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Mary was a bubbly,happy attractive young lady. She was very full of life and had the most striking doe eyes that were complemented by her jet black hair. That nice combination of striking eyes and long thick hair was accented by her light freckles and big pretty smile. Her smile showed her braces, which she did not seem to mind. In fact, her braces made her seem approachable to me while other girls were not so approachable for an insecure boy like me.
I was a painfully shy skinny boy that had no confidence in myself and I had a very poor self image. This made life extra difficult for me because I was beginning to experience those strange feelings of desire that teen boys feel. I was at that awkward stage when boys want to be around girls, but I was still afraid to admit it. My insecurity caused me to feel I was not good enough for most of the girls that I was interested in.
Mary was different from every girl in my school that I was aware of. She seemed to have a glow about her person which was bigger than life and she just made everyone comfortable to be around her. Mary was friends with everyone and it did not matter if you were rich, poor, popular or a wall flower. Mary appeared to be very secure in herself and she was winning my heart by just being nice to me.
Mary was friends with one of my distant relatives that was also in my French class. This made it easier for me to get close to her and have conversation without appearing to be seeking her out. I noticed her conversation seemed to make passing mentions of the upcoming sophomore party every time we were talking. I did take note of this, but I had not dared think of asking a girl to the party yet. The idea of asking Mary to the party was quickly crowding my mind as I was really falling for Mary.
I struggled for days and weeks to get up the courage to ask Mary to the sophomore party. I would sit and day dream while I wondered, would she accept? Was I being foolish to think such a girl would want to go with me? Could I risk the humiliation? If I did nothing, I would never know and I would be unhappy. If I did ask and she accepted, I would be in uncharted waters, but I would be one happy boy. If she told me no, I would be crushed, and it may even be the end of the world. Or so it seemed to a young teenage boy.
I actually looked forward to French class as that was where I usually got to see Mary. On this particular day I could hardly wait for 5th period because today was the day. I had a spring in my step and my heart was in my throat as I walked into French class that day. I quickly surveyed the class and I saw Rena, my cousin, but not Mary. I was so sad to see her absent, but hoped she would be uncharacteristically late today. Mrs Welborn called the class to order and Mary was still not in class. a I peered down the hall in hopes of seeing her running towards the door but she did not appear. Roll was called and no one answered to my favorite name in the class, the one I unconsciously listened for besides my own. I thought, "how can I wait until tomorrow to ask her to the party"? Would I end up chickening out? Would Mary even be there tomorrow? These questions would have to wait, and so would I. I eased my mind a bit by thinking of Mary's wonderful smile and imagining her being excited and saying yes to my invitation. I remember nothing about French class again because I was a teenager with a huge crush.
The early mornings all started out with the smell of coffee in my house and this one was no different. Scotty Rhodahrmer,the morning disk jockey on WWNC, was on the radio telling my parents about the important things my parents wanted to know. In between Scotty's plugs for Tyson's furniture, "up the valley in Black Mountain" and his spinning a newly released record by a new artist named Oliva Newton-John, he filled us in on news and events. He seemed to like playing Olivia's first big hit song, "Let Me Be There", with extra frequency. I really loved that song because it spoke to those feelings of a teenager in love, or serious like, for the first time. I remember walking down the hall and smelling fresh baked biscuits and frying bacon, I unconsciously savored the flavor of Sourwood honey that I knew would be available for my biscuits as I neared the end of the hall. Scotty had just jingled the words, "Top of the morning to you", as he always did, and it was followed by the shows theme song, "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina". It was true, this would be the day that I asked Mary to the party and nothing could be finer.
As I turned the corner to the kitchen I saw my dad was in his recliner, as usual, reading the morning Citizen-Times. Dad always had some comment for me, but on this morning, he asked me a startling question. Dad said, "do you know Mary Holbrook"? I almost passed out, as my mind raced wondering how did he know her? Did he know how I felt about her? Had I revealed secrets in my sleep? What do I say now? I managed to be calm in my voice as I said "yes, why"? In those moments, everything seems in slow motion and so was the case on this morning. I wondered had Mary done something extraordinary and gotten featured in the paper? I also knew that dad always read the obituaries first. In my heart, I was afraid to hear his answer, but I still hoped the response would be good. In a sort of surprised voice of a parent reading a child's obituary, he said she died. Those words rang like a gong and I could not make them stop. I could not put them back where they came from. I could not make them not be true. At this moment I desperately wanted to take Olivia Newton-John up on her offer to "take what ever is wrong and make it right", but I found her words were hollow as I tasted my first bitter experience with death. I can not capture the fountain of thoughts that flooded my mind in an instant and built to the point of drowning my very soul.
Why Mary, I wondered? She did not deserve to die, I thought. She was not even sick that I know of. Was this somehow because I did not deserve to be closer to her? I had a virtual storm in my soul within the next moments all while guarding my emotions that my secret did not escape. I did not know how strong I really was in my will. I did not say anything, because after all, nobody knew how I felt about Mary. This was my secret, and now it was my burden. I was ashamed to tell anyone about this, to bare my foolish feelings which were so unimportant now. I never asked another girl out until after high school and it may have been in part due to this traumatic experience that even my best friends did not know about. I hid it well as I went on like a zombie during the school day. When I got home, I would steal away to the woods and cry for hours. I managed to pull myself together in time for supper and keep my secret hidden from even the closest people to me, my family.
The years have put a softer edge on this terrible tragedy and other relationships have taken the place, but Mary was the first. That experience tended to shape my feelings about getting close to people for a very long time. Sometimes I wonder how her parents dealt with their huge loss. There were many questions I never had answered as I did not go to her funeral or even acknowledge she was special to me. I never even found out what happened to her, but that detail was not important to me at the time because it would change nothing. The high school principal was not a compassionate person he seemed to be too preoccupied with his own affairs and political ambitions to worry about his student's grief. No grief counseling was offered and no public mention was even made of Mary's death by school officials to my knowledge. I suffered my grief alone and worked out my own navigation through these treacherous waters of my life. They say what does not kill you will make you stronger. I must be a lot stronger and compassionate because of this devastating event. An event I have never before shared to this degree and I find still brings tears to my eyes. May Mary rest in peace and always be remembered as the gentle sweet soul she was.
Biltmore Estate Deer Hunt
One of the perks of being a park ranger on the Blue Ridge Parkway was getting an official invitation to deer hunt on the Biltmore Estate in Asheville NC. For those who do not know, the Biltmore Estate is home to America's largest castle and the location where forestry in America began. The Blue Ridge Parkway runs right through the middle of the Biltmore Estate, and both areas are full of deer and other wildlife. Many of my fellow park rangers were just proud to receive the invitation from one of George Vanderbilt's grand-children and filed it away for safe keeping as a treasured memento. I was not one of those. I was excited to get to hunt on the Biltmore Estate because I still had not experienced my first successful deer hunt and everyone knew your chances of seeing a big buck were multiplied many times if you were fortunate enough to be allowed to hunt on the lands around the Biltmore House.
I arrived shortly before daylight at one of the barns on the estate where the security personnel checked you in and assigned you a location to hunt. I was somewhat disappointed when I learned I would not be allowed to bag a buck until the quota of does had been taken. This being due to the over population of deer on the property and NC Wildlife Resources Commission giving permission for a special doe hunt. I figured since I could take two deer this year, I did not mind doing my duty and helping the Biltmore Company with their problem of having too many deer eating their harvest in the vineyard. I gave my driver license to the security guard and received my assigned hunting area. I made it to my hunting stand just before daylight and spooked a flock of wild turkeys that were roosting on a tree limb. This startled me, but it was wonderful to see because they were almost wiped out just a few decades earlier. My license fees had helped to reestablish a viable population again.
As daylight came, I noticed something strange. I was sitting in an old graveyard. The tombstones were rocks that had been carved with scarce markings other than dates and initials. I noticed there were many from the late 1800's and later learned they were mostly black laborers that helped build and establish this national treasure, now known as the Biltmore House, as well as the forest and the farms of the estate. I wondered what life must have been like for them and if any of their families even knew this place existed as it had obviously not been cared for. I eased off to the edge out of respect for the departed souls and hunted in a different direction.
In a few moments, I saw the flock of wild turkeys scratching and clucking their way back through where I had spooked them earlier. They were unaware of me and I was keenly aware of them. I knew they had unbelievably good eyesight and I was testing to see if I could go without notice by them. After a good 45 minutes, they were out of sight and I had been successful with my stealth test. Why could I not be so successful with deer? I had no sooner thought that, than I saw movement from the corner of my eye. There were 5 does coming from exactly the same area the turkeys came from. I waited until they got a little closer, as I now had confidence in my stealthy nature. I don't know how I managed to go without notice, as my heart was about to bound right out of my chest. I even imagined it jumping right up out of my shirt collar and bounding off down the hill. I almost laughed at this thought, but I was beginning to breathe heavy in an involuntary way that I could not begin to control. I decided to ease the .30-30 up and take the big doe before they saw me or I had a heart attack. I squeezed the trigger and she dropped like her life had been turned off with a light switch. I barely noticed her companions bounding away as I went to inspect my harvest. It was a clean and merciful shot well placed in the vital zone. I was glad of that because I could not stand to think of this beautiful creature suffering.
After field dressing and and dragging the deer to the truck, I was headed to the barn to reclaim my license and report my kill. I was informed by the security officer that the morning hunt had been good and at the rate we were taking does, we should be allowed to hunt bucks by next week. I decided to save my second deer for a chance at a buck and told the security officer I would be back next week. I later cut up the deer and packed it away in the freezer for future feasting and made plans for next week.
It seemed like a very long week waiting to hunt again, but I had heard from another ranger that the doe quota had been met and hunters could take bucks or does during the rest of the hunt. It was my day off again and I showed up at the Biltmore barn check in station just before daylight again. I knew the routine now and I tossed my driver license to the officer and said, "same place as last week?" He said, "that is fine unless you want to try some other place. With the threat of rain, a lot of guys stayed home today". I said, "I know that place, so I will just go back again". In a flash I was out the door with tunnel vision focused on getting my truck parked and into the woods before daybreak. I drove about a quarter of a mile to my parking spot in a rush and as I left the cab I heard a gunshot that sounded like it was up on top of the hill and back at the barn. I wondered who was hunting there and went on into the woods. Daylight came quickly and so did the rain. In less than 15 minutes, I had enjoyed about all the hunting in the rain I could stand and decided to check out early.
I headed back to the barn to retrieve my driver license and tell the security officer I would come back the next day instead because it was supposed to be better weather then. When I walked into the barn I could not believe what I saw. It was a 12 point buck, of the size that is not common in Western North Carolina, field dressed and hanging from overhead beams. I asked who killed it, and the security officer said, "your ain't gonna believe this!" In great anticipation I told him to tell me the story. He said, "He must have been standing behind your truck, because when your lights went off over the hill, I saw him standing there. There was already enough light for me to see him well. I picked up the rifle one of the officers left over there and I shot him. I bet you were not even out of your truck yet." These were words I could barely stand to hear. I could have taken that deer but instead I was too focused on my plan to see my opportunity.
We laughed and admired the trophy awhile and I decided to head on to the house because the rain had set in. I played the what if and could have been scenarios in my mind all day. Somehow, I just could not be happy for that poor security officer, even if he was stuck in a barn while everyone else hunted. Apparently, it did not make any difference on the Biltmore Estate. You can bet the next time I stepped out of the barn, I was looking around for that buck's big brother.
The next day, the weather was great and after the routine at the barn that was now familiar, I headed off to a slightly different spot overlooking a cornfield that had been harvested. Behind the field was the French Broad River and beyond that I could see the pond that Peter Sellers walked on in the movie "Being There". I felt privileged and undeserving to be hunting in such an historic and restricted area, but not so much that I was willing to get up and leave. As the sun got higher, I saw the light color walls of the Biltmore House shine in the not so distant backdrop. I was patient all day thinking of that 12 pointer and wondering if it was possible to top that this year. About a half hour prior to dusk, I saw a deer gleaning grain that was dropped on the ground when the field was harvested. I had to look through the scope to tell if it was a buck and even then it was not obvious. I thought about it a second and figured this was my last day off this week and there was only one more week of deer season. I decided to take this fork horn buck and be happy. I fired and the deer turned and ran off towards the river and the house. I kept my eye on the spot were he was when I fired and made my way to that point.
In just a few minutes, I was standing where the deer was standing when I fired my shot and could see the freshly disturbed ground. I must have hit him, because he would not have reacted such a way otherwise, but I could not find blood anywhere. I tracked him to the point where he went into the woods and still no blood. I managed to track him through the light wooded area by finding disturbed leaves and ground, but no blood sign. I almost lost the trail several times, but just as I was ready to give up I would find more disturbed ground to follow. He was running along beside the river and I had gone an eighth of a mile with no blood signs. I saw a dry ravine that led to the river ahead and could see where the deer dug in as he jumped it. I got to the edge of the ravine and looked to the other side and it looked like someone had spray painted blood all over the side of the bank. I had hit him and he was bleeding to death fast. He probably was already dead, but I needed to get to him before dark. I looked over across the river and there I was standing behind the Biltmore House. That sort of took me by surprise as I had no idea I had walked that far. It was getting to be very dim light by now and I was about to turn on my flash light when I heard a splashing in the river. I looked to see a herd of deer, maybe 30, running across the river and up the bank, I stood in amazement as they ran up the bank and by me. In an instant I was on the ground as one ran right into me and kept on going. I could not believe this, they must have been spooked for sure. I was not hurt, but wondered how much trouble I would have getting people to believe this hunting tale.
The blood splatters were huge now and I knew I was close. I saw a small patch of vines and brush and my buck was there under them. It was so dark now that I knew I had to hurry because field dressing would be a must to get the deer to my truck and hunting ends one half hour after dark. I field dressed him and drug him towards the truck. As I broke into the clear, I saw a truck with a spot light looking in the woods around my truck. I waved and headed on to the truck. The security officers were worried about me and amazed at my story. I checked out and headed home with my first buck and an interesting story that many people seem to find hard to believe. I told everyone, "next year I am going to take a rope and lasso my deer".
Wildlife Adventure
My fingers were getting numb on the cold steel as I worked the jammed lever on my 30-30 Ted Williams rifle. Why did I pick up the pawn shop special instead of a new rifle? Those dollars I saved did not seem so much now. I worked feverishly to unjam the rifle as I began to notice a dim light on the eastern horizon. I remembered that this year is the first year it is legal in North Carolina to hunt deer with a pistol and my .357 Magnum had the required minimum specifications. I hid the jammed rifle behind the seat as I pulled my pistol from under the arm rest. In an instant I was hoofing up the hill towards my deer stand near the top of the mountain. My breath was a thick fog of steam steadily chugging out of my mouth. I noticed my mustache was getting ice in it and I was beginning to feel sweat running under my insulated underwear. I could not wait to get to my stand to cool down. I thought about resting a moment, but the light was coming fast and I needed to be in my stand before day break. I hurried off to the right along a ridge towards my deer stand, which was a fort of downed tree trunks piled around a large tree with a cup at the base which was perfect to hold my cushion.
I settled down in the stand with a few minutes to spare until daybreak and quickly cooled down as my wet clothes and body took on the chill of the frosty temperatures. I began to shiver violently as I longed for the kiss of the morning sun's rays to warm me again. I wondered to myself why I yet again wore my full suit of insulated clothing while walking to the deer stand. I knew better, the answer as to why I had done it again and overheated was not flattering, so I chose to think of something else. Next time I would carry my extra clothes in my pack and put them on after I got to my destination, like I had planned to do before. In a few minutes, the sun was warming me slowly and I began to feel very comfortable as I slowly warmed up. I spotted a deer in my dream just as I awoke to the warm morning sunshine in my face. "I always do this" I thought, as I wondered why I always fall asleep during the best moments of the morning for seeing a deer. That period as the sun comes up, for some unknown reason, is hard to stay awake. I thought, "no wonder I have been doing this insane ritual seeking validation of my manhood for five years with no results"! I just hoped this year would be different. This year my buddies would cut my shirt tail off for sure, knowing this would mean I was part of the club of successful hunters.
In a few minutes, I saw a squirrel peep out of a hollow tree and bark his dominance over the forest below. He came down the tree and in a few minutes he was digging up acorns and expertly rolling them around in his little squirrel hands as he chowed down. Before long he has worked his way over to my stand and was right beside me. In an instant he hopped up on my leg and ate an acorn. I could not resist as I slowly reached my hand towards him. In a moment he noticed the movement and bolted away up a tree. He stopped at the first limb and cursed me good in squirrel language. I wondered if deer heard him and if they understood. I payed him no attention as I looked around for signs of movement in the edge of the laurels near me. Soon, I realized I had missed my morning meeting with my cup of Java.
I poured the coffee slowly from my thermos as the steam rose. I had to drink it quickly because I hate cold coffee. I again thought about the fact I should invest in a tree stand so deer would not be able to smell the coffee and other smells down on the ground. I remembered the two peanut butter and honey sandwiches, one in each leg pocket of my camo pants, I had carefully prepared early this morning. I decided to wait awhile to eat, as the evening was still quite a ways off. Three cups of Jo later I was satisfied and I noticed a faint noise high up behind me in a laurel thicket.
The noise gradually grew louder as the movement got closer and closer to me. I wondered what the idiot hunter was thinking walking around making so much noise. He was sure to scare all the deer away. As the clumsy man got closer I noticed his heavy steps and breaking branches stopped every few feet as if he was stalking something. I bent around the tree behind me straining to see where the foolish hunter may come out into the clearing. I weighed shouting "hunter down here", but for some reason I could only wait in anticipation of what this poor sap must look like. I was ready to give him the evil eye that says move on buddy, when I see the limbs moving on the edge of the thicket.
To my surprise a large black bear stepped out of the thicket. I never knew they were so noisy as they walked in the woods, but I figured what do they have to fear up here anyway. I was in amazement at the size and power of this magnificent beast, when I remembered the sandwiches still in my pockets. I quickly noticed the wind was moving to me, so he probably could not smell them yet. I thought, what if he smells them and decides he wants them? I could throw them to him, but what if he wants more? I was beginning to wonder if my little .357 would faze him if he attacked. I just prayed the wind did not shift. The bear sensed something, but could not put his nose to it. I watched as he tried his best to figure what was causing him concern. He had a radio collar around his neck and a tag in his ear, as he was in the Pisgah black bear sanctuary and researchers were studying the population there. He finally ambled off down the mountain and I was amazed at what I had just witnessed only a few feet away. I was doing well, I went unnoticed by other animals even if I could not see a deer.
At that moment, I was glad I had remembered to bring the empty gatoraide bottle. Every hunter knows urinating in their stand is not good for going unnoticed by deer. I put the warm bottle back in my pack after twisting the lid once more for safety. The relaxing feeling after emptying my bladder put me to sleep again and I awoke to hunger pains in my stomach. I ate one sandwich, then followed it with another. The Coffee hit the spot as my thirst was increased by the peanut butter.
In a moment, I saw a nice buck bounding down the hill very fast, I could not believe it. Something had spooked him and he was going to run right by me. I followed him with my pistol and as he got right in front of me, I shot. I looked over the barrel of my gun to see him bound into the laurels below me and a two inch diameter sapling was falling over. I went up to the sapling and a neat hole was in it. I probably missed the deer as the hollow points could not have carried through this sapling with much effect. To be sure, I went down and tried to track the deer. I never found any signs of hitting him and I was a long way down the mountain. I decided to work my way around the side of them mountain back to my truck and go home with some wonderful experiences even if my shirt tail would stay on at least one more day. Even when you are not successful in a hunt, if you love the outdoors and wildlife, you will have a wonderful time. This is why I love to hunt.
Interesting Encounter
Nectar Collector Day at the Western North Carolina Nature Center was a lot of fun. No one had any honey for sale, due to the spring freeze, but I did take some bees wax for sale while I answered questions. I had the unique multicultural cross continental experience of meeting a rather interesting Scotsman visiting the area.
He spotted my bees wax and was delighted as he had been unable to find bees wax in the quantity he needed to wax his didgeridoo. I was a little afraid to ask. I know about the Kilts and the stuff that goes along with what a Scotsman wears (or does not wear) under his Kilt, but there is only so much a hillbilly red neck is required to know. I was fortunate enough to have expert description of a didgeridoo by our own Buncombe County Beekeeper Chapter President, Janet Shisler.
She described it as the aboriginal Australian musical instrument that makes the (Sorry, I cant figure out how to best write down how she did the sound)
"wwwwonnnoowwwwoonnnnnngg" sound. I had seen Crocodile Dundee, in my previous multicultural experiences of a hillbilly red neck, and knew what that sound was.
Then my next question is WHAT a Scotsman is doing playing a didgeridoo instead of Bag Pipes? Well, he seemed to think it is normal, so I was just happy with a good sale and a happy customer with a great sounding didgeridoo.
Next question, will the airport security people believe it is bees wax for a didgeridoo or think it is C-4 and blow it up? For the sake of the poor Scotsman's didgeridoo, lets hope they take a good sniff of the sweet smell of fresh bees wax and know what that is.
By the way, I talked to the Scotsman awhile and loved his great accent. I asked how you play a didgeridoo and he said you have to breathe out and in at the same time. I thought about that statement a second and figured no wonder they call it a didgeridoo!
I said, "it sounds like you have to sort of get into a zone while playing a didgeridoo, maybe to the point you hallucinate just a bit?" He shot back in a thick Scottish accent with a quick "you got it". You should have been there! You just never know what interesting strangers you will happen upon or when. Now I want me a didgeridoo to try to play.
Honeybees in a Wall of a House
I planned most of the week to remove the bees that had built in the wall of the house next door to my place. I was really excited about those prospects, when I got off from work Friday evening. All the way home I ran scenarios through my head. I decided to walk down and take a look Friday evening and make some observations at the site.
As I looked up to the side of the house with the whole in the wall, I noticed a few bees flying around my face and wondered why they were doing that, as I was not that close to the entrance. I turned around to look at the mess of vines and roses that had grown up around the house and plan the best way to rid the walkway of this mess. I look straight into a swarm that I had been standing about 2 feet from. (My power of observation is hampered by tunnel vision sometimes.)
I caught the swarm in just a few moments and have it hived at my house already. When I first hived them, I smelled the scent they put off the best I have ever smelled it. It smelled like I was in a closed room using lemon fresh pledge. It was really strong and they fanned it out to welcome all the stragglers who quickly came in. I then wondered what kind of shape the colony remaining in the house would be in.
I called my friend Carl and told him it was a go for the next morning. He told me he had some afternoon plans with a beekeeper friend and wondered when I would want to start. I told him I get up at 5:00 and we would have to wait till at least first light. He then muttered something about sleeping in and needing coffee to function that early. He did make it at a reasonable hour and boy DID HE SAVE THE DAY!
We took the siding off the wall and found the bees had built about 6 feet long combs in two of the panels between the studs. They built diagonally and it was not really easy to see what we were doing. We began by cutting what appeared to be old empty comb and placing it in a box. Then we cut out honey comb and put it in 5 gallon buckets. By the time we got to the top area of the comb, we were expecting lots of brood. We found none. We were puzzled at a colony that would cast a swarm and not have any brood. Carl left to get some supplies and I went into a hive of mine to get some capped brood that I was raising queens with. (we figured the colony may be queen-less and we also knew the brood would make it easier to get the bees to accept the new home.)
While Carl was gone, both of us thought that maybe we needed to examine some of the "empty comb" to see if by chance some eggs were there. And we did find the eggs and bees were all over them in no time. At this point, we know at least there was recently a queen there. We also knew it cast a swarm less than 24 hours before. There were bees everywhere in those buckets of honeycomb. I could not believe my ears when Carl, who was looking intently in one of the buckets, said "I found her bring my queen catcher and marking kit." I could almost have kissed the guy, NO NOT REALLY, but I was very happy. We caught her and marked her then released her into the hive body with the brood, and some small cell foundation Carl had provided for me.
By this time the bees were piling into the hive. I was brushing buckets of bees off of the wall and pouring them into the hive. They fanned the scent of welcome to the rest and the hive body was getting so full Carl suggested I put another hive body on it. I did this and cut comb with eggs, honey, pollen and empty cells to fit 10 frames. I installed these and the second body began filling up. The job which started for me this morning at about 8:00 am ended this evening at about 8:00pm when I brushed four more 2 1/2 gallon buckets, each with about a half gallon of bees, off of the wall. I poured each into the hive and they began fanning the scent and even more bees began coming in.
It seems some of the bees still just did not want to leave the area which formerly held the comb. By this time I noticed about a quart of bees were hanging off of the back of the top cover where my brood body had a hole. It appeared there may not be enough room for all of them and I was out of brood bodies. I decided to try to newspaper part of these bees onto the swarm, which could use the extra bees, later on.
Neither Carl or I got stung all day and I spent a lot of time with my off and gloves off because it was soooooo hot. The last 4 times I brushed bees off of the wall, I was just too lazy to put those gloves on one more time. I paid for it when one got my pinky on the last brushing. I could not rake the stinger out as my hands were full and i had to get down from the ladder. That one ouches a little because it pumped some poison prior to me getting it out.
The bees were extremely gentle and appeared to be a mix of Italians and Russians. The phenotypes appeared to be about 3/4 Italian looking and 1/4 Russian looking bees. They had obviously been there awhile. I thought about the brood-less situation and realized this could be a real plus for Varroa control. I wonder if they have a lot of Russian influence in the genotype and this is why they were brood-less.
All in all, it was a great experience and a real blessing to get these bees. A great big thanks to Carl! What a friend! I owe you one buddy! This is now my strongest hive. By the way, the battery died on my camera and I only got a couple of shots. When doing such work, one needs to remember the small details like camera batteries, because a picture can be worth a thousand words and provide great memories.
Baseball Has Been Good To Me
I remember the first time I saw one. It was somehow very intriguing to me, almost mesmerizing in fact. The size was perfect and the design of the stitches around the circumference made me want to pick it up. I knew it was not mine and even though it was left unattended, I was a small child and unsure how it would be received if I disturbed the baseball sitting in the window sill just within my reach. I could not resist the temptation, and I picked up a baseball for the first time in my young life. I must have been no more than four years old, but I knew what the small white ball was. I had been to many of the Asheville Tourist's Southern League games with my dad and had an amazing interest in America's pastime, but I had never actually gotten to hold a baseball before. From that day forward, the new never wore off of my intrigue with baseball. I am middle aged now and I still find some sort of primal comfort in just sitting and holding a baseball. When I do that, I can not help but imagine what might have been or even maybe should have been. I know in fact the things that are imagined are really closer to what should have been, but more about that in a moment. To me, a baseball is almost magical in the attraction it has on me.
I somehow must have remembered or related to the event at historic McCormick Field, which my dad has recanted so many times. Dad was always most amazed with the fact that a child my age, would stay calm and interested for the entire double header. This was not your average double header. Dad recalled Nate Dickerson, a Tourist hero, could hit the most crushing home runs you ever saw. Dad always added, "if you were ahead by 10 runs" to that last sentence, then he would say, "but if you were behind he would strike out every time". In those days of the late 1950's and early 1960's, Asheville had a 3A Southern League team and their stars were tomorrows major leaguers, literally. The first game of the double header went extra innings. They usually only played 7 innings in double headers, but the first game went well past 9 innings. I am not sure, but I believe it may have gone 16 innings and good old Nate had several opportunities to end the game with one swing. He managed to live up to dad's expectations and reinforce his point of Nate being a fair weather type player. The Tourists did manage to win the first game and it was well past midnight when the second game started. The second game of the double header also went well past 9 innings. I do not know how long it went, but dad says as we were leaving the ball park, after the Tourists prevailed again, the Eastern sky was beginning to show the dim light of pre-dawn. Dad always laughed about one event at the double header. He recalled that the public address announcer would say every few minutes, "So and so, please call your wife." The frequency of this address, to the mostly male audience, increased as the innings increased. At one point, after making 4 or 5 announcements in a row, the frustrated announcer se aid " would everyone please call their wife?" Now it takes a pretty dedicated man to sit through that without leaving, but it takes a fanatical child to do the same.
I was bottle fed baseball it seems and my earliest memories include baseball and baseball related events . I recall that I used to love the Towne House bakery, especially their fresh doughnuts. Their glazed doughnuts were like Krispy Kreme, only a hundred times better. As it happened, the bakery was across the street from McCormick Field and fresh Town House doughnuts became a tradition when we attended a baseball game. I still can not go to a game at McCormick without smelling and tasting them in my mind. Though Towne House has long been closed, I still find many visits to Krispy Kreme end with me reminiscing about Tourist games. Though I loved baseball, I had never played baseball at any level but that would come about the time I got to the third grade. In third grade I learned about the red headed step child of baseball called slow pitch softball. In public school there was this phobia about baseball because of the danger of using such a hard ball around young children. Years before I got to school, baseball related injuries cause the public schools to outlaw baseball and require softball be played instead. On top of all of that, the softball we were required to use really was soft. I adjusted to the game of softball with pointers from the other kids whose parents played the game in leagues I was unfamiliar with. It is probably a good thing that I was introduced to softball first, even though I saw this bastardized version of baseball as a sissy game. Slow pitch softball is a hitters game and baseball is a pitchers game.
Mrs. Allen would assign team captains prior to recess and those captains would pick teams when you got to the field. Mrs Allen would usually assign the two best players as captains to make sure they were not on the same team and all things were equal. I never looked forward to the cruel and grueling process of waiting while the captains alternated picking. I waited while the best then next best players all the way down to the last poor soul, who the second picking captain was stuck with, was picked. This ended up being me as I was quite a bit behind the other students in physical development and coordination. I recall the first time I went up to bat. I stood facing the pitcher with my bat resting on my shoulder. I had never been shown the proper way to stand and was just doing what came natural in my attempt to play a game I had never played. The other kids laughed at me and the captain came over and turned me around and showed me how to stand for the pitch. I remember closing my eyes and swinging wildly as I missed the first pitch. The captain told me to keep my eyes open and meet the ball with the bat, as yet again the other kids were laughing at me. I struck out and continued to do that again and again as I got on the field training in how to play softball. The words, "you are no good" rang in my ears and I caught myself choking back tears at this cruel assessment of my game. I really did want to play the game, so I continued to take myself seriously even if the other kids did not. I watched the better players closely and tried my best to do what they did. I was always placed as far out in right field as possible to keep my fielding from hindering the team. Once in awhile a ball would come my way in the field and I would always miss it because I did not have a glove and even a softball hurt when it came that hard and that far from the batter. I would run down the ball and awkwardly throw by stepping off of the wrong foot. The throw would go just a few feet and someone else would have to finish throwing the ball to the infield. Usually if I got the ball hit to me, someone on the other team got to score a run. The captain showed me how to throw the ball by stepping forward with my left foot and pushing off with my right while following through with my right hand motion to deliver the throw. I began to manage getting the ball closer to the infield even if I still could not catch with my bare hands. I soon began to hit the ball every time at bat, even if the large spongy ball would not go out of the infield for me. Before long, I was not picked last for teams most of the time. Even being picked next to last is better than last, but deep down that is humiliating too. At least I took this seriously and was making great strides in my game even if the other kids had not yet noticed.
Dad always went to Sky City Discount store on Saturday nights, followed by a quick trip up the hill to the new K-Mart store. I remember taking the short cut from one store to the other by driving up the hill behind Sky City on a new road cut through by Harry Bloomberg, the owner of Harry's Cadillac and Pontiac. I liked to cut through this way because it meant driving by the big statue of Chief Pontiac that stood on top of the hill waving to the cars lining Patton Avenue below. I was amazed at the size of this statue, and seeing it was a one of those highlights of a small child's life. I remember as I got older, I was amused at pranks where someone had shot the Indian in the back with an arrow which would be left sticking out for all to see. As soon as Harry's staff had if repaired, it seemed some red neck had to shoot it again. I always craned my neck to see if the Indian would have an arrow in his back each time we went by. Our trips to these two discount stores were all pretty much the same. Dad would pick up a big bag of M & M's, some toiletries, and make his way to the pet section. The owner of Sky City must have loved fish, because they had a huge department with fish tanks and all types of fish. Dad had 3 fish tanks, two 20 gallon tanks and a 55 gallon tank. He was always looking for a new fish to put in one of his aquariums. This department was right next to sporting goods and I would quickly slide over to the baseball stuff. I pulled every bat down and imagined hitting a home run. I tried every glove on and imagined actually catching a softball instead of running them down after they had been hit past me. Dad would usually come over and say, "lets go son" and we would be off to K-Mart. On this day for some reason, Dad asked me if I would like a glove. I wanted one so badly, but I hid it by pretending I was simply interested if he was. I noticed the gloves were priced from $5 to $10. Dad asked me which one I wanted. I knew it was one of the $10 models, but I picked up one of the cheap ones and said this one is good. Dad looked at it and said, "How about this one?" as he picked up the very nicest glove in the display. It was the only one like it and it was beautiful. It was the one I really wanted,but was afraid to ask for because of the price. The glove was a Rawlings "fiinest in the field". It had an "ED-U-CATED Heal" and the large pocket had a neat "basket web" which stretched around the ball when caught in the pocket. The glove was a cut above all the other gloves in the bin and was a fine professional model glove that an adult could use. My skinny arm looked funny sticking into the large glove, as the body of the glove swallowed my little hand. I was so proud of that wonderful glove I slept with it beside my pillow that night. I could not wait to get to school and try to flag down one of those fly balls with that big glove.
The other kids were jealous of my glove and made comments like, an expensive glove will not make up for having no talent. I began to doubt myself as I wondered if the expense on this fine glove was a waste of time on me. It was a psychological defeat for me, but I went on into right field and waited for my chance. The biggest kid in class came to bat. He hit a drive right to me in right field and I did not have to move. I calmly caught the ball and became an instant minor celebrity for the day, as he usually got a home run out of his at bat. This was a confidence boost to me until everyone wanted to use my glove when I was at bat. They thought the glove had more to do with the catch than my ability. I wondered if that might be the case. I noticed I was picked higher when I had my glove after that than when I did not.
Cool weather was coming on and recess began to be in the Gym where we played basketball. I was still awkward even at basketball, but I began to enjoy playing when I could. I recall one day I was playing and a pass hit my left thumb straight on from the end and jammed it badly. The thumbnail turned back and it bled. I could scarcely bear the pain, but I wrapped it in paper towels and put tape around it. The thumb became numb after that and I made it until the end of the day before it started throbbing. I went home and mom and dad agreed it was only jammed and would get better without a trip to the doctor. I had to be protective of the thumb as any disturbance of it made sharp breath taking pains shoot through my body. After a few weeks, I lost the that thumbnail but the thumb continued to hurt for months. Spring rolled back around and I wanted to try out for baseball at the local little league, but my thumb hurt so badly I could hardly put my glove on.
All the other kids had talked for weeks about the try out for little league teams. I said nothing, but took note and listened. I asked my mom if she would take me and she agreed. I told her I had to have my birth certificate, which she produced. It was one of those huge ones the hospital gives out for a commemorative item. It had a photo of the hospital and my baby feet print on it. The size must have been about 20"X 10" and it was a bit hard to handle. Mom told me she would be back, as she dropped me off at tryouts, and went to a conflicting appointment. I got in line with the other boys to present my birth certificate and was mortified to see that they all had those pocket size cards and here I was with my big gaudy certificate with little baby feet print on it. I pretended not to notice the snickers, but I was crushed by the response. I just wanted to be like everyone else and it seemed no matter how I tried, I ended up being special in some way. I signed in and paid my registration dues to the man at the desk and was told to go warm up and when my name was called, I should go to bat. I took my birth certificate out to the edge of the newly finished ball field and put it on the ground with a clean rock on it to keep the wind from blowing it away and returned to get ready to bat. As I warmed up, I took pride in knowing my dad and uncle had played a big part in building this new park, called Hominy Valley Recreation Center. My dad had formed, and poured the concrete around the pool and built the bathhouses. My uncle George had graded the fields because he operated heavy equipment. I looked around and noticed most of the boys there that were considered good players were with their dads and most of those dads were coaches, umpires or involved in administration of the league. I hoped this would not cause me a disadvantage, because even at my naive young age, I was aware of social politics as I had been a victim of it before. The first batter was called to bat, and everyone else was told to go to the field. I slipped my glove on over my painful thumb and went to, you guessed it, right field. Several balls were hit to me and I caught the first one which caused me great pain in my thumb. I held back tears as I threw the ball back in to the commissioner of the league who was pitching for tryouts. The next ball that come to me was an easy catch, but I was wincing from pain and half heartedly stuck my glove up and missed it. This made me look like I did not know how to field and I knew better, but the pain was causing me to perform poorly. The early spring weather was turning cold and I was wishing I had listened to my mom as she tried to get me to wear a jacket. I did not want to do that because playing in a jacket was not as easy. I began to feel numb from the cold as the wind cut through my skin and bone build. All the boys had batted except me and the commissioner called everyone in. I ran up to the commissioner and told him I had not batted and he sort of grinned and told the boys to go back to the field. Only a few went back out, and I was told to grab a bat. I was so cold I could scarcely swing a bat, but I did manage to take a few swings. I missed three or four pitches and finally hit one back to the pitcher. The sting from the cold wooden bat bit my hands and I was dreading the next pitch. I hit the next pitch on the handle and it stung my thumb which caused me to gasp in pain. I swung at a few more pitches and managed to tip or foul them back. I was relieved when the pitcher said, "one more" I figured this was the last one, so I sucked it up and swung as hard as I could. The ball went over second base, and was my best hit. That was good, because my thumb was hurting so badly now I could not have stood to hit another pitch. Everyone was called in to the dugout area and we were told the coaches would be making their picks and everyone should hear something in the next two weeks. I quickly retrieved my now dirty birth certificate and headed to the car trying not to shiver so I did not have to listen to my mother's I told you so. I did, however, have to hear her displeasure about the dirt spot on my souvenir copy birth certificate. I waited and waited for my call which did not come. I began to hear the other boys at school say who had drafted them. Soon everyone else had been picked. Not only was I last again, I was not called. This devastated me to say the least, because I was so excited to get to play organized baseball. I went on by pretending to forget, but I never forgot this event and how it made me feel.
I went on improving with my softball skills at school and trying hard to be a better player worthy of being picked for the little league team. One Saturday evening, I was in the sports section of Sky City and saw a rubber baseball. I picked it up and it had the feel and weight of a real ball, but it bounced off of the floor nicely. I was a creative child and instantly a light bulb came on in my mind. I remember asking dad to spot me .75 for the ball and he asked me why. I told him I could use it to practice my fielding by bouncing it off of the big block retaining wall at home. He immediately saw the potential, because I was always bugging him to throw with me or hit to me. I wanted to skip K-Mart and go straight home, but endured it anyway. As soon as I got home, I went straight out and began to throw against the wall and field the return. I learned if I bounced the ball of the ground to the wall, I would get a fly in return and if I hit the wall first I would get a grounder in return. This stopped after only a couple of pitches because the old thumb injury started hurting again. I recall that I probably took some of my frustrations out on my little brother, Paul, but I had to have some outlet it seemed. I do not remember what I did, but I went in the house and did something to Paul. He did not like what I did and quickly grabbed my sore thumb and jerked it as hard as he could. It popped and I screamed in pain. In a few minutes, I looked to see how much my thumb had swelled and it had not. In fact, it seemed to have more mobility than before. I noticed the thumb was tender, as it had been sore for about a year by now, but I knew in an instant, Paul had unknowingly done me a huge favor. I recall after that I had some discomfort in my thumb at times, but it was much better. About 2 months after that incident, a huge knot began growing out on my thumb nail. I am convinced there was a break of some sort and Paul set it for me by accident.
I continued to have pain in my thumb if I caught a ball out of the pocket or jarred the thumb while making a play, but mostly it was bearable. I was now playing softball at school with confidence and was usually one picked in the top half of the order. When tryout time rolled around again, I was determined to make a good showing. I spent hours every day throwing my rubber baseball against the wall as hard as I could while aiming at specific spots and walking ever closer to practice my quick reactions. I even began bouncing the ball off of a wall that had a gravel parking lot in front of me to simulate bad hops. I became quite good at fielding the ball and throwing the ball. My only hitting practice came from playing a pitching and hitting game with Paul. Sometimes I would convince him to play roll-a-bat and sometimes a game of baseball using invisible men when one reached base. Roll-a-bat consists of the hitter throwing the baseball up in the air and hitting it towards the other player in the field. If the fielder could catch the ball in the air, he got to bat. If he could catch the ball on the bounce, the batter would lay the bat down and the fielder would throw the ball towards the bat. If he hit the bat, he would get to bat if not, the batter would continue. I also got some hitting practice when a couple of neighbor boys would come over and we would pitch to each other. I took some building materials my dad had put aside and some chain link fence he had and made a little back stop. This came in handy, because we did not always have enough people to have a catcher and if the batter missed without a back stop, we had to go retrieve the ball. The place where we played, had a swimming pool beside it and often the ball would get so water logged from being hit into the pool that we would have to quit. When my neighbors were not available, I would ask Paul to pitch to me. He would usually agree on the condition he would get to hit first. Usually after he hit, he would say he was through and walk off. If I wanted to bat, it ended up being a fight or I would have to pay him to let me bat. I was so desperate to bat, I usually forked over the dough and he would throw a few pitches to me. Big brothers sometimes can be bullies, but little brothers can be stinkers sometimes that get what they deserve.
I went to tryouts again in the spring and this time I was able to hit and field at a reasonably respectable level. I was drafted to play on the 3A league Giants. I played all year in right field and made some progress all year. I sometimes started and we finished in 3rd place. My confidence grew incredibly in that season and I was very sad to see the season end. At the end of the year, our team went to a horse show as our end of the season outing and it was time to go back to school again where we would have to play softball. I recall one day we had a substitute teacher and she asked us what we usually did at recess. One of the guys in the class told her we played baseball. The sub said ok, get the baseball and head out to the playground. The boys could not believe their ears, because we were always begging to play baseball instead of the sissy softball game. I remember the crack as the first batter hit a ball well into the out field. That baseball really carried and with a loud crack it sailed for each hitter. About 5 people had batted and I was getting ready to step up to bat when I saw one of the older regular teachers running towards our game she yelled "no" loudly and the pitcher waited to throw to me. The teacher stormed out on the field and jerked the ball out of the pitchers hand and grabbed him by the ear and led him off the field by the ear to the principal's office. The rest of us were scolded for knowing better and not saying anything about the baseball being used. The pitcher had to explain to the principal why he pitched a baseball when he knew he was not supposed to be playing with one. He was given a good scolding and nothing else was done to him. When we got back to class, the substitute scolded the rest of us for taking advantage of her. I was disappointed that I did not get my chance to hit the horsehide for a change instead of the spongy softball.
The next spring, tryouts went well for me. I hit hard and often when I had my turn. In the field I made some great stabs on some ground balls thanks to my constant drill with a rubber ball and a wall. I had worn out about 20 of those balls and the effect on my agility and ability were fantastic to say the least. I was drafted by the 3A Reds. They were a powerhouse that had gone undefeated the year before, but were rebuilding. Their coach was well respected for results even if he was a scary pop-eyed fellow with a raspy voice and demeanor of a Marine drill sergeant. I wanted to be on the 4A team, because I felt I was as good as they were, but that was reserved for the kids whose dads ran the Hominy Valley League and their friends. I forgot about that and just played ball. In rebuilding his team, the coach was trying different people at 3rd base. I was 11 years old by now and he sent me over from right field for a try. I was scared to death because I had not played in the infield before. I remember he called out my name and hit me a grounder. Instinct kicked in from the hours of pounding a ball off of the wall at home. I ate the ball up and shot it on the money to first base. I made 3 more tough plays in a row and Coach Clontz said, much to my pleasure, we have a third baseman. I started every game at third that year except when I pitched. Pitching was something new to me. I had a great delivery and really sent the ball air mail to the plate. The problem was I frequently had the wrong zip code. The first game I pitched, I struck out every single batter that I did not hit with the ball. I walked in 4 runs with hit batters. As a fielder, I only made a handful of errors all year. I was called "Brooks" much of the time, after the great Baltimore Orioles third baseman who also had the last name Robinson. My hitting was very good and I finished the season with an average of over .500 and our team finished in 2nd place. Our second baseman, ended up being a lifelong friend of mine. David Miller was a great guy and at our end of the year outing, I got to know him really well on our camping trip to Lake Powhatan at Bent Creek in the Pisgah National Forest. The last day of the outing, we had a picnic and David got awarded most outstanding player. I was the most surprised little boy in the world when my name was called for most improved player. I was presented an award and a ball. When I accepted my award, I was almost too shy to actually go up and get it. The coach had to coax me to do so. It meant more to me than anything that had ever happened to me in my whole life to that point. I took the award back to my table and David said are you crying and I explained that my allergies were acting up with all the pollen at the campground. I don't remember much more that day because I just wanted to get home to show my parents my award. When I got home, I did go off to the woods to reflect and be by myself. The pollen there was bad too as my eyes continued to run so badly that I could not see for awhile. That award healed a lot of pain and provided unbelievable encouragement for a little boy that desperately needed both.
The next year, I was 12 years old and this was the last year I could play Little League. I really wanted to play 4A ball this year because I knew I was better than most and as good as their best. I went to tryouts and about took the commissioner's head off each time he pitched me a ball. I hit everyone of them straight back up the middle and he had to duck and dodge. I went out to 3rd base and vacuumed up every ball that got anywhere near me. After tryouts, I was congratulated by guys that had usually teased and made fun of me. It seemed they were finally accepting me for my ability to play a good game of baseball. I waited for my call from the 4A coach and it did not come. During the second week after tryouts, I was just hoping to get a call. I remember one night towards the end of the week, I got a call from Charlie Swaynam. He was a coach of the 3A Cubs and they had finished last place the year before and were the laughing stock. I could not understand. I had played my heart out at tryouts and not one of the coaches chose me. Now, I was playing 3A again and this meant I could no longer pitch because 12 year olds could not pitch unless they were in 4A. I was looking forward to pitching as I was more comfortable with the idea than the year before. I remember the coach talking to me on the phone when he drafted me. He told me he was the coach but he expected me to be the leader of his team. He had seen me play and he expected big things from me. At our first practice, I was tried at every position except pitcher. I fielded well in the infield, but no one could catch my throws to first because my arm was really improved. I had great speed and was the fastest player on the team and probably in the league. I could play the whole outfield by myself almost. My fielding was so good, that the coach decided to put me at first. He reasoned that I could catch all those bad throws from the rest of the infielders. I looked around and we were the bad news bears. They were mostly 9 and 10 year olds. We had a couple of 11 year olds and me at 12. I wondered what the coach had planned to make us competitive. I decided to block all that out and just play the best I could and let everyone else worry about the rest. That year, I talked Paul into playing with us, and though he was young, he was still the second fastest player on the team. I remember the first practice he came to. He wore boots and out ran everyone on the team but me. Paul was a good player, but he did not have the desire that I had to play baseball. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I wanted to play professional baseball even if everyone was telling me that would never happen. I batted clean up and played first base every game. The year ended with me making no errors, 3 unassisted triple plays, and more than a dozen unassisted double plays. My speed allowed me to run down players and tag them out instead of throwing to players that were afraid to catch my throws. I once had a ball hit over my head to right field and the fielder also missed it. I ran to the fence and picked up the ball before he could get there and ran back to home plate to tag him out before he could score an in the park home run. Our team had an 11 year old pitcher named David Stanberry that was a great pitcher and he did his job on the mound. He was allowed to pitch every other game. When he could not pitch, we had 3 guys that came together to pitch his off game we had to battle to win those games, but we did get through the season undefeated. I remember one game when David was scheduled to pitch but he did not show up. We went to people that had not pitched before and tried to pull something together. We were playing the second best team in the league and this was before the 10 run rule of forfeit. in the bottom of the 6th and last inning, we were behind 20 to nothing. Coach pulled me to the side and said, "Robbie, you have to make something happen". I went to bat and they would not give me a pitch to hit. There was no intentional walk in our league, so they just pitched so far out I could not hit it. I reached as far as I could and actually hit a pitch that was high and way outside. It was a solid single. In this league you were not allowed to lead off base and could not run until the pitch got to the catcher. As soon as the first pitch got to the catcher, I took off and I decided to not stop until I got home. I got to second and made my turn for third before the throw from the catcher got to second. By the time the second baseman got the throw, he was in a hurry and he threw the ball wide to third as I was on my way in for our first run. The dugout went wild and I started pumping them up. the next batter walked and the coach told us to take all the pitches we could to make them strike us out. This started a string of walks and before long their ace pitcher had lost his confidence. Our dugout went wild when I was batting again and the bases were loaded. The relief pitcher was pulled aside and the coach gave him instructions. The bases were loaded and I aimed to empty them. The coach must have figured he would settle for one run because the pitcher again would not give me a pitch to hit. 3 ball and no strike count and a pitch was delivered that bounced on one hop to the plate. Mr. Pruett, the umpire, called ball 4 take your base just as I swung the bat. Crack, the sweet spot was on the ball and the ball bounced off the right field fence. I took off and was running right behind the player in front of me yelling "go, go, go!" He slid into home as the catcher took the throw and dived for him. Safe was the call I was right behind him with nowhere to go. I jumped up and avoided the tag from the catcher who was stretched out on the ground. I came down with one leg in the middle of home plate standing up. I ran on to the back stop and turned around to catch the player, who slid into home, in celebration of my inside the park home run. By this time, the crowd smelled an upset. The whole place was going wild and the other team was in disbelief. I remember the satisfaction of not giving up when our 21st run scored and we won the game. I learned that day to never give up and when others do you need to step up and take charge. I finished that year leading the league in walks, singles, doubles, triples, runs scored, runs batted in, stolen bases and home runs. I had no errors, lead the league in put outs, of all types, batted .825 and had only one strikeout. The strikeout came in my last at bat, after the coach pulled me aside and told me, "Robbie, you know you have not struck out all year, lets see you finish that here." It was a jinx, because I went up and struck out on three swings. I could not believe it, why did he have to tell me? I had my greatest year in baseball and it did wonderful things for my confidence and self esteem. I recall, early in that season my parents told me they were going to take a month long vacation to Canada and I did not want to go. Deep down I really did, but I also wanted to play baseball. I told them I had to stay and play ball. They talked to our neighbor, who was like my own family and my sister, who was married, about looking after me and they agreed. I was so glad I had stayed behind. Mom and dad got home from Canada just in time for our end of the year banquet. I look back and it is funny now because I did not see myself as the star of the team. I saw myself as a dedicated part of that successful team. I valued David Stanberry's contributions to the team as pitcher more than my own and figured the choice for most outstanding player would go to him. Believe it or not, I was completely surprised when I received the most outstanding player award that season. The coach presented the award and he said some very kind words. He said "everyone knows what James (I was too shy to tell them I went by my middle name) has contributed to this team on the field, but he would have received the most outstanding player award even if he had not done so well on the field. James encouraged and taught each young player on this team how to play better and he caused the whole team to become the best team they could be. We would not be champions without his contributions to this team. He is a true team player." I just remembered how it hurt to be the worst player on the team and did not want any of my team mates to be the worst player on the team. I ended up with a drawer full of clippings from the paper that told of the achievements of "James" Robinson on the field and even my outstanding player trophy said James Robinson on it. I guess it was appropriate, because I was no longer the same person I used to be.
I made the 3A all stars that year. Our all star game consisted of playing one game against the championship 4A team. The coach of the Cubs got to coach us because we were the league champions. He pulled me aside and asked me if I would like to pitch. I was elated. Yes! I answered. I practiced pitching all week in anticipation of showing those guys who were playing 4A because of their dads being involved. Saturday came and it was our all star game finally. I warmed up behind the dugout and I saw the 4A coach come over to my coach. He and my coach had a minor argument, but I overheard him say, "12 year olds can not pitch in 3A". What a jerk, he was going to let his 12 year olds pitch against our 10 and 11 year olds. Hardly a level playing field I thought. The coach came over and said, "Robbie, I am going to play you at first today." Our all star team played the closest game that had ever been played against the 4A. We lost 5-3, as I knocked in 2 runs and scored the other. I could not help but wonder what would have been had I been allowed to pitch as a 12 year old. I remember walking off the field and a new 4A coach walked up to me and asked if I would like to play for him next year. I looked at him and said "no, I will be playing Babe Ruth next year. You had your chance to draft me this year if you had wanted to". That was the first time I had ever stood up to an adult.
After the all star game, my family all went to my uncle George's house for a cookout and pool party. George had a great pool. My older cousin, Diana, was a beautiful 6' tall long haired blond girl with blue eyes. She played basketball for Enka High School and was very athletic. I remember how amazed I was at how she would dive from the spring board by springing high up into the air and make a perfect jack knife then go straight down into the water. I remember watching this with my other cousins and sort of wishing she were not my cousin because she was very pretty. Suddenly she bolted up and ran towards the parking area. A car was driving up and it was Diana's boyfriend. I was interested in seeing him, because I had heard about him and the fact he had been drafted into the New York Yankee organization as a pitcher. After eating, I managed to talk to him about baseball. I saw Diana whisper to him and in a few minutes, he asked me if I wanted to toss a few balls. I think I said yes as I ran to the car to get my glove. In seconds I tossed a ball to him and he said let me get my glove. I was in heaven it seemed as I was throwing with a real professional baseball player. In a few minutes, we had an audience of most of my family. They were egging him to throw harder. He was resistant to that idea, so I started pegging them over to him as hard as I could throw. I had a good arm for a 12 year old and could probably top 70 mph. He began to pop them back to me with some zip harder and harder, each time evaluating my reaction. I had learned a secret the year before, while playing third base. If you move your index finger over to the middle finger hole in the glove, then move each finger over one with two fingers in the little finger hole, you have a much larger pocket as the index glove finger becomes pocket too. The glove also extends about an inch and a half as your hand slides out the bottom of the glove that much. I always held my glove this way and it allowed me to throw with this professional pitcher with confidence. He began throwing so hard, I could hear the ball coming with a flutter that sounded somewhat like a quail when it flushes up on the wing. The air moving over the threads as the ball spins makes this sound and the faster velocity makes it even louder. It was so cool to hear the thhhhhhuuuhhhhhhtt and POP! as the ball slammed into my glove pocket. After more assurance from me that it was ok, he stepped it up another notch and the ball was moving so swiftly that it actually moved from side to side and up and down as it cut through the air. The pitches were probaby in the upper 80's or perhaps even low 90's. This happens at extreme velocity and random rotation on the ball. I was so used to snagging the balls at close range on the wall at home, that I casually caught all these throws and hurled them right back. We did this for 10 or 15 minutes and and he announced he had better quit before I got hurt. I knew he was just wanting to be with Diana, but I was on cloud 9. As he walked away, he said " you need to stick with this, you are pretty good." I would have not been more proud if Babe Ruth himself had told me that. I wanted to play professional baseball, and someone had actually encouraged me to stick with it, that knew what that meant.
Summer baseball was very different as a 13 year old player. I moved up to Babe Ruth League baseball, which is played on a major league sized diamond. Just one year earlier, I was playing ball against 9-12 year olds with most of those 10 and 11 years old. Now, I was playing against 13-15 year old players and most were 14 and 15. That is a major jump in the level of play. I would have been eased into this situation a little more if I had been allowed to play 4A ball, but that was not the case. The 3A league I had played in did not allow 12 year olds to pitch and the curve ball was not allowed. I recall my shock in the all star game the year before when I faced my first curve ball at the plate. In Babe Ruth, I would be facing lots of curves and sliders as well as a few knuckle balls. The pitchers in this league were very good and a few of them were actually being scouted by major league scouts. I will never forget the first time I stepped onto the spacious field. It seemed to take twice as long to run to base and in fact, it was 1/3 longer distance than I was used to. My first year, I was drafted by the WNC Pallet Company team that was nicknamed the Reds. They had some success and were coached my a local man with a lot of experience named Joe Conner. Joe had sons that were sports stars and he usually had a winning team. I was glad to be on the Reds, because I liked the Cincinnati Reds in Major League baseball. I only played a few games with the Reds and my parents asked me if I wanted to go to Canada this year, as they were going back to finish the cabin which was started for my dad's cousin Vernon Luther the year before. I really wanted to stay at home again and play baseball, but I figured going to Canada for a month was a once in a lifetime event and I was lucky to get another chance to do so. I struggled with the decision, but was smart enough to realize I was a rookie in the league and was not getting a lot of playing time. I figured that would come next year so I may as well go to Canada. Joe was agreeable with my choice and said he would do the same himself. He promised to call me back for the next season. I made the correct choice as I had a wonderful experience fishing and camping in the Northern part of Ontario for a month while the cabin was being finished. I also got to take an excursion train ride north of the Arctic Circle to Moosanee on the James Bay, which is an offshoot of the Hudson Bay. One of the highlights of my trip was landing a huge Great Northern Pike, which measured approximately 30 inches long and weighed close to 20 lbs. I enjoyed eating fresh Pike almost every night of the trip. I actually heard a wolf howl next to the spring where I collected water. I would not go back after dark to get water after that. I was in Canada on the 4th of July and it snowed all day long where we were. I could not believe we were using the heat in the camper in July. The days were long there because we were so far north and dark did not come until about 11:30pm. Morning Light began at about 4:00am, so we had a lot of daylight to enjoy our trip by.
Next Spring, Coach Conner called me again and I was ready to play baseball. I began playing centerfield because of my arm and speed, but did not get to start very much. I recall hitting the curve balls was very difficult for me. Once I looked poorly going after a curve, the pitchers liked to throw a lot of them to me. I do recall we had an umpire in the league that was suffering from post traumatic stress syndrom as a recent soldier in Vietnam. That conflict was so recently over, that the mental problems many vets faced were not well documented yet. This one particular umpire made calls that were so obviously wrong that they left you in disbelief. He would call runners safe at first when the ball had been caught by the first baseman 4 steps before the runner got there. I saw one play where he called a runner out though he was at least 4 steps past first base before the ball got to the first baseman. Coach Conner was not about to put up with this and had lots of arguments with him over his calls. It seemed, the more you argued with him, the worse he got. We had a pro caliber pitcher on our team named Keith Deitz who could throw in the mid 90 mph range. Keith had a great curve ball which would mess with your mind following the fastball. Keith fooled a batter so badly that he went after an outside curve ball and missed it completely. That umpired called it a ball and coach Conner came out of the dug out. His son Jeff was at the game and came out to retrieve his dad before things got out of control, but had he not, I feel sure Joe would have hit the umpire. The bottom half of the inning saw me coming to bat and I was facing a curve ball pitcher. My idea was to make him throw strikes and I would take as many pitches as I could to try and get a fastball. The first pitch was a curve ball that was thrown poorly and it hit the ground but bounced up and went across the plate. "Strike one", called the umpire. Everything happened so quickly, I do not recall all that happened but I do remember seeing Joe's hands around the umpires neck and he was beating the umpires head off of the back stop. Jeff ran from the first base coaching area in time to keep Joe from killing him. If not for Jeff I am afraid he may have done just that. Coach Conner was kicked out of the league, and so was the umpire. Jeff finished the season as our coach and we were a mediocre team but I made some good strides towards becoming a good player. The only other thing that stood out that year to me was a player on our team named Carroll Frye. He could hit the ball deep into the left field foul area far past the fence, but he could never get those hits to the fair side of the foul pole. He also had a full beard, which was something that took me back a bit as he was only 15.
I had begun to notice a pattern in my life. It seemed that most things I tried had a cycle of three. I played 3 years of little league. The first was a bad year, the second a much improved year and the third was fantastic with me making the all stars. I wondered if that would be the case in Babe Ruth ball as it had started that way for the first 2 years. I got my call in the spring from our new Coach, J. D. Hinson. J. D. was a minor star in area baseball and had played college ball. He later successfully coached Owen High School to many championships and he played on an over 35 world championship baseball team. J. D. was also later a professional scout. He knew baseball and loved the game. J. D. was not that much older than we were and we related well to him. I recall he always was changing the signs and trying trick plays. J. D. got serious though if he thought you were giving less than 110 percent. He was a lot of fun to be around and I would do anything for the guy. I recall J. D. went over some new signs before a particular game and we were having some trouble getting all of them. He sent us out to play after he was finally sure we had the changes down. I went to bat later in the game and it was a situation when no play was really needing to be called, but I looked to the coach to get his sign. He got that silly grin he always had and sort of grabbed his crotch. I looked at him again and he gave a preface sign and grabbed his crotch. I could not remember the sign at all and I knew better than to miss a sign. I called time and walked over to J. D. and said, "I am missing the sign, what is it"? He replied, "Oh, my wife just got into the stands". He laughed me all the way back to the batters box. I played first base for the Reds that year and mostly that was because I was good at stretching and fielding bad throws. One game was really tight and J. D. called time and walked to the mound. He called all the infielders in and in a monotone he said, "everyone look straight at me and do not look at the ball I am about to place in Calvin's glove. He said, Keith, ease your glove in here where our bodies will hide me taking the ball out of your glove." J. D. Took the ball out of Keith's glove and placed it in mine. He said," Calvin, you walk over to first when we break as casual as you can and do not let anyone see the ball in your glove. As soon as the runner steps off of first base, step between him and the base and tag him out. Keith, do not step on the rubber, what ever you do until Calvin tags the runner out." I walked back to first base wondering if we could get the runner to step off before Keith stepped on the rubber. Keith walked up onto the mound and stood just behind the rubber. The umpire said "play ball". Keith just stood there and looked back and forth from me to the plate and back. Finally, the runner stepped off of the base and I stepped between him and the base and tagged him. He looked at me like I was crazy because he could not see the ball in my glove. I tagged him again and he pushed me a little. I tagged him again and took the ball out of my glove. By this time, Keith was pointing at us and the umpire said, "he's out of here". I was still laughing when the coaches of the other team ran out of the dug out. I was in the middle of the biggest argument I had seen on the baseball diamond since Joe Conner choked the umpire the year before. After the dust settled, we prevailed, but were warned not to try that again. I remember one day, J. D. drove up my road in his Jeep CJ-5 with the top down. I was standing in the middle of the gravel road throwing rocks up and batting them with a locust stick I had cut. J. D. stopped and said, "What the hell are you doing?" I said, " batting rocks." He said, "get in the Jeep you dumb ass, no wonder your timing sucks and you can't hit a curveball!" J. D. drove me back to the house and told me to ask if I could ride around with him awhile. I got permission and off we went. It was weird to be riding around with the coach like a buddy. I liked it, but did not know how to act. We went to several of the older players houses and picked them up too. Before long, there were about 7 of us hanging on in that Jeep. We went to a pool hall and game room where we played foosball, air hockey, pin ball and pool awhile and off we went again. J. D. took me back home and we sat outside and talked baseball awhile before I went inside. That was my first experience being treated like an adult and getting to engage in a two way conversation with my coach for an extended period. We ended up winning the championship and having a great time doing it. Babe Ruth all stars is a big deal and I really did not think I had a chance, but Coach Hinson was the head coach and the Reds got 4 all star selections. I was one of those picked to be on the all star team. It is funny now that my selection again came as a complete surprise to me. I was still in the mind set that I was a failure because of the supreme season I had in my last year of 3A little league ball. I got a hit more than 8 out of 10 trips to the plate in 3A but in Babe Ruth I only got a hit in about 4 out of 10 trips. Any person knowledgeable about baseball knows really good major league players only hit safely about one third of the time or less. It is all perspective I guess.
J. D. was the head coach of the all star team,but the second place coach and his assistant were also coaches. Larry Brown was not the head coach, but for some reason, other than picking the players, He seemed to take charge. It seemed that he was in charge in part because he was so much older than J.D. The assistant was J. L. Mashburn and he had been involved with the 4A league that snubbed me a few years before. J. L. had moved up into Babe Ruth ball when his boys moved up and he seemed extremely interested in taking care of them. Lee Mashburn, his oldest son was also on the all star team, though he did not really have the stats to back that up. Dad being in his position was a big plus for Lee. Lee's best friend, Mike Payne, was also on the team and Mike played the same positions as me. Our Babe Ruth all star tournament started at North Buncombe High School. It was a double elimination tournament and we got into the losers bracket after winning the first game. I got to play in neither game, though every other player on the team got to play. We managed to play through the loser's bracket and made the finals against the winner of the winner's bracket. I still was the only player that had not played in a single game. We had to win 2 games against the winner's bracket winner to win the championship. We won the first game and I still did not get to play. J. D. seemed to be agonizing over something every time he looked at me. He surely could see the longing to play in my eyes. I was as good as anyone else on the team and they all had played liberal amounts. I had not played at all. The next day, I showed up to the championship game and hoped that I would finally get to start. I was disappointed to find I was not in the lineup again. I went over to J. D. and mentioned that I really wanted to play and I was the only player on the team that had not gotten to play at all so far. J. D. looked at me and said, "tell Mr. Mashburn, because he is in charge of the lineup." I did tell him and he said, "I will play who I want to play and you just sit down and be quiet." I was taken back by this response as I did not feel I deserved such harsh words to my request to play on the all star team. The game was tied and I kept quiet and waited for my turn to play. In the last inning, we batted and did not score, so the home team came up to bat and we went into the field to try and keep them from scoring and ending the game. J. L. told me to go into right field, though my position was first base. Mike Payne was playing first base and his best friend, Lee was playing second. A ball was hit to Lee and he bobbled it. He rushed his throw to first and it was a little high. Mike missed it, and the ball went against the fence. Mike ran after it and picked it up. He should have held it, but he made a throw to second that was far too late and way over Lee's head. The ball sailed into left center field and the runner did not break stride. He rounded third and headed home. The throw to home was slow getting there, because no one from the middle infield went out to cut off. The run scored, ending the game. As a Babe Ruth all star, I played for one batter. I guess I could have taken some pleasure in the fact that J. L.'s son and his best friend single handedly lost the game, but that did not change the fact I did not get to play and our all star season was over. I never understood this unfairness, and I was bitter for years over that.
I had loved playing summer ball and was good enough at it, that I tried out several times for the high school team. I was a better player than most of the guys on the team, so I figured I should get to play. To my dismay, each time I tried out for the team, I was cut in the first round of cuts. I always wondered if it had anything to do with my going against Mike Payne by playing the same position as him. I noted with some interest, that J. L. was very active in the booster's club. Though I did not make the high school team, I decided to play Sr. Babe Ruth for 16 to 18 year old players. I also knew that everyone that went out for the team got to play, because at that age it was difficult to field a team. J. L. Mashburn was the coach of this team and all the players, except for me, were on the high school team. I was always early to every practice and the last person to leave. I worked hard to let them know I was serious about playing. When we started playing games, the same old pattern of bench sitting started for me again. I said nothing, but faithfully went to every game and was not allowed to play in any game. The season ended and J. L. called us together and said, "you all need to wash your uniforms and get them back to me." I went home and washed my uniform and put it in a bag. In about 2 weeks, Lee called me and said his dad had asked him to remind me to bring the uniform to him. I told Lee to tell his dad to call me and I would make arrangements to get it to him. I waited for J. L. to call and finally Lee called again and reminded me to bring the uniform. I told him again that I needed to talk to his dad first and as soon as he called me and talked to me I would get the uniform back to him. The next spring, Lee called me and said his dad wanted him to call me to remind me that they needed the uniform for the season that was starting. I said, "Lee, I have the uniform and I am waiting on your dad to call me and talk to me man to man. When he does that I will give him the uniform." J. L. Mashburn never called me and I cut the uniform to shreds about 10 years later. I have never understood why I was treated the way I was, and I struggled with bitterness over that issue for years. I later identified with a song by Howard Jones called "No One Is To Blame". I wanted to blame someone for interfering with my chance to play professional baseball, but all things work to the good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose. I later realized that I probably would not have been mature enough to handle playing professional baseball and I was better off with the way things worked out. Realizing this and accepting it do not always come about at the same time.
"No One Is To Blame"
Howard Jones
You can look at the menu but you just can't eat
You can feel the cushions but you can't have a seat
You can dip your foot in the pool but you can't have a swim
You can feel the punishment but you can't commit the sin
And you want her and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame
You can build a mansion but you just can't live in it
You're the fastest runner but you're not allowed to win
Some break the rules
And live to count the cost
The insecurity is the thing that won't get lost
And you want her and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame
You can see the summit but you can't reach it
It's the last piece of the puzzle but you just can't make it fit
Doctor says you're cured but you still feel the pain
Aspirations in the clouds but your hopes go down the drain
And you want her and she wants you
We want everyone
And you want her and she wants you
No one, no one, no one ever is to blame
No one ever is to blame
No one ever is to blame
No One Is To Blame
When I was in college, I went to the NC state fair and saw a baseball booth with a radar gun. You could try to win a prize by throwing consistently the same speed. I was more interested in validating my arm and showing off for my friends. It was a cool night in October and I had not warmed up my arm. I picked up a baseball and hurled it into the backstop. The radar gun showed 91 mph. My arm hurt so badly I wanted to cry out in pain and felt I may need medical attention. I turned and walked away while the attendant was saying " hey, you still have two more throws." I could not have thrown again if my life depended on it. It took all winter for my arm to start feeling better and even in the spring it was not right. I had to warm up for a very long time prior to playing games and my arm always ached when I played after that event. One spring soon after that, I was playing church softball in Candler when I learned my favorite team, the Cincinnati Reds, were holding tryouts in Asheville. I knew I could not make the team as a fielder because my hitting was not what it needed to be. I wished they had an offensive team and a defensive team like football, because defensively I could make it thanks to all those years pounding a ball against a wall. I knew if I had a chance, it would be as a pitcher. I decided to try out. I got a friend to let me pitch a baseball with him the day before the tryouts so I could be sure it was worth my while. I warmed up and started easing my throws up faster and faster. I was about to get to the speed I knew I needed to be throwing and that pain in my shoulder returned. I knew it was no use. I was never going to play major league baseball. Maybe someday, there will be a team in heaven and I can play in that field of dreams with all the great stars of the past who played the game of baseball just for the love of the game.
It is worth note, though it is of no consolation, that none of the guys whose fathers were helping them at my expense ever played baseball after high school either. I forgive those that wronged me though I have never understood. I have learned many lessons in this wonderful game that have carried me through life to where I am today and I am forever in love with the game. I am supremely satisfied with the lessons I learned and the confidence I gained in youth baseball. I am secure in the knowledge that you don't have to actually be a major league baseball player to be a major league person just as I know many major league stars are not major league people. I have learned that just because the cat has kittens in the oven, that does not make them biscuits. I am happy with my memories and who I am and thankful that I was not thrown to the wolves in the corrupt world of money sex and drugs as an insecure young man trying to navigate the strange waters of a career in baseball.
I went on to play softball in intramural, church league and industrial leagues. I excelled at the game because it was a hitters game and I did not have to worry about the curve balls. I had lots of opportunities to run and throw due to all the hitting action. The sport turned out to not be sissy after all and the ball we used was not soft at all. I made the all star teams in softball many times and had many memorable plays. I had some injuries and managed to play through them. I did not play for money, but I did play for the love of the game. After all, that is the only reason I ever wanted to play to begin with. I even met my wife on the softball field. I eventually gave up softball, not because I did not love the game, but because I found a greater love and a higher calling. I gave up softball to do the Lord's work and I have never missed it. The Lord Himself finally eased my pain.
Little Stinkers
I grew up in the 1960's and 1970's in the Southern Appalachians. My parents were older, and had actually experienced the great depression first hand. Their idea of a garden was about 5 acres of mostly everything under the sun. As a child raised in the country, part of my duties were to help look after and harvest this garden. I usually forgot that I also got to eat the delicious produce from it.
Each year it started early, around March, when we planted Irish Potatoes . We went full throttle until November and beyond with turnips and collards. In between, we had all types of corn, beans, peas, tomatoes, squash, Okra, cucumbers, pumpkins and even watermelons. Dad always oversaw the planting and care of the garden, but he outlined jobs for me and my younger brother to do while he was at work. Mom always oversaw the harvesting and canning or freezing of the produce.
I hated to hoe the corn, and would " accidentally " chop down as many stalks as I thought I could get away with. My dad got wise to this and would look for corn in the weeds I had hoed and if he found corn stalks, I would get in big trouble. I learned to chop it up really well and cover it, or throw it over the fence for the cattle to eat. The cattle would always have it eaten long before dad got home. It seems we always had more corn than we knew what to do with, so my efforts must not have lightened my work load too much.
Time to pick sweet garden peas was always dreaded. My mom would get up early and pick the peas and have huge baskets ready for me and my brother to shell when we got up. She would come in and motivate us to get started, and then mom would go off and pick more. I was very good a shelling peas, and not many adults could do it faster. No matter how fast you are at shelling peas, you are not going to shell out enough to freeze for winter in an hour or two. The pea shelling torture usually lasted about a week, but it seemed more like a month to a couple of boys that wanted to go fishing or play in a tree house .
I remember one year, my brother and I had been shelling peas for about a week and had plenty shelled out already. My mom was still picking like we were going to starve as this year we had a bumper crop of peas. While mom was picking peas, my brother and I decided to do away with some of these peas, so we could do something more fun. We discussed what to do with them, and thought of just putting them in the hulls and mixing them up. We decided against this, as mom was not stupid and she just might find them. We then thought of taking them out to the pasture and feeding them to the cows, but we knew this would not work, because we would have to go past the garden. We had not shelled long enough to have to take the hulls out, and if we did, there would have to be more shelled peas to show for it.
I looked up the road and saw the dreaded patch of Kudzu. This was perfect, no one ever went into that stuff and mom would not look there even if she suspected we did away with some of the peas. We took about one quarter of the peas up there and threw them into the Kudzu and were shelling peas when mom came back with more. She noticed that there were quite a few peas missing, but we did have quite a few shelled. She was suspicious, but we had hit on the key amount to scrape by the inspection by her keen suspicious mind. Mom went in to cook some peas for dinner, we called lunch dinner and dinner supper, and we took about that many more peas up to the Kudzu patch and began shelling more peas. Mom called us for dinner, and the peas were still tasty, even if we had eaten peas for every meal but breakfast for a solid week.
We went back out to shell peas and mom went out to help us. She thought the peas seemed a little low in volume, but we convinced her she had taken a lot more peas for dinner than usual. Mom helped us for about an hour and went in to start freezing more peas. We made another trip to the Kudzu patch. At this point, I was beginning to feel guilty, and was afraid we would get caught. My little brother just wanted to get rid of more peas. I tried to tell him that we were going to get caught, but he insisted we would get rid of some more peas or he would tell mom what I had been doing with the peas. My heart stopped, because I knew he was the baby and he would be believed and I would be punished. I figured what the heck, and we took most of the peas to the Kudzu patch and were shelling the last of the peas when mom came back out. Again she was suspicious, but could not figure what we had done with the unshelled peas.
Mom announce some great news, when she said there was one more picking left in the peas, and if it did not rain, tomorrow would be the last day of pea picking. For one of the few time in my young life, I was praying for rain. The next morning, I awoke to the sound of rain on the metal carport outside my window. YES! I knew we had dodged the last of the peas today. I went to the kitchen and mom told me she had gotten up before the rain started and just pulled up the pea vines and brought the vines to the carport where we could pick the peas and shell them out of the rain. Well at least this was the last day...for that year anyway.
I have since felt very badly about my mother working so hard to pick those peas and my brother and I just throwing them away. I sometimes think of this garden experience when my own children cause me grief in some particularly painful or annoying way. My mom always said, "what goes around comes around" and "be careful of your deeds because they will find a way to come back to visit you".
Make That To Go Please
One of the most innovative and interesting automotive accessories is now an antique. In the Late 1940's and early 1950's, traveling was not like it is today. The fast straight interstate highway did not exist yet, except on the project engineer's blue prints. Traveling, even a short distance by today's standards, meant packing up everything you needed for the trip in the way of food and drink. There were no fast food restaurants every few miles and often only a road side picnic area was available. Trips that now take 4-5 hours, could easily take 12 hours or more as you wound your way through every one horse town between you and your destination. If someone was driving slowly, you may not be able to pass for awhile as there were only two lane roads in most places. In those days, mom often did not work outside the home and would provide nourishing full meals 2-3 times daily. When traveling, mom was not able to cook in the home kitchen unless she prepared a meal ahead of time and packed it away. I was watching the history channel and saw an innovation that played right into that situation perfectly. It was a sort of crock-pot cooking device that clamped onto the vehicle exhaust and attached to the rear bumper. The device was hollow and allowed the auto exhaust to circulate inside the cooker and exit a portal, thus heating the cooker and not contaminating the food inside. It was a perfect size to cook a roast and vegetables while driving. After the appropriate time, one could pull over at a roadside picnic area and the whole family could feast on a "home cooked" pot roast that was piping hot from the cooker. I know this does not fit with todays culture, but it sure fit that one. I wish I had one of these devices for novelty and to try at least once. Imagine the poor car's passengers that are following you as the roast cooks. I could not blame them for pulling over with you when you take your dinner break.
The Right Stuff
I was an excited child of only 10 years of age, soon to be 11, enjoying my summer vacation from school on July 20, 1969. I was excited because I had a fascination with space travel and the possibility of visiting other worlds. I had enjoyed the biographical section of the school library reading about early explorers in this world. I imagined what it must have been like to "boldly go where no man has gone before" as I watched Star Trek or Lost In Space. I even enjoyed reading or television about ocean diving. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea fascinated me for this reason. I also enjoyed fictional books about space travel as I imagined doing so myself. Now, in a few minutes, I was going to actually get to See someone step onto the surface of a new world.
I had anticipated this for days as the crew of Apollo 11 were launched toward their destination from Cape Kennedy in Florida. Speculation that they would land on the surface of this unexplored world and sink deep into the dry dust of it caused me concern for the astronauts. How did they know they would not bounce off of the moon and fly out into space, or some unknown force or being would not destroy them? It was real life exploration of an unknown world that I had only read about before and now I was going to get to see images and hear the voices as Neil Armstrong made history for mankind.
I loved the name Neil Armstrong, it was so masculine sounding and appropriate for my young child's imagination of what an explorer should be. The other names were not as important to me, because they were not the first or the commander. I wondered at how disappointing it must have been for "Buzz" Aldrin to have to watch as someone else was allowed to step onto the moon first. I then thought about the poor sap, Michael Collins, who was circling the block in the Apollo 11 Capsule, waiting on the Eagle to return to the mother ship from the moon with his crew mates. How did he get stuck with such an unrecognized but important position. So close, yet so far. I imagined him being the guy that thinks things like "always the bridesmaid, but never the bride".
I was awakened early by my father and though I could not wait to experience this history, it was summer vacation from school and I was already used to sleeping in every morning. I remembered eating breakfast while listening to the T.V., something that just was not done in our household. We always turned the television off when the family gathered around the table for our meals. This day was different, because today the world's history would change forever. I could scarcely wait any longer, as I had very little patience. I wanted to cut to the chase and fast. I always saw situations resolved quickly in thirty minute television shows and this seemed to drag on and on. I finished eating breakfast and still those astronauts were in their capsule, the Eagle, sitting on the surface of the moon. It seemed so long since the words, "The Eagle has landed" were broadcast to the universe. I remembered how quickly I jumped out of the car when we traveled across North Carolina from Asheville to Wilmington to visit my grandmother. That was only a one day trip, and I wondered if the Astronauts were as eager to get out of the "car".
Would this be the moment, I wondered, as the television announcer, Jules Bergman, described what was to happen soon. In a moment, history was happening too fast it seemed. Neil Armstrong stepped down the ladder from the Eagle. I remember the video being too grainy and hard to see. It did not help that we lived in a "shadow" of the television antenna high on top of 5700 foot mount Pisgah and never had good reception anyway. This was before cable and satellite television and we only got three channels over the air. I recall going outside to adjust the antennae while dad called instructions out the door of the house. "A little more to the right, now left, easy, there, that is perfect!" I would get in to find perfect was a relative term. Neil stepped onto the moon and made that famous statement which I heard live, "One small step for man, one giant leap for macccgghhhhttt". What did he say? It had to be mankind, but it was garbled with static at the end. I was so disappointed that the moment was not perfect. Was it our T.V., or was it the transmission from the moon? It turned out the original transmission was a bit garbled at the end, but we know he did say, "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind" What perfect words these were. Short concise and so true they were. What else could I expect from a man named Armstrong?
I remember watching for more T.V. footage of the activities on the moon and feeling let down, because I wanted to see more. I wanted this to last and last so I could explore with them. Then, all too soon it seemed, they got back inside the Eagle and blasted back to the Apollo capsule. I was relieved that my heroes were safely able to break free from the moon and the mission was a success so far. I imagined what questions Michael Collins must have had ready to ask Armstrong and Aldrin when they docked back with his craft. I thought of the waste as the Eagle was jettisoned to make the return back to earth.
It seemed no time that the Apollo 11 capsule splashed down in the ocean and the crew was picked up. I remember the quarantine to be sure no diseases or organisms were present to destroy our world and the relief to find there were none. I remember the disbelief of adults that were saying this was all staged and we never landed on the moon. How could they not believe a man named Neil Armstrong? If for no other reason, his name was so American he had to be the real thing. I was just glad to be able to be a part of the generation that got to experience the men with "the right stuff."
The Sourwood Mystique
I grew up eating Sourwood Honey on biscuits for breakfast every
morning. You might say, I was a bit spoiled in that regard, or at
least I was fortunate to be able to take this blessing for granted.
I was in College before it really dawned on me that not everyone has
Sourwood honey every morning for breakfast. Once you taste Sourwood,
there is really no substitute, unless you are extremely fortunate and
have access to an even less common delicacy called Locust Honey. I
will save Locust honey for another day. In fact, not being able to
get Sourwood honey, after the death of my beekeeping uncle, greatly
contributed to my becoming a beekeeper.
I am amazed every time someone asks me, "What is Sourwood?" to the
point I can barely answer their question. It is more than a tree, or
a flavor of honey, it is almost a state of being for us here in the
mountains. I remember the horror I felt when my dad told me that
Sourwood trees were once used to make sleds, basically wagons without
wheels, to haul things behind their teams of horses or mules. The
natural crooks in the trees make great sled runners without having to
bend the wood. I just wondered how anyone could bring themselves to
cut a Sourwood. Of course, I did have to ask dad if the sleds were
used because he came along before the wheel was invented. I recall
being more amused by that question than he was. I remember in about
1970, I was with my dad in Sugar Hollow deep into Fairview where they
had just finished grading out for a house he was building. The
loader had knocked down a large Sourwood tree that was in full
bloom. I was standing over the tree sort of morning the loss of this
producer of such sweet nectar, when I decided to taste the blooms. I
figured maybe it would be tasty and hated to let it go to complete
waste. In fact, some of the blossoms did have a faint taste of
Sourwood nectar. This is where I pieced together the connection
between nectar and honey. I recall wondering why not all the
blossoms had the Sourwood taste. In fact, I now realize that bees
have to visit a lot of Sourwood blossoms to get much nectar, as not
all of the blossoms have an appreciable amount of nectar in them.
Studying the blooms I also saw how the bloom spreads down the stem of
the flower from the base to the end. When the blooms get near the
end, you know the window for gathering Sourwood nectar is about to
close until at least next year, if the weather cooperates.
Not long after that experience in Fairview, I saw my uncle driving up
the road one evening and I knew what this meant. He had a couple
hundred hives of bees and it was time for fresh Sourwood. I recall
that look in my uncle's eyes as he showed an extracted jar of honey
and exclaimed, "Look how clear this is!" Since that time, I have seen
that look in a beekeeper's eye many times when showing off their
Sourwood, or even talking about it. Even with all the experience Edd
Buchanan or Greg Rogers has making Sourwood honey, that look they get
when they talk about their recent Sourwood harvest never changes. It
is exactly like the one I get and the one I saw last night at the
meeting when Tamra Dawsey excitedly told me about harvesting her
first batch of Sourwood. That sweet nectar is a great equalizer for
sure and everyone should be excited to get to harvest the best honey
in the world. It took top honors at Apimondia in Ireland to prove
it, if you were not already a believer. I even saw that look in the
eyes of people that did not verbalize to me about their recent
harvest. I noticed Lyne was very interested in ordering jars and
knew she had her own blonde treasure of nectar with which to fill
those jars. She did not have to say it, I could read her eyes.
I feel sort of sad for those poor souls that don't understand how to
tell Sourwood from other honey. As a result, many a person wonders
what the big deal is concerning Sourwood after purchasing some so
called Sourwood from some fly by night scam artist trying to make a
quick buck. I recall last year at the tailgate market, I had a
customer from Paris, France who explained that her boyfriend is a
honey conoisseur and she wanted to take home something special for
him. I offered up a jar of my best Sourwood and told her he would
appreciate this honey for sure. She took my advice and recently
contacted me to tell me he has tasted honey from all over the world
and Sourwood is the best honey he has ever tasted. He has placed an
order for reinforcements to fill his pantry as I write. I know it is
anecdotal, but this has to be proof it is the best honey in the world
and we are blessed to live right in the middle of Sourwood country.
I find it ironic that Mountain Laurel is in the same family, Heath,
as Sourwood. I guess Sourwood got all the good and Mountain Laurel
got all the yuck in that family. Never take for granted the blessing
of harvesting the best honey in the world. As a side note, you
should be charging premium prices for this premium honey. Never look
at the world honey market prices and apply that to your Sourwood.
World honey market prices are for the honey that we have to try to
sell somehow. Maybe I have become a bit of a Sourwood snob, but
Sourwood sells itself and we never have any left over. If someone
complains about your price, just tell them that is their choice, They
can buy cheap honey or good honey. If they don't buy it, someone
else will. You never have to cut your price on Sourwood. Sourwood
honey is something you just cannot get at your chain store and as a
result the laws of supply and demand cause it to depart from the pack
of other honey types in the world honey market. When you want good
Sourwood, find a beekeeper in the Southern Appalachians that has that
look in his eye and you will know you are getting the real deal, but
be prepared to fork over a little cash. What? Do you think it just
grows on trees or something?
Calvin
Rookie
I will never forget my first day of work as a law enforcement ranger on the Blue Ridge Parkway. One of the first people I met was a "good old boy" from Bryson City NC named Harold. Harold was a no nonsense kind of ranger that wrote more tickets than anyone else on the Parkway. His reputation preceded him and I was trying to be careful and take advantage of exposure to his wisdom and experience. Harold took me on a tour of the district and clued me in on the things I needed to know for my first night of road patrol. Harold was working until 7:00pm and I would be by myself until midnight. The evening went sort of slow with only a couple of road service calls, one car had overheated and another couple was locked out of their vehicle. Only very routine events took place until Harold went off duty. Afterward, I continued working alone and the night continued to be uneventful.
At around 11:00pm I received a call from the dispatcher that a deer had been hit on the northern part of the district. I arrived to the accident scene to find the deer was badly injured and in the roadway. Though this was not something I delighted in doing, I dispatched the deer with my revolver and went back to the office to make a report on the use of my firearm. The next day, Harold and I both were in at 9:00am and I told him I had dispatched an injured deer then gave him my first report to look over. He read it, and very seriously said, "don't shoot those deer, because you have to fill out paper work when you do." I said, "Really? How do you dispatch them?" He said," I just hit them over the head with my Kel-Light and put them down that way. If you will do that, there are no reports, and you will save the expensive ammunition." I thought about this,and it seemed a bit extreme, but I figured if Harold does it, I guess I could. Besides, after filling out the paper work for discharging a firearm, I decided my job as a ranger would be much more fun if I was able to keep the paperwork to a minimum.
Later that evening, I got another call that a deer had been hit by a car being severely injured and was still in the road. I arrived to find a very small deer that was barely alive. I decided this would be the time to try what Harold had told me to do. I took a quick breath and hit the deer in the head with my Kel-Light as hard as I could. A huge blood knot came up on the deer's head and the deer stood up as much as it could. It seemed to be in some pain,which really tore at my heart, so I quickly hit it again as hard as I could to try and quickly end the misery for the deer. The blood knot burst and spattered me from head to toe with red blood. I was a mess and, even worse, the deer was still alive and in obvious misery. I quickly ended up shooting the deer. I then began wondering what I did wrong. I wondered why I could not kill the deer with my Kel-Light if Harold was able to do it.
I got back to the ranger station and was preparing to clean up and change clothes when Harold came into the office. He stood back as he took a broad look at me covered in blood spatter. He was laughing as he asked what had happened to me, and I told him the whole story. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to pass out. Then Harold said, "I was just kidding about the Kel-Light, I usually hit them with a crowbar I keep in the trunk." I knew Harold had pulled a sick joke on me and I felt foolish for being so gullible. I did decide that in the future, reports or not and waste of ammo or not, I was going to dispatch the animals with my revolver. I did get a new perspective for Harold, and never again just blindly accepted his advice without giving it a little more thought.
Here I Come To Save The Day
It was my first season as as a law enforcement park ranger on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I was a multi-specialist ranger, but one of my duties was to patrol the roadway for violations, and safety hazards. I was enjoying a particularly beautiful October evening in the Doughton Park area of the Blue Ridge Parkway, while patrolling the road for speeders. Speeders in this area were fairly common and contributed to a high percentage of wildlife motor vehicle accidents.
I was admiring a fiery red maple tree while waiting for the next speeder to come around the curve where my radar gun was aimed. The radio brought me back to reality when a message from the dispatcher was broadcast that assistance was needed near Brinegar Cabin. She said details were few but it appeared a deer had been struck by a motor vehicle.
Not knowing the situation exactly, I decided to expedite my trip to that area with my blue lights and occasional blasts from my siren as I drove about 10 miles per hour over the speed limit to get to this scene as quickly as possible. I was hurrying in case there existed a traffic hazard that could cause another accident.
I arrived on the scene in just a few minutes to find a car parked in the grass with flashers on and a big dent in the fender. I was approached by a young woman who seemed very excited and glad that I was finally there to assist. I asked her if everyone was OK and she assured me the only one who was not OK was the poor deer. She said the deer must have broken rear legs because it was crawling using the front legs only as it dragged the real legs on the ground. She said it was in the roadway, but had made it's way up into the woods and was up on the hill side above the parkway.
I was instantly aware the deer had a broken back more than likely and possibly other internal injuries. I knee that this meant the deer would have to be dispatched and their was really no other humane choice. I did not like having to do this anymore than I liked the thoughts of this deer suffering and possibly getting back in the road to cause another accident.
I told the woman to stay here with her car and I would go up into the woods to take a look at the deer. I eased up into the woods and saw the deer moving to avoid me. She seemed to be sliding down the hill towards the high bank and would soon be about to fall down onto the roadway. I saw the tell tale signs of a broken back as the deer could only drag her hind quarters. A quick check of my training and my common sense told me there was only one thing left to do and it needed to be done quickly.
I eased my foam hearing protection into each ear and drew my revolver out of the holster. I held my pistol close to my side as I eased into position below the deer with a good sight line and backstop behind her. I slowly brought up the pistol and aimed at her head. One report from the revolver let loose the +P+ hollow point round and the deer went limp without anymore thrashing or suffering. It was merciful but saddened my heart just as much as the first time I had done it.
Immediately I heard screams and yelling behind me. I quickly wondered had I made a mistake, had the bullet ricocheted and hit someone? I turned to see the woman had followed me up into the woods and had witnessed me dispatching the severely injured animal. I tried to talk to her, but she was so angry with me there was no talking. She yelled at me, "I called you to help! I thought a park ranger should come and splint her legs and take her in for rehab so she could live to roam in the wild again. If I had know you were going to do that, I would not have called anyone!"
I explained that the deer had much more severe injuries than what we could fix and that since they were so plentiful, we could not justify the sheer expense of trying to care for each one injured like this. I explained this is one reason we enforce the speed limit so closely on the parkway, because we do not like to see the deer hit by vehicles. I completed the report of the accident and apologized for the reality she had witnessed, and managed to convince her that I really did care even if I could not always do anything more than dispatch the animal. She calmed down and bid me a tearful goodbye. I think the reality of life must have hit home with her a bit more on that October evening. I am sure she will not be speeding on the Parkway after that experience.
Dad and the Dalmation
When I was growing up, I was fortunate to be the child of a father who could do almost anything. He could weld, he built houses, he could do major mechanic work, electrical work, plumbing, grading, masonry, concrete work, farming, beekeeping and countless other things. Dad always kept his sons involved in what he was doing and as a result, we picked up on many of his skills. It was not uncommon to get to go with dad to work.
I recall one summer, dad had been working at a local dairy farm building a new milking parlor as well as remodeling the home of the farmer. This farmer, named Leslie Davis, had a Dalmatian dog that was the bane of my dad's existence. I remember dad coming home to cuss and discuss this "devil dog" at the supper table. I was always waiting to see what the Dalmatian, or "damnation" as dad called him, had done that day. This dog knew that dad did not like him, and he would stay low until dad was not looking and then he would take a hammer or other tool dad was using and run off with it. He did things like tear into and destroy building materials and chew up things dad had built. I recall dad saying if he could get his hands on this dog what he would do. The dog somehow knew that and kept a safe distance.
My friend Bill Ramsey was up from Florida for two weeks and we jumped at the offer from dad to go to the dairy farm while he worked. There was too much cool stuff to explore for even a country boy, much less a city boy from Orlando. We could not wait to see the milking parlor, the big tractors, and play with the Dalmatian. We told dad on the way over that the dog could not be as bad as he thought. Dad just said, "wait and see". Bill and I were playing beside the milking barn when we saw the Dalmatian running around the side of the barn with dad's hammer and dad right behind him throwing rocks at the dog. The dog dropped the hammer as he went by us and went off to safer places for things to cool down. I remember dad wiping dog slobber off of the hammer handle as he picked up his cap and headed back to work cussing that dog as Bill and I were laughing so hard we were about to fall down. Later in the day, Bill and I were near where dad was sawing some lumber and we heard dad cussing the dog again. We looked to see dad wiping dog poop off of his boot and got a good laugh again. Dad gave us the evil eye and we struggled to hold it in until he went around the building.
After lunch, dad was doing some measuring and was looking up at an area he was about to work on. I noticed the Dalmatian was nosing around again and punched Bill to look. I had no sooner done this, until that dog raised his leg and marked dad's leg. Dad did not notice this at first, and I was not about to say a thing. Bill and I just stood there gaging back giggles and snickering while the dog kept on keeping on. All of a sudden, dad realized what was happening and he went after that dog with a hammer. The dog bolted into high gear again and escaped to the woods once again victorious over my dad. Dad came back around the barn out of breath and looked at me and Bill laying on the ground laughing. Dad did not like to be laughed at and he gave us the evil eye that would kill all evil eyes. He was so mad, but he could not do anything to us for laughing. He kept telling us that was not funny and to stop laughing. That just made it funnier to us. He washed out his socks at a water trough and told us boys we were going home with him to get some clean pants. As we got into the truck, we broke out laughing again. Dad told us to stop or he would make us ride in the back on the way home. This made us laugh even harder and next thing we knew, we were riding home in the back of the pickup laughing all the way.
Dad got some clean pants on when we got home and we were about to get back into the truck with him when he said no. He told us boys that laughed at adults would not be going back to work with him. We laughed until we could not catch our breath as we watched his truck disappear around the curve. I think we laughed the rest of the evening and were smart enough to stay clear when dad got home for supper. At supper, Bill and I had to not make eye contact or we would start laughing again. Dad knew by this time that it was funny, but he still was not ready to laugh about it. I think it was a couple of weeks until he could laugh about it. I recall him telling the story and asking what they thought of two boys that would laugh at a man while a dog urinated on the man. I waited a few years before I brought it up again, but I managed to see dad smile about it. He also added that he never did get his hands on that dog and it was a good thing.
Summer Fun
I grew up in the Southern Appalachian mountains of Western North Carolina during the 1960's and 70's. During that period, my rural community was fairly isolated and the days of summer vacation were spent roaming around the fields and woods learning about nature, fishing, building tree houses and playing army games. My younger brother was my constant companion and we managed to get into our fair share of trouble as boys tend to do.
I recall one summer when I was about 12 years old and my brother Paul was about 9 years old. Summer was beginning to get a little boring for us and we were looking for some fun and excitement. We were sitting around running different ideas by each other when we saw an old purse of our mother's. The purse had been stored away for future use in the basement like depression era women tended to do. We both knew this purse would never be used again and mom would not miss it if we "borrowed" it from her.
My brother grabbed up the purse, and I got a garden trowel then we headed to the barn. After a brief search of the barnyard, we found some suitable samples of cow manure and carefully loaded the purse with some particularly messy specimens. We were careful in that we managed to keep the outside of the purse clean. After getting the purse fully stocked with cow manure, Paul and I headed over to the nearby paved secondary road. We had to negotiate a foot log to get across the creek and then a thick Brier patch to the road. We chose this area, because the Brier patch would conceal and protect us as we watched the fun about to unfold.
We waited until there were no cars coming and took the purse up to the edge of the road and put it down on the white line at the edge. The purse looked rather conspicuous in this area as it was laying partly in the road and partly in the grass as if it had fallen off of the roof of a passing vehicle. We could barely control ourselves as we quickly hid in the brier patch. We were laughing and talking about how our first victim would probably react. It seemed like hours until a pickup truck came rattling down the road. We could hear his brakes screech as he quickly stopped and got out of the truck. The driver quickly looked around and then picked up the purse and got back into the truck. He started slowly driving off when he suddenly stopped again and the purse went sailing out the passenger window. He took off as fast as the old truck would go as we imagined what he must have been saying about the tricksters that were secretly hidden in the brier patch.
We ran back up the road to the purse to retrieve it and put it back where we had it originally. The next car stopped by pretty quickly and another man got out and picked up the purse he opened it and yelled a profanity as began to laugh too loudly. He then yelled something up in our direction and threw the purse into the Brier patch. The Brier patch was our protection, and he decided to drive off. We played with the purse for a few more cars, but decided to quit before we got caught. We went home laughing and replaying the scenarios all the way back home, but dared not say anything in front of our parents.
We played with the purse off and on for a few days until we finally lost it due to a driver driving off with it. We really laughed as we thought of what that driver must have said when they got home and finally opened the purse. That ended the fun for a few days until we decided to let a neighbor kid in on what we had been doing and asking him to see if he may be able to come up with an old purse at his house.
The next day, our neighbor showed up with a purse, but told us we could not load it with cow manure because he had to take it back home. We discussed how we could use it, and decided to get some 30 lb test salt water fishing line and tie it to the purse handle. We would lay it out on the road side and when someone stopped, we would pull the purse into the brier patch. The first car that came along stopped and the driver got out. As he headed back to the purse, we pulled it into the brier patch. The driver was not amused and began yelling at us and started into the brier patch. We did not wait around, as we took off pulling the purse behind us. We jumped the creek and took off towards home afraid to look back and all the while imagining a grown man gaining on us. When we finally looked back we saw nobody behind us but a very wet, muddy and scratched up purse.
We decided to retire this little prank before we got into some trouble, but we laughed about it the rest of the summer. When my brother and I get together, we usually get around to telling or talking about this summer experience. Oh, for the good old simpler times. It seems kids still manage to get into trouble, but they now seem to have more ways to do so. This was about all we could manage in our day, but anyone will have to admit it was funny.
Redneck Tofu
I grew up in the southern Appalachian mountains of Western North Carolina. Natives of this area, though in the south, have a very unique accent, dialect and preference for foods. When I grew up, breakfast was considered the most important meal of the day by my mother. She always said, "if you are going to work or learn you need a good solid breakfast that is going to "stick to your back bone". She always served a large breakfast that included eggs and grits as a staple. The variables of my mother's wonderful breakfast meals were: biscuits or sometimes toast; either sausage, bacon, ham or liver mush for a meat; either cold or hot cereal,or pancakes and syrup;and honey,jam or jelly,apple or peach butter, or fresh fruit. This was washed down with coffee, orange juice, and milk. At first, I really did not care for grits and would sort of pass over them.
My mother's eager eye always took notice of our eating habits and she would find a way to make sure we took in all the nourishment she had provided. She is the one who helped me learn to actually love and look forward to my grits. She suggested that I pour the grits over my eggs and chop up my sausage, eggs or liver mush in them. This may not sound so good, but believe me, it became my favorite part of breakfast very quickly. In latter life, I even found a recipe called "Southern Scramble" which allows you to cook these ingredients together. I usually cook this anytime I have a chance to cook breakfast and everyone, even people who say they hate grits, love this dish.
Grits are as southern as any food out there. Grits seem to be either loved or hated and there is no in between on the grit issue. Grits deserve the respect as a versatile and beloved food that other foods such as tofu seem to get. It seems that part of the problem, from those people who truly misunderstand grits, is that grits are somehow expected to stand on their own. How many people go to a restaurant and order tofu? You wouldn't, now would you? Tofu is a versatile food that makes a great filler with almost any dish and seems to take on the delicious flavor of what ever food it is pared with.
Grits,to me, are sort of like a redneck's Tofu! Grits go well with almost everything! Have you tried shrimp and grits? What about tomatoes and grits, cheese and grits, sugar and grits, butter and grits, salsa and grits, grits and eggs, grits and sausage, grits and liver mush, grits and chocolate and on and on. If you like a food, chances are you can include grits with that food and you will like it. Grits are very inexpensive, and can make your food budget go much farther, especially if you are watching your budget. Go on, give grits a try and lets have some respect for this wonderful misunderstood southern staple.
Nothing Could be Finer
A truly great sandwich needs truly great ingredients. Fresh bread of your favorite type is a must for a great sandwich. A main ingredient that is one of your favorite foods is the next thing that is required for the sandwich to be great for you. What ever your favorite condiment is, liberal amounts but not too much make for a great sandwich. Secondary items can be added and subtracted as your mood, or availability allow. To really enjoy a great sandwich, you need to be alone. A great sandwich may taste great, but rarely is it fun to watch someone eat a juicy sandwich chock full of often colorful and runny ingredients. Don't forget the napkins, because you will need them if the sandwich is anything like I have in mind. Wet napkins, or access to a sink to wash up is a real plus if it can be arranged. To be honest, I often eat my juicy sandwiches right over the sink and just wash up when I am done. I have to plan this sink feast to coincide with the rest of my family being out of the room for a few minutes, or they will be yelling at my manors.
One of my all time favorite sandwiches is the banana sandwich my grand mother used to make for me. It is best with very fresh white bread, liberal amounts of fresh cold mayonnaise on both slices, liberal amounts of cane sugar spread over the mayonnaise, a fresh banana, that has just lost the green and is still firm without the spots, should be sliced lengthwise and placed on one slice of bread. The other slice should be placed on top and the delight to your taste buds is unimaginable. This sandwich is best if washed down with a tall glass of very cold milk or chocolate milk.
I love summer because that is when I get to enjoy one of my other favorite sandwiches. Fresh homegrown and vine ripened tomatoes are a must for this sandwich to be best. Two slices of fresh white bread are needed first. Take the bread and liberally spread fresh cold mayonnaise on both slices. Cross slice several slices of tomato onto one slice and put the top on. This is one of those country delights that needs to be eaten over the sink if possible. You will need to clean up after wards for sure. I sometimes lightly toast the bread first and if you like, you can substitute ranch dressing or your favorite salad dressing for the mayonnaise. If I am really hungry, I will add a slice of melted cheese or even some ham. To be honest, the tomato is the main ingredient even with ham involve. I have tried cucumbers on this sandwich also and it is very good too. When fresh tomatoes are not available, I have substituted cucumbers for tomatoes. Cucumbers are good and will do, but tomatoes are something that I can actually think of and almost drool over the thoughts.
Summertime is a great time to cook out, and hamburgers are one of my favorite sandwiches. A truly great hamburger needs a thick juicy burger cooked well until no pink is left. The bun should be fresh with sesame seeds and plenty of mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup on it. A crisp fresh piece of lettuce adds a nice touch, but the crowning touch of a great summer cookout hamburger is the fresh home grown vine ripened tomato. It adds that wonderful touch to the hamburger that I enjoy in a plain tomato sandwich. Here again, don't forget the napkins and try to get off by yourself to enjoy this juicy delight.
What ever your favorite sandwich is, don't be afraid to experiment a bit with other ingredients that you also like. You will find that you will come up with new favorites and the variety will only add to your sandwich dining enjoyment. I have to go now, I need to make a nice banana sandwich and pour a tall glass of milk.
Sports Car Memories
I will never forget it, it was red it was an Italian sports car and it was mine. This car exceeded my dreams of a first car because of the economy of the overhead cam 1.3 liter engine, the thrill of the four speed transmission, the handling of the MacPherson struts,and the performance of the front and rear disc brakes as well as rack and pinion steering. I was impressed that the car had many of the same parts as the Ferrari 308. True, it was a salvaged vehicle that had once burned up due to inherent problems in the transverse mounted mid engine configuration but It was a shiny red Fiat X 1/9 and it was mine. All the afore mentioned points were important to me, but most important was the two seat design and the targa top which would point me out to all the chicks as I passed by pretending to be cool. In fact, as it turned out, the targa top was also one of the most important features in the functional design of this vehicle as I will explain later. It was a sports car for the masses, I had one and it would be my little secret that it was salvaged. It was not long before I realized the two happiest days of a Fiat owners life are the day he gets his new Fiat and the day he gets rid of his Fiat.
I liked the way this car tended to turn heads and point me out when the distinctive wedge shape passed by other students on the NCSU campus. It seems all the girls loved it and wanted to take a ride in it. Of course, it seems, they liked the car a bit better than me. That was OK! I could give a ride here and there and, just like the fact the car was salvaged, it would be my little secret that all those girls taking a ride with me were in fact not attached to me in any meaningful way. Image is everything to a young college student and I was working on mine. So, I would just give the girls their one ride, take them home and bid them goodbye forever. All those guys I honked at on the side walk as I passed by while long female hair trailed out the targa top did not have to know the truth.
As much as I liked the way the car drew attention to me, I soon noticed one aspect that drew unwanted attention. The car had a very fast idle speed and would almost always backfire when you turned the engine off. I would walk off red faced as everyone laughed after a loud boom came from my car. It got to the point that my friends knew when I had arrived to the intramural softball game before I ever got to the field. If I were late for class, the instructor knew I was on my way soon. Once I went to class and a friend said, "Did I hear you at the mall parking lot last night?"
I was no mechanic and as a college student, I did not have the money to try and get it fixed. I did figure out that if I would let the clutch out just enough to slow the motor before I killed the ignition, the engine would usually not backfire. This became a ritual of memory in procedures to keep in mind while trying to look cool and still drive a Fiat X 1/9.
I had only had the car on campus about a month when I was headed to a party the Animal Science club was having. I enjoyed the party a lot and a girl from my home town asked for a ride home after the party. It was fine, I was used to the routine by now. She was struck by how cute the car was and I was enjoying the attention. I had to drive about 4 miles from the party to her apartment and I would be done with my obligatory duty. I had driven about 3 1/2 miles, when I was accelerating from a red light. I had made it to third gear and her hair was starting to flow out the targa top when the accelerator cable snapped. I was headed down hill, so I just coasted to her apartment turnoff, where I really appreciated the MacPherson struts as I slung the idling vehicle in the lot and coasted uphill to her apartment. I felt relief that at least I got her home. Now I had to figure how to get me home with a broken accelerator. I found some string and tied the throttle to about 3000 rpm. This was a very fast idle, but about as fast as I could allow the engine to run and be able to get it into gear easily. This rpm would allow me to get home with a little creative use of the gears at least. I did make it home but was down to second gear on one hill with cars honking behind me.
I actually drove to school like this for a couple of weeks until I found someone who could fix my accelerator at reasonable cost. I will never forget the day I picked up my car with a new accelerator cable. I was enjoying the spring air coming in the targa top as I raced through the gears. I had gotten several blocks when I jumped down on the clutch to change gears and the clutch cable broke. I managed to get home by using the accelerator and tachometer to judge that perfect point to change the gears when you do not have to use a clutch. I was glad at this point that I was a redneck boy that had grown up on a farm. Most college kids would not have known that you actually can change gears in a straight drive without a clutch if you have the rpms at the perfect range. The only problem was that I could not stop unless I was on a hill. I went to the nearest big hill with no traffic and sat there as I planned how to best get across Raleigh with no clutch and without having to stop. I thought of every route with emphasis on areas that had alternatives for me if the light was red. I came up with the perfect route. I headed out and when I got to an area that had a light, I would make a quick turn into a parking lot and just drive in a circle until the light turned and then jump back out onto the highway. I was forced to make one quick U turn and start over once due to a situation I could not get around but my plan was working. I was able to get home this way and only had to drive in oncoming lanes twice.
Driving a Fiat makes one resourceful. You have to be creative in ways to keep it running and in financing your repairs or even finding spare parts. Sometimes you have to make parts because the spare is not available or too expensive. I managed to get creative with my finances and come up with enough to get the clutch cable fixed. I planned my trip back to the Fiat technician along the same route I had used to get home and at a better hour when fewer cars were on the road. The new clutch cable was installed in time for me to take the vehicle home for the summer. This was an adventure in itself because I lived in the mountains and Fiats are prone to over heat. I packed the rear trunk with all my stuff, the front trunk with belongings of a girl from my home town plus the targa top and headed off to Asheville NC on a beautiful Friday evening. Everything went pretty well as we headed up through the piedmont, but I always kept one eye on the temperature gauge.
As I got to the foot hills, I noticed the temperature gauge was moving ever closer to the red mark. I knew we would not make it up Old Fort Mountain without trouble if I did not do something. I stopped to get gasoline and convinced my passenger we should eat some supper. I was trying to be cool and I really was wanting the engine to cool down. I found a water hose and I opened the mid engine compartment to add a little cooling down assistance as my gas was pumping. As we headed up Old Fort Mountain, this seemed to be the ticket as the engine temperature was right where it should be. As I got about half way up the mountain, I found the real functional reason for the targa top. That being that you can turn the heat on high when it is 80 degrees outside while you desperately try to keep the engine from overheating. Kim’s hair was flowing out the targa top, but so were waves of hot air from the heater on high as I managed to keep the temperature out of the red until the last 100 yards up the mountain. As I crested the mountain, I put the car in neutral and coasted down the mountain with the heater still on high. The temperature gage finally got down to a reasonable level as I got to the bottom of the mountain and the cooler mountain air assisted as I cruised on in to Candler where I lived.
I made several trips home like this until I finally warped the head and had to rebuild the motor. I did this with my brother and father in the basement one spring break and had the car in running order in time to head back for the final stretch of my senior year. The car never was quite right after that, assuming it was before, and I knew it was time to get rid of it. After graduation, I traded it for a brand new Chevy Blazer and was relieved to be through that period of tribulation with my Fiat ownership. I saw the car on a used car lot for a while and then it was gone one day. It was only a memory to me at that point and I tried to dwell on the fond ones. One day I saw my old car at a body shop and it had obviously been on fire. I had contacts at the body shop and curiosity caused me to ask about it.
The poor soul that bought that imported wagon of hopes and dreams only owned it two weeks when it burned up. He had turned the ignition off and it backfired and caught fire. At least he got some attention pointed his way even if not the kind he wanted. On warm spring days I sometimes still think about long hair blowing back out of a targa top as I work through the gears of my Italian sports car. It is a memory of college days and care free times. A time when images rule and pedestrians drool. I have had my two happiest days as a Fiat owner and thanks to that used car lot the little red X 1/9 gave at least one more poor sucker his two happiest days too. I will for evermore leave the Fiats for someone else to enjoy.
The Top Ten Things I Want To Do In Life
I want to live a life that is an example of compassion, generosity, character, encouragement, resolve, integrity, ingenuity, health, wisdom and Spirituality. I feel these items are basic aspects to our lives and important for a well rounded life. Not all of us will fully develop these various issues, but the world will be a better place if I do. If I fully develop these aspects of my life it may also inspire others to do the same, which in turn will make the world an even better place for us all.
I want to be a compassionate person that understands life is not always fair and to view life from the perspective of my fellow humans who are less fortunate. Part of being compassionate is working to give a hand up to those who are capable of bettering themselves and give a hand out when a person is just not able to do on their own. I believe we need to get involved in the lives of less fortunate people to accurately determine how to best help them and to assist in there journey to a better life. Taking time to do this will sharpen my sense of compassion and add something to my life that I can always use more of, humility.
I want to strive to be a generous person because the generosity of others has made the life I lead possible. I find the sacrifices made by millions of people in our military to be extremely generous. There is no greater love than to lay down your life for a friend. I love life and find this would be the ultimate example of generosity. This example of generosity is one I never want to face, but I strive to be generous to this degree. If I am generous, that will ultimately revisit everyone in significant ways as that capital gained by others is spent in the appropriate venue. I myself will ultimately benefit from my own generosity if I am freely generous. This will free me from one of the scourges of the world, greed.
I want to be a person of character. Anyone can live just any old way they please, but to live above that is something that takes self-discipline. Character building requires enduring and embracing the bad along with the good in life to make a complete person. This means I have to be committed to build my character and it has to be a part of every moment of my life. Character can be used as the capital for buying influence and gaining the respect to affect the fabric of our society for the better. Good character will influence others in example and encourage others to reach higher instead of stoop down to the lower levels of human behavior. This will allow me something that can not be taken any other way, self-respect.
I want to be an encouragement to everyone. There is nothing more bitter than an evil word towards another person. Most of the problems of the world today can be related in one way or another to a lack of encouragement. I recognize there are many people who are starved for encouragement and just a good word to them may unleash a blessing on everyone. Imagine if something that was not said had kept Albert Einstein from aspiring to a higher level of thinking. Who am I to withhold encouragement from someone who in turn has a unique gift to present to the world. I will be better off in the long run if I encourage everyone. Encouragement has a close relation to something this world needs more of, optimism.
I want to be a person of resolve. Many great ideas or projects never happen because of a lack of resolve. When the going gets tough, too many just give up. Giving should not be an option for me. "When the going gets tough, the tough get going!" If I have the stomach to start something I plan on having the stomach to stick it out until the end. Imagine what great accomplishments this world would be missing if not for the resolve of someone who stuck it out when everyone was wanting to throw in the towel. I have noticed people in politics sometimes start out doing the right thing, but when the fickle political winds change, they abandon the high road for the whim of the poll numbers. Having resolve will add something to this world that is needed at all levels, stability.
I want to be a person of integrity. Associated with character, integrity is something that takes time to gain, but can be lost in an instant. Integrity is hard to define but when someone has it, everyone knows they have it. If I have integrity in the eyes of my fellow man, that means I have not been guilty of being jealous, a liar, a cheat, a gossip, a malcontent or an enemy. If everyone had this kind of integrity the world would be a much simpler place. I can let integrity begin with me. Integrity can breed something this world always seems to want but never seems to find, peace.
Ingenuity is a hard one to develop, but I feel taking time to think or meditate is something that all of us need to do more of. I will take time to just sit and visualize problems, projects and events to imagine how to do them better. Part of ingenuity is education. Educating yourself can be as simple as taking time to ask a question when we do not understand something. Comparing what we learned with what we already know and trying to visualize how that could make something better is where the meditation comes in. Time thinking is not idle time if your mind is working on problems that need to be solved. Ingenuity is something I can inspire by sharing the process with others when I turn around and teach a topic of my own expertise. Ingenuity is hard to teach, as a result I want to make a difference in helping others to think "outside the box". Ingenuity will ease the burdens of our world by bringing us something that is always welcome, innovation.
Health is important for our body to live long, but it is also important for our mind to think correctly. I want to live healthy so I can live long and as a result live well. None of the benefits I want to give the world to make a real difference will be as effective if I am not healthy. To be a good steward of what I have been given, I must live in a healthy lifestyle. A healthy lifestyle includes eating well balanced and pure foods, exercising my body the correct amount, keeping my body and mind clean and pure, and never neglecting the needs of my body which include rest. Honoring my creator and seeking to be what he intended me to be is part of Spiritual health. I will worship my creator and not his creation. I will seek to bring health to his creation. Staying healthy in mind, body and Spirit will make the world better by helping remove the disease and destruction that is always attacking our bodies and the rest of creation.
I want to have wisdom. Wisdom can be helped along by education, meditation, observation and reflection. However, wisdom truly comes from God. I will ask him for wisdom daily because I need all the wisdom I can get to be a better steward of His creation and to navigate the strange waters of life without compromising the principles I strive to have. If I have wisdom, it will make up for most other areas where I have short comings. Wisdom splashed about, when available, will erase something this world is full of, foolishness.
I want to strive to be a complete person and my list would not be complete if I did not strive to be a Spiritual person. My worship is part of that, but I want to always make time to pray and to look for the answers. I want to have all the Spiritual gifts that are mentioned in the Bible that God will allow me to have. If I use those gifts as God would want me to do, I will not be able to avoid the fruit of the Spirit (Holy Spirit) in my life. The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self control. If I have the Spirituality that I need the rest of my list will fall in line. If I can do these things well, the world will be a better place and when I pass those left behind will say, "he did it well, he was a good and faithful servant." This will help to give the world something it always needs, hope.
Cal
Soul Mates
Our culture seems consumed with the desire of people to find their soul mate. It is ironic this same culture is also consumed with recreational dating, sex symbols and flesh revealing provocations. Movies today leave so little to the imagination that we have been taught this is the only way to love. No wonder young people find it hard to find their way in dating because sex is about all that is ever portrayed in movies. Lustful desires fan the ideas of infatuation until we become so confused that we can not possibly make sane decisions regarding our soul mate. Lustful desires also lead to selfishness in the relationship and this spells doom for any relationship. I always imagined finding my own soul mate and over the years have discovered some truth that may determine whether or not one finds a soul mate.
If you think about it, some of the sexiest scenes ever made in movies were scenes that let your own imagination fill in the blanks. When our minds fill in the blanks, we are actually less inhibited and we do not imprint upon what some writer sees as the norm or the way he things should be. Things should be as you and your soul mate agree. Imagine satisfaction coming from just holding your mate and telling her you want to make her burdens light, her fears disappear, you want to be her protector and provider. Nothing could be sexier than to sacrifice yourself for your mate. This unselfish example of love will naturally pay itself right back to you when you find your soul mate because your soul mate will feel the same way about you.
Recreational dating is something that kills the whole idea of finding a soul mate. If people would first find friendship and comfort in being with the opposite sex, the steps toward finding a soul mate would be much more well lit in this dark wilderness of dating. I believe we should never date a person if we honestly do not think there is at least some possibility we would possibly want to marry that person for a true soul mate relationship. By allowing or inviting recreational or superficial dating experiences, we are inviting the very thing that makes for an anti-soul mate. We are inviting lust, selfishness, use and abuse. This will leave anyone involved as a hollow shell and may warp them to the point they will never see their soul mate possibilities. For sure, it will bring on desperation and breed a chain of relationship failures. Do not be deceived by these statements, sex is very important in a soul mate relationship. As a result of the importance, it stands to reason it should come after the dating and never in the early stages.
A soul mate is a best friend first. A soul mate must be totally respectable and totally trust worthy. Do not confuse these things with your own respecting and trusting a person. Anyone can be respected and trusted. Only a soul mate deserves this treatment because they have continually proven they have that kind of character. Because there are cultural differences in people and personal preference differences, care should be taken to choose your soul mate from an acceptably similar category to yours. If you choose someone else, you may find infatuation has corrupted the process you followed to try and find the love of your life. Infatuation can cause you to ignore important signs a person is not your soul mate until it is too late. Stay away from sexual intimacy in dating and you will know if you actually like this person besides the physical aspect of sex.
Soul mates are mutually consumed with respect, trust and desire for each other. They are also confident in each other to the point they are comfortable allowing plenty of free time or self time for the soul mate to be them self when that time is appropriate. In other words, they do not so consume themselves with each other that they smother each other. Soul mates come to know when sacrifice is needed when indulgence is welcome and when freedom is needed. They are two people that work as one and are in complete comfort with each other. Soul mates are always for each other and never against even when they disagree. This comfort with each other does not ever translate to complacency, but always manifests itself in freely giving oneself to the other. Soul mates are not perfect and know when the other is needy. Soul mates never criticize, but find ways to build the other in honesty tempered with love from unconditional respect. Soul mates never lie to each other, never steal from each other and never cheat each other. Soul mates are attracted to each other in a multi-dimensional way that includes so much more than just the physical. Soul mates know what is most important to their partner and make full consideration and accomodation. Soul mates are actually a pretty rare occurrence in our society, no wonder everyone seems to be looking. If you want to stop looking and start finding consider these words before you go any farther.
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