Second
Sunday of Lent
February 25, 2018
Very Rev. Denis Robinson, OSB
Mr. Taylor Steggs was one of the most
controversial citizens of Oxford Mississippi. He was known by practically
everyone, or at least everyone that mattered. Some would have said he was
famous, while others would have countered with the moniker, infamous. He had a
mixed reputation. In all events, he was known
and, of course, that was what was important. He was very well-known for a
man who had, as yet only achieved the age of five and three quarters. That was
Mr. Taylor Steggs. And here he is, walking down the street in Oxford
Mississippi on a sultry July day clinging fiercely to the hand of his mother.
His pudgy, really fat little hand, clinging furiously to her well-manicured,
really immaculate hand. They are walking down Lamar Boulevard, advancing
furiously on the courthouse square. It was 1968 and she was a pulling and Mr.
Taylor Steggs, was talking. He talked a mile a minute. He talked and argued
with a purpose, indeed a fervidity that accounted for his mixed reputation
quite adequately. When they crossed the street, they came to that peaceful
place in front of the courthouse, just at the base of the statue of the unknown
confederate soldier. It was occupied by three lovely benches, placed there for
meditation purposes by the Daughters of the Confederacy. At any given time of
day, two of those benches might have been taken by any number of amiable
Oxfordians who found their way to the courthouse square for one purpose or
another. The third bench, however, had a regular set of occupants, tenants
really, in that they had basically taken up residence there during the summer
months, and from that vantage point watched, they might say, controlled the
comings and goings in the courthouse square with an omniscience of a mighty
prophet or lawgiver from Old Testament Times.
And, of course, one of them was an actual
lawgiver, or at least had been in his working years. Judge Sloan Winnicott was a man in his mid-seventies, or at least
that was what he would admit to. He was a former judge and so he sat on a bench
not that far removed from his former bench in the courthouse. He was wearing
his white suit which perfectly matched his white hair, hair made the more white
by Ida Mae’s weekly application of Clorox to her employers scalp. It was a nice
suit which today he sported with a pink bow tie. And of course, there was his
mustache, penciled in a pitch black, incongruous somehow with the otherwise
startling white vision. Seated on his left was his daily companion, and they
might have been twins, as they were dressed just alike in slightly crumpled
white suits with straw hats. But they were neither twins nor even kin to
one another except in the most general way in which the paths of glory lead but
to the grave. The man on the left, Mr. Ted Castlebury took a pale green
handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his bulbous nose and mopped his brow around
the brim of his hat. He was sweating like a pig although it was only 9:30
in the morning.
“Hot as a firecracker lit at
both ends today I expect.” he said, “As a firecracker”
“I expect so” replied his
companion, Judge Sloan Winnicott, “Hot even for July.”
It was at this moment of startling
revelation that Mr. Taylor Steggs appeared on the hand of his mother.
“Lord have mercy” exclaimed Judge
Winnicott, “if it isn’t Mr. Taylor Steggs.”
It was strange that the little boy
was always known as Mr. Taylor Steggs, and was respected as such in spite of a pitiful
accumulation of years.
“And of course his lovely mama” added
Mr. Ted Castlebury.
The lovely mama looked flustered and
in something of a hurry, in fact she always looked like this as her son, Mr.
Taylor Steggs, the one with the mixed reputation, was known throughout the town
by all as a real character.
“Good morning, gentlemen” She said
somewhat breathlessly.
“Good morning to you Mrs. Steggs” they
responded simultaneously.
“I was wondering if I could impose on
you two gentlemen to keep a careful eye on Mr. Taylor Steggs while I step into
Mrs. Brown’s dress shop? I want to try on a few things and, well, Mr. Taylor
Steggs can sometimes be a, shall we say, handful to the ladies. In fact,
everyone found Mr. Taylor Steggs to be a handful.
“Why of course, dear Mrs. Steggs, you
set that little gentlemen right here on the bench between us and we’ll keep a
good eye on him.” This was Judge Winnicott but if could also have been the
other one.
Up Mr. Taylor Steggs went and, in a
trice, away his mother went, on to the wilds of Mrs. Brown’s dress shop.
So there, the three of them sat. The three
of them sat like sphinxes from Egypt on that old bench beneath the statue of
the unknown confederate soldier.
There they sat as the clouds began to
gather in the July sky above them.
There they say beneath the trees.
They loved their trees though they did not worship them as pagan druids
did.There they sat
There they sat, complex as anything
until suddenly upon this strange trio came the very forward and familiar form
of Mrs. Althia Nelson. It was not unusual for Mrs. Nelson to appear in this
place at this time on Saturday morning. It was not unusual. The old lady was
probably 70 or so though she only owned up to 57. She had been 57 for a good
many years. Her hair was dyed a beautiful shade of henna rinse, perfectly
natural looking if you happened to be a carrot.
“It’s just the hair God gave me” She
would exclaim. Hopefully she also realized that God gave it to her in a bottle
of Roux Rinse obtained through her discrete hairdresser.
“Well” she said” what have we here
but Mr. Taylor Steggs. How are you doing today, Mr. Taylor Steggs?
She sat down on one of the right
angle benches and lit her Phillip Morris sending plumes of smoke into the air.
Mr. Taylor Steggs made no reply. He
was obviously ruminating on something, but what was anyone’s guess. No one ever
knew what might fly out of his mouth.
He sat there in his pin stripped suit
looking a bit plumper than usual. He sat there with his black and white saddle
oxfords crossed in front of him. He sat there with his bowl haircut and
pondered because if there was something that Mr. Taylor Steggs was aside from
being a bit talkative was a ponderer. He was a talkative ponderer and today he
was pondering.
Mrs. Althia Nelson also began to ponder
and a few minutes later a youth of about 16 sauntered up. He was wearing a pale
blue pair of overalls and a greyish shirt. He was covered in pustules, all over
his face and freckles all over the rest of his exposed skin. Raymond Fortescue
Pruitt walked up and offering a sneer to the group as he did each week and then
sat down.
Cat got your tongue, the wayward
disciple hurled in the general direction of Mr. Taylor Steggs. The boy did not
reply.
Hey, I’m a talking to you butt wad.
This charming greeting, likewise elicited no response for Mr. Taylor Steggs
appeared to be in some kind of trance, staring up at the sword of the
confederate soldier, staring blindly, like a blind man, or a blind poet up in
the sky. Raymond gave up and took out his pocket knife and started whittling on
a piece of nothing he had started a while back.
Time passed lazily and quietly, the
clouds soaring above, threating rain with every advance.
The final player to appear in the
morning drama was late, at least a bit late, Miss Mattie Shoals practically ran
to catch up stopping short in front of the gathering.
O my, she cried. I’m late!
Late for what countered Raymond
Late for … and she trailed off. “How
are you all today?” she asked seating herself on the bench next to Althia
Nelson. Miss Mattie Shoals was also
dressed to the nines but she was heading to church, at least to a meeting at
the church which she attended. She was a Methodist.
And still, nothing. Rolling clouds, a
timorous honking of a horn somewhere down Lamar Boulevard, a little chatting of
folks exiting the courthouse.
And then, nothing until the ominous
clouds began to part. They parted suddenly and givingly. They parted
dramatically allowing the sun to beat down proudly on the gathered
congregation.
Suddenly Mr. Taylor Steggs stood up
pulling his fat legs onto the park bench. Almost instinctively the two old
gentlemen stood up as well.
Mr. Taylor Steggs looked up hopefully
at the clouds parting, the sun beating suddenly down and glinting off the sword
of the unknown confederate soldier.
The sun was so bright, phosphorescent
really. Mr. Taylor Steggs opened his mouth. The others look at him, hopefully
and fearfully.
Mr. Taylor Steggs began to sing an
old song, the strains of an old song echoed, although outdoor echoing is hard
to achieve. Mr. Taylor Steggs was enraptured by the words of the song, haunting
the courthouse square like a ghost, a pure ghost, a natural, Holy Ghost or a
bird.
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine; Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
He
drew out the word foretaste dramatically, hopefully, painfully, wildly
And
then, well, nothing, nothing at all.
And
then the clouds rolled back, the shadows resumed. Mr. Taylor Steggs sat down.
The older gentlemen sat down as well. The moment had passed.
After everything had settled down, Miss Mattie
Shouls commented, “What a wonder! Why Mr. Taylor Steggs is really a wonder”
I think he’s a fat little fool, Raymond Fortescue
Pruitt responded sourly. A fat little fool.
He may be a prophet. Miss Mattie countered. You
know I could sit here all day and listen to him sing, all day.
Mrs. Althia Nelson was thinking through all of this,
reflecting if you will.
You know, she said finally: He reminds me of
something, an old poem I oncest read:
She then, almost trancelike, stared into the sky
and recited from pure memory.
Rough, cold stoneThe bed on which I lieAnd the silent walls of this tombUntil I riseAfter giving my life for these
A moment, then a longer moment passed and the
blue plume of smoke rose into the sky from her Phillip Morris, rising up to
meet the atmosphere and blend with the resuming clouds, rising up above the confederate
soldier, rising and rising. And rising …
