Yes. I have to finally get it off my chest. My beloved parents went to their graves without ever knowing about it.
Starting at the moment it occurred there was a cover-up, and the authorities never knew that little 7-year-old Mark was both the culprit and the victim. Oh yes, a handful of others knew, but they were all in on the cover-up. Fifty-six years later I think it’s high time I blow my cover and confess.
It all happened at a high school basketball game in my hometown of Ashland. It all started so innocently. While my father did his Jaycees duty in manning the concession stand, I was required to stay with my older brother and his friends in the bleachers. My brother Mike is five years my senior, so I was not an easy fit with his junior high aged crew. Without a doubt I was the pesky little shrimp that was assigned to his watch, but being an independent social animal I did not find it necessary to sit next to my brother at all times. I knew his friends and they knew me. I was safe as long as I stayed close to the pack. After all, this was the arrangement at least once or twice a week during basketball season. Occasionally during the game I was allowed to make my way to the concession stand to get a snack. Dad allowed me to put it on his tab for the night.
Ashland had a small town school with a small but crowded gym, and an enormous amount of school spirit. The town’s civic pride rose and fell on the success of the Ashland Panthers regardless of the season’s sport. Home court and home field victories were each celebrated as if they were national championships. That’s just the way it was in Ashland, and the way it should be. Everyone in town agreed.
I don’t remember who the mighty Panthers were playing that night. In those days I didn’t know them by their school name, only by their colors. We, of course sported white uniforms with blue numbers and trim. Blue and white are STILL my favorite colors. I vaguely remember that the opposing team that night wore blue and gold, which could have been any one of several teams in our area. i know for sure it wasn’t Lineville– our arch rival from six miles down highway 9. They were red and black and I would have definitely remembered if it was Lineville. Nevertheless, I’m sure the game was an important one. At age seven I understood very little about basketball. I was more interested in the colors, the sounds, the cheers, the popcorn, and the crazy fans.
At some point during the last half of the game (probably at a crucial time as the game was in the balance– I don’t remember) one of Mike’s friends stuck a metal referee’s whistle in my face and said, “Blow it as hard as you can!”And I did exactly as I was told.
Suddenly, the entire gymnasium grew silent. The blue and gold player racing down the court with the ball stopped cold in his tracks. The refs looked at one another in total confusion and the game came to an awkward halt. Amidst the cheering and screaming, the sound of the whistle had echoed through the gym’s high ceilings in a way that made the source almost untraceable. Meanwhile the instigator, a.k.a. “whistle owner ” (who will forever remain anonymous) leaned down and gave me a quick but commanding, “shhhhhhh.” Then he tucked the offending whistle into his coat pocket and pretended to be as startled as everyone else in the gym. And again, I did exactly as I was told. I shushed.
In about fifteen seconds, our highly annoyed principal, Mr. Kermit Traylor began patrolling the floor in front of the home bleachers, back and forth, pointing his long finger toward the crowd of students and parents, “Who has a whistle? Who has that whistle?!”
Well, I certainly didn’t respond! I just sat there, half-covered up by the few around me who knew the truth. After all, I didn’t have that whistle, and never really had it. I just blew it. That’s all. My little seven-year-old heart pounded out of my chest, and I’m SURE my face appeared as guilty as sin. My mom could ALWAYS tell when I was guilty just by looking into my eyes. But fortunately, Mom was not at the game! Mr. Traylor finally gave up his attempt to locate the guilty party. So without a confessor– or a tattle-tale– the basketball game resumed.
I have no foggy idea who won the game that night. I do not remember. But I DO remember my brother being really mad at the guy who had directed me to blow the whistle, AND I clearly remember Mike’s firm command, “Whatever you do, don’t you dare tell Dad and Mom what you did!”
And again, I did exactly as I was told.
So, for the first time in fifty-six years I brought it all up to my brother a couple of weeks ago on a phone call– and it all came back to him. Yes, Mike also found it somewhere in his distant memory bank. Laughing he stated, “If Mom or Dad had asked me about it, I would not have lied. But since they didn’t, I didn’t see any reason for them to have to worry about it.” Amen to that, brother.
Truth be known, I actually only remembered it recently while watching my little granddaughter Charlotte play basketball in a church gym. Multiple games were being played at the same time and the abundance of referee whistles confused everyone. That’s when it all flooded back into my mind, and our family has enjoyed laughing about it ever since.
So now, it’s out. It’s done. I have confessed.
And boy do I feel better!
“There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.” Luke 12:2
It was the Christmas of 1971. It was customary that Grandmother Nichols would arrive early in the morning at the Sims house with her annual contributions to the family Christmas meal. She was a widow and enjoyed spending holidays with us. We only lived two blocks away from both of our grandmothers, so the daily interaction between generations was one of the most wonderful thing about growing up in a small town around loving family. Grandmother Nichols’ secret recipe for homemade yeast rolls was legendary. They were rolls that literally melted in the mouth. None of the family has mastered her recipe since she passed away. What made it special was probably the measureless cup of love that went into each roll. It was a requirement that she provided the rolls for any special dinner at the family table.
Estelle Nichols
When Grandmother finally came through the door, I noticed that she was without with her freshly prepared pan of yeast rolls. Instead she carried an armful of gifts to place under the tree. I assumed the rolls were still in her car. My little sister gained her attention immediately pointing out the array of toys Santa had brought. Amidst the joyous confusion, she placed her gifts under the tree just before the time to open our gifts for one another.
I was fourteen years old and in junior high in 1971. Home from college, my older brother Mike was 19, and our sister Donna was only eight. Of course, Donna was the center of attention during the gift opening time, squealing at the opportunity to open each new gift, and then loudly declaring what it was to the entire room. I remember it as heartwarming chaos.
Being fourteen, I had transitioned from toys to other “stuff,” although I remember secretly longing for those days when a new Christmas toy lit up my life. But I was working hard to appear as mature as possible, so I never let my disappointment show. Most of my Christmas gifts were clothes, and electronics (which in that day were limited to clock-radios and lava lamps). My brother’s gifts were even more adult– clothes, a billfold, and some 8-track tapes for his car.
Grandmother Nichols waited breathlessly for my bother and me to open her gift to us. They were shirt boxes wrapped identically in green holly wrapping paper. It was difficult to decipher which box belonged to whom, since “Mike” and “Mark” looked the same in Grandmother’s handwriting.
Expecting a warm winter shirt, we each tore the paper away and opened the gift. I got to the goods first and held it up in front of me– a light blue sweater with two huge brown deer adorning the front!! “Oh, wow, Grandma! Thank you so much,” I uttered with fake glee, thinking “How in the world can I wear this sweater in the front of anyone who knows me?” Fourteen year olds have a hard time with self-image as it is, so wearing it in public was out of the question for me. I had a hard enough time getting my bangs to swoosh over my forehead in an acceptable manner. The blue sweater emblazoned with deer was a reputation graveyard.
I cut my eyes over at Mike who was giving me the smirk that said it all. He knew I was mortified and all he could do was hold back a laugh. Then he opened his box from Grandmother Nichols. Oh yes. It was light blue as well. Alas, she had found the giant deer print in his size too! Matching sweaters for the Sims boys!
Grandmother was so proud of her accomplishment. “Do you like ‘um,” she asked? All we could do was say meaningless words like, “wow,” and “look,” and “oh, boy,” Mom was watching closely, covering her mouth as she always did when she was in shock. She remembered how she used to dress us up in matching attire– until Mike refused to be dressed like his kid brother– five years his junior. Dressed in matching pedal-pushers (light blue and gold) had been the end of the twins-look for the Sims boys– and that was a full decade ago. What could we do? Of course, we did what we had to do. We thanked her profusely and gave her lots of hugs as kisses. Besides, the rolls at the dinner table would be quite enough for us.
Mom announced that we would be eating Christmas dinner at Grandmother Nichols house this year, since Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bruner would be joining us at the family table. Mom instructed Mike and me to help Dad get Mom’s food loaded into Grandmother’s car so that she could return home to prepare. In our house coats and pajamas we loaded her car and sent her on her way– eagerly anticipating a wonderful Christmas feast (and yummy yeast rolls) in a matter of hours.
Returning into the house, Mom met us at the door with a smile, and we all had a big laugh. We acknowledged with Mom that Grandma’s gift came with a heart of love, and how thankful we were for her undying affection for all of us. Then Mom said, “She will be so happy to see ya’ll in those sweaters at Christmas dinner.”
I froze, saying nothing. Mike did the same. But we knew we had to do it. Mom finally said, “If you’ll wear them today at her house, you’ll never have to wear them again.” So, Mike and I chose to walk to Grandma Nichols house that day– thorough a path in the woods– a shortcut we had used as kids. We laughed all the way proudly displaying the Christmas deer for all the animals in the forest to see. Mom was satisfied. Aunt Ruth thought they were darling. Grandmother Nichols showered us with love all day long. And the rolls were delicious.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13
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.”
