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STRINGSPEAK by Ann Stringfield Dellinger 
"We called them 'greenies.' Everyone starched and ironed theirs, except this one girl who kept hers wadded up in a ball when she wasn't wearing it. We admired her form of protest," said my co-worker Mary Holloway, as she waxed nostalgic about her younger days in gym class in Michigan city schools. Ours were blue. Purchased at Cook's and donned for Harry Englebert's gym class for two years. All the girls dressed alike as we prepared to parade before our peers our athletic ability, or, in my case, our lack thereof. The one-piece cotton garb was totally unflattering and, for some unfortunate body types, downright humiliating. No one looked good in it, except, of course, Martha Bell who would've looked good in flour sack. Harry introduced us to a variety of sports: basketball, volleyball, softball, tumbling, handball, and ping pong. Nearly everyone found something they liked, something for which they developed a decent skill level. Except for me, even though I really did try. After all, Harry was positively inspiring with his dark hair, handsome face, and athletic body. Crushes on him were as widespread as acne, and while mine wasn't an ardent one, it was a factor in how I tried to perform in class. To his credit, he was very kind and patient with me, but in the end he acknowledged defeat, certain nothing he'd said or tried to teach me had registered. His kind and gentle demeanor wasn't shared by my high school PE teacher. She, too, tried with me, but with an attitude that completely unnerved me. "Stringfield!" she bellowed one day, "If I graded on skill you'd be up a creek without a paddle." "I guess I would," I quietly replied, tears stinging in my eyes. When I got to Meredith and realized four semesters of physical education were required, I nearly collapsed in frustration. Was there no end to this futile effort to turn me into an athlete? Happily, though, I discovered that in college there were fun choices for physical education. A chance to explore many options and on a pass/fail basis. For my first three semesters, I chose gymnastics, ballet and tennis and managed to pass, although not with flying colors, I readily admit. My final semester of PE took some negotiating, though. I wanted to take Equitation, but the cost for that was not included in my tuition. I asked for it, then, as my sole Christmas present, because after a decade of reading horse stories and a few riding forays with Janet McNeil, I wanted formal lessons. And, oddly, enough, I found my niche. By benefit of osmosis and a couple of hair-raising rides with Janet, I found I had ability. My horse's name was Denny and if he knew I didn't have a real clue before I got on his back, he graciously did not let on. We bonded, before bonding was cool. Time passed. Over two decades in fact. Fast forward to Saturday, May 20, 2000. Ten years since I'd been on a horse at all and twenty years since my riding lessons. I was at Pisgah View Ranch for the Stringfield reunion. The wrangler asked me if I rode, clear in his voice that he assumed, by my manner around the horses, that I was experienced. I told him the truth: that I once had been an intermediate rider but that was long, long ago. Still, he placed me atop a horse called Cherokee, who, as it would soon be revealed, was one of the more spirited horses at the ranch. Up the mountain trail ten of us went. As time wore on, I was quite happy that I was still upright on the horse, especially since I was beginning to lose feeling in my lower legs. Then it began to rain. Lightly at first, then harder. My horse began to get more energetic, but I either kept him under control or he allowed me to believe that I was in control. By the time we were nearly out of the woods and heading for open ground, the sky opened up and sheets of rain fell on us. There was thunder and lightning. As we hit the meadow, Cherokee began to rear and buck and I found myself in a private rodeo as I struggled to remain calm. I remembered my lessons from equitation class, and I heard my instructor telling me to make sure I was centering myself and that I was not communicating to the horse any apprehensions. I was in control, I said over and over again. Everything was fine, I said, placating me, more than my horse. The thunder got louder and Cherokee reared again and started to bolt. The wrangler beside me, atop a Morgan that was equally jumpy, told me to give my horse a little more head. I did that as I silently began to pray to God that we would all make it safely to the barn. I reflected on how stupid I would feel to finally make it to the Stringfield reunion, after 40 years, only to be thrown from a horse and seriously injured. While all of this was going on, I heard another little voice that took me quite by surprise. It was Harry Englebert, instructing me in tumbling: "Make yourself compact, tight and make every movement controlled." By this time, it was raining so hard, my eyes were sticking together with water and mascara. I wasn't even certain that my contacts were still in. I couldn't see, my horse wanted to run, and I fancied I was hearing voices! But I listened and I kept my seat. When we got back to the barn, one of the wranglers told me that he was glad I was the rider atop Cherokee, for he didn't feel any of the other riders present could have kept him under control. Of course, they are paid to make greenhorns feel like radio champs! But I reflected silently that I had a lot of help when I was on that horse and I fantasized that good ole Martha Bell couldn't have kept her seat under similar circumstances…. but she would have looked really good as she was tossed off! Who knows where those blue PE uniforms are now? I guess they've long since become rags. But I know the whereabouts of the athletically challenged, for we quietly recognize one another. After my Pisgah Ranch experience; however, I can say to my fellow club members that their time to shine is coming. Because sometimes heart means ever so much more than skill.
by Ken Welborn 
A few weeks ago, a story ran in The Record entitled "Wilkes native named Assistant Superintendent for Hickory Public Schools." The "native" in question was Ric Vandett, who is actually from New York City, but he has been in Wilkes County so long we have every right to claim him. Before Ric went to work for the Hickory school system in 1990, he was a teacher/coach at North Wilkes High School and the 1988 Wilkes County Teacher-of-the-Year. When the press release came in, I read of his successes with a great deal of pride and satisfaction, as Ric is one of my buddies from the old days. While many of you know Ric Vandett only through his time in the Wilkes County School System, my connection with him goes back many years before he ever dreamed of being an educator. In the early 70s, I took a job selling advertising for Paul Cashion and Jeff Wilson Jr. at WWWC Radio 1240 in Wilkesboro. At the time, 3WC was a Top 40 station playing popular hits from six a.m. 'til midnight. Jeff Junior introduced me to all the people working there, but I can only remember three of them: Pat Anderson in the office, Stu Curry who worked the mid-day shift, and Walter Joseph Richard Vandett, the popular early morning disc jockey who called himself Ric Ross. I knew nothing about radio, but it was obvious that this young man enjoyed coming to work every day, and I knew enough about people to spend my time with the ones who were glad to be there. Working in advertising, I quickly learned that Ric (Vandett) Ross did the best job recording commercials, and often my customers would insist that Ric do their spots, if I wanted to keep them advertising. 
I enjoyed working with Ric at WWWC. He was always personable, fun, and easy to be around, but when that release from the Hickory Schools came in, my mind immediately went back to the truly wonderful thing Ric did for me. It was because of him I met Kathy Bauguss, daughter of Clay and Mae Bauguss, and an incredible inspiration to anyone who ever knew her. In 1974 the Wilkes Jaycees had taken on as a service project helping raise money for a young boy who had been injured in an accident. As part of their fundraising, Ric Ross had done a 96-hour marathon on WWWC. It was very successful in raising money and apparently had one very special listener: 19-year-old Kathy Bauguss. As Kathy listened to Ric's programming during the Jaycee project, she did so as she lay in bed or as she sat in a wheel chair. At age seven, Kathy was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy, a degenerative, crippling muscular disease for which there is no known cure. Soon after Ric Ross completed the Jaycee radio mara-thon, Kathy Bauguss called him and told him of her dream to do something special to raise money for the fight against muscular dystrophy -- money that could perhaps be raised here in Wilkes and donated on Labor Day during the national telethon hosted each year by Jerry Lewis. The first time Ric took me to see Kathy, she was not having a very good day. She didn't feel as though she could sit up, so Ric and I met with her in her room where she lay in the center of a huge bed on a bright green comforter. Kathy's room was something of a marvel to me, as even in the 70s I was technologically challenged. Her father, Clay Bauguss, was a wizard at making things and engineered all kinds of gadgets and switches to make Kathy's room user-friendly. With the touch of a button, her motorized drapes would open. She could also turn on and off the television and lights in her room from an electric panel her father had made. Kathy's room had even been hooked electronically to Wilkes Central High School so she could keep up with her school work. Kathy not only kept up; she graduated with her class and was a most popular attendee at WCHS football games and was a member of the Homecoming Court. Ric and I left our meeting amazed. Before Kathy had ever called, she had the whole thing pretty much planned out. She said she knew we wouldn't tell her no, and she was certainly correct. As I sat on the side of her bed talking with Kathy, I could see that this was a person of whom to be proud and to admire, not to pity. Writing was something of a struggle for her, but she took detailed notes of our meeting on a legal pad, and her little blue Princess phone was always close by. "My room has become my office," Kathy often laughed. "Muscular Dystrophy Week in Wilkes" was Kathy's dream, and it was soon to become a reality. Actu-ally, it sort of took on a life of its own as plans began to take shape. Quickly, it grew from a radio marathon to a 78-hour live remote broadcast from West Park Shopping Center. Will Bryant, manager of the Sky City Discount Center, gave us permission to set up a couple of flat bed trailers in front of the store and the entire shopping center began to look much like a homemade carnival. Kathy's father Clay and her uncle John A. operated B & R Sheet Metal at this time. Whatever Kathy would ask for, they would have the B & R guys build and take to West Park for set-up. They even constructed a 1,000 gallon "Dunking Booth," that became a huge crowd pleaser. By the time Muscular Dystrophy Week arrived that summer, I was in love with Kathy Bauguss and I had lots of company. The crowds at West Park were larger than we had ever anticipated and bands who had expected to play until nine or ten p.m. were still happily playing to large audiences well after midnight. Ric Ross stayed on the air live for 78 hours, continually encouraging people to come down to West Park or to call in a pledge. Kathy had planned things well and many people helped us get ready, but the glue that held the event together and kept the crowds donating was Carmen Mancusi. Carmen and his wonderful wife Mickey operated a store in West Park called Jeans Etc., but they might as well have closed that week as they spent their days and nights working for Kathy Bauguss. During band breaks, Carmen would get up on the stage and work the crowd. He became the de facto Master of Ceremonies for the event, as he spoke with sincerity, caring, and an obvious love for the beautiful young lady whose cause he had taken up. When Carmen Mancusi took the microphone, the people would literally stand in line to get to our big fishbowl to contrib-ute. While Kathy Bauguss had managed to put the entire event together from her room on Colonial Drive in North Wilkesboro, she never asked for any publicity or credit for her work. It took much persuasion to talk her into coming to West Park on the last day of Muscular Dystrophy Week, and then only so she could let all the volunteers know how much she appreciated their efforts. That first event raised over $17,000 which was far more than Kathy, Ric, Carmen, me, or anyone else had hoped. On Labor Day that year, Ric Ross presented a check on behalf of Kathy Bauguss and Wilkes County at the WXII TV station in Winston-Salem. (Ric co-hosted part of the Winston-Salem segments of the Labor Day Telethon the next year.) The next two years were wonderful ones with Kathy. We worked off and on throughout the entire year, planning for the next MD Week. Each year the event was, as they say, bigger and better. Sometimes when we would meet, there would be a dozen or more people in her room awaiting direction from the heart and soul of the entire organization -- Kathy Bauguss. Time was hard on Kathy. She became even weaker and less willing to leave the sanctuary of her room, but she never complained and never lost the sweet smile that was her trademark. In December of 1977, her health continued to deteriorate and she developed pneumonia. Already weak beyond anyone's imagination or understanding, the pneumonia was too much and Kathy died on the morning of Monday, December 19, 1977, at age 23. I received a call early that morning telling me of Kathy's death and I felt an emptiness I could never de-scribe here. Later, in that same day's mail, I received a Christmas card from Kathy, apparently written and mailed sometime the week before. The card read, in part, "...wishing you and your family love, peace, happiness, hope, health, faith!" At that very moment the empty feeling began to ease. I know I am speaking for myself, Ric Vandett, Carmen Mancusi and countless others when I say thank you to Kathy Bauguss for letting us into your life. We are all better for it.
by Jordan Welborn 
Confession: I am a bad driver. I find it difficult to keep my eyes on the road. Glittery signs, scenic countryside, and the décor splashed sporadically on the bumpers of so many cars make driving quite the dangerous venture. Several times a week, my eyes fixate on someone's cutesy bumper sticker, causing me to momentarily lose my bearing on reality and contemplate someone's roadside thoughts on society, ex-wives, or honor roll students. After only a few moments, I am inevitably shot back into the real world when I find my vehicle barreling toward the one in front of me. My stomach then jumps into my throat. I let out a gasp, a scream, or a silent plea to the forces above. And I stomp the brake pedal with all my might, causing my car to come to a screeching halt and its contents to be thrust forward. At this point, I no longer have to squint to read the bumper sticker. It's in my face. Last week, one such bumper sticker threw my sandwich into the floor and made me glad I was wearing a seatbelt. It has also annoyed me everyday since. It read: "The Lord Giveth; Uncle Sam Taketh Away." Cute. A new creative way to whine about taxes. I've already had all of that I can take. Yes, paying taxes stinks. It's no fun and April 15 is stressful for everyone. So what? I think it's time to get over it. These days, we should all be driving around with bumper stickers that say: "Thank the Lord I'm an American--Bring on the Taxation!" In return for the small percentage that we pay in each year, we receive huge benefits for our citizenship. Most of us went to public school. We drive up and down state built roads that, for our convenience, are nightly lit with streetlights. We read in the public libraries, swing in the public parks, and have the security of knowing that in the case of disaster, we have police and fire protection. This money that we begrudge the government also funds the court system. So, if we as a collective stop committing crimes and bringing petty civil disputes before the courts, our bills might be a bit lighter each spring. Sure, some of our money is wasted… a lot is wasted if you ask me. But the people spending it are just that--people. And, people are fallible. They make mistakes. They have emotions and weak points, as do you and I. Sometimes power or greed or personal agendas look them in the eye and they succumb. Sometimes the urge to purchase historical documents becomes too much and our political leaders just can't help but to throw money at it. But this is all part of life--a life we should be thankful that we are allowed pursue in this wonderland of capitalism that we call America. People risk their lives everyday just for the chance to set foot in our country. We, as Americans, are just plain lucky when it comes to a lot of things. We have freedoms and opportunities that often aren't offered to our foreign brethren. But what do we do? We whine because we have to pay a little for it. Newsflash: Nothing is free!! I think we are getting a rather good deal in the bargain. Yes, money is wasted and used for things that it shouldn't be. But who among us has never wasted any money… like on fancy accident-causing bumper stickers…
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