Dear Little Lady Love

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bear with me as I make mention of a quote by
Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori in a TIME Magazine article appearing on page 6 in the July 17, 2006, edition. Is belief in Jesus the only way to get to heaven? was her poser. Her answer, and this is dictum, "We who practice the Christian tradition understand him as our vehicle to the divine. But for us to assume God could not act in other ways is, I think, to put God in an awfully small box."

This is pure conjecture on my part, but this just may be another factor why membership in the Anglican Church of America - The Episcopal Church - slid from 3.5 million in 2000, to something like 2.4 million by 2010.

From my new found friends at The Chateau Apartments a foursome was formed that played golf most Saturday Morning’s that next Spring and Summer and early Fall, with the only exceptions being an unusually rainy, or blustery, or snowy day. Bob Bowen had not yet married, but had already been dubbed ‘Big Time’, because of his unrelenting drive to someday run one of the Fortune 500 Company’s of America. Garth Bloxam harbored no such grandiose ideas, but was a short, stocky, guy who could have played the stunt double of Louie DePalma (sp?), the Danny DeVito role in TAXI, that brought him fortune and fame; for he was every bit as conniving, and as quick in wit, as the scoundrel himself. Jenks (Jerry Jenkins), our resident manager, (whose wife Pat was one of the all time great cooks) was a bass player, and vocalist, of note, in one of the most popular bands in our area, played all the larger clubs; and bringing Jenks back to mind, I can hear echoes of him singing ‘Me and Mrs Jones’, right now.

Jenks and Garth always finished their rounds in the 70’s, and depending on who felt best that day, usually won the match with either Big Time, or me, as his partner; as Bob and me could, on occasion, halve a hole for our team, which was as good as a win, in our way of thinking. The teams were usually settled the night before in The Jenkins’ apartment after a bountiful meal, many drinks, and a lot of boasting, as we all became special friends. Several times during those next few years we made an all day excursion to Pinehurst, North Carolina, to play their famed #2, and another of the other four before making our drive back to Charlotte.

Now as it happens, Jerry and Pat had become acquainted with Ronald and Linda, the owners of The Wiener King Corporation; because Pat was a hair dresser of wide repute, and had become the stylist’s of the lady’s head of hair, who along with her husband, owned the hot dog operations, and parent company. During dinner one night, in one of Charlotte’s better restaurants, Jenks and Pat bought the first franchise; and being as good of friends as we were, I had eaten there many times, and enjoyed their all-beef hot dogs covered with slaw and ketchup, which is the way I have always preferred my dogs.

I later learned the whole story; and what had happened was Ronald had been a journeyman plumber in Alabama; had made a sizeable profit from refurbishing, and then reselling, two small apartment buildings he and his wife bought. Following in his cousin's footsteps, who had set up a successful Pasquale's Pizza franchise somewhere in the south; Ronald and Linda moved to my hometown, and set up a Pasquale's Pizza on a side street that leads into a K-Mart Shopping Center on Freedom Drive; and were doing well for themselves.

Ronald was soon approached by an investor who had built five Minnie Pearl Chicken fast food outlets that were all now vacant buildings, as the management team for Minnie Pearl had faltered, and bankrupted; leaving empty buildings on some of our city's busiest thoroughfares. Ronald was given an offer to lease all five locations, at a cut rate price for five years, with options for many more years. As part of that agreement, the first years rent would, as well, pay for all the equipment in each store, which included deep fat fryers, chairs and tables, and essentially most of what he would need to open his new restaurants serving whatever he chose to sell.

Did not take long for Ronald and Linda to start imagining they had won 'The Irish Sweepstakes'; and began to make plans to set their own fast food company up selling Bar-B-Q, until, as story has it, Linda suggested, in her exaggerated Alabama drawl, they sell hot dogs. Investigating the viability of selling 'hot dogs' they found another fast food operation in our part of the south was selling large volumes of franks with little, or no, advertising or promotion. The decision made,

Ronald and Linda set out to market hot dogs, as never before, anywhere in the south; and subsequently set up "Wiener King", billing their food as, "The World's Greatest Hot Dogs".

There were originally five "Wiener King" fast food outlets in Charlotte; and virtually hour of every day one would hear a radio ad, over most local radio stations, extolling the goodness of their dogs, as their ditty quickly had become a familiar one.

I had stopped in Miller's Office Supply one day for a brief visit with the grand old man, and was surprised to see red SOLD signs decorate what seemed like every other desk, and chair, and table, in their large showroom on East Morehead Street. Miller's sales manager was still tallying the bill, wearing a pretentious smile as big as any you ever saw, when I stopped at his office door to ask who had tried to buy him out that day.

"Wiener King", was Ed White's cry, with him barely looking up, realizing it was me, and announcing delivery was scheduled within only another day or two; and then went on to inform me the hot dog operations company was going to begin moving into their new building, as soon as their new furniture was delivered, as the finishing touches were being completed, as we were speaking. It occurred to me then, and there, the time had finally come for me to meet the man who owned this up and coming fast food operation; and that event would take place within only a few days.

The very next week I called on the owner in the small metal building he had built at the rear of Store #1 which was on Freedom Drive, directly across the street from the K-Mart Shopping Center. As expected, the furniture looked a whole lot better in his new office than it had sitting on Miller's showroom floor: And after acknowledging my presence, and hearing the reason for my visit, the receptionist buzzed the man who owned the company.

Ronald Howard was a tall and rather handsome fellow, had a full head of dark hair, but yet had a mysterious air about him, as he wore tinted glasses to protect his weak eyes from glare; and from our very first meeting, the only person I would want to compare him to would be the King of Rock and Roll himself, Elvis Presley.

Being a man of few words, Ronald wanted to know how he could help me; as he listened a hell of a lot more than he talked. I first told of being friends with Jerry and Pat Jenkins: That I had eaten, and enjoyed the food, in their Wiener King in the Cotswold area many times; That I was in the real estate business: And that I would appreciate having a few minutes to find out how I could help him, if he could spare the time.

We sat and talked for a few minutes, which gave me the chance to explain I would appreciate the opportunity to help him locate sites for other restaurants. Ronald responded by saying he had already formed a real estate division; but added his company was growing by leaps and bounds, and that the time may yet come when he might be able to use my help.

Our first meeting proved to be cordial and friendly; and I left with a promise to visit again when I thought I had a site that would work as a Wiener King outlet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Let’s suppose you are a happily married man,
have enjoyed some success in the workplace,
and live modestly, but comfortably.
And let’s reckon you are an empty nester, as your children,
who have all been a joy for you and your wife all their lives,
have moved out, and doing pretty well for themselves.
And let’s further assume you arrive home from the grind one day,
and find your eldest son there who tells of being in the mood
for a change of scenery for a few days.
In no time at all it becomes real clear to you that this model son
has something weighing heavily on his mind;
and when the time seems right, you ask what it is all about.
And let’s surmise he expresses his doubts
about whether his thoughts are valid or not;
but seeing as how you have asked,
he wants to know what you think.
Seems he thinks he has fallen in love with a wonderful woman,
has given some thought to proposing marriage;
but only a few nights before, while having drinks
with her and some of her old friends, statements are made,
in the most nonchalant way, that leave no doubt
in his mind but that she is bi;
and worse yet, with a shrug of her shoulder and glance in her eye, she sloughs it off as if that should not have any bearing
on their relationship, at all.
Question being, what advice would you give?
Now if you think this is just one of those inconsequential matters,
and is no big deal; like his mom, thanks to the pill,
was fucking your brains out your senior years in college,
and smoked a little pot; then so be it.
But after the kids came along, she took advantage of every opportunity that came along to denounce promiscuity and drug use, with some apparent success;
as neither was ever an issue in your home.
Then you need to read my book!
Or do you straightaway make it clear you think
he should drop this woman like the proverbial Atomic Bomb?

Many months had passed since the first contact with The Ramsey Family in Statesville; but at long last an option was signed in favor of Phillips Development Corporation, who would pay for their land within ninety days after zoning could be changed through the Iredell County Commission, which would allow apartments to be constructed on the property. The real problem was Phillips was suffering the same dilemma The Ervin Company had been plagued with, and was sustaining colossal cost overruns on virtually ever project they had underway, and was in no hurry to speed the process to get the zoning changed. The procedures were slow and painful; and all I could do was hope, and wait like The Ramsey’s, that closing would actually take place, in that they had all decided unanimously to sell; and with the decision made, all wanted to see it through.

The Alexander Estate Property, in north Mecklenburg County, was now my best hope of making sufficient money to keep my company afloat; as the thought of having to once again punch a time clock loomed like a ghost in my thoughts everyday. The good news came in February, ’73, they decided to sell as the old timers were up in years, and like the Ramsey family, wanted to be able to sell their own estates as each saw fit; and agreed to option their property in favor of The Wilson Company, with details to be worked out by their lawyer, John Ingle of Charlotte. John, in two visits satisfied himself, and his clients, all was in order; and the option duly signed which included a sales contract that had a ten year payout with an attractive interest rate. Bill Sutton loaned the company the option amount of $500, which was in all probability John Ingle’s fee, and all that remained was to get Mae Davidson’s signature, the Military Legislative Assistant in Senator Sam’s office in Washington, D C (Tar Hells always referred to Senator Sam Ervin as Senator Sam).

After speaking with Ms Davidson to confirm an appointment time she could meet with me; I took an early morning flight to our Nation’s Capitol, with plans to return on a later flight that same day. Took a taxi from Dulles International to the Senator’s office building, and after being checked out by security, I was allowed to enter and find my way to Senator Sam’s office.

Never will forget my surprise seeing how crowded the office was, as my first impression was the women seemingly outnumbered the men by a ratio of four or five to one. My career, for several years, was successful, in large part, by explaining to prospects how much more efficient their offices would be if everyone in his office had some space; and I simply could not imagine how any office could operate with any efficiency once I saw how many people were in his staff; and then how many more people were crammed into his tiny waiting vestibule in the hope of being able to see someone in his office who would listen to their plea for help they needed.

Miss Davidson and me chatted cheerfully for a few minutes, as she had suggested we wait til a meeting broke up in Senator Sam’s office, which would have to conclude shortly, as The Senate was scheduled to reconvene from lunch in only a matter of minutes. We sat and talked about how I had become involved with her family, until the time came, and went, for Senator Sam to reappear in his outer office, as he usually did; but when that time passed, she knocked gently on his door, and then opened it to find him not there, as there had been no response. Motioning for me to follow her, we stepped into the hall only to see the senator at the far end of the hall standing at the elevator, and then almost immediately stepping out of sight, which was a big disappointment; as I had already expressed my sincere delight in being able to shake his hand. The Senate Watergate Committee would not hold its first meeting until May 17, 1973; and was not drawing any publicity as yet, as no bombshells had been dropped. I personally had not given the matter much thought, thinking the committee’s sole purpose was nothing more than a witch hunt; a ruse dreamed up by the Democrat’s to give Richard Nixon a tough time.

We reentered the senator's outer office to retrieve my briefcase, and then his cavernous private office again, as she obviously had that right; and sat ourselves, as his office afforded the only place where we could sit, and go over the option and contract, and then ask any questions she might have. As she began reading it occurred to me I had seen hundreds of private offices, but never had I seen an office as impressive as the office we were sitting in, for it was huge, and even the senator's desk and chair befitted the giant man in sheer size. His desk, like my Uncle Bedford's had always been, was piled high with stacks of papers and files, just as most lawyers desks are, so only he would know where to look for anything he needed. There were six or seven or eight other comfortable sofas and chairs, and two walls were lined with shelves filled with books. The other two walls were covered with memorabilia denoting his long and prestigious career, which included dozens of signed photographs of every president, leaders of Congress, celebrities, and leaders in every industry, in our state and nation; since his first term began many years before.

I sat directly in front of Miss Davidson so she would not become distracted from the business at hand, answering a question or two as she read. All was well, and she signed all copies in her designated place, as all the other heirs had already signed. I placed the option, and contract, in my briefcase, and gladly accepted Miss Davidson's offer to show me around the Capitol building, as I still had several hours before having to board my return flight to Charlotte. I stowed my briefcase safely under her desk, and followed her out into the long hall Senator Ervin had walked only twenty minutes before.

It seemed surreal to be reading the names of the senators on the doors as we passed, and as one might expect, I began to feel the aura of power that emanated from the building we were in. We arrived at the elevator where only moments later we entered the crowded carriage, told the operator where we wanted to go, but had just stopped at another floor when another light lit up on the panel the operator uses. The sequence of the buzz alerted everyone, except me, it was the summons of a senator, and as the elevator began moving in the opposite direction Miss Davidson explained that a summons by a senator is always answered first, and as the door opened we saw Senator Edward Brooke of Massachusetts, who stepped into our midst. As the elevator doors began to close, the senator, in much the same way each senator probably always does, apologized for the inconvenience he was causing us, and smiling gingerly, turned to face the door as he had been delivered to his designated floor in only a matter of a few seconds. The carriage began to buzz the moment we began to move again, as everyone seemed to have some remark to make; causing one lady in particular to make mention of some ongoing situation taking place in the senator's office.

The only thing I remember about the tour of the Capitol that day was standing under the rotunda dome; and staring upward, trying to get my mind around the reality I was now at least, $40,000 richer.

That very night was maybe even more memorable for me; in that Joyce fixed me up with a woman you will only ever know as Ain't; as her moniker comes from the Four Tops tune, Ain't No Woman Like the One I've Got.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Only a handful of people, other than the River Rats,
ever met Ain’t, for no other reason than
Jimmy and Joyce and Ain’t and Me
were always content doing our own thing. ….
Jimmy’s bethrothal, and Ain’t’s departure,
happened virtually within days of each other. ….
Jimmy never once even hinted he was going to propose:
but losing that daily double cost me 30 pounds
before I could snap out of it. ….
Adding insult to injury, every once in a while
I would overhear a remark implying I was queer for my boy.

Subsequent calls to the small Wiener King office building behind store #1 on Freedom Drive prompted an invitation from Ronald Howard for me to attend Wiener King’s anniversary party in their new building on a bright fall Sunday afternoon; and I accepted truly believing someday I would yet do some business with Ron’s fledgling, but growing company: And the event was made even more pleasant by the simple fact the champagne, shrimp, and hors d’oeuvres were plentiful. The new computer was proudly displayed enabling Mrs Neel to explain how its use was stream-lining procedures, while the rest of the management staff duly extolled the progress the company was making to anyone who was obliged to ask, or willing to listen. Mrs Linda Howard was making her contribution seeing as how she was, in my way of thinking, always the true driving force behind the company’s successes anyway.

Ronald’s private secretary was a pretty girl, and much of my afternoon was spent taking up as much of her time as she could allow, until at last, the final hour prevailed, and the party broke up. I had already asked Ron’s secretary to have dinner with me, and she accepted, but conditioned her acceptance, saying she would have to wait until everyone else had left before we could make our exit. Our surprise came when Ron and Linda invited us to join them for dinner in their home, as their son Michael was home alone.

The Howard’s were still living in the Coulwood section at the time, and we arrived there to have ham and eggs and grits and coffee and all those things that taste so good after having eaten one’s fill of shrimp. Ron had clearly been overwhelmed during the reception, as the room had been abuzz all afternoon with loud praise from vendor, and banker alike, who were openly expressing their joy in being associated with a firm that had more than doubled in size from the original five locations in only its second year. In the few years that followed I never once saw Ron have any more than one drink, at any gathering; but because of having made one too many champagne toasts earlier that day, Ron turned in soon after dinner. My date and me left soon after to go to her apartment, to watch the remainder of the movie we had begun watching at, The Howards’.

My reckless attempt to set up a company that would specialize in leasing office space remained a sore spot with me, so I chose to continue seeking out plots of land that would appeal to people who were interested in investing in raw land, and began again to contact owners of record for land close by. There just never has been any doubt how well I would have done, had I continued in that phase of the business that was working so well for me; but for some reason I was continuing to be drawn back to Wiener King.

During my sojourn at Blythe Properties I negotiated a lease with Ron for a company Wiener King outlet on a piece of property Blythe owned just across the street from the entrance into their Atando Industrial Park; the site being the northeast corner of Atando Avenue, and North Graham Street.

I had eaten at Jenks Wiener King outlet many times, and eaten many more times in any number of the other hot dog outlets; as I did to the day I moved from my hometown, as I still enjoy an all beef hot dog covered with slaw, some onions, and a hefty strip of ketchup. Had not given the idea much thought during stops on a lunch break; until it finally dawned on me one day, that cash registers sounded just as good ringing the sales of hot dogs in a Wiener King, as cash registers do that ring the sales of burgers in a McDonald’s; and that time, after time, after time, the cash register rang as hot dog, after hot dog, after hot dog; had been prepared to the individual taste of their discriminating clientele. Another point became just as clear as well; and that was cash registers sounded just as good at three in the afternoon as they did at nine that night; and visions of sugarplums began to dance in my head.

I had already dealt with Ron once before, and was aware what some of the favorable parameters would have to be before he could make a decision about how good a site would be; and I became more and more anxious to work with him as Wiener King outlets were now sprouting in other little towns close by.

What was even more encouraging was my friendship with Ron and Linda was beginning to flourish because I was invited to dinner, along with The Jenkins, and the dude who brokered all of his advertising, to The Howards' new palatial home in Mooresville.

Had imagined such a special occasion would warrant me phoning Ain't, who came along; and we made the ride that night up I-77 in the back seat of Jenks and Pat's new Mark IV. Only having to make two turns off the interstate that night we predictably finally turned in through the gates denoting we had arrived at "Wiener King Farm". The driveway wound around through the pines, and hardwoods, for what was probably a good quarter mile, in that the farm was said to contain 119 acres; as the drive had been laid out to plans drawn by another builder of note, who had also gone tits up, as there were vacant warehouses, apartments, and office buildings all over the country by now. The driveway continued to rise ever so slightly until we finally arrived at the crest of a knoll that was crowned by a sprawling home that was said to contain some seventy-five hundred square feet of living space.

The surrounding grounds adjacent to the rambling home reminded me of a fairway on a posh country club golf course as the grass was manicured to a tee, and was watered by a sprinkler system that had as its source water from one of the back water shallow coves of Lake Norman, which was one of the property's boundary lines. The garage at the side entrance housed a vintage Rolls Royce, as well as 'His', and 'Hers', individual Mark IV's.

The interior was spacious and opulent, if for no other reason that the rooms were extravagantly large, and furnished with special care at the advice of an interior decorator. The den and bar downstairs was massive, which made their television, with its four foot concave shaped screen seem ordinary in comparison. Our dinner, served in the main dining room that night, did not even have to be interrupted as on this night, because the serving person was summoned, time after time, by Ron simply depressing a button concealed in the floor at the head of the table; which caused us all to propose a toast, savoring the wine we were enjoying with dinner.

After dinner drinks were served under the patio breezeway at the rear of the home, where we sat overlooking the lighted pool that looked almost as large as the screen in a drive in theater, which in this case, emblazoned a gigantic Wiener King Logo that covered much of its bottom. The tennis courts were off to the left of the patio and pool, and the stables now under construction, were about two hundred yards away to the right for the obvious reasons; as The Howard's had developed a hankering to own some thoroughbred horses.

It was probably a little after ten that evening someone suggested we go to one of the road side taverns close by, in that the joint was said to have a real good country and western band playing that night; and when Linda chimed in her approval, the decision was made, as Ron would have been perfectly content to have stayed home this night.

The band was truly above average, and the heat given off by all the hot bodies inside made the booze go down even easier, until at last closing time neared. Ain't and me had already excused ourselves, some ten minutes earlier, on the pretense we were going to get some fresh air, and were standing on the dark side of Jenks car which, as luck would have it, was only some twenty five or thirty feet from the front door. We had just smoked a joint, was beginning to play a little bit of grab ass, as it had been a grand night, and the kid farmed out to her folks; all of which meant, we were going to spend a night filled with bliss, as she was decidedly in a Ken Wilson mood this night.

Our moment of nirvana came to a screeching halt when we heard a commotion coming from folks standing at the front door of the club. Did not believe for a minute the trouble had anything to do with us, and paid little attention to what was going on as Ain't and me had walked out barely ten minutes earlier, through the bouncers, who had already taken their stations at the front door making sure everyone poured their drinks into disposable cups; and seeing as how they were as large as the front line of the Baltimore Colts meant any trouble would have been short lived anyway.

What happened was Linda Howard believed one of the good old boys exiting the cabaret in the same mass of people she was in, had not unknowingly, patted her on the fanny, as it had happened a second time by then; so in only a mouthful of words she dressed the country bumpkin down, which in most cases would have sufficed. The good old boy had not taken kindly to being scolded like some school boy, especially with his girl friend by his side standing by his side, and in the midst of other friends; so in an effort to make him look like a bigger man than he was, bleated out an expletive.

It was quickly turning into one of those moments when a person finds out what his friends are made of, because in the next moment Ron took his spectacles off, handed them to Linda, and turned to walk back into the throng of local yokels who were now standing at the front door, who were by now imagining they were about to see a scuffle. Instantly realizing my moment in time had arrived, I rushed around the front of Jenks car in an effort to reach the front door as quickly as I could, because that was before the days of guns, and clubs, and knives, and brass knucks; because the code of the good old boys back then, was to take your man down with your bare fists. The odds were I might have a loose tooth, or two, or God forbid, maybe even lose one; because the only thing that was a dead lock bet was the owner, and his goons, was not going to let this turn into an all out war out of fear he might lose his ABC License to serve beer and brown bottle booze. The second sure bet was within only a matter of months I would have been a Wiener King Vice President, for having gone back-to-back that night with the Chariman of The Board, Mr Ronald W Howard.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It’s all kinda relative, ain’t it!
In all my travels, a genteel lady, has never once rambled
in conversation with me, about any rumors she had heard
of the latest episodes or exploits of some gay man;
or any woman, ever, ramble on about any rumors she had heard
of the latest episodes or exploits of some gay lady.

Sadly, it is women of questionable genderage, who receive
some kind of sadistic pleasure, when broaching the subject
when in conversation with some men, imagining themselves
to have to be regarded as sacrosanct creatures; above reproach.

Seeing as how it’s all relative; don’t you think it would be alright,
especially in this 21st century, to interrupt her to ask if
she read a “Cosmopolitan” article some years back,
telling us one out of five women, taking the survey,
had checked the box indicating
they had had a homosexual experience;
and ask her if that means one out of five women are gay!
There is no reason to believe she will answer, but what you can bet on, is she will never broach the subject in mixed company again.

Many of the laws enacted by the various governing bodies in

America seemingly do little to benefit the common man as much as the set of ordinances that must be complied with before a lender can foreclose on any man’s real property. It is a ‘due process’ that requires many months; and the Sugar Mountain Music Camp bore quiet testimony to that fact.

Seeing the site again gave me the eerie feeling of having arrived in a proverbial ‘ghost town’, as I crossed the bridge over the Elk River, which had begun its meanderings somewhere up on Sugar Mountain, and then wound its way down through Norwood Hollow, just on the other side of the foot of the ridge (up until the late 1950’s, the bridge had been part of the state road connecting Banner Elk to Highway 105 before Highway 184 was built). The grounds did not look like they had been tended to in maybe as much as a year, as the split rail fencing cordoning off the old farm house were in great disrepair, and many railings had fallen. Bottles and cans and paper and rubbish littered the entire area, and strewn in and through the grass and weeds that had grown so tall by now they laid over on their side from their own weight.

The music camp property consisted of some 17½ acres that included an old farm house that had been originally built in the late 1800’s; and story had it, when the original occupants lived there, all that had to be done to gather a mess of fish for a meal was to have a couple kids hold a piece of mesh fencing in the river, only four or five feet wide at that point, and have another kid walk up the river bank some six or seven or eight feet for each nice sized trout needed for the meal, and then begin to thrash the water while wading back toward those who were manning the net.

There was a new 2,500 square foot building sitting on the side of the ridge that featured a 14’ high glass front that afforded a full view of the apex of Beech Mountain towering majestically not many miles away on the other side of Banner Elk. Two duplex buildings that would house comfortably sixteen of the camps future virtuosos were at the rear of the property just behind the rehearsal building, but not in sight as they were hidden from view by many huge trees.

A private drive roved through the property twisting its way up the side of the ridge, before ultimately coming to its end at the home Tom and Marye Brigham had built on the crest of the ridge affording them a full view of the Sugar Mountain Resort Complex. The main lodge was the central focal point of their view; and sprawled out in between the lodge, and them, was the golf course that would yet prove to be a challenge, as it coiled and rambled its way through outcroppings of rocks and around knolls and trees. The tennis facility had already received much publicity for the innovative use of the inflated bubble that would enable tennis buffs to play year round. The crowning achievement was naturally the ski runs that were now nothing more than strips of green slivering down the mountain side, awaiting the snow that would cover them this winter. The site was awe inspiring, and reminded me of perhaps looking at the Mona Lisa the first time; for what was laid out before me was just as impossible to take in, in just one viewing.

Dr Tom Brigham had taken his shingle down, having abandoned his dental practice in Alabama; and moved with his family, to our North Carolina mountains years before, to develop the ski facility on Beech Mountain; which was later sold to a man named Grover Robbins, who formed Carolina Caribbean Corporation. It was Grover Robbins, who almost single handedly developed the mountain into one of the premier resorts in the south offering year round activities; and had originally planned to develop a Caribbean Island into the same type resort status, giving members the option of spending time at either resort, any time of the year.

With the money The Brigham’s realized from that sale they teamed with Chessie and George McRae, whose family had owned the bulk of the mountain for many years; and had given a big chunk of land to Lees McRae College, in Banner Elk, in 1900. The Brigham’s and McRae’s then brought in a man from Raleigh who had a boat load of money; who I never once heard referred to, by any other name, than General Alexander. Together, the group formed the Sugar Mountain Company; as they all had dreams of doing the same thing on their mountain, that Grover Robbins was doing on Beech Mountain, and develop ski slopes (think I remember seeing somewhere Sugar had the longest ski runs, and most vertical drop of any slope east of the Rockies), a golf course, and tennis facility.

The Sugar Mountain Company was struggling along, but about the time everything was getting underway, they were approached by the heirs to the 30 acres, where the Sugar Mountain Music Camp was later built, who wanted to sell their property. Story has it, The Sugar Mountain Company did not think the property was a great buy, even though the price was said to be reasonable; but when they found out the heirs were going to convert the old two story farm house on the property into a fish camp restaurant, the Brigham's took a change of heart, and bought the property themselves.

Tom and Marye rebuilt the two story farm house, and improved the grounds to make it a setting of placid tranquility, with the Elk River gurgling by only a hundred feet or so away from their front door. The Brigham's then had a large pond bed dug only a few feet in front of the right side of their front porch, and with mortar and stone dammed it to hold the water that flowed into the pond through heavy plastic piping that had as its source the river some couple hundred feet upstream, providing a constant flow of fresh water that would allow trout, indigenous to the area, to thrive and flourish.

Weeds and litter now covered everything, and the tubing had long since come undone to the fish pond, as its bottom was now dry and barren. The only bright spot in the whole setting was a primitive log cabin that sat on its own half acre just to the left of the bridge as you entered the property,that had as one of its boundary lines, the center of the Elk River.

Marye Brigham's father had passed away not many years before, leaving her heir to much antique furniture her dad had collected, over the years, when he worked as a mortgage banker.

Tom and Marye both liked to tell the story of being told about a log cabin in Rutherford County; and of traveling to see it that first time. They told of driving in a four wheel drive vehicle til they could go no further, and then finally walking the last couple hundred yards or so, before entering a clearing where the two story cabin was standing. Pictures taken that day showed the sorry state the cabin was in, but which still stood proud, and sturdy, as each log had been carved from a full tree; meaning each timber was in as good of condition as it had been when the cabin was originally constructed, in what was believed, more than a hundred years before. The inside view was a different story, as the upper inside story flooring was said to have swayed in like the back of an old hump back mare. They agreed to buy it on the spot, and soon had the cabin dismantled, and moved to a half acre they had taken out of the heart of their 30 acres, just to the left of the bridge. The left rear corner of the cabin was less than ten feet away from a fifteen foot deep gorge that had been chiseled through by the force of the Elk River, which was about some twenty feet wide at that point, where some few trout still managed to survive, among the many rocks, both large and small, in its river bed.

Inside new support timbers once again braced the upstairs flooring, and under the stair way leading upstairs they built in a small kitchenette with its miniature stove, refrigerator and sink. In the lower right rear corner of the cabin, at the foot of the stairs, they built in a complete bathroom; and in the main room, reconstructed the fireplace using its original stone, and the same iron fittings that had held the rods that at one time held the pots, of so many years before, enabling the original lady of the house to prepare her meals, and warm the water for winter time baths.

Upstairs, the larger of the two bedrooms also had a fireplace that emitted light and warmth, and a crackling sound which would yet prove to allow anyone who slept there to slumber in peace, after first being lulled to sleep by the sound of the water sloshing over the many rocks in the river bed outside. During a usual quiet night, those sounds would soon prove to range anywhere from the tone of a single flute and timbrel; and depending on how much rain had fallen, to what one would hear sitting on the first row, front and center, listening to a symphony orchestra perform the garish and overwhelming 1812 Overture by Tchaikovky. Anyway you look at it, Frank Lloyd Wright had spent the night in a setting just like this one; as that could have been the only way he could have envisioned, "Falling Water".

CHAPTER TWENTY

Some few years back I sold a motor coach to a man who had just
retired from having put thirty years in as a guard in an out of state
penitentiary; and as it happens, he had pressed my Sales Manager
for delivery the next day.

Having checked out of the motel he had stayed in for several days he arrived earlier than expected which meant he had some time to kill before his coach would be ready to go, and seeing as how I was not ‘up’ we adjourned to my office which gave me the chance to ask him about a matter I had always had some curiosity about. Taking advantage of the friendly rapport we had established when working out the details of his purchase I asked him ‘what it was really like doing hard time in a state penitentiary - was it really as bad as rumors one would hear from time to time’; remembering all to well I could not imagine my time at Parris Island was going to be as tough as it was, not believing for a minute all the tall tales I had heard about being a boot at PI were going to turn out to be true.

It just never once occurred to me my new found friend would have any reservations about answering my query until it became clear he was pondering whether he should. Being a career salesman I sat there in silence knowing the first person who spoke was going to come out second best; and as expected, he began to speak.

In only a matter of minutes he told me all I wanted to know; and the only analogy I am going to make is what the poet Robert Burns wrote in a dirge he wrote in 1785, "Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn".

Thanksgiving Day was tough enough; but Christmas Day was even more daunting without my dad there. I began the day still haunted for having lashed out so critically the Christmas before; and spent most of the day wishing dad could have seen what a gigantic difference the past year had made in my life, because if he could have, he would have better understood what I was trying to tell him. By the time the sun went down that Christmas Day I found solace in imagining he got a real big kick watching me have to spend both Thanksgiving and Christmas Day with my mom; knowing he knew I would have much preferred to have spent the day a fresh recruit just off the bus at Parris Island.

The days had long since passed when I would just happen to be riding by friends apartments where I knew the stuff was invariably being smoked, and stop in pretending it had only been a second thought, and take some tokes. Having done so, like Jekyll and Hyde, I would emerge a new person, having discovered I had the power to bewitch and enthrall my audience using my wit, and one liners, on timely matters, that caused my friends and me to howl in riotous laughter so intense that many times tears rolled down all our faces.

The reality is I liked the new me; for I discovered there was a force within I never knew was there before. Within no more time than it would take for Iron Butterfly to perform, IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA, I was transformed into an entirely different person, a person filled with euphoria that was the polar opposite of any paranoia I had ever felt before, for smoke filled me with, "delusions of grandeur, strenuously defended by the afflicted with apparent logic and reason". (IN-A-GADDA-DA-VIDA turned out to be the best selling album of 1969, reportedly getting its name from one of the groups stoned musicians, in his slurred tongue, telling a friend the name of a piece they had just rehearsed was, IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN).

It is important you bear with me a minute, for there are a whole bunch of people out here who are in for the same rude awakening I had; because anyone who has been smoking reefer five or six or seven days a week for eight or nine or ten years, and find they cannot go a week not doing some smoke without suffering debilitating withdrawal - then they have a serious problem they are going to have to deal with someday - and the sooner that person realizes that - the easier it is going to be for he or she.

Tom and Marye Brigham had by now parlayed their holdings into an even larger piece of the pie; had sole their interest in The Sugar Mountain Resort, which gave them the money to develop The Snow Shoe Mountain Resort in Snow Show, West Virginia. As a result, The Brigham's offered me the log cabin, and its half acre, that was the heart of our complex.

JXQTYPOS had not won The Irish Sweepstakes in the interim; and Cannon could not see any profits to be made owning half a 100+ year old log cabin, leaving me no alternative but to buy on my own; for there was never any doubt but that the cabin was the key to any success a venture on our property would have.

It was in January I discovered the largest piece of property in the hollow at the base of Sugar Mountain contained some five and a half acres, give or take; and Avery County Tax Records attested the owners of record to be J B and Celia Norwood. The Norwood's had lived there all their life, and were offspring of large families who had inhabited the entire valley at one time, as the Norwood family had lent their name to the area as it is still called to this day, Norwood Hollow. J B and his wife worked in Lenoir, North Carolina, and were renting a small place there so they would not have to make the hundred mile round trip each day; as there were many winter days when they could not have made the trip down, and then back up the mountain.

They were plain folk, and good Christian people whose Christianity would not allow them to discuss any business on their Sabbath, as they returned to the hollow each weekend to attend the church where they had been members all of their lives. The Norwood's had modest incomes, and the higher cost of gasoline had caused them to begin talking between themselves about the possibility of selling their small home and land in the hollow, so they could buy a home in Lenoir.

In only a matter of weeks I negotiated a ninety day option for their land and home that included a contract that would give the purchasers another ninety days to close; and again terms of something like ten years to pay out the entire amount were included, as well as a reasonable interest rate of about eight percent.

I was clearly making my mark in the mountains, attested to by the fact the terms of the agreement with my partners in The Sugar Mountain Music Camp Property gave me permission to erect FOR SALE signs on Highway 184 that ran in front of our property; and likewise, the terms with The Norwood's had given me permission to erect like signs on their property as well. In only a matter of weeks 4'x8' FOR SALE signs were erected on both properties; giving notice to visitors turning off Highway 184 into Sugar Mountain, and anyone traveling to Banner Elk and/or Beech Mountain a little further down the highway, that there was a new real estate company open for business in our mountains; THE WILSON COMPANY.

Within only a matter of weeks after I bought my Lincoln, America, and the world, suffered the October, 1973, Oil Crisis; and regular gasoline that had risen to the mid thirty cents range per gallon by then, was costing more every week (barely a year later gasoline was selling for almost sixty cents per gallon). In an effort to save myself the heartbreak of ever having to leave my Mark IV on the roadside, because I had pushed my luck, and run out of gas; I bought a five year old Plymouth Station Wagon as I would have no qualms about leaving it in line, overnight, at the service station four blocks from my mom's house. Having done so meant I had to break out of the sack in order to be there before the service station opened in the mornings; because that was the only way I could be assured of being able to buy five gallons of gas every day; as there were many times during those weeks and months that was all you were allowed to buy - and it was all getting to be pretty depressing.