Blogarithms

Hick! Yeah, You guys should be ashamed of passing me around like that. If I can hide in this bag ... I'm outta here. Squaaaaak!

As my son used to say many years ago, “One ponce a time …” No, that’s a bad lede (as it is spelled in journalism circles)

It was a dark and stormy night. … No. That lede has two problems or more. That’s the lede we all make fun of, and I hate any writing that begins with “it,” leading us with a question that frankly, why should we bother to answer?

The year was the very early 80s. (Ah, timeless. A century is never indicated.) My first newspaper job had begun the first of March, and I already loved it. The job allowed me to be even more social than I had been working for my dad in his Western Auto Store. (The century give away)

The owner of the nearby golf club had given me a golf cart for the day as I rode around the course taking photos for my job. A couple of guys asked if they could hitch a ride. It seemed like the thing to do, so the father and son climbed aboard. We talked of this and that until I asked a novice golfer’s question, “What is a sandbagger?”

Oh how they laughed. When they finally calmed down, out came the answer. It was a first and last name.

I didn’t immediately say anything. Actually, it was exactly what I was expecting to hear. After a few seconds of silence and quieted laughter, one of them asked me, “Do you know him?”

“He’s my brother,” I said in the most deadpan manner I could muster. They didn’t stay on the cart too much longer. Hey, I was just playing. They probably felt like they had just gotten the bird. Oh, and PS: My brother isn’t a sandbagger.

Then there was the time I walked into a local drug store only to see one of the town’s police officers back in the pharmacy. He was jumping a bit and reaching up. It was quite curious so I watched him a while before I spoke. Suddenly, near the ceiling, there was the answer. A small sparrow was avoiding being caught by Harold’s hand.

So I spoke up. “Hello Harold. Are you getting the bird,” I inquired. And in his slow, monotone drawl he responded somewhat sadly, “I always get the bird.

Then today, Corey Edwards, who sits beside me inside the horseshoe desk, gave me the bird.

We are playing a game at the office that has a definate purpose. The Shelby Star and The Gaston Gazette are passing around an ugly stuffed bird, and to keep the game going, the bird must be passed on to another person. It’s a game we’re calling PNC Gives the Bird. Another condition of getting the bird? A photo is required.

And just so everyone knows, that word “ugly” was someone else’s opinion. I think he’s kind of cute. Hmmm. Wonder if I could get him outta here in my pocketbook.

Thanks for the bird!

When I started the first grade, I started at Caesar Rodney Elementary School in Dover, Del. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here and start the “you’re not from around here, are you?”

Well, yes I am.

I was born in North Carolina. I grew up in this region. My parents were born and raised in North Carolina as were my grandparents and their parents before them. We have some history, but that’s another story.

But to the point, Delaware in that era and living near a military base was nothing like living in North Carolina. The saying was that if you were lying on the sidewalk bleeding, the people would step over you and keep on going. For a while here, I experience the same thing. I wasn’t lying somewhere bleeding, but many nights if I had car problems, some of the guys would pass me in the parking lot and never say a word. Mental note.

I make an exception for the guys in the pressroom. They’ve always been kind, concerned and considerate. And our own Matthew Memrick has offered to drive me home. And home isn’t next door, either. Bless his little impish heart.

A few days ago, I read the story about the woman in the parking lot of Belmont’s Walmart who had her handbag lifted. Everyone who stands and watches a fellow human in distress without offering assistance should learn what I learned when I was growing up. “There for the grace of God, go I.” I hope everyone knows what that means or can find someone to explain it to them if they don’t.

I have put my head under a co-workers car hood in this parking lot after dark when it wouldn’t start. I diagnosed and fixed that problem, which just happened to be a loose battery cable. Why would this female know how to do that? Because my dad owned and operated a Western Auto store beginning when I turned 8 years old. He taught me lots of things most girls don’t know. It saves me much money.

I feel bad for the woman at Walmart. But she did have an angel nearby who got a tag number. I feel bad for the people who stood and watched. If karma exists, it won’t be good.

And for me, the new guy who sits next to me, Corey Edwards, saw me one day in the parking lot with my head under the  hood. He walked over and asked if I needed help. Bless his heart. The karma coming back to him is all good. A few days later, I had another surprise offer of help from still another co-worker.

And Matt Richards sent me to the store one night to buy a battery for my car after it died. He told me how to get there and back without turning off the car, then he installed my battery.

Pay attention. You never know what might happen next. And remember in the words of the late great Fred Kirby, “Be good to one another. After all, all we have in this old world is each other.”

Coming soon: Chapter 2. Fast forward 21 years later.

A manila folder at my house received its first entry Feb 3, 1987. I thought an event in my life had come full circle. I was wrong. A new chapter would begin in 1992, but I had no way of knowing that in ’87.

 Something had reminded me that my first newspaper job had been housed in the same building where my dad had opened a Western Auto Associate Store in downtown Maiden in Catawba County.  My first memory of my dad’s employment had him as an airplane mechanic crew chief under contract to the U.S. Air Force. We were living in Dover Del., the morgue of the armed forces, before the career change and move back to North Carolina, where all members of my immediate family had been born.

The memory of again spending time in that familiar building put an old photo back in my mind. Someone has snapped a picture of me leaning against the front door facing of that first location for Maiden’s Western Auto. I was wearing my favorite bleeding-madris shirt, which just mean a plaid shirt that faded in water.

I remember when that photo was taken. It was almost the same second a big white Ford Galaxy came rolling down Main Street driven by local football standout, Reginald Joe Abernethy. I was only about 12 or 13, and this football hero waved at me. The wave sparked a crush.

That crush came into full bloom when Reggie’s friend, Bruce Spake, riding in the car with him came into the store days later to visit his then-girlfriend, Lynn, whose mother worked for Daddy.

“Do you want me to tell you what Reggie said about you,” he asked. I pretended it didn’t matter so I could appear like my heart wasn’t about to beat through my chest.

It wasn’t what Reggje got credit for saying, but it was that he — a football hero in the town that bills itself as “the biggest little football town,” – had noticed little ole me, a preteen, an unimportant speck in the universe. He would continue to build my self-esteem.

Event forever burned into memory.

One afternoon at the end of the school day, I stood in the parking lot of the elementary school near where the buses loaded and unloaded. A bus pulled up with its doors right at my face. The doors opened, the driver … I knew that guy … it was Reggie. He flashed that big happy smile at me, closed the doors and went on his way.

Burn into memory No. 2

We became friends. Each time we saw each other he teased me about being so young, just a baby to him. We grew up during desegregation, the Vietnam War, war protests and a draft system.

Life went on. I went to high school. He went to Lenoir-Rhyne College. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him when one night on my way home, I saw his Ford sitting in the parking lot of the Piedmont Grill, a burger joint between Maiden and Newton and a favorite hangout of all the kids.

I turned around to go see him. I parked beside his car and walked in the door to see him sitting by himself in a booth wearing a long sad face. I slipped in facing him and said, “What’s wrong, girlfriend problems?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. No matter how down he was, he was going to play with me again. He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a LRC class ring and laid it on the table between us. Without a word, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out another LRC class ring and laid it on the table.

Then he spoke. “When you get one of these, you’re supposed to give it to a girl to wear. I wanted to wear mine, so I bought two. “Or,” he paused. “You could go steady with two girls at the same time. What do you think about that?”

I laughed. I didn’t have to answer. He knew what I thought about it.

Once again, he grew solemn. The half-cocked smile disappeared. “I’m leaving tomorrow for Vietnam,” he said.

I had 10 minutes to make it home before my curfew. I wished him well and headed toward the door. Before my hand touched the door knob, I heard his voice right behind me.

“You know they’re going to send me home in a horizontal position, don’t you?”

With a chuckle, I responded, “Don’t be silly. Something like that could never happen to you.”

It happened.

Burned into memory and a scar on my heart.

Oh look! A ViewMaster. What a great hat.

In 2008, I wrote this blog.

It would have been so much better with a photo from that Christmas but I couldn’t find one. Not long ago, I came across those Christmas photos. When I saw a certain one, I thought, “I just have to upload that to that old blog if for nothing else than to see if Bill Williams will love it.

I guess we’ll see if he does.

Here’s the old blog to go with it:

The status of our economy has me wondering what memories would make for people’s most and least favorite Christmases.

My least favorite is a no-brainer. My family experienced a sudden and unexpected death on Christmas Day one year.

My favorite isn’t so easy. I had the most fun when my son was young. He was so funny, and he amped it up when he could tell I was amused, which was just about all the time.

He noticed everything. He could point something out to you that you couldn’t see, and you’d swear he was mistaken until, before long, you’d see what he was pointing out.

He wasn’t school-age yet when my mother asked me in front of him what serendipity meant. Before I could open my mouth, the answer came out of his. She went straight to a dictionary and was speechless when she learned that his definition was correct.

He had noticed a woman downtown one day who wore a hat with an odd shape. That particular Christmas, Santa brought him a ViewMaster. He was so excited when he saw it. I thought it had been an excellent gift for him when I saw his reaction to it.

He ripped open the packaging, dumped the ViewMaster on the floor turned the canister it came in upside down, pushed it so far down on his head that it made his eyebrows touch his eyelashes and started running down the hall calling the woman’s name he had seen in the odd-shaped hat. It really was shaped just like the hat he’d seen.

He was only 2.

And that best Christmas had nothing to do with money.

After going to lunch and coming out with the nastiest tea I had ever tasted, I set my mind on a blog I could put together that would let me have my say, avoid an angry mob and maybe give the drive-thrus in town a heads up.

Tea? Enter the guy who sat behind me at work. He was a self-professed and professed by others, authentic iced tea expert. We agreed on who had the best tea in town. Hands down, that’s Cookout. But I wanted to ask him if he minded if I used  him for my tea blog before I did it.

He had been sick and out of work but I was expecting him back any time. I returned to work after a couple of days off and, I thought, Toby would be back probably Monday. On this particular day, he was supposed to be in South Carolina giving his daughter away at her wedding.

Not so very late into the evening, The Gazette’s news editor stood and said, “Everybody, I have some bad news. Toby died today.”

Imagine gasping for air and not being able to exhale. I don’t think any of us knew he was that sick. I was just about to ask his sister on Facebook how I could get one of those printouts the funeral home gives to visitors about the deceased when I saw a conversation about a blog in The Sun News in Myrtle Beach, S.C. It is written by Bob Bestler and titled “Tribute to a trivia expert.”

I read it.

Instead of writing to tell area restaurants they could improve their business if they would improve their tea, I would much rather people read Bestler’s tribute. Here it is:

Bob Bestler | Tribute to a trivia expert

I love kitchen gadgets.

Recently, I acquired one that I think everyone who likes pizza would want. It can’t be bought in a store since Linens and Things closed its doors.

I had seen one somewhere. I thought Phil Gardner, one of our sports writers here at The Gazette, had one but he assures me he doesn’t. So I set out on a search. I checked every store I could think of. No one knew what I was talking about. Some people said they would like one, too.

I searched the Internet and finally tripped across exactly what I was looking for. With the economy as it is, I’ve started trying to save money by carrying my lunch to work.

This item helps. Kids who carry their lunch will love it, too. It’s a great stocking stuffer, too.

It’s called Pizza Keepa. It’s a plastic food saver with lid shaped like a large piece of pizza.  Bill Volk invented them. He lives in New York and owns the patent on his invention.

He sent me more than I ordered. I have the first pink one. He made it in observance of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Any search engine online should take you to Pizza Keepa Web site, where you can find a phone number. Individual ones can be ordered or displays for businesses and fundraisers are available, too. They are inexpensive, and if you open the lid just a little and put it in the microwave with your piece of pizza inside, it even steams to crust.

As soon as I get my camera and my Pizza Keepa together I intend to upload a photo. If I take too long, check it out online and see all the different colors they come in.

I was excited about this product and what it does for your pizza leftovers. Then I found another reason for it to be special.

The last note I received from Mr. Volk said:

Liz:

“Thanks so much for sending your letter to me. I’m so glad the Pink Pizza Keepa matches!!! Incredible.  (The pink one he sent me matches my checkbook cover, my billfold, a note pad I have and several other items. I like pink.)

“It’s people like you and letters like yours that make it all worth it.

“On a personal note, the reason I say this, is that on 9/11 my family’s life was changed. My daughter, who was to be married two months later, lost her finace in  Tower 2. So I really didn’t care much to sell Pizza Keepas, etc. It took a while to get back, so it’s definitely ‘refreshing’ when someone like you responds and tells me how happy you are — this is what brightens my days. By the way, I just looked at your address and noticed it’s North Carolina.

“My daughter has since married, moved from Manhattan and is living in Cary. Don’t know if it’s close to you but it’s funny how ‘small’ the world really is.”

If I owned a pizza parlor, I would order his displays and sell them in my store. I like the product, and this is one of the good guys.

This is an old photo of my son and me. It's one of my favorites because a fly had landed on his nose, thus the expression. When the photo was new, the fly could be seen flying away above his head.

MAIDEN — Hugo was on his way.

My career hadn’t landed me at The Gazette yet. I was,  however, an eight-year member of The Fourth Estate. During the day before Hugo, all news media was warning that the storm was going to reach so far inland that it would be pounding at our front doors.

I don’t think anyone around me was quite prepared for what came that night.

My son and I lived alone. My parents lived two city blocks away, which gave me a sense of security for most things but even they couldn’t save my son and me from a hurricane.

It wasn’t the first one I had been through. I was so young and had lived in so many states that I don’t remember which one it was. I wondered if it was Hurricane Hazel behind our car the night I sat backward on my knees in the back seat of a 1955 two-toned green Pontiac with an Indian head as the hood ornament. My mother assures me it couldn’t have been Hazel. Our family spent the night in a National Guard Armory that night. My mother is surprised that I remember the event.

In preparation for Hugo, I informed my then-16-year-old son what was coming and told him, “if anything happens, if you get scared, hear noise or anything, grab your mattress and pull it in the closet or bathtub behind or over you. Stay there  until it’s over no matter what happens.”

I was so antsy, I couldn’t sleep. I kept checking to see if the son was asleep. I worried about flying glass. First grade in Dover, Del., prepared me to worry about flying glass. We had air raid drills.

There was way too much quiet outside — eerily so.  At midnight, I went to the front door, and hearing nothing opened the front door and stuck my head out. The air was still, the sky was black but there was no hint of an approaching storm, as far as I knew.

Again, I tried to sleep, but to no avail. A few hours later, I again opened the front door. To my surprise, a section of my neighbor’s roof was lying in my front yard. It was still dark, and I had heard nothing.

I must have fallen asleep after that. I woke up, turned on the TV and learned how many people were without electricity. News reports were showing downed trees, homes torn apart and power lines down everywhere. Traffic lights were out. My neighbor’s roof had disappeared from my yard. 

The next thing I knew, the general manager at the newspaper where I worked was on the phone, telling me not to try to come to work. I had to know why. The answer I received was the power lines down vs. my safety (I did appreciate it but I’m a better driver than that, knock on wood), and the newspaper had no electricity. It was in the dark and the press won’t run without electricity.
But I’m a member of The Fourth Estate. I felt like the often falsely cited US Postal Service creed:  “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” 

I went to work anyway.

What people at the newspaper didn’t realize was that I had an old manual Royal typewriter at my desk. I had candles and holders in my drawer. It’s not that I was prepared for what was coming, I just had those things. I got in there and did the day’s obituaries, anything else I could do for others who couldn’t get there. The general manager and I went to the Sheriff’s Department to find out anything we could. I took my camera and took photos that showed destruction. We had enough photos for a double truck that day.

We sent everything we could to our sister paper, which hadn’t been affected by the storm. And with no electricity, we got out a paper that day.

I’m still proud of what we accomplished. That was dedication as far as I’m concerned. 

For those who don’t know, newspaper jobs can be thankless.

The icing on the cake came a few days later. I was driving through Hickory. Traffic lights were still not working. Right after I passed through an intersection, a Hickory Police officer pulled me over and started telling me I had run a red light and sped up to get through the intersection.

I was unable to respond because what would have come out of my mouth would have been very disrespectful, besides, after the way he behaved, I preferred to say it in court. And oh, I did my homework. I went back to that intersection, sat where he was sitting when I came through and shot photos, which showed that tree limbs and leaves blocked the traffic light from his vision. I called the city’s transportation engineer, who verified that the light wasn’t working that day.

I went to court with all my little goodies only for the judge to dismiss every traffic violation. A case where an officer had seen marijuana from the porch of someone’s home, entered their home and arrested them had taken up too much time that day. The judge admonished the officer to the point that if it had been me, I would have felt like crawling under the carpet.

It was the same officer who had written my citation.

Like many other people in and around Gaston County, my heart broke when I read that Precious, the chihuahua who was born with an extra leg, was sold to a Coney Island “freak show” and that the puppy would be living the rest of its life with the extra leg that the doctor said would be uncomfortable for her.

I felt so bad, and I carried that feeling with me until Wednesday.

As soon as I heard people talking about Allyson Siegel of Charlotte, I could have hugged her. Siegel is a UNCC student who upped the bid on the puppy to $4,000 and stopped the bidding when she took him home with her. Bless her.

Like Siegel, I have cats. I have had dogs, too. I intend to send her as much money as I can. It may not be much, but I love this woman for what’s she’s done. Anyone with me? To make a donation, contact the Animal League at 704-718-HOPE or info@algc.us. Our story says if Siegel gives Presious up for adoption, she will do it through the Animal League.

If that day comes, I hope I get my foot in that door first. Then Precious would be an aunt to Killer and Maggie, my son and his family’s chihuahuas.

On my way to work Sunday, I saw something on U.S. 321 that I’ve never seen before. I’ll wonder about it for a while. I would have flagged this vehicle down, asked questions and taken a couple photos so everybody could have seen what I did. However, if I had done any more than I did, which was gawk, I would have been so, so late for work. Sorry everybody.
Are you curious now? I saw one of those campers you drive, pulling a vehicle behind it. Now I know there’s nothing spectacular about that. But, in between the camper and the vehicle was a two-seater helicopter.
Shoot. I wanted a ride.

If you take notice of the now and then photos of Charla Davis ( in Thursday’s Gazette), one thing jumps out at the observer. It’s her  hair.

Davis is the woman charged with murder after she was accused of killing a man while driving drunk in Belmont the night of Aug. 7. She’s been in jail since her arrest. Davis is 44. In August, her hair was light brown but more than seven months later, it’s totally gray. Can someone grow an entire head of hair in a few months?

It’s easy to assume that hair coloring washed out while she was in jail but it could be something else.

In some horror movies, people have turned gray overnight. Whoever wrote those scripts had some knowledge of an autoimmune disease called alopecia areata.  Normally, the disease only affects pigmented hair. Thus a character could go to bed with a full head of hair and wake up the next morning totally gray with all their pigmented, or colored, hair lying on their pillow. 

Alopecia, or hair loss, can occur in any area of the body but is most noticable when it affects the scalp.

Web research on the condition concludes:

Alopecia areata is a common condition. It can occur at any age, and affects males and females equally. Women with alopecia areata are immediately confronted with the drastic change in their appearance, and the implications of this on how they view themselves and how society views them. The National Alopecia Areata Foundation has many programs that were created to ease the burden of all patients with alopecia areata, including women.

NAAF has been at the forefront of many fruitful studies that yielded answers to some of the largest questions surrounding the autoimmune disease. We are committed to continuing this search until all of the questions about alopecia areata have been answered and the mechanisms of this disease are clearly understood.

In the 1990s, it was determined that alopecia areata was an auto-immune disease, meaning that the disease is the result of the body producing an inappropriate immune response against its own tissues. In alopecia areata, it is the hair follicles that are mistakenly attacked by a person’s own immune system, resulting in the arrest of the hair growth stage.

Alopecia areata occurs in males and females of all ages and races; however, onset most often begins in childhood and can be psychologically devastating. Although not life-threatening, alopecia areata is most certainly life-altering, and its sudden onset, recurrent episodes and unpredictable course have a profound psychological impact on the lives of people disrupted by this disease. But there is hope. In all cases, hair regrowth may occur even without treatment and even after many years.

There are three types of alopecia areata; alopecia areata, alopecia totalis totalis and alopecia areata universalis.

Alopecia areata, the most common variation of the autoimmune disease, presents itself as round, smooth patches of various sizes, usually on the scalp.

Alopecia areata totalis presents itself as total loss of hair on the scalp.

Alopecia areata universalis is the rarest form of alopecia areata and presents itself as the loss of hair over the entire scalp and body.

In all forms of alopecia areata, the hair follicles remain alive and are ready to resume normal hair production whenever they receive the appropriate signal. In all cases, hair regrowth may occur even without treatment and even after many years.

This is not to say Davis has this condition but only a chance to educate people who have never heard of alopecia. I’ve seen people mistake it and assume people are cancer patients.