Grandfather's Lesson

My favorite recollection of my Grandfather

by Tom Woodard

My Grandfather, John Tyler McShan, II, whom all of us children called "Grannyboy", was known far and wide for his Chrisian faith, his honest and fair business dealings, and his Christian charity. He was a Sunday School teacher at Mineral Springs, and a lay speaker in the Churches of Pickens County, Alabama. People in Pickens were a lot poorer back in those days (he died in 1960, at the age of 76), in the 50's, and whenever a need arose, be it sickness, a death in the family, or whatever, people, white and black, would come to my Grandfather for help. I seriously doubt he ever turned down an honest request, if he had it to give. He walked the Christian walk in his daily life, every day.

This leads me to my favorite memory of him. It was a small thing, but one burned into my memory so clearly that I recall it as though it were yesterday. I was about eight years old, I imagine, when this happened. On Sundays, we had dinner (the Noon day meal) at his house, a big old rundown ante-bellum mansion known as Melrose (now beautifully restored and occupied by my first cousin and her husband and family). This old house had a center hall, and also a side hall and side entrance, which is the entrance we generally used when not coming in through the kitchen. Dinner in those days was first served to the adults in the dining room and then to the children in the kitchen. My Grandfather had a wonderful cook named Zetta, and a housekeeper, Bernice. They would both generally be there on Sundays at dinner time, cooking and serving.

On this particular Sunday, as was the custom, my Grandfather sat at the head of the dining table, and his three children and their spouses sat around the table. After they finished eating, they would often remain at the table talking. When the children finished eating in the big old kitchen, they would begin to run around the house, playing. On this day, as the adults continued at the table, talking, a knock came at the side hall door. (At this point I should probably point out that I worshipped my Grandfather, and was a little in awe of him.)

Bernice went to the door and then told my grandfather that wanted to speak to him. He was old then, in his seventies, and had palsey in his hands. He slowly arose and went to the door. I followed. He walked out on the porch, with me right behind. On the steps, halfway up (in accordance with the custom of the times, as a gesture of respect and deference), stood a black man, probably a little over middle age, who said "Mistah Tylah, my [his wife] is sick an' we got to take huh to the dockah. I needs ta barra five dollahs." My grandfather did not say a single word, but slowly reached back, with his palsied hand, pulled out his billfold and handed the man a five dollar bill. The man gratefully said "Thank you, Mistah Tylah! I'll pay you back" (which I doubt my Grandfather actually expected him to ever do). My Grandfather then returned the billfold to his back pocket, re-entered the house, and resumed his seat at the table, as though nothing had ever interrupted him in the first place. And he made no mention of it to the others at the table.

I can clearly see, even today, his hands shaking as he pulled that five dollar bill out of his worn brown leather billfold. That was my first lesson in giving, and one that helped to shape my life from that point on.

By the way, for you younger readers, five dollars back then was a good bit of money, unlike today. It would pay, entirely, for a doctor visit!

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