Make a joyful noise to God, all the earth; sing the glory of his name; give to him glorious praise. Say to God, "How awesome are your deeds! Because of your great power, your enemies cringe before you. All the earth worships you; they sing praises to you, sing praises to your name."
Psalm 66:1-4
I remember once going to church with Papaw, which for some reason that Sunday was just the two of us. He and I had would stand during the hymns and he would tap his foot, but would never utter a word – not one. Naively I thought that Papaw simply did not have a hymnal available from which to read. I gave him a nudge with my elbow and put the hymnal where he could read from it. He gave me one of those looks that said, “What on earth are you thinking?” However, he began to sing. It was about that time that I got a very clear understanding of exactly why he normally was an observer and not a participant when it came to music. Fortunately it was a relatively short hymn, and the pain ended quickly enough for us all. He did hit a couple of different notes during the course of the hymn, but I don’t think either of those notes were in the original score of the music. Mr. Ed, who usually sat near Papaw in the rear of the church, never fully grasped how far his version of a particular tune was from what was printed, and he didn’t really care either. Mr. Ed, much to our chagrin, fully enjoyed making a joyful noise to the Lord; a loud and joyful noise. Despite the fact that he was musically disabled I am so thankful for his spirit and enthusiasm in singing with all his heart.
Papaw was always one to tell you exactly what he thought. He reminded me on more than one occasion that he was a National League man when I brought up any American League team, especially the Yankees. His stance was just as strong in politics. I would, on some occasions, bring up a republican in politics. In his eyes I could have just as easily brought up the devil himself. He was a democrat through and through, and was very proud of the fact that he always voted straight ticket. His thoughts on gospel music were no less exact. The group should always be a quartet, and should always have the traditional soprano, alto, tenor, and bass – although I am not fully convinced that he had a clue about the differences between the soprano and alto. As far as musical accompaniment goes, an upright piano was fine, but never should the music of the devil, found in a guitar, be found there. Bringing up the subject of drums was not a wise idea either. It was never very difficult to tell that even a tambourine was flirting with disaster to Papaw. His gospel music was pure vocal and piano – nothing more – nothing less.
He often took me with him to various gospel “sangin’s”. We would go to high school gyms, local churches, fire departments, or wherever the various quartets went that attracted Papaw. They were always well attended, and it seemed that my Papaw knew everyone there. It would take what seemed like hours just to find our way to our seats. The people we ran into always asked how he was and who this young man was with him. I loved my grandfather more than just about anything, and it was easy to see from the way he responded to his friends that he felt the same way about me. He would put his arm around me and rub his rough hand across my face. His tanned and leathery face would crack into a huge smile and he would proudly exclaim that, “this is Bobby’s boy, John David. He wanted to come to the sangin’ with me tonight.”
The following litany was always the same, but I never tired of hearing it. Each person would always recount how many thousands of years that they had known Papaw. They would tell me how they used to play on the baseball team that he drove the bus for, or they helped him pick tobacco or cotton, or they lived on the farm adjacent to him, or any of any number of ways that Papaw was known throughout the region. However, always he seemed to be as much of a hero in their eyes as he was in mine.
Papaw and I would eventually make our way to our seats. The venues that these events were held in were never what you would consider posh; usually, it was building that everyone else had tired of using. The seats were always the metal folding kind. The piano was occasionally tuned, but rarely tuned well. But, there was more heart in that small space than could be contained in any room. The people were in love with Jesus and it was easy to tell. Each song would relate the story of the gospel in its own way. Through Papaw’s rough exterior the music would tame his soul and the gospel it proclaimed would heal it. The music would start and he would quietly sit and pat his foot to the beat. He was never showy about it or made a big production about it. He just quietly sat, smiled, and patted his foot to the beat.
All too soon the sangin’ would be over, and it would be time to find our way back to the pickup truck to go home. Mamaw would be waiting for us, and would ask how the sangin’ was. Papaw would always say that it was just beautiful, but would rarely mention a single song that was sung. Instead, it was the people – he simply loved being with and around other people. He would list off each person, who they were with, how they were doing, and what visitation they needed to go to tomorrow; life for them always seemed to center around the next funeral to attend.
Going to a visitation is an important event in the south. After a person dies the funeral home will arrange for a visitation at the funeral home. Here the family of the deceased will gather, while the community “visits” with them and expresses their sympathy. In most other communities around the country this is referred to as a wake, but in Iredell County it is a visitation. In some ways, Mamaw and Papaw seemed to live for visitations. It is truly an odd existence in life to live as if you are anticipating and even looking forward to the next death. It makes you wonder if they were actually anticipating and looking forward to their own death.
Each morning we would gather in the kitchen around the table for a phenomenal home cooked breakfast. There is no doubt in my mind that this scrumptious breakfast did very little to lower a cholesterol level, but it sure was good. Mamaw and Papaw would listen to an old AM radio on top of the refrigerator to find out what the weather was to be like, and who had died so that they would know which visitations they needed to go to that night. However, often Papaw would hear of one at a sangin’ that had not been announced on the radio yet, and this information was too important to let rest. Immediately, Mamaw and Papaw would make their plans around it.
For much of my memory in Papaw’s life, he carried a simple Elgin pocket watch. It wasn’t fancy or tremendously valuable. He seemed to be forever pulling it out of his pocket to wind it; seemed to be a continuous endeavor. Rarely did it feel like more than about thirty minutes would pass without Papaw pulling it out to check the time and wind it again. From my recollection, this was a constant fixture associated with my grandfather. After he died I was tremendously blessed when my family allowed me to have this watch. It represented more than just an heirloom to me; it is the constant reminder of a simple man, who loved the Lord and his family. It is in part, my inheritance.
I was proud of the way my family handled the remaining heirlooms that my grandparents left behind when they died. For some items it was like the proverbial white elephant that no one wants and others items there found a little competition. My grandfather’s pocket watch was one of the items that found some competition, but there was no animosity or spitefulness by anyone for any item. We all gathered as a family and took turns selecting an item. My first round draft pick I took my grandfather’s watch. However, one item that never was up for competition was his love of gospel music; I think in some ways the entire family inherited that.
As mentioned before, and it can’t be overstated, Papaw’s love of gospel music was only rivaled by his love of his family. Over the years he instilled in me that same love. It was slow and deliberate the way that he introduced me to both, but by the time he died I had it. His watch, though I love it, is only an heirloom. The watch is nothing more than a piece of fancy metal in the form of a watch that actually only keeps time in way that my grandfather kept time. Papaw always got there, but in his own time, in his own way, and with much love surrounding it; timeliness, however, was never part of the bargain. But my real inheritance is the one that cannot be put on the auction block or in a box. My real inheritance is the love that Papaw had for gospel music, my family, and the Braves.
Psalm 66:1-4
 Gerard ter BORCH (Zwolle, 1617 - Deventer, 1681) The Concert: Singer and Theorbo Player c. 1657 |
Papaw loved gospel music about as much as he loved his family. At one point in his life he would travel for hours to hear a gospel quartet. If he could have found a way to combine gospel music with a Braves game then he would have been in Heaven early. The odd thing was that Papaw knew nothing of making music himself. The ability to hold or carry a tune completely eluded him.
I remember once going to church with Papaw, which for some reason that Sunday was just the two of us. He and I had would stand during the hymns and he would tap his foot, but would never utter a word – not one. Naively I thought that Papaw simply did not have a hymnal available from which to read. I gave him a nudge with my elbow and put the hymnal where he could read from it. He gave me one of those looks that said, “What on earth are you thinking?” However, he began to sing. It was about that time that I got a very clear understanding of exactly why he normally was an observer and not a participant when it came to music. Fortunately it was a relatively short hymn, and the pain ended quickly enough for us all. He did hit a couple of different notes during the course of the hymn, but I don’t think either of those notes were in the original score of the music. Mr. Ed, who usually sat near Papaw in the rear of the church, never fully grasped how far his version of a particular tune was from what was printed, and he didn’t really care either. Mr. Ed, much to our chagrin, fully enjoyed making a joyful noise to the Lord; a loud and joyful noise. Despite the fact that he was musically disabled I am so thankful for his spirit and enthusiasm in singing with all his heart.
Papaw was always one to tell you exactly what he thought. He reminded me on more than one occasion that he was a National League man when I brought up any American League team, especially the Yankees. His stance was just as strong in politics. I would, on some occasions, bring up a republican in politics. In his eyes I could have just as easily brought up the devil himself. He was a democrat through and through, and was very proud of the fact that he always voted straight ticket. His thoughts on gospel music were no less exact. The group should always be a quartet, and should always have the traditional soprano, alto, tenor, and bass – although I am not fully convinced that he had a clue about the differences between the soprano and alto. As far as musical accompaniment goes, an upright piano was fine, but never should the music of the devil, found in a guitar, be found there. Bringing up the subject of drums was not a wise idea either. It was never very difficult to tell that even a tambourine was flirting with disaster to Papaw. His gospel music was pure vocal and piano – nothing more – nothing less.
He often took me with him to various gospel “sangin’s”. We would go to high school gyms, local churches, fire departments, or wherever the various quartets went that attracted Papaw. They were always well attended, and it seemed that my Papaw knew everyone there. It would take what seemed like hours just to find our way to our seats. The people we ran into always asked how he was and who this young man was with him. I loved my grandfather more than just about anything, and it was easy to see from the way he responded to his friends that he felt the same way about me. He would put his arm around me and rub his rough hand across my face. His tanned and leathery face would crack into a huge smile and he would proudly exclaim that, “this is Bobby’s boy, John David. He wanted to come to the sangin’ with me tonight.”
The following litany was always the same, but I never tired of hearing it. Each person would always recount how many thousands of years that they had known Papaw. They would tell me how they used to play on the baseball team that he drove the bus for, or they helped him pick tobacco or cotton, or they lived on the farm adjacent to him, or any of any number of ways that Papaw was known throughout the region. However, always he seemed to be as much of a hero in their eyes as he was in mine.
Papaw and I would eventually make our way to our seats. The venues that these events were held in were never what you would consider posh; usually, it was building that everyone else had tired of using. The seats were always the metal folding kind. The piano was occasionally tuned, but rarely tuned well. But, there was more heart in that small space than could be contained in any room. The people were in love with Jesus and it was easy to tell. Each song would relate the story of the gospel in its own way. Through Papaw’s rough exterior the music would tame his soul and the gospel it proclaimed would heal it. The music would start and he would quietly sit and pat his foot to the beat. He was never showy about it or made a big production about it. He just quietly sat, smiled, and patted his foot to the beat.
All too soon the sangin’ would be over, and it would be time to find our way back to the pickup truck to go home. Mamaw would be waiting for us, and would ask how the sangin’ was. Papaw would always say that it was just beautiful, but would rarely mention a single song that was sung. Instead, it was the people – he simply loved being with and around other people. He would list off each person, who they were with, how they were doing, and what visitation they needed to go to tomorrow; life for them always seemed to center around the next funeral to attend.
Going to a visitation is an important event in the south. After a person dies the funeral home will arrange for a visitation at the funeral home. Here the family of the deceased will gather, while the community “visits” with them and expresses their sympathy. In most other communities around the country this is referred to as a wake, but in Iredell County it is a visitation. In some ways, Mamaw and Papaw seemed to live for visitations. It is truly an odd existence in life to live as if you are anticipating and even looking forward to the next death. It makes you wonder if they were actually anticipating and looking forward to their own death.
Each morning we would gather in the kitchen around the table for a phenomenal home cooked breakfast. There is no doubt in my mind that this scrumptious breakfast did very little to lower a cholesterol level, but it sure was good. Mamaw and Papaw would listen to an old AM radio on top of the refrigerator to find out what the weather was to be like, and who had died so that they would know which visitations they needed to go to that night. However, often Papaw would hear of one at a sangin’ that had not been announced on the radio yet, and this information was too important to let rest. Immediately, Mamaw and Papaw would make their plans around it.
For much of my memory in Papaw’s life, he carried a simple Elgin pocket watch. It wasn’t fancy or tremendously valuable. He seemed to be forever pulling it out of his pocket to wind it; seemed to be a continuous endeavor. Rarely did it feel like more than about thirty minutes would pass without Papaw pulling it out to check the time and wind it again. From my recollection, this was a constant fixture associated with my grandfather. After he died I was tremendously blessed when my family allowed me to have this watch. It represented more than just an heirloom to me; it is the constant reminder of a simple man, who loved the Lord and his family. It is in part, my inheritance.
I was proud of the way my family handled the remaining heirlooms that my grandparents left behind when they died. For some items it was like the proverbial white elephant that no one wants and others items there found a little competition. My grandfather’s pocket watch was one of the items that found some competition, but there was no animosity or spitefulness by anyone for any item. We all gathered as a family and took turns selecting an item. My first round draft pick I took my grandfather’s watch. However, one item that never was up for competition was his love of gospel music; I think in some ways the entire family inherited that.
As mentioned before, and it can’t be overstated, Papaw’s love of gospel music was only rivaled by his love of his family. Over the years he instilled in me that same love. It was slow and deliberate the way that he introduced me to both, but by the time he died I had it. His watch, though I love it, is only an heirloom. The watch is nothing more than a piece of fancy metal in the form of a watch that actually only keeps time in way that my grandfather kept time. Papaw always got there, but in his own time, in his own way, and with much love surrounding it; timeliness, however, was never part of the bargain. But my real inheritance is the one that cannot be put on the auction block or in a box. My real inheritance is the love that Papaw had for gospel music, my family, and the Braves.
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