The only real exception where the food was concerned, was my mother-in-law…

This is the week of the Fourth of July and, for most of my adult life, this story has come to mind around this time.  Well, truth is, it hits me at other selected moments, too. 

This event took place about thirty years ago, during my association with the family of my first wife, Debbie — the Hamby's of Purlear, North Carolina.  Her father's name was Albert and, as you might imagine, through the years I got to know his brothers.  Among them were Woodrow, Chelsie, and Grady, the preacher. 

It was a long-standing tradition in the Hamby family to have a big picnic on the Fourth of July.  The Fourth was a special holiday to those Hamby brothers.  Albert was a veteran of World War II who had fought on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.  He and his brothers served their country proudly. They knew all too well the price of freedom, and never took it for granted. 

The two Hamby brothers I remember best from those days are Woodrow and Grady.  Woodrow was a big man who enjoyed life to the fullest.  He always had a smile on his face and something of a twinkle in his eye.  He also had a thick head of beautiful wavy, silver hair — with a matching silver mustache.  I used to say if I had to have gray hair, I would hope it could be just like Woodrow Hamby's.

In those days, Woodrow worked for James Richardson at the Foster-Richardson Rest Home on 421.  I'm not sure what Woodrow's job there was, but I feel comfortable saying he wasn't the chaplain.

Grady Hamby, on the other hand, was indeed a chaplain, theologian, preacher, minister, and an all around righteous guy.  It usually didn't take him long to tell you about it, either.  Grady lived away somewhere, and it was always something of an event when he returned to Wilkes County. 

At least, it was to him

Well, on this particular Fourth of July, the Hambys, along with assorted in-laws, outlaws, and hangers-on, gathered for the annual picnic.  The food was, as always, wonderful.  Stony Hill Baptist Church wonderful, in fact.  The only real exception where the food was concerned, was my mother-in-law, Shirley Jean Ina Marie.   She was forever trying to repackage some of Colonel Sander's chicken, or a frozen pie, as her own.    

The picnic was held under a shelter, with the food on one end and tables on the other.  On the end with the food stood Uncle Woodrow, sweating profusely as he tended hamburgers and hot dogs on a charcoal grill.  You could smell charcoal lighter all the way from Purlear to Big Ivy.  At the other end of the shelter was the Reverend Grady — expounding, pontificating and, in general, holding court as only he could.  Truly, Uncle Grady loved the sound of his own voice. 

Everyone was getting pretty hungry, so the oldest brother, Chelsie, called the gathering to order.  After a greeting, and after recognizing his wife Mae as the best cook on the premises, Chelsie asked his brother Grady to return thanks.

Grady was proud to oblige.

He grabbed onto one of the poles, which held up the shelter, leaned back and began to do what appeared to be squat thrusts.  I thought he was warming up for a marathon run, or was getting ready to work out.

I guess in a way, he was.

After loosening up for a while, Grady began to pray.  Now folks, I have been to a lot of reunions and homecomings, and I have heard a lot of blessings, but this one capped the stack.  Uncle Grady went way past being thankful for the food and a safe journey, and quickly moved on to conditions in the state, the nation, and the world.

All the while that Grady prayed, Woodrow stood silently puffing and sweating over the hot dogs. 

Grady continued the blessing; clearly planning to leave no stone unturned.  Before we knew it, he had eased seamlessly into something of a sermon and had several of Debbie's cousins squirming. 

About that time, the fire blazed back up and Woodrow could wait no longer.

"Wind it up, Grady!" Woodrow barked, "My weenies are burning!"

There was a thunderous silence, broken only by my uncontrollable laughing, and a soft "Amen" from Uncle Grady.

The weenies were saved, but Woodrow and I were not. 

My mother-in-law never forgave either of us.