Stenchville

Double-Wide Mobile Homes

As I sit here this morning, looking out the lovely vinyl replacement windows, the sun shines brightly on a mix of old houses like mine, among newer small brick houses and the scandalous brick underpinned double-wide mobile homes. It is with these that I think my story, the story of my family and of this small town can begin.

My father, for these purposes I am calling Alan Stench, was on the Stenchville Planning and Zoning Board. Like all his civic involvements, he took the job seriously and yet was not at all a serious man. Alan, brilliant and also wise, saw the lay of the land and realized the inevitable. The downtown merchants, led by his brother’s Wife, were adamantly against double-wides. She and her cohorts had ruled Stenchville with an iron hand and perhaps well for a generation or more, and so their efforts were very ordinary to the situation. But, an unusual thing happened. The young people revolted with a boycott of the downtown businesses. This all happened in the early ’80s before the big box retailers set up shop and drained all the blood from this town. Back then, downtown business was not great, but ok. The boycott was successful and the Planning and Zoning Board relented.

My vocation as the provider of databases to small NC insurance companies has given me knowledge of a plan put forth by the Counties to not allow a single-wide mobile home older than ten years to pass inspection upon placement. There is a real battle going on now as to the disposition of double-wides. I have hopes that the modular home might displace the MH, but at present, and particularly down east, that has yet to happen.

My father gained favor among those who do not matter to the extent that when he died suddenly in 1987 these same people stood in line for hours to pay their respects. He was a great man and I miss him terribly.

Born in 1935, the youngest of nine, he was the son of a strict Presbyterian married into the Cox Quakers of Randolph County. Raised in a Quaker church, Pop and his family attended the Stenchville Friends Meeting, a place I later came to revile. My dad’s family held the singular distinction of doing so well through High School that several, including Alan, left as Valedictorian to enter the local textile mills or furniture factory. The notion of College apparently did not exist.

Pop caught on at the local Bank and then, when the phone company fired the operators in favor of Strowger switches, he went there. And there he remained until his heart attack nearly thirty years later. Sure, there was night school at High Point College where he learned accounting while working at the bank, but his remaining extensive education occurred at the phone company.

My Stench ancestors were lowland Scots who came to the port of Wilmington in 1825 and settled near the town of Norman in Richmond County. They may have grown peaches, but I suspect tobacco, corn and cotton might have been there. The Civil War brought the dissolution of many families and we were not immune. The family went their separate ways and one of the Stenches came to Northeast Randolph County to be near the rail line and started Stench Furniture. The head of my particular branch of the family walked there from the home place in search of a job.

When Alan came along, his father spent his days in the woods with a mule and an axe. BTW, I only know this much because of a chance phone conversation with a Stench who was the mother of a friend’s wife. I haven’t spoken with her since. My dad’s family never spoke of such things and I’m sure my father never knew it.

Life was hard. The family generally only had meat on Sunday and by the time the older kids got theirs, my father was sometimes left only the brains of the squirrels and rabbits. I’m sure Pop was exaggerating, but that was how he told it. He got a job delivering the paper and later sold popcorn on the streets of downtown Stenchville.

Along about the time dad joined the phone company, he started dating my mom. She spent a year at Pfeiffer, and relented to marry. They spent their early years zooming around in a ‘58 Ford Fairlane with an interceptor motor and a clutch with a 12″ pressure plate. Mom had to use both feet to press the clutch.

They had been married but a few years when I came along. Occasionally, my mom’s brother would come by the small apartment, borrow the car and take it racing. Once, dad caught a ride to the Stenchville Drive-In where he put the fire out in his own car after the air cleaner had been turned over. In fact, my mom’s family was the bane of his existence his whole life. I might get around to telling you about them sometime, but probably not.

My dad was proud to be a Volunteer Fireman. During the winters, kids would come up to me or my brother and tell us how Our Dad had saved their puppy or kitten. Apparently, Pop’s job when entering an involved structure was to grab burning sofas with a hook and drag them out. Occasionally, pets would be found hiding there. But Alan’s passion was first aid. Back then, there were no EMTs, but ambulance drivers who’s day job was often at the funeral home. They were adept at dealing with the dead, but not so much the living. The Fire Departments held First Aid cert classes and my dad was an instructor. Thanks to this effort, the woods were full of people who knew how to give CPR and first responder care.

I also remember Pop coming home and going straight to bed, particularly in Summer after a drowning. Later, he would emerge, grab my brother Tod and I and make us promise never to do anything stupid around water. We keep that promise yet.

Every 4th of July my Mom’s family seines the ponds. A large weighted net with long poles at each end is drawn, usually by boat, across the dam and walked on either side to the shallows. There we wade in and reach for the bottom and top of the net, bringing them together out of the water. A great fish fry is then held.

Not too many years ago, Tod and I went over to help. We were waiting for the net when one of the locals said he would swim the net across the dam. Halfway across he began cramping. The Wives on the bank began screaming for someone to help him. I looked at my brother and said, “Don’t you move.” My intent was to wait before attempting. He got out and everything was fine, but that is one of the many reasons why I am hated and despised in this place.

When I was old enough to handle it, my Father told me why his best friend no longer spoke to him. It seems he had two daughters while Dad had two boys. The friend could not get over it. And so, I began the process of understanding why I was treated strangely by some family members and acquaintances. They too, had only daughters.

Worse yet, my dad was not a man’s man. Yeah, he rode a motorcycle, drank a bit and was in the National Guard, but as a Quaker, he did not fight. Believe me, I made up for it. But, among the people of Stenchville, we were hated. To make matters worse, I started school in ‘66, the first year of integration. Pop took kids, black and white, home from football practice. He and mom both did everything in their power to erase racism from our lives.

I started hanging out at the phone company as soon as I was able to work. Pop was usually in his office doing the books, but loved dealing with the enormous challenges of telephony equipment. If that weren’t enough, he also taught himself how to program in COBOL. The owner, Mr. Fitzgerald, agreed to buy a computer to automate the billing, but not the cost of software. So, he wrote it and kept writing it for twenty years.

———

Dewey Faught was a very large man who called on the phone company selling adding machines and typewriters. Back then, you would be interrupted fairly often by men selling one thing or another. These were important relationships and so the time was invested. Dewey loved hot black coffee. He and Dad would go for a cup, Dad often wouldn’t stop for lunch and lived on the stuff, and Dewey would talk about his other line, the Traveler’s Protection Association. I have run across their modern day counterpart and eschew its use. The TPA offered personal injury insurance against auto accidents, probably with free towing.

I was working there after school and Dewey came around to enroll me. Somewhere in the conversation, I thought to ask if Blacks were welcome. Dewey informed me they were not. I declined the offer and Dewey, by then a family friend, marched into my Dad’s office and told him. Pop cancelled his policy and the two men never spoke again. I will never forgive myself for that.

A part of me is glad that Pop isn’t here now to see it. Mom is at their home near Holden and the house in Stenchville, on what was once his Father’s property, is for sale. All the town needs are tumbleweeds blowing through to complete the effect. My brother is still here, but I will be leaving soon, too.

I have come to the conclusion that weirdos pick little towns in which to live. At least that’s the way it seemed in Stenchville. Working at the phone company, I got a pretty good look at the residents and we had some world class whack jobs. The greatest ones would come and leave after a few years, with debt and amazement in their wakes. We also had our own nuts and they rivaled anything that ever blew in.

Cocaine was and is the most audacious thing to ever hit this town. We’ve had bonded and homemade liquor for ages and weed since the sixties, but Cocaine takes the cake. There are stories in this town of the great muckity mucks, barely millionaires, holding parties at which plates holding lines of the stuff were offered up like the cocktails.

Right now, a large portion of the income here is sold for Crack. Powder still holds sway with some and between the two, much damage is done. If one were a Believer, he might just understand that God’s Wrath has been visited upon them. Of course, they are doing what they can. I understand the First Baptist Church is open all hours to help the afflicted and is much visited.

I have never much liked Cocaine. For me, the best buzz has always been a couple of beers. Occasionally, the Wife and I will hit the Gin Martinis, but that’s about it.

I almost forgot about gambling. The pool hall had the highest profile and while my mom’s brother was a shark, my brother and I never went. Neither did we stick our hard earned money in those stupid Poker machines. But, a lot of people did. Thank God they are finally gone. There is a great thirst in this town for the Lottery and the citizens will slake like madmen.

It is popular here in Stenchville to blame the immigrant for our problems, but then I suppose that has always been the case. They are the New Americans. Our time has come and gone in this place and the future is theirs. If our kind has any future at all is debatable. The ignorant and the addicted have never done well and their prospects here are terrible. The problem is that great numbers of the indiginous have recently joined the ranks of the unrequired. Without learning a new skill, poverty is certain and even in a new line, income will be reduced.

Once, many years ago, Stench Furniture employed people like ants and boxcars of wood and trailers of fabric rolled out as massive amounts of product. Stenchville vibrated with industry. It was a fascinating place to be. But, Mohasco bought Stench Furniture and closed it down in the ’70s and it’s been bad ever since.

I helped Tom Ferguson build The Chair Co. to a $10 million company in the early ’90s, but the Chinese killed it. I understand the local hardwood mill and kiln is shipping all its product to China. They fly our flag every day. The Gregson family has sold out, but their furniture plant remains. And the Ritch family continues producing veneer just as before.

Gen Trak is downtown producing frozen cell trays that they send Fedex worldwide. The problem is that we need a lot of small businesses here. And where have they gone? Overseas. And why? Cheap oil. Give me $3 gas and Stenchville will live once more.

How could I have forgotten the Savior of the South, chicken houses? Seriously, eat more chicken and eggs. A good day job and a couple of houses is the answer for lots of people. Of course, that much work is beyond me.

Kenny Corvette

He described it as an explosion. Cruising down A1A, the boat in front was sideways on the trailer and off in a moment. Kenny’s new ‘Vette was through and beyond before he’d even touched the brakes or turned the wheel. Of course, only part of the Corvette came through. The rest was either behind him on the bridge or in the water below. They all stopped and checked to make sure no one was hurt. And then they laughed. What else was there to do? A story to be told the rest of your life, just like Kenny told me, standing at the tool rack in the basement of his home in Stenchville.

Kenny had always had a ‘Vette. He fell in love with them while in the Air Force years ago. Right now he had a ‘62 that he had completely restored. A guy from Florida was coming to get it the next week and as it departed, Ken would sob like a child. And then, after an appropriate mourning period, he’d go get another one, probably not new. There was no sense being foolish about it, and besides, there was so much fun to be had with the old ones.

Ken had become famous in Stenchville almost immediately after marrying, God, I can’t remember her name, let’s call her Kate. He marched into the local auto parts store one Saturday morning and started spewing GM Corvette part numbers from memory. Oh yeah, he was bright enough. And a nice enough guy for someone from the woods near Philly. I have found PA people to be some of the nicest I’ve ever encountered, but it seems the closer they get to Philadelphia, the higher goes the nose. Ken had it, but I’d seen worse.

I was actually in his basement helping run his computer company with the local pharmacist, Jim, as partner. Ken had written a system to Jim’s specs and they were selling them to small pharmacies. I had taken some programming classes at what is now GTCC and UNCG. Working at the phone company had given me a passing knowledge of electronics and I could handle a soldering iron. It’s almost unbelievable to think about it now, but we were using Intel 8086 Texas Instrument PCs running PC-DOS 1.1 on a 5MB Hard Drive and a 5/14″ Floppy.

Ken had shown amazing prescience in choosing dBaseII to write the app. We could open 2 files at one time and modifying a file structure meant moving the data to a new file. By the time I got there, Jim had sold a dozen machines and was ever on the road demoing. He loved the freedom of the road after spending a career counting pills. Apparently, he was pretty effective as we were at 50 by the time I left in ‘86.

I studied Ken’s spaghetti code and soon got to where I could begin handling mods and bug fixes. It was a huge thing as you might imagine. Pharmacy is not an app to take lightly. First of all, it’s Point of Sale – always a challenge, and you’re accountable to the FDA and worst of all, Medicaid.

I know of an old pharmacist who wasn’t paying close enough attention to his Medicaid billing and ended up in jail. That’s his story, anyway.

Jim was kind enough to do the actual installs and training, a grueling process of carpentry and tedium, getting the drug pricing variables just right. That’s where Stenchville Drug Systems shined. I spoke to an old customer just recently, and he said current systems still don’t do a better job.

The thing that amazed me about independent pharmacists was what great merchandisers they were. In that department, Jim was the best. And so, when you bought one of his systems, you got him and his expertise. The other thing about these guys is in the little shit holes where they had set up, places like Kenansville and Pink Hill, they were usually the brightest guy around. On a typical day, supplicants gathered for advice as though it were Solomon’s throne.

Ken was gone Monday through Thursday, flying all over the US selling computer systems to major newspapers. He even sold one to the N&R. They were great monstrosities with Tandem fault tolerant mainframes like the airlines use and connected everybody with Coyote terminals. He was working at the Miami Herald when the ‘Vette accident happened, had been all over and knew everybody. I’d catch what was left of him on Friday mornings. It was not a life that I would emulate. Plane travel kills.

My biggest problem there was upgrades. I would put a specially souped up PC, called the Mule, in the car and drive to the Pharmacy, arriving at closing time. I would then backup the pharmacy data, at first on 5 1/4″ floppy, but later on tape and get a room at the local hotel. I would then restore the data to the Mule and run a conversion program which would move the data to new file structures and make any other desired changes.

The rub was the conversion was sometimes fraught with exceptions where action was required. On those occasions, I slept with one eye on the hard drive light or not at all. Usually, I had to backup the new data and arrive before opening in time to do a restore.

As you can imagine, performance was always a problem. We fought it with faster machines and hard drives and tighter code. We dispensed with updating file indexes during the day and ran a program at night to catch that up. Nightmarish situations often occured where the index update was still going the next morning. It was particularly bad for a guy in Laurinburg who was filling over 700 scrips a day. But Steve was a great guy and realized we were all out there on the bleeding edge.

I burned out after a couple of years, trained my replacement and left. The company is still around and the code is still maintained by a GSO company. I ran into one of the programmers when I was going to the gym. He told me they had some reticent customers where that old code was still running. They had upgraded to dBASE III so that things were manageable, but it was still out there. Let that be a word of warning to you programmers. Do your best with an app, ’cause you have no idea how long it’s gonna run. I’ve replaced a lot of systems where the programmer died years ago.

Steve McFly

Mike, Steve and Patty McFly were our first cousins. Leta, my Dad’s sister, had married Hank McFly and travelled the country before coming back to Stenchville. They lived nearby and so we saw them a lot.

Mike would come over and sit while Mom and Dad went to the movies and would enthrall Tod and I with smoke rings. Later, he would show us Playboys when we went over. Hank McFly died before Tod, who is thirteen months younger, and I were born. Steve and I had taken up the guitar early and so became good friends. In summer, we explored the old sewage system know as Shit Creek (this is not a fiction) and talked about girls. And for Steve, girls there were.

I have looked at porn and seen Boogie Nights. Well, let’s just say that Steve could have had a successful career with his. Steve got out on his own and lived in a series of old farm houses which in the ’70s were plentiful and you could rent for little. I would go over when I could and became a fixture once I got my license.

I had saved my money and had a ‘65 Mustang. Life was good. Steve formed a band called Redeye, for obvious enough reasons. He loved Southern Rock and preferred the Allman Brothers Band to Lynyrd Skynyrd. I received a wonderful education in Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin. And since it was a nonstop party, I drank some beer and liquor and smoked some pot. Girls were a fixture, but all attention was on music.

I acquired an apprecation of Radio Shack’s high end FM receivers from Steve McFly. He was always picking up signals from great stations like Blacksburg and Roanoke.

Steve’s axe was a mahogany Les Paul Studio which reposed in a recliner just like the rest of us and was witness to all that occured. Steve wielded it not loudly, but with control still far beyond my ability. He was a pleasure to watch and hear. There was just one problem. On the few occasions when they played in public, Steve would turn his back to the crowd. These days, that might go over, but not back then. Sadly, I went on to join other bands in and after High School and never played a lot more with Steve.

I have known several people who were deep into drugs, but hid it from me. Steve had a terrible habit of injecting Cocaine. He eventually substituted it for booze, but addictions, later with Crack, plagued him the rest of his life. Steve died last month.

But I remember one Friday afternoon when we gathered at Steve’s after work. Someone had brought a watermelon and someone else a jug of moonshine. Neither was a regular, and so we decided to put them together. For the next couple of hours, about six of us stumbled around in the back yard eating watermelon and sipping from that jug. Being guys, we never thought to eat, and sure enough, after it got dark, we each began to throw up. We leaned on a picnic table while we talked to God and then wandered off to lie down. The next morning, we awoke to find the picnic table stained the hue of watermelon. It stayed that color all summer. I will never forget that smell: cigarettes, beer, pot and wet dog. And in the winter, smoke from the wood burning stove.

Back Street Trust Co.

Mom insisted her latch-key boys play football. We were small and had little ability, but did our jobs as dependable second stringers. So, it is that I did as I was told, and tried out for JV Football at Eastern Randolph two weeks before starting classes. It was on a Saturday that guys from Stenchville and towns around gathered on the bleachers. When Center was called out, I stepped up. So did Mark Hussey from Ramseur, all 6′2” of him. I would second string for Mark for the next two years and we would be best friends.

I was not bothered at all by this, because I had other plans. When classes started, I waited for my chance and soon enough it came: the talent show. I got up and did something with my flat top, but that was not the point. Sure enough, the next week some guys asked if I had an electric and would like to come over.

Stenchville had several garage bands in the white neighborhoods. But, the real music was being made in colored town. Those kids learned it in church and were just flat better than any of us. The best were in The Ravens. Ask anybody around here in the ’70s about them.

So, I grew up watching garage bands and practicing like crazy. And now it was my turn. I had pestered mom and dad sufficiently to get help buying a Fender Vibrolux and a Don Miller (Don’s Music City) Blonde Gibson SG knockoff. I had been playing to the radio and was up to speed. We got together in the Ramseur Town Hall and it was on. We had Robbie Mason (Asheboro Police Chief) on Rhythm guitar, Ken Pate on drums, John Burrows on bass and Marc Isom and Tim Neighbors up front singing. We played all the Kiss and most of the top forty. In no time, we were playing in the gym after basketball games and travelling to other schools to do the same.

Yes, for a time, in my world, I was a Rock God, and yes, it was good. Things quickly got out of hand. We had an elaborate light show and flowerpots up front with rocket engines turned upside down. We blew the ceiling tiles out of the Southwest Randolph Cafeteria one night and nearly caused Principal Casteloe a heart attack. Robbie’s sister, Cindy, got her friends to stand up front and scream at us like we were the Beatles. It was great fun.

I tried the same thing during the brief time I was at State, but nothing ever came of it. I kicked around back home, and hooked up with some old friends. We called ourselves Lizard Hill, after the location of the FAA Beacon and slowed things down. I had long favored Simon & Garfunkel, CSN&Y and James Taylor. Ed McGlohan and I had known each other forever and he loved to sing Beach Music. We included some Merl and George Jones and started playing pig pickins.

During the summer of ‘83 we held forth all summer at the Stenchville Drive-In. Doris, the proprietor of the ancient and venerable watering hole, fed us dinner and all the beer we could drink. That would have bankrupted many a business, but she claimed to have sold 200 cases of Budweiser one particularly successful Friday night. Of course, being what we were, it was a good idea to get done and leave before too late as gun play frequently ensued.

That all ended one night when Ed met Denise. He leaned over to me in the midst of something we were murdering and said “I’m gonna marry that girl.” He did and that was the end of that. For years, I would go over and we would sit around the kitchen table, play and sing, and talk about the good old days. We were doing just that, each time Denise announced the impending arrival of their babies.

My fondest dream remains playing Amy, Sister Golden Hair and New Kid in Town again with a band. A good friend one night, during a break, said “You guys aren’t that great. But, the songs… oh, the songs.”

Jerry MacGregor

It had rained hard the night before and Jerry’s old Ford Bronco with the big mudders was stuck. He asked if I would come up with my old Scout and try to pull it out. I agreed, and drove to his house near Oak Ridge. We drove over to the pipeline right of way and started down it toward his truck. At one point the ground dropped away in front. I stopped and got out. There, at the bottom of the ravine was a swollen creek and the Bronco’s front wheels were in it and out of site. I protested that not only could I not pull him out, I probably couldn’t come back up the hill. Jerry, an old 4 wheeler from out in the Rockies, assured me I would be fine. Sure enough, I couldn’t budge the Bronco and couldn’t get back up the hill.

I had gotten a belly full of Jerry years before and we had just recently become reacquainted. It was all coming back now. This is what life with a Narcissist is all about. We walked out and to a nearby farm. Jerry talked the kid into following us with his father’s tractor. In no time, both were stuck in the hole with our vehicles. So, we walked out again and called Kirk’s – Sineath Towing. They sent a 3/4 ton military vehicle with wenches front and back. He perched at the top of the hill, wenched the rear to a big tree and walked the front wench line down to the tractor.

By this time, the farmer had shown up and was none too pleased with Jerry. Next, the Bronco was wenched out of the creek. Trying to save a little face, Jerry tried mightily to drive the Bronco out of the hole. Sadly he watched as the little 4×4 was wenched out. The sun had been shining brightly and Jerry had scrubbed all the mud off the hill. So, I gave it a try and came right out on the first attempt. There she stood in the evening sun, all rusted and ugly beside his beautifully restored vehicle. I drove back to Stenchville, washed her up and put her safely away, to be brought out again perhaps during the next snowstorm. But, there would be no more 4 wheeling. We’d had quite enough of that.

During five years at the phone company, I had done every shit job there was and had reached top pay. Being Pop’s son wasn’t doing either of us any good among the workers, so I resigned and went to work for Stenchville Drug Systems. After that, I made my way to GSO. I programmed for Wayne and Marty Brown at Soft Answers for a while and then thought I’d try selling computers.

Jerry was the manager of Office Systems, a chain based in Charlotte. Jerry was a proven producer, having sold Kirby Vacuum Cleaners for a time. But, the bastard that owned Office Systems kept the pressure on and one day Jerry blew. I stayed on a few months more and then took a job selling PCs at Radio Shack. Later, I sold data supplies and tried to build my programming/consulting business on the side.

When Pop died in ‘87, I just stopped. He left me some money, so not knowing what else to do, I put down a payment on this old house. I had some programming business and when I had time, I looked up Jerry. I had taken some of the money, purchased a PC with Windows 1.0, an Okidata Laser printer, a scanner and a copy of PageMaker 1.0. I spent a year, off and on, showing it to people, but I was real early. Jerry finally found somebody to buy the stuff and I got out of Desktop Publishing.

By this time, Jerry was making his living installing and configuring Novell Servers. He was also drinking a half gallon of gin each day he wasn’t working, and more and more he wasn’t working. One morning, after his family walked out on him, I showed up to pick him up for an appointment. He would do the server and I would take care of ancillary concerns the user might have. We did a pretty good job. But, this morning Jerry wasn’t budging. As happened frequently, I called the account and rescheduled. Once I had him up and breakfasted, I asked him what was wrong. Jerry said “It’s these damn dress shoes. They’re killing my feet.” So, I marched him to the shoe store and suggested a couple of pairs of French Shriners. He was happy.

I tired of this foolishness after a while and we went our separate ways. I was horrified a few years later to read that he had wandered into the mountains of Western NC alone, attempting a photo of some remote waterfall. He had forgotten his insulin (Type II Diabetes), gotten lost and died of exposure. What a terrible way to go. Novell killed Jerry as much as anything, but he had a plan to get away from it.

Like L. Ron Hubbard, Jerry was into Religion. But, not the traditional kind. No, Jerry was into Out of Body Experience, Past Life Regression, Astrology, Crystal Healing, Rolfing, Chakrah management and so on. He was having a lot of fun and frequently getting laid. Let’s face it, girls who would fall for that junk would fall for anything. I was no help to him as I couldn’t keep a straight face. However, I will always believe he encountered something malevolent and powerful, messing with that crap.

Dan McDougal

Dan was a Narc, or so they said. But, for the more than a dozen years he was around, no one ever got arrested, and several should have been. He blew into Stenchville right after Dad died. His Dad and my Dad knew each other and both were dead, so we had something in common, but not much.

What is it about the military? Do they screw people’s heads up or are they already that way and mil service just gives them better technology? Dan, like so many of my friends, had issues with authority. His brother was a Siler City policeman and they didn’t get along. He was always ranting about someone exhibiting, to his mind, undue influence over his life.

Dan and his Harley were out too late one night at the Stenchville Drive-In. He hadn’t been in town long and the rumors were thick. The Finch brothers, mean anyway and worse when drunk, were really wasted. And there sat Dan, talking with a few other bikers. The group quickly dispersed when the Finch brothers showed up, except for Dan, not knowing any better. The fight soon began.

Now, Dan prided himself a good fighter and had already quelled a few small uprisings at the Stenchville beer joint, known as Johnny’s Place for a generation, but now called Seymour’s. That’s also a good story. As there were no witnesses, we are forced to take Dan’s word that he held them off for a time, and finally began clouting them on the head with the butt of his knife when approached.

The biggest was Jeff, and a few years ago he had engaged Officer Benson Smith in a fight, who, in an attempt to save his life, discharged his service revolver point blank into the stomach of Mr. Finch.

Jeff Finch kept coming and Dan was getting tired… and scared. Finally, Dan sent the knife skittering along Finch’s ribs and ended the fight. However, on the way to the hospital, Finch died of a heart attack. A few days later, Dan McDougal was charged with murder.

A construction supervisor with Arrapco Homes, Dan was fired shortly after his arrest. He had no job and I, having just bought this old house, needed a carpenter. Pop had just died and I was not in my right mind. Otherwise, I would never have hired him.

Dan’s work was excellent and for the next year, while his defense was waged in the courts, I was one of his few friends. Of course, for me, that only made a bad situation worse, and those who had hated me before gathered more numbers to their legions.

I forgot to mention that during my tenure at the phone company, I was responsible for collecting unpaid receivables and disconnecting service. That also made me popular.

Dan was found not guilty, but never reclaimed his life. After years of drug use and erratic behavior, he was left comatose, the result of a speedball injection, outside the Emergency Room of Randolph Memorial and never recovered. It was called revenge, but who knows?

Larry Pugh

Larry looked in disbelief at the Saturday Night Special with smoke curling from the tiny barrel. The poor fellow, just before sleeping on the couch, sat up, clutched his chest, looked at Larry, said “You’ve shot me.” and died. Larry warned everyone to leave as he was gonna have to call the cops and explain this.

He walked. Hell, Larry always walked. The disbelief came because as Larry entered the house, a place he’d been many times before, the small .22 pistol was lying on the dining room table. Larry is a veteran and life long gun nut and I think everybody from out west is. So, he picked up the pistol, pulled the clip and unchambered the round. He left it all on the table and proceeded on his way.

What was his business? It doesn’t really matter. Larry always had a lot of irons in the fire. So, on his way out, there sat the gun, just as he had left it. He picked it up and pulled the trigger, believing it empty. For once in a very long time, Larry was wrong.

Larry blew into Stenchville around ‘90 from the oil fields of NM. The family was from here and had come back a few years ago after Fred’s job with the school system ended. Frances, a retired nurse, enjoyed visiting with her family, from whom she’d been so long separated.

Larry’s younger brother John, my age, introduced me to Larry one night at Seymour’s. I’ll never forget it. John said “Fec, I’d like you to meet my brother, but I need to warn you. Be careful.” Better advice I have seldom been given.

Larry had a photographic mind and had read everything. He was not bashful and loved to hold forth on any subject, allowing no interruptions. I modified my usual behavior to suit and interrupted often and with pleasure. Larry never noticed.

He went over to Alamance Tech to learn engine repair. The program closed from lack of enrollment after the first year, but that was OK. He’d used it to rebuild the LandCruiser. So, he began the Bio Med Tech program and blew through the Biology and Physics like I do a doughnut. In no time, he was out of school and at an area hospital.

I had, some time before, begun cultivating an interest in great beer. Toward that end, I would make large purchases of expensive ales at The Village House on Battleground. Larry shared my interest and would sit many nights here drinking great beer and listening to Larry talk about whatever.

I wasn’t giving anybody any particular trouble, but Larry was on the prowl. The wooing he put on the local librarian was frightening to watch. Every since, I look away anytime a Narcissist is eating.

I formed the local chapter of the He Man Women Hater’s Club and began bestowing merit badges on Larry. I kept Punishment Liquor, but Larry never earned it. In the end, it became too sordid to watch.

See, Larry was living with his parents and was having a heck of a time. The brothers were champion swimmers as lads back in Four Corners, but one day Larry, age 17, just left. He did a stint in the Army, married, divorced, and worked in the oil fields for twenty years. And now, suddenly, he’s back. Oh well, no problem.

Larry began making beer and for the next few years we made a lot of it. Some of it was great, but it was all good. Fred suffered a stroke and his prize, the fabulous grape vines, became Larry’s to tend. And for the next five years, Larry was there with his father, miraculously translating the aphasia and helping his mom.

One summer, beside Larry’s beautiful vegetable garden, we built an altar unto hops. We erected a steel pole and strung line to the ground. The hops, planted underneath, grew to the top quicker than Kudzu. We had enough hops for ten times the beer we were making.

I shall never mess with grain again when making beer. Yes, I am an Idiot Brewer who fools only with extract. Milling, Mashing and Sparging barley malt is an art far too esoteric for my sensibilities. And watching Larry do it drove me nuts.

I got married and was never seen again.

One day a couple of years ago, I was passing Seymour’s, now called The Corner, and there was Larry’s truck. I pulled in and found him where he always was, at the poker machine. He said that he was lonesome. So, I took him over to a customer and introduced him. That very night, one of them was having everybody over and asked Larry to come. Larry and I grabbed some beer and maybe 1 ms after arriving, Larry latched on to one of the available women. Her friends asked if I could recommend him, and after thinking a moment, I replied that I could not. I have a strict policy about recommending Narcissists. Of course, Larry got the news quicker than I could have told him, and was offended. Little did I care. They got married on the same day last May as the Wife’s Mom, so we didn’t attend. They say Larry is a changed man. I hope so.

Stenchville Junior High

I think young men should all play football. But, then I think military service should be compulsory. Mary, my mom, insisted we play football, but having had two brothers and a brother-in-law in the service, she wanted no part of the military for her boys

I tried to apply to the Air Force Academy after scoring well in the ASVABs. That resulted in a terse call to the Guidance Counselor at Eastern Randolph. The Stench boys were not to be encouraged to enter the military in any way.

We played football in the neighborhood in the fall as we played other sports in their proper seasons. But, as a rising 7th grader in pads for the first game, I was petrified. Not big enough to start, I backed up Neil Register at Center. When the opposing team marched onto the field I felt awe and dread really for the first time. They looked pretty big to me, and there sure were a lot of them. It was going to be a long afternoon.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but there were no high expectations for me. Coach Johnson also taught Algebra and that was where I was to focus. He was a wonderful teacher and I picked it up quick. No, football was part of the making of a well rounded person. Of course, right now it was looking like I might die in the process.

I had terrible allergies and asthma. Mom and Dad took me everywhere trying to treat it, until in desperation, I visited the local Chiropractor. Dr. Griffith put a piece of litmus paper in my mouth, pronounced my ph as too alkaline and put me on a high acid diet. I immediately got better and started picking up weight.

My favorite part of every game became the march onto the field. It reminded me of the Napoleanic Wars. How long have men opposed each other in similar fashion? And we had some warriors. The Stenchville Jr. High Ninth Graders were tough. Sadly, many of them never showed up at Eastern Randolph the next year, but today they were having the times of their lives.

Randleman came to Stenchville and everyone looked for Kyle Petty’s number 43. Our guys wanted nothing more than to send him home in an ambulance. Unfortunately, they usually did send somebody. I remember Kyle getting hurt in Jr. High, but I don’t remember if it was us. It couldn’t have been easy for him.

Practice was the tough part for me. Hell, a game consisted of warm ups and getting rolled on a few plays. Once, Coach Johnson put me in the game, and patted me on the rump as I went onto the field to such an extent that I was pitched into the air and landed face first onto the field. But, the practices got my body up to speed and that’s what I needed.

When I was about 9, I received a bugle for Christmas. I was already in the Cub Scouts and by the time Boy Scouts came along, I could play taps and revielle pretty well. So it is that I astounded the kids and really annoyed the parents on Band enrollment night. I got a good education in sight reading and performance as a trumpet player.

My grandmother had run a restaurant with a Country/Western dance hall on the side. From that, I fell in love with the electric guitar when I was about six. So, with the guitar, trumpet, football and the phone company, I was a pretty busy little fellow.

Coach Todd took the Eastern Randolph JVs to a 10-1 season the year I played. Whenever I see one of the guys on that team, we have to stop and talk awhile. Nobody went big from that squad, but Andy Headen came along the next year and ended up at Clemson and the NY Giants.

At Homecoming that year I was selected, as the smallest player, to run onto the field first and burst through the banner. Jody Lambert, a fast receiver and safety, protested that he was actually smaller. Coach Todd waved him off, indicating that I looked smaller.

Mom and Dad joined the Booster Club and in no time, with the other parents who became great friends, they were serving mountains of hot dogs, burgers and fries at the games. They were having a much better time than us. They carpooled to away games and stayed in touch after the season ended. By the time I was a senior, they were a well oiled machine.

As I look back now, that was their best time. In ten years, Pop would be dead and mom would suffer a much reduced existence.

Eastern Seaboard

The first day of class my Junior year at ER, Paul, a rising senior from Stenchville, who would soon be elected SGA President, and Greg, also from Stenchville, who would soon be elected Senior Class President, came up to me and wanted to talk. I was to capitalize politically on my fantastic success in Backstreet Trust Co. by running for Junior Class President. I was to then raise enough money to book the hottest band in Myrtle Beach that summer, Eastern Seaboard, for the prom. I happily accepted and ran with that promise as my platform.

The elections may not have been a landslide, but we had a Mandate. We showed up at the old Krispy Kreme on Battleground about daybreak in Paul and Bennys’ vans. We loaded 300 dozen plain into each and ran for Ramseur. As the kids headed for homeroom, we distributed them. And then we performed Accounts Receivables management like Wharton trained business people.

My Generals were all duly elected as class delegates to the SGA or Class Secretary or Treasurer. Females all, they were brighter and certainly prettier than me. Under the lash, those poor kids disposed of and paid for enough doughnuts to earn about $2,300. We had enough money to pay for the band and put on a nice prom.

I believe it was in January that Paul, Greg and I travelled to Belmont Abbey with a cooler of beer and a bag of pot. Eastern Seaboard was playing that night and we were going to meet them. Sure enough, we got a signed contract from the manager for our date in May.

That was also about the time I was depicted in the student newspaper as Little Hitler. Jeff McGlohan, Ed’s brother and the editor, had gone to kindergarten with me in Stenchville. But I had no disagreement with him. We had sold a lot of doughnuts, but as far as I knew, no one had been killed, yet.

Having booked the band, we concerned ourselves with art direction and prom logistics. Two weeks before the date, the Jr. Class Pres from Randleman called me. She had a signed agreement with Fisher and Stallings, agents for Eastern Seaboard, engaging them for the same night as the ER prom. I said I would get back to her. A call to the manager assured me that Fisher and Stallings had erred and that our agreement would be honored. I called the Randleman Pres back and informed her. She did not take it well and I don’t remember who played the prom at Randleman that year. But, it wasn’t Eastern Seaboard.

The prom was great.

I was leaning against John Ellis’ Baby Blue Cougar Convertible. Jack Lawrence was with us and the Randleman teacher was upon us before we knew it. The barrel of the nickle plated S&W .357 revolver was inches from my nose. “Thanks for the prom”, he said. Uncomfortable with the prospect of being shot, our party quickly reentered the vehicle and made a hasty, if not reckless, exit from the McDonald’s parking lot. It never occured to us to venture again to Asheboro that summer.

Senior Year

I was not in good shape emotionally at the start of Senior year. It had all been a bit much. The BSTC had blown up. I quit football during summer camp. But, I did go to band camp to learn how to be a Drum Major.

It was the worst possible thing that could have happened. I got braces the summer before entering High School and no one there ever saw me without them. They were disastrous for my trumpet playing, but I struggled on. Being Drum Major my Senior year gave me a chance to give up playing for a while.

Rather than spend a lot of money on a costume, Mom got together with a seamstress and they designed a Cream Tux. Can you imagine it? No one but me would ever have the audacity to wear it. Even so, I understand some who came after me did.

I rehearsed those unfortunate kids mercilessly. We had a new band director, and he was just as full of piss and vinegar as I was. By now, a full and tested Emperor, I scanned the vistas and marshalled my troops as I saw fit.

I became inspired before the first game and lept onto the field in advance of the band, whistle in my mouth, baton in hand, arched back as far as I could and throwing my knees high in the air, which for me was about two feet.

The place went crazy. Hell, people were actually enjoying the half-time show. I was no longer playing football. Worse, in the coaches eyes, I was in the band. Not only that, I had become a gold-plated prima donna. I think the word for it is megalomania.

Coach Burrows is a very big man. He had asked me before to be sure and have someone turn off the field lights after practice. I agreed and on this particular evening, I had given that order, but it had not yet been executed. I was standing before my troops engaged in some intricate instruction when Coach Burrows came rolling up on his motorcycle. He lept off, came up to me and shouted that he had told me to turn the lights off when we were done. I suggested he take the problem up with the Band teacher and turned to walk away.

I am told that Coach Burrows, in his helmet, reached out and grabbed me by my jean jacket collar with one hand, lifting me off the ground, at which point I threw my arms up, came out of the jacket, flew from the ground and hit him on the nose.

The big man went down. I remember Wesley Gilliland having his arms around me, pleading for Coach Burrows not to kill me. Thankfully, Coach got on his bike and went to report me. I got 7 days and worked them at the phone company.

I hit several more people that year and the year after that. I had developed quite a nasty little problem. I got accepted at NCSU and spent a semester there, but I wasn’t ready for it. I have spent years dealing with my anger and probably always will. I take Paxil now and that disconnects the impulse to beat the shit out of someone, which I still have regularly.

Ed McGlohan

I looked out the drive-thru window at the phone company and could see Bob McGlohan limping this way again, head held high and songbook under foream. He had suffered Polio as I child, but his good Wesleyan upbringing had seen him through.

Bob was headed to the Funeral Home, to sing a hymn for yet another of the departed, something Bob McGlohan had done for a very long time. He ran Johnson’s, the men’s store, and the owners never minded his closing up for one of these occasions. Of course, in the summer, he had one of the local boys like Mike McFly, my cousin, or his eldest boy, Ed, to mind the shop while he was gone.

One Thursday night Bob and Alene drove down to Capt. Tom’s for one of their enormous fried fish plates. Like us all, Bob probably ate too much. Back home, getting ready for bed, his heart exploded. My Dad would have responded, but he had recently died. Pop had left Tod and I a life insurance policy to split, another one for Mom, and their mortgages insured. Bob McGlohan left a $5,000 policy. Ed never forgave me for that.

Mr. McCutcheon wrote thousands of history questions on the boards to be copied down, answered and tested on. For a Fifth Grader it was an introduction to drudgery. I am amazed at how much of that stuff I retain. He must have known what he was doing.

I looked at Ed and said “Well, I guess Buena’s got something to complain about now. Roll over Grover, god damnit.” There was a questioning look on Ed’s face and then his eyes looked far away and slowly widened. Marlboro smoke spewed from his lips, all his air now gone, he was too overcome to regain it, and soon went to his knees with tears streaming from his eyes. I joined him and we stayed that way for five minutes, laughing so hard we could neither talk nor breathe. Denise, Ed’s Wife, came cruising through their kitchen, made a little laugh at us and left saying “Idiots.”

Ed McGlohan remains the funniest fucker I have ever met. And that is saying a lot. Jerry MacGregor studied comics, always had freshly stolen material, but never a creative thought of his own. Ed was a true original.

He and I had been best friends ever since that fateful Saturday when he and I went golfing with my Brother, Tod and I believe Wayne Beasley. A bottle of George Dickel rolled out from under my front seat and we had drunk a few beers on the course. Wayne, always a fantastic idiot, made me stop so he could get us all soap bubble blowers. I have no idea why, but that was Wayne. We retreated to Ed and his long time girl friend, another Denises’ apartment. We started on the Dickel and the soap bubbles. When Denise got home she found us strewn about the furniture, drunk and with soap down the fronts of our shirts. Oh yeah, and the room was full of bubbles.

That was it. They were done. Ed got a place, we started playing pig pickins and one night he met the new Denise. But, I’ve told this story before.

Buena McCutcheon did not stand five feet tall. She was old as long as I knew her and wandered around the ancient drug store downtown muttering profanities as she manned the soda fountain and put up stock. Her husband, Grover, had just had a stroke and Buena was taking care of him. The mental image reduced Ed and I to momentary apoplexia. I guess you had to be there.

Ed and the first Denise belonged to the coolest crowd I’ve ever known. They got together frequently at each other’s homes, dressed for the occasion, treated each other with affection, played the best music and danced. It was not at all what one might have expected from the kids of Stenchville. Everybody had spent at least some time at college, read books and magazines and defended their positions on issues. I loved them.

Ed went away to Appalachian some years before with hair below his shoulders. I was in their backyard one Saturday, playing football with Jeff, his brother, when Ed showed up with a chrome dome. He looked like an escaped mental patient. Years later Ed told me that he had been sitting in class when one of the Rednecks threw a big wad of gum into the back of his head. Ed had the barber take it all off.

Of course, sometimes the rough crowd came, particularly to the big Christmas parties where they rented the Ruritan hut. But, they were worth having. One year Rabbit Wright poured beer on the concrete floor in front of the roaring fireplace and became a human bowling bowl, sliding across the floor right into the fire. I have never laughed harder.

In time, they were reduced to Cocaine and infidelity. The kids started coming along and suddenly none of that had ever happened. Mom calls it Instant Perfect.

Lizard Hill was newly ensconsed at the Stenchville Drive-In. Doris had tried live music before, but never had anything happen like last night. The old crowd all came back. The restaurant and parking lot filled with cars and people, not kids. No, these folks were returning to remember a better time. Years ago, they came from Grays Chapel and Franklinville, Ramseur and Siler City, Climax and Julian. Every weekend was a gathering.

Tina walked in as we were setting up for Saturday night. Rick, our drummer was a Rock God in his own right and had been for years, but Ed was new meat. We were tuning up and Tina sat back in the booth directly ahead. She slowly brought her knees up to her chin, and with the cutoff jeans she was nearly wearing, we could see forever. That was fine, we weren’t terribly serious about the music. We were there for the distractions.

Cars

Ed McGlohan did not screw himself to death that summer only because he had to deal with women to get pussy. Willing as they were, there were always complications. That is why Ed picked Denise and settled down at the end of that year. Damn logistics.

For some reason I had remembered that time as the Summer of ‘83, at the end of which I was so exhausted that I developed shingles. But if I let the cars do the math, it was ‘85. I had a Jeep CJ-7 then and kept the top off all summer.

Cecil Kirkman wanted $750 for the light blue ‘65 Mustang with the rebuilt 289, and I had more than enough in my savings account. The deal was done and a few weeks before I turned 16 in ‘76, I was practicing in the back yard. A month later I was showing off to Tod and Terrell, a neighbor, when I went into a curve too fast on a dirt road, overcorrected coming out and slammed into the ditch. I drove it home, but the radiator was busted. Pop banged out the front with a 2 x 4 and a sledge. We replaced the radiator and I drove it like that until the next spring when I traded it for a red ‘72 MGB.

Fred Trulove and Pop became like brothers. Fred sold business forms to the phone company. Dad worked for H&R Block at night during tax time, so he prepared the W-2s and 1099s for Fred’s company. In return, we got to use Fred’s cabin near Holden Beach. In ‘75, Mom and Dad bought a cabin across the road and Mom is living there now. The phone company let us go to Myrtle Beach for a week at the Yachtsman each June so Pop could attend the NC Telephone Accountant’s convention. The summer of ‘77 approached with a convertible, a place to stay, and a foreknowledge of Myrtle Beach.

From the time they bought the place, Mary and Alan were at the cottage every weekend they could get away. We could usually show up and count on a hot meal and a shower. And so it went. Friday night to Holden, all day on the beach, Saturday night at Myrtle Beach and Sunday back home. I am proud to say that in all the years I did this, no one ever had an accident or got arrested. This is particularly impressive given the people I knew and the things we did.

Tod and I must have gone through 3 Pink Floyd Wish You Were Here 8 Tracks that year. We liked Steve Miller and ELO a lot, too, and it was always turned up loud so we could hear it as the MG cruised with the top down. I drove it my senior year and for a year after I got out. The sping of ‘80 the radiator blew and I didn’t get it stopped before the engine seized. Steve and Darrell, my mechanic friends from Staley, agreed to rebuild it. I got the parts, had the head shaved and the crank turned, replaced the block, rings and bearings. The phone rang one Saturday night and it was Steve at the Handy Mart. He and Darrell were gonna surprise me. They had finished assembly and were gonna drive the MG over. But, they had forgotten the linkage to the oil pump and wired the dash light wrong. It seized just as they came into Stenchville.

We repeated the process and I limped it over to Freeman Ford and traded for a new Mustang. As much as I enjoyed the MG, it was a lot of trouble. I paid off the Mustang in ‘84 and stupidly traded for the Jeep. I was going to GTI then, and summer was coming again.

I dated Susie Coble from Grays Chapel my Jr. year and a lot of nights on my way home, a Triumph TR-6 would race me in the MG on 49-A into Stenchville. He always won and I never met the guy. But, crazy as I was, he was crazier. That we lived through it is a Miracle.

I never did the Spring Break thing, but if it’s any crazier than Graduation at Myrtle Beach, I don’t want to see it. Back then, drunk kids fell from balconies and got run over on a regular basis. I watched the carnage for several years, but finally just became disgusted.

We went to school with colored kids and played sports with them. No, they didn’t come to the Stenchville Drive-In much, but nothing happened if they did. They simply had better things to do. Colored town in Stenchville was a carnival of churches and clubs, but it must be left to someone more knowledgable to tell you about those. For that reason, Myrtle Beach was a special time when we partied with the colored kids. Things happened there over the summers that made teams better. Indeed, by the time they were seniors they went everywhere together. And we met the kids we played against. Imagine seeing the giants from Burlington Williams on the beach. Steroid use was just starting, and those guys looked to be improved by science.

Grandparents

Ernest Stench got hit by a train a few months before I was born in ‘60. The story goes that he had a heart attack while sitting on the tracks, but you do the math. He was the father of nine, a sawmill man who was a strict Presbyterian the first half of his life and a drunk the remainder. It may have been the other way around, I don’t know.

I remember my Grandma and her amazing blue eyes, but she died when I was young.

Claude Henry McCutcheon, my Mom’s father, was also a sawmill man. I like to think he knew Ernest, but have no evidence. He caught a train to HP one day and a bullet in the brain in ‘57. That story is all smoke and mirrors as Mom’s brothers found out.

Lillian McCutcheon was left to her devices and the care of the 5 children did not satisfy the State, who transported them away to the Baptist Children’s Home in W-S. This event saved their lives. No, they may not have died, but their options grew much broader, so much to the extent that my Mom, entered at 12, went on to pitch softball for the Reynolds High state champions. Her sister, Judy, received a revolutionary heart operation at 18, which certainly saved the life she enjoys today. Patty met Bobby, a W-S boy, and saw the world as his Navy Wife. Butch ran a scope at a Nike missile base in Thailand and Johnny was a General’s cook.

Mom and Dad both smoked. For that very reason, I never did. Dad asked me to stop biting my nails. I agreed if he would stop smoking. He should have kicked my ass and told me to do as I was told. Instead, he quit and I kept my promise.

Sadly, Mom smokes still. Dad would have taken a drink now and then but for Mom. Her sad youthful experience ensured she never did, and he went along. Tod and I were encouraged to experience life in full. Today, Tod rarely drinks. I like a beer fairly often and on occasion something stronger. The Wife and I consider ourselves fortunate to have escaped the destruction of drugs and alcohol we see all around us. Bongs were always about, we loved our beer and made the usual mistakes with liquor. But, we never had much to do with Cocaine. I just didn’t get it. Car payments didn’t make themselves and there was always a new guitar to save for.

You couldn’t always find a farmhouse to rent, and in this case Steve McFly had rented a trailer. I had just gotten there after work when Fleabone, the Redeye drummer showed up with a jar of bonded corn liquor. “Why in the Hell did you waste good money on that shit?” said Steve. Fleabone made some excuse, grabbed a tumbler, sat down at the kitchen table and poured some. We wanted nothing to do with it.

Steve kept Chartreuse as Punishment Liquor, but never touched this stuff. Fleabone took a pull on the corn liquor and brought the tumbler back down filled with the Chicken Pot Pie he had previously eaten. We horse laughed him.

Imagine this. Years later, all of Lillian McCutcheon’s children come around regularly. They made a decision that this was their only family and it would be repaired. That always amazed me. Lillian ran a series of restaurants and her kids and grandchildren were always around helping out. My favorite, in Eli Whitney, had a Country Western dance hall attached. I spent many nights in the late ’60s watching great local talent while Mom and Dad cooked and washed dishes.

Mom was there the night her stepfather’s lungs came apart. There was nothing to be done but hold his head while he passed. She was also there the night Lillian finally died after suffering terrible intestinal problems for years. Mary was always there when someone died.

Myrtle Beach

“Are you from Stenchville, Ramseur, Franklinville, Julian, Staley or Coleridge, son?” the proprietor of the Hawaii Kai asked me over the phone. “Why no sir, we’re from Grimsley in Greensboro,” I lied. So, I sent him a certified check drawn on a GSO bank and we were in.

As a sophomore, the seniors said I could come for free if I handled the arrangements. I collected the money and took care of those guys like a pro. They had a magnificent experience that year. I had a pretty good time, too.

One particular evening things were really getting out of hand. The proprietor, never having had a group so rowdy from GSO before, suspected something was up, but as we paid up in cash, could not prove it. Anyway, he called to say that we had been warned for the last time and he was on his way up. When the Hawaii Kai man came into the room, smoke and guilt hung heavy in the room, but was empty save for me, at the table quietly reading the Bible. He relented, may have even smiled and left.

If you got rooms high enough, and we always did, you could watch other kids screw. We didn’t use the TVs much. Some of us, upon entry for the week, would roughly remove everything from the room except for the beds and pile it in a corner. Led Zeppelin would have been proud of what we did to hotel rooms.

See, a lot of these kids’ parents had money and paid for everything, including arrest. We also left 11 Gals of empty liquor bottles and a bunch of bent bed frames at a Hotel in Asheville when we went to the Beta Club convention one year. When we went to the convention, some of the student body joined us.

Brent Moore, the sheriff’s son, and I met during wrestling. It was strange that he wrestled and didn’t play football. Anyway, he wanted another beer, so I leaned over the front bench seat of the retired Plymouth cruiser to the cooler and fetched a Miller just as we crossed over the Intercoastal Waterway.

Steve Williams from Staley drove down with his VW dragster dune buggy. It had a Daytona green metalflake fiber glass body and was indeed the shit. We found the hotel and checked in just before the Ramseur contingent arrived with Allens, Gants, Hardins, Husseys and Brewers. They were the Eastern Randolph class of ‘76 and I loved them to death. Later, those wonderfully dreaded kids from the other towns would get here and it would be on. The parking lot would be filled with amazing customized vans and muscle cars. It was quite simply Paradise.