Musings

A Book Meme

2009-07-10T05:12:00.001-04:00

This is an automatic post, designed to keep you checking up on me while I’m AWOL… I’ll catch up with you folks the end of the month! The picture may give you an idea as where I am when you are reading this--within 50 miles of this spot. Anyone know the name of the arch or its location?

Kevin tagged me on facebook, but I’m going to answer him here. It’s been a while since I’ve done a meme, but books are always fun to talk about. As with Kevin, I am avoiding using the same book more than once…

1. What author do you own the most books by? Hard to say and I ain’t going to count them… It may be John Calvin. Of authors whom I read ever word of the books I’ve own, it could be Mark Twain, Edward Abbey or Herman Hesse

2. What book do you own the most copies of? Bible (but they are different versions)

3. Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions? It was a bit awkward, but if I let that bother me, I ain’t living right.

4. What fictional character are you secretly in love with? Christine in Oscar Lewis’ I Remember Christine

5. What book have you read the most times in your life? It would have to be the Barnyard Dance by Sandra Boynton! It was my daughter's favorite book and I probably read it at least once a day for two years... I miss those years. As a more serious book, it would probably be Herman Hesse’ Siddhartha.

6. Favorite book as a ten year old? It was a biography of Daniel Boone

7. What is the worst book you’ve read in the past year? I haven’t yet finished it… but I’m thinking it’ll be An American Trilogy: Death, Slavery, & Dominion on the Banks of the Cape Fear River by Steven Wise (And, as if you can guess by the title, the book is really about the pork industry. If you did guess that, I want to talk to you about stock tips!).

8. What is the best book you’ve read in the past year? Rick Bragg, Ava’s Man

9. If you could force everyone you know to read one book, what would it be? Paul Woodruff, Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue

10. What book would you most like to see made into a movie? Edward Abbey’s The Monkey Wrench Gang

11. What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read? It would have to be my pitiful attempts to read either Don Quixote or the Gospel of John in the original languages.

12. What is your favorite devotional book? The Psalms

13. What is your favorite play? Shakespeare’s Macbeth

14. Poem? Dante’s Divine Comedy

15. Essay? Marilynne Robinson, The Death of Adam

16. Who is the most overrated writer alive today? Dan Brown

17. What is your desert island book? Roy Blount’s book of Southern Humor

18. And...what are you reading right now? John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces

Feel free to "tag yourself" and answer the questions. If you do so, leave a comment below so I can go over and check out some of your favorite books (when I am back in town). Next week, I'm posting another story from my first job, back at the time I was the cigarette czar in a local grocery store. Stay tuned.

Heading Out

2009-07-05T06:14:00.002-04:00

The past couple of weeks have been relaxing. After a hectic winter and spring, I’ve worked reasonable hours and have had few evening meetings. I’m heading out for vacation on Tuesday and, for once, I don’t feel stressed about getting everything done. If it wasn’t for a meeting I have to be at on Monday, I could leave today.

Yesterday, on our nation’s birthday, I took it easy. I washed and waxed vehicles, wrote another blog post about working in a grocery story in high school (it’ll be posted while I’m away), walked with the dog and listened to a book, and saw a few fireworks. On Thursday, some friends of mine came up and we spent the afternoon paddling a local river. Instead of a canoe, I took a kayak. We had fun and saw a number of deer sitting along the banks. I have a photo of one but I wish I had my camera out when I saw the three bucks, their antlers all bushy. When I opened the ammo can I keep my camera in, they fled. It was cool for July—only 62 degrees at 1 PM!

Heading Out: Right now, I’m dreaming of sage and will be in familiar country soon. I’m not taking a computer this trip so I may not post anything else until the last week in July. Until then, be good and smile.

Treasure Hill: Another Great Basin Adventure

2009-07-02T07:03:00.007-04:00

“This street used to be bustling with noise,” I think, as I stroll down Main Street, Treasure City. The sounds of wagons and the clicking hooves from horses, added to the cussing of teamsters, the pounding of stamp mills and the music from saloons would have too much. But I swear I can still hear voices in the brisk wind, bringing a chill the summer air. My belly is full. Ralph and I had just eaten a steak and a baked potato, along with a salad. We’d drown it with a beer. Before hitting the sack, I decide to walk the length of the road. Ralph stays behind to tend the fire. The distant mountains are turning purple. This street had once a thriving business district with forty stores and a dozen saloons, but today just the shells of collapsing rock structures remain.

By the time I get back to the truck, Ralph has let the fire die down and is already in his sleeping bag. I blow up my mattress and rolled my bag out on the other side of the truck. Plopping down, I watch the summer stars and listen to the wind and Ralph’s snoring. Soon, I too am asleep. I wake at first light. The wind has died and silence seems eerie. While the coffee perks, I explore some nearby ruins. The evening before, I’d made sure I had stayed on the road, knowing the mountain was pitted with mine shafts and a wrong step could send you several hundred feet down and into oblivion.

In the later part of the 1860s, miners from Austin and the Reese River Mining District in search of another mother lode discovered rich in what became the White Pine Mining District. One of the first discoveries, in 1865, was named Monte Christo. It’s just a few miles west of here. From there, miners set out in all directions and in 1867, discovered what became known as Treasure Hill, the mountain upon which we’d camped. The land was unforgiving. There was little shade in the summer and well above 8,000 feet, the winters were brutal. But with some of the ore as pure silver chloride and assayed as high as $15,000 a ton, people were willing to put up with the hardships. By 1869, Treasure City with a population of 6,000 had been established on top of the mountain. There were nearly 200 mines along with ten mills to crush the ore into powder, in preparation to leaching out the silver and gold. A water company laid pipe and had the ability to pump 60,000 gallons a day to the top of the thirsty mountain. But it was all short lived. Most mines played out after a few hundred feet and the rock proved a formable challenge. Early in 1870, the excitement began to wane. By the end of 1870, only 500 people remained. In 1880, when the Post Office closed, there were only 24 people left living on the mountain.

A look at Treasure Hill’s rise and fall provides an economic lesson in the danger of speculation and bubbles and international finance. Western Historian W. Turrentine Jackson, in his classic study on the region, Treasure Hill, goes into great detail of the financing of the district. In the late 1860s, so much money was poured into the region, more than was ever needed to develop the mines. Much of this capital was wasted; some of it spent on bogus mining operations that existed only to mine the pockets of capitalists who hoped to make a fortune and were willing to take great risks. Then, as the availability of high grade ore begin to wane, money begin to be withdrawn from the region. John Muir visited the area after the rush and wrote in Steep Trails:

“Many of [the mines] do not represent any good accomplishment and have no right to be. They are monuments of fraud and ignorance—sin against science. The drifts and tunnels in the rocks may be regarded as the prayers of the prospectors offered for the wealth he so earnestly craves; but like prayers of any kind not in harmony with nature, they are unanswered.” (Elliott, 105)
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Ralph and I got an early start for this remote spot in the Nevada desert. Leaving Cedar City, we drive north to Minersville and then on to Milford, where we cross the Union Pacific tracks and set out across the desert on Utah 130. Our travels take us just south of the ghost town of Frisco and north of the Wah Wah Mountains. We enter Nevada at Baker. Shortly after meeting up with Highway 50, we leave the pavement for a rough road that skirts the north boundary of Great Basin National Park.

Our first stop is at the site of Osceola, where in 1872, a unique mining community was established. Hard rock mining is the norm in Nevada, as miners dig and blast into rock for ore which has to be crushed and chemically treated to extract the precious metals. However, in Osceola, most of the ore was free and in sediment and could be placer mined. As in many of the California gold fields, all that was needed were shovels and pans and perhaps a sluice box. The only difficulty with placer mining here was the lack of water. Early in the town’s history, a ditch was dug up Wheeler Peak, where water was diverted to the town. This mining district boasts the largest gold nugget ever found in Nevada. There is not much left of the town that existed here for nearly fifty years. Fires, the bane of mining camps, sent most of the town up into smoke. Modern mining operations what little was left. Only the graveyard remains along with some mining equipment that has been used more recently in modern attempts to mine the region. Interestingly, even with gold near historic lows (this was in the late-90s), there’s still a few people mining in this district.

Leaving the cemetery behind, we drive out of the canyon and head west, across an alluvial fan and toward the highway. Reconnecting to US 50, we continue on to Ely where we stop and have lunch at the historic Hotel Nevada. I suggest we eat on the road to make better time, but Ralph cringes. “If I can’t sit down and enjoy my meal, I’m not living right,” he insists. After lunch, we continue west on US 50, passing the huge open pit copper mine at Ruth and thirty minutes later, the Illipah Ranch. Somewhere between Ely and Eureka, we abandon the pavement and head south on a gravel road.

Hamilton is our first stop, nine miles south of US 50. It sits on the north side of Treasure Hill and served as a logistical point for the various mining communities south of here. The town was first called Cave City as so many miners from the mountains sought refuge there in caves during the harsh winters. As mining flourished in the region, a town was laid out and by the spring of 1869, more than 10,000 people lived here. It became the county seat for the newly established White Pine County and a courthouse was constructed. Stage coaches connected the town to Austin and Pioche and the railroad at Elko. But the town’s life was short. The excitement lasted on a few years and by the time of the 1870 census, less than 4,000 people remained. The town struggled on. In 1873, a shopkeeper by the name of Cohen, seeing his investment falter, set his store on fire in the hopes of collecting on his insurance. The fire spread and much of the town burned. Another fire destroyed the courthouse in 1885 and in 1887, the town’s future died as the county seat was moved to Ely. Today, only a few ruins and a cemetery remain. There’s plenty of mining junk left out, along with the leftovers of a cyanide leaching operation and a few junked house trailers which were used in the last attempt to mine in the area. We see no one as we poke around.

After Hamilton, we head south to Treasure City, located just a mile and a half from Hamilton, but on top of the mountain. We take the wrong road and I find myself out in front of the truck with a shovel, clearing rocks as we make our way up a switchback road to the top. Had we known, another road to the west would have taken us to the top without any trouble. It’s getting time for dinner and we find a place along Main Street where we stop for the evening. I build a charcoal fire. As soon as we have coals, I put in two foil wrapped potatoes and, in a wire basket, begin to grill the steaks we had socked away in the cooler. As the sun drops toward the horizon, the wind picks up and soon we’re both pulling on jackets. We eat dinner, washing it down with a beer. I throw a few pieces of pinion onto the coals and the fire blazes. After chatting for a bit, I take off on my walk.

The next morning, we head south off the mountain and stop by the sites for Shermantown and Eberhardt. We link up to the Hamilton-Pioche stagecoach trail and follow it to US 6. Turning left, he head back into Ely in time for lunch and to gas up the truck. Then we head south, stopping at the Ward Charcoal Kilns, a state historic site. It’s interesting that there was a large charcoal operation in this desert region. All the pinion and juniper from miles around had to be cut to feed these massive kilns. The charcoal was mostly used to roast the ore in the milling process. Leaving the kilns behind, we head down US 93, stopping at Pioche, another mining town. Pioche is still alive and holding on now as an out-of-the-way tourist town. The community received a new lease on life in World War Two, at a time when the government was forcing the closure of gold mines as non-essential industries. But the ground around Pioche included large deposits of zinc, which was considered an essential mineral for the war effort. Zinc mining continued on in Pioche till the 1980s. We stop long enough to have dinner at the Overland Saloon, and then headed on home. At Panaca, a Mormon farming community, we leave US 93 and head east, toward Cedar City. An hour later, as we approach the city with the sun setting to our back, the red hills glow in the evening light.

A photos were slides shot by Sage and later digitally copies.

Sources of Information:
Shawn Hall: Romancing Nevada’s Past: Ghost Towns and Historical Sites of Eureka, Lander and White Pine Counties (University of Nevada Press, 1994)

W. Turrentine Jackson, Treasure Hill, (University of Arizona Press, 1962)

Russell R. Elliott, History of Nevada, revised edition. (University of Nebraska Press, 1987).

_________., Nevada’s Twentieth-Century Mining Boom: Tonopah, Goldfield, Ely (University of Nevada Press, 1966).

David Brinkley: A Memoir and other stuff

2009-06-30T13:51:00.003-04:00

Stuff: This is my second of three books reviews for Maggie’s Summer Southern Reading Challenge. I’ve just started reading A Confederacy of Dunces, which I hope to have reviewed sometime after I get back from the West—probably early August. As for world news, my prayers are with the people in Honduras. Normally, I wouldn’t have a horse in that race, but when I was last down there, I stayed down from street from the guy who is now President (or maybe that should be exiled president). I never got a chance to meet him, but I did get to meet his rather frisky dog. Next week, I’ll be following Horace Greeley’s advice and heading West… I’ll be away for nearly 3 weeks.

David Brinkley, David Brinkley: A Memoir (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1995), 273 pages plus a 13 page insert of photos.

A friend lent me this book over a year ago and since David Brinkley is a Southerner (like me), I decided I needed to read it and return it before dry rot sets in. Not only are we both Southerners, Brinkley and I in the same town, just forty years apart. I became aware of the large world around me through reading the Star News and watching Brinkley and Huntley on our local NBC affiliate. Reading Brinkley’s memoirs, I found many places where our lives intersected and highlighted a few in this review.

Brinkley started his news career with the Star News while a student at New Hanover High School. (His school was known to those of us at the other school as “New Hang-over). At the time, the Wilmington Star news was much smaller than when I was living there in the late 60s and 70s. Yet Brinkley got to work with a handful of great newsmen including Sam Ragan. Ragan later owned and edited The Pilot, a weekly paper in Moore County, and was also the Poet Laureate of North Carolina. I have several of his books of poetry on my shelves including a signed copy of Journey into Morning that I cherish. As a high school intern, Brinkley was assigned a story about a woman who claimed to have a Mexican agave plant that bloomed every century and was getting ready to bloom. The scene around the woman’s house became a circus as people poured in to see such a sign and the Fire Department strung up lights for people to see it at night. In preparation for the story, Brinkley did a little research. Looking the plant up in the dictionary, he learned it was erroneously believed to bloom every 100 years. He called Will Rehder, Wilmington’s long time florist (although Will may have been gone by the time I came along, it was from his shop that I ordered an orchid corsage for my Senior Prom date). Rehder told Brinkley he didn’t know a “damn thing” about the plant. Thinking his first story was going to be a washout, Brinkley went anyway and reported on the circus, filling the story with folksy quotes of the bystanders, one of whom was complaining about how much tax money was being wasted on the event. The cactus didn’t bloom, but his article was reprinted in the Los Angeles Times and Brinkley had himself a career.

Interestingly, at the end of this book, Brinkley returns to the topic of wasteful government spending. Not only did he complain about taxes, but concludes his memoirs by advocating a flat tax. I found this interesting and a bit out of place in a memoir. Perhaps my shock shows I had brought into the rhetoric about him being a liberal broadcaster. In truth, throughout the book he presents himself as a fiscal conservative.

Brinkley grew up spending his summers on Wrightsville Beach and enjoying his time at the Lumina, a landmark that was torn down when I was in Junior High. I remember being there as a kid. You could shower off the salt underneath the pavilion and there were pool tables where, for a quarter, you could shoot a game. In my first year of blogging, I wrote a poem about this lost landmark. Another local spot he recalls is Uncle Henry’s Oyster Roast. It was located on Masonboro Sound and I rode by the turn-off twice a day when I was in elementary school. I’m not sure when the business closed, but I’m pretty sure it’s no longer there.

As the Second World War approached and the country was instituting the draft, Brinkley decided to wait on college. He joined the army in 1940, with a bunch of “Dry Ponders” (Dry Pond was an area of Wilmington). He didn’t last long and received a medical discharge for a defective kidney. Sadly, most of those he joined up with were part of the 120 Infantry, 13th Division. On July 25, 1944, after having survived D-Day, the unit was wiped out by friendly fire, when a bomber group missed a target and unloaded their bombs on the unit. Of the 250 in the company, 245 died.

Discharged, Brinkley quickly rose to the top of the journalistic world. He worked for the United Press in several southern locations and by 1943, when many newsmen were overseas, found himself in Washington, a city from which he’d report on for the next four decades.

Much of the book is about Brinkley’s professional life, especially focusing on his meetings with Presidents and coverage of election campaigns. I never knew when I was watching Brinkley just how far he’d come in the business. He was at the 1952 political conventions, the first to be covered by national television. Back then, the three networks had to share one video feed to the West Coast! By ’68, the first conventions I remember, he was an old hand. He continued to be a stable at conventions even after he’d retired.

Brinkley expressed his dislike of Senator Joseph McCarthy, but during the McCarthy era, he was in a unique position. His sister Mary was a legal secretary working for the McCarthy. At the time, she defended her boss and the two of them had to avoid the subject at family gatherings, but she later admitted that most of McCarthy’s allegations were lies. Another part of the book I found interesting was his insights into the 1964 Republican convention. Brinkley reported on efforts by Hugh Scott of Pennsylvania, Nelson Rockefeller of New York, and George Romney of Michigan to have the convention to adopt an anti-extremist platform (condemning the Communist Party as well as the Klan and the John Birch Society). All such attempts failed by large margins, as did an attempt to show support for the Civil Right’s movement. The rhetoric against journalists were so harsh that when former President Eisenhower spoke and mentioned “sensation-seeking columnists and commentators,” the crowd went wild and stormed toward the reporting booths with angry fists raised. Brinkley said that for the first time he was glad there was glass between him and the crowd. While this went on, Eisenhower stood at the podium, bewildered at the reaction of the crowd. Even though the delegates disliked him as a part of the liberal media, Brinkley spoke fondly of Goldwater, whom the party nominated for President that year.

Brinkley gives insight into many of the Presidents. He tells about Kennedy sending out aides to buy up all the Cuban cigars in the capital the night before he imposed an embargo. He also told about being eating out with his wife one evening and being joined by many of the Kennedy family (President Kennedy wasn’t one of them, but Teddy was there). When the meal was over, he was shocked to find he’d been given the bill for everyone there. Brinkley tells about Lyndon Johnson sending a helicopter out to find where he and his wife were one weekend, to invite them to come to dinner at the White House. Brinkley considered Nixon one of the most intelligent Presidents in recent history, but he also found it odd that he man was never happy, never smiled or cracked a joke.

As a Southerner, Brinkley took a lot of heat for doing an early interview with Martin Luther King and for NBC’s coverage of the racial problems in the South. He tells about how one station, WRAL in Raleigh, NC, hired Jesse Helms to go on right after the evening news in order to counter the “lies” told by Brinkley and Huntley. He was even called “Broker T. Brinkley.” Interestingly, WRAL signal didn’t make it to the Brinkley’s hometown of Wilmington. Growing up, I was spared Helm’s diatribes except when I was staying with grandparents.

In addition to covering politics, the memoir also covers the internal politics at NBC. He tells about a strike of the AFTRA, the union for members of news media. They’d called for a strike and Brinkley’s attorney suggested he not work. He didn’t, but Huntley (who was more of a free-spirited westerner) decided he would cross the picket lines and work. All their show got was mail—from both sides. Many felt that Brinkley was selfish for striking when he was making so much money (in truth, the strike didn’t have any effect on his contract). Union members also felt that Huntley was abandoning them by working during the strike. Not long afterwards, Huntley retired and moved to a ranch in his native Montana. Brinkley later went to ABC, where he ran a weekly news show with George Will, Cokie Roberts and Sam Donaldson.

Brinkley adds many stories in the book that don’t seem to fit, but are funny. One came from Gulf Oil, the sponsor of the news program for years. He told about how Gulf Oil, in the early 60s, sent out undercover inspectors to check on their gas stations. In one station, somewhere in mid-America, the inspector was horrified to find a condom machine in a women’s bathroom. Putting in change, the inspector found it empty. It was bad enough to have the condom machine in the first place. The station owner was confronted and he defended himself saying that he made a $100 a month on that machine and it never had any condoms in it. Such was the era, Brinkley said, that no woman would have admitted to a male gas station attendant that she’d lost her quarters in a condom machine.

I enjoyed the book, perhaps more so because I cherished the first chapter and its insight into Wilmington in the 30s. However, I did find it a bit confusing. Brinkley jumps around a lot. It’s almost like you’re talking to him and he remembers something that he forgot to say and jumps back (or ahead) in time. I found it refreshing how “blessed” he felt his life had been. This quote sums it up:

With all of this, I am blessed beyond anything that in my days in Wilmington, North Carolina, I could every have expected or even imagined. Credit it all to luck, modest talent and chancing to be in the right place at the right time to start modestly in a new and promising industry, television, and to grow with it as it grew to its overwhelming presence today. (255)

The Pine River and the Death of Superstars

2009-06-27T14:27:00.007-04:00

A surreal thing happened. I got off the river yesterday. As we were shuttling vehicles and driving, I kept trying to find a good radio station, but all the stations in the Northwoods were playing Michael Jackson. I thought I was in a time warp, back in the 80s. I was on a river when Elvis died. The same is now true with Michael’s death. Like Elvis, I liked some of Jackson’s music, but the guy drove me nuts. Early in my blogging experiences, I wrote a parody about him. I “interviewed” the “Umbrella Man,” the guy who was always seen holding an umbrella for Jackson as he was shuttled in and out of the courthouse. (Warning, the Umbrella Man parody may be seen by some as a bit racy--such a warning will probably increase the number of you who read it). I’m sure the Umbrella Man is now among the unemployed. Jackson's "Thriller" album will live on as a classic.

I’m a little miffed that Michael’s death usurped Farrah Fawcett’s death. What guy growing up in the 70s didn’t have a crush on her or one of her beautiful sidekicks on Charlie Angels? Speaking of deaths, Ed McMahon also died. Along with him died another dream, the "Prize Patrol" in the Publishers Clearance House Van driven by McMahon, pulling in my driveway. Sage could have cashed the check and spent the rest of his life hiking for a living. Of course, Ed only moonlighted with Publisher's Clearance House. His real legacy will be as Johnny Carson's front-man on "The Tonight Show." My prayers for the Jackson, Fawcett and McMahon family in their grief.

At the risk of making too much fun of the dead and being seen as insensitive or worse, I should change topics and tell you that we had a great trip on the Pine River. Three dads managed to camp with six kids without experiencing or participating in a homicide. The weather was nice, the river beautiful, I caught a few trout and a fun time was had by all.

I am going to be gone a lot over the next two months. If I disappear for a few days or few weeks, don’t worry, I’ll be back.

The Cape Fear (A Southern Reading Challenge) along with some Breaking News

2009-06-23T08:16:00.004-04:00

BREAKING NEWS: From what I've heard about Gov. Mark Sanford of South Carolina, we probably wouldn't agree on a lot of things. But when I found myself reading a news report that he'd gone missing and was somewhere along the Appalachian Trail, I can't help but to think that I'd like the guy! He almost sounds like a character out of a Carl Hiassen's article. Click here to read the rest of the story... On a sad note, I should at least mention that passing of Kodachrome. What use to be a favorite film (when I first moved to the desert, I feel in love with Kodachrome 25) is no more. Of course, I haven't shot a roll of film in three years. Times change...

This is my first book for this year’s Summer Southern Reading Challenge (It replaces a book that I was planning on reading about a Texas river). The Cape Fear was published in Rivers of America series, a collection of 50 some books that looked at the history and geography of various streams across the nation. From what I can tell, there was only one edition published. I got a copy via interlibrary loan. Ever since finishing my dissertation almost a decade ago now, I’ve been reading all I can on the Cape Fear region in the hopes of one day writing a book that draws on my own history and that of my Scottish ancestors to the river upon which they settled and near which I was born. This book is a valuable addition in my study. The photo below looks across the Cape Fear River, toward Wilmington. It's a copy from a slide and I shot the photo in the late 70s.

Malcolm Ross, The Cape Fear (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1965), 340 pages, maps

The Cape Fear is the main river system in North Carolina. It’s the only major river that flows out of the state and into the ocean. A number of rivers in the state, like the Yankin, Catawba, Lumbee and Waccamaw flow southeastwardly into South Carolina where they enter the ocean at Charleston or Georgetown. Others, like the Roanoke and Neuse, flow out behind barrier islands that have served to keep them from developing communities linked to the ocean. Unfortunately, geography played a bad hand on North Carolina and its development. The Cape Fear drops it sediment some forty miles into the ocean, creating the treacherous Frying Pan Shoals, causing ships wanting to enter the Cape Fear the necessity of sailing around their thumb to get into the river. Before the railroad, in an era when rivers were the main means of transportation, North Carolina saw most of its produce and goods bound from foreign markets leave the state and exit through Charleston or Norfolk.

Ross spends much time describing the attempts and settling the Cape Fear and then the activities around the river during the Regulator’s Struggle in the 1760s, the Revolutionary War in the 1770s and early 1780s, and the Civil War. North Carolina has always had its share of tax hating people. The Regulators were backcountry farmers who struck out against the Sheriffs who were taxing for the British. All though their struggle has been seen as a precursor to the Revolution, not all of the Regulators fought on the American side as many of them saw the problem as corrupt local officials instead of British policies. The beginning and the end of the Revolutionary War saw action along the Cape Fear. It was the hope of the British at the beginning of the war to raise a large army of Highland Scots to fight for the King. Such an army was raised, although not as large as was hoped, but after a few minute battle at Widow Moore’s Creek (now known as Moore’s Creek), the British and their allies were defeated. In the later years of the war, the Cape Fear witnessed Cornwallis wrath (he burned Brunswick, an early settlement on the river). His march to Yorktown took him through the headwaters of the river. In the Civil War, the river became known as the lifeline of the Confederacy as it was the last Southern port to fall into Federal hands. The two largest naval bombardments of the war occurred at Fort Fisher in December and January 1865. In the first battle, the Federals failed to take the fort. They were successful in the second.

On glaring omission is the discussion of the Cape Fear in the World Wars. Both wars saw shipyards active in Wilmington and in the first two years of the Second World War, German U-boats were very active off the Cape Fear, taking advantage of Frying Pan Shoals which forced ships out into the ocean instead of allowing them to run close to the land where airplanes could spot the submarines.

Ross does a good job of explaining the challenges of the upper sections of the river. Like all rivers, the fall line limited navigation. Unlike many other eastern rivers, attempts to provide water routes on the Cape Fear, via locks and dams through the rapids, proved too difficult. Later, dams were built upstream to power textile mills. Interestingly, Ross doesn’t spend much time discussing the difficulties along the lower Cape Fear. As ships became larger and drew more water, the numerous techniques have been attempted to deepen the channel and keep it from silting up. One of the first attempts was to close a second inlet just south of Fort Fisher. This shallow inlet, which was a favorite of blockade runners in the Civil War, was closed in the late 19th century and the river deepened to allow larger ships to enter the harbor at Wilmington.

The main strength of this book is Ross’ stories. Ross fills each chapter with antidotal stories about the river and its challenges. He is nostalgic. Writing in the mid-60s, at a time when the river was hopelessly polluted, he laments what has been lost. When we first moved to Wilmington in 1966, the river was so polluted that you wouldn’t want to put your hands in it. Today, thanks to sewage treatment facilities and stronger controls on industrial discharge, life has returned to the river and its waters are much cleaner.

Saturday Check-In

2009-06-20T09:16:00.009-04:00

The tradition of all past generations weighs like a nightmare upon the brain of the living…
-Karl Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte

It’s been nice to have a week where I haven’t felt like I was under the gun! I’ve mostly taken it easy. My brother and sister-in-law came back up on Wednesday and spent the night. It was good to have time to talk one-on-one with him. I also got to catch up on what’s happening with our mother and we talked a bit about the future. We scouted out a trout stream and visited a sculpture garden in which I took the photos. The one above is of a sculpture (I think it is titled “History”). It reminded me of a quote from Marx. And no, to dispel any rumors, I’m not a communist! But I have read Marx. The week ended with fireworks as waves of thunderstorms rolled over the land. I watched with fascination as the night sky turned an eerie white, the constant flashes of lightning defying the darkness. And rain, we’ve got rain and folks along the rivers are worried. But today the sun is to shine and it is to be in the 80s and I will make the most of it and will no longer worry about why I can't center one section of text in blogger (my quote) and align the left margin for the rest of my text! Have a great weekend and don't sweat the small stuff.

Summer Camp Memories: The Last Week

2009-06-17T07:45:00.000-04:00

During the five years I worked for the Boy Scout program, I spent three summers in scout camps. In this story I tell about my last week of directing at scout camp. A few years later, when I was in graduate school, I ran a small camp in Idaho for two summers. But that camp was a breeze and had about as many campers as this camp had staff. This all took place in the summer of ’84. Photos are copies of slides.
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Things were running smoothly. All my staff had reported back on time and most of the troops were already checked in. A little after four that afternoon, I headed over to the dining hall to check on dinner. At six, they’d be serving nearly 500 scouts, leaders and staff. Sunday night was always a good meal: baked chicken, whipped mashed potatoes, vegetables, yeast rolls and dessert. I could smell the foot as I walked down toward the dining hall. I went around back, to come into the kitchen entrance, passing by the dumpster. I never saw it; but something bumped into right eyebrow and immediately I felt the sting. I slapped my forehead, killing a wasp. They say bad things come in threes. I should have gone out right then and found a rock to hide under and wait out the Apocalypse.

Up until my encounter with a wasp, it had been a great summer at Camp Bud Schiele. The camp, in only its second year of operation, looked like a country club. The rolling grassy hills surrounded a lake that offered swimming, canoeing and sailing, fishing and waterskiing. I had a terrific staff, some sixty strong. The first seven weeks had gone off without a hitch. After this week, we’d store away tents and gear and in another week I’d be in Damascus, Virginia, ready for a two week hike along the Appalachian Trail. The cooks assured me that dinner would be on time. I got a piece of ice to put on my bite and headed back to the camp office. By the time of our staff meeting that night, my right eye had swollen shut and there sat my staff, every one of them looking at me with their right eye shut. I wish I could say it was out of sympathy, but I know mockery when I see it.

After Sunday, things slipped back into a regular routine and by mid-week, the swelling was down and I’d forgotten about the wasp. The council camp had a tradition going back generations where the camp staff produced a pageant for campers and their staff on Wednesday night. It was convenient to do this middle of the week; visiting parents always recharged the campers’ wallets which helped our trading post make a good profit. The pageant itself was quite a feat, as the staff dressed up as Native Americans and told some legendary story about natives in Western North Carolina. No one seemed to be bothered that the staff dressed like Plain’s Indians, right off of a Hollywood movie set. As camp director, I’d spent the evening greeting parents and talking up the scouting program.
A few minutes before the program was to start for the final time that week, my business manager ran up to me and said there was someone in the office wanting to see me. I walked over and met the man who ran a small country store and gas station a few miles away. He wasn’t too happy. He showed me a check written by one of my staff members. The check had been written on a closed account. The staff member, who had been in uniform, had told the man the check belonged to his mother and she had given it to him, pre-signed, so he could get gas and some snacks. He accepted it (he did, however, put the guy’s name and driver’s license number on it), and as country stores often do, he counter-signed the check over to the bread delivery man. The only problem was, the check didn’t belong to the guy’s mom, but to another woman, the sister of a friend. When the check was denied for payment, the bread company had charged the store an extra fine. The store owner had called the woman whose checks they were and learned that he’d written quite a few checks across a three country area and there were a half-dozen warrants out for the guy’s arrest.

Todd had just gotten out of the Marine Corp that Spring. He came with good references and an honorable discharge. Being in his early 20s made him more desirable as there are a number of positions in camp that require someone over 21. Todd was the assistant on the rifle range and also served as our provisional scoutmaster, working with those scouts who came to camp without a troop. Up to this point, I’d been pleased with his work. Unlike a lot of my staff, he always had clean uniforms, which I later learned was because he’d brought four sets of them with a check “that his mother had given him so he could buy uniforms.” As it turned out, even his uniforms were stolen, having been purchased through forgery. Although I didn’t particular want a sheriff cruiser to come into camp with their lights flashing to arrest a staff member, I also felt I needed to get Todd out of camp. Although I didn’t think he’d do anything, I felt it was a liability to have a staff member working with kids with that many felony warrants out on. I asked the local sheriff if they could wait till ten that evening. Because he had so much land to oversee, our camp ranger had been deputized. The two of us would detain Todd in my office and by ten, all the parents would be gone and the scouts would be back in their campsite and we could hand Todd over to the local sheriff.

I made arrangement for my program director to take over the staff meeting we always held on Wednesday night and asked him to keep the staff together until I came back to talk to them. With Tony, the camp ranger by my side, I asked Todd to come with me to my office. It was a long walk through the night. Once inside, I told him what was up. Todd was a big guy, probably 6’3” with broad shoulders, about the size of Tony and I put together. I was afraid of what he might do, and was surprised when he sat down in a chair and cried. Tony offered him a cigarette and I decided it was best that I not insist they not smoke in my office. He took one (I’d never seen him smoke) and with tears in his eyes asked what was going to happen to him. I told him didn’t know, but I knew there were a number of warrants out for his arrest and that forgery was serious business.

The deputy arrived right at ten and arrested Todd. I felt sorry for him, as he was handcuffed and read his rights. I told him we’d pack up his stuff and keep it safe and then went over to the dining hall where the staff was sitting around waiting. They knew something was up and were visibly shaken, for Todd had been a likable guy. The next day, Tony and I went through Todd’s stuff, inventorying it all and boxing it up and storing it in his car. A few days later, his parents came down and picked up his car and drove it home.

I’d had enough excitement for one summer. But the week wasn’t over. On Friday, as I was trying to finish up paperwork in my office, the mother of a camper who’d been at the camp a few weeks earlier came by. Like the store owner, she too wasn’t happy. She dropped an X-rated photograph on my desk, one that had come from her son’s camera. I could have gone all summer without seeing that. Her son swore to her that he had no idea where the picture came from, but looking at it, I knew right away. It was taken on the waterfront and one particular staff member who had a very unique bathing suit was the subject. I also figured out fairly quickly what had happened.

On the waterfront (sounds like a good title for a movie), there was a place where campers could ‘check” valuables, things that couldn’t get wet, like wallets and cameras. I sent for the waterfront director and for the staff member in question. The waterfront director suggested who he thought would have taken the photo (the guy who was in charge of checking in and out personal items). I had him bring the other guy up as I confronted the one young man with the bright red stripped baggies which clung to his knees in the photo. Showing him the photo, he confessed. So did the photographer. Although I knew it was just a childish prank, the Scouts have strict rules on such behavior and I found myself having the privilege of firing two more staff members. Like Todd, these were both well-liked and hard workers. The rest of the staff was mad at my decision, especially since it there was only one more day of camp left. At least one model in the photographer must not have been too mad with me, for the next year when he graduated from college, he called to ask me to be one of his references.

It had been such a nice summer. I had enjoyed everything the camp had to offer: swimming, water skiing, sailing, canoeing, and fishing. But after that last week, I was never so glad to go home.

For another story about Sage's adventures during the summer of '84, click here.

An Evening on Carter Lake

2009-06-16T07:57:00.003-04:00

The dog and I took the canoe out on Carter Lake yesterday evening. This time of year, it isn’t completely dark till around ten, so even though I left the office at 7:30 PM (don’t feel too bad, I went in at eleven and took a two hour lunch), we still had plenty of time to enjoy the evening. I took a fly rod and spent some time tormenting bluegills, granting the few I caught a pardon, but mostly we paddled and watched the swans. One pair were mourning and gave off an awful cry after a snapping turtle pulled one of their cygnets under water. Trisket was interested what was going on and seemed to want to go check it out, but thankfully thought better of it. He may be superdog, but he can’t walk on water. As we were paddling back in, the male swan had moved out into deeper water, away from his family. After cleaning himself off, he stood up with his head straight in the air and his wings spread (they’re big birds!) and gave out a cry. I wish I could have had a photo of that, but the light was way too low by then.

In addition to the bluegills, swans and turtles, we saw many redwing blackbirds in the cattails around the edges and several pairs of ducks. In the backwaters of the lake, we could hear a dozen or more types of birds singing. Playing bass in nature’s symphony were some bullfrogs. It was a wonderful way to relax and wind-down. I love watching the light change on the lake and how it's reflected in the water. I didn’t take too many photos as the cloud cover reduced the amount of light available and my dog isn’t too keen on me having my camera out (look at the way he’s only partly looking at me). When not in use, I keep the camera in a waterproof box and it’s also insured, otherwise I wouldn’t be foolish enough to have it out on the lake with the dog in the boat.

Have a wonderful Tuesday, folks.

Thoughts on the first day of the week

2009-06-14T20:54:00.003-04:00

This week looks wonderful. I only have a few meetings on my calendar, my toe is healing, and I think I’ll be able to finish some stories that are percolating in my mind. As I said a month of so ago, I was entering a very busy time and it looks like that may soon be over or at least ease up. We are finalizing bids with the project I’m involved with, but everything looks good and it is well under budget. Hopefully I’ll catch up with everyone else’s blog this week.

The photo is of a needle point that my Grandma did back in the 30s. She used a flour sack for the cloth (you can see the imprint on the back of the picture). All my life this picture hung over my grandparent’s bed. When my grandmother moved into an assisted living home last November, she told me to take the picture. It was too big for my luggage, so I had left it at my parent’s home to pick up when I drove down, but my dad got it to me earlier, sending it up with my brother. The idea of using something like a flour sack for embroidery is foreign today (The idea of embroidery was foreign to me even yesterday). I’ve hung the picture over the quilt rack that has the quilt she did which has embroidered flowers of each state in the Union (in case you’re wondering, there’s only 48 states in that quilt). Someday I will lay out the quilt and photograph it for your pleasure.

My brother, sister-in-law and niece were here today. His daughter just graduated from college with a degree in biomedical engineering and has taken a position in a firm about 40 miles from here. They were helping her move and trying to tell her about our arctic winters in an attempt to entice her to move back closer to the Carolina coast. I don’t think they’re going to be successfully. It was good to see him. It'll also be good to have another relative in the state and I’m proud to have one of my own kin trying to stem to exodus from Michigan!

I hope everyone has a wonderful week.

Minor League Ball

2009-06-09T21:38:00.004-04:00

This is mostly a photo post as I don't have time to do much writing. I did take off long enough this weekend to go to a minor league ball game. For Single A, the Fifth-Third Ballpark is nice. And if if you don't mind being in the outfield, you can bring your own seats or a blanket and enjoy watching the game on grass. For those not from these parts, Fifth-third is the name of a bank... Lots of us wonder if we should trust our money to folks who can't do fractions.

It wasn't a great game, despite a respectable crowd. The home team, the West Michigan Whitecaps got creamed by the cross state rivals, the Great Lakes Loons (from Midland). The fireworks were suppose to start after dark, but with 16 runs, the Loons got a head start.That's the moon, nearly full, behind the stadium.

The second set of fireworks started right after the ninth. I should have brought a better tripod with me, but I hate lugging one of those big ones around and this small mini-tripod doesn't give me the sharpness that I like.

But for $5 (price to sit on the grass), another couple bucks for a hot dog and $7.50 for a decent beer (but that's a large plastic glass!), and a fireworks show, you can't beat it.
Today was a long day, but a good day! Tomorrow is to be another long day and hopefully just as good! Take care.

Gerlach, Nevada (before Burning Man)

2009-06-05T13:00:00.002-04:00

I’ve not been able to keep up with everyone’s blog and I’m afraid this will continue through the next ten days or so. The next week and a half are going to be very busy with a number of things happening and some important meetings that require a lot of preparation. So send prayers and well wishes my way! I knew six weeks ago that through mid-June, my work life would be hectic and it has been. I haven’t been able to write nearly as much as I’d like. I haven’t even finished the first of my Summer Southern Reading Challenge books. But I did do this memory piece about a road trip I took in 1989 when I lived in Nevada. The two photos of Pyramid Lake were taken in October 1988, the train shots were all taken in Gerlach. The photos are all copies of slides.
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Gerlach and the Black Rock Desert have lost a lot of their appeal. In the past decade, thanks to the hedonistic Burning Man Festival, tens of thousands of people head there every Labor Day weekend, probably more people in a few days than use to make it out there in a year or so. In the late 80s, that wasn’t the case.

I’m not sure all of what drew me to this dot on a map, a hundred and some miles north of Reno. I’m sure most of the appeal was that so few people I knew had been there. Another attraction was the rumor of hot springs. And finally, there was their high school basketball team. I’d seen them play that winter; they were creamed by the Virginia City Muckers. Our high school boys, used to playing in the thin air of 6200 feet, ran these lowlanders to death. Making it worse, the Gerlach team had only seven players. A couple of these guys were so uncoordinated that I felt sorry for them. By the end of the game, they only had five left on the court, their best two players having fouled out. The Muckers second string, guys who normally sat on the bench, got most of the playing time and had no problem running up the score. For some reason I wanted to see where this team was from so in the late spring of 1989, I drove to Reno, picked up a woman I’d been dating and the two of us headed out of Reno, following the Truckee River along I-80 to Wadsworth, and then staying by the river, took Nevada 447 due north.

We headed north toward Nixon and the Pyramid Lake Indian Reservation, stopping along the south end of the lake. It’s a barren looking body of water that is essentially a retention pond. The pristine waters start out as snow in the Sierras, melt into Lake Tahoe, and then flow out of the north end of the lake, cascading down the Sierras, flowing through downtown Reno and through the river district, home of the infamous Mustang Ranch. At Wadsworth, the river turns north and the waters gather in Pyramid Lake where they evaporate in the hot desert sun. The waters, by the point they’ve reached the lake, are full of minerals. Over the millenniums, the rising and falling of the lake level coupled with the minerals that are left behind when evaporation occurs, has created unique formations. Also because of the mineral content, there is little life around the lake. Carolyn and I had met on another trip to this lake, with a mutual friend, back in the fall. We were out searching for a few cottonwoods in bloom. At one point, late in the day when the light was soft and warm, she caught me taking her picture. She smiled and I snapped another. We started seeing each other soon afterwards. Although nostalgic, our stop on the south shore of Pyramid Lake was brief, for we had another 80 miles to go to get to Gerlach.

Although the famed Highway 50 through Central Nevada has been dubbed the Loneliness Road in America, Nevada 447, north of Nixon, is one of a dozen or so blacktopped roads in the state with a much lower traffic count. We saw only one car heading south as we drove north, and when we returned that evening, we saw no cars heading north. There’s not a lot out here. The west side of the road is the reservation; on the east side is Winnemucca Lake, which is dry. Along the way, we see a couple of ranches and a few scattered cows. This is harsh land to raise livestock, taking 40 acres or more to support a cow. As the afternoon progresses, the wind begins blowing and at places it sounds like the car is being sandblasted. Five miles south of Gerlach is the only other town around, Empire. It’s a company owned town at the site of one of the nation’s largest gypsum mines and the main source of employment in the region. Five or so miles north, along the Southern Pacific lines (the Feather River Route) is Gerlach. To the northwest is the Black Rock Desert. We stop and ask about the hot springs and learn they’re not currently open due to construction. A little disappointed, we walk around town and the rail yard and spent some time looking out on the desert.

There’s one main establishment in town, called Bruno’s Country Club. It’s a gas station, casino, restaurant, bar and hotel. I laugh at it being called a Country Club, for there ain’t a blade of grass in sight and if they’d be golf in this part of the country, it’d be a clay court (Gabbs, Nevada, I’m told, has a 9 hole clay court). We head into Bruno’s, enjoyed a home-style meal, nothing fancy, but folks were friendly. After dinner, we took another walk around town. The air was cooler and the wind had died a bit. We then leave, driving through the night, back the way we came. At a couple of places, sand from the afternoon’s wind had nearly covered the highway, but we had no problem making it through. As it gets darker, I noticed the new moon out on the western horizon. Pointing it out to Carolyn, she reminded me that there was also a crescent moon on the horizon on that first trip to Pyramid Lake. The moon sets, the stars burn brightly and my headlights beam ahead through the night. It was late when I drop her off and even later when I make it back up on the Comstock.

For some other road trips I've done out west, check out these links:

Rachel, Nevada

Hole in a Rock Road
Trip over the Sierras

The 70s, my thoughts and a book review

2009-05-30T16:13:00.001-04:00

This morning, listening to the radio, I heard Maureen McGovern sing “The Morning After.” This was the theme song to the Poseidon Adventure, one of the worst movies of all time in my humble opinion. But listening to the song this morning, words I first heard on my AM/FM radio that I received as a Christmas present in 1970, I realized that the song spoke to that age.

There’s got to be a morning after
If we can just hold on through the night
We got a chance to find the sunshine
Let’s keep on looking for the light.

In the summer of ’73, when the song was a hit, things were pretty messed up. I was reminded of this as I read a new book on the 70s. I had my 13th birthday party just 16 days into the decade that would shape my life. Over the next ten years, I would graduate from high school and college, get a drivers license, work in a supermarket and then a bakery, begin a doomed marriage, and visit Japan. The decade ended on a rainy night driving back from the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, listening to the FM radio, or maybe an 8-Track. Gas was expensive then, over a dollar a gallon for the first time. It was 35 cent a gallon when I got my driver’s license in January 1973. Somewhere around Wilson or Mt. Olive, driving on wet pavement through a dark night, the 80s began.

Here is my review:

Edward D. Berkowitz, Something Happened: A Political and Cultural Overview of the Seventies (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 283 pages.

For Berkowitz, the 70s as an era ran from 1973 to Reagan’s inauguration in 1981. He cites ’73 as a beginning because so many things that helped define the era occurred that year: the end of American involvement in Vietnam, an Oil Embargo, and the crisis of a president that included the resignation of the Vice President (Nixon would resign a year later). Berkowitz does a great job of describing the 70s, reminding me of all the twist and turns we had in those turbulent years. We had a president who, by visiting China, changed the history of the world in ways that we can only begin to understand. I don’t think I realized how close we were to National Health Insurance in the early 70s, an idea that died with the economic downturn in ’74. And then we had a whole series of scandals, starting with Nixon and Agnew, but they weren’t nearly as colorful as Wilbur Mills and his strippers.

The sixties was an optimistic decade; the seventies were pessimistic. In the 70s, according to Bruce Schulman, America got made over, and ‘its economic outlook, political ideology, cultural assumption and fundamental arrangements changed.” It was an era of declining productivity and extreme inflation. It was the era when much of the United States industrial strength started to slip and countries like Japan made great strides in their own productivity.

Politically, Berkowitz divides the seventies into political eras: the fall of Nixon, the Ford years, and the Carter years. Reading the book, I felt sorry for Carter (and am reminded of Obama’s challenges). First of all, most of his problems were inherited. Berkowitz points out that Carter’s attempt to be “transparent” actually made it harder for him to get things through Congress. Furthermore, Congress had new found powers inherited from a weakened executive branch following Watergate. Carter was also the first post-World War II president not to have a period of economic growth. Then, just when it seemed his luck couldn’t get any worst, it did. His administration ended with Three Mile Island and the Iranian hostage crisis. Berkowitz notes that the problems Carter inherited and faced may have been beyond any politician ability to handle, but that Carter’s moralizing issues didn’t help and probably only made things worst.

Civil rights for African-Americans was the focus on the post-war years. According to Berkowitz (and others like Thomas Wolfe, whom he likes to quote), the 70s was the decade that everyone began to demand rights. Women’s rights were at the forefront. 1970 saw the release of a new brand of cigarettes that focused on women. Virginia Slims were advertised with the logo, “You’ve come a long ways, baby.” Much of the decade was spent arguing over the ERA amendment. I hadn’t realized that the ERA passed Congress with the support not only of the left, but with right-winged senators like Strom Thurmond and Barry Goldwater. Berkowitz goes into detail on reasons why it failed. One reason was the economic downturn, which made people afraid of change. The other two major reasons was the political savvy of those against it and the ERA debate being framed around the abortion issue. In addition to women’s right, the 70s saw the rise of the gay movement, disability rights and rights of immigrants. In many ways, all the new groups demanding their rights paralleled a shift from the Civil Rights era views of doing what was good for all America, to a focus on more individual concerns. The 70s is seen as the “ME” decade, which helps explain the rise of Reagan in the 80s.

Growing up in the South in the 70s, I was shocked that Berkowitz discussed the integration of Boston’s public schools and spent little time talking about the integration of the schools in the South or other areas of the country. Interestingly, the ruling that got busing started wasn’t in Boston was from North Carolina (Swan vs Charlotte Mecklenburg, 1971). Three years later, this ruling was used in Boston. As a Southerner who’s lived much of his adult life up north, I am still shocked at how segregated schools remain up here and find it strange that in upscale neighborhoods around northern cities, one can still find school districts that are mostly white.

Berkowitz does a better job on describing the political changes in the s70s than the culture changes. Culturally, he explores only movies and TV in depth. Although he acknowledges significant authors like John Updike, he does not explore the role they played in defining an era. In movies, he focuses mostly on “blockbusters,” a new way of marketing movies in an era that was seeing declines at the theater. As for TV, the 70s were the golden years as they didn’t have competition from cable and other forms of media. He discusses not only sitcoms, but also news programs and sports. Outside of a few brief mentions, he does not discuss the role of music. Maybe it was because I spent most of the decade as a teenager, that I think that music defined the era. It was the day when “album stations” bucking the top-40 trend were exiled to FM, the era of Bruce Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan and southern rock. It was also, sad to say, the era of disco.

I enjoyed reading this book and recommend it; I just wished Berkowitz had gone further. He does a wonderful job discussing American politics. One final criticism, he overlooks lots of major world changes that were occurring, especially in Africa. Maybe the book should have been called a political history of the 70s in America.

Harold and Giovanni's Room: a memory

2009-05-28T15:25:00.004-04:00

Yesterday morning I had a little procedure done on my foot and have spent much of the time since, in a recliner with my foot propped up, loopy on pain medicine. I was beginning to enjoy the Viocidin, until I woke up at about 5 AM, my body itching and my breath wheezy. I must be allergic to the stuff, so I am now on something new and can barely stay awake. I have books and a pile of paperwork, but haven’t done much of anything. I did finish this piece which I’d started last week. Digging out the old photos of Delano, I found the one of him and Harold and it got me thinking about a friend from the past… Delano (on the left) was the scoutmaster of the Mormon troop outside of Tabor City and Harold (on the right) was the scoutmaster of the Tabor City troop.

Thinking back, it was probably a cruel joke. Harold was planning on spending the week with his scout troop at summer camp and he asked for book recommendations. I lent him a couple of books, one of which was James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room. I knew he’d read it. He was shocked there was a book by Baldwin I’d read that he hadn’t (I’d read it in college). After all, he taught social studies and was African-American. I was a white boy and the Boy Scout’s hired hand. Harold dug right in. Giovanni’s Room isn’t your typical Baldwin work. Unlike Baldwin’s better known writings, Giovanni’s Room has nothing to do with the African-American experience. The story is set in Paris and features a unique triangle relationship between an American couple and an Italian (Giovanni). But it’s not Hella, the American girl, who’s interested in Giovanni; it’s David, the boy. When I gave him the book, I had a suspicion Harold was unaware of Baldwin’s sexuality. I should add that in addition to teaching Junior High, Harold was also a preacher in an Apostolic Pentecostal Church.

Harold didn’t exactly fit the Norman Rockwell’s view of a scoutmaster. He ended up with the job by default. The coach at his school had been recruited to be the scoutmaster and he asked Harold to be his assistant. That next school year, the coach accepted a high school position down in South Carolina and when no one else stepped forward, Harold took over as Scoutmaster. I don’t think Harold had ever camped before becoming an assistant scoutmaster. I’m not even sure he’d built a campfire and I’m pretty sure he never used a compass. Harold was much more comfortable sitting inside with his head in a book than outside swatting mosquitoes and gnats. Even though he wasn’t created out of the scoutmaster’s mold, Harold was a good leader and saw to it that several of the boys in his troop earned their Eagle. These were the first Eagles earned in Tabor City in a decade or so. In fact, until Harold and the coach got together, there hadn’t been a scout troop in town for several years. Tabor City was a rough place; it was also known as one of the Sweet Potato Capitals of the World and Razor City, depending on whether you were talking to the Chamber of Commerce or the man on the street. The city had a brutal past and in the 1950s, the Klan ruled. After intervention by the FBI, the Klan had been destroyed, but an uneasy truce had been formed. As an African-American, Harold did a lot to break down the barriers that still existed in the early 80s. He was respected by all in the community, as shown by families allowing their white boys join his troop.

Harold and I became good friends, partly drawn together by our interest in history, social studies, literature and practical jokes. He finally forgave me for shattering his idyllic view of Baldwin. When my personal life became chaotic and I went through a divorce, Harold was there to support me. He even tried to set me up with another teacher in the school, but it was too soon for both of us. Her husband had been killed in a work accident and I think Harold was trying to take care of both of us. Later, after I left the area and moved across state, Harold and I would occasionally get together for lunch or dinner when I was driving home to see my parents. We wrote back and forth a few times after I left North Carolina for Pittsburgh, but with me having no reason to travel through Columbus County, and Harold no reason to head up north, we lost contact. As with Delano, I was blessed to know Harold.

Yet the key to my salvation, which cannot save my body, is hidden in my flesh.
-David imagining Giovanni’s execution (James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room)

My Grocery Career, Part 2

2009-05-24T18:29:00.003-04:00

This is my second post on my time as a "Country Boy," working for Wilsons Supermarkets. Click here for my first post.

When I was pursuing my supermarket career, it was the custom for grocery stores to run weekly sales from Thursday to Wednesday. Late Wednesday night, Bert would have a bag boy help him hang large signs in the widows, advertising our weekly specials: a five pound bag of sugar for 59 cents, some cut of steak for 1.99 a pound, bananas for 10 cents a pound, baby food a dime a jar, five pounds of potatoes for 39 cents. Also late Wednesday, as we’d be closing up, the job of changing the marquee out front would fall to one of the bagboys. This was always a fun job, except for when it was raining or windy. We’d used a 12 foot long mechanical hand to take off the old letters and put on the new ones. By the time I arrived at work from school on Thursday, the grocery store would be packed with customers trying to get in on the deals.

I don’t recall a lot about my few months working at Wilsons. Everyone that I worked with, except for Tom, was older than me. During this time I mostly worked up front, bagging groceries and carrying them out to the customer’s car. This was fine with me for you were often tipped for helping someone with their groceries. Occasionally, we’d be assigned another task like taking care of bottle returns. In the front of the store were several large bins on wheels where soft-drink bottles were placed after being redeemed for deposit. Whenever a bin would begin to fill, or when there was a lull in the action, Bert would assign one of us bag boys take the bins to the back of the store and separate the bottles into several large wooden bins, divided by brands. The distributors picked up the empties a couple times a week. Although this gave you a break from bagging, it was really a dirty job and the novelty of working in the back of the store soon wore off.

At this time in my grocery career, I worked only three days a week: Thursday, Friday and Saturday. On school nights, I’d arrive at 4 PM and work till 8 or 9 PM. As things begin to slow down in the evening, Bert would begin to send some of us home for the night. It was always nice to get out a little early on Thursday, especially if I had homework. On Saturday, I’d work from late morning till early evening. As the weather warmed and school was done for the summer, there was a turn-over of personnel. Many of my colleagues had graduated from high school and they left for permanent jobs, college or the military. As these guys and gals were replaced, I was no longer the new kid on the block. Of these new employees, Tina was the most exciting. They'd later be others such as the from North Brunswick High who stood me up for the ROTC ball, but Tina was the first of the girls my age working at the store. Like Tom, she was a student from New Hangover High. I remember her with hard dark hair, olive colored skin and big dark eyes. For the next couple of years, we’d flirt back and forth. She was the only cashier younger than my mother who called me “honey.” But for some reason, I never got the nerve to ask her out and after a year or so I'd missed my opportunity as she was dating others.

Late that summer, I found myself being trained for new jobs around the store. Bert trained me to run a cash register. It seemed a nice skill to have and it meant a small increase in my paycheck (but an actual decrease since cashiers never received tips). All the regular cashiers were women, just as all the bag boys were “boys.” But, there were always a few bag boys trained to take over a register if things got busy, or to allow those on the register to take a break and to fill in if there was an absence. It was a treat to be assigned to a cash register on a rainy day. At that time, the store used mechanical cash registers. These were heavy machines that had rows of numbers. There were no scanning of products. A carton of cigarettes at the time cost $1.89 (this was North Carolina, after all!). Holding the item in one hand, I’d mash the 1 button on the third-to-the-left column, the 8 button on the second and the 9 on the left-hand column. Soon, I could do this in one motion. I then rolled my hand to the right and with the side of my hand hit enter. The price would appear on the tape and show on the top of the machine. It became second nature and after a few weeks, I discovered that I was as fast as anyone in the store except for some of the older women who been there for years and mainly worked the morning and early afternoon shifts.

Another new job I found myself being assigned to was mopping. On week nights, about 15 minutes before the doors were locked, Bert would have two of us go back and begin preparations for mopping the store. We had a large machine that put out a cleaning solution, scrubbed the floor and then vacuumed up the dirty solution. Behind the machine, the second person would come with a mop and bucket and scrub the sides of the aisles and any missed areas. It’d take 30 or so minutes to cover the floor.

Late in the summer of ’73, Bert asked if I’d be interested in working the Saturday night mop crew. For this, I had to get my parents permission since we worked well into Sunday morning. The store was closed on Sundays. My parents agreed and, for the rest of the time I was in high school, I didn’t have to worry about a Saturday night curfew and often came home at 4 or 5 on Sunday mornings. This was okay with my parents as long as I was up in time for church and provided me with more freedom that I should have had as a high school kid.

One of these early Sunday mornings, I came home hungry. Everyone had been asleep for hours. Looking in the fridge, I spotted some sliced ham and made me a sandwich. It was good and I decided when I got home from church that Sunday afternoon, I’d make me another sandwich. I started to fix this to my mother’s horror, who informed me that it was a fresh ham and it hadn’t been cooked. She was sure I was going to come down with some terrible disease, but I never did.

On Saturday night, we’d not only mop the floor, but strip it of wax. As soon as the last of the customers were out, we’d take all the shopping carts out of the store and place them in the parking lot. Then the three of us (there were always three on Saturdays), would remove anything from the aisles and place them in the back room or up off the floor. With the floors cleared, except for the aisles themselves, we’d use chemicals in the machine and in the buckets to cut the wax off. Where the wax had built up, we’d scrap off the excess with metal scrapers attached to hoe handles. The floor had to be spotless and dry before waxing. We’d had special mops and buckets for the wax, which came in 55 gallon oil drums. Using a mop, One of us would put a line of wax along the edge of each aisle, about two inches from the edge. Then the other two would come in and fill in the aisle with wax. The job required a steady swing of the mop in order to place the wax evenly on the floor. Then, after the wax had dried, we moved everything back out onto the floor and brought in the shopping carts and the store was ready to open on Monday morning. (If it was raining, we’d have to mop again the area where we brought the carts in, for it’d be sloppy wet.)

There was lots of freedom with working on the mop crew. Bert or John (John was the assistant manager and the two of them rotated Saturday night duty), would lock us in the store after we’d taken the carts out. We’d be on our own till they came back, generally at 1 or 2 AM, after the clubs were closed. They’d often have beer on their breath and on many occasions, Bert would have a hot looking woman with him. (Bert was divorced, John was married.) They’d help us finish up and we’d leave for home an hour or so later.

Two or three weeks after starting to work on the mop crew, the other guys who’d been on the crew left and I found myself in charge. I also quickly learned that it didn’t take six or seven hours to do the work. We’d normally be done by midnight and would spent an hour or two sleeping on the cash register belts as we waiting for Bert or John to come back and open the doors so we could bring in the buggies before going home. Since we were still on the clock, those were some of the best hours I’d work. I ran mop crew throughout my high school year. Bert, knowing that we were faster than others had been, would come back earlier and we started being out of the store between midnight and 1 AM. When I and the others started turning 18, during my senior year in high school, getting out “early” on this late night shift had the added advantage of allowing us to cruise around and to close down night clubs.

It doesn’t seem like it’s been nearly thirty-five years since I worked in the grocery. I wonder what happened to Bert and John and Tina?

Stuff (including a ball game)

2009-05-21T21:34:00.005-04:00

Work’s so busy that I decided I could take off today and head to Detroit and watch the Tigers beat up on W’s old team, the Rangers. (Actually, I'd planned this two months ago.) What a great day for baseball, beautiful skies and warm but not too hot (it was 79 degrees when the game started, 85 when the Tigers turned a double play to end the game in the top of the ninth). We got to Detroit around 11 AM, in time to have lunch at the Hockeytown Café. I decided to live dangerously and ordered a veggie burger (their black bean burger was excellent!). But I’m sure I broke some kind of unwritten guy rule by eating vegetarian at a place with hockey jerseys from so many great players. But the cute waitress with her dyed red hair told everyone that it was her favorite, so I felt vindicated as everyone else chowed-down on Reubens and ½ pound hamburgers. After lunch, we headed over to the game. Jackson, the starting pitcher for Detroit, got off to a bad start. He gave up a homer in the first inning (but so did the Rangers) and for the first few innings was only tossing the ball around 93 miles per hour. But as the innings continued, he began to smoke it with 97 and 98 mph strikes. The Tigers swept the Rangers this series!
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The Redwings are still in the hunt for the Stanley Cup, but as I’ve said before, I don’t really understand hockey. However, this guy is a real fan!

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It was sad to see the monument to the Big Three automakers in the outfield. Just behind them, down on the river, is the GM tower…

There are many development opportunities available around Detroit. This fixer-upper has nice ventilation. It was a successful trip; we got home with four tires and an equal number of hubcaps! Life is hard in Detroit and if you haven’t read the Walking Man’s poetry about the city, you should.

On the home front, my daughter’s award banquet for school was yesterday and she is nearly done with elementary school. I was proud of her. Unlike when I was in the 5th grade, she received several academic awards and was one of the recipients of the Presidential Academic Achievement Award that included a pin and a signed certificate by Obama (or someone on his staff working a printer). She was probably the only kid at her school excited to have something signed by Obama! Unlike me, she was also recognized for making it a full year on safety patrol. If you remember, I got court-martialed! I had to be proud even though she didn't follow in my steps.

I hope to have my second story about being a Country Boy (working in a grocery story) posted by Saturday.

Delano: Boy Scout Memories

2009-05-18T16:43:00.004-04:00

The post below is a repeat. I first published it in my blog in April 2007. Delano was one of the characters I got to know working for the Boy Scouts. He was the scoutmaster of the Mormon Troop in Tabor City, but lived in Pireway, down near the Waccamaw River. This weekend, his second cousin found my first post via google and noted that he'd like to see the photos I had of Delano. I couldn't find the photo I'd shot of him chopping wood. I know it appeared in the Whiteville NC newspaper, probably in 1982 or 83. Here are two pictures of Delano that was not in the original post. In the second shot, he's with his son. The man on the left is Harold, the scoutmaster for the other troop in Tabor City. It was at an Eagle Court of Honor. I think those two boys were the first Tabor City scouts in 20 years to receive their Eagle. One day, I'll write memories of Harold, as he was another good friend of an age gone by. The last photo is of me (pardon the quality of the photos).

According to his cousin who wanted to see the photos, Delano died in 2004. "He was one of the most happy and full of life people I ever knew," he wrote. Click here to see the original post.

What are those government fools thinking, offering classes to teach us how to make alcohol? There ain’t a farmer in these parts that haven’t made liquor at one time or another,” Delano fumed.It was in the early 80s and after years of prosecuting farmers for turning corn into liquids, a lively discussion was being held with how to do this legally, for internal combustion as opposed to internal consumption. If the farmers made their own, they could reduce their dependence on gasoline and diesel fuel. The local community college offered a course on alternative fuels, but Delano didn’t think much of the idea. The government was meddling where it shouldn’t be meddling. His views weren’t a surprise; everyone in Columbus County complained about the government meddling, except of course when they were first at the hog trough. However, his admission on the moonshining activities of area farmers surprised me. Did he include himself in the bunch? After all, he was a Mormon and the scoutmaster for a small Mormon troop in southern part of the county. Mormons weren’t supposed to be drinking. But then, neither were Baptist and those in that area who weren’t Mormon were members of one the several off-brand Baptist Churches. A part of me always wanted to know what went on in the “Primitive, Fire-baptized, Fundamentalist Baptist Church,” but I never got up the nerve to find out.
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Even though he marched to his own drum, I loved Delano. There was never a dull moment when he was around. He was always smiling and joking. Living out on the edge of the Green Swamp, down near the Waccamaw River, Delano could be counted on to tell a story that included hunting and fishing how-to tips. Like his neighbors, Delano supplemented his livelihood from the bounty of the earth and would entertain us telling about the tricks of his neighbor. He never indicted himself, but one had to wonder. One favorite was dialing for fish (using an old crack phone to create an electrical charge that races through the water and stuns the fish so that when they come to the surface you can net ‘em). To hear him tell the story, nobody in his neighborhood purchased canned dog food to feed to canines. Dogs got scraps from the table. Canned dog food was used to chum the waters for fish. Holes were punched in a can that was tossed into the water at a spot where you wanted to fish in a day or two. The dog food attracted fish so that when you came back for business, you didn’t have to spend much time finding the fish. You just had to hope the fish, fat on dog food, were ready to bite into a juicy worm.I met Delano at a chicken bog for scout leaders held in Fair Bluff. Having been told he was a Mormon, I made sure we had alternatives to the coffee and tea that everyone else would be drinking. I’d gotten a couple bottles of apple juice and offered him one. He refused and poured himself a cup of coffee. At this same event, I was troubled when I learned that a chicken bog contained not only fowl, but also sausage. Realizing that we had several Jewish leaders, I apologized. What little training I’d had from the scouts by this point had stressed sensitive to such issues. But sausage wasn’t a problem, these guys assured me, as long as their wives weren’t around. I’m sure the same applied to Delano’s coffee and soft drinks and most other leaders who indulged in one thing or another.
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Delano was a disabled veteran of the Korean War. He once told me about his experiences there. I don’t recall much of what he said, but there was a story about a small group of them lost behind enemy lines and struggling to make it back to safety, surviving minefields, frostbite and starvation. Although he could walk and get around, he wasn’t particularly fast and was limited in the amount of work that he could do (although I do remember him splitting wood with a maul one Saturday when several troops got together to take firewood to people in need). We got along well; both of us believed that when camping, an afternoon nap was a necessity. He had a small but devoted group of scouts who looked up to him and knew that he looked out for their best interest. At camporees, where all the troops in the county gathered, Delano made a point to invite me to eat Saturday dinner with his boys. Sometimes the fare would be normal, venison or fried fish. Other times the menu was down right exotic. In the three years I worked that district, I was served bear, squirrel, turtle, raccoon, and even a greasy opossum.

I came across many characters during my three years working for the Scouts in Eastern North Carolina. I cherish these memories. It’s hard to accept the fact that the boys who were in scouts at the time are now in their 30s. “Oh my,” as they say down there, “how time flies.”

Population: 485 (A Book Review)

2009-05-16T08:13:00.004-04:00

Michael Perry, Population: 485, Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time (San Francisco: Harper Perennial, 2003), 234 pages

After twelve years of wandering, Michael Perry returns to the land on which he was raised. An established author, who is also a nurse, he settles in the town of New Auburn, a place where the town office will lend out their sewer rod and not far from the dairy farm where he grew up milking cows. He joins the local fire department. The membership requirements aren’t too tough, he suggests. He has to be able to move and have a driver’s licenses. Helping his cause is his flexible schedule, allowing him to be on-call whenever he’s home. This book is the story of Perry meeting the people he served as a fireman and EMT.

Perry’s writing is folksy and humorous. Although each of the stories can stand alone, they are arranged in somewhat of a chronicle order. The first and last stories are tear-jerkers. The first, titled “Jabowski Corner,” tells of a particularly danger bend in a road. Soon after joining the fire department, Perry is called to a wreck at the location. In telling about the high school girl who’d lost control of her car, he recalls other accidents he’d know about at the curve. We learn of the nearby farmer for who the curve was named. We learn of the rescue squad’s valiant efforts and how they’re thankful when they get her onto the waiting helicopter, still alive. Getting her to the hospital gives her a chance. And we learn she doesn’t make it through the night. The book ends with even a sadder story. “Sarah” is about another accident victim, his young sister-in-law. Although Perry was out of town when the accident occurred, he writes of the hardship of being called to an accident when it’s family. In a small town surrounded by rural country, this happens too often. On the call were both of Perry’s brothers (including her husband), along with their mother who is an EMT. But between the sadness, there are lots of laughter and good times and Perry catches it all.

Each story centers on a theme. In one, he deals with his relationship with his brothers as he discusses fighting a structural fire. In another, he takes a jogging tour of the town, pointing out the sites and the town’s history. In another essay, we’re drowned in alphabet soup as Perry explains the procedure an EMT uses when approaching a victim. It begins with the ABCs (airway, breathing, circulation), and then gets more complicated. As I read each story, I was treated by being introduced to the characters around the fire department. A favorite is Beagle, a butcher whose two ex-wives both work at the town’s only convenience store.

Having just read the Rick Bragg’s family trilogy, I must compare Bragg and Perry. In a way, they’re both similar. Both stick out in the big Eastern Cities (Perry gets pleasure in hanging his “Billy Bob’s Honky-tonk jacket next to mink coats, while Bragg threatens to whip an intellect's ass at a Harvard dinner). Perry admits his inability at diagramming sentences, while Bragg is proud that he won a Pulitzer without having graduated from college. The sadness in Bragg’s stories come from the poverty he endured; in Perry’s stories, the sadness centers around the suffering of others. Both, ironically, write about a place named Auburn and make reference to its name in 18th century poem. Both authors are humorous, but I think Bragg is funnier than his Yankee counterpart. That said, I still recommend this book. It’s a treat and you’ll enjoy losing yourself in the stories.

My advice to Perry and his publisher… To really pull off the “redneck Yankee” persona, that cow crossing sign on the cover needs a few strategically shot bullet holes. Thanks TC for recommending Perry to me!
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For other book reviews by Sage, click here.

Greenfield Village

2009-05-14T10:01:00.003-04:00

What a way to end a career as an elementary school chaperon! My daughter had her last field trip as an elementary school student yesterday, a trip to Greenfield Village and the Henry Ford Museum on the other side of the state. Like so many other times, I went along as a chaperon. It was scheduled to be a long trip. We gathered at 6 AM and were suppose to be home between 7 and 8 PM. We got home at 11, after the bus blew a tire on the freeway! Getting to bed shortly before midnight, I was rousted out at 2, when the storm cells moved through with high winds, constant lightning and window-rattling thunder, creating one freaked out dog… He's got a hang-over this morning! The photos are from yesterday's trip.

I’d never been to Greenfield Village and the Henry Ford Museum. It’s an impressing place. We got to ride in Model T’s and on an old stream train and watch glass blowers (my favorite) and make candles and all kinds of other stuff. The museum boast Lincoln’s chair at the Ford Theater and the actual bus (restored) that Rosa Parks rode back in the mid-50s. All the kids got to sit in her seat. There was much more to do, but it would take a couple days to do everything.

I like the fish on the storm drains at Greenfield Village. I’ll end with that shot as I got to get some work accomplished. I also got to find time to write more of my “Country Boy” memories as well as catch up on some book reviews. I really enjoyed Michael Perry’s Population: 485. He’s a Yankee version of Rick Bragg, whose family memoirs I’ve recently reviewed. I also want to capture my nostalgic views of Edward Berkowitz, Something Happened: A Political and Cultural Overview of the Seventies. Although work is still crazy, I’m planning on heading back across the state next week to take in a Tiger’s game.

Mother's Day Post

2009-05-10T12:37:00.003-04:00

I found this photo on the internet. It’s of a Sunday School attendance pin, like the one described below. Mine had a number of bars for additional years hanging on it. If I ever find it, I’ll post a picture. The bottom photo shows my brother and me and our parents. I'm held by my Dad.

I like to think I was into alternative energy as a kid, trying to figure out a means to power Dad’s Buick with something other than gasoline. Had it worked, I could have saved the country from those gas lines we experienced in the 70s. Truth is, I have no idea why one afternoon, enlisting the help of my younger brother and sister, we picked up hickory nuts and placed them into the gas tank. Maybe I’d heard someone say that Volkswagens were powered by squirrels and thought the same must be true for Buicks. This happened on a Saturday. The next day was Sunday. We were all dressed up for chruch, but didn’t even make it to the highway when the car quit. That year, my brother, sister and I missed out on the perfect attendance award for Sunday School.

When I was a kid, you got a pin for your first year of perfect attendance. Then, for your second year, you received a gold leaf wreath that wrapped around the pin. For your third year or perfect attendance and every year thereafter, you received a bar that hung below the wreath. The third one was straight, but those every year afterwards was fancier. Somewhere, I’m not sure where, there is a pin with a string of bars for my five years of perfect attendance Sunday School. Every year when they gave out the awards, my Mom would remind us that we would have had another year’s award if it hadn’t been for those hickory nuts. I felt bad and guilty for losing the opportunity not only for myself, but also for my younger brother and sister. Now I realize that I really should have felt bad for Dad who had to take the gas tank off as he tried to figure out why gas wasn’t making it to the carbonator. It’s probably good that my memory is selective. I’m not sure what happened to us when he discovered nuts in the gas tank.

My Mom always made sure we attended Sunday School. Even when we were travelling and on vacation, we’d find a church where we’d go to Sunday School. She’d always get a note to take back to our home church so we could keep our perfect attendance record. We didn’t always stay for worship when we visited these other churches. This bothered me, but Mom made sure we were there for Sunday School. Mom also taught Sunday School, but never our classes. She felt we needed our own teacher and not a Mom in our class. Although can I laugh at her concerned about us receiving our attendance pins, I am thankful she was so interested in our activities. She was always there, not just at church activities, but also for ball games and Boy Scout’s Court of Honor. And she was always proud of us.

A few weeks ago, my daughter was talking on the phone to my Dad. Mom came into the room and asked my Dad who he was talking to now. He told her my daughter’s name and Mom asked, “Who’s that?” While my daughter listened, my Dad explained that it’s her Sage’s daughter. “Who’s Sage?” She asked. My Dad told her it’s her son and she responded, “I don’t have a son.” As I’ve said before, “I miss my Mom.” Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease. I’ll call her in a few hours. We’ll try to talk for a few minutes, then she’ll hand the phone back to my Dad and he'll walk out on their porch and we’ll share a few tears.

Reading Challenges, Yucatan Photos and other stuff

2009-05-08T09:00:00.003-04:00

I’m bone tired. I did get to the gym twice this week, but work (not working out) is killing me. I don't see much of a break till after the middle of June. And it doesn’t look like I’ll get out of town for more than a day or two till July, when I’ll head west for a couple of weeks. I've got a lot to do to catch up on folk's blogs—hopefully I can do some of that this weekend!

Maggie’s 3rd Annual Southern Reading Challenge is about to begin. I have decided on the three books by southerners that I plan to read this summer. The first is David Brinkley: A Memoir. Brinkley grew up in Wilmington, North Carolina and spent his summers on Wrightsville Beach—my old stomping grounds (a few decades later). A friend lent me this book back in the fall and I really need to get it back to him. My second book is by Texas naturalist John Graves, Goodbye to a River: A Narrative. I admit, it’s hard to include a Texan in the Southern Reading challenge, but the state was a part of the Confederacy, so I'll make this allowance. Thinking of confederacies, there's a classic I've not read. My third book will be John Kennedy Toole’s comic A Confederacy of Dunces. I’ve been told by many people that this book is funny and I hope so because I may need some laughter after the next month.

I should do a non-fiction challenge this summer. In the past few months, two of my former professors have published what will probably be their life's major works. One of my former professors is now retired and just writing, the other is still teaching although he's past retirement age. Both are biographies; one on Abraham Lincoln and the other on John Calvin. These guys, whose field is history, must have picked up a course or two in marketing along the way. This year is the 200th anniversary of Lincoln’s birth and the 500th anniversary of Calvin’s birth. What great timing! Lately, when I’ve had a few minutes, I’ve been enjoying Edward Berkowitz’s, Something Happened, a history of the 70s.

Let me close with my last set of photos from the Yucatan.

Notice the Mayan dresses of these women on this village street.

A side street. Unlike other areas in this region of the world, I found the villages to be very neat and clean.

I love taking walks in the early morning hours...

A closing shot...

The Country Boys, part 1

2009-05-04T15:33:00.003-04:00

This weekend, I was rummaging around in a box of stuff I’d saved from high school and came across an old nametag from my first job. It got me thinking about those carefree days in the spring of 1973. Richard Nixon was still in the White House and we were just getting out of Vietnam. I’d just turned 16 and for the first time in my life, I would so learn what it means to live your life by the punch of a time clock. Hopefully, this will be the first of several stories, as I recreate my time at the store, kind of like I did when I wrote about my time at the bakery.

I became a country boy a few months after I turned sixteen. I’d gone with Mom to the grocery store and she pointed out the manager to me. He was standing in the front of the store, watching everything going on. Garnering all the courage I could find, I left mom at the meat country and went over and asked him for a job. “You have to be sixteen,” he said, obviously not thinking I was quite there. Admittedly, I was small for my age. “I am,” I responded, “can I show you my driver’s licenses?” He looked at it and said okay, that I’d need to get a social security card and that he’d start me off working four or five hours on Thursday and Friday afternoons and eight hours on Saturday.

That next Thursday afternoon, with a tie around my neck, I reported to work. Two of us were to start our grocery careers that day. Tom, the other kid, was from New Hanover High School, popularly known by those of us who attended John T. Hoggard as “New Hang-over.” He had bright red hair and a twitch and a lot of people thought he was weird, but he was a hard worker. As far as I know, Wilson’s Supermarket would his only job he ever had. That first day, we were trained to bag groceries. Bert, the manager who’d hired us, assigned each of us to a more experienced bagger. For an hour or two, we learned the fundamentals of bagging groceries. You don’t put can goods on top of bread or on cartons of eggs. If you have a lot of cans, double-up your bag for strength. You separate the cleansing supplies from the meat and produce. If the cart is loaded down, you can jump up on it as you go out the door and ride it through the lot, saving your energy. And most importantly, we were taught to recognize the big tippers and hustle especially hard for them, although Tom and both tried to give our best to everyone. Soon, we were on our own, taking out groceries and always saying, “Thank You, Ma’am,” as we slammed the trunk lid.

It now seems like a distant dream. It was the beginning of the end. Not only did I have to go to school, I now had to report to work and was expected to wear a tie! Beforehand, I’d only worn a tie on Sundays, an ideal that I still maintain. But unlike most of the newcomers at the store, I didn’t wear clip-ons. I knew how to tie a Double Windsor. Back in the 70s, with ties wide enough to serve as bibs, tying a big knot like a Double Windsor was quite a feat. Before the week was out, I was teaching Tom and others how to tie one. When you’re a runt, it helps to have a skill. Tom and I began to hang out and became good friends. Six months after I left the store for good, in my second year of college, Tom would become my second friend to meet an untimely death. Bert, our boss, served as a second father to both of us. Whenever I had problems, especially with girls, questions I’d never think about asking my own dad, I’d ask him. Looking back, I don’t know why? He was easy to talk to, but his martial record certainly left room for improvement. But Bert always gave me good advice.

I stayed at Wilsons through my first year of college doing a variety of jobs: bagging groceries, stocking the shelves at night, running a cashier, counting money, mopping and waxing the floors late on Saturday night and into the wee-morning hours of Sundays and managing the cigarette accounts. The pay was never very good, but I enjoyed my time there. There’s something rewarding about serving people.

Zhou Yu's Train

2009-05-01T22:23:00.004-04:00

Zhou Yu’s Train (China, 2002, 92 minutes long), PG-13.

I’m a sucker for trains. It’s my favorite form of transportation. I enjoy reading about train travel and even enjoy watching train movies. So, a few months ago, I was watching a Korean film (Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring), and caught the previews of a Chinese film titled “Zhou Yu’s Train.” The preview made it look like there were lots of train scenes in the movie, so it went into my Netflix queue. Now I really feel like a sucker. Although the movie does have lots of train scenes, it’s essentially a Chinese chic-flick, but one partially redeemed by employing lots of poetry.

Truthfully, I had a hard time figuring out this movie. The star (the beautiful Gong Li) keeps showing up as two characters. In one, she’s Zhou Yu, a carefree woman with shoulder length hair, a painter of porcelain, who is torn between her love of a poet in a distant city and a veterinarian. The train is her connection to Ching Chen, her poet in Chongyang. Gong Li is also Xiu, a silent woman with short hair who keeps appearing throughout the movie. After Ching Chen is assigned to a school in Tibet, Xiu shows us at the school and Zhou Yu is killed in a bus crash (the train only ran twice a week, she should have waited instead of taking the bus!). Are Zhou Yu and Xiu the same? Or is this all a dream, some kind of mirror image (as the poetry suggests). I don’t know. The movie was confusing as it kept jumping back and forth between the poet and the vet, with Zhou Yu riding the fast moving train back and forth between lovers.

I don’t think I’d watched the whole movie, had it not been for the train. The wail of the whistle and the clicking of the rails was the glue that held the movie together and kept me watching. The photography is wonderful. The sight of the train snaking through tunnels and racing along viaducts was enchanting. The movie is in Mandarin. Despite having eaten scores of cans of such oranges, I still can’t make heads or tails out of the language. But there are English subtitles and since the dialogue is sparse, it’s easy to follow along. Thankfully, the sound of the train is universal.

For more book and movie reviews by Sage, click here.

All Over but the Shoutin' (A book review)

2009-04-29T22:24:00.005-04:00

Rick Bragg, All Over but the Shoutin’ (New York: Vintage Books, 1997), 329 pages.

This is the first volume of Rick Bragg’s trilogy about his family. Of course, in my usual way of doing things, it’s the last of the three that I read. All Over but the Shoutin’ is the story of Bragg’s family, the mother he loves, the father who abandoned them and their three (or should it be four) children. But mostly, it’s the Rick Bragg’s story of growing up in poverty and, without a college education, continued on to win a year-long Nieman fellowship for journalistic study at Harvard and then to become a Pulitzer prize winning journalist for the New York Times. But with all the accolades, Bragg never forgot from where he came or the mother who saw him through the hard times.

Bragg’s family life was tragic. His father was an alcoholic who probably suffered Post Traumatic Stress from his time in Korea. At times, he’d stop drinking and would work and things would look up, but that never lasted for more than a month or two. Soon, the demons would return and he’d begin drinking again and would run-off, stranding his mother with the boys. The story of his mother pouring his father’s booze down the drain and then, when he came home, her taking off her glasses and asking him to be careful with her teeth, while her two small sons stood by helpless, looking on from the bedroom door, is heartbreaking. Thankfully, that time he didn't hit her. She protected her sons from his rage. A preschooler, hearing his father blame all his problems on his mother and her kids (of which he's one), is a cruel experience. When Rick was six, his mother became pregnant again, but she lost her fourth boy at birth. With his father running off and abandoning the family, there wasn’t enough money for food or medical care. As an adult, Rick learns that his mother had never forgotten the unnamed boy, noting the date he'd turned thirty. He thinks about getting him a tombstone engraved with the name his mother had picked out for him, but realizes he can't undo the past.

Bragg sees himself as lucky. His life could have ended up in another way. His older brother works hard in the mills; his younger brother has followed his father's path. He confesses that he's afraid of drinking alone, afraid that he'll go down the same road as his father. He was in high school when his father died. When he last saw him, a few months from his death, his father was just the shell of the man he'd been. Nothing his condition, he told his son, "it's all over but the shoutin'. It was in high school that Rick found his niche while working for the school newspaper. Afterwards, with one college journalism class under his belt, he began writing for small weeklies in Alabama. At first, he was a sport’s reporter. Football, he claims, is what Southerners do today in place of dueling. He worked his way up to the Birmingham paper, the largest in the state. From there, he went to St. Petersburg, Florida. In the late 80s, because none of their foreign correspondents wanted to go, he headed to Haiti, a place he’d visit on a number of occasions over the next decade. Then he had his fellowship at Harvard, a short stint with the Los Angeles Times before realizing that it wasn’t a good match. Then he calls the New York Times and asks if they still were interested (he’d turned them down). At the end of the book, he’s working for the Times in Atlanta, a city he thinks is about as Southern as a snowmobile (I agree). Along the way, he’s covered the riots in Miami, the Oklahoma City bombing, crime in New Orleans, a terrible tornado in his hometown, and the Susan Smith murders (the South Carolina woman who killed her children then claimed to have been car jacked by an African-American man). Although Bragg originally believed Smith (like other journalists and even the police), he had an interesting inside into her psyche, having grown up like her, poor in a mill town.

Bragg is a master at metaphors, which gives his writing a fresh down-home feel. He claims that he didn’t become a journalist to change the world; he became one to tell stories. And telling stories is what he does so well, that when you finish reading one you feel as if you were there watching the drama unfold.

For other book reviews by Sage, click here.
For Semicolon's Saturday's list of book reviews in blogs, click here.

For Gautami's "reconstructed" reading room, click here.

Thoughts while walking in the rain

2009-04-28T15:04:00.008-04:00

We’ve been having some rain. It all started this weekend with a series of popping thunderstorms on Saturday. Saturday night I had a bunch of people over, just after a major thunderstorm, and everyone was commenting on how tranquil my dog was. “Well folks,” I told them, “there’s a reason they call those little pills tranquilizers.” My dog was stoned, but at least he didn’t tear the house up trying to find somewhere safe to hide.

It has kept on raining and the grass is now bright green. I’d plan to spend this morning with a few experts in the woods, looking at wildflowers… They all cancelled out. Since I had to work to keep my schedule clear, I decided not to let a little water ruin my chance to be out of the office. I put on a rain jacket and headed out into the wilds. Enjoy the photos. Because the ground was so wet, and I draw the line at wallowing in muck and didn’t take a lot of close up shots. I did get one of a May Apple. If the first sign of spring is Skunk Cabbage (see my earlier posts of them breaking up through the snow), when the May Apples begin to unfurl their parasols, it’s a good indication that spring is here to stay (It better be, my snow shovels are stowed away).

Yesterday, GM announced a restructuring plan. Will it work? Who knows. But what I’d like to know is this: Who are the idiots that brought GM stock yesterday, driving the price up nearly 20% (even with that gain, it was only trading barely over 2 bucks a share, and today it’s back down well under the $2 ceiling). According to the plan, if it works, the government will own half of GM common stock, the union's pension fund will own another large chunk, and then their bondholders will get a block of GM stock, leaving the current GM stockholders with approximately 1% of the company! Now granted, 1% is better than 0%, which is the other option, but that still leaves the question, why would anyone want to buy GM stock and become a current stockholder? The silver lining in all this is there’ll never be another Smokey and Bear sequel. By killing off the Pontiac line, Burt Reynolds will have to find another car in which to run from the cops while seducing Sally Fields.

Listening to all this talk about swine flue, it sounds as if Porky the Pig is getting his revenge or the horses of the Apocalypse are in the starting gate. But then, how long was it after I got back from Mexico that I started hacking? I still haven’t kicked the sinus/bronchial infection. Don’t worry; I’m pretty sure I don’t have swine flu. Just in case, I’ll try not to cough on the keyboard. I’d hate to infect my readers.

Breaking News: Realizing that the name “Swine Flu” was destroying what little self-esteem pigs have, our government is now encouraging us to call the illness H1N1. R2D2, president of the URA (United Robotics of America), called the latest government action an insult to hard working robots everywhere.

Was hiking in the rain while trying to beat an infection the brightest thing I've done? Probably not, but I needed the time to get away and think.