Kes: Maybe Our Connections Have Connections

Pat Fisher, who I did not know, sent a short note of thanks for some of my little stories. She mentioned she is related to Jim and Joe Williams, that her husband attended Mississippi State, and she lives in McLemoresville, Tennessee. She has no idea how quickly her encouraging words sent my memory bank tumbling in all sorts of directions.    

And reaffirmed my belief that so many of our different stories are entwined in so many ways….

Jim and Joe lived just up the street from me. Jim was a couple of years older and one of the guys I looked up to. First, because he was always playing in any game we had going on in the neighborhood. And later, when I realized how smart he was, I began to look to him for advice.

And, good golly, you wouldn’t believe the hours we spent together on that old football practice field behind the high school. Bonding together through blood, sweat, toil, and tears.

Joe was a year younger than me. He was brilliant in an off-beat kind of way, and I mean that as a great compliment. I get in touch with him when I can’t remember all the characters that made the City Café so special in our young lives. He should be the one writing weekly stories.

I’m telling you, he could make these pages glow.

He understood Leon. That is saying something! I always suspected, but could never prove, that Joe might have been called up with Leon into the flying saucer that landed in the field behind Mr. Archie Moore’s pond in 1958.

Before I could finish reading Pat Fisher’s few lines, I found myself on a Sunday afternoon at the baseball field across from the pajama factory. Our town team was playing a group from Sardis, led by brothers Sammy and Ralph Fisher. I did not know if Pat was kin to them, but her name sure rang their bell for me.

Ralph was playing second base. Sammy was at shortstop. Someone hit a sharp ground ball screaming towards centerfield. Sammy took a few quick steps, dove to his left, snagged the ball and while still sliding on his stomach whisked it out of his glove toward second base. Ralph grabbed it while twirling in midair and threw a strike to first to complete the greatest double play that I have ever witnessed.

It was a moment that transcended the game itself to be written in indelible ink in the deepest chambers of my mind. I appreciated Pat giving me a chance to review it all over again.

Our same town team played later that summer in McLemoresville against a black team. It was a rare occurrence in our neck of the woods in the early 1960’s for sure. It was the first time I had ever been involved in such an event.

I remember we jumped off to an early lead and everyone played as hard as they could on both teams. It was a baseball game. Nothing more, or less. We shook hands after the game and you’d a’thought we’d been doing it for years.

I was sixteen, playing with, and against, older men. There were no incidents. No name calling. But I think a lot of respect was shared on both sides. Another moment to relive, courtesy of Pat’s note, that transcended the game.

And one teenage boy grew a bit that day just by keeping his eyes and heart open.

Fast forward ten years and 550 miles and you’d understand why I didn’t hesitate to play for the St. Joe Sluggers, a black semipro team, when they asked me to join them. Another great group of guys just intent on beating Perry, or Ebro, or Panama City on any given Sunday afternoon.

We’d win a big home game and celebrate with a plate of Paul Gant’s barbeque.

Cathy’s niece attended Mississippi State. We went to see her one fall weekend and attended a football game. I was impressed with the students, the town of Starkville, and the unbelievable Cullis and Gladys Wade Clock Museum on campus.

I told Cathy we ought to have a couple of more kids so we could send them to Mississippi State!

When you start connecting the dots, you can see the logic in my earlier statement about one story expanding into many.

McLemoresville also had a store that sold the best pimento cheese in the universe. We’d drive over there and pick up a pint, or quart, and eat most of it before we got back to the house.

Mom was famous for her hand squeezed pimento cheese. I tell you how special it was. When her three sons were older, with families of their own, Leon would show up at Mom’s at Thanksgiving and Christmas a day early. When me and David Mark arrived, there wouldn’t be enough pimento cheese left in the bottom of the bowl to cover one Ritz Cracker!         

If I dig any deeper, we may all be entwined in this one….

Respectfully,
Kes
kesley45@aol.com