KA-BOOM !!

         From 1991 until 2000, I spent nine good years in the central North Carolina village of Coleridge as minister for three United Methodist Churches in the area.  "Downtown" Coleridge had once been a thriving mill village, but like with many of its counterparts, the post-World War II era marked the end of the mill's operation.  Consequently, the once thriving village with its mill, company store, company houses, bank, school with grades 1-12, volunteer fire department, at least two churches, including the United Methodist Church with its stained glass windows and  pipe organ settled into a kind of shadow of its former self.

     Many small towns have their lore about hush-hush happenings in the not too far removed past.  So it was in this  particular town.  One dark Winter night, there had been a HUGE explosion on the high school baseball field.  It opened a crater large enough to enclose a small automobile.  During my tenure there, one of the perpetrators trusted me with the story, as well as identifying several of his cohorts.  Although those men are now well past 70 years old (Now in 2017 some are in their 80's),  I have not divulged their identities . . . except to one other person who knows the story even better than I.  For his column in an area newspaper years ago, he interviewed (without attribution) yet another person who had been present that evening.  (Coincidentally,  two of the participants are now each other's brother-in-law; but that's all I will say about that.)

     Warren Dixon has given me permission to retell the story here, quoting extensively from a column he wrote for an area newspaper 15+ years ago :

   "The biggest New Year's celebration in Randolph County undoubtedly occurred in Coleridge on Dec. 31, 1954.
   The reason you've never heard about it is that the perpetrators have kept their silence over the years better than Mafia hitmen.
And even though the statute of limitations has run out on these festivities, the men still don't like to talk about it.  It's like they still fear that their Mommas might find out about their activities that night.  But one man has wilted under pressure and has consented to give this columnist a short version of what happened that New Year's Eve.  He wishes to remain anonymous and use only his initials, 'K.B.' which, as you will discover later, stands for 'Ka-Boom'.

    The boys involved were mostly high school students living in Coleridge.  It started innocently enough when they built a cabin in the woods (perhaps  of appropriated materials) near Deep River.
  
    Someone decided that the path to the cabin needed to be graveled and the boys set out to borrow some gravel from a local quarry.  They sneaked onto the property in a pick-up truck and while there noticed a shed at the edge of the property.  Being of a curious nature (and the door being unlocked), they went inside to check things out.

    There in the corner of the shed was a box of dynamite.  As one of the youths said later, the boys didn't want to leave it unattended and have it fall into the wrong hands.  So they took it back to the cabin for safekeeping, along with at least one load of gravel.  Later an older friend who worked at a  hardware store procured them some blasting caps and fuses.

    They pounded the caps on the dynamite with their pocket knives, not a real bright idea one boy later  admitted.  It seems that they also tested it on Deep River to make sure it would explode.  Then they decided to bring in the Coleridge NewYear in style.

     Someone located a 55-gallon drum, which they set in the middle of the pitcher's mound on the Coleridge ball field.  The boys started filling the drum with dynamite.  It was dark and none of them could see what the others were doing.

   'I put in  six or eight sticks,' K.B. admitted. 'Someone else said they stuck in 10, another  one said six.  We probably had 24 sticks in there when someone came up with a fuse.'

     The problem was the fuse was only about  two feet long   or at least that's how it looked in the dark.  But just as an alert kid was noticing this discrepancy, someone produced a cigarette lighter and the next sound they all heard  was a rapid 'whoosh.'

    They all ran with all the speed they could muster. The flash, said K.B., looked like '5,000 bug lights going off.'  The entire woods lit up like daylight.  Both dugouts on each side of the pitcher's mound were blown out, and shrapnel stuck in what was left of them.  All that remained of the mound was a Volkswagon-sized hole.

     Townspeople ran out of millhouses left and right.  One complained that the blast had knocked out 50 years of dust and soot from his ceiling.  Another said all his wife's whatnots had been knocked off their shelves.  One of the boy's mother exclaimed the next day that she thought Ft. Bragg was shooting off its artillery that night.

    Some of the shocked instigators didn't wait for a ride back to their houses, but walked (or ran) all the way home.
    It was a New Year's Eve that will forever live in the lore of Coleridge, the night the ballpark went up in smoke."

     I know that at least one of those ordnance experts of long ago reads these posts . . . and 'you know who you are.'  Fear not, your identity is safe.  

     Satchel

ADD ANOTHER CANDLE . . .

            "So, what's it like to be 77?" someone asked.  "I'm unsure, having just arrived here" was my reply.  I am sure, however, that it happened VERY quickly.  Have you seen the post going 'round on the internet: "I thought growing old would take longer."  It is a constant challenge to continue looking ahead while also remembering . . . and reminders abound about the speed with which life moves.  Example:  I find it helpful to maintain a log recording the date on which I terminate client charts.  Reviewing that recently when a former client reactivated, I was more-than-surprised to note that ten years had passed since he was last at my office.  Ah!, the accumulation of "yesterday's".

            "That's in the past. Get over it" is an often heard admonition.  Only one problem there . . . the past is alive in and informs the present.  Consequently, our opportunity and challenge is to learn from the past and grow into the now.  Back to the Future (the movie) notwithstanding, no one has yet developed a time machine that enables us to go back and rework previous experiences.  What can be altered is how we understand those times and events and how those new understandings might guide how we live now.  Such, in my opinion, is not pollyanna-ish .  Do you now understand some pivotal event in your past differently than how you interpreted it at the time of occurrence ?

     For example, one of my brothers has lived in New Hampshire since the early 1970's.  That's a long walk from his native North Carolina.  He's there in large part because he needed a summer job after his freshman year at UNC- CH and it happened like this:
In the Spring of my freshman year (three years earlier), quite by chance, Mr. Whicker of the Placement Office met me as I was strolling through the Admin Building (not part of my regular routine)  and asked what I would be doing that Summer.  "There's a man in my office I'd like you to meet." Enter "Doc" Sobel, co-owner of Camp Winaukee in New Hampshire, on a recruiting trip for  counselors. I had a job!  And, three years later, I asked Doc to hire my brother.  While there, he met a co-ed from Syracuse University whose parents had a lakeside cottage nearby.  A few years later they were married.  Would he have practiced his medical profession in New Hampshire had he not needed summer work in 1959? 

     Second example:  In 1991, needing to make a vocational change, I returned to the United Methodist ministry and was scheduled for a specific location appointment.  Then a 'hitch' developed . . . the person at that location balked about being assigned to a new parish, ostensibly because the parsonage there had but one bathroom and he had several children.  At what seemed at the moment to be a significant upheaval in life, I had little option but to accept the assignment the other person had refused.  No one could have convinced me at the time of the view that I now have . . . it was one of the best things that could have happened for me.  Much of the course of my subsequent years has been positively influenced by that move.  After nine years in that  parish, there was a new appointment.  On my last Sunday, I reflected with the congregation my appreciation for the time there and noted that it had all  come about because the parsonage had had but one commode.

      Often, then,  there is a flow in our narratives that can best be understood by subsequent developments.  So it is for me as I now enter my 78th year.  Behind me are achievements, failures, near-misses, lost opportunities, 'dumb-luck' happiness as well as sadnesses. On it goes and the same is perhaps the case for most  persons in our society.  Life Review reflections can be a helpful engagement for older people . . . (and that does not mean we are ready to check out).  A few years ago, I led a small group of folks through a 'guided tour' of their history.  Various topics were selected, e.g., formative education, the role (or lack) of religious practices, family members, vocational and professional choices, significant losses, etc.  On each topic, they wrote a reflective three or four pages.  At our sessions, they had the option of reading these aloud (obviously there was a high degree of trust and confidentiality among the members).  At the end of the course, they had a short autobiography which some of them wanted to pass on to their progeny as a kind of legacy as surely as other heirlooms.  Would that I had such from my parents and other family. (See an article of January 19, 2014, in the New York Times about the benefits of writing one's story "Writing Your Way to Happiness")

      Whether or not a document is written, such reflections can enrich us as we move into 'next chapters'.

     As a timely coincidence, my wife who did not know that this post  was being written, showed me a poem written by one of her Facebook 'friends'.  With Larry Pickard's permission, I am including it here:
          
        "Aging

  "As I grow older from twig to tree
   I realized age doesn't bother me

    When I was young time went by so slow
    One thing about time ...you'll never     
     outgrow

   Now I've aged quite well it seems
   My restful sleep brings me  restful dreams

   My grandkids are grown and my pill
    intake too
   Thank God I can still remember my
     friends like you 
  
    I don't read the funnies in the paper
    anymore
   I check the obituaries to find out the  
     score

    Of how many friends and people I knew
    And how they died ... these stories are
     true

   I'm thankful for the time I have left here 
    on earth
   Everyone's countdown ...Begins at
     birth

   You can always love life regardless of
      age
   Like reading a life's book ..A time passing
     page

     So enjoy your ride while you're still here
     Your time will come ..there's no need to
        fear

     When your name is called and the time
       you must go
     That's when you really walk ever so slow

     Your not quite ready to checkout of the
       game
     But like all your past friends ... they all felt
      the same

     Oops false alarm  it's not checkout yet
     They gave you a reprieve ..something not
        to regret

    Another twenty years they tell you quite
      clear
     Countdown again ... this time is in years "



  




                              "I started out as a child"


  
    





So I am grateful for yet another candle on the cake . . . and for those who have been part of 'the ride'.  

    Satchel


    

One more Dean Smith Story

      The younger of my two brothers is something of a 'Renaissance Man' with many interests and talents.  As a graduate of the School of Journalism at UNC-CH, he is formerly editor and still columnist for our local weekly newspaper.  In his early-mid 30's, he went to seminary and is also an ordained minister.  In addition to serving as pastor at his boyhood church, he also works part-time with a nearby Funeral Home.  Additionally, he and his son have a cattle herd.  He stays busy.

    With his permission, I am posting an excerpt from the column that he wrote this week in which he tells of his meeting Coach Dean Smith.

   "He also touched the not-so-famous and lesser known in significant ways as well. I know; I'm one of them.
   In September of 1966 I was a college freshman at UNC, convinced I would be the world's next great sports writer. . . .
Before that could come about, though, I had to first graduate and that meant going to class and turning in assignments and doing well on exams. At first, that entire concept was lost on me, which is one reason I was a freshman for  three years . . .but that's another story for another time.

     Anyway, given my state of mind at the time I reasoned it would be a good idea to interview Dean Smith.  The only problem was that he was as busy as a one-armed paper hanger and I was a run-of-the-mill college student--not one of his basketball players or managers, not a staff member, not a member of the press, not someone who could do anything for him.  I was just an almost 19-year old kid. But not knowing anything but try to make it come about I went on with my plan. . . .
     Finally early one evening I finagled an opportunity to make the call . . . and pulled the Chapel Hill telephone directory from the shelf, thumbed through the pages and came to 'Smith, Dean .....929-or 942-something something.
   With hand and heart shaking, I dialed (yes, 'dialed') the number. After a few rings, it was answered and the voice on the other end was Mr. Smith.
    That threw me for a modest loop; I guess I wasn't expecting him to answer but he did and I stumbled through my memorized speech.
'Is this Dean Smith, the basketball coach at a UNC?'
   'Yes it is . How can I help you?'
     What I wanted to say was something like 'well, for starters you can get my heart to start beating again' but I didn't . Instead I went on with my pre-planned remarks, telling him I was a journalism student at UNC and was wondering if 'I might have a few minutes of your time,'
  'Certainly. When would you like to do it?' (Notice that 'when would you like to do it".)
   'Uh...whenever it's convenient with you, sir.'
    'How about tomorrow morning in my office at 9:00?'  
      By the time 9:00 tomorrow morning rolled around, I had dressed in whatever little bit of best I had and was wanting outside the door to the basketball office in Carmichael Auditorium. 
   My knock on the door was answered by the department receptionist, who welcomed me in, went to  Smith's door, knocked on it and said, 'Your 9:00 is here.'
    Coming out from behind his desk, he walked over to me, stuck out his hand and said, 'Good morning, Bob. Glad to see you.  Would you like some coffee?'
   The fact that I had told him my name only once and he remembered it ranked right up there with breathing at the moment.  I graciously (I think) declined and he offered me a seat and pulled up one beside me rather than sitting behind his massive desk.
   That story is all well and good and so forth but the kicker and what really impressed me to remember the entire scene almost 50 years later is that in his office that day he gave me two hours of uninterrupted time to answer my questions and for those two hours I was the most important thing he had to do. . . .

     The day of his funeral service in Chapel Hill I had the opportunity to be one of the limousine drivers for the Smith family as part of the part-time work I do.  And because of that I had the opportunity to tell that story to his wife and children.
  
    'I never did become that sports writer,' I said to the family. 'But for almost 35 years I've been a minister and I've tried to do like Coach Smith did to me that day - to treat everyone with courtesy and dignity and respect.'

     It would be a lie to say that  I've always been successful in doing that  . . . but I've never forgotten the example and role model that was put before me that day long ago.
   I think that's more important than any of the wins and championships.  Folks who knew Dean Smith well say he thought that himself."

   Bob might have received a scholarship offer that day had he told Coach Smith that when he  played Jayvee basketball, his teammates nicknamed him "Lightning" for his slow locomotion on the court.

     Good story, 'Little Brother'.
          Satchel

INFLUENCES OF NOTE. .

               While listening to Mozart's 13th symphony this week, I wondered about the origins of my appreciation.  In my formative years, there was little classical music in my environment . . . except
Public School Music.  For maybe an hour or so per week, our Fourth Grade class (as I remember it) would go to Mrs. Mary Frances Morgan's classroom where she would extol the virtues and beauty of various pieces of classical music.  While she likely introduced  us to several composers and their work, two are locked in my mind . . . The William Tell Overture (which  every man my age knows as the theme music for The Lone Ranger) and Grieg's Peer Gynt Suites.  With the high school students, she even produced  Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado, which her husband, the Coach, called The Mickey-Do.  {Still unsure why trivia like that is stored away in the brain folds while 'important' matters are not always readily retrievable.}

       In an earlier post ('Music to My Ears'), I acknowledged my unsophisticated and subjective approach to music . . . I just know what I like.  I am unable to converse in depth about what makes 'good' music.  But, unlike another coach/teacher who told us that he did not enjoy music by "sympathy orchestras", I have my favorites.
I think the Second movement of the aforementioned Mozart 13th
ranks as one of the most beautiful ever composed.

       In that Mrs. Morgan's classes were almost seventy years ago, I assume that she has  since taken her 'final curtain call'.  I wish that I had recognized her influence earlier and thanked her.  That being no longer possible, I make it a  point to say my appreciation to those whose music I find enriching.

      John is Organist at the Presbyterian church my wife and I attend. For many years he was Organist at a large Chicago church but has now returned to North Carolina, living near his hometown.  His influence here is evident in many ways.  Members of the choir speak appreciatively of his insistence upon excellence. Thus far, we have been unable to convince him to play a Sunday afternoon recital/concert.   Each Sunday, in addition to appreciating how his talent enhances the worship service,  I look forward to his Postlude.  At times like that,  I hear echoes of my parents telling me that the time would come that I would wish I had been diligent in practicing my piano lessons.  Sure enough, I wish that I had allowed them more influence about such matters  . . . or maybe I just recognized my limitations.    

     Seventy years later, Mrs. Morgan, "Thanks".

        Satchel