Free Creola's Moonbeam by Milam McGraw Propst Page A

first time. And , this was well before September 11, 2001, and the strict regulations that followed. The woman’s smug smile became more resolute with every minute that ticked by.
    “Those tickets will probably not get here,” she sneered in Beau’s face.
    “Please, just let us board.”
    “Take a seat in the waiting area, sir,” she ordered as she gripped the microphone. She announced, “Attention please, ladies and gentlemen. We will begin boarding in one minute.”
    “Look, ma’am, you know we have tickets!”
    “Siiirrrr, do make some attempt to calm yourself.”
    Nose to nose, Beau glared at the woman but masterfully managed to restrain himself from cramming the microphone down her throat.
    My blood pressure was skyrocketing because I knew full well that my family, specifically my parents, was eagerly waiting for us to arrive. Just when it was apparent that we would be flying on the only other flight, some six hours later, a young man raced up, huffing and puffing. He couldn’t speak, but handed us our tickets.
    We took our seats mere seconds before the plane took off. In flight, I gave my peanuts to Beau. I couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t either, but crunching those nuts soothed his disposition. He washed them down with a good, cold beer which also served to temper his state of mind.
    To clarify things just a bit, we did have a pleasant Friday, post flight. We’d enjoyed visiting with family, had a wonderful time at the rehearsal dinner party, and the weather was perfection. It was the kind of weather the city fathers pray for when they set a date for the official celebrations of the autumn season. The temperature was warm, with a cooling breeze. The leaves, which barely clung to their home trees, presented a Crayola box full of brilliant hues. The air was crisp and fresh. A sapphire sky was dotted randomly with puffs of cotton white. In fact, at the rehearsal dinner the night before, several people remarked that Kathleen’s late grandmother, Ann, had surely ordered the picture-perfect weekend for her beloved granddaughter’s special day.
    Certainly with Ann in mind—as well as my grandparents and a dozen other relatives—Beau and I began to make our way toward the family plot. The grounds of Calvary cover acres and acres, and finding one’s way can be most confounding with the cemetery’s twists and narrow, turning roads. So to be absolutely certain we were headed in the right direction, we stopped the security guard and asked him to confirm my foggy directions. He was all too glad to help.
    “Yes, in fact, I do remember your people,” he assured us. “I knew your grandfather, the old gentleman, a fine man he was. I used to wait on him at the Summit Club.” He pointed in a general direction. As he wandered off, the guard again commented to himself, “One fine man, a fine, fine man. Yes, siree.”
    As I reflected on my childhood visits to my grandparent’s home in Memphis, Beau scoured the monument-covered landscape for “my people.” In the great forest of angels, tombs, Madonnas, crosses and crucifixes along with every conceivable shape and size of marble marker, Beau finally spotted the site we sought. I placed flowers on the graves and took a few precious moments speaking with those resting beneath my feet. There is a closeness I feel when in the presence of a loved one’s burial spot.
    All too quickly the serenity of the scene was shattered when my thankfully always time-conscious husband announced, “It’s getting late, Honey. Say good-bye, or we’ll have to hurry.”
    Reluctantly, I rose, and we walked to the car. He faster than me.
    We again rode past all the familiar family names. The sun streaked across the rolling green landscape. Its shadows seemed to knit the stone monuments one to another. I sighed quietly as I drank in the peacefulness of the setting.
    “Shit!” barked Beau as he stomped the brake pedal of our rental car.
    “What in the world?”
    Not only was Calvary