“Hi, I’m Betty Clean Teeth, I eat healthy foods from all four food groups, brush my teeth after every meal and bite my dentist once a year.”

The entire auditorium burst into laughter as my mother and teacher exchanged horror-stricken glances. The laughter gave me such a large boost, I forgot about the hickory switch awaiting me at home.  At the age of six, it was my inauguration to a love of audience laughter.

A few months before the Clean Teeth play I visited the dentist on the top floor of Winston-Salem’s Nissen Building.  The elevator ride to the top heightened my anxiety. It was my first appointment with the elderly dentist and I was to have two very crooked baby teeth pulled. My teeth chattered in fear as I walked into the dark office with cold tile floors. Dr. Farley had gold-rimmed glasses and a mouth full of gold teeth. I guess he won those in a contest with other dentists, I thought.

The elderly dentist made no small talk and never asked my name.  His assistant put me in a large chair and draped me with a white cloth.  I was given no explanation of what would happen next.

“After I pull your teeth spit into the sink.”  He pointed to an odd-shaped bowl with water trickling through the white porcelain. As his fingers probed into my mouth I chomped down and wouldn’t let go.

”It’s my mouth and you can’t touch it,” I sputtered through his damaged finger, still in my mouth.

Mama jumped from her chair to release the dentist’s hand from the jaws of my animal-like mouth.  After being bandaged by his assistant he bravely returned to the jaws of the animal. During his first-aid treatment, Mama threatened my life and limbs.  I watched my young life pass before me as I let him pull my teeth.  Due to my raw disposition we were asked to change to another dental office.

My reputation preceded me and my first appointment was for the new doctor to get to know me.  I suspect he felt as if he were about to charm a snake.  By then, my dental temper tantrum had become legendary. He gave me a coloring book and crayons after our visit.  I liked his easy manner and never tried to sample his flesh.

My dental memories inspired me to let an entire school population discover I was capable of abusing the family dentist. It was a story my dad enjoyed repeating in later years but Mama never found the humor in it.

To the Oconee Family Dentistry Office : Have no fear, the animal has been tamed!

Note: Did you check out the website for the Nissen Building?  It didn’t look like that in 1954. Built in 1927, it was considered a skyscraper with eighteen floors. Back in the ‘day’ those spaces were given over to medical professionals and other businesses. I’d love to sample the rooftop swimming pool!

I love this time of year and the panic that envelops the grocery stores when snow or ice is forecast. Sometimes even the mention of a snow flurry clears the bread shelves. In my growing up years I lived in Winston-Salem and we had some great snowfalls. One year it snowed every Wednesday until the first week in April. That year my birthday fell on Wednesday March 19, I remember making a large snowman with a hat and a red ribbon that day. I also remember sledding, and driving…yes, driving in the ice and snow. My dad wanted his girls to learn to drive in bad weather. He took us out for snow driving lessons, much to my mother’s chagrin. She held her breath at home until we returned.

I can still hear him, “Steer in the direction of your slide, don’t use the brakes, don’t panic, and you’ll come out of your slide.”  If Daddy could make it over to my cousin’s house in Greensboro I spent the night and her brothers took us sledding. We even found a neat place to bury our cigarettes in Bandaid cans for future consumption.

I moved to South Carolina in 1974 with my late husband and our toddler daughter.  In 1987, we moved to Walhalla, with two teenaged children. The Winter of ’88 I got to use my snow skills.  We moved to an area of Walhalla with a wonderful hill for sledding, nicknamed, “WE-E-E-HAH HILL.”  At the age of 40, I boarded a snow dish with the rest of the teenagers and hit the bottom of the hill with my hair flying.  When the teenagers grew tired, they stood at the top of the hill shaking their heads at the only mother in the neighborhood playing in the snow.

It was great until the groceries ran out.  Hungry and wet, six teenaged boys began to starve from the bottom of their toes. The snow had banked to 17 inches in the driveways of our neighborhood.  Not only did these folks refuse to drive in the snow, they also refused to walk in it.  It was going to be up to two families to get rations for the entire neighborhood. We collected grocery lists by making phone calls, but the next problem would be getting out of our subdivision with its steep, winding hills.

As I pulled on my snow boots, I heard the rumble of the only snow plow in the county.  It looked as if it had been sitting in dry dock for thirty years, but it did the job as my husband and I followed the plow accompanied by another brave friend who came along to help fill the neighborhood pantries.  Later, I was able to share with my dad how my North Carolina snow driving skills saved a starving neighborhood.

To my current neighbors, it’s time to stock up, I’ve retired from sliding through steep hills to purchase food.  I heard some snow flurry rumors on the television, support your local grocer.

Some memories blur to black in fifty five years, but the memories of this day, this trip, are just as sharp as when they were new. Daddy loved the New York Yankees.  Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and the rest of the team he called ‘the October boys.’  Daddy had a host of phrases he used while watching baseball. That splendid day he used some of them: “throw the good wood to it”, “he’s got a hole in his bat” (that’s what he yelled when one of his Yanks struck out.)

We didn’t have the best seats in the house, but the important thing was being together. We watched while these players, destined for the Hall of Fame, shellacked the Boston Red Sox. Daddy was always saying something about the umpire like, “are you blind? or “that’s criminal” when the ump made a bad call.

I tried to match my dad’s stride as we left the ballpark. As we approached the outside door of the stadium, I looked to my right. The blonde tousled hair and bulging muscles were unmistakable. Mickey Mantle was signing autographs. I wanted to go, but I was much too shy. I begged Daddy to go in my place, but he said I needed to get over my timidity. Neither of us went and as we grew older, we both regretted not having him sign a program. It was all good that day though. I ate peanuts, drank soda, and had my dad all to myself.

At the end of that long ago August day, Daddy and I emerged from the subway into Times Square. “Don’t ever forget this day, and tell your children and grandchildren about it.”

Sometimes when baseball season begins I get very nostalgic. There is a longing to be with my dad in still another ballpark. The smell of anything leather reminds me of his worn baseball glove.

This is why I love the crack of the bat, a stolen base, and the ump dusting the diamond. It’s not all about a game, but a special dad who taught me how to love. I pray that lesson never grows old.

Dedicated to my grandchildren and their dads—make every day count!

The music rises to staccato pace as arms circle the air, a high leg kick brings the first movement to life.  Eyes stare, a back turns sideways. Arms rise in spherical movement; feet toe the ivory line, a powdered ballet. A ringing shot, the audience rises; the dancer pedals back, stretching, reaching. The prize is lost, the dancer’s head hangs low in agony. Hedgerows beyond the stage become a bed for white rawhide…home run!  A rival dancer circles white sandbags as his dance troupe colleagues enter the stage in a chorus of gratitude for this wonderful rare movement.

The game of games is a symphony of movement, a drama, a mystery, a comedy, a charade. The pitcher, star of the charade, taunts his batter. Guess what I have…a fast ball, slider, or change-up. The mystery is the batter’s to solve from a white diamond perch. The stare from the mound, a windup and…the scene changes…a throw to first. Hold him close, dance the dance.

Once again, the charade star crouches low facing a dancer from another troupe. Behind the dancer, the masked co-star crouches lower, awaiting the call from his charade master, off-stage. From stage left, the charade master begins the Braille of baseball. The crouching co-star translates the signs to the star of the charade and the movement begins again.

The restless audience maligns a new performer from their seats; an emperor in blue. The emperor’s vision fails; he loses his way in the strike zone. The ump is a chump with a seeing- eye dog leashed to the popcorn stand.

The comedians work the audience from the wings of the stage. Catcalls to the ump costume each movement with bright colored words.

“Get in the game blue. Your seeing eye dog ran away. That ball was below his knees, you lost your mind?” Through it all, the blue emperor retains his composure, and stays in his dense gray atmosphere.

After seven acts, intermission is called, and the audience breaks into its traditional appreciative chorus of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”  They applaud themselves soundly and the stage is set for another high kick symphony.

     The curtain of nightfall brings the ninth and final act to a close bringing one dance troupe to tears while the other breathes the high of elation. The audience leaves, the props are returned to the wings, the dancers, charade masters, and the emperor in blue leave the stage.

But the diamond remains, a gem of a game,

And the pitcher’s dirt throne stands alone.

We’ll be back, our eyes ‘round the track,

And all for the love of the game.

Clemson Baseball’s Spring Season starts today at 4 pm in Doug Kingsmore Stadium, Clemson University. PLAY BALL!

Walhalla, South Carolina

February 2, 1996

The words of the following eulogy are from Stephen Massey’s wife Ann. At the end of her

comments the family’s close friend Luther Gaillard shares his thoughts:

Steve Massey has fought a war with his body since March 19, 1985 when he was

diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Two years before that time we knew something

was wrong within his body. Even though his mind was clear and quick, his body did not have

the same strength. Steve loved walking in the woods, campfires and hunting deer and

bear. He was the comic of the Commercial Marketing Department in Greenville. He

was a dedicated employee who, at one point, came in first on the Duke Power system

in a competitive marketing campaign.

Steve loved his family and was his parents’ strongest advocate during their ailing

years. If you knew him well he gave you many nicknames. It was his way of saying, “I

Love You.” His compassion was great for the animal kingdom. He and Stephanie

rescued an injured baby chick and nursed “Cora” until she became part of our family

in Easley.

Steve was fiercely patriotic having missed going to Vietnam by a few weeks. He was

ranked superior in his artillery unit in the Army Reserve. He appreciated many kinds

of music. He loved B.B. King and most 60’s tunes. When we lived in Easley he gave his

heart to God and when we moved to Walhalla, he rededicated himself to Christ.

He tried many inventions of his own to win the war with his body. I can still hear him

say “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” He made me strong enough to

stand on my own two feet without other people as crutches. Though disease

weakened his body, his thought was welded in iron.

Steve has left a legacy of a fighting spirit to Michael and Stephanie. We can all look at

his suffering and feel awestruck that he could still fight on. Steve told me many times,

“don’t grieve for me, I’ll have my resurrection body.” We will grieve for our own loss,

but joy will come in the morning of our own new life with Jesus, we will see Steve

then!

Thank God for all of you in this church. He loved you all and he loved his family

fiercely. His brother, Don, can look back on happy, funny memories. His sister, Tissie,

can recall childhood pranks that they schemed together. Stephanie can recall long

talks and playing her violin for him. Michael can recall wrestling and being “wooled”

by Dad’s beard. I can recall walking Myrtle Beach and looking for oyster and crab

shells with Steve.

Outside of the family, a variety of friends, loved ones and volunteers put countless

hours into Steve’s care. These people came from various churches and the Keowee

Key area. One friend in particular was Luther Gaillard. Luther helped Steve fill many

an empty hour with conversation and guitar pickin’. Steve kept his mind alive with

ways to pick at “Coach” Bob Bell. He loved to challenge Pastor Petry with a

vocabulary word of the week.

The following words are Luther’s way of saying good-bye:

“Steve was a man of simple needs. He didn’t need a Cadillac to get around. He didn’t

need to impress anybody. He knew who he was. He took care of his people, his

family, his friends. The zany and not-so-zany figures that were part of his professional

and private life could have filled a book. Some of them belonged in a cartoon book,

but Steve was comfortable with people, and he could handle people on any level.

If Steve has a legacy that counts, it is that he could be counted on whenever a need

for help arose, from anybody, a stranger, a friend, it didn’t matter.

We think in terms of miracles as the ones we read and study about in the Bible: Jesus

turning water into wine, the Sermon on the Mount, healing the blind, the truly

miraculous things that Jesus wrought during his ministry on earth. Steve was a

miracle. He lived far beyond the expectations of the numerous doctors who took their

turn at attempting to slow down, to dare to even try to stop the spread of Steve’s MS.

Through the deterioration of Steve’s body, his mind remained whole. It, in fact, grew

sharper, for he used it during his waking hours to help fend off the misery, the hell of

being bedridden, the loss of his limbs, the degradation of having to have someone

else scratch the itches on his body, for in the final years, he couldn’t even do that. I

can’t say that he was perfect, or that we didn’t want to pull our hair out from time to

time, but Steve was as courageous in putting his MS in place as anyone could be.

He never blamed anyone. He didn’t curse God for having developed the disease. On

the contrary, Steve said more than once that he was so stubborn that God had to get

his attention some way or the other, and that had he not contracted MS, God may

have never been able to get his attention.

We mourn his death, but we know, after the years of suffering, of fighting a losing

battle, that Steve is safe in the arms of Jesus. He is at peace. We’ll meet him one day.

I only hope that we have the courage to live the rest of our lives the way that he lived

the last few years of his. He’s gone, but his influence will have a profound effect on

the lives of the people closest to him.

God bless you. Luther Gaillard

Stephen Massey

December 9, 1940-January 31, 1996

“I lift up my eyes to the hills–from where will my help come. My help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth.” Psalm 121:1-2

Our thanks to the many friends, strangers, and family members who shared their time and treasure with us.  The Steve Massey Family

During this period, with blood thinners as the only drug entering his body, Steve spoke of seeing Jesus and his long deceased grandfather. I read aloud at his bedside.  His favorite Psalm, the twenty-third, gave him comfort.  After a peaceful two-hour nap, Steve told me Jesus talked to him, “I’m not ready for you yet.  Don’t be afraid, I will take care of you.” Steve also spoke of seeing his Grandpas Masters who comforted him. This was the same grandfather mentioned in my previous post, The Message.  He recovered from the blood clots, but was too weak to be cared for at home.  He was transferred to a nursing home in the Greenville area and later to Roger C. Peace Rehab in Greenville.

Even though Steve was on Medicare due to his disability the payments ran out in one hundred days, when hospitalized.  There were also items within the one hundred days that weren’t covered.  Five months in rehabilitative care drained finances needed for our daughter’s college expenses. Stacy, our beloved caregiver, had to leave us.  Of necessity, we hired Pops, a strong, male caregiver. Steve decided the tractor he used on his beloved farm should be sold. “I wanted to keep it because it represented a hope that somehow I’d get well enough to get back on it again.”

We grieved over the decision to sell our cherished lake retreat Steve’s parents had helped us purchase.  It was the end of the recreational lifestyle we had once enjoyed as a family. At that point, if depression could have been sold from our house we could have fully funded our money problems.

Others were making sacrifices for our needs. Two church congregations proved to be financial mainstays, Calvary Moravian, Winston-Salem, NC and St. John Lutheran, Walhalla, SC. My sister established a cooperative respite care fund between her church and ours.

One afternoon the secretary of our local church called to tell me about it. “Your sister called, a respite care fund is in place at her church. We’ll announce the fund in the bulletin this Sunday as a line item on the budget here. We’ll write a check to you at the end of each month as people donate. The funds from her church will be added to ours as they arrive.”

I began to cry as she explained the procedure to me.  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I’ve always made my own way and given to others when they had a problem. I just don’t know how to receive,” I sobbed. My pride at being independent was crushed.  The bitter pill of chronic illness tasted even more acrid. Our wonderful church secretary reminded me of an important fact, people were putting feet on their prayers for us; I was watching faith grow to full flower in the vineyard of God’s work. She reminded me that this was the essence of the term, “church family.”

Each month the donated funds were depleted to pay caregivers and each new school year I wondered how I would pay for someone to care for Steve so that I could return to work. The uncertainty of signing my teaching contract was especially great the spring of 1991.

“Lord, you know the money isn’t there to pay a caregiver!”  I prayed, “Please show me what to do.” I felt impressed with a deep sense of unconditional trust and signed my teaching contract on faith.  September came and financial burdens swelled with each passing day.

Our pastor stopped by regularly for visits. One mid-September afternoon proved to be especially memorable. “Ann, sit down, we need to talk,” he said.  “Someone’s heart has been impressed with your needs,” he explained.  He handed me a check in the amount of $10,000, just enough to cover our expenses for that school year.  The identity of this generous donor remains anonymous.

The generosity of friends was apparent in the love sent our way. They delivered food to our door.  When Steve was no longer able to eat by himself they stayed and fed him.  The feet of the faithful grew stronger. “We’re here to rake your leaves,” the Lutheran youth declared. A group of eager young faces gathered on our front porch.  They worked all day for the cups of water I took them and the desire to love our family with deeds of care.

Friends offered free publicity in my search to find volunteers to read to Steve so that I could exercise.  My fifteen year-old son needed respite from being the primary caregiver some afternoons and many nights. I had continued my education at Clemson University and was in the last year of my Masters work there. The response for help was overwhelming; I had to turn people away.  Steve became fast friends with each man and woman who answered the call and they were encouraged by their visits with him.  He provided humorous, intelligent conversation and lifted the spirits of each reader.

Soon after the reading group was formed, I met another young man who volunteered to care for Steve when I had to attend night meetings.  He was a soothing balm after a stressful day, and became the light in our daughter’s eyes when she visited from college.  I was about to lose a night volunteer and gain a son-in-law.

By the end of 1993, Steve was only able to move his head and neck. Our daughter’s wedding in 1995 was a miracle of cooperation. The local hospice organization provided help dressing Steve in his tuxedo.  Pops, our dedicated caregiver, drove him to the church. Mike, pushed his dad down the aisle of the church as Stephanie walked beside him.  When asked, “Who gives this woman in marriage?” Steve was able to answer, ‘her mother and I.”  He practiced those words for many days before the wedding. His speech had become altered to just above a whisper. We enjoyed a beautiful wedding and reception as a complete family.

Steve Massey gained his resurrection body, January 31, 1996.  He had told me repeatedly, “Don’t cry for me, I’ll have my resurrection body.” I did cry for what might have been. He wanted to be an active and healthy witness for Christ.  He did witness to others who visited him. His battle changed my appreciation for simple pleasures. During the last stages of his illness, Steve was robbed of daily contact with the out of doors. Sometimes, during his illness, I brought leaves into the house for him to feel on his face. As a result, I absorb blue skies and colored leaves instead of merely glancing at them.

Near the end of his life, Steve counted his disease as a blessing.  “While lying on my back, looking up, God filled me with His love.”  If I had never contracted MS, I would have gone on putting everything else in my life first except my faith.”

Invaded by faith or a dread disease?  Ponder the mystery, it is God’s to reveal when we see Him face to face.

Steve won first place as rep who brought the most power load to the Duke Power system. This is the awards banquet in Charlotte, NC–circa 1980.

Steve attended Clemson University for one year. He was asked to come home because his sister, eighteen months younger wanted to go to college. He started with Duke after his tenure in Basic Training at Fort Jackson. He climbed utility poles and eventually worked his way up to Commercial Marketing Rep. Even after his promotions, he was called out to spot the source of power outages in substations. He couldn’t stay home to play with us in the snow, but we knew when Ma Duke ‘came up’* to warm us that he could come home! *came up is Ma Duke’s term for a restart.

Start-up of Haywood Mall. Steve sized the load. He told me he was saying, “Go guys!” in this picture. There was a collective sigh of relief from a lot of Ma Duke’s children at that point.

We were compelled to sell the farm that had been in his mother’s family for nearly one hundred years to relocate closer to my job. Our fifteen year-old and twelve year-old had to leave everything that was familiar to them.  The first week on the job I prepared my classroom while Steve, now limping noticeably, handled the details of our move.  When school began, the house we were to live in was still occupied. Steve would have to drive the children to their new school forty minutes away.  Saturated with stress and exhaustion, bitterness welled within me.  God, how could we be in this mess? Alone in my car, cried out in an angry rant interlaced with prayer.

Late September of 1987, Steve accomplished the move to our new home. His condition plateaued for two years. In the winter of 1989, Steve contracted a virus that rendered his left arm paralyzed. His mobility also suffered leaving him off balance.  I was afraid to leave him alone while I worked. He insisted that he didn’t want outside help and could manage on his own.After he suffered a fall in our driveway and lay alone for two hours, we found an endearing nurse’s assistant from the hospital’s registry.  Stacy* kept our spirits afloat with her bubbling spirit and hand-peeled mashed potatoes.The down side of this and other caregiving arrangements was that Steve wasn’t covered with long term care insurance. When he went to work for Duke, (back in the day), Ma Duke didn’t offer long term care. If he had purchased a policy when it was offered, it still didn’t provide for ‘custodial care.’ My teaching salary became woefully inadequate to handle this.

Since Steve was a very large man, Stacy* needed help with his bathing.  Medicare did provide for our local home care agency to send two aides to the house three days a week. It was beginning to take a small army to care for our needs.  When I arrived home from an eight-hour workday, the driveway was blocked with cars. They included: the social worker, our pastor, the home health nurse, and our paid caregiver. I felt like a visitor in my own home; I had to park on the street. The necessary help invaded our privacy. We began to feel as if we were living in a glass box with a lock on the lid.  We were the “MS family” in the community, an aquarium of illness for all to see.

Living daily with MS brings a roller coaster of emotions.  Each downward spiral of the disease’s progression took us on its frantic ride.  Even at happy events we were overcome with emotion. My son and I traveled to Charlotte and Atlanta to see professional games in basketball and baseball.  We swallowed lumps in our throats as we watched fathers enjoy a night out with their sons.  My children needed their dad, I needed my husband, and instead we had been given Steve’s care as a patient. 

When events became life threatening, our family operated as a team.  “Come quick with wet washcloths, Dad’s fallen on the deck, he’s bleeding like crazy!”  My daughter’s voice shook as she called 911 for help. Our son held his dad’s head and tried to staunch the bleeding with a shirt he’d stripped from his own body. Steve directed us with his still razor sharp mind.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital, laying on those gurneys feels like knives sticking in me.”  When the emergency responders arrived, he was bandaged and allowed to stay home.

*Denotes name change

Stacy’s* Mashed Potatoes

Peel and boil eight large Irish potatoes water that have been salted (approx. 1 tsp salt, or to taste)

Mash with a potato masher, leave some lumps, (they’ll know these aren’t fake potato flakes!)

Add 3 tbsp. mayonnaise (light or heavy, choose your weapon)

Add gobs of butter (this was Stacy’s secret, but I saw her put 4 sticks in one day!)

Whole milk to the consistency desired.

1 to 2 tbsp. real sugar

Pepper to taste

Mix well

Sometimes this would make enough for leftovers, but only hold over one day. Fluff up in a pot the next day with a small amount of milk. Don’t use the microwave for this!

Note: I never could make them taste like Stacy* made them, but close.

Stay tuned for Trust Me in the Dark Part III

Steve sat across from the doctor’s desk in a return visit after his diagnosis was made.

“Dr. Riley,* I’m falling when I walk into the businesses I call on in my job. I have to stop when I’m driving, because I get so tired.”

“You’ll just have to pace yourself and work out your problems with your employer. You can still work,” the doctor insisted.

His inability to complete job related math calculations spurred Steve to take action even without a doctor’s letter.  We began our quest for disability payments, fighting the system at every turn.

On a visit to the Social Security Office a representative peered at us over her glasses.

“Mr. Massey are you here about a claim?  You look too healthy to be making application for disability.”  Steve produced copies of medical receipts including the lab results.

“Where is your doctor’s letter?” she inquired.

“I don’t have one yet.”

“Mr. Massey, people come in here all the time with the type of records you have.  You have to show me a doctor’s letter stating the reason you are to be considered for disability payments.  Shame on you for coming in here and wasting our time!  You need to go on back to work.”

As he rose to leave, he gave the starched government employee a parting shot, “Well, maybe the best thing to do is to go to a psychiatrist and let him diagnose me as a lunatic.  I know I can’t do the math work anymore, and I’d rather live on beans than do my job the wrong way.”

Our next visit was to an understanding elderly psychiatrist, Steve explained his plight.  “The Social Security office thinks I’m crazy for going to them with medical records, but no doctor’s letter saying I can’t work.  If you certify me as a lunatic, maybe that’s all the paperwork they need.”

Throwing his head back in laughter, this warm-hearted doctor and his new patient became instant friends.  “Steve, your anxiety alone would certainly qualify you for disability.  Your blood pressure is elevated.  I see your job isn’t ordinary, calling on customers and calculating mathematical equations looks stressful. There’s no room for mistakes.  I can treat your anxiety, but not the MS.  Your neurologist has to agree that you can’t work, but you may need a lawyer to handle that problem.”

Steve let out a low moan, “How will I pay for a lawyer if I have to quit my job?”

“One struggle at a time, son, one struggle at a time,” the psychiatrist smiled as he finished writing a prescription for anxiety disorder.

Steve’s next stop was to a lawyer’s office.  Harold Crandall* had the reputation of a bulldog in court. If he felt the little guy was being trampled, he sank his teeth into the opposition.

“How long have you been diagnosed, Steve?” He puzzled over Steve’s medical records, half-glasses perched on his plump rounded nose.

“It’s been almost two months.”

“Your neuro doctor friend is less than cooperative. I can either pay him a visit or send him a letter, it’s your call.”

“We haven’t discussed fees yet.”

“Steve, I don’t want a percentage of your Social Security award.  Let’s settle on a flat fee.  How about $600?  If it takes me a year of work, it’ll still be $600.”

Steve replied, “I’d almost feel bad for you with that kind of fee.”

Mr. Crandall squinted over Steve’s information,  “I see by your address that you live out in the sticks.  Do you farm?”

“Yes, I grow vegetables and pigs.”

“Well, I love both of them; bring me a ham and some veggies and we’ve got a deal.”

After six months of visits and paperwork, Mr. Crandall succeeded in getting Steve’s Social Security Disability granted to him. We had reached a small base camp in our government’s bureaucracy; but the summit of the disease was yet to be scaled.

*Some names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and those in-between.

Stay tuned for Part Two of Trust Me in the Dark:The Steve Series

Balloon Launch for Bill's Celebration of Life

Our Greatest Memories of Papa Bill/Granddaddy

Written by the six grandchildren for the back of the service bulletin, February 8, 2011:

“Playing golf with Papa Bill at Edisto Beach”–Stephen McMann (14)

“I enjoyed our walks on the Leisure Trail I will always remember our long walks and talks.”–Joy McMann (12)

“I love him very much. He gave me all his love. When I came to visit I always had a great time. Even though he’s gone, I will always have him in my heart.” — Emily Coogler (10)

“I remember the most, the big hugs I gave him before I left his house.” –Faith McMann (9)

” I loved playing golf and going to “Skins” with Grandaddy. I love him.”–  Benjamin Coogler (8)

“He was a wonderful person. He loved us so much. He lived as long as he could. I love him. He loved his wife and kids.” --Sara Coogler (5)

Note: Inside of each balloon was the handwritten note of that child. The day before the service little Sara came to me to ask if they could do it. When I said, “Sure Baby.” She said in her most serious voice,”good I’ll go tell the others.” They sat at the table downstairs and wrote their notes. Karen Coogler designed the bulletin with the children’s comments, Bill’s picture, and the order of service. All the children and grandchildren put together a picture collage of his life. Karen also recorded his favorite songs on a CD that I now have. A labor of love by a family that I hold so dear: Stephanie, Clay, Stephen, Joy, Faith, Mike, Tony, Billy, Maddie, Rick, Karen, Emily, Ben, and Sara. There are so many other family members who have given me comfort. My niece Wendy who read my comments at the service, my sister Jean, Norian, Caroline, Evva Kate, Mike G., Richard, Vicki, and Abby, my heart sister, Sharon. I know I’m forgetting people, but to all of you who sent cards, prayed, brought food soon to be one year ago now, you have been spiritual vitamins to me. At the hospital as Bill lay dying, my daughter Stephanie, sang “Amazing Grace” for him, what a comfort to both of us that was. I love you all!  Ann/Mama/Nana

The balloons went straight toward Clemson!

“Our Dad was a loving, intelligent, simple, complicated, respectful, efficient, and humble man.

He had high expectations for himself and those around him and to tell the truth, as his son, that made life a little tough at times.  He taught us by example, to accept all people.

Dad did not see color or nationality, but seeing that he had two wonderful wives, I believe he did see gender.

I knew that he was intelligent, now I may not have admitted it until after I was 25 years old, but I don’t believe I ever knew he graduated first in his class at Clemson.   And I did not know that he had patents or that he ever invented anything, but I know, I will never look at a black garbage bag the same way again.  (My note, Bill’s team at Union Carbide invented the black plastic garbage bag.)

As far as my memories:

• Early Saturday mornings to go buy tires or to the hardware store.
• Him coaching my baseball team to the city championship.
• Any sport – he was my biggest fan.
• Talking my mom into letting me buy a motorcycle.
• Summer trips together to look at colleges.
• Member Guest golf tournaments at Keowee Key.

Places he took me that have made a lasting impression, one was the golf course.  Golf is something we shared, time we spent together playing or watching.

The other was church.  Emily, our oldest child mentioned the other day, “that she was thinking of something to remember Granddaddy by.”   We were sitting at the dinner table and had just blessed the food and I said “Jesus, he gave us Jesus.”  “He took me to church and I take you to church and without him we would not know Jesus.”So if you are wondering what it was that made this man so accepting, so giving, and so nice to be around, I can tell you it is because he knew Jesus.”

These boys have been a source of great comfort to me as have my own children and all six grandchildren of Bill’s and mine–our blended family has been a good mix!  Bill and Joann Coogler are to be honored and remembered for the legacy left within their children.