tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72587897767536249502024-03-14T06:22:58.187-04:00Drye GoodsOld-Fashioned Journalism For Our Brave New WorldWillie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-9793504719135745572020-05-12T10:31:00.000-04:002020-05-26T14:14:42.390-04:00Self-reliance Is Good; Accepting Help Is Better<div class="_5pbx userContent _3ds9 _3576" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-testid="post_message" id="js_6b">
So
we started out with the spaniel last Sunday morning with the intention of just
getting out of the house and breaking up the cabin fever by avoiding
I-40, drifting up back roads from Wilmington to Chapel Hill and walking around the
Carolina campus for a while. But I hadn't had breakfast and was getting
cranky, so we found a McDonald's in Burgaw.<br />
<br />
Window service only.
Long line. It's a right turn for me into the McDonald's lot. A guy in a
battered red GMC Sierra pickup was in the left turn lane facing me.
Technically, he was there before me, but since he was in the left-turn
lane, he had to yield to me.<br />
<br />
The line was long, and there was
space for only one vehicle to turn off the road and into the line. I'm
thinking, Well, he was here first but he's in a left-turn lane and
there's space for traffic behind him to go around if he has to wait for another opening. But if he goes in
first, I'll have to wait and traffic will back up behind me. So I turned into the
lot. He gets off the road by turning left and stopping parallel to me,
off the road but, according to the unwritten rules, he's behind me in
line.<br />
<br />
So we're sitting there waiting for the line to move. I'm
thinking, You know, I'd be a bit annoyed if I was that guy, although
I've been in that position many times. Get there first in the left turn
lane, but have to yield to the right turn, and somebody who arrives
after you gets in front of you. But that's just the way it goes. And I'm
thinking, if I was that guy, I'd probably be muttering a few mild
profanities right now.<br />
<br />
The line moves, and a space opens up in
front. On impulse, I roll down the passenger-side window and we motion
him to go ahead. He nods and moves in front. I see a few more details
about his pickup truck, including the big yellow "Don't Tread On Me"
flag sticker high on the tailgate of his GMC.<br />
<br />
Line moves slowly,
but finally we get to the payment window and I hand the woman six bucks
to pay for my coffee and #2 breakfast meal. But she smiles and says,
"The gentleman in front of you paid for your meal." Wow, I say. Thank
you. He's waiting at the pickup window in front of me for his order. I
tap the horn to get his attention. He's talking on his cell phone, an
old-style flipper. But he glances in his rear view mirror and I wave and
mouth Thank you, and he nods, gets his stuff, and drives away.<br />
<br />
A pleasant little reminder that common courtesy isn't dead and maybe humanity isn't as bad as I think.<br />
<br />
But there's more.<br />
<br />
An hour or so later we're on a nameless back road headed more or less
toward Elizabethtown when we hear a strange noise. Then the steering wheel
starts pulling weirdly and I realize the passenger side front tire has
blown out. Luckily, I'm able to pull into the paved parking lot of a
volunteer fire department station. Perfect place to change a flat.<br />
<br />
I've
changed many flat tires in my day, but I'm officially an old guy now and my gray hair and gray beard don't project to the public the youthful
self-image I still carry in my mind. In the time it took for me to size
up the situation (Damn, I think, that tire is ruined), open the rear
hatch, and get out the jack and the doughnut spare tire (hate those
things), two pickup trucks have pulled into the parking lot offering to
help.<br />
<br />
The first truck has two young Hispanic guys asking if I
need help and offering to change the tire. I thanked them, said I've
changed many tires and thanked them again for stopping.<br />
<br />
No more
than a minute later another pickup truck stops. Two young white guys. Do
I need help changing the tire? They're glad to help. Thanks guys, I
appreciate it, got it under control.<br />
<br />
A few seconds later I've got
the jack positioned under the car and am just starting to lift the car
when a young African American guy in an SUV rolls up. He doesn't bother
to ask if I need help, just hops out of the car and says Let me give you
a hand. And before I can say anything he's got the lug wrench and is
loosening the nuts.<br />
<br />
What the hell, I think, apparently I'm
supposed to get some help changing this tire. So, a couple minutes
later, the shredded tire is off, the doughnut is on, and the guy is
telling a joke about a crazy guy in a mental institution who is smarter
than the psychiatrist realizes.<br />
<br />
And then he's gone and we're
heading back to Wilmington because I'm not going to drive halfway across
the state and back on that damn doughnut tire.<br />
<br />
So that was our
day--a clear reminder that, as annoying as people can be, they're not as bad as you think they are.</div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-38059405553541585542018-12-14T12:39:00.000-05:002018-12-14T13:38:38.905-05:00Alan Snel's Long Road Back To A Better Future<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zla_-MB9tKE/XBPm5QsYaHI/AAAAAAAABHM/J3QTebpqzGQjFvcxcMlqmh6XuKgRfi4BwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Snel%2BLong%2BRoad%2BBack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zla_-MB9tKE/XBPm5QsYaHI/AAAAAAAABHM/J3QTebpqzGQjFvcxcMlqmh6XuKgRfi4BwCEwYBhgL/s320/Snel%2BLong%2BRoad%2BBack.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyclist and LVSportsbiz.com producer Alan Snel with his new book.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">On a sunny
morning in March 2017, Alan Snel got on his bicycle in Vero Beach, Florida for
a routine (for him) 40-mile bike ride.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">That ride
changed Snel’s life and became the motivation for his first book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Long Road Back to Las Vegas</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A few
minutes past 8 a.m., as Snel pedaled along Old Dixie Highway near Fort Pierce,
a Chevrolet Cruz driven by Fort Pierce resident Dennis Brophy plowed into him
from behind. Snel doesn’t recall the collision and doesn’t know how long he was
unconscious. He came to his senses while lying on a gurney being wheeled
through a hallway in a Fort Pierce hospital. “You were hit by a car,” the EMT
told him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Snel was
lucky. Besides a concussion and other injuries, he’d suffered two broken
vertebrae that came within a half-inch of either killing him or paralyzing him
from the neck down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
collision knocked Snel out of his old life and into a new one. Fifteen months
after the accident, he was back in Las Vegas, where he’d worked as a reporter
for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Las Vegas Review-Journal</i>
before going back to Florida to take a new job in Vero Beach. Drawing on his expertise
and deep experience in the highly specialized genre of sports business
reporting, he’d launched a lively, insightful website called <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://lvsportsbiz.com/">LVsportsbiz.com</a></span>
and was hustling to report on the city’s burgeoning sports market.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In between
the near-death experience in Florida and the glittering lights and new start in
Las Vegas were weeks of physical pain and a painful self-examination and frank
reappraisal of his own life. Lots of people don’t recover physically or emotionally
from such an experience. But as his friend and former South Florida reporting
colleague Jeff Houck noted, “The road is hard. Alan Snel is harder.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">For the
record, I’ve known Al for 25 years. Our paths crossed for the first time in
South Florida in the 1990s at the dawn of the Internet age. We covered the same
government beat for intensely competitive newspapers in an old-fashioned knockdown
drag-out newspaper circulation war. A half-dozen newspapers from Miami to Vero
Beach were entangled in an all-out fistfight for the same readers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Al and I
attended the same meetings and chased the same people for quotes. Amid the grinding
daily competition, we discovered common interests, including sports in general
and baseball in particular. By the time Al moved on to better things, we’d
become good friends.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Anyone who
has known Al for even a few minutes knows his zeal for bicycling. He describes
cycling in Zen-like terms. Bicycling, Snel writes, is “the truth” because it
“requires one thing of you—willpower.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“There are
no words that will propel the bicycle,” he writes. “Riding a bicycle is
stunningly fair. You get exactly out of it what you put into it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. . . You get to your destination using your
own human power. There is no motorized propulsion. The motor is in your soul
and the fuel comes from your food and your willpower.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Snel talks
candidly about the driver who nearly killed him and who recently died of an
illness. The St. Lucie County Sheriff’s Department, which investigated the
incident, did not write a ticket to the driver even though he admitted that he
was not paying attention when he hit Snel and, by hitting him, violated a Florida
state law requiring motorists to give bicyclists at least three feet of
clearance when they pass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
Sheriff’s Department’s reasoning for not writing a citation followed a
mysterious and rather obtuse chain of logic: The driver did not intentionally
hit Snel and did not set out to deliberately hit a bicyclist. So in the eyes of
the St. Lucie County Sheriff’s Office, Snel had no more legal standing than
that perpetually unfortunate, ubiquitous roadkill, a possum.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">After
talking to friends in Florida and Nevada, Snel decided to return to Las Vegas
and start his own sports business website. He picked a perfect moment. The city
had just acquired its first major league professional sports franchise, the <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://lvsportsbiz.com/category/golden-knights/">Vegas
Golden Knights</a></span> of the NHL, and was about to start construction of a
spiffy—and very expensive—new stadium to house the soon-to-be transplanted NFL <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://lvsportsbiz.com/category/raiders-stadium/">Oakland
Raiders</a></span>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Snel’s
book is full of insider knowledge of cycling and tidbits about the hard-earned
wisdom he acquired while recovering from his injuries.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“This
book’s message is simple,” Snel writes. “If I can overcome trauma, you can,
too. But it’s not going to be easy. Overcoming trauma is hard. In fact, I can
understand how it can be easy to get emotionally stuck and not move forward.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
collision with the car “forced me to re-evaluate my life,” he continues. “Faced
with mortality, decisions become easier to make because the mental clutter
falls away.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Copies of
<i>Long Road Back to Las Vegas</i> are available for $16 either through PayPal to <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="mailto:asnel@LVSportsBiz.com">asnel@LVSportsBiz.com</a></span>
or by mailing a check to Alan Snel at 2601 South Pavilion Center Drive, Unit
1091, Las Vegas NV 89135. Snel will inscribe all books ordered from him
directly. The book also is available through Amazon.com.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Listen
to <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willie_Drye">Willie
Drye</a></span> talk about the upcoming new edition of his book</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Storm-Century-Labor-Hurricane-Adventure/dp/0792280105">Storm
of the Century</a></span>: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 <i>, with
meterologists <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://www.local10.com/weather/hurricane/bryan-norcross-podcast-gordons-surprise-florences-future-the-great-hurricane-of-1935?fbclid=IwAR1NBvD0HNZaxf3v-loHCrHJ66d7_TpXznCXYQkeMGVXHYb7-RlFxaU6JOg">Bryan
Norcross and Luke Dorris</a></span>. The new, expanded edition of the book will
be published in July 2019 by <a href="http://www.globepequot.com/">Globe Pequot
Press</a>.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-24774237412333260912018-05-14T09:23:00.000-04:002018-05-14T13:58:23.153-04:00Memento Mori? I Wish I Could Forget<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b3iMx2pu0vs/WvmHKTGNdtI/AAAAAAAABGs/kd3iNKWC5Kkf54LfkLovoflZKd6ep-Y1ACLcBGAs/s1600/Memento.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1000" height="315" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b3iMx2pu0vs/WvmHKTGNdtI/AAAAAAAABGs/kd3iNKWC5Kkf54LfkLovoflZKd6ep-Y1ACLcBGAs/s400/Memento.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It takes a
lot of cognitive dissonance to get through this life knowing that sooner or
later it’s going to end and we don’t know when and we don’t know what happens
next. We must accept the grim reality of death every time we lose someone close
to us and feel the pain of irretrievable loss and the chilling, inescapable
knowledge that, as Shakespeare pointed out, we owe God a death.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve been
pondering this since I was 17, when one of my aunts in her mid-40s died of a
brain tumor. She had an open-coffin funeral, and that’s the first time I recall
seeing a corpse. I remember being greatly impressed at first by the
undertaker’s handiwork. At a distance, she didn’t appear to be dead. She seemed
to have chosen a very odd place to take a nap, fully clothed.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">But when I
got closer, the artificiality of her appearance became glaringly apparent. There
was something strange about her lying in a coffin looking as though she’d
fallen asleep with too much makeup on.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A few
years later I saw death without the cosmetics and preservatives when I
witnessed an autopsy as an Army medic. It was the summer of 1973 and I was in
training at Portsmouth Naval Hospital in Virginia. A Navy chief petty officer
in his early 50s had gotten up and gone to work like he’d done every day for 30
years, and then dropped dead while on duty. The poor guy began his day like any
other and ended up on a cold stainless-steel slab.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
pathologist used his grim gleaming tools to open the man’s thorax. He removed
the heart and used a scalpel to cut onionskin-thin slices so he could examine
them for signs of a stroke. I was one of four medics, all in our early 20s,
standing a respectful distance from the autopsy table.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">This was
an important part of our training, and the pathologist told us to step closer.
“That’s OK,” I said, presuming to speak for the group and trying for a little
wry humor. “I can see just fine from here.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
pathologist, bending over the heart, paused for a moment, his scalpel poised in
mid-air. He looked up at me over the rims of his glasses. On his face was an
expression of obvious disdain. “This isn’t a pretty process,” he said. “You’ll
have to get used to that.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">We
reluctantly stepped closer and examined the precise slices of the heart. We
also watched as the brain and other organs were removed. A couple hours later we
went to the mess hall for lunch. The special was sliced roast beef. Couldn’t
even look at it.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A couple years
later I was out of the Army and back in school at Belmont Abbey College to get
credits I needed for admission to the University of North Carolina. I was home
for the weekend before final exams. It was early Sunday morning, and I was eating
breakfast and thinking about the ordeal ahead.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The phone
rang. My mother answered. It was my aunt, who lived a couple hundred yards down
the road. Her husband had had a massive heart attack during the night. Please
come, she said.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">He was sprawled
on the bedroom floor, cold and stiff. The expression frozen on his face
indicated that his last moments had been a very unpleasant surprise.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A few more
years passed. I was a student at UNC. I was taking a course in film criticism. We watched </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“</span></span>M*A*S*H</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">”, the classic dark comedy satire directed by Robert Altman about a front-line medical unit during the Korean War.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">After the movie, the class divided into discussion seminars. A young woman in my class complained about the doctors, nurses and medics making jokes about death and dying. She thought it was crude, cruel and insensitive.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I raised my hand. I was an Army medic, I said. If you</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span></span></span></span></span>re around that every day, the only way you can stay sane is to make fun of it. If you don</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span>t, you</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span></span></span></span></span>ll go nuts.</span></span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I thought I</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span>d been very helpful. But a long silence fell over the class until the grad student directing the seminar, sensing the awkwardness, changed the subject.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">What did I do? I thought. It</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span>s true. If you</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span>ve been there you know. But I didn</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span></span>t say anything more.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I also worked as a pharmacy technician at
North Carolina Memorial Hospital. One day I was delivering drugs to a ward
when I heard a woman shout from behind a closed door, “I don’t care who you
get! Get somebody! Get anybody!”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The door
flew open and a nurse stepped quickly into the hallway, looked around hurriedly,
and saw me. I was wearing the white jacket that identified me as a member of
the hospital staff. She pointed at me and motioned for me to follow her.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I saw two
other nurses standing over a huge woman sitting in a wheelchair. She was going
into cardiac arrest, and the nurses had to get her out of the wheelchair and
onto a bed to perform CPR. I took her legs and two nurses took her shoulders. We
struggled to lift her. But the dying woman weighed more than 300 pounds. I felt
her slipping from my grasp, so I slid my knee beneath her buttocks to keep from
dropping her. I felt something warm and damp on my knee.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">At that
moment the door burst open and the hospital’s cardiac arrest response team poured
noisily into the room. The doctor in charge saw us struggling to lift her onto
the bed. “Put her on the floor!” he shouted. We gently lowered her and stepped
back. She was instantly surrounded by the medical team as they began the frantic,
highly choreographed and ultimately futile struggle to revive her. I figured
they didn’t need me any longer so I slipped quietly out the door and went back
to my job.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Back in
the pharmacy I discovered a brown spot on the left knee of my white corduroy
jeans. I realized that the woman had died when I’d slid my knee under her, and
at that moment her sphincter relaxed and her bowel emptied.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">After I graduated from Carolina I got a job in Georgia covering the cop beat for the <i>Macon Telegraph</i>. My job was to chase
cops and firefighters every time they moved. I became part of a small, select group
that gathered when someone died violently or of unexplained causes—cops,
firefighters, paramedics, the county coroner and me. Soon the cops recognized
me when I arrived. They trusted me, and they’d wave me past the police line. I’d
join the privileged group studying the death tableau. Sometimes after looking
at the gruesome scene I exchanged knowing glances with the others.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I became a
familiar sight on local TV stations’ coverage of untimely deaths on the 11
o’clock news. As viewers watched the TV reporters in the foreground do their
standup, I’d be seen in the background, wearing aviator sunglasses, a leather
flight jacket over a T-shirt or pullover sweater, jeans and sneakers. Walkie-talkie
and portable police radio scanner dangling from my belt. Standing in front of
flames or a wrecked car that had been torn and twisted and battered out of
shape by the savage forces of high-speed impact. Talking to a cop and jotting
notes in my notebook.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">After a
couple years of this I started seeing death as a tragic circus at which my
presence was required. Sometimes I loved it. Sometimes I hated having to
immerse myself in this public spectacle, learn every sad gory detail of the
last moments of someone’s life, and write about it. Part of me got tougher.
Another part of me quietly and secretly freaked out. Sometimes I thought I’d
scream if I had to see one more stiff. Sometimes after my shift ended at
midnight, I’d lie awake staring into the darkness until dawn because I couldn’t
scrub a gruesome image or a tragic event from my mind.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Some of the angst gradually
faded when I moved on to covering politics for other newspapers, but some of
the memories have never left me. The sobbing, grief-stricken mother kneeling
over the bleeding body of her toddler son who’d been standing on the sidewalk
and was hit by a drunk driver. The horribly mangled farmer who’d fallen
backwards off his tractor and been plowed into the Georgia earth by his huge,
heavy plow. The teenager fishing from a small two-lane bridge over a creek out
in the country who’d hooked a big one, tried to reel him in, forgot where he was, and stepped backwards right into the path of a car doing
60 mph.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">As I got older,
I realized that my experiences with death separated me from the masses and, like that moment in the film criticism class at UNC,
imposed a different view of life on me. Not many people had seen a body clinically
disassembled like so many spare parts, or had someone die in their arms, or
watched paramedics pick up pieces of human brain after a terrible car wreck. I believed
I knew something about life that others didn’t know and didn't want to know. I believed that
knowledge had altered my outlook on life and separated me from others. I felt alienated.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">When my
wife and I lived in South Florida in the 1990s, I discovered that Key West’s dark
sense of humor and quirky take on life are reflected in the city’s cemetery,
where residents have long thumbed their noses at the Grim Reaper with hilarious
epitaphs. A man who died decades ago took a posthumous dig at his doubting
friends with the inscription, “I told you I was sick.” Another took a shot at
the stratospheric cost of real estate with this parting quip about the only
plot of land he could afford in the city: “I always dreamed of owning a small place
in Key West.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">My
favorite is one apparently written by a wife weary of her late husband’s
constant philandering. She had her unfaithful mate’s tombstone inscribed: “At
least I know where you’re sleeping tonight.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Humor, I
thought. That’s the only real answer. Show the Reaper you’re not intimidated by
him and leave something behind to bring a chuckle to those who happen past your
marker years after you've departed.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I searched
for a one-liner to sum up my sense of alienation and my reluctant acceptance of life’s
inevitable unpleasantness. Eventually something came to
me. For the record, I want this inscribed on my tombstone: “At last, I’m
part of the majority.”</span></span></div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-24607183325309863342018-01-24T13:35:00.000-05:002018-01-24T13:35:06.935-05:00Crudity vs. Cleverness at Hockey Games<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sqWrHpB7bAg/WmjOZ4xLXJI/AAAAAAAABGI/QzxfIqSjEMUy6QTKiHSDktcIE7KyCc_owCLcBGAs/s1600/Logos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="228" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sqWrHpB7bAg/WmjOZ4xLXJI/AAAAAAAABGI/QzxfIqSjEMUy6QTKiHSDktcIE7KyCc_owCLcBGAs/s320/Logos.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I wrote about last Sunday's <a href="http://lvsportsbiz.com/2018/01/21/loss-golden-knights-hurricanes-try-return-stanley-cup-fan-appeal-financial-luster/" target="_blank">Vegas Golden Knights-Carolina Hurricanes</a> game for LVsportsbiz.com. Sitting in the press box high above it all, I noticed a decided difference in crowd behavior from what I've seen at New Jersey Devils' games.<br />
<br />
<br />
We've been to many New Jersey Devils' games, which are played in the
Prudential Center (aka "The Rock") in downtown Newark. We sat in the
cheap seats up near the rafters only once, and we won't do it again.<br />
<br />
From what I've seen of Devils fans in the nosebleed sections, they tend to be loud, obnoxious, often
drunk, and profane. Resolutely profane. Their favorite cheer seems to
involve some variation of this phrase: "<span class="text_exposed_show">(Noun),
(pronoun) suck!" That's about it, as far as I've heard after attending
more than half-a-dozen games there. They also are fond of shouting in
loud unison, "Rangers suck!" Even if they're playing, say, Montreal or
Philadelphia.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Anyway, the
press box at PNC Arena is actually looking down on the cheap seats
there. Sunday night the section closest to the end of the press box where I was was filled with
a bunch of guys, most of them middle-aged 30s-40s-50s as far as I could
tell, who all seemed to know each other. I'm guessing that they all
work in the same office, bought tickets together, and attend a lot of
Canes games.<br />
<br />
These guys were loud, and made noise throughout the
game. Their chief cheerleader was a beefy, bespectacled guy with an
old-fashioned flattop haircut who sat in the center seat in the
section's front row. Sometimes this guy just sort of yelled, no words,
growling loudly. Then he'd come up with a chant of some kind and start
yelling that, and all the other guys would join in and chant it loudly
for a little while.<br />
<br />
The Canes basically got their clocks cleaned
Sunday night, losing 5-1 to Vegas. But the guys in this section never tuned out the game, despite the one-sided score. They yelled encouragement and sometimes sardonic advice
throughout. But they were getting more and more sarcastic as
the game progressed and the Canes fell further behind.<br />
<br />
Early in the third period, the chief cheerleader
was in one of his inarticulate yowls, then apparently inspiration hit
him and he started chanting "Please do bet-ter! Please do bet-ter!"<br />
<br />
His pals picket it up and started chanting it, then some of the
sections around them picked it up, and pretty soon maybe a few hundred
Canes' fans in that end of the arena were chanting "Please do bet-ter! Please do bet-ter!" You
had to be there to get the full effect (it really was funny), and you
had to have been in a sewer-mouthed crowd like the cheap seats at a
Devils' game to appreciate the contrast between the crowds in Newark and
those in Raleigh. Crudity vs. cleverness. I hope the Canes succeed in
returning the crowds to PNC Arena. It really is a lot of fun.</div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-61243881591490407092017-10-20T09:01:00.000-04:002017-10-20T09:01:09.314-04:00Why I Never Joined The Circus<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XGLwOxxQdFM/Went2hlP2GI/AAAAAAAABFw/DmN-AULKhg41tXumNjyV7ATCQY3w1ir-ACLcBGAs/s1600/CBCBC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1186" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XGLwOxxQdFM/Went2hlP2GI/AAAAAAAABFw/DmN-AULKhg41tXumNjyV7ATCQY3w1ir-ACLcBGAs/s320/CBCBC.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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In 1972 I was 22 years old and looking back on a thoroughly
undistinguished post-high school career.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’d played some baseball at a junior college in Statesville,
North Carolina but my academic accomplishments were unimpressive and I’d used
up my baseball eligibility. I was living in my hometown and working as a heavy
equipment operator at a nearby quarry. I was young and restless and had
no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t it.</div>
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In April 1972 I decided I needed a change of scenery. I quit
my job, emptied my meager checking account, packed a few belongings into my
1959 Ford, and moved in with friends in Statesville.</div>
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I didn’t have enough money to stay unemployed long. The
Iredell County Cattlemen’s Association held cattle auctions every so often and
was always looking for wranglers to work the sales, so I could get a couple
days work there. The job was to make sure the animals ended up in the correct
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pen.</div>
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It was simple work—one wrangler held a pen gate open while
others kept the animal moving down the alley into the pen. The pay was pretty
good and you got free meals.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The same week as the cattle sale, a friend and I learned that
there was another opportunity for some quick cash. The Clyde Beatty Cole
Brothers Circus was coming to town for a couple of weekend performances. The
circus management was looking for roustabouts to help erect and take down the
big top.</div>
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The pay wasn’t great—a ticket to the performance if you helped
set up the big top, a few bucks cash if you helped take it down. My friend and
I had no interest in the tickets, but we did want the cash. So on a Sunday
afternoon after the circus’s final matinee performance, we showed up to take
down the big top.</div>
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The tent was dropped to the ground. Then one gang of
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The sledge was harnessed to an elephant, a patient,
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Seeing an elephant towing a sledge wasn’t something I’d routinely
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And then, with a loud, lingering, sort of moist ripping
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sort of shimmery image you see in the distance on a hot highway in the summer.</div>
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The foul-smelling fumes enveloped my friend and the carney,
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wind. They rolled off the sledge and lay on their backs in the grass and waited
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The elephant, relieved of its discomfort, waited patiently
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laughter.</div>
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When we finished, my friend and I waited with the others for
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conversation.</div>
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It turned into a recruiting pitch. Had we ever thought about
joining the circus, they asked. We could use a couple guys like you.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The pay was OK but not great, they said, but there always
were opportunities to pick up a few bucks on the side and off the books. You
got to spend the winters in Florida. And if you had debts or an ex-wife, they’d
never find you.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wasn’t running from creditors or former wives, but I’d always
secretly envied carnies. They seemed wise in a way I wanted to be. They
understood human nature and could size up people, spot their weaknesses, work a
crowd. It seemed like a waiting adventure. I may have been on the verge of
joining up.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then they showed us the sleeping quarters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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They slept in a tractor-trailer truck that had been
converted into a rolling bunkhouse. We looked inside the trailer but didn’t enter. It was
dark and a bit dingy, and I got a sensation that the dim light concealed all
kinds of unpleasant surprises.</div>
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<br /></div>
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You’d think a couple of young guys not known for fastidious
hygiene wouldn’t have been bothered by those conditions. But I felt an internal
shiver, a primal dread, about the prospect of sleeping in there.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The carnies kept up their pitch. We leave tomorrow morning,
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We collected our pay—seven bucks for about three hours
work—and left.</div>
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As we drove back to Statesville, my friend asked me, “So you
gonna go?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I thought for a moment. “Nah,” I said. “Something about
those sleeping trailers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” my friend said. “Me too.” </div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-89182109876878375402017-07-15T07:35:00.000-04:002017-07-16T11:20:44.414-04:00All My Pусский Contacts, I Swear<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qBf_d2_jwak/WWoF6jujuAI/AAAAAAAABFI/CxIFuMS4ovYVH06c60l-iC43uFT5tFDoQCLcBGAs/s1600/Russia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qBf_d2_jwak/WWoF6jujuAI/AAAAAAAABFI/CxIFuMS4ovYVH06c60l-iC43uFT5tFDoQCLcBGAs/s320/Russia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So we’re
up to our nostrils in all things Russian these days and people are worried sick
that the US is soon going to be Moscow on the Hudson, as well as Moscow on the
Mississippi and Moscow on the Rio Grande and Moscow on every other river and
creek and bayou in the country. We’ve become so suffused with Russia paranoia
and things have become so edgy that Representative Trey Gowdy, a Republican
from South Carolina and chairman of the House Oversight Committee, wants to get
to the bottom of all this Russki stuff. He’s urging that </span><a href="http://www.politico.com/story/2017/07/11/trey-gowdy-trump-russia-240432"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">folks come clean</span></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> about all their contacts with
Russians.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Gowdy minced
no words in his call for full disclosure. “Someone needs to get everyone in a
room and say, from the time you saw ‘Dr. Zhivago’ until the moment you drank
vodka with a guy named Boris, you list every single contact with Russia.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Pretty
hard to misunderstand that kind of demand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Now, I
consider myself a loyal American and a patriot, and in this stressful time I
think I should, like all good Americans, come clean about my association with
Russians. So here’s my confession: A long time ago in Chapel Hill—a town of
known leftist tendencies that US Senator Jesse Helms once said could function
as the North Carolina state zoo if you put a fence around it—I had contact with
Russians. And in that spirit of full disclosure that Representative Gowdy is
demanding, I’d like to tell everything I can recall about those contacts.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It was the
summer of 1977. I’d signed up for a summer school course at Carolina. I had a good
friend from Raleigh, a brilliant linguist who was fluent in Russian, German and
Polish and could probably make himself understood in at least half a dozen
other languages. He was good friends with some Soviet (as we called them in
those days) exchange students.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">He was
especially good friends with a guy who I remember only as Evgeni—or, as he may
have spelled it in Cryillic, Евгений</span>. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Evgeni
was, until Vladimir Putin came along, the image that popped into my head when
anybody mentioned Russians.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I’ve
learned over the years that it’s generally not a good thing to think of groups
of people in stereotypes. It can get you into trouble in lots of ways. And yet,
Evgeni pretty much perfectly fit the American stereotype of a Russian. He was
big, blond, loud, and backslapping friendly with a booming voice that could
have been heard by Sarah Palin on the other side of the Bering Strait. And he
could drink all the residents of any small rural American county under the
table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t remember
the first time I met Evgeni, but it may have been when I bumped into my friend
and him on Franklin Street. During my introduction, my friend probably said
something to Evgeni in Russian that sounded something like this: “Das vidanya.
Spragelly meestslamy mas y telly joo davastli.” And then a huge grin spread
across Evgeni’s face and he extended a hand the size of a bear’s paw and
wrapped his fingers several times around my hand as he shook it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I saw
Evgeni regularly, always in the company of my friend. One day, my friend asked
me to spend a Friday night with Evgeni. I think he had a date and he didn’t
want Evgeni tagging along. Evgeni knew very little English at this point, and I
knew no Russian. But what the hell, I was game. I figured with enough beer,
everything would be OK.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">And it
was. We hit many Franklin Street watering holes that night, and downed many beers, and
exchanged no intelligible language that I recall. But alcohol, in the hands of
open-minded and imaginative imbibers, can erase language barriers and be a
remarkable facilitator of communications. We made ourselves understood with
gestures, backslaps, facial expressions and noises. And when all else failed,
we ordered another round. By the end of the evening, we were drinking buddies
even though we had not exchanged a single coherent sentence.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">As the
summer progressed, Evgeni’s English improved, as did his ability to calculate
American prices in terms of his Soviet background. I recall him asking the
price in American dollars of something he wanted. Someone told him. He was
silent for a few moments as he mentally converted the cost in US currency to
the Soviet economy. He became wide-eyed when he’d finished the calculation.
“Is two cheekens!” he exclaimed in disbelief.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I had
another memorable encounter with Evgeni later that summer. This time I was
stumping down Franklin Street with a cast that covered my left leg from my foot to just below my knee. How I got that cast is an anecdote that makes a
great story, but it’s a story that I’m not ready to publicly disclose. I will
say this, however: It involved excessive alcohol on a Friday night, misplaced
youthful exuberance, and one of the worst decisions I've ever made. Still, no laws were broken, no property
was damaged, no cops were involved and no one except me was injured. I never received a bill for my visit to the emergency room at North Carolina Memorial Hospital, so I assume it was covered by my student health insurance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Anyway, I
was somewhere near the Varsity Theater when I heard this booming voice above
the Franklin Street traffic noise. It was speaking Russian. I have no idea what
was being said, but it sounded like “Vee lee! Vu dees eu da!” I think I must
have looked skyward, because my friend said afterwards that I looked like I’d
heard the voice of God calling to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It was, of
course, my drinking buddy Evgeni, and he was concerned about the cast on my
leg. I don’t remember much else about that encounter. I’m sure my friend
explained to Evgeni what had happened to me and he thought it was hilarious and
slapped me on the back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I saw
Evgeni occasionally during the next year or so. I remember parties with other
Soviet exchange students. I remember these guys downing tumblers of vodka like
it was ice water, and feats of strength and loud conversations, mostly in
Russian. I never picked up any of that language, so I have no idea what they
were talking about. But since the conversations seemed to involve calls for
more vodka and challenges to arm-wrestling, I don’t think anything subversive
was being said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">That’s all
I recall of Evgeni. I think he left Chapel Hill sometime in the late ‘70s, and
I haven’t heard from him since. So this concludes my debriefing of my Russian
contacts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A final
note to Representative Gowdy. I also saw Dr. Zhivago. A long time ago in
Charlotte. With a couple of friends. I’m still good friends with that guy
from Raleigh, and he still speaks Russian fluently. And sometimes I use Russian vodka for my vodka martinis. That's all my P</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="st">усский contacts,</span> I swear.</span></div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-34368165206792807162017-06-28T15:27:00.000-04:002017-06-28T15:43:16.480-04:00Guess Who I Bumped Into At The Grocery Store<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-diiv8q-m1pE/WVP1VrHMV3I/AAAAAAAABEw/yRWo64XaThk2fP5nwQeevy9nyNbuIeSBgCLcBGAs/s1600/Hackett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="659" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-diiv8q-m1pE/WVP1VrHMV3I/AAAAAAAABEw/yRWo64XaThk2fP5nwQeevy9nyNbuIeSBgCLcBGAs/s320/Hackett.jpg" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The late Buddy Hackett</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Editor's note: This was originally posted on a blog called Side Salad shortly after the death of comedian Buddy Hackett on June 30, 2003. See the tagline below for a detailed explanation.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It was the
mid-'70s, and I was recently out of the Army and in school at the University of North Carolina. Had a room
on Franklin Street (Chapel Hill's main drag) across from the campus and a few blocks from Fowler's Grocery, where I'd go once or twice a week for beer,
frozen dinners, and similar provisions for a guy living on a GI Bill budget in a rooming house with several other guys, a refrigerator and a toaster oven.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Fowler's was an institution in Chapel Hill. It was famous for its meat counter and its frosty, walk-in beer cooler. It offered the staples, as well as other eclectic items I'd never seen in the grocery stores back home in Stanly County. This was long before the days of Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and similar upscale food stores. You could get things at Fowler's that you just couldn't find anywhere else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So I was in Fowler's one night, took a left at the end of the
canned soup section, I think, started down the next aisle, nearly bumped into this pudgy
guy pushing a shopping cart in the opposite direction. Looked up, and I thought "Jeez, that guy
looks like Buddy Hackett."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">If I remember
correctly, his cart was pretty well loaded. There was no one on that aisle except Buddy and me. I went to the end of the aisle, turned
right, and headed up the next aisle. There was Buddy again, only by now he'd
been recognized by some of the other shoppers. And he didn't seem too happy
about it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I didn't hear what the first
person who recognized him said to him, but whatever it was, Buddy launched into
a stream of profanity-laced insults. The woman who'd spoken to him just
stood there with this sickly smile frozen on her face as old Buddy sailed away
with his shopping cart, leaving her in the wake of his hysterically funny, profane insults.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">What was
Buddy doing in Chapel Hill? I didn't dare ask him, but he was probably taking part
in the famous rice diet program that once was conducted at the
Duke University medical school. As you probably know, dear old Dook is only about
10 miles down U.S. 15-501 from Chapel Hill. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It was, so I was told, extremely
expensive to go through the rice diet program. Many tubby celebrities went
through it in those days. The ricers often came to Chapel Hill to presumably escape the confines of the rice diet's restrictions. My guess is that Buddy was playing hookey from the program and had ducked into Fowler's to grab a few off-the-record
carbs before heading back to Durham. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">(The <i>New York Times</i> reported in 2005 that Hackett was known for ordering pizzas for fellow dieters during his visits to Duke.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Anyway,
Buddy caused quite a stir as he pushed his cart through Fowler's, and he was
giving everybody absolute hell and you could watch their smiles of recognition slowly morph into this
look of shocked horror as they realized they were being sliced to pieces by
the sharpest tongue they'd probably ever encounter, and they were powerless to
protect themselves or even respond. I mean it was non-stop, take no prisoners.
Buddy was talking out of the side of his mouth in that nasal, sort of
high-pitched Noo Yawk accent, and he was cutting people down left and right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I
wish I could remember some of the insults he flung at people, but, as I said,
it was a long time ago and I wasn't taking notes. I will say this -- he was
profanely articulate and funny, and he kept it up even as he went through the
checkout line, and I just remember a lot of numb, silly smiles when he left,
or, rather, made his exit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So, bon
voyage Buddy, and thanks for a memorable improv performance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Editor's note: Long ago, in the frontier days of the Interwebs when
we were at the mercy of dial-up landline connections and busy signals, I
was an occasional contributor to a lively blog called Side Salad. It
was produced by Jeff Houck, whom I've known since my days in the South
Florida journalism wars of the last century. Jeff is a very funny guy
with the quickest wit I've ever met. He's the guy who instantly comes up
with the sparkling situational one-liner that you might think of two
weeks later. I wrote some stuff that I thought was funny, and Jeff was
kind enough to post it on Side Salad. That wonderful blog is no more,
alas. But Jeff has agreed to let me dig up some of my stuff from the
archives and re-post it on Drye Goods. So here's the first one--a
recollection of the time I bumped into the late comedian Buddy Hackett
in the aisles of a Chapel Hill grocery store. It was posted on Side
Salad on July 9, 2003, shortly after Hackett's death on June 30. Please
note that I'll probably tinker a little with some of these re-posts. I
just can't leave stuff alone.</i> </span></div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-83287442916042835482017-05-25T08:05:00.003-04:002017-05-25T17:10:12.004-04:00The Kid Grows Up<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H5YQXcM0o28/WSbFh3P5lkI/AAAAAAAABEY/5vqkSWNYcFUotBeodNR6f3FmIfFbCXxTACLcB/s1600/JohnM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="424" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H5YQXcM0o28/WSbFh3P5lkI/AAAAAAAABEY/5vqkSWNYcFUotBeodNR6f3FmIfFbCXxTACLcB/s320/JohnM.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Morrow, Dickinson College Class of</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> 2017.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Our nephew, John Morrow, a political science major, graduated with the Dickinson College Class of 2017 last weekend.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">This is the kid who was delighted when, as a toddler, I'd hold him upside
down by the ankles; who once mused, as a small child as we were passing
Jockey's Ridge (a giant sand dune on the North Carolina Outer Banks) that, one day, "we
must shovel that;" who explored with his dad and me the sites of
legendary baseball parks in the NY-NJ metro area; and who did me the
stunning honor of mentioning me in his college admissions essay and
saying that he'd learned about so much more than baseball from those
trips and hoped to apply the same learning methods in college and
beyond.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Here's what he said in that essay in 2012:</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">"When we went
looking for old baseball locations we found urban history, learned about
the benefits of redevelopment and preservation and we encountered
people I would never have met anywhere else. Uncle Willie embraces
learning that way and I hope to do the same for the rest of my life." </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Congratulations, John, and well done.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">And here are links to posts about those visits to old ballpark sites: <a href="http://sidesalad.net/archives/003056.html" target="_blank">Ebbets Field</a>, <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2008/01/once-it-was-quite-thing-to-go-to-polo.html" target="_blank">Polo Grounds</a>, <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2009/01/site-where-color-barrier-was-broken-is.html" target="_blank">Roosevelt Stadium</a>, and <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2010/01/hinchliffe-stadium-was-art-deco.html" target="_blank">Hinchliffe Stadium</a>. (Photo by Jane Morrow)</span></span></span><span class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"><span class="fcg"><span class="fbPhotoTagListTag tagItem"><a class="taggee" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/hovercard.php?id=100000634657348&type=mediatag&media_info=6.10154863617282690" data-tag="100000634657348" href="https://www.facebook.com/john.morrow.100"><br /></a></span></span></span>Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-33159093453735147752017-04-20T20:06:00.000-04:002017-04-20T20:06:39.067-04:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L0hA-aV4350/WPk7nfZ648I/AAAAAAAABD8/liJQpfhdvtsS9MgpFI96CUinONP1GYRrQCLcB/s1600/179527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L0hA-aV4350/WPk7nfZ648I/AAAAAAAABD8/liJQpfhdvtsS9MgpFI96CUinONP1GYRrQCLcB/s640/179527.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An iconic still from Woody Allen's 1979 film, "Manhattan."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So somehow, "Manhattan"--the 1979 Woody Allen movie about self-centered, white wine sipping, white linen wearing, early New York Yuppies--found its way into his DVD player. He poured himself a glass of chilled chardonnay and sat down with the spaniel to watch it.<br />
<br />
At first he was struck by two things--how dated the movie seemed, and how the opening montage of New York scenes that ended with the fireworks display against the Manhattan skyline made him think of the September 11 terrorist attacks. And he felt superior to those urbanely provincial people depicted in the movie who fretted their ways through failing marriages and affairs and dealt with agents and publishers and unfulfilling but lucrative jobs.<br />
<br />
But then, as always seemed to happen when he watched a Woody Allen movie, he started noticing uncomfortable familiarities and he realized the same thing he'd realized the first time he saw the movie 38 years ago--that he had more than a few things in common with Allen.<br />
<br />
And it occurred to him that over the years he'd become, in some ways, a sort of Southern-fried, redneck version of Woody Allen--even to the point of dealing with agents and publishers and his own collection of chronic neuroses. But without the fame and huge income.Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-58250377710605307702017-04-05T10:26:00.000-04:002017-04-11T12:32:03.475-04:00The Passing of a Childhood Hero<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2rSfYjCtor4/WOT5_AFl4DI/AAAAAAAABDU/gXrvT_Y5WP810FQLFQRsseQK-cyAOECagCLcB/s1600/DSCN9986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2rSfYjCtor4/WOT5_AFl4DI/AAAAAAAABDU/gXrvT_Y5WP810FQLFQRsseQK-cyAOECagCLcB/s320/DSCN9986.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baseball great Roy Sievers</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm deeply saddened to learn that my friend, former Major League
Baseball great Roy Sievers, died late Monday night at his home in St.
Louis. He was 91 years old.<br />
<br />
Roy gave me an unforgettable moment in 1959 when he invited me
into the dugout of the Washington Senators during a preseason exhibition
game in Charlotte, North Carolina. A few years ago, I wrote about that moment in Drye
Goods.<br />
<br />
Roy's niece, Terry Cole, saw that essay and showed it to Roy, and
thus began a series of phone conversations during which I talked to Roy about his stellar career. I wrote about those conversations in 2015 in an essay for the <a href="http://www.thenationalpastimemuseum.com/article/my-favorite-player-roy-sievers" target="_blank">National Pastime Museum</a>.<br />
<br />
Roy was an old-school baseball hero and a generous and
thoughtful guy. Thanks for the memory, Roy. You'll always be one of my
heroes.Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-30467339674955290252017-03-07T10:04:00.010-05:002022-11-10T08:46:37.739-05:00The Shrewd Operator<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BBqxpkA6KDc/WL6-JBFAUDI/AAAAAAAABCQ/gTu96XvPWlMks5GJc98RFF7aKMK1UKeGQCLcB/s1600/McNally2.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BBqxpkA6KDc/WL6-JBFAUDI/AAAAAAAABCQ/gTu96XvPWlMks5GJc98RFF7aKMK1UKeGQCLcB/s320/McNally2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staff Sergeant William McNally, 1974</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I can’t look back on 1974 without wincing. It was a rough year
for me. But I got through it with the help of one of the shrewdest, most savvy
leaders I’ve ever known.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Let me set the stage for this tale.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">In January 1974 I was involved with a woman who was not good for me,
and I was only beginning to realize how bad for me she really
was. And I was not living in an especially uplifting place. I was an Army medic
stationed at Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I had nearly a year to
go before my discharge, and I was not yet old enough to realize how quickly a
year passes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The good townsfolk of Fayetteville have worked hard for
the past few decades to make their city a safe, attractive, pleasant place to live. But in
1974, that work hadn't started and the city was, to put it plainly, a cesspool
of crime and sleaze. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">By 1974, the U.S. had withdrawn most of its troops from its
ill-fated proxy war in Vietnam, and Fort Bragg was the first stateside stop for
GIs who had been “in country” for tours of combat duty. These troops brought with
them many skills, habits and deeply ingrained reactions that had kept them
alive during their fight against a clever, ruthless enemy in the jungles of
southeast Asia.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But some of these men were haunted and deeply troubled by
their experiences, and those skills and habits so necessary in combat were
sometimes misapplied in Fayetteville. In addition to the usual felonies, strange and unusually violent crimes were
being committed—especially on a stretch of Gillespie Street in downtown Fayetteville that had become so dangerous it was nicknamed “Combat Alley.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And then there was downtown Fayetteville’s infamous 500
block of Hay Street—a gaudy, sleazy monument to youthful testosterone and a
testament to how many eyes local government officials were willing to close to
avoid interfering with a shady but lucrative form of commerce. The block was a
nearly unbroken strip of topless bars whose names—Pop-A-Top Lounge, Pump House,
Rick’s Lounge, Seven Dwarfs, King’s Den, Nite Cap, Oasis—blazed above the
sidewalk in neon so bright that at night from a distance the glow almost made it seem
like Hay Street was on fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Inside these bars, well-endowed young women swayed and whirled and contorted themselves as they removed nearly all
their clothing. Lonely, aroused young men guzzled overpriced beer and tucked folded
currency behind the dancers’ G-strings. Even the historic and once-dignified
Prince Charles Hotel at 450 Hay Street had topless dancers displaying their
charms in its lounge. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fHQOp6CCc6g/WL7FGS6YswI/AAAAAAAABC4/LIWuU_C8z38VlBfuhvZnOLR02SQ3dr0mwCLcB/s1600/Hay%2BSt%2BPM.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fHQOp6CCc6g/WL7FGS6YswI/AAAAAAAABC4/LIWuU_C8z38VlBfuhvZnOLR02SQ3dr0mwCLcB/s400/Hay%2BSt%2BPM.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A portion of the 500 block of Hay Street, downtown Fayetteville,<br />
North Carolina, circa 1974. Photo by Fayetteville Observer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Bragg Boulevard, the four-lane thoroughfare that bisected
Fort Bragg and ended at Hay Street, was lined with businesses that thrived on the
impulsive decisions and poor judgment of young men eager to separate themselves
from their monthly pay and fat reenlistment bonuses in exchange for something
fast, shiny and loud. Used car lots offered hot, low-mileage cars—the previous
owners hadn’t kept up payments long enough to pile on too many miles—on credit
to any GI who’d reached the rank of private first class. The advertising for businesses on Bragg Boulevard was loud and aggressive. The harsh, grating
chant of a radio commercial for a motorcycle dealership is still embedded in my memory like a rusty fishhook. And interspersed among the used car lots, motorcycle
dealers, and pawn shops were, of course, still more topless bars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The city’s wholehearted embrace of trashy vulgarity as an
economic anchor and its reputation for violent crime had earned it some unflattering
but well-deserved nicknames—among them Fatalburg and Fayettenam. A thoughtful fellow
medic from Oregon noted that everything about Fayetteville in 1974 seemed geared
toward stimulating the gonads and engaging the libidos of 20-year-old males.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was in charge of the small pharmacy at Troop Medical Clinic
22 at Simmons Army Airfield, which provided health care for several airborne
units. One of my most important duties was to remember to order extra massive doses
of penicillin injections when the monthly payday happened to fall on a Friday.
On those weekends, Hay Street was swarming with young GIs seeking that most primal
of satisfactions. It was said that when a Fort Bragg payday fell on a Friday,
hookers were bused in from as far away as Baltimore and Dallas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JWbZrZZFm1A/WL7AedECp9I/AAAAAAAABCk/BJpV7C35yAc7ERaL5ecbmk5SvO9D4VJNwCLcB/s1600/Pharm.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JWbZrZZFm1A/WL7AedECp9I/AAAAAAAABCk/BJpV7C35yAc7ERaL5ecbmk5SvO9D4VJNwCLcB/s320/Pharm.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author at Troop Medical Clinic 22, Fort Bragg,<br />
North Carolina, 1974</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I knew I’d be needing those extra penicillin injections around
Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week. It was as predictable as the
sunrise and as certain as an incubation period.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’d been expecting to see a bit of the world while I was in
the Army. But I’d landed in the grimmest, most joyless environment I’d ever
encountered. Things could have been far worse for me, of course, but I was
still young and naïve, and a year at Fort Bragg seemed like an eternity.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So I drank a little more than I should have, saw an
Army shrink for a while to try to get a handle on my frustrations with Fort
Bragg and the emotional pain being inflicted on me by the woman I mentioned
earlier, and made plans for the big day when I’d be discharged. Basically, I
did my job, kept my mouth shut and stayed out of trouble. But I was moody, sometimes mildly
depressed, and often just weary of the garish, vulgar surroundings of Fayetteville.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And this is where Staff Sergeant William McNally enters the
story.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If I remember correctly, Mac was from Kansas. He was an Army
lifer in his mid-40s who’d done a tour or two in Vietnam, brought home a
Vietnamese wife, and now was the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge of TMC 22.
And he was a genius, in his own way, at leading young soldiers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">No army in history, from Caesar’s Legions and Napoleon’s
Grand Armée to Hitler’s Wehrmacht and MacArthur’s Battling Bastards of Bataan, could have functioned effectively without thousands of McNallys in its
ranks. It's been said that an army’s commissioned officers are responsible only
for two things—where the troops are supposed to be and when they’re supposed to
be there. NCOs are responsible for everything else, and it’s also been said
that if an NCO doesn’t tell a commissioned officer how he accomplished an assigned task,
the officer shouldn’t ask because there’s probably a good reason why the NCO
didn’t tell him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Mac knew how to maneuver in this world of strict written rules
and even stricter unwritten rules. He understood the nuts and bolts of the
Army’s organizational and command structure, and no shrink has ever had a more practical and
insightful understanding of human psychology. Watching him work the system to
accomplish both military objectives and personal favors for the troops under
him was watching a master plying his craft.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He knew when to follow Army regulations to the letter, and when
to wink and sidestep the book. When he needed a favor, he knew who to
ask and how to reward him when the favor was done. And he understood the going rate for exchanging favors, so that if another smoothly operating NCO asked him for a favor, he knew exactly what he could reasonably request in return.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I can’t recall all his
skillful manipulations of the system that I witnessed, and of course I have no idea how many schemes he hatched that I wasn't aware of. But I never knew of him abusing his remarkable powers, and I do recall his personal motto that
he often repeated: “Take care of the troops, and the troops will take care of
you.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He took care of me many times, and I clearly recall one time in particular when he knew exactly what I needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">During one week, I was going through an especially rough
stretch. I was glum, sullen and simply a pain to be around. To make matters
worse, payday was still a week away and I was broke.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After a couple days of my crankiness, Mac had had enough. Late
one afternoon he confronted me in one of the treatment rooms in the clinic. “Drye,
you got any money?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Geez, Mac, what do you think?” I growled, thinking he was going to hit me up for a loan. “Payday’s a week away. Hell
no, I don’t have any money.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">He nodded, pulled out his billfold, and slapped a $10 bill
on a table. For perspective, a ten-spot in 1974 would have the buying power of almost $60 today.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“I want you to go downtown tonight and get drunk,” he said. “That’s
a direct order. If you come in here tomorrow morning without a hangover, I’m
gonna have the MPs haul you in for disobeying orders.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Then he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">What could I do? I picked up the $10, and the following morning, as ordered, I reported for duty
with a scorching hangover. The snotty mood was gone. Mac
never said another word about it and didn't even ask me to repay the ten bucks.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A few months later, I had my Honorable Discharge. I said
goodbye to Mac and left Fort Bragg like it was a burning building. I haven’t seen Mac
since then. But I’ve never forgotten him.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-91338542153190714792017-02-15T08:41:00.000-05:002017-02-15T14:10:32.686-05:00Ruth and Arnold<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
You never know what you're going to come across in a thrift store in Florida. That's because so many people move there every year to run out the clock, so to speak.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8RUP6pIBV5k/WKRNPHihmhI/AAAAAAAABBw/uq5CzjhnvgcHdxV_z7t8gTZg8NlrnQQpgCLcB/s1600/10%2BRuth-Arnold%2BSeptember%2B1954-crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8RUP6pIBV5k/WKRNPHihmhI/AAAAAAAABBw/uq5CzjhnvgcHdxV_z7t8gTZg8NlrnQQpgCLcB/s320/10%2BRuth-Arnold%2BSeptember%2B1954-crop.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth and Arnold, September 1954</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They've made it to retirement. They load their furniture and their favorite possessions into a van in Stamford or Albany or Montclair or Scranton. Things like their favorite vinyl Dave Brubeck and Jackie Gleason albums they've been carrying around since they graduated from Villanova in 1961. The silverware from B. Altman in White Plains that they received as a wedding gift. The camera equipment and slide projector they've had since that first big raise. The slightly vulgar but somehow irresistable porcelain hillbilly frog they found in a roadside tourist trap during a memorable vacation in the Great Smoky Mountains one summer.<br />
<br />
Everything into the van, and we'll see you in Vero Beach or Fort Myers or Sarasota or Stuart.<br />
<br />
The golden years pass, and then, of course, the inevitable happens, and the adult kids come down to sort through their parents' belongings. Some of the obviously valuable stuff they keep, along with a few things for sentiment's sake. But the rest--who wants 40-year-old technology, or chipped tchotchke, or VHS videos? But we can't just throw it away, it belonged to mom and dad. What the hell do we do with it?<br />
<br />
And that's where Florida's thrift stores come into the picture--stores that support worthy causes such as the Salvation Army, Goodwill, local PTAs and churches. Every day, carloads of stuff are unloaded at hundreds of thrift stores in the Sunshine State. Some of it comes through the front door during regular business hours and is welcomed. A lot of it just shows up in the dead of night, left in the alley by "donors" who don't want to be told that their stuff isn't wanted.<br />
<br />
That's how I came across a small slice of the lives of Ruth and Arnold.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kyCZKWWq8QE/WKQ37LsvKKI/AAAAAAAABAY/-1mFz2sELqQ6DNmMpYAdOLlgItyrsdBhQCLcB/s1600/08%2BRuth-Arnold%252C%2BOctober%2B1954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kyCZKWWq8QE/WKQ37LsvKKI/AAAAAAAABAY/-1mFz2sELqQ6DNmMpYAdOLlgItyrsdBhQCLcB/s200/08%2BRuth-Arnold%252C%2BOctober%2B1954.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth and Arnold, October 1954</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I loved poking around thrift stores when we lived in Florida in the '90s. Never knew what I'd find. There always was the possibility, however remote, that I might uncover a dusty, ridiculously undervalued treasure. But what really drew me to the thrift stores was that browsing through them was like visiting an uncurated museum. And then there often was cheap stuff I could use.<br />
<br />
I was taking a lot of photos in those days, using a Nikon 35 mm camera and shooting mostly slide film in the days before digital cameras were commonplace. I was always looking for storage containers for my slides. One day--I think it was at a store in Stuart--I found a metal slide storage case for a couple bucks. I took it home and discovered that there were 10 slides in the case. They were unusual, framed in metal. They showed a 40-ish couple, identified by small labels on the slides as Ruth and Arnold.<br />
<br />
The labels also said the slides had been shot during the late summer and early fall of 1954. The locations of the photos weren't given, but they had a definite urban northeastern town-and-country vibe.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qO7mjrbzBCw/WKRNzs9ZLGI/AAAAAAAABB0/Y_nk4I698fgyBlEWAokAerVjEp1EnHJNgCLcB/s1600/06%2BRuth-Arnold%2Bon%2Bpier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qO7mjrbzBCw/WKRNzs9ZLGI/AAAAAAAABB0/Y_nk4I698fgyBlEWAokAerVjEp1EnHJNgCLcB/s200/06%2BRuth-Arnold%2Bon%2Bpier.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth and Arnold at the shore, 1954</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Arnold was an attractive man with a Tony Soprano-like physique. He was a snappy dresser who seemed to me to project an attitude of competence and no-nonsense.<br />
<br />
Arnold clearly was very successful at whatever he did for a living. Maybe he was a lawyer. Or a broker. Or maybe he was a "Mad Man" who worked for an advertising agency on Madison Avenue. However he earned his daily bread, in October 1954 he was photographed proudly propped on his elbow, leaning on a sleek, low-slung 1954 Ford Thunderbird. The license tag on the car was issued in Essex County, New Jersey, which I assume is where Ruth and Arnold lived.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JwIAudtn7vk/WKRAdhZ_fJI/AAAAAAAABBE/WR1J3tWGDrYhFx43OaIVhwNmuSpRTvBgACLcB/s1600/02%2BArnold%2Bwith%2BThunderbird%252C%2BOctober%2B1954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="391" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JwIAudtn7vk/WKRAdhZ_fJI/AAAAAAAABBE/WR1J3tWGDrYhFx43OaIVhwNmuSpRTvBgACLcB/s400/02%2BArnold%2Bwith%2BThunderbird%252C%2BOctober%2B1954.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arnold leaning on a 1954 Ford Thunderbird</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vaXAtHMiGsU/WKRJ-vq5YII/AAAAAAAABBg/yi0g8x5Kg-0p7mPkXL1v5I1ZTBPX1t9NQCEw/s1600/05%2BRuth%2Bseated.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vaXAtHMiGsU/WKRJ-vq5YII/AAAAAAAABBg/yi0g8x5Kg-0p7mPkXL1v5I1ZTBPX1t9NQCEw/s200/05%2BRuth%2Bseated.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth during the shore outing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When Ruth wore heels, she was a couple inches taller than Arnold. The photos show a stylish woman with finishing-school poise. Arnold bought her a mink jacket that she wore on an outing to the seashore, presumably when the weather was starting to turn cooler. She and Arnold are photographed together on a boardwalk. During that same outing, they posed for separate photos in the courtyard of a large building, perhaps a hotel. Arnold looks sharp in a topcoat and fedora. Ruth is wearing the mink and the same shoes as she wears in the boardwalk photo.<br />
<br />
My favorite photo is the one at the top of this post. It shows Ruth and Arnold in what I assume is their living room. There's a vase of flowers on a sidetable. Ruth is seated, smiling at the photographer, who, judging from the angle of the shot, is crouching a few feet away. Arnold, natty in a bowtie and sports jacket, is looking down at his wife with a beaming smile on his face. He's standing erect, heels together, arms at his sides, like an ex-soldier standing at attention. He's clearly a happy man.<br />
<br />
I've still got those curious slides of Ruth and Arnold, stashed somewhere in storage with the piles of other junk that I hauled out of Florida thrift stores and lugged back to North Carolina--the Jackie Gleason vinyl albums I got for a quarter each in Vero Beach, the 1950s-vintage slide projecter (still works!) that I paid $10 for somewhere on US 1 near Melbourne, the bizzare mug with a flip-top lid that's a plastic head of St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame shortstop Ozzie Smith that I think I found in Fort Pierce for a buck or two.<br />
<br />
Someday they're going to be going through my stuff, and they're going to wonder why I have these ancient slides labeled "Ruth and Arnold." The answer is, I don't know, they just looked interesting.<br />
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<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-17127987574819979502017-02-05T15:45:00.000-05:002017-02-06T19:19:39.992-05:00So (At Last) We're Back . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zMKX9a4JP-w/WJZIczofvEI/AAAAAAAAA-s/b2oxsczgbOgNHn6gPmlNN1vTPDOGb4yEgCLcB/s1600/Come%2BIn%2BWe%2527re%2BOpen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zMKX9a4JP-w/WJZIczofvEI/AAAAAAAAA-s/b2oxsczgbOgNHn6gPmlNN1vTPDOGb4yEgCLcB/s320/Come%2BIn%2BWe%2527re%2BOpen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So after a layoff that was a lot longer than I intended, Drye Goods is back with a new look, coming to you from a new city. <br />
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We're now in Wilmington, recently chosen as North Carolina's favorite city in an online survey. The blog's slick new look was designed by our slick young nephew Mike Morrow, a recent UVa grad who's now working in Washington, D.C. We have fond memories of Mike as a nine-year-old kid doing standup comedy on the porch of a vacation rental at Sunset Beach some years ago. Now he's an ambitious, multi-talented young man with a bright future. He's out to make his mark on the world as an entrepreneur. We think he'll soon reach that goal.<br />
<br />
I don't know how scientific the survey was that designated Wilmington the state's favorite city, but it's always been high on my list of cities where I'd like to live. For starters, it's a seaport, and seaports seem to me to always be more interesting than most inland cities.<br />
<br />
As a seaport, Wilmington has had the world coming and going since 1739--walking its streets and hoisting mugs in its saloons, pursuing hopes and coping with disappointments, chasing the future and running from the past, raising families and burying the dead. During those 278 years, the cultures, cuisines, languages and habits of the world have been deposited here, and while all those influences may not be apparent to the naked eye, they're all part of the city's character, all part of its social archaeology, its ambience.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rZ6LqjT9qGg/WJZXVmPWjNI/AAAAAAAAA_I/N6QUe8EBcrA1rPRUNFS0X5cXOn02Eug8ACEw/s1600/Cape%2BFear%2Bwaterfront.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rZ6LqjT9qGg/WJZXVmPWjNI/AAAAAAAAA_I/N6QUe8EBcrA1rPRUNFS0X5cXOn02Eug8ACEw/s320/Cape%2BFear%2Bwaterfront.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilmington's downtown waterfront on the Cape Fear<br />
River. (Photo from <a href="http://seagateboating.com/carolina-breeze-downtown-wilmington/" target="_blank">Seagate Boating website</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There are some beautiful neighborhoods--so very Southern--with graceful, lovely old homes on streets lined with oaks dripping Spanish moss. Some of the houses, of course, were built with slave labor. Wilmington has had a few moments of infamy during its long history. And it's not without some modern problems. While the city has the allure of being a seaport and a gateway to the world, it also has a problem common to seaports--drug trafficking.<br />
<br />
So it's not a gated community where the bad is shut out. It has beauty and blemishes, charm and ugliness. <br />
<br />
We're in a good neighborhood with good neighbors, not far from downtown. And the downtown is lively--in fact I haven't lived in a town with a downtown like this since the old days in Chapel Hill back in the '80s. Front Street is lined with restaurants, art galleries, coffee shops, bookstores. There are restaurants that specialize in the old-style Southern cooking I grew up with, and others offering trendy haute cuisine. The grocery stores run the gamut from Food Lion to the more exotic (and expensive) Whole Foods and Trader Joe's. There are two colleges providing plenty of young, tattooed, pierced and dreadlocked hipsters for the street scene.<br />
<br />
There are museums, including the Cape Fear Museum, which features an exhibit about the early days of Wilmington's most famous native son, basketball superstar Michael Jordan. There's also a remnant of the movie industry that was thriving here until the newly conservative state legislature revoked their tax breaks and sent most of the producers and technicians scurrying off to Atlanta, which welcomed them with open arms. Our friends in Raleigh never really explained why they were eager to hand out tax breaks for just about everybody except the movie studios.<br />
<br />
I'm getting settled into my Marvin Spencer-designed office, converted from a garage. I'm sharing it with two cats. We get on each other's nerves sometimes and I think they still expect to be going back to Plymouth any day now. But for the most part we've learned to co-exist.<br />
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New city, new life, new (sort of) blog. I promise at least a few updates every month. So we're back in business. Stop by again soon.<br />
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<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-87922742117028492202015-03-16T23:31:00.000-04:002015-03-17T07:00:09.865-04:00The Long Journey Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N8NXf56g7Dk/VQeVFUwi_aI/AAAAAAAAA9c/AXkyEVXCjbU/s1600/3c32751v%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N8NXf56g7Dk/VQeVFUwi_aI/AAAAAAAAA9c/AXkyEVXCjbU/s1600/3c32751v%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" height="271" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">On February 24, 1865, a side wheel steamboat chuffed
up the James River and eased alongside a makeshift dock at Aiken’s Landing,
Virginia, a few miles, as the crow flies, from Richmond.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">When the steamboat was secured, a gangplank was
extended to the dock. Soon a long line of men – weary, ragged, emaciated – was
shuffling slowly down the gangplank. They were Confederate soldiers who’d
recently been released from a Union prisoner-of-war camp at Point Lookout,
Maryland. They would later board a Confederate steamboat flying a white flag that
would take them up the winding river and through Union lines to Richmond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s how close General Ulysses Grant’s troops were to
Richmond in February 1865 – a steamboat that left the Confederate capital was
behind enemy lines only a few miles downriver. Although Confederate General
Robert E. Lee had managed to keep Grant from taking Richmond, his days of
working military miracles had passed. Soon Grant would break Lee’s defenses at
nearby Petersburg, throwing the door to Richmond wide open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The war would be over in about six weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A few days earlier, a similar line of bedraggled,
tired and alarmingly skinny young men had tramped wearily up a gangplank at
Aiken’s Landing to board the steamer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New
York</i>. They were Union solders who’d just been released from Confederate
prisoner-of-war camps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Confederate leaders have long been justly criticized
for the appalling conditions where Union prisoners were held. But what seems
less known is that conditions for Confederate prisoners in Union POW camps were
little, if any, better. And the POW camp for Confederates at <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-grim-christmas-of-1863.html" target="_blank">Point Lookout</a> was
among the worst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">My great-grandfather, <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/06/marching-into-history.html" target="_blank">William Crooks Dry</a>, was one of
those ragged Confederate soldiers who got off the steamboat at Aiken’s Landing
on that February day 150 years ago. He’d been with the <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-long-ago-distant-land-that-looks-like_28.html" target="_blank">52<sup>nd</sup> North Carolina Infantry</a> when he was captured at the Battle of Bristoe Station in October 1863.
He’d spent 16 months at Point Lookout. The camp was intended for 10,000
prisoners, but the population quickly swelled to 20,000.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The Confederate prisoners had had to endure two
bitterly cold winters in tents, sleeping on the ground. Once in a while they
were given a few scraps of wood for a fire, but mostly they shivered from
November until March. There was never enough food, and the men often caught and
cooked rats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-day-of-deadly-surprises.html" target="_blank">William’s brother Thomas</a>, captured at Gettysburg and
imprisoned at Point Lookout at the same time, died there of smallpox in January
1864.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">William and the other former POWs were taken to Camp
Winder Hospital, a sprawling complex of wooden buildings at the western edge of
Richmond. The hospital was organized into divisions, and each division housed
soldiers from one of the states in the Confederacy. William went to the Third
Division, which cared for soldiers from North Carolina.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The conditions at Camp Winder Hospital were primitive
by modern standards, but at least the men slept on cots in buildings heated by
woodstoves. And they were fed. It was unappealing institutional food prepared
in large quantities from whatever foodstuffs could be scrounged by the dying
Confederate government. But it was better – anything was better – than rat soup
at Point Lookout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">William hadn’t been paid since June 30, 1863 – the day
before the first day’s fighting at the Battle of Gettysburg. On March 4, he
received 20 months’ back pay – around $220. That would have been quite a bit of
money in 1865, but the payment was in Confederate dollars, which were virtually
worthless at that point. In 1907, James Roden, a Confederate soldier who was
hospitalized at Camp Winder a few months before William, recalled that he’d
spent two months’ pay for a dozen eggs during his hospitalization.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Robert Krick, historian for the Richmond National
Battlefield Park, said that soldiers sent to Camp Winder after being released
from POW camps typically were very weak from malnourishment. The usual
procedure was to keep the men hospitalized until they’d rested and regained
enough strength to travel, then send them home on a 30- or 60-day furlough to
completely recover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s probably the treatment William received at
Winder, Krick said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Even though William was only 25 years old in
1865, his stamina would have been greatly reduced by 16 months at Point
Lookout. Simply getting out of bed and walking across a room could have been
exhausting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">There’s no record of how long William was hospitalized.
His service records end with his payday on March 4. So there’s no way of
knowing for certain how long he was in Richmond, or when he left, or when he
arrived at the family farm back home in Cabarrus County, North Carolina. Nor is
there any way of knowing how he traveled the 270 miles between
Richmond and Cabarrus County.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It would have been weeks before William regained
enough strength to travel. By March 24, he would have been recuperating at Camp
Winder for one month. It seems unlikely that he would have left before then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">If he left before the end of March, he probably
traveled on the Richmond & Danville Railroad (later the Southern Railway)
from Richmond to the Cabarrus County seat of Concord. As the train left
Greensboro and chugged through the rolling hills of the North Carolina
piedmont, he undoubtedly was relieved to see the familiar landscape of his
home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But he was a changed young man after three years of
war, and I wonder if that landscape didn’t bring back other memories. During a private
guided tour of the <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/07/picketts-charge-smoking-shoes-and-body.html" target="_blank">Gettysburg battlefield</a> a few years ago, I mentioned to tour guide Gary Kross
how much the topography of southern Pennsylvania reminded me of back home. Kross smiled
and said many North Carolinians who visit Gettysburg say exactly the same
thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">So as William approached Concord, the familiar
landscape may have reminded him less of home than of the horrors of the Battle
of Gettysburg, and of the death and gore of Pickett’s Charge. He was coming
home to a family decimated by the Civil War. <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2014/06/a-letter-from-petersburg.html" target="_blank">Two brothers</a>, <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2014/04/another-death-in-family-at-battle-of.html" target="_blank">two uncles</a> and a
cousin had died. He may have thought that fate could not possibly deal
another blow to his family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But if that thought did cross William’s mind, he was
wrong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 107%;"><em>The engraving at the top of this post, from</em> Harper's Weekly <em>of March 18, 1865, shows Union soldiers who'd been released from Confederate prisoner-of-war camps boarding the steamboat</em> New York <em>at Aiken's Landing on the James River a few miles downriver from Richmond, Virginia. Three days later, Confederate solders released from the Union POW camp at Point Lookout, Maryland would be unloaded from a steamboat at the same spot.</em></span></div>
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<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-9960224571882304502015-02-09T15:41:00.000-05:002015-02-09T15:41:46.780-05:00Thoughts About My Father And The Passing Of Dean Smith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gfoYK5_bIXs/VNkZTG5reeI/AAAAAAAAA8U/s8Zne93LOcA/s1600/timthumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gfoYK5_bIXs/VNkZTG5reeI/AAAAAAAAA8U/s8Zne93LOcA/s1600/timthumb.jpg" height="182" width="400" /></a></div>
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My relationship with my father had its ups and downs over the years. I’ve never talked much about it except with close friends, and the reason I’m bringing it up now is the passing of Dean Smith.<br />
<br />My father and I greatly admired Smith and were passionate fans of his Carolina basketball teams. And there were times when the only reason we’d consent to be in the same room was because Carolina was playing on TV and there was only one TV in the house.<br />
<br />So we’d sit in si<span class="text_exposed_show">lence and watch. And sooner or later Smith or the Heels would do something that would evoke a comment, and that would break – or at least crack – the ice, and maybe a few words of conversation would follow.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"></span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">Over the years, I realized that anyone who could thaw a feud like that and bring two squabbling parties into the same room was pretty unusual. And I realized that, whatever our other differences, the fact that my father and I both admired and respected Smith meant that we shared some important character traits.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"></span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"></span><span class="text_exposed_show">I always intended to write a note to Smith to tell him how he’d been a good influence on my relationship with my father because Smith seemed like the kind of guy who would appreciate that. But, of course, I never got around to it. And now, of course, I really regret not sending that note.</span>Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-24720252570840509422014-11-25T21:46:00.000-05:002014-11-26T08:56:38.702-05:00Very Busy, Please Stand By . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AiadfH57MJ4/VHU7xBR_qiI/AAAAAAAAA74/3ZY3vCM38yM/s1600/cg4fef4f7f0e136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AiadfH57MJ4/VHU7xBR_qiI/AAAAAAAAA74/3ZY3vCM38yM/s1600/cg4fef4f7f0e136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AiadfH57MJ4/VHU7xBR_qiI/AAAAAAAAA74/3ZY3vCM38yM/s1600/cg4fef4f7f0e136.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I'm working to finish up a book that will be published next year by Rowman & Littlefield, and I haven't had a lot of time to devote to Drye Goods. But keep an eye on this space. I'll be posting a new Civil War essay in January 2015, and perhaps a few other new posts when I get caught up. So please check back from time to time. And scroll down the page to check out some of the 200 or so Drye Goods posts from the last seven years. By the way, the accompanying comic is by Berke Breathed, who drew the classic comic strip "Bloom County," one of my all-time favorites. Happy Thanksgiving.</span><br />
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Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-52903920431292301602014-06-20T12:35:00.000-04:002014-06-20T12:36:36.900-04:00A Letter from Petersburg<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3-cE4hui20Y/U6RO1H64fjI/AAAAAAAAA7o/tuovZgTHVGE/s1600/petersburg-battle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3-cE4hui20Y/U6RO1H64fjI/AAAAAAAAA7o/tuovZgTHVGE/s1600/petersburg-battle.jpg" height="268" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Engraving of the Battle of Petersburg is from the website Son of the South.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The closest post office to my great-great
grandfather Allison Dry’s farm would’ve been in Mount Pleasant, North Carolina,
about five miles away. That’s where the letter telling him that his son,
Daniel, had been killed at Petersburg, Virginia on June 17, 1864 would’ve been
sent.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It's been said that the post office was the
only department in the Confederate States government that was operated efficiently, but
it still would’ve been days or perhaps a week or more before word of Daniel’s death reached his family in
rural Cabarrus County.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It was customary during the Civil War for commanding
officers of soldiers killed in action to write letters to their families
explaining how their kin had died. But officers – especially those commanding troops in
combat – didn’t have a lot of spare time, and so days probably passed before
Captain Jonas Cook, commander of Company H of the 8<sup>th</sup> North Carolina Infantry, could take a moment to write
letters to the families of fallen soldiers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s possible, perhaps likely, that one of Daniel’s
friends in Company H scrawled a
hasty note to his family telling them that he’d been killed, and that this letter reached Daniel's family before that of the company commander.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Whenever the letter was written, it would’ve taken
several more days to move from Petersburg to Mount Pleasant. Rural free
delivery of mail was decades away, and so Allison would’ve had to make a
trip into Mount Pleasant to collect his mail. So the letter with the awful news
may have waited for several more days in the Mount Pleasant post office until
Allison had time to go check his mail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I wonder how Allison and his family dealt with this
latest dose of bad news. Daniel was the second of his sons to die in the war. His son Thomas had
died of smallpox about five months earlier in the Union prisoner-of-war camp at
Point Lookout, Maryland. And he’d also lost two brothers. His brother Henry had
died of typhoid in Charleston, South Carolina in 1863, and his brother Moses
had been killed at the Battle of Plymouth only two months earlier.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">His son William, my great-grandfather, had been
imprisoned at Point Lookout since being captured at the Battle of Bristoe
Station in Virginia in October 1863. About 50,000 Confederates were held
there, barely surviving on a starvation diet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">By the summer of 1864, only a miracle could
save the Confederate cause, but Southerners were more than willing to hold out for that miracle. And it could have come in the form of the U.S.
presidential election in November. President Abraham Lincoln had doubts about whether he'd win reelection. He knew that if he lost, a new president of the war-weary Union might be willing to settle for a negotiated peace that
would either have allowed the Confederate States to remain a separate nation or
allowed the seceded states back into the Union with slavery preserved. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">For months, Confederate General Robert E. Lee had been trying to keep his Army of
Northern Virginia between the Confederate capital of Richmond, Virginia and
Union General Ulysses S. Grant’s Army of the Potomac. He was stalling for time,
hoping he could keep up some sort of resistance until the fall election. It was
a long shot, but it was the only chance he had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The regimental history of the 8<sup>th</sup> North
Carolina Infantry doesn’t have a lot to say about the events of June 17, 1864. The
unit was ordered to Petersburg on June 14. They arrived on the afternoon
of June 16 and immediately dug into defensive positions near Petersburg where,
only a few months earlier, they’d engaged in a raucous snowball fight with
comrades in the 51<sup>st</sup> North Carolina Infantry.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There was no
time to be lost,” H.T.J Ludwig wrote in the unit’s regimental history in 1900. “The
enemy was advancing. The line of battle was formed in the (earth) works around that
city and the approach of the enemy awaited.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“On the morning of the 17<sup>th</sup> the firing
began early,” Ludwig wrote. “All forenoon there was heavy skirmishing. About 5
p.m. it was evident that a heavy assault on our line was contemplated. The
enemy was massing his troops in our front. Just before dark the assault was
made. The enemy succeeded in breaking the line occupied by the brigade on our
immediate right and rushed his forces into the breach thus made. The Eighth
Regiment was ordered to assist in driving the enemy out and regaining the line.
The work was done and the line re-established. After several hours fighting the
enemy retired, leaving our line unbroken.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">At some point during this “several hours of fighting”
that ended in the fading light of June 17, 1864, Daniel was killed. He was 20
years old. He's buried in a mass grave at the Petersburg battlefield.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Had Union troops broken the Confederate line that day, Richmond would have been vulnerable and the Civil War might very well have been over in a matter of days or weeks. But the stubborn Confederate resistance meant that Grant would have to lay siege to Petersburg, and the war would drag on for another 10 grueling months.</span><br />
<br />
<em>Sources for this post included</em> Histories of the Several Regiments and Battalions from North Carolina in the Great War 1861-65<em>, and an interview with Robert Krick, historian at the Richmond National Battlefield Park.</em></div>
<br />
<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-14675939540042075472014-04-20T09:57:00.001-04:002014-04-20T17:30:40.798-04:00Another Death in the Family at the Battle of Plymouth<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vmJpzDfhG1Y/U1PQL0pYhrI/AAAAAAAAA68/gUXeaVVok6k/s1600/Plymouthmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vmJpzDfhG1Y/U1PQL0pYhrI/AAAAAAAAA68/gUXeaVVok6k/s1600/Plymouthmap.jpg" height="322" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This map from <em>Histories of the Several Regiments and Battalions from North Carolina in the Great War 1861-65</em> shows Plymouth in April 1864. Our house, built around 1870, is indicated by the orange and red triangle near the center of the map.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Years after the Civil War ended in 1865, author
George Nowitzky visited Plymouth – where my wife and I live – as part of the
research he was doing for a book. What he saw astonished him.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“There is no town or city in the United States that
shows more scars of war than Plymouth, N.C.,” he wrote in 1888. “Every few
steps within the business portion brought me to excavations and low stone walls
which but too plainly show that they were formerly cellars and foundations to
buildings that have passed into smoke, ashes and history.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Plymouth’s location in northeastern North Carolina on
the Roanoke River near the Albemarle Sound offered an important strategic
advantage to whoever held it. So Union and Confederate armies battled to
control the town throughout the war. And any town that must repeatedly endure
being the object of contention between two hostile armies is going to be left
in shambles.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Union troops occupied Plymouth in early 1862.
Control of the town went back and forth until late 1864. It’s been said that at
the end of the war, there were only 11 buildings in the town that had not been
destroyed or heavily damaged. All that remained, Nowitzky wrote, were “nothing
but ghostly looking brick chimneys and stone foundations which could not burn.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Reminders and scars of the war are still visible. Former
Union soldiers returned to Plymouth after the war to repair Grace Episcopal
Church over at the corner of Madison and Water streets a few blocks from our
house. But I’m told that there are a few holes made by cannonballs in some of
the lumber in the interior of its steeple.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Less than a block down Washington Street from our
home is a house with plainly visible bullet holes around one window, reminders
of fierce street fighting that happened here on December 10, 1862 when
Confederate raiders attacked Union troops and set fire to houses on Columbia Street,
now Main Street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Confederate forces regained control of the town
during the Battle of Plymouth, fought April 17-20, 1864. On April 18, the
Confederate ironclad CSS <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Albemarle</i> chased
Union gunboats down the Roanoke River and then shelled Union troops in the
town.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Our house sits on ground that was occupied in April 1864
by Fort Williams, a Union fort. It’s possible that the shot that killed Moses
Dry 150 years ago today was fired from this fort. Moses was the brother of my
great-great grandfather, Allison Dry and the uncle of my great-grandfather, <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/07/picketts-charge-smoking-shoes-and-body.html"><span style="color: #0563c1;">William
C. Dry, and his brothers, Thomas Dry</span></a> and Daniel Dry.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Moses was 45 years old when he enlisted in the
Confederate Army in May 1863. His comrades-in-arms in the 8<sup>th</sup> North
Carolina Infantry bore surnames that are common today in telephone books back home
in Stanly, Cabarrus and Rowan counties – Barringer, Blackwelder, Culp,
Earnhart, Eudy, Fisher, Goodman, Honeycutt, Isenhour, Lowder, Misenheimer,
Ridenhour, Ritchie, and Safrit, among others.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Moses may have met his end when his unit made a
spirited but foolish and futile charge on the morning of April 20 to try to
oust the defenders from Fort Williams, by then the last Union stronghold in
Plymouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“The men charged up to the edge of the surrounding
ditch, only to find that it could not be crossed,” wrote John W. Graham, a
former Confederate officer who fought in the battle and contributed to a
history of North Carolina troops that was published in 1901. “There was but one
of two courses to take, to-wit: either to fall back or to surrender. The
regiment chose the former. When the retreat began, the enemy poured a fearful
volley into the ranks, killing and wounding many of the men. This charge was
reckless and unnecessary. It was made under the flush of victory, and not by
order of the commanding general.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Fort Williams surrendered after being pounded by
Confederate artillery. The Battle of Plymouth was over, and the town was back
in Confederate hands – for a few months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Union military strategists were determined to retake
the town, but with the <em>Albemarle</em> anchored on the Plymouth waterfront, that was
impossible. In October 1864, a young Union Navy officer named William Cushing led
a daring nighttime raid in a small wooden steamboat and sank the
<em>Albemarle</em>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">With the ironclad sitting on the bottom of the
Roanoke, Union forces attacked and drove Confederates out of town. Part of the
town caught fire when a Confederate ammunition storehouse exploded during the
battle.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Back on the family farm in Cabarrus County, about
240 miles inland from Plymouth, the news of Moses Dry’s death was another
crushing blow to his brother, Allison Dry.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Allison’s brother Henry, who enlisted in the
Confederate Army in May 1863 at the age of 40, died of typhoid only three
months later in Charleston, South Carolina. His oldest son William was taken
prisoner at the Battle of Bristoe Station in October 1863 and <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-grim-christmas-of-1863.html"><span style="color: #0563c1;">confined
in a hellhole of a Union prisoner-of-war camp at Point Lookout, Maryland</span></a>.
And his son Thomas, who was captured during the first day’s fighting at the
Battle of Gettysburg in July 1863, had been imprisoned at the same POW camp as
William, where he died of smallpox in January 1864.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Allison would receive more terrible news in June
1864.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Sources
for this essay included </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Ironclads and Columbiads: The Civil
War in North Carolina<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, by William R.
Trotter; </i>Histories of the Several Regiments and Battalions from North
Carolina in the Great War 1861-65<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, edited
by Walter Clark; and </i>Norfolk: The Marine Metropolis of Virginia and the
Sound and River Cities of North Carolina<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,
by George Nowitzky.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-7681041842532994552014-03-19T14:04:00.000-04:002018-06-13T15:43:21.740-04:00Everything I Know About Wealth I Learned From Uncle Scrooge<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ipC66jKMPI0/UynXpoUUUSI/AAAAAAAAA6s/VlzhsEwSFsc/s1600/UncleScrooge%23019_p01_fc_SeptNov.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ipC66jKMPI0/UynXpoUUUSI/AAAAAAAAA6s/VlzhsEwSFsc/s1600/UncleScrooge%23019_p01_fc_SeptNov.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cover of "Uncle Scrooge" #19, drawn by<br />
Carl Barks and published in September 1957.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A </span><span style="color: #cccccc;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: cyan;"></span>billionaire's recent fretting about being an oversized target for radical
progressives out to separate him from his immense wealth reminded me of a comic
book character I loved when I was growing up in the late 1950s and early 1960s.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The Walt Disney comic “Uncle Scrooge” featured the
adventures of Scrooge McDuck, the world’s richest duck. The character was
created by Carl Barks, an artist who developed his remarkable talent – and
maybe his elaborate fantasies about great wealth – in his spare time while
working a series of menial, low-paying jobs. And while he presumably made a
living during the time he worked for Disney, he never approached the kind of
wealth that he imagined for Uncle Scrooge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">When I was eight years old, I couldn’t wait to get the latest “Uncle Scrooge” comic.
And I was far from alone. Although Disney had a stable of artists drawing Uncle
Scrooge and other “duck” comics, Barks’s work made him a cult figure among
young Baby Boomers who were just starting to read. His fascinating,
well-researched stories and drawings full of detail and texture were
immediately distinguishable from other Disney artists’ depictions of the same
characters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Barks’s humble jobs and his struggles to make an
honest dollar undoubtedly influenced his characterization of Scrooge McDuck and
shaped the wonderful stories he told of Scrooge’s adventures. But the work of
all artists went out under Walt Disney’s stylized signature. So he was
anonymous to his young Boomer fans, who referred to him simply as “the good
artist.” They didn’t know who he was until late in his life after he’d retired
and the Boomers, now grown, started spending big bucks to reacquire the comics
their mothers had thrown out when they were kids.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Barks created a fascinating character who was
obsessed with his wealth and had a personal attachment to every dollar he’d
ever earned. Scrooge had lucrative business interests around the world and
lived in a giant cube-shaped piggybank known as the Money Bin. It contained
three cubic acres of cash, including the first dime he ever earned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">In one episode, Scrooge said it took him 13 years to
count all the money in the Money Bin, which sat atop a hill overlooking the
city of Duckburg, in the state of Calisota. In another episode, his wealth was
expressed as a five, followed by 77 zeroes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Scrooge wasn't interested in using his mountain of cash for pleasure or power. His motivation for accumulating such vast wealth was simply to prove he was a better man--or duck--than his competitors. He had little use for those who became wealthy off of other people’s money and ideas. In one episode, he is asked if he
made his money in banking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“Banking?” he answers with a snort. “I made it on
the seas, and in the mines, and in the cattle wars of the old frontiers. I made
it by being tougher than the toughies and smarter than the smarties. And I made
it square.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Unlike some of today’s uber-wealthy – including the
fretful billionaire mentioned earlier – McDuck avoided conspicuous displays of
his wealth. He did not own a car, and he refused to buy new clothes or even replace
his eyeglasses. And he wouldn’t buy newspapers, preferring to roam public parks
looking for copies of yesterday’s papers left behind by less-thrifty Duckburg
residents.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DokDNd2y8PE/VZqyyYtF6EI/AAAAAAAAA98/HihUeFvYmCY/s1600/Scrooge%2B02.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DokDNd2y8PE/VZqyyYtF6EI/AAAAAAAAA98/HihUeFvYmCY/s320/Scrooge%2B02.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="justify">
The splash-panel for one of the first Uncle Scrooge adventures</div>
<div align="justify">
drawn by Carl Barks shows Scrooge McDuck pursuing his</div>
<div align="justify">
favorite pastime. The story was published by Walt Disney</div>
<div align="justify">
in 1952.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The sole pleasure that Scrooge took from his money
was an odd and rather sensual one. For him, life’s greatest delight was diving
into his piles of cash like a porpoise, and burrowing into it like a gopher,
and tossing up coins and letting them hit him on the head.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Scrooge’s only relatives were his nephew, Donald
Duck, who lived in a modest house in Duckburg with his three nephews, Huey,
Dewey and Louie. Donald and his nephews joined Scrooge for his adventures, and
nearly all of the stories consisted of his efforts to either acquire more
wealth or prevent it from being stolen. Often, the villains who tried to separate Scrooge from his wealth were the Beagle Boys, a gang of crooks who constantly tried to rob him when they weren't in prison for their most recent failed scheme to burgle the Money Bin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Although Huey, Dewey and Louie were kids, they were
wise beyond their years and inevitably provided the knowledge and wisdom needed to
safeguard Scrooge’s fortune or crack an ancient code or solve an ancient
mystery that added more treasure to their great-uncle’s holdings. And they
usually obtained that valuable information from an infinite storehouse of the
world’s knowledge and history – the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Junior
Woodchucks’ Guide Book</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But even though Donald and his nephews repeatedly
rescued Scrooge from impossible difficulties, saved his vast fortune from being
plundered by the Beagle Boys, and helped add immeasurable riches to his Money
Bin, he always squawked loudly at having to cough up the pay – 30 cents an hour
– he’d promised them for their help.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I read and re-read my “Uncle Scrooge” comics, and so
I guess that’s where I formed my earliest impressions of how rich people behave.
To me, Scrooge represented American capitalism, and he gave me the impression that somewhere in their souls, rich people were decent folks who would do the right thing for the common good when the time came.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m older now, and while I’ve somehow managed to avoid becoming wealthy, I do
have a little more sophisticated understanding of how immense wealth sometimes
affects human behavior.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Wealth obviously was affecting that billionaire</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> I mentioned earlier. And his comments
seem to have prompted other wealthy men to <a href="https://talkingpointsmemo.com/livewire/ken-langone-populist-politics-nazi-germany" target="_blank">voice their own fears and frustrations</a></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> about how the world
perceives them.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Scrooge also was terrified of losing his money. But this
comic book character differed from some of his real-life counterparts in one
way – he always showed a social consciousness when confronted with a moral dilema. There were times during his
adventures when he reluctantly realized that the only right thing to do was
spend a sizeable amount of money to help someone who needed and deserved help.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Wealthy philanthropists aren’t fantasy characters confined to
the pages of comic books, however. Henry Flagler was the son of a poor Presbyterian
minister. He became John D. Rockefeller’s business partner at Standard Oil and used
his great wealth to essentially invent modern Florida around the turn of the 19<sup>th</sup>
century.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Flagler’s upbringing influenced his world view. “If
money is spent for personal uses, to promote idleness, luxury and selfishness,
it is a curse to the possessor and to society,” he said in 1907. “Wealth brings
obligation, moral and governmental. It has but one legitimate function, and that
is its employment for the welfare of the nation.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Flagler obviously enjoyed his wealth, and unlike
Scrooge, he didn’t try to conceal it.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> <a href="https://www.flaglermuseum.us/history/whitehall" target="_blank">Whitehall</a>, his home in Palm Beach, is a 100,000-square-foot, 75-room palace that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Herald</i> described in 1902 as
“grander and more magnificent than any other private dwelling in the world.”
It’s also a far cry from the frugal-and-fictional Scrooge McDuck’s plain and
utilitarian Money Bin.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Flagler realized that there is such a thing as
noblesse oblige. And Scrooge realized that there are times when the only right
thing to do was help someone in need, regardless of how painful it was to him.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve got nothing against money, and I do wish I had
more of it. I don’t begrudge the wealthy their prosperity. But I do wish
more of the most-fortunate had more in common with Henry Flagler, the real-life
plutocrat, and Scrooge McDuck, the comic book character.<o:p></o:p></span>Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-45980891158409000912013-12-25T05:15:00.001-05:002013-12-25T13:38:33.080-05:00The Grim Christmas of 1863<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S8CSoisbeKM/Urqpi8iXk0I/AAAAAAAAA6c/wsPQ0flLZ5o/s1600/Nast+Dec.+26+1863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S8CSoisbeKM/Urqpi8iXk0I/AAAAAAAAA6c/wsPQ0flLZ5o/s400/Nast+Dec.+26+1863.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left">
This cartoon by Thomas Nast, published in <em>Harper's Weekly</em> on December 26, 1863, was perhaps the earliest depiction of now-classic Christmas images.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
warm, cozy images we associate with Christmas likely began in December 1863,
when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Harper’s Weekly</i> published three
elaborate drawings by cartoonist Thomas Nast. The two-page spread, a sort of
Christmas triptych, included now-familiar, sentimental images – a bearded Santa
Claus with a huge sack of gifts, a soldier on leave being welcomed home with a
small Christmas tree in the background, and children playing with toys on
Christmas morning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
Christmas 1863 was quite different for many Americans than Nast’s feel-good
images portrayed. Family members were missing from firesides and Christmas
celebrations across the divided nation as the start of a third year of bloody
civil war approached. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My
great-great-grandfather Allison <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/07/why-i-spell-my-name-d-r-y-e.html" target="_blank">Dry</a> and his family faced such a cheerless
Christmas on their farm in Cabarrus County, North Carolina 150 years ago. Two
of Allison’s sons – Thomas and my great-grandfather, <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/06/a-long-ago-distant-land-that-looks-like_28.html" target="_blank">William</a> – would endure the
brutally cold winter of 1863-64 in a Union prisoner-of-war camp in Maryland,
living in tents with only a blanket and an occasional few sticks of firewood to
keep them warm.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Allison did
not own slaves. But his family had nevertheless become deeply invested in this
war that had erupted because of slavery. Besides Thomas and William, Allison
had another son as well as brothers, cousins, and nephews serving in the
Confederate Army. And as Christmas 1863 approached, the awful reality of the
American Civil War had come home to his doorstep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Thomas,
a member of the 5<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> North Carolina Infantry, had been taken prisoner
on July 1, 1863 during the <a href="http://wdryegoods.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-day-of-deadly-surprises.html" target="_blank">first day of the Battle of Gettysburg</a>. A month
later, Allison learned that his brother, Henry Dry, who was serving in the
Confederate Army in Charleston, South Carolina, had died of typhoid. Then came
the news that William, serving in the 52<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">nd</span></sup> North Carolina Infantry,
had been captured on October 14 at the Battle of Bristoe Station in Virginia.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Allison’s
son Daniel was serving with the 8<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> North Carolina Infantry. In
December 1863, Daniel’s unit was sent north from the relative safety of Raleigh
to the frontline battlefields near the Confederate capital of Richmond,
Virginia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">From
Gettysburg, Thomas was sent to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Delaware" target="_blank">Fort Delaware</a>, a massive pile of bricks on an
island in the Delaware River about 45 miles downriver from Philadelphia. The
fort, completed in 1859, was intended to protect Philadelphia from enemy
warships. But in 1863 it was being used as a prison for captured Confederate
soldiers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
conditions Thomas encountered at Fort Delaware were far from comfortable, but
they could be endured. “Things here are not quite as bad as I expected to find
them,” Henry Berkeley, a captured Confederate soldier from Virginia, wrote in a
letter home in the late summer of 1863. “They are, however, bad, hopeless and
gloomy enough without any exaggeration.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">For the
first couple years of the war, the Union and Confederate governments operated
POW camps as temporary holding pens. Prisoners were detained until they could
be “exchanged” for prisoners from the other side.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But that
relatively civilized system fell apart because Union leaders became reluctant
to recognize the Confederacy as a legitimate government, and because Confederate
military officials refused to exchange captured black Union soldiers. So POW
camps in the North and South became steadily more crowded. And the crowded
conditions steadily increased the death toll among prisoners in both Union and
Confederate camps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On July
20, 1863, Union military officials decided to establish a POW camp at the tip
of a peninsula in Maryland where the Potomac River joins the Chesapeake Bay. It
was called <a href="http://www.visitstmarysmd.com/activities-attractions/special-themes-interests/civil-war/" target="_blank">Point Lookout</a>. The federal government had already built a large
military hospital to treat Union soldiers near the tip of the peninsula, and
the POW camp was built just to the north of the hospital.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
exposed location of the camp made it very hot in the summer and extremely cold
in the winter. General Gilman Marston, a political appointee who had
represented New Hampshire in the U.S. House of Representatives before the war,
was put in charge of the camp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Like all
POW camps on both sides in the Civil War, it would become a hellhole.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On
August 15, Marston notified his superiors in Washington, D.C. that he was ready
to receive 1,000 prisoners. Union officers responded by sending 1,300
Confederates to Point Lookout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When the
first prisoners arrived, it turned out that the Point Lookout commander had
exaggerated the readiness of the camp. The 15-foot-high wooden fence to contain
the prisoners had not been completed. So Union soldiers with bayonets fixed to
their rifles guarded the Confederates. A few tried to escape. They were shot
and killed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">By late
September, nearly 4,000 Confederate soldiers were imprisoned at Point Lookout. On
October 7, with fall’s chill in the air, Marston sent a recommendation to
Washington suggesting that a wooden barracks be built to house the prisoners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But the
request was denied. Instead, with winter approaching, Secretary of War Edwin M.
Stanton ordered 10,000 tents sent to Point Lookout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A week
later, William Dry was captured at Bristoe Station and sent to Washington, D.C.,
where he was held in a building that had served as a temporary capitol after
British troops burned the city in 1814.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While
William was being held in Washington, his brother Thomas was transferred from
Fort Delaware to Point Lookout on October 18. By now, the population of the 40-acre
camp had more than doubled to almost 9,000. And the new prisoners brought a
problem that would be exacerbated by overcrowding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">During
the fall of 1863, smallpox killed 860 Confederate soldiers at Fort Delaware. Marston
complained that every group of prisoners sent to Point Lookout from Fort
Delaware included men suffering from the highly contagious and potentially
deadly disease. It is an illness that thrives in crowded conditions. By late
October 1863, Point Lookout was becoming more crowded by the day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On
October 27, 1863, William and other prisoners in the old capitol building in
Washington were herded aboard a train. Their destination was Point Lookout,
where they would become part of the shivering, ragged horde being held behind
the high walls near the tip of the chilly peninsula.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There’s
no record of whether William knew that his younger brother was already at Point
Lookout. But it’s hard to imagine that they didn’t eventually find each other.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In
November, Dr. W.F. Swalm, a medical officer with the 14<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> Brooklyn
Regiment, was sent to inspect the prisoners at Point Lookout. Swalm was an odd
choice to make the inspection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">During
the First Battle of Bull Run in July 1861, Swalm and another Union medical
officer had been captured by the Confederates and sent to Richmond as prisoners
of war. But rather than being confined, they were allowed to move freely about the
city. They became minor celebrities in the Confederate capital, where they were
entertained in the homes of the city’s gentry. They responded to their captors’
hospitality by loudly denouncing President Abraham Lincoln and the Union cause
and vowed that when they were exchanged, they would settle their affairs up
North and move back to “Dixie’s Land” as permanent residents.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Perhaps
their comments were sincere. Or maybe they realized that their harsh criticism
of Lincoln and the Union war effort earned them extraordinary privileges in the
capital city of their enemy. Whatever their motivations, their comments became
public record when they were published in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Richmond Dispatch</i>, and later in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i>.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Eventually
Swalm and the other doctor were exchanged, and in May 1862, while testifying before
the House Committee on the Conduct of the War, the doctors accused Confederate
soldiers of “inhuman acts” and “terrible monstrosities.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When Swalm
inspected the prisoners at Point Lookout in November 1863, he reported that the
hospital for sick prisoners consisted of 18 unheated tents, and noted that the
weather was turning very cold. The winter of 1863-64 would be one of the
coldest on record.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Swalm
also noted that the sick men were in a “filthy” condition, and that the entire POW
camp was similarly dirty. The prisoners were ragged and did not have warm
clothing. Three men had to share one blanket in the tents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The cold
was brutal on the thinly clad prisoners. “In winter when a high tide would
flood the whole surface of the ground, freezing as it flooded, the suffering of
the half-clad wretches, accustomed to a southern climate, may be imagined,”
Anthony M. Keiley a former prisoner at Point Lookout, wrote in a memoir after
the war. “. . . So severe was the cold that even the well-clad sentinels had to
be relieved every thirty minutes, instead of every two hours, as is the army
rule.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
conditions at the camp appalled Frederick Knapp of the U.S. Sanitary
Commission. He suggested that the Commission send food and clothing to the
Confederate prisoners. “I know that they are our enemies, and bitter ones, and
what we give them they will use against us, but now they are within our power
and are suffering,” he said in a report to the Commission.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But General
Marston, the commander of the Point Lookout POW camp, had little sympathy for
his Confederate prisoners. And Swalm’s earlier, well-publicized comments in
Richmond gave Marston a convenient excuse to dispute the accuracy of Swalm’s
report on conditions in his camp. After all, how could anyone trust the word of a man who had denounced his country and commander-in-chief in the heart of enemy territory?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In a
December 4 letter, Marston denied that the conditions described by Swalm
existed and said the prisoners’ woes were largely their own fault. “That they are
a dirty, lousy set is true enough, but having afforded them every facility for
cleanliness the duty of the Government in this regard<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>... is accomplished,” he wrote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Union
officers prevented Swalm’s report from being released. Still, either a copy of
the report or a description of its contents found its way to Dr. Montrose
Pallen, a Mississippi physician who was involved in Confederate intrigues in
Montreal, Quebec.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Pallen
sent a letter to Union Major General E.A. Hitchcock describing the conditions.
“Many of the prisoners are without the necessary clothing even to hide their
nakedness, and during the late cold weather several absolutely froze to death
at Point Lookout, where they are living in tents, and more than half of the
9,000 and more confined there have not even a single blanket for covering or
bedding and sleep on the bare ground,” he wrote.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
Union officers seemed determined to keep the prisoners at Point Lookout in
enforced misery.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
prisoners weren’t allowed to receive a new article of clothing without giving
up a similar article of clothing, Kieley wrote in his memoir. “(S)o literally
was this rule enforced that prisoners who came in barefooted were compelled to
beg or buy a wornout pair of shoes for exchange before they were allowed to receive
a pair sent to them by a friend.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And when the Union Army added black soldiers to its ranks, the African-American troops replaced white guards at Point Lookout. The black guards, many of them former slaves, often took great delight in tormenting their former masters.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And the
food, what there was of it, was terrible. “For my part, I never saw any one get enough of anything to
eat at Point Lookout except of the soup, one spoonful of which was too much for
ordinary digestion,” Kieley wrote.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">By
Christmas 1863, the smallpox problem had become so severe at Point Lookout that
officials had set up a separate hospital about a quarter-mile from the main
compound for prisoners suffering from the disease. The prisoners admitted to
the hospital were cared for by Catholic nuns belonging to the Sisters of
Charity from Emittsburg, Maryland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
nuns, in their unusually wide and tall white cornettes and black habits, added
an air of dignified solemnity to the wretched conditions in the camp.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The late-December
weather became so bitterly cold that five prisoners froze to death on New
Year’s Eve 1863. “We all suffered a great deal with the cold and hunger,” Sergeant
Bartlett Malone, a member of the 6<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> North Carolina Infantry, wrote
in his diary. “Two of our men caught a rat and cooked it and ate it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">That same night, Thomas Dry was admitted to the smallpox hospital. He died on January 29, 1864. Somehow, his older brother William would survive another year at Point Lookout until POW exchanges finally resumed. He was exchanged in February 1865. Still, there would be more bad news -- much more -- for Allison Dry and his family before 1864 ended.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><em>Sources consulted for this story included</em> Point Lookout Prison Camp For Confederates<em>, by Edwin W. Beitzell;</em> Portals to Hell: Military Prisons of the Civil War<em>, by Lonnie R. Speer; exhibits at Point Lookout State Park in Scotland, Maryland, and documents from the National Archives.</em></span></div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-77566499864275765272013-12-07T14:09:00.000-05:002013-12-07T15:17:12.406-05:00Two Tales of Tragic Irony at Pearl Harbor<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oDy-GJTsolg/UqNtYrNAU7I/AAAAAAAAA6M/q2h-6ACt79E/s1600/Project1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="350" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oDy-GJTsolg/UqNtYrNAU7I/AAAAAAAAA6M/q2h-6ACt79E/s400/Project1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left">
Ernest Davenport, left, and Austin Jackson. Both photos were published in the weekly <em>Roanoke Beacon</em> of Plymouth, North Carolina soon after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On
December 7, 1941, two young servicemen from eastern North Carolina were in the
middle of the Imperial Japanese Navy’s attacks on American forces that plunged
the United States into World War II.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
Neither U.S. Army Private Ernest Davenport nor Navy Seaman Austin Jackson would survive the war. And although thousands died on that long-ago Sunday, Davenport’s and Jackson’s deaths were touched by irony.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Davenport, a U.S. Army medic from the Washington County town of Creswell, was
aboard a merchant ship that probably was the first ship sunk by the Japanese
attacks in the Pacific. Jackson from Jamesville in adjoining
Martin County was aboard a U.S. battleship docked at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Davenport
was only two years old when his father was killed in an accident in 1920. His
mother remarried, and Davenport grew up on a farm. Times were tough during the
Great Depression, and he left school to go to work after finishing the eighth
grade in 1934.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In 1939,
Davenport joined the U.S. Army, in part to earn money to send his half-sister,
Olean Clifton, to college.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On
December 7, 1941, Davenport was one of two Army soldiers aboard the SS <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cynthia Olson</i>. The privately owned transport
ship had been chartered by the Army to haul a load of lumber from Tacoma,
Washington to Honolulu, Hawaii.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Olson </i>was approaching Hawaii on the
morning of December 7. But the crew did not know that a Japanese submarine, the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I-26</i>, had been following it since the previous day, waiting for orders to begin the attack on U.S. forces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On the
morning of December 7 the commander of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I-26</i>
received coded orders from Tokyo for all Japanese ships to commence the attack.
He immediately surfaced and his crew fired a warning shot across the bow of the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cynthia Olson</i> indicating that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I-26</i> was about to attack the American
ship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The crew
of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Olson</i> lowered lifeboats into
the water and abandoned the ship. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I-26</i>
crew then opened fire with the submarine’s deck gun. Eventually, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Olson</i> sank and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I-26</i> left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Although
Japanese planes were on their way to Hawaii, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I-26</i>’s attack on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cynthia
Olson</i> happened shortly before bombs started falling on Pearl Harbor. So the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Olson</i> probably was the first American
ship sunk by the Japanese on December 7. And although Davenport and the other members of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Olson</i>’s crew reportedly all made it into lifeboats, no trace of
them was ever found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Austin
Jackson’s death was even more emotionally wrenching than Davenport’s. His ship,
the USS <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">California</i>, was among the
seven battleships sunk by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. More than 2,300 American
soldiers and sailors were killed that day. In the chaotic aftermath of the
attack, it was difficult to determine who had died.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On
December 12, Jackson’s mother, Ora Jackson Burnette, was visiting relatives in
Plymouth when a stunning telegram arrived from the Navy telling her that her
son had been killed at Pearl Harbor. The following day, photos of the
baby-faced Austin Jackson were published in local newspapers with the news that
he’d died on the “day of infamy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But on New
Year’s Day 1942, Ora Burnette received a card from her son dated December 12 –
five days after the attack. The following day, she received another message from
the Navy saying that her son was indeed alive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Her joy was only temporary, however.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In March
1942 Burnette received yet another telegram from the Navy. This time there was
no mistake. Austin Jackson was dead. Then a letter dated March 21 arrived from
Jackson’s commanding officer, Navy Lieutenant F.W. Purdy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In the
edgy days following the attack on December 7, military commanders in Hawaii
were certain that the Japanese were going to bomb Honolulu again. So they set
up anti-aircraft guns around the islands. Since Jackson’s ship, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">California</i>, was undergoing repairs, he
had been assigned to the crew of one of the guns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Around 3
a.m. on February 12, 1942, Jackson was reporting for his duty shift at one of
the guns. In the darkness, he tripped. He fell onto a rifle with a bayonet
attached. He died soon afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Jackson’s
body eventually was returned to the U.S., and he’s buried at Arlington National
Cemetery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-48728805344337125342013-11-21T16:30:00.000-05:002015-07-06T14:16:48.359-04:00That Creepy Little Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6efeXhHvBx0/Uo53daGMyOI/AAAAAAAAA58/lXT1XILXrDI/s1600/Oswald.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6efeXhHvBx0/Uo53daGMyOI/AAAAAAAAA58/lXT1XILXrDI/s320/Oswald.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Tragedy in U.S. History Museum was tucked away
in a modest, one-story house on a quiet street in St. Augustine, Florida, a bizarre
sideshow to the nearby graceful antiquity of the nation’s oldest city. As you
approached the entrance, you saw an eerie-but-fascinating tableau. Peering at
you from a living-room picture window was a life-size wax figure of Lee Harvey
Oswald hiding behind stacks of cardboard boxes, about to change history with
the scoped Italian-made Carcano rifle he’d bought for a few bucks from a
magazine ad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a dreadfully tacky depiction of one of the
most tragic events of the 20<sup>th</sup> century, and not something you’d see
at the Smithsonian Museum. But that dark image of Oswald haunts our national psyche
– that creepy little man with his cheap mail-order rifle who is going to blow
the brains out of arguably the most charismatic president in U.S. history. And it’s
seemed to me since the day I saw it that, as morbid, gruesome and tasteless as
that display was, it was somehow as appropriate a comment on John F. Kennedy’s
death as the most insightful essays and deftly understated museum exhibits. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Browsing through the dusty, amateurishly displayed exhibits
at The Tragedy in U.S. History Museum was like rubbernecking as you drive slowly
past a horrible car wreck. There was a steam whistle purportedly from the
locomotive operated by Joseph “Steve” Brody on the night in 1903 when he left
this world in a spectacular and legendary train wreck that came to be known as
“the wreck of the old 97.” And the car that supposedly was the one in which
actress Jayne Mansfield died also was on display.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But the museum’s centerpiece exhibits were artifacts
from the assassination of President Kennedy on November 22, 1963. The displays
included the dresser from Oswald’s $7-a-week rented room and the bed he’d slept
in the night before his terrible deed. There was the 1953 Chevrolet in
which he’d gotten a lift to work at the Texas Schoolbook Depository on that fateful
day. And there was the 1962 Ford ambulance that had rushed him to
Parkland Hospital two days later after he’d been fatally shot by Jack Ruby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the days following Kennedy’s assassination, St.
Augustine businessman Buddy Hough made frequent trips to Dallas to acquire
objects associated with the president’s death. In the process, he decided to
open a museum focusing on tragedies that had darkened U.S. history.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But St.
Augustine’s purveyors of more traditional tourist attractions never liked Hough’s
macabre collection, and Hough deeply resented the cold shoulder he received
from the town’s Chamber of Commerce.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Tragedy in U.S. History Museum struggled to make
money in a town that attracts more than a million tourists every year. Hough
died in 1996, and his wife auctioned off her late husband’s unusual collection
– including, I assume, that wretched wax likeness of Oswald.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So today, we’re remembering where we were 50 years
ago when a troubled, fatherless drifter who’d learned to fire a rifle with
deadly accuracy in the U.S. Marine Corps stunned the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was in an eighth-grade math class in Richfield,
North Carolina when a teacher abruptly opened the door, stepped into the
classroom, and announced that Kennedy had been shot.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For days afterwards, the three television networks
dropped all other programming and focused on what had happened in Texas. And the
events were incomprehensible. Lyndon Johnson grimly taking the oath of office
accompanied by a dazed Jacqueline Kennedy still wearing the chic Chanel suit
stained with her husband’s blood; Oswald’s murder on live television; the
endless line of mourners filing past the dead president’s coffin in the
Capitol; and the funeral, during which I acquired an abiding respect for the
somber, dignified ceremony of a military sendoff. And all of this depicted in
black-and-white television images. I wonder if anyone turned off their TV in
the week following Kennedy’s death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Still, as morbidly compelling as this drama was, I
think everyone craved normalcy. And eventually, the shock faded and the routine
events of life resumed. But I wonder whether "normalcy" has returned since that event.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In 1964 we were handed a massive document that was
the official product of the Warren Commission. It told us that Oswald, the
chinless loser unable to find a satisfying place in this world, had plotted and
carried out, alone, the murder of the most powerful man on Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Warren Commission’s conclusion has been debated
for 49 years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many now-familiar phrases
have been added to our popular lexicon – lone gunman, magic bullet, rogue CIA,
second shooter, Castro-Mafia connection.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I keep going back and forth on whether I believe the
commission’s version of events. At the moment I’m swinging back to the lone
gunman theory for two reasons. I’ve read that the “magic bullet” theory is
disproved by the fact that Texas Governor John Connolly’s seat in the limousine
was three inches lower than Kennedy’s and thus the path of the bullet didn’t
have to defy the laws of physics to hit them both. And I hear that the second
shooter theory -- which says that if Oswald's bullet had hit Kennedy, his head would've moved in a different direction than the one depicted on film and therefore JFK was hit by a gunman other than Oswald -- is disproved because the movement of the president’s head is
what happens when a bullet hits the brain in just the
right (or wrong) way, causing brain cells to explode in a certain way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But really, it doesn’t matter what I believe because
nothing will make Oswald’s haunting image go away. And that’s why I think that ghastly display years ago in The Tragedy in U.S. History Museum was a
legitimate commentary on John F. Kennedy’s shocking death. Oswald is always going
to be rising from the dark, dusty, cobweb-infested depths of our collective
minds’ eyes, disrupting our efforts to return to normalcy and distorting our
perceptions of the world around us. Oswald is the face of this tragedy, and the
face of that psychopathic piss-ant will trouble us until the day we die.<o:p></o:p></span>Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-45654180004988279342013-09-23T12:11:00.000-04:002013-09-23T12:11:33.788-04:00Too Many Deadlines, Please Stand By . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ELFxsbVo1VM/UkBhukIXEiI/AAAAAAAAA5s/XSKMzdCtivo/s1600/test-pattern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ELFxsbVo1VM/UkBhukIXEiI/AAAAAAAAA5s/XSKMzdCtivo/s320/test-pattern.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Up to my ears in deadlines at the moment and can't even think about blogging. Hope to have a post ready for early October, when things have calmed down a bit. Please check back in a couple weeks.Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-36434957721309808252013-08-11T12:40:00.000-04:002013-08-11T13:00:36.032-04:00Take Me Out To The Ultra-Ball Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nq24-o7QqbE/Uge5qrXLdiI/AAAAAAAAA5c/BAP3vTXRUh4/s1600/gal-yanks-tigers-58-jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nq24-o7QqbE/Uge5qrXLdiI/AAAAAAAAA5c/BAP3vTXRUh4/s320/gal-yanks-tigers-58-jpg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">So Major
League Baseball has thrown out a dragnet again and hauled in 14 players accused
of using so-called performance enhancing drugs. And the biggest catch in this batch
of alleged cheaters is the New York Yankees’ Alex Rodriguez, who has long been
considered a certainty to join other immortals in the baseball Hall of Fame in
Cooperstown, New York.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When MLB
announced that Rodriguez had failed a drug test and faced a lengthy suspension, he needed just 13 home runs to
tie Hall of Famer Willie Mays’s home run total of 660, which places Mays fourth
on the list of all-time home run kings behind Barry Bonds (also accused of
using drugs), Hank Aaron and Babe Ruth. ESPN reported that Rodriguez’s contract
calls for him to receive a substantial bonus when he matches Mays’s mark. That doesn’t seem quite fair to reward a juiced Rodriguez for reaching a milestone that was accomplished by players who weren't using any sort of performance-enhancing drugs to achieve their prodigious totals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And to
me, that’s the reason it matters that Rodriguez and Bonds achieved their
impressive career statistics while using drugs. Baseball, more than any other
major league professional sport, is tied to its history and its superstars that
have been spread across more than a century of play. The statistics compiled by
stars of bygone eras are part of the appeal of the game and a topic that can be
endlessly discussed and debated by old fans and young fans.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Baseball
fans love to argue statistics,” Benjamin Hoffman wrote in today’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i>. “Mentions of Willie Mays
or Ted Williams are often accompanied by the caveat that they lost time to war.
Jackie Robinson, who broke baseball’s color barrier, would have had even better
statistics had he been allowed to play before he was 28.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Cynical
fans ridicule the anti-drug sentiment and argue that drug use doesn’t matter
and that players should be allowed to do whatever they can to improve their
performances. It’s nobody’s business what they do to their own bodies, the
argument goes.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
here’s the thing about that ultra-libertarian perspective about MLB and drugs:
If you’re going to do that, you might as well close and seal the baseball
record books from 1904 – when the Major Leagues as we know them began – until 1997
– the season before a steroids-enhanced Mark McGwire hit 70 home runs in 1998
to become the first juiced player to set a season record for home runs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A few
years after Bonds, McGwire, Sammy Sosa and other “enhanced” players elevated
seasonal home run totals beyond anything seen since the beginning of the sport,
MLB actually started enforcing its no-drugs rules. Seasonal home run totals by
MLB players, which had escalated dramatically in the late 1990s, came back down
to Earth. And that dramatic decline in home runs made the effect of drug use on
baseball’s sacred statistics obvious to anyone who cared to compare the
numbers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">So if
you want to allow juiced players to play MLB, then close the record books from
1904 to 1997, declare the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown to be filled to
capacity with stars of “old” baseball, and start over with record-keeping and a
new league and a new game. Call it “ultra-baseball” or “extreme baseball” or
“robo-baseball” or “ultimate baseball,” something to indicate that this is not
a game for mere wimpy mortals but a game that’s being played by super-evolved,
chemically enhanced cyber-humans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then, instead
of arguing whether Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle or Duke Snider was the best
centerfielder of his era, you can argue about whether Barry Bonds’s home run
total would have been higher if he’d avoided steroids and used a different type
of performance-enhancing drug. That doesn’t seem to have the same appeal as
talking about Willie, Mickey and The Duke, but I suppose it could make for a
lively debate among chemists. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><em>NOTE: The photo at the top was published by the</em> New York Daily News <em>on October 8, 2011 and shows Alex Rodriguez after he struck out to end the game that the New York Yankees lost to the Detroit Tigers, 3-2 in the American League Divisional Championship Series.</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258789776753624950.post-49213697887129068632013-07-04T11:33:00.000-04:002017-07-10T21:00:50.540-04:00Why I Spell My Name D-R-Y-E<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZBPOT_14yjo/UdWVMxKmXGI/AAAAAAAAA5M/k7WETvGOAOk/s1600/DSCN7826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZBPOT_14yjo/UdWVMxKmXGI/AAAAAAAAA5M/k7WETvGOAOk/s320/DSCN7826.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">As they
say back home, you can’t hardly throw a rock in the southern Piedmont North
Carolina counties of Stanly, Cabarrus and Rowan without hitting someone named
Dry. Or Drye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">There
are two camps as to how that last name is spelled. I have first cousins who
spell it with the “e.” And I have other first cousins who don’t use that “e”
and wouldn’t do it at gunpoint.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">For the
record, both spellings of the last name are a corruption of the German surname,
Dörr. The Dörrs came over from Germany to Philadelphia around 1745. According to research done by one of my late aunts, the Dörrs moved
from Philly to North Carolina in 1799.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Somewhere
along the way, they changed the family surname to Dry. Or maybe it was Drye.
Maybe they changed the family name because that umlaut over the “ö” made
their name look too foreign, too Teutonic.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Or maybe
somewhere along the way, some anonymous official filling out a legal document
misunderstood the name and spelled it the way </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
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</xml><![endif]--></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">he—or
she—</span></span>heard it pronounced. More
about that possibility in a moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">As far
as I know, no one knows why some of the rechristened Dörrs chose to add the “e”
as sort of a decorative flourish at the end of their new name. But I guess my
family in Misenheimer–which is in Stanly County–considered the “e”
superfluous and maybe even a bit too showy, because we spelled the name Dry.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Sometime
in the 1930s, my Uncle Joe Dry left the family farm in Misenheimer and moved
west to California, presumably seeking all the opportunities for a better life
that the Golden State famously offered. He married a California girl, worked hard
and prospered and raised a family out there with Aunt Jean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">And he
started spelling his name with the “e,” as in Joe Drye. There’s no record that
I’m aware of that explains why he made that switch to the other side. Perhaps
it was because the “e” gave the name a little more heft and made it look like
an actual surname instead of a synonym for dehydrated.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">When I
was born in late 1949, Aunt Jean and Uncle Joe Drye came back east for the
event. They were in the hospital room in Albemarle with my parents, so I've been told, when a nurse
came in to fill out a birth certificate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
nurse asked – apparently of no one in particular – how to spell my last name.
According to what I’ve been told, Aunt Jean said to the nurse, D-R-Y-E. My
parents either didn’t hear what Aunt Jean said to the nurse, or they didn’t
think the nurse would take her seriously. But, apparently, they made no attempt
to correct the spelling, and that’s what the nurse wrote on the birth
certificate.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">I have
no idea what actually happened. Although I was, of course, present at the
event, I wasn’t taking notes and I have no recollection of who said what to
whom, and I’m relying on what I’ve been told by older cousins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Still,
it didn’t matter too much what the nurse wrote on my birth certificate because
for the first 23 years of my life, I spelled my last name D-R-Y.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">In
November 1972, I went into the Army. I had to provide a copy of my birth
certificate when I started basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.
Again, I didn’t give much thought to how my name was spelled on that document.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">A day or
two after arriving at Fort Jackson, I was in line with the other trainees being
issued clothing by the quartermaster. As I moved through the line, I was handed
my fatigue shirts, fatigue pants, fatigue caps, field jackets, combat boots –
and name tags to be sewn onto my fatigue shirts and field jackets.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The name
tags had my last name in all capital letters. It was based on the spelling on my
birth certificate – DRYE.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">I
thought the supply sergeant surely would want to know of this mistake. “I don’t
spell my name with an “e,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“You do
now,” the sergeant snapped. “Move on.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">To use
another back-home phrase, I soon discovered that the Army had me by the
short-hairs as far as the spelling was concerned. In order to get paid every
month, I had to sign the payroll register. My name on that document was spelled
Drye. If I signed my name Dry, I wouldn’t get paid.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">It took
me a while to get used to it, but by the time I got out of the Army, I was
accustomed to seeing my name with the previously extravagant “e” at the end.
Legally changing it would’ve been too much of a pain. So I’ve just learned to
live with it, although sometimes I’ve wondered if my relatives think I’m
putting on airs because of that “e.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Honest,
cousins, I had no choice in the matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><i>Note: The photo at the top of this post shows the last surviving name tag that I was issued at the start of Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.</i></span>Willie Dryehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03561099601772794876noreply@blogger.com1