I know lots of older people. I get many of my best stories and inspiration from them. One of my best buddies is Henry Gaddy from Kannapolis. He is a dapper, bow tie-wearing fellow who always has an ever-ready smile and a cheery greeting. I stopped in to see him last week. As usual, we talked about the weather — it was hot as Hades and Hurricane Irene was bearing down on the coast for the weekend.
Then we talked about his garden. Henry has redefined what is possible for seniors and gardening. The heat has burned up his garden this summer. Henry’s garden is usually the envy of the neighborhood. He has supplied garden-grown groceries to his friends for many years. However, he has been threatening to quit gardening lately. This terrible season may finally drive him from the backyard farming he has been doing for a very long time.
Oh, did I mention that Henry is 97 years old?
Eventually he and I get around to talking a bit about health, old times, and good memories. We swap a yarn or two. Our tales are more or less factual. As we wound down our time together, Henry told me about a woman living in the mountains of western North Carolina. She is in her 90s and in generally good health. She hasn’t ever been to see a doctor. Her secret is that she has used traditional herbal remedies to stay healthy — ginseng, witch hazel, etc.
Mountain folk call ginseng “sang.” (They also call singing “sangin’.” I know this because I am a mountain person.) She collects these plants from the mountains around her. But she hasn’t been feeling real pert (another mountain phrase) recently. She finally gave in to the urging of others and paid a visit to a doctor.
The doctor examined her and listened to her account of how she had treated her ailments through her 90 years. He was truly interested in the secret to her longevity and the fact that she had been without the services of modern medicine. He thought that anything is possible these days. He asked her, “Have you ever been bed-ridden?”
She replied, “Yeah, twice in a buggy!” That pretty much ended the examination!
I had a joyful prayer with Henry as I always do. As I turned toward the door to leave, Henry, gallant gentleman that he is, said, “Now, don’t you tell that story to your wife.” I asked him if I could tell it to you, dear readers, of this blessed blurb. He said that would be fine. As I stepped out the door, I said back over my shoulder, “See you at church Sunday.” He replied that he wouldn’t be there because his bad leg was making it too hard to walk. As I walked to my car, I whispered, “Lord, please fix Henry’s leg.”
Two of my long-time friends are Frank and Rosa Winfree. They and Judy and I share our wedding anniversaries, Dec. 18. We’ve been married 50 years. Frank is a white man and Rosa is a Native American woman. They are both authorities on Indian history and culture. Frank told me last week about how Indians are amused by dumb questions white people ask about Indian life. He said a white fellow asked an Indian guy about Indian hygiene: “How do you folk bathe?”
The Indian replied: “Well, most of the time we start at the top our heads and wash down as far as possible. Then we start at the bottom of our feet and wash up as far as possible. Then we wash possible.”
I’m rethinking possible today. We know that all things are possible with God. When the impossible happens, we call it a miracle. When lots of miracles happen we eventually begin to call them possibilities. I used to say that I live from one miracle to the next. I now say that I live from one possibility to the next, thank God!
Harold Bales is a certified story-teller of all things Southern Fried. He’s also a retired Methodist minister who lives in Kannapolis. Contact him at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .
