Dear Little Lady Love

CHAPTER FOUR

With all the love making being done in this world, everyone would almost certainly be shocked back to our senses if we were to ever find out how many times this scenario has taken place.

Let's suppose a girl and a guy make love. And let's suppose the girl was having her period. And let's further suppose she uses a tampon or a napkin, after the fact, and the egg and one of those 'sightless sperm (with its) tiny little tail squiggling madly about' come together, after the fact, while in the tampon or napkin; and the egg starts the process of becoming a person, after the fact, of course; but is soon flushed down the toilet, or placed in a trash can where it soon dries up and withers away.

Nothing would suit me better than to be quoted on this someday; but an egg fertilized in a lab dish is not conception until it implants itself in the warm moist wall of a mother's uterus where it is nurtured, and matures, and eventually drops; a living, breathing person.

Point being, in my way of thinking; no one should have to do hard time, or have any sleepless nights, for doing much needed stem cell research on a fertilized egg in a lab somewhere. Reason being, partial birth abortion, 'currently legal in almost the entire United States', allows a surgeon to, 'deliver the baby's entire body except for the head' out of the mother's vagina, and unwilling to describe the next steps, can then 'insert a suction tube' into the base of the skull, allowing the surgeon to then 'suck the child's brains out, causing the skull to collapse'.

No one on my mother's side of the family had ever attended college up to that point, so I agreed to give it my best shot not believing for a minute the funds would be available because of the time my folks were now missing from work with their individual health problems.

Dad and me had a talk that summer wherein he expressed his real joy in me being accepted into the freshman class of an accredited college. In a rare reflective moment, dad even digressed for a minute about his personal disappointment in not being able to finish his education. Dad, as usual, was sitting in his favorite chair, which was in reality the ratty old chair that had once been kept in the kitchen of the house mom and me had shared with my aunt and uncle during the war, but had been reupholstered years before, and now sported another new covering which presumably made it look more modern.

I never could understand how I always wound up sitting on the sofa for such talks, but there I saw, and like so many other times before, the ground rules for the monumental task my family was about to undertake were now being given in that this was no small matter. Dad proudly exclaimed he and mother were willing to make the sacrifice for me to be able to attend college, and even though I could not expect to live like a 'Rockefeller', the funds would somehow be made available for me to get through; and I sat there knowing our meager bills many times were only paid on my folks respective pay days, but nonetheless paid on time, as our bills were few.

My answers of 'yes sir', 'no sir', and 'thanks, dad' were all followed by 'see ya later, dad'; only moments before I walked out the same front door I had been walking out of for thirteen years. The problem I was having was the only difference was the cars outside were of a newer vintage, and the shrubs and trees had grown larger. II

Joe and Newk matriculated into N C State (The University of North Carolina at Raleigh), and I enrolled into WJC (Wingate Junior College, now Wingate University, namesake of the town where it is located); in large part because Ricky was entering the freshman class there, and had gone to the trouble to tell me about.

WJC was only some twenty five miles from home, as it was only five miles or so further east past Monroe, North Carolina, on U S Highway 74, which is known as Independence Boulevard in Charlotte. Dr Budd Smith was the new president of WJC, and had dutifully begun his campaign to increase the enrollment, and presumably, the status of our college; which is surely the only reason I was found acceptable in that my high school ranking put me in the bottom 2% of my graduating class.

On a beautiful fall afternoon in 1959 dad and me stood in the registration line awaiting our turn to ante up our $410 for my first semester, which seemed fair enough in that the fee included three hots, and a cot. The problem I was having that day was the fact my folks had had to borrow every brownie of the money from dad's Postal Credit Union; as dad had gone to work for the post office shortly after his heart attack.

That freshman year I was housed in a small private room in "The Cave", which in reality was nothing more than an old Army barracks building that had been moved to our campus from the old Camp Sutton Army Base built in Monroe during WWII; and as the luck of the draw would have it, my name was tallied out to the side of the number of a private room that was so small there was hardly room to turn around in as the room was only as wide as the single bed that was up against the outside wall where the window was. Admittedly, there had been some concern about winding up in a dorm room with a podunkville nerd's nerd; even though I had had high hopes of having a room mate in the belief input from another source might be beneficial for me, by being able to better understand what someone else really thinks about world affairs, or the last movie they saw. After giving it more thought, the best bet would be they gave me a single room in the belief my bad habits would not deter another student who would presumably be shooting for better grades than me.

The Cave Man I commissioned Joe to draw, and cut out of a thin gauge particle board, naturally caught everyone's eye as they passed the open door of my room on their way to exit the building. The two foot tall Neanderthal man had blood shot eyes barely half open, giving the impression he had already been on a week long binge. Draped over one shoulder, and his paunch gut, was the sagging furry skin of some poor critter that might have just as well died of old age, but now greatly enhanced the caveman's comatose appearance; and the club in his right hand would have rested on the ground had he not been tacked to the wall. In his left hand was a dark brown bottle of some sort of spirits duly signified by having "XXX" scribbled on it; and a make shift tattoo across the forearm holding the bottle read USMC. The comments about the drunken old bastard hanging on my wall made me think it was he who was our school mascot, rather than The Bulldog printed material would have you believe.

By the end of the second week I chimed in my approval to be one of a car full of new found friends who were going to chip in for gas, and a motel room; and was off for my first trip to OD (Ocean Drive Beach - now incorporated into North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina).

It was to be the first of many week ends to come that I was going to spend at a place at the beach they call "THE PAD"; where you could always find beer, friends, coeds, and tunes of the day on the juke box, in sufficient quantities, to always set the pace for a memorable week end. It was always a big joke around our Carolina Beaches that our contemporaries on the opposite coast, Annette and Frankie, were running around like a couple space cadets, playing with surfboards; while we had The Pad, Budweiser with 5% alcohol content (Beer only 3.2% alcohol content in North Carolina - and while that is not so easy to prove fifty years later - I would bet even money that is the way it was) if one was eighteen by that time, and Carolina girls who could shag dance: and we would not have traded coasts with our contemporaries for all the tea in China.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was only now beginning to dawn on me just how big the game really is. All of the news reports I had paid any attention to had 'predicted a landslide victory for Nixon'. And 'John Chancellor, NBC's political guru, had predicted a Nixon sweep'. But around midnight on that first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, 1960, it finally occurred to me that John Fitzgerald Kennedy could actually defeat the most qualified Presidential candidate our country might have ever produced; and had done so simply because John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been a better salesman, and come up with a better marketing plan than Richard Milhous Nixon had.

On the morning of 25JUL61 my parents delivered me to The United States Marine Corps Reserve Training Center of West Fifth Street; where I began my trip to Parris Island, South Carolina, arriving just before sundown. The bus entered the main gate and proceeded for what seemed like a mile or so down a road lined with towering palm trees; and I snickered to remember some of the stories Mason had told so vividly at WJC; not believing for a minute life here could be so treacherous.

When our bus finally came to a stop a tall man got on the bus wearing the same kind of hat Smokey-The-Bear made famous, had a whole bunch of stripes on each arm; and in clear, explicit terms told my fellow recruits and me what was expected of us once we got off the bus. Did not take but a moment to realize I was in for the surprise of my life; because one knew instantly failing to follow his instructions to a tee, or talking back to this man, could have been suicidal.

There was naturally more paper work that had to be done; but for a few hours later that night I wound up lounging not too uncomfortably in an oversized vinyl covered upholstered chair on a large screened in porch as the 300 or so men who were to form the four platoons in my company continued to straggle in from all parts of the states east of The Mississippi River. It was a hot, miserable, July night, and the humidity was unbelievably unbearable; but then me, and my new comrades, were nevertheless out of reach of a horde of ravenous mosquitoes, said to have been seen, from time to time, carrying a lightweight recruit off into the swamp behind the rifle range butts, never to be seen again.

Two other recruits showed up, and picked out a place close by on the painted concrete floor to sit. Gave some thought for a moment to joining into their conversation, seeing as how we were all wearing Weejun loafers: but quickly scrubbed that idea rather than give up the cushioned chair I had been lucky enough to have the use of, as it was reputedly going to be the closest thing to a bed I would see for the night. Finally dozed off sometime later that night, still suffering from the hangover that had plagued me all day.

Little did I know then, that on that same Tuesday night, Our Commander in Chief, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, made a half hour speech, televised across the nation, wherein he said, and I quote, “West Berlin has now become – as never before – the great testing place of western courage and will, …. I hear it said that West Berlin is militarily untenable, …. . Any dangerous spot is tenable if men – brave men – will make it so. We do not want to fight – but we have fought before …. .”

When I climbed out of the rack that morning it never once occurred to me that tension in Berlin had reached a flash point; nor had I realized Ike had made it clear only two years earlier that he, “was not going to abandon the 2.2 million West Berliners to Communist domination and intimidation”. Chairman Khrushchev followed up saying, “If you want to perpetuate or prolong your rights (by remaining in West Berlin), this means war! We may die, but the rockets will fly automatically. Your generals talk of tanks and guns defending your Berlin position. They will burn!” (Chairman Khrushchev had only a few days before announced he would take whatever steps necessary to halt the flood of East Berliners who were daily walking out of East Berlin into West Berlin.)

But that was not the worst of it, as the rest of the day did not turn out any better; as most of it still remains out of focus. Wound up in a company in Third Battalion made up of four platoons of 80 men each, many of whom were reservists who had dropped out of college because of poor grades (some few had graduated, but had no desire to sign up for a longer stint, or go through OCS); and who, like me, had high hopes the regimentation of active military service would somehow benefit each of us who still had high hopes of completing our college education at the end of our active duty stint.

What was clear was they truly seemed to resent having to put us down for the night; so after trying, again, and again, and then again, to see how quickly each man in our platoon could get into his rack, they finally gave the exercise up as a lost cause, allowing us to lie there at attention until we heard Taps, and the lights going out; literally; physically; mentally.

My bunk mate turned out to be a guy from Charleston, West Virginia, whose name was Carl Frame, who was maybe ¼ inch shorter than me, because I wound up in front of him in formation; and we became immediate friends (when I joined the Marines they told me I had topped out at six feet tall, and til the day I die, I will never claim to be any less, than six feet tall). The rigors of training that first week or two kept us real busy seventeen hours a day; and worst of all, fearful of fraternizing with our new colleagues, as we had been there a week or two before being given permission to carry on casual conversation even at meal time.

Some few weeks after my arrival at Parris Island, and only a few days before my birthday, a card arrived from Mary Jane; who in her small, almost illegible handwriting, informed me she had gone to The Marine Corps Recruiting Office to put in for an allotment for herself. Her request was denied, because my enlistment papers showed me claiming to be a single man. The card was merely the first of many moves on my estranged wife's part proving the agreement between her dad and me had nothing to do with her, seeing as how she had had no part, or input, into our agreement; and probably knew by now the agreement would not be worth the paper it was written on in a North Carolina Court of law.

A few days later I turned 21, and much to my surprise, was ordered to break back out of the rack just after lights out, by D I Sgt McGuire, and give him a push up for every year. The bottom line was that big son of a bitch just wanted to see if I could do it; as we both knew I could not have accomplished a feat as remarkable as that a mere 21 days before.

But there I was, cranking out absolutely perfect push ups, unaware The Russkies had begun pulling the barbed wire, that was the first stage of The Berlin Wall @ 0200 only the night before; and worse yet, it never once occurred to me my Commander in Chief John Fitzgerald Kennedy was already in a huddle with his Joint Chiefs of Staff, and several other Cabinet Members, trying to figure out if putting 113 Reserve and National Guard Troops on alert within the next few days would be sufficient to stem the tide of things that could come to pass; or whether freezing enlistments for another 84,000 troops whose time was coming to muster out would be enough to hold the fort, and all this in an effort to increase our military manpower from our current 870,000 troops to nearly a million within the next ten months. Goes without saying, recruits were not privy to a television set at PI (radio or newspapers either); but the network news reports the home folk viewed began showing scenes every day and night of East Berliner's being slaughtered who were trying to make their run to freedom into West Berlin.

Anyway, here I was, a fucking Marine wanna'be at Parris Island, South Carolina, cranking out 21 perfect push ups; thinking this was gonna be a breeze.

Luckily, my birthday did not turn out to be a total loss, because I received a Kotex box full of crackers, candy, and gum; a gift from some young women going through training to be a nurse at Presbyterian Hospital, who had become friends, and guests of Jimmy and me, at our Flaming Apartment Complex. The two Drill Instructor's who had the duty that night allowed me to eat all I wanted while standing in front of them at mail call that night; as Marine Boots were never allowed to have goodies like that in the barracks. The thing that amazed me the most about the episode that evening was trying to see how many sticks of gum I could get in my mouth at the same time; as the two Drill Instructor's had made a wager between themselves that I could surely chew one more piece. Lucky me.

There is zero recall of any of our three Drill Instructor's making mention of the events that appeared on television, or the news, our first three weeks there; but a comrade or two received letters from their folks who had filled them in on what was happening in the real world: urging us to take advantage everyday of the training we were going through.

CHAPTER SIX

"NICE GIRLS DO - - And now you can, too",
By Dr Irene Kassorla,
hit the bookshelves about January 1, 1981.
It would have been only a matter of days of being re-issued when
The Seattle Post Intelligencer
featured a full page ad challenging the ladies to discover,
how they, too, could experience,
‘101 orgasms in any sexual encounter’.

About a year later, maybe two, I stumbled across an article
In that same newspaper where Dr Kassorla
was being sued for more than $17,000,000
by a man who alleged she, and he,
had collaborated on said book together;
which she published on her own.

Mary Jane had given birth to a healthy child while I was on active duty, making that my top priority, to travel the miles to see them which gave me no real joy. Mary Jane’s mother was in her usual contrary mood, and an altogether unpleasant person whose remarks about how much the child favored me was clearly a matter of her own conjecture, as the child did not look any more like me than any other child I had ever seen.

The baby was suffering some childhood ailment wee children invariably endure, and it outcries and lamentations filled me with fright; so in looking back, the whole episode contained all the elements of a nightmare.

Simple conversation became more and more difficult as remarks were made that showed clearly my wife and her mother believed I had gotten off scott free; and since they could not see inside me, they could not see how wrong they were. Within only an hour or so after arriving I made my departure for Charlotte before having a chance to say hey to her dad.

The seventy eight dollars or so a month I had earned as a buck private meant there was not a penny left over after mustering out; and seeing as how there was not any money for me to return to college, I sought out a job through The Employment Security Commission where I was told of an opening in the Mecklenburg County Tax Collector’s Office. My timing was just right, so within days I began my new job where the first order of business was to chat with the kindly old gentleman who was retiring soon as our Mecklenburg County Tax Collector.

The south had remained a staunch Democratic stronghold even then, and it never once occurred to me to register as anything but a Democrat; but as the old man droned on and on why I should register his way my ass began to chafe as I began to resent the fact he was putting pressure on me to vote his way.

The old man in charge had come from the old school, and it was his considered opinion that you could not work if you were talking; meaning the muteness of that open office almost lulled me to sleep more than once. It was during that third week of February, ’62, that the solitude was broken by a voice from the radio (which heretofore had only been infringed upon for such propitious happenings as a Presidential Inauguration, or a World Series Game) announcing the status of Colonel John Glenn, who was the first man to orbit Earth in the NASA Manned Space Flight Program. A loose heat shield had caused tension to mount until Colonel Glenn, in typical Marine Corps fashion, unabashedly requested his three scheduled orbits be completed since he did not believe the problem would be any more difficult to contend with when the time came for his re-entry through that dismal keyhole in space that could target him to a U S Navy Carrier Group awaiting him near Grand Turk Island in The Bahamas; and again I felt the pride of being a Marine.

My job was pleasant enough, and the working conditions were satisfactory in that the tax collector’s office was located in the new county office building on East Fourth Street; but the challenge was over once I figured out how to easily find line-such-and-such on page-so-and-so, and either post the amount of tax that had been paid, or duly stamp the corresponding box PAID. The monotony of it all quickly robotized me to the point it became harrowing, with my daydreams my only comfort; as I had begun to imagine hell was a place where a 21 year old man was going to have to spend eternity with a room full of women two or three times his age, and older.

Within only a matter of a couple months my new job lost its appeal as Mary Jane had moved to North Carolina to see if I would reconsider the arrangement her dad had made with me; and agree to start making alimony and child support payments on the premise she could then afford to bring her child to North Carolina to live with her.

The real problem was her dad had insisted upon having blood work done to prove her child had sprung from my loins, 'laughingly pointing out there was nothing unusual about a dad not being able to see any resemblance in his child and he'. Came as no surprise to me to discover her blonde haired, blue eyed, fair skinned child could not possibly be mine; seeing as how I am dark complected, with dark brown hair, and brown eyes; and grim forebodings of bad times ahead began to be evident. Her harangue continued with calls coming more and more frequently until at last her congeniality gave out and she began to demand money; and my worst fears were realized once she began to threaten a court appearance would be deemed necessary if I continued to refuse.

My old Plymouth had lost its appeal so one weekend, just like red-blooded Americans used to do when they felt the need to bolster their ego's; I traded for a '58 Plymouth Belvedere Convertible at LaPointe Chevrolet located on East Trade Street, in that the $575 trading difference seemed fair seeing as how Charlotte, and my new car, were blanketed with a freak late Spring snowfall. My new red and white convertible boosted my spirits (the Fury hardtop version of this car, and color, were featured in Stephen King's book, and movie, of the same name, Christine; with the only difference being trim, as a chrome inset showed up on the side of the car, beginning on its tail fin's that were the largest ever, on any car, that narrowed as it streaked forward to the front fenders; where my Belvedere was painted white). It was a joy to drive as its push-button gear selector on the dash just to the left of the steering wheel thrust me into the new modern age.

My joy was short lived as Mary Jane had shown her jealousy in me being able to afford such a sporty 4 year old convertible; informed me she had hired an attorney, and that soon The Sheriff would be-a-callin'.

Dreams of returning to school was nothing more than a dream by this time; so in an effort to escape the boredom of stamping boxes PAID in county tax books I began to look around for a new career opportunity, and became a District Manager for The Charlotte Observer, the morning newspaper.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It just never made any sense there were not any
pre-conceived notions about what meeting my old man
would be like

I skipped the usual round of drinks after Tuesday’s class and once again found my way back to New York City. The steps necessary to deliver me back to Times Square were completed until I was once again walking into the designated bar in The Astor Hotel where the meeting with my old man had been scheduled since Saturday.

The after five crowd had taken over by now, causing me to have to side step my through to get to the only open place at the bar, which was between the chrome dividers that cordon off a section of the bar where the waitresses could make their pick-ups unobstructed. I had been instructed to ask any bartender where I might find Mel Black, and within moments I had a chance to ask my question that was answered by the man behind the bar not saying a word; but responding with a huge smile, and outstretched arm toward the man sitting just to me left, and in the first seat on the other side of the chrome stanchion.

Melvin and me shook hands, and his first words were he recognized me the instant he saw me; but thought it best he wait until I asked for him. My hello was clumsy at best, and the commotion around the waitress station was not helping matters either, so we chose to look for an empty table which we found at the far wall facing the bar.

We sat down about the same time a waitress asked for our order and we both ordered a drink. Mel, many years later told of being an alcoholic, and had no recall of having ordered a drink. He did, however, order a drink served in a stemmed glass, which seemed to me not very macho. We began getting acquainted observing formal etiquette allowing each to speak, and not speaking until a momentary pause made it clear the other had completed his statement; and within only a matter of minutes our conversation was going as easily as if we had been long lost friends who had not seen each other for many years.

I tried not to be obvious in my effort to see if we vaguely resembled each other, because his thin hair was the complete opposite of the full head of thick dark hair I have been blessed with (said to be from genes from my mother’s side of the family). Melvin looked rather business like though, as he was wearing a dark suit and a bow tie that was obviously not a clip on; and began to answer his question by explaining I had come to New York, or better yet East Orange, because I was undergoing formal training to learn to sell business forms. Melvin then told his first trip to New York City was made under somewhat similar circumstances; but did not expound on it for the moment.

I had decked out in my Sunday best to meet my old man; and I was so very, very pleased he was showing a genuine interest in me, as he was making a concerted effort to find out as much as he could about the person I had become.

Answering yet another question I explained Mom and 'Frank' were experiencing reasonably good health for the present, as their individual health problems had seemed to stabilize after both going through some tough times. The subject then turned to what I enjoyed doing in my free time; and I explained anything that had to do with the water, be it salty or brown. I told of the many good times I had had on trips to OD, and Lake Wylie, when during my WJC days classmates, room mates, and me, had spent so much time in both venues; and of more recent times when many weekends were spent at either The Bowers' place, or The Vinsons' place, where I had enjoyed frequent rides on Eddie's dad's cabin cruiser on pretty afternoons, or romantic evenings, even boasting the boat was some 26 feet, as if I had that right. Melvin chortled briefly his dislike for stink-pots (being the disparaging term sail-boat-types use to describe gas-driven-boat-types) and added he had a sail boat which he and his family spent many happy hours on, in good sailing weather as well as bad, and suggested I make another trip to New York soon to go sailing with he and his family (later turned his flag ship was a 30' Columbia, which some people have led me to believe is in the same class with a Cadillac - but more important yet - the only boat longer than Mel's on Lake Wylie, at the time, was a catamaran E Pat Hall owned and used to entertain clients, to whom he was trying to sell a chunk of Arrowood Industrail Park, one had to pass on their way to Buster Boyd Bridge).

A second scotch with a splash, down, and on the rocks, was served me, which was a good a time as any to ask what kind of work Melvin did, as I had already imagined one would not sail the Long Island Sound on a puny little boat. His answer was he was a Manager with Lybrand, Ross Bros. and Montgomery (now Price Waterhouse Coopers); and not understanding what his title meant, or the name of the firm, I did not pursue the matter as I was not sure he did not manage a shoe store because he was wearing a good looking pair of shoes; realizing that to be a fetish my mom always had.

Our conversation then turned to what my education had been, and while I have good reason to believe this has been the chronology our chat had been all along, I told of having completed a year and a half at WJC; only then adding I had spent some grand weekends with good friends at The Sig Ep House at N C State; and as expected, my father was able to trump that by explaining he, too, was a member of the brotherhood of ???.

We had talked for some time now, covering any and all the subjects mentioned; but mostly about me and my interests, and had long since finished our drinks. Melvin, in an effort to be extra obliging, asked if there was any restaurant in particular where I would like to have dinner; and not having any idea where we might go, I suggested we go to a favorite place of his. Having done that, we left the bar and hailed a taxi to take us to Luchow's, the renowned German Restaurant still serving food in New York City.

The night air re-invigorated my old man again, and during the taxi ride he began to explain how he made his mind up, after arriving in the city, that this was where the action was; and from that point on all his efforts had been directed toward making his move to The Big Apple. The parallel was astounding, because as it turns out, Mel had been a salesman for a business forms company, Standard Register Business Forms, and designed a form for a company that had its home office in the city. The local folk had been so impressed with the efficiency of the form he designed they asked him to travel to New York to try to sell the form to the home office people, which he did. The home office people bought his idea, and that was the catapult that changed what had theretofore been only a lackluster career in sales.

We arrived at Luchow's where Melvin declined having another drink (as he had only had the one) but I ordered one more; and a few minutes later a veal dish, while my old man asked for pig's feet and sauerkraut. I chuckled that he, too, as a good old southern boy, had no doubt impressed some yankee's with his ability to order from a menu; and we laughed heartily about that for a minute as I told of my new comrades delight in seeing me order watermelon at such a fancy restaurant.

A mirrored wall in the bar had proved Melvin and me were real close to being the same height; and it did not look like there would have been any more than 10 pounds difference in our weight, or maybe I should have put it the other way around. He was handsome enough, had a warm smile and pleasant disposition; and I was pleased to think he was such a prince of a man. While we were waiting for dinner Melvin took his wallet out, and showed me an old photo he had carried all these years, which was now warped and worn, and even a little frayed around its edges, that showed me wearing a seersucker outfit that came from a sitting of me mom had once proudly displayed on the armoire in her bedroom in our home. I recognized the photo immediately, and felt so unlike the bastard so many other people must have thought me to be at one time or another.

CHAPTER EIGHT

By 1963, the stigma attached with being found out
one takes the pill was all but gone, as the ladies who did,
were not thought promiscuous, but liberated.
Betty Friedan, published her much touted,
The Feminine Mystique,
and won acclaim by giving hope to those women
who had not yet figured out how to experience
"... an 'orgasm' waxing the kitchen floor",
which, made her a, "freak" (her words, not mine).
And, yep, that’s pretty much how
The Women’s Movement began.

I had traded for a new Ford Falcon Fastback coupe while working as a District Manager for The Charlotte Observer, but soon found a buyer for my car taking in trade a ’54 Ford coupe with faded blue paint and a weak clutch; but still managed to get to each destination under its own power. Mel sent a check for $1,000 arriving about a week before my planned departure for Athens; and I set out a few days early because there were not any dorm rooms left, meaning I was going to have to find someplace off campus to stay.

I packed my old Ford the morning of my departure with the last of the belongings I was going to take, and set out on a day much like any other early fall day heading south. There was a shimmy that showed up when my Ford reached the then legal speed of 55 miles per hour, so I chose to drive a little slower in the pretense my ultimate arrival was far more important than an early arrival, which would have no intrinsic value at all, as no one was going to be there to greet me, or waiting for me to arrive.

Melvin’s offer to allow me to keep my white fastback Falcon, with its red bucket seats, and floor mounted four speed transmission was generous, but its payments were $77.50, which would cover my child support payment to Mary Jane, and leave a whopping $2.50 to spare. The car I now owned was paid for, and that simple fact endeared the car to me. Seeing as how it would take me two and a half years to complete my college degree I had settled every account, and saw to it my payments to the court were current, which had not always been the case; meaning my funds were now barely above $800 as I had had to make an extra concession in the sale of my Falcon. Melvin, had as well, given his half hearted approval for me to go fraternity, even though he considered that dubious distinction to be of little value; but that was one sop I was not going to let pass me by.

Interstate 85 was not yet complete, so I found my way into Athens on South Tryon Street extension, as old U S Highway 29 was still the main thoroughfare that ran through Charlotte and Athens and Atlanta. The local newspaper had ad’s offering rooms to rent to students, and I busily set about finding a place to live, and luckily found a room in the basement of a newer, handsome home close to campus; which was owned by a middle aged couple owned who had two rooms to rent in their basement. I had been the first to answer the ad, and took the single room available as the other room was large enough to house two students. After settling in, I began to explore my new campus early the next morning.

Billy Sutton had not arrived yet, but not feeling the need to tell anyone I knew that to be the case I felt no angst asking for him at The S?? House at 247 Pulaski Street; and seeing as how Al Jr. had always been one of the snootiest persons I had ever met, I decided against ever going to the trouble to look him up again after his cool reception at his sorority house later that same day.

My disappointment came in finding out in my first visit to the Kappa Sig House that David Owensby had had to drop out because his dad had taken a turn for the worse, and he had returned home to run the family optical business in Gastonia, North Carolina. I had always felt a special kinship with David's dad; because not many weeks after we had all moved into our house off campus at WJC, David's folks brought him back to Wingate one Sunday afternoon; and found me in the kitchen cooking up a bowl of soup I was making with ketchup. My embarrassment did not last long once I saw the look in David's dad's face, causing me to comment my only interest had been to see what soup made with ketchup would taste like. David told me later his dad told him that very day he wanted him to always make sure he had enough beer, or scotch, on hand for our get togethers, so I could have something to drink if I ran out; and I never forgot that (which explains how my taste for scotch came about, as it had always been way too spendy for my budget).

Does not hurt my feelings to have to share that tidbit as my old buddy JTXQYPOS had, any number of times, loaned me the money to buy a $1.25 dinner at the diner up the road closer toward Monroe, which we would frequent at least once a week, about closing time, as the lady who owned the joint would allow us to scrape the pots, meaning we all ate to our heart's desire, and our stomach's filled.

Out of state tuition penalties took a grievous amount of my remaining funds, but the classes I signed up for were required in the School of Business Administration as well; meaning I had not wasted any money on courses I could not use. Registration went off without a hitch; and I braced myself as fraternity rush was about to begin.

From the outset there had never been any misgivings about which fraternity I had hoped to join forces with, as I had visited the much smaller ??? House at Chapel Hill, North Carolina, on a number of occasions; and had remembered well some of my high school classmates, and other hometown boys, who had joined forces there.

Jimmy 'Moon' Mooney, was a friend from Charlotte, and, like me, had made contributions to the Town House deposits on a regular basis; and was now showing up more and more for the parties our mutual friends who imbibed there were givers of. 'Moon' had been an 'E' at Georgia, but had graduated by now, and had willingly agreed to write a letter introducing me to his fraternity. Sutton had not yet made good enough grades to be initiated, which was the biggest reason he had joined The Marines, and had already promised to do all he could to help me get my 'bid'.

At last, notice was finally given that Rush was to begin, and accordingly I declared my intent to rush Sigma Alpha Epsilon, Sigma Phi Epsilon, Kappa Sigma, and Pi Kappa Alpha, out of regard for other friends who had been accepted into brotherhood in those respective fraternities at other universities.

On my first trip to the Sig Ep House the focal point was the proud display in the front hall of Grand National President Bedford W Black delivering the Charter for their chapter, not many weeks before. The brother who adopted me (who had planned to stick with me the whole time so to make sure all the introductions were made) had transferred from another school, and made a point of spending a moment in front of the photo of my uncle, proudly exclaiming my pledge class would be the standard bearers for the success The Sig Ep's would yet enjoy on campus. Before long my tour guide found someone who was showing much more interest than me, and I returned to the front hall to get a better look at this uncle of mine (turns out the pledge manual of the fraternity I joined forces with pointed out Sigma Phi Epsilon was, at the time, the third largest fraternity in the country, as only Tau Kappa Epsilon and Lambda Chi Alpha had more active chapters).

As I stood there I remembered Melvin telling me only a few short months before of my uncle Bedford; and how, he, too, had been initiated into the brotherhood by his brother in a special ceremony at New York University, as the top man in the fraternity had the right, and privilege, to do so. In a bit of a daze I stood there remembering so many times I would have so proudly proclaimed my ancestral heritage, had that been my right, and now could not do so out of respect for my uncle, and Mel; and most of all, my dad and mom. But as well, little did I know then, as I stood there staring at this photo, that this same uncle would have such a demonstrative effect on my life; and help me through a time that would have so drastically changed my life had he not used his personal influence to intercede on my behalf.

CHAPTER NINE

No single event in my young life ever inspired me as much as watching Jack Kennedy's rise to the presidency. There was little doubt but you could see in the faces and demeanor of some of the young men in my sophomore class at WJC that some of us now knew the sky was the limit; the only restrictions we would have to deal with would be self imposed; and someday bask in the glory of achieving the height each had aspired to.

Accordingly, no single event in my young life was ever as troubling, and disconcerting, as Jack Kennedy's assassination; for there was never any cloture. For years after that, while maybe drinking a beer somewhere, you could hear heartfelt summations from someone who made valid points why they believed the person who planned it ranged from LBJ, to Fidel Castro, to the mafia; and over the years I had a number of thoughts about the matter myself. What was certain was the Warren Commission surely must have figured out what happened, because that could be the only logical explanation for them going along with the report they filed.

For a lot of years I assumed the reason the Warren Commission dreamed up the theory, of what skeptics referred to, as the 'Magic Bullet', was because, "a nearly whole bullet was found on Governor Connally's stretcher", at Parkland Memorial Hospital later that afternoon that was "slightly flattened, but otherwise unmutilated"; meaning it almost certainly had to be placed there, after the fact, in my way of thinking. Amazingly, this one bullet, had just shattered Kennedy's skull before it then, "traversed the Governor's chest …. shattering his fifth rib …. exited below the right nipple …. tumbled through his wrist …. punctured his left thigh …. and had fallen out of the wound"; doing 'loops' in mid-air the powers that be drew charts to show that it would have to have done in order to do all that bodily harm.

It seemed to me the only logical explanation for gobbledygook like that was because the commission found a Cuban connection they chose to let pass because of the promise JFK had to make Khrushchev to conclude the Missile Crisis in October, '62, the year before. Another logical assumption I made for a lot of years was Jackie helped Secret Service Agent Clint Hill board the limo, until I saw Clint Hill, say in a PBS telecast soon after he retired, that what she was really doing was retrieving a piece of her husband's skull off the trunk of the car; and if you Google the individual frames of Zapruder's film of that day you can clearly see she reached out over the trunk of the limo just behind where her husband had been sitting only a moment before, not once making any pretense to help Secret Service Agent Hill board the limo.

It finally got to the place I did not think about the events that took place on Dealey Plaza that day until Oliver Stone premiered his epic film, "JFK", in 1991; which posed the query, 'who planned it, who had the most to lose, and who had the power to cover it up'? While there were dozens and dozens of places where Stone took literary license with mundane events to embellish the impact of his storyline (in reality, Ed Asner's character pistol whipped Jack Lemmon's character because of 'an argument over phone bills'); which only further strengthened the case of a Cuban connection, in my way of thinking. It was only after watching the movie a second time, and more recently a third time; that caused me to question again why the Warren Commission would validate a cockamamie story like the one in their report.

And then it finally dawned on me the conclusive damning evidence, in my way of thinking, was the simple fact the projectile that had "fallen out of the (Connally's) thigh wound” was a projectile someone on scene figured out could not have been fired from Oswald's rifle; and once that conclusion was arrived at, someone placed a projectile on Connally's stretcher, after the fact, that had been: and that someone could only have been an FBI Agent who was prepared for any such contingency. Seeing as how the FBI comes under the auspices of The Justice Department meant the ploy went ho high than Hoover; as Hoover begrudgingly had to answer directly to Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy at his whim.

There have been many reports alleging Joe Kennedy Imposed on Frank Sinatra to intercede on his son's behalf by asking Frank to go see Sam Giancana to ask the Chicago mob boss to do what he could to help Jack win Illinois. It made a lot of sense that Giancana would be willing to do everything he could to help, by being able to assume doing so, would cause the new administration to look the other way from time to time, like the FBI had for years; because prior to RFK taking office, 'only four FBI agents in the New York office were assigned to organized crime, and those agents were kept busy with in-office bookkeeping duties. Yet about four hundred agents were on the streets of the city searching out communists. …. As late as January, '62, Hoover went on record saying: No single individual or coalition of racketeers dominates organized crime across the nation'.

It is a pretty safe bet we will never know what help Giancana gave, but what we do know is Kennedy carried Illinois in the 1960 election by only some scant 8,858 votes out of a total 4,746,834 votes cast in the state; thereby winning the state, and the presidency (meaning if 4,430 more persons had voted for RMN, rather than JFK, Nixon would have won Illinois, and the presidency). What is even more surprising about JFK’s win is Illinois voted for Ike in both '52 and '56, enabling Dwight D. Eisenhower to carry the home state of his Democrat rival, Adlai E. Stevenson.

It is also a part of American history that RFK announced even before he was sworn in as Attorney General he was going to go after the mafia, which may well have been the basis for the vendetta that ultimately cost his brother his life. Was surprised that over the years I never heard anyone theorize, like this writer has, that what really happened, in my way of thinking, was Jedgar (Hoover liked for his friends to call him Jedgar, when he was out and about) received a package years before containing photos showing him in a compromising position, as it is an uncontested fact the man was homosexual. Rather than be showed up to be a gay man, and be booted out of the FBI he had led since December, 1924; Jedgar agreed to do whatever he would have to do, to set JFK up so the mafia could take him out when the right opportunity came along.

Once Kennedy announced he was going to go to Dallas to mend fences, only an agency like the FBI would have known they had a 'patsy' like Oswald in the wings, who, as luck would have it, had gone to work in the Dallas Book Depository Building on October 15, 1963 (only five weeks before); and for all we know, Kennedy's entourage was directed to travel that way, for that reason alone, as there surely must have been other routes that would have worked as well, or maybe been even better.

Any way you look at it, there were, as well, many more dozens of other places in Stone's film that went uncontested, that substantiate a giant cover-up was implemented; as the indisputable fact is the members of the Warren Commission surmised it to be a whole lot less consequential to go along with throwing Oswald under the bus, rather than reveal they had found indisputable proof there was a conspiracy involved. We should not forget Hoover maintained files on everyone, in an effort to cover his ass, is my best guess; and if he ever told all he knew, our country would have suffered even more.

The sad reality is an article in the March, 2005, Reader's Digest tells us a Congressional Panel found, 'A re-examination of (Dictabelt No. 10) detected five shots, the fatal one from the knoll', and totally negates the entire Warren Commission Report; in my way of thinking.

An additional bit of information!

Was told recently an edge of an umbrella appears in Frame 206, in the Zapruder film, as JFK reappears from the back side of the sign, reaching for his throat. In Frame 226 we catch the first glimpse of a man’s fist in the air, which, in each successive frame moves closer to the person holding the umbrella, until it disappears from view in Frame 243, as Zapruder pans forward. In Frame 313 JFK’s head explodes. This can only mean both the umbrella, and man’s fist are raised, to put the shooter on the grassy knoll on notice, the first shot was not a kill shot; and he has to take his shot!
Have a great day!

** Those places where remarks are enclosed in "quotation marks" are taken directly from The Warren Commission Report

I had two very real problems to deal with on my return to Charlotte. First, I had to find a job that offered growth potential in both sales know-how, and bucks, seeing as how I was dead flat broke. Second, I had to catch up the child support payments now in arrears for almost two months. I set about immediately to settle the first problem so the second could be attended to promptly.

The Charlotte Observer featured several ads for car salesmen telling of big money that could be made; and just as importantly, promising the use of a company car which had a special appeal for me. After giving it some thought for a day or two, I began imagining working in car sales would present an interesting challenge, as I had never formed any negative conceptions about car sales people, in that a Sunday school teacher of mine some years before had worked in car sales ever since I could remember, and I had always had a very high regard for the man’s integrity, professionalism, and temperament.

A Folger Buick ad told of their need for a used car salesman, and since Buick had always been a very special car in my mind’s eye (mom had bragged to neighbors one time her uncle Carl was going visit, and he owned a BUICK), I went to see what it was all about.

At the time Folger Buick was located on the West Side of South Tryon Street, a little more than a half mile from the square, and had an ample spaced showroom in an older building where a dozen or so new Buick’s were proudly displayed. The used car lot was on the east side of South Tryon Street, directly across the street, from the new car showroom; and while the used cars on the front row gleamed and sparkled from their spit and polish, those on the next few rows seemed somehow to only blush a bit from having been rejuvenated through the best efforts of the clean up guys. The old cars parked around, and behind the used car sales shack at the rear of the property, however, could only be described as ‘a good fishing car’ even then; cause a beater then, did not look any better than a beater does now.

I parked my dad’s Carolina blue ’60 Ford pillared coupe (which he had not splurged to include a radio when he bought it new at Young Ford), and asked the salesman who approached where I might find his used car sales manager. Having no doubt already up’ed someone that morning who was looking for the same car selling job, the man pointed toward the office in the front left corner of the building where we could see Mr Cooke through the window sitting at his desk doing some paper work.

George Cooke stood and shook hands, then offered me a seat to discuss his job offering. George (who some years later proved to be the father-in-law of a friend who was a partner in a project I put together) was a fine man who had worked in car sales many years, and a man who reflected genuine self esteem for having been an achiever in his chosen profession; and accordingly, had great faith in the future of the automobile business. Within only another minute or two I found out the job would not be available for me as I had no car sales experience; but seeing as how I was showing a genuine interest in finding out what I could about the car business George took the time to tell me about a man named Bill Beck, who only a few blocks away, was doing a bang up job as a Ford Dealer, and believed to be making big bucks for his efforts.

What happened was Bill Beck had returned home after serving his hitch in The Marines, and went to work for a Ford Dealer in Greensboro, North Carolina. From the beginning Bill’s ability to communicate with ease, and conviction, had caused him to be a sales leader in his company; and in short order, Bill made management only to find his talents in that area were tops as well. The dealership in Greensboro was also owned by the same man who owned the Charlotte dealership, and in almost record time Bill was put in charge as General Manager of the Courtesy Ford Dealership in Charlotte, which was floundering from inept management; but quickly took a 180° turn with Bill in control.

Turns out, Bill’s ability to do big numbers, and turn a big profit, selling auto’s became known to all the other dealers and manufacturer’s rep’s in our area; garnering so much praise he was offered the Chevrolet Dealership in Monroe, North Carolina, just east of Charlotte, and only 7 or 8 miles this side of WJC. Terms for the sale of the Chevy Store were quickly agreed upon; but when Bill contacted the man who owned the Ford Store, the man flew into Charlotte, and within a day an agreement was reached enabling Bill to buy Courtesy Ford.

I was so impressed with Cooke’s account of Bill Beck’s success story I went straight to Courtesy Ford where I found the new car sales manager, a man named Don Fortner; and after a conversation lasting no more than ten minutes I hired on, and began work the next morning.

Sales meetings were held each morning in the same grubby room where the mechanics had their daily meetings, which was at the rear of the garage area. Most days there was not much to one of our sales meetings, and were held primarily to let each man there know of any special incentives on any of the old cars; but more important than all, gave our management the opportunity to count heads to make sure everyone had showed up on time that morning, as that was not always the case. Walking toward the show room after my first sales meeting Don Fortner called my name out from behind, and stopping to see what he wanted, we stood in the garage one more minute together; so he could give me the whole of all the sales training I was ever going to receive at Courtesy Ford.

Turns out, it was really another simple matter, as Don pointed out ‘nothing happens until you settle someone down on a car they want to drive home’, was his opening remark. That said, if I thought there was some glimmer of hope for a sale, but could not figure out what had to be done to make it happen, then I was to come find him to see what he could suggest. He closed by telling me to give anyone fifteen minutes; and if at the end of that time you are not getting anywhere, turn your customer over to another salesman, for any good reason that comes to mind, and get the hell away.

That next Friday, I was on the lot on the other side of South Caldwell Street, which probably had 15 dozen new Ford’s crammed in on it, helping a customer try to find the car he wanted to bargain for; when we were told by a man sitting in his car waiting for the light to change on East Trade Street, that he just heard on the radio The President had been shot in Dallas.