As Rockingham’s own Bucky Covington sings it is now truly A Different World   than
the world of the ‘50s and ‘60s we grew up in as kids.  Riding mower versus push
mower, clothes dryer versus clothesline, vacuum versus broom, and microwave
versus stove are but a few of the time-saving and labor-saving devices that have been
in existence so long that presently they seem archaic.  The kids of the ‘60s never saw
such wonderful creations.  The time we saved was created by just plain arising earlier
and working harder and faster.  This leisure we baby boomers earned was absorbed by
the modern television.  The television became our window to the world.  We could
actually sit in our living rooms in Rockingham and celebrate with the fifty-eight
thousand fans in Yankee Stadium in unison the exact moment in time as Mickey
Mantle’s winning homerun blast cleared the centerfield fence.  Television could
actually place you in the midst as an eyewitness.  Unlike our parents who could only
imagine anguished looks of pain on the face of a gunshot victim as he lay dying on the
sidewalk while listening to “Only The Shadow Knows” on the family radio, we could
sit on our couch and see the bad guy gasp for his last breath on the dusty streets of
Dodge after being shot by Marshal Matt Dillon.  Yes, the time we saved was used to
watch Gunsmoke on Saturday nights, Walt Disney Presents on Sunday evenings, and
the family western Bonanza on Sunday nights.

  The only constant over the decades of labor-saving and time-saving inventions has
been the number twenty-four.  Twenty-four hours in a day never change, no matter
what city, state, nation, or continent we find ourselves in.  Time stands still for no
one.  Regardless of social status, financial standing, age or gender, God gives everyone
twenty-four hours in a day.  What we do with those twenty-four hours is our
decision.  The world of today is so complex compared to the simple times we boomers
grew up in.  Even today with so many available opportunities, our day still contains
only twenty-four hours.  So much to do and such little time to do it in is the
predicament everyone in today’s society faces.  Planning your day with an
appointment calendar is the only way to meet the challenges of a modern world.  I
now make an appointment with my barber for a haircut.  I can still remember crawling
out of our family ‘53 Plymouth and walking into the Skyland Terrace Barbershop with
my dad and two brothers.  The exact time I climbed up into Charles Gibson’s red
barber chair depended on how many customers in the shop were already seated and
waiting their turn when I walked through the front door.  In today’s world if I want to
carry my wife out to dine, I need to call and call early to make a reservation.  I can still
remember pulling into the parking lot of Webb’s Fish Camp with my parents and two
brothers while slobbering at the mouth for fried shrimp and hush puppies.  Yet, the
exact time those tasty delicacies passed through my lips was determined by the length
of the waiting line of hungry customers out the front door.  Now I stay totally
confused by the appointments of four medical specialists I see and their required
follow-ups.  In today’s busy world even your family doctor does not have time to see
you if your health concerns are not covered by his small umbrella.  Do doctors
circulate all patients with good insurance coverage through their pyramid chain?  I
wonder.  All four specialists recently determined I had no major problems that my
general physician could not handle.  On January 4, 1948, in Rockingham I met Doctor
C.O. Bristow.  That cold winter night was the date in history I came down the chute
and out of my mama’s womb.  Twenty-four years later when I left Rockingham,
Doctor Bristow was still the only doctor I had ever seen.  I can still remember driving
downtown and walking into his office on East Washington Street just a few doors
down from Hallum Furniture Store.  He had no receptionist.  Sometimes, I had to
shout out his name before he would shuffle out from his patient quarters in the rear. 
In fifteen minutes, I bounced out of his office onto the streets of my hometown
feeling almost cured of my runny nose, sore throat, and head cold I had when I
walked in.  With a shot of the miracle drug penicillin in the same butt that Doctor
Bristow slapped the life into me and with some grandfatherly medical advice, I knew
my perfect health would return overnight.  Life was so simple back then.  I did not
need an appointment or reservation to see a doctor.  In fact, I can remember when I
was too sick to go downtown… Doctor Bristow came to my house at 3 AM when I was
ten years old to diagnose and announce to my parents that my appendix had burst.

  Yes, life was so simple when we were boys and girls back in the ‘60s.  As Bucky sings,
“It wasn’t just a different time, it was a different world.”  Maybe life is still laid back in
Rockingham but I doubt it.  I know it is extremely hectic for a family of husband, wife,
and three girls in Hope Mills, a small bedroom town just outside of Fayetteville, the
fifth largest city in the state.  My wife with an 8½ X 11 calendar at her side is the
McDonald Family Social Chairperson.  If it is not on Sally’s calendar, it does not
happen in a timely and efficient manner.  Yes, give me the good ‘ole days when
“reservations required” were not needed for the McDonald household.  I can still
remember the time and characters involved in the first reservation made in
Rockingham and probably the first ever made in Richmond County.

  Back in the late ‘60s my home church McDonald Baptist was without a pastor.  The
church deacons called a business meeting and the church elected a pulpit committee. 
The pulpit committee consisted of five or six men who left home early Sunday
morning with a destination arrival time of 10:55 AM with the goal of finding a
replacement pastor for the dearly departed reverend who pulled up stakes and left his
Christian brothers and sisters high and dry.  Their sole purpose was to arrive just in
time to hear the organ prelude and see the preacher step up into the pulpit.  Once the
committee heard the sermon, they hastily retreated to their car and to return to their
home church.  Before they left for home, the guys ate lunch at their church’s expense
at a local restaurant.  Most experienced pulpit committee members can recommend
the best fried chicken restaurants in the South.  It is almost a guarantee that an
experienced pulpit committee will not make a decision during their first restaurant
…er … church visit.  Sometimes it might take several months to find the right
preacher.  Once the committee reaches a unanimous decision on the pastor who best
fits their congregational needs, the committee  then makes a return trip to form a
second opinion.  After the sermon if everyone still gives the thumbs up signal, the
committee then makes a return trip to the previously visited restaurant with the
preacher in tow.  If the pastor orders Southern fried chicken, it is a sign from God that
the brother was called to be a Baptist preacher.  With this holy confirmation, the
pastor is invited to render a trial sermon before the home congregation.  After
rendering the sermon before the prospective congregation, the preacher is then
shuffled to a soundproof room while the “card-carrying” church members vote to hire
or not hire the visiting pastor.  Methodist replacement procedure is not as nearly
complicated.  Methodist Headquarters simply rotates their preachers every five or six
years.

After only a few fried chicken lunches, McDonald Baptist extended the call to
Reverend Richard (Dick) Whitley.  Mr. and Mrs. Whitley brought their family of two
teenage daughters and a younger son to Rockingham in late 1968.  The older
daughter Sue was in college while the younger daughter Carolyn was in high school.  I
was slightly older than Sue but her mother quickly informed me that Sue had a
boyfriend named Norman Russ.  She said Norman was crazy about Sue and Sue was
crazy about Norman.  Carolyn was known to all her friends by her nickname, Skeeter. 
She was just old enough for me to date that following summer of ’69 that I was home
from NC State.  All Skeeter talked about was Norman.  One Friday afternoon Skeeter
called me.  “Norman is here and Mama wants you to come over and meet
him.”                  
                                                                        
”I pulled into the parsonage driveway and parked behind a navy ’56 two door Chevy
Bel Air.  Even in 1969, a ’56 Bel Air was a cool ride.  While walking up to the door, I
looked back at the Chevy and noticed that the front bumper was missing.  Norman
later told me it ran faster without the front bumper.  Who knows?  Norman may have
rammed something and tore the bumper off.  Yet as heavy as a Bel Air bumper was in
1956 and as likeable and convincing as Norman was, I believed him.  I knocked on the
door and Sue answered.  “Hi Bob!  Come on in and meet Norman.”

  “It’s nice to meet you Norman!  I’ve heard a lot about you.  My name is Bob,” I said
as I introduced myself.  Norman somewhat matched his car.  He was a throwback to
an earlier time with dark hair darkened even more by an ample application of Vitalis
Hair Tonic.  Occasionally, Norman would whip out his comb in the Kookie Burns
style and stroke the sides of his head into an Elvis Pressley ducktail.  His ’56 Chevy
hotrod of an earlier decade just added to his James Dean persona.  Yet, underneath
this charade was just a good ‘ole boy.  Furthermore, Norman grew up in the rural area
of Cumberland County in a family of eight children, two boys and six girls.  He was
also a member of Judson Baptist Church, a country church from which our chicken-
eating pulpit committee lured Reverend Whitley to Rockingham.  Norman was full of
wit and enjoyed giving and receiving a good joke as evidenced by his knee-slapping,
belly-rolling laugh.  I just liked Norman from the get-go.  I think he enjoyed me as
much as I enjoyed him.  We just meshed like lifetime-long friends.

  Norman did not mind telling me the social advantages that a large city like
Fayetteville had over a small town like Rockingham not to mention all the foreign
cuisines available to the palate in the culturally diverse military town of
“Fayettenam.”  Norman’s reflections on Fayetteville made my hometown seem
smaller and smaller as he described Fayetteville nightlife.  Yet, I saw an opening for a
date activity with a different twist probably not found in Fayetteville when Norman
asked, “What does a dating couple do for entertainment in a small town like
Rockingham?  I’ve read your little newspaper.  It’s called the Richmond County
Journal, I think.  I have already seen the movies playing at the Strand and the
Richmond Theater about two months ago in Fayetteville.”

  “Well Norman, the Hamlet American Legion Post 49 baseball team is playing out of
town,” I explained.  “The Danko Family has closed the miniature golf course for the
week and gone on vacation to Myrtle Beach.  No races are scheduled at Rockingham
Speedway on Friday nights, just on Saturdays.  Why it is even too hot to fish!”

  “What about bowling?  Does this little town have a bowling alley?” Norman
sarcastically asked.  Bingo!!!  He went right down the path I was attempting to lead
him. 

  “Why yes, Norman,” I enthusiastically answered.  “Not many bowling alleys like
ours still exist in America.  You are in for a real treat!  People drive from miles around
to bowl at the Rockingham Bowling Alley.”

  “What is so unusual about these lanes?  We have two large lanes in Fayetteville. 
Almost every year a state tournament is held at one of these centers.”  Double
Bingo!!!  Curiosity killed the cat!  Norman was nibbling hard at my bait.

  “Have you ever bowled the old-fashioned way?” I quizzed with a smile.

  “What do you mean by ‘the old-fashioned way’?  You don’t mean bowling at
duckpins out on the grass like the people who invented bowling did, do you?” laughed
Norman.

  “No, I was not suggesting quite that far back but your guess is not far from being
right,” I said with a deadpanned face.  “I’m talking about bowling with real live in-the-
flesh pinsetters.”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?” asked Sue.  “I’ve never seen that before.”

  “Yeah, four old guys have been doing it for years.  They can sweep a lane and set up
pins quicker and more accurately than any machine Brunswick has ever made.  Not
many of these old geezers are still around but Rockingham is fortunate to have four. 
What is so funny is that all four refuse to train and share their skills with anyone no
matter who wants to be taught.  The money Mr. Welch, the owner, would spend
buying one automatic pinsetter would be more than the salaries he would pay these
guys in a five year period.  It’s a win-win situation for everyone involved.

  “Unbelievable!  That is totally unbelievable!” Norman echoed in amazement.  “That
settles it.  We are going bowling!  Would you like to come?  You, Skeeter, Sue, and I
will have a blast.”

  “No thanks.  The Foxport Gang is camping out tonight at Sam (RHS ’69) and Fulton’
s (RHS ’64) house.  It is our first overnighter at the Haigler’s this summer.  I’ll be with
my boys tonight,” I declared.  “I need to hurry to the Winn-Dixie and buy some
weenies before the grocery store closes.  Maybe we can all bowl together your next trip
to Rockingham. I have to run.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” Sue graciously said.  “I know nothing about Rockingham now. 
Maybe I will be able to find my way around after this summer.”

  “By the way,” I added as I stopped before leaving out the back door, “Tonight is
traditionally the opening night of the Rocket Summer League.  The house will be
packed.  Only a couple of the lanes will be available.  I suggest you call and reserve a
lane.  Reservations are required if you are going to bowl tonight.”  

  “Thanks Bob!” Norman acknowledged.  “My buddies will never believe me when I
return home.  Sue, do you think I can borrow your mama’s Polaroid?”

  “Yes Norman,” Sue replied, “Especially if it is for something as strange and unusual
as real live, breathing pinsetters.  Only in Rockingham…!”

  “When you call, be sure to ask if all of his pinsetters are working,” I advised.  “I
understand one of the old men had his gout to flare up.  If all four cannot show up,
Mr. Welch may just close the public lanes tonight and cater to the Rocket Summer
League only.”  I gave Norman directions to the bowling alley before I turned around
and walked out the door with a smirk on my face.

  As Norman pulled his ’56 Chevy off Highway 74 into the Rockingham Bowling Alley
entrance, he was shocked.  Only one lonely car stood in the parking lot.  “Sue, what is
going on?  Bob said the bowling alley booms on Friday nights.  Tonight is opening
night for the Rocket Summer League.  Where is everyone?  Only one car…  Is it open?
Is anyone inside?” Norman asked in a tone of panic.   

  “I don’t know, Norman,” Sue answered.  “I see lights on inside.  The building looks
almost too small to be a bowling alley.”

  “Wait, look at that sign on the front of the building,” Norman exclaimed as he
pointed to a sign that read “PARKING IN THE REAR.”  “I bet everyone has parked
behind the building.  We won’t be here that long.  We should be in and out quickly
since we don’t have to stand around and wait for a lane.  I’m glad Bob told us about
their lane reservation policy.  I wish the bowling alleys back in Fayetteville would
reserve lanes over the telephone.  We’ll just park in front,” Norman told Sue as he
parked within a few feet of the door. 

  Being the courting gentleman that he was, Norman shut the front passenger door of
his Bel Air after Sue exited the Chevy.  Norman, with Polaroid in hand, scooted up the
front steps to open and hold the front door for his true love to pass through.  As Sue
stepped inside onto the welcome mat, she proclaimed, “No one is here.  The place is
empty!”

  “Wait Sue,” Norman reasoned.  “You keep forgetting.  It is opening night for the
Rocket Summer League.  Everyone is probably still in the conference room
nominating and electing league officers and discussing league rules.  You know that is
what we do on opening night back in Fayetteville.  Let’s rent some shoes and get a
jump on that league crowd,” Norman said as he and Sue strolled up to the front
counter.  Sitting on a stool looking like the lonely Maytag repairman was Jimmy “”
Juice” Welch (RHS ’68).

  Jimmy’s dad, Cleo Welch, owned the bowling alley.  It was always fun to go bowling
when Juice ran the cash register.  If his daddy was away from the alley, Juice let me
and my Foxport Gang bowl all afternoon for the price of a shoe rental and one game. 
We bowled left-handed, through our legs like a football center, and occasionally like a
normal person.  We did crazy things like running over the foul line six feet before
releasing the ball or did not take a step at all and released the ball from behind the
score table while standing on the tile floor of the pit.  We slid across the foul line on
our butts and we slid across the foul line on our stomachs.  My brother Ken (RHS ’68)
had a favorite stunt.  He would approach the foul line wearing glasses with no lenses. 
Ken had purchased these reading glasses for three dollars from Roses Five and Dime
located in beautiful downtown Rockingham and removed the lenses.  Once Ken
reached the foul line, he dropped the ball into the gutter only ten feet after it left his
hand.  “No!  No!  Not again!” he would shout as he pulled his glasses with no lenses
off his head and slammed them to the floor in disgust.  For ten frames or as long as
another group was bowling near us, Ken kept up this charade.  Those bowlers, not
aware that Ken’s glasses were missing lenses, were astounded that anyone could
become so frustrated that he would try to destroy something as valuable and
necessary as glasses.  The more they were shocked, the harder the Foxport Gang and
Juice laughed.  We were just kids having fun.

  “What size shoes?” Juice asked as Norman approached the cash register. 

  “Size 9 double E and size six regular,” Norman answered.  “Are all your pinsetters
working tonight?” 

  “Where did this guy come up with a question like that?” Jimmy thought to himself. 
“Of course they are, sir.  I would have a bad night if just one was not working.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been told.  We’re looking forward to bowling here.  I
understand just watching your pinsetters working is worth the price of admission
alone.  By the way, my name is Norman Russ.  I called earlier today for six o’clock
reservations.”

  “Yeah, I remember that call. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Juice said as
he grinned from ear-to-ear.  “You must not be from around here.”

  “Nope, I’m from Fayetteville,” Norman answered with a metropolitan flare.  “We
don’t have pinsetters like yours in Fayetteville.  That’s why I’m excited to bowl here. 
Which lane is our reservation on and what is the name of our pinsetter?”

  “Juice broke into uncontrollable laughter and while between gasps for air said, “I’ve
got ten lanes.  Which lane do you want to bowl on?  Since you asked, my pinsetter is
Brunswick, the best money can buy!  Shoes are a buck-fifty.  If you want one of my
world famous sausage dogs, give me about a twenty minute notice.  I’ll have to pull
my last package of sausages out of the freezer.  Buy one, get one free tonight only. 
The expiration date on the package is today.  I’ll have to throw the whole pack away
tomorrow if I can’t sell them all tonight.  On second thought, buy one, get two free!
Enjoy yourselves and y’all come back to Rockingham anytime.” 

  “Sue, we’ve been had!” Norman concluded.  Yes, no one parked in the rear of the
building that night.  Yes, no summer league opened up that night.  In fact, the Rocket
Summer League did not even exist.  Yes, ten pinsetters were present that night and
yes, all ten were named Brunswick, the best automatic pinsetters money can buy. 
Yes, Juice later acknowledged that a stranger from Fayetteville did make a reservation
to bowl that night in the summer of ’69.  With this confirmation, Norman now has his
name in the Guinness Book of Richmond County Records as the first confirmed
reservation in Richmond County.  Perhaps “reservations required” is now a reality in
Richmond County.  Perhaps it is not.  I do not know because I have not lived there in
thirty-five plus years.  Regardless, Norman’s historical request is now recorded in
cyberspace history for posterity with the posting of this true adventure.  As Paul
Harvey would say, “Now, you know the rest of the story!”  The rest of the story is only
one of my precious childhood memories of growing up in Rockingham, North
Carolina – a small textile town in the South in the ‘50s & ‘60s.



Anecdote to memory

I dated Skeeter only a few more times that summer but my bond with Norman and
Sue grew stronger and stronger.  I discovered that Norman was not an urban
playboy but was a good ‘ole God fearing, redneck country boy.  That role was and
still is the reason we are such good friends. He graduated from Stedman High School
in a class of ninety three.  Stedman was a small town much like Ellerbe with a
stoplight, a post office, and a lot of good country folk.  This common ground we share
has made our friendship bond even tighter over time.  After all, birds of a feather do
flock together.  Norman married Sue in August of 1971 and four months later, I
married Sally.

My profession (textiles) and Norman’s profession (toolmaker/machinist) moved
both of us across North Carolina at different times in our careers.  Our paths crossed
several times and each meeting strengthened our friendship bond.  However, at one
time, we temporarily lost contact with each other.  Once again textiles had moved me
this time to Fayetteville.  As we visited Lafayette Baptist Church while looking for a
church home, we were shocked to find Sue sitting on the church organ bench and
Norman singing in the church choir.  That reunion took place in 1975.  Sally and I
joined Lafayette and have been active members along with Sue and Norman ever
since.

Our relationship has grown deeper than just acquaintances.  We love their children
and they love our children.  Sue is now Sally’s best friend and Norman is now my best
friend.  Only five miles separate our residences now and neither one of us have
intentions of ever moving again. 

Our friendship has seen the world come a long way in technology.  Norman would
shout out during the citizens band radio era, “Breaker, breaker for the Toolmaker!”
and I would answer, “Breaker, breaker, Toolmaker!  Get back to the Big Mac!”   Now
we sit in our dens in front of a computer and communicate through cyberspace. 
Throughout the many years of our friendship we have told what seems like hundreds
of church members and friends about that fateful night in Rockingham during the
summer of ’69.  We both knee-slap and belly-roll with as much laughter as though
this memory happened for the first time just last night.  This memory still lives in
Cumberland County, only one of the precious childhood memories of growing up in
Rockingham, North Carolina – a small textile town in the South in the ‘50s & ‘60s.