.

Also see:  Edward Marvin Smith's page

Group 68.

It bears repeating:

“A little larceny we have

In all of our hearts.”

Another day of life’s

Value, probably depends

Upon your net worth.

If those elected to

Guard the commonweal betray,

Use the ballot box!

The avaricious

And greedy -  alas -  aren’t  bound

By the common code.

Group 67.

Progress.  Kings and queens

Replaced by jocks, rocks stars and

Hedge fund managers.

 If you've never met

“a scoundrel that you didn’t like,”

You’ll have lots of friends.

Hope for utopia -

Or close - and you’ll be rewarded

With disappointment.

History’s wave moves

Inexorably onward.

Stand clear or be crushed.

Change is for sure, and

Very difficult it is

For us to change change.

Group 66.

Corruption is like

A spot of rot in one apple

In a pail of good ones.

Organizations

Are meritocracies  -  till

Mid level - then not.

If you sell it, you

Can’t be choosy; but, if you

Bestow it, you may.

I vacuumed the house

 After twenty years, and

My wife kissed me.

Don’t worry.  The knife

He put in your back had the

Crucifix on it. 

Group 65.

Fantasy persists:

Whether it be love or life’s race

In which we failed.

Of the broken-down

Old mule, he said, “Hope he makes

It till the crop’s in.”

Long ago, invokes

And needs were simple.  Or,  were

They fancy only?

If he wants to know,

Beware that no good can come

From spilling your past.

Group 64.

The old stud stood by

While the young ones had their fun;

His days were long past.

Dam not the flowing

Brook; it perchance, may no

Longer sing or shine.

Some treasures are dear

And should not be revealed.

Retelling tarnishes.

Poetry, song, and dance:

But, those, inadequate are,

Pour la joie du coeur.

Push! Push! Push away

The day when you start to speak 

In the past tense only.

Group 63.

If choices were not,

Full and integral we would be -

And sleep guiltlessly.

The devil’s worst scheme –

For the poor worker designed:

Straight commission.

Be it good or bad:

If needed to feed the babes,

I’ll ask foregiveness.

Should I forgive? Hai!

It’s the  tollgate to the land

Of serenity.

What's between here and there?

Intervening obstacles and

Opportunities.

Group 62.

Between these waters

And the final foredoom, all

Courses are uncharted.

The old captain asked,

“Lookout!  Is land in sight yet?”

“Sir, flickering lights.”

“It’s  been an honor,”

To his men the old man said,

"This’s my last port-call."

Made it by hard work –

And the help of many loyal friends

And unthinkable luck.

Most resented sibling’s

The one who out of the muck got

And made a purse… 

Group 61.

Friend flogs a dead mule.

Problem is that my opinion’s

Always the deal mule.

Love, places, or pathos.

All stories are but travelogs.

They are our journey.

What a gift: if the

Sexiest person you ever met

Happens to be your spouse!

A woman’s greatest -

And most prized - beauty flaw

Is her intellect.

I don’t understand!

Why would a woman ever

Want to be like a man?

Group 60.

He looked up. And

There they were on the AT -

With their hiking sticks!

She's discarding her

"Victoria Secrets."  @ ninety

They no longer work.

Two day or two week

Old tomato tastes the same.

Crop  engineering.

I want to shout, shout!

What is this life all about?

We will never know.

You watch the vilest

Stuff onTV, but offended

Are when I say “damn.”

Group 59.

If you are building

A home library, lend not

Any of your collection. 

Plumb his character?

Then, dissect his inventory

Of decisions bygone.

There’s a wind that bends

Every anchored thought.  There

Are few exceptions.

The somnolent mind

Is where the demons prefer

To cavort and play.

Ironic.  Good on

Ploughed ground only flourishes;

Evil’s not fussy.

Group 58.

As I grow older,

It is my distant vision

That’s fading fastest.

The price that we pay

For thoughtless behavior

Is nasty speed bumps.

A goose is a bird

With dirty bathroom habits

Which  always eats grass.

Take notice my pal,

When, your friends patiently say:

“You just told us that.”

Treat your enemies

Better than your friends, and the

Outcome should be clear.

Group 57.

“Making our coffee?”

He had done it each morning

For fifty five years.

If it’s “Jim’s” or “Bob’s”,

And his wife answers the phone,

Deal with her!  She’s boss.

Tadpoles in my pond,

One week after frogs croaking.

Wish they had yodeled.

Does a child cry more,

When you take candy away,

Or, when you withhold?

He waited until

My plants were succulent; then

He ate them.  The rabbit.

Group 56.

Freedom of free thought

May more important be than

Freedom of free speech.

Hoard your money.

Ho!  Your ne'er-do-well nephew

Will spend it for you.

At Saltville museum.

Cave bear and giant land sloth named

Eddie and Freddie.

Paint a vault inside,

And tomorrow you will find

Cat tracks on the floor.

Don't undervalue

Love, a caress, a kind word;

Or a simple smile.

Group 55.

Depression flashback.

Small town with crowd, at store front,

Hands out for "free" food.

Simple piece of bread:

Tastier to the hungry

Than nectar to the rich.

Scarred by "The War",

Branded by "The Depression",

With no place to hide.

Pity the one who,

Try as hard as possible, cannot

His mate please.

They came quickly, and

Left quicker, not to be seen,

At the "food pantry."

Group 54.

From the "food pantry",

It was labeled, "Premium", but

It tasted bitter.

Push a rope uphill.

Withdraw a Congressman’s perks.

Equally absurd.

Control the purse strings,

And you can make a pig sing -

If that is your thing.

I am not a whore;

However, for enough money ,

I can be naughty.

Oh!  How long  Ayn Rand

Before your calamity:

Middle class is nuked?

Group 1.

Do not believe them!
You can take it with you, but
Mad will be your heirs.

Travel, if you like,
To the Nile or Kathmandu.
Don't bore me with it!

My neighbors believe:
That, since I own a second home,
I am on welfare.

Tooth Fairy, Birthdays,
Easter Bunny, and Christmas:
All taxable events.

"I'll help. What model?"
"If I could remember that,
Would I need your help?'

Group 2.

To his dad he said,
"Don't skimp on the horses and sound
On my rolling stock."

Third grader to friend -
Card with dinosaur drawn.
"Sorry your grandma's extinct."

Why would anyone want
To own an egocentric cat,
When a dog, it's not!

Anal fistula,
Doc repaired, and then pronounced:
"A thing of beauty!"

Pinnate leaves exist
As even, odd, or twice odd -
As odd as that may sound.


Group 3.

Bleak may be the thought,
But, when you give up on hope,
There is no hope.

Pity those who always
Aspire for the triple.
Home run is easier!

Out of an eggshell,
A chick can break out. So why,
Are we so limited?

Shield your eyes and face,
When you diaper a young boy,
And stand back away.

Puzzle. God chose me.
Why is it that so many more,
Only suffer like Job?

Group 4.

Richest or wisest:
The two favorite horses.
My bet's on the richest.

Think that greed is bad now?
Imagine what it would be,
If, take it, you could.

Obscenely wealthy.
"Please, can you spare a biscuit,
For the pitifully poor?"

I was just musing.
How many Americans supped
On garbage last night?

Sure that it was his eyes,
Because he walked right past
The man in the ditch.

Group 5

For your life, a promise:
To save the world from Iraq.
Savor death, your reward.

Mankind's apogee.
We settle our differences,
By killing each other.

I went to the Wall,
Hoping not to find his name.
Alas! It was there.

Reluctant are those,
Who dispatch others to war,
To offer up their own.

I am not all bad,
And you are mostly o.k.
So let's discuss it.

Group 6.

Honesty a virtue?
It may be the prime one, for
Absent it, no trust.

"She's going crazy."
Be gone with that. She arrived
A long time ago.

Between not using it,
And taking care of it, more
Than a small difference.

I sit facing her;
She opposite me, for long years.
What are your secrets?

A baby's faint smile,
And a small hand's clasp.
A parent's delight.

Group 7.

A cook's reminder.
When boiling okra,
Secure your pantyhose.

Big shuffle. Third grade.
Because she reneged, after
He had first shown his.

It's an old saw.
Failed as a musician.
So, drumming he does.

First, fifty stitches.
Next time: seventy. Because?
He just asked her "why?"

In the local directory,
Searching for a good tree man.
Chop! Up jumps "Stumpy".

Group 8.

Market. It trumps all:
Humanness, Godliness, and
Decency, of course.

Supply side economics.
If you build it they will come,
And water makes fish.

Tell. Rich Young Ruler.
Can they both get to heaven,
If only two left standing?

Warranties worthless,
Help not there, no telephones.
Don’t like it? Lump it!

Give two dogs one bone,
Or to six billion people
A finite planet.

Group 9.

A ship with no lights,
Passing in the black night,
Is seen by no one.

A good life lived,
Even if judgment escaped,
Yet, a worthy deed.

I have puzzled why
Wealth to Solomon God gave,
If riches evil are.

What good those gold bars
You so assiduously hoarded?
Anchor your coffin?

Pity the person,
For another, love cannot share.
Dicky heart has he.

Part 10.

Male's desire peaks early;
Female’s later, but continues
To rise thereafter.

The hungry artist
Agreed to paint her nude, if
In his socks his brushes keep.

“Where’s the car?” she asked.
From a distant place returned. So,
Roundtrip ticket he bought.

Wicked old tom cat
Walked across my fresh paint!
Still, he has eight lives.

Part 11.

Stock markets exist,
Not to fund production, but
To transfer wealth.

Rule for investing.
It’s not how much you gain,
But how much you lose.

Paper gains are not real,
When owning securities.
Paper losses are.

Your kids do not want
Your old things and photographs.
It is your money.

Good rule of conduct.
When dealing with an anus,
Do not act like one!

Group 12.

My Y chromosomes.
I like very much to cook,
But I hate housework.

My water garden.
Iris, horsetails, umbrella plants,
And a frog within.

A hand on her thigh,
With a slight caress inside.
Ah! Doesn’t that please?

Gambling: Games of chance.
Craps, poker, roulette, black jack,
And the stock market.

Kids don’t expect much.
And for far too many of them,
That is what they get.

Group 13.

Congressmen rank last.
Money trumps public opinion!
So, why should they care?

Approaching eighty.
It is the “hit the wall” number.
Dispensation, please!

Nearing the summit,
It’s how very deep the mystery,
Not how steep the climb.

Centers of knowledge.
Freshmen bring in a little.
Seniors leave with none.

It’s a gender thing.
A woman exposing herself?
Can you picture that?

Group 14.

The opera tickets,
You buy. But two dollar gift?
Cheapskates want to share cost.

It has been around,
Invited to duck dinner,
And you bring the duck.

She returned to him,
All forty good and bad years,
In the form of a ring.

Cheating is different,
Between slip and habit – whether,
Marriage or school.

Secrets are those held,
Confessions are those told, and
Choosing is crucial.

Group 15.

A cotton field.
Green, white, and monster machine.
Then all is quiet.

Watauga River:
Clear, flowing, yellow lilies.
A living aquarelle.

My Riverside Park.
Churchillian babies in prams,
And dogs on leashes.

From my front window:
Fishermen in waders, and
Canada Geese.

A quacking duck, with
Yellow bill, and webbed feet.
And it can paddle.

Group 16.

Higher education.
Upon the heels of health care,
Next public outrage.

Just priority.
Tibow. U. of Florida.
Who’s its president?

Universities.
That is where they play football,
When last I looked.

University
Waste. Centers and institutes.
Thousands retire there.

Tuition up five points.
Cost of living up only three.
Let them eat tuition!

Group 17

University
Job descriptions. Where are they?
They only teach their use.

Was your child denied?
Look at out-of-state numbers.
But, our taxes pay.

Support for arts cubed,
Spent on sports and violence.
Let the market rule!

Once a funeral home.
Now a fancy beauty shop,
“Hair to Dye For.”

Given the anxiety,
Should a simple root canal,
Twelve hundred bucks cost?

Group 18.

When medical treatment
For an individual named,
Be prepared to pay.

Fortunate are you,
If your most peaceful years,
Are the sunset ones.

Very good. Excellent.
Outstanding. Exceptional.
But, “Nailed It!’ best.

Better rich capitalist,
Than a miser who watches
His neighbor starve.

Things, Things, Things,Things,Things,
Things, Things,Things,Things, Things, Things, Things,
Things, Things, and more Things.

Grou[p 19.

If the coach says “Bunt”,
But you take a swing instead,
Don’t expect to play.

The fatal choice.
To travel the high road, when
Your leader does not.

When in a hurry,
You may arrive sooner, if
You slow down a bit.

Presbyterian.
Free will trumps all doctrines.
Why else such despair?

Ten clergymen gathered,
Interpreting the will of God.
Ten different gods.

Group 20.

Killed by phosgene gas.
World War I – Nineteen eighteen.
Died: Nineteen Forty.

Widow at twenty seven,
But still she graduated four
From UNC.

Too poor for doctor.
Virginia. She died at three.
No photograph exists.

No photograph made.

Virginia.  She died at three.

Did she ever exist?

No minimum wage?
Field work for a dollar a day,
That was it for me.

Were the thirties tough?
Following a mule all day.
That was the hardest.

I once made a buck
In one day picking cotton -
At one cent a pound.

Group 21.

No alligators!
“Every lake has its alligators,”
States my granddaughter.

Same results: you lose.
Fighting waves at Waikiki,
Or public opinion.

Gave up his manhood
For a shot at her money.
Too bad! He has neither.

A rose is a rose,
And a mum is a mum, also,
Until they languish.

An oak tree is branches,
Leaves, phloem, xylem, bark, and,
Also, a hardwood floor.

Group 22.

Hastate and cordate.
Let’s find better sounding names
For shapes of trees’ leaves.

If a good marriage
You want, marry not someone
With a flawless past.

The most critical
Of the slothful, are those
Who by bequest got.

When older you are,
Many are they, who feel free,
To purloin your weal.

When a young boy,
A thrill to kill a black bird.
Now, sad to kill an ant.

Group 23.

Strange perhaps, but
Small is not a requirement
For being little.

His history could
Be written on a pinhead -
With pages to spare.

Pity those, who must
Complicit with wrong become,
If their incomes to keep.

Granddaughter. "Who's boss?"
"Always do it my way...if
Grandmother agrees."

Years later: son says,
"Dad, cows on steep slopes can stay,
If, two legs shorter."

Group 24.

Advice to husbands.
Do it her way to start with -
It'll save lots of time.

Need a fear scale?
Already available:
"The Pucker Factor."

Doc reconsidered.
"Only need to remove one leg."
How happy I was!

Flew to Las Vegas.
Overweight baggage charge paid.
Return. They paid me.

Las vegas is obscene.
But, nowhere else can you get -
Obscene at that price.

Group 25.

Many are they , when
John Adams mentioned, have no
Point of reference.

At eighty, it's true:
You're not in a big hurry
To get anywhere else.

Grandma to Grandpa:
"Mind if I don't wear a bra?"
"Just tuck in your blouse."

If I had a dime
For every dollar I've spent,
I would be wealthy.

They waited til they
Could afford to travel. One
Can't talk; one can't walk.

Group 26.

A small woman said:
"Have him call me! On the phone
I sound like a big lady."

Crossing Death Valley,
Listening to Kenny Rogers
Singing his "Lucille."

Cruising on eight lanes.
Life is good. Spouse is driving;
I'm sipping a soda.

When on bended knee:
Give thanks for the shitty jobs,
That you didn't have to do.

From Asheville to Gary,
Ninety of us flew. How many
Dinosaurs consumed?

Group 27.

Good name Lucille! At
A bar in Toledo, or
B.B. King's guitars.

When a child killed,
How many experiences did
The killer prevent?

No reason to do:
But spermiogenesis
Is the oddest word.

Scholars. If for math,
On others you're reliant,
Woe your fate will be!

Criminal to make:
A ballpoint pen that writes not
when it is needed.

group 28.

Toilet seat up or
Down. Toilet paper bottom
Or top. Key to some.

A bloom, a blossom,
A flower, or, perhaps, just
The time to flourish.

Alabama football:
Coach Bryant at goal post; the
Snake: and Broadway Joe.

It has been said, that:
"The prize's not for the timid."
Remember, Obama!

Two factions insist:
"All for mine", and "all for mine."
Battle is lost. Congress.

Group 29.

Every organization
Has its tyrant, lying in wait
Within, to control.

The cloud over her face
Hinted at how much pain his
Words had inflicted.

How is an old man
Different from a sprinter?
One loathes the finish!

He married the girl
Next door of ten years. Yet, he
Married a stranger.

Poor is not simply
A lack of cents and things, but,
Also, resignation.

Group 30.

What does America
Need most? Would common purpose
And leadership help.

For you and a fish.
The bait of your antagonist:
To take it or not.

Queen Elizabeth
And her horse drawn carriage.
About the same age.

"Good morning," she said.
He grunted. A very good sign
Because: he responded.

Some people need not
Travel to Hades in order to
Be living in hell.

Group 31.

Your grandson bakes
The best cookies - with the help
Of his grandmother.

Tempt fate, if you like.
I prefer not to push my
Luck nearly that far!

She was so tight, that,
If air were free, she would not
Give any of it away.

What is your god?
Is it God? Money? Power?
Mine? I do not know.

Out my front window:
Frost in park; ice in river;
And dog walking man.

Group 32.

Looking, not seeing.
Talking, but not conversing.
Touching, not feeling.

Have ten time pieces.
Plan neither to spring forward,
Nor even fall back.

Baby's coming. Do
I want a boy or a girl?
I will flip a a coin.

Evil seldom wins
In one giant swoop, but, by bits,
Erodes and persists.

My heroes are those
Who give a life to those who,
Ah, drew a dead hand.

Group 33.

My eyesight's fine.
Antifungal's a good toothpaste;
Reverse for jock itch.

She should at least keep
The versions consistent, if
The truth she can't tell.

From the far left lane
A right turn he made, but his
Turn signal was on!

He drives as if he
Owns the road, and, at eighty-five,
He pretty much does.

I no longer fear:
Because your secret I know,
And you know I know.

Group 34.

Run fast! Here she comes
In her Ford Three Fifty truck:
All niney pounds of her.

Content is the one
Who never acknowledges to
Being mistaken.

I misjudged him.
Immoral he was not,
but amoral was.

Jail cell is nice. Just
Asked the TSA guy: "What
does your mama do?"

Old age's a sliver:
So much left to do and see;
Yet, so little time.

Group 35.

When the curtain drops,
There's no time for "do overs."
So, just do it now.

Total helplessness!
When the big steel doors to the
Operating room close.

Only four stripers
Know the feeling of being
In complete control.

Will you, please for me?
Integrate the circle, infinity,
And the asymptote.

Group 36.

Career changing act:
To insist on what's right, when
Loyalty demanded.

Easy, some do declare.
"Always do what is honest."
But, starving's boring.

Let's eliminate
The word "expedient" from
Our dictionary.

A rule of prudence:
When you feel a very strong need,
Avoid alcohol.

My rule of cooking:
If one measure of seasoning's good,
Two is twice as good.

Group 37.

Strange. The smaller the
Particle size discovered, the
Nearer the answer.

Reform from within
More worthy. From without, much
More disputatious.

Plants are like your kids;
At times, a lot of bother.
Well, need I say more?

She gave me a plant.
1.5 C old. Poor care
Killed it. I'm sad!

You don't need to drink
To stay high. But, if you're not
High, you're not living.

Group 38.

I didn't do it all.
I missed some things, but few
Regrets do I have.

Growing up. Neighbors
Said to be "land poor." Really?
Seems a misnomer.

Think evil's easy
To root out? Then consider the
Whistleblower's fate.

Better served, if
Ten sellers or only one?
Rethink the "market".

One against tyranny:
Effective as one soldier
Against an army.

Group 39.

A sad conclusion!
Most of the close calls go to
Those who do wrong.

Fairness? Steal a car:
A felony. Mortgage firm
Steals your home. "Sue me".

Reform. If he who
Knows, does not reveal, who will?
Today's dilemma.

A very unholy
Alliance: your government
And big business.

Buying bonds creates
Jobs; but, buying bread does not.
Reject that outright!

Group 40.

Consumption summons
Production. Production calls
Forth investment. True.

Life without cornmeal:
No mush, hush puppies, cornbread,
Or batter fried fish.

If, with your spouse, you
Cannot share. You might as well
Get an uncivil cat.

Why tax the superrich?
Willie Sutton would say:
"That's where the money is."

My weight loss scheme.
Eat as much as you like, but
Of a single food.

Group 41.

Let's give fliers an option.
Those patted down on one plane, and,
Those not, on another.

Corn meal or flour?
If you're from the South you know
Which is a brain food.

When disagreement,
And she's right, he's peeved, and
She gloats. Happens often.

Never a kitchen
That's large enough for two cooks.
Just do not even try.

Had a tired old mule.
Sadly, could not get him up -
Try as hard as I might.

Group 42.

America. Can
Independent you be, if
You don't own your home?

Those that have, do hold,
And, those that do not have, do
Attempt to break the hold.

Asked. Grandson said: "I
Love turnips." After tasting,
He said: "A little bit."

Surprised that he kept
His job for twenty years? How long
Has the Devil kept his?

Large financial firms
Produce nothing, lend little,
And hedge with your funds.

Group 43.

Could man have survived
Without root crops, winter squash,
Nuts, salt and acetic acid?


A prize for the most
Narrow toilet tissue roll
For public restrooms.

Schweitzer and Teresa.
Lo, even in their lifetimes.
Who is there today?

A grand time for all:

Visit with a couple who're

At each other's throat.

One of life's true joys:

Finding a home repairman

That you totally trust.

Group 44.

How much is enough?

It's just a finite bit more

Than I now possess.

 Impeccable are his

Morals, but, please, do not force him

To choose cents or morals.

"Pardon?" "I was just

Talking to myself."  "Excuse me,

Then, for eveasdropping."

House floating downriver.

As leaving, spouse says, "You didn't

Pick up your undies."

Political vice's

Like first olive out of jar;

But, really it's easier.

Group 45.

When two disagree,

Total truth seldom emerges

In the retelling.

Get yourself a pro,

If eating fire frightens you,

And Bob's your uncle.

If the bass never

Rose to the bait, he would not

Be bass a la carte.

Friend ran over my dog,

Then gifted me two cats.  But

Two cats do not a dog make.

While walking her home,

Curiosity arose.

He asked, "Can you traipse?"

Group 46.

Old photo album:

Zion, Bryce, Great Basin, Tetons.

Where do images go?

Alcohol, food, drugs:

All treatable addictions.

Greed's incurable.

Death's always sleeping

Nearby, and you will never

Know when he awakens.

Ostentatiousness.

Using your new Escalade

To haul horse manure.

In this life, good deeds

Are often unwelcomed, and

Heaven's still open.

Group 47.

An active mind’s like

A moss-shaded  methane swamp:

Thoughts keep bubbling up.

Of the grievous hurt,

He said: “I will make it right.”

Think: Humpty Dumpty.

To “Follow your dreams,”

The cynic said, “Dreams are elusive.”

But, isn’t life also?

At San Diego:

Memorial Day Parade.

Man with blue-white medal.

They flutter away:

Butterflies and memories.

Enjoy them alight!

Group 48.

Do not chase rumors.

For every one that you put down,

Ten more will arise.

Turn the tables, and,

Imagine please, computers

Creating humans.

Simply, a smile is

The outward expression of

An amused brain.

Plumb a baby's smile,

And you will have the meaning

Of pure happiness.

When saying goodbye:

"If you don't call we'll assume

You arrived alive."

Group 49.

Wife: "You would like to

Take a bath with a virgin?

Here's a new washcloth."

Did any accident that

Was expected to happen,

Really ever happen?

The magnitude of

An event depends upon

Your connectiveness.

Screwing up my mind.

"Put it in my pile."  But, she

Moves it to her pile.

Are you broke or rich?

Depends upon whether he's

Debtor or creditor. 

Group 50.

Mine the stream extant.

It, perchance, will yield more than

The fetal motherlode.

Stand next to greatness;

A little, likely will cling,

If, engaged, you are.

Only scheduling:

Perforce, what to put down for

The day after I die?

Still at eighty, "Lara"

Chokes me with ethereal lust

For the unreachable.

The most shallow of

Victories may be that of

Inflicting revenge.

Group 51.

Losing strategy:

Lowering standards to gain share.

Best you, someone can.

Tiananmen Square:

Digital count down to Olympics.

Our lives' mimicry.

Ugly as a witch,

And mean as a bitch, but

He adored her still.

Improve calibre

of college graduates?  Raise

Entrance requirements!

College president

To budget cut.  Drop core courses!

Let's doubledare him!

Group 52.

Born to a dark mare,

Sired by a weak stallion;

Forever seeking.

Credit for success:

Only the most feculent

Credit themselves soley.

Two essential traits:

Compassion and a sense of humor.

There are others, of course.

Unfettered capitalism:

Possibly the most brutal of all

Economic systems.

Few potentates of yore

Owned as many serfs as each of

Our Fab 400.

Group 53.

Here! Take everything;

Or, I'll give you Jacob's price,

But keep her I must.

Changing the tempo,

A secure lead to protect,

May be a mistake.

Remember!  It may

Be less pleasing to reclaim,

Than it is to give. 

Why we get swindled.

If the cons resembled crooks,

Would we deal with them?

If a person's life

Is measured by his net worth,

How is his soul weighed?

Attempt at a limerick

In Asheville lived a lady named Sue

Whose middle name was Lu.

Married to a man named Ed

Who was not industrious she said

When he balked at things she said do.

Temporary intermission

The Poacher: Mama And Her Baseball Bat.

A single mom under thirty years of age with five kids had to be strong in the 1940’s and early 1950’s to feed and keep a family together.  But that’s what my mother did beginning in December, 1940.

My father entered WWI  on September 18, 1917.  He was 21 years old, and his occupation on his discharge papers was listed as “farmer.”  So, though I do not know, I assume that he had a “farmer’s exemption” to that point.  He fought in many of the most infamous battles in the “One hundred days that ended WWI.”  His “Enlistment Record” shows “Battle of Bullecourt, Sept. 29, 1918, last battle of the Somme Trench, duty around Ypres, Belgium and Mt. Kemmel.”  He was gassed on October 11, 1918, at the Hindenburg Line, exactly one month before the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918, ending the hostilities of WWI (known as 11.11.11, or 11 o’clock on 11. 11, 1918).  He was killed that day in 1918, in France, but it took him just a month over 22 years to die.

With the help of his younger brother who was an attorney, he fought for over ten years with the VA for disability compensation.  Letters that I still have show that the VA played a senseless delaying game for all those years.  He finally won.  His first small $30 check for total disability was in the front pencil pocket of his bib overalls hanging on a nail outside the bedroom where he died at home. The check had to be returned to the VA - uncashed.

Somehow my father was able to get together enough money in the 1930’s to buy a 100-acre farm with a house between Ghio (which I believe is no longer listed as existing) and Gibson, NC.  He had a cotton allotment, which he sometimes planted, and, at other times leased. (One of my early memories is that of standing at the far side of my father’s cotton field with the “government man” who said “The last ten rows will have to go.”  And then waiting with the “government man” while my dad hitched up his mule to a plow and plowed up the last ten rows of his cotton field.)  He usually planted some corn for the animals and the family. 

Though not very successful as a farmer, my dad was a fairly prolific husband.  When he died in 1940, he left my 26 year old mother with five living children and one in the ground.  She had his small pension, and, over the years, she worked at various jobs: produce department of an A&P store and as a clerk in the county court house.

All of this was long before “equal pay for women” and “discrimination” became part of the public vocabulary.  My mother was strong-willed, beautiful, and intelligent.  But she was still ripped off by workers who charged her a handsome price for putting on a faulty roof, installing leaky windows, or building porches or steps that resembled the work of a nine year boy. 

When it came to things like masonry, carpentry, or roofing, she was vulnerable.  But there were two things that no one got away with: messing with her children or her property.  When physical force was a possibility her only weapon was a 1932, 42 oz. Babe Ruth Louisville Slugger hickory baseball bat.  She never actually had to use it. 

The farm that my father left consisted of some marketable timberland, and the remainder was cleared farm land.  The large landholding to the south and west of us was owned by heirs who had long since moved away.  I would guess that the parents sent the siblings off to be doctors, lawyers, professors and such, and then died.  Over the years nature had taken over, and the 300-400 acres was covered with scrub pine, but also with thousands of board feet of prime marketable pine timber.

For some reason unknown to me, a land owner and lumberman who owned land separated from us by three or four other land holdings, decided to set up a primitive gasoline powered saw on my mother’s property and poach timber from my mother’s farm and the adjoining one.  His main interest, I’m certain, was in the adjoining property because that was where most of the good timber was, and the absentee owners had not been seen in decades.  Both my mother’s property and that of our absentee neighbors was cut off from the little county road by a railroad which was built in a cutout eight or ten feet below ground level.  The larger property by then was basically landlocked.  A slot had been cut in the banks of the railroad, and a small sandy road ran down and up the banks and provided access to our property. 

The poacher had come onto our property and had set up his operation at the southwest corner of our property, a distance from and out of sight of our house.  His operation was primitive and simple.  This is my reconstruction of the events as I remember them.  The poacher had one black man helping him.  They would cut the large pine trees with a crosscut saw, trim the trees after they were felled, and then hook a large Belgian horse up to the logs and drag them over to the little gasoline-powered mill saw.  There the trees were again crosscut into timber lengths, and, after that, the shortened lengths of logs were muscled up with cant dogs and such to the little gasoline saw where they were squared up by cutting the slabs off each of the four sides.  They were then hoisted onto a large lumber wagon, after which they were probably taken to his sawmill operation where they were cut into conventional pieces of pine lumber.  Why the poacher did not just load the logs onto the wagon, I cannot say.  Since it was a difficult route in and out of the property, perhaps he only wanted to bring out the valuable stuff.  Or, a more likely reason is that he was simply stupid.

At any rate, when my mother discovered what was going on, she took me, and we walked down to where the logging work was going on. The year was 1942, and I was eleven years old.  My mother accosted the man, and asked him what he was doing on her land.  He said, “Just leave me alone.  Go on back up there and take care of your little bastards.”  We left.  But we soon returned.

My mother and I returned to the house and entered the kitchen through the back door.  She said to me, “You just wait here.  I’ll be right back.”  In a couple of minutes she returned with a 1932 Babe Ruth 42 oz. hickory Louisville Slugger baseball bat in her hand.  She said, “Let’s go.  I want to see if we can come to some kind of understanding with that trespasser.”

When we approached the logging site, the black man was about 100 feet away dragging a large trimmed pine tree toward the saw, and, when he saw us, he stopped his horse to watch.  The white man was running a log through the saw mechanism.  

My mother yelled “Hey, You!” at him a few times before he realized that we were back there behind him.  By this time my mother had put the head of the bat on the ground and was leaning over gripping the butt. 

The man turned around and said, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

 My mother said, “I want you off my land.  Now!” 

She straightened up, pulled the baseball bat up and got a good grip with her right hand.  She only took two steps before the man took about four giant leaps and landed in the logging wagon where he grabbed the reins and whipped the horses into a full gallop, clearing the area.  In the meantime, the black man had unhooked the Belgian’s harness from the singletree, mounted the horse, and left at a full gallop with the harness gyrating wildly like a whirligig.

If you were to go today to the southwest corner of what used to be my dad’s 100 acre property, you would find what’s left of an old 1930’s gasoline log saw lying in a rusty heap with honeysuckle vines and blackberry bushes choking the area. 

In that part of the country, tales of sightings of a “headless horseman” have circulated there for many decades and perhaps even for a couple of centuries.  In the mid 1940’s a new story began circulating:  the sighting of a black man on a big beige Belgium horse running at full gallop with reins lashing  around.  Many people claimed to have seen them.

Patsy

                We had been looking forward to this trip in GrovrIII (our 2002  VW Vanogan).  GrovrIII was a real upgrade from GroverII and the patriarch, Grover.  In appearance it was indistinguishable from GroverII, but the 201 h.p. engine earned it some respect on the highway.  It also allowed Sue to do her kind of drivng - "souse and douse."  Simply, floorboard it half way down the block and then fully brake the other half.  Since we only had a couple of thousand miles on GrovrIII, we were looking forward to a moderately long trip and a chance to enjoy this marvelous machine.

                My sister had lovingly collected thousands of mostly German collectibles over the years of her marriage:  Steiff and Hermann bears, porcelains, figurines and whatever else struck her fancy.  Now divorced and facing the possibility of moving to a smaller place, she had asked us to help her dispose of some of her treasures on eBay.  We were on our way up to Chicago to load GrovrIII up with things that she could bear to part with. 

                Taking care of a number of last minute details at home in Asheville threw us late leaving , and it was after noon before we pulled out onto I-40 heading  north and west.  Since we were planning to take two days to make the trip, a late departure  was no problem, but we did decide to drive on for an hour or two after dark - something that we usually try to avoid.

                One of our pleasures is Grovering.  We prefer to avoid the interstates but stay on good major roads.  The problem that we were going to encounter on this trip was that the timing could put up in a major metropolitan area around the rush hour.   So, rather than taking I-75 from Knoxville to Cincinnati, I-74 to Indianapolis,  and then I-65 up to the Chicago area, we decided to take I-40 to Nashville and then I-24 to connect to Highway 41 going north through  Indiana to the Chicago area.  We had taken Hwy. 41 on a previous trip,and it takes you up the border of Indiana/Illinois through nice countryside up to where you can connect to the Chicago interstate spaghetti. 

                Things went well, and by 5:00 p.m. we were past Nashville on I-24 going for the interchange to Hwy. 41 to take us north.  I relaxed knowing that as map reader and guide (Sue does all of the driving) I only had to watch for Hwy. 41N, and we would be set for the next couple of hours when we could stop for the night in Vincennes, Indiana.  Traffic was heavy, and, somehow, I missed the turn off  to Hwy. 41. 

                After realizing that we had overshot Hwy. 41, we considered staying on I-24 to I-75 and going up to the Chicago area on what would be a new route for us.  But Hwy. 68 provided us with an alternative.  We could double back on  it to Hwy. 41 and only lose an hour or so of driving.  That decided, we settled back to some pleasant driving through the country.  We would enjoy the late afternoon driving and have a late meal when we stopped for the night.

                The decision proved to be a good one.  Even though Hwy 68 was only a two lane road, it was in good condition, and the traffic was extremely light.  It was interesting country, and we were set to enjoy a nice late afternoon drive.   There were almost no businesses, and the individual country homes, farms, and animals were the things of a child’s dream.  About 30 minutes out onto Hwy. 68, we whizzed by a low, long narrow building with  a neon outline of a pig and the letters "BBQ" on the side.  The building reminded me of the dogtrot cabins down in the past deep South.  It looked more like an oversized home with a covered plank porch inches above the ground running the full length.  Out front was another neon sign blinking "Open". 

                "Sue," I said, "why not stop here?  We may strike gold."

                "Sure," she said, and she took the next turnover to backtrack to the restaurant.

                We parked at the far end of the parking lot, and we walked down the plank porch.  As we passed the blinking "Open" neon sign, a man was pulling a string turning the sign off.  He turned to us and said what I thought was, "You just made it.  We close at 6." 

                "Wow," I said to Sue, "that was close."  By this time, I had worked this up into some kind of real anticipation.  I was salivating pretty heavily.  There are people down south who spend their entire lives looking for the perfect pork barbeque.   I am not one of them, but, about once a year, I get a real craving for pork barbeque.  This had the markings of a real find.  I pictured myself as a prospector with his partner who uncovers a two pound nugget.  He looks at the nugget, and the  terrifying question intrudes: “Can this be fool’s gold?”  No way I convinced  myself.  We have just hit pay dirt.

                We enter.  At the far side and directly across from the entrance was the cooking area with the pork hams and loins slowly cooking over the hickory coals.  A slight mist of smoke and the unique aroma of good pork barbeque  wafted throughout the room  To the right and straight ahead was an upside down L-shaped  salad bar, and directly in front of us were the trays and silverware.  Not the simplest layout possible.  A little confusing.  There were two or three females working on the salad bar.  I thought that they were cleaning up and closing down.  I was wondering whether or not they were going to let us through.  They continued to work, glancing up occasionally, but, otherwise, ignoring us.  By then, I had decided that they were preparing  the salad bar, not closing it down.  "Ah," I thought, "we have hit a bonanza.  We have just invited ourselves to a community barbeque."

                I was a bit puzzled, and, after what seemed like a long time, I said to one of the ladies, "How does this work?"

                "Oh," she said, "the food is not quite ready.  Just go into the main  room, have a seat,  and socialize a bit.  We will let you know when things are ready."

                We went into the main room where there were ten to twelve tables with benches scattered throughout with about 20 people sitting mostly alone, but some in pairs.  There was very little socializing, and I concluded that their anticipation of the barbeque mystique was as great as mine.  It is simply too difficult to fantasize about barbeque and talk at the same time.

                Sue and I took a seat at one of the unoccupied tables, and we sat for a few minutes in anticipatory reverie, after which Sue arose and said, “I’m going to the restroom (we had stopped at every one between Asheville and the piggy place), please order me a beer.”

                After a few minutes an attractive lady of about forty with a neat figure came over and stopped in front of me.  She was dressed in a mini-mini outfit with a low cut blouse, and she was wearing black leotards and red Mary Jane shoes.  Her demeanor was friendly. She said: “Hi, I’m Patsy.  Have you been here before?” 

                I was struck by her apparent genuine interest in us, so I thought that I would give her the full story.

“No, this is our first time.  We were passing, saw your sign, and were drawn in by the prospects of some really good barbeque.  We’re from Asheville, and our being here is a long story.”  She seemed to be really fascinated  so I plodded on. “We got away from home in Asheville late because of some things that we had to take care of.  From I-24 we were planning to take Hwy. 41 up to Vincennes where we were going to get a bite to eat and spend the night, but the good luck goddess was guiding us, and we missed the Hwy. 41 turnoff.   We decided to double back on Hwy. 68 to Hwy. 41.” She was totally enthralled, which emboldened  me to continue.  “We saw your sign, and something just told me that we needed to stop here.  I can tell from the aroma that we are in for a barbeque epiphany.”

                Her demeanor changed.  “Well, I’m afraid that you won’t be getting any barbeque here tonight.  This is an AA meeting.”  She turned and stalked off. 

                Time passes slowly at a time when you have just stepped in it and all eyes in the house are on you.  Time dragged, and dragged, and dragged, and dragged…  Finally, unable to handle the intense stares any longer, I arose and  went over to stand by the entrance to await Sue’s return.  After what seemed like an eternity, the door to the ladies’ restroom all the way across the room opened, and Sue stepped out and called out to me: “Did you order my brew?”     

Two of the most stressful events in lfe are a real estate closing and the closing up of a close relative's house after his/her death.  The following is my attempt to deal with the closing of my mother's house and the closing of the sale of the house.               

Ernest

To My Siblings:

We met yesterday at the lawyer’s office to close on the sale of Mother’s house. In the morning, Sue and I finalized the disposition of the remainder of the furnishings in the house.
Yesterday was quite a day. Mother did not have the greatest sense of humor, I suppose, but, if she were watching yesterday, she would have had one of her little smiles on her face. My recitation here is a bit embellished, but, it will help me recover, if I can share the highlights of the day with you.
As a little background, I must tell you that Gene, Sue and I went down last Wednesday (Jan. 23) and spent a horrendous day sorting, bagging, boxing and grouping things in the house. We had already asked all kids and grandkids to take anything that they wanted. Gene arranged for the Everyready Rescue Mission to come out on Thursday (Jan. 24) to take everything remaining.
At 3:00 a.m. on Thursday morning I looked out the motel window, and a blizzard was raging with 3-4 inches of snow on the ground. We met Gene at the continental breakfast at 7:00 a.m. as planned.
We knew that the rescue mission truck could not get down to the house for a few days. Sue and I were in our VW van, and getting out of Charlotte and back to Asheville was out of the question. Gene, however, thought that he could make it home to Boone in his four-wheel drive SUV, and he decided to give it a try. Gene’s getaway must have set a record. Sue and I left Gene and returned to our room on the second floor, arriving a couple of minutes after we left Gene. We went to the window to look at the amazing landscape. The world was totally white under 6-8 inches of snow with nothing at all moving about; that is, except for one vehicle pulling up to the entrance to Highway 74.
Sue said, “That looks like Gene’s SUV.”
I looked carefully, and said: “It sure is. The only good thing that I can think of is that he will not be meeting any traffic going either way.”
Gene called around 2:00 p.m. to let us know that he had made it to Boone safely. His SUV must have handled like a snowmobile. Sue and I were snowed in for three days until Saturday.
Gene rescheduled the rescue mission pickup for 10:00 a.m. Wednesday, January 30 (yesterday), the day of the scheduled closing on the sale of the house. Since there was a high probability of icy roads on Wednesday morning, we went down to Charlotte late on Tuesday evening.
Gene and I had fretted about having enough “stuff” left to make it worthwhile for the Rescue Mission to send their big truck down. Sue and I got to the house around 9:00 a.m., and I was absolutely struck dumb – and royally ticked off. We were looking at basically an empty house, including missing inside door knobs. This was nine years after Mother entered the nursing home, and, I assume that anyone in town who wanted a key to her house, had one. Someone had come in and taken many of the things of any value and had opened and rifled through the boxes that Gene, Sue, and I had so meticulously packed and sealed with masking tape the week before.
I lost it, and called Gene, and, after listening to my ranting for about 5 minutes, he said: “Just cool it. When the rescue mission people get there, just say, ‘Hey. How y’all? Thanks for coming.’ And see where it goes.”
About 9:30 we heard a noise outside that sounded like a 747 jumbo jet with indigestion. I pulled the curtain back, and the entire world view was blocked by this Pepto-Bismol pink thing so large that you could have put a Mayflower moving van in the front seat and still pretty much had room left for a party of 20 in the cab. The driver, no doubt, had to start turning at Sardis Road, one mile up Highway 74, in order to make it into the driveway.
Now for the good part. Two black men came to the door. One was about 35 and built like an NFL lineman, and the other, the driver, was a wise, intelligent looking wizened man of about 50. I said, “Hey. How y’all? Thanks for coming.”
The older man identified himself as “Ernest” and apologized for arriving early. When I assured him that it was fine, he asked to do a “walk through.” I was really relieved when they returned, and Ernest said: “This won’t be bad at all. Stewart had told us to expect a lot more.”
At that point I decided that they were not working on piece rate, and that they really did not care if they did not completely fill the motorized warehouse outside. They started upstairs, and, as you know, going up and down that narrow stairway was never easy, especially, when you are lugging some big, heavy, awkward object.
I began to feel better when the big guy struggled to the bottom of the stairs with one of the heavy iron bed pieces and said to me, “You wouldn’t think this thing would weigh this much. They don’t make them like this anymore.” The next time down with one of the pieces, he passed the older man in the hallway, and I heard him say, “They made these to last.” I wiped my brow. I was feeling better, and I thought that there might be a little sunshine that day for me after all.
Literally, I have never seen two men who worked harder, were more pleasant, and were as nice as those two. They attacked the task with vigor. The only interruption in their steady work was when one would occasionally stop and ask, “Does this go?”
They finally got down to the nitty gritty – 12 leaf bags full of stuff that would have to go to the landfill, a big box that we were using for last minute throw-away stuff, a picnic table outside that was held together by cobwebs mainly, and a broken-down wheelbarrow. Ernest had by now maneuvered the truck around to the back of the house to make it easier to get the items from the back porch and from the yard.
I just could not hit them with all of the landfill stuff at one time, so, I would say, “These bags will probably have to go to the landfill. Could you possibly help us with them?” Before I had finished asking the question, they were throwing the bags on the truck. Then I rhetorically stated: “I really hate to leave this old table and wheelbarrow here.” Before I could ask, one of them had grabbed the table, which disintegrated into about eight pieces, and started throwing it on the truck. You just cannot imagine the job those guys did.
Gene had suggested that I write a check to the Rescue Mission for forty dollars to cover the cost of the landfill and to also give each of the workers a little cash. I searched my wallet, and I could only come up with four $20 bills. Probably a good thing because I was so happy and relieved that I probably would have offered two or three times as much.
As they were closing and securing the rear door of the truck, I went up and handed the check to Ernest and said, “This will help cover the cost of the landfill for anything that has to go there.” I then handed each of them two $20 bills, and said, “We would like to buy you lunch.” I don’t think they could have been more surprised, if I had dropped a small viper in their hands.
It could not have gone better. Remember, we had to clean out the house for possession and still make a 3:00 p.m. closing. The house looked great. I have not led a very exemplary life, I suppose, but that proved that God does forgive. He could really have beaten up on me yesterday morning. Sue told me that she had said a little prayer.
I went back into the house to get ready to leave for the motel and the closing later in the day. After a bit, I got this weird feeling that something really strange was going on outside. Traffic had stopped, motors were revving up, and voices seemed to be coming from everywhere.
I pulled back the curtains to look. To say that I was astonished would not even begin to describe my reaction. Jane, a neighbor of Mother’s, was standing out near the road waving her arms like a conductor of a 500-piece orchestra. Some of Jane and John’s friends had stopped, parked their trucks, and had come over to stand in the yard. Our van was there, John’s truck, our realtor’s Cadillac, and other assorted vehicles. It looked like a CarMax sales lot out front.
Traffic was barely moving. And, then, there was the pink truck – stuck deep in the mud up to the axle by Mother’s little round tomato plot.
I went out, and with the help of the crowd, we poured two bags of sand, which Mother had beside the house, under the wheels of the truck. Everyone pitched in. We put pieces of concrete blocks, boards, and anything else that we could find under the wheels, but old “Pepto” was not going anywhere. The rear wheels had no treads and in the red mud they were as slick as owl’s excrement. I said to the driver that his problem was that the tires had no treads. “They only replace them when they blow out,” he said.
I asked Sue to try to get a wrecker out to help us. She reached the wrecker service there in Matthews. The dispatcher and service station owner, who was one and the same, said that he would send his biggest wrecker out, but he doubted that it could do the job. In about fifteen minutes, we heard police sirens and saw two police cars leading the most monstrous wrecker that I had ever seen. It was a Ford F-550. Sue and I commented later that we had seen Ford F-150s, 250s, and 350s, but never a 550! No! Never! Because traffic was deadlocked, they had to go down the sidewalks, through yards, hedges, and whatever to get to the house. I later wondered what those staid Matthewians thought when they saw this motor convoy coming down the sidewalks, and through their yards, flower gardens, and hedges.
Jane, with a turban and dungarees on, was now in the middle of the road directing traffic. Because the wrecker required at least a block to turn, Jane had to really work at getting a break in the line of traffic so that the driver could back the wrecker into the yard.
Traffic was backed up for miles in either direction. Kids were playing on top of the SUVs; and people took that opportunity to get their dogs out, leash and exercise them, and let them pee and poop.
Ernest and I were standing by the truck waiting, and I said to him, “We’ve got a damned circus here, and we are not even charging admission.” He grinned, and said, “You got that right.” I took that opportunity to ask him about the pink color of his truck. He said that the rescue service painted all of their trucks that color of pink. He said that he had to drive it from Charlotte to Raleigh from time to time and that the attention he got was nothing less than sensational.
Jane got the traffic controlled so that the wrecker could back in. The driver took one look, and said, “I can’t help you. You need ‘Big Daddy.’”
“Who is Big Daddy?” I asked.
“It’s only the biggest wrecker in North Carolina,” he emphatically stated, as if I should have known.
“How long will it take to get it here?” I asked.
He was preparing to leave. “I would say three hours minimum. It’s over in Albemarle.”
I felt a panic attack coming on. At this point I got down on my knees, and pleaded, “Won’t you please try? If we don’t get their truck out of here, I am going to miss a real estate closing, these two guys are going to lose their jobs, and I am going to have a nervous breakdown. My wife and I will even push.”
“All right,” he said, “but it’s going to cost you.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I can handle it.”
He did not want to back any further into the yard for fear of getting stuck himself, so he ran out about 50-60 feet of steel cable to hook up to the front of the truck.
By this time 200-300 people had gathered. The medical offices on both sides of Mother’s house, the Eckerd’s Drug Store, and the service station down at the intersection had all closed so that the employees could come over and watch.
The operator started his winch, and a hush settled over the crowd. People were holding their breath. Fathers were holding their children up so that they could see, and shorter adults at the back of the crowd were jumping up to get a look.
The winch motor was straining and a high pitched whine eventually started from the motor. The truck would move a quarter of an inch, and the crowd would let out an “Ahhhhh’, and, then, half an inch, and the crowd would go “Ohhhhhh.” But, finally forward progress stopped, and the winch motor began belching little wisps of smoke. The operator looked at me, shook his head, and started letting the cable out preparatory to rewinding and leaving.
I went over to Sue and asked her how much money she had. She looked in her purse, and said, “I have a hundred dollar bill, a five, and two ones.” I asked her to give me the one hundred dollar bill. I walked over to the operator, gripped the hundred dollar bill between my thumb and middle finger and lifted my hand with the index finger raised to ask for one last try. He looked at me incredulously.
Absolute silence now lay over the crowd. They looked on slack-jawed and wide-eyed. After what seemed like an eternity, the wrecker operator reached out, took the hundred dollar bill and raised his hand with his index finger raised.
He went around to the passenger side of the cab and pulled out a five gallon can of water. He climbed up on the wrecker bed and poured the water on the winch motor. The result looked like Duke Power’s Number 3 steam generator working at peak load.
He got down and started reeling in the cable. I went over to Ernest in the rescue mission truck and asked him to just touch the accelerator like a feather. The cable drew taut, and slowly, ever so slowly, the truck started moving forward. The truck moved onto firmer ground. The crowd erupted in loud cheers and began to disperse.
Traffic started moving, and the wrecker pulled out and parked up the street to make certain that the rescue mission truck would make it out. Ernest pulled the truck onto the highway, made a sharp turn heading toward Charlotte, waved, beeped his horn twice at us and was gone.
Well, I think that by now you get the idea of how the day went. I guess that nothing describes the entire day better than “All’s well that ends well,” which is the way it came out, including driving back to Asheville after dark in a driving rain.
From this point, I will just give you the abbreviated version.
After getting the rescue mission truck out, Sue and I had enough time to have lunch, go back to the motel to change, and still make the closing by 3 p.m.
We went to a really nice microbrewery restaurant next to the motel for lunch. We were in there so many times during the previous week while we were snowbound that one of the waiters said to another as we came in, “Here comes that couple again.” Good lunch, but I discovered, when reading the menu, that I had lost the right earpiece of my reading glasses. Now, I did not want to go to a real estate closing and not be able to read the stuff they put in front of you. “No bother,” Sue said. “We’ll just bop out and get you a new pair before we return to the motel to change for the closing.”
Hell, I’m a slow learner. I should know now that it is a lot simpler, quicker, and smarter to do it her way to start with. Not me! I was trying to tell Sue where the Super K Mart was (we later found out that it closed 5 years earlier), and Sue, who was driving, was ignoring me. She said that we could find a CVS drugstore on Independence Boulevard. When we got as far as Salisbury, I was pissed, and she was pissed that I was pissed. By that time, I was refusing to get out of the car, and the closing time was fast approaching.
At any rate, we got back to the motel, changed, and headed out for Mint Hill and the closing without any new reading glasses. We reached the attorney’s office in high spirits. I was eating Xanax like popcorn, and I’d lost bladder control. We met Judy, our realtor, and went into the conference room for the closing. The attorney came in, introduced everyone, stated that, since it was the end of the month, he had only thirty minutes for the closing, wanted decorum, and a speedy closing.
He shoved a two inch high stack of papers at me, and said, “Mr. Smith, I’ll need your signature 500 times, and Sue you’ll only need to sign 300 times.” He had already seated us in a particular order. We started with the closing statement. That was pretty straightforward. I didn’t ask, but I did wonder why he was getting $2,250 for thirty minutes of work. But, that was the buyer’s problem. We got past the closing statement very quickly.
“Now we are going to start signing things,” he said. “The first one is the Icelandic Indemnity Form. Mr. Smith we need your signature in two places where the yellow flags are, and, Sue, you do not need to sign this one.”
I was puzzled. “The Icelandic Indemnity Form?” My statement was a question which he understood.
“Yes, you are indemnifying every citizen of Iceland that it will not snow anywhere in Iceland between September 1, 2003, and March 31, 2004. If it snows during that time, you will pay every person over 21 years of age in Iceland the sum of $500,000, and for every person under 21 you will set up a college education fund. What don’t you understand? We are really taking too much time.”
I meekly asked, “May we set this aside and come back to it?” I felt a warm stream coursing down my right leg and puddling in my Ecco shoes.
The attorney was clearly getting impatient. “O.K.,” he said, “the next is the Middle Eastern Peace Accord. I know. You are going to ask, ‘what is this,’ so I will save you the trouble, and answer before you ask. You are guaranteeing that Palestine and Israel will reach a peace accord by June 30, 2003. If that does not happen you will have to match Ted Turner’s gift to the U.N.”
At that point, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. I asked, “Do you mind, if I read some of these before I sign them? I have never seen these documents before.” He was clearly ticked. “Look, you can read these freaking documents, we have no closing, and you let your siblings down. Or, you can sign 500 times and Sue can sign 300 times, and we can get the hell out of here, and I can get to my next closing. Trust me!”
I had never been to a real estate closing without my own lawyer, and I was wondering why I did it this time. I was struggling, and I asked, “Do you mind if I call my brother, who is an attorney?” He handed me his cell phone and said, “Be my guest.” I dialed the number, and a recorded message came on and said, “You do not have access to this number.” I ended the call, turned the cell phone on again, and, acting as blasé as possible, I dialed the number again. Same result.
He looked at me, and sarcastically asked, “Having trouble dialing a simple telephone number?”
“No,” I said, “your phone is screwed up.”
He reached for the phone, and asked, “What is the number?” I gave him the number, which he dialed, and then he handed me the phone.
The telephone rang. I asked, “Gene?”
“Who is this,” he asked.
“It’s me, Ed, and I’m in the attorney’s office for the closing on Mother’s house. He just passed me about two inches of documents which he wants me to sign, and I haven’t had a chance to read them.”
His response was succinct and to the point: “Ah, hell, sign the damn things. Nobody reads all that garbage, and, if they did, they would not understand it.”
I signed 500 times, and Sue signed 300 times where the little yellow flags were. We left and drove back to Asheville in a driving rain.


Preface. My mother was widowed in 1940 when she was 27 years old and with five living children. I was the oldest at 9. Four of us graduated from the main campus of UNC. She was a very beautiful and extremely intelligent woman. She lived in a man’s world, and she had to be tough to make it with five hungry kids in the 1940’s and 1950’s. She gave no ground, but I always thought that she was a little prejudiced. This is my attempt to deal with that.


Annie


During much of my life I thought that my mother was too judgmental. During visits back home after I left for college, military service, and marriage her strong positions would, at times, chill or kill a conversation with me. Now I wonder. Things are not always the way they seem to be.

We have just returned from the cemetery where the minister, whom my mother had never met, committed her body and soul to the hands of the Great Shepherd. As I sit here with scenes of the graveside ceremony flashing through my mind, I keep thinking of El Greco’s great painting, View of Toledo. In that painting, for me, the viewer, the effect is that nothing else existed at that moment, except that city on a hill. It is as if the city of Toledo is all there is in the whole of the universe.

It was that way at the graveside ceremony. We were the only people in that vast cemetery in Charlotte, N.C., and the world seemed to end at its edges. The air was heavy, and voices did not carry. I could not hear the conversations of even those people close to me, but, when words like “suffered”, “peace”, “good person”, “her flower garden”, “strong”, and “independent” reached my ear, I could fill in the context.

I walked as if I were on stilts – a stiff, falling-forward-and-catching-myself movement. Not the smooth, fluid effortless way that I ordinarily move.

The minister did a wonderful job. Even though my mother was a member of his church for more than 40 years, he had never met her, and, in fact, he did not recall her name when I called to ask him to conduct the ceremony. So, he seemed pleased when I asked him by telephone two days before the service, if he had any objections to her grandchildren and great grandchildren each reading a hymn or some passage from the Bible. He was delighted, and, he even suggested that it would be appropriate for one of them to “remember” her, if we could work that out.

The minister started with a small introduction stating why we were there. He made a few remarks about my mother. She lived in Matthews beside the busy Monroe-Charlotte highway, and her flower garden provided pleasure to many who traveled it every day. After she became too sick to tend her flowers any longer, she received a letter from a total stranger, addressed simply to “The Flower Lady, Matthews, N.C.”, telling her how much she missed my mother’s flowers. After losing her husband when she was only 27 years old, she scratched and scrambled to raise five children and sent four of the five on to graduate from the main campus of the University of North Carolina. She was fiercely independent. The minister did not make her out to be a saint, and he stuck pretty much to verifiable facts about her life. He ended by reading a passage from the Bible – the one about the mansion in heaven with many rooms. He said that the grandchildren each would read or say something.  Debbie, her oldest grandchild and the pokesperson, read her remembrance.

“Hi, my name is Debbie and I am the oldest grandchild of Margaret Smith.  I thought that I would reminisce about a few of the things I remember most about Grandma Smith.

“First of all it was her laughter.  One of my first memories ever was looking up at Grandma Smith laughing.  Her laugh said you can be strong and see the humor in something…because a lot of times she was laughing not at the obviously funny aspect of something, but the twist of it, or the harder side of something.  This is one of the best gifts she gave me, because whatever has happened to me in my life I have always been able to feel okay laughing about it.  It may have been the thing that pulled me through at times.

“The other trait I remember was her strength.  As a child I didn’t know what it was I was admiring.  I only knew that Grandma Smith lived by herself, and when we came to visit her, her house as warm and maintained.  Her tomato sandwiches waiting to be offered.  Her yard mowed and ready for playing.  Her pantry filled with delicious home canned jellies and food.  I remember her doing the laundry on the old wringer washer, Mom afraid I would lose my finger in the wringer, and Grandma Smith giving me the sense that “well, then you’ll learn”.  And that’s how I tried to raise my children, with a sense of: don’t be afraid, if you make a mistake you can laugh, and then you will learn.  Grandma Smith was amazing to me.  To be able to look at her life when I need an example for my own has been one of the most significant tools that has enabled me to go through difficult times in my life with grace.  Thank you Grandma.”

Our son, Scott, as the only male grandchild present, was to be the first to read the words of a hymn, but the words would simply not come out. His sister stepped forward next to him and read the five verses of her hymn, and it just seemed that that was the way it was planned. The other granddaughter read her hymn, and Scott, then, was able to do his. The oldest great granddaughter put her arms around the two small great grandchildren and moved them forward where they each placed a single red rose on the casket. The minister said a prayer, and the ceremony was over.

I arose from my seat and moved forward to thank the minister for conducting the service. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Annie standing ten to fifteen feet behind the others there. She must have come in just as the ceremony started and after the family was seated. I excused myself and went over to her. I hugged her, and I told her how pleased my mother would have been to know that she was there. Since, it was the middle of the workday, I knew that she had taken the day off to be there.

“I just had to come by to say ‘goodbye’ to Miss Smith,” she said.

I had only met Annie once before. It was in the hospital two days before my mother died.

My mother was in a nursing home in Charlotte for six years. She moved there soon after she was placed on dialysis to deal with her end stage renal failure. Because of her age and other risk factors, she was not a candidate for a kidney transplant. Along with others, she was taken from the nursing home to the dialysis center three days a week in a van. For the last two or three years, the regular van driver was “Annie”.

 
Soon after Annie took over the job as the regular van driver, my mother began dropping comments like “Annie took me by the house yesterday after work.”
“Well,” I would say, “Who is Annie?”

She would puff up and say, “I go to work in Annie’s van.” In translating this, one must understand that “work” meant going to dialysis and “by the house” literally meant driving past my mother’s house on the Monroe-Charlotte highway. So when she said that “Annie took me by the house after work”, it meant that Annie diverted the van from the regular, most direct route from the dialysis center to the nursing home by my mother’s home so that she see her house. Somehow it was reassuring to my mother to be able to see that her house was still standing empty there by the side of that busy highway. The other passengers almost certainly never caught onto their little conspiracy.

Or again, my mother might say, “Annie stopped by Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday so that I could get some of his fried chicken. He makes the best fried chicken, you know. But sometimes, he puts too much seasoning in his crispy chicken.” It was clear to us that Annie understood my mother’s addiction to fried chicken.

A few times Annie came by on Sunday morning to take my mother to her church. We found that out by accident when we called the nursing home one Sunday morning to let my mother know that we were coming from Asheville to visit her and to take her out for lunch. Our visits were very special times for her, especially if a meal out was involved. There was a long pause on the telephone, and I became somewhat concerned.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” she answered.

“So,” I said, “What’s going on? Do you not feel well? You don’t seem to be too pleased.”

“Well,” she said, “I sorta wanted to go to church with Annie this morning. She said that we could go to her house after church and have some of her fried chicken.”

I suggested that Thursday was really a better day for us, and that took care of it. But her little secret was out.

Over the last couple of years that my mother lived, Annie became bigger than life. My mother almost never talked “about” Annie. The references were almost always to what Annie “did”. If you had drawn a pie chart representing my mother’s life during that time, a very large slice would have been labeled “Annie”.

Toward the end, during one of the many times that my mother was in and out of the hospital, we were waiting in her room at the nursing home for her return from the hospital, and we were talking to one of the black nurses. I commented to her that my mother was very fond of Annie, the van driver.

“Oh yes,” she said, “Annie loves your mother. When your mother has a bad day at dialysis, Annie is the one who cries.”

Somehow in those two to three years, we had never met Annie. If I had been asked to describe her, the only thing that I could say definitively about her was that she was black. But when I looked around that day in the hospital room to see a forty-something year old black woman standing in the doorway, it was only natural that I should say, “You’re Annie, aren’t you?”

“I came by to see Miss Smith,” she stated.

She came over to the bedside and took my mother’s translucent, waxen hand. “How you Miss Smith?”

My mother, who had not opened her eyes in the two hours that we had been there and had been totally unresponsive to our entreaties, opened her death-paled eyes. She faintly smiled. “Annie, I was wondering if you would come.”

“You know Annie was coming to see you, didn’t you Miss Smith?” Annie said.

“Yes”, my mother answered, having spoken her last word.



Willie

We’re “trucking.” The air conditioner is on, and Grover is purring. Suddenly, Sue erupts: “There’s a Volkswagen place! Do you think that they may have screens for Grover?”
“Don’t know, “I said, “but it’s worth a try.”
Sue brakes and starts looking for a crossover.
Sue names all of our vehicles, and Grover is our 1988 Volkswagen Vanogon Weekender. Grover’s back seat and the rear cushion combine to make into a queen-sized bed, and what a comfortable bed it is! But, there’s one problem. We do not have screens, and there is no good way to keep the insects out at night when we open the large side windows.
For this Highway 64 project, Grover is perfect. We throw our photographic equipment in the van, leave on a moment’s notice, and make no reservations, knowing that we will have a good place to sleep near where we need to be early the next morning.
We pull in, and I let Sue do the talking. After all, it is her van. The heavier, the higher you ride, and the bigger the horsepower, the better she likes a vehicle. A semi would be about right for her.
At any rate, she lays out the scenario, and the forty-something year old man is apologetic. “Never had any, never seen any like that, but there’s a salvage place in Texas that does VW vans. Bet they would have them.” He pulls catalogs from under the counter, and starts flipping pages.
Several minutes later he offers, “Don’t know why I can’t find one of their ads. They always have this line drawing of a VW van with their name and telephone number on it.”
An adult male comes in with a young female teenager, and they browse the two sides and the back of the store. “Go ahead and help them. After all, you’re not going to make a sale with us,” I say.
“Aw, they’re O.K.,” he says.
A few minutes later, I plead with him: “I think that you may lose a sale, if you don’t help them.”
He reluctantly turns the catalog around, pushes it over to me and walks over to the couple.
After making the sale, he returns and finishes searching the catalogs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I just can’t find that ad. Now, if I didn’t need it, it would’ve jumped up and bit me.”
“At any rate,” he says, “let me write down the numbers of two places that you can call. One is the salvage operation in Texas. They probably have the screens, but that don’t mean that you will get them. It depends on how hot it is in Texas that day, who you talk to, and how much tequila he drank the night before.”
“The other place,” he continued, “is a reno shop in California. They do nothing but VW vans. They love those things. They’re flower children who never grew up – just grew older. I bet they have daisies tattooed all over both cheeks of their asses. Good guys, though, and they will help you, if they can.”
“Hey,” I said,” “You have spent too much time with us, but we do appreciate your help. We’ll call those numbers.”
“No problem,” he said. “I live on the lake out here, and, with El Nino, the mosquitoes have occupied our part of the county, have set up their own form of government and are holding us humans hostage. The longer I wait, the later their evening meal.”
At the door I turn: “Thanks again, and, by the way, we put a pretty big scratch on our van last night when we were camping, and I was wondering if you have any suggestions on how we might take care of it.”
He’s shutting down. “Can’t help you with that, but try the body shop across the street.”
We park across the street and search the cavernous shop, but we find nothing living. At any rate, nothing that we could see. “Hey-O,” I yell. “Anyone home?”
About the time that we are ready to give us and leave, a black man, with white swatches under his eyes materializes from the darkness.
I looked at him, and, for a moment, I thought that the world was spinning too fast. When I was a teenager and played American League Baseball in the summers, with the fierce sunlight, the coach would paint black swatches under our eyes to cut down on the glare. Now, facing me was a black man with white swatches under his eyes. I finally concluded that I was not looking at a black baseball player with white swatches under his eyes, but, rather a black painter who had been wearing goggles.
“I’m Willie.” He blinked in the bright light. “Can I do something for you?”
Sue explained our problem to him, and Willie turned and left without any kind of acknowledgment.
After a time he returned with a tired-looking plastic two gallon jug of “Myers Miracle Compound” and a handful of paper towels. He teased a little liquid from the jug and started buffing the scratch.
After a few minutes, I pointed out another smaller scratch about six inches lower than the first. He did not seem to hear me, and I began feeling a bit uncomfortable, thinking that he might be thinking, “Yea, Whitey comes in here and gets me to work on one scratch. Then, he comes up with another. Before you know it, he will have me buffing this whole big damned van.”
After an embarrassingly long time, he stepped back and looked at the place where the scratch had been. He went back to the jug and coaxed out the last few drops of compound. He then did the same thorough job on the second scratch. It was clear to us when he had finished. He stepped back two or three steps, silently inviting us to inspect his work.
“It looks great. Fantastic! How much do I owe you?” I asked.
Anything under fifty dollars back home would have been money I could have banked. He mumbled something that I did not understand, and ,not wanting to embarrass him or myself by asking again, I took all the small bills from my wallet – a ten dollar bill and five ones- and handed them to him.
He took the bills, kept one of the one dollar bills in one hand and, with the other, offered me the fourteen dollars back. I waved off his offer.
Underway again, I asked Sue if she understood Willie’s answer to my question.
“Sure,” she said. “He said, ‘I dunno. Maybe a soda.’”

.
Erin
We were camping at Davidson River Campground in Brevard and using the campground as a base to do a series of waterfall photographs. The morning after a particularly long, wonderful day of shooting some of the best waterfalls in Transylvania County, we woke early, dressed and drove down to the fast foods restaurant for quick croissants before venturing out again.
We settled in a booth with our coffee, croissants and newspaper and gradually were making contact with the world again. We were soon approached by a young lady in the restaurant’s uniform who said, “I’m Erin. Can I get you anything? Water. More coffee?”
She was in her early twenties, and cheerfully innocent. Momentarily taken aback, I asked for refills on our coffee.
“Nice day,” she gushed. “But,” she continued, “everyday is a nice day, even if you don’t think so at the time. I haven’t seen you here before. Are you vacationing here? Maybe you’re here for the Brevard Music Festival?”
“No,” I said, “we are camping at the Davidson River Campground and taking photographs of the waterfalls in the area.”
On her way back to the coffer urn, she stopped at almost every table. “Didn’t see you yesterday. Weren’t sick were you?”
To another, “How’s your mother? I heard that she’s out of the hospital.”
To a gaunt, lonely-looking, unshaven, early seventies man hunched over his breakfast, she said, “You’re not having your usual today. Did we mess up yesterday?”
She returned to the booth with our coffee, and greeted an older couple in the booth behind us with “Glad to see you out again.”
Looking at the lady, she said, “It must be hard to move around on those crutches. Better than not being able to move around at all, I guess. Well, I missed seeing you the last few days. Got to get back to my breakfast before it gets cold. I have the same thing everyday – croissant and jelly, hash browns, milk and an apple pie. I like it so much that I sometimes just let it sit there so that I can think about it for awhile before I eat it. I don’t have to pay for it. It’s part of the deal that they worked out for me at the school.”
After she passed, I heard the woman say to the man, “When God made her, he didn’t put a mean bone in her body.”
We finished our breakfast, second cup of coffee and the paper. We were obviously preparing to leave. Erin returned.
“Come again,” and to Sue, “I like your Ireland shirt. I love Ireland more than anything in the world. I am real Irish, you know,” and, shaking her head, “not one of those wannabees. My mother was a Shannon and my dad’s name is Murphy. They’re in Ireland now studying who our ancestors were. This is the sixth or seventh time they have been. I beg to go each time, but they don’t think that it’s a good idea.”
Her bright brown eyes teared up slightly as she turned and walked away. “But, I’m going to Ireland someday. I am…I am…I am…I am…I am….I am…I am…”

Mental Images from Trip to Las Vegas and surrounding areas.

Wild horses by the gallop.
Joshua by the trees.
Snow by the elevation.
Flowers by the profusion.
Salt by the Lake.
Canyon by the The Red.
Valley by the Fire.
Dunes by the sand.
Buffets by the pound.
Roads by the ribbon.
Taxis by the thousands.
Bristle Cone by the pine trees.
Mountains by the incredible.
Mobile home brothels in the desert by the "24/7-365."
Sage brush by the mounds.
Blue Man by the Group.
Las Vegas economy by the sad.
Gaudy by the gauche.
Prime roast beef by the Angus.
Death Valley entrance by the left at Scotty's Junction.
Flower worshipers by the Death Valley flower aficionados.
Camper vehicles by the unlikely places.
Cottonwoods by the desert springs.
Free range cattle by the moos.
Nevada Correctional Facility by the best view in county.
Remote desert memorial by the sad: "Clyde Hart. Age 5."
Lowest elevation in the U.S. by The Badwater Basin.