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Jonya, dad, mom, Letty about 1965
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Being the only girl golfer in my high school class tended to
set me apart from others. In the golf shop, Old Bill most certainly stood apart
from everyone. In my teen-aged eyes he was an old bent man, who worked
hard, did his job, then went home. His face was shaven closely, his eyes set
deep below his brow, leaving him to appear as if he continually cast his eyes downward. How
was it I wondered that his cheeks could appear soft, unblemished and nearly
youthful, when his body told another story?He wore heavily
starched and uniformly pressed khaki pants with a matching long sleeve shirt
every day, no matter the weather. By ten
o’clock in the morning he was wet down his back from sweat, and often his sweat
smelled like pure garlic. The hotter it became during those summer days the shorter his temper grew at me and towards many
of the club members. I didn’t understand
why it was so important for me to be “kind” in my thoughts and words, when that
didn’t hold true for Bill.
One evening when my dad and I were out
chipping and picking up range balls I asked, “Dad, why is it that Old Bill is
allowed to grumble and be rude to people, and I’m not?” My father showing no attempt to be patient,
tilted his head downward glaring at me, and exploded, “Tizzie!" Dad's eyes nearly teared up in his anger, "Bill saw action during the War in the Pacific. You will never understand what he has been through."
Time hung in the air as I stood at attention. My father continued, "He
is retired now, and his pension does not provide enough for Bill and his
wife.”
“Wife,” I interrupted! “Some woman is married to Bill? He stinks to high heavens; can’t you smell
him when you walk into the shop?” I’ve
never been one to think about my words before they spewed from my mouth.
I saw the growl forming on my
father’s face before I heard his words, “This man will work for me as long as
he needs a job. Don’t you ever say
another word about him. That’s final!” Our lessons about World War II were not in the textbooks.
In the
stifling heat of the summer, the golf shop repeatedly reeked of “Old Bill” and his
ancient cures for aches and ailments.
Finally, one day, when I knew Dad wouldn’t be in the shop for another
hour or more, I turned to Bill and in a kindly manner, “Bill, I know it’s miserably
hot here. I sweat just like you, but you
smell like garlic and sometimes like rotten eggs. Why?”
In defense of my teenage ignorance, I had often heard the women golfers
complain about Bill’s body odor.
One time I remember LaRue Gaines marching into the golf shop
after a round of golf and a few beers. With a swirl of her body and arms flattening on the glass display case separating the costumer from the employee, she flippantly remarked to Old Bill, "Why is it,
we come in from a round of golf in this heat only to have you, the golf shop,
and locker rooms smell like garlic?”
Bill mumbled something like, “You
don’t smell so sweet yourself!” Then
hunched his shoulders, and turned his back to walk off. I watched LaRue's nostrils flair and then
surprisingly, I heard a high pitch giggle like a horse neighing, and she
smarted back before he could leave the room, “Well, at least you won’t ever catch any
germs smelling like that.”
Standing solidly, I
awaited his reply. He turned, lifted his chin and looked her square in the eyes, “I ain’t ever been
sick in my life." With an awkward grunt he continued, "Working in the public like this puts lots of germs in the
air. I don’t ever go to the
doctor for medicine ‘cause I wear this garlic pod around my neck.” Clutching his chest his deep set brown eyes
starred down at me, and for a minute he almost smiled.
LaRue turned to her left and exited down the two giant steps to the basement and the cool air of the ladies locker room.
In that moment, the character,
Penrod, in Booth Tarkington's book that my eighth grade teacher read
aloud to us, flashed back to me. My eyes and mouth both popped open. I popped off to Old Bill, but this time sincerely stating, “I thought just old timey people in stories
wore things like that to ward off sickness.
Does it really work?”
“Seems to work." His voice stopped. After a gulp of air he continued, "Ain’t never sick, neither’s my wife,” he
replied.
“You mean your wife wears garlic, too?”
I asked incredulously.
With each word spoken like a directive, he replied. “No." Again a long pause as if he needed to think of the next sentence. "She don’t go out much, but she
cooks with garlic, and we eat our greens every day.”
I had to
ask, “Can I see it? What does it look
like?” Without answering he walked to
the back room with me following like a little puppy dog begging for a bone. He unbuttoned his heavy khaki shirt part way
to reveal another heavy men’s white t-shirt equally wet and smelly with garlicky sweat. He pulled up on a cord that hung around his
neck, and out popped a pouch made from cheese cloth and sure enough inside the
bag were several pealed fresh ripe pods of garlic. With curiosity killing me, I wanted to ask a dozen more questions, but
thought maybe I should let the subject drop. Mom constantly coached me on appropriate behavior,
“Just let the subject go, Letty. Tomorrow’s another day.”
*I cried today while writing and rewriting this story. Old Bill has been in my heart ever since that day. I have never imagined what he must have experienced in the war. Dad eventually told me where Bill had fought, but sadly, I do not recall that story.
