She would show up at our front door one or two times a year; loaded for sale—bags of homemade goods. She knitted and hand stitched anything you could imagine, from beds, to dresses, to men’s underwear, or cozies. She had two gold-front teeth and her hair was always up, yet slightly disheveled: but her eyes were like stars hanging far away in the night sky and her red lips were that of a mid-century temptress. She was the kind of woman I expected to arrive in a tattered-gypsy carriage, fully loaded with lanterns and beaded curtains. Her name was Stella.
My Mother–never really crazy for her, still, always remembered the grace in having good manners–welcomed her with some sweet tea and a creamy-sumptuous slice of pie with each visit she made. Stella, a nervous sort, seemed to have had her eyes trained to always dart around. She was wild for my Father—I always thought she was looking everywhere she could, in hopes she might catch a glimpse.
I remember Mama asking Stella what lipstick she was wearing. Stella lit up and coyly stated, man bait. I laughed, because I was young and had visions of a worm dangling from those rose red lips. Mama on the other hand found herself quite un-amused and her expression made me titter. Again, she was un-amused. Still, my chortle was worth it—Mama or not.
Every year, my Father’s Corporation would make a fine-spread out at the Country Club, for the company Christmas Party. Mama and Dad were not country club people: Dad, not a joiner, and Mama was more about family, than social status. So it was a special time for the two of them to get all dolled up: A couple of fun loving country bumpkins out to have a good time in their tux and gown. It was the Christmas of 68 and Mama had purchased this ruby-red Asian looking dress: full-length with lovely threads of gold running through it. Mama didn’t wear make-up often, but when she and Daddy went out, she was always the prettiest girl in any room. I noticed that night; Mama wasn’t wearing her normal lipstick. Dad looked at her, like a young-pup in love and asked her what was the new color on her lips. She sparkled and murmured, man bait. They both giggled a bit and Daddy gave her a big smooch. Now I know that was not the name of the lipstick, but I found it wildly amusing that she and Dad had apparently had a joke about it over the years.
I haven’t forgotten Stella since that Christmastime night Mama and Daddy were about to trip to the light fantastic. Even now, when I don a new color of lips, Gary refers to the color of man bait… because when Mama lived with us, laughter would ensue by her telling and retelling of the story—each time, growing with entertaining tidbits. What tickled me, when Mom would share the story, was her interpretation of Stella’s visit to the house year after year. No matter your age, you would have to be blind or dead not to see that Stella was special in the way she moved, spoke and sold her wares. I honestly imagine a lot of men and women liked to see Stella show up for a myriad of reasons: and to be fair, loved to see her leave, just as quickly as she arrived.
The poem you are about to read is a gross exaggeration of ol’ Stella. I wrote it quite a few years ago, but it still makes me smile and now with Mama gone… that smile stretches into a Cheshire Cat Grin and I suppose the story will too in time. I hope you enjoy it.
Belly up to the bar, boys, I’m flyin’ into town;
I’m belting out the bar tunes and hikin’ up my gown;
I’ll can-can before sunrise and I’ll can’t-can’t in the square;
And like a sot, I’ll have a shot, and shake my derriere.
I’ll ruffle up my petticoat, I’ll drop the veil in code,
To make sure that you notice that I’m humble in abode.
I’m fresh, I’m fire crackin’ and I won’t be stopped till morn;
And when roosters crow and shadows grow, I’ll blow your polished horn.
You can call me Stella, while your lips are close to mine;
And my hair gets mussed while dancin’ and-a-swinging on your vine.
It’s when you see my eyes bat, and my smile makes a curl,
You’ll realize through my sparkin’ eyes: I’m a different kinda girl.
One that makes your Mama scowl but makes your Papa crow:
I’ll never cook you up a meal, but I am sure to steal the show.
One that won’t make promises, her scarlet heart can’t keep:
‘Cause I’m the girl, with the mysterious curl, that keeps you away from sheep!
So don’t you come-a-cryin’, or runnin’ after me;
I’m just a gal from Tucson, a name on your marquis.
I lived up to my promise for all you Billy Goats;
Now, there’s other men and other boys, that need to sow their oats!
I’ll be in town again someday, another two bits made;
My skirt a little dusty, my lips a different shade;
But I’ll still be your Stella: your Tucson cactus pie.
And we’ll share another shot or two before we kiss good bye.