Better Throw That One Back

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Years ago, when your mom and Aunt Bee were a little younger than you are now, we joined great granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary at Emerald Isle in North Carolina for a week of vacation.  The house accommodated all of my family including Brother Bryant and his wife, Doris, and their daughters Erika, Amanda and Melissa, and your great uncle Gene. 

Your great, great aunt Katherine and Uncle Bob Poerschke rented the house next door.  Their daughters Kathy and Betsy brought their families – four children in each.  The objective was a first-cousin reunion, a time when all could be together to form the generational bonds so historically significant to our family tree.

At the time, Gene was working for a railroad line.  I don’t remember which one nor do I know what he did, but a few days before we were to convene at the beach, he suffered severe burns on his body from containers of acid spilling out from one of the boxcars.  The accident caused much consternation, as you can imagine, not only for Gene’s health but also for the havoc it would wreak on the reunion. 

To our relief, the doctor determined Gene’s injuries to be less severe than originally thought.  He advised that Gene could make the trip to North Carolina, but should delay it in order to rest.  Mamaw Mary insisted that the rest of us continue with our original plans.  She would stay behind in Greenville and come with Gene later in the week.

By today’s Google Map, Greenville and Emerald Isle are 380 miles and over six hours apart.  That’s taking into consideration the Interstate system of highways we enjoy.  Back then, the trek took every ounce of daylight, especially when you consider that most every car had at least one baby in it.  The remoteness of Emerald Isle also created a real dilemma for Gene and Mamaw.

The doctor restricted Gene from driving a car and Mamaw Mary determined that she shouldn’t attempt it either.  Trains and planes didn’t even sniff the Isle as they clicked along or flew over.   They decided to take a Greyhound bus to Jacksonville, NC, about 30 miles away. Grandaddy Schaefer could come pick them up from there.  The tickets were cheap, some compensation for….oh, let me see….three layovers and almost 36 hours on the bus.  They wouldn’t get there until mid-week, but a little vacation was better than none at all, I guess.

The last layover on the trek was Wilmington. As they sat in the station, Gene decided to bide the time by unpacking his rod and reel to ready them for some surf-fishing.  He sat at one end of a bench, deftly transferring 25-pound test line from a spool to a reel, making sure there were no snags to impede a smooth cast.  At the other end of the bench, a somewhat disheveled and totally grungy man sat curled up in a ball, his head flung back, mouth agape as he loudly snored in an effort to sleep off the drunken stupor that the smell around him broadcast.

Gene finished loading the reel and pinched a small weight at the end of the line.  He gently flicked the rod sideways and some of the line dispensed to the floor in front of him.  He reeled back in and repeated the test.

This motion woke the drunk.  His yellowed, watery eyes stared intently as Gene practiced the casting.  After a minute or so, he shuffled upright.

“Hey, buddy,” he burped, “You aint’ gonna’ ketch nothin’ in here.” 

Gene laughed and said, “Yeah, man, I know.”

The drunk slunk back down and closed his eyes again, seemingly returning to sleep, as if he had expended every ounce of energy he owned making the comment.  From this comatose position, he offered one last piece of advice. 

“If’n you do, I sho’ wouldn’t eat it.”

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Recently, Captain and I were in Tuskegee, Alabama, where we were looking for some information about your great, great, great, great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell who lived there over 150 years ago.  During the course of the day, we visited with a 90-year-old gentleman named Roy Corbitt who acts as sort of a historian who keeps quite extensive records on the city.  He’s also a mortician.  Not that you’ll need to know anytime soon, but a mortician is someone who buries people when they die.

While we were chatting with him, I was reminded of a story great granddaddy Schaefer used to tell.  It involved his two half-brothers Charlie and John Oliver.  (If you need to be reminded of who they were, you can go back to the post called “It’s All Sugar.”) 

Both Charlie and John Oliver lived in Greer, SC, right around the corner from each other.  Charlie had his own business downtown while John Oliver worked at the local funeral home…..he was a mortician. 

Every summer, Charlie cultivated a luscious vegetable garden in his back yard filled with squash, beans, okra, and tomatoes.  The yield was usually so abundant that he could supply his neighbors with enough bounty to “put up” a sufficient store for the winter.

John Oliver, on the other hand, had no such thing with maybe the exception of some wild onions popping up in his lawn.

One day, Granddaddy Schaefer was visiting with John Oliver and remarked about this. 

“John O.,” he said, “I was thinking the other day that Charlie has this incredible garden every year and you don’t seem to have any interest.”

“Well, Schaefer,” John O. replied, “I’ll tell you, it’s like this…..when I put something in the ground, I don’t want it to come back up!”        

How I Met Your Mother

Dear Boo and Bubble,

When I was a little older than you, one of my favorite things to do was sit with great granddaddy Schaefer and listen to him tell stories about how things used to be.  He could weave a tale for sure, never afraid to embellish the details just enough to embolden the story but not so much to make it untrue.  There was one, however, that he related without any enhancement ….the day he met your great grandmother Mary.  It needed no such prop because his sincerity in telling it rang through every time. 

As you know, he grew up in Greenville, and his best friend was Steve Stephenson (I mentioned this in the blog called A Debt Paid Forward).  When time came for college, Steve went to Washington and Lee in Virginia and granddaddy stayed home to attend Furman.

At the same time, your great grandmother Mary lived in Houston.  Her best friend in high school was Kitty Lawder.  As fate dictated, Kitty went off to Sweetbriar College in Virginia while Mamaw Mary stayed in Houston to go to Rice Institute.

Long story short, Kitty and Steve met in Virginia and couldn’t wait to introduce their two best friends.  On the occasion of Greek Week at W&L, they invited Schaefer and Mary to come to Virginia.  Mamaw Mary took the train from Houston to Greenville and from there, she accompanied Schaefer up to Virginia.

Granddaddy Schaefer always declared that he fell in love with Mamaw Mary at the first sight of her coming off the train.  He met her at the station with a corsage which brightly adorned her fancy dress complete with hat and gloves.  He snapped a picture of her at that very first moment.  The picture stayed on the table by his bed until he died.  They courted for four years long distance before marrying at the beginning of World War II in 1942. 

Ironically, some 35 years later, Kitty clandestinely introduced Captain to me.  She had wanted me to meet him for quite a while, but was afraid to set up a blind date on the pretense that it wouldn’t work.  Instead she hatched a plan to put us in the same place at the same time.  From there, we could size each other up and make the decision on our own.  I have to admit that I participated in the scheme. 

She told me that Captain lived next door to her son, Sam, in Columbia, SC.  They had just finished law school at the time and were studying for the bar exam.  Over that weekend, they decided to take a break and come to Greenville for some relaxation.  Here’s how it went.

Kitty told me she was going to call me when Sam and Captain arrived.  Then we would hang up the phone and in a few minutes I would call her back.  She would act like it was a spontaneous call and, after some overblown chit-chat, she would suggest that I come up to their house on Paris Mountain to join everybody in a swim.  Okay…the plot was set.

On that Saturday morning, the phone rang.  It was Kitty.  “They’re here!” she whispered emphatically into the phone.  “Okay,” I replied and hung up.   In a few minutes I called her, she invited me up, I drove up to Paris Mountain – and the rest is history, as they say.

As you get older, you’ll find that family stories are always fascinating, but none as much as how parents meet and fall in love enough to start a lifelong journey together. This is now and has always been true.  I’m closing with an entry found in your great, great, great, great grandfather’s journal about the first meeting of his parents, Thomas Cottrell and Susannah Daniels.  What makes this story so precious was that he was full-grown and she, four years old.

“My mother’s first acquaintance with my father was in this wise.  She was quite a young girl, and having a talent for singing, used to be persuaded to sing for the preachers, as they assembled at the houses of the neighbors.  On one occasion there was to be a sacramental meeting at my mother’s grandfather Louis’ (her mother’s father) and my father, though a Methodist, came, being the first to arrive.  It was common for him to assist the Presbyterians, with whom he was a favorite.  He stepped into the door, rather a young florid looking gentleman, dressed in full Methodist preacher style, and such as the bearing he had, that it was impossible for them to prevail on my mother, as usual, to sing.  The superior dignity of my father, had awed her into a silence which she could not break.

In the pulpit, during the meeting, she was not pleased with him.  A peculiar shaking of the head was displeasing to her.  This was in Greenville County, NC.  She was about 4 years old.  The song she used to sing much to the delight of preachers & friends was

“My Hope, My All, My Saviour Thou…etc.”

She recollected never to have seen him anymore till she was about 19 years of age.  This I get from my mother’s own lips.”

Don't Take My Advice Until You Give It

Dear Boo and Bubble,

There are many joys in raising children, but frustrations sometimes overwhelm them.  It's not that children seek to be frustrating....much of it has to do with human nature and the insatiable desire to see for one's self.  No matter that parents were once children themselves and have experienced a wealth of circumstances through their own lives, they will never be arbiters of knowledge for their own offspring - at least not until their children are themselves grown.  

Mark Twain said it best.  "When I was sixteen, I couldn't believe how ignorant my father was.  When I turned twenty-one, I couldn't believe how much he had learned in five years."

As you know, Captain and I are in Eufaula, Alabama trying to retrace the steps of your great, great, great, great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell who served as a Methodist minister in this area in the 1850's.  One of our main resources for this research is his personal journal, a copy of which Captain has owned for over thirty years.  As I transcribed it the other day into digital form, I ran across the following entry.  Apparently, Joseph Benson had the same intent that we all share as parents - to impart to our children what we know in order to make their lives easier.

Without a systematic plan of life, followed scrupulously, one cannot have the greatest success – cannot attain to the greatest excellency.  I have never lived by rule.  I lacked the early training.  I have everything to overcome. 

My education when, at 19 years of age I entered the Military Academy at Charleston, South Carolina, was nothing.  From setting type and reading newspapers in my brother’s printing office I had acquired a facility in writing tolerably the English language – but there was no accuracy in my knowledge – and in pursuing my studies there – I felt continually that I was building on the sand. 

In a class of 32, I graduated 15^th – could with a little trouble have graduated first.  Politics was my misfortune there as it has been since.  I did not acquire habits of study at the Citadel – the very thing the course is intended for.  Oh! In everything I have been unfaithful – inconstant.  I might have been with comparative ease, this night, capable of taking most any position of honor in the land; but indolence – indifference have been my undoing. 

 If I am spared, I will by the help of that God who has prolonged my unprofitable life, redeem the time.  I have a thirst for knowledge.  I have gone back to relay the foundation of an education, beginning with the English and Latin grammars, I am endeavoring to make haste slowly – building compactly, surely, trudging through that which others presume I am au fait in.  

I want to enjoy what I know – and this is impossible without accuracy.  I am a poor speller ever, and sometimes suffer after mailing a letter, lest some word has been misspelt.  One half the labor spent in studying, which is thrown away in endeavoring to hide ignorance would make scholars of many.  I have no doubts as to my capacity to learn.  

I have never been beaten in a contest, where I have contested.  As ignorant as I feel myself to be, I am still surprised at my success.  I am more highly esteemed than I deserve.  I feel it, and am often made to blush at hearing compliments which I know are not deserved – and yet to correct the impression would do no good.  I want to get to be far wiser and better than persons imagine – to surpass the ideal of the vulgar mind, and attain to heights to which they are wholly ignorant.  All that I may enjoy truth, and realize the inadequacy of my finite mind to grasp it in its entirety.  I shall then be humble.

These pages are especially intended for the eye of my precious boys, Henry, Jennings and Joe.  Oh! That they may learn to redeem every moment of time – that their hearts may be given to God – that they may keep the body under, and cultivate every virtue, and thus become complete men, qualified to serve their country and the Church efficiently. 

A Debt Paid Forward

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We are in Greenville, SC, today to celebrate your great granddaddy Scheafer’s tenure as an adjunct professor at Furman University.  He taught Business Law there for over forty years.  One of our dear friends, David Ellison, and his wife Frances have honored him with the designation of The Furman Standard – a description reserved for exemplary professors.

In nominating granddaddy for The Standard, David described how Schaefer stepped in as a surrogate in the critical years following the death of his own father during the Sophomore year at Furman.  Granddaddy truly did view David as a son, giving him the benefit of counsel and guidance whenever he sought it and opening the doors of 3 Lakecrest to be a home as if it were his own. 

What David probably doesn’t know is that granddaddy was paying forward the generosity and love someone gave to him years before in similar circumstances.

My great grandfather John Wesley Kendrick died when Schaefer was 16 years old, right at the middle of the Great Depression.  His care, including education, fell on the shoulders of your great, great grandmother Mattie, who moved in with her mother, Mamie Peninah,at her house on Pendleton Street in Greenville.  It is never a good time to be without a father figure, but the teenage years perhaps are the worst. 

Fortunately, granddaddy had a best friend, Steve Stephenson, whose father Harry stepped into the role of surrogate. Harry was a very prominent figure in Greenville.  As the president of Southern Bleachery, he held a financial status in the community exaggerated by the depression and its impact on most everyone else.  The Stephensons lived in a virtual, stately castle located on Paris Mountain overlooking the city.  Constructed before World War I by a German immigrant, Rockwold projected quite an imposing presence with its granite walls and circular porches surrounded by immaculately manicured grounds and gardens.  Harry traded out some of his compensation from the Bleachery in the form of workmen to help maintain Rockwold.

Granddaddy became a fixture at Rockwold.  He and Steve attended Greenville High School together, played on the basketball team and were inseparable during their junior and senior years. 

When the time came to go to college, Steve went off to Washington and Lee in Lexington, Virginia.  Granddaddy attended Furman where he could take advantage of a lower tuition and save on room and board by living on Pendleton Street.  At the beginning of every year, however, Harry called Schaefer up to Rockwold for a visit at which time he requested of granddaddy an estimate of the money needed for expenses over the next semesters.  Harry wrote granddaddy a check for the agreed amount.

This practice continued even through Granddaddy’s years at the University of South Carolina Law School. 

In 1942, WWII interrupted everyone’s lives and plans.  Granddaddy had just opened his law practice and was engaged to marry Mamaw Mary.  Rather than a wedding ceremony in Houston, Texas, they said their vows in Chicago, Illinois, at the chapel on the campus of Northwestern University.  Granddaddy had been called up to the “Ninety-Day Wonder School” for the Judge Advocate Generals’ Corps where lawyers went to train for the military equivalent of the justice system. 

During this time, Granddaddy determined to begin paying the money back that Harry had given to him over the years.  Faithfully, every month, he sent a check for $1.00 (which was a pretty hefty sum during that time).  He wrote in the description line “Repayment of loan…H.R. Stephenson.”

I don’t know how many $1.00 checks Granddaddy wrote over the years, but I do know this……Harry never cashed any of them.

Harry remained a dominant figure in Granddaddy’s life for years, as did Steve a best friend.  Sometimes in life, boys, you will find that you have opportunities to pay forward your good fortune.  Make sure that you do.

Synchronized Drowning

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Sometime in life, you’ll be tempted to make assumptions.  But take a little advice from me, that’s not a very good strategy.

In 1966, I enrolled as a freshman at Furman University.  The campus, which originally rested on several acres on the edge of downtown Greenville, had been consumed by the growth of the city making expansion impossible.  The trustees made the decision in the

1950’s to move to a beautiful, remote site some fifteen miles north towards Travelers Rest under the shadow of Paris Mountain. 

Construction began and by the time I arrived, the school was still very much in transition.  There were classroom buildings, a dining hall, dorms, a library and an auditorium.  But, many of the facilities were either temporary structures or still on the drawing board.  Some departments struggled to meet their academic obligations. This was particularly true for the Physical Education Department which found it difficult to administer the curricula of everything from badminton to field hockey to bowling in the metal building at the far south end of the new campus.

My first two years of college in liberal arts focused on requirements which included Physical Education.  As I perused the syllabi of optional courses, my eye gravitated to one entitled “Synchronized Swimming – the Art of Water Ballet.”  Having achieved the level of soloist for the Greenville Civic Ballet during high school, I assumed maybe this might be a good selection for me, something with which I might have a leg up…..so to speak….maybe even make an easy “A.” I decided to sign up.

Since there was no pool on campus, the classes were held elsewhere.  Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, I would wait outside the women’s dorm with several other girls for a bus to take us to the YWCA in downtown Greenville where we used their pool.  

I learned pretty quickly that the only thing ballet and “water ballet” have in common is music.  Where one uses the legs for strength, the other uses the arms.  In ballet, a pose is finished with graceful fingers extended.  In “water ballet,” a beautifully arched foot may be the only thing visible above the water.  I did have good arches, but that was about all. 

Every combination was a struggle.  I never could get the “walkover” without touching the bottom of the pool.  If I had to execute one in the deep end, I’d just sink out of sight. 

I can’t remember what things were called, but my most dreaded move required me to lie flat on my back, holding myself on top of the water by frantically moving my arms back and forth underneath, then tucking my knees up to my chest and extending one leg straight up with my toes pointed.  Once in that position, I was to lower myself under the water until my foot was the only thing in sight, turn 180-degrees, and raise myself back up to the surface, lower my leg and stretch out again.  The first half of the combination wasn’t too bad.  But, trying to bring myself back up was like pushing a tank up a hill.  Invariably, I’d have to forego the pose and come out of the water spewing and gasping for breath like a whale…..otherwise, I would drown.

That year, for some reason, Furman was chosen to host the Southeast Regional Synchronized Swimming Symposium.  Nationally recognized synchronized swimming programs from schools like University of Florida and Florida State entered teams.  It was a dubious honor for Furman, I thought, since the school didn’t even have its own pool.

In preparation for the event, our professor instructed us to pair up, select music, and choreograph a routine.  Then came the bombshell.  We learned that we would be swimming in front of judges in competition with these iconic programs.   

There was one other freshman in the group named Marilyn Marchman.  She and I decided to work together.  Mamaw Mary drove out to Furman one afternoon and took us to 3 Lakecrest so we could use the record player at the house.  Finally, after listening to band after band of Mamaw’s collection of 33 & 1/3s, we selected a piece that would work.  It was light and airy with sort of a circus atmosphere about it. 

Over the course of the semester, we practiced as much as we could and finally finished the choreography.  Our professor stressed to us the points on which we would be judged.  It was like the Olympics with marks for technical merit followed by artistic impression.  She suggested that we might be able to make up for our lack of skill with creativity. 

The thought wasn’t lost on us.  Marilyn and I decided that we would interpret our music as trapeze artists.  We deliberated about how we could “jazz” up the horrible black tank suits and bathing caps we had to wear.  Mamaw offered to make us a couple of red capes to wear for our entrance.  Then, she said, “Maybe some red tights would look good.”  Marilyn and I thought this was a very clever idea. 

The opening day of the symposium finally came.  The girls in my class boarded the bus for the “Y” with all of the enthusiasm of a group of convicts on their way to the electric chair.  Marilyn and I sat together.  Mamaw had come out to the campus the night before with our capes and tights.  We were as ready as we could be.

As the bus pulled into the parking lot, our professor met us.  She was all atwitter with the excitement of being in charge of such a momentous occasion.  We assembled around her to get the order of the program and our final instructions. 

No matter how old I am, I’ll never forget that day - the chlorine smell of the indoor pool; the sight of the judges seated in the balcony above it; the solid bodies of disciplined swimmers; the precision of the accomplished teams; and my dive into the brink!

Marilyn and I found ourselves sandwiched between the nationally first-ranked team from the University of Florida and the nationally second-ranked team from Florida State.  I’m not sure whether our professor was responsible for that.  If so, I could never forgive her.

Our music started with great fanfare.  Marilyn and I came confidently out of the locker room door, bowed to the audience as trapeze artists do, and took our positions at the edge of the pool.  On cue, we dramatically dropped the capes and dove into the pool. 

For the next four minutes, it was a matter of survival.  We had never rehearsed our routine in costume.  Therefore, we didn’t know that the minute we hit the water, the tights would stretch about a foot.  Every kick had what seemed like fifty pounds of dead weight on it.  It was all we could do to stay on top of the water, much less hold poses.  And, forget the beautifully arched point of the toe.  On “walkovers,” we’d point our toes and a foot of cloth would fling over afterward. 

It was absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my life.  The judges were very stalwart and kept their composure.  Everybody else who was watching must have been rolling on the floor.  FINALLY, the music came to a compassionate end.  Marilyn and I swam to the ladder, heaved ourselves up the steps, and slopped our way back into the locker room kicking the swollen tights ahead so as not to trip on them. 

As if the humiliation of the event itself were not enough, we still had to endure the “critique” from the judges.  All of the swimmers in our section of the competition assembled in a room.  Our professor ceremoniously announced each judge and their corresponding credentials.  As far as I was concerned, the local dogcatcher could have adequately scored our routine. 

“You were absolutely majestic,” the first judge began her remarks about us, “…….until you dove in the water.”   

Yes, my precious boys.  Don’t ever assume anything.  If I had not done so, I could have avoided the most humbling day of my life!

The Coat of Many Colors

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Several posts back, I mentioned one of your great granddaddy Schaefer’s best friends, Charles Sterling, who was affectionately known to all as “Sweetie.”  You may recall that we always watched the Christmas parade from his office window at The Greenville News

Many traits come to my mind when I think of Sweetie - the ever present twinkle in his eye; the slight wheeze that underscored his ready laugh; his marvelous sense of humor that fostered many a practical joke.  But Sweetie had one other significant trademark.  He was a snazzy dresser who much preferred bright colors and pastels in his sport jackets and pants to the more somber browns, grays and blues that most men wore. 

At a party, you might spot him in a soft pink jacket with powder blue pants accented by a yellow tie, or maybe a green jacket with yellow pants and a pastel polo shirt.  On anybody else, it might have looked out of kilter, but on Sweetie it worked.  When the multi-colored madras fabrics came to market, Sweetie embraced the fad. I think what he wore, more than anything, reflected who he was – a lighthearted, generous free spirit who found absolute joy in his family and friends.

Way too soon for all of us, Sweetie died. I don’t remember the exact year, but things were never the same afterwards.  A few weeks later, his widow Mary called granddaddy Schaefer and asked him if he would like to look through Sweetie’s clothes to see if there was anything he might want.  It was a very thoughtful gesture and very intuitive on Mary’s part.  She knew that Sweetie would take great delight in having his best buddy perpetuate his fashion statement.

Granddaddy’s closet was utilitarian and suggested the fact that he was both an attorney and frugal.  He selected his suits for their appropriateness in either court or church.  You might find color in a sweater or two folded on the shelf above the hanging rod, but that was about it.  When he came home from Mary’s, he carried several vintage-Sweetie sport coats, pants, shirts and ties.  Putting them in the closet, it looked like an artist’s palette with yellows, pinks, blues, and greens lined up one next to the other on the hangers.

Some time after that, Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer were chosen by the First Baptist Church congregation in Greenville as messengers to the Southern Baptist Convention.  They were very active in the church, but had never accepted appointments as messengers before.  This time, though, they were motivated by two factors – the attempted coups by right-wing fundamentalists to take over the direction of the Baptist denomination; and the location of the convention.  It would be in Houston, TX, which was Mamaw’s birthplace.

They decided to combine their convention duties with a visit home for her, taking a few weeks to drive along the Gulf Coast through Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana as they went.  As the time approached to leave, Granddaddy began to plan what he would take to wear. He made some selections from Sweetie’s clothes and carefully packed them in his suitcase. 

They arrived in Houston, checked into a hotel and found their way to the Astrodome, where the convention would be held.  The influx of fundamentalists had swelled the number of messengers to almost 20,000 and they couldn’t believe the sea of humanity swirling around the Astrodome.  They checked in and received their credentials which included the paddles used for voting on any resolutions or policies brought forward for consideration by the convention.

A couple of days into the meeting, Dad decided to break out some of Sweetie’s clothes.  He picked a light pink sport jacket and some green pants with a soft yellow polo shirt.  Not wanting to break the ambiance of the ensemble with black, brown or white socks, he did something unheard of for him.  He slipped his bare feet into his loafers. 

They grabbed up their credentials, left the hotel and went to the Astrodome.  It had become apparent that this particular convention was actually a battle for the soul of the Baptist denomination.  The fundamentalists had not only changed the makeup of the Southern Baptist Convention, they had brought with them a set of issues never before considered by the whole body.  Among them were the exclusion of women from ordination and the exclusion of gays from the faith.

On this particular day, the major business would be the resolution on gays.  The procedure was to raise your paddle either for or against the resolution when the question was called.  After hours of tirades about the sinful lifestyle of gays and their willful and wanton alienation from God, the call finally came for a vote. 

The messengers in favor of the resolution prohibiting gays from inclusion in the denomination produced a sea of paddles waving enthusiastically throughout the Astrodome.  The nays produced only a handful, including Mamaw and Granddaddy.  The number was so minuscule by comparison that the location of each paddle stood out like a sore thumb and the vast majority of messengers duly noted who these dissenters were.

After the vote, Granddaddy leaned over to Mamaw and excused himself to go to the bathroom.  He stood up and began sliding down the packed row of seats to the exit.  The occupiers of the seats had not failed to notice how your great grandparents voted and they drew themselves up into tight balls as Granddaddy’s pink jacket, green pants, yellow shirt and sockless feet passed by.  He made his way to the men’s room where a long line of messengers spilled out from the entrance into the hall.  As he came up to the group, they observed him and his rainbow attire and, like the parting of the Red Sea, split right down the middle, giving him unfettered access to the urinals waiting behind the wall.

The men already inside the restroom became apoplectic as he strolled in. 

He grinned and nodded knowingly to the flustered, paranoid fellows.  It was all he could do not to break into all-out laughter.  Granddaddy knew that Sweetie’s spirit was there, though, sitting right on his shoulder, enjoying the heck out of the situation.