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A Humorous Look Back at 1975: The year I graduated from high school

Senior year photo of Class of 1975 button

Years ago, I wrote an essay on 1957, the year I was born. I now have an essay on 1975, the year I graduated from high school. Enjoy.

Senior Class Photo

The year wasn’t even half over when we lined up under the bleachers at Legion Stadium for graduation. The evening was warm and humid. Each graduate had been given five tickets. If it rained and we had to move inside the gym at Hoggard, we could only use two tickets. Thankfully, the night stayed dry. In the crowd were my parents, one of my grandmothers and my surviving grandfather along with my brother. The whole evening was a blur. A brown paper bag with a bottle passed down the aisle. Jokes were shared. Despite this, somehow, we all made it across the stage to receive our diploma. 

That weekend I went with my church’s youth group on a camping trip to Topsail Island. For those of us who just graduated, it was our last hurrah. Saturday night under the pavilion, a band played for several hours, mostly Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I was sick of the song halfway through the evening. To this day, I can never hear it without recalling that night on Topsail. Thankfully, we can blame the Class of 1973 for that song.  Cell phone cameras were still a quarter century away, which kept us from taking embarrassing photos of each other.

People acted like graduation was a big deal, and it certainly felt like a bigger deal than my other graduations although it didn’t involve researching and writing a dissertation. Academically, I barely skated across the podium. But I did received all kinds of gifts. I was barely shaving and given enough aftershave lotion that I never had to buy another bottle. Before I ran out, I grew a beard and threw out what remained. I’ve had a beard for nearly 40 years. As for the gifts, I had to rush to write thank you notes before stamps jumped by 30% (from 10 to 13 cents) at the end of the year. Today, to buy a roll of stamps, I might have to mortgage my house. 

So much had already happened in 1975 by that night on the sixth of June. In January, I turned 18 and was supposed to register for the draft. I got around to it in March and was read the riot-act for being late. Nobody cared. As a country, we hadn’t drafted anyone in several years. But I still received a draft card which in North Carolina could be lent out to someone my size for the purpose of buying beer. The card had no photo, only height, weight, color of hair and eyes. 

Of course, for much of the winter and early spring of 1975, as the news reported on the collapse of Cambodia and Vietnam, the war remained real. The question as to if we would go back in to save South Vietnam stayed on our minds. With an unelected President in the White House and people wanting to put Watergate behind us, that wasn’t to be. Those of us with draft cards were saved from having to decide whether we should go to war or buy flannel shirts and head north. 

Speaking of Watergate, the year began with four of Nixon’s crony’s, including his Attorney General, being found guilty and sentenced to prison. Take note, Ms. Bondi. Of course, the former President, whom I had defended in Coach Fisher’s class, avoided prosecution. But he lived out his life in shame for what he’d done. When the truth came out, I felt ashamed for having defended him.

Men’s clothing in 1975 could be best described as horondous. We strutted around in bright bell bottoms and double-knit leisure suits. The later didn’t breath and became terribly uncomfortable, but at least they allowed men to ditch ties, which were supersized (just look at the photo of me). Women, at least the girls at school and many of the teachers, were still wearing mini-skirts, although maxi skirts were beginning to make an appearance. Converse tennis shoes were popular. Growing up near the coast meant that after school, we wore baggies and flip-flops and Bert Surf Shop t-shirts. Some things for me have not changed.

In the sporting news, it was a good year for Pittsburgh. The Steelers won back to back Superbowls (in January for the 1974 season and again in January 1976 for the 1975 Season). The legacy of this is we still get to hear the Steeler’s quarterback, Terry Bradshaw, obnoxious voice reporting on the NFL long after his prime. While the Pirates didn’t win the National League pennant, they were still hot. Of course, I wouldn’t care about Pittsburgh teams for another decade, as I went back to school and spent three years in the city.

Shortly after graduation, I made my first overnight canoe trip down the Black River. I’d do a lot more paddle trips over the next fifty years in the United States and Canada, including a four-night paddle trip this year around Michigan’s Drummond Island.  At the time of my ’75 trip, the movie Jaws had just been released. I was amazed to get back and learn there were those genuinely concerned on my behalf. Of course, there are no sharks that far inland and the few alligators slipped into the water and hid. Later in the summer, I would make my first backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail in the Shenandoah Mountains of Virginia. The trail would become my second home for a while 12 years later. I climbed Mt. Katahdin in Maine after covering 2142 miles, the length of the trail, on August 30, 1987. 

1975 was a year of death. The old order was dying. Taiwan’s Chiang Kai-shek, and the last fascist from the 1930s, Spain’s Francisco Franko, died. Haile Selassie of Ethiopia also died. He’d held off the fascist Mussolini with a rag-tag army in the 1940s. Who’d thought that 50 years later, the world would be facing a resurrection of fascism? Elijah Muhammad, who Americanized and racialized the Muslim religion died. Two of the remaining Three Stooges, Larry and Moe, died. Jimmy Hoffa disappeared in 1975, along with the iron freighter, the Edmund Fitzgerald. To this day, Hoffa is presumed dead, but decades later they found the ship in 500 feet of water at the bottom of Lake Superior. The story became a wonderful ballad which made Gordon Lightfoot famous. Every November, when the gales of November blow, the song is played repeatedly on the radio and by December I’m sick of it. 

On the political side, two crazy women, three weeks apart, attempted to kill President Ford. Closer to home, my grandmother died before the month of June was over. My other grandmother would die a month before I turned 60. She never smoked.

For those who smoked, which were a lot of Americans, 1975 was the year we got to “Flick our Bic.” Cigarettes in North Carolina rose to $2.29 a cartoon (or $2.39 for 100s). I know this, because I got to change the prices at Wilson’s Supermarket on Oleander Drive. Today, a pack of cigarettes cost double what a carton cost in ’75.  But I didn’t smoke then or now. I was more likely to use the lighter to start a campfire or light a lantern. Other people sported Mood Rings and kept Pet Rocks. At least the rocks required less food than your traditional pets. Altair came out with a microcomputer, which would become common a decade later, but that fall in college, if you wanted to use the computer, you had to keypunch cards and have them in the correct order. 

Medical science introduced the Heimlich Maneuver in ‘75, which made hot dog eating contests much safer. They also introduced CAT scans, allowing physicians a peak of our insides.  On the science front, we sent spacecrafts to Mars and Venus and linked up with a Soviet spacecraft high above the earth. 

While I didn’t read any of the books published in 1975 during the year, several published then had an affect on my life. Annie Dillard published Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which I read in 1987 while hiking the Appalachian Trail. This was a perfect book for such a journey. Dillard encourages her readers to wonder about the smallest things within creation. Paul Theroux published The Great Railway Bazaar: By Train Through Asia. I have read almost all his travel books and when on sabbatical in 2011, I modelled my overland trip from Asia to Europe on his trips.  

Edward Abbey published The Monkey Wrench Gang. I was first introduced to Abbey as a student pastor in Nevada in 1988, just before his death. This humorous book about a group of eco-terrorists in the American West fed my interest in wilderness and helped me appreciate the desert. I’d go on to read all his books.

The year was a good one for movies and a show only cost two bucks in the theater. My favorite movies included “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, “The Man Who Would Be King”, “Three Days of the Condor”, “The Return of the Pink Panther”, and “Tommy” featuring the music of The Who. In time, I’d come to appreciate “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” which came out that year. The Rocky Horror Picture Show was also released but wouldn’t become well-known until later. 

Television was in its prime and by 1975, 70% of American households had a color television.  At night we watched shows like “Mash” and “The Jeffersons.” But the real treat came on Saturday. An unrecognized blessing of having to have my date home by 11 PM is that I could drive home in time to watch Saturday Night Live with the “Not Ready for Prime Time” players.  

Music was great in ’75. The decline into disco was still a few years away, even though cracks in Rock showed as groups like the Bee Gees and K. C. and the Sunshine Band broke onto the airways.  Heart released “Crazy on You” and The Marshall Tucker Band released “Searching for a Rainbow.” Both would perform in Wilmington that year. Pink Floyd released “Wish You Were Here,” and Bob Dylan released “Tangled Up in Blue.”  These melancholy songs could be the soundtrack of my life. While AM still ruled, FM was catching up and on there you could hear groups like Steely Dan, who took a 20-year hiatus from touring and released the album, “Katy Lied” in ’75.  Other great songs included Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Elton John’s “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” and “Island Girl,” Earth, Wind, and Fire’s: “Shinning Star,” and Fleetwood Mac’s, “Rhiannon.” 

And then there was Bruce Springsteen, who released “Born to Run.” The song could have been our theme as we ran out of Legion Stadium with our gowns flapping that night in June. 

Oh honey, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run
Come on with me, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run

We’ve now been running for 50 years. Sadly, some have been forced to give up the race and we remember and honor them. And all of us are a lot slower. But let’s keep it up, as long as we can. I look forward to seeing folks at the reunion on Saturday. 

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Photo taken by Donald McKenzie of me paddling the Black River in 1975
Paddling on the Black River in 1975. Photo by Don McKenzie.
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September from My Back Deck

title slide with a mug of hot tea on deck railing

I have been fairly busy the past few weeks and behind on my writing. But I did scratch out this poem as I watched September pass by, mostly from our back deck. I hope you enjoy the poem and the photos (but for some reason I should have taken more photos of the various flowers)..

Buffalo Mountain from my deck just before sunrise

Buffalo Mountain just before sunrise

September from My Back Deck

Queen Anne rolls up her lace early
as the chicory and black-eyed susans fade,
replaced by golden rods and the limby yellow wingstem 
growing along the ditch banks with an occasional bunch of purple ironweed.

September flowers: Ironwood and Wingstem

The leaves on the walnuts and hickories remain green
but much paler than at midsummer
Occasionally I jump, as if being shot, when a hickory nut
pings off the barn’s metal roof. 

Only a handful of birds now sing at dawn,
and the sound of insects at night are softer than a month ago.
The lightning bugs disappeared and the last of the yellow finches’ head south
but wooly bear caterpillars show up, some say, forecasting a bad winter.

The bears are less active than in the spring, 
and it’s easier to see groundhogs now the hay has been cut.
The deer move in large herds, as the fawns lose their spots
and the bucks grow antlers.

After dark, which comes earlier as the month progresses,
I watch Cygnus the swan fly higher 
followed by his fellow aviator, Pegasus, the flying horse,
and if I stay up late, I’ll see the fall constellations rise.

The days remain warm, but some mornings feel chilly,
the rain feels colder, and the morning fog denser than just a month ago.
A whiff of smoke rises from a burning field or maybe a brush pile, 
but it’ll soon to be replaced by woodsmoke.

Sunrise with fog in the valley from my deck

Fog in the valley at Sunrise

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Readings from September (along with a personal memory from 1968)

Title Blog with photos of covers of books reviewed

Erik Larson, The Demon of Unrest: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War 

Cover for "The Demon of Unrest"

(New York: Crown, 2024), 565 pages with bibliography, notes, and index.

Larson is a gifted storyteller historian and has once again brought a story of a pivotal time to life. His latest book looks at the months between Lincoln’s election as President in 1860 and the attack on Fort Sumter in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina. 

As Larson has done so well in other books, he tells the story from several viewpoints. We have Major Robert Anderson, commander of the Fort Sumter garrison. He’s own slaves and has southern sympathies but is also loyal to the Union. There are those in Washington trying to avoid a war and refusing Anderson’s call for more supplies and troops in the fear such actions will incite a war and encourage other Southern states to leave the Union. 

Larson follows radical southern secessionists, such as Edmund Ruffin, who worked hard to encourage states to leave the Union. He even got to fire the first cannon at the fort. There’s Mary Boykin Chesnut, the wife of a planter who was a part of South Carolina’s succession convention. Her diary provides a first-hand view of much of what happened from behind the scenes. And then there’s Sir William Howard Russell, a special correspondent from the Times of London. A famed war correspondent (having reported on the Crimean War), he had access to key politicians in Washington DC, including William Stewart and Abraham Lincoln. But he was late to arrive in Charleston.

During the waiting, the South built more batteries so the fort could be attacked from three sides. Lincoln finally authorized a fleet to sail with additional supplies and the ability to support the fort, but confusion still reigned. The main ship with the necessary firepower had been mistakenly sent to a fort in Florida, leaving the smaller flotilla unable to intervene. It arrived off Charleston the evening before the attack.  Confederate guns and sandbars at the harbor entry kept the ships from supporting the fort. 

The attack on Fort Sumter, led by Confederate General Beauregard, began in the predawn hours of Saturday, April 14th. Throughout the dark hours, the fort’s guns remained silent. During the bombardment, the men in the fort even gathered for breakfast. Anderson wouldn’t return fire until after daylight, when they’d have better views of the Confederate positions. During this waiting time, Edmund Ruffin worried that the fort wouldn’t fight back, making the Confederates look bad. But he received his wish as light appeared and the fort’s guns began to strike back. 

Despite all the shells and gunpowder expended on both sides, no one died. The fort, which had been built to protect the harbor from enemy shipping, had a difficult time to train its guns on land targets. Furthermore, the best guns for such an attack were on the top parapet, which made them more open to Confederate shelling. Anderson kept his men safely inside the fort itself. The fort, which was almost out of food, had plenty of powder, but as fire burned, a larger concern came from explosions. Quick thinking by Anderson kept this from happening. 

The Confederate forces spent much of the morning attempting to take down the American flag. When the pole was finally broken and the flag fell, Captain Doubleday (from whom legend has it created baseball), ordered guns to aim for a holiday hotel, The Moultrie, where many of the Confederate officers stayed. The guns blew holes in the hotel and sent men running for safety, but again, no one died. A makeshift flag was eventually raised during the battle. 

Upon surrender, Anderson was allowed to give a 100-gun salute as he struck the colors and marched this troops out of the fort where they were to be transported to Union ships offshore. The salute was cut to 50 when one of the cannoneers was seriously wounded when gunpower in the cannon prematurely explode.  He would die later in a Charleston hospital. 

This is a good read and help me understand more about how the terrible war began. Larson begins each section with a quotation from The Code Duello. The 1858 manual laid out rules to be followed in duels. These rules provided a civility to such disputes, trying to maintain gentlemanlike behavior in conflict. Such behavior appears to have been honored by both sides at Sumter. Later in the war, things became uglier.

While I don’t think the book is as good as several other Larson’s books I’ve read (especially The Devil in the White City, In the Garden of the Beast, and Thunderstuck), it’s better than most books I read. This is the sixth book by Larson I’ve read. In addition to this book and the three above, I have also read Dead Wake, and Issac’s Storm. 

Kevin DeYoung, The Nicene Creed: What You Need to Know about the Most Important Creed Ever Written 

Cover for "The Nicene Creed"

(Weaton, Illinois: Crossway, 2025), 93 pages including a general and scriptural index.

This year marks the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea, from which came the beginnings of the Nicene Creed. The Nicene Creed would be finalized, adding a longer section about the Holy Spirit at Constantinople in 381 AD. For the Western Church, the creed was finalized in 589 with the addition of the filioque statement which says the Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. This last edition has not been accepted by the Eastern Orthodox Churches. But with this small difference, the Nicene Creed is the most accepted creed in Christendom, and used by Protestants, Roman Catholics, Orthodox, and Coptic Churches. 

In this short book, DeYoung introduces the readers to the various heresies facing the church (mainly Arianism and Apollinarianism) which led to the writing of the creed. Arianism held to the idea that the Son was created by the Father, not co-eternal. Apollinarism attempted to discredit Arianism, by going too far in the other direction and essentially denying the humanity of Christ.  The creed holds the concept of the Trinity together by maintaining a mystery.

DeYoung also fairly lays out both sides of the “filioque” debate. While he accepts the Western version of the Creed, he rightly sees the issue not as important as how the creed sought to maintain Christ’s unity and co-existence with the father. The filioque clause wasn’t added till the 6th Century with the Council of Toledo.   

This is an easy book to read for anyone wanting to understand the importance of the Nicene Creed.  

Taylor Branch, At Canaan’s Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68 

Cover for "At Canaan's Edge"

(New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006), 1039 pages with bibliography, notes, and index, plus 18 plates of b&w photos. Audible, narrated by Leo Nixon and Janina Edwards, (2023) 34 hours and 37 minutes.

I have now finished all three volumes of Branch’s “America During the King Years.” The last volume had more meaning for me, as I remember much of what happened. I would have been between the 3rd and 5th grade in elementary school during this time.  I was in the 5th grade when Martin Luther King was assassinated and share below a memoir of that time. Like the second volume of the work, this one read more like snippets from the news media for each day.  I mostly listened to the book on Audible but also read some of the interesting sections. Here are links to my reviews of the first two volumes:

Parting the Waters (1954-63)

Pillar of Fire (1963-65)

At Canaan’s Edge shows the tension felt by Martin Luther King. Strains existed between King and President Johnson. Other strains were between King and those within the movement chanting Black Power and calling for violence. Ironically, this call to violence even came from the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee, which had left behind many of its founders such as John Lewis. And even those who were committed to his non-violent movement resisted King’s visions of expanding the movement to include all poor people and to work against America’s war in Vietnam.  Branch helps the reader understand King’s troubles during the last three years of his life. 

The book ends abruptly, with an assassin’s bullet striking King on the balcony of Lorraine Hotel in Memphis on April 4, 1968. King had just asked that “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” be played that evening as they dressed and prepared for the event. Then he fatefully stepped out on the balcony. 

By providing a “play-by-play” history of what happens up until the shot was fired, Branch provides the reader with the complexity of the world. The beatings of civil rights workers on the Pettus Bridge in Alabama came at the same time as American’s first big engagement in Vietnam in the Ia Drang Valley.  The miracle” of Israel’s 6-day war in 1967 occurred during the rising opposition to Americans in Vietnam and the Supreme Court’s decision to end laws against interracial marriage. And finally, King’s desire for a “Poor People’s March” on Washington plays out against the backdrop of the Tet Offensive in Vietnam.  And as King’s life came to an end, President Johnson had just decided not to run again for the Presidency.

There was also much tension within the Civil Rights movement as some wanted to advocated violence (especially within the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee) who leaned into the Black Power movement. The tension also increased as King began to take his movement north, spending significant amount of time in Chicago, a move which caused his movement funds as donors, who supported the work in the south, began to withdraw their support.  

Also, in the background of all that happened was the FBI, who hounded King. Even in the last month of his life, they sent anonymous letters to King supporters in the north saying that he had plenty of money. At the same time, they sent other letters to Black churches in the south saying that he was broke. This discouraged those interested in the poor people’s march to Washington (which was being planned), suggesting they’d find themselves stranded. 

In these three volumes, Taylor Branch provides a wonderfully in-depth history of the Civil Rights movements. Some of this history is hard to recall, but it must not be forgotten.  

Memories of ’68

(this is part 2 of a 4 part series I wrote 20 years ago and edited for this post)

I turned eleven barely two weeks into 1968. It was a big deal. I was finally eligible to join the Boy Scouts and go camping with someone other than my family. I wasted no time. Thursday, two days after my birthday, I attended the troop meeting. It’s amazing I stayed with scouting. I experienced more hazing in those first two meetings than the rest of my life. Brian and I were both new to Troop 206 and they put us in the Rattlesnake Patrol. The patrol consisted of a bunch of older guys (probably all of 13 or 14 years old). When the adult leaders weren’t nearby, they arrange things like beltlines for us to run. But it didn’t last. I’m not sure what went on behind the scenes, but by the third week, the Scoutmaster placed us in a new patrol. Gerald, an older scout, but new to the troop, became our patrol leader. We named ourselves the Cobra Patrol, consciously picking a snake more deadly than a rattlesnake. Gerald put an end to the hazing. In a way, he became a mentor. When I became a patrol leader, I always pondered what Gerald would do in a situation before I acted. 

A week or two after being placed in Cobra Patrol, I made my first campout as a Boy Scout. We headed up to Holly Shelter Swamp and camped along the bank of the Northeast Cape Fear River. Gerald had us put our tents in a line. Brian and I ended in a slight depression. I argued that we should move our tent, having done enough camping prior to scouting to know we were in the best location. But Gerald was all for neatness. We stayed in a neat line and when the rains came that night, out tent flooded. I now had a second reason to quit scouting. Thinking back on my experiences, I can’t recall a camping trip that I’ve gotten soaked at night except for when I was a scout. However, Gerald made everything better, offering us his semi-dry tent. We assumed Gerald was going to sleep in our pool but found him in the morning asleep in the back of the equipment trailer, the only totally dry place around. The storm cleared and we dried out our bags and had a grand time in the woods, even though we kept having run-ins with our nemeses in the Rattlesnake Patrol.

We’ve come a long way since 1968. There were no I-pods, laptops, game-boys or other forms of amusements in our packs. All I had for fun was a nine-volt transistor radio and we listened to it that first night, as we tried to ignore or forget the moisture seeping into our sleeping bags. I could get the powerful 50-kilowatt station out of Cincinnati and a few local stations. And that night, laying in a sleeping bag on a bluff overlooking the slow waters of the Northeast Cape Fear River, between the music of the Beatles, Stones and Supremes, we heard news reports about the Chinese New Year and the Tet Offensive. For the first time Vietnam seemed real.

Our second night included a game of capture the flag, played pitting the Cobras against the Rattlesnakes. We didn’t win, but we went down honorably, and it would only be a matter of time before we did win. After the game, we had a big campfire, which concluded when our scoutmaster, Johnny R. told us the story of “the Hand.” He made it come alive. I’d hear this story a dozen times over the next couple of years, as he added new twist so that you were never sure when you’d nearly jump into the fire. That night we didn’t listen to the radio; we wanted things to be quiet so that we’d hear “the Hand,” in case it was about doing its dastardly deeds.

Our second camping trip with the scouts was at a camporee on the grounds around Sunny Point, on the Brunswick County side of the Cape Fear River. This gathering involved troops from all over the council and the theme was getting along with one another, with a special emphasis on racial harmony. All the scouts who participated in the event received a badge showing a handshake. One hand was light colored and the other darker, symbolizing getting along between the races. It was a lesson we’d all need to hear for soon all hell broke loose. But that weekend, we didn’t know that. Instead, we worked hard, and Cobra Patrol earned a red ribbon (next to the highest) while the Rattlesnake Patrol only received a yellow (participation) ribbon. I became a hero during the camporee in the signaling event. Few of the patrols had anyone who could read semaphore, and I shocked everyone with my newly acquired skill.

My self-instruction in semaphore came because of what was happening in Mr. Briggs classroom. My mother told me a few years ago about how she heard me talking about these things we were doing in his class and assumed I had a wild imagination until one night, Mr. Briggs called. And did my mother reward me for my honesty? NO! Instead, I was doubly grounded. Not only could I not leave our yard, but I was also stuck in my room except to go to the bathroom or to eat dinner. This sentence was to last a few years, but she relented after I brought my citizenship grade up a notch. In such tight confinement (and there were no TVs in my room back then, it really was a solitary confinement cell), I was stuck with reading. And my choices were meager. I could read schoolbooks, but I had a natural allergy to them. I could read the Bible but figured that if Mom saw me reading the good book, she might keep me grounded for my own edification. The only book of interest was the Boy Scout handbook, and I quickly set down to the task of learning semaphore (which I long since forgotten) and the constellations (which I still remember).

My third Scout camping trip was back to Holly Shelter Swamp. It was early April. We left home Friday afternoon, knowing of Martin Luther King assassination the night before in Memphis. Things went along well during the camping trip, but my nine-volt transistor radio brought in the news that violence was erupting across our nation. Somehow (along before cell phones), our Scoutmaster Johnny Rogina, a detective with the Sheriff’s Dept., got word to report for duty. But there were enough other men along that we camped two nights. Sunday morning, we packed up and headed back into town. Since our troop met in a church, we’d always come back from camping trips in the early afternoon, so as not to disturb the worshippers. But this Sunday, things were eerie. There were no cars on the road. All you saw were police and a few military jeeps. Rioting erupted in Wilmington, as it had in many cities, and the city was under a 24-hour curfew.

Since we lived out of town, far from where the rioting occurred, we weren’t really affected. Instead, we enjoyed a vacation from school, playing sandlot baseball and roaming the woods. With everyone being forced to stay at home, my parents cooked out that Sunday afternoon and invited our next-door neighbors. This was a rarity as I knew my parents didn’t like the man (I later learned that he was very abusive, but as an 11-year-old, I just thought he was a jerk). His wife was nice, and they had a younger daughter. She was several years younger than my sister but occasionally would be in the house early in the morning having slept in my sister’s room. I was an adult when my mother shared that these sleepovers was to protect the girl, as her father had gone on a drunken rampage. But even before learning this, when I first heard of sleeveless t-shirts called “wife beaters,” I envisioned that man in his backyard with wearing such a shirt. 

This Sunday evening, after the Holly Shelter’s campout, I remember l sitting in a lounge chair in the yard as the neighbor told my dad (along with my brother and I) about the Wilmington Race Riots of 1898. “The Cape Fear River ran red with n—– blood” he said, suggesting a similar situation out of the problem Wilmington was currently facing. My parents, who didn’t allow us to use the “N” word, weren’t too happy with this conversation and this was the only cookout we ever had with them. Shortly afterwards, they moved. Interestingly, this was the first and only time as a kid that I heard about the 1898 riots. Later I’d learn the event was a massacre. The whites had a Gatlin gun just back from the Spanish American War, while the African American community attempted to defended themselves with hunting guns. I’d also learn later that the guy whose park we played little league ball in, Hugh McCrae, was the one who acquired the Gatlin gun. He, along with several other well-known names in town, were responsible for the “riot.” 


I am not sure just how they restored calm to the city in 1968, as we lived far outside its boundaries. After a week holiday, we returned to Bradley Creek Elementary School where everything appeared normal.

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Nevada 375 and Rachel, Nevada

Title slide with photo of dry rain along Nevada 375
One house we worked on was located near here, where the road is still washed out.

I’ve been away this week, working on a Helene rebuild mission out of Burnsville, North Carolina, so I don’t have time to write anything new. I wrote this piece many years ago and some of you may have read it in another blog. I tried to update and clean up the language a bit before reposting it. Recently, I learned another friend had spent time working around Tonopah, Rachel, Caliente, Nevada on a government contract. He, too, was surprised that not only did I know of these places but had been there many times. Thinking of him, I thought I’d republish it.

The last time I was in Rachel was in 2010, as I drove across Central Nevada, heading from Death Valley to my old stomping ground in Cedar City, Utah.

Rachel, NV during daylight. Photo from the internet


I see the lights of Rachel a good ten miles away, soon after crossing Queen City Summit. “The bar will be open,” I say to myself, “I’ll grab a cup of coffee and stretch my legs and take in some of the night air.”

It’s after ten, early September 1995. I still have two hundred miles to drive to get home, having spent the past two weeks backpacking along the John Muir Trail in the Sierras. When I got off the trail, I learned my parents were driving in the next day, which meant an all-night drive. In the hundred miles since Tonopah, I’ve only passed a couple of vehicles. I roll my windows down and stick my head outside, trying to stay awake and alert. I pop cassette tapes in and out, playing them loudly and trying to find something to keep me awake. Nothing comes in on the radio, except some distant AM talk station from Los Angeles. 

I try to stay awake for nobody’s likely to see if you run off the road in this country. Making it more dangerous, this is open range. I share the road with cows. They’re hard to see at night and often seek the blacktop for warmth. If I run into one of these beasts and die, my estate will get to pay for the cow. 

“Thank God for Rachel,” I mumble, thinking about how this is one of two stops in the next two hundred miles where I can get coffee. I topped off my tank in Tonopah. Experience taught me the few gas stations along this stretch will close before I drive through.

Entering town, I pull off at the “Little A”le’Inn,” the center of Rachel’s night life. I’m shocked to see so many cars and people mulling around. Normally, there might be a car and a pickup or two out front. Tonight, I must search to find a parking place. The line to the bar starts at the front door.

What’s going on?” I ask the guy in front of me. 

“It’s Labor Day weekend,” he says, “people come from all over on Labor Day and Memorial Day weekends to check out the UFOs.” I’d noticed just outside the front door, mounted on a tripod, a parabolic listening device. These people are serious. Many of them have cameras and binoculars dangling from their necks. At the booth closest to me a guy cleans the lens for their cameras I consider telling him not to bother, as I’ve yet to see picture of a UFO taken through a clean lens. But I hold my tongue. 

“Do you think they’re really UFOs out here?” I ask the guy in front of me.

“I’m not sure, but you see some strange things,” he says, adding that he mostly comes up from Vegas to enjoy the party.

I look around at the eclectic crowd. There are dudes with pencil protectors in their shirt pockets talking to guys with tie-died t-shirts. Some look college-aged. Others probably have great-grandchildren. Many appear to have been strung out on drugs since the 60s. A few may have come straight from a desk job at IBM. It looks like a lot of fun, and I imagine myself as a reporter for the Rolling Stones, getting to know these people and writing about their shindig. Unfortunately, I must get back home.

 It takes me a while to get up to the bar and then I must wait for the bartender to make another pot of coffee. Then he fills my Maverick[1] insulated cup. I head outside, climb into the car and drive eastward into the darkness, over Coyote Summit and across Tikaboo Valley. It’s sad to leave the lights behind, for even if they don’t see a UFO, they’ll going to have a good time.

In my travels between California and Utah, I stopped at Rachel a dozen or more times. In the late 90s and early 2000s, there were only two businesses in town. The gas station sat on the east end. It includes a store which would make a 7-11 appear to be a supermarket. I’ve never seen it open after dark and their hours seemed to be irregular, another reason why I topped off my tank before heading this direction.

The Little A’Le’Inn sat on the west end of town. A combo restaurant, bar, casino, and motel, it reminds me of a scaled down version of Bruno’s Country Club in Gerlack, Nevada. The Inn seemed thrown together and wouldn’t make the Triple A Guidebook. But people come here because Rachel is the closest town to the supersecret Area 51, where some believe our government holds intergalactic aliens as POWs. Others think the government made a secret pack with some space race to dominate the world. I don’t believe it, but there are strange things seen in the skies along this highway. 

Driving along this stretch of highway, I’ve been scared out of my pants when a jet, flying what seemed to be 50 feet above my car came up behind me. I first noticed the. shadow. Because of his speed, I didn’t hear him until he’s gone.

Once, while checking out the mining sites in the Timpahute Range northeast of Rachel with Ralph, we watched several jets in apparent dogfight. I’ve never seen such aerial maneuvers, as they turned and swirled back and forth. One jet climbed almost straight up like a rocket, only to turn and come back to earth at supersonic speeds. When the jet disappeared behind the mountain, we looked for a fireball. We assumed it crashed. Then, to our surprise, the plane pulled back up and climb again as two jets made the same maneuver. Neither of us could believe that a plane could perform like that. 

Sun setting amongst Joshua Trees in Central Nevada



This is barren country. The government controls all the land land south of Rachel. This is a training ground and bombing range for Nellis Air Force Base. They tested stealth fighters and bombers here. The vast area also contains the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons used to be regularly tested.

Rachel is a relatively new town. In the 1860s, the town of Tempiute grew up around a vein of silver to the northeast. That petered out. Later, a tungsten deposit was discovered. Until the 1980s, Union Carbide ran a mine there. Most of the miners lived in Rachel. A few ranches dot the countryside along 375, but it takes a lot of this poor arid soil to produce enough grass to feed a cow.

Every time I stopped at the “Little A’Le’Inn” I meet interesting people. Once there was a family from Germany who came to see UFOs. Another time there were several young adults from the Netherlands. One evening, there was a couple at the bar who had driven up from Las Vegas. They were nearly out of gas. The gas station had already closed for the day (and the owners had headed to Vegas for dinner), so the couple rented a room at the motel and made the best of the evening by drinking heavily. They probably saw some good sights that night as well as some bugs on the wall in the morning.

The bartender is always willing to offer advice as to the best places to supposedly see UFOs. And the walls of the place have pictures and clippings about UFOs and even a signed photograph of Spock from Star Trek. In the mid-1990s, Nevada 375 became known as the “The Extraterrestrial Highway,” a move which helped draw in the curious to support Rachel’s businesses. 

I’m sure most people who drive across Nevada 375 think it’s the worst road to travel, but I find comfort in the desolation. US 50 crosses Nevada way to the north. In the 1960s, Life Magazine dubbed US 50 the loneliness road in America. Compared to Nevada 375, Highway 50 is a crowded freeway. 

Each end of Nevada 375 is located at a hot spring. The road begins at the site of Warm Springs along US 6. A gas station with a swimming pool sat at the junction, but by the 90s had closed. You can still stop and soak your feet in the warm sulfur smelling water as it runs through a ditch. Crystal Springs is at the other end of the 98-mile highway, at the junction with US 93, which leads south to Vegas and north to Ely. The springs are huge, with deep pools of warm water creating a large wetland and bird sanctuary which never freezes.

For those interested, there are other hot springs in the area. Just south on US 93 are the communities of Ash and Alamo, both of which have hot springs. Further to the east is Caliente, another town with hot springs located in cement pools at one of the towns 1950ish hotels. 

trains passing through Caliente, Nevada

If you travel this road, be prepared. It’s a long way to help. Limited services can be found in Tonopah (108 miles west of Rachel) and Caliente (98 miles to the east of Rachel). The nearest city is Las Vegas, 140 miles south of Rachel, on the other side of the government’s testing area which is closed off to the public.

[1] Maverik is the name of a chain of gas stations and convenient stores.

Other Nevada Adventures:

Great Basin Mining Adventure

Reno to Pittsburgh (April 1989)

Sunday drive to Gerlach

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican Baptist Historical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867) 

Eddie Larson, a good shepherd (he ran his sheep on BLM land in Eastern Nevada during the winter).

Riding in the cab of a steam locomotive

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More good and bad stories from the bakery


Looking back over the five of posts I wrote about my experiences in the bakery, it seems a lot of bad things that happen. That’s not true, but the challenging days do stick in my memory more than the regular “good” days. That goes for most of our lives. 

A few weeks ago, I told you about the challenges which happened at night. But sometimes bad things even happened during the day, as was the case one hot afternoon. I was over at the oven talking to John Z, when things started going crazy. All a sudden, the oven, proof box and cooler stopped. But the conveyors kept running. The de-panner was also running, but there was no vacuum and the bread wasn’t being pulled out of the pan. As John started pulling pans off the conveyor, I hit the horn and a mechanic came running. Both of us agreed it appeared we had lost air. 

We headed down to the compressor room. Sure enough, none of the compressors were running. By this time, there were calls coming over the intercom throughout the bakery with other people having problems. Not finding the problem, we ran back up into the plant and were shocked to see several conveyor motors with flames coming out of them. I started shutting down everything (as soon as the power to the conveyors were killed, the motors stopped burning) as the mechanic went to find the maintenance engineer. Coming out of the shop, the engineer realized immediately that we no longer had three phase electricity and pulled the main circuit breaker coming into the building. 

Everything went dark. A call was placed to Carolina Power and Light. It took them about thirty minutes to have the problem fixed and we had a mess to clean up. While production stopped, the bread waiting in pans in the proof box and along conveyors continued to grow. The bread in the oven continued to bake. We had a long night of cleaning up the proof box and getting the dough off the racks with steam cleaning before we could began making bread. If the dough remained on the racks, it could easily fall into a loaf of bread, creating a discolored hard lump within a loaf. We didn’t finish our work and return to production until the first shift crew returned, meaning that most of us worked 16 hours. 

But our mess wasn’t nearly as big as the one in the front office. They drew power off the same circuit. This was around 1980, and they had one large computer. When the engineer pulled the power switch into the bakery, they also lost power and data. It took them several days to get everything restored. 

Not long after this, the company forked over big bucks to the power company and had them to feed the plant from two directions so if we lost power from one substation, another station would take over. This ended the problems with blimps in power which created havoc with the ovens as I wrote about before. Not being an electrician, I’m not sure if it also protected us from “single phasing,” but we never had that problem again. The compressors and the ovens and equipment with big motors stopped because those motors had protection which shut them down if there was an issue. But there were too many small motors which pulled conveyors. Since it was a lot easier (and cheaper) to replace a ¾ horsepower motor than a 20 or 60 horsepower one, they didn’t have such protection. 

Another problem we had to deal with at the bakery was bad yeast. One summer, we changed from Fleischmann’s to a new brand, Dixie yeast. Supposedly the family owning the bakery had a stake in Dixie Yeast, so we were expected to use this product. At first, things went along smoothly, but after a few weeks, we started having problems primarily with the dough-maker bread. And the problems became worse in the afternoons, when the temperatures soared inside the plant. The bread wouldn’t brown nicely and would have large holes in it, appearing as if it had been over-mixed. Most of us suspected the yeast, but the owners were reluctant to agree. They brought experts who were unable to pinpoint the problem. Finally, someone convinced management to go back to the old yeast and things cleared up. When the “experts” checked the processing at the yeast plant, they learned they used fiberglass tanks which couldn’t be cleaned like stainless steel. Over time, they built up some kind of growth which affected the yeast. For a while, we went back to the yeast we had been using while Dixie Yeast worked out these kinks.

But life at the bakery wasn’t always one problem after another. There were also good times. Although we came from a lot of different backgrounds, we were a family. I enjoyed listening to the old timers tell stories about their career at the bakery or their lives growing up. I don’t remember his name, but the oven operator on the roll line talked about working on an old kerosene oven when he was young, which blew up. He also had a hearing aid and when management came around yelling, he’d turn it off. Several of the people who worked on the roll line had spent a lifetime in the bakery. Harvey, whom I wrote about earlier, had managed a dairy, which had closed when he came over to the bakery.

Scotty, who worked in sanitation, lost an arm in an accident in the Wilmington shipyard during World War II. I asked him if he knew my grandfather who also worked in the shipyard, having left the tobacco farm of North Carolina behind during the war. He said he did,but I think he tried to be nice. When I pressed for information about him, as my grandfather died in 1967, he could recall no real memories. I’d later learn that the shipyard at its peak employed 21,000 people. While Scotty was always nice to me, he had one of the most vulgar minds in the bakery and often said the nastiest things to women. Thankfully, he retired a year or two after I started working at the plant and before I had a chance to supervise him. However, I still called him on his comments, and he agreed it was inappropriate. But it didn’t stop him. 

At break, we’d crowd into the air-conditioned lounge for cold drinks. The air would soon become stale from cigarette smoke. I was one of the few who didn’t smoke, but that was okay for everyone knew I was different. I was the “college boy.” 

Sometimes our friendship extended outside the plant. There were at least half a dozen parties during the years I worked at the bakery (like Linda’s, which I wrote about earlier). Looking back on these, it’s interesting that the parties (at least the ones I attended) had only white folks. Another shock was the number of supervisors who were ten or twenty years older than me who would smoke joints during these parties. As one who eschewed drugs, I found this odd. But in the late 70s and early 80s, smoking pot was common. I expected it at school and with the younger employees, but not among older ones. 

Racial lines were crossed at the annual company picnic and some of us did get together to play basketball in the projects across the street from the plant. While working there, I hunted deer, rabbits and squirrels with Bobby, an African American who ran the bread slicing and wrapping area on first shift. 

Often, we’d have to work on holidays and at Thanksgiving and Christmas. On these days, the company would supply turkeys which were roasted in the back of the roll oven. They also provided the other parts of the meal included mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables, and brown and serve rolls which we’d be making for weeks before the holiday. On these days, everyone got to pig out on their lunch breaks. 

One of my favorite treats of working night shift occurred shortly after the first bread left the oven. We’d split up a loaf of freshly baked bread, slather it with hot butter (which we had available for the butter-top loaves) and then add honey or molasses. Of course, we worked hard and in heat, so we didn’t have to worry as much about the extra calories.

Upcoming: I have one more post planned I which I will discuss leaving the bakery and it’s demise several years later. 

MORE BAKERY STORIES

More Bakery Stories: Bad Things Happen at Night

Coming of Age in a Bakery: Linda and the Summer of ’76

A College Boy in the Bakery

Harvey and Ernest

Frank and Roosevelt

The Perils of Working on the Christian Sabbath

Remembering Charlie

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August Book Reviews and James Taylor in Concert

book covers and a photo from the James Taylor concert

I’ve taken this week off to officiate at a funeral in Georgia, which is why there were no sermon posted on Sunday. I’ll be back next Sunday. 

James Taylor Concert

James Taylor and band with the multimedia presentation behind them

In addition to the trip to Georgia, we made another trip with friends to Raleigh, North Carolina last Thursday night, September 4, to attend a James Taylor concert. Although the singer has aged, he’s 77, he put on a good show. And whenever he sings, Carolina in My Mind,” in North Carolina, the crowd erupts as they did this past Thursday.  Before the concert, a friend warned there would be no standing ovations as no one in the crowd would have the knees to get on their feet more than once. But that was not the case. He brought the crowd onto their (our) feet repeatedly.  I loved all his songs about the road and travel. I appreciated his humor and political insights. When speaking about Carole King, he paused, looked to the crowd and said something like, “Oh, by the way, NO KINGS.” It was a good night. 

Most of the summer we have been attending concerts at the Blue Ridge Music Center, which is mostly bluegrass, so it’s good to get back to a bit of rock-n-roll and the music of my youth.

The group of us waiting for James Taylor
The group of us waiting for James Taylor

Derick Lugo, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker: An Appalachian Trail Journey, 

Book cover for "The Unlikely Thru Hiker

narrated by Derick Lugo, (2021), 7 hours and 12 minutes

I picked this book up on a two-for-one sale from Audible. It sounded interesting and humorous. While it doesn’t quite reach the humor of Bill Bryson’s, A Walk in the Woods, I enjoyed reading about his hike and recalling my own hike on the trail nearly 40 years ago. 

Lugo is an African American, which makes him unique on the trail. While I met a few African Americans while hiking, most were only out for a day. The exception was Felipe, a reporter for Springfield Massachusetts, who hiked through his state to write an article about the 50th anniversary of the trail.  While he seemed to get on the nerves of other hikers, I got along with him. When done, he sent me a copy of his articles along with a wonderful black and white photo of me resting against my pack as I wrote a letter. 

Photo of me from 1987, writing a letter while on the Appalachian Trail
1987, on the AT

Lugo was a city dweller. He had spent little time outdoors, which makes him an unlikely hiker. But he is open to learn from others. Furthermore, hiking the trail these days are different in that there are a lot more people on the trail. This allows him to learn from others the skills necessary for such a hike. Furthermore, he appears to be a genuinely nice guy. He strove never to use bad language and respected other hikers. His attitude paid off and he had a wonder trip, telling his readers about this journey and the people he met along the way. 

If interested in the Appalachian Trail, I recommend Lugo’s book.  An excellent storyteller, the book is a delight. 

Gary D. Schmidt, Okay for Now  

Book cover for "Okay for New"

(New York: Clarion Books, 2011), 360 pages with chapter illustrations.

I have enjoyed many of Schmidt’s young adult books (Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, The Wednesday Wars, Orbiting Jupiter , and Trouble). His books deal with serious issues facing adolescence boys and the larger society.  He reminds me of a male version of C. Lee McKenzie, who also takes on such topics with adolescent boys and girls. Lizzie Bright deals with racial issues in early 20th Century, Maine. The Wednesday Wars are played out against the backdrop of the Vietnam War. Orbiting Jupiter deals with teenage parents. And all the books deal with boys coming of age. I met Schmidt a couple of times when I was in West Michigan as he taught in the English Department at Calvin University. I had not heard of this book, but learned about it from Kelly’s blog and immediately picked up a copy at my local library. 

Doug Swieteck is a young teenager who adores the New York Yankees, especially Joe Pepitone. The middle brother steals a hat of his that was a gift from Pepitone.  It’s the 1960s. His oldest brother serves in Vietnam.  While things don’t look good for him, it gets worse.  He moves with his parents and older brother from Long Island to a town in Upstate New York when his father accepted a job in a paper mill. He doesn’t want to move and his first impression with his new town are not good.  

In time Swieteck makes a friend, Lil Spicer. He takes a job with her father delivering groceries on Saturdays. The people in the town seem weird to him, but he gradually warms up to them. He also becomes enamored with the paintings of John James Audubon and with the guidance of a man who works at the library, learns how to paint. 

Swieteck has much to overcome. His father steals from him, taking the salary from his Saturday job (even though he hides the tips he receives). His father’s friend, who got him the job at the meal, is a jerk and seems to egg his father on. The young Swieteck becomes a friend with the manager at his father’s mill at a company picnic. He introduces him to horseshoes, which Swieteck excels. 

For a kid who seem to feel the entire town hated him, Swieteck has amazing experiences. Though one of the clients whom he delivers groceries to, he finds himself on Broadway in her play makes its debut (and Joe Pepitone is in the audience). Also, by the end of the book, things with his family seem to have improved, despite the fact his oldest brother has returned from Vietnam without his legs. But things are not all well, as his friend Lil suffers for an illness that threatens her life. 

This is an easy read. Growing up is seldom easy as Schmidt shows. But a few helpful adults, hard work, and the right attitude can make a difference.

Joseph Heller, Catch 22 

Book cover for Catch 22

(New York: Simon Schuster, 1961), 443 pages, Audible edition (2017), 19 hours and 58 minutes. 

I don’t know why I never read this book. I’ve seen the movie several times, but it’s been 15 or 20 years since I watched it last. The book, I think, funnier than the movie, which is hilarious. As this is a novel about war, it’s dark humor. 

Yossarian (I love that name) is a bombardier on an island in the Mediterranean. The commander of his unit keeps raising the numbers of flights required before they can return to the states. Feeling he’ll die in combat, and that he has already flown more missions than others in the operation theater, he tries everything to avoid making more flights.  His fear is heightened by the death of Snowden, a tail gunner on his plane. Yossarian comforts him and bandages up his leg, telling him he’ll be fine, only to discover a mortal wound under his flight jacket. The incident haunts Yossarian. Yet, when Yossarian is offered a deal to go back to the states, he can’t accept. The deal would be dishonest and not be fair to his fellow airmen. 

This book has a legion of characters such as Major Major (named by his father as a joke) who becomes a major. One can imagine the confusion. Doc Daneeka, the flight surgeon, hates flying and bargains to be added to the flight rooster without flying. This allows him to receive his flight pay. His gig works well until the plane he’s supposedly on is shot down. The army declares him dead. His wife is notified and finds herself the recipient of all kinds of life insurance and burial benefits. She and the kids move without leaving a forwarding address while the doctor is stuck on a war theater without pay.

And then there is the dead man’s stuff in Yossarian’s tent who took off on a flight without having been officially received in the unit. His flight crashed and no one can touch his things since he wasn’t in the unit. And then there is Milo and ex-PFC Wintergreen, who run black market operations who trade with anyone, including the enemy. While they are making a profit (and everyone has a share in Milo’s operations), there are also missteps as when Milo buys all the Egyptian cotton one year and then is unable to unload it. 

There’s plenty of sex in the story. The whores in Rome, cause some of the airmen to fall in love. One, Nately, dies in a plane crash. Yossarian has the unpleasant task of telling “Nately’s whore” of his demise. She, in turn, tries to kill Yossarian, and continues to try to kill him to the end of the book.

There are also relationships between airmen and nurses. The wives of their superiors are also tempting, especially the ignored young wife of training officer back in the states who insisted on drilling the cadets every Sunday afternoon. Violence and sex go together in the book. One officer rapes a maid, then throws her out of a window to her death. Yossarian confronts him as the sirens wail in the distance. Expecting him to be arrested for murder, the MPs march by the dead woman on the sidewalk and up the stairs. They arrest Yossarian for being in Rome without a proper pass. The book is filled with such surprising twists. of events. 

The book, obviously reflecting on the anti-communist sentiment of the McCarthy era, has intelligent officers trying to trap everyone into confessions, from the airmen to the chaplain. Milo, with his syndicate, displays a weird loyalty to capitalism. He will do anything for a profit, including lifting morphine from the plane’s first aid kits. And why he tries to create his own monopoly, even buying and selling products among his own businesses, he doesn’t want to deal with other monopolies as that wouldn’t be capitalistic.

The incompetent rises to the top, such as the special services officer, who oversees entertainment and such pushing out the general over aviation to claim the spot.  Absurdity wins.  The classic “Catch 22” holds that you can’t fly if you’re crazy, but if you claim to be crazy, you can’t be crazy because only a crazy person would fly over enemy territory.  Of course, in the book, everyone is crazy which drives Yossarian crazier.  The book ends with Orr, who everyone thought had died when his plane crashed, is found washed up in Sweden, a neutral county.  Of course, no one knows how Orr make it from the Mediterranean to northern Europe, but it’s enough to give Yossarian hope that he too can make it. 

This is a classic book which I had a used copy for decades. I have no idea why it took me so long to get around to read and listen. I recommend it with a warning. The contains dark humor. Adult situations are numerous and there’s plenty of violence within the pages. The later should come as no surprise as the book is about war. The writing is amazing. Heller can twist a sentence and a delight to witness.  

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Bakery Stories: Bad Things Happen at Night

title slide with loaf of Holsum bread

The Horrific

During my five years at the bakery, it seems bad things often happened at night. Shortly after I started, a woman working the night shift on the roll line was raped in the women’s locker room. I never knew her, don’t even know if I ever saw her, but she never came back to work. The rapist slipped into the plant and hid in the women’s locker room. I don’t even know if they ever caught the man. 

This incident forced the company to develop more stringent security around the plant, including a card reader at the entrance. It was probably long overdue.

A Neighborhood Shooting

A year or so later, on a hot sticky night when I was working night shift during my summer break from classes, I drove up to a surreal scene. Police and ambulances with their lights flashing were parked in front of the plant. The chalk outline of two bodies could be seen on the sidewalk. Yellow police tape ran from the corner by the entry door and across the front of the plant along 13th Street. They were loading two body bags into the waiting ambulance as I arrived. 

I wondered if I should even go to work that evening. It was eerie entering the plant as I no idea what had just happened. Obliviously, people died. As soon as I got inside, co-workers told me about the few exciting seconds. Several versions of stories spread around the plant. The only thing anyone could be sure of was that no one from the bakery had been involved in the shooting. 

It turned out, as we learned the next day in the newspaper, the shooter was a jealous husband who lived in a housing project across the street from the bakery. He hid in shrubbery out in front the bakery waiting for his wayward wife and her lover to walk by. When they did, he stepped out and shot her. He then took aim at her lover but missed. As the man ran for his life, the husband turned the gun on himself.

Riding a bicycle to work

I often rode my bicycle to work, especially when I lived in an apartment on Greenfield Lake, about five miles from the bakery. During my first year out of college when I worked the night shift as a supervisor, I had a small office, just large enough to store my bike. I got into the habit of only driving a car when the weather was inclement or on Saturday night. With the housing projects across from the plant, I felt it too risky as a white guy to ride a bike through the neighborhood at midnight on Saturday night.

During the warmer months, I would often leave the bakery in the morning and ride out to Wrightsville Beach and sleep on the beach and do a little swimming before riding home. Then, I’d stay up for a while, going back to bed around 6 PM to catch a few more hours of sleep before returning to work.

Almost burning the bakery down

During the year I worked as a supervisor on the night shift, I was nervous going to work at night, but had only one small disaster. This happened on a rainy night. Harvey, my oven operator, was on vacation. John, who had taken over the second shift oven operator job from me when I was promoted to supervisor, worked Harvey’s shift. This night, I was short staffed in the mixing area and was pitching in when I got a desperate call over the loudspeaker from John telling me that he was having problems raising the temperature on the oven to the proper setting. I checked my watch. It was still 30 minutes before the bread would begin leaving the proof box for the oven. 

As soon as I could, I headed back to the oven with a mechanic. About the time we got to the oven, one of the truck drivers who hauled bread to the warehouses around eastern North and South Carolina, came running back yelling that the roof was on fire. Something clicked. I knew immediately the problem. The dampers on the oven had not been closed. As the mechanic headed to the roof with a fire extinguisher, I told the driver to call the fire department as I ran back to the oven. 

Fixing the problem

Sure enough, the dampers were the problem. Lighting the oven, which was about the size of a house, required that one first open the dampers and purge the oven with air. This made sure there was no gas present and reduced the risk of an explosion. Only after purging could you open the gas valves and begin to light the burners. There were around 70 burners, and each had to be lighted individually, but with an electrical ignition. As soon as all the burners blazed, you closed the dampers. John forgot that part. 

What happened is that thermostats kept calling for more heat. The flames grew larger and drawn into the dampers. Obviously, as we discovered the hard way, the dampers hadn’t been cleaned in some time. Grease built up in one of the dampers, catching fire. As soon as John and I shut the dampers, I grabbed another fire extinguisher and headed to the roof where the mechanic had already extinguished the fire. The rain kept the fire from spreading, but there was a small section of the roof which needed repair. The fire department arrived and checked things out, and the night returned to normal. Thankfully, the rain help prevent a disaster. 

Dealing with mechanics

As the night shift mechanics often found places to hid and sleep, I resorted to walking around with a pair of channel locks, an adjustable wrench, and a screwdriver in my back pocket. I quickly gained the skill necessary to do minor adjustments to keep things running. Inexperience became another problem with night mechanics. Most would spend a week or two on day shift, where they worked with an engineer before being moved to night shift. I often knew more about the equipment. 

Of course, there could be worse things than an inexperience mechanic sleeping on a job. We began to use a lot more granulated sugar than we should have as most of our sweetener came in liquid form. We received corn sweeter from tank trucks. Honey and molasses came in 55-gallon barrels. We even used more brown sugar than granulated, both of which came in 50-pound bags. Our inventory showed we were using almost twice the amount of granulated sugar than we should have been consuming. It turned out one of the night mechanics would park his truck by the loading dock. When no one was around, he would place a few bags in the back and cover it up with a tarp. We assumed he stole the sugar to supply a liquor still. Of course, he lost his source of free sugar when he was fired. 

Replacement workers

Working the night shift, especially as a supervisor, had its challenges. It was always difficult to find a replacement when someone called in sick. There weren’t too many qualified replacements and even fewer available at 2 A.M. All new hires had to go through the Personnel Department, which kept 9 to 5 business hours. I’d be given a name and number when a new hire was coming in. 

You’ve already met Frank, one of my problem employees. A month after I had tried to fire him and personnel overruled my decision; he was fired after an “expensive joke.” The next night, a new employee showed up.

The new hire was an attractive young woman just out of high school. That evening, while attempting to teach her how to do the job, I had to shoo away guys from other parts of the plant. Everyone wanted to flirt with her, and she enjoyed the attention. Being new, she hadn’t been issued a uniform. The next night, she came dressed like Daisy Duke, of the Dukes of Hazard, which was a popular show at this time. The girl wore short-shorts and a halter top. I sent her home to get more appropriate clothes, which made her mad. She never returned. The next night, I started to train a guy who I knew from high school, and he worked out.

Mostly monotonous

Despite the stories above, the night shift was mostly monotonous. I became good at anticipating sunrise and a few minutes before, when not cloudy, I’d grab a cup of coffee and head out to the loading dock. Standing on the side of the platform, caressing my cup in my hands, I could look back toward the east and watch for the sun to rise between the plant and the flour silo across the street. I knew my time was almost up and soon my worries would be over, and I’d be in my bed sleeping.

Other Bakery Stories:

Coming of Age in a Bakery: Linda and the Summer of ’76

A College Boy in the Bakery

Harvey and Ernest

Frank and Roosevelt

The Perils of Working on the Christian Sabbath

Remembering Charlie

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1957: The Year of My Birth

title slide with photos of the author and his family from 1957 and 58

I arrived at the Moore County Hospital, just outside of Pinehurst, on a Wednesday morning in the middle of January 1957. The highways through the Sandhills of North Carolina were paved by then, but many of the county roads were still dirt. Longleaf pines surrounded the golf courses around Pinehurst and small farms dotted the rest of the county. Bright-leaf tobacco, cured in barns heated by wood, was the cash crop. It was a simpler time. 

The national average family income had doubled since World War II, rising to just above six thousand dollars a year. Of course, per capita income was lower in the South. But on paper Moore County appeared prosperous thanks to its numbers being inflated by rich Yankee golfers. Six thousand went a long way as the average house cost $12,000. However, furnishing it with a pair of Rembrandt portraits remained out of reach for most. A pair of his portraits sold for an even half a million dollars later in the year. 

For non-golfers in the Sandhills, such as my relatives from the Highlands of Scotland, tobacco remained king. People considered the leaf safe and when the markets opened in late summer, it sold for 59 cents a pound. North Carolina raised nearly a half million acres of the crop, producing over 1700 pounds an acre. You can do the math.  

The year began with a meeting of African American pastors who formed the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. We’d hear more about them in the next decade, but integration moved into the forefront. A year after the last veteran from the war which ended slavery died and three years after Brown verses Board of Education ruled segregated schools unconstitutional, it took the military to desegregate Little Rock Central High School in Arkansas. Things appeared to move slowly in the right direction, but I’d be in the 9th Grade before schools were completely integrated. In Congress, the Senate under the leadership of Lyndon Johnson passed the first (mostly benign) civil rights legislation since the Reconstruction. We’d be hearing more about civil rights and Johnson in the years ahead.  

Two days after my arrival, three B-52s made the first non-stop around-the-world flights. General Curtis LeMay bragged we could drop a hydrogen bomb anywhere in the world. New Mexico became the one place we did drop one that year, accidentally. Thankfully, it didn’t detonate which is why no one knew about it.  The military exploded bombs in Nevada but said everything was safe. No one knew differently except for the sheepherders whose flocks lost their wool and began to die off. There were other nuclear accidents in ’57 in the US and UK, but no one talked about them. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right? And we all knew our government would never do anything to harm us. That myth died before I graduated high school.

Although there were no major wars going on, the world remained tense. The Suez Crisis and the threat of a Soviet nuclear attack loomed. Our government, working with the Canadians, established the DEW line in the arctic to provide us a six-hour warning before the first Soviet bomb could be dropped on an American city. Canadian cities would have a little less time to prepare. By the time the Dew Line became operational, they reduced the margin to three hours as Soviet jets had doubled their speed. In a few months it all became extraneous as the Soviets launched the first intercontinental ballistic missile.

Later in the same year, the Soviets launch Sputnik, and we’d spend the next decade in a space race. Amidst the space race, some yo-yo created the first plastic pink flamingo. The end was near as prophesied by Nevil Shute in On the Beach, his post-nuclear war novel, published in 1957. I’d read it in high school.

To save us from calamity, we placed our faith in Ike, the President. Many thought I resembled as I, too, had a bald head. Ike wasn’t Herod and didn’t see himself as a king. Nor did he waste any time worrying about a newborn impostor as he perfected his golf swing while supposedly preparing himself for a second term as the leader of the free world. 

Jack Kerouac published On the Road in 1957. People headed out on the road sporting a new line of fancy cars with high fins and excessive chrome. The ’57 Chevy would become an icon of the era as Ike announced the building of interstates to connect the cities of our nation. Off the radar was a little-known Japanese company, Toyota. They loaded a ship with their first vehicles for the US market.

People began flying more and taking the train less. New York City abandoned its trolley cars in 1957. Shortly afterwards the Brooklyn Dodgers (originally the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers) announced their move to Los Angeles. They took the last of Las Angeles trolleys out of service six years later as I started the first grade. Now people think the Dodgers must either be named from their ability at dodging wild pitches or an obscure reference to an artful Charles Dickens character. 

In other sporting news, the University of North Carolina beat Kansas in the NCAA basketball finals.  These teams have remained at the top throughout my life. The Milwaukee Braves led by a young Hank Aaron beat the New York Yankees in the World Series. As a junior in high school, I watched TV as Aaron surpassed Babe Ruth’s home run record. The Milwaukee Braves faded over the next decade and high-tailed it to Atlanta. The Detroit Lions, a team whose demise parallels the city, won their last NFL championship.

Ayn Rand published Atlas Shrugged in 1957.  Almost seven decades later, “Who is John Galt?” bumper stickers are occasionally spotted on American highways. In the theaters, The Ten Commandments became the top box office success. For a country which seems so religious, the last commandment about not coveting appears overlooked. Rand launched a frontal assault on this commandment with her godless “look out for me” philosophy. Other commandments were also being broken as the movie “Peyton Place, which debuted in theaters, reminded us.      

Radios in ‘57 played the music of Elvis, Buddy Holly, Debbie Reynolds, the Everly Brothers, Pat Boone and Sam Cooke. In Philadelphia, love-stuck teenagers danced for the first time on American Bandstand as more homes acquired televisions. And in England, two chaps named Lennon and McCarthy met and would go on change music as we know it. Humphrey Bogart died just two days before my arrival, but it was still a good year for Hollywood. Not only was Moses selling, but so were dogs. Children everywhere cried watching Old Yeller. Hollywood also released The Bridge over the River Kwai. It inspired whistlers with its catchy theme music (an old British army tune). That tune would later be used in a commercial for a household cleanser which inspired one of the great ditties of my childhood: 

Comet – it makes your teeth turn green.
Comet – it tastes like gasoline.
Comet – it makes you vomit.
So, buy some Comet, and vomit, today!


Even today, I have a can of Comet stashed under my kitchen sink. Some things change, and some don’t. 

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Michigan Ramblings (June 16-July 3)

Title slide with photos from northern Michigan

I spent the last half of June mostly in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. While I have already written about my solo kayak trip around Drummond Island, I thought I’d share some of my other adventures. 

Jim at Richies Koffee Shop

I arrived in Michigan on June the 18th, staying with my friends Bruce and Katie on Jordan Lake. We enjoyed dinner and sitting out by the lake, along with a late evening boat ride around the lake. The next morning, I headed early into Hastings to have breakfast with my friend Jim, at Richies Koffee Shop, a place I often ate breakfast when I lived in Hastings. As I drove up, Dave and John were at the table by the front window. They wondered who pulled up with a sea kayak on top of their car. When I got out, John said to Dave, “Oh, it figures, it’s Jeff.” I talked with them along with Sandy, my favorite waitress, until Jim arrived. Then I moved over to a booth and caught up with my old canoeing partner. 

I left Hastings a little before 9 so I could make it to the Upper Peninsula (UP) by 2 PM. It rained most of the way, but I made good time.

Me, Gary, Ron at Snows Bar and Grill

At 2, I had lunch with Gary and Ron. Gary and I were in the fire department on Skidaway Island and paddled together several times in the Okefenokee Swamp. I hadn’t met Ron before, but he also lives on Skidaway during the winter and on an island outside of Cedarville, Michigan in the summer. Gary and his wife were traveling through, visiting friends in Michigan before going on into Canada. We met at Snow’s Bar and Grill in Cedarville, a great place for white fish and walleye. It enjoyed catching up with Gary, who grew up in Michigan.  We said goodbyes at 4:00 PM. I stopped by Cedarville’s grocery store and arrived in Detour Village a little after 5 PM. 

On Thursday, I rested and checked out my gear for my trip around Drummond. I realized I had forgotten to bring a battery pack to recharge my cell phone. On Friday, I paddled around Detour Point early in the morning. Then I headed to Sault St. Marie for Walmart, where I picked up a battery pack and the rest of what I needed for my trip.  Afterwards, I decided to travel over to Point Iroquois Lighthouse. 

Point Iroquois Lighthouse

I’d been here once before but forgotten the reason why it was named after a native American tribe found much further east. In the 17th Century, facing pressure from European settlers, the Iroquois tried to extend their territories further west.  Here, on the east end of Lake Superior, the Chippewa, the native tribe of the Great Lakes Region, stopped the Iroquois advancement after a bloody battle. Then, in honor of their dead foe, the Chippewa named this point along the lake, Iroquois. With all the talk about changing or not changing names to make it more “American,” I had to salute the Chippewa graciousness. The next week, I would learn that Drummond Island was named for the British General in charge of northern Michigan. At the end of the War of 1812, he was ordered to move his garrison back into Canada.  

On my way back that Friday, I stopped for dinner at Cozy Corners in Barbeau. I’d eaten at this place before, but never on a Friday night. The place was packed. I sat at the bar, talking to my neighbors, watching the Detroit Tigers play on TV, while also catching glimpses of two southbound freighters.  I ate fish tacos made with walleye. 

The Manse

On Sunday, in exchange for staying at the church’s manse, I preached at the Union Presbyterian Church, using a sermon I had preached a few weeks early at home.  On Monday morning, I headed over on an early ferry run for my paddle around Drummond. 

If you didn’t read about my Drummond Island circumnavigation, you can catch up here: Days 1 & 2,  and Days 3 & 4

I came back to Detour from Drummond Island around 2 PM on Thursday. I laid out my gear in the garage and the sunporch to dry, showered, and took a nap. Around 5:30 PM, I got up and drove over to St. Ignace to pick up Bob, a friend of mine from Hastings. He took a bus up to the UP from Grand Rapids. He was scheduled to arrive at 10:10 PM, so I decided to go over early and eat dinner.  

Of all the times I have been across the Mackinaw Bridge, which crosses at St. Ignace, I have never been into the town. I exited I-75 at Castle Rock and drove through the town and realized soon it was a mistake. The place was packed. I found myself at the end of a parade of old cars, not knowing that this was the first night of a four-day car rally. All the restaurants were packed.

I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few supplies, then decided to try the St. Ignace Truck Stop. It, too, was busy, but by 9 PM had slowed down as patrons left. I sat at the bar and ordered walleye. I was finishing my meal at 9:45 PM, when Bob called. The bus arrived early. Thankfully, he was only a couple of blocks away. I picked him up and we headed back to Detour Village. 

Friday was wet and foggy. I spent the morning reading while Bob, who’s an editor, worked on a project. Occasionally, Bob shared his frustration at the book he was editing. He felt he had to rework too much of the author’s words. But he had been hired by the publisher to get the book ready for print, so he kept at it. Around 2 PM, we took a break and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for one of their great hamburgers. 

The Village Inn is a baseball themed park. Tim Grisdale (Grizz) started the inn after he hung up his glove having played minor league baseball in the Detroit Tigers organization. In addition to running a bar and grill, he was a big supporter of baseball and softball in the town. He died in 2018, before I started coming up to Detour Village, but his memory lives on. There’s the Grizz burgers and lots of photos and newspaper clippings posted on the walls. 

Whitefish Sandwich at Snows

After lunch, we headed to a preserve off Prettiss Bay, where we stayed exploring till almost sunset. Plants seen included wood lilies, thimbleberry, yellow coreopsis, yellow lady slippers, shrubby cinquefoil, red osier dogwood, along with irises, columbines, and shinleaf. Then we drove over to Cedarville and I had a whitefish sandwich for dinner at Snows Bar and Grill.

You might think that Snows gets its name from the extreme winters of the UP, but that’s not the case. There is a “Snows Cut,” which runs between the islands, just south of the joint. I have always found this interesting since I grew up just north of “Snows Cut,” where the Intracoastal Waterway cuts from Myrtle Grove Sound to the Cape Fear River, just north of Carolina Beach. That cut was named after the engineer who directed digging this part of the waterway in the 1930s. 

Bob playing the Sax on Drummond

On Saturday, after a morning of reading and editing, we took the ferry over to Drummond Island and met Dave and Sandy, who took us to a potluck dinner hosted by Lighthouse Church. The dinner was outside. Bob, who is an excellent saxophonist, did a short concert. 

On Sunday, I again preached at the Union Presbyterian Church and Bob supplied special music. He had come up with me in April 2024, so folks on the island knew him and enjoyed his music. Afterwards, we were invited to join a group at the Mainsail Restaurant for Brunch.  

Botanist Bob

In the afternoon, after a nap, we explored the fins along Lake Huron, just east of Albany Creek. A fin is a wet boggy area. In this case, it’s separated from the lake by a series of dunes. This place is rich of wildflowers, especially carnivorous plants. While Bob has worked much of his life in the publishing business, he is the best botanists I know. Not only does he know the names of all the plants, but he also knows most of their Latin names.

Al

Albany Fin

Plants seen: Northern Pitcher Plant, Butterwort (rare), round leaf sundew, linear leaf sundew (rare), horned bladderwort, rose pogonia (orchid), and pitcher thistle (rare). 

After exploring the Albany fin, we came home and fixed steak for dinner. Monday, we lounged around reading and editing. On Tuesday, we packed up and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for lunch before driving south. On our way south, we stopped at Wilderness State Park to look for some rare plants which Bob had seen there years earlier. He found the plants, but it was after they’d bloomed. I stayed at Bob’s Tuesday night. 

Wednesday morning, before leaving Hastings, I had breakfast with “Doc,” my former associate at First Presbyterian Church. Now confined to a walker, “Doc” or Jim, cares for his wife who struggles with dementia. But Doc still gets around some and remains in good spirits. Then I started the long drive home.  

Selfie at Hocking Hills

I decided to spend one more night out in the woods, so I headed to Ohio’s Hocking Hills. I’ve heard about this place before and wish I could have spent more time there. The hills are beautiful with some interesting rock formations around the creeks. I slept in my hammock and enjoyed dinner at the lodge as I watched the sun set. I arrived home on Thursday afternoon, after racking up almost 3,000 miles over 16 days. 

On the way back, I discovered Southern Ohio is filled with Covered Bridges. I’ll have to explore these some other time.
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Reviews from my July readings

photo of books reviewed

While I have completed a lot of books this past month, part of the reason is that two of the books were mostly read during June. I just happened to finish them in July!  Also, as I am trying to find a way to reduce my library. For the past thirty-five years, I have had expense accounts to buy many of my books, which have resulted in way more books that one needs. I have once again begun to check out books from the library. Two of the books here (James and The Folly of Realism )were library books. 

Leo Damrosch, Jonathan Swift: His Life and His World 

(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2012), 573 pages including notes and an index. Audio book narrated by David Stifel, 20 hours and 43 minutes. 

Impressed with Damrosch’s The Club: Johnson, Boswell and the Friends who Shaped an Age, I explored other books written by him.  Having never read a biography of Swift, even though I read Gulliver’s Travels twenty-some years ago, I dug into this book. Swift lived a generation before Boswell and Johnson. While I listened to the book, I also brought a hard copy to reread sections. 

In addition to having read Gulliver’s Travels (and Swift’s short parody, “A Modest Proposal”), which made me curious about Swift’s life, in 2011, I was in Dublin. I attended worship at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I knew Swift served as the dean of the cathedral. He was also buried there. I found it shocking to learn Stella burial is next to him. Stella, is a woman to whom he may or may not have been married. Learning this, I became even more intrigued with Swift. 

I enjoyed Damrosch’s extensive biography. While somewhat academic, this book is very easy to read and includes lots of snips from Swift’s clever writings. In the prologue, Damrosch teases the reader with one of Swift’s affairs, then provides a brief survey of other Swift biographies. Chapter 1 begins with Swift’s early life, in which there are a lot of gaps and questions. It’s assumed he was born at his uncle’s house in Dublin, Ireland, in 1667. Oddly, as a toddler, Swift’s wet nurse Tok him to England. He wasn’t reunited with his mother until he was older. It is assumed his father died before his birth although Damrosch hits at other possible explanations. .

Damrosch leads us through Swift’s life. Swift thought highly of himself and I am curious if he ever preached on humility. He held out hope for a better position in life. Only later did he eventually settle in the position of Dean at St. Patrick’s in Dublin.

Even though he was born in Ireland, Swift considered himself as English. But in time, he became a champion of the Irish cause. But it appears his concern was only for Irish Anglicans. He didn’t care for the Catholics, who made up most of the Irish subjects. He also had disdain for the Scots and Presbyterians

Of course, the Anglican communion was filled with political landmines. Swift didn’t make it easy to navigate, especially after it was discovered he was the “anonymous” author of a satire of the church titled, A Tale of a Tub.  In that book, Jack represents John Calvin, Peter the Catholic Church, both with whom he had issues. Marty was for Martin Luther, whom he seemed to admire more. However, Swift was more about enjoying life and making jokes and less concerned about theology. .

In addition to church pollity, Swift was also interested in the politics of the United Kingdom. Considering he lived during the first Scottish Jacobite Rebellions, English politics were never boring. 

Swift also enjoyed women. In addition to Stella, there was Venessa.  A woman twenty years younger, Swift and she carried on quite an affair. In their correspondence, instead writing about their sexual attractions, they substituted “coffee.” Each would write things like “I can’t wait to drink your coffee.” This silly way of flirting kept a rising member of the clergy from suspect. 

In the end, after Stella’s death, Swift memory faded. He worried about such a fate. In Gulliver’s Travels, when Gulliver is in Luggnugg, he learns of people who do not die, but instead face eternal senility. Certainly, death was more desirable than living like that. By the end of his life, Swift lost his memory. 

This is a massive book with great details into Swift’s life. If you’re interested in Swift, I recommend it. 

Ron Shelton, The Church of Baseball: The Making of Bull Durham, Home Runs, Bad Calls, Crazy Fights, Big Swings, and a Hit

Book cover for "The Church of Baseball"

 narrated by Ron Shelton, (2022), 8 hours and 12 minutes. 

Shelton wrote and directed the 1988 movie “Bull Durham.” In this book, he recalls his minor league career in the late 60s and early 70s. He began playing Single A ball in Bluefield, West Virginia (which was eye opening for a boy from California). He eventually worked his way up to a Triple A team in Rochester, NY. During the first baseball strike, he decided to hang it up. The first half of the book talks about how his ideas for the movie came about. Almost everything in the movie, he experienced or heard about as a ball player. 

In the second half of the movie, Shelton talks about the making of the movie. Kevin Costner, who played Crash Davis, immediately fell for the script and helped him promote it to studios. Susan Sarandon read the script and even though she wasn’t being considered considering for the Annie character, she earned the spot for the leading lady. The third star, Nuke, played by Tim Robbins, took longer to arrange. Durham became the setting for the movie. During the filming, Shelton continually battled the “suits” in Hollywood.  

In addition to learning about how Shelton came up with this idea (based on a Greek play with his baseball experiences), the reader gets an insight into the hassle of making a movie.

I still remember watching the film in Ketchum, Idaho, the summer I was running a camp in the Sawtooth Mountains. I still think it’s a great movie and this book makes me want to watch it again.  

Alexander Vindman, The Folly of Realism: How the West Deceived Itself About Russia and Betrayed Ukraine 

Book cover for "The Folly of Realism"

(New York: Public Affairs, 2025), 290 pages including notes, bibliography and index.

Born in Ukraine, when it was a part of the Soviet Union, Vindman’s family became one of the last group of Jews to leave the country in 1979. Finding himself in America, he served and retired from the US Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. The last half of his career he worked as a military attaché for the United States embassy in Kyiv and Moscow and later for the President as an advisor on Eastern Europe.  His positions allowed him a front row seat for much of what happened between the United States and Russia following the breakup of the Soviet Union.  Of course, there may be some bias,. This is understandable with his background. However, the book is written in a way that strives to understand the positions of Russia, Ukraine, Europe, and the United States. 

This book begins under the presidency of George H. W. Bush. The Soviet Union broke up and many of the former “republics” became independent states. During the first Bush’s term and the first half of Clinton’s term, American interest centered on freeing Ukraine from nuclear weapons. When the Soviet Union split up, Ukraine overnight became the third largest nuclear power in the world. But with Ukraine’s dark history of Chernobyl, it was willing to give up its weapons. Furthermore, it knew it couldn’t maintain the nuclear stockpile, especially as many of the weapons approached the end of their lifespan.  In a way, Russia and the United States agreed (for different reasons) that the weapons needed to be dismantled and turned over to Russia. 

Starting with the Soviet breakup and for the next 30 years, the United States respected Russia as the legitimate heir to the Soviet Union. For their part, Ukraine just wanted protection from Russia as it attempted to build a new country. 

As the 21st Century began, both the United States and Russia found themselves on the same side of the war against Islamic extremism. After the nuclear weapons in Ukraine were eliminated, the United States looked the other way as Russia attempted to control the Soviet’s former states. After all, the United States needed bases in former Soviet states for the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Under Putin, Russia strove harder to influence the politics of many former Soviet States, especially Ukraine and Georgia. They even hired an American political operative, Paul Manafort, to help them break Ukraine up so they would have more influence. Manafort later managed Donald Trump’s first Presidential campaign. Convicted for fraud and witness tampering, Trumped pardoned him.. Manafort helped soften the image of Yanukovych, whom the Kremlin wanted as Ukraine’s president. Yanukovych won in a Russian influenced election. . Afterwards the people of Ukraine, desiring to aligned with Europe, revolted. He fled the country. Russia then invaded Crimea and the Donbas. Vindman, working out of the Moscow embassy, was able to report on Russian soldiers moving into the Donbas, which Russia had said was a separatist movement.  

Most of this book deals with the period from 1989 to 2014, when Russia began military operations in Ukraine. Vindman makes it clear that Putin’s desire is an empire, like that of the Soviet Union. And the belief in Russia is that without Ukraine, they will not be able to have an empire.  

Vindman is critical of all Presidential Administrations. Much of our policy focused on maintaining a positive relationship with Russia, while forgoing ideals of freedom. Vindman shows the failure of America not living up to our own ideals about freedom as opposed to looking out for our short term interests when it comes to foreign policy. He argues that our foreign policy needs not only a realistic approach, but one which honors our ideals. This book provides the readers with an insight into what led up to the Russia attacks on Ukraine.  I would recommend this book, along with Anne Applebaum’s Red Famine to better understand the Ukrainian situation.

Percival Evett, James 

Book cover for "James"
Version 1.0.0

(New York: Doubleday, 2024), 302 pages. 

Surprise, I do occasionally read fiction. James is a fictional story in which Jim, Huck Finn’s sidekick in Mark Twain’s novel, tells his side of the story. I found this to be a good and fast read with some surprising twists which I won’t reveal in case you want to read the book. I hope you do and highly recommend it. 

James shows us how those in oppressed situations must live to maintain peace and enjoy some safety. He and his fellow slaves must show deference to all white people. This includes the way they speak. James educated himself by teaching himself to read and “borrowing books” from Judge Thatcher’s library. But he can’t let on that he has read many of the classics and musts talk with the dialect of a slave.  He also is unable to speak up when other slaves are punished. His most valuable possession is the stub of a pencil which he uses to write his thoughts down on paper. 

Many of the stories are like those in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. James and Huck spend their time on a raft and try to figure out life. They catch and cook catfish from the river. They run into the two con-artists, Dauphine and the King, who have a notion to sell James or to turn him in as a runaway and collect the reward. And they also meet up with a minstrel group without a tenor. Hearing James sings, the leader buys James as his tenor. However, to perform, they still must paint up Jame’s to make him “blackfaced,” cause no white crowd would come to see an actual black man sing.  Through these stories, we see the absurdity of a society in which half the population are in bondage. 

James’ mind is always on his wife and daughter, whom he hopes to buy out of slavery. The book ends as the Civil War begins. James frees his family and takes revenge on some who had been especially cruel. Instead of “lighting out to the territories,” as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn ends, they move north. That’s enough hints to the story. There’s one larger twist you’ll have to read the book to learn.

My one complaint is that James is “too well read” in the classics. He has read (and carries on make-believe conversations with John Locke. Others he read include Voltaire. I found this hard to believe that one without a tutor could read and grasp the  full meaning of such books. However, it’s still a good story. 

Rebecca Solnit, Orwell’s Roses 

Book cover for Orwell's Roses"

(2021) narrated by Rebecca Solnit,  7 hours and 51 minutes.

“In the spring of 1936, a writer planted roses.” This begins the book, a sentence which, which in various forms, Solnit returns to throughout this collection of essays centered around the plant and the writer.  Each section provides new insight into roses and to Orwell. 

This is not a biography, even though the reader will gain insight into Orwell’s life. It’s more a mediation, as Solnit weaves together insights of the flower and Orwell. We learn about how and why the plant is grown. One tangent takes us into the greenhouses outside of Bogota, Columbia, where they grown most of the roses sold in the North America. We learn of the brutal conditions of those who work inside these compounds. 

We also learn about Stalin, who Solnit suggests could have been Orwell’s muse. After all, much of his writing in the last decade of his life was in response to the world Stalin (and Hitler) attempted to create. While Stalin didn’t grow roses, he did grow lemons (or had them grown for him for unlike Orwell, Stalin didn’t get his hands dirty). Orwell, who politically was a socialist, feared what would happen in a totalitarian world. 

The book delves into politics, economics, and aesthetics. The latter is important.  During and since high school, I have read much of Orwell’s writings (Homage to Catalonia, Burmese Days, Animal Farm, 1984, and his much of his massive, Collective Essays). I don’t think I would have considered Orwell’s appreciation of beauty, but as I listened to this book, I pulled out my copy of his essays and reread several. Solnit is right. While Orwell was often sick and his view of the world wasn’t positive, he does appreciate beauty. 

I highly recommend this book especially in our world today in which authoritarianism seems to have much appeal to many people. I believe you’ll appreciate Solnit’s masterful use of language as she conveys a sense that Orwell has something to say to our generation.

Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life 

Book cover for "Falling Upward"

(San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2011), 198 pages including notes and an index.

I’ve had this book for a couple of years. Robert, a friend from Utah, suggested it to me in 2023. I brought it and my first attempt to read it just didn’t take. But the second time, something caught, and I read it. Possibility, this has to do with me pondering retirement. Two years ago, I was avoiding such thoughts. Now, I’m long past the age I could retire. The topic of retirement frequently on my mind.

Rohr divides our lives into two halves. The first half, we build a life. We also prepare for the second part. In the second half, we’re to be an elder, a mentor, and help others build. I like his distinction here of the two halves. He roots his thoughts in Biblical passages in addition to insights from his life, literature, philosophy, mythology, and other religions. 

Early in the story, he shares a story of a Japanese ritual for those who served in the military during World War II. Many came home broken. They’d been loyal soldiers. Not knowing anything else, they needed to be helped to move into a new phase of life. They were thanked for their serve and then instructed by the elders in villages and cities to leave their “loyal soldier” life behind. They were now needed to help rebuild their society. This created a transition for those who had served in the military. Rohr then goes on to compare a successful transition to the older brother in the Prodigal Son parable, who was unable to let go of the past.  Failure to let go of the past will lead to failure in the second half of life.

If we’re living, we’re changing. We need to learn to manage change within ourselves and our community. One of the keys to Rohr’s idea is to focus on the good of the community, something which I believe our society lacks these days. You’ll find lot more wisdom in this book.  I recommend it.