Whatever is honorable . . . think on these things.

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One hundred years ago today my grandparents-in-law, Earl and Maggie Notgrass, became the parents of a little boy, the only child they would ever have. They named him Wesley Biddle Notgrass.

Wesley grew up in Columbia, Tennessee, where his daddy worked as a buyer for a local department store and his mother took in sewing and made pies for a local restaurant. Every so often Earl went on a buying trip to New York City for the department store, and whenever he got a chance, he traveled to Civil War battlefields and picked up relics. When my husband Ray visited his grandparents growing up, their foyer was filled (and I mean filled) with rifles and pistols and ammunition and bayonets picked up on those battlefields.

Earl never quite got over the South losing that war, perhaps because his grandfather was wounded at the Battle of Fort Donelson and died at some unknown location as he tried to make his way back home to Maury County. If any of your children have read Co. Aytch while studying our high school American history, they might like to know that its author Sam Watkins was also from Maury County.

Wesley grew up loved, but not coddled. On his birthday, his parents placed ten dimes around the edge of his plate. On hot summer Sundays, he sat on the ice cream freezer while his parents turned the crank. On occasion the little family went to see relatives on Knob Creek. Once a year they took a trip to the cool and beautiful mountains of East Tennessee.

When Wesley grew up, he and his father shared an interest in going to the movies in Columbia, though Earl only wanted to watch movies about men doing things men do. They rode the train to Nashville and then took the streetcar downtown when “Gone with the Wind” came to Nashville. It was too important a picture to wait until it came to Columbia.

Wesley began carrying papers for The Daily Herald when he was a boy; and, except for his four-year-one-month-and-seven-day stint in the Army from 1941 to 1945, he continued his career with the Herald until he retired in his sixties. One of his first customers was the widow of a Confederate soldier. My husband’s daddy delivered papers to a Confederate widow! That makes me feel like the Civil War wasn’t so very long ago.

When Wes grew up, he enjoyed tap dancing, movies, going to downtown Columbia on a Saturday night, and playing the glockenspiel in a community band. He was always a snappy dresser and had a regular account at a local men’s store.

Wes continued living at home until the United States government invited him to join the Army in 1941. Before he left home, a friend told him that he would start cussing and drinking and smoking when he got in the Army. He bet the friend $5 that he would not pick up those habits. He could have collected that money at the end of the war. Problem wasn’t that he lost the bet; problem was that he couldn’t find the other guy to collect.

Tomorrow Ray’s brother and his wife are planning to come to Gainesboro so that we can celebrate the 100th anniversary of the birth of a baby boy who decided to live an honorable life in countless ways–faithful husband, Sunday School teacher, fill-in preacher, devoted employee, fun daddy and granddaddy, loving father-in-law. I’m thankful that I knew Wesley Biddle Notgrass and that I can think about someone honorable today.

Finally, brethren whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right,
whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute,
if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise,
let your mind dwell on these things.
Philippians 4:8

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