“Sweetie” Stories
By Beth Tally
(Summer before last, I had occasion be in my home town of Greenville, SC. One of the highlights of the trip was a visit with my lifelong friend, Mary Sterling. Being with her brought back a flood of memories from my childhood about her husband. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as I enjoyed their composition.)
Growing up, one of my father’s best friends was a man named Charles Sterling. I don’t know the origin of it, but his nickname was “Sweetie” and from they day I was born, that’s how he was known to me. If I had to bet on my memory, Sweetie’s eyes were blue, made more so by the contrast with his dark olive skin. No matter the color, those eyes always had a sparkle to them that signaled knowledge of either a prank already committed or one yet to happen. When he laughed, it was infectious with a funny little wheeze to it that echoed long after the initial salvo.
As a child, I considered Sweetie and his wife Mary to be my second set of parents. Their daughter Peace was like a sister to me. But, it was Sweetie especially who left indelible impressions on me.
The Christmas Parade
Sweetie worked at The Greenville News. His office was on the second floor of the News building which fronted Main Street on the opposite side and down a ways from The Poinsett Hotel, a prominent focal point at the time. Some of my earliest memories entail going to his office every December to watch the Christmas parade. I vividly remember waiting for the two things that made the parade special – Santa Claus and the Sterling (no relation to Sweetie) High School Band. Santa is, of course, self-explanatory. The band needs some clarification.
Sterling High School was the only “negro” school in Greenville. As such, it was allowed to submit a float and band to the parade but neither was eligible to vie for the any of the prizes in these categories. Those distinctions were reserved for either Greenville or Parker High School, the two white schools that existed then. It was particularly fortunate for the bands that Sterling couldn’t compete because if they could have, they would have won every time.
Ironically, in order to show no prejudice towards either Greenville or Parker, their position in the parade lineup would alternate every year. Whoever went first one year would go last the next. Sterling was always somewhere in the middle and you knew they were coming long before you could see them. The first sign was the drumbeat. Unlike the predictable, steady drone of the white bands, it resonated with a basal syncopation that literally sent a vibration up the street, block by block. There was a discernable buzz in the crowd on the street. Children sitting on the shoulders of their fathers strained their eyes for a glimpse of the second sign – the two-foot tall fluffy white hat of the drum major whose gyrations and struts left you thinking that he didn’t have a bone in his body.
For at least five minutes, we would watch the Sterling band weave its magic in complicated patterns to and froe, up and back along the Main Street pavement. The drum corps pounded out the beat while the horns blew jazzed-up versions of Jingle Bells or Silent Night or We Three Kings. It was our once-a-year glimpse into the Negro world and we had a very privileged view from Sweetie’s office window.
So much has changed, of course, since then. Sweetie’s not longer there. The News hasmoved to a bigger building off of Main Street. Sterling High doesn’t exist as it did then. And, most importantly, the forces at work to deny full participation in the life of the community have vanished.
The Tennis Lesson
Tennis played an integral part in dad’s and Sweetie’s relationship. They were doubles partners and almost without fail, had a match every Saturday and Sunday on a private court at the home of another good friend, Dr. Bob Thomason. Bob’s neighbor, Jack Ward, usually rounded out the foursome. Their level of play created lively games, but sometimes the tennis proved incidental to the bantering and harassment they dished out. Dad and Sweetie added an extra element to it all – they smoked cigarettes the whole time. This was long before the day of two-handed backhands, so for the most part, they could hold the cigarettes in the fingers of their free hand during play, taking puffs on them between points. Serving created the only dilemma, remedied by dangling the cigarettes from their mouths until the point started.
In the spring of 1963, to celebrate my older brother’s graduation from high school, we took a trip with the Sterlings to The Cloister in Sea Island, Georgia. At this point in time, The Cloister was well established not only as an elegant bastion of southern hospitality but also a recreational resort offering both golf and tennis. As soon as we had checked into our rooms, dad and Sweetie walked up to the pro shop to see if they could arrange a doubles match for the next day. The tennis pro said he would be glad to put a game together and told them to be there at 9:00 the next morning.
After breakfast, dressed in their finest tennis whites, Dad and Sweetie left for the courts. Entering the pro shop, they looked around excitedly to see who might be their competition. The only other people in the shop were two elderly gentlemen, probably in their late seventies, chatting with the pro. As they approached, the pro noticed and proceeded to introduce the almost-octogenarians as the match up. Dad and Sweetie were polite, but somewhat disappointed. They were in their forties and had anticipated something a little more robust and challenging.
The warm up lifted their spirits a little because the gentlemen seemed to be able to return the balls with some consistency. They spun a racquet to determine who would serve first. The other team won. Dad and Sweetie huddled at their baseline to talk a little strategy. Normally, they enjoyed aggressive net play and they would start with that. If it proved too overpowering and things became lopsided, they would back off and play the back court.
The first serve came into the service box on the forehand side where Dad was receiving.
He returned the serve deep into the opposite court and rushed forward to the net where Sweetie was already positioned on the backhand side. They poised there, confident that if their opponents could reach the return, the response would be easy to handle.
The ball did come back over, well over, well over their heads in the form of a lob perfectly placed a few inches inside the baseline. They both rushed back and somehow, Dad got a racquet on the ball to keep the point alive. That put them on the baseline, to whit the next response from their opponents was a delicately placed drop shot a couple of feet over the net. Dad and Sweetie rushed forward again, but to no avail. The ball bounced a second time before they could get there.
This set the tone for the rest of the match. The two elderly men never moved, they just lobbed and dropped all morning, moving the two younger bucks around the court like puppeteers manipulating marionettes. Dad and Sweetie came back to the rooms soaking wet, totally drained and forever humbled. They did learn from the experience, however. On many occasions later on, when I was the younger more agile opponent, they employed the same nasty strategy with me.
The Shopping Spree
In 1974, a few months before I was married, Sweetie called me and asked if I might have some free time on an afternoon during the week. Even though I was working and involved in the wedding plans, I told him I could certainly clear my calendar for him. We settled on a day and he instructed me to come to his office around 2:00 PM. That was all he told me.
With a great deal of curiosity, I met the appointment. As soon as Sweetie saw me making my way through the maze of desks that comprised the advertising department of The Greenville News, he hopped up and intercepted me before I could get to his office.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my elbow. “My car is right outside.”
We drove down Main Street and turned onto East North Street (as opposed to West North and, no, not North East) continuing until it became the I-385 connector heading out of town. Sweetie was his usual jovial self and chatted away about the wedding and how much he liked John and how excited he was for me. He didn’t say a word about where we were going or why.
When we came to the intersection with Pleasantburg Drive, he veered right on the off- ramp heading south. Within a few minutes, we had come to the entrance of McAlister Square, Greenville’s original mall which at that time featured all of the premier retail establishments in town. Sweetie pulled into a parking space near the entrance to Meyers-Arnold Department store.
I was totally perplexed at this point. Sweetie opened the door and we walked through men’s clothing to the escalator in the center of the store. Up we went to the second floor and when we stepped off, found ourselves in the lingerie department.
“Okay, Bethie,” he chuckled, seeing the slight blush rushing up my neck. “I want you to pick out anything you want – anything and everything.”
“Oh, Sweetie, you’re kidding!” I replied. “I can’t, that’s too much.”
By this time, a sales clerk had approached us and asked if she could be of help.
“Yes, you can,” Sweetie answered positively. “I want my girl here to have whatever she wants.”
“Sweetie, are you sure? This is way too generous.”
“Go ahead. Have some fun.”
And off I went with the sales clerk to comb through the negligees, peignoirs, pajamas and robes. I would pick something out and hold it up.
“How do you like this, Sweetie?”
“I think that’s perfect,” he responded.
“Oh, Sweetie, look at this nightgown. I love the color.”
Because I was having such a good time, not to mention that I was totally naïve, I didn’t notice that the sales clerk had pretty much gone apoplectic. Here was a girl in her twenties flitting around the lingerie department at the behest of a man more than twice her age that she was affectionately calling Sweetie.
Sweetie, on the other hand, knew exactly what was going on and he could hardly contain himself, chuckling surreptitiously under his breath with that little wheeze. I gathered all of my selections together and the clerk rang everything up. Her face was so flushed you would have thought she was the blushing bride, not me.
We carried my parcels away from the check-out and back down the escalator, all the while I’m chattering “Oh, Sweetie, this was so thoughtful.” “Oh, Sweetie, you shouldn’t have.” “Sweetie, you’re a mess.”
I didn’t think to look back at the clerk because I was so oblivious, but I rather imagine she wouldn’t have been there. She probably had to excuse herself and go on an extended break.
The Coat of Many Colors
Along with the ever present twinkle in his eyes and wheeze in his laugh, Sweetie had one other trademark. He was a snazzy dresser who much preferred bright colors and pastels in his sport jackets and pants to the more somber browns, grays and blues that most men wore. At a party, you might spot him in a soft pink jacket with powder blue pants accented by a yellow tie, or maybe a green jacket with yellow pants and a pastel polo shirt. On anybody else, it might have looked out of kilter, but on Sweetie it worked. When the multi-colored madras fabrics came to market, Sweetie didn’t see any generational barrier to incorporating them into his wardrobe. I think what he wore, more than anything, reflected who he was – a lighthearted, generous free spirit who found absolute joy in his family and friends.
Way too soon for all of us, Sweetie died. I don’t remember the exact year, but things were never the same afterwards. A few weeks later, his widow Mary called Dad and asked him if he would like to look through Sweetie’s clothes to see if there was anything he might want. It was a very thoughtful gesture and very intuitive on Mary’s part. She knew that Sweetie would take great delight in having his best buddy perpetuate his fashion statement.
Dad’s closet was utilitarian and suggested the fact that he was an attorney. He selected his suits for their appropriateness in either court or church. You might find color in a sweater or two folded on the shelf above the hanging rod, but that was about it. When he came home from Mary’s, he carried several vintage-Sweetie sport coats, pants and ties. Putting them in the closet, it looked like an artist’s palette with yellows, pinks, blues, and greens lined up one next to the other on the hangers.
Some time after that, Mom and Dad were chosen by the First Baptist Church congregation as messengers to the Southern Baptist Convention. They were very active in the church, but had never accepted appointments as messengers before. This time, though, they were motivated by two factors – the attempted coups by right-wing fundamentalists to take over the direction of the Baptist denomination; and the location of the convention. It would be in Houston, TX, which was Mom’s birthplace. They decided to combine their convention duties with a visit home for her, taking a few weeks to drive along the Gulf Coast through Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana as they went. As the time approached to leave, Dad began to plan what he would take to wear. He made some selections from Sweetie’s clothes and carefully packed them in his suitcase.
They arrived in Houston, checked into a hotel and found their way to the Astrodome, where the convention would be held. The influx of fundamentalists had swelled the number of messengers to almost 20,000 and they couldn’t believe the sea of humanity swirling around the Astrodome. They retrieved their credentials including the paddles used for voting on any resolutions or policies brought forward for consideration by the convention.
A couple of days into the meeting, Dad decided to break out some of Sweetie’s clothes. He picked a light pink sport jacket and some green pants with a soft yellow polo shirt. Not wanting to break the ambiance of the ensemble with black, brown or white socks, he did something unheard of for him. He slipped his bare feet into his loafers.
They grabbed up their credentials, left the hotel and went to the Astrodome. It had become apparent that this particular convention was actually a battle for the soul of the Baptist denomination. The fundamentalists had not only changed the makeup of the Southern Baptist Convention, they had brought with them a set of issues never before considered by the whole body. Among them were the exclusion of women from ordination and the exclusion of gays from the faith.
On this particular day, the major business would be the resolution on gays. The procedure was to raise your paddle either for or against the resolution when the question was called. After hours of tirades about the sinful lifestyle of gays and their willful and wanton alienation from God, the call finally came for a vote. The call in favor of the resolution prohibiting gays from inclusion in the denomination produced a sea of paddles waving enthusiastically throughout the Astrodome. The nays produced only a handful, including Mom and Dad. The number was so minuscule by comparison that the location of each paddle stood out like a sore thumb and the vast majority of messengers duly noted who these dissenters were.
After the vote, Dad leaned over to Mom and excused himself to go to the bathroom. He stood up and began sliding down the packed row of seats to the exit. The occupiers of the seats had not failed to notice how Mom and Dad voted and they drew themselves up into tight balls as his pink jacket, green pants, yellow shirt and sockless feet passed by. He made his way to the men’s room where a long line of messengers spilled out from the entrance into the hall. As he came up to the group, they noticed him and his rainbow attire and, like the parting of the Red Sea, split right down the middle, giving him unfettered access to the urinals waiting behind the wall.
He grinned and nodded knowingly to the flustered, paranoid fellows. Once inside the restroom, he broke into all out laughter knowing that Sweetie was there, sitting right on his shoulder, enjoying the heck out of the situation.
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(Previous Articles)
An Inagural Tale
The Fixed Dock Wars
"B" Word
Unlikely Hero
Turning Sixty
Parking Violators
Hokey Pokey
God Looks After
Wishing for Silent Screen;
Red Button
Breaking Cycles
Soaking Up Some Intellect
Replacement bolts
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