Journal of a Living Lady #239

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Do you know the way to Ingles? Last week I was looking for that grocery store in a crazy technicolor dream. Steven Spielberg would have been impressed with the authenticity of the scenes.

 

It started about 6:30 p.m. one night. There was a rock in my stomach that wouldn’t go away.  Soon a two-day siege of the horrid stomach virus began with the tell-tale, rhythmic episodes of vomiting. Brief, but welcomed relief came between spells.

 

Then, like labor pains, the intensity increased. For thirteen hours I wrestled in the bed, jumping up and down for forced trips to the adjoining bathroom. Finally I was so physically weakened that the bedside waste can became my ready friend. I had to get better to die. Buddy could do nothing but offer unwelcomed liquids that wouldn’t stay down.

 

Finally, when the worst of the sickness abated, I lay motionless. My body felt totally wasted. The cancer in my back bone sensed my vulnerability and sent intense pain to my spine. I know the pain well and have prescription Morphine for those times.

 

I didn’t know if my stomach would hold the red syrupy liquid down, but I had to try. I placed a full dropper of the sedative under my tongue and prayed. Fortunately, physical relief came quickly.

 

A couple of hours later I found myself in a dream that wouldn’t end. I will share what I remember of it. I seldom remember dreams, but this one stuck like brain plaque.

 

On the way to some southern destination, I was lured to Fiftiesville by a sign on the highway. I hastily parked the car in a paved lot at Ingles and began walking toward the entrance.  It was further than I originally estimated.

 

Finally, I entered the large gates. It was as if I were a child again. Circa 1950’s. Everything was so real. The little block houses. The ladies in their sun dresses.  The lemonade. An outdoor carnival was going on, but visitors could go inside the houses and look around. The oscillating fan swirling in the window of a small bedroom caught my eye. Families sat around Formica tables eating dripping tomato sandwiches on white bread.

 

I encountered numerous people from my past illogically locked into the same time frame and location. All are dead and gone now, but in this dream they were so much alive and younger.

 

Nobody spoke as I passed through one familiar house. The occupants nodded, acknowledging my presence. Sitting the living room were my mother, my grandmother, and my mother-in-law. They were all sewing. Each one smiled at me with their unique grins. Mama’s foot deftly pedaled the black Singer machine. She was sewing sashes on a yellow, polka-dotted dress.

 

I wandered outside. Street vendors spoke to passers-by in the southern dialect of years past. “Ya’ll come back now. Ya hea?”

 

Pig-tailed girls played hop-scotch on the sidewalks. A couple of boys in over-alls enthusiastically shot marbles in a freshly cleared area of dirt. It was a happy time.

 

I came upon a short, lean colored man, nattily dressed in a highly starched ironed shirt. Hesitantly, I asked him where the cars for Fiftiesville were parked. He tipped his wide-brimmed, white straw hat toward the street.

 

“Up there, Mam, right behind the Ingles Store.”

 

I thanked him and continued walking up the street. My pleasant greetings with the moving crowd lessened to a quick nod. I grew increasingly anxious as I searched for Ingles. My legs were tired and I needed my car.

 

At the corner of Lauderdale and Auburn, I heard singing. I boldly opened a hand-made yard gate and went around to the back hoping to find some help.  A large black woman was busy hanging white sheets in the warm wind. My sudden presence startled her.

 

“Can you tell me where Ingles is from here?” I asked.

 

She replied, “Shure can, Mam. Jist up there, Mam,” pointing randomly in the air. “Jist passed Mary Belle’s.” Mary Belle’s was a family-style restaurant.

 

My tiring journey continued. I kept walking and at the same time waking. Walking and waking. Part of me wanted to stay in the dream and the other part wanted it to end.

 

Finally, I made myself get out of bed. I walked around our quiet, dark house. Buddy was snoring in the guest room where I had sent him to avoid the awful virus. It reeked with disinfectant.

 

The Fiftiesville dream was still vividly paused in my mind. I am confident that if I had allowed myself to go back to sleep right away, I would have picked up where I left off. But I didn’t.

 

Sadly, I may never know if I found Ingles.

nancyk@alltel.net