One Heck Of A Nanny Goat

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Since my last post to The Bridge Project, I just can't stop chuckling. It brought back such a humorous memory, a story that your great granddaddy Schaefer loved to tell with much zest since it was about his mother and he thought it might be skirting the boundaries of propriety. I can still see the twinkle in his eye as he waited for the reaction from his audience.

Before Mattie worked as the local office administrator for Congressman Robert T. Ashmore, she was his secretary while he served Greenville as county prosecutor. In that capacity, she helped prepare him for the trials he conducted in court, making sure that all of the legal documents required in a case were properly executed and filed in a timely fashion. He greatly depended upon her and she prided herself in the reliability of her work.

On this particular occasion, Mr. Ashmore found himself embroiled in a critical murder trial before a judge and jury that had tremendous political implications for him. He had set his sights on running to represent S.C.'s 4^th Congressional District in the upcoming election. A conviction of the accused defendant in the case would be a big feather in his professional cap. An acquittal might not bode well.

It was a complicated matter with many exhibits and witnesses and Mr. Ashmore decided he should have someone in the courtroom with him as a runner – someone who could go back and forth to his office to take messages to Mattie in the event he needed something. For the purpose, he selected a handyman named Stubby that did odd jobs around his house.....perhaps not the brightest option around, but loyal and eager to be involved.

The judge gaveled the courtroom to order and the trial began.

On the second afternoon, towards the crescendo of the prosecution's examination, Mr. Ashmore realized that he had failed to secure the appearance of a most important witness, a Mr. James Manigault. He frantically called Stubby up to the gallery railing that ran along behind the prosecutor's desk.

Leaning over into Stubby's ear, he whispered forcibly “I need for you to run as fast as you can to Miss Mattie's office and tell her that I must have a subpeona for James Manigault.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bob, I will.”

“A subpeona for James Manigault, got it?”

“Yes, sir. I do.” Stubby sensed the urgency of Mr. Ashmore's request. He was out of the courtroom in a flash and bounding his way up the three flights of stairs to the Prosecution Office in order to deliver the message to Mattie.

By the time he made it to the door, Stubby was completely out of breath. Mattie looked up from her typewriter, a little startled to see him there.

“What is it Stubby?”

“Mr. Bob says he needs you to get a penis for Jim's nanny goat. Yes, he does. Right away. A penis for Jim's nanny goat.”

The most amazing thing happened. Mattie, without so much as a “Huh?” or a “What?” or an “Excuse me?”, went straight back to her desk, inserted some paper into the typewriter and began pecking away.

When she was finished, she pulled the document out from the carriage with dramatic flair and held it out to Stubby.

“Here,” she said. “Here's the subpeona for James Manigault.” Using her legal wits and saving precious time, she had completely decoded his genuine discombobulation.

He raced back out of the door. Watching him leave, Mattie must have thought – That would have been one heck of a nanny goat!

A Grandmother's Gift

Dear Boo and Bubble,

One of the things that I enjoyed as a child – and miss in my relationship with you – was close proximity to one of my grandmothers. When I first knew her, your great, great grandmother Mattie (whom I called Nonnie) lived with her sister Ressie in a cute little house on North Main Street in Greenville. I remember all sorts of times there - spending nights when Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary would go to parties; baking cakes and getting flour all over myself and half the kitchen; sitting on her lap in her old wingback chair while she read to me.

My very favorite memory, though, is how I used to ask her to time me while I raced around her house.

“Ready, set, GO!” She would say, standing on the back stoop while I was down below in the yard.

I'd take off running as hard as I could and she started counting loud enough for me to her ----- “Onnnnnnn.......”

As I turned the last corner coming back to the start, I'd hear her ------ “nnnnnnnnne....”

I honestly thought I could fly and that I had successfully navigated the perimeter of her house in one second.

At the time, she was the local administrator for Congressman Robert T. Ashmore. His Greenville office was located on the second floor of the old main post office building downtown. On Wednesdays, the one day that Mamaw Mary had the family car to run errands, she would drop me off there and I would spend several hours with Nonnie.

It's been over 60 years – I was probably 3 or 4 years old, certainly before I started school – but I can still recall the atmosphere of the post office with its polished granite floor and the air naturally cooled by the lofty ceilings above the lobby. In the corner, right by the steps leading up to Nonnie's office, there was a small magazine and snack shop operated by a blind man. Nonnie would give me a dime and let me select whatever I wanted (usually a bag of peanuts and a bottle of Coca-Cola) and let me negotiate my purchase with him. I thought I was all grown up.

Her office was pretty typical for the era. The walls were lined with filing cabinets, one of which held supplies such as pencils, pens, legal pads, stationery, envelopes...... and carbon paper. That's how copies were made. Nonnie would put a piece of carbon paper between the official stationery and a regular white sheet of paper. The carbon transferred an exact image of what she was typing onto the paper.

There was a table beside Nonnie's desk and every Wednesday, she would set me up with my own set of supplies – a stack of paper, pencils (including a red pencil which she used to underscore items that the Congressman should note in his correspondence) and a rubber eraser. I spent the time doodling on the paper and pretending to be Nonnie, even mimicking how she answered the phone.

On a particular Wednesday when I arrived, there was a typewriter sitting at my space. Nonnie had requisitioned a newer model for her use and she relegated the old one to my station. I was thrilled as I had always marveled at how her fingers whizzed along the keys as she transcribed notes from her shorthand tablet without even looking up at the typewriter.

She assisted me in loading a sheet of paper behind the carriage, rolling it to the front and straightening it.

“Now, Beth, you type letters until you hear a 'ding,' and then you push the carriage lever like this to move the paper up for another line,” she instructed. “Understand?”

“Yes, Nonnie. I know how to do it. I watch you all the time.”

She went back to her desk and continued to work. I proceeded to pound furiously on the keys until I heard the 'ding,' at which point I dramatically thrust the lever, making the paper slide up the carriage. I typed and typed and typed until the paper lay limp on the carriage, the bottom almost about to fall out. I marveled at the letters, line after line, covering the entire page.

“Nonnie?”

“Yes.”

“What does this say?”

“Well, let me see.”

Nonnie took the paper from my hands and proceeded to recite the most fantastic story I had ever heard from my childish hieroglyphics. I thought I was an amazing author.

Yes, my grandmother made me believe that I could fly......that I was all grown up.....that I was an amazing author.....in essence that I could do anything. These are all gifts I hope to give to the two of you along the way. It's what grandmothers are supposed to do. I'm sure of that.

Better Watch What You Say

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The other day, while the Mt. Dora Arts Festival was going on, we stopped into “PizzAmore!” for some lunch and to take a breather from walking the packed streets lined pole-to-pole with booths of the hundreds of artists who exhibited their various forms of work here. At the table next to us sat another couple engaged in their own conversation. I overheard the woman remark how good it was to be away from the madding crowd to which I responded “Yes, it is!”

We started chatting, asking all of the common questions you do when meeting someone for the first time. Right after the opening salvo of “What is your name?” of course came “And, where are you from?” Turns out, they live in Alexandria, VA. So, we immediately told them that you and your mom and dad live in Arlington.

After then probing as to how many children and grandchildren they have, Captain paused for a minute.

“We have some friends that we met here who live in Chantilly.....is that close to you?”

“Oh, you know the Isners, too!” they responded.

Indeed, the Isners were who we were describing – mutual friends that we all had met in Mt. Dora.

“It's a small world,” we all commented.

Which got me thinking ----- thank goodness we had not been saying something negative about the Isners (and, trust me, there wouldn't be anything negative to say) ------ but, had we, it certainly would have been caught by them. It's always a good practice, boys, to watch what you say, especially when out in public. Or, even better, as your great, great grandmother Bethany used to advise - “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all!”

It reminds me of the situation I found myself in 40 years ago when Captain and I were returning from our honeymoon in Cape Cod. We had flown through LaGuardia airport in New York to get to Boston. On the return, we had to do the same going back to Greenville. When we arrived at the gate for our last leg of the trip about thirty minutes before boarding. The waiting area was already packed (back then passengers weren't the only ones admitted into the gate) and there was only one seat available. Captain, being the ultimate gentleman, let me have the seat and he leaned up against a post across from me.

Finally, time came for boarding the flight. As the attendant made the announcement, people started stirring about. At which point, Captain said as loudly as he could - “Beth, please tell your husband how much I have enjoyed this last week. You're the best.”

Being a brand new bride, I was mortified. A robust, crimson blush rose quickly up my neck and into my cheeks. I felt compelled to explain and turned to the men on either side of me and said “Oh, he's just kidding. He IS my husband.”

To which the one on my left answered “We know he's your husband. Only a husband would say something like that!”

They all laughed, and just as my blush began to subside, he said, “By the way, how's your dad, Schaefer? I had him for Business Law at Furman.”

At that point, I just felt like absolutely going through the floor.

Yep.......you better watch what you say. You never know who might be listening.......or who you might be talking to!

Sometimes When You Lose, You Win

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I read a quote the other day from Russell Wilson, the quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, who just experienced a major disappointment while playing in the Super Bowl against the New England Patriots. The game took two quixotic turns at the very end – one miraculous catch by a Seahawk receiver on the Patriots' 5-yard line to give them four chances to score a touchdown for a win and an equally miraculous interception by a Patriot defender on what has been described as the “dumbest play call in NFL history.”

The quote went something like this - “Thank you God for the opportunity. We'll be back. I will never waiver on who He has called me to be.”

What struck me about this was how, even in the throes of defeat, Wilson expressed a positive attitude – even a grateful one – for the chance to compete even if it meant a bitter failure. The three words comprising the middle sentence are the most telling - “We'll be back.” They convey character, the type of which is forged in setbacks, heartaches and losses. Ironically, the humility of defeat offers many a more consequential lesson in life than the glory of victory ever could.

In 1967, I was fortunate enough to win the title of Miss Greenville which meant that I would represent the city in the Miss South Carolina pageant. Although I had an adequate face and figure, my strength in the competition was my talent – ballet. I chose the song Chim-Chim-Cherrie from the movie Mary Poppins and constructed my own choreography. My costume was fitted at the waist and featured several layers of yellow flowing tulle with lace – not the classical tutu.

The pageant was to be held over four nights in July at the Greenville Memorial Auditorium. The first three were for preliminaries where contestants, divided into three groups, were judged in evening gown, swimsuit and talent (a three-minute routine) in rotation until every contestant had competed in all categories. The preliminary winners in swimsuit and talent were announced each night. To create some degree of mystery, the evening gown winners were kept a secret. On the final night, ten contestants with the highest accumulated scores advanced to vie for the title.

In the months leading up, I worked very hard in preparation. The buzz around town was that I stood a pretty good chance of winning because of my ballet training. I tried to ignore the thought, but found myself flirting with the concept anyway. Finally, the time arrived and my chaperone (yes, back then, each girl had to have a personal chaperone) and I checked into the Poinsett Hotel on Main Street where all of the contestants were housed.

The rotation for my group in the competition went evening gown, swimsuit, then talent. This was fine with me. It gave me two nights to be noticed by the judges and perhaps build some points up before I played my strong suit. We rehearsed during the day for the category of the evening. On Friday, I practiced my routine twice, not paying much attention to those who came before or after me. Satisfied that I was ready, I retreated to the hotel to get some rest and make final preparations.

The show started promptly at 8:00. The talent portion came after the intermission following the evening gown and swimsuit judging. This gave me plenty of time to warm up and settle my nerves. The call came for our group to assemble in a holding room backstage. In order to make things flow smoothly, the procedure allowed that when a contestant took the stage, the next in line would be brought into the wings ready to go.

A stagehand called my name and I was escorted to the downstage wing just as the contestant in front of me, Miss Cherokee County, Claudia Bonner, began her performance. I liked Claudia. She was not one of the raving beauties in the pageant, but had a magnetic smile and bubbly personality. For her talent, she chose to clog which, being a snobbish en pointe ballerina, I had totally dismissed as a gimmick. I certainly felt no threat from her in that category.

I remember those three minutes of my life as vividly today as then. She started out with a Minnie Pearl impersonation (complete with price tag hanging off of her hat) and at one point in the monologue raised up her armpit to take a whiff and yelled “Phew-eeee.” I thought to myself that this was going nowhere.......until I heard the murmurs of laughter from the audience. And then she began to engage the audience asking them if they wanted to see her dance. 

 

“Yes!” A few yelled back.

“I CAN'T HEAR YA! DO YA WANT TO SEE ME DANCE OR NOT?”

“YES!” The chorus grew louder.

“Well.......I ain't ta gonna dance unless you want me to.”

“YES!!!” It seemed the whole auditorium erupted in the response.

At which point her music started and she proceeded to tear across the stage, double-stepping, triple-stepping and fancy-stepping non-stop until she had everybody clapping along with her.

From my angle in the wings, I could only see a little sliver of the audience, but I could see the entire panel of judges at the foot of the stage. When the end came, they, along with everyone in the building stood up and gave Claudia an ovation.

Needless to say, she won the evening's talent preliminary.

I was totally deflated and I honestly don't remember my own performance that night. I do, however, pointedly recall what Granddaddy Schaefer – my very own father – said to me later when I approached him at the Poinsett Hotel, tears welling up in my eyes.

“No tears, Bethie. Not tonight. You know you didn't deserve to win.”

The next night, when they announced the Top Ten, I was not among them. And to add insult to injury, after the announcement was made and the swimsuit competition judged, we all had to start the program over again for television. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do - being introduced in my evening gown and smiling for the camera as if I didn't know anything, as if my heart hadn't sunk to the pit of my stomach.

I don't think I was as gracious as Russell Wilson on that night. I have no recollection of being grateful for the opportunity to experience such a painful collapse of expectations. But, I will tell you boys, I learned a valuable lesson from all of it.  Sometimes it takes a defeat to ultimately win.  Sometimes it takes disappointment to really find happiness.  And character - the resilient "We'll be back" kind - is often better forged from the introspection required in a time of loss than from the sweetness of gain.  

And so, maybe a little late – Thank you, Claudia.

(By the way....I found out later that I finished #11 in the judging. Also, when Captain and I moved to Gaffney, SC, years later, Claudia and her husband Allen Fowler became two of our very best friends.)

What Could Possibly Be Wrong With Collards

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I found some beautiful collard greens at the farmer's market the other day here in Florida. They were not too big and quite green still, having been freshly picked the afternoon before. I immediately came home, rinsed them off, chopped them up and simmered them the remainder of the day with some garlic, onion, bacon and chicken stock. Their distinct aroma consumed our house which had me reminiscing about your great, great grandmother Mattie and how her penchant for collards almost upset Mamaw Mary's applecart.

You will recall that Mattie lived in an apartment in the basement of 3 Lakecrest Drive. She loved cooking greens – any kind – turnips, polk salad, spinach or collards. They all cast off their own distinctive smell that always wafted up from below to the floor above. The most egregiously pungent odor definitely came from the collards. It consumed every room and lingered for hours. If you were not a fan - and Mamaw was not - it could be quite obnoxious.

When this incident occurred, Mamaw happened to be the president of the board of the Civic Ballet of Greenville. She had several official duties as such, one of which was hosting a luncheon in early spring to acquaint prominent women in the community about the ballet in hopes of recruiting their service on the board. It was never a large affair, more intimate with only four or five guests. But, it was an important occasion and she took great pride in organizing it.

For the few days leading up to the luncheon, she busied herself with cleaning the house, polishing her silver, executing the menu (which always included her delicious chicken curry with raisins, nuts and coconut savings as condiments) and arranging fresh flowers for the dining table and other strategic spots. It never concerned her about the weather, although she certainly hoped the sun would shine so that people could get in and out of the house comfortably.

The day came and she awoke to a beautiful blue sky, but a high temperature not to get out of the 40's made harsher by a brisk wind. Not to worry, she turned the thermostat up a notch and asked Granddaddy Schaefer to lay a fire in the living room fireplace. As the morning wore down towards noon, she covered her checklist to make sure she had thought of everything. Apparently, she had failed to put on the list asking Mattie to refrain from cooking collards. About an hour before her guests were to arrive, her nostrils picked up the unwanted scent of the boiling brew coming from downstairs......and once it had penetrated the air upstairs, there was nothing you could do....it was too late.

Mamaw frantically reviewed her options. She could open up all the windows and turn on the attic fan, but that would only render the house freezing cold; and once she closed everything back up, the smell would just return. Even if she could cut if off at the source that very moment, it would take hours to dissipate. So, she opted for the only practical solution......ignore it.....don't mention it.....pump up the curry as a combatant....light some candles.

The doorbell signaled her time was up. The first of her guests stood at the front door.

Alas, the curry was no match for the collards and, as the ladies sat around the dining room table eating lunch and discussing the ballet, the smell was so pungent, it became obvious to Mamaw that she must say something.

“I'm so sorry about the smell in the house,” she apologized. “Schaefer's mother lives downstairs and she decided to cook some collards this morning. I know she would be mortified if she knew it was disrupting my party.”

“Well, Mary,” one of the ladies responded, “I'm so glad you told us. I surely didn't want to say anything, but I honestly thought your sewer had broken!”