Brown ribbon, its shiny surface spinning, a neon crimson bead the size of an insect eye
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“A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssianian maid And on her dulcimer she played.” Got the poet Blake right at least. “It shows the relationship of experience and innocence in a light that the reader can see the troubles of love, mortal and divine, and how reality and fantasy are both examples in which man works out his follies.” You can only spread crap so far and so thin before there is the foul stench of bad writing and lies. Burns' “To A Mouse” - But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
*********** “The Crapalachian” was the name of the April 1 issue of the Appalachian State University student newspaper every year. I started hanging out in the paper’s office around 1977. My first article was about two guys who cooked at a restaurant. The second story was “Good service would suffice: Neon-mania afflicts 321.” When I saw it hanging on the bulletin board of the English building’s hallway one day, I realized the first rush of pride in seeing your work on display, and it dawned on me what a tremendous responsibility it was to write for a newspaper. U.S. Highway 321 burrows its way through the south end of Boone and leads directly to ASU. Along this road are at least 200 billboards and signs set there for the purpose of advertisement. Some are electric, some are neon-lighted and too few are portable. Why are such commercial slurs along the roadside necessary? For money and competition, most establishments' owners say. Patronization is the number one reason that businesses give. Colors, strobes, images and words are supposed to catch the eyes of passing drivers to lure them inside. But does it work? Food service outlets could advertise more effectively with the compelling odor of food rather than a bright sign. Gas stations these days need only display an agreeable octane price outside instead of flashing corporate insignia. Residents of Boone desire only good service and reasonable prices instead of commercial lingo on billboards. Not many people just zip into a building to purchase only because the sign outside is “out-of-sight.” Word-of-mouth is the most effective advertisement which stems from plain good service. The cost of electricity and the construction of most large electric signs is enormous. Such signs as the Holiday Inn, Lowe's and Greene's Motel cost companies a good deal of money to manufacture. Lights in most electric signs stay on up to 14 hours during the winter months at all-night businesses. Non-electric signs are an alternative to the neon signs. They are not as much of a driving hazard and distraction at night. Also, they do not rob the pleasure of evening beauty from the Boone skyline, known for its “mountain moonlight,” in the twilight hours. Just go to the top of Howard's Knob one clear night at dusk and you can see what a mesmerizing mess the busy twinkling lights on 321 make. Alas! Another country setting in its serene mountain cove has succumbed to the tempting lure of those city lights. It won't be the first or last time that nature has been raped by the greed and relentlessness of man. Look around Boone today and view the green matting of trees against the blue sky. Look outside as the sun sets. Now look at this next word and think about your response. MONEY. Which is more beautiful? The average American citizen is in contact with at least 500 commercial advertisements every single day. With this amount of psychological manipulation going on, there is opportunity for subversion. Don't let someone else manage your mind.” *********** After three beers, the pain eased somewhat, enough to allow me to sneak in a long-distance call to a friend in Room 305 of Eggars Dorm behind Faculty Hill. There was a long rope attached to a tree on a mountainside behind the dorm in the woods, and we’d party back there and swing like apes. I’d get lonesome at college, even though several high school pals had come 200 miles from Laurinburg with me to escape the Piedmont, so after college I’d punch up an old friend and treat them to after-midnight conferences to reward them for non-compliance in the friendship game. We had drug dealers in our dorm, no more or no less than in the other dorms, and they were doing their best to keep our college’s reputation as a chemical refuge protected. One guy, Ron Lipe, was a big Grateful Dead fan, probably not the biggest, but in 1974 I had never heard much of the band, and the fact that this fellow from Lenior, N.C. 25 miles away had a skeleton in his room kept us aware of the band’s influence. “Can you feel it yet?” “Not yet. Oh...wait a minute....” The snort had erased the brown pile of powder in my hand, and a Hardee’s straw had never been more helpful. We called it “T,” but there must have been heroin in the chemical that made the rounds in the dorms. The feeling immobilized me, making me stumble into the hallway wall. I could see how someone would become addicted quickly. The dorm rooms were heated by steam, piped in from underground tunnels, and they became quite chilly if you kept it as cold as Ron did in his room. A pile of wadded pieces of paper filled the trashcan which I spat into, cursing mid-terms. “That’s mighty fine stuff.” Our rooms smelled of the stench of stiff, hard socks, week-old stained underwear and jasmine incense. The RA would pull his hair out when he’d knock on doors at 10, and under door was a wet towel. I still sit down to take a shower, and our bathroom shower stall would have a row of chairs, which everyone kidded me over. On Thursday, Oct. 26, 1978 in The Appalachian: “Today's apathy contrasts with ASTC's energetic spirit of past” was the headline. I wrote about the woman who brought me into the world. “As the years rush by, change affects everyone and everything. The current changing times at ASU left its mark on the lives of two people. One teaches school now, and the other still attends classes here. Uniquely enough, they both carry the same name. Beatrice Sanford Bullard, “Bee,” became an elementary school teacher in Laurinburg, N.C. She and her husband Bill reared their oldest child, Tim, and two other sons, Gray and Dan. Mrs. Bullard attended Appalachian State Teacher's College where she majored in education. She trudged through the grind of student teaching in Gastonia after which she returned home to Laurinburg to teach fourth and fifth grade students at Covington Street School. In the Scotland County School System, she was transferred to North Laurinburg School and finally to I. Ellis Johnson School. There, she presently works as an ESEA reading instructor. In 1949, Miss Sanford enrolled at ASTC at a time when many veterans returned to academics after the war. Lifestyles emerged then which were as outrageous as the world's fashions. Women wore longer skirts, men sported team sweaters and the administration carried a bigger stick. Mrs. Bullard reports, “Girls had to be in by 8 p.m. Freshmen could only go to the movies once a week only if they had a C average. Women and men had to get permission from home to even ride in an automobile. Most of us rode the bus home though. If a student provoked enough friction, he or she would probably receive “shipping papers.” One could be shipped for drinking, smoking or other serious offenses. Mrs. Bullard served as an officer in the Venetian Literary Society which was the only real sorority on campus. The Venetians tapped young Christian women for membership. She also joined the Future Teachers of America. Students received a chance to don those ragged blue jeans as Homecoming week rolled around. Excitement brewed all week long as Mrs. Bullard and her classmates worked on decorative floats for the parade. The climax of week-long activities was the Homecoming dance. The old gym would roar as the high-stepping of shy girls dancing with their dates complimented the “jitterbug” beat of the dance band. Homecoming festivities at ASU in 1978 seem outrageous in contrast to the fifties' celebrations. The generation that holds Tim Bullard in its embrace however calls for revelry of contrariety. Mrs. Bullard's son, Tim, an English major, wishes to become a journalist. “My freshman year probably turned out to be the most exciting and innocent,” he says. “America played for the concert at Homecoming and several great parties cropped up. (Elvin Bishop was great, plus Gregg Allman. My first concert was Elton John after “Jesus Christ Superstar) New friendships flourished during that first Fall spent in Boone which were very memorable.” Tim declares, “Apathy has plagued ASU for some time now. Homecoming is not as vibrant. Men and women do as they please and do not seem to care as much about anything.” Old friends from all parts of the state will make a trek back to old ASU to try to rejuvenate feelings from years past. Fewer rules regulate moral codes, personal tastes and universal attitudes. Possibly the current apathy at ASU on Homecoming weekend drives the caravans of “suitcase students” home. “A person experiences the strong spirit of Appalachia at ASU from the fall weather, colored leaves and priceless friendships that can never be erased. That kind of spirit flows from students of any year, from any alma mater,” Tim says. Mrs. Bullard, along with other alumni, will recapture the past this weekend at their 25th class reunion at ASU. Tim plans to celebrate Homecoming with his girlfriend and old cronies after he gets off work. The family will get together, go out and commemorate the time-honored reunion at Homecoming. This weekend is a special time for young and old to unite and say “thanks for the memories.” Hopefully, Homecoming will grow into a memorable season for you also. “Hang gliders fly in championship” - The Appalachian, Thursday, Sept. 28, 1978. “To fly, one of Man's highest forms of celestial fantasy, has become a reality for 27 contestants in the 1978 Masters of Hang Gliding Championship at Grandfather Mountain. Never has Avery County seen so many featherless aerialists. “Since last Thursday, over 3,500 spectators have gathered to witness one of the most breathtaking hobbies ever attempted. Hang gliding is a sport marveled at. There is definitely something in a person that makes him jump off a cliff three miles high. “Hang gliding has been around for a long time. One of the most famous pioneers was a German named Otto Lilienthal. Back in the 1800s, he was sure that flight was feasible and worthy of trial. In 1896, he fell 100 feet to his death. His pre-flight last words were: “There must be sacrifices.” “The first N.C. hang gliding death occurred Tuesday on Jockey's Ridge when 33-year- old James Richard Spencer of Durham crashed into a cliff at Manteo. He was and instructor and a friend of John Harriss, the Meet Director of this year's third annual festivities. “The statistics in hang gliding casualties prove that this risky sport is very dangerous. In 1977, over 49 people were killed in glider-related deaths. “No one can even go on top of Grandfather with glider equipment without being identified as a professional pilot. “Upon takeoff from a wood plank platform, the pilot drives into the vast, windy, gulf of air. He is, of course, secure in his harness and timed by a clock. The glider and its operator streak across the blue background giving the appearance of a bird soaring. Limited movement and mechanical devices, however, do not strip the pilot of his total freedom of the air. In 1948 Francis Rogallo, with NASA, designed the patented foldable wing flyer from which most hang gliders evolved. Tom Peghiny, a 22-year-old native of Newton, Mass., is the defending champion of the Masters. With nine years of experience, he says, “The Grandfather Mountain Masters offers you a great field of the skilled flyers in the world. It's a pretty professional run meet.” Peghiny and his Sports Sirocco II failed to make the finals. Another flyer who missed the finals was 23-year-old Rob Kells from Santa Anna, California. Kells said of his first flight here at the Masters, “It went O.K. It's a pretty area and I sure don't miss the 107-degree temperatures back home. “The pilots follow a path across pylon lines at Cliffside and at the lake dam. The goal is to achieve minimum flight time, execute a number of 360 degree turns enroute to the lake and land on an area the size of a Frisbee. One flyer got above 2,000 feet after takeoff Monday in a sheer line. Another was photographed, of course, landing in the pond. Mark never would make too many changes in my copy at The Appalachian. Then there was the time we were in an elevator in the Communications Department building where WASU was located, riding with a celebrity who was here for an art department weekend with artist Bill Dunlap, who later went to Washington, D.C. Kentucky Gentleman bottle in hand, Bill Murray played softball with us the next day. “What’s that on your jacket?” he asked me. Mark looked at me puzzled. Murray was fiddling with my lapel. As his finger thumped my nose the second time, he acted disappointed over my stupidity. He sang a perfect version of “Star Wars” on the air. Mark and I kept the photographs a girl took of us with Murray on the ASU softball field that day. I lost mine during my Perksinville eviction, and Mark never could find his. ******* 1981
Guilt and anger couldn't be smoothed over with as much hospitality any better than right down here. The best thing to do would be to move, but I imagined that moving to New York would be like starting to go out with a girl that you knew would smother you and screw your best friend at first chance. The suburban gang I hung out with had ushered me into the outskirts of Laurinburg, N.C. in style. This greeting calmed my fears of moving with my family so far away across town. Midnight prowls were awesome on those sultry summer nights in 1970 as we stalked the neighborhoods under the bug-filled street lights. Intelligent input and musical integrity were our mottos. We peeped in windows, and one night we pasted candles on a square piece of cardboard and attached strings to the corners, tying them to the ends of a cellophane bag from One Hour Martinizing. The hot air inflated the bag, and our craft rose hundreds of feet into that July air until an orange glow burst in the sky, sending sparkling fragments falling halfway to the ground. During the day, I'd spend around four hours bashing in my friends' heads at football practice for junior high school and practice trombone when I got the chance. About the only thing that could boost this 15-year-old's morale besides Latin and math homework would be to soak up the Boy Scout meetings, Baptist Church stuff and stiff collar functions. Getting mature began to suck right after I found out that 15 wasn't the worst age to pass through. While I was walking through the smelly junior high hall one day I passed Elliot. He played trombone right beside me in our glorious slide section in band. “If I don't see you again, Tim, God bless you,” he said as he usually did in his Red Skelton mimic. My kindergarten buddy Mac called my mamma and daddy's house one night later while I was doing my homework. Mamma had finished teaching school and washing supper dishes, and daddy was watching the network news. Mac simply said, “Elliot's dead.” I had known Mac since kindergarten, and I just knew he wouldn't like about this. I cried for a few and decided then that I'd raise the hell that my friend wouldn't be able to. From then on I went through high school playing other people's petty games. I learned how to drink like hell and how you're supposed to fornicate. Well, durn I did right up until I messed myself into college too. It didn't take two years for Appalachian State University to bite my head off, chew it a little and spit me back in a whirlwind of computer reports. The only difference in 1974 was that when I went up into the N.C. mountains to Boone, the establishment that I hated so much had already stamped “FAILURE” on my ticket. I did learn how to ski and find out how to do quality drugs at ASU, however. My hall buddies and I would truck eight miles through snow and ice in the winter to hustle a beer and check out country-rock bands at a pub called P.B. Scott's. English was the only department that I could manage to make my A's in, so I stuck with the honors program and flunked the crap out of everything else. Behind the dorm one night I camped out by myself on a wooded hill and tripped my ass off on a two-way hit of orange microdot. A wolf slyly sneaked up from behind and bit my nose as I jumped up in a cold sweat. I reached for my mustache, and my nose was the size of a grapefruit. For my first and only tangle with acid I found out that things were beginning to get just as weird in my life also. Four months later I got the flu, dropped out of school and ended up having to spend eight weeks in the Sandhills Mental Health In-Patient Unit in Pinehurst. It was the most frightening but entertaining experience I'd had since leaving home for camp for the first time. Seeing the nation celebrate its 200th birthday from a hospital T.V. room was depressing. It was a most educational bicentennial breakdown though; kind of like sleeping through Christmas Day. Psychiatry and journalism are two professions that seem to bestow a strong dose of pride and a nerve-racking deadline. I made some dear friends before I left that womb. Working in steamy textile and industrial factories booted enough courage into me to move out of my folks' home back to my Blue Ridge base. Wouldn't it feel so good to write on my own without a bloody diploma? Mark, my editor at the ASU newspaper, gave me enough confidence to break loose. I couldn't get a job hitchhiking and with a pierced ear, for sure. Sometimes I wonder what kind of beast I have become at 25 by becoming a news reporter at the Boone newspaper. James Dickey said that a writer's biggest threat is drinking and suicide. I think that antiquity and change has threatened me and my generation the most. I'm using the pressurized air canister to spray a jet of cold canned air in a successful effort at jettisoning the ant on my scrapbook off the table. ************** 1982 Ernie had just died. Ernie worked at the Watauga Democrat newspaper, and everyone would be at his funeral over the weekend - except me. Seven tiny ants crawl out of my terminal as I remembered Ernie's everlasting quote to me before he referred me to my landlord on Clint Norris Road: “Fly straight, now Tim.” I was late on the rent all the time. No overnight pussy. Crackling with inter-county and bleedover radio transmissions from beyond the Blue Ridge, the scanner on the file cabinet chirped, low on batteries because I had forgotten to recharge them the night before. Having plugged the recharging plug into the wrong hole in the unit, it just played without recharging and turning off without juice. “10-22 that ... (indistinguishable)... off U.S. 321...” Barney, the friendly constable, a local police beat cop, stuck his head in to say hello, but I ignored him as the office kidded with him. “Officer down...prisoners sighted off .... (crackling) meztirbat sinzkinling.... shotgun ....” They had them pinned in. A few days before at the Watauga County Jail two or three prisoners had played a trick on a jailer who was overcome in a daring escape from the cellblock where they were being held. Two men and a woman had been on the run, breaking into mountain retreats, local residences and other lairs to hide from the law. “Tell Terry to meet me out there!” “Which way ya heading?” Tim asked. “I'll be going out 321 toward the Tennessee state line, but I don't know where after that.” “Remember the scanner! How are you going to cash your....” Gunning the Comet, it got the first legal wheel in its illustrious career as a journalism buggymobile. On my desk was my notebook and pen, so I turned the radio up full blast and rolled the window down as my incisors nibbled on the wood and chips of black chalky lead splintered on my tongue in the search for a point. Before I reached the summit of U.S. 321 Business at the city limits, the blue lights twinkled down the long hill John and I used to coast down on the way back from the bars in Blowing Rock, cutting off the motor and seeing how badly we could undercut the last record for longest coast toward our place in Vilas. It was the fastest my car had ever taken me down this road, which ices up in the winter so badly, traveling from hilltop to valleyfloor can sometimes take 30-45 minutes in the intestines of a snow and ice storm. “A deputy has been shot in the face,” the female dispatcher said. Faces flashed through my mind like a personnel Rolodex. Who was it? Would they live? Bottoming out was a rush as rhododendrons rushed by in a green stream. At the Vilas store one has to slow down to 45 to make the turn safely without jeopardy and the Download 2.99 Mb. Share with your friends:
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