Gazing Across a Generation

Fall mornings in Augusta can be heavenly. This morning was a special gift to its denizens.

I took a new white shirt from the package and ironed it as my bath water was running. I pressed the flap of my charcoal suit's pocket, to remove the crease that had been formed by it being tucked into the pocket since last fall. I polished my wing tips. After a nice bath, I dressed, choosing the subtle blue-and-black checked tie. (When I am dressed like this, I always think of the Kevin Costner character in "The Big Chill" - I think his name was Alex.) As I backed out of the drive, I felt at once presentable and riddled with trepidation.

When I entered the churchyard, flanked by ancient grave markers of Episcopalians long-departed, the choir was moving from the parish hall toward the narthex. I traded my closed-lipped smiles and nods for the open expressions of welcome from members who have known me for several years, as I slipped into the sanctuary at the eastward doors.

As I made my way down the side, Starkey Flythe greeted me. "Hello, young man. Nice to see you." We talked briefly, then he shook my hand and turned toward the church's front to find a seat. As I prepared to take my seat, Mary-Kathleen came up behind me and churchshouted "Holden! It's wonderful to see you!" We shared a loving hug, then talked for several minutes, before she left to assume her deaconing duties.

I slid into the pew near the back, adjacent to where the Starkmeister and I had chatted. As I pulled out the prayer cushion, footfall caused me to look to my right. It was Starkolopolis. He mentioned something about not wanting to have to sit with a parishioner, pulled out a cushion, and knelt to pray. The two of us were there alone with a good view of things, and no one too nearby. As the processional began, I turned to my left to greet the banners, cross, and choir. There came a familiar pat on my right shoulder. "Hello, old friend." Ed Rice! He had been invited to Miranda Boulous's christening. This was going to be more pleasant with my dear friend accidentally at my side.

All of my bambini sat near the front with their mother, their step siblings, their Aunt Carolyn, and Kristin Pratt. Grace held Mackenzie. Eric joined them. I enjoyed watching them from where I was, regarding them as people in church - as any other person might.

The service moved along crisply. Old and New Testament readings were delivered with aplomb. The retired bishop of the Gulf Coast diocese delivered a folksy homily, emphasizing that we give love as love and as wealth. (Former Rector Donald Fishburn used to say "time, talent, treasures".)

Those to be baptized, their parents, and godparents were called to the altar rail. Grace, Eric, Mackenzie, and Kristin joined the group. So did Laura, Sarah, and Isaac. (Janice, Carolyn and the Whiting kids walked up, but were shooshed away by the mother-hen mother, Gracious.) The rite was begun. After the pledges of support, "With God's help, we will" from the congregation, the seven young people were carried to the rear of the sanctuary, where the baptismal font had been placed.

"Would you like to join me?" I asked Ed, as I made my way from the pew.

"Yes, if you want me to."

"It's important, Ed. And I very much would like you there with me."

We made our way toward the assembling mass. I would guess there were sixty people surrounding the font. Laura and Sarah called out, "Dad! Over here!" Ed and I navigated through the crowd, and stood behind those two and Isaac. Janice, Carolyn, and Grace were ahead of us, with Mackenzie and Eric. I put my left hand on the small of Laura's back, and my right in the same place on Sarah's. Ike stood directly in front of me, his backside in solid contact with my front. I felt fulfilled. Our family was there, and we were strong.

I looked over the heads of Grace and those around her, over the font, and directly across the circle. Occupying a position in the circle, 180 degrees from mine, stood my neighbor of 21 years, Bryan Haltermann. Here, on the same morning, in the same church, two friends, partners, and neighbors were joined at a baptismal font by our first grandchildren.

We are both Yankees, who married fair-skinned, creative Augusta girls. We are both divorced for reasons that are not dissimilar. We both have three daughters. (Isaac is the only boy besides Bryan and me in the equation.) Our children have all had to adjust to a life in two households, and the negative impacts on all are apparent. (Bryan divorced first. I remember saying to him one day, after Harriet was gone, and as Janice was beginning her departure, "We'll raise these kucking fids by ourselves." Bryan has approached parenting and marriage in a more-traditional and conventional fashion than have I. He looked at me wryly. I hope, though, that he understood that I meant what I said.)

Bryan has had to adjust to his daughter's Cazenove's adult life. I've had to adjust to my daughter Grace entering adult life while still a child. (It was Cazenove that I mentioned in "You Can't Tell the Players Without a Scorecard", when I went to visit her husband Paul at his Oriental rug business.) Eric was in the circle, too. I had met him earlier in the week. It is always an adjustment to go from not knowing a person to knowing him.

The first time I did anything with Bryan was in the late Fall of 1983. Cazenove was about 2, Mary Bryan was a newborn. Laura was waiting to hatch in the coming June. There had been a cold snap, and some supply pipes had burst in a cottage Bryan had renovated up on Milledge. We worked at the repair and talked a bit. There seemed to be no pressure to get to know one another. Just two guys replacing a couple of siding boards, talking. My strongest recollection of that day was Bryan's response to my query, "Where'd you go to school." He was working on the siding, and didn't turn to answer.

"Yale." Such a short answer! I heard in his tone a tint that approached apology. To say that his reply was unassuming would be to overstate. My response to his reply was chatty. I said something like, "Wow! Great school." But his tone made the topic a closed one.

He and I built a studio for Nancy Mills.

Then we renovated two buildings downtown - at Fifth and Walker, and on Greene next to the "Ghetto Gurley's" grocery store.

It was to the porch at that Greene Street house that Harriet came to interrupt my work as I replaced a couple of sills. "You'd better go to the hospital; Janice is about to have that baby."

Through the years, Bryan has been the visionary and practical leader of the rebirth of downtown Augusta. He took a year to attend Columbia, completing a Masters in Real Estate Development, with an emphasis on just what he has done. He has served or is serving on virtual every non-profit board of any organization in any way associated with downtown. He has photographed and written an architectural field guide of Augusta. I think that it would be appropriate to some day rename Broad Street between Seventh and 13th "Haltermann Way". It was the Haltermann way that has made it happen, and it is the Haltermann way to further growth and development. When you drive downtown, and you note the alternate names for the numbered streets, you will find that 11th Street is "Cumming". Henry Cumming was the first mayor of Augusta. Henry is Bryan's 6-great grandfather. It would be so fitting to have an intersection of Cumming and Haltermann Way for Miranda Boulous to appreciate as her young life unfolds.

If our lives are enriched in relation to our coming in contact with remarkable folks, a significant aspect of my enrichment has been knowing Bryan well. There he was, and there I was, two fossils cast nearby one another in an emotional and ritualistic tableau, with our jointly cherished companion Ed serving as our second.

Afterward, in the churchyard, the congregation sipped lemonade and fussed over the new Christians spread thereabouts. A nice man with a beautiful open smile walked up to us as Mackenzie and I posed for photographs for Kristin's mother. "Are you the proud grandfather?"

"I'm Holden."