When my daughter, Holly, and her husband, Trace, were first married, they lived in Seattle, Washington, where Trace was in graduate school at the University of Washington.

One day, an author came to visit the journalism school, and since the author was a Southerner, and Trace was a Southerner, Trace got the job of showing the writer the wonders of UW. They spoke the same language, liberally sprinkled with “y’alls” so it was understood that they would be better able to communicate. You know Yankee logic.

Well, they had a nice visit, and the author gave Trace a copy of his newest book, and inscribed it to “Virgil, who has a real name,” Virgil being Trace, Virgil Russell Purvis III. The book was All Over but the Shoutin’and the author was Rick Bragg from Alabama, who had a best seller on his hands.

Holly started reading the book, then called to ask if I knew anything about the book or the author. I did not. She recommended that I rush out and get a copy of the book, for she was certain that I would appreciate Mr. Bragg’s story and his style. I did get a copy, and liked it immensely. Later on I bought his next book, Ava’s Man, and it cemented my admiration for Mr. Bragg’s storytelling ability.

Ava’s man was Bragg’s maternal grandfather named Charlie Bundrum. Bundrum and his people were, to use Dr. Frank Owsley’s phrase, the plain folk of the South. Their lives were short on comfort and material possessions, but they were fiercely independent, and they took care of their own. Even though the Braggs and the Bundrums and their kin lived in northeastern Alabama, near the Alabama-Georgia line, their way of living had parallels here in the delta land of the four rivers of Catahoula.

Charlie Bundrum reminded me of my own grandfather in many ways. Papa was far more temperate when it came to alcohol, but I believe he and Charlie could have had some good conversations on hunting and fishing, working, and rearing a family in the hard times of the Depression.

Papa, Ray Dowdy, was the one of the younger sons of Henry Barron and John Woodson Dowdy, small farmers who lived on Little River, west of Jonesville. His mother’s father, Matthew Barron, had moved to Catahoula from Georgia, after the end of the War Between the States, and John W. Dowdy moved here from Virginia after Barron was already settled in Jonesville.

Barron never liked his son-in-law Dowdy, for he accused Dowdy of being from a state too close to the Yankees to not be tainted himself by Yankeeness. But Dowdy and Barron’s daughter, Henry, did marry and reared a houseful of children, one of them Ray, our grandfather. Young Ray was taught farming, carpentry, and basic mechanics by his grandfather and his father, so that when he married, he was well able to care for his own family.

A person would have had to ask my Aunt Jessie Patterson of Yazoo City to tell true stories of Papa when his family was young, for I only know the man who became a wonderful grandfather to his children’s children.

Papa always wore khaki, summer and winter, and he always wore a hat when he left the house. A package of Camel cigarettes was never absent from his shirt pocket, even though he would add a pipe to his smoking routine once in a while, because it made him look like a grandpa.

When we were small children, there was quite a work force here on Smithland that Papa had to supervise every day. In those days of the fifties, few of the workers had cars or trucks, so Papa was transportation for whomever needed a ride to town or to the Elmly store to get a few supplies. On payday, his pickup would be loaded with folks needing a ride to the store to “make groceries”. Sometimes we were allowed to ride with them, but mostly we went with Papa when he had more room for us.

I never rode with Papa when he went faster than 35 or 40 mph. One time, I know for a fact that he drove much faster than usual, even though I wasn’t in the truck. One of the women on the place went into labor, got word to Papa, and he went to get her and her mother-in-law to make the trip to Jonesville to Dr. Passman’s Clinic. The baby was in hurry to get here, so Papa got in a hurry, too, and just barely made the ten miles to town before the baby was born. The baby was a girl, and she had a real name, but Papa always called her little Speedy.

Papa was a kindly man who loved dogs and children and telling yarns. He had so many stories in his repertoire that we could go for quite a while before he’d start to repeat himself. He hardly ever fussed at us, leaving that job to Mama and Mimi. Actually, neither Mimi nor Papa ever had to verbally correct us very much. One look from them would set the most errant child back on to the straight and narrow. I do remember once when Papa got really angry at my brothers and visiting boy cousins, for they threw some of his tools out of the truck. Tools were untouchables, and grandsons learned that the hard way.

Papa and Mimi and our parents held the universe together for us children, and they loved and supported us, taught us about our ancestors, and they taught us to behave and have manners in dealing with others. Their type of teaching used to be commonplace in society, but now I think it is not.

Not long before Papa passed away, we were sitting on the steps outside the pantry, drinking coffee from the 9 a.m. making. His illness had him feeling really bad, and perhaps he felt the end drawing near. He said that he reckoned he hadn’t been a very successful man, he didn’t have much to show for a lifetime of hard work, and he didn’t have much to leave his family after he was gone.

My answer was this: “Yes, Papa, you have had a successful life. You are loved and respected by your family and by everyone who knows you. You can go into any store in town and get what you need, for every businessman knows that you are honest and will pay your debts. You have a good name in the community, and that comes from a lifetime of treating people fairly. You have given us a good legacy, and we all thank you for it.”

I believe that my words eased him some, for he never spoke of regrets again.