​“If You Can’t Say Something Nice …

Grandpa Tharpe

Many, many years ago, before the gray hair, before the weathered lines, before the yellowing teeth and the bad knees and shoulders, I was a boy; and one of the things that amazes me as I grow older is how many memories of my boyhood remain untarnished and vigorous in my mind.

Most of them come from the time I spent with my Granny and Grandpa Tharpe, down in Panama City, Florida. You see, I spent my summers with them and they were special, I mean truly special people. I was one generation removed from them, my Mama being their firstborn, and the times I had with them, and the lessons I learned from them I cherish more than silver or gold. For good or for bad, the man I am today, has a lot to do with the gentle and sometimes not so gentle raising of both my Mama and myself by that gracious couple.
 
When I was a boy, up until about twelve or thirteen, my family moved every couple years or so as a result of my father’s job as an engineer with General Electric. By 1970, my twelfth year, when we finally settled in Lexington, South Carolina, we had moved seven times. One result of such wandering is the inability of putting down much of a taproot in any of the places where we lived.
 
In my personal opinion, for a child to grow up strong and steady, roots are necessary. With that philosophy in mind, I was blessed to spend my summers in the well-tended soil found on the corner of Drake Avenue and West 17th Street in the blue-collar section of Panama City. Maggie and Clayton Tharpe lived there, and I can think of no better place for a young boy to be when putting down roots.
 
One of the countless memories I have of those times took place on an Indian summer afternoon. It was hot, I mean devil’s breath hot, but that didn’t keep me from hunting mullet off of the Dead Lakes dam just outside of Wewahitchka; but let me hold that thought for a second. I’m overrunning my shadow a bit. Let me back up a little.
 
On that particular day Granny and Grandpa had awakened me at 4:00 a.m. to go fishing down at the dam. Back then I didn’t mind such foolishness. I was ten or eleven years old and I lived for Wednesdays, early morning or otherwise. You see on Wednesdays we would always go somewhere fishing, weather permitting of course.
 
Grandpa was a milkman for the Borden Dairy company, had been all his life, and Wednesday was his day off. Well, actually he had Sunday and Wednesday off, but Granny reserved Sunday for church in the morning, and dressing up to no end in the afternoon so we could wander all over the countryside visiting this cousin and that cousin and this aunt and that uncle. It was enough to drive a young boy to distraction with boredom. Ask Grandpa; he’d agree. It did the same for an old man. But Sundays aside, Wednesday was a different matter altogether. On Wednesday we would always head out in search of fish and quiet. On this particular day, we were headed for the dam.
 
The best I can recall, we arrived at the dam just before the crack of dawn. Granny always liked to out run everybody else. You see she had a favorite spot down by the spillway at the end of the dam, where the water whirled around a little bit and made sort of an eddy. She would settle down there with a couple of poles out, one with a cricket and one with a worm. During Catawba worm season she’d set out three poles, and when the mayflies came around she would set out four. What she was doing was trying to figure out what the fish were in the mood for on that particular morning. When she figured it out, she set out no less than four poles pointing in all directions with the anointed bait. And heaven knows that woman could fish. If she didn’t catch anything, you may as well go home.
 
Now my Grandpa was a little antsy, and in turn wasn’t one to sit and watch a cork all day long, especially if there were largemouth bass around. Well, sometimes if we were down near Willis landing sitting on a Jon boat out on the Four Brother’s River, he would put a couple of poles out, but he would always be casting over them on the off chance that there might be a big old bass lurking under a log close by.
 
On this particular day Grandpa was in the mood to wander so he grabbed his rod and reel and headed off down the dam, casting over the side and running a jig just over the spillway and a little past the riprap where the water was always restive. He said that was the place the big ones like to stay; and just like Granny, if Grandpa didn’t catch a bass or two, you may as well forget it.
 
Well, all things have to come to an end and around sundown Grandpa brought me the bad news that we had to go. I was at the far end of the dam when he found me, and as we were walking to the other end and back to the car, he asked me to carry his rod for him, which I gladly did. It was like carrying Arthur’s Excalibur to me. As we walked, I screwed up the courage to ask him if I could try his jig for a minute. He thought for a second and with a little smile he said, “Sure.”
 
And I had no sooner cast that thing into those uneasy waters when a six-pound bass grabbed it and took off for home, scaring me to death. It took a struggle, I mean a world class wrestling match, but finally I got that monster on the shore. To a ten year old boy, a six-pound bass is a monster.
 
I will never forget the feelings of triumph and pure unadulterated joy catching that fish brought me, but that is not what I remember the most from that day. What I remember most are the words of my Grandpa on the way back home.
 
After we had piled into the old Plymouth with me settling down on the back seat to sleep, we headed down that long straight road to Panama City. I was worn to a frazzle and just before my lids closed for the third time and I went under, I saw Grandpa look over at Granny and say, “I was really proud of that boy today. For a minute there I thought he was gonna give up, but he didn’t. He kept at it and got it done. I think we might make a fisherman out of him yet.”
 
Now I know that simple statement might not seem like much to you, but to a ten year old boy, who loved and admired his Grandpa more than any man alive, before or since, that passing sentiment of acceptance and appreciation was nothing less than a blessing. Those words spoken in that quiet loving voice became part of the fabric of my being, a part which has held firm to this day.
 
Simple lesson here: Let’s build one another up with our words in the coming year. We live in a harsh world filled with unforgiving and sometimes malicious, hateful rhetoric. As the children of God we are called upon to be the alternative to this world and its ways. If we speak to one another in love we will be a balm to this world; and the Lord knows that this world could use it. If we give into our lesser selves, we will simply blend in with the destructive din and become part of the problem.
 
The power of words to build us up is as great, as is the power of words to destroy us.  We, the children of God, are called to build. So as my Granny would say, “Let’s be sure to watch our mouths in 2023.”
 
Love,
Pastor Tony

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Aunt Carolyn, Grandma Rowell, & Momma - 1950's