Dr. Roger W. McIntire a Life Well Lived

Dr. Roger W. McIntire, my uncle passed last night he was 89. There of course will be a long and thoughtful obituary. It will likely even appear in the Washington Post for he was a part of Washington DC fabric for more than half a century.

Born in Auburn New York of Southern parents. Uncle Roger occupied the opposite side of the political spectrum as my father but was deeply loved by all.

Besides being my father's brother he was a graduate of LSU where he obtained a PhD and a Dean at the University of Maryland for more than 30 years. He was a published author, a pilot as well as a world traveler.

Known within our family for an invention that changed life for the better, the television remote control mute button. Sadly he failed to pursue a US patent and made nothing from this stunningly useful invention but he perfected the device in the early 1970s.

I'm blessed to have known my uncles so very well, Dick, Charlie and now Roger as they were all inspiring and thoughtful, never lacked for a good story and each offered a tremendous example for a life well lived.

And so it is that the final lines of  Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It is a fitting statement as to how I see things this morning especially the last two paragraphs that echo the Bible and the true American idiom:

“Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. 

Like many fly fisherman in western Montana, where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. 

The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 

I am haunted by waters.”

Update

I've updated the blog roll and in doing so discovered that many of those I followed but who have passed away their blogs live on. Others have vanished for no apparent reason. 

Those of you who read this on a mobile device are missing out because the sidebar doesn't appear. Which is a good thing since it was sadly outdated. My bad.

Some blogs that remain like libturd Tommy Tomlinson's are inactive but remain just because I need a good laugh from time to time. 

Funny there are CP stories set to run through 2030 at this point should I suddenly kick the bucket and end up as fertilizer. It helps there are a number of people who have access to this blog. 

I had to relocate the CMPD and Charlotte Crime aspect off CP because everytime I detailed someone's criminal past or unethical doings I was getting threatened with having the blog taken down. (See Vicki Foster).

So know most of the stories are interesting things I notice. The next post of Meckburbia is about Garry McFadden and I'd expect the comments to be on fire.

That is all. Carry On!

Veterans Day 2024

Today is Veterans Day.

One of our lesser holidays that we note each year, but always seem to forget the real purpose behind as it is often confused with Memorial Day. 

This year Veterans Day is Monday November 11th.

Veterans Day is "Officially" a Federal Holiday, one of eleven in 2024, with Thanksgiving and Christmas (Friday Before This Year) to follow. It is observed in all 50 states except Wisconsin all US Territories and the District of Columbia. 

So here's the refresher:

Memorial Day honors those members of the armed forces who died in the service of our country, whereas Veterans Day is a U.S. legal holiday dedicated to American veterans of all wars. In 1918, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, an armistice, or temporary cessation of hostilities, was declared between the Allied nations and Germany in World War I, then known as “the Great War.” Commemorated in many countries as Armistice Day the following year, November 11th became a federal holiday in the United States in 1938. In the aftermath of World War II and the Korean War, Armistice Day became legally known as Veterans Day.

Mrs. Cedar and I are proud of our family of veterans:

John MacEntyre, Continental Army 1776-1778

Samuel Studdard South Carolina Militia 1812-1814 Horseshoe Bend, Battle of New Orleans 

Nathan Edmonds, US Army Georgia Volunteers Seminole Indian Wars 1818

Samuel MacEntyre, US Army KIA 1863 Battle of Kennesaw Mountain

John Edmonds, CSA 26th Alabama Captured Battle of Gettysburg US Army 1861-1864

Ernest Lynn Duty, US Navy WW I 1914-1916

William O. Durham, US Army WW I  68th Infantry Division 1914-1918

Donald Dufalt, US Marine Corps KIA 1942 Iwo Jima Battle of Midway WW II

Teman Wilhite, US Marine Corps WW II, Navy Cross, Distinguished Flying Cross, Purple Heart Battle of Midway 1942

Wallace Edmonds, US Army 1941-1943 Germany WWII

Simon Henry, US Army WW II and Korea

John Geiger, III, US Army Air Corps Germany, WW II

Milton Carney, US Marine Corps WW II, Korea

Richard W. Brown, MD  US Army MASH 1951-1952 Korea

Charles W. Kinnaird, Jr. US Air Force  1950 - 1953

Robert Brown, USAF Panama 

Un-Named Family, US Army Cold War 1968-1972

Peter Carney, US Navy Iraq and Afghanistan

Un-Named Family, US Navy US Air Force Reserves Iraq Afghanistan 

Context:

Cedar's uncle, Dr. Richard Brown was one of many veterans in our family. Dr. Brown served in a MASH Unit during the Korean war. He shipped out in 1952 within weeks of marrying my aunt and graduating from medical school. His photo is below.

After the war he returned to the states and continued his medical career as the only doctor in the small town of Spencer West Virginia. Dr. Brown is a West Virginia native who graduated from University of West Virginia and was a fraternity brother of actor comedian Don Knotts.

Richard W. Brown, MD Circa 1951 Korea

Dr. Brown retired to Florida in 1990 but will always remained a Mountaineer, Dr. Brown and his wife Lois celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary in 2017.

Dr. Brown passed away on May 23, 2018 aged 93.He was buried with full military honors in his hometown of Princeton West Virginia. 

And so we say thank you to all the thousands of men and women who like Dr. Brown who have served in our armed forces.

The following is an outtake from the book "MASH - An Army Surgeon in Korea" by Otto F. Apel, Jr. MD, a follow medical doctor who served during the same time as my uncle. 

Just a reminder than its never too late to say thank you to a veteran or in this case a fellow veteran. His book was published 2 years before his death on November 9, 2000.

Korea was a long time ago.

Korea was a mountainous country far away and the war there happened a long time ago. Even now, time and distance separate us. Korea was far from my mind on a recent autumn evening as I drove from my office in the Ohio River town of Portsmouth, out the rural roads into the hills and farms and communities, to my house back up a country road away from everything.

In the Appalachian foothills of southern Ohio in the fall, when the leaves turn colors and the weather cools and the geese flock south, the mushrooms are out in the fields. As I turned up the country road toward home, I was followed by a man and a woman in a pickup truck. My wife Joan, saw them too. Neither of us said anything.

We left the gravel road and eased into our own lane, and the truck followed us. The lane nearly a half of mile of new gravel, rolled over the hills and up to the house. We stopped and the truck stopped about fifty yards behind us. I watched cautiously in the rear view mirror. The man got out, grasped a strand of barbed wire fence, pushed it down, and stepped through into the field. He was a tall, slender, clean cut man with thin threads of graying hair slicked straight back, and he wore a faded old army field jacket. He sauntered into the field. He stopped and searched the ground, strolled on, stopped and searched some more. He looked up at us. We looked at him. He dropped his gaze to the ground and continued his slow, deliberate about the field.

"Who is that?" Joan asked.

"I don't know," I said.

I put my car in reverse and eased back towards him. Several yards away, I stopped and stepped out. The man glanced up, unsurprised. He was a handsome man who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, I looked at the truck and saw the woman starting at us. The man's clear eyes searched the ground as he ambled on over to the fence. He clutched something in his clean lean fingered hand.

"Can I help you?" I said. While standing cautiously on the other side of the fence.

"Naw, I don't need no help. I'm just out here looking for mushrooms.
 
"I don't know whether there are any mushrooms out there", I said. I glanced involuntarily to the fading green pasture.

"This your property?" he asked.

I said it was. Joan watched from our car.

He came a little closer until he stood several yards from me but still on the other side of the fence. Beneath the old, torn army field jacket he wore a plaid shirt and overalls.

"You Dr. Apel?" he asked.

I said I was.

"You the surgeon?"

I nodded. "Can I help you with anything?" I asked.

"You the one I read about in the paper a couple of months ago? The one who was in the MASH unit in Korea?"

I nodded.

He looked over his shoulder and quickly back to me. He smiled "You remember me?"

I searched his face. "I don't think I do."

He said his name and it did not ring a bell.

"I lived on Fourth Street all my life. Grew up there, went to high school four of five years behind you. I lived there all my life.

I could see that he held a mushroom in this hand; he pulled it up close to his face and studied it. He turned it, pinched it open as if he were dissecting it. Without looking up from his mushroom, he told me when he worked.

"I worked there ever since I got back from Korea," he said proudly.

In the silence of the evening , a tractor engine roared slowly over the field. A distant car with its lights on pushed down the country road.

You still don't remember me?"

For the life of me, I could not place him.

"I was in your MASH unit back in 1951. I was with the 17th Infantry, 7th Division. Was hit in the should near the Hwachon Reservoir. They brought me in and I seen you working there and asked if it was you. I said to the nurse, Is that man from Ohio?" And the nurse, she looked and said you was."

He lobbed the mushroom underhand out into the field.

"I was there in 1951 and '52," I said.

"I know you was," he said quickly. "You worked on me and next thing I knew I was back in Japan in one of them hospitals. I never got to say thanks, to you. Hadn't been for you, they tell me I woudla been dead."

I had to smile.

He scrunched his face. "Yeah, ever since I got back, I been meaning to come out here and say 'thanks' to you."

"That was fifty years ago," I said.

"Yeah," he said with a sheepish grin. I guess time just gets away for you, don't it? I been meaning to come out here and just never got around to it. Kept meaning to come out sooner or later. I thought today's as good a time as any."

I laughed warmly. "I appreciate it."

"Anyway," he said, "thanks for all you done."

We stood for a moment in silence. The cicadas screeching in the trees.

"Well," he said, "can't keep the wife waiting."

And with that, he turned and sauntered back toward his truck. I watch as he walked slowly, grasped the barbed wire, opened a place and crawled through. He hopped across the gully to the pickup and stepped in. The engine started with the roar of the rusted-out muffler, and he went on down the road. In a moment her was out of sight.

"You're welcome," I said.

Korea and the MASH were a long time ago. I have not been back since 1952 - except frequently when I have involuntarily jerked at a loud noise that sounded like artillery or when I have cried out in the darkness from a deep and vivid dream. Now even the thoughts and the dreams are less frequent. But all this time I have intended to go back. I have wondered what that was about and what we were doing there. I know it is a part of us and a part of me, and all these years I have intended to go back.

You can purchase Dr. Apel's book on Amazon in both hardback and electronic editions here.

 

"Freedoms Being Lost" 1979

The more things change the more they stay the same. 

45 years ago on this day, November 5 back in 1979 the following speech was given by an investment manager and guest speaker. The event was a large gathering of Charlotte business leaders during the Charlotte Rotary Club’s Annual Public Business Luncheon held “Uptown” at the then new Radisson Hotel now called Omni Charlotte. 

The subject was government overreach and "Freedoms Being Lost”.

Thank you for your gracious invitation, I'm honored to speak to you today.

Americans' are losing their freedom in the name of “public interest,” do not give in. 

Don’t be a part of a group that gives up its long-term freedom for a short term gain.

Freedom is a free-market, free enterprise, free to produce, discover, invent, experiment, to succeed, to fail, to profit, and to consume all on a voluntary basis without interference by the policing powers of the state.

It is a fact, that government control does not work, and it has been bad and getting worse for all who have tried it.

Let me illustrate how we are moving in the direction of more and more government control: 

In 1960 the federal government had 100 programs, while today it has grown to more than 1,200. 

In 1930 government spending accounted for 12 percent of the gross national product whereas today it is 40 percent. 

By the year 2000 at the current rate of growth it will be 60 percent.

With the free enterprise system we produce 28 percent of the world production with five percent of the world’s population. After we feed ourselves, we export 60 percent of our wheat and rice, 50 percent of our soybeans, 20 percent of our corn, despite the fact that since 1940 the number of farmers and farm workers has decreased by 66 and 2/3rds percent, because during the last 40 years, our output has increased 75 percent. 

Contrast this to the Soviet Union, who after 63 years of Bolshevik Achievement are still dependent of western technology for food. The obvious flaw, a lack of creative thought, and no incentive to achieve more by the masses.

Contrast our free enterprise system with the so-called best of each 
"Democratic-Socialism":

Sweden’s “cradle-to-grave” protection now dictates the color of a man’s house. For this guidance, the average Swedish worker pays $4,125 annually in taxes from his $11,000 per year income. 

The British man pays taxes of nearly 60 percent of the national income.

Today 130 million man-hours are spent each year filling out US government forms at a cost of $25 billion. Government then spends another $15 billion processing its own paperwork.

Regulations that have become detrimental to the free enterprise system, include those requiring truckers operating between Cleveland Ohio and Jacksonville Florida to make return trips empty; Greyhound bus cannot have age qualifications for drivers and the company was recently ordered to pay $19 million to unknown short people because of its rule that drivers must be at least five foot, seven inches tall.

Recently the Continental Can Company paid $100,000 for ear plugs but OSHA demanded that they spend $33 million to build sound shields because some workers were too ignorant or obstinate to wear the ear plugs.

The washroom scene today is so sad it’s funny. 

Two federal agencies are currently fighting over jurisdiction of the nation’s toilets. OSHA says women’s restrooms must have special lounge facilities, but the EEOC says if that is so, men must have equal couches and chairs.

Americans can combat this trend toward more and more government control by sending money to free enterprise groups such as the “Council for a Competitive Economy” and stop sending money to those colleges and universities whose faculties are hostile to capitalism.

Support news media which are either pro-business or at least professionally capable of being fair and accurate in the treatment of pro-capitalist ideas. 

The Rotary "guest speaker" was my father then national sales manager for EF Hutton a New York investment firm, and his well-received remarks were reported in the Charlotte Observer. 

It is not surprising that so many of the issues that concern us today were just as much a concern more than 40 years ago only far more critical today. 

Prohibition of gas stoves?

Federal mask mandate, no vaccine - no employment rules enforced by OSHA?

Mandatory EVs nationwide?

Proof of vaccine being required for air travel?

Tampons in the boys bathrooms in high school?

A proposed "truth commision" to vet social media?

Banning plastic grocery and yard waste bags?

Prison for posting offensive Memes in the UK?

Liberal Media encouraged by the state to promote state mandated beliefs and silencing conservative thought?

Fair and Balanced News reporting?

In 1979 Charlotte’s population was just over 300,000, I-77 had recently been extended south all the way to South Carolina and just past Rockhill, That year the Charlotte Knights were called the Orioles playing nightly during the summer at Crocket Park in Dilworth. A wood structure built in the 1920's which was lost to Charlotte's density saturation agenda.

Fred Smith’s Council for a Competitive Economy is now in 2024 called the Competitive Enterprise Institute. Yes that Fred Smith the founder of FedEx.

Dad's projection of 60 percent government spending by the year 2000 was off by a few years. Spending did in fact triple from just under $1 trillion in 1979 to $3 trillion in 1999, but it wasn’t until 2009 that spending pushed past the 40 percent level. 

Government spending first reached $1.5 trillion in the mid 1980s, and then breached $2 trillion in the recession year of 1991. In the 1990s spending increases started to level off, reaching $3 trillion in 1999. 

But in the 2000s with the dot-com crash and the response to 9/11 government spending began to accelerate, reaching $4 trillion in 2004 and $5 trillion in 2008. Then came the Crash of 2008 and government spending exploded to $6 trillion in 2010. 

After a few years of modest growth during 2016 - 2019 in nominal dollars, spending soared to over 7 trillion in 2021 due to COVID-19 and the Biden Administration's wealth redistribution agenda. The fiscal year budget for 2024 is 6.75 Trillion.

And the media? Can you imagine at one time CNN and NBC were actually unbiased?

Yes the threats to democracy are real but the threat is not Donald Trump it is government overreach.

And today would be my father's 92nd birthday.

The Last Voter (Revisted)

I posted this nearly a decade ago but I liked it, felt it was worth sharing and well it is my show and so I'm posting it again. Hope you're having a Great Friday. CP

I worked at my local polling place on Election Day, a day that will certainly become a defining moment in our country’s most recent history.

I spent that day handing out flyers, wearing the badges and buttons of a good friend and pronouncing to all who would listen the benefits of voting for my candidate.

In the early morning hours the rain came and went, by midday the long line of voters that started in the predawn darkness dwindled. Friends and neighbors stopped to chat, adorable children ran in circles around their mothers like the wind that had scattered the leaves and campaign signs all day long and made the parking lot look like a rag tag yard sale.

And as the afternoon wore on the line vanished. By 5 PM it was clear that the expected evening rush was not to be.

Campaign volunteers, who had numbered nearly a dozen, began to depart one by one, eventually leaving myself, Mrs Cedar and two attractive young women outside in the dampness. A few feet away a handful of paid poll workers tolled inside the brightly lit and well heated recreation center that for the last three presidential elections has been my neighborhood’s polling place.

Darkness came and the CMPD Police Officer who had jokingly told us he was there to make sure we didn’t get out of hand called it a night and headed home. His unmarked police cruiser left in a wake of scattered leaves, and with a tap of his brakes at the end of the parking lot his city issued car tail lights momentarily glistened red across the wet pavement and then vanished into the night.

A light rain once again began to fall, and in the blackness of the damp and chilly evening a lone car, with one headlight slightly out of alignment slowly rounded the corner coming to a halt in a nearby parking space.

I glanced at my watch, 7:23 pm, only seven minutes and the polls would close, and then I’d be on my way to join family and friends, the beautiful and the powerful that run our, city and our country, in celebration of our nation’s most anticipated event, the day’s election results.

A sudden gust of wind pushed a downpour of rain past the street lights at the far end of the parking lot as the driver walked towards us with a somewhat unsteady gait.

A hood up over his head, in the darkness the shadowy figure seemed out of place, a noticeable misstep at the curb, suggested a drunk who at the last minute had set aside the bottle to brave the chilly night air after sobering up long enough to remember he had not yet voted.

Out of the hood the figured plucked a cigarette from his mouth and tossed it into the concrete gutter swollen with rainwater soaked oak leaves.

I glanced at the girl next to me her name Jenna boldly printed on a miniature campaign sign of the candidate she was representing; she looked at me and rolled her eyes but at the same time bravely called out to the darkness offering information about her candidate.

I stood silent, for in the pool of light that we stood, his face was suddenly revealed. I had seen the face before, disfigured by some disease that had robbed his body's immune system of the ability to fight off the growths that populated nearly every inch of his face.

His soft speech, offered a quiet "No Thank You" as he slowly made his was way toward the front door.

The rainy mist swirled around us, the night broken only by his slow shuffle and the sound of the wind. The girls said nothing, and I started to offer an explanation, that the man worked at Walmart nearby, but the four of us just stood there in silence.

And I thought to myself that in a world of perfect candidates, attractive first ladies to be and well groomed campaign workers; we often forget that all Americans have a right to vote.

The sky opened up and a steady rain coated my umbrella, the girls said a few hasty goodbyes and dashed to their cars in opposite directions, Mrs. Cedar and I, too retreated to the shelter of our car.

And so it was that on a cold damp night in November the last voter made his choice and recorded his vote. And of all the people who came and went, the many whom I spoke to and the many I know, the most important voter of the night was a man that some people look away from, not wanting to gaze upon his disfigured face.

But he is a man that I owe a heartfelt thank you, thank you for being my neighbor, thank you for coming out to vote on a cold rainy night and above all else thank you for being a patriot and a fellow American. 

Footnote:In 2004 and 2006 I worked for Dan Ramirez who was genuinely respected by all. Then in 2008 I worked the polls and door to door for the republican candidate for congress. The work was sobering, it was the first time since Jimmy Carter that a democrat presidential candidate carried North Carolina. But the 2008 election would be my last as a volunteer. Ever since then I've had a solid respect for those who take the time to help elect someone, regardless of party. 

So here few days before then election I am hopeful that your choice will be the right one. If you plan to vote on Tuesday look for me standing in the parking lot early before the polls open. Just an American on election day.  

The Legend of Master Trooper Darrell Higgins (Redux)

The unmistakable black and silver markings of a North Carolina State Trooper’s cruiser came into view for only a brief moment as the car slowly rolled past under the streetlight. Chip Mitchell remembered watching the car, as it disappeared into the midnight fog and mist without so much as a tap of the brake lights making a sharp turn at the end of the street.

Yet the familiar paint scheme, and massive whip antenna seemed somehow off. The markings while standard for the North Carolina Highway Patrol were different. The more he thought about it the more he became intrigued. 

The next morning his google search turned up countless photos of modern NCSHP cruisers where Dodge Chargers seem to be the norm, bright graphics emblazoned with North Carolina and State Trooper end to end. 

Then he clicked on a link and there it was, a late 1970s Plymouth which was once the car of choice for the NCSHP.

Was it possible that the highway patrol was still using these older cruisers? 

Within a few hours the car and that night was forgotten.

Three counties away Anna Sherrill was late for an appointment when she suddenly noticed headlights behind her. She immediately became concerned because the headlights were rapidly gaining on her, closer and closer they came. She checked her speed and saw that she was doing better than 75 along the four-lane road. 

Taking her foot off the gas pedal, she slowed to the posted speed limit of 55 as the unmistakable image of a state trooper pulled into the left lane and stayed behind her for more than a mile. 

The Trooper’s presence annoyed her, she was running late and the last thing she wanted to do was drive the speed limit.

Fearing she was about to be pulled over for speeding she glanced down and reached for her cell phone, scrolled through the numbers, and called her husband.  

But before her husband could answer she realized the trooper was gone. 

Her rearview mirror showed nothing but an empty four lane mountain road, and on the curving highway ahead not a car or truck as well. She unconsciously slowed further on the empty highway. 

As her husband answered her call, she was still scanning in all directions, still trying to find the state police cruiser. 

When she finally said hello, her husband replied: “hey babe you’re butt dialing me again?” but her silence got his attention.

“Babe are you ok?” 

Anna replied: “What?” and quickly added “Oh hey hold on”. 

As she rounded the blind curve there was a massive rockslide blocking the road. It had clearly just happened. Slamming on her brakes her car drifted slightly to the left but managed to miss several large rocks in the road. Her heart was racing, as several smaller boulders suddenly tumbled toward the pavement.

Anna went back to her cellphone: "you won't believe what just happened!" "yes, I'm ok". 

Thankfully the only other vehicle near the rockslide was a tractor trailer heading in the opposite direction and was far enough away from the rockslide. His flashers were on as he moved slowly past the few rocks that had crossed over the concrete barrier and into the opposite travel lane. 

Within minutes the North Carolina Department of Transportation was on the scene and local sheriff deputies were directing traffic and she was on her way again. But what of the State Trooper? 

Anna would dismiss the encounter with the state Trooper’s car to her lifestyle, the three kids, and a job that she loved as a real-estate agent. She thought maybe she was just suffering from the long hours and her out of control work life balance. After all she was in a hurry and somewhat distracted, but how could the Trooper just disappear? And so she was left to assume that the trooper had simply turned around. 

And then in a sobering moment she realized the Trooper had saved her life. Had she not slowed down she would have been hit by the rockslide on the blind curve.

Thoughts come and go as life races on, and so it was that Anna went about her daily routine. It would be sometime before she thought of the State Trooper again.

A few weeks after her near encounter with North Carolina Mountain’s frequent rockslides, Anna sat down at the local Cracker-Barrel with her clients, an older couple looking to retire to the North Carolina mountains. 

Gary and Christina were from New York, she already had learned that they were tired of the Rochester New York winters but were not willing to give up the seasons and particularly fall. 

After some small pleasantries Christina stated that she was a nurse, and that Gary was a retired State Police Captain. Anna must have looked surprised at the mention of State Police because Christina was quick to ask if that was a problem. 

Anna apologized: “oh no it’s just that I saw a State Trooper the other day and it was really weird”. She went on to explain to her new clients about her encounter and how the cruiser had just vanished. 

Their conversation drifted on to other small talk and then the business at hand. Before long Gary and Christina said their goodbyes leaving Anna to collect the check and pay on her way out.

But before she could reach the register to pay her bill, she was stopped by an older gentleman. 

“I couldn’t help but overhear your State Trooper concerns” the man said.

 “I’d spect you’d seen Trooper Higgins”. The gentleman looked away as if to be certain no one else was listening. 

Trooper Higgins? Anna asked.

“Trooper Darrell Higgins or more properly Master Trooper Darrell Higgins NCSHP Troop F out of Newton, North Carolina. Graduated in 1976.” Stated the man.

Percy Craven stood up and formally introduced himself. 

“Hi I’m Anna” she was somewhat surprised.

Percy was quick to say that he knew who she was since she’s on two billboards on 321 going into the Highlands Resort.

She changed the conversation back to Master Trooper Higgins: “How do you know this State Trooper?” asked Anna.

Percy continued: “Good man served in Viet Nam joined the Highway Patrol right after he got back. Lost his wife the following year to a drunk driver and then committed himself to enforcing the law thereafter. Two years later he had been promoted and given several awards. Then one night he vanished. Never a trace of him or his cruiser was ever found.”

Anna tried to understand the details that Percy had just stated. Before she could ask what happened to the Trooper Percy continued:

“Lemma ask you something, you seem like a smart girl who might know your cars, what did the trooper’s car look like?”

“North Carolina Highway Patrol I’m certain not county or city police.” Anna told the older man. 

And then she continued “Silver and Black but not like a car I’ve seen before, and it wasn’t that is was old it was new looking but an older style. The windows were up but there was definitely a Trooper in the driver’s seat. Distinctive wide brim hat.” 

Percy smiled and chuckled to himself then went on to explain: "Some say he stumbled upon some boys from Tennessee moving shine across the state line near Hurricane, others say he left with a college girl from Cullowhee and moved to Mexico".  

“Well about two years after he disappeared folks swore, they saw him on 321 helping a man change a tire.”  Percy continued.

“Then there was a trailer fire back up “Cat Lick Hollow” in Sparta. A married couple and four kids escaped just in time, woken up by a State Trooper pounding on their front door. The Trooper even carried the families’ dog out of the fire. When the fire department arrived the Trooper was long gone.”

By this time the two of them had sat down at an empty table and ordered coffee.

"Then there's that murder suspect who somehow locked himself in a telephone booth in front of the Henderson County courthouse".

Percy continued to recount what he had heard over the years: 

“Back in the 1990’s a McDowell County Sheriff's Deputy escaped death when a North Carolina State Trooper pushed the deputy out of the path of an oncoming and out of control car. The deputy said that he had stopped behind an abandoned vehicle and was returning to his car when a drunk driver lost control and sideswiped the deputy’s patrol car. 

Collecting himself while climbing out of a ditch and seeing his destroyed patrol car he searched for the Trooper who had just pushed him into the ditch saving his life. He feared the worst but there was no trooper and no a sign of a Highway Patrol car. “

“Been a few years since I’ve heard anyone speak of him, but back in the spring there was a man handcuffed to a fence post out near Beaver Creek. Turned out he was a drug dealer wanted by the feds. Said he wanted to go to jail because he'd seen an apparition and was afraid the ghost he saw was going to come back and take him straight to hell." 

Percy pointed out "You see, some of these parts are sparsely populated he may have spent two or three nights out there in the cold. I figure that will make you see things. But over the years I’ve heard plenty of similar tales from other folk.” Percy’s words would echo for weeks to come.

The headlights of an approaching car became silhouetted against the backdrop of tall North Carolina oak and maple trees in their splendid fall glory at dusk.  Then at the crest of the hill the patrol car stopped as the blue flashing beacon of an older model police car and Wig-Wag Blue and White grill lights flashed across the rural landscape. 

From the opposite direction a suspect’s car crossed the bridge at better than 90 miles an hour, another police cruiser close behind. 

As the speeding car rounded the curve and the flashing blue and white lights came into view, the chase ended abruptly as the suspect pulled over to the far-right shoulder and put his car in park. The driver now stopped more than hundred yards from where the road was blocked by a North Carolina State Patrol car. 

The pursuing Police Officer pulled in behind the suspect’s car ordered the occupant out of the car. Within seconds the driver a young man in his 20s had his chin pressed firmly against the hood of the marked police car. 

With the suspect’s hands behind his back, he was promptly stuffed into the patrol car and the door slammed shut. 

Then as if on cue, the North Carolina State Trooper Plymouth eased down the hill and approached. As the Highway Patrol car passed the uniformed driver just touched the wide brim of his Smokey the Bear hat and drove on by.

Then the silver and black cruiser’s bubblegum machine blue light switched off and the Plymouth disappeared silently once again into the mountain mist.

Fall comes early to these parts of North Carolina, and while the Carolina Coast and the Foothills won’t seem fall like until late October, the mountains head into fall like a speeding patrol car. The sun falls swiftly along about four thirty and darkness comes on fast in the valleys and hollows, and with it sometimes the fog rolls down the mountains and makes everything seem just a little ghostly.

Everett Wilson a Halloween Tale (Redux)

I wrote this several years ago. Spending much of my life in the South Carolina "Lowcountry" where there is a wonderful tradition of storytelling. This is a patchwork of stories told since my childhood, accented with my personal experience of nights aboard a yacht and people and places I've met and come to know who call the Barrier Islands home. - CP

The wind pushed steadily against the palmetto trees, their stiff fronds rustling in the midnight barrier island breeze. 

Gathered around the fire, far from the abandoned plantation house, were a dozen shadows. Their voices rose and fell on the wind, and the smell of salt air mingled and danced with that of pluff mud and smoke from burning live oak and cypress logs. 

All Saints Eve was not celebrated until the 1890’s but that didn’t stop share croppers during the days of reconstruction from telling stories filled with macabre and horror as the South Carolina autumn began to give way to the chilled nights of a southern winter. 

The civil war had not so much ended, but rather faded away. Tales of battles and bravery were common way to pass the early evening hours in the years after the great war. 

On this night out of earshot of women folk the men shared drink, tobacco and tales. 

The young boys came along soon after their chores were done and their sisters and younger brothers were tucked in for the night. The place was hard to find, a single path led across the salt marshes and through the groves of 100-year-old live oak, and it was surrounded by yellow jasmine and thorny brambles. 

The oldest of the men was Samuel Wright. When he spoke his corn cob pipe wavered back and forth in his mouth, unless he was packing it with the tobacco, he had cured himself and still the pipe never left his mouth. 

“Tell us a story Pappy” the young boys pleaded. Samuel ignored the youngsters and continued to silently pack his pipe. “Come on just one story….” The boys begged again. 

“I’ll tell you about the three little nigger boys who wouldn’t never keep quiet” Samuel scolded. 

“Ahhhh we didn’t mean nothing” they said together. Samuel put a flame up to his pipe and took a deep draw. Then he slowly exhaled and puffed a ring that paused in midair for a moment and then rushed off like a ghost into the moon lit night. 

“They were divining up souls” he said softly in his deep voice. 

“Who was dividing up souls?” the boys asked intently. 

Samuel Wright leaned toward the boys “God and the DEVIL” he said wide eyed and with emphasis on the devil. 

The young boys jumped back but remained silent. “What was that fella’s name?” Samuel inquired out loud to no one in particular. 

“Wilson I recall, Everett Wilson”. Offered another man. 

The young boys leaned in towards Samuel and moved closer to the fire. 

“Yes sir, that was his name he was a trouble maker and inherently mean, so it was no surprise when Everett Wilson met his end that the story of his death would be told over and over again.” Announced Samuel Wright to the young faces before him. 

“How mean was he?” Asked the youngest boy. 

Another man spoke up out of the darkness and joined in the tall tale. “He was so mean that he once cut off a dog’s ears because the dog wouldn’t come when he was called.” 

The boys spoke quietly among themselves, the youngest tugging on both his ears trying to imagine how he'd hear without his ears. 

The truth is that Everett Wilson was pretty damn mean, and he was a thief. He would steal just about anything he could get his hands on, and of all the things he stole he loved to steal whiskey. 

But the only place Everett could drink the liquor was to hide out in the swamp at night. He didn’t mind the all the snakes, and the bugs in the swamp, but he couldn’t swim and was deathly afraid of the water. 

During the early days of the Civil War the Devil made his was way south looking for souls. The word among those who lived and worked the rice fields south of Charleston was that the Devil and God made a pact. They would simply divide up the souls of those killed in battle evenly as long as the war raged across the low country. There were just too many dead to sort out the good from the evil souls so the pact was agreed to. 

One day Everett Wilson stole a bottle of whiskey from the town doctor and just after dark he made his way to his secret place in the high marsh on a dry spot encircled with sea island grass. Wilson was a towering man, he wasn’t a free man but he did just whatever he pleased. 

No one wanted his work because he had such a mean streak. But as mean as he was he was no match for the drink and soon passed out with his lantern and bottle by his side. 

The night wore on and well after dark, Wilson awoke from his drunkenness to the sound of voices. He lay there staring at the full moon overhead and listened as the voices broke out in song, songs he didn’t recognize. 

 "Them’s must be Yankee songs", Wilson thought to himself. 

The wind blew gently across the moonlit marsh as Wilson dared to look above the sea oats and grass across the low-lying levee, he could see a fire and shadows moving about. "Yes sir them's Yankee troops and many of them as well", Wilson said out loud but in a hushed voice. 

Wilson lit his lantern that he had carefully wrapped in a wet burlap sack to hide the light. If needed he could remove the cover should someone approach. But he wasn’t about to announce his presence unless he had to, for fear that they might steal his what was left of his liquor. 

A few miles away the members of the 14th South Carolina Volunteer Infantry "McCalla Rifles" walked quietly in the darkness. There were no songs and no idle talk as they walked single file along the sandy road in silence. Though the night was still damp with the afternoon’s heat there was a definite chill in the air. A chill that meant winter would soon settle over the Barrier islands of South Carolina. It was the 31st of October 1862. 

Close to midnight the men slowed their pace, the smell of smoke in the air was enough to let them know Yankees were no more than a little piece away. They moved ahead on lighter heels and soon discovered that indeed the Yankees were camped just the other side of the levee that held back the brackish waters of the Edisto River and allowed the rice to thrive. 

The plan of attack was simple, outnumbered the volunteers would strike fast and hard hopefully killing a few Yankees and then retreat into the woods and then to a rally point 2 miles away. 

Everett Wilson had drank more of his whiskey and dozed off to sleep again when he rolled over to find that the tide on a full moon had pushed the waters of the Edisto River up to his high spot in the marsh. Abruptly he sobered up realizing that he was surrounded by water. Wilson was afraid that the tide wouldn’t begin to recede and he might drown, but a much worse fate was about to seize upon the man. 

Suddenly gunfire ripped through the night, smoke could be seen coming from the far tree line near the road. The full moon shined brightly only to be outdone by brilliant flashes from the muskets of the rebel infantry. 

As the Yankees sounded the alarm, there were also screams of pain as the rebel bullets found their mark. But the bullets were also hitting the marsh around Wilson. 

Expectedly, return gun fire erupted from the Yankee camp. Before he could react, a Yankee bullet whistled by Wilson’s head and knocked his hat into the water. 

Shots were coming from both sides now and Everett Wilson was square in the middle of the crossfire. Wilson tried to run, but in each direction was water, deep cold water. In the confusion and his drunkenness Everett Wilson pulled the burlap cover off his lamp and raised it in hopes that the soldiers would stop shooting. 

For reasons only known to Everett Wilson he stood up towering in the darkness and waved the lantern in a mindless move that was met with bullets from both sides.  In all eighteen musket balls ripped into Wilson’s body most before he fell to his knees. Nine bullets from the Union side nine from the Rebel’s. 

At the midnight hour on October 31st, 1862, as Everett Wilson lay dying the Rebel attackers retreated. The Yankees had also run to safer ground leaving their dead behind. Between midnight and when dawn’s first light rose to meet the stars, Everett saw God and the Devil in the tall marsh grass and thick fog coastal fog. 

They were dividing up the souls. “One fer me, One fer you, One fer me, One fer you” the Devil was saying. In total 11 Union soldiers were dead and when the Devil took the last soldier Wilson figured God would get him and he would go straight to heaven. 

Having divided up all the dead the soldiers God and the Devil looked at Wilson. Wilson’s soul pleaded for God to take him but God said it was the Devil’s turn. But the Devil wanted no part of Everett Wilson saying “Hell has enough trouble makers and thieves”. 

And with that the God and the Devil vanished into the darkness. 

To this day among the marsh grass and the pluff mud just before dawn you can hear him calling out for God and the Devil. “Come Back, Come Back” “Take Me Take Me”.

Some say they’ve seen Everett Wilson rise up from the water waving a lantern with one hand and holding a bottle of stolen liquor in the other. 

A man so mean he was wanted neither by God or the Devil, he wanders the banks of the Edisto River each night calling out for his soul to be taken. 

“You best listen for him because if he calls your name and you don’t answer he’ll cut off your ears and steal your soul.” Samuel Wright told the young boys who were all silently nodding up and down with their mouths agape. With that two of the men who had snuck off unknown to the young boys reached out from the darkness behind them and grabbed the boys by their ears. 

The old men laughed as the boys ran for their lives and screamed out in horror of having their ears hacked off by the ghost of Everett Wilson. 

Soon the men were passing the bottle again, and the boys recovered and caught their breath. 

Then in the silence they all saw it, across the fog shrouded salt marsh the light of a lone lantern appeared and then vanished into the night. 

And no one said a word.

Andrea Gail October 28, 1991

Few things have stuck with me like the story of Andrea Gail. 

In 1997 Sebastian Junger's book was released and in 2000 the motion picture.

It is perhaps George Clooney's monolog, in the film The Perfect Storm, his haunting description to Linda Greenlaw as to why we do this that still echoes in my mind nearly every time I "drop lines" and head out to sea.  

The fog's just lifting. 

You throw off your bow line, throw off your stern.

Head out the south channel past Rocky Neck and Ten Pound Island, past Niles Pond, where I skated as a kid. 

Blow your airhorn, and you throw a wave to the lighthouse keeper's kid on Thatcher Island. 

Then the birds show up, blackbacks and herring gulls, big dump ducks. The sun hits you. 

You head north, open up to 12. Steaming now. 

The guys are busy, you're in charge. 

And you know what? 

You're a goddamn swordboat captain. 

Is there anything better in the world?

Years later I would happen across the Hannah Boden at dock near Kiawah Island South Carolina. My crew had no idea why we slowed to take photos on the old and tired looking "longliner" now converted into a craber, seemly out of place at the Cherry Point Seafood Company on the Bohicket Creek. 

But sure enough there on a shrimp boat dock was the sister ship to Andrea Gail.

Hannah Boden August 10, 2016 Photo By The Author

Yeah I'm a goddamn charter yacht captain and I get to do what I want. 

Injun Summer 1907 By John T. McCutcheon (Redux)

In 1907 these two cartoon panels debuted in the Chicago Tribune. This artwork and accompanying story written in 1900's simple folk speak was the formal declaration of fall and all that was magical about the season:

Yep, sonny this is sure enough Injun summer. Don't know what that is, I reckon, do you? 

Well, that's when all the homesick Injuns come back to play; You know, a long time ago, long afore yer granddaddy was born even, there used to be heaps of Injuns around here—thousands—millions, I reckon, far as that's concerned. Reg'lar sure 'nough Injuns—none o' yer cigar store Injuns, not much. They wuz all around here—right here where you're standin'. 

Don't be skeered—hain't none around here now, leastways no live ones. They been gone this many a year.

They all went away and died, so they ain't no more left. 

But every year, 'long about now, they all come back, leastways their sperrits do. They're here now. You can see 'em off across the fields. Look real hard. See that kind o' hazy misty look out yonder? Well, them's Injuns—Injun sperrits marchin' along an' dancin' in the sunlight. That's what makes that kind o' haze that's everywhere—it's jest the sperrits of the Injuns all come back. They're all around us now.

 

See off yonder; see them tepees? They kind o' look like corn shocks from here, but them's Injun tents, sure as you're a foot high. See 'em now? Sure, I knowed you could. Smell that smoky sort o' smell in the air? That's the campfires a-burnin' and their pipes a-goin'. 

Lots o' people say it's just leaves burnin', but it ain't. It's the campfires, an' th' Injuns are hoppin' 'round 'em t'beat the old Harry. 

You jest come out here tonight when the moon is hangin' over the hill off yonder an' the harvest fields is all swimmin' in the moonlight, an' you can see the Injuns and the tepees jest as plain as kin be. You can, eh? I knowed you would after a little while. 

Jever notice how the leaves turn red 'bout this time o' year? That's jest another sign o' redskins. That's when an old Injun sperrit gits tired dancin' an' goes up an' squats on a leaf t'rest. Why I kin hear 'em rustlin' an' whisper in' an' creepin' 'round among the leaves all the time; an' ever' once'n a while a leaf gives way under some fat old Injun ghost and comes floatin' down to the ground. See—here's one now. See how red it is? That's the war paint rubbed off'n an Injun ghost, sure's you're born. 

Purty soon all the Injuns'll go marchin' away agin, back to the happy huntin' ground, but next year you'll see 'em troopin' back—th' sky jest hazy with 'em and their campfires smolderin' away jest like they are now. 

Cedar's Take:

On every Sunday before Halloween up until the 1990's the Chicago Tribune ran Injun Summer by Pulitzer Prize winning cartoonist John T. McCutcheon on the front page and in later years on the front cover of their Magazine section. 

It was a Halloween tradition as much as the Night Before Christmas was to December 24th. 

I suspect that if you are over forty it was a part of your Halloween as well since papers across the country usually found the column inches to print the generations old story. 

But the tradition of running the story on the Sunday before Halloween ended in 1992. 

According to the Tribune: "The "Injun Summer" era ended on Oct. 25, 1992, when it appeared for the last time. The drawings may be timeless, but the text had outlived its day. Complaints had been voiced for several years about its offensiveness to Native Americans. Wisps of smoke have continued to rise from those smoldering leaves, however. Every fall, some readers complain that they miss it." You can read more from the Tribune about McCutcheon's "Injun Summer" here.

Throughout my life, American Indian folklore has played a substantial part. I'm married to girl from Maine where nearly everything from the county Penobscot, to the mountain Katahdin has Indian significance. I have marveled at the lands once held by the famous Indian tribes out west the from the Badlands of South Dakota named Mako Sica by the Lakota Indians to Mesa Verde in Colorado, and Gila Cliffs in New Mexico.

As a boy scout, from my first introduction it was a given that Indians, their ways and stories where important and offered endless knowledge and understanding.  

Today wokeness has removed most of Indian culture from our classrooms. All references to the old stories have been washed away as insensitive. 

Their names like the mist and smoke in McCutcheon's story, have vanished from text books.

Ask a fifth grader about who was Red Cloud, or Sacagawea you'll get a puzzled look. Mention Tecumseh and they think go-cart engines. But say George Floyd and you get an endless stream of misinformation. 

Redskins have become Commanders, Indians are Sentinels, and Land-o-Lakes has removed the Indian from the land once and for all, saying it was demeaning cultural appropriation to use the image of the woman, who had been depicted as kneeling for nearly 100 years. 

Like the Confederate statues on Monument Avenue in Richmond, the renaming of streets in Charlotte, woke idiots are erasing American History daily because the dumbing of America prohibits free thought. In other words you aren't smart enough to understand history.

Just another reminder that Socialist liberals what to control every aspect of your life from vaccines to history and what you share with your children. 

Miss America - The Castellos

She was some kind of renegade
Born on a summer day
Fireworks in her eyes

She was wild child seventeen
Growing up evergreen
Headed west for the big sky

Little brown-eyed blue jean baby
In a pink house pretty as a daisy
She got rocky mountain high

And left a few roots behind

But I miss
America, on the front porch

Before she ever had to lock her doors

When she was still outspoken
Back before her heart got broken
I miss America, bare feet in the dirt

John 3:16, wasn't scared to work
Yeah they all dreamed of her
She's mine and I still love her

But I miss America
I can see her with her hair down
Rolling through my home town

After a football game
I can hear her in a hayfield
Singin' with the whip-or-wills

And I kind of hate the way
She ran away and got a little bit older
Got a big city chip on her shoulder

That ain't the way that she was raised
What can I say? 

I miss America, on the front porch

Before she ever had to lock her doors

When she was still outspoken

Back before her heart got broken

I miss America, bare feet in the dirt

John 3:16, wasn't scared to work

Yeah they all dreamed of her

She's mine and I still love her

But I miss America

She was some kind of renegade

Born on a summer day

But I miss

America, on the front porch

Before she ever had to lock her doors

When she was still outspoken

Back before her heart got broken

I miss America, bare feet in the dirt

John 3:16, wasn't scared to work

Yeah they all dreamed of her

She's mine and I still love her

But I miss America

I miss America

I miss America

(At the request of Mrs. Cedar)

The Castellos appearing:

Thursday October 24, Greenville, SC 7:00 PM · Bon Secours Wellness Arena

With Little Big Town

Tuesday December 31, Charlotte, NC 8:30 PM · Bojangles Coliseum

With The Avett Brothers 

9/11 Ladder 118

There are 100s of iconic photos from 9/11 but this one remains forever as the image that haunts me. 

Ladder Company 118 crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. As these six courageous firefighters navigated their truck across the Brooklyn Bridge, they did not know that they were en route to what would become the most infamous tragedy in American history. 

The final sighting of these heros was as they ascended a staircase in the Marriott Hotel near the World Trade Center, endeavoring to find survivors amid the terrorist attacks on September 11. 

Less than an hour following this moment, the South Tower fell, severing the 22-story Marriott in half and claiming the lives of firefighters; Vernon Cherry, Leon Smith, Joey Agnello, Robert Regan, Pete Vega, and Scott Davidson.

The photo Aaron McLamb took of Ladder 118 racing toward the Twin Towers.

Footnote: Scott Davidson is the father of actor comedian and SNL alumni Pete Davidson. 

Cedar Bonus:

In my desk drawer there is a fax I received on September 14, 2001. It details one man's escape from ground zero and that same Marriott hotel on this September 11th morning. A morning much like today. 

The fact that  I won't, maybe can't discard it, is perhaps one of those indications that now more than two decades later I've still not recovered. 

9/11 September 11, 2001 One Man's Story