Bubba is Still There

Last week, I joined Will’s Boy Scout troop for a few days of summer camp at Raven Knob Scout Reservation near Mount Airy, North Carolina. I always look forward to these outings, primarily because they are an opportunity to spend treasured time with Will, but also because I am committed to giving back to the Scouting organization that has given so much to me over the years.

I was particularly looking forward to visiting Raven Knob with Will because our visit would mark the second and third generation of Wagoners being campers there. Raven Knob had been the camp of my father, his brothers, and cousin (Eagle Scouts all) when they were Boy Scouts in the 1950’s and 1960’s.

That was a long time ago. But, I’m a sentimental guy, and I liked the idea of continuing the legacy. And, despite the passage of time, I hoped against hope that I might be able to find physical confirmation of the fact that Will’s and my visit to Raven Knob would constitute something of a “coming home” – and so, upon arrival, I began my search for Uncle Bubba’s water fountain.

Oh, how I wanted to get a photo of Will and me at that fountain. I steeled myself for it not being there. My uncle Bill had looked for it on Google Earth, and saw that a waterfront shelter now stood in its place. “Time marches on,” he said. Still, I hoped. Sure, it had been over 50 years, and no one there remembered, but would they really have gotten rid of it?

They hadn’t. The fountain, though moved from its original location, was still there, right in the center of things at the waterfront, just as I had always imagined Bubba to be. Though there were few left who still had first-hand memories of the reason for that fountain, they hadn’t forgotten.

Back story: On an August night in 1957, my 16 year old uncle Carroll “Bubba” Wagoner was the driver of a car carrying four friends down a mountain road. Going too fast, he missed a curve at the bottom, and slammed into a truck. Bubba was killed instantly, and two of his friends died shortly thereafter.

A couple of years later, a granite water fountain was erected in Bubba’s memory at the Raven Knob waterfront. Here’s a photo of my grandparents, their grief still raw, at the dedication:

 

I never met Bubba; I was born six years after that hot August night when he and two friends became a tragic example of just how fragile and fleeting life can be. In addition to carrying his name, though, I have always felt that I knew him. Family ties and stories run strong in my clan. I know that he got the nickname “Bubba” because his 3-year old big brother (my Dad) mispronounced “brother” as “bubba”. I know that he was precocious and mischievous, and always in the thick of things. I know that he loved Scouting. I know that, with my middle name of Carroll, I have a lot to live up to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the photo of the 2nd and 3rd generation Wagoners at the fountain:

My family is deeply grateful to those at Raven Knob Scout Reservation for ensuring that, despite the passage of time, Bubba is still there. I’m especially grateful to Camp Historian Ken Badgett, and Camp Director Keith Bobbitt, for their graciousness and for their interest in knowing more about Bubba’s story.

Retiring the Colors

When applied to the Confederate battle flag, the “heritage not hate” slogan all too often seems to be spouted out of only one side of a Southern drawler’s mouth, while the other side, given the proper audience and circumstance, may be saying something altogether different. That said, there is some truth to the notion of a Southern regional pride that, to me at least, is as inescapable as the humidity of a summer south of the Mason-Dixon.

When I was a boy, I had a Confederate battle flag tacked up on the wall of my bedroom. I don’t recall when or where I got it. It was likely a gift shop souvenir from one of the many Civil War battlefield site tours that my Dad took our family on after we moved to Virginia in the late ’60’s. All I remember is that the flag was a constant presence on my wall as I passed through boyhood, into my teen years, and then on to college.*

Some of you who are reading this are likely aghast at my flag revelation. “I thought I knew him! How could he be one of … them? How could he have displayed that symbol of treason, and prejudice, and hate?”

The thing is, I did no such thing. Though they looked the same, the flag that I had tacked on my wall was not the same as the flag of the KKK, George Wallace, and Dylann Roof. It was, indeed, a symbol of heritage – a nod to the place from whence my people came. Just as my grandmother’s United Daughters of the Confederacy membership certificate was prominently displayed in a frame on her wall, my Confederate battle flag held a prized spot on mine. Not unlike my grandmother, I bought into the Lost Cause narrative to a certain extent. I displayed the flag because it conjured up ineffable notions of duty, loyalty, chivalry, tradition, and family – with perhaps a bit of adolescent rebellion thrown in for good measure. Slavery, prejudice, and oppression didn’t enter into my thinking. In later years I did come to wrestle with the knowledge that the awful institution of slavery had existed under that flag. But, I knew as well that the Stars and Stripes had flown over the United States’ mistreatment of Native Americans in the 19th century, and of Japanese Americans during World War II, and nobody was suggesting getting rid of Old Glory.

In fact, few seemed to be suggesting getting rid of the Confederate battle flag, either. It was everywhere when I was growing up – bedroom walls, keychains, t-shirts, beach towels, bumperstickers. It was even on prime time TV, on the roof of the General Lee on “The Dukes of Hazzard” – and nobody ever called Bo and Luke Duke racists!

That has all changed, however. No amount of Southern hospitality and gentility can overcome the fact that the bad guys have won this battle. And no, I’m not talking about Sherman’s army and its scorched-earth campaigns, or opportunistic Yankee carpetbaggers. I’m talking about hate-filled racists like Dylann Roof. I’m talking about white supremacists of all stripes, whether they are driven by mental illness or plain and simple ignorance. Just as Hitler co-opted the sacred religious symbol of the swastika for his Third Reich, Roof and his ilk have co-opted the Confederate battle flag for their own vile purposes. It has no business flying on government property, and I congratulate South Carolina for taking it down.

As for the rest of us, it rightfully comes down to an individual decision. Those who advocate making it illegal to display the Confederate battle flag are off-base and need to read the 1st Amendment. No, we are all free to fly the flag – or not – as our conscience dictates.

And, it’s important to remember that anyone who chooses to fly it, or wear it, or sport it on a car bumper, may not mean any harm by doing so. But, it’s important to recognize as well that the choice to do so is probably causing harm, intended or not.

——–
*The flag stayed on my wall until one night when some of my fraternity brothers snuck into my room, cut it into 4 pieces, then re-tacked the pieces to the wall, together with a note questioning my patriotism, fraternal allegiance, and probably my manhood as well. My midwestern roommate was probably relieved, though I think he was still a bit unnerved by the Blue Oyster Cult and Jim Morrison posters that remained unscathed.

The Right Thing to Do

It was one of the great privileges of my life to be able to speak at my father’s funeral.  As tomorrow will mark one year since the day that Dad left this earth and moved on to his next adventure, I believe it is fitting to publish the eulogy in this space.  Here it is – this time, without tears – but with every bit of the same emotion as when I spoke the words.

EULOGY FOR JENNINGS L. WAGONER, JR.

January 30, 2013

It’s only been in the past few years that I have really recognized how much of my life I have subconsciously patterned after my Dad’s.  As those who know me well will attest, I don’t always have a gift for recognizing the obvious.

Dad went to Wake Forest, and Wake Forest remained near and dear to him.  Despite having grown up in the shadow of Mr. Jefferson’s University, I also went to Wake Forest.  There was no pressure involved – it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Like Dad, I was active in fraternity life while in college.  I didn’t pledge the same one – but I wasn’t trying to be different.  I sought out the house where I felt the best fit.  It was no coincidence that my Sigma Chi of the early 1980’s happened to be the house that best mirrored Dad’s Kappa Sigs of the late 1950’s.

Dad was a thinker, and a reader, and a writer.  He taught me how to write by way of liberal application of red ink to any rough draft that I would show him.  The corrections were sometimes difficult to take – but they always helped.  In like manner, my kids and many of my work colleagues know that if they ask for me to edit a draft – I will edit the draft.

Dad was a worker.  As a professor, his was not a 9-to-5 job.  He didn’t clock out when he came home.  I am sure that he spent many more hours working at home in his study than he did in the classroom or in his office in Ruffner Hall. While our career paths went in different directions – Dad was in education and I have been in law and business – our habits are much the same.  He taught me that work is not the most important thing – but it is an important thing – and it can’t be done well in the space of an 8 hour day.

Dad was a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Eagle Scout, and Scout leader.  I was a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Eagle Scout, and am a Scout leader.

Dad loved high adventure – while he enjoyed all sorts of outdoor activities, he was drawn to those that involve personal challenge and a gut check – things that get the blood pumping and adrenaline racing.  And, he particularly enjoyed making these experiences available to others.

He shared with me the challenge of climbing up a rock face, and the thrill of rappelling back down. I well remember how excited I was when my wife Jennifer finally let her determination – and my coaxing – overcome her fear, and took that first backward step off the top of the cliff at Raven’s Roost.

Together with some adventurous Sunday School  classmates, some of whom are here today – Dad took on the world-class rapids of the Gauley River in West Virginia. A year or so later, he invited me to join that group on a Gauley raft.  In the years since, I have organized many Gauley trips of my own.

I could go on with the parallels. I want to be clear that I was never trying to be Dad – I could never come close – but I was, sometimes consciously and more often subconsciously – trying to be like him.  Sometimes I succeeded, and sometimes I didn’t.

When I pass, I cannot imagine having that event producing anything close to the same outpouring of love and admiration that you and so many others have expressed.  So many people have said wonderful things about the impact that Dad had on their lives.  Dad’s literal shoes were a size 9 ½, but his figurative shoes were immense.  Much too big to try to fill.

It has only been in the past few years that I have realized that he didn’t see it that way.  My failures – and I’ve had some doozies – were not disappointments or embarrassments for Dad.  He hurt with me.  I was always humbled by him, but he never humbled me.

And he reveled in my successes.

As with most parents, Dad gave me many material things over the years.  But, his encouragement, his pride, his affirmation, and his love were the most precious gifts that he could offer – and he showered me with them.  Those are gifts that I can never repay – I can only hope that I can pay them forward with my own kids.

As with so many other things that I’ve done in following Dad’s lead, that just seems like the right thing to do.

Blink of an Eye

 

I’m not exactly sure when this happened….

Back to Blogging

I am finally getting back to blogging. Really. I am currently working on a post about this past weekend’s OBX races, but it’s not quite done. In the meantime, here’s a link to a post that I wrote several years ago: To Build a Fire.

The post, and the man who inspired it, remain two of my favorites.

Go Hoos

I’m a Demon Deacon living in the land of the Wahoo. It’s not a new situation for me – as I recounted in another post a couple of years ago, though I’m a certified Charlottesville “townie”, I guess I’ll always bleed gold and black.

Ironically enough, a friend of ours owns the unrivaled mecca for all things U.Va. Mincer’s is a U.Va institution right up there with the Rotunda and the White Spot. My earliest memory of Mincer’s was when U.Va won the men’s ACC basketball championship in 1976, and “ACC Champion” t-shirts from the store flooded the halls of my middle school (and claimed a prize spot in my dresser drawer). It’s now thirty-odd years later, and with four kids who are as firmly ensconced in their allegiance to U.Va as I was at their age, we’ve given the store our fair share of business over the years. We therefore didn’t think twice when Mark asked us if we wanted to be in a commercial.

We showed up at the store at the appointed time, and were all given different U.Va shirts to wear. Actually, the kids got shirts – despite the muggy temperature, I was handed a heavy hooded sweatsht. Maybe it was payback for my asking if it would be OK if I wore a Wake Forest belt for the shoot!

When the time came for what the kids and I were convinced would be our quick ticket to Tinseltown, we were told to stand in a clump outside the store, and “act natural”. How do you get a 6-year-old to act natural when he has a big television camera pointed at him? We did our best, taking comfort in the assurances that they would only be using a few seconds in the commercial, if that. And then, it was over, and they were on to the next group. No one even asked for our autograph….

We were all prepared to wind up on the cutting room floor. But, we did wind up getting our 1.5 seconds of fame (upper left-hand corner):
I’m not quitting my day job, and the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook with agents wanting to sign on the next child star. But, it was fun.

So head on down to Mincer’s, or check them out online. Just don’t buy any of the “No Wake Zone” buttons!

Mr. Empathy

Despite a work day filled with meetings and deadlines, my mind last Thursday kept coming back to two more important things – passing the learner’s permit test, and making the lacrosse team. It was, of course, my 15 year old daughter and not me who was actually having to go through these trials. And, I had every confidence that she would do just fine. My thoughts, though, kept going back to 1980….

I showed up for varsity football tryouts my junior year of high school knowing that I had my work cut out for me. While I had done fine on the 9th grade team two years before, I had decided (for reasons I can’t begin to explain) against playing JV my sophomore year, so I was an unknown quantity for the coaching staff. Lacking that year of experience and visibility, and without the size, speed, or talent to make up the difference, the results were predictable. After two weeks of two-a-day practices in the steamy August heat, the head coach called me into his office, thanked me for my efforts, and told me there weren’t enough jerseys to go around.

One of those “character building” experiences, I guess.

Several months later, shortly after my 16th birthday, I arrived at the DMV to take my road test and get my license. I didn’t expect any problems. With all of the misplaced confidence typical of a 16-year old boy, my plan was to do the test, smile for my picture, tuck my newly-minted license into my wallet and hit the road.

Funny how running one little stop sign during a road test can put a crimp in one’s plans. I was one of several who was cut from the football team. I was the only one I was aware of (the only one in the history of the world, as far as I knew at the time) who failed his road test. More character building.

Fast-forward to last week. I dropped my daughter off at school on Thursday knowing that the day would have her facing both her learner’s permit test and the announcement of lacrosse “cuts”, and I knew from my own experience how she might be feeling when I picked her up after practice. Just call me Mr. Empathy. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to relate my own experiences to help her through hers.

As it turns out, my worries were misplaced. She aced the test and made the team. So, I can safely shelve the memories of my high school traumas – at least those two, anyway – for another couple of years.

Her 13 year old sister will be at the DMV before we know it.

Back to Reality

With gas prices the way they are, I’ve given more than a passing thought to finding something that gets better gas mileage than my Jeep.

Like a motorcycle.

Today, I saw an ad in Craigslist for a motorcycle from my youth – a Yamaha Enduro – and my heart skipped a beat.  Not that I actually had an Enduro as a teenager – (or any motorcycle, for that matter – I had no better luck convincing my parents than I’ve had with my wife) but many of my friends (and my younger brother – sorry, Mom) were active riders on the motocross track near our neighborhood.  (P.S. – that’s where his broken collarbone came from).  Anyway, I didn’t have an Enduro but I remembered it as a very cool bike.

Then I read on and was reminded that I’m not a teenager any more.  “This 38 year old motorcycle is in excellent condition. It is all original down to the tires.  It is a great candidate for a collector to restore.” 

The cool bike of my youth is now an antique.  Sigh.  Does the AARP magazine have a classified ad section?  Maybe I’ll find something more age-appropriate there…. 

Deacons in Hooville

“Go Deacs!”  Um, I mean, “Wahoowa!”  Wait, that’s not it, either….

So it goes whenever my hometown Cavaliers play the Demon Deacons from my alma mater.  A bona fide Charlottesville townie and U.Va faculty brat, I grew up rooting for Virginia. I have known the lyrics to The Good Old Song for as long as I can remember. If I searched hard enough through the relics of my childhood I could probably find yellowing scraps of paper bearing once-treasured autographs from the likes of Wally Walker. I well remember going to football games at now sold-old Scott Stadium in the days when Saturday afternoons would find it barely half full.

But, despite (or perhaps because of) my U.Va upbringing, when I reached the wise old age of 18 I decided that I needed to go away to school. After a passing flirtation with Sewanee, I decided to follow in the footsteps of my father (and his father, and numerous other relatives of various stripes) to Wake Forest. With that decision, my formerly orange and blue blood quickly started turning to black and gold.

Eventually though, after four years of college and another three years of law school at Wake, I wound up back in Charlottesville. Thus began my life as a Deacon in Hooville. On the whole, it’s not hard to maintain my dual allegiance. It’s not like I went to Tech, after all. Most of the time, I have no problem pulling for my hometown ‘Hoos while staying true to my Demon Deacons. But, whenever Virginia and Wake play each other, I’m at a loss. So, whenever I am fortunate enough to be able to go to a game, as I was today (thanks Mark!), I don’t know whether to break out the orange gear, or go with the black and gold. I generally wind up splitting the difference and doing both, hence today’s confused ensemble of the Wake hat and belt combined with the orange U.Va shirt.

As is clear from the photo, my kids have inherited the same conflicted loyalties, although they tend to manifest theirs in a somewhat more flamboyant fashion.  The black and gold boa over the orange U.Va shirt garnered quite a few double-takes at today’s game.  While I’m hesitant to do too much to overtly encourage the Wake Forest allegiance, as Wake’s tuition, room and board currently hovers around $44,000, I have to admit that I do take some not-so-secret pleasure in it.  As I’m a 43-year old man with this as the ring tone on my cell phone, I guess there’s no getting around the fact that my primary loyalty remains to my alma mater.

Law Practice Part III – A Foot in the Door

All I needed was a foot in the door. 

I sent a cover letter and resume to every law firm in town that maintained a litigation practice, and came up empty.  Even before it started winning its spate of #1 City/Best Place to Live awards*, Charlottesville was a very popular place to be.  That fact, together with the presence of U.Va’s law school, has long made Charlottesville a buyers’ market for law firms looking to hire associates.  For a certain would-be young associate who had not gone to U.Va, and whose law school GPA reflected the fact that he had spent more time courting his future wife than he had studying in the library, prospects were starting to look a bit bleak.

So, for the first of what would turn out to be many times during the course of my legal career, I called on a family friend from church, who also happened to be one of the most highly respected attorneys in the state.  I was not asking him for a job; I knew from prior discussions that his firm was not hiring.  What I sought was a sympathetic and knowledgable ear, and that is what I received.  He took me to lunch on the downtown mall, and after I had finished laying out my plight, he asked, “Have you tried Mr. ____’s office?”

I told him that I had not, but that I remembered the firm’s profile in the attorney directory that I had virtually memorized.  Tax.  Estate Planning.  Real Estate.  Bankruptcy.  Sorry, not interested – I wanted to be a trial lawyer.

“It’s probably not going to be the place where you want to spend your career, but his firm is sort of an institution in town, and a lot of folks start out there.  It’d give you a foot in the door, at least.” 

A foot in the door.  What was that old saying about beggars and choosers?  I got a cover letter and resume in the mail that afternoon.

I arrived for my interview with Mr. ____ on a Saturday afternoon a week or so later, not knowing what to expect.  If I had known, I’m not sure I would have gone.  The firm’s office, as with many in Charlottesville’s Court Square area, was in a 19th-century building that had originally been a house.  Unlike most of the neighboring offices, this building had not had much in the way of upkeep since it was first built.  There were spots where mortar was falling out from between crumbling bricks, and the white trim on the windows was peeling.  This turn-of-the-century building didn’t look historic – it just looked old.

I went inside, and there was Mr. ____**, sitting at one of the secretaries’ desks.  His white hair and lined face made me wonder if he had been around for as long as the building itself.  With some effort, he stood up to greet me.  Despite his age and apparent weariness, I noted a twinkle in his eye as we shook hands, and I followed him down the hallway to his office. 

Every horizontal surface – desk, filing cabinets, credenza, tables, floor, and several chairs – was covered in stacks of paper, some measuring a foot high.  Some papers were client files in manila folders, but others appeared to be loose, random documents.  It appeared to be chaos, but I would soon learn that Mr. ____ knew where everything was.***    

Our meeting was more a conversation than an interview.  He never actually offered me a job, but it was clear from the outset that I had one if I wanted it.  A few days later, I called to confirm that I would like to join his office, and gave him a suggested start date.  “That would be satisfactory,” he replied, and with that I was once again employed.

I was one of nine associates in the firm – Mr. ____ had no partners.  Two others were, like me, only a year or so out of law school.  A few more had a bit more experience, and the others seemed to have settled into life at Mr. ____’s office as a career.  I was the only putative litigator in the bunch.  The rest were focused on the firm’s specialty areas of bankruptcy, tax, estate planning, and real estate.  Given the dearth of litigation work in the office, and my year of experience working for a bankruptcy trustee in North Carolina, I quickly gravitated toward bankruptcy work.  While not the trial practice to which I aspired, bankruptcy work did at least have a courtroom aspect.  And, as I reminded myself on a frequent if not daily basis, it was a foot in the door.

Truthfully, my time with Mr. ____ was a good experience, despite his idiosyncrasies, the decrepit building, and the low pay.  Mr. _____’s idiosyncrasies were mitigated by his remarkable intelligence and his giving nature.  Even at his advanced age, he reveled in matching wits with his opponent, be it the government in a tax matter, or opposing counsel in a bankruptcy case.  He was a mild-mannered man, but he did not like to lose. 

Mr. ____’s giving nature was apparent in the legion of Charlottesville attorneys who had passed through his offices.  His informal attorney alumni association, doubtless numbering a hundred or more after 50+ years of practice, boasted judges, politicians, and many of the most high-powered lawyers in town.  He prided himself in having fostered this talent.  I, like most of the rest, was and remain grateful for the opportunity that he provided. 

The decrepit building did take some getting used to.  I remember suggesting during a firm meeting one morning that we might organize a painting day to put a fresh coat on the scuffed and dirty interior walls.  Note that I wasn’t suggesting that he hire a painter to do the job, I was suggesting that we do it ourselves.  I couldn’t tell whether he was amused or annoyed at the prospect, but the idea died on the vine.  After a while I came to realize that most of Mr. ______’s client base fell into one of two categories.  Many of them were wealthy clients who had been with him for so long that they had become inured to the shabby surroundings, while many of the rest were bankruptcy clients on the brink of financial collapse, in which case the state of their lawyer’s office was not high on their worry list. 

The low pay was the most difficult aspect of my time with Mr. ____.   I believe that he found billing clients to be the most distasteful aspect of practice.  As a result, he did not do so on a regular basis, and when he did, the rates and hours reflected on the bills were considerably lower than they should have been.  That’s all well and good, but in order for the accounts payable part of any business to function, things need to be working on the accounts receivable end.  If you don’t bill clients, then you don’t have money to pay your staff.  So, my fellow associates and I would find ourselves comparing notes on the 1st and 15th of every month – “did you get paid today?”  Often the answer was “no”, or “only a partial”.  More than once on the 2nd, 3rd, 16th or 17th day of the month, I found myself in the rather surreal position of standing in the threshhold of Mr. ____’s office door, clearing my throat, and asking when I could expect my check.  I would typically couch the request in terms of my rent or a student loan payment being due, and it would inevitably prompt an embarrassed apology and a check being cut before the day was out.          

So why did I stay?  Again, it was a foot in the door.  I was living out my goal of practicing law in Charlottesville, albeit not exactly in the way that I had envisioned.  And, I was getting significant experience.  I think Mr. _____ got a kick out of my youthful enthusiasm, and he gave me a tremendous amount of latitude and responsibility.  He made it clear from our first conversation that he was not interested in establishing a litigation practice, but he also made sure that any bankruptcy or other matter that had a hint or prospect of litigation was funneled to me.   

So, I kept slogging along.  All the while, though, I was looking for my way out, and into a litigation (and regularly paying) firm.  I began to see a light at the end of the tunnel when a litigator in another firm sponsored me for membership in the local Inn of Court, a professional organization devoted to the trial bar.  As I met and networked with local litigators I was unapologetic about my association with Mr. ____’s firm, as I had come to appreciate his talents as a lawyer, and I realized as well how many local attorneys had paid their dues with a stint in his office.  Still, I made no bones about my desire to be a trial lawyer.  And, almost a year to the day after starting with Mr. ____, I was to get that chance.                     

Be careful what you wish for.

Previous: Part II

Stay tuned for Part IV.

*One of the worst things that can happen to a city, but that’s a topic for a future post.

**To this day, I have never heard anyone other than his wife refer to Mr. _____ by his first name.

***One of the many stories about Mr. ____ recounts the time when a well-meaning young associate took advantage of one of his rare absences to clean and organize his office.  When Mr. ____ got back into town and saw that his teetering piles of paper had been culled through, systematized, and filed away, he was livid.  He couldn’t find anything.