Riding with Guy or A Need for Speed

One of the greatest men I ever knew was my Papaw Thomas. My mother's father was a tall, handsome man with coal black hair and a very, very dark complexion. His mother was full blooded Indian, although what kind, no one in our family seems to know. Grandma Thomas, my great-grandmother, was a tiny, little bitty thing who stood about five foot and Papaw was about six foot three inches and weighed close to two hundred pounds. It always amazed me that such a tiny woman could have such a large man for a son. When I was six years old, I could look her in the eye. When we would go visit her, I would watch amazed and in complete awe as she brushed her floor length hair (she LITERALLY picked it up OFF the floor) and rolled it into a bun on the top of her head. I know nothing of Grandpa Thomas, my great-grandfather, since he died before I was born.

But, back to Guy Hoye Thomas... whose name was actually Guy Thomas. When he joined the military to fight in World War II, he was told that he had to list a middle name. When he told them he didn't have one, they "recommended" that he make one up. So "Hoye" (pronounced like boy) became part of his full name.

Papaw was one of the hardest working men I've ever known, other than my dad and my husband. They worked from "can until can't" and "dawn until dusk" and totally put me to shame. I always felt like such a wimp around them when I'd say I was tired.

Papaw was a Deacon in the church and you were forced required to attend church on Wednesday night and both services on Sunday. Everyone in the family was required to go and you'd better be on your death bed to get out of attending or you got a "call" afterwards. And don't even be stupid enough to go eat Sunday dinner at Mamaw and Papaw's house after Sunday services if you didn't attend. Yeah, you really didn't want to do that...

I can never remember Pappaw raising his voice or scolding me when I was growing up, other than two times and one so traumatized me I don't even remember it. The story goes, that once, when I was little he whipped me for telling my baby doll that I was going to "whip her BUTT". Cursing was not allowed  and the saying of the word "BUTT" was apparently deemed a curse word when said by a child. Obviously, it was SO traumatic I completely wiped it from my memories. Then, when I was about 15, I was riding our three-wheeler and jumping the ditch bank. He saw me, just as I caught major air and threatened to whip me until I couldn't sit down for a month of Sunday's. I was in serious trouble! But, I had this serious need for speed and I got it from my Papaw.

Papaw always drove like a bat out of hell he was a NASCAR driver fast approaching the finish line with a trail of cars attempting to pass him on both sides. The poor man was afflicted with what came to be known in our family as the "Thomas Lead Foot." He drove...FAST...everywhere. My grandmother, Ms. Mary, or Mayree as Papaw called her, never learned to drive other than occasionally in the pasture. My theory was after years of his driving, she suffered from terminal vehicular terror.

 And then, there was the time he ALMOST threw me off the back of the truck tailgate while he was FLYING driving around a sharp curve. We had finished working in the fields (we didn't have "gardens" we had fields or pastures) of whatever vegetable we were picking that day and were riding back to the house on the tailgate of the truck. Since we had a truckload of whatever vegetable we had gathered and kids piled on top, some of the older kids got to ride on the tailgate. This was a major right of passage y'all and I had finally hit the big time. We were riding along when he hit a curve and sped up just a wee bit. That wee bit was enough to throw me off balance and suddenly I was staring at the road passing in front of my eyes at an astonishingly close point.

My aunts grabbed onto my clothing, arms, legs whatever flailed into their view and held on while screaming for Lead Foot Thomas to slow down! Eventually, he did and I was helped upright once again. I believe my "noodle" legs started working again after an hour or so. Did this teach Guy "Lead Foot" Thomas a lesson in slowing down? No, of course not, he did the same thing to my brother several years later, only it was on a dirt road and his head may have bumped on the ground once... or ten times. And that, is the story of where I get my need for speed.

Shirt without the R

My grandmother, Mary Elizabeth Pogue Thomas aka Ms. Mary (pronounced Mayree by my papaw) aka Mamaw, was known around the parish (in Louisiana y'all, we have parishes instead of counties like the rest of the country, don'tcha know) as one of the best cooks around. And she was. Mamaw could whip up enough food to feed a small army in the time it takes to brush your teeth. I was in awe watching this woman in action.

Every Sunday that rolled around we couldn't wait to get out of church, change clothes and head to Mamaw and Papaw Thomas' house to eat. Sometimes we'd even bring friends with us, especially if they found out she had made her yeast rolls, then they were practically begging to come eat. On any given Sunday there would be anywhere from 10-30 people set their feet under Ms. Mary's table. Some of us would help set the table, while others fixed glasses of her sweet tea or started carrying food to the table. When everything was ready, Mamaw would yell, "Guy, come eat." Guy was my Papaw Thomas. He was the patriarch of the family and sat at the head of the table directing everyone like a Four Star General. Mamaw always put food on his plate for him before helping hers.

A standard Sunday dinner would consist of cream corn, purple hull peas, homemade macaroni & cheese, cornbread, roast beef with gravy, mashed potatoes, yeast rolls (if you were lucky and it was a special occasion) and a couple of cakes or pies. Good nourishing, stick-to-your-ribs home cooking.

We planted, picked, shelled, shucked and canned the majority of our food. We raised ACRES of food to provide for the whole family, which consisted of my grandparents, my parents, my three aunts and their families. The pea patch was about a half acre itself. Dear Lord, I hated picking peas, but come dinner time I loved them.

We're country around here and farmed most of our lives, so we aren't real big on manners when it comes to eating... other than talking with your mouth full (no-no) or putting your elbows on the table (unless it's to prop your head because you've been hauling watermelons since daylight and you didn't have enough strength left to hold your head up straight so you wouldn't choke to death while eating), but other than that you're good.

The food was served directly from the boilers (Southern-ism) for pots and pans, with cooking ladles being the preferred method of transporting food directly from the boiler onto your plate. There were so many of us, if we'd used serving spoons... there would still be people waiting to eat until dark thirty.

I don't remember what happened or even when, but one day I heard my grandmother, oh, this was after I was married with children of my own, utter a curse word... or as close to one as my mamaw got. It was sh*t! or as she said "Shirt without the R!" Wait, what? It took me a moment to realize what she meant. My brain completely spazzed out and would not process the fact that Ms. Mary, wife of a church deacon and veritable saint had attempted to curse. Nay, I misunderstood, this simply could not be. I asked my aunt, who by this time was laughing so hard she was red in the face and gasping for air like a land-stranded fish, if I had heard correctly. She confirmed that yes, indeed I had.

The. World. Is. Ending. Or so I believed. The woman I thought was in line to be canonized into sainthood was just as human as me. Hmm, well, alrighty then.

From the time I can remember until the day she passed away, that was the one and ONLY time I ever heard my grandmother cuss. Shirt. Without. The. R.