tart tongues and tender hearts

She stood out in a crowd like a sugar water starched hundred yard crinoline under a gathered skirt. Lowndes County High School had never seen anything like her before. Short in stature, she wore impossibly high heels that you could hear tapping down the halls long before you saw her. Her dark long hair was sprayed into a perfect asymmetrical pageboy style and her makeup was always perfectly fixed in place. Large, bright, jinglyjangly jewelry was the final accent to her daily outfits, and outfits they were.
This was the Time Before Pantsuits. Teachers and girls wore dresses and skirts to school. Our clothes were predictable. Bass weejuns with a penny in the slot, Ladybug small print tucked front dresses, sweaters worn over the shoulders with a decorative chain holding them on at the neck, straight skirts with slits in the back... these were the clothes the stylish ones wore, the ones with disposable income. The rest of us wore what we bought at Sears or Sam Lazerus or home sewn skirts and dresses. Mrs. Carter expanded our world in fashion and helped us see new horizons for women by her refusal to fit in the mold. Like PopEye, her motto was “I yam what I yam.”
She taught drama and glee club. As the accompanist for the glee club, I relished the changes she brought when she replaced starchy Mr. Sturchio. We spent many hours together practicing during and after school for special programs and Literary Meets. The trips to far away places like Cairo, riding in her car, listening to her talk about the wide world outside Lowndes County, kept us in her thrall. She would go to New York to see plays and spoke often of that other world, the world beyond our imaginations. Foolishness and fools were not tolerated in her classes. Her tart tongue could put anyone in their proper place, even our principal Mr. Wall.
Flying home to see daddy in his last illness, I heard that distinctive throaty laugh coming from behind me and turned to see her standing in the aisle, having a party time with her friends. Her hair style was different but it was still the same color, thanks to Clairol. Her last name was different but everything else was the same right down to the makeup, high heels and jewelry. We hugged and she pinned me with her eyes as she asked about my life since the last high school reunion. I felt sixteen again, held in the spell of that tart tongued teacher who loved me then and remembered me now.
Tart tongue and tender heart... a familiar relationship pattern for me with other women in my life. I suspect Martha, Lazerus’ sister, was such a woman. Tart on the outside, all mush on the inside, using the tough outer skin to protect the tender heart. Bustling around, doing the work that waited to be done, feeding the crowds and cleaning up after them, tending to those she loved in the best way she knew how, watching as her sister sat at the Teacher’s feet soaking up his words and not helping with the drudge work... no wonder she tipped over the edge. I hope Jesus was hugging her when he told her to sit down and take it easy. I hope he thanked her for all her hard work feeding and tending his group. And I hope he got a giggle out of her when he complimented her cooking. Surely he would have bragged on the food she prepared for him.
I am grateful for all the tart tongued women in my life who have loved me. They gave me gifts of spunk and self reliance, taught me to speak my truth clearly and not with a mush mouth. Tart can be good. It wakes you up like the feeling you get when you swing out over the river on the rope hanging from the old water oak limb, let go, and drop into the cool stream of brown water flowing south to the Gulf. I celebrate Mrs. Carter, Mary Lynn, Mrs. Tyre, Grandma, Dot and all the other tart tongued sweethearts who taught me to speak my piece. You encouraged me to swing out and let go. Hugs and kisses... and yes, I am doing well, thank you.