The Chan Clan Sisters

Having reconnected with some dear friends from my childhood on Facebook, my mind is flooded with memories of my growing up in the small town of Goodman, Mississippi. I don't know if Goodman was unique as far as small towns in the south go, but with absolutely nothing to do, we were never bored.

My best friend, Melissa Upchurch lived right next door to me. Her older sister, Sandra, was one of the popular girls who I wanted to be like and I felt honored when she hung out with us because she clearly had better things to do. Steve, the oldest Upchurch, was always making trouble and making fun of us. He had nicknames for all of us.  No one was spared.  Mine was 'Bushwoman' because of my tangled mass of kinky curly hair.   Melissa was 'Moose'.  Sandra was 'Gut'.  There was also John Lowe, ' The Natural', Hugh Shaw, 'Hugh Baby', Melody Young, 'Smelly Melly', and my sister, Paula, is 'Pooty' to this day; you get the picture.  Some of his names were flattering; others, like mine, not so much.

One summer, sometime in the mid 70s, Sandra, Melissa and I came up with the idea to create a singing and dancing group and put on shows for the neighborhood.  We needed cash to be able to purchase candy and soda from Cauthens', the convenience store down the road, the one my Daddy always sent me to to buy his Winstons.  (Yes, I was buying cigarettes at 10 years old.).  Anyway, we gathered in Sandra's room and went over different options for the name of the group.  We came up with The Chan Clan Sisters.  Catchy, huh?  Coming up with the name was the easy part though.  Now, we needed to write some songs, choreograph some dance moves and create our costumes.  Sandra and I had similar unruly hair and usually we would just drape a towel over our heads with headbands to hold them in place and pretend that was our hair. We were going for the 'Cher' look.  Somehow, though, Sandra had managed to get an actual long hair wig!  She looked beautiful, just like Marsha Brady.  I was stuck with the towel.  Melissa already had pretty long hair with just a few soft curls.

We worked for what seemed like weeks to perfect our act.  We had done a pretty good job and were about ready to set a date for the big show.  That's when Steve came to us with a proposal.  He would be our manager.  We were extremely skeptical given Steve's reputation for trickery.  Steve was always up to no good and we were sure his motives could not be in our best interests.  But, he was a smooth talker and convinced us that we needed a manager to handle ticket sales, crowd control, etc.  So, it was done.  Steve Upchurch was named manager of The Chan Clan Sisters.  Somehow, with that job came no actual work, just the title.  We would go to him with our ideas and he'd just say, "Sure, great..."  We decided the venue would be my driveway.  We set out lawn chairs and potted plants were strategically placed for extra flare.  We rehearsed our numbers day and night.  We walked the neighborhood selling our homemade show tickets for 50 cents each.  By the night of the show we were set.  Butterflies filled our stomachs as we did our last minute preparations.

The show was an absolute success! We got applause and a standing ovation. My towel stayed on my head, as did Sandra's wig. Sandra, Melissa and I were so caught up in the excitement of the moment, we didn't realize our money box had gone missing. We had collected at least 7 dollars, which was enough to keep us in cracker jacks and candy cigarettes for 3 or more days. Where had our money gone?

Steve had been lurking around all afternoon, before the show, not really helping, but we just assumed he was making sure we had everything under control, kind of a supervisory roll. After the show, he was nowhere to be found. Deduction:  the cigar box with the money was gone and Steve was gone....Steve took our money!

We split up and went out to find Steve. I was hoping I wouldn't find him first, because, quite frankly, I was afraid of him. Sandra and Melissa had fire in their eyes though.  So, off we went.  Sandra went toward the 'gulley', a drop off at the end of our street, where we would sometimes play army because you could pretend like you were in the trenches.  Melissa decided to look behind Smelly Melly's house.  There were some trees and overgrown brush back there.  I took off toward 'The Natural's house, which was the opposite direction of the the gully, kind of standing alone on a big hill on the way to Cauthens'. I took Pooty along for backup.  Of course, I had no idea what I was going to do if I did find Steve, but, nevertheless, off we went.

Now, keep in mind, Goodman is a really small town.  We were all within a half mile radius of each other, if not closer.  It was late afternoon and there were dark clouds gathering, most likely to produce a thunderstorm, as often was the case on summer evenings.  We stepped up the pace of our search so we could make it inside before the rain began.  Pooty was a really fast runner, even at the very young age of 5, so she ran ahead of me to look for any sign of Steve.  Unfortunately, (or fortunately, I was thinking), there was no sign of him anywhere.

Sandra, Melissa, Pooty and I returned to the scene of the crime to discuss our next move.  As we were chatting, we heard, off in the distance a loud, horrific scream or cry or something.  It came from up the hill, from the only direction we had not searched.  The sound got closer and closer until we saw a figure running toward us.  Steve?  Was that Steve?  As he approached us, we noticed that the area around his mouth and cheeks was all swollen and misshapen and red.  He was crying!  Yes, Steve Upchurch, town bully, was crying!  What in the world had he gotten into?

Well, it turns out that Steve did not know that his hiding place of choice was also the spot where my Daddy, Chris Haley, had developed his latest hobby, raising bees.  Daddy had the full bee raiser's suit... mask, gloves, coveralls.  He would be completely covered at all times to prevent getting stung and he still got stung on occasion.  Unfortunately, Steve was not wearing anything but shorts and a t-shirt when he discovered the bees.  After he had spent our money, he had taken his bag of Cauthens' goodies up the hill to what he thought would be the ideal hideaway.  He opened up his bag of cotton candy and began stuffing his face.  As the cotton candy mixed with the Mississippi humidity and his sweat, it created a sticky sweet film around his mouth.  Well, you can guess what happened when the bees got a whiff of that!  Poor Steve.  The bees swarmed and attacked.  He was stunned, not knowing what was happening.  There is nothing scarier than a swollen, red faced, screaming Steve.

Well, suffice it to say, Steve learned his lesson.  Mr. Upchurch, aka Buddy, felt so bad for us girls that he paid us back the money Steve had stolen plus 3 extra dollars!  It had started to rain at this point so we decided that we'd make our trip to Cauthens' first thing the next morning.

The Chan Clan sisters went on to perform many more shows.  I eventually got my own long haired wig and we never hired another manager.

God?

I was raised in the Baptist Church, like most children in the south.  My mother saw that we attended Sunday School and the 2 services each week, one in the morning and one in the evening.  We also usually attended a Wednesday evening service, (just to keep us in check).  I never gave it much thought.  It was just the way it was, with everyone.  The few families who chose not to attend were looked down upon and sneered at, but we did "pray" for them that one day they would, like us, see the light.  There was a certain arrogance that went along with being one of the flock.  It was a very comfortable feeling.  We told ourselves that we were special, that God loved us more.

By contrast, many of us went to "private academies", which were basically schools established to keep us segragated from black people.  These schools taught love of God, love of country, and racism.  I went from first through twelfth grade, living in the blackest county in Mississippi, without ever attending school with a black person.  It didn't even seem odd to me.  I rememember wondering what was wrong with the white kids who attended public schools.

When we were children we followed what we were taught and didn't question much, at least I didn't.  We weren't bad people.  We just didn't know better.  We should know better now.

As an adult my views on the world have certainly solidified, like cement that had been mushy for the first half of my life and then seemed to come together and harden, and now are inpenetrable.  I don't believe in the church teachings of my youth and I don't take the Bible as the word of God.  I believe that human kind would be much better off if people were less concerned about the afterlife and more concerned about the here and now and the future on earth.  The "word" of God has led to warped beliefs and actions. Religion has corrupted more than it has saved.

I think about these things all the time, probably too much.  Like everyone else, I have no idea what the meaning of life is, but I know I am here to serve in some capacity, and not so that I'm assured eternal life.  To me that is an insincere quest.  It's very selfish.  Service is meant to be outside oneself, a purely selfless act, that should be done with or without believing one is scoring "brownie points" with the Almighty.

These are, of course, just my opinions.  I know a lot of very religious people who are truly wonderful and kind and do a lot of good.  But, that is who they are, with or without religion.  I also know atheists who possess the same qualities.  Whatever we believe, we should all leave a little bit of space in our minds to at least consider other possibilities, to crack the hardened cement, just a little.

As the New Year begins today, I'm at a point in my life when I'm questioning my purpose.  Sure, I've given birth to and am raising 4 children.  I guess you could say my main purpose has been to be a Mom, but as they become older and more independent, I feel the need to be more, do more with my life.  The age of 46 is a strange age.  I remember as a young adult feeling that the 40s seemed so far away and people in their 40s seemed "old".  Well, I don't feel old, at least on most days, but I can see the evidence of my age more and more when I look in the mirror.  I always told myself aging would not bother me, but vanity has made itself known to me, and I admit, I hate the look of my aging skin. What's worse, though, looking old or looking ridiculous trying to look young?  Youth and looks fade.

This year I am going to look for ways I can give back.  I need to tap into what talents I have, that have been repressed for so long, while I've been busy being a Mom.  Rediscovering what those talents are is going to be my greatest challenge.  I'm moderately intelligent, very impatient and a world class procrastinator.  Fortunately, I have lots of inspirational people in my life to learn from.

Christi Nowicki