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SIDE!
I don’t know about ya’ll, but it’s been a hell of a week. Maybe you’re happy, maybe you’re sad— maybe you’re scared of another lockdown coming. Between all the fussing on social media about HOA disputes and neighbors now not only being mad at the content of the political signs in the yard across the street from them inflamed by the fact they won’t take the signs down; I think we all need a little comfort right now. We need tuna salad. And I don’t like tuna salad. I never did, except from one woman: Mrs. McEntire . When I was a cub reporter still wet behind the ears from my Baylor graduation, I worked for a small local neighborhood newspaper group managing their ‘magazines’. I was searching for a local artist to feature during one of our winter issues when my co-worker tapped me on the shoulder. “You should call Mrs. McEntire,” he told me. “She’s a big artist in Alamo Heights. Her son is a famous actor— one of those guys you know by face even if you don’t know his name.” He pressed the scrap of paper in my hand. “But you have to ask for Squeaky on the phone.” “Squeaky?” I repeated. “Yeah, she hates her first name. Her nickname is Squeaky. If you call her Mrs. McEntire, she’ll hang up on you.” Now I was intrigued. I called the number on the phone. “May I ask for Squeaky?” I asked when the housekeeper answered. The magic words worked. A raspy voice came on. “Hello?” “Hi, this is Calista Drake from The SA Newspaper Group. We’d
Thursday, November 19
like to do a story on a local artist for our next issue and my friend told me about you.” There was a pause. “That’d be lovely,” she said finally. “Why don’t you come next Thursday?” With the IT guy operating as the photographer, he and I drove out to the old part of Alamo Heights. The house was on the corner, with grand trees that stretched over the roof and rambling flowered bushes accessorized by jaunty animal shaped pots, little clay armadillos and bug-eyed lizards. A small woman not even five feet tall with a white bob opened the door, peering up at us through thick lenses. And then she smiled. We both instantly smiled back. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, turning and shuffling to her kitchen. “Have some lemon cake.” The house was a shrine both to the 60s and a lifetime love of art, from her own work to those she admired. Hundreds of angels hung from a light fixture over her kitchen table and giant paintings splashed across the walls not covered with floor to ceiling windows. Wooden shelves of glass-blown sculptures and vases crossed a few of the windows, blocking the view of whimsical things like the giraffe table and zebra table. Through the patio windows, we could see a lush jungle trapped within her fence, boasting bursting lemon and lime trees and dozens of colorful flowers that I was sure would grow in no other dirt within the SA city limits. My photographer raised his camera and she smiled. “I like fun things,” Mrs. McEntire said. “Shall I show you my work?”
She took us into her office, which served as a living timeline. “I started painting when my daughter was napping one day, years ago,” she said, pointing to a photo of a child’s wall mural. “I just struck out on the wall and did fairies, because she liked fairies. And I just went on from there!” In love with the culture of Mexico, she painted its people. The real people, the ones working and celebrating holidays and birthdays, dancing in the streets and visiting angels at the holidays. In a time when women were expected to frame their children’s work rather than their own, she’d travel to Mexico for seminars and was invited to schools and hospitals to adorn their walls. After a few hours, as the light dimmed, she grasped my hands in hers. “I hope you come back!” she told me. “It was such a delight to talk to you.” I returned that weekend, my husband in tow, who she adored because she said he reminded her of her own beloved “Woody” who had passed years before. She was in her late 80’s. I was in my early 20’s. “We’re going to be friends,” she told me. “Great friends.” She was right. I returned once a month on a Thursday. She always served the same thing, tuna salad with Ruffles potato chips and seasonal fruit. “You know, potato chips are God’s perfect food,” she told me, crunching through a bowl. “And tuna salad is just so easy.” Then Mrs. McEntire would lean forward, like she did every month. “Now tell me, my dear. What’s new with you? What stories have you done?”
While I envied her art, she envied my writing. “I always wanted to be a writer,” she told me. “I was taking classes at university during the war. But when Woody came back, he was hurt and…” She trailed off. Like many people of the Greatest Generation, she didn’t like to talk of the war. “But I guess I’ve kept busy!” The one thing I adored about Mrs. McEntire, besides her humor and creativity, was how happy she was all the time. She never had a harsh word to say about anyone and was always cheerful, no matter what was going on in the world. She’d write me long letters about faith and whatever crisis was going on in my life. A Unitarian “and original tree hugger, a hippie before the hippies were around,” she called herself; I didn’t find out until after her death she’d been born Jewish and hid her name and heritage because of World War 2. She taught me about old movies like “Harvey” and books she thought I’d like. I always brought her muffins or cookies because she hated baking, but loved the results. “You’re such a good baker,” she’d tell me. “Writing and baking! You’ll always stay busy!” When she got cancer, I still came over, bringing food until she told me to stop. There was no tuna salad, because she didn’t have the appetite. Even though she was shrinking before my eyes, she still kept up her humor, though sadness and sorrow were piercing through. She started watching the news with helpless eyes, and her artistic work lost its usual whimsy and joy. But I promised you comfort,
and I shall deliver. Because even though she died, one bitter October I will never forget, I discovered I was pregnant a few months later. The beautiful little girl that was born carries Mrs. McEntire’s first name, along with her boundless joy and love of life with her big laugh, whimsy and exuberance over the simplest things like a bag of Ruffle’s chips. When this little girl was born, she had to spend a few days in the NICU for breathing in meconium. I was cradling her to my chest, careful not to disturb all the tubes and IVs when the ex-football player (really!) nurse Bryan came up to me. “How’s Squeakers doing?” he boomed. My head snapped up. “What?” “Squeakers!” he pointed to my daughter. “Sorry, we’ve just been calling her that because with all those tubes in her nose, she squeaks when she breathes.” He waited for a moment, and sure enough, she squeaked. “See?” he laughed. “She’s doing great.” I don’t know about you, but that made me cry a little bit. And I didn’t cry again until that little girl was four years old and was looking at the picture of Mrs. McEntire upstairs. “That’s who I’m named after?” she asked. I nodded. “You were best friends?” “We were.” My voice cracked. She wrapped her arms around me. “It’s ok, Mommy. You’re my best friend now.” Well, I don’t know about you, but I just lost it. So, who wants some tuna salad? I’ll bring the potato chips.
