SHE CALLED ME BABE.

She and her husband John were some of the first people I met when moving
to Georgetown. They ran a small grocery store on the square. John took care
of the nuts and bolts of the everyday affairs, she kept the books. Her name
was Jean. Davidson's Grocery Store was the meeting place of what we used to
call "The spit and whittle club." All the old guys (me included) and a few
young ones met there to drink coffee and solve the problems of the world. It was
the information hub around which Georgetown revolved when I first got here.
We met informally every morning and afternoon.
I walked in one day and a tall black man had engaged one of our locals in
conversation and when I came through the door, he tried to engage me too.
About that time I heard John call someone an "expletive," something about his
ancestry, then a whack, like flesh hitting flesh. I looked up in time to see a
baseball cap go sailing through the air, and a short black man coming my
direction at a rapid pace with a bloody nose. I walked back to the counter and
asked, "John, what's wrong?" That (expletive again) tried to rob me. Then he
asked me, "Think I out to call the police?' Well, like YEAH! He did, and that
excitement lasted us several weeks here in Georgetown. We were fairly laid back in those days. Anyway, John passed away in 1999. The store was sold, and
continued to be the hub for a while, but not the same. It eventually shut
down and went away.
Jean was left alone, and after a while began to attend Heritage. She
came faithfully for a couple of years, but the years and tobacco got to her and
she couldn't do that anymore. She died last week, they asked me to conduct her
service, which I was happy to do. My memories about her are all good. She
loved me, our church, and our youngest son. He loved to go to their store and
order the largest Styrofoam container of tea he could get, also, he found out
that he could tell her he was my son and get whatever he wanted. She just
wrote it down on a pad, and Dad paid later. Only, I'm not sure he knew that.
Anyway, when I was ready to order something she would ask, "What can I fix you,
Babe?" Or, "Here's you sandwich Babe?" Even while she was attending our
church, she always greeted me with a hug, and "How are you Babe?"
What I wonder now is, do you think John has opened a small grocery store
on the square in the New Jerusalem? It's a happy thought. If he has, Chris
is charging his sandwiches and tea. They say you can't take it with you, but I
will have to in order to pay his tab when I get there, and I fully expect Jean to greet me with "How are you Babe? It's good to see you again. Come on
in, I've got your sandwich ready.