Of Lawnmowers and Wine Coolers, and a Boy’s First Drink

There are certain events in a boy’s life that stand out. Certain firsts. The first kiss. The first time driving a car, etc. Your first drink is one of those moments.

It was the summer of 1986 and I was 14 years old. It was an exceptionally hot and dry summer that year. There was a drought, in fact. A severe one. It was the summer before my freshman year at Spring Valley High School and I was planning to try out for the freshman football team. I had seen the writing on the wall the prior year when, as an eighth grader I spent the season firmly entrenched on the bench as a member of my middle school basketball team. I was eager to try a new sport.

My Uncle Roger was in town that summer for an extended visit and staying with us at the house on Spring Water Drive in northeast Columbia. Roger was a character. A few years younger than my Dad, he insisted that I call him “Roger”, instead of “Uncle Roger”. For a boy steeped in Southern manners, that was kind of a big deal. It made him more approachable. More like a buddy than an authority figure. He told great, off-color jokes. We laughed a lot.

One Saturday, my Dad away on National Guard duty, Uncle Roger and I drove over to West Columbia to cut the grass at some rental properties Dad owned a few blocks off of Leapheart Road. The rentals weren’t in the best area and good tenants were hard to come by. Rent was paid late if at all, and evictions were frequent. Despite Dad’s best efforts at keeping the properties up, they were typically left in varying degrees of disrepair and squalor.

We drove over in the family’s old Chevy Caprice Classic station wagon, complete with simulated wood grain paneling and rear-facing third-row seat. We spent several hours cutting grass, trimming weeds and giving the place a general tidying up. It was a classic July day in Columbia – unyieldingly, blisteringly hot and humid. The drought made it worse and by early afternoon, the heat beat down with a malevolence that was staggering. The air was dead still, not a pine needle stirred. The constant undulating song of Cicadas seemed to drown out even the drone of the lawnmower.

Parched and needing to hydrate, we took a break and drove over to a gas station around the corner. Walking into the store we were greeted with a welcome blast of air conditioning which made me nearly light headed. I held open the door of a cooler pondering the various Gatorade options while the cold air washed over me. Through a mild daze, I noticed Uncle Roger already at the counter checking out. He motioned for me to meet him back at the car and I was intrigued when he walked out carrying a brown paper bag and a mischievous grin.

We drove back to the triplex and parked in an empty driveway. He put the car in park and reached into the bag. I was surprised but delighted when he handed me a Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a Budweiser tall-boy for himself.

Now, Bartles & Jaymes may seem like an ignominious beginning for a man’s drinking journey, but I tell you with all sincerity, it was magical for a thirsty fourteen-year-old Baptist boy. I opened the twist top and the very sound was pleasing – the release of compressed air and the mild, malty aroma which followed. I remember beads of condensation on the label as I tipped the bottle to my lips expectantly. It was cold and the bottle somehow just felt good in my hand.

The first swallow was amazing. Slightly citrus, but enough malt and alcohol to make their presence known. I liked it and finished it quickly. After, there was a novel, if very mild buzz. The world took on a pleasing hue. The bouquet of sour sweat, gasoline, freshly cut grass and alcohol was pleasurable. Uncle Roger let me take a couple of swigs from his Budweiser and I immediately liked the taste of that too. Heavier malt with a pleasing bite as it went down.

The world slowed. We sat there in the car with the windows rolled down and the radio on. John Mellencamp sang about pink houses as the late afternoon heat began to loosen its grip a bit. I knew I had crossed some sort of threshold into another, more worldly realm. I smiled a goofy smile, sublimely satisfied. After a while, we loaded up the mower and headed back toward home.

Thinking back on it now, it’s as though that moment is encased in museum glass. There was something so understated and, dare I say, manly about it (in spite of the wine cooler). An uncle and his nephew sharing a drink after toiling in the hot sun. A reward. A rite of passage. A bonding moment. Somehow, over three decades have passed by since that day. But I remember it like it was last week.

Sixteen Thousand Days Gone By

(Originally published March, 2017)

It was March 17, 1973 in Houston, Texas. The Gamecock Basketball team beat a feisty Southwestern Louisiana team (now known as Louisiana-Lafayette) by a score of 90-85. It was a consolation game in the NCAA Tournament, back when they did those kinds of things. Carolina had earlier taken a 78-70 win over Texas Tech in a first round game in Wichita, Kansas, advancing to the Sweet Sixteen (there were only 32 teams in the tournament then).

The Gamecocks ran into a buzzsaw in the second round, losing 90-76 to a hot Memphis State team that would go on to play in the championship game that year, losing to the invincible John Wooden-led UCLA Bruins. Wooden and UCLA won the last of seven consecutive NCAA Championships that season. They won ten of twelve between 1964 and 1975.

There could be no way legendary coach Frank McGuire and his boys (English, Traylor, Winters, Dunleavy, Joyce) could have known that the next day – March 18, 1973 – would begin a 44 year sojourn of futility and frustration in the tournament which, at that time, seemed like a birthright – an annual event etched as confidently on the calendars of Gamecock faithful as Christmas and Easter. As they boarded the plane from Houston back to Columbia, they must have thought that many tournament wins lay ahead.

The Gamecocks would return to the Tournament the following season, 1974, losing 75-67 in the first round to a surprisingly strong bunch of Furman Paladans in Philadelphia. It would be Coach McGuire’s final NCAA tournament team and the Gamecock program would not return to NCAA tournament play for another 15 years. USC was three years removed from its heated exit from the ACC. The great, natural rivalries that fueled recruiting and constant sellouts at Carolina Coliseum were gone. South Carolina now found itself wandering through the wilderness of major independent status. And the basketball program suffered.

Scheduling was difficult without the built-in drama of conference play. The Marquettes and Fordhams and Notre Dames of the world, solid programs though they were, did not spark the same level of fan interest. Attendance began to suffer. Recruiting began to slip. Coach McGuire’s final six seasons saw a slow decline with only two NIT appearances (’75 and ’78) and no additional 20-win seasons. It was a sad ending to one of the legendary coaching careers in the history of college basketball.

By the spring of 1980, the legendary coach stepped down under pressure and Carolina, a half dozen years removed from their last NCAA win, managed to woo Bill Foster from Duke. It appeared an inspired hire. Foster had led the revival of a flagging Duke program, taking his 1978 team to the NCAA championship game before losing to powerhouse Kentucky. His last three teams won two of three ACC championships. Foster was an innovator and a nationally-recognized builder of programs.

After two rebuilding seasons, Foster’s 1983 team went 22-9 – the program’s first 20 win season since 1975. They narrowly missed the NCAA tournament and wound up in the NIT where they went 2-1, losing in the third round to former ACC rival Wake Forest. It was this NCAA snub that provided the impetus to join the Metro Conference the following year in order to re-engage in conference affiliation and bolster their future tournament resume.  Foster’s program never could duplicate the success of ’83, due in part to his health problems, the upgrade in Metro competition, and a slide in recruiting during his last few years.

South Carolina hired George Felton to replace Foster in 1986 and this seemed to inject new life into the program. Felton, a top assistant on Bobby Cremins’ powerful Georgia Tech teams, was a proven recruiter and a USC letterman. He returned energy and the McGuire connection to the program, and his 1989 team marked a long-awaited return to the NCAA tournament. Felton was a reserve on that 1974 squad – the last Gamecock tournament team – so there was added significance to his return in ’89. Things did not go well in that opening round game, however, and USC lost 81-66 to a hot-shooting N.C. State team, coached by ACC Coach of the Year, Jim Valvano and led by point guard Chris Corchiani. The Wolfpack shot 56.7% that day, the best opponent shooting percentage in South Carolina NCAA Tournament history.

Felton’s program came close again in 1991, winning 20 games in the program’s final season in the Metro Conference, but did not receive an NCAA bid, settling again for the NIT. In a still mysterious development, Athletics Director King Dixon fired Felton soon after the completion of that season, leading to a botched coaching search in which several prominent coaches turned down offers to lead the Gamecock program. Dixon ultimately hired Murray State (KY) coach Steve Newton, who would lead the program into their initial season in the SEC, in 1991-92.

It soon became apparent that Newton was in over his head. Talent was not up to SEC standards and Carolina took its lumps for several years as the new kid on the block. To compound frustrations, fellow SEC newbie Arkansas was competing for national championships at the time, winning it all in 1994.

Carolina’s next NCAA tournament invitation came in Coach Eddie Fogler’s best season at Carolina in 1997. A magical 15-1 run through the SEC and a regular-season conference championship gave the University their first SEC team championship, and is to this day their only one in Men’s Basketball. The Gamecocks entered that year’s tournament with a sparkling 24-7 record and a #2 seed in the East Regional. They faced #15 seed Coppin State out of the MEAC in Pittsburg. Many pundits predicted a final four run for Carolina, which was led by a three-headed monster in guards in B.J. McKie, Larry Davis and Melvin Watson. Tied 34-all at the half, Coppin State went on an improbable 35-14 run in the second half, ultimately pulling off the 78-65 upset, which at the that time was only the second 15-2 upset in NCAA tournament history.

The Gamecocks returned to the Tournament the following year as a #3 seed and would go down in similar fashion to the #14 seeded Richmond Spiders in a close one, 62-61 in Washington, D.C. The wind seemed to go out of Coach Fogler’s sails after two monumental tournament upsets, and his last two teams at USC were unmemorable.

South Carolina’s next tournament appearance came in 2004, under Coach Dave Odom. Coming off of a 23 win season, the Gamecocks squared off with a Memphis squad in an ugly defensive slugfest marked by long scoreless stretches by the Garnet & Black. Carolina did not score a basket in the last 9:37 of the first half and went on to lose 59-43 in the first round game in Kansas City.

Odom would go on to field several more solid teams at Carolina which always seemed to start strong, then falter down the stretch, earning themselves NIT bids rather than NCAA. His teams won consecutive NIT championships in 2005 and 2006, but that was not enough to revive fan interest. Coach Odom never achieved a winning SEC record and never seemed to gain favor with Gamecock fans. He was a class act, represented the University well and made admirable inroads at reconnecting with disaffected lettermen, particularly from the McGuire era. Unfortunately, that was not enough to bring an end to the now 30 year drought of NCAA Tournament wins.

Enter Darrin Horn, who parlayed a 2007 Sweet Sixteen appearance by his Western Kentucky squad into a Power 5 job at South Carolina. In his first season, 2007-08, the Gamecocks won 20 games, achieved double digit SEC wins, a share of the SEC East title, and an NIT appearance. This was accomplished with a mostly Odom-recruited team. Led by First Team All-SEC guard, Devon Downey, Carolina achieved a program milestone in it’s first-ever victory over a #1 nationally-ranked team at home that season versus Kentucky. This was the high-water mark of the Horn era. Reported poor relations with players and the media were distractions and Horn – a promising young coach – proved to be in over his head.

Coach Frank Martin came to Carolina from Kansas State in the spring of 2012 – a parting gift from Athletics Director Eric Hyman, who would soon leave for the same position at Texas A&M. Martin inherited a program in shambles, some 40 years removed from the McGuire glory years and sustained national respectability. The 18,000 seat Colonial Life Arena, which replaced the venerable Carolina Coliseum, was referred to derisively as the Colonial “lifeless” Arena. The arena was often so quiet that Martin claims he could overhear cellphone conversations of fans on the other side of the playing floor.

Over time, Martin built his program, instilling a toughness and fighting spirit not seen at USC in decades. Winning 14 games in each of his first two seasons, he won 17 in year three and 25 in year four. In a monumental snub by the NCAA in 2016, Carolina was left without a bid despite finishing 3rd in the SEC and winning 24 regular-season games. A 24 win Power 5 school had never been left out of the NCAA Tournament prior to 2016.

The Gamecocks would not be denied in 2017. After beefing up their strength of schedule and rolling through 12 wins in the SEC, the Gamecocks finally earned a bid to the NCAA Tournament – their first in 13 years.

In a thrilling and cathartic 40 minutes, Carolina finally managed an NCAA Tournament win versus a very talented Marquette team. And a convincing one at that, winning by 20 points in front of a partisan Gamecock crowd 100 miles from Columbia, in Greenville, South Carolina.

In round two, USC faces an old ACC nemesis, Duke. The Blue Devils are led by the same coach who took over for South Carolina-bound Bill Foster way back in 1980. The legendary Mike Krzyzewski. Duke is a #2 seed and picked by many to bring another championship back to Durham. But no matter what happens in that game, South Carolina has achieved something special. This squad of Gamecocks has ended 44 years of futility and frustration. That 44 year-old monkey no longer lives rent free on the backs and in the heads of Gamecock players, coaches and fans.

The last time Carolina won an NCAA tournament game, Carolina Coliseum had only been open five years. It was still a state-of-the-art facility. The finest in the Southeast. USC was in the midst of navigating its way through Major Independent status. The Athletics department was modernizing. Times were changing.

Richard Nixon was in his second term, the shadows of Watergate darkening by the day. The Vietnam War was mercifully winding down. Gasoline was 38 cents a gallon. The Dow Jones Industrial Average flirted with the mythical 1000 point level just before a long decline.

Long declines were the order of the day in 1973. Nobody could have known just how long or steep the decline of Gamecock Basketball would be. Certainly not that fiery Irish coach and his boys on that plane ride from Houston on the day after St. Patrick’s Day so many years ago.

16,000 days gone by. And on St. Patricks Day, exactly 44 years later, a new day dawned. And anything seems possible now.

*****

Afterword: In the days following this blog post, Frank Martin and his team took Gamecock fans on an improbable and magical ride. In the Round of 32, the Gamecocks dominated former ACC rival Duke – a team many analysts predicted to win it all in 2017. Carolina beat a talented Baylor team by 20 points in the Sweet Sixteen, and handled SEC rival Florida by a seven point margin in the Elite Eight. The University of South Carolina found itself in the promised land – the Final Four. With their top scorer and team leader Sindarius Thornwell suffering from influenza, the magic finally ran out.  The scrappy Gamecocks hung with Gonzaga until the final buzzer, losing by four. They came just shy of a national championship match-up with another old ACC foe – the University of North Carolina.

Meanwhile, the USC women’s team, under the direction of Coach Dawn Staley, defeated conference rival Mississippi State to claim the program’s first basketball national championship.

It was a special March, 44 years in the making.

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photo courtesy of the University of South Carolina

Midnight on the Mountain

 

(Originally published Summer, 2017)

I knew we were in trouble when they turned on the light bar. The pickup was at first a minor annoyance as it sat across the small gravel parking lot from our campsite, its headlamps aimed ominously at our tents. It was near midnight and we were tired after a day of backpacking on the Foothills Trail along the South Carolina/North Carolina line. They were Friday night hooligans, I thought to myself, nothing more. But when the million-lumen light bar lit us up, annoyance evaporated into fear.

It was a horrible thing, the truck. Idling like a ravenous beast. It was a full size American-made truck of an indeterminate make in the inky darkness. If Stephen King were a Southerner, this truck would have been his Christine, except it would have been named “Bocephus” or “Delmar”. It had massive, knobby tires and one of those after-market muffler set-ups that made the engine roar at an ear-piercing decibel. A tattered Confederate battle flag hung defiantly from an antenna on the right fender. It was a nightmare. A redneck’s wet dream.

We sat in our tents paralyzed. What the fuck were these guys up to? Melissa tried in vain to get a signal on her cell. Chase, our 13-year-old nephew was in his own tent a dozen feet away. Ours were the only two tents around.

The derelicts had come down the mountain on a jeep road just a few minutes earlier, and seeing our tents, decided to have a little fun at our expense. They spun out, doing figure eights and slinging gravel, the howling engine at full octave. I was on this mountain with my wife and my nephew with no cell signal. My mind raced with a hundred different scenarios, none of which were good. I didn’t have a gun. Never imagined I would need one. It was near 1am now. We were completely vulnerable.

The truck idled in a low growl, menacing and aggrieved. It occurred to me that it was a Friday night (now Saturday morning), and they had been out partying. They were drunk at a minimum, but who knows what else they’d been up to. Meth is rampant in these Appalachian backwaters. They had guns, no doubt. No way they didn’t have guns. What were they doing? Planning? Were they still just fucking with us or had their whiskey-addled brains gone to a darker place? It seemed entirely possible that they could walk down into the campsite and… God knows what.

After a few minutes the truck pulled forward across the gravel parking lot and stopped adjacent to us at the edge of the campsite, only thirty feet away now. One of the two rednecks got out of the passenger side and walked to the bed of the truck. He seemed agitated. I could make out enough of him in the waxing moonlight to determine that he looked straight out of central casting. He was wiry and bedraggled with long, stringy hair and a cutoff t-shirt. There were faint aromas of pine and burnt motor oil and spilt beer on ancient upholstery.

He reached for something in the bed of the truck and my heart pounded so hard I was sure they could hear it. I could hear muffled conversation but couldn’t make anything out. If they walked down into the campsite, I would have to get out of the tent. I would need to address them. Try my diplomatic skills. Attempt to diffuse the situation. But I knew that if they walked down there, things would turn ugly quickly.

I prayed they wouldn’t, and I cursed myself for choosing this campsite, only a few tenths of a mile from the highway and easily accessible. What had begun as such a good day – an excellent day on the trail and at camp had turned into a nightmare. I felt at that moment like we were on the verge of something violent and terrible. Perhaps death. Or worse. It felt real and close and almost scripted, as if there were no other way for it to end.

To my immense relief, the redneck got back in the truck after what seemed an eternity. They spun more donuts, the monstrous engine roaring, enraged. And then, just as quickly as they arrived, they were gone. We heard them tear down the gravel access road and turn onto the highway a half-mile down the mountain, the roar of the engine growing more distant as they lumbered into the dark night.

We’d received a reprieve, but we knew there would be no return to sleep. What if they came back? What if they were going to get more buddies? We were completely vulnerable at our camp. There was only one thing to do. I called out to Chase to grab his shoes and headlamp. We were going back to the trail and we wouldn’t bother with packing. It was more urgent than that. We needed to find a safe place now.

 

We accessed the trail at the northwest corner of the Laurel Valley parking lot, climbing a couple dozen steps away from the lot and onto the trail proper. We sat there at the top of the steps for a few minutes, listening and trying to comprehend what had just happened. The surge in adrenaline left my legs rubbery. My lungs burned. I struggled to control my breathing.

We whispered to each other and this was reassuring. Just being back among the trees and away from view felt safe. After a few minutes it occurred to me that the trail paralleled the jeep road for quite a way, perhaps a mile back west, and if they did come back, we would be vulnerable in our current position. Having accepted the reality that there would not return to camp until daylight, we began walking back in the direction we had come that day, westward into the deep night.

The trail looked and felt different in the dark. We set our headlamps to tactical red, which cast shaky beams of muted light, illuminating our next few steps but not much beyond. There was an electric sense of urgency as we walked through the corridor of hemlocks and pines. We listened in nervous anticipation of the truck’s return, and sensed that they were not quite done with us.

After about a mile, we came to a spot where the trail intersected with the jeep road again at a sharp bend. We descended steps down to the crossing, cautious, slow, headlamps off, listening for any movement. We crossed the jeep road and quickly climbed back onto the trail, ascending a hundred feet or so westward until we were safely enveloped in the trees again.

We sat one in front of the other on some steps carved into the trail. Chase, in front and below, Melissa in the middle, then me. We could make out the jeep road below us, faint moonlight reflecting off the gravel surface through a thin veil of pine branches. We continued to try 911 intermittently with no success. We were stuck for the night and sat uncomfortably, knowing there would be no sleep. It was just after 2am.

Suddenly we saw headlamps below and to our right, and heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Before we could even comprehend what was happening an SUV was directly below us on the jeep road. We realized with alarm that we were much closer to the road than we’d realized. We sat frozen. The SUV stopped and someone inside began searching the hillside with a spotlight. I hissed to “get down!” We found ourselves in a surreal position, on our stomachs, faces in the dirt in the middle of the trail, another set of hooligans below us.

These weren’t our rednecks from earlier but who were they? Did they know we were here? Had they seen us? The searchlight switched off and the SUV began to pull forward, away from us and down the road. We were up in a flash, shuffling as swiftly as we could along the dark and uneven trail.

We walked another half mile or so until we came to a another set of steps which seemed sufficiently far back from the jeep road. I knew the road was still not far away, but we couldn’t see it any longer, which was marginally comforting. We sat down in the same arrangement as before, front to back. We speculated about what might be happening back at our camp, and what it might look like when we returned at sun-up. We assumed it would be ransacked.

We settled in the best we could, alternately leaning on one another and shifting frequently. The temperature was in the mid 60’s by now. Uncomfortably cool with no jacket. Melissa was the only one who had thought to bring water, but her bottle was less than a quarter full, so we rationed our sips carefully. The subsiding adrenaline left us all parched. We talked in muted whispers about the events of the night. We tried the cell occasionally and still had no success despite being higher on the mountain.

We marked time and tried to nap. We did our best to get through the night, shivering and battling an ironic sense of boredom, considering all the excitement. I realized that I had left my hiking pole at the other set of steps when we had to scramble away. We sat there sat in the deep night in the middle of the Foothills Trail, completely unafraid of bears or snakes. Wild animals were not our concern. Only people.

Gradually the hours slipped by and around 6am a faint, early light began to filter through the trees. We cautiously made our way back toward camp, and despite lingering trepidation, it was invigorating and restorative to be up and moving again. We made good time, gaining confidence in proportion to the strengthening light as we walked. We were eager to see what condition our camp might be in, to pack and be on our way. We were simultaneously exhausted and energized.

At the steps leading down to the parking lot I motioned for Melissa and Chase to stop, and I made my way down slowly, the parking lot and campsite revealing themselves by degree with each step. It was perfectly still. The gravel under my feet and early-morning birdsong the only sounds. When camp came fully into view, I motioned for them to come on down.

Walking across the parking lot, the crazed tire tracks were obvious in deep figure-eight scars across the surface dirt and gravel. It was evidence that last night was real, not some shared horror dream. We crossed the parking lot to the campsite, and everything was intact. We were relieved and quickly set about breaking down tents and filling packs. Within twenty minutes we were loaded and walking.

We decided to walk down to the highway where we could pump water from Estatoe Creek under the Highway 178 overpass. We ate breakfast here too, just off the road at the edge of a private drive. Grey clouds hung low, like soiled gauze. The June humidity quickly replaced the morning cool. Cars flew by, drivers oblivious to us on the highway. Before long we were on the move again, and picked up the trail east of the highway.

We hiked a full 14-miles to the car at Table Rock State Park despite plans for one more night of camping along the trail. We’d seen two black bears on the hike that day, which was thrilling, but also solidified our resolve to push on. After the drama of the previous night, camping in an area with multiple bear sightings was not appealing. We were eager to get to the car, to a hotel in Greenville. To have a shower and sleep in a comfortable bed. We were emotionally and physically spent.

We arrived at Table Rock around 5pm and found the car where we had left it a week before. After seven days and 77 miles spent walking along the entirety of the Foothills Trail, I learned that in our part of the world, where there are no Grizzlies, bears are nothing to be overly concerned about. People are a different story.

I learned some time later that Chase had recurring nightmares about that night. In it, the rednecks did walk down into the camp, and killed Melissa and me, after which they loaded him hogtied into the God-forsaken pickup truck. It would always end there, the rest too horrible even for nightmares.

Sometimes, randomly during a work call or a while reading, my thoughts will wander back to that night, to certain moments where we seemed sure to encounter violence. My pulse quickens, my palms sweat, my jaw tightens, and the metallic taste of fear and adrenaline come rushing back.

It happens less frequently now, as the years have gone by. But when it does, the intensity is always the same. I think about the vagaries of chance, of the muddled erratic decisions of hostile strangers, of how it could have turned out, and if there is some alternate universe where things did go differently.

And for some part of me, I know it will always be midnight on the mountain.

An Evening in the Westfjords

Sunday, August 13, 2017 – Melanes, Iceland

We eased into the cool morning with a camp breakfast of rye bread from the bakery in town, peanut butter, and coffee. After, we packed and were on our way, leaving the charming seaside town of Isafjordur (the capital of the Westfjords) behind and driving south, along the coast on dirt and gravel roads that likely voided the insurance contract on our rental.

Around each bend the views were beyond spectacular. Vistas of mountains and sea more breathtaking than I have ever seen. The Westfjords are unmatched in their ability to inspire awe. The drive at times was downright scary. Hairpin turns at 12 degree slopes on gravel roads make for some white-knuckle moments. A 4×4 would have been more appropriate, but the van carried us through the day.

We stopped for a soak in one of the many thermal baths of this region at a town called Talknafjordor. The bath was the least awe-inspiring thing about our day. Man-made, unkempt and lined with algae to the point that walking was a hazard. But the water was hot and felt great after a strenuous hike yesterday and the large lunch we’d just enjoyed at a bistro in town. We left feeling refreshed and recharged.

We meandered along the mountain roads another 26k, eventually descending to our campsite for the night at Melanes Campground, which included several handsome low-slung wooden buildings. There was a camp store with a few essentials, a laundry, and showers. Beyond the modest facilities, which were admirably clean and well-maintained, the camp was breath-taking. It was the most beautiful place I’ve ever had the privilege to pitch a tent. Backpacker Magazine-cover-photo-type beautiful.

There was a wide beach stretching out beyond our camp, which was situated in a hayfield. Ringing the coast east and north of us were dramatic mountains sweeping up from the coast to rocky outcroppings high above. The sun cast an otherworldly light on the ridges with brilliant shades of purple, deepening by degree as the evening wore on.

The campground was large – perhaps ten football fields across, and there was no one within a hundred yards of us. There was a waterfall high up on the peak behind us, the crashing water muted by distance. The sound of breaking North Atlantic waves on the distant shore provided our soundtrack for the night. Cut hay lay in fragrant serpentine rows , golden ropes against the green grass of late summer. The skies were brilliant blue. Puffs of cloud tinted pink rose above the water and ridges.

We cooked a proper dinner of sausage and rice and vegetables over a camp stove and sipped good Scotch. We added a layer against the gathering cold and dimming light. We were in the Westfjords, far away from the busloads of tourists in the south and the relative bustle of Reykjavik. A week in Iceland lay before us like a blank page.

 

 

 

America, We’re Better Than This

(Originally published July 4, 2021)

America, we’re better than this. We’ve allowed ourselves to be lied to. We’ve been willingly herded into ideological corrals based upon which news channel we watch or which newspaper we read, or in many cases, whether we choose to read a newspaper at all. We’ve accepted the rhetoric of angry demagogues who have labeled us and arrested our ability to think critically about the world. We have accepted those labels and segregated ourselves along false political lines.

We exchange angry messages with strangers of different political tribes on social media, but we no longer talk with our family at the dinner table about important issues because we have lost the ability to think with complexity, to speak rationally, to consider ideas which do not fit the talking points we’ve embraced. We have entrenched ourselves in safe, comfortable spaces, where our assumptions are no longer challenged, and the information we receive is thoughtfully curated to reinforce what we have already decided is true, and to make us feel secure in the political tribe we’ve chosen.

We have allowed ourselves to forget that we are a kind and generous people, which is a virtue and a strength. It does not make us “suckers”, rather it reveals our essential goodness. We are a nation of immigrants who have built this republic into the single greatest country in the history of the world. We too often view our nation’s history through a lens of either mindless patriotism, or damning critique of past sins – there is no middle ground, no room for complex thought. “Kinder and gentler” is a punch line these days.

America, we’re better than this.

Fifty years ago, we landed a man on the moon. It was the culmination of a bold idea and an audacious challenge to do big things, great things, in the name of advancing science and technology, and for the sake of challenging ourselves as a people to be better and to strive. Twenty years prior, an entire generation of soldiers, sailors and Marines came home from the battlegrounds of Europe, having soundly defeated the evil of totalitarianism, liberating an entire race from the ovens of a demented racist. They came back with a voracious energy and a single-minded drive to get on with their lives. The GI Bill sent them to college, and they spent the next several decades transforming our country into the single greatest economy the world has ever witnessed.

America, it’s time to get back to doing big things. It’s time to get back to talking with one another, exchanging thoughtful ideas, turning off the talking heads and rolling up our sleeves to do meaningful work in our communities and beyond. We must embrace our national heritage of leadership on the world stage.

It’s time to reengage with our allies and partners across the globe, to embrace once again the alliances, which have fostered peace and stability across the world for over seventy years. Its time to reject the false pretense of isolationism, and move once again with great urgency and energy into the world, to lend a voice for individual freedom and liberty at a time when totalitarianism seeks a second act.

It’s time cast off the shackles of hyper-partisanship, and to reject the dimwitted ramblings of political provocateurs. It’s time to peer over the fence and shake hands and have conversations. It’s time to strip ourselves of labels and engage in the exchange of ideas, to open ourselves up to intellectual challenge, and to be unafraid of “the other”.

We have painted ourselves into ideological corners, but it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s time to be complex thinkers, not adherents to the orthodoxy of “red” or “blue”. We can walk and chew gum at the same time. Principled compromise, not scorched-earth politics, is the bedrock of democracy. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

We can support our police forces, honoring the vital and noble work they do in our communities, yet hold them unapologetically to standards of excellence and professionalism. We can support our military, yet demand of our leaders that armed force is used sparingly and intelligently. We can embrace the mantle of world leadership without being the world’s policeman.

We can embrace the words from “New Colossus” inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty – “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore” – we can embrace the energy and vitality of the immigrant which has made our country unique in the history of the world – we can show kindness and compassion – yet still develop common sense immigration policy.

We can embrace the Second Amendment, yet enact common sense gun legislation, and seek to address the underlying causes of gun violence. We can be proactive and not reactive in providing meaningful treatment for mental illness.

We can move boldly toward sustainable and clean energy by investing in science and technology. We can and should look toward solutions to protect our environment with all the urgency of a moonshot.

We should expect excellence of ourselves and our fellow citizens, yet provide meaningful assistance to those who fall behind. We can help without judging, hold accountable without dehumanizing, and find ways not to punish, but to rehabilitate, and to reintegrate into society in meaningful ways, with full rights of citizenship for those who earn it.

We can do all of these things and more if we are not afraid to think and strive and accept nothing less from ourselves and our elected leaders. And to quote our 35th President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, we can do these things, “not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win”.

America, we’re better than this. Now what are we going to do about it?

Odd Times at the Odd Fellows Tract

(Originally published Summer, 2021)

“Providing science-based environmental stewardship for the health, safety and prosperity of ALL North Carolinians.” – North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality (NCDEQ)– Mission Statement

stewardship (stoo-erd-ship): 2. the responsible overseeing and protection of something considered worth caring for or preserving – Dictionary.com

For a regulatory body guided by such lofty ideals, it would seem a foregone conclusion that public land immediately adjacent to a state park would not be suitable for a rock quarry. Certainly not if said park happened to be the most visited in the entire North Carolina State Park system, with nearly two million annual visitors.

Certainly, given all the measurable deleterious environmental and public health impacts wrought by such a quarry, and the swiftly dwindling public green spaces available to Triangle residents, such a quarry would be rightly seen as a nuisance at best, and at worst, potentially ruinous to the state park system’s crown jewel.

Surely, given that the quarry would compromise the health, safety, and prosperity of North Carolinians, such a circumspect regulatory body would summarily dismiss the mining permit in question.

Well, it’s complicated.

How we got here

The Odd Fellows tract as it is known, is a 105-acre parcel of land immediately adjacent to William B. Umstead State Park, along Reedy Creek trail. The parcel is bordered roughly by Umstead Park to the north, I-40 to the south, Lake Crabtree County Park to the west, and the current Wake Stone Corporation quarry to the east. This tract of public land was deeded to four local governments – Wake County, Durham County, the City of Raleigh and the City of Durham, in a July, 1976 transfer from the Sir Raleigh Lodge 411 of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows to those governmental entities.

RDU Airport Authority (RDUAA) manages this land on behalf of the owning municipalities under legislation passed by the North Carolina General Assembly following that 1976 sale. NC General Statute 63.56(f), states:

“no real property and no airport, other air navigation facility, or air protection privilege, owned jointly, shall be disposed of by the board (i.e. RDUAA), by sale, or otherwise, except by authority of the appointed governing bodies, but the board may lease space, area or improvements and grant concessions on airports for aeronautical purposes or purposes incidental thereto.”

This 105 acre parcel of land has been the focus of a years-long struggle between a private corporation bent on expanding operations, and private citizens organizing to save not just the 105 acres, but the sanctity of Umstead State Park, and the rights of impacted landowners.

This struggle unfolds in fits and starts while the governing bodies which own this public land sit strangely quiet.

In 1980, Wake Stone Corporation initially submitted an application for a mining permit for a tract just east of Odd Fellows, where their current mine, the Triangle Quarry, is now in operation. That original permit was initially denied by the NCDEQ, which cited the “combined effects of noise, sedimentation, dust, traffic and blasting vibration associated with the proposed quarry and the impacts upon William B. Umstead State Park.”

What followed was an appeal by Wake Stone and a series of reviews by various state agencies, including NCDEQ and North Carolina State Parks. Ultimately, the mining permit was approved in 1981 with a few caveats, including a substantial buffer between the quarry pit and Umstead, a donation to the State Park system, and a clause in the permit which would effectively sunset mining operations within fifty years, or ten years after active mining ceases, whichever of those comes sooner.

The “sooner” verbiage in that Fifty-Year Sunset Clause would effectively halt operations by Wake Stone by 2031 at the latest, at which time the land would be turned over to the State of North Carolina.

Over the next 37 years, Wake Stone filed numerous renewals for their mining permit with no alteration to the Fifty-Year Sunset Clause. However, in March, 2018, Wake Stone filed a mining permit modification, which substituted the “sooner” language with “later”, effectively negating the Fifty-Year Sunset Clause. The change enabled mining, and possibly even expansion, into perpetuity.

This modification was completed by NCDEQ staff under the supervision of an Interim DEQ Director, William “Toby” Vinson without the requisite Permit Modification Application or fees. Neither North Carolina State Parks, nor affected landowners and businesses were consulted about the change. 

Subsequently, RDUAA entered into a mineral lease with Wake Stone Corporation on Friday, March 1, 2019 with a scant forty-eight hours of public notice. The “lease” would allow Wake Stone to create a new rock quarry pit within the 105-acre publicly owned Odd Fellows tract. This lease was completed without the consultation or approval of the owning municipalities, and with little to no window for public comment.

Make no mistake, this agreement is not a lease in any realistic sense of the word.

Imagine leasing a car, and returning it to the dealer at the end of the lease period with the wheels, seats, engine and dashboard removed. Moreover, imagine the dealer agreeing to the removal of those items at the outset of the lease. It is unimaginable because that is not how leases work. Such is the jaded and farcical nature of RDUAA’s agreement with Wake Stone.

The Public Responds

Following the RDUAA/Wake Stone lease, the Umstead Coalition and Triangle Off-Road Cyclists (TORC), along with adjacent landowners Randy and Tamara Dunn and Wake County resident Bill Doucette, filed a lawsuit against the RDUAA and Wake Stone Corporation with the following requests:

  • Municipalities must provide approval for disposal of their mineral rights – this approval has not been obtained.
  • The RDUAA has exceeded their authority granted by the State Legislature.
  • The signed lease of March 1, 2019 is not valid, and therefore should be nullified until the governing bodies approve the sale of their mineral rights.

Meanwhile, The Conservation Fund, a non-profit environmental preservation group based in Arlington, VA, offered $6.46 million to purchase the Odd Fellows tract and donate the land to William B. Umstead State Park. RDUAA declined this offer, citing the wildly optimistic potential for $24 million in revenue from the Wake Stone lease over two decades. However, that amount is not stipulated in the lease. Wake Stone only guarantees $8.5 million in back-loaded payments. The present value of the lease is $4.6 million.

What could explain RDUAA’s decision to 1) enter into an unlawful lease, and 2) decline a $6.46 million lump sum sale in lieu of a lease valued at $4.6 million to be paid in installments over twenty years?

Can you say good ole boy politics?

John Bratton, the founder of Wake Stone Corporation, as well as his sons, John, Jr (Vice Chairman of the Board of Wake Stone), Theodore Bratton (CEO) and Samuel Bratton (President), have made tens of thousands of dollars in political donations to various campaigns, both Democratic and Republican over the decades. It would appear those donations have purchased the silence of the owning municipalities, run by politicians who have been the beneficiaries of Bratton largesse over the years. The Brattons are now calling in those favors in an effort to expand their quarry operations onto public land.

Where we are, and next steps

In April 2020, Wake Stone Corporation filed a mining permit application for the Odd Fellows tract. A public hearing was held by the NCDEQ on Tuesday, June 23, 2020, which included over 570 virtual attendees and 78 speakers over the course of several hours, all of whom used their allotted two minutes to speak out against the expanded quarry, with the lone exception of Wake Stone President Samuel Bratton. The attendance was so great that the hearing was adjourned after 10pm and an overflow hearing was scheduled for July 7, 2020.

From the standpoint of environmental impact and quality of life for Triangle area residents, the idea of a quarry expansion onto the Odd Fellows tract should be a non-starter.

Wake Stone seeks to cart away 105 acres of forested habitat, topsoil and stone at a rate of up to 500 truckloads per day in an area immediately adjacent to William B. Umstead State Park. Visitors to the park would not only be subjected to the nerve-jangling cacophony of hundreds of dump trucks rolling daily along Old Reedy Creek Road, but also to airborne particulate matter.

This airborne menace would include silicate, which, when inhaled can lead to silicosis – a permanent scarring of the lungs. There is no Federal regulation limiting non-workplace exposure to silica. Mine workers would be equipped with PPE. Runners, mountain bikers and other unwitting park users? They would be on their own and highly vulnerable.

There is also the terrifying peril of fly rock, which are rock fragments from blasting which fly beyond the blast site, potentially causing injury and property damage. With virtually no buffer zone between the proposed quarry expansion and Umstead State Park, this would present a potentially lethal peril. Seismic damage from blasts can and do cause damage to nearby homes as well.

There is good reason for land use restrictions and zoning, which typically prevent incompatible commercial and industrial operations like mining from locating next to state parks.

And then there is the long-term impact of an expanded quarry.

Wake Stone has attempted to paint a rosy picture of a public lake which would be left in the aftermath of mining operations decades from now. In reality, the Odd Fellows tract, currently forested habitat supporting a thriving ecosystem, would be a 400-foot hole in the ground.

The pit would not flush itself naturally as would a normal body of water, which would result in a fetid pool of runoff water, stagnant and inaccessible to the public due to the vertical nature of the rock face. No beach, no public use, just a nuisance and a liability which would need to be permanently cordoned off and monitored at great expense to the owning municipalities long after the rapacious Brattons have made off with their millions from the destruction of publicly owned land.

The NCDEQ has an opportunity to stop this environmental and ethical catastrophe in the making. The history of Odd Fellows is being recorded day by day, and the legacies of the NCDEQ board will be inextricably tied to that history.

Will those legacies speak to the principled preservation of public land and upholding the lofty ideals of their mission statement? Or will they speak to feckless catering to moneyed interests and a 400-foot hole in the ground?

For additional reading and viewing:

Attend the July 7, 2020 public hearing! https://deq.nc.gov/news/press-releases/2020/06/24/wake-stone-public-hearing-continuation

Foxcroft Lake on the Odd Fellows tract

Odd Times at the Odd Fellows Tract, Part II

Additional Perspective on the Historical and Cultural Significance of William B. Umstead State Park and the Odd Fellows Tract

(Originally published Summer, 2021)

Last week, I reviewed the ongoing struggle over the Odd Fellows tract – 105 acres of publicly owned, forested habitat, which directly borders Old Reedy Creek Road in William B. Umstead State Park. The years-long struggle pits the RDU Airport Authority (RDUAA) and Wake Stone Corporation against preservation groups, adjacent landowners, and private citizens determined to save this forested ecosystem from an ugly fate.

The purpose of this installment is not to rehash those points, which can be found here, but to further delve into the historical and cultural significance of the Odd Fellows tract, as well as Umstead State Park, which is at great risk from the proposed new quarry.

For most who have biked, hiked or run through the jewel that is Umstead State Park, the history of this land may not be front of mind. It is easy to become lost in that endorphin fueled reverie common to those of us who calibrate the miles via landmarks just as easily as through our Garmins. A bend in the trail here, water fountain there, a lake, an old family cemetery, a hill… good Lord, those hills. We know this park intimately, at least the frequently traveled parts.

But not everyone is privy to the deep history of the place. The more observant visitors among us might glimpse an occasional stone chimney just off the trail through winter-bare trees, standing sentry over a long-abandoned home site. These glimpses hint at the history, but there is so much more than meets the eye.

A farming community transformed

The area now encompassesing Umstead State Park, was populated as early as 1800, as small farms sprung up in the area around Crabtree Creek in northwestern Wake County. By 1810, Anderson Page, an early entrepreneur and industrialist established a water-powered mill on Crabtree Creek, known first as Page’s Mill, then Company Mill. Other mills populated the area, including the George Lynn Mill on Sycamore Creek (1871), and a later mill on Reedy Creek.

Wake County residents traveled from miles around along Old Middle Hillsboro Road – an early precursor to present-day Highway 70 – then south along Mill Road to Crabtree Creek to ground corn and catch up on local gossip. The Company Mill was in operation until the 1920’s and then largely washed away during a great flood in the 1930’s. Portions of a dam wall built at the mill site are still visible along the southern banks of Crabtree Creek within the park.

As farms populated the area, forests of oak and pine were largely cleared for fields. Early farming was marginally successful, but poor cultivation practices led to soil depletion and erosion. Depression-era farmers made futile attempts to grow cotton in the worn-out soil around Crabtree Creek, but by the early 1930’s, landowners in the grip of financial ruin were bought out under the Resettlement Administration (RA), a federal agency created under the New Deal which relocated struggling urban and rural families to communities planned by the federal government. Through that process, in 1934 federal and state agencies combined to purchase 5,000 acres of sub-marginal land to develop a recreation area. Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) and Works Progress Administration (WPA) work crews, largely staffed by North Carolinians, built facilities including Camp Sycamore on Sycamore Lake, and other campsites.

By 1943, with World War II underway and New Deal programs winding down, the State of North Carolina purchased this area, known as Crabtree Creek Recreation Area, for $1. The area was later named Crabtree Creek State Park.

The legacy of Jim Crow

Crabtree Creek State Park was segregated from the outset, with Camp Whispering Pines designated for African Americans on a pond at Reedy Creek. By 1950, one thousand acres of Crabtree Creek State Park was designated for use by African Americans, and named Reedy Creek State Park. The white entrance to Crabtree Creek was located off of Highway 70 in the north, while the black entrance to Reedy Creek was located to the south, at the terminus of Cary’s Harrison Avenue.

The two parks were separated by the meandering Crabtree Creek which bisects the park roughly west to east. While this fixed boundary demarcated the space, fording at any number of points could easily breach the boundary. To make the separation more durable, stands of forest were often employed. Writing about improvements to the parks in 1950, the Raleigh News & Observer provided a perverse note of reassurance to white parents that a large forested buffer would separate the white and African American youth camps, stating that the two camps would be more than a mile apart at the Crabtree Creek dividing line.

Reedy Creek State Park was one of just two facilities operated by the state park system designated for African American use, the other being Jones Lake State Park in Bladen County, southeast of Fayetteville. A third park, Hammocks Beach State Park was planned for minority use after it was donated to the state in 1961 by an association of African American teachers, however the park opened to all people following the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

In 1955, Crabtree Creek State Park was renamed for late Governor William B. Umstead, an advocate of environmentally friendly legislation who had recently died in office. In 1966, the two state parks were joined under the name William B. Umstead State Park, and both sections opened to all citizens. To this day, there is no road or trail connecting the former white entrance at Highway 70, and the former black entrance at Harrison Avenue – a subtle reminder of the dark history of Jim Crow.

Odd Fellows and Foxcroft Lake

Over the decades, the Odd Fellows tract and other forested lands around the borders of Umstead have been used much like the park itself, for recreation and enjoyment of the outdoors. The Fraternal Order of Odd Fellows purchased their tract of land in 1958 and made it available to local Boy Scout troops for monthly meetings and overnight camps along the shores of Foxcroft Lake.  

As Raleigh evolved from a sleepy Southern capital to a thriving metropolitan city, land use and availability became a greater concern. The Research Triangle, was founded in 1959 and named for the three anchoring research institutions, NC State University in Raleigh, the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill and Duke University in Durham. This venture, led by politicians, university officials and business leaders, sought to transform the economy of the Piedmont region away from the traditional, yet fading industries of textiles and farming, and toward a new focus on technological innovation and development. By the mid 1960’s, these efforts picked up steam, jobs followed, and the population increased at a historic rate.

Sensing the need to secure bordering properties against the threat of incompatible industrial encroachment, North Carolina State Parks published a Master Plan for Umstead State Park in 1974. The plan contained a land acquisition strategy, which called for obtaining 916 additional acres of land in three phases along the borders of the park. The plan also called for deleting 186 acres along Turkey Creek, on the east side of Ebenezer Church Road, roughly the location of the Hamptons at Umstead neighborhood today. The net total of 730 acres proposed for acquisition included land between Umstead and I-40 where the current Wake Stone quarry sits, and the Odd Fellows tract immediately to the west.

The plan noted that most of the proposed lands need not be acquired if legally binding assurances could be made by landowners guaranteeing existing land uses would remain indefinitely. Such assurances could be secured by scenic easements that would exclude land uses incompatible with the park, including high-density residential, commercial or industrial development, or timber clear-cutting.

During this time, an expanding RDU Airport just to the west of Umstead also sought to secure its borders and acquire land for future expansion. Just two years after the publication of the Umstead Master Plan, the Fraternal Order of Odd Fellows and other landowners sold their properties along the southern border of Umstead to the four municipalities – the cities of Raleigh and Durham, and the counties of Wake and Durham. The sales were coerced, as the municipalities sought to secure land for use by the RDU Airport Authority. The landowners chose to sell in order to avoid loss of the property by eminent domain.

Even after the forced sale of Odd Fellows in 1976, the tract remained a de facto extension of Umstead, with continued use by local Boy Scout troops. With the rise of mountain biking in the 1990s and 00’s, trails were developed along this tract as well as the adjacent “286” tract. These uses were compatible with a state park, and provided enhanced access to trails and outdoor activities for Triangle residents.

East Coast Greenway

The East Coast Greenway (ECG), an ambitious 3,000 mile hiking and biking route which connects hundreds of greenway and hiking trail systems from Maine to Florida, runs through Umstead State Park along the Reedy Creek Trail, and along Old Reedy Creek Road south of the park. In a 2017 study of the economic impact of the ECG on the area, it was estimated that the Triangle region enjoys $90 million annual in total benefits from gains in health, the environment, transportation and enhanced access. The ECG runs literally within yards of the proposed new Wake Stone quarry.

If Wake Stone is approved for a new quarry pit, access to the ECG and Umstead along Old Reedy Creek Road would effectively be cut off for an extended period of time, if not permanently. 500 dump trucks a day would roll along that road while the tract is deforested, until Wake Stone’s proposed bridge is completed over Crabtree Creek. Given the noise, the danger of truck traffic, the threat of lung disorders from airborne particulate matter, and the peril of fly rock generated from such a quarry, would the ECG and it’s significant economic impact be enhanced or diminished by a new quarry?

An opportunity to get things right

The leaders of our local municipalities and regulatory bodies have a unique and fleeting opportunity to protect public land for the enjoyment of current and future generations of Triangle residents, property owners and taxpayers. They have an opportunity to enhance North Carolina’s most visited state park, and bolster the Triangle’s reputation as a legitimate destination for hiking, biking and all manner of outdoor activities.

They have an opportunity to honor generations of farming families who called this land home as far back as the early 1800’s. To memorialize the generations of African American residents who found solace in Reedy Creek State Park during the dark chapter of Jim Crow. And to commemorate the generations of Boy Scouts who developed skills, self confidence and character along the shores of Foxcroft Lake. It is a rare opportunity to protect an asset which brings tens of millions of dollars in annual benefits to this region.

This moment is much larger than the 105 acres in question. This moment will define who we are and what we value as a community, and as a society. We have an opportunity to get things right, and the choice between right and wrong has rarely been more evident.

Please contact your local city and county representatives, your legislators, Congressmen, the Governor, and members of the RDUAA and NCDEQ and let your voices be heard. Because on this Independence Day, we the people have an opportunity too.

African American Boy Scouts at Reedy Creek State Park – NC State Parks archives

For additional reading on the history of Umstead:

South Carolina’s ACC Basketball Title – Fifty Years Gone By

College Basketball: ACC Tournament: South Carolina John Roche (11) and Kevin Joyce (43) victorious after winning Championship Game vs North Carolina at Greensboro Coliseum. Greensboro, NC 3/13/1971 CREDIT: Bruce Roberts (Photo by Bruce Roberts /Sports Illustrated via Getty Images) (Set Number: X15683 TK1 R8 F15 )

(This Saturday, March 13, 2021, will mark fifty years since South Carolina won its only ACC basketball tournament championship. The following is an excerpt from the forthcoming book, “The Wilderness – University of South Carolina Athletics in the Independent Era”)

It was a Saturday evening, March 13, 1971. Temperatures were warm, in the upper 60’s. Bradford Pears, with their pungent, white blooms, were beginning to flower in Greensboro. Jessamine and Honeysuckle too perfumed the early-evening air as fans of both North and South Carolina made their way, tickets in hand, to the newly renovated Greensboro Coliseum. The air was peaceful, calm, belying the coming storms, both on and off the basketball court. Spring would officially arrive a week later, but winter had a score yet to settle.  

South Carolina finished the 1970-71 regular season second to North Carolina, and as many had predicted, the two schools would meet in the tournament finals. The Gamecocks had dispatched Maryland 71-63 in the opening round and dominated N.C. State 69-56 in the semi-final. Likewise, the Tar Heels had taken care of business, eliminating Clemson and Virginia in rounds one and two.

After a game that saw the Gamecocks struggle mightily from the floor, UNC began to edge ahead late in the second half. With a 46-40 lead at the 4:34 mark, Tar Heel Coach Dean Smith went to his signature “Four Corners” offense, which was not engineered to produce points, rather to milk clock and keep the ball out of the hands of the opposing team.

This was long before the shot clock was implemented in college basketball, and many teams used this strategy to slow down high-powered opposing offenses. Earlier in the season in a game at College Park, Maryland, the Terrapins used a similar strategy to neutralize John Roche and the Gamecocks, resulting in a 4-3 halftime score before things picked up in the second half.

With no shot clock, the Gamecocks were forced to foul. UNC needed only to hit free throws to preserve their lead and escape with a win, something Smith’s Tar Heels had nearly perfected in those years. Remarkably, UNC missed the front end of five one-on-ones down the stretch.  The Gamecocks responded, pulling within a point, 49-48 with 1:04 remaining. UNC’s Lee Dedmon and USC’s John Ribock exchanged free throws and the game was still within a point, 50-49 with 45 seconds left.

After a steal by USC’s Bob Carver resulted in a foul on Ribock’s attempted layup, Ribock made one of two free throws to knot it at 50 with 39 seconds remaining. The Gamecocks missed from the floor and the Tar Heel’s George Karl missed a one-on-one opportunity over the next 18 seconds.

The Tar Heels went up by one, 51-50, but when Karl could not connect on another one-on-one, USC’s Rick Aydlett rebounded with 20 seconds remaining and passed it off to 6’3” guard, Kevin Joyce. As Joyce drove the baseline for a shot he was tied-up by UNC’s 6’10” Dedmon, resulting in a jump ball.

Like the shot clock, the rule of alternating possessions for jump balls was years away, so the much smaller Joyce would have to jump against UNC’s big man Dedmon. To compound the mismatch, Joyce was recovering from a leg injury suffered earlier in the season. Tar Heel fans were planning their post-game celebrations. McGuire claimed he saw a UNC assistant with a pair of scissors for the post-game net cutting.

Following the jump ball, McGuire called a time out with six seconds on the clock. Given the mismatch on the jump ball, USC had no realistic expectation of controlling the tip. McGuire used the timeout to talk through strategies for stealing the ball after Dedmon controlled the tap. McGuire’s main bit of coaching advice to Joyce was to “jump to the moon, kid”.

During the timeout, tension mounted in the arena. UNC and USC pep bands alternated fight songs, filling the air with the strains of brass and a drumming battle rhythm. Confident Tar Heel fans awaited another title. Gamecock fans, agonized through the timeout, hoping for a miracle while bracing for the familiar gut punch of disappointment. Not a soul left their seats. The horn sounded and officials summoned the teams to the floor. Six seconds.

The teams came out of the timeout and took their places for the jump. Joyce could sense that Dedmon may have been a little complacent. He also noticed that, perhaps assuming Dedmon would control the tip, no UNC players lined up between the Gamecock’s 6’10” Tom Owens and the basket. As the official tossed the ball up, Joyce jumped “like he had springs in his legs”, managing to tip the ball to an unopposed Owens, who deftly wheeled around and laid the ball off the glass and into the basket, putting the Gamecocks up 52-51. As the final two seconds ticked away, UNC could not get a shot off and South Carolina held on to claim their first and only ACC Tournament Championship.

Pandemonium ensued among the Gamecock faithful. Radioman Bob Fulton, described the jubilation of the moment as the garnet-clad Gamecocks rushed the court in celebration – “…the ballgame is all over – they’re going wild on the court!” South Carolina partisans among the 15,170 inside Greensboro Coliseum were left jubilant, if emotionally drained after the dramatic finish.

South Carolina, by virtue of winning the tournament, went onto represent the ACC in the NCAA tournament, which included only 25 teams at the time. USC was slotted in the East Regional, which was played before a hostile and vocally anti-Gamecock crowd in Raleigh’s Reynolds Coliseum. The Gamecocks were matched against a powerful University of Pennsylvania team, which had won 27 straight games and was ranked 3rd in the nation.

The partisan ACC crowd cheered, not the ACC Champion, but for Penn, illustrating the bitterness that had developed between USC and the other ACC members.

Further illustrating that bitterness was end-of-season voting for ACC Coach of the Year and Player of the Year, which revealed strident anti-Gamecock sentiment among the North Carolina-dominated voting media. McGuire, in spite of winning the ACC Championship and guiding his team to an ACC-leading 6th place finish in national polls, did not factor into voting. UNC’s Smith won out, with Virginia’s Bill Gibson placing second. John Roche was denied a third straight Player of the Year recognition, as media members curiously voted 86-30 for Wake Forest’s Charlie Davis over Roche. This, despite South Carolina’s 20 and 15 point wins over Wake in the regular season.

Roche was selected a first team All-American by UPI and Basketball Weekly, among others, and was selected first team by NBA coaches for the annual College All-Star squad, while Davis was named neither first or second team.

In a disappointing NCAA tournament showing, South Carolina went into halftime down just a point, but Penn dominated the second half to win going away, 79-64. The NCAA Tournament hosted consolation games in those days, and the Gamecocks came up short in that one as well, losing a high-scoring affair to Fordham, by a score of 100-90.

The loss to Fordham was South Carolina’s final Basketball game as a member of the ACC. Though USC would compete in conference play in baseball that spring, the Gamecocks would leave the ACC officially on June 30 – just over three months after their greatest triumph in Greensboro.

Why I remain optimistic about the future of America

(Originally published Summer, 2022)

There are so many reasons for pessimism at this time in our country’s history, and that of the world in general. The world seems literally to be falling down around us. Daily we are bombarded by news of unfathomable suffering, cruelty, and tragedy. This generation doesn’t need horror movies. We have our newsfeeds. 

War, famine, corruption, ecological catastrophe, mass starvation, and political instability have always been grim parts of the global equation, but these things are pressing in on us evermore, both in reality and in perception, thanks to the ravenous monster that is our 24-7 news cycle. Moreover, these things are no longer relegated to the notorious caldrons of chaos in the Middle East, Central America, or Eastern Europe. They have come to our own doorstep and settled like radioactive particles into the once civil and comparatively serene nooks and crannies of American life.

Mass shootings occur, on average, multiple times each day. There have been 314 such shootings so far in 2022, an average of 1.7 per day, according to the Gun Violence Archive.[i] This includes the July 4 shooting at an Independence Day parade in Highland Park, IL, in which a gunman killed six and wounded many more; and the massacre of 19 children and two teachers at an elementary school in Uvalde, TX. Even during a recent mall shooting in Greenwood, IN, which was stopped, thankfully, by an armed citizen, three people were killed and two more injured. Despite the intervention of the fabled “good guy with a gun,” sightings of which have been Sasquatch-like in their fleeting rarity, three innocent people were still gunned down. Not exactly a win, and certainly not a strategy to prevent future bloodshed. Nor, I would submit, are the tiresome “thoughts and prayers” offered up in knee-jerk fashion by impotent and feckless lawmakers who simultaneously and perversely boast of their NRA approval ratings.

We can no longer enjoy the simple pleasure of a retreat from the summer heat to a cool, dark movie theater without thoughts of survival strategies, as we choose our seats not for the best view of the screen, but by calculating the most direct route to an exit. The very act of going to a movie, or a restaurant, or the grocery store can seem a gamble at times in the roulette wheel nature of random gun violence which pervades American life.  We live daily with the specter of calamity. The very real possibility of untimely and violent death has become a constant, loathsome companion. 

Our country survived four years of Trumpian griftocracy, incompetence and corruption the likes of which we have never seen, and for which our democracy was woefully unprepared. Many who voted for Trump in 2016 assumed he would be a clownish novelty as president, ultimately to be reined in by systematic guardrails, political norms and the wisdom of advisors. Despite whatever hesitancy or discomfort they may have felt about his court jester persona, boorish behavior and troublesome pronouncements (“I could shoot someone in the middle of 5th Avenue and I wouldn’t lose any voters, ok?”), they could not bring themselves to vote for Hilary Clinton, or for that matter, anyone with a “D” behind their name. Their’s was a political calculation for many caught between what they considered two unsavory choices.  

More perplexing was the choice of over 74 million Americans who voted to give Trump yet another four years in office in 2020. Particularly those evangelicals who, I can only presume, must have found the President’s personal behavior, (“grab ‘em by the pussy”), appalling, embarrassing and unacceptable. Ultimately, many of those evangelicals, being essentially single-issue voters, made the jaundiced calculation that nearly any Trumpian excess was excusable, so long as he did their bidding, appointing friendly judges regardless of qualification, who would ultimately do the work of dismantling Roe through misdirection and outright lying under oath. And in that calculation, their grandest hopes came to pass.

But with the end or Roe, the genie is now out of the bottle, and many “red” state legislatures have predictably proposed draconian laws which would ban abortion altogether, even in cases of rape and incest or when the life of the mother is threatened. Texas, which boasts of doing everything bigger, has taken this derangement to new levels, passing legislation which would provide monetary awards – bounties – for private citizens who report other private citizens engaging in, or assisting with a procedure which had been legal only days before. The legislation is as perverse as it is callous, incentivizing vigilantism, dividing communities, and rewarding cruelty when compassion is needed. Some states which have passed abortion bans are studying legislation which would prohibit its citizens from traveling across state lines to obtain abortion legally elsewhere, a dystopian police-state strategy Stalin himself would have warmly embraced. Perhaps unsurprisingly, some elected officials within the deranged Trump realm have suggested a Federal abortion ban, even after years of arguing that abortion should be a state-by-state issue – a breathtaking display of hypocrisy even by Washington, D.C. standards.

And many other rights may well be rolled back. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas has been vocal in opining that the right to gay marriage should now be reexamined, a right supported by an overwhelming majority of Americans. Some within the GOP seek what can only be described as theocratic rule. 

The Republican Party, in its traditional sense as one of the two major political parties in the United States, has ceased to exist. It is now, effectively, the Party of Trump, or Trumpism, as that movement seems poised to well outlive its corpulent septuagenarian founding father. Crazy has become mainstream, and an insurrectionist fervor has taken hold of the former Grand Old Party. Well-meaning, patriotic former Republicans have been censured or outright purged from the party for speaking out against Trump’s most nakedly anti-democratic impulses, or by simply telling the truth about January 6th. There is no room for anyone who refuses absolute fealty, who stands on democratic principle, who refuses to kiss the ring. 

And it is getting wild out there, folks. Former Missouri Governor and current insurrectionist candidate for US Senate, Eric Greitens, boasted in a recent, unhinged political ad of going “RINO hunting,” the infamous acronym for “Republicans In Name Only.” In the ad, Greitens wields a shotgun, and flanked by a SWAT team, raids a home evidently occupied by someone of the same party who holds a mildly different political slant than his own. “There’s no bagging limit, no tagging limit, and it doesn’t expire until we save our country,” Greitens swaggers, enraptured by his own perverse, maniacal cosplay fantasy. 

The reptilian Matt Gaetz of Florida’s 1st-Congressional District, who is under federal investigation for statutory rape and sex trafficking of a minor, said recently of a 19-year-old abortion rights activist, “Why is it that the women with the least likelihood of getting pregnant are the ones most worried about having abortions? Nobody wants to impregnate you if you look like a thumb.”

Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia’s 14th-Congressional District embodies the race-baiting, mouth-frothing, moon-barking, conspiracy-peddling heart of the Trumpist Party. She recently claimed the government was keeping track of how many bowel movements you are having, and how many cheeseburgers you are eating, forcing people instead to eat meat promoted by Bill Gates and grown in a “peach tree dish.” In an infamous antisemitic Facebook rant, the likes of which would cause Berliners of the 1930’s to blush, she implied blame for the western wildfires of 2018 on the Rothchilds, a wealthy Jewish banking family long the target of antisemitic tropes and conspiracy theories. This is but an infinitesimal sampling of the delirium which currently infuses the party of Abrahahm Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, and Dwight Eisenhower.

Culture wars and performative lunacy have replaced governing philosophy within the former GOP. Gone is even the faintest pretense of guiding conservative principles which once narrated their efforts, and long gone is any thought of “Big Tent” inclusiveness. Weakened by the headwinds of demographic change and the mass defection of moderate voters, remnants of the once-proud GOP have reformed over the energized waters of grievance politics and right-wing nationalism. Having abandoned any hope of broadening the base, they are bent on minority rule via the grossly anti-democratic machinations of gerrymandering and systematic voter suppression. And there is no end in sight to their putrid, self-destructive march. 

So why the optimism? 

The excesses and perversions of Trump and his minions do not represent America, or Americans in the way I know them to exist. This is still the country which, despite its myriad flaws and transgressions, has stood as a beacon of hope and liberty for millions of oppressed peoples across the globe. We are still the people who intervened in two world wars, sacrificing hundreds of thousands of our own to preserve democracy in Europe and beyond, even while our own country effectively existed in a state of racial apartheid.

In the years which followed, we addressed some of our most grievous failures through landmark Civil Rights legislation, moving us closer to that “more perfect union” extolled by our Founders. During the Cold War, the American-financed broadcasts of Radio Free Europe emboldened freedom-craving Eastern Europeans to imagine a life beyond their grey existence behind the Iron Curtain.

We are still the people who, through the inspired words of a young president, the ingenuity of our brightest scientific minds, and our own restless energy, did the once unthinkable by putting a man on the moon in 1969. 

We are still the people whose first instinct is to rush in and help, to care for our neighbors, to, when we are at our best, when we are truly living the rhetorical question, “what would Jesus do?” be big-hearted in our embrace of “the other.” Emma Lazarus put it most succinctly in her poem, The New Colossus, inscribed upon the base of the Statue of Liberty, when she wrote:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

I am optimistic that we are still those people.

It is often said that hope is not a strategy. Well, I would submit that neither is pessimism. We can still accomplish anything if we recapture the optimism of Kennedy and Reagan, the energy and vigor of Teddy Roosevelt, the ingenuity and determination of Franklin Roosevelt, and the moral clarity of Lincoln. These are the qualities which make us distinctly American. 

Yet, optimism without action is both empty and delusional. Every American dedicated to the preservation of liberty and our democratic system of government must act in whatever way we are able to maintain and expand our birthright of freedom, and to cast off the looming, existential threat of autocracy and strongman rule. Through educating ourselves, engaging others in well-intentioned conversation and respectful debate, and taking an active part in the democratic process, we still have a chance to right the ship. 

Action eliminates hopelessness. You literally cannot simultaneously act and remain hopeless, for in the very action of running for local office, or writing a letter to the editor of a local paper, or contacting a Congressional representative, or voting, or driving an elderly neighbor to the polling place, or volunteering to assist a recent immigrant, you are asserting your power, and lending your voice to what is still the greatest democratic experiment in the history of the world. 

I am optimistic that liberty will carry the day, and firm in my belief that those cold and feckless souls who have abdicated their solemn oaths to uphold our Constitution will be relegated to the shameful place in history they have so richly earned. 


[i] “There have been at least 314 mass shootings so far in 2022. There have only been 186 days.” Christina Prigano and Ryan Huddle, Boston Globe, July 5, 2022.  https://www.bostonglobe.com/2022/07/05/nation/there-have-been-least-314-mass-shootings-so-far-2022-there-have-only-been-186-days/

Verona

Each day on our recent trip with good friends Martin and Misa through parts of Czech Republic, Austria, Italy and Croatia, I would sit in the RV while Martin drove and, with questionable penmanship exacerbated by a bumpy road, scrawl a barely-legible account of the previous days adventures. The following is an entry from one of our favorite days, and by far our favorite meal…

Thursday, September 24, 2015

A change of plans yesterday took us to Verona. It was a wonderful night in one of the loveliest cities I have ever seen.

Misa found a perfect campground atop an ancient castle – Castel San Pietro, which sits on a high bluff overlooking the city. The city center is compact and perfect for walking, which we did happily after a long day of driving.

VeronaIt was a gorgeous, mild evening, just an hour or so before dusk when we descended into the city from the campground. As we did the sun cast a beautiful light on the red clay rooftops and ancient buildings and cobbled alleyways.

We were eager for wine and stopped first in a charming corner establishment, the Cappa Café. There was a fine, large balcony overlooking the wide, swift-moving Adige River, which bisects the town. We sat initially there but moved inside to a cozy table due to the dropping temperature and chilly breeze off of the river.

We spent a couple of hours there, laughing and telling stories over two bottles of good red wine. Verona was working it’s charms.

After, we strolled some more, slightly buzzed and happy. We took in a two thousand year old Roman coliseum, the Verona Arena, which is still in use today and famous for it’s large-scale opera productions. It was spectacular and reminded me of the blinding pace of change in the US. For example, the wonderful Carolina Coliseum in Columbia was only built in 1968 and was state of the art at the time. It was replaced over ten years ago by another, more modern facility. Sad. But that rant is for another blog.

We ambled over to Casa Guilietta for a glimpse at Juliet’s balcony from Romeo and Juliet – by far the most frequented tourist destination in Verona and a little crowded even in the off season on a Wednesday night. We people-watched, inhaling the salt-tinged perfume of the early evening air while walking a little more. Between the wine and the walking, we were ready to eat.

As we made our way back across the river toward the campsite, we settled on an enchanting little restaurant within the shadow of Castel San Pietro – Alcova del Frote Osteria. The “osteria” caught my attention and I immediately craved oysters.

We were seated in a private room downstairs in the wine cellar. The room was small and cozy with just one table. Dried hams and sausages hung from rough-hewn ceiling beams and candles cast soft light on the shelves of local and regional wine lining every wall from floor to ceiling. It was a room built for luxuriant dining.

We started with what might have been the best red wine I have ever tasted – a locally produced, small batch wine – Valpolicello, 2011. Amazing, peppery and boldy flavorful. We ordered ham three ways – dark, Spanish and Italian with sweet marinated tomoatos. Of course, we ordered local oysters, and they were beautiful, meaty and fresh, tasting strongly of the Mediterranean – briny and delicious. Polenta cakes with scallops and potato puret – amazing.

I ordered horse, for the dark novelty of it more than anything. It was prepared both grilled (spectacular) and carpacio, which was good as well but not as flavorful. We had the best pasta aldente any of us had ever tasted. It was light, topped with local olive oil and fresh olives. Pasta is ruined for me now because I will always judge it based on that dish and it will always fall short – I know this even now. There were also wonderful pan-roasted potatoes and at some point, another bottle of wine, this time a Heletto – also local, but smoother and equally wonderful. We coined a new word – “Foogasm” – and we were fully in the throes of multiple foogasms at this point.

We finished with dessert, which was a mix of tiramisu, cheesecake and chocolate mousse, presented on twelve large spoons – samples of all three for each of us. It was outstanding, but at this point we were in danger of sudden-onset gout. Good Italian coffee helped to settle over-burdened stomachs, but what we really needed was a walk.

I must mention as well that our waiter was tremendous. He was patient, charming and knowledgeable, offering suggestions unobtrusively and picking our wine after thoughtful questions. He was professional in every way and made our evening immeasurably more enjoyable than it could have been otherwise.

After, we shuffled back to camp, zombie-like and deeply satisfied. It was the meal of the year.

Verona reminded me vaguely of Charleston with it’s well-worn charm and seaside aromas. It made me want to sell everything and move there. To learn just enough Italian to get by and to spend my days writing and eating and walking it’s cobbled streets. I think I could talk Melissa into that…