A Spelling Tradition

by Stephen Leon Alligood

Every fall on the first Friday night in October, when other communities get together for high school football, the people of Smith Chapel, Tenn., gather to spell, as they have every year since 1945.

Residents and former residents of this small hamlet mark the date of the annual Smith Chapel Spelling Bee on their calendars so they won’t miss the fun, the friends, and the tradition of watching Vestal Jaquess turn red-faced as he spells “goose.”

Many years ago, it seems, he tripped on the word, and the Smith Chapel crowd has a long memory. “They’ll never let me lay that one down,” says Jaquess, a round-faced man with a deep laugh as rolling as the surrounding central Tennessee hills. In his pocket is his “lucky” buckeye, which he rubs like crazy with his thumb as it nears his turn.

On this particular chilly night, 44 spellers are present, about average for recent years. They come from distant towns, as well as from just down the gravel lane.

“This is part of our heritage,” says Opal Burris, who, as many others in the room, has family ties to the whitewashed, wood-floored building that once was a church but now has become a community center.

On spelling bee night the one-room building is an oasis of yellow light, spilling out from tall windows onto the headstones of the community cemetery, where many spellers past rest in peace.

“It’s a way that we have some clean fun. You can’t break any laws by spelling, but you can have a good laugh,” adds Burris, longtime chairman of the bee and a perennial word pronouncer.

Enduring custom

That the spelling tradition thrives at Smith Chapel would no doubt bring a smile to Lee Grimsley and Edgar Phillips, the two friends who started the contest in 1945. They were men who appreciated a correctly spelled word. Grimsley was a postal worker; Phillips, a teacher.

Her father would be honored that the community takes its spelling seriously, says Velma Flatt, Grimsley’s daughter and annual bee participant. “My father was particular about spelling,” she says.

The inaugural event took place around Thanksgiving 1945. An early snow fell that year, and participants huddled around a pot-bellied stove for warmth. The next year, the bee was moved to its first Friday night in October date to avoid the cold.

“And that’s where we’ve been ever since. It’s one of those traditions that you don’t dare change,” Burris says.

In early decades, the spelling bee was taken a bit more seriously. At one time, bragging rights for the coming year were at stake. Spellers were eliminated until only one remained.

Today’s spelling contest at Smith Chapel takes on a kinder, gentler tone. Spellers play as a team, led by volunteer or nominated captains who choose their teams on the spot. “I want the goose man,” says Linda Smith to begin the draw. “Worst mistake you’ve ever made,” quips the good-natured Vaquess, moving to his seat.

The game is played by forming a square of church pews near the front of the room. Each captain chooses from the crowd until each team has two sides of the square filled. Scorekeepers, meanwhile, are positioned at opposing corners.

With the teams selected, two word pronouncers begin at opposite corners, giving out words to spell. If the player misspells, the word goes to the next person in line. If he correctly spells the word, then the second speller gets to “turn down” the first by moving ahead on the bench toward the scorekeeper. Each time a team member passes a scorekeeper, a point is earned for that team. “It’s a little complicated at first, but people catch on,” Flatt says.

While the rules have changed over the last half-century, the list of words hasn’t. The Progressive Course in Spelling, also known as the “red back speller” because of its crimson cover, is the sole authority. Burris’ copy of the 1904 book is so worn the spine of the thin volume is held together by duct tape.

When it’s not their turn, spellers catch up on community news. “You see people that you might not see but once a year,” says former resident Harry Horner, who started attending the bee when he was in elementary school. “It about died out when I was in college. I’m glad it’s kept going. We need traditions.”

‘This is not easy’

As is customary with a spelling bee, the words start out easy and become progressively more difficult through the evening. Every year at Smith Chapel one word unfailingly catches the crowd by surprise. Tonight the word is “rhinoceros.”

Six spellers offer their incorrect versions. Then, first-timer Karen Doxtater gets it right. As she moves up the bench, fellow spellers award her with applause.

Meanwhile, fourth-grader Matthew Phillips, who sports a head of red hair and a freckled face, slides through “autobiography,” proving the young ones can spell with the big boys. Matthew, who has been participating in the spelling bee since first grade, appears relieved when he’s done. “I don’t like to get the big words,” he says.

The pronouncers make their way around the square, dispensing words such as “endeavor,” “numerous,” “serious,” and “ointment.” At Jaquess, the word is “oriole.” He appears genuinely perplexed.

“Is it a cookie or a bird?” the gooseman asks. From the little church, a roar of laughter erupts. Told the word is a bird, Jaquess correctly spells “oriole.”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask, believe me,” he says.

In fact, many of the adults, some of them removed a half-century or more from elementary spelling lessons, mouth words over and over, hoping for a flash of inspiration. They stall for time, asking for definitions and use in a sentence.

“This is not easy,” says Leanne Gober, a Chicago native who moved to Tennessee about four years ago. “I’ve never seen anything like this at all.”

Before the two-hour spelling session is over, spellers are “turned down” all around the square. Burris halts the game when the score is tied at 13-all. “So everyone will go home a winner,” she says.

But before everyone leaves, the spelling bee ends as it always has in recent years by calling on Roy Phillips, 89, to spell the night’s stumper. It’s not a word, but a French phrase: honi soit qui mal y pense.

Phillips, who is blind, is assisted to square center, where he stands in his houndstooth cap, thumb on the strap of his Liberty overalls, and rattles off the 20 letters to the crowd’s delight—especially to Matthew, his grandson.

What does it mean? Essentially, “evil to him who does evil,” Phillips explains. “That was in my spelling book back in 1920. I learned it then, and I never forgot it.”

Spelling season over, the crowd files out into the brisk fall night, taking with them a fresh apple, their reward for participating. But not before electing Burris, much to her protest, as chairman of the annual event.

“Don’t you want somebody else?” she asks. But she’s happy to oblige, she says later. “I really don’t mind,” she says. “This is such a wonderful tradition we have going, and I’m happy to be a part of it.”

Jaquess pockets his “lucky” buckeye, which saw him through his annual rendition of “goose,” but failed him on “porcupine.”

“See you next year,” he says.

At the Smith Chapel Spelling Bee, there’s always next year.

Stephen Leon Alligood writes from his home in Middle Tennessee, where a dictionary is in every room.

first appeared: 9/1/2002