We Are Blessed and Then Some

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I’ve visited in your home enough times now to get a feel for the family routine.  In my mind, I can see Boo getting up in the morning, going to his closet, selecting his clothes for the day and getting dressed before coming downstairs.  I can hear the “beep” of the coffee pot, set the night before, signaling that your dad’s wake up juice is ready for his thermal to-go cup.  You all congregate, albeit haphazardly at this point, around the white table in your den for breakfast…..no television until you’ve finished.  Then, it’s dad off to work, Boo to school, and mommy and Bubble together to manage all that an active household requires.

Routines are profoundly important.  No matter what comes later, a good predictable start to any day - like a solid springboard - makes for a better outcome.  I believe, too, that routines also produce some of the best childhood memories.

At 3 Lakecrest Drive, the kitchen served as our hub.  A big wooden picnic table filled the center of the room surrounded by cane-bottomed ladder back chairs. The refrigerator, washer and dryer lined one wall behind Great Granddaddy Schaefer’s seat at the table.  A counter-top, double sink and the stove ran down the side underneath a double-paned window looking out into the backyard.  The one and only television sat at the opposite end of the table from Schaefer’s chair. 

A beautiful exposed old brick wall traversed the remaining side with a wood burning fireplace as its focal point.  The hidden ironing board (you remember the blog about Nancy Holloway, Mamaw Mary’s maid) and a small desk packed the corner between the TV and the fireplace.  To say the room was cramped might be accurate, especially when we added great uncle Gene’s playpen.  But, it was a special place and when I think of home, my mind immediately goes to the memories made in that kitchen.

When I was little, our mornings mirrored yours somewhat.  Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer woke up first.  Before rousing Bryant and me, they spent some time in the kitchen.  Mamaw started cooking breakfast, granddaddy read the newspaper and, if it were winter and cold, built a fire in the fireplace.  On Mamaw’s cue that breakfast was almost ready, granddaddy walked down the hall to our rooms and woke us up.  We piled out of bed and made our way to the kitchen in our pajamas where we took our seats at the table.  Mamaw served granddaddy first, then Bryant, then me.  Once everybody had a plate, she made her own and sat down.

“Mary, would you say grace?” Granddaddy would say.

“Yes, dear,” she responded.  “Let’s bow our heads and hold hands.”

We obliged and she blessed our food.

This order of things happened at every meal, always in the same fashion.  Granddaddy’s plate came first, then ours, then Mamaw’s, which brought her to the table.  Granddaddy asked her to say the blessing, she’d pray and we’d eat.  It became our routine.

One day, Granddaddy got the bright idea that he would see just how many times he could get Mamaw to say the blessing at one sitting.  He chose Sunday lunch, an especially momentous meal usually consisting of fried chicken, rice and gravy, green beans, and biscuits.  Mamaw pretty much worked herself into a stew getting it ready in a timely fashion after coming home from church. 

Having clued Bryant and me in on his scheme, we assembled at the table trying to contain ourselves so as not to give it away.  First came granddaddy’s plate, then Bryant's, then mine.  Mamaw served her own and sat down.

“Mary, would you say grace?”

“Yes, dear.  Let’s bow our heads and hold hands.”

Our heads went down and we held hands.  We could hardly squelch the giggles.

After a couple of bights, granddaddy said “Mary, could I have a glass of water?”

“Sure.”  And she hopped up to retrieve a glass and fill it.

She put the glass on the table and sat back down.

“Mary, would you say grace?”

“Yes, dear.  Let’s bow our heads and hold hands.”

We accommodated, although the urge to squeal out loud was unbearable.

A few minutes later, granddaddy looked at Mamaw.  “Mary, honestly, I do believe this is the best fried chicken you’ve ever made.  Could I please have another drumstick?”

“Of course,” she answered with delight.  She scooted back from the table and slipped over to the oven where the extra pieces of chicken rested in its warmth.  With tongs, she carefully pulled out a drumstick and maneuvered it to granddaddy’s plate.  She wiped her hands on her apron as she settled back down at the table.

“Mary, would you say grace?”

“Yes, dear.  Let’s bow our head and hold hands.”

I thought Bryant and I were going to explode.  Granddaddy Schaefer winked at us and put his finger up to his lips in a gesture of “shh….”

Would he be able to pull it off one more time?

“Mary, I need a little more gravy for this rice, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”  She slid her chair back once more, took his plate and piled some gravy on top of rice.  “Anything else while I’m up?”

“No, thanks.  Come on back,”  Granddaddy said devilishly.

She sat back down.

“Mary, would you say grace?”

“Okay…let’s bow our heads….”

With that, Bryant and I couldn’t stand it anymore.  We burst out laughing along with granddaddy.  Mamaw was nonplussed.  She had no idea what had been happening.  When granddaddy confessed to the trick, she joined us in the rollick.

Yes, routine is a wonderful thing…..especially when it can be used to make a fun memory like this one.

Long Live The Great Depression!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

For the last few years before great granddaddy Schaefer died, he wrote editorials for The Greenville News. The other day, I was combing through my copy of them and ran across one that struck me as interesting mainly because of the ending sentence – “Long live The Great Depression!”

Unless you’re talking about a hole in the ground, a depression is never a good thing, not psychologically or economically.  Hopefully, you will never have to experience any type of one.  The Great Depression about which great granddaddy wrote was the deepest and longest-lasting economic downturn in the history of the Western industrialized world. It began in 1929 with the crash of the stock market in the United States.  A panic engulfed the country as millions of investors lost everything.  Depositors raided the banks frantically trying to seize their money before the supply ran out.  This created a domino affect on consumer spending and business investment.  The decline in both caused industrial output to virtually cease.  Unemployment rose as failing companies laid off workers. 

By 1933, at the height of the Great Depression, some 13 to 15 million Americans were unemployed and nearly half of the country's banks had failed. The economy would not fully turn around until after 1939, when World War II kicked American industry into high gear.

You can see why my curiosity was piqued by the article’s proclamation.  As I read it, though, the explanation came clear.  Great granddaddy penned a caution to his grandchildren to learn the very valuable life lessons that severe hardship can bring.  There is no need for me to paraphrase as I could not say these things better.  In his own words, I pass this along to you – his great grandchildren.

“I want my grandchildren to be exposed to the philosophy of my Granny Bryant, whose constant companion was frugality.  My Granny, who was known as a furlough baby because she was conceived in 1864 when her daddy was on furlough from the (Civil)War; my Granny, who lived through Reconstruction, World War I, the Roaring Twenties, The Great Depression, and who died on D-Day, June 6, 1944.

Whether they understand it or not, whether it speaks to them or not, I want my grandchildren to hear more than once that great admonition, ‘Waste Not, want not.’

In this day of engineered obsolescence, runaway credit and instant gratification, I want my grandchildren to trace their heritage back to the principles of my grandmother, who, when tempted to buy something new, made her decision this way: ‘Children, I don’t ask do I need it.  I don’t ask can I afford it.  I ask can I do without it.’

I want my grandchildren to know there is such a thing as darning socks, half-soling shoes, wearing hand-me-down clothes, and young faces that learn to smile even though their pride, at times, is critically wounded.

I want them to know that one car had to meet the needs of the entire family, and all kinds of adjustments and give and take took place when those needs were in conflict.  They need to know that when their granddad was 17, he was allotted the car, for courting purposes, one Friday night in the month.  That when he was in law school he looked skinny one day and fat the next because the hand-me-down suit of one uncle was too big and that of the other uncle was too small.

I want them to know my widowed mother made enormous sacrifices in order for me to attend college and law school.  That these sacrifices were made willingly, eagerly and tenderly, out of a heart as big as a child’s imagination and out of unconditional love that redeemed me more than once.

I want them to know when I received my law degree on June 1, 1939, at the football field of USC in Columbia, with the thermometer hovering at 100, my mother and grandmother were in the stands receiving that diploma with me which the three of us had earned.

And, they need to know why I still read a menu from right to left.  There were no credit cards back then and I had to be sure I could pay for what I ordered.

Long live The Great Depression!”

So, Boo and Bubble, he wanted you to know …..and now you do.

Skinny Dip

Dear Boo and Bubble,

During your great, great, great grandmother Mamie Peninah’s life, The Blues became a sort of sanctuary for our family.  It wasn’t just a place for the few.  She opened it up to anybody who wanted to come.  Her particular crusade was to create an environment where cousins could congregate and get to know each other better.  In this way, she hoped to instill in them the strong bonds which knitted her eight children so tightly together.  

After Mamie died on D-Day In 1944, Aunt Mittie took up the mantle of matriarch at The Blues.  She dedicated herself to carrying on the traditions that Mamie started, particularly the cousin gatherings. 

When I was about ten years old, Mittie and her spinster daughter, Annie, invited some of the girl cousins to spend a little time at The Blues.  The group came from several branches of the family.  Kathy and Betsy Poerschke and I stemmed from Mattie.  Rachel Hicks belonged to Jessie.  Ann Rebecca and Candace Madden were Mittie’s own granddaughters.

The second night that we were there, Mittie called us to dinner out on the screened porch off the kitchen.  We assembled around the big picnic table, wiggly and giggly as girls can be, and feasted on fried chicken or hamburgers or hot dogs that Mittie had prepared.  As we wound down the meal, Mittie summoned our attention.  “Girls…tonight we have a surprise for you.” 

“Wow” we shouted in unison.  “What is it?  Tell us. Tell us now.”

“Well,” Mittie hesitated.  “As soon as you finish dinner and clear off the table…..”

Our eyes widened…

“Annie is going to take you skinny dipping down in the river!”

It took a few seconds to sink in.  Skinny Dipping…a term which we all had heard before, but with which we had no personal experience.  The thought of taking off our clothes and consciously parading down the path to the big rock and jumping into the ice cold waters of the Saluda was met with both exhilaration and trepidation. Sniggering circulated around the table as we tried to hide our pubescent embarrassment.

Once dinner ended and Mittie gave the signal, we scampered into the big room with the bunk beds and began stripping off our clothes.  The result – a lineup of body types ranging from toothpick to pencil to rosebuds to full bloom.  Any shyness or awkwardness, however, melted away at the sight of Annie as she came out of the front bedroom au natural.

By this time, total darkness had descended.  Annie took a flashlight and led us out of the house, down the steps and on to the path towards the river.  We could hardly contain ourselves.  It was, for each of us, our very first provocative act. 

We huddled in a line behind Annie as she scoped out the path with the flashlight.  The cool night air penetrated our skin and we shivered a little as goose bumps popped up all over.  At the river, we had to hop onto a smaller rock before making the final leap to the big rock out in the middle.  The tentative giggles that started at The Blues crescendoed into squeals of laughter as we skipped around on the granite surface forestalling our plunge into the water.

All of a sudden, from the bank just downstream of the rock shone a bright light waving frantically, moving back and forth across us like some sort of police raid.  A base, guttural voice yelling “HAH…HAH….HAH…I see you now” accompanied its beam.  Very threatening and sinister chuckles followed evoking high pitched shrieks from all of us – especially Annie who tucked her legs together and bowed over covering her breasts with her arms.  In a panic, we jumped into the frigid river, not giving it a thought.  At least our poor naked bodies would be covered.

The light went out and we heard an uncontrollable laugh coming from the spot……and a recognizable one, too.  It was our older cousin Wade Bryant who had come up from Greenville to do some catfishing.  Undoubtedly, he heard us leaving The Blues and laid in wait as we came down the path and stepped out onto the rock.  His timing was perfect.

I always wondered if Wade happened to be there that night by chance or…….maybe, just maybe, Mittie had told him her plans for us.  It would be just like her, carrying on Mamie’s tradition of making memories.   And, boy, was our skinny dip a memory!        

The Thunder Mug

Dear Boo and Bubble,

How is it possible to have nothing to do and everything to do all at the same time?  For me, the answer to this question could be found in The Bullfrog Blues.  On the one hand, it was nothing but an old house with not even a light switch in the way of amenities.  If you wanted to listen to music, you had to hum some of your own.  On the other hand, it presented an empty canvas on which you could paint whatever your imagination allowed. Cousins spent hours playing “hide and seek” in, around and under the house.  Many a childhood posse combed the thick woods in search of familial bandits roaming the land.

If you were real lucky, somebody might give you a dime to spend at the Wildcat Store, the basic country precursor to a 7/11, located across the Saluda River back down the main road a ways.  In those days, ten cents bought a fistful of Double Bubble bubble gum or Dum Dum suckers.  One of my favorites was Cracker Jacks with its tantalizing prize in the bottom of the box.    

Many of the best stories in our family folklore happened at The Blues.  I want to tell you one of my all time favorites.  It involves your great granddaddy Schaefer and your great, great, great aunt Mittie of Mittie, Mattie, Ressie, Jessie, Annie Mae, Wade, Gene and Jamie.  

As you can imagine, this group of brothers and sisters proffered quite a range of personalities.  But, from the relatively straight-laced like Wade and Ressie, through the missionary wannabes like Jessie and Mattie and the soft-spoken Annie Mae, to the more worldly Gene and Jamie, there was one common fiber – a sense of humor.  Of all eight children, no one exhibited this trait more than Aunt Mittie.  Her approach to life embodied the philosophy that “Laughter is the best medicine” and she loved a good practical joke even if she were the butt of it.

On this particular occasion, Mittie and her husband James Arnold had invited a teen-aged Schaefer and first cousin Lige (for Elijah) Hicks to come up to The Blues for a few days.  At night, the boys shared one of the bunk beds in the big room while Mittie and Uncle Jim slept in the front bedroom.  The paper thin walls of the old house made propriety ludicrous, however.  Any squeak of the bedsprings, snoring or whispered remark immediately made its uninhibited way to a broader audience, even if unwanted.

After a few days, the boys noticed that about the same time every night, a scraping sound emanated from the bedroom followed by a rustle of fabric, a faint tinkling and the scrape again.  They figured out that it was the sequence of noise made by Mittie as she pulled a “thunder mug” out from under the bed in order to pee.  A marvelous plot was hatched with this knowledge.

The two walked to Wildcat Store the next day and purchased several packets of Bromo Seltzer, those tablets whose soothing medicine for stomach ailments was unleashed in a flurry of fizz when they hit water.  Back at The Blues, Schaefer and Lige snuck into the bedroom and placed the Bromo Seltzer in the freshly cleaned mug under Mittie’s bed. 

That night, the two used every trick they knew to stay awake.  It seemed forever but finally they heard a telltale swish coming from the bedroom.  Mittie was stirring.  They could hardly contain themselves, suppressing giggles underneath their pillows.

Mittie pulled the mug out from the bed and hiked up her nightgown.  She squat down onto the metal rim and began to relieve herself.  With that, a violent hiss projected underneath her, followed by the stinging prickles of bubbles released by the seltzer.  Such a ruckus ensued that they boys almost fell out of their beds.

“Jim!  Jim!  Wake up!”  Mittie yelled.  “Something’s bad wrong with me!”

Jim hurried out of the bed to help Mittie up off of the mug.  They stared back down into the bubbling cauldron.

“My Lord, Mittie, what did you eat?”

Their frantic moment of anxiety quickly dissipated with the cascade of uncontrolled laughter coming from the other room.  Schaefer and Lige gave themselves away immediately.

Over the years, this story took its place in the upper echelon of our family’s tales.  The one who loved it the most and often instigated its telling was Mittie.  Yes, she loved a practical joke even if she was the butt of it.    

The Bullfrog Blues

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We’ve talked some about your great, great, great grandmother Mamie Peninah Robinson Bryant.  (If you remember in an earlier post, she’s the one who told Bertha to bring the biscuits.)  Mamie set many things in motion that have lasted over six generations now. With eight children and 28 grandchildren, her familial tentacles reach far and wide even  today.  The tap root of our family tree, her legacy remains legendary.

Of the many treasures Mamie endowed to her extended clan, none was more significant than The Bullfrog Blues.  This very special place provided the venue for the making of countless memories long after she departed this earth.  Until the late 1960’s, it served as a gathering spot for brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins of all delineations.   

The Blues (as we affectionately called it) was a wood-hewn cabin that sat on the banks of the South Saluda River just below Table Rock reservoir about an hour north of Greenville.  When Mamie bought the property before the Great Depression, it originally served as her summer retreat.  Although it was in the foothills and not the high mountains, the location nonetheless offered a cool respite from the July and August heat in Greenville. 

To call The Blues rustic would be a compliment.  Rudimentary fits better.  Its floor plan consisted of four rooms – one large living space filled with multiple sets of bunk beds, two smaller bedrooms off of that, and a kitchen in the back connected to the main body of the house by a screened-in porch.  There was no electricity.  All illumination came from kerosene lanterns.  There was no plumbing.  The accommodation to bodily functions lay with a one-hole outhouse dubbed allegorically Little Egypt because of the 100-foot trek one had to make down a foot path to its moss-covered niche on the river’s edge.

The cast iron kitchen stove had a firebox which required a constant stash of wood once it caught flame.  A metal tong lifted the burners so that coals could be evenly distributed underneath. And the ice box was just that – a white ceramic box with several shelves kept cold with a block of ice.

The huge covered front porch served as the gathering area. Numbers of rocking chairs rested lazily underneath the extended roof.  The view from the porch looked out across a sandy stretch to the South Saluda where the river made a sharp bend to the left exposing two large rocks.

As to the name Bullfrog Blues - that came about by the fact that in the evening after the sun set, the bullfrogs began their bellowing croaks, louder and louder until it became like some woeful orchestrated piece of music.  The song was sad, full of blues.  Sitting on the porch, rocking to this nightly ritual became one of the allures of the place.

Times are so different now it will be hard for you to understand just how exhilarating a trip to The Blues could be for a child.  We had no electronics to consume our attention or numb us to our surroundings.  Adventures weren’t carried out in some virtual world with an avatar.  Our entertainment came from romps around the yard on imaginary horses with imaginary friends executing some spirited plot hatched in our heads about the world around us.  In my youth, The Blues played a major role in defining those attributes of fun and family that sustain me now.

When I recall The Blues, I am reminded of so many simple pleasures.  On the way up we stopped at the ice house in the town of Travelers Rest (isn’t that a pleasant sounding name) to buy the 25 pound block of ice for the icebox that would last us for a weekend. 

Somewhere on the side of the road, we found a produce stand where we bought fresh corn, tomatoes and most importantly watermelons.  There was a frigid stream running behind The Blues and as soon as we had unloaded the car, we carried the watermelons out and nestled them into the cold water where they stayed overnight.  The next afternoon, we donned our bathing suits and took the watermelons down to the big rock in the crook of the river and split them open.  All of the children ate the sweet, red fruit with abandon, letting the sticky juice slide down the chin onto the neck and chest until they became so gummy the only solution was a purposeful leap into the chilly water of the Saluda (which could really take your breath away on that first jump). 

Across the yard from the front porch of The Blues stood a tall hardwood tree rooted in the bank of the river.  One stalwart, large branch extended out over the flowing green water almost to the center.   A thick rope with a holding knot at the bottom hung from the branch far enough out that it took a long stick to reach.  The natural erosion under the tree exposed a root system that looked like steps going up the bank.  We could take our pick as to which step might be our start as we grabbed the rope and swung out over the water.  There was safety in the lower ones – you wouldn’t go out as far and if you decided not to drop, you could come back to the bank.  The higher steps demanded more commitment.  You better drop off at the apex of the outward reach of the rope or you would come crashing back into the tree.  Over the years, there were many a dare made under that tree.

At night, The Blues could become a scary place to little ones.  The flickering kerosene lamps exaggerated shadows as they were cast against the walls.  A howling wind could conjure all sorts of creaks and frightful noises in the wooden walls.  It became the perfect setting for Great Granddaddy Schaefer to tell the tales of “Hooker,” a dangerous madman supposedly roaming the mountains in search of the person who cut off his hand, leaving him to wear a hook.  Many a night, we huddled in the bunk beds of the great room wrapped in blankets as the story unfolded, our eyes widening to a climax that always culminated in an ominous scratch on the screen of one of the windows.  The collective scream was deafening.  I never knew for sure who really was outside at that window.

I remember waking to the smell of bacon sizzling in the cast iron skillet on the wood burning stove.  I remember endless games of Up Jinks at the picnic table on the screened porch.  I remember bon fires in the front yard cooking marshmallows on wire coat hangers and singing “Turnip Greens,” “Skinnemarenk Da Dink Da Dink,” and “John Jacob Jinker Heimer Schmidt” – DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH! I remember catching lightening bugs in Mason jars.  I remember being apprehensive about my first visits to Little Egypt and learning to use a “thunder mug” in order to avoid trips in the middle of the night.

Yes, without actually having The Blues for you to experience, I don’t know if you can appreciate its influence on me.  I think Mamie Peninah knew what a special place it was and she gave it to her family as a gift to keep us together no matter how far flung we became.  In the next few posts, I’ll share some more stories about The Bullfrog Blues.  Who knows…maybe someday we’ll be lucky enough to find us such a spot

Does the Punishment Fit the Crime?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

According to Webster’s Dictionary, a character is defined as an odd or peculiar person.  My mother (your great grandmother Mary) certainly didn’t fit this definition as she was neither odd nor peculiar.  She did, however, have her idiosyncrasies. 

Depending on God to cure her rather than pay a doctor, she might as well have been a Christian Scientist.  As long as you didn’t cross her husband or children, she loved you.  But, that could end at the card table if you found yourself to her left at a game of Hearts or on an opposing team in Bridge.  She was also a baseball nut, staying up all night listening to games, regardless of who might be playing, until they wound down on the West coast.

Mother’s chosen profession was homemaking.  As you know, for the longest time we only had one car and she used it on Wednesdays to run all of her weekly errands.  The rest of the time, she stayed at the house.  When great granddaddy Schaefer finally bought a second vehicle, her world exploded into a rat race of carpooling, meetings and commitments.  She managed it all well, but I don’t think she ever relinquished that first love. 

As she aged and we children flew the coop, her activities reverted back to a more sedentary type.  She spent countless hours in the kitchen by the fire knitting.  Her daily world revolved once again around dad – his breakfast, his lunch, his dinner, his meetings, his Sunday school class.  She did enjoy visiting her children and grandchildren, but for the most part, she didn’t get around much anymore.

So, it came as quite a surprise to dad when she, at the age of 68, decided to take up the offer from the City of Greenville for jury duty in Master in Equity court.  Dad was a lawyer and knew all the ins and outs of the jury system – particularly how one could get out of serving.  He explained to mother that since she was over 65, she could excuse herself.  Or, she could beg off because he was a practicing attorney which could create a conflict of interest.  But, she was determined to fulfill her civic duty. 

When the appointed day arrived, Mother got up early to pack what she thought she would need to take with her.  She tucked her portable radio and earphones in the bottom of her knitting bag and covered them with multiple skeins of yarn.  She carried her pad and pen to make lists for groceries or things to do.  She grabbed a couple of greeting cards to write notes of friendship to some unsuspecting person she thought might just need a lift. After obviously setting dad’s lunch in the front of the refrigerator (he came home everyday to eat and take a nap), she slapped together a bologna and cheese sandwich for herself.  When they finished breakfast, dad took her to the courthouse and made sure she found her way to the Master in Equity courtroom.  He deposited her into the able hands of the clerk and left to go to his office.        

To fully understand what happened next, it’s necessary to describe the function of the Master in Equity court.  It’s a small claims court where one would go to protest a parking violation or some other minor injustice.  But, it’s a court nonetheless, and the jury system works the same for it as do criminal and civil courts.  Which means the judge (or Master in Equity) must canvas the jury pool and instruct them on the proper proceedings of his court.

The judge began by asking everyone to stand and introduce themselves, saying name, occupation and name of spouse.  This gave him the opportunity to remove someone based upon any conflict that he might see – such as being married to a lawyer.  Mother announced her information.  The judge acknowledged knowing dad, but didn’t see that it would be a problem for mother to serve as a juror. 

Next, he turned the jury pool’s attention to the other people sitting in the courtroom.  He asked the defendants in the cases that would be heard that day to stand and polled the jurors as to whether they knew any of them.  Mother did not.  He then asked all of the lawyers, policemen and others involved in the cases to stand for the same scrutiny.  Mother proudly passed through this interrogation minefield without a hitch.  She was on her way to being a member of the jury pool.

After all the formal procedures ended, the judge turned to the jury pool and said, “Before we begin with today’s first matter, does anyone have anything that they need to bring to my attention that might have bearing on your ability to serve as a juror.”

Mother raised her hand.  The judge acknowledged her.  “Yes, Mrs. Kendrick.  What is it you’d like to say?”

“Your honor,” mother answered, “I think it’s important that you know I don’t believe in capital punishment.”

A silence briefly hung over the courtroom as everybody digested this information.  The poor suckers who had insisted on having their day in court over a $15 parking fine were stunned by the prospect that capital punishment might be an outcome.

Out of respect for mother, the judge stifled what I’m sure was the urge to break out in a belly laugh.  “Thank you, Mrs. Kendrick, for sharing that with the court.  I don’t think it will keep you from being able to serve.”

When the court adjourned for lunch, the judge went to his chambers and promptly called dad at the office to relay what had transpired.  Dad just shook his head laughing.  That afternoon, he drove back to the courthouse to pick up mother.  She waited right outside the courtroom door, knitting bag in hand, filled with pride at her day’s accomplishments.

“Did you get picked to be on any of the juries?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.  “Every time my name was drawn, the defendant’s lawyer struck me.”

“Well, I wonder why that was?” he said chuckling to himself as they drove back home. 

Until the day she died, mother never knew that dad knew. It seems opposing capital punishment didn’t get her on any of the juries, but I have a feeling it held some sway with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.