The Very Best Christmas Ever

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Next Thursday is Christmas and I am so looking forward to being with you on that morning – to see what Santa brings you and what other gifts under the tree will be a joyous surprise.  This will actually be my 68^th Christmas.  I was only 20 days old for my first.  Cumulatively, that’s a heck of a lot of wrapping paper and tape and turkey and mistletoe!

I can honestly say that I’ve never had a bad Christmas.  In my mind, many of them blend into the general category of warm feelings with family and friends nearby.  Some are memorable for the gifts received – or perhaps those that almost didn’t make it.  (See December, 2012 – “Cha-Ching – A Christmas Story,” and December, 2013 – “Santa is Real and His Name is George.”)  Very rarely, though, is Christmas remembered for a life-changing event, but I recall one that was so for me – December 25, 1971.

For seven years leading up to that day, I had been dating the same young man.  We first met in high school during our Junior year.  Our relationship lasted through all four years of college, surviving the myriad of bumps and bruises that length of time presents. It was a foregone conclusion, certainly to me, that we would marry at some point.   So convinced of it was I, that upon graduating from Furman, I moved back into 3 Lakecrest Drive with Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary in order to save money from my teaching salary.  He began law school in Columbia, SC.

Another year passed and we continued to see each other, but there was no mention of marriage.  I decided to move into an apartment with some friends and changed my career from teaching to selling real estate.  Many weekends found me driving I-26 from Greenville to Columbia to visit him.  I rationalized that it was perfectly logical that he would want to finish school and get established before asking me to settle down with him.

As the holidays approached in 1971, my hopes couldn’t help but turn once again to the prospect that this might be the time he would go through the formalities of asking Granddaddy for my hand and my Christmas present would finally be an engagement ring.

Christmas morning arrived and I drove over from my apartment to 3 Lakecrest.  Our tradition was to open our stockings first then go to the kitchen table for a huge breakfast.  After that, we would congregate in the living room and open presents from under the tree.  The morning wore on with no contact from my boyfriend.  I tried to camouflage my uneasy feelings and when someone mentioned him, I offered excuses that he had lots of family to see and wanted to get that done before coming over.

Finally, through the window, I saw his car pull up in front of the house.  With some relief, I went to the door to greet him.  He came in with a wrapped gift under his arm.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, as he handed me what was obviously a thick book of some sort. 

I opened it – Good Housekeeping’s Guide to Cooking Everything. 

“Wow, thank you,” I stammered.  “How thoughtful.  You know how I love to cook.” (Which was a total lie.)

After being there for only a short while, he said that he had to go and would call me later.  I showed him to the door.  No amount of stalwart poise could hide the blush of embarrassment creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.  It certainly didn’t escape Granddaddy’s gaze.  But, we went on with opening presents and afterwards, preparing the finishing touches to our Christmas meal.

That afternoon, Granddaddy looked at me and said, “Let’s go take a walk.  It’s nice outside.  I feel the need for some fresh air.”

I grabbed a jacket and we headed out the front walk and up Lakecrest towards its other end from our house. 

After a few minutes of silence, Granddaddy spoke.

“Bethie, I know it’s none of my business, but I love you and I just want to make an observation.  I’m a man and I know that when a man loves a woman, he wants to be with her.  In fact, nothing can keep him from being with her.  That boy is not in love with you.  If he were, he’d be here right now, or he’d have you with him somewhere else.  From what I see, he puts everything and everybody in front of you.”

I stared at him, my eyes wide – not so much in surprise at what he was saying, but in recognition of my knowing it, also. 

“I’m not telling you what to do,” he continued, “but, it just makes no sense to me that you would waste any more of your time.”

We made our way back to the house without saying anything else.  I was deep in consideration of his words and he was trembling from having said them.

I drove back to my apartment, thankfully empty from everybody’s absence due to the holiday.  I picked up the phone and called my boyfriend, telling him we needed to talk and that he should come over as soon as possible.  He did.

That day – December 25, 1971 – my relationship with him ended.  Little did I know then that Granddaddy had given me the most amazing present of all – the courage to honestly see the situation and do something about it. 

Looking back over the previous 67 Christmases, this one has to be very best ever for me because it set me on the miraculous path of life that ultimately led me to Captain, which led me to your mom and Aunt Bee, ……… and now, to the two of you!

Of Tigers And Indians And Football, Oh My!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We have entered an exciting new phase in the world of football – the very first playoffs between the top four teams in the country.  This year Alabama will face Ohio State and Oregon will battle Florida State for the right to play in the inaugural national championship game early next year.  (I, for one, am glad to see this system and hope that it will be expanded to eight teams in the future.)  Already the intensity is building as fans of these schools begin their boasting and taunting on social media outlets – and, conversely, the supporters of the schools that almost made it publicly decry their unfair fate and lick their wounds.

There is no doubt that football, of all the sports viewed in the U.S., produces the most rabid of fans.  One only needs to experience the last Saturday of the regular season, now aptly dubbed “Rivalry Weekend,” to understand this phenomenon.  In my life, I have lived in two places that would be considered a hotbed for such crazed people – Greenville, SC, the major population base for the Clemson University Tigers and your mom’s birthplace, Gaffney, SC, home of the Gaffney High School Indians.  On any given Friday night or Saturday afternoon, a distinct amount of irrationality pervades these two places which accelerates with every win and can only be tamed by a loss.

Great Granddaddy Schaefer wrote about this very thing over 20 years ago.  Before I share his words with you, there are a few things you need to know:

1) Granddaddy went to Furman University in the 1930’s when their main rival was Clemson.  At the time, Clemson had not yet exploded into the behemoth of a place that it is today.  The student bodies were more comparable and the athletic teams very evenly matched.  Granddaddy played basketball for Furman and his years of competition with the Tigers left him with a disdain for Clemson that was so strong he passed it down genetically to his children and grandchildren – one being your mom.  (Your dad, however, is doing a good job leveling the genetic playing field with the two of you.)

2) Thirty-three years ago, in 1981, Clemson won the national championship in football by beating #4 Nebraska in the Orange Bowl by a score of 22-15.  The Tigers were voted #1 by the both the Associated Press and United Press International polls, the method used back then to determine the champion.  This was a very proud moment for the school – one which fans will never forget, nor let anyone else do so.

3) IPTAY is the athletic booster organization for the Tigers.  The acronym originally stood for “I Pay Ten (Dollars) A Year,” back when $10 might have bought something other than a Starbucks Latte.  Who knows…… with inflation today it probably translates into “I Pay a Thousand A Year.”

4) Clemson is a member of the Athletic Coast Conference which includes doormat teams (at least at the time this article was written) of Duke and Wake Forest Universities.

5) Earl Clary was a Gaffney native and contemporary of Granddaddy Schaefer’s who played running back at the University of South Carolina.  Captain and I lived with your mom and Aunt Bee in Gaffney for almost ten years. We spent many a Friday night in the throngs pulling for the Indians.

6) I don’t think your dad, or any of my other Clemson friends, will mind me sharing this with you now.  The Tigers beat the Gamecocks so resoundingly this year, nothing can hurt the feelings!

Rabidness of Football Fans Remains Constant

The Greenville News

January 24, 1993

When a friend is grieving, he needs to be consoled.  I have a short, fat friend, who is deep in the valley of the shadow of gloom.  He has not lost a loved one, his business isn’t threatened with bankruptcy; in fact, his family is healthy and doing well, his business is flourishing, and he is shooting three strokes under his handicap.

So, what is the source of his grief?  His beloved Clemson Tigers had a losing season on the football field.

Now that’s that kind of grief I can really help him with.  To comfort him, I told him he should be proud of the Tigers; that they did something this past season that was unbelievable.  He wanted to know what.  And I told him it takes real talent to be last in a football league that has both Duke and Wake Forest in it.  (As I said, that’s the kind of grief I can help my friend with.)

This is the same friend who introduced me when I gave a talk to the downtown Rotary Club.  How he did build me up!  In glowing terms he described all of my supposed accomplishments; how I had enriched this community; how I had practiced law with great integrity; how I taught at Furman for 50 years; how Mary and I raised three outstanding children.  You would have thought he was blowing up the Goodyear Blimp, of which he is perfectly capable.

But, he said, I had been cruelly denied the one academic achievement I had striven for the most, the one thing I desperately yearned for and coveted.  He paused for pragmatic effect; the Rotarians were breathless with anticipation.  “Schaefer wanted above all else to be tapped for membership in IPTAY, but was denied the honor because his SAT scores were too low!”

Leaving my prepared talk, I told the Rotarians I recently had a dream that I was living in the year 3500 A.D.  It was unbelievable how things had changed.  Cities were under atmospheric bubbles that made the temperature constant year around.  There were no shopping malls; with purchasing done after viewing the merchandise on television-order computers.  There were noMcDonalds, Hardees or Starvin’ Marvins; a balanced diet was compressed in a pill so no time was wasted eating.  There were no highways as the automobiles were jet powered, so there were no billboards.

I saw not one familiar thing – with one exception.  On one of the space cars was a bumper sticker that read, “Clemson, 1981 National Champs!”

Football fans come in all sizes and denominations but have one thing in common, they are rabid.  You think Clemson is bad with all those cars headed to Mecca on Saturday morning with their little flags of Tiger Paws.  But Clemson fans are mild compared to those of the Gaffney High Indians.

Several years ago my daughter and her family lived in that town which produced the storied Earl Clary and his siblings.  Mary and I were visiting Beth and John, and since it was Friday night, we all went to the football game.

It was more than a sell-out, so many people that everybody only got ¾ of the regular space on the bleacher for a seat.  Squeezed in next to me on my right was a grandmother who was into the game so intently I asked if she had a grandson playing.  Not taking her eyes off the field, she held up two fingers.

It was a close, hard-fought game and my granny seatmate fought the hardest.  With only two minutes to go, Gaffney was behind 6-0.  The opposing team punted, and the
Gaffney receiver ran the ball back 75 yards for a touchdown.  The resulting roar that erupted rolled up I-85 as far as Charlotte.

The teams lined up for the extra point.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my octogenarian seatmate.  She crossed her fingers, she crossed her arms, she crossed her legs and sat there as tight as a Congo drum waiting to be beat.  The ball was snapped, placed to the ground, the kick went straight through the uprights.  She looked heavenward, and passionately whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”

I wondered what the grandmother on the other side of the field said.

You Tell 'Em, Scrooge!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today is my 67^th birthday.  The numbers are getting harder and harder to fathom, much less accept.  But, it’s a reality and, considering the alternative, one I embrace.

In chatting with a friend on FaceBook the other day, I was reminded of my 40^th birthday party on Saturday, December 5, 1987.  Captain enlisted our good friends Michael and Rachel Otis to host a gathering for me at their home.  It was a bittersweet day for me because your great grandmother Mary had died the April before, making this my first birthday without her.  Great Uncle Gene brought his family and Granddaddy Schaefer from Greenville.  There were several other close friends invited as guests. 

It so happened that the University of South Carolina Gamecocks were playing the University of Miami Hurricanes in football that night as well. At the time, Miami was ranked #1 in the country with South Carolina at #8.  It was a wildly anticipated matchup and the idea was to combine my birthday celebration with the viewing of the game. I understood perfectly that my party was secondary.  If I had been made to choose, I would have been the first to forego it.  However, it would be a nice present if the Gamecocks could win.

The night before, on December 4, one of my good friends, Robin Bowers, and her husband had invited Captain and me to join them for a performance of “A Christmas Carol.”  This particular production of Charles Dickens’ classic was directed by Ira David Wood, III, as part of the Theater in the Park in Raleigh, NC.  Every year, they brought the show to Columbia and tickets were always at a premium.  Wood himself played Scrooge and the trademark of his interpretation was always inserting current events in the script at subtle moments – it could be politics, or famous people or the weather.  The charm of it was that you never knew when it was coming.

By and large, though, the play followed the story with the volatile interactions between Scrooge and everybody, including the Cratchetts, and then the supernatural visits to him from the ghosts of Christmases past, present and future and finally from his dead former business partner, Jacob Marley.

Late into Act Three, Scrooge’s resistance to the spirit of Christmas began to collapse.  Christmas Future’s bleak picture of his demise had jolted the old curmudgeon into a malaise of doubt and confusion.  He huddled in his bed hoping that the sun would soon rise and stop the battery of ghostly apparitions he had encountered during the night. 

A knock came to the door.  Scrooge sat up with a shock.

The door squeaked open and Jacob Marley, wrapped in his burdensome chains of wrongly-made life decisions, enters the stage.

“Scrooge…….,” he drawls.  “Ebenezer Scrooge……”

“Is….is….that…you, Jacob?”

“Yes, Ebenezer.  It is I, Ebenezer.  And I have come as your friend to warn you, Ebenezer……DO NOT…..do as I did.  DO NOT ignore the warning that you’ve been given tonight.  DO NOT ignore the spirit of Christmas, or……….(he rattles his chains)….you will end up eternally like ME!”

The two characters continued their dialogue for a few more minutes.  As they did so, the lights dimmed and a single spotlight narrowed until the only thing captured on the stage was Scrooge’s face beneath his night cap. 

In the background Marley’s voice presented Scrooge with all of the miracles of life that could be his if only he would believe in Christmas.  At a poignant moment he asked the question –

“Scrooge……can you imagine anything more wonderful than that?”

Scrooge, his face captured by the radiant spot, dramatically paused in intense ponder.  The moment was so moving, not a sound could be heard as the audience watched in sort of a rapture.

“Yes……Yes…..Marley, I can,” he said.  “I truly can……yes…..yes…I can….beating the hell out of Miami tomorrow night!”

The auditorium erupted in a collective whiplash as everyone went from a total wrench of the heart to “Go Cocks!” in a matter of a second.

Unfortunately, the Gamecocks did not win the game the next night on my birthday – but they played great, losing only 20 – 16.  It was an unforgettable night, though…….can’t believe it’s been 27 years.

(The most amazing thing is that Theater in the Park with Ira David Wood, III, playing Scrooge in “A Christmas Carol” continues even today.  For anyone in the Raleigh, NC, area who might want to go, information is available at this link.  Just copy and paste it into your browser -  http://www.dpacnc.com/events/detail/a-christmas-carol-2.)

Please Don't Let Jesus Into Law School

Dear Boo and Bubble,

My last blog about Great Granddaddy Schaefer had me thinking about all the lawyers in your lineage – your dad, Captain and Schaefer.  Combined, that adds up to about 90 years of “lawyering,” which calculates to some 180,000 hours of “billable time” – the stock and trade of any lawyer worth his or her salt. 

There is a mystique about the profession – that somehow when a lawyer says something, the words contain more gravity than those of common folk.  In fact, over the years, lawyers have elevated the constitution of words to a form of art for which clients seem to willingly pay a dear price.

In one of his editorials for The Greenville News, Granddaddy Schaefer confessed to this practice and I thought I would share it with you.

Lawyers Never See Phrases They Can’t Puff Up

Sunday, September 5, 1993

The bottom rung on lawyers’ ladder of affection for acronyms is KISS – Keep It Simple Stupid.  The top rung is MILC (pronounced MILK) – Make It Long and Complicated.

When you die you want to leave everything you own to your wife.  When the yeast of a lawyer’s lingo completes its work, the simple statement, “I leave everything I own to my wife” is puffed up to this:  “I give, devise and bequeath all of my estate, real, personal and mixed, of whatsoever nature and kind, and wheresoever situate, of which I may die seized and possessed, unto my beloved wife, to be hers absolutely in fee simple.”

The lawyer doesn’t trust the word “leave” so it becomes, “…give devise and bequeath.”  He doesn’t trust, “everything I own,” so it becomes, “…all of my estate, real, personal and mixed, of whatsoever nature and kind, and wheresoever situate, of which I may die seized and possessed.”  And, “…to be hers absolutely in fee simple” is a fee enhancer since it will require a professional explanation of “fee simple.”

Lawyers, it seems, are incapable of finding a contract in their form books that does not contain the phrase, “including but not limited to.”  Their fascination for this phrase is an abiding mystery.

All contracts, of course, are fee bearing trees, and the thing that shakes out the fruit is the pendulum on the lawyer’s time keeping clock.  The more ticks, the more fruit.  This generates a parade of redundancies and the drum major of this cavalcade of words is “whereas.”  Then comes (including but not limited to) “Notwithstanding,” “aforesaid,” “hereinafter,” “hereinabove,” “by and between,” “in hand paid,” “hereby,” “hereto,” “subject to,” “hereof,” “wherein” – this colorful parade of banalities goes on and on, as does the clock and its fee generating ticks.

It is a beneficent Jehovah who led King David to shun law school.  Had he been successful in passing the LSAT, made Phi Beta Kappa and the Law Review, that magnificent 121^st Psalm, in its opening proclamation, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.  My help cometh from The Lord, which made heaven and earth,” would have been buried under an avalanche of legalese, and would have come out something like this:

“I will lift up and elevate my gaze, my view, my optic perception unto (including but not limited to) the hills, ridges, knolls, mountains, and all other earthly convolutions that make up the topography, from whence cometh (including but not limited to) A) my help, B) my sustenance, C) my food, D) my clothing, E) my raiment, and all other material that covers my body to keep it warm and protect it from the elements.  My help does not come from those things enumerated hereinabove from A) through E), both inclusive.  No, my help does not come from one or any combination of these things so enumerated, but my help comes from Yahweh, a/k/a Jehovah, a/k/a God.”

Each day I thank the kind Heavenly Father that Jesus was not a lawyer.  I hate to think how the Lord’s Prayer would have fared, and how many volumes the Sermon on the Mount would have filled had he been a member of the Jerusalem Bar.

We lawyers don’t KISS, we MILC.

We Made It!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Captain and I went to a lawyer a couple of months ago to update all of our important documents – Wills, healthcare Powers of Attorney, End of Life Healthcare Directives – all sorts of fun stuff that, after a good sum of money later, produces a book about five inches thick that covers everything from a hangnail and brain tumor to silver flatware and bed linens.  It’s an essential exercise, but one that’s difficult to execute because of the concentration it takes on the inevitability of dying.

It’s also very hard to talk about with your children.  In fact, your mom can’t do it without getting so emotional that she cries.  Because of that, we try to avoid the conversation with her as much as possible.

Great Granddaddy Schaefer found this to be a real problem in his practice of law.  People hired him to prepare their Last Wills and Testaments and, after spending his valuable time making sure all of their “wills and testaments” were indeed the “last” and reflected their desires, he set up a meeting to go over everything. 

In his explanation of the documents, he would say “Now, if you die tomorrow, this is what in reality and practicality will happen according to your Will.”

As he proceeded through his discourse, he noticed that his clients became distant and some even agitated.  At the end of the appointment, some very politely excused themselves after the meeting and told him they would get back to him – never to be seen again.

Granddaddy pondered this phenomenon and decided he needed to take a different approach.  The next time he sat with clients to go over their Wills he used a new phraseology.

“Now, if you HAD DIED yesterday, this is what in reality and practicality would have happened according to your Will.”

He realized that his clients were so relieved they had made it through yesterday and were still alive, they could relax and focus on the un-enjoyable task at hand.

So, boys, if ever you see your mom upset and you think it might have something to do with her concern over Meemaw and Captain’s end of life, just look her in the eye and say –

“Don’t worry, mom, they made it!”

Cottrell, Needleman and Me

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I was in the doctor’s office a while back and randomly picked up a magazine to read as one is wont to do when whiling time away.  The title of the magazine was The Sun*, one of which I had never heard, but it’s cover intrigued me.  I thumbed through the table of contents and paused on the letters to the Editor, both extolling and excoriating the virtues of prior articles in prior editions.  The first article in the current magazine had a captivating title – Beyond Belief – Jacob Needleman on God Without Religion. 

As I started reading it, the nurse called my name to come back to the examining room.  I held onto the magazine and asked the receptionist if I might not be able to take it with me.  She politely acquiesced..….after all, it had been sitting there since December of 2011. 

That night, as I headed up to bed, I took the magazine with me and continued to read.  A paragraph jumped out at me – completely caught my fancy – because, quite frankly, over the course of my life I have wrestled with a satisfactory definition for God, one that fit my life’s journey.  Needleman’s words went like this -

“It is only in and through people, inwardly developed men and women, that God can exist and act in the world of man on earth.  Bluntly speaking, the proof for the existence of God is the existence of people who are inhabited by and who manifest God…God needs not just man, but awakened man, in order to act as God in the human world.  Without this conscious energy on the earth it may not be possible for divine justice, mercy, or compassion to enter the lives of human beings.”

Wow……what a concept.  That God exists through people and their relationships with one another.

Then, just yesterday, Captain was reading to me from your great, great, great, great grandfather J.B. Cottrell’s writings from the 1870’s.  I was struck immediately with the similarity of thought.

What Miss Bevington asks in reference to the conservative influence of the motive arising out of human relations  as compared with any reference to a Divine Authority, is easily answered.  First that which is natural-afterwards that which is spiritual and the former in order to the latter. The natural is, potentially, the spiritual.  Human  relations are the wires along which the electric, spiritual life, passes. The terms denoting them are burdened with spiritual import, and loves awakened by t hem- are interpretive of that highest love which, to all human loves is as white light is in comparison of the many colored lights that vary the view of the earth.

And, again in another article -

“It is only as we contemplate our relationships and the principles conceiving them from this high standpoint of revealed truth that we may apprehend and realize them to be as vital as life itself.  Our relations are the electric lines along which the lightening of heaven is at play, and to study their sacredness and to come fully into all their measures of obligation is to become incorporate with God.

Our relationships are the channels through which flow from out the divine reservoir, the waters of life.  The possibilities of dignity and honor and glory in man are to be reckoned according to the royal likeness in which he was created.”

Twice he referenced to relationships as the electric wires along which the spirit of God transmits and once that they are channels of flow for the waters of life.

Years ago, I wrote a book entitled The Beacon which was a tale about life in a small Bahamian community called Williamstown on the island of Little Exuma.  As things unfolded, it became apparent to me that the exercise of  writing wasn’t just to tell a story, it was in fact an effort to codify my concept of God as I knew it to be.

At a critical juncture, there is a conversation between the main character Gabriel, a minister, and his nephew Manuel who has recently lost his father in a car accident.   It expresses the core of my beliefs and goes like this:

“And wait for this GRACE you keep preaching about.”  The bitter edge to Manuel’s voice returned as he almost spit the word.  “I just don’t get you Gabriel, how you’ve just swallowed this stuff like some kind of pill that anesthetizes you, so no matter how much you hurt, you just pass it off as God’s will, so it’s okay because everything is going to be just fine.  All you have to do is wait.  Just wait on God.  Who IS God anyway?  I wish he’d show his face right now and quit hiding behind people like you!”

Gabriel sat silently for a few minutes as if absorbing the anger Manuel just threw at him.  He heaved a sigh, burying his face into his hands.  It was hard to tell whether he was praying or crying.

“God is love,” he mumbled through his fingers.

“What…..what did you say?”

“God is love.”  He looked up directly into Manuel’s eyes.  “I’ve wondered about whom God is all my life.  In fact, I’ve devoted my entire pastoral journey to the search for an answer.  All of the training, all of the study, all of the reading has come down to one simple truth…..1 John 4:08 – He who does not love does not know God; for God is love.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Manuel, all I can do is tell you what I know.  You’re right.  It was not fair for me to have these twisted legs.  Nor was there any reason for Sam to die, or your father.  But, as a part of this universe, of this creation, we are not guaranteed anything – not strong legs, or long lives, or happiness or freedom from pain.  It’s not based on being good or bad, believing or denying.  It just happens.”

“But, I thought your God was all-powerful, could do anything, could….could…,” Manuel sputtered.

Gabriel interrupted him.  “Could step in and erase the bad?  Make it all go away?  Oh, some people think so.  Some would tell you that God is more physical, more manipulative, more punitive. That He can control nature, arbitrarily change things against His own design.  I don’t buy that.  Yes, the creation of our world is spectacular, but you’re more likely to feel the power of God in your mother’s touch than in the turbulent wind of a hurricane.”

Gabriel studied Manuel’s face.  He could literally see the struggle to understand going on behind the scowl of the furrowed brows and deeply sad eyes.

“I’ve learned not to expect anything from God but the strength to endure what life brings.  That’s all I ever pray for.  And, my expectations are always met because He sends this strength through love – from family and friends, from nature.  He is working through me right now to help you.  Nobody EVER loved you any more than I do.  Yes, God exists, and He is love.”

Manuel looked at Gabriel in disbelief.  How was it possible that the whole concept of God could be as simple as one person loving another in a time of need.  “But, what about the whole world, the kingdom, all of it?”

“Ah, yes, the continuum.  That is a very important part of it as well because through all of the darkness and pain presented by life, tomorrow always comes even if you don’t believe it will.  Death is never final.  New life always springs forth after the old passes away.  Hope and love always abide.”

Not that I could ever be in the same intellectual arena with Dr. Cottrell or Jacob Needleman, it is interesting that all three of us have a similarity of thought as to the nature of God and how important human relationships are to that nature.


* - For fascinating information on The Sun, go to www.thesunmagazine.org.

It's Safer Being a Dog

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Yesterday was Veterans' Day – a day set aside to honor all of the men and women who have served our country in the armed forces. Over the history of the United States, there have been three “conscriptions,” more commonly known as the “draft,” where young men registered with the government in order to fill vacancies in the various divisions of the forces which could not be filled through voluntary means. Of course, during war, these numbers swelled. The last iteration of the “draft” happened in 1940 in the build up to World War II. It lasted until 1973 when we went to an all-volunteer Army. However, the Selective Service System remains in place today as a contingency plan. All young men between 18 and 25 have to still register so that a “draft” can be readily implemented if needed.

Both of your grandfathers served under the last conscription – PopPop in the Coast Guard and Captain in the Army National Guard. Captain actually was a member of the Selective Service Board for 25 years for the 4^th Congressional District in South Carolina. Had there been a need, he would have been involved in the call up of young men to serve.

Your great grandfather Schaefer was part of what is historically described as “The Greatest Generation,” those people who fought in World War II. In 1941, he had just finished law school and was in the process of opening a practice in Greenville. He and Mamaw were engaged to be married and she busily planned their wedding in Houston, Texas. The attack by Japan of Pearl Harbor on December 7 of that year changed their personal trajectory just as it did for the entire world.

Granddaddy was drafted by the Navy into what was called the “Ninety-Day Wonder School,” an intensive course of study for lawyers in the service assigned to the Judge Advocate General Corps. He hastily left Greenville to his station at the Northwestern Training School in Chicago where he immersed himself in the military system of both defense and prosecution of transgressions that servicemen might commit and in the rules of courts martial.

Mamaw found herself having to dismantle the wedding in Houston and move everything to Chicago. She and your great, great grandmother Eva Bethany, traveled by train for over 24 hours. Other members of the wedding party sacrificed time and money to make the trip as well. On May 14, 1942, she and Granddaddy said their vows to each other at the Howe Chapel on the campus of Northwestern University.

From 1942 until the beginning of 1945, Granddaddy's tour of duty kept him in the United States, out of harm's way in the battlefronts of both Europe and the Pacific. He and Mamaw stayed in Chicago for a while and then transferred to Miami. In early 1945, Granddaddy was given the option to stay in Miami or join the JAG officers in Okinawa, an island in the Pacific that the United States captured from our enemy Japan. He was conflicted, not wanting to leave Mamaw but also not wanting to be so selfish that he would never put himself at risk as so many other men had done. After a long, serious deliberation, he determined to go to Okinawa.

Granddaddy and Mamaw packed up their few possessions and headed West to Houston where she would stay with Eva until he came home. Mamaw took him down to the station and put him on the train. I'm sure it was a heart-wrenching moment – with her waving to him from the platform as the conductor yelled “All Aboard!” and the cars jolted with the engine pulling forward, the wheels silent at first until their speed obtained a rhythmic “clicketty-clack.” From within, granddaddy watched as Mamaw's figure diminished – oh, such a sweet precious sight – until she vanished into his memory.

Little did he know that she was carrying his child. They had always talked about having a family after the war. But she had determined otherwise – lest she never see him again. Your great Uncle Bryant was born on November 6, two months after the war ended, while Granddaddy remained on Okinawa.

Right before that, on October 9, a typhoon named Louise pounded the island with such a force that 12 Navy vessels sank and 222 were grounded. Thirty-six people died and forty-seven were listed as missing after the storm. As the typhoon raged, Granddaddy took refuge in a Quonset hut with several other men. When the storm surge hit, water began seeping into the hut along with snakes and wharf rats. All of the creatures – men, snakes, rats alike– huddled in their own corners with one thought on the collective mind.......survive the storm.

Years later, at 3 Lakecrest, Granddaddy was in his bed sound asleep. Our cat Jinks found the door to the bedroom slightly open and stealthily – without a sound – pushed it enough to slink inside. One hop onto the chair, another to the bedside table placed him within sniffing distance of Granddaddy's slight snore. Gingerly, as cat's are prone to do, Jinks tested the bed with a paw before making his way onto it and across Granddaddy's body.

BAAAAH-------LAM!!!!

In an instant, Jinks had been hurled across the room and slammed into the wall with such a force, one could hardly believe that it came from an unconscious man. The noise woke Granddaddy and he was shaking. Jinks screeched and raced out of the bedroom.

Apparently, the cat walking across him had subconsciously taken him back to that hut in the middle of Typhoon Louise, with the water rising, and he thought one of those wharf rats was attacking him. Poor cat – never went back in that bedroom again!

The Healing Power of Barbecue Sauce

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today would have been your great Uncle Bryant's 69^th birthday. A large and larger-than-life character, Bryant was one of those rare individuals whose strength and manliness lay in his gentleness and compassion. He was intuitive, a listener, a leader (look at the yearbooks from high school and college), a gentle giant, and above all else – even before being ordained – a minister. He majored in Philosophy at Washington and Lee University and received his Doctor of Divinity Degree from Duke University.

Bryant's pastoral career followed that of many, but he ended up going to Bowman Gray Medical School in Winston-Salem where he initially served as the Chaplain to the medical students. Over time, his responsibilities grew and he became a more integral part of the faculty. He not only taught Medical Ethics but also worked with the Department of Gerontology where he administered a grant studying the power of professional prayer in the healing process. Operating on the premise that an experiment on prayer could never be pure since you could never know what patients were receiving what prayers, Bryant was in charge of matching participants with clergy, clerics, Rabbis, priests, nuns, monks from all over the world. He became an expert on the topic and spoke at conferences all over the United States.

Bryant also pursued personal hobbies at which he gained the same proficiencies and recognition as in his professional life. He loved fishing of any sort, especially fly-fishing. He cultivated a knowledge and collection of fishing lures. However, his past-time passion centered around the culinary art of barbecue – the development of sauces particularly.

In 2000, this amazing life came to an end suddenly and unexpectedly when Bryant suffered a heart attack.

Several months after his death, a story surfaced that I think encompasses the totality of Bryant's being better than any other. For the sake of ease of its retelling, I will call the author Jim.

Jim had been, in his mind, unceremoniously removed as head of one of the departments at the medical school. The action wounded him deeply, leaving him unable to interact with his colleagues and inclined to an uncharacteristic introversion that relegated him to his office except when teaching. He was sitting at his desk one day when a knock came at the door.

“Who is it?”

“It's Bryant. May I come in? I need a favor.”

“Sure, please do.”

Bryant came into the office with two jars in his hands.

“I want you to try each of these sauces and let me know which one you like the best,” Bryant said. “I made them and have tasted them so much, I've lost my way in deciding what they could use. Sort of need a fresh tongue.”

Jim sensed this was a thinly veiled attempt on Bryant's part to cheer him up, but he didn't want to be rude even though the effort failed.

“I'll do it,” he responded. “Just leave them here on the desk.”

“Great!” Bryant put the jars on the desk and started to leave. “Hey, thanks.”

A few days went by and Bryant once again popped his head into Jim's office.

“Have you had a chance to taste those sauces yet?”

“Not yet, but I will. Promise.”

This went on for a while and then one day, Bryant walked fully into Jim's office and took a seat.

“Got a minute? 'Cause I have an idea I want to float by you.”

Even if wanted to decline, Jim couldn't. Bryant was already established in the notion that he did have a minute.

“Remember a while back when you were telling me about your collection of old TV shows? You know – Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey, MD?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I was thinking what a great teaching tool that would be for my Medical Ethics class. I mean …. the situations in many of those episodes ….. we could discuss them and see what should be done or not. What do you think?”

Jim pondered the suggestion. At first he mentally dismissed it, but the more Bryant elaborated, the more intrigued he became. And for the first time in a long time, his heart sparked.

“I'll have to check my schedule, but maybe I could put something together,” he answered.

“Just let me know. I'd really appreciate it,” Bryant said. “By the way, have you tasted my sauces?”

“Not yet, but I PROMISE to do so by the next time I see you!” Jim actually laughed a little.

For the next six weeks or so, Jim found himself after work in his study at home pouring over hours of old episodes of the TV shows. He narrowed his choices down to a manageable number and took all of the videos to the Bowman Gray graphics department where Bryant had arranged to have them compiled into a backdrop for Jim's lecture. After a couple of practices, Jim informed Bryant that he was ready.

The morning came. Bryant stood up in front of the class to introduce Jim.

“Students, this morning we are privileged to have Dr. Jim Smith of the Department of Internal Medicine to give us what I am sure will be the most unforgettable lecture you will have while here at Bowman Gray. You may not know any of these TV shows, but you will always remember them after today. Jim, the floor is yours.”

Jim took the podium and began his lecture. He had never felt so invigorated, so alive. The students looked back at him with great anticipation. As he began, he looked to the back of the classroom and saw Bryant standing there, a wry smile on his face, eyes twinkling with pride. Jim was flush with the realization that this lecture was the culmination of his rehabilitation that Bryant all started with a request to taste barbecue sauces.

“Before I start, let me get one administrative thing out of the way. Bryant – I like the Lexington Pepper sauce the best. And, thank you for everything.”

Caught Red-Handed....and In Black and White

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I’ve written before about the parental phenomenon of a “sixth sense” whereby any attempt on a child’s part to engage in an activity of which parents might disapprove is somehow miraculously known to them no matter the precautions the child might take to make sure that this doesn’t happen.  (See March, 2014 – “She Can See You Even When She Can’t See You.”)  Your granddaddy Captain exhibits a great deal of this “sense” – for starters, just ask your mom and Aunt Bee about the stereo.  Sometimes, though, circumstances coalesce in such a fashion that the parent doesn’t even need to exercise the “sense.”

Skateboarding became popular when Captain was a teenager.  He actually made his own board by pulling the rollers off of a pair of skates and attaching them to a piece of wood that he shaped with sandpaper into a size sturdy enough to hold his weight.  For hours, he and his friends practiced on the streets surrounding the neighborhood – Salamanca Ave. and the sidewalks of San Jose Boulevard.  But the terrain was flat and posed no real chance of speed or challenge. The boarders fanned out and pretty soon word spread of a hill that offered a better opportunity for both.  Only problem – it was on a thoroughfare with enough traffic to be a little dangerous.

Great Grandaddy Cot found out about the hill and, with due concern, instructed Captain that he must not skateboard there.  Being a good son, Captain said “Yes, sir.”

Reports came from others about how fun the hill was……. how it really wasn’t all that risky…….c’mon, Tally, just try it once……what’s the harm……who’s going to know…..is your dad going to follow you around?

Captain succumbed to the gibes and rationalized that he could skateboard the hill just once for fun and then he’d never do it again.  He struck out with his buddies and spent an afternoon having a great time navigating his board down the slope, zigging and zagging, trying moves he’d never executed before.  Keeping track of the time, he stopped soon enough to be able to make it back home before Great Granddaddy came home from work.  By the time that happened, Captain was back in his room doing his homework, skateboard safely tucked under the bed.

The next morning, Captain came into the kitchen for breakfast.  Granddaddy Cot sat at the table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, son,” he said.

“Good morning, dad.”

Silence.

“Son…..I thought you told me that you weren’t going to go over to the hill and skateboard.”

“Yeah….um…sure,” Captain sort of stammered a little.

“Are you certain you haven’t been over there?”  Great Granddaddy peered over the top of the newspaper.

  “Well……um…..um….why do you ask?”

With that, Great Granddaddy flipped the newspaper over so that Captain could see.  There, filling up one-half of the front page, with a big, bold headline “Kids Skate Down Thrill Hill,” was a picture of Captain on his board, arms stretched out and wind in his hair, flying down the hill.  

There was no doubt as to whose image graced the picture.  Captain was caught red-handed.

So, once again, boys – remember this.  When it comes to your parents, if you ever think you can get away with something, better think again!

Miracle in Center Field

Dear Boo and Bubble,

You may or may not know that one of baseball’s greatest ended his career this season.  Derek Jeter, shortstop for the New York Yankees, played that position for twenty years.  Not only did he excel in the sport (a five-time World Series champion, the Yankees' all-time career leader in hits (3,465), doubles (544), games played (2,747), stolen bases (358), times on base (4,716), plate appearances (12,602), at bats(11,195), sixth all-time in career hits and the all-time MLB leader in hits by a shortstop), but his exemplary actions off the field served as a positive counterweight to many of the high-profile professional athletes in the news regularly.

I read an article the other day in Sports Illustrated about him.  One quote really jumped out at me and could perhaps explain one of the reasons for his success.

“At times probably a lot of the media gets frustrated with me. But for me the only way I’m able to operate here for this long is I don’t like negativity. I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like to answer questions about it. I always hear people say I give the same answers or I don’t you give you much. No, I just don’t give you much negativity.”

(Great Granddaddy Schaefer expressed the same disdain for negativity this way – “I hate sourpusses, the ones always rummaging around hunting something unpleasant and doomed-shaped for a topic of conversation, who see no beauty in a magnificent red sunrise, but want to talk about the unwanted rain it portends.”)

This has me reminiscing a little. In several previous posts, I’ve shared with you stories about how baseball was an integral part of our family’s culture, especially for your Great Mamaw Mary. (November, 2012, “The World Series” and August 2013, “1974-#755”)  I’ve also told you how, as a child, my greatest desire was to be included in great Uncle Bryant’s activities.  (October, 2012, “Cowboys and Indians”)  This story intertwines both.

In 1951, when I was four and Bryant six, we lived at University Ridge Apartments in Greenville.  Right next to our building was a large grass field where almost every day during the summer, the boys from the complex gathered to play a pick up game of baseball.  Bryant was no exception.  He would gather up his glove, bat and ball to head out the door and join in the fun. 

One day, I whined so about being excluded, Mamaw Mary insisted that he take me along.  He fretted at first – the games were very competitive and he hated to lose.  Finally, he acquiesced. 

“Okay, Beth,” he said.  “You can be on our team, but you must do exactly what I tell you.  Is that a deal?”

“Yes!” I replied enthusiastically.  “Whatever you say.”

We walked over to the field.  The boys on Bryant’s team saw me tagging along and their collective expression of displeasure was apparent.

“Don’t worry, guys,” Bryant reassured them.  “I’ve got the perfect spot for Beth to play. She will definitely not get in our way.”

He turned his attention to me.

“All right, Beth, start running out to the center of the field and keep running until I tell you to stop.”

I gladly did as I was told and ran for what I thought was a considerable distance.  I turned around.

“Keep going,” Bryant instructed. 

I did.

“Keep going,” he shouted.  “Just a little further.”

By this time, I was pretty much at the end of the field almost to the parking lot for the complex.

“Okay, that’s good.  Now be ready, head’s up, in case someone hits a ball to you.”

“Okay!!!” I yelled back as loudly as I could. 

I bent my knees and covered them with my gloveless hands, squinting hard to focus on home plate and the batter up.  All of the action seemed to be in the infield, but I guarded my spot relentlessly.  When it was our turn to bat, Bryant would whistle me in.  Somehow, I was always replaced with a “designated hitter” or some other such excuse.  But, that was all lost on me.  I was part of the team. 

It came down to the bottom of the final inning.  Our team held a slim one-run lead with two outs, but there were runners on second and third.   Out in the hinterlands, I took my position, the back aching a little now, and watched our pitcher wind up for the toss.  The batter swung.

KEEE------RAAAAACK!!!

The sound rattled the earth as the ball came off the bat.  Up, up, up it went – high over the heads of anyone in the infield, over the heads of the first battery of outfielders officially on the team – out, out, towards the parking lot………and me.

I watched the ball and kept watching.  It seemed like a missile coming straight at me.  There was nothing to do but throw my hands up in self-protection, my eyes closed, my head turned away to keep from getting smacked in the face. Bryant and his teammates looked on in horror as they grasped that I was the only thing between them and defeat. 

Don’t ask me how, but that ball landed in the palms of my hands.  My fingers instinctively curled around it as if embracing a baby bird.  I opened my eyes to confirm that I had made the miraculous catch.  IT WAS REAL!

I began to run towards the infield where everybody stood in various stages of disbelief – from ecstasy to mortification.  Bryant led the way in greeting me between second and third bases.  You would have thought I was a hero or something!

When I saw the pride in my older brother’s eyes – honestly it was one of my finest moments!!