BUCKROE JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL

When I recall attending Buckroe Junior High School when I was 13-15 in 1961-63 for grades 8 and 9, many thoughts, feelings, events, and faces emerge from the clouds of my past, and scenes of my young life come into focus, get replayed, and they touch my heart and remind me of how young and innocent I was then, as were my classmates, and even my mother.

My mother attended BJHS before I was born. One day after school at Buckroe Beach, she met a young soldier named Tommy stationed nearby at Ft. Eustis. He asked her age, and she answered “eighteen.” They began a brief romance, but afterwards, she was unhappy with the discovery of finding herself pregnant. Neither she nor Tommy wanted to get married or be parents of that unborn child. However, my grandmother insisted on both, and a “shotgun wedding” quickly followed. Once her teachers at BJHS realized she was pregnant, my mother was forced to withdraw from school and was never welcome to return. At that time married students, pregnant students, and students who were mothers were all considered to be a corrupting influence on the innocence of the other students. When my mother finally had “that child,” the truth was that she was still just 15, not 18. My father Tommy was 23, he left, and I never knew him. Of course, I was “that child.” I have always felt fortunate that I was born--especially under those circumstances--and to have this opportunity to experience a life, and I’m especially thankful to my grandmother for her role in making this possible for me. My mother would later tell me as I was growing up that she was glad I was born, despite her initial fears and reservations.

My mother remarried when I was about 4, to Jack Cline, another serviceman, this one in the USAF stationed at LAFB. He got stationed to Victoria, Texas, where I attended grades 1 and 2, and then he got reassigned to the USAF base at Myrtle Beach, S.C., where I attended grades 3-7, and we finally returned to Hampton, Virginia, when he got stationed back at Langley, and that’s how I came to start attending BJHS in the 8^th after we moved to between Phoebus and Buckroe, having attended the first marking period at Thorpe.

I remember standing outside BJHS in the mornings, waiting to go in, curious why we had to wait and couldn't just enter right away. I can still see Mr. Dyke, the principal, a short, round, funny-looking man with big black eyeglasses and a big temper, especially for students he accused of scratching their initials on top of the old grand piano in the gym, especially one student in particular, who got caught because other students told on him and was threatened with not graduating unless he paid have the piano top refinished, this despite the fact that it was covered with many other initials and that none of the others engravers had ever been so charged or punished.

When I had tried to sign up to take first year algebra and French in the 8^th grade, I remember a condescending guidance counselor telling me that my grades weren't high enough. I remember how easy 8th grade consumer math was—although I would go on to take 2 years of algebra, geometry, and trig—I’m glad I took that class, for to this day I have actually gotten by just fine using the math I learned in that class taught by a pretty young lady whose name I can't remember.

I remember the foul odor of the gym floor and how it attracted flies and kept getting covered with water whenever there was a hard rain. I remember going to my first dance in that gym one night, overdressed in an old white sports coat that my stepfather had worn in his youth, looking like something from the old Marty Robbins song, and seeing most of the guys standing on one side, dressed casually, and girls on the other, not formally attired, either, but most wearing dresses or skirts, and hardly anyone dancing or appearing to be having much fun, the guys and gals just gawking at one another, checking each other out, and yet somehow sensing that all of us were there desperately wanting to connect with the opposite sex, to experience this awkward milestone of our life, and to get on with it, whatever “it” was, which was supposed to be so special, and I vividly recall how in my impatience I mustered up the bravado to walk across the floor and actually ask a girl to dance, and boldly I chose, not just any girl, but the prettiest girl there, Nan Garner. "Would you care for a dance?" I gallantly asked. However, she replied, just as formally, but with an edge, "I think not," and suddenly I felt as if we were characters from opposite gangs in a scene from "West Side Story," and I remember my long, embarrassed walk back across the floor alone, all eyes on me, although everyone was pretending not to be looking.

I remember teachers like Mr. Johnny Meadows, reading aloud to our English class works such as O. Henry's short story "The Ransom of Red Chief," with his running commentary, this before he would follow us to Kecoughtan High School, which opened in 1963, to become the drama director, and I would appear in some of his plays there. I remember Mr. Heywood, who gave each of us his business card and invited us to come to his father's Waterman's Seafood Restaurant in Phoebus. He left teaching and became the head cook and eventually the owner, I believe, before it closed many years ago.

I especially remember Colonel Glenn F. Rogers, for algebra and science, a relic from a bygone era, always putting his eyeglasses on and taking them off and then looking around for them and saying, "I need glasses"--and when he found them--"and I got'em," and I remember his formality and how he often wore the same brown and blue old suits to class day after day, and I remember his expressions such as "as you were," and his military mannerisms, and his telling us how he had taught cadets at West Point.

Once before our science class my fellow classmates dared me to put a rubber snake on his desk before he came in, and I did. He entered, made no indication that anything was amiss, ignored the creature completely for the entire period, keeping us all spellbound, and finally, just before the bell, calmly reached down and placed it in his coat pocket without ever looking at it or making any reference to it. At first I was embarrassed, then felt stupid, and then so disappointed, but finally I realized that I had just witnessed perhaps one of the coolest events that I would remember for the rest of my life. I ended up admiring this man, loving this man, although I didn't know how to show it or express it to him. I did not have many positive and present male role models in my life as I was growing up, but he was one. I fantasized what a great father or grandfather he would be. At home I began drawing panels of a little comic strip in tribute to him. I named the strip “The Colonel," and I shared each of my simply-drawn panels with my little half-brother Jeff Cline, who thought they were funny, and he laughed more about them than I, and then Jeff began drawing his own "Colonel" strips that were even funnier and with better artwork. We both used a zigzag line above the lips to represent the Colonel’s thin mustache.

Jeff would attend BJHS later himself, but he, too, never got to finish. He died at home at 15 from an asthma attack on Dec. 1, 1968. I was then 20, and I delivered a eulogy at his funeral. His girlfriend sat in the front pew and never stopped crying. Mrs. Jacobs led a delegation of mourners from BJHS. What a classy lady and role model she always was. Years later I saw Colonel Rogers' obituary in the paper, and I thought about him and cried. I wrote a letter to his wife, telling her things I had always wanted to say to him, and she replied with a warm response, saying how much he loved teaching and all of his students.

My Uncle Water Bailey, my mother’s brother, was only 7 years older than I, and he told me stories about an art teacher he had before me at BJHS named Mr. Villers, how the man liked him and was often touching him affectionately in class. I remember how Mr. Villers would look at me and smile as he walked by, and how he walked up to me one day in a crowded hall, gave me a warm smile, and hugged me around the shoulders while scratching my back and murmuring, "I like you." I decided not to take art at BJHS although I was interested in art and had wanted to. Mr. Villers followed us to KHS, and I did not take art there either, and I regret never trying to develop any artistic talent I may have had.

I remember how pretty Debbie Norsworthy was--we rode on the same bus in the morning--though, like Nan Gardner, she neither knew nor cared how I felt about her. I remember pretty Brenda Gayhart, who got added to one of my classes. She was the daughter of a life-long friend of my mother. I introduced myself to her, mentioned the connection of our mothers, and tried a few times to start a conversation with her, but Brenda made it clear that she was not in the least bit interested in our becoming friends.

I remember my English teacher Mrs. Rowe being impressed by how well I read poetry aloud in class, especially the poems of Edgar Allan Poe. I remember our reading in class the play, "The Valiant," by Holworthy Hall and Robert Middlemass, about a man on death row about to be executed and a woman visiting him who thinks he could possibly be her long-lost brother, and when she quotes from "Romeo and Juliet" and leaves, he finishes the rest of that passage as they had done many times as children, proving only then to the audience that, yes, he is her brother but is too ashamed to let her know, and as he is walking to his execution, he is repeating over and over, "Cowards die many deaths. The Valiant never tastes of death but once." I would recognize in 10th grade English that this line comes from Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar." I also remember reading Longfellow's long narrative poem "Evangeline" and crying at the heartbroken sadness of the heroine, a nurse, finally finding her long-separated lover in a hospital on his death bed. And I wondered, would any woman ever love me that much?

I remember the menacing hoods at BJHS in their black leather jackets such as the Wright Brothers twins, who once bullied me by stealing my expensive pens out of my shirt pocket, laughing about it, then threatening to beat me up if I dared tell the administrators, and when they dropped out of school on the day they turned 16, I tried to feel sorry for them, but I couldn't.

I remember buying and eating Nutty Buddy ice cream cones each day at lunch and being able to go outside. From a radio somebody brought to woodshop class with Mr. Pippin, I remember listening to Sue Thompson singing "Norman," wishing some girl would care that much for me.

I thought maybe God was listening to my prayers when in the 9^th grade Cathy Maston, who was in the 8^th, unexpectedly invited me to go with her to Linda Parker's Christmas Eve Party at the Buckroe Community Center. We had a great time, even winning a silly dance contest by being last couple who didn’t get left holding a large plastic candy cane whenever the music suddenly stopped. Our prize turned out to be the large plastic candy cane itself. I tried to give it to her, but she gave it back. And then suddenly, magically, it started snowing and everyone began making and throwing snowballs, and when I finally got home I was tired, elated, wet, and idiotically holding onto a large plastic candy cane, which I hung up in my room. Cathy later sent me a homemade valentine that I treasured, and our dating continued as I entered KHS in 10^th and she was in still at BJHS in 9^th. I took her to a KHS dance where she met and connected with the guy of her dreams and told me I wouldn’t need to take her home after the dance. When I got home and went up to my room, I realized the time had finally come to throw away that large plastic candy cane. I tried to forget Cathy and stop caring for her, and after a while I thought about her less and less, but I never able to put her completely out of my mind.

I remember students telling me how dramatically Mr. Tarkenton taught the Civil War and would get so overcome with emotion that he would break down in tears when he got to the defeat of the South. I knew then that if I ever became a teacher, some day I, too, wanted to feel so passionate about something that I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from breaking down and crying in class about it. I did become a teacher and this did happen more times than I had ever dreamed possible, more times than I ever wanted, often involving the death of one of my students, in one case a suicide that occurred on school grounds when he shot himself in the head. And I did break down and cry in a class, too, when I shared with my students how in my 10th grade class at KHS we heard on the P.A. that President Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas. When my students and I many years later watched the events of 9-11 as they were unfolding live on TV, we were all in shock and disbelief. Years later to other classes I could not talk about this without breaking down.

One of my most special memories at BJHS--one that still fills me with a warm glow that has never grown cold--is how I would linger after school on some days just to have an excuse to visit and talk to the young woman who was my teacher for Virginia History. She was gentle, kind, and loving. She would sit behind her desk and grade papers, and it'd be just the two of us in the classroom. I wish I could remember her name. I wasn't even sure what my purpose was in being there. She was a light and a feminine presence I was inexplicably drawn to. She would share her feelings as if talking casually with her best friend and would look up from time to time and give me a smile. I have no idea what I ever said to her. Mainly I just wanted to look at her and be in her presence. She never hurried me to leave and I never wanted to leave. Perhaps we were good company for each other. I have met countless women since those days, most of whom I have long forgotten, but  the memory of this special lady is still green, and I still feel her in my heart, and that's a special joy of being alive.

I was generally a shy, introverted loner, and I didn’t connect well with my male peers. I remember Coach Heinz in gym on day class saying something that embarrassed Kippy Waterton but made me laugh although I suddenly realized I was the only one laughing besides Coach. At the end of class in the locker room Kippy got even with me, slapping me around, daring me to fight. He was taller, muscular, and filled out. He looked like a giant next to me. I was too scared to do anything except apologize and beg his forgiveness Finally, he called me some names and walked off. Immediately this short kid in the class came up to me and said, "Why didn't you hit him and fight back? You know we all would have backed you up."

On another day I remember getting into an argument outside during lunch one day with Joe Leftwich and how he easily knocked me down, sat on me, and it seemed that he never stopped hitting me with his fists. I remember this vividly yet have no recollection whatsoever what I said that had provoked him so. Truth be told, Joe was actually was a guy I admired, smart, popular, respected, and I was even jealous of him when we were later at KHS. I recently saw on the KHS Class of '66 web site that Joe had died. I felt sorry and stupid for carrying any anger against him. I kept trying not to cry.

I remember beautiful girls everywhere at Buckroe, exotic creatures moving about in a large run-down zoo, but none perhaps prettier than Ann McNeill, and I cannot visualize her without also remembering how my hormones were raging--yet I was too shy to talk to her or any other of other young goddesses. Another was Mary Ann Sydnor, who was intellectual as well as beautiful and friendly to everyone, including me, and, wow, how she could play the piano. Mary Ann would go on to graduate as salutatorian in our class at KHS, but while attending ODU would die from a gunshot. Years later one day I opened the newspaper and saw Ann’s photo and obituary, death from cancer in her early 30s, leaving behind a husband, two young daughters and a son. I even visited her grave but had mixed feelings about it since she never knew me. Finally I decided it was okay, that perhaps somewhere in heaven she was looking down, smiling, amazed she had made such an impression on me, whoever I was. Then, again, she could just as well have been laughing.

I remember how some of the BJHS guys from the upper grades would smear lipstick all over the faces of arriving male 7th graders on the first day of school, apparently some sort of sick hazing ritual that seemed mean and idiotic to me even then. Fortunately I had arrived in 8^th grade and wasn’t so initiated. What amazed me even more was how some of the marked-up guys laughed and seemed to accept it as their rite of entry into BJHS. Ever since seeing those lipstick-smeared faces, I have never found painted-up circus clowns funny. “Why were the new 7th grade girls arriving at BJHS spared this lipstick-smearing humiliation?” I wondered. Was it was because the older guys were more interested in smearing the lipstick already on their lips by kissing them?

One of the people I remember most of all is the lady who was the epitome of sophistication and class at BJHS, the person most respected and whose spirit radiated throughout the school perhaps even more than that of the principal. I am of course referring to the English teacher, Mrs. Bessie P. Jacobs, who sponsored just about everything there that was important and did so with class and dignity. I never ceased to be amazed at how she demanded respect and received it, how this small, elegant, lady with her soft voice could patiently control a class without ever raising her voice. I remember how much I loved reading Dickens' "Great Expectations" and identifying with Pip and fantasizing how I'd like to have an Estella in my life, and how I drew and colorized sketches of all the main characters from the novel as a project and how excited Mrs. Jacobs was as she hanged them on the wall all around her classroom and showed them to all her classes. And I remember the hopeless crush I developed on her daughter Jennie, who was a grade below me, and the brief, innocent friendship we shared.

I remember the day at the end of the school year when I was told I was the 11th top student academically in my 9th grade class but just missing out on getting into the top 10, which would have earned me an honored seat on the stage at our graduation. It reminded me being at the Buckroe Amusement Park and trying to win a prize in one of the booths, of course failing, and someone saying, "Close, but no cigar." However, my mother was proud, and she attended. I graduated from 9^th grade at BJHS and got to go on to high school, something she had been denied.

I left BJHS for KHS and college and a marriage, and the work force, and back to college and then a divorce, not being very successful at anything. I finally finished college, later earning a master’s degree from William and Mary, began another marriage, this time getting it right, but never had any children, and I returned to a daily life back in the classroom, this time sitting on the other side of the desk, teaching grades 9-12, English, low-level, average, and advanced, and English electives such as drama, stagecraft, journalism, public speaking, debate, creative writing, and SAT Verbal Prep, and do extra duties and services such as directing plays, sponsoring the yearbook, newspaper, literary magazine, sophomore and junior classes, and the chess club and team, all this in Newport News at Warwick High School and Denbigh High School. This sounds like a lot, and it was, but I never of course did all of these things in any one year; it was spread out over a career that spanned 37 years until I retired in 2011.

My mother, who was never allowed to return to school to finish her education, finally earned a GED in her 30s, and that gave her a pride and closure she had never had before. Before she died in her mid-50s, she told me many times that she was proud of my becoming a teacher, that it had in such a special way validated her decision--made with her mother’s insistence--to get married and have that baby.

I do not feel my mother had a happy life, and I feel sorry for her and feel guilty about her early parenthood robbed her of her youth, innocence, and optimism, By age 26 she was the mother of five sons, her military husband was often away, and she was on her own with just me to assist her.

In addition to Mom and many of my family members, likewise many of my classmates from BJHS and KHS are now gone including several who gave their last full measure, returning home from Vietnam with an American flag draped across their coffins. Mrs. Jacobs amazingly lived to be over 100, but I still mourn her death from a few years ago, and I will be eternally grateful to her for serving as a role model and inspiring me to become an English teacher. From her I learned that it is possible to bloom wherever you are planted. I never achieved her class, grace, charm, or dignity, but thanks to her, I was imbued with her spirit of life, passion about teaching, and love for all students. Of course, Colonel Rodgers, too, was a special role model, and I was also fortunate along the way to have also had some other special teachers for whom I will always be in debt and for whom I am eternally grateful.

I will never forget these special two years at BJHS. Although these memories are mine, not yours, perhaps they will trigger for you some of your special memories of that period of your life. I apologize if you feel I have been unkind or inaccurate in any of my recollections. I realize some of these people mentioned could be you, your family members, or friends. Please don’t sue me! I was so young, so shy, so callow then. I am an old man now as I reminisce, and I harbor no ill will against anyone I have mentioned. BJHS was a special time of my life with some very special people who were a part of my world and mindscape as I struggled down that path leading to adulthood. I am grateful for all the lives that touched mine while I was at BJHS.



"Wanna Bet?"

Grandfather

John Vincent Grant, USA, USAF

The bet was between the bartender and Grandfather. Each man had put down twenty dollars on the counter.

“Git him, Sarge?” The bartender was trying not to laugh. My grandfather, an Air Force sergeant, had just snatched a fly in mid-flight.

“Now get me a glass of water,” said Grandfather, and the bartender did so. “I am now going to drown this fly and bring him back to life,” Grandfather announced loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear it. He gave me a wink.

It was the summer of 1958, and I was ten years old. Grandmother was told we were going to the Base Exchange so that I could buy some new “Superman” comic books. However, once again we had stopped off at a bar “for a few beers and some pool.” Grandfather drank Miller, and I had root beer. Grandfather commanded the respect of all soldiers because on the chest of his dress uniform he wore three Purple Heart medals earned in the infantry in World War II. I had often seen Grandfather so drunk he could hardly stand yet still able to beat all the young guys at Eight Ball. But this fly business was something new.

Grandfather opened his hand as he thrust it on top of the glass, and the fly fell into the water. It first swam around but within a few moments stopped moving, and Grandfather then poured it out on top of the counter, where it lay, intimate, in a pool of water. Everyone agreed the fly was dead.

Grandfather had taught me several card tricks and once bet me fifty cents that he could tie a cigarette in a knot and then undo it without tearing it apart. He let me try it first with a couple of his Camels, but they ripped apart, and I agreed to the bet. Then he removed the cellophane from around his pack, tightly rolled a Camel in it, and, keeping the ends taut, quickly tied it into a knot and undid it. He then removed the cellophane. The cigarette was wrinkled but still intact. He popped it into his mouth, snapped open his Zippo, lit it, took a drag, and held out his hand for the money. I gave it to him, but Grandmother later made him give it back.

Everyone at the bar crowded around Grandfather to watch. Grandfather carefully placed the fly on a paper napkin, picked up a salt shaker, and sprinkled a little salt on the lifeless insect.

“What you fixing to do, Sarge?” the bartender said. “You going to eat him?” Everyone was laughing except for Grandfather and me.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. Everyone except the bartender, Grandfather, and me returned to what they had been doing.

“Aw, come on, Sarge,” said the bartender. “Give it up. You can stare at that critter until you’re blue—.”

“He moved! He’s alive!” Grandfather yelled.

The fly lay on his back and started moving his legs. Everyone crowded around and couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Within a few moments the fly flipped over and started walking on the counter. Finally, it brushed off a last grain of salt, lifted up, and flew off.

Everyone but the bartender applauded. Grandfather collected the money, and we left. On our way over the BX, Grandfather explained that a fly is porous like a sponge and it was waterlogged, not dead. The napkin and salt drew out the water and resuscitated it.

When we returned home, Grandmother was amazed to see me with a stack of new “Superman” comic  books.  

Glenn Close and Me

Mel Gibson (Hamlet), Glenn Close (Gertrude) in Hamlet (1990)

Actress Glenn Close and I have some things in common:

1. We are both about the same age.

2. We both attended The College of William and Mary around the same time.

3. We both have acted on stage.

4. We both have a connection to Shakespeare's play Hamlet.

Glenn Close had a double major at W&M, anthropology and theater. She starred in several theatrical productions, displaying incredible acting abilities and an impressive stage presence, and she could also sing and dance. I attended many of her plays and was always delighted by her vibrant onstage energy. 

I was an English major planning on becoming a teacher, and later I acted in community theater. I remember my sarcasim at the time, once proclaiming to a friend that "Glenn Close is the most talented stage actor I've ever seen, and she will no doubt leave William and Mary never be seen or heard from again." 

However, Glenn Close's professional career took off almost immediately after college, and she has enjoyed a long career of tremendous success and recognition on TV, stage, and screen,  winning three Emmy Awards, three Tony Awards, and receiving six Academy Award nominations. I had to eat my cynical words, and no one has been happier about it than I.

I have never met Glenn Close. I did, however, have the pleasure to meet and talk briefly with her father, a world-renowned doctor and African missionary. He was the keynote speaker at a medical conference in Nags Head when my wife Angela was a professor at EVMS. 

I became a high school and community college English instructor and drama director. I taught Hamlet for 37 years. I showed some of my students the 1990 Franco Zeffirelli film adaptation starring Mel Gibson as Hamlet and Glenn Close as Hamlet's mother Gertrude. This version emphasizes the closeness of mother and son, suggesting they are perhaps even too close. 

Gertrude apparently had Hamlet at a young age, and Glenn Close has no trouble projecting a youthful Gertrude, especially since she is only eight years older than Mel Gibson. As a college sophomore, she was cast to play Cleopatra, and often in her early movie career, in fact, she was cast to play a woman much older than her actual age.

William and Mary recently found and restored the costumes Glenn Close had worn there as a student for productions of Brigadoon, The Seagull, and Antony and Cleopatra. W&M invited her there for a "surprise" and presented her with these costumes in the exhibit "Glenn Close: A Life in Costume." For more information, photos, plus a video, click on this link: Surprise! Costume designer restores Glenn Close's W&M costumes

Monologue: Grandmother to Grandson

 Grandmother and me in 1960 when she visited in Myrtle Beach

My grandmother was only 39 when I was born in 1948; my mother was still just 15. I lived with Grandmother until I was about 6. I spent a glorious summer with her when I was 10. Later in life I would try to visit her at least one a week. I loved listening to her talk. The following is my attempt to capture her voice from memory.


Tommy, I like sitting here on the porch in my rocker, looking over the yard. It's better outside. 

Yes, this was all farm land when we moved here in the late '30s. Elizabeth City County, now part of Hampton. You know, I'm the only one who can still have chickens and geese around here because I've always had 'em. Protected by a grandfather clause. Neighbors don't like that crowing so early, but if they don't want to hear it, they should sleep with their windows shut. Even if they get up before daylight, they won't be up before I am. 

If that neighbor across the street complains to the city again about my tree limbs touching the power lines, I'll walk over there and crush him like an insect. And I'd do it, too, Tommy. You'd better believe it. I don't like the city hacking off my tree limbs. It looks ugly. I planted all these trees here, Tommy, over 300 of 'em. Started most from just a small limb. Yes, about three-and-a-half acres. The city just grew up around me. 

You know, sometimes I think about some of the people my children have married. Ha, I didn't pick any of 'em out. And then they come to me and complain. I tell 'em, "It's your little red wagon, and you gotta pull it yourself." 

Been so much rain lately, the ground is soft. Let's walk around and check on my trees. See this little one here? It was just a twig before I stuck it in the ground, but, look, it's starting to come up crooked. I'm gonna stomp it back down in the mud. There! There! There! Grow up straight, damn you! And Tommy, I bet it will.

Meeting Muhammad Ali

                           Muhammad Ali talks to children in his Louisville home, including wife Yolanda.

I had followed the early career of boxer Cassius Clay, who is 6 years older than I, from Olympic light-heavyweight Gold Medal winner in Rome in 1960 to heavyweight contender, a period during which he would often predict--in verse--the round he would knock out his opponent, and he was usually right. 

Many today probably don't realize that in his match against champion Sony Liston he was a 7-1 underdog and that his dramatic knockout to become heavyweight boxing champion of the world is still considered one of the greatest sports upsets of all time. 

After that fight, he changed his religion and his name, becoming Muhammad Ali. I had watched all nine of his title defenses, starting with the "phantom punch" KO of Sony Liston in round one of their rematch. 

Not a strong student academically, Ali had graduated from his Louisville, Kentucky, high school 376 in a class of 391. He had registered for the military draft and had taken and failed the intelligence test. Later when the Army revised its pass/fail score, Ali's score was now a passing one, thus qualifying him for military service after all. 

Ali's championship title, boxing license, and U.S. passport were all taken from him for refusing to be drafted in the Army, and an all-white jury convicted him and sentenced him to 5 years in prison plus a $10,000 fine for draft evasion. He posted bond, remained free, and served no jail time while his case was on appeal, which stretched out over the next three years. 

These events were occurring during the time of the U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War. "No Vietcong ever called me 'nigger,'" he said. His refusal to join the army was based on his religious beliefs. The Supreme Court ruled unanimously in his favor, 8-0 (Thurgood Marshall abstained). 

Because Ali was barred from boxing from ages 25 to nearly 29, he lost the prime years of his boxing career. Ali's third boxing match after reinstatement was an opportunity to win back the title against Champion Joe Fraiser, but Ali for the first time was knocked down and ended up losing an unanimous  decision. Ali was a controversial public figure, and patriotic zealots, bigots, and racists were particularly happy to see him receive a comeuppance they felt was long overdue. 

I grew up in the segregated South of Jim Crow, and it wasn't until my young adulthood that I finally acquired enough education, maturity, and humanity to reject the racism and bigotry that had been my models as a child. Aside from being a great champion boxer and showman, Ali in my eyes was even greater as a fighter for religious freedom and racial equality.

It was at this low point in Ali's life, following his loss to Joe Frasier, that I met him. On Monday, January 24, 1972, Ali, now thirty, put on a public boxing exhibition locally here at the Hampton Coliseum. He was no longer the champ. This was a just a sparring session and not an actual fight, and being held on a school night--despite all of this, still about 3,700 fans showed up on a cold night to see and cheer on their hero, Muhammad Ali, back in the ring, boxing one-at-a time against four different sparring partners, starting to work his way back to another fight and eventually another title bout that would restore "The People's Champion" to his rightful place on boxing's throne. 

However, that night the "boxing" generated little excitement from the fans. None of the fighters threw any serious punches. They mainly just danced around and avoided each other. The biggest applause of the night came when their hero once broke into his "Ali shuffle" and threw a quick volley of punches at his out-classed opponent. This bout was staged for show, publicity, a small paycheck, and perhaps a little training. Most of the crowd appeared to me to be black school children with adult family members.

When the sparring session was over, instead of leaving, I suddenly had a strong urge to go backstage and try meet Ali although I doubted it would be possible. I was almost 24 and had never done anything like this before, not even for Elvis or the Rolling Stones, when they had appeared here. No one stopped me, and I joined a group of about 16 others waiting to see if Ali would come out and see us. I remember feeling self-conscious about being the only white person in the group and only one of the few adults. I kept expecting someone from security to tell us Ali had left and we had to leave, but that did not happen, so we kept waiting.

After about 40 minutes on my watch, although it seemed a lot longer, Ali emerged, wearing an immaculate, glistening light-blue suit, looking more like a model in GQ than a heavyweight boxer. He was accompanied by a male entourage, likewise formally accoutered. He glanced over at us and seemed surprised. The entourage was obviously impatient to leave. One of them said, "Come on, Champ. We have to go." Ali paused, glanced back at them, and said, "People have been waiting for me. I didn't know they were here." 

He walked over to us, and began shaking hands with the kids and giving autographs. I wasn't prepared, had nothing on me he could sign but my tiny torn-in-half ticket sub, and with some embarrassment, I handed it to him when it got to be my turn, and he smiled and somehow managed to fit in all of "Muhammad Ali" on it. I'm 6 feet tall,  weigh over 200 pounds, and rarely feel small, but Ali seemed to tower above me majestically at 6' 3" and with his broad shoulders. 

He listened and answered everyone's questions. His voice was soft, gentle, patient, and without bravado. "Yes, I'm going to win back the title, don't worry," he promised us all. He said some other things, too, but what I remember most is what he said to a little boy who said he wanted to grow up and be a boxer just like him. Ali paused, looked at the boy, then around at all the other children, and back to him, and then said, "No, don't become a boxer. It's ugly, brutal. I didn't do well in school. You get a good education and a good job. Boxing is the only thing I'm good at. That's why I do it, and it gives me a chance to influence others and make a difference in the world. I don't want any of you be a boxer." Then he waved and was gone.

You probably know the rest of Ali's story. Yes, he kept his promise and won back his title, and he lost it, and became the only heavyweight champion ever to win it three times.  Sports Illustrated crowned him "Sportsman of the Century." He truly is "The Greatest."  

As for me, I went on to become a teacher, and somewhere along the way I gave away my autographed Ali souvenir ticket stub to a surprised and appreciative student. Ali and I are both old now. He recently turned 72, and the only opponent he's been fighting for many years is Parkinson's disease. I'm 66, retired after 37 years. 

The world is a better place now than when we were growing up. Although I did serve about 5,000 students as best I could, I'm certainly not "The Greatest." Ali has inspired millions all over the world, and he is one of the most recognizable people on earth. I feel each of us has tried to make the world a better place before we leave. That's the best any of us can do.

Muhammad Ali Theme Song Black Superman 

Kissing the Blarney Stone

                                                                                                                                                                                                  

According to Irish legend, "Whoever kisses the Blarney Stone is gifted with eloquence and persuasiveness." When my wife Angela and I traveled to Ireland many years back as part of a bus tour of the British Isles and Ireland, we made a special stop at Blarney Castle, paid the entrance fee, and made the long climb to the top so that I would have this perhaps once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to kiss the Blarney Stone.

No, I'm not the man pictured here, but the photo shows how I had to do it. I lay on my back, my head hanging down. The idea was to kiss the stone upside down, preferably with someone holding onto me so that I wouldn't slip and tumble down to certain death. 

Angela wouldn't kiss it. After I did, however, I didn't notice any sudden increase in my eloquence and persuasiveness. In fact, not long after after we were all back on the bus and headed for Dublin, I began feeling queasy and the first words out of my mouth were, "I think I'm gonna barf."

Angela's a nurse and suggested that maybe I had picked up some bad germs left on the Barney Stone from all the others who had been kissing it. I then realized why she had decided not to kiss it herself. I was fortunate to see a doctor in Dublin that night yet still felt so bad the next day that I had to miss the tour of the city including the statue of Molly Malone and sites about James Joyce.

Years later when I discussed this story with a colleague who had just recently returned from a long stay in Ireland, he laughed and laughed and then shared this secret: all the local men there love to joke about how the Blarney Stone is just another silly tourist trap, and they show their scorn for it every chance they get by peeing on it. 

Although I did get sick, the good news is that I soon recovered, and in the years since I have had many people tell me in their own way that I'm indeed gifted with eloquence and persuasiveness. I have no idea whether or not the Blarney Stone had germs on it that made sick. However, to this day I do believe in its magic. Since my grandmother's grandmother emigrated from from Ireland, this land has always been a part of me, and I will always cherish my special memories of the Emerald Isle.

Welcome to My Blog! A Toast to My Granddaddy Grant on St. Patrick's Day!

John V. Grant

My "Granddaddy Grant"

I'm a retired English teacher who loves books, literature, cinema, and art of all forms and those who create it, express it, and cherish it. I'm starting this blog today to connect with others and share some of my experiences, thoughts, feelings, concerns, and dreams. 

After a long career of teaching others to express themselves in writing, I want to use what time I have left to express myself in writing, directly as well as creatively in literary formats. 

Since today is St. Patrick's Day, I'm reminded of my Irish roots. On my mother's side of the family, I come from Scotch-Irish folks who immigrated and settled in western Virginia near Big Stone Gap. My grandmother's maiden name was Thompson; she married a Bailey, and their first child would be my mother, Ruth Imogene, and they had four others including a son that died very young. 

Bailey was a produce salesman, and they relocated to what was then Elizabeth City County near Hampton in southeast Virginia. After they divorced, she married a short, slender man of Irish descent from Pennsylvania, John Vincent Grant. 

I never knew Bailey, but as a child I loved my "Granddaddy Grant," who had served in the Army in World War II in the infantry in Italy, wounded three times and awarded three Purple Hearts, returning home suffering from shell shock and alcoholism. I was not allowed to use caps in my cap guns because loud bangs upset him. 

He taught me card tricks and enjoyed having me watch "Perry Mason" with him as we tried to guess who the murderer would turn out to be. He always guessed the guilty one right before Mason had the man or woman confess at the end; my guess was always wrong until I got wise until to pick someone who seemed least likely. On weekends we would watch the baseball "Game of the Week" on TV, usually featuring the New York Yankees versus some other team that they would usually beat. 

Granddaddy had a gruesome, secret memento of the war that he kept in the icebox, wrapped in tin foil, and no one was allowed to touch it. He once took it out and showed it to me, despite angry protestations from Grandmother not to. It was a book printed in German that had been bound with human skin. He carefully put it away and tried to explain its history and significance. I never asked to see it again, and the day after his funeral, I saw Grandmother put it in the trash outside.

Granddaddy finished out his service days with a desk job in the Air Force and was stationed at Langley Air Force Base, not far from where they lived. He never rose in rank above sergeant because he was forever getting "busted" down to "buck private," losing most of his stripes because of his drinking. He loved drinking beer at bars and Four Roses mixed with Coke at home. I would have a root beer and drink along with him. 

He was known at all the local bars in Hampton as "Sergeant Grant" or simply "Sarge," even if he had been temporarily demoted. He could beat anyone in town at pool, no matter how drunk he got. I know this because he often took me with him to the bars. I once saw him so drunk that he could hardly stand up without falling over and yet somehow he managed to run the table three consecutive times. I said, "Granddaddy, that's not fair. You never gave them even a single shot." 

He once explained that anyone can make a pool shot. The trick is to make the cue ball correctly line up afterwards for the next shot. He picked up the cue ball and pointed out to me the nine different areas he might hit with the tip of his cue stick, each creating a different result. "The pros know 12 or 16," he said, "but I'm not that good." 

He often wrecked his car while driving home from a bar. That's why Grandmother would only allow him to take me with him if we walked there and back, which we often did, the closest bar being only a couple of blocks away. 

I've attached a link to a YouTube recording of Granddaddy's favorite song, "Shut Up and Drink Your Beer" by Merle Travis. He would play it over and over on the bar jukeboxes and likewise at home and would have me sing it along with him. 

I love and remember Granddaddy Grant, the only man in our household when I was a young kid living at Grandmother's. Today on St. Patrick's day I salute him and give his favorite song one more spin, "Shut Up and Drink Your Beer" by Merle Travis