Mel Gibson slept here… for quite a while!

mel-bWhen I opened the Rothschild-Pound House in 1995, my first guest was Mercedes Ellington, granddaughter to Duke Ellington. She stayed for a month and Garry and I were thrilled with the fact that we had such a cool first customer, albeit arranged by Paul Pierce. I cried when she left.

Our next guests came about two weeks later. I’ll never forget the phone was ringing at the B&B in the kitchen and we had just come home from Home Depot. A north Alabama accent, introduced himself and proceeded to quiz me on the particulars. Did I have hardwood floors? Was it an old house? Do you have breakfast? When was the house built? He was coming for a job interview at Ft. Benning and wanted to bring his wife down. They were Civil War re-enactors and loved B&Bs. Freda and Gavan Erwin checked in the next week, in the Rothschild Suite. He went on to interview and finally get the job at Ft. Benning. They first rented an apartment from us at 730 First Avenue and then bought the house next door to my Few Street Cottage about 6 months later. And for the next 10 years or so, Freda Erwin and I were together constantly, starting at 6:30 in the morning, every morning. The only time we weren’t was when I had my first child and she actually brought me breakfast in bed, upstairs in the Garrett Suite. She and I served thousands of people pancakes and coffee, eggs and bacon, while Garry sat on the barstools in the kitchen , reading the Ledger-Enquirer, trying to ignore us. I don’t think I could’ve done it without her help. I am sure I could have, but it surely wouldn’t have been the same. We surmised personalities and critiqued individuals according to how they dressed their grits. We had our favorite guests, the fun ones, the ones that would joke with us. We had those that hardly spoke, (those were usually the ones that put sugar on their grits). We had the newlyweds, the Olympic attendees, the new Veteranarian in town, a good looking Brazilian who Freda had to serve French toast sans clothes, he, not her. But when she came back, she had to go smoke a cigarette. .

I’ll never forget the time Sunshine, the hotdog man, drove Keri Russell down 2nd Avenue on his bike trailor. She ended up moving here from the Hilton. After she got here, Chris Klein, Greg Kinnear and Madeleine Stowe came over as well. Then I got a phone call inquiring about our accommodations, lots of detailed questions. The woman let me know right away that she was scouting locations for a very high profile individual. Of course, discussed it all with Freda. We discussed every aspect of it and were beside ourselves that Sam Elliot would be our guest, hopefully. The woman was coming over that very afternoon to look. Of course, Freda cam e to “help me” show her the cottages. We went from house to house, listening to the woman go on and on about how she could imagine all the men sitting around the big dining room table, drinking scotch and smoking cigars, etc. I listened to every word . Finally, I managed, “can you tell us who it is?’

“oh no.” “I can’t do that”. I’ll call you and with a smile, the 20 something was off . She seemed a little smug. But I was so excited. I knew that Sam Elliott staying here would be GREAT for business. Even though Freda did have to tell me who he was.

“You know, the Marlboro man”, she said, blowing smoke through her nose. We always sat on her front porch.

“I sure hope he stays, that would be so cool”.

The phone rang . My phone would reach to her porch. “Rothschild-Pound House”.

“Yes, we can secure the windows, no problem”. I was determined. “Okay, see you then”

“They’re coming at 4.”

Freda let out a yell. “I gotta call Carlie”. She left me to go wash her hair.

“I’ll see you at 4, on the big house porch”. I left with a great big sense of secret and hopefulness welling up in me. How cool is this? I thought to myself.

At 3:30, we were in the big rockers on the porch. Freda didn’t even smoke so she’d smell her best.

“It’s the Marlboro Man, Freda, of all people, he’ll understand.”

“Nah”. She licked her teeth.

About 4:05, a big white SUV drove up and parked right in front of the big house. We rose out of our rockers. They walked, on the street toward the Few Street Cottage. We took the stepping stones behind the wrought iron fence. Neither of us turned our head toward them as they made their way on the street to our meeting spot. But we had seen enough as we descended the porch. As we measured our steps, cooly on the stepping stones Freda said, in a whisper so extreme, I thought she was jumping up and down behind me, “It’s Mel Gibson”

“I know” I said, smiling my biggest, coolest, smile, laughing without moving my lips. “I know”.

During the month of March 2001, Freda and I cleaned his house. We didn’t trust the maids with our secret.We saw his bible and his rosary, his AA book. He never touched a drop of the scotch I left for him, remembering the comment from his housing scout.  He was never less than exceedingly kind, even joining us in the kitchen of the big house,  discussing Batman with Murphey, then, about 2 and a half. I lost interest in cleaning his room about halfway through the month, busy fielding calls from local hostesses with offers to give dinner parties in their honor?

“I’m not sure who you mean, Mrs. Leeburn”.

The ledger had daily Mel sightings and it was all I could do to keep it from my closest friends, luckily Susi was really busy planning Christy’s wedding.

One day, Freda announced at breakfast that she was taking Gavan over to Mel’s room. The toilet seat needed replacing. “Thanks, I said”.  And, she added, “I’m takin’ the toilet seat to my house”. She did a little dance, then, “see you in the morning”’. And she was gone.

As far as I know, when Gavan and Freda sold us their house and moved to Key West, they left most everything there, china, beds, sofas, stuff in closet, even their Civil War re-enactor provisions. Now Gavan had a shaved head, Freda lost 40 pounds and they rode a Harley most places. But as they drove off in that truck, pulling the travel trailor, she waved goodbye. Her, Bubba the Cat, Gavan, and Mel Gibson’s toilet seat.


My fear of plastic cocktail plates AND dreadlocks

Ivory. Not Cream!!!!!Okay, I sold my business a year ago, or so I thought. Unfortunately, after 10 months in the business, the couple began divorce proceedings. That is normally someone else’s problem, but since I financed the whole deal, I am back in business. Well, I was back in business, for three weeks in November. But before I could even spray paint the porch rockers, another couple came along, this time from California; African-American lesbian drummers, with long dreadlocks. We’re in Georgia down here and we’re not in Atlanta. But hey, they were up for the task and I already had a foot and a half out the door. And I enjoyed four months of sweet freedom, marred by certain long periods of non-payment. Finally, sometime last month, (28 days, 28 minutes ago), after almost every imaginable excuse was applied to the situation of non-payment, these two were asked to vacate. Like I told someone, I’d have left in the middle of the night, if I were in their shoes. The power was disconnected in part of the inn, telephone service off, no gas. It was crazy. The good news is that the business itself is healthy and there are reservations pouring in, along with many already on the books. So, I’m thinking, not too bad, lots of rooms coming in, a couple of parties, a wedding. And at first, the wedding woman seemed calm, laid back and even reasonable. I’m sure in her former life of singlehood, she was just, well, her. But, as time has rolled closer to the big date, I find my inbox to be visited by her on an hourly basis sometimes. Not only that. She has diagrams. And she’s had them since the first time I inherited her from the lesbian drummers. But way back then it looked like a different situation. It appeared to be a simple, small wedding,plastic plates preferred . The only thing I can relate it to is a curve ball. It looks easy on the outset, but then it goes around the bend just before the finish. And that’s where I am now, running ahead of a curve ball.  Isn’t there a margarita somewhere she needs to be drinking? I know I’m looking for one. Or skip the whole sour mix thing and break out Senor Cuervo. This headache hurts worse than a hangover. Did I mention the lesbian drummers had to be FORCED out?  Inn, anyone?

It’s not the gravity…

This morning I stood facing an enormous robot looking thing with a sandwich maker in the middle. She says, “okay, slip your left arm out and step up to the machine”. So I did. And she came up, pushed me a little forward and proceeded to mash me almost flat, onto this big panini grill thing, like so much yeast dough, you’re supposed to knead. You know, on Food-network, when they take the ball of dough and with the heel of their hand, push it as far as it will go, while still in one piece? That’s exactly what they do. Just when my breast was smooshed as far down as it would go, the top part of the sandwich maker closed in on the once normal shape. “It’s supposed to be uncomfortable, but not hurt”, she said, “let me know if it hurts”. “It hurts”, I managed. “Deep breath and hold”, she says, snapping away with that x-ray thing. Did I mention that my head was turned as far as possible to the left, so as not to get in the way of the robot thing? I am not endowed enough to be standing away from the machine and in it at the same time.Then she took three pictures with that machine and we did the other side. You’d think that, for a woman, used to gynecological exams, given birth to two boys, (one weighed 9.9 pounds!), this would be a piece of cake. My sister warned me it hurt, but she has enormous breasts, so I had hope, and besides, my friend ,who has virtually no breasts, said it didn’t hurt at all. So I went, with optimism and two children, who sat in the waiting room, (I homeschool, remember). It was a nice place, The St. Francis Women’s Breastcare Center. They were professional, it was pretty. Even the little pink tie-front jackets they give you are nice, and pink is NOT my color. So, there I stood, pushed in between those smasher things. It only took a moment, maybe a minute, minute and a half. And of course, it’s so important to be preventative about these things. AND, I have completely avoided it until now. After all, it’s mandatory AFTER 40. And this is my first year of 40. ..As I left she said, “now don’t worry if you get a call back on your first mammogram, lot’s of people do, on their baseline”. I flash forward to Monday when the paranoid hypochondriacal me emerges, sleepless, scared crazy, because they maybe called and said I needed to come back in. All it takes is 10 minutes on WebMD and any kind of medical test for me to be completely miserable. You can absolutely stand it, because you know it’s a screening you do that’s potentially lifesaving. But as I was leaving, I kept thinking about all those people in the medieval times who had surgery without anesthesia, they just gave them something to bite on? And how one day, my great, great granddaughter will say, “you know, they used to squish you flat into a big platter thing and make you hold your breath, while they x-rayed you”. ..And I always thought gravity was the enemy.