The 1976 Loyall Spelling Bee: The Scandal That Will Not Die

Four years after the debacle of the 1972 USA-USSR Olympic Basketball game, another scandal occurred. Like that infamous game, it remains shrouded in controversy. In a country wearied by Watergate, perhaps it is understandable that it didn’t capture the public’s attention. The time has come to clear the air.

I was once quite the fine speller. This was many years ago before spell-check rendered me a virtual illiterate. Spelling was my forte. I did quite well on spelling tests, of course. I well remember the first time I missed a spelling word. It was in the 3rd grade in Mrs. Brewer’s class. I cried. I guess I should also mention that I was quite an odd child, too.

I could spell almost anything. I learned to spell “Constantinople” before I even attended school (I think it was in a Dr. Seuss book). One reason I could spell was that I was an excellent reader, far ahead of many of my peers. You might now guess that I was a child prodigy of some sort (note that it is “prodigy,” not “protegé”). Alas, I was not. I was, however, of above average intelligence and armed with some kind of 6th sense when it came to spelling.

I attended Loyall Elementary and Junior High School in Loyall, Kentucky. Loyall is in Harlan County, far off the beaten path for most folks. Don’t be fooled, though–we had our share of smart kids. Just because you live in the mountains of Appalachia doesn’t mean you can’t spell.

loyall

Loyall, home the legendary 1976 Spelling Bee. In my day, we did not have the air conditioners shown here. We battled in the sweltering heat.

For most of my education, my spelling was never put to the test. Actually, it was, but those were just spelling tests. We’d occasionally have a class spelling bee, which I normally dominated like an academic version of Michael Jordan with a spelling hang time unseen before.

The 1975-76 school year was 8th grade for me. High school loomed. As with every year of school, my only goal was to go on to the next year. My early school years were marked by two things: 1) stellar academic performance; and 2) spells of habitual truancy. That latter had little impact on the former but great impact on my parents. I spent half the 7th grade at Evarts Junior High where my mother kept a watchful eye on me from her post as a teacher at the adjoining high school. It worked. One semester at Evarts, and I was ready to fly right back in Loyall.

8th grade was mostly uneventful. I promised that I wouldn’t skip school–and I didn’t (that would wait until high school). Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that I was part of Loyall’s Health Fair Championship team.

Your author’s odd appearance belied his spelling ability

The other event of that year was the school spelling bee. This wasn’t just any spelling bee. It was for the whole junior high. It was like the NCAA Basketball Tournament, except everyone got a bid. Every kid competed from the smartest of the smart to the most impaired dullards. It was a Battle Royale.

While I was quite confident in my abilities, I didn’t care for the spelling bee. Over the years, I had grown weary of being thought of as a smart kid. As offensive as this might be to say about myself, I was a smart kid; however, unlike my older–and even smarter–brother, I would rather have been an athlete or just average. I just didn’t care for it.

There was no refusing to participate in the spelling bee. I thought about it, but I figured that would just be another issue for my parents. So, I played along.

As you might suspect, I was spelling like a whirling Dervish dances. Every word lobbed to me was like hitting a beach ball. Not all my classmates were so fortunate. Some were felled by simple monosyllabic words. Although I don’t recall the specifics, I’m sure “cat” and “dog” took some out. Others choked, such as one lad who spelled “neither” N-I-E-T-H-E-R. That’s the spelling bee equivalent of a called third strike.

We started one afternoon in the gym. Participants dropped like flies as we moved to polysyllabic and more arcane vocabulary. I was cruising. As the day wore down, I became troubled (if I had a hobby back then, “being troubled” was it). A fear gripped me: What if I won? I would have to go the county spelling bee. Who the hell would want to do that? It was probably on a Saturday, too. How was I going to get out of this without looking like a moron who couldn’t spell? It was quite the conundrum.

When the day came to a close, only two spellers were left. Naturally, I was one of them. The other was a was very smart and a fetching young 7th grade girl. I suspected she had lived somewhere else at some time, because she had that Michigan-sounding accent which was a little suspicious. Now, I had another problem: To get out of it, I’d have to lose to a 7th grade girl to boot.

When we broke for the day, I consulted my friend Norman, my confidante on important matters. Norman was a fine fellow but a bit devious. He always had good ideas about how to get out of ticklish situations. For example, he once broke up with a girl by writing her a letter claiming that his father had gotten a job on the Alaskan Pipeline and that he would be moving to Yukon, Alaska at the end of the school year. A man of his stripe would know what to do.

He suggested a feigned illness. I know that doesn’t seem very original, but we were pressed for time. With the passage of time, I can’t recall which illness he suggested. He once claimed to have gangrene himself. He liked to accuse people of having VD, but I doubt that was one of the suggestions.

Nevertheless, an illness wouldn’t work. I had been fake sick so many times that my parents never thought I was really ill. Dangerously high fever or vomiting or both were threshold requirements. I wasn’t going to be able to swing that.

There really was only one choice. That’s right: take a dive. Norman was leery of this, believing that I would lack credibility. I told him that I would just screw up the first tough word I got.

As usual, Norman and I hung around after school goofing off for a while. Then, we started our walk home. We weren’t a block from the school when two of our classmates–notorious ruffians–yelled at me: “WILLIAMS!!” Uh oh. They were sitting on the steps of a church enjoying their after school cigarettes.

I’d known these guys since first grade. They were okay, but I was kind of terrified of them, too. They rarely had a kind word for anyone.

Here’s (roughly) how our exchange went:

Kid No.1: What’s this bullshit about the spelling bee?
Me: What?

Kid No.2: We’re gonna whup your ass.
Me: Why? (surely my spelling prowess didn’t merit an ass whupping)

Kid No.1: We heard you’re throwin’ it. Gonna let that girl win.
Kid No. 2: We’re gonna whup your ass.
Me: I don’t where you heard that…

Kid No. 1: From him (pointing at Norman)
Me: (looking at Norman): Thanks.
Guys, I just don’t want to win the thing.

Kid No. 2: We’re gonna whup your ass.
Me: Why?

Kid No. 1: ‘Cause you can’t lose to no 7th grader. We’re countin’ on you. Don’t f— it up.
Me: I’m not throwing it.
Kid No. 2: We’re gonna whup your ass.

So, with that, Plan B was scuttled. It seemed too risky. One of these lads, in particular, was pretty smart, despite his rough ways. He would probably detect a dive. The other guy was like the big guy who put Steve Buscemi in that wood chipper in the film Fargo–very quiet and probably dangerous. It was a bad combination.

The rest of the evening I vacillated between trying to fake an illness and losing the will to live. I had one other problem–part of me really did want to win the damn thing. Why? I don’t know. I guess it was because I really was smart. It was my only real objective strength.

After a fitful night of sleep, I woke up resolved to win and accept whatever embarrassing accolades came with it. I pictured myself in some sort of World Series of spelling bees with other socially inept children. Maybe it was just time to accept my lot in life.

We were back on center stage in the gym, spelling away. We didn’t get the kinds of words you see thrown at these freaky kids today spell in national bees–nothing like antidisestablishmentarianism. I don’t recall being allowed to have the words used in a sentence or anything like that. They just gave you the word, and you spelled it. It was an old school throw down.

We were back and forth for a while until it happened. I was up. The word: “Inquire.” (I know that’s not a tough word. This was Eastern Kentucky in the 1970’s. We weren’t considered linguists). I fired away. “E-N-Q-U-I-R-E.” Loser!! I was stunned. How could this happen?

I was taken down by the most basic of villains–mass media. As we all know, the National Enquirer uses that spelling. That is what flashed into my head when given the word. Yes, my penchant for tabloid journalism was my Achilles’s Heel. Or was it?

It turns out that “enquire” is a proper spelling, especially in Great Britain where it is used to denote formal queries. You don’t believe me? Let’s ask Mr. Webster. He defines it as a “chiefly British variant of INQUIRE, INQUIRY.” It’s also included in The Oxford Dictionary of the English Language, the foremost authority on the English language. Loser? I think not. I was hoist on the petard of my own erudition.

I took the high road, of course. I did not appeal or ask for an investigation. I made no public accusations of wrongdoing, though I would have been justified in doing so. I’m also pleased to report that no ass whupping occurred. One of my antagonists, in fact, was outraged that my opponent was not required to properly spell the word to prove her superiority. Although I don’t think the rules required that, fair play certainly did. I accepted my defeat, much like the sore loser I have been my entire life. After several days of sulking, I returned to my normal activities which at the time consisted mostly of brooding.

Years of mostly unsuccessful therapy helped me deal with this and other injustices. My spelling skills have eroded over time, the victim of age and technology. I’ve gone on to bigger and better things. I’m a reasonably successful lawyer with a 25 year marriage and three strapping sons. Time goes on and heals all wounds. Far be it from me to allow one minor incident to stick in my craw.

If you have any questions about this post, as always, please submit your enquiries below.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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A Touch Of Evel (Knievel)

THE EVEL ONE

I grew up in the time of Evel Knievel. If you are of a certain age, that name resonates. If you are young, you may wonder why I don’t know how to spell evil. Trust me. It’s Evel.

Robert “Evel” Knievel was an icon of the 1970’s. He dressed like Elvis. He had swag before there was swag. If you were a kid in the ’70’s, you knew Evel.

Good or bad, there was only one Evel Knievel

He rode motorcycles. “Rode” isn’t quite right. He jumped things on his motorcycle. Cars and buses mostly. Actually, he attempted to jump things. He crashed a lot, and we loved it. It was said that he broke every bone in his body. That wasn’t true, but we didn’t care.

Evel could jump trucks, cars, vans–you name it.

He would do this a lot, too.

He was a staple of ABC’s Wide World of Sports. I’d tune in to see him jump stuff. Secretly, I hoped he’d crash–that was far cooler than a successful landing. He’d ride back and forth in front of the ramp, popping wheelies. Then, he’d ride to the top of the take off ramp and give the thumbs up. Then, it was on!

There was movie about Evel called, appropriately, Evel Knievel, starring a pre-tanned George Hamilton. It was a largely fictionalized story of his life. It ended with Evel contemplating a jump across the Grand Canyon. Even though I was a little kid, I had been to the Grand Canyon and knew that would be no simple feat.

My little brother had the Evel Knievel stunt cycle and action figure. Evel was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Evel was a rock star. He even gave me one of my favorite quotes. “If you were supposed to hang on to money, they’d put handles on it.” Or something like that.

The apex of his career was the Snake River Canyon jump. He abandoned the Grand Canyon idea but still harbored dreams of a “big” jump. Snake River Canyon in Idaho was it. It was hyped for months. Evel built a steam-powered Sky Cycle which would fire off a launching platform and hurl him across the canyon. The event was so big that it was available only on closed-circuit television (the grandfather of pay-per-view, for you youngsters). On September 8, 1974, it happened. Alas, the parachute deployed on take-off causing Evel to crash to the canyon floor without crossing the river. I was very disappointed, but I admired his trying. You had to be crazy to try that.

Evel being lowered into Sky Cycle X-2 at Snake River Canyon.

Evel became so popular that he eventually starred in his own movie, Viva Knievel, an almost unwatchably awful film. As with most bad films, the plot was a convoluted mess of drug dealers, conspiracies, fights and romantic subplots. Evel was duped into performing a dangerous stunt in Mexico not knowing that drug dealers planned to kill him and then use his fabulous 18-wheeler to ship cocaine back to the US. Gene Kelly, at what had to be the low point of his career, plays an alcoholic mechanic and Leslie Nielsen is a villanous drug lord. Evel actually heals a child in a wheelchair by merely visiting a hospital. Evel also delivers several inspiring monologues on the evils of “dope.” Lauren Hutton, Red Buttons and Marjoe Gortner all makes appearances, a bunch of stuff happens and Evel saves the day.

Viva Knievel is when Evel jumped the shark, as they say. If it wasn’t then, it certainly occurred when he beat the living hell out of a writer named Shelly Saltman. It seems that Saltman wrote an unflattering book about Evel who expressed his displeasure with a baseball bat. Evel drew a little jail time and kinda faded from view. He would reappear on occasions like filing bankruptcy or getting a liver transplant. His influence on me was brief but strong.

TIME FOR ME TO FLY

I offer all this as background to explain Evel’s influence on me. For a brief time, I wanted to be Evel Knievel wearing a leather jump suit and cape, risking my life. His idea of jumping the Grand Canyon intrigued me. How could you do this? I thought a lot about it. You’d need wings, I guess. I got an idea.

How hard would it really be to fly? The Evel Knievel movie came out in 1971, so I was probably 9 when I got this idea. I would try to fly in my backyard. Simple enough. I just needed wings.

I thought about making some out of plywood, but abandoned that after I realized how heavy plywood was. At my diminutive size, I wouldn’t be able to flap them fast enough. But I didn’t give up. What about jumping off the porch with an umbrella? That was just stupid. Then, I got an idea–a brilliant idea.

My little brother had an inflatable baby pool. What if I put it on my back–kind of like a cape? I could spread it out and glide. It was lightweight and gliding eliminated the aerodynamic impossibility of flapping hard enough to stay air-borne. Perfect.

My test run was off the back porch. Now, our back porch was only about 4 feet high. If it didn’t work, I wouldn’t get hurt. I got up on the porch with my baby pool, spread my “wings” and hunkered down for the jump. Our clothes line was about 20 feet away, and I figured that would be a good landing spot. 3…2…1…LAUNCH! POW! I hit the ground. Hmmm. I’m sure the Wright Brothers had failures, too. The good news was that I was sure that I did sense–if only briefly–that I was suspended in air. Not a complete failure. Back to the drawing board.

I was a pretty smart kid, and I quickly realized that caution had been my enemy. By using the porch, I had denied myself the benefit of (1) Being in the air longer; and (2) Catching enough air to hang up there for a while. If I could catch even the faintest of breezes, it could make all the difference.

After some consideration, I determined that the top of the garage was the perfect launching spot. It was probably 10-12 high and right by the clothes line. If something went horribly awry, I could just grab the clothes line and safely swing to the ground. If it worked–as it surely would–I would glide across the back yard and land safely on the porch, covering a distance of about 30-40 feet.

At this point, I should note that I had an older brother. He was much smarter than I was. If I had only consulted him, things would have been different. I suppose I knew that and didn’t want him to crush my dreams with some brainiac explanation.

The day came. First, I got the ladder and tossed the pool on top of the garage. Then, I climbed up. It’s funny how 10-12 feet doesn’t sound real high until you look down, especially if you’re about 4 feet tall. I’ll admit that my confidence was a little shaky. On the plus side, there was a good breeze. The only problem was that it was blowing away from the porch toward Mr. Wade’s farm across the fence. I really hoped that I didn’t blow over there. He scared me a little.

I pulled the pool on my back, tightened my grip and readied myself by squatting into launch position. I had reasoned that I needed to first launch upward, then I could bank toward the porch. 3…2…1…LAUNCH! For split second–very split, mind you–it was working. I was among the birds.

If you ever fall and have enough time to think about it while you’re in the air, it is terrifying. The ground rushed up at me at around 1000 miles an hour. Embarrassingly, I think I actually flapped my wings once in an effort to prevent the inevitable.

The ground was hard. My ankle rolled. I face-planted. It hurt. Luckily, I wasn’t seriously injured. A scrape on my forehead and sprained ankle. Now, I felt like an idiot, of course. I had to pretend I wasn’t hurt since I would never admit that I had jumped off the garage with a baby pool on my back. I hobbled around a few days and that was that. Later, I casually asked my brother how birds could fly. He offered me an explanation about aerodynamics. Boy, was this all a dumb idea. Oh, well.

BACKYARD EVEL

I wasn’t done with my daredevil ways. There was still the matter of jumping things. I, of course, would use a bicycle instead of a motorcycle. This time I had a partner, my best friend Jimmy. Jimmy was, in a sense, my alter ego. He was the kid who would do anything, regardless of the danger involved–and he had the broken bones and scars to prove it. Remember how your mother cautioned you about losing an eye? He did that–a stick right in his eye.

Jimmy and I were probably 12 years old, and we both admired Evel. I’ll admit that Jimmy had a bit more Evel in him that I did. He had, for example, invented the game of Tire Wrestling where we would roll large truck tires at each other and try to tackle them. It was a very painful–yet fun–game.

We tried our hand at jumping our bikes off ramps on occasion, usually just a 2 x 10 and cinder block, but I had greater ambitions. We built a ramp in my back yard. A real ramp. It was made out of plywood and about 3 feet high. It looked something like this:

Artist’s rendering of ramp design

In our past efforts we had encountered two problems. First, was the ramp itself. A piece of wood on a cinder block was too unsteady, plus it didn’t launch us high enough in the air. This was now remedied. The second was that bicycles are not really designed for flight. They tend to be heavy in the front or at least almost as heavy as they are in the back. This tended to cause the bike to land on its front tire, a disaster as Evel had learned on several occasions. I needed a bike with a better design. As luck would have it, I had one available. My brother had a Schwinn Lemon Peeler, just about the coolest bike ever made.

The Schwinn Lemon Peeler

After studying the design of the Lemon Peeler, I was confident that it was perfect. The larger racing “slick” in the back, the smaller wheel in the front, shock absorbers–perfect.

Jimmy went first–on his own bike. He hit the ramp flying, shot up in the air and hit the ground in a violent crash with his bike flipping backward. He landed almost squarely on his back. He got up laughing, ready to for another go. But it was my turn, and I wasn’t crashing.

I made a couple of passes by the ramp, just like Evel, and I was ready to go. I took off, got my speed up and hit the ramp. It felt right.

I wish there was a video of my jump. Jimmy said the landing looked good-right on the back wheel as planned. Here’s what I remember: The handlebars hitting my jaw and the back sprocket digging into my right shin. I don’t know what went wrong, but I was on the ground with my head ringing and my leg throbbing.

I looked down at my shin and there was hole–right on the shin. The hole was about an inch long and a quarter-inch wide. It was gunked up with grease from the sprocket but there was still the white gleam of bone shining through. Oh, and the big hunk of skin on the sprocket.

I ran to the house and looked at it. This was bad. I called to my older brother. He looked at it and went into a swoon. He gathered himself and told me that it HAD to be cleaned out. I begged him not to tell our parents. I then went to bathroom to find appropriate cleaning supplies.

Peroxide first. I poured it in the hole. It stung a little but not too bad. The hole wasn’t bleeding, just weird-looking. (Later in life, I had horrible infection in my left leg and learned that the skin on one’s shin has very little blood flow). The throbbing subsided, but it was still filthy. My mother had warned me of the horrors of infection, so I dabbed it with a cotton ball. That helped, and it still didn’t hurt. too bad.

I thought about putting Mercurochrome on it, but it seemed beyond that. I only had one choice. Rubbing alcohol. I knew this was the ultimate disinfectant. Oh, I knew it would burn some. My mother had applied to various injuries, and it always stung. I would soak a cotton ball and drip a little in the hole as a test.

Sometimes pain in so sudden, so severe, that it isn’t really like pain. It’s more like something you taste-like you have taste buds in the middle of your brain. It was like someone had driven a burning nail into my forehead. That subsided and then it focused on my shin. It burned so deeply that I was certain it would kill me. I then stuck my leg in the tub and rinsed it. That helped. A little. Forty years later, I can still feel it.

I managed to hide my leg from Mom for a few days. The hole started to turn black around the edges and smelled funny. That’s when I showed Mom. She cried and carried on and then took me to the doctor. Some strong antibiotics and I was good as new. Of course, the leg was never the same:

Your author still bears the scar of his backyard folly

That was the end of my daredevil career. It’s probably for the best anyway. Evel had drug problems, money problems and was crippled up pretty bad. All I got was the scar on my leg. But it’s pretty cool.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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I Hate The Waltons

The whole contemptible Walton clan struggling through hard times with another meager meal.

I hate the Waltons. Not the Walmart Waltons. I like them. Save money. Shop smart. Only at Walmart. That’s good stuff. I mean the TV Waltons–John, Olivia, John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen, Jim Bob, Ben, Erin, Elizabeth, Grandpa and Grandma. All of them.

In real life, I try not to hate people. It’s just not good. I have no such reservations with fictional characters. Aunt Bee, Jenny from Forest Gump, Bruce Dern in The Cowboys, any Jim Carrey character–each of these is vile in its own way and intended to be so. The Waltons, though, are different. They are supposed to be sympathetic, even likeable, yet I hate them. Why?

The Depression

The Waltons lived in the Great Depression, except for them it was the Not So Bad Depression. They had a house. A sawmill. A truck. They lived on Walton’s Mountain, which means they had their own freakin’ mountain, for God’s sake. Ever see their meals? Roast pig, turkey, chicken, vegetables, pies, cakes–you name it. My Dad grew up in the Great Depression in a house with seven kids. Mush, that’s what they ate. Oh, and maybe ham they cured themselves. The Waltons lived like kings. I hate that.

Here’s what a family with seven kids looked like during the Depression.

The Parents

John and Olivia were a lovey-dovey pair right up until Olivia got shipped off to a TB sanitarium in a contract dispute. So solemn, so wise, just like real parents, right? Here’s how you’d be if you had seven kids with all the drama of that crowd: John Boy would come in with one of his pressing social issues he was trying to resolve. John would look at him and say: “How the hell should I know?” Or he’d say something like: “Hey, egghead, how ’bout working at the damn sawmill for a while?”

The Kids

Okay, I know there were seven of them, but there really were only three and a half for all practical purposes. John Boy, Mary Ellen and Jason. These were the Big Three before anyone ever heard of Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen and Paul Pierce. The other four just drifted in and out occasionally. I’m not even sure Erin was really on the show. She disappeared for long stretches. I never could keep Jim Bob and Ben straight. I had to remind myself that Jim Bob delivered his lines like he’d suffered a debilitating head injury.

One would think that the casting folks could have at least tried to find kids who resembled each other to play siblings. In a modern setting, that bunch would have subject to DNA testing the first time anyone saw them together.

John Boy is my biggest problem. He’s like one of those people you should like, but you just can’t. You know the type. The neighbor who is very friendly, always speaks and will help you with anything. You want to kick a nail into his ear. John Boy is like that. Almost every episode has “Here he goes, again” moment with John Boy. He’s helping someone or misunderstood or stuck in the middle of some issue. Lighten up, John Boy.

Earl Hamner wrote The Waltons, and I assume John Boy–being a writer–is modeled after him. That probably explains why he dominates the Walton landscape. Here’s a question: Was Hamner called Earl Boy? If not, why the hell is John called John Boy? NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN CALLED THAT! If you grew up in the ’70’s and shared this name, you were at some point called “John Boy.” Even today, you will be called that. I know from whence I speak on this one. That is reason enough to hate John Boy.

I have to mention Fake John Boy. At some point in the series, Richard Thomas (John Boy) decided to leave to pursue other acting opportunities in the most ill-conceived career move since Pernell Roberts abandoned the Ponderosa to embark on his storied movie career. Fake John Boy was worse than the real one. He wasn’t John Boy. Oh, he was nauseatingly earnest like the real one, but you couldn’t help but yell “FAKE!” when he was on the screen. Okay, maybe I’m the only one who did that.

GRANDMA AND GRANDPA

Look, I know generations of families used to live to together. I guess that was realistic enough. Man, these two had their noses in everything. I hated them.

Wil Geer played Grandpa. He was a hippie and friend of Woody Guthrie, which means I should have liked him, but no, I didn’t. I think it’s because the writers couldn’t figure him out. Was he comic relief? Was he a wise old sage? Was he just a pain in the ass like some old people? You never knew for sure. To some extent, he suffered from a 1970’s phenomenon known as “The Hip Oldster.” In the ’70’s, TV writers, being largely devoid of original ideas, wrote every older character the same. They would be hip, oversexed, “cool” people. They rode motorcycles and said naughty things. Sometimes, that’s what they did with Grandpa. Sometimes, he was the voice of reason. Mostly, he just annoyed me.

Ellen Corby was a little more tolerable as Grandma. She actually acted liked an old lady. Surly, hard to deal with, opinionated and not particularly pleasant. Now that I think about it, I kinda of like her.

The Godseys

Ike Godsey owned the General Store. Other than a few passing references to “hard times,” Ike seems to have thrived through the Great Depression and the rationing of World War II. His store was FULL of stuff. He was probably the richest man in Virginia by the end of the war.

Cora Beth wouldn’t have been so fired up about “Mr. Godsey” if he’d owned this Depression era store.

He married Cora Beth, an impossibly haughty friend or distant relative of Olivia’s who showed up to sponge off the Waltons’ inexplicable largesse. Ike decided to marry her. Even John recognized what a pain in the ass Cora Beth was and tried to talk Ike out of marrying her. Like a lot of folks, he didn’t listen and married her anyway. She continued to preen around for years. Oh, and she always called Ike “Mr. Godsey.” I hated that.

How about have Erin turn up pregnant and marry Ike in a shotgun wedding? That would have been a ratings bonanza! Plus, Erin would have actually played role in the show. No, we got Cora Beth. I hated her.

The Pathos

At the heart of The Waltons was some pitiable, sad story with a comparatively uplifting ending, usually because of the superior intelligence or morality of the Waltons themselves. No family is THAT good, except maybe the Cartwrights. I cared nothing for it and always wanted the Waltons to get put in their place. It never happened. I hated that.

The Ending

Good night, John Boy. Good night, Mary Ellen. Good night, Jim Bob. Blah, blah, blah. That’s how the show always ended. Hey, were they all in the same freakin’ room? That’s weird, especially since they were able to say good night to their grandparents without raising their voices. I shared a room with two brothers when I was little. It’s not fun. Just once–once, mind you–I wanted someone to say: “Hey, shut the hell up! I’m trying to sleep!” No one ever did. I hated that.

Here’s the kind of house the Waltons would have lived in. I’m guessing they wouldn’t have been quite so chipper at bedtime in this place.

At this point, you’re asking: “If you hate the Waltons, why do you know so much about them?” First, that’s really none of your business. Second, I watched a lot of TV as a kid. A lot. I didn’t care what I watched. I watched the Waltons to just hate them. Sometimes, my Dad would watch with me and ridicule them. I liked that.

Occasionally, I’ll see the Waltons on TV and tune in for a few minutes. It doesn’t take long for me to be disgusted. I always hope I’ll catch the episode when their house burned. At least I think that happened. Maybe that was just my own fantasy.

Good night, John Boy.

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My Life as a Hippie

This title, of course, is deceiving. I’ve never been a hippie. I was born in 1962, far too late in the century to have become a hippie. I was, however, fascinated by hippies. They seemed cool. They seemed–appropriately enough–hip.

Growing up in Harlan County, Kentucky, there were no hippies or at least there was no real hippie movement. Oh, there were some hippies over in Letcher County–they founded Appalshop. In fact, they’re still there. There was a time when a “busload” of hippies was rumored to be coming to Harlan County to check out our horrible living conditions. Turns out that they were just run of the mill Communists, not really hippies at all.

My older brother knew a guy who was going to become a hippie. Charles was his name. Charles had been in and out of “Reform School,” that shadowy institution that none of us really knew much about it. Charles, however, had actually been there. Charles was quite fond of my brother for some reason. You must understand that my brother was a straight A student and all round good kid. Never got in trouble. For some reason, though, he occasionally attracted “friends” who were sketchy to say the least. Charles would occasionally follow my brother home from school. He’d hang out at the house for a while until my mother fed him. Sometimes, she would even give him a couple of dollars.

Charles once followed us home from school on a rare day when my brother had a bad day at school. He had a dust-up with a teacher over some silly infraction. When we got home, my brother laid out the story to Mom. Mom had no tolerance for injustice doled out to her children and made it clear that she would deal with the situation. Charles sat at our kitchen table and took it all in. When Mom was done, he said: “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Williams. I know a feller in reform school who’s gonna kill that teacher soon as he gets out.” That’s the kind of guy Charles was. Mom just said: “Thank you, Charles.” Secretly, I hoped that guy would get out soon.

One day in the summer, I was walking home from Russell’s Grocery, when–much to my surprise–Charles stepped out from behind a tree. He was probably 15 at the time. His hair was shaved down to a close crew cut. He wore mirror sunglasses, a buck skin vest (no shirt) and love beads. “Do you know me?” “Yes, Charles, I know you.” He explained that he had been released from Reform School. Of course, he followed me home.

Mom talked to Charles about his adventures in Reform School, and he announced that he was going to move to “The City” and become a hippie. I noted that his hair was far too short, but he explained that the Draconian rules of Reform School required that look. I think that’s the last time he was at our house. I don’t think he ever became a hippie, but his ambition gave me a new-found respect for him.

Back to the real hippies. During the Summer, we would sometimes travel to Utah to visit my grandparents or to Colorado Springs to visit the Air Force Academy for whom my Dad was a recruiter. On those trips, I saw the real hippies. I saw one in a Stuckey’s somewhere in the West once. I just stared at him. I saw one get arrested on the street in Salt Lake City, too. Very cool.

Once, when we were in Salt Lake, President Nixon came to speak at Temple Square. My Papaw was a security guard at Temple Square and stood on the stage with Nixon. This was probably 1969. The hippies were out in force. War protesters carrying signs–the whole nine yards. My Dad put me on his shoulders so I could see Papaw, but really I was checking out the hippies.

Somewhere in this sea of humanity are my Papaw and Richard Nixon…and a bunch of hippies.

The only person I ever saw in Harlan County that I thought was a hippie was the son-in-law of the people who lived across the street from us. He had long hair and a beard and wore hippie clothes. My little brother and I would peek out the front window of the house just to get a look at him. I knew he was a hippie, because my Dad said so.

At this point, I should confess that I didn’t really want to be a hippie. First, hippies were draft-dodgers and war protesters, which was really frowned upon in our home. Second, let’s face facts here–hippies were dirty, and I’ve never enjoyed being dirty. Third, they were dope fiends, and I was never into the drug scene. Nevertheless, they fascinated me.

I did have some love beads. My Mom bought them from some Indian kids when we drove through an Arizona reservation one time. I wore them proudly, although I’m sure they clashed with my otherwise cherubic appearance.

I wouldn’t have been a good hippie. Oh, sure, I would have loved the lack of responsibility and free love aspect. I hated school with a passion, so “dropping out” would have been right in my wheel house. Communal living, on the other hand, has never been my “bag”–as a hippie might say. I don’t like sharing my sleeping quarters with family, much less strangers. The being filthy would have been a drag (another hippie word!). Plus, I’m a bit of a germaphobe, and most hippies looked slap eat up with germs.

Typical hippie filthiness. There’s not enough hand sanitizer on Earth to get me in the middle of all that.

Hippies were also liberals. I’m talking real liberals, not the kind people talk about today. For example, a hippie wouldn’t take a political donation from a corporation. Of course, this assumes that a hippie would run for office which he or she certainly would not. They believed in real collective living–everyone living together and lying around in a big pile. I guess the word “Communism” comes from “commune,” and hippies loved communes. Like true Socialists, hippies would have seized the means of production if working weren’t so antithetical to the hippie credo. Now, I never was all that liberal and certainly didn’t live in a liberal culture. As I’ve noted, free love would have been cool or even groovy, but eventually the hippies and I would have clashed over something like the capital gains tax.

When they drove, hippies drove vans. I don’t even like mini-vans. Regular vans are certainly out of the question. Nowadays, full size vans are the typical mode of conveyance of serial killers. I prefer BMWs–definitely not a hippie ride.

Typical hippie van. I prefer my metallic gray BMW 328. I won’t even put a bumper sticker on my car.

I would have been good at sounding like a hippie. I’ve had an annoying habit of using the word “man” most of my life, as in “What’s up, man?” “Man” was very much a hippie word. So was “dude,” although it’s made quite the comeback in recent years. I always wanted to use the word “groovy,” too. Maybe I could bill myself as “The Groovy Lawyer.” “Cool,” of course, was a staple of the hippie lexicon, borrowed from the Beatniks. I still use “cool” in everyday conversation.

I also liked hippie music. The Beatles were liked by hippies, and I like the Beatles. Same goes for Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Led Zeppelin and countless others. Hell, I heard a recording of Charles Manson singing once, and he wasn’t half bad for a psychotic, murdering hippie. Say what you will about hippies, they dug some cool music.

So, I didn’t become a hippie, and I really had no chance to do so. That’s probably good, because you eventually become an old hippie. Worse, you become a former hippie and end up kowtowing to The Man like the rest of us, unless you become The Man.

Example of the tragic outcome of the old hippie. Nothing groovy about this.

In Maui a few years ago, I met a guy who said he moved there in 1969 to live in a commune. He never left. He didn’t look much like a hippie. So, I asked him what he did now, forty years later. He said he worked in construction, but added: “I’ll always be a hippie, man.” What could I say? “That’s cool, man.” It was a groovy exchange.

Still yet, I have admiration for the hippies. I know many folks–now conservative pillars of society–who proudly declare that they are former hippies. I also know people who still claim to be hippies, although that’s doubtful. Being a hippie now is like claiming to be an anarchist. Maybe you are, but the glory days passed long ago.

So, if you’re an old hippie, I salute you. Now, get a haircut and take a bath.

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