MARGARET'S CHRISTMAS SCARE

Margaret’s Christmas Scare


My mother was not a “fraidy cat”, but she did not like being startled. She had this little hoot she made when something surprised her. It could have been a spider, a snake or, in Florida in her later years, one of those wretched roaches that seem to be in the cleanest of homes. And hers was always spotless.

But this time it was caused by something else.

Stuffed animals have always had a special place in my heart. I don’t remember needing one to sleep with me as a child, but even today, at 61 years, I have to fight the urge to buy stuffed “critters” to give to others or to keep for myself. My parents picked up on this early. Now, I wonder if this was passed on to me by my Mother or Dad, because there was always a stuffed animal under our tree for one of my Christmas gifts.

My favorite one was a chimpanzee, and I became the parent of a new Zippy every couple of Christmases. (I suppose it was good training for caring for our four little primates later.) Zippy’s body was hairy and cuddly and his hands and face were made of rubber, very realistic and lifelike to see.

I have tried to imagine how it happened. Now, as I look back, I think one of my brothers, or even my Dad, must have set up the ambush. I know I was not responsible. But there, stuck in a door, about people height, was a hand, reaching out for my mother as she came through the hall.

“Whoooooo!!” she hooted as she jumped back and her heart raced. And try as she could, only the culprit ever knew who had set the trap, but we all laughed for many years over Margaret’s Christmas Scare.

Mommy Sanders’ Sugar Cookies

My mother’s mother, Grandma Sanders was known in our home as Mommy. She lived in Glen Fork, West Virginia next door to the church where I began my relationship with Jesus when I was six years old. The thing I remember most about her house was the guitar that hung on the wall in the bedroom. As I would secretly and quietly strum the strings, I wondered how it was possible that those notes could ever make a song. But Mommy’s life was certainly one that brought melody to the many lives she touched.

As I recall, she couldn’t read and once, when I brought a canned soda from Uncle Tal’s store, she scolded me for bringing in a can of beer. “Pop”, until around that time, had only come in bottles and she didn’t know what was printed on the can. I was only in elementary school and assured her that it was a Pepsi Cola and Uncle Tal would never let me have beer. I actually doubt if he sold it anyway. Though she couldn’t read, she knew lots of Bible that she got by being in church every time the doors were opened. She even shouted in church every now and then.


Every year, it seemed, Mommy would decide to come to Bluefield with us “for a whole month.” But after a week, she was ready to go home. She had so many things to tend to back home and Aunt Ollie and the others in Glen Fork really couldn’t cover for her. (Surely it wasn’t because there were four noisy boys in the house at Bluefield.)

But while she was there, she always baked Sugar Cookies for us. Well, they were called Sugar Cookies, but they really weren’t that sweet. They tasted good, though, and no one else made them like her. She would put them in the pantry covered with a dish towel and we could slip in there and get them when we had what my Mother called “a sweet tooth.”

I don’t remember if Mommy was ever with us on Christmas itself, but I still remember Mommy Sander’s Sugar Cookies.

The Football Outfit

I wonder if every boy got at least one “Football Outfit” for Christmas. The helmet was not recommended for real play and the shoulder pads were a tad deficient, but putting on that jersey and those pants was the next best thing to winning the NFL Championship. I was a Colts fan back then, and of course, there was no Superbowl.

I loved making great moves with that ball tucked safely under my arm and smashing through the line to make those game winning touchdowns.

In reality, I was plowing into the back of the couch, but I don’t remember having a flag thrown on me by my Mother or Dad. I suppose they were content to give up the furniture for my imaginary success.

Sometimes, I took my game outside. This allowed me to have a passing game as well. But I had to improvise since that usually involves two people and I mostly played alone. Being much slower than Superman (or a cartoon character like Bugs Bunny), it was rather difficult to be the quarterback and the receiver, but I was creative and had an excellent imagination.

I would take the ball from an imaginary center, fade back and throw a high arching pass that allowed me to run under it and catch it most of the time. My inconsistent throws made it a challenge to work my way down the field without running out of downs. Most of the time, though, I brought the stadium crowd to their feet to cheer for my amazing game-winning touchdowns.

Just a child’s imagination and a Football outfit. Great memories!!

THE COOLEST TOY EVER MADE

It was the coolest toy ever and way before its time. It was kind of like a “nerf” mobile ground to air rocket launcher, but “nerfs” would not be invented for many years. The missiles would not pass safety standards today, but they were not loaded with explosives. The problem would be that they were hard plastic with a rubber tip. They were fired by pounding a rubber bulb that was attached with a rubber hose to the rocket mount. The burst of air would “ignite” the rocket causing it to fly toward the target.

The target was a ping pong ball floating on a column of air from a fan powered with batteries. The sighting system was made of mirrors that allowed you to look through the end of the launcher and would let you target the floating ball by moving the launcher up and down with a knob and gear mechanism. It was so sophisticated and yet was made of materials that were inexpensive. I’ve never seen another one like it.

I had learned to hit the target consistently by mid-afternoon on Christmas, but there was an unforeseen vulnerability when you were on the floor and there were older brothers nearby playing with other toys.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the attack came. In military terminology (they love to describe things with acrostics), I was overwhelmed by a T.O.M.M.Y. - Take Out Mobile Missile Yahoo. Across the launcher and over my back, we crashed to the ground. I began to cry for reinforcements (with lots of tears). Mother and Dad saved the day with skillful hands and some Elmer’s glue.

I don’t know whatever happened to that fabulous toy, but I will never forget that Christmas of 1956.

Just What I Always Wanted ! !

To this day, my brother Bob and my sister-in-law Sharon may deny that they told Bobby to be excited when he opened the Christmas present, no matter what it was. As parents, we probably all do this because we don’t want people to be disappointed in the reaction they see to a gift given in love.

Grandpa and Grandma Jewell realized that they had failed to put batteries into the toy car they had purchased for their oldest grandson, Bobby, Jr. Someone suggested that they just have them ready to give to him when he opened his gift, but Grandma decided to wrap them separately and he would have two presents to open.

Unfortunately, for some reason, Bobby decided to open the wrong present first. I’m sure he must have been puzzled at the sight, but he had been taught well.

“Batteries, batteries, just what I’ve always wanted, batteries!!” he screamed as he danced around the room. His joy seemed real. Maybe his parents never gave him batteries.

I wonder!!

FAMINE IN BETHLEHEM

Reggie and I were born 6 years apart, so I was always the little kid brother. That continued even after we were grown and when in comparison to him, I was no longer “little.”

Though born to the same parents, we didn’t look much alike, but his imprint was strong upon my life. I liked the cars he liked, the clothes he wore, and we enjoyed the same kind of humor. I was blessed by God with an above average intellect, but Reggie was far superior to me in that area. But in size, my weight began to surpass his when I was in junior high school.

One Christmas memory I think about with a warm smile, involves Reggie and me, his “little” brother. He had recently graduated from high school and I was in the seventh grade.

Our church in New York always had a children’s play at Christmas. Though, written from a different perspective each year, it always included the basic presentation of the Christmas story. One year I was a priest, waiting for the coming of the Messiah, and to this day, I remember that I sang an old hymn, “Day is Dying in the West.” I’m sure this is one of those classics you sing each year (if you have ever heard of it)! The words are powerful, though. The chorus says, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth are full of Thee, Heaven and earth are praising Thee, O Lord, Most High!”

But this particular year, I was a shepherd. You know, the way we picture poor shepherds, wearing burlap sacks with holes cut in them for our heads and arms. I was rather large compared to the other shepherds. Their sacks were loose fitting with little arms sticking out. Mine wasn’t too small, but was filled rather well.

I’m sure I didn’t appreciate Reggie’s comment then, though I have had many laughs about it down through the years. He looked at us and said wryly, “It looks like there has been a famine in Bethlehem.” Then after a pause, he finished, “And Sammy caused it!”

“If only….” – A Christmas memory

Tonight, something triggered a Christmas memory that makes me feel ashamed after 51 years. Oh, I can, and do, forgive myself. My experience tells me that a 4th grader doesn’t understand the feelings of others, nor is he concerned if he is guilty of crushing the spirit of someone who has disappointed him. A surprise to me is that I immediately remembered the boy’s name and can picture him in my mind even after all these years.

It was the last day before Christmas vacation and we had drawn names for a gift exchange in class at Cumberland Heights Elementary at the base of East River Mountain in Bluefield, West Virginia. My parents were not well off financially, but I had brought a nice present to be given to a classmate. I don’t remember what it was, but I will always remember the gift that was given to me by Denny Bowman. I now realize that he was giving all his family could afford to give. They were poor. We all saw that, even as 10 year olds. I guess it was his clothes, his shoes, and other things about him that clued us in. We just knew he was poor, but it was unspoken.

When I opened my gift along with the others, it was a monogrammed handkerchief, but it didn’t even have a “J” on it. It had a “B”. I was crushed, not because of the monogram, but because “it was a handkerchief.” In my disappointment, I became angry and I cried. Our teacher did her best to step in to minimize my disappointment, as well as, to ease his pain. I don’t even remember how the incident ended. We just went home after school to begin our Christmas holidays.

It’s amazing how our feelings can return after half a century! However, now I am not angry, but ashamed. If I were only able to go back and relive that day with the insight of a lifetime of experience, but sadly, that can not be.

I haven’t thought of that day in all these years, but I truly hope the memory of that day has disappeared from Denny’s mind forever.

PHILIP SAID WHAT?

It was a beautiful afternoon, springtime in North Florida, when I noticed out the kitchen window that Philip was playing with a bat. Even as a young child he was enthralled by sports and sports equipment, but this time, he was dangerously close to his sister, Kara. I was afraid that we were looking at a knot on the head, if not stitches. Perhaps he would wound himself, but more likely, it would be her. His youth, 4 years or so, had not given him the skill to handle a very big bat.


My immediate response was to get the bat out of his hand. I commissioned older brother, Paul, standing nearer the back door than I, to diffuse the situation by taking the bat away. I never thought about the fact that an 11 year old would not be so gentle or kind in removing the weapon, but would, in fact, use his superior size and strength to snatch it away without explanation.

That’s exactly what he did and Philip was obviously not pleased. In his anger I saw him kick an empty box repeatedly and I heard him saying the worst word in his vocabulary. He would need to be disciplined by me, but I first had to get control of my laughter. He knew it was a word we had told him not to say. My 4 year old was cursing as he continually kicked the box. It was an awful word and we had corrected him before, but in his anger, he just had to say it – not once, but several times. “Pooty, pooty, pooty!!”

WHEN VALLIE MAE GOT LEFT IN "CANADER"

Vallie Mae had never been to another country. As a matter of fact, she had never been outside of the Carolinas. But here she was, in Niagara Falls on the Canadian side, late at night with no one she knew in sight.

Now this had started as an idea that seemed like an adventure and Brother Ray, her pastor had invited her and her husband, Boyd, to travel with Linda’s family to the Southern Baptist Convention in Virginia Beach. Linda’s Dad was a pastor, her brother, Tim was a pastor, and her sister, Patsy, was married to a pastor, me (the scrollizer) and we were all taking campers to the Convention.

Someone had the idea that since we would be 350 miles from home in Virginia, that this would be a great time to visit my parents near Niagara Falls, NY. After all, it was only 600 more miles away.

So the trip was made and everyone was camping on Grand Island, in the middle of the Niagara River between Buffalo and Niagara Falls and it came time to visit the falls. I knew my way around, since I had lived there before, so my car became the lead one.

I don’t remember how any cars we had, but I do remember Ray telling me later what happened at the border. The Canadian border was much more open then, but you were required to tell the customs agent where you were born. When crossing the Rainbow Bridge, the agent said, “Where were you born?”

Boyd said, “Moore County”, to which Ray added quickly, “North Carolina.” I guess Boyd figured that everyone knew Moore county was in North Carolina.

We let everyone out and said we would meet them with the cars further up the street. They could walk along the Canadian side of the gorge and look at the colored lights on the falls. Unfortunately, Vallie Mae, must have been enjoying the view too much. When we loaded up for our trip back across the bridge to the United States, she missed her ride. Each driver thought that she was in another car, so she was left behind. We had been able to communicate during the entire trip on CB radios, but were not allowed to have them on in Canada. After much chatter, and teasing, when we turned the radios back on, we realized that Vallie Mae was not with us.

We rescued her about 20 minutes later by sending back one car, but she told everyone in Moore country, “Don’t let Preacher Ray take you to "Canader."  He may just decide to leave you there.”

GETTING OLD - MORE MEMORIES THAN DREAMS

Dreams are for the young.


We dream about getting our driver’s license, about graduating from high school, about getting married, about owning a boat, about having our own home, about a new truck to go along with that luxury car we dreamed of, about travelling to exotic places, about reaching financial security.

That’s not to mean that as we age, we stop dreaming, but the telltale sign of getting old is that we begin to focus more on the past than on the future. We have those wonderful memories, and, by God’s grace, we have only faint memories of the painful things of the past. They were “the good old days”, and we find pleasure in tapping into them again.

Contact with a long forgotten acquaintance is a thrill, even though we may not have been really good friends back then. But we share memories of what we experienced together.

Our dreams begin to be less important in our hierarchy of desires. We wonder why we really thought that owning an old hearse was such a cool idea, or why those clothes and hairstyles were really “neat.”

We are pleased that many of our dreams did not come true. We are now looking back with a new perspective, having learned from experience, the real value of things in this world.

No, we do not stop dreaming, it’s just that we gradually begin to focus more on the memories, and the pleasures they bring, and less on the future, and the dreams that may never be fulfilled.

This is not intended to be depressing. It’s just that we find our true pleasure in what we have experienced and not in the pleasure of anticipation. We’re not hanging up our running shoes, we just like the rocking chair more.

THE END OF A DREAM

It was the end of a dream, early fall of 1964.


I was new in town, a hillbilly from West Virginia, although I had lived in North Tonawanda, NY, for two years in the 7th and 8th grades. But it was different now, I was a junior at the high school and it seemed that I wasn’t remembered by anyone. West Virginia is a long way north from where I am in Florida now, but to Western New Yorkers, I was a southerner. I wasn’t mistreated as much as I was a novelty.

As with most young boys, I considered myself a Pro Athlete in the making. All I needed was enough time to grow physically, because I already had the raw skill needed to excel.

The first blow came when I decided to try out for football. North Tonawanda was known for its football program, and each year’s highlight was named appropriately, the TNT game. Archrivals they were, Tonawanda and North Tonawanda, sharing a name, but not wanting to share the bragging rights for the best football team.

We had the coaches that seemed to me to come straight from Knute Rockne’s Notre Dame staff - Head Coach, legend GeorgeVetter who had coached there for almost 30 years, Line Coach George Tetter, and Backfield Coach Nick Sebek, Indiana University and the Washington Redskins. Nearly 100 players showed up, and all the equipment was gone before the last of us were to dress out. I was given a leather helmet like the ones used long ago, but I was determined to show I was a football player.

It was the job of the coaches that day to make most of us quit. It wasn’t the rigors of the workout that did it for me. It was a hit that I received from another junior, Dave Brosius. I think he was smaller than me, but all I remember was the ringing in my head and trying to begin breathing again.

It was there that my NFL football dream died. I wasn’t even going to be in the Niagara Football League (NFL).

Poor Tommy! I'm running away

I didn’t have a plan, but I knew what I was going to do. Run away! Right now! I guess I thought I would figure out the plan in flight.

Half a century later, I can’t remember why I was so upset. I’m not even sure who to blame. It may have been my mother, or it may have been the neighbor boys with whom I was playing. Somebody had pushed me across the line! Now I was done with it. Nobody was going to push me around.

I do remember the emotion and what followed. Poor Tommy! He was a couple of years younger than me, but he had the sense to try to convince me not to do it. But I wouldn’t listen. I started running down the long driveway to get to the road that would take me away.

The driveway went by an old family cemetery and through what we called the orchard, although now I think there were only 3 or 4 apple trees and a pear tree. Old Mrs. Rhodes, who sold my parents the farm, 50 acres of mostly rocks and trees, had planned for the future. Each apple tree was a different variety, and on the opposite side of the drive, next to the cemetery, were a couple of cherry trees. Other parts of the property had grape vines, walnut trees, blackberry bushes and a plum tree, next to the chicken house.

But enough of that, I was running away. At the highway, I knew to turn right, because to the left, there was a dead end in a couple of miles. I ran down the road, followed by Tommy who was now crying for me to turn back. Just beyond Fuzzy Harry’s house, I turned to the right onto a dirt road. I guess I was running out of steam and still hadn’t come up with a plan. At the back of the house, I climbed through a barbed wire fence and went into the back yard. I had almost stopped running by then, and I heard Tommy, still crying, but now with a different sound. Poor Tommy was stuck in the barbed wire fence.

Can you believe it? He was so concerned for me, and when I saw his predicament, I started laughing. I know it’s true, laughter is good medicine. I forgot about running away and after helping him get through the fence, we ended the 10 minute adventure by going back home.

I wonder if Poor Tommy ever forgave me.

Kara's Wedding Guest

For those familiar with Margaret’s story, part of the Florida trilogy by Eugenia Price, you can visualize the location of our daughter Kara’s wedding on March the 30th , 2002.

Less than a mile south of the historic Hibernia plantation, under the huge water oaks, next to the expansive St. John’s River, Mark Scott Matthews and Kara Leigh Jewell exchanged their vows. It was spring in north Florida, with all the beauty that spring brings to this place.

The Powells had graciously allowed us to set up our wedding arbor overlooking the river and we were in the realm of the dreams of young brides everywhere.

But all brides do not have brothers, especially older ones who have had a history of expressing their love in unusual ways. And so for this day, Paul had chosen to become a blonde, a surfer looking blonde. Not to cast aspersion on surfers whose hair has been lightened by the rays of the sun, but this man’s hair is dark naturally, and this was an obvious move to be noticed.

God has a way of bringing us back to reality, to make us realize that we do not live in a fairytale world. Sometimes he uses those who really love us the most. Bad move, Paul, but we will always remember, and now, we remember with a smile.

A Perfect Philosophy of Life

My son Philip, the avid Florida Gator fan, was ecstatic. The CBS Sports announcers were amazed by the play. They were talking about the “perfect reception” and the “perfect pass”, and then commented that the Georgia defender had defended “perfectly”. It doesn’t get any better than that in football, which is a game whose purpose is to try to get your opponent to make the mistake that will give you the advantage.
It hit me midsentence as Philip and I were discussing this later on the internet. As I wrote about the amazing moment – A perfect offense always beats a perfect defense-- I added as a postscript, now that’s a great Philosophy of Life.
How often do we spend our entire lives reacting to what the world throws at us instead of taking charge with a plan that will bring us success? Is every play successful at advancing the ball? Certainly not! But - A perfect offense always beats a perfect defense. And in the end, it was a touchdown!

Scrollizin'

My brother-in-law, Ray Franklin, always had the most unusual things happen to him, and met characters that could easily fill a book. He loved to talk about them and many of his experiences became inside jokes with me and the basis for much shared laughter.

On one of his many hospitalizations, Ray had an elderly black man as a roommate. As they talked together, he noticed that the man was writing a journal, of sorts. When Ray asked what he was doing, the old gentleman said, "I'm scrollizin'."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm writing down the story of my life, I'm scrollizin'."

I don't know how many times we shared a laugh when either of us was writing down something or filling out some form and said, "Don't bother me. I'm scrollizin'."

So in honor and remembrance of Ray Franklin, and an unknown black brother, I have named my blog, Samuel Scrollizin'.