Evolution

Dear Boo and Bubble,

What with all of the questions about marriage equality before the Supreme Court this week, I’ve heard the word “evolving” used by just about everybody.  In my mind’s dictionary, the word “evolve” means to “move from one perception to another based upon bits of information gathered along the way.”  The process can apply to all aspects of life, from the trivial like grits to more weighty issues like the ones currently before the court.  

We are all born into sets of circumstances or moments in time that proffer a cultural baseline from which we begin.  Sometimes, the advancements in science and technology force a relatively easy change.  We now know something that we didn’t before and this new knowledge develops our thoughts to higher levels.  To ignore growth through discovery is like opting for leaches over penicillin. 

The far more difficult evolution, however, is that of thought or opinion on the values of society.  Perhaps the truth of this lies in the fact that a nuanced shift in how one sees the world can modify longstanding, closely held attitudes.  Oftentimes, this occurrence creates conflict in families and extended communities.  The ruptures can be so severe not even time can heal them.  In the history of our country, this is particularly true in the context of civil rights.

Much of the impetus for cultural evolution comes from life’s experiences.  Sometimes these emerge from a very personal source.  In the current debate on marriage equality, Sen. Rob Portman came to accept the concept because his son revealed that he was gay.  Nothing could have so powerfully influenced Portman from afar.  The new-found awareness of private consequences now propels him into a broader agenda for those he doesn’t even know.

Sometimes, however, the experience is externally driven….sort of like Paul’s Damascus Road.  Your great, great granddaddy Schaefer encountered two such events in his life that began his evolution on civil rights for African-Americans in 1936 and catapulted him into the arena of cultural change 30 years later.  When he was 77 years old, he wrote about them.

“In my life there were two episodes that radically altered my view on racial matters.  The first occurred in 1936 at Winthrop College.  A mock meeting of the League of Nations was held by the International Relations Clubs of the colleges in this state, the subject being Hitler’s treatment of the Jews.

I got the floor, and in righteous indignation I indicted Hitler and the German people, cataloguing the manifold acts of The Third Reich that made the Jews a sub-human species.  As I walked back to my seat to the applause of the delegates, I felt good, I even felt righteous (which I have since learned is a dangerous state).

A German exchange student got the floor after me.  He as the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Aryan that Hitler envisioned would sire his mater-race.  He was not only handsome, but also he was a dynamic speaker whose English was impeccable and sarcasm devastating.  He took my words and the cataloguing I had done and simply changed Jew to Negro of the South.  He was diabolical; I was demolished.

The next episode occurred in the railway station in Houston in 1945.  I was on my way to a naval assignment in the Pacific and had taken Mary to be with her mother, who lived in Houston.  Mary was pregnant with Bryant.  We were standing on the concourse that ran adjacent to the restaurant waiting for my troop train; and agonizing over saying good-bye.

Shortly a train arrived that had some 30 German prisoners of war, all officers and Hitler’s finest.  Their posture, movements and demeanor exuded arrogance.  The MP’s marched them into the restaurant where they sat at tables covered with linens and served by waitresses, all white.

About this time, there arrived a train carrying an all-black company of Logistic Support Troops (the Navy’s euphemism for stevedores).  Like me they were on their way to serve Uncle Sam’s Navy wherever they were ordered.

Because of the Texas Jim Crow law, they could not be fed in the restaurant.  There was a window between the restaurant and concourse and these troops were marched by this window and handed out milk and sandwiches.  They could see through the window the POWs sitting at the tables being served.

I wondered at the time; if I were one of those observing POWs being served on the other side of the window, what would my attitude be toward the country in whose uniform I was serving?  I, also, wondered what the Nazis were thinking, and whether one of them might be the exchange student who so humbled me at Winthrop.”

Great granddaddy’s painstaking evolution led him to a leadership role in the battle for integration of the1970’s.  Both of you will evolve, each in your own way….and that’s okay…as long as you channel it for a broader good.

I Never Said That

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We’ve been with you for a few days now and the occasion is the wedding of your parents’ good friends Ryan and Kevin.  Alex, this was your first wedding and you looked so dapper in your “handsome suit.” All of this activity has me reminiscing on a time 39 years ago when Captain and I married…..and a funny thing that happened on the way to the altar.

The week before the wedding, I drove from Greenville to Gaffney, SC, where Captain worked in a small law office and where he lived in what was to be our very first apartment.  We were going to a party at the invitation of his boss, but Captain also wanted to talk over some of the details of our service. 

He asked me to bring a copy of our vows, which are the words you say to each other to declare your love and set the parameters for a long life together.  They are serious, somber words that inculcate a promise never to be broken.  The promise elevates them from regular words to the category of a vow.  When you vow something, you better be ready to carry it out.

Understanding that, Captain wanted to read our vows to make sure that he wasn’t going to say something he didn’t mean.  I have always admired that aspect of him.  He dislikes dishonesty in others or false commitments from them.  As a very sincere man, he holds himself to this high standard.

We had decided on a very traditional service which suited our personalities. Besides that, your great uncle Bryant had just been ordained in the Baptist Church and our wedding would be his very first marriage ceremony.  There would be none of the modern remonstrations of song or ritual.  For example, Granddaddy Schaefer would give me away to Captain and when asked who did, he would say “I do,” not “her mother and I” or “her family” or “all her cousins along with the next door neighbors.” 

Our vows fell into the same category.  They were standard, nothing that we had to compose or stew over.   As we reviewed them on that occasion, it started out simply enough  

“I take thee to be my wedded wife/husband,

To have and to hold from this day forward,

For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer”

That was pretty straight forward.

“In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,

‘til death us do part,  according to God’s holy ordinance;”

No problem there….words pretty much self-explanatory.

“And thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Uh, oh…

“What does that mean, Beth?”

“Well, I really don’t know.”

“Okay, don’t you think we better find out?”

Nothing would do but Captain retrieved his dictionary.

After digging around in first “plight” and then “troth,” we finally figured out that the phrase literally means “I pledge thee my fidelity.”  If the conversation could have ended there, this whole story would be irrelevant, but it didn’t.  Captain kept reading the dictionary, finding derivations of the words – like, for example, “trothplight” which may have some absolutely lovely definition, but at first blush sounds absolutely horrid…sort of like a witch that has a hairy wart on the end of her nose and pointy teeth.

“Ahhh,” he said. “You are my little trothplight.”

“Stop it,” I responded as I started to giggle.

“Hey, you look like a trothplight,” Captain continued. “I think I’ll introduce you as my trothplight from now on.”

I continued to giggle until it transformed into outright laughter.

“You better stop right now, because when we get to this part next week, I might not be able to control myself.”

Captain prudently agreed.  We put away the vows and went on to other things. 

The next week embraced all the upheaval associated with the days leading up to a wedding.  Guests came into town.  The party schedule accelerated to a fever pitch.  My mind raced over every detail of the preparations and I totally forgot about our conversation.

Finally, the big day arrived – May 18.  At the appointed hour of 4:00 PM, the processional music signaled the start of the ceremony at First Baptist Church.  Our mothers were seated.  John, with his father as best man, entered at the front of the sanctuary, filled with friends and family.  One by one, the groomsmen and bridesmaids walked down the aisle to their designated places. 

Granddaddy Schaefer and I waited in the vestibule for our cue of “The Wedding March” by Wagner.  The organist, who was a close personal friend, almost broke the pipes with his bombastic exuberance that the time had come for my entrance.  The congregation arose accordingly.

Everything was going as planned.  Great Uncle Bryant started the service with aplomb greater than his rookie status.  Granddaddy Schaefer fulfilled his role furtively in handing me over to Captain.  Then the time came for the vows.  Captain had to go first.

At Bryant’s prompt, he began.  “I, John, take thee, Beth, to be my wedded wife…to have and to hold from this day forward…for better or worse….”

It was about here that I our discussion the week before reared its devious head.  Looking into Captain’s sincere eyes as he tried to express his earnest love for me, I began to chuckle.  I tried – really hard – to squelch it.  The harder I tried, the worse it got.  My eyes began to squint and my breath came in halts. 

And when Captain concluded with …”I plight thee my troth”….I spewed a laugh so out of character for the occasion, Bryant looked at me like I had lost my mind.  However, wanting to maintain decorum, he plunged right into leading me through my part.

“Repeat after me…I, Beth, take thee, John, to by my wedded husband…”

By this point, my shoulders were shaking.  I couldn’t say anything for trying not to totally explode into a guffaw.  All I could do was nod my head.

“To have and to hold from this day forward…”  Again, I nodded.  Captain, bless his heart, stood there stoically trying not to laugh himself. The opportunity to vow my love for Captain passed without a single word from me.  The ceremony concluded.  Captain tucked my arm in his and we walked out of the sanctuary together.

Over these many years, on the rare occasions when I might be upset (yes, I can be) with Captain about something, I’ve been known to say “Well, you know, I never actually married you.”

He always responds by saying “Boy, we’ve sure been having a good old time, then, haven’t we?”

End Of The Road

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Having a car and being able to go where you want to go whenever you want creates autonomy in all of us, but especially in older people who find themselves giving up little freedoms with every turn of the calendar.  In many ways, Mattie having a car gave us all some liberty.  Her schedule never imposed on ours and, at 80 years of age, she loved doing things like driving out to the nursing home to play the piano or melodica for “those old people.”  There were drawbacks, however.

Mamaw Mary never warmed to the idea of Mattie driving.  It went beyond the fact that her VW suffered a fatal, crushing blow beneath the goalpost in the back.  She worried about accidents and injuries to other people.  Every time Mattie pulled out of the driveway, Mamaw fretted and, I’m sure, said a prayer for everyone’s safety. 

Your great uncles and I were forbidden to ride with Mattie and I found myself in real hot water one Sunday for accepting a lift home from church.  You could cut the tension with a knife when she came upstairs into the kitchen for a family visit.  The situation gained such critical mass, Mamaw Mary left the room whenever that happened.  I felt really sorry for Granddaddy Schaefer.  He was caught between the proverbial “rock and a hard place” – the rock, his mother – the hard place, his wife. The situation, of course, was totally contrary to our normal family interactions which usually incorporated lots of love and laughter around the kitchen table.

It all came to a critical head with a phone call from one of Mattie’s friends to Granddaddy.  The night before, she joined Mattie for a concert at First Baptist Church in downtown Greenville.  The concert ran over and it was well past 9:00 PM at the conclusion.  The friend offered to follow Mattie home to make sure she made it safely, a trip of no more than fifteen minutes.  For over an hour, the friend tracked Mattie’s course as she turned first right then left and back again, heading in opposite directions on a route that made no sense except to a confused mind searching for some sign of familiarity.  The friend alerted Granddaddy out of a real sense of concern.

The incident proved to be our first insight into the start of dementia’s slow overtake of Mattie’s vibrant, fertile brain.  Granddaddy enlisted great, great Aunt Katherine’s help in dealing with the sad dilemma.  In what surely was the toughest and most painful act of love, they wrested the car keys and license away from Mattie and forbid her to drive anymore.

Taking away one’s car keys signifies an indignity akin to a slap in the face.  The gesture broadcasts that you can no longer be trusted, that you are a danger to others, that you are now on the slope of isolation that you fear the most in aging.  Inevitably, the bastion of the car keys always becomes that last battleground for independence between an elderly parent and adult child. 

In telling you this tale, you might think that I’m merely pointing out that nothing lasts forever, or that all good things come to an end somehow, or that all of life is not rosy.  But I have a more personal reason.  I have an overdose of Mattie’s genes, so my mind may go the way of hers.  Many years into the future, when your mom and Aunt Bee are making hard decisions on my behalf and I’m fighting them every step of the way, understand that they are doing so out of great love and respect for me. I won’t recognize it then, but I do now, and I just wanted to go on record while all my wits are about me to reassure them that it’s okay. 

It Wasn't Supposed To Be There

Dear Boo and Bubble,

It took your great, great, great grandmother Mattie six tries to pass the driver’s license test.  Faithfully, Granddaddy Schaefer drove her out to the Highway Department every time in the mobile monster.  That part was pretense.  Heaven help that they should know she had driven all over town illegally.  Her Achilles heel proved to be parallel parking.  That was no surprise what with the car being such a tank.  Finally, she either figured it out or happened to get an examiner that she had before who felt sorry for her.  No matter….Mattie secured that precious piece of paper and was now off and running.

She loved everything about her new-found freedom, everything about her car (now that she knew Neutral was intended to do nothing), everything, that is, except going in reverse - which made for quite a predicament anytime she wanted to leave 3 Lakecrest.  Coming into the driveway and down to her apartment was elementary.  Not so in the opposite. 

The house sat on a corner lot that sloped downhill to a juncture with Lotus Court.  The incline was steep enough to allow for a half basement on the lower side of the house with enough space for Mattie’s apartment, some storage and a garage for one car. The driveway spilled into Lakecrest on the high side. In order to create enough space to maneuver the car into the garage in the rear, almost all of the back yard had to be paved down to the lower end of the house.  A healthy thicket of woods extended from there to Lotus Court, but only a small sliver separated us from our neighbor’s lot behind. 

The length and contour of the drive, coupled with her aversion to reverse, made for a real dilemma for Mattie.  It was way too long, curvy and uphill to go out backwards. Not to be deterred, however, she developed a strategy for overcoming the problem.

Granddaddy Schaefer had installed a basketball goal in the back just off of the pavement about halfway up the drive.  Mattie figured out that if she drove the mobile monster in reverse until she hit the goalpost, she could turn the steering wheel sharply to the left and that would give her enough room to power the car up the hill and out of the driveway onto the street going forward.

We’d be sitting in the kitchen at the picnic table and could hear her getting in the car.  The engine would start and then accelerate.  Seconds later there came a WHAP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP as her rear bumper crashed into the post causing it to reverberate wildly.  The tactic totally worked for her even if not for the mobile monster or the goal post.

One weekend in the fall, Mamaw, Granddaddy and great Uncle Gene traveled to Lexington, VA, to watch your great Uncle Bryant play in a football game at Washington and Lee University.  I couldn’t go because my Civic Ballet troupe was performing in Asheville, NC, at a dance festival.  Mattie remained at home by herself. 

I returned on Sunday afternoon before everybody else.  A short while afterward, Mattie came up the steps from the basement and into the kitchen where I was watching television.  She was very sheepish, not her usual assured self.

“What’s the matter?”  I asked.  “You don’t look right.”

“Well……” she hesitated.  “I ran into your mother’s Volkswagen.” 

“What?” I exclaimed.  “You’re kidding!”

I ran to the kitchen window and looked out into the back yard.  Mother’s Volkswagen bug sat crunched against the goal post, its driver’s side door smashed in like an accordion.  Usually, she parked the car on the street in front of the house, but didn’t want to leave it there over the weekend.  She decided to “hide” it in the back since we were all leaving town. 

I turned to Mattie, totally perplexed.  “Didn’t you SEE it?”

“Yes…….but…”

“But, what?”

“But, it WASN’T supposed to be there,” she adamantly retorted.  

Dumbfounding as the explanation seemed to me, it made perfect sense to her.  I guess Aesop might put it this way – Don’t change your habit just because someone else does!

My Neutral Won't Work

Dear Boo and Bubble,

As you know from the earlier Blog “Alan Shepherd,” your great, great, great grandmother Mattie lived in an apartment in the basement of 3 Lakecrest from the time we moved there until she began the downward slide of dementia that required moving her to a nursing home.  At the time, she worked as the Greenville office manager and personal secretary for Congressman Robert T. Ashmore, a job she began while he was a lawyer and continued through his political climb from county prosecutor to Congress.

Mattie didn’t drive.  Not many women did in her generation.  In fact, cars were luxuries for most families at that time, reserved for those who could afford them.  When she came to live with us, Dad carried her to work in the mornings and picked her up in the afternoons.  Her office was in the main post office where the Congressman had his headquarters.  She depended on others for grocery shopping, getting to church, and other various errands. 

When she retired, this all changed.  Perhaps out of sheer boredom or innate restlessness or a streak of independence that bristled at reliance on others for something she could do herself, Mattie decided that she would learn to drive.  The decision provided plenty of family consternation because she was in her seventies.  No amount of logic, cajoling or promises to get her wherever she wanted to go whenever she wanted to go there came even close to making a dent in her resolve.  She was going to drive.

In typical Mattie fashion, she determined that the first logical order of business was to buy the car.  That way she could practice driving with it which would prepare her to take the license test.  Never mind that the law dictated a vice-versa.  It made perfect sense to her and if she, heaven forbid, were stopped for driving without a license, all she would have to do is explain it thus.

In her search for an automobile, she exhibited the same stubborn self-reliance.  Neither Granddaddy Schaefer nor her trusted brother Gene were consulted and when she came home driving the 1959 red and white Plymouth with sleek fins, pushbutton transmission and no power steering, we all suspected that some wily dealer had pawned it off on her because she didn’t know any better.  It was quite literally a tank.

She proudly barreled into the driveway that day and parked the mobile monster behind our house at the bottom of the hill in the back, just in front of the entrance to her apartment.  When he saw it, Granddaddy stared with incredulity.  Nothing he could do, though…the cash had transferred along with the title.

The next morning, we sat at the picnic table in the kitchen eating breakfast.  From outside, we could hear Mattie getting into her new car and turn on the ignition.  Granddaddy Schaefer almost spewed his coffee as he cringed with fear at the thought of her getting out on the street. 

  “Hummmm, hummmm, hummmm” went the engine.  Then “VROOOOOM!”

He bolted upright to look out the sink window.  “My Lord…she’s going to run into the woods!” he screamed.  But the car sat in its spot at her door.

“Hummmm, hummm, hummmm” the engine idled again.  “VROOOOM!”

Granddaddy sat back down at the table.  “I have no clue what she’s doing,” he mumbled to us as he resumed with his coffee.

In a few minutes, the engine noise subsided completely and we heard Mattie shut the car door.  Shortly afterwards, the clunking sound of feet on the basement steps signaled that she was on her way upstairs.  The door opened across the hall from the kitchen.  There she stood, a look of agitation on her face with a slight bit of chagrin.

“Schaefer, I think I’m going to have to take that car back.”

“Why, mom?” he responded.  “It sounds like it’s running fine to me.”

“Well, my neutral won’t work.”

I thought Granddaddy would now choke on his coffee. (It hadn’t been a good morning for the beverage.)

He began to chuckle.  “Well, mom, what do you think your neutral is supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Schaefer, but it won’t work and I think I should take the car back and demand that they fix it!”

Now, boys, it’s hard enough to explain to somebody how things work…..but I learned that morning it’s twice as hard to explain how something is supposed NOT to work.  I have no idea whether Mattie ever understood fully the concept of “neutral,” but she kept the tank which, despite the family dismay, did provide for some interesting tales in our family folklore!

Stopped Dead In My Tracks

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I’m watching with critical interest this morning about the horrendous snowstorm hitting Arlington and the D.C. area.  Looks like you’ll be home for a few days as everything shuts down until the city can dig you out.  Snowstorms have a way of doing that…stopping everything.  When I was 25 years old, I had just such an experience.  Looking back on my life, I am firmly convinced that God sent that storm to keep me from making a big mistake.  Sorry that it inconvenienced so many other people, but I got the message.

At the time, I was in Jacksonville, Florida, and working for Fidelity Federal Savings and Loan.  Up until that point, I had always lived in Greenville even attending college at Furman.  My dorm room may have represented an actual separation from 3 Lakecrest, but less than ten miles away does not constitute “leaving home.”  I even dated the same hometown guy starting my senior year in high school, all through four years at Furman, and after that for a while.

After college, I moved back in with great Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary and took a job teaching 11^th-grade American history at one of the local high schools.  The plan was to save money in anticipation of marrying my sweetheart and settling down smack dab in the middle of everything I had always known and loved. 

Oops…..something happened on the way to my life.  The relationship came to an end (in large part to some good advice from Granddaddy to his only daughter) and I found myself in uncharted territory.  My slate wiped clean of a certain future, I decided that leaving Greenville would be a good move.  After all, I had never been away from home – not literally, figuratively and certainly not emotionally.  The thought of venturing out on my own intrigued me, even tantalized me and I began poking around for possibilities. 

We had extended family in Jacksonville and through a cousin, I secured my job at Fidelity Federal as a loan closer.  I let an apartment with a roommate whom I had never met, but who came highly recommended by the complex.  With my car jammed to the gills of all my earthly possessions, I headed south full of hope and promise for a new beginning.

All went fine for a few weeks as I busied myself settling into the job and my apartment.  But as the excitement of newness faded into the dullness of daily routine and the enticement of being on my own morphed into loneliness, I encountered something I had never known before ----- homesickness. 

Homesickness….that all-absorbing, mind-consuming, passionate yearning for everything or anything familiar.  Homesickness….that numbing sensation of helplessness that leaves you in tears over the slightest inability to accomplish a task.  Homesickness….that overwhelming desire to hear a voice of someone close and panicking when they don’t answer the phone.

Normal people experience this horrid stage much younger, like when they go their first camp.  Trust me, it’s much better to get it over with sooner rather than later. Yes, at the ripe old age of 25, I spiraled down into a cesspool of homesickness so deep I could hardly function unless I could divert my mind to concentrate on something else.  It made me call home several times a day.  I spent money on plane trips to Greenville on the weekends.  Sometimes, I’d drive out of the parking lot at work on Friday afternoon and just keep going until six hours later I pulled into the driveway at 3 Lakecrest.

The emotion was awful and I fought it hard.  Finally, though, I caved into the incessant yearnings and called Granddaddy to say to heck with my pride.  The experiment was over.  Find me a job, any job.  Like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, I packed my car on a Friday morning before work and determined to drive home to see about reversing my course.

As the afternoon wore on in Jacksonville, a slow, steady and bitingly cold drizzle began.  By 5:00, when the S&L closed, the weather had deteriorated to a heavy downpour.  Undeterred, I headed out of the parking lot through town and onto I-10 West which would get me to I-75 north to Atlanta.  The rain pelted my windshield as the visibility diminished.  An hour into the trip, I came to I-75 and headed towards the Georgia line. 

About 50 miles into Georgia, at a little town called Cordele, the rain turned to sleet and my car skidded as I crossed one of the overpasses.  It was well dark by then and I thought it best to pull off and find a place to spend the night.  I could get an early start the next morning and be home by lunch.  I took the next intersection towards Cordele.  The first motel I came to was a Howard Johnson’s complete with a restaurant which in those days always included 57 varieties of ice cream.  I turned into the parking lot and went into the reception area.

When I explained that I wanted a room for the night, the lady behind the desk responded by saying that she was glad I had stopped.  The interstate was closed about 10 miles north of there.  We negotiated my room.  I took the key, parked my car, dragged my suitcase inside, immediately called Granddaddy…..and broke down and cried.

Not to worry he said… I’d be on the road first thing in the morning.  On that reassurance, I went to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke to 12 inches of snow.  Drifts piled up to the middle of the room’s windows and half-way up the door.  The cars in the parking lot looked like white pillow sculptures of fine sugar.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The door would not give even putting my shoulder to it.  Not able to get out of the room, I called the desk to inquire as to when they might have things cleared so that I could get on the way.  My question was answered with an incredulous honesty.  “We haven’t had snow like this in Cordele in 100 years.  Nope, not going to have snow plows when you only need them once every century!”

I couldn’t go north.  I couldn’t go south.  For three days, I huddled in that room, leaving only to go eat.  My calls to home became longer each time as Granddaddy counseled me through the misery I felt.  After 76 hours, he had me convinced to go back to Jacksonville and work through the situation until I could honestly say to myself I hadn’t let it get the best of me. 

By Tuesday morning, the interstate south was passable so I headed out.  On Wednesday, I returned to work, dedicated to making the most of my circumstance.  On Thursday afternoon, when I came to my apartment after work, I found a letter in my mailbox from Furman University saying that the Development Office would like to interview me for the position of Alumni Director.  My jaw dropped to the floor.

No one knew this was coming – not Granddaddy, not Mamaw, certainly not me.  But, God knew, I guarantee, and He sent that snowstorm to stop me from my own determination to crawl home like a whipped puppy. 

I interviewed for the job and it was offered to me.  With my head held high, I came home on sturdy footing.  Yes, God stopped me in my self-pitiable tracks to keep me from making a crucial decision from a point of weakness. 

Enjoy the snow!   

Don't Mean To Be Persnicketty....but

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In writing the last blog about your great uncle Gene and the man in the bus station, it reminded me of another similar story.  I don’t know whether Gene is a magnet for these sorts of people, but they keep showing up in his personal folklore.

Years ago, Gene was walking down the sidewalk of Main Street in Greenville, SC, on his way to an early morning business meeting.  He happened to approach a disheveled, smelly and generally pathetic homeless man slouched against the wall of a building.  Gene thought the guy was asleep, but as he passed by, a voice crept out from the pitiable form.

“Do you have a dollar for a cup of coffee?” 

Without breaking stride, Gene responded pretty roughly, “No I don’t!”  He felt pretty disgusted by the man’s appearance and crude solicitation.  He certainly wasn’t inclined to give the man money that would only be used to buy liquor.

But, about half a block later his conscience got the better of him – probably a tug from the spirit of our beloved deceased mother who couldn’t turn anybody down no matter if they were the worst reprobate in the world.  He ducked into a café and ordered a hot, fragrant cup of coffee “to go,” paid for it and picked up some cream, sugar and diet sweetener just in case the homeless man happened to be a little discriminating.  He put a lid on the cup and walked back up the street.

“Here.  I’ve brought you some coffee since that’s what you wanted.”  Gene stooped over to hand the man the cup.

As if in slow motion, the fellow reached for the coffee and carefully pried the lid off.  He stared into the dark liquid for a few seconds then raised his bloodshot eyes to Gene with a disdain softened only by his stupor.

“That’s not the kind I like,” he slurred.