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What It Was Was Football

Another in a series of Youthful Recollections

For the Record of Wilkes

By Russ Pearson

          So there I was on the day after Christmas, sitting comfortably in front of my digital TV in the living room of my snow-covered cottage high atop the Brushy Mountains.  I was contently watching the Georgia BullDawgs annihilate the Texas A&M “Aggie” football team by a final score of 44 to 20 in the 2009 Independence Bowl in Shreveport, Louisiana.  This bowl victory was satisfying, but not nearly so much as the DAWGS earlier victory over the Yellow Jackets of nearby archrival, Georgia Tech, with a final score of 30 to 24.

          Then, as if to distract my momentary revelry, came the shocking newsflash that University of Florida Head Football Coach, Urban Meyer, was permanently resigning from coaching football, ostensibly for health and family reasons.  Then almost as suddenly, Meyer pulled a Sen. John Kerry styled flip-flop, choosing only to take a temporary leave of absence instead.  Then, almost as if “piling on,”  this shocking Gator news was quickly upstaged by the unprecedented revelation that Texas Tech’s award-winning football Coach, Mike Leach, had been fired on the eve of the team’s appearance in the Alamo Bowl against Michigan State, supposedly for keeping a player in the dark.  The absence didn’t seem to slow down the team, Texas Tech won the game 41 to 31 without him.  

          At this point, my boggled mind did a “flashback back” to my earliest recollections of college football on television, back to Thanksgiving Day some sixty years ago circa 1949, the same year Wilkes County’s four eventually consolidated high school classes of 1961 started first grade.   

          In my case, school began at the old Wilkesboro Elementary School along with many other Wilkesboro kids who would become lifelong friends... people such as Eric Williams, Jackie McEntire, Martha Pratt MacCabe, Bill Duncan, Ann Miller Richardson, Tommy Pearson, Virginia Miller, John Q. Myers, Linda Gambill, Charles Bumgarner, Patsy Johnson Hamby, Russell Gray III, Martha Jo Cabe Blankenship, Steve and Charles Miller, Edgar Harris and his better looking twin sister, Rebecca Harris Absher, Glenna Anderson Billings, Clay Mastin, Lonnie Mastin, Calvin Smithey, John Bouchelle, Madge Bishop, Ann Morrison, John H. Groce, Mary Henderson Walker, H.D. Lenderman, Judy Lane Church, Nancy Welborn Parleir, Zora Webster, Monroe Sparks, Cathy Sue Pardue, Robert Johnson, Max Wineberger, John Shew, and Shade and Zelma Call.

          Many of us “old fogies” of that so called pre-baby boom generation were assigned a classroom at the southeastern corner of the main (upstairs) floor in a block-long, rectangular  brick building located behind what was then the 1913 vintage Wilkesboro High School. 

          In more recent years, the Board of Education changed the name of that old building to the Learning Resource Center (LRC); the building still stands today on the corner of South Street and Woodland Boulevard in Wilkesboro.  Meanwhile, the historic old High School building unfortunately was torn down to make room for the present Johnson J. Hayes Federal Building, a.k.a. the Wilkesboro Post Office.  The Wilkesboro High School “Ramblers” may be gone, but definitely not forgotten.  

          Our first grade classroom was the domain of veteran teacher Agnes Lenderman, neighbor of my grandparents and mother of Wilkesboro’s former water czar, Robert “Red” Lenderman and his beautiful sister, Paula Lenderman Bumgarner.  Mrs. Lenderman was the teacher who taught most of us in the class to read, a skill I have found most useful over the past sixty years.  The Adventures of Dick and Jane with their baby sister Sally and loyal dog Spot was one of my all time favorite books.  I’m not sure I could have made it through high school and college had I not learned to read.    

          By sheer coincidence, 1949 was also the year our family’s first television set became a permanent fixture at our house.  Life since has never been the same.  Unlike today’s super large-screen televisions, the first TV at our house had a small ten inch screen mounted in a large table-model cabinet. 

          The set housed a plethora of assorted tubes and internal paraphernalia, a contraption understood by only a few technicians blessed with the esoteric and arcane “brave new world” knowledge required to repair these new-fangled inventions...miracle devices destined to revolutionize life as mankind had known it since the beginning of time.  May the “Force” be with you if the set ever broke down.  There just weren’t many talented folks like Rick Jones’ younger brother Rob Jones at Wilkes TV Service on Sparta Highway.  Very few folks knew how to repair sets in those early days of television.    

          In the mid-twentieth century, our primitive, roof-top antennae, the aluminum kind that resembled a boney, old sci-fi creature from outer space, could pick up only one TV station: Channel 3, WBTV in Charlotte and even then, by modern, pre-cable standards, Channel Three’s signal was really weak.  Ironically, had we had Interstate Seventy-Seven (I-77) back then, our local reception might have been much better as the station wouldn’t have been so far away from Wilkesboro.

          As I later discovered, the reason we could receive only one station was because WBTV was a TV media pioneer; it was the only TV station on the air in the Carolinas back then.  In fact, WBTV was the 13th television station in the United States, first in the Carolinas and the first fully licensed station in the South.  The station signed on for the first time on July 15, 1949, but only broadcast in black and white.  

          Although color TV had been invented years earlier, it was too expensive for most families until the late 1960s.  Pioneer TV personalities on WBTV including weatherman Clyde “Cloudy” McLean, newsmen Doug Mayes and Jim Patterson, kids’ show hosts Fletcher Austin and Fred Kirby, and home economist Betty Feezor would soon become household names throughout the Carolinas and the South.  

          So, you ask, what does all this extraneous information have to so with me watching the Georgia BullDawgs destroy the Aggies?   Well, to tell you the truth, the answer is: not much. It’s just that on that particular Thanksgiving Day in 1949, the Texas A&M Aggies were playing their in-state, archrival, the Longhorns of the University of Texas and it wasn’t just any game.  This was their annual grudge match, not unlike anytime Duke and UNC battle it out in basketball.   

          To make this game extra special, it was being televised. This was one of the very first televised college football games in the Carolinas and practically everybody in our neighborhood had gathered in our living room to witness this major milestone event.

          At the beginning of the game, the Longhorns kicked off to the Aggies.  The Aggie receiver caught the ball in the end zone and proceeded at the speed of heat to weave his way through heavy traffic all the way to the opposite end zone... a 100 yard plus return for a touchdown.   Wowser, what a way to start such a special game!   Needless to say, this six-year-old observer was duly impressed, and, thanks to the Aggies of Texas A&M, I have been a staunch fan of college football ever since.

          What’s my favorite college football team you ask?  Well the answer to that is a long and complicated story, too long for the space left to me in this edition of The Record of Wilkes, so I shall execute my literary license and defer that answer to yet another edition.  In the meantime, there is just enough space left for me to wish you and yours a very healthy, happy and prosperous 2010.  See you again next week. (End)

Out with the old - In with the new

Another in a series of Youthful Recollections

For the Record of Wilkes

By

Russ Pearson

          Can you believe it?   Another year and another decade, the first of a new century, have come and gone?  Where those years went, I haven’t a clue.  

 

          I retired from the U.S. Navy and moved back here to my home town in 1992.   At first glance, that doesn’t seem like that long ago.  However, the inescapable truth is that in just a few short months, eighteen years will have come and gone since I returned “home.”  Eighteen years, that’s nearly two decades. 

 

          To put eighteen years in perspective, it’s one year longer than I originally lived in Wilkes while growing up.  It covers the time from that fateful Sunday morning in September 1943 when Dr. Fred C. Hubbard was summoned out of a church service at the North Wilkesboro United Methodist Church to deliver this future scribe into this world, and continues until the time I graduated from Wilkes Central and went off to Brevard College in 1961.   

          With the New Year 2010 and yet another national census fast approaching, it occurred to me that in another eighteen years, I will be eighty-four years old.  Then it occurred to me that if that next eighteen years passes a quickly as the past eighteen, I am rapidly running out of time and space; but then aren’t we all?

 

           Where were you eighteen years ago?  Where will you be in eighteen more years?  How many of us will still be around to celebrate yet another Christmas or New Years in 2028? 

 

          Today is only a couple of days shy of New Year’s Day 2010.   As I considered a theme for this week’s column, I recounted the many New Year’s days I have been privileged to witness and mostly enjoy in the past two-thirds of a century.  While many of those days were special, one stood out in my mind.  It was back in the late 1970s. 

 

          My Navy squadron, the “Sidewinders” of Attack Squadron Eighty Six (VA-86), flying the single-seat, single-engine A7-E Corsair II, was deployed in the Mediterranean aboard USS Nimitz, CVN-68.  The “Cold War” was still in full swing and we were considered to be “the underbelly of NATO’s southern flank.”  

 

          As you might imagine, being the “underbelly” was a very important NATO role and somebody had to do it during the Christmas/New Year’s holiday season; we were the proud, chosen ones.  Fact is, being the newest aircraft carrier in the Fleet, Nimitz was tapped for so many of these so called “good deals” that the ship’s slogan became the acronym BOHICA...Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.”   You may have seen the bumper sticker.

 

          For readers familiar with all things Navy, you will recall that, like all of our newer aircraft carriers, the Nimitz (named after five-star Admiral Chester Nimitz of WW-II fame), is nuclear powered.  Because of its nuclear power plant, the ship was restricted by local authorities from entering many of the more desirable Mediterranean ports. 

 

          The popular ports like Palma de Majorca or Barcelona or Cannes, the same ports conventional, diesel boats like the Forrestal, Saratoga, Ranger, Independence, Kitty Hawk, Constellation, America and Kennedy were  welcomed to visit, were “off limits” to Nimitz. This restriction was placed on Nimitz primarily due to the highly unlikely notion that the ship’s power plant could have a nuclear meltdown and wipe out the fishing industry for the surrounding region.  

 

          As a constellation prize, Nimitz got to visit such scenic ports as Naples, Italy; Tunis, Tunisia; Naples, Italy (again); Naples, Italy (again); Gibraltar, Spain; Livorno, Italy; Haifa, Israel; Casablanca, Morocco; Taranto, Italy; Rota, Spain; Wilhelmshaven, Germany and Portsmouth, England.  Oh well, as they say in the Fleet: “Any port in a storm,” and when you are the “underbelly,” there is always a storm brewing somewhere.   

 

          As one of over 6,000 men who made our floating nuclear power plant our home-away-from-home for months at a time, we literally bet our lives every day on the ship’s safety, so much so that I didn’t even wear a Dosimeter, that small device clipped to the belt that measures radiation in the air.  The Dosimeter seemed to be more of a status symbol for the ship’s company officers and engineers.

 

          Naples, Italy, was one of the few major ports that would allow the ship to make a port call, buy even then, the ship had to anchor well offshore.  Naples is a major headquarters city for NATO.  The ship used liberty boats to transport officers and sailors to and from shore. 

 

          This boating arrangement worked fine except for those times when the weather turned sour, and wave action became so dangerous for these relatively small liberty boats that boating had to be cancelled.  It was possible to be stranded ashore for several days, which of course created a “Throw me in that briar patch” mentality.  Hopefully, if you did get stranded, you had enough money and /or plastic to cover your meals, hotel and transportation.

 

          And so it came to pass in this late-1970s year that USS Nimitz was chosen to spend the week of Christmas and New Years anchored offshore in Naples in the shadow of historic Mt. Vesuvius, the ancient volcano that centuries ago destroyed the nearby city of Pompeii. 

 

          Being away from home during the holidays was a real challenge for most members of the crew.  I had missed Christmas at home during earlier combat deployments to Vietnam aboard USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63).   My wife and I and our two children were no strangers to my being away during holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, family weddings and family funerals.  I had an idea what was in store for the crew, morale wise. 

 

          The whole holiday thing might have been a real low point if the ship had not done its best to give the Christmas/Hanukkah holiday spirit a boost.   Seasonal music was piped over the ship’s TV and Radio stations; fireproof, seasonal decorations were allowed to be displayed on bulkheads, hatches, knee knockers and overheads as well as throughout the main passageways, ready rooms, ladders and maintenance work spaces.  

         

          The Mess Deck crews did their part by serving traditional holiday meals in the various enlisted chow halls and officer’s wardrooms.  How often do you get Baked Alaskan for Christmas at home?  Leave was also granted more liberally and those who could afford it brought family members to Italy for the holiday. Unfortunately, I was not among those folks. 

 

          As New Year’s Day rolled around, the ship’s Captain made a point to lay on a special warning to the crew regarding local Italian New Year’s night customs; customs that differed dramatically from those back home. 

 

          In Italy, while massive fireworks light up the sky to denoting the ringing in of the New Year, it is the custom literally to throw out the old with the ringing in of the new.  Neapolitans actually throw old or unused items out into the street.         

 

          Since the majority of residents in Naples live in high-rise apartments, condos and rental flats, many objects like chairs, beds, couches, dishes, radios, TV’s, and even toilets and kitchen sinks are discarded from upper floors.  This custom is usually carried out with the aid of the liberal consumption by residents of large quantities of the fine wines for which the country is so well known around the world.

 

          This “out with the old and in with the new” custom is aided and abetted by yet another custom in Italy.  Whether rented, leased or purchased, living quarters advertised as “unfurnished” are literally unfurnished.  New occupants must provide their own toilets, sinks, refrigerators, stoves, bath tubs and other appliances normally integral to unfurnished units in the U.S. 

 

          As you might imagine, every New Year’s Eve, a number of unwary tourist and or street people end up being seriously injured by falling debris in Naples.  The good news is that the next morning, all those discarded items are on the street for the taking, and most of it is quickly taken in the early morning hours by would be looters and scavengers, reminiscent of  bargain hunters at a big post-holiday sale at Wal-Mart back in the USA. 

 

          As a safety precaution, liberty for much of the crew was curtailed for the night of New Years Eve; that was not a popular decision with the crew, but a safe one.  Therefore, many of us ended up on the ship’s five acre flight deck at midnight watching an extended, phenomenal fireworks display.

 

          The fireworks display went on for about one hour and 45 minutes.  At times, it was so spectacular, it gave the impression that Mt. Vesuvius itself had come back to life.  The display was one of the most impressive fireworks shows these salty ole eyes have seen, at anytime and anyplace, bar none.   It was, in the words of an ole Nate King Cole song – “Unforgettable.” 

 

          True to my past, I again have run out of space... so here is a little ditty just for you:   Now that you’ve heard my story; a tale I’ll swear is true, I’ll leave you with sincerest wishes: Happy New Year’s Day to you.   (End)

 

 

 

 

 

When I Was a Child

By Russ Pearson

            With Christmas just a couple of days away now, it seems fitting that this week’s column have a corresponding holiday theme… but what can be said about Christmas that has not already been said by somebody somewhere at sometime.  Just as I was about to panic to find a theme for this edition, a Bible verse learned as a child crossed my mind; it gave me an idea for the topic de jure. 

                The verse is from 1 Corinthians 13:11:  “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”  The longer I pondered the meaning of this verse, the more I realized how much it applies to our perception of Christmas as we grow from early childhood into mature adulthood.  

                As a child, Christmas was the most magical time of the year.   In my make-believe world of super heroes, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and Jack O’Lantern, Santa Claus reigned supreme.  He was king of the good guys, notwithstanding the fact that the real good guy is Jesus; after all, Jesus is the reason for the season.  

                Even now, two-thirds of a century later, I still vividly recall the excitement of counting down the days till jolly ole St Nick, dressed in his bright red Santa suit and black leather boots, would arrive in his reindeer-drawn sleigh in the zero-dark thirty hours of the night, descending down from on-high, skillfully landing on the roof of our family’s house on College Street in Wilkesboro.  Santa performed this remarkable feat with all the skill and aplomb of a seasoned Navy attack pilot landing his jet on the deck of an aircraft carrier at night.                 

                With his reindeer and sleigh safely tethered to the chimney, I could imagine the portly old gentleman delving into his toy-laden sleigh, busily filling several sacks full of toys for my sisters and me.  Once the sacks were filled, I laughingly imagined Santa miraculously squeezing his rotund jelly belly into the chimney’s small smokestack and somehow managing  to slide down into our festively decorated living room where he would be welcomed by an Angel perched high atop a Frazer-fir Christmas tree  and standing tall and proud next to the fireplace. 

                Mom and Dad always insisted a snack be left out for Santa.  Dad insisted that we leave some Jack Daniels and Ginger Ale, but Mom vetoed that notion.  She said Santa’s awesome chores on Christmas Eve required energy and sobriety.  She contended that a glass of milk and some chocolate–chip cookies were just what Santa needed to sustain him for the remainder of his whirlwind evening; so that’s what Santa got, much to Dad’s disgruntlement. 

                 When my bed time came, I remember how hard it was to fall asleep on the night before Christmas with all those visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.  Sleeping was a seemingly impossible task, but somehow, the trusty ole sandman eventually came a-calling, and I would finally drop off into a dreamland world; a Walt Disney kind of world where reality gives way to the imagination, and wishes do indeed come true.  

                Suddenly before sunrise and well before Mom and Dad were ready to roll out of their bed, an internal alarm went off in my head.   I was instantly awake, bright eyed and bushy tailed.   I was fired up and ready to go as I remembered this was the day for which I had waited so eagerly and for so long.   It was Christmas day.  Jumping out of bed, I hurdled down the stairs to the living room to see what bounty Santa had brought.  

                Yes sir that was Christmas for me when I was still thinking, speaking and understanding like a child.  At that point, the scripture had me pegged.   But then came the hard part, when the Scripture says: “When I became a man, I put away childish things(13:11).”              

                Well, friends and neighbors, forgive me if it’s a sin, but try as I might, I just could not put away the childish things that helped me make Christmas such an enchanted time.  Absent the magic and innocence of childhood, Christmas just wouldn’t be the same, which brings me to the part when I became an adult.

                First, there was the transition most adults make when they become parents; the transition from believing in Santa Claus to actually being Santa Claus.   It’s traumatic.  As Santa, you must be a jack-of-all-trades.  A Master’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering helps, as does having a garage full of specialized tools.  Surely you’ve been there, done that, and know of which I speak?  

                During the transition from childhood to adulthood, nobody warned me that most all of those wonderful gifts from Santa required additional assembly, and lots of it.   Like most children, I always believed that Santa’s elves did all the required assembly work at their North Pole workshop prior to loading all the goodies on Santa’s sleigh.   Somewhere along the way, after I joined the married-with- children sect, the shoe went over to the other foot.

                If dropping off to sleep as a child on Christmas Eve had been next to impossible, in my Santa role, I found just the opposite to be true.  Invariably, I have had to remain up well into the wee hours of Christmas day trying to understand the directions for the required assemblies in order to get Santa’s toys and games put together before the sun and the kids simultaneously spring to life, just as I once did in the zero-dark-thirty hours of Christmas morning.  After that, I spent the next week desperately trying to catch up on lost sleep. 

                Of course, all this begs a question:  Why can't those “brilliant” engineers who design those complicated Christmas toys, produce a coherent assembly instruction booklet?   Can it be that engineering schools no longer teach English or Logic?  How much better it would be if engineers stuck to the design work, leaving the instruction sheets to someone more literate…perhaps Liberal Arts major who could edit and publish less esoteric and arcane assembly instructions.  That way, the dream of a Merry Christmas would not turn into a nightmare, as it has in so many of my years playing the Santa role. 

                Realizing that I am rapidly running out of space, let me assure you that Christmas is my favorite season of the year.   I especially love Christmas for its music.  No other season can compete with the traditional songs of Christmas, from Handel’s “Messiah” to Nat King Cole’s “Christmas Song” to “Silent Night” sung by a local combined church choir.  By their very nature, the songs of Christmas sooth the restless and weary soul, ease troubling tensions and promote peace on earth, goodwill to men.  Wowser, we sure could use more of those rapidly disappearing commodities, both in our local community and in our world.

                Second to the music, I love the lights and colors of Christmas.  The radiant glow of Christmas lights draw me like a moth is to a flame.  There is no other time of the year when our churches, homes, streets and sidewalks are so beautifully embellished with colorfully lighted scenes and displays found throughout the area.  Their glow adds a festive mood and a cozy charm to the streets, stores and shopping areas in our downtowns. 

                To their credit the towns of Wilkesboro and North Wilkesboro continue to participate in this celebration of the Christian faith.  Both towns light up and come alive at Christmas time, and the gentle sounds of Christmas carols can be heard over outdoor speakers and fill the air throughout the downtown areas.  The combination of lights and music project a warm welcome and inviting presence to all who enter.

                So if you're like me and prefer to think of Christmas with childlike innocence and enthusiasm, or even if you have put away such childish things, or perhaps you are an Atheist or Jewish or a Muslim, there is no excuse not to experience and enjoy the enchanted aura of the Christmas season. 

                Many of us reaching our “Golden Years” can now count more Christmases in our past than we will have in our future, and we, along with everyone else, regardless of age, must know that with the passing of each Christmas, there will be one less Christmas season left for us to enjoy.  The spirit of Christmas is contagious; so catch it and pass it on.  Merry Christmas everyone. 

 

Happenstance:

“A circumstance regarded as due to chance”

Another in a series of Youthful Recollections

 For The Record of Wilkes

By

Russ Pearson

 

          A local friend, neighbor and fellow aviator recently recommended a newly released film to me.  As luck would have it, that movie was playing at a theater near where my wife and I were staying during an out-of-town trip last week, so we decided to check it out.  The film is entitled “Precious.”  Unlike the title, the film was anything but precious… in fact, at times it was painful to watch, but then pain plays to the point of the movie. 

 

          The film is about a generously overweight, illiterate African-American teen from Harlem, a young girl with little to no hope for a future, who is about to give birth to her second child when she discovers an alternate path and enrolls in a new “alternative” school.  There, with the help and guidance of an empathetic teacher and a male nurse, she receives a gift that most teens in similar situations never get; she gets a chance to start over.

 

          The film’s director describes the film as an “inspirational drama,” the operative word being “Inspirational.”  The “R” rated film was a winner at Robert Redford’s “Sundance Film Festival” out in Utah this year.  The “R” is appropriate and stems from several scenes of child and sexual abuse.  This is a film about hope but is not a film for the faint of heart.

 

          Many of the scenes in the movie reminded me of situations and “clients” I encountered during my tenure as a caseworker in the Wilkes County “Welfare Department.”   I was hired there just after college by Mr. Charlie McNeil.   At that time, the Department was located in a suite of offices upstairs over the old Wilkes Savings and Loan, Co. office on Bridge Street in Wilkesboro.  The office was caddy corner to the old Wilkes Courthouse.   I worked there for two years prior to entering the U.S. Navy’s flight program.  

 

          Today, in this age of political correctness, that Department is called the “Wilkes County Department of Social Services.”   The Department’s offices are now located in a far nicer facility on College Street in Wilkesboro, immediately below the Wilkes County Health Department on the site of the old Wilkesboro prison camp.   

 

          In the upstairs office on Bridge Street, I was privileged to work with a terrific crew of folks, including Dean Edminston, Beverley Cook, Jason Brannock, Carter Perkins, Herman Gruber, Flora Friend, Vera Casey, Bob Crawley, Bill Bumgarner, Bill Alexander, Dorothy Beamon, Inez Bowles, Jean Absher, Judy Church, Peggy Hamby, Valerie Hildalgo and a few others whose names I regret escape me just now.  The late Ruth Canter was my immediate supervisor. 

 

          All of these dedicated folks were doing what they could, always under tight budget and bureaucratic restrictions, to help some of our less fortunate Wilkes County neighbors to have better lives for themselves and for their children… just as the current Director, Donny Bumgarner, and his staff are still doing today.

 

          At one time, I carried a case load of 212 clients in a mix of programs ranging from Old Age Assistance (OAA) to Aide to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC) to Aide to the Permanent and Totally Disabled (APTD).  Each category had its own set of rules and regulations.  Unlike in the movie however, race or minority status played only a minor role in my everyday caseload.  Of 212 cases, only five families were classified of “minority” origin and the number of illegal immigrants had not yet become the challenge it is today.     

 

          I remember one client, a man from way back up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a place my dad would have referred to as “Plumnelly”, i.e. “plum out of town and nearly out of the county.”  This was an older, illiterate, man who not only had never learned to read or write, he had never learned to tell time.  He could not read a clock or watch, nor did he know when or where he was born, all of which were required to prove he was of the proper age to receive Old Age Assistance for which he was applying.  To make matters worse, he had no family Bible, which was often accepted as a substitute for a birth certificate.  Fortunately, we were able to guesstimate his age by his memory of the 1940 flood and WW-II.

         

          Then there was the poor, illiterate, single-parent woman who had a daughter somewhat similar to Helen Keller.  This child was both blind and retarded.  She required constant attention, round the clock.  The girl could not go to school.   Yes, there were institutions for the blind and other institutions for the mentally retarded, but no place for a little girl who suffered from both ailments.  Both she and her mother were destined for a miserable life.

          It was not at all uncommon to have illiterate clients; people whose inability to read and write placed an awful burden on them as parents and breadwinners to provide for their families.   But just as their parents had done to them, some had an attitude that what was good enough for the parent was good enough for the child. And so, the circle of poverty remained unbroken and the burden continued for yet another generation.

         

          After seeing the movie “Precious,” I discussed it with the friend who first recommended it and we agreed that in the end, the film was inspirational.  It provided us with even more reason to be thankful this holiday season.  Unlike Precious Jones, we were so fortunate to have been born when and where we were and into families that nurtured us.  How different our own circumstances could have been had it not been for happenstance… there but for fortune could go us all. 

         

          Have you ever stopped and wondered how much different your life would be now had you by chance been born on a different continent, or in another country or another culture or another religion or to a different race?  What if by chance you had been born of the opposite gender?  Would you still be who you are now?  Probably not.  We are who we are largely by happenstance.

 

          My friend and I recognized how very fortunate we were to have been born in America rather than anywhere else on this planet.  We acknowledged how grateful we were to have been born into middle-class families of some means and solid educations.  Families who saw to it that we had a solid roof over our head and over a nice, warm interior of a comfortable home, located in a pleasant neighborhood. 

 

          We talked about how thankful we are that we had adequate and even fashionable clothes on our backs and plenty to eat and drink and much about which to be merry; that we were provided with appropriate medical and dental services; a suitable religious orientation; a proper formal education and introduction to socialization skill sets that have allowed us to prosper in adulthood; skill sets that so many others in our midst are lacking.  By sheer happenstance, they will never know such advantages. 

 

          As we climb aboard our winter sleighs and ride headlong into the joy of this 2009 Christmas holiday season, we all have so much for which to be thankful.  This is the season to take inventory and be thankful for the things we so often take for granted. 

 

          If you can read this column, be thankful… there are still far too many among us who can’t read.  If you are in good health, be thankful… far too many among us are sick, impaired or disabled.  If you have even a modicum of formal education, be thankful… there still are many unschooled among us who don’t and who suffer for it daily; if you have a roof over your head, be thankful… far too many don’t, and shamelessly, many of those who now are homeless are our Veterans who fought for and put their lives on the line for this great country. 

 

          Be thankful if you have good, nutritious meals on your table everyday… too many folks, especially children, don’t and go to bed hungry every night.  Even if you are a curmudgeon or the “Grinch” personified and think you have nothing for which to be thankful this Christmas, at least be thankful for happenstance, for who knows where we all would be without it?    

 

          Here’s wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and to all a good night.  (End)

Giving Thanks

A Holiday Piece for the Record of Wilkes

By

Russ Pearson

          With Thanksgiving Day 2009 now in the history books, I am still thinking of all the many blessings for which we Americans have to be thankful.  My list of blessings seems to grow each and every year. 

            In addition to a few trivial, material items, this year’s list of things for which I am personally thankful includes the perennial list toppers of family and friends, and even a few strangers with whom our paths crossed along the way; people who have stood with us during good times and bad.

          Nor can I forget how fortunate we are to be Americans.  We enjoy far more freedoms than citizens of any other nation on the globe.  Freedoms gained and maintained for us by a strong and dedicated military and a Constitution and Bill of Rights that together, have made this country the most desirable place to live on this or any other planet in the Universe.

          In the more trivial mode, I thought of some of the many material things that, just in the last few decades, have seemingly become an integral part of our lives.  I sometimes wonder how life was possible without these marvelous inventions.  

          Exhibit #1 would be the cellular telephone.  How in the world did we manage to function without it?    Just look around in almost any setting these days, and count the number of people engaged in a cell phone conversation at any given time… it is amazing.   I must confess to being one of them!  Think how different our lives would be if, by some freak of science and technology or interference from unfriendly outside sources, all of our cell phones suddenly became inoperative?  We couldn’t even use an expired one to call 911 in the event of an emergency. 

          High on that same list of material things that have changed our lifestyles for the better would be the ATM machines.  Do you remember what it was like before these ubiquitous money machines began showing up everywhere?   Would we willingly return to the days when we had to actually go to the bank during limited banking hours to cash a check every time we needed cash, not that we actually really need cash anymore thanks to credit and debit cards.

          Oh yes, I almost forgot to mention the Internet, the one invention that perhaps has changed our lives the most these last few years.   Some say the change has been for the better; other argue the opposite. But all surely agree that the Internet has been the single most prominent, life-changing invention of the past century.  In addition to all its other applications, the Internet has given seniors and those of us now reaching our senior years a new toy with which to play while making it easier to stay in touch with family and friends in faraway places, and enjoy a few jokes along the way.  

          Add to that list of material things for which I am personally thankful, the magic of the Global Navigation (GPS) devices now found in a rapidly growing number of automobiles, not to mention hand-held one found in pant pockets. 

          A factory installed GPS device is in my car, and I just don’t know how I managed to get anywhere before I had one.  It makes it virtually impossible to get lost when driving anywhere, including unfamiliar big cities, as I have learned from personal experience while driving in Atlanta, Georgia, Washington, D.C., and New York City.  Sure, I still carry maps in the side pocket of the driver’s door, but I can’t recall the last time I had to use one.

          While on the subject of GPS systems, how about those Sirius and XM Radios.  They have virtually made FM and AM radios obsolete.  My car also has that feature and it is so nice not to go in and out of radio range while listening to a your favorite college football game as you travel on a fall Saturday, or never lose a signal of a favorite music, news, weather or business program while passing from one state to another.  After giving due consideration to those and other material items for which I am thankful, I come down to the most important item of all:  life itself.  

          Don’t know about you, but I am alive and still kicking despite six and a half decades of excellent opportunities not to be.  Like you, I somehow survived childhood in an age before the FDA came along and told us how dangerous everything we ate, drank or played with really was. 

          Those early childhood years were followed by some traumatic teen years.   I vividly recall the time I was just sure my Dad was gonna kill me after I burned up the engine of his two cycle Harley-Davidson (Junior) motorcycle because I did not know to add oil to the gasoline.  I wondered why the gas tank cap had and extended cup attached when Wally VanMeter and I filled it up at M.C. Jones store in Oakwoods, only to have the engine seize a couple of miles later as we were roaring down Country Club Road. 

          Then there was the time I knew Dad was gonna have my head after I blew the engine in my Sunbeam Alpine shortly after racing up and down Rendezvous Mountain in 1963 with my good friends Eric Williams, Larry Nichols and Bill Moseley.  

          Then there was the now famous underwater ejection from a Navy A-7 carrier aircraft on my very first attempt at a night carrier landing one dark and stormy Pacific Ocean night in mid-June of 1969.  That event, which produced instant notoriety for me within the Naval Aviation community, was soon followed by two tours flying combat missions off the USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63) in Southeast Asia (Vietnam). 

          During those two years, the bad guys, or “Gomers” as we called them, did their best to bring me down to share a suite in the infamous Hanoi Hilton with another Wilkes County aviator named Denver Key or maybe even a luxury suite with Admiral McCain’s son John.  I declined those almost daily invitations.  

          Then there was the locally lesser known, near fatal head injury in an auto mishap in November of 1980, the mishap that through no fault of my own, left my left side partially paralyzed and brought an otherwise promising career as a Naval Officer and Aviator to a screeching halt.  Dare I mention the heart attack that almost got me a few years later while visiting family in Athens, Georgia?  

          Some of my friends have compared my life to the RAYOVAC battery cat; the one with nine lives.  Others just think I am accident prone, while a few just think I am the luckiest guy they know.

          Yes sir, I am thankful still to be alive, and especially when I think of so many friends and relatives who did not make it this far.  In two-thirds of a century, I already have out lived most of the males in my Dad’s family(hopefully my longevity genes are from my Mother’s side of the family); a dozen or more of my school classmates, several dozens of my Navy contemporaries and quite a few others with whom I have crossed paths over the years. 

          Many of these fine folks have not lived to experience one of the greatest joys of a lifetime…the presence of their grandchildren, a treat shared at our house this past Thanksgiving week.  Nor have many of these departed souls lived to see the wonderful material inventions mentions earlier in this piece.  They will not be with us this Christmas and New Years to share the joy and camaraderie of family reunions or experience yet another joyous birthday party.  They will not know another Valentine’s Day, or share another Easter Sunrise, or enjoy another the splendid coming of spring greenery.

          They will not know another summer’s trip to the mountains or the beach, nor will they again share the magnificent splendor of the beautiful colors of fall nor come full circle to share yet another Thanksgiving Day with family and friends.  

          Do we have a lot for which to be thankful this Holiday Season?  You bet your life we do, and the most important of all, is life itself.  If you’re not thankful to be alive as you finish reading this piece, you ought to be.  (End)

 

Youthful Recollections:

SUMMERTIME VI

By

Russ Pearson

(Continued from last week):

Then came the summer of 1962… the summer following my freshman year at Brevard College.  Not only was I a year older but presumably a year wiser and more sophisticated.  An eighteen year old who thought that his one year of college made him wise to the ways of the world.   That summer’s job turned out to be the most significant summer of all in teaching lessons of life.   

Along with many other college students, I was hired on the second or night shift as a cigarette inspector at R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company in Winston-Salem.  At the time, the cigarette business was booming; the plant was working overtime on nine hours shifts. The night shift ran from 4:00 PM until 01:00 AM.  Throw in the hour and half drive each way to and from Wilkesboro on what is now old highway 421, and allow for a few hours for eating, bathing and sleeping and your day was all but gone.  

It was only a temporary summer job.   College students were hired as stand-ins for regular plant workers taking annual vacations, but it sure paid well, more than enough to offset the hassle of a daily 116 mile, round-trip commute to Winston-Salem in a five person car pool. 

Starting pay at Reynolds was over three times the federal minimum wage.  That was a lot more than I made mowing grass, bagging groceries, pumping gas, washing cars or delivering newspapers or flowers. 

Regular plant workers claimed that the higher pay helped maintain employee loyalty, which when translated into English meant keeping the union out.   “Why should any worker pay union dues when the company was already paying above union wages and providing excellent fringe benefits as well,” they reasoned?  I sure couldn’t argue with that.

I was assigned to a machine making Winston cigarettes on the second floor of old building 256.   That was one of the beautiful, old buildings made of hand-crafted bricks in downtown Winston; regrettably, that historic building burned to the ground a few years ago.

My machine was one of over 30 identical machines in my section, each turning out 3,333 Winston cigarettes a minute.  The cigarettes were automatically rolled out in front of me on parallel conveyer belts. 

My job was to inspect each cigarette for any one of over 30 discrepancies and to discard those while gathering the good cigarettes and spreading them gently into a square wooden tray directly in front of me.  Each tray held 4,000 cigarettes and filled every three minutes.  

Once the tray was full, a metal cover was placed over it and it was pushed sideways onto a cart placed next to my machine.  The cart was placed there by a “phantom” worker.  This guy appeared and disappeared as if by magic.  He would bring an empty cart to my station and wheel the full cart and its 44,000 cigarettes over to the building’s adjacent “Packing Department”.  

Twice during the nine-hour shift, inspectors were relieved for a 10 minute bathroom/smoke break by a roving inspector.  I usually needed both of those breaks.  Midway thru the shift, there was a 30 minute break for the evening meal.  That was just enough time for me to get down to the company’s ground-floor cafeteria and scoff down a quick sandwich before going back to work on my upstairs machine.

It was during one of those “smoke breaks” very early in my employment that I almost got into trouble… a situation that could have gotten me fired had someone in management seen it. 

As you might recall from an earlier column, back in those days I had the nasty habit of smoking, as did about everybody else I knew.   My favorite cigarette brand was Marlboros, a product made by Phillip Morris out of Richmond, Virginia, and a major competitor of the Winston brand I was making at Reynolds. 

 On the occasion in question, I turned over my machine to the relief person and headed for the men’s room to answer the call of nature and to smoke a cigarette.  As usual, the men’s room was relatively crowded with mostly regular, long-time employees taking their break and smoking cigarettes picked up off of one of their machines.  Can you see it coming?

Well, when I pulled a flip-top box of Marlboro cigarettes from my shirt pocket, flipped open the lid and slipped a Marlboro into my mouth, the conversation came to an abrupt halt.  The men’s room suddenly got very, very quiet and all eyes were on me, and the faces those eyes belonged to were less than friendly, to put the best face on it. 

Finally, after what seemed like my allotted 10 minutes, one of the crusty old fellows who had probably 30 years under his belt with the company spoke up and said,  “Son, if you like your job here, you’d best not come in here again with those kind of cigarettes. In fact if I were you, I’d dump them in that trash can over there in the corner right now.”

Sure sounded like good advice to me, so I took it.   I dumped that half a dozen of so “weeds” remaining in the pack in the trash and tore the box into several pieces and tossed it in there too.  

As I was walking out of the Men’s Room, obviously embarrassed, the ol’ timer patted me on the shoulder and said, “From now on son, do like the rest of us do and grab yourself a handful off the belt and stick em in your shirt pocket to smoke on your break.”

Well for the next week or so, I took the ol’ timer’s advice, but I wasn’t happy about it… not that I was “stealing cigarettes from the company… I just didn’t like the taste of Winstons as much as I liked Marlboros.   

 

Then the solution hit me.  The next day, I bought a flip-top box of Winstons and a flip-top box of Marlboros.  After I had smoked all of the Winstons that day, I packed the Marlboros into the Winston box, stuffed it into my shirt and went to work. 

Fortunately for me, Winston and Marlboro cigarettes look identical.  The only real difference is the barely visible printed name on the paper up near the filter end, and your fingers usually cover that name while you are smoking it.   For the rest of the summer, I smoked Marlboros in the Men’s Room at R. J. Reynolds and until now, no one was the wiser. 

Notwithstanding that little secret, I found that working on an assembly line was incredibly boring and by the time that summer ended, I was bored stiff.   I couldn’t wait to get back to college and hit the books with a renewed appreciation for the value of classroom education.  I was so thankful that I was only a temporary summer hire.

During an end-of-summer-exit interview with my floor supervisor, himself a Wake Forest graduate with a degree in Chemistry, I told him how boring I found the job.  I told him that I was amazed that some of my fellow workers had managed to handle this same job inspecting cigarettes for over 20 years. 

He laughed and admitted that the company did not hire college students for such jobs fulltime.  He told me that over the years, the Company had found that workers with IQs between 80-90 were best suited for such positions because they were not as easily bored or distracted from the tedious, irksome day in and day out, eight or nine hours a day, five days a week.   

Applicants with IQs above 100 and suitable for college-level entrance were considered for summer employment only and other non-assembly line jobs.   Hiring college kids during the summer was the Company’s way to help students financially with college expenses, while providing the Company with a reliable pool of workers to fill-in for workers on vacation.  He then very graciously invited me to come back again next summer and to consider a management position with R.J. Reynolds when I graduated from college, an invitation I once considered, but then I found a higher, and less boring occupation flying off the pointy end of the U.S. Navy’s aircraft carriers.  

So what did I learn working in the “real world” during my school “vacation” during the summer of 1962?   I learned two things: 1) There’s no cigar for working in a cigarette factory, and 2) My IQ had to be at least 100 or I wouldn’t have gotten a job inspecting cigarettes.  

I remain forever grateful to the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Co. for affording me an opportunity not only to work alongside some wonderful, hard-working people, but the chance to earn enough money to help me make it financially through the next year in college.

 

The Best of Seasons (Part II)

By RUSS PEARSON

          Until space ran out last week, this column was on a roll talking about the early days of high school football and its star players in the Wilkesboros.  Let’s pick it up from there this week...   

                During those early winning seasons, the green and gold clad Wilkes Central Eagles continued to field winning teams with such outstanding players as Nelson Lowe, Ralph Steele, Bill “Bruno” Pearson, Jim “Semper Fi” Swofford, Ted Hall, Gary Vannoy, Jerry “Jug” Moore, Odell White, Augustine Quilicci, Russell Gambill, Benny Phillips, C.G. "Bear" Walsh, Bill Eller, Rick Jones, David Wiles, James Forester, David Deal, John Pipes, and Johnny Myers. 

                Under the superb leadership of Coach Marvin “Red” Hoffman, these Eagles soared to new heights in a new conference against such competitive high school opponents as Hickory, Lenoir, Morganton, Valdese, Marion, Mt. Airy, Newton-Conover, Elkin, and of course, our perennial winning season opener with Taylorsville.  

                As the Eagles successfully defended their winning ways into the late 1960s and the decade of the 1970s, team players with such atypical Wilkes County names as David Turnipseed, Tommy Necessary, Bo Forehand, Dexter Hoffman, Ron McGrady, Tom Ingle, Sonny Church and oh yes, we can’t forget Bill or Johnny Swofford.  These gents led subsequent teams in upholding the Eagle’s winning tradition.  What’s that you ask? ….. Is that THE Johnny Swofford? 

                Yes indeed, sports fans, for those who may have been living under a rock these past four decades, the same John Swofford who played quarterback and later served as Athletic Director at UNC – Chapel Hill and now presides as Commissioner of the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC), started his illustrious career as an Eagle’s quarterback.  John is the youngest of North Wilkesboro’s Swofford brothers: Carl, Jim, and the late Bill Swofford, each of whom has their own unique claim to fame.

               

          Carl is a successful businessman in North Wilkesboro.  Jim played football at Duke University prior to distinguishing himself as a member of the United States Marine Corps.  Bill, who was also a star running back at Wilkes Central, became a singing star with hits as ”Good Morning Starshine” and “Jean”.  Bill was known professionally by his middle name “Oliver”.

                As ACC Commissioner, Bill’s younger brother John Swofford has become one of Wilkes Central’s and Wilkes County’s most successful and celebrated alums.  He has significantly raised the ACC football bar by advancing what is arguably the country’s greatest college basketball conference into an equally great and definitely more competitive football conference within the NCAA sports arena.

                John accomplished this major feat by taking the lead in expanding the ACC conference from eight to twelve teams.  He negotiated the addition of such powerhouse football schools as the University of Miami, Florida State, Boston College and Virginia Tech.  

          As the parent of a son who grew up in Orange Park, Florida, a suburb of Jacksonville, and who spent the first three and a half years of his extended collegiate career as a student at the University of Miami, I am especially pleased to have the Canes of the University of Miami, (Better known as “The U “) in the ACC.  Not only did “The U” get my first born as a student, Miami also got a substantial chunk of my hard-earned money, but who’s complaining?  When your school’s winning national championships, money’s not a problem.  

          Some of my good friends have asked me, “Russ, if you are such a diehard football fan, why didn’t you play football in high school?”  To which I answer, “I tried” and I really did… I tried hard, if not for myself, I tried for my parents who really wanted their only son on the football team. 

          During my first two years, I played on the freshman and then sophomore teams, under Coaches Dan Stallings and Smith Hudson.  Unfortunately, there were two strikes against me even before it was my time at the plate; I was too small and too slow.  At 135 lbs fully dressed out and skinny as a rail, I was too small to play on the line and too slow to be in the backfield.    

                Coach used me as a center on offense and as a line backer on defense.  However, the small size and slow speed didn’t get me a lot of playing time.  Even when I did get to play, I often was creamed just after snapping the ball by some oversized guard or tackle weighing a hundred or more pounds than me.    

          Then came decision time…the junior year.  Up until then it was possible to play in the band (which I had done since 3^rd grade) and play Junior Varsity football at the same time… the band did not perform for the Thursday night Junior-Varsity games.  Now, a choice had to be made between the band and football. 

                As a rising Junior, it was time to step up to the varsity team but by this time, it wasn’t hard for me to realize that football wasn’t in my future.  I realized that I wasn’t an athlete; I was more of an “athletic supporter” and I could play that role as well from the grandstands with the band as I could from the bench with the team.   

          The toughest part of the decision was that I thought I was letting my parents down.  After all those years watching my friends and me playing backyard football in the neighborhood, they had dreamed of the time when they could come to the Friday night games and see their son play football under the lights.  Instead, they were gonna have to come and watch me march in the band. 

          But I was a realist.  I knew that if I chose football, I would spend most of my time on the bench and not on the field.  At least in the band, I would get to perform on the field, and unlike football, my speed and size didn’t affect how well I played trumpet.  Besides, if I chose the football route, I wouldn’t get to ride on the Band Bus anymore. I might have been slow and small, but I wudn’t stupid!  I chose the band, but I still love a good football game. 

 

 

 

A Tall Tale

By RUSS PEARSON

Author’s Note:  Following several columns in The Record touting high school and college football, my friends-- all three of them-- have asked which football-orientated college I attended after high school?   Rather than disappoint them with the embarrassing truth, I concocted the following, almost believable, tongue-in-cheek tale which I now unabashedly share with you on the condition that you don’t tell anybody else:

 

As it became apparent at the last minute that notwithstanding my less than stellar overall grade average, there still was a good chance I might actually graduate from high school, my parents presented me with a list of schools they would like me to attend and strongly urged me to begin sending applications to each of them.  Like all good parents, mine wanted only the best for their first-born son and the list of schools they gave me said as much, although I seriously questioned whether Harvard, Princeton and Yale were my kind of schools. 

 For one thing, IV League schools routinely field lousy football teams and who, other than an Eskimo, would want to go to a college where the temperature is colder than the balls on a Navy destroyer’s brass monkey, not to mention their locations in a strange northern land where the people speak English with funny, foreign sounding accents?   Quickly, I decided that the IV League just wasn't for me, so I scratched those schools off the list.  After all, choosing the right college was serious business.   There was no time to screw around with a bunch of losers.  The only Bowl game any of these high-foluting institutions were destined to play in was the “Ice Bowl”.  I quickly moved on to the next choice on my parent’s list, the Military Academies. 

It didn’t take long for me to narrow the Academies down to two: the Naval Academy and the Air Force Academy.   Why would anyone in their right mind want to go to West Point and then spend years in the Army living in a fox hole when they could be in the Navy or Air Force living on a nice clean, air-conditioned ship or modern barracks with showers and three squares a day in a friendly wardroom?  As far as I was concerned, anyone wanting an Army life style would do far better by going to the Naval Academy and then into the Marine Corps, a.k.a., the Navy’s Army ... Semper Fi !  

Of course, as far a football was concerned, the service academies had relatively mediocre teams.   Notwithstanding exceptional cases like Roger Staubach, it’s difficult for the Academies to recruit top players who have professional football aspirations when those players are faced with lengthy active duty obligations after graduation.  Contrary to conventional thinking, football isn’t the primary mission of the Academies.  The name of their game is national defense.

Then there was that little matter of political patronage, something a candidate for the Academies must have to be admitted.  Unfortunately, the closest things I had to "political clout" was the fact that my maternal grandmother, Juliet Herndon Church, was a genuine descendant of Francis Scott Key, author of our National Anthem.  Additionally, my maternal grandfather, Roby Church, was a distant relative of one of Wilkes County’s most infamous celebrities, Tom (Dooley) Dula, not to mention the fact that my grandfather was an elected member of the Wilkes County School Board for some 25 years.   I figured that if the old saying “all politics is local” is still in play, I should have had it made politically. 

Proud as I was of the exceptional credentials of both of my grandparent’s,  I soon discovered that my connection to Francis Scott Key and the School Board wouldn’t even buy me a cup of coffee at Potty Horton’s Peoples’ Drug Store on Main Street in downtown Wilkesboro where Grace Bumgarner, my friend and favorite waitress there, was sympathetic to my case.  So much for attending one of the Service Academies.

Of course, my parents were understandably very disappointed.  They had been looking forward to sending me to any one of the Academies;unlike regular colleges, the Academies provided their Cadets with free room, free board, free tuition and a clothing allowance, in addition to a generous monthly stipend.

Next on the list were several ACC schools, but they didn’t last long either.  The University of Virginia thought my resume was not Cavalier enough, and my application to Duke was rejected outright because I wasn’t a member of a very wealthy family from somewhere up north.  Duke also said that my “C” average high school academic record wasn’t up to their “high standards”.  To their credit in their letter of rejection however, they did strongly recommend that I apply to schools with significantly lower academic standards and recommended schools like UNC Chapel Hill or that other Carolina University in Columbia, SC; so I sent them a nice, handwritten thank-you note for sharing that advice.       

  The letters of rejection received subsequently from the two Carolinas both implied that I didn’t appear to fit in well with their student body.   Apparently the Tarheels and Gamecocks both thought I was much too serious and studious for their reputations as "party-schools" … If they only knew how wrong they were about that. 

Then the letter from Wake Forest arrived.  Although the letter didn’t put it in writing, I strongly suspect they rejected me because I was a Methodist; an open and shut case of religious persecution.  They probably assumed that I had never been baptized in “deep water”, which was true… a light "sprinkling" was all l ever got at the Wilkesboro Methodist Church.  The Deacons just couldn’t image having an "unsaved heathen” on their heavenly campus at Wake Forest.  

Only later did I realize that putting down “Shagging” as a “favorite pastime” on my application may have done me in with Wake…I forgot the Deacs weren’t allowed to dance on campus.  I forgot also that “Shagging” had a slang meaning; a term that had nothing to do with dancing.  Unfortunately, neither of those two meanings was in my favor …Wake is a Baptist school you know. 

To their credit however, the good folks at Wake did strongly suggest that my earlier experience as a supermarket bag-boy, plumber’s assistant, grounds keeper for several local churches, and ambitious paper boy for the Greensboro Daily News made me an ideal fit at NC State, Clemson, Georgia Tech or Appalachian which I much appreciated. 

However, at that point in my young life, I just wasn’t into driving trains, raising chickens, hogs, tobacco, cattle or producing textiles, and had no desire to be a school teacher.  I didn’t mind spinning yarns, but not in a mass-production ladies underwear factory or in front of a classroom full of rowdy students like me.  Out of courtesy, I did however send Wake a nice, handwritten thank-you note for sharing their advice. 

Well, once again, I've run out of space before running out of words; see you next time... Russ

 

 

 

 

Youthful Recollections:

What about the SEC Schools?

 

Next in a series for

The Record of Wilkes

 

By

Russ Pearson

 

          When this column ran out of space last week, I was lamenting my conundrum as to which college was best suited for me following graduation from Wilkes Central in 1961.   Remember that year; it was a factor in my available choices.  

          Shortly after that column came out, I received an e-mail from an old college and Navy friend in Pensacola, Fl.   It seems that my friend read my column from last week on the Record’s Internet website and felt that, based on my stated requirements for a school with a good balance between academics and football programs, I should have considered a school in the Southeast Conference (SEC) rather than just in the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC). He singled out the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa as what he considered would have been the perfect choice for me.  Such a recommendation was not totally unexpected; my friend is a native of Alabama, although he himself chose first to attend a college in North Carolina. 

           My friend didn’t have to tell me that the “Crimson Tide” football team was on a “Roll” at that time under head coach Paul “Bear” Bryant.  That year, the “Bear’s” team won what was then the equivalent of today’s Division I National Championship and he was voted College Coach of the Year.  Coach Bryant’s teams went on to win the National Championship five more times under his tutelage.

          Where did Coach Bryant get the nickname “Bear” you ask?  He got it because he once wrestled a bear for money and the nickname stuck.  Now my question is: what is a “Crimson Tide”?   I always thought that a “Crimson Tide” was one of those red algae epidemics that periodically invade the water on the shoreline of the Atlantic Ocean.                 

          My friend didn’t have to mention that the “Tide” also had a “million dollar” band, one of the most celebrated bands in all of college football land; I already knew that.  As a former high school band member myself, I considered a good band to be a key ingredient for a good football environment.  The band adds to the festive atmosphere that accompanied the game and helps to rev up the fans and the cheering sections.  As to the academics, I didn’t have a lot of data available to me to judge that aspect at Bama; so academics became a neutral factor. 

         

          But there was yet another more sensitive reason why I did not seriously consider Alabama or any other “Deep South” SEC school to be my Alma Mater, and it had nothing to do with football or academics.  This is where the year 1961 comes into play.  Remember, as a popular song of the 60’s that sez…“The times, they were a changing”. 

          The year 1961 was President Kennedy’s first year in office.  His brother Robert was Attorney General and Lyndon Johnson was Vice-President.  George Wallace, running on a strong segregationist platform, was about to become governor of Alabama and segregationist Orvil Faubus was already Governor of Arkansas. 

          My point is, social conditions were dramatically different in 1961 than they are now, and especially on the racial scene.  Segregation was still the order of the day in many parts of the south, including North Carolina.  Here in Wilkes County, Lincoln Heights was still the only operating high school for blacks in this area, and all four of the County’s other high schools were totally segregated, even though the Tar Heel state was generally considered to be more moderate and progressive in matters of race vis-à-vis most of its neighbors to the south. 

          Now consider that the SEC is made up of twelve schools, all in the south, and several in the “Deep South”.  Two of those schools, Alabama and Auburn, are in Alabama; Vanderbilt and Tennessee are in Tennessee.   Ole Miss, Mississippi State, Louisiana State, and the Universities of Georgia, Florida, Arkansas, Kentucky, and South Carolina are located in their namesake states.

          For a young, self-proclaimed progressive student born and raised in the more moderate culture of North Carolina, to leave this state and venture into unknown collegiate territory outside the cultural environs of his upbringing would have posed an unnecessary and unwelcomed cultural difficulty to the educational task at hand.  In short, it didn’t even occur to me to consider any of the schools in the SEC nor can I think of any of my local college bound friends or classmates who chose to attend an SEC school. 

          In later years in 1967, as a young Navy Ltjg and Student Naval Aviator stationed at the Naval Air Station in Meridian, Mississippi undergoing initial jet training, I learned that as far as the local residents were concerned, North Carolina was a “northern state”, not a “southern” state and they felt this way even though they were aware that North Carolina and Mississippi were on the same side during the “War of Northern Aggression” as the “Civil War” is known in the deep south.  Perhaps having the word North in our home state’s name confused them?  

          Before I run out of space again, let me make the understatement of the year:  Having lived in seven states and traveled extensively throughout our country and the world including most of the towns in the SEC’s domain like Athens GA and Oxford, MS, I can assure any Rip Van Winkles out there who may have dozed off in the early 60’s and are only now awakening, there have been many major and positive changes in the South (and the rest of the country for that matter). If  I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t have a second thought about going to any SEC school, even the ones in the Deep South, the only question for me would be, do I have strong enough academic credentials to be admitted to any of them and enough money to get a season ticket to the football games near the 50 yard line?  Gotta go…hope to see ya again next week.  (End)

 

 

A Virgin No Longer

By

Russ Pearson

 

          Now that the 2009 edition of the World Series is in full swing, the time appears right for this column to switch hitters from the football mode of the past weeks and say a word or two about baseball, the sport that for as long as I can recall has proclaimed itself our “national pastime,” a claim that may best belong in the history books.  Seems intuitively obvious to this casual observer that football and auto racing have overtaken the top spot.  

          If baseball really is our “National Pastime”, how could it be that it took me 66 years to attend a major league baseball (MLB) game?  But alas, I am an MLB virgin no longer yet couldn’t help but wonder if I had been the last MLB virgin standing?

          It all started about a year ago during a visit with my daughter and her family in Atlanta, Georgia.   When the subject of baseball came up in polite conversation, I casually mentioned that never had I attended a professional baseball game. 

          Well wouldn’t you know that my off-the-cuff comment set the wheels in motion with my daughter’s husband and father-in-law, both avid sports buffs.  In less time than it takes to do an Atlanta Braves Tomahawk chop, the decision was made to get me to a Braves game at the earliest opportunity. 

          Not that I didn’t know something about baseball myself mind you, after all Carmen Kilby, David Turnipseed and I were all members of the Cincinnati Reds when Little League Baseball first came to town back in the early 1950s.  Carmen was our team’s ace pitcher, David played 3^rd base and I played 1^st base, and we were up against some stiff competition you know.  You don’t play for the “Cincinnati Reds” for three years against such star athletics as Don Love and Eugene Reavis and not learn something about baseball.  

          It took the family just over a year to arrange, but they finally helped me lose my Major League Baseball (MLB) virginity a few weeks ago.  I was in nearby Athens, Georgia to see a Georgia Bulldog’s football game.  It just happened to be on the same weekend the Atlanta Braves were hosting the Washington Nationals at Turner Field in Atlanta for the final game of the season for both teams.  As it also happened, my grandson’s school was selling tickets to that game as part of a fundraiser.        

          Turner Field, the Braves home stadium, is a beautiful baseball venue.  Immediately outside the manicured playing field, a host of extracurricular activities, arcades and restaurants entertain visitors before game time.   My favorite was the Cartoon Network’s terrific kiosk designed for kids, both young and old.  Finally, after six and a half decades, I was going to see for myself a “national pastime” game up close and personal.  

          Ok, so it wasn’t so up close after all…our seats were way up high in the nose bleed section.  Now some folks may have found that uncomfortable, but the height didn’t faze this old, retired Navy pilot now living high atop the Brushy Mountains.   In fact, our seats had one of those unexpected favorable consequences: a gorgeous, panoramic view of the impressive skyline of downtown Atlanta.

          The baseball song sez “Take me out to the ballgame….. buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks….” two treats I was really looking forward to enjoying.   But to my disappointment, neither of those delightful delicacies could be found.  The best I could do was a $5.00 beer and a fully loaded $7.00 hot dog, but who’s complaining?  It was only money.

          How could I have known when the game started what a good deal this particular game was gonna be.  I paid to see 9 innings but got much more than I bargained for…With the score tied at 1 to 1 at the end of regulation play, the game went into a 10^th inning, and then an 11th  inning, before going into a 12^th, 13^th, and 14^th inning.  It was beginning to look as if a sleeping bag might come in handy.

          Finally, in the top of the 15^th, the visitors scored a run, putting the onus on the Braves to score in the bottom of the 15^th.  The bad news for Braves fans is that the home team just couldn’t rise to the occasion.  Atlanta lost their final game of the 2009 season 2 to 1 to the lowly, hapless Washington Nationals.  But for this first timer, it was a win.  A thoroughly enjoyable afternoon was spent with family members, including two grandchildren. 

          Then suddenly, like Apostle Paul on the road to Damascus, the epiphany struck me…it’s not the game of baseball itself that makes the game what many still consider the national past time, it’s the many opportunities for families living in the vicinity of major league ball parks to attend games and spend quality, fun time together at “ye ole ball game.”   It’s an atmosphere that just can’t be duplicated at the once-a-week football game or the occasional NASCAR race.

          So sports fans, while baseball may no longer be our national past time, attending a game with children and grandchildren is a great way to spend an autumn afternoon and as I found out, being at the game in person sure beats watching it on television.   I look forward to next season and another opportunity to attend another Major League game.  (End)

 

 

Who’s Your Daddy?

by

Russ Pearson

 

            One of my favorite recollections from early youth is the story about how I met my father.  After retelling that story while speaking with a grandniece on Veterans Day, it occurred to me that a similar story might apply to a number of readers of this column.

         

          My story begins, or more correctly stated, was “conceived” in January 1943.   World War II was in full fury and my Dad had been drafted into the U.S. Army.  He had completed basic and advanced training and was about to be shipped overseas out of Jacksonville, Florida, to his first duty assignment in London, England.  But alas, as is my custom, I have gotten ahead of myself…let’s back up a bit. 

         

          Dad was a 1939 graduate of North Wilkesboro High School where he played on the “Mountain Lion’s” football team and sang in the school glee club.  He and my Mother, a cheerleader from archrival Wilkesboro High School, surreptitiously dated for sometime before they eloped in January of 1940 to York, South Carolina, while Dad was still a full-time student at National Business College in Roanoke, Virginia.  They chose to elope for fear that my grandfather, Rome Pearson, might cease funding Dad’s education if he found out the marriage.

 

 

          Being the youngest in their respective families (Mother was 17 and Dad was 18), they managed to keep their marriage a secret with a little help from a couple of very close friends.  Also, Dad’s older sister, Beatrice, and Mother’s older brother, Forest Church, aided and abetted the “undercover union” until after Dad graduated.  Only then did they go public. 

 

          Following graduation in Roanoke, Dad returned to North Wilkesboro where he was employed by a relatively new, upstart financial institution… the Northwestern Bank.  At Northwestern, he worked as a teller for Edwin Duncan and Vernon Deal, along side such notable up-and-coming young bankers as Bill Young, Ed Bell and Anne Duncan.  

 

          But the bank job was short-lived.  Like so many young men of his age, Dad received an official letter from the local Draft Board.  The letter began by saying:  “Greetings, Your friends and neighbors have chosen you to serve…etc. etc.”   Mother later told me that Dad's first response was that if he had known that was the kind of “friends and neighbors” he had, he would have moved to another county.

 

          Following completion of the Army’s basic training, and largely because of his business background and the fact that he could type, Dad was sent to a Camp in Norman, Oklahoma, for advanced training in Cryptology.  There he was schooled in operating state-of-the-art equipment that sent and received coded or “cryptic” secret and top secret messages. 

 

          Following completion of weeks of classroom training in Oklahoma, Dad received orders to report to a holding unit at the Naval Station in Jacksonville, Florida.   There he was to await further assignment in the barracks aboard the station.   

 

          Unlike some waits in the military, Dad’s wait was a brief one.   Shortly after checking in at Jacksonville,  his orders for an overseas assignment came through. He was to report for duty on a General Staff headquartered in London, England.  The orders contained a departure date from Jacksonville, which set in motion plans for a trip to Florida by my Mother, who was anxiously waiting back home while working as a secretary for Mr. Absher at the Dodge dealership on Forester Avenue in North Wilkesboro.  

 

          Sure enough, with Dad’s departure date now in hand, Mother boarded a Greyhound bus in Winston-Salem and headed south for sunny Florida. It was during that trip to Jacksonville that yours truly became more than just a “twinkle” in my parent’s eyes. 

 

          Like all the other soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines departing on that same London bound ship, Dad received a three-day weekend pass before his ship pulled out.  The pass was designed to give the men time to take care any "final personal business" before departing… and I am here to tell you that they took care of business alright! 

 

          Having been in similar situations myself during an extended Navy career that included many similar departure scenes, I can well imagine how the two of them passed the hours and minutes.  For all they knew, this could have been a “Last Farewell” weekend, to tap into the title of a poignant Roger Whittaker song.

 

          And so it came to pass  that some nine months following that farewell weekend and Dad’s departure for war-torn London and a nightly blitz by the German Luftwaffe, an eight and one-half pound bouncing baby boy bearing Dad’s name was born at the Wilkes Hospital on Eighth Street in North Wilkesboro.   According to the Birth Certificate on file at the Wilkes County Courthouse in Wilkesboro, the parents of the child were Russell G. Pearson, Sr. and Margaret Ann Church Pearson.   Dr. Fred C. Hubbard was the attending physician. 

 

          Like so many war-time babies, I was named after my Father.  Apparently that gesture was often done in the event the dad failed to return home.  Regrettably, as the many names, including the names of my cousins Alvin and Joe Pearson on the War Memorial Monument at the Wilkes Historical Museum (old Courthouse) attest, such tragedies happened to many patriots from Wilkes County families.  Fortunately, my immediate family was spared the agony of such a painful and sorrowful event.

 

 

          My Dad did return home shortly after the war.  He arrived back in Wilkes County early in 1946 after completing a swing with his unit thru mainland Europe as part of a team helping to document the atrocities of the Germany POW camps where millions of Jews were exterminated. 

 

          Meanwhile back at home, Mother and I were managing to survive in relative comfort.  We were living back and forth between North Wilkesboro and Wilkesboro in the homes of my respective Church and Pearson grandparents. 

 

          As fate would have it, both sets of my grandparents in earlier years had endured the loss of a son, while each of these sons were still in their teens.  To my grandparents, having a grandson in their home was something of a “second coming.”   To them, I was a surrogate for their own lost sons, James Pearson and Robert Church.

 

          When the war in Europe finally ended, there was concern in both houses as to how I would react when my Dad finally did come home.  I only knew him by a tinted, official 8” x 10” Army photograph and a few other small, black and white pictures he had managed to send home.  Conversely, he only knew me from a very limited number of photos Mother had sent to him.

 

          During the war, film was at a premium.   It was rationed because the silver used in the making of film was badly needed in the war effort. Baby books in those days contained far fewer photographs than those of later newborn generations.  

 

          To make sure I would know Dad when he arrived, both households placed a framed copy of that 8” x 10”, tinted photo of dad in uniform in a conspicuous place, and I was repeatedly told that this was my Dad, a lesson as later events would bear out, I literally took to heart.   

 

          Finally, the long-awaited, much-anticipate day arrived.  Dad came home to his parent’s house at the top of “F" Street in North Wilkesboro where Mother and I, along with my Pearson grandparents and several other family members and friends had gathered.  According to all accounts it was a most joyous homecoming. 

          I was kept under wraps in a back bedroom of the family's large, two-story home, so that all the adults could share their special moments with the returning “hero.”  The debut of the 2 ½ year old, the “main attraction,” was saved for last.  It is difficult to imagine what that moment must have been like for my Dad.   

 

          Being only 2 ½ years old at the time, I don’t recall any aspect of that "Father and Son reunion.”  However, family lore has it that I stubbornly refused to accept that this uniformed man standing anxiously before me had anything to do with my existence.   After all I had been repeatedly taught that my Dad was the framed picture on top of the piano.  I had no idea who this handsome, young “imposter” could be, although I am pleased to report that everyone there thought he did look a lot like me.   Reportedly, everyone in the room got a big laugh out of my not connecting the dots.   

 

          Fortunately, it didn't take long for me to come around.  That probably happened when this uniformed stranger took me down to my grandfather Pearson’s North Wilkesboro Grocery on 10^th street and gave me a bag of candy.  From then

 

on, I never doubted that this was my Dad. 

 

So let this be a lesson to one and all: if someone asks "Who's your Daddy?" just remember who pays for  your candy and you'll have the answer. 

 

 

 

WHAT MAKES YOUR HEADACHE?

by

Russ Pearson

          Just thinking about it makes my head hurt!  All those great weekends needlessly wasted while suffering from a dull, aching, sometimes throbbing headache.  But that was before I discovered the underlying cause and cure.  I suppose it’s all common knowledge to most folks now, but maybe, just maybe, there are a few folks who don’t know.   Seems there’s always that ten percent who don’t get the word. 

          Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear; back to a time when men were men and the women were glad of it.  When the more coffee a man drank, the more macho he became.  After all, coffee contains caffeine, and caffeine is the Jekyll-to-Hyde elixir that turns “Casper milquetoast” personalities into aggressive “Rambo” types. 

          Surely everyone knows by now that caffeine is a drug contained in regular, high-octane coffee, just as nicotine is a drug contained in cigarettes.  As such, caffeine increases heart rates, dilates blood vessels and perks up the nervous system.   Coffee also exercises the body’s urinary tract.  For pilots like me who once piloted single-seat aircraft, consuming too much coffee before a flight can pose real problems after the flight becomes airborne.  Trust me; I speak from painful personal experience!

          Like most Corsair II drivers, I was forever grateful that engineers at Ling-Tempco-Vaught (LTV), manufacturer of the Navy’s single-seat A-7E Corsair II, the carrier-based, attack aircraft that I flew for a number of years, were aware of this delicate issue.  The engineers wisely included an easy-to-use “relief tube” complete with a funnel shaped, plastic port connected to a rubber hose that vented to the outside.  This device was stowed in a cradle on the deck of the Corsair’s cockpit, just forward of the ejection seat.

          Of course, like all Naval Aviators, I had a custom-made coffee cup with my name and squadron insignia on it.  The cup was mounted in order of seniority on a peg board in the Coffee Mess at the rear of the Ready Room where that “Good-to-the-last-drop” java was readily available… around-the-clock.   That slogan always made me wonder what’s wrong with that “last drop?”

          Such coffee consuming behavior was not only acceptable, it was in keeping with long-standing traditions of sailors everywhere…being on a supposedly “dry” ship at sea for weeks at a time sure makes for a thirsty crew.  As you may have heard, coffee is not the only beverage sailors have a reputation for consuming in abundance, especially when they are on “liberty” in port. 

          The Navy is the one service most tied to tradition.  The ole saying: “When in Rome, do as the Roman’s do,” is well suited for such a tradition.   I personally witnessed this while serving as Senior Shore Patrol Officer during a week-long in-port period in the historic city of Naples, Italy.   Italians, including those Fatherly types wearing the white collar that tethers them tightly to the Vatican, really know how to “bend an elbow” when imbibing in the fruits of their country’s native vines… Again, as I so often do, I have strayed from the main topic. 

          Approximately twenty-one years into my Navy career, while serving on the Staff of Commander, Strike-Fighter Wings, Atlantic (STRKFIGHTWINGSLANT) at Naval Air Station, Cecil Field just west of  Jacksonville, Florida, I was preparing a draft for the Admiral’s endorsement to a recent aircraft mishap, when in walked the Wing’s senior Flight-Surgeon. CDR. Jack “Doc” Shields, MD, was a dual- designated Medical Doctor and Naval Aviator, as well as a personal friend. 

          In addition to heading up the Base’s Medical Clinic for the over 14,000 military and civilian individuals on the Station, “Doc” was assigned additional duty as “Flight Surgeon” to our Staff’ which included a dozen or more pilot types.  As such, he checked in several times a week on matters of aviation, automotive, home and workplace safety. 

          Jack always had his ear to the ground to detect any ongoing personal problems involving pilots, crewmembers and others assigned to the Wing’s twenty-four squadrons.  Wing squadrons flew a mix of aircraft types including the A-7E Corsairs II, F/A-18 Hornets, A-4 Skyhawks and S-3 Vikings. 

          The nature of the Wing’s mission and the special weapons with which we trained made it imperative that any improper or questionable behavior on the part of any assigned service member, especially our pilots be detected.  The recent massacre of thirteen individuals at Ft. Hood, Texas, is just one example of the type of incidents we were constantly on lookout to prevent.    

          In the course of our conversation on this day, I mentioned to Dr. Shields that a strange thing happened to me every weekend, although it never seemed to happen on normal workdays.  Usually on Saturdays and Sundays around noontime, I developed an intense headache. 

          “Doc” Shields proceeded to ask me a few questions about my health in general, and then he made an observation.  “Russ, I have noticed that every time I stop in for a visit, you always seem to be working on a cup of coffee.  In fact, the index finger on your right hand appears to be permanently bent to the ‘coffee cup position.’  So, how many cups of coffee would you guess you drink on an average work day?”

          I had to think about that for a minute before I estimated that I consumed somewhere between eight and twelve cups a day, including the two cups I drank before leaving home every morning. It was so easy to do; there was always a fresh pot of coffee in the Coffee Mess next door.  It was all too easy to slip over there for a refill. 

          “Doc” then asked how many cups I drank on an average Saturday or Sundays.  The answer to that question was much easier… usually just two in the morning with breakfast.  After breakfast, no more coffee was made at our house until the next day.  I began to see where Dr. Shields was going with this, and his explanation fit right in with what I was now suspecting.

          “Russ, I strongly suspect that your weekend-only headaches are caused by caffeine withdrawal.  I have seen it many times with folks who are accustomed to drinking regular coffee but then, either knowingly or unknowingly, switch to decaf… they soon get a headache.” 

          The good doctor then recommended that I gradually cut back on my heavy daily coffee consumption while at work, and at home on weekends, at the first sign of a headache, he said I should drink a cup of coffee. 

          Then he told me to keep a small bottle of Excedrin handy.  “Each Excedrin tablet contains 65mg of caffeine, about the same amount of caffeine as an average cup of coffee.” he said.   “If you can’t get to a cup of coffee when the headache starts, the Excedrin will preempt the headache.”

          Wowser, was I ever impressed.  I’m not as dumb as I often look!  Why hadn’t I figured out that caffeine withdrawal was the cause of my headaches?  Maybe it was because I never attended (much less graduated from) medical school, nor had I treated thousands of patients like Dr. Shields.   Heck, I’d never even played a doctor on television.   

          Sure enough, I took “Doc” Shield’s advice and the weekend headaches stopped… the Excedrin worked.   So, if my story helps you to get rid of those lingering weekend headaches, take two Excedrin and call me in the morning.  You may also show your profound personal appreciation by sending a thank you note addressed to “Doc” Pearson, The Record Newspaper, 911 Main St., North Wilkesboro, NC  28659.