Free Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

he working today? I’d like to wish him a happy birthday.”
    “Is he working? Well, he’s working but not with the same fervor he had even last week,” Miss Sweetie said, and then whispered, “I’m glad his family’s coming. He’s really slowing down. You know . . .”
    “This could be the last live performance?”
    “Hush! Slow or not slow, he’s been a part of this place for so long, I don’t know what I’d do without him! Follow me. He’s in the butler’s pantry polishing silver. That’s about all he can do these days besides answer the door, and that’s only when he can hear it, poor thing.”
    Mr. Clyde’s length of employment was not unusual. All across the South, old plantations and large properties were peppered with an ancient population tending the gardens, feeding the animals, ironing flat linens like napkins and pillowcases, and, like Mr. Clyde, polishing silver. Historically, these small armies of men and women had worked for cash, so that when retirement age rolled around, the Social Security money they could collect was not enough to sustain even a marginal lifestyle. So they continued to work as long as life and limb cooperated, insisting that work guaranteed their longevity. Families like ours and like Miss Sweetie’s never downsized and moved to condos in Boca. Sell the blood-soaked land our ancestors had died to protect? Never in a million years! We stayed where we were born until we drew our last breath, making sure that our heirs swore the same fealty to the cause.
    Mr. Clyde looked up from the sink when I entered the pantry and he smiled to see me. Amazingly, he still had a full head of white curly hair, which he wore cut close to his scalp. Because silver polish was deadly to remove from clothing, he wore old-fashioned, blue cotton sleeve protectors that covered his arms from his biceps to his wrists. A black canvas apron covered the front of his shirt, tie, and trousers. His wing tips shone like melting licorice and his black-striped necktie was knotted in a full Windsor. I had never seen him without a tie in all my entire life. Mr. Clyde was buffing a small silver tray with an unhurried vengeance and a chamois cloth.
    “Well, good morning, Miss Caroline! How are you this fine day?”
    “Mr. Clyde? I just had to come in here and wish you all the best for your birthday! Miss Sweetie told me you had a big one coming up this weekend!”
    “Well, at my age they all big ones. But I’m still on the right side of the grass and thanking God every day. My daddy? He live to see one hundred and seven years!”
    “My goodness!” I said. “What’s the secret to such a long life?”
    “What’s the secret? Well, I reckon it’s staying busy so you don’t lose your beans, eatin’ right—always have my daily dose of greens, you know—and being happy. Yes, ma’am! Stay happy ’cause it makes your heart want to keep ticking!”
    “I’ll bet you’re right! And that’s it?”
    “Well, before bed I always take me a little nip of Oh Be Joyful to ease my aching bones, but that’s more medicinal than recreational.”
    “And just how many doses does it take to ease your bones?” I giggled and so did Miss Sweetie.
    “Well, now that depends on the ache! Yes, ma’am! That depends on the ache.”
    Mr. Clyde, pleased that his clever remark had amused us, returned his attention to his work and we went on into the kitchen after I wished him well again.
    “He is the dearest man on earth,” Miss Sweetie said, peering into the refrigerator. “Oh, me. Sometimes I stare inside this thing half expecting something to talk to me! Drink me! ”
    “I know just what you mean. Iced water is fine for me. Really.”
    “All right, but I can make us some tea in five minutes.”
    “No. Don’t trouble yourself. Water’s fine. You know, I think all that caffeine can’t be good for me.”
    “Oh, pish! These darned doctors and all their advice! They’d like us all to weigh one hundred pounds and