Memories of My Father

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today would have been your great granddaddy Schaefer’s 100^th birthday.  He left this world 22 years ago at the age of 78.  Because he died the month after Captain’s and my 20^th anniversary, I can easily calculate the time that has passed without him.  Many of the postings in The Bridge Project feature stories about him and, in some cases, his own writings.  However, I don’t think I’ve ever taken the time to delve into our relationship or reveal just what he meant to me in every stage of my life.  Perhaps it is fitting that I attempt some reflection in celebration of his century mark.  You may have heard a few of these before, but they are so indelibly threaded through the tapestry of my memories that I owe it to you to repeat them. In doing so, perhaps the two of you will come to understand just what a uniquely special person he was.

I could comment on the broader aspects of Granddaddy’s life – his impact on the community of Greenville; his respect for the profession of law; his support for and guidance of his church, First Baptist; and his far-reaching influence on the students he taught at Furman.  (I was reminded of this latter characteristic recently when Captain helped judge the National Mock Trial Finals at Furman.  At breakfast, we sat with two older gentlemen and when I revealed that I was Granddaddy’s daughter, they shared that he was their all-time favorite professor.  Both insisted that he had facilitated their entry into law school and ultimately made possible their careers as attorneys.)  Even after the passing of so many years, his footprint remains wide and deep in all of these areas.  But, you must understand that, for all of his prominence and significance to others, he cherished his roles as husband and father above all else.  And so, I am going to focus on those memories.

I remember the great train race–

With the window rolled down, I can feel the wind in my face as we race down the long, straight stretch of highway in Louisiana on our way to visit Grandmother Bethany in Houston - trying to outrun the train that speeds along the track paralleling us.  Uncle Bryant and I implore Granddaddy to honk the car horn so that the engineer will blast the train horn in response.  For miles on end – honk, honk – toot, toot. Who knows how fast we are really going – it seems like we’re flying – or how much time is passing – it seems forever.  We are children and in our minds it is the most glorious race in the world. We finally come to the place where the track crosses the road.  We have to stop as the train takes precedent.  Granddaddy tells us to get out of the car.  He hoists me up on his shoulders, Uncle Bryant by his side.  We all wave frantically at the engineer as the train lumbers by.  He waves back and holds the cord of his horn for a long, wailing “tooooooot.”  The sound fades in the distance as the train disappears into the west and the blazing sun.

I remember the cut over my eye -

I am no more than four years old and standing behind my grandmother Mattie as she hoes the small garden plot at the base of the back stoop of our apartment at University Ridge in Greenville.  She doesn’t know I’m there.  As she takes a fierce swipe at a clod of dirt, the pole of the hoe strikes me just above my right eye.  The cut is deep and blood spews down my face.  Horrified, she frantically calls Mamaw Mary, who is in the kitchen, to come outside.  They assess the situation and swoop me up and into the bathroom.  No amount of pressure or compress stops the bleeding and Mamaw decides she better check with the doctor. He suggests that she bring me to his office. Before she leaves the apartment, Mamaw gives Granddaddy a call at work to tell him what happened.  By the time we arrive at the doctor’s, he is already there.

The doctor takes one look at my forehead, now swollen with a purplish goose egg above my eye.  He determines that I must have stitches in order to close the gash.  As the nurse places me on the examining table, Mamaw and Granddaddy position themselves on either side, each taking a hold of a hand to comfort me.  The nurse comes back with a syringe of novacaine.  She preps the needle with a squirt of the drug and then sticks it into the wound to deaden it.  At which point, my big, sturdy father promptly faints dead away and drops to the floor.

I remember the waves in the ocean –

I’m maybe five years old, and we are at Ocean Drive Beach.  Granddaddy is carrying me in his arms out into the water up to his waist.  A small wave lolls its way through us. “Aw, that’s just a baby,” he says. “We’re looking for a granddaddy, Bethie.” 

A little larger wave makes him have to jump a bit and as it slaps against him, salty drops hit my face and mouth.  I giggle and he hugs me close.  “Now, that was a daddy…..and if that was a daddy, the granddaddy can’t be far behind.”  We wait.

“I see it!” He points to a wave building about 50 yards out.  It rolls toward us, climbing higher and higher until I think we will be swallowed up.  “Ready – 1-2-3 – JUMP!”  And we go up together and he lifts me high in his arms as the wave smacks us both, water breaking above our heads and dousing us good.  I sputter to get the salty saliva out of my mouth.  Granddaddy wipes my eyes.

“Now, THAT was a granddaddy!” he yells over the din of the crashing wave.  And I laugh out loud as I look outward for the next one.

I remember cooking the crabs –

We are in the kitchen of our beach rental, Albejose, and have just returned from a very successful crabbing expedition.  Mamaw Mary has several large steamer pots on the stove cultivating a boil as the crabs bubble and brood in buckets on the floor below.  Granddaddy’s job is to grab the crabs with tongs and drop them in the hot water.  On Mamaw’s cue, he reaches down into one of the buckets and grasps the tongs around a crab’s body.  He hoists it up and a string of crabs slowly arises, their claws clamped together, all desperately clinging to one another like a streamer of cutout paper dolls.  Inevitably – and intentionally – Granddaddy shakes the bottom crab off the chain and it hits the floor, scampering in what seems like every direction at once.  This sets off pandemonium as Mamaw jumps around the kitchen and we children double over in laughter.

I remember the one-legged dragon –

It’s December 31st and all the neighborhood children gather at 3 Lakecrest for our annual party to say goodbye to the old year and ring in the new.  Mamaw and Granddaddy much prefer coordinating a fun evening for the kids as to attending late night adult festivities.  After playing Bounce for the Bounty (bouncing a tennis ball on the floor in the living room and hoping it lands in one of the vessels containing various and sundry prizes), we gather at the dining room table for our rip-roaring, girls against the guys, game of Up Jinks and for Granddaddy’s much-anticipated annual telling of a tale about the one-legged dragon, Hooray.  He wraps a napkin around his hand, leaving only an index finger exposed.  The poor dragon uses his one good leg to drag himself around the table as the story unfolds.

This year, Hooray must endure mystery soup every evening when he comes home from work.  Mrs. Hooray found a bargain on soup at the grocery store.  The only catch to the bargain is none of the soup cans have labels.  He never knows what she will serve him.  Will it be Courage Soup?  Or Humility Soup?  Or Handsome Soup?  Or Ugly Soup? Poor Hooray!!

(Granddaddy doesn’t tell us that the story is based in truth.  Mamaw Mary found an ad in the newspaper for soup priced at one penny per can.  When she arrived at the store, sure enough there were no labels.  But, that didn’t stop her from buying a dollar’s worth – 100 cans!)

 I remember the Miss SC pageant –

I am a Freshman in college and representing Greenville in the Miss South Carolina Pageant.  Many people in the pageant circuit think that I might have a good chance of winning because of my talent – classical ballet.   I try not to listen, but I do believe if I can win the talent preliminary, I can contend. 

My performance is on the third night of competition and the contestant right before me is Miss Cherokee County.  I’m not particularly worried about her because, after all, she is only going to be clogging for her talent.  It will pale in comparison to my culturally superior ballet routine.  She begins and, as I watch helplessly from the wings, her rendition of this uncouth form of dance is so rousing that she brings the entire audience to its feet – including the judges.  It is, as they say, a very hard act to follow, and she wins the preliminary.

When I see Granddaddy afterwards, all I want is solace.  Instead of consoling me with the salve of an over-protective parent, he gently but painfully reminds me that I didn’t deserve to win – not if the point was to entertain.

I remember advice on love –

It is Christmas day of 1971 and my boyfriend of almost seven years fails to put in much of an appearance, coming to the house late in the morning and staying only for a short while after dropping off an unwanted cookbook as my gift.  Although I make a valiant effort to hide my hurt feelings, Granddaddy can see right through me.  Later in the day, after we finish our turkey and dressing, he invites me to take a walk.  As we stroll up Lakecrest Drive, he offers some fatherly advice.  “Bethie, I know it’s really none of my business, but I feel I must share with you what I’m thinking.  I’m a man and, if there’s one thing I know, it’s what a man does when he loves a woman. If a man loves a woman, he can’t stay away….. he only wants to be with her and nowhere else……and this doesn’t seem to be happening in your case…..your boyfriend seems to want to be any place else.  As your father, I think that you deserve so much more.” 

His counsel that day helps me recognize what I already knew and gives me the courage to end the relationship and move on with my life.

I remember being homesick -

It’s 1972 and I have actually left home (having gone to college only 10 miles from 3 Lakecrest) for the very first time in my life at the ripe old age of 25.  I move to Jacksonville, FL, to go to work for Fidelity Federal Savings and Loan.  At first, I am thrilled to have made the break and be on a new solo adventure.  But, before long a most intense case of homesickness sets in that fills me with angst, self-doubt and depression.  I decide to tuck my tail and come back to Greenville, instructing Granddaddy and Mamaw to put some feelers out about jobs. 

It’s a Friday afternoon, raining like crazy in Jacksonville, and I have my car packed to make the drive to Greenville after I leave work.  The trip should get me home by midnight.  I strike out, heading West on I-20 to pick up I-75 North into South Georgia towards Atlanta.  The weather deteriorates and, by the time I cross the Georgia line and approach the small town of Cordele, the rain turns to sleet.  My car skids on the interstate, forcing me to get off in Cordele and check in at a Howard Johnson’s motel.  The receptionist tells me it is a good thing that I stopped – the highway patrol had closed the interstate fifteen miles to the North.

Convinced that I will be able to continue to Greenville the next morning, I retire to my room, call Granddaddy and Mamaw to update them, and fall asleep.  Dawn brings the reality of 15 inches of snow and a complete shutdown of South Georgia.  I can’t go North or South. 

For the next 48 hours, I am forced to wrestle with the demons of homesickness all alone in my room.  The sustenance I so desperately seek from the physical presence of my parents is replaced with collect telephone calls to them almost every hour.  Granddaddy answers every time and he listens patiently as I try to talk through sobs and gulps.  He tells me that he understands.  He reassures me that what I am experiencing happens to everyone at some point in their lives.  He reaffirms that I am sane, loved, respected and strong.

At some point in these expensive sessions that are probably more painful for him to hear than for me to express, he guides me to a profound conclusion – “Bethie, your mother and I will do whatever you want us to do.  We’ll make calls and find out if anybody has anything to offer you.  But, I’m just thinking……wouldn’t it be better if you wait and come back to Greenville when it’s from a point of strength, not weakness?”

Somehow, his words resonate through the blur of my hopelessness and my heart fills with determination to beat my way out of the wet paper bag of self-pity that envelops me.  When the interstate re-opens, I check out of the Howard Johnson’s and head back to Jacksonville with the intent of growing up.

(Unknown to any of us at the time, a letter was on the way from Furman University requesting that I interview for the position of Alumni Director.  The opportunity came to me completely out of the blue and it gave me the chance to return to Greenville with my head held high – just like Granddaddy hoped.  I often wonder if the universe converged in that snowstorm to stop me from myself!)

I remember advice on marriage –

It's near Thanksgiving in 1973.  Granddaddy and I are sitting in the kitchen at 3 Lakecrest having a chat. I'm trying to convey that I am in love with Captain and anticipate that he will be forthcoming with an engagement ring soon.  Granddaddy listens to me intently.  He doesn't offer congratulations or enthusiastic inane remarks.  Instead, he adopts a pensive mood.....and then he asks me a most unusual question.

Beth.....are you comfortable being in the same room together and not saying a word to each other?"

I have no point of reference at the time to understand the nature or the significance of the question.  Being married 42 years now, it's meaning is quite clear.

I remember the toast - 

For the three months leading up to Captain’s and my wedding, Granddaddy Schaefer is recuperating from a major heart attack.  His doctor advises him to limit all activities, stay home and rest.  This means that he is unable to attend the many festivities surrounding the occasion.  He is determined to gather his strength so that he can walk me down the aisle and give me away.  

The doctor gives him clearance to attend the rehearsal dinner on the eve of the wedding.  We all gather at the Poinsett Club for a beautiful party hosted by great Grandaddy Cottrell and Mamaw Kat.  After dinner, glasses clink and toasts begin.  When it appears that everyone has had their say, Granddaddy Schaefer rises from his chair, tapping his glass with a spoon.  A hush falls over the group.  It is a moment we all wished and hoped for.

He begins – “May all their Tallys have whackers!!!  Save one……and may she be the embodiment of my Beth.”

It is vintage Granddaddy and the room collapses in laughter.

And I remember when your mom and Aunt Bee were born and he becomes Granddaddy –

I think of how he transforms so miraculously into the perfect grandfather and how, when Mamaw Mary dies, he spends the time and energy to be in touch with his “brown-eyed” and “blue-eyed” babies……how letters appear in the mailbox addressed exactly that way.  I remember the times he comes to Columbia to see on occasions great and small…..especially the Christmases he spends with us…..and the one Christmas our movie of choice is “Prince of Tides” and how he squirms sitting between your mom and Aunt Bee when some of the scenes unfold…..and the particular Christmas when he puts all of us on the train to New York City late at night so that we won’t have to leave our car at the station.

And then…..at the end, when he is sick with cancer, I remember the commencement address –

We are in his bedroom and, too weak to give the speech himself, he schools me on delivering his commencement address for the 1994 graduating class of Furman, insisting that I recite every word as he has written it – no exceptions, no embellishments, no editing of any kind.  Of course, his words are so appropriate and aptly composed, there is no need for me to suggest any of my own. 

He tries to wait up for me the evening of the commencement, but I find him sound asleep when I get home.  I wake him only to tell him how much the audience enjoyed the speech …. And to confess that I added a personal comment at the end……how I regretted that they missed the opportunity to hear him deliver the remarks himself….because he is “an extraordinary human being and an amazing father.”

This is but the tip of the iceberg –

My dear boys, I could write so much more.  Each one of these memories seems to uncover others and I am relishing them all.  But, I think by my reminiscences, you will come to understand just how important Granddaddy Schaefer was to me.  I am so grateful, also, that he lived long enough to be a significant influence on your mom and Aunt Bee.  When you get a little older, perhaps they can share with you some of their stories.

I guess it is apropos, then, to say on the occasion of Granddaddy’s 100^th birthday – I am very glad that he was born!