As he ambled home from school, the kid saw that familiar station wagon parked in front of his house and instantly he knew what it meant. At first he considered ducking down under the railroad tressel and waiting it out; but he knew he'd catch hell when he came home late. And he had to go home, he was only 10 years old - there weren't many places he could go. His parents knew how long it took to walk home from the village school and they expected him to make the trek forthwith. In the instances he had lollygagged, and had been a few minutes late, he'd crossed that tressell to find "mama" on the front porch, shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun, searching the village landscape for him. But today, there was no mama, but there was a 65 ford station wagon, driven by the Baptist church preacher parked out front - and this ten year old boy knew that car...and he knew the score.

Being that flight was out of the question, there was only one thing left to do. He'd simply breeze in, give a cheery how do you do, duck into his room, change into his football playing clothes and slip out the back. So, as he approached the little house he rehearsed his lines and hoped for the best. His friends were already in the park waiting on him to join their rough and tumble game . "Hurry up!" You playin'?" He waved back weakly, knowing that escape was improbable. At the top of the front steps he could hear the preacher's booming voice rattling the bungalow's windows. He steeled himself and entered. And there sat the pastor, bigger than life, king james in hand and a big paw extended for the kid to shake. His great plan to escape withered like the autumn tomato vines in the back yard. There'd be no football in the park today; instead, it would be the Roman's road.

"Son, could I talk to you for a minute"? "Yes sir". His Mama stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room - wringing her hands. In the park across the street one of the local hoodlums yelled savagely  , "throw the damn ball you stupid bastard!". The preacher clearly heard it, but pretended not to notice. His mother, scowling, closed the front door. it was on.

The preacher was a barrel of a man. the sheer volume of his voice moved mountains and sinners quaked at his pronouncements, but at that moment, sensing the boy's apprehension, he appeared sweet and kindly. Even when he caught the kid looking longingly toward the door and the park where his friends were roughhousing, the preacher gently asked the kid, "would you rather go out and play"? Of course the kid would rather be anywhere than in that tiny living room with this serious giant and his emotional .mother, but an affirmative answer would have resulted in a family scandal; and worse than that, no football, no cartoons on TV - and who knows what other calamities. So, it had finally come down to this. The Jesus talk.

"Do you know that Christ died for your sins"? "Yes sir". "Now, I know your mind is divided by wanting to go out to play, but you do want to please the Lord, right?" "Yes sir". With fingers that resembled tree trunks, he flipped through the pages of his dog-eared KJV until he lighted upon Romans 10. "Read this passage for me son," he said while draping a heavy arm on the kid's narrow shoulders. If you declare with your mouth that "Jesus is Lord", and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved (Romans 10: 9-10). "Son, do you understand what you just read?" Genuinely moved by the moment the boy croaked out with great relief, "yes sir, I do". And the kid wasn't lying, even before he knew Jesus, he knew that there had to be a lot more going on than his meager existance. Jesus just completed the circle.

 By now his mama had tears streaming down her face and the preacher had a look of satisfaction that stole away his deadly, serious veneer and again rendered him likable. "Well young man, God is proud of you, I'm proud of you and your mother is proud of you too". At that, the kid's mama squeaked out an emotional "I am".

"Baptism'll take place next Sunday evening son", the preacher said, his voice regaining its sober authority. Moments later, he was dismissed to "go on out there with your friends". The kid, still pondering his eternal fate, hopped the ditch across from his house and trotted into the park  - when the preacher's last words sunk in: "Baptism next Sunday evening at 6 O'clock!"  

The Brandon File: The Boys of Summers Past...

"Hustle Phil! Get on it boy!" bellowed James, "Speedy" Landreth as the base runner touched third and headed for home. "Get the bat out of the way!" "Hit the dirt!" But the bat boy had failed and the bat lay guarding home like a tree. As he had gone into his slide, Phil's cleat caught the barrel of the bat which sent him head first into a waiting catcher's mitt. "You're out!, growled the umpire, followed by Phil's groan of pain and embarrassment. With his face covered in dirt, the stocky, curly haired base runner glared at the cowering bat boy as he limped to the dugout. His teammates greeted him with merciless laughter and pantomimes of his clumsy effort. Meanwhile, Speedy continued his lambaste at the chubby bat boy. "Didn't I tell you to get that bat! You need to get your head in the game or I'll get somebody else. Hustle damn it!"

I assume they called him "Speedy" owing to his unhurried demeanor; for he never actually "hustled" anywhere himself. Perhaps T. Durham could put up a tell all post that could shed some light on our little league coach and further verify the sleazy side of mill hill life. Lord knows, concerning the hill, I've written about nothing but murderers and drunkards.

Summertime in the Brandon Ballpark: It was broken bats and exuberant parents. It was rain outs and base clearing doubles. It was road trips to Pelzer and late inning rallies. It was the last days of teen aged innocence and it was the end of the textile era. Before long the hum of the mill would be silenced and many of the kids would soon go to far away places to take on the responsibilities of men.

A couple of years ago I passed through Cleveland Park and I saw that the City had erected a marble wall memorializing Greenvillians killed in the wars. There I found the name Paul Charles Hamby Jr, sp4/Army. "Buddy" Hamby lived across from the Baptist Church. He was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. I scanned the black marble for another name. Gary Lynn Pace, 1lt/Army. Gary didn't live in Brandon, but his parents owned the Jewelry store in West Greenville. Most Parker High students had a school ring from Pace's. Like Buddy, Gary was killed in Vietnam. I then looked down only a row or two in search of his name; and there it was, Phillip Allen Page cpl/Army.

I remember that day in the cemetery standing on the hill across from the funeral. I watched as they laid Phil to rest; his grave not a quarter of a mile from the park where he played baseball a few short years before. I flinched as the seven guns fired their salute; and as the bugler played TAPS, I felt a sadness I had not encountered in my 11 years. The games of youth now in perspective, we walked away leaving Phil in youthful repose.

Flatulence and Physical Fitness - Can we survive?

A while back, my spousal unit and I realized that we had gotten out of shape: the clothes were snug, the breath was short and the joints were stiff. There was only one thing left to do; we decided to stop the insanity and to start eating healthily. That we made this momentous decision while scarfing down a pizza is beside the point, but in any event we made it stick. The pounds began to disappear and before long we were exercising - which brings us to this sour moment.

Our gym is a spacious place that offers a wide variety of fitness programs and classes. One of the said classes is "Power cycle 45", which is 45 minutes of vigorous pedal strokes on stationary bicycles made specifically for that exercise. The class is lead by an instructor, who plays upbeat music and barks out commands and encouragement. But lately a force has arrived that drowns out the instructor's commands and renders her encouragement impotent.

It is here that I should warn the reader who stumbles upon this missive that the subject matter is not genteel. Some may even think this whole thing to be crude - and it is! So, if you're squeamish, turn back now.

Let us continue.

We arrive to the gym at 5:40 and get our bikes ready. We warm up for 5 minutes and then it starts. Typically, within 10 minutes we are breathing hard and sweating profusely. And it is in that gasping, vulnerable state that recently, on several occasions, someone in the room is - how shall I say it?- easing one out! It is not an audible salvo; oh noooo, the presence of the beast, at first, is entirely an affront to the olfactory. So imagine if you will - you've got the beat, you're "adding gears" and "engaging your core", then suddenly there is an enemy. And its not just any old garden variety demon I tell you. It has legs. It's a protein enriched, paint peeling, nose hair singeing assault that advances, retreats and advances again (we think the circular flow of the ceiling fans enhance that effect, but it could be other incoming sorties).

At first, you think you'll survive by breathing through your mouth only; thereby by-passing the sense of smell. But no. You soon discover that this mutant wave has a corresponding flavor and the thought of this phantom gas finding a home in your lungs is a little too much for even an able bodied soul to endure. So, there we are, defenseless, at the mercy of the killer fog and no avenue of escape, save running from the room. We are perplexed and perturbed...but not defeated.


So now, we are looking for suspects - and there are several: The bald guy who always leaves a few minutes early - it did seem that the air was better after he left. But perhaps not. Then there is the big, T-Rex looking older guy with the forehead like a drive in movie screen; he sweats gallons which leads me to think that he'd fog the place out with no problem. But there is no sure fire proof. And let's not let the women off the hook. There's a couple of them in there that have the distinct ability to empty a room - no doubt about it.

So, my intrepid wife and I are on the case like dogged private investigators slinking around in trench coats, collars up, standing flat against the wall to avoid detection. We intend to get to the bottom of this offense. So far our best ideas are:

• To shame the perpetrator by audibly gagging out a loud exclamation; such as, "who died?!!". But that's a little too dramatic for reserved patrons such as us, plus, by bringing attention to the sordid matter, we open ourselves up to suspicion. and a retort like "the smeller is the feller! It's a slippery slope.

• Engaging our classmates in small talk about breakfast choices - we suspect the offender is a "protein shake" consumer - owing to the hint of digesting soy that rides shotgun on the rancid breeze. Of course, bacon and eggs is no fragrant walk in the park. It's such an unsettled science.

• Just giving up exercise indoors all together - What good is physical fitness when you're being bombarded by a force that is clearly life shortening?

In any event, I must apologize again for the crude subject matter, and I hope that future missives are  more pleasant and uplifting - but, assuming we survive this invader,  it's not likely.

One Perfect Kiss

Brandon community bowling alley and skating rink - July 1968: He had noticed this new lovely last Saturday night as he pushed the dust mop up and down the lanes. He did this routine task every night, a few minutes before the cigarette smoking, shit talking, hardcore bowlers arrived. Over on the skating rink that adjoined the 8 lane bowling alley, the skaters were there, early as usual; their mindless chatter a cacophony of teenage madness. He had thought about this new, graceful beauty all week and now here she was again. His mind whirled with plans designed to, at the very least, somehow catch her eye. Suddenly, his romantic reverie was shattered by the building manager's piercing reprimand. He looked up to see William Donahue's wonky finger pointing at the waxy hardwoods: "We ain't got all day boy!" "Yes, sir, I'm on it", he croaked back; but despite the admonishment, his gaze immediately drifted directly back to the alluring figure sitting just apart from the gaggle of chewing gum chomping chirpies. To his amazement, she demurely looked his way and smiled at him as she laced up her skates; then abruptly, with one graceful pirouette, she was on the floor. She could skate rings around the other girls...and there was just something about her. So, it had come down to this, Saturday night with Frankie Valli blaring from the juke box, and his heart beating a little faster...

Her skating skills were legendary,
a hardwood ballerina.
She had talents more profound
Than skating round in circles

Shy with eyes most otherworldly,
happily a chance beginning.
Lead to one short, stolen kiss
and a love that's never ending

One perfect kiss in the dark recess
One perfect kiss as she catches her breath
Before my heart could recover
she's back in the groove
One perfect kiss in shimmering light.
One perfect kiss to last all the night.
One note of her favorite song
And I'm yesterday's news.

Shy with eyes most otherworldly,
happily a chance beginning.
The skating rink has long been gone,
but the love is never ending.

One perfect kiss in the dark recess
one perfect kiss in a brief moments rest.
My heart would never recover
from her glide and her spin.
One perfect kiss, her eyes on the rink.
One perfect kiss, then gone in a blink.
I'd wait in the shadows until
she returned once again.


Donahue: You're fired!

Author's take: Too many unnatural rhymes, but, you know, man, the times were desperate.