1974 - #715

Dear Boo and Bubble,

A friend reminded me the other day just how much your great, great grandmother Mary loved baseball.  This was true all of her life, but in the later years, her interest coalesced around an absolute devotion to the Atlanta Braves.  Truth be known, she is buried with two Braves tickets in her coffin, an excursion that granddaddy Schaefer had planned as a surprise but God interrupted with His eternal call to home.

As a teenager in high school, and later in college, I tolerated Mamaw’s obsession with the sport ignoring that she stayed up all night listening to the radio until games on the West Coast ended or that she drove all over town in her little VW bug with a yellow Styrofoam ball stuck to the radio antenna which was a marketing ploy by the Greenville Braves farm team to identify fans in the community.  But in 1974, her fixation collided with my life’s events and I could no longer disregard the situation

Captain asked me to marry him at Thanksgiving of 1973.  We set our wedding date for May 18 of the next year.  The usual swirl of excitement consumed 3 Lakecrest Drive. We planned all the details for the ceremony, decided on my gown and those of the bridesmaids, and selected our china and silver patterns and my engagement ring.  The calendar filled with offers for showers and parties from our generous friends. 

As spring approached, not only did the countdown to our nuptial date begin, but also baseball season.  It was to be no ordinary season.  The Atlanta Braves had Hank Aaron, who pursued the chance to break Babe Ruth’s all-time record of 714 homeruns.  For Mamaw, there was no confusion about priorities – the wedding festivities be damned, she would not miss one minute of one game until Aaron hit number 715.

I was curious how she would manage this goal as the showers and parties fell on weekend evenings, the exact time of many of the games.  Mamaw had a strategy, though.  She tucked a portable radio with earphones into her oversized purse.  Before we left the house, she donned a sweater over whatever she wore, ran one wire up her arm through the sleeve, and popped the earphone bud into her ear.  For all anybody knew, it could be a hearing aid.  Once at the party, she carried the purse crooked in her arm until game time, at which point she excused herself to the bathroom and turned on the radio.

On several occasions, I would be opening presents, oohing and aahing over the contents.  Mamaw would lean over and whisper in my ear – “He hit another one,”

The running joke leading up to the wedding went like this ---

Granddaddy Schaefer would walk me down the aisle.  The ceremony would start and we’d get to the vows. 

“Beth, do you take John to be your wedded husband to have and to hold, etc., etc.…….”

“I do.”

“John, do you take Beth to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold, etc., etc……….”

“I do.”

At which point Mamaw would jump up, ramrod straight from her pew and shout “HE DID IT!!”

Of course, everybody in the congregation would think that she was overjoyed that Captain really went through with marrying me, when in fact, she had the radio in her pearl-beaded clutch purse with a wire running up the chiffon sleeve of her soft green mother-of-the-bride gown and an earbud in her ear  -   and Hank Aaron had just hit the benchmark home run.

Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to worry about this fiction becoming fact.  On April 8, 1974, Aaron achieved that miraculous number 715, a record that stood until August 7, 2007, when Barry Bonds broke it.  To Hank, I am forever grateful.

By the way, I know that Mamaw is sitting up in heaven this season very proud of the Atlanta Braves.  She stuck with them through thick and thin and is now (and forever) an eternal fan.

Hair of the Dog

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In the South of long ago, there was a custom for young women that had a true purpose – the debut.  Those of privilege, especially plantation owners, afforded a proper education for their daughters, with an emphasis on the social graces and fitting etiquette.  Once she reached the age of maturity, she was introduced to society at a formal debut presentation.  She became a debutante (French for "female beginner") and now was suitable to marry.  The debut gave her family the opportunity to display her to eligible bachelors within a select circle.  The cloistered life up until that time kept to a minimum the risk that these dainty ladies might fall in love with some rapscallion and disgrace the family name.

As with many things, this custom has now lost its point, but still continues in tradition.  Parents spend thousands of dollars each year on gowns, tuxedos, orchestras and balls “presenting” daughters to groups of people they already know.  The only thing that can top the expense is the wedding of that daughter to some man who, more than likely, wasn’t at her debut and might not have been included on the guest list even if he’d been known.

The modern debutante era also had one other outcome.  Before all of the laws restricting the age for alcohol consumption found their way to the books, the festivities surrounding a debut gave young people their first opportunity for unfettered drinking.  Parents knew this and, as a practical matter, handled the fact in various ways.  Some encouraged abstinence – wishful thinking.  Some invoked their own experiences of horror with the “hair of the dog,” hoping to instill fear – again, wishful thinking.  In our family, the approaches ran the gamut as well, but they all had one theme in common – your parents will always be onto you, so just don’t even try to outsmart them 

Your great, great, great Uncle Dick Skinner told his son, Bryant, that it didn’t matter how much Bryant drank at the ball or what time he came home – as long as he was in a deer stand by sunrise with his gun to help the hunting party bag some venison.  Many a time, Bryant found himself in the stand in tuxedo or tails, not necessarily in the best condition for shooting a gun.  I can just imagine the conversation going on between the deer.

“Hey, Martha, get over here.”

“What is it, Fred?”

“That guy with the fancy clothes is back up in the stand.”

“Oh, good.  I’ll go get the children.  Guess we live to graze another day, don’t we!”

Your great, great Aunt Sarah Bryant probably had the most practical way of dealing with drinking too much at a debutante ball.  When your cousin Jamie Bryant came home in the wee hours of the morning, head throbbing and stomach churning, he tried to be as quiet as possible making his way up the stairs to his bedroom.  About half way up the staircase, on one of the steps, he found a silver tray.  Resting on it, in neat display, were a glass of water, two Alka-Seltzers and two aspirin.   No judgment, just a solution to what she knew was his circumstance.

However, for me the winner of the funniest “too much to drink” story in our family goes to someone who will remain anonymous for these purposes because I don’t have his permission to tell it and he may not have ever confessed to his own children.  Suffice it to say you have a cousin who came home inebriated for the first time and he desperately wanted to get into his bed without his parents suspecting.

The routine in the household was that his parents would stay awake, but be in their bed until all of the children made it safely home.  When you came home, you were to report to them and wish them a goodnight before turning in yourself.  Your cousin knew this routine inside out and decided that, with focused concentration, he could make it through the motions and his parents would never suspect his condition.

He came up the stairs to their bedroom and walked inside.  They both were still awake, reading.

“I’m home,” he said with conviction and hoping there wouldn’t be any questions.

“Good.  Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, but I’m kind of tired.  Gonna hit the hay.”

“Sleep tight then.  Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He backed up to exit the room, grabbed the door handle and shut the door behind him. 

“Ahhhh…I made it!” he thought to himself with intense relief.

At which point he turned and walked into what seemed to be some sort of wall that gave way when he moved, but wouldn’t let him through.  He thrashed around hitting at it like punching pillows.  The lubricated synapses of his brain finally connected and he realized he was in his mother’s closet.  To his body’s great relief, he slowly sagged down on his haunches, atop the shoes tidily lining the floor, awaiting his fate.

The closet door opened and there stood his father, a suppressed grin about to explode on his face.

“Need some help?” 

“Yeah…that would be great.” 

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great grandmother Mary, my mom, set the standard for angels on earth.  She loved her family, always tried to put a positive light on every situation, thought about others and acted pre-emptively on their behalf by sensing a need and meeting it.  Her knitting basket contained an endless skein of yarn with which she made baby blankets just to have on hand for every blessed event.  At Christmas, she wrapped anonymous presents in case someone showed up at the front door with an unexpected gift for us…..she would run down the hall and complete the tag in record time.  They never knew but that the bud vase, or kitchen towel, or set of napkin rings were purchased with them in mind all along.

She certainly would never hurt anybody’s feeling. However, according to legend, it wasn’t always so. 

Back in the mid-1920’s, when Mamaw Mary was about Boo’s age, women began to “bob” their hair which is to say cut it short and set it with finger waves.  The hair was just the tip of a radical fashion iceberg that raged in the 20’s.  Flapper dresses, high heels, silk stockings, gaudy beads all sent shock waves through a culture that up until then had been staid, modest and rather drab as far as women were concerned.

Mamaw Mary grew up in a very religious home.  Your great, great grandmother, Eva Crew Bethany, was raised a Quaker and when your great, great grandfather, James Foster Bethany, courted her in Texas, he would respectfully put his gun up on the mantel in deference to the faith’s tenet of non-violence.  The Bible and prayer played a significant role in the daily routine creating an impenetrable armor for the fashion crazes swirling all around.  As a matter of fact, I don’t think Eva ever cut her hair – ever – in her whole life.

Not so for the across-the-street neighbor.  She bobbed her hair.  It created quite a stir in the Bethany household and was the topic of conversation between Jim and Eva at the dinner table one night.

“You know, Eva,” James reflected as he pulled a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth, “I just can’t respect a woman who bobs her hair.”

This comment summed up his feelings.  Eva nodded her head.  Mamaw Mary sat quietly, feet dangling from her chair as she ate, appearing uninterested but absorbing everything that was being said.

The next day, Mamaw took it upon herself to go calling at the neighbor’s house.  She rang the bell and when the woman opened the door, Mamaw proceeded to say….

“I just want you to know that my father has lost all of his respect for you because you bobbed your hair.”

The woman’s furious reaction almost beat Mamaw Mary back home.  Eva and Jim were appalled, their punishment swift.

“Mary, you will go back over there right now and apologize for what you said.”

On the way back across the street, Mamaw mulled this dictate over and found herself conflicted.

I’ve always been told to tell the truth.  My father said he couldn’t respect her for bobbing her hair. That is the truth.  But now I have to go apologize for telling the truth. 

It was confusing – a mixed message.  By the time she arrived at the neighbor’s house, she figured out a solution.

She pushed on the bell with trepidation.  The door opened.  The woman stood there, arms folded and resting on her waist in a defensive posture.  There was momentary silence.

“I want to apologize for what I said,” Mamaw began.

“Really?”

“I was wrong.”

“Uh huh…”

“My father has not lost all of his respect for you.”

“Okay. Well good.”

“He’s just lost half of it.”

The Right Wrong Word - #4

Dear Boo and Bubble,

You are growing up in the age of casual acronyms.  FYI, OMG, LOL and BTW have become such standard replacements for the words they represent that I wouldn’t be surprised if Webster’s dictionary doesn’t include them at some point.  It’s not like acronyms are a new phenomenon.  The NAACP, AARP, and NCAA have been in the lexicon for years. But, growing up, there was only one that really mattered for any God-fearing, Bible- thumping Southern Baptist – and that was BTU.

The Baptist Training Union was the organization charged with training Church Members for Church Membership.  Its genesis came from scripture in II Timothy 2:15 - " Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth."  As a child of First Baptist in Greenville, I observed that apparently the way the BTU went about achieving its charge was to have meetings.  If you ever wanted to be a five-star Baptist, you better attend them.

Every year, the work of the BTU culminated in a state convention where individual efforts of church chapters were recognized and attendees shared ideas about the best ways for fortifying God’s army in the battles looming ahead. Your triple-great Uncle Wade Bryant, at the time a professor at the Baptist Seminary in Richmond, was invited to be the keynote speaker for one such occasion and to present the annual awards.

He delivered a rip-roaring address that brought the congregation to its feet in gratitude for the message – definite fortification for the next year.  He then turned his attention to the list before him of those to be recognized. 

“Would Fannie Morgan please come up here and join me at the pulpit,” he said as he gazed out into the expectant faces of the packed sanctuary.

Up rose Fannie Morgan from a pew towards the back.  She was so large that, to Wade, it appeared she just kept on rising.  Those on the pew with her had to empty it to let her out as it was impossible for her to slide by them to the aisle.  She made her way to the front and with great heft negotiated the few steps up to take her place by Wade.

“It is a great pleasure for me,” Wade began, “to announce that Fannie has the biggest BUT in the state.”

There was a hushed response from the crowd……not the uproarious applause that Wade thought would erupt upon this proclamation.  He figured he needed to make it more profound.

“Not only is it the biggest, but the best!”

The uproar came ….. in the form of raucous laughter.  Fannie stood there red-faced as did Wade when he realized his transposition of the acronym had caused the whole embarrassment.  It took almost twenty minutes for things to calm down again. 

Yes, boys, acronyms are going to be a part of your conversation.  Just make sure you don’t scramble them.  You might find yourself in a bad situation like Uncle Wade.

The Right Wrong Word #3

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Words in the English language can be tricky.  Sometimes they are spelled exactly the same, but pronounced differently – like read and read.  Sometimes they are spelled differently, but pronounced the same – like bread and bred.  In conversation, this problem becomes even more so.  Sometimes a word only heard can be dangerous.

On an occasion, your great-great grandmother Mattie found herself sitting around a table with her seven grown siblings in a rare all-inclusive reunion.  They loved being together and since only Ressie and Annie Mae inherited any semblance of a “shy” gene, these affairs always devolved into a lively good time.

The three brothers – Jamie, Gene and Wade – started chatting among themselves about whether or not they did things right-handed or left-handed.    

“I’m right-handed,” Gene said, “except when I’m in my shop in the basement, I work my hand saw from the left side.”

“Well, I’m naturally left-handed,” Wade added, “but interestingly enough, whenever I hammer nails, I do it with my right hand.”

Jamie piped up.  “I do a lot of things both right-handed and left-handed.  I’m pretty much ambidextrous.” 

All the while, Mattie listened to the conversation and began to ponder the question herself.  She loved to garden and spent much of her free time working the soil, weeding, planting flowers and hoeing rows for her prized vegetables. 

She inserted herself in her brothers’ discourse.  “Well, I do everything right-handed…..but I’m a left-handed hoer.”

Having no contextual privy to her thoughts, all three looked at her in stunned disbelief which quickly dissolved into the type of teasing only brothers can give. 

“Why Mattie Kendrick,” Wade (the Baptist preacher) spoke in mock shock.  “I had no idea!”

“I didn’t realize it made any difference,” Gene chimed in.

“Yes, sweet sister, please explain to me exactly what it is you do left-handed as such,” Jamie almost choked on the words. 

I’m sure your great, great grandmother blushed to the color of a red-ripe tomato….before she joined Wade, Gene and Jamie in a good old family belly laugh.

Yes, boys, words can be tricky, both in meaning and sound.  Better know what you’re saying!