We’re in a “polar vortex” and it’s time to hunker down, get comfortable and read a book.
None of the three books I’ve read recently are hot off the shelf, but they were all written by Southern writers – Willie Morris (Mississippi), Pat Conroy (South Carolina) and Tom Callahan (Virginia).
The first is by Mississippi’s Willie Morris (1934-1999), a native of Jackson who was raised in Yazoo City and spent his later years in Oxford. It’s titled “Shifting Interludes – Selected Essays Edited by Jack Bales” and my favorite essay of the bunch is “The Day I Followed the Mayor around Town.”
Morris, who authored “My Dog Skip,” wrote about a stray black lab named Pete at the New York village of Bridgehampton, where Morris lived and worked for a while. Pete got to know and befriend everyone in town, so much so that he was nicknamed the “Mayor.” Morris followed him around town one day.
“His first stop,” he wrote, “was in front of the Polish grocery, where he greeted the old men who loiter there at all hours. ‘There’s the Mayor!’ one of them shouted, and the other swiftly joined in the chorus. Pete made his salutations to each person, then sat among them for a while watching the cars go by. A large dog named Cato, known in the village as Pete’s police commissioner, appeared from around a corner and sat next to Pete scanning the morning scene – a kind of informal policy conference perhaps. … Then he went to each of the three bars in the village to give his respects to the morning beer drinkers. In the bars there was much amiable banter directed his way, and one solicitation in particular: “Here’s our Mayor! How about a Budweiser, Your Honor!”
Pat Conroy (1945-2016), perhaps most known for writing “Price of Tides,” was born in Atlanta and was a military brat who moved around a lot as a youth but his heart and residence for most of his life was in South Carolina, where he lived most of his life. In “South of Broad,” Conroy drew me in from the start.
“It was my father who called the city the Mansion on the River,” he wrote. “He was talking about Charleston, South Carolina, and he was a native son, peacock proud of a town so pretty it makes your eyes ache with pleasure just to walk down its spellbinding, narrow streets. Charleston was my father’s ministry, his hobbyhorse, his quiet obsession, and the great love of his life. His bloodstream lit up my own with a passion for the city that I’ve never lost nor ever will.”
Finally, kudos go to Tom Callahan, 79, from Reston, Va., for “Arnie – The Life of Arnold Palmer.”
Palmer was so beloved by millions of golf fans, including my grandmother, Mumbo, who was part of “Arnie’s Army” and introduced me to Palmer while watching him on TV compete in the Masters in the early 1960s.
He was famous for making time for anyone, signing autographs after tournaments until the last one was requested. Unlike many of his peers, he often warmly interacted with members of the gallery.
Callahan tells the story about his intervening with a gallery member during a round when a 10-year-old boy panicked after he became separated from his parents in crowds following Palmer at Pebble Beach.
“Palmer went into gallery,” he wrote, “reassured him, took him by the hand, and walked him down the middle of the fairway, knowing Roger’s parents would see him there. Sure enough, a mother’s voice immediately called out, ‘Roger!’”
The boy was Roger Maltbie, who went on to enjoy a successful golf career as both a PGA Tour player and TV commentator.
Palmer’s most fierce rival was Jack Nicklaus, and in 2012 when Palmer was among six former athletes receiving a Congressional Gold Medal, Nicklaus gave a testimony about him.
“When I first saw Arnold Palmer hit a golf ball, I was just fourteen years old. I had just come off the golf course in Sylvania, Ohio, playing a practice round before the Ohio State Amateur. It was pouring down rain. I was the only person on the golf course. As I walked by the practice tee, there was one person there. I stood and watched him. I didn’t know who he was – I just looked at this strong guy with big hands and broad shoulders, hitting these short irons, driving them into the rain.
“I watched for a while and I said, “Man is that guy strong. I wonder who he is.” I walked into the clubhouse and I said, “Who’s the guy out there on the practice range?” and they said, “Oh, that’s our defending champion, Arnold Palmer.”
Finally, there’s this from Callahan about a charming Palmer interaction with a fan. About 20 years ago, Arnie went with a dentist, an agent and a magazine editor to play a lazy round in his hometown of Latrobe, Pa.
“As they reached the third tee, adjacent to a road,” Callahan wrote, “a convertible screeched to a stop and the driver vaulted out. Running to the tee with his hand extended, he shouted, ‘Mr. Palmer! Mr. Palmer! I’ve got to shake your hand! I grew up in Pittsburgh! You’ve been my idol my whole life, since I was a kid! I talk to my own kids about you now.! To be able to meet you in person, this is the greatest experience of my life! If I could just shake the hand of Arnold Palmer, it would mean the world to me!
“Arnie beamed, shook the man’s hand, and asked him, ‘Where do you live?’ They talked for a few animated minutes, like old barracks buddies. Then Palmer turned to the others and said, ‘Do you guys know my friend, Bob? He’s a Pittsburgher.’
“After about 25 minutes of introductions and small talk, Bob started back to this car. ‘Hey, Bobby,” Palmer called after him. ‘Do you happen to have a camera with you?’ ‘On my phone in the car,’ he said. ‘Go get it. Wouldn’t it be nice to capture this moment? We’ll wait.’
“The picture was taken, the man drove away, and the game resumed,” Callahan wrote. “This was Arnie and his fans, all of whom he knew by their first names.”
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