Memories of '69

At least for now, I’m only going to write one post about ’69. It was the year I finished out my elementary school days at Bradley Creek. This post takes off where my "68 posts ended. And yes, that's me in my soap box derby.

Although ‘69 started out with a host of funerals, the year eventually moderated and my memories are not all bad. I started the year in the sixth grade at Bradley Creek Elementary School in Mrs. Graham’s class. Sometime during this year I became interested in Cathy, a dark-haired Italian girl who had transferred from the Catholic School to the public schools. Cathy sat in front of me and her hair often draped down over my desk. By the end of the sixth grade, the two of us became an "item" and were inseparable. Inseparable, except for when her brothers were around. They were several years older and loved tormenting me. However, Cathy’s devotion was a gift that lifted my self-esteem. My thoughts of Diane had long faded and I knew Cathy and I would be together forever.

Cathy and her family often went to the beach the same place our family would go, and we would be there at the same time. I recall one particular summer day in which my grandparents were also down. We were all out at the beach, and I introduced Cathy to my grandmother. I may have even privately told my grandmother that Cathy was the girl I was going to marry. Later, after we were home and while everyone was taking showers to wash the salt off, I overheard a conversation in the kitchen between my grandmother and mother. My grandmother chastised my mother for my interest in this Catholic girl. She worried that this girl might pull me away from the faith and thought my mother should do something.

My mother defended me, although I did’t think that was what happened at the time. I was offended when my mother told my grandmother, "Don’t worry about it. They’re just kids." I certainly didn’t feel like a kid and overhearing this conversation felt like I was about six inches tall. My mother went on to prophesize that our little affair wouldn’t make it out of the seventh grade. But she was right. In May of 1970, at the end of our seventh year in school, I did something incredibly stupid. Trying to act big and bad, I got mad at Cathy and referred to her as a female dog. She took offense and broke up with me. I was devastated and drew upon all the literary skill I possessed as a 13 year old and wrote a letter to her to woo her back. I admitted I had made mistakes and promised her the moon. We talked a few times after that, but we never got back together. That summer, the school district realigned the boundaries once more and Cathy and I were in different schools and lost track of each other. By the way, a few years after my grandfather died, my grandmother married a Catholic man. Shortly thereafter, he joined the Presbyterian Church. This was the second man my Scot Presbyterian grandmother brought into the faith.

Sixty-nine may have been the year of the underdogs in sports as the New York Mets won the World Series, but I never got any lucky breaks. I didn’t even make the little league team in my last year of eligibility. The team was limited to five twelve years olds. I got traded to another team, and they cut me. It was painful, especially since I had hit two homers in practice. But my fielding continued to suck and even the American League didn’t have designed hitters’ back then. So instead of baseball, I looked into racing.

Although I grew up in the South, I came from a family that at best ignored NASCAR. Actually, I think my parents had great disdain for the sport. As a child, I only got to go to two races, both of them in Darlington, SC with the Boy Scouts. Even though my father often volunteered to camp with us, he was notably absence on these field trips. Racing seemed exciting, even though we scouts sat right next to the track and lost some of our hearing from the noise. I saw Richard Petty ‘s famous crash at one of these races. His car came off the turn before the grandstand (we were across the track in the bleachers), hit the wall and flipped several times. We were sober as the ambulance hauled him away. He was our hero and we were hoping he'd win.

That Spring I decided to try my hand at racing by building a soapbox derby car. David, another friend whose father had died the year before, and I both planned to build a cars and my dad served as the supervisor, shop foreman, and safety and quality engineer. Although we were suppose to do all the building ourselves, my father interpreted the rules a little loosely and insisted that anything cut with a circular saw didn’t count. We could use small jigsaws and drills and sanders, but he wasn’t going to let us use something that might cut off an arm or leg. He helped us cut out the parts and then turned us loose. David took his parts home while I continued to work on my car out in carport, where Dad continually told me it wasn’t yet good enough. I’d then turn the radio back on. "Dizzy," by Tommy Roe was popular, and would sand and plane and file to the music. Finally, the car was ready and painted it orange.

Belk Berry, a department store in town, sponsored my car. Belk Berry was a part of the vast Belk chain that spread across the South, whose founder, a pious Southern Presbyterian from Charlotte, gave children a dollar if they memorizing the youth catechism. I decided that I didn’t need a dollar that much, but I think my sister got one. Belk Berry’s name was proudly displayed on the side of my car and on race day, I was a proud driver as we got read on 16th Street, the only street in the county with enough elevation to provide mobility to a gravity powered car. I took the first heat, but lost in the second round.

In June, we ended our tenure at Bradley Creek Elementary. They had a banquet for us in the cafeteria. Some of us thought our parents were invited. We were embarrassed for our parents who came with us and found out the banquet was just for students. I don’t think my parents minded as they went out to the beach and enjoyed what I’m sure was much better meal than a slice of dried ham and lunch room mac and cheese.

Our keynote speaker that evening was Mr. Mason, the principal at Roland Grice Junior High. We'd all be in his school that fall. This was back in the day before there was too much discussion about religion and school, although I don’t ever remember us public prayers in school (I prayed a lot, generally before test in which I hadn’t studied). Mr. Mason told us there were two rules from the Bible that if we obeyed, we’d get along fine at Roland Grice. Then he asked us if we knew which one’s he was talking about. Some girl who always sat up front and knew all the answers was called on first. She said, "Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you." Mr. Mason smiled and congratulated her. First rule down. Then he asked for another volunteer for the second rule and Billy (this was not the Billy I ran around with, but a new guy who had moved into the area that year), waved his hand. Mr. Mason called on him and he stood up and in loud voice asked, "Thou shalt not commit adultery?’" Mr. Mason turned red and everyone laughed, even though most of us just had a vague idea about what adultery was about. However, we knew it wasn’t something we’d likely have to worry much about in Junior High. For those who are curious, the second rule was to honor our father and mother. Six years later, when we were graduting from High School, I recalled this event in Billy's yearbook.

The highlight of the summer of ’69 was watching the Apollo moon landing. We were glued to the TV most of the evening. It was way past my bedtime when we finally saw Neil Armstrong take those first steps. The next morning, Dad and I went fishing at dawn out by the jetty at Wrightsville Beach and I wrote in the sand, in huge five foot tall letters, "we have landed." After the turmoil of the past few years, it was something all of us could be proud in. That summer, in addition to going to the Washington area for my father’s company picnic, we took a vacation to Atlanta. For some reason, driving down to Georgia, I remember listening over and over to the song "25 or 6 to 4" by Chicago. My parents always liked country music, so there must have been some stretches in South Carolina where they could only get rock stations. I still think of that trip when I hear that song. In Atlanta, we visited Six Flags, our first "theme park" as a family. We also took in a Brave’s game. The Braves weren’t very good back then, they didn’t have Ted Turners dollars to buy the best team in the league, but we did get to see Henry Aaron belt a homer. Later that summer, I started school at Roland Grice Jr. High. We were the "Black Knights." It was more exciting than starting college.