Elton John had his Norma Jean, never knowing who to cling to when the rains set in. We have our Dallas native, Patsy Ann McClenny. Though her presence in our house exists behind a glass pane only, this photo taken at a Carrolton studio in 1966 seems to migrate from room to room. You may spot it in the guest bath. It graces my husband’s office for months on end, occasionally being mistaken for his lovely mother. It has even made it to the fireplace mantel a time or two. Months after this photo was snapped, California would beckon Patsy. Just like Norma would shed her Mortenson/ Baker moniker for a decidedly glam name, Marilyn Monroe, Patsy would decide that Mc-Clenny wouldn’t impress the studio execs the way her new exotic title would. Hence, Morgan Fairchild was born. But first, why is her high school graduation picture on display in my house? You just won’t believe how happy I am you asked.
It was April of 2016, wet enough to need boots on your feet and still cool enough for long pants and a t-shirt. In the world of a junk picker, April is perfection. The life of a picker, you see, skirts many a situation that normal folk wouldn’t catch themselves in under any circumstance. You might need to vault yourself into a dumpster. You might need to shimmy through the narrowly carved cardboard box hallways of a hoarder. You might need snake proof boots and a metal detector. Thick gloves that exceed elbow length are a definite must. I draw the line at wedging my body under a pier & beam house. Anyway, there we were. I had talked, which is spelled b-e-g-g-e-d, my husband into accompanying me on a picker adventure to a “rustic” estate sale out in the country. My want list for such occasions is always the same: old quilts, long forgotten trunks of any fashion, Victorian era ball gowns, leather bound books, old mirrors, globes, Bibles, tin type photographs, and, of course, an antique doll house. These things are difficult to acquire, mind you. The estate of a recently deceased hoarder is the perfect starting point.
“Dina!” I heard a female voice lilting through the East Texas pines. Voices come and voices go, but there’s no mistaking the tone of your kin. Standing next to an old barn, her money bag tied tightly around her waist as she reigned supremely over her collection of rusty goodness that was for sale, was my cousin, Andrea. I have never figured out how you remove a cousin, or why you’d want to, but Andi’s mother was the niece of my grandmother. See, it’s hard to grasp. I grew up next door to Andi and her family out in an area of unincorporated Kaufman County that is now the property of Seagoville. If you’ve heard the tale about the dark purple Nova and the mule I used to ride, she claimed ownership of both.
She’s pretty much my favorite person. That junk gene didn’t get once or twice removed; I can tell you that much. We both shrieked at the sight of each other, embraced, and got to talking. My husband joined right in.
I didn’t find any of my wish list treasures that day, but the hubs bought some boots from Andi. She told him lots of incredibly embarrassing stories about me, the coming of age in the country stories about this odd girl, ten years her junior, who babysat and loved going to Podunk rodeos to watch her then-husband ride broncs. My husband beamed, saying, “Yeah, Dina is my dream girl, except for Morgan Fairchild, of course.” It’s an inside joke that made its way outside, like a dark secret you were dying to tell for ages. ‘Tis true. He loves him some Morgan Fairchild, the standard to which all beauty is judged. Laugh-ter ensued. We left. The day was practically forgotten.
Months later, perhaps even a year, a 5x7 manilla bubble wrap envelope appeared in our mailbox. There was no return address, no note of any sort. The package was for Mr. Moon. He eased the back flap open, the only clue being one word carefully penciled on the seam – FRAGILE. He pulled out a black and white photograph of a lovely blonde girl in a black, almost off the shoulder drape. She was stunning, in a familiar way, like someone you should know but can’t quite place. “Who is this?” he asked me. “You tell me,” I said with a side-eyed grin. “Got any big news you want to share?” Days then weeks then months passed. Would there be another clue? One night, the mystery absolutely killing me, I wondered aloud if he were adopted. Could this be a photo of his biological mother? “Honey, I have my mom’s legs.” Since that is completely accurate, I put all the thoughts away, along with that photograph.
The next spring, old boots and baggy jeans at the ready, we set out for another wild goose style junking expedition. There she was, of course. “Annnnnnnnndrea!” I was the first one to shriek in delight this time. We hugged. She still smells like L’air du Temps by Nina Ricci. I hope she always will. She held me out at arm’s length and smiled her lovely smile. “Did you get the picture of Morgan Fairchild I sent you? As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to buy it for your husband.” Dear Patsy McClenny, may your senior photo from Lake Highlands High School grace the halls of my humble home forevermore.
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