During a recent Thursday morning “Survivor” update at work, one of my co-workers admitted to the group that he doesn’t watch the show. “Hooray!” I said, “Someone else with good taste!” The show’s biggest fan, who is also a co-worker, asked him why he felt this way. He responded, “I don’t watch that show or any of the new trendy shows like ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.’ I think they emphasize all that is negative in our society.” I then noted that there is another show called “Greed” and wondered aloud if the networks will next go through the remainder of the Seven Deadly Sins, creating a show entitled “Sloth.” Or maybe even one called “Adultery?” “That’s covered,” said another, “It's called daytime drama.” While we were all snickering, I noted to myself that the two funniest shows on television, two shows I watch with some regularity, also emphasize some rather alarming values. “Will and Grace,” for example, is disturbing not for the sexual inclination of some of the characters, but for the promiscuity they exhibit. Jack is flamboyantly promiscuous; his apparent raison d'ê tre acquiring frequent flyer miles in the boudoir. Grace is also rather free with her extracurricular activities, in one show even bragging that she was "naughty," as she was intimate with two men, and those two men were also intimate with other women and they all knew about it and wasn't that just so progressive of them all? To continue down the valueless parade, Jack is in a sham marriage so that Karen's illegal alien maid can remain in the country.

        And speaking of Karen, Grace’s rich assistant, she is an alcohol and drug addict. She stays tanked through every episode, even arriving at work under the influence. The biggest laughs from the audience come when she receives calls from her pharmacy or her doctor, wanting to know if she has enough drugs to see her through the weekend. Another show, “Just Shoot Me,” has a similar character, an aging model who stays intoxicated with alcohol and other drugs. She brags that there are entire years she doesn’t remember. She, too, is promiscuous and the show's running joke is keeping tally of the many rock and roll stars with whom she's been intimate. I suppose folks could here interject, “Lighten up. You watch it, too. It's just a sitcom. It's just entertainment.” They could also point out that throughout the history of comedy, there have been inebriated or otherwise morally compromised characters, such as Red Skelton's classic Willie Lump-Lump. But those characters evoked pathos as well. We laughed at the same time we felt saddened by their plight. Those characters weren't presented as role models or in any way glamorous. The characters in "Will and Grace" and "Just Shoot Me"-promiscuous, drunk, doped-are attractive, wealthy, popular, and ever so witty. It gives the "Just Say No" campaign a bit of competition. This isn't advocating censorship or a judgment of anyone who watches these shows, for, after all, I watch, too. But I cannot help but feel my time would be better spent doing something else. I recently broached this subject with Winston-Salem psychologist, Phillip Batten. I asked him if I were blowing these sitcoms all out of proportion.

        He said, "After a few generations of being socialized by profit-oriented TV, movies and other profit-driven media, combined with the growing secularization of society, the values I fear we'll have left will be primarily based in materialistic hedonism. And the shows you mention are prime examples. Why should we expect young people to value emotional intimacy over promiscuous sexual pleasure, honesty over deceit, and fidelity over the pursuit of immediate pleasure when the themes of what they see are those you describe?“ He further commented that the values we, the Baby Boomer generation, saw illustrated on television were far different from what children see today. Dr. Batten says that he did, indeed, get some of his values from television, "from shows like 'The Lone Ranger' and 'Superman.' And I even learned from 'Leave it to Beaver,' where I saw that the manipulative smartaleck kid (Eddie Haskell) was pathetic in the end. I even watched pro wrestling - but back then the bad guys cheated and the good guys obeyed the rules.” But what values does television emphasize today? That you cannot be too rich, too thin, too devious, or too promiscuous? I think that many of us have deluded ourselves. We've told ourselves that it doesn't matter what our kids are seeing on television. That they know it's only entertainment. That no values are transmitted by the media and that if we are doing our jobs, then our children understand that while they are mesmerized by what they see on the screen, it shouldn't affect their value system at all.

        Just as we've convinced ourselves that what we as adults see and hear on a regular basis has no affect in eroding our value systems. Several years ago, I worked in an environment in which the four co-workers in closest physical proximity to me regularly used coarse, vulgar language. In no time at all, I was using some of these words in my home with my spouse. The more I heard them at work, the less vulgar they seemed to be. I became anesthetized to their potency and, according to my husband, started to sound like a sailor on leave. I then realized that what I see and hear on a regular basis does indeed matter. That I've tried to convince myself that there are degrees of vulgarity and morality is rather alarming. There are some who feel that entertainment is simply entertainment and that we all need to unwind at the end of the day with some mindless activity. Many say, "I'm just watching this to kill time.” The demise of time does not need to be rushed. I suggest that we think more carefully about how we spend the time we have, so that we become survivors on an island of our own making, not one the networks have thrust upon us.

        On a Sunday morning about three months ago I had slept uncharacteristically late and found myself in my car wondering what would be good to eat. I usually go by the Santa Fe Restaurant when I am out early on Sundays, so I decided I would stick to my pattern. It was about 11:15 am and I figured I would have just enough time to eat my breakfast and be out of there before Bill and Janet Dillard came down for their Sunday Brunch, and asked why I hadn’t made it to church.

        As I approached the parking lot of the restaurant, I almost went on by. The lot was full of every kind of vehicle imaginable--motorcycles, Volkswagen microbuses, pickups and cars of all kinds. Almost every space was filled. Then it hit me that this was MerleFest weekend, and probably every restaurant in town would be as full as the Santa Fe, so I decided to go in and take my chances. The inside of the restaurant was as packed as the parking lot. Nothing but “rear-ends and elbows” as the saying goes. I looked around for a place to sit, figuring I would see Ralph and Vonnie Williams or my brother T. A. to join. When I couldn’t find them, I even looked for Kent Sturdivant and Charlie Bell. On Sundays, if those two aren’t at the Santa Fe or in the hospital, you may as well look for them in the obituaries.

        No luck. Even Charlie and Kent were gone.

        I was just about to give up and leave when Ina Reynolds walked up and told me a booth was available. I quickly reminded her that she was better than most angels, gathered up my three-pound copy of the Winston-Salem Journal (and a couple of National Reviews for balance), and headed over to the booth. I was already thinking about a big bowl of grits and some livermush. Piping hot, smooth, grits and livermush cooked crisp by my buddy James Osborne. I couldn’t wait.

        As we made our way across the dining room to find my seat I realized that Ina Reynolds was not seating me at just any booth. This was “The Booth.” The second booth on the right as you enter the dining room, with a direct view across D Street of the CVS Pharmacy and Bicycles Extreme. I had not sat down in “The Booth” for over 20 years--not since the day I ordered the “small hamburger steak.”

        It was a beautiful spring day in the 70s--the year and the temperature. I had talked with John Cashion that morning and made plans to have lunch. Every time I mention John Cashion, someone asks me if I’m talking about the John Cashion who was on WKBC Radio for so many years, and who loved to tease Mittie Shumate at the Brame Drug Store about her hot chili. I always explain that this is not that John Cashion. I was to meet John Fred Cashion, a nephew of Paul Cashion who owned WWWC Radio, where I was then working selling advertising. At this time John Fred was working at Wilkes Community College as Ombudsman to the President, Howard E. Thompson. I’m not sure what that job was, I’m not even sure John Fred knew exactly, but John, like most of us, always tried to do whatever “Doc” Thompson asked.

        Also, the John Cashion that was on WKBC is now quite dead, and my friend John seemed fine this past Saturday when I was talking to him on the phone from Georgia about attending his son Matt’s wedding on August 5th in Statesville.

        Back to “The Booth.” John Fred showed up for lunch right on time and we seated ourselves. As long as I can remember, when I have lunch at the Santa Fe, I have ordered the same thing--flounder. I like fish. Actually, I love fish, and can enjoy most any kind of fish, prepared most any way. Well, truthfully, I do draw the line at carp. Carp even when prepared using Caney Lowe’s careful instructions as “Carolina Catfish,” still requires a tougher man than me to eat it.

        This day, as always, flounder was on the menu. I politely let John Fred order first and he ordered a different item from the handwritten “specials” list attached. There was a little clip that read “Drink Coca-Cola” that held the specials to the menu, and I remarked to John Fred that the Coke guys, Dick McNeill and Alton Pardue didn’t miss many chances to plug their soda. John Fred had ordered the small hamburger steak.

        This day, as always, flounder was on the menu. I politely let John Fred order first and he ordered a different item from the handwritten “specials” list attached. There was a little clip that read “Drink Coca-Cola” that held the specials to the menu, and I remarked to John Fred that the Coke guys, Dick McNeill and Alton Pardue didn’t miss many chances to plug their soda. John Fred had ordered the small hamburger steak.

        For some reason that sounded good to me, really good. For a change, I decided to order the hamburger steak myself, a decision that was to make this lunch memorable for all time. As John Fred and I visited, I listened to him tell stories about his various experiences. He has lived in many cities and has had an interesting variety of jobs. I have been stealing stories from him for years. Soon, our lunch arrived. The menu description was accurate--it was a small hamburger steak, but it looked and smelled fine. As I chewed on a couple of french fries, I decided that all my lunch needed was a dash of A-1 Steak Sauce. I had learned years ago that a little A-1 would give a hamburger a college education, and I was about to send mine to school.

        To my immediate right was about a dozen assorted bottles and containers. Ketchup, salt, pepper, sugar, Texas Pete, an ash tray (smokers were not yet outcasts), vinegar, Heinz 57, and there, in the very back was the familiar square, black and white bottle I was looking for, the A-1 sauce. As I picked up the bottle with my right hand, the thought went through my mind that the A-1 had been sitting there for a while, and I had better shake it up a bit.

        With no further thought or consideration, my right arm drew back in a move that would have made Tony Yates or Vaughn Key proud to be my pitching coach. As my arm came back over my shoulder, I heard a faint tap-tap noise and the shrill “whoop” of a very sharply taken deep breath. The tap was the cap from the A-1 bottle hitting the wall behind the first booth, and the gasp was from the lady sitting directly behind me. She was reacting to the flood of A-1 sauce that was coming over her shoulder and through her hair.

        Yes, I heard the tap and the gasp, but it really didn’t register with me what was happening, and there was no stopping the completion of the mighty swing I had started. It was pure reflex action as my arm came back over my shoulder and, to my horror, the A-1 flew out of the bottle as if launched from a catapult.

        John Fred jumped as the sauce hit him, but he is so tall and lanky, and the booth so small and tight that he was basically trapped. He was the only one in the place who actually saw what was happening. For everyone else, and there were several, they were suddenly being splattered out of the clear blue with something brown.

        Viscosity--how thick something is. Let me tell you, A-1 sauce that has been sitting out for a few hours is not very viscous at all. In fact, it was downright runny.

        And run it did.

        After soaking the lady behind me, the A-1 had made a perfect arc back over my head, down over John Fred and onto the people in the remaining booths that lined the window. People were jumping out of seats in startled disbelief as they tried to wipe off the A-1 sauce, which was everywhere. Poor John Fred looked as though he had been hit with a machine gun or something.

        Mercifully, the waitresses at the Santa Fe quickly went to work and cleaned up the people and the tables. I didn’t know what to say, but after a few seconds blurted out, “My Lord, John, look what you’ve done!!” My attempt to blame John would have worked but for one thing--there was not a drop of A-1 on me. Even the sauce dripping down from the ceiling had missed me.

        I got up and tried to make amends buy helping with the clean up. To a person, everyone I had splattered was good-natured about it. Saying I was sorry and helping with the mess seemed to be enough. In a short while, all was back to normal, and John Fred and I went on to eat our lunches--and laugh and laugh.

        From that day to this I have very gently shaken any condiment container--and then only after I have made sure the lid is on securely.

        As I was paying the bill, I sneaked a furtive look into the dining room and saw the waitresses taking down the curtains that hung above the booths. In all the excitement I hadn’t even noticed them, but the curtains looked just like John’s shirt. I told them I would gladly pay for cleaning the curtains and for putting them back up. The next few times I was in the Santa Fe, I asked about the curtains, but no one seemed to know anything about where they were, or what happened to them.

        They never did put those curtains back in the windows, and I have stayed with the flounder ever since.

        It is rather discouraging to talk to people whose primary goals include fleeing what they believe to be the wretched land of Wilkes County. Granted, it doesn't have the glitz of a larger city nor the quaintness of an island village. But, Wilkes County, nonetheless, has an alluring charm to it that brings in and keeps people here.

        I was born in the lovely township of North Wilkesboro and have resided here for all of my 19 years. I love it. And while I adore visiting other places, it always feels good to come "home." I call Wilkesboro/ North Wilkesboro a big, small town. It's large as far as small towns go, yet holds steadfastly to the small town atmosphere and attitudes.

        Strategically placed in-between the majestic Appalachian Mountains of the west and the growing metropolis of the piedmont, God has blessed the inhabitants of Wilkes County with easy access to all bits of pleasure put on this earth.

        But, more important are the pleasures put right here before us. This place we live in is a jewel. The weather is perfect--hot summers, snowy winters. Trees are everywhere. There is a flawless conglomeration of progress and cows. We proudly host the Brushy Mountain Apple Festival as well as the Merle Watson Festival. Anytime we get the urge, Rendezvous Mountain is right up the street ready and waiting with its intriguing Talking Tree Trail. It is relatively safe and people tend to be more trusting. And on Sundays, a large chunk of the civilized world simply shuts down.

        Some of the charm of Wilkes County lies not in its attracting qualities, but in its novelty. Like the way we welcome and uplift the suburban sprawl; how we congregate at natural disasters and bludgeoned car wrecks to chat and gawk; Smoot Park with its sticky playground equipment; the blatant nosiness of our friends and neighbors; the wild chickens that roam around North Wilkesboro; how we can be entertained by the moving of buildings; the mysterious empty gazebo at B Street Park; the way we are all drawn like zombies to the retail wonderland that is Wal-Mart. Need I go on?

        And who says there's nothing to do here? People who have yet to embrace the charm of this place. There are so many things to love…so many things that make this place 'Wilkes County.' Last summer, I brought an exchange student home from Germany. Driving home from the Charlotte Douglas International Airport, we came into town on Highway 115. Right as we hit the sign that says 'Welcome to Wilkes County,' the girl turned to me, stuck up her nose, and said, "What's that awful smell?" Well, I knew I was home--And I knew then how much I loved this turned around smelly wonderful little county.

Reality Check
by A. Nonymous

        This weekend, I had the pleasure of a visit from a small boy about 8 years old. He likes to visit us to play with my daughters. He's a very nice and polite and very intelligent boy, he's always welcome here. The girls just love to play with him. He suffers from muscular distrophy, and especially during his visit this weekend, I noticed he's been getting weaker. Before long he will need to be confined to a wheelchair. Sadly enough, that's a fact, and he knows it.

        He fell while playing in the backyard by the swingset, his knee was scraped and bleeding a bit. I saw it happen. He didn't cry, he sat there on the ground trying to get the strength to stand and politely asked for a band-aid. He just couldn't muster the strength to stand. I went to him, cleaned his cut, and placed a band- aid on it, and stood him up on the platform (where he was trying to get originally).

        When it was time for dinner, we called the kids in. The girls made it in the door in a few seconds flat. As I looked out the backdoor, I noticed the boy was struggling to get up a small hill and still had a set of stairs to conquer. I went in the backyard and picked him up and brought him in. At the moment I picked him up, I realized that this small boy was much stronger than I. Comparing his problems to mine was like comparing mountains to mole hills. Still, his fortitude made me feel like a weakling.

        Things happen in our life and it's up to us to be observant enough to see what's really important. By the way God, thanks for everything, I really mean it, and please help people like this little strong man.