DINNER WITH THE GOVERNOR

The only argument I ever heard between my parents was about my father's refusal to attend a dinner
given by my Aunt Bernice and Uncle Stuart in honor of the Governor, upon his visit to our Northwest Florida town. Actually, it was not an argument, it was more a beseeching by my mother. My father showed his love and devotion to Mamma in many ways, so to refuse her entreaties must have been difficult. But, on this matter he would not yield.

I could hear them talking in the next room after we children were in bed.

"But Malcolm, what will your sister think if we do not attend? This is a very special occasion."

“Bernice knows how I feel about this no-good fellow. I ve made it perfectly clear in the past that I have absolutely no respect for the man. I wouldn't sit at the same table with him for a million dollars."

“It's the disharmony and possible hurt to Bernice you should think about.”

“Bernice knows me. She will understand."

"Oh, Malcolm, I wish you would not outright refuse. Think about it, please."

“Please do not bring this up again. I will explain to Bernice. Stuart may not like it for a while, but he'll get over it. It's settled. We are not going."

I recall feeling sorry for Mamma because this was a big event. My aunt entertained beautifully, whether in her home in De Funiak Springs, or in Tallahassee, the state capital, where Uncle Stuart served as president of the State Senate. I knew my mother would like to attend. Most of all, she did Not want strained feelings in the family.

The root of my father's antipathy towards the Governor lay in Daddy’, having served in the Navy with him during World War I. The Governor apparently had used his higher rank in ways my father considered autocratic and demeaning to others. My father could not abide people who used authority to intimidate. At the dinner table we would regularly hear critical accounts of persons he considered too filled with their own importance. It's fortunate he was in business for himself, real estate and life insurance, as he did not like taking orders from anyone. The whole military experience, therefore, was anathema to him. And, towards this man in particular, he had unrelenting feelings of animosity and distrust.

Redeeming humor, however, resulted from the dinner party. It seems that when Rebecca, the cook whose biscuits were famous for their melt-inthe-mouth quality, was serving them to the Governor, he turned to her and in a syrupy patronizing way said, "Rebecca, these biscuits are so good. I'll bet you don't know how many I've eaten?" "Yes, sir, I do," emphatically replied Rebecca, “that makes ten.”

The Governor, of course, did not know that Rebecca was never, never obsequious and that even a hint of condescension, though passing as praise, brought a strong response She was ever her own person. The Governor, we were told, saved the situation by leading the laughter.

Although this exchange undoubtedly caused my aunt momentary embarrassment, she later delighted in telling the tale. Our family heard the story on our next visit to Aunt Bern and Uncle Stuart's home. Whereupon, Daddy, with me trailing behind him, went straight to the kitchen.

“Rebecca,” he said, "I want to compliment you on the way you handled the Governor.” .

"I heard Miss Bernice telling you ‘bout that," Rebecca replied, as she continued her work. "All I did was answer his question. People ask me a question, I give ‘em an answer." Then, turning to my father, she asked indignantly, "I wonder if he think I can't count?"

 “The Governor has a high opinion of himself, Rebecca, only himself. You sized him up pretty good."

“If he don't quit eatin’ so many biscuits, he's gonna be so fat, ain't nobody gon’ ask him to dinner, Governor or no Governor.”

With this parting shot at the Governor and my father's complicity, Rebecca, who was usually very serious, found herself amused and laughed out loud. This change in her demeanor gave the three of us a happy feeling.

When Daddy and I rejoined the others in the living room, Uncle Stuart was sitting quietly in his large armchair, smoking his customary cigar and looking off into the distance. It was hard to know what he was thinking. Aunt Bern, a gifted raconteur, had launched into yet another entertaining story.

From all appearances my father's refusal to attend the dinner with the Governor had not caused a serious rift. At any rate, my aunt's love for her youngest brother would forgive him anything.