GLORIA SHACKLETT CHRISTY, Special to The Post
Posted: Sunday, November 2, 2008 6:47 am

GLADYS DEMENT

Writer's note: This is a compilation of many stories over the years that have come down about our beloved, Gladys. My Dad took this photograph of her on her birthday sometime in the late 1970’s. This portrait adorns the walls of City Café along with other treasured town personalities. Without a doubt, she justly was one of those special people who gave color and character to the culture of our community.

Don’t forget to VOTE November 4! It’s your right. It’s your responsibility.

As a warm, November sun was setting, coming into view dimly was a shadowy figure. It was Papa. His boots were covered with a day’s work of barnyard filth and grime. I could not contain myself, so with eager anticipation out of my mouth burst the words, “Papa, are you finally going to take me to the election today?”

With those words, Papa hesitated and looked down at me. His eyes were filled with anxious uncertainty, so he responded unenthusiastically, “You know, Son, the Square is no place for a youngster on election night!”

That was not the answer I wanted, consequently, I began to banter back, “Why?” I asked reluctantly knowing it was not in my best interest to disagree with Papa.

“It just ain’t a good place, Son. I don’t have to tell you, ‘Why!’ I want you to stay here with your Mother tonight and that’s all that I want to hear about this,” he declared decisively.

“But, Papa, I just want to know what an election is. You and Mama have talked about it so much,” I couldn’t resist a response, yet I know that any reasoning and pleading with Papa would simply get me nowhere. All I wanted to know is what all the fuss was all about. Why was Papa going all the way to town on a Tuesday night?

Papa lovingly scuffed my fuzzy head and said, “You’ll know soon enough about elections. I promise that I will take you to the Courthouse when you get just a little older.”

 Well, I was ten and was convinced that I was old enough.

While Papa went into the house to say good-bye to Mama, I crawled into the back seat of our 1940 Ford. Even though I knew the consequences of this action would come to no good, I curled up into the floorboard and lay as quiet as a mouse, trying to blend with the carpet and become invisible.

Moments later with one maneuver, Papa strode purposefully out of the house, started the car, and headed to town. Unavoidably, I remember that the pungent smell of barnyard muck was inescapable. For some reason, Papa drove faster than usual making the ride to town difficult as the car turned from one side then another cross the gravel road tossing my ten-year-old frame back and forth. Even so, I lay extremely still determined to stay silent and undetected.  Indeed, I was unwavering about my curiosity to discover what an election was.

Our car came to a stop on the Square in front of Lamb’s grocery on the East Side. I could see the top of the Courthouse in the twilight mist, now that the sun had completely set. Papa was in such a hurry that he jumped from the car and never noticed me huddled on the floor in the back seat.

I could hear several men talking loudly as they gathered at the Kerr and Martin Drug Store a few doors down. I was drawn to the sound, so I lifted my head and began peeking out the window of the car. Both of the men gazed attentively at a huge board with numbers on it. One man had a very long pole with what appeared to be a number attached. Another man seemed to be telling him when to change the numbers on the board. They began arguing and yelling at each other. Some other men clustered around passing a bottle of some kind of clear liquid.  As everyone took a big gulp from the bottle, it seemed that the crowd got angrier and angrier. When the numbers changed, the crowd became more rowdy.  I could smell a pungent aroma from those who were engaged in the imbibing. Something seemed to elevate the emotion of the moment into a frenzy of noise and agitation. Without warning, a fight broke out spontaneously.  Before I realized that I would be revealing myself, I yelled, too.

Startled by a familiar, youthful voice, Papa’s face turned toward the sound of my screeching and noticed me peering out of the window of the car. Without hesitation, he walked over to the car, opened the door, and grabbed my hand firmly.

Snatching me with one swoop out to of the car, Papa declared in his most stern voice, “Son, so if you want to know what an election is so bad just come on—but stay close to me, okay?”

We walked briskly to the doorway of Lamb’s Grocery. Then Papa began pointing across the street to the Courthouse where a lady with a funny hat sat watching the events on the bench, “Now, Son, I want to introduce you to my friend, Gladys Dement,” said Papa with a twinkle in his eye.

Inside the grocery, Papa grabbed a fist full of saltine crackers from a wooden box, “Cut me some cheese,” he directed Mr. Lamb. With our snack in hand, we walked across the street to the Courthouse and over to the wooden bench where we sat down right beside this curious woman. She began to speak, “Sittin’ on the preachin’ side tonight, eh?”  Gladys asked, eyeing Papa’s saltines and cheese.

“Yep!” said Papa, “I believe the Sheriff’s gonna lose, Gladys.”

“No way!” Gladys declared emphatically. “Sheriff’s gonna win this one.”

“Now, son,” Papa smiled, “Gladys is never, ever wrong about an election. She can call ‘um every time!”

“Why is this side the preachin” side?” I pondered to myself not knowing that every Saturday night each corner of the Square was alive with loud, evangelistic preaching.

By now, more men had gathered in groups around the Courthouse. Their laughter was punctuated by bouts of sporadic anger and foul language. With all those expletives, I knew Mama would not like it if she could have heard what was falling on my tender ears.

All of a sudden, a very angry man got in his car and sped away spraying a cloud of pebbles and dust. The rowdiness escalated into an outright brawl. While munching on a few crackers, Gladys calmly mumbled, “There’s no need for this all this uproar. The Sheriff will win tonight. Wait for the vote in Windrow and Rockvale.”

 Papa began to explain that he’d better get home before Mama missed me and got worried.

“Gladys, I better go. My wife will just kill me if she knew that my son was down here!”

“That’s a shame, Guy. You don’t need to leave before the election results are in, do you? You better stick around!” Gladys reiterated her prognostication with even more of a determined zeal.

Papa explained, “Well, I guess that I’ll just have to read the results in that ole Home Journal ‘cause I will be in a big mess if I don’t get my youngun’ home.”

I must admit from my first impressions of my first Election Day were not positive, but just as Gladys predicted, next day the headlines read:

SHERIFF WINS BY A NARROW MARGIN!

From that day on, Gladys earned the reputation for being the most reliable election prognosticator for more than 40 years.