Family in the Military

Some names and faces that perhaps have parallels within your own:

Bob 

Ken

Lewis

Morris

Wade

Jack, on left, the immigrant's son, in WWI

Sam

Jack

Worth and Daughter 1945

Billy

Phil, second from right,front row. Many years after Khe Sanh

Den in his first uniform 1943.
(Yes, his hair is long.  Read blogpost "Shave and a Haircut".)
Picture of him in Saigon is MIA

Den with wife and first child, 1970

"Battle of Fort Jackson" 1962

Memorial Day . . . it conjures all kinds of imagery and memories.  In more recent times, it is taken as the unofficial beginning of Summer . . . 'the Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer'.  This weekend will be filled with cookouts, large retail salestravaganza's, ballgames, trips to the beach; for many, a time not to have to report to 'the job'.

    Those kinds of events, however, do not lie at the origins of Memorial Day.  Wikipedia has a good account of the origins on the observance.  A key distinction is made between Memorial Day which is for persons who died while serving and Veterans Day (formerly Armistice Day, November 11) which is set aside for recognition of all who served in the military.

    During World War II, I learned a new term, "Gold Star Mother" . . . for those women who had had children to die while on active duty.  Our family experienced such a loss.  I have written on an earlier post ("For Whom the Bell Tolls") about the death of my Uncle Bob in a B-29 crash in 1944.  Soon thereafter, a small flag appeared in my grand-parents' window with three stars, one for each of their sons in the military.  Two stars were white, the other, gold.

    As Memorial Day approached, I was reminded again of that post and from that I remembered that several other members of our family have spent time in uniform . . . some in harm's way; others, like myself, not so. Still, it was time away from our civilian lives given, we believed, for a high purpose. . . being prepared to protect and defend our country.  Since it is still six months or so until November and Veterans' Day, I decided to proceed naming my relatives who have served.  (I need to note that there were many others, like my dad and younger brother, who were willing to serve but were disqualified when they failed the physical exam.)

    Mom had three brothers  on active duty during World War II.  In addition to Bob, there was Ken who enlisted in the Navy after his brother's death and was deployed to the Pacific, notably to Guam. Lewis was in the Aleutian Islands. There is somewhere a newspaper clipping with a photograph of him and his squad on patrol duty, guarding against possible Japanese incursions.  Additionally, her brother-in-law, Morris, was deployed to Newfoundland.  Uncle Wade served stateside.

    At least one of my paternal grand-father's siblings, Jack, was in World War I.  In the 1950's, two of dad's siblings ... Sam and Jack  (the namesake) . . . were in the Army.  After the above picture was made, Uncle Sam ( I have a real 'Uncle Sam') earned a commission and completed his stint as an officer.  Jack told me of his experience when in Basic Training of having his officer brother visit him, to the amazement of his friends who saw him enjoying a conversation with an officer.  Jack spent some of his enlistment in Germany.

     My wife's father,Worth, served in the Navy in World War II.  My brother-in-law, Billy, served three years in the US Army, much of that time in Germany during the 1970's.

    Two family members were in Vietnam. Lewis's son, Phil, my cousin, was a medic and was wounded at the Battle of Khe Sanh. My brother, Dennis, spent time as an Orthopedic Surgeon at Saigon General Hospital during that time and was promoted to Major prior to his discharge. They both saw some horrendous stuff.

   I am somewhat embarrassed to speak of my military experience within the context of those named here.  I passed the Air Force Officer Training School Exam and Navigator Exam only to flunk the physical exam the following day.  "You could have eye surgery and try again later", the examiner told me.  I decided not to have a scapel (or whatever instrument might be used) for this procedure with unknown outcomes.  So, in 1962, I enlisted in the Reserves with an Army Aviation company.  After basic training, I did  OJT in aircraft dispatch.  Within a month of my leaving active duty, my outfit, the only Army Aviation company in the state, was dissolved and the men reassigned. There being no aircraft to dispatch, I was placed on Inactive Duty which meant no weekly drills,no two-week Summer camp.  It was a total  fluke.

    Perhaps the time for a universal military draft has long since passed. While I hardly consider myself a "Hawk", I am grateful for the service of these other men pictured above.
Many families had variations of this same story. Recently I saw statistics of US casualties in each conflict since World War I. Whether it's Memorial Day or Veterans' Day, the issue is not to glorify war but appreciation for those who served.

     Satchel (E-1)


    

"SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT . . . "

          "You've had a haircut," my friend said. "No, I had several of them cut", I answered.  He missed the lame joke.  Saw my barber (not stylist) today. (Well, actually he exceeds 'barber' skills. It's just that my 'style' is relatively easy to maintain.) While I marveled at the pile of grey hair on the floor, I did enjoy the warm shampooing afterwards.  (Lots of itchy hairs down my shirt collar always was a dismaying aftermath of a haircut.)

      According to Wikipedia, barbering has had several specialties over the centuries.  Once called Barber-surgeons, they offered services, including several 'medical specialties', in addition to trimming the tonsures.  The abandoned practice of blood-letting, once considered top of the line treatment for various maladies, lies at the history of the barber pole . . . Red for blood, white for bandages and blue for the veins.

     In the small towns of my youth, along with the traditional 'shave and a haircut, two  bits' (25 cents), of that ditty's fame, many shops offered hot showers and shoe shines. (One of my first 'public jobs' was shining shoes in Mr. Lewter's shop in the late 1940's. Fee ? 25 cents.) He did not assess me a space rental fee. I suppose that I was a kind of add-on bonus for his well-groomed customers, especially on Saturdays.  One of my younger brothers plied the same trade in our uncle's shop several years later.

     At that time, barber shops were essentially a male domain . . . except for the occasional mother who would bring in a son for his first trim.  Along with providing grooming service, they were community centers for information, misinformation, rumors and gossip.  Herb Shriner, a humorist of another generation, remarked that life was so slow in his small town that on Saturday nights, folks would gather at the barber shop 'to watch a couple of haircuts'. 

'Watching a few haircuts' at Kilroy's shop ca. 1970's

     Mr. Pickard, a barber with whom I was  acquainted in the 1950's, could on occasion be bombastic and profane.  Local lore had it that one day as each customer would leave his shop, 'Pick' would proceed to gossip mercilessly about that person. . . until one customer who had just had his haircut resumed a seat in the waiting area.  "What in the *&%$#()& are you still doing here?"  The customer allegedly replied that having heard what happened to the earlier patrons, he was not leaving to be talked about.

    My Uncle Lewis was a multi-talented man, capable of doing most anything that caught his interest.  During World War II, he
became a self-taught barber in his group.  After the War, he went to the state licensing office and was told that he would have to go through a formal training program.  He replied to the effect that he did not have time for that and somehow persuaded someone to let him demonstrate his skills, whereupon he was licensed.  His shop in the mill village was a long-time gathering place for many of the karakters there.

Uncle Lewis shaves his brother, Ken, in this 1949 photograph from the Durham, NC newspaper.

        My brother who shined shoes in Lewis's shop had become very fond of our uncle when just a wee thing.  So strong was the attachment that he insisted to our parents that he be allowed to wait until Lewis returned from military duty so he could give him his first haircut. Consequently, he had lots of long curls at his initial 'shearing'. 

     Probably my most memorable haircut occurred in July 1962 at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, when I entered the US Army. While I knew what 'style' would be coming, I was still  a bit surprised when the 'barbers' would occasionally ask a recruit how he wanted his hair cut, then proceed to skin his head.  Grown men were seen crying.  The only other 'style' that came close was that worn by a  neighboring elderly gentleman whose wife placed a bowl on the top of his head and cut around it, leaving him with a somewhat bizarre appearance.

Fort Jackson, South Carolina; Summer 1962

     The price of a trim has risen along with other necessities.  I do remember when  twenty-five cents was indeed the 'going rate'.  Now, it's more like twenty dollars where I live.  A once  prominent politician from our region caught lots of negative publicity as a result of his purportedly $400 haircut.  I wonder if that kind of thing was in  Garrison Keillor's mind when he wrote that "beauty isn't worth thinking about; what's important is your mind. You don't want a fifty-dollar haircut on a fifty-cent head."

     And, speaking of fifty-cent heads and thoughts that proceed therefrom: 'Kilroy' has been a barber in this area for many years.  Now, he apparently has encountered some sort of mindless bureaucracy.  I'll let my brother tell it ( from a column he regularly writes in  the local paper.): He noted that Cadle (his real name) had initially operated his shop in the building where Uncle Lewis once practiced his trade. Then, about 37  years ago, he built a new  structure just up the road. "His shop was open at night when many folks who work during the day find it convenient to have their ears lowered. . . . In the meantime, he continued to work at the original shop [about 8 miles away], never having the two open at the same hour.  Then came the word a few weeks ago that he was apparently engaging in some nefarious activity that would doom the world as we know it. The state Barber Board - or whatever the official title is - said 'You can't do that.'  As far as I've been able to learn the reason given was one barber couldn't operate two shops. My friend appealed, asking if he couldn't be 'grandfathered in'.  Nope. One barber can't operate two shops. So, thanks to a nameless shadow in a cubicle somewhere in Raleigh [the state capital], 37 years of time, money, sweat, good will and community service is in the tank."  

Talk about'bloodletting'.

   "Next".

        Satchel






     

". . . if you don't hear yourself write"

      "How are you going to know what you are thinking if you don't hear yourself talk?"  So the late Dr. Vernon Wall, my counselor back in the 1970's sometimes challenged his introverted client (me).  And even now as a therapist, I am sometimes surprised by something that I didn't know that I thought until I heard myself saying it.

      Sometimes writing can provide the same kinds of awareness.  Vernon invited me to write an interpretive narrative of my life . . . all 38 years of it at the time. Didn't know I thought some of those things til I saw them on paper. (No PC's then) Though that document has been sparingly shared with others, it still remains somewhere  within the 'archives'.  Not exactly a blog by any stretch . . . although  occasionally I see things on internet blogs that seem to me to be much more personal and appropriately private.

     Writing a blog for a bit more than two years, I often wonder about my "why's" : 'it is less expensive than therapy'; it provides an opportunity for  'thinking aloud'; and there are family stories that I can share with my contemporaries as well as 'the next generation'.  And, occasionally, I receive feedback indicating that particularities in my writing resonate with someone else's experiences.

   From curiosity, I put my search engine on various kinds of blogs ... by states, regions, professions,  interests, etc. There are blogs about: food, cooking, camping, midlife, aging, . . . Noting all those writers, I wondered 'who is reading this stuff ?'  And, Wikipedia has an entry about the history of the  Blog.

   Currently, I read a dozen or so blogs. Some authors are kinspersons or friends.  A few  I have just stumbled upon.  In no particular order, here are those that I read with some consistency:

   .Clear Eyes, Full Heart, Grace as it finds me.  My colleague, Russell Jones.

   .johnbrowe.com ...Dreams and Other Mysteries. By a former colleague

   .jmh4043.blogspot.com ... "a blog about personal dimensions of learning, schooling, home and family life." I wish he posted more often.

    ."Blogger:UserProfile:RisingSong".  I located this one while searching "EMDR blogs" since I use EMDR as a modality for treating trauma.  Note: this person sometimes tells her recovery experiences in rather direct narrative. 

   .burrissblog.wordpress.com  by a pastor whom I know. His reflections on Christian faith and life.

   .CaringBridge.org.  Site for Kirstin Hoff.  My daughter's account of her battle with breast cancer.

   .www.edwardhays.com/haystack-blog. "haphazard thoughts on the invisible and visible mysteries of life"

   .http://swimmingwithoutthemanual.com.  A single mom's experiences.

   .theweatheredshepherd.com.  Reflections of a Moravian Bishop.

   .Harrell F. Beck blog.  "The Wisdom of Harrell Beck".  Harrell was a major influence in my life.  He died in 1987; however, some of his former students   periodically post snippets of his writings and reflections.

    .Charles F. Price.  Visit his website and select 'blog'. Charles is a former fraternity brother, now fulfilling life long dream of writing for publication.

     What might you "hear yourself say" were you to write of your interests and observations ?

     Satchel

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE FRONT PORCH ?

            "Form  follows  function.'
                   Frank Lloyd Wright

       Or, at least I think that it was Mr. Wright who uttered that architectural edict.  How something is used determines its shape.  Is that what he meant?  If so, then that can go far in explaining why few new houses have the almost 'sacred space' that was once a mainstay in this region . . . the front porch. On our block there are four houses with a stoop (or place to stand while waiting for someone to answer the doorbell). Six have what (with much generosity) can be called a 'porch', though none have those requisite staples of a 'real' front porch . . .   a swing and rocking chairs.

     We spent a few hours with my brother's family this afternoon. His porch has both swing and chairs. Unfortunately, Springtime  has taken a brief vacation and the temperature was too chilly for front-porch-sitting, swinging and story-telling. (Please, 'storytelling' in this context does not mean 'telling lies' but telling tales, many of them truthful, and told again for the 'first time'.)

    In my youth, I enjoyed "settin' a spell" on several front porches.  One of my memories from the early 1940's is of waiting in our swing to see dad come up our walkway from the cotton mill where he worked.  A few years later after moving to another town, I did a lot of Tom Sawyer and Zane Grey reading in another swing.  Sitting on porches at my maternal grand-parents and at dad's sister's , not only did I hear a lot of family stories but I also realized that I was surrounded by much love. 

    Perhaps it has been the overall pace and tempo of life that hastened the demise of the porch. Or, maybe it was the advent of air-conditioning.  It does get 'toasty' around here for much of the year.  Sometime in the 1950's or 1960's, dwellings in so-called 'developments' began to change in appearance.  And, our street is a microcosm of that shift.  "Form" really has been influenced by "function".

Joseph sharing his rocker with Hundley the Hound

 

A Porch is a perfect spot for Wedding pictures




Satchel    

. . . OPPOSED TO MILLIONAIRES ?

        "I am opposed to millionaires but it would be dangerous to offer me the position."  So Mark Twain allegedly confessed.
Me, too, Mark.

         It's the season for jumping . . . no longer for  college basketball brackets . . . but for the BIG bucks.  Living near National Championship Duke Blue Devils, as well as a couple of other schools with high profile athletic programs, I have seen  much in area newspapers and other media about the 'One and Done' phenomenon of freshmen declaring themselves for the NBA draft.  At least among the Division I schools, the basketball programs seem to have become the 'farm system' for the professional teams.  

     What would you do as a 19 year old if a million + bucks were waved at you?  But in some way, that rather begs the question.  So much for the euphemism 'student athletes'.  Increasingly, money (and lots of it), drives athletic programs.  And, the likelihood of that changing, well . . .   Rare, I suspect, are the Tyler Hansbrough's, the talented collegiate who will stick around for his senior season to pursue a National Championship. He did that a few years back in the face of much second guessing by pundits.  In his case, UNC did win the Big prize in his last year and he subsequently turned pro.

    All this likely reflects the values of the larger society.  One of my history professors once noted that 'Bread and Circuses' were all that remained in the last days of the Roman Republic.  Most folks like being entertained more than being a participant.  Intramural athletics will hardly replace intercollegiate competitions nor will many teaching faculty draw the compensation package of coaches.

    Nor will very many 'small school' players get a shot at the pro's.  
I attended a small liberal arts college and later taught at another in the area.  Saw some of the worst and best games ever at those places.  One of my fraternity brothers was a unanimous 'Little All America'.  To my knowledge, no subsequent contract was offered. However, at our class's Fiftieth reunion a few years back, he told us that he was still playing in a league composed of Seventy-plus year olds.  And during my teaching career, that school's team was usually mediocre.  Then, a few years ago, their team pulled off a dramatic come-from-behind upset over a perennial powerhouse for a National Championship.  While one of those men (I think) later played with the Harlem Globetrotters, most of them went into 'athletic oblivion'.

     In my 'career', I never faced the 'wealth decision'.  When our family moved to a new town prior to my Junior year in high school, I made the varsity.  Never having played on an organized team, I spent most of my time sitting on the bench, getting into already- won or already- lost games.  Did not score all season long . . . until the final game when we trounced a cross-county school 77-27 . (Such matters seem to have lodged in my memory . . . along with my 18 points in that game.)  As an undergrad, I played without distinction on our fraternity intramural team.  Well, there was that one game against the Pika's that I hit three consecutive what-would-now-be three-pointers.  They immediately put a strong man- to-man coverage on me and that was the end of the glory.

     Mr. Twain was a somewhat wealthy man for his time.  Wonder what he would say about all the money being paid today to guys who run around in their skivvies and throw a small sphere at hole ten feet above the floor .

      Satchel

/

"JESUS LOVES YOU ... but ... I'M HIS FAVORITE"

       

    

                In his morning intercessions, our pastor prayed in behalf of those "scorned by neighbors and cast aside as having no further worth."  A dictionary defines scorn as "the feeling or belief that someone or something is worthless or despicable, contempt."

        In my opinion, there has been much scorning of late  . . .

and much of  it has been disguised in the garb of religiosity.

Witness just the latest . . . this week, Indiana's became the twentieth state to adopt a "Religious Freedom Law".  On last Thursday, March 26, 2015, bills were introduced in the North Carolina State legislature to establish the "N.C. Religious Freedom Restoration Act".

    Ms Susan Ladd, a columnist for the Greensboro (NC) News and Record, in her March 29, 2015, article wrote "the agenda behind many of these state laws is to provide an exemption for businesses that don't want to provide services for same-sex couples, but the language is broad enough to permit discrimination based on gender, race, religion, disability, and citizenship.  The way these bills are written, there's almost nothing out of bounds . . . .  These bills ... do not restore freedom. They promote oppression."

       An on-line dictionary defines bigot as "a person who is intolerant toward those holding different opinions, especially a person who hates or refuses to accept the members of a particular group --such as race or religion."

      Intolerance and oppression in the name of 'Religion' are hardly new. Nor do we need to go as far back as the Crusades or the Inquisition for illustrations.  Contemporary examples abound.  One of my former students, pastor in a church for over twenty years, preached his final sermon there today (Palm Sunday) because he could not concur in the congregation's mandate that none of their clergy could officiate in a same-sex marriage nor could any of their facilities be used for such. Recently in his sermon, "Turning Over the Tables: My Last Sermon Before My Suspension", the Rev. Dr. John D. Copenhaver indicated his faith motivated reasons for performing such a ceremony. (Google this by title, if interested.)  For an extreme illustration, listen to what happened to young Ben Wood at church and the ultimate disastrous outcome.  (YouTube: "Impact of UMC2")

     Recently, in Chapel Hill, three young Muslims were murdered by an equal opportunity neighborhood bigot, allegedly about a parking dispute.  There have been assertions of religious bigotry as well.

    There is, sadly, a sense of deja vu.  In 1966, a racial bigot won election to his state's governorship largely on his "fame" for enforcing segregation at his restaurant by ax handles.  When Lester Maddox won the gubernatorial election, he said that God had been his "campaign manager."

     It would be easy to dismiss all religious persons as narrow and bigoted.  Gandhi once said something to the effect that "I admire your Christ but not many of his followers."  God has been "used" to justify biases, political and economic interests, as well as prejudices, often a dominant group in a society.  Indeed, Jesus got into difficulty by challenging the religious authorities who legitimated their oppression with religious language.

    As a boy, I knew of a man nicknamed "Shorty" Eubanks.  My dad told of how members of a nearby church were insisting that "Shorty" join their congregation.  That particular group was frequently in turmoil about some 'religious' topic.  Seeing that, Mr. Eubanks, who apparently had a way of slurring his words but not his opinions, told dad that "if that's 'ligion, I don't want any part of it."

      From a high school literature class, I remember a poem that went something like this : "The British say 'God bless England'; the Germans say 'God strafe England'. 'My God,' said God, 'I don't know which side I'm on !"

      Honestly held differences of opinion will not be eliminated.  What seem in grave danger of disappearing are civility and humility before the reality that none of us has all the Truth.

     Satchel



       

     

      

"You have to give a Speech"

      . . . "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears . . ."
           Mark Anthony
      . . . "Four score and Seven years ago . . ."
           A. Lincoln
      . . . "Give me Liberty or give me Death . . ."
                 Patrick Henry


         "Just the idea of having to speak in front of a crowd fills me with unbearable anxiety," my client said.  He is a graduate of a venerable university, has a Master's Degree even.  But to imagine having to speak to more than a half  dozen persons reduces him to a blathering mass of monosyllabic grunts.  Another client, an accomplished IT executive, recently told me that he had joined a local Toastmasters group in order to overcome his near-terror of public speaking.

       What makes public speaking such a frightful prospect for them and countless others?  One estimate claims that perhaps as many as 75% of people have the fear.  It even has a formal name: Glossophobia, from Greek words for 'speech' and 'fear'.  The comedian Jerry Seinfeld reportedly said that at a funeral, a majority of the attendees would prefer to be in the casket rather than delivering the eulogy.   As already noted, the tipping point is not formal education; nor is it a matter simply of Introversion/Extroversion.  (I can attest to that truth.  As a 'card carrying Myers-Briggs introvert', I have never been particularly traumatized by speaking to crowds.  A certain degree of anxiety is to be expected but not of paralyzing  proportions.)

      While perhaps begging the question of which came first, the chicken or the egg, I wonder if  a contributing factor may just be lack of experience, perhaps beginning in the early years.  According to Wikipedia, "gaining experience in public speaking often results in it becoming easier for the person."

      Keeping our collective fingers crossed, we are anticipating the imminent arrival of Spring here.  Letting free association have its sway, I remembered the first line of a   
'Recitation' I memorized in the third grade as part of our school's annual ' Recitation Contest':  "My mamma says I've got Spring Fever."  Whatever profundities followed that introduction are long-forgotten.  As I progressed through the grades, there were other memorized 'Declamations', as they were called, including the above referenced Patrick Henry fiery oration.  On a couple of occasions I made it to the 'Final Four' , or whatever the High School competition was called. On my initial attempt, my friend Phil Tillerson won the medal, outscoring my rendition of a speech by Sen. Karl Mundt.  When I was a Sophomore, on the 'Big Night', a thunderstorm hit, knocking out all electric lighting in the school auditorium.  'But the show must go on', and I won First Place with a not so stirring rendition of Mr. Lincoln's Gettysburg Address.

     Our family moved to a new town prior to my Junior year and this school had a long tradition of 'The Horton Contest', named for a once prominent citizen who had served as the State's Lieutenant Governor.  My classmate, Bill Griffin, gave a stirring oration about horrendous highway fatality statistics.  While this occurred approximately sixty years ago, I remember that intermittently he intoned 'but this is
 normal ! '.

     I wonder how many college and university curricula today require a course in "Speech", as it was called at my undergraduate institution.  Class size was limited to approximately 25 students each of whom was  required
to make 3 or 4 speeches of varying lengths during the semester.  About the only thing I now recall from that class is the often repeated admonition: "The moving object attracts the eye."

     To my knowledge, the Horton Contest, required Public Speaking courses and other comparable endeavors are relics in the educational past.  There are exceptions;  for example, our local high school drama group produces two or three excellent productions annually.  And, sometimes a student's "nervousness" may cause muffed lines.  But, stage fright still is not quite the same as an individual alone in the spotlight.  

     But the 'picture' would be incomplete if I omitted those for whom the 'gift of gab' comes easily.  When my friend Bob was taking a Homiletics (Preaching) course at Duke Divinity School, the Professor dryly noted his verbosity with the observation, "Bob, you say Nothing well."  Alas, that could apply to the utterances of many . . . politicians, preachers, or pundits of all stripes . . . for whom addressing an audience brings no fear.

    How would it  be for you, then, if someone told you that "You have to give a Speech" ?

    Satchel

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