Get Your Party On

Keith has come up with a great writing meme called Carry on Tuesday. This is my offering:

When Edith Hammond, was ten years old, she ordered an acoustic guitar out of the Sears Robuck catalog. She paid for it with money earned from selling eggs. After paying for the guitar, there wasn’t enough money for lessons, so Edith taught herself to play.

When her granddaughter, Sadie, was old enough to learn, Edith taught her to play on that same guitar. At age six, Sadie wrote her first song while her grandma picked out the melody.

After Grandma Edith passed away, Sadie continued writing songs alone. Instead of going to sorority parties during college, Sadie’s light burned late into the night, softly strumming that same old guitar, while melodies magically mixed with words. The summer after she graduated from Vanderbilt University, Sadie sold her first song. Now, a mere ten years later, she would play hostess to record executives and music company moguls. The guest of honor was the man who had been her inspiration, Paul McCartney. Sadie had worked hard to become the successful songwriter she was, and this Christmas party was designed to reflect that success.

Striving for perfection, Sadie picked up the last red and green napkin, folded it into the shape of a fan, shook it out, and then folded it again. Satisfied, she pulled the cloth through a silver ring. The napkin was then placed next to the plate at the head of the table. The Christmas china and silverware were from Neiman Marcus in Houston, bought specifically for this occasion. The table sparkled in the light cast by the Venetian chandelier, designed for her by Linea Mazzuccato of Italy. Sadie ran her hand over the elegant fleur-de-lis pattern gracing the Bellagio table linens, and then took a step back to admire her handiwork. She had succeeded in her quest for perfection.

Satisfied with the dining room, Sadie moved on to the kitchen where she confirmed the caterer had everything under control. She paused to criticize her reflection in a mirrored panel. An errant hair was captured and tamed, faded lipstick refreshed. Sadie looked like one of those cover girls on Vogue magazine: tall, thin, and regal. Her gown was an original Victor Costa design, found in a quaint little shop in Dallas. When she twirled in front of the mirror, silver sequins sent sparks chasing each other around the room.

A glance at the clock had Sadie hurrying upstairs to put on her shoes. She went inside the walk-in closet she had designed herself, picked out the shoes she planned to wear, and sat down on the bench with her back to the door. She was leaning down to put on the first shoe, when the closet door slammed shut.

Startled, Sadie called out, “Hello,” but no one answered.

She wiggled her foot into the other shoe and tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. Sadie twisted the knob hard and pushed, still nothing. She was locked in the closet and her guests were arriving downstairs. Sadie banged on the door, jiggled the knob, screamed for help, yet no one came.

Frantically, she searched through the closet for something to break the lock. Clothes and shoes now lay strewn over the plush, white carpet. Sadie surveyed the room. If only she had kept one of the baseball bats from her softball days. Just then her eyes found a fireplace poker propped in the corner. She had left it there for protection the night a news story warned of an escaped prisoner in the area. Relief gave her strength, and one quick strike opened the door.

Sadie hurried down the stairs. She stopped outside the living room, composed herself, and made a controlled entrance. The room was empty. Laughter drew her toward the dining room. She pushed open the door, expecting to see her guests. Instead of Sir Paul, a large black pig sat at the head of the table. He was chatting with a duck sitting in the chair to his left. Another duck used its beak to shovel a stuffed mushroom off the expensive china. The rest of the chairs were filled with dogs, cats, goats, even sheep, and at the far end of the table sat a large black and white cow. All of the animals were chattering in their own dialect, adding to the chaos that reigned supreme. What were these creatures doing in her house?

“Get out! Shoo! Get out!” Sadie screamed at the top of her lungs. Not one of the animals moved or even looked in her direction. Were they deaf? She screamed at them again, still nothing. The doorbell chimed. Sadie panicked. The real guests were arriving and her beautiful table was ruined. She ran around the room trying to get rid of the intruders. Each time she removed a creature from the table, another one appeared. Now there were squirrels, raccoons, ground hogs, and the cow had been replaced by an over sized skunk. That smelled!

Exhausted, Sadie leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor. Resting her head in her hands, pandemonium faded into the background, the light dimmed, darkness prevailed.

Sadie! Sadie! Wake up.”

Sadie wiped the sleep from her eyes, “Mom? What is it?”

Sadie’s mom sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be late. I tried to wake you, but you kept yelling at me to get out.”

Abruptly, Sadie sat up, “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get out of bed sleepy head, your appointment is in forty-five minutes. It’s a good thing we live so close to Music Row. We’ll celebrate when you get back. You know they’re going to love your song. Now get up, Little Miss Songwriter.”

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams. What seems is not always as it is. Yet, in Sadie’s case, the two dreams coincide, sort of. Sadie took a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. She looked around the room, recognizing Grandma Edith’s Sears Robuck guitar standing in the corner. Sadie threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. It was time to make her dreams come true. Well, the Paul McCartney part anyway.