What It Was Was Football

….continued from previous post

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Eizo Shindo arrived on a Friday afternoon in October of 1959 at what is now called the Downtown Greenville airport. On the way back to 3 Lakecrest, Granddaddy Schaefer asked him if there was anything in particular that he'd like to see or do. His answer - “I would like to experience your family life. I want to learn how you live.”

That made things pretty simple because a weekend in October meant two things – football and church.

Granddaddy explained that our local university, Furman, had a game on Saturday.

“Have you ever seen an American football game?” he asked Eizo.

“No, I have not, but that would be interesting.”

“Well, that's what we'll do tomorrow. And, then Sunday....” Granddaddy hesitated a minute. “....we are Christian, Eizo, and go to First Baptist Church here.”

“I am Buddhist,” Eizo responded, “but, I am most eager to see how you worship. My host in Washington is also Christian.”

Quickly and without much effort, our weekend plans had gelled.

We awoke to a beautiful fall morning on Saturday. Taking Eizo at his word about immersing into the family, Granddaddy decided that the first thing on the agenda should be a typical Southern breakfast. He stood over the stove nursing a pot of grits, which had soaked overnight in salt water. A plate of fried country ham pieces rested in the oven while Granddaddy coaxed a red eye gravy from their remnants in the pan on the burner. He finished things off by scrambling eggs in the gravy residue.

Once Mamaw Mary put the slices of an Entenmann's pecan streusel coffee cake on a platter, breakfast was served. I gobbled up my food, but Eizo, with Granddaddy's coaxing, more cautiously sampled everything on his plate. How interesting this would day would prove to be - a day of seeing familiar things through the eyes of the uninitiated......

What it was was football.....

I first heard of Andy Griffith when I was a little girl. Mamaw Mary and Granddaddy Schaefer purchased a 45 rpm record that they played whenever company came over to 3 Lakecrest. Under the title of “What It Was Was Football,” Griffith delivered a comedic soliloquy about a country bumpkin who stumbled onto a Friday night football game and, without any knowledge of how the game was played, described what he saw.

That Saturday in October, our family resurrected this entire scenario with Eizo.

For most American families, football was second nature. The terms first down, off sides, touchdown, and safety filtered into our vocabulary at an early age. Young boys literally doubled in size when they donned their first pair of shoulder pads. Their muscle-less arms hung out from their jerseys like toothpicks as they scooted up and down the field at Pop Warner practice. It was all understood for us, but not so for our mild mannered, Buddhist friend from South Korea.

We pulled into the sandy parking lot adjacent to old Sirrine Stadium about thirty minutes before kickoff. This was long before the days of big games and the elaborate tailgating that goes on now. Granddaddy wanted to get there early enough to get a good seat in the faculty section with time to allow Eizo to absorb everything. Explaining the game? He figured he would do that when it unfolded.

As we settled into our seats, the Furman band, in full uniform complete with capes, shakos and plumes, marched through one of the goalposts at the end of the football field and formed two lines.

“Are those musical instruments?” Eizo turned and asked of me.

“Yes,” I said proudly. “That's our band. They play the national anthem before the game starts and then perform again at halftime.”

He pondered this information.

At that point, an announcer's voice came over the loud speaker - “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Furman Paladins!”

With that, everybody in the stands stood up and starting yelling at the top of their lungs. On the field, the band cranked up with the Furman fight song as a majestic white horse ridden by a knight in full armor bolted down the center between the two lines followed by a cadre of hysterical cheerleaders frantically waving pom poms. The team came next as the screech from the stands reached a fever pitch. The players ran to the benches on the sidelines as the horse and cheerleaders continued to the end zone at the opposite end of the field where the knight reared the horse and the cheerleaders took to their knees and bowed down.

Eizo looked on in total bafflement. I felt compelled to explain. After all, it was so explainable.

“Okay, you see,” I began, “that horse and that knight riding it.....that's our mascot....like the thing that represents us....what we call ourselves...not like the tigers or bears or lions, some teams are like that....but we're the Paladins....actually the knight is the paladin, not the horse...understand?”

“So your team rides horses?”

“No, no, no.....it's just....a mascot...” I trailed off.

“Who are those people bowing down, worshiping?”

Ah.....the cheerleaders I thought.....now that's something a little easier.

“Oh, those are the cheerleaders. They lead us in cheers.......like the name says.”

“A cheer? What is that?” Eizo asked.

“Well....things like....Hit 'em again, hit 'em again, harder, harder....or, maybe...Push 'em back, push 'em back, way back.....you know.....cheers.”

He looked nonplussed.

Wow.....this was harder than I thought. In the meantime, the band concluded the National Anthem.

“Don't worry, Eizo,” I said, assuredly. “When the game starts, it will all make sense.”

The captains of the competing teams met at the 50-yard line with the head referee for the toss of the coin. The other team won. (Back then, there was no deferring. If you won the toss, you started with the ball.) I was relieved to get to the kickoff so that it would all come clear to Eizo.

Furman kicked the ball to about the five-yard-line where the receiver took it and began to run down the field. He made some headway. The stands erupted.

“KILL HIM!!!!” “GET HIM!!!” “KNOCK HIS HEAD OFF!!!”

I excitedly joined in.......until I noticed the utter fright on Eizo's face.

It was at this point that I realized the futility. In the course of it, and looking at it through his eyes, the game became somewhat absurd to me as well.

Yes....... what it was was football......but don't ask me to explain it.

…....to be continued.

Operator, Operator..

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great grandaddy Schaefer kept a big glass jar in the top of his closet. He called it our “Trip Bank” and filled it with loose change from his pocket. When the jar brimmed with pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, granddaddy announced that it was time to take a trip. For years, we children thought the bank truly funded our vacations. Even as we grew older and more realistic, we still monitored the jar because we knew that when it reached capacity, we would be going somewhere.

In the summer of 1959, when I was approaching eighth grade, that somewhere turned out to be New York City. Granddaddy booked five tickets and two Pullman berths on Southern Railway's Silver Crescent which pulled out of Greenville at around 7:00 PM to arrive at Pennsylvania Station the following morning about twelve hours later. 

I have vivid memories of the Crescent – the white table cloths and wait staff in the dining car; the cordiality and care of our porter named Calhoun; the coziness of the berth; the deep sleep induced by the rhythmic clicketty-clack of the wheels rolling along the track coupled with the gentle rocking of the car; and the counter of being wakened by a soft squeal of the brakes and whish of steam as we stopped in the middle of the night at Union Station in Washington, D.C. Even though it may not be quite the same today, my love for riding the train certainly came from this experience.

My first encounter with New York City was equally delightful. I will never forget walking out of Pennsylvania Station onto the bustling streets of the city. Up, up, up – craning my neck as far back as I could to find the sky, in slivers of blue lanes between the peaks of the massive, tall buildings. The incessant, baseless honking of taxis whizzing by; the aroma of hot pretzels; the shuffle of determined pedestrians – New York is nothing if not a sensory overload.

Our week in the city was textbook tourist – Radio City Music Hall, the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, Carnegie Deli - and a visit to the observation tower of the world's then tallest building, the Empire State. While there, your great uncle Bryant struck up a conversation with a young South Korean man named Eizo Shindo. We invited him to join us for an afternoon tour around Manhattan on the Hudson River Line.

An officer in the South Korean Air Force, Eizo was in the United States as a guest of the Department of Defense participating in a joint military project. He revealed nothing about the project itself, but did explain that he was living in the home of a general assigned to the Pentagon in Washington. Our visit with him overshadowed the official sights being pointed out to us by our guide – we probably missed half of the tour. When the boat pulled back into its dock and we said goodbye, Eizo's customary bows of gratitude gave way to the less formal Southern hug from all of us. Meeting him proved to be one of the highlights of the whole trip.

Several months later, back home at 3 Lakecrest, we were sitting around the kitchen table when Granddaddy Schaefer made a preposterous suggestion.

“I've been thinking,” he said. “Why don't we invite Eizo to come spend a weekend with us?”

“That's great, dad,” Bryant responded. “But, we don't have any way to contact him.”

“Well, let's see,” Granddaddy went into lawyer mode, “we know that he's in Washington and we know that he is living with a general at the Pentagon.”

“And what's your point?” I piped in.

“Well, it's a challenge for sure, but let's just see if we can find him.”

With that, granddaddy picked up the telephone and dialed “0” which in those days connected to an “operator” who managed all long distance phone calls. (I have no idea if operators exist today. For you boys, they probably have gone the way of the dinosaur.)

“This is the operator......how may I help you?”

“Yes....um...” granddaddy proceeded, “First of all.....do you have a sense of adventure?”

“.......I beg your pardon?”

“I need some help....it's a long shot....and it might take a while,” he explained. “I just wanted to make sure you would be interested.”

Intrigued, the operator answered “Well, tell me what it is you need and I'll see if I can help.”

“We're looking for a young Korean airman named Eizo Shindo. He's a guest of the Department of Defense and all we know is that he is staying in the home of a general assigned to the Pentagon. We'd like to invite him to come spend some time with us in South Carolina. What do you think?”

“Well, that's probably the most unusual request I've ever had......and not a lot to go on, sir.”

“I know. I said it was a long shot, but do you think maybe you could try to find him? If you can't, that's okay, but my family would really appreciate it.”

The operator hemmed and hawed, but granddaddy persisted. Finally she committed to see what she could do. He hung up the phone.

“Well, kids, we'll see what comes of this. Hopefully, we've found somebody who can get in the spirit of the thing.”

Several hours later, after we had all dispersed into our own activities and pretty much forgotten about the effort, the phone rang. To our surprise and delight, it was the operator.

“Sir,” she said, “I have located your party.”

“Wonderful!” granddaddy replied.

“The only problem is that I can't give you the phone number because it is unlisted. I'm not authorized to release it to you.”

Granddaddy paused for a second, thinking.

“Well, we can't stop now.....you've helped us get this close.....do me a favor....call the number and explain what we want....then have them call us if it's okay to talk to Eizo. Do you mind doing this one last thing?”

“Of course not. Let me see if that works.” She was all in at this point.

Sensing that we were very close to success, we congregated at the kitchen table again. Within a few minutes, the phone rang.

“Hello, this is Schaefer Kendrick.”

“Mr. Kendrick, I'm General Joe Smith and I understand you are trying to get in touch with my guest, Eizo Shindo,”

“Yes, we met Eizo in New York and wanted to invite him to come visit us in South Carolina.”

We could hardly contain ourselves. With the help of our enterprising operator, we had cut through layers upon layers of bureaucracy to actually find Eizo. General Smith put him on the phone. Granddaddy extended the invitation which Eizo humbly, yet excitedly, accepted. He would come to see us in early October.......

….to be continued.

The Bigger They Are

Dear Boo and Bubble,

This might sound strange, but even though I had an older brother, I was great granddaddy Schaefer's “first” child. You see, when your great Uncle Bryant was born in 1945, granddaddy found himself on the island of Okinawa in the Pacific during World War II. He experienced the glorious occasion of a firstborn son only through correspondence and telegrams. Mamaw Mary went through it all in Houston, Texas, with your great, great grandmother Bethany by her side.

By 1946, the war had ended and granddaddy came home to Greenville, settling down to his law practice and normal family life. Bryant was a toddler, a far stretch from the baby stage. I came along in December of 1947 and when Mamaw Mary went into labor, Granddaddy had the chance to participate in all the fun he had missed while overseas.

The whole birthing process is so different now. There were no suites with pre-selected Pandora music piped through Ipod speakers. La Maz methods had yet made their way into hospitals. Fathers could not attend, assist or witness the birth of a child, being relegated to anxious hours in waiting rooms. When it was time, a cadre of nurses and doctors consumed every square inch of space until such time as an announcement could be made......”Mr. Kendrick, you are the proud father of........”

Apparently, Mamaw Mary had extended labor with me. I held out until around 2:00 in the afternoon. By the time the nurses cared for Mamaw and returned her to her room and then cleaned me up to be dispatched to the nursery, it was 3:00. By 4:00, Granddaddy Schaefer had yet to make an appearance.

“Do you know where my husband is?” she inquired of a nurse.

“No, ma'am, but I'll go check and see.”

More time passed. A nurse brought me to Mamaw.

“Could you please go find out what's happened to my husband? He hasn't been at all.”

“Oh my dear. Of course. Let me go see what I can find out.”

She returned in a few minutes that granddaddy was resting comfortably in his own room. He had smoked so many cigarettes, he had made himself sick. With the aid of the nurse, Mamaw Mary made her way down the hall with me in her arms to introduce Granddaddy to his baby girl.

I love this story because it embodies two of Granddaddy's most endearing aspects......his incredibly soft heart and my place in it.

When I was around three, we lived at University Ridge Apartments and Mamaw had a small garden outside the back stoop just to the left of the steps. Your great, great grandmother Mattie came over one day to help hoe the garden and prepare it for some flower seeds. As she tilled the dirt, she didn't see me approaching from behind. I came right up behind her as she brought the hoe back with a powerful thrust. It hit me right above my eye on the bone, leaving a bloody gash that sent me bawling at the top or my lungs and everybody else into a panic.

While Mattie cleaned the wound and held ice on it, Mamaw called Granddaddy at the office to tell him what had happened. He, in turn, called Dr. Thomason, our family physician who said to bring me right over to his office and he would check me out. Since we only had one car at the time, Granddaddy had to come pick us all up. A lump formed over my eye that made it almost completely shut. It had turned black and blue making me look like a prize fighter after a losing bout.

We raced to Dr. Thomason's office where his nurse rushed me into a room and lay me down on an examining table. Mamaw Mary held my hand on one side, Granddaddy Schaefer on the other. Dr. Thomason came in and assessed the situation.

“Well, that's quite a gash,” he said seriously. “Looks like we're going to have to take some stitches.”

Mamaw and Granddaddy looked at each other with concern.

“I'll have the nurse come in with the novacaine and we'll sew it right up.”

Shortly afterwards, the nurse came into the room with a needle that looked to everybody like she might be injecting a horse.

“Now, you hold her tight while I do this. It will hurt at first, but the novacaine acts pretty fast. Ready?”

Mamaw and Granddaddy nodded “yes.”

She stuck the needle into my forehead......at which point Granddaddy Schaefer fainted dead to the floor with a thud. Dr. Thomason came racing in. The two of them had to maneuver Granddaddy into a room of his own before they could continue with my stitches.

You know, boys, Granddaddy and I had a special bond for life. Not only did I indoctrinate him into the wonders of childbirth, but I was also his baby girl. There is no more unique a relationship in the world. His doting and watchful eye protected me until his dying day. This big figure of a man - and he was just that- could be reduced to mush when it came to me.