© 2012 Evelyn Thornton
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-1-937721-05-3
Additional copies are available from:
www.evelynthorntonbook.com
Book Design: Ed Stevens Design, www.edstevensdesign.com
DEDICATION
To Melba Evelyn Thornton,
“My mom was remarkable … I believe many mothers would have thrown in the towel if they realized their youngest child was destined for a life in a wheelchair. That was not my mom.”
—Wayne Thornton, 2007
Going strong at 92
Contents
DEDICATION
Foreword
NO EXCUSES
INTRODUCTION
THE YEAR WAS 1946
WAYNE’S ROOTS
CARTHAGE—THE WINTER SEASON 1952–53
THE AFTERMATH
WAYNE’S FAITH
SCHOOL: THE EARLY YEARS
HIGH SCHOOL
THE WORLD BEGINS TO OPEN
BMOC
THE GREAT SCARE
COLLEGE LIFE RESUMES
LIFTOFF!
PHOTOS
AIR WAYNE
LIFE AT THE PINE TREE
HOW THE YEARS HAVE FLOWN
M.J.
THE BIG SISTER
WAYNE FACES THE CHALLENGE
TO TOUCH THE SEA
THE BEST-LAID PLANS
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
KEEPING WAYNE ROADWORTHY
WAYNE CROSSES THE RIVER
About the Authors
Foreword
NO EXCUSES
The boy’s hair was the color of Mississippi delta sand. A wisp of it was sweat-pasted to his brow. His face was set with determination. A man of average size leaned over him. To the boy, however, he seemed quite tall. The man held the handlebars and seat of the boy’s rickety two-wheeler. A simple smile, glowing with pride, crossed the man’s face. He loved his six-year-old son, and it showed.
“C’mon, Wayne, you can do it. I know you can. Hold the handlebars steady and push down with your legs. Go on, now. You can do it!”
The boy grinned up at his father and held his breath. He turned his head to look straight ahead and then nodded that he was ready. The man gave the boy a slight shove, and he was off.
For a few feet, the bike sailed along. The boy felt exhilarated. He was defying gravity. He was flying. Even though his body swayed slightly, his legs continued to move up and down—skinny pistons against the old pedals.
But a glance down at his progress proved to be his undoing. The two-wheeler suddenly jerked a bit on the gravel road. The boy’s arms fought for control, but the situation was hopeless. The bike toppled in the dust, pinning the boy’s left leg under it.
A moment passed. The boy watched the mist of fine dust settle. He looked down at his hands, covered in yellow grime and coated with tiny pebbles. He quickly slapped his hands together to rid himself of the aftermath of the spill, and then he glanced back at the man. His father was walking slowly toward him.
“C’mon, Wayne, get up. You’re not hurt. You get up now. You can ride that bicycle. No excuses now. Get up and get on it. I’ll give you another push.”
The boy set his jaw and stood up. He righted the bike and straddled it. Then he lifted his head and stared at his father. The boy’s eyes welled with tears, but none trickled down his cheeks. He stood on tiptoe, hoisted himself back onto the seat, and nodded that he was ready to try again. With another fatherly shove, the boy and the bike were off. The ride was longer this time by several yards. It might have been Wayne’s whoop of glee that caused him to lose concentration and send the bike into a tumble.
Grimacing at the reality of his plight, Wayne dragged himself to his feet, dusted off his hands against the seat of his pants, and then lifted the bike to a standing position. His father’s shoes scraped on the gravel as he trod toward his son. His gentle words preceded him.
“Better, Wayne. That was better, but you c’mon now. I know you can do it. No excuses. There’s no—”
“I know, Daddy. ‘There are no excuses in life.’ C’mon, push me again.”
The man held the seat of the bike, but he hesitated and then looked down at his son.
“Wayne, you can do it. I know you can. Just relax and enjoy the ride. It’s the ride that will get you anywhere you want to go. Are you ready?”
Wayne was. He was ready to ride. He was ready for life. There would be no excuses. None at all. His next ride wouldn’t be perfect, nor would the next, or the next. But he was unstoppable. He would face life—the challenges, the obstacles, the difficulties great and small, and, ultimately, he would succeed.
Wayne’s story is about a man who chose perseverance over defeat. He chose to live a life without excuses; he chose to live his life in an extraordinary manner. He took his talents and turned them into skills. He took his skills and turned them into achievements. He took the gentle shove that was offered, the chance that many of us hope for in our lives, and became a man of accomplishment, a man to admire. If you’ve taken a walk with Wayne, you know.
INTRODUCTION
This book is the true story of a man who faced incredible challenges and did so with quiet grace and dignity. Did he overcome every obstacle? No. Sometimes the events in his world couldn’t be surmounted or bypassed. Sometimes he faced trials that were simply too difficult to be conquered.
This is not the story of a star athlete, a best-selling novelist, a decorated war hero, a great orator, a religious leader, or an intrepid explorer. This is the story of an unassuming man from a small city in rural Mississippi. He is an ordinary man, but with extraordinary perseverance and faith.
Did he change the world? Not really, although his life is an inspiration to many who knew him or knew of him. He was a just man living an honest life. It was packed with joy and meaningful achievements. It was dedicated to personal, spiritual, and intellectual fulfillment. It was a life of positive rapport with the world around him. It was a life of familial love and indomitable will and courage. It was the life of Thomas Wayne Thornton, of Carthage, Mississippi.
Chapter One
THE YEAR WAS 1946
In 1946 the average annual income was $2,500. A new car cost about $1,125, and a gallon of gas cost about 15 cents (5 cents more than a loaf of bread, and 55 cents less than a gallon of milk).
In world news, war was raging in Vietnam as France struggled to maintain its possessions. Charles DeGaulle resigned as president of France. The United Nations held its first session, and trials against Nazi war criminals began at Nuremburg, Germany.
Nationally, Alaskans voted in favor of statehood. United States farm prices reached their highest levels since 1920, and the Senate killed the Equal Rights Amendment.
Among the famous people born that year were entertainers Diane Keaton, Sylvester Stallone, Dolly Parton, and Barry Manilow, and future sports greats including jockey Laffit Pincay, swimmer Don Schollander, and baseball superstar Reggie Jackson.
In the city of Carthage in central Mississippi, a new normalcy was returning after the end of World War II. The boys who had left to fight in Europe and in the Pacific had come back as men. The girls who had stayed behind became women coping with the challenges of life on the home front. This young adult generation now faced the uncertain reality of the postwar South. Gasoline and sugar rationing was in the past. Carthaginians could once again go for a drive and later enjoy sweet tea and strawberry pie liberally sprinkled with sugar. To save two bits, however, most farm parents still cut their children’s hair in the kitchen after wrapping a towel around their shoulders to protect their school clothes. Some habits in frugality were too well entrenched to break.
That year, Wayne Thornton, like his three siblings, was born at home.
Baby Wayne’s demeanor was identical to that of his sister Evelyn. The two were simply content. But Melba Thornton vividly remembers taking Wayne to the doctor frequently during his first six weeks of life. The baby didn’t cry. The diagnosis? There was nothing wrong with him; he was just one very happy baby. Similarly, Granny Bridges recalled the womenfolk gathering in long, happy conversations while shelling peas or preparing dinner when suddenly her daughter, Melba, would gasp and raise her hands to her face.
“Oh, Mom, look at the time! I’ve forgotten to feed Wayne again!”
The ladies would rush into the master bedroom, only to find Wayne cooing and smiling blissfully at the world around him.
Granny Bridges would place a hand on Melba’s shoulder and say, “You’d never know that baby was in the house. I swear, he is an angel and is just too sweet to be in this world.”
Evelyn recalled that Wayne was cheerful even when the family was scurrying to safety during the threat of a tornado.
“They were the monsters that always seemed to lurk in the clouds no matter what the season or the time of day,” Evelyn recalled. “There were no weather sirens in small country towns back then. We just had our radios, and they were always tuned to the local station, WCKK. That wasn’t the best system either, for by the time the station would pick up the news of a tornado and its location, the storm could very easily have passed. The only way we could tell if a tornado was approaching was by looking up at the sky.
“In the daytime, that was easy enough. If we noticed that the winds had stopped and the sky had turned a milky yellow, we would quit playing and race off to the house.”
Nights were a different story. “Nighttime tornados always frightened Mom and us kids. At night, if the winds blew and pelted the house with pebbles and sticks, we’d wake up Dad. He would rush us into our winter coats and shoes and then send us back to bed. That way, even if the house blew away, our heavy clothes would act as shock absorbers. All of us were afraid, except Wayne. I suppose he thought it was a great lark. He would just laugh and laugh as we were huddling together while the wind buffeted the house.”
In his formative years, Wayne, the youngest of Melvin and Melba Thornton’s four children, thrived in the loving care of his family. The family was steeped in a firm belief in God and care for family, friends, and neighbors. It was the Thorntons’ philosophy to do right by everyone and it would be returned in kind. Looking back on those years, Evelyn fondly remembers just how wonderful the four children were to one another.
“Glen and I were only eighteen months apart, so we became the best of playmates. There were a few years between Glen and Katherine, but about eighteen months separated Katherine from Wayne. That was great because they, too, became wonderful playmates.
“We weren’t always the gentlest of kids,” Evelyn said with a chuckle. “I remember pulling Glen from the couch when he was just an infant because I wanted his blue booties. He landed on the floor with a thud. Thank goodness I did him no harm!
“On another occasion, Glen and I were barefoot and were taking turns chasing each other. It was on one of those romps through the house and onto the front porch that Glen fell and managed to spear his foot on a dead branch. As I recall, he had problems with that foot for some time, but those problems didn’t keep him out of the service. Glen did say, however, that he wasn’t fond of marching!
“As southern farm kids, we found joy in simple things in the world around us. Each season brought new activities. Well, maybe they weren’t new. Maybe they were just part and parcel of the season, but all that we did and saw delighted us nonetheless.
“In the spring, we would ooh and aah at all the various baby animals around the farm. We’d watch the birds flitting through the magnolia trees during the day and watch the fireflies light up those same trees at night. The wildflowers seemed to be everywhere and in every color imaginable. We would make necklaces and bracelets out of clover flowers. And if we paid really close attention to where we were walking, we just might happen upon a four-leaf clover. If we did, we felt we would be lucky forever!
“Summer would bring a blanket of thick southern humidity that would almost take away a person’s breath. From sunup to sundown, the cicadas droned away in the fields. Sometimes they were so loud that you couldn’t hear yourself think. Then there was the red clay after a summer rain. It was quite a treat for us kids to take off our sneakers and socks and walk barefoot in the fields. For some reason, it always seemed magical when that red clay squished between our toes. Oh, and on the hottest of days, the water from Dad’s old well seemed to be the coolest, most delicious drink in the whole world!
“Baking seemed to be the thing to do in the fall. All the various fruits were ripening, so Mom and the other women in the area would gather to make pies and cakes galore. We kids would love to sit under the kitchen windows and breathe in those delicious aromas. Sometimes we would pretend to be bakers ourselves and leave a batch of mud pies to ‘cool’ on a rock just under the windowsill. Later in the afternoon, we would sit in the dappled sun under the peach tree and watch Grandmother hanging out the clothes. The breeze would catch a wisp of her hair and maybe turn her apron into a flag. We might chuckle while our dogs would sleep at our feet.
“Winters seemed to be all about school and holidays. We were always busy cooking or decorating for an upcoming event while we were getting ready for the next school activity. Of course, we always had our chores to do in and out of the house, but all that housework and homework just seemed to blend together into one happy stream of life.”
Melba recalled that at the age of four, Wayne seemed keenly aware of the farm and the needs of the family. Even at that tender age, if he saw a need, he would act on it. On one such occasion, he noticed that the wood box behind the stove was almost empty. Without the slightest hint of direction, Wayne took matters into his own hands by pulling his small red wagon from his room to the woodpile in the backyard.
Arriving at the pile, he spied some wooden stakes and realized he could bring in a large load of wood if he stood the stakes in the four corners of the wagon. In short order, Wayne filled the wagon as high as he could. Then he tugged it into the kitchen and filled the wood box. Melba remembered her amazement at how neatly stacked and how full the box was. Her pride in Wayne’s accomplishment merited him a kiss on the cheek and a cup of hot chocolate.
Chapter Two
WAYNE’S ROOTS
The city of Carthage, where Wayne was born, was established in 1834 and incorporated in 1837. It was founded by settlers on the move, mostly from Carthage, Tennessee. Located close to the Pearl River, the city is the geographic center of Mississippi and the native home of the Choctaw. The Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek secured the land for the city from the tribe in 1833. Both of my parents’ families, Thornton on my father’s side and Bridges on my mother’s side, were part of the move from Tennessee to Mississippi, their new home in the South.
Both families trace their roots to England, Ireland, and Scotland. Early members of the Bridges family arrived in the area of Virginia shortly after the Mayflower community settled in what is now Massachusetts. Records indicate that one of the earliest family members, Nathaniel Basse, married a princess of the Nansemond tribe to establish a 700-acre farm in Smithfield, Virginia. Basse was the founder of what came to be known as Smithfield Hams. The urge to wander, however, took the family farther south.
The Bridges clan that traced its roots to the British Isles settled in North Carolina as well as Virginia. An early ancestor, John Wesley Bridges, fought for the South in the Civil War and was present for the surrender of Vicksburg in 1863. Being a brick mason, he helped to rebuild the city at the conclusion of that terrible conflict.
In 1972, Granddaddy John Kirk Thornton was tending his half-acre garden with his little dog keeping pace at his heels. John was a widower and lived in a small white wood-frame home set back from the road but in a direct line of sight of Melvin’s Garage and the Thornton family home. John was keenly aware of all the comings and goings in both locations.
Spry at eighty-nine years of age, John took great pride in growing award-winning vegetables. His particular passion was working the Mississippi soil to produce delicious collard, mustard, and turnip greens, which he would combine with beans, garlic, olive oil, and onions for a tasty meal. On more than one occasion, he would joke, “It’s the greens that keep me goin’!”
One day when John was preparing a meal of some greens, Evelyn happened by to check on the elderly gentleman.
“Granddaddy,” she said as she opened the gate. “I see you’re keeping busy.”
“Yep,” he said, stirring the ingredients in the large cooking pot. On warm summer evenings, Granddaddy Thornton did most of his cooking on a grill built over a small outdoor fire. “I’m almost done here. I suppose you’ll be wanting to have a plate or two before you leave, won’t you?”
Evelyn eyed the contents of the pot and winced. “Granddaddy, I don’t think I’ll have any tonight,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t usually like meat with my greens.”
“Meat? What meat? I didn’t add any meat to the greens. I never do.”
“Well, I guess you did your cooking without wearing your glasses,” Evelyn said, trying to stifle a laugh. “ ‘Cause if you’d been wearing them, you would have noticed the worms you’re stirring around in that pot.”
In a few seconds, both Thorntons were bent over laughing uproariously at the sight.
Chapter Three
CARTHAGE—THE WINTER SEASON 1952–53
Gasoline sold for twenty cents a gallon at Mud Cat’s Gas Station on Franklin Street. Five dollars would have taken any pair of high school sweethearts to see From Here to Eternity down at the Fox. There would have been enough pocket change left for popcorn and a couple of sodas. The tickets were seventy cents apiece, and Mrs. Calhoun, the theater manager, made sure there was “no loafing in the lobby.”
It was a bit warm inside the theater. Air-conditioning was still sometime in the future for movie-goers, but a couple could lick their way through a pair of ice cream cones at Dairyland. It was always a great way to top off the evening.
There always seemed to be something going on across from the courthouse. To drive the town’s only policeman to distraction, a young couple in their Ford V-8 might drive around the courthouse the wrong way. They wouldn’t be wearing seat belts as they cruised down Pearl Street and onto Franklin because seat belts didn’t exist yet. With luck, the policeman wouldn’t see them driving the wrong on the one-way street. He would have been busy down at Jelly’s Café polishing off a bowl of beef stew. But it was getting late—nearly nine o’clock—and it was time for the young man to take his favorite squeeze home. Besides, he needed to be up early the next day so he could get a haircut at Thaggard’s Barber Shop before he went to work at the C&W. The folks there expected him to look his best when he delivered groceries. If he was lucky, he might pick up a nickel or a dime for a tip.
Eisenhower had been sworn in as the thirty-fourth president of the United States in 1953. That same year, New York City had adopted three-color traffic lights. The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway, had won the Pulitzer Prize. Little Ricky had been born on the television show I Love Lucy. The first issue of Playboy hit the newsstands, with Marilyn Monroe gracing its cover. Life was good in the United States, and especially good in Carthage, Mississippi.
But 1953 was also the year that six-year-old Wayne Thornton came down with chicken pox. It was also the year he became a paraplegic.
Winter in central Mississippi had been mild. It usually was. Now it was late February, and signs of spring were everywhere. Trees and flowers were beginning to bud, and the grass was nearly due for the first cutting of the year.
The Christmas holidays were now a memory, but it was a memory to be cherished. The Thornton family had spent a good deal of it visiting and being visited. With both sets of grandparents, lots of aunts and uncles, and numerous cousins living nearby, the smiles were plentiful. And the food, of course, was festive and delicious.
Uncle Willie Bridges, like everyone else in the family, was particularly fond of his wife’s cooking. Aunt Lillie Mae was a wonder at preparing delectable meals, but her forte was desserts. Sweet potato pie, cornmeal pie, pecan pie, and coconut cake were always major request items and always devoured in great haste.
Santa had been good to the family. With the help of the S. C. Ellis Store, Santa managed to find dolls and dresses for Wayne’s sisters, Evelyn and Katherine. The dresses were rather dear at $7.95 each, but, after all, it was Christmas. And, yes, these were special dresses. They were store-bought, not dresses that Mother Thornton so lovingly stitched by hand to stretch the family dollar in order to purchase day-to-day essentials. These had been Christmas dresses.
Glen and Wayne had received a train set and a wagon. The toy locomotive seemed the most perfect gift for the boys because Glen loved mechanical things and Wayne always wanted to become an engineer. The gifts weren’t wrapped. Santa had been far too busy for that! Strangely enough, when he visited on Christmas Eve, he had very much resembled a neighbor dressed in red.
No stockings had been hung. That wasn’t part of the Thornton tradition. Candies, nuts, and fruits, however, had been liberally sprinkled among the gifts under the beautifully adorned tree. What a treat! No one seemed to remember that the persimmons, apples, plums, pears, peaches, huckleberries, and pecans had grown just outside the door.
Granny Bridges had arrived early on Christmas morning to help prepare the holiday feast. She smiled lovingly as the children laughed with delight when they opened their gifts. Soon, however, she would tire of their play and shoo them outside with the admonishment, “Now, y’all be ‘sponsible for one ‘nother. I can’t be ‘sponsible anymore!”
Wayne’s sister Katherine, who was always called “Kat,” remembered that admonishment in order to loudly reprimand Wayne when he chose not to hold her hand when walking by the side of the road. “Wayne, I can’t be ‘sponsible for you anymore!”
Home and family were everything to the Thorntons. The four children had been born in the family home. The doctor had driven five miles on country roads to assist at each birth. Melba and Melvin Thornton may not have been cash rich, but they were extremely wealthy in family love.
An annual subscription to the newspaper the Carthaginian was a whopping two dollars. It provided the basics of world and national news, but its specialty was news about what was happening in Mississippi and, most importantly, all the “necessary” news from Leake County. This winter, the necessary news focused on the invasion of pine beetles. They were killing numerous trees in the region, and people were dreadfully worried. The newspaper instructed folks to cut down and burn dead and dying trees to destroy the beetles. People read the news and heeded the advice, and the invasion was stopped.
In other news, cotton cultivation appeared to remain steady. In 1952, over two million acres of regional land helped to produce nearly two million bales of cotton, with each bale weighing about 500 pounds. Although never top grade, the hand-picked cotton was government subsidized. The prospects of duplicating that production in 1953 appeared very likely.
Melvin Thornton grew cotton on nearly half the family’s thirty-three-acre farm. The cotton was harvested by hand, which was tediously slow, painful toil. The workers, who more often than not were Melvin and Melba, would each hoist a ten-foot-long burlap sack over one shoulder and then spend hours bent over the rows of cotton bolls, snatching the white puffs from the plants and stuffing them into their sacks. They would drag the sacks up one row and down the next. Slashed fingers, aching backs, sunburn, and headaches plagued them in the heat and humidity of Leake County summers.
The Thorntons’ eldest daughter, Evelyn, always wanted to please her parents. Even as a young girl, she believed that she would be a great help to them in the cotton field. But Mr. and Mrs. Thornton knew that in the field she would be more of a hindrance than a help. She would tire quickly, and there was always the risk that she would be injured on the road separating the field from the house. One day, over a glass of iced tea, Melba shared the problem with her sister, Mary.
“Leave it to me,” Mary told her with a wink. “I’ve got just the medicine for her.”
The next day, Aunt Mary hid in the drainage ditch at the edge of the field. She had completely covered herself with a white sheet and giggled as Evelyn approached the road. Just as she was about to cross, her favorite aunt rose from the ditch. Mary’s arms were raised over her head, and she issued a blood-curdling wail as she moved ominously toward the wide-eyed Evelyn.
The young girl froze for a second, but only for a second, before she screamed “Ghost!” and shot back to the house. Problem solved. Evelyn never again ventured toward the cotton field. For the next decade, she had a distinct fear of ghosts!
Whatever land wasn’t producing cotton was given over to producing fruits and vegetables for sale and family consumption. Although Melvin managed to harvest truckloads of potatoes, onions, watermelons, and assorted other produce, he was particularly gifted at producing beans, specifically bumper crops of butterbeans. Melvin became known as “Mr. Butterbean” at local markets. In addition to homegrown produce, Melvin raised chickens and cows for eggs and milk. He also kept a few pigs to be slaughtered for meat for family and friends.
The Thornton patriarch was keenly aware of how difficult it was to stay solvent and to stretch every dollar. But he also considered the family members blessed to have one another, and to have enough land to meet the family’s needs. It was for these reasons that he always managed to grow just a little more than he could use. It was Melvin’s constant plan to give away food to those less fortunate than his family. He performed this act with regularity.
On at least one occasion, the adage “No good act shall go unpunished” certainly rang true for Melvin. While taking food to an elderly lady one day, he was unmindful of her barking dog as he started up her front walk. The dog stopped barking long enough to take a sizable chunk out of the back of Melvin’s leg. Melvin, however, proceeded with his mission, not bothering to tend to the wound immediately. Later that evening, Wayne convinced his father that stitching the wound was a medical necessity. Reluctantly, Melvin went to the hospital.
For the Thorntons, Sundays were given over to church and family activities. Church for the adults and Sunday school for the children filled the mornings. Family gatherings, large and small, filled the afternoons. But Sunday, February 22, 1953, happened to be Washington’s Birthday. The occasion had never held particular significance to the Thornton household until this specific day. Evelyn was scheduled to play the piano for the church’s Gospel Quartet, which would feature Wayne’s aunt and uncle, Bertie Ruth and Forrest Draper, along with Odis and Odell Arthur.
Evelyn’s piano lessons had cost Melvin a dear eight dollars a month, but he and Melba considered the money well spent. They never considered canceling the lessons even when it was difficult to scrape together the necessary funds, and even though they could have put them to much better use for the entire family. When Evelyn herself would suggest this, Melvin would always offer a gentle reproof, “Don’t you worry. Just keep taking those lessons. We’ll find a way to pay.” And they always did.
Wayne would later credit his parents with being the single greatest influence on his life. “Their constant encouragement was the only motivation I needed to succeed,” Wayne asserted confidently. “I remember how Dad worked hard to provide all of us with a home and to take care of all our needs. We may have been poor in terms of money, but we were rich in spirit.
“When Dad was young, I know he worked as an auto mechanic in his small repair shop just down the hill from our house. He worked long hours—days, nights, and weekends—and he did it while working his small country store. Later, I helped him run the store. He taught me to order, run the register, and stock the shelves. Money was hard to come by, but he wanted to enlarge the store. He began to research how he could obtain a $5,000 loan, but the prospects for acquiring the money didn’t seem to be realistic. Just when the project seemed doomed before it could get off the launching pad, Mr. McRaney from City Service, a gasoline service company, made my dad an offer. The company would loan Dad $3,000 to be paid back at a penny per gallon of gasoline for the next five years without interest. Dad jumped at the offer.
“Dad got some locals involved, but he did a lot of the work himself. In a couple of months, he had the store built and the shelves stocked. We had a grand opening, and business was good. I’ll never forget the look on his face as friends and neighbors congratulated him on his accomplishment. Folks of all ethnic groups living in the area came by to wish him well. These folks knew him, traded with him, and appreciated his honesty and generosity. He was respected by all because of his fairness and kind heart. It is a difficult thing to be that liked by so many, but somehow Dad managed it.
“About 1963, Dad added a new auto shop. It stood right next to the store. He needed a mechanic to help him since he couldn’t run both the store and the shop by himself. Robert Boyd, Jr., a young man about age 17, asked my dad if he could have the job. Dad said “Yes”, if Robert could get his father’s permission. Robert raced off and got permission. He was delighted. He wanted the job because he had heard his dad talk of my father often. It seems that his father and Dad had worked together for years cutting and hauling pulpwood, and Robert’s father knew that there was no one better for his son than Dad to teach him about auto mechanics and fair play. Dad was delighted to have Robert work for him. He did right by the Boyds.
“Sometime later, Robert bought an old motorcycle. He and Dad worked hard to get that old cycle in running order, but they managed to do it. Robert was so excited when he got it going, he promptly ran it off the gravel drive and into some bushes. Oh, there were a few bruises and some scratches to that cycle, but the thing continued to ride very well.”
One day there was serious talk at the breakfast table of exactly what dessert was to be served after the midday meal. It was decided that it would be homemade peach a la mode. The pie would be especially delicious because the fruit would be homegrown. Following that special treat, the plan was for the family to drive to Aunt Vera’s house, some fifty miles away. There the Thorntons would sample the warm glazed donuts that Aunt Vera always brought home from the bakery where she worked.
But that day, Wayne wasn’t feeling well. In fact, he had been feeling poorly since the onset of the weekend. His usual smiles at family jokes and stories were strained. Melba was concerned about her son. Usually very talkative, he had said next to nothing all morning. She was confident, however, that the day’s activities would spark him enough to be in fine fettle for the morning school bus the next day.
Melvin, too, had been concerned about his son. He hoped to draw his interest to supper, at least two meals away. “Why, yes, I’m makin’ supper tonight,” Melvin said, winking at Melba over the breakfast dishes. “I know how much y’all love my fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m even fixin’ biscuits and coleslaw on the side. You just save room for that chicken.”
Evelyn simply lowered her eyes and shook her head. She had savored all those meals her father prepared. They were delicious. Or at least they had been until that morning when she had seen her dad returning to the barn from the adjacent woods. In one hand he was toting three dead squirrels by their tails. His ancient .22 rifle was in the other hand. When he saw her, he waved the rifle and called out, “Ah shot a couple of chickens for tonight’s supper. I know how much you love fried chicken and gravy. Well, these are especially for you.”
Evelyn wasn’t about to spread the secret of her father’s cooking among her siblings. She would simply take a few small pieces from the meat platter and pass it along. During the course of the meal, she was certain she would find Wayne’s dog, Rex, under the table. As always, Rex would probably be delighted to partake in any delicious meat scraps, chicken or squirrel, handed down to him.
As Melvin was leaving the house that morning, he teased, “C’mon, Wayne, if you don’t perk up some, Glen’s a goin’ eat all your donuts.”
All the children except Wayne giggled at the remark. They knew that Wayne loved glazed donuts and would go to war with his brother if it meant protecting his cache of snack food. Today, however, Wayne appeared listless and pale.
A bit later, Melba wrestled with an obstinate collar button on Glen’s shirt as she called over his shoulder, “You girls need to get ready for Sunday school pretty quick now. We need to .…”
Her voice trailed off as she stared down at her youngest son. Red blotches were rising from various places on his face, now dark with perspiration. She immediately flew to Wayne’s side and placed a loving hand on his forehead.
“Evelyn, get your father. Wayne’s burning up. We got to get him to the doctor now!”
Letting the back screen door slap against the door jamb, Evelyn raced from the porch and headed across the field to the open road and on to the store. Melba was already snatching the quilt from the nearest bed to wrap Wayne in it.
Evelyn stumbled again and again as she raced along the highway. The family store was about two hundred yards from the small farmhouse. Great sobs welled up in her chest and tears clouded her eyes as she turned from the road and sped over the cattle guard. The store was now less than a hundred yards away. She could read the sign “MELVIN THORNTON” on the front door, as well as see the sign on the garage door that read “THORNTON GARAGE—CALL DAY OR NIGHT.”
“Daddy! Daddy!” she called out breathlessly as she ran. She could see his head bent over the counter by the window.
The small store sold essentials and a few commodities. At this moment, however, the store was empty of customers, who were most likely involved in a nearby church service.
“Daddy!” she wheezed as she staggered the last few yards over the rough tarmac to the open door of the store. Melvin, who had been busily stacking coins into rows, raised his head and stared anxiously through the large front window at his daughter. He dropped the coins, sending them clattering in all directions, and raced outside to scoop young Evelyn into his strong arms.
“What is it, Evie?” he asked. His voice held a soothing quality that she had always loved.
Evelyn raised her small hand and swallowed against the dryness of her throat. It took her long seconds to catch her breath. Finally, the words came.
“It’s Wayne. He’s real sick with the fever, and …”
Not wasting another second, Melvin raced to the old truck that was parked alongside the store. He squeezed Evelyn against his chest as he piled inside. Their silent combined prayers reached out in hope for the young boy.
Safely aboard, Melvin deposited Evelyn on the seat to the right of the gearshift. It was common practice in the rural South for folks to leave their keys in the ignition. Once seated, Melvin fired up the vintage machine. The tires spun as the truck shot in reverse away from the building. Deftly, he threw the gearshift into first, and the truck rocketed onto the highway, sending a shower of small pebbles back toward the store. The front door had been left open, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was time. Precious time.
White dust clouded the air behind the old truck. Melvin had his foot to the floor. His face was set in a mask of grim determination.
Evelyn gripped the edge of the seat with both hands. Her eyes were closed, but tears continued to cascade down her cheeks. She was sending off prayers to God in machinegun fashion for Wayne. He was her youngest brother, and the bond among the four children was as strong as Mississippi pine.
Melba stood stone still, clutching an immobile Wayne to her breast. He was wrapped in a patchwork quilt, and only a tuft of blonde hair was visible to Melvin as the truck skidded to a halt only a foot or two from the front porch of the farmhouse. In a heartbeat, both father and daughter were out of the truck to form a tight circle around six-year-old Wayne.
The always-evident laugh lines had completely disappeared from Melvin’s face as he gently moved the edge of the quilt back from Wayne’s head. The boy’s face was beaded in sweat and red with fever heat.
“He’s real sick,” Melba said in a whisper. She choked back a sob. “Real sick.”
Melvin, who usually spoke in a low, easy cadence, was decisive and intent.
“Evie, you go in the house and stay with your brother and sister. Call your Granny to get here right away. We’re going to see the doctor, and there’s no telling how long we’ll be gone. And remember, love each other and keep prayin’.”
Evelyn mustered a solemn smile and nodded. She had begun a new prayer even before she had opened the front door. She rushed to Glen and Katherine, who sat shoulder to shoulder sobbing on the small couch. Taking both in her arms, she held them tightly and tried to comfort them. As the two leaned into her, she glanced out the window in time to see the family truck speed off toward town. Tears of hope filled her eyes as she clutched her siblings even tighter.
Melvin and Melba shared a united silence and a common prayer as Melvin raced the vintage truck toward the doctor’s office in Carthage, some five miles from the farm. The quilt, which cocooned Wayne and had been so lovingly stitched together out of clothing scraps by Melba and her mother, was now soaked with Wayne’s sweat. Melvin stole a glance at his son and gritted his teeth. He would promise anything and honor that promise in order to keep the boy safe from harm.
Folks in the larger cities of the South were now enjoying “modern” telephone service. Many did not have to share a party line with three or four neighbors. Such was not the case in rural regions, but a major telephone project was being developed in Leake County. Many businesses and a few homes now had the new “prefix” system. Because the Thorntons had a small but thriving store along the highway, having a state-of-the-art communication system was not a luxury but a necessity.
It was a great joy to call across town simply by dialing a “1” after the designated local code and before the last four digits of the number. The great gag of the day was for someone to call the store to ask, “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” With an affirmative response, the caller would always laugh and shout out, “Well, let him out!” The caller would then quickly hang up and roll on the floor laughing. This day, most certainly, was not a laughing matter.
Sometime later, Melba would remember having directed Evelyn to race to Melvin’s store with the dire message rather than simply calling him on the phone. In truth, she was so caught up in the intensity of the moment that she simply forgot to utilize that convenience. She also concluded that she might have become totally distraught if Melvin had not answered the phone. After all, he was, more often than not, working in the garage and unlikely to hear the phone ringing in the store some yards away.
At the house now, Evelyn worked to keep her emotions in check as she managed to calm Katherine’s and Glen’s fears before racing next door to enlist Granny Bridges’ assistance. After hearing the dire news, Granny had raced to her phone to place a call to the doctor in Carthage. An emergency patient was on the way and would require immediate medical attention.