You don't get to age 65 without accumulating a lot of Christmas memories. These days, there is one which invariably comes to mind first. I present it with just the facts, not trying to draw any conclusions or establish any cause and effect. It just is.
I was sitting in the kitchen a few days before Christmas. I was about 10 or 11 years old, so it was 1956 or 57 or so. Daddy walked through and said, "come with me." He didn't explain. He never explained himself to anyone that I can remember, me included. He never ever preached at me, either, but he taught me a lot.
We walked across the gravel road to the country store that sat opposite us and about 30 yards up the hill.
It was a typical old country store, where Ike Godsey would feel right at home. He said a few words to the storekeeper, who at the time was a profane, racist man, who never darkened the door of a church. I had just a few days ago heard him say to a 70+ year old man who came into his store and happened to be black, "Hey, boy, what do you want?" in a hateful voice. It was the south in the mid 50's, it was not an uncommon event, but I knew without doubt that if my dad ever heard me talk to a black person like that, or any other person for that matter, I wouldn't be able to sit for quite a while.
Anyway, the storekeeper pulled a large cardboard box from the back room and began to fill it, with apples, grapefruit, oranges, nuts, and some sticks of sugar candy. I was beginning to wonder what was up, as we had never had such as this before at Christmas, and on Daddy's cotton mill pay I wondered, even at ten,
where the money would come from to pay for it. We borrowed the storkeepers truck, not having a vehicle of our own at the time. As daddy carried the laden box out the door, the storekeeper held me back a moment, looked at me strangely, and spoke words in a voice with a catch in it that I will never forget. We drove no more than three miles, to a little hovel on a back road. (Our dirt road was the main road.) I knew the elderly black couple who lived there, because it seemed that whenever I wandered by on the road or through the hollow next to the house with my old single shot 12 gauge in tow, I was called to, and offered a drink of water, or glass of milk, or if the timing was right, a bite of lunch. They always seemed happy to see me. I guess I took it for granted, but in retrospect I see that being my father's son had some perks.
We walked to the door with the box, daddy saying "Merry Christmas" as they invited us in. They had to be in their 80's, sustinence farmers who existed on their garden, their hogs, their milk cow, and occasional wild game. The old lady took in laundry that she boiled in a big iron pot in the back yard and hand rubbed on a scrubbing board. There was a nice fire going in the fireplace, and upon invitation daddy sat in the extra cane rocker and I sat in the floor. And they began to talk. I never knew my daddy to talk up deferentially or down condescendingly to any person, and this was no different. This was no quick drop-in and out of there visit.
Daddy and the old man talked of people they had known, farmers they had both worked for, fields they had plowed together when daddy was a hired-out preteen in the midst of the great depression, and the old man had been a black man trying to survive the best he could. Soon, the old lady made a pot of coffee and got out her iron skillet and made a wonderful pone of cornbread, with fresh churned butter that had been in the cow until daylight that day. They in effect brought out the best that they had to offer, and it was more than adequate, it was appreciated. We stayed for at least three hours, and it was clear that daddy was not doing a feel-good charitable deed, he was enjoying the company of an old friend. He didn't have enough gile in him to put on charitable airs, anyway.
We finally left and took the storekeeper's truck back. Later on, the storekeeper joined Daddy's church, and evnetually served with Daddy as one of three elders in that church. These same three elders were the ones who later voted unanimously to extend the invitation to a young black man to become a deacon, the first black man to serve in an official capacity there in that central Alabama church. I was middle-aged by then, and remember thinking when I heard of it, "now that's real progress." Daddy and the storekeeper are both long gone now, both leaving a fine Christian legacy.
Oh, yeah, what did the storekeeper say to me when he held me back at the store? "I hope you know that there ain't many men like your daddy."
I was sitting in the kitchen a few days before Christmas. I was about 10 or 11 years old, so it was 1956 or 57 or so. Daddy walked through and said, "come with me." He didn't explain. He never explained himself to anyone that I can remember, me included. He never ever preached at me, either, but he taught me a lot.
We walked across the gravel road to the country store that sat opposite us and about 30 yards up the hill.
It was a typical old country store, where Ike Godsey would feel right at home. He said a few words to the storekeeper, who at the time was a profane, racist man, who never darkened the door of a church. I had just a few days ago heard him say to a 70+ year old man who came into his store and happened to be black, "Hey, boy, what do you want?" in a hateful voice. It was the south in the mid 50's, it was not an uncommon event, but I knew without doubt that if my dad ever heard me talk to a black person like that, or any other person for that matter, I wouldn't be able to sit for quite a while.
Anyway, the storekeeper pulled a large cardboard box from the back room and began to fill it, with apples, grapefruit, oranges, nuts, and some sticks of sugar candy. I was beginning to wonder what was up, as we had never had such as this before at Christmas, and on Daddy's cotton mill pay I wondered, even at ten,
where the money would come from to pay for it. We borrowed the storkeepers truck, not having a vehicle of our own at the time. As daddy carried the laden box out the door, the storekeeper held me back a moment, looked at me strangely, and spoke words in a voice with a catch in it that I will never forget. We drove no more than three miles, to a little hovel on a back road. (Our dirt road was the main road.) I knew the elderly black couple who lived there, because it seemed that whenever I wandered by on the road or through the hollow next to the house with my old single shot 12 gauge in tow, I was called to, and offered a drink of water, or glass of milk, or if the timing was right, a bite of lunch. They always seemed happy to see me. I guess I took it for granted, but in retrospect I see that being my father's son had some perks.
We walked to the door with the box, daddy saying "Merry Christmas" as they invited us in. They had to be in their 80's, sustinence farmers who existed on their garden, their hogs, their milk cow, and occasional wild game. The old lady took in laundry that she boiled in a big iron pot in the back yard and hand rubbed on a scrubbing board. There was a nice fire going in the fireplace, and upon invitation daddy sat in the extra cane rocker and I sat in the floor. And they began to talk. I never knew my daddy to talk up deferentially or down condescendingly to any person, and this was no different. This was no quick drop-in and out of there visit.
Daddy and the old man talked of people they had known, farmers they had both worked for, fields they had plowed together when daddy was a hired-out preteen in the midst of the great depression, and the old man had been a black man trying to survive the best he could. Soon, the old lady made a pot of coffee and got out her iron skillet and made a wonderful pone of cornbread, with fresh churned butter that had been in the cow until daylight that day. They in effect brought out the best that they had to offer, and it was more than adequate, it was appreciated. We stayed for at least three hours, and it was clear that daddy was not doing a feel-good charitable deed, he was enjoying the company of an old friend. He didn't have enough gile in him to put on charitable airs, anyway.
We finally left and took the storekeeper's truck back. Later on, the storekeeper joined Daddy's church, and evnetually served with Daddy as one of three elders in that church. These same three elders were the ones who later voted unanimously to extend the invitation to a young black man to become a deacon, the first black man to serve in an official capacity there in that central Alabama church. I was middle-aged by then, and remember thinking when I heard of it, "now that's real progress." Daddy and the storekeeper are both long gone now, both leaving a fine Christian legacy.
Oh, yeah, what did the storekeeper say to me when he held me back at the store? "I hope you know that there ain't many men like your daddy."
