I was saddened to read about Gerald Lear (RHS ' 67) passing away in late June of
this year.  My condolences and prayers go out to Gerald's family over their loss.  I was
pleased to read that Gerald was involved in two churches.  Having not seen Gerald
since high school, I cannot imagine his involvement with church and Gerald not being
a Christian.  In high school when Gerald got involved, he got totally involved.  Gerald
and I stepped on the grounds of Rockingham High School enrolled in the same
freshman class.  However, Gerald was so deeply involved with high school, he decided
to stay an extra year.  Gerald had accomplished a task that the majority of high school
students never achieve.  He studied American Literature and the ends and outs of the
English language for five years. However, I refuse to give Gerald up to the class of "67;
he will always be a member of the Class of '66, the greatest class ever to walk the halls
of Rockingham High School.  Even though I had not seen Gerald for thirty-nine
years, I still have fond memories of my times and life with Gerald Lear.

   Gerald was synonymous with the community of Cordova.  I cannot picture Cordova
without Gerald nor can I picture Gerald without Cordova.  Cordova Grammar School
was a big rival of Roberdel Grammar School, the school of my childhood.  Roberdel
like Cordova had a textile plant in addition to all the traditional North Carolina rural
traits.  Both communities had a mill village and farm life.  Both communities centered
their social lives around the churches and the one grammar school in each
neighborhood.  However, the two schools were each other's most fierce competitor in
all student competitions especially in athletics.  The rivalry was so intense on the
baseball diamond and the football field that the mere mention of the name Coble or
Wright or Coward or Dawkins or Diggs or Lowery or Lunsford or Gainey or Pence or
Lear made the hair stand up on the back of any Roberdel boy's neck who had ever
stepped in the batter's box or laced up the shoulder pads.  Yet on the other hand, the
large city campus crawling with city kids dressed more fashionably climbing out of
Mom's station wagon was quite a contrast from the blue collar rural kids from the
county schools stepping off a ninety minute bus ride.  Suddenly, the common threads
of the county school fed students from Roberdel and Cordova and yes, even Pee Dee
wove us into comrades.  We came from small populated campuses whose combined
populations had fewer students than the large city L J Bell Grammar School. Our
small schools at Cordova and Roberdel were only one story structures while
Rockingham High was a  "skyscraper"; furthermore, the top floor of RHS housed the
jr. high in the city school system.  Consequently, we were about to enter high school
trying to match up against the "home team" city school students with the home field
advantage.  County country boy farm boys and lint-heads versus slick street smart city
slickers; Roberdel, Cordova, Pee Dee versus L J Bell - my gosh, did I just say we
Roberdel grads were teammates of Cordova? Unbelievable, Go Comets!

   Over the course of four years, the different backgrounds and roots we came from all
seem to dissolve in our love and concern for each other as we all tried to live the RHS
motto - "All for each.  Each for all."  Each arrived with different alliances perhaps but
all certainly left as a Rocket.  No one made the transition with more conviction than
Cordova's Gerald Lear.

   I first met Gerald in a ninth grade physical education class.  Gerald's dry wit was
enhanced and highlighted by his delivery.  I never will forget the first day gym
uniforms were issued.  Gerald had the whole class in stitches as he cracked about our
jock straps.  He complained about the straps being defective because of missing
zippers.  He made hilarious comments  about sizing for proper fit.  Gerald established
himself in that ninth grade p. e. class as a country boy class cut-up who never met a
stranger and who could break down any personality conflicts with his quick wit and
humor.

   In the tenth grade, I decided to get my school bus driver's license.  I could use the
extra money.  Bus drivers were paid $1.50 per day or more simply broken down, $.75
for driving home from school and $.75 for driving back to school. I was a substitute
bus driver because I enjoyed driving different buses on different routes.  Driving the
different routes allowed me to see where my friends lived and allowed me to meet
their little brothers and sisters.

   Principal J.C. Mulkey called me to his office and asked me to drive a bus route to
Cordova that afternoon.  When the 3:30 bell rang, everyone hurried to get on the bus.
 As I sat in the driver's seat, who should step on the bus but Gerald himself.  Was I
glad to see him!  I asked Gerald to sit in the front seat behind me and backseat guide
me to avoid overrunning any stops.  Our first stop was at Cordova Elementary School
where kids filled up the remainder of the bus.  As I traveled down strange roads in the
Wolfpit township following Gerald's directions, I got a history lesson as well as a
personal analysis and crystal ball forecast of every kid's future that got off that bus as
Gerald rattled incessantly.  He made me feel like I had lived in Cordova all of my life.  
After riding on a wide dirt road for about three miles and seeing no signs of
civilization, I began to wonder if Gerald had gotten lost in his storytelling conversation
and had gotten the busload of us lost as well.  Suddenly, a lone tobacco barn appeared
about a hundred yards ahead.  Gerald advised me to stop at the tobacco barn.  Surely
Gerald was throwing out some of his country boy humor.  However, as I looked back
in the wide rear view mirror at Gerald, I could that he was serious.  Following school
bus driver Standard Operational Procedures, I threw out my stop sign, slowed down,
came to a stop, checked my mirrors in all directions, and looked ahead for on-coming
traffic, looked for trailing traffic, and finally opened the bus door.  A little boy and his
younger sister came down the aisle, out the door, crossed in front of the bus and
stepped onto the two rut road that ran alongside the tobacco barn.  Gerald told me
their home was back in the woods at the end of the road.  It just could not get any
more backwoods than this.  This desolate bus stop gave a new definition to the phase
"in the sticks".  As I sat in that driver's seat somewhat lost in time myself at the
remoteness of the stop, Gerald brought me back to reality with a question.  "Bobby?"

   "Yeah Gerald."

   In his Andy Griffith common sense, Barney Fife inquisitiveness, Gomer Pyle
country drawl Gerald asked, "Why did you put out your stop sign?  I have been riding
this bus since the first grade and have never seen a car on this road.  No one else lives
on this road.  Who were you stopping?"

   I thought for a minute before I answered.  Who was I stopping?  The broad dirt road
stretched ahead as far as the naked eye could see.  Through my side view mirrors the
road behind me seem to disappear into infinity.  Gerald was right. If not for us,
human life was null and void in the world at this time in this place.  I could say
nothing but look at Gerald and grin at his dry-witted observation.   

   The next morning I left McDonald Community long before daylight. I probably
drove about forty-five minutes at 35 MPH before I reached my first stop.  While all
alone with no one to talk to, I thought about the humor and logic of Gerald Lear not
only from the afternoon before but in the short time since I first met him in that ninth
grade health/p.e. class. As kids filed on the bus when I made my stops, I refused to let
anyone sit in the seat behind me.  I still needed Gerald's instructions as I drove the
route in reverse order from the afternoon before.  Gerald knew how far I had driven
since I had let him off at his home the day before and made some crack about running
out of gas before we reached RHS, simply just another Geraldism observation that no
one else would have thought of but Gerald.  Like all other Geraldisms, it brought a
grin across my face.

   As I looked out the front windshield ahead while traveling the wide dirt road again, I
could see the tobacco barn in the distance far ahead.  As I got closer and closer, I could
see the little boy and his younger sister under the lean shelter of the barn waiting for
their bus.  Approaching the bus stop, I slowed down, came to a complete stop,
checked my mirrors in all directions, looked ahead for on-coming traffic, looked
behind for trailing traffic, and finally opened the door.  Here we were again, a ' 59
GMC school bus sitting alone in the middle of the Wolfpit wilderness far removed
from civilization.  The little guy and his smaller sister struggled to reach the high, first
step but pulled themselves up and went to the back of the bus.  Once they were
seated, I closed the bus door and started rolling down the forsaken dirt road.  I never
had to pull the stop sign of the bus back in; after all, I never threw it out.  I glanced
into my bus rearview mirror.  I caught Gerald's eye as we both simultaneously broke
out into big country boy grins!

   Just like Mayberry , the moral of this encounter provided a true life lesson of
common sense and humor in a mundane situation of two country boys in a part of the
world significant only to them and others who lived there.  More importantly, these
circumstances bonded a friendship that began in a ninth grade classroom.  Now
everytime I see a bus stop sign extended, I think of that Wolfpit bus stop and the
friendship that Gerald Lear and I had.  I would like to think that Gerald did also.  A
simple school bus sign brings back memories of a friendship started nearly forty years
ago - yes, those precious childhood memories of growing up in Rockingham, North
Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the ' 50s & the ' 60s.