We call her Jezzy for short. When you have a little baby and run across such a beautiful
name, you don’t think a thing of it. But when the wife starts the family on going to church on
those bright Sunday mornings, the preacher man tells you what Jezebel really means: an evil
woman who was pushed off a cliff and eaten by mangy dogs, sent as a punishment from the Lord.
I guess I should probably apologize to you, Jezzy, since I was the one who was set on you
having that name.
She was a spit fire as a kid, jet black hair and blue eyes that look like they could freeze
you in your tracks, and the other youngins got taught not to pick at her name. All I can reckon is
that Ira must’ve missed the memo.
“Daddy, don’t tell this story again. You do it every Christmas,” pleads Jezzy.
With a chuckle, I say, “I ain’t dead and gone yet, and that’ll be the only break you get.
Lewis, come over here and sit with Papa. Your momma might try to cover your little ears again.”
With a buck-toothed grin, Lewis bounces over to me and climbs up in my lap, candy cane
hanging from his red mouth. The room quiets down, and all that can be heard is the crackling of
the woodstove, Lewis munching on his candy cane, and the wind howling outside. Taking one
last sip of my black coffee, I clear my throat and continue the story.
As I was saying, we call her Jezzy for short, because Granny and I hadn’t read the story
about Jezebel yet. Granny got the notion to go to church when Jezzy was, I don’t know, seven or
eight, and she figured it out before we did. In Sunday school, her poor teacher… Oh, what’s her
name?
“Mrs. Buchanan,” Granny adds.
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That’s right. Well, old Mrs. Buchanan must’ve been learning them about Jezebel, and,
when she got to the part about her falling and being ate by them dogs, little Jezzy was fit to be
tied. She burst into tears, and Mrs. Buchanan brought her to our pew in church. Thankfully, we
were the back-seat Baptist type, so she didn’t have to lead the poor kid up the aisle with those
big, fat tears rolling down her little cheeks.
“Daddy, Jezebel got eaten by dogs. I fell out a window and got eaten by dogs!” she cried,
as Granny and me gave each other a look.
I grabbed a handkerchief out of my pocket and dabbed her face. Granny gave her a hug,
and Jezzy sobbed even harder. I told that Buchanan woman that we’d be having a talk, and,
before she could say something, I gathered the Bibles, Granny picked up Jezzy, and we headed to
the car. Lord, that kid had a set of lungs. Hollered and cried the whole way to the house. Wonder
who she gets that from, Eva.
I already know to duck as Eva reaches over from her rocking chair and tries to whack me
on the head.
“Granny, you missed him. Get him again!” Lewis says as he giggles.
She ruffles his blonde hair and gives him a sly wink. “Don’t worry, baby boy. He’s got to
sleep sometime. Want another drop cookie to follow the candy cane down?”
“Momma, he don’t need any more of those. You’re gonna give him cavities,” Jezzy says
with a smile.
“We don’t measure sugar on Christmas. Right, Lewis?”
He mumbles a reply, mouth too full to hear what he actually is saying, but everyone
knows he’s agreeing with his granny.
“Y’all keep interrupting my story,” I point out. “I’m just gonna quit talking.”
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“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” Eva chides. “We’ll hush, and you go on.”
Alrighty, let’s see now… Jezzy girl was crying her eyes out. Eva made her some chicken
and dumplings, which finally dried her out. Not too much later, ‘bout 1 o’clock, the pastor gave
us a ring on the phone.
“Preacher,” I said, “that Mrs. Buchanan don’t have any right to send my girl home
crying like that. I want something done about it, or I’ll deal with it myself.”
Well, the preacher didn’t want that happening, so he said, “Hold on a minute, Clif. Let
me clear things up a bit. You got a Bible on you?”
That was the craziest question, but I said yeah and pulled out my Bible, actually the same
one I’ve got here on the end table. He read that story about Jezebel and told me that the teacher
had been talking about the story and didn’t mean anything by it. Long story short, we kept going
to church there and Eva didn’t have to go after Mrs. Buchanan.
“Clifton, you watch it now. I never said nothing about going after her. That was all you.”
“Now I saw that look in your eyes. Don’t deny it.”
The fire was starting to die down, and Jezzy’s husband climbs from his chair to go get
some wood from the shed. While he’s gone, I take a break from storytelling and reach over for a
swig of coffee.
“Ack! What in the world did you put in this coffee, Jezzy?”
“Nothing, daddy. I made it with two scoops of Folgers like you said. What’s wrong with
it?” she asks.
“It’s got some odd flavor to it. I can’t quite figure it out.”
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Right about that time, my son-in-law walks back in with an armful of wood and bends
down to shove it in the woodstove. Lewis starts to giggle and crawls out of my lap towards his
daddy. He cups his two little hands around his dad’s ears and whispers not too discretely. His
dad starts chuckling and then everyone else in the room does too.
“Hey, now. Tell me what he said,” I plead. Everyone else may have heard it, but my
hearing ain’t what it once was. Eva calls it selective, but I think I’m just older than the hills at
this point.
With a little prodding from his daddy, Lewis walks over to me with his sticky red hands
and holds them towards me.
“I dropped my candy cane in your coffee, Papa. I wanted to make it taste like Christmas,”
he says with a sheepish smile.
“Well in that case, it’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had. Very Christmassy.” I take
another swig, and then, thankfully, Lewis goes to the kitchen to get some more cookies.
“Jezzy,” I whisper, “go pour me another cup if you would and make sure that little rascal
doesn’t come near it.”
Lewis comes back with a half-eaten sugar cookie, and he climbs into my lap once again.
Lord, this kid is bony. I settle back into my chair, and Jezzy brings me my coffee, which is all
coffee and no candy cane this time around.
“Papa, keep telling us your story! I wanna hear what happens next.”
“And this is why you’re my favorite grandyoungin.”
“But I’m you’re only one…”
Anyhow, we didn’t go after Mrs. Buchanan, and we sent Jezzy back to Sunday school the
next week. She seemed to forget all about the incident ‘til one day in November, which started it
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all back up again. You see, we had been out of a pastor for a couple months then, and the
deacons had finally scrounged one from Clayton, Georgia. He was about my age, couple years
older, and he had a tiny, blonde wife and a gangly blonde boy that he brought with him. By that
time, we were pretty into the whole church thing, and the deacons had asked us to invite them
over for dinner after church to make ‘em feel welcome. Well, one Sunday we did just that, and
Eva made a whole spread of food. After dinner, while the adults were in the house talking about
the differences between Clayton and Bryson City and the time it takes to get from one to the
other, Jezzy and that boy were out playing on her swing set. Here’s how Jezzy told me it went:
“What’s your name?” Jezzy asked.
“My name’s Ira Rogers. What’s yours?
“Jezebel Ward. But people call me Jezzy.”
“Good Lord, what kind of name is that?”
“It’s my name. What’s it to you?” she fired back as she crosses her arms.
“Nothing, just a weird lady in the Bible to be named after. Guess your parents must’ve
not liked you much.”
“At least I don’t look like a blonde bean pole!”
Then, she spun on her heel and walked inside, slamming the screen door behind her and
booking it to her room at the back of the house. It was a pretty warm day in November, so we
had it open to let in some air. Not long after, Ira came in the door, face as red as a mater. He sat
down at the kitchen table with his parents and picked at his nails. With such a sour mood
hanging over the day, us confused parents said our goodbyes and parted ways with a silent pact
to find out what was wrong with our kids. Neither one of them would say anything, though, so we
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chalked it up to childish fights and predicted that it’d be over by next Sunday. Boy, were we
wrong about that.
Rather than ignoring each other like normal people, those youngins stayed on each
other’s nerves day in and day out. There was only one school to send the kids to, so they both
went to Swain Elementary together, as well as being stuck in church together on Sundays. You
can imagine how both of those went. Me and Eva were on the phone every evening with Ira’s
parents and the poor teachers, all of us trying to figure out a way for these two to get along. But
it was just little things at this point: snobby remarks, hair tugging, and an occasional spill of
milk in the lunchroom. You know, baby stuff. None of that prepared us for the night of the youth
group lock in.
“Papa, what’s a lock in? Did they go to church jail?” Lewis questions, his eyes bugging
out of his head.
“Lord, no. A lock in’s when all the kids in the church get together and have a big
sleepover, usually in the fellowship hall or something.”
“They’re really fun, baby.” Jezzy says. “You can go to one in a couple years.”
“Hmmm maybe. Still sounds like jail to me…” he mumbles, but he relaxes again and pats
my arm, telling me to get on with my story.
So, Ira and Jezzy both went to this lockdown. It was a Saturday night in the middle of that
December, and it was cold as a well digger’s toe. We dropped Jezzy off and reminded her to
behave, or Mrs. Buchanan would give us a call and it wouldn’t end well for her. She promised to
behave, gave us a quick hug, and ran inside. Now, Ira’s parents had made him promise the same
thing, but they didn’t check the inside of his overnight bag. Under all his other junk was his
7
mom’s makeup bag, a Mary Kay one with all kinds of colors inside. Him and some other boys,
John Elders and Carl Moody –
“It was them boys, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, it was them, but I think Michael Jones was there too,” says my-son-in-law.
Well, all them guys had a plan in their heads to get back at Jezzy for picking on Ira. They
planned their course of action and reviewed II Kings 9, the story of the Bible’s Jezebel, to get
their act to a T.
“Eva, pick up my Bible and turn to II Kings 9. I think it starts at verse 30.”
Eva hefts the loppy old King James Bible onto her lap and turns to the passage. She
clears her throat, pushed her glasses up on her crooked nose, and begins reading.
“30 And when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face,
and tired her head, and looked out at a window.
31 And as Jehu entered in at the gate, she said, Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?
32 And he lifted up his face to the window, and said, Who is on my side? who? And there looked
out to him two or three eunuchs.
33 And he said, Throw her down. So they threw her down: and some of her blood was sprinkled
on the wall, and on the horses: and he trode her under foot.
34 And when he was come in, he did eat and drink, and said, Go, see now this cursed woman,
and bury her: for she is a king's daughter.
35 And they went to bury her: but they found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the
palms of her hands.
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36 Wherefore they came again, and told him. And he said, This is the word of the Lord, which he
spake by his servant Elijah the Tishbite, saying, In the portion of Jezreel shall dogs eat the flesh
of Jezebel:
37 And the carcase of Jezebel shall be as dung upon the face of the field in the portion of Jezreel;
so that they shall not say, This is Jezebel.”
Eva closes the Bible with a thud and lays it back on the end table with a thump. I tell her
thank you, and she nods and takes a swig of her coffee motioning for me to get on with it.
About midnight, all the kids crawled into their sleeping bags, worn out from all the
games and finally crashing from their sugar high.
“Daddy, I wanna stay up ‘til midnight!” pleads Lewis.
“Lewis, hush and listen to your Papa’s story,” his daddy scolds, albeit with a smile.
As I was saying, they went to bed real late, and Jezzy always slept like a rock. After
making sure everyone was asleep, Ira and his posse creep over to her camo sleeping bag (the
one I took hunting way back when), and he slings that backpack off his shoulder. Carefully, he
grabs out the makeup bag, and the boys set to work. You’d think they would’ve known how to put
makeup on from all the paint their mommas wore back then, but, by the time they were done,
poor little Jezzy looked like a clown that had been drowned in the river. Mascara was smeared
all over her eyelids, eyeliner drawn so far up that it looked like a second set of eyebrows, and the
red lipstick covered every inch of her lips and chin, too. But the best part was the eyeshadow.
Women back then loved bright blue eyeshadow, and Ira had a large supply of it in his momma’s
makeup bag. Using his thumbs, he drew a blue circle around each eye and started coloring them
in. Poor girl didn’t have a clue what was going on, and never even stirred. Mrs. Buchanan got
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up to go to the lady’s room about that time, so the boys played possum until they heard the door
close; then, they booked it back to their own sleeping bags and fell fast asleep.
Now, Jezzy might’ve slept well, but she was an early riser. She got up before all the kids
and went to go brush her teeth and get ready for the morning service. She walked into the
bathroom and – “WHAT IN THE HELLLLLLLLL?!” Now this woke everyone up, including Mrs.
Buchanan and Ira and his crew.
“Jezzy, how dare you use that language in church!” Mrs. Buchanan screeches.
Without a word, Jezzy stomps over to Ira and his friends, who had crawled out of bed to
see the show. They started laughing at her, and the other kids had started laughing too. I mean,
she was a sight to see, that’s for sure. But Ira and the boys took it a bit farther and started
barking at her like little chihuahuas.
“The dogs are gonna get you, Jezebel. Woof woof!” Ira cackles, bending over with
laughter.
Jezzy had had enough of him. He straightened back up, and she walked real fast towards
him and… BAM!!! She punched him right square in the nose, and Ira started bleeding like a
stuck hog. Old Mrs. Buchanan passed out on the floor, and the male chaperone ran for the toilet
paper in the bathroom. Jezzy just stood their eyeing her hand, which was slowly starting to
bruise.
“Good Lord, Jezzy, why did you – never mind,” the man said, as he finally got a view of
Jezzy’s face. He shoved the toilet paper into Ira’s hand and passed him off to his buddies, and he
went to get some ice for Jezzy’s hand. At this point, Mrs. Buchanan is starting to regain
consciousness as some girls start to fan her with the Life magazines they had snuck in.
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“Get me the phone, Lisa,” she puffed out, and Lisa somehow gets the cord on the phone
to reach down to where the woman is sitting in the floor.
Church ended up being canceled that day, as both our family and the Rogers bunch had
to haul our kids to the hospital, which meant no preacher for the service. Ended up that Jezzy
had a broken thumb (she made a fist wrong), and Ira had a broken nose. Needless to say, they
weren’t too happy with each other.
A week or so later, Jezzy asks us if she can give one of our cans of green beans to a friend
for a Christmas present. We tried to tell her that’s an odd present, but she insisted and wouldn’t
tell us who it was for neither. She wrapped that mason jar in newspaper about three or four
times, and then stuck a big red bow on top. On Christmas morning, as we were heading to the
Christmas service at church, Jezzy grabbed that can of beans and cradled it in her lap all the
way to church and through church. Eva and me didn’t know what to think but decided not to ask
her. After church, we get caught talking to the pastor and his wife, and none of us noticed our
kids walking towards the parking lot.
“Hey, Clif,” the pastor said, “look out yonder.”
And there were Ira and Jezzy, exchanging Christmas presents, her handing him the
newspaper-wrapped jar and him passing her a lump of brown paper.
“What did he get her, Papa?”
I nod towards Jezzy so she can respond to this question.
“He got me a brown and white stuffed dog. I named it Bullseye,” Jezzy replies.
“Like my Bullseye, Momma?”
“It’s the exact same one, honey. I passed him down to you.”
“Well, what happened to Ira? Momma is right here,” Lewis wonders.
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“I’m getting to that,” I tell him.
After that Christmas, Jezzy and Ira were like white on rice; we couldn’t get them away
from each other. They became best friends, and then, finally, he decided to propose. They got
married, and a couple years later, out popped this wild, blonde headed boy named Lewis, and
they lived happily ever after.
“Woah, that’s me, Papa! Daddy, you were that little boy.”
“Yep, that was me. Me and your momma have changed a lot though,” Ira tells him, as he
draws Jezzy into a hug.
“One more question, Papa. Why did momma give my daddy a can of beans?”
“Well, because he was a string bean, Lewis.”
At that, we all laugh, and I take a minute to admire my family sitting around me on
Christmas Eve. Who knew that all it took to get this was a good ole fashion rivalry.