Just the Facts, Ma'am

 

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Well…today I turn 73 years old. Can you even comprehend that? Almost three quarters of a century behind me…and who knows how much more to go. It’s been quite a roller coaster ride since my last birthday, our world upended by a virus that has taken over 275,000 lives and rapidly counting. By a presidential election so bizarre in its aftermath that one wonders if we’re living in someone’s horror novel. By the killing of a black man by a policeman in front of our very eyes that left the country reeling with protests, counterprotests, and further violence. These are perhaps the scariest times I have ever known which says a lot because I have seen some quite frightening events in all these years. My emotions have ridden that coaster as well. I am left flummoxed, anxious, angry, stunned…but by and large, confused. As I sit here in my chair looking out the window, the weather seems to be in the same state—overcast and dreary…too cold to rain, but too warm to snow…so doing neither.

As opposed to the attack on 9/11 of our country, this moment of multiple crises is not a galvanizing one…one that snaps us all to attention and puts our petty differences aside to unify us as citizens of a single nation with a singular purpose. I swear, it seems almost like our very existence requires an enemy and, absent some foreign entity to fulfill that purpose, we just turn on each other. This muddled mess, to me, is more akin to the quagmire of Vietnam and the unrest surrounding civil rights in the 60’s, but on steroids. I can only surmise that today’s environment of nonstop “news” channels and social media are those steroids, creating a chasm of public opinion so wide that friends and family irreparably torn apart because they can no longer see or hear each other.

We passed a billboard outside of Columbia, SC, the other day coming home from our Thanksgiving family gathering that pretty much sums up for me how out of kilter this situation has become. It read “Facts ≠ Truth.” Now that is quite a perplexing equation and I am struggling to determine exactly what it means. Is it implying that facts are subject to interpretation such as words, paintings or feelings? Is it suggesting the question “What does this fact mean to you?” When you juxtapose this equation next to the very definition of a fact— a thing that is known or proved to be true—it is one totally at odds with itself. I find the suggestion preposterous.

Let’s analyze further, starting with the basics. The earth is round…the earth circles the sun…the moon circles the earth…gravity holds us to the earth…the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Are these facts the truth? I would proffer that they are, and I don’t hear much skepticism out there about them. But if you’re trying to confuse someone, you might try to convince them that they are not. Now, let’s look at another set of facts. Covid 19 has been the cause of death for over 275,000 Americans. A policeman’s knee held on George Floyd’s neck for over eight minutes caused his death. Joe Biden won 306 electoral votes. Are these facts true? Again, I would answer yes, and you shouldn’t be able to separate them from the reality that they are. You can’t state that Covid 19 caused 275,000 deaths but it’s a hoax…that Joe Biden won 306 electoral votes, but he didn’t win the presidency…that George Floyd had a knee in his neck for over eight minutes but that didn’t kill him. There are no “buts” with facts. They are the truth.

I have no idea who paid to display this proclamation on a billboard, nor can I surmise their motivation, but it suspiciously appears to be an attempt to sow uncertainty. And quite honestly, the last thing we need right now is somebody doing that.

Salutation

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I woke up yesterday morning to find this post of your mother's on FaceBook. It was such a moving tribute to my father (her grandfather and your great grandfather) that I asked permission of her to include it here in The Bridge Project.

Two things that struck me -- first, it is so interesting to read someone else's words describing one of the people you loved most in your own life; and second...how important it is to communicate your support and encouragement to someone you care about, knowing that they will carry both throughout life.

In some respects this blog is intended to do just that for the two of you. But it pales in comparison to the time and energy Granddaddy Schaefer shared with your mom by writing her in his own hand, every week, those many years ago.

Salutation to the Dawn

Look to this day!

For it is live, the very life of life

In its brief course

Lie all the verities and realities of your existence;

The bliss of growth;

The glory of action; 

The splendor of achievement;

For yesterday is but a dream;

And tomorrow is only a vision;

But today, well lived, makes every yesterday

A dream of happiness,

And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

--Sanskrit

Granddaddy Schaefer sent this poem to me when I was in my first year at Barnard. Little chickadee from South Carolina doing her best to believe she deserved her spot at the Ivy League elite (that wasn't just due to grades and geographic balancing at a public high school in my state). When you know your place and position, you understand your relationship with those who came from the top of the US Prep School Elite. Awareness of others relative to yourself is a marker of both intelligence and street smarts...don't dismiss it!

Granddaddy Schaefer sent me handwritten letters weekly. Not dictated. From his own pen. He took the time to show up to me in support of my journey, one he knew as a GIANT leap for me. I didn't realize at the time that he understood because he had taken a similar leap himself.

I idolize my Granddaddy Schaefer, even knowing his many flaws that I learned as I grew into adulthood. His belief in me and his way of showing up when my parents were in a dubious state of mind about what to let do...well...I know he argued my side (even when I didn't know there was one that could/should be argued).

The Salutation to the Dawn was one of his favorite poems. May it be a support to those in a time of transition, struggle, or peace. The words resonate regardless of your station of position in life. And maybe Granddaddy Schaefer's spirit will argue your side in the nether and you'll know the victory of having his wisdom and courage to speak up and influence your path.

                                                                                                Mary Kathleen Tally Yeargin

I Failed

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I want you to pay special attention to the words on this post. They are not mine, but were written by Captain as he personally grapples with the issues swirling around us today. It is a self-reflection that doesn't surprise me...it is one of his finest qualities.

Reconciliation and Redemption

by John Tally

“I’ve had a turn on awaking this morning of the men who were my admiration and wonder in the days of Calhoun... It was unfortunate that politics and politicians were so exclusively dominant over the minds of young men of the Palmetto State ... We were fired, thus, unhealthfully... Had literature, science, art, commerce and agriculture — especially agriculture— been our attraction ... substituted for the passional partisanship ... what a yield there would have been of the fruits and flowers for enrichment of the world of mind..." (From Dual Overheat by Rev. Joseph Cottrell in the Carolina Spartan, Spartanburg, SC 1892. https://ufdc.ufl.edu/AA00026239/00013/46?search=calhoun)

Rev Joseph Benson Cottrell, my great, great grandfather, grew up in South Carolina. After graduating from The Citadel and moving to Alabama he was ordained in 1854 by the Methodist Church in Tuskegee. He was a prolific writer and outspoken about the issues of his time. It was quoted in his obituary of 1895 that Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy of Southern States, said Cottrell was “the most eloquent defender of secession” of the states from the union. Yet, in 1865, five years after defending secession, Joseph Cottrell stood before the Methodist conference in Montgomery, Alabama and defended the “full affranchisement of the negro.” By 1870 Solomon Deary, a black minister and educator, was recorded as a member of Cottrell’s household in the census of Bullock county, Alabama.

In an article entitled Black Shadow dated April 1882, Cottrell wrote: “Many of us before the war, and for time subsequent thereto, believed that every negro had a divine right to a white man for a master, and benevolently strove to secure him his franchise, but we see it differently now. For one, I rejoice in the freedom of the negro. Let there be the same chivalry on his behalf now as there was on behalf of what we deemed his right to his old relation to his master.”

Fast forward a hundred years. While serving in the South Carolina House of Representatives I was given the opportunity to cast a vote to remove the Confederate battle flag from atop the South Carolina state house. I voted to keep it flying. That vote was used to seal my defeat for reelection by distributing a record of that vote among the black churches on the eve of the election. My fault. I should have voted to remove the flag, but I didn’t.

Having grown up in the south I have been part of the failure to acknowledge and remedy the “Black Shadow” that continues today. My grandmother held the Florida delegation in the 1948 Democratic convention when the Dixiecrats walked out protesting the call for equal rights. (See blog post dated Saturday, November 24, 2012, entitled "A Steel Magnolia in the Family.") My brother as a student at Birmingham Southern in the 1960's spoke out for civil rights. But when given that opportunity, I failed.

My father-in-law, Schaefer Kendrick, wrote several years later that even though we southerners embrace the politeness for which our south has been noted, we continued to wave the confederate battle flag as a symbol of heritage while a large portion of our population saw it as a reminder of oppression and racism. Ultimately the flag was removed from atop the state house, though it was still flying on the grounds.

I believe there are many other statues and symbols of the “Black Shadow” in public places that more appropriately should be move to museums or confederate cemeteries. The removal of these symbols from the public square is just the beginning. We must learn to treat everyone with respect no matter their race or religion. Reconciliation and redemption can only come by rejecting the policies of division that have existed in the past and still flourish today. Stand up and be heard.

Crush the Cornerstone

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We are living through some very difficult and roiling times right now. Once again, our country seems to be going through yet another iteration of its grappling with the aftermath of the American Civil War and the eternally linked issue of civil rights for people of color. You’d think 150 years is a sufficient amount of time for most any wound to heal and for such matters to be sorted out, but alas, not in this case. (I alluded to this in my last post called “The Merry-Go-Round.”)

At least the debate this time seems to have brought some tiny shift of focus and the questions raised are of a slightly different nature. For the first time that I can remember there is serious discussion about whether military bases of the United States should logically bear the names of men who made the conscious decision to secede from and fight against the very same United States. And, seemingly untouchable yet controversial statues honoring Confederate leadership in communities across the country are now coming down.

Perhaps the most intriguing difference this time for me, though, is the overwhelming sense of ignorance that I feel upon learning for the first time about significant events in the history of our country…events experienced by hundreds of thousands of people whose existence was relegated to the underground of an alternate universe and, therefore, never brought to the attention of people like me through any incorporation in my formal education. As a college history major, I am embarrassed and mortified. And because of this mortification, I am determined to make sure that you do not suffer the same lack of awareness.

The history of a country cannot…and should not…be bifurcated by race. What happens to any of us, happens to all of us. Those who officially record events for posterity cannot choose which ones happened and which did not. No matter the effort, there is no sufficient whitewash to erase reality. Sooner or later, the whispers of truth are given the microphone by uncontrollable circumstances. We are in such a moment right now…and I have learned about these things.

(With credits to Wikipedia and JSTOR/Daily)

Tulsa, Oklahoma’s Greenwood District — In 1921, Tulsa, Oklahoma’s Greenwood District, known as Black Wall Street, was one of the most prosperous African American communities in the United States. But on May 31 of that year, the Tulsa Tribune reported that a black man, Dick Rowland, attempted to rape a white woman, Sarah Page. Whites in the area refused to wait for the investigative process to play out, sparking two days of unprecedented racial violence. Thirty-five city blocks went up in flames, 300 people died, and 800 were injured. Defense of white female virtue was the expressed motivation for the collective racial violence.

Juneteenth — Juneteenth is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States. Dating back to 1865, it was on June 19^th that the Union soldiers, led by Major General Gordon Granger, landed at Galveston, Texas with news that the war had ended and that the enslaved were now free. Note that this was two and a half years after President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation - which had become official January 1, 1863. The Emancipation Proclamation had little impact on the Texans due to the minimal number of Union troops to enforce the new Executive Order. However, with the surrender of General Lee in April of 1865, and the arrival of General Granger’s regiment, the forces were finally strong enough to influence and overcome the resistance.

The Wilmington Coup of 1898 — Also known as the Wilmington Insurrection or the Wilmington Massacre of 1898, it occurred in Wilmington, North Carolina, on Thursday, November 10, 1898. It is considered a turning point in post-Reconstruction North Carolina politics. The event initiated an era of more severe racial segregation and effective disenfranchisement of African Americans throughout the South, a shift already underway since passage by Mississippi of a new constitution in 1890, raising barriers to voter registration. Laura Edwards wrote in Democracy Betrayed (2000): "What happened in Wilmington became an affirmation of white supremacy not just in that one city, but in the South and in the nation as a whole," as it affirmed that invoking "whiteness" eclipsed the legal citizenship, individual rights, and equal protection under the law that blacks were guaranteed under the Fourteenth Amendment.

The white press in Wilmington originally described the event as a race caused by black. However, over time, with more facts publicized, the event has come to be seen as a coup d’etat, the violent overthrow of a duly elected government, by a group of white supremacists. Multiple causes brought it about. It is claimed to be the only such incident in American history, (other late Reconstruction Era violence did not result in a direct 'coup' or removal and replacement of elected officials by unelected individuals).

The coup occurred after the state's white Southern Democrats conspired and led a mob of 2,000 white men to overthrow the legitimately elected local government. They expelled opposition black and white political leaders from the city, destroyed the property and businesses  of black citizens built up since the end of the Civil War, including the only black newspaper in the city, and killed an estimated 60 to more than 300 people.

Alexander H. Stephens Cornerstone Speech — Delivered extemporaneously by the vice president of the Confederacy on March 21, 1861, in Savannah, GA, a few weeks before the Civil War began, this speech explained implicitly and without equivocation that slavery was the cornerstone of the motivation for the South’s rebellion against the union of the United States. It began:

“The Constitution has put at rest forever all the agitating questions relating to our peculiar institution—African slavery as it exists among us—the proper status of the negro in our form of civilization. This was the immediate cause of the late rupture and present revolution. Jefferson, in his forecast, had anticipated this, as the "rock upon which the old Union would split." He was right. What was conjecture with him, is now a realized fact. But whether he fully comprehended the great truth upon which that rock stood and stands, may be doubted. The prevailing ideas entertained by him and most of the leading statesmen at the time of the formation of the old Constitution were, that the enslavement of the African was in violation of the laws of nature; that it was wrong in principle, socially, morally and politically. It was an evil they knew not well how to deal with; but the general opinion of the men of that day was, that, somehow or other, in the order of Providence, the institution would be evanescent and pass away. Those ideas, however, were fundamentally wrong. They rested upon the assumption of the equality of races. This was an error. It was a sandy foundation, and the idea of a Government built upon it—when the "storm came and the wind blew, it fell."

Stephens contended that advances and progress in the sciences proved that the 18th-century view that "all men are created equal" was erroneous and that all men were not created equal. He stated that advances in science proved that enslavement of African Americans by white men was justified and that it coincided with the Bible’s teachings. He also stated that the Confederacy was the first country in the world founded on the principle of racial supremacy.

“Our new government is founded upon exactly the opposite ideas; its foundations are laid, its cornerstone rests, upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery, subordination to the superior race, is his natural and normal condition. This, our new government, is the first, in the history of the world, based upon this great physical, philosophical, and moral truth. This truth has been slow in the process of its development, like all other truths in the various departments of science.”

Stephens stated that the Confederacy's belief in human inequality was adhering to the "laws of nature":

“May we not therefore look with confidence to the ultimate universal acknowledgement of the truths upon which our system rests? It is the first government ever instituted upon the principles in strict conformity to nature, and the ordination of Providence, in furnishing the materials of human society. Many governments have been founded upon the principle of the subordination and serfdom of certain classes of the same race; such were and are in violation of the laws of nature. Our system commits no such violation of nature's laws.”

(I must tell you, boys, that these words are abhorrent to me. They are lies in every sense—moral, Biblical, political, societal. It is just staggering that we are still trying to beat them down.)

In closing, I found this editorial in today’s Washington Post written by Kathleen Parker. She is an acquaintance of our family—your mom used to babysit her son. I found it somewhat apropos to the topic of the South and how slow its customs are to fall.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/in-south-carolinas-economy-of-shame-the-good-guys-wear-masks/2020/06/26/9fd5a250-b7da-11ea-a510-55bf26485c93_story.html

The Merry-Go-Round

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Back in March of 2013, I posted a blog to The Bridge Project entitled "Evolution." The impetus for it was the Supreme Court decision on marriage equality. and focused on the process of evolving itself. As I sit here on this Sunday morning, May 31, 2020, with the sun shining so brightly on the green lushness surrounding me, you'd think there would not be a care in the world. But outside the bubble of comfort in which I exist, the broader world seems to be falling apart. Demonstrations and protests over the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis, MN, have exploded into violence and destruction calling for a massive response from law enforcement and national guard units in many states. In and of themselves, these events cause such great sadness in my heart. However, the more compounding hurt comes from the realization that this spin of the civil rights merry-go-round just continues to go on and on without making any progress whatsover. We just seem to end up in the same place...getting off our horse at the same spot where we got on. 

I feel the need to resurrect "Evolution" today and modify the words a bit to fit the situation. As in many of my blog posts, your great granddaddy Schaefer is the inspiration.

Evolution II --

In my mind’s dictionary, the word “evolve” means to “move from one perception to another based upon bits of information gathered along the way.”  The process can apply to all aspects of life, from the trivial like grits to more weighty issues like the ones currently before the court.  

We are all born into sets of circumstances or moments in time that proffer a cultural baseline from which we begin. Sometimes, the advancements in science and technology force a relatively easy change. We now know something that we didn’t before and this new knowledge develops our thoughts to higher levels. To ignore growth through discovery is like opting for leaches over penicillin. 

The far more difficult evolution, however, is that of thought or opinion on the values of society. Perhaps the truth of this lies in the fact that a nuanced shift in how one sees the world can modify longstanding, closely held attitudes. Oftentimes, this occurrence creates conflict in families and extended communities. The ruptures can be so severe not even time can heal them. In the history of our country, this is particularly true in the context of civil rights.

Much of the impetus for cultural evolution comes from life’s experiences. Sometimes these emerge from a very personal source. The new-found awareness of private consequences can into a broader agenda for those he doesn’t even know.

Sometimes, however, the experience is externally driven….sort of like Paul’s Damascus Road.  Your great, great granddaddy Schaefer encountered two such events in his life that began his evolution on civil rights for African-Americans in 1936 and catapulted him into the arena of cultural change 30 years later.  When he was 77 years old, he wrote about them.

“In my life there were two episodes that radically altered my view on racial matters.  The first occurred in 1936 at Winthrop College.  A mock meeting of the League of Nations was held by the International Relations Clubs of the colleges in this state, the subject being Hitler’s treatment of the Jews.

I got the floor, and in righteous indignation I indicted Hitler and the German people, cataloguing the manifold acts of The Third Reich that made the Jews a sub-human species.  As I walked back to my seat to the applause of the delegates, I felt good, I even felt righteous (which I have since learned is a dangerous state).

A German exchange student got the floor after me.  He as the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Aryan that Hitler envisioned would sire his mater-race.  He was not only handsome, but also he was a dynamic speaker whose English was impeccable and sarcasm devastating.  He took my words and the cataloguing I had done and simply changed Jew to Negro of the South.  He was diabolical; I was demolished.

The next episode occurred in the railway station in Houston in 1945.  I was on my way to a naval assignment in the Pacific and had taken Mary to be with her mother, who lived in Houston.  Mary was pregnant with Bryant.  We were standing on the concourse that ran adjacent to the restaurant waiting for my troop train; and agonizing over saying good-bye.

Shortly a train arrived that had some 30 German prisoners of war, all officers and Hitler’s finest.  Their posture, movements and demeanor exuded arrogance.  The MP’s marched them into the restaurant where they sat at tables covered with linens and served by waitresses, all white.

About this time, there arrived a train carrying an all-black company of Logistic Support Troops (the Navy’s euphemism for stevedores).  Like me they were on their way to serve Uncle Sam’s Navy wherever they were ordered.

Because of the Texas Jim Crow law, they could not be fed in the restaurant.  There was a window between the restaurant and concourse and these troops were marched by this window and handed out milk and sandwiches.  They could see through the window the POWs sitting at the tables being served.

I wondered at the time; if I were one of those observing POWs being served on the other side of the window, what would my attitude be toward the country in whose uniform I was serving?  I, also, wondered what the Nazis were thinking, and whether one of them might be the exchange student who so humbled me at Winthrop.”

Great granddaddy’s painstaking evolution led him to a leadership role in the battle for integration of the1970’s. Both of you will evolve, each in your own way….and that’s okay…as long as you channel it for a broader good.

You Reap What You Sow

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Unless you like torrential rain and swirling winds, the weather here today is miserable. And so, like on other such days I’ve resorted to combing through boxes that have been laying around for years in the hopes of finding what should be kept and what should be purged. Most times this routine produces nothing surprising, but on occasion I come across a real unexpected…and long forgotten…jewel. Today’s treasure hunt revealed a small, blue composition book that from what I can surmise by the entries in it, I must have bought in Belize around 2006. At that time, Captain and I were cruising on our sailboat Up Jinks.

The handwritten scribblings are random, and they bounce around from recollections of our travels throughout Belize and Guatemala to original lyrics of songs and poetic endeavors on my part. Many are seeds of ideas that later blossomed into full blown articles for the travel website we published at the time. It’s really interesting to reconnect to words penned fourteen years ago and see how they refresh forgotten memories and events.

I want to share one entry with you and then I’ll make my point afterwards. (Meemaw always has a point, you know!)

March 22, 2006 in Placencia, Belize –

Witnessed something today at the dinghy dock in Placencia. I was sitting in our dinghy while Captain was buying gas and filling the sunshower bag with water.

“Jesus Christ!!”

The exasperated cry came from a man’s voice further on down the dock and caused me to look up in that direction. A rather heavyset woman stood on the dock holding the painter to a dinghy. Still in the dinghy were the irritated utterer of the Lord’s name—himself a very obese fellow—and a young girl who was obviously their child and had inherited her chubbiness from both these people. She was attempting to disembark the dinghy and get onto the dock. The span of several feet made it almost impossible for her to get a knee onto the dock for leverage. Once she did, her full girth kept her from sliding forward. There were no cleats to grab hold of. The only thing available was her mother’s hand which proved woefully insufficient but did provide some assistance as she flailed away. . 

Her father’s audible grousing only made things worse and I’m sure she sensed me watching along with all of the service hands at the gas pumps. It was a universally shared embarrassment for any woman who once was an awkward, dumpy teenager trying to navigate her body in such a situation.

The mother, caught between helping her daughter and shushing her husband, was rendered basically helpless.

Finally, the child heaved herself onto the dock, rolled over on her back and pushed herself up to stand. She then glanced around, pretending nothing unusual had just happened.

It came time for the father to step out. All of his body language, accentuated by his outrage, signaled that he would show her how it’s done. To my secret delight, he stumbled over the dinghy seat and fell flat on his face. With the unsteady dinghy swaying underneath him, he floundered around like a walrus trying to regain his footing, almost tipping over into the water.

I wanted to yell out, “Jesus Christ!!” But I didn’t. It wasn’t my place and I figured Jesus probably had more pressing things to worry about.

For the life of me, though, I couldn’t fathom why a father would ever want to humiliate his daughter like that, no matter how mad her clumsiness made him.

My point is, boys, you reap what you sow. That father had it coming to him. I think he caught Jesus’ attention when he yelled his blaspheme and in typical fashion, Jesus handled the situation to ultimate effect. Whenever you see someone struggling, help them. Don’t call unneeded attention to them or make fun. Help them. Particularly when it’s somebody you’re supposed to love.

Humbly help them.

Watch What You Say To Your Wife

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Just a little advice for you now that’s way too premature, but hopefully when the time comes, you’ll put it to good use. Watch what you say to your wife. Even though I’m sure you’re wondering why this would be the topic of a letter to you at such a strange time with all the Covid-19 distractions swirling around, it does have basis in a logical origin—the new art of grocery shopping.

It used to be that going to the grocery store was one of our mundane, taken-for-granted pleasures that didn’t require a whole lot of thought or groundwork ahead of time because…hey…if you forget something, you can just turn around and go get it. Plus, sometimes you never know what you need until you see it, like Jello Snack Pack puddings on sale 10 for $5.00. And, letting a man loose by himself to wander the aisles always translated into busted budgets. I mean why would you want to get the family pack of pork chops when the two extra thick cuts are sooo much more appealing? 

But Coronavirus has changed all that. You must always go prepared and preferably only one person per family.  In our case, that’s Captain. Don’t know whether it’s a male thing about protecting his mate or just a real desire to get out of the house, but he has asserted himself as the one eligible candidate to represent us.

The other day, I had fashioned a rather lengthy tome (more commonly called a grocery list) that included, among other things in the inventory of needs and wants, the ubiquitous entry of fresh green beans. After donning his protective face mask, Captain tucked the list in his jacket pocket and made a run to the local Food Lion in what has become our latest favorite game—let's see how many things on a list are actually available.  

Upon his return, he gave a synopsis of his unmitigated successes and abject failures. Alas, there were no fresh green beans but being the resourceful fellow that he is, he grabbed a couple of packages of frozen ones. (Don’t worry. He wasn’t hoarding. He left some behind.) I restocked the pantry with canned goods, soups, pasta sauce and paper products. The perishables found their way into the refrigerator, bread in the breadbox and laundry detergent on top of the washing machine. The beans ended up in the freezer along with the Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches…which were on the list…and a pack of P.F. Chang eggrolls…which were not but must have somehow been too irresistible for our designated shopper to pass up.

Several days later, I pulled the beans out to go with some mashed potatoes and hamburgers in mushroom gravy. I didn’t notice until the bag was opened, and I dumped them into a pan that they were French cut. Hmm…not a conscious choice I figured. French cut beans just don’t cook up like snapped ones—a thought that brought back a funny string of stories. Thus, the point of this letter.

I’ve told you before that Great Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary married during World War II. It was a disruptive time, much like this one. As an attorney, he was called up to serve and sent to Chicago to train in the 90-day Wonder School for the Navy's Judge Advocate General Corps, the military's equivalent of a judicial branch. The circumstances also uprooted their original wedding plans, scheduled for the First United Methodist Church in Houston, Texas, and re-ordering them to hastily take place in the chapel on the campus of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. 

.

They rented an apartment in Chicago near the facility where Granddaddy went to classes. As was her penchant from then until the day she died, Mamaw dedicated her time to making a comfortable home for him which was challenging because of the rationing and interrupted supply chains that we are experiencing somewhat today. One day at a grocery store, she made a rare find—fresh green beans. Excitedly, she came home, washed them in a colander and began the meticulous process of cutting them with scissors into the long, slender version known as French.

I don’t know what she planned for the main entrée of the meal, but I do imagine that she tenderly and with loving care steamed the beans in a double boiler so that they would be al dente and not limp. It is with great amusement that I visualize what happened when Granddaddy came home. Mamaw was not prone to self-pride but I’m sure her face beamed with delight at the dinner she presented to him. Perhaps the shine began to fade with the first question.

“Mary, what are these?”

“Why, Schaefer, they are French cut green beans.”

He took a forkful and put them in his mouth, chewing contemplatively.

“Well…I can see right now I’m going to have to get you back to Greenville so that Granny Bryant can teach you how to cook beans.”

The quivering lip of his new bride elicited by this comment should have been a sufficient clue to Granddaddy for all of posterity…that remarks of criticism, no matter their innocence, should be avoided at any cost when it comes to your wife. Perhaps it is the male condition…I don’t know since I’m not one…but the lesson didn’t seem to stick.

Later on after the sting of this incident might have subsided (but, trust me, wasn't forgotten), Mamaw found a recipe for Lemon Meringue Pie in a magazine. She wasn’t skilled in the art of pastry but did have a pie pan in her arsenal of kitchen equipment. Following the recipe to the nth degree, she carefully made the dough…rolling it flat, pressing it into the pan and crimping the edges with a fork, then sticking it in the oven to bake.

Once the crust cooked, she set it aside to cool. She whisked the ingredients for the lemon mixture and cooked them on the stove until thickened. After pouring it into the crust, Mamaw turned her attention to the pied de resistance—the meringue. She whipped egg whites until foamy and then added sugar until stiff peaks formed. After slathering the meringue over the surface of the pie, she baked it for ten minutes until the tips became brown.

That night, after dinner Mamaw presented the pie to Granddaddy Schaefer. He loved it and said so profusely…to the extent that she decided to bake another pie as soon as that one was gone. The reaction to the second pie was almost as abundant as the first. So much so that it spawned yet a third rendition. At some point in the avalanche of sweetness, it all came to a sudden end with one simple question.

 “Mary, do you know how to make any other kind of pie?”

I don’t think I’m wrong when I say this, boys, but he never saw another lemon meringue pie the remainder of their marriage.

Unfortunately, it seems to be the fate of men that they can’t refrain from such tone-deaf comments. Captain stepped in it early in our marriage by cozying up to me at the stove and suggesting that the way his mother fried chicken might be better than my haphazard method. It didn’t go over well.

He...and Great Granddaddy...and you...and all men...would be better served by taking the simple advice of Uncle Sid Tally who offered this as the secret to a successful marriage…”Just say ‘Yes, dear.’”

Don't Forget Your Soul

Dear Boo and Bubble,

One thing is for sure…this Coronavirus has really caused us all to overwhelmingly focus on the physical aspects of life. Nothing like a good dose of deprivation to make you realize how important those routine tennis games and YMCA balance classes actually are. For goodness sake, I wake up every morning hoping my senses of taste and smell are intact, and find reassurance when my stomach growls from hunger or my nose detects the whiff of last night’s shrimp shells seeping through the lid of the garbage can. 

And we now have a new term dictating our lives…one that I don’t recall every hearing before…physical distancing. Perhaps this practice has been the hardest of all to cope with. We are denied the actual presence of family and friends. If we go outside, we must allow for 6-foot perimeters from others. Any contact with another human being must occur through the restrictions of face masks and rubber gloves.

This overemphasis on our daily physical needs is fraught with danger, as seen in the hoarding of certain commodities in response to it. But there are more subtle concerns as well. In our efforts to protect ourselves physically, we run the risk of eroding through neglect other essential aspects of our being—the emotional and soulful. Even though subdued by the physical, these components are equivalent in every way except one—they take much longer to heal after being damaged.

That word…soul…these extraordinary times don’t leave much room for the exploration of its meaning. Trust me, though, it is times like these that demand such exploration, for normalcy gives us no opportunity to either observe or grow character.

Dictionaries define the soul as the principle of life, feeling, thought, and action in humans; regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body; the spiritual part of humans as distinct from the physical part. I would choose an even more basic descriptor—essence—which is the intrinsic nature or indispensable quality of something, especially something abstract that determines its character. Regardless of these nuanced differences, there is one thing for sure…we are the arbiters of our souls and to disregard that responsibility, no matter the demands of our attention elsewhere, is to abandon our legacy.

It is pretty much universally acknowledged that, unless a person is rendered incapable by some mental disorder such as narcissism, sociopathy or psychopathy, we all have the ability to determine and shape who we are. We can choose generosity over selfishness. We can demonstrate empathy rather than egoism. We can give rather than take. But these are conscious pursuits, not some passive outcomes that occur through osmosis.

The other day, I ran across a poem I wrote at some point…I didn’t even remember doing so…and it indicates that I’ve had thoughts about this matter before. It reiterates the point made here that a person’s soul can’t be left to chance

The Garden of My Soul

How will I tend the garden of my soul?

It is truly my choice.

Will there be seeds of substance,

Deep rooted, resilient, respectful of cycles of time and place.

Or will the floral array crest with a brilliant splash

Only to vanish with the first frost.

Will I take time to discern the weeds one by one

And deliberately remove them carefully to make sure that weeds are in fact what they are.

Or will I uproot them haphazardly with ignorance

Or even worse, kill all those desired to ensure the death of the unwanted.

And will I cultivate the soil

Giving back the nourishment I take.

Or will it not matter to me to use and use and use

Because it is mine, mine alone, and there is no need to consider the consequences.

And, when I am gone, will my garden flourish

So that those who never knew me may know something of my essence.

Or will my legacy coalesce around a rotting soaked loam

Not tilled nor turned to refresh it with unsullied nutrients.

Yes, how will I tend the garden of my soul?

It is truly my choice.

Advice From a Melancholy Mind

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Although the thoughts expressed here have been rolling around in my head for a while, I’ve been reluctant to write this letter to you. I’m by nature an optimistic person and have lived most every day of my life with the expectation of many more to come…never really giving much thought to when or how it might all come to an end. Unfortunately, the current circumstances swirling around the Covid-19 coronavirus necessitate that I focus on the inevitable—at some point, the form in which I exist and, most importantly, relate to you will cease to be. And it makes me so sad to even think about not physically being with you. This is truly the greatest agony of the current time…Facetiming and Zooming notwithstanding…we can’t be together.

And so, I’m going to take the opportunity to say to you in one fell swoop those things that I might have normally spaced out over time, waiting for apropos moments to bring them up. Perhaps by doing so, I will not only absolve myself of my grandmotherly responsibilities towards you but also, just maybe, cosmically forestall the inescapable.

This advice comes from experience and includes perspectives brought about by my own failures and shortcomings. They are in no particular order, just organized by stream of consciousness. Some will be easier to adopt than others…most all you will want to test because that is human nature. My sincere hope is that somehow these words will help you navigate the mindfield known as “growing up,” and when you successfully make it through, you will be stronger, wiser and ready to face the world.

* Don’t start something you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to stop…like smoking, vaping and drugs.

* Respect is the most important gift you can give or receive.

* Know yourself so well that others can’t manipulate you.

* Be firm in your beliefs but make sure they are based upon truth.

* Be honest with yourself and others. Truth is like a seed…no matter how much dirt you put on top of it, it will always find a way to poke through the surface. And in so doing will expose the lie…and reputations are lost forever.

* Love yourself. This is the root of all happiness in life and the only way you will have the self-assuredness to face what comes your way. But be humble as well. Arrogance has no place in the well-balanced, healthy mind.

* Genuinely love others and focus on their wellbeing. Be thoughtful of them. Show empathy towards them. Share their moments of happiness and be there for their moments of disappointment. The most endearing word in the English language is “friend”—a person with whom someone has a mutual bond of affection—and extending friendship is the most important gesture you can make towards another.

* Do not take for granted your family and on every occasion possible let them know how much you love them.

* Have your opinions but understand that you have come to them by your life’s journey. Others have had different journeys which brought them to different conclusions. Acknowledge that fact and seek to respect the person even if you cannot accept the opinion. Always be open to hearing what others have to say and don’t rush so quickly to create a response that you can’t actually listen.

* Live each day to the fullest. Never stop learning…there is no such thing as a “know it all.” Travel if you can, to personally experience other cultures…it will give you appreciation for both theirs and yours.

* Take responsibility for your actions and when you make a mistake, own up to it. Never hesitate to say, “I’m sorry,” but move beyond the incident if the words don’t freely come your way.

* It is never a weakness to ask for help and always correct to offer it.

*You can’t take back words…so count to ten before you say something you suspect you’ll regret. And…I suggest that you apply the Rotary International test to the thoughts you have and the words you say—Is it true? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it build good will and better friendships? Will it be beneficial to all concerned?

* Have no doubt that kindness is strength and intimidation is weakness.

Let me close by adding one more imperative—love each other as brothers. Each relationship in a family has its importance but that of siblings is unique. Boo, as the older brother, you will take the lead in paving the way for Bubble. You will experience phases of growth first. He’ll come along behind you and be better prepared because you went before. Your teachers will expect of him the example you set—for better or worse!! Even though it’s a heady responsibility, you probably aren’t even cognizant of it right now. Bubble will always look up to you and there’s not much you could ever do to crack that admiration.

When Captain was 16, he lost his big brother in a freak accident. That was 57 years ago, and to this day, his heart has not totally healed. Every time he references Cot, Jr., it is always in glowing terms of the fondest remembrance. In many ways, I don't think I will ever fully know Captain because I didn't know his big brother.

And so...stand up for each other...be best friends...and most importantly, be grateful for the time you have together.

  

A Soul Makes All of Us Kin

Dear Boo and Bubble,

What strange times we are in right now. We are entering our third week of self-imposed isolation because of the confounding Coronavirus that has descended upon us. Looking out our window, all I can see is cloudless blue sky with a brilliant streak of sunlight illuminating the freshly mowed stripes on the fairway of the #4 hole. There is no visible sign of distress. In fact, one would be hard pressed to believe that there is a care in the world. But we are here in this circumstance, as are you, and it dictates that we make the best of it.

Yesterday, Captain decided to dust off a couple of old external hard drives plus a binder filled with CDs that he tucked away in his closet several years ago.  They truly proved to be a treasure trove of memories—some of our fondest—that we made while cruising on our sailboat Up Jinks. Picture after picture took us back to places we experienced all the way up the east coast from the flat sandy beaches of our home port of Charleston, SC, to the rocky shores of Maine with its average fifteen-foot tidal range; from the islands and keys of the Bahamas to the welcoming comfort of hurricane-ravaged Isla Mujeres, Mexico after a 54-hour passage across the Gulf that bears that country’s name; down the coastline of Mexico into Belize and ultimately into Guatemala…our second home for six years.

Along this most personal and unique journey, your Meemaw started her writing career. It began at first with emails to friends recording what we were seeing and doing. The audience started to grow before long and while we were in the Bahamas, Captain and I decided to upgrade our stories to a website format. We created Life’s Story which morphed into an e-magazine that we published every quarter for six years on the internet chocked full of descriptive articles that I wrote and pictures that Captain took.

When our cruising days wound down and we brought Up Jinks back to the United States, it became apparent that there was no need to continue with the website. I saved what I could from its pages for posterity but much of the content was lost. This was also true for much of the earlier writing…the journals that we initially shared at the beginning…or at least so I thought.

Today, while I was trying to make “easy yeast-free” bread (Hah!) to supplement the deteriorating single loaf that we purchased from the grocery store, he shouted from upstairs, “Beth, come here!”

I hastily washed the gooey, uncooperative dough from my fingers and gave them a cursory wipe as I trudged up the spiral staircase to our bedroom where he sat at his desk.

“Look what I found!” he exclaimed.

As I hunched over his shoulder to catch a view of his computer screen, I could see a string of documents (not pictures) displayed there. He began scrolling the cursor over them, clicking on first one then the other. With each click, one of the original journal emails opened. Together we enjoyed them as Captain read the words to me. Talk about a lost fortune…perhaps not to the material world, but certainly to us!

I asked him to copy some of the files onto a chip so that I could go through them as well, which he did. I tucked it into the pocket of my sweatpants (my Coronavirus uniform bottoms) and went back downstairs to finish wrestling with the bread dough. Once I had punched it into a rather deformed loaf and stuck it in the oven, I settled into my recliner chair with my laptop on my thighs and plugged the chip into its portal. A folder by the name of Lifesstory popped up in the content and I opened it. There were ten random documents within its sleeves, listed in alphabetical order, starting with “Can’t Fool Mother Nature” and ending with “Xcalak” (the southernmost town in the state of Quintana Roo on the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, and pronounced Eesh-ka-lak). Most of them I remembered as soon as I read them, but when I clicked on “Xcalak,” what displayed on my computer screen was a poem…one that I couldn’t recall writing, but obviously did.

As I read it, there was an immediate flashback to our time in Xcalak, which would have been towards the end of February in 2006. We had crossed over the Gulf of Mexico from the Dry Tortugas to Isla Mujeres (Isle of Women) at the end of January…and about a month after Hurricane Wilma had ravaged the entire eastern coastline of the Yucatan. We checked into Mexico at Isla Mujeres and stayed there for over two weeks before heading south, following the Mayan Reef line…transitioning from the Gulf of Mexico to the NW Caribbean Sea, the destination being Belize. Our plan was to check out of Mexico at Xcalak which should require only a brief overnight anchorage and even a more cursory visit to the port captain’s office to fill out the required forms.

My story starts here.

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We arrived at Xcalak at dusk. Getting into the anchorage was tricky, having to navigate a narrow opening in the reef which was very difficult to see because of the waves that constantly camouflaged it with their rolling motion. In the diminishing light, we barely made it thanks to the aid of a guidebook that gave Captain some points of reference on the shore that he could line up with the bow of the boat. The anchorage, if you could call it that, lay exposed to the winds from the east and the reef barely gave any relief from the waves. To boot, the bottom was hard scrabble rather than soft sand which meant the anchor had nothing of substance to sink into. My first impression of the place left me certain that one night would be aplenty and the sooner we left, the better.

The night verified my feeling as the wind blew constantly and we were awakened several times by the tooth-shattering sound of the anchor dragging over the hapless surface below. When morning finally broke, my nerves were pretty much shot and I couldn’t wait for Captain to lower the dinghy into the water in order for us to putt-putt over to shore, locate the port office and get our paperwork signed. That would allow us to leave immediately for Belize—the cayes of which we could see off in the distance…calling like sirens…from the boat on a beautiful, sunny morning.

Although we were only 50 yards from the community dock, it took us about ten minutes to get there because of the choppy waves whipped up by the wind. By the time we made it, we were starting to get wet from the spray that hit us with each angle of the dinghy against the swells.

There was…no doubt…instant comfort in standing on solid ground, but in surveying Xcalak initially, I could only equate what I saw to my stereotypical concept of life in the poorest of third world countries. Dusty dirt roads forked off in all directions from the dock with thick ropes periodically stretched across their expanse acting as rudimentary speed bumps…to stop what I couldn’t readily determine. A few small stucco buildings dotted the roadside, their once bright Caribbean colors of the region now dulled from the constant barrage of nature’s weather-driven cocktail of wind, rain and sun. Some doubled as businesses and homes with signs over the front door and clotheslines in the backyard. The only semblances of modern conveniences were a cellphone tower and the occasional DirectTV disc.

One prominent two-story structure sat at the top of a small rise in the landscape overlooking the water. Captain determined that it was the most likely prospect to house Xcalak’s port office. We trudged up the road and found his hunch to be correct. A very attractive young lady in her crisply starched uniform sat at a desk in an outer room. Her desk plate revealed a first name of Susie. Captain explained to Susie what we needed, and she told us, in impeccable English, that the port captain was away for the moment at a meeting over in Chetumal, a larger metropolitan city on the border with Belize…that he wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon. “But, remember that we close at 4:00. And if you like, you can keep in touch by radio from your boat to see if he’s returned.”

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. The last thing I wanted to do was have to go back to the boat without the papers in hand allowing us to leave. Captain suggested that we stroll around and find what Xcalak had to offer. After a hearty sigh of skepticism, I agreed, and we struck out to explore the wasteland. We stopped at one of the stucco huts with Sylvia's written across the top of the door and a Dos Equis sign in the window and inquired about the possibility of ceña y una cerveza (lunch and a beer). The proprietor invited us inside, sat us at a small table, and presented us with two ice cold beers from a refrigerator on the back stoop. It was…and probably still is…the best beer I’ve ever had. Captain ordered lobster and I asked for quesadillas con pollo (chicken quesadillas) from the menu. The flavor and freshness of the food rivaled that of the beer.

After lunch, we went back over to the port office to find that the port captain, whose name was Jorgé (George) Morales had not yet come back from Chetumal. Susie explained that from her experience, if he wasn’t there by now, it would be tomorrow. “Perhaps you can radio me from your boat in the morning and we’ll get you signed out then.”

Wearing my resignation prominently all over my face, we retreated to the dock to find our dinghy filled halfway up with water from the waves that had slapped against it over the couple of hours we had been ashore. We had nothing with which to bail it out, so the only option was to motor slowly back out the boat, sloshing our way as we went. By the time we safely reached the stern of Up Jinks, we were soaking wet. Somehow, Captain found humor in the situation. Any inkling of it eluded me!

After another uncomfortable night, I awoke with positive anticipation that we would soon be on our way back through the reef and over to Belize where we could at least get some protection from the wind anchoring on the lee side of a caye. Captain called over the radio to confirm that Jorge was in the office. My presence was not needed for the paperwork, so I suggested that he go over in the dinghy by himself while I prepared the boat for our passage. I assisted with both lowering the dinghy into the water and getting Captain into it. The waves were now quite a bit more stringent than the day before causing him to bob up and down beside the boat while he started the motor. Once it cranked, I released the line and watched him struggle to make headway towards the dock. When he finally reached the meager distance to the destination, I went down the companionway of Up Jinks into the salon and began securing everything possible.

In what seemed like a pretty short time, I heard the approaching putt-putting of the dinghy motor. Captain yelled to me for assistance and I came up to the cockpit to see what was going on. Although he was once again soaking wet, he had remembered to take a bailer this time, so the dinghy wasn’t full of water.

“Did you get the papers signed?” I screamed over the noise of wind and wave.

“We aren’t leaving,” he answered.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Get me tied up and I’ll tell you.”

He pulled the dinghy alongside the starboard stern of Up Jinks where the its hoist was located. With the waves roiling around so, we had to lift the dinghy out of the water to keep it from sinking.

Once on the boat, Captain went below to dry off and change his clothes. I paced around the cockpit like a cat circling a mouse, waiting for him to resurface. When he did, I hit him with a barrage of questions.

“What do you mean we aren’t leaving? Couldn’t you get the papers signed? Was the port Captain there?”

“Let’s start with the last question first. Yes, Jorgé was there. The papers are ready to be signed as soon as we know the day we’re leaving. And…I mean we aren’t leaving because we can’t leave. The winds are too strong, and we can’t get through the reef cut safely until they die down.”

“Who says?” I asked with a huff.

“Jorgé. And don’t even suggest that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“How long then?”

“From what he can tell with the brand, new weather program on his computer…looks like maybe a week before there’s a window of opportunity.”

“But we only have to go right over there! I can see it from here!” My voice began to pitch upward.

“I know. I know,” Captain responded with a tempering tone. “Just look at the bright side. What better place to spend a week than here, in Xcalak…with all it has to offer!”

I don’t remember for sure, but probably at that point, I stormed down the companionway and into our berth to pout. That was my usual modus operandi when confronted with unpleasant cruising situations and this time was no different. Little did I know what a week it would be.

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We were “stuck” in Xcalak for seven days and I learned a profound lesson there: No matter the circumstance of a place, they all have the commonality of community. Walls may be dilapidated but behind them are families filled with love for one another. The restaurant may not be posh, but the food is delicious and the camaraderie priceless. The store may only be a shack boarded up at closing, but the vendor, in his Kansas Jayhawks teeshirt, has a cold Coca-Cola and a fresh aho (garlic) to sell…the sonrisa (smile) is free.

Our time there introduced us to Jeff and Cindy Deziel, fellow cruisers trapped alongside for the duration. At the local pizza joint Coco’s, we met Tom Sowers from Missouri who invited us to dinner at his beautiful home north of town. (Last year, I serendipitously met his daughter Samantha at a book club presentation in Greenville, SC.) Looking back on it, I wouldn’t trade those days in Xcalak for anything. It’s no wonder I was inspired to write these words upon our departure.

Xcalak

I said –

            I’ll never go back

            To old Xcalak

            On the border of south Mexico.

            Where the streets have no hope

            With their speed bumps of rope

            And potholes from long, long ago.

But then –

            The wind came to say

            One more day you must stay

            And make a brand, new start.

            If you shut your eyes blind

            You will not ever find

            What lies in Xcalak’s heart.

So –

            Doubtful once more

            I dinghied ashore

            Not sure where my quest would land.

            Fate showed me the way

            To Capitan Jorge

            Who helped me understand.

            Xcalak is a place

            Stripped of its grace

            By the cruelty of the hurricane.

            But the storms cannot tear

            From the people there

            The spirit and pride they maintain.

Thus –

            My shame is that I

            With my prejudiced eye

            Overlooked the beauty within.

            Mortar may crumble

            And bridges may tumble

            But a soul makes all of us kin.