Rice Love. Makes me wonder what we could do here along the same lines? Any ideas?
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MY BIRTH
I was born in the fall of my thirty-fifth year in 1985. I say this because nothing happening before really mattered very much once she said yes. I hadn’t planned to ask her to marry me. I thought I was too scared to ask as in “already twice burned” scared. As I asked I looked intently into her hazel eyes and noticed they turned from gray-green to bright green. I have learned over the years that green doesn’t always mean GO! Sometimes it means run like hell and be prepared to duck while you are doing it.
I don’t know when I first met Linda Gail, my ex-roommate’s on again, off again girlfriend. We disagree on that particular moment but I am sure I know when I first noticed her. She had an inflated pumpkin on her head preparing to celebrate Halloween. A year later, in the year of my birth, All Hallows Eve was on a JV game night and I had to attend as a function of my position as a coach and athletic director. Linda Gail and her friend Jeanie were going out to a costume party without me. Those two events should have been exclusive of each other but this particular night they became inclusive. It was raining and I had invited several of the booster club members to join us in the press box to stay dry. Booster club members being entertained in the press box was not an ordinary occurrence and had never happened before until this night. As the game went on, someone knocked on the door. My booster club president opened the door and found two pretty ladies opening their trench coats and exposing their somewhat revealing Halloween costumes. One was a vampire mistress of the night in a short black mini dress with lots of zippers and chains, the other a French maid complete with fishnet stockings, crinolines and a whole lot of cleavage showing … a lot of cleavage showing. I tried not to fall out of the press box window while everyone else was speechless. Utter and complete silence ruled until our booster club president paid them a left handed compliment and confessed that “If I had known it was like this up here I would have come up a lot sooner.”
This is an excerpt from the story “My Birth” found in my new book release, THROUGH THE FRONT GATE which can be purchased in Kindle form at https://goo.gl/4rBPhW or in soft cover at https://goo.gl/Yu3vRm
THROUGH THE FRONT GATE
For nearly thirty years I have entered “Through the Front Gate” to a home that is much more than just a place to lay my head. For more times than I can possibly count I have entered a haven and a refuge, made so by the woman that lives here, my Linda Gail. When I repeat the Bible verse, “You are my refuge and strength” I am not talking to God, I am talking about the woman who is everything good about the world I live in…the world that you have created Linda Gail. Saying that I love you seems quite inadequate but it will have to do. “Linda Gail, I love you.” These are stories from thirty years of marriage and the unintended consequences of Linda Gail.
Cover photography is my “view through the front gate.”
Don Miller’s fourth book, THROUGH THE FRONT GATE, will launch August 12…MAYBE,
“YODA” THE KAMIKAZI KRUISER
I first saw her sitting like a forlorn puppy dog in a friend’s used car lot…on the back row. Born in Japan in 1968 she was already twenty years old with an odometer having rolled over once showing twenty thousand miles. She was boxy and with her high stance I was told she resembled a postal vehicle. That’s not nice. I had seen FJ 40 Land Cruisers before and had, as President Jimmy Carter said, “Sinned in my mind.” Taupe colored, she didn’t appear to have any rust and when the key turned, fired right up with no blue smoke or hiccups. I was on my way to falling in love. Most importantly, Linda Gail liked her too despite no radio, no air conditioning and hard metal doors. If you look up utilitarian in the dictionary expect to see a picture of her. It didn’t matter, “Yoda the Kamikaze Kruiser” became ours.
Cruising at sixty-five was not her long suit despite being capable. What she could do was crawl up and over a wall in low four-wheel drive. With a suspension stiffer than a brand new pair of jeans, she went over rocks and ruts so hard it would jar the filings right out of your teeth. At sixty-five she rattled like a wind chime made from cast iron. It didn’t matter, Linda Gail and I were young and foolish…and in love…with each other and “Yoda.” During the winter we would go searching for snow to play in and during the rest of the year take the doors off and try to find ways to put the Kamikaze Toyota in harm’s way. We were often successful. While “Yoda” never left us stranded, we left her stranded on several occasions.
The first summer “of love” a sharp, freshly cut sapling ripped out a side wall. Now where is that jack…oh I don’t have one. Stupid and in love. A two-mile hike got us back to Highway 11 and civilization. A neighborly type let us use his phone and a friend came and retrieved us. Now I remember what we did before cell phones. We cautiously approached people and begged to use their home phone. Later on the same summer a weakly constructed ditch crumbled and put us on our side near the summit of Chestnut Mountain. Walking again, a house trailer with what seemed to be several dozen Rottweilers, well four or five, became our salvation. Another phone call to the same friend got us a ride and “Yoda” jerked out of the ditch…by a f@#%ing Jeep Wagoneer no less. Later Linda would put “Yoda” on her side on our mountain. I have a vision of Linda scrambling out of the window because the metal door was too heavy to lift. This time I had my own tractor to pull it upright.
“Yoda” became our go to vehicle. A picnic with Linda Gail and Ashley on our mountain top? Yank a stump out of the ground? Haul wood? Take a goat to the vet? Or just try to tear off a fender on some wilderness trek, CALL “Yoda!” So why did I get rid of her? Trust me I asked myself that question on several occasions. With mileage creeping toward two hundred thousand, a screwy braking system and wiring problems I decided to upgrade. A 1974 Clemson orange FJ 40 with a transplanted V-6 seemed to be the ticket. What a mistake. Looked good and sounded better until a broken rod left her bleeding oil and dead on the side of the road. I didn’t have time to even name her. “Yoda?” She was bought by guy in Simpsonville. I still see her sometimes. With travel stickers holding her rust together, she is still running. Gosh I wish I still had her.
Later there would be an FJ-60. My first trip with newly licensed Ashley was in that truck. I found out she had a lead foot returning from a Columbia soccer tournament. After a couple of years of driving it on dealer tags, I sold it back to the friend who sold it to me originally because of a title problem. What problem? I think the cruiser might have been stolen. But officer I gave it back.
My last one was a ’77. Linda and I went together and true to her love for me she let me drive it home. She wishes we still had “Yoda” too. The ’77 named “Darlin’” was turned in to a piece of junk after being stolen out of my front yard. It was returned months later a mere shell of its former self. Two years later she would catch fire and burn. I think “Darlin’” was so embarrassed she tried committing vehicular suicide by burning herself to death. I say tried because I sold her to a guy who has the intention, means and ability to restore her. I wished him luck with instructions to bring her back for me to see when he completed her restoration. I haven’t heard from him…yet. Hope springs eternal.
I don’t know why we name our cars and refer to them as “her and she.” I talked to mine like they were people but like my wife none ever seemed to listen. For myself and my Land Cruisers it is about the memories of a person who goes with them. Warm and fuzzy ones that never get lost in the fog of time. I see a wild tangle of brown hair blowing in the wind, bug-eyed sun glasses and a big smile as we rattle our way over the top of Chestnut Mountain. I still go on EBay looking for the perfect and affordable FJ 40 to help add to those memories. It may be an impossible search.
Don Miller will be releasing his fourth book, “Through the Front Gate” later this month. Until then go to his author’s page and check it out. On Amazon it can be found at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/cigarman501/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel.
THE “GUILT” OF CHILD “REARING”
My daughter Ashley has been put into the hospital. Nothing serious…I hope. She is pregnant with our second grandchild and will be induced to give birth later today. It has “induced” in my head memories from Ashley’s past…and a bit of haunting with it.
I feel a bit like Maximillian Robespierre of French Revolution fame. In addition to “losing his head” during his own “Reign of Terror” Max once, as I understand it, wrote on “child rearing” despite never having a child to rear. When I think of my daughter Ashley, I feel somewhat the same way. I was a part time Dad, and carry a certain burden of guilt because of it. For some reason I feared children. I had a sense I would not wear the mantel of “fatherhood” very well. Thirty-five years after becoming a father, I still am not sure, but could not be happier with the way Ashley turned out.
Linda Gail and I chose not to have children although it was probably me more than she. Instead, we chose to share my daughter with her mother. Our relationship with Ashley’s mother was at times strained and at times not, and probably could be described as “as good as one would expect and probably better than most.” Without consulting Linda Gail, I chose to not confuse the issue of child rearing by “bending” to Ashley’s mother’s vision of raising our child since Ashley lived with her. Ashley’s mother did a wonderful job of raising my daughter with very little help from Linda Gail or myself…until Ashley does or says something that reminds me that we might have had more influence than I realized. I am sure Linda Gail believes our influence was paramount.
Linda Gail’s influence was great, both in amount and purpose. I remember sitting on the front porch rocking while playing some sort of juvenile “name calling” game when the four or five-year-old Ashley called me “penis breath.” You really have to love the lessons learned in day care. Before my eyes could refocus after growing to plate sized, Linda Gail said, “I’ll handle this!” I chuckle seeing Ashley’s little hands clasped over her mouth as Linda Gail whispered in her ear.
I cannot speak for Linda Gail, but most of my warm and fuzzy memories involve a young Ashley, running around “Hemlock Hills.” We purposely wanted to introduce her to a different life style than would be found in the suburbs of Greenville…despite the City of Mauldin being more rural than suburban and the fact there was a huge farm directly across the road from her home. We wanted her to have a “country” slant to her life. Damming up the nearest stream to wade in, searching for salamanders and crawdads. Riding all over the “north forty” across rutted old logging roads while bouncing ourselves silly in the old Land Cruiser. Fishing using a “Snoopy” bobber attached to pink line running through a pink rod. Thankfully, Ashley did not grow up to be a “girly-girl.” I have an idea that both of our grandchildren will be subjected to fishing, camping and hiking. It helps that Ashley married a guy with the same interests.
Early on she had little understanding of certain insects beyond the lightnin’ bugs she released in to her room, wishing to sleep in the warm glow of their flashing little bottoms. Later on a warm July night, before we had installed air conditioning, we heard the patter of her small feet descending the stairs from her bedroom. “Daddy I can’t sleep. They are too loud. Can you turn them off?” She was speaking of the cicadas singing loudly outside of her open bedroom windows. Sorry kiddo I don’t know where the off switch is.
I tried to do things with her that I did when I was a kid. Dragging her into the garden to plant butter beans and then letting her help shell them when they had matured. What do you mean you don’t like tomatoes? Going into the woods to hike…and split and load wood. It doesn’t sound like a lot of fun but it was…I hope. Ashley really didn’t quite get the moral of the story when I put a watermelon in the stream to cool, just like I did when I was a kid. Later in the afternoon as I struggled to retrieve the melon and finding that a “varmint” had begun the party without us, Ashley asked “Wouldn’t it just have been easier to put it in the refrigerator?” Yes, but would it have been as sweet? I have to say Linda Gail probably took Ashley’s side.
As Ashley got older she played soccer and keeping with the insect theme her first team was the “Lady Bugs.” They were so cute. She was not the most gifted athlete, a trait she inherited from me. I remember her running, shoulders scrunched with her chin jutted out in determination. She would later move to goal keeper and I was always amazed, and a bit fearful, at how fearless she was attacking high crosses or the ball being dribbled on a breakaway. I was also a little bit proud…ok, a lot proud. With my own coaching schedule, Linda Gail and I don’t have as many memories of Ashley’s athletic career as I would like but I still cherish seeing her team win a state championship. I was also quite proud when she began coaching during her second of three careers.
Christmas Eve was always our time to get together. Linda’s mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Porter, now Linda Gail’s stepmother Francis, my brother, Steve, and his wife, Rebecca, and of course Ashley. After an evening of celebrating and gift giving there was always the bitter sweet time when I took Ashley home, late in the night. We would talk, just she and I, until she fell asleep. For some reason I remember driving home in Linda’s little red bug with Ashley helping me shift the gears. Odd what we remember. This past year we moved our Christmas Eve party to Ashley and Justin’s to accommodate Miller Kate and I am not sure if we like it very much…yet.
I have a photograph that always causes a tightness in my chest. Young Ashley is perched upon a twisted tree that resembles the hump of a camel. Mr. Porter (Pop) and I are steadying her with Linda Gail’s mother looking on. Pop and Linda Gail’s mother are gone, as is the young Ashley, replaced instead by my grown up daughter; nurse, wife and mother of a red-headed little “doddle bug,” Miller Kate. I wish Linda Gail was in the picture but, as usual, she was “attempting to capture the memory.”
As I am writing this I have just gotten word that “Little Boy Blue’s” arrival is still on hold. It appears he is ready to come, about two weeks early, and I am sure Ashley and Justin are ready but I’m not sure about Miller Kate. I have a remembrance of a chubby little red-headed kid (brother Steve) who came into my life just before my fifth birthday. As soon as he was old enough to stand I punched him in the nose, not my finest moment. Hopefully Miller Kate will deal with the new addition better than I did.
Despite my guilt and fear, Ashley has turned into a daughter to be proud of…is there any other kind? She is sensitive and strong and actually has some of our “liberal” traits. I just don’t know why she doesn’t like tomatoes. I guess I could have done a better job there.
POSTSCRIPT
“Little Boy Blue” decided to join us during the mid-afternoon. Seven and a half pounds of healthy boy with all of his toes and fingers and everything in between. Dark headed with a full head of hair, I think he will end up red headed like his sister. I’m not sure what Miller Kate thinks about her baby brother yet. She addresses him as “Baby Nolan Samuel”, more as a title than a name. I worry how she is going to react when she realizes that she has to share being the center of the universe with someone else. There is something hopeful about a new birth. New opportunities to make a difference in the world. Hope he grows into a smart, strong, athletic young man but I will accept a good young man. Knowing his parents, I am sure he will have every opportunity to be a good young man.
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from the soon to be released book about thirty years of the “unintended consequences” of living with Linda Gail, “Through the Front Gate.” For more of Don Miller’s unique outlook on life try clicking on http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM.
TOO LITTLE TIME TO HATE
It is easy to hate in today’s political climate it would seem. I see so much written or expressed in other ways that always seem to begin with “I hate….” You’re going to hate a lifelong friend because you have differing political views? With so much hatred being thrown around I began to think of my own hate. I don’t mean “strong dislike.” I mean “I wouldn’t pee on you if you were on fire or dying of thirst” hatred. Hatred is something we should be experience up close and personal, not “I hate all of the libtards” on my Facebook page or “I hate all Trump supporters” on my Twitter feed. Don’t you really have to know someone to hate them? As I evaluated my hatred I could only come up with three people worthy of it. Two former bosses and the little “shit” bully who tormented me throughout my primary and junior high school years. That should give you a clue as to my age, we don’t call them primary or junior high schools anymore.
All three were bullies in their own right and I found out the hard way “sometimes when you confront a bully” he doesn’t just walk away. I stood up to all three. Despite my “bowing up”, one led to my resignation, another “fired” me out right and the little “shit” beat my ass every time I stood up to him and for some reason I never got the message that “He’s beating your ass because he can and that is not likely to change in the foreseeable future.” He also stole my girlfriend in the seventh grade and had he wanted he could have kicked sand in my face. I remember daydreaming about ways to end my torment, pushing him down a long razor blade into a vat of alcohol was one memorable thought as was drowning him in a bucket of snot. A friend once told a story about three brothers. The two older brothers tormented their younger brother so badly that he waited until they slept one night and beat them senseless with a two liter Pepsi Cola bottle. Wish I had thought about that. Providence intervened when the little “shit” moved away after our eighth grade year.
I’m sixty-six and with age comes wisdom…sometimes…well, a blind hog sometimes finds an acorn. It dawned on me that despite my hatred, the focus of my hatred didn’t even know I am still alive and furthermore could care less. At sixty-six, the sands in my hour glass are running out and I have decided, if not able to forget, I can forgive and move on. Funny odd, not ha ha funny, but every time I was egregiously wounded by one of these bullies, something good came out of it. In some ways, they are responsible for the good life that I enjoy today. Moving on was always a better move it just took a little age to realize it.
So, I have decided to eliminate the word hatred from my vocabulary and my mind. I may still strongly dislike, especially in this political landscape, but for now at least, Mikey, Sammy and Willy…I forgive you and wish I could give you what you so justly deserve, which is…NOT ANOTHER THOUGHT.
FORTY YEARS AGO
Forty years ago, on a Monday much like this one, I stood on a practice field awaiting the start of football practice. There would have been great anticipation and nervous excitement this particular morning as there always was great enthusiasm on the first day of practice. By Wednesday’s afternoon practice, bumps, bruises, muscle soreness and “dead” legs would strip the some forty or fifty players of their enthusiasm…but this was still Monday morning.
The practice field, freshly cut low was adorned with sharp white lines. The grass would be moist with the early morning dew, as it always was for twenty-nine years. Before the end of practice, the air would become uncomfortably hot and humid. For twenty-nine seasons hot and humid was always this way. Football in the South begins the last week of “hot” or the first week of “hotter still” and no matter where you are in the deep South you cannot escape the late summer heat and humidity.
This would be the first of two practices, the second would begin with even more heat and the humidity would continue to rise higher as practice went on until it finally concluded with ten perfect plays and ten perfect forty yard sprints. Blow an assignment or a snap count, we started over at one. Forty or fifty young men dressed in orange helmets and shorts, with short, light gray tee-shirts, now dark gray with perspiration. This is the fortieth anniversary of Mauldin High School’s one and only region championship in football. Maybe being the only one is why it is so special.
For those not familiar with the city of Mauldin, located in the upstate of South Carolina…or too young to remember, it was more rural than city forty years ago. The town was a strip of businesses and industry laid out along a crossroads navigated by people on the road between distant Columbia and nearby Greenville. There was no “named” main street and only a couple of signal lights on US 276 to impede their travels. The population was scattered from the outskirts of the small town of Simpsonville to the south and north to Interstate 85. It is part of an area now known as the “Golden Strip.” A couple of years would have to pass before it attained the moniker. Little was golden about the strip in those days, just a few business and a citizenry primarily located in suburban developments separated by large tracts of land farmed by families who had been in the area for decades. We were so rural it was easy to be viewed by our rivals as the “Southern Rednecks” of the county. I would say, at the time, we took this to be a compliment.
The community had embraced this “newer” school, beginning its fourth year of existence. Because of its youth, athletic success had been fleeting, especially in the area of men’s sports. Everyone…community, student body, faculty and administration seemed to be holding their collective breath as the season began. It did not take long for them to exhale and our team’s enthusiasm seemed to be a transmittable disease. As the victories piled up so did the fever pitch of our fan base.
Forty years ago we played old school football; “butt blocking, put a hat on ‘em, slobber knocking, knock his d!@# in the dirt” old school football. We didn’t know it was old school, we thought we were on the “cutting edge” of football innovation with our “acid soaked” tear away jerseys. Like most schools we were a run first, pass “when all else fails” or as my wife, Linda Gail, continued to point out throughout my career, “The forward pass is not a trick play.” For us it might have been. We weren’t a “three yards in a cloud of dust” kind of team, we were a finesse, run the “veer option and get the ball on the corner” kind of team and we did it well.
There was nothing finesse about our defense. We did our best to intimidate on defense…which we did quite well…and yes maybe we were a little dirty. We taught “eyes to the throat” and “run through the ball carrier till you hear glass break” tackling. We used the face mask as a weapon. It wasn’t we wanted to intentionally hurt people…well, maybe we didn’t want to hurt people. We did give a “skull and crossbones” helmet decal for the “Hit of the Week”.
The ’76 Mavericks were ten gallons of fun poured into a five-gallon bucket. It was inevitable some of the fun would spill out and it seemed much of the fun was agitated by one particular member of the team, Bucky Trotter. Any time I talk to a former team member, Bucky Trotter’s name comes up. Who else would deliver a Halloween gift to the opposing team’s captains? A dead squirrel hanging from twine fashioned into a hangman’s noose. I recently spoke with the Greenville High coach from those days and he remembers it well…and not happily I might add. An intimidating HELTER SKELTER chant after quick cals dissolving into something resembling a bar fight, a Wednesday night meal followed by a “fake fight” held in different areas around the community, one so realistic the police were called out. Thursday practice “war games” were followed by the coaches meeting at Jay’s for steak…for eleven straight weeks. Every Friday the coaches had to go to the principal’s office to rub a good luck charm we called “the little man with the big d!@#”, a small brass figurine with a big d!@#. These were a few of the rituals we employed to feed our superstitions and to keep ourselves amused.
Yep, more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Friends and former peers always ask if I miss coaching football. I miss the game night competition, I miss the bonds formed with players and coaches but I have not missed many practices. This group might be the exception because they made it fun. Everything was a competition, a chance to prove themselves. It didn’t matter if it was a game or practice, every play was a chance to excel or grow. I remember the daily linebackers versus offensive linemen board drills, three on three drills and the now banned Oklahoma drills. There was no going through the motions. Fun but also special AND NOT JUST TEN WINS SPECIAL.
I hope we have a reunion. I have put a few bugs in a few ears. A chance to rekindle old friendships and a chance to relive old memories. 1976 was a special year, in a special place with a special group. It would be fitting to have a special celebration.
Don Miller has also written three books, including “Winning Was Never the Only Thing…”, stories from forty years of teaching and coaching. They may be purchased or downloaded at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
LISTENING TO THE DARK
As I left my front gate there is just a hint of pink in the east spawning a prediction that the sun will once again make an appearance. It is still quite dark as I begin my walk. My five miler will be made mostly in the dark. I am attempting to avoid the late July heat which will eventually nudge ninety-five degrees even here in the eastern foothills of the Blue Ridge. I wish I could avoid the humidity which is still quite high at 5:15 this morning. Too soon the humidity will envelope me like a heavy and wet wool blanket. Later I will have to cut grass and will resemble someone who has walked his pet seahorse when my chore is completed.
I think of the old sailor’s proverb, “Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.” There is just a hint of pink on the horizon and despite the humidity, not enough moisture has collected to form even a thunderhead and we are dry to the point of suffering. I don’t believe “pink” is the new “red.”
Twenty-five minutes later I am “glistening” with perspiration at Lake Lookup. It is still dark but I decide to walk the narrow woodland path circling the lake. For unknown reasons, I find myself compelled to silence my music and just listen…to the darkness. At first all I can hear is the normal and incessant roar which has disturbed my hearing since my early adult years. The buzzing is a product of working in a cotton mill during my youth, sans ear protection, and from standing too close to speakers at “hole-in-the wall” juke joints.
As my miner’s lamp cuts through the darkness several bats take advantage of the insects attracted to the cone of light, causing me to duck despite the knowledge the furry flyers have great sonars. There is a haunting “WHO…WHO…WHO” calling out to me from the distant hill crest and the rustle of what I hope are small animals scurrying away through the leaves.
I am surprised at how quiet it is. Not at all like last night with the cicadas “screeching” into the night. I am alone with only the sounds of my footfalls to break the silence…and the bull frogs. Not the deep bass “ribbits” I would have expected, these are more tenor in pitch and produced a sound more like “gah-lup, gah-lup, gah-lup.” The frogs are lined up on the narrow, root strewn lake path facing toward the lake, hoping their breakfast hops or flies by. Instead it is only me and they don’t even move. Frozen by the beam of my light, they glisten green, yellow and black, their little eyes reflecting my light back at me. As I walk on, carp begin to roll close to the lake bank, their splashes causing the only ripples on the still, black surface of the lake…until I scare a beaver swimming in the lake’s small inlet. His tail slap reverberates like a gunshot and evokes the “flight” reflex from me.
It is lighter now but gray is still the dominant color. The gurgling of a small waterfall temporarily drowns out the darkness until I can hear the calls of “early” birds “looking for the worm to catch.” The world is waking up. It is comforting to know the earth is still spinning, continuing it’s trip around the sun. It is a welcomed calm “listening to the dark,” before I face the day.
More nonfiction by Don Miller is available at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
MRS. SARA PAYNE
I spent four years with the “legendary” Mrs. Sara Payne and despite thinking of her often, I never saw her once I left Greenville High School almost thirty years ago. I was so sorry to hear of her passing. In a book, “Winning Was Never the Only Thing…”, I wrote a story about a moment in my life when Mrs. Payne proved to me how uplifting one moment of kindness can be. I doubt she knew and am sorry I never took the opportunity to tell her. Here is an excerpt from that story.
“The one person unintimidated by Sam Wiley was Mrs. Sara Payne. It seemed that Mrs. Sara Payne had been at Greenville High forever plus one day. In 1981 she became the South Carolina State Teacher of the Year which helped to fuel my own intimidation of her. I was not in a small group. Even before she garnered her teacher of the year award it seemed her name was already legendary. To me, she was the most intimidating person at Greenville High, even more so than Sam. Maybe the most intimidating person I had ever met. Anytime her name was mentioned it seemed that hushed, reverent tones were used, and I fully expected to hear Gothic organ music playing in the background. A mentoring teacher once told me that the key to successful classroom discipline was never to smile until after Christmas. Mrs. Sara Payne must have had the same mentor and must have listened better than I did. She had the successful classroom discipline associated with Catholic priests during the Inquisition. Well, there was the Great Mouse Invasion.
Mrs. Sara Payne was terrified of mice. After a mouse was seen in her classroom, she exited, moved her classes to the library and refused to return until the little intruder was caught. Someone decided he had a plan that would, by disrupting class, create less time spent in Mrs. Sara Payne’s Senior English Class. This someone began to release lab mice into Mrs. Sara Payne’s classroom. It worked for a while until one was finally caught. It was white, and then another was caught and it was white with brown spots, and then another, well just say a bunch were caught, none of which were the traditional “mousy” color. Resembling pets more than vermin, public outcry put an end to this rodent holocaust. We never found who “someone” was but thankfully he or she caved to the public sympathy for lab rats.
Mrs. Sara Payne and Sam Wiley took to each other like…well they did not take to each other at all. If Mrs. Payne had used the traditional fine southern feminist curse “Bless Your Heart”, she would have used it a lot and Sam just used …well I don’t know because I tried to stay away from him but I am sure it involved the word ‘bitch.’ His “stirring of the pot” caused the tension and the pressure to increase, not only in my little athletic world but all around the school. I believe we all knew what it felt like to be a green bean in a pressure cooker. The pressure would finally get the best of the normally stoic Mrs. Sara Payne when Sam began to remove the ancient flora from Greenville High School.
In the quadrangle that Greenville Senior High was built around were roses. Many had been placed there in honor of alumni who had passed away. They were the first to go. Sam’s reasoning was that it took too much man power to maintain them. I agree that you could designate one custodian to care for the roses and it would have been a full time job, but could you not allow family members to care for them or at the very least come collect them? Could you not request volunteers to care for them? NO, you just had them pulled up and dumped in the trash. The alumni association along with Mrs. Sara Payne was livid but could do nothing about the roses because it was too late. In the spring of 1986, the American Holly “bushes” became a different story.
What is the difference between a holly bush and an American Holly Tree? I never really knew, but it was a question Sam should have asked before he decided to cut down all of the American Holly trees on the campus of Greenville Senior High. It began his slippery slide into…retirement. Holly bushes can be used as hedges, trimmed, shaped or destroyed. American Holly Trees can grow to be over thirty feet high and attain ages in excess of one hundred years old and cannot be cut down if they are on a historic site. Guess which ones were at Greenville Senior High? Greenville Senior High School was built in the 1930s and is a historic site. This meant these trees were over fifty years old and of as much historical significance as was the school. Sam decided that he would have them cut down to create less work for the custodial staff. Instead he stirred up an angry hornet’s nest, led by Mrs. Sara Payne. Mrs. Sara Payne had had enough and called in the alumni association and every tree hugger in Greenville County. Greenville Senior High School is now over eighty years old. So are the trees. They stayed. Sam did not last through the summer of 1986.
After a particularly grueling “dosey doe” with Sam over a miscue by a wrestling coach and another letter to be put in my folder, I trudged into the library to find my driver’s education students. I found them, along with Mrs. Sara Payne and her class. It must have been during the mouse holocaust. As I went to the second floor of the library, I paused at the top of the stairs reflecting on the invisible weight I had just carried to get up there. I felt a hand touch my elbow and turned to find Mrs. Sara Payne staring into my face with something I had never seen before: a smile. Blessedly before I said something unintelligible she said, “Keep the faith, it will be over soon and I am not talking about you.” All I could do was nod. I did not realize that Mrs. Sara Payne even knew I was alive. I began to think of her as simply Mrs. Payne.
Rest well Mrs. Payne.
TIME HONORED TRADITION
It was 5 am when I stepped out my front gate a decade or so ago. A pre-dawn fog still hung low. Swirled by a light breeze, it periodically blotted out a particularly bright September full moon that glowed brightly enough to cause shadows. There was just a hint of chill in the morning air to mark the change in seasons soon to come. I would walk and jog an hour until Linda Gail joined me for a forty-five-minute walk before I showered, shaved and began my thirty-seven mile drive to work.
There was just a hint of an aroma hanging with the fog. As I stretched before beginning my jog I tried to recall what I might be smelling. As I inhaled the redolent odor I found it almost “tasted” sour in a pleasing way. It was almost familiar. At that moment the fog briefly cleared revealing a beautiful full moon and like a “light bulb” going off in my head I had it. Corn whiskey being made “by the shine of the moon.” Sour mash being turned in to “moonshine,” “white lightnin’” or “corn squeezins’”. The making of illegal corn liquor was, AND IS, a time honored tradition in these foothills of Appalachia called the Dark Corner of the Carolinas.
We have a rich tradition of “boot legging” in the United States. From “rum running” to avoid the British tax on molasses to the Whiskey Rebellion when George Washington would again ride at the head of his army to “compel” Pennsylvania farmers to pay the first federal excise tax and remain in the infant United States. Folks in the United States just don’t like having to pay taxes on…well…take your pick but in this case it was home brew. During Prohibition and the Great Depression, making “shine” became a way to make ends meet for Dark Corner farmers who could not have survived without it. According to local historian Dean Campbell, the Squire of Dark Corner, a poor farmer, and they got no poorer than those in the Dark Corner, could expect to realize a profit of about two dollars and fifty cents on five bushels of corn. The same amount of corn could be turned into twelve gallons of moonshine and a twelve-dollar profit with no “spoilage”. I ain’t no mathematical genius but…that would be nearly a four hundred percent increase in profit.
Through the depression and into modern times, the Dark Corner was known for its production of moonshine. Not just any moonshine but what has been described as a particularly “fine moonshine.” That is not an oxymoron. The smoothness supposedly came from the water. In the late Seventies it was also known for producing a particularly high grade of “killer weed” known as “Glassy Mountain Gold.” Despite capturing the “Best Domestic” award in a magazine catering to those activities, “GMG” did not replace moonshining because moonshining was the traditional drug of choice and “them good old boys ain’t about to change.” I also wonder how I might know such things.
Linda Gail and I have spent many hours engaged in exploration, in and around our little piece of heaven. We have seven, year round streams, three which bubble to the surface on our land. Over several millenniums I guess, all three have cut deep ravines. If you explore, back into the deep and dark recesses of those ravines, you will find the metal barrel hoops that held wooden barrel staves together along with newer metal barrels with curious holes shaped like those made from “buck shot” or an axe. I wonder if those damn “gubment” revenuers paid the moonshiners a visit sometime back in the fog of time. Recently we added a three-acre parcel of land to our little piece of heaven mainly to keep people from moving in next to us. Yes, we are hermits. While exploring, I think we found the still I smelled “cookin’” a decade ago on the wide stream at the base of our waterfall. Not in good enough shape to fire up but in good enough shape to be recent.
I was somewhat shocked to see the face of a distant neighbor pasted across my TV screen on the Six O’ Clock News. He was, and is still, a respected “gentleman peach farmer” of high means. His offense? Making “shine.” His defense was that his daddy had made it and his daddy before him had made it and…. He did not need the money to pay his taxes or even take the kids to Disneyworld, nor did he appear to be very apologetic or remorseful. It was a time-honored tradition to make the “family recipe” free of “gubment” taxes and he was “sot in his ways.” My guess is that despite the hefty fine that he paid, he is still “sot in his ways.”
This is an excerpt from Don Miller’s soon to be released book THROUGH THE FRONT GATE. For more humorous non-fiction go to check his site at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
Ravings of a Mad Southerner 