It has been said that everyone has at least one good story within, and this may be true. But just because there is the story it doesn’t necessarily follow that the story is worth telling, or that it is worth hearing. And so I ask myself if I have a story and should I tell it.

There have been two stories told already in my family, and I really don’t know what is prompting me to tell my story. There are many people who have stories far more interesting than mine. There are people who have led more interesting lives, and have known more fascinating people, and have made more of an impact on their world than I have.

Some people have stories that should be shared. These are the stories that will be lost in time if not passed down to the next generations. But are these stories of interest to anyone other than the writer and a few family members? Over the course of time, what we remember as being of great importance seem to loose its luster due to the ravages of time. The stories which we hold most dear are the stories about those whom we love the most, and keep alive in our collective memories.

Stories that involve us personally are the stories that we like to hear because they take us back to times, and places that are of simpler and happier days of our lives. Story telling is not an easy task when it strives to be objective. Story telling is very personal, and stories are always told from a point of view. And so, I may remember an event in one way, and you may remember it in a different way.

And so, if I decide to tell my story, I must presume that it is both worth telling and worth listening to, and that takes a certain amount of boldness to reach that point. But there still remains the question of when to tell the story. Those who write an autobiography by the time they are 30 have always amused me. I can’t help but wonder what could have happened to them in their short life worth hearing. Stories that come from the shallowness of youth are not as interesting as the stories that are rung from the tears, heartaches, joys and accomplishments that come from having lived life.

There was in Charleston, SC, Dawn Langley Hall, who said that when she wrote her autobiography, people would once again start jumping off the Cooper River Bridge. I wish I had that kind of story to tell, but there is very little I can tell which is not barely above the mundane. It may be that the greatest good to come from story telling is not in the hearing, but in the process of the telling. Story telling may force us to deal with the demons and boogiemen of our past, and to force them into some sort of perspective and order in which we can live in harmony.

The demons, boogiemen and I are not in complete agreement as what to tell, and how to tell it, but all do agree with the advice given to Alice when she asked where to start, and was told to "Naturally, begin at the beginning."

The beginning for me would have to be December 7, 1940. Not the day which would forever live in infamy, because that was to come later-exactly one year later. I have always thought of it as a glorious celebration of my first birthday. But 12/7/40 was the beginning of recorded history, at least of my history. And allowing for the fact that there must have been some pre-history of at least nine months prior to that date, it is from that winter day that my story takes it opening pages.

My entrance on the stage of life was made in Rutherford County. Not Rutherfordton, North Carolina because that is the town, and we lived in the Piedmont Community some two miles from the county courthouse. The name of the community came from the Piedmont School, and the Piedmont Baptist Church, which was to play a large role not only in my life, but also in the life of my family.

My grandfather owned a farm, and we were living in a house on that farm. The house had three rooms and an outhouse just down the path. From my warm point of view, I could only assume that December 7, 1940 was a cold winter day in the country. The Sylvan Theater in town was showing "Diamond Frontier" with Victor McLaglen and Anne Nagel. On that Saturday my father had gone to the 3 p.m. funeral of Marshall Callahan at the First Baptist Church. Marshall, who had died at the age of 29 as a result of a traffic accident, was a co-worker and close friend of the family. Both he and my father worked for Yelton Milling Company. Marshall was riding in a company truck driven by my uncle Johnny Hollifield. The truck was struck by a train, and he never regained consciousness. In earlier times, Mother and he had been an "item," and his death upset Mother and caused her to go into labor.

Mother and I were not left home alone. My grandmother Hill was there as her eldest child began labor, and a cousin of Mother’s, Polly Higgins, was also there. It was obvious that Polly had little or no experience in things leading to maternity. In short, she was a nervous wreck, and her attitude was doing no good for Mother’s state of mind. To give her something to do, and to help her quiet down, Mother suggested that she put water on the stove to boil. This was something that was done at every birth in the movies. I don’t know how Joseph and Mary birthed baby Jesus without the boiling water. Mother had already told Polly and Grandma Hill where the box of clean rags (cloths) was kept. Was this the 1940 equivalent of "swaddling clothes?" So Polly proceeded to boil water in every pot and pan she could find and get on the stove.

It is now getting later in the winter afternoon, and Daddy has come home from the funeral and has been sent to get the doctor. I know that there are some who cannot imagine a time when a doctor would come to the sick, rather than the sick going to the doctor. Today the chances of getting a doctor to come to your house are about the same as having Elizabeth II ring your doorbell. Mother knew that when the doctor sent her to the hospital she would not get supper, so she was eating a banana sandwich. She would get to the kitchen, where a great deal of water was being heated, eat a bite of sandwich, have a pain and go back to the bed and lie down until the contraction passed. Then it was back to the kitchen for another bite, another pain, and bed again. This continued until one trip she barely made it back to the bed, and her third born (that would be me) decided enough was enough, and there I came: William Raymond Hollifield, born at 6:45 p.m. weighing in at 7 pounds.

Grandma was sitting beside the bed holding my head up, crying and praying, "Oh, Lord, what are we going to do?" This from a women who had already given birth to ten children, and from whom one would expect childbirth to be old hat. Meanwhile, Cousin Polly continued to boil water. Mother thought all of this was hilarious and began to laugh. Perhaps this is the source of my sense of humor, hearing laughter as one of the first sounds of life. Crying and praying also worked their way into my being. And although I am not an earth child, I do feel a strong affinity to water.

And if I needed someone to impart a sense of satire to the sense of humor, the doctor came in then, saw all the boiling water and said "My God, Polly, what are you going to do, kill a hog?" If you are from the city this will have no meaning, and you will miss the humor.

I have a sister, Frances, who was ten years old when I was born. I don’t know where she was on the day of my birth. Children were not allowed to attend funerals then, so I don’t suppose that she was there. But I don’t believe that she was at the house either, because it would not have been wise to have pre-teen age girls hear the labor moans of their mothers, or else the entire population would cease to be when the time came for them to consider motherhood. Actually, she was just down the road at our grand parents home with all of her aunts and uncles, a few of whom were her own age. So, she was not so far away from the scene of all the action on that day. But in every way possible, she was trying to distance herself from what was going on.

I do know that December 7 is rather close to December 25. That Christmas, Frances wanted a bike, and when I came along so close to Santa Clause’s visit, she was certain that I was the new bike that she wouldn’t get. So with all the vengeance of a ten-year-old girl, she refused to look upon the beauty of the newborn wonder. Only after Daddy had threatened to spank her did she finally look at me. At Christmas she got her bike, so I can only assume that her attitude toward me changed.

What are the first years of anyone’s life spent doing? Well, for me, it was being under-nourished, throwing up, and having a nervous breakdown. I don’t remember a great deal of the earliest years of life, but about the age of five I was "sick." At that time, we did not know of anyone who worked as a Child Psychologist, but there was a children’s doctor in Shelby, and it was to him that I was taken. After many hours of conversation with Mother, Daddy and me, alone and in various combinations, he determined that I was learning too fast. I wish I could have kept that trait for college when I needed it. The doctor said that I had suffered a "nervous breakdown" just like college students have. They must have been the only folk in the 40’s who had "nervous breakdowns."

The doctor felt that I was spending too much time in the company of adults. I don’t remember this as being the case, because I could play with my cousins. He suggested that Mother and Daddy go to New Hope and rent me a little black playmate (that is modern terminology, the words he used are unacceptable today) to have as a companion. They found a 12-year-old girl who was hired to be that playmate. She was at the age to be more interested in boys and combing her hair, and I was hurt because I thought she was supposed to play with me. Our relationship came to a crashing halt when she said, "You follow me everywhere I go. If I farted in a jug, you’d want to smell it." We had no future after that, and once again I was left alone.

But there was another piece of advice that the Shelby doctor gave Mother and Daddy. God bless his soul, he uttered what was to be some of the most powerful words ever spoken in my life. "Have you ever considered music for this child?" Oh, Yes! His thought was that music (the piano, since that was all there was at that time) would be an outlet for my emotions. And throughout many years of life, I have found that music could absorb any mood.

Remember that I was five at that time, and because my birthday fell so late in the year, I was not able to start school until I was seven. In those days the philosophy of education was different, and music lessons could not begin until the 4^th grade. It was thought that a student could not learn any earlier. If that were the case, I have often wondered why have grades 1, 2, and 3? If one can’t learn until grade 4, why not start school in the 4^th grade?

Those were long years of waiting to get old enough to begin to learn to play the piano. Today it is possible to start music lessons at any age – even three. It was with a great deal of frustration, longing and anticipation that I waited for the 4^th grade. I can’t help but wonder how life would have been different if I had been able to start music at age five when I needed it the most. The results would not only have been different, but would have made a profound change in my life.

I am five years older than my brother David, who was born at this time of my life. No matter how hard I try to remember events from this time, there is nothing there. I remember nothing of David until he is almost five and is diagnosed with polio.

Frances was ready to be graduated from RS Central High School, having completed the 11^th grade, but to no one’s delight, the state added another year of compulsory school attendance. Now there was a 12^th grade, and for her this was to be as unlucky as if it had been the 13^th. Her last year was my first year, and there seems to be no problem here. However, due to some strange quirk of fate, I was to spend the first year of school throwing up. I woke up, went to the back porch and threw up. I went to school and threw up. The school bus stopped at the elementary school on its way to the high school, and many mornings someone would come to get Frances off the bus because Raymond was in the teacher’s lounge throwing up. Many mornings she missed the bus; getting to high school the best way she could – by taxi if she had money, or otherwise by a five-mile walk through the snow.

After I stopped throwing up on every occasion, school settled down to the usual grind, and I remember two of my teachers with strong memories. Mrs. Ross Hill taught me in the 3^rd grade, but then she also taught about everybody else in my family, including aunts and uncles. Schoolteachers did not go in for second careers. Like marriage, they were in for the long haul. I think I remember her because of her ability to be frighteningly stern and wear the biggest smile in the county. She was also big into "creative" dancing. We were flowers, butterflies, clouds, etc., and I remember once we even took our dog-and-pony show to a teachers meeting. I was not big on dancing then, and I am not big on dancing now. The sense of movement is not a gift I was given. Growing up as a Baptist, you should never learn such sinful things.

The second teacher, of whom I have fond memories and a deep appreciation, is Mrs. Badger Williams. Another dedicated long hauler. She was remarkable in that she was the person who taught me how to think. Before her, I was told the answers, but she taught me how to find the answers for myself. That was a lesson, a class and a teacher I have never forgotten.

About the age of ten things began to look up. I’m finally reaching the age for piano lessons, and they began with Mrs. Ruby Cash and were taught in a tiny music room on the right side of the school stage. The music room on the left side was where Mrs. Martin taught piano. I loved the piano, practicing, lessons and Mrs. Cash.

In the 1940’s, life was far simpler than it is today. There was very little fuzzy area between what was wrong and what was right. Almost everything was black or white. Or at least "colored" and "white." There was two of everything; two schools, two churches, two drinking fountains, and two entrances at the movie theater. Everything was clearly marked, so that there would be no confusion as to which one your race should use. It was to be many years in my future before a sociology professor who was also a Benedictine priest would say "There is only one race, and that is the human race, and to you are either in it 100 percent, or you are out of it."

But the simplicity of that time covered a lot of ignorance and prejudice. At that time in my life I had yet to encounter anyone or any event that would cause me to question why we had two of everything. It was after all the same water, and the same movie. But until I had the opportunity to be challenged in my thinking, I accepted this as one of the basic facts of life in the south.

When I had learned to live with two of everything, my world was to be greatly expanded when I learned that there was in fact "three of everything." While I was in the third grade, I went to spend six weeks with my Aunt Beatrice who was the principal of the school in Red Springs, NC. I must have been a difficult child, because there were a number of relatives who were willing to help me get on the straight and narrow, and now it was Aunt Bea’s turn. So, I packed up and spent the weeks before the Christmas break in the middle of the state where the name may have been "Red" Springs, but the Lumber River ran black as coal.

I knew "white" and "colored," but now I came face- to-face with the third fountain, door, church, and school – "Indian." I had grown up around people of color, but the only knowledge I had of Indians came from the movies. Here I was in Robeson County with a large Indian population, and my excitement was running high when Aunt Bea promised to show me some real, live, honest to goodness Indians. We were to walk through downtown Red Spring, and she would put her arm around me, and whenever we passed an Indian, she would squeeze my shoulder. That was the plan.

We walked, I gawked, she squeezed, but I didn’t see Indians. I did see some slightly dark skinned people dressed like everybody else, but what I didn’t see was feathers and tomahawks. Perhaps this was about the time that I began to realize that there was no so much difference between "us" and "them." I also realized that Hollywood had been less than honest in teaching me about Indians.

Robeson County, then as now, is unusual. The population is almost exactly divided into thirds - whites, blacks and Indians. Their history has been interesting because in any political situation, two of the groups will unite against the other. This alignment will continually change depending upon the issue, and as to how it benefits each of the groups to form alliances with or against the other.

Because of the great amount of inter-marriage in Robeson County, I could not always spot the difference between those who entered the "colored" door and those who entered the "Indian" door. Even at times, those who entered the "white" door could just as easily have entered either of the other doors. And so, I passed my time in Red Springs, a little wiser about Indians, but definitely full of myself because I was the nephew of the principal, and did not walk the same ground with mere mortals.

In the summer of 1950 our family went to New Mexico to visit our Uncle George Hollifield and family. This was the first grand experience of my life - seeing the Southwest, traveling so far from home, and going into Mexico. With little planning time, Mother, Daddy, Frances, David, myself and our cousin Edna left at 9 a.m. on a Friday morning, and drove straight through to Roswell, arriving at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning. Mother often said that she needed a razor blade to trim the calluses off her rear end. This was before the days of the interstates, and before Route 66 was a popular TV program.

The wonders we saw amazed us: the White Sands, the Carlsbad Caverns, and the whole other world of Mexico. At the huge ranch our cousin Perry was to enter through marriage, we had the experience of riding a horse for the first time. The ranch was measured in sections: 640 acres to a section, and the Staple L Ranch had 60 sections. Perry said that there were parts of the ranch he had never seen. In a garage there was a line of dust- covered vehicles, but a ranch-hand had to go out on the range to get the only horse so we could ride. That was my only disappointment with the wild- west. I thought there would be horses everywhere. It was a wonderful adventure marred only by the fact that while there Mother made me attend Vacation Bible School.

Later that summer David contracted Polio and was seriously ill and given no hope of living. It was a terribly difficult time for Mother and Daddy who thought many times that they would loose David to this killer of children. The summer before we, like every other child, had taken our pills; rested two hours every afternoon (we did this on a pallet on the floor, one eye on the clock, and listening to soap operas on the radio) stayed away from other children and avoided public swimming pools. For reasons known only to God, David did not escape this terrible epidemic. And for reasons known only to God, David survived this disease. The most noticeable result of Polio for him was paralyzed toes on one foot, which made balance and running difficult. Through the years, David had good upper body strength, and when we wrestled, the only way I could survive was to get him off balance so that he would fall. I admit that is not very fair, but one does what one has to do.

I believe it was the summer following when I developed Rheumatic Fever. Just recently my dentist said to me that when our generation dies out, this disease will be a thing of the past. No one will be sorry to see it go, as we also rejoiced in the passing of polio. But in the early 50’s, children had many health troubles from which the youth of today are protected. So, like many other children, I developed Rheumatic Fever, and Doctor Yelton said that I might have also had a slight case of polio, which the Rheumatic Fever would have masked. It was not something to be ignored, because the first thing I had to do was go to bed for six weeks. That prospect sounds only mildly interesting now, and for someone who was in the pre-teens, it was torture. I could only look out of the window and watch David play.

As a result of this, I had to find something to do. This was before the days of television, so as you can imagine, days and nights were long. There was the radio, and it was probably from listening to many programs and having the luxury of using my mind to create pictures to accompany the sound, that I developed a lively (if not always healthy) sense of imagination. This must have been the time when I began my love affair with books and reading. There were so many hours to be filled during those days, and nothing can fill long, lonely days with such adventure as reading. In reading I could escape my bed and go anywhere and do anything.

In reality, from that day on I was limited in what I could do physically. Life had to slow down because of a heart mummer, so there was no running during recess, and throughout school and college I never had a physical education class. Over the years, there have been many reoccurrences of the illness, and the aspect of those days that I remember the most is being sick. I felt like I had a case of flu, with the sore muscles, and body aches, and the throwing up. It was not unusual to throw up as many as twelve times on a day when the reoccurrences happened. Although traces of the heart mummer seem to be gone, I still have to take a large amount of penicillin before any dental procedure.

While we were young, Mother operated a sewing shop in town, and later my great-uncle Reid would operate a second-hand clothing store in the same building. Both David and I spent a lot of time in that shop, and exploring town (David, more than I). Everyone in town knew David and was affected by his bout with Polio.

Frances was working as a telephone operator for Southern Bell, but David and I were not left alone in the house on the Smith farm. There was Daisy. She was a black woman, but was so much a part of our lives and family that our love for her was more important than her color. She loved and cared for us, and we respected her authority. It would never have occurred to us not to mind her. Daisy was much more than someone who cooked and cleaned. She was Daisy. I remember well the day she died and Mother called me out of a music lesson to tell me of her death. If Mother had not been so insistent, at that time I could have become a landowner, because Daisy wanted to leave me her house. Mother did not think it was proper for a young person to own property.

It was only a two-room house in New Hope, but it was a joy for me when Mother would let be go home with Daisy to spend the night. I remember once when Daisy was cooking supper for her husband, and she made a hamburger and put mayonnaise on the top of it. I wanted one just like his, and to this day I still like hamburgers with mayonnaise.

Daisy was very superstitious. It was mean of me, but I knew that she did not like to have a broom sweep over her feet, so I did it. She would grab the broom, spin it around three times and spit on it. She once cured my earache by putting one of her hairs in my ear. I think it was because she put warm towels on my ear and sat rocking and singing to me until I fell asleep. To get that kind of love, I will put up with a lot of superstitions. She said the cure would also work if a white person put a hair in the ear of a colored person.

Daisy would look after me. One Sunday when I was wearing a new pair of white short pants, Jimmy, Fred and I went to the branch and spent a pleasant afternoon sliding down a red mud bank. An afternoon of innocent fun turned into white pants that had a pink behind. My punishment was to wash the pants. Of course, the pink tint never came out, but I washed on those pants for weeks. Daisy would beg Mother to let her wash the pants for me, but Mother refused, determined that I should learn some lesson from this impossible task.

But that was not my only experience washing clothes. A washtub of water was sitting in the kitchen, and close by was Mother’s good black Sunday dress. I picked up the dress and quoted Red Skelton’s Nasty Little Boy, "If I dood it, I get a whipping. I dood it." Into the tub went the good dress, and yes, I defiantly did get the whipping.

Jimmy and Fred, the cousins who were the closest to me in age and location were the two family members I remember playing with the most. Fred is only four months older than I, but was a grade ahead of me in school because of my birthday. While I was in my "skinny" period, James had Mother send me to their house with the promise that he would get me to eat. I remember meals in that kitchen with a close family of my Aunt Thelma, my Uncle James, and other cousins Joann, Helen and Joyce. Thelma was a good cook, and perhaps it was because everyone else was eating, I also began to eat. It is only a pity that he didn’t teach me when to stop eating. There were some meals when the table talk must have been too loud, because I remember James saying "OK, let’s quiet down now." The rest of the meal was mostly in silence, but I have never forgotten how strange it was to eat without talking.

Fred, Jim and I were never short of things to do, or trouble to get into, but sometimes life has a way of paying us back. Once when we were crossing a log over the branch, everyone but the skinniest made it. As I crossed, the log broke and I fell in the water.

At the center of our lives was the church. Not just any church, but Piedmont Baptist Church. Building bricks were provided by the Hill family, and the Hill family was a major building block of the church. Grandpa was the song leader and as I remember the order of things, this position was a little lower than minister but above Sunday School Superintendent. I was too young to sing in his choir, but was small enough to stand with Barbara Jean Hodge on the piano bench. Her mother, Marie Hodge, sat between us to accompany our duets. I can only hope that the sound was as cute as the picture of us standing on the church furniture must have been. When I try to picture this duet, I can only see us, as we would look today, struggling even to get on the piano bench. It is a sight not to be imagined.

Church was Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night and many Saturdays for Royal Ambassadors. Sunday School and preaching were usually followed by a number of families bringing their food to someone’s home for dinner. We kids usually arranged the place during Sunday School, and then talked our parents into going. Not that it took much persuading. Sunday afternoon could have been anything from swimming in the river to just playing. Come evening and there was no doubt where we would be. With no excuses, it was back to church for Training Union and another preaching. We Baptist just didn’t seem to get it right in the morning, and had to go back in the evening for a refresher course.

Wednesday night was prayer meeting night, and one of my most vivid memories of any worship time at PBC took place during one of these prayer services. For some reason, Mother and Daddy were not there that Wednesday. I was sitting in the rear of the church with Fred, Neil Hill and Lillian Duncan. We were not so much in the spirit of the Lord as we were in the spirit of having fun. More than once, Oscar Bridges looked back at us and scowled. By the time I got home Mother already knew everything that had happened during that unholy hour of prayer. She handed out a swift and terrible punishment. No spanking - that would have been too easy. Come the next Wednesday evening, I had to stand up in front of the church, apologize and ask for forgiveness. Boy, you talk about one long week. But I did what I had to do, and I must have learned a valuable lesson, because I don’t recall anything like that happening again.

I had uncles who played various musical instruments, but I don’t remember any of them playing the fiddle. So I don’t know what prompted my interest in the violin, but in the 6^th grade I began lessons with Mary Oates. How everyone suffered those first weeks as I squeaked my way into mastering the art of dragging horsehair over catgut. But two new loves developed – one for string music and one for Mary Stringfield Oates. To make life easier I began to study piano with her also. Both lessons could be done one after another, and there was the advantage of having only one teacher. My piano playing must have been going well because on my 8^th grade recital I played the first movement of the Beethoven "Moonlight Sonata" and the Debussy "Clair de Lune." I certainly mooned the audience that night.

I can never forget the impact that live music made on my life. While I was in grammar school, there were occasions when everyone would be bussed to some event, and I shall never forget going to the Spindale House to hear the North Carolina Little Symphony as it toured the state playing in remote areas. For the first time in my life I saw people playing the instruments that made the music. I was transported to a higher plane, and left with the desire to do what they were doing. I wanted to play one of those instruments the way they did; to be a part of something so grand and wonderful that it would move others the way I was moved.

The orchestras I play in today perform concerts in the public schools, and I rejoice that we can bring the best of music to them. It is wonderful to see the excitement in their eyes, and hear their cheers when we play, and to know that we may have brought to some child the desire to one day be a creator of music.

Mother was a compassionate person, so when it became obvious that someone would have to take care of her Aunt Dora; it was she who convinced us to move to Spindale. Always a great salesperson, she sold us on the joy of heating bath water on a downstairs kitchen stove and carrying it upstairs to the bathroom. That was only the icing on the cake of cooking and looking after Aunt Dora, who was not the easiest person in the world to live with. She was loosing her eyesight and her mind. Her eyesight was good enough to spot any good-looking female on television or walking down the street wearing short shorts, which she promptly proclaimed to be an

abomination in the sight of the Lord. She had a long list of abominations in the sight of the Lord.

To us, Aunt Dora had the ability to look like a witch. Her hair was wild and she had a habit of dropping the lower plate in her mouth to scare children, and you have never been properly frightened unless you had heard her sing "There was a woman, skin and bones." This could put the wrath of God in anybody.

She, like so many of the older generations I have known throughout my lifetime, was not the same person in old age she was in her youth. So often we only know our relatives when they have begun to slow down, age, suffer with aches and pains, and become short tempered and difficult to live with. In her younger days, Aunt Dora was the person who above all else loved her family. I don’t know anyone who loved their brothers like she loved Grandpa and the brothers. Aunt Dora was also the family nurse, a role which often fell to the unmarried daughter of the family. And it was a role that she carried out with love and care.

Although unmarried and without a family of her own, it was she who adopted Juanita Hill when her mother died, and who raised her, loved her and maintained an interest in her and her family for all the years her mind was capable of doing so.

But she had stories that we didn’t want to hear then, but would love to hear now. I only remember her two favorites. Story #1: Her father, MD Hill was burning caterpillars out of a tree when a man came to see him and asked his youngest child, Fred, where MD was. Fred replied that he was outback burning the cat piss out of the tree. Aunt Dora would tell this story and laugh until tears of pure joy came.

Dora Story #2: As MD lay dying; Aunt Dora was praying that he might live. She said an angel appeared to her and told her that her father’s crown had all the stars it could hold. She would tell this story and tears of sadness would come. Repetition is a good way to learn, and because Aunt Dora was loosing her mind, I heard both of these stories frequently.

In the 1950’s the big news of the day was PLASTICS. It was not only big for the day, but it was heralded to be the future of things to come. Many products were made from plastic, not just the lidded-bowls of the kitchen, but the cover for the toaster, pillow covers, shower curtains, and all the draperies in the house. It was possible to buy yards of plastic materials in stylish, and decorative design.

And if plastics were big business, the selling of plastics was bigger business. And in the area of sells there was an innovation sweeping the country – the party plan. Selling was done in the home with a hostess inviting guests to view merchandise shown by a salesperson. The guests bought quality goods that were delivered to them, the hostess received gifts that were lovely, and the salesperson made a good commission. Everybody came out ahead, and the idea was wildly successful.

Mother got into this business the same way the salespeople she was to recruit got into the business. They all started by having a party, getting the gifts, and realizing that good money was available for the salesperson. She became a salesperson with Fratex Fashions from Akron, Ohio. To be successful at this job required an outgoing, pleasant personality, and the ability to "create a need" for the item being sold. This was right up Mother’s alley, and she was a natural. Business was good, and got better. Mother was not the only salesperson in the family. Soon I began to sell, and often Daddy would do a party if Mother got overbooked. Because I was so young, I had to be driven, so someone would drop me off on the way to another party. Believe me, I made good money. I remember one summer morning, when before I woke up, a phone call came for an order that paid a commission of $40. That would be the same amount of money I would make for a week’s work at Belks department store the year after I graduated from high school.

Mother found that she had worked herself into the position of a unit manager. That was followed soon by being named a district manager. In hindsight, it would have been best for her professionally if she had stayed there, but she accepted the position of area manager. This responsibility kept her away from home for days at a time, and involved traveling to parts of three states.

However, this promotion was the best things that could ever have happened to me. It was not going to be possible for her to do the traveling she needed to do without being more centrally located and in a larger city. We looked at Asheville, and at Charlotte. Charlotte, David, and I were to be the winners. While I was in my first year of high school at RS Central, we moved to Charlotte. Not that many miles separated Charlotte from Rutherfordton, but they were worlds apart. This is not to imply that one was better than the other, but that they were vastly different in what they could offer.

We faced the prospect of living in the largest city of North Carolina, and where Rutherfordton might have offered one choice; Charlotte offered a great many choices. In addition, everything was big - the downtown, the streets, the stores, and the churches. We found that our lives had suddenly been super-sized. The break with Rutherfordton and what had been home for so many years did not happen over night. The love and closeness that Mother felt for my grandparents took us back home as often as we could go back. Naturally and gradually the focus of our lives shifted to our new home in Charlotte.

But the hillbillies did not always come easily to the big city. Shortly after we moved, we had an experience in the middle of a hot summer night, which filled us first with fear, then bewilderment, and left us downright puzzled as to what we had just witnessed. We were awakened by a loud, grinding, growling, and un-godly noise, made louder by the quietness of the night. Words cannot adequately describe how truly horrible this noise was. So, like the country cousins we were, we rushed to look out the windows to see what could possibly make such a ruckus in the night. What we saw was a bad as what we had heard. A strange, great truck was slowly coming down the street and it was spewing from its rear end the most awful smelling smoke, which poured over the ground and rolled toward the windows. To say that we were horrified yet fascinated begins to explain our wonder and fear as to what we were seeing. Only later did we find out that the city of Charlotte sprayed at night for mosquitoes.

The family became very active in our community church, Greenland Avenue Baptist Church. During my high school years I sang in the choir, was the church librarian, and for a year or so, was the church secretary. This church became as important in our lives as Piedmont Baptist Church had been before.

In my only three months of junior high, I experienced expanding horizons of being in the drama club, acting on stage, and having the thrill of playing in an orchestra for the first time. I began another love affair and that was with the organ, and playing for church services. I remember that I played my very first service on Sunday, and then had my very first organ lesson on Monday. The first paying position I held was at Clayton Memorial Presbyterian Church, and those first Sundays at the organ I had no idea as to what to do with my feet. They just dangled there for many weeks until they were properly trained and became obedient.

It was only a few short months until I entered Harry P. Harding High School. I was not the most brilliant student to have entered those hallowed halls, but neither did I have a great difficulty maintaining my status as a good student. The required courses of the 50’s may not have been as demanding as the course load of present day, but the teachers required more, and made what they taught difficult to pass. By the time I reached my senior year, my course load consisted of English, French, Orchestra, Choir and Study Hall. We had a graduating class of 176, and the school honored the top twelve students in the class. I graduated as the thirteenth of my class. My grades were good enough to get me into the National Honor Society. If you think it was only because of my grades in orchestra, choir and study hall, you miss the fact that I won an award for typing 35 words a minute in my typing class. All was not easy.

In addition to music, I was involved with the Red Cross and for one summer I was the first male student to serve as a volunteer at the Blood Center. I was a medical history typist, and was the person who handed you the bottle into they would pump your life- blood. For this, I won local and national attention – not for handing the bottles, but for being the first male. I was also the senior assistant editor of the school paper, which offered me the opportunity to write the headlines and the occasional editorial.

Musically, I played in the school orchestra, and for three years was the accompanist for the school choir. I also played viola with the Queens Chamber Orchestra at Queens College. I had the wonderful opportunity to also be connected with Bill Thomas, Minister of Music at the First Methodist Church. I played in the church orchestra, and when the choir sang concerts of the oratorios, I joined the tenor section of the largest and best choir in town. Music at First Methodist was glorious in the 50’s. During the high school years I began serious organ study with Paul Langston at St. John’s Baptist Church. Now I was hard at work on the proper technique and repertoire of the organ.

I was still very much involved in the life of Greenland Avenue Baptist, but I began to ask questions. I asked why communion was done only four times a year, and then during the less important Sunday evening worship. I was told that communion was something that we did occasionally as a memorial supper to remember Christ.

I ask about baptism; again an event that was tacked on to another Sunday evening worship experience, and was told that it was not necessary, but only something we did as a symbol. What the symbol pointed to was not nearly as important as the amount of water used in the symbol to point to whatever the symbol pointed to. Oddly, this explanation left me a little confused.

And I asked a question that the church fathers would have preferred be left unasked. I asked why the constitution of the Greenland Avenue Baptist Church said, "This church shall be made up of white members only." The answer I got was crystal clear, concise and un-Christian. At this point in my life, I lost the church. It was a Baptist Church, but for me that was the only church I knew, so I had lost THE church.

I have no way of knowing how far I might have roamed had it not been for music. That love which was so closely tied to the church and its worship would not permit me to be forever divorced from the church. It did mean that I would have to find another expression for my musical talents, and a place where I could worship which would answer the questions I had asked the Baptists, and for which I still wanted clear answers.

Among church musicians there exists a network of information like any other profession of what is going on, i.e., which jobs are open, which pays the most, and which has the best organ. I heard that there was a church looking for an organist, and I was ready to try my hand at a regular church position. The church was Resurrection Lutheran Church, and what I knew about Lutherans you could put in a gnat’s naval and still have room for two caraway seeds and the Devil’s heart. But the moment I walked into that church I sensed something fresh and exciting happening to me. For the first time in my life, architecture was able to convey to me the presence of the mystery of God in a place. There was a prayer, which came with an intake of breath, "Please God, let me get this job."

I got the job, and musical cultural shock set in. Never had I seen anything like this before. I had no experience or understanding of Liturgical worship, and the amount of musical responses required in Lutheran worship was overwhelming. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to work with a wonderful pastor, Ed Runge, who was patient in teaching me the liturgy, but if I did not play the proper response at the proper time, he went ahead and led the congregation in singing it himself. I learned to be on the ball out of necessity. However, for many Sundays, I prayed that the church would burn down so that I wouldn’t have to play for the service. I spent two happy years there; the first as organist and the second as organist/ choir director. I had not only found an organ job, more importantly, I had found a church home. I think that I had been a Lutheran all my life, but had not known it.

For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a church musician. There was a single focus for that career, and everything seemed to be leading toward full-time church music. I had applied to the Westminster Choir School in Princeton, New Jersey, and thought this the only college to attend. During my senior year in high school, and the year I worked after graduation, I was serving as the musician at Resurrection Lutheran Church. Pastor Runge encouraged me to consider attending Valparaiso University.

Valpo was a college of the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, and the organ professor was Phil Ghering who had recently moved there from Davidson College, so I knew of him, and more importantly, my organ teacher recommended him highly. I applied and was accepted to Valpo. Now the problem was how to pay for my college education.

I made the decision to work for a year after graduation. This would give me money for college; it would be a breather after twelve years of study; and it would give me the opportunity to experience life through the work place. I went to work for Belks (that was back in the days when they had the "s" on their name) Department Store in Charlotte. This was the flagship store of the company, and it was grand in every way. While I worked there they bought Eiferd’s Department Store, converted it into the Men’s and Boy’s Store, and joined the two building together.

I worked for the most glamorous department in the store – display. We were responsible for decorating the 67 display windows, and the 9 floors of merchandising. Those who worked as window decorators were very talented and experienced. As low man on the ladder in the department, I was in charge of the stock. This meant that I was supposed to know where all the display items were stored, and could bring them to a window when called for. It was not unusual for the Loading Dock to call that 18 crates, each 12 feet tall were waiting for me on the dock and would I get them out of their way immediately. We had much space, and used much more not our own. There were parts of three floors and a separate warehouse a block away where decorations were stored.

In those days, the Christmas season began on Thanksgiving Day, if you can imagine that. So everything had to be decorated by that day. The windows we could do during the day, but the floors in the store could be decorated only after closing. At 5:30 as everyone else left to go home, we started hauling down the vast amount of decorations that would be hung from 25 foot tall columns. This was the only task I refused because I had a fear of heights. Since I had the church job, I could not work as many hours as the rest of the department, but the week before Thanksgiving, I worked a seventy- hour week.

The job had many rewards. For one, during the month of December there was absolutely nothing to do. The entire department sat, slept, and shopped until after Christmas Day, when the decorations came down by degree; much slower than they went up. The Display Department had a respected and envied position in the eyes of the other employees. The job kept us on the move all over the store, so there was never the boredom of having to stand behind a counter or sit in an office for eight hours.

I managed to save some money for college, but I only made $35 a week. I would find out all to soon how fast an expensive university could eat a small bank account.

As I prepared to leave for Indiana and Valparaiso University, I did so as every other young person does – with the thrill of going away from home, parental authority, and into the realm of total personal freedom. The fact that I was going some hundreds of miles from the land of my youth and life so far, was a great plus. I knew, like everyone else, that real life was not here, but was in some place far removed from the existence of youth. It has taken me many years to realize the folly of this attitude. It is possible to move around, but it is easier to only feel really at home and comfortable with the land and the people we grew up knowing. There are many things we share in common – a language and a respect for the ways in which we do things. The foods we eat and the style of dress we wear, and heritage of those who have gone before us, are all features in making us what we are. The Prodical Son didn’t just come back because he ran out of money, he came back because it was home. It is not easy to fit into another set of values; another menu; subtle changes in language; and values from backgrounds so different. It can be done, but only with much effort and determination.

So, the southern boy goes north. This change was like going from Rutherfordton to Charlotte. Valpo was a wonderful experience. Everything was big, and other than a handful of southern persons, the student body was mainly from the Midwest, and were second or third generation Germans. The weather cold and seemed to be snow all the time. Even when the wind was calm, it blew at twelve mph across Lake Michigan bringing nasty weather with it. Because of the wind, most of the snow came sideways. And there was ice. We had a club of people who had slipped on the ice, and I was the president because I had more falls than anyone else. There were many class hours spent with pants legs wet from falling into a muddle of partially melted snow.

But there was music. What a blessed excitement that was. I was one of the many music majors, and was majoring in organ. The organ in the Valpo Chapel was the largest organ ever built from the Schlicker Organ Company. The Chapel of the Resurrection could seat 3,000 if that gives you an idea of its size. There was a chapel underneath the chancel that could seat 300. I remember one worship experience when we sang "For All The Saints" (an eight verse hymn) through twice to get all of the procession into the chapel.

I sang with the Chapel Choir, which was the touring choir of the university, played viola with the University Civic Orchestra and University String Quartet, sang with the opera company, and did a lot of accompanying at the piano for other music student in recital.

The school was spread over a mile and a quarter, and that was the distance from my dorm on the new east side, to the music building on the quad on the west campus. There were days when I walked that distance four times. From my dorm, the student union and food was some distance away, and the fact that there was always at least three feet of snow on the ground made getting food a concerted effort. Many times I would pass on food, because it was not only institutional food, it was Yankee institutional food. That meant that there were many dishes new to me, and many were foreign to my taste. That was coupled with the fact that ice tea was not served during the winter, and to ask for it provoked looks saved only for the most backward. So, the good side to this food situation, and the distance I had to walk, proved that if one eats less and exercises more, one will loose weight. I give you that piece of information free. I lost fifty pounds during that freshman year, and came come weighing less than I had for many years.

It was a very good year indeed. That first week of my freshman year, I had found out that even with a $1,000 student loan (the most money available) the amount I had saved would not be enough to see me through. Mother sent money as she was able, but it became painfully clear that I would not be able to return for my second year. So I left Valpo in the spring with a winter coat still cold and damp, sadness knowing that in all probability I would not return, and with a broken back.

A broken back? On Mother’s Days I was on a trampoline near the school. Trampolines were as popular as roadside carpet golf, and were nothing more than a cement pit in the ground with canvas strips fastened with heavy springs to the sides. While doing sitdown/standups, I landed on my neck and the rest of me crunched down into my face. The pain was terrific. I lay there with my fingers holding on to the strips of canvas, and screamed in the greatest single outburst of pain I have ever experienced. The next day the university physician made one of his famous thirty second diagnosis, and pronounced the muscles to be in a spasm, and suggested that I lay on heat.

A month later when I got home, my doctor did a proper exam and found that I had a compression fracture of the 11^th and 12^th dorsal vertebras. He wanted to put me in a body cast for the summer, and pointed out that I could go to Sears and buy pants with elastic waistbands that could be pulled over the cast. Was it necessary that I have a body cast? No, he said, the back would eventually heal itself, but the cast would ease the pain. It didn’t take many seconds of consideration to know that I didn’t want to spend a hot summer in a plaster cast from top to bottom, hollering "Mommy, I’m through!"