Modern Americans are born either to love or to hate Wal-Mart. There are very few folks that are in-betweens, except for me. I would like to have it known, before Mickey Gilmore the Manager comes looking for me with one of his on-sale, no- coupon- needed, case- thrown- in hunting rifles, that I am truly ambivalent.
I do not shop at Wal-Mart.
I do buy there.
I do not shop anywhere. I do not even shop for groceries. I cannot blame that on my daughter, Ashlee the Nutritionist, although she did guide me, and showed me how to read labels and figure calories and sodium content. I read the labels but that doesn’t mean that I pay much attention to them. Ashlee inherited from her mother the ability to tell when I am lying, so I read the packages and tell her the truth, as far as it goes. I do prepare a shopping list for groceries, and I stick very close to it.
But back to Wal-Mart.
Last week I bought a nicely done, made-in-Canada picture of the famous “Sailor Kissing the Nurse in Times Square” photograph on the occasion of the ending of World War II. The act portrayed is not an unusual one. Sailors have been kissing nurses for decades. In fact I kissed nurses myself until the medical profession began letting male nurses in. Even a sailor has to draw the line somewhere.
And of course I went to Wal-Mart for the photograph. Only Wal-Mart had it. It was hanging next to one of Marilyn Monroe. This was the famous picture of her leaning forward, luscious lips parted, eyes with the famous “come-play-with-me” look. But I was there to perform my patriotic duty, so I ended up with the Times Square photo. I delivered it to my friend Grady, who is a World War II veteran, fought in Europe and was waiting to be shipped out to the Pacific when the conflict ended, in Chattahoochee today. I will sleep the sleep of righteousness tonight.
And this set me to thinking about Wal-Mart, and what makes it different. Sam Walton began in Bentonville, Arkansas. Before that he had owned several stores that were franchised as Ben Franklins. These were slightly different from the usual town square five-and-dimes. Walton continued with the lower cost merchandise, but pursued sales by offering low prices and a wide variety of goods. Soon he hit on the formula that began the rise in sales and number of stores. We all know what happened. I understand that ninety percent of Americans are within a fifteen minute drive of either a Wal-Mart or a Sam’s Club. I am one of the ten percent. I live twenty minutes away, unless it is one of the days when I have breakfast at the Gazebo with a Lovely Lady. On that day I am two hours and twenty minutes away from Mickey the Manager’s marked-down items.
Today Sam Walton’s empire sells more goods than Target, Home Depot, Kroger, K-Mart and several other “Big Box” stores, all added together. Many of the stores sell groceries, and Wal-Mart outsells two of the biggest grocery chains each year.
Sam Walton served his country in World War II in the U. S. Army’s Intelligence Service. His father was a farmer who moved frequently. Young Sam became the youngest Eagle Scout in Missouri history. He excelled in sports in high school and milked cows at home. His upbringing and his desire to help folks carried over to his stores, where charity events are commonplace, not the exception.
Walton gave a couple of reasons for his success:
“We’re all working together. That’s the secret”.
“Each store should reflect the values of its customers and support the vision they hold for their community”.
And this brings me to my point.
Many Americans, myself included, have been in retail businesses. We have run clothing emporiums and automobile dealerships and grocery stores. We have begun small and many of us stayed small. We fit the norm of selling to customers in our area but most of us did not think about reaching out. We did not consider that we should open multiple outlets or expand to other areas or stay open longer hours so that our customers could shop easily or add more lines. It did not occur to us that we could do these things.
But Sam Walton decided to do them; he served his customers and got big, and bigger, and finally became the biggest. He became one of the richest men in America, and when he died in 1992 his children were listed among the top twenty richest folks in America. Not a bad record for a farm boy who came out of the depths of the Great Depression, is it?
And now, I have to end this column. I have some buying to do. I wonder if Mickey Gilmore still has a copy of that picture of Marilyn Monroe…………
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
A Date That is not Remembered
Today is August 15.
On August 15, 1945, imperial Japan, on order of its emperor, capitulated in its war against the allied nations.
The war, intended by Japan to expand its influence throughout the Pacific with the so-called “Greater Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere“, began with the invasion of Manchuria in the 1930s. The aggressor went head-to-head with China, a country divided and subdivided by warlords, generalissimos and just plain bandits. The fighting was sub-human, as evidenced by the Rape of Nanking, where the soldiers of Emperor Hirohito slaughtered thousands of innocent civilians.
And then the attack on Pearl Harbor came on December 7, a date that President Franklin D. Roosevelt said would “live in infamy”.
More lands fell: the Philippines, Malaysia, islands across the vast Pacific Ocean. Australia was threatened. As the Imperial troops came, civilization went out the window. The Bataan Death March, prison camps and unmarked prison ships that were often sunk by our own planes, the construction by thousands of prisoners of war of the infamous railroad made famous later by the movie “Bridge on the River Kwai”, only demonstrated man’s inhumanity to man.
The Japanese themselves were not immune. The pecking order in their armed forces dictated that the lowliest soldier would be kicked and beaten as he was ordered into combat if the officer saw fit. The infamous “Banzai” charges throughout the jungles of the islands in the southern Pacific were not only an offensive tactic but a requirement of the code that required death at the hands of the enemy in preference to surrender.
But Japan gave up, announcing her capitulation on August 15, a date that, to the best of my searching, was not mentioned in newspapers or recognized on radio or television.
But some remembered.
There were fifty two United States Navy submarines that went out and have never returned, and are listed on memorials as on “eternal patrol”. Families of the crew members know only that they are still missing.
Visitors to Honolulu often visit the USS Arizona Memorial. Many do not realize that the structure where they stand straddles a sunken ship that entombs hundreds of sailors. Ashes of Arizona survivors can, by request of the families or the sailor, be taken down by divers and placed with the remains of their shipmates.
Many believe that the formal surrender later in September in Tokyo Harbor should have taken place on the USS Enterprise, a ship that first stood into harm’s way just after Pearl Harbor was attacked, and carried Admiral Bill Halsey’s flag throughout major battles as our Marines island-hopped from Guadalcanal to Iwo Jima and Okinawa. The USS Missouri won the honor because it was Admiral Nimitz’s flagship, or maybe because it was named after President Harry Truman’s home state or because his daughter Margaret christened it.
The grandfather of Senator John S. McCain was one of Admiral Halsey’s senior officers. He was worn down but he was ordered to stay for the surrender. The next day he flew home to California. His wife had a party for him and invited their friends; Admiral McCain excused himself during the festivities and went into another room and died of a heart attack.
I recall a friend that served in the USS Saufley, a destroyer, in sixteen battles. E. J. was from Chattahoochee, and he stayed with the ship through all of the battles, surviving to write a best selling book about this fine ship. The book is “Tin Can Man” and it is still in print.
When I was in business with my father I would attend dealers’ meetings, and on occasion we would gather in a restaurant or lounge at the end of the day. One sallow and emaciated man would, after a couple of drinks, start weeping. I found that he was one of the survivors of the Bataan Death March and of the prisoner of war camps. He lost his dealership in a poker game.
Grady, a gentleman in his nineties, and I occasionally have coffee together in Chattahoochee, and we talk about our childhood in that small town, and about the rivers. Last week he mentioned Eisenstadt’s photograph of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square when the announcement of victory came. We laughed about that, and then he said: “I had been in combat in Europe and I was waiting to be shipped to the Pacific for the final invasion of Japan”. The atomic bombs that were dropped on Japan’s homeland probably saved his life, and that of a million or so fellow servicemen, and uncounted Japanese who were set to defend their shores to the death.
I did not find any mention of this date in the newspapers or on television, but I did find a print in Walmart of the sailor kissing the nurse. I looked at it and then walked on. But now I believe I will go back and purchase a copy.
And take it to my friend Grady.
On August 15, 1945, imperial Japan, on order of its emperor, capitulated in its war against the allied nations.
The war, intended by Japan to expand its influence throughout the Pacific with the so-called “Greater Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere“, began with the invasion of Manchuria in the 1930s. The aggressor went head-to-head with China, a country divided and subdivided by warlords, generalissimos and just plain bandits. The fighting was sub-human, as evidenced by the Rape of Nanking, where the soldiers of Emperor Hirohito slaughtered thousands of innocent civilians.
And then the attack on Pearl Harbor came on December 7, a date that President Franklin D. Roosevelt said would “live in infamy”.
More lands fell: the Philippines, Malaysia, islands across the vast Pacific Ocean. Australia was threatened. As the Imperial troops came, civilization went out the window. The Bataan Death March, prison camps and unmarked prison ships that were often sunk by our own planes, the construction by thousands of prisoners of war of the infamous railroad made famous later by the movie “Bridge on the River Kwai”, only demonstrated man’s inhumanity to man.
The Japanese themselves were not immune. The pecking order in their armed forces dictated that the lowliest soldier would be kicked and beaten as he was ordered into combat if the officer saw fit. The infamous “Banzai” charges throughout the jungles of the islands in the southern Pacific were not only an offensive tactic but a requirement of the code that required death at the hands of the enemy in preference to surrender.
But Japan gave up, announcing her capitulation on August 15, a date that, to the best of my searching, was not mentioned in newspapers or recognized on radio or television.
But some remembered.
There were fifty two United States Navy submarines that went out and have never returned, and are listed on memorials as on “eternal patrol”. Families of the crew members know only that they are still missing.
Visitors to Honolulu often visit the USS Arizona Memorial. Many do not realize that the structure where they stand straddles a sunken ship that entombs hundreds of sailors. Ashes of Arizona survivors can, by request of the families or the sailor, be taken down by divers and placed with the remains of their shipmates.
Many believe that the formal surrender later in September in Tokyo Harbor should have taken place on the USS Enterprise, a ship that first stood into harm’s way just after Pearl Harbor was attacked, and carried Admiral Bill Halsey’s flag throughout major battles as our Marines island-hopped from Guadalcanal to Iwo Jima and Okinawa. The USS Missouri won the honor because it was Admiral Nimitz’s flagship, or maybe because it was named after President Harry Truman’s home state or because his daughter Margaret christened it.
The grandfather of Senator John S. McCain was one of Admiral Halsey’s senior officers. He was worn down but he was ordered to stay for the surrender. The next day he flew home to California. His wife had a party for him and invited their friends; Admiral McCain excused himself during the festivities and went into another room and died of a heart attack.
I recall a friend that served in the USS Saufley, a destroyer, in sixteen battles. E. J. was from Chattahoochee, and he stayed with the ship through all of the battles, surviving to write a best selling book about this fine ship. The book is “Tin Can Man” and it is still in print.
When I was in business with my father I would attend dealers’ meetings, and on occasion we would gather in a restaurant or lounge at the end of the day. One sallow and emaciated man would, after a couple of drinks, start weeping. I found that he was one of the survivors of the Bataan Death March and of the prisoner of war camps. He lost his dealership in a poker game.
Grady, a gentleman in his nineties, and I occasionally have coffee together in Chattahoochee, and we talk about our childhood in that small town, and about the rivers. Last week he mentioned Eisenstadt’s photograph of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square when the announcement of victory came. We laughed about that, and then he said: “I had been in combat in Europe and I was waiting to be shipped to the Pacific for the final invasion of Japan”. The atomic bombs that were dropped on Japan’s homeland probably saved his life, and that of a million or so fellow servicemen, and uncounted Japanese who were set to defend their shores to the death.
I did not find any mention of this date in the newspapers or on television, but I did find a print in Walmart of the sailor kissing the nurse. I looked at it and then walked on. But now I believe I will go back and purchase a copy.
And take it to my friend Grady.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Mish-Mash
At times subjects for my weekly column are difficult to come by. On occasion I end up with too many possibilities.
This week I am closer to the latter, so I have titled it “Mish-mash”. This term comes from a now defunct American Indian tribe-------The Minequans, I believe, or perhaps it was the Lower Kickapoos-------- and it means “don’t stir up the cooking pot, you may not like what you find”.
So here is a “mish-mash” of ideas that I have had for some time. Please don’t tell me that I skipped around too much in this work. I intend to skip around, and confuse all but the most erudite and understanding reader.
Some of these ideas I have discarded as improper or perhaps not worthy of such a first line newspaper as the Jackson County Times. A few ideas will be mentioned briefly, more to tantalize that to fulfill you, and I shall pick them up at a later time and expand and expound on them, and present you with a full column of great interest. If not exciting to you, I know that the twelve members of my blog will read them, and I will be happy.
For the first one, I would like to call to your attention that we are nearing early voting time, which is when we eager citizens will participate in balloting via some amazing machines at Sylvia Steven’s office, or at a couple of other selected sites in our wide county. Our choices between candidates will be fairly straightforward, but the proposed amendments? These will give you problems unless you follow these directions closely. First, read the amendment as it will appear on the ballot. Secondly, study thoroughly all of the editorials in the newspapers that give you points either for or against each one. Then scour your mail on the subject. Spend at least two nights on each one and arrive at a conclusion. Decide to vote it up or down, in or out, yes or no. Then go to the booth and vote the exact opposite and you will be, as Sid Riley our Mangling Editor says in his column, “getting it right”.
I have also had the urge to denigrate one or more, or all, of the candidates for office, and to promote one party over the other, but in Florida that is dangerous. It is best for me to avoid this. I would like to note that a couple of years ago my column was titled: “Political Party? Take Your Pick!”, and I listed out the twenty or so parties that have official standing in our State. I ended up stating that if I ever left the “Grand Old Party”, with it’s elephants and flags, I would probably swing over to the Surfers’ Party of America. You younger readers may believe that this relates to the nerds of computerdom, but you are wrong. If you are a true Surfer then you will be seen deep within the curl of a giant wave off Kanehoe Bay. And you will vote a straight Surfer party line.
My first venture into voting was in the early 1950s. General Dwight D. Eisenhower was waging a campaign against not only the incumbent but against a strong Democrat party. He rode to victory under the banner of “I Like Ike”. About the same time a strange little creature from South Georgia came out of the Okefenokee Swamp and into the hearts and minds of America through a comic strip titled “Pogo”. Wile E. Cat conned him into running for president with “I Go Pogo” as his motto. This little fellow was, of course, Pogo Possum, and he gave sage advice that is often recalled today. “We have met the enemy and he is us” is quoted somewhere daily, usually by treehuggers. I personally like “We don’t know all the answers, ‘cause we ain’t sure of the questions yet”. The latter seems more appropriate to our times. He had other friends: Cherchez La Femme, who was a turtle, and Albert Alligator, who was, as you might expect, an alligator, but one that smoked a cigar and walked on his hind feet. I didn’t vote for Pogo then, but I believe I wrote him in for governor in a later election. He would have made a good one.
I am tempted to tell, in detail, how Margo Lamb, producer of The Fitness Corner show on Chipola Speaks, interviewed me on television and presented me with another 5K medal. Margo has freckles, and that makes her okay with me, and puts her on my list of all time favorites, but not as high up as Doris Day, who also has freckles. As I tried to compact this event into a short form, I realized that I had enough material for a full column, so I will go no further for now.
On the way out of the studio after my interview I was stopped by Royce Reagan, who suggested that I do a monthly show, something in the vein of my writings. I felt flattered that he would ask me to do this, until I recalled that he often goes on the air and says “Don’t call me and tell me of an idea for a show. Come in and do it yourself”. It makes me believe that Royce is desperate for new material, and might already be hanging around the courthouse and accosting accused folks that have posted bond and suggesting that they come down and show the TV audience how to set up a meth lab.
So look for expanded columns from me, drawn from the subjects mentioned here, and possibly for my monthly Chipola Speaks show, as soon as I decide the format.
Unless Royce signs up the meth lab man first.
This week I am closer to the latter, so I have titled it “Mish-mash”. This term comes from a now defunct American Indian tribe-------The Minequans, I believe, or perhaps it was the Lower Kickapoos-------- and it means “don’t stir up the cooking pot, you may not like what you find”.
So here is a “mish-mash” of ideas that I have had for some time. Please don’t tell me that I skipped around too much in this work. I intend to skip around, and confuse all but the most erudite and understanding reader.
Some of these ideas I have discarded as improper or perhaps not worthy of such a first line newspaper as the Jackson County Times. A few ideas will be mentioned briefly, more to tantalize that to fulfill you, and I shall pick them up at a later time and expand and expound on them, and present you with a full column of great interest. If not exciting to you, I know that the twelve members of my blog will read them, and I will be happy.
For the first one, I would like to call to your attention that we are nearing early voting time, which is when we eager citizens will participate in balloting via some amazing machines at Sylvia Steven’s office, or at a couple of other selected sites in our wide county. Our choices between candidates will be fairly straightforward, but the proposed amendments? These will give you problems unless you follow these directions closely. First, read the amendment as it will appear on the ballot. Secondly, study thoroughly all of the editorials in the newspapers that give you points either for or against each one. Then scour your mail on the subject. Spend at least two nights on each one and arrive at a conclusion. Decide to vote it up or down, in or out, yes or no. Then go to the booth and vote the exact opposite and you will be, as Sid Riley our Mangling Editor says in his column, “getting it right”.
I have also had the urge to denigrate one or more, or all, of the candidates for office, and to promote one party over the other, but in Florida that is dangerous. It is best for me to avoid this. I would like to note that a couple of years ago my column was titled: “Political Party? Take Your Pick!”, and I listed out the twenty or so parties that have official standing in our State. I ended up stating that if I ever left the “Grand Old Party”, with it’s elephants and flags, I would probably swing over to the Surfers’ Party of America. You younger readers may believe that this relates to the nerds of computerdom, but you are wrong. If you are a true Surfer then you will be seen deep within the curl of a giant wave off Kanehoe Bay. And you will vote a straight Surfer party line.
My first venture into voting was in the early 1950s. General Dwight D. Eisenhower was waging a campaign against not only the incumbent but against a strong Democrat party. He rode to victory under the banner of “I Like Ike”. About the same time a strange little creature from South Georgia came out of the Okefenokee Swamp and into the hearts and minds of America through a comic strip titled “Pogo”. Wile E. Cat conned him into running for president with “I Go Pogo” as his motto. This little fellow was, of course, Pogo Possum, and he gave sage advice that is often recalled today. “We have met the enemy and he is us” is quoted somewhere daily, usually by treehuggers. I personally like “We don’t know all the answers, ‘cause we ain’t sure of the questions yet”. The latter seems more appropriate to our times. He had other friends: Cherchez La Femme, who was a turtle, and Albert Alligator, who was, as you might expect, an alligator, but one that smoked a cigar and walked on his hind feet. I didn’t vote for Pogo then, but I believe I wrote him in for governor in a later election. He would have made a good one.
I am tempted to tell, in detail, how Margo Lamb, producer of The Fitness Corner show on Chipola Speaks, interviewed me on television and presented me with another 5K medal. Margo has freckles, and that makes her okay with me, and puts her on my list of all time favorites, but not as high up as Doris Day, who also has freckles. As I tried to compact this event into a short form, I realized that I had enough material for a full column, so I will go no further for now.
On the way out of the studio after my interview I was stopped by Royce Reagan, who suggested that I do a monthly show, something in the vein of my writings. I felt flattered that he would ask me to do this, until I recalled that he often goes on the air and says “Don’t call me and tell me of an idea for a show. Come in and do it yourself”. It makes me believe that Royce is desperate for new material, and might already be hanging around the courthouse and accosting accused folks that have posted bond and suggesting that they come down and show the TV audience how to set up a meth lab.
So look for expanded columns from me, drawn from the subjects mentioned here, and possibly for my monthly Chipola Speaks show, as soon as I decide the format.
Unless Royce signs up the meth lab man first.
Friday, August 6, 2010
I Opened a Whole Barrel of Seminoles!
I thought that I had written an interesting and thought-provoking article, one of historical value, a story of the sea and of family life, a tale of higher education and the beginning of an athletic dynasty that has set records during its relatively short time in existence.
The story of “Cousin Ed and the President of Gatorland” was published last week in the Jackson County Times. I was certain that my telling of the first football coach of the Seminoles would bring reactions aplenty from my reading friends.
And I was right!
A resident of Tallahassee, who was one of the early members of the Flying High Circus, a cheerleader and, before you get the wrong idea, a Marine, was at the Seminole Boosters’ Luncheon at The Gazebo Saturday, and I wanted him to see the article. I walked in and I was descended upon, not by happy Seminoles but by ones who gave me the message that “you didn’t go far enough”. George Cone reached me first, but before he could say anything Earl Williams elbowed him to one side and, loud and clear, asked “What about the basketball team in 1946? Ed coached that, too” Of course Earl was on the team, and he probably pitched horseshoes also, and maybe was point man on the curling team, but this was before Florida State University. It was still a girls’ school.
So here is a tenuous connection with that first basketball team, coached by Cousin Ed and made up of celebrities and near celebrities and plain ole’ boys, with at least one of them from Jackson County.
Jim Pavy was also a player. Jim was good with the hoops, and better at coaching. He finished school and began his coaching career. I met him when he was at Chattahoochee High School. He told me one day that “Ed taught me everything I know”, which I somehow doubt, because Jim came from a part of the country that glories in roundball. It is rumored that a birther there, whether a medical doctor or a midwife, catches the newborn, slaps his bottom and hands him a basketball.
I believe that Jim Pavy coached Malone to a state championship and ended up at Chipola. My daughter Meredith the Baseball Coach, who lettered in four sports in high school, received a scholarship for basketball, and Jim may have coached her.
My other daughter, Ashlee the Nutritionist, who had been a cheerleader in high school and a very good one, had to take a physical education course, so she and her friend Michelle, also a cheerleader, decided that golf was their game, probably because the outfits were cute. Their instructor was Jim Pavy. Last week Ashlee visited me and stocked my refrigerator with low fat, saltless, bland foods that may well still be there when she makes her next visit at Christmas. When I asked her about her golf experience, she told me that all she remembered was picking up golf balls by the bucketsful, and that she learned to keep score. She mentioned “eagles” and “birdies” and “mulligans”, but did not recall that the clubs were numbered or had individual shapes. I think that she got a B grade.
Other famous folks? D. L. Middlebrooks played on that first football team, and was later a Federal judge. Chris Kalfas, a Tallahassee native whose father began the Silver Slipper restaurant, where more legislation was passed than in the Capitol, was somewhere in the lineup. Chris and I hunted together on occasion and once I attended a family wedding. Let me tell you that the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” does not do justice to the real thing.
Ken McLean had played for the University of Florida before World War II, and was on the first Seminole team. I understand that he held records at both schools. Ken later coached at several high schools in the Big Bend. I knew him when he was assistant principal at Sneads High. He was still a Seminole “All the Damn Time”, as the famous yell went.
Saturday night I and my grandson Stuart went to Jerry’s Restaurant in Chattahoochee so that he could stoke up on fried shrimp. This seems to be one of his purposes in life, even though I have warned him of the very real possibility of his becoming the reason for making this sea creature an endangered species. Ben Dudley and his family came in, and Ben’s son complimented me on my articles.
Then Ben, who had been at the Seminole Boosters’ meet in Marianna, suggested that I had been incomplete in my describing the glories of the Seminoles. He ended up by reminding me that the first Renegade had been raised by a family from Chattahoochee, but that the patriarch of the family was a Gator by birth and upbringing. He mused that perhaps it was the girls in that clan who actually brought the steed up not to fear unruly crowds, and to stand firm while a steadfast young man, clad in full Indian regalia, rode out onto the field and hurled a lance into the Astroturf or Bermuda grass or Zoyzia or whatever the groundskeepers had placed there.
I said nothing, but nodded thoughtfully, and we took our leave since our waitress said that there was no more shrimp. She may have told us this because we were talking too much football, but probably because it is impossible to reach full capacity of a teenage boy. I certainly hope that she did not mean no more shrimp “in the Gulf”.
So here I sit, trying to please every Seminole fan or graduate or jock, knowing that as soon as the Times is placed in the newsstands I will get more calls, and that I will hear, as I walk the streets or try to sleep or dine or otherwise recreate, “Why don’t you tell about…….”. I intend to ignore each suggestion and go back to writing about rivers, or runners, or medals.
Unless I get confirmation that Army coach Red Blake recommended an assistant for FSU, and that assistant, whose name was Vince Lombardi, was turned down because he did not have head coaching experience.
That could be worthy of another Seminole column.
The story of “Cousin Ed and the President of Gatorland” was published last week in the Jackson County Times. I was certain that my telling of the first football coach of the Seminoles would bring reactions aplenty from my reading friends.
And I was right!
A resident of Tallahassee, who was one of the early members of the Flying High Circus, a cheerleader and, before you get the wrong idea, a Marine, was at the Seminole Boosters’ Luncheon at The Gazebo Saturday, and I wanted him to see the article. I walked in and I was descended upon, not by happy Seminoles but by ones who gave me the message that “you didn’t go far enough”. George Cone reached me first, but before he could say anything Earl Williams elbowed him to one side and, loud and clear, asked “What about the basketball team in 1946? Ed coached that, too” Of course Earl was on the team, and he probably pitched horseshoes also, and maybe was point man on the curling team, but this was before Florida State University. It was still a girls’ school.
So here is a tenuous connection with that first basketball team, coached by Cousin Ed and made up of celebrities and near celebrities and plain ole’ boys, with at least one of them from Jackson County.
Jim Pavy was also a player. Jim was good with the hoops, and better at coaching. He finished school and began his coaching career. I met him when he was at Chattahoochee High School. He told me one day that “Ed taught me everything I know”, which I somehow doubt, because Jim came from a part of the country that glories in roundball. It is rumored that a birther there, whether a medical doctor or a midwife, catches the newborn, slaps his bottom and hands him a basketball.
I believe that Jim Pavy coached Malone to a state championship and ended up at Chipola. My daughter Meredith the Baseball Coach, who lettered in four sports in high school, received a scholarship for basketball, and Jim may have coached her.
My other daughter, Ashlee the Nutritionist, who had been a cheerleader in high school and a very good one, had to take a physical education course, so she and her friend Michelle, also a cheerleader, decided that golf was their game, probably because the outfits were cute. Their instructor was Jim Pavy. Last week Ashlee visited me and stocked my refrigerator with low fat, saltless, bland foods that may well still be there when she makes her next visit at Christmas. When I asked her about her golf experience, she told me that all she remembered was picking up golf balls by the bucketsful, and that she learned to keep score. She mentioned “eagles” and “birdies” and “mulligans”, but did not recall that the clubs were numbered or had individual shapes. I think that she got a B grade.
Other famous folks? D. L. Middlebrooks played on that first football team, and was later a Federal judge. Chris Kalfas, a Tallahassee native whose father began the Silver Slipper restaurant, where more legislation was passed than in the Capitol, was somewhere in the lineup. Chris and I hunted together on occasion and once I attended a family wedding. Let me tell you that the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” does not do justice to the real thing.
Ken McLean had played for the University of Florida before World War II, and was on the first Seminole team. I understand that he held records at both schools. Ken later coached at several high schools in the Big Bend. I knew him when he was assistant principal at Sneads High. He was still a Seminole “All the Damn Time”, as the famous yell went.
Saturday night I and my grandson Stuart went to Jerry’s Restaurant in Chattahoochee so that he could stoke up on fried shrimp. This seems to be one of his purposes in life, even though I have warned him of the very real possibility of his becoming the reason for making this sea creature an endangered species. Ben Dudley and his family came in, and Ben’s son complimented me on my articles.
Then Ben, who had been at the Seminole Boosters’ meet in Marianna, suggested that I had been incomplete in my describing the glories of the Seminoles. He ended up by reminding me that the first Renegade had been raised by a family from Chattahoochee, but that the patriarch of the family was a Gator by birth and upbringing. He mused that perhaps it was the girls in that clan who actually brought the steed up not to fear unruly crowds, and to stand firm while a steadfast young man, clad in full Indian regalia, rode out onto the field and hurled a lance into the Astroturf or Bermuda grass or Zoyzia or whatever the groundskeepers had placed there.
I said nothing, but nodded thoughtfully, and we took our leave since our waitress said that there was no more shrimp. She may have told us this because we were talking too much football, but probably because it is impossible to reach full capacity of a teenage boy. I certainly hope that she did not mean no more shrimp “in the Gulf”.
So here I sit, trying to please every Seminole fan or graduate or jock, knowing that as soon as the Times is placed in the newsstands I will get more calls, and that I will hear, as I walk the streets or try to sleep or dine or otherwise recreate, “Why don’t you tell about…….”. I intend to ignore each suggestion and go back to writing about rivers, or runners, or medals.
Unless I get confirmation that Army coach Red Blake recommended an assistant for FSU, and that assistant, whose name was Vince Lombardi, was turned down because he did not have head coaching experience.
That could be worthy of another Seminole column.
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