Occasionally, I travel from my home in Hope Mills to visit my dad. Sally, my practical
minded wife, always tells me I should call Pop to let him know I am coming for a visit.
I never do. I always have places to go and people I can see. Sometimes, no one but
Sally knows I am in Rockingham. One would think that a eighty five year old man
would always be at home. However, times do occur when Daddy is out riding in his
new Ford pick-up that he purchased from me. When he is not at home, I climb back
into my Ford pick-up and ride Richmond County to see the changes that have taken
place since I was a kid fifty plus years ago.
Back in the fall of 2000, I made a trip to Rockingham to visit Daddy. Of course, I did
not call before I left Hope Mills and of course, Daddy was not home. I used my key
with the intent of slipping in and merely leaving a note of disappointment at missing
him and a note of love from my brood.
Suddenly, alone in that house that had been my home thirty days short of twenty four
years since arriving home from Hamlet Hospital in January, 1948, my mind recalled a
mansion of memories as I walked through each room. Still present on the back door
was the crystal quartz door knob that although had been twisted thousands of times
since installation, still showed no signs of wear and tear. Hundreds of times Mama
had opened that back door to throw Zeke a leftover biscuit. Naturally, she threw like a
girl. Yet, rarely would that biscuit ever hit the ground. Zeke had only one short
coming that kept him from starting for our neighborhood sandlot baseball team, the
Foxport Raiders. Yes the Foxport Raiders of the late ' 50s and early ' 60s was the
original Raiders team in Richmond County. Zeke had a weak arm. Getting the ball
back to the infield would have been a problem for Zeke; catching a fly ball, no
problem!
Flashback memories flooded my mind as I walked through my childhood home. In
the den, I stopped to look at the large single-paned window that was next to the one
and only television we had in the house. By the way, it was a huge 21-inch black and
white TV. My, how times have changed; my home in Hope Mills is now equipped
with one black and white and five color television sets. The window still had the
replacement pane that Uncle Wes installed the day Ken pushed me through it. I
remember it as if it were yesterday ...
It was a Saturday afternoon, twelve noon to be specific. On channel WSOC-TV was
"Kilgo's Canteen." I was a thirteen-year-old who had just started to be infatuated with
the opposite sex. Ken, on the other hand, was an eleven-year-old kid hypnotized by
adventure. Our two outlooks on life came into conflict every Saturday at noon via the
invention of television. For you see, a live broadcast of Dick Clark's Bandstand
Southern Style occurred every Saturday at noon from the studios of WSOC-TV
Channel 9 out of Charlotte fondly called "Kilgo's Canteen." Local celebrity, Jimmy
Kilgo, would host groups of 20 to 25 high school students who experienced brief
moments of fame. The kids filled the chairs of tables of four. When not on the dance
floor shagging, twisting, or doing the funky chicken, they were being interviewed by
Jimmy. They were being asked questions about their school, the latest fads in teen
clothing, music, and any youth "crisis." Occasionally, a local band would appear as a
headliner feature. This show kick-started a local group, The Catalinas, who later
released the big beach hit, Summertime's Calling Me. I remember seeing a teen group
from Rockingham High "starring" one Saturday as well as a group of our rivals,
Hamlet High School, appearing another Saturday. Everyone in Richmond County
watched both Saturdays because they had a Richmond County Journal front page
notice on Friday. "Kilgo's Canteen" brought thirty minutes of fame to the local,
small-town high school and its participants on a miniature scale much like nationally
acclaimed "American Idol" did for Rockingham's Bucky Covington. "Kilgo's Canteen"
was a must-see every Saturday for every teenager.
On the other hand, "Out of the clear blue western sky comes ... Sky King." Sky King
was a modern day cowboy who along with his niece, Penny, pulled off amazing
just-in-the-knick-of-time rescues or caught the bad guy just before he disappeared
forever. Sky and Penny were able to perform these logic-defying miracles in
"Songbird," Sky's Cessna 310 airplane. From 1951 to 1962, seventy-two episodes of
Sky King were filmed. Every Saturday, Gary, Ken and I stayed glued in front of our
21-inch black and white TV and watched the thirty minute heroics of Sky King. I will
never forget the Saturday I outgrew "The Adventures of Sky King."
"I'm watching 'Kilgo's Canteen,'" I told my little brothers, Gary and Ken, as I strolled
out of the kitchen with my freshly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich in hand. I
stepped up to the television and turned the channel knob (the remote control had not
yet been invented) to channel 9 just as channel 3 broadcasted "out of the clear blue
western sky comes ..."
"Turn back to Sky King!" demanded Ken.
"Shut up! I want to find out what high school will be on today. I'm watching Jimmy
Kilgo!"
"You can call Jack Cooper (RHS ' 66). He'll tell you what school is on Kilgo's," Ken
snapped back as he twisted the channel knob to channel 3. "We're gonna watch Sky
King!"
The McDonald brother pecking order was being challenged. I decided it was time to
remind Ken that I, not he, was the BIG BROTHER. After turning the knob back and
forth several times, I finally issued a mandate to little Ken. "Now you touch that dial
one more time and I'll slap you. I'm watching 'Kilgo's Canteen,'" I announced as I
stood in front of that black and white TV with my back to that large single-paned
window. "Now, just switch it one more time," I challenged Ken as I stared into his
eyes. I knew we were about to fight. Ken never backed down from a fight.
"Switch this!" Ken yelled as he pushed me hard with both hands squarely in my
chest. I stumbled backward with nothing to grab since my right hand was already full
of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I was not going to let my sandwich go. Ken
continued to push like a mad Russian as I crashed through the window and Ken's
momentum pushed the screen wire out of its brackets with broken glass flying
everywhere. The scene was almost like an instant replay from Gunsmoke, when
about once per month Marshall Matt Dillon threw some outlaw through the front
window of the Long Branch Saloon.
Miraculously, I ended up flat on my back on the ground in the backyard with not the
first scratch or cut on me still holding that peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my
right hand. Who should be the first to comfort me but Zeke. He brought me back to
the real world by licking the stunned look off my face. Once again, Zeke expressed the
love and care between a boy and his dog that cannot be duplicated by any other
animal. Sensing I was okay, but apparently not hungry anymore, Zeke snatched my
sandwich from my hand and ran.
Discovering that the only injury her oldest son had was his pride, Mama went into the
recovery mode. Her first step was to cut off the TV. Mama then made a phone call to
Wes, one of her brothers. Uncle Wes showed up with a plan to replace the broken
pane. With measurements in hand and a generous billfold in his back pocket, Uncle
Wes made a quick trip to town. In less than two hours, the shattered window was as
good as new. Mama said Daddy did not need to know about the accident right away as
long as Gary, Ken, and I could share the television. We knew that the consequences
of our actions would be extremely painful if Daddy found out. As a result, Sky King
and Jimmy Kilgo were never topics of debate at our house again.
Finally, I made my way into the small bedroom that Gary, Ken, and I shared as kids. I
always shared a bed with Gary, and Ken slept alone. No one could sleep with Ken; he
constantly moved his legs during the night. Daddy always said Ken rode his bicycle all
night long. I could write a book of memories drawn from that one small room alone.
As I stood there in the room where we McDonald brothers shared so many good
times, my mind carried me back to the games we played and the lessons of life learned
through a mockingbird, all enclosed in the room we shared thirty-five plus years ago.
I still remember the hole in the wall where I threw Ken into the sheetrock head first.
Our beds stood parallel to one another, each flush against the opposite walls with a six
foot wide center aisle between the two. As soon as the leaves changed from summer
green to fall brown and Game 7 of the World Series was played, this six foot aisle
turned into Washington's RFK Stadium. The Redskins-Cowboy classics were
replayed in our bedroom. Our pigskin (football) was rolled out from under our bed
and replaced by our ball gloves and Louisville Slugger wooden baseball bat.
Baseball may have been America's favorite pastime but in Richmond County, football
was king and the Rockingham Rockets sat on the throne. Ellerbe High always had
strong eight-man football teams. Yes, I did say eight as in eight starters, not eleven.
With graduating classes of thirty, the body count would not support a full team.
Rohanen High competed every year for their Class 2A conference title. On the other
hand, Hamlet High and all other surrounding Class 3A high school teams competed
for second place in the Southeastern Conference. The Rockingham Rockets had
more loft goals than a conference championship. Hamlet High, Dunn High,
Laurinburg High, Lumberton High, Sanford High, Clinton High, Raeford High, and
Wadesboro High were mere stepping stones for the perennial Southeastern
Champion Rockets in their quest for the State 3A Football Championship. Coach Bill
Eustler brought a few such trophies home for the showcase in Kate Finley
Auditorium. Most of the other state champs in that era had to beat the Rockets in the
playoff system. All contenders came down Highway 1 or Highway 74 for a two to
three hour Friday night layover at Rockingham Ballpark on their drive to the title.
More than one visiting team returned home brokenhearted.
Championship football was being played in Richmond County long before the
Richmond Raiders came into existence. As great as the undefeated ' 88 -' 90 Raiders
of the Mike Thomas (RSHS ' 90) era with his Michael Vick quarterback moves and his
All-Universe leading punting average were, along with Dallas Cowboy linebacker
Oscar Sturgis (RSHS '90), the Raiders would still have to play catch-up football
against High School All-American Ron Tuthill (RHS ' 61) and his Rockets if the two
had ever met. With track star and Roberdel native Ray Jones (RHS ' 61) at half-back,
Tuthill redefined the option play. Many times, a defensive end rolled over with
Ronnie in his arms only to see the south side of Ray as he tiptoed into the north end
zone. On the very next series of Rocket offensive plays, the same defensive end
would roll over with Ray in his clutches as Ron put six more on the scoreboard for the
Rockets. Finally, just to keep the defense honest, Tuthill would deliver a perfect TD
spiral to a multitude of receivers.
Ron went on to graduate Rockingham High with a full football scholarship to the
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Ronnie was the starting quarterback for
the ' 61 freshman Tar Heels only to lose the starting ' 62 varsity Tar Heel job to
Charlotte Myers Park High passing star Gary Black. Gary had lost the job to Ron as a
freshman. The popular consensus in Rockingham at that time in history was Ron's
talents could not compete against the strong Charlotte Tar Heel Alumni influence for
the starting varsity quarterback slot. Ronnie went on to score touchdowns for the
Heels as a wide receiver. He later went on to win a starting job as a defensive back. In
1964, the Tar Heel teammates and coaches elected Ron and future all-pro Chris
Hanburger as Co-Captains on a team quarterbacked by Senior Gary Black. The
leadership abilities developed as a Rocket served Ron well in college. By the way, Ray
carried his blazing speed to Chapel Hill in the fall of ' 61 as a scholarship Tar Heel
sprinter. Both Ron and Ray became legends. By merely mentioning either name to
any pre-1970 Rockingham High graduate, you will hear the other's name. In the
same breath, an instant replay of a fall Friday night forty plus years ago will be rerun
in the minds and conversations of the two participants. May God bless the
Tuthill-Jones memories and may God bless America! Go Rockets!!!
It was with the same above mentioned emotions and inspirations that every kid grew
up in Rockingham with the ambition to play for Coach Bill Eustler. Even when it was
too wet or too cold to go outside or even when it was too dark, Gary, Ken, and I played
football. The hundred yard football field became that six foot aisle between our beds.
The end zones became our beds. Our rules were simple. One brother was offense and
the other two played defense. As long as the offense scored, the offense kept the ball.
The game was over only after all three of us had our turn on offense. Hence, a typical
score may have read 21-14-0. Poor Gary never scored. What other outcome could
one expect? After all, Ken and I were three and five years older. Yet, such fun
football, probably later on, made Gary the toughest brother. I never will forget the
night that our favorite bedroom football game pulled Daddy up out of his easy chair to
throw a flag for unsportsman-like conduct and ended our game. I still recall the night
as though it was yesterday ...
"Quit crying, get up off your back, and get ready. It's still my ball! The score is
Rockets 42, Red Rams (Hamlet) 0," Ken announced. "You can't quit, Cry Baby!"
"Get up, Gary," I encouraged my little brother. "You and I are gonna show Ken how to
play football. You ain't nothing but a sissy," I teased Ken.
"You asked for it," Ken answered. "I'm gonna run over both of you!" exclaimed a
charging Ken. With a Settle Dockery (RHS ' 64) fourth and goal determination and
both arms wrapped around the football, Ken lowered his head and bulled his way
toward Gary and the opposite bed. (Settle was honorable mention High School
All-American as well as All-State fullback whose skills and intelligence put him in the
starting backfield and the School of Design at N.C. State}. Just as Ken reached Gary, I
pushed Gary out of the way, grabbed Ken by the back of the neck with one hand and
the seat of his pants with the other. I then slung him as hard as I could toward the
end zone bed much to his and Gary's surprise. Ken hit his bed with the accelerated
speed of a 1955 Nash Rambler hydroplaning in a pouring rain. Only the wall on the
opposite side of the room slowed Ken down as I stuck both arms straight up in the air
and yelled "Touchdown!" I turned back to look at Ken and had to do a double-take.
Hard-headed Ken had punched a hole in the wall! He pulled his head out of the wall
and came back across the bed even quicker than his initial trip. The fight was on! It
was on long enough for Daddy to leave his Lazyboy and walk to our bedroom. We
both got a spanking. I am not sure if it was for fighting or punching the hole in the
wall. Nevertheless, the end result was the same. That same hole is still there today.
A closet now stands where Ken's bed stood. On the backside of that closet is a size 7
3/8 hole.
I still remember my brothers and I standing on the end of the bed peeping through
the Venetian blinds and looking directly in the nest of a mockingbird. I can still see
the four or five small, blue eggs. I can still see Mama Mockingbird sitting on the nest,
even in the pouring rain. Likewise, I can still see the four or five open mouths
stretching for the worm in Mama Mockingbird's beak. I can still see four or five small
birds standing on wobbly legs looking over the edge of their secure home. Finally, I
still remember looking into the nest that contained only fragments of egg shells and
wondering how many of the little birds survived without their mother. I was left to
wonder until the following spring, when the same mockingbird returned and laid her
first egg in the same nest. My brothers and I saw God's creation recycle through the
same bedroom window for six or seven consecutive summers. That bedroom had
hundreds of memories that were buried deep within my memory bank, such as the
head hole in the sheetrock and Mama Mockingbird as seen through my bedroom
window.
As I sat on the edge of my childhood bed, I glanced at the dresser where Gary, Ken,
and I shared all the treasures that can only be found in a little boy's pockets. Just
what would I find if I dare open these small drawers? What I found that day was more
valuable to me than any pirate booty buried anywhere on any ocean floor. For what I
found that day in the year 2000 was a color snapshot of our Zeke, King Of the Road.
This picture had laid dormant in that small desk drawer for thirty to thirty-five years.
It was taken during the time period when black and white film still outsold color film
(color film was so expensive). I had then and still have now no idea of the identity of
the photographer. To the best of my knowledge, this small color photo was the only
picture ever taken of our best friend. I held a true rare treasure in my hand.
A glance at my watch brought me back to Y2K as my mind returned from a four
decade trip where I had spent the last hour home alone in that small seven room
house I grew up in. I scratched Daddy a note and slipped the picture of Zeke into my
shirt pocket as I scrambled to get out the door and back to Hope Mills. If I hurried, I
had time to go around the circle of my old high school, Rockingham High. I had a
nostalgic urge to walk up and down the front steps of 'ole RHS. I had not done that
since May, 1966. I needed to hurry!
While driving home, I must have pulled that snapshot of Zeke out of my pocket a
dozen times. Each glance brought a smile to my face and carried me back in time to
the ' 60s. I reached over and cut my radio off for my memories of Zeke made me deaf
to my favorite beach music CD. The memories of Zeke came alive as I drove home
alone in my truck. I suddenly realized that as long as God grants me memory I can
always travel back in time to the frolicking fun time of my childhood days whenever I
look at that photo of that old dog that I loved so much. I simply basked in the warm,
nostalgic memories of my best friend of so long ago. I knew these same fuzzy feelings
were shared my brothers and Daddy whenever the name Zeke came up. Our
conversations over the year confirmed that conclusion. A mind is a terrible thing to
loose, especially a memory. How could I preserve these precious childhood
memories? Surely, if man could preserve something as basic as grape jelly, then I
could preserve a precious heirloom memory, but how?
When I arrived home that night, I shared my discovery with my wife Sally. Zeke was
an old dog slowed by arthritis and old age when Sally first met Zeke. Yet, even she
had plenty of fond memories to share about Zeke. Sally reminded me of the first time
I carried her home to meet Mama (Daddy too, but Mama's initial stamp of approval
was of utmost importance to me). The time frame was May, 1970. I was less than
thirty days away from walking across the stage in Raleigh with a diploma in hand and
a B.S. degree in Textile Technology. Furthermore, I was also on the doorsteps of my
first fulltime job in the adult world. The textile giant J.P. Stevens had a job waiting for
me in my hometown where I could start out making more money than ninety percent
of the employees who had worked their entire lives in the Stevens mill. All the above
factors and circumstances were important events in my life, but none held a candle to
introducing my future bride to Mama and family. Of course Sally was only a
girlfriend, or so I thought. She stirred emotions and feelings in me I had never felt
before. "Zing went the strings of my heart!" Yet, it was crucial that the first woman
that I ever loved with all my heart approve my heartthrob. Without Mama's approval,
Sally could have become just another fling. No reason could Mama not like her, Sally
was perfect. Nevertheless, whenever I pulled into the front yard of my home, I was as
nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory.
I still remember when Sally stepped out of my brand new 1970 limelight green
Plymouth Duster 340. In 1970, Sally could have been a cover girl for any teen fashion
magazine. In typical "flower child" hairstyling of the day, Sally had long dark brown
almost black hair that dropped down past her waist. Her dark hair complemented her
natural golden tanned complexion. Furthermore, her tan was accented by the
clothing fashion of the day. My Sally was wearing a miniskirt that was so short that
"mini" did not do justice to the description. Out of the bottom of that miniskirt were
the most smooth, most golden, most shapely, most alluring female legs I had ever
seen in my 22 years of living. On the end of those long legs were small dainty feet
with bright red toenails nestled into leather sandals that were highlighted by a big
yellow sunflower. I was falling in love and did not even realize it, I just knew my
brothers and Daddy would be just as hypnotized as I was by this new girl of mine with
supermodel characteristics. Mama had to like her. Sally had a couple of aces in the
hole to use in case Mama tried to judge my book by its cover. The first ace was a
double-dimpled smile with perfect bleach white teeth. This blue-eyed babe melted
my heart with her smile. Yet, the strongest ace my dream girl held was her roots.
Sally was the farmer's daughter! Her stunning tanned complexion was earned in the
tobacco fields of Eastern North Carolina. How could Mama not like her? I eagerly
shut the passenger door of my Duster 340 and grabbed my sweetheart by the hand as
Sally stepped onto Richmond County soil for the first time. It was time to meet
Mama!
As we approached the front porch step of my childhood home, who should appear
from the shrubbery but 'ole Zeke. Sally froze in her steps! Looking as ferocious and
intimidating as he ever did in his prime, the old bulldog cautiously advanced toward
Sally. Zeke slowly circled Sally, never taking his eyes off of her. He slipped up to her
back side, sniffed her, wagged his tail and returned to rest behind the shrubbery.
Zeke and I thought alike; I was a love sick puppy. Amazingly, the picture of Zeke
resurrected a courtship memory. Occasionally, we still giggle over that memory and
for some reason she sometimes tries to compare me to my best friend by
commanding me to "sit" or worse yet "stay" if you catch my drift.
For the next week after I returned home from visiting Daddy, I pulled the photograph
of Zeke out of my dresser drawer each night when I came home from work. Staring at
that snapshot for more than twenty seconds almost made Zeke come alive in my
hands. It was as though his eyes were twinkling, his ears were perched, and he was
ready to defend. The picture captured that analyzing stare that he always displayed
when he locked in on another animal or strange visitor. I caught myself several times
whispering, "Sic 'em, Zeke! Get 'em, Boy!" When Zeke did not charge off the picture,
I brought myself back to the real world. A thousand more snapshots could have been
taken and probably never would have captured that same pose. No one else in the
world with the exception of my wife Sally even knew the snapshot of Zeke existed. In
fact, as previously mentioned, to the best of my knowledge, it was the only picture of
our best friend. The fact that it was in living color made the picture even more
precious. I suppose the sharp color was enhanced by being buried in the bottom of
that dresser drawer for years, hidden from any artificial light or natural sunlight. I
suddenly felt guilty as if I had stolen the picture of my dog from my dresser in my
bedroom. Yet, like an archeologist who discovers a bit of lost history, I was excited to
share my discovery with my family. Should I call? Should I write? Should I go visit?
The sixty four thousand dollar question became "How should I share?".
While reading the Fayetteville Observer, I ran across an advertisement for Lester's
Studio. The ad highlighted a "before" and an "after" of a tattered by age and wear
photo with a like-new restoration finish. Yes, the light came on! On my day off, I was
standing at the front door as Mr. Lester unlocked his shop. I explained how
meaningful and how old the small picture was. If he somehow lost it among the
thousands in his office, the only snapshot of Zeke would fade to a memory. Mr.
Lester reassured me the photo was in good hands and would be returned in a couple
of weeks along with four 5 X 7 enhanced reproductions. Somehow, I sensed Mr.
Lester shared that same love with his dog that we McDonalds shared with Zeke. He
told me not to worry.
One week later, I was Mr. Lester's first customer again as he opened his shop. He
remembered me and said, "I think you will be pleased with the picture of your dog."
"Pleased" was an understatement; I was ecstatic! Later, after walking through several
department stores, I finally found four brown/black frames trimmed in gold. The
brown/black frame made Zeke's brindle coat glow. The trim could have been no other
color than gold. After all, gold is the only color fit for a king, Zeke - King Of the Road.
I had the perfect Christmas gifts for Daddy and my brothers. Christmas could not
arrive quickly enough. I was actually wishing my life away; I could not wait to call my
family.
My wife Sally is recognized by her friends and family as the residential poet. Whether
it be a fellow employee retirement farewell, a wedding party, an anniversary, a
birthday party, or any other special occasion, everyone looks to Sally for an
event-capturing poem. She captured this special moment in the following excerpt of
her poem entitled "Christmas Of 2000" written for my three girls:
Then it was gift exchanging time ...What a ball!
Fun time was had by one and all.
On this occasion Daddy really could not act meek,
'Cause he gave each a copied and framed picture of ole Zeke.
Sharing dog tales the McDonald men had a ball ...
Recalling stories of Zeke who seemed ten feet tall.
Just as I had anticipated, we McDonald men traveled back in time to the days when
we were barefooted boys and Daddy had more hair. In my living room, we had instant
playback of the days of yesteryear. Our enthusiasm was fueled by what we held in our
hands. Zeke may have indeed grown to be ten feet tall in my home as the whispers of
the past grew into shouts of adoration as we swapped tales. The photo reflected the
essence of Zeke. Protection, loyalty, love, trustworthiness, and unwavering devotion
oozed from that picture, even more so now. That picture now sets on a shelf in my
den and serves as a constant remainder of the fun times my brothers and I had
growing up in Rockingham.
Buzz Lightyear of Star Command is a fictional character appearing in Disney's Toy
Story who is a Space Ranger. This space action figure with all the doo-dad weapons
and gung-ho attitude sees no situation too large or too desperate for him to
undertake. In fact, Buzz recognizes his limits as "infinity and beyond." In other
words, his reputation and heroics have no boundaries. He merely sees himself as a
warrior against the evil, toy-destroying villains of the world who will never die nor be
defeated.
Likewise, Zeke will always live forever. He was a superhero and best friend to the
Cecil McDonald family. Even though Dr. Ralph Gandy permanently put Zeke to sleep
through injection years ago, Zeke continues to be just as alive as the day Daddy
brought him home from Mr. Reece's. Yet, when Daddy, Gary, Ken, and I all have left
this Earth, so will the stories of Zeke, King Of the Road. However, thanks to Joel
Bailey's (RHS ' 66) website, rockinghamremembered.com, Zeke will live forever in
the heroic adventures I have posted.
In conclusion, Zeke was "our best friend, our partner, our defender, our dog. We
were his life, his love, his leaders. He was ours, faithful and true, to the last beat of
his heart ..." Through rockinghamremembered.com, I have made sure his legend will
reach the outer limits of "infinity and beyond," traveling forever in word and picture.
After all, I "owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion." Zeke - King Of the Road: a
precious childhood memory of growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small
textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s.
The End
minded wife, always tells me I should call Pop to let him know I am coming for a visit.
I never do. I always have places to go and people I can see. Sometimes, no one but
Sally knows I am in Rockingham. One would think that a eighty five year old man
would always be at home. However, times do occur when Daddy is out riding in his
new Ford pick-up that he purchased from me. When he is not at home, I climb back
into my Ford pick-up and ride Richmond County to see the changes that have taken
place since I was a kid fifty plus years ago.
Back in the fall of 2000, I made a trip to Rockingham to visit Daddy. Of course, I did
not call before I left Hope Mills and of course, Daddy was not home. I used my key
with the intent of slipping in and merely leaving a note of disappointment at missing
him and a note of love from my brood.
Suddenly, alone in that house that had been my home thirty days short of twenty four
years since arriving home from Hamlet Hospital in January, 1948, my mind recalled a
mansion of memories as I walked through each room. Still present on the back door
was the crystal quartz door knob that although had been twisted thousands of times
since installation, still showed no signs of wear and tear. Hundreds of times Mama
had opened that back door to throw Zeke a leftover biscuit. Naturally, she threw like a
girl. Yet, rarely would that biscuit ever hit the ground. Zeke had only one short
coming that kept him from starting for our neighborhood sandlot baseball team, the
Foxport Raiders. Yes the Foxport Raiders of the late ' 50s and early ' 60s was the
original Raiders team in Richmond County. Zeke had a weak arm. Getting the ball
back to the infield would have been a problem for Zeke; catching a fly ball, no
problem!
Flashback memories flooded my mind as I walked through my childhood home. In
the den, I stopped to look at the large single-paned window that was next to the one
and only television we had in the house. By the way, it was a huge 21-inch black and
white TV. My, how times have changed; my home in Hope Mills is now equipped
with one black and white and five color television sets. The window still had the
replacement pane that Uncle Wes installed the day Ken pushed me through it. I
remember it as if it were yesterday ...
It was a Saturday afternoon, twelve noon to be specific. On channel WSOC-TV was
"Kilgo's Canteen." I was a thirteen-year-old who had just started to be infatuated with
the opposite sex. Ken, on the other hand, was an eleven-year-old kid hypnotized by
adventure. Our two outlooks on life came into conflict every Saturday at noon via the
invention of television. For you see, a live broadcast of Dick Clark's Bandstand
Southern Style occurred every Saturday at noon from the studios of WSOC-TV
Channel 9 out of Charlotte fondly called "Kilgo's Canteen." Local celebrity, Jimmy
Kilgo, would host groups of 20 to 25 high school students who experienced brief
moments of fame. The kids filled the chairs of tables of four. When not on the dance
floor shagging, twisting, or doing the funky chicken, they were being interviewed by
Jimmy. They were being asked questions about their school, the latest fads in teen
clothing, music, and any youth "crisis." Occasionally, a local band would appear as a
headliner feature. This show kick-started a local group, The Catalinas, who later
released the big beach hit, Summertime's Calling Me. I remember seeing a teen group
from Rockingham High "starring" one Saturday as well as a group of our rivals,
Hamlet High School, appearing another Saturday. Everyone in Richmond County
watched both Saturdays because they had a Richmond County Journal front page
notice on Friday. "Kilgo's Canteen" brought thirty minutes of fame to the local,
small-town high school and its participants on a miniature scale much like nationally
acclaimed "American Idol" did for Rockingham's Bucky Covington. "Kilgo's Canteen"
was a must-see every Saturday for every teenager.
On the other hand, "Out of the clear blue western sky comes ... Sky King." Sky King
was a modern day cowboy who along with his niece, Penny, pulled off amazing
just-in-the-knick-of-time rescues or caught the bad guy just before he disappeared
forever. Sky and Penny were able to perform these logic-defying miracles in
"Songbird," Sky's Cessna 310 airplane. From 1951 to 1962, seventy-two episodes of
Sky King were filmed. Every Saturday, Gary, Ken and I stayed glued in front of our
21-inch black and white TV and watched the thirty minute heroics of Sky King. I will
never forget the Saturday I outgrew "The Adventures of Sky King."
"I'm watching 'Kilgo's Canteen,'" I told my little brothers, Gary and Ken, as I strolled
out of the kitchen with my freshly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich in hand. I
stepped up to the television and turned the channel knob (the remote control had not
yet been invented) to channel 9 just as channel 3 broadcasted "out of the clear blue
western sky comes ..."
"Turn back to Sky King!" demanded Ken.
"Shut up! I want to find out what high school will be on today. I'm watching Jimmy
Kilgo!"
"You can call Jack Cooper (RHS ' 66). He'll tell you what school is on Kilgo's," Ken
snapped back as he twisted the channel knob to channel 3. "We're gonna watch Sky
King!"
The McDonald brother pecking order was being challenged. I decided it was time to
remind Ken that I, not he, was the BIG BROTHER. After turning the knob back and
forth several times, I finally issued a mandate to little Ken. "Now you touch that dial
one more time and I'll slap you. I'm watching 'Kilgo's Canteen,'" I announced as I
stood in front of that black and white TV with my back to that large single-paned
window. "Now, just switch it one more time," I challenged Ken as I stared into his
eyes. I knew we were about to fight. Ken never backed down from a fight.
"Switch this!" Ken yelled as he pushed me hard with both hands squarely in my
chest. I stumbled backward with nothing to grab since my right hand was already full
of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I was not going to let my sandwich go. Ken
continued to push like a mad Russian as I crashed through the window and Ken's
momentum pushed the screen wire out of its brackets with broken glass flying
everywhere. The scene was almost like an instant replay from Gunsmoke, when
about once per month Marshall Matt Dillon threw some outlaw through the front
window of the Long Branch Saloon.
Miraculously, I ended up flat on my back on the ground in the backyard with not the
first scratch or cut on me still holding that peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my
right hand. Who should be the first to comfort me but Zeke. He brought me back to
the real world by licking the stunned look off my face. Once again, Zeke expressed the
love and care between a boy and his dog that cannot be duplicated by any other
animal. Sensing I was okay, but apparently not hungry anymore, Zeke snatched my
sandwich from my hand and ran.
Discovering that the only injury her oldest son had was his pride, Mama went into the
recovery mode. Her first step was to cut off the TV. Mama then made a phone call to
Wes, one of her brothers. Uncle Wes showed up with a plan to replace the broken
pane. With measurements in hand and a generous billfold in his back pocket, Uncle
Wes made a quick trip to town. In less than two hours, the shattered window was as
good as new. Mama said Daddy did not need to know about the accident right away as
long as Gary, Ken, and I could share the television. We knew that the consequences
of our actions would be extremely painful if Daddy found out. As a result, Sky King
and Jimmy Kilgo were never topics of debate at our house again.
Finally, I made my way into the small bedroom that Gary, Ken, and I shared as kids. I
always shared a bed with Gary, and Ken slept alone. No one could sleep with Ken; he
constantly moved his legs during the night. Daddy always said Ken rode his bicycle all
night long. I could write a book of memories drawn from that one small room alone.
As I stood there in the room where we McDonald brothers shared so many good
times, my mind carried me back to the games we played and the lessons of life learned
through a mockingbird, all enclosed in the room we shared thirty-five plus years ago.
I still remember the hole in the wall where I threw Ken into the sheetrock head first.
Our beds stood parallel to one another, each flush against the opposite walls with a six
foot wide center aisle between the two. As soon as the leaves changed from summer
green to fall brown and Game 7 of the World Series was played, this six foot aisle
turned into Washington's RFK Stadium. The Redskins-Cowboy classics were
replayed in our bedroom. Our pigskin (football) was rolled out from under our bed
and replaced by our ball gloves and Louisville Slugger wooden baseball bat.
Baseball may have been America's favorite pastime but in Richmond County, football
was king and the Rockingham Rockets sat on the throne. Ellerbe High always had
strong eight-man football teams. Yes, I did say eight as in eight starters, not eleven.
With graduating classes of thirty, the body count would not support a full team.
Rohanen High competed every year for their Class 2A conference title. On the other
hand, Hamlet High and all other surrounding Class 3A high school teams competed
for second place in the Southeastern Conference. The Rockingham Rockets had
more loft goals than a conference championship. Hamlet High, Dunn High,
Laurinburg High, Lumberton High, Sanford High, Clinton High, Raeford High, and
Wadesboro High were mere stepping stones for the perennial Southeastern
Champion Rockets in their quest for the State 3A Football Championship. Coach Bill
Eustler brought a few such trophies home for the showcase in Kate Finley
Auditorium. Most of the other state champs in that era had to beat the Rockets in the
playoff system. All contenders came down Highway 1 or Highway 74 for a two to
three hour Friday night layover at Rockingham Ballpark on their drive to the title.
More than one visiting team returned home brokenhearted.
Championship football was being played in Richmond County long before the
Richmond Raiders came into existence. As great as the undefeated ' 88 -' 90 Raiders
of the Mike Thomas (RSHS ' 90) era with his Michael Vick quarterback moves and his
All-Universe leading punting average were, along with Dallas Cowboy linebacker
Oscar Sturgis (RSHS '90), the Raiders would still have to play catch-up football
against High School All-American Ron Tuthill (RHS ' 61) and his Rockets if the two
had ever met. With track star and Roberdel native Ray Jones (RHS ' 61) at half-back,
Tuthill redefined the option play. Many times, a defensive end rolled over with
Ronnie in his arms only to see the south side of Ray as he tiptoed into the north end
zone. On the very next series of Rocket offensive plays, the same defensive end
would roll over with Ray in his clutches as Ron put six more on the scoreboard for the
Rockets. Finally, just to keep the defense honest, Tuthill would deliver a perfect TD
spiral to a multitude of receivers.
Ron went on to graduate Rockingham High with a full football scholarship to the
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Ronnie was the starting quarterback for
the ' 61 freshman Tar Heels only to lose the starting ' 62 varsity Tar Heel job to
Charlotte Myers Park High passing star Gary Black. Gary had lost the job to Ron as a
freshman. The popular consensus in Rockingham at that time in history was Ron's
talents could not compete against the strong Charlotte Tar Heel Alumni influence for
the starting varsity quarterback slot. Ronnie went on to score touchdowns for the
Heels as a wide receiver. He later went on to win a starting job as a defensive back. In
1964, the Tar Heel teammates and coaches elected Ron and future all-pro Chris
Hanburger as Co-Captains on a team quarterbacked by Senior Gary Black. The
leadership abilities developed as a Rocket served Ron well in college. By the way, Ray
carried his blazing speed to Chapel Hill in the fall of ' 61 as a scholarship Tar Heel
sprinter. Both Ron and Ray became legends. By merely mentioning either name to
any pre-1970 Rockingham High graduate, you will hear the other's name. In the
same breath, an instant replay of a fall Friday night forty plus years ago will be rerun
in the minds and conversations of the two participants. May God bless the
Tuthill-Jones memories and may God bless America! Go Rockets!!!
It was with the same above mentioned emotions and inspirations that every kid grew
up in Rockingham with the ambition to play for Coach Bill Eustler. Even when it was
too wet or too cold to go outside or even when it was too dark, Gary, Ken, and I played
football. The hundred yard football field became that six foot aisle between our beds.
The end zones became our beds. Our rules were simple. One brother was offense and
the other two played defense. As long as the offense scored, the offense kept the ball.
The game was over only after all three of us had our turn on offense. Hence, a typical
score may have read 21-14-0. Poor Gary never scored. What other outcome could
one expect? After all, Ken and I were three and five years older. Yet, such fun
football, probably later on, made Gary the toughest brother. I never will forget the
night that our favorite bedroom football game pulled Daddy up out of his easy chair to
throw a flag for unsportsman-like conduct and ended our game. I still recall the night
as though it was yesterday ...
"Quit crying, get up off your back, and get ready. It's still my ball! The score is
Rockets 42, Red Rams (Hamlet) 0," Ken announced. "You can't quit, Cry Baby!"
"Get up, Gary," I encouraged my little brother. "You and I are gonna show Ken how to
play football. You ain't nothing but a sissy," I teased Ken.
"You asked for it," Ken answered. "I'm gonna run over both of you!" exclaimed a
charging Ken. With a Settle Dockery (RHS ' 64) fourth and goal determination and
both arms wrapped around the football, Ken lowered his head and bulled his way
toward Gary and the opposite bed. (Settle was honorable mention High School
All-American as well as All-State fullback whose skills and intelligence put him in the
starting backfield and the School of Design at N.C. State}. Just as Ken reached Gary, I
pushed Gary out of the way, grabbed Ken by the back of the neck with one hand and
the seat of his pants with the other. I then slung him as hard as I could toward the
end zone bed much to his and Gary's surprise. Ken hit his bed with the accelerated
speed of a 1955 Nash Rambler hydroplaning in a pouring rain. Only the wall on the
opposite side of the room slowed Ken down as I stuck both arms straight up in the air
and yelled "Touchdown!" I turned back to look at Ken and had to do a double-take.
Hard-headed Ken had punched a hole in the wall! He pulled his head out of the wall
and came back across the bed even quicker than his initial trip. The fight was on! It
was on long enough for Daddy to leave his Lazyboy and walk to our bedroom. We
both got a spanking. I am not sure if it was for fighting or punching the hole in the
wall. Nevertheless, the end result was the same. That same hole is still there today.
A closet now stands where Ken's bed stood. On the backside of that closet is a size 7
3/8 hole.
I still remember my brothers and I standing on the end of the bed peeping through
the Venetian blinds and looking directly in the nest of a mockingbird. I can still see
the four or five small, blue eggs. I can still see Mama Mockingbird sitting on the nest,
even in the pouring rain. Likewise, I can still see the four or five open mouths
stretching for the worm in Mama Mockingbird's beak. I can still see four or five small
birds standing on wobbly legs looking over the edge of their secure home. Finally, I
still remember looking into the nest that contained only fragments of egg shells and
wondering how many of the little birds survived without their mother. I was left to
wonder until the following spring, when the same mockingbird returned and laid her
first egg in the same nest. My brothers and I saw God's creation recycle through the
same bedroom window for six or seven consecutive summers. That bedroom had
hundreds of memories that were buried deep within my memory bank, such as the
head hole in the sheetrock and Mama Mockingbird as seen through my bedroom
window.
As I sat on the edge of my childhood bed, I glanced at the dresser where Gary, Ken,
and I shared all the treasures that can only be found in a little boy's pockets. Just
what would I find if I dare open these small drawers? What I found that day was more
valuable to me than any pirate booty buried anywhere on any ocean floor. For what I
found that day in the year 2000 was a color snapshot of our Zeke, King Of the Road.
This picture had laid dormant in that small desk drawer for thirty to thirty-five years.
It was taken during the time period when black and white film still outsold color film
(color film was so expensive). I had then and still have now no idea of the identity of
the photographer. To the best of my knowledge, this small color photo was the only
picture ever taken of our best friend. I held a true rare treasure in my hand.
A glance at my watch brought me back to Y2K as my mind returned from a four
decade trip where I had spent the last hour home alone in that small seven room
house I grew up in. I scratched Daddy a note and slipped the picture of Zeke into my
shirt pocket as I scrambled to get out the door and back to Hope Mills. If I hurried, I
had time to go around the circle of my old high school, Rockingham High. I had a
nostalgic urge to walk up and down the front steps of 'ole RHS. I had not done that
since May, 1966. I needed to hurry!
While driving home, I must have pulled that snapshot of Zeke out of my pocket a
dozen times. Each glance brought a smile to my face and carried me back in time to
the ' 60s. I reached over and cut my radio off for my memories of Zeke made me deaf
to my favorite beach music CD. The memories of Zeke came alive as I drove home
alone in my truck. I suddenly realized that as long as God grants me memory I can
always travel back in time to the frolicking fun time of my childhood days whenever I
look at that photo of that old dog that I loved so much. I simply basked in the warm,
nostalgic memories of my best friend of so long ago. I knew these same fuzzy feelings
were shared my brothers and Daddy whenever the name Zeke came up. Our
conversations over the year confirmed that conclusion. A mind is a terrible thing to
loose, especially a memory. How could I preserve these precious childhood
memories? Surely, if man could preserve something as basic as grape jelly, then I
could preserve a precious heirloom memory, but how?
When I arrived home that night, I shared my discovery with my wife Sally. Zeke was
an old dog slowed by arthritis and old age when Sally first met Zeke. Yet, even she
had plenty of fond memories to share about Zeke. Sally reminded me of the first time
I carried her home to meet Mama (Daddy too, but Mama's initial stamp of approval
was of utmost importance to me). The time frame was May, 1970. I was less than
thirty days away from walking across the stage in Raleigh with a diploma in hand and
a B.S. degree in Textile Technology. Furthermore, I was also on the doorsteps of my
first fulltime job in the adult world. The textile giant J.P. Stevens had a job waiting for
me in my hometown where I could start out making more money than ninety percent
of the employees who had worked their entire lives in the Stevens mill. All the above
factors and circumstances were important events in my life, but none held a candle to
introducing my future bride to Mama and family. Of course Sally was only a
girlfriend, or so I thought. She stirred emotions and feelings in me I had never felt
before. "Zing went the strings of my heart!" Yet, it was crucial that the first woman
that I ever loved with all my heart approve my heartthrob. Without Mama's approval,
Sally could have become just another fling. No reason could Mama not like her, Sally
was perfect. Nevertheless, whenever I pulled into the front yard of my home, I was as
nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory.
I still remember when Sally stepped out of my brand new 1970 limelight green
Plymouth Duster 340. In 1970, Sally could have been a cover girl for any teen fashion
magazine. In typical "flower child" hairstyling of the day, Sally had long dark brown
almost black hair that dropped down past her waist. Her dark hair complemented her
natural golden tanned complexion. Furthermore, her tan was accented by the
clothing fashion of the day. My Sally was wearing a miniskirt that was so short that
"mini" did not do justice to the description. Out of the bottom of that miniskirt were
the most smooth, most golden, most shapely, most alluring female legs I had ever
seen in my 22 years of living. On the end of those long legs were small dainty feet
with bright red toenails nestled into leather sandals that were highlighted by a big
yellow sunflower. I was falling in love and did not even realize it, I just knew my
brothers and Daddy would be just as hypnotized as I was by this new girl of mine with
supermodel characteristics. Mama had to like her. Sally had a couple of aces in the
hole to use in case Mama tried to judge my book by its cover. The first ace was a
double-dimpled smile with perfect bleach white teeth. This blue-eyed babe melted
my heart with her smile. Yet, the strongest ace my dream girl held was her roots.
Sally was the farmer's daughter! Her stunning tanned complexion was earned in the
tobacco fields of Eastern North Carolina. How could Mama not like her? I eagerly
shut the passenger door of my Duster 340 and grabbed my sweetheart by the hand as
Sally stepped onto Richmond County soil for the first time. It was time to meet
Mama!
As we approached the front porch step of my childhood home, who should appear
from the shrubbery but 'ole Zeke. Sally froze in her steps! Looking as ferocious and
intimidating as he ever did in his prime, the old bulldog cautiously advanced toward
Sally. Zeke slowly circled Sally, never taking his eyes off of her. He slipped up to her
back side, sniffed her, wagged his tail and returned to rest behind the shrubbery.
Zeke and I thought alike; I was a love sick puppy. Amazingly, the picture of Zeke
resurrected a courtship memory. Occasionally, we still giggle over that memory and
for some reason she sometimes tries to compare me to my best friend by
commanding me to "sit" or worse yet "stay" if you catch my drift.
For the next week after I returned home from visiting Daddy, I pulled the photograph
of Zeke out of my dresser drawer each night when I came home from work. Staring at
that snapshot for more than twenty seconds almost made Zeke come alive in my
hands. It was as though his eyes were twinkling, his ears were perched, and he was
ready to defend. The picture captured that analyzing stare that he always displayed
when he locked in on another animal or strange visitor. I caught myself several times
whispering, "Sic 'em, Zeke! Get 'em, Boy!" When Zeke did not charge off the picture,
I brought myself back to the real world. A thousand more snapshots could have been
taken and probably never would have captured that same pose. No one else in the
world with the exception of my wife Sally even knew the snapshot of Zeke existed. In
fact, as previously mentioned, to the best of my knowledge, it was the only picture of
our best friend. The fact that it was in living color made the picture even more
precious. I suppose the sharp color was enhanced by being buried in the bottom of
that dresser drawer for years, hidden from any artificial light or natural sunlight. I
suddenly felt guilty as if I had stolen the picture of my dog from my dresser in my
bedroom. Yet, like an archeologist who discovers a bit of lost history, I was excited to
share my discovery with my family. Should I call? Should I write? Should I go visit?
The sixty four thousand dollar question became "How should I share?".
While reading the Fayetteville Observer, I ran across an advertisement for Lester's
Studio. The ad highlighted a "before" and an "after" of a tattered by age and wear
photo with a like-new restoration finish. Yes, the light came on! On my day off, I was
standing at the front door as Mr. Lester unlocked his shop. I explained how
meaningful and how old the small picture was. If he somehow lost it among the
thousands in his office, the only snapshot of Zeke would fade to a memory. Mr.
Lester reassured me the photo was in good hands and would be returned in a couple
of weeks along with four 5 X 7 enhanced reproductions. Somehow, I sensed Mr.
Lester shared that same love with his dog that we McDonalds shared with Zeke. He
told me not to worry.
One week later, I was Mr. Lester's first customer again as he opened his shop. He
remembered me and said, "I think you will be pleased with the picture of your dog."
"Pleased" was an understatement; I was ecstatic! Later, after walking through several
department stores, I finally found four brown/black frames trimmed in gold. The
brown/black frame made Zeke's brindle coat glow. The trim could have been no other
color than gold. After all, gold is the only color fit for a king, Zeke - King Of the Road.
I had the perfect Christmas gifts for Daddy and my brothers. Christmas could not
arrive quickly enough. I was actually wishing my life away; I could not wait to call my
family.
My wife Sally is recognized by her friends and family as the residential poet. Whether
it be a fellow employee retirement farewell, a wedding party, an anniversary, a
birthday party, or any other special occasion, everyone looks to Sally for an
event-capturing poem. She captured this special moment in the following excerpt of
her poem entitled "Christmas Of 2000" written for my three girls:
Then it was gift exchanging time ...What a ball!
Fun time was had by one and all.
On this occasion Daddy really could not act meek,
'Cause he gave each a copied and framed picture of ole Zeke.
Sharing dog tales the McDonald men had a ball ...
Recalling stories of Zeke who seemed ten feet tall.
Just as I had anticipated, we McDonald men traveled back in time to the days when
we were barefooted boys and Daddy had more hair. In my living room, we had instant
playback of the days of yesteryear. Our enthusiasm was fueled by what we held in our
hands. Zeke may have indeed grown to be ten feet tall in my home as the whispers of
the past grew into shouts of adoration as we swapped tales. The photo reflected the
essence of Zeke. Protection, loyalty, love, trustworthiness, and unwavering devotion
oozed from that picture, even more so now. That picture now sets on a shelf in my
den and serves as a constant remainder of the fun times my brothers and I had
growing up in Rockingham.
Buzz Lightyear of Star Command is a fictional character appearing in Disney's Toy
Story who is a Space Ranger. This space action figure with all the doo-dad weapons
and gung-ho attitude sees no situation too large or too desperate for him to
undertake. In fact, Buzz recognizes his limits as "infinity and beyond." In other
words, his reputation and heroics have no boundaries. He merely sees himself as a
warrior against the evil, toy-destroying villains of the world who will never die nor be
defeated.
Likewise, Zeke will always live forever. He was a superhero and best friend to the
Cecil McDonald family. Even though Dr. Ralph Gandy permanently put Zeke to sleep
through injection years ago, Zeke continues to be just as alive as the day Daddy
brought him home from Mr. Reece's. Yet, when Daddy, Gary, Ken, and I all have left
this Earth, so will the stories of Zeke, King Of the Road. However, thanks to Joel
Bailey's (RHS ' 66) website, rockinghamremembered.com, Zeke will live forever in
the heroic adventures I have posted.
In conclusion, Zeke was "our best friend, our partner, our defender, our dog. We
were his life, his love, his leaders. He was ours, faithful and true, to the last beat of
his heart ..." Through rockinghamremembered.com, I have made sure his legend will
reach the outer limits of "infinity and beyond," traveling forever in word and picture.
After all, I "owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion." Zeke - King Of the Road: a
precious childhood memory of growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small
textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s.
The End
| Chapter 12 Infinity and Beyond written by Bob McDonald |
| Zeke - Our Best Friend, Our Partner, Our Defender, Our Dog ... Faithful and True, To the Last Beat Of His Heart. |
I wanted to insert a little side note on the 12 chapters about Zeke. Bob has done such a great job of capturing his
memories of his childhood friend and companion, Zeke. I only wish I could capture the memories of the past as well as
he has. I truly appreciate Bob sending these to me and letting me publish them for all to read. Compiling these memories
into great reading material is a time consuming effort that Bob has accomplished and hopefully they will inspire more
people that grew up in Richmond County to reach way back in their memories and share them with everyone through this
website. This is the last chapter on Zeke and I am sure Bob will be sending me more true stories to publish as time
permits. I urge you to look at Bob McDonald's Page of Memories, where you can really get a feel for the way it was
growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s. Joel Bailey.
memories of his childhood friend and companion, Zeke. I only wish I could capture the memories of the past as well as
he has. I truly appreciate Bob sending these to me and letting me publish them for all to read. Compiling these memories
into great reading material is a time consuming effort that Bob has accomplished and hopefully they will inspire more
people that grew up in Richmond County to reach way back in their memories and share them with everyone through this
website. This is the last chapter on Zeke and I am sure Bob will be sending me more true stories to publish as time
permits. I urge you to look at Bob McDonald's Page of Memories, where you can really get a feel for the way it was
growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & ' 60s. Joel Bailey.
|
|