2. Pleasure without conscience ... 3. Knowledge without character ...
4. Commerce without morality ...
5. Science without humanity ...
6. Worship without sacrifice ...
7. Politics without principle!
* Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was born on 2 October 1869 in Porbandar, India. He led India's movement for independence from British rule and is one of the most respected spiritual and political leaders of the 20th century. In 1948 he was assassinated by a Hindu fanatic who opposed his tolerance for all creeds and religions. Gandhi is honoured by his people as the father of the Indian nation and is called 'Mahatma', which means Great Soul...Museum of the Mind.
Here's a story Ansel Poteet passed along to Henry Beefeater over at the General Store the other day ... later on Henry told it to me ... so I'll tell it to you ... it was common knowledge that Ansel Poteet was of the same persuasion as Grandpa DooLittle when it came to unbridled potation of top-grade alcoholic beverages ... often following these shameless acts of over-indulgence, the pickled pair would seek out undisturbed solace in somebody's barn or shed for the purpose of "sleepin' off" their crapulous, albeit blissful states of inebriation ... neither of these seasoned sots relished the idea of facing their wives while under the influence of volatile spirits, nor did they want to meet up with Sheriff Clarence A. VanMeter, who always had more than a few vacancies in his cold, hard drunk tank.
Well, on that particular evening, after guzzling copious amounts of their favorite intoxicants, the sozzled duo made an executive decision and agreed amongst themselves that Virgil Hunnicutt's mule shed was as good a place as any to wile away the hours basking in the glory of spiritous, backslidden bliss, besides, Virgil was so hard of hearing and nearly blind that he would never be the wiser ... so the bacchanalian duo stumbled inside, careful not to rile Virgil's old mule named Clyde(no relation), and settled into a pile of new straw in an adjacent stall ... it wasn't long before Grandpa DooLittle had dozed-off, but Ansel Poteet hadn't been so lucky, those evil spirits dancing around in his gut assured him that he was in for a tumultuous night ... with his head spinning like a greased weather vane in a prairie windstorm, Ansel propped himself up with his back against the far side of Clyde's stall, then rested his head against his chest while trying to draw in as much fresh air as his tired lungs could pull so as to ward off any sudden onset of fierce nausea ... meanwhile, Grandpa DooLittle was lying there as quiet and motionless as a frozen mud puddle.
Now without fail, as was his habit, Virgil Hunnicutt would go out to the shed each evening after supper and treat his beloved mule Clyde to some oats or sweet feed, along with a couple of juicy carrots if available, and to make sure he had plenty of water to get through the night ... this evening was no different, well, at first it wasn't ... Ansel Poteet had heard Virgil Hunnicutt enter the shed, so he sat quietly as the old-timer hung a feedbag around Clyde's neck ... Virgil talked to the big mule continuously the entire time he was munching on those oats, telling him what a great friend and magnificent beast he was ... this gave the tipsy mischief-maker an idea as he peered between the planks of Clyde's stall watching Virgil remove the empty feedbag, then stick a huge carrot between Clyde's teeth and turn to fill the water trough ... all of a sudden, as Clyde chomped on that carrot, a deep, raspy voice resonated from within the recesses of the darkened stall "man this is the toughest carrot I've ever gnawed on!" ... Virgil froze in his tracks, then slowly turned and asked the voice to repeat itself ... "I said, this is the toughest carrot I've ever tried to gnaw on" ... "I certainly hope that other one there in your pocket is better" ... Virgil was beside himself ... "Clyde, is that you that just said that?" he enquired ... "why yes it's me, who else do you think it is? ... do you see anyone else about? ... we're all alone here in this shed, are you losing your mind ol' friend?" replied the voice from the stall ... Virgil was so befuddled that he didn't know whether to run away or continue the discourse, so he replied "well Clyde, it's just that you've never talked to me like this before" ... the husky voice retorted "well you've never fed me carrots as stale as these before either, so why don't you go find me some that are much fresher and fitter to eat!" ... Virgil could hardly believe his ears but complied "Yes sir, I'll do just that, but under one condition, you have to promise never to tell anybody about our conversation" ... a deep guffaw emanated from Clyde's stall, then the voice proclaimed "oh I won't tell anyone if you don't Virgil Hunnicutt ... besides, I wouldn't want anyone to know that I've been jawin' with a jackass!"
The weathered, little schoolhouse had been standing idle for nearly two years ... although numerous souls had nobly taken on the often thankless task of educating the scores of children who funneled in from surrounding hills and hollows, some prevailing longer than others, but all eventually departing for the same reason ... a guileful bully by the name of Bartholomew Goodfellow ...
It was common practice during the days of one-room schoolhouses that just one teacher kept charge of pupils consisting of first through twelfth grades ... small youngsters intermingled with larger teens in a single classroom for an entire school year ... naturally, this combination brought together fickle elements liable for potential trouble ... Bartholomew Goodfellow had always been extremely adept at sowing seeds of discord which eventually developed into the desired fruits of his labor--that being his prolonged truancy from the dreaded learning institution of which he so vehemently detested ... achieved by simply "scaring away" any and all teachers ... now Mister Crabtree, a meek and refined, old gentleman, who had been an highly efficacious educator for the past thirty-five years or so, had undertaken the daunting endeavor of assuming the position of schoolmaster at the storied edifice, and was fully aware of the challenges at hand having spent many sleepless nights in operose thought trying to determine the best course of action for handling almost certain confrontation with Master Goodfellow ... consequently, he had settled on a theory--maybe if he were to give the young man the impression that he and his classmates were ultimately in charge of maintaining discipline and directly responsible for determining rules for good behavior, the ploy just might dissuade Bartholomew's intent from menace and mayhem to that of peace and placidity, after all, Mister Crabtree was certain that he could neither physically control nor forcefully restrain the boy's 'oft tetchiness and fits of hostility ... however, after enduring more than three and a half decades of successful adolescent didactics, Crabtree was known to be extremely proficient at psychological manipulation ... particularly at the juvenile level ...
Standing in the back of the room like a swaggering peafowl was a rugged fellow well over six feet tall ... a flannel shirt with rolled sleeves exposed strong, sinewy arms and scruffy locks of auburn hair lay crammed 'neath a well-worn newsboy hat ... more notable was the intimidatingly icy stare and persistent sneer on his sparsely whiskered face ... hovering around the imposing hulk was a group of smaller lads which in appearance seemed to be equally as tough ... however, truth be told ... they were terrified of him ... as were the rest of his classmates ... many grown men around those parts had no desire to tussle with this overgrown behemoth ... the infamous Bartholomew Goodfellow ...
Mister Crabtree cleared his throat, introduced himself to the class, then announced that he would be permitting each enrollee to offer up one proposed behavioral rule which upon approval by the entire student body would be adopted as official schoolhouse policy for the remainder of that year ... everyone seemed quite agreeable to this unusual course of action, especially Bartholomew Goodfellow--who figured he could use it to his advantage sometime in the very near future ... so each student scribbled their proposal on a small piece of scrap paper and Mister Crabtree collected each of them in an old cigar box ... he then read each suggestion aloud as the class voiced either a yea or a nay ... every rule was unanimously accepted ... even Bartholomew Goodfellow's rule, which was that anyone caught stealing was to receive three stinging blows across the bare back from a willow switch by whomsoever may have fallen victim to said theft ... no exceptions ... Mister Crabtree didn't like this rule in the least, but judged that the mere possibility of such severe punishment would likely deter any thoughts of thievery by any right-minded mortal ...
Although still early, the fall semester seemed to be moving along exceptionally well, there had been no grievous or life-threatening problems ... that is, until this particular afternoon ... there before the class stood a manifestly umbrageous Bartholomew Goodfellow, one hand grasping a long, thick willow switch with which he was methodically striking the wide palm of his other hand with loud, sinister smacks ... Bartholomew angrily announced that some despicable larcenist had committed an unpardonable act of outright villainy--some shifty-eyed culprit had pilfered his lunch and he was now demanding that the worthless vagabond be straightaway apprehended and brought to swift and sudden justice ... that being three stinging blows across the bare back from that willow switch ... no exceptions ... which he was menacingly waving through the air for all to behold ..... that which Mister Crabtree greatly feared had come to pass! ...
The distinguished pedagogue lamentably reminded the class that Bartholomew Goodfellow's rule had been agreed upon by one and all, and reluctantly demanded that whomsoever was responsible for the alleged theft should immediately stand to their feet, step forward and present themselves before the entire class to receive the prescribed punishment ... the old man unquietly hoped and prayed for the sake of the guilty party that he or she would simply remain quietly seated ... but to his dismay, little Melvin Proctor wearily rose to his feet and slowly plodded to the front of the room ... Melvin was a scrawny, underweight young boy who came from an unfortunately poor family which lived in a dilapidated shack near the head of Mill Hollow ... his father had been killed in a war that Melvin never had come to understand ... since his dad's untimely death, Melvin's mother had always told the skinny child that he was now the man of the house, and that he should conduct himself accordingly ... well, Melvin was now being that man, and conducting himself accordingly ... ragged clothes ... growling stomach ... hollow gaze and all ... he looked right up into the glaring eyes of Bartholomew Goodfellow and told him that he was sorry for taking his lunch, and that he would somehow make it right, he then added that there had been no food at his house for nearly a week, and that his baby sister had been awfully hungry and had cried herself to sleep each night ... Melvin went on to say that he could no longer bear to hear his little sister sobbing because of hunger, so he had swiped a lunch so she would have something to eat that night ... prepared to accept full responsibility for his actions, Melvin removed his threadbare shirt to reveal a skinny torso -- his spine and rib cage clearly protruding through thin, pale skin ... as he bent over to brace himself against Mister Crabtree's old oak desk the piteous sound of huge tears could be heard dropping onto the dusty planking of the classroom floor ...
Everyone sat breathlessly silent with tearful eyes awaiting Bartholomew Goodfellow's response ... with voice breaking for the first time ever, Bartholomew looked at Mister Crabtree and enquired if he should be permitted to make an amendment to his rule ... Mister Crabtree told him that it would only be permissible if the entire class consented, of which they hesitantly did ... so the hulking giant offered that if anyone were to step forward and stand in place of any guilty person, then they should receive any due punishment in their stead ... Mister Crabtree along with the rest of the class cautiously concurred ... Bartholomew then handed the sturdy switch to Mister Crabtree, leaned over and picked up the tattered shirt from off the dirty floor and gently placed it on Melvin's bony back as he led the terrified little boy back to his seat ... Bartholomew then returned to the front ... removed his shirt ... grabbed the corners of the desk ... and directed Mister Crabtree to administer Melvin Proctor's scourging to his own bare back ...
Henceforward and without fail Bartholomew Goodfellow fetched two lunches to school ... one for himself ... the other jam-packed with sufficient grub for Melvin Proctor to eat his fill of--along with enough to take home for his baby sister and mother ... fellow classmates regularly tossed in extra goodies too ... unbelievably, Bartholomew Goodfellow seemed to have a more considerate temperament ... he was becoming a man ... a man just like Melvin Proctor!
It is well-documented in the history of baseball's storied past that it's once longstanding color barrier was soundly shattered on April 18, 1946, the day Jack Roosevelt "Jackie" Robinson, born in Cairo, Georgia to a sharecropping family on January 31, 1919, was signed to play with the Brooklyn Dodgers organization by owner Branch Rickey, becoming the first African-American of the 20th century to join Major League baseball. Robinson made his first appearance with the Montreal Royals in the International League, and after just a single season with Montreal, the gifted athlete made his big league debut as a Brooklyn Dodger on April 15, 1947, when he played first base against the Boston Braves at Ebbets Field. Jackie Robinson helped catapult the Dodgers to the National League Pennant, and earned National League Rookie Of The Year honors.
During those early years, Jackie Robinson endured hardhearted mistreatment from fellow ball players and baseball fans alike, all with quiet dignity, but his entrance into America's favorite pastime had served to spin rusted tumblers in the doorlocks of prejudice thereby enabling access by other players of color such as Don Newcombe, Roy Campanella, Joe Black and Larry Doby, the first black star of the Cleveland Indians. By 1952, more than 150 black players comprised of the "cream of the crop" from Negro League rosters had been enticed to join organized baseball's integrated majors and minors. However, few people have given much thought as to how Robinson came to the attention of major league scouts, where he had played before joining the Brooklyn Dodgers, or what the nature of baseball might have been in the black community before integration in the major league. I would like to take a brief journey back in the history of American sports and society to the fascinating era of the Negro Leagues, and explore the events that brought about the great Jackie Robinson's debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers ... and white America.
The original National Association of Base Ball Players, which formed in 1867, had banned all black athletes, but by the late 1870's, many African-American players were on active rosters of white, minor league teams. In the North, between the end of the Civil War and 1890, a good number of African-Americans played alongside their white counterparts on major and minor league teams, but following brief stays with white teams, most of these players felt the hurtful sting of regional prejudices, along with an unofficial color ban. However, there were some notable exceptions who built long and successful careers in white professional baseball. In 1884, John W, "Bud" Fowler, an African-American with more than a decade of experience as an itinerant, professional player, was signed by the Stillwater, Minnesota club in the Northwestern league. Fowler preferred to play as a second-baseman, but played virtually every position on the field for Stillwater, further heightening the reputation that had brought him to the attention of white team owners. Bud Fowler's baseball career continued through the close of the 19th Century, much of which was spent on the rosters of minor league clubs in organized baseball.
In 1883, Moses "Fleetwood" Walker, a former Oberlin College star, began his professional baseball career with the Toledo club, also in the Northwestern league. Almost from the beginning of his career, Walker was a better than average hitter, and considered by many to be among baseball's finest catchers. In 1884, the Toledo club joined the American Association, and Walker became the first black player to play with a major league franchise. By 1886, many black players were playing with teams in the "outlaw" leagues and independent barnstorming clubs along with Fowler and Walker, including George Stovey and Ulysses Franklin "Friendly Frank" Grant. The best black players found a measure of tolerance, if not acceptance, in white baseball in the North and Midwest until the end of the 1880's. But that situation made an abrupt change in 1890.
In 1890, as the season began in the International League, the most prestigious of the minor league circuits, there were no black players. With no formal announcement having been made, a "gentlemens' agreement" was made which barred black players from participation for the next fifty-five years. For a time, African-Americans were able to find work in lesser leagues, but within only a few short years no team in organized baseball would accept black players ... the color barrier was firmly in place by the turn of the century. As Walker, Fowler and Grant, along with many others struggled to find a spot (and keep it) in organized baseball, other black players were pursuing careers with the more than 200 all-black independent teams that performed throughout the country from the early 1880's forward. Through the close of the century, powerful Eastern teams such as the Cuban Giants, Cuban X Giants and Harrisburg Giants played both independently and in loosely organized leagues. Professional black baseball had began to blossom throughout America's heartland, and even in the South by the early 1900's.
The emergence of potent black teams during the early years of the 20th Century, such as the Chicago Giants, Indianapolis ABC's, St. Louis Giants and Kansas City Monarchs, rose to prominence and presented a legitimate challenge to the claim of diamond supremacy made by Eastern clubs such as the Lincoln Giants in New York, Brooklyn Royal Giants, Cuban Stars and Homestead (Pa.) Grays. Black baseball was also thriving in Birmingham's industrial leagues in the South, and teams like the Nashville Standard Giants and Birmingham Black Barons were establishing solid regional reputations. Black baseball had become, perhaps, the number one entertainment attraction for urban black populations throughout the nation by the end of World War I. It was then that one of black baseball's most influential personalities, Andrew "Rube" Foster, owner of the Chicago American Giants, determined that the time had arrived for a truly organized and stable Negro league.
In 1920, under Foster's leadership, the Negro National League was born in Kansas City, fielding eight teams comprised of the Chicago American Giants, Chicago Giants, Cuban Stars, Dayton Marcos, Detroit Stars, Indianapolis ABC's, Kansas City Monarchs and St. Louis Giants ... "We are the ship; all else the sea" was how Rube Foster described his new league ... that same year, Thomas T.Wilson, owner of the Nashville Elite Giants, organized the Negro Southern League, with teams in Nashville, Atlanta, Birmingham, Memphis, Montgomery and New Orleans. Just three years later in 1923, the Eastern Colored League was formed, featuring the Hilldale Club, Stars (East), Brooklyn Royal Giants, Bacharach Giants, Lincoln Giants and Baltimore Black Sox ... the Negro National League continued on successfully throughout most of the 1920's, until ultimately succumbing to the financial hardships of the Great Depression and sadly dissolving at the close of the 1931 season.
In 1933, Pittsburgh bar owner Gus Greenlee organized the second Negro National League, quickly taking up where Foster's league left off, and became the dominant force in black baseball from 1933 through 1949. From 1920 through the 1940's, the Negro Southern League was in continuous operation and held the position of black baseball's only operating major circuit for the 1931 season. The Negro American League was formed in 1937, bringing into it's fold the best clubs in the South and Midwest, and stood as the opposing circuit to Greenlee's Negro National League until the latter disbanded after the 1949 season ... the three major Negro League circuits had steadily built what was to become one of the largest and most successful black-owned enterprises in America, despite having weathered the storms of the difficult economic challenges thrust upon the entire nation by the Great Depression ... the existence and success of these leagues stood as a testament to the determination and resolve of black America to forge ahead in the face of racial segregation and social disadvantage.
Gus Greenlee had firmly intended to field the most powerful baseball team in America when he organized the Negro National League in 1933 ... and he may well have achieved his goal. In 1935, his Pittsburgh Crawfords lineup showcased the talents of no less than five future Hall-Of-Famers, including the likes of Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson, Cool Papa Bell, Judy Johnson and the great Oscar Charleston. During the mid-1930's, the Pittsburgh Crawfords were black baseball's premier team, but by the end of the decade that title was wrested away by Cumberland Posey's Homestead Grays, winning 9 consecutive Negro National League titles from the late 1930's through the mid-1940's. The Grays had bolstered their lineup with Hall-Of-Fame talent such as that of power-hitting first sacker Buck Leonard, along with featuring former Crawfords stars Bell and Gibson.
During the 1930's and 1940's, the East-West All-Star game, which was played annually at Chicago's Comiskey Park, contributed greatly to the ever-growing national popularity of Negro League baseball. Conceived originally in 1933 by Gus Greenlee as a promotional tool, the game rapidly became black baseball's most popular attraction and biggest money maker. From the first game forward, the East-West Classic regularly packed Comiskey Park while showcasing the Negro League's finest talent ... the demands for social justice had swelled throughout America as World War II came to a close, and many felt that it could not be long until baseball's color barrier would come crashing down. African-Americans had not only proven themselves on the battlefield and seized an indisputable moral claim to an equal share in American life, the stars of black baseball had also proven their skills in venues like the East-West Classic and countless exhibition games against major league stars ... the time for integration had arrived.
Virtually all of the Negro Leagues' best talent had either left the league for opportunities with integrated teams or had grown too old to attract the attention of major league scouts during the four years immediately following Jackie Robinson's debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers. Black team owners witnessed a financially devastating decline in attendance at Negro League games as a result of this sudden and dramatic departure of talented ballplayers. The handwriting was on the wall for the Negro Leagues as the attention of black fans had forever turned to the integrated major leagues ... after the 1949 season, the Negro National League disbanded, never to return ... after a long and successful run, black baseball's senior circuit was no longer a commercially viable enterprise. Though the Negro American League continued on throughout the 1950's, it had lost virtually all of it's fan appeal, along with the bulk of it's talent. The league closed it's doors for good in 1962, after a decade of operating as a shadow of it's former self ... the era of Negro League baseball had ground to a halt ... "the ship" had sank ... however, it's rich and colorful history had a profound impact, not only on our national pastime, but on America's social and moral character.
Not only was Jack Roosevelt Robinson, son of a sharecropping family from Cairo, Georgia the first African-American to play on a Major League baseball team in the 20th Century ... Robinson was also the first recipient of the Rookie of the Year Award in 1947 ... the first African-American to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962 ... the first Major League baseball player to be honored on a U.S. postage stamp in 1997 ... the first baseball player to have his uniform number (42) retired in perpetuity across all teams by the Major League in 1997 ... the first UCLA student to earn a varsity letter in all four sports: baseball, basketball, football and track in 1948 ... the first African-American baseball player to receive the Congressional Gold Medal in 2003 ... and the first African-American to serve as Vice-President of a major American corporation, Chock Full O' Nuts 1957-1964 ... Jackie was also a recipient of the NAACP Spigam Medal in 1956 ... received an Honorary degree from Howard University in 1957 ... recipient of the Presidential Medal of Honor in 1985 ... and the Rookie of the Year Award was renamed the Jackie Robinson Award in 1987.
Despite a myriad of impressive collegiate and professional, athletic accomplishments over the course of Jackie Robinson's extraordinary and outstanding career, his integrity, courage and character off the field were indispensable attributes, not only in the life of the man, but more importantly in the melioration of the fragmented moral fabric of American society ... he not only possessed the courage to stare racism and hatred directly in the eye--he bravely defied it! ... while serving in the U.S. Army, Robinson was court-martialed for refusing to sit in the back of a segregated military bus ... he was later acquitted and honorably discharged from the Army ... Jackie Robinson endured unspeakable mistreatment, abuse and threats while playing the game he loved ... but endure he did ... the many black players who came before him were genuine pioneers, true Americans (America must never forget them) ... they were steppingstones that led the way from the intolerance and discrimination of the Jim Crow era to the threshold of racial equality and integration in organized, professional baseball ... amid those stones rests a mighty cornerstone ... Jack Roosevelt (Jackie) Robinson (1919-1972).
Please remember Jackie Robinson Day April 15th.
"There's not an American in this country free until every one of us is free." --Jackie Robinson
It is widely known that the prodigious and renowned centenarian Virgil Hunnicutt was rumoured to be well above one hundred years of age, and a near genius in possession and ready command of an astronomically Brobdingnagian intellect, all the while put upon to conduct the day to day affairs of this life in an habitual state of almost complete deafness and total blindness ... however, his being "hard o' hearin' and dim-sighted" were not his only maladies ... Uncle Virgil Hunnicutt ate poorly so to speak, not so much as in quantity, rather Uncle Virgil devoured everything and anything he desired or could get his hands on, and often ... consequently, poor Virgil developed a profoundly solid and unmovable case of acute constipation ... this in spite of his various and sundry attempts at home remedies such as the ingestion of prunes ... spinach ... green apples ... linseed and castor oils ... a mixture of lime juice and salt in hot water ... drinking water kept all night in a copper kettle ... and lengthy strolls all about the countryside, amongst others ... the resulting outcome proved to be a disappointing and a disheartening failure ... thus Virgil's only remaining alternative was to pay a visit to some dreadful doctor specializing in gastroenterology ...
The very next morning Virgil Hunnicutt found himself anxiously sitting in a brightly-lit, albeit chilly doctor's examination room ... attired in nothing more than one of those skimpy hospital gowns ... all open down the back ... in short time an enthusiastically energetic young physician entered the room, an enormous and shiny stethoscope draped loosely around his neck ... followed by a starchy, stern looking nurse ... "what seems to be ailing you today Mister Hunnicutt?" he blithely enquired while applying the cold instrument to the elderly outpatient's nervously heaving chest ... Virgil's reply was unhesitatingly precise and direct "constipation sir, despite all my efforts to the contrary!" ... the doctor smiled warmly, then declared in an overtly confident, professional and authoritative manner "not to worry my good man, I believe I've got just the therapeutic treatment on hand that should relieve you expeditiouslyMister Hunnicutt ... I'll be right back!" at which he and his amylaceous assistant exited the room leaving the door slightly ajar ... moments later Virgil heard a loud commotion out in the hallway, so he eased over and took a gander through the gap in the open door ... there he spied a somber-looking fellow donned in a long trench coat and wheeling some sort of heavy, metal-framed machine directly toward and adjacent to his examination room--where he left it ... this apparatus sported some type of motor or gasoline engine, along with a large spool upon which was wound a thick band of steel no less than an inch in width and quite possibly exceeding one hundred feet in length ... at the end of that steel band was a gruesome brass knob about the size of a ripe walnut ... the contraption's "operator" was apparently on his way to retrieve even more devices and equipment when the doctor interrupted his progress and demanded of the man that he "rest not until the blockage is forthwith located and straightaway thoroughly removed ... no matter the cost ... even to the dismantling of the entire system--end to end!" ... well Uncle Virgil Hunnicutt had seen and heard sufficiently enough ... as he crawled out the window in such a rush that he forgot his clothes ...
It was a beautiful day as Lester DooLittle leisurely steered his daddy's pickup truck along the winding country road while enjoying all the sights and sensations associated with early spring ... the sun's rays shimmered warmly against his face ... a pleasant breeze carrying the scents of blossoming trees and patches of flowers blooming purple and yellow wafted about his nostrils ... dense, green grass richly carpeted the gently inclined banks at each side of the gravel lane--where an elderly, barefooted gentleman attempted to frantically wend his way as rapidly as possible along the edge of the narrow, brushy ditch line--attired in nothing more than one of those skimpy hospital gowns ... all open down the back ... Lester slowly pulled up alongside the scantily clad pedestrian and ground to a stop ... Uncle Virgil flung open the door and breathlessly crawled into the cab of the truck "drive boy drive!" was his command "neither slow down nor stop till at my gate!" ... it was not until Virgil was safely within the familiar walls of his abode that he explained his frightening encounter at the doctor's office to Lester DooLittle "I shall never again knowingly cross the threshold of any coldhearted sawbonesno matter the asperity of the affliction ... I'll stick with my home remedies--though eternal dyschezia may be my fate!" ... that along with a request that Lester go there and fetch his clothes ... Lester DooLittle immediately complied, and upon his arrival explained to the flummoxed doctor the substance and purpose of his errand ... the nurse had previously collected Virgil's belongings and placed them in a sterile plastic tote, and as she handed it to Lester the doctor asked the boy if he was aware of the reasoning behind Uncle Virgil's unannounced, unexpected and manifestly precipitous departure from the medical facility ... Lester assured him that he was as mystified as they as to the cause ... at which the frustrated doctor proclaimed "well please inform Mister DooLittle, that if he felt cold-shouldered or brushed aside, that it certainly was not my intention of doing so ... you must understand that we've suffered about for many a day now here at the office from a wretchedly clogged drain ... and I was momentarily put upon by the plumber as to the general location by which he should concentrate his efforts ... please convey our sincerest apologies to Mister Hunnicutt ... and wish him well!"
