Do you know where you were on Friday, April 27, 2007? Heedlessly, I overlooked National Arbor Day. Once again, I missed out on the popular activities associated with this unheralded holiday; planting, chanting, hugging. I would have forgotten it completely if it had not been for the Internet.

While searching for information on white mulberry trees, I noticed a reference to National Arbor Day. I hadn’t thought of Arbor Day in years. I would wager that Arbor Day greeting cards were left unsold and that few raucous festivals were heralding the arrival of Arbor Day.

It is an overlooked holiday and a forgotten idea. Maybe this is because National Arbor Day originated in Nebraska. On January 4, 1872, National Arbor Day was proposed by J. Sterling Morton as a tree planting holiday. At that time, Nebraska was basically a treeless territory. As a newspaper editor, Morton encouraged his readers to plant trees for windbreaks and to avoid soil erosion. Trees were needed to warm their hearths, and to build a state.

There are misconceptions concerning Arbor Day. One misconception is that Arbor Day is a secret society of Masonic Farmers and Geometry teachers. Another common misconception is that Arbor Day is an annual reminder to secure arbors and ports.

There is a dark side to Arbor Day. Like honey bees and breathing, we take trees for granted. Many times, a grove of trees and even a single tree is honored after they have been destroyed. The Arboretum Retail Center on NC Highway 51 is named in respect of the grove of trees that had to be bulldozed before the first foot of cement could be poured. We take trees for granted; sometimes while sitting in the shade.

Trees give us a sense of place. The tree of life is a popular icon, the Carolinas Medical Association symbol is an abstract of a tree. One insurance corporation’s symbol is a reminder of the comfort beneath a shade tree.

A freshly planted tree is belief in the future and proof of the past. Trees are sentinels to history and sometimes, dreams. The white mulberry tree at the corner of Hawthorne and Central in Mt. Holly was planted in a time when a new nation dreamed of developing a silk industry for export to Europe.

According to local lore, the white mulberry tree was planted by French botanist, Andre Michaux during his exploration of the Carolinas. In 1785, by order of the French King, Louis XVI, Michaux was sent to explore the North American continent to investigate trees and plants that would benefit France.

Michaux’s original instructions were locate tree species that would thrive in the French climate. It seems the French had chopped down most of the native trees and forests during a recent war. This little known fact gives new meaning to the French royal title, “Sun King.”

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Like the crocuses, humidity, and poison ivy, I arrive back in Shuffletown in the spring. However, this spring, I arrived looking totally different than I intended. My appearance has startled a fair share of friends, neighbors, and specifically, my brother, Frank, who tried not to speak to me at church. When my daughter saw my haircut and the shock of yellow trim coloring my bangs, she asked, “Mom, did you join a military cult?”

My son asked, “When did you switch to barber shops?”

In my defense, let me assure all who have seen me that I had no intention of returning home looking like an aged back up singer for the rock and roll band, Pink Floyd or an older version of the pop singer, Pink.

The haircut is the result of an innocent comment I made to my hair stylist. All I said was, “I will not be back for three months.”

That comment resulted in my hair stylist feeling duty bound to give me a trim that was would last three months. I won’t even try to explain the yellow streak of hair on my forehead, but it had something to do with covering up the gray that would obviously appear like weeds at the front of my hair.

Living as a Southerner in Los Angeles is a cultural challenge, but I do not fault anyone but my Scots-Irish ancestors for the cultural differences between the South and the West. The West coast, like most other sections of the country, considers the South a foreign section of America where NASCAR rules, folks eat grits, drink sweet tea and the living is easy because we don’t do much more than fish and sweat in the humidity, even though today, Charlotte bears the stigma of being a major commercial and banking center. This fact rolls unnoticed through their minds like water off a duck’s back. They mean well, they treat us nicely, but they are pretty sure we are a different breed of folks and they are right.

In the South, we are descendents of the Scots-Irish and they bestowed on their descendants a sturdy strain of individuality that is considered a mark of honor. Our heritage is the Scottish spirit of horse sense, and humor, plus the Irish passion for story telling.

The Scots-Irish told Jack Tales by campfire coming down the wagon trails that wound from Pennsylvania into the South. The most commonly recognized Jack Tale is “Jack and the Bean Stalk,” but there were many more. Jack Tales came from the European tradition that if there were three sons in the family, the first born would inherit the land, the second son would be given a military commission, and the third son, well, he was expected to join the church as a priest or make his way through the world on his own and live by his wits. The third sons who chose to wander became known as Jack.

Along the way, in the light of camp fire flames, Jack became the logo, the team mascot for those cold, homeless, indentured people who were thrown out of one country into a foreign and uncharted land never to see home, again. They bolstered their courage each night by the camp fires and they told stories of the wondering Jack. In these stories, Jack fought the devil and won; he defeated death; Jack made fortunes; Jack was canny and clever. They were Jack and they would be clever and they would also survive. Jack made them laugh when the strange animals howled from the woods; he inspired them to keep hunting when there was no food left. Jack’s personality became the measuring stick for courage, determination, and most of all, wit. Jack set the bar high and his people, our ancestors, were determined to be individuals and further, Jack laid out the basic foundation for Southern humor. Matching wits in the South is a blood sport and always entertaining. These duels of wit, the pranks played, and the lessons learned evolve into new Jack Tales, and we practice the art with delight and retell our stories passionately for the entertainment of others and ourselves. The best place to hone this art is at home, in the south among friends. I have been home for two weeks now and it is like breathing pure oxygen. It has also taught me why I got in this hair mess and why I still go out in public.

The evolution of Jack Tales is found in the stories passed from person to person in local Southern communities. These antics and stories give us the strength we inherited from our ancestors. They provide the continuing strength we all need to face the challenges of life.

I was reminded of this recently when talking with Corky and Susie McClure. In his youth, Corky ran with five friends, Ron Kenley, Billie Don McClure, Butch Thompson, Jim Skinner, and Dewey Sanders.

“There wasn’t a day that went by that one of us didn’t pull a prank on the others,” Corky said. “Dewey was the most unpredictable. But each day, after the chores were finished or school was finished, someone was planning a joke. All those years, none of us completely dropped our guard.”

The pranks continued when they became young adults. One evening, one of the young men decided that since he had not been invited to attend an evening of bridge that he would streak through the house butt naked during the bidding. It was a couples’ bridge game to be held at Corky’s house. The prankster told Corky of his plans and asked that Corky tie up his dog and open the back bedroom window so he could escape after his romp in the living room. However, Corky neglected to tie up the dog. He also shut the back bedroom window and locked it. At half past nine, the front door flew open and the man ran naked through the living room with Corky’s dog in hot pursuit. He disappeared into the bedroom, there was stunned silence, but quickly the prankster and the dog made an encore appearance in the living room heading back out the front door. Only this time, the dog was leading the way.

Recently, Dewey Sanders passed away. Several of the original friends came together at the hospital when Dewey was ill. During the waiting hours, they shared the often told tales of their pranks entertaining and comforting each other with their modern day version of Jack Tales.

This tradition of Jack Tales bolsters us today as surely as they did for our ancestors. And in the South, with each moment in life we are creating new stories and they are proof that today we have the same resilience as our Scots-Irish ancestors.

I have written about my friends, the Grumpy Old Ladies of Shuffletown (GOLS). I had dinner with them recently and punctuality is very important to the GOLS. The established tradition is to meet in Ginny’s yard at exactly six o’clock for Friday night dinners. Ginny set the time and the expected punctual arrival. I was two minutes late last week and all four of them were sitting in Martha’s car — with the engine running, waiting for me.

I jumped in the back seat and the evening began with the usual amount of teasing. During the evening, Ginny mentioned that she had seen a haircut similar to mine on another friend, “And,” Ginny continued, “It looked good on her.”

But it slipped out during dinner that the week before, everyone arrived in Ginny’s yard a little before six and waited for Ginny to come out of the house and get in the car. Ginny usually exits the house the moment the first car arrives, but on this night ten minutes went by, then fifteen minutes, finally, they decided to dial up Ginny on the cell phone. The phone rang several times before Ginny answered in a sleepy voice. She had been asleep on the couch. I will remind Ginny of this incident in the future — a Jack Tale in the making.

Just as one day in the future, my haircut will become my Jack Tale and when I am even older, it will assure me that surviving my own individuality gives me the strength to laugh as life goes on.

These individual stories are remembered because they still give us comfort against the unknown and the good sense to laugh at ourselves. We may not win every battle or defeat death, but Dewey Sanders left a continuing legacy for his friends and his family when he lost his battle with death.

Following his funeral, Dewey Sanders’ casket was carried to the cemetery by four white horses pulling a restored Mennonite hearse complete with glass windows and brass accessories. Dewey went out in style and the story of his grand departure will be passed from generation to generation as another Jack tale of courage against even the finality of death.

Yes, we are a different breed in the South, and we have stories to tell to prove it. Judy Rozzelle

On Sept. 8, 2006, Army Reserve Sgt. 1st Class Merideth Howard was killed while on duty in Afghanistan. She had been assigned to the 364th Civil Affairs Brigade which was tasked with rebuilding roads and water systems.

Sgt. Howard was killed when a car bomb exploded near a military Humvee in which she was riding. She was 52 years old, which makes her the oldest female casuality of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

When she traveled with her unit, Sgt. Howard manned an M-240 machine gun. Yet, the Army consistently tells the American public that women are only positioned in areas of safety, and not exposed to battle.

She was a fearless United States soldier in a country where women are treated like chattel. Sgt. Howard served as a liaison between the Afghan people and the military. She once assisted in an Army film production about the military and the Afghan people. In the film, she is seen handing out candy to children.

Recently there was an article in the paper on women who have been killed while on duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. I’m still haunted by their smiling faces in the photos that accompanied the article.

It is surprising how easily Americans have come to accept the fact of women dying in service. It wasn’t too long ago that conventional wisdom said Americans would never accept it if the military put their daughters in the line of fire.

Unlike World War II, we seem to not be overtly concerned about the dangers our soldiers face in these terrorist wars. Our soldiers are not well prepared or protected. They are given partial body armor; they ride in tanks that are only partially plated; they freeze in the winter and expire from the heat in the summer. Their world is riddled with danger where everyone they encounter is a potential enemy.

Meanwhile, President Bush has told us to go shopping.

What compounds these losses is the ripple affect each one has into the circles of their families — children, parents and spouses. That and the waste of human potential. Among the more than 2500 dead were future firemen, teachers, economists, ecologists, leaders, philosophers, preachers, heroes, fathers, brothers, sisters, and mothers. Each death robs America of possibilities. A voice is silenced at picnics, dinner tables and prayer.

Of course, America cares. We all care, but this brutal war is beyond our understanding. We grieve, but no one is listening. Those who lift a voice calling for a change are called unpatriotic and worse. In silence, we read the statistics, we see their young faces, read the death counts, and we turn away in sorrow and frustration.

We must defeat terrorism. We must fight. And we must lift our voices in sorrow each time a soldier is mortally wounded. America must demand that our military provide substantial military protection for all soldiers.

Our current approach to war is not working. The Taliban has returned to Afghanistan. Terrorists are flocking to Iraq.

It is time to seek another way. When a strategy is not working, it must be replaced with a better plan, another approach. Still, Washington will not vary from this outdated policy. They are not listening.

Should we negotiate with terrorists? Should we insist on the laws of America be up held? Why waste our time? We have seen what they do to each other, men, women, and children. They burn down schools that teach women to read. They kill each other as they worship. They behead all. They will attack us to kill and maim each American citizen. We must take action.

If we send our daughters and sons off to an ill-planned war without proper protection are we not emboldening the enemy? In a more subtle way are we encouraging child molesters and rampages by the criminally insane at our schools? Do we turn our backs when people of power abuse children?

Are we good parents? Why is our younger generation so chaotic? If we do not value their lives, will they value their lives…or ours? Whether it is a daughter or a son, it is too much to sacrifice to a war going in the wrong direction.

Sgt. Meredith Howard leaves behind a new husband. They married just before she was shipped to Iraq. She will no longer stand beside him. He will no more experience the joy of her company.

He owns a fireworks company, and told the Los Angeles Times that, at his late wife’s request, her ashes will be mixed into rockets that he will explode over the ocean.

Are you tired?

I have outrage fatigue. No one is listening to 49 percent of us because the rightwing has turned the word “liberal” into an epithet almost as bad as “Nazi.”

In fact, liberals are honest Americans who question the truth behind the headlines. We have become the only voice left for the middle class. No liberal I know berates America or is bent on giving away our social security system, or surrendering to terrorists. And yet that is what the president accuses us of every day on the campaign trail.

I am emotionally spent from wondering, where is the outrage? Where are our American heroes?

I just want it better. I want a middle ground, an open discussion and a change of course. I am tired of looking for an honest politician.

I am tired of whining.

Tired of reading snippets of the horrid truth about the Iraq War. Two billion dollars a week spent on a war we are not winning. Think of what we could do for America with that money. It could be spent on our securing ports and airports, on building schools and highways, repairing bridges and tunnels. It would buy health insurance for every American. It would feed the hungry.

I am so tired of Bush and his gang ignoring evidence and feeding the American public only partial truths. I am tired of photos of our angry president on the front page, tired of his hollow swagger on the public stage, tired of 51 percent of Americans believing what he says.

I am exhausted by the damage he and his cronies have done to America in the eyes of the world. Even our allies are worn out from the the Bush team’s pretense that America is on the right track in our war against terrorism.

Terrorists hated us before 9/11, but they are growing in numbers due to our global policy. I am so tired of opinion that President Bush’s way is God’s way.

I am proud to say that I grew up Christian and I was taught that true Christians do not seek war, nor do they call other Christians who asks questions ugly names. And I was taught that when a neighbor casts a vote in an election that is not the same as mine…well, that is the American way and my neighbors are not my enemy.

I am so tired of fearful politicians who are afraid to stand up for America. I am tired and exhausted that the American media does not present fair reporting. Corporate media has let us down. They do not give us an honest two sided presentation of news. They have all turned their back on logic, good sense, and fair mindedness.
Like many other Americans, I fear we will be attacked again by terrorists. But I know that we are not going in the right direction to prevent such attacks. I am so tired that I have turned my back on news programs. I am tired of the nightmares. I will just wait hoping that America can celebrate another birthday without tragedy. If they do strike, I will just do what I can. I pray for the American spirit to survive.

However, I am never too tired to vote. I will have the strength to vote against lies and half truths.

I am so tired, yet the terrorists are only becoming stronger. They have the courage to call our President the Devil while the audience claps. Then, our enemies argue over whether of not that was an insult to the Devil. I am exhausted from it all.

With the razing of Shuffletown Grocery and the removal of Mutt and Johnny Rozzelle’s brick home on the hill behind Bud’s Plants…progress has all but eliminated our semi-scenic crossroads community of Shuffletown. The world has become homogenized and we are experiencing the disappearance of hometowns, tractors, cornfields, and minnow farming.

We live in the now and we live in the past, but progress has overtaken Shuffletown. Except for Shuffletown Grill and the Volunteer Fire Department…memory is all that remains. Once Shuffletown was a semi-scenic tourist trap; well, maybe that was a little exaggerated, but not much…for one day in May 1983, Shuffletown was alive with tourists, musicians, a parked parade, and even, an Elvis impersonator. On this day, Shuffletown was mentioned on ABC’s morning show, reporters dined on baloney burgers and sausage biscuits at the Shuffletown Grill, prepared by the women of Cook’s Memorial Presbyterian Church. Phyllis Henline’s senior class students presented a production of “Billy Bob and Miranda,” a play based on Shakespeare’s, “Romeo and Juliet.”

It was a dazzling, sun-shiny spring day as legend, myth and exaggeration were exchanged; Shuffletonians have always enjoyed sharing unsubstantiated first-person accounts of historic and just plain odd events. A favorite topic for the day was the legend that Abraham Lincoln’s mom, Nancy Hanks, who once worked as a big hearted waitress at the Rozzelle Ferry Inn.

At that time, Shuffletown was home to the world-famous and renowned Shuffletown Dragstrip, minnow farming, and the famous arborists, Maude and Estelle Kerns. The Kerns sisters lived behind a jungle of plants beneath a spreading oak tree in the Southeast corner of the crossroads. The Crown “Quick Mart” now stands where their ancient house once stood. For decades, neighbors in search of buried Confederate treasure assisted the Kerns sisters in digging up most of their yard. When the hole was dug and no treasure was found…the sisters would stick another plant in the ground. Everything, from hostas to sunflowers to daffodils and yucca plants, flourished in their yard.

Little did we know that day in May 1983 that Shuffletown, an American hometown, had only twenty-odd years remaining. Even then, it was an endangered species and that is why the spring festival was aptly named, “The Shuffletown Mayday Mayday Festival and Yard Sale.” Now, Shuffletown is history.

As I sit here musing over these most recent changes, I wonder if the ever popular Southern “eccentrics” are also endangered. The South is a haunted and humid territory that has lived under the shadow of a war lost and a unique partnership with the soil. Newcomers and outsiders, despite the fact that several renowned universities are located in the South, still prefer to believe that we are all uneducated rednecks.

During my stay in Los Angeles, I have met people who have never heard of Charleston, SC. If it wasn’t for the banking industry, well, the truly uneducated would name Charlotte as the capital of West Virginia which is not even a Southern state.

In honor of the passing of Shuffletown, I have gathered a couple of my Southern stories, tales that could have only happened in the South or comments that could have only been made by irrepressible Southern natives. I hope these stories encourage the odd, the wacky, the opinionated, the strong, and the unique to keep up the good work.

I have a friend who hails from a small town in Tennessee who recalls that the city hall janitor also moonlighted as the county coroner. The arrangement worked out well until one day the janitor/coroner released a report that a murder victim had stabbed himself twenty-three times. It was the worst case of suicide ever recorded in Tennessee.

And there is my friend, Loralee, who lives in Washington, DC, and consistently refers to our capital city as “occupied territory.”

My all-time favorite story of Southern rural life was told to me by a friend who grew up in pocket-sized town in South Carolina. Tyrone was one of the town’s eccentric residents. Tyrone was a pleasant fellow who suffered from the affliction “som’er teeth.” For the unlearned… this meant some of his teeth were gone and some were not. However, the day came when the local dentist pulled the last of Tyrone’s teeth.

Tyrone having never managed to hold down a full time job for longer than a day was spending the rest of his days eating soft food. Since his momma’s passing, Tyrone had depended on odd jobs and the kindness of neighbors to survive. Mostly, Tyrone just hung out waiting on someone to ask him to repair a lawn mower or run an errand. With each visit home, my friend could count on running into Tyrone at which time, they would exchange pleasantries about the weather, wooly worms and fishing. During one visit she noticed that Tyrone had a mouth full of teeth. “Why Tyrone,” she said. “Those are fine teeth you’ve got there. Now you can eat spare ribs and corn on the cob.”

“You know,” Tyrone replied, “I was down at the funeral parlor and they had a bowl of teeth. It didn’t take long for me to find a pair that fit.”

Recently, my son-in-law answered a desperate plea. This tale provides hope that the younger generation will carry on our traditions. His story could have happened only in the South. In an attempt to restore sanity to his place of work, he had to shoot a dead rooster.

You see, my son-in-law, Barry, works in an industrial complex. According to this most recent “Jack tale”, I have decided that this place, if it was not on the back roads of a Southern city, would exist only in a parallel universe.

They have several acres where their offices are located and a large warehouse. It is surrounded by a fence, but Southerners know…fences rarely deter wildlife. One day, a rooster and a hen jumped the fence and set up housekeeping in their facility. At first, their co-habitation was beneficial to all. The free range hen contributed eggs as rent payment. Her roosting places were unique; she preferred hats, machinery, chair seats and mail boxes. A well-meaning employee built a chicken coop with a fence around it. For a couple of months life was good, the chickens were happy and the eggs were organic. After all, organic eggs lain by free range chickens would cost more than $2.99 a dozen in grocery stores.

Enter the villain, a feral cat. One sultry summer night…the green eyes of a hungry cat peeked over the fence. On this dark night, this feral intruder grabbed the hen and ate her. There were only a few feathers left to signify her existence.

Now, those of us born in the country know that you can’t keep an egg-sucking hound out of the henhouse once he has tasted an omelet. We now know that once a feral cat tastes chicken breasts, they become stealthy and adversarial gourmands.

Did I mention that this is a tragic story? Before leaving work the evening following the hen’s death, Barry decided to shut the rooster up in the chicken coop to protect him from the feral cat.

The next morning, when the first person arrived at work, they went to the chicken coop to let the rooster out into the yard. The rooster stepped out into the open range and began to run in circles. The dismayed rooster was headless, having been recently relieved of his head by the cat.

The tenacious green-eyed villain had climbed to the top of the door,  reached in and grabbed himself a neck for breakfast.

Chickens do not die in a tidy fashion. It is not a pretty sight. It just takes a chicken a longer time to “give up the goat”, so-to-speak, and lay down dead. City folks aren’t aware of this phenomenon, but country folks are.

To bring calm to chaos, a quick thinking employee stuck a licensed gun into Barry’s hand and begged him to shoot the dead, but active rooster.    Being good souls, before leaving work on that fateful day, they bought a humane trap and stocked it with a fresh chicken breast.  The cat took the bait and the feral cat society was called to rescue the cat. Hopefully, the cat has been spayed and is living happily ever after in some yard without chickens. However, I am willing to bet that that cat will always dream of the wild and the taste of fresh chicken. The world changes constantly, but nature never waivers.

While there are plenty of genteel Southern towns, Shuffletown was not one of them. She was a place where our ancestors led hard scrabble lives, we shared our home site with the Catawba River. Shuffletonians were once known as “river rats.” Shuffletonians were cantankerous, knew their neighbors and, well, we were real. Just as many Southern eccentrics are not within shouting distance of observing the world as others may do, but their approach always proves to be on a collision course with reality. It is not that we are not smart and educated; it is only that we prefer to think a little differently…inside or outside of the box.  Shuffletown deserves a wake similar to Finnegan’s or at least a womanless wedding to celebrate what once was a semi-scenic community where the men were hardy, the women were tolerant, and the children were free range. May we always remember there once was a place called Shuffletown.

I have stayed too long in California. It is time to come home. I have overstayed my welcome in the TMS (“Too Much Sun”) of California. We have sun in the Southern states. We get enough sun to be happy, but we can still think, for the most part. We know what is odd and who is odd; and we tolerate them. I am beginning to suspect the constant Los Angeles TMS has caused brain damage. Readers may recall that I made reference to the phenomena last year—except it was happening to other people, not me…

Why do I suspect this? It happened last night. I elected to stay home from a meeting because it was too cold to go outside. It was 59 degrees and with the wind chill factor, it was a chilly 58 degrees… I turned up the heat and stayed home. Living in Los Angeles makes the South look sensible. My blood has thinned from the constant sun and I am losing all remnants of logic.

A person can stay too long in L.A. This is particularly true when your birth place is below the Mason Dixon Line and you are fond of exaggeration. We have always encouraged individuality in the South, but in California even the most bizarre individuals simply blend into the crowd. While Southerners are prone to flights of fantasy, the citizens of Los Angeles live in a world of fantasy.

When you drop a Southerner into the Western Culture known as California, what you get is overexposure. My friend, Debbie, is an excellent example of what can happen to a Southerner who stays too long in the LA sun.

Debbie is a former beauty queen from Atlanta and a former member of the Rejuvenating Society of the Virgin Phoenix (RSVP). Many of you have met these RSVP ladies. In college their misdeeds and adventures were legend–for never having really happened–even though, they really happened. For example, it didn’t count because she had her fingers crossed instead of her legs; it didn’t count because she still had her boots on; and it didn’t count if she had been sleeping.

Debbie’s age is somewhere between thirty-eight and fifty-three. For years Debbie has told me that she has never married. Recently, we shared a long lunch and she confided in me that she was married once in Las Vegas, but it didn’t count because she doesn’t remember the ceremony. And further, she confessed, “I did marry him one more time when his green card came up for expiration or something, but that didn’t count because it was also in Las Vegas. “It all seems like a dream, anyhow,” she added, “I look at it as a long engagement.” See what I mean? Debbie has stayed (way) too long in LA Sun. She is definitely afflicted with TMS.

Another reason, I suspect, that I have stayed in Los Angeles too long is…
I no longer stare at women wearing the combination of hot pants and sheepskin boots. These fur boots are worn in January and July; in 60 degree weather and 100 degree weather. Having stayed too long, I can, also, select five women from any crowd who consider their primary physician to be their plastic surgeon. In L.A., Botox is sold on street corners.

For instance, you can walk into any of the hundreds of restaurants in Los Angeles and ask for sweet ice tea, but not one will have it on the menu. You can dine on sheep’s head, octopus, or sweetbreads, but never enjoy a tall glass of sweet iced tea. However, there will always be on the table ten different types of sweetener and each tiny little packet will be imprinted with the obligatory note: no harm was done to animals in the development of this product.

In West Hollywood, a city within Los Angeles, you can purchase whips and chains for your own personal amusement, but it is against the law to chop off a puppy’s tail. I think that makes sense. If someone is crazy enough to enjoy being beaten, they deserve to be beaten. But the puppy does not volunteer for the knife. His tail is cut off without his permission.

In Los Angeles, backyards, if you have one, are the size of postage stamps. But this slice of dirt and grass barely larger than a single car garage will be maintained on a weekly basis by three Latin men and two Japanese gardeners. It will be landscaped to include a palm tree, two Japanese maples, an abundance of tropical plants and a cascading waterfall. The lawn could be mowed with an electric razor or clipped with scissors. The scissors method would require ten minutes so is usually considered too time consuming.

The final reason I need to come home is because whooping cough is on the rise in California and, I caught it. Recently, I visited my doctor for what I thought was a cold. During the appointment she decided to run a blood test for whooping cough. A week later she called to notify me that the test was positive and that she had turned my name into the Los Angeles County Health Department and the CDC (Center for Disease Control). I am now on a first name basis with the nurses at the County Health Department and they have informed me that adult whooping cough cases are on the rise in California, which means it will soon be on the rise across the country…

You would think a woman with three, used, white wedding gowns would slide effortlessly into the culture of Los Angeles, but it is all too much for me. I am coming home to NASCAR country where professionals are paid big bucks to drive fast and fishtail while driving in circles. Drivers in L.A. will do it for free. In this “All about Me” place known as Los Angeles, there are no rules. Los Angeles makes the South look like the home of good sense, sound thinking and compelling logic.

— From Ferry Tales, a monthly column by Judy Rozzelle in the Mt. Island Monitor, Huntersville, NC

There is a song that many do not hear. There is a rhythm that many do not know. It is the song of life. James Eubanks has heard this song for as long as he can recall. Eubanks was born into poverty and hard work, and he was born singing, “Hallelujah.” James Eubanks was born happy, optimistic, and curious. These three traits made him a good neighbor and a hard-working man.

“Children were born to be farm hands back then,” he says, “I remember how cold we used to get, going out to pick cotton on early mornings. But hard work quickly warmed us up.”

James Eubanks never attended school. “You didn’t need an education to follow a mule,” he said. “Me and my (eleven, six boys and six girls) brothers and sisters worked all day in the crop fields. We started work at the first light of day and didn’t quit until after dusk. By noon we were dead tired. You just don’t know how hot you can be until you are caught standing between the noon day sun and the dry dusty earth.

“We always looked forward to lunch time. Our mom would fix a pot of beans and fill an empty eight-pound lard bucket to the brim for lunch. Then she would make enough biscuits to fill another empty eight-pound lard bucket. That was lunch. Around noon someone would go down to a creek or a well and draw water for us to drink. Then we all gathered around and shared the lunch Mom had prepared. When we finished lunch, we were ready for several more hours of hoeing or harvesting.”

“Word got around about my family. We were known for our hard work and we were hired as tenant farmers at several farms around Jefferson, South Carolina. My family moved so much that when the hens heard a wagon rumbling down the road, they would sit down and cross their legs. You know, when a farm family moved, you tied the chickens legs together before you threw them in the wagon for the trip.”

“When we moved into an old cabin, we cleaned that place up like it was a mansion. Mom made a broom out of corn shucks and we scrubbed the floor with creek sand until it shined. The floor planks in some of those homes were so sparse that you could see the chickens scratching around underneath the house.”

James never learned to read and write, but he worked fifteen years in a cotton mill before moving to Charlotte to become a butcher for an A & P Grocery in the early 1960s.

“Now, I don’t mean to be bragging,” he says with a smile, “but I have had a good life. I spent a lot of time hunting and fishing; I have eaten a lot of squirrels; and I have been blessed.”

Life has been good to James Eubanks because he has been good to neighbors and many animals. Behind his home on Mt. Holly-Huntersville Road is a pet graveyard with hand-made tombstones. Here lies Ginger, Joy, Hobo, Pepper, Dusty, Sparky, Daddy Long Legs, Whitey, Gray, and Busy Britches. In the 1990s, James had a 1981 Toyota pick-up truck and whenever he got in it to go somewhere, five dogs would jump into the bed of the truck.

It is part of James’ good nature that has brought him good luck in his life and a basic rule of thumb he has always lived by is…James believes in being a good neighbor. Before the turn of the 21st Century, James and his neighbors formed a co-op. James refers to his team of neighbors as “The Clan.”

“If your hay needed harvesting, if your fence needed mending, if your barn needed work, we all got together and got it done, usually in one day,” James says. Members of The Clan were a mixed group of African Americans and white farmers. If you wanted to work with your neighbors, then you were part of The Clan. The color of a person’s skin don’t make any difference when it comes to hard work.”

One of James most rewarding friendships began with a bolt. Right after moving to the Shuffletown area, Eubanks noticed Mary Alice Abernathy wearing a large bonnet and plowing the field with an FCX Coop tractor.

“I stopped to ask about something and noticed that the plow needed a strong bolt. I fixed it with a bolt I had in the truck. On that visit I met Jesse Phillips, who worked for the Abernathy women all his life.
Jesse helped out with everything on their farm. I became friends with Jesse and stopped by often to help him out with his chores. The Abernathy women watched me like a hawk. They didn’t know me and they didn’t know what to make of me. Finally, one day, I told them they didn’t have a thing I wanted. I was just there to help out. From that day on, we were all friends.”

The Abernathy family came to the area around 1750s and built a two room log cabin by the side of the road. Their farm was made up of more than 78 acres and running it required a lot of hard work. Their father, Francis Abernathy, was the local blacksmith, farmer, veterinarian, and guidance counselor. If a family was in trouble, he would light a lantern; go on down the road to see if he could help them work through their troubles. Farmers brought him their sick animals and their plows to be mended. When he died, the three Abernathy spinsters took over running the farm. Local legend suggests that they never met a man who could build a fence as good as they could and, therefore, the Abernathy women never married.

Jesse died one day of a heart attack when he was preparing to milk the Jersey cows. It seemed natural to James that he should step in and assist the women. In the next decade he doubled their herd of cows and helped them harvest and plant their crops. He took care of them and watched over them as they grew elderly. Miss Lucy Abernathy died of cancer and Miss Lavenia died of congestive heart failure leaving Mary Alice Abernathy alone.

James and Mary Alice became fast friends. There were many similarities between James Eubanks and her father, Francis Abernathy. James also enjoyed working with metal, he cared for animals and he was a good farmer.

One afternoon, one of Mary Alice’s cats was under the hood of a car when the engine was started. “That cat’s neck was torn up when it jumped out,” says James. “We hated to see the cat like that. So we decided to fix the wound. We got one of Mr. Abernathy’s crooked needles, cut a Clorox bottle into two pieces and made the top wide enough to fit the top of the bottle around the cat’s neck. Then we sat the cat into the bottle and stuck her neck through the top half of the bottle. Once we did that, I sewed up the cat’s neck. The cat lived for more than two more years, until it got hit by a car on Mt. Holly- Huntersville Road.”

Despite his lack of education, James Eubanks is a renaissance man. He is a self-taught engineer, builder and carpenter, architect, welder, farmer and inventor. In an era when men were born into poverty and pain, James Eubanks became a student of life. One of his prized possessions is a walking stick he fashioned for Miss Mary Alice. It is a walking stick with a small hoe blade attached to the end of it.

“I had noticed that as Miss Mary Alice walked around the farm, she would dig away at weeds with the end of her cane. So, I made her a cane that was also a handy tool. The cane pleased her and she loved digging up weeds with it.”

In his time, James has designed and built wood splitters, plows and hinges. But it is his barn design that captured the attention of many neighbors. One evening when he was in his tool shed, James drew what he thought would be a good barn. “I didn’t know the dimensions, but I knew what was needed to make a good barn.” The next day, he took it to Ross and Don Tench. They laid out the dimensions and height of the barn. The men of the neighborhood co-op came together and the barn was constructed. James cast the hinges for the barn in his welding shop. Today there are more than twelve barns built to Eubanks’ design. The barns are located in Shuffletown, Long Creek, Huntersville, and Marion. Eubanks forged the hinges for each barn in his shop, doing what he readily admits is his favorite activity, working with metal.

Mike Lucas built the Eubanks barn in Shuffletown and built a new one when he and his wife, Jill, moved to Marion, North Carolina. “It is a good looking barn,” Mike says, “and it is practical.” James Eubanks could have ruled the world if he had had just a high school education,” said Mike.

In the late 1990s, Mary Alice Abernathy’s body just wore out. In her will, she left the farm to James Eubanks for his kindness and care during her lifetime.

Often, we forget the proud journey of a life, especially when it is not written down. James Eubanks was born into hard times as were most of our parents and grandparents. In these lives we find the strength of lessons learned and challenges overcome. Joseph Campbell said that every life is a hero’s tale. Certainly, James Eubanks life is a hero’s tale.

— From Ferry Tales, a monthly column by Judy Rozzelle in the Mt. Island Monitor, Huntersville, NC

I moved home to Shuffletown from the city when my last child graduated from high school. I had promised my dad that I would return once my kids were grown. I moved into Dad’s small yellow rental house on Mt. Holly Huntersville Rd. about three hundred yards from the Shuffletown crossroads. Dad was probably the only family member delighted by my return.Well, that’s not completely true. I do believe my Cousin Phyllis enjoyed my three year retreat to Shuffletown as it provided a grand opportunity to continue the love-hate relationship of our childhood. We visited over coffee, watched television together late into the night.

And we traveled together. Phyllis, who taught Shakespeare at the local high school, made reservations for visits to England while I treated her with trips to resorts that offered me, free accommodations in trade for articles I would write in travel magazines. At that time, I was still a member in good standing of a regional outdoor writers’ association. Every year, I received an invitation to their annual convention. With my two kids in tow, I had attended one of their conventions back in the 1970s. I had a wonderful time. I learned to shoot a bow and arrow and met several interesting men some of whom had a full set of teeth.

The ratio of men to women outdoor writers, at that time, was 51 to two. Back in 1971, the only reason I had only been invited to join the circle of men was because I signed my articles on marlin fishing and boat building with my initials, not my first name.

When I received the annual invitation to the convention, I became obsessed with the idea that this would be a grand adventure for me and Phyllis. The writers’ convention was to be held at a large state park in Tennessee.

“Why don’t you come along with me to the convention,” I asked Phyllis on one of our convenience store runs, trying not to sound too attached to the idea.

“What?” she retorted? “Are you asking me to go as your spouse?”

“Well, I am currently without a spouse,” I responded.

“They’ll think we are lesbians?”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” I replied. “We will wear heels to the banquet on the first night.”

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One of my dear friends, Pat Henderson, passed away while I am far from home. The reality of the loss has not completely hit me because in my mind’s eye, she is still sitting on her front porch watching the world go by or comfortably ensconced in her favorite overstuffed chair in her living room. Unlike other neighbors, I have not seen the funeral bow tied to the entrance of her home. And, I know that out of habit, the first place I will look when I return home in March is Pat’s house, but she will not come out to wave at me and holler across the way, “Welcome home, neighbor.”

I will miss her. I will miss sitting with her on her front porch in late afternoon watching the sun set. From her perch on the front porch she invited us to sit with her. Pat’s laughter was contagious. I have a lovely group of neighbors and Pat’s porch was where we gathered in the gloaming of the day. She encouraged us to us to come sit a while and do nothing other than visit with each other. It was a time to pause and forget about the trials of the day. Pat’s porch was a knitting point for the neighborhood.

Pat was a card-carrying, joyfully cantankerous woman. She loved living, her family, her friends, and our little community. She loved the color purple, shopping, visiting the beauty salon to have her hair done; she loved spending time with her large family.

I used to watch for her red Chevrolet Impala pulling into her parking space. Our neighbor, Marion Davis, rolled her garbage can out for her each Wednesday afternoon. Shirley Weeks cared for Pat’s flowers and many others in the community enjoyed helping her with her chores. When she had been to the grocery store, I rushed over to help her bring in her groceries. These acts of kindness made us all better people.

There is a now a hole in our community, our circle of friends. There is one less hand to hold, one less person to laugh with, and one less person to care for. I have lost the sound of her laughter. It is a time of adjustment for all those who knew Pat Henderson.

One of my friends noted recently in an email that she had lost three good friends in the previous month and how sad it had left her. She further noted that she felt as if she was being selfish in that she could not shake the feeling of loss. I don’t think she could have been more wrong. Because, when we lose a close friend, we lose so many things that go unnoticed. We are forced to adjust our daily living. And we are encouraged to avoid grieving, a human emotion that is primal to our existence.

We knew Pat was ill and that one day she would not be with us, but harsh realities are often pushed to the back of the closet where we pretend it will never really happen. When my cousin, Phyllis Henline, died, I had spent many nights with her. Death stood just outside the door, but we never had the nerve to speak of death or how we would continue living without her. I didn’t do a very good job of living after her funeral. The void was too big and too quickly there were other family deaths. So, therefore, I am a big proponent of setting side time to properly grieve.

When we lose a friend…we lose part of our future. It certainly changes our future. Our ancestors knew that death causes a seismic shift in our personal worlds. They knew the importance of grieving.

In this disposable age we have dispensed with many of the old funeral rites. Our forefathers understood the importance of taking time to grieve.

I am not recommending that we return to the days when we held wakes and brought the casket back to the house for visitation, but I am suggesting that we set more time aside for grieving. It is after the funeral that the void comes in and sits down next to us. The grieving is not over when the last hymn is sung and we follow the casket to the grave.

Today, we return to work the next day or as soon as possible…to begin again, as if nothing has happened. What if we still wore black arm bands for thirty days following the funeral? It would be an outward sign of our loss and honoring the ones who have gone ahead. It would help us in our grieving and possibly create a kinder world. Many religions still do this today and it would not hinder our office work. It would only by a symbol of respect and a way to silently grieve.

Funerals are for the living, those who grieve. We need to acknowledge this. Grief, like a fog, hovers about the friends and family of the departed for many months and, sometimes, years.

W. H. Auden wrote a poem entitled Funeral Blues. It captures the essence of grief. I would like to offer a verse from it to all who have recently lost a loved one or a close friend.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos, and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put Crepe bows round the white neck of the public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

I believe that just as a river winds around a bend and disappears from sight, it is still there, though out of sight. So it is with death. Our loved ones have only gone ahead, around the bend, where they wait for us to laugh and love again. Good bye, Dear Pat, thank you for your laughter, friendship and the memories. We grieve for you.

— From Ferry Tales, a monthly column by Judy Rozzelle in the Mt. Island Monitor, Huntersville, NC

There is a problem in our global community — and it is women. I am not talking politics or women in politics, they are an unknown gender having become like their male cohorts: What they say today, they won’t repeat or recall tomorrow. Let’s just say that today’s politicians deal in illusions. It is done with smoke and mirrors. Polls, all askew and slanted, make their minds see-saw. Politicians have become the mythical shape shifters you read about in science fiction.

I am talking about personal power. Women have forgotten that we shape the world. Women are the hearth; women create the home, women nurture. History down through the ages has proven that if man is left to his own devices he will destroy himself. Enlightenment comes from women. Women must stand beside men and whisper wisdom into their ears. According to the ancient Kabbalah, women are the spiritual centers of marriages.

We birth the babies — we populate the world — we can and should shape the world. The world is on fire and women can help put it out. We can steer the men of the world to “Seek another way.” Women can shift the world back to reason and compassion. All women are responsible for shaping the world, “the hand that rocks the cradle — shapes the world.” There are so many ways to nurture and support. Men are destroying themselves and our world. It is their nature to fight. Men must be shown another way for our survival on this planet. It is time for peace and it is up to women to change the world and restore order.

The hard-earned freedoms most Western women enjoy today were not easily bestowed. At the turn of the twentieth century, suffragists ran the risk of being involuntarily admitted to mental asylums. In 1917 women picketed the White House. President Wilson’s administration had them arrested and jailed. When they went on a hunger strike they were force fed. Briefly, the leaders of the Suffrage Movement established a third political party, The Women’s Party. We do not want to go back fifty or 100 years; and we do not want to wait fifty or a hundred years for our sisters to awaken or catch up.

Why do 21st century women wear robes that are ancient symbols? They are relics from ancient eras and whereas 40 years ago Americans thought this style of dress was an oddity and quaint, now we see them as dark symbols of oppression.

Knowing human nature as we do, there cannot be one simple answer. Some women take pride in wearing the “chador” because they show their status in society; other tolerate them and wear them with the same sort of reverence as Catholic women who wear lace veils to Mass. Still others must hate wearing them. As for me, I am proud to sit in church hatless. It is my way of saying, how grateful I am I was not created bald.

The wearing of the ancient robes becomes more commonplace as you move into extremely impoverished countries like Afghanistan or extremely repressive and fundamentalist societies like Saudi Arabia. Women are so much more than their wardrobe. Women have spirit and wisdom that needs to be unleashed. Now.

American women were trained as Home Guards during World War I and we rolled up our sleeves and went to work in factories and shipyards during World War II.

Today, we are doctors, lawyers, accountants, and first and foremost, mothers. While the world casts aside axe murders and terrorists, who stands beside these unfortunate souls, who cries over their graves — their Mothers.

God did not intend for women to take a secondary role or to quietly accept second class citizenship. How can a woman accept the statement, “I divorce you; I divorce you; I divorce you,” without recourse? Without equality, without an education, we are slaves.

This is the time to encourage women all over the globe to be heard. I am not suggesting that women should turn from their chosen religion or remove their chadors, but I believe it is time to bring feminine energy to a world on fire. And this requires all women to be joined in unity for world peace. Women should never allow themselves to remain uneducated, and we should fight like rabid tigers to see that our daughters do not face the same fate. When the Taliban burns a girls’ school we should all rise up in outrage.

Jihads and religious fervor are holding back social evolution in the Middle-East. In plain talk, their energies are out of sync. Its Yin and Yang are lop-sided. The Yin and Yang of life is out of sync in the Middle-East. When men hold complete domination over women — their society is out of balance. The circle of Yin and Yang is a Chinese symbol of perfect balance. When either sex dominates, a country’s Yin and Yang is unbalanced. It is time to take a little Yin out of the Yang and bring the world back in balance.

Where do we begin? One place would be to follow the solution offered by Athenian women in the Aristophanes’ Greek play, “Lysistrata.” The plot is simple. Athenian women fed up with the Peloponnesian War go on a sex strike to force their husbands to vote for peace with Sparta. At that time, the Peloponnesian War had lasted twenty one years —

The simple solution should begin at the top echelons of our society. Laura Bush must stop sleeping with George W. and Tony’s Blair’s wife should follow suit. Lynne Cheney should make the same choice and lock Vice President Cheney out of the bedroom. How hard could that be? Mrs. Rumsfeld could seek refuge in a spiritual retreat until Rumy seeks another solution to war. Wives and mistresses of all Senators and Congressmen should lock the door to their boudoirs. Tony Snow’s wife should lock him out of his house just because he disrespectfully blamed today’s mess on the President’s father, President George Herbert Walker Bush I.

And in the Middle-East wives should band together and carry wrought iron frying pans under their chadors. It is amazing the damage a well-seasoned iron frying pan can have on a man’s thinking. And consider this, when a man has several wives — he is outnumbered. As my good friend, Mabel, used to say, “My husband would never hit me. He has to sleep sometime.”

When women forget their power and grace — the world slides into darkness. Hundreds of women die in the Middle-East each year because they cannot see oncoming traffic through the tiny slits that reveal their eyes.

Women must give birth to peace in our global community. Ask any self respecting young Southern female driving a Dodge Hemi how she would respond to demands from her boyfriend that she walk three paces behind him, stay home while he goes out and parties, or that she was no longer allowed to read or write. She would “run him over.”

Dignity is a basic human right. There is nothing dignified about being subservient. Our Arab sisters deserve better. Sisters, snap the locks shut, buy a cast iron skillet and look forward to driving your first Dodge Hemi.