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My wife is a good sport and a very intelligent lady. I am afraid that I oft times have a little too much fun at her expense. I promised, again and again, that I would not write about some of the humorous incidents involving my sometimes weird sense of humor in which she was involved. But the Devil got hold of me long ago and I just can’t help myself.

In the past, I have shared with you occasions when I fell to temptation. Let me reiterate a few of these events.

Before our little dog died last year, I was walking him on the beach as I did almost every afternoon. My wife always walked him in the morning.

One day, my dog and I met this thirty-something young lady who was also walking on the beach. She thought she recognized the dog and in the interest of neighborliness, she inquired if my wife walked the dog in the mornings.

As you probably know, to anyone twenty years, a fifty-something-plus person looks absolutely ancient to them so, I promptly responded that it was my mother she had seen walking the dog each morning.

She stuttered and was so truly embarrassed that she had apparently mistaken my mother for my wife and she lamely excused herself with, “Of course, I don’t have my glasses on and I can tell now that we are closer that you are much too young to be married to that older woman I see each morning”. We both just kept walking in opposite directions as I tried to keep a straight face. In reality, my wife is a little younger than I but, nonetheless, I couldn’t resist taunting her with the encounter when I got back to the house.

Our friends have grown accustomed to the fact that if they call anytime during the morning, afternoon or early evening and ask to speak to my wife, I reply, “Sure, I’ll get her”. As I lower the phone from my mouth, I announce in a very loud voice, “Barbara! Wake up! You have a phone call”.

She has to explain to the apologizing person on the other end of the phone line that her husband is a practical jokester.

On occasion, I introduce her as “my first wife”. Of course she is the only wife that I have ever had but this comment precipitates some interesting reactions – especially from those who have known us for only a short time.

Out where I live, a lot of people drive their golf carts on their way to get some exercise (Go figure!). It is against the law for anyone without a valid driver’s license to drive on a public road in South Carolina but too many people just ignore the law.

I came upon a thirty-something lady, who was driving a golf cart on the road, as I walked toward the beach. I don’t know what made me do it but I loudly admonished, “Don’t you know that you are not allowed to drive a golf cart on a public road until you are old enough to have a driver’s license!”

She was at the same time both astonished and complimented and could only find these words, “I’m sorry”, as we both went our separate ways. I am sure that story got told many times in the ensuing days.

My wife and I were invited several years ago to take part in a seminar concerning strategic planning for the community in which we lived at that time. Several of us were seated on the stage and my wife had formulated a brilliant list of ideas to present. It so happened that I was seated next to her and had not the foggiest notion of what I was going to say. I was called upon to present my ideas first. I have always had very good peripheral vision and I was able to see my wife’s notes out of the corner of my eye. So, guess what I did? I presented each of her points as my own. The crowd thought I was brilliant but my wife thought I was a jerk as she scrambled to compose a whole new set of thoughts on the spur of the moment.

From time to time, I am asked to speak to various groups. Often my wife goes with me.

Once in a while, the subject of my onetime hobby of horticulture comes up and I relate the different philosophies that my wife and I have on the matter. I explain that I like to nurture a plant and coax it back to life if I can. I will take a whole season to do so if necessary.

On the other hand, my wife, at the first sign of disease or damage, is ready to rip the plant out of the ground.

It is at this point that I carefully explain that I can never, ever, sign a living will for fear that her same philosophy might be applied to my case. Of course it wouldn’t (I don’t think!) but it makes a good story and as usual my wife is good sport about it.

She really deserves better but I think she still loves me!

A college-mate of mine who has written a novel entitled, “Dance Band from Deacon Town.” It is the story of a college dance band during the “Big Band” days of the 50s. I was a member of that band but the author has mercifully changed the names of the characters to protect the not-so-innocent. I appear as Don Block.

We were students at Wake Forest College (now university) in search of good times and a little spending money. We formed a dance band, called The Southerners, and subsequently played for dances all over the Southeast – everywhere that is except on the campus of Wake Forest. The Baptist college founders saw dancing as a carnal experience and outlawed it from the very beginning. What would they think of today’s dance floor exhibitions?

Anyway, college groups were allowed to sponsor dances off-campus and our band started by playing for those events. But, it was not long before we were furnishing the music for folks in both Carolinas, Georgia and Virginia. The fact that we were not allowed to play on our own campus prompted me to write the following blurb for the back cover of the new book: “The irony seemed to escape everyone that one of the best-known college dance bands in the Southeast was based on the campus of a college that did not allow dancing.”

The prohibition of dancing was not the only idiosyncrasy of the school, which was then located in the little town of Wake Forest amid the tobacco fields of Eastern North Carolina. Tobacco was the economic life-blood of that part of the state and students were allowed to smoke and/or chew in class! But there was no alcohol allowed — anywhere. We had never heard of “recreational” drugs, so, there were no rules conjured for such activity.

Almost every weekend, our band of musicians left campus in an old wooden-sheathed Pontiac station wagon towing a covered trailer with our instruments stored securely inside. We would return after our gig on Friday night to meet Saturday classes. (That’s right! I said, Saturday classes.) But we were off again Saturday afternoon for that night’s engagement. We didn’t always make it back in time for the college-sponsored Sunday School class. We did, however, occasionally show up just in time for class on Saturday — fresh off the road and decked in tuxedos or double-breasted, blue jackets and gray pants – the official band uniforms.

It was a magical, heady time for us as we played for groups as diverse as high school proms, fraternal organizations, officers and NCO clubs, conventions, other colleges, night clubs, etc. The lights would go down and the strains of our theme song, “Tenderly,” would usher in a night of enchantment. It was a great experience.

I had played in dance bands since I was eleven years old; therefore, I found an immediate spot in the saxophone section as soon as I arrived on the Wake Forest campus.
The book’s author, N. W. “Red” Pope, originally from Raleigh, NC. was our drummer and retains an encyclopedic memory of names, dates and events. I will have to say, I don’t remember some of his stories and I suspect that he has taken great literary license with the truth. Absolute truth inhibits the creative efforts of writers, so, I will forgive him. He admits that the book is a semi-fictional account of our adventures. I make certain that my children and friends take note of the “semi-fictional” mention before I let them read my copy of the book.

My wife, Barbara, and I started dating the last year I was at Wake Forest where she was also a student. Because the female students had to be snuggly tucked away in their dorms by 11 p.m. on the weekend, she was unable to go on the trips with me. Whenever there was an off-campus dance for WF students, she had to sit by the bandstand because our band was usually playing for it. Barbara and I didn’t get to do much dancing until later in life.

We played for a number of winter dances in open-air tobacco sales warehouses. I remember one particular dance when we about froze to death. The members of the Veterans Club sponsoring the dance, however, were amply warmed by various versions of anti-freeze, but band members had to wear overcoats and we cut the fingers out of our gloves in order to finger the keys on our instruments. Red relates another tale that once on the way back from a Saturday engagement, a member, who was a pre-ministerial student, suddenly remembered that he had to preach in a nearby country church the next morning. The band volunteered to go along and serve as both choir and music accompanists. It was a rousing service with Dixieland versions of “When the Saints….” and “Just a closer walk with Thee.” The band was invited back — anytime.

By some miracle, we were invited to play for one of the college’s chapel programs which were held four times a week with attendance required. Mind you now, this was a stage upon which more than half of the Baptist preachers in North Carolina had orated and where religious programs were offered almost daily. I will never understand how that invitation came about but there we were – playing dance music in the chapel of a Baptist institution that frowned on dancing. The students seemed to enjoy it but one crusty old professor was overheard as he left the building muttering, “The saxophone is an instrument of the devil.”

The other stories are not quite as tame, but, you will have to read the book to enjoy them.

The book brought back memories. Many of the members of the band have passed on but I still stay in touch with some of my fellow musicians from a day gone by. By in large, everyone turned out well. The epilogue of the book lists physicians, preachers, college professors, bank presidents, corporate heads, entrepreneurs, etc. among former band members.

Dirt is back! Medical research progressively indicates that dirt is our friend and that too little of it can make us sick. Good news for little boys!

Kids have always known that a little dirt never hurt anything. But, the super-clean obsessed world that we live in today may be weakening human resistant to disease. Of course, keeping some germs at bay can help prevent disease but in our All-American way of going to extremes, our sanitized lifestyle may be responsible for an increase in allergies and other ailments.

The medical field has termed it the “Hygiene Hypothesis.” According to Dr. Mark McMorris of the University of Michigan, we’ve developed a cleanlier lifestyle and our bodies no longer need to fight germs as much as they did in the past. As a result, the immune system has shifted away from fighting infection to developing more allergic tendencies.”

I believe that the more America has moved into an urban environment from a rural one, the more we have inhibited our immune system. After all, how much dirt can you encounter on concrete as opposed to plowed fields. Modern kids are not exposed to bacteria – good or bad - as they once were. Diseases not found in an agrarian society are surfacing in our urban environment.

There is mounting evidence that rural kids, who grow up around farm animals and the soil, are on the whole, healthier than urban youngsters. There is mounting evidence that even some of the once dreaded worms found in children’s digestive tract, actually serve a good purpose. One “safe” form of worm has been identified as the whipworm in pigs which have been shown to be useful in the treatment of inflammatory bowel disease. This idea is further advanced by observation in the African country of Gambia. Ninety percent or more of people in Gambia have had intestinal worms but chronic immune diseases like asthma, Crohn’s disease and multiple sclerosis are not found among the population. I am not suggesting, nor is anyone else, that you should expose your children to worms but we need to observe what further evidence is presented as medical research goes forward. There is already a “worm concoction” available at “natural” health sources.

As a father who has raised three boys in a non-urban surrounding, I can attest to the fact that kids naturally need a little dirt in order to build their immune system. Exposure to bacteria that build immunity are more readily found in the woods, around livestock animals and in the fields than in the so-called “asphalt jungle.” This idea fashions the axiom that a little infection causes our bodies to become immune to more serious ailments. This is the whole concept behind vaccines. Or, as the philosopher Nietzsche said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

My boys were and have remained relatively well — both in childhood and in adult life. I always insisted that a creek or lake be located on or nearby our homes. Creeks are a ribbon of life liberating the soul of any kid and they are loaded with bacteria to boot. This is a good thing according to medical knowledge of today. But we really had no clue at the time. My boys spent many a happy hour in the creek – building dams, fishing, splashing or chasing crawfish. As it turns out, that may help account for their good health. So what if an occasional leech attached itself to their little legs. Leeches, too, have found their way back into modern medicine as a healing therapy for various ailments.

Parenting is a learning process and when our first child was born, we were careful to wash any item that fell from his little hands. His pacifier was thoroughly washed before being inserted back into his mouth. But, we learned and by the third child a dropped object was simply brushed off and reused.

One of our sons, who has remained healthy all of his life, was observed one day when he was four or five years old, sitting on the steps as he shared his lollipop with Katie our Collie. He would take a lick and then give Katie a lick. He suffered no ill effects and Katie, or any of our other myriad of dogs we called members of the family, often served as a comfortable pillow for an afternoon nap on the lawn.

Hand washing before meals, unless carefully supervised, consisted of sticking the tips of little fingers under the cold running water for a second or two. Baths, also, had to be carefully monitored. But they grew up relatively healthy despite a little dirt.

During my childhood and that of my kids, a sandbox was one of the first sources of entertainment parents sought for their offspring. But sandboxes went out of vogue when the health folks declared that the sand was full of creepy crawlers and parents abandoned this long-standing source of childhood entertainment. Besides, the health police proclaimed, “Cats may be using the sandbox” — which as it turns out may be a beneficial thing.

With the advent of vaccines, antibiotics, hand sanitizers, pasteurization, airtight houses and a barrage of indoor activities (Can you say “Video Games.”) kid’s bodies are no longer taxed to ward off polio, measles, chicken pox, etc. And, this has changed how our immune systems function.

“The natural immune system does not have as much to do as it did 50 years ago because we’ve increased our efforts to protect our children from dirt and germs,” Dr. McMorris adds.

So, what should parents do? Take the kids out into the country and let them wallow in a plowed field? Buy a cow? Bathe the little fellows once a week or less? Probably not. But it does seem to make sense that whenever the little tykes complain that they are bored, tell them to “Go outside and play!”

Isn’t this what our grandmothers always advised?

We assign new “enlightened” meanings to words and ideas that change their whole concept; nevertheless, truth remains indelible. I cannot understand how established words change meaning almost overnight.

“Terrorism” is no longer terrorism according to the Homeland Security folks. It is now called “Man-caused disaster.” The death of 3,000 Americans on 9/11 is no longer a result of terrorism? Illegal aliens are now “undocumented immigrants.” Torture is now defined as anything causing the slightest discomfort to prisoners of war caught killing innocent women and children. They knew of plans to murder even more innocent people. Although, under pressure, they could shed light on further plans for the deaths of more innocent people, we are not supposed to make them the least bit uncomfortable. A Hate Bill designed to protect homosexuals is working its way through Congress. The same bill, however, might protect pedophiles and their hideous sexuality under the newly minted meaning of crimes against someone because of their sexual orientation. Religious conviction is no longer valid unless it is politically correct (See the answer of Miss California USA to a judge’s question about same-sex marriage. She’s against it.) They might as well change the contest to the Miss Politically Correct pageant.

And the list goes on.

But, “A rose is a rose is a rose.” You can add any new dimension to a traditional term but the truth endures.

Once, as a college professor, I referred to a young athlete as a perfect example of a Homo sapiens. I meant it as a compliment but he displayed his indignation by replying, “I ain’t no Homo sapiens, I’m a HETERO Sapiens!”

It might be humorous except for the fact it displayed his ignorance of the biological nomenclature for modern humans. This ignorance continues to raise its ugly head as we erroneously assign new meanings to traditional and historical terms, thereby, transporting “enlightened” meanings into our dictionary.

Once uncontested terms such as “marriage” had a firm, historical, religious and well-documented meaning, but “enlightened” thought has enlarged the word to encompass much more than would have been suspected by most folks. I looked up the definition of “marriage” in numerous dictionaries and all pretty much matched the one found in the granddaddy of lexicons, the Oxford English Dictionary, – “The formal union of a man and a woman, by which they become husband and wife.” The definitions most often contained the thought that marriage denoted a desire for procreation. The only deviations from this definition can be found in several “on-line” dictionaries which tend to promote the views of “enlightened” thought.

Who would have thought as recent as ten years ago we would become immersed in sociological and legal turmoil over the meaning of the word “marriage?” We would have scoffed at the mere suggestion that marriage was anything other than the union (religious, civil or otherwise) between one man and one woman. Nothing in history, religion, anthropology or sociology justifies any added meaning to the word.

Until recent days, no one ever considered the word marriage would be construed to mean anything but a biological, religious, legal or cultural term referring to anything but a union between one man and one woman. Now, I learn that recent terminology has expanded to include a legal union between, well, — anybody! Where, oh, where did I lose my way?

I am daily instructed by judges and other advocates of deviant thought that I am a hate monger – a bigot — if I don’t agree that a woman has the constitutional right to marry another woman or a man to marry another man. I am told that any American has the constitutional right to form whatever marital arrangement they prefer. No one ever answers me when I inquire if this new thought also includes groups. As in two women marrying one man; three men marrying two women or the Rotary Club marrying the Chamber of Commerce. Where does this crazy thinking stop? If it’s wrong to not allow same sex marriage, how can these folks claim that groups cannot live in marital bliss and raise children together? The saying, “It takes a village…” takes on a whole new meaning. And, what about incest? “Gee, judge, I just want to exercise my constitutional rights and marry my sister.”

This whole business is foolish. A man cannot be a mother and a mother cannot be a father. In this day of rampant single-parent households, many millions are trying. And, some are doing a credible job but sociologists and others tell us that the chances for a successful outcome for our kids is better served by growing up in traditional two opposite-sex parental households. Study after study verifies this absolute fact. Once again, let me point out that some single-parent households have met the challenge of parenthood quite successfully and these dedicated and hard-working individuals have my admiration.

However, there has been a movement toward the glorification and celebration of single and same-sex households. If George and Sam want to form a civil union separate and apart from traditional marriage, I might consider this as favorably as I would the formation of a corporation. But, marriage? Give me a break.

In this day, as we slide down the slope of secularization, I suppose we can’t be surprised at what odd ideas the future might hold for our traditional society.

Where is our country headed under new leaders? I haven’t the faintest notion how it will finally play out, but more disturbingly, I don’t think those in charge have any idea where all of this “change” is going to terminate.

But, perhaps, they do and therein resides the horrible truth.

There are many in our society, especially in the 18 to 29-year-old age bracket, who often think that America has been on the wrong track for our entire history and in spite of our unprecedented success, we need to change course and make our Free Enterprise system more like the European way of life. Ironic isn’t it. Most of our forefathers came to this great land because they wanted to get away from the frailties of the European structure. And, our predecessors were quite successful in creating and building a country that became the envy of folks all over the world — separate and apart from the European ideals from which they fled. Our forefathers were so successful that, today, we have untold millions who seek residence here – legally or illegally. Puzzling, then, that so many Americans want abstract “change.”

Thus far, the only real change is the creation of enormous federal control over our lives at tremendous cost. In just a few short months, the new administration has placed our lives under enormous federal management. The government now controls the actions of most major banks and the banking system. It is seizing control of the automotive industry and dictating who will serve as corporate officers, etc. We are less safe because we cannot interrogate prisoners of war harshly. Instead of firm, solid diplomacy, we are trying to charm terrorists and hostile, unprincipled governments with “can’t-we-just-all-get-along” overtures.

Furthermore, government is dictating the kinds of automobiles we will be able to drive in the future. Available forms of energy are being scrapped while we hope for the ultimate development of something better in the far, far future. It doesn’t stop here. More and more government controls exist as gleams in the eyes of power-hungry politicians.

How is all of this being accomplished? Fear of a financial collapse was used to convince congress to provide billions in bail-out dollars for failing financial institutions and to shore up the economy with so-called “stimulus” funds. Most of our elected representatives didn’t even read the bill before voting for it! The supposed doomsday crisis was sold as something that must be done in just a few days, however, months later no more than eight percent of the funds have been infused into the economy, yet, an economic recovery is underway that would have happened anyway.

The financial crisis was created in large measure by government. First, there was the housing bubble implemented by the “progressive” point of view that everyone should own a home – regardless of whether they could afford it for not. So, folks in Congress like Barney Frank and Chris Dodd prompted the lending agencies to lower borrowing standards for folks under arrangements that they could not possibly meet. When that bubble burst, these folks wanted to blame it all on the banking system and Wall Street. There was enough blame to go around and the present administration in the name of “change” is making matters worse by failing to realize that too much regulation in a Free Enterprise system is terminally damaging.

There is a legend that the famous McDonald golden arches have a psychological appeal. You will have to admit that two great arches that can be seen for miles is a rather bizarre icon. Some folks claim that the arches were chosen because they represented the mounds of your mother’s bosom. And, that whenever you saw the arches you might subconsciously feel the tug of comfort, safety and warmth of your Mama’s embrace, therefore, sparking a primeval urge to pull into the restaurant. Is this true? I haven’t the faintest idea but if there is any validity, whatsoever, then I fear that Americans are being politically “MacDonalded” in like manner with soothing promises of a heaven on earth where everything will be OK and everyone is “above average.” Just like Mom, let government kiss it and make it well. The term “mother country” takes on new meaning.

We are falling for the sweet comfort of saccharine words that elicit the warmth of Mama’s embrace even though we don’t know what the words really mean. Words like “change we can believe in,” etc.

Was some change called for? Of course, there are always oversights that must be appropriated, but should government take over whole industries? I think not. If you think “change” is over, guess again. The federal government stands ready to regulate almost every facet of your life. This has been the goal of “progressives” for several generations. The difference is that, now, under the guise of “change,” they are actually doing it at breakneck speed! This can be evidenced by the over-the-top regulations and measures being put in place and waiting in the wings. Can you say “Socialized Medicine?”

As I mentioned, there will always be a need for oversight in rare instances to prevent the crooks and the greedy from fleecing the public. But it is an improper oversight when the overseer is guilty of the same thing they are trying to prevent. The Ponzi scheme dealers should be punished but these folks had a good teacher – the federal government. If the Social Security System and Medicare are not Ponzi endeavors, I don’t know what is. Almost since its inception, the federal government has used the proceeds from current workers to pay off promises made to older participants. Like all Ponzi schemes, we finally reach a point of collapse.

The same is true of excessive borrowing of money by the government. You finally reach the point where your assets can’t ensure your indebtedness. We are headed toward that end. And, you can only print more money for so long before inflation devours a nation’s entire economy.

I simply cannot believe what we are doing to the futures of our children and grandchildren. Do you approve? Or, are you being “McDonalded” by the warm and fuzzy promises of “change we can believe in?”

All of you, who are outraged at my words, are invited to meet me at McDonalds.

Folks who were not brought up in the Carolinas or who are too young to have experienced the era when tobacco was king, might be surprised to learn how much tobacco influenced every niche of Southern life until the product fell from grace.

Since colonial days, the whole economy depended on tobacco especially in the eastern parts of both North and South Carolina. Economic life moved around the product. In fact, hogsheads of tobacco were used as currency in the early days of the Southern colonies. Tobacco remained at the economic center until the last few decades when America’s great Smoke-Out got underway.

Tobacco’s demise started years ago when the US Surgeon General first declared that the use of tobacco might cause cancer. Even then, most Southerners trusted the federal government to get it right on things much less important than their health and refused to stop smoking.

If you are younger than 40 years old or if you didn’t live in the Carolinas until recent years, you have no idea how important tobacco was to the everyday lives of Carolina inhabitants. It was a way of life. If you didn’t raise it, your life was still affected by the crop. The entire economy revolved around the tobacco harvest. Tobacco-sales time in the fall was when folks paid their bills; make yearly purchases of clothing, automobiles and other necessities or luxuries of life. Harvest time initiated an entire chain of economic good news as tobacco money flowed through the stream of commerce. Tobacco money was king! It was an excellent cash crop and I went to college with students whose parents paid their tuition and expenses with the proceeds from just one acre of tobacco. Untold numbers of college graduates owe their education to tobacco money.

In short, tobacco was the mainstay of the economy in many parts of the Southland. Taking it away from the economic cycle was the equivalent of eliminating the manufacture of automobiles in Detroit. But there was no federal bail-out for Southern tobacco farmers.

You were considered almost unpatriotic if you did not smoke, dip or chew tobacco and the very idea that anyone would criticize you for doing so was unspeakable. Churches, schools, charitable organizations and other entities were founded and sustained on tobacco money. Duke University and Wake Forest University are just two examples. Preachers, doctors, lawyers and other professionals most often owned tobacco allotments farmed out to sharecroppers. Even if they didn’t, their fees and donations were paid in great part by funds derived from raising tobacco.

The only time you ever saw a “No Smoking” sign was around pure oxygen or explosives. Patients in hospital smoked in bed as many doctors and nurses also lit up while they attended their patients. Even high schools had smoking areas for both students and faculty somewhere on the grounds.

When I got to Wake Forest College (now University) in Eastern North Carolina, smoking was allowed in the classrooms by students and professors. Class sessions were measured in cigarettes – one hour classes were one cigarette long, labs and other longer classes could be measured by at least two and sometime three smokes. You didn’t go outside the classroom to smoke. You just flicked your ashes on the floor and stomped the butts out under your heels on the classroom floor. Cigarettes sold for 15-cents a pack. I promise you, I am telling you the absolute truth!

Some doctors publicly endorsed smoking before tobacco advertising was outlawed and before the US Surgeon General stirred the anti-smoking forces into action. I even knew of a few cases where doctors “prescribed” smoking for “nervous” patients on the assumption that it soothed their nerves. I’m not kidding you! Smoking, chewing and dipping were more or less universally accepted as a way of life and few folks in Tobacco-Land found fault with any mode of tobacco use.

Now don’t get me wrong. Some forms of tobacco use were more socially acceptable than others. Smoking cigarettes was considered “fashionable” and young folks longed for the day they would be old enough to take up the “sophisticated” practice. Chewing tobacco was less acceptable but there were still spittoons in just about every public establishment — including churches, doctor’s offices, courthouses and other public places. Dipping snuff was at the bottom of the socially acceptable scale of activities but, yet, we all had mothers, sisters, aunts, etc. who “dipped.” Many tried to hide their dipping habit and kept it out of sight but the brown stain in the corners of their mouths belied their secrecy. I would venture to claim that more than eighty percent of all adults in Tobacco-Land used the product in one form or another.

You can begin to understand the economic tradition that tobacco still casts on Southern Culture. Coupled with Southern obstinacy at being told what they must do will explain why tobacco still has a hold in the Southland.

But, times have changed. Americans are more aware of their health and tobacco has fallen from grace.

Good riddance!

I once took on the Billy Carter persona for an evening in upstate New York. Had ‘em fooled for about 30 minutes. As President Jimmy Carter’s late beer-swilling, course-talking brother, Billy, would have said, “Them Yankees is gullible folks.”

It was in the late 1970s, the president of Carrier Corp, (the air-conditioning company), invited a group of Carolina businessmen to visit the company’s international home office in Syracuse, NY. In fact, he sent the company’s Gulfstream jet down to pick us up. It was my first ride on a corporate jet and I couldn’t believe the upscale décor and service. The only problem I found was the toilet was six inches away from the passenger seats and had only a flimsy cloth curtain for privacy. But we Southerners can adapt and things turned out well because it was only a little over an hour’s flight.

There were less than a dozen of us in the group and I was the only one who didn’t play golf. I had given up the game several years before after I turned a golf cart over on myself. But only after I had sensed the impending danger on the rain-slickened, foothills course and had shoved my wife and young son out of the cart to prevent injury to them. I was not as lucky and after my petite wife had lifted the heavy cart off of my legs, I found myself on the way to the Emergency Room. Nothing was broken just badly bruised – especially my pride. I decided right then and there that anyone without enough sense to drive a golf cart should never play golf again. I haven’t.

Anyway, on our second afternoon in upstate NY, the others went out to play golf and I was to meet them for dinner at a swanky Syracuse Country Club. They arranged a ride for me and I arrived just as the cocktail crowd was gathering for the evening. I was alone and didn’t know anyone there. This doesn’t usually bother me because I am a rather garrulous fellow and can start up a friendly (or otherwise) conversation in most any environment.

But you know how stand-offish some of those Yankees can be. Actually, I eventually found the folks from upstate NY little different from the folks in upcountry Carolina. They were delightful gentry but I didn’t know it when I first arrived at the country club.

At first, I perceived that the folks were a little cool to this stranger in their midst. They didn’t know me and I didn’t know a soul present, so, I decided to stimulate a little social interaction to the gathering.

The Carrier folks had given us a nametag to identify us to the country club folks as guests of Carrier Corp. in order that we might not be perceived as interlopers. Mine clearly said I was “John Brock.” I had a brainstorm. Since, no one present would have paid the slightest attention to someone named John Brock; I decided to change my name.

We were well into Jimmy Carter’s administration but the president’s errant brother, Billy, was claiming a lot of public attention. You remember Billy. He was the only thing that by comparison kept the Carter Whitehouse from becoming an even bigger joke. Billy was probably the reason their outspoken mother, Miz Lillian, was prompted to say, “I love all of my children but I don’t like some of them.” I don’t think she was referring to Jimmy.

Well, I decided to be Billy Carter for the evening and changed my nametag, thusly.

As folks began to notice the name on this stranger’s chest, the conversation flowed. “Are you really THE Billy Carter?” the queries came. I simply replied, “What does the name tag say?”

I was 40 pounds lighter and could have “passed” I supposed because I took on an exaggerated Southern dialect as we bantered back and forth. They should have known better because I didn’t smoke and I was drinking Pepsi instead of long-neck Budweisers. I knew my share of Jimmy Carter jokes and kept them entertained until my fellow Carolinians arrived and put a stop to the charade.

It was fun while it lasted and I found the upstate New York inhabitants to be friendly, warm and hospital folks because after they discovered the ruse, we all had a good laugh and we continued the evening in warm camaraderie.

Yankees ain’t so bad. At least, most of ‘em.

That snapping noise you hear is the sound of New Year’s resolutions being broken.

All across the nation, folks make new resolves only to see them dissipate by the first weekend of the New Year. I am no different, but, there is one resolution I intend to keep this year!

I aim to excuse all of those readers who have had something nasty to say about me and what I have written throughout last year. Hear it now — I forgive you!

Actually, most folks don’t want to be forgiven of something they don’t think they did wrong but I find it a conversation stopper. Whenever I am confronted with some irrational, irate reader who wants to give me a hard time, I let ‘em speak long enough to get their grievances off their chest. Then, I smile and respond, “I hear what you are saying, but, I forgive you!” It stops them dead in their tracks as they contemplate what it is that I am forgiving them for because in their misguided minds, they have done nothing wrong.

These folks don’t want to be forgiven; they just want to be right and to put me in my place.

Another ploy that I use with folks like these is to say, “Well, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll just mark you off of my list.” If I have a pad or a piece of paper, I feign marking their name off of “my list.” Let’s face it; nobody wants to be marked off of “a list” – unless it’s a telemarketer’s call list. Sometimes this little charade leads to a sensible conversation in which the offender attempts to placate me in order to get back on my imaginary list.

Both responses are never the reaction folks expect and most often I walk away leaving them in total bewilderment. Try it sometime. It works.

In any given month, someone is always trying to get me fired. Newspaper columnists (and reporters) endure this perennial hazard. There were several occasions last year when readers have opined as to why this newspaper would allow my outrageous writing to appear in print. It is quite often suggested that I should be fired which is impossible because I don’t work for the paper. I am what’s known as a freelance writer. But, editors have a perfect right to refuse to print my stuff any time they desire. No one ever has but that doesn’t keep a few readers from trying to get me canned.

Newspaper editors are accustomed to such antics and for some it happens weekly if not daily. As I have reported previously, some editors have a “firing reporter” for just such occasions. When I was an editor/publisher and even though I owned the newspapers, there were still folks who, I suppose, wanted me to fire myself. But mostly, they were irate about something one of my reporters had written. When they walked into my office to complain, I always agreed with the reader and said I would take care of their complaint immediately. They figured I would privately confront the “offending” reporter and set him straight. Instead, while the complainer was still in my presence, I would call into my office the employee whose “turn” it was to be fired.

I would tell him that this reader has complained about something he had written and right before the complainer’s eyes I would announce loudly, “So-and-so, You are FIRED!”

It never failed to bring an open-mouthed reaction from the complainer and they would immediately commence to plead for so-in-so’s reinstatement. They would squirm and implore, “I didn’t mean to get anybody fired.” I would respond with, “No sir-ree-sir, you are totally correct in your complaint,” whereupon, I would turn to the “firing employee” and say, “Get your stuff out of your desk and I never want to see you in this building again.” As the reporter left my office with head hung appropriately low, Mr. or Mrs. Complainer would become hysterical in their insistence that I not fire the reporter. Sometimes it was not even the reporter who had written the story in question – just some poor soul who happened to be nearby.

After much pleading, I would always relent and say that I would give the fellow his job back, but he would be on probation — (This prevented future outbursts from the same reader.) The complainer would leave my office quite relieved that he had convinced me to give the poor fellow his job back. And, by this time, had forgotten what it was that he had come in to complain about. I always bought the “fire-ee’s” lunch that day.

Last year was no exception as several folks tried to get me fired.

I was even “PhD-ed” a couple of times. For some reason, a few readers think that adding letters before or after their name somehow adds more substance to their opinions. I was a college professor for more than a dozen years and was around gobs of PhDs on a daily basis. I found that once you get beyond what they term their “field” (abstract medieval Bulgarian Poetry and such), most of them really didn’t know any more than average folks. Once in a while I get “MD-ed” and sometimes I am “Reverend-ed” but the PhD ploy is always the ultimate phallic symbol.

Keep those cards and letters coming folks. I will continue to write as long as the Good Lord gives me a mind and as long as the vast majority of readers continue to approve – as they now do by a margin of more than 25 to 1. This column appears in several newspapers, on the Internet and pops up weekly in other venues. I promise when the proper time comes for me to cease writing this column, I’ll personally make that decision.

So, all you folks who have complained, bellyached or have been outraged by this column and who have had really ugly things to say about me and what I write, I just want you to know:

I forgive you!

But, the jury is still out on marking you off of my list.

Life does, indeed, have its embarrassing moments. Sometimes, I think I experience more than my share.

Recently when my wife was recuperating in the hospital from a broken back, she grew a tad weary of hospital food and expressed a yearning for a Hardees’s hamburger. I acquiesced and went in search of such for my sweet lady in distress.

After waiting in a six-car, drive-through line, I placed my order: “I want a third-of-a- pound thick-burger.” The voice in the drive-in window asked that I repeat my order. I did. “I want a third-pound, thick-burger.” After repeating it yet a third time, she said, “I believe that is on the Hardees’s menu. I asked,”Well, where do you think I am,” whereupon, she politely replied, “MacDonald’s.” I was so embarrassed that I had gone to the wrong fast-foot establishment and I quietly apologized and sheepishly crept from the line of cars and headed to Hardees.

Reminds me of a newly-wed fellow, who, along with his new wife, was visiting his mother-in-law in the upstate for the first time. He was trying hard to make a good impression and when dinner was about to served, it was discovered that the takeout chicken restaurant had short-changed his mother-in-law a chicken breast. Our friend saw an opportunity to be a knight in shining armor and volunteered to go get the matter straightened out. He went down to Kentucky Fried Chicken with fire in his eyes. He pulled into the drive-in and told the attendant that they had failed to give his mother-in-law a full order. The drive-in girl told him he would have to come into the restaurant and speak with the manager. The folks back home were waiting on him, so, he said, “I’m not going anywhere until I get the missing chicken breast.” She called the manager to the window, who said, “Sir, you will have to come in and we will straighten this out. Our friend replied, “I’m not moving until I get the chicken breast.”

Cars were beginning to pile up in the drive-in lane and in frustration, the manager handed him a chicken breast.

Our friend returned triumphantly to his mother-in-law’s house with the bounty in hand. He reported that he had experienced a little trouble with the folks at KFC but “here’s your chicken breast.”

His new mother-in-law replied. “The chicken I bought came from Church’s Fried Chicken. Embarrassing? You bet.

This was not as bad, however, as what happened to a colleague of mine when I was a college professor at a Baptist affiliated university.

My friend, Andy, was an official of the university but he was also an ordained Baptist minister. As such, he was called upon occasionally to conduct revivals at various churches in the Carolinas.

He was on one such mission when he experienced the ultimate embarrassing moment. If you have never been involved in a Baptist revival, you cannot imagine the pressure on the visiting minister. He is not only expected to preach several nights in a row but visit members and prospective members during the day – all day. Additionally, he is expected to remain after each evening service to counsel with converts, etc.

Visiting preachers often stay in the home of a church member, usually, one of the deacons. Such was the case when Andy was conducting a revival in the SC upstate.

Did I mention that Andy was a rather robust individual? He was not only tall but also weighed in the vicinity of 300 pounds. The word “rotund” comes to mind.

On the final night of the revival, after an exhausting day and night, Andy returned to his host’s home after the family had gone to bed. He was so tired that he walked into the guest bedroom and without even turning on the lights, collapsed his huge frame, belly first, onto the bed.

He felt a lump under his stomach as he landed on the bed. Horror of horrors! The lump was “Jose.” Andy had smashed and killed the family’s little pet Chihuahua! Of course, he was horrified.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to wake up his host family and subject them to the immediate sorrow of their dear pet’s demise. He thought for a moment about carrying the little dog outside and placing him by the street to create the illusion that the dog had been run over. He told himself, “NO! I can’t do that, I am a Baptist preacher, I don’t lie!”

Andy lay there all night with the little dead dog – dreading the morning when he would have to break the bad news to the family.

They took it as well as could be expected. After all, what can you say to a well-intentioned Baptist preacher who is a guest in your home? But, Andy was never invited back to hold services at that particular church.

Yes, indeed, life does have its embarrassing moments.

INTEGRITY, (noun) – “(The) quality of being honest and morally upright. (2) The state of being whole or unified. (3) Soundness of construction” — Oxford English Dictionary.

As the New Year dawns, it seems to me that in making our obligatory resolutions, we should carefully consider restoring “integrity” in American life. We can start with our own lives. We need to once again understand that honesty and morality are the foundations of a safe and sound society.

And, we must demand that those who rule our society also reestablish integrity in our government. Our leaders must once again understand “the state of being whole or unified” and not divided by political agendas, special interests, political correctness, greed or thirst for power. We must demand “soundness of construction” of our way of life.

The Congress of the United States has lost all semblance of the concept of “Integrity.” It appears that this group of individuals is incapable of operating within the bounds of honest, unified or sound judgment. And the amateur administration now in charge, operating within a framework of smoke and mirrors, is in my opinion also devoid of notions of honesty, unity and sound judgment. I cannot recall a single occasion in my lifetime when such a degree of strong-arm politics has been so prevalent.

You don’t have to look any further than the morning newspaper or the television screen to conclude that we are being led by individuals dedicated to the unraveling of American life as we have always known it.

Point in question: Most of the politicians have only one thing in mind – winning the next election – for themselves and their party. Most often this holds true for both sides of the political aisle. And, they will go to almost any extreme to do so. Couple this with the fact that most of them seem to have sought office in the first place in selfish attempts to gain power and oft time fortune. Once in office, their stripes begin to show.

The American people have lost faith in government and not without just cause. These self-appointed solons of society and government have assumed the mantle of “savior” and have convinced a huge portion of American humanity that government is the solution to all of our problems. Truth does not support their position.

We are in the midst of a terrible economic crisis. Untold trillions of dollars are being spent in an attempt to solve our economic problems but, thus far, to no avail. Over ten percent of Americans still cannot find meaningful employment. Truth be told, that number may be as high as twenty percent if you count those who have given up trying to find a job and those who are “under-employed.”

Things in American economic life are not good but, instead of offering solutions without regard to political gain, we are being led by a group claiming to do things they cannot possibly do!

If we believe these pied pipers, we will be led to conclude that government can create wealth. This is simply not possible. Only free people can produce wealth. Government can only redistribute wealth — it cannot create wealth or much of anything else except bureaucracy which only gets in the way of the accumulation of national wealth.

Only one thing can create material wealth in a free society and that is allowing individuals to enjoy the fruits of their own labor. We know it as the Free Enterprise system. America has had a glorious history of economic growth – both individually and collectively under this system. Why are we tampering with success?

I contend that it is because government has tried in recent years to elevate everyone to the same economic level regardless of individual effort. Government encouraged and even enforced the lending of money for homes, etc. without the slightest possibility of many individuals possessing the wherewithal to pay back mortgages they obtained under pressure generated by government.

Add to that, a government guided by politics rather than reason and we have a body of ruling elite that honestly believes they can make water run uphill!

We are witnessing the most rapid and ill-advised attempt ever devised in our free society to take over every aspect of American life. The world’s finest health system is threatened by so-called reform that will suck the economic and health futures of our kids and grandchildren. Is there a rational person anywhere who believes that we can insure tens of millions of additional people, including illegal aliens, and at the same time reduce costs? The measure got through the Senate only by offering sweetheart deals, made in secret in the middle of the night, in order to get the last few Senators on board to reach the necessary sixty votes. Where is the integrity in that?

Alas! We are throwing the baby out with the bath water.

There are inequities in our healthcare system and a lot of fraud and waste. But why must we add more bureaucratic injury via a bigger and more powerful government. Let’s do the sensible think by “fixing” the malfunctions and not destroying our healthcare wellbeing by “inventing” something that is certain to be even worse. Congress has prepared a “cure” that is more deadly than the “illness.” We are doing so because a majority of Congressional members will yield to politics and special interests in an attempt for reelection.

Indeed, where is the integrity in that?