Bud was a giant of a man. Standing over six feet tall, Bud tipped the scales at 275 pounds if he weighed an ounce. His massive hands resembled slabs of thick, country ham. His handshake would easily wrap around the average man’s hand almost double. By the time this writer’s family lived next door to him, he was well into his forties and bald.
Few were the times when anyone saw him without an olive green cap on his head, and his “uniform” of work clothes on. And, few also were the times when Bud gave evidence of having recently bathed, showered, or otherwise groomed himself.
Bud grew up on a sharecropper’s farm in the north Georgia mountains. There was little reason to suspect that Bud had received training on personal hygiene during his formative years. Country folks of Bud’s era did not have inside plumbing. Therefore, any gesture toward cleanliness came either in the form of Saturday night baths in the river, or “spit baths” taken while standing beside an open fire and a scalding kettle of water. These spit baths were also known, particularly in the military, by the term, “P.T.A.” baths (i.e., peter, tits and armpits). Bud was not a card-carrying member of the P.T.A.
During his adult years, Bud’s extended family tried to get him to fly across country to see some kin folks in Texas. When he refused to even get aboard an aircraft his relative remarked, “Why, Bud, you can get killed quicker in a bathtub than a jet plane.” Bud’s reply: “I ain’t a-getting’ in one of them (bathtubs) neither.”
There were evidently no dentists in the hills of north Georgia during Bud’s boyhood. In the country, when they were used, a “toothbrush” was nothing more than a twig cut from a certain variety of tree. The end of the twig was frayed and fanned out in a circular “brush” design. With no toothpaste available, the twig was rubbed vigorously and dryly over each tooth.
It is doubtful that Bud Gravely ever used one of these natural devices. He had only one tooth in his head. When he smiled or laughed, that lone, deeply yellowed, front tooth shined like a hood ornament on a new Rolls Royce.
Bud spent his young life plowing fields, and/or working from sunup to sundown in a north Georgia saw mill. He never once walked on a golf course, or played a game of tennis down at the local country club. Bud’s recreation was work. It was all he had ever known. He was a throwback to a time when a man looked, behaved and smelled like a man. There was no such thing as G.Q., political correctness, or even cologne in Bud’s world. They say that, on his tombstone, just below his name, the inscription reads, “Here Lies A Good Hard Working Man - Amen."
In the 1950’s, Bud moved to Atlanta from the mountains in search of a job. Farming and saw-milling didn’t pay much back in the hills. Bud had heard that Atlanta was growing, and that there were lots of construction jobs that paid good wages. While he did not particularly relish the thought of living in the city, if there was a decent living to be found in Atlanta, Bud was willing to try it.
For the first few months, Bud knocked around at different things, but was not really satisfied with any of the jobs he hired into. Most of the initial “positions” he found were factory jobs, requiring him to pull long hours working in dark, dirty, dismal conditions. Since Bud had always worked outdoors back home, these foundry-like surroundings were like a prison to him. He hated every minute.
One night, he dropped into a little tavern just off Northside Drive near downtown to have a beer and rest his tired body. The name of the place was the, “Ease On Inn.” The music in that little beer joint was loud and the lights were dim. But, the beer tap was one of the coldest in Atlanta. The bartender and one of the bar’s patrons soon struck up a conversation with Bud. Little did he know that this conversation, as well as certain things associated with it, would soon change his life forever.
When a country boy comes to the city, the first thing that gives his heritage and pedigree away is his thick, rural accent. Bud was a mountain man, and a country boy through and through. When he spoke in his hillbilly drawl it resembled a mixture of Gomer Pyle, Briscoe Darling, and Ernest T. Bass all rolled into one. Too, Bud’s deep, barrel-chested voice was as big as he was. Even with the tavern jukebox going at full volume, practically everybody in that little place could hear him when he talked or laughed. He soon became the evening’s entertainment for the crowd of fish-eyed, half-drunk city folks that frequented the Ease On Inn.
The patron that took a liking to Bud happened to be the chief dispatcher for the old McDougal-Warren Concrete Company in Atlanta. McDougal-Warren had a large fleet of concrete trucks, and was a major player in the construction-related trades in Atlanta during its burgeoning growth of the 1960’s and beyond. As a result, they were always on the lookout for good drivers. The dispatcher sensed that Bud was just the kind of hard-working, honest fellow that his company could use. “Come on down to the plant on Monday morning,” the dispatcher said, “I think we can put you right to work.”
The pay was good, the work was outside, and Bud had plenty of experience driving big trucks during his saw mill days. He walked out of the Ease-On Inn later that night thanking the Lord for such good fortune.
Bud loved two things in life – country music and beer. He could never get enough of Ernest Tubb, George Jones, or Hank Williams. Whenever their records played on the radio, Bud sang along with every word. When Bud showed up for work on Monday morning, he asked the dispatcher, “Does them concrete buggies have a ‘radidio’ (mountain vernacular for ‘radio’) in ‘em?” “Some do, some don’t,” said the dispatcher, “I’ll try to find you one that does.” Bud’s reaction to the dispatcher became his staple reply whenever something pleased him, “Boy-Howdy!” he said.
Bud’s second love bore his name - Bud-weiser. He was perhaps the real-life, southern counterpart of Norm Peterson - actor George Wendt’s loveable character from the popular television sit-com, Cheers. Like Norm, if beer was being served, Bud Gravely was there. There was more Bud in Bud’s refrigerator than food. His idea of a big Saturday night was to sit at the kitchen table by the radio listening to the Grand Ole Opry, while polishing off a six-pack. He often said that if they didn’t serve beer in heaven, he might have to think twice about going.
These two great loves in Bud’s life kept him going back to the Ease On Inn. He soon became a regular in that little juke joint – again, much like Norm Peterson at Cheers.
There was also another reason Bud kept going back. Her name was Anita.
Anita (or, “Neeter,” as explained earlier) was not a beauty, bless her heart. She was a tiny, petite woman with a complexion that was rough as a catcher’s mitt. Her countenance was further marred from years of inhaling cartons of Pall Malls and Lucky Strikes. Her teeth were, well, not hers. And, they were also not their original color. Smoking ruins the enamel on the teeth (even false ones) just as it does the pores of the skin.
Like Bud, Neeter did not practice good, oral hygiene. When she smiled, it was a deep, dark, brown and yellow train wreck.
Too, Neeter was not one to bathe or wash her straight, jet black hair. It hung just short of her shoulders in a matted, semi-tangled mess, and resembled the strings from an old mop that had been used to swab a cabin floor full of coal dust. This writer’s sister offered on many occasions to wash it and style it for her. Neeter’s reply, later borrowed and made famous by none other than comedian, Larry-The-Cable-Guy, was, “We’ll git-‘er-done one day.” To this writer’s knowledge, that day never came.
Neeter’s clothes were rarely clean, and reeked of the stench of cigarettes. She had only a handful of mix and match outfits in her entire wardrobe. Guessing Neeter’s sizes, this writer’s mother would occasionally sew, or buy, her a new outfit and give it to her for an early birthday or Christmas present. Neeter was always appreciative of Mama’s acts of kindness toward her in this way. She would always tear up, hug my mother’s neck, and proceed to wear the outfit until it also reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.
Neeter was not a beer drinker like Bud. She said the very smell of it made her sick. Go figure. Her potions of choice were either Ripple or MD 20-20 (i.e., cheap wine), with an occasional shot of Heaven Hill Whiskey as a chaser.
Alcohol and nicotine are a powerful tandem. Neeter was held hostage by both of these demonic forces for as long as this writer knew her.
Neeter was also from the country, but not from north Georgia. Her lineage was in Carroll County, near the Alabama line. Neeter never talked about her childhood nor any extended family. As far as anyone knew, Bud was all the “family” she ever had.
Neeter spoke with a lisp. It almost sounded like a hair-lip impediment. She was usually difficult to understand, often having to repeat sentences - especially for strangers. This writer and his sister grew to understand almost everything Neeter said, and thus "translated" for her when others misunderstood.
Despite the challenges she faced, Neeter was most always a happy person. She laughed a lot and enjoyed it when company came to her house.
No one ever knew if Bud and Neeter were legally married. When this writer’s family moved next door to them in the early 1960’s they were already a couple. They met when Bud started going to the Ease On Inn. Neeter was employed there serving beer and working the cash register. They often recalled that it was love at first sight for them.
Every night, Bud could be found down at the end of the bar with beer in hand. Neeter would park herself in front of him, leaning over the bar, smiling, smoking her Pall Mall or Lucky Strike, and refilling Bud’s Bud every few minutes. Theirs was a “marriage” made in Milwaukee.
When they became a co-habiting couple, Neeter quit the beer joint. Bud made enough money at McDougal-Warren to support both their habits. She never worked outside the home after that, and rarely left it at all, during the years this writer’s family were their neighbors.
Bud and Neeter’s house was a small, two bedroom, one bath, shotgun frame on about an acre of ground. Bud grew tomatoes and a few other vegetables in a garden each year on the back of their property. He always shared the excess from this garden with our family.
Neeter was not a, “Good Housekeeping,” subscriber. Their place smelled of beer, wine, liquor, and cigarettes. It was always dimly lit on the inside, with the same bluish, black-light haze found in most clubs, bars, and beer joints. Daddy observed once that when Bud and Neeter quit frequenting the Ease On Inn, they brought its décor home with them. Visiting their house was the closest thing to going into a beer joint that this writer ever knew as a lad.
No matter – Bud and Neeter’s place was always filled with a warm welcome for any visitor, regardless of how it may have looked or smelled. This writer and his sister made an almost daily trek to Bud and Neeter’s, mainly to escape their own household chores for a few hours. Bud and Neeter always kept ice cold Cokes and snacks on hand, just for us.
Regardless of the unkempt air of their surroundings and personal habits, Bud and Neeter rarely got sick. Evidently, if enough alcohol is perpetually maintained in one’s bloodstream, germs, bacteria, and other infectious maladies have no place to take hold and blossom.
On the rare occasions when one of them was sick, the employment of mountain, home remedies, plus a little nip from the jug, was all the “doctoring” they would submit to. Bud did not trust easily. Mountain people are that way. Once they get to know you, there is no more loyal friend to be found than a true mountain person. Country folks tend to look after their own. However, until they decide to accept you, country folks (and particularly mountain folks) can be more than a little standoff-ish.
The top three categories of folks that Bud Gravely had absolutely no use for were politicians, doctors, and TV preachers. He believed that all three were nothing more than liars and thieves. As a result, he refused to vote, allow anyone to examine him when he was sick, or go to church on Sunday.
Bud was well into his fifties when his chest and stomach began hurting. He labored with the pain, refusing to go to the doctor. “They’ll just poke me, stick me, cut me, and charge me an arm and a leg for nothing,” he reasoned. Still, the pain worsened. Bud tried multiple home and mountain remedies, but with no relief. Stubbornly, he maintained that his plight would pass in time, and that he couldn’t afford to be off from work to go see a doctor. Still, the pain worsened.
Out of desperation, Bud finally asked one of the other neighbors in Riverside who DID support televangelist healers to call in and ask for him to be cured. Still, after the call was placed, the pain continued and grew worse. Finally, Bud agreed to see a doctor – as long as this writer’s parents went along.
The appointment was made for a Thursday afternoon. Daddy took off work early. Both families climbed into Bud and Neeter’s old station wagon and headed to the doctor’s office.
Dr. John Manget (pronounced, “Mar-Jay”), was a G.P. His practice was located in a beautiful old, renovated civil war home near Ralph McGill Boulevard in the heart of dowtown Atlanta. Though this writer’s father was also averse to doctors, Dr. Manget had been able to help both him and my mother with various illnesses throughout their marriage. Daddy told Bud, “This man will help you – give him a chance.”
Bud and Neeter were both extremely nervous as our car full of folks filed into Dr. Manget’s waiting room. Neither of them could read and write, so Mama and Daddy helped with the filling out of the medical forms - making sure that everything was in order before the nurse came for Bud. When she did, he asked Daddy to go back to the examining room with him. After much pleading, this writer got to go along too.
Witnessing an examination in a doctor's office, especially when the examinee was someone other than yourself, was a really cool thing for a young boy.
Before Dr. Manget came into the examining room, the nurse came in and asked Bud a long list of questions regarding his condition. She took his blood pressure, temperature, pulse, weighed him, and then told him to take off his clothes. Bud turned white as a sheet. His eyes widened. “I ain’t about to strip for nobody, especially no man!”, Bud defiantly declared. The nurse was calm but firm. “Mr. Gravely, you MUST take off your clothes, and put this gown on for us to be able to examine you,” she said, in an authoritative tone.
“G-O-W-N!", Bud sarcastically bellowed, “ain’t nobody gonna’ make me wear no G-O-W-N!” Bud uncrossed his arms and stood up as though he was about to fight someone. The nurse shot back, “Mr. Gravely, we DON'T play games in this office. If you want US to help you, you WILL take off your clothes and you WILL put on this gown, and you WILL do so immediately!” With that, the nurse turned and gruffly left the room, slamming the door behind her. The force of the slamming door rattled the clear glass, cotton ball and tongue depressor canisters on the shelves.
Bud looked at Daddy, then at this writer. He was truly at a loss for knowing what to do next. Mountain men did NOT take orders from women, and they certainly did not take off their clothes in front of other men. Daddy assured Bud that this was standard procedure, and that we would step out of the room long enough for him to change into the gown.
As we left the room and stood in the hall, we could hear Bud talking to himself. “Weren't none of my idea to come up here in the first place… Stupid doctor can’t help me none no way…Good thang Daddy ain’t here to see this…How in the world do they 'spect me to git into this here ‘funny boy’ gown anyhow?”
When Bud finally opened the door for us to come back in, it was hard not to laugh. Here was this giant, Herculean, man looking most uncomfortable in a scant, thin hospital gown. It was certainly a sight to behold. “Ernest, can you help me snap this thing?” Bud asked my father. Remembering what Bud’s backside looked like as Daddy helped him fasten the snaps on the back of that gown brings a profound smile to this writer. The old, cartoon one-liner always comes to mind, “Now I know what they mean by I-C-U.”
Once the gown was in place and Bud’s adrenaline was settling down, the doctor finally came in.
Dr. John Manget could have easily been a black-headed Dr. Kildare. He was the epitome of, “tall, dark, and handsome.” Standing eye to eye with Bud, he introduced himself and sat down on his rolling stool to begin the session. After asking the same questions as the nurse, listening to Bud’s heart, and pressing several places on and around Bud’s stomach, Dr. Manget said, “Mr. Gravely, I think your problem is with your gall bladder…We should do a couple of tests.”
Having never been to a doctor in his life, Bud didn’t exactly connect with the kind of tests Dr. Manget was referring to. He thought that these tests were going to be similar to something taken in school, and Bud hadn’t seen the inside of a classroom since the 4th grade. Dr. Manget explained, “No, Mr. Gravely, these tests aren’t something you have to study for…These tests are medical procedures we perform on you.” When Dr. Manget got to the part of his explanation that involved tubes, Bud’s face turned ghostly white. He asked, “Ezzatly (mountain pronunciation of “exactly”) what kind of tubes, and what fer?” Bud asked, in a visibly and audibly shaken tone.
Dr. Manget patiently explained, “The tests are called a Colonoscopy and an Endoscopy.” He explained to Bud how that both tests would be done back to back, and that he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital twice. Dr. Manget, as diplomatically and as accurately as possible, described how a tube would be placed in Bud’s rear end for one test and then in his mouth for the other.
This writer thought for a moment that Bud Gravley was going to cry. Here was this mammoth hunk of a man’s man, sitting in a strange doctor’s examination room, with three other males present, clothed in nothing but a grossly undersized and paper-thin hospital gown, being told that tubes were going to be inserted in two of THE most important openings in his body. And, that nothing could be done to ease his pain and suffering without these humiliating procedures. Any man would have been at a loss for what to say.
After thinking about Dr. Manget’s explanation for a long minute or two, Bud slowly raised his head. “All right, Doc,” he said, with a deep sense of resignation in his voice. “But, I jest got one favor to ask,” Bud said. Dr. Manget sympathetically nodded and waited for Bud to finish. He took a deep breath and said, “All I ask, Doc, is that you put that tube down my mouth before yuns puts it up my butt!”
Both Dr. Manget and Daddy tried not to laugh. “Mr. Gravely,” assured Dr. Manget, “you can count on it!” With that, Dr. Manget left the room, and we left Bud alone so he could get dressed. Bud took some extra time before coming back to the waiting room - likely to contemplate in private what was about to happen to him. When he finally did come out, Neeter and Mama both hugged him. It was apparent that enough had been said for this day.
On the way home, the only words that were uttered came when Bud leaned over to my father and softly asked: "Ernest, does it hurt when they stick that tube up your rump?" Daddy assured Bud that they would give him something to relax him, and that it would be so painless that Bud might even drift off into a nap while they were doing it. Bud trusted Daddy. His words of reassurance seemed to satisfy Bud and put him at ease.
It was deathly quiet in that old station wagon the rest of the way home. Bud came through the tests with flying colors. His was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer and a diseased gall bladder. He later had successful surgery to remove the infected gall bladder, and stayed faithfully on Dr. Manget’s prescribed medication until the ulcer completely healed. After Bud fully recovered, he was somewhat of a changed man where doctors were concerned. He passed Dr. Manget’s name and business card along to many of his friends. “He’s the best dang butt doctor in the country,” Bud would say, “but his hands is cold as a dead man’s.” This was, likely, as much of an endorsement as Bud would ever give the medical world.
Bud eventually retired from McDougal-Warren. He and Neeter moved away from Atlanta when the population crush of the late 1970’s and early 1980’s came. This writer heard, regretfully, in later years that Bud died in a nursing home. Apparently, Neeter passed away a few years after Bud, following a short stay in hospice care. She died from complications associated with cirrhosis of the liver.
The memory of these two unique neighbors will never fade from this writer's mind. They bonded with our family, and in some ways became our family (and we theirs). Their home was never a castle, but it was a place where friends and neighbors were always welcome. Their “marriage” may not have been right in the Lord's eyes, and it certainly would never be the subject of any movie or documentary. But, their devotion to, and love for, one another was apparently genuine. Above all, they were hard-working country people who found one another in the shadow of a city that was anything but country.
Bud and Neeter, thank you for giving a young, neighborhood boy and his sister the enduring memories of your house, your yard, your life, and your humor-filled caricatures. This writer enjoyed growing up next door to you, and is grateful for the joyous recollection of his days spent watching you live your lives together.
May God be merciful to you both on His great Day of Judgment.
In the 1950’s, Bud moved to Atlanta from the mountains in search of a job. Farming and saw-milling didn’t pay much back in the hills. Bud had heard that Atlanta was growing, and that there were lots of construction jobs that paid good wages. While he did not particularly relish the thought of living in the city, if there was a decent living to be found in Atlanta, Bud was willing to try it.
For the first few months, Bud knocked around at different things, but was not really satisfied with any of the jobs he hired into. Most of the initial “positions” he found were factory jobs, requiring him to pull long hours working in dark, dirty, dismal conditions. Since Bud had always worked outdoors back home, these foundry-like surroundings were like a prison to him. He hated every minute.
One night, he dropped into a little tavern just off Northside Drive near downtown to have a beer and rest his tired body. The name of the place was the, “Ease On Inn.” The music in that little beer joint was loud and the lights were dim. But, the beer tap was one of the coldest in Atlanta. The bartender and one of the bar’s patrons soon struck up a conversation with Bud. Little did he know that this conversation, as well as certain things associated with it, would soon change his life forever.
When a country boy comes to the city, the first thing that gives his heritage and pedigree away is his thick, rural accent. Bud was a mountain man, and a country boy through and through. When he spoke in his hillbilly drawl it resembled a mixture of Gomer Pyle, Briscoe Darling, and Ernest T. Bass all rolled into one. Too, Bud’s deep, barrel-chested voice was as big as he was. Even with the tavern jukebox going at full volume, practically everybody in that little place could hear him when he talked or laughed. He soon became the evening’s entertainment for the crowd of fish-eyed, half-drunk city folks that frequented the Ease On Inn.
The patron that took a liking to Bud happened to be the chief dispatcher for the old McDougal-Warren Concrete Company in Atlanta. McDougal-Warren had a large fleet of concrete trucks, and was a major player in the construction-related trades in Atlanta during its burgeoning growth of the 1960’s and beyond. As a result, they were always on the lookout for good drivers. The dispatcher sensed that Bud was just the kind of hard-working, honest fellow that his company could use. “Come on down to the plant on Monday morning,” the dispatcher said, “I think we can put you right to work.”
The pay was good, the work was outside, and Bud had plenty of experience driving big trucks during his saw mill days. He walked out of the Ease-On Inn later that night thanking the Lord for such good fortune.
Bud loved two things in life – country music and beer. He could never get enough of Ernest Tubb, George Jones, or Hank Williams. Whenever their records played on the radio, Bud sang along with every word. When Bud showed up for work on Monday morning, he asked the dispatcher, “Does them concrete buggies have a ‘radidio’ (mountain vernacular for ‘radio’) in ‘em?” “Some do, some don’t,” said the dispatcher, “I’ll try to find you one that does.” Bud’s reaction to the dispatcher became his staple reply whenever something pleased him, “Boy-Howdy!” he said.
Bud’s second love bore his name - Bud-weiser. He was perhaps the real-life, southern counterpart of Norm Peterson - actor George Wendt’s loveable character from the popular television sit-com, Cheers. Like Norm, if beer was being served, Bud Gravely was there. There was more Bud in Bud’s refrigerator than food. His idea of a big Saturday night was to sit at the kitchen table by the radio listening to the Grand Ole Opry, while polishing off a six-pack. He often said that if they didn’t serve beer in heaven, he might have to think twice about going.
These two great loves in Bud’s life kept him going back to the Ease On Inn. He soon became a regular in that little juke joint – again, much like Norm Peterson at Cheers.
There was also another reason Bud kept going back. Her name was Anita.
Anita (or, “Neeter,” as explained earlier) was not a beauty, bless her heart. She was a tiny, petite woman with a complexion that was rough as a catcher’s mitt. Her countenance was further marred from years of inhaling cartons of Pall Malls and Lucky Strikes. Her teeth were, well, not hers. And, they were also not their original color. Smoking ruins the enamel on the teeth (even false ones) just as it does the pores of the skin.
Like Bud, Neeter did not practice good, oral hygiene. When she smiled, it was a deep, dark, brown and yellow train wreck.
Too, Neeter was not one to bathe or wash her straight, jet black hair. It hung just short of her shoulders in a matted, semi-tangled mess, and resembled the strings from an old mop that had been used to swab a cabin floor full of coal dust. This writer’s sister offered on many occasions to wash it and style it for her. Neeter’s reply, later borrowed and made famous by none other than comedian, Larry-The-Cable-Guy, was, “We’ll git-‘er-done one day.” To this writer’s knowledge, that day never came.
Neeter’s clothes were rarely clean, and reeked of the stench of cigarettes. She had only a handful of mix and match outfits in her entire wardrobe. Guessing Neeter’s sizes, this writer’s mother would occasionally sew, or buy, her a new outfit and give it to her for an early birthday or Christmas present. Neeter was always appreciative of Mama’s acts of kindness toward her in this way. She would always tear up, hug my mother’s neck, and proceed to wear the outfit until it also reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.
Neeter was not a beer drinker like Bud. She said the very smell of it made her sick. Go figure. Her potions of choice were either Ripple or MD 20-20 (i.e., cheap wine), with an occasional shot of Heaven Hill Whiskey as a chaser.
Alcohol and nicotine are a powerful tandem. Neeter was held hostage by both of these demonic forces for as long as this writer knew her.
Neeter was also from the country, but not from north Georgia. Her lineage was in Carroll County, near the Alabama line. Neeter never talked about her childhood nor any extended family. As far as anyone knew, Bud was all the “family” she ever had.
Neeter spoke with a lisp. It almost sounded like a hair-lip impediment. She was usually difficult to understand, often having to repeat sentences - especially for strangers. This writer and his sister grew to understand almost everything Neeter said, and thus "translated" for her when others misunderstood.
Despite the challenges she faced, Neeter was most always a happy person. She laughed a lot and enjoyed it when company came to her house.
No one ever knew if Bud and Neeter were legally married. When this writer’s family moved next door to them in the early 1960’s they were already a couple. They met when Bud started going to the Ease On Inn. Neeter was employed there serving beer and working the cash register. They often recalled that it was love at first sight for them.
Every night, Bud could be found down at the end of the bar with beer in hand. Neeter would park herself in front of him, leaning over the bar, smiling, smoking her Pall Mall or Lucky Strike, and refilling Bud’s Bud every few minutes. Theirs was a “marriage” made in Milwaukee.
When they became a co-habiting couple, Neeter quit the beer joint. Bud made enough money at McDougal-Warren to support both their habits. She never worked outside the home after that, and rarely left it at all, during the years this writer’s family were their neighbors.
Bud and Neeter’s house was a small, two bedroom, one bath, shotgun frame on about an acre of ground. Bud grew tomatoes and a few other vegetables in a garden each year on the back of their property. He always shared the excess from this garden with our family.
Neeter was not a, “Good Housekeeping,” subscriber. Their place smelled of beer, wine, liquor, and cigarettes. It was always dimly lit on the inside, with the same bluish, black-light haze found in most clubs, bars, and beer joints. Daddy observed once that when Bud and Neeter quit frequenting the Ease On Inn, they brought its décor home with them. Visiting their house was the closest thing to going into a beer joint that this writer ever knew as a lad.
No matter – Bud and Neeter’s place was always filled with a warm welcome for any visitor, regardless of how it may have looked or smelled. This writer and his sister made an almost daily trek to Bud and Neeter’s, mainly to escape their own household chores for a few hours. Bud and Neeter always kept ice cold Cokes and snacks on hand, just for us.
Regardless of the unkempt air of their surroundings and personal habits, Bud and Neeter rarely got sick. Evidently, if enough alcohol is perpetually maintained in one’s bloodstream, germs, bacteria, and other infectious maladies have no place to take hold and blossom.
On the rare occasions when one of them was sick, the employment of mountain, home remedies, plus a little nip from the jug, was all the “doctoring” they would submit to. Bud did not trust easily. Mountain people are that way. Once they get to know you, there is no more loyal friend to be found than a true mountain person. Country folks tend to look after their own. However, until they decide to accept you, country folks (and particularly mountain folks) can be more than a little standoff-ish.
The top three categories of folks that Bud Gravely had absolutely no use for were politicians, doctors, and TV preachers. He believed that all three were nothing more than liars and thieves. As a result, he refused to vote, allow anyone to examine him when he was sick, or go to church on Sunday.
Bud was well into his fifties when his chest and stomach began hurting. He labored with the pain, refusing to go to the doctor. “They’ll just poke me, stick me, cut me, and charge me an arm and a leg for nothing,” he reasoned. Still, the pain worsened. Bud tried multiple home and mountain remedies, but with no relief. Stubbornly, he maintained that his plight would pass in time, and that he couldn’t afford to be off from work to go see a doctor. Still, the pain worsened.
Out of desperation, Bud finally asked one of the other neighbors in Riverside who DID support televangelist healers to call in and ask for him to be cured. Still, after the call was placed, the pain continued and grew worse. Finally, Bud agreed to see a doctor – as long as this writer’s parents went along.
The appointment was made for a Thursday afternoon. Daddy took off work early. Both families climbed into Bud and Neeter’s old station wagon and headed to the doctor’s office.
Dr. John Manget (pronounced, “Mar-Jay”), was a G.P. His practice was located in a beautiful old, renovated civil war home near Ralph McGill Boulevard in the heart of dowtown Atlanta. Though this writer’s father was also averse to doctors, Dr. Manget had been able to help both him and my mother with various illnesses throughout their marriage. Daddy told Bud, “This man will help you – give him a chance.”
Bud and Neeter were both extremely nervous as our car full of folks filed into Dr. Manget’s waiting room. Neither of them could read and write, so Mama and Daddy helped with the filling out of the medical forms - making sure that everything was in order before the nurse came for Bud. When she did, he asked Daddy to go back to the examining room with him. After much pleading, this writer got to go along too.
Witnessing an examination in a doctor's office, especially when the examinee was someone other than yourself, was a really cool thing for a young boy.
Before Dr. Manget came into the examining room, the nurse came in and asked Bud a long list of questions regarding his condition. She took his blood pressure, temperature, pulse, weighed him, and then told him to take off his clothes. Bud turned white as a sheet. His eyes widened. “I ain’t about to strip for nobody, especially no man!”, Bud defiantly declared. The nurse was calm but firm. “Mr. Gravely, you MUST take off your clothes, and put this gown on for us to be able to examine you,” she said, in an authoritative tone.
“G-O-W-N!", Bud sarcastically bellowed, “ain’t nobody gonna’ make me wear no G-O-W-N!” Bud uncrossed his arms and stood up as though he was about to fight someone. The nurse shot back, “Mr. Gravely, we DON'T play games in this office. If you want US to help you, you WILL take off your clothes and you WILL put on this gown, and you WILL do so immediately!” With that, the nurse turned and gruffly left the room, slamming the door behind her. The force of the slamming door rattled the clear glass, cotton ball and tongue depressor canisters on the shelves.
Bud looked at Daddy, then at this writer. He was truly at a loss for knowing what to do next. Mountain men did NOT take orders from women, and they certainly did not take off their clothes in front of other men. Daddy assured Bud that this was standard procedure, and that we would step out of the room long enough for him to change into the gown.
As we left the room and stood in the hall, we could hear Bud talking to himself. “Weren't none of my idea to come up here in the first place… Stupid doctor can’t help me none no way…Good thang Daddy ain’t here to see this…How in the world do they 'spect me to git into this here ‘funny boy’ gown anyhow?”
When Bud finally opened the door for us to come back in, it was hard not to laugh. Here was this giant, Herculean, man looking most uncomfortable in a scant, thin hospital gown. It was certainly a sight to behold. “Ernest, can you help me snap this thing?” Bud asked my father. Remembering what Bud’s backside looked like as Daddy helped him fasten the snaps on the back of that gown brings a profound smile to this writer. The old, cartoon one-liner always comes to mind, “Now I know what they mean by I-C-U.”
Once the gown was in place and Bud’s adrenaline was settling down, the doctor finally came in.
Dr. John Manget could have easily been a black-headed Dr. Kildare. He was the epitome of, “tall, dark, and handsome.” Standing eye to eye with Bud, he introduced himself and sat down on his rolling stool to begin the session. After asking the same questions as the nurse, listening to Bud’s heart, and pressing several places on and around Bud’s stomach, Dr. Manget said, “Mr. Gravely, I think your problem is with your gall bladder…We should do a couple of tests.”
Having never been to a doctor in his life, Bud didn’t exactly connect with the kind of tests Dr. Manget was referring to. He thought that these tests were going to be similar to something taken in school, and Bud hadn’t seen the inside of a classroom since the 4th grade. Dr. Manget explained, “No, Mr. Gravely, these tests aren’t something you have to study for…These tests are medical procedures we perform on you.” When Dr. Manget got to the part of his explanation that involved tubes, Bud’s face turned ghostly white. He asked, “Ezzatly (mountain pronunciation of “exactly”) what kind of tubes, and what fer?” Bud asked, in a visibly and audibly shaken tone.
Dr. Manget patiently explained, “The tests are called a Colonoscopy and an Endoscopy.” He explained to Bud how that both tests would be done back to back, and that he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital twice. Dr. Manget, as diplomatically and as accurately as possible, described how a tube would be placed in Bud’s rear end for one test and then in his mouth for the other.
This writer thought for a moment that Bud Gravley was going to cry. Here was this mammoth hunk of a man’s man, sitting in a strange doctor’s examination room, with three other males present, clothed in nothing but a grossly undersized and paper-thin hospital gown, being told that tubes were going to be inserted in two of THE most important openings in his body. And, that nothing could be done to ease his pain and suffering without these humiliating procedures. Any man would have been at a loss for what to say.
After thinking about Dr. Manget’s explanation for a long minute or two, Bud slowly raised his head. “All right, Doc,” he said, with a deep sense of resignation in his voice. “But, I jest got one favor to ask,” Bud said. Dr. Manget sympathetically nodded and waited for Bud to finish. He took a deep breath and said, “All I ask, Doc, is that you put that tube down my mouth before yuns puts it up my butt!”
Both Dr. Manget and Daddy tried not to laugh. “Mr. Gravely,” assured Dr. Manget, “you can count on it!” With that, Dr. Manget left the room, and we left Bud alone so he could get dressed. Bud took some extra time before coming back to the waiting room - likely to contemplate in private what was about to happen to him. When he finally did come out, Neeter and Mama both hugged him. It was apparent that enough had been said for this day.
On the way home, the only words that were uttered came when Bud leaned over to my father and softly asked: "Ernest, does it hurt when they stick that tube up your rump?" Daddy assured Bud that they would give him something to relax him, and that it would be so painless that Bud might even drift off into a nap while they were doing it. Bud trusted Daddy. His words of reassurance seemed to satisfy Bud and put him at ease.
It was deathly quiet in that old station wagon the rest of the way home. Bud came through the tests with flying colors. His was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer and a diseased gall bladder. He later had successful surgery to remove the infected gall bladder, and stayed faithfully on Dr. Manget’s prescribed medication until the ulcer completely healed. After Bud fully recovered, he was somewhat of a changed man where doctors were concerned. He passed Dr. Manget’s name and business card along to many of his friends. “He’s the best dang butt doctor in the country,” Bud would say, “but his hands is cold as a dead man’s.” This was, likely, as much of an endorsement as Bud would ever give the medical world.
Bud eventually retired from McDougal-Warren. He and Neeter moved away from Atlanta when the population crush of the late 1970’s and early 1980’s came. This writer heard, regretfully, in later years that Bud died in a nursing home. Apparently, Neeter passed away a few years after Bud, following a short stay in hospice care. She died from complications associated with cirrhosis of the liver.
The memory of these two unique neighbors will never fade from this writer's mind. They bonded with our family, and in some ways became our family (and we theirs). Their home was never a castle, but it was a place where friends and neighbors were always welcome. Their “marriage” may not have been right in the Lord's eyes, and it certainly would never be the subject of any movie or documentary. But, their devotion to, and love for, one another was apparently genuine. Above all, they were hard-working country people who found one another in the shadow of a city that was anything but country.
Bud and Neeter, thank you for giving a young, neighborhood boy and his sister the enduring memories of your house, your yard, your life, and your humor-filled caricatures. This writer enjoyed growing up next door to you, and is grateful for the joyous recollection of his days spent watching you live your lives together.
May God be merciful to you both on His great Day of Judgment.
No comments:
Post a Comment