Dear Little Lady Love

CHAPTER ONE

My detractors will have you believe I wrote my book under the influence. All I will fess up to is portions of the soliloquy’s may have been dreamed up while so, as they give me a chance to throw something else into the mix that might not fit in as well anywhere else. NORM’L tells us 97 million American’s tried it (naturally does not count Bill Clinton as he did not inhale) and 14.6 million have apparently smoked so recently they do not try to deny they do. So here goes. …. Seems to me I heard a soundbyte one time tell a child’s personality is pretty much formed by the time he’s reached his fifth birthday, as that period was called, “…. the formative years”.

There are probably a lot of people who believe they could argue convincingly that the most gifted contributors of thinking among the founding fathers of our great country, dating back far enough to include those delegates present in The Constitutional Convention of 1776, were from the south; and maybe that’s so.

Not since the days in The Garden of Eden itself had man been privileged to live in a more idyllic setting than the south. The cooling and splendor and majesty of fall was the most pleasant time of the year for those who had the freedom of living there, for the crops were in, and the time had come to relax and enjoy the beauty of it all, as the leaves on our hardwood trees completed their metamorphosis.

A good winter would have included a hearty snow during the holiday season, as well as a hard freeze, which would have killed some larvae of flying critters that could cause an afternoon tea on the cool of the veranda to go bad if they were swarming. Whatever the case, the chill of the few weeks of winter soon give way to the bursting and greening of spring as the sun warmed our beloved land of milk, and honey. The heat of the summer sun would have surely caused one to stop by ones favorite crook on the river bank almost every day to take a dip cooling one from the sweat of the summer sun that was busy completing the cycle as the fields yielded again their melons and fruits and tomatoes and tobacco, and became white with our cotton again; King Cotton, as a matter of fact.

The people there were sturdy, forthright, and relished their family life; and honored God, and country, and their devotion to the gentleness of a lady, all in that order; so as The Civil War began they all naturally took up arms to protect the life they cherished. Little did they know then that only two wars in the recorded history of man had caused more devastation and loss of life than the war they were about to fight; one in the first century between the Roman Empire and the Kingdom of Israel which eventually ended on a hilltop by The Dead Sea called Masada; and a later war I regret to admit I have never even heard of before which was called the War of Spanish Succession that took place in the early eighteenth century.

The Confederate States of America, in large part, due to the stalwart unpredictable leadership of one General Robert E Lee, fought brilliantly and courageously and valiantly until Abraham Lincoln finally convinced his generals God was on their side, and ordered the northern hordes to extinguish any hope the Rebs may still have, and get it over with by destroying everything in their path on their march to Savannah; with the only reminders these days being forgotten battlefields on individual oases throughout Pennsylvania, Virginia, Tennessee, The Carolinas and Georgia, where giant battles were won and lost; and the ghosts of fallen brothers still roam.

Now I never have heard where the battlefields were where any of my kin fought, and maybe died, in that war; but I do know within fifty years after its end all my parents had been born within an hours ride or so, depending on the condition of the roads, of Kannapolis, North Carolina.

Kannapolis was the home of Cannon Mills, and Cannon Mills was thriving; and had already become, “The World’s Leading Manufacturer of Sheets, Towels and (then) Pillow Cases”; once the ladies got sophisticated enough to want their pillow cases to match their sheets, and quit using their flour sacks as such. Nobody there doubted the company’s successes, because just as soon as they could complete one building another was built which in some way added to the process; and it all seemed to work very nicely.

It had been to that modest, but peaceful setting that my grandparents gravitated, and I know little of my grandparents because I did not meet them all; but all my parents, and with only a few exceptions, most of my aunts and uncles worked a portion of their young adult lives in the mill; and none seemed to suffer from having done so, while some might even be better off for having such humble beginnings. The families were large, and while some of the offspring turned out to be big disappointments, others strove to great heights; as all turned out to be unique individuals.

The company store provided food, staples, and dry goods, for cash, to everyone who worked in the mill; and even though the rest of the country, and most of the world, was to suffer the horrors and convulsions brought on by The Great Depression of the 30’s, life there remained simple and predictable; as the mill, and its owners, were in complete control of the quality of life that prevailed there, for not until recent years have alcoholic beverages and spirits been legally available for purchase there, except from a neighbor’s back door, or the trunk of some old car.

At the time, Cannon Mills owned Kannapolis, lock, stock and barrel (City of Cannon/Kanna-----/whatever). The mill, and/or it owners, owned the land, the streets, and street lights; office buildings, shop buildings, retail buildings, newspapers, a radio station, as well as just about everything else in town was all owned by the mill; including row, after row, after row, of small white frame mill houses. Most of the churches were even built on rented Cannon land; and the police and firemen alike, at the time, were all paid by Cannon Mills (Most Firemen were paid an additional stipend by the mill for doubling as a fire fighter, and the policemen’s salaries were paid by Cannon Mills directly to the sheriff’s department in Cabarrus County, who in turn, paid the individual policemen for handling their law enforcement duties in Kannapolis where the mill was located).

Cannon mills celebrated its fiftieth anniversary during the depression, and during that period of time its profits fell to a low of only a half million dollars one year. It was, however, during those years the State of North Carolina had approximately $2,500,000 in short term obligations come due to a New York bank, that the state was not going to be able to pay because of a shortfall in revenues brought on by the hard times; and the bank had refused to renew the note. Charley Cannon, quite by accident, learned of the plight our state was suffering and asked the bank himself to renew the note; but he, too, was politely turned down, at which time Charley gave his bank an ultimatum; the bank could either renew the notes, or Charley would pull that much out of their bank to make the note good himself. Needless to say, the bank renewed their note with The Great State of North Carolina (and to this day The Great State of North Carolina has yet to default on a note that was due, thanks to Mr Charley Cannon, but I need to confirm this).

At the time, Kannapolis had not yet been incorporated (not until December 11, 1984, at which time it immediately became the sixteenth largest city in North Carolina), which meant there were no elected town officials to take issue with the edicts set forth by the owners of the mill, and as well, no town ordinances; but then there were not any town taxes either which seemed to make it all work out somehow. Just as the people who live in Washington, D C, look to The Congress of The United States for their local governing laws, the people of Kannapolis had to rely, from time to time, on the legislators for The Great State of North Carolina for some governing ordinances.

Some years back, one of my uncles thought this was not quite right, because the local legislator was spending little time in Raleigh working for the benefit of the local folk, but lobbying for the advancement of the mill and its owners. My uncle, armed only with a law degree, and unbounded courage, announced for, and ran for, The Cabarrus County Seat in the state legislature against what must have surely been incredulous odds. His opponent was known to have the full support of Charles A Cannon (who, at that time, was in effect, the mill), was serving his tenth term in that seat, and had been The Speaker of The House of Representatives one of those terms. To make matters worse, it is said the publisher of The Kannapolis INDEPENDENT was ordered to ban my uncle’s name from his newspaper because he was a ‘controversial’ figure, in large part, because the principal stockholder of that newspaper was married to one of Charley Cannon’s daughters.

The vote came out in a dead heat; and in the recount my uncle came out the winner by only a few votes, and served his one term with the dignity and zeal of a young lion. Also did not help matters that Charley had hand picked another man who he backed to the hilt, eventually causing my uncle to not be re-elected; in large part, because the good people of Kannapolis did not give a tinker’s damn where their laws came from.

Some twenty miles or so to the south of Kannapolis, on Highway 29, another town was flourishing that was known as Charlotte, namesake of a hoity-toity lady from England, that was quickly becoming the trade and distribution center for the southern piedmont section of the state. The railroad that headed north and south junctured there with its counterpart that had wound its way around the southern end of The Appalachian Mountain Range; and U S Highway 29 that had found its way from Washington, D C, came through and continued south through Atlanta. Highway 29 became known locally as Tryon Street, named after the first English Governor for North Carolina, who had lived regally many years before in a tiny little castle in New Bern, on the Albemarle Sound, protected from Atlantic gales by the lower outer banks at the coast.

Tryon Street became what would have been called Main Street in any other southern town, where most of the banks had either placed their home office branch, or maintained a branch; and at its intersection with Trade Street, The Square was formed, and the town burgeoned both east and west. It was in that tranquil little berg that I was born, in the late summer of ’40, just before first light; a Wednesday’s child, which as one poet put it, was to mean from the very beginning, I was destined to be, “…. a child of woe”.

For the obvious reasons I am glad I cannot remember the countless times I relieved myself in my white pinned cotton diapers, but time passed, and shortly after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and America’s entry into World War II; the old FORD Car Assembly plant on Statesville Avenue was converted into a huge quartermaster depot. Mom found and took a job working in the depot, where everything from boots and socks, to typewriters and paper, were stocked and stored to be shipped to military posts all over the world for the giant war effort.

My mother’s kid sister had married her childhood sweetheart by then, and they had a healthy son some seven months younger than me. My aunt took care of my cousin and me, and attended to the chores of housekeeping while my uncle worked in The Arrowwood Complex just south of Charlotte, where shells for the guns of U S Navy war ships were manufactured. Story has it my uncle tried repeatedly to join The Navy, but was turned down each time because of an inner ear problem; and my dad was somewhere in Europe doing his part to win the war: But all in all, we were a happy enough family who lived in a white frame house with indoor plumbing and toilet on Onslow Drive in Charlotte.

My glimpses into those early years do not count for much, but for what it is worth, the very first thing I can remember was lying in an old upholstered chair that was so ragged it was kept in the kitchen, clearly able to see my feet were not extending past the outward edge of the chair meaning I could not have been any more than a yard high; and having to awaken to my discontent only to see my mother’s backside standing at the kitchen sink, presumably preparing our morning meal, silhouetted upon a dark window as the sun had obviously not come up yet. To save my life, even then, I could not understand why I could not have been allowed to remain in our warm bed until our breakfast was ready; for even Carl Sagan, in his precedent setting PBS Series, “Cosmos”, showed us his first remembrance was a hazy view he had looking down the length of the dining table itself that was already set, as if he had been the first to arrive for the meal (which meant he could not have been much more than a yard high); but then I was a Wednesday Child.

Seems to me I heard a soundbyte one time claiming ages one through three was pretty much when the personality was formulated, and by the time two more years have been tallied the die has been cast. In my case the first three years had been as good as any other kid who was going through war times without his dad at home. What is perfectly clear is there is not an apparition of any kind in my past that leads me to believe my dear, dear aunt did not ever treat me with any less regard then her own son; because what is just as certain is my uncle was a big enough man to give me any less attention than he gave his own son. The moral of this part of the tale is about the time the world found out how a child’s personality was formed, was about the same time the world figured out that up until that point in time grown ups, for the most part, thought of wee children as nothing more than an after thought, and pretty much ignored them, not believing they were capable of understanding much since the words being said had very little, if any, meaning or significance.

The reality is mom’s life had not been so idyllic either, as her mom had died as a result of a ruptured appendicitis while my mom was still in her teens. The problem was my mom had had to forsake all other plans she might have had of her own, and take on the mantle of guardian, cook, nurse maid, mom and everything else, for her four younger siblings while maintaining her job in the mill so they would have a place to live; seeing as how her dad had not been able to bear life without his beautiful lady, and fled to yankee land leaving all the kids and problems with his eldest daughter.

Mom saw to it her three sisters and brother all got through to the age they could either, (a) go to work in the mill, or, (b) join The United States Marine Corps, as my Uncle Paul did, for I heard it said he lied about his age giving him the privilege to do so. While an attractive enough woman, my mom had had to live a totally unfulfilled submissive life, as there were few modern conveniences in the nineteen thirties; meaning life must have been tough working for the mill, and living in one of those small white frame mill houses that was heated with a coal burning pot belly stove; and since there was no indoor plumbing, one required a trip to a drafty two-holer outhouse in the back yard in order to relieve one’s self.

While there were no doubt many times when I truly must have missed my dad, there is just as little doubt that I did not know what he was doing in Europe, which made it all the more easier to romp about with my younger cousin knowing we were two little cubs who were going to be all right. Looking back it still surprises me to realize how sure I had already become by then of several factors in my life, for there was never any doubt who was running the show as far as me and my younger cousin was concerned, as I can still remember my coup-de-maitre; and finding out all I had to do was look him in the eye, and talk him into putting his cherries into my bowl; and that was back when fruit cocktail many times ran red with huge bountiful luscious halves of cherries. The second matter was there was never, ever, an instant’s concern but that my old man was not personally going to take care of that skirmish in Europe.

My most recurring memory from those early days remain the excitement brought on each time we went to the movies, my mom and me, as we were always big on going to the movies. The Plaza Theater, a neighborhood cinema only some five or six blocks away, was convenient enough for us to walk, and mom and me attended often, as I have yet to see a Clark Gable movie or a Cary Grant movie of that vintage era where the events that unfolded on the screen did not somehow seem vaguely familiar, and orderly; for I can just as easily remember being scolded for getting too fidgety when the mushy scenes lasted too long. Any restlessness was always brought to a halt when newsreels began showing scenes of the war effort, as mom and me looked intently to see if we could see my dad on the big screen. Mother was never quite sure she had ever seen dad, but unlike her, I was sure I had seen him many times in some heroic scene, for there was never any doubt on my part but that my old man was going to personally shoot that son-of-a-bitch Adolf Hitler.

At long last The Atomic Age was ushered in, when within the twinkling of an eye, the people of Hiroshima, and then Nagasaki, were startled to imagine the B-29 that had just flown over those beautiful mornings had dropped a bomb that was so powerful the people must have thought the sun had fallen on them. What had happened, as we all now know, was a fireball of some one million degrees or so, give or take a couple hundred thousand degrees, vaporized them, and their cities at Ground Zero; melted the flesh, leaving only the bones remaining of those persons in the next perimeter, and making most of those poor bastards left in the next perimeter in a total state of despair, wishing they, too, had perished; as the last war ever to be, came abruptly to its end.

A few days later Japan gave notice they would surrender, without conditions, meaning on my fifth birthday, August 14, 1945, World War II ended; and the first baby of a new booming generation was born.