Welcome to Billie's World

            Our family lived in rural Walthall County in South Mississippi.  My father was a rural letter carrier who commuted daily to the Tylertown post office to begin his route.  Here in the Deep South it was the local custom to invite close friends or even casual acquaintances to eat if they happened by at dinnertime.   

            One particular day Mr. Patton was having the main meal of the day with us.  I think he was the father of Aunt Annie who had married my mother’s brother.  The table was set and the food was country ham, baked sweet potatoes, turnip greens, corn bread, and black-eyed peas, all of which had been grown on our farm. 

            Mr. Patton was at the end of the table on my right.  To my left was my brother, two years older.  At the other end of the table was my father.  Mother sat opposite me next to my younger sister. 

            Mr. Patton was a talker.  He talked on the inhale as well as the exhale.  In between words, he would shovel in his food and somehow, during all of this activity, he was able to chew, talk, and swallow his food without choking.  I, of course, was taking this all in absolutely spellbound.  It was the black-eyed peas that were the star of the show.

            Mr. Patton would, with great skill, evidently from years of practice, line up the peas on his knife and, without spilling a single pea, roll them down the knife into his mouth.  I was awed beyond belief at his skill.

            All was okay until I began an attempt to imitate Mr. Patton by trying to line up my peas on my knife.  Suddenly my mother delivered a sharp blow to my shin and glared at me with a look that would stop an eighteen-wheeler. 

            My father had observed all this and, for some reason, became convulsed with laughter.  To keep from exploding at the table, he excused himself and went out to the back yard where he exploded with a loud WHOOP!

            Mr. Patton looked up and asked, “What is Wilbur doing out in the back yard?”  My mother answered, “He’s calling up the hogs.”  This evidently satisfied Mr. Patton because he continued to eat and talk until his peas were all gone.  My dad did not return to the table for obvious reasons.  He would laugh about this episode every time he thought about it.

            My memory fades as to what happened after that.  I did learn in later years why my mother always sat across the table from me - especially when we had company.  It was not until I left home for college that the bruises on my shins finally healed.            

            Mom knew at once something was wrong and began yelling for Dad, “Ben, Ben, help, Ben…”  Mind and body both in a panic, I watched in slow motion as my father stood engrossed in telling one more story.

  Sputtering and choking, I popped above the surface again and screeched.  Now Dad was waving to me and laughing at what he thought was my joke.  In despair, I surrendered and sank under the water for the third time.

Floating back to consciousness, I was told Uncle Al had saved my life.  Water gushed from my nose, I gasped for breath and tears burned my eyes.  Sobbing in my mother’s arms I was cradled off home and pampered for days.

  After the initial shock, questions bombarded my world.  The certainties of my safe, secure childhood began to spring leaks and crumble.  Unquestioning confidence gave way to doubts.

   For the first time I realized I, like my grandmother whose funeral I had attended that spring, was mortal.  How startling that my youth was no protection against death!  Why had this happened to me?  Why was I alive and not dead?  What did I owe God in return for my life?

  What about Uncle Al?  Everybody knew Uncle Al was not a nice man; yet he saved my life.  I had never understood why Uncle Al was bad except that he always had a lot of visitors and most of them seemed to leave with a new mason jar stuck in their coat.  Even so, everybody knew there was something wrong with Uncle Al.

    My father, who was perfect, failed me.  But, Uncle Al, whom every body knew had faults, saved my life.  How was this possible?

  Did this mean bad men could do good things?  Could good men do bad things?    If so, who’s good and who’s bad?  “What exactly is good and what is bad,” I asked.

 Many of the questions that rocked my young world that spring have been, at least, partially clarified.  Others, I still grapple with.  One thing I know.  Even in the face of death, life never stands still; it just keeps on going and growing.