by Debra Dixon
He has white tires outlining the station’s front lawn like large sugar-coated donuts stuck in the ground. Grandpa painted and set up a few a year, from the time he came home from WWII until 1951, when he reached his property lines on either side. The hubcap-covered wooden fence behind the station — his contribution to Lady Bird Johnson’s campaign to beautify American — he erected in the 1960s.
Grandma sowed all the wildflowers along the fence. She was inordinately proud of her little house and his station. Both she and Grandpa grew up dirt poor. When Grandpa came back from the war with a gimpy leg and a small pension, they built Peavy’s Gas Station, the first full-service gas station in Mossy Creek.
It nearly killed them when Daddy, their only son, died. Grandpa still had the GTO he gave Daddy when he graduated from the University of Georgia. He kept the car in one of the station’s grease bays; the other bay was where he kept everything he’d ever owned, and his rollaway bed. When the U-Pump Quick Stop opened up out on South Bigelow Road twelve years ago, Grandpa’s business slacked off.
The gas station looked deserted when we pulled in. The sawhorse tables weren’t out front — Grandpa sold pumpkins in the fall — and Grandpa wasn’t sitting in his chair by the door.
“Oh, Lord,” Mother said.
We scrambled out of the car, and Mercury came racing at us. He danced and jumped around barking, then darted to Grandpa’s house next door.
“There he is.” Mother pointed at the side porch, where Grandpa sat on the steps. He watched us until we were almost there and then dropped his head into his hands. “What in the world?” Mother ran to the steps. “Joe?” she said in a strident voice.
Grandpa lifted his sweat-beaded head; tears streamed down his grizzled cheeks. “I’ve gone crazy as a Bessie bug, Elizabeth.”
Mother put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Joe. Everything’s going to be fine. Trisha, call 911. Shelby, get me a wet towel.”
“Don’t tell the whole county.” Grandpa swiped at his face with his handkerchief. “I’ve lost my house keys. Lord, Lord. I woke up and didn’t even know where I was, and I still don’t know what day it is.”
“Grandpa,” I said gently. I sat down and put my arm around him. He looked pale and scared. Age spots, round and velvety, stood out against his neck and face. I hadn’t noticed them until then; they reminded me of mold and I think I was more scared than he was. “It’s Tuesday, Grandpa.”
“It is?” He looked bewildered.
“Yes. We should have been here this morning—”
“Wouldn’t’na made a bit of difference, T-girl. I woke up this’uh way. Didn’t even know where I was,” he repeated. “Locked myself out of the station, lost my keys.” His voice broke and he put his face in his hands again.
“Can you stand up?” Mother asked.
“Hell fire, Elizabeth, I’ve lost my mind! Not my legs.”
“Come on.” Mother took one of his arms. “Shelby, you take his other side and let your mother go get my car.”
“Ain’t no sense in getting the car.” Grandpa struggled to his feet and steadied himself against the step railing. “I’m over it now. Just a bad spell; scared me is all.”
“Grandpa, this is serious,” I said. “You have to go to the hospital.”
“No I don’t. All I need is somewhere to lay down awhile.”
“Joseph Willard Peavy,” Mother said firmly, “you know good and well you’ve had something more than a spell — a seizure, or a stroke. God only knows. Now get in the car or we’re calling the EMTs.”
“A stroke?” He looked at Mother in surprise, then actually seemed to perk up. “I swear. I thought for sure I was havin’ an old-timers attack.”
“No, Joe, I think it’s more likely you’ve had a sausage-gravy-induced stroke,” Mother snapped, her fear exacerbated by his stubbornness. “Get the car,” she said to me.
Grandpa hadn’t had a stroke, but he had to spend a night at the hospital down in Bigelow. The spell scared him, though not as much as the threat of another night in the hospital. He and Mercury went to Mother’s house. It was clear even to him that he couldn’t go home alone. It wasn’t as clear to him that he had to close the station, and he wouldn’t hear any discussion of leaving the house he’d built for Grandma; never mind that he hadn’t spent a night in it since she died.
While we waited for his test results, he came up with all kinds of schemes. The one he liked best was hiring help at the station and having Jason move in with him so he wouldn’t be alone at night. You can imagine my teenage son’s reaction to that: a learner’s permit in his hip pocket, a vintage GTO with his name on it in the garage, and a Great-Grandpa who never said No.
One positive thing did come out of Grandpa’s spell; it put my worries about bridge into perspective and diverted Mother’s attention. After finding out Grandpa had been living in the station and I’d helped him keep the secret, she wasn’t speaking to me.
Pruitt and the kids went at our house and yard as if Grandpa’s reputation depended on it. We drove Grandpa over on Thursday to supervise the preparations. He needed something to take his mind off his troubles. So did I. I doubt anybody including Mother could have been more together than I was when the doorbell started ringing Thursday night.
Grandpa became our self-appointed meeter-greeter and planted himself in a freshly painted rocker on my front porch, where he could have a chew and spit tobacco juice on my mums. I ferried desserts to the dining room table. After helping get Miss Lorna Bingham and her wheelchair in the house, Pruitt and Jason took to the back porch as tour guides for anybody who wanted to watch Mercury hike his leg over my freshly planted pansies.
My mother-in-law, SuAnne Cecil, aligned herself with Mother as official spokespersons for Grandpa’s health issues. Shelby stood by the huntboard, in charge of the silver tea service, with Jayne standing by in the kitchen ready to brew tea on command. Maggie drove Miss Millicent over and stayed to protect the tea service and help Jayne. And my neighbors decided we were having an open house and took the opportunity to drop in to see Grandpa and say hey to the ladies.
I wouldn’t say the situation was out of control; people were enjoying themselves, as Katie Bell pointed out to me. I could just see her next column: Trisha Cecil Hosts Bridge Club; Wild Party Erupts. And it could have happened if Mayor Walker hadn’t taken the situation in hand. Ida’s our E.F. Hutton — when she speaks, Creekites listen. She called the meeting to order in my great room, and you’d have thought President Bush was holding a closed-door conference with his cabinet. Pruitt and Grandpa led the exodus, and within minutes we were playing bridge.
Luck of the draw put me at the table with Mother, Ingrid Beechum, and Violet Martin. Mother had suspended hostilities for the night; she’d have given up her girdle before letting people know she wasn’t speaking to me or that she hadn’t known about Grandpa’s living arrangements all along. But she wasn’t about to give up the opportunity to publicly voice her opinion of Grandpa’s inability to operate a business.
“I know you’re right, Elizabeth,” Ingrid said, “but I don’t know what we’ll all do without Joe and that station.”
“And just when was the last time you patronized that station?” Miss Violet demanded.
“It’s the only place in town where you can still get real Cokes,” Eleanor Abercrombie said from the adjacent table. Everybody agreed and launched into a discussion of the quality of Grandpa’s Cokes. His old chest cooler used circulating water to cool and only six ounce glass bottles would fit in it.
“I’ve bought every pair of sunglasses I’ve ever owned from Joe,” Lorna Bingham interjected.
Miss Violet harrumphed. “When was the last time any of y’all bought gas there, I repeat! Poor old Joe passes more gas than he pumps now days.” Mother whacked my ankle beneath the table and I managed to keep a straight face. “As for those sunglasses, Lorna,” Miss Violet continued, “that display card’s been sitting on his counter since 1956. A pair of thirty-nine cent
sunglasses every few years and Coca-Colas isn’t gonna keep him open.”
“Violet Rose Martin, don’t go trying to make it our fault Joe’s having to close,” Ingrid said. “Joe took care of every car Charlie and I ever owned, and after Charlie died Joe was the only mechanic I trusted. But then Joe closed his garage. I had to find another mechanic.”
Of course, then everyone in the room had to recount the times Grandpa had come to their motoring rescue. (Have I mentioned that every word said had to be repeated, usually by Eleanor Abercrombie, for the benefit of Miss Mazie?)
“I’ll never forget the day Joe came home from the war,” Alameda McPherson said. “He was the youngest of our boys to go and the last to come home. The Mossy Creek High School band marched him down Main Street and he had to make a speech. Y’all know how quiet he is, but he can be a ripper, too; he was when he was young.”
The older members laughed, and Miss Lorna said, “It’s a pity he’s always been too bashful to ride in the Veterans Day parade. He was a real hero.” At the mention of hero, the discussion turned to all of Mossy Creek’s veterans, starting with the War of Northern Aggression, and wandering off on a tangent about a Creekite who became known as one of New York’s most heroic firemen.
“God bless every one of those firemen and the city of New York,” Alameda said.
“Say what you want to about big cities up North, but they know more about how to treat their heroes than we do ours.”
“How can you say that?” Mother demanded; she was chairperson of the Veteran Day festivities. “There’s not a veteran in town, in this county,” she emphasized, “who isn’t honored every year!”
“A flag or a white cross in their yard isn’t what I meant. I’m not criticizing you, Elizabeth. I’m as guilty as any. I don’t think I ever told Joe how much I appreciate what he sacrificed for our country, or, for that matter, how much I appreciate what’s he done for our community. When we had that big ice storm back in seventy-two, him and Hazel fed and sheltered stranded Creekites for nearly a week, until the roads were cleared. And the last time I recall this town doing anything for them was when we gave them a bridal shower. Your grandmother organized that, Ida,” Alameda said.
“I don’t think Joe needs another bridal shower,” Ida said, “but I do think you’re right, Alameda. It’s time we do something for Joe.”
The words were no sooner out of the mayor’s mouth than the group reached unanimous agreement; unfortunately, the dozen women had three dozen opinions about what that something ought to be.
We had finally reached the end of the first rubber — in bridge-playing terms — and, as is our custom, broke to eat before rotating for the second rubber. The discussion continued over plates filled with just a pinch and little dabs.
I was grateful because not wanting to miss anything, no one asked to see the new wallpaper upstairs or wandered off to inspect my kitchen. Jayne and Maggie rejoined us, and when Maggie suggested Creekites host a Joe Peavy Day, we quickly reached another unanimous agreement. Being mayor, Ida was charged with taking the matter up with the town council.
“Then consider it a done deal,” she said.
“Grandpa will be eighty-three this fall. This is a great way to celebrate his birthday,” I suggested as I leaned toward my partner, Pearl Quinlan, a frequent sub. I expected to spend the next rubber debating plans for Joe Peavy Day, and at first I was disappointed when the conversation returned to the past.
It was only natural, I guess, since some of the women there were at least as old as Grandpa. They had a lot to remember, good times and bad, and not all of them agreed on which was which. And, too, their age and infirmities keep them pretty isolated most of the time. I sat taking it all in and wishing I had a tape recorder.
The night was an eye-opener, literally; I couldn’t sleep for thinking about the lives and trials of Grandpa’s generation: the Depression; the tuberculosis epidemic and who had to go to the state sanitarium; polio; brothers, husbands and cousins who worked for the CCC building parks and roads; babies delivered at home, and too often buried at home. I couldn’t get over it.
The elderly of Mossy Creek had past lives.
* * * *
Grandpa agreed to stay at Mother’s until he finished all the tests the doctors wanted to do, but he was chafing to go home, and I was so relieved to have the bridge night behind me that I decided to risk Mother having a conniption and took him and Mercury over to the gas station. We were supposed to be there just long enough to check on things, but Hank and Casey Blackshear dropped by (Hank’s veterinary clinic is just down Trailhead Road from the station) and before they left, people from all over Mossy Creek were streaming in.
Win Allen and Michael Conners came by to get pumpkins. When they saw the sawhorse tables weren’t set up and that Grandpa hadn’t harvested the pumpkins from his garden yet, they took care of the harvesting then arranged the tables and staffed them. Within an hour all of Grandpa’s autumn pumpkins were sold.
Grandpa is a humble man with a sense of humor drier than quartz, and I could tell he felt awkward and embarrassed by all the attention, but it was equally obvious he loved every minute of it, hobbling around faster than I’d seen him move in years, joking and grinning. He wore a path through the weeds to the wooden fence, where he located retired family hubcaps upon request, and there were plenty of requests.
I got into the spirit and cleaned the star-emblazoned glass balloons atop the old gas pumps, then started pumping gas. I was a good grease monkey; I’d worked at Grandpa’s off and on since the sixth grade.
Sandy Crane drove up in her truck. She leaned out her window while I cleaned her windshield and said, “Trisha, I feel so bad. Most of us don’t mind paying a few cents more for Mr. Peavy’s gas — it’s just that he won’t let anybody pump their own, and he always has to check the oil and clean the windshield. Nobody wants to have him out cleaning their windows in all kinds of weather. So we try to leave him be.”
I listened to similar comments all afternoon and repeated every one of them at supper that night, which had the desired effect. Pruitt and Jason took Grandpa to the station on Saturday and kept it open all day. On Monday, I took Jason and Grandpa to the station right after Jason’s football practice. Tuesday was my turn again. Ida came by to say the city council was declaring the next Wednesday Joe Peavy Day.
“Damnation. I’ve never heard of anything so foolish in all my life,” Grandpa muttered. He got up and hobbled off toward his empty pumpkin patch.
“He’s thrilled,” I said.
Jason, Shelby, and I continued to alternate afternoons at the station. Grandpa was in high cotton; Mother was having hissy fits. We knew nothing had really changed; Grandpa had to retire. But, being a Peavy, I didn’t want to push the issue until we had to. Actually, I was hoping the doctor would tell him he couldn’t continue to run a gas station at his age.
But that didn’t happen. Mother and I took him to a neurologist in Bigelow the next week. All the tests were back: Grandpa was experiencing the onset of Parkinson’s disease.
“My Uncle Early Peavy had it,” Grandpa told the doctor. “Nearly shook hisself to death.” He held out his hand. It trembled slightly as he closed it into a fist. “I don’t get the shakes, unless I’m nervous, like now, and my head don’t shake none.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Peavy, but you do have Parkinson’s,” the doctor reiterated. “The good news is that there are drugs you can take to minimize the effects and help control tremors.” We left with prescriptions, brochures, and a fair prognosis, considering Grandpa’s age. We didn’t mention the station. We might have gotten the doctor to do our dirty work if we had, but the station was the last thing on our minds that day.
Grandpa stayed on at Mother’s and we kept rotating days at the gas station. He didn’t mention his condition. He did mention his Uncle Early, at least once an hour, and made sure we all knew Early hadn’t let Parkinson’s stop him from working a farm. We didn’t say a word. The city council put M
other in charge of planning the details of Joe Peavy Day. She took it as validation of her Veterans Day efforts and threw herself into preparations.
Business at the station had slowed considerably, which was a good thing, otherwise Grandpa would never have sat still for hours talking to reporters. To Mother’s consternation, Katie Bell and Sue Ora Salter Bigelow took over the job of publicity and managed to get everyone from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution to Antique Roadshow to do stories on Grandpa.
The AJC reporter wrote a huge feature story about Grandpa and his gas station. It came out in the Leisure Living section that Sunday, a two-page spread with pictures. The picture of the station was taken from the hill across the road, so people got a full view: Grandpa sitting in his chair by the entrance, the white tires, the sawhorse tables and old-fashioned gas pumps, the fence and hubcaps, the sweet little house next door.
“If that eyesore wasn’t a landmark before, it is now,” Mother said. Suddenly she wasn’t happy to have all of north Georgia reading about what she called the Peavy peculiarities. “With everything going on in the world, I don’t know why reporters think people want to read about an old gas station,” she said.
I knew, but I was sure she didn’t want an explanation and didn’t want to hear that I’d decided the AJC reporter was my new hero. Mother was right about one thing, though; it seemed thousands of people had heard or read about Peavy’s Gas Station. Grandpa wasn’t just on the map; people were cutting a trail to his door.
WMOS Radio decided to do a live broadcast of Joe Peavy Day from the square; a documentary filmmaker came to talk with Grandpa about old Southern ways. A Mr. Hardy from the Georgia Preservation Society showed up. He said he’d been intrigued by the interior photographs of the station and wondered if Grandpa would mind if he looked around. Grandpa didn’t mind; he was overwhelmed by it all.
It was obvious Mossy Creek was about to have another major media event, and anybody who hadn’t jumped on the bandwagon took a running leap. Governor Ham Bigelow volunteered to officiate — no surprise there. Mother was bent on Grandpa leading the pledge to the flag and was working on getting ROTC students from North Georgia State College and University to act as honor guard and the chorus from Mt. Gilead Methodist to sing God Bless America. (She wanted them to sing Dixie, too, but didn’t want to appear politically incorrect.) Joe Peavy Day was turning into the Fourth of July and Veterans Day rolled into one.
