The Henry Clay Hotel Continued...

I got up in the night and went down the hall to pee. The door was closed, so I waited. In the wee hours of the morning you’d expect most people to be in and out. I waited. Finally, I knocked on the door to make sure there was someone in there and a woman’s voice called out that it was occupied. I waited some more. My tootsies were starting to get cold on the thin carpet and I wondered if I needed to call an ambulance or something. Finally the door scraped open (it stuck something terrible) and out walked a very overweight and unattractive woman and her beau. Without looking at me or uttering a word, they turned and walked down the hall. I guess that solved the mystery of the misplaced mint green panties.

Considering the hour the bar closed and the lovers of the night before, I got up pretty early to start the day. I went to search for breakfast. This time I decided to try the Henry Clay Restaurant, which doubled as the bar at night. Even though I’m from the area, my knowledge of local restaurant cuisine is limited because we never ate out growing up. I didn’t see any menus. Somehow I didn’t think they would have fresh fruit and yogurt, so I asked for the first thing that I thought they would have – eggs and a sausage biscuit. It was the best sausage biscuit I’d had in ages (that I hadn’t made myself) and I told the cook how good her biscuits were and could I please have another one. An older bald man at the end of the counter said I’d definitely made a friend there.

He was on the chatty side, so I ended up telling him that I was visiting family and attending the reunion. He asked if I knew Kate who was helping to organize it and I said I’d seen her the night before. I didn’t add any details.  He said she was a “catbird.”  Now I’m not familiar with that term, but from his expression and tone, I took it to mean she was a sly one that needed to be watched. I nodded my head sagely and agreed that you did indeed have to keep an eye on her.

Having eaten my very filling breakfast, it was time to make a few visits after stopping off at the library to catch up on email. I was a little early for my morning appointment, so I stopped to see my uncle on the way. He still lived deep in the holler near the first creek crossing. The tiny dirt road winds for miles through the creek crossings (no bridges) to the river. We used to go swimming there when I was a kid. When you're five years old, it’s all about the creek. I remember feeling deprived that we didn’t live near a creek like many of my cousins.

I don’t remember my uncle ever living anywhere else. Not sure what he made of me walking up to his porch in my big green hat, but he seemed glad to see me. I’d never noticed before that his eyes look just like my mom’s. He was on the quiet, reserved side like her, too. He’d married a big domineering woman who was out, and even though all his kids lived around him in various trailers, none came to investigate the strange car. Since I watched him observe and mentally note each vehicle that went down the holler (mostly variations of red pickups), I’m pretty sure his kids saw my car pull in. I could have been an ax murder in a big green hat! But we had a nice visit. I was telling him about Poopie the night before and he informed me that was the sheriff’s name – “Poopie” Holcomb. His dad lived up the holler. I kid you not. I couldn’t even make this stuff up! My uncle’s not really a talker and after about an hour I went on to my next appointment.

Mrs. Nichols was the high school librarian who lived at the bottom of the mountain that I grew up on. She has one of the finest souls that I’ve ever come across. She sends me a Christmas card every year and I said I’d visit the next time I was in Clay. So I spent a happy couple of hours visiting with her and catching up.  She was even considering trading out her cream sofa cushions on her leather couch for lime green ones to match my hat by the time I left.

After following the dense post parade traffic back into Clay, I found a parking spot and crashed in my room. I was beat and I had an hour to nap before getting ready to look my nicest possible for the actual reunion.

The pace was starting to tell on me mentally. I really needed that nap, but then I had to get up and ready. I’d already ironed the skirt (brought the iron just in case). As I was coming out of my second shower of the day, I ran into the fellow who ran the place. He and another man seemed to be doing some sort of survey. Out of curiosity, I asked him if many women stayed there and he said yes. Maybe I should have asked how many respectable women stayed there. Anyway, I told him how much I’d enjoyed staying there and he got a funny look on his face – like he thought I might be mentally deficient and perhaps dangerous. He muttered something I didn’t catch, and then shuffled off in a hurry. I shrugged- most businesses like getting positive feedback. Maybe it was seeing me with a towel wrapped on my head and no cosmetics? I admit my pajamas are not particularly attractive.

After all the fluffing and polishing possible- No, that’s not true. I didn’t wear anymore make-up than I’d wear for work. The lighting wasn’t the best for complex cosmetics and the mirror was pretty dusty. Hoped my blush wasn’t lopsided. Don’t think I looked too bad in my thrift store blouse and the long pink and blue batik tablecloth skirt I’d made.

I finally arrived at the high school. The first person I saw when I walked in the main entrance was the old principle. He was collecting money for something. I suddenly felt seventeen again and glad that I had resisted the urge to wear my hat. I mentally straightened my shoulders. Despite what you’ve read in these emails, I wasn’t raised in a barn and I can act like a lady when called upon to do so – at least for short periods of time.

I politely said hello and that I was here for the 1988 reunion. I could tell he didn’t recognize me. After all, he sees hundreds of kids every year. To be sure, I asked him if he knew who I was. He studied me for a minute. I told him to take his time. He said he could usually recognize folks by their eyes. I finally told him who I was and he complimented me on how well I looked, but it was still two to three minutes before he actually connected the name to the twenty year old year book picture, because I caught the look of surprise that crossed his face when he did.

One of my classmates came along and claimed me, so we went in search of the official get together.  The organizers had done a great job. They’d set up in the Home Ec room. I think it was the Home Ec class. I'd never been in it because it wasn't a subject that ever even remotely interested me. Someone had made a nice video of the photos people had sent in. I’m afraid I spent so much time talking that I didn’t do the food justice. Took more pictures and yakked away. The business teacher skulked around videotaping the event. Lord knows what he got on film. To be honest, by the end of the evening I’d talked so much and inhaled so much smoke from the Henry Clay that my voice was starting to go.

No conversations really stood out. Several people stayed to help clean-up. I was designated dish dryer. Then I headed back to the hotel to change. A group was going to a different bar (Poodles) to hear a live band play that evening and my skirt wouldn’t have been appropriate. It took me forever to find parking in town. The whole county was out to see the festival fireworks that night.

When I got to the Henry Clay my bud was propping up the wall of the hotel on the sidewalk and he wanted my address. I was a bit distracted because I didn’t want to miss my friends, so I said ok. When I’d changed and come back out, I wrote it for him. Because of the parking shortage, I had to wait on the sidewalk, didn’t see any harm in chatting. When he asked for a kiss, I felt my mental shoulders slump in defeat. I’d done it again – even being up front that I was happily married, I’d still been too damn nice! It was so much less hassle in my bitchy trucker persona – who would have verbally ripped a couple of strips off him, but I'm more mature now, so I refrained and politely said no. He asked for a hug and just to shut him up, I gave him a half hearted hug. Before I shuffled over to the edge of the sidewalk and pretended to read my email on my Blackberry, I heard him say, “I’m just a good ole’ country boy,” as if this would recommend him as good husband material. He muttered it several times. I realized he was really drunk and was amazed he was still standing – hoped he wasn’t driving home. To give him the benefit of the doubt – don’t think he would have said anything like that if he’d been more sober.

But I cannot conceive of a phrase more likely to turn me off. I have three brothers who are “good ole’ country boys.”  They’ve indicated they want a woman to cook, clean up after them, and wash their dirty socks with no opinionated conversation. I told Darren about it and he did come up with a worse pick up line: “Could you help me with my colostomy bag? I’m having problems adjusting it.” We got into a discussion of good pickup lines and I said that if I was available the phrase “I love to cook and I’d really enjoy making you dinner,” would get my attention. Darren started taking notes and asking for clarification as if he needed an effective way to pick up chicks any time soon!

I was relieved when my friends got there. We went to a place called Poodles. I think it was a restaurant when I lived there. As I’d been too busy talking rather than eating at the reunion, I ordered chili cheese fries to go with my beer, which I’m sure are high on the Weight Watchers list of approved foods. What the hell – I was going home in the morning. The fries were good, but I couldn’t eat them all, so I started walking around asking people to help me eat them.

It’s amazing the conclusions people draw about others based on very little information. A guy said he never thought he’d see me drink beer. I told him everything in moderation.  By the way, do men really find women who have puked their guts out when drinking that attractive?

Another man really wanted a pool partner. He was having problems finding one. I said I’d play, but I was a terrible player. He was nice and didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t sink one ball. I tried to be decorative though.

Had my hair molested. I know it sounds weird, but it’s true! A classmate that hadn’t made any of the events arrived, so several of us posed for a photo. I was on the end and I swear he was molesting my hair! Kept rubbing it and fondling it. He was a little strange even by my standards.

We’d been there for a while when Kate came by looking a little wild in the eyes, sort of like a wildebeest being stalked by a leopard, saying that an old admirer was following her and we’d need to go soon. I have to say this time I was the one gaping – you just couldn’t take her anywhere! She was like a mutant guy magnet that you couldn't control or turn off.  At least this one was cute. If you're going to be tossed out or chased out of a seedy bar over a guy, at least have some standards J

Just like Cinderella, I got back to the Henry Clay at midnight and all was quiet. The bar had closed early on a Saturday night.

I would like to say that my exit from the Henry Clay Hotel was as impressive and memorable as my entrance, but it wasn’t. I woke up at dawn, showered, and packed up my stuff. I had just closed the door to go find where I’d parked the night before, when I realized I’d left the room key inside. There was no one around at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I looked at the old lock. A monkey with a stick could have broken through it, but it was beyond me. So I went to see my aunt earlier than I’d planned.

We hung out and had a good gossip, but soon I had to make my way back to the hotel to check out or be charged for another night. People were trickling in when I got back to the hotel. They said they'd closed early last night because the place was empty. Everyone had gone to Poodles to hear the band. I got my stuff, filled my tank at the GoMart, the only gas station in town, and hit the road at noon.

I was pretty sleepy going home and my book on tape wasn't doing the job, so I flipped through the radio stations and quite happily listened to country music most of the way home. I was about halfway back home when it hit me. I never listen to country music - at least not modern country music. I do have some Hank (Sr.), Conway, and Patsy on my iPod - I am from West Virginia after all. I thought - can't believe I called all those people honey and/or darlin'! I don’t even call Darren honey! But thankfully, the spell faded and I was back to my normal music by the time I got to Washington - classical mixed with ZZ Top. I was glad to be home. Darren said my accent had changed again, but it will be back to normal in a few days. Then it’s back to being a middle aged librarian, but in Clay I was the woman who wore a strange, giant, green hat and stayed at the Henry Clay Hotel and lived to tell about it!

P.S. My brother attributed my popularity with the local men down to my still having all my teeth.