The Rattlesnake Incident - Aftermath

I wrote recently about an incident in which I (reluctantly) helped a gentleman catch a rattlesnake on 108 between Tryon and Columbus.  I didn’t get the man’s name or intentions at the time which I regretted later.  I put a post including a picture on Facebook about it for fun and the incident took on a life of its own -- Polk County’s version of viral. 

For those unfamiliar with Facebook, I had 21 “likes” which means that 18 people read it, enjoyed it but had no comment.  Those who did comment provided a wealth of information.

The post:

“Off to the grocery store last night to buy kibbles.  Came across a car stopped on the road in my lane.  A man in front of the car was chasing something. I got out to play good Samaritan. He was trying to pin down a snake with a ski pole.  He seemed to know what he was doing. I asked what kind of snake. Rattlesnake, he replies calmly. I begin to rethink my samaritanship. He tosses me a plastic bag and asks if I could hold it open. I do so. He pins the snake and grabbed it just behind the head and deposits the creature in the bag.  Then he grabs the bag from my hand (which is good because I really don’t want to be holding a rattlesnake) and puts in in the back seat of his car.  He thanks me.  I thank him.  I wish I had had the presence of mind to ask his name. I’d love to find out what he did with the snake.  But instead I bought kibbles.”

The comments:

Bonnie Joy Bardos - It's the snake whisperer! He's either got himself a new pet named "Rattler" or he's having fried snake tenders for dinner. (and a new belt).

Wally Hughes - Did it look like a rattlesnake to you?

Elvin Clark - He was only a couple of feet long but he did have a rattleish tail.

Bonnie Joy Bardos - He might be *even* shorter now: those tenders are bite-size. Couple of feet: ON the feet. New boots. (can you tell I have a vivid imagination)

Lauren Field Halbkat - Dangerfield Ashton. I would bet money on it. He is the only guy I know that has a rattlesnake habit and carries ski poles for hiking. :)

Anne Foster Day - Elvin, his name is Daingerfield Ashton. I'm friends with him on FB. Known him forever. He taught Art at Spartanburg Day School for years. He posted about the snake on his page last night.

*(At this point, I contact my daughter who went to school at SDS and she remembers that he taught her and her friend Dana there.)

Susan Dore Kocher -  What an awesome stage name!  

Dana Orchoff Gencarelli - Yep, it definitely looks like Mr. Ashton from SDS! Too funny!

Elvin Clark - Dangerfield Ashton. I want to change my name.

Anne Foster Day - His personality matches his name. You need to have the chance to really talk with him.

Elvin Clark - I am now totally convinced of the power of Facebook.

Dana Orchoff Gencarelli - Dangerfield Ashton is not a man to be trifled with, in my experience! Once in 7th grade he actually managed to convince me that my purple LA Gear tennis shoes might actually be green when no one was looking.

Susan Dore Kocher - I think when Dangerfield gets introduced to his adoring audience in this made for TV movie he should have an Australian accent

Elvin Clark - and a hat.

Jacquie Ziller - That was across the street from my house!! Roy was there and told me. I am glad someone caught it before it crossed the road! So why did the rattlesnake cross the road? :) almost

Steve Carlisle - About 45 minutes later he Green River BarBQue was robbed by a man with a rattlesnake. Police are still looking for his accomplice

*(The instigator joins the fray.)

Daingerfield Ashton - dayum! I am soooo busted!

Daingerfield Ashton - but all I got was a BBQ plate and some ribs .....

Daingerfield Ashton - they said they didn't BBQ rattlers so I let him go .....

Rebecca Davis - Too funny. Where else but here would you post this story and less than an hour later have his name, work history and a new friend with a cool name and hobby.

Wally Hughes - Had to look.....people who inspire Daingerfield are Charles Manson and Osama Bin Laden. Under Activities and Interests-BACON!  One interesting person.

Susan Dore Kocher - ‎...as he dug into the BBQ with his ski pole... no that doesn't work.

Daingerfield Ashton - I am also inspired by Dick Cheney!

Anne Foster Day - Don't know many people who don't love Daingerfield Ashton!!

Wendy Reid O'Neal  - Mr Ashton, your legacy continues from one generation to the next! I have known you since I was 3.5 yrs and your crazy stories! Now, my children are glued to the Mac Computer as I read your FB stories to them!! My 2 year old is in speech therapy right now but said "rattlesnake: this morning.

I heard from Mr. Ashton the next day.  The snake was released in the mountains unharmed.

The Rattlesnake Incident

On Monday evening last at about 7:30 pm, I set out in my truck to BiLo to buy kibbles for my dogs.  Along 108 between Tryon and Columbus, I come across a car stopped in my lane.  No one in the car but there is a man in front of the car who seems to be tending something in the road.

I leave my car and go out to play good Samaritan.  I find the gentlemen attempting to capture a snake with what looked to be a ski pole.  My first thought was that a putter would have been the better choice of club but he seemed to know what he was doing.  I ask what kind of snake.  Rattlesnake, he replies calmly.  I quickly begin to rethink my samaritanship.

It wasn’t a large snake as frightening, horrific, venomous snakes go, maybe a couple of feet long.  I take a quick look at the tail portion and decide that it did indeed look rattleish although not having any basis of comparison other more than a few Western movies seen in my youth.

The gentleman tosses me a plastic bag (I assume he keeps one handy for just such occasions) and asks me if I can hold it open.  I do so.  He then somehow manages to pin the snake with the ski pole, grabs the snake just behind the head, lifts him up and drops him in the bag.  Mercifully, as I’m standing there wondering what I’m supposed to do with a bag full of rattlesnake, he snatches the bag from my hand.  Very Indiana Jones like although Jones did not like snakes.  But I digress.

He thanks me.  I thank him.  As I reach my truck, I remember I have a camera and I take a quick picture of the gentleman and his capture.  He puts the bag in the backseat of his car and we go on our respective ways.

I wish I had had the presence of mind to ask him his name and what he was going to do with the snake.  I would love to write the story. It seemed evident to me that he wanted no harm to come to the creature.  I applaud his service.  If the gentleman sees this and would like to contact me, I would very much enjoy the update.  

I bought kibbles.

Through the power of Facebook, this gentleman to believed to be one Daingerfield Ashton. For any aspiring actors reading this, that would be one of the greatest stage names ever conceived.

Ironically, he taught my kids art at Spartanburg Day School.  I'm still trying to find out what he does with rattlesnakes.

Joe Paterno’s legacy has crashed in disgrace.  What should be his legacy is that he was a great man disgraced by loyalty.

How would any of us feel if a friend who you’ve known for 50 years was accused of being a pedophile?  Maybe the reports you’ve heard are only of the friend showering with young boys.  Yes, this shows inappropriate behavior beyond belief but he’s still your friend.

What would you do?

Would you do nothing?

At the very least, would you not talk to the friend.  Tell him the behavior is inappropriate.  Would you do nothing?

One of the great teachings of football is loyalty.  And everyone associated with a football team in whatever capacity is viewed as family.  It is an admirable trait and an admirable sport.

But if an adult member of your family is known to be showering with young boys and rumors allude to more, would you not talk to the friend?

Even if you are not the most powerful figure in your state, your town, your community -- WOULD YOU DO NOTHING!

Chances are that Joe Paterno never believed the allegations against Jerry Sandusky,  never believed them because he was a friend.  After all, how could a friend do such a thing?

The only action Joe Paterno took was to not let anything be done.  He did report to his “superiors” but then told his “superiors” not do pursue the matter. “All that is necessary for evil to triumph if for good men to do nothing.”

I feel for the Paterno family.  With JoPa’s death, they are left suffering the both his death and the dismantling of his memory.  For all the good he did, what he will be remembered for is what he did not do.  Is it fair?  No.  But the lifelong effects of Sandusky's victims is also not fair. 

Joe Paterno obviously did a tremendous amount of good for his school, his state and his profession.  Unfortunately, all the good will be lost because because what he did not do.  In this case, evil has triumphed over good.

“All that is necessary for evil to triumph if for good men to do nothing.” – Edmund Burke

Never was this statement more true. 

Obituary for Meg

Meg Clark, beloved family member and friend, died May 6, 2007 after a sudden and terrible illness.  Her suffering was relieved by a procedure too humane for humans.  She passed gently and quietly, as she led her life, looking into the eyes of those who loved her and those whom she loved.

Also known as Meggie, Meggers, Megala and Pretty Girl, she brought balance and grace to her family for 11½ years.   She will be remembered for her intelligence, beauty, affection, long-suffering patience and an occasional desire to become a 75 pound lapdog.   

She loved to dance.

She was preceded in death by her beloved friend and mentor Sam Clark, the golden retriever who raised this sweet brindle boxer/lab. 

On her first night at home as a 9 week old puppy, she was sequestered to the kitchen for obvious reasons.  The exit from the kitchen was blocked by an overturned piano bench.  After a few minutes of listening to some sad cries, the family emerged to find Sam looking at the pup over the bench.

When asked, “Would you mind, kiddo?” the bench was moved, Sam walked into the kitchen and lay down on the floor.  Meg snuggled up next to her new big brother and went to sleep.  They slept that way every night until she was too big to make the spooning practical.  She never cried again.

Surviving her were her two red-coated brothers who harassed her mercilessly and who miss her terribly.

 

She will also be remembered for her tail which matched a nightstick in both texture and, occasionally, ferocity.  For years and including the last day of her life, the first conscious sound that the family heard was the gentle thump of her tail signaling that a new day had dawned and life was good.

Her ashes were buried on the family property next to her Sam as both would have wanted.  In her honor, once the proper type is found, a tree will be planted on the Clark property.  Preferably one that thumps.

The Evil

Some boys are born evil.  Some have evil thrust upon them.

In an early post, I alluded to a “(save one)” incident.  This was me at my absolute worst.

I can’t remember how old I was exactly.  And as with most evil, it came as a result of boredom and obsession with a new toy. 

My toy of obsession was not actually a toy but a compass.  Not the directional finder tool but that thing you could draw circles with that all school kids used to carry around in their school bags.  It held a pencil in one of its arms and a sharp pointed spike on the other.  I doubt it’s used in schools any longer as it would probably be categorized as a weapon.

I can remember spending inordinate amount of time drawing circles and then drawing circles within circles, connecting circles with circles of various sizes.  For some reason the symmetry just fascinated me.

Eventually, I must have filled all the available paper with circles and went on find other worlds to circle.  At some point, I found myself sitting on the floor next to our big, black, upright piano in the room we called the living room (even though we spent very little time there).

I never knew why we had a big, black, upright piano in our living room.  I think I saw Mom sit down at it maybe twice in 18 years and play a little.  The piano had one key in the center that was completely dead and it laid there like a flat tire for eternity.  It was basically a piece of furniture that covered a lot of wall space.

So there we were; a stately, ancient, black piece of furniture and a bored male child with essentially a knife in his hand.

I don’t remember what I was carving into the side of the piano or how long I was carving into the side of the piano before I finally realized that I WAS CARVING INTO THE SIDE OF THE PIANO.  I still rate that moment in the top 3 panic attacks of my life.  I knew I was in deep shit.  I even thought for a while that at that moment I had coined the word “shit”.

My life passed before my eyes.  It didn’t take long.

As bad as this moment was – we haven’t gotten to the evil part yet.

Here’s the evil part.

I decided, for some inexplicable reason, that my only hope for survival was to somehow cast doubt on my own guilt by implicated other possible suspects.  I then proceeded to carve my sister’s name into the piano.  JUDY

Needless to say, this ploy failed miserably.  It also had an added undesirable effect.  My initial fear had been of what my mother was going to do to me.  That was quickly superseded by the fear of what my sister was going to do to me.  I’ve never seen anyone, before or since, look that angry.

I don’t actually know what was done to me.  The brain fortunately blocks out excessive trauma.

After 20 years or so my sister eventually forgave me;  she hasn’t  forgotten.

The one solace I take from this experience is that even though I did, indeed, commit evil; I wasn’t very good at it.

For the record, I was not an evil child.  At least I don’t think so.  I say this because I do not remember (save one) any of the crimes although I have vivid memories of the punishments.

Please keep in mind that this was when corporal punishment was still in vogue and, in fact, expected by both perpetrators and corrections officials.  In today’s world I could have sued Mom for everything she had. 

These occasional “corrections” took place when I was a wee lad probably before I was 6 years of age (save one).  I say this because there were certain size restrictions; meaning that I remember trying to hide in small places.

I knew whenever I had crossed that line from precocious to criminal because Mom’s face had a tell.  Mom could get mad and her face would turn red but even then she could still be calmed down by some random act of cuteness or contrition.  If, however, she put her tongue in her cheek so that her face pushed out on one side – the end was near.

Three things you must know.  First, Mom did not paddle.  She did not rap knuckles.  She preferred the switch.  For those who may not know, switches are very young, thin, flexible branches that grow from the base of a tree that if allowed to grow to maturity would eventually create a new, tall, strong base adding itself to the existing tree.  At the switch stage however, these branches are basically small organic bullwhips and were most effective when used on the legs.

There was a tree of at the edge of the driveway whose purpose in life was to produce these weapons.  Every year it would generate a new batch of high quality, skin peeling switches that were the envy of the neighborhood parents.  Mom could have made a fortune by starting a cottage industry.

Second, the rear part of our house was not enclosed but was propped up on cinder blocks and open on two sides.  Too small for parents, but large enough for a kid.

Thirdly, I was always wearing shorts so that my legs were always bare.

From the parent point of view, the switch technique eliminated the immediacy of punishment because you had to get a small knife or scissors, leave the house, walk to the tree, assess the pros and cons of each potential tool, cut it and then return to the victim.

From the child point of view, the switch technique heightened the terror and dread factor exponentially,  heightened it to the point of desperation.  So at least few times, I chose to use this delay to crawl under the house.  I’m not sure how long I thought I could hide but terror does things to a boy.

So there we would be, the plot of infinite action movies.  The outmanned hero, trying desperately to escape after striking a blow for democracy at the enemy versus the superior equipped enemy stalking his prey unforgivingly.

Mom was good.  Real good.  She learned very quickly that I was more of afraid of the things that might be under the house than I was of taking a switching – although the two were very close.  She would walk around so that all I could see of her was from her calves down and tell me about all the rats and snakes and crawly things that lived under the house and the terrible things they did to young boys.

My next tactic would inevitably be to crawl out from under the house and run.  This proved to be humiliating as well as terrifying because she would catch me.  She was faster than she looked in those days.

As I grew certain things conspired to eliminate this correction practice.

1)      I became a better kid.  Questionable but possible.

2)      I started school and started always wearing blue jeans.  I don’t think I wore another pair of shorts until I was in high school.

3)      When I was old enough to mow the law, the first thing I would do is cut down the switches around that tree.

4)      I could finally out run my mother.

Rinaldi Street (or Renaldi if you prefer)

The house(s) and yard where I grew up in Elizabethtown no longer exist.  In 1942, Ernest and Maxine Clark bought two lots on Rinaldi (alternately spelled Renaldi) Street from Nobie Thompson. 

In 1979, the house that I remember was not destroyed but moved to somewhere near Dublin.  This is a fact had no emotional impact on me at the time but which now gives me some sadness.

The yard is now a set of mini warehouses for rent which can be found on Google Earth. I can’t tell you the address.  I suppose it had one officially but I never knew it.  As far as we were concerned, our address was P.O. Box 61 and the post office was only a couple of long blocks away.

The street was most likely named for a William S. Rinaldi who was a justice of the peace in the mid 1800.  Judging by the street given his name, he was a competent if not remarkable public servant.

Like many things concerning my family’s history, there are holes in the information that makes things a little unclear.  As you face the property from the street, a house was built on the right lot a few paces from the street.  It burned, at least partially, when I was an infant and all that remained from that time on was a set of concrete steps leading nowhere but providing a wonderful jumping off place for youthful energy.  There are pictures of us in that house but neither Judy nor I have any memory of it.

Another house was built on the edge of the lot to the left about 20 yards in.  This is the house that I remember. Dad built it. I don’t know if this house was in the process of being built when the other burned or started afterwards.

It was a white clapboard house that perpetually looked like it needed painting possibly because it did.  The initial structure was basically square and my father added the undamaged rear portion of the burned house to extend the length and provide a rear porch.

Behind the house was a long three line clothesline where my mother spent a good deal of her time over the years.  At the left rear corner of the property, Tony Inman and I built a quasi-treehouse from which we would swing Tarzan style over the rear fence and back again.

A straight driveway lead from the street by the side of the house past the pecan, walnut and chinaberry trees into a tin-roofed open shed.  The shed was about the size of a garage.  While my father was alive we used the shed for cookouts and making vanilla ice cream in a hand-cranked churn on Saturday evenings.

Next to the shed, Dad built a playhouse for Judy and me.  The right half of the playhouse was a room complete with door and floor.  The windows were screened. The left half was a large sandbox.  Sometime in my youth, I dug a tunnel from the sandbox underneath the room and thus escaped from the Germans.

Behind the sandbox and into the right corner of the property there was, for many years, a sizeable garden.  Rumor has it that my grandmother told my mother that babies were found in cabbage leaves;  a rumor which might help explain my late arrival but there is no truth to the speculation that that was the last year we had a garden.

The right edge of the property had a second straight driveway that lead to the garage where my father would park his Chevrolet.  After his death, we stored the leftover lumber brought from his shop on Ice Plant Road.  The black Chevrolet then took up rather permanent residence in the shed as none of us could drive it.  Judy was a year away from getting her license and my mother never drove in her life.

Those concrete steps I mentioned stood in memorial.  Eventually, a mobile home, where my grandmother Steenie was to live, was moved onto the property and attached to the plumbing hook up left by the house that burned.  Steenie lived alone essentially because no one could live with her.

What was left behind Steenie’s trailer was a large(ish) playground where I and other the neighborhood kids would play whatever sport was in season year round.  In the summer our houses were used for sleeping, eating, using the bathroom and virtually nothing else and sometimes not even the bathroom requirements.  And shoes were irrelevant.

There was a large walnut tree beside the driveway near the house which was generous enough to provide a perfect limb for a swing.  My father attached a heavy chain loop and fashioned a seat with notches cut on either side to hold its place in the chain.  I once built a parachute for myself out of cloth and string.  I attached it to myself somehow and tested it by swinging as high as I could and jumping out.  Results were not encouraging.

We had a basketball goal whose rim (despite my best efforts) maintained a rakish angle to the right.  I spent much of my teenage years negotiating its eccentricities.  To this day I tend to see everything just a little tilted.

Memorial Day - my scars

I was never in a battle. Never even in the service. But Vietnam was my war and with it I have my own scars and my own unique Memorial Day memories.  And for the record, I love my country and always have, but I don't always like it. 

My memories are cheap compared to others.  As far as I know, I lost no one there.  No name to etch from the Wall. No family member returned home to cope with the loss of a leg or an arm or themselves.

Of course, I have since met many men who were there and have been fascinated by their stories.  Those who would talk with nonchalance; those who would talk with pain; those who would not talk at all.  The latter were the ones that disturbed me most of all.

Vietnam was something I grew up with through grade school and into college.  Before 24 hour news channels and tons of entertainment options, we had one TV with three channels and you had to walk to change the channels. Each 6:30 network news broadcast was a mirror image of the other. It was the first war brought into our living rooms and we could see battles and killings every evening delivered to us in small digestible increments.  Journalism was learning its way with the new technology and if the competition does it, so must you. But as with most programming you see on TV, the images seem either too real or not real at all.

I went away to college in 1971 at age eighteen after fulfilling my obligation to appear before the Selective Service Board to register for the military draft.  I went to college not to escape the draft, for there were no more student deferments.  I left to escape my hometown.  The America of the 60’s had caught up with the Bladen County North Carolina in the 70’s. My senior year there were bomb threats (usually fourth period) and race demonstrations.  Elizabethtown had come of age.  If America was in turmoil, I wanted to be somewhere where there might be a chance to see hope.

In college, Vietnam was, of course, the major cause. I witnessed demonstrations and protests and I even grew to envy the extremist on both sides.  To them everything was clear.  This was right.  That was wrong.  Simple. No confusion.  Black and white with no gray allowed.  The same way I envy but despise the extremists of today. 

I think for most of us things weren’t that easy.  We didn’t want to die, but more importantly we didn’t want to be put in a position where we would have to kill.  And if we had to do either, we needed to know it would be worth something.  That was the question and no one had an answer -- no one sane anyway.

The Draft Lottery loomed large in the late 60’s and early 70’s.  Every male in those years was aware that most of the rest of his life would be changed (or at least influenced) by a simple event that would take place in October of his eighteenth year. I don’t remember the date but in my six story dormitory it was the “social event” of the season. We all cut class and gathered around the television in the lobby for the vigil which seemed to go on forever.  Winning or losing numbers were based on a number assigned to your birth date.  After about four hours my number came up -- 193.  The draft cutoff was estimated to be 165.

So I was safe.  I wouldn’t have to go serve my country and face the prospect of war if I didn’t wish to. In retrospect, the military would have been good for me.  I certainly needed discipline. But in 1971, the idea of enlisting never have crossed my mind. It was the time of Vietnam.

So I was safe.  Now what. I didn’t know quite what to do or how to feel. My life had dodged its first bullet without me having to decide or do anything at all. Those are my scars; little, but deep and definitely still there all these years later.

If my number had come up, I would have served.  Canada was always talked about as an option but I would never have done that.  I knew that then and I know it now.  But I never had to make the decision.

In the 90’s, my step-son entered Naval ROTC at Duke and then served for 5 years in the Navy serving on several warships.  He was on the USS Carl Vinson aircraft carrier as it was rounding the horn of India when 9/11 took place.  That ship would later launch the first fighter attacks on Afghanistan.  Later, ironically, he would be on the USS Cowpens when it launched the first missile attacks on Iraq in 2003.

I think of him on Memorial Day.

There was one eighteen-year-old at that long ago lottery festival that I will always remember.  I had never seen him before and would never see him again but for that one day he was famous.  He was number 1.  The look on his face – amusement, irony, resignation.  All the looks I had expected to see on my own face.  We all chipped in and bought him a case of beer. I learned later that he got roaring drunk and left school the next day.

I think of him on Memorial Day, too.

Evolution of morning on May 25, 2012

I woke up very early this morning. I tried to look at the clock without moving and all I saw was a blur of numbers.  After debating how curious I really was, I raised my head and squinted enough to see “4:12”. 

I knew immediately that I was not going back to sleep.  Sometimes you just know these things. But I continued to lie there so as not to disturb the rest of the house – particularly the dogs.

So I laid there and thought.  And thought.  And thought.  I thought about what woke me up.  I thought about my left shoulder which has been hurting me and I which I think is what woke me up.  I thought about whether or not I should go to the doctor.  I thought about how I really didn’t want to go to the doctor.  I thought about how adulthood wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be.  I thought on.

As I have done a lot lately as has been described in this blog, I thought about growing up in my hometown of Elizabethtown and I thought of stories I could and should write; about our house, the house next door that burned down leaving only a set of concrete steps, Dad grilling on Saturday nights and watching wrestling through the window, making ice cream, killing flies for recreation (life existed before Xbox); just things that are coming back to me that I haven’t thought of in a lifetime.

By 5:21 it seems light enough now to minimize the trama to the dogs so I got up (as quietly as I could so as not wake Connie) to start their morning routine.  The light is in that early transition period between night and morning that has them both at a stalemate.  I turn on the outside light but it has little effect.

First order of business is to fetch the paper.  I do this more for the sake of jump starting the dogs plumbing than a desire to read all the news that’s fit to print in the Hendersonville Times-News. The driveway is about 100 yards long and walking slowly it gives them an opportunity that they usually take full advantage of.  Much to my surprise, the paper was there.  What time do those people go to work?

When I opened the door to the screened porch to let them in, we hit the first problem of the day.  Toby and Tristan wait impatiently as if they were in the starting blocks for the 100 meters at the Olympics.  When the door opens they race each other to the kitchen expecting some human to be there to feed them.

Tris miscalculated just how open the door was and ran his head into the corner edge.  He didn’t make a sound and it didn’t even slow him down much but there is a mark on his head right between his eyes and it had to hurt.  Note to self: modify how I open the door in the morning.

They’re fed.  I make coffee and then make my way to the screened porch – the favorite room of our house. We have a one-seater cloth swing chair that I sit in and put my feet on a pillow placed on the railing for just that purpose.

I hear what I first thought was rain but it was just the sound of the trees releasing the rain they had collected overnight by stretching their leaves towards the oncoming sun.

The crows are loud that time of day.  I think they’re crows.  They sound like crows. My guess is they’re related to roosters as they seem intent on informing an already informed world of the upcoming day.  There’s one little bat darting back and forth over the yard not wanting to go home.  Finally, he relents.

I have the brilliant idea of trying to take a picture from my chair through the screen out onto the yard.  Unfortunately, the flash goes off and I ended up with a picture of my feet on the rail.

As the light takes over, morning activities begin.  The dogs, who initially stayed with me on the porch, have gotten bored and moved to the other end of the house to wait for Connie -- they’re next best chance for food.  One of our neighbors appeared walking his two small white dogs as he does every morning without fail.  This must be one of his good days; he’s not using his cane.

The light has once again defeated the darkness and the song birds take over.  It’s 7 o’clock. 

I think I’ll go to bed.   

Dad was a cabinet maker/carpenter

Dad was a cabinet maker/carpenter and had a shop at the start of the Ice Plant Road just a block from the hospital where I was born.  It was a tin, square building without even a sign and it was a magical place for me. 

The best part of the shop was a pile of discarded pieces of wood from cuts he had made with his various saws.  They were my toys.  Odd shapes and unusual angles.  The irony is not  lost on me that my favorite things growing up were the discarded waste from other projects.  That seems to still apply.

Once a client wanted a giraffe hat rack.   Dad made one that stood, I think, about 5 feet high.  It was painted white with black spots.  Its tail was dowel with a round, red ball of wood at the end and a smile was painted on his face.  I loved it. 

I wanted it. 

The client was late picking it up and after much harassment Dad finally said that if it hadn’t been picked up by the end of the week, I could have it.  The client, however, came back on that Friday. I don’t remember if I cried or just felt like it.  I was probably six.

I'm sure if I had pressed the issue, Dad would have made one just like it for me.  I never asked.  There was only one.

I remember going to the shop with Dad.  I also remember not being able to go with him as much as I wanted to.  He would come home for lunch and I would eat quickly and then go outside and try to hide in the backseat floorboard of our black Chevy so I could stowaway to the shop with him.  I remember trying this tactic a number of times. I don't remember it ever working.  Apparantly, I wasn't as good at hiding as I thought I was. 

I don't know how often it would happen but it happened often enough to make me still remember it 50 years later.  Dad would come home from work and bring a pack of two Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts that he would buy at Jack Marshall’s Esso just up the street from the shop.  Judy and I would rush out, take the doughnuts and eat them on the spot. 

He would smile.  Mission accomplished.

The night Dad died, I wasn't home.

My father died of brain cancer (though technically of a heart attack) at home on Wednesday night November 8, 1961. I was not at home.

I spent that night next door at the Inmans' house.  I remember this because it was a Wednesday night and the Inmans let me stay up to see Alvin and the Chipmunks which came on at 9pm.  That was a pretty big deal to an eight year old in 1961.

Mr. Jesse Inman owned the local Red and White grocery store and we called him Mr. Jesse.  He was one of the kindest men I ever knew.  His status with me was also enhanced by an ability to imitate the sound of a mooing cow which could be heard all over the store.  He had two sons.  Tony was my age and Joe a couple of years older.  We spent years playing whatever sport was in season in one of our two yards.

I know in retrospect that at some point that night the phone rang and Mr. Jesse was told that Dad had died.  I don't know if the decision was made not to tell me or Mr. Jesse just couldn't bring himself to tell me that my father was dead.  Who could have blamed him?  Many years later I had to tell my step-daughter over the phone that her father had died.  It was one of hardest things I’ve ever had to do. 

The next morning started normally as far as I was concerned and I walked home to get ready to spend another day in third grade at Elizabethtown Primary School.  The first thing I saw walking back across the yard was a wreath hanging on the wall next to the front door -- and the front door was open.

Our front door opened into what we called the "living room".  Ironically, it was the least used room in the house.  The "door" and the "room" were never used it except for formal occasions.  In later years, Judy would receive her gentleman callers there and but as of that day it was only used for Christmas.  (We left the front door unlocked on Christmas Eve for Santa Claus because we didn't have a fireplace.) In cold months, we would close it off completely to save heat. 

I went into the house through the front door and I saw that a podium had been set up in the living room with a book on it.  I later learned it was for vistors to sign when they paid their respects to the family.  Next to the podium Mom was sitting in a chair with Judy standing just behind her—both were crying.  I walked to Mom and she said simply, “Daddy’s gone.”  Always helpful, I responded, “Gone where?”

I don't know what words were actually said but eventually I got it.  I began to cry. Mom tried to hug me but I broke away and I ran back to the bedroom to see my Dad.  For some reason I believed he would still be there.

But Mom was right. 

He was gone.

Dad's wallet

Today would be Dad's 114th birthday.  Here are a things that he carried in his wallet.

Dad didn't really go to church that much and when he did and hymns were sung he would mumble the words. But he loved to sing "AMEN".

He would go to Sunday School but then leave in order to "start the rice" for Sunday dinner.

 This is front and back of a folded piece of paper that I had never seen before.

On the left are the birth and death dates of his parents.  Upper right are the dates of his sister for whom I am loosely named.
The others are the names and dates of his brothers.

He kept it with him always.

Dad's last driver's license.

The Clarks of Elizabethtown

We had, what I always appreciated to be, an unusual family.  Lee Ernest Clark was raised on the family farm with his sister and four brothers and did not marry until he was in his thirties.  When he did marry Mary Maxine Butler, she was eighteen.  Nothing to my knowledge is known of either their courtship, marriage or their early years together. 

I remember that my father told me once, when somehow the subject must have come up, that he was driving his Model T down the road, saw Maxine, slowed down and said “Get in.”  They then drove across the state line to Dillon, South Carolina and got married.  Years after he was gone I told my mother what Dad had said and her face took on an expression that combined horror and amusement.  But she never completely denied it.

Somewhere in the timeline, Ernest and Maxine moved onto Rinaldi Street in Elizabethtown, Bladen County, North Carolina.  Dad by then had become a carpenter and built the house that I grew up in.  By the time I came along, my parents had been married for 22 years.  They had adopted my sister Judy Ann Clark seven years before. 

The next story I know to be true because it was told to me by my mother.  When my sister was six years old, for some unknown reason, there was a horse or pony at our Uncle Horace’s house. Uncle Horace and Aunt Vi lived just a couple of houses away.  Judy was put on this animal and proceeded to fall off – blame was never determined.  Mom was concerned for her and took her to see our family doctor – Dr. Channing Glenn. 

Dr. Glenn was one of those men who commanded absolute trust.  His word was never questioned in all the years he was known to us.  He examined Judy and declared her to be fine.  Mom thanked him and then said, “While I’m here, I haven’t been feeling too well lately.”

Dr. Glenn examined Mom and then told her that either she had the gout or she was five months pregnant.   I’ve often wondered that if Judy had not fallen off that horse that day, would I have just shown up one January morning.

Mack, as she was called, was a large woman; a fact that I appreciate even more now as I have inherited her body type.  By today’s standard it might seem ridiculous that a woman wouldn’t know that such a thing was happening to her body.  But in 1952, she was old 39 years old and had given up on the possibility.

From what I was told, due to the unexpected nature of Mom’s pregnancy, I became the miracle baby of my hometown.  In that age long before the sex of a baby could be told before birth and, based on some flawed reasoning,  it was determined that I was to be a girl and I would named Evelyn after my father’s sister who had died giving birth in 1926 at the age of 23.

Consequently, when I arrived in early January 1953, displaying all the attributes of not being a girl, I had already ruined my first birthday party.   I was named Elvin (derived somehow from Evelyn) Glenn (from Dr. Glenn, oracle of the miracle) Clark.   Once I asked my mother why she had let Dad name me Elvin (as I considered it a burden).  She told me that during the birthing process in the hospital they gave her ether and for the first three days of my life she could care less what they called me. 

Judy’s life was naturally thrown into chaos by my arrival.  This was proven the very next month when Judy’s birthday came and she invited several friends over for a birthday party; a party that Judy had neglected to tell Mom about.  Also, during that period and being what would be termed a colicy baby, I would start crying hysterically at the stroke of four o'clock every afternoon. It created all the elements of a perfect storm.

So were the beginnings of the Clarks of Elizabethtown.  Three people who chose each other and an unexpected interloper.