The mullet is a hairstyle in which the hair is cut short at the front and sides, but left long at the back, and was more commonly worn by men than women. Mullets became popular in the 1980’s and 90’s sported by athletes, country music stars, punk rockers, actors, and TV preachers. Paul McCartney was an early mullet man, as was Rod Stewart, Billy Ray Cyrus, Toby Keith, Chuck Norris, John Stamos, and on and on.
John StamosPaul McCartney
By the turn of the last millennium, there were dozens of mullet hairstyles to be observed in the world. There were redneck mullets, Latino mullets, African-american mullets and Euro-mullets. I’ve seen long mullets, mini-mullets, perm-mullets, and wavy mullets. There was even a fashionable mullet for balding guys, called a “skullet.” The Plymouth pilgrims described the Native American chief, Samoset, as sporting a legit mullet, and Mike Gundy, the coach of the Oklahoma State Cowboys football team is still a mullet man. There are even ancient Roman and Greek statues depicting mullet hairstyles from the B.C years! Whew!
Blake Shelton
About ten years ago, as mullet culture had all but faded from the scene, I invented a game called “mullet watch” that was enjoyed by me, my two grown daughters and a few other members of the family. Any time we sighted a marvelous, spectacular mullet hairdo, we attempted to take a stealth pic of it and share it between us—just for fun. “Mullet sighting!” we would text with an incredible photo of the nearly endangered species. Of course, they were never posted on social media or exposed to the public. The last thing we wanted was a mullet defamation lawsuit. We just wanted to enjoy American history.
Andre Agassi
One afternoon in 2012, my sister and I were sitting in a physician’s waiting room with our 89 year-old father. The waiting room was almost full with about a dozen or more people crammed into the room. I sat next to Dad while my sister sat in an available chair not far away. The room was basically quiet since almost everyone in the room was either looking at a magazine, or staring into their cell phone.
Within a few minutes a tall, hefty bearded man entered waiting room sporting the most magnificent mullet that had ever been seen on planet Earth. He had a tall flat-top haircut on top, a close crew cut on the sides, and a long, flowing mullet from the middle of the back of his head and reaching almost to his belt. His hair was mousy brown and gray, but the bottom HALF of his mullet was bleach blonde with a mustard hue! It was spectacular! Just one quick photo to my daughters would certainly win the contest for me. Game over!
My sister disguised a grin as I stood up from my chair and worked my way to the magazine rack—which was adjacent to the man with the magnificent mullet. She knew exactly what I was doing. I checked to make sure the phone was on silent. I wouldn’t want the room to hear a tell-tale “click” of the camera. Very carefully I positioned my cell phone in his general direction and began doing paparazzi work, taking about three snapshots from varying angles. After I returned to my chair I checked my photos. There were a couple of shots that were perfect! It was the most marvelous mullet I had ever seen.
I wasted no time texting my daughters and sending them the pics. I could hardly wait for them to respond. Dad became suddenly interested in my hectic activity on the cell phone and leaned over to observe. Then, to my utter disbelief Dad asked out loud,
“What’s a mullet?”
His words split the air in the room like a bolt of lightning. I froze. My sister faked a cough, got up, and abandoned us altogether! Every person in the room looked straight at Dad and me, and then to Mullet Man himself. I avoided even glancing in Mullet Man’s direction, but I could feel him looking at us. I broke out in a cold sweat, not knowing what to do or say. Then, I faked it. I turned to Dad and muttered, “Oh, you know, it’s a fish.”
It was the worst attempt at “covering a rear” in the history of the world. I just prayed that Dad wouldn’t ask another question. The whole room suffered in the extreme discomfort of the moment, except for Dad who was clueless.
The following is an edited excerpt from my recent book, IS THAT YOU, COOLIDGE? The book is a memoir of the life of my father, Coolidge Sims, and of my relationship with him. In a conversation with him during the last days of his life, he recounted for me a story from his time in World War 2– a tale that I had never heard. It revealed the real story behind an odd wartime photograph that I had questioned him about.
“It was toward the end of the war in Europe, after we had won the Battle of the Bulge, a buddy of mine and I got a rare seven-day furlough pass. It had been a tough winter so we decided to go to Paris for some R and R. We hitchhiked on troop trucks back across the Rhine and all the way to Paris. My buddy and I, Dunwoody we called him, were crossing the Champs Elysees (the main boulevard in Paris) when we saw one of my high school friends from Ashland—Billy Saxon!”
“Out of two million American servicemen in Europe, I ran across one of my best friends from a small Alabama town of 2000. Unbelievable! And we had the best reunion you can imagine, right in the middle of an intersection in the center of Paris, France. The Arc de Triomphe was on one side of us, and the Eiffel Tower on the other. Billy was an MP and was directing traffic at the time—we’re lucky we didn’t get run over! Dunwoody and I stayed with him for a couple of days in Paris, and then we decided to go to London. By the time we got across the English Channel and to London, our week’s furlough was almost over. But then something totally unexpected happened.”
“You see, Dunwoody was a big guy and had a pretty hot temper. He got into an argument with an American MP and got so mad that he punched him in the face and knocked him to the ground. And before the poor guy could get up, Dunwoody started running, with me following right behind him. Neither of us wanted to get locked up in the military brig, so we ran like scared rabbits.”
“There was a train station right around the corner from where we were, so we jumped on board just as it was about to leave. During the war servicemen in uniform didn’t have to buy a ticket, so we just took a seat and assumed we were heading back to the coast where we could get the ferry back to France. But we quickly learned the the train wasn’t going south, but north—to Scotland! We decided that since we were already going to be late, we might as well be really late and enjoy it. So we had a great time being AWOL in Edinburgh, Scotland.”
“I’ll never forget when that picture was taken. The photographer was outdoors on a windy balcony. My knobby little legs were freezing wearing that man-dress, and it took him forever to take that photo!”
Has anyone noticed that the funniest things in the world seem to happen in places where a spontaneous, hearty laugh is just not tolerated? For instance, why do the most hilarious situations happen in church of all places, where total reverence is required? It’s just not fair to be forced to stifle a legitimate side-splitter! It must be part of Adam’s punishment for messing things up in the Eden.
To be honest I now belong to a church that is not known for its quietness and solitude. We Pentecostals cheer the Pastor on while he delivers a sermon, and agree in prayer—literally out-loud—during corporate prayer times. In fact, we get totally awestruck by those rare and unusual outbreaks of silence that occur from time to time in our services. We talk about them for weeks. “Remember that time that a holy hush came over the congregation? Wow.”
But growing up I attended a wonderful church that was by-in-large the opposite in matters of volume. “Stifle” was the word between 11am and noon on Sunday. My mother expected “holy hush” in church to be the norm, especially for me. I can hear her now,
“Mark, remember what the Bible says, ‘Be still and know that I am God.’”
Talking in church, whispering with my friends, accidentally dropping a coin on the hardwood floor, or making ANY kind of unusual noise in church normally resulted in serious disciplinary action in the Sims household. But even with the threat of bodily harm looming over me, funny still happened in church! We just had to learn to “stifle.”
As a nine and ten year old boy, I often sat in church with my Grandmother Nichols. I told my Mom it was because Grandma was a widow and needed my company. My Grandmother usually sat on the second row from the front, on the far left side of the sanctuary—adjacent-to the piano. But Mom and Dad sat on the third row from the BACK, on the RIGHT side. So naturally I chose to sit with Grandma Nichols—as far away as I could get from Mom’s painful pinch and “don’t-you-dare” eye.
Just in front of Grandmother, on the very front row, sat the two church pianists—Sadie Thompson and Lucille Blackstock. Lucille Blackstock was a sixth-grade teacher at the local school, and had been so since around the year the Titanic went down. A tall, scowl-faced disciplinarian, Mrs. Blackstock was truly a good teacher. She was aware that kids called her “Ole Lady Blackstock,” but she wasn’t bothered by it. She had a duty to do and did it dutifully.
Playing the church piano for the congregation was Mrs. Blackstock’s other duty. Sadie was a much better piano player, but Lucille had seniority—lots of it—and that mattered in our church. Lucille played for the congregational singing, and Sadie for the choir. Mrs. Blackstock was the embodiment of the word “proper.” She did everything according to the book. And just thinking of the word, book and Mrs. Blackstock at the same time brings a smile to my face and a memory that won’t fade away. Here’s what happened:
One memorable Sunday morning I took my seat next to Grandma Nichols on the second row from the front. After the last congregational hymn had been sung Lucille vacated her place at the the piano so that Sadie could accompany the choir. In deafening silence Lucille gathered her sheet music and Baptist hymnal from the music rest and took her seat on the front row. She settled herself perfectly on the front pew, sitting up straight with both feet resting properly on the floor. Even as the choir began singing the anthem of the day, Lucille dutifully opened her Baptist hymnal to the exact page that she would need at the end of the service and left it opened-up in her lap.
The choir sang beautifully and ended on a high note, leaving the listeners inspired and suspended in thick silence as the pastor glided quietly to the pulpit to begin his sermon. As usual, Grandma pulled a pencil from her purse and handed me a church bulletin so I could quietly color in the o’s and doodle during the message. Of necessity I looked back to make sure I was out of my Mom’s line of sight. Indeed, all was well.
By the time the pastor emphasized his second sermon point a nervous housefly began buzzing around us– lighting on the pew, the cushion, and then on Grandma’s Bible positioned between us. When I tried to swat it, Grandma grabbed my hand and held it without ever taking her eyes off of the preacher. Then the fly began to dance around Sadie and Lucille in front of us. Sadie was briefly entertained by it, but Lucille was not aware of the fly’s presence—until it landed in the center of the hymnal open in her lap—on hymn number 363—“I Surrender All.”
As soon as Lucille caught sight of the insect she began following it with her eyes as it lit and scampered across the page—from top to bottom; left to right and back; from verse to chorus; and then to the edge of the page. Memorized, Mrs. Blackstock studied the fly without moving a muscle, her lower jaw slowly sinking downward, leaving her mouth wide-open like patient slipping into a coma. Then without any warning, just as the pastor moved from a dramatic pause to his final point Lucille jerked the hymnal up to eye level and slammed it shut with all her might, “SLAM.” The sound echoed in the holy sanctuary like a gunshot. Lucille pancaked that poor fly, startling herself, the fly, and everyone else in the First Baptist Church.
In total disbelief she sat straight up in her seat and tightly pursed her lips. Abruptly stopping in mid-sentence, the preacher glared in her direction unsure of what had just transpired. Poor Lucille’s embarrassed eyes began darting all around at the shocked faces of her fellow parishoners—but NO ONE COULD LAUGH OUT LOUD. It was the best First Baptist faux pas in a decade, and no one could delight in it publically! It was expressely forbidden to do so in the unwritten code of proper church etiquette. STIFLE IT !
I was dumbfounded. I looked at Grandmother and then at Sadie. They both covered wide grins and began to shake. Sadie looked as if she might wet herself. I quickly looked back toward where Mom and Dad were sitting, noticing that everyone in the church was looking in my direction!
“Oh no,” I thought. “I didn’t even do it and I’ll get the blame!”
Then I saw grins and heard people clearing their throats and fake coughing to disguise a chuckle or a snort . And a lot of folks sitting nearby me were staring at their laps and shaking ever so slightly, just like Sadie and Grandmother were doing. But NO ONE DARED TO LAUGH OUT LOUD. Stifle it for sure, but what a waste of a perfect moment!
Grandmother Nichols ate lunch at our house that day, and we relived the episode at least a dozen times. I can imagine other Baptist families enjoyed lunchtime conversation about it too. But I doubt Mrs. Blackstock ever mentioned it to anyone. Not even once. Still, I am amazed at how clearly I remember that Sunday morning.
The very next year, I was one of Lucille Blackstock’s sixth grade students. She proved to be an excellent teacher, and I learned a lot from her. But every time I saw her sitting quietly at her desk with her jaw sinking downward, I thought of that poor housefly pressed perfectly inside of an unmarked Baptist hymnal. But I never brought it up. Oh no, I stifled it!
“He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouts of joy.” Job 8:21
Moving away from home and into a dorm on a college campus was life altering. I imagined that it would be easy, but it wasn’t.
Samford University
Sadly, I spent my entire senior year of high school, a year I could have enjoyed immensely, carping about having to wait until May to wave good-bye and move on with my life. I couldn’t wait to finally escape from my one-horse, Mayberry-ish hometown and move to Birmingham– and Samford University– the Harvard of the South. Destiny awaited me and I was ready to take it by storm. Alas, reality hit me right between the eyes before my first week of college classes were done.
As an incoming freshman, I had to learn my way around campus. I had some hometown friends already at Samford, but they lived in different dorms with different classes at different times. So, I trailed the crowd and hoped I could find my way around. For better or for worse, Samford requires its students to attend convocation (chapel) services roughly once per-week. Dutifully I made my way into the chapel without getting lost and took my seat between two total strangers– not fellow freshmen, but pre-law students.
As my luck would have it, the week’s excitement and stress had resulted in a canker sore eruption in the back of my mouth. So while the student choir was filing into the choir loft, I took time to dab some “Orajel” on my painful canker sore for relief. In a hurry to apply the medicine, I stuck my gel-tipped index finger all the way to the back of my mouth, causing my gag reflex to suddenly respond with a nasty “Uggghhhctt.”
“What was that loud noise? Was it me??? Did I do that? Oh, dear! What must everyone think?” The dumbfounded law student on my left stared at me for at least five seconds, but I refused to look back at him. I was too busy wiping away the string of drool that had inadvertently dripped from my mouth onto my light blue shirt– one that left an odd, conspicuous wet spot on my chest! Freshman fail #1.
Thirty-minutes after convo ended I found myself in the cafeteria looking for any of my hometown friends for stability. Fortunately, Steve and Jeff were there and they welcomed me to their table. In their company I was no longer a freshman, but a friend, so I relaxed. As we finished, Jeff saw some of his friends at a nearby table and took me to meet them. He made a quick introduction and I greeted them gladly as we took a seat at their table with them. Then the blonde girl sitting next to me, a member of the student choir, remarked, “Oh, yes I think I saw you in the audience this morning in convo. To be honest, I thought there was something wrong with you. Were you choking or something?” I could have died. As I was trying desperately to explain myself, my overly-excited hand accidentally toppled a glass of sweet tea right into her lap! Freshman fail #2.
The very next day at 8 a.m. I found myself in my freshman English Composition class with notebook and pen in hand. The professor, Mrs. Brown, asked for a show of hands of who in the class was familiar with how to write a two-page theme paper. I was among the lucky few who raised a hand. Mrs. Mackey had prepared me well in high school, so this should be a breeze. Mrs. Brown asked the class for possible topics. A tall, bushy-haired guy in on the back row suggested, “Euthanasia.” Mrs. Brown concurred and the writing began. I went straight to work– title, introduction, thesis statement, three paragraph main body, and conclusion. I was actually the first to finish. For me it was a piece of cake.
When time was up, Mrs. Brown began the process of walking us through the correct way to do the assignment. First she wrote the theme subject on the board: “Euthanasia = mercy killing.” It all seemed strange to me. I had never seen that word before. I looked down at my paper which read, “Youth In Asia.” Panic! My entire thematic essay was on the plight of young Americans fighting in Vietnam! Quietly and slowly I wadded-up the two pages of my brilliant anti-war essay into a tight ball and stuffed it in my pocket. I would take a zero before I would allow Mrs. Brown to see my stupidity. Freshman fail #3.
Later that same week, I ran out of clean underwear and socks. Now I had NEVER had to wash my own clothes when I lived in my one-horse town, and my lovely mother never trained me to do my own laundry. (She probably hoped it would entice me to visit home more often.) So, I put my big boy pants on and made my way to the dorm laundry room on the first floor to do what had to be done. With quarters in my pocket and a plastic basket in my arms I strolled into the vast room filled with washers and dryers. Fortunately, there was only one person in the room at the time. I recognized him as an important upperclassman that I had seen on stage in convo. He was seated in a plastic chair with a book in his lap, obviously uninterested in my arrival on the scene. Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize me as the campus drooler.
I glanced around and figured out where I needed to go with my basket and loaded the nearest machine with my stinky clothes. I quickly threw a cup of Tide in with my clothes and inserted two quarters into the proper slots. The coins dropped and, presto– I had successfully conquered new territory. No sooner had I sat down in the chair and opened my biology textbook that I began smelling something– something burning. What was that terrible smell? Then I heard the guy in the chair across the room ask,
“Hey man, do you always dry your clothes before you wash them?”
Freshman fail #4
Yes, I removed my clothes from the dryer, and tried unsuccessfully to clean the soap powder out of the drum. I finally had to start the whole process over with a different machine. The soap powder had already slipped through the holes in the and made its way to the heating element. Later in the evening the janitor placed an “out of order” sign on the dryer and taped it shut. It was all a humiliating experience.
The next weekend I humbly visited my magnificent little hometown– the sweetest place on Earth.
“Pride lands you flat on your face; humility prepares you for honors.” Proverbs 29:23 The Message Bible
It was the summer of 1965. Estelle Nichols and her sister Ruth were making their way to visit the VA Hospital in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Estelle’s husband of 42 years. John Talmadge Nichols, a World War 1 veteran, had been a resident patient at the VA for almost two years. In those days his dementia diagnosis was known as “hardening of the arteries,” but today we identify it as Alzheimers Disease. After a few years of increasing mental confusion and sometimes dangerously bizarre behavior, he had been committed to the VA hospital.
Estelle Nichols
The long trip from Ashland to Tuscaloosa took about three hours for Estelle and Ruth. For this particular visit in the heat of the summer, Ruth insisted that they make the trip in her air conditioned ’64 Buick. Initially Estelle protested, but later agreed with the understanding that she would cover all the food and gas. This was Ruth’s second time to accompany her on the grueling day trip and Estelle was grateful. They always enjoyed one another’s company. It gave them plenty of time to converse about the one thing that weighed as heavy on Estelle’s heart as a three ton boulder. Estelle was desperately concerned about her husband’s eternal destiny.
“Ruth, I can hardly bear the thought of Talmadge dying without being converted. He’s never joined the church, and never been baptized. And now that his mind is going bad, I’m afraid it’s too late. He doesn’t even know who I am anymore.” Her last sentence faded into a weeping whisper.
“Now Estelle,” Ruth answered, “we all know what a fine and upstanding man Talmadge Nichols has always been. Everyone respects him and thinks so highly of him. He’s fair and lives by the golden rule. You can’t ask much more of anyone.”
“But Ruth, people aren’t saved by how good and moral they are. You heard the preacher last week at the revival say it– ‘being a good person and being born again are not the same thing.’ The Bible plainly says, ‘You must be born again.’ to get into heaven.”
A week earlier, Estelle had made more than one trip to the Baptist Church altar during the annual summer revival. She was so burdened about her husband’s spiritual condition that she “went down” (to the front of the church) as the Baptists call it when a person responds to an evangelist’s invitation to come forward for prayer and counsel.
“Ruth, I am almost embarrassed at myself of how many times I went down at church last week. But I just couldn’t help it. My heart was so heavy about Talmadge that I thought I would die! I had to get some peace about it. There’s no telling what folks think of me. I went down to the front Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday! Three different times! People probably think I’ve done something really terrible.”
“Estelle, there is absolutely nothing shameful about going down at a revival service. You remember, Papa always said that you have to do what you feel like the Lord is leading you to do. Papa used to go down all the time at Mellow Valley. He wasn’t ashamed.” Ruth’s reference to their beloved father’s spiritual wisdom brought some relief to Estelle’s anxiety, if only for a moment.
“For years I tried to get him to go to church with me,” Estelle lamented as they neared the outskirts of Tuscaloosa. “I cajoled him, and begged him, and he rarely ever agreed to go. Now, to be fair, he did go when Marylyn and Charlotte were young and had a special program they were in, and he sometimes would go with me during summer revival.”
“He liked the singing, didn’t he?” Ruth interjected. “Just like my Bruner, Talmadge always liked good ole’ gospel singing,” and he could carry a tune, too.”
“Yes, but now he’d rather listen to it on the television,” Estelle noted. “One time told me that the real reason he didn’t feel right about going to church regularly was because he had killed too many men in the war for God to ever be happy with him. I think that is what still haunts him.”
“But war is different, don’t you think?” Ruth quickly responded. “He had to go to war, it wasn’t his choice.” Estelle thought for a moment and then responded with something she had never told her sister.
“Ruth, Talmadge told me that he was a machine gunner in the war. He said that he mowed the enemy down by the dozens. He saw them fall. And he saw our boys fall too when the Germans did the same. Talmadge was just a country boy who had only used a gun to hunt in the woods. The only thing he had ever slaughtered was an occasional deer, and of course, chickens and hogs on the farm. And then suddenly he found himself in France in a muddy trench, doing what he never imagined he would ever have to do.”
Talmadge Nichols 1918
An eerie silence paused their conversation as they stopped at a traffic light. The legacy of war is not all glory and courage. The deep emotional wounds of war leave ugly scars for a lifetime. Men can sometimes compartmentalize their own wartime actions into a hidden closet that remains shut forever. But honest men know that God knows all and sees all. For them compartmentalization is cowardly, and that even when an action seems justified it still remains true– whatever a man sows, that shall he also reap.
“Marylyn and I talked about it last night,” Estelle continued. “She’s as burdened as I am about her Daddy’s salvation. She even went to talk with Brother Curlee about it last week. The preacher told her that our best effort should be in prayer, since prayer can go deeper than the mind and move into the spirit.” Estelle’s voice grew stronger and stronger as she recounted their pastor’s words to Marylyn. Caught up in her own words she pointed her right hand toward the windshield and preached, “… and just because Talmadge’s mind is absent, doesn’t mean that his spirit is!” Ruth lightened the moment with a rousing, “Amen, Sister! Preach it!” Two seconds later they both broke down giggling like teenage girls at Estelle’s one-line sermon.
Estelle’s anxiety over her husband’s standing with God was certainly her greatest burden, but it was not the only thing that bothered her deeply. Sending Talmadge away to live in a veterans home was the hardest decision she had ever had to make. She second guessed her decision, especially in the lonely hours of the night. How cruel it appeared for a wife to just send her sick husband away. She feared what others in town thought of her action.
But for over a year, Talmadge had become increasingly confused, especially at nighttime. She had to hide his guns and hang bells on the doors to signal he was awake and moving around. More than once he had wandered out of the house in the middle of the night, barefoot and dressed only in his long johns. He was obsessed with the need to pick cotton, or check the well, or walk to town to fetch the mail. Even trying to coax him to return to the house was a struggle, since he hardly recognized her anymore as his wife. Estelle became sleep deprived, exhausted, and unable to carry on her full-time job as manager the local school lunchroom. It took intervention from Marylyn and Charlotte to get her to make the decision. Otherwise, she would never have done it.
Once the sisters arrived in Tuscaloosa, Estelle directed Ruth onto Loop Road, which led to the sprawling campus of VA facility. They parked in the corner of the parking lot under a huge oak tree, hoping to shield the car from the intense midday heat.
Talmadge resided in the east wing, on the fourth floor, in room 489– a long haul from the front lobby. Finally reaching the east wing, they moved carefully down the broad corridor toward room 489. The interior walls were painted with a thick coat of institutional green and white paint. A large window at the far end of the hallway allowed the sunlight to illuminate the entire corridor and reflect brightly on the polished green and black tiles that covered the hall floor. The two of them counted down the room numbers right and left, eager to see his number finally appear on a door. An orderly’s metal cart stacked with lunch trays was parked halfway in front of what appeared to be Talmadge’s room, requiring Estelle to move behind the cart to check the room number. And there it was, room 489, with a placard to the right of the door that read– John T. Nichols.
The orderly moved the lunch cart out of the way as Estelle and Ruth lightly tapped on the door. “I was just in there a minute ago,” the young worker interposed. “Mr. Nichols is sitting quietly in his chair and probably won’t say anything. It’s okay. He won’t mind. You can go on in.” Ruth carefully followed Estelle into the hospital room. “Talmadge. I’ve come to see you again,” Estelle softly announced as she moved toward her husband who sat majestically in the chair, legs crossed, back straight, head held high, every bit the picture of a prince. Turning his head to look directly at her Talmadge clearly called out, “Estelle!”
She froze in her tracks. Talmadge’s eyes looked clear and strong. He knew who she was! She moved quickly to him, leaning over to hug him as tears bounced off of her cheeks. He tried to stand, but she wouldn’t let him. Ruth stood back in amazement, relishing the moment, while Estelle could hardly speak at all. She sat on the bed beside him transfixed, smiling, emotionally charged, gazing deeply at his face and holding tightly to his hand. For the next few minutes Estelle and Ruth updated him on all that was happening with their children and the grandchildren. He didn’t say much, but it was evident that he was there– all there.
Without any explanation he leaned to the side, pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand, took out a small leather pouch and handed it to his wife. “This is for you,” he said. Then before she had a chance to open the pouch and discover its contents he simply added, “…and don’t worry Estelle because the Lord and I have made everything all right.” His right eyebrow was raised slightly as he looked at her. She knew that he was serious because she had seen it in his eyes a thousand times before.
For a moment, all Estelle could do was hold him tightly and cry and whisper, “Thank you, thank you dear Lord; you’ve heard my prayer.” Within a minute after her heart’s greatest burden was lifted, Talmadge Nichols lost all recollection of who Estelle was. It all ended as abruptly as it began. The whole experience was surreal and too bizarre to be believed, except that Estelle and Ruth were both there to witness this amazing gift from God– a miracle of answered prayer.
God had bypassed a broken mind and dealt directly with the spirit. Jesus had loved him at his darkest. In one miracle moment a proud and honest man finally accepted that Jesus had already paid the penalty for his release from a prison of guilt.
The pouch that he gave his wife that day contained a gold pocket watch that his father had given him, and a small note scribbled in pencil, “Estelle gift from John.” About six months later John Talmadge Nichols passed into eternity. But after that miracle moment, Estelle never again fretted about her husband’s salvation and eternal destiny. She had already gained all the blessed assurance that she would ever need. For the next twenty-eight years she lived certain that a heavenly reunion was just a heartbeat away.
J.T. Nichols’ World War 1 uniform and helmet- 81st “Wildcat” Division , 322nd Infantry
John T. Nichols (1889-1966) was my grandfather. My grandmother Estelle eventually left to me the pouch containing his gold watch and the hand scribbled note that read, “Estelle gift from John.”
