My third grade teacher had a thing for poetry.  Mrs. Arndt.  Back when putting the “r” in Mrs. did not offend anyone.

This poetry assignment was brutal. Memorize “Home” by Edgar A. Guest. Mrs. Arndt must have enjoyed torture. “Home” was not a four-liner. The first verse had almost 100 words and there were three other verses. Why in the world would any teacher inflict such agony on a class of third-graders?

And, Mr. Guest did not make the assignment any easier.  “Home” was written in a form of dialect that was difficult to read, much less memorize.  The last two lines are a good example:

          Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.

Thank goodness Mrs. Arndt gave us a translated version to memorize with full words we could read and understand.  But that made the assignment only slightly easier.

Why in the world?  Why memorize a poem that most likely would be forgotten shortly after standing in front of classmates and embarrassing yourself as you try to remember the words?

I do recall we had several days to memorize the poem – mighty nice of Mrs. Arndt.  I also remember getting totally frustrated in the evenings at home.  I prayed Mrs. Arndt would be re-assigned the next day and the homework assignment would forever be forgotten. That did not happen.

So, I did the best I could, which was pretty good compared to some classmates who could not remember the name of the poem.  On my day of reckoning, I made it through the first verse without much trouble.  I did okay the rest of the way, but needed prompting several times by Mrs. Arndt.

Well, to this day, 60-plus years later, I still remember most of the words.

          It takes a heap of living in a house to make a home,

          A heap of rain and sunshine and you sometimes have to roam,

          Before you really appreciate the things you left behind,

          With hunger for them always, with them always on your mind.

It took quite a few years but the words have a much clearer meaning today.  No doubt, Mrs. Arndt was preparing us for the future.  A lot of truth to those first four lines, but you almost have to live your life to get the full meaning.  The first two lines of each of the final three verses provide lessons of life yet to come for a third-grader:

          Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

          Before it’s home there’s got to be a heap of living in it . . .

          You’ve got to weep to make it home, you’ve got to sit and sigh

          And watch beside a loved one’s bed, and know that Death is nigh . . .

          You’ve got to sing and dance for years, you’ve got to romp and play,

          And learn to love the things you have by using them each day . . . 

All the words following these opening lines carry meaningful messages of a perceptive poet.  They would have been only words hidden in a book had it not been for an equally perceptive teacher.

Thank you, Edgar A. Guest. And thank you for the torture, Mrs. Arndt.

Here, read the complete dialect version and then read it to your children and grandchildren.

Continue reading “It Takes A Heap Of Living …” →

Eutaw Springs, S.C., is a suburb, so to speak, of Eutawville which is a suburb, so to speak, of Holly Hill.  When the census-sanctioned population of Holly Hill is 1,281 and the population of Eutawville is 344, and you are Eutaw Springs, really, there can’t be much to you.

Except for the memories.

And the memories returned as we knocked off the miles while traveling through Augusta, then Aiken, then Columbia and then almost to Orangeburg before exiting I-26 in search of the old route I took often to Eutaw Springs and Lake Marion as a youngster.

My Aunt Lackie had lived 89 years, reared three children the right way, earned a reputation for honesty and integrity, and added immeasurably to three communities.  She lived in Eutaw Springs, worked in Eutawville and worshipped in Holly Hill.  No finer lady has ever graced this earth, so our trip back for the celebration of her life included some sadness but mostly memories that are relived with smiles and laughter.

Such memories of this three-town stretch many times involve my cousins – Babs, Gail and Jamie – when we were tots and then pre-teens.  The most stress we knew back then came during our Monopoly games.  Life was simple because life was still ahead of us.  And, all  three of these lives today and their families are wonderful examples for others after all these years.

My parents eventually had property on Lake Marion, and it was a great getaway back in the sixties for me and my teenage fishing buddies.  Four of us would cram into a VW bug and hit the road for an overnighter at Eutaw Springs.  Sleeping quarters the first few trips were on the floor in a one-room shack with a rough bathroom off the back – good enough for guys until my Dad could add on and eventually turn it into a more comfortable house.  The one-room shack was more fun.

Back then, trips to Eutaw Springs were never complete without at least one meal at Danny Bell’s Restaurant.  We didn’t need menus.  Fried catfish.  Every time for everybody.  Danny Bell would sometimes serve us personally and tell us how the crappie and bream were biting.  If anybody knew, it was Danny Bell.  He was sort of a Eutaw Springs hero.

Blount’s Store was across the street from the restaurant.  Mrs. Blount sold us our bait and usually had her own scoop on whether the fish were biting – and which ones.  I sometimes suspected Mrs. Blount would tell us the crappie were active because minnows cost us more than worms, which was to her cash register’s advantage.  Usually, we could only afford the worms anyway.

Blount’s Store is no longer there, but Danny Bell’s Restaurant is, and signs still advertise the popular fried catfish.  Just down the road a neat official green sign now proclaims Highway 6 to be “Danny Bell Highway.”  Rightly so.

Not much else has changed, and I think Aunt Lackie would like it that way.  She and Uncle Jimmy moved into the renovated and enlarged house that was once the one-room shack and enjoyed comfortable waterfront life there for many years.  The evening before her funeral, Aunt Lackie’s neighbors made sure food at her house was aplenty for visiting  family and friends.  While we were there, Cousin Jamie, for my sake, stepped off the part of the house that was once the one-room shack.  It made sense, but I never would have figured it out on my own.

Jamie also mentioned that he found my Dad’s old fishing boat and locked it up inside a fence in Eutawville in case I ever wanted it.  My WW and I made time to see the boat the following day; still had a couple of the same seats and what looked to be the same gas tank.  After about 65 years, the boat needs some cleaning up and repairs, but it no longer needs an owner.

The service the next day in Holly Hill was quite a tribute to Aunt Lackie.  Most times when you are 89, a lot of your friends and family have already departed earth, and attendance at your funeral could be sparse at best.  Not this time.  Half of Holly Hill, Eutawville and Eutaw Springs crowded into the pews of the First Baptist Church of Holly Hill to pay their respects, and it took three ministers to adequately share some of the highlights of her life.

The service was considered a celebration of life rather than a funeral.  For me, however, these occasions are sad.  I especially hurt for my three favorite cousins.  Babs, Gail and Jamie are strong in their faith, though, and time will help.  Their parents certainly taught them well.

After the cemetery service just behind the church, we hugged family and friends and said our goodbyes to my cousins.  A long ride back to Georgia awaited us, but not before one more out-of-the-way trip down Danny Bell Highway.

It took all of about 10 minutes from Holly Hill to Eutawville to that gnat of a suburb called Eutaw Springs.  Not much to it.

Except for the memories.

 

 

 

Chip off the old block?  Hardly.  Even though he has the same name.

This guy can actually CATCH fish.  As my wise-guy friends would say, the proof is in the pictures.  Well, see above.  Left to right:  little Trey with a little catfish; big Trey with a 29-pound, four-ounce catfish; and, Trey with a 5.68 pound largemouth bass.

Trey generally excels at whatever he chooses to do.  Most recently in his young life it has been fishing and hunting.  Whether he’s with friends Mikey or Jonas or his namesake Dad or Grandad, he seems to have a nose for finding the fish – or deer.

Trey learned to aim straight at an early age with a BB and pellet rifle.  He and the rifle were the same height.  The early training paid off a couple years ago with his first eight-point buck.  He also trained early with a bow and arrow made with his own hands – with a little help from his Grandad.  He now helps to educate his Grandad on things like the best models of hunting rifles and the gear ratios on baitcasting reels.  He even makes his own lures for fly fishing.

If this is bragging about a grandson, so be it.

Trey once was pond fishing with a friend.  Might have been one of those times they were fishing a pond they weren’t suppose to be fishing.  Anyway, this excursion was unplanned so he did not have his tackle box, only a borrowed pole with limited line, one bream hook and no bait.  For the uneducated, a bream hook is very small.  Two fancy-pants guys were fishing the same pond – probably with permission, of all things – and tossed a used and battered plastic worm toward Trey and his friend.  “Why don’t you try that?” they laughed.

Trey, as alway, was polite.  “Okay, thanks.”  He then divided the worm with his friend, something only a good guy would do.  Trey took his small piece of plastic worm, embedded the bream hook and tied it to his limited piece of fishing line.  Maybe you can guess the rest of this fish tale, which happens to be true.  Trey surveyed the pond for just the right spot, tossed the concocted lure near some weeds in the water and, bingo!  Dragged in a nice largemouth bass.  Didn’t want to rub it in too badly, but while inspecting his trophy he held it just high enough for the two fancy-pants guys to get a glimpse.

Another true tale:  At age six, during a trip to The Cabin, Trey and his Grandad decided to do some bream fishing.  “How many crickets do you think we should get, twenty-five or fifty?”  I asked him.  We decided on one hundred crickets, launched the jon  boat and headed to one of our secret honey holes.  When the sun started going down, we motored back to The Cabin with 82 bream and zero crickets.  He just couldn’t stop fishing until every cricket was gone.

Two weeks ago, Trey was invited to go to south Florida with friend Jonas for some fishing.  Wasn’t long before the pictures started arriving.  Then a text with a picture: “Added a new species today … a cichlid.”  Trey keeps track of the different species of fish he has caught since he first started fishing.  The cichlid upped the number to 33.  The next day, a video arrived of Trey pulling in a hammerhead shark.  Not surprisingly, he played the shark perfectly to the boat.  “Caught it on light tackle and 20-pound test line,” he texted.  Experienced fishermen understand the difficulty of such a challenge. Have I mentioned Trey is 15 years old?

 

 

Trey also is learning to maneuver in today’s technology-dominated, social media world.  He recently fished in an on-line fishing tournament.  Pay a small fee, get a code and register any fish caught by submitting a picture of the fish next to an approved measuring device.  It involves an honor system, which is right up Trey’s alley.  Anything dishonest just isn’t in his DNA.  Didn’t win the tournament, but had fun and gained some experience.

Because he has caught plenty of good-sized fish, pictures of his catches sometimes appear on social media. That has led to contacts with outdoors marketers and fishing equipment manufacturers.  He has been asked to wear certain logo shirts and use certain fishing equipment – such as particular name-brand weights for his fishing line.  At 15, Trey is not apt to be endorsing products anytime soon, but marketers might be wise to keep him in their sights.

I’d endorse this guy . . . this grandson . . . any day.

 

 

My WW (Wonderful Wife) is called Gram by our grandchildren.

And, anybody who knows Gram also knows you’d better not mess with her kids or grandkids.  Anything less than complimentary will get you deep in the doghouse of this five-foot grandmother.

Gram also has house rules for the grandchildren: 1) No grandchild will ever get in trouble while at Gram and Grandad’s house.  2) You do not have to clean your plate. 3) Toys from the toy closet are allowed anywhere in the house.  4) Any grandchild is allowed to visit the pantry anytime.

You get the idea.

And, Gram’s rules are much more reasonable than Grandad’s one rule:  at least one piece of chocolate every visit – at least one.

Gram also believes in playing with the grandkids when they visit.  Everything else is put on hold.  This is especially true when Kaisa and Annika visit.  K is five, Anka three and they love to play with Gram whether it’s an imaginary safari through the house or – their favorite – playing with their Barbie dolls.

Gram had a big surprise for them last visit.  She had purchased a large Barbie house replete with rooftop swimming pool, three floors and all things Barbie.  It was set up and ready to go when they arrived.  The biggest surprise, however, was yet to come.

Gram also had purchased her own Barbie doll, Nurse Barbie.  And that opened up a whole new world of imagination.  Nurse Barbie assumed two little nursing assistants who began taking care of Gram, the other Barbies and … Grandad, who was summoned from his recliner to be a patient.  After being subjected to blood pressure checks, ear and nose checks, knee reflex hammers, injections and numerous temp checks, he was declared healthy but told to cut down on the chocolate.

K and Anka had a ton of fun with Gram and the Barbie house, and their excitement was obvious. But, most of all, they just could not believe that Gram had her own Barbie.  Such a cool Gram.

So, how many grandmothers aged 60-something have their own Barbie?  This one was about to celebrate a birthday, making her 60-something-plus-one.  And, like many grandmothers, Gram is not easy to buy for on any such occasion.

Well, March 11 came with the usual morning birthday coffee and opening of cards and gifts.  Gram was her usual chatty self for 8 o’clock in the morning.  She could guess most of her gifts before opening them – the small hand vacuum she requested for when the grandgirls snack at their Princess table, a gift card for car washes, the smallest Totes umbrella ever made.  But there was one mystery gift.

The final gift was tucked away in a medium sized birthday bag and saved for last.  Gram is pretty good at guessing gifts, but this one stumped even her.  Nothing left to do but dive into that bag of tissue paper.  No doubt, Gram loved the surprise and could not wait to show it and share it with Kaisa and Annika.

This 60-something-plus-one grandmother is now the proud owner of her own bright pink Barbie sports car – a convertible no less.  Just what Gram – and the grandgirls – needed.

After all, Gram already has her own Barbie.

 

 

 

 

When I first met Jason many years ago,  I asked if he would take care of the yard at The Cabin – pick up fallen limbs, cut the grass, do some edging, blow off the driveway.  His answer was quick and short: No problem.

He didn’t know what he was getting into.  Since then, regardless of the situation, he has never flinched.

When the water heater busted and flooded the basement: No problem.  When The Cabin needed wiring for another light in the loft: No problem.  When a deer died and decayed on the lakeside, attracting a flock of buzzards: No problem.  When the green metal roof needed a bath: No problem. When the wash pump froze, the heating system went out, the huge trees needed to be removed: No problem, no problem, no problem.  There’s nothing Jason cannot do.

So, a year ago, a wicked tornado waited until I departed The Cabin before swooping down into the cove.

My ride back to Woodstock was two hours old, which meant I was only a couple of miles from home when my cell phone chirped.  Lake neighbor Bill said the tornado had ripped off some boat house shingles, splintered some tall pines and damaged some nearby homes. Trees, limbs and debris everywhere so “you might want to come back and take a look.”

Bill does not tend to exaggerate nor get excited about much.  The only time I’ve seen him slightly pumped up is when he’s explaining the next project for his lake house.  He’s a great neighbor who has not put down his hammer since moving in two years ago.  And, when Bill puts down his hammer for his cell phone, it’s something important.

I had already tried to call Jason before I made a sharp u-turn. It would take two hours to rerun the roads back to The Cabin.  Radio reports were not encouraging.  When Atlanta radio mentions middle Georgia and Milledgeville, it can’t be good.

It was unusual not to be able to reach Jason by phone.  His house is about five miles from The Cabin, and I was worried that it might have been hit by the tornado.

I worried about Jason and his boys until I pulled up to The Cabin.  There they were.  In the two hours it took for my return, they had already completely cleared all trees and limbs, returned chairs and benches to docks, raked up all debris, nailed down a heavy tarp over the damaged boat house roof, and carried off a ton of blown shingles. Evan, six years old at the time, was toting a heavy load of damaged shingles (pictured above) when I arrived.  A healthy 12-year-old would have trouble lifting that many shingles.

Evan (7), Bradley (11), and Bret (15) form quite a work crew with their Dad.  They will be glad when their other brother, two-year-old Ethan (aka “Red”), gets a little older so he can start shouldering his share of the work load.  Folks in rural middle Georgia seem to possess a tough, get-it-done work ethic not experienced by city-slickers. They also have instincts to care about their neighbors and friends.  Like on tornado day.

“We were worried about the cabin so we all hopped in the truck and headed this way,” Jason said.  “Looks like the cabin is okay, but we couldn’t see the ground when we got here. It was covered up.”

For years, Jason’s lone sidekick was Bret.  Then Bradley came along.  Then Evan and it won’t be long before Ethan fills out the work team. When you join this team, your first responsibility is to pick up sticks, limbs and anything else and put them in the fire ring.  Then, assuming you do a good job, you are promoted to the rake or blower and then to the edger.  Once you achieve those levels, you might graduate to the mower.  Only Bret has made it that far, but Bradley is close behind.

Watching these boys grow up has been a rewarding experience. Evan is strong and a hard worker.  Mischief has found him on the job a couple of times.  He likes to dig for worms – an understandable distraction back at age four – and he likes to fish, which he has learned is a fun thing to do but not when your job is picking up sticks and limbs. Bradley sometimes misses trips to The Cabin during baseball season; he likes to strut the bases after knocking the cover off the ball, which happens often.  And Bret, the big brother everybody wants, quietly sets the good example for his brothers.

Jason is stern with all of his boys, but the education they are getting is invaluable and not taught in most of today’s classrooms and homes.  Hard work.  Listening.  Discipline.  Respect for elders.  Yes, sir; no, sir.  Yes, m’am; no, m’am.

And, helping neighbors and friends comes naturally for these guys.

Like on tornado day, when The Cabin and grounds actually looked better than normal.

No problem.

 

 

 

All boats should have a name.

You never want to say, “Let’s go fishing in THE BOAT.”  The boat needs a name – sometimes odd but usually meaningful.

My Dad, a skilled craftsman, actually built his first boat.  He set up shop on the open carport on Margrave Road.  As he had the time and money, he would piddle with it.  Wooden, carefully measured, every cut precise.  It was a 12-foot boat for pond use only.  Sturdy, and the good part:  it actually would float.  I also learned some bad words during that project on the carport, but that’s off the subject.

“Our boat needs a name,” he said.  My Dad always used “our” when talking about his possessions.  He thought everything he had should be shared, especially with his children.  Nothing ever belonged to just him.

“We need to think about a name,” he said.  He always wanted to think for a while before making a profound decision.  “What about Todiha?” he blurted as though he already had thought long and hard about it.  Pronounced tah-dee-hay . . .

“What?  What in the world is Todiha?”

“You know . . . Tom, Dick and Harry . . . the first two letters of . . .”

So, the name of that gray, wooden boat forever would be ToDiHa, named after his three boys.  As in, “You want to go fishing in the ToDiHa?”

The ToDiHa had a few excursions before expiring.  Maybe it sank or was sold or became firewood, but it’s name has remained in the family and many times has come up at family gatherings.  A story and name worth remembering.

Fast forward about 55 years to 2015 and a gray, aluminum 16-foot Polar Craft, comfortably docked near The Cabin.  Definitely not constructed in an open carport, but desperately in need of a name.  MoDaTy, after our three children – Monica, Dalton and Tyler – just did not have the right ring to it; maybe even a hint of hip hop.  No way.  But, with five grandchildren back then and a sixth on the way, maybe  . . .

Let’s see, from oldest to youngest, there was Hunter, Austin, Trey, Neah and Kaisa with number six to be born in 2015.  Playing scramble the first letters of the five names, amazingly . . . T-H-A-N-K.  Which meant if we could get an “S” with grandchild number six, what better name for our fishing boat than “THANKS” – named in appreciation of our grandchildren?  Only one problem:  we needed an “S”.  Would the name of grandchild number six possibly, miraculously, start with an “S”?

Since this plan was in my warped mind only, I wondered if dropping very discreet hints might steer the name game in the direction of an “S”.  So, minding someone else’s business, I offered, “Since you know you’re having a girl, I really like the name Samantha.”  Moans and groans could be heard around the block.  I thought of Sharon and Sara and Sylvia and . . . but I knew, really, it was none of my business.  I would just have to take my chances.

Well, Annika was born in February of 2015, and my name game was done.

But all boats should have a name.  Maybe odd but meaningful.

THANKA is perfect for our boat.

 

Three guys and a plan.

Each of us was near 40 years of marriage.  Would there be any possible way we could surprise our wives with a ceremony to renew our wedding vows?  It was just a thought at the time back in 2009.

“Well, to begin with, we still have a couple of years to get to 40, and I’m not sure we’ll make it,” said one of the guys. “She made me pretty mad the other day.”

The other’s initial reaction: “And, I’m thinking about trading in mine for a newer model.  I understand there are some good deals out there.”

It should be noted that those remarks were made at a guys-only gathering.

But the seed was planted for a surprise renewal of our vows once all of us passed 40 years of marriage.  The seed germinated for a couple years until 2011 when it started to sprout.

Maybe a trip to Hilton Head and somehow surprise them there?  The “somehow” was the challenge.  I doubt there was anything done the past 40 years by any of these guys that was not signed, sealed and delivered, in advance, by the three wives.  So, to surprise all three?  We decided to give it a try.

My thoughts kept returning to a beautiful little chapel (pictured above) on the banks of the Red River in Palmetto Bluff, a quaint community in Bluffton, S.C.  Palmetto Bluff is a picture-perfect setting not far off Hilton Head Island.  The chapel is the site of weddings, receptions, etc.  Just across the street is Buffalo’s, a restaurant the girls would like.  Maybe lunch and then walk over to visit the chapel?  The puzzle was starting to take shape, but a big piece was missing.  We needed a pastor to administer the vows.

Rev. Martin Lifer was the senior pastor at Providence Presbyterian in Hilton Head.  Even his name had the right ring to it for the occasion.  It was an unusual request: three couples, friends since high school, each married 40-plus years, wanting to renew their wedding vows, a surprise service for the wives, probably in the chapel at Palmetto Bluff.  After noting the rarity of three couples married for 40 years or more – to the same person no less – Rev. Lifer didn’t flinch.  Just tell him when and where and it would be his honor.

This plan was coming together, but there was little confidence that we could keep the scheme from the girls.  October 6 was set as the date.  Rev. Lifer was the  minister.  The chapel was the place.  Two months to go.

The manager at Buffalo’s Restaurant – not to be confused with a chicken wings place – thought our idea was awesome.  Her only question was one of disbelief, “Forty years . . . three couples . . . forty years each?”  She would arrange seating for six and be sure one of the guys was facing a window in order to see Rev. Lifer arrive and enter the chapel.  That would be the cue.

October 6, 2011 arrived.  After getting to Hilton Head the day before, the couples enjoyed a normal coffee-and-breakfast morning at Harbour Town.  The plan was in place.  Then, a kink.  The girls announced they would rather go shopping and save Palmetto Bluff for another day.  Blank, panicked stares of fright from the guys.  “You can do that if you’d like,” I stumbled. “I’ll see if we can get reservations at Buffalo’s another day.”  The other two guys swallowed their tongues.   Normally, Buffalo’s doesn’t even take reservations.

The girls decided on their own to stick with the plan to visit Palmetto Bluff as scheduled.  They knew only that we had lunch at Buffalo’s at 1 p.m.  Still knew nothing about a 2 p.m. appointment in the chapel.

The entire Buffalo’s staff must have been in on our plan.  Never have ordinary customers been treated more royally.  “Ladies, we have you seated here, and, gents, you may take your seats,” the hostess said, a wink in my direction.  The curtain had been positioned so the view of the chapel entrance was clear and direct from my chair.  “What a pretty little chapel,” said one of the guys, right on script.  “Maybe we can check it out after lunch.”  The girls thought that was a wonderful idea, thank goodness.

Lunch took less than an hour; the staff at Buffalo’s saw to that.  At 1:45, I noticed Rev. Lifer enter the chapel.  We were getting close.  The girls powdered their noses after lunch and came outside.  They wanted to see the chapel.  So we walked in that direction and up the steps.

Rev. Lifer was waiting inside, down the aisle at the front of the chapel, Bible and notes in hand. “Welcome,” he called out, addressing the girls by name.  “Come on down.  We are here today to celebrate 40 years of marriage – and to renew your vows to each other.”  Stunned to tears, the girls were caught completely off guard.  For the first time in 40 years, all three were speechless.  Each couple renewed vows individually and reverently with Rev. Lifer followed by hugs, tears and cheers (by the guys).  The girls were totally surprised, and the guys totally relieved.

So, the good Lord willing, the three couples will hit their magical 50-year anniversaries soon.  Three guys and . . . another plan?

“I’m not sure we will make it to fifty,” said one. “She made me mad the other day.”

“I’m thinking about trading mine in for a newer model,” said the other.

Well, I know of a pretty chapel on the Red River.

 

I really wanted to be a sports writer.  How neat it would be to get paid to watch games.

Encouraged by high school teacher and journalism coach Rachel Haynie, I decided to put in an application at The Columbia Record newspaper.  This part of the process did not excite me at all, but I saw it as a necessary evil.  The security guard motioned me in and toward the receptionist at the State-Record building across from the fairgrounds.

The receptionist said I should go to the Personnel Department – elevator to the second floor and take a right.  Instead, I took a left off the elevator after seeing “Sports Department” on a sign.  This was 1966 when I did not have a lot of courage in such situations.  But, I really wanted to be a sports writer.

The gruff guy behind the sports desk didn’t want to be bothered.  Jim Hunter’s reputation as sports editor was almost frightening.  He kinda growled at me, “What you need?”  Then, “Personnel is down the hall.”

The Personnel Department wasn’t any cheerier.  No greeting.  No smiles.  “Fill out this application, put it in the top tray, we’ll contact you.”  Which I did.  The top tray, however, must have had a hundred applications stacked up.  At least mine would be on top.  “Put it on the bottom,” the clerk said.  “The bottom.”  No smile.  No thank you.

I knew I was getting nowhere fast.  But, I really wanted to be a sports writer.

I would settle for being at the bottom of the totem pole on any sports staff.  Happy to take the crummy assignments; did not have to cover the mighty Eau Claire Shamrocks or Lower Richland Diamond Hornets and certainly not the Gamecocks or Clemson.  Give me the assignments nobody wanted, but give me an assignment.

I had noticed in the sports department a sheet tacked to the bulletin board.  It was staff assignments for high school football games for Thursday and Friday nights as well as for Saturday’s college games.  The Personnel Department experience was frustrating, but I decided not to give up.  I had an idea . . .

I went to Memorial Stadium that Thursday evening, sat in the stands and watched the Dreher-Camden football game. Notepad and pen in hand, I took notes just like a legitimate sports writer.  After the game, I told the security guard at the field gate that I was a sports writer and needed to talk to Earl Rankin, the Dreher coach. I waved my notepad at the guard, who, thankfully, fell for my bluff and waved me onto the field.  Coach Rankin saw my notepad, stopped at midfield and answered a couple of my questions.  I was an imposter.

All of that was the easy part.  I drove all the way back to my home in Eau Claire, penciled out a short story on the game, typed it with a carbon paper copy, and then drove back to the State-Record building.  It was after midnight.  Then the really risky part.  I sorta lied (there’s no such thing) to the security guard at the entrance to the building.  Walked right past him, waving the story and mumbling “gotta make deadline.”  I fumbled for an ID badge that I did not have, and the guard said, “just don’t worry about it.”  Whew!

Of course, I knew the way to the deserted sports department.  Clicked on a light, plopped the typed story on Jim Hunter’s desk with a note:  “Use this if you’d like; no charge.”  I thanked the security guard on my way out of the building.  Little did he know . . .

The next afternoon, Friday’s Columbia Record sports section included a small story, boxed on the front sports page, about the Dreher-Camden football game at Memorial Stadium.  I did not get paid for my first published story, but I did get an unexpected bonus – my first byline.

The next week, the assignment sheet tacked to the bulletin board included a rookie part-time staffer who was assigned two high school games.  Soon it was two high school games and two college games every week.  I couldn’t get enough of it.

I was a sports writer.

 

 

I could not think of a single reason to leave Columbia.  Plus, there were plenty of reasons to stay.

The year was 1987.  My WW (Wonderful Wife) and I were snug with three children in a nice West Columbia home.  Each of the kids was getting ready to change schools – one starting elementary, one moving up to a nearby middle school, and the other leaving that middle school for her first year of high school.

My Dad had recently passed away, and I had moved my Mother close to us.  We had wonderful friends in all walks of life.  My career in the newspaper business was promising.  The overused quip was applicable: Life is good.

Then the phone rang.  I was out of the office the first three times, and each time the written message noted a call from “Buddy Ward in Atlanta.”  Probably an investment guy, so I did not return any of his calls.  On the fourth occasion, before caller ID, I answered the ring myself.

Buddy Ward was president of Atlanta Newspapers.  Wanted to talk about my coming to work there.  It was a quick no from me.  He persisted. “Listen,” I told him politely, “I have everything right here in Columbia that anyone could want.  No interest in moving anywhere.”

No way we were moving to Atlanta.  No way.

Buddy then asked if I would visit Atlanta, meet some folks and think about it.  Politely, no again.  But he did not give up.  If he drove to Columbia would I at least have lunch with him?  This guy was nice but really hard-headed.  I agreed to the lunch but told him he would be wasting his time.

A couple days later at lunch, his opener was, “You sure are hard-headed.”  We had a good laugh.  I told him I could not imagine uprooting my family, leaving friends and everything else after living almost all my life in Columbia, not to mention 21 years at Columbia Newspapers.  He said he certainly understood.  “But,” he added, “now you owe me a trip to Atlanta.  And bring your family.”

Of course, my WW and I talked a lot about all of this.  I didn’t think she wanted to leave Columbia, putting the children in a new world, giving up a lot for a change of life in a big city.  Not to mention Atlanta traffic.  Columbia didn’t even have cars back in ’87.  No, there was no way we were moving.  No way.

But, we did decide to take up Buddy on his invitation to visit.  We rationalized it as a mini-vacation on Atlanta Newspapers’ tab.

Our Atlanta hotel reservation included a very large suite.  On the table in the foyer was a huge arrangement of flowers for WW.  And, a big fruit basket for the family.  And, jerseys and jackets for the kids – amazingly with the correct sizes for each.  And, Braves and Falcons hats and all sorts of goodies for the kids.

Nice try, but still there was no way we were moving to Atlanta.  No way.

After meeting the newspaper’s general manager and having a nice dinner, his single  request was that I plan a return visit, meet other key folks at the newspaper and then make a decision.  Just think about it.  No pressure.

We figured out the interstates and battled the Atlanta traffic to get back to Columbia.  The ride home was scary silent at times.  The key for us always has been good people.   We knew Columbia had many good people, and we had met two obviously good Atlanta people.  But, there was no way we were moving to Atlanta.  Not a chance.

Out of courtesy, we decided I should return to Atlanta one more time to close out this discussion personally.

So, I returned to Atlanta and met several others at the newspapers.  Afterwards, back in Columbia, I told my WW that obviously there are good people in Atlanta, too.  We agreed to think about things overnight.  But then I would call Buddy with our official decision to stay in Columbia.

I remember not sleeping that night.  The next morning I needed to hear from WW.  Without hesitation, she said, “I think we should do it.”

No way we were going to Atlanta.  No way.

Been here 30 years.

 

 

 

The elementary school homework assignment was simple: Write a four-line poem; turn it in tomorrow.

As I think back about 60 years, the teacher’s name was Mrs. Gandy.  Not absolutely sure about that, but no doubt the school was Heyward Gibbes, located mostly on Westwood Ave. with the main office on Summerlea Drive.  The principal no doubt was C.A. Rampey, who lived on Westwood across the street from the school.

Heyward Gibbes was spanking new back then. Elementary and middle school. Shiny cafeteria and classrooms and a gymnasium that was ruled by Frank Singleton. I can hear him now, “Hicky Duguley, don’t you even think about going in that gym with your shoes on!”  Coach Singleton often transposed the first letters of your first and last names to get your attention. At my 50-year high school reunion, he greeted me with, “Well, well, it’s Hicky Duguley” before wrapping his big bear hug around me.

Interesting how those far away details can surface in a memory that sometimes cannot remember what was for lunch.  Mrs. Shillinglaw (maybe spelled correctly) taught music classes, my least favorite subject, at Heyward Gibbes.  School basketball teams were divided into Midgets and Juniors – don’t remember if those teams were based on body size or class.  Girls, it seems, had to run only to the half-court line before giving up the basketball.

Miss Hiers was the young, good-looking history teacher with the pretty smile. She would be about 80 years old now.  Mr. Wertz was the strict, no nonsense English teacher who drove everybody nuts with diagramming the longest sentences he could dream up.  Mrs. Strange taught math and was everyone’s mother; a really nice lady.

Well, I digress accidentally on purpose.  My understanding is that Heyward Gibbes was torn down and rebuilt years ago. Which means the bricks and mortar are gone but certainly not the memories. Which brings me back to that four-line poem.  I just couldn’t make it happen when I got home that day.  But . . .

My Dad was a laborer who made a good living working hard every day as a plumber in my younger years.  He came home totally tired every day.  But, I knew him for his humor and creative juices.  I decided to ask him for help writing the four-line poem. His deal was for me to come up with my poem and he would try to come up with his, and then we would decide which one to use.

It was no contest.  My Dad’s poem was titled “Four Lines” and it became my poem and earned me an A for the homework assignment:

               I’ve tried and tried just to see

               If a writer of poems I’ll ever be.

              That’s two lines and this is three,

              Now that I’m through I can watch TV.

Some things you just never forget.