As Daddy neared the end of his life, it was harder for him to distinguish between dreams and reality. After he awoke from a dream in the night or after a nap, he would often tell me the details. One morning after relaying his dream to me, he looked serious and asked, “That wasn’t real, was it? Did that really happen?” I confirmed his suspicions. He questioned his sanity and told me to always tell him if what he thought he saw was real. I assured him he wasn’t crazy.
I have known people in their later years of life who seem to revert to their childhood. They see their mother or play some childhood game with siblings or friends in a time that brought them joy. Some people on their deathbed speak of seeing loved ones who have passed. My grandfather saw “his people” coming for him and within minutes was whisked away. Daddy saw several visions as his time approached and he gave intricate details of each. Somehow as his visions were so clear to him, yet he still retained sanity enough to accept whether it was true or not.
Maybe Daddy was closer to reality than I thought at the moment. Looking back, I believe his visions were premonitions to prepare him for the journey ahead. And just maybe, those who have dreams and visions are the ones who see things clearly because they are looking into another realm, one we can’t see. Maybe the rest of us are the ones who need a touch a reality.
My granddad gave the women and older girls of the family each a box of chocolate covered cherries for Christmas every year. I dreamed of the day when I would be old enough to get my own box of those luscious cherries in a pool of creamy sweetness all covered with chocolate. What made the gift the most special was that it was given by my granddad. Well, by the time I became that magic age, he had quit giving the boxes of cherries. I guess he decided there were too many girls.
Actually, I have another theory about not getting a box of cherries. It could have been because of my sister just two years older than me. She had a nasty habit of poking holes or taking bites out of the chocolates in the Whitman Sampler box my granddad had in the house at Christmas time. If she didn’t like the filling, she just put the piece of candy back in the box. I’m sure my granddad had picked up a chocolate of two that had a bite taken out of it.
My sister wasn’t just partial to chocolates, she also did the same thing to store-bought bread without even taking it out of the wrapper. If there were teeth marks, they belonged to her. Maybe she was just testing it to see if they made good ammunition. That store-bought bread was perfect for squishing and rolling into little balls that we used to throw at one another. You sure couldn’t do that with homemade bread, and we would have had a bite taken out of us if we tried.
Don’t all of you go out and buy me a box of chocolate covered cherries. I think they might be a mite too sweet for me now.
I slowly opened the big Whitman’s Sampler box. It wasn’t full of chocolates. It was full of buttons – big flat buttons that were snipped off coats, covered buttons from old sofas and chairs, pearl buttons, small buttons, square buttons, wooden buttons, shank buttons, leather buttons, buttons shaped like fruit and flowers, glass buttons, and buttons of almost every color. The box held more than buttons. Every time I opened it sparks of magic escaped. Kids who have played with boxes of buttons understand they are for more than closing the front of a shirt or keeping a skirt from sliding off. Where else can you find a box full of eyes, noses, flowers, necklaces and bracelets, buttons for tying a quilt, crafts, art supplies, and endless possibilities?
One time when my kids were small, we went to visit my folks. My little girl crawled between the blankets on the pallet her grandmother fixed for her on the floor. That was her favorite place to sleep whenever we visited my folks. She had not been there long before she came running out of the bedroom, visibly upset and a bit scared. “Grandma’s slippers are looking at me!” We went to investigate.
Grandma’s fuzzy pink slip-on slippers with a button on top were just under Grandma’s side of the bed. The buttons were slick and shiny. Light reflected off the glassy surfaces and they sure looked like eyes. Understanding the reason for her being upset, I explained that the buttons on the slippers could not see. The little girl was not satisfied with that. After all, she had a bear with button eyes and the bear could see. The wisdom of a toddler won, and the slippers were moved so they couldn’t “look” at her anymore.
This little girl loved her bear. She slept with it and carried it with her when she played outside. The little bear rode in the basket of her tricycle. One day the dog grabbed her bear and pulled off one of its eyes and ate it. I had to perform eye surgery and sew on a new eye. It didn’t match the old, but that made no difference as long as the bear could see.
Oops! This little guy needs surgery!
Sometimes when my granddaughter comes to visit, she gets into my button box. She carefully selects the buttons she wants to use, then she draws a design on a piece of fabric and glues on buttons to make flowers, trees, the sun, and other things she sees in her imagination.
I feel a little bit sorry for little kids that know nothing about the magic that comes from a box of buttons.
My favorite comedian is Tim Conway. I love the skits where he played the old man. He always made a grand entrance – very s l o w l y – by shuffling through the door, his feet never leaving the floor, his disheveled hair atop his head that wore a dumfounded look on his face. While he maintained a straight face, the actors around him tried to hide their laughter by turning their heads or ducking behind a hat.
Well, let me tell you, Tim Conway had nothing on my dad!
Several years ago, we took Daddy on a trip to Alaska, which was the fulfillment of a dream for us. After cruising along the coast and through the fjords, we headed inland to Denali. The scenery was gorgeous. Rivers dissected this unspoiled wilderness where wildlife rules and snow-covered mountain peaks cast shadows into the valleys.
We stayed the night in a motel inside the park. It was more economical to share a room. That is a night I will forever remember. Daddy took off his slippers and slid into his bed. All was well. In the middle of the night, Daddy had to go to the bathroom. He crawled out of bed, fumbled around to get the slippers on his feet, and teetered a bit to get his balance. It was then the nightmare began.
As to why Daddy didn’t sleep on the other side of the bed, I don’t know. It would have been easier. But, no, he slept on the side of the bed furthest from the bathroom. Now, Tim Conway was funny when he portrayed the old man shuffling his feet across the room but, in reality, Daddy was not so funny, nor was he acting. The soles of his slippers annoyingly scraped the floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. A chill ran down my spine as the grating sound like that of grinding teeth was magnified. It took him at least ten minutes to get to the bathroom, and that was just one way! When he finally got settled back in bed for the night, I couldn’t sleep. I decided right then that if we went on another overnight trip, the little man would have his own room.
Had I been able to gaze into a crystal ball, I would have seen many more nights like that in my future. In his last years, I heard his shuffling feet in the night as well as the day.
But you know what? I wouldn’t change it for anything! Sometimes I miss the sound of the little man dragging his feet across the floor.
The time came when Daddy needed hearing aids. He was fitted for his new ears but had quite a time with all the little buttons on his remote. In no time at all, he had them all messed up. As his hearing declined, we made occasional visits to get his aids adjusted.
Daddy had plenty of hearing loss, but he also had an ample supply of ear wax. Sometimes it was hard to tell if he just couldn’t hear or if his hearing aids were clogged. One night Daddy asked me if I had a pin handy. Nope. He studied me pretty hard as he took out one of his hearing aids. Then I realized he was looking at my earring. Uh-oh. That look was pretty serious, and I knew what it meant.
I cringed as I complied and handed him my earring. He proceeded to stick the post of it into his hearing aid to dig out the thick brown wax that had set up like concrete. When he handed the earring back to me, I reluctantly held it in my hand as if gangrene had already set in and my hand would rot off.
I stood there a few moments and tried not to appear overly anxious to make my escape. In no time at all I had that earring post soaking in alcohol.
The next time Daddy eyed my earring suspiciously, I had a pin handy.
It’s funny how little things trigger an emotion that pushes the flood gates open wide. I’m of the opinion that most folks think of emotion being unleashed when there is a barrage of tears. I think deep seeded emotions unleash much greater things than that. They sometimes act like a camera and reveal different angles of life and help us focus on the bigger picture – even making sense of things we may never have seen or understood before.
Today I was dust mopping – a menial task – sending a cloud of tiny dirt particles floating in the air. That stirred up memories of my mother. It brought a realization to me that my mother had rhythm. In anything she did, there was a consistent beat.
We had an old dust mop when I was a kid. I didn’t have to see Mama dust mopping to know what she was doing. There would be a swoosh-swoosh and then a few clicks. She would push the mop, lift it and shake it a little bit. The loose mop head would bobble on the end of the stick and make a clicking noise. Over and over she would push the mop, lift, shake it and go again. I can hear it right now.
We waxed floors back then. Mama took a can of paste wax and a rag, got down on her hands and knees and applied wax to the floor in a consistent clockwise motion. We kids were assigned the task of buffing the floor. After we donned a pair of socks, we ran and slid until the wood floor was slick like ice and almost shiny enough to see our reflection.
It didn’t matter what Mama did, there was rhythm. She was never flippant in any of her actions – there was always a purpose, a rhyme or a reason. If she was reading, she had a constant rhythm as she snapped the lower right-hand corner of the page. It was quite annoying. She would get the old sewing machine going with the consistent beat of the treadles, all movement and humming evenly spaced. She loved to dance, though we didn’t see if often. My granddad would get out his fiddle and make it sing while mama danced the Shoddish, or moved to a tune like “O Dem Golden Slippers” or “Put Your Little Foot.” Mama whistled and liked to sing. Neither were appreciated some of the time, especially early in the morning. Even her handwriting was melodic.
It was fascinating to watch Mama make bread. She put ingredients in a big bowl, grabbed a big slotted spoon and started a repetitive motion as she half stirred, half slapped the spoon up and down. I can still hear the rhythm of the spoon as she beat the air into the dough. When she kneaded the dough, it was a very precise beat. She folded over a portion of the dough while turning it counter-clockwise with the right hand as she pushed the dough with the heel of her left hand. Her movements were synchronized, not missing a beat.
If she had gum – watch out. It would snap, crackle and pop in rhythm. If she was using the mixer or beating egg whites by hand, ironing, curling her hair, bouncing a baby, painting, coloring, writing a letter, or whatever she did, there was that same consistency – that harmonic progression.
She composed beautiful music inspired by each menial task, the rhythmic works of her hands and heart composing the final cadences that continues to sing its song in our memories.
Big wooden boxes filled with all kinds of pumpkins and gourds lined the parking lot. Some were green, some orange, some white, some flesh colored, some big, some small, some shaped like gnome hats, some with big hideous warts, some squishy looking, some fat, some for cooking, some for decoration. When I walked through the opened door of apple house, a waft of sweet-smelling fried pies, pastries and breads tickled my nose. From the long line of customers, it seems they must have been enticed by the pleasing aromas too, as they waited somewhat patiently to make their purchases.
I made our selection of apples to be made into applesauce, pies and other tasty treats, and let my husband pay for them while I went outside to wait. As I sat on a bench people watching, I saw an elderly gentleman come my way. He pushed one of those small half carts, with his cane riding inside the little buggy. Carefully, he sat down on another bench. He had a slight smile on his face that looked like it could be permanent fixture. He looked toward another gentleman and said, “It sure is a pretty day, isn’t it?” There was no response. I watched him closely, then his eyes met mine and I smiled and nodded in agreement. When I got up to leave, I told him to enjoy this pretty day. His whole face lit up.
Little did the elderly man realize that seeing him stirred many memories for me. For several years in the fall of the year, another elderly gentleman, my father, and I took a trip to the Apple Capital of Georgia to get apples. We would make a day of it visiting one of the many orchards in the area and going out for lunch. Our adventures always included a scenic drive while Daddy told tales of his childhood and family history.
Autumn memories somehow make an already pretty day with family even sweeter.
I know a guy who doesn’t get out much other than for work and an occasional visit to a family member. He might be just a little bit hermitish (though I don’t think that’s a word).
One day he and another fellow went to a neighboring town to get items for work. They decided to stop and get some lunch at a Chinese restaurant. After eating their meal, the guy opened his funny little cookie. He thought it was nice that they gave him a cookie, and quickly put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, he knew something wasn’t quite right. He pulled a narrow piece of paper out of his mouth and was surprised to see a prophetic message that read, “You will get a surprise!”
Wow! That was quick. I guess fortune cookies really do work!
Many old towns were built around the town square. Businesses, cafés, benches, and friendly folks were a welcome sight to residents as well as passersby. Some of you probably remember those days and were even among the number of those who “cruised the square” or sat on a park bench licking an ice cream cone or sipping on a cherry coke or shake purchased at the local soda fountain.
One small community in which we lived had a town square but there were very few businesses lined along the street. The square was more like a square with rounded corners. This town square had a fountain in the center. Some days, that was the talk of the town. Well, those were the days that followed the nights when some of the teenaged kids soaped the fountain, sometimes even in color. This small patch of greenspace was donated to the community in the mid-1800’s by a lady from one of the prominent families of the town. For being such a small plot, it sure was a popular spot.
On one side of the square was a small store. You could buy a candy bar and coke for about 15 cents. That’s when cokes really were the “real thing”. Candy displayed in racks included candy cigarettes much to my mother’s disapproval. The store was a short walk from our house, so if change rattled in my pocket, I would go to the store for a treat. My first choice was a Milky Way bar, but if I bought candy cigarettes, I hid them away.
The Post Office was on another side of the square where people came for more than mail. There was a lot of chatter as neighbors met and got caught up on the town gossip and the goings-on of family members, sometimes one and the same.
Across from the store on the other side of the square stood the United Methodist Church as a beacon to the community. Of course, we spent quite a bit of time there since my dad was the preacher. The land for the church building was given by the same benefactor as the parcel given for the square. The local churches were vital to the community. They provided a place to worship and a place for the community to come together and serve one another in time of need, sickness, or tragedy.
In the summer, there was a Marigold Festival complete with parade, and an occasional celebrity in the mix. Vendors, train rides, ball games, food, square dancing, and bands made the festival an attraction for residents as well as tourists. My sister was even a candidate for Miss Marigold one year. The whole city was planted in marigolds of various kinds. Everything was groomed and pretty with marigolds blooming in bright colors. There was a downside however – it didn’t smell too good. Marigolds are not the sweetest smelling blooms! The festival was an annual event from 1971 to 2002. However, the buzz is that the festival will return in 2022.
Though all of these were inviting characteristics of small-town living, there was another favorite of mine – the Bookmobile. We knew ahead of time when it would be parked at the town square in our little community. I loved going into the Bookmobile and rummaging through all the book titles and making my selection. It was almost magical to me. Books I might have overlooked in a library had a special appeal in the Bookmobile.
As I look back through the years, I feel richer and greatly appreciative of having the privilege to live in small towns with a big sense of community. Those are good places to call home.
That September day one hundred twenty-five years ago, Doctor Bezalell Bell Andrews arrived to make a special delivery. The next morning the Knapps welcomed another baby boy into the family. Dr. Andrews handed the baby boy to his mother and said, “Bee Bell. That’s his name, named after me. When he gets bigger, I’ll give him my silver watch.” The baby’s father wanted to name him Jack, but his mother said, “The doctor has already named him. He’s Bee Bell!” The Knapp family moved from Nebraska before little Bee was old enough to carry the promised watch, but he did carry the name with him all of his life. That in itself was a tremendous gift and extraordinary honor.
Bee Bell Knapp with sister Leone and brother Fred
Bezalell Bell Andrews, commonly known as B. Bell Andrews, was no ordinary man. His patients and community knew him as a respected physician and surgeon. He practiced medicine, which included homeopathy, in Stella, Nebraska for a number of years. His wife was also a doctor. But there was more to Dr. B. Bell Andrews. More than thirty years before the delivery of a baby boy on that 29th day of September, 1896, Bezalell Bell Andrews was a prisoner of war.
While serving with Co L 17th Illinois Cavalry, Andrews was captured at Jonesville, Virginia on January 3, 1864, and sent to Belle Isle, Richmond, Virginia. In February, the prisoners on Belle Isle were moved to Andersonville, Georgia. It is said, “The men who left Belle Isle were dirty, poorly clothed, and almost all of them weighed less than 100 pounds.”
Upon arrival at Andersonville, Andrews (aka Lale) was taken into a building where his chum, John McElroy (aka Mc), saw him. That may well have been the salvation of both of the teenage boys who were thrown into manhood in one fell swoop. McElroy, who became a journalist and author, later wrote of their experiences at Andersonville as well as the other camps to which they were moved before being released.
McElroy told of his initial arrival at Andersonville, “Five hundred weary men moved along slowly through double lines of guards. Five hundred men marched silently towards the gates that were to shut out life and hope from most of them forever. A quarter of a mile from the railroad we came to a massive palisade of great squared logs standing upright in the ground. The fires blazed up and showed us a section of these, and two massive wooden gates, with heavy iron hinges and bolts. They swung open as we stood there and we passed through into the space beyond. We were in Andersonville.”
The two friends stayed together and managed to gather a few items including a couple of tin pans, a few pieces of lumber to construct a shelter, a few onions and collards from a garden on the side of the road, and a few garments stripped from the dead. They shared a coat and a blanket, huddling together for warmth.
illustration taken from Andersonville : A Story of Rebel Military Prisons by John McElroy, 1879
One of their prized possessions was a crudely made chess set. Here is McElvoy’s account, “My chum, Andrews, and I constructed a set of chessmen with an infinite deal of trouble. We found a soft, white root in the swamp which answered our purpose. A boy near us had a tolerably sharp pocket-knife, for the use of which a couple of hours each day, we gave a few spoonfuls of meal. The knife was the only one among a large number of prisoners, as the Rebel guards had an affection for that style of cutlery, which led them to search incoming prisoners, very closely. The fortunate owner of this derived quite a little income of meal by shrewdly loaning it to his knifeless comrades. The shapes that we made for pieces and pawns were necessarily very rude, but they were sufficiently distinct for identification. We blackened one set with pitch pine soot, found a piece of plank that would answer for a board and purchased it from its possessor for part of a ration of meal, and so were fitted out with what served until our release to distract our attention from much of the surrounding misery.”
Whenever they were moved, they would gather up their crudely carved primitive chess pieces and board and wrap it up in a holey blanket as if it was the grandest and only possession in the world, pushing their way to the forefront. They wanted to be the first load of prisoners to be moved, hoping with the hope of a futile promise of being exchanged for Southern prisoners. They were human pawns in their own game of chess, using their honed wits and strategy to survive.
It is said that “War is Hell.” In this hell, teenage boys were forged into men. Here, a name was made, but Bezalell Bell Andrews was more than a mere name, it spoke of character, endurance, and determination.
Not only does history touch each of us in some way, but it is in our history that names are made and character is fashioned. The little boy named Bee Bell, born that fall day in September 1896, became my grandfather. He carried his name well, for he too was a man of honorable character with a heart of compassion.
