The End of Everythihg

 The fire didn’t realize the strength of water

until she killed him.

The water didn’t realize

the strength of radiation before she evaporated

like a magician’s rabbit (without the wiggle), and began to complain about the sky’s all-powerful portal

— which, as everyone knows —

will kill us all.

By Elodie Pritchartt, August 18,2023

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

Side Trips on the Blues Highway -- The Mississippi Delta

 

After the mandatory six-month waiting period, the date my divorce was to be finalized was fast approaching. I'd been fielding calls from the ex who'd suddenly decided he didn't want a divorce and wanted to "talk." His calls were so frantic, I decided to disappear until after the divorce was final. 

So I got into my car and drove, wandering through parts of the country by myself that I've always wanted to see, stopping along the way to take photos and see places I remembered from my youth. I found this one street off a cotton field with a couple of old storefronts, all crumbling and abandoned. One had the remnants of a bar with broken pottery still sitting on the counter top. The other was just the shell of a building, open to the sky with trees and vines growing up the floor and walls. 

I stepped inside the door to get a better shot when it sounded like the building was falling down on top of me. I ducked as a huge owl swooped down out of the rafters over my head and into the tree behind the building. 

When I checked into the B&B, the fellow who checked me in said, "I understand no one is to know you're here. Don't worry; your secret's safe with me." 

I thanked him profusely and checked into a charming little room in a garage behind a big old house once owned by a man who owned a 20,000-acre plantation and killed almost every bear in the state. It's a beautiful house, reminiscent of an English country cottage, right in the middle of town. They've got 12 acres surrounded by Days Inn, Burger King and other tacky establishments. A little piece of heaven in the middle of town. There were three other couples staying at the house. Very nice folks from Kentucky, off on a road trip of their own. They had the whole main house to themselves, while I took the room in the garage. 

That night I went to a liquor store to buy some wine. The security was so tight, I had to pass the money through a slot in the wall, and they passed the wine through a bigger slot. 

"Are you here for the Blues thing?" the lady behind the bulletproof glass asked me. 

"I don't know anything about it," I replied. "What's going on?" 

 "There's a big blues singer -- a woman -- in town. Women from all over the country are here to hear her. Figured you were here for the show."

"Thanks. I think I'll check it out." 

That evening I went to dinner in town. I saw the other couples from the B&B there, and went over and introduced myself. 

"What are you doing in town?" one of the husbands asked me. 

 "Oh, I'm just here for a little quiet time," I said. "I want to do some writing and take some pictures." 

They were very cordial and invited me for breakfast next morning. 

Then I went to see the Blues lady. Definitely a hit with the menopausal crowd, of which I realize I'm a member. It was so odd, being in this Blues dive with a bunch of old yuppies with lines around their eyes, wearing their dainty PTA clothes and grinding to the lyrics: "Baby, you got somethin' in your toolbox that I aine' got in mine, Maybe you could use it to show me a good time." 

While I was there, the other couples came in. They'd driven all the way from Kentucky just to hear this woman sing. I was standing at the bar when one of the women came up to get a drink. I smiled and said hello. 

"So, I hear you're getting a divorce," she said. 

 I had to laugh. I remembered Pal (the guy who checked me in)telling me, "We don't care what you've done. We just want to talk about it." 

 I felt kind of sheepish after my suave dodge of the husband's question earlier. I had a couple of margaritas and watched the crowd, and went home early (around 11 p.m.) The other couples staying at the B&B stayed out 'til about 1 a.m., and looked a little raggedy this morning. But they were nice folks, asking me about my book business and getting all excited when I showed them the book I found at Goodwill by Captain Kangaroo that was signed. 

"Oh, my God! I LOVED him!" 

I did, too. Was it so very long ago? Well, I guess maybe it was. 

That day, I moved over to another B&B that is a little bigger and has more atmosphere. I woke up the next morning to the mournful sound of a train whistle on the tracks. I love that sound, even while it makes me kind of sad. It makes me feel like a child again, all tucked safely into bed and hearing that whistle, feeling secure in the bosom of my home and wondering about the lonely souls out there riding on the rails. 

Later that morning I was talking to Dave, the fellow who keeps everything neat and tidy at the B&B. 

"I heard the train this morning," I said, explaining how it makes me feel. 

 "Trains don't run on these tracks anymore," he replied. 

 "But I heard it! I swear I did." 

 "Oh, that was just (can't remember the name). He likes trains. He's got some money, so he bought himself an engine. He drives it about a mile down the tracks and back every day, blowing the whistle." 

God, I love small towns. 

That morning I walked across the parking lot to have breakfast at this little dive that serves the best scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and toast in town. While I was there, I saw a wizened old Black man with loaded dice play tricks on a couple of tourists, and brag about all the places he's been. 

While I ate my food a cat jumped up on the counter and started eying my plate. "You better watch him real close," said the waiter behind the bar. "He sneaky."  

I wondered if the health department knew about Catty Can (his name). Pretty soon, Catty Can tried to make a move and I swatted at him, saying, "Nope! Not today, partner." He gave me a wicked, disgusted look and lay down on the counter, waiting for another opportunity until the waiter snuck up behind him and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him on the floor. 

The days passed. I drove all over the state, enjoying my solitude and my newfound sense of freedom, feeling powerful and introspective. I think every woman should take a road trip by herself at least once in her lifetime. It's a trip.

To Doo, or not to Doo. That is the question.

My poor little doggie. She's always had urinary incontinence, which makes housekeeping a regular pain in the rear. She rarely has a #2 accident, though. The last couple of nights, I've asked her to go out and go potty.

She gets out on the porch and suddenly realizes she's got to do #2. But she can't quite hold it in. It starts prairie dogging -- you know, peeking its little head out of her rear end and then going back in.

In the meantime, she's trying as fast as her 15-year-old puggle legs will carry her down, down, down, the many stairs to get to the yard. Without fail, she manages to leave a land mine or two on the steps. But who on earth can fuss at her for that?

This is the dog that made the LA Times Book Review for the stinkiest farts on the planet. Of course, to me, they smell like flowers. She is my heart.

Even her poops are cute.

All For Naught

 

I've decided it's true.

No good deed goes unpunished.

But that it's punished without question

says more about the accuser than the accused.

And the older I get the more unkind I realize people are.

Choose whatever you want to believe.

But remember. It is the belief that defines you, not the

actions of an innocent in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The world will go on, spinning into eternity, and it will all amount to nothing.

Put one foot in front of the other and live your life as if you still believe in humanity.

A hundred years from now, we will be nothing more than stones with dates set in the dirt for the few who will remember.

After that, let the archaeologists dig us up and wonder who we were and what marks we left.

With any luck at all, there won't be a mark to be found.

~ April 2, 2022

Gone with the Wind

 Waiting for Ida to hit.  It's supposed to be the strongest hurricane to hit New Orleans in centuries.  And it's on the 16th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.  This is what happened at my house last year during Hurricane Laura, which wasn't nearly as bad.

Well over $100 thousand dollars worth of damage and six months living at the B&B.  Here's the tree that fell and, unfortunately, there's an even larger one right next to it.  Both in my neighbor's yard.

Hold on to your hats, folks.  It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

The Train Station

I'm going to post this, even thought it's not finished and I'm still not sure of all the facts.  But I need to post.

It was a dreary day in 1871 when Anne Gilbert Snyder Munger accompanied her husband, Henry Elias Munger, to the railroad station in Alton, Illinois.  After a tumultuous six years of marriage, Henry left her and her three children, and fled to Texas.  It was the last time she would ever see him, another casualty of the War Between the States.  Anne was a devout Catholic, so divorce was out of the question.

Munger graduated from Union College in Schenectady, New York as a sergeant, 1st lt., Company A. in 1861,   He returned home two years later with the 18th New York Infantry as a company commander, and acting adjutant.  

As a civilian after the war, Munger went to work for the commissary department in Illinois.  On November13, 1865, he married Anne Gilbert Snyder.  Henry and Anne had three children ⏤ their eldest  a daughter, Anne Lucy, followed by  two sons, Henry and Carlton. Henry Elias moved his family numerous times in search of railway jobs, which he quickly lost due to his drinking.  

While living in Hannibal, Anne could take no more of his drinking, took the children and left him.  That day at the train station, he was so drunk, she was nearly paralyzed with fear that he would collapse on a train track and be run over.  But she watched him totter onto a train headed for Texas.   Finally, she turned around and without looking back, returned home to collect her things and moved with her daughter, Anne Lucy, to be closer to family. 

After Henry Elias’ departure, his brothers, William and Lyman took the boys in, cared for them and educated them. Anne and her daughter then moved to Alton, Illinois in order for her to be closer to her family. One of her boys, Henry Snyder, lived with Lyman and Carlton lived with William. She never saw Henry again. 

Around 1885 while on a round trip cruise from St. Louis, Anne Lucy met Anchor Steam Lines purser, William Howard Pritchartt.  Pritchartt had fallen in love with the City of Natchez, Mississippi, and bought two lots on the tall bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, married Anne Lucy, built a home and raised a family there.  Around 1910, Anne Snyder Munger moved to Natchez to live with her daughter and their family.

To be fair, Munger probably suffered from PTSD. The Civil War was anything but civil, and he'd been in skirmishes and seen things that no one should have to see.  He started out as a fresh-faced young man with fair skin and an open, friendly, handsome face.

According to a passage from The18th New York Infantry in the Civil War:  A History and a Roster by Ryan A. Conklin, McFarland & Co., Inc., Publishers, 2016, Munger landed in Texas and became a vagabond, wandering all over the state looking for work.  He continued to drink and was described by saloon regulars as "ugly and quarrelsome" when drunk.  His last known whereabouts was in Beaumont, TX in 1901, where he failed to pick up his last pension check.  It was assumed that he had died, but how is not known.  His grave can be found in Lufkin, Texas in a pauper's cemetery called Strangers' Rest Cemetery where a small stone plaque  displays the names of known burials from early records.  On that plaque one can find the name, Harry E. Munger.

It took many years of going to the Congressional Library to find when he had died before she was finally able to get her "widder's mite,"  veterans' benefits for the widows of those who'd served.

For pictures of and stories about the house on the bluff, see https://shantybellum.blogspot.com/2011/09/long-farewell.html

Upon arriving in Natchez, Anne had two or three possessions that were valuable.  She was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln, and, as such, had received a handwritten invitation to his inauguration.  Lincoln was one of those rare people, especially in such early days, to be a celebrity in his own time, and anything signed or written by him was worth its weight in gold.  Lincoln had written to her to personally invite her to his inauguration, which she dutifully kept, but later lost.  She was known as a terrible housekeeper and may have simply thrown it away accidentally. We looked in places she might've hidden the invitation to prevent theft, and upon taking the back off of the following photo, was excited to see a partial address on Pennsylvania Avenue.  It did not turn out to be the lost invitation; however, we discovered it is an original Matthew Brady photo, whose studio was on Pennsylvania Avenue.

H.S. Munger by Matthew Brady

H.S. Diary

She had her husband's Civil-War journal and a large book of paintings of American Indians, which she later sold.

She also had in her possession her brother's (Joseph Baker) naval commission, which he received in 1861, after having enlisted without his father's knowledge or permission.  

He was appointed in June, 1861, as lieutenant in the Marine Corps.  The commission, which is still extant, was signed by Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy and Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

He commanded the marine detachment that served the quarterdeck pivot gun on board the U.S.S. Congress during the historic battle at Hampton Roads in March, 1862.  The Confederates had seized the Union's ironclad, Merrimac, and sank the wooden Union ships Congress and Cumberland,  making wooden fighting ships forever obsolete.  He escaped the sinking Congress, however, and was described by a correspondent for the New York Herald thusly:  

"This young officer was twenty-one years of age on the evening before the battle, and is said to have conducted himself with unusual bravery and coolness."

Baker had also fought in the first battle of Bull Run, in which he was badly wounded and carried off the battlefield by his brother, John Pope Baker, who was a Cavalry officer.  He served through the war and rose to the rank of captain.  He was found dead in his quarters at the Marine Barracks, Boston Naval Yard, October 2, 1876, from the effects of Yellow Fever contracted during the war.

Haunted by Love

 I moved home because home was kind.

And I am home surrounded by all the things my ancestors held dear.

It is my job to hold them dear.  To keep them for the next generation.

But all day they talk to me, my ancestors.  They tell me to remember

the smell of melba toast in the oven.  The smell of freshly made apple sauce

poured on top.  A smell I will never know again 

in a house no longer ours, but whose every creak and crevice is as 

familiar as my own hand.

They scold me for letting things slide on days when I just cannot make

the bed, cannot even leave it.  Do that dish in the sink, remembering Annet 

pouring boiling water over all the dishes once she'd finished washing, 

the smell of her rubber gloves filling the kitchen.

Daddy's barn burned this winter during the ice storm.  A tragic, terrible

mistake made with the best intentions to keep the horses warm.  They died.  Children's pets.

The barn still had old toys I had left upstairs, confident I could go out and

see them once more.  I want to tell Daddy the story of our great, great uncle 

Robert, who slit his throat.  He never knew.  But Daddy died and it was too late to tell.

I want to tell him of Henry Munger, who disappeared and was never seen again.

He was a mystery for generations.

I found out where he died and where he's buried, alone in a plot in Beaumont.

But I learned too late.  How Great Uncle Alexander drank a bottle of carbolic acid when the head 

injury he suffered proved too much to bear.  Daddy knew none of these things and he

was ancient.  He should've known.

When Tommy Lu died and Daddy was bent with grief, I saw a taxidermied 

chicken in an antique store.  Daddy loved chickens almost more than anything.  

So I bought the creature.  Daddy kept it in the kitchen..

Today I pulled it down and dusted 8 years of dust from its feathers.  And wanted to show him.

See?  I kept it.  For you.  For love.

These ghosts are with me always.  Always.  They never leave and I would be sad to see

them go.  But they break my heart every day.  For love.  With whispers.

Waves

 The years rush in like waves. 

They deposit living things, gasping

for air and empty shells 

left to the elements —  for calamity

 or discovery — 

then suck back again, taking memories

 and friends and loved ones 

like sand, each pebble tugged and tossed, 

polished and lost 

on an infinite sea of time.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

01/25/21

Conflagration

 

Conflagration

It rained yesterday. Strange.

I thought it would clean the air

but it smells more like ash than it did

before.

No scorched earth, I begged. Let’s

do this right. For once, do something right.

And so far, it’s worked. But

last night you showed your hand,

just a little. And I realized this

fragile peace hinges on my willingness to pay.

I slept uneasy. I’m so close. It’s

nearly done. Hang on. But when I

look out the window, I can’t

tell if it’s sunrise or fire

coming over the ridge

to light the way

or destroy us.

We’re officially a disaster.

Our home. This marriage.

And the world looks on

like rubbernecking drivers

on a crowded freeway.

They talk of mopping up the mess.

Starting fresh. But the air still smells

like smoke. Like a dragon sleeping

in its cave, waiting.

The rain doesn’t wash it all away.

Just brings it to the door.

November, 2007

29Joe Collins, Jessica Fleming Crawford and 27 others

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Passion Play

"Their souls entwined," the poem read,

and to the azure skies they sped.

A poem's no good unless it's spent

on passion, pain and lovers rent

from others' arms before its time,

all penned in verse, both free and rhyme.

I don't remember poems like this

in English class, all filled with bliss.

Our poems were writ on roads and mice

all forked and timorous (and filled with lice).

These sexy poems are more my ken

all wet and slippery, skin to skin.

Where brown is never brown, but bouillion

and blue is nothing if not cerulean.

And life is heightened by degree.

All senses more... sensitivity?

So you touch me and I'll touch you,

And 'ere you know it we're all through.

And smoking cigarettes and spent.

If only poems could pay the rent.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

First poem I ever wrote, circa 1994

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Suicide Note

 So.  Time for bed.

Two Xanaxes, three Unisoms and

almost a fifth of Maker's Mark

will guarantee 

a dreamless, thoughtless sleep.

If I don't happen to wake tomorrow,

please know that it's okay.

I wasn't that thrilled with 

waking anyway.

I didn't do it on purpose 

but I didn't do it by accident

either.

Just know that I really did

love you so much more

than you realized,

and I'm really, really sorry 

for the pain I've caused.

I'm so, so sorry.

Go.  Live your life.

Grab every taste of it.

And know that I am here

where I want to be

in the good times 

of your memory.

I love you.  

I do.

But I couldn't love you enough

to keep living in such

a painful place.

And who's to say we won't see each other in 

the ever after where

all is forgiven and all is forgotten?

Editor's Note:  Please don't take this as an actual suicide note.  It's not.  I have no plan to end my existence on this mortal coil. But it HAS occurred to me on more than one occasion.  It does run in the family.  I just want to put this out into the universe in case something should happen and I can't take it back.  It's in my genes.  And it is the ultimate end.  I will never see any of you again, although I hope that you remember that I loved you more than I can say.

In the meantime, I'll see you tomorrow.

Catfish, 1976

 Okay, so....I can't remember if I've told y'all this. Or if I SHOULD tell y'all this. But....

Way back when I was at Ole Miss I lived in the Roundhouse Apartments. They were these one- and two-story apartments that were round. The nicest thing about them was that they were situated in a beautiful, wooded area close to campus.

I and my two roommates had the incredible luck of getting a one-story roundhouse in the very back of the development, nestled right in the woods.

At night when the weather was nice, I would open my window to sleep among the sounds of the night creatures. Every morning, I would wake up to find about four or five feral cats in bed with me. The minute I moved, they'd freak out and jump back out the window, never to be seen again until the next morning when it would happen all over again.

Anyway, one day a really sweet ginger tabby showed up with a collar. I started feeding it and petting it and letting it make itself at home. Then he'd disappear for a day or two. One day, he returned and I noticed something wrapped around his collar. It was a note:

In a very sweet, rounded, female hand, it said, "Whoever is taking care of my kitty, thank you so much. I would love to meet you." She dotted her i's with little hearts. It was so cute.

So, naturally, being the evil, wicked person I am, I wrote a note back, and wrapped it around his collar. In very masculine, blocky, all-caps writing, I wrote. "Yeah. Hey. I've been taking care of your cat. He's cool.'

We went back and forth, she wanting to get to know me better, and I telling her I was ex-Marine and working my way through school. Needless to say, the notes got kinda personal.

Then one night, little long-haired, blonde feminine me was at a party and started talking to some girl who informed me she lived at the roundhouse apartments. I can't remember how, but she told me about this ginger cat she had.

After awhile, I figured it out and told her I was the ex-Marine who'd been taking care of her cat. Then I started giggling uncontrollably.

You never saw such a hissy fit in your life! It was like Catfish before the internet. Now, I don't know if that makes me evil or just funny, but I thought it was hilarious. I couldn't understand why she didn't think it was as funny as I did.

So. Whatever. Be careful with your cat. That's all I can say. I still miss that little ginger bastard.

Time to Go

Everything dies,

Even you. 

But he knew 

he only had to touch

one, anyone, to send it 

away. To make it

die.

It's what he did

as though it couldn't

be helped.

It was written

in his DNA.

Twisted lines of 

data, always

twisting more, the more

he cared.

The world burns,  

Hate. Anger.

Grief.

His own light

is growing dim.

He longs for

release but

too stubborn to

recognize when

it's time to say goodbye.

So it twists 

and in its twisting

wishes for a 

better place

to be.

Meanwhile

There is sleep.

~ September 17, 2020

Everyday Tragedies

 Effortless,

they smile,
they laugh, They talk.

Something breaks.
The dam crumbles.

The truth pours out.

Tears. Everyday tragedies.

Still they laugh.

Still they smile.

So easy to ignore.
So hard to forget.

How long
will it take
For pain to right itself?

For others to forget?

Sleep.

Sleep until the silence
Contains it all,

until all is right in

your sleep world

Every tragedy
is just another day.

~ Sept 14, 2016