I am eternally grateful for the spiritual heritage and upbringing I received from my family.  Passed down to me and to my siblings was the truth about Jesus Christ, and a solid faith in His Word.  My parents took seriously the biblical admonition from Deuteronomy 11:19: “You shall teach them to your children, talking of them when you are sitting in your house, and when you are walking by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.”

But spiritual precepts are not all that my family passed down to us.  Oral history is a part of the fabric of our family.  The following is another excerpt from a book I am presently penning about my late father, Coolidge Sims.  His last days in an assisted living center gave me a brief season to hear him again rehearse the stories of his childhood that I had heard all of my life.  One evening in June of 2012, I joined Dad for supper in the dining hall of his final residence, The Oaks.

Our conversation that memorable evening includes his version of one of my favorite family stories.  Enjoy!

Shortly after supper I offered to take Dad out for some frozen yogurt. As tired as he appeared, he wouldn’t miss a trip for ice cream for the world!  They had twenty flavors and forty toppings to choose from at the self-serve frozen dessert place. Dad’s leg was paining him again so he took a seat, letting me fill his cup with the good stuff. He might have been in pain, but he knew exactly what he wanted, how much he wanted, and which toppings were his favorites—chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry yogurt and garnished with fresh sliced strawberries and dark chocolate chips.

We talked a little politics and exchanged small talk as we demolished most of our delectable sweet treats. He seemed to be in such a talkative mood. I put aside the lateness of the evening and pushed him for more.

“Dad, I really wish you had told us more stories about growing up in Delta.”

“It wasn’t all fun and games, you know,” Dad responded. “We had to get up at the crack of dawn, milk the cow, churn, collect the eggs, ring chicken’s necks, make lye soap, and do all kinds of chores. It was really hard work.”

“What’s that one story you often tell about the rabid dog? Didn’t you get bit by it?”

“No. I didn’t. But I came mighty close.”

“Well, what happened, Dad?”   He shoved another spoonful of pink and brown frozen yogurt into his mouth, taking his time to swallow the cold treat.

“Papa left the house one summer morning, telling my brother Bremon to get our old hound dog out from under the house, and put him in a pen before Papa got home for lunch. The dog had bitten our sister, Gwynnelle, and Papa feared that he was rabid.

So, Bremon came to me and said, ‘Coolidge, I need you to go up under the house and aggravate Ole’ Rebel enough to get him to chase you out from under there.’  

I responded, ‘What? Papa said he’s might be a mad dog. What if he bites me?’                                                                                                                                                                                  

‘Oh, he won’t. You’re too fast. Just run him around the house and through the turkey pen next to the chicken coop. When he follows you into the pen, I’ll close the gate and we’ll have him,’ Bremon said confidently.  Besides, if the dog’s not penned up when Papa gets home, we’re both gonna be in trouble!”

‘Nope, I ain’t ending up in the pen with the mad dog. That’s crazy!” I protested.

‘Noooo,’ Bremon assured me. ‘You won’t. As soon as you lead him into the pen, just jump over the back fence and get out.  You’re the fastest person I know, Coolidge. It’ll be easy for you.’

“Of course, after Bremon stroked my ego so thoroughly, I agreed to his half-witted plan.”

“How old were you, Dad? I asked.

“Oh, about six or seven years old, “ he recalled. “That would have meant Bremon was about thirteen.”  Dad enjoyed telling this story so much!  And even though I had heard it dozens of times before, I kept teasing him to continue.

“And you agreed? Good grief, Dad, did he offer you money or something?”

“Offer money? Bremon? Are you kidding? He was the king of tightwads. Bremon could pinch milk out of a nickel.”

“So what happened?” Dad took a big spoonful of yogurt with a fresh piece of strawberry.  His eyes flashed in anticipation of reliving the story once again.

“Well, I heard the dog start to growl as soon as I crawled off the porch to take a peek under the house.  There he was–  foaming at the mouth and staring right at me. I whistled and shuffled my feet a little bit, and sure enough I heard him coming–  bap, bap, bap– his tail slapping the floor planks under the house. Ole’ Rebel came charging out from under the there, slobbering and snarling and carrying on something fierce. I ran as fast as my little bare feet would take me, peeling around the back corner of the house and toward Bremon who was standing like a statue at the gate of the old turkey pen. I could feel the mad dog gaining on me, so I turned it up a notch, racing through the muddy pen, scaling the fence, and then taking a diving leap head long to the ground!  And after I had done all the work, Bremon had the gall to announce, ‘Alright Coolidge. I GOT him!'” 

Dad, as always, ended the amusing tale shaking his head in bewilderment, and with a whimsical smirk asked, “Can you believe that?”  And right on cue we both laughed out-loud.  Just watching Dad tell the story yet again was worth a million dollars.

“And Ole’ Rebel never got to you, eh?”

“Oh no, but that rabid dog turned right around, jumped up on the gate and bit Bremon smack dab on his hand!  And so it ended up HE had to go through the round of twenty shots in his belly,  just like Gwynnelle.  Served him right!”

I still laugh every time I remember it, just as Bremon and Dad laughed about it every summer when we celebrated with the whole family.  It was a Sims tradition to hear it at least once a year.

I’m writing it all down now, so that all my children and grandchildren can hear it, recall it, and enjoy it for many years to come–  and laugh along with Dad, Bremon, and the rest of us.

 

Today, April 1, would have been Coolidge’s 94th birthday.  Happy birthday, Dad!