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STRINGSPEAK by Ann Stringfield Dellinger 
When I was a child, Thanksgiving dinner was an event to which I looked forward. As my mother worked well past suppertime most nights, our house was only filled with the smells of a large meal cooking on Sundays or on holidays. With the holidays came the bonus of visiting relatives with their homemade cookies, cakes and pies and their cash, surreptitiously slipped to us as soon as my mother turned her back. Thanksgiving dinner was especially nice because it wasn't a rushed meal like the one on Christmas, when my mother would monitor her cooking while opening presents and disposing of wrapping paper, all the while fielding calls from out-of-state relatives wishing us a Merry Christmas. I also liked it because it was one of the few times when we sat at the dining room table and used my mother's Spode china. I even liked the days of preparation beforehand, polishing sterling flatware and silver-plated serving dishes. Long before high school chemistry class, I learned the meaning of oxidation. There were also linen napkins and a large tablecloth to be starched and ironed. And the massive grocery shopping following which our cabinets and refrigerator would be stuffed to the gills with food. Yet during this time of obvious bounty, I do not recall that we gave more than a cursory thought to those less fortunate than ourselves. Hunger, even starvation, was something that happened in countries far away. Words like "homeless" and "soup kitchen" weren't yet a part of the American vocabulary, although I imagine I had classmates who went hungry every weekend. As we watched the Macy's parade and ate ourselves sick, our minds weren't on the less fortunate but were instead on the Christmas season to come and all that it might bring to us. Now we seem to bypass the Thanksgiving holiday altogether and rush headlong into Christmas sometime around Columbus Day. It is not a coincidence then that we have bypassed thoughts of the less fortunate. Few of us seem to have the strength to resist this whirlpool of Christmas preparation that comes earlier each year. Indeed, this year, on the day after Halloween, I saw Christmas lights in a nearby home. Apparently, we are all too busy to give thanks and wish, rather, to devote ourselves to a season of overeating and the purchase of items, both for ourselves and for others, that we don't truly need. I recall that when I was a little girl, it was commonplace to talk about starving children in China, although, for the life of me, I couldn't see how my leftover meatloaf could help them. And, I didn't appreciate the guilt trip. Now, however, I think a little guilt can go a long way. I want us to feel guilty about giving Thanksgiving the bum's rush. I like to believe that we are all more civic-minded these days and more willing to consider the needs of others. To that end, I wish that each one of you who is able to go to the grocery store would buy at least one extra can of food and donate it to a food drive. Many area grocery stores will have boxes for this purpose, as will many area churches. Our own song of Thanksgiving should lead us to share with one another. As I pointed out last year, before we start a chorus of "Jingle Bells," we need to sing "Come Ye Thankful People, Come." Observant Jews begin each day with a prayer of thanksgiving merely for awakening. It seems to me that we could manage at least one day a year for the same purpose. We could begin with the words of that prayer: "Modei anei l'fanechah, Melech chai v'kayom," translated, "I gratefully thank you, O living and eternal King."
by Ken Welborn 
Four weeks ago today, Kyle Gentry died at his home on J Street in North Wilkesboro after a long battle with cancer. Kyle's wife, Jean, and their son and daughter, Steve and Deborah, lost a wonderful husband and father. I lost a friend and neighbor and Wilkes County lost a man who inspired a fierce loyalty in those he led during his tenures as Chief of the North Wilkesboro Police Department and as Sheriff of Wilkes County. Kyle Gentry unfailingly gave of his time, energy and resources to help others less fortunate. He was also a positive influence on anyone with whom he came in contact. In speaking with people who worked with Kyle through the years in both Law Enforcement and in civic and charitable endeavors, the same type of comments were often repeated -- that Kyle Gentry was always the first one to offer to help, the last one to leave, and a man of unquestioned honesty. His word was contract enough for anyone. The day after Kyle died, his son, Steve came to the offices of The Record. We talked for a few minutes about his mother and father and then Steve handed me a piece of paper. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article, and, judging from the dark shadows on the copy, the newsprint had to be several years old. Steve told me that the clipping was a favorite of his father's that Kyle had saved for years and read often. Steve was hoping we could reset the type and print some for his family to give out at his fathers wake the following evening. I assured Steve that we were proud to do it, and that I would personally see to it. After Steve left my office, I glanced down at the copy and saw it was titled "The Station," and it had been written by a man named Robert J. Hastings. I turned the job over to Wanda Dishmon and didn't think too much more about it. The next day, we printed the piece for the Gentry family and sent the job to the funeral home. I kept out a few to take to Jean and Steve, just to let them know the job was completed. I live just up the street from the Gentry's, and that day I went home for lunch. After my meal, I planned to go down to their house. As I got into my car, I picked up the small handful of sheets that I had saved for them. For some reason, I put my car back in park and took a minute to read "The Station" for myself. I ended up reading it over three or four times. As the saying goes, it rung my bell -- loudly. "The Station" speaks of how we so often see ourselves on a trip; a long trip where the destination is the only thing of which we think. Someday we will "arrive" and everything will be fine. All of our energy is directed toward where we are going and we fail to realize that it is really the trip that is important, not the destination. I took one of the copies of "The Station" for myself, folded it up and stuck it in my pocket. I then drove down to Jean Gentry's house where I found her, Steve, R. G. Potts, and a couple of other people sitting in front of the house in the bright sunshine of a beautiful day. After reading that newspaper clipping, it seemed easier to talk with them. I hugged Jean and told her that I was very sorry Kyle was gone and that I knew him to be a good man. Kyle Gentry truly was a good man, whose easy-going personality and good heart have been a blessing to many throughout his 73 years. In times past, I would often see Kyle having breakfast with his long-time friend, Jim Bentley, Jr. I always made a point to stop and speak to them and check on how Kyle was getting along. No matter what was going on with his illness, however, he never complained or said anything about himself. Instead, he invariably would inquire about someone else and always left me remembering that smile and strong handshake. I never had a cross word with Kyle Gentry. In life, he was always kind, courteous, respectful and helpful in his dealings with everyone, leaving a legacy of wonderful memories of an honest man always willing to teach others. In death, he inadvertently sent me a 300-word blueprint for living that has made me think and re-think the way I have lived so many years of my own life. As the writer says, we must all realize that there is no "station;" no one place to arrive; and that the true joy in life is the trip. Kyle Gentry knew how to live one day at a time. Thank you, Kyle, for making this Thanksgiving all the more meaningful for your family and mine. 10/20/1927 - 10/25/2000 Rest in peace. THE STATION By Robert J. Hastings Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are traveling by train. Out the windows we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving at a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flat lands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls. But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour we will pull into the station. Once we get there so many dreams will come true, and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace, damning the minutes for loitering -- waiting, waiting, waiting for the station. ""When we reach the station, that will be it!" we cry. "When I''m 18." "When I buy a new 450 SL Mercedes Benz." "When I put the last kid through college." "When I have paid off the mortgage." "When I get a promotion." Sooner or later we must realize there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. "Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24 -- "This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived as we go along.
by Jordan Welborn 
There's something crazy about Wilkes County. Scratch that. There are a lot of crazy things about Wilkes County--our constant refusal to change, the unordinarily large crowds that wrecks and fires produce, and the fact that Robert Handy stayed in office as long as he did. However, today, my rant has to do with everyone's favorite wintertime precipitation… snow. Why is it, that at the first flurry sighting, that the whole town, with disregard to all reason, tosses everything aside and rushes to the nearest grocery store. Once there, the coveted items on the list are simply this: milk and bread, or bread and milk, depending on how you look at it. And flurries must enhance the appetite, because most people feel the need to buy at least 10 or 12 loaves and 5 or 6 gallons. I don't know about anyone else, but we just don't eat that much toast at my house. It's funny how at the first mention of snow, how everyone feels the need to hit the store and run home. How do you think people function in places where it snows all of the time? The world doesn't just stop for them, and I hope to goodness that their diet consists of more than bread and milk. I can see where the populous gets a bit nervous about the road conditions, but goodness gracious!… You have a better chance of getting in a head-on collision in the overcrowded parking lot of the Food Lion than losing control of your vehicle on the "slick" highways. What could you possibly do with all of that milk? Don't get me wrong; I am as big a calcium advocate as the next guy, but yearly, we manage to reach the point of excessiveness. Have I missed the newsflash? How much snow crème can one family make? Does milk possess qualities that provide some sort of internal warmth that I'm not aware of? Are you using it in conjunction with the bread and feasting on French toast as the snow blows by your window and melts on the ground? And, isn't it funny how no one every buys anything to put on the bread. Do you stock up on the peanut butter and jelly in the summertime in order to be properly prepared for these flurry crises? Or, do you prefer the bread plain so you can savor the natural flavors as they swirl around your mouth with the cool feeling of all that milk? On the off chance that it does snow and stick and create a situation where you are homebound for a few days, is it that necessary that your household remain stocked with milk and bread? Can you not last two days without it? Are your cupboards that bare? I think if we all dug far enough, we could find a few cans of pickled beets and Jell-O to feast upon. Why not take snow as the opportunity to clean out the cabinets the old-fashioned way. Eat them clean. How can everyone fully enjoy the experience of snow or even flurries if they have to hang around the kitchen dreaming up creative ways to dispose of all of that bread and milk? I challenge you to skip the grocery shopping next time you get a chill or spot a flurry. Step back and watch your friends and neighbors in their food buying frenzy. It's really quite humorous.
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