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Early Memories
By Marie Craig
My great granddaughter is five years old, and this has prompted me to think back and try to remember my earliest memory. I surely hope that she is old enough to remember some of the special events and projects that we have shared. When she was here recently, we created a lot of paper projects: cutting, folding, and embellishing. The floor was full of trimmings and discards. I taught her how to use my embossing tools. She enjoyed creating these subtle paper texture pictures, and she took her projects home to show the rest of the family.
Early memories: I have a wonderful old snapshot of my dad’s entire family. There are fourteen of us lined up at someone’s house in Statesville. Detective skills show that it is wintertime because of no leaves on the trees. It was probably at Christmas. We six cousins are lined up in front, three little ones in front of the three older ones. I am the oldest of the three youngest. The oldest cousin is attempting to hold me by the shoulders in place for the picture. Even though I was about three years old, I still remember that event because I was stating, in body language, “Turn me loose. I can stand here all by myself.”
I have studied that photo so many times and thought how great that someone took the initiative to borrow a Brownie camera, have a neighbor to take the picture so that everybody could be in the photo, and then take the film to the drug store for them to send it off, develop the film, and print the pictures. What a different time we live in now.
I think about the people in the photograph: my grandparents who have been deceased for a long time, my two uncles and their wives, my parents, and three of the cousins who are no longer with us. That leaves only three people living from the fourteen. My family of three were living in Black Mountain and all the rest were still in Statesville. It was during World War Two, and the family of four were temporarily living in Virginia where he worked for a factory making airplanes for the war effort. My other uncle was a guard at a munitions storage facility in Charlotte, and he is wearing his uniform. My dad worked at a furniture factory that made office equipment for the war effort. All of this detail has been known as an adult, but not realized as a young child. We are all smiling, but I’m sure there were lots of worries and anguish.
Other old memories are riding the bus from Black Mountain to Asheville and the train from home to Statesville because it was difficult to have a car during the war because of tires being sent to Europe for war vehicles. I also have an old newspaper clipping of me as a toddler pretending to buy a stuffed animal as a gift at Christmas. Once you open up your mind, a lot of old memories come flooding in that you had forgotten. What are your earliest memories?
 
The Price
By Gaye Hoots
Over the past few years, I have observed a pattern of courts dismissing and reducing charges and avoiding active sentencing. This may be to reduce the cost of incarceration for taxpayers, and the pattern seems the same across political parties and all the judges. I am citing recent examples and if you look at the court records up in any county more cases are dismissed for prosecuting witnesses who do not choose to testify or fail to appear to testify than are tried. Most of the cases that were tried have charges reduced to lesser charges. In searching several weeks of court records an active sentence of 120 days was the longest, and that was for possession of a stolen vehicle, reduced to unauthorized use, and possession of cocaine reduced to possession of drug paraphernalia.
Many of those charged with DWIs and possession of drugs were referred for substance assessments and treatment which sounds helpful, but unless the person being assessed is honest about their use this won’t progress beyond the evaluation. I did many of these as a mental health nurse and I remember one elderly lady who came in with bruises from falls and reports of relatives who found her passed out in her home. All she would admit to drinking was a glass of wine per day. I asked about the size of the glass, 8 oz. she reported and denied emptying the glass until bedtime. After a few days, she admitted to topping off the glass frequently, so she never emptied it. One of the saddest memories I have is of a young man, in good health who was alcoholic. I could not motivate him and told him that if he continued, he was going to die, He replied, “I know, Gaye, but it’s not like I have anything to live for, anyway.”
If someone is honest and qualifies for help the choices are limited unless they have private insurance. I know a few years ago in Davie there were only a few hours of counseling available per week through mental health and those hours were not scheduled. They saw people on a first-come basis, and they had to wait outside the door for the office to open the first 3 or 4 got appointments while the others were told to come another day to wait in line again. Even when insurance and treatment are available the success rate is low. My granddaughter completed 3 inpatient programs and other outpatient programs, and we did everything we could do, but we lost her within 24 hours of her return home after 6 months of treatment in California, we had chosen to distance her from her contacts.
I was impressed that one young offender with an open alcohol container was given probation but had to do a substance program and 10 hours of community service. Years ago, I was in court because of a speeding ticket and a judge found a 16 year old guilty of speeding. He asked if her parents were in court, and they weren’t, he asked if they gave her the money to pay the fine, and she replied she worked at a part-time job; and had not told her parents about the charges. The judge asked for the lowest grade on her last report card, a C. He told her that if she raised it one letter grade, he would waive the fine and set a return court date. I thought that was a genius idea.
I hope there is a more severe sentence for repeat offenders, but the key, I believe, is more funding for better treatment of mental health and substance problems. There appear to be fewer available treatments now than there were 20 years ago when I worked in the system. I would like to see parents, schools, churches, and communities get behind this and lobby for and contribute to this cause. The younger a person is when the problem is acknowledged the better the chances of success and there are some success stories. I remember a young woman I would never have guessed had a background of substance use and dealing while a young mother. Her husband was a dealer and was shot in front of her. She served a couple of years and credited her time in jail which resulted in her subsequent recovery for saving her life.
Today drugs are rampant in prisons. If we could keep them out and provide treatment through the prison system this would be money well spent. I also believe releasing those who complete their sentences without a support system and a way to support themselves is setting them up for failure, but while taxpayers accept paying the high cost of incarceration, we do not look at spending money to make the changes to prevent some of the incarcerations. Recidivism is extremely high and often results in great harm to others.
 
The Gift, the Lesson
By Julie Terry Cartner
Smoothing down her blue dress, Jessie nervously slipped on her sandals and prepared to disembark from the airplane. She and her sister, Willa, had been so sure that this was a good idea, but now, faced with the results of that decision, she wasn’t as sure. Too late now, she thought, and hoped fervently the cargo in baggage check would be okay.
She smiled as she walked down the aisle. She and Willa had debated about her clothing, but had chosen wisely, knowing the blue dress would catch his eye and distract him, hopefully long enough for her to check out the claim area.
Walking across the tarmac, she saw him peering through the airport’s windows, and, smiling happily, she increased her pace. Before long she was through the door and in his arms. Hugs from Dad were infrequent, as was the kiss he bestowed on her forehead. Dad had grown up in a loving but reserved family, so embraces from him were all the more special. “Welcome home, Little One,” he said. “I’ve missed you.” He then pulled away and looked her over. “Wow,” he said, “I sent a little girl off to visit her big sister, and,” looking at her with astonishment, “I got a young lady back. You look so grown up my Jessie Bug.”
Wrinkling her freckled nose at the baby nickname, but beaming at the warm welcome, Jessie scanned the large room. The blue dress distraction had been a success. Suitcases revolving along the carousel didn’t garner her attention, but it didn’t matter, Dad had already snagged her luggage. “Ready?” he asked. “Your mom is more than ready to see her baby.”
Jessie grimaced at the baby reference, but she let it go as she had already spied what she’d been looking for. “Before we go, Dad, I need to show you something.” Taking his hand, she led him to a small crate against the far wall. “Look,” she said.
Inside, with her coal black nose sniffing through the crate’s wire door was a curly haired mop of a dog. Deep brown eyes, perky brown ears, and twitching whiskers enhanced the mischievous face. “A Wire Hair!” Dad exclaimed. She looks just like our old Ginger. She was such a good dog,” he said, as Jessie had known he would. He always did. Dad had loved that dog, and she’d had no interest in anyone but him. Jessie hoped desperately that would be the case again.
“Thanks for showing her to me, Jes; now we’d better get going,” dad said, even as he reached out a finger to tickle the pup’s nose. Jessie was sure he was unaware of the longing look in his eyes. Here goes nothing, she thought. Their last dog, Mac, a collie, had been her dog. He had died while she’d been visiting her sister, and she just wasn’t ready for another to call her own. But Dad loved dogs, and she knew the house would seem empty without a canine companion.
Clearing her throat a bit nervously, Jessie reached into her handbag and pulled out a leash. “The thing is, Dad, I wasn’t just showing her to you, Willa and I bought her for you. Merry Christmas,” she added as she handed him the leash. We’ve been calling her Ginger, but you can name her whatever you want.”
“Ginger,” Dad breathed, unable to process what he was hearing. “But you said you didn’t want another dog…” he said, pausing, “…after Mac.”
“I don’t,” Jessie replied, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have one. Mac was mine. Ginger is yours.” Then, smiling through misty eyes, she said, “Come on, Dad, let’s take your pup home.”
As they headed out of the terminal, hand in hand, Jessie wiped away the last of her tears. At fourteen, she’d fully learned a life lesson. Unselfish giving was genuinely a gift in itself. She’d never, ever forget her dad’s eyes when he realized she and her sister had bought him a dog – his favorite breed, not hers. The gift was truly for him, and he knew and understood the significance. His “baby” girl had just taken another step towards adulthood. Giving is far greater than receiving.