Cedar Posts and Barbed Wire Fences

Wendy's (Back in the Day)

2026-09-23T10:21:58.326-04:00

The recent news of a franchisee of Wendy's seeking bankruptcy protection kinda hits home.

Years ago my parents decided to build a large addition to their house in South Charlotte.

Ray Terry was the contractor. He was a well known and well liked builder/handyman.

As a kid having your house dismantled and rebuilt in the middle of the summer was the coolest thing you could ever experience. Dump trucks, backhoes and forklifts, myself and my brothers were absolutely in the way.

Long about lunchtime Ray offers to go get lunch for everyone, us kids included at this "new place" on Independence across the street from what is now Hendrick Auto Charlotte.

My mom hands him a couple 20s and he's off. Nearly an hour later roars back up the driveway in his Ford 250 with a dozen Wendy's Hamburgers, Fries and Cokes, and a Frosty for everyone.

First Wendy's I ever had and it was awesome!

Over the year the quality of the food and staff has declined to the point of being abysmal. I haven't had one in at least a year or more.

And so it goes ...

You can find Ray Terry at FoxSportsRadioCharlotte

https://foxsportsradiocharlotte.com/podcasts/about-your-house/

Lucky and Bo

2026-09-19T16:52:01.150-04:00

If you live in South Charlotte, in the area south of Highway 51 and travel either Providence or Rea Road you might recall seeing an older man and his dog panhandling from the medium.

Most often seen at Ballantyne Commons Parkway and Rea Road, the man was known to many as “Lucky” and his dog’s name was “Bo”.

Over the past two years Lucky and Bo were a notable fixture of Charlotte’s homeless and panhandler landscape.

The pair took panhandling to an art form. Who among us can’t feel pity for the poor homeless dog.

The dog and the man made a great team, Lucky was always gracious with a smile and wave, and his steadfast companion by his side never seeming to mind as countless cars racing by just a foot to two from his human sidekick.

Bo stood by Lucky on rainy days as well as hot summer afternoons never seeming to mind at all.

Bo of course was as much a part of the sales pitch as Lucky was.

The money was good, the hours easy and the best part no 1040 to file each April.

Lucky lived out of his grey pickup truck to which Bo always called “shotgun”.

They were a quintessential “John Steinbeck and Charley” traveling the countryside on the cheap.

“And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”

Lucky did well by Bo, and more than a few of my neighbors took to helping “Bo” when needed even so much as taking “Bo” to Rea Road Animal Hospital and covering the Vet expenses.

“Bo” did the same taking care of Lucky.

Lucky passed away last week in New York. There are those who would say Lucky had a rough life but honestly you can’t put a value on that kind of freedom.

His family stepped in to help when it was needed and brought Lucky and Bo back home to New York.

Bo passed away a few weeks before Lucky, due to an abdominal tumor.

Perhaps losing Bo was just too much for Lucky, losing his best friend had to be hard.

Yet perhaps in the end as Steinbeck wrote:

“Who has not known a journey to be over and done before the traveler returns? The reverse is also true: many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.”

Godspeed Lucky and Bo.

Tommy Norris Landman Alternative Energy Rant

2026-09-12T00:00:00.000-04:00

You want to get a liberal fired up? Just quote Billy Bob Thornton's character in Landman Tommy Norris. Right or Wrong liberals hate Tommy's take on the necessity of the Oil and Gas Industry and absurdity of alternative energy wind farms.

Rebecca: What are those?

Tommy: Wind turbines.

Rebecca: Out here?

Tommy: Everywhere.

Rebecca: Green energy starting to push out the oil industry?

Tommy: Let's go. I want to show you something.

Rebecca: God, they're massive.

Tommy: 400 feet tall. The concrete foundation covers a third of an acre and goes down into ground 12 feet.

Rebecca: Who owns them?

Tommy: Oil companies. We use them to power the wells. No electricity out here. We're off the grid.

Rebecca: They use clean energy to power the oil wells?

Tommy: They use alternative energy. There's nothing clean about this.

Rebecca: Ah. Please, Mr. Oilman, tell me how the wind is bad for the environment.

Tommy: Do you have any idea how much diesel they had to burn to mix that much concrete?

Or make that steel and haul this shit out here and put it together with a 450-foot crane?

You want to guess how much oil it takes to lubricate that fսcking thing? Or winterize it? In its 20-year lifespan, it won't offset the carbon footprint of making it.

And don't get me started on solar panels and the lithium in your Tesla battery.

And never mind the fact that, if the whole world decided to go electric tomorrow, we don't have the transmission lines to get the electricity to the cities. It'd take 30 years if we started tomorrow.

And, unfortunately, for your grandkids, we have a 120-year, petroleum-based infrastructure. Our whole lives depend on it.

And, hell, it's in everything. That road we came in on. The wheels on every car ever made, including yours. It's in tennis rackets and lipstick and refrigerators and antihistamines. Pretty much anything plastic. Your cell phone case, artificial heart valves. Any kind of clothing that's not made with animal or plant fibers. Soap, fսcking hand lotion, garbage bags, fishing boats.

You name it.

Every fսcking thing.

And you know what the kicker is?

We're gonna run out of it before we find its replacement.

Rebecca: It's the thing that's gonna kill us all... as a species.

Tommy: No, the thing that's gonna kill us all is running out before we find an alternative.

And believe me, if Exxon thought them fսcking things right there were the future, they'd be putting them all over the goddamn place.

Getting oil out of the ground's the most dangerous job in the world. We don't do it 'cause we like it. We do it 'cause we run out of options.

And you're out here trying to find something to blame for the danger besides your boss. There ain't nobody to blame but the demand that we keep pumping it.

Cedar's Take

So here's the odd thing. If you ask Google about the monolog Google's AI is very quick to tell you that "According to energy experts and fact-checkers highlighted by groups like the Power Alliance, Tommy's claims contain major inaccuracies.

Wind turbines typically pay back the energy and carbon footprint used to manufacture and install them within 6 to 12 months.

While wind turbines do use some lubricants, the amount is minimal compared to the fossil fuels they offset during decades of clean electricity generation.

Most consensus online views the scene as a reflection of common oil-patch rhetoric rather than actual life-cycle science.

Google then asks if you'd like to watch the YouTube video of the scene or a transcript of the dialog but when you say transcript it won't provide it and offers "Would you like to know more about the energy payback time of wind turbines or discuss other fact-checks from the show?"

September 11, 2001 Twenty Five Years It Still Hurts

2026-09-08T00:00:00.000-04:00

This post is the same one I made on the first anniversary of 9/11.

I'm posting it today (the second Tuesday of September 2026) because 25 years ago, the 11th of September was the second Tuesday of the month. It was what should have been a normal nondescript workday, full of dull routines and familiar normalcy, as it turned out it was anything but.

On Tuesday September 11, 2001, I was thankfully 700 miles away in Charlotte. I had been in the city the week before, had lunch at "Windows" after having spent the morning listening to a long presentation by the then recently rebranded Donaldson Lufkin and Jenrette Group. To this day I’m haunted by those facts and this memory.

A few days after The Towers fell, a “fax” arrived at my 6100 Fairview Road office in Charlotte.

I’ve kept Jay’s letter in my top desk drawer ever since. The date and time notations are for clarity. Everything else is just as Jay had written in his fax.

FDNY Ladder 118 crossing the Brooklyn Bridge

My Memories of the day, September 11, 2001

September 11, 2001, will long be remembered as one of the darkest hours in this country’s history. It should also be remembered as one the brightest as thousands of selfless human beings attempted to save lives and a country rallied around all those that had be affected by the horrific acts of cowards who acted supposedly in the name of God. For me it was a day that I will remember for a lifetime.

I left Charlotte on September 10th with my colleague Courtenay Miller and our client Rich Covelli to travel to NYC. We were scheduled to meet with Moody’s Investor Service and MIBA the following day to discuss our golf pool program. We arrived at Newark Airport on time and were met by Concorde Limo for the short drive into Manhattan. As approached the Holland Tunnel, the skyline of NYC towered in the distance. It is an impressive sight.

SEPTEMBER 10, 2001, 12:30 p.m.

We checked into the Marriot Hotel and then met up with our other colleague, Clyde Measey. We grabbed a bite to eat in the Tall Ships restaurant right there in the Marriott. We discussed our presentation and established the three major points to get across to each party the following day. After lunch we all parted company until 5:00 p.m. when we met for drinks before having dinner at Grammercy Tavern (Danny Meyer’s restaurant) at 7:00 p.m.

During the afternoon, I decided to run up to Central Park. Not a smart idea, as it turned out to be a lot farther than I had remembered. After making my way up to the Park. I knew that if I wanted to get back to the hotel in time for dinner, I had better take a subway or I would never make it back in time. I was never so proud of myself as I found the E train and took it down to the World Trade Center and walked through the concourse back to the hotel. I showered, changed clothes and met everyone upstairs before departing for the restaurant.

SEPTEMBER 10, 2001 7:00 p.m.

Dinner at Grammercy Tavern was delicious. Each person had something different and each person raved about the food and the service. After consuming too many chocolate desserts, we left and headed back downtown to our hotel. Since it had been raining during our dinner, cabs were at a premium and it took us some time to locate one. Our cab ride was anything but uneventful. The driver was a Colombian woman who declared to all of us that she was a part-time cabby and part-time drug runner. She told us she would rather be a full-time drug dealer but the risk of being put in prison or being wiped out by the drug lords scared her too much. The entire ride back to the hotel she raged on about the United States, it’s useless attempt to curtail the drug business, its corruption, filth and two-faced policies. While spouting forth and driving, she continually played with her chest under her shirt and kept putting her hand on my leg. Unsetting to say the least. As we approached the hotel she took us in the back way, right past the garage entrance to Tower 1. For a moment I remember the bombing eight years ago and wondered to myself if such an event would ever occur again. Little did I know what would occur the following morning?

After several cigars and beers later for the boys (I had another coke) at the Tall Ships bar, we adjourned for the night deciding on the time to meet for breakfast downstairs in the Atrium restaurant. We agreed on 8:30 a.m. instead of 8:00 a.m., as we didn’t have our first meeting until 10:00 a.m., and the walk to Moody’s was just four blocks. We all headed to our respective rooms.

SEPTEMBER 10, 2001, 10:30 p.m.

Dead tired from my long jog/walk to Central Park, I crashed for the night at around 10:30 p.m. I tossed and turned for most of the night. I kept thinking it was so strange not to be sleeping well as I had gotten such a workout that afternoon.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 6:00 a.m.

I spent several hours watching TV and as the sky began to lighten at past six, I rose for the day and showered and watched the morning news.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 8:00 a.m.

I left my room at 8:10 a.m. to meet everyone for breakfast. As I entered the restaurant, I saw Rich sitting on the upper right-hand side. He was the only one present as the time. I sat down with Rich, and we discussed various topics including dinner the night before and our strategies for the meeting that day. As the clock approached 8:40 a.m., both Rich and I agreed to go ahead and order and when Courtenay and Clyde joined us, they could order then. Our food arrived within minutes, and Rich commented to the waiter “What took you so long?” The waiter laughed as it only been 3 or 4 minutes since taking our order and the time the food arrived.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 8:46 a.m.

I had just began to eat my eggs when I heard and felt a huge explosion. Within seconds there was a second blast which was much louder and severe that the first. The impact of this blast knocked me nearly off my chair. Not being able to comprehend what had happened, everyone in the restaurant just looked around in disbelief. Within seconds it became apparent that something horrific had happened as some type of debris began crashing through the restaurant’s glass atrium onto the food and patrons below. Being located on a raised level of the restaurant there was above us a solid ceiling so that no glass was crashing onto our heads. This was not the case for the other patrons and waiters and waitresses, so as debris continued to crash through the roof, chaos broke out.

Those caught under the glass roof began running towards us to seek cover under the ceiling portion of the restaurant and the tables themselves. Rich and I were looking for cover under the tables, but the tables were already jammed with wild-eyed panicked screaming patrons.

As fireballs of debris continue to rain down from above, reality hit both Rich and I and we agreed to make a run for it. As we leapt over bewildered, frantic people to make our escape the debris continued to crash through the atrium and just as we made our way to the restaurant’s front door a body came crashing through the roof and landed on the floor just feet from both (of) us.

As we continued our run, I noticed the people outside the hotel in the open area between the two towers running in all directions. All of them had their arms over their heads and totally panic-stricken looks on their faces. The open area they were running through was strewn with massive amounts of burning debris and what appeared to be a whole bunch of white chalk or dust. (I didn’t realize until later that the “dust” was pulverized concreate.) One frantic man was within feet of the door from the outside into the hotel when he was struck and killed by a falling piece of steel.

The scene was unimaginable and incomprehensible. I had never seen a person die and after witnessing two people killed within seconds and within several feet of me, my mind became filled with an indescribable sense of terror. I realized that Rich and I were in a run for our own lives. I began praying that I would live so that I could tell my wife, daughters and other family members just how much I loved them. I just kept telling myself, you cannot die; keep going, get out of the building before something else horrendous happens.

Realizing I was in the middle of an enormous unfolding disaster, Rich and I raced through the 2nd floor lobby headed for the stairs that would lead us down to the ground floor lobby of the hotel. As we made our decent down the stairs, there were hundreds of people standing around the door looking confused, crying and screaming and not moving anywhere. Most people appeared to be in total shock and like me unable to comprehend what was truly happening.

As Rich and I reached the front door, one of the hotel clerks told us not to leave the building. Another police officer said it was safer to stay inside. I wasn’t listening. My only thought at the moment was to get the hell out of the building because the building was located on top of the World Trade Center garage and basement and maybe there was another bomb about to go off. So, Rich and I raced out of the doors and what we saw next caused us both to stop dead in our tracks.

From the top of the front steps of the Marriott Hotel the landscape had been transformed into what I imagine the surface of the moon to look like. The road, the sidewalks, the signs, the cars, the cabbies and just about everything you could see in front of you was covered with a layer of grayish white dust. Scattered among the dust were burning fragments of paper, steel, clothing and body parts. The entire area looked like a war zone.

As I regained my mental capacity, I told Rich to follow me, and we began to run across the northbound lanes of West Street. As we cleared the median separating the north and southbound lanes, I noticed that all of the cars on the street were scattered around facing in all different directions and of the windshields of these cars were shattered. As we ran across the southbound lanes we came within feet of a white car that was no longer headed southbound but instead had crashed headfirst into the median on the right-hand side of the southbound lanes. Its driver was no longer living as his head was hanging out the driver’s side of the car, blood was gushing from the side of his head.

As we continued in the direction of the Merrill Lynch building, One Financial Plaza, the carnage scattered about was numbing. I still did not realize what had happened, as I had not yet looked behind me back in the direction of the Trade Center. When we reached the corner of the Financial Plaza (approximately 150 feet from the entrance to the Marriot Hotel) Rich and I both stopped running to catch our breath and re-orient ourselves to the situation around us. It was at this point that I looked east back toward the Marriot and saw for the first time the inferno that was raging 80 floors up in North Tower (Tower 1). I remember thinking, oh my God how are the ever going to put that fire out.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 9:02 a.m.

I still did not know what had caused the fire. I thought it might have been a bomb, a transformer blowing up, a plane off course, etc. I had no idea it had been a terrorist attack nor did those around me. The scene for that moment was one of total pandemonium.

People were screaming, crying, shaking and holding each other. Rich and I kept saying to each other, “we’re okay”, “we’re oaky” but then it hit us both that we did not know where Courtenay and Clyde were at the time of the explosion, and we wanted to find them right away. To help locate them, we decided to stay close to the Merrill Lynch building in hopes that we would catch a glimpse of them leaving the building and call to them to come join us until the crisis subsided.

While standing watching the entrance to the hotel, Rich was able to call his wife on his cell phone and leave her a message. He told her the World Trade Center was on fire. Jay and I are okay. We don’t know where Courtenay and Clyde are but we assume they are fine too. Please call Suzanne, Jay’s wife and let her know he is okay”.

As we stood taking in the situation unfolding around us, emergency vehicles began arriving at the scene and the police were in an orderly fashion pushing people back across the street towards the Hudson River to make room of the emergency response teams. As help arrived at the ground level, all Hell was breaking loose in the North Tower (Tower Number 1). Those desperate folks trapped in the burning tower were screaming for help. They were waving towels, clothes and any other object they could use to draw attention to themselves. Despite their frantic scream for help, no one was able to reach them, and many were left with only one option: jump or suffer a worse fate. It was impossible to believe but out of sheer desperation and agony person after person leapt from the top floors to their death. As each one jumped people on the ground began screaming and sobbing.

My emotions were reeling. At one moment I felt helpless, another a coward – I should go help, another moment sick to my stomach and still another this is a horrible nightmare, and I am going to wake up soon. I truly did not know what to do, where to go or what was going to happen next. I feared for my own life and wanted desperately to be home with Suzanne, Lauren and Sarah. I also wanted to find my friend Courtenay.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 9:03 a.m.

As my mind and emotions attempted to create some rational thought process, my whole being was shattered to the core as I heard a deafening roar and then looked up to see what appeared to be a tail of either a plane, or a missile slam into the South Tower.

The blast was deafening and the heat emitted from the explosion could be felt on our faces – we were that close to the blast. At this point I knew the city was under attack, and I was scared to death. I did not know what to do or where to go. Rich and I just started running away from The South Tower towards the Hudson River. I wanted to get away from any building because I didn’t know which building was going to be hit next.

As we ran to the river, I dropped Rich’s cell phone. Desperation set in. I had lost the only thing that could give us access at some point to our loved ones. Luckily some nice guy picked it up and delivered it back to me and Rich reassembled the phone.

As we regrouped along the riverfront adjacent to the marina, I knew our next route of escape was going to have to be to jump into the river. I told Rich about the current and looked for a piling that we could each hold onto should it ever become necessary. I figured the water would protect us from any flames.

After several minutes of no further attacks, I began to develop our game plan of how to get out of the city. I told Rich that we needed to make our way north. By going north, we would avoid being scattered with more debris as the prevailing winds that day were from the north. We thought about taking the ferry across the Hudson River to New Jersey but decided against is as we realized that brought us closer to Newark Airport and all those people trying to find rides out of the metro area. I decided at that point to attempt to make to Metro North at 125th street. I believed if we made it there, we could get a train to White Plains and pick up a rental car and drive back to Charlotte and Hilton Head. I did not want to go to Grand Central because I wasn’t sure whether or not it was open or in fact whether it was the target of another attack.

Agreeing on moving north, Rich and I made our way around the marina. We were on the southern side of the marina after our run from the second explosion so moving north meant moving close to the Marriot hotel before being able to move further away. Rich was a little apprehensive about getting close to another tall building, but we moved anyway. As we were making these decisions, we were continually attempting to make voice contact via cell phone with Bridget to check on the status of Courtenay and to notify our loved ones that we were still okay.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 9:59 a.m.

As we made our way to the northern edge of the marina, I heard another horrific blast and looked in the direction of the noise. What I thought I saw I could not comprehend…. The shell of the South Tower was peeling away from the core of the building, and the floors were crumbling into each other like dominoes. The roar became a 100-foot-high wall of glass, steel, pulverized concrete and paper and this wall of debris was rushing toward us at an ungodly pace. In a split second we knew we had to run to get out of the way of the crashing building.

Rich and I both took off running parallel to the Hudson River as the cloud got closer and closer over our right shoulders. As we ran, we lost view of each other as you had to watch your step so as not fall over those that had fallen, those that had had a heart attack or those there were suffering from asthmatic attacks. After running until I could run no longer, (I had run out of sidewalk and there was nowhere else to run except to jump into the river in front of me), I stopped to check out my situation. Fortunately for me the majority of the cloud had continued to move westward and not northward.

That meant the cloud around me was just the peripheral edge of the cloud and not the black cloud which enveloped the area right behind me. As I looked behind me, I saw the cloud race out into the river to the shoreline of New Jersey. In its wake, there was debris everywhere and hundreds of people dazed and confused and covered with ash and soot. Many more were floating in the river, either forced in by the blast or there by their own accord. No matter where you looked there were faces filled with total disbelief, fear and terror.

While standing at the corner of the sidewalk and river, I frantically began searching for Rich among the thousands of other people that surrounded me. I knew Rich was as panicked as me and I knew we were much better together than apart. He was after all not only my client but my friend. After a few silent prayerful seconds, I spotted Rich and yelled to him. He heard me and we were once again reunited to continue together this horrendous ordeal.

We both looked at each other in total disbelief. Did we just see what we saw? It could not be. The South Tower did not just implode in less than 15 seconds. It just could not have happened!

Stunned and dazed, Rich and I continued to attempt to walk north. By this time, we were in a massive crowd of equally dazed and frightened people. No one could process the magnitude of the disaster, and no one wanted to attempt to comprehend how many innocent lives had been lost in the rubble.

As we made our way back towards West Street, I could see for the first time, the impact side of the North Tower and the continuing inferno that rage from the upper floors. The devastation was more severe that I had thought, and I then knew the inevitable – the North Tower was going to collapse as well. My thoughts continued to be with those trapped on those upper floors. It was incomprehensible to imagine their suffering or fate. It was unimaginable that another “human” could have done this to thousands of innocent people.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 10:28 a.m.

Before I had time to think anymore, The North Tower began to sink into itself. It occurred with the same noise, cloud and chaos that had accompanied the first collapse. But this time you were able to see that the tower was collapsing into itself and falling straight down. This was evidenced by the descent of the radio tower which had once stood on top of the building. The radio tower fell straight down and never toppled over. Once again, my mind was reeling with feeling of total and complete denial and fear. Who could have ever imagined that within two hours the world’s largest buildings would have been reduced to a pile of burning rubble? Who could have imagined that thousands of innocent people would lie dying or dead underneath this rubble? I couldn’t comprehend any of it and I simple muttered, Oh my God, Oh my God.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 10:15 a.m.

It was now 10:15 a.m. and I was consumed with trying to reach Suzanne by phone. Rich’s phone did not work and there were not any land lines out on the where we had run to escape the masses. While mingling around looking in the direction of where the two towers used to stand, we were once again assaulted with a thunderous roar overhead. People ducked, jumped and screamed. We all thought it was another place headed for yet another landmark building in NYC. It was not. It was rather the roar of the engines of a United States Air Force F16. I have never been so relieved to hear the words “those are our guys. That’s the United States Air Force. It’s all okay.” You wanted to believe the words, but I really didn’t know if it was “all okay.” Who knew if there was another onslaught of planes inbound for another part of the city? What we did know is that we wanted to distance ourselves from the area as quickly as possible.

We began our trek north towards 125th street walking up West Street along the riverfront. We were two, of thousands doing the same thing. What struck me at this point in the nightmare was the total calmness of those around us. There were hundreds of thousands of people just walking in an orderly fashion, one foot after another. The screaming and crying had subsided. In its place was the constant piercing sirens of police, fire and other rescue vehicles.

Rich and I agreed we wanted to get away from the masses, so we crossed over the northbound lanes and headed north on a road in from the West Side Drive. We stopped for a bottle of water to quench our parched mouth and throats. Unfortunately, the first place was without any more water and it was not until several more blocks that we located a place with water.

We just kept walking, looking for an open landline to call our loved ones. Looking for a chance to make contract with those we knew would be concerned. This is where I realized the old saying was true; "sometimes it is easier to be the patient than the bystander.” Each phone we approached had ten or more people waiting and those on the phone didn’t appear to be having short conversations. So, we pushed on.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 11:00 a.m.

Finally, at approximately 11:00 a.m. I was able to find a landline and call collect to Bridget in Charlotte. I knew Suzanne wasn’t home and I knew Bridget could try lots of phone numbers and not disconnect me. So, I called Bridget. The joy and relief I felt when I finally got through was overwhelming. I knew now that no one would have to worry any longer because Bridget would be able to track Suzanne down and tell her that I was okay. I cried when I heard Bridget’s voice and she told me that Courtenay and Clyde had called in and they were okay too. When Bridget tied in Suzanne and I heard her voice, my adrenaline stopped momentarily, and I couldn’t do anything but weep.

After regaining composure, Suzanne and I talked briefly and then I returned to my number one mission: Get the hell out of the city.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 1:00 p.m.

Rich and I continued by foot northbound. We stopped at a little after one o’clock at an open-air-restaurant to grab another water or possible something to eat. We were able to find a table inside and see for the first time with our own eyes exactly what had happened. The restaurant had at least six tv’s on the walls and every station had another tape of the actual place going into the second tower. I remember thinking, this is not possible. You are having the worst nightmare of your life. You are going to wake up and some director is going to yell, “cut”. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the four hours I had just experienced.

After a bite or two of a grilled chicken sandwich, conversations with perfect strangers and a hug from one of the strangers we decided to push on. We attempted to hail a cab but to no avail. No cabby was taking new passengers. The street below 50th street were being left open for emergency vehicles. At this point we had 100 blocks to go (5 miles). So, we continued to move north.

By this time, Rich’s expensive dress shoes had given him blisters and he had resorted to putting napkins inside his socks as to give his feet some relief from the pain. We both agreed this pain was far less than that being suffered by so many behind us at the World Trade Center so we stopped talking about the discomfort and pushed on.

At 79th Street we spotted a host of rental car locations. My heart seemed, for the first time in six hours, to leap for joy. Maybe just maybe they would have a car, and we could high tail it up the West Side Drive and get out of NYC? Rich headed towards Hertz and I headed toward National. To our surprise and utter disappointment and frustration, no one had a car to rent us. Each attendant had the same answer; “I’m sorry. There isn’t a car left in NYC.” Words we dreaded to hear. Crestfallen, we each looked at each other and knew we only had one alternative; keep walking.

By 86th Street, Rich was really in great pain. We needed a ride to 125th Street or to find a shoe store where we could replace our dress shoes with sneakers. We looked up and down block after block, but no store was open. Every store had closed for the day and stores were now behind those metal gates used to keep the masses out at night. Up to this point I had not noticed this fact before. But as I looked around, it appeared that the majority of the city had closed and the city had become a ghost town. No wonder there weren’t any rental cars.

We keep walking. By the time we had made it to 90th and Broadway, Rich said he just couldn’t go any further and he would find us a ride from one of those “assholes” who were heading north and had not stopped to help us. Rich stood at the intersection of 90th and Broadway and asked several cars for a ride. It was not until a Porky’s meat truck stopped at that the light did Rich have any success. The truck driver agreed to take us to 125th and we both hopped up into the cab and shared one seat all the way to 125th. Despite one seat and jarring from each little bump, the ride beat walking and neither one of us even thought of complaining. It was in fact the first time I smiled or laughed that day.

At 125th, the truck driver let us off. We offered him $50.00 but he refused it. He told us no and said he was only too glad to help us given what we had been through that day. We thanked him profusely and he said God Bless you. It was yet another time that I cried as his simple act of kindness restored my belief in humanity and a part of my broken heart.

I thought when the driver left us that we were at the metro north station. Oh how wrong was I. We were on 125th but clear across on the opposite side of 125th for the station. So, we had yet another mile plus to go to reach the train. Rich still needed sneakers, so we found “Harlem Sneakers” and we each purchased a pair. What a sight we must have been with both of us in business attire except for me in my black and red Nikes and Rich in his gray and silver Air Jordan’s.

We finally reached the station, waited several minutes and boarded the Harlem Division for the ride up to North White Plains. We sat down for the first time in five hours and oh how good it felt. As we rounded the bend on the train and began to cross over the Harlem River, I could still see the smoke billowing from lower Manhattan. It hit home once again. We had been spared from a horrific disaster. God had spared our lives and those of Courtenay and Clyde. Why? Why were we the lucky ones and yet so many other, thousand perhaps, were not so lucky. I couldn’t comprehend it and I couldn’t think about it anymore because I was exhausted both physically and mentally. It did not stop the guilt though as I sat in the air-conditioned comfort of the soft train seat.

We arrived at the Bronxville station and got off. We looked for a place to grab another water and a phone booth once again to call our loved one and let them know of our status. We were able to find a phone and I called home. I talked for the first time to my oldest daughter Lauren. Her voice sounded so good that it took me a couple of seconds of tears and silence to continue the conversation. Lauren used her cell phone to call and make us reservation at the Rye Town Hilton. When she had them confirmed, we hung up and Rich and I hailed a cab and dove to the hotel.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 6:05 p.m.

Upon arriving at the Rye Town Hilton, we were told there was only one room available but once we explained what we had been through, the nice clerk gave us each a room. After checking in we went to the gift shop, and both purchased a pair of swim trunks, t-shirts and some toiletries. We agreed to meet back in the bar area after getting a shower and making some calls. I was able to talk to Suzanne, Lauren Sarah, my parents, brother and sister, and my in-laws Janet and Cowles, It was so comforting to hear each one of their voices and know that within a short time I would be able to be re-united with all of them.

SEPTEMBER 12, 2001, 8:00 a.m.

The next day Chip came to meet Rich and me for breakfast. What a sight for sore eyes and what a joy to be able to hug him. It was what I now know was the beginning of the healing process. We ate together and then Chip took us to the North White Plains train station to rent a car. We left with our new red Trans AM car for the long journey back to Charlotte and then Hilton Head for Rich. A long hug, good-bye, some tears and laughter and we were off on our 675-mile trek south.

SEPTEMBER 12, 2001, 10:00 a.m.

The car ride was filled with emotion as Rich and I both grappled with the disaster and the events of the prior day. I remember crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge and looking south to the city and seeing the smoke still hovering over the tip of Manhattan. The sight sent chills though my body and a renewed fear that something still might happen. I accelerated faster over the bridge and remember breathing a sigh of relief as we cleared the expanse. Now it was only a matter of hours until I was able to wrap my arms around Suzanne and the girls.

As we drove south, I remember daydreaming. My mind was filled with the anguish of what I had witnessed the prior day. My emotions ranged from rage to utter devastation for the families that had lost their loved ones. I kept asking why? Why in a world like ours could such a horrendous act occur? How could God have allowed this to happen? Slowly but surely, it became a little clearer. God didn’t have a hand in this act of terror.

He was probably feeling the same sense of sadness that we all were feeling. He was probably thinking, how in the world could one of His children have done such a thing? That realization gave me a great feeling of comfort, but I continued to pray that my own desire for retribution and hatred toward he cowards who carried out these acts would subside in time.

The drive was long and arduous. The car was silent for long periods of time and then at others there were expressions of anger, pain, anguish and joy. The emotions ran the gamut; tears, smiles, laughter and silence.

September 12, 2001, 9:15 p.m.

We finally made it home to Charlotte at around 9:15 p.m. I dropped Rich off at his son’s house and watched as Rich hugged his son Tom. It was a reunion of father and son and such a joyous one at that. I lingered for only a short time as I longed to be doing the same thing with Suanne, Lauren and Sarah.

September 12, 2001, 9:25 p.m.

I arrived home at 9:25 p.m. and found the back door locked so I rang the bell. I didn’t have any keys as they were in the rubble of the disaster in NYC. I heard Lauren’s voice and I began to cry. I will never forget how good it was to wrap my arms around her when she opened the door and then to be able to do that two more times with Sarah and Suzanne.

That night I lay awake thanking God for all that He had given me. For my safety; the love of my family; the love of friends and colleagues; my life and for being an American. I had a lot to be thankful for, and this event reconfirmed to me those blessings thousands of times over.

As I regain the normalcy back into my life, I continue to mourn like all Americans and God-fearing people across this world. I have confidence in mankind and know that good will eventually win out over evil. I still cannot fully process the carnage I witnessed on September 11th. But I can share with others the heroism of other human beings as I witnessed many selfless people attempt to save the lives of other human beings. The memories and the love of my family and friends that I cling to and it is this type of goodness that I cherish most about this glorious country we all call America.

As that wonderful song says, “I am proud to be an American” and I know America and all of its people have the might and strength to recover from this tragedy and eventually triumph over evil.

Jay

Cedar's Take:

2,606 people in the Twin Towers including 343 firefighters and 71 NYPD and Port Authority Police officers perished, more than 5,500 were injured.

A total of 2,977 deaths and more than 6,000 injured including the Pentagon and Shanksville Pennsylvania crash.

Because it was the 11th I swung by the apartment complex I owned at the time to check with the office staff for any last minute rent payments from tenants trying to avoid the late fee. In the parking lot I'm confronted by a tenant named Anna. Even today I'm still stunned at what happened that crystal clear Carolina morning in September and the reaction of two people apparently unmoved and so self centric that they chose that moment to, in the case of Anna Schreiber to complain about a broken towel bar in her apartment and in the case Alan Henderson, rage over the phone that I "damn sure better be in Houston on Monday, even if you have to drive".

The September 11 attacks and more so Schreiber and Henderson changed my outlook on life, work and family.

In 2001 not everyone had a cellphone and yes there were payphones all over New York.

Today in NYC there are more than 10x the Uber and Lyft drivers, than Yellow Cabs.

The 2001 Trans AM was an awesome car.

Harlem Sneakers at 307 West 125th Street later became Sneaker Den, The store closed in 2026 after a forty year run.

Porky’s Trucks both “Box” and “18 Wheelers” still roll along the streets of NYC.

Rich Covelli retired to Lake Norman. He ran C2 Advisors and Pension Advisory Group which closed in 2018. He passed last August 2025 at the age of 79. Not a bad run yet he will be missed by us all.

Courtenay Miller is still active in the business and is with Park Avenue Securities a division of Consolidated Planning.

Clyde Measey is with Fifth Third Bank; at the time he was director of development with Golden Bear International.

Jay I’ve lost touch with.

I left the investment business in 2008 selling my firm to Dunn and Bradstreet in the spring of that year.

Firefighters Vernon Cherry, Leon Smith, Joey Agnello, Robert Regan, Pete Vega, and Scott Davidson rode Ladder 118 to ground zero all would parish when the south tower collapsed. Davidson would leave behind a year old son named Peter aka "Pete" of Saturday Night Live fame.

I'm haunted by my own recollection, that of staring across the Hudson to the Statue of Liberty the week before and clearly taking everything for granted.

To the current mayor of New York who thinks we should move on from 9/11 .....

Back to School Yes, College Parents You Will Survive 2026

2026-08-15T00:00:00.000-04:00

You will endure and Christmas break well eventually bring your kids back home if only for a few days.

The ritual is time honored and back in 1951 my grandfather, grandmother and my eventual mom, dropped my my father off at the train station to return as a sophomore at the university of Illinois. The letter is as it was typed. The typewriter sits in my office today.

September 1951

Dear Clif:

You are probably a bit surprised to receive a letter so soon, but we ordinarily write when we have the urge, and I thought we would drop you a few lines before we turned in for the night.

After we left you at the station, Mom, Carrol and I drove back to the Confectionery in Edgebrook on Central and Devon, where we stopped one night after playing golf with you and Carrol, and had a sandwich and played a few pieces on the Juke Box. We were happy to have Carrol with us.

Well, Clif, a full year has passed since you started as a freshman at Illinois. A year ago were very much concerned about how you would like the fraternity and how you would get along with the fellows, etc.

-2-

This year there is not too much to be concerned about, because that portion of your life has passed and obviously you now know your way around.

The starting the school year is final proof that the summer is over and we are now starting autumn. I’m sure that it can be said that your summer vacation was very much worthwhile. You’ve learned a lot in business which means more to you than the dollars you made, which of course is important to you. I know you will remember these fine days that have passed; your work, with a fine company, your pleasant hours with Carrol, and of course we sincerely hope your hours at home were enjoyed. We shall never forget the evenings you and Carrol came by and picked us up for a ride or so. We greatly appreciate it.

-3-

Each Sunday when we attended Church, Mother and I were most proud to see you in the pew. I know that your Church means something to you because you were always very attentive. It is our prayer that you shall never forget the One who is the ruler of all of us and that you will never get too busy or proud to ask for His help. Start each day with a little prayer such as we sang in Church Sunday and you will find great source of reserved power in that small act.

You are now starting your second year in a great school of learning, a privilege that many do not enjoy. Be encouraged by your own experiences in your home, in your work, and in your love of your fellowmen, that this is a good world. And, that individual with your back-ground and personality has an exceptional opportunity, and obligation, if I may say so, to make this world a better place in which to live.

-4-

You can only do this by -- each day, taking an inventory of yourself, praying for guidance, and planning each day so that when evening comes you have learned many things that you heretofore would not know, and you have grown first in your own eyes and also in the eyes of those about you.

I know that you will make this semester an outstanding period in your life. I cannot stress the importance of each day enough as you are now building for your future life, for your home, for your ~~dessendants~~, son or d, for your place in the business world, and for your place in society. Each day is like unto the brick in the foundation of a building, the building being your great life to come. Today makes up your past and your future. Be sure they are both what you want them to be, Solid and of Good Quality.

-5-

The summer went by so fast and of course and of course we all (were)so busy with our daily duties that we did not seem to have the time that you and I, both, I know, would have liked to have had to sit down and talk about the things that mean so much to both of us. But this, your mother and I, want you to know that we have complete confidence in our sons. We know that they will always be honest, pure, brave and strong and deal justly with their fellowmen. We know they will do their part to make this world a better place in which to live.

Mother and I are very proud of you Clifton and as you start this new school year we wish you every success and the best of health and happiness.

All our love,

Mom and Dad

Blessed

2026-08-02T16:07:55.446-04:00

I’m blessed, that I live on a golf course.

And so my backyard extends into that lush green fairway and even beyond into the woods overflowing with wildlife.

Perhaps it seems odd that someone would trade a fence and backyard neighbors for the endless flow of golf carts but there are advantages.

The superintendent's crew starts work at first light in the summer, and well before dawn in the fall. That early work effort reminds me there is much to be done and that God’s day is starting without me.

Today a tip of the hat versus my usual raised in salute coffee mug.

And if I’m lucky in the fading half light of a summer’s eve I’ll watch that lone golfer. His swing as sweet and pure as Sam Snead or Ben Hogan.

His drive a solid 295 yards leaving a 7 iron to the green his second shot soars skyward falling within feet of flag but rolling well past. But no concern the 18 feet with the pin high. And there time stands still, the hush of the nonexistent crowd waits. The only sound, the summer breeze in the Carolina pines as his smooth stoke sends the ball toward the cup only to miss by a half an inch. A tap in for birdie and I raise my beer for the eagle effort.

Perhaps tomorrow, yes tomorrow.

Elvis

2026-05-11T13:02:00.000-04:00

I see a lot of posts about female teachers as sexual predators. So much so that I often question if perhaps, I too was a victim?

At the time however, it sure didn’t seem that way. Yeah I had just turned 17 and she was in her mid 30s.

Was I ”groomed”? I suppose - I was working a summer job and she would come by and “talk” to me.

I had the sort of summer gig high school kids dream about. I managed the pool club house at Raintree Country Club. I basically rented out stuff, lockers, floats, table tennis paddles, pool tables and cue sticks. I was in charge of everything except the “Cabana Grill”.

She was an elementary school teacher who also worked part time in the main dining room as a bar tender. Her name was Samantha but her nick name was not Sam but rather Elvis.

Elvis liked to shoot pool which presented a quandary as she wasn’t a member so I couldn’t “rent” her a table so I just let her take a cue stick and rack em up.

My shift ended each day when the pool closed which was normally around sunset and Elvis worked until 10 or later. But one day she came up behind me as I was locking the doors to go home. She had gotten off work early and wanted to shoot some pool. But I had to tell her we had just closed.

At this point my older self would have known what was up. But at 17 I was clueless, and then she set the hook “wanna go shoot pool some where else?” she asked.

Sure - I replied and the next thing I know I’ve left my Jeep CJ5 in the club house parking lot and Elvis is driving.

Destination - the Double Door Inn by 11 pm I was drunk and Elvis was my new best friend. We went to her house on Club Drive just off Central Avenue.

Samantha was a fan of Elvis Pressley thus the name. She even had a giant velvet painting of Elvis over her bed.

Elvis Pressley the singer had been dead about 10 years at that time, but the vision of Elvis looking over Samatha’s bare shoulders is permanently etched into my mind and lives on.

Somewhere around 3 am I got dressed and Elvis woke up and asked where I was going I told her that I really needed to go home that my parents would be pissed. Then she reminded me my jeep was back at the club house parking lot. I felt trapped.

She offered to fix breakfast, but I declined - 30 minutes later I was standing alone in the club parking lot next to my jeep watching the tail lights of her Buick head up Raintree Lane.

Based on many news reports these days, I am sure I never felt so dirty and in need of a shower in my life. I must have wanted to tell my mother, a counselor at school, a priest or maybe a cop but I just sucked it up.

That summer I’d play pool with Elvis at the Double Door, Chalk of the Town on the Plaza, Boardwalk Billy’s and some place on South Tryon. And every time I’d end up back at Club Drive apparently being abused . I guess I hated myself because I did whatever she wanted.

I am now, 30 years later, I guess I was a victim so I am pretty certain she stole my youth or something like that.

There was no big break up. I honestly don’t remember how I escaped or how it ended but every couple of years I’ll find myself on Central Avenue and subconsciously slow down approaching Club Drive wanting to find and reclaim my lost youth!

And still I seem to think how lucky I was to have known Elvis and if I bumped into her today I’d tell her….

“Thank ya, thank ya very much" (IYKYK)

Confederate Memorial Day May 10th

2026-05-10T01:00:00.002-04:00

Confederate Memorial Day is still (as it should be) a holiday in some Southern U.S. states honoring those who died fighting for the Confederacy, originating from a Georgia call in 1866 for remembrance after the Civil War, observed on different dates like the fourth Monday in April (AL, MS) or May 10 (SC, NC), marked by ceremonies at memorials and graves, and remains controversial due to its ties to slavery and the Confederacy, though celebrated by some as heritage.

In North Carolina while it is a recognized by law holiday it is not a paid holiday nor are state offices closed. This year the date May 10, 2026 falls on a Sunday.

Old Charlotte City Hall Marker

The inscription reads: Mecklenburg County remembers with honor her gallant sons who fought in the armies of the Confederate states. With other brave soldiers of the South, they struggled Nobly for the cause of independence and constitutional self government. Their heroic deeds will be forever, honored by patriotic men and women,

Erected by the Confederate Memorial Association of Charlotte, May 10, 1977 and removed during the George Floyd Riots.

Origins & Purpose

First Observance: Began in Columbus, Georgia, on April 26, 1866, initiated by the Ladies Memorial Association, to commemorate Confederate soldiers.

Date Significance: April 26 marked the anniversary of General Joseph E. Johnston's surrender, seen by many as the symbolic end of the war.

Tradition: Spread across the South as a day for somber remembrance, with some states later choosing dates like May 10 (anniversary of Jefferson Davis's capture) or honoring other figures like "Stonewall" Jackson.

Observances

State Holidays: Still recognized as a state holiday in Alabama, Mississippi, and South Carolina, with varying dates.

Dates: Varies by state:

Alabama & Mississippi: Fourth Monday in April (or final Monday in April).

South Carolina & North Carolina: May 10.

Texas: "Confederate Heroes' Day" on January 19.

Activities: Include church services, re-enactments, placing flags and wreaths at graves, and ceremonies at monuments.

Controversy

Debate: The holiday sparks debate due to its association with the Confederacy, slavery, and its place in modern America, with some viewing it as heritage and others as a promotion of racism.

Status: It is not a federal holiday, and practices vary, with some counties opting out of official closures.

The Greatest Photo Ever Taken at McDonald's

2026-04-13T19:20:00.001-04:00

The social media is a crazy place where you often stumble across something, and it leads you on a quest to know more or in this case to chase your past.

Submitted for your consideration, a photo of two stoners scoring burgers on a cold January day in Des Plaines, Illinois.

The Stoners just happen to be David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen. Like I said a couple of stoners, who just happened to be making the first stop on a 10 month concert tour that crisscrossed the US and Europe in 1978.

Now the back story:

Before you get excited no I didn't burn one with the guys from Van Halen nor would I have recognized them back in 1978, and jeez that was a life time ago.

The Observer 10 Years Later

2026-04-07T01:00:00.000-04:00

Observer Staff (including Editor Rick Thames (my neighbor for 10 years seated front) pose for a symbolic photo and wave so long to their offices at 600 South Tryon on Friday April 8, 2016.

Photo Credit Todd Summerlin

Read Theoden James' story on the last day here.

Watching the long slow death of the Charlotte Observer during the year leading up to that day was pretty painful. The presses left 600 South Tryon years before, the newsroom had been partitioned off more than once, as the staff was reduced and then reduced again and even yet again. Still that final chapter in the near fifty year history of the observer Building brings back a lot of memories.

I'll never forget the first night I stepped onto the newsroom floor with a roll of "pushed" Kodak Tri-X. (Through the glass doors, photo to the right) I had 36 photos of a massive fire at the Lake Apartments on Albemarle Road that destroyed the clubhouse and offices but earned CP a paycheck of $100.00. My first check as a stringer for the Charlotte News and Observer. I still have the contact sheet with circles and X's in red grease pencil. I was 16 but it seems like yesterday.

Technical note: Pushing the Tri-X allowed me to shoot in seriously low light without a flash. But wasn't to the liking of Observer veteran lens men. I was told use a flash and never to push beyond 1x because the shadows dropped out and the photos lacked depth because of the push.

I would never get full time status with the Observer instead ended up doing a short stint with John Kilgo at the Weekly Newspapers and eventually WAYS/WROQ working directly with Stan Kaplan. (I still remember the cigar, turtle neck sweaters and the ashes from the cigar that fell like snow across his ever expanding gut.) Working for Kilgo was a challenge but working for Kaplan was a nightmare. He wasn't a bad guy, just ADHD to an extreme.

So even at WAYS, 600 South Tryon was at least for a short time, where I wanted to be. Though I'd later figure out the money was better in sales than being a shooter and still better if you sold air time vs column inches.

But for a while because my photos were always big stories, car crashes with at least one fatality, or better yet an arrest or homicide, I was always treated like a rock star.

Nothing I enjoyed more than greeting a "staff photog" rushing out the door at 600 South Tryon with a smile on my face and a roll of 35mm in my fist, saying "I got it all right here"!

In those days no "real" photographer ever left the house without a camera. I carried two, a Cannon F-1 with auto drive, and zoom lens, it was big, heavy, with a full metal body, it was noisy but super bad, and a very small wallet sized Lecia.

I chose the Cannon over Nikon because it was more durable, even so the purists at the time would say the Nikon lens was better. I had the Lecia because I could palm it and make it disappear when I needed it to. The Leica had a huge field of view and it was nearly silent. I could shoot from the hip or car window without raising the camera to eye level. Oh the joy of view finder cameras.

Yep, those were the days.

Today everyone has a camera so the media especially print doesn't need to pay for photos.

And so it goes that newspaper journalists and "shooters" were a dying breed, yet many of those left behind still cling to an increasingly anachronistic vocabulary, including:

Spike | To reject a story. The term derives from the metal spindles which pierced unwanted submissions.

Wires | News agency reports.

Leg | A column of text.

Screamer | A sensational banner headline.

Bulldog edition | An early printing.

Jump | When a story continues on a different page.

Above the fold | A story placed at the top of a broadsheet which can, therefore, be seen even when the paper is folded.

Lede | The paper’s main story, or an article’s opening salvo. To bury the lede is to hide a story’s most interesting facts in the body of the article.

I miss the roll of the old presses, slow and purposeful at first then faster and faster til the sound was deafening. It was if they were printing money on newsprint.

So I raise a pint to those who read this, those who at one time or another knew what the word deadline meant, and those who felt the floor of 600 South Tryon vibrate, those to who the sound of presses running balls to the walls was amazing. And "Cheers" to anyone who ever felt the joy of seeing their work above the fold in color without any bleed.

Yes - those are framed in my office taken by some idiot kid running toward the gunfire as if he was David Hume Kennerly. (IYKYK).

The Things I've Heard

2026-03-31T01:00:00.000-04:00

I've always been a listener.

I understand that there are things that to know you have to listen and in doing so you also learn that there are things you have to hear to understand:

I think often of the sound of frogs and crickets when they return to my backyard. Well, really they are about a 1/8of a mile away down at the creek. But the open expanse of golf course fairway allows the soothing sound of clicks and chirps to travel to my bedroom window effortlessly.

I never really notice when they stop, sometime around the first frost I'd guess, but their return is a wonderful reminder that spring is nearly here.

Which makes me think about all the other sounds I think are awesome.

Rain at Augusta National during Masters Week.

The North Beach on Green Turtle Cay on any day. You just got to be there.

Blue Sky Basin Vail, CO at 4 PM in January. The wind against the spruce and fur trees and the snow under your skis.

LAX at Midnight the silence.

Times Square on New Year's Eve, the calliope of mankind's drunkenness.

Turn 4 at Charlotte Motor Speedway during the final lap of the 600 it's hard to say whether the crowd or the cars are louder.

The Freight Apron at Atlanta's Hartsfield International during the 2AM push. The rise and fall of jet engines on departing flights There is something symbolic about that sound. I don't know what but symbolic just the same.

Breakfast at the Fairmont in New Orleans during an early morning thunderstorm in June. It's the sound, the feeling of the :Big Easy" linen silver and china, a slower pace that's even slower when there no reason to hurry.

The arches at Union Station St. Louis at Mid Day Christmas week. If you don't know I'm not sure I can explain. If you do know I'll let you whisper it to me.

Sea Buoy at Bar Harbor Maine on a foggy night in October.

A 800 foot container ship passing under you while standing on the Ravenel Bridge Charleston at high tide.

That cat that moans and groans on the roof above my bedroom before an approaching storm.

So God Made a Husband

2026-03-28T17:58:00.003-04:00

Because she said I wouldn't dare.

As you know, God created the world in 6 days and on the 7th day he rested.

And then according to Paul Harvey on the 8th day he made a Farmer. Then on the 9th day a dog.

So apparently on the 10th day he looked down and saw a woman “fiddling” around the yard and thought to himself, she is going to make a mess of things unless I get her some help. So God made a husband.

God said, "I need someone to fix things that aren't broken, move furniture, move it again and then move it back to where it has been for ten years." So God made a husband.

God said, "I need someone to repair a vacuum cleaner by simply plugging it in, then load the dishwasher, turn it on and then empty the dishwasher and repeat the process as often as told." So God made a husband.

God said, "I need someone to hold doors, umbrellas, and hands whenever required, then pick up kids at school, dogs from the kennel, and mother in-law at the airport, never complain and just smile, and then announce that he loves mom's American Chop Suey." So God made a husband.

It had to be somebody who’d change a tire, mow the lawn, take out the trash, split wood, build a fire, grill steaks, find the car keys, and run to the grocery store on their way home after a ten-hour work day to pick up milk. Somebody to build a small wooden box and bury a four-pound family pet in the garden but keep his tears to himself, able to hold the family together in the worst of times and dance with her in the rain. Who would laugh, and then sigh, and reply with smiling eyes, when she says "my toilet" is not working again.

So God made a husband.

(In my childhood - summers were spent in rural America with my grandparents who listened to Paul Harvey every day at noon - his “So God Made a Farmer” speech came too late for me to understand fully their lives in rural southern Illinois. But now decades later Yep I get it!)

A Cinderella Basketball Team and Radio

2026-03-19T01:00:00.000-04:00

There's something nostalgic about listening to a ball game on the radio.

Over the year's I've somehow managed to memorize most of the radio stations that broadcast college games from Athens to Chapel Hill and from Charleston to Blacksburg.

It might be a Saturday afternoon and I’m listening to Carolina football, driving the back country roads as autumn's leaves swirl behind my speeding SUV. Clemson is scoreless with under two minutes left on the clock; the sunroof is open with nothing but Carolina blue sky overhead. The Carolina fight song is blaring away on the radio and yes it's almost as good as being there, I don’t mean Williams-Brice Stadium, I mean heaven.

The ability of someone 100 or more miles away to convey the emotions and feeling of a game with noting more than his voice is an amazing talent.

I'm a fan of the play by play, it's not that I don't appreciate the color commentary but today all the stats come from a computer screen, and somehow end up being nothing but dry pointless drivel.

But the capacity to describe a ball in flight and the emotion that follows a miracle catch or a stolen base is a talent that lends it's self very well to broadcasting the sport of baseball, football and of course basketball.

On a Friday evening 18 years ago I shot down the on ramp, pressed the accelerator and watched the speed edge up close to 70 as the North I-26 sign flashed by overhead in the fading light of a spring evening. Heading towards Charlotte, I turned on the radio, poked the scan button and quickly found the Davidson vs. Goliath (AKA Wisconsin) basketball game.

"Curry shoots for 3 its GOOD!, Down the court... Richards steals the ball! Back the other way to Curry in the corner, he’s all by himself. Korbbenhoft sprints for Curry, jumps stumbles Curry shoots 3 points smooth, so smooth. Davidson is up 54 - 45 and there's 13:03 to play, the Wildcat fans are on their feet!"

The next 20 minutes are pure joy listening to the 2008 NCAA Men's Basketball game from the Motor City and the massive Ford Field as Stephen Curry works his magic and places himself firmly in NCAA history.

When Curry left the court for good with 59 seconds on the clock it was to a standing ovation, the entire arena was on their feet. Even the Wisconsin Badger pep section stood acknowledging his greatness.

How do I know? Because of the magic of radio and a voice nearly 900 miles away, while still miles outside of Charlotte on a cool March Evening.

I wonder if this is how it felt to hear the play by play while stationed in post war Germany and listening to the final Yankees vs. Dodgers game during the 1947 World Series. The sound of Seabiscut defeating War Admiral back in 1938 or Roosevelt’s address to the nation after Pearl Harbor.

Radio was all the rage as the technology of the day 60 some years ago. Not surprising is that radio audiences are now markedly small compared to television. The reason is you have to listen and to do so you must be void of chips and beer and idle conversations in the background if you want to “see” the game. Driving in my car is my only refuge of quiet.

And so March Madness continues in 2026 when today at 6:50PM Carolina takes on Virginia Commonwealth.

Do you care to guess where I'll be?

Why.... sitting in front of a 85 inch flat screen with the rest of America of course!

Go Tar-Heels and thank you radio!

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

2026-03-17T11:13:00.009-04:00

I’m married at an Irish Lass whose parents are of the surnames Henry and O’Dell.

She prefers an Irish Stout over an IPA any day.

A Catholic girl with a wee bit of an Irish temper.

She loves to build things as did her stonemason great grandfather who built this church in 1870.

Yet the card from her Aunt says it best:

“May your heart be warm and happy. With the lilt of Irish laughter. Every day in every way. And forever and ever after.”

Sláinte!

Sunday Breakfast (Redux)

2026-02-22T01:00:00.003-05:00

The unmistakable sound of bacon frying in a heavy black iron skillet. Not the fast pop pop and sizzle sounds of bacon a blaze while cooking on high, but bacon on a slow deliberate flame, somewhere between medium and low on a old gas stove. Bacon that while cooking sounds like a soft steady spring rain.

The sound of an old coffee pot, the gurgle and clanking sounds of fresh coffee brewing compliments the sound of bacon being cooked. Add the sudden zip and pop of an old metal toaster that never seems to toast the bread to perfection no matter how you set the dial and you have all the proper sounds that signal the preparation of breakfast is moving along at a comfortable pace.

This Sunday morning there is no rush, but the sky is clearing after what seems like a week of rain and there is work to be done, yet for now the only concern is to turn the eggs without breaking the yokes.

I like mine over easy if I'm successful, otherwise I'll settle for scrambled. The margin for error in egg turning is very small and I have come to accept my inadequacies and lack of a steady hand required for proper and successful egg turning in a cast iron skillet.

I opened the French doors on the deck about 6 AM and the sounds of natures wildlife have filled my kitchen non stop. I often trade the intrusion of insects and rain for the sounds of the outdoors. I like a quiet breakfast, but there is nothing quiet about a Carolina morning, as nature comes alive with joyous songs of a new spring day.

My breakfast is without loud buzzers or the electronic dings of modern appliances and heaven forbid the static noise of morning news shows spiked with the jarring assaults of Jardiance commercials that attack my quiet sanctuary.

Breakfast on Sunday is a reward for most days when breakfast is skipped or breakfast that is really a business meeting in disguise.

Hotel breakfasts are only acceptable if they are before 6:30 AM, before the crowds of tourists invade the quiet, or served in your room at the Four Seasons, anytime.

But the best breakfast is still served at home, where cooking a few extra few slices of bacon is always a good idea since certain uninvited Labrador Retriever named Buddy and Scout tend to show up once the smell of bacon, eggs and fresh coffee fills the morning air.

Now that all the tasks that make breakfast are done there is just one question left:

Would you like some scrambled eggs with your bacon? Buddy? How about You Scout?

Grandpa Someone Stole Your Truck!

2026-02-06T01:00:00.006-05:00

Growing up a city boy, county life was a foreign world to me. Yet I was fortunate enough to have grandparents who lived in rural America and parents who "shipped" the boys to the grandparents when they needed a break.

When I was 16 my grandfather was trusting enough to let me drive his truck to town to pick up some things for my grandmother at the grocery store by myself.

When I asked for the keys, he told me they were over the visor on the driver’s side. It was a great truck, except it was lemon yellow and had no seat belts. But that was ok because he only used it for hauling stuff and farm chores. Accordingly most the time we rode in his airconditioned and much larger International Travelall, which was considered the Chevy Suburban of the day.

I returned with his truck feeling proud and invincible an hour later and as I handed him the keys mentioned I noticed he was low on gas. He thanked me and asked that I would just put the keys back over the visor.

At this point my city street smarts kicked in and I felt obligated to caution him about car thieves and reminded him he did live just a few miles from the Federal Prison. He thanked but said the old truck would be fine. I did as he asked and even offered to wash his truck but he said he’d get to soon enough.

On the way to dinner Saturday afternoon we stepped outside of their house to find the truck gone. “Grandpa someone stole your truck” I said the second I stepped off the front porch. But he just smiled telling me "no one stole the truck, somebody just borrowed it".

Truth was, he had no idea who "borrowed" his truck or if we’d ever see it again.

We returned from dinner and the truck was still missing. I implored him to call the police, the sheriff and the FBI, but he insisted the truck would return. Still he had not a clue who had taken his truck.

The next morning, much to my surprise, there was the yellow Ford 100 in the driveway, and it was freshly washed. Not only was it washed it also had a full tank of gas and yet he still had no idea who borrowed his truck, and that fact did not concern him in least.

Now forty-so-years later my grandfather is of course gone. Yet his trusting manner, and generosity live on in my own life. Even in a world that sometimes seems overloaded with crime and criminals I’m tempted to leave the keys in my truck just because.

So, if you borrow it I’d appreciate it if you’d bring it back washed and full of gas. And, thank you whoever you are.

Daytona (Redux)

2026-02-03T12:34:00.000-05:00

Living in the South you don't need to go too far to find racing's roots. If you headed south from Charlotte back in the day (pre I-77) you might have started with a trip down 521 towards Lancaster.

Even today with the high priced homes of Ballantyne behind you, once you cross the South Carolina state line, it doesn't take long before you notice you have traveled back in time.

A few miles before Lancaster's city limits you'll see the old rusty sign for the Lancaster Motor Speedway.

Lancaster Speedway is truly the "Grand Daddy" of local tracks. It's one of the oldest surviving dirt tracks in the South. It was built by a group of Lancaster business men headed by the late Herman "Hump" Poovey. The first race was held there in 1954 with a huge crowd on hand.

The track hosted two NASCAR races in 1957, which were won by Paul Goldsmith and Speedy Thompson.

As much as I enjoy the glitz and glamour of NASCAR there's just something special about Saturday night racing where driver and crew chief are often the same. Where watching a driver win a race and give a fist pumping jump for joy while being handed a check for only $300 dollars and a two foot high gold coated plastic trophy, kind of makes you smile.

Every Saturday night all summer long the boys tear up the dirt track at the Lancaster Motor Speedway.

It's cheap entertainment. Seats are only $12.00, but most of the time after the races start you can just walk in.

It's a family atmosphere well kind of; a quick look at the rules for the drivers and you'll get the idea:

Fighting is strictly prohibited. Anyone caught fighting will be taken care of by the officials and Law Enforcement as needed.

Any person other than Law Enforcement found with any weapon (CONCEALED OR OTHERWISE) on him/her or in his/her vehicle is subject to fine, loss of weapon and arrest.

Drinking while racing is not allowed. The track reserves the right to require drivers to submit to a breathalyzer test at anytime.

Drivers must remain in their cars during the race, except in the case of fire.

No disorderly conduct will be allowed at the payoff window.

They've been racing at Lancaster ever since time began or at least 1954. Even on a Sunday afternoon in February with no one around you can still hear the sounds of racing. As the wind blows through the bare trees, grandstand and the chain link fence, you can almost hear an announcer calling out the next race over the loudspeakers, the crowd and revving of engines with open pipes and unrestrained horsepower.

The Carolina red clay track shines in the mid winter sun. Shuttered concession stands await another season, the parking lot is empty and the only sounds now are the wind, and gravel that crunches under your feet.

Dirt track is not NASCAR by any stretch of the imagination. But, the food is normally pretty good and the beer always cold. It's not pricey, there are never any lines, no national sponsors, and there's a lot of available billboard ad space at turns two and three. Hand over $50.00 and most drivers will put your name on their car all season long.

In the shadows of Charlotte some would laugh at calling this racin, but this is racin just the same. After all the motto drive fast turn left applies here too even the track is just a whole lot shorter.

In the fading warmth of a Saturday afternoon you can sense the hopes and dreams of making the big time. Ask any driver at this track why they race and the answer will always be summed up in one word.....

Daytona.

Old Joe

2026-01-07T01:00:00.001-05:00

I get a lot of grief about my Southern ways and view of the world. My life has been driven by the world as I see it and how I was raised. Being called a racist seems really odd considering my life experience.

The other day two young black men came out to my house to clean gutters and windows. They were efficient and did a good job, but I suspect that my home was bigger than they expected because it was dark and well past six when my wife and I headed out to dinner and they were still at it.

While they were working on that final window I approached the two of them and thanked them for staying at it, asked if they needed anything and handed to team leader still on the ladder a hundred dollar bill, telling them both it was a little extra for the effort.

I got a fist bump from the guy on the ladder but the younger kid removed his gloved right hand to shake mine.

I'm not surprised, as they both were super polite and respectful from the moment they rang the doorbell.

Which made me think about "Old Joe".

Old Joe

Years ago, my grandfather relocated his family to Tennessee to become the new superintendent of the International Harvester Company Chattanooga plant.

The day the new “boss-man” arrived the local IH company men, were ready to proudly give their new boss a tour of the massive plant.

Offices, quality control, paint shop, the warehouse area, safety inspections department, and finally the shop floor were on the tour list. He shook hands with all he met. He greeted engineers, officer workers, draftsmen, welders, pressmen, fabricators, he shook hands with them all.

Working his way around the shop floor and lead by a group of men in suits and shop foremen in overalls, he had already met more than 50 employees when he noticed a shop worker pushing a broom and glancing his way. He also noticed that the man was wearing only one glove.

My grandfather asked the assistant super about the man pushing the broom. The super replied oh he’s nobody just a laborer. My grandfather pressed his junior about the man’s name. That’s “Old Joe” the assistant superintendent replied.

My grandfather then insisted on speaking to “Old Joe” promptly heading in the laborer’s direction.

Joe was an older black man, and my grandfather had noticed his gloveless right hand. You see Joe, hearing that the new boss man was going to tour the plant had removed his right-hand glove and tucked it into his back pocket, so that if the new boss came by, he would be ready to shake the new man’s hand. That fact was not lost on my grandfather who was happy to shake the black man’s hand.

In the Chattanooga plant at the time there were more than five hundred workers, but only 3 of them were black in the then highly segregated South. A white man shaking a black man's hand in the south was just not done at the time.

My grandfather would learn from Joe that he had been at the plant since Harvester took over the operation in 1919.

A year after my grandfather’s arrival “Old Joe” was on the job when a fire broke out. The company fire team was unable to get water to the fire and the entire plant was in danger of burning. Fortunately, “Old Joe” knew the location of necessary water standpipe valves to reroute water to the overhead sprinkler system and within minutes the fire was out.

Today my grandfather’s large collection of scale working IH tractor models resides at the Smithsonian in Washington DC as does the original photo of “Old Joe” with the caption “typical southern negro”.

Roadway (A Dog’s Story)

2026-01-05T10:21:00.000-05:00

A steady rain has turned the Pilot Truck Stop in Bowman, South Carolina into a concrete slab of humidity and dampness. As the rain soaks the late evening, 18 wheelers rumble in and out, air brakes hiss and spit, and potholes filled with water are splashed empty only to refill again and again.

Travelers come and go, doors open, tanks are filled, oil dipsticks are checked, hoods are slammed shut, and cars and massive trucks roar off into the rain soaked night.

On the damp cool pavement unnoticed by so many lies a pile of dirty wet black fur. She's curled up nose to tail and despite the never ending cycle of gas and go, she attempts a doggie nap.

Roadway is clearly a trucker's dog. Her crooked tail shows all the signs of a couple of painful encounters with a slamming Kenworth door.

She's a Black Lab mix, with all the Lab features, except the two white socks on her hind feet and the "just a tad" too short ears. But her personality is all Labrador Retriever.

She is a perpetual optimist.

Suddenly Roadway is up, and while her gait is unsteady at first, once she gets some momentum the affects of her noticeable arthritis diminish, a few strides later her tail begins to wag.

I watch her as she moves cautiously towards a small boy of seven who is traveling in a car full of family. Roadway's crooked tail is in full happy mode, as the boy carefully extends his hand. The boy's mother holds her breath and his father is ready to move in if needed. But Roadway is a Lab, she sits and leans against the boy and gladly nuzzles his open hand.

Roadway is homeless, she is muddy, generally wet and a little overweight. I'd guess her story goes something like this:

"I was raised in the cab of a Kenworth and for eleven years I rode shotgun in that truck, living off scrapes and double cheeseburger happy meals. But as the miles rolled on and time took it's toll it became harder for me to get up into the cab of the tractor trailer rig that was my home.

A few nights ago when I couldn't get up into the cab, even after several attempts, my owner told me to stay and I watched the taillights of the only home I've ever known drive up the hill and vanish into the night."

Roadway circles the boy and and sits again. The boy hugs the dog and his sister comes up to say hello. She too is greeted with a happy tail and the gentleness that is the hallmark of Labrador Retrievers with children.

My tank is full and I still have 150 miles to go. The air is heavy with more rain on the way.

I tell the father "she'd be a good dog". He asks the appropriate questions, and I give him my best guesses. "She would be a good dog" I repeat. I suggest that the dad ask inside. But assure him she belongs to whoever will give her a good home.

My wheels turn, the wipers jump and settle, a turn signal, a splash. I don't look back. I can't look back.

The miles go by, and I imagine that by now Roadway is somehow wedged between and young boy and girl. That the Lab is now drifting off to a long uninterrupted doggie nap, contently resting her head in the lap of the boy while the vibration of rushing pavement under the wheels turn effortlessly up the interstate.

I too am a perpetual optimist.

Remembering Al Rousso at Christmas (Redux)

2025-12-25T01:00:00.002-05:00

This story was written a few years back but the "tradition" of shopping at the last minute continues....

My parents have been married now for more decades than I can count and every Christmas my father does “his” Christmas shopping at the last minute.

Times may have changed; he has even embraced online shopping with packages arriving throughout the year via the Brown UPS Truck.

But Christmas for Dad has always meant a last-minute dash to the jewelry store.

Several years have passed but for the longest time there was the annual Christmas Eve trip to Brownlee Jewelers in the Johnston Building on South Tryon Street in Uptown Charlotte.

One year, I was privileged enough to witness an event that had been occurring every Christmas Eve since at least the early 70’s.

The familiar jingle of a bell held over the door announced our entrance. Despite several customers crowded into the small store, the owner Al Rousso immediately spotted my father.

Calling him by name: “Good to see you, I’ve been expecting you.”

A warm smile sprang to his face. “Come on in I got something I want to show you.” Al offered, as he opened the small half swing door that separated the customers from the other side of the glass counters and the jewelry salesmen. As we were quickly swept into the back office, Al looked around, obviously checking for anyone within earshot.

“I’ve been saving this just for you, something I know your wife (he knew her name as well) will really enjoy.” My mother would have been happy with red and white Christmas potholders, the one’s with a reindeer on one side and a sleigh on the other.

But my father always gave her something that sparkled and came in a small box. Mr. Rousso reached down, opened a safe and withdrew a small six-inch-long box covered in navy blue velvet. He looked around again playing his role with exaggerated movements and came closer to my father and me. He opened the box just for the briefest of moments and immediately closed it.

“Well, what do you think?” Al asked. “Wow! …. Oh My! …. honey you shouldn’t have?” he questions.

My father nods in agreement.

With a faux look of suspicion and glancing past us toward the other employees busy with customers, he tells my father: “I’ve been fighting them off for weeks but this I told them is for someone special.”

Nervously he looks around and opens the box again. You would have thought we were about to buy a stolen gem the size of your fist. A back alley deal so good we should be arrested on the spot.

“And the price?” My father asks.

Al looks at the bottom of the box and hands it to my father, who shows it to me. Al interrupts by asking us to keep it out of sight for what he is about to do the other customers will most likely riot and all his employees might just quit without notice.

“The price is blank but for you …. (a lingering pause) blank” My father looks like a deer in the headlights, no doubt the price is well beyond what he had in mind. After a long painful pause Al concedes “But since its Christmas blank less blank”… and adds “please I beg you don’t tell anyone what a good deal I’m giving you.”

My father smiles and with a quick signature on a small 3-part carbon sales bill it is added to my father’s account. The yellow customer copy neatly folded and placed into his wallet and the gift slipped into his suit coat pocket. We all shake hands then the jingle above the door announces our departure, as Mr. Rousso and my father shout Merry Christmas to each other.

Down the glimmering marble lobby and through the heavy brass doors we step back out onto the street, a brisk wind at our backs.

And that was it, in less than ten minutes our Christmas Eve mission was accomplished.

And so, I was left to assume that the interchange between the Jewish jewelry store owner and my father the Christian buying a gift for his wife on Christmas Eve had repeated itself many times before and perhaps years after that. A simplistic ritual, nearly as old as time itself, merchant, and client.

Al Rousso passed away in 2001 at the age of 76, and the small store at 212 South Tryon Street relocated to the Overstreet Mall but closed in 2020 due to the George Floyd riots, COVID and Uptown crime.

But elsewhere around Charlotte the Rousso family continues the tradition of Brownlee Jewelers. Though I truly doubt it is with the level of theater and salesmanship I witnessed on Christmas Eve so long ago.

Merry Christmas, and thank you Al Rousso

Christmas Eve with Percy Craven (Redux)

2025-12-22T01:00:00.001-05:00

If your family is like mine, Christmas begins a week before Thanksgiving and runs well past New Year’s Day.

The weeks roar by, in a calliope of sights and sounds. A never-ending visual delight of Christmas trees, holiday movies, parties and children rampaging through the house.

It is truly a joyous time of year.

The far reaches of the North Carolina mountains, nearly to the Georgia state line in the most distant corner of our state, is Percy's Christmas.

The gravel road to Percy's cabin is covered with pine needles and a light dusting of freshly fallen snow.

The morning sun has already started to melt the new snow in patches along the south facing side of the valley, but in the shadows of the mountain along the north side, the accumulation of the recent snow events still stands.

Resilient Mountain Laurel leaves are drooping, a sign that the temperature outside the comfort of my SUV's heated leather seats is cold. In many spots the gravel road is iced over.

The look and feel of a winter camp is everywhere along the narrow road, for it is a place few have ventured since Thanksgiving. In the summer, Percy's lake is filled with the sounds of bass boats zipping past the point with their motors racing at full throttle and the shouts and screams of Boy Scouts at the nearby National Forest campground.

In winter the sound is pure silence, yet today the air is heavy with the smell of burning wood. A sign that someone is here.

Percy has a fine home in nearby Franklin, just off the main street the two story traditional has a generous porch, bright white columns and a well-kept lawn. But his small cabin is really where Percy lives, far from town, farther from people.

The lack of people at the lake in winter means it is a somber place, and void of youth. The endless quiet to me, and that silence is a deafening roar, and it is somewhat heartbreaking.

Now the only sounds are the gusts of wind that send the yellow pines swaying as they sing though the chill winter air, a chorus of cold and ice.

I drive over the crest of the hill and round the long sweeping turn that dips towards the lake. Percy is always up before dawn, so I'm not surprised that a raised hand greets me, as Percy's cabin comes into view. His dog, a brown Boykin Spaniel named Boone obediently stands by his side. Boone is bursting with excitement. He knows my SUV and that I'm always good for a handout.

I shut down the engine and open the driver’s door and on Percy's command the Boykin bounds off the porch and heads toward me, his short tail in full happy mode. The Chick Fil A bag is a giveaway that I brought food. The biscuits are cold after the forty-minute ride from Franklin. Boykins don't care if the food is cold and neither does Percy.

Percy Craven has made himself busy already, but his walk this morning is stiff, and he moves with trepidation and care. It takes a little prodding, but he confesses he took a tumble on the dock. "Of all the people, I slip on the frost down on the dock morning before last." Explains Percy, as he pours two cups of black coffee.

Percy speaks a different language than I do. Most everything is either down, over, yonder, up or a far piece. It also takes me a while to figure out that the "morning before last" was Saturday.

Percy continues; "I didn't break nothing, didn't get wet and nobody saw it happen but Boone there." Boone looks away as if to say, "I see nothing, I hear nothing and I know nothing".

Percy adds, "So I'll figure it was you who had a blabber mouth if anyone calls to ask if I'm OK."

Despite his stiffness he's pacing the porch as he wants to walk in the woods a "while" so he can check a couple of rabbit traps. My coffee has just gotten to the temperature where it’s drinkable. But I leave it on the table and we both head down the path around the lake.

Percy doesn't lock his doors and looks cross eyed at me when I hit the remote lock on my SUV. The "chirp chirp" sound echoes across the silent lake and Percy rolls his eyes. "Ain't no one out here to steal your car." Percy sounds off.

I explain that; "I ain't worried about no one, I'm worried about the bears." Percy laughs out loud, and tells me; "No matter, bear is gonna get in anyway."

Percy is right, as the half-eaten chicken biscuit I left in the car is just about all a bear needs as incentive to break into what the bear thinks is just a fancy steel food box.

"I thought bears hibernated?" I ask.

Percy pretends he doesn't hear me.

The air is brisk around 28 and the ground cold, doesn't matter Percy is talking a "blue streak" he has a lot on his mind. Normally when I walk with Percy we are hunting, and the talk is short and quiet. Today is different, his topics range from the President, to the NRA, about liberals and communists. Tall tales and small lies, his choice of topics is wide, deep and varied.

Yet he never talks about his wife. Her photo on the nightstand is his comfort and I suspect he doesn't spend much time is town because the house is too big and too empty.

Six traps and nothing, each trap is carefully baited again, a mixture of peanut butter and cornmeal. Boone is kept away from the traps so that he doesn't "stink up" the rabbit runs.

An hour and 45 minutes later we're back and the sun is melting snow everywhere, the sound of water dripping off the trees in the bright sunlight makes the day seem like spring, yet winter has just begun.

I stop at my SUV and hit the remote again. Chirp, chirp and open the door, removing a small gift-wrapped box. Announcing to Percy; "I got you a Christmas present."

"What the hell!" says Percy, "It ain't right for a man to give another man a Christmas present. People will talk, even worst that you wrapped the damn thing."

I offer to unwrap the gift, but Percy will have nothing of it.

"Do I look like a cripple?" He jokes.

The beauty about eBay is finding something in the way of a Christmas gift that you can't get anywhere else. In this case a 1966 Shakespeare "Featherweight" Trout reel in a black nickel finish.

Percy rips into the box and I make another pot of coffee.

Over my shoulder I hear "Well I'll be damned" and I look to see the eyes of a 5-year-old on Christmas morning. Percy is enthralled.

He spins the reel, pushes over the take up button and spins it again. He smiles. You know they don't make them like this anymore? The ivory knob on the spool and leather case are signs of something made decades ago. Percy points to the engraved plate on the bottom.

Made in the U.S.A.

In the silence we both admire his gift, and my eBay find.

Suddenly Percy is talking a mile a minute again; "I didn't get you nothing... his voice trails off to an inaudible babble as he bolts up out of his chair and heads to a small room and into a closet. He's still talking but I can’t hear a word he is saying for the solid oak plank door he is trying to talk through.

After a minute or so he returns and presents me with a well-used white tobacco pipe.

"I'd been meaning to get rid of this for years. Now it’s yours." Percy states as he waves the pipe in the air. "It belonged to my father, it’s Meerschaum. I think it’s worth about a dollar."

He starts to hand it to me and then pulls it back. "Hold on" barks Percy.

He carefully places the pipe on the Christmas paper that moments ago held a fly reel. Percy folds it neatly over the pipe and then rolls the whole thing into a wad of crumpled paper. Handing the mess to me he says: "There I wrapped it up for ya."

We both laugh, Percy spins the reel again and before long the sun begins to fall behind the mountain and the shadows grow long and reach nearly to the east side of the lake.

We talk another hour; he'll go to church then call it an early night. Some folks in town invited him for dinner Christmas Day; he says if he "wakes up", he expects he'll go as the Mrs. makes a good pecan pie. He needs to go to the post office on Thursday and the doctor on "Wednesday a week."

I've come to learn that older folks need order, and I have found that Percy looks forward to just about anything you can put on a calendar. It gives him something to look forward to even if it means a trip to the dentist.

The lighted Merry Christmas banner stretches over the street at the edge of town. Telephone poles have decorations that date to the 1970's as cars rush by and people come and go. This is small town North Carolina, untouched by time or progress. Flurries race across the road and slide up my windshield, on the other side of the mountain the snow fades and the sky clears, the three-quarter moon shines down on the glimmering lights of the Carolina countryside below where I-26 reaches into South Carolina.

It is Christmas Eve.

Hunting With Percy Craven

2025-12-02T06:50:00.002-05:00

It is more than a mile off the blacktop and down a winding gravel road to Percy's cabin at the lake. The road is bumpy yet soft thanks to the Carolina Pines that litter their needles like rust colored carpet atop the stones. The frost has come early this year, it is not yet October and with the frost comes the smell of burning fires and fresh coffee on a wood stove.

Photo by Cedar Posts

Percy's cabin is more shack than home, the kind of place that Eric Rudolph the Olympic park bomber would have called home while on the run for five years in the North Carolina mountains. There is not even the slightest amount of insulation, in fact some of the cedar planks that cover the walls show daylight as the sun first beams across the lake in the early dawn.

The water comes from a spring up the side of the mountain that collects into a concrete tank barely visible half way up the hill and tucked into the woods. Water pressure is supplied by gravity and the 200 foot run down to the house.

The sound the gravel popping under the tires of my SUV quiets as I roll to a stop. The stillness of the lake is stunning in the early morning sun beams of gold as the fog gently lifts and then falls over the tree tops. There are no signs of life inside the cabin but the fire is burning and the front door's ajar.

Percy is old enough that I often fear I'll find him dead one morning and if that be the case today, I'll take great relief knowing that he passed in his sleep in the place his father built nearly 100 years ago.

A raspy familiar voice from around the back side of the shed leaves me startled and relived at the same time.

"Whatcha no good?" Percy calls out.

"Not much, just looking for the old coot, who owns this piece of shit house in the middle of God's majestic wilderness" I figure I'd get that jab in before he says something about my WalMart boots.

"I see's you wearing your fancy boots again" Percy doesn't miss a thing. "You ready to go hunting?"

"Yep", I reply as Percy shoves a Styrofoam cup of black coffee my way.

This is no big game hunt Mr. Carven has invited me on, while it is deer season bears can't be tracked until mid October. Nope, no wall trophies today because we are going to bag squirrels and/or chipmunks.

No doubt some people consider them, adorable little creatures. But before anyone gets all city slicker squeamish on me let me explain at even Percy Craven won't eat a squirrel. Only thing nastier tasting Percy can attest to this fact, is a opossum. I on the other hand have tasted neither and never intend to.

So, we won't be frying up Rocky the Squirrel today, rather those the little varmints will be "shot" for their tails. It just happens that squirrel and chipmunk tails make great flies for trout fishing.

What Percy doesn't keep to make his own trout flies he sells to a artificial lure company in Kingsport, Tennessee. He'll get a dollar a tail, plus his shipping costs.

The trick to shooting squirrels you have to use a 22 with a scope and a steady hand. Head shot and the scope makes it a rather personal interaction with the squirrel. Percy has a Boykin Spaniel named Boone who spent the night snoozing next to the wood stove. Boone's job is to run in circles until the squirrels start chattering. The squirrels sound off about the dog and Percy takes careful aim and drops the squirrel from 30 feet up. Boone then brings the now dead squirrel to Percy and the process is repeated over and over.

It takes about three hours to bring down around 100 squirrels. Percy killed 99 and myself 1. The chipmunks are spared, Boone is wore out, and the coffee inside me is now cold, so we start our walk back to the cabin a 1/2 a mile away.

I ask Percy if it bothers him killing so many animals at one time. His answer a simple "nope". Then he adds: "I guess if it bothered them they would move away, maybe over the ridge or up the road".

Back at the cabin Percy makes another pot of coffee, and begins sorting the tails, selecting the best for himself. The others are put in zip lock bags, boxed and labeled to an address in Kingsport and before I know it we are headed the the post office.

We drive along in silence until Percy speaks: "Whatcha thinking about".

"Dead squirrels" I answer.

"I see, well if you're worrying about a giant mother squirrel that is gonna come charging out of the woods after us, forget about it, I shot her last year right between the eyes. Dropped her dead in her tracks back there a spell."

I play along, "What if there's another one?"

Percy holds up a large hand gun: "That's why I brought this along, you never know."

We round the turn, crest a ridge and and the road swings down and to the right, and in the clearing ahead is a lone buck. The buck stands his ground no more than ten feet from the edge of the road.

I slow down to a crawl and the buck stays put. Ten-point bucks are rare this close to town and I look to Percy as I stop the truck. It is broad daylight at least a mile from anyone. It is deer season. Percy Craven could step out of the truck walk along the road 20 yards and with one shot have the biggest deer of his life.

The buck stands his ground, stomps his left hoof in protest to our stillness, he's looking right at us and the truck. I look at Percy and he looks at the buck. Then without warning Percy speaks up:

"Guess we better go", and he reaches across the cab of the truck and taps the horn. The blaring sound sends the buck "tail high" and snorting into the woods.

I look at Percy like he's lost his mind, and he just shakes his head and says, "some other day".

We drive on to the Post Office in silence.

Christmas in the South. Ugh!

2025-11-29T17:41:00.004-05:00

A few years back I wrote a letter (below) to the Editors at the Charlotte Observer. Who does that any more?

I was annoyed and perplexed by the Yankee transplants who wear puffy jackets gloves and toboggans just because the calendar says November even if it is sunny and 65 degrees.

They dress for New Jersey November and not Charlotte were fall runs until well past Christmas.

And so It shouldn't surprise me that they run roughshod over my Southern Christmas traditions as well.

Garish and shrill are not words normally associated with our Southern Christmas. But leave it to transplanted northerners to bring their idea of Christmas to Charlotte.

A Southern Christmas has been for nearly 200 years the highlight of social awareness and decorum. A carefully placed single red bow on a mail box, a wreath on a window, or the extreme southern extravagance a fruit laden mantle piece or door dressing.

How odd it is to see blow-up snowmen in yard after yard in a land where snow is a rarity.

An illuminated blow up Santa and baby Jesus standing side by side, along with strings of lights that not only run the roof line but outline each and every window. Flashing, buzzing, whirling displays are suddenly aplenty.

It seems to our transplanted northern neighbors that if it doesn't look right the first time, just buy some more. My once classic southern neighborhood has become a Griswold Family Christmas card in "Da Hood".

Not one but two blow up Grinch reside within my neighborhood, they seem to sneer at my cherished southern accent along with the 11 Frosty the Snowman that abound.

The Southern Christmas was once the product of the tough times following reconstruction. A single candle was spared, magnolia branches cut, the forest scoured for a couple of perfect pine cones and a in a good year a tree was taken, most often a good sized cedar would do.

In more recent time, a trip to Simpson's, was always in order, the best tree from the lot on Kings Drive was always a welcome event no matter how cold the day.

Over the years I've stood in line at Simpson's with Hugh McColl, Pat McCrory, Michael Jordan and others.

Later this year as I drive past the wonderful homes that abound in my 28277 zip code I will likely count not one real Christmas tree being laid at the curbside the day after Christmas.

Oh have times changed.

A Foot Note: I know I'm being a Snob, a Grinch and so on... I know the kids like the lights and that I should let people do their own thing. But I'd really like to see the stars rather than the glare from 15 Million GE Christmas Wonder Lights.

Then there was the 3 year old down the street, I'd complained about the yard full of inflatables in years past and just saw "Dad" installing a Hello Kitty Christmas inflatable, UGH.

But I had to eat my words when I drove past the yard the second time and saw the little girl standing in the doorway her eyes wide with wonder at the amazing sight of the giant blow up fully lighted Christmas Hello Kitty.

OK Lord I Give!

Billy Graham Traffic Stop

2025-11-20T09:18:00.001-05:00

The Reverend Billy Graham had arrived back home in Charlotte at the Charlotte Douglas International airport.

There, curbside, a long white limousine waited for him.

Dr. Graham greeted the limo driver and admiring the Cadillac he asked the driver if he would mind if he drove the car himself.

Since it was Billy Graham, the driver said of course not he would not mind at all and with that the driver climbed into the backseat and Dr. Graham got in up front and off they went with Dr. Graham driving.

It wasn’t long and they’re going down of all things the Billy Graham Parkway. Unfortunately, the good reverend was driving pretty fast when a CMPD Rookie Officer clocked the Cadillac doing better than 80.

A minute later the Cadillac was pulled over on the side of the road.

The CMPD rookie walked up to the driver‘s window as it rolled down, and he was kind of surprised to see it was none other than the famous preacher Billy Graham.

Dr. Graham handed over his drivers license to the rookie and from the backseat also came the registration and proof of insurance.

The Rookie Officer told Dr. Graham he would be right back and went to his patrol unit. There he called his sergeant on the radio

“Sarg I got a little situation here, now I know you told me don’t cut any slack, everyone gets a ticket, even VIPs, but I don’t know what to do with this one."

The Sargent says “well what’s the problem?”

The Rook radios back “Sarg I think I better let this one go because I think I’ve just pulled over God!”

The sergeant somewhat annoyed says “what in the world makes you think you’ve pulled over God?”

The Rookie Officer responds, "I can’t really say for sure because the windows are all blacked out, but he’s riding in this big white caddy limousine and Billy Graham is driving, who else would it be?"

Veterans Day 2025

2025-11-11T00:30:00.008-05:00

Today is Veterans Day.

One of our lesser holidays that we note each year, but always seem to forget the real purpose behind as it is often confused with Memorial Day.

This year Veterans Day is Tuesday November 11th.

Veterans Day is "Officially" a Federal Holiday, one of eleven in 2025, with Thanksgiving and Christmas (Friday Before This Year) to follow. It is observed in all 50 states except Wisconsin all US Territories and the District of Columbia.

So here's the refresher:

Memorial Day honors those members of the armed forces who died in the service of our country, whereas Veterans Day is a U.S. legal holiday dedicated to American veterans of all wars. In 1918, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, an armistice, or temporary cessation of hostilities, was declared between the Allied nations and Germany in World War I, then known as “the Great War.” Commemorated in many countries as Armistice Day the following year, November 11th became a federal holiday in the United States in 1938. In the aftermath of World War II and the Korean War, Armistice Day became legally known as Veterans Day.

Mrs. Cedar and I are proud of our family of veterans:

John MacEntyre, Continental Army 1776-1778

Samuel Studdard South Carolina Militia 1812-1814 Horseshoe Bend, Battle of New Orleans

Nathan Edmonds, US Army Georgia Volunteers Seminole Indian Wars 1818

Samuel MacEntyre, US Army KIA 1863 Battle of Kennesaw Mountain

John Edmonds, CSA 26th Alabama Captured Battle of Gettysburg, US Army 1863-1864 Yes he served on both sides.

Ernest Lynn Duty, US Navy WW I 1914 -1916

William O. Durham, US Army WW I 68th Infantry Division 1914 -1918

Donald Dufalt, US Marine Corps KIA 1942 Iwo Jima Battle of Midway WW II

Teman Wilhite, US Marine Corps WW II, Navy Cross, Distinguished Flying Cross, Purple Heart Battle of Midway 1942

Wallace Edmonds, US Army 1941-1943 Germany WWII

Simon Henry, US Army WW II and Korea

John Geiger, III, US Army Air Corps Germany, WW II

Milton Carney, US Marine Corps WW II, Korea

Richard W. Brown, MD US Army MASH 1951-1952 Korea

Charles W. Kinnaird, Jr. US Air Force 1950 - 1953

Robert Brown, USAF Panama

Un-Named Family, US Army Cold War 1968-1972

Peter Carney, US Navy Iraq and Afghanistan

Un-Named Family, US Navy US Air Force Reserves Iraq Afghanistan

Context:

Cedar's uncle, Dr. Richard Brown was one of many veterans in our family. Dr. Brown served in a MASH Unit during the Korean war. He shipped out in 1952 within weeks of marrying my aunt and graduating from medical school. His photo is below.

After the war he returned to the states and continued his medical career as the only doctor in the small town of Spencer West Virginia. Dr. Brown is a West Virginia native who graduated from University of West Virginia and was a fraternity brother of actor comedian Don Knotts.

Richard W. Brown, MD Circa 1951 Korea

Dr. Brown retired to Florida in 1990 but will always remained a Mountaineer, Dr. Brown and his wife Lois celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary in 2017.

Dr. Brown passed away on May 23, 2018 aged 93.He was buried with full military honors in his hometown of Princeton West Virginia.

And so we say thank you to all the thousands of men and women who like Dr. Brown who have served in our armed forces.

The following is an outtake from the book "MASH - An Army Surgeon in Korea" by Otto F. Apel, Jr. MD, a follow medical doctor who served during the same time as my uncle.

Just a reminder than its never too late to say thank you to a veteran or in this case a fellow veteran. His book was published 2 years before his death on November 9, 2000.

Korea was a long time ago.

Korea was a mountainous country far away and the war there happened a long time ago. Even now, time and distance separate us. Korea was far from my mind on a recent autumn evening as I drove from my office in the Ohio River town of Portsmouth, out the rural roads into the hills and farms and communities, to my house back up a country road away from everything.

In the Appalachian foothills of southern Ohio in the fall, when the leaves turn colors and the weather cools and the geese flock south, the mushrooms are out in the fields. As I turned up the country road toward home, I was followed by a man and a woman in a pickup truck. My wife Joan, saw them too. Neither of us said anything.

We left the gravel road and eased into our own lane, and the truck followed us. The lane nearly a half of mile of new gravel, rolled over the hills and up to the house. We stopped and the truck stopped about fifty yards behind us. I watched cautiously in the rear view mirror. The man got out, grasped a strand of barbed wire fence, pushed it down, and stepped through into the field. He was a tall, slender, clean cut man with thin threads of graying hair slicked straight back, and he wore a faded old army field jacket. He sauntered into the field. He stopped and searched the ground, strolled on, stopped and searched some more. He looked up at us. We looked at him. He dropped his gaze to the ground and continued his slow, deliberate about the field.

"Who is that?" Joan asked.

"I don't know," I said.

I put my car in reverse and eased back towards him. Several yards away, I stopped and stepped out. The man glanced up, unsurprised. He was a handsome man who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, I looked at the truck and saw the woman starting at us. The man's clear eyes searched the ground as he ambled on over to the fence. He clutched something in his clean lean fingered hand.

"Can I help you?" I said. While standing cautiously on the other side of the fence.

"Naw, I don't need no help. I'm just out here looking for mushrooms.

"I don't know whether there are any mushrooms out there", I said. I glanced involuntarily to the fading green pasture.

"This your property?" he asked.

I said it was. Joan watched from our car.

He came a little closer until he stood several yards from me but still on the other side of the fence. Beneath the old, torn army field jacket he wore a plaid shirt and overalls.

"You Dr. Apel?" he asked.

I said I was.

"You the surgeon?"

I nodded. "Can I help you with anything?" I asked.

"You the one I read about in the paper a couple of months ago? The one who was in the MASH unit in Korea?"

I nodded.

He looked over his shoulder and quickly back to me. He smiled "You remember me?"

I searched his face. "I don't think I do."

He said his name and it did not ring a bell.

"I lived on Fourth Street all my life. Grew up there, went to high school four of five years behind you. I lived there all my life.

I could see that he held a mushroom in this hand; he pulled it up close to his face and studied it. He turned it, pinched it open as if he were dissecting it. Without looking up from his mushroom, he told me when he worked.

"I worked there ever since I got back from Korea," he said proudly.

In the silence of the evening , a tractor engine roared slowly over the field. A distant car with its lights on pushed down the country road.

You still don't remember me?"

For the life of me, I could not place him.

"I was in your MASH unit back in 1951. I was with the 17th Infantry, 7th Division. Was hit in the should near the Hwachon Reservoir. They brought me in and I seen you working there and asked if it was you. I said to the nurse, Is that man from Ohio?" And the nurse, she looked and said you was."

He lobbed the mushroom underhand out into the field.

"I was there in 1951 and '52," I said.

"I know you was," he said quickly. "You worked on me and next thing I knew I was back in Japan in one of them hospitals. I never got to say thanks, to you. Hadn't been for you, they tell me I woudla been dead."

I had to smile.

He scrunched his face. "Yeah, ever since I got back, I been meaning to come out here and say 'thanks' to you."

"That was fifty years ago," I said.

"Yeah," he said with a sheepish grin. I guess time just gets away for you, don't it? I been meaning to come out here and just never got around to it. Kept meaning to come out sooner or later. I thought today's as good a time as any."

I laughed warmly. "I appreciate it."

"Anyway," he said, "thanks for all you done."

We stood for a moment in silence. The cicadas screeching in the trees.

"Well," he said, "can't keep the wife waiting."

And with that, he turned and sauntered back toward his truck. I watch as he walked slowly, grasped the barbed wire, opened a place and crawled through. He hopped across the gully to the pickup and stepped in. The engine started with the roar of the rusted-out muffler, and he went on down the road. In a moment her was out of sight.

"You're welcome," I said.

Korea and the MASH were a long time ago. I have not been back since 1952 - except frequently when I have involuntarily jerked at a loud noise that sounded like artillery or when I have cried out in the darkness from a deep and vivid dream. Now even the thoughts and the dreams are less frequent. But all this time I have intended to go back. I have wondered what that was about and what we were doing there. I know it is a part of us and a part of me, and all these years I have intended to go back.

You can purchase Dr. Apel's book on Amazon in both hardback and electronic editions here.