Dixie Divas
At first blush, this might seem like a Christmas tale but soon, you will see the joy of Thanksgiving in it.
When I left home to work in a land far away, Mama said, “I’ll give you the same advice my Daddy gave me when I left the mountains: Forget not to assemble thyself in the house of the Lord.”
Many years later, after I returned to the land of my raising, that advice yielded two wonderful friends. One was Gary Stockton. His story, I’ll tell another day.
Every Sunday morning, I’d slip in the side door, five minutes before the church chimes. Mr. Gene Bobo, 86, arose from his end seat on the second pew, stepped out and welcomed me with a big smile and gentle shoulder pat. I sat between him and Gary who, though at first annoyed that I had invaded his pew, began slipping me hard caramels during service.
Mr. Bobo, a widower, and I developed a strong relationship. “You are the daughter I never had,” he said often, during our weekly dinners. We either dined at his country club or in the dining room of his upscale assisted living facility.
He was tall, broad shouldered, handsome, and a courtly Southern gentleman. He was also quietly brilliant. He had a degree in chemical engineering which he employed during World War II.
Returning from the war, he went to work for a textile company that produced women’s stockings. He advanced quickly, soon managing its mills.
After thinking on it, he approached a fellow engineer. “If we can make stockings with no seam, why couldn’t we use the same technology to make a garment and attach the stockings to it?”
The result was the Leath-Bobo patent which, in 1957, introduced pantyhose to the world.
When Sara Blakely was developing an innovative design, she called Mr. Bobo. He located an American-based company to weave her brainchild.
Thus, he became a godfather of Spanx.
He was never a braggart. His life experiences were told with unassuming humility. One year, the Monday after Thanksgiving, we were having dinner.
“Mr. Bobo, when are you putting up your Christmas tree?” I asked.
He always dressed in a suit and tie when we dined. Smoothing his tie, he chuckled then threw up his hand, dismissively.
“Oh, goodness, I haven’t had a tree since my wife died eight years ago.”
“You have to have a Christmas tree,” I insisted. “I’m fine, dear.”
Three days later, I, and a wonderful young man who often helped me, showed up on Mr.
Bobo’s doorstep. When he opened the door, we hauled in a large six-foot tree, pre-lit with colorful bulbs, and bags of ornaments. Surprised but happy, he directed us to a corner of his large apartment.
He spent the next week insisting that all his neighbors come to see his tree, then he called me. “You will never know the joy this tree has brought me.”
Until he died at 94, two weeks after Tink and I married, I made certain the tree cheered him every year.
Buying a Christmas tree for someone lonely or in a nursing home is a wonderful way to share your Thanksgiving. It’s a simple but powerful kindness.