When I was a youngster, I was often confused by race designations on applications. I knew that I was a Caucasian, but the applications that gave that option as “White” were problematic for me. At that time, I was fairly dark-skinned and saying I was “White” seemed a lie. Now, of course, I am, according to one friend, whiter than most corpses (or, the living challenged), so I needn’t worry about the inaccuracy of “White.” Applications for everything have changed a great bit over the years, with race designations changing from “Indian” to “Native American” to “Native North American” or from “Negro” to “Afro-American” to “Black” to “African-American.” “Handicapped” has become “Challenged” and even gender designations often leave “Other” as an option. The feminist movement of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s made the designation “Miss” insulting and “Ms.” was born. Some say “Sir” and “Ma’am” smack too much of southern slavery days and still others say they are not short but rather “vertically challenged.”

        The intention of all of this is, of course, not to call anyone a name that is insulting or demeaning. I concur with this sentiment wholeheartedly. Referring to someone as “cheesehead” or “lardbucket” doesn’t normally spread good will. But I do have a problem with an over-sensitivity to labels that have numbed society to some of the bigger issues. One of my son’s friends calls my husband and me “Mr. and Mrs. Dellinger.” He says “please” and “thank you,” “Sir” and “Ma’am.” He reminds me of a much simpler time when we were far more polite to one another. Now that we are all on a first name basis and so very careful not to get the politically correct designations of race, gender, or religion wrong, we are rude, rageful, and have lost all respect for human life and dignity. Years ago, in a conversation with my late mother, I referred to my then-boss simply as John. “Who are you talking about?” she asked. “John ____, my boss,” I replied. She was adamant when she said, “You don’t call him John; you call him Mr. ____.” At the time I thought that was really funny and that she just wasn’t in the corporate know. Now, I think she was right. If I refer to him as “Mr.,” to my other co-workers as “Mr.” or “Mrs.,” I am far more likely to treat them with respect and politeness. Try it and see; it is much easier to call your co-worker “Joe” a “noodlehead” than it is to call that same co-worker, “Mr. Jones,” a “noodlehead.”

        I have watched older folks struggle with the new labels for this and that. Men and women whom I know to be perceptive and sensitive individuals have sometimes slipped and called someone by something no longer politically correct, but certainly not abusive or insulting, and been blasted for it. This is simply wrong, especially if the intention is not to demean another person. When someone is verbally basted for calling a woman “Mrs.” or “Madam,” when a person is called to take “Sensitivity Training Classes” for referring to a co-worker as “physically handicapped,” rather than “physically challenged,” something is indeed wrong. The emotion of anger is caused when we feel an injustice has been done; when we feel we’ve been somehow slighted or insulted or abused. Demeaning and insulting names are truly unfair and unjust, but names that are a mere matter of semantics are not. And, quite frankly, most of the time our anger comes from issues within, rather than issues without. A few weeks ago, I was privy to a conversation in which there were many racial and ethnic slurs made. I registered my revulsion in a light-hearted manner, attempting to lighten the mood and move the conversation on to something better. I could’ve become enraged, but that would have been counterproductive. Besides, we all know there are certain mindsets that will never be changed, regardless of our efforts.

        Later, in reflecting on the situation, I decided that my best response in the future would be to avoid that type of conversation with the people in question and be more proactive in changing the topic. Sending them off to a seminar, even if I had the power to do so, isn’t the answer. The answer is to be more polite, more tolerant, more enlightened than the person who is rude, intolerant, and unenlightened. The answer isn’t changing the labels, but changing ourselves and changing our attitude toward one another. And taking the time to say “please” and “thank you,” “Sir” and “Ma’am,” and calling folks “Mr.” or “Mrs.” It’s certainly impressive when it comes out of the mouth of a 12-year-old boy; wouldn’t it be all the more so coming out of the mouth of an adult?

        Is it just me, or does it seem that every fall school starts earlier and earlier? I know it has been a long time since I went to elementary and high school around here, but I seem to remember needing a sweater, or at least a long-sleeved shirt, those first mornings of school. Perhaps it’s because, in those days, school started after Labor Day in September, rather than during the harshest heat of Summer Vacation.

        At any rate, the first days of school always find me reminiscing about my own school days, most especially my days at the North Wilkesboro Elementary School when it was located on D Street. That old brick building is now Benton Hall and home to the Wilkes Playmakers, but it will always be “school” to me. In the ‘50s our school consisted of two brick buildings and an old wooden gym. The D Street building housed grades 1-4. The E Street building, originally built to be the North Wilkesboro High School, housed grades 5-8, as well as the office of the principal, Conrad A. Shaw. In those days, the only “Board” of Education we knew anything about was the paddle that leaned against the wall behind Mr. Shaw’s desk.

        I noted in an earlier column that all my teachers were old, or, at the very least, it seemed that way. Upon further thought, it seems I was right - all my teachers were, to say the least, experienced. I was once telling a group a story about my second grade teacher, the legendary Miss Elizabeth Finley. After I finished, Mary Louise Clements, who had herself just recently retired from a career as a music teacher, remarked, “Kenny, I’ll go you one better about how long Miss Finley had been teaching at North Wilkesboro; she was MY second grade teacher as well.”

        Like I said, my teachers were experienced.

        I was in the seventh grade before I had a young and pretty teacher. Perhaps it was the seventh grade before I cared either, but I will never forget her. She was our Health and Physical Education teacher, Freida Matthews. Freida was, and is, beautiful, and every boy in the seventh grade was in love with her. It had to be love, because it was Mrs. Matthews who took us to the gym - for dancing lessons. Not a word of complaint from the Great Unwashed, just the ever-present request, “Mrs. Matthews, can you show me again exactly how I’m supposed to hold the girl?”

        And, speaking of the “Unwashed,” my mind immediately returns to Miss Finley, the second grade, and the tight-knit group of boys who would never “tell” on one another, no matter what the consequences. Yes, “I’ll Never Tell,” The Code of the Great Unwashed, may sound cute or funny now, but when you were in Miss Finley’s class, you needed all the help you could get. After all, this is the same Miss Finley who never batted an eye about walking straight into the boy’s bathroom to quell a disturbance.

        The boys in this class stood up for one another, and there are names I will never forget: Bobby Lewis, Richard Watson, Gary Anderson, Arthur Lowe, Jr., Randy Absher, Jimmy Blankenship, Q. V. Porter, Kurt Johnson, and to a lesser extent, Tim Moore and Gray Crouse. But there’s one more, and he is the one I remember best, a kid I never met until the second grade, but who a became friend for life - Sammy Lovette.

        I knew nothing of Sammy Lovette until 1956. Sammy was from Second Street Hill in North Wilkesboro. In those days, houses lined both sides of Second Street and the kids all came to North Wilkesboro Elementary. From the first day, Sammy and I hit it off. He was the older brother in his family and I was the younger brother in mine, so we always seemed right at home in each other’s company. Sammy Lovette was a good kid, a dead-shot in a game of marbles, a whiz at kick-ball, a decent student, and best of all, a friend you could trust.

        1956 was an election year. The Republicans had nominated Dwight Eisenhower, “Ike,” for a second term and the Democrats were sacrificing Adlai Stevenson, a United States Senator from Illinois. “I Like Ike” buttons were everywhere. Stevenson might as well have been running against Santa Claus, but once in a while you would see a button proclaiming “Gladly for Adlai.”

        Why mention the election of ‘56? That’s an excellent question, but for reasons unknown to me, the election seemed to be on the mind of Miss Elizabeth Finley on the day that Sammy Lovette became a friend I could never forget.

        In the second grade, we were instructed to rest a few minutes after lunch. It wasn’t a full-fledged nap, like first grade, but we were to lay our heads down on our desks for a while. It was during one of these brief rest periods that out of the clear blue came a noise like a clap of thunder. Miss Finley had taken her yardstick and slammed it down on the top of her desk as hard as she could. The sound was tremendous and every kid in the room jumped straight up in his or her seat. It is probably a good thing that those desks were bolted to the floor.

        Mary Kolodny started crying.

        After getting our attention Miss Finley stood behind her desk and almost yelled, “I like Ike!” She continued, “Yes, I like Ike, and I don’t care who knows it! I don’t care if Mr. Shaw knows it, I don’t care if Mr. Woodward (the North Wilkesboro City Schools Superintendent) knows it, and I don’t care if you go home and tell your mothers and fathers!”

        I barely knew who Ike was except that Mrs. Valentine in the apartment above ours didn’t like him because of somewhere her husband, Sergeant Isaac Valentine, had been stationed during World War II, but I wouldn’t forget Ike any time soon.

        Miss Finley had just about scared the whole class to death.

        “Now, lay your heads back down.” She calmly intoned after her brief statement, but no one dozed off that day.

        Sammy Lovette sat in the row next to me, just ahead. After the “I like Ike” episode, Sammy and I started whispering about something or another. After a bit, I took my pencil over to the window to sharpen it. The window looked out to Mrs. Gentry, the cafeteria lady’s house. I would always get hungry when I would think of her and those wonderful lunches she and Laura Belle Whittington prepared. The pencil was one of those big fat ones that just barely fit into the biggest opening of the Boston Sharpener bolted to the windowsill. I can still smell those pencil shavings.

        After I returned to my seat, I tried to get Sammy’s attention to tell him something else. When Sammy didn’t notice, I leaned out to tap him to get him to turn around.

        Just as I reached out, Sammy slid around to whisper something to me, and, before I could stop, my hand, which was still holding the freshly sharpened pencil, hit him in the thigh. Sammy yelled out in pain as the sharp end of that big pencil dug through his pants and into his leg. I immediately pulled my hand away, and Sammy slid back into his seat.

        “What was that, Sammy?” Miss Finley questioned.

        “Nothing,” Sammy replied. “But, what was that noise all about?” she persisted. “What noise?” Sammy asked, his voice kind of trailing off, knowing he was in trouble. The conversation went back and forth between Miss Finley and Sammy until she gave him the ultimatum. “Tell me why you made that racket, or who made you, or I’m going to paddle your bottom.”

        Sammy just lowered his head and said nothing. In just a minute Miss Finley came to Sammy’s desk, took him by the hand and led him out into the hall.

        Paddlings are a lot like executions; there is a sort of morbid curiosity that finds you wanting to watch, whether you are for or against the prisoner. In first grade, Mrs. Minnie Horton always took you to the front of the class to paddle you (an excellent deterrent to more bad behavior).

        Miss Finley, on the other hand (or bottom), would take you out to the hall. All you ever heard was a muffled “whap” and a kid crying, analogous I suppose to the lights flickering in Raleigh when they threw the switch on Old Sparky in the Deathhouse.

        Sammy took his licks without a sound. He didn’t cry, holler, run or try to sneak a spelling book into his pants. He just took his punishment.

        And he didn’t “tell.”

        As Sammy returned to his seat, I mouthed “I’m sorry” to him and he nodded his head and mouthed “Okay.” After school that day Sammy rolled up his trousers and showed me the place on his leg. There, just above his knee was about 3/8” piece of lead from that pencil still imbedded in his thigh. I couldn’t believe it, but Sammy was proud. Proud he didn’t, as he put it, “...cry when you or Miss Finley got me today.”

        Sammy and I were in school together for years and we never had a cross word. I never forgot how he took a paddling for me, and we laughed many times about the lead that stayed in his leg forever. As teenagers, I would see Sammy somewhere and, before we would even speak, he would smile and point down to his thigh.

        Sammy Lovette was killed in Vietnam in 1969, the only personal friend I lost in that war. Now and then I see Sammy’s mother Hildred, and wonder what I could possibly say to comfort her. Perhaps this will be another reminder to her that Sammy is still in the hearts of many who will never forget him.

        Sammy Lovette was a good man, even as a little boy.

        Summer is over, and after reluctantly surrendering my two sons to the public school schedule, it is time to quit fooling around and get back to work. I love The Record. Even if I didn't write for The Record, get a paycheck, and spend it all on scuba diving, I would still love The Record.

        What The Record is to many readers is a welcome break in a busy day. It's a visit, in writing, with neighbors and friends, some of whom you haven't met yet. It's a good accompaniment to a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. It's a chuckle, a memory, and the news in a nutshell. Sometimes it's an outrageous opinion or two thrown in for good measure, just to set you thinking. You don't have to agree. You just have to think!

        In the last year, folks have made a lot of pleasant comments to me about The Record. They've called it "a breath of fresh air" and "refreshing" and so on. One elementary school teacher's assistant remarked to me, "I love that little paper!” We are a "little paper" but one, I think, with a big heart. And after a happy summer with my two - make that three -best boys, it is good to be back.