WHEN VALLIE MAE GOT LEFT IN "CANADER"

Vallie Mae had never been to another country. As a matter of fact, she had never been outside of the Carolinas. But here she was, in Niagara Falls on the Canadian side, late at night with no one she knew in sight.

Now this had started as an idea that seemed like an adventure and Brother Ray, her pastor had invited her and her husband, Boyd, to travel with Linda’s family to the Southern Baptist Convention in Virginia Beach. Linda’s Dad was a pastor, her brother, Tim was a pastor, and her sister, Patsy, was married to a pastor, me (the scrollizer) and we were all taking campers to the Convention.

Someone had the idea that since we would be 350 miles from home in Virginia, that this would be a great time to visit my parents near Niagara Falls, NY. After all, it was only 600 more miles away.

So the trip was made and everyone was camping on Grand Island, in the middle of the Niagara River between Buffalo and Niagara Falls and it came time to visit the falls. I knew my way around, since I had lived there before, so my car became the lead one.

I don’t remember how any cars we had, but I do remember Ray telling me later what happened at the border. The Canadian border was much more open then, but you were required to tell the customs agent where you were born. When crossing the Rainbow Bridge, the agent said, “Where were you born?”

Boyd said, “Moore County”, to which Ray added quickly, “North Carolina.” I guess Boyd figured that everyone knew Moore county was in North Carolina.

We let everyone out and said we would meet them with the cars further up the street. They could walk along the Canadian side of the gorge and look at the colored lights on the falls. Unfortunately, Vallie Mae, must have been enjoying the view too much. When we loaded up for our trip back across the bridge to the United States, she missed her ride. Each driver thought that she was in another car, so she was left behind. We had been able to communicate during the entire trip on CB radios, but were not allowed to have them on in Canada. After much chatter, and teasing, when we turned the radios back on, we realized that Vallie Mae was not with us.

We rescued her about 20 minutes later by sending back one car, but she told everyone in Moore country, “Don’t let Preacher Ray take you to "Canader."  He may just decide to leave you there.”

GETTING OLD - MORE MEMORIES THAN DREAMS

Dreams are for the young.


We dream about getting our driver’s license, about graduating from high school, about getting married, about owning a boat, about having our own home, about a new truck to go along with that luxury car we dreamed of, about travelling to exotic places, about reaching financial security.

That’s not to mean that as we age, we stop dreaming, but the telltale sign of getting old is that we begin to focus more on the past than on the future. We have those wonderful memories, and, by God’s grace, we have only faint memories of the painful things of the past. They were “the good old days”, and we find pleasure in tapping into them again.

Contact with a long forgotten acquaintance is a thrill, even though we may not have been really good friends back then. But we share memories of what we experienced together.

Our dreams begin to be less important in our hierarchy of desires. We wonder why we really thought that owning an old hearse was such a cool idea, or why those clothes and hairstyles were really “neat.”

We are pleased that many of our dreams did not come true. We are now looking back with a new perspective, having learned from experience, the real value of things in this world.

No, we do not stop dreaming, it’s just that we gradually begin to focus more on the memories, and the pleasures they bring, and less on the future, and the dreams that may never be fulfilled.

This is not intended to be depressing. It’s just that we find our true pleasure in what we have experienced and not in the pleasure of anticipation. We’re not hanging up our running shoes, we just like the rocking chair more.

THE END OF A DREAM

It was the end of a dream, early fall of 1964.


I was new in town, a hillbilly from West Virginia, although I had lived in North Tonawanda, NY, for two years in the 7th and 8th grades. But it was different now, I was a junior at the high school and it seemed that I wasn’t remembered by anyone. West Virginia is a long way north from where I am in Florida now, but to Western New Yorkers, I was a southerner. I wasn’t mistreated as much as I was a novelty.

As with most young boys, I considered myself a Pro Athlete in the making. All I needed was enough time to grow physically, because I already had the raw skill needed to excel.

The first blow came when I decided to try out for football. North Tonawanda was known for its football program, and each year’s highlight was named appropriately, the TNT game. Archrivals they were, Tonawanda and North Tonawanda, sharing a name, but not wanting to share the bragging rights for the best football team.

We had the coaches that seemed to me to come straight from Knute Rockne’s Notre Dame staff - Head Coach, legend GeorgeVetter who had coached there for almost 30 years, Line Coach George Tetter, and Backfield Coach Nick Sebek, Indiana University and the Washington Redskins. Nearly 100 players showed up, and all the equipment was gone before the last of us were to dress out. I was given a leather helmet like the ones used long ago, but I was determined to show I was a football player.

It was the job of the coaches that day to make most of us quit. It wasn’t the rigors of the workout that did it for me. It was a hit that I received from another junior, Dave Brosius. I think he was smaller than me, but all I remember was the ringing in my head and trying to begin breathing again.

It was there that my NFL football dream died. I wasn’t even going to be in the Niagara Football League (NFL).

Poor Tommy! I'm running away

I didn’t have a plan, but I knew what I was going to do. Run away! Right now! I guess I thought I would figure out the plan in flight.

Half a century later, I can’t remember why I was so upset. I’m not even sure who to blame. It may have been my mother, or it may have been the neighbor boys with whom I was playing. Somebody had pushed me across the line! Now I was done with it. Nobody was going to push me around.

I do remember the emotion and what followed. Poor Tommy! He was a couple of years younger than me, but he had the sense to try to convince me not to do it. But I wouldn’t listen. I started running down the long driveway to get to the road that would take me away.

The driveway went by an old family cemetery and through what we called the orchard, although now I think there were only 3 or 4 apple trees and a pear tree. Old Mrs. Rhodes, who sold my parents the farm, 50 acres of mostly rocks and trees, had planned for the future. Each apple tree was a different variety, and on the opposite side of the drive, next to the cemetery, were a couple of cherry trees. Other parts of the property had grape vines, walnut trees, blackberry bushes and a plum tree, next to the chicken house.

But enough of that, I was running away. At the highway, I knew to turn right, because to the left, there was a dead end in a couple of miles. I ran down the road, followed by Tommy who was now crying for me to turn back. Just beyond Fuzzy Harry’s house, I turned to the right onto a dirt road. I guess I was running out of steam and still hadn’t come up with a plan. At the back of the house, I climbed through a barbed wire fence and went into the back yard. I had almost stopped running by then, and I heard Tommy, still crying, but now with a different sound. Poor Tommy was stuck in the barbed wire fence.

Can you believe it? He was so concerned for me, and when I saw his predicament, I started laughing. I know it’s true, laughter is good medicine. I forgot about running away and after helping him get through the fence, we ended the 10 minute adventure by going back home.

I wonder if Poor Tommy ever forgave me.

Kara's Wedding Guest

For those familiar with Margaret’s story, part of the Florida trilogy by Eugenia Price, you can visualize the location of our daughter Kara’s wedding on March the 30th , 2002.

Less than a mile south of the historic Hibernia plantation, under the huge water oaks, next to the expansive St. John’s River, Mark Scott Matthews and Kara Leigh Jewell exchanged their vows. It was spring in north Florida, with all the beauty that spring brings to this place.

The Powells had graciously allowed us to set up our wedding arbor overlooking the river and we were in the realm of the dreams of young brides everywhere.

But all brides do not have brothers, especially older ones who have had a history of expressing their love in unusual ways. And so for this day, Paul had chosen to become a blonde, a surfer looking blonde. Not to cast aspersion on surfers whose hair has been lightened by the rays of the sun, but this man’s hair is dark naturally, and this was an obvious move to be noticed.

God has a way of bringing us back to reality, to make us realize that we do not live in a fairytale world. Sometimes he uses those who really love us the most. Bad move, Paul, but we will always remember, and now, we remember with a smile.

A Perfect Philosophy of Life

My son Philip, the avid Florida Gator fan, was ecstatic. The CBS Sports announcers were amazed by the play. They were talking about the “perfect reception” and the “perfect pass”, and then commented that the Georgia defender had defended “perfectly”. It doesn’t get any better than that in football, which is a game whose purpose is to try to get your opponent to make the mistake that will give you the advantage.
It hit me midsentence as Philip and I were discussing this later on the internet. As I wrote about the amazing moment – A perfect offense always beats a perfect defense-- I added as a postscript, now that’s a great Philosophy of Life.
How often do we spend our entire lives reacting to what the world throws at us instead of taking charge with a plan that will bring us success? Is every play successful at advancing the ball? Certainly not! But - A perfect offense always beats a perfect defense. And in the end, it was a touchdown!

Scrollizin'

My brother-in-law, Ray Franklin, always had the most unusual things happen to him, and met characters that could easily fill a book. He loved to talk about them and many of his experiences became inside jokes with me and the basis for much shared laughter.

On one of his many hospitalizations, Ray had an elderly black man as a roommate. As they talked together, he noticed that the man was writing a journal, of sorts. When Ray asked what he was doing, the old gentleman said, "I'm scrollizin'."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm writing down the story of my life, I'm scrollizin'."

I don't know how many times we shared a laugh when either of us was writing down something or filling out some form and said, "Don't bother me. I'm scrollizin'."

So in honor and remembrance of Ray Franklin, and an unknown black brother, I have named my blog, Samuel Scrollizin'.