Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country...

Wonder if Patrick Henry had any idea that, 175 years after making that statement, it would become a practice drill for students in typing classes all over America.  Even today, when I type those words, in my mind I hear a 'ding' at the end of the sentence and have to resist the impluse to reach for the lever on the old Royal typewriter and manually return the paper carriage.  It was a sentence that typing experts felt would encourage students to break away from the confines of the 'home keys,' and stretch for those new letters that would allow us to not only expand our thoughts, but also to be more expressive in our written language---to exercise that freedom of speech Patrick Henry spoke so ardently about---- hopefully, error-free and at 60 words per minute by the end of the semester, of course.



 

Now it is Memorial Day weekend, 2013---almost 250 years since Patrick Henry published his work under penalty of imprisonment, and almost 45 years since Mrs. Gurley's typing class---and here I am, at the computer, flexing my free-speech muscles because, over the years,  many good men came to the aid of their country.  Today I want to remember some of these men who have been so important to me.

Benjamin R. Burril

I knew this man as "Daddy."  It was only later that I learned he was a sailor in the United States Navy.  Daddy grew up on a farm in South Mississippi.  He hated farming and always said that the best thing that ever happened to the family farm was the A & P.  He was the second of ten kids and it was the Depression.  Maybe it was because the world was becoming more mechanized, or maybe it was because poor kids learn how to make stuff out of nothing, but Daddy and his brothers were all creatively, mechanically inclined. At the time, aviation was still relatively new technology and, as a result, airports were practically non-existent. The Gulf Coast flatland terrain was abundant in the potential for landing strips.  Consequently, barnstorming pilots were a comman and exciting occurrence.  It was natural that Daddy was drawn to the airfield.  He hung around the hangar so much, finagling rides from anyone who would take him up, that they finally taught him to fly.  He was eleven years old.  When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Daddy's older brother joined the Navy and was assigned as a mechanic on the Navy version of the B24 Liberator aircraft.  Daddy was itching to follow in his footsteps, so when the offer came to volunteer for the military and finish school while serving his country, Daddy accepted.  He joined the Navy a few months before graduating high school.  He didn't get to fly, though---instead, he was assigned to a Merchant Marine ship as a gunner's mate.  Although he was disappointed in his post, he was always proud that he served.  The Navy got him off the farm and took him all over the world.  He saw firsthand that, even in poverty, life in the United States was infinitely better than life anyplace else on Earth---and that the principles our nation was founded on were worth fighting for, and if necessary, dying for. When the war was over, he came back home, married my mother, moved to North Carolina, and raised six kids.  He taught us to honor the flag, be proud of our country, take responsibility for our freedom, and to thank God everyday that we were Americans. 

Douglas Michael Silver

I met Mike Silver 40 years ago when he married my sister.  Mike is a Western North Carolina mountain boy.  He grew up in Burnsville in a time when that little town was pretty much on the backside of nowhere.  Nowadays, it takes about 25 minutes to get there on a four-lane highway from Asheville, but in the 1950s and 60s, that was not the case.  The road was narrow and winding, through mountains and forests---and if you happen to have gotten on that road by mistake, you would still have to go on into Burnsville because there was no place wide enough to turn around.  Mike's father left the family when he was still a little boy.  With no steady means of  support assured, Mike, his sister, and his mother moved in with his grandmother, where all three of them slept in the same room---his mom and his sister in a double bed and him on a cot.  He talks about having a few chores to do, chopping wood and such, but mostly life at grandma's house was pretty good.  With his dad out of the picture, his uncles, cousins, and even the men in the town stepped up and took an interest in him, making sure he got to do all those mountain-boy things, like hunting, fishing, hiking, camping---and sports.  In these little backwoods communities, high school sports reign supreme.  Friday nights are spent in the bleachers either at the gym or at the football field---and, the next day, the conversations in the barbershop, the grocery store, the gas station, and the cornfields, would all confirm that professional atheletes couldn't hold a candle to the prowess of their local boys.  Mike was a natural athelete---his yearbooks verify that he excelled in basketball, football, baseball, and track---putting everything he had, physically and mentally, on the line for East Yancey High School.  After graduation, he went to Mars Hill College for a little while, but it seemed that Burnsville and the mountains had become just too tight a fit for him, so he joined the Army as a ticket out of town.  It was 1968.  At Fort Bragg, he completed his training for the Special Forces and was deployed to Vietnam.  He spent 12 months in country on search and destroy missions.  He served faithfully and valiantly and, at the end of his tour, was offered an appointment to West Point.  He turned it down---he just wanted to go back to Burnsville---and he brought home three bronze stars for valor and heroism under fire.  The little hillbilly boy from Burnsville, who's family and community had given him the only thing they could they could afford, high standards and expectations instead of commiseration and pity, had been recognized and honored by his country for doing what he thought any self-respecting American ought to do in a situation like that.  He has never considered himself brave or courageous for simply doing his job.  When talking about bravery and courage in Vietnam, Mike gives all credit to the helicopter pilots , because "They sat there like sitting ducks, taking enemy fire from every direction---and got us out of there every time."  I think he is much too modest.  Over the years, I have watched documentaries about that war, and movies about that war, and read books about that war---and I am always struck by the tenacity and guts of the young men that fought it.  It was a war like no other war we had seen---the jungle, the mud, the heat, the monsoons---and the invisible enemy---nothing in our history had prepared us for these conditions.  There's a line in Forrest Gump where Forrest says, "The one thing good about Vietnam is there was always someplace to go---and something to do."  Whenever I hear it, I always think of Mike---because I said to him one time, "I don't know how y'all endured---how y'all were able to find the strength to keep on going."  He just sloughed it off and said, "Ahhh, Margaret Ann---we just did what they told us to do."  Heroes are ordinary men from ordinary places who, when called upon, do extraordinary things.  Not only is Mike Silver a hero, he is one of the finest men I have ever known.

 

 

Leslie Aaron Burril

Les is the last one of us to be born in Mississippi.  He was named after Daddy's older brother whose Navy aircraft went down in the Pacific, midway through World War II, somewhere in the vacinity of the Marshall Islands.  The plane was never found, and Uncle Leslie's body was never recovered.  Shortly after Les' birth, Mama and Daddy packed up their bits and pieces and moved us all to Fayetteville, N.C.  I think the intention was to live as close as possible to Grandma Addie in Sampson County, and Fayetteville was the nearest place that Daddy could get a job.  Cumberland County is tobacco country and Mama and Daddy bought an old farmhouse that sat on eleven acres about 10 miles south of town.  But since farming was never the plan for our family, those eleven acres of woods and fields became the best playground six kids could ever have grown up on.  Part of the downstairs floor of the house had been made into a small apartment that we rented out to young married couples stationed at nearby Fort Bragg.  The young men who lived there were our first introduction to what the soldiering life was all about.  Growing up, Les always wanted to play Army.  Occasionally, we had access to a TV and  Combat! was one of the most popular shows on the air.  Everyday Les would dress up in an old Army helmet and rubber boots that were really red golashes, grab the piece of fenceboard he had found that was fortuitously shaped like a rifle, and strike out---following the foot paths that zigzagged through our property---on patrol---looking for the enemy---just like Vic Marrow on Combat!  The problem with playing Combat! was that there were no girl-parts---so us girls usually wanted to play Wagon Train instead---and that was okay with Les, but he was still going to wear his helment and red golashes and carry his fenceboard rifle.  So Khakie, who was the oldest and always the wagon-master, would make him the scout for our wagon train---and we would just have to pretend that the helmet and golashes were really a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and that he was actually looking for Indians instead of Nazis.  There was never a doubt that Les was going to be a soldier.  It was no surprise that, about a year after graduating high school, he left his Forest Service job cutting trees, and joined up.  The very day he got on the bus for Fort Jackson, S. C., my daughter was born.  The same day his life was beginning the first day of a new chapter, Joanna's life was beginning her first day in the world.  For Les, the connection was made and, for several years, until he had a family of his own, he always sent her a birthday card, remembering their special day together.  The Army sent him to Nekoma, North Dakota, which according to Les, was the same thing as being on the moon---miles and miles of flat nothing in every direction, as far as the eye could see.  He was a part of the Safeguard Program which housed underground anti-ballistic missles in readiness for deployment in the event of a nuclear attack against our country.  Many nights, and sometimes even in the day, he would call me from North Dakota and we would talk on the phone for often an hour or more---on the government's dime---just touching base---catching up---I think his ears were just hungry for that familiar sound of a North Carolina drawl that displaced Tar Heels miss so much when they are far away from home.  He had become an MP in the Army and when he was honorably discharged from the service, he came home and toyed with the idea of joining the highway patrol.  Instead, he went back to work for the Forest Service and after finishing his college degree, came in on the groundfloor of the newly developing law enforcemnt division of the U.S. Forest Service.  He has proudly testified before Congress in defense of our nation's wilderness areas---and has spent the majority of his career promoting and protecting the beauty and the sacredness of the Pisgah, Nantahala, and Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forests of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  The last couple of years before retiring, he was stationed in Washington, D.C. in the Forest Service's office of Homeland Security, still ever vigilant, and still in the service of his Uncle Sam.  Because of his career with the Forest Service, Les has been all over the United States and he loves every inch of it.  He knows what our country was, what it is, and what it can be.  This land is ingrained in him---it is a large part of who he is as a man.  He has not had to step outside its borders to understand how truly lucky he is to be an American---how blessed he is to have been born in this country---and he counts the few years he spent in the Army as a small price to pay to help it to endure---and to keep it free---for all of us.  

 

 Then there are those who, more than self, their country loved..........

 

James Barnett Patterson

 

Us kids called him Mr. Pat and his wife was Miss Charlotte.  They were the first couple to rent our little apartment.  In the beginning, we didn't know anything about where they came from or who their families were, and it didn't matter, because, from the day they moved in, they became one of us.  It was as if Miss Charlotte was our beautiful teenage sister and Mr. Pat was our big, tough brother---we adored them.  Mama and Daddy loved them, too---they fit right in and became the family Mama and Daddy had left behind in Mississippi.  Miss Charlotte would bake us cakes, reminding us to make sure we saved a piece for Daddy, and she let us listen to her Jim Reeves records on her own personal phonograph.  Mr. Pat could do anything---and he surprised us with his abilities on several occasions.  I remember he once set up a barbershop in the kitchen and cut all the boys' hair---another time, we were going to be late for a recital because Mama was, at the last minute, frantically trying to sew the fringe on Khakie and my majorette uniforms as we were wearing them.  Mr. Pat quickly grabbed a needle and thread and helped her finish the job.  When Khakie mentioned that she thought that, in his haste, he was sewing her uniform to her underwear, he told her that that was of no consequence at the moment and could be dealt with later.  That's the way he was---a man for whatever the situation called for.  He was Army-all-the-way.  He and Miss Charlotte eventually got post housing and moved onto the base and we didn't see them as much.  Mr. Pat advanced in his career, and was deployed on a number of missions that placed him out of reach, but never out of touch. We always kept up with them and always counted them as members of our family.  I remember the day we got the letter from Miss Charlotte telling us that Mr. Pat had been killed in action in Vietnam---and at the time, his body had not been recovered.  He had been on a secret mission, outside of the established theater of war when he was hit by enemy fire.  She didn't know if we'd ever get him back home.  We were all crying as Mama read those terrible, unbelievable words aloud---Daddy was completely devastated.  Even though the letter said it was true, and we know that it is so, Mr. Pat has never died for any of us kids---we have carried him with us always---and when the subject of service to country comes up, his name is always the first one mentioned.  He was with us so briefly, but the impact he has had on our lives is incalculable.  If he had lived, he would be 78 years old---instead, in our minds, he remains forever young.  He was a good and capable soldier---one of the Army's best.  He served his country proudly and steadfastly---he put his life on the line to defend it and keep secure the freedom we so often take for granted.  We have never forgotten him.

 

Bobby Baxley

When I was growing up, high school students drove the school buses and Bobby Baxley was my bus driver.  He lived in our neighborhood but I didn't know him very well---mainly because he was in high school and I was just in elementary school---plus, he was a quiet kind of guy, never saying too much.  I remember the time when I had run out of the house to catch the bus and was halfway up the steps when I realized I had left my library book on the kitchen table and it was due that day.  I suddenly froze in mid-stride and I must have looked really pitiful, because Bobby looked down from his driver's seat at me and said, "What's wrong?"  I was a little awed because a high school person was speaking to me directly and I answered in a small voice, "I left my library book on the table."  He put the gearshift in neutral, took his foot off the clutch, and said, "Go get it---I'll wait on you."  I jumped off the bus, ran back to the house, grabbed the book off the table, dashed out the door again, raced back to the bus and up the steps and into a seat.  When I looked up, he was watching me in the mirror---and when he was sure I was settled, he calmly pushed in the clutch, shifted into first gear, reached over and pulled the handle that closed the door, and we went on to school.  When I heard that he had been killed in Vietnam, I was so sad because I had never thanked him for being so kind to me that day---and I have always regretted that.  Years later, as a teacher, I had gone with a group of 8th graders on a field trip to Washington, D.C.  At the Vietnam War Memorial, I checked to see if his name was on the wall---it was there.  I made a rubbing of it and it hangs on the wall in my classroom---and Bobby Baxley still goes to school with me everyday.

 

And the one who left too much of himself in that foreign place.....

Hamp Smith

 

Hamp Smith was another neigborhood boy who also drove our school bus.  Everybody loved Hamp.  He was as country as the day is long.  He was a big, burly, fun-loving, hayseed of a guy---and although I can't say truthfully that he embraced ignorance, it was clear he harbored a generous amount of disdain for academics.  He took Glee Club because it was an easy A.  He took French because it was required for graduation, but no Frenchman would have ever understood his version of the language.  Frankly, he never expected to encounter a Frenchman and, if he did and they wanted to talk to him, then they should have learned to speak English.  Hamp's speciality was farming.  He loved his agriculture class and the Future Farmer's of America organization.  He was born to drive a tractor and he was most at home plowing the fields of his daddy's farm and jawing with the boys at the hardware store.  He was everybody's friend.  He loved Cumberland County and fully expected to live out his days farming the land he grew up on.  But, he got drafted and got sent to Vietnam.  Nobody knows for sure what happened over there---but Hamp came home a changed man.  By all accounts, he lost interest in everything he had previously held precious---he no longer laughed and carried on and he rarely drew a sober breath.  In the pitch black dark of the early morning hours of June 15, 1974, he was drinking heavily and driving hell-for-leather down Raeford Road into Hoke County---he crashed head-on into a bridge abutment and his car up-ended in a creek.  They said he died at the scene, but those of us who had known him his whole life, know he really died somewhere in Southeast Asia---Hamp Smith had never really come home from the war.

 

These days, I teach at a JROTC academy.  We all wear the Army ACU uniform and due to my college degrees, I have been given the rank of Major.  The tribute that is poured on me when I'm out in the public in my uniform never ceases to amaze me.  Strangers will come up to me to shake my hand.  Old men and young men will suddenly come to attention in parking lots and on sidewalks and salute me as I approach.  Sales clerks will stretch above their cash registers and yell across the store to thank me for my service.  Mothers and fathers of soldiers presently deployed in Afghanistan and elsewhere throughout the world, feel a kinship with me and run me down to tell me of the pride they have in their sons and daughters in service.  Each time, I make it a special point to tell them that I've never really served in the military---that I just teach in a military school---because I feel guilty and I don't want to take credit for something so honorable and so revered that I've never done.  Just the other day, I was crossing the parking lot of a department store when I heard a deep voice holler out, "Hey, soldier!  Where's your cover?"  I turned around to see a very handsome, very buff young man in a very hot Camaro, frowning very sternly at me.  I smiled and went over to explain to him that I was really just a teacher---that I had never actually served in the military---and rather sheepishly admitted that I didn't like to wear my hat because it messed up my hair.  He listened to me politely and when I finished my explanation, he looked me straight in the eye and very precisely replied, "I understand your concern---nevertheless, M'am---respect the uniform."  He was so serious, that I promised him right then and there that, from now on when I was outside and in uniform, I would always wear my hat.  His face broke into a wide grin, he nodded very smartly and said, "Roger that, Major!" and sped away. 

 



The uniform of the American soldier, even on the frame of a little old lady school teacher like me, automatically commands respect wherever it is seen, not because there is value in the fabric or strength in its construction, but because of the service of these good men that I have known personally ---as well as all of the other good men, throughout history, who answered the call and came to the aid of their country---who wore the uniform proudly---and defended, with their last ounce of energy, honor, and integrity, the country it represents.  And it is with deep humility and abiding gratitude that I tell them all today, on this Memorial Day, 2013---that I will be forever in their debt.

Until next time.......

 

Peace and fried chicken,

 

Margaret Ann

 





 







 

 

 





Fire the groundhog.........

Okay---I think it's time we got a new groundhog.  The one we have now is obviously not doing his research---or he's too old---or maybe he's just lost his enthusiasm for the job----whatever.  He needs to move on.  Boy did he ever get it wrong!  This has been the coldest spring break I can remember.  Here in the Sunshine State, we have only had two days of warm weather this whole week.  The rest of the time, it has barely gotten above 50 degrees-----in Florida, that's the same thing as freezing.

 

It's no fun being house-bound now that Carolina is out of the NCAA tournament.  I'm still keeping an eye on Duke---and I would really like for them to win the whole thing because I always want a team from North Carolina to bring home the national championship title.  Nevertheless, the games are fewer and fewer now, spring break is rapidly slipping away, and the temperature has just today started to warm up to where it should be.

 

It was so windy last Saturday, my neighbor's American flag flew away, along with an Uncle Sam plaque he had attached to the wall underneath the flagstaff.  I'm telling you, if it wasn't nailed down last Saturday, it was gone.  And after hearing the weather forecast for the coming week, I could see all my plans for spring break blowing away, too, just like that flag.  They were predicting a good day on Monday---but the rest of the week would be "unseasonably cold" until Friday afternoon, when they thought it looked like we might be coming into a warming trend. 

I flipped on TCM and, wouldn't you know it, my absolute favorite spring break movie was playing---"Where the Boys Are."   I know the storyline is considered outdated and silly by today's standards, but I miss those days---it seemed like people had more respect for themselves---reputation was valued---your word was your bond---and it was dishonorable to break it---a commitment was not meant to be taken lightly or to be considered "temporary"---and a commitment was not just to the one you were in love with---it was also a commitment to your parents, to be the person they had raised you to be---a commitment to finishing college and taking a productive role in society.  In those days, it seemed like we all had expectations of "being somebody."  I guess every generation feels that the one that follows theirs is less principled, much more lax and overindulgent, and will surely be the ruination of the planet.  Hmmmmm---now that I think about it, it seems like I've heard my depression-era parents say something along similar lines on a number of occasions as we were growing up in the 50s and 60s.

Anyway, one of the best things about "Where the Boys Are" is the theme song.  I love the way the intro of the song builds musically, in a stair-step kind of way---to where, when you get to the very top of the stairs, the incredible, dynamic voice of Connie Francis overwhelms you and envelopes you and draws you in to a melody and lyrics that are both plaintive, yet joyously hopeful---and also, trusting--believing that true love will happen---because, in the end, that's the way it's supposed to be.  It's a great song---and there's no point in anyone else recording it, because nobody could sing it like Connie Francis.  In fact, if I could pick anybody in the whole world to sing like, it would be Connie Francis.  My gosh, what a voice!

The second best thing about "Where the Boys Are" is the clothes.  The clothing of the 50s and 60s is so neat! To this day, I love watching Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, and Doris Day movies just for the clothes!  "Where the Boys Are" has the same appeal.  I love the crinolines that made your skirt float around you like a cloud---Bermuda shorts---shell tops---ballet flats---shirtwaist dresses---crisp oxford blouses with Peter Pan collars---dress suits with pencil skirts and boxy jackets that had three-quarter sleeves---dress gloves---coordinating handbags---pillbox hats---and dress shoes with a moderate heel, suitable for walking.   In the movie you can see that, in those days, there was an etiquette for dressing---depending on the time of day it was and where you were going.  If you're into vintage clothing, you'll enjoy "Where the Boys Are."  It's a history lesson in fashion.

Anyway, seeing the movie just put me in the mood to go to the beach---and by Monday morning, I figured, if I was going, I'd better go on that day because the rest of the week did not look good.  The  closest beach to me is  Melbourne Beach.  I had heard that it was a real nice family beach.  I checked it out on the internet---driving directions and places to eat when I got there---and decided to go for it.  My friend Ana is pretty spontaneous---I thought she might want to go, too---plus she lives in St. Cloud, about an hour away from me, and would have plenty of time to get ready before I got there.  I called her and asked her if she was up for a road trip and she said, "Absolutely!"  She said that the beach was a straight shot from her house, 45 minutes down the road.  I plugged her address into my GPS, pointed the Cruiser toward St. Cloud, and an hour later, picked her up---and 5 minutes after that, we were on our way.

It's open highway all the way from St. Cloud to Melbourne---topography that is as flat as a pancake---nothing but lush pastureland, palm trees, and live oaks for about 60 miles.  It really is a beautiful, peaceful drive---the perfect atmosphere for conversation.  Since teachers rarely have the opportunity to socialize during school hours, and after school time is usually spent preparing for the next day, Ana and I took advantage of the situation and caught up on all the gossip.  The time flew by and the next thing we knew, we had arrived at the town of Melbourne.

The day had warmed up nicely.  The sky was clear as a bell, cloudless, and brilliantly Carolina blue (for you folks who don't know, the sky is Carolina blue even when you're in Florida).   At the stoplight before crossing the bridge over the intercoastal waterway, I put the top down on the Cruiser and we started looking for a place to eat lunch.  Since we were at the coast, we wanted to eat seafood.  I had seen the Beachside Cafe on the internet.  It looked interesting, very beachy, with grass tikki umbrellas out front to sit under.  But when we found it, it was closed on Mondays.  Ana looked in the window and said she didn't want to eat there anyway because it didn't look clean.  By this time, we were really getting hungry---and we didn't want pizza or fast food, which was all we could see from where we were.  There was a fish taco place in a strip mall across the street, but it didn't have the atmosphere we were looking for---we wanted not only good food, but a we're-having-lunch-at-the-beach-dining experience, also.  Next door to the Beachside Cafe was The Black Dog Bait and Tackle Shop.

I said, "That place looks like it's been here a while. I bet  somebody in there knows where there's a good place to get some seafood around here."   The place had a little bit of a fishy-smell.  The ceilings were low and it was kind of dark.  Every inch of available space, walls, countertops, and rafters, was covered in fishing merchandise.  I never realized there were so many different ways you could catch a fish.  This place seem to have anything you could possibly need to entice even the most discriminating and persnickety of fish.  A tall man was at the counter, talking to a younger man who was in the back, digging in an old, galvanized drink box cooler.

The tall man looked like somebody who might be going fishing, so I asked him if he was getting bait.  He shook his head and said no---and about that time, the young man raised up from the drink box with a pan full of beautiful, fat, fresh shrimp.  They were perfectly pink---so, I'm thinking they might have been cooked already and had been kept on ice.  While he was wrapping the shrimp in freezer paper, I asked the young man if he could recommend a good place to eat seafood around here.  He grinned and said there was no such place in Melbourne Beach.  I knew he was pulling my leg---and I said, "Oh, come on, now---were at the beach---there's bound to be a good seafood place somewhere close by."  He thought at minute---the tall man suggested the Hilton---I said no hotel food---then the young man said, "Are you wanting 'white-tablecloth' or 'beach-food?'"  I said, "beach-food."  He told us to try Sand on the Beach, just around the corner, on the left, we couldn't miss it.

Since the Beachside Cafe was closed, we decided to leave the Cruiser parked where it was and walk---it was such a lovely day and the boy said it wasn't far.  Almost immediately, we could smell charcoal-cooking coming from somewhere, and that made us hungrier than ever.  We followed the directions the boy gave us, but we didn't see Sand on the Beach anywhere.  We decided we couldn't wander around much longer---neither of us had eaten since early that morning and it was already going on two o'clock---we were hungry---and Sand on the Beach, as delightful as it sounded, might have to be saved for another time.  Across the street was a pink building that advertised a bikini bar, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  We thought, what the heck.....why not....

It turned out it was Sand on the Beach!  And the charcoal smell was really wood chips burning, coming from a meat smoker in front of the restaurant.  It's an open-air place---you can sit at the bar or out on the covered deck.  There were a lot of people there, but the waitress quickly found us a table close enough to look out at the ocean, but far enough back to be out of the breeze. Sixties music was playing in the background with a little K.C. and the Sunshine Band (Florida's own) thrown in the mix every third or fourth song.  The setting was perfect---exactly what we were hoping for.

 

The menu offered a variety of seafood selections, reasonably priced---I think the most expensive item was something like $14.95.  I wanted some kind of fish sandwich, but when I saw they had a crab cake sandwich, I thought, ummmm, that sounds good.  I asked the waitress if it was a Mrs. Paul's-type of crab cake---she assured me that it was real crabmeat and they made them up, fresh, there on the premises.  It came with a remoulade sauce that I didn't particularly want.  I told her that I had tasted that before and I was pretty sure that I didn't like it that much---that I would prefer tartar sauce if it was available.  She said it was, and that she would bring some tartar sauce and that she would also bring some remoulade sauce "on the side" so I could try it again if I wanted to.   That sounded good to me, so I ordered the crab cake sandwich, fries, and coffee---Ana got the same.

 

Oh my gosh, it was so good---I had to take a bite before I could even take a picture of it!

Ana and Margaret chowin' down at Sand on the Beach in Melbourne Beach, Florida

The restaurant has a staircase from the deck down to the waterfront.  From that vantage point, you can see the pristine, white, sandy beach stretching for miles in either direction---and, closer to the shoreline, I couldn't help noticing that this same Atlantic Ocean that has a gray color to it at the North Carolina coast, was a lovely, inviting blue-green hue here in Florida.

We didn't get in the water---it was still a little too cool for us to be that  adventuresome---although there were a few kids there brave enough to give it a go.  Instead, we sat down at one of the umbrella picnic tables---and after shivering through the last couple of cold days, it felt so wonderful just sitting there in the shade and burying my bare feet in the warm sand.

 

Since we were this close, I wanted to drive out to Cape Canaveral, which is about 20 miles north on the beach highway.  We needed to check it out because, once our school gets a little more established, hopefully, we can go on a field trip to the Kennedy Space Center.  So we took one last picture, jumped in the Cruiser, and headed for the launch pad.  On the drive up to the cape, you will pass through Cocoa Beach, which appeared to me to be much more touristy than Melbourne Beach---lots of souvenir shops.

 

We tried to stop at the Ron Jon Surf Shop, but it was to hard to park, so we gave up.  

 

 

Driving through Cocoa Beach, Ana and I recollected that this was where Captain Nelson and Jeannie lived on the I Dream Jeannie TV show that was so popular back in the 60s.  Turns out they've even named a street after the show.

 


Before you get to the NASA Space Center, you'll pass the Port of Canaveral where all the cruise ships depart.

 

This is where the roads got a little crazy---there were a whole lot of interchanges going to the ships and other NASA places---in other words, you kinda had to know where you were going---I didn't have the GPS on, so I was just guessing which road to take, checking the compass to make sure I was still going north---and I got on the wrong road.  We could see the space center in the distance, but couldn't get there from where we were.  We ended up at a place called SpaceX that. according to the sign, is the Air Force Space and Missile Museum.

We tried to get some information about the museum and what it offered while we were there, but the place was locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

This was where the road ended for us---to go any further, we would have had to have some kind of pass or security clearance.  Besides, it was five o'clock---time to start heading back home.  We'd have to save the Kennedy Space Center for another day.

We turned the Cruiser around and drove back south down US 1-A. We caught Co.Rd. 520 out of Cocoa Beach to Nova Road.  Nova Road is 26 miles of rural Florida serenity and solitude that goes all the way to St. Cloud---the perfect way to end a splendid day that began in defiance of an incompetent groundhog, nostalgia for a wonderful old movie---and fond memories of youth and other spring breaks now long gone.



Until next time,

 

Peace and fried chicken........

 

Margaret



Not exactly what I had planned.....

 

 

  It's not exactly been fun-in-the-sun this spring break.  I was hoping to get in a little practice at the driving range and maybe play a round or two of golf this week, but the weather is just not cooperating. We've had a couple of nice,  sunny days,  but the last two or three days have been downright COLD, and the wind has been blowing 900 miles an hour.  But, in a way, it's not been such a bad thing, because I've been able to really work on this blog---plus, March Madness is in full swing and it's really hard for me to get away from the TV when ACC basketball is on.  Cold weather gives me the perfect excuse to stay inside and watch the games.  I don't watch all the games---just Carolina, Duke, Wake Forest, NC State, and Florida State---I haven't been able to get interested in Miami, yet---probably because I'm still mad at them for beating Carolina so badly earlier this year.  The only time I really care about what happens to Virginia, Clemson, or Georgia Tech is during NCAA tournament time.  I rarely even remember that Boston College is in the ACC---so I don't really care about what happens to them even in tournament time.  And Maryland can just forget it!  I can't believe they are leaving the ACC---they are charter members of the conference---who in their right minds would even think of leaving such a prestigious conference as ours---and going to the Big Ten---what kind of sense does that make???  Anyway, I am mad at them for life---and I don't care what happens to them, ever.

 

 

This must be the spot where Maryland crosses over to the Big Ten

 

Anyway, my first Friday night of spring break was spent in front of the TV, watching Carolina beat Villanova.  It was a great game---the Tar Heels were fired up and Hariston, Bullock and Paige were burning up the scoreboard with three-pointers.  Roy Williams was looking fabulous in his dark gray suit---I wish he would wear this color suit more often---with his hair color and his skin tone, it looks

best on him.  He really is a handsome man.

 

 

 

But I have to say, in the wardrobe department, both his light gray suit and his tan suit wash him out way too much---and they make him look a little heavier (sorry, Roy, but it's true).  I can't remember which game it was when he debuted the checkered sports jacket--but I do remember thinking, oh my Lord, Roy, you look like something off Hee Haw.  All you need is a cowlick sticking up on the back of your head, a giant sunflower stuffed in your lapel, black out your front tooth--and you'd look right at home sitting on a hay bale next to Junior Samples and his coon dogs.........BR-549.
                       
 And whoever it was that suggested that dreadful collection of rags Roy wore at the Carolina/Miami game ought to be fired.  The gameday commentators kept going on and on about Roy's new suit---saying that it was so spiffy and expensive---but, honest to goodness, I don't know what they saw---maybe it looked good in person, but on TV, it looked kind of pinkish in color---brownish-pinkish---and it made him look fat.  I kept thinking, oh my Lord, Roy, spill something on yourself or something so you'll have to change clothes-----that outfit makes you look like a chubby pimp.  The TV announcer said that, before tip-off, Roy had vowed to the team that he would never wear that suit again if Carolina lost the game.  We lost---and even though it was a bitter pill to swallow, I think, in the end, it was worth it to get rid of that suit.

But Friday night was good---and it looked like the Tar Heels might have a chance at winning the whole thing.  They would be playing again on Sunday evening---against Kansas, Roy Williams' former team---so this was going to be a really big game.  I texted Lori (the Carolina Girl) and asked her if she wanted to meet for supper at Buffalo Wild Wings and watch the game on the big screen.  She agreed and we met at the Michigan Ave./Osceola Parkway location at 5 o'clock, both wearing our Carolina Blue for the occasion.  

 

I expected the place to be packed---after all, it is March Madness---but it wasn't.  In fact, I think Lori and I were the only ones watching the game.  Basketball tournament time is just not the same here as it is back home in North Carolina---and I really thought it would be, since Florida State and Miami are both ACC teams---it's puzzling to me.  Anyway, I ordered sweet tea, a hamburger and fries, with extra mayonnaise on the side.

The waitress asked me if I wanted some kind of special wing sauce to go on my burger, but I told her no, just extra mayonnaise---that it was my favorite condiment.

 

I love hamburgers.  Back in the 60s, when we were still involved in the Cold War, I used to worry that if I was ever captured by the Russians and they said, "Tell us all your secrets," I would very bravely say, "No, no---never!"  And then those crafty Russians would say very slyly, "Tell us and we'll give you a hamburger...,"----(sigh)---I just knew I would cave---I knew I would never be strong enough to say no to that.  (Sorry, Uncle Sam.)  So, it was kind of a relief to me when Glasnost came about and I no longer had to worry about compromising my patriotism. 

 

I don't eat them very often---because I know you're supposed to eat red meat in moderation, but I'll admit, a good portion of my life has been spent on the quest to find the most delicious hamburger---and when I go to a restaurant, if a hamburger is on the menu, it's kinda hard for me to order anything else.  So, with that much experience to back me up, I hope you will understand the magnitude of the following statement:  The hamburger I ate at Buffalo Wild Wings last Sunday was the best hamburger I have ever eaten in my life!

 

I only wish the game had been as good as the hamburger.  It started out great....

 

but, by halftime, we were on the ropes, battling for our lives.  Kansas was relentless---the Tar Heels fought hard---and the lead changes were back and forth for a while---but then Carolina got behind and couldn't recover.  The three-pointers weren't falling for Hariston, Bullock, and Paige like they were on Friday night---and McAdoo was less McAdoo and much more McAdon't than he has been lately.  He was getting the rebound pretty well, but he wasn't scoring---nothing much would go in for him.

 

Final Score

Carolina 58                        Kansas 70

 

Anyway, win or lose, Carolina basketball is always exciting---and what better way to spend a chilly, blustery Sunday afternoon in Florida--the food was delicious, the entertainment was top-notch, the conversation was engaging, and the company was delightful---and for Roy Williams and the Tar Heels------there's always next year.

 

Until next time,

 

Peace and fried chicken....

 

Margaret

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



And they call the thing RODEO.....

 

 Even though the title of this post is from a Garth Brooks song, I like George Strait better---and when I saw this picture, I thought, oh my gosh, truer words were never spoken.  My favorite George Strait rodeo song is "Amarillo By Morning," but it wouldn't work for the rodeo my friend Ana and I went to, because our rodeo was in Kissimmee.  Ana is another one of my teacher friends from Acclaim Academy.  She teaches middle school social studies.  Ana is originally from the Dominican Republic, but she has been in the United States for a long time.  She taught in the New York City public schools for about 20 years before coming south to Florida.  She loves horses and so I figured she would be up for attending the Silver Spurs 130th Semi-Annual Rodeo with me.

 I had never been to a rodeo before---and I was so surprised to learn that rodeos were such a big deal here---so here was a real opportunity to educate myself. 

Let me tell you how big rodeos are here in Kissimmee---Osceola County Schools close for Rodeo Day on the Friday before President's Day---but we reopen and have school on President's Day when the rest of the country is off---that's how BIG.

Well, as you know, President's Day weekend is in February, and even though the winters are mild here, generally in the high 60s and 70s, it can get very cool at night.  So I suggested to Ana that we go to the Sunday afternoon rodeo when, at least, the sun would be shining and we wouldn't get so cold sitting in the stands.  That's when she told me, oh, no, no, no---not to worry---the rodeo is inside. 

The Silver Spurs Arena is huge---once again, a testament to the influence of the rodeo in Osceola County.  It's very nice inside---very clean---with a wide-open common area at the entrance.  In the common area, just inside the door, there is a photo-op corner where, for $10, a gentleman will take your picture sitting on a real stuffed bucking horse or a real stuffed bucking bull---your choice.  I decided to forego that experience for myself, but the British visitors to the rodeo were lining up like crazy for this ultimate in American vacation pictures to show to their friends back home.  To the side, next to the stairs, western-wear outfitters had set up shop to entice potential customers to browse and, perhaps, make a purchase before the show started.  I took the opportunity to window-shop a little while I waited for Ana to arrive.  In fact, there was a pair of boots (just my size), calling my name, telling me they wanted to go home with me---but I resisted, telling myself I'd look again at the end of the rodeo---which I did---but they didn't have a price tag on them (a bad sign) and I couldn't find a salesperson to help me at that moment, so I walked away.  But now that I look at them again,

 

I'm thinking maybe I need them after all---they are so pretty!

 

Anyway, while window-shopping, my cell phone rang---it was Ana---she was there---where was I?  I told her I was standing at the front door---she said she was at the front door---I looked around---I didn't see her anywhere.  There were a lot of people there, so I told her to meet me at the stuffed bull.  She didn't know what I was talking about---that's when we figured out she was at the North Entrance and I was at the South Entrance---like I said, this is a pretty big place.

 

All seating is on the second floor, which is a good thing, because that means you are above the action and there are no bad seats in the house---you can see the whole show from anywhere.  Also, there are no reserved seats, so the choice is yours---as close or as far away as you want to be.  On the second floor, there is a wide concourse that goes completely around the arena.  Ana told me to stay put beside the concession stand, that she would come around and meet up with me.  

 

I've always been a little leery of carnival food---although it smells good, the people preparing it often look a little shady in the health-code-requirements-department.  But these were really nice concession stands---there are four of them, two on each side of the arena, near the top of the stairs.  The people working them were all local rodeo association (can't think of the name of their organization) volunteers---they all looked like real cowboys and cowgirls to me.  They served regular concession-stand food (hot dogs, hamburgers, nachos, etc.) that was reasonably priced; Ana got a hamburger that she said was good---I passed because I had eaten before I came---and we both got coffee, which was hot and delicious.   One more thing about the arena before I get on to the show---girls, there are plenty of bathrooms---clean and no waiting.  I don't know about the guys' facilities, but I assume they are the same. 

 

The show starts when the lights go dark and they place a spotlight on the west gate entrance.  The "Orange Blossom Special" begins blasting over the loud speaker---with the music as a backdrop, the rodeo announcer makes the introductions over the PA system as a parade of all the riders, riding clubs, and rodeo queens enter, galloping, waving, and smiling at the crowd.  They circle the arena at break-neck speed, and then line up smartly for the national anthem.  After honoring our nation, the announcer leads everyone in prayer.  The "amen" no sooner leaves his lips, than loud western-horse-riding music---I think it was the theme from The Magnificent Seven movie---the Marlboro Man music, for us older folks who remember cigarette commericals---bursts from the speakers and the riders take off again, galloping as fast as they can, grinning like they are having the best time. They make one final circuit of the arena before exiting through the west gate in a cloud of dust.

 

Ana and I checked the program and saw that the contestants were from all over the United States.  We decided we would cheer for all the riders from Florida.  Upon closer inspection, I saw that one of the contestants in the steer wrestling event was from Dunn, NC!  I have relatives in Dunn.  His name was Brian Barefoot.  I told Ana we had to cheer for him because I was kin to some Barefoots and he might be my cousin.

 

The events go really fast because these bulls and bucking broncos do not want to be ridden.  Each event has a time limit that cannot be exceeded in order to qualify to win.  There is a jumbo-tron that tells the contestant's name and time if you're interested in keeping score.  The bull riding event started the show.

According to Ana (and she knows all about rodeos), these are normal animals---probably naturally at little on the contrary-side---but not necessarily mean---it's the band fastened around their bellies, in front of their hind-quarters, that makes them buck.  As soon as the rider is thrown or jumps off, a handler or a rodeo clown will run up to the bull---one will get the bull's attention and the other will quickly unlatch the band.  The bull will then trot briskly back to the gate because he's done his job for the day and he knows he's getting a treat when he gets back in the pen.  Ana and I, along with most of the crowd, cheered loudly for all the riders from Florida.  They deserved it---I don't know how these men's backs survive such an ordeal---their pelvises have to be so flexible---I believe even Elvis might be a little envious of their technique.

Steer wrestling was next.  In this event, the rider and the calf are released at the same time.  The rider must catch up to the calf, jump off his horse, grab the calf by the horns (or ears or something around the head), and wrestle the calf to the ground---the side of the calf's face has to be touching the ground---and all this has to be done in about 10 seconds---well, I think you at least have to catch the calf within 10 seconds or the elimination horn will go off and you're out.  If you catch the calf within the time limit, the clock keeps ticking until you actually get him down---then you're still in the running and that will be your final time in the competition.  Anyway, this was Brian Barefoot's event---the guy from Dunn, NC---maybe my cousin---so we were ready---and when the gate flew open, Ana and I were screaming our heads off for Brian to go--go--go--go, Brian!!!  Git 'im, Brian, git 'im!!!  But-------------I don't think Brian was expecting to hear anybody in Kissimmee cheering for him------I think we might have startled him a little bit----and I think maybe we might have messed him up----got his timing off a little bit----because he didn't even come near catching the calf before the horn went off-----oops!  Sorry, Brian.  If you're my cousin, I hope you're not mad at me.

 

 

Saddle bronc riding and bareback riding are about the same.  One event is with a saddle the other is without.  Both events are scored the same as steer riding---stay on for a certain amount of time and you don't lose---stay on for a longer time than anybody else and you win.  Check the jumbo-tron for the results.

 

Barrel racing is an event just for girls.  And let me tell you, these girls and their horses are fast!  The horse stands poised with his front hooves on the start line---the rider is crouched low in the saddle---her head almost level with the horse's---and when the starter pistol fires, they leap into action---galloping real low and fast---leaning low, low to the ground as the horse rounds all the barrels----and after rounding the last barrel, the horse explodes with speed---sprinting so fast, his tail and the rider's long hair is standing straight out behind them like flags in the wind---hunkered down, hooves pounding, they fly across the finish line kicking up buckets of dirt in their wake.  Someone will have to tell them later what their time was, because at the speed they're clocking, they will be well out the doors of the arena before their momentum will allow them to stop to see the score on the jumbo-tron.

 

Beauty queens of all ages abound at the rodeo.  But these girls are not just pretty, they are expert riders, too---even the little ones.  At least ten states were represented by rodeo queens.  About halfway through the show, one of them came and sat down in the row in front of Ana and me.  We knew she was a rodeo queen because she was decked out---all sparkley and glitterey--in her western rodeo queen outfit---her make-up, hair, and nails were all just perfect.  She unipped a small, pink, rodeo-queen attache' case and started leafing through 8x10 color glossies of herself---some head shots, some full-length shots---all beautiful---trying to decide, I guess, which one to put in the next rodeo program brochure.  I watched her for a little while out of the corner of my eye.  She got out her I-phone (pink, of course), checked her messages, texted someone, then gathered up her pictures and started packing everything back in the attache' case.  I knew then I was about to miss my chance---I told Ana that I would never forgive myself if I let my one and only opportunity to speak to a rodeo queen pass by---that I was going to talk to her.  So I tapped her on the shoulder and said in my most courteous-tell-me-your-whole-life-story-southern drawl, "Excuse me----hey--(smile)----my name's Margaret Roland---and I just wanted to ask you...........are you a rodeo queen?"  She flashed her lovely pageant smile and answered very demurely, "Yes..."  I said I knew it---that I could tell because she was so pretty and her outfit was so glamorous---and I told her that I saw her looking at her rodeo queen pictures and that they were all gorgeous---that any one she picked would be just perfect.  She blushed a little and thanked me----then we really got to talking---she is 19 years old and she is Miss Rodeo Illinois.  She'd been in Florida for a week and she enjoyed it because she got to go to the beach one day, but she would be glad to get back home.  This was the last rodeo event for her until April, when things would begin again in earnest.  She was scheduled at rodeos all through the spring and summer in the midwest and western states (she named them all)---in the fall and winter, she would be in the southern states.  She was looking forward to competing for the Miss Rodeo America title in Las Vegas next January.  Her reign as Miss Rodeo Illinois would end this time next year.  She has a boyfriend---he's in the rodeo too, but on a different circuit---she goes to Black Hawk College, majoring in business management---but being a rodeo queen has been a good way for her to travel around the country and see everything.  She was a real sweet girl--beautiful and smart, too.  I asked if I could take her picture---and, of course, she obliged---after all, that's what rodeo queens do best! 

Cassandra Lynne Spivey

Miss Rodeo Illinois

 

I think the most interesting rodeo competition event is Team Roping.  This is where two riders take off, lassos swirling, after one calf.  One rider ropes the calf's horns, the other rider ropes the calf's back feet and winds his end of the rope quickly around his saddle horn.  The cowboy who roped the feet then jumps off his horse to wrestle the calf to the ground, while the first rider backs his horse up, keeping the rope stretched taunt between him and the calf's horns.  The interesting thing is that the horse that the rider jumped off of has a job, too----and he knows exactly what to do---and does it every time.  His job is to back up, just like the other horse, keeping the rope stretched taunt between him and the calf's feet, so that the calf will be disabled, flat on its side, while his cowboy swiftly ties up all four hooves of the calf.  It really is a team effort---and the riderless horse is a major component of the team---he has to think and respond expediently, because if he doesn't do his part, his team loses.  Horses are so great---they are such beautiful animals---they just love to be with humans and they love to help humans---and they are so loyal to the humans who care for them..

 

The rodeo lasted 3 - 4 hours, and I will say with complete honesty that no animal was hurt or abused in any event of the show.  I say this because when I was driving into the parking lot earlier, there were PETA animal rights people picketing outside the gates, shouting and waving signs saying that rodeos promoted cruel treatment for animals.  From what I saw, that's nonsense!  If those PETA people had gone inside, they would have seen, firsthand, that these rodeo folks love their animals---and it is in the best interest of them and the rodeo to keep their animals healthy and safe.

 

Well, the rodeo was really a great show---and I'm so glad I went.  I learned so much---saw cowboys and cowgirls on beautiful horses in fast-paced action---met neat people---enjoyed good company---it was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.  A real slice of Americana.   I would recommend it to everyone.

 

Until next time.......

 

Yeeee---haaaawww!

 

 

 

Peace and fried chicken...

 

Margaret