Journeys Home: Choices That Faced the Boomer Generation

JOURNEYS HOME

Choices that Faced the Boomer Generation

DICK MONTEITH

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© 2013 by Dick Monteith. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 06/24/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3458-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3457-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-3459-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911575

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Contents

Disclaimer

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

The Early Years

The College Years

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

The Middle Years

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

The Later Years

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer

This novel is a work of pure fiction. All of the main and secondary characters are completely fictional and any resemblances to actual people are coincidental and not the intention of the author. Likewise, references to historical events, places and people should be read as fictional within the context of the story and treated as creations of the author.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my loving wife, Janet, whom I call Sweetness for her continuing moral support and for allowing me to devote the time and financial resources necessary to complete this project.

Second, I dedicate this book to my three wonderful children and my seven terrific grandchildren who I hope will use it to learn about the turmoil that roiled our country during the turbulent years of the civil rights struggle, the Vietnam War, and the years since, showing how they affected people differently.

Acknowledgements

First, I wish to recognize and thank my excellent editor, Julie Abbott, who took me through a boot camp learning experience in developing and polishing the manuscript as if it were her own.

Second, I wish to acknowledge the help of my watercolor artist wife, Janet, who developed the design concept for the book cover.

Finally, I must recognize the assistance extended me by my good friend, Tommy Hays, for guiding, directing and supporting me in this project.

Prologue

The Telephone Call

I sat at my desk with a well-worn Bible at my left hand and a half-full glass of scotch in my right hand. In between sat a bottle of scotch whiskey. The scotch was not the fine ten-year-old single malt that I generally preferred but was not always able to afford. This was a blended scotch sold in large bottles for serious drinking.

Two hours had passed since I’d received the telephone call, and all I had done so far was consume a quarter of the bottle of scotch. This had become part of my evening routine, and every night it took more and more scotch to get the click that would clear my mind and allow me to achieve a sense of peace. I would then leave my desk—where I, the Reverend Richardson Montrose Graham, had written many of my finest sermons—and head for bed.

I liked the flavor of scotch. In fact I probably liked it too well. I just sat there and stared at the Bible and then back to the scotch and then back to the Bible. Tears flowed from my eyes as if I had an allergy. The call had added extra pressure to tonight’s ritual and I was not sure how much scotch it would take to get the click. I was glad that it happened to be a new bottle. I had planned ahead as liquor stores were closed on Sundays in North Carolina.

I stopped to think how I’d worried about having enough scotch whiskey on Sunday evening just ten hours after I had conducted a service of Holy Communion at my church, West Chapel Hill Presbyterian Church. I had gotten so good at scotch that I could drink heavily each evening and be awake and alert the next morning. It was sort of like Olympic training—acquired over time.

Then suddenly I put the glass of scotch down and picked up the Bible and turned to Ecclesiastes 6:1-2. "There is an evil which I have seen under the sun and it lies heavily upon men: a man to whom God gives wealth, possessions and honor, so that he lacks nothing of all that he desires, yet God does not give him power to enjoy them, but a stranger enjoys them: this is a vanity: it is sore affliction."

Dropping my Bible, I stared at the image on the wall above my desk, a good but inexpensive reproduction of Vincent van Gogh’s 1889 self-portrait with the bandaged ear. The image embodies both physical and mental pain in such a gifted individual who failed to achieve critical acclaim or success during his lifetime. The Bible verses I had just read spoke of pain, the picture portrayed pain, and pain was present that night.

A few hours earlier, my lifelong friend Calhoun had called from his home in South Carolina.

Hey, reverend, I’ve got some very bad news.

Anticipating Cal’s playful manner, I responded, What’s wrong congressman? Lost your conscience again? There was a long pause. Cal, are you still there?

Seriously. This is bad news. It’s Ash. He is in hospital. Grady Memorial in Atlanta. In intensive care.

The low hum of the phone line filled my ears. Cal seemed to be holding his breath.

Apparently, he tried to commit suicide.

How, Cal?

Ran his car straight into the restraining wall on I-85. Left a note for Rose and all. Rose called me about an hour ago. Said she could not get through to you.

Stunned, I remained silent. Cal continued, Ash and Rose need us. Go to the Delta counter at RDU Airport tomorrow morning and I’ll have a ticket waiting for you on the 7:30 flight. Marianna and I will meet you at Hartsfield.

My friendships with Calhoun Pickett Colleton, VI and Ashley Huger Cooper went back for years to our home town of Magnolia, South Carolina, and were later complemented by the addition of their wives, Marianna and Rose.

I had known Cal for what seemed like forever. My dad was president of the local bank and Cal’s dad was the largest landowner in the area with over a thousand acres that could be traced back to a grant from the King of England. Over the years, our fathers did a lot of business together. Cal’s dad was called the Colonel although he had never been a military colonel. I guess I always looked up to Cal and the Colonel as a best friend and a second father. Cal’s family was Episcopal, while true to our Scottish roots, my family was Presbyterian. My dad was always organized and orderly as a good Presbyterian elder would be. The Colonel was vigorous and at times bombastic playing an influential role in the South Carolina Democratic Party. My family was often invited to political events at the Colleton Big House, where Cal and I were always excited to meet very important people who came to functions there. The Colonel loved to thrill Cal and me with his stories of political events—stories that often grew bigger with each retelling. There was absolutely no one that Cal and I loved and admired more than the Colonel. People called him the Colonel because of his commanding presence in South Carolina state politics. But he had a habit of sometimes overdoing himself. Most of the time, it was a lot of fun to just play along with his schemes.

When I was ten, my parents started letting me ride my bicycle out to the Colleton Big House and they even let me sleep over so I could watch the Kennedy-Nixon debates with Cal and the Colonel. While televisions had been around for a while, reception was still a problem for a lot of people outside of big cities. Televisions came with rotating antennas that had to be tuned into each station. To get the Charleston station, one would select the channel and rotate the antenna toward Charleston. The same with the stations in Charlotte and Wilmington. The Colonel took great pride in being the best at tuning in the television. Unfortunately a rain shower during the second debate forced us to listen to it on WNBC Radio out of New York City. The Colonel had originally been for Lyndon Johnson and had come around to Kennedy slowly. Without letting the Colonel know our true feelings Cal and I were both head-over-heels excited about John Kennedy. We memorized his speeches and practiced speaking with a Boston accent. I actually got quite good at it.

No doubt, the Colonel enjoyed sharing his enthusiasm for politics with his son and me. Like the story that he told us of driving each week up to Fayetteville, North Carolina to attend strategy sessions for the campaign of his old paratrooper buddy, Terry Sanford, who was running for governor of North Carolina against an acid-mouthed segregationist. The Colonel would always tell us segregation was no excuse to hate. The New South was still years away and defeating a segregationist was a tricky business, but Terry’s down-home style, his war record, and his work with the FBI before the war proved to be a winning ingredient. The Colonel got so involved that he even booked a hotel in Fayetteville for the last two weeks of the campaign. Of course Terry Sanford won the Democratic primary, and since there was no organized Republican Party in North Carolina he became the governor-elect.

Cal and I loved to sit and listen to the Colonel’s stories and often thought of clever ways to get him to retell some of our favorites. Even at this early age, I could tell that Cal longed to one day place himself in stories like the Colonel enjoyed telling.

Cal was your typical blue-eyed, blond-headed kid who played the trumpet in the high school band. He also had his own rock and roll band that played weekends at various juke joints looking to increase beer sales by bringing in live music, as people were not as concerned then about beer sales as they are now. Often the band was paid a percentage of the increased beer sales. I guess that his interest in politics led Cal to become class president and the popularity of his band made him very popular with the girls.

Ash’s mother,