Ring That Bell

Dear Boo and Bubble,

A friend of mine posted a picture of the Furman University bell tower that stands poised at one end of the lake on the campus near Travelers Rest, SC.  It’s not the authentic tower, just a replica of the one that was built in 1854 for the original men’s campus on top of University Ridge in downtown Greenville.  

Great Granddaddy Schaefer graduated from Furman and taught Business Law there for over forty years.  He became somewhat of a school legend over that time and one of the most famous exploits had to do with the bell tower.

It was in the 1950’s – the glory days of Furman basketball when players like Frank Selvy (who is the only person to ever shoot 100 points in a game – I was there at Textile Hall when he did it against Newberry College), Neild Gordon and Darrell Floyd lit up the hardwood. 

The teams were so successful that the ringing of the bell in the tower after a victory became a common ritual for students.  This created quite a ruckus in the surrounding neighborhoods because of the noise.  So many people complained to then president, John Plyler, that he instituted a moratorium.  No more bell ringing.  

At the time, one of Granddaddy’s very best friends was History professor Winston Babb.  A most convivial man with razor-sharp wit and clever sense of devilment, Dr. Babb and Granddaddy shared many good times together, including basketball games.  If Furman played at home, you’d find them at Textile Hall.  For away games, the two huddled around a radio until the final buzzer. 

One night, Furman played much renowned, feared and severely higher-ranked New York University in Madison Square Garden.  Even with the stellar roster on Furman’s team, the contest was billed as a David & Goliath affair with Furman having no chance other than that of a good visit to the Big Apple. Granddaddy and Dr. Babb listened intently as the game unfolded.  Back and forth it went until Furman miraculously pulled off the upset. 

“This calls for one thing,” Dr. Babb said to Granddaddy.  “And, you know what it is.”

“Ringing the bell!”

The two got in Granddaddy’s car and drove over to the campus.  They parked some distance away from the tower in order not to be detected by the campus police.  Since the door to the tower was padlocked, the major obstacle to their plan was actually getting inside to go up the steps to the bell.  The tower had ventilation windows all the way up, the lowest being about ten feet off the ground. 

“Here, Winston, let me put my back to the tower and cup my hands.  You can step in my hands and hoist yourself onto my shoulders.  That should get you high enough to go through the window.  Then lean back out and grab my hands so I can shinny up.” 

Dr. Babb did just that.  It worked like a charm and within seconds the two professors found themselves inside the bell tower.  They scrambled up the steps to the top and began ringing the bell with gusto. 

The reaction was instantaneous – lights turned on all over the surrounding area. 

They knew they had only a few minutes before the police would be at the base of the tower.  The ten-foot drop from the window seemed much easier to negotiate going down. Dr. Babb jumped first, then Granddaddy. 

RRRRRipppppppp!!

Granddaddy hit the ground safely, but left a patch of cloth from his pants snagged on a nail sticking out from the tower.  It was too high to grab, so the two bolted back to the car as fast as they could, leaving the incriminating evidence dangling behind.

The following morning, Dr. Plyler’s office was inundated with calls protesting the breach of silence from the bell tower.  The campus police brought him the swatch of cloth.  It could have been anybody’s, but he had a hunch who might have perpetrated this heinous crime against the audio sensitivities of Furman’s nearby neighbors.

A few days later, he called Granddaddy to come over for a chat.

“I guess you’ve heard about the bell incident the other night, Schaefer.”

“Yes, John, I have.”

Dr. Plyler looked squarely into Granddaddy’s eyes.

“Do you know anything about it?”

I don’t know verbatim what Granddaddy’s answer was, but I can guarantee you he said something that sounded like a denial, but upon closer examination could be perceived as an admission.  He was a lawyer, you know.

“Well, thank you for coming in, Schaefer,” Dr. Plyler said as Granddaddy got up to leave.

As Granddaddy made it to the door thinking he had gotten away with the prank, Dr. Plyler called him back.

“Just one more thing…….I may not ever know for sure who did this…..but I sure wish I had thought of it myself!”

Hey, St. Pete - I Have a Question for You

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I was sweeping our deck the other day and noticed that it was covered in brown, dried clumps of petals.  When I looked up at the huge tree above, I noticed that it appeared to hold a million more such missiles ready to drop at the first sign of a stiff breeze or heavy rain.  No matter when I sweep, within a few hours the deck is covered again.  I’ve researched it and think it’s a Beech tree – no matter the kind, it’s a nuisance.

However, it does have me reminiscing about the nuisance tree at 3 Lakecrest. We had a huge Sweet Gum in the backyard of the house.  It provided wonderful shade over the driveway and in the fall, displayed vivid colors of deep purples and reds. Great Granddaddy Schaefer absolutely adored this tree for these reasons.  But, because of the hundreds of balls it dropped on the driveway and in the yard, it was the bane of your Uncle Gene’s existence.  He was responsible for raking them up everyday so that we wouldn’t twist our ankles walking on them.  I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that the day Granddaddy died in his sleep, before the coroner was even notified, Gene called the tree surgeon to arrange the demise of the tree.

In one of his editorials for The Greenville News, Granddaddy wrote about Sweet Gum balls.  It went like this:

………I was in heaven, not because of living a virtuous life; I was dreaming.  Standing before me was this enormous gate which seemed to say, “This is not your destination,” and I was verily intimidated.  Yet my strength was equal to the bell pull overhead which I pulled, and the bell tolled.  As the vibrations of that great instrument raced toward the shores of infinity, this mighty gate swung open.

Seated at a huge desk, adorned with marquetry, was old Saint Peter himself; wise of countenance, piercing eyes, receding hairline, and a luxurious white beard, virile in texture, and shaped with obvious professional skill.  (I had never thought of barbers inheriting the Kingdom of Heaven.  I was taught it was the meek, which would eliminate barbers.)

In a deep and profound voice that sounded as though Beethoven had been its architect and Wagner it general contractor, he said, “What, Mr. Kendrick, is your business here?”  This seems a strange question to ask one who had just died.  Of all heavenly creatures who ought to know what my business was, it surely should be Saint Peter, guardian of the Pearly Gates.

Puzzlement, not procrastination, was the cause of my hesitation.  My impulse was to answer that question, briefly and to the point, by countering with this question:  “Am I in or am I out?”  A mature judgment vetoed that idea on the basis that Saint Peter might consider it frivolous and this was no time for frivolity.  In this short encounter, I couldn’t tell whether the saint did or didn’t have a sense of humor, and because the stakes were so high, I couldn’t run the risk of his being humorless.

Instinctively, I reached for my billfold to get out a business card but I immediately realized this was a stupid impulse for he had already addressed me as “Mr. Kendrick,” and, besides, my card said “Attorney at Law,” which fact, under these circumstances, I thought best not to reveal.

Impatiently, Saint Peter cleared his throat and the heavens reverberated in a crescendo of sound.  I had appeared before many impatient judges and had trained myself to maintain composure; this proved helpful in this situation.

As my mind flashed possible answers to his question (mimicking a megabite computer), one emerged that seemed to have real potential, and I latched on to it.

“Saint Peter, sir, in answer to your question, ‘What is your business here?’ I wish to see the Almighty to humbly ask him some questions only He can answer.”

His eyes lit.  “You want to question the Lord?
”
“Saint Peter, sir, I said ‘humbly.’”

His summary attitude changed to one of interest.

“Give me an example of the kind of questions you want to ask.”

I think to myself that Old St. Peter, in addition to being a disciple, must have at one time sat on the trial bench in Jerusalem.

He has really put me on the spot.  Which of the questions, that had been so troublesome to me while on earth, shall I choose?  Shall it be the one about suffering, or natural calamities, or temptation, or about the timing of death?  Then I thought, “No, these are too general.  The question should be specific.”  At this point the idea light flashed on.  The question was one I had asked many times but never, ever came close to a sensible answer.

“Saint Peter, sir, I want to humbly as the Almighty why he planned it so that one sweet gum tree would produce thousands, upon thousands of sweet gum balls?”

The mighty roar of Saint Peter’s laughter woke me up, and now I live with the comfortable assurance:  There is a place for humor in heaven, but I hope not for the sweet gum balls………..


Boys, I have decided to turn the mess on my deck from a negative to a positive.  Rather than be mad about it, I’m just going to chuckle and remember Granddaddy instead.

Want Some Shampoo With That Rinse?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I’ve always believed that the definition of “family” is flexible enough to include close friends you make along life’s journey.  Captain and I have been very fortunate at every stage of our marriage to meet people who quite comfortably transitioned from friend to family – and, although there are many, none more so than Roger and Willa Jones.

We moved to 126 Brittany Road in Gaffney, SC, when your mom was just over a year old.  Roger and Willa lived across the street.  They were both large of stature with even bigger hearts and it didn’t take long for them to totally embrace us.  Not a day went by that we were either in their home or they in ours, sharing meals or playing cards or watching college football games or Monday Night Football. 

When your Aunt Bee was born, Willa sat in the waiting room with Captain and Mamaw Mary.  She brought a sleeve of dimes from the bank so that Captain could call everybody to announce the good news.  Always thoughtful, always inclusive – we loved Roger and Willa.

And, they loved your mom and Aunt Bee as their own.  It was very common for the back doorbell to ring and Roger would be standing there.

“Where are the girls?”

They would hear him and come running.

“C’mon.  We’re going out and about.  You girls get your shoes on and come with us.”

One such day, when your mom was maybe eight and Aunt Bee four, Roger and Willa stopped by.  They invited the girls to go run errands and have dinner at McDonald’s.  With much excitement, MK and Aunt Bee piled into the Jones’ Cadillac and they drove away.

Among the errands was a trip to the gas station and use of the attached automatic carwash.  Roger filled the Cadillac up with gas and proceeded into the carwash until a stop sign lit up, indicating that he put the car in park.  The arms of the carwash began waving across, over and behind the car, spraying water first and then dropping globs of wax onto the surface.

The girls sat in the back seat, noses pressed against each window, fascinated with the process.  As the arms made one last sweep across the car to give it a good rinse, Roger very carefully and clandestinely pressed down the control button for Aunt Bee’s window.  The window lowered so slowly, it was imperceptible to her.  Before she knew it, her hair and forehead were soaking wet.  She pulled back from the window, sputtering and spewing.

“Roger!” your mom yelled.  “I think you have a leak in your car!”

The immediate chuckling that erupted from the front seat alerted the girls to the prank.  Looking at her drenched little sister, your mom burst out laughing.

Not so Aunt Bee.  She was furious and no amount of apology or cajoling could dissuade her from the madness.  The Happy Meal at McDonald’s barely made a dent.  It took months of Roger whisking Bee off for special treats to finally get back in her good graces.

Along the way, I will share with you many more stories about Roger and Willa because they have become a part of our folklore.  Neither one is still with us.  Willa has been gone five years and Roger just left us only last month.  They had a profoundly positive effect on us, especially your mom and Aunt Bee - which proves the point that family is not only gained through genetics but also through the serendipitous interventions of life.  Don’t ever forget that.