Category: My Dad Was A Pistol

Liar!

This is Brother John’s story –he was there– about a man who called Dad a liar.

“Liar” is what I call a gasoline word to my Dad –explosive– a slur he would not tolerate. And, of course, whether he was lying or not made absolutely no difference: no one called him a liar and remained unharmed.

John said he and Dad were on their way from our farm near Gadsden, Alabama, where we lived then, to Charlotte to make Dixie Dew Syrup — the syrup that “Gives A Biscuit A College Education.”  Dad had a syrup plant in Charlotte.

John F. Stith Sr., age 20-something
John F. Stith Sr., age 20-something

They stopped at a restaurant along the way, a restaurant with booths on the side and picnic tables in the open area. John and Dad sat at a picnic table; four men sat in a booth nearby.

Dad was hard of hearing and, consequentially, he talked too loud. John didn’t remember what they were talking about. Politics, maybe. Religion. But whatever it was the men in the booth could hear. And one of them said, loud enough for Dad to hear, “Whoever said that is a liar.”

It didn’t matter they were all sitting in a restaurant having a meal, heck, it might not have mattered if they had all been sitting in church. And, of course, it didn’t matter that he might have to fight all four of them.

John said Dad didn’t walk around the picnic table, he walked across it. He put one foot on the bench where he had been sitting a moment before, the other foot on top of the table, the next foot on the bench on the other side of the table, and then back down to the floor.

The man who had called him a liar stood up and Dad hit him once and knocked him down. The man made no effort to get back up.

John said Dad looked at the other three, waiting on them to stand up and fight. But they didn’t move either.

Dad then walked back across the picnic table — bench, table top, bench, floor –sat down, picked up his sandwich, and began eating.

The fight was over.

NOTE: My father was 5-feet, 7 and 1/2 inches tall.    I’ve posted a total of 23 stories about him, including “His First Name Was ‘Sir'” on Dec. 16, 2016, and “King Of The Castle” on Feb. 13, 2017.

Coming Friday: Zinger

King Of The Castle

With a small exception here and there my Dad only whipped for four things: lying, stealing, cheating or sassing.

Break a lamp. Tear your clothes playing.  No problem.

Notice, I didn’t include “disobey” in the list of whipping offenses.  He also whipped for that too, of course, but he was rarely disobeyed and never to his face.

I asked him once what would he do if he told one his children –he had seven by my mother — to do something and they said, “No.” He jerked like I had slapped him.

“I don’t know,” he said.  “It never happened.”

Dad’s definition of sass was broad.  It included a disrespectful look on your face or tone in your voice and it paid you to remember that.

This happened when I was a teenager:

John F. Stith Sr.
John F. Stith Sr.

I was sitting on the toilet when I heard him call my name, “Pat!”

I didn’t ignore him.  I didn’t yell back, “I’m in the bathroom!” or “Just a minute!” either. I knew better.  I yelled, “Yes, sir!  Coming, sir!”  And then I stopped doing what I was doing, flushed the toilet, pulled up my pants, and reported.

Dad was hard of hearing so I stood in front of him, to one side, so he could see my face and read my lips.

“Sir?” I said, signaling my arrival.

He was sitting in his easy chair.  “Hand me that paper will you,” he said, pointing to another chair two steps from where he was sitting.

I handed him the newspaper.

[I did NOT say, “Is this all you wanted? Is this why you got me out of the bathroom?  Because you were too lazy to get up and get the paper yourself?” Not hardly.]

He could hear a little and the flush of the toilet finally registered. He asked me, “Were you in the bathroom?”

“Yes sir,” I said, keeping my voice flat, as level as a table top.

“I didn’t know you were in the bathroom.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move either.  I hadn’t been dismissed.

“That’s all,” he said.

Extra post coming Thursday, the two-year anniversary: Lost on Blood Mountain, Part I