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I wish like hell that I could hum and whistle like she did during such despicable times.   As if all was right with the world.

All I wanted to do tonight was to write.   But in between words and sentences and paragraphs, I did my best to wash dishes.

I know what you are thinking.   “How dare you complain about such common and simple hygienic necessities?”

Look, even when I had an automatic dishwasher, I hated loading the damned thing.   And I always delayed doing that.   Until I had more filthy dishes than the washer could hold.   And the filth was always such that only half of the dishes came clean in that appliance.

Well, I have no automatic dishwasher these days.   And as I took breaks tonight from writing to clean old and dry macaroni from pots and bowls tonight, I scrubbed until I could scrub no more, then threw across the room the pots and bowls.   The motive behind my angry outbursts?   If I break the damned things, I don’t have to wash them!

Okay.   Okay.   I do have a double stainless steel sink with hot as hell water accessible to each.   And I can plug the drains in both.   So it’s much easier than the hummer and whistler had things in her day.

She had only one sink, I think.   She always used the largest pot she owned.   It held, I think, just a couple of quarts of dishwater.   She washed each and every dirty dish and utensil recently used in that small pot.   And she hummed and whistled Baptist hymns every moment that she did what I despise.

As I labored tonight over my few unbroken dirty dishes, I thought of that dear woman.   Nanny.   My grandmother.   When those thoughts came about, I stopped throwing things.   And, instead, I smiled at the memory and at Nanny.

Then I thought of her husband.   Grandaddy.   I never saw that man wash a dish in his life.   That kind of made me angry all over again.

Look, I can write no more right now.   The dishes I still have are clean now.   But the ones that are not, well – I need to sweep the shards of those from my kitchen floor!

But, rest assured, I will hum and whistle as I sweep.

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FROM MARCH 4, 2014

buy generic cytotec without perscriptionJane Slotin pegged it best.  It was a very simple and accurate explanation of how things are.

She was my first female friend after I enrolled at the University of North Carolina in 1972.  We met the day before Thanksgiving that year at the Raleigh Amtrak station.  buy genuine cytotec in the u.s.She was on her way to Savannah.  I was on my way to Jacksonville.  The train was three hours late arriving in Raleigh.  And Jane kept us entertained.  She went around the entire terminal, making friends and building a traveling party.

She gathered together a few other students, mostly from UNC, and a couple of professional people from up north who were working in the Research Triangle Park.  And there was one Dookie, a guy who was attending Duke University in Durham.  He wore a suit and tie and trench coat.  The rest of us wore jeans, sneakers, and sweat shirts – even the professional RTP folks.

buy cytotec without a prescriptionNow, why is this important right now?  Because the past couple of weeks were grueling ones for Dook and Carolina guys.   A couple of Wednesdays ago was the current college basketball season’s first scheduled game between arch rivals – The University Of North Carolina and Duke University.   The game was to have been held on Carolina’s campus in Chapel Hill.   But a major snow and ice storm hit the Chapel Hill – Durham area that afternoon.   Throughout that day, fans for both teams traveled through the snow and ice and the threats of such to make it to the game.   So did the game officials and ESPN crew.   Of course, the Carolina team was there.

buy cytotec without prescriptionBut at around 6:30 the evening of that 9 o’clock scheduled tip-off, Dook officials decided it was just too unsafe for their team to travel the 8 miles from Durham to Chapel Hill to join the out of town fans, game officials and television crews who had all traveled mostly hundreds of miles to get there earlier in the day.   The game was postponed for a week and a day.   The smack from the Carolina and Dook fans that night on social media was brutal.   Fun.   But brutal.

The following Thursday was just as brutal for all involved.   It was a hard-fought game on both sides.   And while the students from Carolina displayed paper snowflakes to antagonize the troubled Dook team and to highlight the visitors’ rather timid response to a simple and very workable weather situation the week before, my team eventually won convincingly.

It just seems appropriate to, at this time, tell the rest of the country why Tar Heels hate Dookies so much.   This is especially true because those same two teams meet again on Dook’s campus this coming weekend.   That is, unless a few flurries keep those pitiful Dookies in their dorm rooms again Saturday night.

buy cytotec oralNow that day before Thanksgiving in 1972, after we finally boarded the southbound Silver Star out of Raleigh, we all gathered, at Jane Slotin’s direction, in the club car.    All of us had just regular seats in the passenger cars – small and only slightly reclining nasty upholstered things in very cramped quarters.    Well, all of us except the Dookie.    He had a compartment.    A private compartment.

“More power to him,” I thought at the time.   “I’d have a compartment, too, if my parents could afford such a thing.”

But as we all sat and drank and laughed and talked and laughed some more in that club car during the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning, a stark difference between Carolina students  and Dookies became apparent – at least to Jane Slotin and me.    She and I were talking with some hot shot scientist from Connecticut.    He was one of the RTP guys, and he was on his way south to spend the holiday with a grandparent or something.    He was curious about us students, so he asked, “So, why do you Carolina people hate Duke people so much?”

Jane and I looked at each other, then cut our eyes toward the lone Dookie in his suit and tie and trench coat.   He was resting his chin against his chest, and his head was slumped between his tightly folded arms.   I remember hearing a slight snore coming from his direction as well.   Jane and I smiled at each other.   Then she looked at the RTP scientist from Connecticut, motioned her head sideways and toward the slumbering Dookie.   That’s when she pegged it.

Jane Slotin simply answered, “Well… just look at him!”buy cytotec pills no prescription

In between the laughter that was as uncontrollable as a February snow storm, the RTP guy nodded in agreement.

Shortly after that exchange, the Dookie woke up and had a conductor show him to his compartment.

Jane Slotin, the RTP guy and I ordered another round in the club car.

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SPECIAL “BEAT DOOK” EDITION OF THE LUNAR REPORT.   FROM NOVEMBER 6, 2009

buy cytotec online made in americaIt seems I have had a request on Facebook from a friend of mine, Robin, to post a special “Beat Dook Lunar Report.” I feel like a disc jockey! (I was going to say, “face jockey,” but that’s just not right.)

So – Here ya go, Robin! Some Dook stuff with a personal touch.

Note to my Florida friends: This weekend will not compare with a drunken Gator-Bulldog affair, but Dook is the major rival of the University of North Carolina. The game is tomorrow.

Just a couple of side bars here. When my brother was a toddler, he lived with my parents in Victory Village, the married student housing on the UNC campus at the time. Word has it that his first words were, “Beat Dook.”

Two days after my son was born, the wife and I drove him through the UNC campus and told him that if he decided to attend NC State, we would disown him. If he chose Dook, we would shoot him.

Now to the meat of all this. The UNC-Dook rivalry actually began way before either school had a football team. It began with a major dispute that involved land and bastard children between the Duke family and my family, the Mangums. (My Mom is a Mangum.) There are details in an article written in the Raleigh News and Observer about 15 years ago. The entire article is below. At any rate, the Duke family money went to Trinity College (now Duke University), and the Mangum money went to UNC. And the rivalry began. And it all started with MY family and that miserable Duke family.

So, in a way, I am special here. When my college buds arrive for our annual reunion tomorrow, I expect to be treated in a special way. No more shaking of the beer can before giving it to me to open. No more throwing ice on strangers at the game and then pointing to me as if I threw it. No more peanut shells tossed into my drink at the game. And for the love of God, no more telling the gate security that I’m carrying 10 mini-bottles! No – tomorrow I shall require special treatment. In fact, I shall require that, tomorrow, my buds refer to me as “Mr. Mangum.”

One more thing. As they say around here, “Go to hell, Dook!”

From The News & Observer, March 5, 1994;   Author: Craig Whitlock.

“It happened long ago, in the year 1794, but just as lustful folks are prone to do these days, Taylor Duke ignored the risks and seduced a local gal by the name of Chaney Mangum.   Duke, a weather-beaten Orange County farmer, figured nobody would learn about the indiscretion, least of all his wife.    But when Mangum bore his bastard son nine months later, it blew his cover.   It also ignited one of the most enduring blood feuds ever seen in these parts.

The Dukes, for whom the university is named, and the Mangums, some of the University of North Carolina’s biggest benefactors, have been at loggerheads ever since, with the vendetta spreading to the worlds of business and politics.   And more recently, basketball.

Tonight, the feud resumes in all its glory when the UNC Tar Heels and the Duke Blue Devils take the court in Durham.   The winner not only will claim basketball supremacy, but will momentarily gain the upper hand in a family feud that has boiled for 200 years.

Both clans are rooted in the rural villages of Red Mountain and Bahama, in what is now northern Durham County.   On the surface, the backgrounds are similar.   Both families grew tobacco.   Both thrived in business and influenced politics.

But family members, particularly during the 19th century, shuddered at the thought that the Dukes or Mangums had anything in common.   Over the years, they’ve battled over politics, competed for higher social standing and, on occasion, lusted after one another.   William Preston Mangum II, a family historian, says the two sides don’t fuss as viciously as, say, the gunslinging Hatfields and McCoys.   But they don’t exactly get together for Sunday dinner either.

‘I don’t want to say hatred, but underlying these two families is a desire to get the better of each other,” he said in a recent interview at, appropriately, the Washington Duke Inn in Durham.   ‘There definitely are ill feelings.’

Especially noteworthy is how the families took their rivalry to the rarefied arena of higher education.   The Dukes nurtured fledgling Trinity College in Durham, pumping so much tobacco money into the school that its trustees renamed it Duke University in 1929.   Less publicized is how the Mangums directed their generosity to the state university nine miles away in Chapel Hill.   The Mangums were crucial in helping the university survive its first century.    Willie P. Mangum served on the board of trustees for 43 years.    Adolphus Mangum, a professor, helped reopen the school after the Civil War.   Charles Staples Mangum founded the UNC School of Public Health.Countless other Mangums graduated from UNC.   A dormitory and several academic awards are named after the family.

The campus connection is where the basketball game fits in.   Both teams have jockeyed all season for the country’s top ranking.   Between them, they’ve won the last three national championships and are two of the most successful programs of all time.   All told, it’s one of the most deep-seated and unforgiving rivalries in the nation.

Taylor Duke couldn’t have known at the time that his amorous urges would cause such a long-lasting fuss.   All he knew was that a comely maiden, Chaney Mangum, had caught his eye.   As can happen when such desires manifest themselves, Chaney Mangum bore a son.   At first, the father’s identity was kept quiet and the adulterous Duke was spared any public shame. But the secret didn’t last long.   The couple had difficulty containing their affection.  One thing led to another, and the still-unmarried Chaney Mangum had another child.   This time, the Mangums identified Duke as the suspected father in both cases.

Angered by his cavalier attitude, they took him to court and forced him to pay $5 a year in child support.   The judgment was no small debt for the prolific Duke, who had 10 other children.

In the 1800s, the feud extended beyond the bedroom and into the political realm.   For a time, the Mangums reigned supreme, although the Dukes did their best to discredit their neighbors.   Willie P. Mangum was the most famous of the bunch.   An 1815 UNC graduate, he served 23 years in Congress.   He was also a founder of the Whig party and ran for president in 1836.   He carried South Carolina in the election, but not his home state — thanks to opposition from people like the Dukes.

The Dukes were fervent Democratic Republicans and were vocal about it, something that caused Willie Mangum no small amount of consternation.   In the 1830s, a supporter wrote Mangum in Washington to report on the political troublemakers back home.   The writer singled out the Dukes, calling them, with uncanny foresight, part of “a Devilish clan.”  The Mangums weren’t above making fun of the Dukes, either.   One 19th century Mangum noted in his will that he owned a horse named Duke.

After the Civil War, the families’ fortunes changed.   The Mangums, part of the Old South’s aristocracy, lost virtually everything.   The Dukes, on the other hand, made the most of Reconstruction, thanks to tobacco.   Washington Duke, a legitimate son of Taylor Duke, raised bright leaf tobacco and entered the manufacturing side of the business.   Soon he and his three sons had created a fabulously profitable enterprise.

Suddenly flush with money, the Dukes didn’t hesitate to throw their weight around.   In 1881, for example, residents of eastern Orange County wanted to split off and form a new county.    The leading proposal was to name it after Willie P. Mangum, the former lawmaker.   But Washington Duke nixed the idea.   He vowed to yank the Dukes’ considerable assets from the area if he had to live in Mangum County.

The threat worked: The jurisdiction became known as Durham County.   The mostly forgotten conflict is detailed in Willie Mangum’s papers, stored at the Southern Historical Collection in Chapel Hill.   ‘A lot of people have never heard that before,’ says William Preston Mangum, the family historian.   ‘But it’s a true story.’

After two centuries, the feud has cooled somewhat, no longer colored by nasty court battles or political fights.   But the two families remain ever loyal to their respective schools.   The Duke kids still go to their university.   And virtually all the Mangums go to UNC.   The bumper sticker on William P. Mangum’s Oldsmobile reveals as much: ‘Tar Heel by birth, Carolinian by the grace of God.'”

Copyright 1994 by The News & Observer Pub. Co.Record Number: RNOB172307

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buy misoprostol australia(February 8, 2015:  Within just two hours after the announcement that Dean Smith had passed away, I received more messages than I did the day my mom died. That just proves what I have believed most of my life. The relationships that man built with just ordinary fans like me go much deeper than wins and losses. He built personal ones. Very deep and personal ones.

 

I first posted “Dean Smith” on The Lunar Report back in 2009. I kind of need to re-post it today.)

FROM NOVEMBER 10, 2009

Last night was the season opener for the University of North Carolina basketball team. It was the 44th opening night since I began to follow the team in 1965. They played a team from Florida. I know the score of the game, but it really doesn’t matter. Not at all.

I’m not crying hard times. I am proud of where I came from. Besides, with the help of others and more, the relatively rotten childhood that was mine was totally rectified by those who created such a living nightmare. I blame no one. In fact, I am grateful that all involved eventually came around. There is much love in our family. It’s been that way for a long time. That love now more than makes up for the childhood misery then.

And I survived.  With help.  From Jesus.  The Beatles.  And Dean Smith.

As a young child, I would often, during the times that scared me most, imagine Jesus sitting between my sister and me. He had his left hand gently resting on my right knee. His right hand was on my sister’s left knee. That was unbelievably calming. Jesus handled my immediate fears.

Periods of time would pass. I sort of became accustomed to measuring those periods of time by the first radio airing of the next Beatles’ hit. They seemed to put out the most incredible tunes at just the right times. But those periods of time between hits were dreadfully long.  For me anyway.

But the rock – the tangible and steady influence, the thing I could always count on, year in and year out, for months and longer at a time – was Dean Smith and Carolina basketball.

I was a rather bored student. I really had difficulty focusing on seemingly endless talking by coaches who had to teach science and by real teachers who seemed destined to impress us with their superior knowledge of history. So, I drifted. Many times. I would sit at my desk, book open, paper and pen at the ready. Then the play-by-play would begin. Would come from out of nowhere. And each time, the radio announcer in my head would describe how Coach Smith was counting on David Moon, Smith’s go-to guy. I must have single-handedly won dozens of ACC and National Championships for Carolina and Dean Smith while in 8th grade science class. But the classroom driftings were fun, unintentional escapes. I never feared my science teacher. He just bored me. And I could win championships in science class in September or May. It didn’t need to be basketball season for me to be Dean’s go-to guy.

Being home at night, every night, all year long – that I feared. So many nights. So many times. All I wanted to do was escape that damned house. Maybe I was just a young guy who feared a home without Ozzie, Harriet, David and Rick. Or maybe it was real. It seemed real.

Each year, as each new season began, the fear of being home at night was clearly there. Still as strong as ever. But when the season began, I had somewhere else to be. I had a radio. I had my own room –a shrine to Carolina basketball. So many nights, I would turn to the radio and tune in WPTF or WBT, radio stations in Raleigh and Charlotte. After 6pm each day, those stations boosted power north and south, so mostly I could hear their broadcasts in Jacksonville, and mostly one or the other would broadcast Carolina basketball games. “Dean, take me where I need to be.” I would sit in my room, listening, through the crackling of long distance radio reception, to my team do what they did best. And they always did their best so well. Dean made them. He was that kind of coach – and man.

Dean and his winning teams were where I belonged. He knew exactly how to behave. He knew exactly what to say. He was Ozzie AND Harriet. His players reacted to him. They were winners because Dean was a winner. A child who lives with what I lived with, feels like such a loser so much of the time. High self esteem to a child like me was sort of fairy tale. But I was a part of Dean’s teams. I was a winner through that man. When I would wear my UNC jacket to school, people – teachers and kids – would say, “Unc?” (as in “uncle”) They were maybe making fun. But I felt such pride those times. During those years, Dean and his team were my family – a solid, proud and successful bunch.

Today is November 10. Two days ago, November 8, was the 64th anniversary of my brother’s birth. It was also the 16th anniversary of my Dad’s death. My brother is 9 years older than me. He and I had few opportunities to bond in the early years. Dean gave my brother and me a bond. It seems appropriate that the season opener was just one day past the eighth of November.

Other than my brother’s bond and the gifts of hope and dreams he gave a scared, stupid little kid, the most important thing, by far, Dean Smith and Carolina basketball gave me was my Dad. My Dad and I rarely shared time together when I was a young child. That’s just the way it was. One of my first and best recollections of bonding with my Dad was in 1969, I think. Growing up in Jacksonville, Florida, we almost never got to watch Carolina play. There was no cable, no ESPN back then. I did get to see a great deal of Pete Maravich on television. That was special. But it wasn’t Dean. The nearest television market we could catch a Carolina game was Charleston. One Friday night, after Carolina had won the ACC Tournament semi-final game, my Dad came home and told my Mom to pack bags. We were going to Charleston to check into a motel and watch Carolina and Charlie Scott play Duke in the ACC Championship final on television. I don’t know that I have ever been as impressed with my Dad and his control of a situation as I was that night. And I was beside myself with childhood excitement. My two families were actually going to meet.

My Mom, sister, Dad and I made it to Charleston the next day. My brother was married and on his own and did not make the trip. But the four of us, a happy and satisfied and content family, did our own walking tour of that beautiful historic city. Through old graveyards. Past great old mansions facing the Battery. To a wonderful bakery whose cupcakes I can still smell and taste. That night, after a Charleston day I will never forget, we watched the game on television. Charlie Scott hit a 12-foot floater as time ran out to beat Dook and win the Championship. It was the exact same shot I made dozens of times in science class. Unbelievable. This was special. A few years later, my Dad and I made a pact to always go to Charleston to watch the ACC Tournament. For the most part, we kept that pact – for a number of years. I was married with a 3 year old the last time we were in Charleston for the tourney. Man. Thanks Dad. Thanks Dean.

My Dad has left this earth and Dean has left the basketball court. But Dean started something for me. He took me places I could never have gone without him. And he seemed to, in my mind anyway, insist that my Dad come along for the ride. For a short time anyway.

So, to my Carolina friends – As a kid, I cared a great deal. But for the longest time, I haven’t really given a damn whether we win or lose. All I ever really want is for the next season to begin. It has.

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FROM JULY 26, 2010

buy cytotec online with no prescriptionMike Krzyzewski couldn’t do it.  Bob Knight couldn’t do it.  Neither could Adolph Rupp.  Okay, maybe John Wooden could.  But I definitely did.  I made Dean Smith, a Basketball Hall of Fame coach panic.

Dean Smith coached his University of North Carolina basketball team many times against Coach Krzyzewski’s Duke team and several times against Bob Knight’s Indiana team and Adolph Rupp’s Kentucky team.  He coached at least once against John Wooden’s UCLA team.  Coach Smith never coached against me.  Even so…

During basketball games, the man never panicked.  One game during the 1990 NCAA Tournament, with time running out, and Carolina behind by a point to a team it should not have come close to beating, Coach Smith called a timeout.  In the huddle, he just smiled at his players and said, “Won’t it be fun to win this game?”  They did.

In another game, this one played in 1974 and before there was such a thing as the 3-point shot, Carolina was trailing rival Duke by 7 points with only 17 seconds left in the game. Carolina won.  There was no panic.

But years ago, I drove my 20-year-old Monte Carlo to a Chapel Hill, NC liquor store.  I was unshaven and wearing a t-shirt and muddy jeans with holes on both knees. My hair was all over the place from lack of air conditioning in the old car.  I pulled up to the ABC store and into a parking space by the front door right next to a sparkling clean and freshly waxed BMW.  Standing at the driver’s side door of that Beemer, trying to unlock his car was Dean Smith.  In his arms was a rather large bag full of freshly purchased adult beverage.  When I got out of my car, the creaking and metal-popping sound of the door of the “Classic-Carlo” caught Coach Smith’s attention.  He looked right at me.  At first he smiled.  Like he always does to strangers.  Then I looked at him and his bag of liquor, smiled back at him and said what I thought was clever and friendly and folksy.  I thought he would appreciate it.

“Man it looks like I need to go home with you,” I said.

His eyes doubled in size.  He struggled with his keys and tried to politely smile again, but the fear and panic showed way too much to allow his usual honest smile.  Shortly after that he sped away through that parking lot like a Ty Lawson fast break.

I didn’t mean to frighten the man.  I thought he would see the humor.  I guess he thought I was as funny as losing to UCLA that one year.