Last month for Book Club we read Karen White’s The Night the Lights Went Out. We were all enamored with the story of Sugar Prescott, about whom not nearly enough was told. So I decided to breathe a little more life into her. 

This one’s for my girls.

When I won the election for mayor, my brother Harry very nearly lost his mind. He had always been a vexation to my spirit, but he became downright unbearable. I wasn’t about to bake brownies and call nice, he should be treating me to a celebratory dinner at the nicest steakhouse in three counties.

But we all knew THAT wasn’t going to happen. He even tried to run a a smear campaign against me!! Like there’s any dirt to be had that he could tell on me without incriminating himself. And that mealy mouth ninny he married! Trying to get me, Sugar Prescott, kicked out of the Country Club? Foolishness. There wouldn’t have been a country club if it hadn’t been for me begging Daddy to donate the land so we could have a nice tea there every once in a while. Where else was I supposed to throw Willa Faye’s showers? The basement of the Credit Union? No, no, no.

Anyway. Ten years after that nasty business with Curtis that we do not speak of, I somehow found myself in the thick of uncovering some dirt on the current administration. The sheriff had come to me on account of some misappropriated funds that had been from a sizable donation I’d made a few months prior. And there it was, in black and white. Something simply had to be done, but everybody who knew about it was scared for their jobs. I had nothing to lose. I wasn’t at a low point, Jimmy and the baby both long gone (but never forgotten, mind you), it was just that I was a little bit bored. Willa Faye had a family, I had a farm. Everything was just getting a tad too predictable for my taste. Time to bring a little kerosene to the fire. So race for the mayor sounded good as anything.

And the longer we could keep it from Harry, the better. I would have liked nothing more than to surprise him at the debate at the courthouse in front of the whole town. But, it was not to be. Lotta ears in this town, and a lotta mouths. I had my hair done up in a bouffant that was the style at the time, and I wore my highest heels. I had a good inch on him, and with his proclivity to indulge in the spirits on a nightly basis, I had a much more pleasing complexion. I took the house. Harry was flabbergasted.

That was the beginning of the end. The campaign was fun, because I knew there would be no surprises. Harry certainly wouldn’t want to go draggin’ skeletons out of the closet, or I would certainly expose his. I won by a landslide, almost 3/4 of the registered voters in the county turning out just to see him get whooped by his little sister. They don’t call me Sugar for nothin’.

Sadly, Harry began drinking even more heavily, which weighed on all his relationships. His marriage, that was hanging by a thread as it was, disintegrated on the spot. I always thought his little wife was a gold digger, anyway, and that just proved it. No prestigious title, money squandered, she turned tail and got outta town. Packed all her furs and diamonds in the Coupe DeVille and hit the road. He could often be found wandering the downtown streets of Sweet Apple late into the night until somebody took pity on him and drove him to what was left of his crumbling home. He was always bitter I got the big house. And the little house. He took to calling me, calling Congressman Ruth (a man, to be sure, just an unfortunate nickname earned when we were still in short pants) to tattle on me for not following one ridiculous protocol or another. I could not fathom putting people to work to seek funding for a project that was already funded. That’s right! All these confounded committees set up just so somebody has something to talk about over dinner. There were several sore spots involving positions that had been created for my predecessor’s family. I popped in their offices and made them show me what they did to contribute to the city, what made them indispensable to Sweet Apple. Many of them couldn’t, and out they went.

I cleaned house, you could say. Fired a popular judge, who was well liked due to his propensity for taking bribes and favors from the wrong side of the law. Fired a whole slew of paper pushers at the courthouse, girls who sat around filing their nails. Some were “repurposed”, if you will, into counselors and the like for children in need of support. One became a fitness instructor at the community center, shoving out a certain up-and-comer. I was glad to see it. Sometimes they get what’s coming to them. She was better suited as lifeguarding at the country club, anyway. 

I didn’t serve but two terms, but it was enough. My eye went to twitchin’ and wouldn’t stop, I blame reading the fine print on all those ridiculous documents. And I wasn’t getting to enjoy my town like I did before I was running it. So I sat back and watched them fight for my reins. Fortunately, the best man DID win, and on my advice took to running Sweet Apple just fine. I could relax with my shows and sweet tea again. 

So one year led to the next, and before I knew it I was an old woman. The only reason I knew it then was because my knees began to trouble me when I climbed the stairs in the old house. I could sure do with an elevator, but it does seem like such an extravagant expense when I could just relocate to Mama’s old bedroom downstairs. It looks nothing like it did when she was still with us, I made sure of that. All those frills and flowered-y wallpaper, no thank you. And gold fixtures everything. We weren’t living in the French Rivera, momma. More Provincial French, if anything, with the peeling paint on the dormers and porch railing. 

I wished I had the energy to scrape and repaint, but that’s what that handsome grandson of Willa’s is for. If I was one of these cotillion mothers in town, I would certainly be finding plenty to fix up around the house, including my daughters! 

So. These days I just flit around, baking casseroles and cookies for my renter who hasn’t got a lick of sense when it comes to cooking, and watching my confounded FitBit tick away steps. Blasted thing. My real enjoyment comes from running cyclists off the road and listening to gossip at the coffee shop. Why the bicycle enthusiasts can’t keep to the narrow paved trails the Parks & Rec department has so graciously (read: expensively) provided, I will never know. They have to get right out here and flaunt their exercise habits to people who are trying to get to work, or on their way to get their hair set. I’ve had a standing appointment at the Clip’n Curl for 8:15 on Wednesday mornings since I was in nylons. My Lincoln is wide, and fast, and heaven help you if you impede my progress. I don’t want to miss a word of the lies Jenny Maples is there to spread. That’s where I get most of my fodder for my “Neighbor” blog. It isn’t always nice, but it’s almost always true. And I will post a retraction, not an apology, mind you, in the event I get something wrong. It’s not an apology because it wasn’t intentional. Too many people apologizing these days, if you ask me. If your feelings get hurt, best to buck up and ask yourself why. It’s just some stranger’s opinion. And if you were found out doing something you shouldn’t have, well, maybe it’ll serve as a lesson next time you wanna do something immoral. 

When you get old like me you don’t waste time tiptoeing around. Although some will argue I never did.