By M.Z. Thwaite
This Christmas season is rife with Grinches and Scrooges, not of Hollywood’s making, but direct from evil empires. So let’s share a moment and forget the negative possibilities.
I began to write this on a very special day, Dec. 9, 2023. I started that Saturday with a row in my single shell. The Beaufort River glimmered golden in the early morning. On the way home from a weekly visit to the Port Royal Farmer’s Market, I called my youngest brother, Walter, to wish him happy birthday. I’m lucky to come from a large family. Each sibling is special, but Walter was the sixth and final pip on the Thwaite dice, so he completed us as a family.
As I spread mulch later that morning, thoughts wandered. I was a gangly, freckled, railroad-tracked 13 year old, and for some reason, I was allowed to go to Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta to await the birth of this child. Daddy and his only brother, Uncle Walter, and I paced the floor of the waiting room until a nurse appeared with Walter Gainey Thwaite II fresh from the delivery room.
You want to talk about a special moment? My 51-year-old banker father grinned and puffed up like the king of the jungle after the arrival of his “little dividend,” as he referred to his sixth child. Uncle Walter, who was the father of four girls, placed a hand on his namesake, while I stared, awe struck at this new little red-headed fellow. While we “oohed” and “aahed,” I hope mother, 45 years old at the time, told herself, “Well done.”
How special that Christmas was. Charlie came home from Vanderbilt for the long break, and met his new little brother, 21 years his junior. I can only imagine the teasing he and Zach, a senior in high school, suffered from their friends over the fact that our parents still had sex. My 7-year-old sister, Lila, and I didn’t mind changing those tiny cotton diapers, while 8-year-old Jimmy tolerated the newcomer, but he didn’t want anything to do with diapers.
As January rolled along, I anticipated my 14th birthday at the beginning of February. On January 31, I was called to the principal’s office over the PA. My skin flashed hot. I was told I was needed at home, and that Zach was on his way to get me. Neither of us had a clue what was going on. All we knew was that Daddy was due back from a quail shoot that evening. Cars lined our street. Mother met us at the back door. “Your father had a massive heart attack.” Her tears said the rest.
As I remember those difficult days, I realize that what held us together was that little blue-eyed redhead who had taken up residence in mother’s bedroom. My friend, Martha Livezey McCutcheon, who lives in Augusta, told me that she’ll never forget coming to see me that day with several of our friends. What she remembers is seeing Momma in a rocker nursing Walter. I have a million of those memory snapshots.
Walter was the last great thing that my father ever did, a gift, and until now, I haven’t thought about how Walter helped the rest of us get through that painful time. The sad part is that even though love was heaped on him, Walter grew up without the benefit of a father. He told me once that he didn’t know Daddy’s voice. Of course, he doesn’t remember, but I assure you he heard that voice for six precious weeks as he was held, and loved, and talked to, and promised things that Daddy would never be able to deliver.
Brother Charlie assured Walter that his voice was like Daddy’s, and I agree. The amazing thing is that Walter is the very image of Daddy in a pre-World War II Kappa Sigma composite photograph from Georgia Tech.
My brother knows he’s loved, but I wonder if he has any idea what an important part he has played in all our lives. I’m reminded of Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life. Stewart succumbs to his worries, and he must be put straight by his guardian angel Clarence Odbody. I guess I’m playing the Clarence character here. I want Walter to know what a gift he has been all of these years; if you have read this far, I hope you realize what a gift you are to someone. If you can’t be that kind to yourself, find someone and become that kind of friend to them today.
M.Z. Thwaite lives in Beaufort. She wears her maiden name hat when she writes, but she also answers to Martha Weeks. Her novels are sold locally and on Amazon. She can be reached at mzthwaite@gmail.com and found at https://bit.ly/MZT.
