Coach Ryder had scheduled junior high basketball practice over the Christmas Holidays. Those who wished not to be perpetual bench warmers would be wise to attend. Thus, I begged my parents to let me stay in Lewisburg rather than attend a funeral and then an extended stay in North Carolina. I asked my close buddy and fellow basketball teammate, Dave Gladwell, if his family could put me up for a few days. It was agreed, and I moved into the Gladwell house for a few most eventful days.
What happened, in fact, was both the most horrifying and hilarious event in my young life to that point.
I’ll explain.
Arthur Gladwell was the mayor of Lewisburg, a very dignified man, but one with a great sense of humor. He and I were always kidding one another about politics, since he was a lifelong Democrat and I preferred the loyal opposition.
One evening after basketball practice, we sat down to dinner, Dave and I on one side of the table and Mr. and Mrs. Gladwell directly across from us. I can’t recall what we had for dinner, but it was good. Mrs. Gladwell was a great cook.
I absolutely remember what was for dessert, though. Mrs. Gladwell had baked a homemade pumpkin pie and put a slice in front of each of us. Pumpkin pie, of course, demands whipped cream and our hostess then produced a fresh can of Reddi Whip. Mr. Gladwell squirted a healthy portion on his pie and then passed it to me across the table. I proceeded to squirt a nice high pile on my pie, and then, being a gracious guest and since I had the squirting pressure down pat, I was preparing to squirt some Reddi Whip on Dave’s pie. But Dave didn’t want any cream on his pumpkin pie and while I was pressing the nozzle down, Dave abruptly pushed the can up, sending a generous stream of Reddi Whip across the table and all over Mr. Gladwell’s shirt, tie, coat and face.
“Dammit, Butch,” he blurted out. Butch was Dave’s nickname, by the way.
Dave and I sat in stunned silence as Mr. Gladwell began wiping away what must have been a half can of Reddi Whip from his person. It was at that moment we got tickled. While we should have been mortified, and we were, a little, we tried our best to muffle the guffaws before breaking out into uncontrolled laughter. Mrs. Gladwell started laughing and Mr. Gladwell joined in. I don’t know how long we laughed, but I could hardly breathe I laughed so hard.
My parents came home the next day and never knew about the Reddi Whip Massacre, and I kept that little incident to myself.
Over the years, Dave and I would spend many additional nights at my house and his, but Mrs. Gladwell never again served us pumpkin pie.