The Time God Showed Up at My High School Reunion

There’s one thing that can always be said about the North Pitt High Panthers: we sure know how to throw a memorable reunion. Not twenty minutes into last night’s Panther Palooza multi-class reunion, a little girl almost drowned in the pool of the hotel. Apparently there was a group of teenaged girls having a pool party, and one of them slipped beneath the water on the deep end and went unnoticed. At the same time, a group of Spaniards were in their room on the fourth floor and one of them looked out the window and noticed the girl, lifeless, at the bottom of the pool. The men raced down to the first floor, one of them dove in, and together they pulled her out of the pool.

It was about that time that the attendees of the reunion noticed the commotion and some with medical training ran to help. I (not having had any significant medical training) went out to be nosy. It was a horrifying scene: the little girl was laid out on the concrete, still as a stone, with gray lips and eyes that looked permanently closed. While the men who’d pulled her out of the pool tirelessly performed CPR, all I could do was stand there and pray. So pray I did. I prayed with a fervor I’ve never known before. I’m not a particularly religious person, but I felt a distinct calm settle over me as I prayed. I felt a certainty that she was going to be okay. After about ten minutes of rescue breathing and chest compressions, the girl began to spit up copious amounts of water. The volume of water that came out of that little body was amazing. It was also reassuring. About the time the ambulance and rescue crew arrived on the scene she began to respond and breath on her own. I’ve never felt so relieved in all my life.

After, while we waited in line at the bar (my nerves were shot to shit), we all agreed that the little girl’s survival was a result of God moving in her life. And that’s the story of the time God showed up at my high school reunion.

In Memory of Sgt. Neal

There are certain people that come into our lives, and leave a definite impression. I’ve been blessed in that it’s a long list of people who’ve cared for me, believed in me, and gone out on the proverbial limb for me. One of those people was Sgt. Wiley T. Neal.

Sgt. Neal was larger than life before there really was a concept. He had a booming voice that could make you unconsciously clench, but could lower to the most confidential whisper when telling you he believed in you and everything you were capable of. He nit-picked every detail of our JROTC uniforms, but only because he believed we were capable of better.

Since Sgt. Neal and my father were both JROTC instructors at North Pitt High School, Sgt. Neal was more than a teacher—more even than a parent’s co-worker—he was like an uncle to me.

So when my mom called and told me that Sgt. Neal had gone on to answer the Great Roll Call in the Sky, I didn’t mourn the passing of a teacher. I didn’t even mourn the passing of a man who’d dedicated his entire adult life to service in one form or another. I mourned for one of my heroes.

See, heroes (in their truest forms) are rare. We tend to throw the word around to anyone that goes out of his/her way to help another. While it’s always admirable to be of service to our fellow humans, there’s something more required to earn the title of “Hero.” A real hero doesn’t act based on what he’s heard is right or wrong; a real hero acts based on what he knows is right. A real hero knows that the ones who need the help the most are the least likely to ask for it, but he stands ready to offer it anyway. By that standard (or by any other, for that matter) Sgt. Wiley T. Neal (US Army Retired) was a Hero. And he was one of my Heroes. And he will be missed.

Polly and Joe's grapevine (originally written 7/26/07)

I've spent this weekend at Jackie and the Colonel's place, working on tasks around the yard. It's been a while since I've done anything resembling yard work, and my muscles are screaming right now.

While I was raking leaves along the fence that separates our property from the neighbors, the Ayers, I saw Polly come out and amble towards me.

When my family first moved onto Leggett Mill Road, we were the first black family. Polly and Joe Ayers had lived in their house next door since Jesus was in high school, and were the stereotypically eccentric Southern neighbors. Once, when I was in high school, Joe climbed atop his roof to adjust his satellite and fell off. Keep in mind Joe was in his 70's at the time of his rooftop death climb. To this day, I don't know what's funnier: the fact that my 70-something year old neighbor fell off the roof, or the fact that he was back up there the next day with a rope anchoring his body to the chimney.

Polly, on the other hand, was always viewed as a bit of an annoyance. She was infamous for approaching the fence that separated our properties, and engaging whatever unfortunate soul was closeby in conversation. And it was never really a conversation of any importance. It was usually more of a dull recitation of her activities that day.

About ten years ago or so, Joe passed away, and Polly remained in their house alone. I've seen her occasionally out in her yard puttering around, but I reflexively avoided her. Today, I couldn't avoid her. I was raking leaves by the fenceline (damn that fenceline) when I looked up to see Polly approaching. I waved and went back to my raking, hoping she wasn't trying to conversate. She was. She propped her lean frame against the fence and said something neighborly about the weather. I was still hoping she'd move along, but I was fresh outta luck. She proceded to comment on the weather, Christmas, dogs (about that time, my parents' dog, Max ran up and tried to make friends with Polly), and grapes. It was as we discussed the grape vines that grew in both our backyards, that things took something of a turn.

In certain parts of Eastern NC, it's common to see grapevines growing in peoples' backyards. The grapes, I suppose, can be used for wine, but if most families are like mine they just pick them and eat them. I remember summer nights, mowing the lawn, and grabbing grapes off the vine as I walked past. As Polly commented on the sad condition of her grapevine, she said, "...yeah, I never cared much for grapes, Joe was the one what put that grapevine up...I shore do miss Joe...especially when the grapes are ripe..." As she said it, she gazed off into the distance, as if she was watching Joe pull his rusted pickup into their gravel driveway. She went on to say that some summers, she picked baskets full of grapes, thinking Joe would love them, only to give them away.

As I looked at her in the haze of an unseasonably warm day, I felt like I'd never seen her before. All of a sudden she wasn't the pesky, eccentric neighbor. She was a woman who'd lost her partner. She'd signed on for life, and she'd drawn the long straw. He might have died first, but she had to live without him, and it broke her heart. And every time those grapes hang full and heavy on the vine, she thinks of her Joe, the one what put the grapevine up in the first place.