Let Me Call You Sweetheart

During my senior year of college I met the most interesting classmate in my historical geology class. He was 88 years old and a bit of a dinosaur himself! He decided that he would be my lab partner that semester and we studied rocks, fossils and topographic maps together. Because of the class, Francis and I formed a friendship that might have appeared unusual to others but didn't concern us in the least.

I would visit him at his old Southern Antebellum home in Montmorenci and we would play croquet in his back yard. I helped him separate his candy-stripe amaryllis plants and he gave me bags of the plants to take home. They have since multiplied many times over and I enjoy the antique blooms every year. He gave me a tiny Magnolia tree that was an offshoot of a much larger one in his yard. A few years ago, the tree finally displayed its large fragrant blooms in my parent’s yard.

I would drive his ancient blue car with only lap restraints along Highway 78 to Blackville, SC each Thursday just so he could eat at the local Mennonite restaurant. Although I would fret about the lack of updated seat belts, Francis would just smile and tell me stories about the towns we passed along the way. He would point out the old farms that had long ago been replaced by newer structures and housing developments. He explained that when Highway 78 had been widened many years before, they didn't do it properly and that is why there is the annoying "crack" the entire length of the road on either side. Even to this day it is an awkward decision as whether to attempt to straddle the gap and risk running off the road or avoid it by hugging the center line as close as possible. Francis's stories always made the drive to Miller's Bread Basket pass by quickly and pleasantly. Years later, when I taught school in Blackville, some of my teacher friends would boost me out of a classroom window so I could pick up our lunch orders that we had placed via my cell phone. One of our favorite rules to break was the "do not leave campus rule".

Francis told me about the day he had arrived in the tiny town of Williston, SC. He had driven all night from his home in Maryland and visited his friend's home just to meet the girl he would later marry. When he reached his destination, he learned that she was on a date with another fellow. Somehow, it still worked out and they were married a few months later. He spoke fondly of his wife who had passed away many years before. She achieved multiple degrees and even worked for a prestigious government agency in Washington, DC.

My fondest memories of Francis involve the piano. Francis was an incredible piano player and loved to play duets. The two of us would share a bench for hours playing all of his favorite tunes. He preferred the lower keys and I played the higher ones. His favorite duet was a very old tune entitled "Let Me Call You Sweetheart". He wanted me to know how to play this song so much and he didn't have sheet music for it. I remember the day I arrived at his home for one of our "jam sessions" and he excitedly waved a few sheets of paper at me. Francis had carefully drawn lines on the paper with musical notes. Across the top in his shaky spidery handwriting he wrote "Let Me Call You Sweetheart". He did this for me.

Several months ago I was organizing my sheet music stash and came across the familiar pages, now more than fifteen years old. As I played a few of the notes on my piano I became a bit sad. He never wrote down his part of the music - just mine. I guess he figured that he would always be around to play it with me.