The Many Thoughts of Wanda Kidd

My friend and pastor, Tommy Justus, and I have exchanged hundreds of stories about our quirky families over the years. We both had adopted the mantra of no fear, no shame, and set out to collect stories that others might rather not share. I remember, in my twenties, after an episode in which my sister saw no humor, she said in a half-kidding, half-acusatory voice, “If you tell me one more time what a good story this is going to make, I may have to hurt you.”

Much of our friendship is built on this shared perspective. We are who we are because of our life experiences and the gene pool we swim in, and there is no point in denying or ignoring it. But it does make for some good stories. I remember Johnny Carson saying, “Everyone is good for something, even if it is a bad example.” Tommy and I believe that everyone should feel better about their family after hearing our stories.

It has become clear that he is resistant to writing these stories. I told him there were some I wanted to share, and he said, “Fine.” We will see if my telling motivates him to tell his own. These stories are not secrets. He uses them in his sermons every week. I have begun writing down some introductory sentences he used to set up a story. “Before he went to jail, my cousin was in our wedding.” “There was no party until Uncle Terry showed up with his accordion.” And possibly my favorite, “Since I was a preacher, they let me check my cousin out of jail to go to his daddy’s funeral…”

Anyone who ever wrote a colorful story about a mountain family must have had Tommy Justus’ family in mind. They lived in Dana, near Hendersonville, NC, in a multi-generational quasi-compound surrounded by apple orchards and pumpkin patches. As the youngest of all the cousins, Tommy had a front-row seat to their adolescent and post-adolescent antics.

Most Sunday morning sermons begin with a story that starts, “When I was growing up.” If the story is about his mama, he gets misty-eyed, but if it is about his daddy, his brother, or his cousins, there is a hint of nostalgia, accompanied by disbelief that these things actually happened. I think that last part comes from the expression on the congregant’s face as he tells the story rather than any embarrassment. To family, those events looked normal; it’s only when outsiders raise an eyebrow that you start to wonder whether you’ve been living a life different from others.

These are some notable characteristics of the Justus family.  They are mathematical savants, which allowed them to be engineers, plumbers, and amazing pool sharks, renowned across the county for running the rack.  As it turns out, they were great bridge players, too. Bridge players, you ask?  My thoughts exactly, though their affinity had a Justus twist.

Tommy, my husband, and I were having dinner the other night, and as usual, stories were flowing. Somehow, the subject of bridge came up. I have never played; it is not how my mind works, but the accountant and Tommy kept the stories going. Dan described playing with the same decorum one expects when speaking of bridge clubs. Tables set for four in someone’s seldom-used living room. Finger foods on bridge-themed tableware, and people who politely play, make bids, and “tisk” when their partner does not live up to expectations.

It was a rather boring conversation until Tommy began to talk about how much his brother and cousins loved playing bridge.  I perked up because I could not imagine the people I had heard so much about playing bridge.  The possibilities shattered every image I had of the game.

When Tommy explained the rules for his family’s rendition, I knew it was going to be good. The game’s mathematical complexity seemed to draw them, not the pomp and circumstance that has come to be synonymous with the afternoon women’s gathering. For the Justus family, the challenge of bidding and winning was everything.  

All the guys sat around their grandmother’s table while four of them played.  During these marathon games, as cousins rotated out, another would take their place. The bidding was loud and intense. If someone made an egregious error, the partner would take them out into the yard, and they would come to blows.

Tommy said that after years of watching, his brother and cousins decided he had reached the age of accountability, and they allowed him to participate in a game. No allowance was made for his age or inexperience, so when his attempt at bidding fell short of their standards, they took him out into the yard and roughed him up a bit. Not enough to keep him from returning to the game or to make his elders notice, but enough to instill a deep respect for the art of bridge bidding.

I asked Tommy why his parents allowed him to hang out with this group of hoodlums. They were guys who had run-ins with the law and other dangerous adventures. He said his parents were old and did not want to be bothered by a middle-schooler. They thought being with family was safer than having him on his own. As it turns out, probably not, but he got some great stories, and his psychology classes in college and chaplaincy training in seminary would have missed so many shared examples of his family dynamics.

So when Tommy starts a story with “when I was growing up…” during a sermon, most of us lean in. We not only expect a fresh angle on the Gospel, but we also find consolation in the knowledge that our families’ issues are part of what made us. who we are. Tommy’s stories don’t pretend to polish anyone’s past. They simply invite us to laugh, to forgive, and to feel a little more generous toward each other.