I was born Southern Baptist from the womb...literally. I never knew any other life as a child, except church and community and the complete integration of the two. During the years of his ministry, Rev. D. W. (Dan) Moulder ~ my great-grandfather ~ founded and organized hundreds of Baptist churches, baptized thousands of converts, and married every Baptist (and not-so-Baptist) couple within a fifty mile radius. My family lived and breathed the Baptist faith. I even attended and graduated from Baptist colleges.
I was definitely born with one face, and I had made myself another. No one recognized the new face. Even my best friend and co-worker at the time made an accusatory statement, that to this day, I have never forgotten. She said, "Dianne, I don't even know who you are anymore." That one sentence defined the year-long dalliance of the Baptist girl with the bad apple. Wearing one face to myself and another to the multitude, I had no idea which was true.
I now understand a few things about myself and my behavior during that year. I was selfish. I was adrift. I was idiotic. And, I was embarrassingly involved with a younger man. David had not yet turned 20, and I was 25 going on 50. Even though I was a young single mother, a progressive editor of a county newspaper, and an energetic YMCA aerobics teacher (twice a week), I felt more like a cradle robber, a cougar, the proverbial older woman...much older than my birth certificate confirmed.
Despite the closeness of our relationship, David and I never acknowledged each other in public. We had not met each other's families. We were not acquainted with each other's circle of friends. Our clandestine relationship took place each night after my young daughter was sound asleep. On a few occasions, I cooked dinner for him; however, those covert dates were granted only when my daughter was visiting her grandparents. I also began to suffer how very different we were. He was socially awkward, and I was a social butterfly. I had been taught proper manners, and he didn't know how to hold a spoon. I had mastered artificiality, good impressions, and keeping up appearances; he was impolite, unrefined, and brutally blunt. And, he liked to fight. (Absolute truth.) He had come to my house two different times after he had been in a bloody brawl. Despite all our attempts to be private, people heard of my paintings. I had definitely made another face for myself ~ one that I was not willing to remove.
The chicken house party in October ~ exactly one year later ~ changed everything. My rental house, known as the Faircloth house, was located in front of an abandoned poultry house. The house was used for storage and farm equipment, most of which was owned by my best friend's husband who farmed the land around the house. A small driveway forked at the highway ~ one lane led to my house and the other led to the chicken house and the property around it. As I said before, I was idiotic; so, for some mad as a hatter reason, I decided to have a party at the chicken house.
The party date was set for the Saturday night after the Friday night rival county football game ~ the same rivalry game I had attended one year earlier. I expected this event to be our coming-out party. I invited my friends, David invited his friends, and we both invited friends from all the grades in between my graduating year of 1977 and his graduating year of 1983. My younger brother was bringing his National Guard buddies from Camp Shelby, and I had informed the local law enforcement of the party ~ just in case the activities of the night got out of hand. Also, the county where I resided was (and is) a dry county, which meant that no business sold alcohol in the county; however, I lived about twenty minutes from Soso, Mississippi ~ a town that was made famous for a song by the same name and its unlimited supply of liquor. Sweet Magnolia Blues....
To say that the chicken house party was a fiasco is to say that the Empire State Building is tall. Too much alcohol and too many bad apples combined for the perfect recipe of disaster. No one knew that David and I were officially seeing each other, so one of my long-time male friends wanted to dance with me underneath the mirrored-ball. (Yes, there really was a mirror ball in a chicken house.) When he decided to get a little too cozy, David decided to do what he did best ~ start a fight. The rivalry from the football game the night before spilled over to the party, and before I knew what was happening, several guys were involved in a melee ~ cursing, punching, and going for reinforcements. I called the chief of police who dispatched two cops to break up the fight and send everyone on there way. After everyone had gone, all that remained was a big hole in the chicken house wire and the bloody bad apple who had been thrown through it.
What. A. Mess. The call from my younger brother the following day confirmed the sad state of my affairs. In no uncertain terms, he advised me that I should think about my reputation, but more importantly, my young daughter. He stated that my life was in shambles, and I had made very poor choices about the company I was keeping. My life of sin and debauchery was coming to an abrupt, sorry end, and I knew it. In no uncertain terms, he made his message clear concerning the bad apple. "Cut him loose." So, I did. David and I spoke that same Sunday night, and we parted on neighborly terms. He assured me that he was "right down the road" if I ever needed anything. And that was it...OVER. This is the part of the romance novel where you have to wonder how everything went so terribly wrong. Believe it or not, I have been brought to tears countless times when the plot reaches this all-time low.
In keeping with every great romantic story, a few unexpected characters are usually introduced in the next chapter. Thankfully, my older brother and his ten-year-old son had moved home from Texas and needed a place to stay until he found a house. The Faircloth house had two extra bedrooms, so I offered them room and board. We were becoming quite the family of breakups, as my brother and his wife filed for divorce. In my opinion (and everyone else's, I am sure), the four of us seemed like one big down-on-our-luck, mixed-bag, hodgepodge bunch. Enter the peeping Tom...
The first person to see him was my nephew early one morning. He caught a glimpse of the peeping Tom hiding in the hedges behind the back windows of the large dogtrot hall. He called for me, and we both hid in a corner and watched him maneuver his way around the house. I saw him the next morning. I was drying off after my bath, and he was peeping through my bathroom window. At every sighting, I immediately alerted my brother who dashed out of the house; however, we never found his hiding place. I asked my brother if I could solicit the help of a close neighbor ~ one who lived "right down the road." Sure enough, the peeping Tom returned; but this time, David was waiting for him. He watched the pervert pull out of the driveway and followed him to his home, slowly driving past and awaiting an opportunity to confront the culprit.
Two nights later, he approached the suspected creeper in a parking lot with a group of his redneck buddies. David pulled up and parked his Corvette about a six inches from the guy's feet which were hanging off the back of his tailgate. I have read this scene more times than I can count ~ right out of an Avon paperback. David stepped out of the car, his long black hair still wet from a shower. He was wearing his favorite navy blue muscle shirt with the yellow trim. As always, his boot-cut Levi's were tucked into his cowboy boots. To this day, I can see the looks on the faces of those cretins who have never (nor will ever) measure up to the guy standing in front of them.
David told me he casually mentioned to them that someone had been sneaking around my house and that I was his neighbor. He added that most folks didn't appreciate that kind of behavior, especially that close to their own homes. Finally, he advised them that if they happened
to know who the guy was, it would be a good thing to give him a message. "What was the
message?" I asked him.
"It's not important,” David
answered. “What matters is that the guy
doesn't come back." The peeping Tom never returned. Three weeks later, my brother and his son moved to a house in the community where we grew up. The Baptist girl was back, the bad apple was gone, and the rats moved in.
To be continued...
Dianne ;)
To be continued...
Dianne ;)
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