AN ANSWER TO PRAYER

By Mark Reed

One of my best friends in life, as fate would have it, was also one of my dad’s best friends. Dr. William C. Patterson, MD. His friends called him Bill. His close friends called him Pat. I called him Doctor Pat. He was Michelle and mine’s family doctor, as well. Our first house when we got married was just across the street from Pat and Iwee on Ridge Road in Smyrna, Georgia. After my dad passed away, I started visiting Doctor Pat and his wife Iwee at their home on a fairly regular basis. Pat and I would sit outside on their patio where he would smoke his cigarettes and we would talk about just about everything. I especially loved the stories he shared.

Of the many stories he shared with me, the one I cherish most was from his childhood.  We were talking about God, faith and prayer – specifically the answer to prayers.  As he relayed it to me, when he was just a boy living at home on the farm, his father had a special pocketknife.  As with many men, this knife was a prized possession he carried everywhere in his pocket.  He sharpened it, cleaned it and took care of it.  As sons do, Pat watched his father use the knife, and wanted to use it also.  One day, half expecting to be turned down, he asked his father if he could borrow the knife.  To his glee, his father reached into his pocket, pulled out the knife and handed it to him.  It was unsaid, but Pat knew that he must take special care of his father’s knife.  He knew a special trust had been bestowed upon him.

Pat spent the day whittling; cutting twigs from trees, putting his initials on the barn wall – all the things a young boy does with a knife.  He said it was a wonderful day.  As the afternoon came to a close and it was time for him to return to the house and give his father back his knife, he reached into his pocket to feel its hard shape.  A moment of panic ensued when he realized that the knife was no longer in the pocket of his overalls.  He was mortified that he had lost his father’s prized knife.  He frantically tried to retrace his steps during the day, all the while scanning the ground, the straw in the barn, the fields around the farm.  He realized the almost futile effort of finding this “needle in a haystack.”  It was then, there in the barn, that he decided that while he was not big on prayer, he didn’t know what else to do but go to God.  He said he didn’t remember the actual words of the prayer, but the gist of it was, “God, help me find my father’s knife.”  As he stood there in the barn, head bowed at the finish of his prayer, he opened his eyes and looking down at the straw covered barn floor, there was the knife at his feet.

Pat told me, with a twinkle in his eyes, that finding that knife at his feet after his prayer was “just about enough to convert me right there on the spot.”  And he and I laughed out loud.  I think he was converted right then.

OH YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS

By Mark Reed

In 1966, Tim, and I drove over to Bremen, Georgia to visit the factory outlets to buy some clothes. We were in Tim’s little Renault, the one with the sewing machine size engine. As we were driving back to Atlanta on Highway 78, we got behind a tractor trailer truck that was moving slower than we wanted to drive. When we finally reached a long flat stretch of road, Tim pulled out to pass the truck. He floored the little car, and it slowly inched out and beside the truck. Slowly we moved farther alongside the truck trying to pass (picture the little train from the childhood story that says, “I think I can, I think I can”).

Finally the highway starts up a long hill, a yellow line appears on our side of the centerline and we are still not past the truck. Then, to our horror, another truck appears cresting over the top of the hill in front of us, bearing down on us, head on. At this point, we are beyond the point of no return. It is too late to slow down and get back behind the truck we are trying to pass, and the road drops off to our left into a ravine. We have no choice but to try and make it. We are very close to the front of the truck cab, wondering why the trucker doesn’t hit his brakes and let us pass. At the very last moment, just before the oncoming truck plows into us, just as we know that we are going to die, Tim and I glance into each others eyes for the last time, and I utter the immortal last words, “Oh yes, we have no bananas!”

At that instant, Tim swerves the little car in front of the truck to our right, barely inches from its huge bumpers that are at eye level, and back into the right lane and safety, as the oncoming truck thunders past us with barely the same clearance. Tim pulls over to the side of the road at the earliest spot, as the big truck passes us by. We sit there, barely breathing, our complexions white as snow, staring ahead at eternity. Slowly, we turn and face each other, and Tim says, “Oh yes, we have no bananas?” We both broke into hysterical laughter mixed with tears of joy and relief. The Lord didn’t want those to be my last words.

HAZING: A Memoir

By Mark Reed

One need look no further than today’s headlines or TV special, to see mention of fraternity hazing incidents. Fraternity hazing is supposed to be a thing of the past, with all national fraternal organizations putting out specific policy statements to that effect. Hazing is deplored and denounced by all Interfraternity Council organizations on all campus settings nationwide. Individual fraternity by-laws and rules make it clear that it will not be condoned or tolerated.

Yet, it still exists. I had thought perhaps it did not exist to the same degree as it did when I was a pledge in the 60’s, but I was wrong. Just look at the headlines that continue to pop up about hazing and resulting deaths. There is no rational reason or excuse for it to continue in our enlightened society, yet it seems to keep sticking its ugly head up. Hazing takes many forms, from mental to physical. No matter the form, it is wrong, and besides that, as if being wrong was not enough, it is illegal. But we all know that just because something is illegal, that’s no guarantee it will not be done.

I have heard arguments that hazing, or whatever name it is given, creates brotherhood and a shared experience of hardship, which will bring those who share it closer together. What a “crock” of you know what! How can a demeaning, abusive and generally negative experience be anything but divisive?

I remember reading headlines some years ago describing a paddling hazing experience at a fraternity on a local campus. A young man, a member of the football team, took “licks” from brothers, which were so severe the event sent him to the local hospital emergency room. In the name of “brotherhood” this young man was paddled approximately 70 times causing bruising and torn blood vessels on his buttocks. There were charges, arrests and consequences levied on those responsible. The particular fraternity was put on probation and dismissed from campus altogether. A real tragedy for all involved, not to mention the black eye it gave the fraternity system in general, which can ill afford such negative publicity.

The event described above, and a TV program I happened to catch part of recently, had a profound effect on me from a personal standpoint. The TV program reminded me of the above-described event, and brought back memories of my own hazing experiences as a fraternity pledge over 50 years ago. At that time, in the mid-sixties, it was “standard operating procedure” for the hazing of pledges to be an almost ongoing daily experience in one fashion or another. It was especially evident during the week preceding initiation as a brother, a time known properly by the name of “Hell Week.” All those who went through it know only too well what I’m talking about.

As a pledge, I was cocky and outspoken (something I’m still accused of today), which did not endear me to some brothers who preferred their pledges to be humble and docile, jumping to attention at any order thrown their way by a brother. I remember washing a brother’s car in a snowstorm. I remember changing the oil in a brother’s car when the temperature was well below freezing. I remember many different demeaning and arduous tasks I was forced to endure, all for the privilege of becoming a brother, which would automatically entitle me to the right of inflicting the same on some new pledge who happened to be cocky and outspoken – or not. Many brother’s justification for doing so was the fact that it had “happened to me” so it was only right for it to “happen to them.” Would that be justification for child abuse? Unfortunately, we know only too well that abuse at the hands of others does sometimes lead to abuse by those victims on yet others. This is a cycle that must be broken.

During my personal “Hell Week” I carried my pledge paddle with me everywhere I went. I had to make sure that my paddle was convenient for whichever brother wanted to give me a “lick” for whatever reason they deemed appropriate. I remember it like it was only yesterday, that particular brother who stopped me in the upstairs hallway of the fraternity house and asked me for my paddle. I gave it to him and he directed me to “take the position” – meaning for me to bend over and grab my ankles while he gave me a “lick” or two. Boy, did he. I lost count on how many “licks” I took. It took all my self-control to keep from crying out as this brother laid into me with a vengeance. To this day I do not know why he gave me such a severe beating. You see, we were forbidden to ask questions, only to comply, no matter what, if we wanted to be initiated as a brother. For over 50 years I have tried, unsuccessfully, to forget that unpleasant experience, never confronting that brother with what he did to me, although our paths have crossed a few times over the years since.

He beat me so bad that he split open the skin on my buttocks. Blood streamed down my legs and as it dried, adhered my underwear to my rear, so that I had to get in a tub of warm water to loosen them enough to take them off. I could not sit down for days afterwards. I kept my peace and said nothing, complaining to no one, being macho, and all the while being nagged with the absolute knowledge that what I had endured was wrong. Did this experience foster a feeling of brotherhood between me and the brother who beat me? Suffice it to say that to this day I have less than charitable thoughts toward that brother. Perhaps my writing about it here will help purge those ill feelings toward that brother, which I have been carrying around for so long. I’m working on it.

I do know this – because of what happened to me, I became and continue to be an outspoken opponent of hazing in any form. Did my hazing experience sour me on the fraternal experience? Thank God, no, for after being initiated, I continued my fraternal involvement, holding various leadership positions. Thankfully, my experiences after being initiated were far more positive than what I endured. In fact, I was an active alumni volunteer for my national and local fraternity chapter at UGA for many years since graduating. Some of my closest and longest lasting friendships are fraternity brothers. I have benefited greatly from being in my fraternity.

I have been asked by one of my sons, who is familiar with this story, why in the world would I allow someone to do that to me? I must admit, that being the man I am today, I would not allow anyone to do that to me. And any organization that condones it is no organization I would associate with. But that was then and this is now.

The point to be made here, and perhaps the moral of the story, is that hazing is something that every fraternal organization throughout the world has to eliminate. It has no place in an organization that is based upon a fellowship of brotherhood. Let it end – NOW!

MY FOOTBALL IMMORTALITY

By Mark Reed

In the fall of 1959, I played football for our 8^th Grade Smyrna Elementary team. For the life of me, I can’t remember what we were called. I’m sure that once I publish this story to my Blog, someone will remember and let me know. As an eighth grader, I was pretty big for my age, five foot eight and 120 pounds – I know, pretty lame. But I was big enough to be a guard. I played both offense and defense. I was not a great football player, but I was pretty fast and I thought it would help me with the girls. Yeah, right.

We played the teams from some of the surrounding Smyrna area Elementary schools. I remember that Belmont Hills Elementary had what was considered the best team in our local league. Fitzhugh Lee Elementary School also had a team.

Everyone that ever played a sport probably has at least one outstanding memory where they accomplished something through their outstanding athletic skills that brought them a fleeting moment of immortality, at least in their own minds.

My moment came one evening when we were playing Belmont Hills at the Campbell High School stadium, a field where some of the participants in our Elementary teams would one day achieve gridiron excellence. Our coach was Bill Bennett, the Assistant Principal at Campbell High School. The thing I remember most about Coach Bennett was his almost daily barking at me to get my hands off my hips, no matter how tired you were. He said it showed weakness to the other team. I did it to keep my balance and not fall down from complete exhaustion.

Back to the game with Belmont. As I said, they were good and were undefeated. They had some players who would go on to play High School football and even on the College gridiron. I like that word – Gridiron! A field of battle. A place where you exert your will on others by sheer force of strength of body and mind. Well, that was the idea, I was told. The undisputed star of the Belmont team was a tall lanky boy named George Ward. He was their halfback. They ran a number of different plays, but their most effective plays, the ones they ran most of the time were Ward Left and Ward Right. He was so fast that he could get the handoff from the quarterback and be off and turn the corner before anyone could stop him. He had not been stopped all season.

Coach Bennett told us as a team before the game that we were going to stop that Ward boy tonight. He had analyzed their play calling and said he pretty much knew when they would run the play. I remember thinking to myself that I could do the same. Every darn play – duh. Anyway, Coach Bennett said that I was his fastest lineman. I couldn’t block worth a darn, and was not great rusher of the quarterback. The only time I made it into the backfield of the opposition, was after the play to help pick up one of my fellow teammates. My strapping one hundred and twenty pounds was not going to break through any line.

But back to Coach Bennett saying I was his fastest lineman. He had drawn up a play to counter Ward. Coach said the giveaway to whether it was Ward Right or Ward Left was the quarterback looking to his left or right as the ball was snapped. Hey, what did I know. Coach said that I was to keep my eyes on the quarterback and depending on which way he looked, immediately upon the snap of the ball I was to drop back and break for the sideline he looked toward. I remember thinking to myself that if it worked, I would be the guy who stopped Ward.

First play of the game. Belmont had the ball. I was so excited because my moment was on the way. I remember it like it was yesterday. I can see it in slow motion in my mind. Sure enough, the quarterback looked to his right just before the snap, and at the snap I took off as fast as I could run toward my left sideline. Like I said, I was pretty fast. I saw in my peripheral vision the quarterback handing the ball to Ward. I was giddy with anticipation. Ward was headed to the corner and reached the line of scrimmage, and turned up field, loping along like an antelope, but I had the angle on him. He was mine. I was going to take him down. It would be a glorious tackle that would be talked about for years in the annals of Smyrna Elementary football.

I had Ward in my sights. I was bearing down on him with my favorable angle. I was almost there. The moment of football immortality. And as I reached the point of tackle…Ward was already ten yards past me turning on his after burners on his way to a touchdown. I stood there for a minute trying to figure out what went wrong, how could I have missed? I’ll tell you how. George Ward was a champion sprinter and would go on to football glory at dear old CHS. I, on the other hand, decided after that game that football was not for me. I would never catch George Ward.

The thing is, George and I became good friends in our later years. I usually mention this game to him, and he will comfort me with some comment like, “You weren’t fast, but you had bad hands.” Or something equally supportive as only friends can do. I joke. Like many of us who have remained friends all these years after High School and college, we love stories like this, even this one at my expense. I think George, who I affectionately call “Georgie Boy” was one of the best all-round natural athletes I ever knew.

I have a photo from 1962 or 1963 of George doing his Ward Left, which I believe was in our Campbell High School Panthera Yearbook. But if only I had been able to stop him. Nah.

BOO BOO SHOES

By Mark Reed

In 1945, when dad was still in the Army Air Corp, after being rotated back to the States, he was married to my mom and they were living in Miami where he flew B-17’s. Dad told mom he was taking her to Miami for their honeymoon…little did she expect that it turned out to be an extended honeymoon (a good thing) until dad got his discharge.

Mom said it was a glorious time. Dad was able to do something he loved…flying. She and he were able to spend a great deal of time together and with other pilots and their wives. The only downside was the pay for a 1LT pilot stateside was not large and the dollar did not go as far as it had in wartime England. But they had fun.

Dad had always liked to gamble, craps being his game of chance favorite. He also loved the track. Miami has that covered. Both dogs and horses. Dad said the secret to picking a dog to bet on was to watch them before the race and bet on the one who took a dump. He was a little bit lighter and therefore faster. Hey, that’s just as good a strategy as any, eh?

Dad absolutely loved the horse races. He was a pretty good handicapper and usually came away from the track as a winner. Dad made friends wherever he went, his large personality just as large as him. At the track, he became friends with some of the trainers and people around the stables. People in the know about horses. Dad received the iron clad, can’t lose, take it to the bank tip for a particular horse racing the next day. The horse’s name was Boo Boo Shoes. Dad was told to put as much money you could scrape up on the nose of Boo Boo Shoes to win. Boo Boo Shoes was a long shot.

Dad and four other pilots scraped up $1,000.00 each, an astronomical amount at that time for them, and headed to the track. On the way there, as they all discussed what they were going to do with their winnings, dad shared that he planned to be driving home in a “slightly used Cadillac.”

They got to the track and placed their bet (I don’t think they checked to see if Boo Boo Shoes took a dump before the race). They were a happy bunch of pilots, all knowing how lucky they were. In fact they were so lucky they had beaten the odds and survived their missions in B-17’s over Europe.

The horses took the track and milled around before being escorted into the starting gate. Boo Boo Shoes was a beautiful brown horse, even though he was a 15 to 1 long shot. So much the better. They left the gate as the bell clanged and Boo Boo Shoes promptly took up a rail position…dead last. A position he held for the entire race. It was painful to watch, dad said. On his way home from the track in a severely used Ford, the dreams of a slightly used Cadillac blew away in the humid air as they drove back to the base.

Dad said the worst part of it all was having to tell mom that they would be eating sardines and crackers for the next month. He said he heard Boo Boo Shoes became glue shortly thereafter.

WELCOME TO THE PARTY – COL LEMMOND AND ME

By Mark Reed

In 1968, while in college at UGA and in Sigma Pi fraternity, I became friends with COL Walter H. Lemmond, US Army (Ret). The COL, as everyone called him, was a Sigma Pi alumni from Emory University, Psi Chapter, in the 1920’s. The COL was basically the only “alumni support” we at Alpha-Phi chapter at UGA had back then. He had pretty much adopted our chapter at UGA since the Emory chapter no longer was chartered.

The COL became my Mentor in all things Sigma Pi. He was a Past Grand Officer of the National Fraternity, and a brother who truly loved Sigma Pi. He worked tirelessly in his later years supporting Sigma Pi. One of his great missions was to see the creation and installation of new Sigma Pi Chapters around the country, especially in the south. The COL was honored at the Sigma Pi Convocation in Atlanta in 1974 with the highest honor Sigma Pi can bestow. The Founder’s Award.

Our newest colony was located at West Virginia Tech in Charleston, WV. The COL had played an instrumental role in their founding, and he was to lead the installation team for the formal chartering as a new Sigma Pi Chapter. He asked me to go with him and to be on the installation team. I was honored, as an undergraduate, to be asked to be a part of an installation.

I drove up to Clayton, GA, where the COL lived and he drove us up to WV in his car. Along the way, the COL continued his mentoring of me by talking about what it meant to be an alumni and how important it was to be a volunteer after graduation.

Now let me digress, or flash forward, as the case may be.

Last night, Memorial Day 2022, I watched an old WWII movie made in 1945 – They Were Expendable. This John Wayne movie starred him as a PT Boat commander in the Philippines at the start of the war when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. There was this one scene where John, as a naval officer, walked into a small dance party on Corregidor, and when he did, the band immediately stopped playing the song they were performing and broke out in the old Navy song “Anchors Aweigh” as a welcome to his appearance. It was a pretty cool scene. I immediately stopped the movie on our TV and told my wife, Michelle, my own similar story, the one you are reading now.

Now, back to my story.

It was Friday night when we rolled onto the campus at WVU and pulled up to the Sigma Pi house. They were having a band party, a celebration of their chartering the next day. As the COL and I walked into the party, obviously they were on the lookout for our arrival, because the band immediately stopped playing the song they were performing and broke out in “Dixie” and everyone started singing in honor of us Georgia brothers who had just arrived. Everyone surrounded us and shook our hands, patted us on the back and handed us a beer to welcome us.

This welcome made quite an impression on me. It has stuck with me all these years. BTW, I am proud to say that like the COL, I too was bestowed the honor of receiving the 96th Founder’s Award at the Orlando Convocation in 2014, so some of what the COL taught me must have stuck.

A CAROUSEL

By Mark Reed

My life has been a Carousel;

Round and round and up and down;

What a ride it has been;

Exciting and exhilarating from start to finish;

From one ride to another from tiny seats, to ponies to mighty steeds;

The colors always changing and almost blinding;

And beautiful;

The music trilling in my ears and making my body vibrate;

My God, what a ride;

My eyes were always wheeling round and round, trying to take it all in;

It all passed in a flash, really;

One after another, they flew by, blowing up my senses;

Reaching, grasping, trying to grab it all;

From the Calliope and circus noise;

To the rousing organ surrounding me with vibrations;

Then the pipes, oh the pipes, thrilling me with their notes;

My God, what a ride;

As I advanced upward on larger mounts;

The more wondrous and exciting it became;

I was almost overcome with all it offered;

This Carousel ride;

From one to another I would leap;

Sometimes missing, but always remounting;

Waiting for the next round of the Carousel;

My God, what a ride;

With each revolution, it was new and changing;

How is that, I asked, not really wanting an answer;

Just taking it all in as if each circumference was my last;

And refusing for that to be so;

Hanging on for dear life;

To ride and ride and ride;

My God, what a ride;

The rides were bumpy, they were for sure, sometimes;

But that was part of the challenge;

The exhilaration, the breath escaping from your chest;

The moment where you didn’t know whether you would be thrown;

But holding on for dear life;

Because your life depended on it;

This wonderful life;

My God, what a ride;

And then, the wondrous and magnificent surge of life continuing;

I made another trip around my Carousel;

And was committed to savoring and loving every trip around;

To make sure to do everything possible to continue the ride;

This wondrous ride;

A ride I never wanted to end;

The Carousel was my life, and I clung to it;

My God, what a ride;

There were others with me on my Carousel;

Those who put me on it to start with and kept me safely on it;

But they did not last;

Their Carousel ride would end;

But I was enriched and loved while they were with me;

Me finally holding onto them to keep them safely on at their end;

But I had to let them go;

My God, what a ride;

There were many who joined me on my Carousel ride;

They came and went;

Sometimes left by their own accord;

Sometimes flung off violently;

If only I could have held onto them more firmly;

But that is not the way of the Carousel;

The ride always ends;

My God, what a ride;

Oh, but the joy of placing others on my Carousel;

For sure they would call it their own with time;

And having helping hands hold those on who had not the strength;

And watching them be able to rise up on their own and mount another ride;

As I watched with eyes sometimes teary;

But with a heart that was full;

My God, what a ride;

How is it that this cacophony of music is dimming in my ears;

The bright and flashing lights are dimming, too;

I must try harder and harder to hold on;

This Carousel is so wondrous, I don’t want to get off;

I hold on tight and soak it all in;

My Carousel;

My God, what a ride.

BEGINNING AND END

By Mark Reed

September 13, 1946. A beginning. I was born. I was not alone. My mother was there. Virginia “Jennie” Lee Pepper Reed. Mommy. Mom. Mother. She was twenty-two years old, having been born in 1924. It was a Friday the thirteenth the day I was born, but mom always told me it was my lucky day. It was her’s too, she said. We always commented on that fact whenever a Friday the thirteenth came around. She held my head to her chest on the day I was born. I’m sure I could hear her heart beat, just as I could inside her womb. I was her first born. She was my first mom. She was the kindest, most loving person I ever knew. I never had even the slightest doubt that she loved me with all her heart. She had a big heart. Not just for me. She loved her family and friends and showed it unequivocally. Everyone who knew her loved her. I never heard her say a harsh word about anyone. I never heard her curse. She was a truly good person through and through.

Why is it that God inflicts the really good? But if you think about it, even the really bad are inflicted in this fallen world. Sort of equal opportunity infliction, if you will. In my mom’s case, it was brain cancer. She was operated on December 2, 1958. She was not expected to live, and if she did, she would likely never live a normal life. Mom was what was called a modern miracle of medical science. She not only survived, but lived, for the most part, a normal life. As a result of the brain cancer she lost vision in one eye, lost her sense of smell (actually, this could be taken as a blessing at times), and her once vibrant and outgoing personality was more subdued. The surgeon said he thought he got all the tumor and that it should not come back. It didn’t. One thing that did not change was the love in her heart. I was a recipient of that over abundant love.

Her life revolved around her family and friends. I thought I was the center of her universe, but I suppose that many who were blessed with her love felt something similar when they were with her. Even with the loss of an eye, she could still drive, and drive she did. She was a proverbial fixture in Smyrna, Georgia in her car driving all over visiting family and friends. My sister, brother and I were with her most of the time as she made her little road trips within the City Limits of Smyrna. She rarely ventured outside her comfortable boundary inflicted on her by her brain cancer. But her life was full.

Fast forward thirty years to 1987. She was sixty-three years old. She had two grandsons to shower her love on. I used to joke about being her favorite, but there was no doubt that Bill and Lew were her favorites now. I was OK with that. I think it was the happiest she had been since her own children were born.

But infliction reared its ugly head once again in her life. She was diagnosed with brain cancer once again. This time it was a totally different type. What were the odds? And it was a particularly nasty variety. Her surgeon, the same one from thirty years before, said that this one had no chance of being removed totally, as the tumor had tendrils spread throughout her brain. He said he could get the majority, but that would only give her a year’s more life at best. A death sentence. For my mommy. Yeah, it hurt. She was operated on July 6, 1987. After the operation and a three week stay in the hospital, she was discharged and we brought her home on July 25th. She was pretty much her old self, except no more driving. She depended on us for that when she needed to go somewhere. We went through a honeymoon phase of a couple of months where she was pretty much her old self, at least personality wise. But it was downhill from there.

She required round the clock care. We tried to have live in help, but that did not work. We even tried her staying with us, but that only lasted a short time. She required more care than we were able to provide. It was a hard decision, but we decided that a nursing home was the only option. Once she became bed ridden, we moved her to a very nice facility near Northside Hospital. We hired our own nurse to stay with her. I tried to visit every day. She finally went into a coma from which, the doctors told us, she would not recover. Thankfully, we had discussed with her before her operation what steps were to be taken in such a case. I had been given her full power of attorney and she had executed a living will declining any life saving measures if there were no hope of recovery. That included feeding tubes and IV’s. While the doctors wanted to take these steps, I stood firm and respected her wishes. It was just a matter of time then. Days, really.

On the morning of July 5, 1988, I took Michelle to Northside Hospital for an emergency appendectomy. The surgeon came to me in the waiting room and told me that Michelle had come through with flying colors and would be moved to her private room for a couple of days recovery, and that I could go up to her room to await her arrival. When I got to her room, I called my office and there was a message from mom’s nurse that I needed to get there as soon as possible, as she was fading fast. I was in a quandary. I’m waiting for Michelle to be brought up from her surgery and yet I needed to leave immediately. Thankfully, they wheeled Michelle in at that moment. She was still a little groggy, but I explained to her what was going on and she said for me to not hesitate, to go to my mom, that she would be OK. I kissed her and left.

I had a decision to make. Mom’s nursing facility was about a half-mile from the hospital. I had to choose going to the parking lot, finding the car, getting out of the lot and drive there, or run. I had always been a runner. I can only imagine what people must have thought as they witnessed this man in a coat and tie sprinting down the road. I got there, ran in the entrance, up the stairs, and into the hallway where mom’s room was located. As I was running down the hall, our nurse came out of her room, saw me, and shook and bowed her head. I rushed into the room and saw mom on the bed, exactly as I had seen her in her coma the day before.

I went to her bedside and pressed my ear to her chest. And I heard, “thump-thump…thump…” and nothing more. She died one day short of one year from her operation. But I had made it in time. She did not die alone. She was there at my beginning, and I was there at her end. With my head to her chest. Full circle to where it began for she and I.

THE LAST TIME GEORGIA PLAYED MICHIGAN – A MEMOIR

By Mark Reed

On December 31, 2021, the University of Georgia Dawgs will play the University of Michigan Wolverines in the Orange Bowl in Miami, Florida. This is a semi-final game of the 2021 College Football National Championship. The winner of this game will play the winner of the other semi-final match-up between Alabama and Cincinnati for the National Championship.

The last time the Dawgs played the Wolverines was on October 2, 1965 in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The Wolverines were ranked # 7 at the time. The Dawgs were ranked # 10.

The Dawgs trailed 7-6 with 4:11 left in the game when QB Preston Ridlehuber threw a 10 yard TD pass to Pat Hodgson, and the subsequent two point conversion was unsuccessful. The Dawgs led 12-7. On the Wolverines next possession, Dawg DB Lynn Hughes intercepted a pass and took it to their nine-yard line. Kicker Bobby Etter kicked his third FG of the game to ensure the win with a 15-7 final score.

This win, following the unbelievable season opening 18-17 win in Sanford Stadium with the famous “Flea Flicker Play”over reigning National Champion Bama (they ended up National Champions at the end of the season) pretty much made Dawg fans go wild with unbridled celebration. It was an away game, but you could not tell that after the streets of Athens were filled with exulting fans and automobiles, horns honking with passengers hanging out the windows zoomed up and down every thoroughfare.

Every brother, with the exception of a single pledge, was packed into the TV room at the Sigma Pi house at 285 South Milledge (on fraternity row) watching the game. As soon as the game ended, they all poured out of the house screaming, whooping and hollering onto the sidewalk and street in front of the house, dodging traffic of celebratory drivers.

It was a heady time for Dawg fans. Except for one – that being that aforementioned single pledge of Sigma Pi. Said pledge did not get to watch the game. Said pledge was on the side street beside the Sigma Pi house washing and waxing the car of a fraternity brother. Said pledge missed the game and the celebration.

You can see said pledge in the attached photograph. He has his eyes shaded by his hand, watching his brothers celebrate, as he stands beside the car he is washing. That pledge? None other than yours truly.

ON BEING BLACK

By Mark Reed

Being Black.  How can a white man in the South, much less anywhere else, know what it is like – really like – to be black in America?  It may not even be possible.  Sure, we can say that we understand their pain, their frustrations, and their anger – but really understand?  I don’t think so.

I grew up in the 1940’s and 1950’s in an average middle class white family in Smyrna, Georgia.  The Deep South.  There were no black children in my neighborhood, much less in my schools.  In fact, it was 1964 when I was a freshman in College at the University of Georgia before I ever had a class with a black person, and even then they were few.  There were no blacks that lived in the City Limits of Smyrna – the Smyrna of my youth.  They mostly lived in Davenport Town, that small enclave just east and outside the City Limits.  My memory of Davenport Town of that time is limited to brief visits in my mother or father’s car to pick up or take home our black maid, Mary.  She was the only black person I knew when I was a young child.  To tell the truth, I never thought of her as black or as a different color from me until later in my childhood, probably from hearing things said by other children.  I loved Mary and she loved my family and me.  She was more than a maid.  She was a part of the family.  She named her son, Mark, after me, and some years later he tragically died at a young age.

The details are fuzzy in my mind, all these years later, but I remember coming home from school one day and finding Margie, another black woman, waiting for me in Mary’s place.  It seems that Mary couldn’t stay with us any longer for some reason, and she sent her cousin, Margie, to take her place and “look after her white folks.”  This was about the time that my mother experienced her first fight with a brain tumor (the one that didn’t kill her).  After mother’s operations, it was some time before she was able to participate in raising three young children, and even then it was limited.  Margie became our “black mommy,” or “Nanny” as they call it today.

I can remember from a very early age my father speaking to us about race relations between the blacks and whites.  He was an unusual man in a lot of ways, but most definitely on his views, as a white man growing up in the South, on how to treat the blacks.  Let’s say that his views did not mirror the general opinion of the majority of the population at the time, as far as race went.  He told me that when he was a child, growing up in Smyrna in the 20’s and 30’s, many of his playmates were the little black children from Davenport Town.  He and they were just kids.  No difference, really.  Children seem to be color blind up to a certain age until the views of their parents or peers creep into their consciousness.  I believe that those who we are around are the ones who shape our views of the world and the people in it.  Children have a certain innocence, at least until it is corrupted by others.

Dad always said that there were good black people and bad black people – just as there were good white people and bad white people.  He said to judge a person on who they were and how they acted and treated you – not on their color.  As I said, his views did not mirror those of the majority of people of the time.

One of the things I am most proud of about Dad had to do with his work.  In the early 50’s, he formed a partnership with “Hoot” Gibson, a past and future Mayor of Smyrna.  They acquired a large tract of land adjacent to Davenport Town and developed the first new “black” subdivision in Cobb County – Rose Garden Hills.  He and “Hoot” built nice single-family homes for black families.  I have the old 8mm film Dad took of the construction activities and homes being built.  There is no sound, only the flickering images.  There is this one scene, in particular, I really love, of this young black couple coming to look at the new homes and picking out the home they bought.  I wish I knew their name.  By developing this nice subdivision for the blacks, Dad and “Hoot” were arguably the most hated white men in the county in certain circles. They had the temerity to build houses as nice or nicer than many white families lived in.  But the thing about this particular endeavor that really rings a bell, for me, is the fact that in addition to building these nice homes for the blacks, they also were responsible for a first class elementary school being built for the black children of the community – Rose Garden Hills Elementary.  With the advent of desegregation some years later, Rose Garden Hills Elementary ceased to be used as an elementary school, but the building was taken over and used for various daycare and other functions for the benefit of the community.  I’m proud of this contribution my father made to the black community.  I doubt if many today, or any for that matter, are even aware of this little sidebar of Smyrna history, but my family is.

I remember with crystal clarity the time he told me, “You know, if I had been born black, I’d be dead today.  There is no way I would have been able to accept the way they are treated or spoken to.”  He also made it absolutely clear that the use of the “N” word in our home was forbidden.  If it were to have escaped my lips in his presence, or he heard that I, or any one of us children, had uttered it, we would not have been able to sit down for a week.  I must admit that in my life I have used that word a time or two, forgetting for a moment my father’s rule, but when it was said, I remember feeling a total disgust with myself for having done so.  Some things we do because of whom we are around, as I mentioned earlier.  Even so, there is no excuse.  To this day, when I encounter someone who uses it, and generally it is someone who is from my father’s generation, it never fails to shock me and make me feel a discomfort that is hard to describe.

I remember one time at home, before I was a teen, when I was chanting a little rhyme that a lot of children used, with varying words, “Ennie Meenie Minee Moe, Catch A N—– By The Toe.”  I don’t remember the context of why I was using that rhyme, but I remember clearly that when the word left my mouth, I looked up in horror to see Margie standing across the room looking at me with sad eyes.  I don’t believe that I had ever been as embarrassed before or since.  I was so ashamed.  I told her I was sorry and cried.  She gave me a hug and told me it was OK and that she loved me.  That made me cry all the harder.  Why is it that we hurt those we love and care about?  My father never knew about this or the other occasions I used the word.  I’m glad for that.  Not because of the punishment that would have come when I was a child, but for the disapproval and disappointment that he most surely would have felt.

Michelle and I tried to raise our children to be colorblind.  To treat all people the same way they themselves would want to be treated.  The “golden rule.”  I believe we have been successful in that regard.  In fact, one of Bill’s best friends in Middle School was a black boy.  The color made no difference to him.  The same holds true for Lew.  They have grown up to be men of character who judge their fellow men for the content of their heart, not the color of their skin.

We live in a tumultuous time today. Race relations, which had improved over the years, seem to have fallen back to a time of hatred and distrust on the part of many blacks and whites. The racist “race card” is played on people for innocent remarks, or as a way to attack someone. I am hopeful that this too shall pass. I have had black friends over the years, and have some today. My pastor for many years was a black man. My ministry has been to black people in Haiti. We all have to get past the color thing and concentrate on the human thing. We are all human.

I have had several recent interactions with people of color in the last week, with each being enjoyable and friendly. Let us focus on and build on such as these. There is hate being foisted upon us by those who want there to be division and conflict. Ignore it. Look to the heart. Yours and others.