education & decorum from off - campus
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| The old furniture store |
Education - the process of facilitating learning or the acquisition of knowledge, skills, beliefs, and habits. Though offered and sold in institutional settings it can be found anywhere and is best gained through firsthand experience (no need for the middle man).
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Sophomore year - Seeking greener pastures on the gridiron, and off, I ventured south to enroll at my parent's alma mater; then called, Hampton Institute. Though initially impressed with the school I was underwhelmed at the prospect of living in Southeastern Virginia. I'd yet to recognize, or appreciate, the benefits of life in Southern, small town, USA; that would happen later, after experiencing the other side of the fence.
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Continued...
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| Downtown Hampton, VA (circa 2000) . . . . |
Hampton, VA (circa 1864)
Three years after it was burned to the ground
by Confederates at the beginning of the Civil War
Basic divestment 101...
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| Hampton Normal & Agricultural Institute - (circa 1868) |
(1982) Fall semester - It was a different learning institution in a different environment with different lessons for me to learn. When I arrived at Hampton Institute direct financial support from my parents immediately vanished and my weaning occurred just as nature had intended; with plenty of kicking and screaming on my part. First on the parental chopping block went money for textbooks; next up for pruning was car insurance. Desperate in the final throes of my dependency I begged for clemency to no avail. Right away, I secured part-time employment that would allow me to fulfill my dual role as a student athlete; aside from food, shelter, and books I didn't need much. Who needs insurance? It would be many years before I even considered planning for the unplanned; those days, my existence was a simple one where "T's" often went uncrossed.
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Luckily, my mother was teaching at Hampton Institute at the time; which, benefited me in the form of a slight tuition reduction. I also enjoyed the traditional perks of having a parent nearby; a home cooked meal here, a couple months of room and board there. Mothers always come through when you need them. The tactics my parents used to "divest" from my education were subtle but effective. I recall my father answering my collect calls with a preemptive "Hello, it's good to hear from you. I was just making arrangements to have the Volvo's transmission rebuilt so I don't have any money. How's school?" My father must have had his transmission overhauled every month between my sophomore year and graduation.
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.My father's transmission died every month
until after I completed college
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.My parents on Hampton's campus (Circa 1961)
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The ceremonial cutting of financial ties between parent and offspring had finally come to pass. Not to worry, though; for, it would be here, at Hampton Institute, that I'd come across a gathering of assorted survivors, hustlers, and go getters, and the timing couldn't have been better. It was the real school within the school and I'd come to the right place. To have borne witness to the assorted challenges my associates faced, and overcame, and remain unmoved was impossible; though, not always scholarly in the academic sense, my peers were indomitable. What I learned from them outweighed anything I ever gained in a classroom.
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| My younger brother Alan and my father's old Volvo My father gave it to him when he finished college |
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The apprenticeship...
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By the second semester of my sophomore year all of my living, and college related, expenses were solely my responsibility. I'd just turned nineteen and moved into a rental property with three of my football teammates, G. Bell, T. McCray, and K. Joiner; they were all from Winter Haven, Florida. Joiner was a strong-armed quarterback with bad feet and Bell was a receiver, built like a linebacker, who caught footballs as if they were hot chicken nuggets; it wasn't pretty but he got the job done. McCray was a defensive back who reveled in making guys blow snot bubbles when he hit them. The four of us shared a house across town from campus.
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It was never dull at 382 Schley Avenue; McCray
was the resident chef, Bell was the notorious "Kitchen Bandit," and
Joiner was the man of mystery among us. Our house had two primary modes; weekend hangout and weeknight hangout. The eternally ravenous Bell was prone to bouts of "eat walking" late at night so the rest of us slept with one eye open to protect our groceries. Since I was the last to move in, I drew the short straw and got stuck with the dining room as my sleeping quarters.
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| . The chef |
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It was around this juncture I started an apprenticeship in Advanced Cashless College Admissions Tactics under the renowned Davin J., a perpetual college student and Philadelphia native who'd mastered the art of talking his way into college. I first met Davin on campus in the Student Union café. Right away, I noticed he had on a pair of red leather wingtips; which, I took as a sign of alternative thinking.
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Davin wasn't your typical, aimless, college knucklehead; he was chatty, gregarious, and spoke with a confident grin. Over time, as I got to know him better, I discovered he had a knack for exploiting institutional loopholes; though amused by this behavior, I felt it was a useful skill, so I took notes. Davin's repertoire of verbal Origami enabled him to defeat the mental radar of most any run of the mill college admissions officer. Call him charismatic, full of initiative, or just plain audacious; Davin's multiple cashless college enrollments are a testament to the craft of a bygone era. I'd be astounded if he didn't end up in politics.
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Many a college student founders and vanishes on the high seas of financial independence; this typically occurs as the student's "academic ship" loses sight of the landmass known as parental support. Davin built his own ship; perhaps, not the most seaworthy, yet it managed to stay afloat. Many, if faced with the same conditions, would have never left port.
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As a result of this new found inspiration, my original college admission seeking posture of passivity, waiting, and want evolved into an offensive arsenal of theatrics, little white lies, and mental diversionary tactics. Interestingly, the techniques I learned from Davin have since served me greater than my degree.
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| The old Collis P. Huntington Library I remember spending lots of time...in places other than here |
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Davin never seemed to let trivial matters such as not having proper car registration, a valid driver's license, or a place to stay keep him from achieving his objectives. I recall one fine August evening when Davin showed up unannounced on my doorstep; he'd just completed the long, seven and a half hour, journey from Philadelphia and seemed to have all of his worldly possessions stuffed into the ancient Buick cooling its heels in my Hampton, Virginia, driveway. Amid back slaps and handshakes, temporary room and board was quickly negotiated and approved.
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| An unexpected guest |
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Shortly thereafter Davin, laughingly, stated his intention of "re-enrolling" at Hampton Institute the following month. Then he suggested we "get some beer" to celebrate the occasion in his trusty Buick. Approximately fifteen minutes later, as we sat in Davin's car stopped at a red traffic light, he calmly informed me, if he were to get pulled over by the police, we both should get out and run.
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Cash, credit, or sweat?
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"Fend for yourself"
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My fellow students came from a variety of backgrounds and situations and paid for their college educations in various ways; some had
scholarships, while others borrowed from Peter to pay Paul and mortgaged their
futures. Of course, there were those fortunate enough to receive direct financial support from their families; levels of support could range from having all tuition, books, and living expenses fully covered to merely getting dropped off at the college gate with a suitcase and a handshake.
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| "Good luck son... By the way, if any of your bills come to the house we'll forward them to you" |
During the early enrollment period going into the second semester of my junior year (my first junior year) I recall meeting a returning sophomore from the upper
mid-west who'd just arrived on campus; he seemed a well-groomed fellow and had a stereotypical "Joe College" look about him. Apparently, he'd been trying to reenroll for the upcoming spring semester and had just gotten off the phone with his father. He told my friends and I a sob story about how his parents had been threatening to cut off his financial support. When queried about part-time jobs, admissions tactics, and
financial aid he said he'd never heard of such things; then he passed the joint
he'd been puffing on to the next guy.
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Fool's gold...
unsolicited advice for young-ins
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| . Young prospectors with their new shovels (circa 1850) During the California Gold Rush enterprising entrepreneurs made a killing providing supplies such as digging tools, clothes, and alcohol, while the majority of the gold miners fared poorly. Make your choices wisely. |
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Attending college is like prospecting for gold
Once you begin the experience takes on a life of its own. In the end you might
find yourself in a big hole with nothing to show for your efforts.
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It's commonly held, college is where one goes to prepare for the pursuit of the almighty buck; ignorant of an alternative rationale, I just fell in with the herd so, naturally, the trendy, amorphous, herd led me every which way except the way that best suited me. Subsequently, I adopted the "box of chocolates" method of selecting my majors by biting into them, chewing them for a bit, and spitting them out if they didn't taste good; by my junior year (my second junior year) I'd tasted three different majors.
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A seller's market...
Made in America
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Education, in its numerous forms, is always a positive; however, as a naïve young student it had never occurred to me that learning institutions could, ostensibly, promise the moon just to put butts in seats. For the unwitting, such as I undoubtedly was, the institutional aura sets the hook; it's as easy as hooking a catfish at high tide. Whether it's the "any campus USA" neoclassical architecture, the requisite tree lined courtyard, or the ever-present storied dining hall, when combined with one's youthful dreams and aspirations, it all makes for a powerful cocktail. Not surprisingly, the higher education business is a booming.
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The truth is, college hopefuls, and graduates alike, face realities that often differ from the blurry speculative optimism served by for profit schools. A survival driven investment, the higher education business is truly a seller's market, so let the buyer beware. Whenever, and wherever, money's involved there's probably some degree of questionable profit lurking; it's the American way and, if you're not careful, "it" will leave you like a catfish, on the hook for more than what you bargained for.
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Regarding the acquisition of a practical education and useful skills, one needn't worry; as the old saying goes there are many ways to skin a cat. Ultimately, your own drive and determination trumps anything with a price tag. Depending on your goals, there are alternatives to pursuing, increasingly, cost prohibitive college degrees. Many skills and trades can still be gleaned the old fashioned way; via the nomadic journeyman's route.
The truth is, college hopefuls, and graduates alike, face realities that often differ from the blurry speculative optimism served by for profit schools. A survival driven investment, the higher education business is truly a seller's market, so let the buyer beware. Whenever, and wherever, money's involved there's probably some degree of questionable profit lurking; it's the American way and, if you're not careful, "it" will leave you like a catfish, on the hook for more than what you bargained for.
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| . These days, higher education is more of a business than it ever was, and that's not a good thing |
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| . The seven year $200,000.00 investment in the "Underwater Basket Weaving" degree didn't pan out |
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Regarding the acquisition of a practical education and useful skills, one needn't worry; as the old saying goes there are many ways to skin a cat. Ultimately, your own drive and determination trumps anything with a price tag. Depending on your goals, there are alternatives to pursuing, increasingly, cost prohibitive college degrees. Many skills and trades can still be gleaned the old fashioned way; via the nomadic journeyman's route.
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Much of what you seek, or need, can be found, or created, "off campus" in exchange for some of your time and energy. Becoming familiar with your surroundings is key; unless, you happen to reside in an economic wasteland, in which case, perhaps, you should relocate to more fertile pastures, or better yet, create your own experience doing something that suits you. Of course, the "off campus" route is typically uncharted and, thus, less travelled but that's the whole point; there are no shortcuts. Finally, having done everything the long and hard way you'll find yourself where you'll end up; which is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Much of what you seek, or need, can be found, or created, "off campus" in exchange for some of your time and energy. Becoming familiar with your surroundings is key; unless, you happen to reside in an economic wasteland, in which case, perhaps, you should relocate to more fertile pastures, or better yet, create your own experience doing something that suits you. Of course, the "off campus" route is typically uncharted and, thus, less travelled but that's the whole point; there are no shortcuts. Finally, having done everything the long and hard way you'll find yourself where you'll end up; which is exactly where you're supposed to be.
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So, what's the moral of this soliloquy? Unless you have money to burn, endeavor to minimize your reliance on for profit learning institutions. As a rule, try not to accept educational marketing materials, or banal college comparison statistics, at face value and dig below the surface to seek truth; to achieve this you may have to reevaluate your own beliefs. Think long and hard before you leap; then leap.
So, what's the moral of this soliloquy? Unless you have money to burn, endeavor to minimize your reliance on for profit learning institutions. As a rule, try not to accept educational marketing materials, or banal college comparison statistics, at face value and dig below the surface to seek truth; to achieve this you may have to reevaluate your own beliefs. Think long and hard before you leap; then leap.
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School daze...
learning things the hard way
It was my sophomore year I'd begun to take notice of the varying
circumstances of my fellow students; though, most pursued their credential to a desired end a fair number simply vanished. It was always sudden; one day they're happily strolling across campus, the next they're gone. It seemed the herd was thinning before my very eyes. There's really no way to know everyone's situation but one begins to notice; a teammate here, a classmate there. What ever happened to Ron from Buffalo? Little did I know, eventually, the same fate awaited me.
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I often wondered about my peers and what their individual goals were; I assumed they had everything all figured out. Everyone seemed ambitious in a vague, upwardly mobile, kind of way; those who pursued their credentials in the medical and professional fields typically followed established paths and tended to be focused. Undoubtedly, there were others, like myself, who'd yet to figure everything out and were winging it. Many students seemed to select their majors based on the greatest income potential, perhaps, seeking improvement on a standard of living established by their parents. I imagine there were those who chose to pursue certain credentials for altruistic reasons; although, some folks I knew seemed to have confused getting a regular salaried job with ascending to royalty.
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I often wondered about my peers and what their individual goals were; I assumed they had everything all figured out. Everyone seemed ambitious in a vague, upwardly mobile, kind of way; those who pursued their credentials in the medical and professional fields typically followed established paths and tended to be focused. Undoubtedly, there were others, like myself, who'd yet to figure everything out and were winging it. Many students seemed to select their majors based on the greatest income potential, perhaps, seeking improvement on a standard of living established by their parents. I imagine there were those who chose to pursue certain credentials for altruistic reasons; although, some folks I knew seemed to have confused getting a regular salaried job with ascending to royalty.
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| When no news is good news |
One unexpected consequence of my newfound financial independence, involuntary though it was, was my paranoia regarding the school's billing terminology; the, seemingly, deliberate use of menacing accounting terms combined with my fear of being booted from school would always cause me consternation when my tuition statements arrived in the mail. The simple act of opening the envelope could trigger a range of emotions; I always took the term "arrears" seriously. "Past due" wasn't so bad if the figure preceding it was in the low hundreds; however, I'd panic whenever I saw "further action" anywhere on my statement. To me, that meant the end was near.
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I remember getting angry the first time I noticed a "matriculation fee" itemized on my monthly account statement; actually, I didn't know what "matriculation" meant but thought the use of such a word was dubiously superfluous so, I suspected a profiteering conspiracy of some sort. Anyway, towards the end of every month I'd tip toe to my mailbox, peek inside, and find the dreaded envelope bearing the college logo; sometimes, I didn't bother to open it. Perhaps, I hid it in a drawer somewhere, had a beer, and tried to forget about it.
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The high wire act that had been my long running, "cashless," college enrollment streak (5-0 at the time) came crashing down to earth when I was denied admission the Spring semester of my junior year (my second junior year) because my student account had an "outstanding balance." In my previous bouts, I'd outhustled the typically older admissions officers during our bi-annual sit downs by keeping them off balance with my wits and fancy footwork; until I ran into the seasoned veteran Mr. J, that is. Those days, Mr. J, aka "The Comptroller," was the reigning Admission Blocking Champ among the school's senior most bean counters, and he performed as advertised knocking me out (of school) a mere thirty seconds into our first meeting; I was only out for one semester but the defeat nearly ended my college career.
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The high wire act that had been my long running, "cashless," college enrollment streak (5-0 at the time) came crashing down to earth when I was denied admission the Spring semester of my junior year (my second junior year) because my student account had an "outstanding balance." In my previous bouts, I'd outhustled the typically older admissions officers during our bi-annual sit downs by keeping them off balance with my wits and fancy footwork; until I ran into the seasoned veteran Mr. J, that is. Those days, Mr. J, aka "The Comptroller," was the reigning Admission Blocking Champ among the school's senior most bean counters, and he performed as advertised knocking me out (of school) a mere thirty seconds into our first meeting; I was only out for one semester but the defeat nearly ended my college career.
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Immediately, I quit my job at the furniture store and began searching for something I hoped would pay me enough to straighten out my finances so I could finish my degree. After hopscotching a series of local short-term gigs I found gainful employment at the local power company that seemed tailor made for my situation. Subsequently, buoyed from securing a livable wage, I re-enrolled in school, completed my degree, and declared myself ready for the heavy weight slugfest that the 1987 job market was; and step into the ring I did.
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| Mr. J dominated his opponents |
Immediately, I quit my job at the furniture store and began searching for something I hoped would pay me enough to straighten out my finances so I could finish my degree. After hopscotching a series of local short-term gigs I found gainful employment at the local power company that seemed tailor made for my situation. Subsequently, buoyed from securing a livable wage, I re-enrolled in school, completed my degree, and declared myself ready for the heavy weight slugfest that the 1987 job market was; and step into the ring I did.
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As a freshly anointed college graduate it took being on the receiving end of an ass whipping or two before I realized there were numerous unseen factors involved with landing certain types of jobs; though, still, gainfully employed at the power company, I discovered my newly minted bachelor's degree was toothless. My early lack of success in gaining access to the promised land I imagined the corporate world to be wasn't due to lack of effort; quite the contrary. I'd spent many months painstakingly alternating between traditional job hunting methods and hyper aggressive stalk and ambush tactics, and I'm fairly certain I scared off some folks in the process.
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| "Reality" (white trunks) versus me (dark trunks) |
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As a freshly anointed college graduate it took being on the receiving end of an ass whipping or two before I realized there were numerous unseen factors involved with landing certain types of jobs; though, still, gainfully employed at the power company, I discovered my newly minted bachelor's degree was toothless. My early lack of success in gaining access to the promised land I imagined the corporate world to be wasn't due to lack of effort; quite the contrary. I'd spent many months painstakingly alternating between traditional job hunting methods and hyper aggressive stalk and ambush tactics, and I'm fairly certain I scared off some folks in the process.
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Consequently, I discovered prospective employers (aka targets, victims, plaintiffs) had numerous creative ways to tell an ambitious young fellow like myself "get lost." Among the subtle hints I experienced: department heads often claimed they hadn't seen my certified mail correspondence, I was frequently banished to
voicemail hell whenever I attempted to follow-up by phone, and loyal co-workers feigned ignorance of my contact's whereabouts whenever I called in person. "You’re here for Bob
Eubank? Um,... He's out of the office right now... and, um,... I have no idea when, or if he'll ever return."
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| "I'm sorry Mr. Billups, Bob is out of the office forever" |
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I knew rejection was part of the process; nonetheless, as a result of the cumulative effects of numerous "go aways" I became uneasy at the prospect of relying on my degree for survival; I'd begun to question my own worthiness. To date, my Small Ville USA work history had included irrelevant stints in grave digging, lugging furniture, and running from livestock. My peers from "the herd" didn't help with all their talk of "bolstering one's credentials." Could it be the economy? Was it my suit? Perhaps, my haircut? Should I move to a bigger city? In all the hubbub I began to lose myself. It seemed, the small motivational fire I'd lit under myself was burning me to a crisp.
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Right on cue, the post graduate degree mania manifested and started tap-dancing on my fears and insecurities; even dear ol' Grandma piled on prodding me "get a Master's like your father." Consequently, I tentatively inquired into some local graduate programs where I found the admissions staff helpful in a well-rehearsed, passive aggressive, kind of way; a few of them were "more than happy to make room for a guy like you." Sensing my reluctance they even offered loans "in the event you need financial assistance." Layered into all of their byzantine admissions processes were a myriad of costly tests; yet, everything with a price tag only promised a speculative return. Naturally, the "X" factor for any success I'd go on to achieve would be me; which, begged the question: Why attend graduate school in the first place?
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I'd found the situation odd; graduate schools rolling out the red carpet while sought after companies were shooing me off of the premises. I'd begun to realize the world is a complicated place and that I'd have to rethink everything. Though, still relatively naïve, I'd sensed a latent duplicity prevalent in those in positions of power and influence; whoever had the gold made the rules and whatever direction money flowed was where most everyone craved to be. Hot damn; It seemed, I'd stumbled upon the complicated math of American society. Silly me; I must have been swimming against the current the whole time. I'd invested all of that time, money, and effort into getting a degree, and yet, this valuable, potentially, life altering wisdom was just lying about on the ground where just about anybody could have picked it up and pocketed it for free.
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Moving forward, my long-term goal would evolve to working towards a modest financial independence and living a simple, balanced, life. Ultimately, I chose not to enroll in graduate school realizing that, for myself, pursuing another degree would only put me in the poor house. If needed, I'd distinguish myself in other ways. The lesson I took from that experience was useful; whether its money, a plumb job, or the last zebra leg, competition for survival related commodities seems to bring out the worst in folks.
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Right on cue, the post graduate degree mania manifested and started tap-dancing on my fears and insecurities; even dear ol' Grandma piled on prodding me "get a Master's like your father." Consequently, I tentatively inquired into some local graduate programs where I found the admissions staff helpful in a well-rehearsed, passive aggressive, kind of way; a few of them were "more than happy to make room for a guy like you." Sensing my reluctance they even offered loans "in the event you need financial assistance." Layered into all of their byzantine admissions processes were a myriad of costly tests; yet, everything with a price tag only promised a speculative return. Naturally, the "X" factor for any success I'd go on to achieve would be me; which, begged the question: Why attend graduate school in the first place?
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I'd found the situation odd; graduate schools rolling out the red carpet while sought after companies were shooing me off of the premises. I'd begun to realize the world is a complicated place and that I'd have to rethink everything. Though, still relatively naïve, I'd sensed a latent duplicity prevalent in those in positions of power and influence; whoever had the gold made the rules and whatever direction money flowed was where most everyone craved to be. Hot damn; It seemed, I'd stumbled upon the complicated math of American society. Silly me; I must have been swimming against the current the whole time. I'd invested all of that time, money, and effort into getting a degree, and yet, this valuable, potentially, life altering wisdom was just lying about on the ground where just about anybody could have picked it up and pocketed it for free.
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Moving forward, my long-term goal would evolve to working towards a modest financial independence and living a simple, balanced, life. Ultimately, I chose not to enroll in graduate school realizing that, for myself, pursuing another degree would only put me in the poor house. If needed, I'd distinguish myself in other ways. The lesson I took from that experience was useful; whether its money, a plumb job, or the last zebra leg, competition for survival related commodities seems to bring out the worst in folks.
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| Realizing he possessed the last zebra leg Rex quietly slipped away from the dinner table |
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Misc...
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| Early 1980's |
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Holland Hall (Circa 1981) Dr. Walter Lovett, ?, Dr. William and Norma Harvey,and (#42) Greg Duncan Hines |
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| Feeling it (Circa 1982) |
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Norfolk State vs Hampton (1983)
@ Holland Hall
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| Celebrating "Wednesday" @ L. Archie's place (1984) Why celebrate Wednesday? Just because |
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| (1983) |
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| Gridiron Pirate freshmen in front of Stone Manor (circa 1982) Young men came from all over the country looking to better themselves. .. . |
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| Hampton Institute Chapel (circa 1880's) The founder of Hampton Institute, General Samuel Chapman Armstrong, is standing in the lower right hand corner of this photo. |
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| Hampton Institute |
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The Gridiron Pirates...
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The Hampton Pirates - I played for (used for target practice and rode the bench) Ed Wyche and Walter Lovett back in the day. Coach Wyche was known for cruising the Hampton campus in his big, blue, Cadillac, which was usually berthed in front of his throne in Holland Hall; it would be my second experience with a football coach who drove a yacht sized Caddy.
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As with my previous coach, I knew nothing of Coach Wyche's background; I didn't know the Bartow, Florida, native had played center on Florida A&M's 1954 team. Mr. Wyche started his coaching career as an assistant at Howard in 1970 (then interim HC in 73'), before moving on to become the big whistle at Delaware State in 1975; he arrived at Hampton Institute (initially, as Assistant HC) in 1980.
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| 1981 Gridiron Pirates |
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| Pirates coaching staff (circa 1980) Standing: Quillen, Wyche, Sharge, Crocker Kneeling: Blue, Lovett, Howard, and White |
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| *Johnson & Johnson Publishing Co. Dec. 1981 . The CIAA was founded in 1912 on the campus of Hampton Institute. Along with Hampton, the original CIAA members included Howard University (Washington, D.C.), Lincoln University (Pennsylvania), Shaw University (North Carolina) and Virginia Union University. Norfolk State University joined the CIAA in 1962. |
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| . 1983 Gridiron Pirates . . |
Coach Wyche had an air of royalty about him often found in coaches of his day; he often made jokes at his players expense and moved us around the football field as if we were chess pieces. One day, he said to me, “boy, you look like you can run a little bit, go to wide-out”; just like that, after six years at tailback, I was a receiver. Ever the cool one, in most any weather he'd wear a straw hat with sandals.
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...With all due respect.
My teammates were a motley crew of guys from all over the country, mostly the East Coast. There were numerous transfers; running backs “Sweet D” Wilson and “Sputt” Lee came from Wichita State and Grambling, respectively. Quarterbacks B. Cox and M. Stacy came in from New Mexico State and Howard, in that order; the all-purpose K. "Lunch" Coleman arrived from Bethune Cookman. The late C. "Big C" Bailey, a running back and kick returner, was also a transfer, and there were numerous others. Players change schools for a variety of reasons; the most common one is playing time. There were quite a few on Hampton's roster who played without a scholarship. Some guys waited patiently for their opportunities, or created them; others just faded away. That’s what it’s all about, gutting it out when the going gets tough; there's more to sports than just playing the game.
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My first year playing football at the college level I discovered a younger player's status on a depth chart (if a depth chart actually exists) isn’t always clear; this is one of the main reasons players often become disillusioned and transfer. That was me, the typically impatient freshman; I was one of a dozen or so tailbacks at my former school and wanted playing time. I figured, since I moved the ball well against every defensive unit I faced, I should be on the field, and was stubbornly unapologetic about it. I've yet, since, to meet a worthwhile competitor who doesn't think the same way.
My first year playing football at the college level I discovered a younger player's status on a depth chart (if a depth chart actually exists) isn’t always clear; this is one of the main reasons players often become disillusioned and transfer. That was me, the typically impatient freshman; I was one of a dozen or so tailbacks at my former school and wanted playing time. I figured, since I moved the ball well against every defensive unit I faced, I should be on the field, and was stubbornly unapologetic about it. I've yet, since, to meet a worthwhile competitor who doesn't think the same way.
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After transferring in to Hampton I met others who'd transferred for similar reasons and I understood immediately. Of course, there's some salesmanship going on by the coaches; as a 17-year old freshman, I was just too young and immature to understand. Ultimately, football coaches are looking for players who can contribute and players are looking to compete; although, in the end, if one doesn't believe in oneself it's not likely anybody else will.
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.Hampton football (circa 1900)
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| Dr. Walter Lovett Head Football Coach - Hampton Institute (1973 - 80', 84') where he also served as Athletic Director. Head Coach Virginia State (1970 - 1972) |
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| Joe Taylor Head Football Coach - Hampton University (1992 - 2007) the Gridiron Pirates most successful period. Prior to arriving at Hampton he coached at Howard (1983), and Virginia Union (1984 - 1991) Coach Taylor went on to become one of the more decorated college football coaches in the country |
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Recognized HBCU
...With all due respect.
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Off the field, it was pure comedy whenever the fellas got together; many guys seemed more suited to a career on stage in front of an audience than anything else. I can remember a day when a rare snowfall covered Hampton's campus; B. Cox and I took on receivers J. "Hop" Hopson and D. Winston, from Pittsburgh, in a snowball fight.
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Cox was a quarterback from sunny Los Angeles and I had very little experience with snow myself. Little did we know, Hop had been a baseball pitcher in high school. Long story short, Hop’s deadly accuracy left Cox lying face down in the street in front of Holland Hall and me stumbling around with a numb face. The last thing I can recall was being amazed, a snowball could actually curve around a tree. I also remember the superb rotation and velocity of the oncoming snowball; then everything went black.
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The Cafeteria Relays...
running for leftovers
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running for leftovers
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At Hampton, after practice, the football players had lots of running to do and the purpose wasn't always conditioning; for many, it was a mad cross campus dash to the campus cafeteria. We were motivated by the possibility of missing out on the last meal of the day. The stakes were high because, back in those days, most of the football players lived on campus and there were very few places to get any food on, or off, campus after hours. Even the injured players would miraculously regain their speed to avoid missing the last meal of the day.
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There were a couple of reasons to get to the cafeteria quickly; one was to get there before serving time ended, the other was to arrive while there was still good food left. If one were to arrive before closing, yet after the ravenous linemen, one might miss out on the entrée. Oddly, the much larger linemen would somehow beat the smaller skill position guys to the cafeteria.
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There were a couple of reasons to get to the cafeteria quickly; one was to get there before serving time ended, the other was to arrive while there was still good food left. If one were to arrive before closing, yet after the ravenous linemen, one might miss out on the entrée. Oddly, the much larger linemen would somehow beat the smaller skill position guys to the cafeteria.
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“Ike” R. (NG), a Miami (FLA) native with a penchant for destroying centers, would often drive from the practice field to the cafeteria; he had a classic Oldsmobile Cutlass he always kept in pristine condition. I remember hitching a ride with Ike one day after practice. When I opened his car's passenger side door I was surprised to see two McDonald’s bags sitting in the front seat; the bags were neatly folded and carefully arranged. It appeared to be a routine, hamburgers waiting for Ike in the car.
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As I shut the car door behind me Ike took a Big Mac out for himself and offered me another, which, I politely declined. Then he reached back and grabbed a Yoo Hoo drink out of what appeared to be an entire case of Yoo Hoos he had stashed in the back seat. I remember thinking, this must be what the life of an All-American is like.
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Newport News (VA) native J. Hawkins (FB), a big fullback with a little car, would also drive to the cafeteria from the practice field. Beyond one lucky passenger, he'd never offer anyone else a ride claiming his car's rear suspension was bad. As we teammates jockeyed and plead for a second spot in his car Hawkins would chuckle and speed off. On numerous occasions, I've spotted Hawkins with a carload of a half a dozen young ladies, weighing a combined seven hundred plus pounds, headed to the local McDonald's. Alas, a testament to the persuasiveness of the fairer sex.
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Pensacola's (FLA) native "Big T" Smith's (DT) old Mercury Capri is also beyond capacity with a load of defensive linemen stuffed inside. Actually, whenever Big T is in the car alone the suspension bottoms out. With the skill of a seasoned tugboat captain, Big T maneuvers his diminutive Capri over each of the multiple speed bumps between the practice field and the cafeteria.
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Pensacola's (FLA) native "Big T" Smith's (DT) old Mercury Capri is also beyond capacity with a load of defensive linemen stuffed inside. Actually, whenever Big T is in the car alone the suspension bottoms out. With the skill of a seasoned tugboat captain, Big T maneuvers his diminutive Capri over each of the multiple speed bumps between the practice field and the cafeteria.
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The finish line
Virginia Cleveland Hall aka the small cafeteria
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The motley procession of cars, bicycles, and athletes snakes through the campus towards the cafeteria. Fellow students wave and shout greetings towards the procession and Big T acknowledges them with a high pitched “What’s up big daddy?” Standing six foot three and tipping the scales north of three hundred bills the burly defensive tackle has the voice of a ballerina. Upon arrival at the cafeteria the Capri's doors swing open unleashing mysterious smoke and the entire Pirates' defensive front squirms forth into the fresh air.
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The fellas (circa 1983)
From left: (#51) K. "Lunch" Coleman, (#57) T. "Big T" Smith,
(#10) R. "Billy D" Guy, (#42) B. "Cadillac" Anderson
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<HOME>
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Whenever the all too human traits of competitiveness and hunger come together the result often isn't pretty. Though the situation at meal time in Hampton's cafeteria was fairly typical, at times, it could resemble feeding time at the zoo with hungry athletes dueling over everything from pork chops to desserts.
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I recall one evening when a scuffle broke out in the serving line between a fullback and a linebacker over a chicken breast. As the combatants squared off, shoving ensued and trays crashed to the floor; then, from out of nowhere, an opportunistic defensive back swooped in, scooped the prized poultry, and vanished into the crowd. Upon review of instant replay the "intercepted" chicken call was upheld after officials ruled it had never actually touched the floor.
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The infamous "C C" store (circa 1983)
Located just outside the campus gate, it was the only place
students could get a bite to eat after hours.
It didn't look like much but for the hungry it was an oasis.
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I'll never forget the nice ladies who staffed the cafeteria and the control they exhibited over our daily feeding frenzies. In a stern, mother like, manner they'd admonish the larger linemen for crowding smaller skill position players away from the serving counter; the culprits would instinctively bow down and cower before the women in the aprons. It's worth noting, some of those ladies had bigger arms than the football players.
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It was a wonder to witness the power and influence a woman holding a gravy ladle could wield. After all, it was the early 80's and modern political correctness had yet to manifest in our upbringings; everything was "old school" and the key to our hearts was our stomachs. "You want some extra potato's honey?" "Yes ma'am" says a linebacker who'd de-cleated a fullback on the practice field less than twenty minutes ago; a perfect example of Southern manners and respect for elders on full display at the serving counter. If we "behaved" and averted our eyes properly we just might get an extra helping; if not, there was the implicit threat of old school justice administered via rolling pin.
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It was a wonder to witness the power and influence a woman holding a gravy ladle could wield. After all, it was the early 80's and modern political correctness had yet to manifest in our upbringings; everything was "old school" and the key to our hearts was our stomachs. "You want some extra potato's honey?" "Yes ma'am" says a linebacker who'd de-cleated a fullback on the practice field less than twenty minutes ago; a perfect example of Southern manners and respect for elders on full display at the serving counter. If we "behaved" and averted our eyes properly we just might get an extra helping; if not, there was the implicit threat of old school justice administered via rolling pin.
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The women on the serving staff fulfilled their roles with relish and seemed to award extra food to athletes based on motherly instincts. Their individual methods for gauging portion size varied since they sized us up as we arrived at their respective stations; although, whatever they doled out was accepted with giddy appreciation. An extra dollop of potatoes and gravy was typical; perhaps, another piece of bread. There was no hope of getting extra meat.
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Getting a fair share of the grub was a dirty business and we all had our methods; I'd usually position myself between two offensive linemen in the serving line while doing my utmost to look meek and pitiful. Without fail, the ever watchful servers would order the big guys to step aside and move me to the front. I knew not to smile; it was of utmost importance to maintain the downtrodden victim posture. My teammates would frown and roll their eyes because they knew what I was up to.
The women on the serving staff fulfilled their roles with relish and seemed to award extra food to athletes based on motherly instincts. Their individual methods for gauging portion size varied since they sized us up as we arrived at their respective stations; although, whatever they doled out was accepted with giddy appreciation. An extra dollop of potatoes and gravy was typical; perhaps, another piece of bread. There was no hope of getting extra meat.
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Getting a fair share of the grub was a dirty business and we all had our methods; I'd usually position myself between two offensive linemen in the serving line while doing my utmost to look meek and pitiful. Without fail, the ever watchful servers would order the big guys to step aside and move me to the front. I knew not to smile; it was of utmost importance to maintain the downtrodden victim posture. My teammates would frown and roll their eyes because they knew what I was up to.
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Some athletes would hoard their ill-gotten gains until later in the evening for barter or consumption. Some of the more entrepreneurial guys even brought saran wrap into the cafeteria; back then, pork chops were going for three bucks after 10:00 pm in the dormitory.
Some athletes would hoard their ill-gotten gains until later in the evening for barter or consumption. Some of the more entrepreneurial guys even brought saran wrap into the cafeteria; back then, pork chops were going for three bucks after 10:00 pm in the dormitory.
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Dusty M&Ms & Flying Centers...
they melt on the field, not in your pants
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they melt on the field, not in your pants
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Armstrong Stadium
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Above is an aerial view of Hampton's field. In the early 80's the football team practiced behind the big parking lot to the left of the current practice field.
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I can remember an incident that occurred during the summer of 1983 "two a days" held on the parched grass behind Holland hall. It was hot as hell and we were all out there just trying to survive the August inferno. The coaches had us separated by position and spread out around the field in groups. I was with the running backs next to where the O-line was going against the D-line.
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Out of the corner of my eye I noticed K. Blash stuffing a jumbo bag of M&Ms into the front of his shorts. Apparently, he'd been snacking between drills. I wondered how he kept an open bag of M&Ms in place inside his shorts; I figured he must have had a custom pocket sewn inside. A bit later, during a contact drill, Blash locked-up with another lineman in a violent collision. This must have caused a "snack support mechanism" failure inside of his shorts because within seconds dozens of colorful M&Ms rained down his leg into the dirt. Practice came to a screeching halt.
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To play center, or maybe not...
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To play center, or maybe not...
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Ike R. made grown-assed men nervous and twitchy; a cat quick two hundred eighty-five pound nose guard, who slept and took his meals in the weight room, Ike single handedly caused manpower shortages for Hampton's opponents. His specialty was going through centers. It's widely accepted football involves a certain level of violence but the way Ike demolished centers was borderline criminal; it was the game within the game and the pattern was always the same.
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A Hampton opponent's offense breaks the huddle and trots to the line of scrimmage for the first offensive series; the center already knows who's waiting over the ball. Suddenly, it occurs to him, the pre-game bravado and off season weight training he went through meant nothing; there's no turning back now. He nervously grips the football; his thoughts "Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath." This is when the squeamish among those in attendance turn their heads away. The opposing quarterback yells "set" and, immediately, afterwards there's a loud crushing noise similar to that of an automobile collision; the game is stopped and medics dash onto the field. Both team's remove their helmets and take a knee. Right about then, on the opponent's sideline, the assistant coaches are trying to talk a backup tight end into playing center.
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Fear is a funny thing. In the early 80's, for an opponent's center to go on the field for warm-ups must have felt like a long walk to the gallows. Everybody knew about Hampton's demolition man. How did opposing centers cope? Perhaps some prayed, or discovered God; while others probably feigned sudden ailments. The bravest among them just stepped onto the gridiron and faced destiny; maybe even twitching at some point. It was fine to twitch, as long as you didn't do it after "set."
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A similar dynamic played out at Hampton's practices where the reserves were often used as cannon fodder. I recall a day, when I was at tailback on the scout offense and my buddy J. Hawkins was at fullback. There was a freshman, 6’3” three-hundred plus pound, W. Thorne at center that day; opposing Thorne at nose guard was Ike. We broke the offensive huddle and got set in our alignment; confidence was not present. Ike lowered himself into a coiled crouch, angling himself towards Thorne with his forearm cocked; it was a running play so I remember thinking about my assignment and hoping the fullback didn't get stonewalled.
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As the quarterback yelled his cadence, the young center did what many a center had in Ike’s presence, he ever so slightly twitched. That was the trigger; Ike's forearm was applied with the force of a runaway dump truck and Thorne's hefty frame sailed heavenward, cartwheeling over the quarterback before, finally, returning to earth in front of the fullback ("I" formation). As Thorne lay prone on his back I remember thinking, his aerial movement was superb but he hadn't stuck his landing. Seconds later, as Thorne wobbled back to his feet he was cursing angrily. I noted, the impact of Ike's blow had somehow knocked both of Thorne's shoulder pad straps loose; he was only a freshman so we all laughed, silently, with our eyes, as any good teammates would have.
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A Hampton opponent's offense breaks the huddle and trots to the line of scrimmage for the first offensive series; the center already knows who's waiting over the ball. Suddenly, it occurs to him, the pre-game bravado and off season weight training he went through meant nothing; there's no turning back now. He nervously grips the football; his thoughts "Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath." This is when the squeamish among those in attendance turn their heads away. The opposing quarterback yells "set" and, immediately, afterwards there's a loud crushing noise similar to that of an automobile collision; the game is stopped and medics dash onto the field. Both team's remove their helmets and take a knee. Right about then, on the opponent's sideline, the assistant coaches are trying to talk a backup tight end into playing center.
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Fear is a funny thing. In the early 80's, for an opponent's center to go on the field for warm-ups must have felt like a long walk to the gallows. Everybody knew about Hampton's demolition man. How did opposing centers cope? Perhaps some prayed, or discovered God; while others probably feigned sudden ailments. The bravest among them just stepped onto the gridiron and faced destiny; maybe even twitching at some point. It was fine to twitch, as long as you didn't do it after "set."
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A similar dynamic played out at Hampton's practices where the reserves were often used as cannon fodder. I recall a day, when I was at tailback on the scout offense and my buddy J. Hawkins was at fullback. There was a freshman, 6’3” three-hundred plus pound, W. Thorne at center that day; opposing Thorne at nose guard was Ike. We broke the offensive huddle and got set in our alignment; confidence was not present. Ike lowered himself into a coiled crouch, angling himself towards Thorne with his forearm cocked; it was a running play so I remember thinking about my assignment and hoping the fullback didn't get stonewalled.
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As the quarterback yelled his cadence, the young center did what many a center had in Ike’s presence, he ever so slightly twitched. That was the trigger; Ike's forearm was applied with the force of a runaway dump truck and Thorne's hefty frame sailed heavenward, cartwheeling over the quarterback before, finally, returning to earth in front of the fullback ("I" formation). As Thorne lay prone on his back I remember thinking, his aerial movement was superb but he hadn't stuck his landing. Seconds later, as Thorne wobbled back to his feet he was cursing angrily. I noted, the impact of Ike's blow had somehow knocked both of Thorne's shoulder pad straps loose; he was only a freshman so we all laughed, silently, with our eyes, as any good teammates would have.
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The result of a nervous twitch
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Immediately, afterwards, the always hard to please, Coach Wyche uttered the dreaded words “front finish,” which was his way of telling us to run the same play again. We offensive guys always hated that. I don't remember what the cadence was the second time but Thorne twitched again with the same result, a forced backflip with loose shoulder pad straps, and we all laughed again, silently.
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Zero to 60 in 4 seconds...
a sprinter in sandals
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Armstrong Field has been renovated a few times over the years but, aside from the new artificial turf, it’s basically the same. Back in the early 80's the stadium lights were somewhat unreliable. One night in 1983, during a home game, the lights went out for twenty minutes; it was strange but it happened.
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In the early 80's the gridiron pirates often played home games in the early afternoon so lights weren't really an issue; although, if there was a night game coming up on the schedule we had to prepare under lights so we had to borrow local high school fields.
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There was one situation, early in the 1984 season, when we were preparing to face Tennessee State at night in Nashville. Coach Wyche had arranged for us to practice under the lights at Warwick High School in Newport News. As we boarded the charter bus to take us there the bus driver gave us a stern warning not to wear football cleats on his spotless bus; he had on a dark suit and tie with white gloves and, apparently, took great pride in the cleanliness of his bus. We obliged.
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| "No cleats on my bus"... .. |
[Fast forward three hours]
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Later that evening, we're scrimmaging under the lights on Warwick's field when we hear a loud thunder clap accompanied by a flash of lightning from a fast approaching storm. Players flinched and started to panic. Coach Wyche, always the cool one, “Get back here and run the play!! I’ve never seen such a bunch of…” POW!! ..BOOM!! Lightning had struck the ground in the end zone right behind where Coach Wyche was standing. With the lightning bolt as a starter's pistol, Coach Wyche and fifty or so football players sprinted for the bus.
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Lightning had struck the field
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Within seconds the entire team, filthy, wet and wearing muddy cleats, was inside the bus; everyone still had their mouthpieces in. The poor bus driver, who'd earlier demanded we remove our cleats before boarding, never stood a chance. His feeble attempt to impede us from boarding was met with a violent lead block by (FB) Lafrenchy B. that drove him back into the fourth row of seats. Coach Wyche, then in his late 50's, had covered the sixty yard distance from the end zone to the bus in four seconds flat wearing open toed sandals; he photo finished near the front of the pack with (RB) “Sweet D” Wilson and (DB) J. Williams, both of whom were sub 4.4 guys.
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| A photo finish Coach Wyche, then in his late 50's, (top left in sandals) edged wide receiver D. Skinner for third place |
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Overall, Hampton’s situation with the unreliable stadium lights wasn’t so bad. Saint Paul's College was rumored to have had chickens roaming around their football field.
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| 1985 CIAA champions |
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Coach Tank and DB Coach Quillen (right) Early 1980's
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The Goldstein Brothers (1983 - 1986)
classic decorum 101
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The old furniture store
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As a full time student athlete my employment options were somewhat limited. The area near the campus (and the entire Virginia Peninsula in general) was quiet as a ghost town and there wasn't much commerce for a young man to plug into. My mother lived a couple miles from campus in the Wythe area of Hampton. It was two blocks from her home that I discovered the solution to my employment dilemma; good ol Goldstein Brothers.
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The Goldstein brothers (Alfred, Herbert, and Stanley) owned and operated a neighborhood furniture store. At the time, they were all in their 80's and stood at or around five feet tall and the lively dynamic between them was, at times, similar to that of the three stooges. Alfred, at 86, was the oldest and was sharp as a tack; as the dominant brother of the three, he would've been Moe.
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Herbert, or "Herbie," was the middle brother in age and temperament and had the calm, reassuring, presence of a favorite uncle. Stanley, at 82, was the youngest, which probably determined his status as the whipping boy among the three siblings. Whenever Stanley sensed a slight of some sort from his older brothers he'd shuffle his feet angrily and mumble under his breath. Alfred, for whatever reason, would interchangeably refer to me as "Abe," "Abraham," or "Aaron;" any old name that began with "A" seemed to suffice.
Herbert, or "Herbie," was the middle brother in age and temperament and had the calm, reassuring, presence of a favorite uncle. Stanley, at 82, was the youngest, which probably determined his status as the whipping boy among the three siblings. Whenever Stanley sensed a slight of some sort from his older brothers he'd shuffle his feet angrily and mumble under his breath. Alfred, for whatever reason, would interchangeably refer to me as "Abe," "Abraham," or "Aaron;" any old name that began with "A" seemed to suffice.
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Though lively and entertaining, the Goldsteins had a direct and respectful manner about them. Apparently, for them, old school decorum was the norm.
Though lively and entertaining, the Goldsteins had a direct and respectful manner about them. Apparently, for them, old school decorum was the norm.
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| The brother's had a dynamic similar to the Three Stooges in that they kept their employees entertained with their sibling banter and liveliness. |
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...With all due respect.
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My duties at Goldstein's were varied and included the warehousing, assembly, and delivery of furniture and major appliances. I also collected payments on behalf of the Goldsteins because they often financed their customer's purchases themselves. Occasionally, I'd go on repossessions where we'd take back merchandise from customers in arrears. Collections and repossessions were kind of heavy for me; I recall repossessing a couch one day. After the customer answered the door we took away the couch they'd just been sitting on; the couch's cushions were still warm. I never forgot that.
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As a 19-year old, I enjoyed the transactional nature at the furniture store and couldn't imagine why anybody wouldn't want to spend their days as I was. I'd yet to consider having a family, mortgages, or life insurance; my naiveté was protecting my undeveloped perspective. My priorities were beer, gas, and pocket money; I was content to make $3.35 per hour in exchange for the flexibility to come and go as my academic schedule dictated. When I wasn't on Hampton's campus, I was at 3501 Kecoughtan Road.
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| No frills life with the Goldstein Brothers (1983 - 1986) Hampton, Virginia |
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The characters...
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At the furniture store the characters were numerous; Frank J., the retired postman, had firsthand accounts of everything because he "used to carry the mail over there." Impeccably dressed and never without his flat hat, Frank always had a funny story; having traversed the entire Virginia Peninsula as a mail carrier for over three decades he'd seen a lot. Frank's tales usually centered on local lore in whatever part of town we happened to be in. He'd often imitate Alfred greeting me with "Whata ya say (Abra)ham?"
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The Deacon, James "Jim" C., was another retiree who whipped us young guys, or "Pams" as he liked to say, into manhood with his mere presence. A proud, burly, 70 years young, Jim would manhandle full-sized refrigerators onto delivery trucks by himself; he'd always wave us young guys off when we tried to assist. Jim worked as an MP during World War II. Both Jim and Frank would take us younger guys on deliveries and share tales with us about life during the interwar period. It was a privilege to experience the genuine aura and presence of those two gentlemen; I still think about them to this day.
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I learned quite a bit from the Goldstein's simple, old fashioned, approach to business; it seemed there was always something interesting to do. I'd found the Goldstein's antiquated warehouse on West Queen Street museum-like in appeal and always looked forward to going there; for me, the building's 19th century architecture was a window into the past.
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I remember how Alfred used to choose me to deliver the truckload of cardboard to the recycling center because I always managed to bring back more money than the others. My first time at the recycling center I, inadvertently, added my body weight to that of the cardboard on the scale. On my second trip I did everything backwards and returned with almost nothing. Thereafter, I figured everything out and regularly surpassed expectations. Alfred would always grin as I handed him the cash from the recycling center.
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During downtime at the store I often did idle work such as sweeping and cleaning the delivery trucks. Though necessary, I'd found this type of work unfulfilling, so I started repairing and refinishing discarded furniture we'd removed from customer's homes for disposal. With an eye towards profit, Alfred took a liking to my handiwork and soon my little past-time became part of my job. We sold the refurbished furniture at one hundred percent profit. I'd been inspired to repair things by the Goldstein's all-purpose handyman, Mr. Clyde P.
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I thoroughly enjoyed the three years I spent at Goldstein Brothers. As a young fellow there's much to be gained from working alongside older gentlemen. The median age of my senior co-workers was 75. Frank J., at 62, was the youngest; I was just a wet behind the ears 19 year-old when I started working there. What I took away from that experience went well beyond the little bit of cash I was making; I was immersed in an environment where old fashioned decorum was the norm. Among the more useful social nuances I can recall are what's best left unspoken, and using tact instead of confrontation; basically, the exact opposite of what I got from the gridiron.
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I hadn't received that kind of subtle social training from the one parent I was mostly raised by. My late mother, bless her heart, was from the old school and there was very little nuance to her. She had two methods of communicating with my younger brothers and I when she was angry; yelling and uppercuts.
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I thoroughly enjoyed the three years I spent at Goldstein Brothers. As a young fellow there's much to be gained from working alongside older gentlemen. The median age of my senior co-workers was 75. Frank J., at 62, was the youngest; I was just a wet behind the ears 19 year-old when I started working there. What I took away from that experience went well beyond the little bit of cash I was making; I was immersed in an environment where old fashioned decorum was the norm. Among the more useful social nuances I can recall are what's best left unspoken, and using tact instead of confrontation; basically, the exact opposite of what I got from the gridiron.
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I hadn't received that kind of subtle social training from the one parent I was mostly raised by. My late mother, bless her heart, was from the old school and there was very little nuance to her. She had two methods of communicating with my younger brothers and I when she was angry; yelling and uppercuts.
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A helping wrench…
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Doswell, VA (July 1983) - At this juncture, my trusty Chevelle had over seventy-five thousand miles on the clock; of which, the last twenty thousand had been particularly hard, acquired, mostly, with a full load of football players stuffed inside. My beloved engine finally gave up the ghost in Northern Virginia while some friends and I were returning from a weekend jaunt to Washington DC. Right away, I knew the engine was a goner by the way the pistons had tried to punch out through the hood; the loud knocking ceased as we coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the highway.
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Fifty miles from everywhere and unsure of what to do my friends and I sat in silence. I turned the key a couple of times and nothing; my engine was dead. The sudden realization my Chevelle was no longer functional was a dagger through my heart; it would be the first of two cars I owned in college to die on the open highway.
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Fifty miles from everywhere and unsure of what to do my friends and I sat in silence. I turned the key a couple of times and nothing; my engine was dead. The sudden realization my Chevelle was no longer functional was a dagger through my heart; it would be the first of two cars I owned in college to die on the open highway.
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Twenty four hours, and a one hundred and sixty-five dollar towing fee, later my car is up on the hydraulic lift at Harrison's Union 76 Service Center in Hampton; its there for what amounts to an autopsy. The shop's owner, J. Harrison Junior, is busily removing the bolts from my engine's oil pan. I'd met Harrison a few years back when I returned to Hampton from Pennsylvania; since then he’d helped me out of a few automotive pinches.
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Harrison's Union 76 is on Kecoughtan Road two blocks from Goldstein Brother's furniture where I work part time. The engine's prognosis is a broken connecting rod and the crankshaft's main bearings are scorched. Harrison recommends I rebuild or replace the engine. My stomach is in knots because, as usual, I only have enough cash to get through the week. Harrison senses my predicament and suggests I try a junkyard on Salter's Creek Road where I might find a cheap used engine; then, I could freshen the used motor up by replacing most of the major seals and gaskets, and finally, install it in the Chevelle chassis myself.
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Harrison grins at the consternation in my expression. As a student, my finances had always been a juggling act so anything unexpected puts me in a pickle. My part-time job at Goldstein's provided just enough for minimal subsistence and I had no savings to speak of; I didn't even have a bank account. Those days, I lived one payday to the next and my biggest expenses were food, gasoline, and the odd six pack of beer. Every Friday, Mr. Goldstein would hand me a cash stuffed envelope (stuffed because there was change inside) and I'd go straight to the gas station where I'd fill up my twenty gallon gas tank; whatever cash I had left had to last until the following Friday. If it was a Thursday and I still had some cash in my pocket I was ahead in the game. This was my blissful, collegiate, existence.
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After some brief lobbying for creative financing I was able to gather enough cash to haggle the aforementioned junkyard into parting with a used engine; to compensate for the unexpected expense I took a temporary second job cleaning movie theaters at night. Luckily, the old motor passed away in mid-July during college summer break; if it would have happened any later I would have been in a pinch because Hampton's summer football camp would start in August.
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The used motor was delivered by truck to my mother’s home on Cherokee Road where it was, unceremoniously, dropped in the driveway. Immediately, I went about converting the front yard into a workshop. I thought myself prepared; I had three tubes of liquid gasket sealant, front and rear engine seals, and a handful of assorted gaskets all ready to go. The only extravagances I permitted were some high heat engine paint, a set of chrome valve covers, and a new open element air cleaner. Then I pulled out my toolbox filled with odd off the shelf tools. That's when it occurred to me I didn't have a motor lift to take the engine out of the chassis.
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I couldn't afford to buy a lift; I considered asking Harrison to use his but was conflicted because I thought it improper to ask someone who made a living with tools to borrow them. I was in a pinch so I reluctantly headed over to Harrison's Service Center. When I arrived Mr. Harrison was in front of the shop relaxing in the shade. Before I could open my mouth he stood up and motioned me to follow him into the garage; then he asked if I needed the engine lift he was pointing towards. Good ol' Harrison; he was even nice enough to deliver the lift to my house.
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I couldn't afford to buy a lift; I considered asking Harrison to use his but was conflicted because I thought it improper to ask someone who made a living with tools to borrow them. I was in a pinch so I reluctantly headed over to Harrison's Service Center. When I arrived Mr. Harrison was in front of the shop relaxing in the shade. Before I could open my mouth he stood up and motioned me to follow him into the garage; then he asked if I needed the engine lift he was pointing towards. Good ol' Harrison; he was even nice enough to deliver the lift to my house.
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| A critical tool |
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Armed with more gumption than common sense, I set about removing the dead motor from my car determined to finish everything within two weeks; my unofficial deadline was the beginning of August. I'd assumed the operation would be fairly simple. If the guys in my old Long Beach neighborhood could install a small block V8 I could too; although, I'd have to accelerate acquiring ten years' worth of trial and error based automotive know how and successfully apply it within two weeks.
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Roadside magician...
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Armed with more gumption than common sense, I set about removing the dead motor from my car determined to finish everything within two weeks; my unofficial deadline was the beginning of August. I'd assumed the operation would be fairly simple. If the guys in my old Long Beach neighborhood could install a small block V8 I could too; although, I'd have to accelerate acquiring ten years' worth of trial and error based automotive know how and successfully apply it within two weeks.
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I toiled daily on the engine swap in sweltering mid-July heat; I painted myself into corner after corner regarding the sequence of reassembling certain components and discovered there were special tools I needed that I didn't even know existed. My brain trust of advisers had to be consulted at numerous, unforeseen, junctures; which, added more time and expense to the operation. The August deadline passed and I still hadn't finished and had gone well over my budget. Thankfully, a teammate, M. Stacy, obliged and gave me rides to football practice when summer camp started. Finally, after burning through all of my meager earnings and four letter curse words, I finished the engine swap one week into August.
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Roadside magician...
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Mr. John "E" Senior was another gentleman of distinction that I've had the privilege of knowing who offered his automotive expertise to those in need. When I first made his acquaintance he was a longtime retiree of the Newport News Shipyard operating an automotive repair shop on a plot of land behind his home in Aberdeen Gardens. Though officially retired, Mr. E could be found toiling in his little shop daily, from dawn to dusk, where he'd take on most any automotive related problem, often employing his own unique brand of old school ingenuity to get the job done. At the drop of a hat, he'd whip out his trusty ball peen hammer and commence to "beating the devil" out of whatever it was he felt needed it.
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Located in Aberdeen Gardens...
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In the dozen years I lived on the Virginia Peninsula I spent many a weekend afternoon at Mr. E's shop; it was local Mecca for tinkering with cars and shooting the breeze with respected old heads, and there was always more socializing than business going on. Everyone who pulled into the driveway went by a nickname; "Goat face" and "Sheep teeth" always made their appearances on Saturdays. Undoubtedly, I gained more automotive know how in that little shop than I did anywhere else. Mr. E's son, Dwight, and I easily became friends because we both enjoyed doting on our cars. On Friday's, after work, I'd go over to Mr. E's where I'd find Dwight in front of the shop polishing his car for the weekend. Naturally, I did the same. On many occasions, I was fortunate to have a place set for me at the E family's dinner table where I indulged Mrs. E's fine cooking through the years.
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| Mr. E's shop, where anything can be fixed Serving the Virginia Peninsula for nearly thirty years |
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Despite running a legitimate auto repair business, Mr. E often gave away his services for free. I saw many a vehicle come and go from his shop but rarely saw a dollar change hands. Apparently, Mr. E also provided road service. On many occasions, I've stumbled across his old truck, roadside, on the opposite side of town, behind a stricken car with its hazard lights blinking. Mr. E would stand there, one hand on the stricken car's fender the other behind his back, staring intently under the hood; then his face would morph into a scowl as if he'd spotted something sinister. Suddenly, he'd rear back and his ball peen hammer would magically appear in his right hand. With surprising quickness, Mr. E would bring the hammer down on the stricken car's intake manifold. "BAM!" Then silence. "Try it now." As if by magic, the car starts and whatever automotive gremlin Mr. E dealt the blow is no longer of this world. To this day, I never question the wisdom of my elders.
Despite running a legitimate auto repair business, Mr. E often gave away his services for free. I saw many a vehicle come and go from his shop but rarely saw a dollar change hands. Apparently, Mr. E also provided road service. On many occasions, I've stumbled across his old truck, roadside, on the opposite side of town, behind a stricken car with its hazard lights blinking. Mr. E would stand there, one hand on the stricken car's fender the other behind his back, staring intently under the hood; then his face would morph into a scowl as if he'd spotted something sinister. Suddenly, he'd rear back and his ball peen hammer would magically appear in his right hand. With surprising quickness, Mr. E would bring the hammer down on the stricken car's intake manifold. "BAM!" Then silence. "Try it now." As if by magic, the car starts and whatever automotive gremlin Mr. E dealt the blow is no longer of this world. To this day, I never question the wisdom of my elders.
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I can still remember the late summer afternoon I'd just finished installing a used motor in my Chevelle in the driveway of my mother's home. Those days, I'd yet to figure out how to set the ignition timing in a car. I called Mr. E for advice and within thirty minutes he was there, hammer in hand, ready to sort things out.
I can still remember the late summer afternoon I'd just finished installing a used motor in my Chevelle in the driveway of my mother's home. Those days, I'd yet to figure out how to set the ignition timing in a car. I called Mr. E for advice and within thirty minutes he was there, hammer in hand, ready to sort things out.
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Old haunts...
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Bill's Barbecue
Just down from Goldstein Brothers on Kecoughtan Road.
Sadly, the restaurant is gone now.
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Fuller's, where you can "Eat dirt cheap"
Located in the Phoebus area of Hampton.
It too is no longer there.
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The Blue Star Diner
On Warwick Boulevard in Newport News
is gone too.
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| Gus's Hot Dog King On Warwick Boulevard in Newport News. Still hanging in there after 45 years. |
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Running on empty...
bicycles, half-truths, & anger as a motivator
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bicycles, half-truths, & anger as a motivator
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By the middle of my junior year (my second junior year) my football eligibility and finances had run dry. My "account" with the school was "in the red" as they say. Never one to give-up without a fight, I prepared to make my bi-annual admissions pitch to the University Comptroller Mr. J, who could have been considered "the wizard" with his god like powers of admission or denial. He'd held the very same post when my parents were students; he even looked the same with those bulging, unblinking, eyes seemingly scanning your pockets for cash.
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As I waited in the hall, just outside of Mr. J's office, I overheard him telling some poor fellow to "ride your bicycle to Norfolk and bring me back some money." Norfolk is approximately twenty two miles distant on the opposite side of the bay; the only way to get there is by driving on a shoulder less highway that runs through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel underneath the channel. Mr. J's edict was, essentially, a death sentence; I knew I was doomed.
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The Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel
spans 3.5 miles across the bay between Hampton and Norfolk
with the (middle) tunnel portion passing under the channel;
attempting a crossing on a bicycle would not end well.
.with the (middle) tunnel portion passing under the channel;
attempting a crossing on a bicycle would not end well.
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| The old Administration Building (Circa 1985) Where I used to make my bi-annual admissions pitch. Probably, where my parents used to make their pitch long ago to the same folks. |
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The Emancipation Oak
sits near the entrance to Hampton Institute.
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Children saluting the American flag at the Whittier Primary School,
Hampton, Virginia, (circa 1899)
The Emancipation Oak is in the background.
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Before I came along...
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| My parents on campus at Hampton Institute (circa 1961) |
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| My father, Aaron Billups, on Hampton's waterfront (1961) He was born in Elmore, Alabama, and raised mostly in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he attended Technical High School. Upon graduating from Hampton he was commissioned as an Officer in the US Army. He later went on to work as an Accountant at Sun Oil Company. .. . |
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| My father's college graduation write up from the local Springfield, Massachusetts newspaper. |
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| My father and I (Fort Riley, Kansas - 1964) He was a nationally ranked AAU weight lifter in the late 1950's and early 1960's and threw the discus for the Hampton Institute track team. |
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My father (right) in AAU weightlifting competition (1958)
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My father (center) with his fraternity brothers (Circa 1961)
Collis P. Huntington Library - Hampton Institute
.Collis P. Huntington Library - Hampton Institute
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| Aaron Billups - sophomore year (1959) attending his older sister Dorothy's graduation ceremony at Hampton Institute |
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| My mother, Rosetta C. Brown, on Hampton's campus (Early 1960's) My mother traveled a difficult road. She was raised in local foster homes because her own mother was unable to take care of her. Though disadvantaged initially, by no means was she helpless. As her oldest son, I can testify that, when angered, my mother had a devastating left hook. |
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My mother's high school graduation write-up
Huntington High School - Newport News, Virginia.
Her maiden name was Rosetta Celestine Brown.
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| Huntington High School (1960) Newport News, VA |
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| Huntington HS National Honor Society (1959-60) My mother is second from the front on the right. |
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My mother and her sorority sisters - Hampton Institute (circa 1962)
She's in the second row with the long hair,
behind the fourth person from the right.
.behind the fourth person from the right.
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| My parents in front of Ogden Hall Hampton Institute (Early 1960's) . . . |
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| Rosetta C. Billups (maiden name Brown) on Hampton's campus (circa 1961) Born and raised locally, she graduated from Huntington High School in Newport News with honors. At Hampton, she majored in mathematics and minored in French. She later received her Masters at Kansas State University. Over the years, she worked alternately as a college math teacher and in logistics in the aerospace industry ( Boeing in Philadelphia PA, and TRW on the West Coast). After twelve years living in the Los Angeles area, she returned to the Virginia Peninsula and taught mathematics at Hampton Institute before, eventually, founding her research and engineering firm, REMSA, Inc., in 1986. |
1986 Spring semester - There I was, seated in the hallway just outside of the Comptroller's office (He who gets money) going over my admissions bout strategy. I was feeling confident; although, there'd been some concern going into this fight because, according to the Student Accounts Department, I had an "outstanding" balance, which, I'd mistakenly taken as a compliment so I didn't train as hard.
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It would be my sixth admissions bout at this particular school; despite my being undefeated, this time, I was the underdog and the situation was ripe for an upset. I'd hoped to face Mr. W, whom I'd bested the prior contests, but that fight was postponed. Mr. W admitted both of my parents to Hampton in the late 1950's; word on the street was he was known for taking dives.
It would be my sixth admissions bout at this particular school; despite my being undefeated, this time, I was the underdog and the situation was ripe for an upset. I'd hoped to face Mr. W, whom I'd bested the prior contests, but that fight was postponed. Mr. W admitted both of my parents to Hampton in the late 1950's; word on the street was he was known for taking dives.
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This time, I'd face the reigning, one thousand four hundred and forty time, super middle weight Admissions Blocking Champ, Mr. J. I'd heard countless stories about his "devastating bluntness" and of how strong of a finisher he was so I knew I'd have to elevate my game. I was told "Stay on offense and pepper Mr. J with grants from the outside. And remember, if he suddenly mentions cash just duck and spin away, and don't throw the promissory note too early. Save it for the later rounds."
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Cash challenged as I was I was confident. I'd apprenticed under the one and only Davin J., a man who'd set numerous records gaining admittance to college armed with only words and wit; I also had tradition behind me. When my parents were students neither of them had any money either.
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.This time, I'd face the reigning, one thousand four hundred and forty time, super middle weight Admissions Blocking Champ, Mr. J. I'd heard countless stories about his "devastating bluntness" and of how strong of a finisher he was so I knew I'd have to elevate my game. I was told "Stay on offense and pepper Mr. J with grants from the outside. And remember, if he suddenly mentions cash just duck and spin away, and don't throw the promissory note too early. Save it for the later rounds."
Mr. J demolished those without cash
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Cash challenged as I was I was confident. I'd apprenticed under the one and only Davin J., a man who'd set numerous records gaining admittance to college armed with only words and wit; I also had tradition behind me. When my parents were students neither of them had any money either.
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The tale of the tape...
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The Comptroller record 1,440 - 0 (630 K.O.)
Mr. E "bring me the cash" J - A savvy, experienced, 30 year veteran who's forgotten more than his younger opponent would ever know. Known for getting straight to the bottom line, in an early 60's bout Mr. J floored his opponent's father early in the first round. Look for him to exploit his reach advantage.
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VS
The student record 5 - 0 (3 K.O.)
Aaron Billups - A young upstart who comes from a long line of penniless college admission seekers. A skilled diversionist, he's somewhat prone to dropping his guard. Look for him to go to work on his elder opponent's midsection.
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. ... With all due respect.
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The main event...
"The brawl in the Hall" - Spring semester (1986)
The Comptroller 1,440 - 0 (white trunks) VS The Student 5 - 0 (black trunks)
Apparently, being a descendant of alumnus only gets one but so far. The bell rang and I charged Mr. J unleashing a barrage of financial aid doublespeak about assorted obscure grants and loans. My plan was to overwhelm him with numbers to wear him down but Mr. J just danced and kept out of range. He toyed with me as I continued to press, pretending to have all the answers; then, right out of the blue, Mr. J delivered a haymaker.
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Mr. J coolly suggested I "take a break" from school until I cleared my balance. Immediately, I hit the canvas. True to form, he'd delivered the devastating blow in a cool and unblinking manner. If I remember correctly, the ever business-like Mr. J wore wire rimmed spectacles the entire fight. By the time it was all over I staggered out of the Administration Building feeling as if my chances of graduating were a million miles away.
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Down and out...
Getting knocked out by the Comptroller was a major setback. I knew getting beat in such a manner could have long lasting ramifications; for a moment I even considered retiring. I recall walking out the campus gates that day and turning around to look back; I saw, what had recently been, fellow students strolling along with books in hand, seemingly, without a care in the world.
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It was clear to me, my minimum wage job at Goldstein Brothers was no longer suitable; I needed to find a job that would somehow increase my chances for re-enrollment. Sadly, I gave up my three year part-time job at the furniture store and hit the pavement. At the time, I lived at 63 College Place; a prime location right across from Hampton's campus. My roommates, Derrick S. and Cedric B., were preoccupied with their own collegiate lives as I entered the local economy in search of a solution.
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| My roommates (circa 1986) Trying to look cool wearing shades on a cloudy day. The guy on the left was soft; I used to take his lunch money. |
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Southern discomfort...
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To me, the Virginia Peninsula was Southern, small town, USA; though, I'd lived there a few years it didn't seem as if it had evolved much since my parents attended college there. Nothing but respect for the good folks born and raised locally but the Southern environment was very different from what I was accustomed to. For me, it was the mid-80's on campus and somewhere in the past off of it.
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I couldn't accept leaving school with no degree; though, no longer enrolled, I decided to keep the same living arrangements close to campus so, when I was able, I could easily pick-up where I left off. Despite being a junior (for the second time), I wasn't focused on working in any particular industry; for me, a degree would serve as a stepping stone towards yet to be determined possibilities. My secondary motivation for finishing my degree was, I dreaded the prospect of repaying Uncle Sam for loans with nothing to show for it.
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Highly motivated, I compiled a list of companies within a reasonable distance that I hoped might pay a livable wage. To my roommate's displeasure, I commandeered our dining room for use as my personal office. There was no internet those days so I relied on the Yellow pages, and local newspaper classifieds to seek leads; henceforth, I spent my days pounding the pavement and punching typewriter keys (two fingers at a time). My job search strategy was simple, throw stuff against the wall until something sticks.
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After months of stalking and harassing a variety of companies, and brief employment stints at a local shipyard, a hardware store, and a moving company, I stumbled across a listing at the local Employment Commission for a Meter Reader. Aside from reading some type of meter, I had no clue what the job entailed; I was only focused on the nine dollar hourly pay rate. Thus far, the most I'd earned was minimum wage ($3.35) so, for me, nine dollars was a goldmine. I hastily submitted the requisite paperwork and awaited a response. Shortly afterwards, I was notified I needed to take a test of some kind to qualify for the position; the testing would be held thirty miles away in Williamsburg.
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Under normal circumstances a jaunt up Interstate 64 wasn't such a big deal; however, as a result of my recent cash deficit my car wasn't up to task. It was fine for a trip to the grocery store but a thirty mile journey up the highway wasn't in the cards. Mass transit from Hampton to rural Williamsburg was non-existent and cycling that distance on shoulder-less two lane roads would surely result in me becoming a hood ornament.
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I reacted as I often did when I thought I was painted into a corner; I called my father. You'd think I'd have known better than to call him; he of the long walks to school uphill in the snow with holes in his shoes "both ways" fame.
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| According to my father, this is what it was like for him in the 1950's growing up in Springfield, Massachusetts. Somehow, it was possible for him to walk to and from school uphill in the snow. |
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My father, from his lofty perch high atop Mount Olympus (somewhere in Philadelphia), coolly suggested I "find a bicycle and ride it to Williamsburg." To this day, I don't know if his intention was to impress me, or to anger me, but I ended up making it to Williamsburg for that test. I was so mad when I got off the phone with my father I nearly broke it in half but I understood what I had to do; solve my own problem. To this day, I wonder if my father intentionally angered me. Perhaps, casually suggesting the use of a bicycle was a common motivational tactic in the old days.
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| Apparently, using a bicycle towards a goal of some sort was regarded as a sign of a go-getter in the old days. Interestingly, this kind of motivation was used by both Mr. J and my father. |
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[Fast forward]
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It was test day at the power company and my old Z-28 was sputtering along on the shoulder of Interstate 64 running on six of eight cylinders and streaming blue smoke from its exhaust; it must have appeared as if I was driving a crop duster.
Under normal circumstances I'd have been embarrassed and worried about the damage being done to my engine; however, my situation was dire and I'd been pushed to a new level.
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| My image of me in my smoking car headed to Williamsburg |
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| Interstate 64 West |
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| My first commute |
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"Nothing hones your mind and your instincts like necessity" or simply put,
"Speed or jail?" ......Reese Bobby
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Reversal of fortune (1986 - 1994)
stumbling upon untold riches & calling a tow truck
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The car and I eventually made it to the power company test site where, in storybook fashion, the motor expired in the parking lot. You just can't make this stuff up.
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As my car rolled to a stop there were no vital signs on the instrument panel other than the red light of death; my car had been steadily losing power and trailing blue smoke for thirty five miles, mostly, on the shoulder of the highway. I literally coasted into the test site parking lot and the only thing I had in my wallet was lint. The looming test, the lack of cash, and the dead engine were a lot to bear. I briefly panicked wondering how I was going to get home.
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As my car rolled to a stop there were no vital signs on the instrument panel other than the red light of death; my car had been steadily losing power and trailing blue smoke for thirty five miles, mostly, on the shoulder of the highway. I literally coasted into the test site parking lot and the only thing I had in my wallet was lint. The looming test, the lack of cash, and the dead engine were a lot to bear. I briefly panicked wondering how I was going to get home.
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As I exited my car I noticed a rather large number of people getting out of cars in the parking area. When I got to the building's entrance there was a sign posted on the door directing applicants there for the next round of Meter Reader testing to a conference room. That's when I understood how sought after the job was; there must have been a hundred or so applicants sitting in the lobby.
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Long story short, I was, somehow, selected from among twenty five hundred potential candidates for the Meter Reader job.
As I exited my car I noticed a rather large number of people getting out of cars in the parking area. When I got to the building's entrance there was a sign posted on the door directing applicants there for the next round of Meter Reader testing to a conference room. That's when I understood how sought after the job was; there must have been a hundred or so applicants sitting in the lobby.
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Long story short, I was, somehow, selected from among twenty five hundred potential candidates for the Meter Reader job.
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Back from the dead
Of course, there was a happy ending when I had my beloved
gas guzzler towed to a local shop and had the engine repaired. Alas, commuting seventy miles round trip in a muscle car proved to be hard on the wallet. Eventually, my beloved hot rod and I had to part ways.
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My new employer was, then called, Virginia Power, a major electric utility, which was more or less a monopoly those days; I knew nothing of such things. What's a union? What's a benefit? My previous job had paid me with a cash stuffed envelope.
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It wasn't until after I actually started working on the job that I realized how much of a game changer it was for me. The Meter Reader job was unionized, the kind of benefit laden position folks clamored for, and my new co-workers seemed to be doing well; some of them even had kids in college. I'd go on to discover college degrees were not common in that office, at least in the Operations Department. I couldn't fathom how such a, seemingly, simple task such as recording electric consumption could pay well enough to buy large suburban homes and raise families.
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After familiarizing myself with the company benefits package I discovered the company would reimburse a significant portion of my college tuition; I remember reading that part of the brochure several times. Not only did I take advantage of the tuition perk, I was able to secure a paid internship at the company's corporate headquarters (Richmond, VA).
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Dominion Energy Headquarters
One James River Plaza - Richmond, VA
(formerly Virginia Power)
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Coal burning power station in Yorktown, Virginia
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| Surrey Power Station Nuclear power station located on the banks of the James River |
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| I was given a new truck and paid to drive around all day |
I was grateful to get a job, especially, one that paid enough for me to save some money and survive in the local economy. The best thing about the situation was, I was able to re-enroll at Hampton Institute and complete my degree within a year.
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My new job necessitated lots of driving and required an intimate knowledge of certain details necessary to gain access to places; these duties would all have to be performed within the tidy parameters of Virginia Power's carefully honed corporate image. I had hundreds of miles of territory and terrain to familiarize myself with. In addition to the ever present hidden speed traps, I memorized barns, mailboxes, and assorted species of indigenous beasts. It was the perfect gig for a modern day outdoors-man explorer. The job was so interesting, there were times I felt guilty for accepting pay.
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Accidental tourism...
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I never could have imagined what lie in store for me in and around Williamsburg. I'd ventured up the highway in search of a job and discovered much more. I'd be doing something I'd done since the age of four, exploring; only, this time, I was getting paid to do it.
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The Williamsburg area has a voluminous inventory of artifacts and sites of significance from America's past; it's where England's colonial history intersects with more recent remnants of the old South.
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| A local plantation . |
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| Slave quarters |
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| Kingsmill on the James golf community |
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The new job dictated I go anywhere electricity was in use, which meant everywhere so it was never a dull. In a typical scenario, one minute I'd be tip-toeing past a sleeping Doberman Pinscher in somebody's backyard, and within minutes, I'd find myself climbing into the attic of the historic George Wythe House.
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For me, the real treat was the privilege of hearing numerous stories told over lunch by a co-worker who'd been born and raised locally and seemed to know a little something about everyone and everything in Virginia; his tales would often involve locals notorious for their particular quirks and were delivered with a humorous flair. Nothing beats old tales and gossip told by Bobby D. over barbecue and iced tea.
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In the early seventeenth century, relations between the English invaders and their Native American hosts weren't always civil or amicable as is often depicted; sure, they smiled at one another and waved at the occasional barbecue but more often than not it was a bloody struggle for survival with no quarters given. On what now appears serene landscape, atrocities were committed and territory was ceded and gained many times over under barrages of iron shot and streaking arrows; the combatants suffered and paid dearly in this battle for primacy. The very same dynamic occurred throughout much of the North American continent.
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My territory
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The new job dictated I go anywhere electricity was in use, which meant everywhere so it was never a dull. In a typical scenario, one minute I'd be tip-toeing past a sleeping Doberman Pinscher in somebody's backyard, and within minutes, I'd find myself climbing into the attic of the historic George Wythe House.
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For me, the real treat was the privilege of hearing numerous stories told over lunch by a co-worker who'd been born and raised locally and seemed to know a little something about everyone and everything in Virginia; his tales would often involve locals notorious for their particular quirks and were delivered with a humorous flair. Nothing beats old tales and gossip told by Bobby D. over barbecue and iced tea.
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Southern fried reality & gamesmanship...
abridged version.
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| Jamestown (VA) - Established 1607 Located just outside of present day Williamsburg Jamestown is the first known English speaking "settlement" (invasion, land grab, incursion) on the North American continent. |
Since the English colonists gained their first North American toehold four centuries ago by establishing Jamestown in present day Virginia, the dynamic between their descendants and those of the former slaves and Native Americans doesn't seem to have evolved much; all one has to do is wander around present day Williamsburg a bit and it'll be obvious. Actually, Jamestown wasn't a town from the beginning; it was a wooden fort surrounded by a wall. The foreign invaders built the fort to keep the people who already lived there out.
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| Jamestown settlement (circa 1607) What would you do if your new neighbors built a fort in your backyard? Alas, the cultural divide proved to be too vast. The Indigenous hosts found the fort's occupants incorrigible. Every night the foreigners played loud flute music and pickled themselves with spirits into the wee hours. . That's the angry Powhatan Chief sitting outside of the fort contemplating the next course of action. |
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| Wahunsenacawh The Powhatan Chief who first coined the phrase "There goes the neighborhood" |
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In the early seventeenth century, relations between the English invaders and their Native American hosts weren't always civil or amicable as is often depicted; sure, they smiled at one another and waved at the occasional barbecue but more often than not it was a bloody struggle for survival with no quarters given. On what now appears serene landscape, atrocities were committed and territory was ceded and gained many times over under barrages of iron shot and streaking arrows; the combatants suffered and paid dearly in this battle for primacy. The very same dynamic occurred throughout much of the North American continent.
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After much bloodshed and carnage new maps were drawn by the foreign victors and the foundation for a brand new civilization was laid right on top of an existing one. Before the dust had even settled the non-native interlopers had expanded their operations and cultivated the newly conquered land with profitable crops; afterwards, they promptly shipped the proceeds overseas and pilfered the rest. "Don't hate the playa, hate the game."
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After much bloodshed and carnage new maps were drawn by the foreign victors and the foundation for a brand new civilization was laid right on top of an existing one. Before the dust had even settled the non-native interlopers had expanded their operations and cultivated the newly conquered land with profitable crops; afterwards, they promptly shipped the proceeds overseas and pilfered the rest. "Don't hate the playa, hate the game."
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| King James I of England Regarded as "the original mix master" of the British Isles, he ruled over both Scotland and England in his prime. . By consensus he was nominated "best dressed" at public executions each year throughout his reign. The ever dapper king often rocked a pimp hat and was said to have had the game to match his attire. |
 Officially chartered by the King to go forth to the new world and "bring back the Benjamins" . |
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| The first Africans arrived in North America (1619) Twenty Africans were landed at Point Comfort, Virginia (present day Fort Monroe) bound for Jamestown. . With no existing slave laws the Africans were initially classified as indentured servants. They enjoyed the same freedoms as everyone else in the colonies until 1661 when Virginia slave laws were enacted. Slavery was much more profitable than indentured servitude and ultimately meant less competition. .
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| The Native American Powhatan versus the interloping English (1622) Fed up with the newcomer's duplicity and gamesmanship the natives struck back. The Anglo Powhatan War lasted from 1622 until 1632 . .  John Rolfe "back in the day" Jamestown colonist and tobacco planter He also had a roving eye for the native Indian ladies . . . . . . 
A local Plantation (17th century)
The dust from the Anglo Powhatan war had barely settled before the foreign victors seized
vast amounts of land and began cultivating it with profitable
crops such as tobacco.
The labor required to cultivate and harvest tobacco was the primary cause for the increase in slave population in Virginia and North Carolina through the 17th and 18th centuries; further south in South Carolina
and Georgia is where cotton and rice plantations flourished.
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| The Virginia colonist's plunder was pilfered across the Atlantic to England to generate cash. |
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| The die was cast for a dark institution in North America the effects of which would endure through the end of the American Civil War (1861-1865) to this very day. |
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| Sharecropping in the American South 1880 Sharecropping became widespread after the Reconstruction (1863-1877) After the Civil war former slaves sought jobs and planters needed laborers. About two thirds of sharecroppers were poor whites. It was a form of economic exploitation that came about as a result of scant land ownership distribution and the absence of accessible credit available to the populace in the agrarian south. |
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1960: Harvest of Shame
by Edward R. Murrow
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| Sharecropping (1870's - Late 20th century) I saw it myself in 1984 on the Virginia Eastern Shore while stopping for gas in a small town. Sharecropping victimized all kinds of people, former slaves in particular. Minorities, the illiterate, and those without land were easy prey; there were quite a few who checked all the boxes. Not so different from how banks operate today. . . . |
James Baldwin @ Cambridge (1965)
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Power company folks... (1986-1989)
Williamsburg Operations
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Williamsburg Operations
Houston C. was my first contact at the power company. A natural second fiddle and an avid NASCAR fan, he'd piddle around the office most days trying to justify his job. I recall he always seemed to have his hands in his pockets. Houston was known for coming up on the losing end of a fiery confrontation with a barbecue grill, proudly repeating the tale for anyone who'd care to listen.
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Ken B. was the head man in Operations and the coolest guy in the building. With his calming presence, he was the glue that held everything together. Ken had his wife's picture sitting prominently on his spotless desk. Apparently, his talents didn't go unnoticed because he was promoted to another division.
Ken B. was the head man in Operations and the coolest guy in the building. With his calming presence, he was the glue that held everything together. Ken had his wife's picture sitting prominently on his spotless desk. Apparently, his talents didn't go unnoticed because he was promoted to another division.
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Barbecue terrorism on the rise
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Larry V. was an Electrical specialist who worked with a great deal of autonomy. He was like Bigfoot; every now and then there'd be a Larry sighting somewhere around town or we'd find traces of him around the office like candy wrappers or muddy footprints. On the rare occasion Larry made an appearance in the office he'd quietly go about his business; then, suddenly, he'd vanish.
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Bob W. was the head man in the power company's Williamsburg office. A subscriber to the "speak softly and carry a big stick" doctrine, Bob ran a tight ship. He had the appearance of a Marine Drill Sergeant which understandably caused underlings to feign business whenever he came around.
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| Larry V. worked in a secretive program that nobody else in the office knew about |
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| The boss resembled a Marine Drill Sergeant |
Richard "Ricky" C. was one of the younger guys in the Operations Department; he was a happy go lucky newlywed who'd unwittingly share a detail too many from his weekend activities. Like myself, he was a car enthusiast and, for some odd reason, would alternately call people by either their first name or "Bubba."
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Mark J. personally knew every dog within a sixty mile radius of the office. Like Ricky and myself, he spent his days recording electrical consumption and collecting payments on delinquent accounts. Mark would treat reading meters like a combat mission often giving other staff daily briefings on specific dogs. "Don't ever turn your back on that Chihuahua in the Skipwith area. If he gets too close just kick him in the ribs."
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Charles "Chuck" G., the new Operations boss, was the capricious, young, Pennsylvania native who replaced Ken B. after his promotion. Somehow, Chuck was under the impression that, his beloved, Western Pennsylvania was the cradle of civilization. Apparently, for him, venturing below the Mason-Dixon Line was an antebellum field trip. His philosophy was "speak first, think later." In an ironic twist he nearly bit his tongue off in a bizarre ATV accident.
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Bobby D., a Williamsburg native and longtime employee, seemed to know everyone in Virginia. With his cool, even keeled, demeanor Bobby made everything look easy. He often held court in local eateries over lunch where the conversation would cover the latest in current events and assorted hearsay.
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The Deliverance...
do unto others, then push em' overboard
.. . As a Meter Reader I often found myself in unique situations that I had little or no experience with. Most days were uneventful but I did have some close calls; some of which were life threatening. Consequently, I was careful whenever I was out and about. Over time, as I became familiarized with the assorted pitfalls and hazards of the job I was able to relax a bit; although, I can recall one particular situation when my elevated sense of vigilance led me to the brink. On that day I was scheduled to visit some rural properties along a ten mile stretch of highway not far from Little Creek Reservoir in Toano.
.My first stop was the notorious hunt club. My co-workers had already briefed me about the odd situation there so I thought myself prepared; although, when I saw code 99 appear on my computer screen I became anxious. Code 99 was typically reserved for special instructions or dangerous situations. I jostled my pickup truck along a winding dirt road through heavy woods until I arrived at a large clearing surrounded by a handful of cabins; the cabins sat fifty yards from a small marina on a tributary of the Chickahominy River. It was sunrise so it was still dark under the heavy canopy of trees. From this place a local fisherman would ferry me out to an island in the river so I could record the electrical consumption on a hunting lodge. I blew the horn and a dark figure appeared from behind one of the cabins. I shut off the engine and stepped out into the cool morning air. . 
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I greeted the fisherman cordially to which he responded by mumbling something unintelligible in a local dialect. Knowing the routine I feigned
comprehension and followed him over to the dock. There was a light fog in the air and the river was smooth and black; aside from some geese squawking in the distance, it was dead quiet. The fisherman clambered into a small wooden skiff and pulled it closer to the dock; I could see the skiff's bottom was filled with eels and it sat frighteningly low in the water as if overloaded. The fisherman didn't seem concerned so I feigned business as usual and boarded. So there we were, two men perched at opposite ends of a small boat. Neither of us spoke as the outboard motor growled to life.
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From my perch at the bow I surveyed the marsh reeds and gnarled trees lining the river bank and thought about how fortunate I was to be getting paid to spend my days wandering the great outdoors. As the boat approached the mid-point of the river crossing, I turned to find the fisherman eyeballing me in what seemed a hostile manner. Caught off guard, I instinctively turned away; then, realizing my dilemma, I turned back towards the fisherman and countered his evil glare with a threatening scowl of my own. Neither of us had uttered a word since boarding.
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Though the situation was odd, and somewhat humorous, I concluded I was trapped in the boat with a nut. I'd lived in many different places before and had seen a lot and it had been my experience that one grown man doesn't evil eye another unless he's looking for trouble so that's all I had to go on. As far as I was concerned, the fisherman was ready to rumble; apparently, it was going be fight or die, in a small boat, in the middle of a river, in the middle of nowhere for both of us. Cornered and unwilling to go down easily I, surreptitiously, scanned the boat for a weapon.
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A fisherman's glare...  alone for extended periods often wear deadpan expressions.
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The old fisherman maintained his dead eyed stare, as did I. A wooden oar lying in the bottom of the boat midway between us caught my eye. Perhaps, the old fisherman had the same idea; although, if we had to fight for it I was confident. I had a plan. I'd soak the old fisherman's beard with the pepper spray I had for fending off vicious dogs; then, I'd catch the old coot with a roundhouse to his dome that would put him into the drink. Having pondered my options I was outwardly cool; but, my finger was on the trigger. . With all the tension in the boat it felt as if we'd become frozen in time because, though the boat's motor was running, it seemed, we hadn't gotten any closer to the island. Perhaps, the wily old coot had intentionally sailed us into a black hole just to shake things up, or maybe he was waiting for an opening of some sort to make his move; not to worry, if anything were to go down in the boat I was ready. In close quarters combat I'd fold the old man up like a cheap lawn chair. I glanced down into the murky river water and wondered to myself whether or not an unconscious fisherman would float. So there we were; not one, but two nuts in a small boat, in the middle of a river. .
When we finally reached the island the fisherman remained silent on his perch at the stern. Since boarding our facial expressions had been doing all the talking and neither of us had spoke a word. I nervously turned my back to the fisherman and scrambled up the ladder onto the dock. Within five minutes my task on the island was complete. When I returned to the dock I was half surprised to see the fisherman was still there waiting for me. I re-boarded the boat, the motor was started, and the fisherman and I's little cold war resumed.
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.Dueling Banjos
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...One fall morning on the Chickahominy River.
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The DB & the Beast...
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The objective...
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The tools...
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The hazards...
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Inclement weather...
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...and beasts.
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Always waiting, watching, scheming...
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...deviant goats,
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...unruly horses,
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..<HOME>
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| ...and confused deer. |
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The Final play...
when scoring is the only option
.A four legged 400 pound linebacker
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I've encountered a variety of animals while performing my duties for the power company; for whatever reason, they often became aggressive whenever we Meter Readers came around. It seems nobody likes unsolicited visitors. Over time, I've found animals to be similar to humans in that many of them aren't playing with a full deck of cards; my job necessitated I enter the domains of both, so I did.
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To protect ourselves against vicious dogs we Meter Readers carried a can of pepper spray and an electric device that, when activated, emits a high frequency sound that causes dogs to stop whatever they're doing and do backflips; from up to thirty yards away, just push a button and "Fido" goes airborne. Neither the spray or the electric device were totally reliable; I've seen dogs lick the pepper spray off of themselves as if it were gravy, and the electric device only seemed to be effective against smaller dog breeds, such as Toy Poodles or Chihuahuas.
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In urban areas my main adversaries were vicious dogs and overly suspicious residents. For a Meter Reader, entering private property unannounced in the land of gun nuts is inherently risky. In order to survive, in most cases, quick wits and common sense trumped corporate guidelines. My goal was to go home at the end of the day without getting eaten or shot full of holes. On more than one occasion, I've had jittery police draw their weapons on me despite the fact that I had on a Virginia Power uniform and drove a clearly marked company vehicle.
To protect ourselves against vicious dogs we Meter Readers carried a can of pepper spray and an electric device that, when activated, emits a high frequency sound that causes dogs to stop whatever they're doing and do backflips; from up to thirty yards away, just push a button and "Fido" goes airborne. Neither the spray or the electric device were totally reliable; I've seen dogs lick the pepper spray off of themselves as if it were gravy, and the electric device only seemed to be effective against smaller dog breeds, such as Toy Poodles or Chihuahuas.
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In urban areas my main adversaries were vicious dogs and overly suspicious residents. For a Meter Reader, entering private property unannounced in the land of gun nuts is inherently risky. In order to survive, in most cases, quick wits and common sense trumped corporate guidelines. My goal was to go home at the end of the day without getting eaten or shot full of holes. On more than one occasion, I've had jittery police draw their weapons on me despite the fact that I had on a Virginia Power uniform and drove a clearly marked company vehicle.
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Of the many "confrontations" I survived, none can match my getting chased by an angry, four hundred pound, hog; it happened when I attempted to read the electric meter near the pig pen the sow shared with her piglet brood. The meter had been skipped each of the previous six months because the sow had terrorized everyone who attempted to enter her field. Because I was the new guy and the low man on the totem pole I was given the task. I'd previously, heard numerous stories from co-workers about "the monster hog out on route 60." Surely, they'd been exaggerating.
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Game day...
Of the many "confrontations" I survived, none can match my getting chased by an angry, four hundred pound, hog; it happened when I attempted to read the electric meter near the pig pen the sow shared with her piglet brood. The meter had been skipped each of the previous six months because the sow had terrorized everyone who attempted to enter her field. Because I was the new guy and the low man on the totem pole I was given the task. I'd previously, heard numerous stories from co-workers about "the monster hog out on route 60." Surely, they'd been exaggerating.
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Game day...
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I was anxious as I pulled my truck over onto the shoulder of Route 60 at Anderson's Corner. Before me lay the infamous field I'd heard so much about; I could see the pig pen enclosure in the distance but there was no sign of my opponent.
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I'd never been one to talk a lot of trash before a competition but I wasn't going to let a hog keep me from distinguishing myself. I played on the red team, Virginia Power; the juggernaut energy conglomerate that had monopolized energy production and distribution throughout the mid-Atlantic region of the US since the late eighteenth century. I'd squared off, and prevailed, against Rottweilers, red necks, and a number of vicious beasts and, aside from that pesky Chihuahua in the Skipwith neighborhood, had come out mostly unscathed. Some would say, I was a bit overconfident.
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Game day had arrived and awaiting me out on the field somewhere was my renowned opponent; an aggressive hog that had defeated every Virginia Power Meter Reader for the previous six months. I'd heard the hog was quite an athlete; although, I didn't realize how tough of a competitor it would be.
I was anxious as I pulled my truck over onto the shoulder of Route 60 at Anderson's Corner. Before me lay the infamous field I'd heard so much about; I could see the pig pen enclosure in the distance but there was no sign of my opponent.
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I'd never been one to talk a lot of trash before a competition but I wasn't going to let a hog keep me from distinguishing myself. I played on the red team, Virginia Power; the juggernaut energy conglomerate that had monopolized energy production and distribution throughout the mid-Atlantic region of the US since the late eighteenth century. I'd squared off, and prevailed, against Rottweilers, red necks, and a number of vicious beasts and, aside from that pesky Chihuahua in the Skipwith neighborhood, had come out mostly unscathed. Some would say, I was a bit overconfident.
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Game day had arrived and awaiting me out on the field somewhere was my renowned opponent; an aggressive hog that had defeated every Virginia Power Meter Reader for the previous six months. I'd heard the hog was quite an athlete; although, I didn't realize how tough of a competitor it would be.
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Match up
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Position: Meter Reader / DB Record: 10 - 0 - 1
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Experience: 2nd year free agent Hampton University
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40 yard dash: 4.4 Weight: 177 lbs
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Throws: right Shoe: screw in cleats
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Strengths: route recognition, physical Bench: 415 lbs
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Weakness: over aggressive, tends to gamble
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Position: Hog Record: 7 - 4
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Experience: Rookie 2nd round draft pick Smithfield Hams
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40 yard dash: 4.24 if hungry Weight: 400+ lbs
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Bites: left Shoe: hoofs
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Strengths: food recognition, hunger Bench: no thumbs
...............................................................................so can't grip bar
Weakness: food recognition, hunger
Stadium: Field at Anderson's Corner in Toano, Virginia (off route 60)
Playing surface: tall grass
Attendance: 24 (16 pigs, 8 crows)
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First Quarter action:
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Toano, VA - I hopped the fence and scanned the field for any sign of my opponent. I'd read the scouting report so I knew what I was up against. I couldn't see the beast but I knew it was out there somewhere; with all the shrubbery and tall
grass it could have been anywhere. I sensed I'd need all my skills and experience to get through this; it would be me versus the bully hog on it's home turf. I stalked carefully through
the dry weeds pausing intermittently to sniff the air; if I would have heard a
twig snap I would have bolted like a gazelle.
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The meter I was seeking was mounted on a pole obscured by the pig pen about sixty yards from the perimeter fence. I slowly made my way across the field. As I approached the pen I could hear muted grunting; the stench was unbearable. I knelt close to the back of the pen enclosure and put my ear against the wall. My pig language skills were rusty but the back and forth nature of the grunting seemed suspicious. That's when it occurred to me, the pigs may have been aware of my presence.
I could tell the approximate location of the meter because I saw the power line running to the top of the pole it was attached to; it was just inside the outer wall of the pen enclosure but the challenge would be getting into position to read it. Unbeknownst to me, when I got into position to where I could see the meter I'd be in plain view of the monster pig; my co-workers forgot to share this little detail with me. Then, as I peeked around the outer wall of the enclosure the hog and I locked eyes startling each
other. The giant sow was only ten feet away from me lying among her young piglet brood; within a split second she chose fight and I chose flight. All present started to squeal loudly, the sow, the piglets, and myself.
With the computer clutched under my arm and the hog hot on my
heels I bolted. The big sow was surprisingly quick and closed on me like a pork torpedo. The crowd, consisting of mostly pigs and ravens, stood up and let out a roar. I had sixty yards to go to the end zone (perimeter fence) and no idea how fast a huge hog could move. Under real pressure to perform in a hostile environment, I sprinted the muddy
curve around the pen sensing that if I ran too hard I'd slip in the and be forced to engage my pursuer in "hand to hoof" combat.
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The sow quickly closed the distance between us on the muddy curve; its "four hoof drive" and low center of
gravity gave it a huge advantage in the slippery conditions. Sensing an early victory all of the animals in attendance rose to their feet. The hog was so close to me that, for a moment, I considered
giving it a stiff arm. As the hog and I came out of the curve onto the straightaway I
found another gear and gained a step.
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"it's gonna be a footrace to the fence"
About midway across the field the hog began panting loudly which indicated it was starting to fade; its rage fueled speed had begun to give way to physics. The hog had got a blazing start and ran a superb curve but on the straightaway it's short legs and stiff torso had begun to work against it. The partisan animals in attendance were steadily squealing and squawking in anticipation of a thrilling finish. I was holding form and felt like I was going to score. I knew better than to look back over my shoulder because that's how you get run down; I was focused on maintaining form, stride, and turnover.
When I got to within twenty yards of the end zone (fence) I sensed victory; that's when I realized I couldn't stop to climb the chest high fence
because the future ham sandwich was right on my heels. When I closed to within a few yards of the fence I launched myself head first; as I cleared the fence I extended my computer in front of me. Touch down! The animals in attendance went wild. Out of control and unable to stop her momentum the hog slammed into the
fence..
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After I cleared the fence I landed on my shoulder awkwardly but my adrenaline was flowing so I felt no pain. It was then, as I picked myself up out of the dirt, that I realized, I'd pulled off an upset; I'd read the meter and defeated the monster hog on its home turf in front of a hostile crowd. My arm was bleeding and my pants were torn but I'd got the "W."
Then, I glanced down at my computer and I realized that I hadn't recorded the consumption data. I'd put myself in position to read the meter but, in all the excitement, had failed to input the data. In a rage, I cursed the hog and my boss. The hog's winning streak against Virginia Power Meter Readers would increase to seven consecutive months and the meter at Anderson's Corner would go unread, yet, again.  |
| The hog's field (left) @ Anderson's Corner on Route 60 - Toano, Virginia |
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The Next game...
a chance for redemption
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This isn't a domestic hog but just for speed reference
This time the hog is on offense; he outruns the dogs, dodges a bullet, runs over
the hunter (with gun) and breaks away for a long touchdown.
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Pierce's PITT Barbecue located off of Interstate 64 just outside Williamsburg
This is where I first discovered my barnyard adversary was delicious
covered with barbecue sauce and served between two slices of bread.
Best barbecue in Virginia
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| Pierce's humble beginnings (circa 1971) |
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...A typical afternoon in James City County.
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Walking among Ghosts...
a lesson in colonial history "on the clock"
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| The Duke of Hampton (1706) |
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A fist full of skeleton keys
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One of the many places I had to go for my job was Colonial Williamsburg; it's a part of of Williamsburg that's been largely restored to the way it was in the eighteenth century. The entire area is staffed by professional reenactors who dress and work in the manner of the period. Everything is authentic with the exception of there being electricity in some of the restored buildings.
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I was given a map and a hundred or so skeleton keys and turned loose for a couple days every month. The electric meters I sought could be inside, outside, or even beneath the buildings. The task was further complicated by the fact that some of the buildings had residents or businesses as tenants.
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I was a paid tourist
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.The Governor's Palace in Colonial Williamsburg
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What is wrong with this kid?
He's just going to step right in that. Kids haven't changed much over the centuries.
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| America has a complex history There are many ways you can run with that statement with this picture. |
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Even the colonial guys cleaned up their rides for the weekend
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| Americans love burning that gunpowder |
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The beasts of Colonial Williamsburg always gave us Meter Readers evil looks;
and they were no different than their domestic or barnyard brethren in that
they all wanted a piece of me.
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A tailor
Now he appears to be experiencing the peace and contentment of getting into the task.
No phones ...no blackberries ...no stock options ...no insurance.
Just work and live until you fall off the horse. A far from perfect,
yet, much simpler time.
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| Uh oh... Anytime you see some old white guys in wigs gathered in a chamber it's not a good sign.
It appears to be a closed door affair. Based on experience,
With wigs and stockings going for the proverbial arm and a leg what, pray tell, is a well-heeled gentleman to do? Competition for the fairest maidens has become quite fierce. The fellow seated in the red jacket is none other than, the late, Senator John McCain.this can only mean one thing;.. "ye olde self-enrichment scheme" |
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.In this part of the country this scene isn't so unusual.
I've witnessed firearms brandished on and off the job,
once or twice at the wrong end of the barrel
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..Ye olde tavern
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The first English speaking settlement...
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..Jamestown settlement (Established 1607)
Where European settlers got their first "toe hold" in the new world; the
first permanent English speaking settlement on the North American continent.
They were met by understandably nervous Native Americans at
first; we all know what happened over the next few hundred years..
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."I knew we shouldn't have given them that corn"
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...Twelve years in Ol Virginia.
