Back to School Yes, College Parents You Will Survive 2026

You will endure and Christmas break well eventually bring your kids back home if only for a few days.

The ritual is time honored and back in 1951 my grandfather, grandmother and my eventual mom, dropped my my father off at the train station to return as a sophomore at the university of Illinois. The letter is as it was typed. The typewriter sits in my office today. 

September 1951

Dear Clif:         

You are probably a bit surprised to receive a letter so soon, but we ordinarily write when we have the urge, and I thought we would drop you a few lines before we turned in for the night.

After we left you at the station, Mom, Carrol and I drove back to the Confectionery in Edgebrook on Central and Devon, where we stopped one night after playing golf with you and Carrol, and had a sandwich and played a few pieces on the Juke Box. We were happy to have Carrol with us.

Well, Clif, a full year has passed since you started as a freshman at Illinois. A year ago were very much concerned about how you would like the fraternity and how you would get along with the fellows, etc. 

-2-

This year there is not too much to be concerned about, because that portion of your life has passed and obviously you now know your way around.

The starting the school year is final proof that the summer is over and we are now starting autumn. I’m sure that it can be said that your summer vacation was very much worthwhile. You’ve learned a lot in business which means more to you than the dollars you made, which of course is important to you. I know you will remember these fine days that have passed; your work, with a fine company, your pleasant hours with Carrol, and of course we sincerely hope your hours at home were enjoyed. We shall never forget the evenings you and Carrol came by and picked us up for a ride or so. We greatly appreciate it.

 

-3-

 

Each Sunday when we attended Church, Mother and I were most proud to see you in the pew. I know that your Church means something to you because you were always very attentive. It is our prayer that you shall never forget the One who is the ruler of all of us and that you will never get too busy or proud to ask for His help. Start each day with a little prayer such as we sang in Church Sunday and you will find great source of reserved power in that small act.

You are now starting your second year in a great school of learning, a privilege that many do not enjoy. Be encouraged by your own experiences in your home, in your work, and in your love of your fellowmen, that this is a good world. And, that individual with your back-ground and personality has an exceptional opportunity, and obligation, if I may say so, to make this world a better place in which to live.

 

-4-

 

You can only do this by -- each day, taking an inventory of yourself, praying for guidance, and planning each day so that when evening comes you have learned many things that you heretofore would not know, and you have grown first in your own eyes and also in the eyes of those about you.

I know that you will make this semester an outstanding period in your life. I cannot stress the importance of each day enough as you are now building for your future life, for your home, for your dessendants, son or d, for your place in the business world, and for your place in society. Each day is like unto the brick in the foundation of a building, the building being your great life to come. Today makes up your past and your future. Be sure they are both what you want them to be, Solid and of Good Quality.

-5-

The summer went by so fast and of course and of course we all (were)so busy with our daily duties that we did not seem to have the time that you and I, both, I know, would have liked to have had to sit down and talk about the things that mean so much to both of us. But this, your mother and I, want you to know that we have complete confidence in our sons. We know that they will always be honest, pure, brave and strong and deal justly with their fellowmen. We know they will do their part to make this world a better place in which to live.

Mother and I are very proud of you Clifton and as you start this new school year we wish you every success and the best of health and happiness.

All our love,

Mom and Dad

Blessed

I’m blessed, that I live on a golf course.

And so my backyard extends into that lush green fairway and even beyond into the woods overflowing with wildlife.

Perhaps it seems odd that someone would trade a fence and backyard neighbors for the endless flow of golf carts but there are advantages.

The superintendent's crew starts work at first light in the summer, and well before dawn in the fall. That early work effort reminds me there is much to be done and that God’s day is starting without me.

Today a tip of the hat versus my usual raised in salute coffee mug.

And if I’m lucky in the fading half light of a summer’s eve I’ll watch that lone golfer. His swing as sweet and pure as Sam Snead or Ben Hogan.

His drive a solid 295 yards leaving a 7 iron to the green his second shot soars skyward falling within feet of flag but rolling well past. But no concern the 18 feet with the pin high. And there time stands still, the hush of the nonexistent crowd waits. The only sound, the summer breeze in the Carolina pines as his smooth stoke sends the ball toward the cup only to miss by a half an inch. A tap in for birdie and I raise my beer for the eagle effort. 

Perhaps tomorrow, yes tomorrow.

Elvis

I see a lot of posts about female teachers as sexual predators. So much so that I often question if perhaps, I too was a victim?

At the time however, it sure didn’t seem that way. Yeah I had just turned 17 and she was in her mid 30s. 

Was I ”groomed”? I suppose - I was working a summer job and she would come by and “talk” to me. 

I had the sort of summer gig high school kids dream about. I managed the pool club house at Raintree Country Club. I basically rented out stuff, lockers, floats, table tennis paddles, pool tables and cue sticks. I was in charge of everything except the “Cabana Grill”.

She was an elementary school teacher who also worked part time in the main dining room as a bar tender. Her name was Samantha but her nick name was not Sam but rather Elvis.

Elvis liked to shoot pool which presented a quandary as she wasn’t a member so I couldn’t “rent” her a table so I just let her take a cue stick and rack em up. 

My shift ended each day when the pool closed which was normally around sunset and Elvis worked until 10 or later. But one day she came up behind me as I was locking the doors to go home. She had gotten off work early and wanted to shoot some pool. But I had to tell her we had just closed. 

At this point my older self would have known what was up. But at 17 I was clueless, and then she set the hook “wanna go shoot pool some where else?” she asked.

Sure - I replied and the next thing I know I’ve left my Jeep CJ5 in the club house parking lot and Elvis is driving.

Destination - the Double Door Inn by 11 pm I was drunk and Elvis was my new best friend. We went to her house on Club Drive just off Central Avenue.

Samantha was a fan of Elvis Pressley thus the name. She even had a giant velvet painting of Elvis over her bed. 

Elvis Pressley the singer had been dead about 10 years at that time, but the vision of Elvis looking over Samatha’s bare shoulders is permanently etched into my mind and lives on.

Somewhere around 3 am I got dressed and Elvis woke up and asked where I was going I told her that I really needed to go home that my parents would be pissed. Then she reminded me my jeep was back at the club house parking lot. I felt trapped. 

She offered to fix breakfast, but I declined - 30 minutes later I was standing alone in the club parking lot next to my jeep watching the tail lights of her Buick head up Raintree Lane.

Based on many news reports these days, I am sure I never felt so dirty and in need of a shower in my life. I must have wanted to tell my mother, a counselor at school, a priest or maybe a cop but I just sucked it up.

That summer I’d play pool with Elvis at the Double Door, Chalk of the Town on the Plaza, Boardwalk Billy’s and some place on South Tryon.  And every time I’d end up back at Club Drive apparently being abused . I guess I hated myself because I did whatever she wanted. 

I am now, 30 years later, I guess I was a victim so I am pretty certain she stole my youth or something like that. 

There was no big break up. I honestly don’t remember how I escaped or how it ended but every couple of years I’ll find myself on Central Avenue and subconsciously slow down approaching Club Drive wanting to find and reclaim my lost youth!

And still I seem to think how lucky I was to have known Elvis and if I bumped into her today I’d tell her….

“Thank ya, thank ya very much" (IYKYK)

Confederate Memorial Day May 10th

Confederate Memorial Day is still (as it should be) a holiday in some Southern U.S. states honoring those who died fighting for the Confederacy, originating from a Georgia call in 1866 for remembrance after the Civil War, observed on different dates like the fourth Monday in April (AL, MS) or May 10 (SC, NC), marked by ceremonies at memorials and graves, and remains controversial due to its ties to slavery and the Confederacy, though celebrated by some as heritage. 

In North Carolina while it is a recognized by law holiday it is not a paid holiday nor are state offices closed. This year the date May 10, 2026 falls on a Sunday.

Old Charlotte City Hall Marker 

The inscription reads: Mecklenburg County remembers with honor her gallant sons who fought in the armies of the Confederate states. With other brave soldiers of the South, they struggled Nobly for the cause of independence and constitutional self government. Their heroic deeds will be forever, honored by patriotic men and women,

Erected by the Confederate Memorial Association of Charlotte, May 10, 1977 and removed during the George Floyd Riots.

Origins & Purpose

First Observance: Began in Columbus, Georgia, on April 26, 1866, initiated by the Ladies Memorial Association, to commemorate Confederate soldiers.

Date Significance: April 26 marked the anniversary of General Joseph E. Johnston's surrender, seen by many as the symbolic end of the war.

Tradition: Spread across the South as a day for somber remembrance, with some states later choosing dates like May 10 (anniversary of Jefferson Davis's capture) or honoring other figures like "Stonewall" Jackson. 

Observances

State Holidays: Still recognized as a state holiday in Alabama, Mississippi, and South Carolina, with varying dates.

Dates: Varies by state:

Alabama & Mississippi: Fourth Monday in April (or final Monday in April).

South Carolina & North Carolina: May 10.

Texas: "Confederate Heroes' Day" on January 19.

Activities: Include church services, re-enactments, placing flags and wreaths at graves, and ceremonies at monuments. 

Controversy

Debate: The holiday sparks debate due to its association with the Confederacy, slavery, and its place in modern America, with some viewing it as heritage and others as a promotion of racism.

Status: It is not a federal holiday, and practices vary, with some counties opting out of official closures.  

The Greatest Photo Ever Taken at McDonald's

The social media is a crazy place where you often stumble across something, and it leads you on a quest to know more or in this case to chase your past.

Submitted for your consideration, a photo of two stoners scoring burgers on a cold January day in Des Plaines, Illinois.

The Stoners just happen to be David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen. Like I said a couple of stoners, who just happened to be making the first stop on a 10 month concert tour that crisscrossed the US and Europe in 1978.  

Now the back story:

Before you get excited no I didn't burn one with the guys from Van Halen nor would I have recognized them back in 1978, and jeez that was a life time ago. 

The Observer 10 Years Later

Observer Staff (including Editor Rick Thames (my neighbor for 10 years seated front) pose for a symbolic photo and wave so long to their offices at 600 South Tryon on Friday April 8, 2016.

Photo Credit Todd Summerlin

Read Theoden James' story on the last day here.

Watching the long slow death of the Charlotte Observer during the year leading up to that day was pretty painful.  The presses left 600 South Tryon years before, the newsroom had been partitioned off more than once, as the staff was reduced and then reduced again and even yet again. Still that final chapter in the near fifty year history of the observer Building brings back a lot of memories.

I'll never forget the first night I stepped onto the newsroom floor with a roll of "pushed" Kodak Tri-X. (Through the glass doors, photo to the right) I had 36 photos of a massive fire at the Lake Apartments on Albemarle Road that destroyed the clubhouse and offices but earned CP a paycheck of $100.00. My first check as a stringer for the Charlotte News and Observer. I still have the contact sheet with circles and X's in red grease pencil. I was 16 but it seems like yesterday.

Technical note: Pushing the Tri-X allowed me to shoot in seriously low light without a flash. But wasn't to the liking of Observer veteran lens men. I was told use a flash and never to push beyond 1x because the shadows dropped out and the photos lacked depth because of the push. 

I would never get full time status with the Observer instead ended up doing a short stint with John Kilgo at the Weekly Newspapers and eventually WAYS/WROQ working directly with Stan Kaplan. (I still remember the cigar, turtle neck sweaters and the ashes from the cigar that fell like snow across his ever expanding gut.) Working for Kilgo was a challenge but working for Kaplan was a nightmare.  He wasn't a bad guy, just ADHD to an extreme.

So even at WAYS, 600 South Tryon was at least for a short time, where I wanted to be. Though I'd later figure out the money was better in sales than being a shooter and still better if you sold air time vs column inches.

But for a while because my photos were always big stories, car crashes with at least one fatality, or better yet an arrest or homicide, I was always treated like a rock star.

Nothing I enjoyed more than greeting a "staff photog" rushing out the door at 600 South Tryon with a smile on my face and a roll of 35mm in my fist, saying "I got it all right here"!

In those days no "real" photographer ever left the house without a camera. I carried two, a Cannon F-1 with auto drive, and zoom lens, it was big, heavy, with a full metal body, it was noisy but super bad, and a very small wallet sized Lecia.

I chose the Cannon over Nikon because it was more durable, even so the purists at the time would say the Nikon lens was better. I had the Lecia because I could palm it and make it disappear when I needed it to. The Leica had a huge field of view and it was nearly silent. I could shoot from the hip or car window without raising the camera to eye level. Oh the joy of view finder cameras.

Yep, those were the days. 

Today everyone has a camera so the media especially print doesn't need to pay for photos.

And so it goes that newspaper journalists and "shooters" were a dying breed, yet many of those left behind still cling to an increasingly anachronistic vocabulary, including:

Spike | To reject a story. The term derives from the metal spindles which pierced unwanted submissions.

Wires | News agency reports.

Leg | A column of text.

Screamer | A sensational banner headline.

Bulldog edition | An early printing.

Jump | When a story continues on a different page.

Above the fold | A story placed at the top of a broadsheet which can, therefore, be seen even when the paper is folded.

Lede | The paper’s main story, or an article’s opening salvo. To bury the lede is to hide a story’s most interesting facts in the body of the article.

I miss the roll of the old presses, slow and purposeful at first then faster and faster til the sound was deafening. It was if they were printing money on newsprint.

So I raise a pint to those who read this, those who at one time or another knew what the word deadline meant, and those who felt the floor of 600 South Tryon vibrate, those to who the sound of presses running balls to the walls was amazing. And "Cheers" to anyone who ever felt the joy of seeing their work above the fold in color without any bleed.

Yes - those are framed in my office taken by some idiot kid running toward the gunfire as if he was David Hume Kennerly. (IYKYK).

The Things I've Heard

I've always been a listener. 

I understand that there are things that to know you have to listen and in doing so you also learn that there are things you have to hear to understand:

I think often of the sound of frogs and crickets when they return to my backyard. Well, really they are about a 1/8of a mile away down at the creek. But the open expanse of golf course fairway allows the soothing sound of clicks and chirps to travel to my bedroom window effortlessly.

I never really notice when they stop, sometime around the first frost I'd guess, but their return is a wonderful reminder that spring is nearly here.

Which makes me think about all the other sounds I think are awesome.

Rain at Augusta National during Masters Week.

The North Beach on Green Turtle Cay on any day. You just got to be there.

Blue Sky Basin Vail, CO at 4 PM in January. The wind against the spruce and fur trees and the snow under your skis.

LAX at Midnight the silence.

Times Square on New Year's Eve, the calliope of mankind's drunkenness.

Turn 4 at Charlotte Motor Speedway during the final lap of the 600 it's hard to say whether the crowd or the cars are louder.

The Freight Apron at Atlanta's Hartsfield International during the 2AM push. The rise and fall of jet engines on departing flights There is something symbolic about that sound. I don't know what but symbolic just the same.

Breakfast at the Fairmont in New Orleans during an early morning thunderstorm in June. It's the sound, the feeling of the :Big Easy" linen silver and china, a slower pace that's even slower when there no reason to hurry.

The arches at Union Station St. Louis at Mid Day Christmas week. If you don't know I'm not sure I can explain. If you do know I'll let you whisper it to me.

Sea Buoy at Bar Harbor Maine on a foggy night in October.

A 800 foot container ship passing under you while standing on the Ravenel Bridge Charleston at high tide.

That cat that moans and groans on the roof above my bedroom before an approaching storm.

So God Made a Husband

Because she said I wouldn't dare.

As you know, God created the world in 6 days and on the 7th day he rested. 

And then according to Paul Harvey on the 8th day he made a Farmer. Then on the 9th day a dog. 

So apparently on the 10th day he looked down and saw a woman “fiddling” around the yard and thought to himself, she is going to make a mess of things unless I get her some help. So God made a husband.

God said, "I need someone to fix things that aren't broken, move furniture, move it again and then move it back to where it has been for ten years." So God made a husband.

God said, "I need someone to repair a vacuum cleaner by simply plugging it in, then load the dishwasher, turn it on and then empty the dishwasher and repeat the process as often as told." So God made a husband.

God said, "I need someone to hold doors, umbrellas, and hands whenever required, then pick up kids at school, dogs from the kennel, and mother in-law at the airport, never complain and just smile, and then announce that he loves mom's American Chop Suey." So God made a husband.

It had to be somebody who’d change a tire, mow the lawn, take out the trash, split wood, build a fire, grill steaks, find the car keys, and run to the grocery store on their way home after a ten-hour work day to pick up milk. Somebody to build a small wooden box and bury a four-pound family pet in the garden but keep his tears to himself, able to hold the family together in the worst of times and dance with her in the rain. Who would laugh, and then sigh, and reply with smiling eyes, when she says "my toilet" is not working again.

So God made a husband.

(In my childhood - summers were spent in rural America with my grandparents who listened to Paul Harvey every day at noon - his “So God Made a Farmer” speech came too late for me to understand fully their lives in rural southern Illinois. But now decades later Yep I get it!)

A Cinderella Basketball Team and Radio

There's something nostalgic about listening to a ball game on the radio.

Over the year's I've somehow managed to memorize most of the radio stations that broadcast college games from Athens to Chapel Hill and from Charleston to Blacksburg.

It might be a Saturday afternoon and I’m listening to Carolina football, driving the back country roads as autumn's leaves swirl behind my speeding SUV. Clemson is scoreless with under two minutes left on the clock; the sunroof is open with nothing but Carolina blue sky overhead. The Carolina fight song is blaring away on the radio and yes it's almost as good as being there, I don’t mean Williams-Brice Stadium, I mean heaven.

The ability of someone 100 or more miles away to convey the emotions and feeling of a game with noting more than his voice is an amazing talent.

I'm a fan of the play by play, it's not that I don't appreciate the color commentary but today all the stats come from a computer screen, and somehow end up being nothing but dry pointless drivel.

But the capacity to describe a ball in flight and the emotion that follows a miracle catch or a stolen base is a talent that lends it's self very well to broadcasting the sport of baseball, football and of course basketball.

On a Friday evening 18 years ago I shot down the on ramp, pressed the accelerator and watched the speed edge up close to 70 as the North I-26 sign flashed by overhead in the fading light of a spring evening. Heading towards Charlotte, I turned on the radio, poked the scan button and quickly found the Davidson vs. Goliath (AKA Wisconsin) basketball game.

"Curry shoots for 3 its GOOD!, Down the court... Richards steals the ball! Back the other way to Curry in the corner, he’s all by himself. Korbbenhoft sprints for Curry, jumps stumbles Curry shoots 3 points smooth, so smooth. Davidson is up 54 - 45 and there's 13:03 to play, the Wildcat fans are on their feet!"

The next 20 minutes are pure joy listening to the 2008 NCAA Men's Basketball game from the Motor City and the massive Ford Field as Stephen Curry works his magic and places himself firmly in NCAA history.

When Curry left the court for good with 59 seconds on the clock it was to a standing ovation, the entire arena was on their feet. Even the Wisconsin Badger pep section stood acknowledging his greatness.

How do I know? Because of the magic of radio and a voice nearly 900 miles away, while still miles outside of Charlotte on a cool March Evening.

I wonder if this is how it felt to hear the play by play while stationed in post war Germany and listening to the final Yankees vs. Dodgers game during the 1947 World Series. The sound of Seabiscut defeating War Admiral back in 1938 or Roosevelt’s address to the nation after Pearl Harbor.

Radio was all the rage as the technology of the day 60 some years ago. Not surprising is that radio audiences are now markedly small compared to television. The reason is you have to listen and to do so you must be void of chips and beer and idle conversations in the background if you want to “see” the game. Driving in my car is my only refuge of quiet.

And so March Madness continues in 2026 when today at 6:50PM Carolina takes on Virginia Commonwealth.

Do you care to guess where I'll be?

Why.... sitting in front of a 85 inch flat screen with the rest of America of course!

Go Tar-Heels and thank you radio!

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

I’m married at an Irish Lass whose parents are of the surnames Henry and O’Dell.

She prefers an Irish Stout over an IPA any day.

A Catholic girl with a wee bit of an Irish temper. 

She loves to build things as did her stonemason great grandfather who built this church in 1870.

Yet the card from her Aunt says it best:

“May your heart be warm and happy. With the lilt of Irish laughter. Every day in every way. And forever and ever after.”

Sláinte!

Sunday Breakfast (Redux)

The unmistakable sound of bacon frying in a heavy black iron skillet. Not the fast pop pop and sizzle sounds of bacon a blaze while cooking on high, but bacon on a slow deliberate flame, somewhere between medium and low on a old gas stove. Bacon that while cooking sounds like a soft steady spring rain.

The sound of an old coffee pot, the gurgle and clanking sounds of fresh coffee brewing compliments the sound of bacon being cooked. Add the sudden zip and pop of an old metal toaster that never seems to toast the bread to perfection no matter how you set the dial and you have all the proper sounds that signal the preparation of breakfast is moving along at a comfortable pace.

This Sunday morning there is no rush, but the sky is clearing after what seems like a week of rain and there is work to be done, yet for now the only concern is to turn the eggs without breaking the yokes. 

I like mine over easy if I'm successful, otherwise I'll settle for scrambled. The margin for error in egg turning is very small and I have come to accept my inadequacies and lack of a steady hand required for proper and successful egg turning in a cast iron skillet.

I opened the French doors on the deck about 6 AM and the sounds of natures wildlife have filled my kitchen non stop. I often trade the intrusion of insects and rain for the sounds of the outdoors. I like a quiet breakfast, but there is nothing quiet about a Carolina morning, as nature comes alive with joyous songs of a new spring day.

My breakfast is without loud buzzers or the electronic dings of modern appliances and heaven forbid the static noise of morning news shows spiked with the jarring assaults of Jardiance commercials that attack my quiet sanctuary.

Breakfast on Sunday is a reward for most days when breakfast is skipped or breakfast that is really a business meeting in disguise.

Hotel breakfasts are only acceptable if they are before 6:30 AM, before the crowds of tourists invade the quiet, or served in your room at the Four Seasons, anytime.

But the best breakfast is still served at home, where cooking a few extra few slices of bacon is always a good idea since certain uninvited Labrador Retriever named Buddy and Scout tend to show up once the smell of bacon, eggs and fresh coffee fills the morning air.

Now that all the tasks that make breakfast are done there is just one question left:

Would you like some scrambled eggs with your bacon? Buddy? How about You Scout?

Grandpa Someone Stole Your Truck!

Growing up a city boy, county life was a foreign world to me. Yet I was fortunate enough to have grandparents who lived in rural America and parents who "shipped" the boys to the grandparents when they needed a break.

When I was 16 my grandfather was trusting enough to let me drive his truck to town to pick up some things for my grandmother at the grocery store by myself.

When I asked for the keys, he told me they were over the visor on the driver’s side. It was a great truck, except it was lemon yellow and had no seat belts. But that was ok because he only used it for hauling stuff and farm chores. Accordingly most the time we rode in his airconditioned and much larger International Travelall, which was considered the Chevy Suburban of the day.

I returned with his truck feeling proud and invincible an hour later and as I handed him the keys mentioned I noticed he was low on gas. He thanked me and asked that I would just put the keys back over the visor.

At this point my city street smarts kicked in and I felt obligated to caution him about car thieves and reminded him he did live just a few miles from the Federal Prison. He thanked but said the old truck would be fine. I did as he asked and even offered to wash his truck but he said he’d get to soon enough.

On the way to dinner Saturday afternoon we stepped outside of their house to find the truck gone. “Grandpa someone stole your truck” I said the second I stepped off the front porch. But he just smiled telling me "no one stole the truck, somebody just borrowed it".

Truth was, he had no idea who "borrowed" his truck or if we’d ever see it again.

We returned from dinner and the truck was still missing. I implored him to call the police, the sheriff and the FBI, but he insisted the truck would return. Still he had not a clue who had taken his truck. 

The next morning, much to my surprise, there was the yellow Ford 100 in the driveway, and it was freshly washed. Not only was it washed it also had a full tank of gas and yet he still had no idea who borrowed his truck, and that fact did not concern him in least.

Now forty-so-years later my grandfather is of course gone. Yet his trusting manner, and generosity live on in my own life. Even in a world that sometimes seems overloaded with crime and criminals I’m tempted to leave the keys in my truck just because.  

So, if you borrow it I’d appreciate it if you’d bring it back washed and full of gas. And, thank you whoever you are.

Daytona (Redux)

Living in the South you don't need to go too far to find racing's roots. If you headed south from Charlotte back in the day (pre I-77) you might have started with a trip down 521 towards Lancaster.

Even today with the high priced homes of Ballantyne behind you, once you cross the South Carolina state line, it doesn't take long before you notice you have traveled back in time.

A few miles before Lancaster's city limits you'll see the old rusty sign for the Lancaster Motor Speedway.

Lancaster Speedway is truly the "Grand Daddy" of local tracks. It's one of the oldest surviving dirt tracks in the South. It was built by a group of Lancaster business men headed by the late Herman "Hump" Poovey. The first race was held there in 1954 with a huge crowd on hand. 

The track hosted two NASCAR races in 1957, which were won by Paul Goldsmith and Speedy Thompson.

As much as I enjoy the glitz and glamour of NASCAR there's just something special about Saturday night racing where driver and crew chief are often the same. Where watching a driver win a race and give a fist pumping jump for joy while being handed a check for only $300 dollars and a two foot high gold coated plastic trophy, kind of makes you smile.

Every Saturday night all summer long the boys tear up the dirt track at the Lancaster Motor Speedway.

It's cheap entertainment. Seats are only $12.00, but most of the time after the races start you can just walk in.

It's a family atmosphere well kind of; a quick look at the rules for the drivers and you'll get the idea:

Fighting is strictly prohibited. Anyone caught fighting will be taken care of by the officials and Law Enforcement as needed.

Any person other than Law Enforcement found with any weapon (CONCEALED OR OTHERWISE) on him/her or in his/her vehicle is subject to fine, loss of weapon and arrest.

Drinking while racing is not allowed. The track reserves the right to require drivers to submit to a breathalyzer test at anytime.

Drivers must remain in their cars during the race, except in the case of fire.

No disorderly conduct will be allowed at the payoff window.

They've been racing at Lancaster ever since time began or at least 1954. Even on a Sunday afternoon in February with no one around you can still hear the sounds of racing. As the wind blows through the bare trees, grandstand and the chain link fence, you can almost hear an announcer calling out the next race over the loudspeakers, the crowd and revving of engines with open pipes and unrestrained horsepower.

The Carolina red clay track shines in the mid winter sun. Shuttered concession stands await another season, the parking lot is empty and the only sounds now are the wind, and gravel that crunches under your feet.

Dirt track is not NASCAR by any stretch of the imagination. But, the food is normally pretty good and the beer always cold. It's not pricey, there are never any lines, no national sponsors, and there's a lot of available billboard ad space at turns two and three. Hand over $50.00 and most drivers will put your name on their car all season long.

In the shadows of Charlotte some would laugh at calling this racin, but this is racin just the same. After all the motto drive fast turn left applies here too even the track is just a whole lot shorter.

In the fading warmth of a Saturday afternoon you can sense the hopes and dreams of making the big time. Ask any driver at this track why they race and the answer will always be summed up in one word.....

Daytona.

Old Joe

I get a lot of grief about my Southern ways and view of the world. My life has been driven by the world as I see it and how I was raised. Being called a racist seems really odd considering my life experience.

The other day two young black men came out to my house to clean gutters and windows. They were efficient and did a good job, but I suspect that my home was bigger than they expected because it was dark and well past six when my wife and I headed out to dinner and they were still at it. 

While they were working on that final window I approached the two of them and thanked them for staying at it, asked if they needed anything and handed to team leader still on the ladder a hundred dollar bill, telling them both it was a little extra for the effort.

I got a fist bump from the guy on the ladder but the younger kid removed his gloved right hand to shake mine. 

I'm not surprised, as they both were super polite and respectful from the moment they rang the doorbell.

Which made me think about "Old Joe". 

Old Joe 

Years ago, my grandfather relocated his family to Tennessee to become the new superintendent of the International Harvester Company Chattanooga plant.  

The day the new “boss-man” arrived the local IH company men, were ready to proudly give their new boss a tour of the massive plant.

Offices, quality control, paint shop, the warehouse area, safety inspections department, and finally the shop floor were on the tour list. He shook hands with all he met. He greeted engineers, officer workers, draftsmen, welders, pressmen, fabricators, he shook hands with them all.

Working his way around the shop floor and lead by a group of men in suits and shop foremen in overalls, he had already met more than 50 employees when he noticed a shop worker pushing a broom and glancing his way. He also noticed that the man was wearing only one glove.

My grandfather asked the assistant super about the man pushing the broom. The super replied oh he’s nobody just a laborer. My grandfather pressed his junior about the man’s name. That’s “Old Joe” the assistant superintendent replied.

My grandfather then insisted on speaking to “Old Joe” promptly heading in the laborer’s direction.

Joe was an older black man, and my grandfather had noticed his gloveless right hand. You see Joe, hearing that the new boss man was going to tour the plant had removed his right-hand glove and tucked it into his back pocket, so that if the new boss came by, he would be ready to shake the new man’s hand. That fact was not lost on my grandfather who was happy to shake the black man’s hand.

In the Chattanooga plant at the time there were more than five hundred workers, but only 3 of them were black in the then highly segregated South. A white man shaking a black man's hand in the south was just not done at the time.

My grandfather would learn from Joe that he had been at the plant since Harvester took over the operation in 1919. 

A year after my grandfather’s arrival “Old Joe” was on the job when a fire broke out. The company fire team was unable to get water to the fire and the entire plant was in danger of burning.  Fortunately, “Old Joe” knew the location of necessary water standpipe valves to reroute water to the overhead sprinkler system and within minutes the fire was out. 

Today my grandfather’s large collection of scale working IH tractor models resides at the Smithsonian in Washington DC as does the original photo of “Old Joe” with the caption “typical southern negro”.

Roadway (A Dog’s Story)

A steady rain has turned the Pilot Truck Stop in Bowman, South Carolina into a concrete slab of humidity and dampness. As the rain soaks the late evening, 18 wheelers rumble in and out, air brakes hiss and spit, and potholes filled with water are splashed empty only to refill again and again.

Travelers come and go, doors open, tanks are filled, oil dipsticks are checked, hoods are slammed shut, and cars and massive trucks roar off into the rain soaked night.

On the damp cool pavement unnoticed by so many lies a pile of dirty wet black fur. She's curled up nose to tail and despite the never ending cycle of gas and go, she attempts a doggie nap.

Roadway is clearly a trucker's dog. Her crooked tail shows all the signs of a couple of painful encounters with a slamming Kenworth door.

She's a Black Lab mix, with all the Lab features, except the two white socks on her hind feet and the "just a tad" too short ears. But her personality is all Labrador Retriever.

She is a perpetual optimist.

Suddenly Roadway is up, and while her gait is unsteady at first, once she gets some momentum the affects of her noticeable arthritis diminish, a few strides later her tail begins to wag.

I watch her as she moves cautiously towards a small boy of seven who is traveling in a car full of family. Roadway's crooked tail is in full happy mode, as the boy carefully extends his hand. The boy's mother holds her breath and his father is ready to move in if needed. But Roadway is a Lab, she sits and leans against the boy and gladly nuzzles his open hand.

Roadway is homeless, she is muddy, generally wet and a little overweight. I'd guess her story goes something like this:

"I was raised in the cab of a Kenworth and for eleven years I rode shotgun in that truck, living off scrapes and double cheeseburger happy meals. But as the miles rolled on and time took it's toll it became harder for me to get up into the cab of the tractor trailer rig that was my home.

A few nights ago when I couldn't get up into the cab, even after several attempts, my owner told me to stay and I watched the taillights of the only home I've ever known drive up the hill and vanish into the night."

Roadway circles the boy and and sits again. The boy hugs the dog and his sister comes up to say hello. She too is greeted with a happy tail and the gentleness that is the hallmark of Labrador Retrievers with children.

My tank is full and I still have 150 miles to go. The air is heavy with more rain on the way.

I tell the father "she'd be a good dog". He asks the appropriate questions, and I give him my best guesses. "She would be a good dog" I repeat. I suggest that the dad ask inside. But assure him she belongs to whoever will give her a good home.

My wheels turn, the wipers jump and settle, a turn signal, a splash. I don't look back. I can't look back.

The miles go by, and I imagine that by now Roadway is somehow wedged between and young boy and girl. That the Lab is now drifting off to a long uninterrupted doggie nap, contently resting her head in the lap of the boy while the vibration of rushing pavement under the wheels turn effortlessly up the interstate.

I too am a perpetual optimist.

Remembering Al Rousso at Christmas (Redux)

This story was written a few years back but the "tradition" of shopping at the last minute continues.... 

My parents have been married now for more decades than I can count and every Christmas my father does “his” Christmas shopping at the last minute. 

Times may have changed; he has even embraced online shopping with packages arriving throughout the year via the Brown UPS Truck. 

But Christmas for Dad has always meant a last-minute dash to the jewelry store.

Several years have passed but for the longest time there was the annual Christmas Eve trip to Brownlee Jewelers in the Johnston Building on South Tryon Street in Uptown Charlotte. 

One year, I was privileged enough to witness an event that had been occurring every Christmas Eve since at least the early 70’s. 

The familiar jingle of a bell held over the door announced our entrance. Despite several customers crowded into the small store, the owner Al Rousso immediately spotted my father. 

Calling him by name: “Good to see you, I’ve been expecting you.” 

A warm smile sprang to his face. “Come on in I got something I want to show you.” Al offered, as he opened the small half swing door that separated the customers from the other side of the glass counters and the jewelry salesmen. As we were quickly swept into the back office, Al looked around, obviously checking for anyone within earshot. 

“I’ve been saving this just for you, something I know your wife (he knew her name as well) will really enjoy.” My mother would have been happy with red and white Christmas potholders, the one’s with a reindeer on one side and a sleigh on the other. 

But my father always gave her something that sparkled and came in a small box. Mr. Rousso reached down, opened a safe and withdrew a small six-inch-long box covered in navy blue velvet. He looked around again playing his role with exaggerated movements and came closer to my father and me. He opened the box just for the briefest of moments and immediately closed it. 

“Well, what do you think?” Al asked. “Wow! …. Oh My! …. honey you shouldn’t have?” he questions. 

My father nods in agreement. 

With a faux look of suspicion and glancing past us toward the other employees busy with customers, he tells my father: “I’ve been fighting them off for weeks but this I told them is for someone special.” 

Nervously he looks around and opens the box again. You would have thought we were about to buy a stolen gem the size of your fist. A back alley deal so good we should be arrested on the spot. 

“And the price?” My father asks. 

Al looks at the bottom of the box and hands it to my father, who shows it to me. Al interrupts by asking us to keep it out of sight for what he is about to do the other customers will most likely riot and all his employees might just quit without notice. 

“The price is blank but for you …. (a lingering pause) blank” My father looks like a deer in the headlights, no doubt the price is well beyond what he had in mind. After a long painful pause Al concedes “But since its Christmas blank less blank”… and adds “please I beg you don’t tell anyone what a good deal I’m giving you.” 

My father smiles and with a quick signature on a small 3-part carbon sales bill it is added to my father’s account. The yellow customer copy neatly folded and placed into his wallet and the gift slipped into his suit coat pocket. We all shake hands then the jingle above the door announces our departure, as Mr. Rousso and my father shout Merry Christmas to each other. 

Down the glimmering marble lobby and through the heavy brass doors we step back out onto the street, a brisk wind at our backs. 

And that was it, in less than ten minutes our Christmas Eve mission was accomplished. 

And so, I was left to assume that the interchange between the Jewish jewelry store owner and my father the Christian buying a gift for his wife on Christmas Eve had repeated itself many times before and perhaps years after that. A simplistic ritual, nearly as old as time itself, merchant, and client. 

Al Rousso passed away in 2001 at the age of 76, and the small store at 212 South Tryon Street relocated to the Overstreet Mall but closed in 2020 due to the George Floyd riots, COVID and Uptown crime.

But elsewhere around Charlotte the Rousso family continues the tradition of Brownlee Jewelers. Though I truly doubt it is with the level of theater and salesmanship I witnessed on Christmas Eve so long ago.

Merry Christmas, and thank you Al Rousso

Christmas Eve with Percy Craven (Redux)

 If your family is like mine, Christmas begins a week before Thanksgiving and runs well past New Year’s Day. 

The weeks roar by, in a calliope of sights and sounds. A never-ending visual delight of Christmas trees, holiday movies, parties and children rampaging through the house. 

It is truly a joyous time of year.

The far reaches of the North Carolina mountains, nearly to the Georgia state line in the most distant corner of our state, is Percy's Christmas.

The gravel road to Percy's cabin is covered with pine needles and a light dusting of freshly fallen snow.

The morning sun has already started to melt the new snow in patches along the south facing side of the valley, but in the shadows of the mountain along the north side, the accumulation of the recent snow events still stands.

Resilient Mountain Laurel leaves are drooping, a sign that the temperature outside the comfort of my SUV's heated leather seats is cold. In many spots the gravel road is iced over.

The look and feel of a winter camp is everywhere along the narrow road, for it is a place few have ventured since Thanksgiving. In the summer, Percy's lake is filled with the sounds of bass boats zipping past the point with their motors racing at full throttle and the shouts and screams of Boy Scouts at the nearby National Forest campground.

In winter the sound is pure silence, yet today the air is heavy with the smell of burning wood. A sign that someone is here.

Percy has a fine home in nearby Franklin, just off the main street the two story traditional has a generous porch, bright white columns and a well-kept lawn. But his small cabin is really where Percy lives, far from town, farther from people.

The lack of people at the lake in winter means it is a somber place, and void of youth. The endless quiet to me, and that silence is a deafening roar, and it is somewhat heartbreaking.

Now the only sounds are the gusts of wind that send the yellow pines swaying as they sing though the chill winter air, a chorus of cold and ice.

I drive over the crest of the hill and round the long sweeping turn that dips towards the lake. Percy is always up before dawn, so I'm not surprised that a raised hand greets me, as Percy's cabin comes into view. His dog, a brown Boykin Spaniel named Boone obediently stands by his side. Boone is bursting with excitement. He knows my SUV and that I'm always good for a handout.

I shut down the engine and open the driver’s door and on Percy's command the Boykin bounds off the porch and heads toward me, his short tail in full happy mode. The Chick Fil A bag is a giveaway that I brought food. The biscuits are cold after the forty-minute ride from Franklin. Boykins don't care if the food is cold and neither does Percy.

Percy Craven has made himself busy already, but his walk this morning is stiff, and he moves with trepidation and care. It takes a little prodding, but he confesses he took a tumble on the dock. "Of all the people, I slip on the frost down on the dock morning before last." Explains Percy, as he pours two cups of black coffee.

Percy speaks a different language than I do. Most everything is either down, over, yonder, up or a far piece. It also takes me a while to figure out that the "morning before last" was Saturday.

Percy continues; "I didn't break nothing, didn't get wet and nobody saw it happen but Boone there."  Boone looks away as if to say, "I see nothing, I hear nothing and I know nothing". 

Percy adds, "So I'll figure it was you who had a blabber mouth if anyone calls to ask if I'm OK."

Despite his stiffness he's pacing the porch as he wants to walk in the woods a "while" so he can check a couple of rabbit traps. My coffee has just gotten to the temperature where it’s drinkable. But I leave it on the table and we both head down the path around the lake.

Percy doesn't lock his doors and looks cross eyed at me when I hit the remote lock on my SUV. The "chirp chirp" sound echoes across the silent lake and Percy rolls his eyes. "Ain't no one out here to steal your car." Percy sounds off.

I explain that; "I ain't worried about no one, I'm worried about the bears." Percy laughs out loud, and tells me; "No matter, bear is gonna get in anyway."

Percy is right, as the half-eaten chicken biscuit I left in the car is just about all a bear needs as incentive to break into what the bear thinks is just a fancy steel food box.

"I thought bears hibernated?" I ask.

Percy pretends he doesn't hear me.

The air is brisk around 28 and the ground cold, doesn't matter Percy is talking a "blue streak" he has a lot on his mind. Normally when I walk with Percy we are hunting, and the talk is short and quiet. Today is different, his topics range from the President, to the NRA, about liberals and communists. Tall tales and small lies, his choice of topics is wide, deep and varied. 

Yet he never talks about his wife. Her photo on the nightstand is his comfort and I suspect he doesn't spend much time is town because the house is too big and too empty.

Six traps and nothing, each trap is carefully baited again, a mixture of peanut butter and cornmeal. Boone is kept away from the traps so that he doesn't "stink up" the rabbit runs.

An hour and 45 minutes later we're back and the sun is melting snow everywhere, the sound of water dripping off the trees in the bright sunlight makes the day seem like spring, yet winter has just begun.

I stop at my SUV and hit the remote again. Chirp, chirp and open the door, removing a small gift-wrapped box. Announcing to Percy; "I got you a Christmas present."

"What the hell!" says Percy, "It ain't right for a man to give another man a Christmas present. People will talk, even worst that you wrapped the damn thing."

I offer to unwrap the gift, but Percy will have nothing of it.

"Do I look like a cripple?" He jokes.

The beauty about eBay is finding something in the way of a Christmas gift that you can't get anywhere else. In this case a 1966 Shakespeare "Featherweight" Trout reel in a black nickel finish.

Percy rips into the box and I make another pot of coffee.

Over my shoulder I hear "Well I'll be damned" and I look to see the eyes of a 5-year-old on Christmas morning. Percy is enthralled.

He spins the reel, pushes over the take up button and spins it again. He smiles. You know they don't make them like this anymore? The ivory knob on the spool and leather case are signs of something made decades ago. Percy points to the engraved plate on the bottom.

Made in the U.S.A.

In the silence we both admire his gift, and my eBay find.

Suddenly Percy is talking a mile a minute again; "I didn't get you nothing... his voice trails off to an inaudible babble as he bolts up out of his chair and heads to a small room and into a closet. He's still talking but I can’t hear a word he is saying for the solid oak plank door he is trying to talk through.

After a minute or so he returns and presents me with a well-used white tobacco pipe.

"I'd been meaning to get rid of this for years. Now it’s yours." Percy states as he waves the pipe in the air. "It belonged to my father, it’s Meerschaum. I think it’s worth about a dollar."

He starts to hand it to me and then pulls it back.  "Hold on" barks Percy.

He carefully places the pipe on the Christmas paper that moments ago held a fly reel. Percy folds it neatly over the pipe and then rolls the whole thing into a wad of crumpled paper. Handing the mess to me he says: "There I wrapped it up for ya."

We both laugh, Percy spins the reel again and before long the sun begins to fall behind the mountain and the shadows grow long and reach nearly to the east side of the lake.

We talk another hour; he'll go to church then call it an early night. Some folks in town invited him for dinner Christmas Day; he says if he "wakes up", he expects he'll go as the Mrs. makes a good pecan pie. He needs to go to the post office on Thursday and the doctor on "Wednesday a week."

I've come to learn that older folks need order, and I have found that Percy looks forward to just about anything you can put on a calendar. It gives him something to look forward to even if it means a trip to the dentist.

The lighted Merry Christmas banner stretches over the street at the edge of town. Telephone poles have decorations that date to the 1970's as cars rush by and people come and go. This is small town North Carolina, untouched by time or progress. Flurries race across the road and slide up my windshield, on the other side of the mountain the snow fades and the sky clears, the three-quarter moon shines down on the glimmering lights of the Carolina countryside below where I-26 reaches into South Carolina.

It is Christmas Eve.

Hunting With Percy Craven

It is more than a mile off the blacktop and down a winding gravel road to Percy's cabin at the lake. The road is bumpy yet soft thanks to the Carolina Pines that litter their needles like rust colored carpet atop the stones. The frost has come early this year, it is not yet October and with the frost comes the smell of burning fires and fresh coffee on a wood stove.

Photo by Cedar Posts

Percy's cabin is more shack than home, the kind of place that Eric Rudolph the Olympic park bomber would have called home while on the run for five years in the North Carolina mountains. There is not even the slightest amount of insulation, in fact some of the cedar planks that cover the walls show daylight as the sun first beams across the lake in the early dawn.

The water comes from a spring up the side of the mountain that collects into a concrete tank barely visible half way up the hill and tucked into the woods. Water pressure is supplied by gravity and the 200 foot run down to the house.

The sound the gravel popping under the tires of my SUV quiets as I roll to a stop. The stillness of the lake is stunning in the early morning sun beams of gold as the fog gently lifts and then falls over the tree tops. There are no signs of life inside the cabin but the fire is burning and the front door's ajar.

Percy is old enough that I often fear I'll find him dead one morning and if that be the case today, I'll take great relief knowing that he passed in his sleep in the place his father built nearly 100 years ago.

A raspy familiar voice from around the back side of the shed leaves me startled and relived at the same time.

"Whatcha no good?" Percy calls out.

"Not much, just looking for the old coot, who owns this piece of shit house in the middle of God's majestic wilderness" I figure I'd get that jab in before he says something about my WalMart boots.

"I see's you wearing your fancy boots again" Percy doesn't miss a thing. "You ready to go hunting?"

"Yep", I reply as Percy shoves a Styrofoam cup of black coffee my way.

This is no big game hunt Mr. Carven has invited me on, while it is deer season bears can't be tracked until mid October. Nope, no wall trophies today because we are going to bag squirrels and/or chipmunks.

No doubt some people consider them, adorable little creatures. But before anyone gets all city slicker squeamish on me let me explain at even Percy Craven won't eat a squirrel. Only thing nastier tasting Percy can attest to this fact, is a opossum. I on the other hand have tasted neither and never intend to.

So, we won't be frying up Rocky the Squirrel today, rather those the little varmints will be "shot" for their tails. It just happens that squirrel and chipmunk tails make great flies for trout fishing.

What Percy doesn't keep to make his own trout flies he sells to a artificial lure company in Kingsport, Tennessee. He'll get a dollar a tail, plus his shipping costs.

The trick to shooting squirrels you have to use a 22 with a scope and a steady hand. Head shot and the scope makes it a rather personal interaction with the squirrel. Percy has a Boykin Spaniel named Boone who spent the night snoozing next to the wood stove. Boone's job is to run in circles until the squirrels start chattering. The squirrels sound off about the dog and Percy takes careful aim and drops the squirrel from 30 feet up. Boone then brings the now dead squirrel to Percy and the process is repeated over and over.

It takes about three hours to bring down around 100 squirrels. Percy killed 99 and myself 1. The chipmunks are spared, Boone is wore out, and the coffee inside me is now cold, so we start our walk back to the cabin a 1/2 a mile away.

I ask Percy if it bothers him killing so many animals at one time. His answer a simple "nope". Then he adds: "I guess if it bothered them they would move away, maybe over the ridge or up the road".

Back at the cabin Percy makes another pot of coffee, and begins sorting the tails, selecting the best for himself. The others are put in zip lock bags, boxed and labeled to an address in Kingsport and before I know it we are headed the the post office.

We drive along in silence until Percy speaks: "Whatcha thinking about".

"Dead squirrels" I answer.

"I see, well if you're worrying about a giant mother squirrel that is gonna come charging out of the woods after us, forget about it, I shot her last year right between the eyes. Dropped her dead in her tracks back there a spell."

I play along, "What if there's another one?"

Percy holds up a large hand gun: "That's why I brought this along, you never know."

We round the turn, crest a ridge and and the road swings down and to the right, and in the clearing ahead is a lone buck. The buck stands his ground no more than ten feet from the edge of the road.

I slow down to a crawl and the buck stays put. Ten-point bucks are rare this close to town and I look to Percy as I stop the truck. It is broad daylight at least a mile from anyone. It is deer season. Percy Craven could step out of the truck walk along the road 20 yards and with one shot have the biggest deer of his life.

The buck stands his ground, stomps his left hoof in protest to our stillness, he's looking right at us and the truck. I look at Percy and he looks at the buck. Then without warning Percy speaks up:

"Guess we better go",  and he reaches across the cab of the truck and taps the horn. The blaring sound sends the buck "tail high" and snorting into the woods.

I look at Percy like he's lost his mind, and he just shakes his head and says, "some other day".

We drive on to the Post Office in silence.

Christmas in the South. Ugh!

A few years back I wrote a letter (below) to the Editors at the Charlotte Observer. Who does that any more? 

I was annoyed and perplexed by the Yankee transplants who wear puffy jackets gloves and toboggans just because the calendar says November even if it is sunny and 65 degrees.

They dress for New Jersey November and not Charlotte were fall runs until well past Christmas. 

And so It shouldn't surprise me that they run roughshod over my Southern Christmas traditions as well.

Garish and shrill are not words normally associated with our Southern Christmas. But leave it to transplanted northerners to bring their idea of Christmas to Charlotte.

A Southern Christmas has been for nearly 200 years the highlight of social awareness and decorum. A carefully placed single red bow on a mail box, a wreath on a window, or the extreme southern extravagance a fruit laden mantle piece or door dressing.

How odd it is to see blow-up snowmen in yard after yard in a land where snow is a rarity.

An illuminated blow up Santa and baby Jesus standing side by side, along with strings of lights that not only run the roof line but outline each and every window. Flashing, buzzing, whirling displays are suddenly aplenty.

It seems to our transplanted northern neighbors that if it doesn't look right the first time, just buy some more. My once classic southern neighborhood has become a Griswold Family Christmas card in "Da Hood".

Not one but two blow up Grinch reside within my neighborhood, they seem to sneer at my cherished southern accent along with the 11 Frosty the Snowman that abound.

The Southern Christmas was once the product of the tough times following reconstruction. A single candle was spared, magnolia branches cut, the forest scoured for a couple of perfect pine cones and a in a good year a tree was taken, most often a good sized cedar would do.

In more recent time, a trip to Simpson's, was always in order, the best tree from the lot on Kings Drive was always a welcome event no matter how cold the day.

Over the years I've stood in line at Simpson's with Hugh McColl, Pat McCrory, Michael Jordan and others. 

Later this year as I drive past the wonderful homes that abound in my 28277 zip code I will likely count not one real Christmas tree being laid at the curbside the day after Christmas.

Oh have times changed.

A Foot Note: I know I'm being a Snob, a Grinch and so on... I know the kids like the lights and that I should let people do their own thing. But I'd really like to see the stars rather than the glare from 15 Million GE Christmas Wonder Lights. 

Then there was the 3 year old down the street, I'd complained about the yard full of inflatables in years past and just saw "Dad" installing a Hello Kitty Christmas inflatable, UGH.

But I had to eat my words when I drove past the yard the second time and saw the little girl standing in the doorway her eyes wide with wonder at the amazing sight of the giant blow up fully lighted Christmas Hello Kitty.

OK Lord I Give!