That's A Good Question

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Like all churches in the late 1940’s and early ‘50’s, First Baptist’s building was not air conditioned.  Its thick stucco-covered brick walls offered sufficient insulation for the most part and the stained glass windows in the sanctuary blunted the sun’s impact during the 11:00 AM services.  But, it could still get hot on occasion, a condition which required some sort of solution.

On the back of each pew, tucked in between the Bibles, hymnals, collection envelopes and pencils, were paddle fans made of compressed pieces of cardboard glued to wooden sticks about the thickness of a tongue depressor.   These fans not only served as tools for beating the heat, they also helped spread the Gospel.  Pictures of Jesus graced both sides – one of him knocking on the door, the other holding a lamb. 

Even as a toddler, great granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary took me to the worship services in the sanctuary. (Had a nursery been available, I imagine they would have forgone the pleasure.) An hour’s time can challenge the best behavior of most adults, much less someone between your two ages.  When I got to the point of squirming so bad Mamaw thought I might crawl under the pew, she would reach for a Jesus fan and hand it to me.  The colorful pictures fascinated me.  I would run my fingers over them in great reverence.  Mamaw would whisper to me about how I was like the little lamb….a little lamb named Beth…before I knew it, the service ended.

Out of necessity, Mamaw and Granddaddy also hauled me along to Wednesday night prayer meetings. First Baptist held its prayer meetings in the small auditorium located in the basement of the main building adjacent to the rear of the sanctuary.  The actual “meeting” followed some sort of meal like a spaghetti dinner or pancake supper.  It allowed the preacher an additional weekly opportunity to bolster his flock with a message of redemption undiluted by the trappings of the Sunday services.  People sat in folding chairs at the tables where they ate.  There might be one song accompanied by piano, a prayer and then his remarks.

On a particular Wednesday night, when I was no more than three, we found ourselves at the prayer meeting.  It was in the summer and, even though the sun had set, its residual heat left the church pretty uncomfortable.  In anticipation of that fact, a basket full of paddle fans sat in the center of each table.

As the preacher started his comments, granddaddy held me in his lap.  Before long, however, I became fidgety.  He tried bouncing me on his knee and then turning me onto my stomach crosswise to his legs and bouncing some more.  Nothing seemed to calm me. At the point of my bowed-back writhing, he became desperate.

Granddaddy noticed the basket of fans.  Thinking of how they worked so well before on Sundays, he reached for one and handed it to me.  I took it with interest expecting to see Jesus at the door and with the lamb.  Alas, there were no pictures, just writing advertising the local funeral home.  I inspected the fan carefully, flipping it over and over in my hand.  This momentary preoccupation gave Granddaddy the false sense that he had solved the problem. 

The preacher began driving home his point…..I continued to ponder the fan.  He slowly and methodically built up oratorical steam until he came to a dramatic crescendo of silence……at which point I yelled out in grave concern “WHERE’S JESUS!”

Since no one but granddaddy had any context, the question took on a quite plaintive air.  The preacher, who had inhaled extra oxygen in order to make his climactic point, blew out the exhale and could only muster “Well, now, that’s a good question,” which brought uproarious laughter from everyone.  Whatever point he intended to make became irrelevant.

Boys, I would never presume that my childlike supplication had any prophetic qualities.  However, as I’ve gotten older and observed everything that happens in our world on a daily basis at every level of interaction, I will admit - it was then and always will be a good question.

A Fluffy Purple Ball of Embarrassment

Dear Boo and Bubble,

For all of my fond memories of the old First Baptist Church on McBee Street in Greenville, there’s one that I wish I could erase. 

In 1952, when I was about Boo’s age of almost 5, our cousin Gena Bryant achieved Queen’s status in the Girls Auxiliary.  The Baptist foreign mission board began the GA program in 1928 as a way for young girls in the church to learn about missions and Baptist doctrine.  The official curriculum gave them the opportunity to participate in hands-on missions projects, to understand the Scriptures, and to gain proficiency in practical skills such as reading, writing, and sewing.  (I’m not sure if the GA exists anymore, but if so, I would think sewing might have gone by the wayside.)

Participants in GA worked their way up through designations of accomplishment starting with Maiden, then Lady-in-Waiting, then Princess and finally Queen.  To become a Queen was quite a big deal requiring a service of coronation in the sanctuary, complete with attendants including a flower girl.  Gena asked if I would serve in that capacity and I was excited to do so.

The instructions for my attire included a long gown and a basket to hold the rose petals that I would throw on my trek down the aisle.  Being the thrifty sort, Mamaw Mary decided to see what I might already have.  She combed through my dance recital costumes in the closet and pulled out a purple floor-length bundle of tulle with plenty of flounce.  It had a taffeta underskirt, fitted bodice, and soft tulle ruffles at the hem and draped on the shoulders.  She sized it up and decided that, with a matching taffeta ribbon around the waste, it would work just fine, especially when I traded out my pink ballet slippers for some black patent leather Mary Janes.  I was set.

The day before the coronation, everybody involved in the ceremony met at the church for a rehearsal.  My task was to walk down the right-hand aisle from the back of the sanctuary to the front, cross over in front of the dais to the opposite side and walk up its four steps where I would take my place beside the pulpit.  I was the first in the procession and by the time I arrived at the steps, Gena would be making her entrance.  We walked through the procedure several times until everyone was satisfied of their responsibilities.

We arrived at the church the next day about an hour before the service was to start and congregated with the coronation party in a dressing room underneath the sanctuary.  Mamaw Mary had curled my hair into ringlets and she let me wear some rouge and a little lipstick.  She helped my put on some tights and then held my arms as I slipped into my gown feet first so as not to mess up my hair.    With my shoes buckled, I gathered up my basket, now filled with beautiful red rose petals.

From above we could hear the organist begin a musical invocation signaling that it was time to assemble in the vestibule.  Mamaw Mary held my hand as we walked up the steps and then turned me over to the coronation coordinator who took me to my starting point at the back of the sanctuary.  At the stroke of 7:00, the organist chimed the hour.  After an appropriate pause after the seventh chord, he dove into a majestic processional.

The coordinator nudged me forward down the aisle.  A slight bout of shyness caught my first steps, but I regained my confidence as I walked further.  By the time I made the turn in front of the dais, I was slinging my rose petals with abandon.   

I approached the steps to go up to my spot by the pulpit.  Just as I raised my foot to take the first step, from out of nowhere….except that it was from the balcony….a trumpet blasted the signal to the congregation that Queen Gena was entering the sanctuary.  This trumpeter had not been at the rehearsal….he was news to me…and his blast took me by such surprise that it made me look up just as I was taking that step.

My foot grabbed the taffeta underskirt of my dress.  Not knowing this, I tried to step up to the next step.  Instead of walking up the step, I walked up my dress.  With very little grace but a lifetime of embarrassment, I disappeared into a bubbling, boiling cauldron of purple tulle right there in front of everybody.  My head vanished out of sight.  For me, it became like trying to bat my way out of a lavender spider web.  My basket fell back down the steps dispensing all the remaining petals in a pitiful cascade of hopelessness.

I have no recollection of what happened after that.  My only salvation would have been that all of the congregation’s eyes were on Queen Gena at the rear of the sanctuary and not on me as I rumbled around on the steps in my purple cage until somebody mercifully came to my aid.

To this day, my fondness for the sanctuary of First Baptist Church is tainted by this event….that and the color purple.

Don't Wake Me Up

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I grew up a Baptist, the Protestant denomination that places strong emphasis on these tenets –

• the freedom of the individual led by God’s spirit,
• the freedom of the local church,
• the larger body of Christ made up of local churches around the world,
• the servant role of leadership within the church,
• theological education,
• proclamation of the Good News, and
• a free church in a free state.

Were you to ask me what all this means, I’d have to say that there’s a lot of freedom floating around in those words, but they are anchored by the responsibilities  of becoming educated and committing oneself to service within the church.  I’ve fallen far short of these noble goals, especially in my later years where life’s arch forced gravitation more in the direction of disorganized religion.  But, your great, great granddaddy Schaefer took these instructions to heart and became a pillar of our church – First Baptist of Greenville.  He perennially served as a Deacon, taught Sunday School, and lead in every effort to raise money on the church’s behalf.  (I’m sure Mamaw Mary would have assumed the same stature had she been allowed at the time, but that’s another blog subject for a later day.)

 Officially organized in 1831, First Baptist was the second of Greenville’s five original “downtown” churches (along with Christ Church Episcopal, Buncombe Street United Methodist, First Presbyterian, and St. Mary’s Roman Catholic) and the first of the five to be deeded land by Vardry McBee, who owned over 11,000 acres of what is now Greenville.  The sanctuary where my family worshipped was originally built in 1858 on this land and, until the 1970’s, First Baptist called McBee Street in the heart of town its home.

I loved that old sanctuary with the organ pipes behind the baptismal serving as a stately backdrop for the choir.  Two aisles separated the pews into three sections on the main floor.  A U-shaped balcony caressed the whole scene like a frame around a classic picture.  Stained glass windows muted the light filtering through which softened the atmosphere, giving an appropriate reverence to the setting.

For my entire formative years, the sanctuary stayed structurally the same.  The leadership of the church, however, authorized tweaks here and there as new technology evolved to enhance the worship experience.  One such adaptation was a sound system with a microphone at the pulpit connected to a series of speakers strategically placed around the perimeter. 

In the early to mid-60’s, the minister at First Baptist was a gentleman named Jim Stertz.  He had the misfortune of following L.D. Johnson, a cerebral giant who masterfully connected that intellect with an effectual oratory, creating many invigorating sermons that both piqued the challenge and the joy of faith.  Dr. Stertz’s delivery was more pedestrian, but his messages remained solid. 

About this time, the speakers in the sanctuary developed an annoying crackle.  The congregation ignored it as best possible, but over several months’ duration, we began to feel like we were worshipping in the middle of a popcorn popper.

Dr. Stertz brought the situation up at a Wednesday night deacons’ meeting where your great, great granddaddy was in attendance.

“I would like to address the problem we have with our speaker system,” he said.  “I can’t hear it from the pulpit, but several members commented this last Sunday that it has gotten to a bad point.”

After a few comments came, granddaddy raised his hand to be recognized. 

“Yes, Jim, I definitely think the money would be well-spent to fix the system.  It’s starting to wake me up in the middle of your sermon.”

Dirty Laundry

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We live in a world of rapid change but there are some things that remain constant.  Human nature is one of those things.

As you grow older, you will be tempted to complain…..oh….. I don’t know…..probably about most everything of any negative consequence that happens.  And you’ll want to tell folks outside your home what’s happening on the inside, especially when you’re aggravated with one of the insiders.  It’s called “airing your dirty laundry.” 

I was reading the other day from articles written by your great, great, great, great grandfather Joseph B. Cottrell.  This particular one, published on March 18, 1882, struck a strong chord with me.

“Everyone has as much as he or she can stand up under, or lie down under.  Therefore, make it a study to keep to yourself your troubles.  Pay no interest on the capital others invest in the way of curiosity concerning their troubles; and tax nobody except as it is a necessity.  And yet it were well to know some – one, at least – with whom you can trust more than your life.  Be merciful to yourself.  Tell none aught that would compromise you or discount you, except God; and tell Him because He knows it already.”

Sage advice from 130 years ago…..as pertinent now as it was then.

Mixed Signal

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The other day, an old friend from the neighborhood sent me a picture of Stone Lake which is, at the most, a 20-acre body of water one block down Lotus Court from 3 Lakecrest.  I haven’t thought about Stone Lake in years, but the sight of it brought back many memories from my childhood. 

Your great uncles and I used to walk down to the lake in the afternoons with a can of worms or a stale partial loaf of bread and a cane pole to fish for bream off the bank.  I remember one specific time when I caught a large (in my eye) bream and put it on a stringer.  When the time came to go home, I pulled the stringer out of the water in full anticipation of my family’s marvel at my catch only to find the fish half eaten by a turtle. 

A padling of ducks also called Stone Lake home.  They usually congregated at the opposite end from Lotus Court, but sometimes meandered down to check us out whenever we were there.  On occasion, we’d cast them some of the bread which inevitably created a Pavlov effect – we’d come to fish, they’d fly down for a meal.

Around this time, great granddaddy Schaefer utilized a very unique method for calling us home from the neighborhood.  He stood on the front porch, put his fingers to his lips and produced a sharp, penetrating whippoorwill whistle.  It pierced the air to the extent that, no matter where we might be, we could hear it and we better come running.  To ignore the whistle was imperilment. 

One day granddaddy decided to join us for fishing at the lake.  He noticed the ducks heading our way.  “Watch this,” he said as he took a few slices of bread into his hand.  He let out a couple of whistles and started throwing pieces of bread onto the water.  With a quacking frenzy, the ducks accelerated their approach, some lifting off into flight to get there first.  Granddaddy whistled several times more until the full padling arrived and splashed around for the crumbs as if they were gold. 

From then on, whenever we went to the lake, all we had to do was whistle the whippoorwill and the ducks would immediately start quacking all the way up at the other end.  Granddaddy even started a ritual of going to the lake a couple of times a week to feed them.

Over time, as we grew older, the necessity to whistle us home subsided.  Bryant and I went off to college leaving Gene, who would soon enter high school, with Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer. 

One night, really late, Gene had an argument on the phone with his girlfriend.  I have no idea the specifics but once he hung up, Gene marched down the hall in an obvious emotional stew.  He walked out the front door, down the steps and disappeared into the darkness.   

Granddaddy always went to bed early.  Mamaw usually stayed awake in the kitchen either knitting or listening to baseball games.  She heard Gene leave the house but decided to give him some time and space.  Almost an hour passed and Gene hadn’t returned.  Mamaw became concerned enough to wake granddaddy up.

Now, you boys have to understand that this happened way before the advent of cell phones.  Not having any clue where Gene might be, Granddaddy didn’t have many options.  He hesitated to call Gene’s name out into the night air and wake the neighbors.  He took the only measure left.  Standing on the front porch at midnight, he pursed his lips, poised his fingers and blasted the whippoorwill whistle several times as loudly as he could.  

Nothing…..

He repeated the whistle.

Nothing….

Again, he whistled.

And….from the distance……. “Quack…quack….quack..”

“QUACK, QUACK, QUACK….

Louder and louder grew the yellow-billed, web-footed chorus as the ducks followed the whippoorwill signal to its source.  In an unbelievable sight, they marched in single file down Lotus Court and up the hill on Lakecrest right onto the pine needle path leading to the front porch where Granddaddy stood. 

Amid all of the ruckus with the ducks swarming the yard, Gene reappeared. 

“Hey, I heard the whistle,” he said to granddaddy, trying not to laugh.  “Guess they did, too.”

At that hour and under the circumstances, Granddaddy found it hard to be amused.  He retreated into the house to grab a loaf of bread.

“Here,” he thrust the bread into Gene’s hand.  “You take this and get these ducks back down to the lake right now!”

I’m sure though, Granddaddy had to chuckle at the sight of his son, like the Pied Piper, leading the quacking, waddling pack out of the yard, down the street and back to Stone Lake.

To Lob or Not to Lob....that is the Question

Dear Boo and Bubble,

For the last few days, Captain and I have been volunteering at the Family Circle Tennis Tournament in Charleston.  We are working with your Aunt Bee in the kitchen making the food for the players, who are top tier professional women.  Trust me, even being women, they eat a lot of food, especially fruit - which keeps me hopping because I’m in charge of the salad and cold food stations.  From the time I get there at 6:00 AM, I’m chopping strawberries, cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, kiwi and whatever else might be provided by the caterer.  As soon as I take it out and return to my prepping area, it’s time to go back again. 

The ones that drive me especially crazy are the strawberry buzzards.  These are the players who will stand over a bowl of perfectly good mixed fruit and pick through it to find strawberries….sort of like opening a can of mixed nuts and only eating the cashews. 

But, I digress.  Tennis has always been an integral part of my life.  Back before your great Uncle Gene was born, great granddaddy Schaefer called a family meeting with Mamaw Mary, great Uncle Bryant, and me.  He declared that there were three things we could not afford…….braces, allergies and golf.  With that proclamation, he handed us tennis rackets and a can of balls.  “Here,” he said.  “This will last you a lifetime.”

Granddaddy was devoted to tennis.  He played a regular doubles match every Saturday and Sunday with his close friends Sweetie Sterling, Jack Ward and Bob Thomason.  Bob lived on Paris Mountain (which more accurately should be called Paris Hump), an elevated mound that overlooks Greenville from the north.  He had both a tennis court and swimming pool in his backyard.  For years, the four men enjoyed a consistent camaraderie that a game among friends provides .  Sometimes the tennis proved incidental to the bantering and harassment they dished out to each other. 

In the spring of 1963, to celebrate great Uncle Bryant’s graduation from high school, we took a trip with Sweetie and his family to one of the most elegant bastions of southern hospitality then and now - The Cloister in Sea Island, Georgia.  A pristine golf course wound its way through the moss-covered Water Oaks and stately accommodations of the resort.  Tucked into a cozy, secluded part of the property with an ivy-covered clubhouse was a first class tennis facility.  As soon as we checked in and settled into our rooms, granddaddy and Sweetie walked up to the pro shop to see if they could arrange a doubles match for the next day.  The tennis pro said he would be glad to put a game together and told them to be there at 9:00 the next morning.

They arose early and had a good breakfast.  Then, dressed in their finest tennis whites, granddaddy and Sweetie left for the courts.  Entering the pro shop, they looked around excitedly to see who might be their competition.  The only other people in the shop were two elderly gentlemen, probably in their eighties, chatting with the pro.  As they approached, the pro noticed and proceeded to introduce the octogenarians as the match up.  Granddaddy and Sweetie were polite, but somewhat disappointed.  Being in their forties, they had anticipated something a little more robust and challenging. 

The warm up lifted their spirits a little because the gentlemen seemed to be able to return the balls with some consistency.  They spun a racquet to determine who would serve first.  The other team won.  Granddaddy and Sweetie huddled at their baseline to talk a little strategy.  Normally, they enjoyed aggressive net play and they would start with that.  If it proved too overpowering and things became lopsided, they would back off and play the back court.

The first serve came into the service box on the forehand side where Granddaddy received.  He returned the serve deep into the opposite court and rushed forward to the net where Sweetie was already positioned on the backhand side.  They poised there, confident that if their opponents could reach the return, the response would be easy to handle. 

The ball did come back over….well over…well over their heads in the form of a lob perfectly placed a few inches inside the baseline.  Both men rushed back and somehow, Granddaddy got a racquet on the ball to keep the point alive.  That put them on the baseline, to whit the next response from their opponents was a delicately placed drop shot a couple of feet over the net.  Granddaddy and Sweetie rushed forward again, but to no avail.  The ball bounced a second time before they could get there.

This set the tone for the rest of the match.  The two elderly men literally never moved, they just placed the ball where the two younger bucks weren’t, moving them around the court like puppeteers manipulating marionettes.  When finally a blessed end came, Granddaddy and Sweetie returned to our rooms soaking wet, totally drained and forever humbled. 

Granddaddy did learn from the experience, however.  On many occasions later on, when he assumed the role of the elder statesmen and I was the younger, more agile opponent, he employed the same nasty, aggravating strategy with me. 

So you boys better beware.  No matter how good you might become at the wonderful game of tennis, Meemaw knows stuff……and I’ll be waiting on the other side of the net to show you.