General George G. Meade and the Red Ford Convertible
OK, that was pretty interesting, wasn't it. Continuing sermon preparation this morning I read an article about the life and times of General George Meade, who commanded the Union army at the Battle of Gettysburg, July 1863.
Lee, whose large portrait was over the fireplace mantle in the living room of my fraternity at UFla, was still an icon of gentlemanly Southern graciousness here in Panama City when I was a child, especially by our next-door neighbors, the Guy family, who had hailed from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. On our Tuesday morning walk, Robert and I were talking about the old time parades up Harrison Avenue, and I remembered the touring cars, enormous four-door convertibles with their tops down, riding both Yankee and Confederate veterans.
My growing up years, I remember hearing Mary Guy’s sister Maggie Pryor speaking of General Lee with reverence and awe. However, Maggie had married a Yankee and long lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, and she may have clung to her soft Alabama drawl and Southern ways for romantic effect, who knows. Many times, I heard Maggie use the term “The Cause,” and it may be that she grew up in an Alabama home still clinging to that idea. Her own mother, Elizabeth Burgin, is buried in the Guy plot at Greenwood, I’ll have to check the dates of her life. Mrs. Burgin, whom my growing up friend and playmate Bill called “Nanny,” made superlative biscuits, which I enjoyed many times having lunch with Bill and his family. Bill’s father Bill taught me how to eat a biscuit. Hold it in your left hand, poke a hole deep into it with the first finger of your right hand. Pour in molasses, and eat.
Bill Guy’s mother, Mary Guy, died in 1949 when he was in 8th grade at Cove School and I was a freshman at Bay High. The night of her sudden death is fresh in my mind to this day. “Nanny,” who had been raising Bill anyway for reasons that needn’t be developed here, went on at the Guy home and died years later after I was gone and off into my Navy life; maybe even after 1962 when my parents bought 2308 WBD back into the family and moved here, I don’t know; again, I’ll have to check Mrs. Burgin’s grave marker. Bill, whom they called "Bill Jr." even though he was William B., is buried there too. And his father, William A. Guy, and Mary Guy.
Sermon prep time is wasting, so I can’t go into all the “stuff” but what I remember after the death of Bill’s mother is anguish and indecision next door about which car to sell. Mr. Guy’s car was a meadow green 1949 Ford fordor (Ford’s longtime special term, along with tudor) sedan. Her car was the fez red 1949 Ford convertible that won the toss, and the car that I got to keep and drive one summer years later, 1955 or 1956, while Bill visited his Aunt Maggie and cousin Patricia in St. Paul.
Typing fingers have a mind of their own. Just as a Baptist preacher inevitably wanders down the path into a damnation of drinking, dancing, playing cards, and going to the baseball game on Sunday afternoon, my writing fingers end up wandering around the used car lot of my dreams.
TW+