David Cameron Writes

  Be prepared. Boy Scout motto or not, I don’t think anything could have prepared me to pick up a sandwich from the stack on the camp picnic table, take a big bite, and find it featured peanut butter and American cheese between two slices of white bread. I looked at a kid named Brad, who had drawn lunch duty that day. I said, “Are you sure this was on the menu?” He waved the mimeographed lunch directions that accompanied our daily food allotment and pointed to the itemized list. Sure enough, it read, “Saturday Lunch: Apples, Peanut Butter and Cheese Sandwiches.” For want of an Oxford comma, things had turned ugly.   We were at a special training event for Boy Scout Senior Patrol Leaders from troops all over the Piedmont Council. I was only 14 and the appointed leader of a motley band that included boys as old as 16 and 17. I was tall for my age, so my crew didn’t know my secret.   I was supposed to help the boys learn to be effective in their posts. I don’t reme

                                                                                                   We were dirty the way little boys get when they stay outside all day. We kneeled side by side, staring intently at a small funnel-shaped depression in the sandy soil. I was the novice; he was my guide, and I was ready to be amazed.   My guide, Butch, was a childhood friend who, though we were both eight years old, seemed much more worldly than I. He had to be. He lived with his mother, an employee at the local dry cleaner, and his teenage sister. His father was gone a lot, I’m not sure why. I think he had a tough time finding work. They lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment that was one of a complex of single-story apartments less than half a mile from my house. The complex seemed to stretch for miles, and we had the run of it.   Even at age eight, Butch had plans. He loved Putt-Putt golf and dreamed of being a professional Putt-Putt golfer by age 16. It sounde

    A story on the NPR program All Things Considered (May 11, 2023) told of research that reveals something new about Scalloped Hammerhead Sharks. It seems they close off their gills when diving deep in freezing cold water to keep their insides from icing up. In essence, they hold their breath.                                The Shark I envy the shark, gliding fast, propelled through water with barely a twitch — cool, so cool, with that thousand yard stare, never blinking back tears or winking in jest,  backing down dolphins, even killer whales, “You want a piece o’ me?   You want a piece o’ me?”   You never hear a shark gasp in surprise or cough in confusion or sigh with satisfaction. Instead of lungs he lets gills do the job of oxygen extraction while he slices the ocean like a Ginsu knife going deeper, and even deeper still until water ices the heart.   Scientists say they’ve found a shark that’s mastered the trick of clo

  A great rescue occurred yesterday at the Goodwill store in West Asheville, NC. I was not a witness to the event though it happened right behind me. I did, however, hear the incident debriefed.   I was in my usual place near the entrance where they display couches and easy chairs for sale. I test the merchandise and read while keeping an eye on my son who likes to browse their VHS video collection.   My strategy, developed over many visits to the store, is to find a seat that is comfortable enough without being too attractive to prospective buyers so I won't have to move. Yesterday, I sat in a blue, vinyl-covered love seat I’ve sat in before. If you were looking to decorate in an early Waffle House motif, it would be a good buy.   I’m sitting there, and I'm near the end of a novel that’s gone on way too long. I hear two young men talking excitedly, and I look up, grateful for the distraction. One of the men is a beefy sort, with close-cropped, dark

      Kindness at the Laundromat   I open the door to the Laundromat attached to the Shell station. It’s convenient — fill up, wash up, dry up. I’m in stealth mode, trying to make my 6’4” frame as small as possible, which is what I do when I enter a foreign place where I don’t know the protocol.   It’s been years since I’ve used a Laundromat. The last time was in a small, South Carolina town where I was doing an internship. I lived in an old hotel on Main Street that had been converted into apartments over a hair salon and an insurance agent’s office.    It was across the street from a movie theater that showed a lot of Kung Fu movies starring Bruce Lee and others. I used to sit in the dark in my apartment’s big window drinking Sprite and watching movie patrons spill out onto the sidewalk as they practiced the martial arts moves they’d just seen. Kick. Punch. “Hi-yah!”   My apartment had no laundry facilities, so I went about a mile down

  I tend to pull for underdogs. I'm more interested in flaws than perfection. Superheroes bore me unless they have a chink in their armor, which, to be fair, most do.    One of the iconic cartoons in my childhood's Saturday morning repertoire was Underdog, the alter ego of Shoeshine Boy. It was, admittedly, chauvinistic in its portrayal of the female (Sweet Polly Purebred) as the weaker individual always in need of saving. Still, I like to think that the underdogs of this world can be heroic. You don't have to be from another planet (Superman) or fabulously rich (Batman) to make a difference. Back then I imagined even a nine-year-old like me could have heroic potential.  I recently reflected on some of the more iconic DC and Marvel comic superheroes and their flaws.  Superhero Lament Superman has a lame disguise, Batman's just a sad, rich guy. Robin's tired of second fiddle, Catwoman feels a hairball tickle. Captain America fears rejection, Aquaman's prone to ea

No, we didn't celebrate May Day, a.k.a. International Workers' Day, when I grew up in the Piedmont region of N.C. Mine was a textile town, and the textile industry was notorious in it's opposition to labor unions. The mill executives were Christian men who were leaders in their mainline Protestant Churches, and they saw it as their Christian duty to keep out godless communist labor movements. Capitalism was next to Godliness, and child labor and 16 hour work days were good for the soul because they were good for the profit margin. The labor movement fought the hard-won battle for an eight hour work day and an end to child labor. These were not acts of kindness on the part of the executives. My Dad was an accountant in a textile mill, and we attended one of those First Churches. I worked one summer in high school as a grounds keeper around the mill, and on rainy days I worked in the area where they opened the giant bales of cotton to begin turning out cotton yarn. It was min