Month: April 2018

“Why?” she asked.

I was hitch hiking home, to Charlotte from Chapel Hill, and I was a little down.

It was Thanksgiving of my freshman year at the University of North Carolina and my grades were not as good as I had hope they would be: Two or three “A’s” and  “B’s,” a “C” or two and a “D” in Spanish. School was harder than I had expected, especially Spanish.

When Charles Bernard, the man who gave me a ride, introduced himself, I knew who exactly who he was. He was UNC’s director of admissions. Earlier that year, when I applied for admission, I had written to him a couple of times.

When I told him my name he repeated it, “Stith. You just got out of the Navy, didn’t you?”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“Went to Charlotte Garinger.”

“Yes sir.”

“Didn’t study very hard in high school, did you.”

“No sir, I didn’t,” I said.

My high school Plain Geometry report card
My high school Plain Geometry report card.

I had failed four subjects in high school: Latin, Biology, Plane Geometry and College Algebra. But, just before I got out of the Navy, I had tested OK on the SAT. And, in high school, I had been a National Merit Scholarship semi-finalist. I skipped the test to try to qualify as a finalist after my high school adviser told me that no college in America would give me a scholarship.

Mr. Bernard said his office had written my high school advisor asking whether she thought I ought to be admitted to UNC, and she said, “No.”

But because I had tested OK he figured I could do the work and because I had been in the service he figured that, maybe, I had grown up.  So UNC decided to admit me anyway.

Mr. Bernard said that after his office notified my high school adviser that I had been admitted my advisor wrote back with a question of her own: “Why?”

If I had any doubts about getting my degree, and about graduating in four years, they disappeared right then.

Coming Friday: Black Belt

Don’t You Hate Being Right Sometimes

As soon as the man got out of his SUV, reached into the back seat, and pulled out a big, fat briefcase, I knew what was about to happen.

He was going to try to jack up the price.

I had hired him to cut down two tall trees in our back yard, next to our house. The job had not gone smoothly — he had dropped an enormous limb through the roof of our utility building. No big deal, really. His insurance company paid to repair the roof.

He had telephoned me at office that morning, wanting to be paid for the work he had done.

I said, sure, send me an invoice.

He said he needed his money that day, right away.  He wanted to drive to our house and get a check from my wife, Donna.

I said, “No, come to The News & Observer and I’ll pay you.” That’s where I worked.  And then he said something really odd, something like, “You don’t let your wife write checks?” or words to that effect. Not a good sign.

I told him my wife was not at home and he agreed to meet in front of The N&O at noon.

He was late and I told three friends to go on to lunch without me. I’d catch up in a few minutes.

When tree cutter arrived and walked up to the front door of The N&O with his big, fat briefcase I handed him a check for $1,400.

“What’s this?” he said.

“It’s your pay for cutting down those trees,” I said.

He said he I owed him $1,500, as I knew he would, that or some other number higher than the number we had agreed on.

“Do you know what I do for living?” I asked. “I talked to people like you every day. I write down what they say. You said $1,400.”

Without another word he folded my check, stuck it in his shirt pocket, picked up his fat briefcase –which he carried, no doubt, to make customers think he had his mess together–  got back in his SUV, and drove away.

I walked a block to the Berkeley Cafe on Martin Street and joined my friends.   During lunch one of them asked, “Do you guys know where I can find somebody to cut down some trees?”

I didn’t.

Coming Monday: “Why?” She Asked