It's KPC Again

“Mommy, you my friend. You my favorite girl. You my person.” My grandson Owen spoke those words to his mother, recently. Of course, Cassie, my daughter, treasured Owen’s expression of love for her, as any loving mother would. But, with Owen, hearing him express himself is especially treasured by Cassie.

Owen is autistic. I will not attempt to explain just where he is on the spectrum because I am not at all qualified. I am his grandfather and I have been learning during each of his five years what it all means for Owen. Autism, in part, substantially affects Owen’s communication with others. He likes to speak, he wants to speak, but language is a big challenge for him.

If you Google autism, you will find that part of the definition will read something like this: People with autism often have problems with social communication and interaction. If you were around Owen much, you would find how very true that it is.

Since his infancy, Cassie and her husband, Nick, have been tireless advocates for Owen, making certain that he has every resource possible to aid in his delayed development. Speech therapists, private and in his Pre-K classes, have been critically important. They have helped Owen to tell his mom and dad, his brother, his grandparents and others what he needs, how he feels and much more.

Owen is especially close to a speech therapist at his Pre-K program, which he entered as soon as he turned age three. This is, essentially, how he described her last year. “She plays with me. I love her.” He has also bonded well with his private speech therapists.

There was a time when Owen would act out what he wanted to tell us. And, use a little sign language. And, there were words, too, but not actually sentences.

Today, at age 5 and looking forward to Kindergarten, he speaks throughout the day. He has a long way to go in his speech development, but he is making progress. I read his progress reports from various therapists and his Pre-K program, as well as some of the notes from his various physicians. Sometimes, when I read them, I become tearful. Looking at his long list of “issues,” I can feel overwhelmed. But, I see progress and I believe much good is ahead. I thank his outstanding parents for that, as well as the therapists and doctors who have shown him so much love.

Here’s a little of what it is like to spend a day with Owen. Throughout the day, he will ask, “what’s that (noise)?” It may be children in the distance playing, a truck passing by, the hot-air hand drying machine in a bathroom, a door closing, hamburgers sizzling on a grill and so on. Every time, I explain as best I can what it is, explaining calmly so as to assure him all is okay.

He will also ask all day, “Why?” Most anything I tell him, he will respond with that question. Again, I calmly do my best to offer an explanation. The woman in the restaurant next to us is eating lunch because she is hungry. The boy crying in the park is tired and hot, but he is okay and his mom is taking care of him. The squirrel is running so fast because squirrels like to run, they think it is fun.

I will answer questions from him all day long. And, I am fine with that. Owen is talking. He wants to talk and he likes to talk. Some who are on the spectrum do not speak.

When Owen says he loves you, that is powerful. I have come just short of crying on several occasions.

I do not understand much about autism, still. I know that when Owen says, “Papa, come,” I am on my way.

This week’s launch of the Artemis I flight, which is a step toward putting astronauts back on the moon in a few years, brought back memories of the night I watched non-stop television coverage of astronauts landing on the moon on July 20, 1969. I was two days away from turning 15 and approaching tenth grade at Bishop Gorman High School in Tyler, Texas.

I just happen to have in my home a July 21, 1969, copy of the Tyler Morning Telegraph, which is filled with stories covering every possible angle of the moon landing. The big red headline across the front of my hometown Texas newspaper reads: “July 20, 1969, 9:57 p.m. Man Walks On Moon.” Subheads read: “Armstrong Takes First Lunar Steps” and “New Era Dawns As U.S. Spacemen Plant Old Glory.” 

I spent some time reading the newspaper while listening to Herb Alpert Radio on Pandora, which appropriately features much music from the 1960s. I did not realize that the moon landing occurred as much of our country was also focused on Sen. Ted Kennedy’s car wreck in which a young woman passenger died. The newspaper story, just below the huge moon landing headline, reports that Kennedy was in seclusion at the Kennedy Family’s “compound” in Massachusetts and suffering from a slight concussion. That was a sad and tragic incident that stayed in the news for a long time.

Returning to the moon landing coverage, here’s what I learned. The astronaut’s space suits cost $300,000 each. And, there’s plenty of stories about the “astrowives.” That is what journalists called the wives of the astronauts.

Folks around Tyler were being quoted about the landing. One 83-year-old local woman declared that she believed the landing was a hoax and that “those men are up walking around in the air somewhere. They’re not on the moon.”

Another story reported that scientists will be looking for germs and more when they examine the astronauts upon their return to earth.  “They’ll be alert also for alien chemicals which, like many earth materials, could cause inflammations, allergies, perhaps even cancer.”

In sports news in that same newspaper, I read that golfer Dave Hill won the Philadelphia Golf Classic and took home the $30,000 top prize money.  Other famous golfers like Lee Trevino and Chi Chi Rodriguez received $2,175 each. (I am fond of the name Chi Chi because my three-year-old grandson Archer refers to himself as Chi Chi. His four-year-old brother usually calls him Chi.) 

This single edition of the Tyler Morning Telegraph offers an interesting and, at times, funny look back to that time. At the movie theaters in town, moviegoers could see the Disney film “The Love Bug,” a movie called “The Maltese Bippy” featuring “Laugh-In” stars Rowan and Martin, and one of the biggest movies of the time, “Oliver.”  At a drive-in theater, Brigitte Bardot was starring in “Please, Not Now!”

A simple TV guide offers the schedule for the five TV stations we could watch. To get good reception often required paying for cable. Tyler’s one TV station, two Dallas stations and two Fort Worth stations are listed.

The newspaper ads are fascinating.  Everything was CHEAP compared to today’s prices. Monterey House was advertising an awesome price for the Fiesta Dinner for July 22, only.  I should have gone for my birthday (if I could have caught a ride from an older fried with a driver’s license). For $1.29, I could have enjoyed the meal featuring guacamole salad, a beef taco, two enchiladas, a tamale with chili, beans, rice, tortillas, hot sauce and candy. Any other day, that meal would have set me back $1.65. 

A trip to local grocery stores offered great deals. My favorite store in Tyler was Safeway. Some specials included a half-gallon of Snow Star ice cream for 49 cents, Safeway bacon for 67 cents a pound, quart bottles of Cragmont soft drinks for 10 cents each, peaches for 19 cents a pound and canned biscuits for eight cents. In September, Candace and I drove past the dilapidated building that once housed my neighborhood Safeway. 

Over at the competition, local grocery chain Brookshire’s offered a six-bottle carton of Pepsi for a quarter, but buyers had to bring six empty glass bottles to get that price. Mellorine, which was a type of ice cream made with animal and vegetable fats (not butterfat), sold for a quarter a half gallon. I can tell you that I never liked Mellorine, even at half the price of real ice cream. Genuine Pecos cantaloupes were selling for five cents a pound. I still like canned tuna and would like to pay the 25 cents a can price offered in those days.

Some great prices were offered for clothes, too. Dorrity’s, a local store, was selling several styles of shoes for six dollars. Apparently, they were trying to get rid of some inventory that usually sold for $16.99.

Looking back at all these prices, I am thinking that the next trip to the moon will cost far more than it did in 1969. I have no idea what space suits cost these days. Maybe, some store will be offering a sale on old space suits that the new generation astronauts can wear. 

This time around, astrowives can be astronauts. Women have been demonstrating for many years that they are just as good as men at flying spaceships. If they had been given a decent chance back in 1969, they could have flown to the moon, too.

I look forward to the next flight that takes men AND women to the moon. If it is on TV too late at night, though, I might have to catch it the next morning on the Today Show. 

Note: I presented these brief remarks on November 1, 2022, at the inaugural Sam Gladding Wake Author Series at Z. Smith Reynolds Library at Wake Forest University. The speaker was Margaret (Peggy) Supplee Smith, author of Great Houses and their Stories: Winston-Salem’s Era of Success, 1912-1940.

As a friend of Sam and Claire Gladding, I am grateful for the opportunity to tell you a little about Sam today. 

I tend to say that I AM a friend of Sam’s (not WAS).  That’s because Sam lives on in many important ways.  Today is an excellent example.  Sam loved writing and writers and books. No one knows, understands and appreciates that like Claire. Claire cleared the way in their life together to make room for the countless hours he devoted regularly to writing.

Sam embraced the teacher-scholar ideal at Wake Forest. Well, he embraced Wake Forest. He loved Wake Forest. That is why he devoted enormous time and energy to writing a history of Wake Forest that covers the years of President Hearn’s presidency.

Sam was the professor a student deserved to have at Wake Forest.  Sam loved teaching and mentoring students—college and graduate students—in and out of the classroom.  And, students loved him.  Often, when Sam and I would be enjoying lunch on campus or just walking around campus, students would come up to him to speak with him. Some were young people in their first year of college, others were graduate students preparing for their new counseling careers. Sam was always the same.  He smiled and joked and listened closely to them. He let them know they were, indeed, important to him.

 Sam was devoted to doing it all—teaching, mentoring, writing, and traveling the world to inspire those who shared his dedication to all things counseling.  But, I will tell you that being a writer was a very strong part of his identity, of how he saw himself.  As a writer, he could reach, connect with people everywhere. And, he surely did.

One of Sam’s last big writing projects was his autobiographical Off the Courthouse Square.  I think it was a gift, in a way, to his family, especially sons Ben, Nate and Tim. It is the story of Sam’s first 21 years. Reading that book is a wonderful introduction to Sam.

I will close now as it is time for an introduction to another writer. Our inaugural speaker in the Sam Gladding Wake Author Series.

As I look at First Day of School photos being posted on Facebook, I am thinking back to when Sister Immaculata welcomed me to my First Day of School, ever. Sixty-two years ago!

I remember wanting to go to school long before I finally walked through the door of Sacred Heart Academy in Texarkana, Texas, on my way to my First Grade classroom. In those days, my Catholic school did not offer Kindergarten. So, I was six-years-old in 1960 when I began school.

I was envious of my older brother, David, who had been in school for some years before he walked me down the halls of Sacred Heart to meet my teacher and my classmates. I wanted to learn something in school.

I do not remember the drive to school. I assume my mother drove us from our “project” apartment to Sacred Heart. I remember David walking me to the classroom and I remember walking into the classroom the very first time. He left for his own classroom after leaving me with Sister Immaculata.

I remember seeing children standing beside or sitting at our little wooden desks. Parents were with some of the children, trying to console those looking frightened and, in some cases, crying. To this day, I know two of the boys and one girl.

I was surprised by how upset some of the children appeared to be. I was also surprised to see parents in the room. I was just happy to be there, dropped off by my big brother.

I sat in my desk quietly, at first, marveling at the circles placed along the chalkboard depicting different colors. And, there were letters stretched out by the chalkboard, too. I was impressed. After a few minutes, though, I just had to ask.

I walked up to Sister Immaculata, who had walked into a little “cloakroom” behind the chalkboard.

I asked, “When are you going to teach me something?”

She replied, “Right after the fire drill.”

I walked back to my desk, somewhat relieved to know that education was headed my way. I did not know what in the world a fire drill was, but I did not ask. All I cared was that I would be going home with more education than I had when I walked in the door.

I was comfortable with a teacher dressed as a nun. I had been seeing nuns for years, already, at what was then David’s school and at our church. All I could see of her was her face and her hands. Everything else was covered in black clothing, largely, except for some white above her forehead and across her chest. The white area is known as a wimple, I think.

I will say that First Grade was one of the best years of my life. I listened intently to Sister Immaculata. I was learning what children today learn much earlier. There was no technology, at all, of course. I was fascinated with the abacus, a counting tool that has been used, from what I have read, since ancient times. If you are not familiar, look it up.

I remember well feeling safe with my teacher and friends in my little Catholic school. I loved our simple playground. I can still remember playing with friends out there. On the other side of the playground was a house where the nuns lived. I found their house to be mysterious. I wondered what it was like where our teachers lived.

This was Texas, but nothing in that building was air-conditioned. I was fine with that. It was 1960 and I had little experience with air conditioning. Our little apartment was not air conditioned, that is for certain. No one in my family had it, as far as I knew.

My old school is long gone. There is nothing there to remind anyone that it ever existed. I am still around. So, are some classmates with whom I stay in touch. This might sound unlikely, but a girl who was my friend there ended up moving to another Catholic school in Tyler, Texas, and I eventually ended up there, too, in school with her. We remain friends today. That is very cool.

I did not know in 1960 that I would remain in school for decades to come. I finally wrapped up my formal education with a master’s in English at Wake Forest University.

I enjoy being around schools. I worked 30 years at Wake Forest. Now that I am retired, I often ride my bicycle to the high school my son and daughter attended. I like watching the academic year progress. I still like visiting the Wake Forest campus, too.

I remain close, in particular, to the elementary, middle school and high school I attended in Tyler after my brother and sister and I were brought to Tyler to live with our mother, who had moved already to Tyler. I look forward to gathering with many of those Tyler classmates soon. But, my first school, where I attended until the middle of Fifth Grade, remains with me. And, I am still grateful to Sister Immaculata, a kind teacher who, indeed, taught me something after that fire drill.

Fifty years ago, I was a new high school graduate planning to enter college for the fall semester. That summer, I had no idea what I was doing and what was ahead. Looking back, that was a good thing. 

Much of my family life was collapsing, but I believed all would be fine. I have a habit of seeing the bright side. 

Here is the short version. The day after I graduated from high school, my stepfather moved out of our house. In my eyes, he was my father. He had been looking after me since I was in fifth grade.

I spent the summer working for him at his paint and body shop, as usual. It was a job I knew well and enjoyed. I was sad and stressed by the end of my mother’s marriage with my stepfather. But, continuing to work with my stepfather helped me to pretend that my life was not falling apart.

Reality hit me early in my first semester of college. I realized that the man I considered my father was not going to help me with college expenses. I was on my own as far as I could see. I do not write this in condemnation of him. While my relationship with him fell apart at that time, I started to see him occasionally many years later and I have expressed to him several times how much I appreciate all he taught me when I was growing up.

That summer, though, I believed good things were ahead and others told me that was true. As I was graduating from high school, I confided in my school principal that my home life was crashing. I told him that I was reluctant to leave for college. I wondered if I should stay home and take care of my mother. He urged me to go to college. He told me that I had potential, that I stood a good chance of doing well in life with a good education. My mother would work things out, he assured me. 

I had dreams that summer. I believed that I would go to college and prepare myself for life as a journalist and, perhaps, a writer of short stories and novels.

I should admit here that I knew next to nothing about college. I knew that I liked walking on college campuses. When I was a child in Texarkana, I was fascinated with Texarkana College, which was near where my grandparents, my mother’s parents, lived. 

In Tyler, where we moved when I was 10, I was impressed with Tyler Junior College. I felt at home at such places. I had it in my mind that I would go to college when I grew up. 

But, I had never seen East Texas State University (now Texas A&M Commerce) before I moved into my residence hall in late August 1972. I do not know why I did not get into my 1965 Chevrolet Impala and drive over there just to look around, at least. Oh, well, I had plenty to learn. In many ways.

I managed to spend little time in my house that summer. I was at work or out with friends. I slept in my room, but I stayed away other times. I realize now it made it easier to ignore the sadness in my home. I was surviving.

Some of that summer is so sad I still cannot write about it. My mom was struggling, trying in her own way to survive. I realize now that I did not know how to help. So, I was focused on my own efforts to get by. 

My summer had started with the dissolution of my family as I knew it, but I was becoming familiar with family I did not know, too. Days after graduation, I visited with my father in Georgia. I was only vaguely familiar with him. He and my mother divorced when I was around four and he moved to the East Coast. He had no involvement in raising me after that time and I saw him only once, for a few hours, until I was deep into my teens. 

My visit in Georgia went well. I would go back to see him at Christmas.That summer, I did not know how important those visits would prove to be.

Looking back at that pivotal point in my life, what I think about is how I believed without doubt that summer that I would go to college, finish in four years, do well and move on. That is how it went, it turned out.

I was able to get through that first semester of college with money I had saved from working for my stepfather. When I visited my father at Christmas, he told me that he wanted to help me with college and he did. I appreciated it then and now.

I do not want to make it appear that the entire summer was bad and sad. I had a good time with friends, including one who is a great friend to this day. And, I felt strongly for the first time that I was grown. 

I realize now that I took the same approach often in life as the years went by. I believed I could do whatever I dreamed. That includes marriage and family, graduate school, jobs I enjoyed, and so on. I usually did not know what challenges were ahead through all of those experiences. It is better that I did not, I think. I simply believed and did the work to make something good happen. 

A year ago on July 4, 2021, my nephew Trey Northcott passed away suddenly in Oregon, away from family and friends. My sister Susan had been searching for him back in Nacogdoches, Texas, not realizing he had wandered away to a strange place where no one expected he might go. First responders–paramedics and others–did their best to save Trey, but they could not. In truth, many had been doing that for years. The results were the same for those who loved him.

For his memorial service back in Nacogdoches, I wrote the following remarks. I was unable to travel to Texas at the time, so another person presented my remarks at the service. This July 4, while we naturally turn our attention to the holiday, I also join others in remembering Trey and celebrating him. He struggled with drug and alcohol abuse. That did not define the man he was inside. Family and friends loved him for good reasons.

My remarks delivered at Trey’s memorial service:

Getting to know someone well is not easy. Often, we know someone, even many of our friends, only a little. Mothers know their children more than a little. They know them in ways no one else does.

Through all the many years since Trey entered this world, his mother knew him like no other person. And, she never quit trying to stay connected, stay in touch.  

I write this as Trey’s uncle and Susan’s brother. For a number of reasons, including the fact that I’ve lived a thousand miles away since his birth, I never came to know Trey well. I wish it were otherwise. The last time I saw him at Susan’s, we did not connect. He was in a good place, as far as being in the home of the mother who loved him deeply. He did not appear to be in a good place in other ways.  

Trey was the same handsome fellow he’d always been the last time I saw him. Memories came to me as I listened to Trey and Susan visit. I remembered the sweet, active, energetic toddler who was likely to surprise everyone and take off running and looking at whatever caught his attention. If you think about it, you may agree that never changed with him. His curiosity about, his fascination with, his intense enthusiasm for all around him were distinct characteristics of his personality. We could all use some of that in our own selves. For Trey, it was intrinsic to the person he was. Right now, I can recall him as an elementary school boy telling me about some sort of bug he had just encountered outside his family’s home on that summer day. He was talking so fast, so excitedly, so enthusiastically that I could barely keep up with the stream of words coming from him. What a happy little fellow he was in that moment. And, I am certain, there were countless moments like that in his time here in this world. Day after day, year after year.

For those who listened, they learned Trey was an intelligent and articulate boy and, later, man. His was a unique perspective on the world. He noticed what many of us may not stop to hear, see, touch, smell. Trey stopped, I am certain, many times. He would strive to make sense of it and put it in the proper place in his busy mind, along with so much more he had learned in a manner that may not be our own.

So, I say that Trey was a student of this world. And, a teacher for others. In his way. In his extraordinary and singular Trey way.

I feel confident many people will treasure conversations they recall having with Trey. They will treasure experiences with him.

Trey had challenges. Trey struggled. As I mentioned earlier, his family and friends knew he was not in a good place, at times. All wanted to see him be well, do well.  

Through the years, Susan spoke with me and Candace about Trey’s good times and hard times. Her love was never-ending, never diminishing, always faithful. When I think of Susan and Trey, I picture her with arms outstretched, open wide to hug him. I think she always represented well the family’s love for Trey. I feel certain Trey knew, in his heart, that he was loved.

I’m going to hold onto the good memories in the years ahead. I wish I could have been in a position to make more memories than I did with him. The good memories, in my mind, capture best the person who, in fact, Trey was. I am grateful he was my nephew.  

Recently, I stopped alongside a two-lane road on my bicycle to answer a phone call. Within a couple of minutes, a woman drove her car onto the lawn of the home where I had stopped to check on me. And, yes, I was startled to see her drive up beside me on a stranger’s lawn.

“Are you okay,” she asked. “I see you riding all of the time, but I have never seen you stop. It looked like you might not feel too well.”

I assured her that I was fine, that I had stopped to answer a phone call. (My iPhone is on a bracket mounted to my handlebars.). With a smile and a wave, she drove on off across the lawn of someone who, fortunately, was not home.

Other people have checked on me, occasionally. On an especially hot afternoon last week, I stopped under the shade of some big trees on a rural road. An old fellow (about my age) stopped his pickup and asked, “You alright?”  I said I was taking a shade break. He threw up his hand and drove on.

I have several of these stories. I think people check on me, in part, because they feel like they know me, in a way. They have seen me on my bike plenty of times.  There are roads in my community I have ridden on hundreds of times. I am a familiar face. Sort of. I don’t know how well they can see my face due to my helmet and sunglasses. They recognize me, anyway. You get the picture.

It is a regular occurrence for drivers to wave at me as they drive past me. Same with people out working in their yard, washing their car, and so on. They do not really know me, usually, but I am that fellow who is around so often that they see me as a neighbor, perhaps. For some, I am a neighbor, of course. We at least live in the same area of the county.

I have experienced some bike mishaps when people offered to help me. Several years ago, I “flew” over my handlebars, landed on a road and got banged up a little. A couple on their way to a nearby church stopped and asked if they could help me in some way, including driving me home. I told them that I was feeling well enough to ride home. I made it home. And, I had a cast on my left arm a couple of days later. 

On one funny occasion, my saddle (seat in regular folks’ language) came off while I was cruising along a rural road. I looked all around for the @#%& bolt that popped out and I could not find it. So, there I was with no seat. I mean, saddle. A nice old fellow (my age) stopped in his pickup, offered to drive me and my bike home. I happily accepted.  It turned out that his daughter and mine had been in high school together.

Some people in my community probably realize that I am the same man who ran the roads around here for 20-something years. They saw me as I ran thousands of miles up and down roads in my county. After a while, the miles add up.

During those years, as I ran past them, children in our area would shout, “Hi, Tyler’s dad.” Or, “Hi, Cassie’s dad.”  Years later, those children were grown and driving past me with a little child of their own strapped carefully into a car seat.

I heard some funny comments from people when they would recognize me at a grocery store or gas station. “Hey, you run really well for someone your age.” Or, “I recognize you. You’re that dude who runs up and down our roads wearing nothing but shorts and shoes!”  I will add that when it was 90 degrees and blue skies, I left off wearing a shirt. Okay, even if the temperature was in the 60s, skipped wearing a shirt.

I appreciate all of these people. I like that they see me as part of their community.  Many do not know my name, have no idea where I live, and do not know where I am going, but they accept me. It is fun being recognized as a member of the community. That is what I care about. As the years have gone by, I have learned that I love being part of a community. It keeps me going.  Up and down the road.

I met a strong man, recently. Eric. He is 31. If you saw him walk near you, assisted by his loving mother, that may be the last impression that would come to mind. Eric uses the sort of cane with three little “legs” at the end to help stabilize him as he walks very slowly from one place to another. He takes every step deliberately, cautiously. Talk with him a little and you will learn that he is one strong, tough fellow who lets nothing beat him.

I met him one afternoon while sitting in a rocking chair outside a clothing store where my wife, Candace, was shopping. With his mother’s help, Eric made his way to the rocking chair just to my left and sat in it. Everything about it was a challenge for him.

When he was settled, he looked at me and said, “I was in a motorcycle accident. I had brain trauma.” Eric, a handsome and tanned fellow with long dark hair in a bun, obviously felt self-conscious about his condition. He wanted me to know what happened, how he came to be in this shape.

“Did the accident happen a long time ago?,” I responded.

“A year ago,” Eric replied. His mother gently reminded him that it was three years ago.

While his mother shopped in the store, Eric and I talked about his life in recent years. He explained that one day while on his motorcycle he collided with a car. “I totaled her car,” Eric said, explaining just how awful the accident was.

“My life changed in a minute,” he continued.

Afterward, he told me, he spent more than a year in hospitals. I had already learned that time might be something that he does not always get just right, but I knew he had been horribly injured and certainly had required extensive hospitalization.

In time, he came to realize that his longtime girlfriend had moved on. She is married with a child, now. Eric said he hoped that she would choose to stay by his side. “It’s over now,” he told me with a gentle shrug of his shoulders.

“Do you have therapists to help you with your recovery,” I asked. He responded that he had finished a water therapy session that very afternoon. Other therapists help, too, including an occupational therapist.

Eric told me that he believes he will continue progressing because he works hard at all of his therapies. His dream is to manage his father’s motorcycle repair business one day. Each time that he spoke the word believe, he would place the palm of his right hand to his chest.

“Keep believing, Eric,” I told him.

I told Eric that I have a four-year-old grandson on the autism spectrum who was adopted by my daughter and her husband. after fostering him for more than a year. I told him that my grandson has different kinds of therapists who are helping him develop, helping him grow in several ways.

“Eric, I believe. I believe good things are ahead for my little grandson,” I told him. “It’s important to believe.”

I added that my daughter and her husband see my grandson as a blessing in their lives. I explained we all feel that way.

Eric looked at me and said, “I respect your daughter. I respect your family.” And, he placed his hand to his heart, just as he had earlier. Then, he reached out his hand to shake. At that point, I knew that I had tears in my eyes.

When Candace came outside of the store, I introduced them. Eric told us that he was glad that he met us.

All I could think was how blessed I was to meet Eric, such a brave and strong and kind man. I told Eric that I was grateful that we met, too.

I do not know exactly how everyone feels when they lose someone to gun violence. I need to say that at the start. I do know that it is all horrible and so painful that a surviving loved one can barely take it, at times. 

Here is how I felt. In truth, I am feeling it still.

On December 28, 1984, I was standing in the newsroom of the Wilmington, N.C., newspaper where I worked as a reporter. Carrying my 13-month-old son, Tyler, I had stopped by the newspaper briefly that day.

As I chatted with one friend, another told me that Candace was on the phone and I needed to talk with her right now. I picked up the phone receiver and heard Candace crying, screaming and trying to tell me something. I finally understood.  Her brother Milton had been found murdered outside his Fort Worth, Texas, home.

I have never forgotten Candace’s desperate grief. I try not to remember that moment, but some days something happens that brings it back. 

I walked out of that building shaking, trying to remain calm enough to place Tyler in his car seat, get him all securely buckled up and drive home. I kept thinking that this must be a bad mistake, that some terribly unfortunate man had been misidentified as Milton. I could not imagine anyone hurting one of the kindest, most generous and lovable men I knew. As I drove up to our house, I was thinking it would all work out, that Milton was really alive.

Soon that day, I had to admit that Milton was dead. Shot and beaten to death in the early morning hours of that day, long before daylight. Found on a lawn across the street from his home.

Candace was distraught and I worried about her and the baby she was carrying at five months. I called her doctor. He told me that Candace and the baby would be okay. I still worried. I had never seen her like that, so awfully heartbroken and crying and crying. 

Candace’s mom and dad left for Texas, asking us to arrange for a grave site. To this day, I struggle at that place. It is pretty and quiet and out in the country. Standing at that plot of cold ground where his body was to be placed soon, all I could think was that Milton should not be there. He loved the city life, he loved life. Milton loved people and being with people. That country place was no place for him, I thought then and I think today. I cried there then and I cry now when I visit. Yes, it has been a long time. It feels awful, still.

Here is some of what I struggled with back then and for many years to come. Milton was running for his life, trying to get away from someone out to kill him. 

–What was he thinking?

 –Was he thinking he still had a chance to get away?

— Was he thinking that someone would come outside a house and save him? 

–How badly did it hurt when that bullet pierced his upper body, passing right through it?

–Did he plead with the killer not to finish him off?

–How much of the beating did he feel before dying?

For many years, I struggled with this in particular. I knew Milton very well. I could too easily imagine what his voice sounded like as he fought for his life. I kept hearing it again and again in my mind. 

I have countless good memories of Milton. And, that is where I let my thoughts go these days.

 –I think about what we thought was funny during our days as college roommates.

–I think about our conversations at night as we were about to go sleep.

–I think about how he hated wearing shoes and would walk around campus in nice “office casual” clothes with no shoes.

–I think about how my side of the room was neat and clean and his was a mess.

–I think about going downstairs in our residence hall late at night to watch him play poker with other fellows who lived there. We have a photo of him doing just that on our refrigerator.

–I think about the night he walked into our room and said that he had to leave his car in Dallas, an hour away, and that I would have to take him home the next weekend and go out with his sister. And, he excitedly handed me a photo of Candace to seal the deal! It was from her 17^th birthday. I still have it.

Finally, here’s how I feel about it all. None of this should have happened. No one had the right to steal his life from him. No one had the right to steal him from his family. It is bad. He should have been all these years having fun with and enjoying his family, riding around in cars playing rock music far too loudly, laughing and visiting with his store’s customers and playing one game or another with friends.

I am going to remember Milton until the day I die. I hope to join him in another life. Until then, I will deal with the sadness and hold onto the good memories.

When I wrapped up 10^th Grade, I decided not to work in my stepfather’s automobile paint and body shop. Instead, I drew on my Grandpa’s connections to land a job working at a little convenience store. It sounded like a good job.  I would not be around a parent all day, I would be in an air-conditioned building (in Texas that is important) and I would finish my workday not covered in dust and dirt. All of that sounded attractive to my teen-aged mind.

My Grandpa worked at another little store owned by the local company, which had three or four of the places around Tyler. He asked the manager, a grouchy old guy, to hire me for the summer. Although I was only 15, I got the job, which mostly put me behind a cash register (there was only one). There was nothing at all fancy about the cash register. I pushed hard on some buttons as I rang up each item, hit total and the cash drawer flew open. This was a long, long time before computerized registers.

The store had a nice little butcher counter, so I was ringing up everything from hamburger meat to Winstons and Mountain Dews. The hardest part was making correct change. Remember, there was nothing telling me the correct amount. I had to figure it out with a brain that struggled with high school math. The good news is I usually got it right.

To this day, I find it amazing that a 15-year-old was allowed to work at the store. It was another time, I reckon.  As in, 1970.  There were many times in the evenings when I would be the only employee working.  

The most exciting night I ever had there was when a car ran into the building. I was standing on the other side of the wall that was hit. I was near the register, surrounded by counters full of candy and a wall behind me stacked with packs of cigarettes. Hundreds of cigarette packs came flying down on me when the car slammed into the wall. It was a great story to tell when I got home that night.

Getting back to my grouchy boss, I want to mention that he had a hard time, apparently, remembering my name. He called me Kelvin, Calvin, Keith, Ken and, some days, Kevin. I soon realized there not much point in reminding him of my name. Even on my weekly checks, he would get my first name wrong. Whatever.

During my weeks there, I was fine with most all of it. The other fellows who worked there were nice. The customers were okay, too. But, there was one problem. My boss was annoyed by my long hair. It was long for those days in Tyler, Texas. It would have been just fine if I had been in a California rock band. 

The hair issue came to a head one day when my boss paid me and told me not to come back until I cut my hair. Whoa! I immediately thought of CSNY’s “I Almost Cut My Hair.” I did not say much. I just left thinking I was not coming back. 

At home, I told my stepdad that I wanted to resume working for him. I did not mention the hair ultimatum. He said I was welcome to return to the shop.  

That was the best decision I had made up to that time in my teen life. From that point on, until I started college, I worked for my stepdad. I came to love my work. And, I kept my hair long. My mother and stepdad insisted I get a trim every now and then. I did, too. I got my last one in high school about a half-year before I graduated. I remember telling the barber that I was never getting a haircut again. Actually, I did, but it was 18 months later.

That was my last grocery story job. As my wife knows, I am fascinated with grocery stores. But, I am done working in them. It is a shame, in a way. I do not mind haircuts, anymore. I would like to have a long ponytail again, but Candace says it would not look too good on me. She fell in love with me when I had a ponytail, but that was nearly a half-century ago. Apparently, I have changed some since then.