Auld Lang Syne

My Senior Year at RHS

Each New Year, strains of “Auld Lang Syne” played by Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians rang out through our house. Those sounds came from the 1961 RCA Stereo my dad had bought from Betty Sue Trent at the end of the tobacco season in Reidsville. Sometimes he sang along with the last trilling chorus as the orchestra played in full throat and the twin pianos tinkled arpeggios in the background. It was the way my father marked the end of something. A year. But to most of us, the new year is the beginning of something special. Not the least of those special beginnings was my senior year at Ruffin High School. I was done with most of the hard courses and was ready to spend a year preparing for my college career or my military career whichever came first. I was seventeen years old and a virtually tireless fan of all things Ruffin. I loved my school and my community. I loved my station in life and the fact that I knew the value of work as well as the necessity of play. I was popular with my friends and made new ones all the time.

I walked to school briskly on the last morning of my senior year. At the railroad crossing, I saw Allen and Billy Wharton. They were driving Allen’s new car. As they whizzed around the curve in front of the pipe plant, I suddenly wished for the Crosley which was still being repaired from the blown water pump gasket which had burst the week before in a cloud of steam. Then, a strange feeling of warmth came over me. I didn’t need a car. I just needed my feet for today’s journey. It was early September and the leaves were still green and the aroma of curing tobacco once again greeted my nostrils. It was Ruffin. All thirty-six square miles of it. And it was mine. My very own small town. Rounding the curve, I was joined by Cathy Strozier who had chosen to walk that morning as well. The Strader boys, Donnie and Larry, were coming up from the old parsonage where I used to live. And then there was Kandy Rogers whose father dropped her off at the school and turned around to head to work another week on the market in South Carolina. He was a tobacco auctioneer and one of my dad’s best friends. They came out of the driveway of their huge old southern mansion, passed us with a wave, and then stopped drop Kandy off. A couple of buses passed and turned into the driveway of the school to be parked in the area where the old teacherage had been demolished to make room for a parking lot. We walked up the steps as we had so many times before, but this time there were noticeable differences. There were no upper classmen. I was it. I was a senior and had the world before me. Students walked by as usual but this time even those who did not know me spoke and called me by name.

I had big shoes to fill. While not an athlete, I was best known as a musician and, hopefully, an intellectual. My teachers recognized that I had an aptitude for learning and many students had seen me inducted into the Beta Club. Others had known of my interest in radio and television. Many girls knew that I did not date anyone from our school, which unbeknownst to me, added an air of mystery to my presence there. But most importantly, I was being given my due as a senior member of our closely held society. I knew there was a leader somewhere within and I wanted to free it.

A couple of events leading up to my senior year tipped me off as to whom I would become. During my junior year, most of the college bound students took the Scholastic Aptitude Test. Colleges placed a lot of weight on the test to see if we were indeed college material. I had been reminded by our high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Lynette Owen, wife of the principal, who was more of a realist and after reviewing my academia, suggested that I might have hopes too high for my abilities. But when I brought in a higher than average SAT score, she changed her tune. “I guess you are ready for Carolina,” Mrs. Owens relented. “But you’re not there yet. You’ve got to get your application in order. That will take weeks. So, you’d better get on it.”

Mrs. Owen’s office had applications for a few colleges but not UNC. Why I do not know. She had plenty for Appalachian and plenty for her alma mater, East Carolina University. But none for UNC and only a couple for NC State. There were some applications for private colleges like my father’s alma mater, Lees-McRae and High Point. But there were none for Duke nor Davidson. I had an interest in Duke because I was a Methodist and many Ruffians had attended that university. Duke alumni and alumnae from Ruffin included Mr. John Washburn, Miss Mary Elizabeth Worsham, and Mr. Lynwood Wright. All three were very bright and one of them was a cousin. Mr.Washburn’s son, John, was currently attending his third year at Duke. Sometimes I saw him on weekends or played ping pong with him in the summers. He was seldom at home because his parents owned a motel, The Accordion, at Carolina Beach and later, another, The Teakwood, at Myrtle Beach. John spent a lot of time at the beaches with them. I liked Duke as a place to possibly further my education. My cousin, Jack and his mother, Aunt Sara, absolutely worshipped the Duke basketball team. Suffice it to say, I did not like Duke to that extent. I had decided on the University of North Carolina as my college long before that summer. Mr. Harrelson had taken one of our classes to Memorial Hall on the campus in Chapel Hill to see a debate between scholars representing the two sides of United States involvement in the Vietnam War. Also, I had been to the state public speaking tournament which was held there and had even entered the American Legion Public Speaking contest in my senior year to finish third in the state.

My association with UNC also went back to my mother’s brother, Dr. C.O. Shelton, the Walnut Cove dentist who had opened his practice after graduating from dental school in Chapel Hill. But my most memorable visit was when I was eleven years old and my father along with Mr. Benton Stacy took me to a UNC football game against Wake Forest. That was in 1961. I had not forgotten the atmosphere, the pine trees, the stadium, the students, and the flavor of an autumn in Chapel Hill. I had learned everything I could about the nation’s oldest land grant university. I had read of William R. Davie and his founding of the hallowed place. I had stood under the shelter of the Old Well, marveled at Old East, wondered how Hinton James could have walked all the way from Wilmington to be the first student there in 1789. I had bathed in the afternoon sun as it peeked through the early autumn leaves and felt the chill of an October night among the stars of the planetarium. I had seen the downtown in the afternoons and walked among the very few sun-bathing co-eds in green grassy quads at the first sight of dogwoods and azaleas. If not a “Ruffinian” for much longer, I knew I could easily be a “Chapel Hillian” for the rest of my life. Mrs. Owen’s brief statement was all I needed. Instead of it taking me weeks, it took only hours. With my official copy of my SAT scores already sent to UNC, all I had to do was enclose my application, my essay, my $15.00 and three letters of recommendation (of which I still have copies). I applied for admission in October of 1967. I got my letter of acceptance in January of 1968. It was among the happiest days of my life.

I had a job at Ruffin High School. No, it wasn’t emptying trash cans nor dusting erasers. Not even delivering milk to the elementary children. My job was to read the morning announcements over the school intercom. In other words, the henhouse had been formally handed over to the fox. Each morning I would diligently read all the announcements from the office as handed to me by either the principal or Mrs. Harrelson. One morning, I found the announcements particularly short because, quite frankly, there was nothing much happening at the school that day. I was reluctant to give up the microphone. At that point, the ad lib began. I was a library assistant that year, so I always added that “Mrs. Deaton of the Library would like all overdue books returned. It became my “sign- off” line.

I soon began to take notice of our athletics and never failed to recognize the various team members that had contributed greatly to the win‚ or the loss as was sometimes the case. Later in the semester, I noted that various couples congregated the hallways during break time as had long been the tradition at RHS. I sometimes pointed out whom I had seen stealing a kiss on the way to class. Our principal, Mr. Owen, put a stop to the slowly building “gossip column of the air” by intimating that I cease this before there was trouble. I obeyed his order. To increase the length of time I spent on the intercom, I began to add the lunch menu as well as elementary school news. Most of my fellow students really liked this for it occupied an otherwise boring ten minutes of home room. And they all wondered what I would say next.

This speaking ability served me well in November of our senior year when I entered the American Legion’s annual public speaking competition. I won the local one held in Reidsville because I was the only participant. I gave my speech anyway. It was a ten- minute speech on one aspect of our first Constitutional Convention. My speech entitled, “A Hot Day in Philadelphia” was delivered to the assembled organization. They applauded and handed me a twenty- five-dollar savings bond and a place at the regional competition in Greensboro to be held in January. I won there, as well, but had some competition from a couple of very good speakers whose topics were much too broad to be handled in a mere ten minutes. Brevity was my strong suit in that competition as was following my speech teacher, Miss Jane Milam’s instructions to keep the subject narrow and the to the point. That group of Legionnaires gave me a fifty-dollar savings bond and the expectation that I attend the state-wide competition to be held at Sanford Central High School in April. My father once again took me to the competition where there were about ten finalists from various regions. We were to speak to the entire student body of the school. For the first time in my speaking life, I became nervous— exceedingly nervous. My new three-piece suit, purchased for this ONE occasion, became filled with flop-sweat and my hands felt as if they were attached to spaghetti. I sat in a room with a couple of others just waiting for my turn. A lady came to the door of that room and called my name. I walked down what seemed to be an endless hallway and onto the stage. I don’t remember one moment after that until I returned to another smaller room just off the stage and waited with three other contestants. Apparently, I was in the top three. After a couple of minutes, the winner was announced. I knew it would not be me and I knew I would not receive the one-hundred-dollar savings bond that would be presented to the winner who would go on to the national tournament in Washington, DC. I was right. I came in third. Third out of ten—not so bad when you consider how many others were in the early stages of the competition. I knew Miss Milam would be proud.

As a bonus, I was honored to meet a bit of Ruffin’s history at that tournament. My father introduced me to Mr. Paul Cragan who had been principal at Ruffin High School years and years earlier. My dad knew him and his wife very well. It just so happened that he was one of the judges at the competition. I just wonder if he might have been a little bit biased knowing that I was from Ruffin. That information was included in the introduction given by the emcee before I spoke. Later in the year, I got a letter from Mr. Cragan congratulating me on my good work as a public speaker. I still have that letter in my files. At any rate, I was seventy-five dollars richer or at least would be in about seven years when those U.S. Savings Bonds matured. Strangely, like any Carter, I kept them long after their maturity. I kept them until I was about thirty-five years old when I finally took them to Wachovia Bank in Yanceyville and gathered my winnings in real dollars.

In the spring of my senior year, I developed an especially strong interest in writing both prose and poetry. I also took on a very strange system of dress. My daily school garb consisted of more hippie-like vests, ponchos, boots, bell bottom pants, love beads and peace symbols purchased from K-mart. My views were changing, and I couldn’t write them down fast enough. I wanted to visit the west coast and could not afford it. So, I brought the west coast to Ruffin in the seemingly endless array of tacky clothing that I had been selecting for school wear.

Also, that year, I was a member of the yearbook staff. Mrs. Gay was our journalism teacher and a fine one she was. Aside from preparing the yearbook, one of our tasks was to write for “The Golden Streak” which was our high school newspaper. A twelve-page mimeographed and stapled 8 1⁄2 by 11-inch “newspaper” was printed each month and distributed through the homerooms. One of my fondest memories of this class was assigning myself a story describing a “hero” in my life. I picked an unlikely candidate: Mr. Charles Hamrick. Mr. Hamrick had come to live in our community upon his retirement as a teacher in Boiling Springs, North Carolina. He, along with his wife, Helen Worsham Hamrick built a small brick house between Mrs. Annie “Granny” Worsham’s home on the corner and that of Inez Pruitt, the perpetual Rockingham County Register of Deeds. Mrs. Hamrick was Granny’s daughter and the sister of Sheriff Leon Worsham, Mr. J. Berrye Worsham, Mr. Clyde Worsham, and my aunt Sue Lee Worsham’s late husband, Earle. Mrs. Hamrick taught first grade at Ruffin and was my brother’s teacher when he entered school.

Mr. Hamrick had been a musician in his early life and had played with the famous Jan Garber Orchestra among others in the 1940‚’s. My father knew him quite well and related many stories of Mr. Hamrick’s association with some real musical greats like Woody Herman, Kay Kaiser, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Glenn Miller and others. Needless to say, I was impressed that Ruffin had attracted such a musical talent. Many nights, I visited the Hamrick’s home and listened to his stories as well as enjoyed his artistry on the Hammond organ in his home. Several times, he taught me jazz chords and how to follow a chart arranged for a big band. I am indebted to him for this musical education which he offered free of charge.

Mr. Hamrick was also a substitute teacher at RHS. He was a heavy-set man who was often abused by some of the rowdier students. This irritated me because I knew of his immense talent and his willingness to share. I decided to write the story for the paper out or respect for his musical ability and to let students know the background of this man they seemed to be anxious to irritate. I went to his house with the intent of writing the story and getting some details straight before publication. While we were speaking, the television was on in another room. Mrs. Hamrick was watching it as a news flash came on from CBS. It was Walter Cronkite. We knew something had gone terribly wrong. Cronkite was seemingly always on the air during heroic space flights but seldom broadcast after his nightly news program. He had told us of the Kennedy assassination and had also narrated the NASA space shots of astronauts, Alan Shepherd, John Glenn, and others. We listened and watched. It was April 4, 1968. The news was horrible. Dr. Martin Luther King had been shot at 6:01 p.m. CST as he stood on the balcony of The Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. He had come to Memphis in support of a sanitation worker’s strike. Later that week, we learned that his killer, James Earl Ray was a fugitive from a Missouri prison and days later was arrested at Heathrow Airport in London. We heard the story over and over as it was recounted by reporters in Memphis and retold to us by Cronkite. This was horrible. We had proven earlier in the sixties to be a violent society and now were verifying it as we would again just two months later with the assassination of Robert Kennedy after winning the California primary for the Democratic nomination for president.

Dr. King was dead. We could not believe our ears. That news brought our interview to an end. I was anxious to excuse myself in some way but just could not. I had to stay to talk about this tragedy with Mr. and Mrs. Hamrick, though I knew my own parents were probably sitting in dismay and disbelief of what they surely must have just seen. The finality of this news led to a short discussion there in the living room, but it was brought to an end by Mr. Harmrick’s sudden burst of tears. Musicians by nature are a sensitive group. Aunt Elizabeth Chandler, dad’s sister, used to tell me that as a musician, one feels closer to the world perhaps than others. This was verification of that. Mr. Hamrick cried. Here he was, a sixty- something year-old white man in an armchair almost a thousand miles from Memphis shedding tears for a man he did not know but obviously cared about deeply. Dr. King’s movement, I found out, was close to Mr. Hamrick not because he was an artist, but because he had that same closeness to the society and what was happening as had been described to me by others. Tears rolled down his cheek as he tried to come to grips with this news and the fact that King was leaving behind a wife and four little children. It was like the Kennedy assassination not even five years earlier where we lost a leader. It was not until the funeral did we come to grips with the fact that the young president, like King, was a man with a family. Though Kennedy and King both belonged to all of us, they really first belonged to their respective families. I quietly exited and walked slowly by the old parsonage where I had once lived.

I crossed the railroad behind Aubrey and Georgia Simpson’s house and then across the highway to my home. There my parents sat watching the news and the myriad interviews with people close to Dr. King. My father, the staunch guy who had won World War II all by himself sadly said to me, “Son, this is history. You are seeing history being made but this time, it’s the wrong kind of history.” This statement came from the second most historically minded man I ever knew, Mr. Harrelson being the first.

Friday, April 5, was the next school day. It was very quiet. Our black students were in complete shock as were many others at RHS. It was a sad day for them and for everybody. But especially for those we had taken in as family. We shared some thoughts with each other and some feelings that were held deeply. To some who were wary of welcoming our African American counterparts at first, this event transcended any ill feelings harbored by any students. I remember speaking to Barbara Johnson the next day and between her tears she said she still could not believe it. “He was only 39 years old,” she said. “He was like Moses.” Olivet Nunley was another student to whom I spoke that day. We were outside Mrs. Gay’s journalism classroom. I told him I did not feel like working in class that day. He said he didn’t feel like being at school, but he had to come. “I just needed to be here,” he said. “I needed to be with my friends.” For a second or two that afternoon, we shared the same feeling. We were all friends in some way and at some level. We were all connected that day just as many around the country had been connected when JFK was shot. The tragedy of the times had to be experienced together rather than separately.

Earlier, in November of our senior year, on Ruffin’s annual senior trip to Washington, D.C., we had stood together on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial where Dr. King gave his famous “I Have A Dream” speech. It was hallowed ground. On that day, our class had its picture made on the steps of the Capitol. We toured the memorials and had lunch at the Capitol Dining Room. We stayed at the famous Harrington Hotel which still stands and which I see every time I go to our nation’s capital, even now. The memories were fond ones for our group. The train ride up, the walks around town, the bus ride to Georgetown, and seeing Congress in session. But to this day, nothing compares with that moment when we stood together on those steps, looking in that reflecting pool, and hearing the words of Dr. King echo through the mall. I cannot get it out of my mind. I will never try. Those steps, that statue, those words from Lincoln a hundred-plus years before, “With malice toward none and charity for all,” still ring in my ears along with Dr. King’s immortal repetition of, “Let Freedom Ring.” May he rest in peace knowing that he made an indelible mark on my life as had JFK, and similarly, on Mr. Hamrick’s life as he shed real tears upon hearing this terrible news.

Some fun stuff and some tears.

Each year, the NC Highway Patrol sold its used or worn out uniforms to specialty stores. Former Sheriff, Leon Worsham got hold of a bunch of the uniform shirts, pants, hats, and belts, to sell in his store. I bought bunches of them. I began to wear the Highway Patrol uniform to school. This was a great attention-getter and in reality, a great statement against “the man.” I also purchased a used “Coca- Cola” uniform just like the guys who drove the Coke trucks to deliver soft drinks to stores. Wearing that, I once tried to fool the break room attendant at the school into giving me the key to the Coke machines. She almost gave it to me but was stopped by my evil grin. She knew I was about to open the machine and give everyone free Cokes. Luckily for me, it didn’t happen. If it had, I would probably be still paying for the crime.

One morning, I wore the NCHP uniform and got to school extra early. The buses had not yet arrived on campus, so I stood in the driveway. When they did arrive, I motioned for them to circle around the parking lot. I knew all the bus drivers and they knew me. I had a pretty good group of them circling when Mr. Owen came out and instructed me to stop motioning for them to circle the parking area. Then he took me inside and gave me quite the lecture on being a responsible citizen at the school. The penalty for not being a good citizen at the school was a sure call to my parents who would likely insure my good behavior at least until graduation.

The spring of 1968 brought about the prom once again. This time, there were “new rules” as Bill Maher might say. These new rules included not allowing ANYONE from outside the school to attend the prom. This meant ANY dates we might have had from outside the confines of RHS. As president of the senior class, I found this unacceptable. At first, I wrote an essay and hung copies of it on all the bulletin boards in the high school portion of the school. This was read by a number of students who agreed with me. My thoughts on paper did not set well with Mr. Owen and here’s why. Students could not bring dates however teachers could bring their significant other, be they husbands, dates, or other guests. Also, the Board of Education members could bring their “outside the school” guests to the prom. We had one married member of our class who couldn’t even bring her husband to the prom. Not only was this completely unacceptable, but crazy as well. I understand that there had been some racial problems in both Danville and Reidsville during this time, but many of us, black and white, had dated outside the school all year. I think Mr. Owen was fearful of a racially ignited issue of some sort which was quite unlikely to happen. He also wanted to be sure he knew everyone there so that if any trouble broke out, he would know whom to call out.

I was one of the students who dated someone from outside the school. I was not allowed to bring her to the prom. I was hurt by this and decided to boycott the event. It was agreed by a couple of the class officers that we would not attend. That brought the school administration into the fray. I was called to the office and Mr. Owen reminded me that I was to give the welcome speech to the faculty and to the board of education who would be in attendance. I told him I would not do this and that I likely would not attend the prom--at least as long as others could bring “outsiders” but the privilege did not extend to students. That afternoon, the issue escalated. Mr. Owen called my mother and father and they agreed with me. So, it was decided that I should not attend.

The next day at school, I related what had happened to some of my classmates. They were furious. This prompted a meeting with a couple of class officers with Mr. Owen reminding me that my college acceptance along with that of the vice-president and the others might be marred by this incident. He had us over a barrel. I would do nothing to jeopardize my future but still felt very strongly about this. Finally, Mr. Owen agreed that the county administration consisting of the superintendent and the supervisor of teachers along with the board would be invited to the meal but could attend the dance only as chaperones. This didn’t make it any better. We all wanted to dance with our intended dates and had no intention of doing otherwise. The final concession was that our married students could bring their husbands. Sadly, he won the war. We were victorious only in a bit of the battle. He issued the decree and I went to the prom and I made a speech, raised a toast, and I was a good boy. But I’ll never understand why such a wonderful event had to be held under such weird circumstances. As it turned out, I invited a girl from our school and had a great time. But in the back of my mind was the haunting thought that I had not done enough. What if I had stuck to my guns and there was no welcome nor toast, nor night to remember. I guess I’ll never know.

The last few days of my life at RHS were filled with graduation excitement. The big night was slow in coming but when it finally arrived, I became ecstatic. I knew I would miss the place, the teachers, and all my friends, but I also knew I would be embarking on something very special--college. I would, within a three-month period, walk onto the campus of the oldest state supported university in the nation. For that I was most grateful and very humbled.

But THIS was graduation. The Sunday before graduation on the afternoon of May 26, 1968, the senior class attended the baccalaureate service featuring local minister, Dr. John Womeldorf pastor at Bethesda Presbyterian Church. He offered insight into our spiritual lives now that we would be graduates. Then, the few days before graduation saw us in rehearsal for the big night. Our advisors lined us up alphabetically and marched us in. What a fun time! We were through with class, through with exams, and finished with homework at least for a while. The chore of rehearsal was finished and each of us went our separate ways that day to await the big night. Some headed to Lynrock. Others, like myself, headed home to prepare for the night. Ron, Robert, and a few others had decided to go out for pizza that night after the ceremony. Our favorite pizza place was Steve’s Pink House in North Danville. And that we did.

The ceremony was beautiful. The small auditorium which seemed so large when I was a child, was decorated with the usual flowers in tall white stands. Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” was played by Mrs. Nancy Neal who directed our chorus. Renditions of “The Impossible Dream,” “Now Is the Hour,” and “May the Lord Bless You and Keep You” were all sung by this choir accompanied by Kathy Hazelwood on piano. Karen Delancey provided the invocation and Alice Robertson gave the welcome. It was finally time for us to walk across the stage and literally grab the keys to the universe.

In those days, a high school diploma really meant something. That piece of parchment signified that you actually finished something you started. It also meant that you could join the workforce as a proud member of a society whose vision was upward and onward. The very same decade that had seen a president assassinated, a civil rights leader slain, a war started, a cold war continuing to heat up and a musical revolution also featured the landing of a man on the moon. It was a special time and through we all faced some harsh realities, we still had a heaping helping of hope.

It was a political year whose next month would feature the assassination of Robert Kennedy and the resurrection of Richard Nixon. As fate would have it, the next ten years gave the United States its biggest dose of change in a century. But this was OUR night, and these were OUR lives. And we were ready for anything.

It was my turn again at the podium to call the names of our seniors to receive their diplomas. The program had called for our superintendent to do this, but a change was made by the class to allow me to do the honors. On the stage that night was our guest speaker, Wake Forest Law professor, Dr. James Webster. Other than Bob Dylan or John Lennon, our true first choice was Justice Earl Vaughan who had a previous engagement and was not able to attend. Justice Vaughan was Chief Justice of the North Carolina Supreme Court and a Ruffin High School Graduate. (In my later life as a journalist, I interviewed Justice Vaughan for a magazine article and for a television news story). Others on the stage included Dr. J. Allan Lewis, superintendent of the Rockingham County Schools. He was a family friend as well as very much involved with scouting in Rockingham County. He was also an avid theatre goer as well as participant in many theatrical productions in his younger days. Today, the auditorium at Rockingham County Senior High School bears his name. On the stage along with Mr. Lewis was Mr. Wendell Owen, our principal, Sara Dickerson, valedictorian of the class. Salutatorian, Karen Delancey and classmate Alice Robertson. I approached the audience with a smile, and it became somewhat contagious. Actually, a little laughter swept across the room as I made my appearance, for I had garnered a completely unwarranted reputation as a bit of a class clown. This could be verified by several of our teachers who may remember an occasional prank or joke played by yours truly. At that moment, I revved up all my public speaking skills as I announced that our seniors would “now be presented their diplomas.” I called each and every name. Some who crossed the stage got a polite applause, a couple got a collective sigh of relief from the crowd, and some even received polite laughter as they appeared in their dark gray caps and gowns with gold tassels hanging on the side of each mortarboard.

I finished my part of the program without receiving my diploma. This was a part of the program we had not rehearsed. When would my name be called? As I retreated to my place on the stage, Mr. Lewis came to the podium and stated that we weren’t finished yet.

“There is one more person to receive his diploma tonight. Frank Guerrant Carter, Jr,” Mr. Lewis announced in his best booming theatrical voice. I came forward to shake his hand and receive my diploma as the crowd immediately broke into applause. It was finally over except for the farewell. Those final words were offered by Sara Dickerson reading a portion of “The Rubaiyat” of Omar Kayam as our last official act as the class of 1968. Mrs. Neal began the piano melody we knew so well by that time. It was the “Triumphant March” from Verdi’s opera, Aida. We were on our way out of the school and into whatever the world would bring.

But the world had to wait for a few more minutes as our class assembled back in Mr. Harrelson’s classroom where we had begun the night. We had to check in our caps and gowns and get our “real” diplomas after Mr. Harrelson had made sure we had all passed our final semester’s grades and had paid all our fees.

We hugged a lot that night. I hugged everyone. I immediately missed everyone. I held back the tears and used my trusty handkerchief to gently wipe the tears from the others as we said our last goodbyes as students of that grand old institution. And then, as quickly as it had begun, we were ready to leave for the last time. Suddenly the hallway was quieter. That same hallowed hallway appeared much narrower as we flooded it on our way to the lobby to meet our parents and relatives that had filled the auditorium only minutes before. Diagonally across from Mr. Harrelson’s room was the very room where twelve years before I had started in the first grade. I peeped into the dark room and the alphabet in both printed and cursive letters still adorned the cork board above the green blackboard. I could almost hear Mrs. Coates chastising Bruce Alcorn and Wayne Poindexter for laughing during reading time. That room looked so small now. The trophy cases in the lobby were not quite so large anymore. The seventh-grade classroom brought back painful memories of Mrs. Autry who had just retired. The principal’s office door was open, and the huge “Tiger” rug Mr. Owen had added to adorn the room looked very sedate and not like the terrible beast it represented. I slowly made my way to the ‘63 Impala and got in my familiar back seat with my brother, Tommy.

We drove home by way of the underpass and up highway 29 past the Café and the fire department both already busy with the excitement of the evening. I went into our home along with my family and sat in the den for a short time to speak to my uncles and aunts. Then, I politely excused myself to ride with Ron and Robert to Steve’s Pink House. Meeting us there was David Kendrick and a couple of other students who were celebrating along with us. Strangely, Steve’s Pink House seemed a bit smaller, but the juke box wailed our favorite songs, nonetheless. As we walked in, the Dells’ “La, la, Means I Love You” filled the little room. Ron ordered a beer. No, I was not eighteen, but I did it anyway and was not “carded.” Ron was the only of us who had already turned the magic age of eighteen and could legally purchase what Virginians thought was beer. The watered- down version of 3.2 Budweiser came to the table with one of Steve’s very greasy but very tasty pizzas. I had officially grown up.

ONE LAST DANCE

This book opened with a song. It ends with one as well. “Going

Back” by Carole King and Gerry Goffin, speaks of growing up. The song has been recorded by various artists including the inimitable Phil Collins. This is for the “us” we all knew. Thank you to all the people in my life for the treasured memories we shared.

Going Back*

“I think I'm goin' back
To the things I learned so well in my youth
I think I'm returning to
Those days when I was young enough to know the truth Now there are no games to only pass the time
No more electric trains, no more trees to climb
But thinking young and growing older is no sin
And I can play the game of life to win
I can recall a time
When I wasn't ashamed to reach out to a friend
Now, I think I've got
A lot more than just my toys to lend.
Now there's more to do than watch my sailboat glide But every day can be a magic carpet ride
A little bit of courage is all we lack
So, catch me if you can, I'm goin' back
Now there's more to do than watch my sailboat glide But every day can be a magic carpet ride
A little bit of courage is all we lack
So, catch me if you can, I'm goin' back.

*Words and music by Carole King and Gerry Goffin