THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING BETTER
There were no baseball cups at my high school in 1967 or 1968, or if there were, no one took any time to explain the need for one to me. Instead, we had a chest protector with an extension that hung down between our knees when we went into a squat. This particular chest protector probably had been acquired when catchers still set up ten or twelve feet behind the batter and caught the ball on a hop in the early 1900’s.
IT WAS AN ILLUSION OF PROTECTION! IT WAS A BELIEF IN A FALSE GOD! Take a common household sponge and rest it against your face. Now let me uncork a baseball into it. Really, no one wants to do that? You know you are going to get a broken nose, black eye or lose some teeth. I should have known that a little extension, the thickness of a common household sponge, would not protect my little friends but bought into the belief that if struck by a bounced pitch or foul tipped ball, the little boys would be ok. In other words, the seventeen year old me was A DUMBASS! Just so you know a foul tip on to a cup will still take your breath away. A foul tip to an unprotected man part will make you contemplate suicide to make the sickening pain stop. To quote a friend who had tried to cauterize a wound with a red hot poker, “the pain was exquisite.” I knew exactly what she meant as I remembered a foul tip that bounced off of the plate and up into my chest protector extension making solid contact with my man parts. One definition of exquisite is keen or intense. Yeah, the pain was exquisite in its intensity and sharpness. It was also sickening to the point of regurgitation, and it wasn’t even a direct shot. Sick, Sick, Sick!
Strangely, somewhere in the small portion of my brain that was not dealing with pain receptors, I remember thinking, “Don’t grab them. Don’t grab them.” This I thought, despite the almost uncontrollable urge to do exactly that. “DON’T RUB IT! IT MIGHT SPIT AT YOU!” That was not very likely to happen for a long, long while. Even today there still seems to be an unwritten rule that keeps a catcher, or any other player for that matter, who has just taken a hundred mile per hour shot directly off of his cup, from grabbing his little friends. Even sportscasters will skirt the issue by saying, anything other than “OOOOh, he just took one off the nads!” Well, Bob Uecker might, but Curt Gowdy would say something about “…a glancing blow to the groin” or “he has just got the air knocked out of him” as the poor catcher was being led stiff legged into the dug out for an “equipment adjustment.” As the replay unwinds, over and over, you can almost hear the collective intake of breath as millions of male baseball fans react to an event that we are all too familiar with. Just in case you are ever in a sports trivia contest, Hall of Fame catcher Johnny Bench holds the dubious career record for broken cups, seven. From someone who knows the truth, this should be one of his least coveted records.
SUGAR AND SPICE
Excerpt from Don’s book “Winning Was Never the Only Thing…” which may purchased using the following link. Enjoy! goo.gl/dO1hcX
“Sugar and Spice
And everything nice
That’s what little girls are made of”
Nursery Rhyme-Robert Stanley
Few people know that early in my coaching career, I coached soccer. I have tried very hard to keep this a secret because I was always afraid that I would be forced to coach it again. I don’t have anything against soccer or soccer players; it’s just that they don’t think like football players. If you were to tell a football player to run through a wall, he would do it and then ask to do again. If you were to tell a soccer player to run through a wall he would ask why? The word why is not something a football coach really wants to hear. When I really think about it, I probably think more like a soccer player than a football player. Please don’t tell anyone.
The first soccer match I saw was the first soccer match I coached in. This was in 1975. The internet did not exist. There was no Soccer Channel or even YouTube to search for help. We had these odd, rectangular shaped objects made of paper called books. They actually contained information on a plethora of subjects including soccer. I read books, talked to soccer coaches and went to clinics to learn the game of soccer. A crop of athletic, soccer playing freshmen came through Mauldin in the late 1970’s and I rode them for four years. They won four region championships and an upper-state title to go along with a state runners-up trophy. I actually “retired” with the second highest win total in state history at that time, seventy seven. The game has since changed to the point that you can’t find my name on the list anymore.
In the early 1980’s our court system decided that girls had the same right to play soccer as the boys. Unfortunately the courts decided too late for the girls to have their own teams and for that one year the fairer sex was allowed to try out for the boy’s teams. None of the soccer coaches expected any of the girls to make their team but none of those soccer coaches had Laena Marie Karnstedt. Laena had played a lot of soccer and had a skill level on the par with my best guys. What she lacked was speed and strength. Laena made up for this lack of athleticism with determination, hustle, great ball handling and passing skills. She made the team as a midfielder where speed was an asset but not a necessity.
Laena had a bubbly and vivacious personality to go with blond Germanic good looks. I cannot remember if she had blue eyes but it is my guess that she did. Laena was of medium height and her frame reminded me of a cheerleader more than a soccer player. Guys know what that means. Ladies if you don’t, go ask a guy. I did not know what to make of my newest charge but decided to treat her exactly like “one of the guys.” I did not really convince myself and ended up treating the guys more like her. Those “good job” slaps on the butt had to come to an end.
I had never coached girls before and have coached very few girls since. Only one season as a junior varsity girls’ basketball coach and one as a junior varsity girls’ soccer coach made me an authority on how NOT to coach girls. I went into each season thinking the only difference between girls and guys besides the obvious, was that girls looked and smelled better. I found out by season’s end that there were huge differences in the way male and female athletes view their game. At this time, men were more team sport oriented while women were still learning. I also found out that emotionally men and women were just wired differently. Remember, the Mars and Venus book would not be published for several decades and I only had my experiences with a few girlfriends and two ex-wives to go on. Two guys will get mad, explode and fight, and then shake hands. Later, they will go get a beer and then, together, chase after girls. When women get mad they stay mad and plot how to get even. Women will usually wait several weeks and ask a question like “Do you remember three weeks ago when…?” Seriously, I don’t remember the football score from three hours ago much less some perceived slight. They will also try to get as many of their friends involved as possible. Another difference is that guys cry when they are very, very sad. Girls cry when they are very sad, very happy or when they are very mad. Guys have a hard time determining which of these three situations are in effect until it is too late. For this humble coach, women are at best, a conflicted mine field of emotions. Laena did not really fit this mold except… when she did.
Women have always been confusing to me. The only one I really understood was my mother but that was because she actually had my best interest at heart. Sometimes I even understand my daughter, but even she is not a sure thing. Laena was confusing when she wasn’t actually on the field. She reverted to the “girly” girl. She would bring cookies and brownies to practice. I never had a player do that before or since. They might bring bubble gum or sunflower seeds. Sometimes they would bring pork rinds. Never did they bring cookies and brownies. Whenever she was not playing, she became a cheerleader with all of those cutesy cheers you have heard before: “Chewing tobacco, Chewing tobacco spit, spit, spit….” She always seemed to be in very close proximity and underfoot when she was on the sidelines. I think it was because she knew if she was tucked in under my shoulder that I would not curse too much or if she made me uncomfortable enough I would put her in the game. She made me uncomfortable a lot. She even had a unique way of falling down which involved somehow landing on her butt with her feet still planted on the ground while giggling the whole time. Soccer players shouldn’t giggle.
Hidden behind her blonde good looks and cheerleader personality was a competitive streak the width of the Potomac River. Her competitive streak, along with a high level of technical skill made her formidable. She was especially formidable if you underestimated her because “she was a girl.” Please don’t misunderstand; Laena was a good person until you treated her like a girl. Then you should watch out because you just might get hurt.
It does not matter if you are a girl or not, new team members have to prove themselves to their teammates. It is an unwritten law and Laena was no exception to it. She came to me in private before practice and told me that a couple of the more Neanderthal of our guys were giving her grief about being a girl on a boys’ team. Not exactly bullying her but doing what guys do when guys think there is a weakness. Immature boys will try to pick any perceived weakness like a scab and make it bleed. She did not know what to do. I didn’t know either. I told her that anything that I did would probably make it worse. I told her to ignore it unless it got worse and then come back if it did. As with most women I have given advice to, Laena didn’t listen and decided to take matters into her own hands or in this case her feet. We had a one on one drill we called The Gauntlet. Everyone lined up in two columns facing each other. Two people went to each end of the column and a ball was placed in the middle. On a whistle, they had to attack the ball, gain control and dribble the ball to the opposite end of the column. To be honest it was a type of “anything” goes kind of drill that are frowned upon today. I can see Laena in my mind’s eye, running with a purpose, shoulders over her driving knees with determination written on her face as she went hard into a shoulder tackle. Before the drill was over, Laena had put both Neanderthals out of the practice with bloody and bruised ankles. Unless you count their pride, they sustained no permanent injury and had perhaps learned their lesson. The problem went away. Maybe women are the smarter gender.
As we approached the first match of the season an interesting situation occurred. It appeared Laena was the only female soccer player playing state wide and it was deemed news worthy. Media coverage was not something that high school soccer teams expected in 1982. This was still the era of print media coverage and sixteen millimeter film. We were rarely covered by the newspapers or local TV. Suddenly that changed. Laena was a star. She was interviewed, I was interviewed, along with team members, parents, ball boys, administrators, and my third cousin twice removed. No one ever asked what kind of team we were going to have. It was always the same variation on a theme. “How does it feel to be the only girl on a team of boys?” “How are coaching girls and boys different?” “How do you like having a girl on your team?” Blah, Blah, Blah.
Our first match of the season was against Greer. Greer, during this period, was known for its football and not its soccer. Midfield is the most strenuous position on the soccer field because you are running from penalty box to penalty box. I always tried to rotate midfielders to keep them fresh. Laena was in the rotation. As the match proceeded, I sent Laena to the substitute’s area to await a stoppage so she could enter. When it occurred, she was waved onto the field by the referee and a new era in South Carolina athletics began. Almost immediately she found herself shoulder to shoulder with a Greer player, fighting for control of a ball, and she went down hard on the ground. The young man, being a fine southern gentleman, did the chivalrous thing and offered her his hand to help her up. It was chivalrous but it was not smart. She took his hand, stood up and cut both of his feet out from under him. He went down hard right in front of the referee. He whistled play dead and pulled out a yellow card. She actually giggled as she received a warning from the referee. If she had not been accepted by her team before, she became a team member after her warning.
If this were a novel, the Mauldin Mavericks would have gone on and made it to the State Finals. They would have found themselves down by a big score, crawled back into the match to tie and then after two overtime periods, Laena would score the winning goal on a penalty kick. Sorry, this is not a novel. Laena and the Mavericks did go on to have a great season and went deep into the playoffs but no State Championship winning kick. The next season Laena had her own team to play on and I had moved on to Greenville High. I wonder if Laena would have rather competed with the boys. I have not been in contact with Laena since she graduated from Mauldin but we are Facebook friends and it appears that her successes have continued. She became a doctor and there are pictures of Laena smiling her big smile and of her family and home. I see two blond daughters. I wonder if they play soccer or whether they know what their mother did in the early 1980s. I doubt Laena has told them that she was a pioneer of sorts nor does she know what a tremendous impact she had on my own life. Maybe I’ll get to tell them.
Exactly One Year Ago….
From a suggestion from a friend, Linda Collins, I decided that I would call these rants: Tails of the Swamp Rabbit Trail. Tails is spelled exactly the way I want it. Also, don’t expect a weekly “tail.”
I had a great run Saturday if anyone moving that slowly can actually claim to be running. After much work I appear to have perfected the art of running slowly. There was less congestion, no pack riders and very little spandex. What spandex was seen was on people who should not be wearing it outside of the solitude of their homes.
Due to so much uncluttered time I was forced to do something I rarely do…think. What I thought about was how thankful I was to be on the trail this beautiful if somewhat humid morning. What made me thankful were the large numbers of people who appeared to be, like me, refugees from a geriatric ward. These were “seasoned” men and women who were trying to outride, outrun or out walk the grim reaper. I was particularly motivated by the much older couple who strolled up the slight incline using walking canes while holding hands. There was a young man who came screaming up the incline on his low slung hand powered bicycle, useless legs just along for the ride. AMAZING AND MOTIVATING!
I want to apologize to the three older men I met. Not for what I thought but for the fact my jaw went slack and agape when I saw the large expanse of white skin from their shirtless bodies. Guys I know it was hot and humid but you should not run without shirts. In fact anything you might do without shirts should be privately contained. My tee shirt had gained about a pound of sweat but I would never take it off in a public place. I am in pretty good shape but have reached the age that I now try to sneak up on mirrors when naked or partially naked. Despite all of the bicep curls I do, my arms are stick like. Pushups can’t keep my chest from falling into my stomach, sit ups and planks can’t keep my stomach from collapsing into my rear, and I don’t know where my rear is going. I guess into my feet because they are still growing to. Guys, I apologize for my facial expression but you looked like three very pale Mr. Potato Heads.
Finally to the cyclist I stepped out in front of, I am sorry. It was my fault but I was at the end of my LSD run. It is supposed to be LDS for long duration slow speed but due to the hallucinations I was having at the end of my ten mile run and walk, I call it an “LSD” run. I was not paying attention, thinking instead about the cool air conditioning of my truck and a glass of chocolate post run milk when I reversed in front of you. I did not hear your whisper quiet machine and I am sure you were just too busy to say “on your left.” I should have seen you. Who would have thought about putting all of those colors together on the same jersey? You actually reminded me of one of my grandmother’s patchwork quilts but I guess I thought I was in one of those LSD light shows. I also agree that I was a “damn idiot” but am somewhat concerned. First, physically I just could not accomplish what you asked me to do and I am really concerned about your eye sight. I was running and not riding a horse. I don’t think horses are allowed on the Swamp Rabbit and again why would you want me to do that to myself and a horse?
AN INCONVINENT TRUTH…OF SORTS
This has nothing to do with Global Climate Change or a documentary of the same name produced by a former Democratic vice president but I feel the need to express my belief that while the climate has changed as much as the South’s most revered river, the Mississippi, has meandered, both will continue to do so without help from the human population that inhabits our little blue ball. That being said, I also believe that, despite what superstitious conservatives say, the human population is helping to speed up and worsen the outcome of those changes and that Al Gore did not invent the internet. Hopefully the audience that is reading this has a clue as to what I just said.
There is a problem with history because it is just that—history. We weren’t there and we have to rely upon the writings of others in the form of what are called primary documents to attempt to put together the pieces of the puzzle that is that history. We must also view what is being said using the “light of the times” which has dimmed as time has marched on. Most of us, unless we are historians, don’t want to go to the trouble of pouring over dusty historical texts that are decades old. We want the CliffNotes or we want someone to teach us the history that we need to know and if it is an inconvenient truth we look for a different set of CliffNotes or teachers who support a more convenient truth. We also tend to look at it in the light of our times which sometimes reminds me of that beautiful “honky-tonk angel”… when the harsh light of closing time comes on…not that I have spent any time in honky-tonks lately unless Linda Gail was in attendance and she looks beautiful whatever the light.
For instance, “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.” Ever heard this statement before? Sure you have. Civics and US History classes or if you slept through mine, Fourth of July celebrations. Sometime in your life you have heard it even if you can’t remember if it is the Declaration of Independence or the Preamble to the Constitution. Which is it? Hint—July 4, 1776. But what did it mean in 1776? That’s right it was the Declaration of Independence but what did “all men” mean. We think that “these truths” meant “all men and women.” The old universal man because we are seeing it in the light of today. But “these truths” didn’t mean that. Our founding fathers could have just as easily said “Only white men of voting age who are landowners are created equal.” No slaves, no women and no white men who didn’t own something. Universal women’s suffrage would not be enacted until 1920 although women in Wyoming territory had the right to vote in 1869 the same year that the Fifteenth Amendment was ratified giving all citizens the right to vote…except women. Male ex-slaves would have the right to vote, although severely abridged, before women and Native Americans who were not made citizens as a group until 1924. I also believe that there are a group of old white guys in blue suits who wish it was still that way. Yeah I’m an old white guy but the closest I will come to a blue suit will be a predominately blue Hawaiian shirt.
As the Civil War is being re-fought throughout social media I keep seeing statement after statement, reported as truth, which as a history teacher has me reaching for the Preparation H or at least the Gold Bond. Excuse my indelicacy but, “It galls my ass!” The latest had to do with the most revered man of the Confederacy, Robert E. Lee and the most defamed man in the Union, Abe Lincoln. Over and over posters stated that Lee “freed his slaves before the war” and that Lincoln was actually a “closet” slave owner. I also something about him being gay but he never appeared to be too happy. From my research, I am not sure how many slaves Lee actually owned, if any, and he may have freed what HE owned but he certainly did not free the ones his wife, and therefore he, inherited from her father until 1862 when the point was mute because the Union Army had already taken over his inherited home at Arlington. Why did he not free them? In his own words Lee stated that he needed them to avoid bankruptcy “and to put things right.” Should this make him any less revered? Should we defame him for having the worst comb over prior to Donald Trump? Viewing it under the light of times, I would say not, but stating what are at best the half-truths in today’s light makes one wonder.
Abe Lincoln a slave owner? Except for a short stint of time in Washington, Lincoln spent his entire life in Illinois, a free state. His family was so poor that his father “contracted him out” to pay for the families debts. Maybe that is where the confusion came from. Lincoln was a type of indentured servant for his own family which is a type of forced servitude but he owned no slaves. Grant owned slaves, as did eleven other former US Presidents but not Lincoln.
While I am on stupid statements about slavery, “There was just as much slavery in the North as the South!” Really? Not including the Border States, which were considered Upper South and in which Delaware was included, only two Northern states, Connecticut and New Jersey, had not abolished slavery by 1848. According to the 1860 census Connecticut had no slaves to free in 1865 while New Jersey had a whopping two hundred and eight-six too many. And while we are at it, Lincoln could not free the slaves in the rest of the United State with the Emancipation Proclamation. It would take an Amendment to the Constitution to do that and it did in 1865.
I was taught that if you were unsure of an answer or were sure you did not know the answer try and “baffle them with bullsh!t.” It would seem that I was not the only person to learn this lesson. I have seen much bul sh!t lately whether is dealt with the Civil War, religion, gay rights or our presidential candidates. Anytime someone states an opinion other than yours, rather than take the time to look up and research a rebuttal, we throw out what are at best half-truths or at worse total lies. When all else fails we just call each other names.
SOUTHERN CROSS From the book FLOPPY PARTS
An excerpt from FLOPPY PARTS by Don Miller
http://goo.gl/GIssEq
Every time I run I listen to music on my pink IPOD Shuffle. It helps with the monotony and pain of mile after mile after…. With me for nearly every running or walking miss-step for the last several years, it has long outlasted several less colorful IPODS or Shuffles and due to its longevity, owes me no service. What is disconcerting about my IPOD is that it seems to have a mind of its own or, at the very least, is inhabited by a ghost. No matter what playlist I transfer to it, the Crosby, Stills and Nash song “Southern Cross” somehow finds its way onto the playlist. I even have a Jimmy Buffett version which doubles the chances of it haunting me. It is not as good as the original but not bad and when I hear it or the original I am transported back into my memories. It’s not that I don’t like the song, I do. I like it very much because the memories that the song invokes makes me think of a longtime friend who was for a short time the object of my floppy parts and affection. She left this world several years ago and I find that the song makes me a bit sad and introspective. After a while I do begin to smile over our antics from almost four decades ago as we traveled a bumpy path toward “hooking up.” If you have read the “Devil’s Spawn” you are ahead of the game. After teaching together for several years, we would both go through trashed marriages and without consulting each other decided to make the typical lifestyle changes associated with newly divorced folk. As a male I felt duty bound to go out and purchase the requisite sports car that I could not afford while Jane lost forty pounds in weight, which she could afford. Yes, typical, and for a brief period I found Jane riding around in my sports car.
Lamentations…and Humiliation
I am a realist most of the time. I know I still believe that the Cubs will play in a World Series and our government will actually…well…ah…govern. I also believe that these events will occur before I leave this world and go to meet my deserved rewards. Really…most of the time I am a realist especially as it relates to my running. I am enough of a realist to grimace a bit when I use the term runner when describing what I do. I just have too much going against me to be more than an average runner, even in my age group. Look at me. No really look at me and say with a straight face, “Now there is a runner.” It can’t be done with a straight face. When I look in a mirror I see a gourd with shoulders. A mesomorph from the waist down attached to an ectomorph from the waist up. My gene pool did not assist me in my running endeavors. Now, sitting in my recliner keeping my greasy pizza hand separated from my remote hand…that I got.
I didn’t beginning running with any regularity until I was in my forties and didn’t commit to it until after a heart attack in 2006. Soooo, realistically I just want to set an attainable goal, work at it, train effectively, stay healthy and attain it. A sub nine minute per mile 5K ain’t gonna happen. Maybe one mile might be run in a sub nine minute time. Now I do think sub ten’s are possible or at least I did until today. The Ache Around the Lake is just around the corner. Last year I ran it’s up and down five mile course in 50 minutes and some change. All I need to do is shave less than a minute off each little ole mile. 49:59 sounds so much better than 50:00…but it ain’t gonna happen.
Since I retired from teaching I don’t even like to set goals. There is something to be said for wandering through life without a road map. How can you get lost if you don’t know where you are going? Running is different. I knew where I was going today. A nice slow, long for me, nine mile run on the Swamp Rabbit as I move toward the mileage needed to run a half marathon. A nine mile “Jeff Galloway” run averaging around eleven minute miles. Easy, I did eight and a half last week. Just a little long run from the railroad car at Furman uphill through Travelers Rest for five miles and then back again. Bull hockey! I knew I was in trouble during the first mile and a half. Half mile walk to warm up and a one mile…jog. I know my legs were attached to my feet when I put on my shoes but where are they now? Physically I see them but for some reason they have become very large strands of over done pasta.
Miles two and three of the course are actually the hardest part of an easy course. After mile two I said to myself “Firetruck it” I am going to gut this out. Too bad my guts weren’t listening or doing the running. For some reason I am singing an old Dave Dudley song in my head. Actually I was hearing “Six Days on the Road” over my IPod. There is a line that says “my rig’s a little old but that don’t mean she’s slow, there’s a flame from her stack and that smokes blowing black as coal.” I decided I was going to be Dave Dudley’s Rig. I was gonna bring it home tonight! It worked…for about a half mile. I really tried to believe it but then she passed me at the three and a half mile mark. If I was Dave Dudley’s rig she was George Jones’ Corvette and she whizzed by me on the incline like I was rolling backwards. I am used to being passed by young ladies and it really doesn’t bother me. Nubile twenty something’s wearing spandex and going fast are usually motivating. So are thirty or forty year olds. Fifty…well maybe…oh yeah! This twenty something year old pushing her baby stroller with two year old on board really bothered me. Worse than that, she was really–really pregnant with another child. The tires on my rig just went flat! A nice little three and one half mile walk back to the railroad car on flat tires. Yeah I can attain that goal.
#blog #amwriting
7/10/2015
Word had come to me that our state house of representatives had voted to remove the flag from the capitol grounds and place it in the Confederate Relic Room with its own area where those who believe in its heritage can give it the reverence that it deserves. For those who believed that it flew in the “face” of a large portion of the population and represented hate and racism, kidnapped or not, at least, it is out of sight, if not out of mind. That short journey began at 10:10 this morning and, thankfully, was over in the blink of an eye, although what it all means will continue to be debated ad nauseam, including, I hope, this set of stories. In the year 2000 I felt the flag should have been removed but, unlike now, I was too chickenshit to say it. Despite feeling one wrong has been righted, I am also thankful that those of us who want to celebrate our heritage still have the opportunity to do so…in any way we so desire, provided it is not illegal and doesn’t infringe on the rights of others. That might be the fly in the ointment or, maybe worse, the “Baby Ruth” in the swimming pool.
I have always questioned where my rights ended and others began. You want to play your music loud, louder and loudest and employ woofers that could create a sonic wave strong enough to knock a fighter jet out of the sky. At what point do I get to ask you to turn it down? More to my point – as I have viewed and read the comments on social media or had discussions with friends, I have been both shocked and appalled at some people’s venom. “Some people,” along with everyone else, have those pesky First Amendment rights whether we agree with the “connerie” they might be spouting or not. They have the right to say anything hurtful short of “Fire” in a crowded theater, I guess. They do have the right to call me a stupid asshole just like I have the right to unfriend them on social media which I didn’t. I am so thankful for the grace of the families of the “Emmanuel Nine” and for most of South Carolina. Dylann Roof was definitely one of those “Baby Ruths.” Maybe he has given us an opportunity to examine how dirty and polluted the water was before he climbed into the pool. I hope it will give us the opportunity to drain that pool and fill it with clear and pure water. I would settle for just potable.
It is true that the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia did not pull the trigger that took those nine lives. Dylann Roof killed them and we do not need to place the blame on “that flag” nor should we place it on the gun he did it with or the fact that gays have the right to a civil marriage or that I must have the right to go deer hunting with an AK47. (Sorry, I could not help myself!) We do, however, need to place the blame on those who hijacked the Battle Flag and turned it in to a symbol of hate. That would be people just like me. I was born in South Carolina in 1950 and was taught both the heritage and the hate. It was just two years after Strom Thurmond’s bid for the presidency running as a Dixiecrat, the party of segregation. They might have been the first to hijack it as they rallied round the Battle Flag while playing “Dixie” during their convention. Prior to that time, for over eighty years, the Battle Flag had rarely been seen, used only at parades or memorials and the like, in other words, just as it should have been, the way Robert E. Lee would have wanted. After 1948 it became much more than a symbol of heritage and I lived through it all and saw the efforts to keep African-Americans segregated after Brown replaced Plessey in 1954. I saw it all on my little black and white with Walter Cronkite. I heard it in church and in school but, fortunately, I did not hear it at my parent’s knee. I saw it in “Whites Only” restaurants or restrooms. I saw the burning of crosses and Freedom Rider buses, The Little Rock Nine, The Greensboro Four, Bombingham, fire hoses and police dogs in Selma and an assassination or ten. Thankfully none of it occurred in my part of South Carolina but then I might just be suffering from the disease of cranial rectitus that goes with the color of my skin. I do remember being taught that one did not call “coloreds” mister, “birds of a feather flock together” so much so you never expect to see redbirds with crows. In a history class I learned that the familiar statement “All men are created equal” was not true because you had those people born “lame, retarded and colored.” Unfortunately, too many times these occurrences were accompanied by both Confederate and US flags. We simply must recognize that and admit to ourselves that it is as much about hate as it is heritage.
On a Sunday afternoon in 1970 I stopped in a small upstate “nameless” town on my way back to Newberry for a milkshake that was, in fact, vanilla. As I sat at a concrete picnic table I heard cheers and yelling from behind a stand of trees and privet hedge. Being of a curious nature I decided to wander down a path and see what was going on. As I broke into the clearing the smell of kerosene became strong as a six-foot-tall cross burst into flames with a gigantic “Whoosh!” It was a small cross but there were plenty of white sheets and Confederate flags to go with the fifty or so people in attendance who were cheering the festivities on and shouting about the n@$$%^& bucks who would be raping our daughters during the upcoming school year. Looking a little like a Jewish banker, I remembered that “Curiosity killed the cat!” It was time to make a hasty retreat!
Activities such as this or the Klan rally that took place on the statehouse grounds should not define our culture as Southerners in general nor should it define South Carolinians specifically. We must accept that they are a part of us and as much a part of that heritage as the flag. So are the heritages of the others who live here. I applaud our diversity and love it. Dutch Fork BBQ, The Blues and Blue Grass, Shrimp and Grits, Sea grass baskets, Catawba pottery and an Indian-American governor named Haley – just to name a few things that came from someone else’s culture. I also thank the people who made my re-education possible – those teachers, parents and students whose cultures were different than mine…and the same as mine. All of your feelings count to me and, if being kind makes me too concerned about political correctness, I happily plead guilty.
Mainly I am thankful for a grandmother who, despite living in very racist times, taught me, and more importantly, lived by an old Chinese maxim that was hijacked by the Jews, the Christians and pretty much every major culture in the world – the ethic of reciprocity or what I knew as the “Golden Rule.” For those of us who probably need to hear it again, please pay attention. The way that it was taught to me was “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Or to translate, “Treat others as you wish to be treated.” Despite this universal teaching, it would seem that the world and its many cultures have chosen to ignore it and I don’t care who is at fault. Someone needs to take a first step. Choosing to revere our heritage in a museum and to accept the hate that goes with it might be that first step…if we are brave enough to take it.
Hello world!
Don Miller is a retired high school social studies and science teacher who, despite his retirement, continues to coach. The 2015 baseball season marks his forty-third year involved with either teaching or coaching or both. “Floppy Parts” is his second collection of short non-fictional stories. His first book, “Winning Was Never the Only Thing” debuted in 2014. Both collections draw heavily from his experiences as an educator and coach, as do several stories that have been submitted to various journals and magazines.
When not writing, Coach Miller turns into Farmer Miller, as he and his wife of nearly thirty years, Linda Gail Porter-Miller, attempt to turn their heavily forested wild life sanctuary, complete with a one hundred and thirty three year old farm house and outhouse, into an organic farm. Linda Gail is a retired physical educator and coach who taught and coached for thirty years.
Happy blogging!
Ravings of a Mad Southerner 