RESOURCES

::Thunder and Heel Sparring

There was a blood give in being held in Golden Valley some time ago and a local was trying to drum up some donors. I told her that if they drank a 2 liter bottle of Cheerwine before they gave blood it would help them with their donation because the body - in replenishing the donated blood
- didn't have to work as hard to replenish because very little color change had to occur. I told her I wouldn't identify her, but her initials are Christy Heavner, then proceeded to inform the prospective donors to drink Cheerwine before going to give blood. After getting several blank looks, someone finally said, "Who in the world told you that?"... She then gave me up and told them and several wags got a good hearty laugh out of it. There are other soft drink possibilities out there for other situations I am sure, but I think I have run my course with Cheerwine...

::It could only happen to you...

This is one of those tales I probably shouldn't tell, but an old friend and colleague begged me to write this one up and post it under Bostic Ramblings. So there may be more things incorrect than politically for telling this tale, so we can blame it on him if anyone finds it offensive. I promised I wouldn't name him, but his initials are Justin Boone.

The funeral business is marked by a similar phenomenon that law enforcement has - hours and days of quiet - with days and hours of busy, busy time. I was having such a day several Sundays ago when I got a thrill ride from one of the fleet of hearses that reside in our garage. We had a death early that morning, and the family was scheduled to come in Sunday afternoon. About an hour and a half before they were scheduled to come in for arrangements, we received another death call - this one at the hospital. I debated whether to try one of the part time guys to go, or if I should try to run to the hospital myself. I finally decided I could make the run. I took the trusty 1990 Superior Chevrolet hearse that has been a favorite of mine since it came here a couple of years ago. The only problem with that car is it the engine can be a bit sluggish. It rides great and runs great, the weight on it just must be a bit more than the engine wants to tug at the speed I like to go.

I was in and out of the hospital quickly, as the family was no longer at the hospital. I hit Charlotte Road in Rutherfordton on the big four lane. I am peculiar about "left laners", those who get in the passing lane and stay slow - particularly if they are yakking or texting on a mobeel telephone. As I hit the left lane for a bit of quickness, a minivan (there's the first problem), with a soccer mom (will stay away from that for the political correctness I mentioned earlier), was driving in the left lane with her mobeel telephone up to her ear (!)...after following her for a bit, it was obvious that no one existed to her other than the person with who she yakketh. Now if I was a man to dabble in the language of the profanes - I could have got those to rolling...but this is supposed to be a politically correct tale, so...

At some point, I saw an opening in the right lane and decided to smoke 'ol soccer mom off with the Chevrolet. I moved into the right lane and pushed the accelerator to the floor, I think I may have put my tongue out the side of my mouth for added effect. I was surprised when the old Chevy responded quite well. Soccer mom was left in my Pennzoil path and I basked in my racing victory. At the top of the hill, there was a bit of curiosity developing. The car felt like the cruise control was on. I remember thinking, "hey, the old girl can still carry the mail...wonder what got into this car to give her the spunk?"... About this time, I noticed the traffic light at "Central High Hill" (still called that despite the fact that the high school moved eons ago...) was a nice red. When I hit the brakes - little happened. It reminded me of when a master cylinder is going bad on a car - it was trying to stop but you could tell it wasn't going to happen. There were two cars stopping in my lane and by that time it became painfully apparent that the hearse was NOT going to stop. I continued to stand on the brakes (for some reason, the emergency brakes never occured to me, despite the fact this probably met the qualifications for an emergency...) and put the car sideways so I could block two lanes and maximize the number of stares from passing vehicles.

I got the hearse stopped well enough to throw the car in neutral - I had a quick trip to reverse, and then park. Whew. It was then that I discovered that the engine was still racing. I had heard about old 70's cars getting their gas pedal stuck, but I wasn't completely sure what I had here. I hit the gas and was able to achieve another interesting phenomenon - the throttle stuck at a higher level. Great. I am sitting sideways near a major intersection with the throttle stuck on the hearse with an occupant in the back. I cut the engine off and breathed a sigh of relief. I cranked her up and to my amazement - the throttle went back full force. I went through that process at least 5 or 6 times and each time the throttle went back racing the engine. I had the window down and you could even smell the oil... I was obviously close to Crowe's and devised a plan where I would put the car in drive and attempt to get into their parking lot. But I couldn't totally count on what would happen, what if the curve I would have to take was too much - I would be in the buffett line at Kentucky Fried real quick and drag cole slaw all the way to BI-LO. At the very least I would enter Crowe's parking lot and drag the St. Francis of Assisi concrete statue into kudzu land. The image of poor St. Francis dangling helpless on the fender of the hearse caused this great plan to be shelved. I called the non emergency number at 911 and asked them to dispatch the Rutherfordton constables to my location, "for assistance with a stranded motorist...", she asked what I was driving, and without thinking I got real friendly, "Honey, they'll never miss this one, just send 'em up when you can...". By now my next vision is a roll back in the middle of the intersection and unloading a stretcher in a most public place. I was going to be traumatized for years. As a last ditch effort, I cranked it again and hit the gas pedal - let's go for the gold, I thought. That was it, the throttle released and returned to a normal position. Voila! I've done it! now to get back to Bostic without taking a rocket ride.

In Spindale - a little silver Taurus with a driver that was at least 104 years old spied me...sat for 15 seconds and pulled right out in front of me. This, when every touch of the gas pedal was like throwing dynamite at candles...when would the next tap of the gas pedal send me wheeling down 74 business at breakneck speed? The 104 year old man then proceeded to do what 104 year old men are good at. Drive 8 mph. This went on for about 38.2 seconds before I decided to rebellize this trip - I looked behind me and scanned the area for Dodge Chargers and Ford Crown Victorias - none - and then scanned the road ahead for Dodges and Crown Victorias - none...and for the second time that day - I hit the gas, only this time it was in the middle of Spindale. As I passed the speedster (there are NO passing areas...) in Spindale - he was driving - honestly - with the steering wheel gripped firm and his mouth open. The whole time I saw this chap, he was driving with his mouth wide open. The last time I saw him, he was in my rear view at that tax place on the outskirts of Spindale - and a line of cars behind him, I think his speed had increased to 11mph.

My friends at the Register of Deeds had me tell this story TWICE, so they could revel in my automotive misfortune...as Faye Huskey said, "It could only happen to you..."

:: Bill Keneely may have just saved my life...

I have a couple of Weather Channel shirts. Nice white or blues with a prominent Weather Channel logo on them. Almost always when I wear one someone comments on them or actually asks me if I work at the Weather Channel. When I am out of town I tell folks that I am the on camera Meteorologist for 3:42am until 4:03am on Thursday mornings. This, usually gets a head tilted to one side and they say, "hhmm...".

The Wife sent me to a local chain restaurant (I HATE chain restaurants...) to get a few sandwiches. This chain features plenty of television advertising and the worst morale amongst employees you can imagine. Honest. I think they must actually have shipments brought in stamped "Bad Morale", and each employee opens a box and gets a whiff before starting a shift.

Anyway, I walk into this chain restaurant and notice immediately that a young lady working there we'll call Miss Plenty Apathy is engaged in a loud discussion with a man that we will call Mr. Aboutto B. Unstable. They were close to shouting to each other when I walked up and Mr. Unstable was waiting in line. All I heard Miss Apathy say was, "Well...it smells like rotten Old Spice to me...". This comment, caused Mr. Unstable to become "unhinged". He was about 30 years old, he was muscular and sported earrings in each ear. His face turned the color of the poster touting the restaurants' tomatoes, which never look as good as they do greased up and wet on a poster.

She went about her job while he raised his voice and blared a message about, "Well at least I have taken a bath...I'm clean you know...!" it went on a lot longer but that was the main sermon he delivered. Now while this is going on, the restaurant has this thumping urban music playing that judging by the age group of customers in attendance, had to have been for the benefit of the employees. So I am just about the only one, other than Miss Apathy, who is hearing his rant. I am trying to think of a politically correct way to say this man was coming apart...I have looked in Roget's II Thesaurus under crazy, and it gives me enthusiastic, foolish, insane. So, please pick a word that you are comfortable with me using in this story, but let me give you a hint - don't pick enthusiastic.

Mr. Unstable stalks off to the bathroom to plan his next move. Miss Apathy shrugs and walks off to get some pickles.

Now...at this point, most males are wondering what their "male responsibility" is. I know the drill, if he comes out of the bathroom and lunges at her, I'm the one that takes the knife or goes down in a hail of bullets. Later, when I am pondering my heroic act and wheeling around in an electric scooter chair, she will be on Oprah telling her story to the sobs of the audience. Her Old Spice comment will be forgotten and I'll be the one in traction wondering if I will ever walk again.

So...I look around for male backups. Who else is there that could share the responsibility? or later share a room if our insurance won't pay for private quarters when we are hospitalized?

What do I see? I see two gentlemen, both teetering on canes and spilling tea all the way to their booth. Except for Mr. Enthusiastic, they are the only males there. Great. I remember a cop telling me one time that "enthusiastic" people don't like to deal with other crazy people.

I formulate a plan. When Mr. Unhinged emerges from the restroom - I will be crazy too. The guy comes stomping out of the bathroom and looks angry - I begin to sport a goofy grin and plan on talking to the napkin holder in a loud voice in a few seconds. Mr. Unhinged passes the lady between us in line and walks straight to me. I am not making this up, this is exactly how it happened. So I am just about to look over at the napkin holder and say something like, "What's the frequency Kenneth?", when HE SPEAKS. To me.

"Do you work at the Weather Channel?", sayeth Mr. Unhinged.

I tried to answer, but it came out in slow motion, sounding something between Mushmouth on Fat Albert and that stupid flute on H.R. Pufnstuff, "Noo....I ddddoooonnnnntttttt...."

Mr. Unhinged said, "Okay...thanks...". Paid for his food, grabbed it and left.

For Christmas this past year, I gave all my part time guys a small bonus, and I bought them each a shirt. A Weather Channel shirt. It will protect them a long time...no need for a bullet proof jacket, just tell 'em you're Bill Keneely's brother....

This story was written years ago when The Weather Channel still could be counted upon for weather. Sometime over the last few years they lost their focus and became The Stupid Program Network. I can no longer safely endorse the use of Weather Channel attire as a means of safety against the deranged. Sadly, no one ever talks about The Weather Channel anymore. Accuweather on our site, and Weather Nation online do great jobs these days if ya wanna know what the weather will be...

:: Of Serpents, Airport Beacons, and Bicycle Spokes...

The Master Electrician Charles McCurry was wheeling into the parking lot one morning with some new parts for the large night lights that are on the building. It seems a photosensor had went bad in one, causing all to stay on all day. Upon his arrival, he found the back parking area in disarray, with broken bricks scattered all over. He met me and told me thought a vandal had been through.

IT WASN'T A VANDAL CHARLES. I have seen the vandal, and the vandal was me.

The night before in one of my all night workathons, I realized the sign lights were out, an obvious oversight when I was wildly flipping breakers to turn the problematic night lights out. About 10 pm I decided to walk around to the garage and flip the breaker back on, keep that mortuary advertising going 24 hours, y'know. About two weeks before, Charles had installed a new night light over the garage entrance. I estimate this light to be of 20,000 lumens. We are surely in the category of a small airport beacon. It could be viewed from the Bostic water tower, should you be given to late night graffiti fests.

As I walked around to the garage entrance, this new illumination brought into view a crawly creature. A winding little creature with a pointed head. Right where I would have walked in darkness weeks before was a copper headed serpent slithering toward the mulch club at a frenetic pace. I gained a quicker slitherance and secured the services of a large red brick and brought it crashing down on brother snake. You know how people say, "Oh, they're more scared of you than you are them...". DON'T BELIEVE IT. He didn't retreat. He had an attitude. He curled up in a striking fashion and pointed his head at my every move. I looked around, no huge boulders, no snake killing sets, just me, a few bricks and, the snake. It was a small snake, but still the dispenser and disperser of poison, and I just don't like the things. I grabbed a brick and sent it hurling from the small wall out back, but it crashed madily a foot away and looked like a pitch from *Suzy Mossley in the 5th grade. One time I laughed so heartily at one of her pitches that she bent my bicycle spokes with her teeth, and later SAT on my Elton John "Rock of the Westies" album so long during 2 class periods that it always skipped during "Island Girl". "Down where Lexington cross 47th street...Down where Lexington cross 47th street...Down where..." Oh well, you get the image.

Mr. Snake was now ill. I finally decided to hoof it on down to the fleet annex (actually, a two car covered garage...) and retrieve my trusty 79 Cadillac and attempt to run over the 'ol copper's head. I pulled forward attempting my first squish and couldn't tell if I had hit him or not because I was riding the wave of about 7 or 8 bricks that I had lobbed in my earlier panic. Most of which had broken into a gazzillion pieces. After my second run toward him, I backed up and he was gone. I didn't know if had made a run for the mulch, or was he securing a neck brace and planning his next act of aggression?

About that time, McMahan's embalmer Adam Baynard walked right into broken brick land and announced, "Hey, want me to get my flashlight?"

NO Adam...don't your understand you are STANDING RIGHT WHERE AN EVIL SNAKE WAS MINUTES AGO! Why, the poison could come off that concrete and right through your Reboks and you'd be on death row for sure. This snake had an attitude and he will be back. He'll hide out here looking like a tree branch tomorrow and bring in some Anaconda friends and I'll have to move the funeral parlor AGAIN. No Adam...we don't want a flashlight, and those sign lights can stay off tonight, and maybe tomorrow night...

*Name changed to protect my current bicycle spokes and my Rock of the Westies cd.

:: Thunder and Lightning

Several years ago when we were still in the old Funeral Home, one of the florists came by to bring flowers one afternoon. She was a particular favorite of the Funeral Directors here and we liked to keep a good joke going with her. When she came by that afternoon, a wicked thunderstorm had happened the night before. "Julie", I said,"Did you hear all of that terrific thundercloud last night?". "I sure did - it was bad", she said. So I told her,"There were places in Bostic we had SEVEN FEET of lightning!". She acted suprised and said "Really?"

Julie said she was headed to Padgett & King to take some flowers and out she lit boring a hole up the highway in a minivan with bad leaf springs.

I called Shane Earley at Padgett & King and we put together a good joke.

Julie arrived at Padgett & King and Shane threw the bait out..."Julie...were you up last night when that electric cloud went through?", he asked. "Oh yes! wasn't it scary?", she asked. So Shane tossed out our next line, "Julie - there were places in town we had FOUR AND HALF FEET OF LIGHTNING!". With great exclamation, Julie blurted out " LISTEN...THEY HAD SEVEN FEET IN BOSTIC!"...

:: The Big Spill

Just weeks before we were to move into the new funeral home, Cleveland County artist Phillip Philbeck happened to be at the old Funeral Home during a visitation. I mentioned to him that we had purchased six of his paintings for the new funeral parlor. Phillip said he would like to know which ones and he would tell me special things about each picture. We agreed that toward the end of the visitation, he would follow me the three miles down the road to the new funeral home to see the paintings.

I was really excited about THE artist of the paintings going into the new place to see which pictures we had purchased.

When Phillip came to me and said he was ready to follow, I suppose I got a little wound up. My car was parked at the old Funeral Home office, which was beside Washburn's Store. I lit out in a run, in the darkness, mind you, at age 38, mind you. It was dark. The Washburn driveway was made out of this old concrete that had a split or two in it. Where I was running was devoid of any light. Do you see disaster written all over this already? Well I didn't...

I am not sure what speed I was going, but I was headed downhill on the driveway and tripped on one of those "splits" I mentioned. I was airborne only for a brief moment, but I did some kind of effeminate breakdance that brought me crashing to the concrete at approximately 50 mph. I realize effeminate breakdancing is not allowed in North Carolina by males, but when you are trying to minimize the bone breakage in a given accident - you can resort to some pretty low tactics. I hit the ground with a thud that I hadn't heard since 3rd grade at Forest City Elementary when some playground rocket scientist installed one of those wood pole/climbing net/old tire jump off thingies that maimed many children over the years. When I hit the ground I not only tore the knees out of my pants, I shot one of my cuff links all the way across the road to one of Edward's Sun Drop machines - where I swear I thought it shattered the glass on The Charlotte Disturber box. I got up and immediately felt like I had gained 50 pounds.

Every step was a burden. I scooted across the road like a seizure ridden Igor from "Young Frankenstein", and slid into the seat of the old 79 Sedan DeVille and tried to count how many places were hemorrhaging to keep myself occupied. Luckily, Edward's driveway had the small type of loose gravel, that when embedded in the palms of your hands doesn't have those little sharp corners.

I don't remember driving over to the funeral home to meet Phillip. But 5 hours later, when the pain and swelling had intensified, primarily on my left ankle, I drove myself to the Emergency Room. Carol goes to bed early and she is in serious REM sleep by 1am, so when I told her I was headed to the ER, I got a simple, "Goafffa..." out of her and she rolled over and went to sleep. The next morning she would express mountebank surprise when told that I drove myself. I had to drive with one foot, which is something I am not used to, I couldn't get my right foot out of the brake pedal area right and hit the gas and left our driveway in a hailstorm of gravel. By the time I was able to return my right foot to the brake I had done a power slide into the middle of the Washburn intersection. Luckily, no one but a slightly amused German police dog was there to bear witness. Later, Dr. Finch would add insult to injury by berating me for driving myself, "I can't give you any dope!", he barked. Sprained ankle, proclaimed the physician. The next day, I worked the funeral with a brace on my left foot that made it feel like it was the size of a Buick, the only shoe that would fit was one of those fuzzy bedroom slippers.

Oh, the point of the story. Phillip told me what he added to each photograph (after he got over the shock of seeing this bleeding, mangled undertaker who moments before was healthy...) and I tried to listen. Here's what I learned about our paintings: one of them has mailboxes and a church added, one of them has a step bridge added, one of them is in Buncombe County, one of them you can spit into Tennessee from where the building is, and that shadow was added there. Don't ask me which explanations go with which pictures.

::Is this the reason I got out of radio the first time?

As you may know from our website, I do a Top 40 oldies radio show at WCAB in Rutherfordton on Sunday nights. One Sunday, I received a call from Jim Bishop, the owner, saying that there were apparent transmitter (that's the refrigerator sized object that broadcasts to the masses from a tower site...) problems and there was a tremendous amount of noise on the frequency, and they were not transmitting very far. We agreed that I would still come in for the oldies show, but I would wait on an engineer (those are the guys who fix the refrigerator sized objects...) to come and tweak the transmitter a bit. I put on some various artists cd's and let them track. We were broadcasting about as far as 2 or 3 miles down the road so I decided to take it easy for awhile. Engineer Jamie Guillermo arrived about 9:22pm, back fresh from the beach, he still had sand in his toes. I got the bright idea to go with him to the transmitter site. Growing up in radio I always worked at stations that had the transmitter and tower on site of the station. WCAB has the transmitter located in a small building at the base of the tower just outside a residential area off of Whiteside Road. Jamie wheeled us out there and on that hill about 9:27pm, it was darker than black cats.

He had to unlock the door by a padlock, he stepped one foot in and turned on the light, and we both stepped in the building. It had been drizzling a little, and Jamie left his truck door open. I stepped back out to close his door, and as I was stepping back in the building, spied something that looked like a rolled piece of electrical tape. I was moving too fast to abort my entry (which I would have done if I could have...) when I realized the rolled up electrical tape had eyes and a tail. Right there where Jamie had stepped over moments before was a wicked snake! (and I don't even like exclamation marks...)

I jumped and hollered "Good gosh Jamie, it's a %$#@ snake!" Now I hate to disappoint you with any language I might have used, but I believe it was the late Rev. Grady Nutt who said, "You don't stand there and say, 'well behold...a snake...' ... I bolted up onto a wooden chair that looked like it wouldn't hold a 170 pound guy very long. Jamie screamed like a 12 year old girl and grabbed a broom. The broom, looked like it had been taken from the "Have little fire Scarecrow!" scene in the Wizard of Oz. The scream, sounded like it had been taken from one of the Brady girls on the "Marcia meets Davey Jones" episode of The Brady Bunch.

The realization that the devil was at the door, and keeping us from a retreat set in. At the same time, I had found myself in the airspace of some curious waspers, who, not accustomed to night visitors, had come out to see what the fuss was about. Jamie located some empty cans of wasp spray. I was standing on the wooden chair that I would guess was manufactured in 1924 and found a spray bottle of Napa starter fluid. I decided in my delusional, scared state that spraying wasps with starter fluid was a good idea. Let me tell you something for future reference, emptying a can of starter fluid on a latent wasp does NOT kill them, maim them, or even make them terribly sick. It lubricates them and ticks them off big time. Please make note, do not spray wasps with starter fluid. We had an anaconda at the door, angry wasp' now flying around my head, all we needed now was a visit from a rabid bat or a knife wielding raccoon to make our night complete.

We did the masculine thing, we screamed like little girls for Jamie's girlfriend to get out of the truck and put the flashlight on the python. A girl scout tent with 3:00 am grizzly bear stories does not feature as many shrieks as we supplied. Jamie's girlfriend stood outside pointing a flashlight on the serpent and mostly said things like, "You guys, good gosh, it's a black snake..."

Jamie got a bit of courage and pushed the king cobra with the scarecrow's broom and the snake decided it had enough of shrieking and started to crawl away from the building. Jamie decided at this point that a thorough wack on the snake's head with the broom would remind the snake who was boss. It was at this point that the snake reminded us of that boss and turned as if he were going for reentry into the transmitter building... but must have decided that the path of least resistance was to leave these brave snake-killers alone and he lumbered out into the wet grass.

Jamie pushed a few buttons on the transmitter and we heard "School's Out" by Alice Cooper come blaring on the site' radio. I am thankful it was not "The Snake" by Al Wilson or we both would have been in the emergency room with a case of tachycardia.

We are both on heavy doses of anti snake venom, as we are quite sure we inhaled some snake poison at some time during this fiasco.