KindredFlame
Lustful Libertine
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2019
- Posts
- 641
This story is based on the song Harper valley P.T.A by Jeannie C. Riley
Hope you like it.
The air in Harper Valley hung thick and heavy, not with humidity, but with unspoken judgments and the scent of freshly mown lawns covering the rot beneath. It was a town built on picket fences and whispered grievances, where appearances were currency and any deviation from the pristine path was met with a swift, silent condemnation. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, or at least, the version of it they chose to believe.
Stella Johnson knew it better than most. She was a widow, a survivor, a woman who dared to live beyond the prescribed grief of Harper Valley. Her husband, George, had been a good man, steady and kind, but he'd passed five years ago, leaving her with their daughter, Dee Dee, and a mortgage on their small, well-kept house. The town expected her to don black, mourn perpetually, and perhaps, eventually, find a quiet, acceptable second husband. Stella, however, had chosen a different path: she lived.
She worked at the diner on the edge of town, serving coffee and pie with a polite, distant smile. She occasionally wore dresses that flattered her figure, skirts that skimmed a little higher than Mrs. Henderson's sensible midis, and sometimes, on a Friday night, she’d share a quiet drink with a fellow lonely soul at Kelly’s Bar, laughing a little too loud, living a little too freely for the town’s silent arbiters. The whispers had started subtly, a rustle in the grocery aisles, a downturned gaze at church. Then they grew sharper, like thorns on a rosebush, pricking at her reputation.
Her daughter, Dee Dee, was fifteen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, with her mother’s defiant spark hidden beneath a veneer of adolescent shyness. Dee Dee attended Harper Valley Junior High, a brick edifice where the lessons learned outside the classroom often overshadowed those within. One stifling Tuesday afternoon, as the late summer sun beat down on the manicured lawns, Dee Dee burst through the front door, her usually bright face shadowed. She didn’t stop to toss her backpack onto her bed or grab a snack, rituals of her carefree youth. Instead, she walked directly to the kitchen, a crumpled envelope clutched in her hand like a dead bird.
“Mom,” she said, her voice small, “I… I got a note.”
Stella, stirring a pot of simmering stew, turned, her brow furrowing at the sight of her daughter’s distress. “A note? From school?”
Dee Dee nodded, her eyes wide and tear-filled. She extended the envelope, her hand trembling. It was thick, cream-colored, with the familiar, ornate letterhead of the Harper Valley P.T.A. Stella’s stomach clenched. A cold dread seeped into her bones. The P.T.A. was the town’s self-appointed moral compass, its unofficial investigative committee, and its most potent weapon.
She took the note, her fingers brushing against Dee Dee’s cold ones. The paper felt heavy, imbued with the weight of collective judgment. Stella unfolded it, her eyes scanning the neat, precise script.
Dear Mrs. Johnson,
It has come to the attention of the Harper Valley P.T.A. that your conduct has recently fallen short of the standards expected of a parent with a child in our esteemed Junior High. We have received numerous reports regarding your attire, specifically the inappropriate length of your dresses, which we find to be excessively high.
Furthermore, there have been credible accounts of you engaging in excessive drinking and inappropriate associations with various men within the community, often late into the evening. Such behavior, we believe, constitutes ‘going wild’ and sets an unacceptable example.
We do not believe you ought to be bringing up your little girl in this manner, as it reflects poorly on our school community and, more importantly, on Miss Dee Dee Johnson. We urge you to reconsider your lifestyle choices for the sake of your daughter’s well-being and reputation.
Sincerely,
The Secretary, Harper Valley P.T.A.
I would be happy to forward what happened next to anyone who,is interested.
Hope you like it.
The air in Harper Valley hung thick and heavy, not with humidity, but with unspoken judgments and the scent of freshly mown lawns covering the rot beneath. It was a town built on picket fences and whispered grievances, where appearances were currency and any deviation from the pristine path was met with a swift, silent condemnation. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, or at least, the version of it they chose to believe.
Stella Johnson knew it better than most. She was a widow, a survivor, a woman who dared to live beyond the prescribed grief of Harper Valley. Her husband, George, had been a good man, steady and kind, but he'd passed five years ago, leaving her with their daughter, Dee Dee, and a mortgage on their small, well-kept house. The town expected her to don black, mourn perpetually, and perhaps, eventually, find a quiet, acceptable second husband. Stella, however, had chosen a different path: she lived.
She worked at the diner on the edge of town, serving coffee and pie with a polite, distant smile. She occasionally wore dresses that flattered her figure, skirts that skimmed a little higher than Mrs. Henderson's sensible midis, and sometimes, on a Friday night, she’d share a quiet drink with a fellow lonely soul at Kelly’s Bar, laughing a little too loud, living a little too freely for the town’s silent arbiters. The whispers had started subtly, a rustle in the grocery aisles, a downturned gaze at church. Then they grew sharper, like thorns on a rosebush, pricking at her reputation.
Her daughter, Dee Dee, was fifteen, a girl on the cusp of womanhood, with her mother’s defiant spark hidden beneath a veneer of adolescent shyness. Dee Dee attended Harper Valley Junior High, a brick edifice where the lessons learned outside the classroom often overshadowed those within. One stifling Tuesday afternoon, as the late summer sun beat down on the manicured lawns, Dee Dee burst through the front door, her usually bright face shadowed. She didn’t stop to toss her backpack onto her bed or grab a snack, rituals of her carefree youth. Instead, she walked directly to the kitchen, a crumpled envelope clutched in her hand like a dead bird.
“Mom,” she said, her voice small, “I… I got a note.”
Stella, stirring a pot of simmering stew, turned, her brow furrowing at the sight of her daughter’s distress. “A note? From school?”
Dee Dee nodded, her eyes wide and tear-filled. She extended the envelope, her hand trembling. It was thick, cream-colored, with the familiar, ornate letterhead of the Harper Valley P.T.A. Stella’s stomach clenched. A cold dread seeped into her bones. The P.T.A. was the town’s self-appointed moral compass, its unofficial investigative committee, and its most potent weapon.
She took the note, her fingers brushing against Dee Dee’s cold ones. The paper felt heavy, imbued with the weight of collective judgment. Stella unfolded it, her eyes scanning the neat, precise script.
Dear Mrs. Johnson,
It has come to the attention of the Harper Valley P.T.A. that your conduct has recently fallen short of the standards expected of a parent with a child in our esteemed Junior High. We have received numerous reports regarding your attire, specifically the inappropriate length of your dresses, which we find to be excessively high.
Furthermore, there have been credible accounts of you engaging in excessive drinking and inappropriate associations with various men within the community, often late into the evening. Such behavior, we believe, constitutes ‘going wild’ and sets an unacceptable example.
We do not believe you ought to be bringing up your little girl in this manner, as it reflects poorly on our school community and, more importantly, on Miss Dee Dee Johnson. We urge you to reconsider your lifestyle choices for the sake of your daughter’s well-being and reputation.
Sincerely,
The Secretary, Harper Valley P.T.A.
I would be happy to forward what happened next to anyone who,is interested.
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