Peach discovers her mother's secret.

          The discovery of the old box in Mother's attic opened a floodgate of memories of a time when my life flirted with magic.   The years, the hurricanes and the humidity that permeates everything on the Mississippi Gulf coast had left their mark on the cardboard.   Mother had moved it several times, and at some point, the bottom became soft from the dampness.  

            When I brushed off the dust and cobwebs, I saw a handwritten label, "Journals and Scrapbooks". I grabbed it underneath and as soon as I picked it up, the seams split.   A scrapbook and several diaries fell on the dirty attic floor.   Except for some yellowing and fading of the xerox copies, the pages seemed in pretty good shape as I flipped through them.

            "Grandma Peach, what's in this box?" my 15 year old granddaughter asked as she picked up one of the books.   “This looks like a scrapbook for one of Great Gram's clubs.”

            "Actually this is a scrapbook from your Grandmother Sarah Lee's job at the Anti-Communist League."

            "Anti-Communist League?"

            "Back in the 1960's Americans were afraid of a political system, called Communism, which believed all property should be publicly owned.   Some big countries like Russia and China didn't really believe in corporations and private property and there was a long conflict between our country and the countries based on this theory.   We called it the 'Cold War'."  

            "My World History teacher mentioned it the other day.   Did they ever fight?"

            "Once in Korea and some in Vietnam, but most of the time it was only just fought with words.   Now that we're in this religious war with the Muslims and Russia is our ally, it's probably hard for you to believe America was really different back in the 1960s.   Back then, America was not officially a 'Christian nation' like it is today.   Our laws weren't based on the Ten Commandments.   They actually taught evolution as a fact in the schools."

            "My science teacher did explain evolution as one theory of creation, but she said its weakness is that it doesn't believe there's a creator force like the 'Force' we saw in that old 'Star Wars' movie the other night."

            "I know you can't imagine it, but there was a time in America when the churches and the government were separate.   That was before a string of presidents used the churches to get elected. And the politicians rewarded the fundamentalist Christian groups by appointing a conservative Supreme Court, which reinterpreted the laws.   It was really different back then.   You'd see secular figures like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny promoting holiday sales.   It was very, very different; women had more power, but I'll have to tell you more about it some other time.   The new owners move in next Thursday and we have to get Mom's house cleaned out.   Can you repack this box and put it in my car?"

***

            With the estate sale over I found the time to look at the salvaged box from Mother's attic.   As I settled in to my chaise lounge in our sunroom, I opened the box and looked more carefully at its contents.   Each page of the journals and scrapbooks, filled with newspaper clippings, press releases, and radio transcripts, brought back a flood of memories and questions.   Maybe the makeshift archives of observations, personal confessions, surprisingly erotic tidbits and news accounts from her work could fill in some gaps in my knowledge of what really happened to both me and America in my youth.   I might even get a better clue as to why I rebelled.

            At one time I would have become an activist to fight the current political establishment promoting conservative doctrine as the law of the land, but not now.   I'm too comfortable in my little suburban cocoon, yet I wasn't always this passive.   

            Back in the 1960's I raised my share of political and cultural hell, which surprised a lot of people.   I was from a staunchly conservative, Mississippi Christian family with a mother who worked for the Anti-Communist League, a right-wing organization. But like many other young people during that time, something snapped and I went over the deep end and left most of society's norms on the top of the cliff.

            Looking back to the late 1960s anyone should have seen the cultural backlash   about to hit the country. If you had been there with me in the early days of the ACL, the Anti-Communist League, you could see the seeds of the country's conservative transformation.   I witnessed parts of it, but my Mother, Sarah Lee Hollingsworth, had a real front-row seat and to my surprise she chronicled it all.   

            In addition to the group's archive, her journals were like reading a crude romance novel with a frustrated heroine.    I marveled at her very private descriptions of her relationship with the ACL's founder, retired Army Colonel, William Jefferson Davis.

            In some ways I feel a little guilty reading her private journals.   Our relationship had been strained at times.   We had been close until I started college and then everything got out of whack.   We split over the way I dressed, my life style and politics.   We argued so much, it took years to heal.   She thought "Hippie Communists" had seduced me and I thought she had been brainwashed by "right-wing nuts."   Finally, we just didn't talk about anything more contentious than the weather.

            Our split probably started the night I first met her boss and lover, Colonel William Davis or "Colonel Billy" as she called him. But in the military he was nicknamed "Colonel Lightning Rod" because of his swift attack style.

            On one of my visits home from Mississippi State she invited me to attend a meeting of his Anti-Communist League group.   We drove out to the gathering in his jeep and I vividly remember the drive down the small two lane road lined with moss-covered Cyprus trees.   The steering wheel of his jeep squeaked as he turned right into the parking lot of the Reformed American Church.   The church building, one of those structures covered with new-fangled vinyl siding, sat just outside Biloxi, Mississippi.   He seemed pleased with the number of cars in the parking lot.   Most of the vehicles weren't the ram-shackle, red mud-covered pickups of his typical followers.   That night it looked like he had a good response from men who actually keep their cars washed.

            He joked that Karl Marx would have done better if he had split society into the "washed" and "unwashed".   Many of his followers would probably be surprised to know he had actually read Karl Marx, but he believed it was always smart to know your enemy.

            My mother told me enough about the organization that I knew their work to build the Anti-Communist League, with its goal of saving America from the left wingers had not been easy. She always told me "CB", as she called him, really believed good Americans were fed up with the decadence and left wing philosophy sweeping the youth culture.   He had faith patriotic Americans were ready to rise up and defend real American values.  

             "You must be proud of the turnout," Mother said to him as we drove into the church lot.  

            "Well we finally seem to be growing. You know, Peach, we have chapters in 10 states."

            "And political columnists are starting to take us seriously." Mother added.   "They recognize the Colonel as a major leader in the fight to save America.   One even compared his leadership to the president of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis."

            "Well I am his descendent," Colonel Billy said.

            Driving into the church's parking lot, I was surprised at how many of the vehicles had bumper stickers.   The printed slogans "Jesus Fights Communism," " America: Love It or Leave It," and "Register Communists, NOT GUNS!" left no doubt about where this group stood.  

            The stickers inspired Colonel Billy. "Maybe I should make up a new one , 'The ACL can take U out of the ACLU.'   This slogan will drive the pinkos nuts in places like New York."

            "Like they need something else," Mother said.   "If the parking lot is any indication, you should have a good turnout for tonight's meeting."  

            He eased his Army surplus jeep to a stop next to a dusty pickup truck with a homemade gun rack in the back window.   Stepping into the fall night I could feel a slight Gulf-of-Mexico breeze.   As he stepped out of the jeep and unfolded his imposing, six-foot frame, I could see why Mother was attracted to him.   He still walked with the gait and bearing of a military man— sort of a cross between a Bantam rooster and a Peacock.  

            As he swaggered to the church's front door, I wondered if he ever thought about buying a new car with a softer suspension.   He would probably never give up the jeep because, by now, it had become too much a part of his image.

            I could understand Mother's attraction even though he was 62.   He seemed to have the energy and stamina of the younger officers he commanded in the 82 nd Airborne at Fort Bragg.   Eventually the clock might stoop his body, but now his stature and bearing evoked the image of "leader" to those around him.   So, in the battle of age, he looked like he was winning the fight.

            I can still visualize the church's sanctuary, a rather spartan room with padded pews and an altar in front of two large, velvet paintings of Jesus.   As soon as we walked in the door, Colonel Billy started greeting his friends and fellow freedom fighters.   After a few minutes of back slaps and banter, the Sergeant-at-Arms called the group to attention and the meeting started with the Pledge of Allegiance and the Anti-Communist League oath:

            "In the spirit of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson and General Douglas MacArthur, we pledge to fight to keep freedom's light burning and to protect it from Godless Communists.   We solemnly swear we will protect freedom as long as we live."   

            "God Bless America!" the group shouted as the oath ended.

            "I can't hear you!" Colonel Billy screamed.

            "God Bless America," the group shouted louder.

            "I can't hear you, you bunch of pinko dupes!   Have the dirty Commies cut out your tongues?   Let's hear it for the USA."  

            This time a blood curdling "GOD BLESS AMERICA!" vibrated the simulated wood rafters and stirred the graves of the Confederate soldiers resting peacefully next door in the Church's cemetery.  

            "Hallelujah!" Reverend Buddy Worth, the Church's pastor, shouted.

            "The spirit is here tonight," Colonel Billy screamed.   "OK let's take our seats and listen to the Treasurer's report."

            A squirrelly little guy with thick glasses stepped up to the altar and started speaking in a mumbly voice.   "Bumper sticker and poster sales are down and we had to cash in some of our gold reserves to pay for printing the last issue of Fight Back.   Contributions from our syndicated radio show, "The Voice of Patriotism", ain't nothing to brag about either.   Ad revenues from our 50,000-watt radio station WRIT are about the same.   In short, we need to work harder to wake up America."

            The Colonel took the podium.   "Thank you.   Our treasurer is always filled with good news, but we know God is on our side and we WILL wake up America.    Yes, Brother Worth," the Colonel said, recognizing the Pastor, the only one in the audience wearing a tie.  

            "I've been thinking we could bring in more money if we had a new issue.   Maybe we should take on these Communist organizers infiltrating our college campuses.   They are ..."

            "Good idea, Reverend," Colonel Billy interrupted.  

            "We should also confront the bra burners," my mother interjected from her front row seat.   "I hear they're planning a feminist demonstration up at Mississippi State.  They're out to corrupt our Southern girls, like my daughter Peach, with Communist ideas like free love.   If these women's libbers get their way, the family is doomed."      

            As she pointed to me I felt completely embarrassed.   I also remember how I felt about the irony in her statement since she was in the middle of a divorce from my father.

            "Thank you, Sister Sarah," Colonel Billy said as I watched his eyes trace a pattern up Mother's shapely calves.   I’d heard enough from Mother to know they had a thing going.   I know she wanted to please him.   She even told me she would have changed her hairstyle, but he really liked her bouffant hairdo because he loved the Dolly Parton look.  

            I knew my mother was still shapely for her age of 50 and that he liked her, but I was not prepared for her journal entry from that night, September 20, 1968.   I was a little shocked at how Mother’s diary included his glances.

            "As CB's eyes picked me out in the crowd, I know he was fantasizing about his favorite part of my body -- the tattoo I got in New Orleans the night I got a little too drunk with him.   I knew he loved the permanently engraved Stars and Bars on the inside of my right thigh.   After all, it was his idea to add bold script letters underneath the flag proclaiming "For Patriots Only."  

            "I've heard they're about to start organizing draft card burnings at the college," another member added.

            "OK, OK!" Colonel Billy barked.   "We know the Commies are after our youth and our gutless politicians are letting them brainwash our young people with drivel about academic freedom.   But we ain't gonna stand idly by and watch the Communists do their dirty work.   Our young people are too important to our country's future.   We need to create an Intelligence Committee to find out what's happening on our campuses.   And then we have to fight them.   All those in favor say ‘Aye, Aye Sir.’"

            A chorus of "Aye, Aye Sirs" shook the rafters.  

            "It looks like the ayes have it.   I'll set up this committee and we'll have a report by the next meeting.   If there's no other business, then we can wrap up the meeting," Colonel Billy concluded.

            With the main business out of the way, the group held a drawing for a rifle that bore an eerie resemblance to the one used by Lee Harvey Oswald in Dallas.

            Then the group passed around an old army helmet for contributions.   As the meeting broke up, individual members gathered around a cooler in back and started pouring bourbon into coke bottles.

            I overheard Colonel Billy ask mom if they could slip off after the meeting, but I was a little shocked at her journal's account.  

            "The Colonel approached me and asked if I could slip off for a drink after the meeting.   I knew I could send Peach home with a friend and go with him.   Of course I also knew 'having a drink' was his code for our regular ritual.   I suspected by now all the ACL members knew that he and I often concluded each meeting with a little romantic affair at the Sea Shell Motel on Route 90.   I doubt if they cared; they probably thought it was just part of his macho army thing.   But how could they object?   Affairs are as American as apple pie."

***

            I knew my mother devoured novels and   but I never imagined she authored her journal almost as if it could be a draft for a blue-collar novel.   Her diary continued with an extensive account of her evening at the Sea Shell motel.  

            The Sea Shell's beach décor did nothing to inspire romance, but its location just off the beach offered something else – privacy.   After beach season, the bar closed and few people booked rooms.   

            Neither one of us wanted to attract attention to our relationship.   I knew my ex's detective still had the case open because our divorce is not final, so I had to keep it discrete.   I didn't want to give him anything to confirm the nasty allegations the lawyers made about me in court.   He's determined to get official custody of Peach even though she's almost 18.

            And to further complicate things, CB still lives with his mother.   He owned the house, but he could never sleep with a woman with Big Momma in the next bedroom."  

            Mother always told me my real dad, Albert, hired the rather clumsy gumshoe just to harass her, because she was damn sure he hadn't done it to get her family's money; that disappeared years ago.   She also guessed he felt jealous because she still attracted looks from the opposite sex and my father had long ago lost his magnetism.    

            At one time our family had land, but a series of bungled financial deals left my mother and her sister with fragments of nothing.   One friend actually joked behind her back that she reminded him of a Clairol Blanche Dubois after rehabilitation.

            Mother's journal continued her account of the evening: I always knocked and looked both ways before entering the room.   CB opened the door with a big smile on his face.   He had covered the Formica bureau top with a white towel from the bathroom.   On the towel he arranged a bottle of Jack Daniel's bourbon, an ice bucket, two soft drink bottles and glasses.   He had even removed the "Sanitized for Your Health" wax paper from the glasses.

            In a ritual I had come to expect, CB asked, “Are we going to lower the flag tonight, honey?”  

            By now his references to the flag tattoo on the inside of my right thigh had become his code word for sex.

            I accepted the mixed drink of bourbon and coke and assured him, “This patriot's all yours.”

            Although by now, it had become part of our ritual foreplay, my patriotic response never failed to excite him.  

            Some nights he just sloshed some bourbon in a glass and ignored the way I like it – more bourbon than coke. But tonight he got it just right.   On these occasions I always cursed the calories, but rationalized it as a Southern aphrodisiac to enhance our tryst.

            I tried to stay trim because I knew he could have other women.   But compared to some women I'm lucky; obesity for me is not a big problem.   Some times I felt blessed to have thin genes.

            To my surprise her account became very graphic.

            I knew CB had a soft core and could be affectionate, but to be honest, I felt his lovemaking   assumed all the delicacy of a full-scale military invasion.   First, the advance troops of his burly hands loosened up my defenses with a few back and forth movements on my neck.   Then he surrounded me with an embrace that sent psychological white flags of surrender down my red, white and blue patriotic 'Made in America' panties.

            The troops of his finger brigade then lined up for a full-scale assault on the high ground—my breastwork.   And with each new maneuver I felt a new shot of adrenalin ripple through my body.

            “Is it time for the heavy artillery, baby?” he asked.

            “Fire away, Colonel,” I told him.

            With my defenses softened, he was ready for an all-out attack—at least he was ready until he checked his troop strength.   There, between his legs, his Big Gun, the one-time pride of the 82 nd Airborne, lay limp in geriatric retreat as if the big 16 inch guns of the battleship New Jersey fell soft and shriveled up   just before they had to fire the big ones in Korea.

            With the full dimensions of the crisis becoming apparent, CB shifted tactics.   The iron fist of his right finger battalion withdrew from my high ground and resumed a classic military school position.   Now all the troops of his right hand were working feverishly to provide emergency maintenance to his weapon.   He knew from previous battles he had to keep up the momentum or the assault would be lost.  

            When I asked him if something was wrong, he said he just wasn't ready tonight.   He even speculated it might be a result of the chemical additives the Communists are putting in our food.

            To be honest he excited me so much I could get sexually aroused just being with him.   We really did not have to do anything to give my flag tattoo goose bumps.