... walk into a bar - it just reads like a joke set-up, doesn't it?
Remember the scene in On Golden Pond when Norman Thayer, Jr., reading the local newspaper, discovers that one of the lesbians across the lake died? He circles back to the news at a later point and answers Billy's concerns about wildlife by saying: "Oh, sure. Black bears, grizzlies. One of 'em came along here and ate an old lesbian just last month." Well, last Friday for me went a little something like this:
"One of the Plains lesbians died last weekend - did you hear?"
"Hey! I hear one of them dykes in Plains finally kicked it."
"'Suppose you heard one of the Plains girls died."
"Didja know that Plains lesbian passed?"
And so on ... person after person, one after another.
Unlike Norman's paper, in Trout Creek, the newspaper - such as it is - only comes out once a week. Propriety requires that an obituary appear in the Missoulian, but funeral arrangements are usually publicized through word of mouth, with signs being posted at the post office, the Local Store, and the bars. This, incidentally, is also the approved method of distributing wedding or party invitations, birth or graduation announcements, and thank you cards. In this case, word of mouth was alive and well, everyone talking about "one of the Plains lesbians" dying, no names mentioned at all.
Because there are only two lesbians in Plains. (Right ....)
Naturally, being a lesbian myself, I'm assumed to know them. This, despite the fact that I've only been to Plains once, and would be hard-pressed to find cause to voluntarily return.
As it happens, I do not know this particular lesbian, but I do know of her. Truthfully, I know far more about this woman and her partner than any casual observer should know.
All thanks to the Baroness. (Like you didn't see that one coming).
In the wonderful book of essays My Mama's Dead Squirrel: Lesbian Essays on Southern Culture, Mab Segrest analyzes the Southern dilemma of either burying some bit of information or being the first to hold it up in plain view and name it. In the title essay, Segrest's mother is faced with a unique dilemma: as a group of cohorts gather at her home for an afternoon of cards and refreshments, Mom discovers a squirrel - deceased and in full rigor - under the table. She stuffs the squirrel under a couch cushion and forgets about the uninvited guest until much later when she sits upon it. There she reaches the pivotal point on what I have taken to calling the "dead squirrel decision tree." She must either endure sitting rather awkwardly on the dead squirrel, or she must decide to reveal that which has been previously concealed. Mom chooses to whip it out and be the first to comment.
Granted, the larger philosophical issue (if not the squirrel specificity) is a fairly widespread human conundrum, but I would argue that , as a dilemma, this point on the decision tree is particularly significant one in Southern culture. The path chosen sets one firmly along a course of action that is bounded by the SCC (that's the Southern Code of Conduct for those of you who don't speak South). The path of concealment sends one down a path of non-naming that effectively silences the topic for years, if not generations. That silence is as sacrosanct as the Australian aboriginal taboo against imagery of the dead. (On that topic, I'd highly recommend Eric Michaels' book Bad Aboriginal Art). The second path - revelation - serves to stake a claim for the individual or family in the grand tradition of Southern eccentricity, with all the rights and responsibilities attendant to that role.
Incidentally, I believe that the inviolability of the SCC is one reason that Southern families love family reunions, complete with a gaggle of small children. These miniatures may freely violate the SCC by asking what no adult would dare, thus reactivating the "dead squirrel decision tree". Flashback: I'm seventeen, not known to be dating, a tomboy, and Everyone is Wondering. Along comes the family reunion, replete with my eighty gazillion younger cousins. After lunch, sitting in my aunt's living room, one of the gazillion - all of six years old - asks me: "Who's your boyfriend?"
Silence.
Absolute, complete, pin-dropping silence.
College football commentary on the television mysteriously mutes.
The dog stops snoring.
My uncle stops snoring.
The silence of a tomb awaiting the closure of a zombie raising spell.
Dead Squirrel Decision Tree
Silence Response: "Why you are, of course!"
Revelation Response: "No one, but the postmistress' cute daughter asked me to the movies last week."
I still get letters from a great-aunt wondering when I'm going to get married. Being out of contact with the rest of my extended family, she exists in a sort of "Cone of Silence" where family matters are concerned.
While not Southern, the Baroness is firmly rooted in the "look at my dead squirrel, y'all" social mode. Thus, I know the following about C & P, the Plains lesbians:
they were together for twenty-two years until P's death;
they were born within three minutes of one another: C at one minute to midnight, P at one minute after midnight;
they met when C's husband, Major Benjy, persuaded his wife, C, and his friend, P, to have a three-way in the hot tub (the Baroness said, "I didn't tell you that! Oh, balls on a monkey, I DID tell you that. Well, serves the old bastard right.");
they were fast friends with the Baroness, much to Major Benjy's eternal concern;
Major Benjy, on hearing of P's death, joked that he, the Baroness, and C should have a three-way in a hot tub;
both C and the Baroness promised him that, should he press the issue, history would repeat itself.
Speaking of the dead, I answered the bar phone early this morning and had an entertaining, the-coffee-can't-brew-fast-enough conversation, with Robin (named for the character in Spider Robinson's Lady Slings the Booze:
Stef: "Good morning, Wayside."
Robin: "Who's this? Is Louise there?"
"She is, may I tell her who is calling?"
"Not until you tell me your name."
"Okay, you first."
"Where's the fun in that? You don't say, I hang up, keep calling until I get Louise. Then you'll never know because she won't tell you if I ask her not to, but I'll know who you are."
"True, unless I disable the phone which, frankly, would be neither difficult nor improbable around here. Then you lose and I get peace and quiet for the day."
"Ohmygod! This has to be Stef! It's Robin!"
"Well aren't you the clever boy. It's great to finally talk with you. How are things on the home front?"
(Robin's wife of twelve years has been gradually dying of systemic cancer. She'd recently decided to stop having her lungs drained. Both of them are very practical, matter-of-fact people, and are ever joking about her imminent demise).
"Mistress Cynthia (see the same Spider Robinson book) finally called it quits on Tuesday, which is a relief for all involved. The obit is in today's paper. That and having been so drunk that I don't really remember my travel plans are the reasons I'm calling."
"You didn't write the obit, did you?"
"No! Her daughter did that."
"Let me track down Louise so she can remind you of your plans. See you soon - just a sec."
Louise: "Hi Robin! How're you doing?"
...
"Oh no ... you didn't write the obit did you?!?"
...
"Not everyone, I'm sure, just everyone who knows you! Yours would read 'We first met when she was my dominatrix, tied me up, spanked me, and tickled me with feathers ....'"
Robin had made plans with Louise before Mistress Cynthia died to come down for a weekend of day-drinking once the Mistress finally passed. He needs to be with someone who understands their gig, Robin and Mistress Cynthia's relationship, as well as their coping methods. Mistress Cynthia's adult children are, understandably, involved in their own grief process right now.
At any rate, it'll be nice to finally meet the guy who has decided that I am to be his second Trout Creek BFF. We know each other vicariously through stories, but that's about it. Personally, I'll wait and see. He sounds great, but I doubt he'll be my new Cabana boy.
Robin's parting shot to Mistress Cynthia on the phone was:
"Tell Stef I'll wear my new eye-shadow, unless I find a new mistress who forbids it. Of course, if I do, I might wear it anyway just to see what the punishment might be!"
Did I mention that Robin and Mistress Cynthia met when she became his dominatrix?
