Fugitive From Justice

I've often told this story to people by beginning with the words, "You haven't lived until..." Well, this is the "until."


My father, a Godly pastor, was a strong disciplinarian. When he spoke, the boys, the wife, the dogs and the chickens listened and obeyed. This rule was set in stone, with few, if any, exceptions. Mom was also double-tough, but wasn't as quick to hit as Dad, but when she decided it was time for corporal punishment, well, that's another blog. Still, those few exceptions to the rule usually surrounded the baby...me!


I keenly recall one particular time when I pushed the envelope far, far, FAR beyond anything healthy. This episode likewise demonstrated Dad's coolness and self-control under extreme pressure. Coolness that I didn't stop him from completing his perceived duty and self-control that I live today to tell the story.


I could not have been more than five or six at the time. Dad was pastor of East Niota Baptist and Mom was the piano player.


It was normal for me to sit in the pew waiting on Mom to complete her piano duties, then return to her customary seat: the third row back from stage left. I would wait impatiently fidgeting and twisting. I imagine someone, a useless older brother, for example, would be assigned to keep me in my seat. It normally worked long enough for Momma to return to me.


It was common for Mom to give me things to keep me occupied during Dad's sermons. I was always fascinated by mom's billfold full of pictures. I'd look through them over and over. They were full of pics of me and the boys, Mom and Dad, etc. There was even a locket of my baby hair, white as snow, from my first haircut. I remember one picture of Dad from the short while that he wore a pencil mustache.


Sometimes, she would have paper for me to draw on and I would while away the hour scribbling little nothings. This was hard to do sitting in the seat, so she'd often let me get down on my knees, turning around, using the pew beside her like a desk. This turned out, on this one fateful Sunday, to be a grave mistake. For some reason, I can only imagine why, I decided that it would be splendid idea to begin crawling under the pews, working my way toward the back of the church. Mom was trying, to no avail, to retrieve me and Dad, who was already behind the pulpit and into his sermon, was, of course, in the perfect observation post to witness the entire debacle.


I'm not exactly sure I remember being yanked from under the pew by Dad, but I do remember being carried, more or less, through the door of the choir room in the front of the sanctuary. There was an exit there that led outside, which is where Dad took me. I vaguely remember a stout beating and a lot of crying. (Then again, there was always a lot of crying from me when the beatings were even no more than threatened.)


What I do remember is Dad carrying/dragging me back into the church house, firmly setting, I like to say "slamming," me in the bench next to Mom, putting that big finger of his into my face and telling me not to move! Me? I sat quietly sniffling. Dad returned to the pulpit, finishing his message. (Knowing him, I'm sure he apologized for the disturbance.)


So, when someone starts bragging about how much trouble they were or weren't as children, I always love to pull out the Big Gun of this little story when I was, if not a fugitive from justice, a fugitive from Momma! I say, "You haven't lived until your Dad has left the pulpit, in the middle of his sermon and..."


Really, though, I blame the one-armed man!

Ronaldus Maximus

I was unemployed, thanks the then current administration, twenty years old and was looking forward to voting in my first presidential election. It was 1980 and President Jimmy Carter, “Mr. Malaise,” was seeking re-election. His opponent was Governor Ronald Reagan of California.

One day, I notice the DPA had an advertisement from the McMinn County GOP. Reagan was going to be speaking at the West Town Mall in Knoxville and they were asking for people to form a caravan to go see him there. Seeing as I had no other particular plans, I decided to see if I could hitch a ride.

I told Dad about my plans and how I cool it would be to see Reagan. Dad, of course, said, “You won't get within a mile of 'im.” I argued that maybe I would and that it would be a great adventure at any rate.

I arrived at the Republican headquarters in Athens in plenty of time that day to find out what was involved in the trip and if anyone would mind if I tagged along. I expected there to be a great crowd that day, but, sadly, there were only four ladies there, besides myself, and I was faced with the dilemma of going home or going along. Fortunately, I was brassier back then than I am now and they didn't seem adverse to me joining them. Ere long, we five were on our way.

We arrived at the mall and it was a beautiful, bright, sunshiny day! There were thousands in attendance, all gathered in the parking lot that had been roped off for the festivities. (I heard on the news later that there were over ten thousand spectators present that day.) We five made our way into the milling crowd and, I don't remember if it was on purpose or because of the press, I found myself separated from the ladies who had chauffeured me to Knoxville.

There were more people present than I think I had ever been numbered among. I even remember a small group of protestors, not even a dozen, holding signs that I can't recall. There was a little shouting on their part and dirty looks from the GOP supporters. I don't remember any problems, which speaks well of the Reagan-ites. Besides, the tree-huggers were so far back from the podium that they made virtually no impact on the circumstances.

Standing so far back, I had a good vantage point to see, but it seemed to me that Reagan would be a mile away at best. I wanted to get a better angle, but didn't know where to go. (Maybe I was hoping to ensure that Dad's mile away prophecy didn't come true.) So, I began to move stage left, believing I really could not have done any worse.

As I moved along, working my way though the throngs, I realized I was approaching the street that had been marked off for, I supposed correctly, limo access. Furthermore, I noticed a roped-off walkway not far ahead of myself. I decided that was the place for me!

I worked my way up to the rope to where I was no more than fifty feet, I suppose, from the speaking podium. I was standing directly against the rope and felt comfortable that little would happen from which I would not have a front row seat. I stood there, enjoying the sights and watching the happy crowd. It was not very long at all, before I noticed the VIP limousines pulling up to a stop. As the doors were opened by the lucky people assigned to do so, pretty much everybody who was somebody in the Tennessee Republican Party began to make their way toward the rope path.

Among those I quickly recognized were then Governor Lamar Alexander and Senator Howard Baker. They began working their way down the line and I was, more or less, fortunate enough to shake both of their hands. I remember saying something to Baker like, “I voted for you Senator Baker.” To which he replied, “Be sure to vote for Governor Reagan!” I always thought it a little weird although perhaps I should not have. Perhaps it's because I expected at least the words, “Thank you!”

There were many more besides them, but apparently they weren't important enough for me to remember. I do remember the Secret Service guys, all dressed in their suits and shades watching the crowds with keen intent. I recall, poignantly, one who had a very well trimmed beard.

Shortly thereafter, the man I had been looking for stepped out of one of the big black sedans. Yes, it was Ronald Wilson Reagan! Shortly in tow was his lady, Nancy. I'll never forget that he was wearing that tan suit that I always thought looked so spiffy!

Oh, yes, I was so excited! Here I was, on the ropes, where I knew Reagan would have to walk within inches of me.

Then, I began to notice something else. The hundreds of people who too were pressing against the ropes. All were hoping to get a glimpse of the man or, better yet, press the flesh with him. I knew I had to do something a little drastic or he would pass right by me. But what?

In only a minute, I found Nancy Reagan, standing directly in front of me, making her way past us onlookers. Before I could think about it long, the thought came to me and I shouted, “Hey, President Reagan!” I hoped between the prophetic statement and my renowned lung power, I would multiply my chances of being noticed. Well, it worked. Suddenly, Nancy locked eyes with me and smiled the biggest smile directly at me. Now, what to you say when you're an unemployed, unknown nobody and you find Nancy Reagan standing and smiling right before you? I said the only thing I could think of: “Hiya, Nancy! Howya doin?” Yes, and it came out of my my mouth just as hillbilly as it looks. I swiftly stuck out my hand, she shook it. We quickly acknowledged and just as quickly passed the moment.

Now, there, immediately to my left, was Reagan himself, working his way down the line. He was shaking hands, smiling at the greeters and moving almost too swiftly for my taste. Fortunately, in only a moment, I found myself gripping his strong hand, being the recipient of that famous warm smile and, after quick looks in one another's eyes, he moved down the line and to the podium.

It wasn't long after that, that I decided that this was really not a good place to observe the speakers on the dais. So, I found myself pretty much back where I had started in the rear of the crowd. This, it turned out, was actually a good place from which to both see and hear.

As best as I can recall, Baker gave Reagan the formal introduction that day. This was, of course, as best I recall, others made some, what they might call, appropriate remarks.

I can't remember much at all of what he said that day. I just remember cheering and applauding along with rest of the enthusiastic crowd. I would say that the speech could not have been more than twenty minutes other than being lengthened by our applause. Yes, a grand time was had by all!

I do recall one specific line very vividly. Looking back, it might have been even scarier considering the, obviously, unforeseen assassination attempt awaiting him in the future. At one point, after he had gotten well into his speech, something caused feedback in the sound system, resulting in what would be called a loud crack or pop. It was loud as thunder and everyone took note, even Reagan. He looked around the crowd, smiled and said, “I thought you were still in the Rose Garden.” We all laughed and cheered!

As a note of explanation, this was during the Iran Hostage Crisis and President Carter had vowed not to leave the White House except on official business. (Which, I suppose, included a lot of “official business” campaign stops.) It was, more or less, a daily thing, seeing Carter giving press briefings from the White House Rose Garden.

Reagan had been a man I had admired for years. He quite nearly ousted President Gerald Ford for the GOP nomination in 1976. No small feat considering Ford was a sitting president. Reagan had always articulated pure conservative doctrine and was a man considered capable, wise, intelligent, patriotic and a fine Christian by all who knew him or of him.

Now, on with my story.

Somehow, I managed to find the kindly ladies who had brought me there and we returned to our vehicle and Athens. I can't recall anything we talked about, but if you know me, you know I talked. I hope I wasn't too much of a pest to them.

I arrive back home to Mom and Dad, terribly excited about all the events that had occurred. I could hardly wait to tell Dad how wrong he had been about the distance between Reagan and I. Though, I had to tell him a fun way. It went a little like this:

“How did it go, son?”

“Oh, I had a blast, Dad!”

“I was right wasn't I? You didn't get within a mile of him.”

“Yeah, you were right about that much. I didn't get with a mile of him....but I did get to shake his hand!”

Nice Haircut!

Dad spent the last couple of decades of his life as an out-patient at the VA hospital in Nashville. He actually had several surgeries while there after his initial one. When he was there for any extended time, mom and I would stay at the Hospital Hospitality House.

It was not an uncommon thing for me to find myself wandering the halls of the hospital. There wasn't much in particular to do there at that time, so I would simply satisfy my curiosity about the place. Sometimes mom or dad were with me; sometimes I was alone.

It was usual to meet doctors and nurses and veterans walking the halls. Being me, I would normally say “hi” to them. They would respond in kind.

On many occasions, one of those old vets would tell me or my parents how much they liked my haircut. They'd remark about how so many of the boys at that time would wear long hair and how they didn't like it. (This was the late seventies and early eighties.) They might say how much like a man I looked and how proud my parents should be. I would always smile and thank them. It always made me feel good to have those old men say such nice things. Looking back, I 'm sure that it made mom and dad feel good too.

Something I have thought of over the years, that I didn't then, was that these “old men” were likely WW II and Korean War veterans. They were certainly, as I recall, too old for Vietnam and they're attitude toward hair would likely have been different.

I was always a parent oriented child, as opposed to peer oriented, and just being complimented by these gentlemen who, in so many ways, were like my parents, was just one of the things I had the good sense to appreciate. To this day, when I'm at work or in town, if I notice a young boy with, what I might call, a respectable coiffure, I always try to say something to the boy in the presence of his parents like, “Nice haircut!”

Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof

As I have said in at least one other post, I was a hyper child. I was all legs and arms and mouth. I was also the baby of four brothers with my oldest brother being as much as twelve years older than I. This particular situation was potent with opportunity for a continual flow of stress and strife between us siblings.

Being the momma's boy, oral retentive, late-life child, baby of the family that I was, I had a lot of buttons. Shucks, I was covered with buttons! Of course, my brothers knew how to push those buttons.

Sure, I shouldn't have been so temperamental or so tender, but, after all, I was young and the youngest. The odds were, shall we say, stacked against me in that regard.
 

I was a tough enough little barefoot boy, but was not above crying over, sometimes, the littlest of things. If I got a bad splinter or if I couldn't find my shirt, I might cry. If I knew I was about to get a whipping, I'd always turn on the faucets and, no, I can't recall it ever saving me from any well deserved spanking.
 

Being the baby, it was easy for my brothers to behave as big brothers often do and harass me and generally give me a hard time. Being the baby, it was easy enough for me to harass my brothers and generally give them a hard time. Yes, I often gave as good as I got, but being the weaker of the four, I had to be more creative than they to return kind for kind.
 

Aggravation was, admittedly, a two-way street with us boys. We were often forced to share a small room and, normally, two per bed. Rod, being the oldest, would get any small room that could act as or could actually be a bedroom for him. Looking back, that only made sense. He even converted a side room attached to the garage in Niota into his own bedroom before he left for the Army.

We would get under one another's skin, sure, but, my brothers knowing how easily I could be stirred up, would often do so just for kicks. (Oh, yeah, they thought that was funny.) They would sometimes say things or do things or even no more than just make faces at me to aggravate me. With my personality and disposition, most anything would get me going if the pressure was applied properly. I suppose there are advantages to being older and more experienced in the art of aggravation. Sometimes, I would give as good as I got, but I was always at a disadvantage simply because of my...inexperience.

I would sometimes pull the “nuclear option” which involved running to mom or dad and crying that Rod, Joe or Greg were “picking on me.” This would sometimes result in a disinterested, “You boys knock it off,” or, “Stop acting like idiots.” Mom and dad were busy, tired and frustrated from having to herd four crazy boys every day. There was always a chance with dad, though, that the “nuclear option” might result in dad going nuclear and he would then just begin beating the nearest child,  working his way up the food chain. If I went to mom, she just might call dad in which meant a beating anyway. All of this would only get the other boys mad about my “causing trouble” and they would then have to switch gears, becoming more subtle, quiet and stealthy in their attacks.
 

It came to pass that once when my brothers were harassing me, or even I might've been doing so to them, they, at least, had the upper hand. They were doing and saying whatever was required at that moment to get me into a slobbery mess of angry tears. I was no doubt threatening great bodily harm on them; a threat that I could not possibly deliver on. They were laughing shamelessly, having an uproarious time watching me break into furious hysterics.
 

I don't recall exactly how it came about, but dad walked in, calling a halt to the entire process. He then summoned the four of us into the dining room, where he sat down at the table and lined the four lunatic inmates up before him.
 

Next, came the fun part. Surprisingly to all of us, he called me to him, picked me up, sat me on his knee and took a hard look at my elder brothers. While holding me there with one hand, he stretched out his other, pointed the finger of that large hand in the face of each of my brothers and said those glorious words I'll never forget: “This is my baby! You mess with my baby; you mess with me.”

He followed that with words of warning and sage advice, strongly admonishing us boys to try, to at least try, to get along with one another. Wise words, for sure, but they fell on deaf ears. There was at least a temporary armistice, but the war would continue before a day or two would pass.

I can't know exactly what happened to cause dad to act that way that day. Being a father myself now, I can only imagine, but can probably guess correctly.
 

He must've seen how vexed I was and that my brothers were definitely getting the better of me at that point. Who knows? Maybe they were way out of line at that point. Maybe they really were actually picking on me. Sheesh! It did happen on occasion.
 

My best guess would be that, to put it rightly, his heart went out to me. After all, I was his baby. He likely saw how small I was and how frustrated I was and the anger in my voice and the tears that were coming out of my eyes and he just couldn't help but pity me. He loved me! He saw the older ones laughing and he, being the fair-minded man he was, just got full up with their actions. More so, I believe, he saw his baby boy distressed beyond his words and it was all the man could take, so he came to my rescue.

Two things I'll never forget: the look on my brothers' faces and my feelings sitting in dad's lap.

You could smell the fear. They knew Floyd Davis was not a man to be toyed with and when he gave you that look square in the eye, you'd sure better listen!

Now, to my feelings sitting there with my father. Have you seen the Narnia movie where Lucy faces down the enemy army at the bridge with, seemingly, nothing more than a knife? In a moment, you see the reason for her bravery as Aslan is revealed stepping up to her side. Yes, she was ten feet tall and bulletproof! She was invincible because she knew who was standing beside her. The big lion was on and at her side!

That's how I felt! I was ten feet tall and bulletproof! I remember feeling like, “Yeah, yeah! Mess with me, will ya?” I felt secure; I even felt cocky. I knew no harm could come to me because I was sitting in the lap of the big lion.

 

Yeah! Don't mess with the baby!

"Floyd-isms"

My father, Floyd Davis, had a lot of, what I call, "Floyd-isms." What a "Floyd-ism" amounts to is one of the pithy little sayings that my father would utter that just came off-the-cuff without him even seeming to think much about it. They may or may not have been original. I'm quite certain that many were. Still, they are quotes that my daughter, family, friends, acquaintances and enemies here from me on a regular basis. Yes, I always give credit where it's due.

　
1. "If any way will do, then no way will do just as well."
At least one of my kinsmen says this is a family saying, and I don't doubt him, but I don't recall anyone, but my dad saying this. Meant for people, especially in church, who think it's all the same.

2. "I can't see through muddy water."

Usually said to me or one of my brothers, or even sometimes mom, if we got between dad and the football game on television.

3. "It tis as it tis and it ain't no tisser."

This remark was normally made when things just didn't go right.

4. "I don't have the energy to pull a greasy string out of a dog's butt."

This was said after a long, hard day's work.

5. "Root hog or die."
Do something! Nobody is going to help you; you are on your own.

6. "Are you bragging or complaining."

Said when someone was talking entirely too much about their former life before they became a Christian.

7. "You've got me convinced, now convince yourself."

" Methinks thou prosteteth too much." Yeah, that's how Shakespeare put it.

8. "From the Sublime to the ridiculous."

Always said to us boys when we came home from church and immediately turned on the television. He would, of course, then turn the T.V. off and run us outside.

9. "It's a poor woman that keep up one man."

Said about at least one of my brother's wives.

10. "He/she is a slob."

 "Slob" is not a word I just don't hear outside of my family.

11. "He/she wouldn't say 'shit' if he/she had a mouthful."

Said of people who take entirely too much pride in being prudish.

12. "Poor folks have got poor ways."

Said when we had to make a sub-standard purchase or no purchase at all due to finances. Also said of people who spend more than they can afford.

13. "My name is Davis, I hope you know yours." *

Dad's humorous way of re-introducing himself to people whom he obviously knows and who obviously know him.
14. "That just shickles the tit out of me!" *

Okay, this one should be obvious.
15. "You can wish in one hand and shit/piss in the other and see which gets full first." *

Don't worry about things you can't have or can't fix.

16. "You shake; I'm tired." *

One of Dad's humorous greetings used upon taking the hand of a friend or child.

17. "That dog barks just to hear his head roar!" *

This refers to a useless dog that barks for no reason or a person who does the same.

18. "God can't use a lazy man." *

Spoken to all of his boys at some point. Also said of other men.

 
I've no doubt there are many more "Floyd-isms" and I will add them as they come to mind.


* added
　



　
　

The Problem Child

I was, as a child, what you might call...hyper. Of course, you might also be understating the case should you use that particular word. I don't suppose I was what you might call a “ bad child.” At least not most of the time. My problem was, I just couldn't sit still!

I was always into something. Or going somewhere. Or saying something. Or, accidentally, breaking something. Or doing something. Even when I was a sleep, I fidgeted.

My dad beat me, when I needed it. Sometimes when I probably didn't need it, but that was extremely rare. You can just chalk the latter up to the times he missed that I actually did need it. I think he occasionally got tired of whipping me. I sure got tired of being whipped.

On at least one occasion, my dad, being a bus driver and, therefore, already present at school, would be called upon by at least one of my teachers for a little observation of his youngest son. He'd take dad to the classroom I was in where they'd peer through the door window. Dad would watch me sit and squirm, get up, walk to the trash can, sit back down, get up, walk to the window, look out, go sit back down, get up, walk to the pencil-sharpener, sharpen and sharpen and sharpen my pencil, go sit back down and, then, pretty much start the entire process over again. I can only imagine dad dropping his head in frustration as the teacher said to him, “See what I have to deal with every day?”

No, I didn't start fights or destroy property, (other than by accident, or perhaps on purpose under the rarest of circumstances,) but I was a handful. I was always talking and doing and thinking and...whatever!

I occasionally see my some of my old teachers. I apologize to them profusely and repeatedly, but they always say I was a good student. Interestingly and saliently, they never deny that I was the bothersome child that I remember myself being.

You might say that I was incorrigible. You might and that might be correct. You might blame it on being the baby of my family and being a momma's boy to boot.

Still, you might take into account that I was a precocious child. I read far in advance of my grade and years. I always read voraciously at that! I was energetic and imaginative. I loved to draw and would often be off in a world of my own creation, sometimes rendered on paper. I would also frustrate my teachers endlessly by, when they thought I was paying the least attention, they'd call on me to answer a question that I'd readily answer. All to their continual consternation.

Yes, I feel quite sure that today, I'd be diagnosed with some “disease” that involves a lot of letters arranged in insipid acronyms that would result in my being prescribed mood-altering drugs and the school receiving more state and federal money because of me. (Not that my father would have stood for any of that.) No doubt they would have found some way to rein me in and settle me down. Even if that literally involved turning me into another person.

Fortunately, or not so fortunately, I am the person I am. Some would still describe me as hyper or even, perhaps, overly energetic. Though I feel I'm more disciplined than then. (At my age, I should be!) In my opinion, I've slowed down immeasurably over the decades. Which, of course, to me, begs the question: where is all that energy today?

Red Hots and My First Memory?

I think the first thing I remember is when I was about two years old. I know that we lived on Valley Road and that Dad pastored Valley Road Baptist church. We lived in a house next door that passed as a parsonage. (It's gone now.)

I remember, I think, the power going out one night. My brothers were in the living room playing checkers with an oversized checkerboard. I went into mom & dad's room, just off the living room, where mom was in bed reading and eating "Red Hots." I'm sure I asked for some and she gave them to me.

So much of it seems like a memory from that time. Still, other things seem to stand out in my memory also.

I remember the church, a little. I remember playing in the yard with some of our usual playmates, the Moore's. There was a tree in the front yard, maybe to the side, and we were somehow convinced that an old “colored man” was buried under and we could somehow talk to him. (Yes, that was the correct term for the time.)

I can also remember being at the Jackson's house. They had a floor fan, so it must've been the summer. I can visualize sitting on the floor making noises through the fan and thoroughly enjoying the effect it had on my voice.

I remember visiting old Mr. Kennedy. I somehow think that I realized he had the same last name as the president.

I truly believe these are real memories. They are just too vivid and the places and people I still know to this day. At least those still living.

Our time at Valley Road Baptist was short and sweet. Still, the friends our family made there, along with the memories, have stayed with the Davis family for more than five decades now.