Mincey’s Musings
Year One, Week Forty-Five

I received an email from a fellow writer recently who was told by a family member of the person being researched that perhaps she could contact me for some memories. I was touched that my friend’s family would think that I was a good enough friend of Winnie McDonald to be asked to share memories of her. I shared a memory, but selfishly reserved one of the better ones to share with you.

O, Happy Reader! I am writing this the week before Thanksgiving, 2018. I believe it should hit www.HistoricUnionCounty.com the week of Thanksgiving. There’s little in life I enjoy more than a good turkey dinner on the day set aside to remember the goodness of the Lord. I have eaten Thanksgiving dinner every year of my life with family, except one.
I first met Ms. Sharon McDonald at the First Baptist Church of Maynardville, where I had gone to church for many years with her mother, Ms. Winnie McDonald. Ms. Winnie taught English at Horace Maynard High School for many years. It is one of the great disappointments of my life that she retired before I could be in her class.

Sharon had married several years before I met her and moved out of state. She divorced and moved back home with Ms. Winnie, just about a mile above my house on Walker Ford Road.

Over the years, I have several fond memories of Sharon. We once went to the movies and she started acting really strange. She asked me to go get her some candy. When I returned with it, she ate some and seemed to return to her normal self. That was when she revealed that she was a Type I diabetic, and that if she ever started acting strangely again that I should force her to eat something sweet. I was just fortunate in that incident that she still had enough presence of mind to tell me what she needed.

And there was the time that Sharon and I watched Stephen King’s “The Shining” at Ms. Winnie’s house. Never did I enjoy a horror movie more. Trust me, it was the company, not the movie. Every time I see a Stephen King book or movie I think of Sharon.

She loved the way I said “Ailor’s” and “Masaki! Japanese Steak House” in a deep voice whenever we passed those establishments. She once made me a booklet reminiscing some of our early adventures.

Many of our outings ended up at Denny’s located on Merchant’s Road. We closed that place down, almost literally. The last time we ate there it seemed they were out of everything, even straws, as they were in the process of closing down. Whenever I pass or eat at the Denny’s now located on Broadway at the site of the former Ruby Tuesday’s, I again think of Sharon.

Then there was the time that Sharon and I were at Martha Warwick’s house looking at old pictures. I came across a nice, black and white 5” x 7” picture of a group of ladies standing behind a serving table. I commented to Martha what a nice picture of the former cooks at Maynardville Elementary School that was. Here, deduction based on prior knowledge led me astray. I knew that Martha had gone to and worked at Maynardville, and one of the women looked to me like Myrtle Carter, who I knew once worked there as a cook.

Martha said, “I don’t have a picture of the cooks at Maynardville. What picture are you talking about?” I showed her and learned that these were the women who served the reception at Martha’s wedding, and that the woman I mistook for Myrtle Carter was Martha’s mother, Alva Bridges!

I happened upon another picture of a woman sitting in the very chair in Martha’s house that I was at that very moment occupying. I asked, “When was Zella Whited ever in this house?” Martha said, “Never.” I said, “Then who’s this in this picture?” Martha looked at me in astonishment and said, “That’s Sharon!” I asked, “Sharon who?” It was our friend who was at that very moment in the room with us, none other than Sharon McDonald. (I now have eyeglasses and see much better!)

From that moment I called Sharon “Zel”. She had to come up with a name for me. My mother had an acquaintance named Jerry that was somewhat problematic to me, so Sharon started calling me “Jer.” It was always a thrill to get a phone call and hear the voice on the other end say “Jer!” in a smooth, low voice. That could be none other than “Zel”!

Then there was the year that I ate Thanksgiving dinner with Sharon and Ms. Winnie. I believe we ate at the Ryan’s that used to be on Merchant’s Drive. I had just leased a new Saturn, metallic forest green with tan leather seats. Ms. Winnie had baked some pies to take to her sister Mildred, who Sharon described as being exactly like Edith Bunker.

With me in the driver’s seat, Sharon in the front passenger seat, Winnie in the back behind me, and the pies in the back next to Ms. Winnie, we set off to deliver the pies to Aunt Mildred.

When we arrived, Sharon got out to get the pies. In the course of the short journey, they had tipped slightly and some of the filling had run into the back seat. Sharon could handle some colorful language, and like the filling in the back seat, a lot of her strongest colorful language came pouring forth at this time.

“I’ll be --- ------, them --- of a -------- runny --- pies! Just look at that! You’ve ruined Ronnie’s new car!” Expletives continued to pour forth as Sharon returned to the car with towels to wipe up the back seat.

While Sharon took the soiled towels back to Aunt Mildred, there sat Winnie and me, minus for the meantime Sharon and for all time the pies. In the ensuing silence, Ms. Winnie quietly said, “Ronnie, I’m sorry I messed up your car.” I told Ms. Winnie that was fine, it would clean up with no problem, nothing to be worried about. Ms. Winnie said, “In other words, are you saying that ---- happens?”

I laughingly assured her that was exactly what I meant. Ms. Winnie said, “I’ll tell Sharon you said that. It’ll make her feel better.” The remainder of the pies safely delivered, we proceeded on to the only Thanksgiving I ever ate in a public place.

Though the dinner was not nearly as exciting as the trip there, it was an enjoyable experience. No one could be around Sharon and Ms. Winnie without having a good time.

They were just that kind of people.

Perhaps someday I’ll share some more Ms. Winnie and Sharon tales. Until then, I think I’ll just put an “Out of Order” sticker on my forehead and call it a day.