Southern Hospitality

It drives me crazy that I began other blogs some years ago, and because of a combination of computer glitch and my poor expertise in relation to it, I cannot access them any longer so I can add to them. There is DjinnfromtheBronxTwo, and Legacy of a Courtly Curmudgeon, the latter intended to be entirely about my father and his life before, and after, my mother, and to include his writing.  Losing access meant losing momentum, even more so than has the interruption of life's ordinary activities. I have this current blog, DjinnfromtheBronxChapterThree in which I now intend to carry on the entries about and writing of my father. It would be my goal to get EVERYTHING he wrote on the blog, to scan as many photos of him, my mother, me, my relatives, and friends on here, my way of leaving something behind that won't end up in a trash can because I have no descendants. It would be a lot to hope that some of this stuff ends up in a shop somewhere--and that maybe some soul who likes personal histories would pick it up and cherish it, as I have items of people I never knew. But assuming that will not be likely, this is my family/personal archive.

So, today's entry is another of Dad's stories, one that he did in his life history class with Bea Mitz many years ago.  Hence the title of this entry--Southern Hospitality.

Sergeant Greenspan was my friend, an unusual circumstance in the military of 1942, Enlisted men, generally, had no friends in the upper ranks. But the Sergeant and I shared a bond, practically non-existent in South Carolina, land of Magnolias and mint juleps, because of our common roots in the Bronx.  We bonded, if only for the need to communicate in a comprehensible language.  After basic training concluded, passes were given and Greenspan and I made scouting missions to Columbia, the nearest town to our digs at Fort Jackson.  These missions were generally fruitless in terms of scrounging a date.  After several attempts, we decided the best we could hope for in a town outnumbered three to one by soldiers was a butterflied shrimp dinner at a Greek restaurant on Main Street.

So imagine my surprise when Greenspan collared me and announced, "We got dates for Saturday night."  It turned out that the sergeant, whose functions made him privy to select information in the orderly room, preempted an invitation before it could be seen by anyone else.  It read: 'Two girls will entertain a pair of GIs for dinner and Bridge, Saturday evening, eight p.m.'.

"But I don't play Bridge," I protested.  "Never mind," said Greenspan, "I'll teach you some preliminary basics. I don't plan to waste a Saturday night at cards, anyhow."  He was as good as his word. At least he tried. Even though I quickly forgot his Bridge instructions, I decided to trust to Providence that all would go well with this gala evening. 

Saturday night arrived and so did Sergeant Greenspan resplendent in his dress uniform. His trousers had creases that appeared to be permanently installed; his shoes were spit shined.  I could not emulate his sartorial elegance but my uniform was newly starched for the occasion.

It was an evening to splurge. We shared a taxi, avoiding the buses crowded with GI's. We arrived at the address early. Greenspan took time to tell me his "military" plan for the evening.  At precisely one minute before the appointed hour, I knocked on the door of a Civil War vintage frame house.  I heard footsteps approaching the entry.  The door opened slowly and there stood a woman of advanced age, perhaps in her late sixties.

She smiled and called to someone upstairs, "The boys are here Hannah."  Shen then opened the door wide to admit us and added, "The other girl will be down in a minute."