Easter 1969 at Ocean Drive  Beach, SC.  

Until 1988, North Carolina celebrated Easter Monday as its official holiday.  Businesses were closed on Monday instead of Good Friday.  That worked well because we got an extra day at the beach.  In 1969, I was a 19-year-old Community College dropout living in the moment.  The Vietnam War was a cunning thief that stole my generation’s childhood innocence.  We had grown up in a Country suffering from the reality of war without the will to win.  America was still reeling from the events of 1968.  Stateside, Martin Luther King, and Robert Kennedy had been assassinated.  Half a world away, the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese army had launched the Tet Offensive, catching the South Vietnamese and the Allied forces by surprise.  A cauldron of domestic and international affairs had reached the boiling point.   The Nation’s unrest was spilling from our living rooms onto the streets.  Riots in America’s cities were common.  Even the Democratic National Convention in Chicago erupted into violence.  Civil rights issues and an undeclared, unpopular war swirled into a perfect storm.   

Even America’s most trusted newscaster, Walter Cronkite, took an unprecedented political stand and declared the Vietnam War unwindable.  

This atmosphere turned Ocean Drive Beach, an innocent childhood vacation spot, into an oasis where the worries and uncertainties of the day could be briefly forgotten.  A place where the sounds of The Tams, Billy Stewart, and Chuck Jackson temporarily solved all problems.  Driving down Main St. and getting that first glimpse of the ocean, you realized “Baby here I am”  was much more than just the first line in a Billy Stewart beach song.  

Bill and I threw a few things in his 1964 Corvette Friday morning and headed toward the beach.  The tape was pushed into the 8-track player as we pulled out.  As Bill eased through the gears, I continuously adjusted the stereo volume to drown out the loud exhaust note and the creaks and groans emanating from the car’s fiberglass body.  There wasn’t much conversation, just an abiding, unarticulated excitement about the next four days. We were much too cool to let it show. Back then, there was nothing more important than being cool.  Cool was attained when the intangibles of swagger and conceit combined with tangibles like khaki pants, Gant shirts, Arnold Palmer sweaters, Weejuns, and nice cars.  The result was much more than just a sum of the parts. 

Things were always spontaneous. Our plan was that we had no plan.  Today, you wouldn’t think of going away for a holiday weekend without a hotel reservation, but it’s what you did back then.  After all, a place to sleep and shower was all you needed.  Everything else was extra.  This trip was a bit different.  Bill knew someone willing to let us use their house.   

It was a typical two-story South Carolina beach house around 14th Ave. S. Back then, instead of treated posts, the raised houses were built on high concrete block walls to minimize the risk of flood damage.  Quickly, we unloaded the car, changed clothes, brushed our teeth, splashed on some English Leather, and headed out.  

The Beach Party bar overlooked the ocean on the left side of the Main Street horseshoe. A paved sidewalk-like ramp led to the door, where the ever-present, nameless bouncer sat on a lone bar stool. A blank-faced twenty-something male, devoid of personality, was the ideal attendant. He had one job and one job only: checking IDs. No ID, no admittance. If you were legal, you didn’t give him a second look. If not, you acted like you were his new best friend.  

Two types of people could successfully game the system—good-looking girls and guys with access to a typewriter.  Back then, driver’s licenses didn’t have pictures, so a few well-placed keystrokes on Dad’s old, expired license, and voila, you were in. 

The doorway led to an open building with a fireplace on one end.  Its design mimicked a peach shed. It was a large unobstructed space with wooden panels on all four walls that could be tilted open against the roof’s wide overhang. The ceiling’s exposed beams were adorned with the names and comments of past partiers.  As you looked up, searching for your name from the previous year, you hoped no one had scrawled theirs on top of yours. Even though it was early afternoon, the smell of last night’s spilled beer remained strong, only to be challenged by the bluish-grey cigarette smoke hanging in the air.  As I walked through, the soles of my Weejuns seemed to glide along the sandy concrete floor, hindered only by the occasional moist spot from an unattended, spilled beer.  Cigarette butts garnished the floor like confetti after a holiday parade.

The jukebox was a shaggers delight, no Beatles or Top 40, just beach music.  Songs by Benny Spellman, General Johnson, and groups like The Artistics never stopped.  I don’t remember a formal dance floor. If you wanted to shag, you shagged. The long U-shaped bar bisected the inside. After stopping for a beer, we went onto the deck overlooking the beach.  A short walk up the coast was Tilghman’s Pier.  Cherry Grove Beach was in the distance.  About half a mile down was Crescent Beach.  Albemarle and Stanly County were represented well.  That weekend, Albemarle must have looked like a ghost town because everyone was at the beach.   

Afternoon faded to evening as we migrated from one side of Ocean Blvd. to another.  Across the street in the middle of the block was The Pad, a shabby, gray building up against the sidewalk with a personality of its own.  The Pad was the hardcore shaggers destination.  There was no room there for rookies.  If you stepped on that dance floor, you better know more than just the basic.  It was mostly an older crowd, so most of our time was spent at The Beach Party or the Pavilion.  

There was a lot of partying to do.  We always started early and came in late.  Experience had taught me to sip the beer, not chug it.  Getting hammered wasn’t the objective. Squeezing all the fun we could into that short weekend was.

By 11 PM Friday, you could hardly move.  The club’s crowds spilled into the streets from 4th Ave. S. to  3rd. Ave. N. Main St. was impassable from Hillside to Ocean Blvd.  Traffic was at a standstill.  The police presence was no match for the enormous masses.  Luckily, everyone was pretty laid back, and nothing terrible happened.  Sometime during the evening, Bill and I were separated.  After running into a girl from Stanly County, his whereabouts didn’t matter.  There was an unwritten rule that had always served us well.  One for all, all for one, and every man for himself.   She and I found two barstools in a reasonably quiet, out-of-the-way spot near the Pavilion and focused on each other.  The breezy, cool evening air was the catalyst that pulled us closer and closer together.  We clinched each other’s hands while her knee slid between mine.   When she spoke, her soft southern accent floated from her lips like a delicate soap bubble from a child’s toy.  Couple that with her sparkling eyes and tender touch; it was all this boy could take.  Around 1:30 or 2 AM, she whispered it was time to go.  She and the other girls staying together had sold their parents on this trip because they had a chaperone.  Any wild ideas I may have had were squashed when I found that out.  We started back toward her house.  As we walked arm in arm, our actions spoke louder than words ever could.  Approaching her steps, I said, “Tomorrow night at seven?”  She nodded.  I stood there momentarily as she walked in, then turned and slowly walked toward our place.  Returning to the Pavilion crossed my mind, but I didn’t want any memories of that evening other than the ones I shared with her.

Saturday morning, we were up early.  Bill had run into some friends of ours from Rowan County.  They were renting a 2-story house on Ocean Blvd around 4th Ave. S.  It had a large screened porch on the front facing the street.  The upstairs bedroom windows looked over the roof, covering the front porch.  By 10 AM, the traffic was already bumper to bumper.  The unseasonably warm weather had brought everyone out early.  It didn’t take us long to realize we could watch the traffic and get some sun if we moved out onto the roof.  After covering the hot shingles with beach towels, the slightly angled roof transformed into the perfect vantage point.  Music from the different cars seemed to blend as it echoed up and down the street.  Everything from flatbed 18-wheelers to family cars loaded with teenagers cruised up and down Ocean Blvd.   There were only temporary interruptions for trips to the bathroom.  There’s nothing better than spending a sunny afternoon at the beach having a beer with a few thousand of your closest friends.  

Around 5 PM, we headed back to our place; after all, I had a date at seven.  Bill was going back to the Blvd. house.  After my shower, I had an extra few minutes to lie across the bed.  Even though I consider myself an athlete, a few minutes of shut-eye would feel good.  

When I awoke and looked at my watch, it was 6:40, leaving me only 20 minutes to get dressed and figure out how to get ten blocks without a car.  Bill had left earlier, and I didn’t have a ride.  I threw my clothes on and ran out the door toward Ocean Blvd.  Running backward up the street while thumbing is no easy feat.  Luckily, the third or fourth car that passed screeched to a halt.  Before the stranger could say anything, I jumped in.  His left hand held a cigarette, draping over the steering wheel’s top while the fingers on his right hand lightly touched the stereo volume control.  I told him my story.  The “Beach Gods” favored me that evening because this kindred spirit instantly felt my plight.  The 8-track player’s six-by-nine-inch speakers hastily placed in the back seat blared out “Nip Sip” as he quickly turned off on a side street and then onto Hillside Drive. He pulled over in front of her house two minutes after seven.  While I opened the car door, he must have seen the gratitude on my face.  Before I could speak, he grinned and said, “Have fun, man.”  I smiled as my anonymous savior sped away.  

Three girls were sitting on the screened porch. When I got close enough to see them clearly, my chin dropped.  All the cool I hoped to emanate that evening faded as I gazed upon my date’s perfection.  If you looked up Ocean Drive Beach Beauty in the dictionary, Webster’s definition would have included her picture.  She had the perfect combination of smooth, flawless, tanned skin against a pastel-colored top, white slacks, and white sandals. I leaned forward and kissed her cheek as she stood.  Hand in hand, we walked around the corner to Main St. and toward the Beach Party.  With every step, a little of my swagger returned. It was early, so we were able to stake out that perfect seat. One out of the way enough for a bit of privacy but close enough to see and be seen. Believe me, that night, I wanted to be seen.  Undoubtedly, I was with the sweetest, best-looking girl at the beach.   

My Aunt and Uncle owned Service Cleaners on South Second Street. Most Saturdays, Mom and I would go ‘in town’ to have lunch with her sister, my Aunt Lillian. After they chatted a while, one of them always said, “Let’s go eat at Tom Carpenter’s.”

I don’t remember the first time I bit into a hotdog from Central Lunch. I was probably six years old. To a kid like me, Central Lunch was a fantastic place. It had everything. The screen door opened into a small space with two or three booths on the left wall and a counter with maybe a dozen barstools on the right. Yellowish/tan stains, the remnants of years of cigarette-inspired conversations, covered everything. Thumbtacked notes, envelopes, and faded order tickets decorated the dingy wall behind the counter. A vintage .38 revolver, dangling from a nail through its trigger guard, hung like a sentry beside the old cash register. 

A steady stream of farmers, politicians, and professionals sat at the counter discussing the day’s topics. “Cab east,” the dispatcher shouted as he keyed the two-way radio microphone, summoning a driver on the east side of town. Unfazed by the scratchy, staticky drone of the taxicab stand next door, the patron’s thoughtful conversations continued. 

There were other small lunch stands in Albemarle, The Goody Shop, Henry’s Lunch, and others, but Central Lunch, ‘The Fly,’ the nickname is an Albemarle thing, was my favorite. Whether it was after school or after midnight, the little corner building with the neon sign was my go-to for a couple of dogs all the way and a glass of iced tea.  

In 1972, I took a job in Charlotte. After a year or so, the commute back and forth from Albemarle was taking its toll, so I moved closer to work. Years passed. Job transfers, moves, and relationship changes resulted in fewer and fewer trips to Albemarle.

One Friday in late spring, while traveling home to visit my parents, I felt the urge for a good hotdog, so I headed ‘in town’ before driving to their house. It had been at least ten years since I opened the screen door on the little building at the corner of King Street and Second, but I knew it would be the same. 

Fridays were always busy in Albemarle, so I had to park in the next block. Walking up the sidewalk, I felt like a little like Marty McFly. Had I been transported back in time? I approached the old building’s front window and saw George, Mister Tom’s son, behind the counter. Except for the beard, he looked just like ten years before.

I walked in, took a seat about midway down the counter., leaned forward, and rested my elbows on the worn Formica countertop just like before. Scraps of paper and notes were thumbtacked to the wall, and the old revolver was still guarding the cash register, just like before. 

George came from the kitchen, rubbing his hands on his apron, and looked up. As if I had been in the day before, he asked, “What for ya, Dennis?” I answered, “George, I’ll have two hotdogs all the way and tea.” He nodded, then stepped toward the steamer and took out two buns. After forking two weenies from the pink water, he slathered on the mustard, slaw, onions, and chili, just like before. Then he reached for a glass, filled it with their soft ice crystals, and added the sweet tea, just like before. 

While I ate, George leaned against the cash register, lit a cigarette, and asked about my mom and dad. I answered and asked about Mister Tom, just like before.

I folded the chili-stained tissue paper, wiped the mustard from the corner of my mouth, and then stood and reached for my billfold. George hit two buttons on the register and handed me my change. “See ya, George, I said as I took the last swallow of tea and turned toward the door. “See ya, Dennis,” George answered. I smiled and waved as I walked out. George nodded, just like before.

The handle stuck as I opened the car door and slid into the seat. For a moment, I rested my head against the seat back and closed my eyes. Marty McFly? Really?  After fastening the seat belt and adjusting the Delorean’s flux capacitor, I signaled Doc. As the clock struck, he jammed the electric cords together.

Is this a dream? I thought. Nah, it’s Albemarle, North Carolina, my hometown.

 

In the song “Young Turks,” Rod Stewart sings:

             Because life is so brief, and time is a thief when you’re undecided

             And like a fistful of sand, it can slip right through your hands

On the morning of December 4, 2022, my life changed. I still lived in the same place and had the same breakfast. The routine was the same, except for one thing. That morning, I became a published author.

What’s so special about that? Nothing. On the morning of December 4, 2022, when my book went live, no one was sitting there with their finger perched on the enter key, like Swifties hoping to get a Taylor concert ticket. Amazon sells three hundred million print books annually and sixteen million English titles alone. Who would be interested in a book written by a community college dropout, wannabe writer from North Carolina? Nobody, right?

In the following days, friends and family bought copies and offered encouragement. Then something extraordinary happened. A stranger posted a five-star review. You can’t imagine what it’s like to know that a reader somewhere, a total stranger, coughed up $19.99 to buy my book. Friends, that was a moment.  

Then, I began to get emails and a few phone calls. People were interested. Strangers became friends. Relationships developed. My family grew. Newly discovered cousins shared their stories. The world is a tiny place. Six Degrees of Separation states that all people are six or fewer social connections away from each other. 

Oxford Dictionary defines Humanity as the human race, human beings collectively. That’s the magic word, collectively. We’re all here together. Life is a lot of fun. Let’s enjoy it.

Garfield, the cartoon cat, once said, “Diet is Die with a T.”  I stood in line gazing up at the high carb, high fat fast food breakfast menu, thinking about the numbers on my brand new digital bathroom scale.  There was no doubt, coffee had to be it for me. While waiting for my turn, I watched the young woman working behind the counter.  As one customer after another placed their orders, her head moved from side to side while her eyes rolled in the opposite direction.  I guess the drudgery of working in the fast food service industry was getting on her last nerve because this morning she just wasn’t feeling it.  It was obvious she hated her job. I’m no psychologist but I’d bet she was a little disgusted with herself too.  By the time it was my turn, I didn’t want to waste her time or make things any worse than it already was, so I was ready.  I had my money in hand, and I knew what I wanted.  As I stepped up to the counter, I noticed her name tag.  Without looking up from the terminal, in the same sing-song voice she used with everyone in front of me, she asked, “Can I take your order?”  Looking over the top of the screen, I smiled and greeted her by name.  “How are you, Aleah?”  As if she had suddenly been awakened from a trance, she looked up.  When we made eye contact, instantly her expression changed.  Her eyes glistened, she smiled and said, “Uh, I’m fine.  How are you?”  “Wonderful,” I said.  I gave her my order, paid, and thanked her for helping me.  As I moved down to pick up my coffee, I continued to listen to her interactions with the customers behind me.  She was still smiling, and still positive.  It doesn’t always work, but calling a person by name, and validating them personally, can be a powerful thing.  Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s worth the effort.  We all want to be recognized and identified as individuals.  By doing things like this, I fulfill a selfish motivation.  I must admit I enjoy winning someone over, especially when the one being manipulated is none the wiser.  Our encounter made me feel better and I think it did the same for her.  A smile and a kind word are two of the most powerful things we possess.  Give it a try, you’ll be glad you did. 

I visited one of the big box stores yesterday to pick up a prescription refill. You know the one, the big box that started in Arkansas and has blue and yellow in their logo.  To accommodate customers in these special times, they’ve implemented a new system.  All you do is drive up, park in a numbered space, call them, and they bring your medication out.  How cool is that?  The big chain drugstores have used drive-up windows for quite a while, but I thought it interesting that America’s largest retailer would do it.  That got me thinking.  It’s really nothing new. A few forward-thinking entrepreneurs were doing that years ago in my little hometown of Albemarle North Carolina.  Back in the sixties, Friday and Saturday nights in Albemarle were less than exciting.  Teenagers with nothing to do ended up riding around, listening to BIG WAYS, a Charlotte radio station, or going to the Drive-In.  Back then beer was legal for eighteen-year-olds, but Stanly County was dry, so you had to drive to Rowan County to buy it.  We referred to those excursions as “Goin’ up the road”.  John’s Tavern and First Stop on Hwy. 52 north of town were the closest places you could buy beer.  The problem was the thirty-mile round trip through the country was too long a trip.  But there was an alternative, you could buy from one of the local bootleggers.  Sure you’d pay a premium price, but to most, the convenience and discreetness were worth a little extra.  On the edge of town, there was Pop’s, a tiny nondescript, concrete block structure with a single door. Pop’s little building wasn’t much bigger than a storage shed, nestled between the large posts that supported the screen at the local Drive-In theater.  It faced a dark side road that circled the back of the theater’s property.  A dim light beside the door signaled business hours.  If the light was on, they were open, if not, keep driving.  It was a one-stop shop, they had beer and liquor.  No ID, no problem, one more broken law didn’t matter.  Just pull up, give a friendly toot on the horn, and someone would come out and take your order, cash only.  In just a matter of seconds, they would return with a brown paper bag, and just like that you were back on the road, stocked, and ready to party.   Little did we know then, those independent small businessmen were way ahead of their time.  

This Civil War story doesn’t conclude with a Hollywood actor with a phony southern accent, making a grand exit while uttering a memorable movie line.  This one is about a North Carolina man who enlisted in the Confederate Army somewhere around the age of 44.  Why would a poor, old farmer with twelve children enlist?  Did he own slaves?  No.  Did he have some patriotic duty to preserve the Confederacy?  I doubt it.  The old saying applies, “Follow the money.” The drought of 1862 devastated the crops, leaving the farmer and his family starving.  One day the old man received an offer he felt he couldn’t refuse.  A rich property owner whose son was being conscripted into the Confederate Army paid him to enlist in his son’s stead.   Those agreements were legal back then.  Transactions like that reinforced the belief that it was “a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight.”   

I think he believed the money would enable his family to survive, and give him a leg up after the war.  It was mid-1862, just a little over a year since the Confederates fired on Ft. Sumter.  Any information people got about the war was, at best, word of mouth.  Based on the rosy assessments from the secessionists, I’m sure everyone believed this “little dust-up” would bring the North’s aggression to a halt.  

According to Company B, 5th North Carolina Infantry Confederate Army muster rolls, the old man left Stanly County on August 8,1862.  Since there was no basic training in those days, I can only assume he immediately joined them.  September 17,1862, the 5th NC Infantry Regiment, led by Col. D. K. McRae and Capt. Thomas M. Garrett was part of Lee’s Confederate Army of Northern Virginia.  They met General George McClellan’s Federal Army of the Potomac along the banks of Antietam Creek outside Sharpsburg Maryland.  Early that morning, over 130,000 men from both sides came together.  By nightfall, there were almost 23,000 casualties with over 3,600 killed and 17,000 wounded.  The North called it the Battle of Antietam, and the South called it the Battle of Sharpsburg.  No matter the name, it was the bloodiest single day in American military history.

The old man survived that battle but died of measles in Richmond on October 26, 1862, less than ninety days after leaving his family.  Months later his remains were buried in Stanly County, just a stone’s throw from where he grew up.  How do I know this?  He is my Great, Great Grandfather.  

The summer after graduating from high school, I worked in a textile mill that made women’s pantyhose.  Back in those days, textiles were king in the South.  Summer jobs were plentiful for kids like me.  The mill was a large open building with hundreds of high-speed industrial sewing machines all lined up.  They weren’t like Mom’s old Singer, these things were fast.  Because of the high speeds, they had to be lubricated at least twice a day, first thing in the morning, and also during lunch break.  My job was to keep them oiled.  There were so many, oiling them was kinda like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, by the time I finished, it was time to start again.  

There were three sewing machine mechanics and a mechanic’s supervisor.  Their responsibility was to keep these screamers running.  All the machine operators were being paid for production, so the machines had to run constantly.  These guys moved like a NASCAR pit crew.  Speed was number one.  When a machine went down the operator and the company both lost money.  All the operators were women.  Most had been working in the “Mill” for years.  They were a friendly bunch until there was a problem.  Problems cost money and they were quick to let you know.

If the mechanics were like a NASCAR pit crew, the operators were like the drivers.  There were those who were constant winners, those who ran in the middle of the pack, and those who constantly hit the wall.  The ones who hit the wall were the operators whose machines were always breaking down.  Sometimes parts fail, but as in NASCAR, operator failure is usually the problem.

These mechanics knew the machine’s and the operator’s weaknesses.  They could guess with almost certainty who, and when someone was going to hit the “wall”.  Friday afternoon always brought a plethora of problems with a couple operators.  On Fridays, sometimes getting an early start on the weekend was more important than the day’s production numbers, so, their machines would mysteriously break.  Broken needles were a common problem but that was too easy a fix.  They had to break a major part that took an hour or so to repair.  Long extended repairs allowed them to leave early.  Management took a dim view of this, so every effort was made to get the operator back to work to keep production up.

Like the operators, the mechanics were an eclectic bunch.  Two were top-notch mechanics with thirty-plus years of experience.  One was an apprentice who was learning the business, and the supervisor was an older man with a German accent.  He had worked in textiles all his life since migrating from Germany in the late nineteen twenties.   He was the “go-to” guy.  He handled the major breakdowns and any issues that came up between the operators and management.  He also approved the time cards for all employees, so these Friday afternoon “wrecks” were his responsibility.

Just like clockwork, one Friday afternoon a machine broke down.  The operator was a mid-thirties woman who spoke often of her weekend partying.  When Gene, one of the mechanics, went over to check her machine, it was obvious this was going to take more than an hour or so to repair.  She had torn it up pretty good.   Gene called the supervisor over to take a look.  When he got there, the operator said she was going to leave if they couldn’t get the machine running.  After all, without a machine, she couldn’t make money.  That’s when the supervisor threw her a curve.  Anticipating her next breakdown, he had brought in a couple machines from another plant that were not being used.  Instead of allowing her to game the system, he took her over to the replacement machine and told the apprentice and me to move all her work.  To say she was mad is an understatement,  She began swearing at anyone and everyone around, especially the supervisor.  He stood there and listened to her insults but gave no ground.  Politely he told her, “There is a machine, go to work.”  Then it got personal.  She stared at him and said, “Why the hell don’t you go back to where you came from?”  This was the ultimate insult for an immigrant, and she knew it.  His expression never changed.  I’m sure he had heard it many times in the past.  He looked at her and calmly explained that he had passed a test to become an American citizen and that he wasn’t going anywhere and neither was she.  Turning to walk away, he said, “Now get to work.”  I learned a lot that afternoon.  I saw someone rise above a personal attack most of us never experienced, and do it with grace and dignity.  I was so proud.  Why was I proud?  That German immigrant was my father.