Divine Inspiration

Dear Boo and Bubble,

This morning, Captain and I played tennis with our regular group in Sugar Mountain.  It’s a fun mix of people and we shuffle partners after each set which makes for lively and diverse games.  I had finished one of my sets and decided to watch Captain’s match.  At one point, he was receiving serve and made a blazing return down the alley and past the netman.   I yelled to him “Schaefer would be proud!!”

Great granddaddy Schaefer loved making that passing shot, but he knew that you had to always guard against it.  Whenever I was his partner and he was serving, he would say “Guard that alley, Beth.  Don’t move.  I can get everything else.”

Just thinking of this had me reminiscent about how, growing up, Granddaddy spent so much time with me, teaching me how to play tennis.  We had such fun around the game and his influence on me reignites every time I take the court.   Then, I remembered that somewhere in my closet, in a box filled with a hodgepodge of clippings, pictures, articles and writings, I had saved a copy of a story I wrote over 25 years ago.  It was actually the first writing that I ever submitted for publication – to Seventeen Magazine.  The rejection notice is still clipped to the first page.

I want to share it with you now.  It might take a little time to read, but when you do, you’ll probably figure out pretty quickly what inspired it.

Divine Inspiration

Margaret sat in the folding chair, her head hanging momentarily as she wiped the sweat from her forehead.  She reached down for the water bottle at her feet and brought it to her lips.  As she sipped the tepid liquid, she closed her eyes and sighed.  The rapid beat of her heart pulsated in her eyelids.

“Get a grip on it,” she muttered.  “Quit beating yourself.” 

It was, in fact, do or die time.  As the number-eight seed in the tournament, Margaret was supposed to be a contender.  That was on paper……reality was a different story.  The morning paper summed it up.  “Unless something unforeseen occurs, Santorez should have little trouble with Waldrop in today’s finals of the U.S. Indoor Championships.”

Alicia Santorez…. The darling of the women’s tennis circuit, encyclopedia of strokes and strategy, nemesis to Margaret.

Leaning back in the chair and taking one last swipe at her face with the towel, Margaret gazed upward at the pattern of steel girding in the Metrodome.  “I miss my dad,” she whispered.  Her throat was tightening to the point that tears were beginning to pressure her eyes.  “He would tell me what to do, would tell me how to adjust.”

For years, Sam Waldrop had stalked the baselines coaching, cajoling, encouraging Margaret.  He pitched countless balls to her forehand and backhand; returned thousands of her serves and volleyed with her until she could place the ball anywhere on the court.  Now, he was gone….taken from her suddenly by a heat attack.  She didn’t get to see him before he died.  She was in Los Angeles at a Federation Cup meeting.

“Time!” the umpire barked.

Margaret dropped her towel at the base of the chair and picked up her racquet.  It was the second set.  She had lost the first 6-4.  The glaring 2-5 of the scoreboard gave her no comfort.  Neither did the fact that it was her serve and she had lost the last one.  The ball boy tossed her the balls at her signal.  She juggled them in her hand, then approached the service line where she canvassed the scene across the net.  Santorez swayed smoothly from side to side, ready to pounce on Margaret’s serve as she had done all afternoon. 

She bounced the ball a couple of times, set her feet and racquet to begin the serve.  She looked up once more before starting the motion, and as she did, she caught sight of a familiar face positioned just to the right and above Santorez.

Margaret’s heart sank as she virtually froze in place.  She strained her eyes to get a better look.  Of course it couldn’t be and she shook her head, looking down once again and bouncing the ball.  But as she rocked back to begin the toss of the ball, she heard the familiar phrase – “Patience is my best friend!” – being yelled above the stadium noise….and she knew without any doubt that it was her dad.

She backed away from the service line, feeling dizzy. Santorez looked puzzled and immediately lifted her arms in question at the umpire to do something.

“Play!” the umpire instructed without hesitation.

Raising her hand in apology, Margaret approached the service line again.  She focused on the face in the crowd.  He was still there, grinning and nodding, the brilliant blue eyes penetrating her like lasers.  “Patience is playing with me,” she mouthed, and watched as a wide smile engulfed his face. 

An incredible surge of pent up emotion surged through her, leaving her relaxed for the first time that day.  She took a deep breath to clear her head and began her service motion.  Margaret tossed the ball higher, more confidently than before.  As she came across the ball, her feet propelled her towards the net.  The sharp angle of the serve took Santorez by surprise and she popped the ball up high and short.  Margaret poised herself to hit the overhead.  Santorez made a move to come back to center.  Margaret smashed the ball behind Santorez, completely wrong-footing her.  The crowd roared its approval, eager to see a close match.

Margaret gazed into the crowd to see her father jumping out of his seat, clinching his fist as he pumped his arm up and down in a signal of defiance to the odds.

Her legs had lost their leaden feeling, the feet bouncing as she went to the ad court for the next serve.  This time, she rolled the ball over her head and spun the serve into Santorez’s body.  The ball kicked high, and Santorez, eager to silence the crowd, flailed away at it.  Margaret waited at the baseline as the ball floated well out. “Out!” yelled the linesman and Santorez threw her racquet up in disgust.

Margaret was afraid to smile, even a little.  She was totally focused now.  The stadium settled as she prepared to deliver the serve at 30-Love.  A short toss in front allowed her to power the ball, but Santorez was ready and answered with a blazing return, sharply angled and hitting about half court.  Santorez followed her shot to the net as Margaret raced to the sideline in a full stretch.  When she reached the ball, the only thing she could do was half-volley it into a lob.  Hugging the net, Santorez was stunned and frantically retreated to the baseline, but the ball spun away from her when it hit and she had no play.

Pacing herself as she went back to the corner, Margaret took a towel from the ball boy.  She wiped her face slowly, caught her breath and glanced into the stands.  Her father was chanting “Go, go, go!”  Margaret walked deliberately to the baseline where she methodically bounced the balls, rocking back and forth in preparation for the serve.  The minute she tossed the ball up, she knew it was perfect.  Her shoulder rotated smoothly over, the outstretched arm firm.  The contact with the ball made a resonant “thwack” and her eyes followed it over the net and into the deep, forehand corner of the service box.  Santorez thrust her body towards the ball, but couldn’t reach it.  An ace!  And the game!

Margaret never let up for the remainder of the afternoon, her father wildly cheering each successful point.  She evened the match with a second set score of 7-5.  The third set was a rout.  Santorez left the court after politely, but curtly shaking hands with Margaret, who found herself winning the first major tournament of her life.  She blew a kiss to her father who was shaking hand and slapping backs with well wishers in the stands.

The traditional television interview took place at mid-court.  “It seemed that you changed out there when you were down 2-5 in the second set.  What happened?” the announcer asked.

“I don’t know,” Margaret replied.  “I guess I got inspired or something.”

As she left the court, she glanced around looking for her father.  He was not there.  The seat was vacant.

With the aid of tournament officials, she pressed her way through the crowd to the locker room.  The reality of what had just happened overtook her and she felt almost nauseated.  As she pushed open the door to the players’ lounge, her escort asked if she were all right. 

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.  It’s just the excitement of it all.  Please, if you don’t mind, I’d like just a few minutes before the press conference.”

“Sure, Margaret, take your time.”

She welcomed the silence of being alone.  The only sound came from the steaming hot shower of Alicia Santorez.  Margaret took the sweatbands from around her wrists.  She slung her tennis bag over her shoulder and headed into the locker room.  She stopped at the water fountain and put her whole face in the ice cold spray from the spigot.  From across the room, she could see her locker.  Something was taped to the door.  As she approached it, her eyes filled with tears as she made out the old, familiar handwriting that had etched so many encouraging, important words to her over the years -------“That was one hell of a match.  I’m so proud of you!”

Margaret blinked her eyes and wiped the falling flood of tears with her forearm.  She looked again…..the note was gone. 

How Firm A Foundation

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We received an announcement in the mail the other day for the graduation of your second cousin Jack Nix.  Two things struck me as I looked at his picture – how is it possible that baby Jack could be old enough to be graduating from high school and, as he exits this passageway of primary education, the two of you are entering it.  As celebrated as his end of the tunnel might be for the accomplishment, your end is actually much more significant.  Without a proper and disciplined foundation, the educational process can become a perpetual challenge, one fraught with inadequacies that can rob a person of life’s full enjoyment.

Your great, great, great, great grandfather Joseph Benson Cottrell was a brilliant man, prolific writer and renown minister in the mid to late eighteen hundreds.  Yet, even so, he recognized a fundamental flaw that plagued him – one which he sought to overcome in his adult years.

He writes -

Without a systematic plan of life, followed scrupulously, one cannot have the greatest success – cannot attain to the greatest excellency.  I have never lived by rule.  I lacked the early training.  I have everything to over come.  My education when, at 19 years of age I entered the Military Academy at Charleston, South Carolina, was nothing.  From setting type and reading newspapers in my brother’s printing office, I had acquired a facility in writing tolerably the English language – but there was no accuracy in my knowledge – and in pursuing my studies there – I felt continually that I was building on the sand.

In a class of 32, I graduated 15^th – could with a little trouble have graduated first.  Politics was my misfortune there as it has been since.  I did not acquire habits of study at the Citadel – the very thing the course is intended for.  Oh! In everything I have been unfaithful – inconstant.  I might have been with comparative ease, this night, capable of taking most any position of honor in the land; but indolence – indifference have been my undoing.

He goes on to vow a remedy -

If I am spared, I will by the help of that God who has prolonged my unprofitable life, redeem the time.  I have a thirst for knowledge.  I have gone back to relay the foundation of an education, beginning with the English and Latin grammars.  I am endeavoring to make haste slowly – building compactly, surely, trudging through that which others presume I am au fait in.  I want to enjoy what I know – and this is impossible without accuracy.  I am a poor speller ever, and sometimes suffer after mailing a letter, lest some word has been misspelled. 

And then he offers an astute observation which should be emblazoned above the entrance to every place of learning -

One half the labor spent in studying, which is thrown away in endeavoring to hide ignorance, would make scholars of many.

He understands that the true profit of education comes from the personal, inward journey towards excellence, not sought for the praise of others, but for one’s own evolution   –

I have no doubts as to my capacity to learn.  I have never been beaten in a contest, where I have contested.  As ignorant as I feel myself to be, I am still surprised at my success.  I am more highly esteemed than I deserve.  I feel it, and am often made to blush at hearing compliments which I know are not deserved – and yet to correct the impression would do no good.  I want to get to be far wiser and better than persons imagine – to surpass the ideal of the vulgar mind, and attain to heights to which they are wholly ignorant.  All that I may enjoy truth, and realize the inadequacy of my finite mind to grasp it in its entirety.  I shall then be humble.

As you make your way through the labyrinth, I hope you will keep these words in mind and build a good foundation.

A Toast to End All Toasts

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I just returned to Sugar Mountain from Greenville where I met with some of my high school classmates to plan our 50th year reunion for the spring of 2016.  It was hard to believe that it has been that many years since graduation.  I had a wonderful time reconnecting with them, many of whom I had not seen in the last half-century (shudder!).

The day’s agenda took us to the Poinsett Club on East Washington Street, the place we have chosen as the venue for our reunion.  While waiting in one of the sitting rooms for the group to fully assemble, I happened to look across the hall and down some steps into a dining room all set up for some festive occasion based upon a Paris theme.  There were several metal facsimiles of the Eiffel Tower strategically placed in the corners and beautifully adorned with ivy and flowers.  The centerpieces on each table featured clusters of roses and Gerbera daisies at the base of smaller versions of the Tower.  Tentacles of ivy reached out in all directions. 

It was a lovely sight …… and brought back a very happy memory.

Over 40 years ago, on the night before Captain and I were to be married, Great Granddaddy Cot and Mamaw Kat hosted our rehearsal dinner in that very place.  It was a marvelous celebration with both of our families and many of our closest friends.  The next day, we would become Mr. and Mrs. Tally and, for many a time over the course of the evening, we raised our glasses to toasts from all of the well-wishers.

There was one toast, however, that will always be remembered as iconic, legendary and immortal.  It was made by your great Granddaddy Schaefer.

Three months before, he had suffered a very severe heart attack - so much so that his doctor kept him in the hospital for an extended time and, upon releasing him, ordered bed rest and very restricted activity.  He did as he was told, not only because he was weak but also because he wanted to build up his strength so that he could walk me down the aisle to give my hand in marriage to Captain.  This meant that he had to forgo all of the parties and festivities leading up to our wedding. 

The night of the rehearsal party, he shed his pajamas and bathrobe and dressed in his blue pinstrip suit.  He accented it with a jaunty bowtie.  When he made his appearance at the Poinsett Club, all of the dinner guests broke out into applause. 

Each clink of the glass signaled a toast and, one by one, bridesmaids and groomsmen offered humorous recollections of both Captain and me.  Relatives and friends raised their glasses in hopes for a long life together, filled with good luck and prosperity.  Finally, it seemed all had spoken when Granddaddy stood and tapped his knife to his water glass. 

A hush fell over the group.  He was a man of great wisdom and wit …… and he loved his daughter more than just about anybody or anything.  Whatever he was about to say must be heard.

“Here’s to Beth and John,” he started, lifting his glass skyward. Then, he paused for effect. “May all of their Tallys have ‘whackers’-  save one.  And may she be just like my Bethie.”

Needless to say, everybody erupted in laughter and hearty “Here…..heres.”

Apparently, though, Granddaddy’s toast didn’t take.  We had two beautiful daughters – your mom and Aunt Bee.

I guess maybe it might have skipped a generation, though, because now you two boys have come along.  And, I'm sure Granddaddy Schaefer couldn’t be any happier that his wish finally came to fruition!

The Best Masters Ever

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great granddaddy Cot loved to play golf. While still working, he used the game for business development. He enjoyed it for pleasure as well with a regular foursome every Saturday morning for years at San Jose Country Club in Jacksonville. After he and Mamaw Kat built their mountain house at High Hampton in Cashiers, NC, one of the first purchases was his very own cart. He and nearby neighbor Dick Barnes tackled the undulations and elevations of that beautiful course three days a week. (Both of them were hard of hearing, but that didn't stop them. Granddaddy always drove the cart because his "good" ear was on the right side and Dick's on the left, giving them the best chance to understand each other.)

When Granddaddy was put on oxygen and told he had six months to live, he proved everybody wrong and, for the next eleven years, continued to play golf. He would take his little portable tank with him and about fifteen feet of hose. When it was his turn to hit, he'd put the tank behind him and straddle the hose and proceed to knock the tar out of the ball.

After I took up the game, we became cart mates and spent many hours, just the two of us, swinging the club, telling jokes and relishing in each others' company.

Given his history, it was surprising to me that he had never been to The Masters.

By the time Granddaddy turned 87, he was what Captain called "sidelined." No longer able to live at home or drive, he took up residence in Vicar's Landing, a senior care facility in Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. Periodically, Captain and I would drive down, pick him up and bring him to our house in Columbia, SC, for an extended visit. It took some logistics. We had to bring his Lincoln towncar because it had two 75 gallon tanks of liquid oxygen secured in the back seat which he used to refill his portable tank. We rented a hospital bed for him and contacted the Apria Company to set up an oxygen compressor in the living room along with 75 feet of hose.  That way, Granddaddy could walk anywhere he wanted to in the house. Our goal was to make him as comfortable as possible.

One of these visits occurred in April and, as luck would have it, Captain was given two complimentary passes to the Wednesday practice round of The Masters. His schedule prohibited him from going and he suggested that I take Granddaddy. When we told Cot, he was as excited as a kid at Christmas.

The morning came. Captain put Granddaddy's wheelchair in the trunk of the towncar. The oxygen tanks had been topped off by Apria the day before, so we were free to stay as long as he wanted. We struck out for Augusta before 9:00 AM.

It was a beautiful, cool day and the trip went by quickly as Granddaddy and I chatted away about the tournament, its history and former winners and the current crop of contenders. He was eager to see Augusta National Golf Course in person and to sample one of the world-famous pimiento cheese sandwiches sold at concession.

As we came into the Augusta area, I began to see directional signs on the Interstate for Masters traffic. I followed them until we came within close enough proximity to the club to see parking options. Many of the residents adjacent to Augusta National offer their yards for parking. I decided to find a house close to one of the back gates into the club so that we wouldn't have to navigate Granddaddy through the throngs of people coming through the main entrance.

I found the perfect spot off of a road that ultimately paralleled the Number 5 hole. For $10, we pulled into a select space right across from a gate. All I had to do was load Granddaddy into his wheelchair and cross the street. He filled his portable tank to the brim with oxygen and plopped into the wheelchair. I took a blanket from the backseat just in case it might be chilly. After locking the car, off we went.

Although it was barely 10:30, Granddaddy insisted that the first thing we do was get a sandwich. I wasn't particularly hungry, but at that hour there were no lines and we could find a comfortable place to sit and eat. We quickly found a concession stand and I ordered two pimiento cheese sandwiches and a couple of lemonades. The total cost was less than $10 - one of the beauties of The Masters - all of the sandwiches being made by volunteers.

We found a cozy place to eat, which he could hardly do for watching all of the people milling around and listening to the sounds of crowds yelling from far-away holes as players practiced their craft. When we finished, I wheeled him over to the rope alongside Number 5 (a 455-yard par 4 dubbed "Magnolia") about mid-way down the fairway. It wasn't a particularly advantageous point for viewing because we couldn't see the tee-box nor the green. After a few groups passed by, I decided to make a move. When the signal came for all-clear, I wheeled Granddaddy over to the tee-box of Number 6 (a 180-yard par 3 named "Juniper").

This proved to be much more fun because "Juniper" has an elevated green from the tee, but in between is a deep valley. The hole is famous for the fact that patrons sit on and cover up the down slope just under the tee box. As balls fly over their heads on the way to the green, either roars or groans can erupt depending on the trajectory.

People around the tee-box were very gracious and let me scoot Granddaddy up to the very front. Our vantage was perfect. From the high elevation, we could see a vista to the right looking beyond the green of Number 16, across the small lake to its tee box. Georgia pines extended like sentinels back further separating the fairways of Numbers 15 and 17. Azaleas and dogwoods surrounded us and saturated the landscape in every direction.

After a few minutes, the first group of players came to the tee-box. We were within only a few feet as they took their positions and swung their clubs - the sounds, the energy, the wind generated by their efforts - we felt it all.

Granddaddy was stunned at the proximity of the people below sitting on the bank and he fretted that even pros can shank a ball every now and then. But his concern for the well-being of the fans didn't diminish his enthusiasm for everything going on around him.

We were there for about forty-five minutes when Granddaddy checked the oxygen level on his tank and decided we needed to head back to the car. I wheeled him back across Number 5 and out of the gate. My thought was that we would go right back in, but when we got there, he told me he was really tired and didn't feel like he could do any more. After he filled his tank, I helped him into the car, folded up the wheelchair and put it in the trunk. We pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.

As we drove down the Interstate, it didn't take long before Granddaddy fell sound asleep. I observed him, his eyelids fluttering slightly, the faint steady rhythm of the oxygen flowing from the tube into his nostrils. And I thought - what a wonderful thing we had done together that day - just the two of us. We had gone to Augusta National, had eaten pimiento cheese sandwiches, had perched ourselves on the tee box of "Juniper" and shouted with the crowd as shots were hit, had see the beauty of the place and been within a whisper of some of the most famous golfers in the world.

Yes.......we were only there for two hours......but it was the best Masters ever!

The Plot Thickens

Dear Boo and Bubble,

It’s been a bit since I last wrote to you. Much of the time was consumed with a wonderful visit with you at Easter - which is certainly more satisfying than blogging or FaceTiming. I’ve finally vacuumed up the last piece of Easter grass from the carpet and found what I think to be the last surreptitious plastic egg under the couch in the living room.  With the aftermath tucked away, I can now sit in my recliner and catch up on things. 

Ahhhhhhhh……..The Masters.  What a great way to unwind.

You boys are probably too young right now to understand the significance of The Masters golf tournament, but if you stick around with me long enough, you will.  It’s the first of four major tournaments in every year.  What makes a major?  Several things – the history, the prestige, the prize money – oh, and, especially in the case of The Masters – the difficulty in getting tickets.

Augusta National Golf Club hosts the tournament, which makes it unique in the majors, being the only one played each year on the same course.  The hallowed grounds were designed by legendary golfer Bobby Jones and Alister MacKenzie and opened for play in January 1933. The Masters began the following year.

As one of the most famous golf clubs in the world, Augusta National’s membership policies are very exclusive and private – sometimes landing them in the crosshairs of societal progress – but, that’s a topic for another time.   Of all the policies, however, the one that both fascinates and frustrates most is the dispensation of Masters tickets. Some are lucky enough to have earned legacy tickets long ago, before access to the tournament became such a feeding frenzy for spectators hoping to get inside the gates.  For the most part, the general public is relegated to the luck of a lottery system or the whim of a scalper.  It is quite remarkable what some will pay and the extremes to which they will go to obtain tickets.

Even within the club itself, the rules can wreak havoc.  Apparently, tickets come with a membership, but when the member dies, the membership (and the access to tickets) reverts back to the club.  It can not be inherited.  The first time I was fortunate to go to The Masters, I witnessed firsthand both the dilemma and the desperation this policy can cause.

I don’t remember the year, but a co-worker of mine had two tickets for the Friday round and she couldn’t go.  When she offered them to me for free, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.  It didn’t matter if I had to take a sick day or, better yet, get fired……I was headed to The Masters.

Captain and I struck out early on that morning for the hour’s drive from Columbia, SC, to Augusta, GA.  The tournament is always held the second weekend of April, a time when the azaleas and dogwoods are usually in full bloom.  This time was no different.  We walked through the gate into a wonderland of pristinely groomed fairways and greens encompassed by tall Georgia pines hovering over ancient beds of lush Formosa azaleas, their deep fuchsia blossoms in full array.  The white cross petals of the dogwoods dotted the landscape. Above, a luminous blue, cloudless sky framed the whole scene.

We decided to take our folding chairs and set up near the green of the 15^th hole, a 530 yard, par-5 known as Firethorn, that sweeps from the tee into a dogleg left, down an incline to the green guarded by water all along the front.  It’s a good vantage spectator vantage point, because you can see the players’ shots into the green.  Many of them try to make it there in two strokes to position themselves for an eagle.  In doing so, however, they run the risk of landing in the water.  There’s also the added benefit that you can see the tee box for number 16, the 170 yard, par-3 hole named Redbud.

As the day unfolded, the crowd around us grew.  Two ladies set up chairs directly behind us and it wasn’t long after they settled themselves that they began discussing an apparent imminent family crisis over the subject of future Masters tickets.  (I swear this is exactly how it went.)

“You know, mom turns 85 her next birthday.”

“I KNOW……..we’re going to have to figure something out soon.  This is always the one time every year we can all get together and when mom goes, we won’t be able to do that anymore.”

“Well, have you come up with any ideas?”

“I’ve certainly been thinking about it….and this may sound a little far-fetched, but what if, when mom dies, we don’t tell anybody. Then, we have her body taxidermied and hire somebody to drive her around Augusta every now and then so people will see her.”

“Geez…..I don’t know…..if we were ever found out, we could be in real trouble.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Well……..do you know that friend of mom’s, John Traxler, the old bachelor who’s been a member at Augusta National about as long as our folks?”

“Yes.”

“I was thinking…..what if we get him to marry my two-year-old granddaughter Macie.  Then she would technically become a member as his wife and when he died, she would still be a member and have access to the tickets.  Which means we would be set for life.”

I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, so I turned around and asked them if they were joking.  They both looked at me straight in the eye, not a hint of a smile on their lips, like I was the crazed one.

“We’re dead serious.”

I’ve always feared for little Macie and hoped that Mr. Traxler refused the offer.  But, then again, he might have seen the rationale.  It was, after all, Masters tickets they were talking about.