Author: ethomasparham

20/20 HINDSIGHT

On By ethomasparhamIn G. ROBBINS, J. EMERALD ISLE1 Comment

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It is almost 2020.  I am almost 80.  It is almost Christmas.  It is Festivus.  Dec. 23.

Junior Johnson just died.  That confirms mortality.  I met Junior  once.  And I met Ted Williams, my hero.  “First there was baseball”, but “car racin'”wasn’t far behind.  We didn’t have pro teams in the South then.  We did have baseball and racin’.  Basketball was fermenting, but the baseball game of the week and Darlington were staples.  Ford or Chevy? Up there with Democrat or Republican?

All politics are local and so was racin’.  Our small town changed it’s name twice and wound up being called after the mill owner, “Robbins’.  Pure mill village, labor  and management the dividing line. The  minor league baseball team was named the “Robbins Robins”.

My teenage years coincided with the deification of the automobile.  We proved you do need a seatbelt. And it ain’t smart to drive drunk.  But once they let you have the car keys you could go any where you could make it home for check-in.  Drink figured into the equation and we had some peculiar laws there.  Our dry end of Moore County meant nightly reconnoitres to Pinehurst, the rich and “wet” end of the county.  Bring me a six pack of PBR!  No mixed drinks, only “brown bagging”

Moonshine and North Carolina are synonymous.  The best recent book on the combination of cars, moonshine,NC and Nascar is DRIVING WITH THE DEVIL by Neal Thompson.   Driver, promoter, and mechanic.  Began in our hills but soon got to the flat lands (Percy Flowers ruled the Piedmont).

“Moonshiners put more time, energy, thought, and love into their cars than any racer ever will. Lose on the track and you go home. Lose with a load of whiskey and you go to jail.” —Junior Johnson, NASCAR legend and one-time whiskey runner.

We have just added a traffic circle at now home , Emerald Isle, NC.  And it trigged some nostalgia  (more later).  The first circle in our  Robbins neighborhood in the 50’s was,  you guessed it, in Pinehurst.  We accepted it as an in route challenge to our cars and driving skills.  Beer in hand, how fast could you drive around the circle?  In 3 trips?  First to  pass someone in the circle?  Record for number passed per lap? First ticket?  First ticket with no license?

Sadly, but inevitably, the causality and severity of a mistake stunned us.  Tex Graham was  first, a football player who sang 16 tons (“…you load sixteen tons and what do you get?  Another day older and deeper in debt”. )  RIP, Tex.

Less severe but notable early scenarios include Ben Brady’s solo trip to “the Pines” in his 53 pickup, stopping in front of the police station, Blowing the horn till the puzzled officers came out of the station.  “You can’t catch me ” was Ben’s challenge, whereupon he patched out at top speed.  Sadly  Ben  flipped her and wound up under the truck, specifically the red hot muffler.  Burn city.

Lenonard “Urd” Benson drove his Studebaker into a ditch that was roof high and Studebaker wide to the “war eagle”.  It happened on Prom night.  We abandoned the dance to laugh at Urd, and walk across the car.

Next up Glenn McCaskill,  didn’t make the sharp curb at Aberdeen lake.  Don’t remember if he made the lake, but do remember that a week before he had driven the same route with me and nine others in a sedan to a little league baseball game.

“And my friend Brian Temple
He thought he could make it
So from the third story he jumped
And he missed the swimming pool only by inches
And everyone said he was drunk.” FAMILY RESERVE (Lyle Lovett).

NC 705 from Robbins to Seagrove is 13 miles.  I know it well because I tried to thumb back home one midnight. Walked the whole 13,  never saw a car.

“Heading down south to the land of the pines
I’m thumbing my way into North Caroline
Staring up the road and pray to God I see headlights “.(WAGON WHEEL by Dylan),

NC 705 intersected with NC 220 which led to Level Cross, NC,  home of the Pettys, Lee, Richard, Kyle and such.  Not only that, 705 had about a 3 mile stretch or “the straight” that had not a bend and not many laws.   Drag racing with the family vehicles blossomed.  Lore galore.  Races followed by, or including wrecks, fights, bragging rights.  Soon word drifted down that the Pettys had a great quarter mile drag track just up the road.  Locals just snuck on at all hours, uninvited.   I had a classmate who was a “management’s child” and thus wealthy.  Upon his 16th birthday he was given a new 56 Bel Air Chevy, with all gadgets, plus two four barrel carburetors.  Ripe.

The kid missed school one day and showed up the next with a God All Mighty  depressed look on him.  He said there was no need to try to hide what happened.  He felt obligated to try the 56 on the Petty fast track.  By cover of darkness he idled her on –then pedal to metal.

He acknowledged the saw he 3/4 inch cable strung between two sawed off telephone poles at track’s end: ‘But hell, she was wide open and nothing left but to hit the cable head on, head light high.  “Car is in the shop already.”

I guess a lot of small NC towns had driving tests.  We had several.  One road was called “the rough and crooked”.  What was your “top end” on the “rat path” or the tree lined back  road from West End  (now Seven Lakes) to the crossroads?   In the other direction , toward  Highfalls,NC,  there was a prolonged curve. Severe, dangerous and the perfect for locals to declare their “personal best”– screening around on two wheels.  Somehow the most difficult one got pushed backed in my thinking, yet crept into mind one recent day in mid-Emerald Isle circle.  Like many county seats in NC, Moore County’s courthouse was located in the roundabout in Carthage, NC. While it  was a longer way home it offered  a challenge.  Between the drug store and the sidewalk’s end there was a 2×2 foot brick column.  From column to store the width was almost 4 inches to spare for vehicles of that time.  Tight squeeze that only the best could navigate.  That didn’t stop the amateurs, whose cars wore scars on their sides to the indignation of miscalculation.

***RECENT STATISTIC:  “When a second teenager joins a teenage driver, the chances of an accident increases 4 times.

Emerald Isles’ circle  was controversial, yet has worked out well.  A bar with an open air view of the circle that has probably been a disappointment.  No accidents have been reported.  There is a hint of scandal no one talks about.  Some odd variables have yet to unfold. The circle’s  appearance coincided with Hurricane Florence, whose fury left the island with damage beyond the work forces ability.  Tough on people, particularly town management and workers.  The town manager, already beloved, emerged as a local hero of no small proportion.

So it shocked the town when this valued servant announced he was moving to another town.  Why the puzzled populace wondered?  Word on the street concluded that the work load of  more frequent future hurricanes was frightening.

That became somewhat the main story, Yet I wondered about the Heron?  Was the town manager responsible for the new circle sculpture.  It was a puzzle to me, but  local insiders said the manager was too busy with the storm and assigned the sculpture project to a local women’s garden club.   Said manager actually had a snicker over the birds, upon his departure.

It wasn’t the quality of the two heron’s portrayal.  However the positioning of the two, so like the fowl deed done ” a tirgo”, could hardly go unnoticed.

If that project had occurred in our neighborhood in our time, Jack Hussey would still be circling, looking for a an opening around anything that wasn’t clocking a good time. Plus the heron would not have gone unnoticed.

I’ll get crap about this but it’s too funny to ignore.  Plus during this Christmas season someone ordered the circle’s Christmas tree to cover the birds.  Garden Club?

Any way the heron have some privacy.   And THE EMPEROR WEARS NO CLOTHES.

Why Teach and Coach?

On By ethomasparhamIn I. ELONLeave a comment

When I became Director of Athletics the first thing I did was book an hour with five different athletic directors I admired.

Dylan said you had to get up close to the teacher if you want to learn anything.

You never know who you’re influencing when you coach.   The same was true for teaching in college.   Formal classroom or just talking to kids.

A basketball player named Damian Carter appeared in my doorway one day at Elon.   He said he rode up and down I-85 often and had planned to stop by many times.

He was in his forties, had been a pretty solid player at Atlantic Christian, having transferred from UNC-Wilmington.   At Wilmington he hadn’t played as much as he wanted.   The same was true at ACC later on, and he found his chances of pro ball weren’t going to materialize.   He was about to quit college though his grades were good.

I don’t remember the specific conversation with Damien, but it was one of fifty I’d had with basketball players.

It went like this:

  1. Are you the first from your family to go to college?   Often the answer was yes.
  2. You’re not going to make $100,000 playing pro ball, you understand?
  3. You can get your degree and get a very good job.   People are looking for athletic people with degrees.
  4. Your job is to elevate your family and its expectations one generation.   Put your money in compound interest, and expect your children to go to college.

I agreed with Damian that was the gist of what I advised the “first kids.”   Damian smiled and added, “Coach, my two daughters have college degrees, and I’ve got a million bucks in the bank!”   Compound interest.

GRANDPARENTING

On By ethomasparhamIn S. FAMILYLeave a comment

We got married a little later than average. Our children came a little late, too. And they,too, were “mature”. We did have a grandson to brag about, and have done our best.
However, we have not had a fair chance with some of the early birds and more prolific. Not till 2015.
Surprisingly and with great joy we now have two more grandsons. Infants, and months apart.
Everyone is gaga as we share pictures via technology. Skype, Facetime, Videos.
The first child of my youngest Son got the usual treatment of first time parents at Christmas: A picture with SANTA.
Actually not a picture, but a string of about twenty rapidly shot options, exhibiting lots of opportunities for grandparents.
Typically we let the comments fly:
“…look at his eyes. Just like his Fathers!”
“…he is a big boy!”
“…and his red velvet suit, trimmed in white fur collar”
“…his hair looks a little different here!”
“…yes, that changes in young ones!”
Like said, ours was a big child (now referring to it “ours”).
This one was big too. But about the 12th frame down something caught
my eye.
“Margaret–that ain’t “our child! That child is a girl.”
A big girl, but a girl. The give away came with a posture shift
that revealed white leggings, also trimmed. I knew MY son would not
allow his boy so photographed.
Grandma said “…maybe its just cold and she wanted him to be warm?”
“Nope. Scroll down!”
Sure enough, there he was. Looked like he was dressed in camouflage. Almost square.
“…well, my,my. Look at his hands. How sweet!” (she)
“..’our’ boy is a stud!”(me), etc.

Merry Christmas

MOBY DICK

On By ethomasparhamIn J. EMERALD ISLELeave a comment

“Yea, foolish mortals, Noah’s flood is not yet subsided; two-thirds of the fair world it yet covers.”

Just saw Ron Howard’s film The Sea Beneath Us,about Melville’s research for his great novel, Moby Dick. The film, like the book, is a testament to the “leviathan” and his power. We saw it in 3-D. And, while this magnified the whale’s fearsome abilities it also makes another point. That being the uncontrollable ability of the seas.

Witness Melville’s words on this subject:

“…though but a moment’s consideration will teach, that however baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet forever and forever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.” And:

“But not only is the sea such a foe to man who is an alien to it, but it is also a fiend to its own offspring; worse than the Persian host who murdered his own guests; sparing not the creatures which itself hath spawned. Like a savage tigress that tossing in the jungle overlays her own cubs, so the sea dashes even the mightiest whales against the rocks, and leaves them there side by side with the split wrecks of ships. No mercy, no power but its own controls it. Panting and snorting like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider, the masterless ocean overruns the globe.”

Whale oil preceded modern oil and its products for our energy. And while we give ourselves credit for ceasing the massacres of whales, our misuse of oil and carbon may find us among the slaughtered. Politicians won’t decide about climate change. The sea will.

And, while the question of off shore drilling here in North Carolina, and off our Atlantic coast, has serious financial and social variables, that is not really the issue. Nature and the sea are showing us some severe possibilities. Any who pretends they know the limits of the power of the seas of the world is a fool.

The Elimination Monologues

On By ethomasparhamIn I. ELONLeave a comment

The Whites, the Robertsons, and the Parhams had become good friends. That was about to be tested.

Jeanne convinced Margaret that if Margaret could convince me, then she could convince “Left Brain”, a.k.a. “Junior” on an eight-day river rafting trip down the Colorado (“Color-Red”) River through the glorious Grand Canyon. The majority of the group (26 people) were professional speakers, part of a national “union” of speakers. Jeanne was the Matriarch.

“OK,” I said, “if Junior can do it, I can.” Margaret and I were “fillers” as the twenty-six number had not made. Really it was half and half, pro’s and “Tali-baptists.” While some of the speakers bolted (Evidently they had a “scouting report JR and I didn’t have), another speaker filled the boat with “happy clappers” about to become “happy crappers.” I was outnumbered immediately. Their “circle of love” included morning devotionals, prayer, and testimony. I tolerated that throughout my Baptist youth and remained fairly civil and fairly quiet.

Some of it got political. The combination put me over the edge. I needed Russell or Ed Perkins. The only thing worse than a neo-conservative Republican is a She-Publican, think Ann Coulter. My seat in the raft stationed me by Dana Carvey’s “Church Lady.” One off colored joke and I got the “aren’t you special” look. I figured we’re in this for eight days, how do I get past the “stare?” I found out she was a choir director. I challenged her to a “hymn” contest. You mention a Baptist hymn, I’ll tell you the words. Then it’s your turn. She wouldn’t even do that. Pissed, I sang the Doxology, “Bless be the Tie”, “There is a Fountain,” and on and on and on, yodeling my monotone floating down the Colorado.

Actually that week it was the “color-muddy” river, or “color-cucka” river. Looked like “Yoo Hoo Chocolate Milk.” And it was cold, then hot, scary as hell and then all work. Put up your tent. Take it down. Go find rocks to hold your tent down, haul in the cooking gear. I’d just retired. Plus Junior and I looked at the tent like a Rubik cube. No clue. Screw it, I ratcheted it up a level or two. I sang the Dog Song, bashed “little George Bush,” or “Shrub,” and questioned “Sparky.”

Tour Guide, “Sparky” first addressed some “omissions” from the brochure: rattlesnakes, scorpions, fractures, giardia, sand spurs, hypothermia, getting lost, slippery rocks, and on.

Then the real kicker. Elimination. We were about to get real familiar. Particularly for Baptists. Now nomenclature becomes important. Defecation and urinating? #1 and #2? Poop and Pee? Lots of names for the potty process. Actually they named it “Oscar.”

I haven’t seen Jeanne’s DVD that includes her side of this story. I limited my comments and scenario into the “Elimination Monologues.” Given that daily we were in a life or death situation you tend to resort to child- hood type fears. Mix this with “Sparky’s” pooping rules and the imagination runs wild.

Remember:

Pooping at someone else’s house? Trying to fool them by silent fart? Clogging their toilet and having to ask for a plunger? Which way does the lid go? Aiming with special care?

The list goes on. Now at age 66 “Sparky” has some new rules:
1. Pee only in the river (the urine will cause fungus in the Canyon. Fungus? You could put North Carolina in this 286-mile valley.)

2. Poop only in Oscar. It is illegal to do so on land. No paper

3. Oscar rules: No “port-a-pot” luxury, it’s a simple “box with a hole.” Fire at will. Paper available, one hole for 26 rafters plus four staff. (People began to look at each other.) Take the sign with you. Return it to the line; we locate it at a “discreet” site at each different camp location. Each day we camped at different, (in a lot of ways) sites. There were some tricky variables. “The women go upstream, the men go downstream.” (Is that a pun, “Sparky”?) This alone caused confusion, sexual ani- mosity, and lost dignity. Many, myself included, abandoned protocol. Some were “tali-baptisits.”

Once, while whizzing where I thought proper, I heard a second and different “tinkle.” Looking down I saw the white ass of the “Church Lady” giving me that look from a lower position. I broke into “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine, oh what a fore- taste of glory divine. Heir of salvation..” and carried on. Screw it. Peeing at night presented a fundamental problem. Where the hell is the river? Each location different. “Country” once advised me as to how to get up real early for a golf match. “Perm, you just as old as I am. ‘Bout the third or forth time you get up to piss, just stay up.” Simple.

It must be noted that post surgery my left leg never has worked well at all. In the middle of the night, I could barely get out of the friggin tent, then to find the river. Needless to say I got entirely lost. Couldn’t let go on the earth. Oh no, illegal pissing? I didn’t want to be the first one caught.

I wandered back though the tents, flashlight in had, having no idea which tent housed Margaret. One for sure didn’t. As I shone the light into my “best guess,” the “Church Lady”, plus curlers and sans makeup, gave me the “glare” again. 2:00 am. “You pervert.”

Finally I heard Margaret, “Tom, Tom, you idiot, over here.” She walked me to the edge of the river, where I upped the water level. Each afternoon our first official task was to help unload the two rafts. You found out quickly, though, you really needed to “fudge” and find your “tent rocks”. If you didn’t find the rocks your tent would blow away easily. Plus, if you waited, the other cheaters would scoff up all the accessible rocks.

About day two I noticed something peculiar. The “Church Lady” headed neither place, but to the cooks table. What for? I watched her while she watched the cooking guide can-opener the big Delmonte bean can. “Church Lady” grabbed it and left. Damn! A bedpan! Why didn’t they tell me to bring my urinal? I had several from all my surgeries.

Other women figured it out. Word of mouth, and the line grew.

As the cans grew smaller the women wondered about their volume and circumferences. I hadn’t watched a woman so concerned about the “bore” on something since Linda Lovelace stared down John Holmes in “Deep Throat.” I got me a can. Trouble was I had to wait till the end of the line. Baptist women stick together.

And it had a “corrugated edge” on it. Now picture a crippled, unstable old man peeing in a razor sharp can, probably too small for my potential. Stumble with your “member” in there, and your heart rate will go up. Soon the women sat in the muddy river in groups, some concentrating, some talking and peeing away. The men quickly adopted my attitude. Screw modesty. I’m just trying to get my ass home safely. Back to “Oscar” and “Sparky’s” rules:

4. Sparky said don’t pee and poop at the same time in Oscar. Huh? How I ask, can one’s most sacred moment of concentrative bliss be manipulated thusly? Can’t be done, I don’t care what you say. I questioned “Sparky’s credibility.

5. When “Sparky” said “if this system doesn’t work, we’d try another one.” Bullshit, “Sparky,” what other one is there?

In the military they give you a couple of minutes to crap. Women, especially older Baptist, wouldn’t make that dead line. While many were stymied by this process, I was doing well. One guy from Raleigh couldn’t make it work. Couldn’t do it. Seven days, “big cloud, no rain.” He was an angry man. Seven days sans movement will do that to anyone. What do you say standing in line to dump? Three ladies and me. I sang hymns, or told dirty jokes. I was gaining an audience. Now, when I farted in the “circle of love” several laughed. The “Church Lady” even smiled at me.

Another revelation with Oscar was you were often in open view of other boats coming down the river. They caught me every morning. They’d laugh and wave. I’d shoot ‘em the bird. I’d gotten it down pat. Not quite as effective or quick as Dan’s “straight,” but two minutes and I was gone. The night before we were to leave I felt good about crapping. One more morn- ing and I’m back to my “American Standard.” (Great name for a john).

Then….”Sparky’s” Revenge. TACOS. Spicy Tacos. As the twilight set in post meal rumblings became audible. “Escapee” poots from the ladies, even. Oscar’s line became lengthened with anxious ladies.
“Seven Days” was unmoved even by the tacos. I thought I was too, but then

I knew. There was gonna be some “Old Coach” action and soon. I wasn’t about to get in the back of that line of slow crappers. Seven women, maybe an hour’s wait. I had no underwear. We’d repacked at the trips start and I miscalculated. One pair of shorts left. I’d had to borrow a nice shirt from Jerry Robertson. JR said take it, but it was in for a traumatic evening. I was also wearing my black “Reebok” coaching shoes. I loved them. In fact, I’d worn them all week the year we’d won the NAIA National title in 1990. Sixteen years. Coaches are superstitious.

As darkness and bowel urgency mounted, I devised a plan. There were some “variables.” We’d selected our smallest landing area. “Seven Days” was nose to nose with our tent. We’d have to select a perfect site. There wasn’t one. Plus it was getting dark fast. Remember: Rattlesnakes and scorpions (and pooping). I’d convinced Margaret to go with me as “camouflage” for my secret deed. She’d even agreed to give me the last three “wipes” for the cleanup. We had run through a ton of wipes and we were still nasty.

Finally, I decided on the best cite option: a ditch about 8” wide. Someone said as a poker player I was “so lucky you could shit in a swinging jar.” This would test the quotation. Remember the limited balance, the impending darkness, and the sheer anger at ever electing to be in this predicament in the first place. The tension mounted. No doubt eminent action. I dropped my last pair of shorts. They hung on my “Reeboks” and I couldn’t shake them off my damaged left foot.

The ditch was on a hill; it tilted considerably, bringing into play, my aim. Almost dark, I drew a bead. Remember, too, we’re in the Grand goddamned Canyon, echo maximus. It startled even me. I couldn’t have hollered any louder. Viscosity quickly became an issue. Balance more so. Try as I may, my left foot wouldn’t hold. Blast that surgeon.

I not only shit on my foot, I shit on my shoes, my leg, my shorts, and Jerry Robertson’s new shirt. Then I fell in it. I covered it as best I could by hand. Margaret was shocked by my language. The smell got me. Then the thought: Will the “Shit Ranger” know? Will I be ticketed for illegal shitting? Would “Seven Days” hear, or smell, and turn me in as a “shit-felon?”

Next issue. What to do with me? Our space was a tent. I had no clothes. Margaret, a hardened nurse, was pushed to the max. No more so than the limited wipes. Saturation. Somehow she got my naked self semi-clean. Could we sleep a few hours one last night, after this trauma? About to doze off it became apparent, we’d missed something. Aha, the shoes. I couldn’t leave the tent. The “Church Lady” wouldn’t understand. Margaret buried the “Reeboks.”

All week “Sparky” had told us of the variations of rock strata throughout the vast, majestic canyon. The next day, as we sailed our final miles down the Colo- rado; I pictured a future archeologist discovering my Reeboks. They would hold them up to their fellow explorers and declare: “These shoes once won a National Championship, but they still smell like shit.”

I didn’t speak to Jeanne Robertson for a while after that. Margaret, bless her, loved the adventure and the canyons beauty. “Didn’t you love the sounds of the river and the natural beauty?” I replied, “We could have bought a CD and a coffee table book for fifty dollars.”

FLORENCE

On By ethomasparhamIn J. EMERALD ISLELeave a comment

“It won’t happened to us” just happened to us.   It was named FLORENCE, and she roared through our neighborhood Sept. 18, 2018.   In the 1950’s movie THE RAINMAKER, Burt Lancaster’s character, STARBUCK warns “…don’t ask for deluge”!  Somebody didn’t get the memo.

Trying to find some good out of all this, I make this observation and suggestion.

Our community of some 400 lots and houses is fairly new.  The codes from day one prohibited metal roofs.  This was a decision made with aesthetics a major guideline.

Coastal people described Florence as “once in five hundred years” storm.  Yet the description was applied a week later to storm MICHAEL, that literally blew a Florida town off the map.   While Florence was  evaluated as “…” the most expensive storm in North Carolina history” by Governor Roy  Cooper,  Water–not wind was –the problem:  Unlike 2018’s Michael, or the 1954 monster Hazel.

The water, in flood-like fashion came from down  to up in homes and businesses.  More  often it came down, through  roofs with shingles.  Our house tops turned “tarp blue”.  We travelled eastern NC several different routes,  to Wilmington, who got it the worst, to Raleigh via 24/40 west or 58/70.  To Beaufort by 24/70 or down the island’s 58.

SAME STORY EACH WAY!  While shingled roofs allowed water into the buildings,  most metal roofs remained intact.  NO INTERNAL DAMAGE.  I asked my  insurance adjustor if my observations were accurate?  I guessed a 50-1 ratio between shingled or metal.  He said “…you are no where close”.

Lots of bad weather lately.  Hard to work outside.  Today and yesterday it has been nice.   Roof work every where.   Our people voted to allow metal roofs now.  But—they are more expensive.

CUT TO THE CHASE.  Shouldn’t replacement and new roofs in certain coastal and suspect geographical areas be metal?  Is a study worthwhile considering how to make metal roofs more accessible?   Should governments from local to federal  be concerned about not going through this nightmare again.  Insurance companies?   Certainly homeowners and businesses who are rebuilding.  New ones?

Our people know the scoop now.  Still pricing has people rebuilding with shingles.  While “I won’t be around for the next one” may be true, don’t you want your heirs to avoid this trauma?  Will the extra cost of metal now yield higher resale?

Time for some thought.  Action.  Do your own survey.  How many tarps on shingles roofs.  Metal?  Best evidence?   Check the old tobacco barns with intact metal tops!

If, in fact, the next FLORENCE styled storm is 100 years away –newly added metal roofs will join the tobacco barns as survivors.

 

E. OLD ROCKERS (102)

On By ethomasparhamIn J. EMERALD ISLE3 Comments

My friend,”Country” Boykin, calls my wife OLLIE RAY. Hambone ran the rural store near “Country’s” Rock Ridge, N.C. home. “Ollie Ray hung around ‘Bone’s’ all day and didn’t buy anything. At closing time he would go out to the highway and hitchhike. If a car was going east he’d thumb east. West and Ollie Ray would cross the road and hitchhike that way. Made no difference. He just liked MOTION under him.”
Wife Margaret was fifth of six. She recently read a letter her Mom wrote long ago, describing her children to a relative. By the time she got #5, four year old Margaret, she simply noted “…that one is a little RIP.” I think they should have named her GO.
When we retired I offered, “chose your spot!” No hesitation: “I want to live at beach”. Fine. But, I WONDERED.
Cost of building our “dream” beach house rose as the house rose. Maybe a word of caution: “If we keep adding to building this house we won’t have a bunch for a lot of extras later, for example–travel.” Famous last words:
“You don’t have to worry if we get to that beach!”
That lasted about two weeks.
To be fair she found a solution. Within the last month she has made separate trips to Oregon, Canada, and Denver. All expenses paid because of volunteer “altruistic”services she renders. Really quite honorable as well as lots of miles logged. Doesn’t take long to recover. She’ll unpack, put her clothes up, report in—VERY SOON, wanderlust gene kicks in. She made it an hour upon returning last week from Colorado: “I just booked another to San Fransisco.”
She, maybe we, have a looming problem. There is a fast approaching age deadline (no pun intended) that ends a major avenue for her travels. That, combined with my desire to not get out of my zip code, has several concerned. Beach neighbor, Coach Dave Odom, wonders “…how long are the two of you gonna be able to stay home together. He has a point. Last winter the weather forced us all inside for a LONG few days. Coach Odom noticed that “…when she cordoned that six foot area around your recliner with yellow crime scene tape, now that is scary.”

I am rather stationary. (LIKE A ROCK–Bob Seger).
I just turned 74. Bob Dylan is 73. Dylan has a pretty good take on all of it, aging included. Wille Nelson noted at turning 75 : I’ve outlived my pecker!”

***”…it’s not dark yet, but its getting there.” DYLAN
***”…I love you more and ever shall, but there’s no one left to tell, the world has gone black before my eyes.” Dylan (NETTIE MOORE).
*** Bob with a little hope: “Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow. Things are just about to get interesting, right about now”. MISSISSIPPI

I do hope she’ll “stick with me.” I’ve known all along there was no need to try to cage this OLLIE RAY.  One wife told her husband “…if we are gonna gracefully grow old together, you are gonna have to slow down.” Half the Beatles are gone. Dylan, the Stones, lots of commentary. Some quite wistful: “…and I want to rock your gypsy soul, just like days of old…” Van Morrison (INTO THE MYSTIC).

Maybe I should just write her a song. Like my contemporaries. I probably would fare better in country venue. Lets see:

“I USED TO BE YORE ROCK AND ROLL,
BUT NOW I’M JUST A ROCK”

G. DOWN EAST

On By ethomasparhamIn J. EMERALD ISLELeave a comment

“Hoi Toiders.”
Our coast is called “The Crystal Coast.” Eastern-most Carteret County houses the “Hoi Toiders” or the “High Tiders.” They go “way back,” as my boat-building buddy, J. A. Rose, of Harker’s Island, says.
I asked one old timer about his siblings. They had all relocated elsewhere. Why? “We wuz so poor we had to scatter.”
“Possum” Hale was driving a local, who asked if Hale had anything left to drink (True Story!) Watson or Possum, told him there was a pint in the glove compartment. Before he could stop him this Hoi Toider had drunk half a can of brake fluid.
“Possum” took the immediately ill passenger to the emergency room. After violent vomiting, the Doctor asked, “ Are you all right? You drank a half can of brake fluid.”
“Ort to be able to stop her on a doime,” said the recovering “Core Sounder.”
One tale holds that times were so bad that a fisherman had to take his wife along to help him. A storm washed them both overboard. He was saved and taken by the Coast Guard to the hospital.
A doctor broke the news. “Sir, we found your wife. Unfortunately she was tangled beneath the sea in a net. She has about fifty blue crabs attached to her. It’s quite a mess, and we really wonder what you’d like us to do?”
The Hoi Toider’s conclusion: “Well, toimes being toimes, and Thelma being Thelma, just take them crabs off and re-set her.”
Mr. Rose said a Hoi Toider was awakened at midnight by a neighbor who reported, “Oi’ve hit something out in the road. It’s got an ugly, big hard head, and its ass smells worse than anything Oi’ve ever encountered.”
The husband reported, “ My Lord, you’ve hit Pauline.”

H. JOHN, NOT BROTHER AL, MCQUIRE

On By ethomasparhamIn J. EMERALD ISLELeave a comment

•ON GAMBLING
(“Bayou Sam, from South Louisiann, had gambling on his brain.
Evangeline, from the Maritime, was slowly going insane.”) EVANGILINE.
Living at the beach does have some disadvantages. You have to drive two hours before you get anywhere. Wish I knew now to fly a private plane. Better still let Margaret fly it. I haven’t been able to find a good local card game. Miss my Elon bunch. I did get in a game but it was a little heavy for me. I like to play for fun. Not so one John McGuire. John is the brother of the basketball coach and announcer Al McGuire and also former NBA Knickerbocker, Dick McGuire. John’s first love wasn’t basketball. About 90 years old and the proud father of nine children, John is a consummate curmudgeon. Not much casual conversation with John. Particularly during a poker game. I tried. He fascinated me with his dogged concentration and love of gambling. I could tell he was a cut above local boys. Several levels above me. I gleaned the information from the game’s players that John had made some money. Finally I got to where he would talk to me. Particularly if I came early before the game started. How did you make your money? Basketball? No way was the reply! He then told me the story. He had a good friend who was a lifetime business partner. But like John, his first priority was not business, but gambling. Trouble was, while they were good at business, they were lousy at the race track. Their business was the bar business in New York City. “We figured out that heterosexuals went to the bars on weekends, but that gays went every night.” Thus a move to Queens and the gay bar business. And a good business. Trouble was, John said “…we’d make a ton of money every night and then lose it back just as fast, or faster, the next day at the track”.
Most of the time John sat quietly during the game. His only intention being to get the crowd to play as many hands as possible. If he wasn’t getting good cards he would often blurt out something that the crowd often didn’t understand, or pay any attention to. “Red board” would come from nowhere. Finally I asked him: John, what does it mean when you say red board. After he explained his action I realized this comment came when the conversation was too long, too idle, or just an excuse (“by God, if I had of caught a deuce I’d have reamed you”). John explained that at the race track, after the race, the results were posted on a big red board.
Once posted. The race was over. Move on. Play another hand. Golfers are the second, next to poker players for whining (“…if I hadn’t double bogged #7…red board.)
John wouldn’t give you any extra information. Once, when asked if he was bluffing, John stated “…my name is Zink and what do you think. I do your laundry for nothing!” After prodding him at the game’s conclusion, John told me about the laundry sign in New York. When the person was told his bill was 40$, he said what about the sign. The manager explained “…you read the sign wrong. “My name is Zink, and what do you think? I do YOUR laundry for NOTHING?” Mr. Zink would ask.
John’s daughter would bring him and come get him. One day after our game I noticed she wasn’t there. I told John to call her and let her know I’d take him home. We still didn’t know
each other well. He looked a little funny when I said “…there is a price for my taking you home.” What price? “You have to tell me one Al McGuire story nobody else knows.” John thought a few minutes and then asked: “Do you remember, when teams first integrated, how coaches were asked how many black kids did the coach play? “The standard joke (I think it was a joke),
was “two at home, three on the road, and four if I’m losing?” I do remember that. John said that we altered that to “three at home, four on the road, and five if we had a bet on the game”.
Gambling certainly has a dangerous side.