Tiger Woods and 2 Pickled Eggs

The broken pavement is a mix of asphalt, gravel and pine needles. A warm spring breeze blows through hundred year old oaks and several dozen large pine trees. 

Two young black boys drop their bicycles and scamper up the wood steps of the “Midway Grocery and Service Center”. 

They dash inside just as a pickup truck’s tires scratch away at the gravel and then bark as rubber meets the asphalt, that lies just beyond the pine needles. 

I have a good sense of direction most the time, and as long as I have a half tank of gas, I can eventually find my own way even when trying to take a short cut across the South Carolina Lowcountry. No need to ask for directions, it’s a man thing don’t you know? 

I purposefully park my new black SUV just to the right of the building, slightly out of eyesight of anyone inside the small country store. 

The other cars are at least ten years older; a faded blue rusting pickup dates from the 60’s, a Ford wagon and Chevy Nova sit around back. 

The only new car is a red Honda that is parked in the spot with a sign that says “Reserved for Bubba”. 

Midway Grocery is just that, midway between the last place I thought I was and the next place I thought I was going. 

I’m lost and without a good map or GPS, I’ve given in to the need to ask for directions. 

I negotiate my way around the bicycles, hot on the trail of the two young boys and before I know it the screen door has slammed shut behind me. 

The two boys fidget as if they are in need of a bathroom. They are trying their best to wait patiently in front of the counter, each holding on tightly to a single crumpled dollar bill. 

The man behind the counter looks to me and I look to the young boys. He nods, then looks at the two boys and asks: “What can I do for you two?”. 

“Sir, I want one of them there eggs”. The smaller of the two boys pleads. 

The eggs are floating in a gallon jar filled with a vinegar and brine solution, pickling spice and dotted with just the right number of large red pepper flakes. 

The jar has a red lid about six inches across, and it sounds like a dull cymbal dropped on the floor when turned. The jar is only half full of eggs but full of liquid so the man’s hand plunges in past his wrist, as he retrieves one of the eggs. 

No latex glove, no tongs, no fork just his bare hand. A hand that belongs to someone who knows hard work. His fingers are fat and they dwarf the glistening and slippery white egg. I watch as he places the egg in a paper towel and carefully hands it to the first boy. 

“That will be 35 cents” he says. The second boy steps to the counter. He’s a little taller and I suspect they are brothers. The man looks at the second boy and says “I’d supposed you want one too?” “Yes Sir” the older boy replies and the process is repeated. 

Then lid spins in a clockwise direction like a banker closing a safe after securing a large sum of money inside. The eggs adjust to fill the space of their recently departed comrades. 

But before taking his hand off the jar, the man who I assume is named Bubba looks my way and asks if I’d like a pickled egg too. “No sir, but thank you”. I reply. He smiles and offers that he wouldn’t eat one of those things either. 

I’ve said yes sir and yes ma’am all my life and I figure that if I want directions to the Augusta National Golf Club from Bubba at the Midway Grocery I’d better be polite. Truth is I can’t help but say yes sir and yes ma’am its just the way I was raised. 

I explain where I’m heading and Bubba laughs as he informs me that I’m so far out in the sticks that even the deer have maps. 

The screen door slams shut again, and I find the two boys taking up two thirds of the steps, both eyeing me copiously. “Mister did ya find out where you’re going?” The younger one asks. “Yes, I did. Thank you” I reply. 

The older boy offers that "Augusta ain't that far" and asks if I’m going to see Tiger Woods play golf. I’m surprised that these two boys are not only smart but they also have really good hearing. “Yes I suppose I’m going to see Tiger Woods” I offer. 

“We’ll you tell him that when I get old enough I’m going whip him good” The younger boy whose name is Cameron, jumps to his feet, and offers his best Bill Murray swing. 

It’s actually dead on, head still, shoulders, feet, with a full Tiger wrap around backswing. I don’t say anything and just smile, because the kid has a really good swing. 

"One day we’re going to build a golf course right here. This will be “Amen Corner” from this spot right here, all the way to the big old oak tree way down there”. Cameron adds. 

I guess the yardage to the big old oak tree at less than 25 yards. "A par 3?" I ask. “Heck NO! It’s a par 12” Cameron’s brother informs me. “You know it wouldn’t surprise me with all the pot holes in this driveway” I tell them both, while trying to keep from laughing too hard. 

I leave Cameron and his brother, both now swinging invisible clubs at invisible golf balls in the parking lot. 

Honestly Bubba might have given me directions to Greenbow, Mississippi for all I know. But somehow given the general direction of his gestures, I drive 3 miles turn left at the DeKalb corn sign, and then left again at the church with the cemetery and find a four lane that takes me right to Bobby Jones Expressway in the heart of Augusta, Georgia. 

The azaleas are in bloom and the dogwoods have come to life, and once again CBS Sports will carry the Masters with "limited commercial interruption" from emerald green fairways of Augusta National Golf Club. 

At the same time, just down the road at the Midway Grocery and Service Center, Cameron and his brother will be playing for pickled eggs on a short par three ... errrr, I mean par 12 that also serves as the parking lot. 

Tiger you better have your game on!

Greenbow Mississippi Forrest Gump’s fictional hometown was actually filmed in South Carolina and while the house has since been torn down the scenic vistas remain. Head to Yemassee, South Carolina if you need directions just ask Bubba.

The above is a factual account of this day back in 2006, before WAZE and on board navigation became standard.  Tiger didn't win in 2006 Lefty did, but two kids in rural South Carolina stole the day. I hope you enjoyed this break from the madness as much as I did retelling this story. - CP

Baseball Returns In One Week

Tom Grieve's experience on Ted Williams:

"Ted Williams was debating whether to play in the "Jimmy Fund Game" in Boston, at Fenway in 1972. 

He wasn't sure until Mr. Yawkey (Thomas Yawkey Red Sox owner) asked him personally to play, so he did. 

He came into the dugout looking for a bat for batting practice. He was in the zone now, not like the rest of us. I used a W183 bat, I had no idea what it stood for, but he picked out that bat, and I later found out the W stood for Williams! 

Ted grabbed the bat and said, 'Now this is a damn good bat.'

Then he went looking for pine tar and screamed out, 'There's too much f****** oil in this pine tar, no wonder you guys can't f****** hit.'

So he walked to the plate, and Lee Stange was throwing. Ted  screamed at him, 'Now throw the ball hard, don't be throwing any shit up here.'

He took the first pitch, Ted always took the first pitch. I looked at a teammate and said, 'I hope he swings & misses 20 times.'

Ted took 15 swings, and hit every one on the sweet spot. He hit every one hard. 

I looked at Nellie Fox after the round and said, 'Nellie, that was pretty impressive…. The guy hasn't picked up a bat in five years and he hit every ball hard,''' Nellie just looked at me and said, 'Ted`s has been hitting in the cage for six weeks, just in case he decided to play today. You didn't really think he would go out there and embarrass himself?"

• The Jimmy Fund Game: The Jimmy Fund is a major fundraising event for Boston Children's Hospital, and Ted Williams was a strong supporter of the charity. 
• Williams's Appearance: Williams, who was days shy of his 54th birthday, was a special attraction for the game, and fans chanted "We want Ted!". 
• The Home Run: Williams hit a ball that was ruled to have hit the foul pole, and the official scorer ruled it a home run, which led to Yawkey donating an additional $250 to the Jimmy Fund. 

• Other Players: Ted Lepcio and Walt Dropo also hit home runs in the game. 

• Red Sox Win: Luis Tiant threw a four-hitter and the Red Sox won, 4-0. 

• Williams's Impact: Williams had a significant impact on the Jimmy Fund, and Mike Williams, the Jimmy Fund Head, stated that "If it wasn't for Ted Williams, I'm convinced that the Jimmy Fund would not be what it is today". 

• The "W183" refers toa signature model of baseball bat used by Ted Williams, a model known for its weight and length, and can be found in Louisville Slugger Professional Bat Ordering Records. 

Make Your Bed!

Ten Years on Admiral William H. McRaven (United States Navy Retired) University of Texas commencement speech (2014) still echoes in my head particularly "Lesson" Number One "Make Your Bed"

McRaven:

"Every morning in basic SEAL training, my instructors, who at the time were all Vietnam veterans, would show up in my barracks room and the first thing they would inspect was your bed. If you did it right, the corners would be square, the covers pulled tight, the pillow centered just under the headboard and the extra blanket folded neatly at the foot of the rack — that’s Navy talk for bed.

It was a simple task — mundane at best. But every morning we were required to make our bed to perfection. It seemed a little ridiculous at the time, particularly in light of the fact that were aspiring to be real warriors, tough battle-hardened SEALs, but the wisdom of this simple act has been proven to me many times over.

If you make your bed every morning you will have accomplished the first task of the day. It will give you a small sense of pride, and it will encourage you to do another task and another and another. By the end of the day, that one task completed will have turned into many tasks completed. Making your bed will also reinforce the fact that little things in life matter. If you can’t do the little things right, you will never do the big things right.

And, if by chance you have a miserable day, you will come home to a bed that is made — that you made — and a made bed gives you encouragement that tomorrow will be better."

My bed is made how about yours?

"If you want to change the world, start off by making your bed."

Cedar's Take:

I understand that the retired Admiral has been a rather outspoken anti-Trump voice.  I suspect it is hard being a creature of habits and routine as well as adherence to rules, regulations and traditions. Trump is of course an outlier a unconventional loud mouth that has even earned as assassin's disdain.  But the US Military has a long history of unconventional thinking; Washington, Lee, Patton and Beckwith were perhaps some of those he disagree with based on not their military victories but their personalities. You can make you own choice. 

I'm willing to accept his contempt for Trump in exchange for his wisdom.

My Christmas Message

Years ago I wrote this and it now seems like such a long time ago. But the events that provided the basis for this "Christmas sermon" are as fresh as new fallen snow. 

I've not spent Christmas in Charleston now for three years. This Sunday you'll find me on the left in about the tenth row at The Little Church on the Lane in Charlotte and not at the pulpit. But one day I'll give my Christmas message with profound feeling and conviction. Until then ......

Last year as I sat in 1st pew during our Christmas Eve Service, I listened to our well liked and highly regarded senior pastor, whose long winded sermon on Christmas was making its final dizzying lap which is always preceded by "in closing..." and I thought to myself, I could surely write a better Christmas Eve sermon.

I've got to tell you it's harder than I thought to write a good sermon, even more so when it's about Christmas. But here it is, my Christmas Message:

As I look out upon this cheerful sea of faces, taking in all that is Christmas, the hymns, the holly and evergreens, the candles and the many colorful Christmas sweaters and ties, I am so very moved by the wonder of the moment.

Christmas is a wondrous time, a glorious moment that comes once each year in our Christian lives.

If you attended the children's Christmas Pageant on Sunday you experienced part of this moment and were no doubt moved to tears. Especially when one of the tiny shepherds, tripped over one of the many sheep and they both nearly toppled off the stage.

The hours of labor that go into preparing the sanctuary for Christmas are countless, without the many volunteers none of this festive grandeur would be possible and I thank each and every one of you.

The youth group, boy scouts and altar guild sold Poinsettias and Christmas trees again this year, raising money to support our food bank and to provide all of the wonderful flowers, greenery you see here this evening.

In our church as it is in homes, businesses and even places of our government, we celebrate the season with trees, songs, lights, and candles some of the many symbols of Christmas.

But with all of the grand and often spectacular physical attributes of Christmas we often overlook the spiritual side.

So it is time to ask yourself, is Christmas on your mind because Christ is in your heart? Or are you just caught up in the moment?

I recall the story of a little boy who in his purest of innocence understood the meaning of Christmas in his own way.

When asked what was the most important thing about Christmas he replied “having Jesus in your heart”.

Asked how he knew that Jesus was in his heart, the boy, not more than three years old, announced "I know he's in my heart because when I put my hand right here, I can feel him doing a lot of banging I guess because he’s trying to get out".

The other night I was doing a little Christmas shopping along King Street in Charleston, and as I walked among the fog wrapped light posts, I could hear echoes of a Salvation Army bell ringer nearly a block away, muffled in the nighttime dampness.

Despite the weather, and the reports of slower than usual retail sales, the street was crowded with shoppers. A Santa with a real beard, stood in front of a jewelry store, his laugh was true, and both his "Merry Christmas" and "Ho Ho Ho" were sincere. He was ringing a bell with one hand and nursing a fresh cup of steaming Starbucks in the other. I suspect people who look like Santa Claus year around have Christ banging inside their heart as well.

Around the corner on Queen Street, a young couple sang "over the river and through the woods" as they made their way arm and arm up the wooden steps of Poogan's Porch.

In contrast, down the alley and up under the end of the parking garage stood Charles. He's not someone who you would notice, neither a panhandler nor criminal, Charles keeps to himself. He's one of a dozen or so Charleston homeless men I see from time to time, who call the streets, parks, and parking decks their home.

Charles is a veteran of the First Gulf War and other than being homeless he's just like most of us. He is a father and calls his children when can; he graduated high school and even attended college. Since he left the service he has worked in construction and several odd jobs, 2008 has been a tough year for Charles because he is homeless again.

When I think of Charles I'm reminded that I'm more or less just one paycheck away from being homeless myself and given the current economic crisis perhaps a good percentage of Charleston is not so different from Charles.

But we shun Charles; we look the other way, walk a little faster, even cross the street to avoid contact with him. As I pass Charles he smiles and gives me a bold and joyful Merry Christmas!

Why would a man who is so down on his luck, whose heart must be filled with despair say Merry Christmas?

Because, Charles has Christ in his heart as well, and despite the fact that this moment finds him homeless his heart is still filled with the joy of Christmas.

The other day I noticed someone had given him a new coat, no doubt a random act of kindness which was just paid forward by Charles with, a Merry Christmas!

And as I walk home, I smile because who among us could not notice it's Christmas.

But years ago, Christmas was not such a moment, it was not nearly such a big event, unless you happened to be a shepherd.

In the stillness of the night, with a star filled sky above them, several shepherds were stunned when a bright star completely engulfed them in light.

The Gospel according to Luke:

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.

An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 

But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."

Here tonight in this building that we call a church we’re protected from the rain and kept warm from the cold and here among family and friends we celebrate that moment that is described in the Gospel of Luke, a moment in time we now call Christmas.

But outside this fine shelter made of stone, gleaming marble and polished wood the cold wind blows and rain skirts the Palmetto trees and dampness finds its way into every open doorway and even past tightly closed windows, just as despair and loss can find its way into mankind’s heart.

With all we do to celebrate the moment that we call Christmas, the one thing that matters most needs you to make it happen.

This Christmas Eve, long after the stores along King Street have closed, about the time the bells at St Michael’s ring out across the Peninsula just shy of midnight, imagine yourself as a shepherd out in the stillness of the night and remember all that is Christmas comes down to the one moment in time, more than 2000 years ago that changed the course of history forever, the birth of Christ.

It is up to each of you tonight and every night to spread the word of hope, peace and joy that this moment is all about, tell everyone.

Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Story (Remembering Al Rousso)

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 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

A Christmas Manger

My wife is a Christmas addict, the 12 step program and the long road to recovery, at least so far has failed. 

Experts say to correct any disorder you must first determine the cause. Last year, I accidentally discovered the source of my wife’s lifelong obsession with all things Christmas.  

She is a person with Christmas boxes. Ornaments and lights, Santas and nativities, angels and stars, teddy bears and stockings all reside in boxes during the off season. One rather large box has been around since our first Christmas together. 

Over the years the box had become what my grandmother would call “dog eared” meaning the flaps to the box were so worn that they were no longer stiff but floppy like the ears on my Labrador Retrievers. 

So last year well into January and with much discussion we agreed to replace the worn out box with a couple of plastic tubs. It was my task to make the orderly transition, out of the old box and into the new tubs. Deep Inside, at the very bottom of the old and tattered box, among crumpled old newspapers was a small wad of tissue. 

So small, that it was almost thrown away.

In a split second of clarity my hand quickly backed away from the trash bag. The paper had just enough weight to cause suspicion. I carefully unwrapped the tissue to reveal a tiny paper box, no larger than an inch wide and two inches across. 

A price of 10 Cents was stamped in ink on the top of the box with that symbol of a “C” with a line through it that somehow vanished during the transition of typewriter keyboard to computer keyboard decades ago. 

The drawing on the outside of the box, depicted a manger scene complete with 3 lambs and a shepherd, a donkey, a cow, three wise men, Joseph and Mary and baby Jesus with an angel overhead. Inside a plastic full color replica of the western world’s perception of the birth of Jesus. 

The micro sized nativity scene complete with a manger was my wife’s first Christmas decoration purchase and the first hint of a lifelong love of all things involving her favorite winter holiday. 

Her explanation was simple. In her Catholic elementary school they had a bake and toy sale right before Christmas. Donated items were laid out on a table for students to peruse all morning, then during the 45 minute lunch break students would buy things that ranged from ten cents to a dollar. Comic books, and silly putty are things she remembers, in addition to cookies and cupcakes. It seems the manger was a one of a kind. 

The only one offered and during lunch while boys jostled for airplane models and the girls turned the pages of Nancy Drew story books my wife scored the tiny manger scene for 10 Cents. 

Now nearly four decades later it is dwarfed by all that we possess, yet it is indeed one of the most valuable items in the home we share. 

It is a part of her past, and finding it has allowed me to touch a part of her childhood and in the process to begin to understand her love of all things Christmas, and perhaps the cause of her addiction.

Merry Christmas Mrs. Cedar!

A Trailer Palace Christmas

I admit it; at one time I actually dated a girl who lived in what she loved to call her "trailer palace". 

Since my idea of dating has always been a total head first, all in commitment, that means I lived in a mobile home for a time. 

This is not something I'm particularly proud of, but over the years it has given me perspective and a profound sense of what Christmas means to so many who have so little.

   

Christmas Eve and on this cold star filled night the temperatures are hovering just below freezing. Aside from a tent, you can't get more outside while living inside, than in a mobile home.

The wind blows and with each gust, the wood and steel frame home groans and creaks. The trailer shudders with each shift in direction of the wind. The cold doesn't just creep in when the wind blows, is barrels through the walls, pushing the furnace into overdrive on frigid nights like this.

When you are young, certain things don't matter, like the thickness of the walls or the sturdiness of a home's foundation. The quality of the accommodations were the last thing on my mind, all I knew was that sex on a water bed was amazingly fun. Though I have to say that I often questioned the ability of the small single wide mobile home to support the weight of the water and our combined sexual enthusiasm.

Somewhere south of Charlotte, off a wandering ribbon of asphalt called Potter Road, there is a trailer park that I remember like it was yesterday:

Pine trees looming overhead, their fallen needles carpeting the gravel drive that circles around the small group of aluminum clad flat roofed homes, all set at odd angles from the rut filled road.

The layout is simple, garbage cans to the right, parking to the left. A clothes line along the front and junk in the back. The unmistakable sound of Carolina Pines standing against the winter wind echoes across the cold expanse of Carolina red clay. The trees bend and flex in the frozen air as they rain pine needles that fall gently like snowflakes across the ground. The sound of the wind on this winter's night whistling through the trees is amazing.

Not long after midnight the rumble of diesel engines steady in the night, reminds me that the CSX railroad tracks run behind the property. The low and steady distant sound is a warning that all hell is about to engulf her small trailer palace.

There's a large "W" on a creosote soaked post that sits less than 50 yards behind the trailer. When Angela moved into the "new to her" mobile home she failed to notice the proximity of the railroad tracks or understand the significance of the "W".

But to railroad enthusiasts and train engineers the W is as common as mile posts on an interstate highway. The W marks the approach to the "grade crossing" just down the tracks from the trailer park. The W is for whistle and its placement requires sounding of the massive three tone air horn on the diesel engine, regardless of time of day or night whenever passed.

We lay in her bed, listening to the ever increasing pulsing sounds as the four diesel electric engines grow closer. When the trailer begins to vibrate, we know the horn is about to open up. The sound so deafening that it isn't something you sleep through. It is so loud and so close that it has startled many a drunk, passed out on her couch.

A minute later the fading sound of the last freight car passes and the sound of the winter wind returns. The cold echoes of steel wheels chasing the last freight car down the tracks south towards Monroe, a reminder that the night is clear, and crisp.

In order to save money Angela turns down the heat at midnight and fights the temptation to nudge the pointer past 50 on the analog thermostat until at least 6am. Her ability to stretch out her tank of LP gas I find a little concerning, since one of her ideas is to run her laundry in the dryer during the coldest hours and unhook the gas dryer exhaust so that it vents directly to the inside of her trailer. During the winter this provides additional heat. I offer my advice that it’s not safe, but even so it’s still money, she says. On this night she accepts my advice and so a couple of frozen bath towels hang outside in the winter moon light.

The back window of her minivan is covered in plastic. A sad reminder of a mistake made only a week before. It was a brief lapse in thinking, for an otherwise crazy smart young single mother of two.

The trip to Target by herself was a success. She had had arranged for the kids to spend the night with their Nana and PawPaw, She spent nearly all of her $300 bonus from the trucking company where she works, on toys and stocking suffers for her children. The two for one coupon offer on the family size lasagna at the grocery store was all she needed to complete her Christmas shopping list. She hadn't planned to be in the store for more than a few minutes. But that was all the time the thieves needed.

In the parking lot outside of the BiLo, she didn't give a second thought to the two women nearby loading a car full of groceries She didn't notice that they spotted the stash of toys in the back of her minivan as she closed the rear door. But they watched their mark enter the grocery store and it took them less than a minute to brazenly smash the rear window and empty all but the smallest of gifts from inside Angela’s Honda Odyssey and vanish into the night.

There were no tears shed, she didn't even bother to call the police. She knew there would be nothing more than a report filed, the insurance deductible she knew was higher than the cost of the stolen presents. Thinking about it, she noted she could either be angry at herself or go on, and go on is what she did.

I imagine it was a cold lonely drive home by herself with that back window busted out, but she never complained. Living in a trailer palace, tempers your emotions, she has told me on more than one occasion.

Its around 3 am when she quietly moves the carefully wrapped packages out of hiding an into place around the small Christmas tree. It is too cold to linger and inspect her handy work. She stops only briefly to admire the one Christmas decoration that means the most to her. A baby's first Christmas ornament purchased for her son. The math surprises her, could it really be four years? The thought comes and goes and as it does she smiles. She glances in the mirror at the scar on her forehead, faded over time and it makes her laugh out loud and shake her head in disbelief.

She had bought the Hallmark ornament with the last 15 dollars she had in her checking account or so she thought. But she had forgotten the bank service charge and the debit left her account with only a $1.50, the NSF charge of 35 dollars then caused two other checks to bounce even after her paycheck was deposited. The end result was that the ornament cost her more than 100 dollars. The scar on her forehead was a gift from her then (now ex) husband after he opened the mail somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. The following year was a blur of police, and courts. The fights were just a haze of screaming rage directed her way not just from her ex but from his family as well.

The name calling and sworn testimony by her ex mother in law about her infidelity and drug use hurt the most, those lies and fabricated documents were the last straw. Thankfully the judge saw though that, and gave Angela full custody of her son and 18 month old daughter.

Now two years later she seldom receives the monthly child support payments. The father hasn’t been heard from in over a year. She checks the second bedroom out of habit, both little angels are sound asleep. Neither child stirs as she gently lays another blanket on each twin bed.

It took me four stops and three hours to replace the stolen toys. 

I distracted her kids with popcorn and a DVD of A Charlie Brown Christmas while she carefully wrapped the gifts in the back of her minivan outside.

Now nearly 30 minutes after she whispered "Its time for Santa to come down the chimney", she returns to bed, her warmth is overwhelming and welcomed. Her soft voice, a quiet but breathy "Thank You" are the only words spoken during the next two hours.....

More years have passed than I can count. Angela long ago remarried, her kids have grown into young adults and even though the years have gone by we still talk from time to time. The trailer palace a distant place in her past as well.

But looking back I don't think you can really appreciate life or fully embrace the wonder of Christmas Eve until you have spent at least one in a “Trailer Palace”.

Note: Time changes us, it changes our perception and our memory. Some things however are as vivid today as they were during the time it happened. Some things build others tear down. This I can say was a little of both. Yes, time changes us, it is though time that we understand. 

The Salvation Army and Christmas

Ding, ting, ting, ding, ting, the sound echoes across the cold, wet parking lot pavement. A sound as familiar as Silent Night or Joy to the World, it’s the sound of the Salvation Army during Christmas.

The night air is full of dampness, and the cold wind jumps around the north side of the building threatening to knock over the Salvation Army tripod and sign that supports a red bucket, known for the past 100 years as the kettle.

During the past dozen or so years this has been my place for at least one night during the weeks that lead up to Christmas.

A Christmas tradition began years ago, with an unattended kettle on another cold and rainy night. The bell ringer had walked off the job, perhaps his shift had ended and his replacement a “no show”. Whatever the reason the sight of the bell on the sidewalk and the apron hanging on the back side of the sign was a call to action, and ever since that day my family has rung “the bell” for the Salvation Army.

And so it goes that on this cold night, I and Mrs. Cedar are in front of a South Charlotte Wal-Mart ringing the night away.

A vast majority of bell ringers are paid by the Army to ring the bell. They work the part-time temporary job, from Thanksgiving til the 23rd of December. For many it is the only work they can find.

The hired ringers have varied styles, some that sing, some that have a little dance; many are as happy as St. Nick himself, but others act as if they are mimes and say or do nothing at all.

But we are of a different sort.

We take only a few days or nights each year and spilt the work among almost a dozen family members who often ring the bell together.

I suspect the boom box which plays the soundtrack from Vince Guaraldi’s “A Charlie Brown Christmas” endlessly puts a smile on most everyone’s face, and perhaps encourages folks to open their wallet just a little wider.

We all wear the Salvation Army "red aprons" a sign of service and some of the family wear Santa hats, red scarfs and even red sweaters.

The job is both sobering and amazingly fun; honestly it’s a lot more fun than you would think.

In front of the local Wal-Mart this past Saturday we rang “the bell” from 10 am -8 pm providing Christmas music for all, and drinking plenty of hot chocolate and coffee to stay warm.

What amazes me most, are the people.

Keep in mind the Salvation Army is a Church, so we say Merry Christmas a lot, no “Happy PC Holiday” greeting from us. By the way if you ask me, saying Merry Christmas is one of the biggest joys of the holiday season.

Salvation Army bell ringers are often the same people the Army benefits during the winter. So people are sometimes confused when they walk by and see a couple wearing Barbour Jackets and Timberland Boots.

One year a man who attends of our church did a double take, shocked to find my father a member of the church vestry ringing a bell for the Salvation Army.

The man stood there with his mouth open and then in a surprised voice asked “What happened, what are you doing here?”

My father always quick with a joke offered that he was doing community service. The man pulled a twenty out of his wallet pressed it into my father hand with "I will pray for you" then walked away shaking his head, it took another six months to squelch the rumor that my dad had been convicted of some crime that required many hours of community service

Throughout the night, there are those who shrug, or say they are sorry that they don’t have any change. Others walk by and won’t even look at us, and many will go out of their way to avoid using the door next to us.

To some we ARE the homeless, they won’t make eye contact as they walk by, afraid to speak to us for fear we might begin preaching about Christ.

Others actually take pity on us.

A light mist was falling across the parking lot, when an older women approached. She carefully placed 5 dollars in the kettle and in a heartfelt voice she tells me: I pray that things get better for you and your wife.

"Bless you" I politely replied.

Often it is those who have the least, that dig down the deepest. A single mother carefully takes a dollar out of her purse, into the kettle it goes. A bus driver waves us over and hands us two tens.

I watch as a Wal-Mart employee helps a customer load up a large LCD television into his car, the customer tips the employee with a $20.00. As the employee walks back into the store he turns to the kettle and in goes the two photos of Andrew Jackson.

Prada boots and a fur coat briskly walks by with her nose in the air avoid eye contact and, nearly tripping over a couple in t-shirts with five kids in tow. Each of the children is handed a small amount of change and one by one the coins trickle into the kettle.

Later the same women with the fur coat exits the store and slides into the black Mercedes that has been idling in the fire lane for nearly twenty minutes.

Then there are the Latinos, who place money in the kettle coming and going. They smile when we say MERRY CHRISTMAS, and I wonder if they understand my English, maybe I should say Feliz Navidad? I know they don’t have the money to spend so why do they do it? I’m cold and nearly asking the question out loud.

By 7:40 the van rolls up, the young black man a full time Salvation Army employee is cheerful and friendly. He unlocks the kettle and places it in the van where six men will take the long ride back to the men's shelter for tonight.

The Salvation Army’s work goes on, but my work is done until next year. After ringing the bell for 3 and ½ hours my feet are numb, my face cold and the bell is still ringing in my ears……. Ding, Ding, Ding….

I'm fortunate that I don't need a ride to the shelter. Blessed that my wife and I can stop at Five Guys for a hamburger and coke, where the girl behind the counter says Merry Christmas! as we walk out the door.

Yes, Merry Christmas indeed!

Christmas Birds

 I'm burdened with a very Audubon fascination with birds. Blessed with an abundance of feathered songbirds that flutter across my yard all year long. Nuthatch, Chickadee, Bluebird, and Jay. There's even a Mockingbird who has mastered both the sound of a golf cart backing up and the Apple Air Tag attached to my Labrador Retrievers.

There are Woodpeckers of all sizes and Mourning Doves, Cardinal, and Carolina Wrens.

Beyond the property line and into the 16 acres of wetlands that follow along Four Mile Creek there are Redtail and Cooper's hawks, Great Horned Owls, and Barred Owls. Black and Turkey Vultures and should I brave the cold today a nesting pair of Bald Eagles just 300 yards from a four lane that drivers race along at better than 60 miles an hour.

Perhaps my fascination is that of Wilbur and Orville Wright watching Osprey soar along the dunes at North Carolina's Outer Banks. I've even spent a weekend hang gliding off Jockey's Ridge when I was young foolish and believed that I was bullet proof. 

But today a long winter walk will have to suffice, and my wife and two Labrador Retrievers are willing companions and an excellent Eagle spotters. We follow the creek and encounter a Great Blue Heron, and then a Kingfisher as a Hawk springs into flight overhead.  

The Hawk banks right then to the left and circles, having found warmth in the afternoon sun and a strong thermal lift. Within a minute he's more than 800 feet above us. 

Robert Redford's line from the film Jeremiah Johnson: "Hawk. Goin' for the Musselshell. Take me a week's ridin', and he'll be there in... hell, he's there already." reminds me of my earth-bound status.

I'm envious of Redford and of the Hawk.

It's Christmas and unusually cold so cold the main pond in our golf course community is mostly frozen over and the Eagles are nowhere to be seen. But we are rewarded with a dozen sea gulls and more than 70 Double Crested Cormorants who have taken refuge in the smaller pond behind my neighbor's house. This pond is spring fed and enjoys a wide southern exposure and the combination of underground water and sunlight heats the pond just enough.

While the Canada Geese will brave the larger near frozen pond the warmth of the smaller pond seems to have attracted the normally solitary Cormorants. 

The afternoon winds down, and our Labs have internal clocks that know it's "time for food" so they give up exploring for a more purposeful trot towards the house. They need no encouragement as the sun begins a rapid descent into darkness.

The Bald Eagles will have to wait for another day, and then as if on some clue from God himself a reminder that it is indeed Christmas appears overhead.

A White Dove winging its way towards the heavens? I think so and a fitting reward for a Christmas walk in the woods. 

100 Years ago, perhaps on a day like this Robert Frost penned the words to "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."

The final lines are:

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

and those words are not lost on me. 

The Christmas Box

Years ago my father, the manager of Paine Webber’s Charlotte office had an office prankster and a running joke that started on the 1st of December lasted until Christmas Eve.

Just after Thanksgiving the staff put up the a Christmas tree. Not bad for a 12-foot fake tree, but somehow without presents it just looked bare. So dad sent an email to everyone suggesting that should someone feel the holiday spirit and want to wrap up a box or two, he’d be happy to approve the nominal expense.

Two days passed with no replies or offers, and the tree remained giftless.

Then on the 1st of December a very small package, no more than a six inch cube wrapped in gold and red paper, with a perfect red bow, showed up under the tree. It was without a tag and after each available employee checked out the gift box, it was determined it was just a nice wrapped but empty box, as Dad had suggested.

But the box was so small that it was dwarfed by the tree. 

Hoping to encourage the responsible party to perhaps make another box or two, Dad hit the reply to all button and thanked the mystery gift provider for their work and the holiday cheer it brought to the office.

A few days passed and as Dad was walking the tree, he noticed the package had grown. He nearly stumbled into a co-worker also looking at the package that had ever so slightly expanded overnight.

The six-inch-by-six-inch square box was now eight or maybe nine inches, same holiday wrapping paper different color different bow and just a little bit bigger and only one. 

From then on, every day the package would grow, the wrapping paper and the bow would change but it was always placed in the exact same place as it was the night before, just a little bigger and only the one lone package.

Soon the mystery package became the talk of the office. How big will it get, who is behind this mischief, and what is the purpose and where did the smaller boxes go?

Two weeks before Christmas the package had grown into a box that was 2 feet square. The package that once was overshadowed by the 12-foot tree now looked pretty good but the package continued to grow. The weekend before Christmas, they had the company Christmas party and sometime during the party the package increased to nearly 3 feet square. On the 21st it was bigger yet, and on the 22nd and 23rd it grew again.

Then on the morning of the 24th much to Dad’s surprise the lobby was filled with 24 packages all square and in ever increasing sizes. Each of those wrapped boxes that had made an appearance on one of the preceding days now surrounded the company tree. All perfectly wrapped in reds, greens and golds, and the original one, the smallest, had a small envelope attached. 

The tiny card inside the envelope read: 

“One alone does not make a team, but together we put on quite a show. Merry Christmas”.

To this day no one knows who was behind the fun and the Christmas “team” message. But I have my suspicions. 

Merry Christmas!

St. Nick and Coco

Things have turned quiet at the Charleston City Marina. Gone are the mega yachts, those gleaming white ships made of spotless fiberglass, bright shiny chrome and their perfectly tanned crew members.

The cruising crowd has gone south as well, retired couples, enjoying their life aboard fuel efficient trawlers that have become the floating equivalent of motor homes. 

On the vast and now mostly empty mega dock, a straggler of the snowbird procession arrives in a sailboat with a faded yellow hull. A hull, that chalks away in a yellow and white cloud of dust should you happen to brush up against. The boat is a 1977 Erwin sloop, just 28 feet long and named Elizabeth. 

A boat that has been floating since what appears to be, when time began. 

One week before Christmas and I'd swear that his name might as well be St. Nicolas or even Santa Claus. Nick or at least his near likeness is really named George, complete with a pipe whose smoke encircles his head like a wreath, a full neatly trimmed white beard and a head full of thick hair tucked up under a red wool cap. 

I guess that George is nearly 80 though he could be 100, he is an attractive man for his age, with strong weathered features and a crooked smile like that of Harrison Ford. 

Photo of Coco by the Author

His only passenger is Coco, an overly excitable Chocolate Lab that bounds off the boat the moment the first dock line touches the cleats. Coco has spotted a dolphin and wants everyone to know about it. Running back and forth along the dock and barking endlessly, with George yelling Coco, Coco, CooooooCooooo! 

Finally Coco obeys and wanders with his head hung low back to the sailboat, but still his tail wags nonstop. 

I suspect that George has traveled a lot with Coco as they both seem well suited to each other. Coco knows his job is to be the dolphin spotter, and George over looks Coco's inability to truly fulfill his role as first mate. 

George doesn't offer many answers, not even a last name, not that he's unfriendly more so just private. His wife Elizabeth I learn, passed away nearly 15 years ago, he has a daughter in Texas and a son in Florida, neither I decide he has seen or spoken to in a number of years. 

To the question of where is home? George simply points to the boat. 

Where are you heading? And he points south. 

Coco needs a little private time on some green terra-firma and so George and Coco head down the dock. 

I glance at the boat and discreetly try to appraise the boat’s seaworthiness. 

Yellow, Red and Blue Plastic jugs are lashed to the life lines running along both sides. The hull hasn’t seen soapy water, a brush or wax in at least a decade but it seems sound, except where the deck is cracked in three places. 

Elsewhere rust abounds, duct tape holds a port light closed and I determine that I'd not sleep on this boat even if I was wearing a life jacket and cradling a fire extinguisher. 

But I should not judge, for one man's love of the sea and a life of travel is not always what another would wish for nor tolerate. 

It's not long and George is back, “too expensive for me to stay here” he says. “They (the dock office) gave me an hour”. “I'll do some shopping and I'll be on my way”. 

“Might just anchor over yonder”, George continues while pointing to the mooring area just off the mega dock. 

He repacks his pipe as Coco spots another dolphin and of course he’s off on a run barking with George in pursuit, a noticeable stiffness in his stride. 

The last of the winter light has faded by the time George and Coco have moved off the mega dock and anchored on the other side of the Ashley River Channel. 

After night fall, by the dim light of a Coleman lantern I can make out the silhouette of Coco and George and I imagine them enjoying a fine dinner of the beanie weenies and Miller Lite I helped them load aboard upon their return from shopping. 

I wish to join them and simply listen to all the tales George would offer. 

And all I can think of is Captain Jack Sparrow singing quietly… "Yo Ho Haul Together Hoist the Colors High - Heave Ho Thieves and Beggars Never Shall We Die" 

His imaginary voice echoes across the stillness of a cold winter night. 

Dawn and George and Coco have already pulled up anchor. 

The sea birds circle overhead and though the morning mist I can make out the two of them motoring slowly towards the connector, and on to a destination not yet known, but heading south nonetheless. 

I suspect that Christmas Eve aboard Elizabeth will be spent like most every night, watching the stars and enjoying the quiet except when Coco hears a dolphin break the surface 100 yards distant. 

I fear that should something happen to George and Coco, no one will ever know, much less care. 

But then the song returns..... 

"Yo Ho Haul Together Hoist the Colors High - Heave Ho Thieves and Beggars Never Shall We Die" 

And I believe in my heart that Dogs, Pirates and St. Nick do indeed live on forever.

This story first ran in Charleston's Post and Courier in 2007. But I like it and this is my show so I'm posting it again!

Same Old Lang Syne

It is the time of year that radio stations feel the need to play Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne" about twice an hour.

The other night driving back from Charleston on a dark stretch of I-77 I hit the scan button 3 times in a row and each time there it was pushing painfully through my speakers.

I can't help but think they like wearing this song out. Yes, I'm one of those who hate the song, maybe more than "Santa Baby" and I expect there are thousands like me who think it comes too close to home.

Yes, I have been there and it does bring about an "old familiar pain" one that I enjoy to some extent, but not over and over again.

A love long past, and a relationship that was so strong that even a casual meeting sparks those feelings again.

But we as so many others know it wasn't to be and never can be. But still there's that what if? And the acknowledgement that life continues to slip quietly by.

Given the first person narrative of the song, you may have wondered if it is reflective of Fogelberg's own experience.

Fogelberg confirmed the song is indeed autobiographical:

"In 1975 or 76 I was home in Peoria, Illinois visiting my family for Christmas. I went to a convenience store to pick up some whipping cream to make Irish coffees with, and quite unexpectedly ran into an old high school girlfriend. The rest of the song tells the story."

After Fogelberg's death in 2007, the Peoria Journal-Star reported that the old lover referred to was Jill Greulich (formerly Jill Anderson) who attended Woodruff High School with Fogelberg.

Maybe the fact Dan Fogelberg died in 2007 surprised you as much as it did me. He was only 56, and died after a 3 year battle with prostate cancer.

Lyrics:

Met my old lover in the grocery store

The snow was falling Christmas Eve

I stole behind her in the frozen foods

And I touched her on the sleeve

She didn't recognize the face at first

But then her eyes flew open wide

She went to hug me and she spilled her purse

And we laughed until we cried

We took her groceries to the checkout stand

The food was totalled up and bagged

We stood there lost in our embarrassment

As the conversation dragged

We went to have ourselves a drink or two

But couldn't find an open bar

We bought a six-pack at the liquor store

And we drank it in her car

We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness but neither one knew how

She said she'd married her an architect

Who kept her warm and safe and dry

She would have liked to say she loved the man

But she didn't like to lie

I said the years had been a friend to her

And that her eyes were still as blue

But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I saw doubt or gratitude

She said she saw me in the record stores

And that I must be doing well

I said the audience was heavenly but the traveling was hell

We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness but neither one knew how

We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to time

Reliving in our eloquence, another 'auld lang syne'

The beer was empty and our tongues were tired

And running out of things to say

She gave a kiss to me as I got out and I watched her drive away

Just for a moment I was back at school

And felt that old familiar pain

And as I turned to make my way back home

The snow turned into rain...

One girl, my senior year in High School there's been others but that girl takes the prize thanks to a chance encounter years later. But I just Like Willie Nelson I loved them all.

Peace. 

Cedar

Christmas Eve With Percy Craven from 2007

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.