memoir Archives - From a Rocky Hillside

November 15, 2024November 15, 2024

A Good Boy

Title slide with photo of Trisket and me in a canoe

I have been working on a post, but just didn’t have time to finish it. As I’m coming up this week on the 7th anniversary of Trisket’s death, I decided to pulled this post from an older blog and reposted it.

Trisket lying on the kitchen floor on the night before his death, November 2017.

Over the past year, I often watched you sleep. At times, your legs twitched. I imagined you dreaming of when you were younger and ran with grace. In your sleep, were you still circling the house at full speed, stopping only to chase squirrels back up into the trees?

Over the past year, on our walks, I took the lead while you moped behind. As I slowed down to your speed, I wondered if you recalled dragging me as we headed into Hastings or up the canyon by Cedar Creek.

Over the past few months, I watched in sadness as you bumped into walls and furniture. Your cataract eyes glassed over, and I wondered if you remembered the hours we played in the kitchen. Your sharp eyes followed my hand as I tossed popcorn. You’d snap each kernel out of the air, seldom missing. And how, I could never make banana pudding without you being under my feet. While you never turned down a strip of steak, you loved banana pudding. I even tested you once, putting a dab of banana pudding on one plate and a strip of steak on another. When I let you go, you headed straight for the pudding, then the steak. Always go for dessert, first, you taught. And let’s not forget how much you loved pineapple!

When we moved to Skidaway, near Savannah, you struggled in the humidity and heat. I wondered if you recalled snow. Could you remember running through it as you scooped it up with your snout and tossed it in the air, snapping at the falling flakes as if it was popcorn.

I am thankful that to the end, when you stood beside me, pressing your neck on my lower thigh. You were atthe right height for my fingers to bury themselves in your beautiful mane. And I always loved how you stood in the wind. The tufts at the end of your ears flew back, as you sniffed and enjoyed the breeze. Sadly, I miss our long walks around town, our hikes in the wood, and how you sat like General Washington in the middle of the canoe as we floated down river.

You were so gentle with that little girl, the one who picked you out of the litter and named you for a cracker. You always looked out for her and for that reason alone, I am eternally grateful. The two of you grew up together, but you grew old much too fast. Seventeen years is a long time for a dog, they say, but not nearly long enough. The house is way too big, lonely, and sad tonight. I keep listening for the sounds of your clanking tags and the tap of your toenails on the hardwood, but only hear the cold rain splattering on the deck out back. We’re all going to miss you, Trisket. You were such a good boy, a pretty boy, a big furry fluffball!

My favorite photo of Trisket and me. On the Thornapple River in Michigan in 2007. He would have been around 7 years old at this time.

November 7, 2024November 7, 2024

Soap Box Derby

When I was in Wilmington two weeks ago, I spent a lot of time with my sister going through my parents photos and came up with these photos of my soap box derby cars. This is the story of building and racing these cars.

I sat in my car on the starting platform. The platform had been installed at the top of what might be the tallest hill in New Hanover County. They had closed a section of 16^th Street for the Saturday running of the 1971 Soap Box Derby. Gripping the wheel and leaning back as far as possible to cut the drag, I glanced over at my opponent. His car was sleek, constructed of fiberglass, but with lots of metal inside. I knew it would be fast, but I had registered good time during the practice trials and had easily won my first race.

The starter, holding high the flag, let it fall. The gates dropped and the cars eased down the plywood ramp and onto the pavement. I concentrated on staying low and keeping my car straight in its lane. The cars began picked up speed. I saw the other car pull slightly ahead as we shot toward the finish line. The checker flag fell. He won and my days of racing had come to an end. Later that morning, the car which beat mine became the overall winner. He got to go to Akron, Ohio, for the nationals.

Soap Box Derby Car — I’m sitting on the “hood” of the my second car with my younger brother sitting inside the car with a friend of his on the back. My other brother stands behind the car.

This was my second year of building a soap box derby. Both years I lost in the second round of a single elimination tournament.

The Wilmington Jaycees held the event. They provided participants with a basic kit which included wheels and axles, a steering wheel, wire, and brake assembly. The sponsors of our event cover the cost and provided a small amount of funds (I think it was $35, which wouldn’t today purchase the plywood) for everything else. I used two sheets. I cut the floorboard and the bulkheads out of ¾ inch plywood. The body I fashioned out of ¼ inch plywood. The metal axles went inside a 1-inch board. Cutting a channel half way through the boards, I chiseled out a channel for the axle. Then I planed down the front side to make the axle cover streamlined.

Those of us who were drivers were to build our own cars with only adult supervision. The first year, I built my car under the carport at our house with David Hunter. David’s father had recently died, so my father served as both of our supervisors. We were to build our cars ourselves, which my father ensured except for the rough cutting of the ¾ inch plywood, which required a circular saw. My father insisted we were too young but allowed us to use jig saws to cut out the bulkheads. Each of these he had us file down to make smooth. I remember lots of stokes using a half-moon file.

The floorboard also had a wooden cutout for a brake. The pedal was made of plywood left over from the center of the bulkheads. A wire ran from pedal to the break in the back, where a wooden 2×4 with a piece of tire on the bottom served as the brake.. When pressed, the brake descended to the road and slowed the car.

Then I attached the bulkheads with angle braces. This was in the day before power drivers, so we drilled pilot holes and used screwdrivers to fix the screws and bolts.

The rear axle and cover were attached with bolts to the back of the floorboard. The front axle was attached with a single bolt, allowing it to move two inches. This was for safety since we were running a straight course. If we could have steered any more, there would probably be cars running into each. This was just enough movement to allow us to make minor adjustments to our path. I then installed the steering wheel between the first two bulkheads in the front. A wire wound around the steering wheel shaft, threaded through pulleys, ran out to each side of the front axle. This allowed us, when racing, to turn the axle slightly to adjust for bumps in the pavement.

At this point, we attached ¼ inch plywood over the bulkheads. The sides were rather simple, but the top required us to use a circular saw with the blade set about 1/8 of an inch to cut strips underneath the plywood, allowing it to bend. With barely any blade showing, my father decided to let us use the saw ourselves.

Once all the plywood was attached, we installed a seat, covered screw holes with putty, and painted the car. My first year, I chose orange with a blue racing strip. For my second year, I used purple with a white stripe. Since we could have a professional do the sponsors lettering on the car, my father volunteered to do it.

family and soap box derby car — My first car. I’m sitting inside, flanked by my two brothers and sister. Behind is my father, my grandparents on my father’s side and my grandmother on my mother’s side.

When the car was done, we hauled them on a flatbed trailer the day before the race to a warehouse which had been reserved on 13^th Street. There, they checked our cars to make sure they weren’t too heavy, and everything was safe and to regulation. My car the first year was about 30 pounds lighter than it had to be. When they checked us in, they kept our cars impounded until race day.

That evening, after the race, the Jaycees threw a banquet for us. We were presented with medals and endured motivation speeches by a couple of the Jaycees.

In building my second car, I mostly worked by myself since David didn’t sign up to build another car. Moving my radio out to the carport, I remember repeatedly hearing that summer Three Dog Night sing “Joy to the World” as I worked.

I had learned a few things from my first car. I wanted the car to be more streamlined and heavier. Trying to figure out how to add weight, my father suggested that instead of buying lightweight angle braces, we use ¼” steel angle iron. Someone he knew cut them into 2-inch-long angles. At the front and back, I used six-inch-long angle iron. This was overkill, but it added weight. Drilling through the iron was difficult, but it was worth it for the weight. I also added more ¾ plywood in the bracing and using solid pieces at the front and back. By the time I completed the car, it was only about 2 pounds under the maximum. The added weight and the sleeker design created a faster car than my first traditional design. In the end, it didn’t matter. The fastest car knocked me out in the second heat.

September 25, 2024September 26, 2024

President Nixon: High School in 1974 and a new biography

cover of book and campaign button for Nixon

I will first share a story from the spring of my junior year of high school, followed by a review of a new religious biography of Richard Nixon. This is my last planned post till October 6. I am on vacation and will be away some from the computer. From the looks of the weather, I picked a heck of a time to take a week off!,

John T. Hoggard High School, Spring 1974

It all came to a head in Coach Fisher’s economics class. I took my seat in the class and when he saw me, he fumed.

“You are not allowed in my class,” he yelled, staring at me.

“I’m not leaving,” I said.

“Yes, you are,” he said, pushing desks with students sitting in them out of the way to get to me.

Scared, I stayed in my seat, thinking that if he physically harmed me, which he could easily do, I’d have a class of witnesses for an ensuing lawsuit.

Standing over my desk, he ordered me out into the hallway. I had spent the past two weeks sitting in the hallway, working chess puzzles in a magazine. This started when I challenged one of his diatribes about Richard Nixon. Nixon was in the news a lot in the spring of 1974.

The day before, at the end of the class, Coach Fisher told me I would fail his class because I had missed so much of it. I told him that I better not, because he was the reason I was missing his class. The class really had nothing to do with economics. Most of the 50 minutes was spent discussing basketball and other sports. What little had to do with economics was more about consumer spending than the relationship between price and demand or an understanding of macroeconomics. Fisher was a coach, who had been given a teaching position.

I decided it was time to end my exclusion from class, so the next morning, I returned.

After a few moments of a standoff, I told Coach Fisher that if he wanted me out of the class, we could go together to Mr. Saus’ (the principal) office. His anger grew and he started to drag my chair outside.

“Fine,” I said. “I will go to the principal’s office,” I said, getting up. He ordered me to sit in the chair outside his door, but I walked down the hall and turned toward the office. I expected him to follow, but he didn’t. Mr. Saus wasn’t available, but I was sent into Mr. McLaurin’s office. He was an assistant principal. I told him my story. He listened and had me remain in his office while he disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back in, he told me to go back to class, that Mr. Fisher would let me back in.

Fisher didn’t fail me for that six-week period. I passed the class with a decent grade without having to do anything because Fisher essentially ignored me for the rest of the semester. I just sat there. I would have to wait till college to grasp economics.

Richard Nixon was president during the formative years of my life. I was in the sixth grade when he was elected president in 1968. At the time, Nixon, to me, seemed to be the best choice.

I would continue to support Nixon throughout my junior high and early high school years. Why, I’m not sure. Why did I believed him when he said he didn’t do anything wrong? This belief was strong enough to encourage me to speak up for Nixon in Coach Fisher’s class, which led to our encounter. Later, after he resigned from the Presidency the summer after the above incident, I felt embarrassed. Some of that shame remains. How could I have been so naïve?

There were two events that happened in high school which my mom always blamed on me losing all respect for authority. And they happened about the same time. The first was a wreck. A young woman (she was 21) turned in front of me from the left-hand lane on Shipyard Boulevard. I hit her in the front quarter panel and both cars were totaled. Thankfully, my mom was seated right next to me and saw it all. I was knocked out and sent in an ambulance to the hospital. The young city police officer, whom my mother witnessed flirting with the other driver after the accident, charged me with following to close. From the damage to her car, that was an impossibility. Thankfully, a neighbor who was a state highway patrolman, came to our aid and helped prove my innocence. Click here for a sermon where I share more about the wreck.

I don’t think my mother even knew about the incident in Coach Fisher’s class.

The accident in which I was wrongfully charged occurred within a year of Nixon’s resignation. Mom was right. Both probably contributed to my cynicism when dealing with authority figures. And Coach Fisher became the icing on that cake.

Daniel Silliman, One Lost Soul: Richard Nixon’s Search for Salvation

(Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2024), 317 pages including an index, bibliography and notes on sources.

One Lost Soul is a religious biography of our 37^th President. Silliman begins with a brief overview of Nixon’s early life, after which he jumps from one critical injunction to another to show the role religion played in Nixon’s political career. These include Nixon’s anti-communism work as a young congressman, the run with Eisenhower as Vice President and his “Checkers Prayer,” the role of religion in the 1960 election, his holding “church” in the White House, the Vietnam War, his outreach to China, the Watergate Coverup, his resignation as President, and a bit about Nixon’s life after his presidency.

Silliman’s theme is that Nixon spent his life, from childhood, with a desire to find acceptance and love. Such desire began in his father’s grocery story but continued throughout his life. His obsession led him to work hard. He believed in the “great man” theory of history and wanted to be such a man, as seen in his reaching out to China. He had a hard time accepting God’s love or the love others. On the night before his resignation, Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State visited with him. On Nixon’s suggestion, the two men got on their knees and prayed. Nixon cried as he asked, “What have I done?”

Kissinger shared this moment with his staff members before Nixon called him to ask that he not tell anyone that he had cried. Kissinger later asked, “Can you imagine what this man would have been had somebody loved him?”

I had always wondered about Nixon’s background as a Quaker. I still remember a Mad Magazine from the time with a cartoon-like article about religion. When they got to the section on Quakers, one panel said something like, “There are 100,000 Quakers in the United States. The next panel said that Quakers don’t believe in war. The third panel featured Nixon saying that he was a Quaker. The final panel read, “That makes 99,999.

Silliman points out that California Quakerism differed from the East Coast variety in several manners. In some ways, it was more like a Methodist tradition, with focus on working out one salvation. Nixon saw military activity as a way toward peace, so instead of seeking a consciousness objector status during World War 2, he joined the navy. Even during Vietnam, Nixon maintained hope the bombings would bring the North to the negotiation table. While this upset many Quakers, the decentralized structure of the denomination meant that any church disciplinary actions would have to be taken by his home church in California. While Nixon continued to claim to be a Quaker, he had not been active in the church since a child.

As President, Nixon created White House worship services. For these, he would import ministers to preach. Interestingly, Nixon maintain total control of the service down to the hymns. The services served a political purpose as Nixon often invited those to attend as favors. These services were Protestant, but on one occasion was led by a Jewish rabbi.

Nixon could also be impulsive. In the middle of the night during the anti-war protests, he takes his valet (and some secret service agents) to the Lincoln Memorial. There, he talks to anti-war protestors who are camping out on the steps. He asks questions of them. When they depart, he expresses his hope their opposition to the war won’t turn into hate for the country.

Silliman points out many good things Nixon did. Certainly, his work with China stands at the top. But he also refused to play the religious card against John Kennedy in the 1960 election. While it would have probably worked at the time, he didn’t feel it appropriate. He was also deeply concerned with Civil Rights, even though for political reasons, he refused to make a public statement on Martin Luther King’s arrest during the 1960 election. In 1968, he tried to play it both ways, reaching out to Strong Thurmond and other who supported segregation. This was the beginning of the Republican “southern strategy.”

While this is a sad and tragic story, I can’t help but to have hope that at least Nixon had a conscious that bothered him. I didn’t come away from this book thinking he was a psychopath. There were times he had empathy for others and instead of thinking too highly of himself, he doubted his own self-worth. In a way, it was his lack of self-worth that made him so desperate to win and to prove himself.

This is a good book not just for understanding Nixon, but also understanding the difficult many people have in accepting grace.

This biography is a part of the “Library of Religious Biography” series. I have read several others in the series including Aimee Semple McPerson: Everybody’s Sister, Billy Sunday and the Redemption of Urban America, and Harriet Beecher Stowe: A Spiritual Life.

August 27, 2024August 29, 2024

Camp Bud Schiele, 1984

The wasp

The summer had been incredible. And the last week of camp started off smoothly. My staff had all reported back on time and most of the troops had checked in by mid-afternoon on Sunday. A little after four, I headed over to the dining hall to check on dinner. At six, they’d be serving nearly 500 scouts, leaders and staff. Sunday night was always a good meal: baked chicken, whipped mashed potatoes with gravy, vegetables, yeast rolls and cobbler for dessert. I could smell the food as I neared the dining hall. I cut around the back, to enter through the kitchen entrance. Passing the dumpsters, something bumped into my eye. Immediately I felt the sting. I slapped my forehead, killing a wasp.

They say bad things come in threes. I should have gone out right then and found a rock to hide under to wait out the Apocalypse.

Up until my encounter with a wasp, it had been a wonderful summer at Camp Bud Schiele. The camp, in only its second year of operation, looked like a country club. The rolling grassy hills surrounded a lake which offered swimming, canoeing and sailing, fishing and waterskiing. I had a terrific staff. The first seven weeks had gone off without a hitch.

After this week, we’d store away tents and gear. The week after that, I’d be in Damascus, Virginia, ready for a two-week hike along the Appalachian Trail.

The cooks assured me that dinner would be on time. I got a piece of ice to hold against the wasp sting and headed back to the camp office. By the time of our staff meeting that night, my right eye had swollen shut. There, before me, stood my staff. Every one of them sat with their right eye closed. I wish I felt it was out of sympathy, but I know mockery when I see it.

Camp Bud Schiele Staff 1984 — The Full Staff (minus cooks and CITs or counselors in training)

The Forger

After Sunday, things slipped back into a regular routine. By mid-week, the swelling had gone down and I’d forgotten about the wasp. The council camp had a tradition going back generations where the camp staff produced a pageant for campers and their families on Wednesday night. It was convenient to do this middle of the week; visiting parents always recharged the son’s wallets which helped our trading post make a good profit. The pageant itself was quite a feat, as the staff dressed up as Native Americans and told some legendary story about natives in Western North Carolina. No one seemed to bothered that the staff dressed like Plain’s Indians, right off a Hollywood movie set. As camp director, I’d spent the evening greeting parents and talking up the scouting program.

A few minutes before the final show of the summer began, my business manager ran up to me and said there was someone in the office who needed to see me. I walked over and met the man who ran a small country store and gas station a few miles away. He wasn’t too happy. He showed me a check written by one of my staff members. The check was written on a closed account.

Todd, the staff member, who had been in uniform, told the man the check belonged to his mother and she had given it to him, pre-signed, so he could get gas and some snacks. The store accepted it, after writing the guy’s name and driver’s license number on the check. As country stores often did, he counter signed the check over to the bread delivery man. The only problem was, the check didn’t belong to the guy’s mom, but to another woman, the sister of a friend. When the check was denied for payment, the bread company had charged the store an extra fine. The store owner had called the woman whose name was on the checks. He learned the checks had been stolen. There had been a number of checks written on this account, which had been closed, across a three-county area. She also informed him there were a half-dozen warrants out for the guy’s arrest.

Honorably discharged after four years serving in the Marine Corp that May, Todd came with good references. His age was another asset. There were many positions he could serve by being over 21. Todd became an assistant field sports director, running the rifle range. For a couple weeks, he also served as a provisional scoutmaster, working with those scouts who came to camp without a troop. I’d been pleased with his work.

Unlike a lot of my staff, Todd always had clean uniforms, which I later learned was because he’d brought four sets of them with a check “which his mother had given him so he could buy uniforms.” As it turned out, even his uniforms were stolen. He purchased them through forgery. Although I didn’t want a sheriff cruiser flying into camp with their lights flashing to arrest a staff member, I also felt I needed to get Todd out of camp. Although I didn’t think he’d do anything, I felt it was a liability to have a staff member working with kids with that many felonies on his head.

I asked the local sheriff if they could wait till ten o’clock. The camp ranger (who was deputized because of the amount of land he managed) and I would detain Todd in my office until then. By ten, all the parents would have left, and the scouts would be back in their campsites. Then, in private, we could hand Todd over to a local sheriff deputy. They would hold him until the sheriff of Catawba County picked him up.

I made arrangement for my program director to take over the staff meeting we always held on Wednesday night and asked him to keep the staff together until I came back to talk to them. With Tony, the camp ranger by my side, I asked Todd to come with me to my office.

It was a long walk through the night. Once inside the office, I told him what was up. Todd was a big guy, probably 6’3” with broad shoulders, about the size of Tony and I put together. Afraid of what he might do, he shocked both of us by sitting down in a chair and crying. Tony offered him a cigarette. I decided not to insist he not smoke in my office. He took one (I’d never seen him smoke) and with tears in his eyes asked what was going to happen to him. I told him didn’t know, but I knew there were several warrants out for his arrest and that forgery was serious business.

The deputy arrived right at ten and arrested Todd. I felt sorry for him, as he was handcuffed. I told him we’d pack up his stuff and keep it safe and then went over to the dining hall where the staff was sitting around waiting. They knew something was up and were visibly shaken, for Todd had been a likable guy. The next day, Tony and I went through Todd’s stuff, inventorying it all and boxing it up and storing it in his car. A few days later, his parents came down and picked up his car and drove it home.

Staff dressed for a pageant — Another staff photo

An indecent photograph

I’d had enough excitement for one summer. But the week wasn’t over. On Friday, as I was trying to finish up paperwork in my office, the mother of a camper who’d been at the camp a few weeks earlier came by. Like the store owner, she too wasn’t happy. She dropped an X-rated photograph on my desk, one that had come from her son’s camera. I could have gone all summer without seeing that. Her son swore to her that he had no idea where the picture came from, but looking at it, I knew right away who to ask.

I called for the waterfront director. When he entered my office, I showed him the picture of someone’s privates, with a bathing suit pulled down. The director recognized the bathing suit and sent for two staff members. He had quickly figured out what had happened.

As the scouts checked into the waterfront, there was a place where they could ‘check” valuables, things which shouldn’t get wet, like wallets and cameras. The staff member in question had seen this camera and he, and another staff member, decided it would be funny to take a pornographic photo on some unsuspecting kids’ camera. The staff member responsible for checking in valuables had taken the photo and another waterfront staff, with the bright red striped bathing suit, served as the model.

Although I knew it was just a childish prank, the Scouts have strict rules on such behavior. I found myself having the privilege of firing two more staff members. Like Todd, both were well-liked and hard workers. The rest of the staff were angry at my decision, especially since it there was only one more day of camp left. They were particularly mad that I didn’t allow them to attend the closing banquet we held at the end of the next week, after closing down the camp for winter. At least the model in the photograph must not have been too mad with me, for the next year when he graduated from college, he called to ask me to be one of his references.

It had been such a nice summer. I enjoyed everything the camp had to offered: swimming, water skiing, sailing, canoeing, and fishing. But after that last week, I was never so glad to head off for a two-week hike in Southern Virginia.

Recalling a Mentor: Ron Carroll, part 2

A couple of weeks ago, I posted the first of memoir of one of my mentors. Click here for that post. Here is the second part.

Staff Retreats

Ron Carroll and Rhone Sasser — Ron and Council President Rhone Sasser who was President of United Carolina Bank at this time. I no longer have the original photo, this was copied from an annual report.

Ron taught those of us on staff to make the best of any situation. We were a small staff; there were only five of us. Twice a year, Ron pulled us away for a three-day retreat. We spent the time planning and training. We worked hard. But Ron was never one to let hard work get in the way of a good time.

Many of these retreats were held in beach houses owned by a council board member. Several were on Wrightsville Beach, others on Brunswick County beaches. In addition to planning, training, and setting goals, we’d fish and take turns preparing fancy seafood dinners. If the water was warm, we’d swim. There was one fall retreat, after working all day and a big dinner, we played football in the surf as the sun set. It probably wasn’t the brightest thing as the sharks often move closer to shore to feed at dusk, but no one was harmed.

One fall morning we meet at a beach house on Wrightsville Beach. Ron unlocked the door. We began to barge in with boxes of food, a couple of cases of beer, bottles of booze, bags of chips, along with flip charts and calendars and other assorted accruements. We were all shocked as a barely dressed woman stepped out of the bathroom. She squealed and ducked back in. Then, in the commotion, a young man appeared from the bedroom as the coed returned from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her. “Who are you?” She asked. Ron told her he arranged with so and so to use the house for a few days. This turned out to be the girl’s father.

Embarrassed and concerned her daddy might learn she’d taken a premature break from college in order to entertain her boyfriend, she asked for a few minutes to pack. Ron was polite and said we were all in need for some breakfast and that when we return, we’ll have forgotten what we’d seen. We left. An hour later we returned; the woman and her illicit boyfriend were gone. I’m sure when Ron dropped a thank you note to her Daddy, he omitted that it had been our pleasure to meet his daughter.

Ron’s Organizational Skills

Ron had a temper and never liked it when things didn’t go the way he’d plan. In one staff meeting, where he learned several assignments had been dropped, Ron started cussing and fussing and marched us into his office.

Ron’s desk was always immaculate. He started lecturing on how to organize our mail so that everything got done. He had a three-bin file on the edge of his desk. His goal was to never handle a piece of paper more than twice, he said. When he opened his mail, if it could be handled immediately, he did so. If it was of top importance and wouldn’t take much time, it went into this top bin. Second bin was for things that weren’t critical, and the bottom one was for things he wanted to look at but was not so important that the world would end if he didn’t get around to it. In his rant, Ron picked up the stack of papers in his top bin.

On the bottom of this stack was a Hustler magazine. We all started to smirk. Ron’s face became redder and redder as we all broke out into laughter. Finally, before Ron blew a gasket, someone pointed to the magazine. Ron turned over the pile. Then he laughed. His lecture came to an end with some mumbling about priorities.

Ron and Marketing

Ron should have been on Madison Avenue. Not only was he a good salesman, but he was also a master marketer. Even when we were doing things like raising money to pay off debt, Ron could come up with positive campaign slogans and materials that turned what many would have considered drudgery into an opportunity to celebrate. I don’t remember all the names, but one desk, I still have a “Catch the Scouting Spirit” mug holding pencils. In a shelf at work, there’s a “Total Development Campaign” apothecary jar holding toothpicks.

Ron insisted that when an event was over, it didn’t matter how good it turned out. What mattered was how people thought it went. If it was the greatest event in the world and only those who were there knew about it, it was a flop. Then next time we’d have to work just as hard. However, even if the event was mediocre, but everyone thought it was great, then it was a success. The next time such an event would be even easier to promote. Ron encouraged us to learn the stories from scouts and leaders and to tell them in order to promote the program.

Knowing I was interested in photography, Ron encouraged me to shoot photos whenever possible. With the scouting program financing my film and developing chemicals, I photographed everything. As I was working in rural areas with smaller newspapers, I often had full page spreads of my photographs showing scouts in action. Photos ended up in the council annual report and on camp posters. I was shocked when visiting Ron years later, just before his death, to see the posters framed and hanging in his home. Although at the time my writing was limited to an occasional press release, I’m sure Ron’s insistence on telling stories influenced my writing more than I could have imagined.

Ron and Perception (another part of Marketing)

Perception was also important in how we did our jobs. Ron taught us that you always left your business card and even encouraged us to stop by places in which we knew someone wouldn’t be home or in the office. Leaving a business card was almost as good as making a face-to-face visit. It didn’t take as much time and it left the perception that we were hard at work (in truth, when you have hundreds of volunteers, such time saving techniques were necessary to help everyone feel connected and cared for. He told stories about dropping off his business cards in mailboxes in the middle of the night. I never did that, but I wouldn’t put it past Ron.

In addition to dropping off business cards, Ron was always writing notes to people—both to volunteers as well as his professional staff. Whenever we did something well, he’d write us a note and encourage us to do likewise. To this day, I always care a few note cards in my folder, a habit I learned from Ron.

Building Camp Bowers

One of Ron’s great achievements as the Scout Executive for the Cape Fear Council was creating Camp Bowers in Northwest Bladen County. The council had not had a camp since a few years after my scouting days when they had sold Camp Tom Upchurch. While they had property, nothing had been done toward building a camp. Ron set out to change this. He charged ahead.

I remember one of my first staff meetings where I learned the importance of fund raising, if we wanted to be paid. We all worked hard and soon were not only raising enough to meet the budget but also paid off the debt which had been accumulating on camp construction through the “Total Development Campaign.” While the camp wasn’t quite finished, we dedicated the camp in May 1981. Hank Aaron, who had recently retired from baseball (and an Eagle Scout) gave the keynote address. A month later, we began the first summer of camp.

The fire at Camp Bowers

A year later, we held another council camporee at the camp. Troops from all over Southeastern North Carolina gathered. We had around 1000 boys on the site. It was dry and windy spring day, and things were going well. Around lunch, people began to comment about the smoke in the air. It was checked out a learned that a few miles away, someone was burning a large brush pile from where there a track of land had been clearcut. Shortly after lunch, the winds picked up. We received word the controlled burn was no longer in control. A raging fire headed straight toward the camp.

The word went out to evacuate. Since the camp was a couple miles from a paved road, with only one way in or out, it was important to be on the safe side. After everyone had been safely evacuated, the staff all stayed behind.

Ron went into town to get more water hoses so we could have hoses available at all the buildings. He came back, not only with water hoses, but with a cooler of beer and snacks. That night, the humidity rose, the wind died, and the fire laid down, burning in a bay (swamp) at the edge of camp, not too far from the camp office. We were told to watch the fire and to let the forest service know if it started to come out of the swamp. Ron got the bright idea to haul lawn chairs and the cooler up to the roof of the camp office. We took turns napping and watching the fire, while enjoying cold beer and chips.

The next morning, the wind picked up and the humidity dropped. We worked liked crazy putting out spot fires and watering down buildings. The North Carolina forest service brought in the big guns. Several large helicopters were based on the lake, picking up water and dropping it a few hundred feet away. A waterbomber made a couple of passes, as bulldozers trenched around buildings. While the first didn’t destroy any buildings, the burned areas were on the camp boundaries were evident even as summer camp began that summer.

Ron’s Single Life

Cape Fear Council Boy Scouts of America Staff 1983 — Pam is behind Ms. Lillian, the woman with the pink dress.

Toward the end of my time with the Cape Fear Council, Ron and his first wife divorced. We’d often hold staff meetings on Friday afternoons and those of us available would go out on the town during the evening. Often, I stayed with Ron overnight in the condo he rented on Wrightsville Beach. On one occasion, I had been down to the council office mid-week. Ron suggested we go out. We did and I spent the night with him. The next morning, I had a 7 AM breakfast meeting with the Chairman of the Board of United Carolina Bank (for whom Camp Bowers had been named). That morning, it was foggy. I wondered what’d I’d gotten myself into as I drove back just in time to make the meeting.

A few months after I left for the Piedmont Council, Ron became the Scout Executive in Orlando Florida. Not long after that, Ron returned to Wilmington to marry Pam, who had been his secratary. It was a delightful wedding and they remained together until Ron’s death in 2005.

Addendum 1 (added two days later):

Parker, a who was also a part of the staff at Cape Fear Council in the early 1980s and can barely be seen in the back of the photo, emailed me about this post. He told of another skill Ron taught. Always set up for a meeting enough tables and chairs for 90% of the expected guests. This way, if more came, it looked even more successful as you pulled out extra chairs. If there were those who couldn’t make it, you didn’t have a lot of empty chairs sitting around. Parker spoke about how he, in his career working for Chambers of Commerce, adhered to this practice.

For some reason, I didn’t associate this practice with Ron, but it was also another thing I learned from working with the scouts. Over the years I have fought the battle with administrators, sextons, and volunteers to set up less chairs than expected. It takes a while for them to see the reason, but eventually they do.

Addendum 2 (added two days later)

In my previous post, I told about being with Ron a few months before his death. At the time, Ron and Pam asked me if I was willing to officiate at this funeral. I was. Sadly, when Ron died, they wanted to do the funeral on a particular day in Wilmington, NC. I had already committed to officiate at a wedding the next day on the West Coast and needed to be there for the rehearsal. I wasn’t able to officiate at the funeral.

August 9, 2024August 9, 2024

Another Scouting Memory: Ron Carroll

title slide showing Cape Fear Council Staff 1982

With our plates overloaded with barbeque, coleslaw, baked beans and hushpuppies, Ron and I searched for empty seats at the makeshift tables filling Clarkton’s tobacco warehouse. It was a month or so after the tobacco market, but the sweet smell of Brightleaf tobacco lingered. We nudged our way to a couple empty seats. Ron turned to the man and his wife sitting next to them and asked if these seats were available.

“Ya’ll good Democrats, aren’t you?” the man asked in a strong southern dialect.

“Hell yeah, wouldn’t vote no other way,” Ron shot back.

I about dropped my plate as I knew Ron had never voted for a Democrat in his life.

It was homecoming day for Jimmy Green, North Carolina’s Lieutenant Governor. Green had just been acquitted for corruption. I was a young district scout executive and since many of Green’s supporters were also scout volunteers, they’d arranged from him to give a sizable gift to our camp construction campaign. I was at the homecoming to present Green with a plaque in front of his friends and neighbors on this day of celebration. Ron was my boss, the council executive. I had told him about the program, and he asked if he could tag along. Waiting for the program to begin, we ate our barbeque and drank glasses of iced tea. Ron, with his Mississippi accent, fit right in.

Cape Fear Council Staff, 1982 — Ron is in the back row, second to the left. Back row John, Ron, Ray, Andy (camp ranger), Parker, me. Front row: ?, Teresa, Lisa?, Pam, Lillian.

Ron was a salesman, and a good one. He’d recruited me to work for the Boy Scouts, taking a significant pay cut when I left the bakery. He was also a good teacher and mentor and to this day I am indebted to him. Under Ron’s tutelage, I learned to run successful fundraising campaigns which not only raised money, but empowered people to feel a part of the organization. Although on this day in Clarkton, we honored someone who’d given a five figure gift to the scouting program, Ron continually emphasized to his staff to go after every gift, regardless of size.

Emphasizing the importance of grass root gifts, Ron told and retold the story of Big Jim Folsom, a populist governor from Alabama in the mid-20th Century. Whenever Folsom spoke, he passed the hat and encouraged people to put in what they could. “Even if you don’t have any folding money, he quipped, “drop in a little change. Every gift is important, and we will use your gifts to fight for you.” Folsom’s advisors questioned this policy, reminding him he had plenty of fat-cats backing him and didn’t need to nickel and dime the poor folk. But Folsom knew better. “People make their commitment with money,” he told them, “If they give me a quarter, I don’t have to worry when the next candidate comes around seeking their support; they’ve already sealed their commitment to me.

Starting in February 1981, I worked with Ron for three years with the Cape Fear Council. I moved to the Piedmont Council in February 1984, but we kept in touch. A few months after I left, Rom moved south to become the Scout Executive for the council in Orlando, Florida. It was a big promotion. I remember talking to Ron as I was considering leaving the Scouting organization to attend Seminary. It was in the spring of 1986. As he’d done in Wilmington, Ron had been working to kicking off a major building fund campaign. They were building it around the Space Shuttle Challenger. Ron had the staff to design letterhead and logos and just a week or two before they were to kick off the campaign, the Challenger Space Shuttle blew up on take-off. They postponed the campaign.

Over the next twenty years, Ron and I mainly stayed in contact through Christmas cards. His cards often included an ointment from the council where he was serving. A few of these still remain on my Christmas trees.

After Orlando, Rom became the Scout Executive for the Council in Washington, DC. There, he got to rub shoulders with politicians of all stripes, Democrats and Republicans. He was even considered for the Chief Scouting Executive position for the whole nation. But Ron’s health began to fail. Always a workaholic, he began to realize he couldn’t concentrate on the work he’d bring home to read in the evening. He started to forget things. A physical indicated a growth in his brain. Ron consulted some of the best medical minds through the National Institute of Health, but the cancer couldn’t be contained. In late 2004, at the age of 62, Ron took a medical retirement and he and Pam moved back to Wilmington, NC.

The last time I saw Ron, it was a few days after Christmas in 2004. I had flown down to Wilmington to see my parents and Ron. We saw each other a couple of times over the few days I was home. On the day I arrived, I met with Ron and his wife Pam for ice cream at Salt Works near Bradley Creek. Ron could no longer drive. We met again for dinner. Then, before I headed home to Michigan, I allowed Pam the day to do some errands, while I sat with Ron at their home.

That morning, I asked Ron about Big Jim Folsom. We talked for a few minutes about the former governor. Ron, who had later in his career worked with many in Clinton’s administration, told me that Bill Clinton could have learned from Folsom’s straightforward approach. According to Ron, Big Jim had once been caught going into a hotel room with a beautiful young woman who wasn’t his wife. He admitted to his constituents that he’d made a mistake, but went on to say that his opponents were out to get him and that girl had been the bait they’d used and anytime they use bait that appealing, they’re going to catch Big Jim.

“Ron,” I said, “Willie wasn’t set up.”

Ron laughed and told me another story. A rumor circulated that Folsom was known to have cocktails with the Kennedy clan. “That’s a damn lie,” Folsom retorted. “Everyone knows I don’t drink cocktails, I drink my whiskey straight, just like you folks.”

Although Ron had learned the skills of motivating people from a populist governor who was also a racist, Ron worked hard to overcome the prejudices instilled in those who grew up in the South. That last day I’d spent with Ron, I reminded him of an incident that occurred one day, not long after I’d started working with the Boy Scouts.

Ron and I made a call on a Baptist pastor in Evergreen, a small community in Columbus County which did not have a scout troop at this time. Several parents and kids in the community, most of whom were black, had requested that a unit be started. We just needed to find a chartering organization.

We had pleasant chat with this pastor. But he insisted that although he’d love to see a scout program, his deacons wouldn’t allow black boys to run around in their church. I began arguing, pointing out that this wasn’t a Christian attitude. But Ron cut me off. He politely and told the pastor if things changed, to contact us. We quickly left.

As we drove away, Ron muttered, “that lying son-of-a-bitch.” “Don’t you believe he really wanted the troop,” I asked. Ron said he felt the pastor and the deacons were of the same mind. Then I asked why he didn’t want to confront the man. He said we weren’t going to change the preacher’s mind; it was best to leave with him thinking better of us than we did of him.

Ron chuckled, as I recalled the incident that had happened nearly a quarter century earlier. Ron wasn’t doing very well, having had numerous surgeries and bouts of chemotherapy to fight an aggressive brain cancer. The drugs bloated his face. He often forgot what he was saying. At about 11 that morning, Ron insisted we have ice cream. An hour later, he decided we needed a sandwich and a beer.

Ron was the only boss I had in my life who would treat his staff to drinks at lunch! And even here, a quarter century later, and just a few months before his own death, Ron treated me to a beer. Over lunch, he spoke about how he hoped to have a chance to write his memoirs. Sadly, that chance never came.

I first wrote this post about 15 years ago. I have added to it and edited it for this post.

Other Scouting Stories:

Harold Bellamy

Delano

Camp Bangladesh

July 31, 2024July 30, 2024

Baking memories and a book review

Aaron Bobrow-Strain, White Bread: A Social History of the Store-Brought Loaf (Boston: Beacon Press, 2012), 252 pages include an index and extensive notes.

A story from my bakery days

from the internet, a photo of a pound and a half loaf of Holsum white bread

In a supervisor meeting sometime in 1979 or 1980, Jerry Hendrix, the General Manager of Fox Holsum Bakery, berated us for not being able to produce uniformed loaf bread. “I don’t care if it’s crap,” he said. “It needs to be consistent. If it’s consistent, I can sell it.”

It was a tough time for bakeries. To start with, our government sold an excessive amount of wheat to Russia, who were dealing with poor harvests. The price of flour had doubled, cutting deeply into our profit margins. Furthermore, the price of sugar had gone up as had the cost and availability of natural gas. We were being squeezed from all directions. And now, our number one product, a pound and a half loaf of white bread was becoming unmanageable. Most of us felt that the problem came from the yeast. A few months earlier, we have left behind Fleishmann’s Yeast” for a new company’s product, “Dixie Yeast.” At first, things ran fine. The yeast still worked fine on our variety bread and on the roll line, which used traditional mixing equipment with chilled jackets.

The white bread line was different. This bread was mixed in a do-maker. This machine that mixed the ingredients at a very high rate of speed and a high temperature. The fermentation was first done in large vats that consisted of water, sugar, yeast, and other dough conditioners. Flour, along with shortening and sugar (corn syrup) were added straight into the mixer, along with the brew from the vats. The bread was cut into a piece of dough and dropped into a pan. Such rough treatment of the dough required not only chemical treatment, but also demanded ingredients to be constant. We produced 4200 loaves an hour of this bread. But each vat of bread rose differently. Sometimes the bread was too large, making it hard to slice and bag. Other times, the loaf was too small, and looked sick.

The General Manager and the company’s owners didn’t want to hear our excuses about the yeast. Sometime around this point, we learned the owners of the bakery had, with other industrial bakers, invested in the yeast company. A host of specialists were brought in. They tried new kinds of chemical dough conditioners, but nothing works. The decision was made to go back to Fleishmann’s yeast. Things returned to normal. After a lot of checking, we learned that the yeast was being mixed in fiberglass tanks instead of stainless steel. The fiberglass tanks were harder to clean (but they were cheaper). Eventually they had to change out their production tanks. A few months later, we went back to Dixie yeast, and it worked fine.

My review of White Bread

White Bread: A Social History of the Store-Brought Loaf book cover.

I tell the above story to illustrates a lot of what Aaron Bobrow-Strain writes about in his social history of white bread. Bleached, chemically enhanced bread has always been suspect. But by the 1950s, Americans ate an average of eight slices a day of the stuff. By the late 70s, when I worked in an industrial bakery, the decline of such bread was on the horizon. In another production meeting, at a time of high inflation, we heard warnings that if a loaf of bread rose to cost more than a dollar, it would doom our industry. People, we were told, would never pay so much for bread. I often think of this when I spend four dollars on a loaf today.

While bread might seem to be an odd research topic for a social history, but Bobrow-Strain provides an interesting insight into the rise of the loaf, and its decline. He also provides insight into other issues going on in America (and to lesser extent Europe and the rest of the world) during the rise of industrial baking. In 1890, 90% of the bread consumed in the United States was baked in a home kitchen. By 1930, during the depression, this completely reversed. 90% of the bread was baked in industrial factories.

The rise of factory produced bread is a compelling story that often reflects American prejudices and biases. Prior to the rise of industrial baking, most of the commercially available bread were baked in basement shops in cities like New York City. Here, in these bakeries, immigrants lived and worked in less than sanitary conditions. The first industrial bakeries jumped on American nativism feelings to promote their product as wholesome and clean. In addition, as technology changed, they were able to purchase ingredients much cheaper than the small local bakeries or even housewives. With the increase of transportation options, industrial bakers were in the position to seize the bread markets.

White bread ruled the day, but there were some who questioned this including blaming the fall of France to Germany in 1940 on white bread. French bread is white (but not necessarily industrially produced), while the Germans preferred a darker bread. Later, in the Cold War, American’s felt their “white bread” was superior to Russian dark loaves.

Advertising encouraged consumers to equate the softness of the new industrial bread with freshness, overlooking the use of chemicals to condition the dough. Interestingly, at the dawn of America’s entry into World War II, a significant number of American men did not meet the physical demands for military service. Processing of the flour to produce the whitest loaves robbed the wheat of essential vitamins. But such enrichments could be added back chemically. The first national food order during the war required such enrichments. By the end of the war, no one wanted anything less that “enriched” bread.

Throughout the fifties’, people considered enriched bread a superfood. It even caught on in places like Japan. When I visited Japan in 1979, it was shocking to see on the shelves white bread void of crust! By the 60’s, the hippie counter cultural laid groundwork for a rediscovery of bread baked at home or in small shops. Newspapers ran recipes about home baking and cookbooks sprang up included the Tassajara Bread Book. I discovered this book while working at the bakery and used (and still use) the recipes in the book to make heartier loaves of bread.

Bakers began to respond by adding more bran and even adding cellulous (wood pulp) to increase the fiber within bread. One of our variety breads was “VIM” in which we added a couple 50 pounds of bags of cellulous to each mixer. I recall it making the dough sticky and almost as hard to machine as rye bread. Another trick was to add sourdough flavoring to the mix to make the bread taste a little more like sourdough bread, which required a two-step mixing process and allowing the “starter” to proof, which took up space and equipment.

Bobrow-Strain ends his story with how white bread, once seen as food for the wealthy and royalty, became equated with “white-trash” and even soul food. Unlike the 70s, today’s bread aisles in supermarkets carry a variety of bread. We now eat bread with more grains or whole wheat that the industrial white bread which I made during my baking years.

Toward the end of the book, Bobrow-Stain takes us inside Grupo Bimbo, the largest baking company in the world today. Oddly enough, it is a Mexican company who has taken over many of American top bakery labels. I still remember the first time I saw “Bimbo Bread,” which was in Honduras in 2004. Why would anyone use such a label for product, I wondered. Of course, I thought of the word in its negative American slang connotation. In Latin America, Bimbo is the name of a bear mascot.

Conclusion

While I enjoyed this book, I know it appealed to me because of my background in a wholesale bakery. But there is much to learn here, so I recommend it to others. Bobrow-Strain even moves outside of bread to discuss our attempts to “eat healthier” and how Americans (since Sylvester Graham in the early 19^th Century) have followed food gurus who promised great things but often failed to deliver. The book is worthwhile for this, alone, in a day in which we seem more susceptible to all kinds of claims that may have little scientific backing. The author also has a love of baking and eating good loaves of bread, so he’s writing about something for which he cares.

Scouting Memories: Harold

Last week, I introduced you to Delano. Today, I’m introducing you to Harold, an unlikely Scoutmaster from Tabor City during my time working for the Boy Scouts in Columbus and Bladen County, North Carolina in the early 1980s.

It was probably a cruel joke. Harold volunteered to spend a week with his scout troop at Camp Bowers. He asked me for book recommendations. I lent him a couple of books, one of which was James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room. I knew he’d read it. It shocked him to learn of a book by Baldwin he hadn’t read. After all, he taught social studies. Furthermore, like Baldwin, he was an African American, both products of the Black Pentecostal church. And I was a white boy and the Boy Scout’s hired hand.

Cover photo of the copy of Giovanni's Room that I lent Harold

Giovanni’s Room isn’t your typical Baldwin book. Unlike Baldwin’s better-known writings, Giovanni’s Room has nothing to do with the African American experience. Set in Paris, the story features a unique triangle relationship between an American couple and an Italian (Giovanni). But it’s not the American girl, who’s interested in Giovanni; it’s David, the boy. I read the book in college. I found the book eye-opening and unnerving. Baldwin draws on his readers emotions by making them feel affection for all the characters. And he doesn’t touch on race. In addition to bisexuality, the story also involves capital punishment. After a fight with his former employer at a bar, Giovanni kills the man. The book ends with Giovanni’s execution for the murder.

When I lent him the book, I had a suspicion Harold was unaware of Baldwin’s sexuality. I should add that in addition to teaching Junior High, Harold was also a preacher in an Apostolic Pentecostal Church. But he dug right into the book.

Harold didn’t exactly fit the Norman Rockwell’s view of a scoutmaster. He ended up with the job by default. A coach at the high school had been recruited to be the scoutmaster. He asked Harold to be his assistant. That next school year, the coach accepted a high school position in South Carolina. When no one else stepped forward, Harold who wanted his troop to do well, took over as Scoutmaster. I don’t think Harold had ever camped before becoming an assistant scoutmaster. I’m not even sure he’d built a campfire and I’m pretty sure he never used a compass. Harold was much more comfortable sitting inside with his head in a book than outside swatting mosquitoes and gnats.

Even though Harold wasn’t created out of the scoutmaster’s mold, Harold was a great leader. Under his leadership, several of the boys in his troop earned their Eagle. These were the first Eagles earned in Tabor City in more than a decade. In fact, there had not been a troop in Tabor City for a decade before Harold and the coach got together. Harold served as Scoutmaster for four or five years.

Tabor City had been a rough place. While the Chamber of Commerce crowned the town the “Sweet Potato Capital of the World;” informally it was known as Razor City. The city had a brutal past. In the 1950s, the Klan ruled. An intervention by the FBI destroyed the Klan. However, an uneasy truce existed. As an African American, Harold helped break down barriers which existed into the early 80s. He earned respected from the community, as shown by families allowing their white sons to join his troop. Several of the business leaders of the community thanked me for working with Harold and wanted him to succeed.

Harold and I became friends, partly drawn together by our interest in history, social studies, literature and practical jokes. Later, as I felt drawn to seminary and to the ministry, we had some serious theological conversations. While I knew Harold to be a preacher at a Pentecostal Church in Tabor City, I just learned (see below) he ordained as a Bishop.

Harold finally forgave me for shattering his idyllic view of Baldwin. When my personal life became chaotic, Harold supported me. He even tried to set me up with another teacher at his school. I no longer remember her name, but husband had died in a work accident. We went out to lunch and her former mother-in-law was there. When we finished, we discovered that she’d paid for our meals! Harold, I think to care for both of us, attempted to bring us together. Later, after I left the area and moved across state, Harold and I occasionally met for lunch or dinner when I drove across state to see my parents in Wilmington. We wrote back and forth a few times after I left North Carolina for seminary in Pittsburgh, but with me having no reason to travel through Columbus County, and Harold no reason to head up north, we lost contact.

A few years ago, as I was again occasionally driving through Columbus County (from Savannah to Wilmington), I tried to find him. I learned he retired from teaching after serving as a principal in Chadbourn. In preparation for posting this, I learned of his death. Reading the comments posted on his obituary, I learned that after teaching in Tabor City, he taught at West Columbus High School and, as I had learned earlier, served as principal at Chadbourn Elementary. The secretary at the school could give me no more information about him. I also learned he become a Bishop. He suffered from a long-term illness and died in a Whiteville Nursing Home. He was 71 years old.

Yet the key to my salvation, which cannot save my body, is hidden in my flesh.
-David imagining Giovanni’s execution in James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room)

Harold (left) and Delano with two scouts who were rewarded their Eagle award. — Harold (left) and Delano with two recent Eagle Scouts, 1983

July 18, 2024July 18, 2024

Scouting Memories: Delano

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the time I was a summer camp scoutmaster. In that post, I mentioned my time working for the scouts. Here is a story of one of the many unique characters I met during the time I worked for the Boy Scouts of America (and organization I left to go to seminary and pursue the ministry).

Delano in a Boy Scout uniform, early 1980s — Delano, early 1980s

“What are those government fools thinking, offering classes to teach us how to distill alcohol? They ain’t a farmer in these parts that haven’t made liquor at one time or another,” Delano fumed.

This was in the early 80s and after years of prosecuting farmers for turning corn into liquids, a lively discussion on how to do this legally arose. Not for internal consumption, but for internal combustion. If the farmers made their own fuel, they could reduce their dependence on gasoline and diesel fuel. The local community college offered a course on alternative fuels, but Delano didn’t think much of the idea. This was an example of the government meddling where it shouldn’t be meddling.

Delano’s views weren’t a surprise; everyone in Columbus County complained about the government meddling. Of course, they didn’t see it as meddling when they were first at the hog trough. Otherwise, they classified most government initiatives as meddling.

However, Delano’s admission on the moonshining activities of area farmers surprised me. Did he include himself in the bunch? After all, he was a Mormon. Mormons weren’t supposed to be drinking. But then, neither were Baptist and those in that area who weren’t Mormon were members of one the several off-brand Baptist Churches. A part of me always wanted to know what went on in the “Primitive, Fire-baptized, Fundamentalist Baptist Church” that I passed on my way to church on Sunday. They always had four or five cars there, but I never got up the nerve to stop and find out.

Even though he marched to his own drum, I loved Delano. There was never a dull moment when he was around. He was always smiling and joking. And he had a repertoire of stories to entertain us. Some involved living between Pireway and the Green Swamp, near the Waccamaw River.

Other stories involved his year in Korea during the war. He was a disabled veteran of that war. He found the country the most hostile place imaginable. Partly, I’m sure, this was because he sent so much time behind enemy lines. He and a group of soldiers found themselves lost and had to make their way through enemy territory, back to the UN lines. Struggling to make it back safely, they crossed minefields and dealt with frostbite and starvation. His spent his entire time in Korea in the field except his last night before coming home. That night, the heat was unbearable; he wished he was back outside. Korea left him disabled. Although he could walk and get around, he wasn’t particularly fast and limited with the types of work he could do.

Delano enjoyed helping others. One winter, the scouts helped provide firewood for needy families. We gathered at a recent clear cut area. The remaining wood was destined to be burned and had been pushed into wind rows. The paper company allowed us permission to glean from this site. Delano showed up with his chainsaw and splitting maul. While he had limited mobility, he could split wood. His son placed a piece of wood upright, then he split the log. His boy collected the wood and threw it into the back of waiting pickups. We delivered a dozen or so truckloads of wood to needy families that Saturday.

Like his neighbors in the Green Swamp, Delano supplemented his livelihood from the bounty of the earth. He entertained us with stories about the tricks of the trade his neighbors employed to put food on the table. He never indicted himself, but one had to wonder.

One favorite was dialing for fish. The fisherman used an old crack phone to create an electrical pulse in the water. This stunned the fish. The shocked fish floated to the surface and were scooped up in a net.

To hear him tell the story, nobody in his neighborhood purchased canned dog food to feed canines. Dogs got scraps from the table. Canned dog food served as chum for fish. Holes were punched in a can which was then tossed into the water at a spot where you wanted to fish in a day or two. The dog food attracted fish so that when you came back for business, you didn’t have to spend much time finding them. You just had to hope the fish, fat on dog food, were ready to bite into a juicy worm.

I first met Delano at a chicken bog for scout leaders held in Fair Bluff. Having been told he was a Mormon, I made sure we had alternatives to the coffee and tea which everyone else would be drinking. I picked up a couple bottles of apple juice and offered him one. He refused and poured himself a cup of coffee. At this same event, I became troubled when I learned a chicken bog contained not only fowl, but also sausage. Knowing we had several Jewish leaders, I apologized. What little training I’d had from the Scouts by this point in my career had stressed sensitive to such issues. But sausage wasn’t a problem, these guys assured me, if their wives weren’t around. The same applied to Delano.

Even his scout troop enjoyed drinks that went against the Mormon Word of Wisdom. Making my rounds at the first camporee, I noticed his troop were all drinking Cokes and Mountain Dews with their breakfast. At camporees, where all the troops in the county gathered, Delano made a point to invite me to eat Saturday dinner with his boys. Sometimes the fare would be normal, venison or fried fish. Other times the menu was exotic. In the three years I worked in this district, the Pireway troop served bear, squirrel, turtle, raccoon, and even a greasy opossum.

Delano and I got along well. Both of us believed that when camping, an afternoon nap was a necessity. He had a small but devoted group of scouts who looked up to him and knew that he looked out for their best interest. There’s not much more you could expect from a scoutmaster.

Sadly, as I was leaving the Waccamaw District in early 1984, the church reassigned Delano, giving him responsibilities inside the church and appointing someone else as the scoutmaster. His son, had earned his Eagle. I have no idea who took over the troop, but they would have a hard time fitting into Delano’s shoes.

Eagle presentation, 1983 — Delano next to his son at his son’s Eagle presentation. Next to him is another Eagle from the Tabor City troop and his scoutmaster (Harold).

###

Jeff Garrison, 1981 — You won’t see many pictures of me like this. 1981, I’m working with the BSA, and have hair but no beard.

I rewrote this post from something I wrote nearly 20 years ago. After the piece was first published online, a relative of Delano contacted me to thank me for the article and to let me of Delano’s death.

July 4, 2024July 4, 2024

My experiences with Amateur Radio

Happy Fourth of July everyone!

This past winter, I took an introduction to Amateur Radio class. In March, I took the exam for my Technician license. It had been almost 50 years since I had held such a license. In May, I passed the General license and am now studying for the Extra Class.

I’ve been dipping my toes into the world of radio, using a small 5-watt handheld on 2 meters and 70 cm bands. These bands have a limited distance as the higher frequencies (VHF and UHF) don’t do the skipping off the ionosphere the lower bands do. However, thanks to repeaters last night I had a conversation with a guy in West Virginia, probably 75 miles from me as the crow flies. I have been assembling equipment and soon, once again, hope to listen for someone calling CQ from around the world on the high frequency bands. Here’s a reworked piece in which I share my early teenage experiences with amateur radio in the early 1970s.

My new license call sign is KQ4PVG, although I may apply for a vanity call sign and see if I can get a part of my old call sign (at least the YGY part) back.

I’m not sure all the reasons I got so interested in Ham Radio. Perhaps it was because I was small and there was little chance of me playing sports once I got to junior high. To compensate, I decided to excel at something else. Don Conaway, a man from our church, who only had daughters (and perhaps to compensate for that), offered to teach my brother and me about radios.

We started meeting in the evening, once a week, at his house. We’d begin sitting around his dining room table. First, we’d practice Morse Code for fifteen minutes. That was easy because I’d taught myself Morse code (and semaphore), due to spending too many days grounded in my room. After a code session, he’d pull out some paper and for another fifteen or twenty minutes, we’d have a math and drafting class, learning Ohm’s law, how to slice the PIE formula (determining power), the meanings of various electronic symbols, and the schematics of radio components.

After the classroom session, Mr. Conaway would take us out to his “shack,” a small white wooden building behind the house and next to a persimmon tree. I remember the latter for he tried to entice us to try a green persimmon, but we were no dummies. Later that fall, after a frost, we enjoyed a few of the ripe fruit.

The place was crammed with electrical parts and all kinds of radios and test equipment. Here, we learned the purpose of resistors and capacitors of which we’d drawn in our schematics and how to solder. In time, we built a power supply designed to take 110 AC current and, after running it through a transformer and a bridge built out of vacuum tubes which converted the power to the desired voltage and to DC current. Then we started building a transmitter, using a 6146 tube. When finished, this transmitter was able to produce 60 watts of power. It was a simple machine, utilizing crystals to control the frequency. This meant that if you wanted change frequencies, you had to pull out one crystal and replace it with another. He gave us three crystals, two in the 80-meter band and another in the 40-meter band.

That fall, around the time the persimmons were ripe, we took the exam. A few weeks later, I learned I’d passed and received my “ticket” (or license). It arrived in early December; about the time we’d finished building the transmitter. My ticket couldn’t have come at a better time as I wasn’t doing particularly stellar in school. It provided a bit of pride as I passed the exam before my brother, who had to retake the test.

My call sign was WN4YGY. The first three digits indicated nation (W for USA, esst of the Mississippi), class (N for novice) and 4 for the Southeastern part of the county. The last three digits (YGY) were unique to an individual. Mr. Conaway immediately came up with a phonetic rending of the last three digits of my call, “Young Girls Yell.” In more ways than one, I fondly look back on those days.

One of these longleaf pines held up one end of my dipole antenna

Soon afterwards, Mr. Conaway came over to our house and with our help, we installed an 80-meter ½ dipole antenna. As ½ of 80 meters is 40 meters (or around 130 feet), the wire stretched from a longleaf pine tree in our front yard to one in the back yard. The halfway point was just outside my bedroom window, and a piece of coax ran from the center of the antenna through the window and on to the transmitter and receiver. I started out with equipment borrowed from Mr. Conaway, but later would add our homebuilt transmitter along with a receiver I purchased.

My first contact was to Wayne, another young ham in Leland, NC who was my age. Leland was only across the river from us, but it was a contact. Even though Wayne went to a different school, we became friends. After we both received our driver’s licenses, we hung out together. As he was on North Brunswick’s High chess team. As my much larger school didn’t have such a team, I occasionally sparred with those on his team. We also did a fair amount of canoeing and hunting together during our high school years.

That winter, as the sun set, the 80-meter band came alive. The upper regions of the ionosphere strengthens in the cold darkness of winter. This allows the long wavelengths the capability of making great bounces, allowing my signal to be heard across North America and into Europe. Every day I’d rush home from school and be ready to be online as the sun set. It was exciting to hear that first “CQ” of the evening, a call from operator looking for someone with whom to chat. I’d tap out his call letters, followed by “de” (from) and my call sign. Soon, we’d be exchanging information about our location and age and the weather.

Although my brother (he’s now a mechanical engineer) eventually passed his test and received his ticket, the radio bug never really bit him. Maybe this was because I was always online, and we shared equipment. Since we also shared a room, it annoyed him when I crawled out of bed at 3 or 4 AM and pull on a headset and fire up the radio. No one else in the house could hear, but the lamp was a nuisance to him. Using CW (morse code) I enjoyed chatting to folks on the West Coast as well as in South America and Europe. Each new state or country was like a conquest. Over time the wall behind my radios were covered with QSL cards sent from other operators with whom I’d communicated..

The most exciting period during my time on-air was when an emergency net was called to relay messages from Central America. It was around Christmas 1972, the same Christmas which my friend Mark had been killed in a motorcycle accident. An earthquake had hit Nicaragua and for hours I monitored traffic for messages were coming to North Carolina. Although I never had traffic sent my way, I felt as if I was a part of something big, especially when I saw the devastation on the morning news. This was the same earthquake that my hero, Roberto Clemente, the slugger for the Pittsburgh Pirates, was killed in a plane crash while on a humanitarian mission. Death seemed to be all around me that year, but it was also enlightening to watch history unfold.

In time, I lost interest in the hobby. By the time I graduated from high school, I was no longer spending time with the radio. At one point, I purchased a used low power transceiver. I got it up and running using 2 watts from a six-volt battery. Using a portable long-wire antenna, I could take this unit camping with me. But I lost interest and boxed it all away. The radios I used seemed so modern at the time. But they, were really behind times as everything was shifting to transistors and diodes and eventually to pre-wired circuit boards. Sometime in college, I gave all my equipment to the man who had helped me earn my licenses. By then I was into other hobbies.

Category: memoir