One of my brothers just called to tell me that Rebecca Coggin died, which of course saddened me.
As my readers know, I’m a mean old snake, an unrepentant sinner, and a thoroughly bad apple. But every now and then I get hit by a wave of sentimentality—indeed, one might call it romanticism—thinking about a world that no longer exists.
I’ve never understood why so many people have such negative feelings about their childhoods and blame their parents for emotional trauma that lingers throughout their lives. Maybe I was just unusually lucky, but the older I get, the more appreciative I am not just of my parents, but of the people who surrounded me and my family. I’ve always been fascinated by Arthurian-legend. Too bad we know so little about that “golden” age. I feel as though I grew up in a special age too, and I want posterity to know about it. I wish my children could have experienced it.
Rebecca was a very accomplished tennis player. If I’m not mistaken, she played on the tennis team at Sweet Briar. The Coggins had a tennis court in their backyard. Once, when I was 14, I knocked on their door to see if Rebecca wanted to hit some balls. Our nickname for her was “Arthurina.” We Virginians are proud people, and having one of our own—Arthur Ashe—as one of the best tennis players in the world gave rise to Rebecca’s moniker.
Mrs. Coggin immediately called Marshall to come over—their family had owned the local newspaper since right after the “Late Unpleasantness” of 1865—and his office was not 1,000 yards away. Within a few minutes, Marshall was home, and Mrs. Coggin (Mary) had brought out brownies, cookies, and a giant pitcher of lemonade.
Mr. Coggin had been a decorated Marine fighter pilot in the Pacific. He was the best storyteller I’ve ever known. Just thinking about him makes me laugh. Somehow, he had come home from the war with a Vought F4U Corsair. My father, a young lawyer and also a recent combat veteran, was first introduced to Marshall because Mr. Coggin dive-bombed him (barely missing) several times as Dad was driving along country roads. That was Marshall’s way of introducing himself.
On that day, I remember so clearly, Marshall was wearing a seersucker suit, bow tie and a straw hat. The Coggins exhibited such hospitality and such erudite gentility that folks today, watching a video of that afternoon, would assume they were caricatures playing a Gone With the Wind–type role. But that’s the way things truly were.
As Arthurina and I hit volley after volley, the Coggins would clap politely and issue compliments: “Nice shot,” “Beautiful backhand,” “Lovely swing.” Their voices—never overly loud—made a rhythmic sound that I imagine honey would make if it could speak. They had those old Tidewater Virginia accents and polished mannerisms.
I was hitting the ball well and starting to get a bit cocky. I approached the net and was returning shot after shot rather cavalierly and in a gentlemanly manner, making sure Rebecca didn’t have to work too hard to return each one.
Then it happened! I was a little too cavalier when Arthurina hit a screecher a quarter of an inch above the net. It hit me right in the gonads. I went down. I was in pain. I’m going to be a eunuch! I couldn’t just pop up and shake it off like I might have done on the JV football team.
Well, at that time in the Northern Neck of Virginia, one could not acknowledge in front of ladies that one had a pair of nuts. It was taboo. Ladies weren’t supposed to know such things. As Mrs. Coggin and Rebecca suddenly had a case of the vapors, they hurried inside, hiding their flushed faces and fleeing from the scene where one might encounter the reality of testicles.
Mr. Coggin helped me up, brushed me off, and said, “Boy, I think you better go on home.”
As my readers know, I’m a mean old snake, an unrepentant sinner, and a thoroughly bad apple. But every now and then I get hit by a wave of sentimentality—indeed, one might call it romanticism—thinking about a world that no longer exists.
I’ve never understood why so many people have such negative feelings about their childhoods and blame their parents for emotional trauma that lingers throughout their lives. Maybe I was just unusually lucky, but the older I get, the more appreciative I am not just of my parents, but of the people who surrounded me and my family. I’ve always been fascinated by Arthurian-legend. Too bad we know so little about that “golden” age. I feel as though I grew up in a special age too, and I want posterity to know about it. I wish my children could have experienced it.
Rebecca was a very accomplished tennis player. If I’m not mistaken, she played on the tennis team at Sweet Briar. The Coggins had a tennis court in their backyard. Once, when I was 14, I knocked on their door to see if Rebecca wanted to hit some balls. Our nickname for her was “Arthurina.” We Virginians are proud people, and having one of our own—Arthur Ashe—as one of the best tennis players in the world gave rise to Rebecca’s moniker.
Mrs. Coggin immediately called Marshall to come over—their family had owned the local newspaper since right after the “Late Unpleasantness” of 1865—and his office was not 1,000 yards away. Within a few minutes, Marshall was home, and Mrs. Coggin (Mary) had brought out brownies, cookies, and a giant pitcher of lemonade.
Mr. Coggin had been a decorated Marine fighter pilot in the Pacific. He was the best storyteller I’ve ever known. Just thinking about him makes me laugh. Somehow, he had come home from the war with a Vought F4U Corsair. My father, a young lawyer and also a recent combat veteran, was first introduced to Marshall because Mr. Coggin dive-bombed him (barely missing) several times as Dad was driving along country roads. That was Marshall’s way of introducing himself.
On that day, I remember so clearly, Marshall was wearing a seersucker suit, bow tie and a straw hat. The Coggins exhibited such hospitality and such erudite gentility that folks today, watching a video of that afternoon, would assume they were caricatures playing a Gone With the Wind–type role. But that’s the way things truly were.
As Arthurina and I hit volley after volley, the Coggins would clap politely and issue compliments: “Nice shot,” “Beautiful backhand,” “Lovely swing.” Their voices—never overly loud—made a rhythmic sound that I imagine honey would make if it could speak. They had those old Tidewater Virginia accents and polished mannerisms.
I was hitting the ball well and starting to get a bit cocky. I approached the net and was returning shot after shot rather cavalierly and in a gentlemanly manner, making sure Rebecca didn’t have to work too hard to return each one.
Then it happened! I was a little too cavalier when Arthurina hit a screecher a quarter of an inch above the net. It hit me right in the gonads. I went down. I was in pain. I’m going to be a eunuch! I couldn’t just pop up and shake it off like I might have done on the JV football team.
Well, at that time in the Northern Neck of Virginia, one could not acknowledge in front of ladies that one had a pair of nuts. It was taboo. Ladies weren’t supposed to know such things. As Mrs. Coggin and Rebecca suddenly had a case of the vapors, they hurried inside, hiding their flushed faces and fleeing from the scene where one might encounter the reality of testicles.
Mr. Coggin helped me up, brushed me off, and said, “Boy, I think you better go on home.”
I mention this story to illustrate how innocent the times were, and how it was a world filled with graceful manners and extreme hospitality. I miss that world—not because I wish I were 14 again, but because it was a good world, a healthy world, one whose qualities we need today.
I flew back to Richmond from San Diego last week. Jesus! Grown men in their pajamas, wearing Crocs. Obese women in sweatpants looking like they just won a national ugly contest. It depresses me. It used to be much different.
I remember, when I was just a little older than 14, Dad saying, “Son, wherever you go in this world, you are a representative of the Commonwealth of Virginia and our family. Wear a coat and tie when you fly.” I know to many ears this sounds saccharine, but isn’t being proud of your family and where you’re from the essence of hospitality? Aren’t good manners the glue that binds a civil society?
It was a very social world of extreme hospitality. No doors were ever locked, and during those pre-college days there were a score of houses you could just enter and make yourself at home. One called many “uncle” or “cousin,” even though they were neither your uncle nor cousin. I think I miss the accents the most. Many were beautiful, mellifluous, and melodious, and they varied slightly based on living just a couple of counties away. It saddens me that people have lost their regionalism, a remnant of a culture that took centuries to build.
I know really nice people, whom I am quite fond of, from all over the world. But when I hear those old Tidewater Virginia accents—those that are still around—I immediately feel a comforting bond and a connection of extreme trust. I have not one unhappy memory from back in those days.
I hope the pendulum swings back to the world of Mary, Marshall, and Rebecca Coggin, and I hope that before it does, my children ( and theirs) can have some of the experiences I had living in that world.
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