Woman of the Night?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Last night, Captain reminded me of a something that happened a long time ago, back in the 1980’s when he served in the S.C. Legislature as the representative of House District 30.  I had totally forgotten about it, but couldn’t wait to share it with you because it was one of the funniest moments in my life and truly one of those situations that you couldn’t think up - even in the wildest of imaginations.

At the time your mom was in elementary school and Aunt Bee in kindergarten – very much like the two of you now.  We were living in Gaffney and, during the legislative session, Captain would have to drive to Columbia to spend three days a week.  In those days, lobbyists (the people who represent various interest groups and are responsible for conveying the concerns of the group to elected officials in order to influence legislation) pretty much had a free reign as to their interactions with legislators, all made copasetic by a rather loose set of self-regulatory laws of disclosure.  Almost every evening while in session, there would be some social event or another hosted either by a single lobbying firm or by an association of some sort like the Automobile Dealers Association or the Truckers Association or the Lumberman’s Association. Gaffney was just far enough away to make it impossible for me to join Captain for any of these occasions unless I could make overnight arrangements for your mom and Aunt Bee.  

Finally, the opportunity came.  The South Carolina Association of Optometry announced their annual legislative symposium and cocktail party.  Captain learned that two Gaffney optometrists and their wives would be attending and he asked if they would give me a ride home that night should he be able to find me a way to Columbia.  They were agreeable.

As luck would have it, a very close friend, Jeanne Husman, needed to drive to Columbia for an afternoon meeting at the University of South Carolina.  The timing was perfect.  After lining up a neighbor to bring your mom and Aunt Bee home from school, I coordinated with a babysitter to be there when they arrived.   About 1:00 PM, Jeanne picked me up in her blue van.  Since I wasn’t spending the night, I didn’t have a suitcase.  I carried my purse, a makeup kit, my high heels and a hot purple cocktail dress on a hanger slung over my shoulder.  For the trip down, I wore some comfortable shorts and a tank top with open-toed espadrilles – a type of sandal with a high cork heel in fashion then.

Jeanne and I had a wonderful ride down.  We talked and laughed non-stop.  I was excited about getting away if only for an afternoon and evening to be with Captain in his new environment in Columbia.  The trip flew by and, before we knew it, Jeanne pulled the van up to the curb in front of the Heart of Columbia motel – right across the street from the state capitol building on Hugee Street – where Captain stayed during the week.  Trust me, there were much nicer options for legislators, but Captain chose the Heart of Columbia because it was cheap enough to be covered by the per diem he received for his expenses.  The lobby of the motel looked out through a huge picture window onto the street and the male receptionist could see quite clearly anything that might be going on outside.

I hopped out of the front passenger seat of the van and pulled open the sliding door on the side to retrieve my dress, shoes and makeup kit.  Thanking Jeanne profusely, I closed the door and she sped away.  I proceeded to make my way into the lobby and approached the desk.

“Hi,” I said enthusiastically to the man sitting there. “I’m Mrs. Tally and I would like a key to his room.”

Without even looking up at me, he answered drolly – “Sure lady, that’s what they all say.”

His comment stunned me so much, I’m sure my mouth totally dropped open.  

“What are you talking about?  I AM Mrs. Tally!  Really.......I am.”

I’m thinking…….look at me.  Do I look like a hooker?  I mean……I don’t know much about such things, but look at me……here in my shorts and espadrilles with a party dress on a hanger and high heels threaded through my fingers…….

At which point, I dropped everything on the counter and fumbled through my purse to find my wallet so that I could show him my copy of our family photo for the Limestone Presbyterian Church directory.

“See,” I said, “that’s Mr. Tally and that’s me and those are our two daughters, Mary Kathleen and Lyn.”

The chagrin slowly registered on his face as the realization set in that I was, in fact, who I said I was.

“I am so sorry,” he sputtered.  “Mr. Tally didn’t mention that you would be coming in today.  I am really so sorry.”

I laughed out loud then at the whole incongruity of the scene – how he, looking through the plate glass window out onto the street had seen this van pull up and a woman get out, gathering her stuff for the evening and waltzing into the lobby to announce who she was.  And conversely, the naïve wife on the outside going through the innocent motions of coming to join my husband.

“I truly am sorry,” he reiterated.

“Don’t be,” I responded. “Actually…….I should thank you.  Yes, thank you for protecting my husband from the likes of me!”

This finally evoked a smile from him.  Over the next couple of years, he and I became best buddies!

Good Friday

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today is Good Friday, the most somber of holy days in the Christian faith.  After having been sentenced to death by Pontius Pilate in an ancient equivalent of a coin toss, Jesus Christ was paraded through the streets of Jerusalem bearing his own death cross on his shoulders while a derisive crowd mocked him and shouted “Hail, King of the Jews” as he made his way outside of the city walls to a hillside called Golgatha – appropriately translated as “Place of the Skulls.” A sarcastic crown of thorns adorned his head, the pricks of which sent rivulets of blood down his face.  When he reached Golgatha, soldiers ordered him to lay down the cross and they proceeded to stretch his body upon the vertical piece, arranging one foot atop the other and tying his ankles tightly to the wood.  They then secured each arm to the crosspiece.  With metal spikes of sufficient length to penetrate his feet and hands, they pounded his extremities onto the cross and raised him upright, sticking the base of the cross into a hole deep enough to sustain its weight.  And then…….whether out of compassion to end the agony or out of contempt for Jesus…..one of the soldiers took his spear and pierced it into Jesus’ side.

His cross was raised up between that of two common thieves. It was a most gruesome death…..an ignominious end to the life of someone whose only crime had been the questioning of religious authority and the offering of a new interpretation of man’s relationship to God.  Little did his persecutors know that they had set in motion a sequence of events that ring like a clarion bell until this day.

I must tell you that whenever Good Friday occurs, I am drawn to one of the most significant memories of my life.  It happened accidentally, but as these things go, upon reflection probably providentially.  Captain and I were in Antigua, Guatemala, - along with your mom, dad, Aunt Bee and a good friend of hers, Emily Lynn – to witness the weeklong Easter celebration known as Semana Santa meaning - “Holy Week.”  I will write to you another time about our total experience, but for now I want to concentrate on what occurred on Good Friday.

The population of Antigua swells to over 100,000 during Holy Week and that Friday was no exception.  It was around noon.  We were tiring of the crowds and the temperature was rising as well, so we decided to seek shelter somewhere out of the sun.  Noticing a flow of people into the doors of a small cathedral, we decided to follow along.  The inviting coolness of the thick stone walls called out, but there was no way to know what we were about to experience. 

The Crucifixion of Christ
(Words by Meemaw, pictures by Captain)

At noon on Good Friday, the sanctuary of Escuela de Christo is packed with people who have come to witness the reenactment of the crucifixion of Christ.  Young  and old alike wait until chimes somberly ring the hour.  The service starts with the introduction of the patrones from the church who comprise the official committee to oversee the service.  They are led by priests to a vault at the back of the church where a sculpture of Christ called Senor Sepultado rests on a bier.

With tympani beating and incense burning, the priests raise the sculpture off of the bier and place it in the extended arms of the patrones.  The Sepultado typifies Colonial sculptures prevalent throughout Antigua, his body carved meticulously from fine cedar wood and a ceramic finish that creates a flesh-like appearance.  Real hair flows from the top of his head.  

The patrones deliberately make their way through the crowd to the steady roll  of a snare drum.  With an eerie sense of reality, they progress towards the altar where an elaborate backdrop depicting Golgatha hangs from the ceiling covering the entire back wall of the actual sanctuary.  The images of the two thieves flank a sunburst on either side.  Once at the altar, the patrones relinquish Senor Sepultado to the priests.  Quiet envelops the crowd like a holy mantle; the only sound comes from the drum.  The priests place Senor Sepultado on a cross and secure his hands and feet with rope.  

With each haunting roll of the snare, the cross is raised until fully upright with Christ hanging at the center of the sunburst.  There is a final roll of the drum – absolute silence.   

The reverence and respect is palpable.  Other than the introduction of the patrones, the entire ceremony has been wordless.  Perhaps there just are no words.  Everyone quietly files out of the church into the bright sunlight – subdued from what they have just witnessed, but secure in the eternal hopefulness manifested on Easter Sunday.