Benjucho

  "Old" as "long time" and not necessarily "aged"


Sometimes, however, the terms may very well be synonymous.

     Last week my telephone buzzed with an heretofore unknown (to me) function . . . using something called "Messenger", it is possible to have a face to face virtual chat with someone.  So, unaware of that option, I missed the first couple of incoming calls from my friend of many years, Ben aka  Benjucho.

    In the late 1950's, he had traveled from his home in LaPaz, Bolivia, to the North Carolina college where we met during his sophomore year.

Within a short time, we became friends and he often went with me on week-end visits to my parents' home and he became their fourth "son".

   While an undergrad, Ben played on the school's varsity tennis team.

He and his roommate, Gary, lived in a gym dorm room in exchange for minor custodial tasks there. Ben provided 'half-time entertainment' as he pushed the big mop across the basketball court.  Much of the 'social life' and activities on campus emanated from the ten "Greek" organizations---six national fraternities and four sororities.  Ben and I became members of different groups, but our friendship remained strong.

   Memories of three of his visits to our home remain vivid. I will tell the most personally painful one first and save 'the best for last'. Somehow in my misguided youth I had become a fan of  Duke University athletic teams. My dad, two brothers and Ben were strong supporters of UNC football.  On Thanksgiving Day, November 21, 1959, before a nationally televised audience, Duke on their home field was the heavy favorite, having defeated the UNC team in 8 of the 9 preceding games.  In our house pre-game there was good-natured banter about possible outcomes.  After Carolina scored on their first three possessions things went downhill quickly for Duke. Then UNC returned the opening kick-off of the second half for a 93 yard touchdown run.  Duke eventually lost 50-0 !  I do not remember  details of  our subsequent conversation but I was definitely outnumbered.

   One Saturday after his enrollment in a PhD program  in Chapel Hill, he came walking up my parents' driveway, having hitchhiked a ride there.  He had planned a surprise visit to show us his new Volkswagen but, unfortunately, he had a single car mishap en route.  After determining the he had no injuries, dad drove him to the accident scene.

In time, he acquired another automobile but that was a day of 'might have beens'.

  During undergraduate years, Ben's dad, a Bolivian Methodist minister, visited from LaPaz and my parents hosted them in their home for part of that time.  Speaking no English and our being able to use only a few Spanish words, he relied on his son  for translation .  The local newspaper editor interviewed him and that was "front page news " in our little town. Dad  drove us throughout the area, visiting UNC and Duke, touring the State capitol and other places that interested our visitor.  And mom prepared several dishes of 'Southern cuisine'; however, I remember his being less than enthusiastic about the fried frog legs.

   After earning his PhD in biochemistry, Ben completed his training to be a physician.  After many years in practice, he retired and moved close to his adult children, first in Florida and now in California.His  parents and  siblings who lived in Bolivia are now deceased; however, over the years, he periodically visited them there.

Ben on one his trips to Bolivia

In those intervening 60+ years since his graduation, we have seen each other intermittently.  The conversation always flows easily between 'reminiscing' and the 'right now'. My life has been enriched by his friendship.

There is a reminder that "it takes a long time to make old friends".

A favorite book is Dear  Old Man: Letters to Myself on Growing Old by Dr. Charles Wells.  Regarding friendships, he wrote that aside from good health and family, "friendships are probably the most valuable assets a person can take into old age. . . . I now believe that friendships attain their full richness only in old age ." (page 102)

Here's to you, Dugger !

Satchel

"What's it all about ? "

What do these quotes have in common ?;

   "It was a dark and stormy night"  (Snoopy, et al)

     "In the beginning . . . "  (Genesis)

         "Life is difficult "  (Peck, The Road Less Travelled)

            "Marley was dead" (Dickens, A Christmas Carol)

                "Elmer Gantry was drunk" (Lewis, Elmer Gantry)

                   "I wear the ring" (Conroy, Lords of Discipline)

     If you recognized some or all of these as the first lines of literature, give credit to whomever fostered in you a love of reading.  Coming up with an 'catchy' opening phrase or sentence can be the largest obstacle in writing.  Somewhere in one of Albert Camus's novels he told of a person who labored for thirty years to have the perfect opening line for his Magnum Opus.

   Before his indiscretions came to light, Bill Cosby was a well-known and quoted comedian, adept at one-liners and memorable titles. A memoir of sorts he called I Started Out as a Child. Sounds like a perfect descriptor.

   Were you to write the story of your life, what would you choose to title it and what would be the introductory sentence? Particularly, if you want it to point towards a kind of summary statement of "what it has all been about".

  The late psychologist, Erik Erikson, birthed the concept of life stages and various "tasks" to be addressed in each.  For those 65 and older, he considered the dichotomy to be "Integrity versus Despair". One consequence of his model has been a use of writing one's  life review which differs from reminiscing.  Whether the   process follows a chronological or topical format, one article described the outcome as an affirmation that "one's life has been well-lived, makes sense, and brings a sense of peace and satisfaction". (Intriago, "How a Life Review comforts the  elderly and prevents late life depression", Seniors Matter,  May 4, 2021). Whether or not such a perspective of meaning, purpose and integration of one's values is resolved can make the difference between late-life Integrity or Despair.

   Bearing down hard on my 84th birthday and possessing a reasonable memory, I have been attracted to the idea of writing my own life review... whether for progeny or for my own understandings.  And, I hope to attach an addendum in a dozen or so years from now !

   Several years ago, at the counseling center where I practice,  I led a group of older  persons on  such a journey. Unanimously, they expressed benefit from the experience.  (If such an undertaking interests you, assistance abounds via computer search and books.)

   Now, reminiscing can be pleasurable . Just today, after I had emailed my daughter a couple of clips from a television program we had enjoyed in her youth, she asked if I were "going down tv memory lane ?". Well, maybe strolls along that route can provide specifics of our lives, life review can come closer to providing personal insights posed in Hal David and Bert Bacharach's song, What's it All About, Alfie ?

   For my title, I think I will copy that of the late Grady Nutt ... So Good, So Far.  Still trying to find that just right first sentence, though.

     Satchel

"Two Faced"

 

      To call someone"two-faced" ranks high in the handbook of insults.  Among other things, it designates the person or thing as being   duplicitous, deceitful, and not to be trusted.  And, for most of the human race, there is often a gap between the person we prefer to be perceived as and the other side . . . maybe what Dr. Karl Jung called our  "shadow".  Perhaps the 'saving feature' is that it is usually not malicious... and more often motivated by a fear or anxiety about some insecurity. But, as the cliche has it, I digress.

   The  image above is of the Roman god, Janus.  He the keeper of  doors, of transitions, of looking both to the past and to the future. And, of course, our month  January is its namesake. Good old January !! Here in our state, the weather has had difficulty deciding the appropriate season.  On Sunday, January 2, local temperatures hovered around 70*. We even ran the air-conditioner. Next day the temperature had dropped and we had a couple of hours of heavy snowfall which accumulated; then two or three hours later . .  . gone like  Frosty the Snowman !  The top picture was taken at 10:57 a.m. on January 4, 2022; the bottom taken at 3:11 p.m. on the same day.  Talk about being "two faced"!

     

    Janus carries at least two interpretations: first, a keeper of doors . . . past and future, of being in a place  to  gaze at the past while anticipating the future . . . turning points, transitions. Secondly, deliberately 'talking out of both sides' of one's mouth  When the latter prevails, well, the past, present and the future are susceptible to many distortions and misuses . . .  dependent upon one's agenda and motives

   Opinions vary as to who  coined the phrase: " The future ain't what it used to be." That one is attributed to Yogi Berra. A more 'sophisticated' version : "The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be" originated with French philosopher Paul Valery. Regardless of who first wrote/said that and with 

whatever degree of grammatical correctness, examples abound of deliberately misusing (o.k.., lying about) the past and what that portends for the future.  When those distortions  occur,  "two faced" does not capture the cynicism of current  day 'Janus-es'.  

  "The times, they are a'changing".  May 'Janus' possess the clarity of vision and integrity to guide us through these transitional times.

    Satchel

    

  

   

  

"We are BETTER than you" . . .

                                                                      SNOB

                                                      

   . . . Or, more IMPORTANT, or SMARTER, or WEALTHIER, or . . .   The  implications are always the same --- something like: "  We are more God-Blessed, than you" or, "We are more entitled . . ." or other insults intended to "put you in your place" (and it is not where WE are).  Words like snob and  elitist describe such rude and disrespectful behavior.  For many humans,  such is an all too common 'put down' whether due to gender, race, national origin, socio-economic, religious, political, occupational, etc. factors.  Has it ever happened to you ? 

   Here is a kind of litmus test: Do we speak  to, acknowledge, converse with  persons  in service professions such as (but not a full listing) service persons such as restaurant wait-staff, check-out people and baggers at the grocery, house-keeping staff in places such as hotels and schools, sanitation workers.  Such people often seem to 'blend into the wood-work'.

    In the 1970's, Haverford College President  John Coleman took a short sabbatical during which he worked in a succession of 'blue collar' jobs.  He wrote  Blue Collar Journal telling about his experiences in three jobs.  The last one was as a sanitation worker in College Park , Maryland.  He wrote of picking up garbage  while people were  going about life's routines and never "seeing" or acknowledging him and the suburbanite who  castigated him for  refusing to move her trash  can filled with cinderblocks.

   Recently after we checked in to a facility for a vacation, my wife was making adjustments to our unit door with a cloth towel.  When a couple in the adjoining  room were exiting their room, she greeted them  with a sincere "Hello" only to be met with a  supercilious sneer and no words.  Somewhat like what the old timers called 'looking down your nose' at someone . Perhaps they assumed that she was part of the housekeeping staff and thereby unworthy of a courteous reply.

   Her reaction was to be amazed, shocked and somewhat incredulous by such blatant rudeness.  How would you have responded?

         Satchel

  

HOW DO "THEY" DO "THAT" ?

 

                                                        "MUSE, SAY SOMETHING'

     The They are my younger brother and Sean Dietrich (aka Sean of the South).  Both are writers --columnists -- who have been doing That for many days, weeks, years.  I.e., turning out daily and/or weekly columns.  WHERE do they (as well as all the other bloggers, columnists, scribblers, journalist such as the woman in Kansas who sends me her weekly blog) find the ideas, topics upon which to expound, asks he who often finds the "let's write about ________" bank overdrawn.

   And, I must confess, that I have on occasion accused my brother of kissing the Blarney Stone. The 'gift of gab' comes readily and easily for him. And, reading Sean's posts and occasionally listening to his podcasts,  I suspect the same of him. 

   And, it is mostly pretty good stuff with a 'point'.  Unlike what his Preaching Professor at Duke Divinity School told a long-ago fraternity brother who had just completed a course assignment : "Bob, you say nothing very well".  Have you ever heard the dismissive term "That's bunk" or "bunkum" ?  It's a reference to a Congressional filibuster speech long ago by a North Carolina Congressman extolling ad nauseam the virtues of his home county, Buncombe. One source said that Bunkum has been American slang for "nonsense" for almost two  centuries.

   Like some of my sermon re-runs from another life, occasionally one of my brother's  columns has a slight whiff of prior use. Usually their compositions tell stories (not to be equated with lies).   Ernest Hemingway was asked long after  his literary success why he continued to write.  He answered something to the effect that he knew a lot of good stories and wanted to tell them.  About a 180* distance from what a prominent minister told me about his need for a vacation: "I had reached the point where  I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it."

   I tell myself that the primary reason the muse is often quiet is because I have professional responsibilities that preclude the leisure that seems to be my prerequisite for creativity.  Still, staring at a daily dead-line reminds me of the preacher struggling  on Saturday night to have a sermon topic who opens his Sacred Scripture and pleads, "Say something  "

   Do you have any topic suggestions to pass along . . whether it's something that matters or it's just a story?

     Satchel

"IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING . . .

 

  . . . YOU WILL PROBABLY END UP SOMEWHERE ELSE" .  So wrote Dr. David Campbell in his 1974 pop-psychology book.   Lewis Carroll (he of Alice in Wonderland) made a similar observation with "if you don't know where you are  going, any road will get you there."

   Allegedly, males do not ask for directions even when hopelessly 'disoriented'.  I found the above card in a stationery shop in California . . . all the way across the continental U.S. from our home.  The irony is that  the directional sign points to two towns in our county with state road numbers.  It might  be 'fun' to free associate and imagine a story that describes what is going on in that picture.

    Unless our intention is simply to "ramble", having a destination is assumed in our travels.  Parallels ? Some might say that such is a metaphor for the 'journey' called LIFE.   Many books, gurus, therapists, motivational speakers, etc. proclaim the importance of GOALS ( read, 'destinations') if one is to live a happy, fulfilling, 'successful' life. 

   I am beginning to think that  too rigid an adherence to goals we set at one stage of life may no longer fit at another stage.  In my office,  I have  a pair of bookends featuring my baby shoes embronzed. (Such was the tradition for many of my parents' contemporaries.)  When a client's early goals no longer fit their current situation, I put those shoes alongside those I am wearing to suggest  ways that life changes and we grow. Most folks in Western society wear shoes but sizes change.

    What is the alternative to drift ?  I would nominate things such as 'guiding principles', resiliency, and  growth. Occasionally, we encounter 'detours', reorientations, 'redirecting' on the trip.  Several years ago, I and several colleagues were 'downsized'  ostensibly for budget reasons by the college where I was a tenured professor. In time I reached an out of court settlement with the school for their violation of personnel policies. Fast forward five years . . . in a pro forma interview for the second part of a clinical program, I was asked, "What are your goals for five years from now?".  The words virtually spoke themselves: "Five years ago, I could not have seen myself here today. I have learned to plan as much as possible, put myself in favorable positions, and trust the remainder to Divine  Providence."  Unplanned alliteration.

   For sure, I have had several periods of drift; still, I am grateful that the overall trajectory has been consistent.  The late Grady Nutt titled his memoir So Good So Far.  I still don't know the details of the 'next steps'.  How about you ? 

    Satchel

   

   

   

        

PARABLE OF THE WATERBED . . . or. . . Check your sources

 

                         

                                   "Don't believe everything that you read on the Internet. "

                                                                 Abraham Lincoln

         Do you trust your sources?  What makes them dependable and what arouses your skepticism ? 

   Will Rogers, an American 'philosopher' of home-spun wit and wisdom, reportedly said, "All I know is just what I read in the papers" which is usually quoted without the other part of the sentence:". . . and that's an alibi for my ignorance." Today, he likely would be quizzed about which newspaper (or television network) he prefers.

   How do we know that what we hear is true, accurate and in good faith and what is concocted with no authenticity, perhaps to manipulate one's ignorance (or, if you prefer, one's not knowing) ?

  A parable is "a short story which teaches a moral or spiritual message."  Our friend Julie has multiple talents, especially her musical skills.  We came to know her when I was minister of a near-by church and it soon became obvious that she is a keen observer of human nature and possesses a sharp wit and subtle sense of humor.  Last week she posted what I call The Parable of the Waterbed and it is copied here with her approval:  (Sorry about the small type; my tekkie skills are limited. It is worth the read.)

   Maybe we need more George Washington 's

who cannot tell a lie or so he reportedly said.

  

    Satchel

                                   

"IF A BULLFROG HAD WINGS , , , "

" . . . he wouldn't bump his tail on the ground !"   

Or, so a wise man  often told me as I was growing up.  (And, have you noticed that a "wise man" differs greatly from a  "wise guy" ?)  The 'wise man' in this case was my dad, Frank.  And that was just one  among many of the wise aphorisms he  passed on to his sons.  After his death, I complied a list of "Frank-ism's" to share with  our extended family.

    Theses are among the more memorable of his 'sayings':

  . "You aren't going to learn any younger son." [When we would protest that we  didn't know how to do a task.]

  ."The world doesnot revolve around you."

  ."Don't wish your time away son."

  ."Boy, you ask more questions that a Philadelphia lawyer."

    But the one above seems to have more applicability these days and  not just in our family where it has been passed on to the next generations.

My daughter who began painting whimsical chicks as a way to raise funds for cancer research and patients sent me the  above 'frog' as a Father's  Day gift.  As she explained it in her 'Chicks4aCause' page, dad's wise words live on:

One of my brothers remembered that mom expressed a similar sentiment: " 'if' is  the biggest little word in the English language."

   Several years ago, a client provided yet another similar sentiment while describing how his life might have been different "if". . .  "If 'if's' and but's were candy and nuts, we'd all have a Merry Christmas."

   Someone claimed that  "if" expresses "forlorn regret" and another that it speaks of  unrealistic wish for better circumstances,  connections ,wealth,  wanting things different  and more advantageous.  I think Rudyard Kipling, one-time Poet Laureate of England, pointed to a loftier understanding, an ideal of dignity in a world of contentiousness.  His poem is a bit lengthy to include here but it is worth a read. "If" one overcomes several life challenges with dignity, then " you'll be a Man,  my son  !"  More inclusive understandings would say something like "you'll be a mature Adult, my friend".

  

     Sounds like a "Frank-ism" to me .

        Satchel

   

    

  

CUSSED CURSIVE, Or. "WHO WRITES LIKE THAT ?"

 

I

Over the blackboard in 3d grade classroom

"I can't read your handwriting.  What does that say?"

How many times I have heard that and wanted to say something like "that was  scribbled by my brother, the doctor" But that   would be unfair.  Pensmanship (as it was once   called) has never been my talent.  As part of my 'save that' penchant

I have all my public school report cards, beginning with the first one of 1944-45 school year.   In the second grade, I earned a year-end grade of C+ for my writing skills. Only occasionally thereafter did  that improve. (That was better than the X mark my 7th grade teacher gave for "laughs and talks quietly" !  Looking back, what makes that a social virtue ?! If you are going to laugh, why not a hearty belly-laugh ? But that for another time.)

"Cursive" . . . a dying art form, no longer taught in most public schools, meeting the fate of the slide rule. Over the blackboard in our elementary classrooms, forms like the picture above provided models for us to copy multiple times.   Take heart, You Tube offers videos on the how-to's of cursive. In addition to school teachers,there were lots of folks urging me to greater legibility. Dad had a beautiful flowing style and mom's was likewise distinctive. However, only  their youngest son's writing  has even a modicum of decipher-ability.  The middle son's profession of physician provides  him a socially acceptable justification for his 'hen scratching'.  My reasoning (some might say 'excuse') is that I spent too many years in academe, trying to take class notes while professors lectured like talking machine guns

Whatever the 'cause', when my writing becomes "cold", I often  struggle to read the script. Someone looking over my shoulder as I wrote, quipped "If you can't read it, take it to Revco (a once upon a time pharmacy) and they will fill it for you."

   With typewriters (remember those?) and now computers and word processors everywhere, my greatest challenge often is font styles changing without warning. Other art forms associated with cursive are on the brink of dinosaur-dom: the handwritten letter and for many the 

fountain pen. While I don't send many 'snail  mail' letters, I love writing with fountain pens. An undergrad professor in his thick accent instructed the class: "Ze dean has instructed that you fill out zis form withz your penten-found, er...fountain pen."

Write on !!

 Satchel

                                            

 

SODA JERKS AND 40cent PAY

                                                   Photo courtesy of Diana Metreaud

         Vanilla milkshakes ? . . . have all you can drink; hot fudge sundae ?... whenever you want; ice cream cone ? . . .  which flavor do you want ?  Oh, and soft drinks or freshly squeezed lemonade ? . . . help yourself !  All of this . . . a teen ager's dream.  At least it was for me  when I was hired as a 14 or so year old 'soda jerk' (a antiquated term) at Mrs. Pegram's  drug store.    Her 'logic' for this policy retrospectively was "spot on". After a short time, the desire for the 'goodies' waned. Probably because it was not 'forbidden fruit'. After our family moved and Dan McCrimmon hired me for after-school and rotating Saturday's, his attitude about 'refreshments' mirrored those that I had known earlier.

  Those 'fringies' were add-on's to my pay. Keep in mind that this was the early-mid 1950's when I mention that my monetary compensation at the first store was a whopping 40 cents per hour and Dan paid me and my classmate, Herbert Leslie, $15 per week, pre-taxes.  By the time my younger brother worked at Dan's ten years later, his pay was  the same as mine had been. In 1962, at age 14, he had obtained a 'worker's permit' and earned 50 cents per hour at another local soda shop before his 'promotion'  to Dan's. He recalled that one week when his coworker was on vacation, he worked 9 hours daily for six days and earned what he thought was a unheard of  $27.

  Drug stores at the time were vastly different than today's  cookie-cutter, seen-one-you-have-seen-them-all CVS's, Walgreen's, etc. There were Rexall Pharmacies around but these usually had their distinctive  local 'personalities'. In addition to  prescriptions, stores stocked various patent medicines, gift items, cosmetics, along with sundry personal items.  (As an aside, while many patrons would eschew acknowledging the consumption of 'alcoholic beverages', a common ingredient in many patent medicines was a high alcoholic content.) A necessary feature of stores that I knew was the 'soda fountain' or sometimes just 'fountain'. Those of us (usually high school kids) working there were called 'soda jerks'. [see Wikipedia for the origin of the moniker]. 

  Most had a few tables or booths where customers  could sit to enjoy their refreshments. The stores often served as gathering places for socializing. High school students living in town typically gathered after classes and were often  referred to as  "Drug Store Cowboys" (for reasons I do not know). As regularly as the sun rises, as Saturday night closing time of 9 p.m. arrived and outside neon lights extinguished and I had begun to sweep and carry out other end of the business day tasks, invariably two older women who had arrived earlier for their traditional soft drinks would continue to sit and talk until there was usually no subtle way to communicate that it was time for them to leave.( After nearly seventy years, I still remember their names and faces but shall go unnamed here lest there are still relatives there.)

   My brothers and I had also worked in the local version of a grocery chain. But to land a drug store job was a kind of creme de la creme  work spot.  Spring of my senior year, when faced with a choice of being a  'soda jerk' or playing my last season of school baseball, I opted for work and reluctantly told the  Coach that I would  be unable to play any longer.  Within a week, the store's schedule changed and I was allowed to rejoin the  starting  team, although the Coach benched me for the entirety of the next game.

      But, 40 cents an hour ?!1?  

            Satchel

"CHURCHES CAN HURT YOU . . . "

" Churches can hurt you  Some of you know that. Some of you will find that out."                                     The late Dr. Fred Craddock might well have  been speaking to a group of ministers in 2021.  Instead, this was in the mid-1980's. 

   The role of a Protestant minister has always carried the possibility (some might say 'the probability') of discord with member(s) of a congregation. Not all that long  ago,   many clergy found Antagonists in the Church  to be more than a 'self-help book'.

   Emotional, financial, spiritual, theological stresses among other pressures have cumulatively created a crisis among many ministers. In 2017, I wrote "It's An Epidemic" for the publication, Good Faith Media, addressing the mental health crisis among many clergy, including the frequency of clergy suicides.

   And, then came Corona Virus . . .  intensifying the already existing tensions between "Church" and "culture" or "politics".The well documented appropriation by evangelicals of  "Christian" has left others critical of Christianity itself.

   Flashpoints include matters of : to gather inside or outside the church building; to mask or not to mask (whether in 'church' or in general); to vaccinate or not to vaccinate; to be compliant with  or critical of 'social issues' such as racism, LGBT matters, 'politics' in the pulpit; theological polarizations and out-right criticisms of the minister and his/her family.  Often  that which is cited as  the "issue" serves as a cover for the actual "ISSUE'".

    CEARTAINLY  OPEN CONFLICT DOES NOT MARK  ALL OR MOST  MAINLINE PROTESTANT congregations  AND THE MINISTER.   For multiple 

reasons, 'go along to get  along' describes those who either have no objection(s) to the status quo or feel  trapped without alternative professions or jobs and consequently  choose 'not to make waves'.

   Then, there are 'the others' who either are forced out or choose to leave the ministry for  multiple reasons.  Attrition rates for clergy departures vary .  Some are simply wild guesses. One study that I found suggested that over 1800 persons left ministry every month in 2018 . Another source claimed that over 1300 pastors were terminated by local churches each month. Whatever the number or rate, many capable persons are finding that they can no longer acquiesce and be  faithful to their calling.  They find themselves virtually echoing the sentiments of my dad's friend who had a speech impediment but an astute OBSERVATION about a bickering church that was attempting to have him join: "If that's  ...lijon [religion], I don't want nutthin' to do with it ! "

    Many of my clergy clients and friends acknowledge their stress, burnout, degrees of depression as they search for alternative ways to minister in these anxious times.

  While optimism for the future of the institutional 'church' seems at low ebb, paradoxically, I hear affirmations of a faith that are not necessarily dependent upon once influential institutions.

    In the meantime, there remain those who are not only disenchanted but who join the ranks of the unemployed. They know that "churches can hurt you".

     Satchel

 

   

      

"Frank, have a Coke"

THE FOLLOWING IS NEITHER AN

ADVERTISEMENT NOR AN ENTRY 

INTO ANY POLITICAL CONTROVERSY !

  WRW, aka Satchel

Photo courtesy of Diana Metreaud

   The drink box held a prominent place in the community or country store.  'Once upon a time' the cost was only 5 cents. Just a nickel ! The 'menu' , in addition to the Coke and Pepsi, boasted an array of choices that might include Nehi  (orange or grape), Dr. Pepper, and a perennial favorite ... RC Cola (often  coupled with a 'Moon Pie').  For lots of people, "Coke" simply became synonymous with any  carbonated beverage . . .unless you happened to be a true devotee of your favorite.

   Our dad was always known as 'Frank', although his birth certificate identified him as 'Francis'. One hot day, dad was in Mr. C.E. Durham's community store and a friend said, "Frank, let me buy you a Coke."  Whereupon the other six "Frank's" who happened to be in the same store all stepped up and answered, "Thanks". Dad's telling of the story didn't include whether everyone was a beneficiary of the offer.

   There are two 'Clark Gable' Coke murals in our town. These were once among the primary methods of advertising. 

 

     "Travelling" often determined who among co-workers would pay for  everyone's refreshment. It worked like this. The original location of a bottle 

was stamped into its bottom. Whoever had the nearest location lost. Oh, and the bottles were made of glass... are they still?  When I learned the sugar content of most colas, I began consuming my calories with other sources.

   These days it seems that "Coca-Cola"has become a kind of political/cultural flashpoint topic. One nearby county's commissioners to resist the alleged 'political agenda' of several corporations recently voted to removed all Coca-Cola vending machines from government buildings.

   With all due respect to dad and his like-named friends, Clark Gable's famous comment fits for some who "Frankly don't give a [hoot]".

   Satchel

     

Country Stores

Photo courtesy of Diana Metreaud

                                                     

      This sign, like the business it advertised, has about faded away.  Once a  fixture in every small town and rural cross-roads, the Country Store served many purposes for area citizens.  The array of inventory reflected  Garrison Keillor's fictional Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery's motto: "If Ralph doesn't have it, you can  darn well do without it."

    Usually well stocked with items such as groceries, shoes, meats, gasoline, appliances, hoop cheese, and the ever-present drink box these stores thrived particularly in the era when difficulties of transportation made the distance to  "town" longer.

   Stores also served as community gathering places for socializing, catching up on 'the news', card playing, and with the advent of television, 'the place to be'. Winters were made more  tolerable with the pot-belly stove warming the place.  Depending upon a person's reputation, some stores extended credit until either 'payday' or the sale of  crops.  In a network radio program that broadcast from  the 1930's til early 1950's, Lum and Abner operated a "jot 'em down" store in a mythical Arkansas town.  The name originated when merchants would jot down a customer's credit purchases.

  Sometimes in the cotton mill towns of the  piedmont towns in the American South, a merchant functioned as 'the bank' on payday. I remember long  lines in Mr. C.E. Durham's store as mill operatives waited their time.

   My dad drove dry-cleaning routes through central North Carolina in the 1940's until 1954.  That was when I learned another services the stores provided: they were 'drop off' centers for area residents. One in particular that I recall from my summer travels with dad: a stop at Mr. Markham's store meant getting my supply of black licorice candy.  Many years later, just prior to his death, I drove dad around his former territories.  This was what remained of Markham's Store in 1992:

             Recently, the picture below appeared on social media of an acquaintance. Taken likely sometime in the 1930's, the photo shows Mr. R.J. Moore's store in the mill village of Bynum, NC.  For many years, my maternal grand-father served as postmaster in the adjacent post office.  Working in proximity for many years, the two men developed a close relationship. In their later years, Mr. Moore told my grand-dad how much he appreciated their friendship - - - he said, rather than postponing until the time of one of their deaths.

   Something that precious is nowhere to be found on the  shelves of a store.

Photo courtesy of Larry Pickard, Down Memory Lane

         Satchel