It was a cold late afternoon in Erie Pennsylvania, the kind they poke fun at when they talk about Great Lakes weather. But there was excitement in the hearts of my young business fraternity brothers as we waited “all decked out in our suits and ties” in the lobby of the historic Warner theater. You see, in an attempt to raise funds for an upcoming fraternity convention in Dallas, we, along with a local professional business group, had been able to somehow convince Paul Harvey, an up and coming broadcaster and commentator to fly to what has been called “the mistake on the lake” and share with Erie Pa. his unique form of commentary.
As the theater’s side door opened a stately man walked in followed by a whirl of snowflakes and a As the lights came up and I greeted Mr. Harvey on stage, he was welcomed by a small but appreciative audience. The commentary thereafter was classic Paul Harvey, spellbinding is his presentation, bigger than life, with no one daring to cough or sneeze and muffle the spoken word.
And then, when one was just beginning to be enamored by his unique style and commentary his oratory was over and he graciously departed the stage. An appreciative applause followed and what was to become one of the most gifted and beloved broadcasters in our nation’s history would soon depart Erie and begin the first year of twenty of National syndication for “Paul Harvey Comments”.
At this point you might ask, “Well Joe, what is the rest of the story?” Well in this case there isn’t any. I was able, however, to catch his eye as he was surrounded by well wishers and departed the old theater. In that brief split second in time I felt the warmness of this fine gentleman and his respect for a young up and coming businessman that would never cross his path again. His presence in my life, no matter how brief, had made me a better man and I thank him for that. God Bless you Paul Harvey. gust of cold air. But this did not seem to deter Mr. Harvey, bundled up in a long dark overcoat, from walking directly to me, shaking my hand and as the fraternity's President and evenings designated presenter, given the opportunity to welcome him to our fair town.
Bloody Point Lighthouse Photos
- Historic Bloody Point Lighthouse is located on Daufuskie Island South Carolina. Listed on the National Register of Historic places, this CIRCA 1883 structure is a true South Carolina treasure.
LCJoe Feelings
March 02, 2009
May 26, 2008
The Sound of Freedom
Memorial Day 2008 starts out like most Mondays on the Island of Daufuskie. Warm Southerly breezes drifting off the ocean bring the sound of waves inland and Mother Nature's blessing blends in with the passionate singing of mockingbirds and a plethora of feathered wonders hidden in trees of green.
It's mid morning and with coffee cup in hand, I settle into my favorite rocker on the historic porch of the Bloody Point Lighthouse, close my eyes and "take in" what has become "a favorite symphony". My feathered friends respond in kind and as if on cue delight me with a premier "Fuskie" performance. But as with Memorial Days past, they know and I know that our pristine sensual experience is short lived. Like a storm approaching from the West, distant rumbling will be heard. The echoes will be muffled at first but soon what the Indians would have called, giant steel birds, make their presence over Hilton Head and "The Sound of Freedom" will reverberate over Calibogue Sound.
Each year I make a determined effort to attend a local Memorial Day Service. Coming from a long line of "soldiers" and as a Viet Nam veteran myself, the day takes on a very special meaning. But this year I have decided not to attend in person but be there in a "mental vision" sort of way. Then I can "snuff out" unwanted images of folks that are not really there for "moments of reverence" but only for the excitement of seeing fighter planes streak through the sky. I can visually see what's important , battled scarred soldiers, their aged faces looking reverently to the heavens as young men and women a third of their age proudly ride sophisticated rockets through the air. I can visually see them put their hands on their hearts or raise their hand in salute as the sound of taps waifs over Lowcountry marshes. I can visually see the tears they discretely whisk away so that no one will see, even though these tears should be seen as a form of honored strength and not weakness.
It's time for a second cup of coffee and I make my way to my Bride's kitchen. I'm just about to pour when a thundering sound quickly approaches, dishes rattle in the cupboard and a shrill streaking noise booms overhead. I rush outside and look to the sky but all I see is Carolina blue. And then it happens, a second steel bird makes it presence known, its big engines kicking in, putting on a "Daufuskie Air Show". The deafening sound quickly disappears. My feathered friends continue their symphony and my spouse rushes out and says "what was that"!!!! Just "The Sound of Freedom Honey"....I respond....just the "Sound of Freedom".
May 23, 2008
Dive To The Jungle
The Camouflaged dark green C-130 circles high somewhere over the dense jungles of Viet Nam. Bright foliage nurtured by abundant rains stretch far into the horizon and seem to meet and touch the cloudless clear blue sky. To the untrained eye this vision would be one of beauty, the kind that is captured by a skilled painter that selects just the right color to portray the rising steamy mist. To the young pilot listening to a crackling radio and looking through his dark aviator glasses for a smoke flare, however, this vision means danger. He reacts instinctively putting the big steel bird into a steep dive. My heart begins to race….the tires hit a just built airstrip…the deafening sound of engines reversing 
replace the monotonous drone and the once clear sweet air fills with dust. On command the rear door drops open, sweltering heat and humidity engulf the cabin and within minutes our cargo is loaded. This work horse of a plane lunges forward and like an F-14 in an air show we go straight up, harnesses tight against my chest. Soon we are out of reach of the inevitable ground fire and with mission complete we make our way to the relative comfort and safety of Naha, Okinawa.
It’s memorial day thirty nine years later and the festivities have just begun at Marshside Mama’s. An extra bar has been set up outside to accommodate the revelers and boats from Hilton Head and Savannah “raft up” on the small County dock. The aroma of Beth’s incredible gumbo wafts from the confines of her small kitchen and the sound of Budweiser snap tops blend in with the singing of the tree crickets. An industrious local has already started the obligatory campfire and I make the decision to spend part of my early evening just hanging out , roasting a few marshmallows, watching the sunset and talking about the Island’s History with curious guests. I’m right in the middle of the Yemmassee Indian uprising when the sound of an approaching low flying aircraft diverts our attention. One of the fire worshippers comment that it’s just the Coast Guard Helicopter doing their usual training run but once you have heard the drone of a C-130 you never forget it. Sure enough, direct overhead flies the workhorse of our military, probably from the Charleston Air Base, not painted green but camouflaged in timely shades of brown.
Now I have seen these C-130’s fly over before….once there were ten in formation…and I rushed inside yelling to my Bride, Mary….”You got to see this”. But the sight of this lone aircraft on Memorial Day from my past that I had spent so much time in and always admired was just a bit to much to bear. Excusing myself I leaned up against an ancient live oak tree and recalled that day so many years ago as a pimple faced eighteen year old when I experienced my first “dive to the jungle”. You see, that was not just ordinary cargo we were picking up. It was green body bags of young guys just like me. They had dreams of the future and waited anxiously at mail call for that precious letter from home. I remember that seamlessly never ending trip to Naha shivering at high altitude from the cold and sharing that cargo hold with the lifeless bodies that gave their all and the ultimate sacrifice for their beloved country.
Someone puts a dollar in the jukebox and a song Jimmy Buffet wrote about Daufuskie blends in with chatter of the fun loving merrymakers. I make my way to the relative quietness of the dock adorned with an American flag tattered and torn since its unceremonious 9/11 hanging. My harmonica which I had planned to play for fun now is held in trembling hands. The sound of taps drifts over the stillness of the marsh as a tribute to my unknown comrades and to the pimple faced kids of today that are still giving it “their all”.
January 30, 2008
December 26, 2007
December 22, 2007
Sharing a Memorable Christmas
My most memorable and coldest Christmas was spent on guard duty as a young soldier in Thule, Greenland. I was only 400 miles from the North Pole but I never did get to see Santa’s sleigh or any Female Elves for that matter.
Standing in the cold, lonely shack staring at the bleak tundra for hours on end makes your mind do strange things. It kept wandering back to that little house back home in Pennsylvania where Mom was making her usual Christmas dinner. That special Christmas Day smell seemed to linger at my nose. For the first time ever I was not there and I really missed my family.
An arctic fox runs by and breaks my thoughts. Cute little devils, those foxes, friendly and looking for a Holiday handout.
I am back home again and my Grandma stops over like she always does (that’s when Grandmas lived next door). She always brought her special German homemade bread right out of the oven. The fun was stealing a hot bun before dinner and smothering it butter.
The noise of the relief trucks wheels making that cold crunching sound on minus 30 degree snow brings me back to reality. The coffee is old, dark and thick but tastes great as I take a quick break in the truck cab and share the special bond that young soldiers away from home seem to have.
As the taillights disappear into the frigid distance I gather my thoughts and stare at the stars and God’s Northern lights in the crystal clear sky. Total and absolute silence remains. I think again of my family but realize that even though I am not home this Christmas is special. I have learned a lot about myself and that family, close friends and warm experiences are what life is all about.
My replacement arrives and I stare into youthful eyes almost totally covered by a furry parka. Merry Christmas I say…Merry Christmas he responds….
*A special note…….I wrote this story many years ago, but I must say, I still get a little misty as I reminisce about those days when I was alone and so far away from home. But it seems that the more things change, the more they stay the same. This Christmas a young soldier will be standing guard and staring over a vast desert, not bleak cold tundra. This Christmas a young soldier will be brought old dark coffee and share a special bond with a fellow soldier. This Christmas a young soldier will shed a private youthful tear as thoughts about his Mom and family back home permeate his soul. This Christmas a young soldier will wish a fellow soldier Merry Christmas. This Christmas a young soldier will learn that family, close friends and warm experiences is what life is all about. Please remember them in your thoughts and prayers.
November 24, 2007
October 27, 2007
October 10, 2007
A Yellow Leaf
I remember a conversation regarding Fall with a local upon my arrival to the Lowcountry twenty three years ago. "Just wait Joe....it will turn Fall overnight". That particular Summer was hot as Haities and I wondered about my sanity to move South. As August turned to September and September turned to October I woke each morning expecting cool breezes to refresh me like the ones up North, but none came. My local newfound friend had been wrong. But then one morning as I opened the door for the morning paper, I was met with a welcome visitor....the first vestige of Fall. Overnight a cold front had beared down on the Carolinas bringing with it a semblance of my North West Pennsylvania memories. The fresh coolness raced through the opening and swept by my welcoming face. Like a spirit floating through the wind it enveloped my body ever so softly and sped away into the adjoining rooms. As promised, Fall had arrived overnight in the Lowcountry.
With that "cooling experience" I waited anxiously for the onset of turning leaves. I waited and waited and then one day in late November I noticed a bright yellow leaf floating effortlessly from the clear Carolina blue sky. Like a crazy man, and as a neighbor walking his dog watched, I rushed out into the street grasping for it in mid air. Once caught I held it ever so carefully in my hand not wanting to disturb even the fragile stem. For some reason this colorful yellow leaf had become very special to me. It was a fond remembrance of me as a child, experiencing the fun of hot Summer vacation days and submitting to the cool school day freshness of Fall.
I normally get very busy this time of year and it precludes making a trip North and join the throngs of leaf peepers. But this year I decided that life was to short to miss another Northern Fall season. Mary and I packed our sweaters and headed way up North to our cottage in the Canadian Maritimes. As our small plane landed and taxied down the airstrip a collage of reds, yellows and oranges raced by the windows. Our stewardess opened the cabin door, a cool freshness of a bright Canadian day swept down the isle and over my welcoming face. I walked across the tarmac with a renewed spring in my step and looked towards the horizon. Out there in Mother natures brightly colored pallet a lone bright yellow leaf awaits.
