Do You Want to See the Launch?

 On February 20, 1962, one week before my eighth birthday, my daddy woke me up very early with the words, “Do you want to see the launch?”

 

He only had to say it once.  I immediately jumped out of bed and ran into the den where our Philco television was tuned to the local CBS station and Walter Cronkite was broadcasting from Cape Canaveral.  John Glenn was already in the capsule of Friendship 7, high atop the big Atlas rocket.  He was about to become the first American to orbit the earth.

 

I knew all about the space program.  I could name the Mercury Seven, the first American astronauts selected by NASA.  Scott Carpenter, Gordon Cooper, John Glenn, Gus Grissom, Wally Schirra, Alan Shepard, and Deke Slayton.  

 

At one time I wanted to be an astronaut, but I couldn’t ride a roller coaster without getting sick.  After I read about the rigorous training the astronauts went through, I thought I better choose a safer profession.   Maybe I could be a fireman.  

 

We lived 30 miles from Huntsville, Alabama, where the former German scientist, Wernher von Braun, had developed the Redstone Rocket that sent Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom on short sub-orbital flights.  

 

I had classmates whose fathers worked for von Braun and the space program in Huntsville.  Our next-door neighbor was von Braun’s personal secretary.  When they tested the Redstone rockets in Huntsville, we could hear the sound and feel the ground shake.  The space program was close and personal.

 

Daddy had told me that I would be able to see the launch before I went to school that morning, but some delays pushed the launch time back until almost 9 a.m. Central Time.  Daddy had to go to work, but Mother told me that I could be late going to school in order to see the launch.  Over half of my class was late that morning!

 

I went to school with the strange knowledge that a man was actually in outer space, orbiting over us around the earth.  When we went outside for recess, we all looked up into the sky, thinking we might even see him.  Little did we know that our hero was having unexpected problems in space.

 

During Glenn’s second orbit a faulty sensor indicated that the all-important heat shield was loose. After his third orbit he started the critical process of re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere.  If the heat shield failed, Glenn would not survive. (It is an urban legend that Glenn was initially scheduled for seven orbits.  The plan was always for 3 orbits)  

 

NASA kept the seriousness of the situation away from the public.  But Walter Cronkite and the other reporters had been educated on the risks of re-entry.  Even without a faulty heat shield, it was a dangerous endeavor. 

 

Mr. Gilbert, our jittery school principal, decided that we needed to witness this historic event.  He set up the school’s only television, a black and white model with rabbit ears, in the school auditorium.  Then all the kids were herded into the same auditorium my grandfather had known as a student, told to be quiet and watch the space ship come back to earth.  I wanted to tell Mr. Gilbert that it was a capsule, not a space ship, but thought better of it.

 

Twenty months later we would all be herded back into that same auditorium with the same television and the same Walter Cronkite to watch the tragic events coming out of Dallas, Texas on November 22, 1963.

 

John Glenn came safely back to earth and it was only later that we learned how close he came to perishing.  We all cheered when Walter Cronkite told us that John Glenn was safe aboard a Navy ship.  

 

I watched every Nasa mission in the Mercury and then the Gemini programs.  And then came the Apollo missions that were launched by the powerful Apollo Saturn V rockets designed by none other than Wernher von Braun.

 

Fifty-seven years ago, on July 20, 1969 I was watching as Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon with the words, “That’s one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.”

 

But there was nothing like February 20, 1962.  When I visit the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, I always make my first stop the Friendship 7 capsule that carried John Glenn into space and after three orbits around the earth, safely back home.  When I look at that capsule I can hear my Daddy’s voice saying, “Do you want to see the launch?”

 

 

May There Be No Mourning of the Bar, When I Put Out To Sea

 “The sea is as near as we come to another world.”      

              (From “North Sea off Carnoustie” by Anne Stevenson)

 

Joyce loved the beach.  She grew up 30 miles from Emerald Isle.  She loved to Shag.  She would talk about gigging for flounder.  Sadly, she married a preacher who would choose the mountains over the beach, never learned to Shag and had never heard of gigging for flounder.  

 

When we lived in Pollocksville, we were very close to the beach.  Fresh seafood was just a short drive away.  We could go to the beach for a morning or an afternoon.  When we moved to Roxboro, Joyce missed the beach.  

 

Our physician and good friend, Dr. Thomas Long, had a condo at North Myrtle Beach.  He was always willing to rent the condo to us at a discounted price.  Every summer we would take the family to the beach condo on the second week of August.  We would have the car packed and leave as soon as church was over on Sunday.  We would return home the following Sunday.  Joyce loved our annual trip to the beach.  

 

When we moved to Lexington, we didn’t go to the beach very often.  The children were growing up and Joyce and I started to travel internationally.  I served on the Board of Directors for our Baptist camp in Belize and we would travel to Belize at least once a year for the annual board meeting.  We would always spend a couple of days on an island where we enjoyed the Palm Trees and white sand of the beautiful Caribbean Sea.   Even so, Joyce would say, “I miss the beach.” She was talking about her beach, Carolina beaches.  

 

We traveled to the beach several times in recent years.  We were invited to preach at the Emma Anderson Memorial Chapel at Topsail Beach for a couple of years.  The church invites a different minister each week and provides a beautiful, small beach cottage.  The first year we went, Joyce really enjoyed it.  We walked on the beach.  We enjoyed the seafood.  We took in gorgeous sunrises and sunsets.  

 

Dementia was starting to close in by the next year.  Joyce didn’t want to leave the cottage.  If I left to go walking, she would become very anxious.  She did not want to walk on the beach. That was when I realized her dementia was advancing quickly. 

 

In November of 2024, Jerry Beamer’s father died and Joyce and I drove to Mt. Airy for his funeral.  Jerry’s son, Colin, introduced us to his fiancé and told us that they were getting married the next summer on the Outer Banks.  Joyce quickly stated that we planned to attend.  This was Colin, one of our very special young people whom we had known his entire life, and secondly, it was going to be at the beach. 

 

We made the drive to Duck, North Carolina, in June for the wedding.  Joyce loved seeing so many of the young people that we had worked with at the church.  She danced with Jerry.  She delighted in all of the beautiful highlights of the wedding.  

 

The wedding was at the Sanderling Resort in Duck.  Following the ceremony, we witnessed one of those breathtaking sunsets over the sound.  It would be the last sunset Joyce would ever see at the beach.  

 

We left the next morning, never to return to the beach again.  

 

A few weeks ago, Ray Nance asked me if I wanted to go with him and his family to the beach.  They were going to the Outer Banks, to Frisco.  We left Monday morning.  It is a long drive, but six hours later we arrived at the rental house on the beach. 

 

Ray Nance, Sang, and Ella Rae went to the beach every morning.  They would spend several hours in the water and sand.  Then they returned to walk on the beach each night.

 

I did some walking on the streets, but mainly stayed at the house, catching up on some reading.  It was great to be with them.  We played Scrabble, Monopoly, and Life.  Ray Nance and Sang prepared the meals.  It was a very good week. 

 

I wanted to go to the beach at least once, so on Tuesday night I told them that I would go to the beach with them.  It was dark.  We had flashlights.  We climbed over the sand dune and I saw the powerful ocean pounding the beach in front of me.  

 

Once on the beach, I decided to wade out into the water.  As I did with the wind blowing and the waves pounding, I felt Joyce’s presence.  She had always told me there was something very special about the beach.  There was a power, a mystique that one cannot easily explain, but suddenly I got it.  I knew what Joyce was trying to tell me.  

 

I could feel her standing beside me, holding my hand, looking out into the majestic sea.  Then the tears started to flow.  Suddenly, I was alone and the pain of loneliness overcame me. 

 

I don’t know how long I was standing there, but I felt another presence.  My granddaughter, Ella Rae, walked over and stood beside me, placing her arm around me.  No words were spoken, no words were needed.  

 

Ray Nance asked me if I wanted to talk about it.  “No,” I said.  But then I added, “You know she loved the beach.”

 

Sunset and evening star,

      And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

      When I put out to sea,

 

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

      Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

      Turns again home.

 

   Twilight and evening bell,

      And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

      When I embark;

 

   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

      The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

      When I have crost the bar.

 

                      (“Crossing the Bar” by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Joyce's Pecan Pie

 

Many years ago, way down south in LA (Lower Alabama), I acquired a deep appreciation for the delightful cultural practice of “Dinner on the Grounds.”

 

Now days, churches hold pristine “covered dish dinners” in an air-conditioned fellowship hall with store bought potato salad and KFC chicken.  But back in the day, Dinner on the Grounds was literally on the grounds and nothing was store bought.  Many churches had permanent outdoor tables and shelters—they were serious about Dinner on the Grounds. 

 

It seems that we only have our “covered dish dinners” once or twice a year for a church picnic or other special event.  Back in the day they didn’t need a special occasion to hold a Dinner on the Grounds, they held them frequently.  But when Revival time rolled around or the annual Homecoming, that was when Dinner on the Grounds escalated from “good” to “Glorious!”

 

It was enough just to attend these fine outdoor feasts.

Most of the funeral directors were invited to every church for such occasions, and they never missed.  But when you were the guest preacher; well, then you were treated like royalty.  

 

Every church has their legendary cooks and each one has a special dish that is mandatory for the visiting preacher to sample. Whether it be chicken and dumplings, deviled eggs, squash casserole, fried chicken, banana pudding, chocolate pie, pecan pie or pound cake, I quickly learned that all I needed to do was step back and the ladies would bring the food to me. 

 

You don’t see that as much anymore, but there are still a few legendary cooks who will bring their special dishes to the church picnic.  And one of those was my wife, Joyce, who would always bring a pecan pie to every church meal.  

 

Everyone knew about Joyce’s pecan pie.  A few years ago, when the youth were raising money for a mission trip, Joyce’s pecan pie sold for several hundred dollars.  She enjoyed telling that story.  

 

We were eating out in Greensboro one night.  The lady at the table next to ours was bragging about the fact that her cake brought $50 at her church auction.  Joyce couldn’t wait.  She interrupted them, looked at me and said, “Tell them how much my pecan pie brought at our church!”

 

The truth is that it was not Joyce’s pecan pie.  It was my Aunt Ruth’s, my mother’s older sister.  

 

Years ago, we traveled to Alabama for a family funeral. 

Aunt Ruth brought a pecan pie to the house.  When Joyce tasted the pie, she immediately asked Aunt Ruth for the recipe.  Aunt Ruth said that she did not give out her recipe.  

 

Joyce pleaded with her, telling her that she had never tasted a pecan pie so good.  Finally, Aunt Ruth relented.  She told Joyce that she would give her the recipe on one condition: that she never give the recipe to anyone else.  

 

Joyce agreed and she was true to her promise.  Through the years people have tried to get the recipe from Joyce, but she would never tell them.

“Aunt Ruth made me promise,” she would say.  I would sometimes remind Joyce that Aunt Ruth had been dead for years, but it did not matter.  A promise is a promise and Joyce always kept the promise.  

 

Aunt Ruth sat down at a table in my mother’s house with an 8 ½ by 11 sheet of white paper and wrote the recipe from memory.  Joyce kept the original manuscript in Aunt Ruth’s handwriting.  She placed it in a plastic cover and always used it when making a pie. You could tell Aunt Ruth never used a recipe for the pecan pie.  There were several ingredients that she was not sure how much she used.  She wrote “2 or 3 tablespoons.” “1 or 1 ½ cups”. 

 

One word that really dated my aunt was “Oleo.”  Joyce knew that Oleo meant butter.  Oleo was often used in older cookbooks.  It was a substitute for butter made from vegetable oil that was less expensive.  Oleo comes from the Latin word, oleum (oil).

 

Joyce had tweaked the recipe and added her own notes to clarify the inconsistencies, the largest one was the amount of time you baked the pie in a 350-degree oven.  Aunt Ruth put 35 to 50 minutes.  Joyce wrote 40 Mins.  But she always checked it after 40 minutes and then cooked it another 2 to 3 minutes. 

 

Anyone who knew Joyce quickly learned that if you asked for a piece of pi-KAHN pie, she would correct you and make you ask for PEE-can pie.  The irony was that for Aunt Ruth and my mother, it was always pi-KAHN pie.

 

It did not take long for Joyce’s pecan pie to reach the legendary status of Minnie Banks’ chocolate pie.  People would go to the dessert table first, to make sure they would get a piece of the rare delicacies.  

 

As time went on, Joyce would bring her pie and place it on the dessert table.  Then she would make her rounds to make sure certain people knew to go get a piece of the pie right now . . . they did . . . and the pie would be gone before the blessing. 

 

But then Joyce started to do something that concerned me. She would bring her pecan pie to the church and hide it in the kitchen.  Then she would tell certain people to meet her in the kitchen for a piece of the pie.  

 

I told Joyce that she could not do that.  “Everyone should have an equal chance to get a piece of the pie,” I said.  But she didn’t pay any attention to me.  It was not until later that I realized what was going on.  

 

Part of dementia is paranoia.  Joyce was afraid that something would happen to her pie, so she hid it in the kitchen.  Her pecan pie was special.  She wanted to protect it.  It makes perfect sense now.

 

In her later years, Joyce started having trouble making the pie.  One time she didn’t add salt.  Another time she left out the vanilla.  I started being in the kitchen with her, holding Aunt Ruth’s original recipe, to make sure all of the ingredients were added.  

 

Gradually, she depended on me more and more; to measure the syrup, to beat the eggs, to add the sugar and flour. Soon, I was making the pie while Joyce watched with a blank stare.  

 

We have a church picnic, “a covered dish,” the last Sunday of July.  I plan to make one of Joyce’s pecan pies.  I will carefully follow Aunt Ruth’s handwritten recipe, along with Joyce’s edits.  I will use butter, not Oleo.  I will bake it for 42 minutes.  I promise not to hide it in the kitchen.  But I will insist on one thing, that you pronounce it correctly---PEE-can, not pi-KAHN.  Joyce never made a pi-KAHN pie.