The One-Legged Dragon

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The holidays have me in a happy mood.  I think it’s because they provide a time when families get together for laughing, for sharing and for focusing on the important rituals passed down from generation to generation.  Of the many threads in a family cloth, probably the strongest and most vibrant is that of tradition.  In the Robinson/Bryant/Kendrick clan (that’s my lineage) this is certainly true.  Every time two or more members with this common blood get together, you’re likely to hear voices rise in a song entitled “Turnip Greens,” or with just a few more cousins at the table a lively game of “Up Jinks” will ensue.    

Now that we’re upon the precipice of a New Year, one of my favorite traditions of all time comes to mind – “The One-legged Dragon.”

Every New Year’s Eve, rather than go out to parties themselves, your great grandparents Schaefer and Mary invited the children of their closest friends, Kitty and Steve Stephenson, to come to 3 Lakecrest Drive and spend the night.  For almost fifteen years, we rang in every New Year with Jane, Sam and Nan Stephenson. 

The night’s events always included ball tosses into bowls filled with varying amounts of money; ferocious games of Up Jinks between the boys and girls; running around the house with sparklers at midnight, seeing who could go all the way without the sparkler dying; and eating hotdogs with chili and hot chocolate before going to bed.  All of these activities were great fun, but the highlight of the evening always was the annual telling of a great tale about the One-legged Dragon.

I’m not sure on which New Year’s Eve Dragon was born, but I do remember the very first story.  A few months earlier, Mamaw Mary read an ad for Cash and Carry grocery in the Greenville News.  In bold headlines, the store broadcast canned goods on sale for one cent each.  It was an amazing price even for those days and she decided she just couldn’t pass it up. With her list in hand, Mamaw drove to Cash and Carry and pushed the cart down every aisle until she found the display of canned goods.  Yes….they were one cent each.  That was the good news.  The only problem…..there were no labels. 

Not to be deterred, Mamaw grabbed up a couple dozen cans.  She brought them home and stacked them neatly in the cabinets.  For several weeks in a row, when great granddaddy Schaefer came home from work, he’d walk into the kitchen asking “What’s for dinner?”  Mamaw replied “Your guess is as good as mine.  We’ll see when I open the can.”

That next New Year’s Eve, after we had finished bouncing the money balls and completed our game of Up Jinks, Great Granddaddy Schaefer announced that he had something special for us.  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his hand in such a way that it looked like a poorly constructed diaper.  His index finger extended out.  We had no clue what he was up to.

“I want to introduce you to The One-legged Dragon,” he said.  We snickered all around. 

“Now, the One-legged Dragon lost all but one leg in the many battles he fought.  He had to drag himself all the way home to where Mrs. Dragon waited for him.”  And great granddaddy Schaefer took that one finger and dragged his hand around the table.  We giggled louder.

“One night, the One-legged Dragon came in from a hard day out walking around on his one good leg.  He was starving.” 

“Good evening, Mrs. Dragon.  How are you tonight?  I hope you have a really good dinner prepared for me.  Hmmmmm…..this sure smells good.  What is it?”  Great granddaddy Schaefer lowered his voice to a deep bass as he spoke for the One-legged Dragon.

“It’s Mystery Soup, Mr. One-legged Dragon.”  Schaefer pitched his voice to a high squeak as he shifted into Mrs. Dragon.  We laughed out loud at this ridiculous tale, but were charmed nonetheless. 

From that night forward the One-legged Dragon became a part of our New Year’s Eve tradition.  Ever current with what had transpired during the year, the stories of the One-legged Dragon always reflected something of importance that had occurred at 3 Lakecrest Drive. 

Yes, traditions are essential in understanding family and I truly want to convey to you both all that I can remember.  To be honest, I’m trying very hard to learn how to wrap a handkerchief around my fingers just like great Granddaddy Schaefer used to do so that on New Year’s Eve from now until forever, we can share stories about the One-Legged Dragon!

It's All Sugar - A Christmas Story

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I never knew your great, great grandfather John Wesley Kendrick.  The only points of reference to him in my life were a small, framed photo portrait that hung on the wall in great granddaddy Schaefer’s bedroom, and his offspring who played a very vital role in my life.  Your great, great grandmother Mattie married him after his first wife died and left him with four sons – Charlie, John Oliver, William and Frank.  Schaefer and your great, great aunt Katherine were his children by Mattie.

Interestingly enough, Charlie, the oldest of the four boys, was only about six years younger than his new step-mother which could have caused a great deal of friction.  But, she assumed the household responsibilities with such a firm yet loving management style the boys came to hold her in true respect.  Even though she never could take the place of their mother, Mattie grew to be an ample, comfortable surrogate.  When their two half-siblings came along, the four brothers offered no less affection than they had shown each other over the years.

Charlie, John Oliver and Frank all three married and had children.  William, however, remained a bachelor all his life.  He suffered from acute deafness as a child which required him to wear hearing aids.  The condition altered his speech patterns making them nasally in sound but still distinguishable.  By the time I was born, William lived in Hendersonville, NC, and worked at Freeman’s News Stand where patrons could purchase newspapers from across the U.S., magazines, paperback books and assorted candies.  He was by no means prominent in Hendersonville, but his plump stature, ready smile and joviality made him well known to the lawyers, doctors and bankers who stopped by Freeman’s every morning for their chosen source of news. 

Once we moved to 3 Lakecrest Drive, William spent every Christmas with us in Greenville. The routine was always the same.  On the 22^nd of December, William’s good friend, whom I always knew as Mizz Judy, drove him from Hendersonville to our house.  This schedule gave him plenty of time to visit with Mattie, who lived with us in a basement apartment, and his brothers who were well within driving distance.   It also allowed time for Mom, your great Mamaw Mary, to figure out what to do with the turkey William always brought.  Invariably it was so large she had to remove a rack in the refrigerator to make it fit.

Let me back up bit…back to Mizz Judy.  I never knew much about her, like whether she was married or not.  She and Uncle Bill certainly appeared platonic, not boyfriend and girlfriend.  Maybe she befriended him through church or had just come to know him with frequent stops at Freeman’s.  Regardless of the relationship, she magically materialized every December 22^nd on our front stoop with Bill, all of his gifts and the gigantic turkey.

I did know one thing for sure, though.  Mizz Judy was HUGE!  She weighed close to 250 pounds if she weighed an ounce and had to drive a big, old fancy Cadillac because of it.  Her deep auburn hair swooped away from her forehead into a multi-curled beehive atop her head.  The style revealed a beautiful, full face punctuated by red lips and almost as red rouge on her milky white skin.  Mizz Judy dressed to the nines always.  If she had any self consciousness about her weight, you’d never guess it with her wondrous, deep laugh. 

Christmas of 1956, your great uncle Gene was two-and-a-half.  Although not quite old enough to understand all the nuances of the season, he loved the tree and lights and presents…and particularly all the increased activity around the front door.  No matter where he was in the house, when the bell rang, he scampered off through the living room to the door, yelling “I’ll get it” all the way. 

Just tall enough to reach the knob, he prided himself in being able to pull the heavy door open without falling over.  Once he accomplished this heroic task, however, he had to look straight up through the top-half open portion of the Georgian screen door in order to see who was there.  By this time, mom arrived to supervise.

December 22^nd, mid-afternoon, and we three kids hunched over the kitchen table decorating gingerbread men and stabbing gum drops on a plastic gum drop tree.  Ding Dong, Ding Dong.  The front door bell rang. 

“I’ll get it!”  Gene shrieked with delight almost flipping over the ladderback chair on which he stood.  He whipped around the kitchen door into the living room.  Mom stopped for a few seconds to wipe off her hands – a few seconds I’m sure she always wished she could reclaim.

On tiptoe, Gene tugged at the front door.  It sluggishly budged in his hands and slid open.  He looked up into the screen opening.  There, filling every square inch of the space, with her beehive hairdo, red lips and almost as red rouge, was Mizz Judy. 

Gene retracted slightly, mesmerized, but only for a second.

“Gosh……you’re fat!” he breathlessly proclaimed with the raw honesty of a toddler just as Mom rounded the corner of the entrance hall.

Your great grandmother, was a wonderful person.  The granddaughter of Quakers, she found it almost impossible to even swat a fly, much less hurt somebody’s feelings.  She sized up the situation at the door – Gene on one side having uttered the truth; Mizz Judy on the other having heard it. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, she thrust the screen door open and said with such conviction that even the Devil would have softened– “And it’s ALL SUGAR!”

Cha-Ching...A Christmas Story

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Nowadays when I do my Christmas shopping, standing in check-out lines resembling slow moving snakes with carts filled to the brim, I am overwhelmed by the constant annoyance of that “beep, beep, beep” of the barcode scanning machines.  If I had to be a modern cashier, I’d go stark raving crazy.  When the noise wouldn’t send me over the edge, the act of waving the magic red laser across the code of each article hoping to trigger the “beep” would. 

Add to that the inevitability of the scanner not registering a price through five swipes which requires the cashier having to manually enter the numbers.  Or perhaps, the opposite, where the laser decides to become super sensitive, adding an item twice, causing a total meltdown of the check-out line and precipitating a call to a manager in some far away place like Oz to come void the sale.  You get my drift.  I surely don’t want the job.

It hasn’t always been this way.  As a matter of fact, years ago when I was a little girl, I truly wanted to be a cashier at a grocery store.  I loved it when great grandmother Mary would take me grocery shopping with her.  Plopping me into the seat of the cart, she roamed the aisles carefully checking off the things on her list while looking for bargains along the way.  I never resisted the cart seat because it gave me such a good vantage point for seeing things - especially when it came time to check out.

As she wheeled the cart into the check-out lane, my eyes would grow wide with anticipation.  There, sitting next to the cashier, was the amazing, stately register with its buttons that, when touched, miraculously caused numbers to appear in the window at the top.  The cashier picked up every can, bottle, box and package to read the price.  “Cha-ching,” “cha-ching,” “cha-ching.”  As her fingers deftly pressed the buttons, somewhere deep inside of the register, a total was building.

“Is that all?”  the cashier asked.

“Yes, thank you,” my mother replied.

The cashier hit the “total” button revealing the final numbers in the window, the tender box flew open to a chorus of bells, mother paid and the transaction ended.  To me, it was wondrous.  Yes, I thought that the best thing a person could ever be was a cashier.

At this same time, great granddaddy Schaefer happened to have an interest in a small business in downtown Greenville called the Tire Store.  Of course, their main concern was selling and fitting tires but, they also had a hardware department and a toy department.  Close to Thanksgiving each year, Dad took your great uncle Bryant and me (great uncle Gene wasn’t born yet) to the Tire Store to peruse the year’s selection of toys and pick something out that we wanted to ask Santa to bring.  I loved going to the Tire Store and can still visualize its worn wooden floors and smell the musty air laden with the odor from the rubber of tires. 

When I was five, we made the annual trek to select our Santa gifts.  It was an extraordinary selection that year of baby dolls with strollers and princess dolls with lovely tulle dresses capped with silvery crowns sitting on ringlets of hair.  There were play ovens, china sets, and blackboards with chalk trays.  I walked wide-eyed along the shelves trying to make a choice.  Suddenly, I spotted it.  Sitting on the top shelf, a little out of my reach, like it was the most precious prize in the whole world, was a toy cash register.    I couldn’t believe my own eyes.  How was it possible that somebody could have their very own register?

I raced down the aisle to find my Dad who was talking with the manager of the store in his office off of the tire department. 

“I’ve found it!”  I yelled excitedly.  “I’ve found exactly what I want Santa to bring me!”

Dad excused himself and came back with me to see what it was that had so animated me.  I’m sure he was expecting the biggest, brightest (and probably most expensive) doll in the place.  I grabbed his hand as we approached the register, extending my arm up and pointing to it while jumping up and down.

“There it is -- the cash register.  That’s what I want.”

Dad started laughing.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said adamantly.

“That’s it?  You don’t want one of these beautiful dolls?  Or maybe this dollhouse?”

I thought it was pretty strange that Dad didn’t seem to be as excited about my choice as I was. 

“No.  I’ve ALWAYS wanted a cash register.”

“Okay, then,” he said.  “We’ll make sure that Santa knows you want a cash register for Christmas.”

I thought the time between then and Christmas would NEVER end.  Every time mother and I went to the grocery store, my stomach churned with anticipation watching the cashier punch the keys.  Before long, if Santa had received the message and I was on the “nice” list, I’d be ringing up items on my very own register. 

Finally, December 24 arrived.  We were living in a two-bedroom apartment in a complex called University Ridge.  There was a large living room, dining room, kitchen and two bedrooms.  Mother decorated the apartment festively with the focal point being a beautiful tree placed in the middle of the picture window of the living room covered in multi-colored lights, balls and silvery shimmering icicles.  Brightly wrapped presents circled all around the base and spilled out onto the living room floor.  We taped our stockings to the window as we had no fireplace with a mantel.

Bryant and I shared bunk beds in one of the bedrooms.  Once mother and dad tucked us in, it took a while to settle down because we kept giggling.  Finally, we drifted off as sleep overcame us. 

I’ll never forget that next morning when mother and dad waked us up and made us stay in the room while dad went into the living room on the pretense of “seeing if Santa has come.”  Bryant and I twitched with excitement, laughing and pinching each other while we waited. 

Finally, from the living room we could hear dad saying “Well, I DO believe Santa came last night.  Wow!! Look at this.  Mary, I think you better let the children come in here now.”

To this, we bolted from the bedroom and raced into the living room.  Bryant went ahead of me and obscured my view a little as I came around the corner.  He plunged onto his knees at the train set racing around on the floor in front of the tree.  Santa had surely brought him what he wanted. 

He was wriggling around so much that I really couldn’t see a whole lot.  Finally, he moved around to the opposite side giving me full view of all the presents.  Sitting right in the middle of the oval made by the track, being circled again and again by Bryant’s train, was my cash register.  I screeched for joy, retrieving it from the confines of the track, dancing around hugging it like it might be alive.

“Open it up, Bethie,” my dad said.

I sat down on the floor, folded my legs underneath me, reached out and hit the “total” button.  The tender box opened, just like it should.  Inside, neatly stacked in four little compartments were bills and coins of play money.  Santa added these without my even asking.  I was truly in business!

My poor mother.  All the rest of the day while she was trying to prepare our Christmas meal in the tiny kitchen of the apartment, I insisted on pulling the stepstool up and raiding her cabinets of canned goods, spices, cereals, flour, sugar and anything else I could find.  As she mixed her fabulous cornmeal dressing for the turkey stuffing, I lined everything up on the dinette table, placed my cash register at one end and proceeded to “check out” my imaginary customer from the grocery store.  Over and over and over again, the items would slide across the table – “cha-ching,” “cha-ching,” “cha-ching.”

“Is that all?” I’d ask.  “Okay, that will be $10.31, please.”

“Cha-ching!”

Over the years, some argue that commercialism has actually overtaken the purpose of Christmas, that many of our sacred traditions have eroded or been taken away. There’s one thing for sure, as far as I’m concerned.  The incessant “beep, beep, beep” of the barcode scanners has taken away something very near and dear to my heart.  That would be the wonderful sound of “Cha-ching!” 

Don't Let Them Pull Your String!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

You will learn as you grow older that even very significant influences in life have their cycles.  For whatever reason, age or events or circumstance urge their course to run and they find a place in that hallowed ground we call “memories.”  Thus became the fate of Albejose.  Two years after the heroic rescues by Jay and Bryant, we came to the beach house for the last time.

Bryant was now in college.  My life revolved around ballet and boyfriends at home.  Of the three children, Gene was still young enough to be pliable about vacations, but that wouldn’t last much longer.  The webs of our lives spun more complicated patterns, meaning that mainstays of the past gave way to new considerations.  As is normal, time altered our family unit, flinging us bit by bit away from the center like a mixer sprays flecks of cake batter to the side of a bowl.  Life is forever altered ever into another phase.

The fact that this trip was the finale didn’t alter our fun in any way.  We engaged in all of the normal pursuits – hotly contested games of Scrabble and Hearts; handball on the beach; body surfing and wave jumping; and, of course, crabbing.

One afternoon towards the end of the week, great granddaddy Schaefer suggested that we take a trip up to Little River where we could do a little crabbing and then end the day with our traditional “single meal out” at one of the several seafood restaurants located there.  In those days, a fried seafood platter with shrimp, oysters, flounder accompanied by slaw, French fries and mouthwatering hush puppies could be had for maybe $2.50.  Over the years in going to Ocean Drive, our meal out became one of the more popular things we did.

Little River was the last community in South Carolina going north up Highway 17 before you crossed the state line into North Carolina.  Located on the eastern side of the highway, it duplicated many small fishing villages that dot the banks of  the Intracoastal Waterway with a main road of only four or five blocks long coming to a dead end at a series of docks that served as home to shrimp boats and sport fishers.  The river actually cut through to the Atlantic Ocean at The Little River Neck making this a strategic spot for any kind of commercial fisherman because of its quick access to the Gulf Stream.

To my recollection, the main attraction at that time in Little River was Capt. Jules’ sport fisher called “Hurricane.”  All up the highway, we’d see big signs advertising half-day or full-day charters on “Hurricane” with emphatic italic letters spelling the boat’s name as if being blown to a tilt by the powerful wind of a storm.  At water’s edge, there was little doubt which boat might be “Hurricane.”  She demanded the preeminent spot along the dock.  Her size and gleaming hull overshadowed all the more modest competitors and shrimpers tied alongside.

As for Capt. Jules, although I never saw him, the signs led you believe that he was someone just shy of Capt. Ahab in Moby Dick. 

This particular day, we arrived at Little River on a rising tide.  Dad figured that would give us a couple of hours to crab before dinner.  The docks were peaceful, Hurricane still out on a charter somewhere in the Gulf Stream.  Dad had pre-looped the lines with weights and he baited them with fish heads.  Everybody scattered down the docks at about 10-foot intervals and dropped the lines into the incoming, murky brackish flow of the waterway. 

Crabbing proffers a rhythm in its method.  Let out the line. Wait.  Carefully and slowly pull the line towards you with your fingers deftly determining whether or not you feel a tug.  If not, drop the line again to the bottom.  If so, continue to pull ever so delicately to ensure the crab hasn’t a clue that he’s moving through the water.  Patience, patience, patience as you reel in the line inch by inch until the fish head appears just below the surface of the water where you freeze until the netman arrives to swoop down and capture your prey.  Throw the line back in the water and repeat.

For the first thirty minutes we went through this drill.  Nothing.  No tugs, no crabs.

About that time, two boys came out on the dock to chat.  Not more than twelve years old, they wore unbuttoned, short-sleeved cotton shirts and cut-off shorts.  Two signs broadcast that they were local – their bodies bronzed to a caramel color by the sun and their bare feet grayed to almost black by the loamy loose dirt of the area.  One was chunky, almost as broad as he was tall.  The other so skinny it looked like his pants might slide unfettered down his legs at any moment.

“How’re y’all doin?” 

“Havin’ any luck?”

“Nope,” dad replied.  “They don’t seem to be hungry today.”

“Well, that ther tide might be in a bit of a rush, ya know.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” dad answered. “Seems crabs will bite if they’re hungry no matter the tide.”

“Well, hopin’ your luck’ll change then.  See ya.”

“Me, too.  Bye.”

And they walked back down the docks towards town. 

We went back to our posts which by now, because of the lack of activity, began to bring backaches and yawns to the forefront of excuses to stop the crabbing in exchange for a plate of fried seafood.

“I’ve got one.”  The first yelp came from Gene.  “Wow! And it’s a granddaddy!” 

He began pulling in his line.  Dad ran down the dock to Gene, net poised over his shoulder.  Slowly, but surely, Gene brought the line towards the dock.  The fish head came into view like an oracle, shimmering just under the surface of the water.  Its locked jaw and unmoving eye stared back.  No crab pulled at it, nothing at all.

“It must have gotten off, Gene,” Dad remarked with encouragement.  “Try to throw it back where it was and we’ll catch him the next time.” 

“Hey, I’ve got one,” I yelled farther on down the dock.  Dad came running.

“Take it easy, Bethie.  I think the tide must be just about right now.”

Slowly, carefully, I brought the line towards the dock.  About half way, I stopped to see if the tugging persisted.  Nothing.

“Shoot.  He’s off,” I sighed. 

“Okay….okay.  Just put it back out there.  We’ll get him.” 

Maybe one more time this scenario repeated when Dad happened to notice out of the corner of his eye our two local buddies.  They sat at a distance, on the bank, giggling……soaking wet.

Those little boogers…they dove into that yucky, muddy, swirling water and swam WITH THEIR EYES OPEN to find our crab lines and yank them as a prank to make us think we had crabs! 

Dad started laughing, partly from the realization, but mostly from the outright disbelief that anybody….I mean ANYBODY….would jump  into that filthy, shadowy, pluff-mud silted churn of the waterway just for the sake of a joke.   

It was a fitting swansong to our years at Albejose.  The family together, doing something that we loved ending in a raucous laughter that rings in my ears to this day.  I must admit, though, that I’ve wondered all these years about those boys – did they survive their many romps in the waterway; did one of them become the new Capt. Jule or maybe an expert at frying seafood in one of the restaurants; or maybe could they have ended up on some comedy show somewhere?

Yes, you will learn that life moves on. You’ll grow up, go your own way, make a life for yourself – flung bit by bit away from the center like a mixer sprays flecks of cake batter to the side of a bowl.  But the ties to your past will always be there - embodied in a place like Albejose.

Greater Love Hath No Man Than This

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The summer of 1962, I was poised to enter high school which made your great uncle Bryant a rising senior.  It had become the norm all my life up the educational ladder to be compared to my older brother.  (This will probably be your fate, Bubble, as you grow up.  But, it’s okay.  You’ll figure out a way to distinguish yourself.)  Bryant was held in such high esteem by his teachers and peers that the inevitable comment always came my way.  “So you’re Bryant Kendrick’s sister.”  Going into his last year at Wade Hampton High School, he garnered two leadership positions – president of the student body and captain of the football team. 

That year, we delayed our trip to Albejose by a week.  Bryant needed to complete his senior lifesaving certification and your cousin Jay Weems, whom we had invited to join us, couldn’t go until then.  He was my first cousin on great grandmother Mary’s side which I think would make him your first cousin, twice removed.  It makes me sad that you will not get to know Jay because he, like great uncle Bryant, is no longer here with us.  My description of him falls inadequate in explaining his broad toothy smile or loud and infectious laugh.  A few years older than Bryant, he had come to Greenville to attend Furman University.  His regular visits to 3 Lakecrest Drive made him an adoptive bigger brother for us three Kendrick children. 

Jay worked as a lifeguard at the Furman pool that summer and couldn’t get off until late August.  Even though we had to postpone our Albejose trip because of that, it was well worth it to have him come along with us.

Traditionally, Bryant used the week at the beach to get in shape for football.  He rose early every morning before the intense heat of the day and ran for several miles in his football cleats.  At dusk, he repeated the exercise.  This regimen not only built up his leg muscles and fortified his breathing, it also forced blisters on his feet, so painful at first but with time and soakings in the salt water began to callous over by the end of the week.  By the time practice started at the opening of school in September, he was physically ready.

My pursuits had no such nobility.   The weighty purpose of everyday involved a bathing-suit clad stroll down the beach in pursuit of glances from teenaged boys or possibly even conversations.  I spent more time shaving my legs, plucking my eyebrows, and applying mascara than anything else.  Before, when younger, I always enjoyed a game of handball on the beach or a romp in the surf with the family.  Now, I spent hours combating my naturally curly, totally rebellious hair by rolling it on curlers the size of orange juice cans hoping to straighten it out.  The humidity at the beach always won, though.  As soon as I stepped outside, my hair recoiled into a mop of frizz that would make Bozo the Clown proud.  

The afternoon of the last full day of that vacation, I sequestered myself in Albejose’s living room under my portable hairdryer, painting my toenails in preparation for one final bittersweet saunter down the beach before leaving.  There was a tremendous rattle as the front door flew open and your great uncle Gene rushed into the house. 

“Somebody’s drowning!” he frantically yelled through the dull roar of the dryer.  He was almost gone before he got there as he hurried back down the stairs, through the yard and across the street where a slatted, wooden walk stretched the two rows of houses between Albejose and the beach. 

I panicked.  My whole family was there.  Could it be one of them?  Ripping the dryer hood from my head, I clumsily threaded my toes into my flip-flops, totally destroying the polish.  In the halted run that the shoes allowed on the wooden slats, I made my way towards the ocean.

As I crested the dune overlooking the wide, hard span of sand that Ocean Drive presents at low tide, I saw a group of people surrounding a man’s body lying face-up on the beach.  I accounted for dad and Bryant who was bent over at the waist.  Gene had joined them, standing next to mom.  Jay was not among them.  I assumed the worst.

As I approached the circle I glimpsed the figure in the middle.  It was no one I knew. 

I learned that during a game of handball with the four guys, they heard a woman scream.  Bryant looked and saw a man’s body about 150 yards out floating in a wave as it rose to a slow peak before folding into its break.  He ran into the surf and began swimming to that spot.

Simultaneously, Jay spotted a woman almost 300 yards out and a little farther down the beach in a white bathing cap, waving her arms.  It was her voice that pierced the air above the sounds of the surf.  He bolted in that direction. 

Bryant didn’t see the woman; Jay didn’t see the man.  They were called to two different missions.

In providential irony, Bryant used the skills he had mastered only the week before in his lifesaving class.  He knew to keep his eye on the spot where a person is last seen.  Once he swam to it, he dove down into about ten feet of water.  The ocean, with its undercurrents and riptides, can wreak havoc with this rule, but by the grace of God, when Bryant made his dive, the man was still there at that spot but on the bottom.  Bryant pulled him up, secured him in a hold and began swimming back to shore.

Initially, the salt water gave Bryant the advantage of buoyancy, but when he hit the shallow surf, the full weight of his victim’s unconscious body made it impossible to continue.  Dad waded out into the surf to help.  The two of them dragged the man up onto the beach. 

Bryant immediately began resuscitation, not mouth to mouth, but the old-fashioned chest compression method.  By then, someone had alerted a lifeguard who approached the situation ready to take over if Bryant’s efforts failed.  That proved unnecessary.  Within a few compressions, the man spewed water from his lungs and began breathing on his own. 

As this unfolded, Jay deliberately swam towards the woman.  When he reached her, she became so frantic that she threatened to drag both of them down.  As with Bryant, Jay was prepared.  He had long been a lifesaving instructor and knew the techniques for managing a distraught victim.  He wrestled her into a secure hold to demonstrate how she was now safe.  Once she calmed down, he had her lie back, resting her body against his as he kicked them safely to shore.  The undertow was so fierce, they emerged from the water almost a half-mile down the beach. The lifeguard ran to meet them.  Fully spent, both Jay and the woman wrapped their arms around him and they slowly walked back towards us. 

An ambulance carried the two victims off to the hospital.  Reunited with Jay, we made our way back to Albejose. 

We had come to the old house for the last six years – our summer retreat of frolic and levity.  We knew every nook and cranny.  Our names, ages and heights were etched on the wall at the back steps.  Now, it was another purpose she served – one of comfort and solace in a time of need.  For the remainder of the afternoon and evening, a hush fell over us.  Bryant and Jay collapsed on their beds and slept deeply, the surge of adrenaline from the day’s events having long worn off.   What normally would have been a lively last night at Albejose morphed into a poignant silence, a soft recognition of each other’s presence and importance.  That night, as we feasted on one last dinner of the week’s leftovers arranged on the lazy Susan, we held hands and offered a prayer of gratitude so deeply felt it truly must have reverberated in the halls of heaven – gratitude that our boys were prepared in body and skill to accomplish the task – and had the courage, faith and spirit of men to answer the call.

Both Bryant and Jay were later awarded Carnegie Medals for the bravery they demonstrated in saving the lives of those two people.  The motto for Carnegie comes from the Bible – John 15:13 – “Greater love hath no man than this ,that a man lay down his life for his friend.”

Don't Let That Crab Goose You!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great grandmother Mary grew up in Houston, Texas.  She spent her youthful vacations on the Gulf coast near Galveston where she learned to enjoy seafood, particularly crabs. One of the greatest anticipations for our family in our annual treks to Albejose was how she turned the hoards of crabs we caught into her most amazing gumbo, deviled crab and savory cakes. 

As I told you earlier, Albejose’s dining room featured a huge round table with an oversized lazy Susan in the middle.  Many an afternoon, we sat around that table with a big bowl of cooked crab bodies and claws in the center.  We picked crab meat almost until our fingers bled.  Great granddaddy Schaefer always had a bowl of drawn butter handy to dip every third morsel or so and eat it right on the spot. 

During our beach trip the summer before I turned thirteen, mom and I decided that we would go crabbing - just the two of us.  This was quite a shocking feminist statement for the times.  Who would put those nasty fish heads on the hooks?  Who would net the crabs?  Who would put a foot down on the little scampers that prematurely flipped out of the net and raced sideways to the edge of the dock?  Who would endure a pinched finger when the crab went from underfoot to the bucket?  Well, we would!

On the chosen morning, mom checked the paper tide chart stuck to the kitchen wall with thumbtacks.   We wanted to start with the tide coming in and stop as it headed back out.  Dad did help us load the car with the net, lines and big metal bucket for stowing our catch.  We drove off with great pride and self-confidence.

The best crabbing spots were around fish houses.  Small communities dotted the banks of The Little River in South Carolina where shrimpers and commercial fishers lived and worked.  From multiple inlets they easily accessed the ocean and returned to the fish houses with their bounty.  There, the catch was cleaned and iced with all the heads, guts and carcasses dumped into the river.  Below each fish house lay a gastronomic heaven for crabs.

One such place sat next to the Little River bridge on the highway into Ocean Drive.  Over the years, we developed a friendship with the owner who let us use his docks.  Mom and I pulled into the parking lot, went inside to get some flounder heads and confirm that it was okay for us to be there that morning.  Given the green light, we unloaded the car, rigged the lines and dropped them down to the water…maybe an hour before high tide.

The result was instantaneous - every line, every time, the unmistakable tug of the crab, or maybe several fighting over the fish head.  Mom pulled in the lines, I netted.  The tide came in and began to recede.  The crabs kept tugging.  Six hours later, at complete low tide, they showed no signs of stopping.  The five-foot tidal swing complicated my netting technique.  In order to reach the water below with a fully extended net, I had to lie on my stomach, hanging over the dock, with mom sitting on me to keep me from falling in.

The tide began to rise again.  We had been at it for almost nine hours.  Even though the crabs still jerked at the lines, it was time to stop.  Sunburn marked the edges of our clothes.  My arms, back and legs ached from netting.  Our bucket was so heavy with.

crabs, we had to get the fish house owner to put it in the trunk of the car for us. 

Our return to Albejose could not have been more triumphant.  We drove into the carport, much to dad’s relief who thought something bad had happened to us.  The expressions on our faces signaled otherwise.  What an immortal moment of pride when he opened the trunk and gaped at our hard earned catch!

We transported the bucket up the back steps to the kitchen where mom dispatched every big pot she could find to the stove.  Once the water started to boil on every eye, dad began the ritual of grabbing the crabs with long-handled tongs and dropping them in the bubbling liquid.  Sometimes his grip brought up a string of multiple bodies and pinchers desperately clinging to each other as if life depended on it….which it did.  The trick was to get the entire string to a pot without losing anybody.  Inevitably, the tail-end crab would fall to the floor creating quite a ruckus. 

Dad always created additional uproar as well.  Once mom absorbed herself over the roiling pots on the stove, he signaled to us children to watch what was coming.  He sneaked up behind her as she held her pose and goosed her with the tongs, sending her at least two feet off the floor.  Our squeals of laughter must echo from that kitchen today…..if Albejose is still around.

A Big Moon Pie in Your Eye

Dear Boo and Bubble,

That first year at Albejose, your great grandmother Mary started what became a tradition.  She suggested that the most efficient way to set things up was for great granddaddy Schaefer to take baby Gene to the Red & White grocery store where he could execute her miles-long list for our week’s provisions.  He could do the shopping and mind Gene while the rest of us unpacked, made the beds and opened windows to air out the house.

Dad obliged.  At the time it seemed the much easier task.  After all, how hard could it be to stroll through a grocery story checking off items while your toddler sat docilely in the grocery cart?  The Red & White would certainly be cooler, too, with its cinder block walls and industrial fans.  He put Gene back in the car and they drove off.

The Red & White was back on the main road coming into Ocean Drive.  Dad pulled into a parking space on the street and helped Gene out of the car.  A line of carts spanned the front of the store.  As dad approached them, Gene recognized what they were and there was absolutely no way he was going to sit in one.  Because he was two and because he had just ridden eight hours in a car somewhat restrained, and most likely just because he felt like it, he crumpled to the pavement in a total limp-body meltdown.   Dad reached down to grab Gene’s hand.

“Come on, Gene.  Get up now.”  I’m sure he looked around to see if anybody was witnessing the commotion.

His attempt to lift Gene off the ground with one arm proved futile as the toddler’s dead weight and rubber legs made it impossible.  When dad reached down and picked Gene up with both arms, it solved the problem of getting him off the ground.  But, dad’s efforts to stuff Gene into the cart seat were rendered hopeless when the two-year-old chose to utilize that second infamous baby strategy – the rigor mortis pose.

In an irrational moment to avoid a scene, dad decided to negotiate with his two-year old son.  If Gene would stay right by the cart, he could walk rather than ride.  That seemed to settle the matter.

The plan worked well at the start, until dad became so engrossed in the list and trying to find where a certain item might be in the store, he completely forgot about Gene.  They were on Aisle 9, the one that housed baking goods – flour, sugar, baking powder and soda, and supposedly saccharin for mother’s morning coffee. 

There was only one other person on the aisle who happened to be an unfortunately obese woman with bleached blonde hair and skin so overexposed to the sun it crinkled like crepe up and down her arms and legs.  Her décor indicated that she couldn’t care less as she proudly wore a hot pink halter top and skin-tight short shorts.  At the very moment dad searched for the saccharin, she bent over at the opposite shelf on the bottom reaching for some instant Jello. 

Who would be standing right behind her, in perfect moon position, but Gene.  Her posterior presented itself to him who, having been remarkably good up until then, could absolutely not resist the temptation.  He walked over to the enticing orb and slapped as hard as he could.  The noise resounded through the store.  Gene scampered around the corner into the next aisle and disappeared.  The woman stood straight up, face flushed with the blood of embarrassment and outrage.  The only person within proximity was dad.  She glared at him with utter disgust.

Dad, aghast, dropped his list to the floor and his hands up in surrender.  “No...no...lady.  I…I….it’s not me.  Gene, Gene, GENE!!!  Come back here.”

It was a good thing that your great granddaddy was already baldheaded.  That lady probably would have pulled every hair out of his head if he hadn’t been.  From that year on, the shopping tradition at the Red & White included me…. Dad for the shopping and me to watch Gene. 

Ocean Drive - I Hope you Know Such a Place

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Beaches are like the palettes on which life’s stories are sketched.  Each day, a new experience is carved into the sand, and when its course runs, the tide rises to wash the sketch away and leave the palette clean once again.

When I was young, family rituals in South Carolina always included a beach vacation.  Many in the upstate sojourned to Ocean Drive Beach, a popular spot just shy of the North Carolina border at the far north end of what has become the Greater Myrtle Beach Grand Strand.  Colloquially called “OD,” the area was famous for glistening wide beaches at low tide.  It also boasted a Pavilion with an old fashioned arcade, a merry-go-round, and a Ferris wheel that at its apex gave you the most spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean – especially on a moonlit night when you were stuck on top.  Some say that the genre of Beach Music originated at “The Pad,” a rustic beer joint next to the Pavilion.  There’s little doubt that the “Shag” (now the state dance of South Carolina for which your Grandad Captain actually voted when he served in the SC House of Representatives – but that’s another story) came into its own at this iconic place.

We rented the same house at OD every time, one named Albejose which I assume was an acronym for someone named Albert and possibly his wife, Josephine, or maybe a brother Joseph.  Folklore rumored that Albejose once stood on the beachfront, but by the time we used her, the fury of Hurricane Hazel in 1954 had moved her lock, stock and barrel to the third row where she looked out over empty lots with unfettered access to the beach and ocean.

Our first visit to Albejose came in August of 1956, almost two years to the day of your great uncle Gene’s birthday.   I was eight and great uncle Bryant, ten.  The drive from Greenville to the beach took almost the whole day since there were no Interstate highways and very few four-lane roads.  We had no air conditioning, so all the windows were rolled down.   The time also predated seatbelt laws, and we passed Gene around in the car like a baby doll trying to keep him occupied.  Somehow, it didn’t matter.  The adrenaline from excitement flowed, keeping us from overheat, crankiness and exhaustion.

Once we arrive at the old draw bridge that crossed the Little River just outside of Conway, SC, we knew we were close to our much anticipated destination. Great granddaddy Schaefer always proffered a bet – Would there be a shrimp boat coming through the bridge or not?  Even though we were ready to get there, the clanging of the bell and lowering of the guard arms on the bridge always brought squeals from both the winners and losers of the bet.

By late afternoon, we pulled into Albejose’s oyster shell driveway.  The grey asbestos-sided house stood on stilts as was common after Hazel in an attempt to keep the main body of the house safe from any future storm surges.   This provided a convenient place for parking the car and storage rooms which housed folding chairs, umbrellas, crab nets, and other beach paraphernalia.  White wooden stairs angled up to the main door with a huge wooden boat wheel attached to the front of the banisters announcing the house’s moniker.  A showerhead, old and corroded from the salt air, perched in the crook of the stairs.

We literally burst out of the car, glad to be there, glad to be free from its confines.  Every square inch held something and it took a while to haul the suitcases, sheets, towels, toys and Gene’s folding playpen up the stairs.

I remember the interior of the house as if it were yesterday.  Not big or pretentious like some of the mansions on the coast now, Albejose broadcast a purpose of warmth, relaxation and fun.  Every wall was pine paneled with sturdy hardwood floors designed to withstand the wear and tear of beach-goers.  The living and dining rooms traversed the entire front of the house.  A huge circular Oak table with an enormous Lazy Susan dominated the dining area. 

The kitchen housed a hodge podge of tables and cabinets inserted among the appliances.  They appeared to be random, but each had a special purpose revealed over time as crabs were cleaned or shrimp peeled or fished scaled.  Every known size of pot and pan either hung from the wall or nestled in its assigned place. 

There were three bedrooms along the hall opposite the kitchen.  Bunk beds lined an enclosed porch on the back of the house off of the kitchen as well.  Great granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary slept in the back bedroom because it had a window fan.  Bryant and I always brought a friend so we each took one of the other bedrooms and hoped for a sea breeze to blow air through the house.  Poor Gene – as he grew older, he had to sleep in the bunk beds on the porch.  No amount of sea or breeze could get any coolness to him. 

I’m telling you all of this to set the stage for some beach stories.  Hopefully, over the upcoming years, we’ll have adventures of our own to add and I can’t wait.

The 550 Mile Walk Back Home

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In my last post, I mentioned an event in our country’s history called The Civil War. Any war by nature is tragic and unleashes horrendous consequences primarily born by the soldiers who fight and their families.  Society as a whole also suffers.  In the words of Brooks Atkinson in Once Around the Sun – “It is better to win a war than to lose it, but not much better.  Everyone dies a little when his neighbor is killed.  No society is sound and vigorous enough to sustain death on the staggering scale that wars make inevitable.  No one can win a war.  There are survivors but no victors.”  

A civil war, where sections of the same country fight each other, is doubly insidious because it represents a nation tearing at itself, ripping apart the very fabric that binds it together, sometimes literally pitting brother against brother on the battlefield.  

There is some debate about the ultimate causes of our Civil War, but according to Pulitzer Prize-winning author James McPherson, "The Civil War started because of uncompromising differences between the free and slave states over the power of the national government to prohibit slavery in the territories that had not yet become states. When Abraham Lincoln won election in 1860 as the first Republican president on a platform pledging to keep slavery out of the territories, seven slave states in the deep South (South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas) seceded and formed a new nation, the Confederate States of America. The incoming Lincoln administration and most of the Northern people refused to recognize the legitimacy of secession. They feared that it would discredit democracy and create a fatal precedent that would eventually fragment the no-longer United States into several small, squabbling countries."

The war began when Confederate warships bombarded Union soldiers at Fort Sumter, South Carolina on April 12, 1861.  After the bombardment and Lincoln's subsequent call for 75,000 volunteers, the states of the Upper South (North Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas) seceded from the Union, rather than participate in the invasion of their fellow slave states. Kentucky, Missouri, and Maryland - though they were slaveholding states in 1860 and contributed men to the Confederate cause - never seceded.

For four years, the war raged. Approximately 620,000 soldiers died from combat, accident, starvation, and disease during the Civil War.  To put this in perspective, the United States has lost 645,445 lives to date in all other wars combined.

Furthermore, 400,000 soldiers were captured over the course of the Civil War. At first, captured troops were regularly exchanged, but as the war progressed, that practice faded.  The plight of prisoners of war became so bleak that nearly as men died in captivity during the Civil War as died fighting in Vietnam.

Among those held as a POW in Point Lookout, Maryland, was your great, great, great grandfather George Franklin Robinson.  A typical southern gentleman from the small town of Pickens in the upstate of South Carolina, he answered the call to take up arms for the Confederacy.  He left his wife Elvira, ten children and all things comfortable to go and fight against the Union over the right for states to break from federal control and continue the practice of slavery.  He owned no slaves, but he believed in the Confederate cause.

I don’t know how or when he was captured and I have no direct knowledge of his experience at Point Lookout.  My research leads me to surmise that it could only have been horrible.  No barracks were ever built.  The Confederate soldiers were given tents to sleep in until overcrowding became so bad that there were not even enough tents to go around.  Approximately 50,000 Confederate enlisted men were contained within the walls of Point Lookout Prison Camp during its operation from 1863-1865.  Prison capacity was 10,000 but at any given time, there would be between 12,000 and 20,000 soldiers incarcerated there.  The extreme overcrowding, Maryland's freezing temperatures, shortages of firewood for heat, and living in tents took its toll and many lives were lost due to exposure.

When the war ended in the spring of 1865 with Gen. Robert E. Lee surrendering the Confederate troops to Gen. Ulysses S. Grant at Appomatox Courthouse, VA, the prisoners of war were released form Point Lookout.  George Franklin left the camp and began the 550 mile trek to Pickens – walking.  It took him over a month to get home.

The story goes that Elvira was sitting on the front porch of the house when she spotted a figure in the distance making his way down the road.  At first, she didn’t recognize him, but as he drew nearer, Elvira realized that it was her husband.  She screamed at the top of her lungs for the children to come out of the house.  Their father was finally back. 

The group raced towards George Franklin.  He yelled back for them to stay away.

“I’m filthy and full of lice,” he called out.  “Go bring a tub out into the yard and fill it with hot water.  I need to take a bath with lye soap before I can touch any of you.”

I can’t imagine the restraint that it took – after four years of not knowing where he was or whether he was alive – to have to wait for a lye soap bath before a hug. 

It was a scene being repeated all over the country in both the South and North - thousands of families reunited after such a devastating, costly, divisive conflict.  Yes, I agree with Brooks Atkinson -  It is better to win a war than to lose it, but not much better.  Everyone dies a little when his neighbor is killed

A Steel Magnolia in the Family

Dear Boo and Bubble,

This is a story Grandpa Captain wants to tell you about his grandmother Lucile Tally.  She played a very important role in forming his principles and faith as an adult.

“We need civil rights in this country.” A forthright statement that today is a foregone conclusion.  But in 1948 when Hubert Humphrey spoke those words at the Democratic National Convention, they set off a firestorm that raged across the political landscape of the South. 

Over 80 years had passed since the end of the Civil War yet the wound of losing had no more healed in the South than if it had been the day before.  The reaction to the war manifested itself in the populist philosophy of States Rights – a stance that railed against the interference of the Federal government in matters within the borders of a state.  Even though African Americans gained their freedom from slavery because of the war, they continued to be denied full participation in the society, particularly in the South.  They could not vote or access public facilities or engage in a fair judicial system.  The locally codified rules of segregation dictated that even though they were no longer slaves, they were not citizens.  To suggest, as Humphrey did, that civil rights should be extended to them was heresy against States Rights. 

The reaction at the convention was swift and dramatic.  Led by Governor Strom Thurmond of South Carolina, the delegations from all the southern states walked out of the hall amidst much anger.  Waving state signs to show their solidarity, they shouted “Dixiecrat, Dixiecrat”, the name of a new party they intended to form and nominate Thurmond as its candidate for president.  In doing so, they hoped to foil President Harry Truman’s bid for re-election against Republican Thomas Dewey.  This would be payback for the treason they felt at his stand that civil rights for blacks was inevitable, right and in the best interest of the United States.

In the middle of the turmoil on the convention floor stood your diminutive, grey haired, great-great grandmother Lucile.  She was a very prominent Democrat from Florida and in June just the year before had met with President Truman in the White House.  At the convention, she was serving as a national committeewoman and Florida which in that day and time was an extraordinary accomplishment for a woman.  Sensing the agitation from the other southern states was about to infect the Florida delegation, she hastily organized a response with another delegate.  Together, they grabbed the sign designating Florida’s place on the convention floor and when the state’s delegates tried to leave and join the “Dixiecrat” parade, they physically held them in.  It gave the state’s Democratic leadership enough time to calm everyone down and talk them through the situation.  Florida voted to stay in the convention and not officially become a part of the “Dixiecrat” movement.

Lucile was what is known as a “Steel Magnolia.”  She had every bit of the gentility and charm of a southern lady, but her spine was of steel especially when it came to her family, her faith and her politics.  There was no equivocation when it came to fairness and, even though her understanding of African Americans had not evolved to full acceptance as equals, she knew that it was inherently wrong to deny them their civil rights. 

Many political pundits of the day didn’t give Truman a chance and some newspapers across the country prematurely printed headlines declaring “Dewey Defeats Truman.”  In the end, Truman won with over 24,000,000 votes, 28 states and 308 electoral votes.  Florida was one of those states.  Strom Thurmond and the “Dixiecrats” garnered only four states – South Carolina, Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana.

It took almost twenty more years for the Civil Rights Act to pass Congress.  Lucile lived to see it.  By then, she had retired officially from politics.  She continued to be active in her community of Tavares, Florida, selling insurance, managing orange groves and being the matriarch of her family which had grown from a core of three sons to a brood with nine grandchildren.  She died in 1971, but the nuances of her influence surface regularly in your extended family, especially your Grandpa Captain who took up the political banner years later, serving as the Chairman of the Democratic Party for Cherokee County in South Carolina and as a legislator in the SC House of Representatives.  The irony was never lost on him that he publicly served the very state that led the revolt in 1948 to form the “Dixiecrats” when his grandmother Lucille stood firm, sign in hand, and held the Florida delegation in the convention.