1964-68 MORNINGS AT THE CLUB--PART 2, Old Bill

 

Jonya, dad, mom, Letty about 1965

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.

1964-68 Mornings at the Club--A Personal Story, part 1

 

Letty and Faye Berentz, 2013 Such stories we could tell....

     Often my mornings began with a cheerful boot out of the car and my mother’s words, “Smile and be kind to everyone today, Letty.”   With sleepy eyes I wondered toward the golf shop.  The sun was usually on the horizon, and the grass was wet with morning dew, as I stumbled toward the golf shop scratching my tight pony tail.  Old Bill would already have the shop doors open and the basement wall fan turned on sucking in the cool morning air like a giant windmill.  I did my best to give a cheerful “Hi, Bill, how’s it going?” but was most often met with a reply “Morning.”  His words rolled from his mouth like thick molasses.

I was fifteen the year I began to open the golf shop and work from early morning till 2:00 Tuesday through Saturday in the summers. Prior to turning 15, Westphal's opened the shop and I showed up between 7-8, but now they had retired. On busy summer days one of the boys would work the morning shift with us. My favorite co-heart was Bobbie Ballenger, but it was a young man named Dale who sent me my first flowers. I think he had a crush on me.

 My first job was to help Bill set out clubs of the early morning regulars, the dew sweepers as we called them.  Hattie, Evelyn, Faye, Yvonne, LaRue and the men from Goodrich who played golf immediately after their night shift were the first ones for which we prepared.

          If Hattie’s clubs weren’t out front when she arrived, her brisk strut and mannerisms barked, “Where are my clubs? You knew I was coming out to play early!”

Old Bill’s response was simple, “Umph!,” then he would duck his head, stoop his shoulders forward with eyes looking at the ground, and ever more slowly stepped down into the club storage room to retrieve her clubs.  I secretly chuckled when he grumbled, “That woman!  She’s never happy, never.  Couldn’t make her happy.”  

I held my words and quietly talked in my head, “Haven’t you ever heard her laugh with the women downstairs after a round of golf.  She giggles like a silly child.”

          One early morning I had the clubs lined up and Bill was working on golf carts in the back when a member growled at me, “Letty, I don’t see my clubs set out.  Didn’t you pay attention to the tee times?”

          My head, too, ducked, but then I regrouped and replied gaily, “They’re out there.  You just didn’t seem them.”  I was to learn later that day that that was not the correct response.  I learned to say, always with a sincere smile, “I’m sorry.  Let me check.  I may have overlooked yours.”

 The club house, an old Tudor style brick building, had no fresh air breathing through it.   The golf shop, club storage, and cart storage covered the north side of the bottom floor.  The men’s locker room faced the east and the ladies locker room simply was another two steps down into the center of the basement or lower floor.  On those steamy hot mornings when the wind didn’t stir, I would dash through the basement and up the connecting stairs to the main entrance South doors, leaving all the doors open behind me and I used cases of beer hold open the South doors.  Once a breeze was created and fresh air traveled through the lower portion of the building I could breathe.  Without the fresh air from South to North the building smelled of stale smoke.     

          Somewhere between 8-9am there would be a break in the action, and I would trot upstairs to pick up a fresh glass of ice tea made by the Garsky’s, the couple who cleaned the clubhouse and lived upstairs.  There was nothing better in the world than fresh brewed tea on a crisp summer morning.  So began my delightful addiction to the world of teas, fresh brewed only.  I realize now that the tea was another way to set myself apart from my mother’s bridge club and her world of coffee, mints, and women’s talk.  Such a simple peaceful way to set myself apart.  The Garsky’s were a firm stalwart couple who never had much to say, but always greeted me with a smile.  Some mornings I actually sat down on the second floor screened in porch where children could sit in wet bathing suits to eat lunch.  I would look out at the golf course and swimming pool, just watching and dreaming.  I felt so grown up, acting as if I were in charge.