustine today if she'd found anything strange in the house while cleaning.

"Found something.  It looked like a roach, so I threw it away," she replied.  It had hidden behind the drapes in one of the rooms of the house and died.  

Mother rushed out of the back door and down to the alley where the trash was kept.  Luckily the trash hadn't been collected, and there, lying amid old coffee grounds, egg shells and garbage, lay a dead chipmunk.

"They sent the head off to Jackson to be tested for rabies, and it came back negative.  That means you don't have to get any more shots."

Relief washed over me like water. I felt like a German being freed from a concentration camp.  Then I got mad.

Why had she let me sit there all day at school when she could've called the school to let them and me know.  Honestly?  I still don't understand it.  She HAD to know the dread and fear I'd experienced the whole day, imagining another of those horrible shots in the stomach.

This was before I finally realized that my mother was self-centered; it wouldn't have even dawned on her to let me know earlier.  She let me sit there all day awaiting torments that rivaled the Spanish inquisition.

I had learned a valuable lesson that day.  Don't take a chipmunk's smile at face value.  Those little bastards can be mean.  

Eventually, Bitsy moved down the alley to my great aunt's house, who was more attentive to the needs of pets than we were.  In fact, a lot of our pets moved to Annet's.  She was the magical lady in the Disney story of The Three Lives of Thomasina, the cat.  Animals just knew a better place to be.

Bitsy on the sidewalk in front of Annet's house.  He was 20 years old.  The last time my aunt saw him, he was being carried down the street by a pack of dogs.  Sad story all around.  Photo by Neil Varnell

On the First Cold Day of 2018

Today felt like first winter when you're kind of delighted it's Christmastime but the sky is pewter and the air is cold and you wonder if it's ever going to be a bright, sunshiny day again. Halfway between desolation and utter joy.

You think of all the dead, but also of the children who still wonder at the magic. And the knowledge that one day in the not-too-distant future, you'll be among the dead they're missing at the table, wishing you could make it easier for them.

In the meantime, the constellations turn in their heavens and never notice the tiny starts and finishes of the ants who live upon this hill. And people wonder why I never make the bed.

11/01/2018

The Reckoning

In the pictures 
we seldom smiled.

Stubborn children 
forced to pause
and pose before the hearth 
in the cabin 
in the woods
in the childhood
in the life
he'd built 
in the 
happy time.

He pulls the tattered box
From under the bed,
studies each fading moment 
for clues.

The lamp sheds no new light
On the mystery of us. 

The smell of dust, 
the screen door’s slam,
the island in the pond
saddles in the shed,
the boat, the chill,
the sweat, the water,
the shadow and the light
the silence of a Sunday
night waiting 
while he locked the gate.

Turned the key 
On another memory.

The sandbar, 
Alligator gar and
Busch beer in a pull-tab can.
Dinosaurs, all gone
like the sound of a horn on a barge,
first large then drifting away.

He puts the pictures back,
Hopes the phone won’t ring,
bringing something new 
to grieve.
Lying back, he sighs,
Closes his eyes and waits
for the reckoning

~ March 3, 2010

Woodville Wildlife Festival

Woodville Courthouse

All the artists set up
around the courthouse square
beneath the oaks,
the resurrection fern
swollen and green with last night's rain.

The morning misty and damp
and strewn with color,
the smell of barbeque mingles with
hay. A skinny Catahoula hangs
around the cooking trailers,
hoping for a handout.

I buy pulled-pork sandwiches for
two -- one for the dog, one for me.
I watch her bolt it down as
a friendly cattle farmer stops
to tell me he'd bought her a hot dog
a few minutes before.

Camouflage is definitely in
at the Deer and Wildlife festival.
Don't be caught dead without it.

Didn't know what to expect,
but the dead moose being
draped over a form for mounting,
his lips hanging loosely off the side,
is a shock.

The air is filled with the sounds
of turkeys and ducks, made with
wooden calls by craftsmen
next to artists painting
things from life.

And the people....
The obese Black woman
with a blooming onion
the size of a football on
a plate, all for her.

The little girl in cowboy boots
and shorts, skinny legs so cute
it breaks your heart,
just because.
She has a puppy on a leash.
Balloons
tied in her hair,
her face painted like a cat.

The baby in the stroller,
leaning in to snag
whatever is in reach.

The friends sitting on the
corner, the same conversation
they've been having for
40 years.

Doctors, bums, wives, bankers,
lawyers, maids, babysitters, boyfriends,
girlfriends, children, vendors
all in motion as the band
plays the 70s greatest hits,
going round and round
and round.

A wonderful sound.

~ Elodie  Pritchartt
10/11/2009

A Child's Drawings from 1883

My mother had a large cedar chest where she kept all our report cards, newspaper clippings, drawings, etc. that we'd done as children.  It was at my sister's house, and she decided we didn't need to keep those old things, so out they went with the trash.  I understand getting rid of clutter, but I think so often we lose a lot of family history that might've been enlightening to our descendants, who might take an interest in geneology.

When I moved back to Mississippi from Los Angeles, I was going through some cabinets in the library at my father's house.  I was snooping around and found an old sewing basket containing an assortment of old family papers, receipts, letters, calling cards, and one little tablet from a drugstore containing a child's drawings.

The child was Elodie Rose (Grafton), my great grandmother.  She was fourteen years old when she doodled in her little book, just an assortment of her practicing her penmanship, doing her multiplications, and drawings of her friends, whom she named.

Now I'll have to go do some sluething to find out who these friends were and what happened to them.  Tommie O'Brien, Ellen Scott, Nellie Conti, Sophie Wright.  Some of the other names are familiar:  Agnes Carpenter, Bessie Learned:

Elodie Rose

Agnes Carpenter

I found letters to Elodie from Agnes Carpenter when Agnes was in boarding school in New York.

I can't begin to tell you what it feels like when the old photo on the wall takes on a personality.  It's like reaching back in time and meeting each other for the first time. I highly recommend saving those old report cards and letters, and drawings.  It will be a treasure for someone someday.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017:

Last night I received the following email from one of Nellie Conti's descendants:

Hi Elodie,

I stumbled across your blog this evening as I was researching my great grandmother, Nellie Conti of Natchez, Mississippi.  If you want to know more about Nellie, she was the daughter of John Conti and Mary Jane Lazarus Conti and was born in 1866.  She married my great grandfather, John E. Rouse in September 1884, just a year after the notes and drawings in your blog.  She and John Rouse lived in Natchez.  He owned and operated a grocery and a saloon at 510 Franklin Street in Natchez.  They had 8 children, my grandmother Loretta was their youngest child, born in 1896.  Sadly, Nellie Conti Rouse died of tuberculosis just 10 days after giving birth to my grandmother.  We only have one picture of her, which I have attached.

The name Tommie O’Brien is also familiar to me.  The O’Brien’s and the Rouse’s were in-laws. Nellie’s half sister Louisa married Joseph B. O’Brien.  I believe Tommie was a relative.

If you ever come across anything else about the Rouse, Conti or Lazarus families of Natchez, I would be very interested in learning what you discover.

I have enjoyed reading your blog, and am so happy I found it.

Thanks again,

Christie Susslin

Nellie Conti

John E. Rouse. Born August 1859 in Macomb, IL. He married Mary Ellen "Nellie" Conti, daughter of John F. and Mary Lazarus Conti on Sept 1, 1884. He operated Conti and Rouse grocery and liquor store at 510 Franklin Street. He died in Natchez on June 19, 1909.

Conti and Rouse grocery and liquor store at 510 Franklin Street

Related links:

Letter from Agnes Carpenter at St. Agnes School in New York

Letter from Agnes Carpenter at Mississippi Military Institute

Ladies' Man

A few days after my father's funeral, I stopped in to see Mimi Miller at The Historic Natchez Foundation.  She told me she'd been too shy to get up in front of a crowd and tell one of her stories about my dad at the service, but if she had, one of the stories she'd have told was of the first time she met him.

"I was intrigued by him," she said.

My father had this -- je ne sais quoi -- charisma.  He was handsome and self-assured.

It was at a party my parents were giving with another couple.  Somehow the conversation turned to the question:  What is your favorite thing to do?

Most people had the usual replies:  traveling to Europe, watching football games, going to the lake with friends, dining out.

When it came my father's turn to reply, he didn't miss a beat:  "Carpool."

"Carpool?"

People looked confused.

"Yes," he said. "Every morning I get to drive my children to school.  I have them all to myself.  Sometimes I pick them up in the afternoon and drive them home.  It's my favorite thing to do, the best part of my day."

He didn't say anything about going out on the river, hunting....anything.  His children were his favorite thing.  The man who had every woman's eye on him wanted nothing more than to be with his children.

What a guy.

I only hope I lived up to what a child should be to her parent.  He did his part, in spades.

Celebration of LIfe - Howard Pritchartt, Jr.

On March 9, Howard Pritchartt, Jr.'s family and friends gathered for a celebration of his life.  My father's one request for his funeral was that he have no preachers speaking over him.  So instead, we simply invited one and all who knew him to come up and tell a story.

It started off with a beautiful eulogy by my dear friend, Brent Bourland.  After that, we all told some stories, remembered the wonderful times.  It got downright silly at times, and after it was all over, we all agreed he would've approved.

For anyone who'd like to hear what kind of man Howard was, this is worth watching -- some of it sad, some of it amazing, and a whole lot of wicked funny.

Because my father's life was defined by his days on the Mississippi River, we ended it with a gorgeous a capella rendition of Old Man River.  Enjoy.



Video created and produced by: 

Bill Slatter Video Productions
423 Main Street
Natchez, Mississippi 39120
(601) 446-9401