A Great Ledbetter Day

Roger drops back, sets up in the pocket and fires a perfect pass to his back up Tight End Jackie Smith. Captain Comeback is doing what he does best, bringing our beloved Cowboys back against the villainous Steelers. We finally will get retribution from our previous Super Bowl loss and wipe the smile off Terry Bradshaw’s face. My mates and I jump off the couch, ready to do our touchdown dance. Our sunshine turned to rain as the ball slips through his fingers and with it our hopes and dreams of finally defeating the Steelers in a Super Bowl. 

Bubba, Sims and I cry for what seems like hours on our apartment steps. At that point in my young life, it was by far the worst thing that happened to me personally. We couldn’t stop the tears from flowing and our sister’s Cribbie, Nannette and Lisa couldn't help but continue the agony with their relentless teasing. Sisters can be so cruel sometimes, however I love sisters. 

Sundays were always the best day of the week. My sissy and I would wake up to the smell of bacon and pancakes for breakfast. My mom made the best pancakes in the free world. They were fat and fluffy and the bacon fried to perfection. We would get dressed for Sunday school. I would go next door to hurry my cousin Sims. He was always last. His two sisters, my sissy and us two knuckleheads, would walk up the street to our church, New Zion Baptist, on Ledbetter Road. 

After Sunday School we would play tag in the churchyard and stop by the basement to get a long drink of ice cold water from the fountain. Church service would begin, however, right before it started I would sneak a quick hug from my Paw Paw. He sat in the second row because he was a church deacon. My cousin and I would sit in the second to last back row where we squirm, fidget and whisper until Ms. Onary, the head usher, would offer us a piece of peppermint candy if we promised to sit still and be quiet. 

The highlight of our church services would be when my auntie Carol would sing a solo. Sims, so proud when she sang I would peek over and look at him. My brother would blush with pride. It didn’t happen every Sunday, but when it did, it made Rev. Bailey’s 2 hour sermon manageable for a 12-year-old. 

After church, my cousin and I would be first in line to shake the preacher’s hand and race home to change out of our church clothes and toss the football until dinner. Which was actually a late lunch. My favorite meal, stew beef and mashed potatoes, mom would put her foot in it as the old saying goes, and sweet potato custard pie for dessert. I could easily eat the entire pie, however, one piece after dinner and one before bed. 

I would go grab Sims and go find Bubba. When his older cousin Johnny wasn’t busy, he would be the QB and the three of us run pass patterns. Get in our 3 point stance in unison just as our beloved Cowboys just before the snap. All catches go to the house in our case past Fran’s house. My favorite route was a sideline pattern to make sure both feet are in bounds before going out of bounds. 

Soon the neighborhood girls mill around. I made sure never to drop a pass while they watch. The girls would break up our game and request we play with them. Red Rover was a favorite game I always call Nay over. She was Bubba’s sissy, whom I loved the first day they moved beside us. Of course, I would never reveal that tidbit of information. That was my personal business not to be shared with anyone, especially Bubba. 

Without warning, the worst possible thing happens. The dreaded street light would come on and signify to all children it was time to go in. Almost simultaneously you would hear singing as if from some all girl acapella group. Neighborhood moms yelling for their children each by name to come home. A neighborhood call of the wild, mom’s calling for their wild children. My mates Simmi Dave, Bubba and I give each other a pound, i.e. handshake as if we are going to war never to see each other again. A last goodbye.

My sissy and I reluctantly go in, take a bath and put on our PJ’s. I would finally get that extra piece of pie and take my time savoring each bite. There would be six of them, and each would take me to paradise. We watch a little TV until the theme song from Maude comes on, signifying bedtime as we say our prayers. I always thanked God for my Paw Paw. He was the only man who truly loved me. I was a little more than his grandchild; it was as if I was his last child. Born out of wedlock, I never knew my father. My mom returned to Small Town Friendly from Columbus, OH soon after my birth and I lived with my grandparents. 

I never remember a man holding me beside my Paw Paw. My seat in the living room of their house was on his lap in his favorite chair. I would play with his pocket watch he kept in the chest pocket of his overalls. We were inseparable, along with his right-hand man, Uncle Dave. Our favorite spot was the Spindale Drug Store. I remember nothing he ever purchased for himself. However, I never forgot what he purchased for me: a Hershey Chocolate Bar. 

I wasn’t allowed to open it until we got in our cuddle position in the living room. I treat it with special care, sliding the silver packing out from the outer cover, careful to peel back the silver wrapping, making sure not to break off a piece. I take the entire unbroken unscathed Hershey bar out. The magnificent candy bar naked in all its glory; Hershey was the first word I ever read. Hold it strong enough that a thief couldn’t run by and snatch it away, but delicate enough not to break. My first bite, not until part of the bar melted into my fingers. I kiss and bite the milk chocolate, satisfying my hunger. As I finish the last bite, I look up at my paw paw with chocolate around my mouth and all over my fingers. He would offer his signature booming laugh. Come on, son, let’s wash you up. After taking care of my Hershey stained mouth and fingers, we return to his chair and cuddle up in his lap while he smokes his pipe. I lay my head on his chest, take a gigantic sigh of pure joy and happiness and fall soundly asleep. 

This particular Sunday I’m awakened not by the smell of bacon, but by the screams of my mother. I knew immediately this was out of the ordinary because my mom only screamed at my sissy and me when we were bad. My sweet little sissy is asleep, so I knew it wasn’t one of us. I wake her up, Cribbie. I whisper. Beck is crying. Why what happened? I don’t know, let’s go check. We are both afraid because we had never heard or seen her cry. We instinctively hold hands as we creep downstairs like we would do to see if Santa came.

This is the Sunday as a 12-year-old I question God. The worst news of my life, Paw Paw died in the bathroom at his home of a massive heart attack while getting ready for church. The rest is too painful to relive. I would dedicate my 8th grade basketball season to my grandfather. His death fuels my desire to be the best football and basketball player Small Town Friendly will ever see.