A special thank you...

I have been overwhelmed by the continued prayers and support I've received in the last two weeks from so many, many friends and aquaintances, as we as the kindness of strangers who have let me know they are praying for me. I am deeply grateful.

I know those prayers have been answered, as every day has brought better and better news.

While nothing is for certain, in now appears that for some reason, God wants me to remain on this Earth for a while... an outcome that didn't seem likely a few weeks ago.

To each and every person who has taken the time to write, call, visit, or pray, I thank your for your friendship.

Rod

Random Thoughts from the Luckiest Man on Earth…

Last week, you may know, I reported in this column that I have been diagnosed with a cancerous brain tumor, and promised to keep you informed of my progress. Since that time, not much has changed…. EXCEPT that I will be undergoing surgery to have the tumor removed. In fact, by the time you read this column, the surgery will have already happened, and you will likely already know the initial outcome.

I can tell you that my doctors have given me great optimism going into the procedure. With cancer, though, we rarely have any long-term assurances.

When I reported this news last week, I explained a few of the reasons I feel like the luckiest man on earth. If you missed it, I hope you can visit my internet blog: www.doingthefirst.blogspot.com to read last week’s column entitled “The Luckiest Man On Earth” -- so you can better understand the pure joy I have experienced during the last week… AND so you will understand why I’m able to attempt a little levity on this subject.

This could be either the most difficult column I’ve ever written… or the easiest!!! Because we publish WEEKLY newspapers, our deadlines come a few days earlier than daily newspapers… which means I am writing this a few hours BEFORE my surgery, but you will be reading it AFTERWARDS! How ironic is that? It’s quite the conundrum.

Okay. I’ve decided. I chose the EASIEST. Go figure.

So here’s what I’m going to do. One of my favorite types of columns I have written over the years is a little something I like to call “Isolated Thoughts”… just a random collection of whatever happens to be on my mind that particular day. I’m going to do exactly that: just report to you some random thoughts that happen to be floating though my mind in these hours before surgery to remove the tumor from my brain. So here goes:

-- I am the luckiest man in the world. And this has been one of the best weeks of my life. I am blessed with friendship and love.

-- A few days before I found out about this cancer, I joined 14 of my friends in a “Weight Loss contest”. Each of us kicked $100 American Buckos into the pot, and the biggest loser after 7 weeks wins the money. One wag emailed me and said, “Man, you’ll do anything to win a contest, won’t you.” Now that’s funny, I don’t care who you are.

-- I’m actually trying for my second T-Shirt. When I was diagnosed with melanoma in the early 80’s, I was given a 30 percent chance of survival.

-- As I was riding from Columbia to Charleston on I-26 Sunday to prepare for the Monday operation, I couldn’t help but think of the time back in 1996 when I water-skiied from Columbia to Charleston. And all of a sudden, I received a call from my good friend Joe Agnew, who skiied along with my brother Shawn and me. So we made a date to do it again a year from now, in August 2009.

-- Everyone I have talked to has agreed that I don’t seem very worried about this upcoming procedure. That’s because I’m not worried. Not even a little bit. If God’s will is for me to survive, I will, and if not, I won’t. So why worry. Just go with the flow, and submit to God’s will. What could be better? Also, though, I’m not afraid of death, because I know that death is simply the beginning of the life that really matters. Too many of us know that, but for some reason seem afraid anyway. I think it’s just because we tend to fear change. Now, I can relate to fearing change. Like being forced to switch over from Windows XP to Vista. I fear Vista a lot more than I fear death.

-- I have just decided that this will have to be a two-week column. First of all, I might not be able to write a column for next week, depending on my condition. Secondly, there are simply too many random thoughts flooding through my mind right now to include them all in one week. It would take too much space, so I have made the command decision to write two-weeks’ worth of columns now, and save one for next week.

-- Since this occurred during Dog Days – the slow part of summer when nothing much seems to happen in the news – a handful of daily newspapers used the news of my condition to fill up news space: “Political Consultant battles brain tumor” or something of the sort. While it was nice of them to mention, as usual they got it wrong. I’m not battling a tumor. I’m just kind of laying back watching other people battle the tumor… LOTS of people… doctoring, praying, dashing about taking care of things for me. I’m just staying out of their way.

-- Have I mentioned the steroids? Wow! Those things are GREAT. Since the tumor was pressing up against my brain and affecting my communication, my friend and doctor, Oscar Lovelace, gave me steroids to control the swelling. Turns out, they also turn you into a Super Man. I’ve been averaging about 3 or 4 hours sleep per night, lots of energy, and thinking clearer than ever. Now I understand what all the fuss is about with the pro athletes.

-- Steroids will also make your feet and ankles blow up to approximately the size of a Beaufort County waller-mellon!

-- Oh! Most important of all: In case I forget later in the week: Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you. (And I’m not just printing this to save from having to spend 50-cents on a birthday card, like most- years!)

-- This is really weird. You’re going to know the results before you read this – maybe before I do. Like the people on the west coast voting for President after the winner has already been declared by the exit polls from the west coast.

-- My son, Ross, has a blog which he updates more frequently than I do, so he agreed to keep it updated with any news or medical developments which might occur on behalf of my family or myself.. If you want to know the results – maybe before I do – you can visit his blog at: Please visit www.scbarbecue.blogspot.com/

-- (This is off topic, but am I the only voter worried that since we turned ALL of the nation’s voting machines over to the computers, that the computer geeks of the world are probably going to be able to tamper with the results, and change the winners?)

-- If I get a break, I hope to use it to catch up on reading old emails. I have several hundred emails “saved as new” until I can get around to reading them. A lot of them are jokes -- those annoying “forward” emails…. Which don’t bother me at all. I love them. It lets me know somebody cared enough about me to include me on their list. I’ll read them when I can. Keep sending them. (Also, a lot of them are business. I try to get to them first…. But sometimes it takes me a week or more to get around to solving a certain problem.)

-- Prayer chains: “When you feel that little prayer wheel turning, you will know that little prayer wheel’s burning.” I think that’s how the song goes. I tell you I have been FEELING those prayers churning this week, and for that, I am grateful.

There’s more, lots more, to say… but I had to just make notes for next week’s column, and maybe a week or two after than. Just too much to say. And WAY too many blessings. Again, just to start, you’d need to read my column from last week: You can find my column online at: www.doingthefirst.blogspot.com/

Ok, I gotta go get some surgery now…in a couple of hours. I’m the Luckiest Man on Earth, because I have so many friends, so many blessings, and so many total strangers who have prayed for me this week – I just got an email from a prayer group in Canada -- and brought me so much closer to the Lord. You have made this one of the most pleasant times of my life, and given me the ability talk to you honestly, openly, and even jokingly about a surgery that I suppose should cause me to be nervous. But I’m simply not nervous. Not even a little bit. So I’m just going to slide on down to MUSC go find out what He has planned for me.

I thank you for making me feel like the Luckiest Man on Earth.



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You can read all past columns on Rod’s Blog at: www.doingthefirst.blogspot.com Your emails are also welcome on any topic of interest. Email Rod personally at: RodShealy@aol.com
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Note from Rod:

"I'm truly touched by the outpouring of support in the last 24 hours. In order to keep you updated, I've asked my son Ross, who has a blog which is updated more frequently than mine is, to post any medical updates on behalf of myself and my family. Please visit http://scbarbecue.blogspot.com/

Thanks, Rod

The Luckiest Man on Earth!

In these columns, I vary from topic to topic, but most of the time, I try to bring a little humor and happiness into the lives of readers. (Unfortunately, that’s usually result of my unintentionally typographical errors or misspellings.)

My friends and associates know that I’m what’s called “laid back”. Non-conventional. (Some would call it “goofy”). I wear funny-looking Hawaiian shirts. I’ve always valued friends WAY more than money… (which works out well for me since I don’t HAVE any money.) And I enjoy my sense of humor… even when nobody else does.

Taken all together, it makes writing these columns each week one of my favorite pastimes. But this week is VERY special… a column about how truly blessed I am. I feel like the luckiest man on earth.

I actually have proof. Three times in my life, I’ve escaped “near death” experiences. At age four, I fell out of a car traveling down the busiest street in my hometown of Lexington (U.S. 1) with speeding cars zooming around me in the dark of night. I escaped with a hospital stay, a permanent bump on the noggin’, and a picture in the local newspaper of “the little boy whose head was bandaged like a mummy”.

Then, in the fifth grade, I suffered a double-ruptured appendix which kept me hospitalized for nearly a month. Had my mom and dad waited two hours ‘til daybreak to take me to the hospital rather than leaving their beds in the dead of night, I would not have survived, doctors told us.

In 1983, I was diagnosed with a serious form of cancer – melanoma – and given a 30% chance of survival. Yet, 25 years later, I’m still kicking.

(I should probably add in the high school football injury that ruined my left knee, ended my sports career – one of the reasons you won’t be seeing me in the Olympics this month – but kept me out of Viet Nam. In 1971, that seemed a lot like luck to me.)

And then, just a few days ago, when I went to see my close friend, Dr. Oscar Lovelace, for something that seemed no more serious that a headache, I sensed his concern. We had worked together for over a year on his campaign for Governor, and I had somewhat learned to read his heart. A saw the great concern and compassion that I had often seen in his eyes before, especially when I told him of my previous melanoma. Within hours he had the results from an MRI, telling me “the news is not what we hoped for”.

Now before I go any further, let me assure you, my friends and readers, that I am optimistic that I will be writing his column for many years to come. And I hope that’s what the Good Lord has planned for me also. (Right now, I’m really hoping the Lord enjoys my off-the-wall style of humor that I sometimes slip into the weekly columns. If not… no offense, Lord… and forgive me for my bad sense of humor.)

As a political consultant and a newspaper publisher, I’m familiar with “spin”… but there’s not really much way to spin this:

A few days ago, tests revealed I have a cancerous brain tumor.

Along with Dr. Lovelace, Dr. William Butler, my previous oncologist from SC Oncology Center, confirmed the cancer, and this week, I will be visiting a specialist at MUSC to help determine what, if any course of action, can be taken.

I don’t know how other people would react to such news. But in the days since, I have been completely overcome with one central thought: I truly feel like the luckiest man in the world! I can’t even begin to count my blessings.

Obviously, I’m lucky to have a friend like Oscar, who has helped me think very clearly about my medical condition, and spent countless hours to shepherd me through tests that might normally take weeks in only days, even hours.

I also think of my friend Jerry Fowler, who during his last years allowed me to share his weekly journey with cancer with the readers of my newspapers. His courageous, positive approach of sharing his battle as a way to help others is now a blessing for me, allowing me the insight to follow his lead, and talk openly with you, similarly, I hope, in a way to benefit others. Without Jerry, it would never have occurred to me. Now, however, I am calmed by this very act of sharing with you.

But my greatest blessings are the friends and family, with which I have been blessed. At the top of the list are the Mom and Dad who brought me into this world and gave me the most loving and supporting family environment a person could have. And, most importantly, they took me to Sunday School and church every week from the youngest age I could remember, giving me a foundation of faith which has never allowed for a single solitary second a doubt that I would end up anywhere but Heaven. And, that, right now, is a very nice thought: It takes the only real issue off the table! They took me to church, I grew up believing I would live in eternity, and no other thought has ever crossed my mind.

I’m lucky to have an entire family that makes me nothing but proud. My sons, Rod, Jr. who makes me proud every day when he follows almost exactly in my footsteps, and Ross, who makes me proud when he chooses his own path, are both perfect to me. I don’t tell my wife Pat nearly often enough how happy I am to have her in my life, and she forgives me. My step-daughter, Amy, has filled my life with joy. My first wife, Becky, gave me the sons I cherish, and did it without the help she deserved, and managed to turn them into the special young men they became.

I have brothers, sisters, in-laws, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and ex-relatives all of whom return the love that I have for them… topped off with two wonderful grandchildren who love their “Rod-Boy”. I cannot even recall a truly cross word spoken between any two members of my family. And, to a person, they overlook my flaws, my controversies, my occasional “black sheep” tendencies… and accept me for who I am. A lucky man.

And I have some of the most wonderful, trustworthy friends and associates you can imagine. Starting with my long-time business associates who somehow find a way to make my businesses succeed: Kirk, Kelley, Annette, Vi, Keith and many others; and my loyal and trusting clients: Jim, Andre, Henry, Richard, Catherine, Randy… the list is too long, the riches of friendship too plentiful.

In the hours since the suspicions slipped out that “something might be wrong with Rod” (or I should say “wronger than usual with Rod”), I have felt like the Jimmy Stewart character in “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Friends have poured out of the woodwork.

And as rumors started that there may be a serious problem, that I could be out of my businesses for a few weeks, that I might need to fly away for special treatment, that my insurance might not cover the bill, that I need friends to step in and help with some of my day to day responsibilities, offers to help solve any and every problem have some how found their way to me.

I’m not ashamed to tell you that I have wept many times in the last few days… Never once out of fear or concern for my life or my health… but many times out of the joy of knowing what wonderful friends I have. And, just like the movie, that to me is worth all the money in the world.

I learned two things from the blessing of Jerry Fowler’s recent experience.
First, I would have never thought of writing about this. But, if I’m able, I certainly plan to follow that lead. I’m not sure what I will write, but I will share this experience in my own way. (And I should warn you that I’m pretty sure I will attempt to mix in some humor… I just can’t help it!)

Second, near the end of Jerry’s journey in May, I learned that it’s okay to say a prayer in my own newspaper if I want to, which I did. And that, too, I will do, starting now:

“Lord, I thank you for the life you have given me, for the many friends and blessings you have showered upon me, and for making me truly feel like the luckiest man in the world. Watch over and care for all these people, your blessings to me. And, as for me, I pray only that you make me an instrument of your will. I know its not really about this life, it’s the next one… and while I sure do LIKE this one -- and would like to stay in it a while longer -- I also know I’ve had more than my share of goodness. So I’m not going to worry about myself, and just pray that you use me however you have planned for me, and I’m sure everything will work out fine. In your Sons name. Amen.”

If the Lord is willing, I’ll give you an update and let you know more next week, and every week until he says not. And I expect I can improve on the prayers I may occasionally publish… because I plan to be practicing a lot.

My Mom and Dad

This weekend, a column I wrote about my mom and dad years ago came to mind. It was long before there was any such thing as a "blog". So I decided to find and re-publish it here, even though it was written many years ago.

Happy 50th, Mom and Dad (reprinted from June, 1997)

In addition to celebrating Father's Day this weekend, the Shealys will be observing another occasion: the 50th Wedding Anniversary of our parents, Ryan and Elsie Shealy.

Ryan and Elsie Shealy -- who we usually refer to as "Mom & Dad" -- have been fairly well-known here in the local community… he with a political career which began in the 1950s and lasted into the 90s, and she with a successful career that led her to travel the nation as a motivational speaker. They are not only well-known, but well-liked and well-respected (leading to the obvious question which you, the reader, are probably struggling with in your mind right now: "So what happened to YOU?"

But that's a whole 'nother story.) As the second-born of their five children, I am understandably proud of my folks on this occasion. But as a newspaper writer I have an additional reaction: Hey, this is a GREAT story!

The truth is, I got both my political and my newspaper roots from my parents. Many times I've told the story of Dad's first run for the State House of Representatives in 1954, when I was first exposed to political campaigns. Since Mom attended all the political stump meetings to support Dad, and I was only six months old at the time, they came up with the very creative idea of putting "Vote for Pop" sign on my diapers, making me a political advertisement, of sorts. At six-months-old, I was cute…and Dad won the race!

It was my first experience in political campaigns. My newspaper roots probably took hold even before that. While they were still a struggling young couple, Dad worked three jobs to help put himself through college. One of those jobs was newspaper carrier. And when I was born in December 1953, Dad went out and collected his delivery route a little early to scrape together enough money to get me out of the hospital. I figure that episode was my earliest involvement in the newspaper industry.

That's when MY story began, but the Ryan and Elsie story started long before that. Growing up at the site of the still-under-construction Lake Murray, Elsie Porth was the youngest of five children in her family, and the first to go to college. She graduated from Columbia College and immediately took a job teaching high school.

Ryan, on the other hand, grew up plowing behind a mule to help support his family, his adoptive father having died when he was very young. He quit Batesburg-Leesville High School to get a job at the Charleston Naval Yard, later enlisting in the Navy during World War II.

Returning from the war, he decided to return to high school to prepare for college. It was there that Ryan met Elsie… his high school math teacher. But when the teacher and student began to date, the school administration was not amused. Elsie gained her soon-to-be husband, but lost her teaching job! She quickly found another teaching job, but the early years continued to be a struggle for the young couple as he completed his education.

In addition to his other jobs, he found that he could earn $25 to $100 per fight as a boxer, a talent he had discovered in the Navy. So once or twice a month, they would drive to various cities around the Southeast to engage in the sport of Professional Boxing. He ended his career after 33 pro fights with a record of 22 and 11.

In the early fifties, a sales manager for an encyclopedia company wanted to hire Ryan as a door-to-door salesman. Learning that Elsie was a teacher, he invited her to come along to the training class. Reluctantly, she attended but sat in the back of the room so she could slip out the door and leave. But something she heard in the class caught her attention! The sales manager mentioned a program which guaranteed earnings whether you sold any encyclopedias or not…just for showing books to 50 people!

Knowing she had several dozen aunts and uncles, she took the job selling World Book Encyclopedia. Now its 50 years and five children later. Things have changed. The couple which had to scrape together money to get their first son out of the hospital is now able to afford to take the entire family on a 50th Anniversary Cruise to the Bahamas… and pay for everyone!!!

The job Elsie took with World Book turned it into a career. When she retired several years ago, she was one of the top five officers in the organization: Senior Vice President for Sales for the North American continent. She was a sought-after motivational speaker, and in the late 1980's was selected as the South Carolina Mother of the Year.

After retiring from World Book, she spent five years speaking to various groups and organizations around the nation and in several other countries.

Ryan left newspaper delivery and pro boxing in favor of politics, serving 12 years in the S.C. House, leaving office for 12 years, then serving 12 years in the S.C. Senate. During his recent Senate years, he was best known for his unsuccessful one-man crusade to bring a lottery to South Carolina, and his successful efforts to block various tax increases. (Long forgotten are the earlier efforts during the 1950's and 60's, which led to the creation of such institutions as the Columbia Metropolitan Airport, Lexington Medical Center, Riverbanks Zoo, and Midlands Technical College.)

If I sound like a proud son… well, I am. But, of course, this is a newspaper column, not an Anniversary Card (although it may save me the 50 cents I would otherwise spend on a card).

And since it is a column, not a card, I thought I would tell you a few of my personal favorite highlights from Ryan and Elsie's First 50 Years:

We lost on Family Feud… TWICE! During the 80's our family appeared not once, but twice, on the TV game show. We were really not very good, but apparently the producers enjoyed watching the way we lost, so they flew us back out to California to watch us lose again!

In 1959, Dad waterskiied from Columbia to Charleston… while Mom was out of town. I was five at the time. He told me not to tell Mom. Guess he didn't realize it was going to be printed in every newspaper in the state!

A few years later our family -- three kids at the time -- took a two day adventure down the river from Columbia to Charleston in a cabin cruiser. We got lost in the rice fields, and ended up ten miles from the river. Nowadays, I think about it every time I see "African Queen."

In addition to Family Feud, Dad also once appeared on "The Price is Right." He won some furniture. The whole family was in New York City at the time. Being about seven years old, I was a lot more impressed with (A) the Auto-Mat (B) sitting in the audience for "Concentration," and realizing that there were APPLAUSE signs telling the audience when to clap!

Mom likes to talk, and she's really good at it. Her company asked her to be the keynote speaker at her own retirement program. It was at some really big theatre in Atlanta. They had Zig Ziglar to speak before her, and singer Lee Greenwood to close the program after her speech. She's a really good talker.

In 1965 our family took a vacation by car to California… right through the desert. The day before we left, Dad bought a new car for the trip… well, new to us, anyway. It was a three-seater station wagon with the fold-down door in the back. We folded down the back and stacked the luggage on it. Then I rode in the back seat while Mom and Dad rode in the front and my two sisters rode in the middle. It was hot going through the desert. It wasn't until a few days after we returned from the two week trip that I discovered this car had something I had never seen before… air conditioning. (The front and middle seats had it for the whole trip… but the cool air never made it to me with the back open. I didn't have a clue!)

At a campaign speech in Pelion in 1956, Dad did something which had never been done by a Southern politician before: He publicly denounced the Ku Klux Klan.

It made headlines. It cost him votes. He knew it was not a politically wise thing to do. But he knew it was the right thing to do. And so he did it.

That was the principle which guided him through four decades of politics. He didn't really worry about what people said or what newspapers wrote. He just always tried to do the right thing.

I happen to know that is also the principle that guided Mom and Dad through the 50 years of marriage, and 48 years of being parents. And that, more than anything else, is why I am immensely proud of them.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.



(Note from Rod: This column was original written in 1997... probably before I had even heard of "The Internet"... but I wanted this long forgotten column to be available on my blog. We lost Dad to cancer in March, 2001. Mom is the same great mom she's been for my entire life. I was blessed with the two best parents I could imagine.)

Losing weight with Ice Cream at Gatsbees Worlds Fair Soda Fountain

Three questions I’ve been hearing a lot lately:

1. When are you going to start your weight loss contest? (This is very unfortunate, because I started two weeks ago…which makes that question a little demoralizing.)

2. Why did you have a weight loss contest at a Soda Fountain?

3. And the old favorite: Why don’t you have any money?

I’m not going to dignify the first with an answer; however, whenever I get asked in person, I do respond with “When are you going to get your eyes examined?”

After the first week of the weight loss contest, however, the Gargantuan Gang of 15 had in fact lost over 120 pounds. For full results, check my blog: www.doingthefirst.blogspot.com

Now to the second and third questions: Interestingly, the answers are about the same.

The Soda Fountain referred to is Gatsbees Worlds Fair Soda Fountain, a project I began about a year ago.

And I don’t have money, because I simply don’t…. some folks assume that I do, but it’s not true, as my friends, employees, and business associates can attest.

In the movie “Hello, Dolly”, there’s something along the lines of “Money is like fertilizer. You’re supposed to spread it around to make things grow”. I happen to believe that. Whenever I occasionally come across a little tad of money – emphasis on “tad” -- I try to put it to a good use. For instance, I think having this small community newspaper you’re reading is good for our community, because it helps neighbors get to know their neighbors and keep up with their local community. And it gives small local businesses and advertisers a way to compete with the big boys. So, years ago, I started putting all my “tads” of money into beginning this newspaper… and a few others in communities which needed newspapers of their own. Which sorta explains why I don’t have any money!!

A couple years ago, I came up with another idea which I felt might make a positive difference, and some of you have been watching this idea grow before your very eyes.

Like many of you, I worry about the decline in our society. I long for the good-ol- days. As the younger generation rushes toward the impersonal, fast-paced new world of the Internet, cell phones, fast food, shopping malls, and digital TV and music, I’m concerned that neighbors no longer have the time to get to know their neighbors.

It doesn’t feel right.

Whatever happened to slowing down, taking a few hours off, and just relaxing with friends or family?

It was a little over two years ago that an inspiration came to me:

What if there WAS such a place… like the good-old-days… old-timey and nostalgic. I remembered the Soda Fountains that were once the central gathering place for EVERY small town in America. Soda Fountains were where families gathered, neighbors met neighbors, and things were a lot simpler.

After looking around, I discovered that TRUE soda fountains… where beverages were mixed by hand almost any way you wanted one…. were totally a thing of the past in America. (Most of the soft drink machine company reps told me they didn’t even know you COULD make a cola without their fancy machines.) The leisurely, neighborly soda fountains which were once the fabric of our nation have long since been replaced by fast food chain restaurants. A great part of life was missing.

Frankly, I became fascinated with the concept of bringing back soda fountains to a new generation of Americans…. And for the last two years, have worked to develop the concept.

Along the way, we discovered that it was really about a lot more than the drinks, treats, and ice cream. It’s about having a family-friendly place to spend time, relax, and get to know your neighbors again.

For over a year now, Gatsbees Worlds Fair Soda Fountain has been “unofficially” open as we’ve looked for ways to re-invent the soda fountain. We’re still not quite there yet…. But we’re getting closer, assembling our management team, and are hopeful of having our Grand Opening soon.

In the meantime, I want to personally invite anyone and everyone to drop by, check us out, and help us by giving your ideas and suggestions. We’re open Thursday through Sunday from 11am until 9pm, and will be open other times by appointments for catering, private parties, meetings and special events. We’re located at 7585 St. Andrews Road in Irmo (behind the Lizard’s Thicket and beside Carolina Wings.) For more information, you can visit www.Gatsbees.com.

Frankly, I’d like your help to make this small dream of mine a success. And maybe, with your help, we’ll bring back a bit of Americana that can make the world just a little friendlier, happier place for all of us.

As always, I thank you for your support.

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Got something on your mind? Want to complain about my 10 year old picture? Just want to fuss at somebody today? Got ideas or suggestions? Send them to me via electric email: RodShealy@aol.com. Or, for the Internet savvy, just post’em to my internet blog: www.doingthefirst.blogspot.com

The Big Race Weight Loss Contest UPDATE

Week of July 27th, after almost two weeks of the seven week contest.

Here are the unofficial standings:

Listed by name; starting weight; pounds lost so far:


Don Gawrys
382.1
12.7

Barry Walker
327.2
12.6

Rod Lorick
312.2
12.0

Kirk Luther
236.2
11.8

Bruce Holland
238.2
10.0

Robert Wessinger
251.0
9.6

Jim Miles
234.2
9.2

Terry Campbell
241.6
7.5

Mike Andrews
282.4
6.7

Lewis Gossett
247.6
5.6

John Wentzell
209.4
5.4

Joe Kennedy
217.8
5.4

Rod Shealy
242.2
5.2

Shirley Towne
Our mascot
4.8

R.J. Shealy
217.6
4.0

We're unofficially weighing in each week at Gatsbees. We'll keep you posted!!

The Race is On!!!

The race is on!

Yes, the long awaited race is on.

Well… if you can call 15 fat guys waddling along a RACE. (Or to be exact, 14 fat guys, and our lovely and charming mascot, Shirley.)

As you may have read earlier in one of these recent columns, the time has come for our Next Great Almost Annual Weight Loss Challenge Invitational Competition.

In all, fifteen brave souls answered the call for competition, collectively representing the approximate gross tonnage of a nuclear submarine. (With luck, after the contest, it will be closer to a HumVee tank.)

We kicked off our little informal contest last Tuesday, June 15th with an official weigh-in at Gatsbees World’s Fair Soda Fountain. As a side note, I offered each participate in an on-the-house free treat before the weight-in – choice of ice cream, sundae, hot dog, hamburger, soda, popcorn, cotton candy, their choice – as sort of a last meal before the diets began. (It also broke us: biggest single day loss in the history of Gatsbees!)

Everybody kicked in 100 American Buckos into the pot, with the winners taking all: half to the total weight loser, and half to the biggest percentage loser. (We had the lawyer in the group hold onto half of the money we paid in advance… probably demonstrating the incredibly bad judgment, which got us into our poundage and plumpness predicaments in the first place.)

The initial weigh-ins ranged from John Wentzell’s measly 209.4 – we all think he’s just in the contest to see how the over-half lives – to the whopping 381.2 reported by Northeast Columbia resident Don Gawrys, better known as the Store Manager of Michaels Arts and Crafts.

Scattered in between those weigh-in numbers -- along with my editorial comments -- were:

Jim Miles – Former S.C. Secretary of State, weighing in at 234.2, who I know has no will-power. Good luck.

Barry Walker – Irmo Councilman, better known as proprietor of Mac’s on Main, who has cleverly offered free Peach Cobbler to any of his co-contestants during the contest. I suspect strategery at work. Fat Back registered a 327.2.

Bruce Holland – the only lawyer in the group, and therefore the one holding the cash. He weighed in at 238.2, so he’s not really likely to win. (Please keep you eyes on this guy for us.)

Joe Kennedy – came to us directly from working out at his gym. He was already down 20 pounds from an earlier weight loss effort. His guy doesn’t have a clue about the “eat first, diet later” startegy of how to will a weigh loss contest. Weight: 217.8

Rod Shealy, Jr. – Junior has joined his dad – me -- in this contest for the third year in row. Like Joe, he seems to have a little dexterity when it comes to calcuting the math part for winning a weight-loss contest. Weigh in: 217.6

Robert Wessinger -- Robert’s a Real Estate guy, but he seemed to have a little bit of DoNut belly left over from his career as a Lexington County Deputy. At 251.0, he could be a contender.

Rod Lorick – Of the Cayce-West Columbia News, a well known golfer who asserts himself to be the Greatest Living Athlete in Cayce-West Columbia. But he also asserts himself to be the winner of this conntest. Ha! There’s a reason you weigh 312.2.

Shirley Towne – Our Mascot, who the guys all fell in love with. As the only female in the contest, we’re withholding the information we share on the others. Let’s just call her healthy… and BY FAR the prettiest person in this contest.

Lewis Gossett – Former director of SC LLR, now director of some sort of big deal business group. His weigh of 247.6 is deceptive, because it would be a lot more if he had any hair at all.

Kirk Luther -- Weighing in at 236.2, Business Manager and partner in this very newspaper, the reigning champ, but Not Necessarily Expected to Win Again.

Terry Campbell -- An Insurance Executive Extraordinaire who should have been able to calculate his 0% odds of winning. He weighed in at 241.6. To increase his odds, he wanted the contest date to contain his lucky number 7. Hence, the contest period is exactly 7 weeks, ending on Sept. 2. (Hate to tell you, buddy, but lucky numbers don’t help much in a weight loss contest: but pushing away from the Mexican buffet last Saturday would have!)

Mike Andrews: He’s the Tune-Up King from Bob Andrews Motors, and is tipping the scales at 282.4, making him one of the statistical favorites for this competition. Unfortunately, he suffers many of the aforementioned afflictions: a) counting on lucky numbers b) the will-power of at gnat; and c) suffering the delusion that he still looks like he looked 20 years ago, which face it, wasn’t that great even then, unless there was lots of alcohol involved.

And then there’s me: Your Publisher, and the actual eventual winner of this contest. I’d truly like to share more details about my weight, condition, and strategy… but would you look at this, we’re all out of time for this week.

But we’ll keep you posted.

Lake Murray Memories

We’re approaching the hottest part of summer, a period of time which is often referred to as “Dog Days”… mainly because is too hot to do anything except lay around like a dog. (I make that up. I really have no idea why it’s called “Dog Days”. I try to make up and publish a new and different theory every year, just to give myself something to do during the time period.)

There’s really nothing much that is suitable to do during Dog Days. It’s a bad time to take up salsa lessons. It’s not the right time for hog-wrasling. Wrong season for duck-hunting. TV reruns are dwindling down. Loitering on Main Street has been outlawed in most jurisdictions.

There is, however, one pastime that was practically MADE for Dog Days. It’s SWIMMING!

Just about everybody grew up going swimming somewhere… in a favorite lake, pond, or watering hole. For me, that favorite place was good old Lake Murray… way back before it was what it has become these days.

Back in the early 1960’s, my watering hole was still in its infancy. It had only been around for 30 years… far younger that its current age of nearly 80 years. There were lots of landings which dotted the shores of the lake, but not very many houses.

We may not have lived at the lake as many do now, but that didn’t stop us from driving to the lake every Sunday afternoon after church.

My family had a place at the lake – a place, not house – where a dozen families would congregate on weekends.

Just thinking back to those days brings back a lot of memories:

-- Do you remember that you could never go at into the water for an hour after you ate lunch? (I think it would cause some sort of “cramps” if you swam too soon after eating.)


-- The boats were a lot different then than they are now. Back then, the boat was powered by a 25 horsepower Johnson which was started by putting a rope… over and over until it finally cranked. Of course, it was an out-board, because what else would it be?


-- The swimming entertainment device of choice was a flotation implement known as an “inner tube”. You could choose your inner-tube in any color you wanted, as long as it was black.

-- Did I ever tell you that I learned to water-ski without a boat? True story! Like most folks, we did not own a boat in the early days… but we did have a set of waterskis and a couple of ropes, and Dad wanted me to learn to ski. So, he had me tie the ropes together and doggie-paddle myself out as far as I could go. Meanwhile, Dad would tie the other end of the ropes to the back of his…… drum-roll, please…… bbbbpppummmm, pbbbbppppummm, bbbbpppummm…. Buick convertible!!!! If I’m lying, I’m dying! I learned to ski begin a Buick. Dad would drive the car along the store as far as he could, and I would manage to get up on skis for a few yards…. Then do it all over again.

-- I actually have a similar true story about how a learned to swim a year or so earlier, less than 10 yards from where I learned to ski. Before learned to swim, quite by accident, I was a confirmed life-jacket man. I never went anywhere without that bright orange appendage strapped around my torso… except when I was out of the water for an hour during lunch-time. The pimento cheese sandwiches and vienna sausages only took about 30 seconds to scarf down…. But the adult mandated “hour” before returning to the water seemed to take FOREVER. It was torture. We kids could hardly wait until we heard the “OK” signal to get back into water. It was a mad rush off the deep-end of the dock, back into the depths of cool, refreshing, summertime lake water!!! And it was during one such frantic, as-soon-as-possible dash back into the deep end that this six year old neglected to grab a life-jacket before plunging into the depths, and thus decided that it was time to teach myself to swim!

-- I called it a dock. It was not really a dock by today’s standards. It was a home-made ramp, with a coupled sheets of plywood on top, some planks along the sides, and four 55-gallon metal drums lashed together to keep it all afloat. It worked fined until the drums sprung a leak. But until then, you could float it along the lake, anywhere you wanted to go…. Huck Finn style… all the way to the other side of the lake, if you could figure how to get back. I was a lot like having your own boat, without the boat.


Things have changed a lot at my favorite watering-hole, Lake Murray. But it’s still a good way to spend some time during Dog Days.

Report from Vacation Week

I’m back from vacation, and I thought I would give you a quick report.

Really, there’s absolutely no good reason I should be giving you a “report” from my annual vacation. As if it could possibly matter to anyone else in the world!!!

But… I just got back into town from vacation a couple of days ago, and I’m trying to string it out as long as possible. Also, I need to write about something to fill my space, so a “report from my vacation” is as good as anything. (The bar is actually not very high, as you probably already know. The topics I typically write about are along the lines of “Did I tell you about the time I trimmed my toe nails” or “I really need to lose some weight: I’m a Big Fat Giant Hippo Pig Whale”.)

This vacation did, in fact, have a bit of drama: A young girl swimming at North Litchfield Beach, just a few hundred feet from where I swam, was apparently bitten by a shark… a few hours after I left for home. And although I was long gone and heard about it later on the TV news, I still consider it to be High Adventure… possibly even “My Brush With Destiny!”

My REAL true life animal adventure for the week was nearly as harrowing: Raccoons attacked our garbage can during the night… less than 80 feet from where we were sleeping, two floors above the ground behind a triple-bolted door. I could have been seriously frightened… had I not been sound asleep, enjoying a REM cycle that wouldn’t have been disturbed by a Mack truck driving though my bedroom.

Not to take any chances, however, we left the garbage bag on the upstairs screen porch the following night. Better safe than sorry, we figured. I’d hate to become one of those raccoon-attack statistics who you always hear about on the news from places like Australia and California, but never think it will happen to you!

Turns out, raccoons are wiley.

About midnight, we heard the screen-door slamming. Our worst fears were being realized: we were facing a raccoon attack! The rodent had figured out that the garbage was being stored, not in the garbage can, but on the upstairs porch… and had made its way up the stairs and onto the porch…. managing to open a closed screen-door along the way! Crafty devil!

When we summoned up the courage to venture out onto the porch, the wascally-wodent scampered up into the ceiling, out of our reach. And, within an hour or so, he had signaled the “coast-is-clear” alarm to a couple of his friends: an opossum and a fellow raccoon. The three of them were having a big time terrorizing the tourists… which was me! You couldn’t ask for more hair-raising horror if Stephen King suddenly appeared.

So, anyway, now you’ve heard the highlights from my vacation: missed the shark, but saw the rodents.

If it sounds boring…. yes, perhaps it was, which was fine with me, because my sole objective for the entire week of vacation was simple “taking naps”!

I took lots of naps.

Naps in the evening. Naps in the morning. Naps in the afternoon.

I took breaks from my naps so I could take more naps.

It was wonderful.

I heard some of my relatives talking about exercising during vacation. But not me. Exercise would have interfered with my naps.

The result of spending a full week of vacation wherein your most strenuous activity is searching the Internet to learn the feeding patterns of various rodents is simple: you get FAT. Which I did, during my week of vacation napping at various locales adjacent to the Atlantic Ocean.

Now, of course, its time for the other shoe to drop, figuratively speaking. (Did I mention that I wore flip-flops for an entire week during vacation, literally speaking?)

The other shoe is the DIET. I have fattened myself up very nicely. (Did I mention that I’m a Big Fat Giant Hippo Pig Whale?) Now its time to drop those pounds like an off-key Idol contestant.

Which means its time again for the Next Annual Semi-Organized Weight Loss Competition… the same one I mentioned a few weeks ago in anticipation of leaving for vacation.

So far, we have 10 willing contestants who have answered the call, but there’s still room for YOU. (Actually, there’s only room for you if we all meet in a very large room. For that matter, there’s only room for ME in a large room anymore.)

I won’t bore you with the details of the coming weight loss contest. I already did that sufficiently during the raccoon story, I believe.

Rather, I will direct you to my Automatic Electronic Internet Blog -- www.doingthefirst.blogspot.com – and let you read the details for yourself. However, I will let you know that we’re planning to kick off the contest on Tuesday, July 15th with our official beginning weigh-in… at which time we’ll figure out the rest of the still-somewhat fuzzy contest details among ourselves.

If you’d like to join the pain, agony, and misery of a public weight loss contest, let me know. Email me at RodShealy@aol.com, and we’ll count you in.

But I’m not begging. I’m not trying to force you to join us… although I think it’s pretty obvious you need to. This time, I’m not even taunting you with insulting comments about your girth (did I mention I thought a saw a whale at the ocean?), the size of your behind (how many hogs do you reckon were BBQ’d for July 4th), or the fact that the shade created when you stand outside could be one of the long-term solutions for our global warming crisis.

And, by the way, have you ever noticed how a raccoon waddles when he’s climbing up a post?

Taking a Nap... For America!

Happy Birthday, America.

To celebrate the 232nd anniversary of the Independence of our Nation, I’m taking a nap! Lot’s of them!! And I recommend that you do the same!

Actually, I’m celebrating The Fourth of July by spending a whole, entire week on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, roughly in the locale of North Litchfield Beach, just north of Pawley’s and south of Murrell’s Inlet. It’s my annual family vacation with the in-laws.

Before leaving for the coast, I had made plans that this year’s vacation would consist of three major activities: 1) Eating 2) Drinking; and 3) Napping.

But, having arrived at my destination, I decided to narrow the primary activity for the week to: Just Napping. It’s my personal tribute to Independence Day.

For sure, I’ve already partaken in a few other activities. By the time I had been here a full day, I had already participated in: Swimming. Sunning. Reading. Eating. Drinking. Games. Conversation. Listening to the Rain. Three trips to the Bi-Lo. And, of course, at this very moment… writing this column. But I’ve made a firm commitment to not let anything get in the way of my napping this week. I’m dedicated to it. To celebrate our nation.

At an early age, I learned the old adage that “anything worth doing is worth doing well”. I think that includes “napping”. “Do your best”, they taught me in Boy Scouts.

So I’m trying to do the best job possible at napping this week. Call me a patriot.

During my first day of vacation, I was admittedly not really dedicated to it. I simply spent the whole day catching as many naps as possible. Four to be exact. There was not particular rhyme or reason… no specific strategy.

By the second day of vacation, however, I realized I could do better. Four naps may seem okay… but that’s merely quantity, not necessarily quality. I resolved to spend a little time not only taking naps, but also studying the subject to increase my knowledge about the fine art of napping. After all, I’m doing it for America.

I was disheartened to discover that there does not seem to be a great body of knowledge about the subject. Apparently, napping is a field of study that science and academia has largely overlooked.

No problem. I just anointed myself to be an expert, and jotted down my own notes on the subject. (It’s the least I can do for the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.)

Following are a few of my early findings during my preliminary research on this most important topic:

-- The five best locations for naps are, in descending order: 5) Floor 4) Couch 3) Chaise lounge 2) Lazyboy recliner 1) Hammock (Note that “bed” is disqualified from this assessment due to unclear lines between “napping” and “sleeping”.)

-- Quality naps are directly related to air temperature. Both heat and cool can be quality naps. For instance, napping in the sun on the seashore is a high-quality nap… but so is coming in from the heat to nap on the couch in the air conditioning!

-- The three worst places to take a nap, based on my own past personal experiences are: 3) Airport waiting area; very similar to napping inside an airplane. (For that matter, most forms of public transportation are lousy places to nap. Don’t ask me how I know.) 2) The dentist chair. True story… I once napped during a cleaning. That’s possibly when I first realized I had a gift for napping. 1) At the office. Head down on your desk is a poor-quality nap, just like it was in high school trigonometry class 35 years ago.

-- All naps are not created equal. Excluding vacation naps, the optimal times for naps are a) weekends; b) mid-afternoon; and c) after meals, especially lunch. (An example of a less-desirable nap would be the “early morning roll-over”, when you’re trying to catch a few extra winks, but you know it's almost time for the alarm clock to go off.)

-- Optimal conditions for naps are: a) after a meal, especially the afore-mentioned lunch; b) during a rain storm; and c) with the TV on. (My personal favorite TV shows for drifting off are The History Channel, American Movie Classics, and, of course, the old reliable, CSPN2.)

-- Napping is seasonal. Holidays are the highest rated, along with vacations, both of which we refer to as “special occasion naps”. Other than the special occasions, the top napping seasons are summer, when it’s hot; and winter, when it’s cold. Winter napping generally requires a fireplace, while summer napping allows for greater diversity (i.e. – hammock, swimming pool, beach, ceiling fan, etc.). Autumn napping is also highly regarded, although it seems narrowly limited to football weekends on couches.

I trust you will find this brief overview of napping useful, and I hope it may, in some small way, add to your enjoyment this holiday weekend.

I know I will feel much better about the many, many naps I’ll be enjoying during the remainder of my week, comforted in the knowledge that I am doing my best. It’s the least I can do to show my patriotic pride.

Vacation now, diet later

I’m heading on vacation next week.

In keeping with my long-time annual vacation custom, I plan to:

a) eat a lot

b) drink a lot; and

c) sleep a lot

It’s a tradition. I’ve done it many times before. It has become expected of me.

What it means, however, is that when I return from vacation, I might as well go ahead and plan to:

d) lose weight.

That’s right! When I return from vacation, I’ll be a Big Fat Giant Hippo Pig Whale… even more than now!!!

Which means…. It’s time to start making plans for my Next-Nearly-Annual-Weight-Loss-Challenge-Competition.

Regular readers of this column know I do this on an all-to-frequent basis: Pull a few of my friends and acquaintances into a friendly wager to help us all shed a few pounds.

Actually, making it into a competition is the ONLY way I’ve ever really been able to really lose weight at all. Willpower for the sake of willpower just isn’t my thing. But turn it into a contest… and ZOOM… I’m on fire!!!

Knowing that I’m going to be a Giant Lard-Bottom by the time I return from a week’s vacation with the in-laws, I’m getting an early start on it. AND… I’m accepting applications!!!

That’s right… If YOU TOO are planning to be a Pork-Belly by mid-July – and you know you are, what with BBQ for Fourth of July and all -- maybe you’d like to join in this “friendly little wager”!

As of yet, there are no ground-rules. We haven’t decided exactly when the competition will start and end, or for how long, or how many contestants. (We’ll agree on the rules after we figure out who’s playing the game!)

In the past, these little competitions have ranged from 3 to 17 contestants, with a competition period from 4 weeks to 13 weeks. The winning weight loss totals have ranged from 20 pounds to 38 pounds. And the wagers – which have typically been $100 American Paper Money – have ranged from $50 to a weekend trip at beautiful, down-town Garden City, South Carolina.

But we haven’t made any of those decisions yet. We’re waiting on YOU and your Big Ol’ Blubber Butt to help make them.

The only tradition of this little contest you can be assured of is this: Yours Truly will continuously heap verbal abuse upon you in this column during the entire contest period, whatever that may be.

So here’s the question, Fatso… are you Man Enough to face the fact that you’re a Humongous Lump of Goo – as I have – and that if you don’t soon do something about it, you will likely turn into the World’s Largest Clump of Mush?

(That, incidentally, is a small sample of the abuse I heap on the contestants of each of these weight-loss competitions. Brutal, but motiviational… like tough-love. You’ll also notice that I’m TAUNTING – practically DARING – you to entice you into this contest!)

So, if you think you’re up to it, let me know, and we’ll include you in the upcoming contest. Just send me an email: RodShealy@aol.com.

(Or, if you have a loved-one who really ought to be in this contest, but is perhaps in denial, circle this sentence and hand them a copy of this column.)

Anyway, this is your official invitation to the Next Great Almost Annual Weight Loss Challenge Invitational Competition.

Did you notice that we changed the name it since the beginning? That’s sort of how we handle the rules, too.

You’ve been invited, and you have fair warning: This in NOT a weight-loss contest for sissies.

Enjoy your July 4th holiday… along with which-ever re-run of this column we decide to print next week WHILE I’M ON VACATION!!!

We lost twice on Family Feud!

Did I ever tell you about the time I lost on Family Feud? Actually, it was the “times”, because I lost twice!!!?

I’ve been saving this story for a week when I really didn’t have anything else much to write about in my column. (This happens to be that week. It’s just too hot to be creative, so I’m falling back on a real life true story.)

Twas back in the early 80’s. Reagan was the president, and somehow, the Shealy family found themselves on the way to California to appear on the well-known game show, Family Feud.

My sister, Sherry, had learned of “auditions” being held in the Palmetto State, and had somehow persuaded the rest of us to show up. Actually, it wasn’t an audition at all. It was what Hollywood types call a “talent search”… visiting various areas of the country a few times a year to find families just crazy enough to be entertaining to the American public.

On this particular day, there were reportedly 700 people who showed up. Out of those, 16 families were deemed to be just crazy enough to be entertaining, and were invited to Hollywood, California, all expenses paid via Automatic Flying Airplane.

The Shealy family, of course, took them up on their offer. We were not in the habit of turning down free stuff, particularly free stuff that resembled a vacation.

So off we flew, Dad, two of my sisters, my ex, Becky, and me…. off to seek our fortunate in the bright lights of day-time television. A few other family members came along for the ride, and we did, in fact, make a West Coast vacation out of it.

They put us up for three days and nights, and we really only had to “work” one of those days. “Work” meant being at the studio, recording a TV show, which was not what any of us really considered to be work.

It was great. Bright lights, cameras, TV studios, and a live studio audience that cheered, laughed, or clapped whenever the producer turned on the lighted signs that said “Cheer”, “Laugh” and “Clap”. (Come to think of it, I recall the actual Hollywood TV term is “applause”, not “clap”.)

They wanted entertainment, and the Shealy family gave them entertainment. We were giddy with enthusiasm. When the very personable and talkative host, Richard Dawson, came out to chat with us, he knew he had met his match, talkative-wise. We were everything the Feud could have asked for in a guest.

Except talent.

Turns out, we were not very good at actually playing the game. Never even scored a point. Lost. Bad. To a Navy fighter pilot from San Deigo and his adorable family, who seemed to each have inherited his cat-like, Navy pilot reflexes when it came to punch-the-game-buzzer!

How bad were we? So bad that, in his conclusion, host Dawson suggested that perhaps, since we were a good Republican family, President Reagan might give a speech which would preempt the show, thereby sparing us the embarrassment of it ever being aired in South Carolina.

But time heals all wounds.

Five years later, we received ANOTHER call from the folks out in Family Feud-land, asking us if we’d like to appear on the show yet again. Same gig. Another free vacation. (Turns out, the show’s producer was a political junkie who had once run for congress and was intrigued by our family’s political background.)

Foolishly, we said yes.

This time we were ready for them. We practiced. We actually watched the show to see how it was played.

But alas, same result. We lost a second time.

This time we were up against a family of Mormon sisters, bright-eyed young girls who reminded us for all the world of the Osmonds.

And at least this time we scored some points. Actually, we even came close to winning. Foiled by the fourth answer to the question, “Name a sound a horn makes.” We easily got “honk”, “beep” and “toot”… but much to our chagrin the Mormon girls came up with the “aaa-ooough-aaa,” and we simply couldn’t compete.

Anyway, true story I thought I’d share with you since it’s really too hot to come up with anything original.

Here’s hoping for better luck next week.

Myrtle Beach Days

Myrtle Beach Days


When last we chatted here on these pages, I was nostalging about the simpler summertimes of my youth.

Ahhhhh, the Good Ol’ Days!

The last note in that column mentioned a common-denominator of all baby boomers from the Sandlapper State: Myrtle Beach.

Since we’re now in the heat of June, it’s inevitable that we’ll each do at least a little daydreaming about Myrtle Beach. Once upon a time, in our “Leave It To Beaver” baby boomer worlds, we all vacationed there. If you grew up in South Carolina, you went to Myrtle Beach.

And we all have our own Myrtle Beach memories!

Here are a few of mine…

Driving from Columbia to the beach, there was no interstate highway, meaning we all drove via Highway 378 – which to an eight year old kid was very cool because we went by Shaw Air Force Base and got to see jets taking off and landing.

The Shealy family – five of us at that time – would be piled into the family station wagon, with enough luggage to keep us clothed for a week -- or to provision many small armies for a year. We had a luggage rack on top of the wagon… not the sleek chrome ones that come standard nowadays, but the industrial strength steel ones that clamped on to the side of car, with a sheet of plywood firmly attached. We supplemented the luggage rack with the tailgate, which folded down, allowing us to strap another eight or ten pieces of luggage to it. The scene was not unlike our family’s favorite TV show of the era: The Beverly Hillbillies!

When we made it to Turbeville, we were at the halfway mark of the journey, so we always stopped for a snack at the “Chat and Rest”… or was it the “Eat and Run”.

Reaching Conway meant we were in sight: only a few more mile to go. From there on, we were at a fever pitch, hyped up in anticipation of that first glimpse. For the last 10 miles, there were bright shiny billboards every few hundred yards, tempting us with new and exciting things to do during our week at the beach. If the billboards had been advertising the Seven Wonders of the World, they couldn’t have been any more wondrous and amazing to us!

And then…. there it was!!! The Pavilion!!!! The center of the Myrtle Beach Universe, which was also exactly where the road from Columbia merged into the beach.

The Pavilion was like the State Fair, the Circus, and a High School Football Halftime Show rolled into one. You just couldn’t ask for any more excitement. It rivaled Christmas.

I don’t know if motel “reservations” actually existed back then. (Maybe not, since there was no internet, and a reservation would have required a long-distance telephone call, which was used very sparingly to avoid the gigantic fees.) But I do know the Shealy family never had reservations. We spent the first couple of hours of our vacation at the beach shopping for our motel.

We’d pull in to a great little 22-unit motel with a name like “The Summer Breeze” or “Miss Betty’s Place” or “The Sand Shovel”, and spend a few minutes checking it out to see if we liked it, complete with room inspections for cleanliness. (There had to be a paper-strap around the toilet seat with the words “Sanitized for your Protection”.)

It was not unusual at all to visit and inspect six or eight places before deciding on the right one.
After the choice was made, Mom would go to work negotiating the rate. Being a super-salesman, she was clever at it, always starting with, “Well, I don’t know… the room looks a little small”, so as not to appear too eager. Back then, the posted rate was maybe $5 per night… which meant Mom usually negotiated down to about $3.50.

The room rate was only the first way to keep the Shealy family vacation affordable. Next came the food: we brought it with us from home… unless, of course, that box happened to be one of the ones that blew off of the “luggage rack”.

Breakfast was Sugar Frosted Flakes, just like at home. (Who can argue with Tony, the Tiger?)

And lunch was perhaps the greatest money-saving invention of the 20th century… Vienna sausages!!! Open a can, squirt some mustard on a slice of bread, and you’re feeding a family of five for mere pennies!

And then there was the beach, which was the main event (except for the Pavilion.)

We grabbed our inner tubes and hopped barefoot across that hot pavement to reach the dunes. Eleventy-kabillion people were already there, laying out in the sun.

We didn’t have sun-block, we had suntan lotion. I’m not sure if it didn’t work, or if I forgot to put it on… but I got sunburned every single time I went to the beach, from the time I was five years old until I started wearing long sleeves and pants a few years back.

For excitement, we rode our bikes along the edge of the water: Old fashioned bikes with big fat tires that we had strapped onto the front of our Beverly Hillbillies- mobile: three of ‘em, one for each kid!

Frankly, when I daydream about the beach, there are just too many memories to capture:

--Transistor radios on the beach, because there weren’t any CD’s or tape-players;

--Tee shirt and towel shops – not the bawdy ones of today – but the old fashioned ones where the most risqué image you could find was the Coppertone Girl;

--Foot-long hot dogs! Back then, the beach was the only place you could find foot-long hotdogs.

--Cruising along the boulevard… the whole family, like all the other families did. Traffic was slow, so Mom and Dad let us sit on the front hood as we creeped along. I always got the middle – straddling the hood ornament – because I called it first.

--Some years, we’d rent a beach house with a screened in porch. There was no air-conditioning, so the screen porch was great.

--In the later years, we’d hold out for those rare motels that had SWIMMING POOLS!!! That way, we could SWIM during the week. For some reason, it never quite clicked that, 200 yards away, there was an OCEAN!!!

--The airplanes pulling banners was a novelty. We’d wake people sleeping on the beach so they could read the message.

Of course, we all know the Pavilion is gone now. Last year was its final year, and I fear that perhaps the Myrtle Beach we all knew is a thing of the past.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to daydream.

I’d like to hear some of your Myrtle Beach daydreams. Send them to me by email: RodShealy@aol.com

Enjoy your summer!

Old, but immature

Lately, I’ve run into a rash of old friends who all seem to greet me in the exact same way:

“Wow, you’re old!”

I don’t think they mean anything by it. They’re not trying to be insulting. I can tell by the genuine look of shock and disbelief in their eyes. (Except, of course, for those “friends” who I’ve seen maybe two days earlier. They’re just trying to be mean.)

I think I’ve developed quite the retort to all of the people who are suddenly stunned to discover that I am, if fact, apparently on the downhill slide:

“I may be old, but I’m still immature!”

Once upon a time, my “immaturity” would have been a decided downer for me. Like, when I was fifteen years old, and girls my age seemed not to know I existed. (“Downer”, incidentally, is a word from my youth.)

But not any more. Nowadays, I pride myself on my immaturity, because it’s about the only remaining trace of my youth.

Never mind that it’s probably pathetic case of denial. I can’t help it. I’m immature… and my immaturity prevents me from facing up to reality.

Most guys my age are every bit as pathetic as me, but they don’t know how to handle it. They, instead, go through a “mid-life crisis”… you know, with the shiny sports cars and the comb-over.

Not me. I’m old, but I’m immature. Plus, mid-life for me was a probably a lonnnnng time ago.

I’m comforted by my immaturity. It’s like my own personal fountain of youth.

Yes, I’m clinging desperately to the last vestiges of youth, as they surely slip away -- who am I kidding? “slipped away” -- holding on to every shred, every morsel of anything even resembling me from 30 years ago.

The hair is gone from the top. The eyesight is tragic. The weight has shifted.

But I still have my immaturity.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s a “cop out”. (Another word from my youth.)

You’re thinking I’m manufacturing my immaturity as a way of coping. You think I’m making it up.

Am I?

Have you seen the clothes I wear? Do you know it’s been years since I wore a necktie to work? Immature, I’d say.

My beard is a throwback to the sixties. Very immature. (During the sixties, by the way, I was 12 years old, and totally incapable of even a bristle on my chin.)

I don’t like vegetables. And therefore, I don’t eat vegetables. That was a mark of my immaturity in 1961, and it still is today.

At this moment, I’m not wearing any socks. I’m in my office working, but without socks. Typing my weekly column on my laptop… but no socks. Very immature.

And did you know that, once again, I have procrastinated writing my column until the very last moment. Procrastination is a clear sign of immaturity. That’s what my teacher told me in the fourth grade when I didn’t turn in my homework… many times!

And if that’s not proof enough of my immaturity, try this: Lately, I’ve even taken to following people around the office, and repeating everything they say back to them:

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m hungry”

“Where are you going?”

“Where are you going?”

“Stop following me.”

“Stop following me.”

“Quit saying what I’m saying.”

“Quit saying what I’m saying.”

“I’m telling Mom.”

“I’m telling Mom.”

Yes, I take a lot of comfort in my immaturity.

Like the songs say: “Call me irresponsible. Be young, be foolish, but be happy.”

And I’m thinking about writing a new song: “I may not be a child anymore, but I can certainly still be childish!”

There I go again: Daydreaming about writing a song when I should be working. How immature!

I’m 54, going on seven.

Yes, I may be old, but I’m immature.

“Hope you have a good week.”

“Hope you have a good week.”