Last October, I was in Lincolnton, North Carolina to attend my
Uncle Foy’s funeral.  It was not a particularly sad funeral as he
had lived a full life during his eighty-seven years, and everyone
agreed that he had been a fine Christian man and was headed to
his heavenly reward.  Two of my first cousins, Jim and John,
both from Hendersonville, North Carolina, and both sons of my
Aunt Quartez, were there.  We and the other cousins had some
good fellowship together.  During our conversations, the topic
of the US Civil War was introduced.  Then I mentioned to them:
“Did you know there is a Civil War general buried right here in
Lincolnton?”  They looked surprised.  As we left for the service,
Jim, John and I stopped by to visit his gravesite just several
blocks from where Uncle Foy’s funeral was being conducted.

Now let’s go back to 1954 when we first moved to Gastonia.  In
Rockingham, I usually made mostly A’s & B’s in my schoolwork.  
The first year in Gastonia, I was making mostly D’s and F’s.  
What was the matter?  Was Gastonia that much harder than
Rockingham?  No!  I had an adjustment problem that I hadn’t
solved yet.  I was resentful that my parent’s had moved me from
the pleasant surroundings of Rockingham to the vastly different
and industrialized big city of Gastonia.  I had all the makings of
a juvenile delinquent, but thankfully I was too smart for that.  
My father had moved to Gastonia to take a manager’s job with
an insurance company, which provided the family with a little
better financial situation.  He had left his job with Sunshine
Biscuit Company shortly before we left Rockingham.  I did get
interested in junior high football, and I did a little better in my
school work the following year.  But I still had many problems.  
My father was able to get Uncle Foy a job with his insurance
company; but being a relative, he was not allowed to work
directly for my father.  So Uncle Foy moved from
Hendersonville to Lincolnton just fifteen miles north of
Gastonia, but worked for another manager headquartered in
Gastonia along with my father.

My mother mentioned her problem (me) to her brother Foy.  He
was physically one of those tough men that I associate with
eating nails for breakfast.  To say this in a different way, Uncle
Foy was not the type of man you would want to cross.  He was a
fine Christian man, but he scared me just a little.  I sure knew I
didn’t want him mad with me.  He suggested that I go back to
Lincolnton and stay with his family that summer (1956).  He
said he knew of a man who was looking for a young boy to work
in his bicycle shop.  Uncle Foy’s son and my first cousin,
Coleman, two years my senior, discovered this job as he was
looking for his own summer job, but he later found a better
paying job at a Red & White super market.  So off I went to
Lincolnton, and the next day we went to see Mr. John Ramseur
at “Keever and Ramseur’s” Bicycle Shop.  I had just finished the
eighth grade only a day or two before, so I had the entire
summer to work and save up some money for school that fall.  I
never intended to stay there past the summer, but Uncle Foy
said I needed to stay there until I got myself straightened out.  I
was subject to the same discipline rules as was Uncle Foy’s own
children; they were somewhat tougher than I was used to
enduring at home.

Mr. John Ramseur, age sixty-five, had just retired from a
traveling salesman’s job for a company based in Charlotte.  Mr.
Keever had been one of Mr. Ramseur’s customers; so they knew
each other quite well.  They had just recently become partners
in this bicycle business.  Thus “Keever’s Bicycle Shop” became
“Keever & Ramseur’s Bicycle Shop.”  Mr. Keever was in his mid-
eighties, but he still worked forty-hour weeks.  He did go home
every day at exactly noon to eat lunch with his wife.  My job was
to do anything everyone else didn’t want to do.  My salary was 35
cents per hour; the minimum wage for adults in small
businesses was 50 cents per hour back in 1956.  There was one
other employee, Mr. Stamey, the bicycle mechanic, who was
also close to eighty.  They had a good business as they were the
only true bicycle shop in town except for the Western Auto
Store, but Western Auto didn’t do repairs like we did.  Our shop
would take trade-ins on new bicycles.  They didn’t have foreign
bicycle imports back in those days; all of the bicycles we sold
were made in the United States.  A new top of the line and fully
equipped bicycle costs about fifty dollars.  I don’t think they
make bicycles in America today.  Anyhow, Mr. Ramseur or Mr.
Keever would allow a five-dollar trade-in for an old bicycle even
if it were not working.  They might go as high as ten dollars if
the trade-in was in particularly good shape.  My principal job
was to strip down these old bicycles, and then help Mr. Stamey
rebuild them.  I sanded the frames and straightened or replaced
bent fenders.  Then I painted the frames and the fenders.  You
could have any color you wanted as long as it was red.  We did
put several inches of white paint on the tip of the front fender to
make it look a little sporty.  We would use all the old parts we
could as we rebuilt it, but we occasionally had to use a new
chain or new ball bearings.  It would take me at most a half-day
to do what I did to a bicycle.  Mr. Stamey would show me how to
do some of the other things, but he did most of that himself.  He
might spend an hour on it.  So for the $1.40 they paid me and
about $2 they paid Mr. Stamey, plus about 50 cents for paint and
other miscellaneous things, they had less than $9 invested in
this rebuilt bicycle they then sold for $29.  And we sold these
rebuilt bicycles just about as fast as we could produce them.  If
we had to replace a tire or an inner tube, the $9 could become
$11 or $12.  Now you see why they needed me.  I averaged one
rebuilt bicycle per day; plus I did a lot of other things such as
sweeping, dusting and cleaning.

They also sold and serviced sewing machines, but I never got
involved with that. The sewing machines we sold were made in
Japan.  We had several brands, but the “Brother” brand stands
out in my mind.  Mr. Keever was the one who handled this part
of the business in a little alcove to the right as you entered the
store.  He also did repairs on sewing machines.  Some poor little
lady would come in with her sewing machine that wouldn’t
work.  He would doodle with it for about five minutes, and it
was miraculously fixed.  He would charge them a quarter or
maybe seventy-five cent for the more difficult cases.  He would
put this loose change in a large coffee can that he kept on a
shelf in plane sight near his work area.  This can had a lot of
loose change in it.   

After about a month, they allowed me to help wait on
customers, especially if a third one came in while the two
owners were tied up with the first two.  They allowed me to use
the cash register whenever I made a sale.  Remember I was just
barely fourteen.  I did sell at least one bicycle, but mostly I sold
new tires, inner tubes and bicycle chains.  I was feeling pretty
good about myself even if I was only making $14 per week.  
Working for a living really gives you pride in yourself.  The only
way for a young person to learn this is to actually experience it.  
Mr. Ramseur usually went to lunch at one PM right after Mr.
Keever came back.  

Then finally it happened toward the end of July.  Mr. Stamey
was on vacation that week.  Mr. Keever went home to lunch
with his wife at exactly twelve noon as he had done without fail
for the past sixty years.  Mr. Ramseur needed to be somewhere
else important at twelve o’clock that day.  So they left me alone
to tend the store while they were out.  They sure were mighty
trusting of a fourteen-year-old boy whom they had known for
less than two months.  I assume that they considered
themselves good judges of character.  What is character?  Vince
Lombardi, formally the head coach of the Green Bay Packers
once said: “REPUTATION is what others think of you;
CHARACTER is what you think of yourself.”  Character is
certainly your sense of right and wrong and how you deal with
other people not only in times of relaxation and comfort but
also in times of stress and crisis.  Here I was alone in this large
store with full access to the cash register and to Mr. Keever’s
coffee can.  I knew they had controls on the cash register;
therefore, they would know if I were to take money from it.  
However, even Mr. Keever didn’t know how much money was in
the coffee can.  I did think about it, but I am happy to report to
you that I did not yield to temptation that day.  I am still very
proud of that.  About a week after this, they raised my pay to
fifty cents per hour.  So maybe Mr. Keever did know how much
money was in his coffee can.

Now who was Stephen Dodson Ramseur?  Well for one thing he
was Mr. John Ramseur’s grandfather.  Another thing is that he
was a Major General during the US Civil War.  He was killed in
the battle at Cedar Creek, near Middletown, Virginia in October
1864.  Middletown is about half way between Winchester and
Front Royal, Virginia up in the Shenandoah Valley.  He was
twenty-seven at the time of his death.  He was notified of the
birth of his son as he lay dying from his wounds.  He graduated
from West Point in 1860.  He went from Second Lieutenant to
Major General in just four years.  He is buried in the
Presbyterian Church graveyard in downtown Lincolnton, North
Carolina not far from where he grew up as a boy.  The town of
Ramseur, North Carolina in Randolph County just ten miles
east of Asheboro and maybe seventy-five miles north of
Rockingham is named in his honor.  Back in 1956 when I was
working in Lincolnton, I noticed the state historical marker
denoting that General Ramseur was buried three blocks north
of that sign.  I did venture over to visit his grave back then.  It
was years later when I found out that the man I worked for was
his grandson.

I worked at the bicycle shop that year until Christmas.  But I
was soon able to get a job in Gastonia; so I didn’t have to
commute those fifteen miles.  Within several years, Mr. Keever
died.  Mr. Ramseur kept the store open for another ten years
until he sold the business to a third party.  Uncle Foy told me
Mr. Ramseur had died about five years after that.  I did visit
with them several times after I left, and I got to see Mr. Keever
at least one more time and Mr. Ramseur three or four more
times.  I never was able to see Mr. Stamey again as he retired
soon after I left.  That business is long gone today although the
building still stands.

I did come back to Gastonia that autumn for the start of the
ninth grade.  I was able to get my grades back to a higher level
that year as I finished the school year with at least a “B” in all
my subjects including French and Algebra.