Wowie Kazowie!

Bozo the Clown

October 15, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

This is the eighth installment in an ongoing series of posts from which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before or on October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

P.S. Even though I do proofread my work before publishing on this blog, occasionally a grammatical error or misspelling will elude my notice.  I do have a more objective proofreader, my wife, Lynn, but she usually proofs it after it has gone out to you, the reader.  When I finish a blog, I transfer what I have written into chapters kept in a text document.  These blog posts help shape what I will soon submit to the literary agent.  So, if you find grammatical errors or misspellings, feel free to share them with me so that I may correct them.  Right now I am writing to generate material and content for the book, so I am somewhat less attentive to the polishing process that goes into finished material.  Thanks for your understanding and your participation.

(Note to Reader: This post is part of a later chapter in my book and is out-of-order in terms of the book layout.  Mostly, my book is shaped chronologically, but today I wanted to shake things up.  Hope you enjoy this story.)

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Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

Wowie Kazowie!

My early shot at fame came in the winter of 1970 when my mom got tickets for me to attend the most

watched TV show in Kingsport for 9 year-olds - Bozo’s Big Top. The show had just debuted on our hometown’s newest, and only, TV station: WKPT, an ABC affiliate. Of the three cities in northeast Tennessee which made up the Tri-Cities, we were the last to have our own channel. Johnson City was the first to get a TV station in 1953, a CBS affiliate, WJHL. Bristol was the second city to do so in 1956, an NBC affiliate, WCYB. For several years, these two stations split the ABC shows between them. But on August 20, 1969, Kingsport’s own Channel 19 came into being.

The 1960s were the heyday for Bozo the Clown. This ubiquitous clown was created in the 1940s by Alan Livingston and whose rights were bought out by one of his own Bozo stand-ins, Larry Harmon, who became the quintessential Bozo. At a time when many TV shows were syndicated, Harmon decided to franchise the Bozo TV show. This meant that TV stations across the United States, and even other countries, had their very own Bozo the Clown shows, much like many local stations had their own version of Romper Room.

Kingsport’s very own Bozo was Rusty Cury, who was tapped by the station to play the lead role. Cury went to clown school in New York to prepare for the role. He was given lessons in becoming a proper Bozo by non-other than Harmon himself. For three days, he was trained how to be the perfect Bozo - what costume to wear, how to apply makeup, which Bozo gestures to use, and even how to speak and laugh like Bozo, a certain speech pattern and tone which Harmon himself had perfected.

Cury’s job to launch Bozo’s Big Top was not easy. WKPT was still very new and didn’t have a lot of money to spend on advertising the show’s debut. So at first, Cury dressed up as Bozo and walked Kingsport’s street to recruit kids for the live audience. But soon after the show began to air, getting an audience was not a problem. People started calling in to ask if their kids could be on the show. That’s what my mom did to get me on. In the time that the show had debuted, I had become one of Bozo’s biggest fans. Every day I would tune in to WKPT at 4 p.m. after getting home from school to watch the show. It soon became my dream to be in the audience, just like the kids who I saw on TV. Good ol’ Mom made it happen.

When the day finally arrived, I was beside myself with excitement. Mom picked me up from school and we drove downtown to Commerce Street where the station was located. On the short trip there, Mom lectured me about controlling my excitement and being on my best behavior. When we arrived, Mom parked the car on the street and put enough money in the parking meter to get us through the show.

We entered the door on the ground entrance and were told to take the stairs to the second floor. Once there, we stood on a landing outside a locked door to the TV studio. We were there early, so I was right next to the door. Other kids and their parents stood behind us or on the stairs. The waiting was so hard - I thought that I would just explode. We were so close to seeing Bozo, but this locked door barred our way. It seemed to take forever, but finally a lady from the station came out and told us that it was time for us to come into the studio.

On TV, everything looked so big. I had imagined a very large and brightly lit room. But my first impressions were about how small the room actually was. How could such a room be the home of the Bozo show? Also, I was struck by how dim the studio appeared. The walls were covered by dark curtains. The only thing that was lit was the small Bozo set which was up against one wall. And then there was the issue of the camera - there was just one. I thought TV studios were probably filled with several cameras, at least three or four, but the Bozo show had just the one.

The twenty or so of us kids were led onto the show’s set. We were seated on bleachers which were

A shot from the actual set of WKPT's Bozo Show.

framed by a painted wooden outline of a circus train, in keeping with the theme of the show, Bozo’s Big Top. We were then each given a special Bozo tag with our very own name already printed on it so that if we were called upon, Bozo could call us by name. I was just grateful to be a member of the audience. Never in a million years would I have imagined that Bozo might actually speak to me - that he would know who I was. I mean if Bozo knew your name, then maybe you could be his friend. Friends with the big clown - nah, that was just too much to imagine or hope for. Better to just fit in with the crowd and concentrate on not falling off the top of the bleachers where I was seated.

After we were prepped for the show - what to expect, how to behave, what to do, what not to do and the like - it was time for the show to actually begin. Into the studio came the famous clown himself. What struck me first was how big Bozo was - for a nine year-old - he seemed very tall. There was the wing-tipped, big orange hair that stuck out from the sides of his head. His face had big eyebrows, a big red nose and a large red smile painted over his mouth.

Bozo’s neck was covered with what looked like a miniature blue and white cape that draped over his

chest, shoulders and back. His costume was blue and had large white furry balls adorning his shirt. Around his waist was a bright red sash. But what really blew my mind were the size 18 clown shoes he wore. How could anybody walk, much less dance, in shoes that big, I wondered. If the studio was smaller than I had imagined, Bozo more than made up for it by how large he appeared in real life.

The show’s producer started the countdown with his hand - three, two, one… we were live on TV. The camera panned the children in the audience as music played in the background. The song was by the Beatles - the “Yellow Submarine.” I couldn’t help but look at the monitor which was near the camera, waiting to see myself as the camera zoomed in. And in a moment, there I was front and center in the middle of the top tier of the bleechers.

“Wowie Kazowie, boys and girls!” said Bozo as he waved at the camera. That’s what he always said when the show opened. Bozo talked to the camera some more, then he turned and welcomed us to the show. Next, Bozo introduce a cartoon. Bozo usually had two or three cartoons each episode. They were always about his circus adventures.

After the cartoon and a commercial break, Bozo had the kids play a game in the studio. We formed two lines. We had to take off our shoes and put them in a big pile. The object of the game was to have the kids race each other to the pile, find their shoes, put them back on and then race back so that the next kid in line could go. The first line of kids to put on all their shows was the winner. I liked this game a lot. We played it at school sometimes when Mrs. Dobyns, our gym teacher, came. I don’t remember if my team won or not, but I do remember how much fun it was to play, especially with Bozo egging us on.

After the game was over, another commercial aired and we went back to our seats on the bleachers.

What came next was the pivotal moment of the show. It was time for the Grand Prize Game when one kid would be chosen from the audience to play a special game. If you were the one chosen and actually won the game, then you were given the grand prize - Bozo’s Treasure Chest. The Treasure Chest was a very large box on wheels filled to overflowing with the coolest games and toys you could ever imagine. Dozens and dozens of games and toys were in the chest. It was the dream of every girl and boy to win the grand prize and take home all the loot.

The Treasure Chest was rolled in by Bozo’s sidekick, Slappy Pappy, played by J. C. Mullins, who pushed the box out onto the set and right into Bozo’s posterior. “Whoa, Nellie!” Bozo exclaimed. I laughed at it even though Slappy Pappy always bumped the Treasure Chest into Bozo’s behind. Bozo then explained what the special game of the day was. On this particular day, it was the Bozo’s Nose Throw. The Nose Throw consisted of a wooden paddle in the shape of Bozo’s head with a big round shape on the side of the paddle painted red - i.e. Bozo’s Nose. Attached to the paddle by a string was a plastic ring. The object of the game was - with one hand - to get the plastic ring to hook on the nose part of the paddle. What came next was wholly unexpected - and held the possibility of altering my life forever.

After Bozo had introduced the Grand Prize Game and then revealed the Treasure Chest, there was only one thing left to do - choose who would play the game. Background music began to play. On the monitor, a white circle appeared above a shot of the kids in the studio audience. As the music played, the circle began to move. First it would surround one kid’s face, then it would move and do the same for another kid. It kept moving from child to child, row to row. Then the music stopped and, lo and behold, the circle had finally landed on just one kid. Yes, indeed - on that particular day, on that specific episode, I, Stevie Rhodes himself, was chosen to compete for the Grand Prize of winning all the toys in Bozo’s Treasure Chest.

I was stunned at first. My eyes grew big and my mouth hung open. I sat there frozen. But then, as in a dream, I heard my name called. It was Bozo. He was speaking to me and inviting me down out of the audience to play. Lightheaded, I stood up, wondering how I was going to get down to the floor from the top of the bleachers. But before me, the crowd parted with kids leaning left and right to create a space for me to step down, and down I went.

When I reached the studio floor, Bozo reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. In his other hand, he held the Bozo’s Nose paddle. He once more explained how the game work and then asked if I understood. I nodded my head “yes” because I was just way too nervous to speak. Then Bozo gave me the paddle which I held in my right hand. I understood that I had three chances to get the plastic ring on the nose part of the paddle. My heart pumped away and I felt the blood rushing through my body. “Okay,” I said to myself, “I can do this.” Then Bozo told me it was time for the first try. Music once more filled the background. I raised my right hand, quickly pushed my hand out in a scooping fashion. The plastic ring flew up and the string tightened, but the nose on the paddle remained empty.

“Be calm,” I told myself, “I’ve got two more chances.” And with that I focused in on my task at hand. Once more I thrust my hand, scooped with the paddle and the ring flew upward. And once again, I missed my mark.

Down to my last chance. Everything rode on what I did next. All I could think about was all those toys and games in the box, and being able to take all of them home and show them off to all my friends. I steadied my hand, my eyes burned with determination, and for the last time I made a scooping motion with my hand, the ring shot up, the string tightened, and for just a second, the ring appeared to head directly for the nose. But alas, it was not to be. The ring hit the nose and promptly bounced off. Close, but no cigar.

All of my breath seemed to leave me. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that I had lost. I handed the

paddle back to Bozo. The great clown comforted me in my loss and then quickly handed me my consolation prize - a measly can of Pick-Up Sticks. I was then ushered back to my seat in the bleachers.

I don’t remember much about the remainder of the show. I was too focused on my loss of fame and fortune. All I really remember is Bozo closing the show with his catch phrase, “Always keep them laughing!” Then it was all over and I found myself back in the car with Mom. She did her best to cheer me up - after all, she pointed out, I had been on TV, and that was something special.

On the ride home, I resolved to give my 3 year-old brother, Ken, my consolation prize. I sure didn’t want them and it would make up for him not being old enough to go on the show with me. When I told Mom what I planned to do, she said “no.” Ken was too young for the game and the sticks were just too sharp. He might put his eye out with one of them.

So I kept the Pick-Up Sticks as a memento of my moment of near glory. But I put them in the back of my toy closet so as to not have to remember too often just how close I had come to bringing home the contents of the Treasure Chest.

Not all was lost, however. I did get to meet my hero of afternoon TV and he did call me by name. How many 9 year-old kids in Kingsport could say that!

(Many thanks to Rusty Cury for sharing his own memories about his time as Kingsport's one and only Bozo the Clown!)

The Model City: A Fine Little Capitalist Utopia

J. Fred Johnson (l) and John B. Dennis (r)
The founders and city fathers of modern Kingsport

October 6, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

This is the fifth installment in an ongoing series of posts from which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

P.S. Even though I do proofread my work before publishing on this blog, occasionally a grammatical error or misspelling will elude my notice.  I do have a more objective proofreader, my wife, Lynn, but she usually proofs it after it has gone out to you, the reader.  When I finish a blog, I transfer what I have written into chapters kept in a text document.  These blog posts help shape what I will soon submit to the literary agent.  So, if you find grammatical errors or misspellings, feel free to share them with me so that I may correct them.  Right now I am writing to generate material and content for the book, so I am somewhat less attentive to the polishing process that goes into finished material.  Thanks for your understanding and your participation.

_______________

Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

The Model City: A Fine Little Capitalist Utopia

In the early 1900s, the first dreamer of a modern Kingsport arrived. His name was George L. Carter.

George L. Carter

By birth, Carter was a local, born in Hillsville, Virginia, just over 120 miles from Kingsport. But in terms of his career, he was a coal and railroad magnate, and a force to be reckoned with. By 1902, Carter owned over 500,000 acres of land in southwest Virginia and northeast Tennessee. He also purchased numerous coal, iron ore and other precious metal mines in Appalachia. There was a big problem, however - how to get the coal and other minerals out of this area to larger American markets. Thus a project was born - Carter intended to build a railroad that could carry his coal to market.

Since the Civil War, many had seen the need to link the railroad which ran along the eastern seaboard with the lines of the midwest. Carter envisioned building a segment of railroad which would connect the two, enabling transportation by rail from Charleston, South Carolina all the way to Chicago, Illinois. This new railroad line would eventually be named the Carolina, Clinchfield and Ohio Railroad - or, as it was later known, the Clinchfield.
To complete this vision, Carter would have to build this line from Elkhorn City, Kentucky to Spartanburg, South Carolina - over 300 miles of some of the most difficult and challenging terrain ever to be developed. Building his railroad was not inexpensive. He needed financial backing. The first to back Carter was the New York capitalist and financier, Thomas Fortune Ryan, who invested in excess of $30 million in the project. In 1905, Carter also sought and received additional financial investment from another New York banking and finance firm, Blair and Company. One of their partners was a man by the name of John B. Dennis. Dennis would play an essential role in the development of Kingsport.
Dennis, a native of Maine, is said to have had a nose for profit. He had long been interested in the mineral deposits of southwestern Virginia. He also took notice of how rich this area was in other natural resources - such as vast tracts of virgin timber and water resources as well. Investing in this project was his way into the area. From the start, Dennis personally committed himself and his own resources into the new railway.

In 1906, George Carter hired an engineer to help him design a new town next to his railroad. The plan included a broad avenue extending outward from the new railroad station several blocks to a semi-circle from which several streets would radiate. This new town would be located on the 9,000 acres of land Carter owned in present-day Kingsport, Sullivan County and Hawkins County.

Unfortunately, Carter was not able to bring his vision of the railroad or the new town to fruition. The development of the railroad proved too costly to see it through. Seriously in debt, Carter decided to sell his investment to Blair and Company. John B. Dennis became Blair and Company’s point person on the project. They would continue to build the railroad and underwrite it with their own financial resources.

George Carter had a brother-in-law by the name of J. Fred Johnson, who also served as Dennis’

The Clinchfield Railroad Line

chief manager. Johnson was also from Hillsville, Virginia, and therefore was an Appalachian native. When Blair and Company bought out Carter, Johnson continued to work for Dennis. Eventually, he would take over the management of building the new railroad for Dennis. Johnson was a product of the Protestant work ethic, but he was also influenced by both Progressivism of the era and the New South philosophy which placed strong emphasis on Southern economic development, industrialization and diversification. Johnson also believed in the importance of expertise. So he brought in engineers from all around the country to solve the engineering dilemma of the mountainous area through which the railroad would have to pass. $100 million and 50 train tunnels later, the railroad was built! It was one of the costliest engineering projects in the United States at that time.

It’s important to acknowledge that if there had been no Clinchfield Railroad, there would have been no modern Kingsport, Tennessee. It made its way to present-day Kingsport in 1909. Not too long after, Dennis, while conferring with Johnson, decided that the new railroad needed an industrial hub. At that moment, they were standing in a muddy cowpasture in what is now downtown Kingsport. It would take another five years, but this renewed dream of a new city began to come to pass. On December 31, 1915, Dennis invited J. Fred Johnson to become his partner and help him build the new Kingsport.

Margaret Ripley Wolfe, in her excellent book on the history of Kingsport, entitled, Kingsport: A Planned American City, tells the story about how after Dennis offered Johnson the job of building Kingsport, he reportedly told his wife that “they could either be millionaires or build a town.” Johnson chose to build a town - and in the process he still did pretty well for himself financially.

From the very beginning, these two founders - Dennis and Johnson - decided that Kingsport would not

Downtown Kingsport
Courtesy The Archives of the City of Kingsport

be just another mill village, coal camp, or company town. Rather, they envisioned an industrial city that was unlike any other in the country. It was to be a “model city” - economically diverse, professionally planned, and privately financed. A new type of city for a new century!

Dennis and Johnson formed an organization called The Kingsport Improvement Association. The newly formed Association, financially underwritten by Dennis and led by Johnson, bought land from Blair and Company, which included 6,355 acres which had originally belonged to Carter. This land would form the initial area for building Kingsport.

Once again, the experts were brought in - in this case, to help build a new city. The first of these experts was Dr. John Nolan, a nationally known city planner and engineer from Cambridge, Massachusetts. The founders’ vision was of a city of 50,000 residents with enough industries and businesses to support this population. Carter’s earlier design found itself incorporated into the Nolan plan. Nolan’s design was essentially three-fold. He laid out the city with the residential areas in the high elevations of the area. Industrial development was located near the railroad and the Holston River. The business district lay in the level area between the two. Like Carter’s original design,

Church Circle
Courtesy The Archives of the City of Kingsport

downtown was laid out in a grid style with a large broad avenue for the business district which began at the train station and ran for several blocks ending in a semi-circle with streets radiating outward. One difference from Carter’s plan was that in this circle four churches were built, reflecting the importance of religion in the lives of the founders and also the later industrialists who would locate there.

With Nolan working on the design of the city, Dennis and Johnson turned their attention to the style of government which would lead the new city. With guidance and input from experts in municipal government at the Rockefeller Foundation in New York, they chose a city manager form of government, with a Board of Mayor and Aldermen. Kingsport was the first city in Tennessee to adopt this type of governance.

For the development of the educational system, they turned to experts at Columbia University. And on it went in the city’s development - experts for the design of both private homes and public buildings; experts for public health, sanitation and disease-prevention; experts for landscape and gardening, etc. These experts were hired to give input and knowledge, but ultimately the final decisions were left in the hands of Dennis and Johnson.

On March 2, 1917, the charter for the new city of Kingsport, which had already been passed by the legislature, received it’s final approval from Tennessee Governor Tom Rye. That same year, Kingsport received it first national recognition when it was featured in the Saturday Evening Post, which heralded it as the “model small American city.”

With the foundations of the new city established, J. Fred Johnson went to work as the city’s principal

The Kingsport Press
Courtesy The Archives of the City of Kingsport

promoter. He has often been called Kingsport’s “one-man Chamber of Commerce.” With Dennis’ support, Johnson began to recruit businesses and industries to Kingsport which would compliment one another and not compete. George Eastman of New York was convinced to open a new chemical plant there - Tennessee Eastman, which at one time would be Tennessee’s largest employer. George Mead from Ohio agreed to open a new pulp mill and paper plant. Blair and Associates backed a new publishing company and installed John B. Dennis as board chair. The Kingsport Press would become the largest book publisher in the world at its height.

While profits lured the financiers and corporations, it was the dream of becoming part of the middle class that brought most of the people to Kingsport. From nearby counties, the Appalachian region as a whole and also people from around the country came to Kingsport in hopes of one day owning their own home, having a steady paycheck, giving their children a good education, of having a life that was substantially better than the one their parents lived.

This was certainly the dream of my great-grandfather, E. F. Taylor. In the 1920s, he sold the family farm in Speer’s Ferry, Scott County, Virginia to my great-uncle, Emmett Rhodes. With the money from the farm, he purchased dozens of lots and land parcels from The Kingsport Improvement Association, upon which he built new homes to sell. Great-grandpa Taylor did very well for himself, too. 

J. Fred Johnson died in 1944. John B. Dennis died in 1947. The generation of the dreamers and founders had passed. But the spirit which made Kingsport a reality - its sense of public-mindedness and strong sense of community, the feeling that this small city was created for a purpose and that it had a destiny to fulfill - lives on.

A Deep-Rooted People

October 1, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

This is the fourth installment in a new series of posts which I hope will form the first draft of a book. The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure." It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon. For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

_______________

Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

A Deep-Rooted People

My great-aunt, Alma Taylor, when meeting people for the first time would often ask, “Now, tell me, who are your people?” She wanted to know who their family was, who were their kinfolk, and just where were the roots of their family tree buried. Needless to say, Aunt Alma was our family’s genealogist, always keeping track of just who was related to whom.

As for my people, my kin - the roots of our family tree are buried deep within the heart of Appalachia. Many of my ancestors, from both sides of my family, began arriving in Southwest Virginia and Northeast Tennessee in the early-to-mid 1770s. My third great-grandfather, John Hail (originally Haile; later spelled Hale), came to the area that is now Kingsport from Baltimore, Maryland to join a group of settlers known as the Wataugans. Like many of the men and women who came to the river valleys of the Holston (later Kingsport), Nolichucky (Greeneville) and Watauga (Elizabethton), John Hail came looking for a new beginning in life on the frontier with his family. What he wanted was a place to farm and a way to make a living. Hail and his family found what they had come looking for and eventually settled near Horse Creek, just below Bays Mountain, a boundary of present-day Kingsport.

The Wataugans formed an organization by which to govern themselves. The Watauga Association

became the first example of a community outside the original thirteen colonies, forming an independent and democratic government. This was in 1772, four years before some other gentlemen in Philadelphia decided to do a much similar thing. After the Declaration of Independence, the Wataugans sought affiliation with one of the colonies. North Carolina annexed this area of Watauga, which came to be known as the Washington District. Hail was one of the leaders who helped draft the Wataugan’s petition to North Carolina, and later represented the new Washington District to the North Carolina Provincial Assembly in 1776.

During the same period, another of my ancestors, my fourth great-grandfather, the Rev. Tidence Lane - also originally from Baltimore, then later Randolph County, North Carolina - came with his family and a group of other Baptists from North Carolina to live in the new Washington District in the mid-to-late 1770s. They settled in the Boone’s Creek area of the district. Tidence Lane is regarded as the first Baptist preacher to settle in Tennessee. He is also recognized as the founding pastor of Tennessee’s first established and permanent church of any denomination. This was the Buffalo Ridge Baptist Church, established in 1779 under Lane’s pastoral guidance. It was located about eight miles from present-day Jonesborough. Lane also had the distinction of becoming the moderator of the first denominational assembly in Tennessee, known as the “old Holston” Assembly of Baptist Churches.

Both my great-grandfathers served in the Revolutionary War, at first in skirmishes in the South and also Kentucky with the British and Loyalist troops. Lane served as a captain in the North Carolina Militia of the Revolutionary Army, with three of his sons: Tidence, Jr., Isaac, and Aquilla. They and other Wataugans who fought together came to be known as the “Overmountain Men.” What the Overmountain Men came to be best known for is their valiant participation in the Battle of King's Mountain.

In August of 1780, the British army under the command of General Charles Cornwallis invaded North

Carolina. At the same time, he sent Major Patrick Ferguson into the mountains to root out the revolutionary rebel fighters. Ferguson sent a message over the mountains of the Blue Ridge. between North Carolina and the Washington District, warning the settlers that if they refused to surrender and lay down arms, he would “march his army over the mountains, hang their leaders, and lay waste the country with fire and sword.” I need not point out that this message did not go over very well. So, the Wataugans decided that instead, they would march “over the mountains” and confront the British - hence the name, the “Overmountain Men.”

On September 25, 1780, about 500 men from the Watauga settlements gathered at Sycamore Shoals of the Watauga River near Elizabethton. They were joined by 400 Virginians who had marched from Abingdon. Under the military leadership of William Campbell, Isaac Shelby, and John Sevier, they began their long march to engage the British. They were joined by other militias from North and South Carolina along the way. They arrived at Gilbert Town, North Carolina, which was Major Ferguson’s base, though he and the British troops were not there when the Overmountain Men arrived.

Ferguson’s forces were at King's Mountain, which is in northwest South Carolina. Ferguson received

word about the advance of the frontier fighters and had his troops, about 1,000 strong, embed themselves on the mountain. When the Overmountain Men arrived, the battle became a rout. It’s said that William Campbell from Abingdon told the men to “shout like hell and fight like devils.” So they did. Major Ferguson was killed by a sharpshooter. British and Loyalist troops included 157 who were killed, 163 severely wounded, and 698 taken prisoner. The Overmountain Men and related militias only lost 28 men, with 62 wounded.

As a result of this victory, British General Cornwallis and his army were forced back to South Carolina, and severely set back British military plans, particularly for Yorktown, Virginia. So, in many respects, the brave mountaineers and frontiersmen can be said to have played a pivotal role in winning the Revolutionary War. Without the courage of these Wataugans, there may well not have been a United States of America.

Following the war, the Watauga settlements grew and in 1796 became part of the new state of Tennessee. John Sevier, a key leader of the Watauga Association and of the Overmountain Men, became the state’s first governor.

The area which is now present-day Kingsport grew as well. A community formed around the

burgeoning river trade along the Holston. In 1802, William King bought a sizeable lot along the Holston River to build a boatyard. King owned a number of boatyards on the Holston and Tennessee rivers. He used flatboats to ferry goods down the river to central Tennessee. This small village took it’s name from King, and began to be known as “King’s Port” - later, Kingsport. King died in 1808. A distant cousin of mine, George Hale, rented the boatyard and the accompanying inn for a period of time. He operated a store which sold clothing and fabric, farming tools, household essentials, medicines and elixirs, food, and spirits. It was a popular place to shop. In 1818, Richard Netherland purchased the land, including the boatyard and the inn. Since then, the inn has come to be known as the Netherland Inn.

For a time, this community of Kingsport flourished. Between the river traffic and its location along the Great Stage Road - a wagon road established in the late 1700s which ran from Washington, D.C. to Nashville - these were good times. The wagon road brought many guests to the popular Netherland Inn. The Inn even boasted about hosting three different U.S. Presidents - Andrew Jackson, Andrew Johnson, and James Polk.

By the middle of the 1800s, fortunes began to change. The river trade dried up. Other roads were built. Kingsport was largely bypassed and began a slow decline. As one historian put it, Kingsport fell into a kind of slumber from which it would not awaken until the 1900s, when dreamers, financiers, and engineers arrived to build a new industrial city along the Holston.

(Tomorrow’s post will be about how Modern Kingsport came to be.)

Born in the U.S.A.

Stevie Rhodes with Santa, 1962

September 30, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

This is the third installment in a new series of posts which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Steve

_______________

Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

Born in the U.S.A.

Kingsport, my home town, was built in the river valley of the Holston in Northeastern Tennessee. It is surrounded on all sides with green mountains and rolling hills - some of the most beautiful country God ever made. It was a planned industrial city that was both in, but not always of, Appalachia. Our small city’s skyline is filled with smokestacks and church steeples, symbolizing both the progressive business and civic spirit of the community, as well as the conservative religious pillars upon which it was first conceived.

I had the good fortune of growing up there in the 1960s and early 1970s as a child. That period of time was a turbulent era for our nation, and many of the social, political and cultural issues were also experienced in my town as well. We were not isolated from the many changes that were occurring in the rest of the country.

I remember cousins who worried about their draft status and whether they would be called up to serve in Vietnam. I also remember watching the evening news with my parents and Walter Cronkite announcing the numbers of war casualties each day.

I remember when some of the mothers and women in our neighbor chose to work outside the home,

while others chose a more traditional role, and the tensions these decisions caused within families and between neighbors.

I remember our nearly all-white town, beginning the process of racial integration in the school system in 1965, and how it took until 1972 for my own elementary school to admit the first black students.

I remember hearing about the growing national awareness of income disparity and the high poverty rate in the region where I lived - Appalachia. And watching TV shows like “The Beverly Hillbillies,” and thinking that, while funny, they didn't look or sound like anyone I knew from Tennessee or Virginia.

And during this period, I remember that as concerns about the environment rose to national consciousness, we had our own debates and discussions about the polluted air and water of our own fair city. In addition to our skyline of smokestacks and steeples, there was the ever-present smog which hung over Kingsport. Our town even had it’s own distinctive odor. The running joke in our town was this smell was “the smell of money being made.”

So, no, Kingsport was not isolated from the cultural shifts of our nation. Many of these issues would directly impact my own life and the lives of family and friends in those years and the years to come. As important as these issues were, I must confess that in the first thirteen years of my life, I tended to focus on other things.

When I think about growing up in Kingsport during the decade of the 1960s, I imagine living in a town not unlike Andy Griffith's Mayberry, filled with small businesses that like it’s main street and was a place where everyone knew their neighbors and other townsfolk. Or I would think it was like living in the endearing town of Bedford Falls in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” As a little kid, I could think of nowhere better to grow up. In so many ways, my early life seemed idyllic.

My memories of childhood are filled with images like my dad holding me on his shoulders so that I could see the Christmas parade as it came down Broad Street, and watching especially for Santa who arrived in town riding in his very own train car on the Clinchfield Railroad.

I remember our annual family trip to the Christmas tree lot run by the Kingsport Optimist Club. My best

Judy Huddleston and Stevie Rhodes

friend and neighbor during childhood was Judy Huddleston.  Her father, Ward, was an Optimist and worked the lot, always helping us pick out the perfect tree.

I remember standing with my parents on Memorial Boulevard watching our city's other annual parade which was held on the Fourth of July. I loved to watch the Shriners wearing their Pez hats, riding around in their tiny automobiles and their clown car. I loved listening to the local high school band as they passed by. And you could always count on seeing our congressman, Jimmy Quillen, riding in an open convertible, waving to his constituents, who kept sending back to Congress, session after session, for over 30 years.

I remember going to the carnival which was held about the same time of year as the Fourth of July

parade. It was sponsored and organized by the local American Legion. My uncle, who was both a veteran and a member of the Legion, always worked the carnival, selling tickets to the many rides. Often my friend, Judy, would go with me to the carnival so that I would have someone my own age to ride with on the amusement attractions.

I remember how summers in Kingsport were filled with fun things to do. David Merrill, another close friend and neighbor, and I would hike down to the creek that ran by our subdivision. There we would spend afternoons looking for and trying to catch crawdads, tadpoles, and box turtles. My friends and I would spend time at our neighborhood pool swimming, or else go to the American Legion pool, which was operated by the city. My friends and I also would go to see the latest Disney movie which would be showing at one of the two downtown theaters, the State and the Strand. We would go to the children’s matinee, which also featured cartoon shorts before the actual movie. And in the summer evenings, my pals and I would spend our time either playing flashlight tag or catching fireflies, putting them in canning jars with the tops poked full of holes for air.

I also remember how much I loved going downtown with my parents. My mom would frequently take me to Freel's Drugstore on the corner of Broad and Center streets. They had a lunch counter where we would eat. My favorite order was a grilled pimento cheese sandwich with crispy lettuce. I would wash my sandwich down with a cold glass of cherry Coke. It was different than the Cherry Coke which is sold now. The waitress would first pour the Coke into the glass from the soda fountain and then she would squirt cherry-flavored syrup into it and stir. Boy howdy, did that ever taste good. This lunch at Freels was often a bribe from my mother so that I wouldn't make a fuss when she shopped at Nettie Lee, a woman's clothing store, just down the street. Trips to town with my dad always meant stopping at Wallace Newsstand on the corner of Broad and Market streets. From a block away you could smell the freshly popped popcorn that they sold. Dad would peruse the latest papers and magazines. While he thumbed through the latest issue of Popular Mechanics, I would rush to the back of the store where the comic books were kept, picking out two or three that my dad would buy for me.

For me, memories like these define the years of my childhood. I was not alone in this experience of Kingsport. In fact, this sense of community and civic-mindedness was first touted by J. Fred Johnson, one of our town’s founders, as the “Kingsport Spirit.” From the city fathers’ perspectives, Kingsport was created to be a special place.

(More about the history of Kingsport tomorrow!)

A Boy Named Khrushchev

Stevie Rhodes as an infant in 1960

September 25, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

This is the second installment in a new series of posts which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

_______________

Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

A Boy Named Khrushchev

On Thursday, April 21, 1960, I made my grand appearance into the world with a little help from Dr. Christiansen at Holston Valley Community Hospital in Kingsport, Tennessee.  I weighed in a little over six pounds and was noticeably absent any hair on my rather large head.  My parents were Jim and Charlotte Rhodes.  Dad was an electronic engineer at Sperry Farragut in Bristol, and Mom was a former bookkeeper turned full-time housewife.  They had been married just under three years when I came along.  I was their first child.

I was born into a large extended family of two grandmothers, umpteen uncles and aunts, and a bajillion cousins most of whom lived in Kingsport, or nearby in southwest Virginia.  And then there was the Texas branch of my mother's family, but more about them later.

The name my parents gave me was Steven Andrew Rhodes, after no one in particular - they just liked the two names.  "Steven" was a popular name at the time.  From 1955-61, Steven was in the top ten names bestowed upon infant boys in the United States.  But from earliest memory, I did not like this spelling, no matter its popularity.  Almost from the moment I learned to write, I spelled my name as "Stephen," not "Steven."  "Steven" just looked so boring as I wrote it out, so uninteresting.  But the added "ph" in my name, at least to me, made it appear more exotic, more substantial.  And according to my teachers in Sunday School, a man named Stephen in the Bible was the first Christian to be martyred for his faith.  So, yes, "Stephen" would do nicely.  So from that time since, I have gone, not by my given spelling, but the one of my own choosing.

One name over which I had no control whatsoever was the one that people actually called me.  In retrospect, I would have been okay with "Steven" even with it's mundane spelling.  "Steve" would also have been perfectly acceptable.  But no, almost from the beginning of my existence I was called "Stevie," and worse yet, "Little Stevie."  It is a moniker that follows me to this day.  When I talk to my cousins or to a friend from my hometown, I am still greeted with "Stevie."  Well, at least I can be thankful that no one calls me "Little Stevie" any more.

Another nickname that I was given early on by my uncle, Karl Hale, my mom's older brother, was one

Kanamit, the space alien

that was at least interesting, if not somewhat unique.  As I mentioned previously, I was bald at birth - not a hair on my head.  This, in and of itself, is not unusual.  Many babies come into this world bald.  What set me apart was that months and months went by before any hair began to emerge on my noggin.  To make matters worse, I was born with a rather large head for my overall size.  Everyone commented on what a big head I had.  A few would even later suggest that as a baby I looked somewhat like that alien in The Twilight Zone episode, "To Serve Man."  To be honest, my head wasn't abnormally gigantic - just a little larger than your average infant.  My mother became a little defensive about it, at which point my grandmother, Cora Hale, rallied to my defense.  She responded to such comments about my gargantuan noodle with aplomb and grace: "Why darling, didn't you know that God had to give Little Stevie a larger lead because of all the brains He gave that boy."  God bless her heart.  My nickname would have been "Big Head" if not for her.  From that time on she continued to insist that the jellied mass inside my cranium was just a little bit larger than average folks, so I shouldn't be ashamed of my hat size.

Well, back to my Uncle Karl.  He took notice of my hairless head sometime in the fall of 1960.  He just knew that my handsome profile reminded him of someone he had known or seen, but he just couldn't put his finger on it.  About this time I was learning to eat my food while sitting in a high chair.  Family lore has it that I had quite some appetite.  When I didn't get enough to eat, or if my mother was engaged in conversation with someone else and slow to feed my gaping maw of a mouth, I would begin to bang on the high chair table with my hands, my plate, or anything else I could readily grasp.  I would pound away until I got her attention and my feeding resumed.  So one day, when Uncle Karl and his wife, Loretta, were visiting, my hunger flared and my hands began to bang upon the table.  Uncle Karl's eye grew wide and then he cried out, "That's it!  I know who Little Stevie reminds me of - it's that dadburned communist, Khrushchev!"

Nikita Khrushchev at the United Nations

In early October of 1960, Nikita Khrushchev, the Soviet Premier, while visiting the United States made quite a spectacle of himself at the United Nations General Assembly.  Following a couple of speeches which were reportedly anti-Soviet, Khrushchev took off one of his shoes and began to bang away on the desk where the Soviet delegation was seated.  This infamous "shoe-banging incident" was all over the news, and Uncle Karl had taken notice.  And here I was, with a head as bare as my behind, sitting in my high chair, banging my little fists, food flying everywhere when Uncle Karl had his epiphany.  I looked and acted like a miniature of the leader of the communist world.  So, from that day on - until the day he died - Uncle Karl called me, "Khrushchev."  And the name stuck!

Confessions of a Second Grade Failure: A Prologue

Stephen A. "Stevie" Rhodes, age 8

September 23, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

As promised, today begins a new series of posts which I hope will form the first draft of a book.  The working title for this book is, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."  It is a coming-of-age memoir about growing up in Kingsport, Tennessee during the 1960s and early 1970s.

Today's installment is the prologue which sets up the story.  I hope you enjoy it and will leave comments and feedback.

And don't forget - if you subscribe to receive my blog posts by email before October 15, you will automatically be registered in a contest to win a new Kindle reader from Amazon.  For more details about the contest and how to subscribe, please read this post.

Cheers,

Stephen

_______________

Confessions of a Second Grade Failure

Prologue

It was the Tuesday following Labor Day, September 3, 1968 - the first day of a new school year. It was also Promotion Day, when tradition dictated pupils were elevated to the next grade in elementary school. The students of Mrs. Williams’ second grade class were all gathered in her classroom. Each was seated in his or her familiar desks from the previous year.

A little red-headed boy was in his old desk. Dressed in a blue and white striped knit shirt, crisp blue jeans and Keds sneakers - all newly bought the previous week by his mother at the J.C. Penny’s downtown on Broad Street. The boy’s hair was cut short, but with enough on top for a slight comb over. His burgundy faux-leather briefcase sat next to his desk near his feet. In it were his No. 2 lead pencils, extra eraser heads, a ruler, a blue cloth-covered three-ring binder, and 100 pages of lined paper which had been manufactured at the local Mead paper plant, not far from the school itself.

While his classmates around him talked to each other about how they spent their summer - where they

had gone on vacation and how excited they were about going to the third grade - the little boy sat quietly, lost in thought. Unlike his friends, the emotion that he felt at that moment was not excitement, but anxiety.

Here he was sitting with all his classmates as if nothing had changed. Maybe he had imagined it all. Maybe his sense of dread was needless. No one had said anything to him directly about what had happened at the end of the last year - especially not his teacher, Mrs. Williams. What if opinions had changed in the last three months, decisions altered? If his foretold fate was still happening, wouldn't someone have said something to him by now? But here he was in his old classroom with all his friends on Promotion Day, and everything seemed so normal.

Mrs. Williams stood beside her desk and called the class to order. She welcomed them all back to Andrew Jackson Elementary School for a new year. She talked about how grateful she felt to have had them as students the previous year. But a new school year was about saying goodbye to what was past and to ready oneself for a new beginning - a new grade.

When Mrs. Williams had concluded her remarks, she asked the class to stand, placing hands over our

hearts, reciting together “The Pledge of Allegiance” as they faced the flag near the door.

With that Mrs. Williams gave the class instructions on how they would proceed to their new class. The first row of students would gather their things and would form a single file line. The second row would follow them with each row following in turn. She told them that they must stay quiet while in line as they made their way through the halls of the school.

Silently, the students walked through the school’s red brick corridors. Their journey wasn't far. In a moment or two, Mrs. Williams stood at a open door. She knocked on the door frame and asked the teacher within if she was ready to receive her new students. With that, the expectant students began to file into their new classroom. One by one, they crossed the threshold, thus passing from the second grade into third.

The red-headed boy was last in line. His heart began to beat faster. Yes, maybe it had been a terrible mistake. He was in line, wasn’t he? And the line of students were all walking into a new classroom. Maybe he had worried himself needlessly. When it was his turn to walk into the class however, Mrs. Williams held out her hand as if she were a crossing guard motioning for traffic to come to a halt. The boy stopped. Mrs. Williams looked at him as kindly as she could. She then said, “Not you, Stevie. You are going to another class, remember?” The red-headed boy dropped his head slightly so that he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. He nodded obediently. His chin trembled slightly, but he held back the tears. Mrs. Williams then commanded him, “Follow me.” And so he did.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

September 22, 2014

Dear Constant Readers,

As the comedy troupe, Monty Python, liked to say, "And now for something completely different."  As with Monty Python, so it is with this "One Writer's Life."  It's time for something completely different!

As you know, for the past several posts I have been focusing upon my life with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  And while I do intend to revisit this topic in the future, I feel that is time to shift the focus of this blog somewhat.

In a post earlier this year, I mentioned that I am working on two different books.  Both of these books are memoirs.  One is a spiritual memoir about the past 13 years of living with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  It is tentatively entitled, "The Reluctant Ascetic: A Journey Through the Desert of Chronic Illness."  The four blog posts, "My Very Own Personal Apocalypse," may well form the first chapter of this work.

The other book that I am working on is about my own coming-of-age story set in the 1960s and early 1970s in Kingsport, Tennessee - my hometown.  The working title for this memoir is, "The Confessions of a Second Grade Failure."

I have spoken to one literary agent in New York who is interested in both books.  She has requested an outline of the book on chronic illness and the first 100-pages of my coming-of-age memoir.  While I am both honored and excited about her interest, I realize that I need some help in amassing the materials she has requested.  Specifically, I need your (the constant readers) help!

How can you help, you might ask.  The answer is - by serving as my designated readers as I go about writing those first 100-pages of my book on growing up in Kingsport.  Every writer needs someone in mind who serves as the "ideal reader" when writing.  I would like you, constant readers, to serve in this capacity for me.

Here is what I propose: Beginning this week, my blog posts for the next month or so will serve as

potential chapters in progress.  While I do have a chapter outline, my posts may not necessarily follow that outline to the "t."  Though my intention is to begin somewhat chronologically, I rather doubt that my writing will continue that way for long.  So be prepared as I jump around a bit in my own life story.  Just so you know, the period of time that I am covering is 1960-1973.  If this is to work, I need the flexibility to go with those topics (and potential chapters) that are freshest and for which I am most prepared to write.

So, as the Bible says, "gird your loins!"  In other words, buckle up and get ready for a rollercoaster of a ride in the next month or two.  I have a pretty good idea of where we are going together, but the map that I am following is not altogether clear and the directions somewhat hazy.  But if you stick with me, offering me occasional words of encouragement and sometimes even giving me actual feedback, I promise you that at least you won't be bored!

So how about it?  Are you with me?  If so, then let's get this ride cranked up and raring to go.  Let's get this book written!

Cheers,

Stephen

My Actual Bucket List (Really!)

January 31, 2014

The past couple of days I have had a lot of fun posting what I would not put on my bucket list.
  Thank you for your wonderful feedback on both lists.  I'm glad I was able to give you a few laughs.

Today, I'd like to share with you what I actually would include on the to-do list for my life.  These are real aspirations that I would like to accomplish before I "kick the bucket," so to speak, given the right circumstances.

I decided to share this list of aspirations so that you might get to know me a little better also, and that you might share in my dreams a little bit.

Cheers,

Steve

My Actual Bucket List (Really!)

* Go to Rome, visit the Vatican and meet Pope Francis

I have wanted to go to Rome for many years now. I want to see it all - the Colosseum, the Forum and Palatine Hill, the Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, the Catacombs, the Apian Way, St. Peter's Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican Museums... I could go on. But in the past seven months, since he was elected pontiff, I have felt a strong pull to see Pope Francis. Even though I am a Protestant, I love the message of good news to the poor than Pope Francis is delivering. Though I would be satisfied just to see him amid the crowd in St. Peter's Square as he speaks from his window in the Vatican. But, I must confess, that there is a part of me that wishes I could have a Papal audience with him and maybe, just maybe, receiving a blessing and a word for my healing from him.

* Build a log cabin in the mountains

When Lynn and I need a break from our routines, we often will make our escape to the Blueridge Mountains to the west of us. Last winter, we rented a log cabin near Crabtree Falls. It was an amazing weekend. Since that time, I have come up with an idea to either buy an old cabin or to have one built so that Lynn and I would have our own place to get away to. It would be lovely to have a creek or stream nearby as well.

* Live in England for three months (with at least a month in London)

Lynn and I visited England in the winter of 1992 and had a lovely time. We even rented a car, driving on the wrong side of the road in thick fog just to see the countryside. We spent a week touring the country and then a week in London. In the years since that trip, I have tracing my family's genealogy. One of my discoveries is that both on my father's and mother's sides of the family about 90 percent of my ancestors were English. I would love to see when my great-grandparents (several generations removed) lived. I admit, with or without the English heritage, I would still be an Anglophile - a lover of all things English. So why not spend a season or so there drinking tea, visiting ancient churches and looking up dead ancestors?

* Read the New Testament in Greek, and the Old Testament in Hebrew

When I attended Emory & Henry College, I studied Koine Greek, the common language of Greek in which the New Testament was written. I took Greek with my New Testament professor, Dr. Kellogg, a wonderful teacher and scholar. When I had finished all the Greek courses which were offered, I also took an additional self-study with Dr. Kellogg in which I translated the Book of Mark. It was a great experience and gave me a new appreciation for those who have translated the Bible in it's entirety. In seminary, I took Hebrew. It was not as easy or as rewarding as learning Greek, but I did okay. So with this background in mind, I would love to polish those language skills so that I could read the Bible in original texts - both in Greek and Hebrew. That ought to keep me busy for a year or two.

* Learn Latin (and maybe Chinese too)

I don't have many regrets in life, but I do somewhat regret not having taken Latin at some point. In high school, I took Spanish, which ended up being extraordinarily helpful when I served a multicultural congregation in a largely Hispanic community. But Latin is such a foundational language. It seems to me that one with a liberal arts education, Latin should be something essential to learn. So, one day I hope to fill this gap in my education. As Emory & Henry's motto puts it, "Macte Virtute" - "Increase in Excellence!" And so I will.

* Go to Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York

Ever since I was a kid in Kingsport, Tennessee, I have watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I doubt that there has been a single year when I did not watch at least some portion of it. I've always

wanted to go and see it in person - to watch the enormous balloons as they make their way down 6th Avenue to 34th Street; to see the floats and the famous personalities they carry; and to hear the bands from all over the country play. A few years ago, my old school marching band was in the parade - Dobyns Bennett High School from Kingsport. I wish I could have been there that year to see and hear them in person. Maybe I'll go when they are again invited to participate.

* Go on an archaeological dig

I'm fascinated by archaeology, and not just because I'm a fan of Indiana Jones either. The idea of ancient civilizations and their relics being unearthed has always intrigued me. I would love to go on a dig in Northern Africa, the Holy Land, or somewhere else in the Middle East and be a part of history by searching for it.

* Visit all 50 states and each of the National Parks

I've traveled to nearly all of them already, but there are a handful that I haven't been to yet. I would like to complete the journey. In addition, my wife, Lynn, and I love our country's National Parks. There are quite a few of those that I have missed out on during my travels and would like to those which I have missed.

* Learn to play the banjo (finally)

Two years ago, I bought a banjo. Not just any banjo, but a Deering five-string Goodtime Special! It's beautiful to look at and has a gorgeous sound. It's actually the second banjo that I have owned. The first my father bought me when I was 15. I took lessons and practiced, but gave it up when I discovered girls at 16. So two years ago I decided to give it another try. I took lessons and practiced, but soon grew discouraged in my inability to play worth a hoot. I have come to realize that my timidity with this instrument lay less in my skill than in knowing what kind of music I wanted to play. I'm really not a bluegrass player. I prefer folk on the banjo. Now that I know what kind of music that I want to play, learning how is much clearer.

* Be a part of a flash mob

A flash mob is a group of people who gather together in a public place to perform some eccentric or artistic act for a few moments and then just as quickly disperse. I think I would like to be in one at least once in my life. I would like to participate in one which draws attention to a pressing social or political issue of importance. Text me if you know of one which is happening nearby!

* Be completely out of debt

After raising five children and paying for four of them to attend college (Abraham, our youngest child, has a football scholarship to James Madison University), let's say that the state of affairs with regard to our finances is at best fragile. As with most Americans, we just have too much debt. To be free of that burden would be cause for rejoicing indeed.

* Establish a scholarship for the study of politics and religion

If I ever came into significant money, the first thing I would do is as I mentioned above - pay off our personal debt. The second thing I would like to do with such a windfall is to establish a scholarship at Emory & Henry College to support a student who wants to focus on both religious studies and political science/philosophy. When I went to school there, I majored in religion, but graduated with actually more credits in political science. For me, these two subjects were not in conflict. They seemed to go together well. They both asked similar questions: What is human nature? What is the purpose of this life? How do you live well? I would like future students to have the same kind of experience that I had as a student.

* Adopt a yellow Labrador Retriever

We recently lost one of our beloved pets - our dog, Tip. Tip was trained as a helper dog and served my mother-in-law, Claire, well for four years. Last year, she had to give him up and so we welcomed him into our family, along with our other dog, Lilly, a beagle. Tip was such a blessed to Claire and to us. His unexpected death has created a hole in our lives that no other pet can fill. That said, once our mourning is over, Lynn and I may well have a new space in our lives big enough to welcome another dog. If that is the case, then I want that dog to be a Labrador Retriever. I would like to train him to be both a companion and to offer assistance to the disabled. Labs are such wonderful dogs. They have a great temperament. And they are very smart. I look forward to forming a new bond with a dog such as this.

* Catch a foul ball at a baseball game

I can see it now. I'm at a Washington Nationals baseball game in Washington, D.C. The Nats are at bat. The pitcher from the opposing team throws a ball toward home plate. The batter takes a swing and connects with the ball. But it's a foul. Instead of heading toward the outfield, the ball goes toward the crowd. Though many reach out to catch it, the ball lands in the hands of one, Stephen A. Rhodes! Count on it!

* Commit at least 50 random acts of kindness

I have been blessed by so many people since the onset of my illness, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, in the fall of 2001. I know how much a random act of kindness shown to a fellow human being can mean. So I intend to pay it forward and share the kindnesses that I have received with others.

* Bicycle through New England in the fall

I love New England. Lynn and I honeymooned there, mostly in Maine. So we have many happy memories of that trip, as well as others when her sister, Laura, was a student at Bowdoin College. But I've only been to New England in the summer. I want to go in the fall when the leaves are turning. What better way to see the natural beauty than by biking?

* Go to a Bruce Springsteen concert

With the passing of my musical hero, Pete Seeger, this week, I feel a sense of urgency to see his successor in this field - Bruce Springsteen. If Seeger has a mantel to bestow, I believe that Springsteen deserves to wear it. Bruce writes and sings, much like Seeger, of the things that affect the common working man and woman. I have all his albums, but have never seen him live. This is a must-do!

* Attend a poetry reading by Wendell Berry

The poetry of Wendell Berry calls to me and speaks of a love for the land than many an Appalachian intuits. Like with Springsteen, I have read many of Berry's poems, but have never heard him read his own himself. If I have to journey to Kentucky to do it, then I'm going.

* Finish writing my current book… and start another

I must finish my current book, "Confessions of a Second Grade Failure: A Memoir." Then I must start on my next book, "The Reluctant Ascetic: A Journey Through the Desert of Chronic Illness." When that is done, I'll start yet another...

* Make the New York Times Bestseller List in Nonfiction

I can't wait until the day comes when I open the book review section of The New York Times, only to discover than one of my books has made the bestseller list in nonfiction. If you are going to dream, then dream big, I say!

* And last but not least: Recover from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

Amen.  'Nuff said.