Carrie And Me: A Mother-Daughter Love Story Part 13

To: Mama

Sent: Jan. 9, 2001

Wow, Mama. I wouldn't have wanted to be in your shoes. Still, that had to be some trip!

Now about the gift shop(s) at Graceland. Yes, there are several, and I got a bunch of stuff for a few people that I knew would trip out over some kitschy memorabilia. As I was paying, I noted that a CARRIE Graceland key chain was still on the counter, and I asked the lady if she had charged me for it. An older Filipino woman standing there next in line said, "No, that's mine." I took a beat and said, "That's MY name." And she said, "MINE, TOO!" Naturally, we had to chat. She's from the Philippines, but lives on Oahu now. I told her a close friend of our family has land in Hana, Maui, but she said she doesn't like it there. "No malls." Hmmm.

Got in my car to head out. Now the funny thing is, they're doing tons of highway construction and on my way in here it took me several attempts going back and forth on the 55 to actually FIND Graceland. I thought, jeez, I've come this far, all the way to Memphis, and I can't find Graceland!?!? Finally, I did, but when I was leaving the same thing happened in reverse and I kept RE-finding Graceland! Now I couldn't get AWAY from it! I had to laugh out loud at each attempt.

Last night was interesting. I went on a "blues hunt" down Beale Street, looking for catfish and some good music. I wound up at the Blues City Cafe where I had a catfish sandwich, which tasted great. Bottom feeder or no, I love catfish. Why, Mama, why am I ALWAYS HUNGRY?

Beale is kind of like this Universal City walk of blues and clubs and drunks, but the musicianship is VERY high. The first club I went to, I stood next to Walter, an older cat who lives close by. He was surprised when I introduced myself and asked his name, "I haven't had a young lady introduce herself to me in about thirty-five years!" He was very funny and nice, and said, "You know who you remind me of? Carol Burnett! In her younger years, y'know, but you got them Bette Davis eyes!" (I was pleased with the compliment, Mama, but I didn't let on.) Walter, whose nickname is "Slim," told me I could get into another club up the street called B.B.'s for free if I mentioned his name. So I did.

B.B.'s had the best sound system of all the clubs I went to. The band that night was a Prince cover band, and I hung out and talked with them for a while afterward. All really nice guys, pros who tour constantly. A couple of them, Dale and Paul, escorted me back to the hotel, which was nice. Even though it was late in a downtown area, I felt totally safe. Every man I met was a complete gentleman. It was a good night, if not necessarily the night of music I had hoped for. But I know that it's rare just to meander into town and happen upon something wonderful. But once again, the Southern hospitality was thick and much appreciated.

I cannot for the life of me understand why some people go through life being unfriendly or not taking the risk to smile when they walk into a room ... it makes the whole world open up to you.

I know the thing I have of most value to wear isn't an expensive dress but my smile, my humor, and the very real fact that I like people and feel joy on a daily basis.

Well, it's off to the third big stop on my road trip: Belleville, Arkansas, where Nanny and your mama were born.

Love, C

From: Carrie

To: Mama

Sent: Jan. 10, 2001

Subject: BELLEVILLE, ARKANSAS!!

Mama, today was absolutely the best day yet-so unbelievable that I don't think I can describe it accurately, but I'll give it the ol' college try. I left Memphis early this a.m. feeling happy and excited to get back on the road. The hotel employees were all so great, and I had a wonderful time there. Didn't get to say good-bye to the ducks since they were still chillin' in their penthouse when I checked out.

I hit the road, crossing the mighty Mississippi again and drove right into Arkansas. Once I started to get into the Ozarks, it got very beautiful. This amazing country has so much to offer us, especially if you go off the beaten path a bit. I turned off the 40 and down the 7 by a town called Russellville, then west on the smaller country Route 10.

There it was: Belleville. Population 371. A wink of a town with one cafe (the Memory Lane), one store that sold everything from overalls to groceries to 2x4's, one beauty parlor (Ruth's), and a railroad crossing (that's how a lot of the town got settled). The town is surrounded by trees and quaint, well-kept homes. As I drove in I spotted a bunch of old geezers hanging out at an equally old gas station (out of service), and one of them was fixing a tractor tire.

I parked, and asked the guy fixing the tire if he knew anywhere I could go in town to look up the birth records of a couple of people born in Belleville. "Who you looking for?" he asked. When I said the Joneses and the Meltons, the oldest man in the bunch, who turned out to be Mr. Turnbull, said "I knew them Meltons. When I was a kid I used to make fun of Henry for bein' so old. Now I'm older than he was!!"

And we were off and running... .

Belleville, Arkansas, Main Street

I remembered telling Carrie that according to family lore, Herman Melton, Henry's younger brother, was supposedly my mother's secret father, and therefore my real grandfather. I say "supposedly" because my grandmother, Nanny ("Mae" in her younger days), may have lied on my mama Louise's birth certificate for reasons that still remain a family mystery. Seems Nanny had a checkered past.

Now that I had found myself a real live Belleville-ian, I asked a ton of questions.

Mr. Turnbull was mighty old but he told me he knew Nanny when he was a little kid or maybe just her legend, because even Duane (who looked to be in his late sixties) chimed in and said, "Oh, yeah, we've all heard the stories about Mae. She's famous 'round these parts. Quite a character. She even named herself 'The Belle of Belleville.' She was already married to Big Bill Creighton, a railroad man, when she took up with Herman Melton. She was purty much older than he was, an' she was teachin' him the piano."

Another old man piped up saying, "I think she taught him more than how to tickle the ivories!" They all howled.

Mr. Turnbull took up the story again. "Anyhow, there was some sort of scandal, and Mae divorced Mr. Creighton and hightailed it out of town with Herman. They wound up in Texas. The story goes that Herman's mother hunted them down and dragged poor Herman back to Belleville by the ear, an' that was the end of that." Mr. Turnbull punctuated the moment by spitting out a stream of chewing tobacco.

After the laughter died down, they went on to talk about Nanny's father, F.C. Jones. "He practically owned this town, including the sawmill and the cotton mill. His house is right there yonder." He pointed to a lovely white clapboard house at the end of the main road. "That house there, with the brick. The brick's new, but that's the very house that F.C. Jones built. Yep, Mae was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth all right, but then F.C. lost everything in the crash."

F.C. Jones's house, where Nanny was born

No wonder Nanny never lost her bloodl.u.s.t for money, marrying time and time again hoping to land a gold mine. Never happened.

When I told them that Nanny wound up having six husbands-as far as we knew-and that when she died at eighty-one she was dating a forty-year-old jazz musician from Redondo Beach, California, they didn't seem surprised.

Mr. Turnbull pulled me aside and asked me if I was related to "that gal on TV, Carol Burnett, 'cause I know Mae is related to her and some Meltons, too." I told him, yes, I'm her daughter. A few minutes later Duane joined us, saying, "Hey, did you know that the Meltons and the Joneses are related to Carol Burnett?" To which Mr. Turnbull replied, "Who's that?" and winked at me, never giving it away. I gave his arm a conspiratorial squeeze and bid them thanks and good-bye.

As it was Sat.u.r.day the hall of records was closed, but the cemetery was right around the corner and "some of them Joneses and Meltons are buried there." So off I went.

It was a beautiful spot, and generations of local families are buried there. I paced up and down the rows of markers, some so old they were unreadable. A gravedigger was working on a new grave, so I didn't disturb him. I couldn't find a Melton or a Jones, so I got back in the car, prepared to head back out of town. The gravedigger waved at me, so I stopped and rolled down my window to say h.e.l.lo. "What are you doing here, young lady?" I told him I was looking for some family and mentioned their names. He said, "I know where they are, but it's not here. They're in another cemetery 'bout three miles up the road." I hesitated for a moment and he said, "Just follow me!" and jumped in his truck heading through town and up the most beautiful hill, surrounded by big land with homes set back off the road, cows, etc. The sun was about an hour away from setting, so the light was absolutely gorgeous, everything looking magical.

He took me to a cemetery at the top of a hill overlooking a valley and the hill we'd just crossed. He got out of his truck and introduced himself: Logan White. When I told him F.C. Jones was my great-great-grandfather, he turned me around and had me look out over that incredible view. "See that valley? Remember that hill we just went over? Well, that's called Jones Hill, named after F.C. He owned just about all this land between here and Belleville." I told him I wished that land was still in the family!

Logan had a great scratchy personality (comes with the job, I suppose) and we found Henry Melton's grave immediately. Henry had been the rich one, and I gathered that Nanny's "boy toy," Herman, may have been a bit of a ne'er-do-well, as Mr. Turnbull told me that when they were kids Herman gave him and his brother some homemade wine that he remembers to this day.

"That good?" I asked him.

"Nope. My head hurt so much the next day I couldn't put my hat on!"

We hunted around for Herman's grave to no avail. But F.C. Jones was there. Plain as day. Born 1854. Died 1933. Next to his grave was the headstone belonging to Hubert O. Jones, son of F.C. and Dora Jones, who died when he was fourteen, playing baseball. The baseball had hit him hard in the chest and he dropped dead on the spot. F.C. had run out to the field, picked up his son, and cried out to the crowd, "I'll give all my money to anyone who can bring him back!" His heart was broken. The inscription on Hubert's headstone read:

Remember friends as you pa.s.s by

As you are now, so once was I

As I am now, so you shall be

Prepare in life for eternity

Then Logan asked me if I was related to you, and when I told him yes, he said that his wife had written a letter to you years ago, talking about the family, and that you had written her back a real nice note. He told me about the Jones legacy, how the town folded in the crash along with F.C., how Mae is famous to this day, and on and on.

Mr. Turnbull encouraged me to retire to Belleville, but not to live there now when I'm so young. There's no money to be made there. But it's a nice town, he said. And I know that to be true. All the folks I talked to, including the mayor (Mayor Kenny) and his wife, Mary, were so open and free with information and stories, telling them like only southerners can, and especially Hill People.