Alan Ford

As I make my way through middle age, one psychological adjustment surprises me.

It has to do with heights.

The official term for having a fear of heights is acrophobia. I never felt I qualified for the diagnosis but there is something about the issue that makes me uncomfortable.

You see, as a kid, there was no tree too scary to climb. And building our own flimsy tree houses – not these modern things parents have carpenters erect for their children – was just a natural next step for us.

Getting up on the roof and cleaning out the gutters was no big deal back then.  And I’ve always loved mountain overlooks – the closer you were to get to look over the side down into a valley, the better they were.

In fact, as a young man, I wanted to have my photo taken sitting out on Lookout Mountain’s ‘General’s Point’ where a lot of famous Civil Ware figures posed when they passed through the Chattanooga area. Thankfully it’s considered structurally unsound and off limits these days.

I also remember loving the views out across the Grand Canyon from the top ledges when I had the opportunity to go there when I was about 12. 

Wow … times have sure changed.

Get me more than two steps up on a ladder today and I feel antsy. And as for the Grand Canyon, they now have that see-through walk that juts out over the edge where you can look straight down beneath your feet. I doubt the U.S. Treasury has printed enough money to get me to walk out on that at this stage.

A few years ago I made the mistake of climbing one of the lighthouses on the N.C. coast (at Corolla). When I stepped out into the open air up top, it wasn’t the incredible circular view that hit me.

Instead, it was instant panic. I eased along the wall on the inside – as kids ran around me oblivious to my plight – and it seemed an eternity before I got back to the opening to go down the steps again.

I don’t know when this change took place. Some of it has to do, as we get older, the fact that we aren’t as sure of our footing (literally and figuratively).

But for it to go from one extreme to the other – loving climbing things and looking down to being a little queasy as I looked out from the Empire State Building last June – that’s hard to explain.

For me it’ll go down as one of life’s mysteries, just part of the aging process. But I do miss the freedom that climbing a tree, or the rope up to the ceiling in my school gym during P.E., represented.

But now, I’ll leave the younger generations to those experiences. I’m going to avoid any brush with heights that immediately land me in a ‘Twilight Zone’ episode.

Few entities are a bigger part of a community’s identity than the churches in their midst.

Not only are they gathering places, they are landmarks for visitors passing through. The same goes for folks who grew up there and long since moved away.

Presently at a lot of places of worship, it’s time for a unique annual event. Some call it homecoming, others may call it an anniversary celebration or possibly founder’s day. But, whatever a particular denomination or congregation name it, celebrating the history of the church and relationships built there has always been a big deal.

Usually it’s accompanied by a meal after the normal 11 o’clock Sunday service.

When I think of my own church in Concord, long before we had a big enough Fellowship Hall to allow most members to sit inside, it really was ‘dinner on the grounds.’

I remember ladies in their Sunday finest fanning away flies and such from the food with their hats. You would see grown folks seated on the ground in the shade after they picked up their plate, trying to find the coolest place possible to enjoy the feast.

Most of the kids would be seated on the steps of the fire escape down from the second floor of the Sunday school building, chattering away. Of course, they wiped out the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and the like as if they’d never tasted them before.

And the desserts… as far as one’s appetite could see, they were there, beckoning.

That brings up a story.

Several years back, my brothers and I bought a ceramic cherry pie for some forgotten reason to give my grandmother. However, it seemed at homecoming and other church meals, that decorative pie would make its way to the middle of the dessert table.

There would also be one person, not paying attention, who would reach with a knife for a piece, only to find it wasn’t the real thing. We actually had one preacher ask us not to bring that anymore.

Homecoming was also those times when, with the other families you knew, one of their relatives you’d always heard about but never met would come back. And as time moved on, they’d return with their own families to see everyone.

Things have changed these days. Not as many people return for such events. I admittedly envy those smaller, often rural churches where those events remain as important as ever.

With people living further distances away, or with close family members who have passed away not there to greet them anymore, such gatherings lose appeal for some.

But it also cuts off people from their roots a bit. Such traditions certainly tied folks together in a unique way. I do feel lucky to have such a strong tie to where I grew up, and the church family that extended far beyond the walls of the sanctuary.

And, of course, I still like the conversation with friends you haven’t seen in many years … especially as you pass along both sides of a table loaded down courtesy of the best cooks in the area.

It’s one of life’s most dreaded sounds.

We’ve all heard it. You’ll be in bed, just about to fade out into dreamland and your ears detect that slight buzz that, unfortunately, starts getting louder and louder. Then the realization hits and you bolt straight up in bed: MOSQUITO!

 Whether you’re at home, on a camping trip, in a motel or trying to lie out in the sun to catch some rays, those dreaded flying creatures will circle until they find just the right spot for their appetite to inflict the most pain.

 In 2012, they are already out in full force in the Carolinas. I’ve already heard golfers, landscapers, those working in flower beds and baseball fans complaining about “skeeters.”

 Most of the time when we hear something referred to as an “old wives’ tale,” we greet the knowledge with skepticism. But one rings true this year — that piece of wisdom that says because we had such a mild winter, we’re going to have more mosquitoes and bugs to deal with during the summer months ahead.

 Now all of us have mosquito stories … just as we do with other living things out there, whether it be dogs, snakes or fish. In conversation the other day, one friend told of being in Alaska and fighting off a flying swarm. “It was like hummingbirds coming at you, they were so big,” he said.

 In family travels in my youth, I had a couple of mosquito experiences as well. Like the time the Fords went to Fort Fisher just below Wilmington in the 1960s, where the Civil War battle of land and sea was fought, it was late in the afternoon when we got out of our station wagon. As we got near the top of the first sand dune, the slapping began. All of us started having to wage our own individual wars with the mosquitoes. Finally, my dad told us to head back to the car. About three steps later he yelled out, “Every man for himself” and we all ran for our lives.

 On another trek, we had pulled our camping trailer across the Mississippi River at Memphis and drove 30 or 40 miles on into Arkansas on a newly opened stretch of Interstate 40 in 1968. When we stopped at a service station, the proprietor offered us (rather cheaply) the chance to hook up water and power and spend the night there where a couple of other campers were already docked for the night.

 Everything was fine until a street light came on and, like a magnet, began attracting hundreds — no, thousands — of bugs out of the nearby rice paddy that went for miles into the distance. We were confined to the inside of our trailer the rest of the evening.

 We also empathized as another family pulled up and got out to hook up their camper. We listened to their agonizing, losing battle with the mosquitoes in the process.

 So, it’s my wish for us all to avoid that plague this summer. But the way things have started out, I may as well coat my arms and legs in barbecue sauce when I go outside. Mosquitoes just seem to have GPS navigators geared to my DNA.

Sometimes, ideas for this column don’t have an origin connected in any way to the notion of “inspiration.”

Mostly, the genesis is a little more mundane.

Today’s topic came out of one of those, “Oh my gosh, what am I going to write about?” panic moments. Turns out, the source was located not three inches to the left of my keyboard from where I typed this at home.

When I picked up the TV remote to turn the sound down to concentrate better, it hit me. There are likely few other concrete possessions many of us use more than the one we point and click fervently at our television screens every day.

Just think … what else causes a sense of desperation in a heartbeat when it goes missing? When it’s just before a big ballgame, your favorite show coming on or the need to check the weather before you head out the door when in a hurry, well, your blood pressure zooms up the charts if it stays hidden for long.

It’s certainly a conversation starter, and not necessarily the way we intend. Perhaps the appropriate label is “instant argument-starter kit.”

We all have someone in our family, or among friends, who must have the remote in their hands at all times. Any attempt to get it away from them brings raised voices or even a tug-of-war.

We’ve all fallen victim to the individual who, just as a program, a game or the news gets going, wants to check out something else real quick on another channel. More painful words were never spoken.

Since people no longer have the same channel arrangements as you go from house-to-house or town-to-town — thanks to cable, satellite, U-verse etc.— the potential for mayhem increases. That quick detour to another channel often evolves into an agonizing quest that takes forever to get back to what we wanted to watch in the first place.

Of course, when you’re on your own with the remote, sometimes it’s no better. The phrase from a Bruce Springsteen song a few years back comes to mind “…57 channels and nothing on!”

Some of us just can’t help ourselves as we click repeatedly looking for who knows what. Will a “Seinfeld” episode, a replay of a game with our favorite team winning, or a favorite singer crooning a well-known hit on one of the music channels even satisfy? A lot of times, it’s more like an obsession as we click on past.

Remotes can add clutter to our lives. Along with the technological headaches, often you’ll see a number of them sitting there in your den. One is for the set itself, maybe another for the cable or satellite system you’re wired into, or possibly even another still within reach for your VCR/DVD player, even though you disconnected it a couple of years ago when DVRs came into existence.

No one is going to ever advocate going back to the days when you had to get out of your chair to change stations. Then you were lucky if you got more than five channels coming in clearly. We like our ESPN, our history, golf and speed channels way too much.

But things were simpler then. And I doubt there were as many arguments. And you didn’t have the problem of the runaway channel changer.

A movie a few years back I liked a lot was Cameron Crowe’s semi-autobiographical film “Almost Famous” about a teenage writer accompanying a rock band on tour.

The title itself made a big impression. The notion of fame in our society, of course, has been written about so much and will continue to be.

That’s because we can’t go a couple days, much less a week, without a politician/athlete/musician/actor and the like going long without drawing attention to themselves in a negative light.

Though quite a few of the folks in those pursuits do wonderful things for charities and kids, it’s the Charlie Sheens, the John Edwards and the Lindsay Lohan’s that get most of the press. That’s why there’s a thriving industry at checkout counters all over this country offering details of the latest scandal to hit the air waves.

Fame of course is alluring and addictive. You almost have to shake your head at the celebrities in the limelight who make some of the incredible choices they do. It raises more questions than it answers when you ponder the subject.

Why for instance, do certain athletes — with a wife and several kids at home  — find themselves at nightclubs till wee hours of the morning where a fight breaks out and guns are on display?

Also, why do movie stars, seemingly with the same kind of advantages in their private life – mansions, family, friends, bank accounts – take one look at their beautiful co-star and suddenly risk it all by seeking a relationship that will be tabloid fodder shortly thereafter?

And politicians, who are supposed to be looking out for the rest of us in their line of work, resort to the tawdriest behavior?

The simple answer is because they can. You must also  wonder about the self-esteem of folks that throw themselves, figuratively and actually, at so-called stars who make that so.

That puzzles me. I think back to another flick I liked in the early 1980s ‘The Big Chill.” At the start of that, a preacher delivers a message at a funeral and asks a haunting question, something on the lines of “…are not the challenges and joys of being a good and decent man enough for us anymore?”

Of course, the focus on celebrities provides an increasingly sickening answer to that.  In my 30-plus years in the newspaper business, too many times I’ve seen the personality types that fall victim to that type of thinking.

I’ve met individuals inside and out of media — and the sports world, which I’m a small part of — consumed by the thought of being in the spotlight. Everything they do screams ‘look at me, look at me!’ Our TV channels are filled with folks who are famous for only being famous – not for achieving much. (Can you say Kardashian?)

That’s not a healthy way to go through life.

In rare cases, it’s the motivation for someone to achieve great things. Mostly it leads to difficulties because fame, even in small doses, can result in a quest for immediate gratification that gets tougher and tougher to quench as one’s star dims.

Everyone wants to get their photo taken with TV stars and the like. That will never change.

But keeping such things in proper perspective is something too many celebs and fans just can’t do.  That problem won’t go away anytime soon.

One definition of experience is being able to recognize mistakes when you make them again.

That seems fitting when you talk about my connection to several weddings. It seems through the years with the exchange of vows, when it involves friends and family, I seem to be the source of a curse. Listen to these tales:

Once I was in the wedding of a college friend. The problems started the night before when, accidentally, I stuck my key in my Volkswagon bug the wrong way and broke it off. I didn’t have a spare so, on the night before they were to wed, the couple drove me about 45 miles late in the evening so I could go to work the next day, then return to the wedding site.

Now that’s not the wild part. The service itself, well, you judge.

First, as an usher, I led a little girl by the hand down to her aisle. Trouble was, I forgot her little brother was following and I turned and caught him in the chin with my knee and sent him sprawling.

People would have been talking about that for a while had the bride’s father not stole the show. After giving her away, he turned to go back to his seat. He caught his foot in the train of her dress and tripped. It was one of those long, slow-motion falls where he spun and did a nosedive several rows past where his seat was.

Now fast forward to the beach in the mid-1990s. A friend from Shelby was getting hitched.

It began the night before the rehearsal dinner. Just to get my bearings straight, I drove to the golf course where they were to have an outdoor ceremony two nights away on the waterfront. Only thing, the kid who was last to leave the golf shop that night drove past me, went out and locked the only exit. I was stuck in the course with my car – it was pre-cell phone days for me so I had to hike out to the nearest house to call the police.

But the real fun started the next day. The wedding party was at the Sea Trails Plantation near Calabash. A severe drought forced them to close down the place – the group had to get out and also find a new place for the rehearsal dinner and after-party that evening.

I wound up spending most of the day helping folks get moved into at a new hotel right near Barefoot Landing. Then, when I thought my work was done, the groom’s dad asked a favor. Since I had played golf up at the Brick Landing Course up the coast in N.C. before – could I go there and pick up all the champagne for the rehearsal dinner and get it to the new site in time on the outskirts of Myrtle Beach (S.C.)?

Of course, I went and – fighting Friday afternoon traffic on U.S. 17 going and coming in 95-degree weather with my AC on the blink – got the champagne and delivered it to the right spot.

The thing is, I was not even one of the rehearsal dinner guests. I went back to my hotel room in Little River to change and get my own supper.

Everything seemed on schedule again when the happy couple arrived back at their hotel for the after-rehearsal dinner party. We were all gathered by the pool when, less than five minutes hence, the bottom fell out (Remember the drought?). We were all pressed alongside the hotel wall under an awning  …  fortunately after about 15 minutes the rain subsided .

One last twist – in the wee hours of the a.m., the fire alarm bells went off at the hotel where the wedding party was staying. One groomsman told his wife: “This hotel is not on fire. I am not getting up. There’s no way one wedding can have this many things go wrong. It’s not happening.”

Maybe the best way to avoid such disasters is not to send yours truly an invitation. And these are just the stories I can tell in a public forum.

Alan Ford: 704-669-3336; aford@shelbystar.com; twitter.com/starsptseditor

With time to kill the other day, it was filled it the old-fashioned way.

I reached onto a bookshelf and pulled out something that hadn’t been opened in a while. It was a book entitled “Great American Stories & Poems.”

Glancing through it, especially smaller stories that didn’t take long, the word patriotism kept popping up. That means a lot of things to different people here in the United States. I started trying to work out exactly what it means to me.

It’s easy when July Fourth or Memorial Day rolls around to get in a feel-good mood as an American. Parades, fireworks, flags flying, cookouts and concerts are frequent parts of such holidays… all good. Some people may even have those emotions when they walk away from the polls on Election Day … also a good thing.

But I think patriotism is more than just being part of a crowd chanting “U-S-A” after an athlete claims gold at the Olympics.  To me, it should be something a little deeper.

Also, it should be something above the current political fray. Rational discourse on a subject like that is rare, especially with election campaigns. And, cheered on by those rallying the base on the left and right, it seems it won’t change anytime soon.

I grew up in a time when parents and grandparents told their children they were growing up in the greatest country in the world. We took that as a matter of faith. Spots like Old Faithful at Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, the Mississippi River or Gettysburg were natural wonders or places of historical significance we wanted to see someday.

Do moms and dads still tell their kids such things?

I hope so, even though things aren’t as simple or innocent as they once were.

For each person, patriotism should be as much a matter of our hearts as well as our minds.

How does that manifest itself, besides placing your hand over your heart during the national anthem?

It may not be much, but for me, it’s paying tribute to armed forces personnel when chances arise. Don’t know if I’ve ever been prouder of my adopted hometown  when seeing the crowds line up to pay tribute when Sgt. Christopher Newman was buried in November. I also enjoy getting to speak to former athletes from here I know who have chosen that career path.

The subject becomes less complicated when you break it down to manageable levels. Patriotism should be as much about appreciating the land itself — the rocks, streams, trees, mountains, etc. — that make up the 50 states. It’s also about the people who dwell within, your neighbors, co-workers, classmates, friends and family.

A lot of people have given their lives to see those maintained. It was a worthy sacrifice.

Since that Jack Nicholson/Morgan Freeman movie came out a few years back, almost everyone has a “bucket list” these days, even if you don’t let your peers know what’s on it.

For the uninitiated, that’s a to-do list of things to accomplish before you leave this earth.

For some reason that was on my mind this week. In my chosen profession, you see a lot of biographical profiles of coaches, players etc., and it’s always amazing to see accomplishments individuals have over a long period of time.

It’s also easy to be left with the feeling you’ve been standing still while everyone else in the world is riding life’s roller coaster with a thrill-a-minute coming their way.

When I asked a number of people, including co-workers, about their personal bucket lists, responses could be categorized several ways.

Some topics fit under the adventure label, even risk-taking in some cases. From photographing a tornado at point-blank range, parachuting out of an airplane or riding bikes from one end of North Carolina to the other, such challenges depend a lot on one’s physical shape and daredevil tendencies.

Several had to do with specific travel destinations, often connected to the chance to see family members in the process, or spectacular natural phenomena (oceans, mountains, etc.). One in particular had to do with a co-worker flying to Hawaii to see her daughter, noteworthy for the parent’s dislike of flying, especially over such a long distance.

One of the more unusual was one seeking to visit a sloth refugee camp in Latin America to be around her favorite animal.

The difficulty though I’m having with this entire train of thought is a bit surprising … coming up with ideas for my own list. I’ve always been bothered by folks with little or no sense of curiosity, and now I worry that may be where I’m headed.

Yet, I’m going to put positive spin on this and view it another way Maybe the reason nothing immediately jumps to the top of the list (other than seeing baseball at Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, or visiting the Field of Dreams cornfield), is that when chances have come along to do things in the past, I’ve been able to seize the moment.

Whether whitewater rafting, going to the top of the Empire State Building, looking down into Grand Canyon, walking the streets of Cooperstown, or just following the far-above-average feats of athletes in Cleveland County, it’s been quite a ride in itself.

Actually,  when you look at it that way, my bucket runneth over already.

As children, when someone thought they were a little smarter than the rest of us, they were called ‘know-it-alls.’

Now, as an adult, I’ve found it rather convenient to know people who really do have information about a wide range of subjects. No matter their job, or standing in society, almost everyone you meet has interests where they know certain topics more thoroughly than other folks that surround them.

What are you an expert in?

In my line of work, it used to be that sports had areas where I felt I knew more than the average person. With the advent of the internet and all the sports/statistical sites out there, not sure I’m quite as confident about that these days. I still feel I can argue ACC basketball history, or things that went on with the three Major League baseball clubs in New York during the 1950s, with the best of’em.

One advantage to moving on through middle age is that you find out who does know certain things. You may have friends or co-workers who can tell you where to get deals on clothes, or shoes. Others may be aware of shortcuts on the highway that cut down the time of trips or miss traffic jams.

Some people pass along names (and telephone numbers) of folks you can get to dig a ditch, power wash a driveway, sharpen lawnmower blades or do alterations on clothes when needed.

Even better, some folks know who the good cooks are and when you go to a church dinner, etc., they let you in on the secret of whose dish is something you just have to try.

So back to the question – what subject do you know a little bit  more about than the average person?

It’s always fun to discover what interests people around you. Riding back from a recent basketball playoff game with Star photographer Ben Earp, I found he has a particular delight in all things associated with trains.

A fellow that sits regularly at the next table over at my normal lunch stop, Jim ‘Crash’ Duncan of Shelby, is a crossword puzzle aficionado. I’ve also known people in the ‘expert’ category when it comes to scrap-booking, whittling and whistlin’. Fishermen who claim that status, well, let me see the photos before I decide.

Anyway, find something you do or know well and share it with others.  It’ll come back to you. You’ll be surprised how many interesting folks you’re already dealing with regularly.

Alan Ford: 704-669-3336; aford@shelbystar.com; twitter.com/starsptseditor

Something we don’t hear much anymore is the phrase “hand-me-downs.”

That used to be a common expression related to how families with more than one child would pass clothes, toys, shoes and other items down from one sibling to the next in the pecking order. In bigger families, quite literally as one child outgrew something, the next one was growing into that size and took possession.

But in some families, hand-me-downs often included something else — stories passed from one generation to the next. It’s the way folks learned about their grandparents, or descendants even further back.

I got a reminder of that in recent days after attending the funeral of one of my former teachers. During the service, a nephew of hers told a story passed along in that family.

The tale involved how his aunt was the last of a generation, one of four sisters born to a farmer with large cotton fields, then located not far from where the funeral was being held.

Back in the 1916-17 timeframe, as the story unfolded, one year there was a bumper crop of cotton. But, as many folks know, the more there was of a raw material like cotton in those days, the lower the price per pound would be. So the farmer (grandfather of the storyteller) decided to warehouse as much cotton as he could for when the price would be higher.

Well, the next year, cotton wasn’t so plentiful. Also, it coincided with the United States’ entry into World War I, and there was a high demand for cotton cloth to make soldiers’ uniforms, etc. The farmer had a major windfall from his foresight (or luck – the grandson always wanted to ask him that question).

But what was telling was what followed — the farmer didn’t spend his money on a big vacation to a luxurious spot, he didn’t buy a fancy car for the time, nor for any temporary pleasure for himself. Instead, he made the decision to use his profit to send all four daughters to college.

That was a rather bold step. We hadn’t even gotten to the Roarin’ ‘20s yet. Women going to college, much less four in one family, wasn’t really the norm in those times.

But it paid off in an incredible legacy. All four got their education and pursued the life they wanted, marrying the men they chose and living well. Perhaps spurred on by the example their father provided, they gave their own children and grandchildren a better life as well.

Such oral traditions are something no family should let slide, especially when it’s a tale of how someone sacrificed for their family. That has long been considered a virtue in these parts.

Sometimes investments in each other are the best ones made in life.  We should never forget those actions by our forebears.