Bill's World

Two good friends, one from Gastonia and the other from Bessemer City, have found delight in attending movies at the Gaston County Library.

Shown above, left, is Linda Pike, Gastonia, and Faye Sosebee, Bessemer City.

The two women have been attending the once-a-week movies for some time and find a lot of satisfaction in the type and quality of films shown.

Movies are shown Mondays at 6:30 p.m. and are appropriate for adults 17 years of age or older. Library, 1555 East Garrison Blvd., Gastonia.

The free public showings are of award-winning, thought-provoking foreign and independent films from around the world.

My wife and I have attended several recently and give a “thumbs up” to all we have seen.  The last in this series of movies will be shown on Feb. 22.  Call 704-868-2164/dial 4 for information.

(Dr. Rodney Smith)

(Corinne Smith)

All of those years of peering into low-lit places where the sun don’t shine might have given Dr. Rodney Smith,  local urologist, a keen understanding of human nature.

He is a father of four – one boy and three girls. The boy is in college, and the girls are on the way.

The other day, the oldest girl – Corinne, 17 – asked her dad to help her select a dress for the prom; and, right away, he knew that he had not traveled that road before. Yet, much of his life he had become accustomed to trying new things, and here was a chance to show his daughter how much he cared.

Of course, he would, he told her. And so the adventure began.

I came into the picture on his examining table and just about the end of his tale (my “tail”).  He was talking to his assistant, but some of his words were getting through to me. Let me go back and see if I can sort it all out.

Corinne had come home from Lynchburg, Va., where she was in the 11th grade at a private school. She told her dad that the prom was coming up and she needed to buy a dress. Would he help?

“Yes, my dear,” he told her; and the search began, though perhaps with a bit of trepidation.

It was only natural that they begin at Poffie Girl’s Bridal and Formals on New Hope Rd. because ownership is in the family, and that might help. It was Sunday afternoon, and no need to rush. In and out, he figured.

The problem was that she liked MANY of those dresses, but not one of them was “THE one.”

The hunt became a bit more frantic as they headed to South Park Mall in Charlotte, aided and abetted by roads shivering  under snow and slush. They had to get the job done because Corinne was heading back to school on Monday.

The doctor was checking my universal joint about the time he was describing various aspects of the chase.

“She had tried on about 25 dresses in six or seven different stores. He had yawned away the time as his father-patience came in handy. Read some magazines,  said hello to a lot of people — smiling through it all. The afternoon eased by. Four hours had passed and still no dress.

Then, they slid into a parking place in front of a little boutique shop that a friend had told Corinne about.  The friend had found her dress there. The clock on  the dashboard was yelling two minutes to five. The shop closed at five. They made it, but only pleading had kept the door open.

A clerk directed Corinne to a rack of dresses. A minute later, she had pulled out four dresses and headed into the dressing room. Ol’ dad was awake but uneasy and a bit more nervous. But not for long.

His daughter came strolling out in the dress that he knew she wanted. He could tell by the sunlight look on her face. “I found it, Dad!” she said. “This is the right one!”

“Congratulations!” her dad said. “You are going to Hollywood!”

The ride back to Gastonia was uneventful, and there wasn’t a song that they couldn’t sing.

The urologist finished up his work on me and left the room whistling.

I wondered if he remembered that the game stood at one down and two to go. One daughter, 13, and the other, six.

Good ol’ dad. Handy in an emergency.

I was half way through my second cup of coffee and my Sweet Little Baboo (I’ll suffer from that later on) was a few sips into her first cup when I told her what I had been thinking.

I do my heavy thinking at the Panera Bread Company on East Franklin a couple of times a week. Fairly early in the morning. If I think heavily more than twice, my brain turns into a chainsaw and makes me into a wooden polecat. (You can buy them in the mountains.)

I am a people watcher, and I had been watching people come and go. Some of them had rushed in like hungry threshers after a hard day in the field. Give ‘em a bagel and some strong java, and when they go out, they walk like people again minus the electric shock. Different strokes for different folks.

Yeah, I should have brought my camera. An older man came in with his eight-year-old grandson. There’s a story there; I just don’t know what it is. The boy’s mama probably has a job that requires her attention at this hour of the day. And it falls Gran’pa’s job to feed the boy and get him to the school on time. They are in and out in record time, and I’ve missed another good picture.

A young lady arrives dressed to the nines. She eases into a booth, reaches into her bag and brings forth a mirror and lipstick. Two crutches that she can’t do without. A quick lip touch-up, and the plot thickens. A young man arrives, they greet each other with looks that send swoon waves into the old Circuit City building next door. I’d like a picture of that, but any suggestion would get me dropped like an electric eel.

I really don’t notice when this young mother and her little baby-child comes in and takes a seat at a table just opposite our booth. They already are into their bagels when I look up and the little year-old boy is giving me a huge grin.

They are Oriental, the mother is pretty and the little boy could be a poster child for honey.

I see that she has a cell phone, so I rise and walk over. I greet them and ask if her phone includes a camera. She says it does. I ask her if she would like for me to take a picture of them. She smiles and says yes. I take a couple. She likes what she saw.

I told her I do a little writing for The Gazette and would she mind if I wrote something about her and the lad, and use one of the pictures in the paper. Again, she smiled and said that would suit her just fine.

I give her my email address, but now, silence.

Plant your seeds in fertile ground and hope for a good harvest.

Those blasted seeds must have been no good…

(I’m still hoping for an email soon.)

(Ralph Miller)

(Bill’s note:  A while back, the phrase “spit shine” came up in a piece in the paper. I had heard it used before, but I really never knew what it meant. So, I emailed a local shine boy in long standing –Ralph Miller — and asked if he knew the answer. He did. And it follows shortly.

(Miller is a born-and-bred Gastonite, once a fearless county detective and also an artist. Now retired, he marches ahead, fearlessly in whatever is his next endeavor. His answer follows, so read on:)

The name “spit-shine” is given to the method of shining shoes by military personnel who wanted a very bright shine on their leather.  Reportedly, old soldiers actually spit onto the polish to get the desired sheen.  (I have known some old sergeants, though, who, had they done that, would have caused the polish to melt.)  It goes along with “spit and polish”, used to describe the neat appearance of people who wear uniforms.

How is it done?  Well, you need wax polish, water, and a soft cloth - an old tee-shirt does very nicely.

Open the can of polish, turn the lid over and fill it with water.  Set it down next to the polish.  Wrap the cloth around the forefinger, or the first two fingers, keeping them extended, and hold it in place with the thumb.  Swipe the polish with the cloth (a little dab will do ya’) and then dip it into the water.  Apply to the shoe using small, circular motions.  Repeat the swipe, dip, applying in widening circles.

Fairly soon, you’ll see a high gloss developing, but the process will take one to several hours to get the desired effect.

During that time, you’ll probably want to re-wrap the cloth; it will become saturated with the water and impregnated with the polish, which will soak through and stain your finger(s).

The shoes can be kept “looking tall” by periodically “spit-shining” with a light layer of polish.  After 6 to 8 times, it is advisable to remove much of the polish with alcohol (to prevent “gumminess”….and start over!    (Or you can buy patent leather shoes.)

Ralph Miller

I see in the paper that Heinz the food company has revamped its tomato ketchup package to allow dipping.

How nice. Maybe it will catch on. (Ketch up, whatever.)

The other day, a container of pimento cheese landed on our kitchen table and sat there for a while. I noticed it resting there, looking back at me as though it had a painful duty to dare me to open it.

So, I walked on.

A few minutes later, Betty had gone to the kitchen to get lunch. All was quiet and I had other things to do; so, I did them. Then, the whistle. (She has a nice whistle, so I move when it beckons.)

“Honey,” she said (I love that moniker ), “would you see if you can open this container of pimento cheese. I have tried and tried, and I just gave up.”

I am a man and I have opened many stubborn cans and bottles in my lifetime. I find that exhilarating, like a kid holding his first puppy.

Many manufacturers have tried to be kind to customers, especially those elderly folks whose vigor have been stolen. Frail fingers; elbows that won’t bend. If you are old, you know.

They make cartons secure, but they also give directions on how to get them open.

The makers of pimento cheese seemed to have forgotten. Not a line of how-to.

I twisted and turned and pulled. No luck. Got frustrated. Opened a cabinet drawer and searched for the pliers. Success! I’ll show-em.

Twisted and turned and pulled at what I figured was a handy-dandy tab. It looked like a tab that would yield at the first tug. Didn’t. Seemed to tighten down that much more. Glared back at me. Made a face.

I gave up. Told my wife that I gave up. She said she had done the same and we’d eat something else.

At times when I give up, I don’t give up. I go back to the task and try again.

Several more twistings and turnings and pullings, using the pliers, and a small strip of what I figured was the handy-dandy tab jumped loose and let me release the band that had kept the container prisoner. And had made a monkey out of me. It had put fire in my mind and taken vigor from my limbs.

But, we had pimento cheese, on toast, for lunch. And I had learned how to open another container that chuckled with delight on its way  into the fridge.

I can’t wait to try Heinz’s new catsup package.

(Beth Wolfe and Beverly Kimbro)

In keeping with my plan to carry my ever-ready Sony Cybershot everywhere I go, I had it at ready when my wife and I walked into Chick-fil-A the other day.

We had just got inside when I figured I had double vision and had to blink my eyes. There was one lady in a booth who looked like two.

Then, I heard one of them say: “Well, bless your heart!”

Suddenly, a passel of years scaled from the calendar.

Twins, that was what they were. Beth Wolfe and Beverly Kimbro. For years, they were look-alike twin sisters who were tellers in the old Citizens National Bank at the corner of Main and South. They handled money with dispatch, gave you a welcome when you came in that made your morning unfold like a fan with a click.

And hardly had they said “hello” when they polished it up with “Bless your little heart.”

Twins stationed at different posts, but always with that special line.

And, particularly around Valentine’s day.

No wonder; for their birthday is the next day.

On February 15, they will be 73. And they will celebrate with the joy and enthusiasm that have been their trademarks down through the years.

Beverly Kimbro, married to Jack (writes a Saturday column for The Gazette), worked for the bank for 36 ½ years. Beth’s husband is Max Wolfe, part owner of West End Hardware before retiring a few years back. Beth was with the bank for 25 years.

Each twin had two children; together, five grandkids.

Bless your little heart.

It is a sign of the times, I guess, but I find myself turning more and more to The Gazette’s obituary pages.

I am not so much taken with death that I find enjoyment in the fact that all these people listed are dead, and that I’m still alive. Although, there is satisfaction that comes with that knowledge. I guess the word is “thanks.” Thanks that I am still alive and wiggling at 84.

What I find really satisfying, however, is seeing a picture of Old Glory inserted into the obit of each World War II vet. Other newspapers probably do something to call attention to the fact that this person served his or her country. I just don’t have knowledge of that.

Open your Gazette, however, to the obituary page, and you will see there in an obit a photo of an American flag, generally up near the top of the story. When I see that, I make certain to read the particulars about that person’s death – and life. It is a habit that I like, and it brings with it both a sadness and a nice feeling of comfort.

In today’s (Thursday, Feb. 4, ’10) Gazette, there were three stories with the little flag identifying each person as a veteran of WWII. Included were accounts of the lives of the Rev. Ray Barker of Gastonia, John Forstchen of Gastonia and Harold Cone of Gastonia..

Yesterday, there was one flag, and it rode in the second paragraph of Gene Leagon’s obit. The third paragraph said: “He was a veteran of World War II and the Korean War, having served in the U.S. Navy and in the U.S. Air Force…”

I went to my stack of papers to be recycled. Tuesday’s obits included those of four men who served in WWII from this area: Jonas Bridges of Kings Mountain, William Buff of Alexis, J. L. Sarratt of Alexis and Clyde Whetstine of Kings Mountain.

A few months ago, I had the great satisfaction of being with other WWII vets and visiting Washington and seeing, first hand, those wonderful monuments to men and women who have sacrificed their lives, one way or another, in the defense of this country. It was a wonderful experience, put together with perfection by the Rotary clubs of this area.

One of the facts learned along the way is that more than 1,000 World War II vets are dying each day. Every day. Close to 10,000 a week. A half a million a year. And, as the years keep rolling, the numbers will increase.

Sadly, the knowledge of what these men and women have done will be buried in the hits and misses of tomorrow’s troubles.

Read those obits. Look for those little flags.

Read with satisfaction, under girded with thanks.

Mozelle Huffstetler

Pat Ledford

Here’s what let’s do!

For some time now, I have found myself in situations that made me wish I had brought my camera along. And, this seems to be happening more and more. And, more and more good pictures passed me by.

Just the other day, my wife and I were having a snack at Wendy’s when I saw a couple of kids across the way who would have made an excellent shot. But, no camera; and there went another one!

So, I have this small Sony Cybershot that has been my mainstay for years. I bought it when we were publishing a paper in Lake Lure. We were two wishing there were more (at times), but glad that we could do what we could do.

This morning, we headed out the door and I shoved my Sony into a hind pocket. Our destination was a medical office at Summit Place, and who knows what might crop up!

We had warmed up to our seats when this nice lady paused to say that she enjoys reading my column. Ah-ha! I ah-ha’d. A chance to use my camera. I asked, she agreed; and you see her picture at the top.

Her name is Mozelle Huffstetler, she lives on Union Road and her husband Joe has the Huffstetler Oil Company. Mozelle didn’t say this but I imagine she gets in her share of the work hours, as well.

Pat Ledford heard the ruckus and popped over, also with nice words of  comment. She lives at 203 Roy Street near Dixie Village and is a caregiver for her mom, Katherenne Heavener.

Two very charming ladies.

I love to take pictures. That love began when I was in the Air Force and it worked its way deep down inside me as the years slipped by.

My cameras love to show off. Their prime joy is photographing people. And that’s what I plan to do in this space in the future. Take pictures of people, and publish them in this space. (Along with other items, too) Not necessarily of famous people alone — but of all kinds. So, help me out here.

Let me strike your beauty the next time we meet. I’m partial to people wearing hats. Wear your hat. Or, your bouquet.

You lovely, beautiful people, you!

Hoyt Butler, long-time Gastonia CPA, has to grin when he introduces his only daughter to an acquaintance. Why he grins is a story worth telling.
Back when Hoyt’s late wife, Virginia, was a teenager in Clarksdale, Miss., she saw the movie, “Gone With the Wind.”  In the movie was a darling little girl – Bonnie Blue Butler. Unfortunately, she died in a tragic horse-back-riding accident.
The name, however, took root in the mind and imagination of Virginia Walters. There came the time when she met a young service man named Hoyt Butler.
“When she found out that my name was Butler,” said Hoyt recently, “I guess I didn’t have a chance, because she wanted a little girl named Bonnie Butler. She not only got the little girl and gave her that name, but before production stopped, three little boys had come along.”
Recently, little Bonnie Butler Matthews, now 64 and with two grown children and four grandchildren, came to visit her dad in Covenant Village. She lives in Clinton, near Fayetteville in Samson County. She and her husband both are pharmacists.
“Virginia and I met on a blind date in 1940 in Cleveland, where I lived,” Hoyt said. “She lived 30 miles away on a farm. She had graduated from high school and was doing secretarial work in a government program.
“We met at the suggestion of a friend of mine. He didn’t like who she was dating, and he liked me. So, he lined up a blind date. As soon as she found out that my name was Butler, I guess I didn’t have a chance to get away.”
He said that Virginia had cut out a color picture from Coronet Magazine and had framed it. “She let me have it and I took that picture around with me while I was in service. In the meantime, we were dating fairly heavy, considering Uncle Sam was moving me around quite steadily during that time.”
The global conflict wore on, however, and the couple decided that it was going to last a long time – too long, “so we decided to go ahead with a family. On Halloween Day of 1944, little Bonnie Claire Butler was born in Nashville, Tenn. “My middle name was Clarence, and Claire was about as close to that as we could get.”
Hoyt got out of service and moved to Gastonia by himself in 1945, bringing only one chair with him. It was up to him to find a place for his wife and one-year-old child to stay. At that time, housing was scarce but he found an apartment on King Street. He was here four months before they came.
He worked with a CPA for awhile before joining with Gastonian Ed Stowe to form the accounting firm of Butler and Stowe in 1949. That union lasted until 1978 when Butler decided to retire.

Butler’s other children are: David, a computer specialist who designs air-conditioning systems all over the U.S.; Bob, a doctor in Ashboro; and Doug, sound system specialist, Charlotte.

There comes a time when we all reach that necessary end known as death.

Much of the time, death is difficult to talk about. All of the time, it means…absolute. No more time. No other alternative. The final curtain.

There are those who die young, and we say what a tragedy. Then, we see those who are old and worn out, and they want to leave this mortal life behind. Get on with it. And listening, we don’t know what to say. Tongue-tied.

Then, there are those such as Louie Hagen and Pat McSwain. Louie was 103 when he died a few days ago, and Pat was 101 when he died Friday.

They were quite old in the sense of days lived; yet, each knew a life of fulfillment, happiness and grace.

Pat McSwain, at 101, continued to look at life as a beautiful adventure, and he was out there helping make the trail. Louie kept pushing Brother Sleep aside and was well into those last days when darkness and shadow subdued him.

I knew both of these men for over half a century. I was in the newspaper business and Pat had his WGNC radio station. We traveled similar paths. I used to listen to him on the radio and wished I had a frog in my throat the way he did. Not a big frog; just a little old croaker that gave him one of the best radio voices in the land. He could come to work with a bad cold and his voice was about the same – kind of a deep baritone that took the liberty of being something else if it wanted to.

Early on, I used to run into Louie as he operated his petroleum business, successfully. Later, both of us arrivaed at Covenant Village and chance would bring us together for a meal; or, I’d do another column about him and let his multitude of admirers know what he had been up to. He was always doing something for someone else. He was a channel for charity. It was his stamp. He raised or bought tomatoes and gave them away. He went fishing and had a filled-freezer that he turned into a banquet at the right time.

All for his friends.

He didn’t like it when someone told him he had to give up his car. What’s the big deal, he asked, “I’m only 100.” He got his license renewed, but lost his car. Even then, he was accused of driving his electric chair at a speed far faster than light.

Two good men who defined life with their own words and music.

Poster persons for how to live.