Dave's Raves

Tobacco free has a cost?

2007-01-17T07:39:00.000-05:00

The Johnston County Board of Education ponders serious issues regarding education at every meeting it holds. And a few issues cause board members to be at odds with each other on occasion.
One issue in particular looms on the horizon holds explosive potential. It is a proposal to revise the county school’s tobacco policy to reduce the tolerance of tobacco on school grounds. This policy would create a tobacco-free campus, for both students and adults.
The policy is strict. It would include students, teachers, administrators and staff, and even visitors to campus for any reason. And it would prohibit smoking and smokeless tobacco products at any time.
Board member Donna White tried to have a reading of the policy removed from the agenda at the January meeting, a move that was supported by board member Larry Strickland. But board chairman Fred Bartholomew, citing procedure, refused to do it. When the policy was read, Ms. White explained that she believes the ban on tobacco on campus could have far-reaching repercussions. The policy could even anger the public at a time when public support will be needed for another school bond referendum.
She said the policy, as written, would prohibit construction crews from smoking while building a school, since the site was considered school property.
Mr. Strickland said the policy discriminated against dedicated school volunteers who devote time and energy to various school projects because they would not be able to step away and smoke. Parents and supporters who go to basketball games — and are already delegated to go outside into the cold to smoke — would not even be allowed to do that. Teachers who have to stay on campus for several hours a day would have no place to smoke on their breaks.
Mr. Strickland also spoke of receiving a letter of concern which indicated how the policy would put the school at odds with hard-working tobacco farmers who have brought millions upon millions of dollars to Johnston County, paid their taxes and made donations to community causes, such as schools.
The other side of the argument was presented by Kay Carroll, who simply stated that tobacco was a dangerous, unhealthy addiction and to ban it from school property was a positive response that would further provide positive evidence to students that tobacco is not something with which they should get involved. Mr. Carroll cited numerous health reasons for the ban, and said it was a simple matter of keeping the campuses healthy for the students.
Board member Jack O’Hale provided perhaps the best commentary on the issue. He said it boiled down to individual rights versus protecting public health.
“Tobacco is a legal product if you are over 18,” he said. “Drinking alcohol is legal if you are over 21. Owning a gun is legal if you are over a certain age. But we don’t allow drinking on school property and we don’t allow guns on school property.”
I am big on individual rights. I agree with Mr. O’Hale that as long as a person is of legal age, they should be allowed to do what they please.
But Ben Franklin once said that another person’s rights end at the tip of my nose. When your cigarette smoke comes into my nostrils, I am being denied the right to breathe air that is not clogged with carcinogens. Most responsible smokers are mindful of this and try not to offend anyone who does not want to enjoy the smoke with them.
I grew up with cigarettes in my life. My mom and dad both smoked, for decades, and I guess my brothers and sisters and I were fortunate that second-hand smoke did not affect our health. They both gave up smoking later in life. Nowadays my mom has several grandchildren and great-grandchildren — and at least one daughter-in-law — that come over, some of which are sensitive to smoke. So she has banned the smokers of the family to the front porch – not to be punitive, but to be protective.
Usually, cigarette smoke does not bother me. But as a non-smoker, I have the right to go into any business that I wish to patronize. And I do not go into stores or restaurants that allow smokers to light up, because I do not want to smell the emanations. It would be wrong of me to go in there and insist that everyone in there put out the cigarettes. So I choose to not go in there, or leave when I realize I am in that situation.
Some tobacco users may feel singled out and discriminated against by this policy, and in one regard, they are. But the policy is a good step to providing the most healthful learning environment possible, and no one can argue that as being anything but good. The current policy as enforced is a double standard — while students are prohibited from using tobacco, teachers are frequently outside on their breaks smoking. On several occasions I have seen coaches going through their duties with smokeless tobacco or dips in their mouths.
On a personal note, there is nothing nastier to me than a cup or can that has been used as a spittoon. Give me a choice, and I will take an overflowing ashtray any day.
To eliminate tobacco from the campuses is a drastic step, but a positive one. If enacting the policy makes one current smoker even consider kicking the habit, then it will be worthwhile.
Smokers have rights. But they have no more rights than non-smokers.

Welcome to 2007

2007-01-04T21:18:00.000-05:00

I am usually not all that psyched up to watch the ball come down in Times Square. I left my party animal days far behind me years ago, so I was not squealing with delight as the acorn fell in Raleigh, or giving a big hip-hooray as the pickle dropped on Mount Olive once again.
But a new year’s dawning is a chance to turn a page, start a new direction and begin a new chapter of life. And I, for one, am ready to get this puppy started.
The new year will mean a lot to me personally, and to the paper professionally.
We are poised on the edge of a new era of reporting for our readers. We are in a new building in Princeton and a newly remodeled building in Fremont. We are working with some of the newest computer programs, equipment and software we have ever had. We have new reporters in place to provide you with all the news that is happening in your communities. We are on the world wide web, and can strike while a story is hot to get the facts to you as soon as possible.
We are taking better photos, writing better stories and giving the readers something other area newspapers cannot – we can let you know what is going on in your neck of the woods. We are not trying to do what other papers do. We are trying to be the best paper there is, and serve our readers in an outstanding fashion.
Sometimes, we do that one mistake at a time. It is the most frustrating thing in the world to work a story for days, get it written, proofed and publish it only to find a mistake or inaccuracy once it is on the pages. It is the kind of gaffe that makes me want to take a lap around the block trying to kick myself in the rear – which might make an interesting photo, now that I think about it.
We do try very hard to keep mistakes and inaccuracies out of the paper. We have instituted more controls to get more eyes scanning the paper before it goes out to make sure fewer and fewer goof-ups make it to the press.
So while I do not do New Year’s resolutions, I do pledge right here and now to make sure the paper is more accurate - not only because we need to, but also because you deserve it as our readers.
Sometime during this upcoming year, our part-time reporter will earn her wings and go full-time. Sarah Wise is nearly through with her studies at Peace College and will be ready to step into the reporter’s role in Princeton full-time with her graduation. We have been very pleased with Sarah’s work, and many of you have stopped by or e-mailed us to let us know that you feel the same. So having more time with Sarah at her desk and on her beat is a good thing for all of us.
Davis Fisher is getting well situated in Fremont and has become a strong reporter in a new environment. Davis is putting in some long hours to work his beat and speak to all the people involved in it. He will become even better-known to the people of northern Wayne and southern Wilson Counties in the coming months.
My own duties as editor are becoming more clear and direct. A lot of that is the result of a difficult process for our publisher, Barry Merrill. Barry has been the chief cook and bottle washer for both papers since he purchased them, and for many years, his duties included pretty much everything that went on. He is in the publisher’s role full-time now, and he has to disentangle himself from some duties in order to focus more successfully on other duties. That can be tougher to do than it sounds. So while you will surely still see him with a notebook at a meeting or with a camera at a sporting event, Barry is now more focused on guiding both newspapers’ growth and development into the future. It’s a big role, and he handles it well.
The new year brings a new face to the Princeton office as Lucy Brower becomes our office manager. She has flung herself into the job, and has already impacted the paper positively by helping to proof the paper and to relieve Barry and me of other daily responsibilities. Many of you will get to know Lucy as you drop by with renewals, ads and notices for publication.
Rosie Colvin is still the rock of our Fremont operation, and she needs no introduction to anyone who has been in the area for more than ten minutes. I will tip my hat to her, however, and acknowledge that most of us around here could not pour our morning coffee without her.
The advertising staff has just completed an awesome year. Debra Malarchik and Jeanette Pigford have done a difficult job (I can’t do it) very well for many months, and it should be noted that we are around putting out a paper in 2007 because they have worked so successfully in 2006. They have established a high standard for the coming year.
And of course, there are many others who insert the paper, distribute it to the racks and newspaper stands, and to the post office. I salute their efforts and recognize their important contributions to the team.
But our most important link - our most vital link – the one we thank most – is you, the customer. We are not here without you. We appreciate the time and effort you put into buying the paper or subscribing to it, and reading it. We have said many times, we cannot do what we do without you. The readers are our lifeblood, and we cannot ever forget that.
I hope in 2007, I can count on more of your comments and suggestions. We take them all seriously.
Among those suggestions, I want each of you to think about a person in your community who deserves recognition for the good works they do, the sunshine they bring to others’ lives, the service they provide to their fellow man. We would like to tell everyone about that person, with our weekly “Just Up The Road” feature. Just call or e-mail us with the person’s name and why you think they should be a featured person in the News Leader.
If your church, school group or civic group is having an event, let us help get the word out. If your professional organization recognized you, we can let everyone know about your accomplishment.
Do you restore cars, old homes, or furniture? They could all have stories attached to them that we would like to tell. Is your neighbor back from a church mission trip or a journey to help someone far away? They might like to tell us of their adventure.
Do you like movies? Would you like to review movies for us, and see a movie for free? Do you have an award-winning recipe you would like to share? Are you getting married or about to celebrate an addition to the family? We want to let all your friends and neighbors know.
We want to spend 2007 doing a good job telling you all about you all. Point us in the right direction, and let us go. We promise you will not be disappointed.
Here’s hoping we can look back this time next year, and say, “2007 – now that was a good year.”

Time for some serious stuff

2006-12-16T06:41:00.000-05:00

In my time as a columnist, I have tried to be down-home, folksy and gently good-humored for the readers. I have worked hard to give you all a little smile — a smirk, perhaps — to take with you through your life’s travails.
Bu I am the editor of the paper, after all. It is incumbent upon me to use this column as a bullypulpit, to provide insight to those needing a new point of view, or to stand up for the little man.
So I will set Mark Twain aside for now, and step towards being Edward R. Murrow (kids, ask your grandparents who he is, they might know). It’s time to discuss the hard-hitting issues that grasp the good citizens who read our chronicled endeavor each week.
Time for some serious stuff, folks.
What are the issues? What deeply gripping quandaries do we as a society find ourselves grappling with?
Let’s start with the basics. Everyone fed? Clothed? Warm and dry? Staying someplace that will keep the rain off your head?
No, we are not all in that state. But nearly all of us are, and those that are not have agencies and opportunities to remedy that, at least for the short term.
OK, now what? How about the government? Is the government getting into your wallets and pocketbooks too much? Are you paying all kinds of taxes that go up and up?
Well, some taxes are a bit high. But in general, most of what the government gets, they put to some good use somewhere. We all need roads, schools, police departments, people who pick up our trash and send our sewer stuff away and bring good, clean water in. We have to look after our elderly, our sick, those who are without and those who are on hard times.
Need a job? According to statistics, only one in 20 working folks are not working in these parts. The papers are full of help wanted ads, and while some jobs are not ideal, it is not a difficult thing to find something to do and get a paycheck for in today’s economy. Jobs that require specific training are out there, too, but the college and technical schools nearby are offering classes every day to retrain folks who want a job like that.
Not happy with the war? Who is? Young men and women die every day in a foreign land. But no one out there is holding up signs that proclaim, “Yay, War!” No one likes seeing soldiers fight and die. And it is not as though we can bring them home tomorrow — not even President Bush can end the war in a snap of his fingers. So we keep on praying for their safe return and hope we can get our people out of harm’s way soon.
How about here in the state? There’s a lot to get riled up about within our own borders. Do you like the lottery? How about that Dan Black guy? What’s his deal? And who is running for governor next election? Can we grow any crop under the sun now that we don’t grow all that much tobacco? Since when did every farmer east of I-95 decide to start his own winery?
Why does this column now sound like a Jerry Seinfield stand-up act?
Schools — there’s a biggie. Someone, somewhere is always going on an on about getting something done about the schools. We need new buildings. We need new curriculum. We need new leadership.
OK, Let’s see. New buildings — Wayne County is finally working on it after trying to talk it to death for the last 10 years. Johnston County is brewing up another bond referendum — the fourth in about 10 years — and this one will get a Princeton Elementary School, with doors open for the 2008 school year, we are told.
New curriculum — both Johnston County and Wayne County are being innovative and trying to address their ABC’s of Education and No Child Left Behind issues. A lot of new programs are out there to increase graduation rate and make our kids better prepared for the world past school.
New leadership? Five guys ran for four seats on the Wayne County Board of Education during the last election, and the voters put in just one new one. If you wanted new leadership, more people would have challenged three incumbents who ran unopposed. In Johnston County, several people ran for three seats, and two of the three that won were incumbents.
Wayne County’s board has elected a chairman and vice-chairman who are African-American women — and eminently qualified to lead. And the Wayne County Board of Commissioners has a new chairman, another African-American. I’d say there is new leadership busting out all over —and if no one was run out of office, it appears folks wanted it that way.
In general, I think that there are thorny issues out there, but most folks are not letting it become a sore under their saddle blankets. Everyone is reasonably happy with the way things are going — Not everything, but most things.
And as we get into the annual Christmas holiday season — the season of good feeling and happiness — that is not a bad state of mind to be in.
I might as well hang out the washing on my bullypulpit for now. And maybe I can get back to writing about those Mark-Twain kinds of things again.

Judgment House behind the scenes

2006-12-16T06:40:00.000-05:00

For the past several years, one of the local events of the fall for many of us is Judgment House. Every fall, the First Pentecostal Holiness Church of Goldsboro put on the production, and it has become a staple of fall events for the folks all over Wayne County and the surrounding area.
This year, it got a newcomer to the staff. I dusted off my creaky old acting credentials and took part in the production, which actually began in the late summer.
The play, for those of you who have never been to Judgment House, is a play in nine brief acts. Instead of the traditional version of plays where an audience sits and the play is brought to them, this play requires the audience to move from scene to scene. The crowd, usually in groups of 50 to 70, moves through the scenes and learns the plot of the play, which changes from year to year. It usually follows the story of a person or persons living a challenged life, and how their decisions affect their lives after their earthly existence is over.
The preparations began with the actors getting their lines for each scene. We got our lines and our roles early on, but in some cases did not get scripts for the last few scenes until very late in the process — in one case, mere days before the play opened. The most massive undertaking was the sets and construction. The crew, all volunteer church members, built a five-scene complex inside the church’s Ministerial Training Center, complete with air conditioning, lighting, doors and all the special effects necessary.
What was involved? These folks had to build an airplane that would crash on command and break apart — literally — over and over again; they had to create three different hospital scenes, one of which portrayed a scene of Rapture; a “party” scene with smoke, lights, music and sound effects; a hospital scene that actually gave the crowd the sensation of ‘feeling” a train wreck and its effects; and a dramatic ledge scene in which the actors were 15 feet off the floor.
That was not all. The two biggest construction challenges were building an elaborate “Heaven” scene in the church balcony, and the play’s most legendary scene — the “Hell” scene. That scene features flames, smoke, rumbling thunder, loud explosions, a pit of fire, and of course, the Devil himself.
It is a nightmare of engineering — just taking it down took nearly a week.
The acting crew was massive. Because groups go through the scenes quickly — sometimes a group would have to wait to go into a scene to allow another group to leave — each character had three to six actors trained to play the role. Four others, as well as myself, portrayed my character. Many times we performed scenes with many different actors in the other parts.
I got to laugh a lot. Each actor brings to the role they do a little different flavor and spice, and with the rapid-fire approach we got to scripts, we tended to lean on ad-libs. As the play went on from days to weeks, the ad-libbing became the norm, as long as we got the gist of the line out. Eventually we would throw in a line to try and get a smile from a fellow actor, and if we could get a grin that didn’t disrupt the scene, we considered it mission accomplished. Then we would go back to the actor’s waiting room and swap stories of who tried to trip up whom.
The support crew’s undertaking was equally daunting. From the “door openers” who shepherded groups into and out of the scenes in the dark, to the organizers who arranged booking times and set groups up to go through, to the folks who prepared food for the cast and crew members, to the folks who built the sets and took them down again, to the people who arranged for the loan of props and equipment we needed, to the folks in the prayer rooms who counseled those affected by the play, the effort was monumental.
I found myself becoming closer to the others involved in the play, and gaining a greater degree of friendship and camaraderie with them. At times, we would stay well into the evening as the crowds got bigger and the groups more numerous. On Saturday nights we had to stay long after the last group had gone through to clean up the church for services on Sunday — sometimes well past 1 a.m.
I was struck by the singleness of purpose for all those involved in the production. Much effort was put into this from many different angles — time, money, effort, and sweat equity. Many people put their own lives on hold to put their focus on the efforts they were putting into Judgment House. And their reward for this effort was a production that would honor God and create a tool for His service. Judgment House was a mission, and everyone involved in it gave all the credit and glory back to God.
The results? Well, over 15,000 people went through Judgment House. And a surprising percentage of those people — some of them completely unchurched — either discovered Jesus Christ or rededicated themselves to Christ after going through the play.
Personally, the experience affected me, as well. I saw some powerful reactions to the scenes — tears, sobs, gasps of surprise, and applause when a character accepted Christ. You could tell what you were doing was having an impact on the audience. A person seldom gets a personal glimpse into how powerfully he is being used in God’s plan.
It was a blessing — tiring, time-consuming, and a little nerve-wracking, to be sure, but a blessing in my life. When I had first heard of Judgment House many years ago, I looked down my nose at it. I had misjudged its purpose badly back then, and I was very glad to get the chance to support this mission, and to help make a positive impact on the Christian lives of others.

Rules according to men

2006-10-31T07:42:00.000-05:00

It happens in every field of endeavor — someone does something that everyone else wishes they had done.
I see it in journalism a lot. I will read a column or article from one of my fellow writers, or look at a really good photo, or notice an eye-catching layout on the pages of another paper, and think, “gee, I wish I had done that.”
Sometimes, I even try to do something in my own manner and style, and while I would have been pleased with those results, I will see the same thing done by someone else, and think, “boy, I wish mine had come out more like that.”
I offer this little bit of whimsy, found through the e-mail and sent by a relative, as an example. I have always wanted to present this side of the battle of the sexes, but after reading this I realized I just could not present it any better. So here you go.

We always hear "the rules" from the female side. Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules — Man laws! Please note these are all numbered "1” on purpose.
1. Men are not mind readers.
1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.
1. Shopping is not a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.
1. Crying is blackmail.
1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one. Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!
1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.
1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.
1. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.
1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us to act like soap opera guys.
1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.
1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.
1. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.
1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.
1. Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.
1. All men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.
1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.
1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," we will act like nothing is wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.
1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, expect an answer you don't want to hear.
1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine —really.
1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation, or golf.
1. You have enough clothes.
1. You have too many shoes.
1. I am in shape. Round is a shape.
1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

Now, how could anyone improve on that?

Southern football

2006-10-02T20:32:00.000-04:00

I know there are several football fans out there. No matter which team you support, you have a fierce loyalty and love for your beloved team. And that devotion is fierce and firm.
So please bear with me when I tell you this. ACC football fans, you are not the most fervent football fans in the world.
You work hard at it, yes. You tailgate, you party, you cheer and you yell and scream. But the thing that separates the fans from the die-hards — for the most part, I just do not see it.
You do very well compared to some parts of the country. But I guess I see a bad comparison considering the part of the country from whence I hail.
Southern Alabama is where my roots began. And that is Southeastern Conference football country.
Down there, shortly after you’re born, your daddy has the responsibility of placing in your bassinette a football, either painted red and white for Alabama or orange and blue for Auburn. It’s similar to what goes on here with basketball, Carolina, Duke and State. The proud papa can sit out in front of the nursery with his friends, who all look at him with colored filters in their eyes, saying, “Well? Which is he?”
If the baby is a boy, he will be watched carefully to see how quickly he can throw, catch or kick that football — in the bassinette — before he approaches the first birthday. If he is not showing talent by that first year, he ain’t gonna be a player. He’s gonna be a fan.
When State plays Carolina in football, the fans are interested. They may even go. They may shout things at each other. Then they play the game and go home.
When Alabama plays Auburn, it is war. The fans bases start ribbing each other before the season starts. The coaches’ television shows are ranked no. 1 and 2 in viewers every week. The very restaurants you eat in are based on how they are decorated.
And woe betide the fan base on the losing end. They will hear about it through to next season — and beyond. Cries of “Punt, Bama, punt,” “Pat Ties,” and other catch-phrases spawned from games of decades ago still are heard today — and real fans know the stories behind each one.
The passion of SEC football goes way beyond these ACC rivalries. But you all do have on thing going for you – you follow southern football. And southern football is vastly different from northern football.
A recent e-mail from a relative offers me a chance to share those differences with you.
Planning for the fall football season in the South is radically different than up North. Here are some helpful hints.
Women's Accessories — North: Chap Stick in back pocket and a $20 bill in the front pocket. South: Louis Vuitton duffel with two lipsticks, waterproof mascara, and a fifth of bourbon. Money is not necessary — that's what dates are for.
Stadium Size — North: College football stadiums hold 20,000 people. South: High school football stadiums hold 20,000 people.
Fathers — North: Expect their daughters to understand Sylvia Plath.
South: Expect their daughters to understand pass interference.
Campus décor — North: Statues of founding fathers. South: Statues of Heisman trophy winners.
Homecoming Queen — North: Also a physics major. South: Also Miss America.
Heroes — North: Rudy Gulliani. South: Archie, Eli and Peyton Manning.
Getting Tickets — North: Five days before the game, you walk into the ticket office on campus and purchase tickets. South: Five months before the game, you walk into the ticket office on campus and put name on waiting list for tickets.
Friday Classes After a Thursday Night Game — North: Students and teachers not sure they're going to the game, because they have classes on Friday. South: Teachers cancel Friday classes because they don't want to see the few hung over students that might actually make it to class.
Parking — North: An hour before game time, the university opens the campus for game parking. South: RVs sporting their school flags begin arriving on Wednesday for the weekend festivities. The really faithful arrive on Tuesday.
Game Day — North: A few students party in the dorm and watch ESPN on TV. South: Every student wakes up, has a beer for breakfast, and rushes over to where ESPN is broadcasting "Game Day Live" to get on camera and wave to the idiots up north who wonder why "Game Day Live" is never broadcast from their campus.
Tailgating — North: Raw meat on a grill, beer with lime in it, listening to local radio station with truck tailgate down. South: 30-foot custom pig-shaped smoker fires up at dawn. Cooking accompanied by live performance by "Dave Matthews' Band," who comes over during breaks and asks for a hit off bottle of bourbon.
Getting to the Stadium — North: You ask, "where's the stadium?" When you find it, you walk right in. South: When you're near it, you'll hear it. On game day it becomes the state's third largest city.
Concessions — North: Drinks served in a paper cup, filled to the top with soda. South: Drinks served in a plastic cup, with the home team's mascot on it, filled less than half way with soda, to ensure enough room for bourbon.
When National Anthem is played — North: Stands are less than half full, and less than half of them stand up. South: 100,000 fans, all standing, sing along in perfect four-part harmony.
The Smell in the Air after the First Score — North: Nothing changes. South: Fireworks, with a touch of bourbon.
Commentary (Male) — North: "Nice play." South: "Dammit, you slow sumbitch — tackle him and break his legs. "
Commentary (Female) — North: "My, this certainly is a violent sport." South: "Dammit, you slow sumbitch — tackle him and break his legs. "
Announcers — North: Neutral and paid. South: Announcer harmonizes with the crowd in the fight song, with a tear in his eye because he is so proud of his team.
After the Game — North: The stadium is empty way before the game ends. South: Another rack of ribs goes on the smoker, while somebody goes to the nearest package store for more bourbon, and planning begins for next week's game.

Response to Peralta on Charis Prep Article

2006-09-22T09:06:00.000-04:00

A recent letter to the editor from Mr. Carlos Peralta, the minister associated with Heart of David Ministries in Eureka, leveled several accusations at me personally, and at others, regarding our story in the Wayne-Wilson edition two weeks ago.
One of our reporters showed the story in its entirety to Mr. Peralta two days before it was published, and asked for his comments. Mr. Peralta told the reporter he was not going to comment to him any further, because the reporter is associated with me.
Mr. Peralta apparently believes I have some sort of vendetta against him and his school. That is not the case. I do have a history with Mr. Peralta that began when I was sports editor of the Goldsboro News-Argus and he was coaching basketball at Wayne Country Day School.
Mr. Peralta attempted to open Charis Prep two years ago, when he was the minister at Abundant Life Church in Goldsboro. I wrote two investigative pieces and one column on the school, all of which can be viewed on the Internet by searching the name Charis Prep.
I have not seen or heard from Mr. Peralta between that time and two months ago, when our reporter told me a minister named Carlos Peralta was going to open a private school in the old Eureka School building.
I still have not seen or spoken to Mr. Peralta, but our reporter has had a few conversations with him and the folks at Heart of David Ministries.
In checking background information on the Charis Prep story, we uncovered information on the school from its former location at Summit Christian Academy, and we ran that story. Again, we offered Mr. Peralta the opportunity to comment on it before it printed, and he declined.
Mr. Peralta wrote in his letter to the editor that I was terminated from the News-Argus. I have no idea how Mr. Peralta managed to read my confidential personnel file from the News-Argus, but if he did, he did not read it well. I left the News-Argus of my own volition in order to pursue a journalism career outside sports writing. The News-Argus will attest to that fact.
Mr. Peralta also said that the state of North Carolina recognizes Charis Prep as an organization owned and operated by Carlos Peralta. If that is the case, could Mr. Peralta please explain why no state organization that we can find can attest to that fact? Would Mr. Peralta please identify the state organization that has recognized Charis Prep as belonging to him?
The only state department that even knows the name “Charis Prep” is the Department of Administration, who oversees non-public instruction. That organization recognizes “Summit Christian Academy/Charis Prep” as the legal name of the school operated by First Assembly of God in Goldsboro.
Rev. Ralph Painter, the senior pastor of First Assembly, has documentation that shows Mr. Peralta’s school was merged into Summit Christian Academy and remains there to this day, operating under First Assembly’s non-profit ID number.
And to repeat the question I asked two years ago — would Mr. Peralta please show us the school’s accreditation by a sanctioned educational accreditation group? Every school in the country must be accredited for a college to accept a student’s transcript from that school, By our countm there are 11 basketball players that were on collegiate rosters as of last season that claim to have attended Charis Prep. Yet Mr. Peralta has never shown documentation that his school was approved by an accrediting authority — to anyone.
Mr. Peralta claims he never said he was the pastor of Heart of David Ministries. In doing an interview with Mr. Peralta for our story of July 27, News Leader reporter Reggie Ponder heard Mr. Peralta identify himself as the minister of Heart of David Ministries. Mr. Ponder, incidentally, is a Methodist minister.
If Mr. Peralta has another take on this story, we would love to hear it, and would be glad to publish it, just as we did his letter to the editor.
In the meantime, this may not the last investigative piece we run on Charis Prep. We would welcome Mr. Peralta’s input and cooperation as we prepare these stories

Beacon to the Community

2006-09-22T09:04:00.000-04:00

I was working on a story a short time ago. After pulling up a new document on the computer to write on, I did what I usually do to begin — typed in my name and title. You have seen it a hundred times. It usually starts almost every article in a newspaper — the author’s name and title.
So I typed in, “By David Williams.”
Then I typed in, “NL Staff Writer.” Up to now, that was just fine. But this occasion I found myself backspacing and typing in, “NL Editor.”
I had to smile a little bit.
I am deeply honored and humbled that Barry has entrusted the responsibility of editor to me. These papers have been his extended children for many, many years, and handing off a piece of their growth and development to a guy off the street — admittedly, one who ha been around journalism for a few years — is both a sobering and frightening proposition.
I am now the News Leader’s only editor in 24 years that does not have the last name of Merrill.
I have come to know Barry as a man who deeply cares for the communities he lives in and the people who live there. He believes firmly in the responsibility he has as the owner of the Princeton and Fremont papers.
And he has placed a lot of faith in me that not only will I maintain the relationship he has worked to build with the communities he serves, but I will also expand and strengthen that relationship.
That’s an awesome responsibility. And I do not take it lightly.
I have been fortunate to have as many years in this field as I do without ever having to change addresses. So as I accept the role of editor, I do not have to relearn the area or its people. I know the issues that drive the politics of the area. I understand what traditions this area has held, and what challenges in the future will try and coexist with those traditions.
It is my wish that the paper continue its role as the beacon of the communities it serves. That will happen only as our relationship deepens and grows. Good journalism comes through a mutual trust and reliance on each other — for you to give me good leads on stories and me to earn your trust by reporting on stories with fairness, accuracy and an eye on how it impacts the community.
We are not always going to agree. You did not always agree with Barry 100 percent of the time, and I do not possess any supernatural powers that will change that. Individual perception is as unique as a fingerprint, so what you think will not ever be a carbon copy of what I think.
But the communication lines work best when a free exchange of ideas is completed. I would like to see more letters to the editor in the paper, which will reflect the thoughts and feelings of all of you. And there is no rule that says you can’t call me up and take me to task on any particular issue, although I would prefer you do that on paper.
Our paper is a reflection of you, and we strive to ensure that with every edition.
There are some challenges in personnel to address, and like every small paper in America, the editor will never stop writing stories, covering news, taking photos — or making the coffee and taking out the trash. But these papers have grown exponentially while I have been here, and hopefully that growth can continue and blossom even more.
I have been performing editorial tasks in the last few months, and little about what I am doing will change with the adoption of the formal title. But the responsibility I accept with this position should give me a daily reminder of what I need to be doing and who I answer to, in addition to Barry.

See the humor in living

2006-09-07T22:32:00.000-04:00

I told Barry that I needed to start writing columns with more social relevance. He grunted, and I assume that meant he agreed.
So look for that kind of column soon.
But don’t look for it today.
I can remember some of my more philosophical friends from college having a heated discussion one afternoon as they were sitting around the student union. Usually, when four friends in our group were sitting at the student union, there was a game of Spades going on, but apparently no one had thought to bring a deck. In the absence of what we considered true entertainment, they unleashed their brains and put a spin on their collective moral compasses, and locked mental horns on the subject of God.
Specifically, the question was - Does God have a sense of humor?
Understand, we were a bunch of know-it-all kids just out of our teens. We figured the best way to gain respect was to show off our ability to grapple with complex issues involving deeply held beliefs.
If any of us had the slightest chance at hooking up with a cheerleader, we would have decidedly taken a different track to climb the social ladder.
Anyway, the schools of thought on the subject were, naturally, pro and con.
The antagonists in the issue felt that God was such a serious entity and dealt with such decidedly sobering issues of life, he had no time to entertain such mundane distractions as a sense of humor.
The pro-humorists believed that since we were all God’s creatures, and a sense of humor is all such an important part of what we are as human beings, God must surely possess such an entity.
This went on for about an hour, and worked its way through several pots of coffee. For that day, the issue was decided by a disinterested young rebel who was sitting in the student union, thoroughly enjoying watch this group of pseudo-intellectuals waste their afternoon.
He walked over to the tables we were sitting at, leaned in, and said, “You know, guys, God does have a sense of humor. Just look around you.”
It made sense. Why would the Almighty provide us with a sense of humor and not enjoy one himself? And since His world is so full of humorous things, surely he would get at least a little chuckle out of the many entities he puts before us.
Another person later in my life amplified on the issue. He said, “God has a sense of humor … and some days, he’s rolling around heaven, holding his sides.”
It’s really critical in this day and time to be able to use all of your gifts, including the sense of humor given to you by God. One of the things that keeps me grounded in my trevails of daily life is that I can see so much humor in my life, and usually in very mundane and ordinary things.
If you can spot these things, you can provide yourself a little chuckle. Tell yourself a little joke and be the only one to get it. That can be very satisfying. Or share it with a few people who you know will get it.
For example …
I was having dinner with my family at one of those Mom-and-Pop restaurants that frequent the small town my mother lives in. When we got our menus, I noticed that an inserted card held the daily specials. But the card had so many glaring spelling errors, I started to chuckle at the pure ridiculousness of it.
I pointed it out - quietly - to my sister, and soon she was giggling and pointing to the menu for the benefit of another sister. Mom was about to send us away from the table.
Now mom and the sisters have spent plenty of time eating at that particular restaurant. They never noticed that little card, or its predecessors. But seeing it from a different perspective - mine - allowed them to appreciate the little laugh it provided.
There are several of those little things around. Just look and see what you see. Things like:
- Someone walking around wearing a jacket with shorts.
- People eating two double cheese burgers, a super-sized order of fries, and a small diet coke.
- Someone sweeping the sidewalk in front of their house on a windy day.
- A small boy riding his older brother’s bicycle.
- The face a person makes when they are drinking a milkshake with those bits of real fruit in it, and a piece of fruit blocks the straw off.
- A shopper walking around with a garment from a bargain bin, and person following them around, hoping the person abandons it so they can scoop it up.
- People sitting in church trying to stay awake. (That doesn’t happen at my church, in case my ministers are reading this.) Better yet, watch the spouses or parents of the nodders, trying to subtly awaken their companions.

This is by no means an exhaustive list of what’s funny out there, and there are a lot bigger belly laughs in the universe. But these are but a sample of the little laugh that sustains us all.
Those little laughs can really pick a person up when life is dealing out tough times. Things like that can make you laugh when the day has been making you try and cry. That’s the pressure valve working, easing the stress of your day. If you can’t see one of these moments, think of the last one you did see.
When you are ready to pop, think about the last time you saw a woman coming out of the restroom, wearing a dress with the hem caught in the top of her pantyhose or dragging a bit of toilet paper from her shoe.
Those are the real precious memories. And they are not all that hard to find … if you just look for them.

Goodbye Susie

2006-09-01T07:52:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite writers of all time is the Georgia Bard, Lewis Grizzard. The humorist and storyteller was a unique writer, precise in his use of language and mythical in his ability to touch all kinds of people on many different levels.
One of Grizzard’s most touching passages was his grief-laden pining after his beloved black lab, Catfish, died. He was never more painfully beautiful and soul-searing in his ability to make you remember pain that approached the level he was going through.
I will never be the writer he was. But I can share one of his emotions. My faithful Shih-Tzu dog, Susie, had to be put down recently.
Cancer had been ravaging her 13-year old body to a point that neither of us could bear.
Lately, the cancer was overcoming her good nature. She would lie around, and not jump up and go to the door when someone came. I would come in the room, and she would lie on her bed, thumping her tired tail as the rest of her lay so still.
I heard her crying in her sleep a few weeks ago, and I knew. I called the vet that Monday morning. We were trying to treat her with medicine, and by Wednesday afternoon she was starting to respond, getting a little of her spunk back.
But I came home Thursday evening to find her laying on the kitchen floor, limp and unresponsive to my touch or my calls to her. Yet she would try and get up, and bark and yelp. I drove her to the emergency vet in Wilson, who told me she had likely had a brain aneurism, and the other things she was doing were just neuro-reactions, like impulses that were not getting through.
I gave my friend up to God Thursday night.
I had made that fateful trip to the vet’s office before — every pet owner has made the trip, or will have made it before too long. Pets just do not outlive their owners. But the trips never get easier.
Susie has been in the family for most of the family’s existence. We had always had pets, and we had a dog when we got Susie. But I had fallen in love with the breed years ago, and when I saw an ad for free Shih-Tzu pups in the paper, we had to go check it out.
Susie came home with us that day. She was rambunctious, cuddly and cute, and was an instant hit with both the kids. We spent many a night in our living room, with Susie on the couch next to us or curled up on the floor. We spent many a night with Susie curled up at my wife’s feet, under the covers of our bed.
Susie was patient with small children. My granddaughter loved to cuddle her, long after the dog was too mature for that kind of thing, Susie never got upset, but would look back at me as if to silently plea for help. It was more her way to find a quiet hiding place, away from her adoring fans, and quietly observe the scene.
She gave love, and we took her love and gave it back. It was a simple relationship.
Over the years, the kids grew up and moved on, and in the last few months it has just been the two of us. We’d run on the road, or wrestle in the house, with me pulling at her paws until she would grudgingly give in and nip at my hands as I’d try and sneak up on her.
Now I am rattling around in what has become a truly empty house.
A lot of you will say, hey, it’s just a dog. You can get another one.
Well, yes, I can. But there is no such thing as just a dog — ask anyone who owns one.
I am not the kind of guy to keep her ashen remains in a jar, or hold onto clippings of her hair in an envelope. I do much better to remember her running by my side on a breezy spring day.
I can’t put her memories away. Like the faithful friend that all dogs are, she never left my side, even to the end.
Memories like that stay in a much more meaningful place than an old yellowing envelope, of a jar of dust.
Lewis Grizzard understood the loss of a friend, no matter how many legs they walk on. I understand it as well, now on three occasions. The pain is enormous, as if you had lost a loved one — because you did.
Now I am walking through the house and wishing I could be awakened at 5:30 in the morning by her sharp bark to be let out. I want to hear her toenails click on the linoleum as she walked into the kitchen to see if dinner was in the bowl yet. I want to drive into the yard and look at the window of the living room to see her nose poke through the blinds in welcome.
Susie was never the kind of dog to steal the show, and was never one that enjoyed being the center of attention, at least for very long. She just wanted acknowledgement — her place in the family. We were glad to give it.
I can only hope that I served you well, girl. You certainly served me well, with love enough for ten dogs and twenty masters. I love you.

Hidden Blessings

2006-08-07T22:10:00.000-04:00

People who talk of hidden blessings used to make me cringe. Can you believe that? I actually used to dread hearing people start conversations that I knew would inevitably begin with something bad happening to them and end with something good coming out of it.
Why? Because it was always the same touchy-feely, warm-the-heartstrings, life-is-such-a-bouquet-of-roses yarn that hundreds of people have the good taste to keep to themselves.
How many times can you look at a person who is offering you a sincere, warm story that may well be a life-changing example of goodness and providence, and silently ask yourself why they are inflicting this syrup-laced drivel on you?
I guess these hidden-blessing stories used to hit me this way because I have heard so many of them. For reasons known only to my Maker, I have the kind of presence that invites people – usually, total strangers — to tell me most anything that is on their minds.
The Internet is positively infested with these people, and their ramblings. Every time I open my e-mail I have at least three of these stories of inspiration, usually accompanied by a forceful request to send it along to 15 other people in 15 minutes or I will be showing the world that I don’t love God.
I am not a real strong student of the Bible, but I don’t remember any Commandment saying, “Thou shalt clog cyberspace with chain letters and junk mail in My name.” Did I just miss that week of Sunday School?
Anyway, I am not real warm and fuzzy on warm and fuzzy stories. But I do now believe in hidden blessings.
An example of what I am talking about is my recent struggle with the roof of my home. I have invested in plywood, shingles, drip edge, patching — along with a lot of sweat equity, sore muscles and skinned knuckles — in trying to get my roof to quit offering little hints to me about the outside weather while I am still inside.
One particularly perplexing problem was a spot over my master bedroom window, which gushed forth so much rainwater during a storm that I could have used it as a second shower area.
No matter what I did, I could not get that window to seal up completely. I even took the entire window out of the wall and reinstalled it, using new sealant and caulking. And still came the steady drip from the window.
What was I doing wrong? Why was God punishing me in such a way? Was it so much to ask to live in a home that did not have a waterfall window in it?
Apparently, it was so. For months I dreaded the slightest hint of rain, because I knew the tropical rainforest that would await me.
Then one day, I looked over the edge of the roof — for the umpteenth time — and discovered the metal drip edge that I had fastened to the roof months ago was actually loose.
A clue.
I investigated further and found that the loose drip edge was creating a puddle that was emptying out under the drip edge and into the soffit, where it would cascade down through a rotted hole in a soffit board and down on top of the window.
With renewed enthusiasm I grabbed wood, caulk, new nails and some roof patch. In a short 90 minutes I had sealed the leak.
I anxiously awaited the next rain — and I was hoping for a gully-washer to really test the repair out.
Two days later, I got it. The hard-pouring storm may even have done some damage in a few places. But in my bedroom window, the water stayed out and left me dancing within.
How is all this a hidden blessing? Well, in two ways.
First, that rain may have been less than inviting for some, for me it was like receiving an A on a mid-term exam. I finally found the problem, fixed it, and watched as it passed the test. For a non-DIY guy like myself, it was quite an accomplishment.
But moreover, it was a watershed moment (sorry abut the pun) for me personally. That leak had been a microcosm of my life over the last few months, when some things just refused to go right. No matter how I worked to get things to come out for me, it all slowly began to turn away from my desired results.
I was even challenging myself about how I could ever believe I could fix these problems. What can I fix, I thought. Me — I break things a lot better than I fix them. Perhaps that is my lot in life, to leave a trail of broken things —things I broke. and things I did not have the courage to try and repair.
That drip was a constant reminder for me to keep searching for the answer, to continue the quest until I had mastered the challenge. I pestered me until, at last, I got my mind around it.
It got me back on track, at least a little. And I knew God sent that drip to me until I could see what had to be done.
That was a true hidden blessing.

Road Tripping

2006-07-26T09:51:00.000-04:00

I have had the occasion to do a lot of driving this month. In addition to motoring down to see my mother in South Alabama recently, I am headed back to the Heart of Dixie — likely, as you read this column — to be there as my oldest brother undergoes back surgery.
These events have put me on the highways much more than normal. And after a few 12-hour rides to Alabama and back, I can tell you a few things about America’s motoring society.
Thing one — they are all in a hurry.
I have been known to venture out in my automobile at speeds slightly in excess of what the good people at the Department of Transportation deem safe. I have, on occasion, even been given paper presents by the Department of Transportation’s duly sworn representatives that patrol the highways.
But compared to some of the Mad Max motorists I have seen – and been passed by — I drive slower than a tobacco harvester en route to its next field of leaf.
In general, one of the little-known rules of the road involves a whispered, silent truth about speeding. It’s known around the Halls of Justice as the five-mile rule.
While no law officer I know of will go on the record about it, it is generally understood that the highway speed limits have a five-mile an hour cushion built into them. For example, on a stretch of road posted at 55 miles an hour, police will generally not stop cars driving at speeds of up to 60 miles an hour.
DISCLAIMER — I am not in favor of this practice. I am not recommending that anyone drive five miles an hour faster than the posted speed. I do not encourage rule-breaking and lawlessness, I do encourage everyone to support their local police, always obey every posted sign on the road, wear your seat belt, click it or ticket, don’t drink and drive, always wear clean underwear, and lather, rinse and repeat when shampooing.
Whew!
Now, back to the column.
Given this five-mile an hour legend, I usually do 75 in a 70-mile an hour zone, which is the posted limit on most of Interstate 95, Interstate 20 and Interstate 85 — the three major arteries I use to drive to Mom’s house.
So there I am, driving down the road at 75 miles an hour, radar detector scanning the road ahead and behind as I listen for the tweeting sound of enemy patrols. I am ready to disengage the cruise control at the first tweet.
After the first mile or so, I began to notice a whooshing sound around both sides of my car. It was coming from other motorists who were blowing my doors off as they zoom down the interstate.
I am doing 75 miles an hour, and I am being roared past as though the “Hot doughnuts now” sign at Krispy Kreme just came on, and four thousand cops just got off duty.
DISCLAIMER — I love cops. I think they are wonderful people and fine human beings, doing a thankless job that many would not have the courage or selflessness to undertake. I used that reference because I do not know of any other group of people who are more closely associated with doughnuts, be it fair or unfair.
Except maybe for newspaper reporters. Ouch — that hit close to home.
Now, back to the column.
People passed me, easily doing 85 and 90 miles an hour. That is scary enough on its own, but these rubber-shod missiles cannot lower themselves to consider slowing down and properly executing lane changes. Most of them are swerving in and out between slower cars, creating an automotive three-man weave that would make Dean Smith proud.
Turn signals? They don’t bother with them. At these speeds, who has time to notice them, anyway?
I am astounded that these people are in such a life-risking rush through their lives that traveling at such speed is necessary.
What is going on in their lives that makes driving at the speed of sound so vital? Are they headed to the hospital to perform life-saving surgery? Are they rushing toward an accident scene in order to pull a helpless child from the jaws of death?
Are rushing so they won’t miss the start of “America’s Got Talent?”
Another thing that struck me was the mentality of these wannabe-NASCAR talents. I pulled into the left lane to pass a slower motorist, noticing behind me a vehicle several hundred feet away. By the time I got into the left lane, the car was on my bumper, and the driver was angrily gesturing to me to complete the passing maneuver so he could get back to his 90-mile an hour progress.
The same thing happened with a truck driver, who informed me non-verbally as he passed me that my place was in the right lane, not in the left lane with the big boys.
By the way, if you want to keep your chances of a ticket to a minimum, try not to listen to a NASCAR race on the radio while you are driving. The physiology of the human anatomy apparently accepts listening to excited voices talking about high-speed passing and chases to the stripe into the rest of the senses in a manner that makes you want to emulate Tony Stewart.
For those of you who have not been out on the interstates recently, here are a few updates:
• Pedro is still trying to get you to stop at South of The Border by posting billboards every mile for 200 miles north and south of the popular tourist trap.
• The State of Alabama has apparently lost its welcome center at the Georgia state line. Anyone who has information as to its whereabouts should call Governor Bob Riley.
• Gas is cheapest — well, the least expensive — in South Carolina. A stretch of gas stations near Aiken were peddling go-juice at $2.69 a gallon.
• Anyone that hates driving on U.S. Highway 70 through Clayton should take a trip around Atlanta on U.S. 285. At one point you will swear you are driving head-on into a departing jet at Hartsfield Airport.
• Whoever it was that left 13,000 orange barrels on Interstate 95 can go pick them up. The barrels stretch for miles between Lumberton and Fayetteville. As far as I can tell, there is no repair work going on. The road crews mowing the medians would probably appreciate not having to go around them.

Youth sports issues that irk me

2006-07-12T20:29:00.000-04:00

There is a little flat box in the corner of my office, which from time to time I stand on as I type. It’s my soap box.
Younger folks won’t understand the reference, but us more seasoned citizens have heard the phrase “to get on the soap box.” Even a few of you may remember when soap came in boxes strong enough for politicians, speech-makers and town criers to stand on as they delivered their messages to the masses.
These days, getting on your soap box refers to someone passionately espousing a position which they feel very deeply. And I have been accused of getting on my soap box on a few occasions.
One issue that regularly brings me to the Ivory platform is youth sports. I have written stories about them, watched them, taken pictures of them and traveled many miles as I reported their endeavors.
And I have been consistent over these many years in saying that in general, youth sports are great — as long as the adults involved know their roles and perform them well.
But the one thing that has ground my gears is the ever-pressing need by national youth sports organizations to put these kids at a higher and higher level at a younger and younger age.
Babe Ruth baseball is one group in particular that seems to push all-star competition for kids as young as eight years old.
For the uninitiated, after the local Babe Ruth season, the district holds an all-star tournament for a variety of age groups. The district winners move on to competition at state level, then regional level, and the few survivors play in a Babe Ruth World Series at a selected location of the United States.
Wilson has hosted this national championship tournament in the past. I remember covering a Wayne County team at a Babe Ruth World Series in Tallahassee, Florida.
Time was that all-star selections were badly mishandled by the local authorities, who would blatantly “stack” their own local team and picked only their neighborhood players for post-season competition. Fortunately, this does not happen as much as it used to.
But all-star baseball is not all it is cracked up to be. There is a bunch of travel, and the further you advance, the more time it takes up. Parents have to foot huge bills for hotels and meals, often paying higher motel rates because reservations can only be made a few days in advance. Vacation time and family time is lost, and sometimes a child can be playing baseball until school starts again.
But the most troublesome thing about it to me is the social stigma applied to the kids. If you all remember being that age, there is an “I’m better than you” mentality that comes to the surface, even with the best-behaved children, when a socially favorable recognition is awarded to some children and not to others.
This gets even more marked as the age groups get younger. By the time the eight-year olds get back to school, there is the beginning of a “jock clic” in the school, and someone is ostracized.
In the past, I have seen kids as young as seven years old playing all-stars. Think of the mentality that sets in his mind. “I’m great,” he thinks. “Better than the others.”
The child is simply not old enough at that age to possess the maturity to understand that athletic prowess is just one part of a person. It’s in his head that he is better than the others, and it applies to a lot of other parts of life in his mind.
Yes, that is a challenge to parents, but why even expose a child that young to something like that?
The other day we ran a photo of some five-and six-year old players in the Fremont paper. Good for them for doing so well in the county tournament they played in. Good for their coaches for giving the extra time and volunteering.
But the organization that thinks this age group needs to determine a county champion has lost sight of the overall goals of their group.
This age group does not need to have a champion. The kids just need to enjoy playing — all of them. That’s hard to do when only one team can feel good about itself when the season is over.
I have been saying this for 13 years. I have no doubt that the guiltiest ones out there – the ones vicariously living though their children — have no idea what I am talking about, and are calling me names and saying I hate kids. Well, believe what you want. I hope that just one of you gets what I am saying.
This trend needs to be reversed before we see fastest-crawling-baby competitions and Babe Ruth tournaments for four-year olds, complete with plastic bats and outfield time-out boxes for kids that throw tantrums after missing the cut-off man.

Too emotionally involved to be unbiased

2006-06-28T12:19:00.000-04:00

To most of you, it made no difference that the Carolina Hurricanes won the Stanley Cup. You don’t watch hockey, and probably have no interest in attempting to watch it.
But I watched nearly every game of the Stanley Cup playoffs. I even went to a Hurricanes game earlier this year. I paid for the tickets and everything. I never thought I would be doing that when the team came to North Carolina nine years ago.
I remember being at a meeting of North Carolina sports writers sponsored by the state’s AP bureau shortly after the Hurricanes defected from Hartford, Connecticut. Jim Rutherford, the team’s general manager, addressed the group about what he expected with his team’s new neighbors, and spoke of how the whole region would embrace hockey. I thought he was nuts. Why would anyone bring a hockey team to a region that knows nothing about hockey?
Well, I was very wrong. Rutherford and owner Peter Karmanos knew exactly what they were doing, and have carved out a niche of fans for their lovable little sport.
Compared to other sporting avenues, hockey is a relative bargain. When I went, I spent about $15 a seat, sat in the upper section and had a great view of the action. Try to get into a Carolina Panthers game for 15 bucks. Forget getting a peek at a NASCAR race for those prices. And as far as UNC, N.C. State or Duke basketball, well, most of those tickets can’t be had at any price.
The brain trust behind the ‘Canes need to take a well-earned bow for doing what many — even me — thought was impossible.

My appreciation for the ’Canes makes me glad I am not still in the position of having to cover their games for a newspaper. I am too emotionally involved to be unbiased.
That probably stops me from ever being able to take my dream job — San Diego Padres beat writer. I have been a Padres fan since my dad took us to a game in their first season, back in 1969.
That reminds me of another writer who battled conflict between his sporting loyalties and his duty as a journalist. Lewis Grizzard, the esteemed southern humorist, was a columnist for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. He was a lifelong adoring fan of the University of Georgia. On one of his many sports-related assignments, Grizzard attended the annual Georgia-Georgia Tech football game. When it was all said and done, the Yellow Jackets had beaten Grizzard’s beloved ‘Dawgs.
The best I can remember, this is what Grizzard wrote in his column: “Frankly, I don’t want to talk about it.” The rest of the column was blank.
I don’t know if Grizzard ever got in trouble for that. I know his talent often got him out of spots like that. I also know that it was that kind of passion for his subject that made him one of the most readable authors of his generation.

I have discovered a strain of reader reaction that I did not know existed until recently.
We at the News Leader try very hard to be receptive to our readers, and we care very much how they feel about the things we are doing.
I heard a reader who had stopped by the new office talking to one of our employees, and he mentioned that he did not care for our tabloid-look front page.
“I don’t like it much,” he said. “But if everybody else is O.K. with it, I reckon I can stand it.”
That’s an interesting take on the yes-or-no mentality of most queries. Instead of being entrenched in his own ideals, he decided that if the paper is acceptable to most of the readers as it was, he would adjust to it, even if he did not particularly care for it.
His willingness to bend to the majority opinion was refreshing, even if it was on a seemingly insignificant matter (the front page is certainly not insignificant to us, but I am betting that your lives do not turn on which direction our cover shot is pointed).
What a world this could be if we took the same approach to more serious social disagreements.
Imagine if U.S. Senate minority leader Harry Reid, a Democrat, came to the microphone in the Senate and said, “You know, I just hate how the President is handling the problem of poverty in this country. But poverty seems to be getting a little better, and the American people have no real problem with how it’s getting done, so I guess it isn’t the end of the world if he doesn’t do it the way I would like.”
A baseball manager comes out of the dugout after his player is called on a called third strike and tells the umpire, “Hey Augie, I really think you blew that call. But you were standing right back here, and I was way over in the dugout, so I could be wrong. It’s not like we are going to lose on that one call. I’ll go along with it, but just so you know, O.K.?”
A motorist pulls up to the gas station and fills up his SUV at $3.79 a gallon. He goes into the store and says to the clerk, “I am sure that all that high cost of gas is not just to offset the high price of crude oil. In fact, I believe someone at this company is grossly profiting at the expense of the motoring public. But you’re making $6 an hour, so why should I grouse to you? And there are six guys behind me waiting to pay after filling up, as well. I guess we get what we deserve.”
Hey, it could happen.

By the way, Rosewood native and Cincinnati Reds manager Jerry Narron has added to his resume. Already able to call himself a major league player, coach and manager, he can now add All-Star coach.
Houston manager Phil Garner picked Narron as one of two current managers on his all-star coaching roster for the July Classic. It’s quite an accolade for Jerry. His son Connor will also go to the All-Star game with his dad. Jerry will be honored to represent the National League in Pittsburgh.
Jerry has not been getting the press he deserves for the Reds’ improved start this season, although he would be the last one to take credit. A new owner has brought a new aggressiveness to the team, and a new general manager has already made shrewd trades that have improved the club. But it has been Narron who has made the moves on the field and in the dugout, balancing a lot of talent and egos with a deft touch to keep the Reds in contention all season long.
By season’s end, no matter where the Reds end up, the new owner and GM will decide on Jerry’s fate as manager. He’s earned another contract, but Jerry has been around baseball long enough to know nothing is guaranteed. He will go on doing what he does, and face the off-season — and whatever comes with it — when it arrives.
Here’s hoping the Reds hold onto him. But if not, Jerry’s reputation and experience will certainly land him another job. If Bobby Cox decides to give up managing the Braves after Atlanta’s slumping season, perhaps we could see Jerry on TBS in the future.

Do you ever get a good idea?

2006-06-14T20:15:00.000-04:00

I mean, an idea so good you practically jump up from your chair, beam a smile and nearly break your arm trying to pat yourself on the back?
The creations that benefit society most usually come from the most humble beginnings. The automobile, the computer, the telephone and the light bulb — all these great creations came from an idea, a notion thought up through a lark or a creative flight of fancy.
By and large, these inventive notions do not come from the deep thinkers and noted scholars of our day. They come from the average Joe, the regular guy, the mom-and-pop everyman who see how something is, and imagine how it could be better.
I recently watched a television series — yes, reality TV strikes again — called “American Inventor.” The show was about a nationwide search for the next great inventor, and they saw thousands of applicants, each of whom had an idea so strong that they devoted enormous amounts of time, energy and money into developing it.
These were creative people. Some of their ideas were fascinating, from newly designed child safety seats to bicycles with pedals and a seat on the handlebars to ride kids double.
The push of the show came from these inventors and their willingness to risk everything in their lives to see their dreams come to reality.
Good ideas spring from anywhere. Here are a few good ideas I have thought of or heard about over the years, but have not seen developed.
• The Department of Defense can save billions if they could develop a technology for their fighter aircraft that allows them to fly like moths do, all willy-nilly and random. Ever try to swat a moth? The innovation would render anti-aircraft artillery useless.
• Let’s save our precious natural resources by developing a bathing and cleaning system that uses compressed air instead of water. Imaging stepping into the shower each morning and getting a cleansing blast of 120 PSI, blasting off all the funky stuff. Think of the savings in towels and electricity from hair dryer use, not to mention the dent in the water bill. Wash clothes? Why? All you’d have to do is hang them up on the line and blast away with the compression hose. Let the kids do it — it would be fun. Let’s set up dishwashers with a swirling 200 PSI for those stuck-on food problems.
• How many times have you burned your lips, your tongue or the roof of your mouth on hot coffee or piping hot food? Well, let’s create a thin, plastic mouth and lip lining that keeps your sensitive features from being scalded. Can’t taste your food? That may be a plus. Little Jimmy might eat those Brussels sprouts if he can’t taste them.
• Let’s get the agricultural community working on a new strain of potatoes that already has the butter, sour cream, cheese and whatever else already grown in. This eliminates the need for those messy potato bars in restaurants. The money they save not having to hire people to stock and clean those bars could show up in reduced bills. Well, maybe.
• A lot of good ideas can be found in science fiction. When the “Star Trek” movies came out (I am not a Trekkie, but did watch the movies), there was an imaginary device on Klingon spaceships that “cloaked” the ship from its enemies. It was an interesting notion that I forgot about until a few months ago, when I read that some think-tank out west is working on just such a cloaking device. It won’t have practical applications for decades, but I guarantee some lab-coat wearing guy somewhere watched the same movie I did and said, “hey, if we just…”
And a notion was born.
Are those communications devices they wore on their blouses really that much different from cell phones? That funky earpiece Lt. Uhura wore when getting messages on the bridge likely gave birth to those Bluetooth devices a lot of people wear in their ears right now.
A lot of innovative notions come from simply solving routine problems. Wouldn’t you like to have been the guy that invented Post-It Notes? Or Liquid Paper? Toilet paper holders came about when someone thought of a new way to keep the roll of paper available, functional and hands-free.
Great creations are out there waiting to be discovered. They are all around. It has been said that the current generation is just too lazy to be creative, or lacks the motivation to do something as magnificent as invent the automobile or the telephone. I disagree. The problem comes from no one having any way to put those thoughts into action. They lack the finds and the technical expertise to move the idea along.
There were thousands of hopeful contestants on “American Inventor,” and while the show made a lot of them look foolish for the sake of good TV, I have to take my hat off to all of them. They all believed in their idea and their creation. They all put time, money and effort into their ideas that backed up that belief — and that takes real guts.
Some of those people quit their jobs and spent every dime they ever earned, only to be told their idea would never get off the ground. Well, at least they gave the effort to get it that far. Good for them.
A lot of people would see that as foolhardy, and I can’t completely disagree. But in that short-sighted risk of future security, they took a bold and brave step based off their belief in something with so much fervor and passion that they would take the gamble. They risked their way of life as a way of confirming their devotion to their notion. Their bravery and devotion should be noted and saluted before they are discarded.
So having the idea isn’t the tough part. Having the guts to see it through is what tests you. It’s not like I am sinking any of my money into one of my ideas.
That’s safe. But it’s also kind of sad.
I have two friends who are in business together, and the going has been slow for them. They frequently get discouraged, but they pick each other up and go on. They have a lot of guts and a lot of faith, and most of all, they have the courage to fail. That is why they are going to do very well someday, and why I am proud to count them as friends.
Inventors are hard to find. So are brave people who believe in the power of their dreams.

2006-06-08T23:16:00.000-04:00

David Williams

Culture Shock

I am taken recently with the concept of culture shock. Perhaps this subject intrigues me because I am getting older and have not really noticed it until recently.
I have noticed a few facial changes lately. As I shave or brush my teeth, I see more gray and silver in my hair than I last recall being intertwined through my auburn locks; the slow slide of toned facial area that now seems to be crawling down my cheeks and gathering below my chin; the slow folds of eyelid that are gradually weighing down on my eyes like snow on a tree bough.
There are physical activities that are passing out of my life, like riding a bike or playing pickup basketball for the fun of it.
These days, as I wheeze and gasp through a mile and a half of running — or what I do that passes for running — I can remember the days when a younger Air Force veteran would knock out a mile and a half in under nine minutes and stand at the finish line, jogging in place and yelling encouragement at my squadron mates as they finished.
Who was that skinny kid, anyway? Yes, it was me, but that was a different me, at least physically.
Back then, I really didn’t think of myself as a prime physical specimen, and I really wasn’t. But that guy was miles better off than the slightly overweight, slightly graying, slightly balding man that now stands before you, wrapped up in the throes of middle age.
Some of my body parts hurt now, and for no reason — and that is only going to get worse.
I find myself getting up to go do something, and forgetting what it was before I arrive to do it. I just hope I was not on my way to the bathroom.
And speaking of that room, I have discovered that middle age gives you a whole new appreciation for the room of rest – and the odd times of the night you now go in there to avail yourself of its functions.
My dog usually wakes me up about 5 a.m. or so to go out. I used to think she was just being cruel, and committing a perverse reversal of the old canine adage about letting sleeping people lie. But it just could be that her love and loyalty for her master is so deep that she wakes me up to ensure I won’t do something while asleep that I haven’t done since the diaper days.
If she is that smart, she should be writing the columns.
But the disconnect with the coming generations is what strikes me as disturbing. This is the same phenomenon that occurred when as a young person, I used to look at my parents’ generation, as well as generations before, and wondered what we had in common.
Now, however, the shoe is on the other foot.
Just for the value of culture shock, I thought I might toss out some people, places and things that the generation after mine probably cannot relate to, knows nothing about, or considers an event of history.
• That Sir Paul McCartney was in two bands — Wings and the Beatles.
• Skylab.
• The AFL.
• Cable TV with channel selection boxes that had long cords on them.
• CB radios in your cars.
• Brown paper bags for groceries.
• Taking a paddling at school.
• The fun of a Rubik’s Cube.
• Listening to radio meant listening to AM radio — FM was a new genre, filled with unheard-of bands.
• A McDonald’s ad campaign that featured the phrase “Change back for your dollar.”
• Going to the movies with popcorn, candy and a drink for around four dollars — for two.
• Playing youth baseball with wooden bats — and playing ball in the street.
• Watching wrestling on Saturdays when it was broadcast live from the TV station near home.
• TBS was called “Superstation channel 17.”
• Satellites were used in science fiction stories and James Bond movies, not for weather forecasts.
• The Challenger disaster.
• American hostages being held in Iran for 444 days.
• Ronald Reagan running for president — twice.
These things and many others were ingrained in our generation, but they have slipped past the Gen-X’ers and gone on to the pages of history.
And just like we scratched our heads and looked on with puzzlement as our parents fixated on Ed Sullivan, Vietnam and nuclear war, our kids and their kids look at us and wonder what we get out of TV Land, look on with fascination at our attachment to disco music and southern rock, and fail to get the jokes on reruns of All In The Family.
Society groups us by age — from Baby Boomers to me-generation folks to Gen-Xers. And each age has their icons and their cultures and their unique fingerprint. Just like we want the younger set to appreciate what we have contributed and understand what we respect, so too must we Geezers-to-be demonstrate our willingness to understand what the current generation holds so dear.
If understanding is going to work, we don’t need to like rap music, but we do need to know why the kids do. Extreme sports like jumping off ramps with bicycles and skateboards isn’t something I want to try, but I can appreciate the adrenaline junkies that are into it.
But I gotta draw the line at piercing. Sorry, but that’s where the soon-to-be old man in me begins to bud. I don’t want one, and I do not understand why you kids do. Maybe someone can explain it to me before my hearing goes away, or before I forget why I asked for an explanation.