Remembering John Griffin

John was my neighbor in Holly Hill when I built my house there. He walked by regularly with Bonnie, a beautiful Springer spaniel, who was always impatient to get on with it. She was such a fine looking dog that I could not resist offering my hand to pet her. Sometimes she would allow a pat on the head, but she usually jumped back with a little warning bark. John said resignedly that "She hates everybody," including him and his wife, Florence.
John served in the Army Engineers in the South Pacific during WWII, and wrote many letters home to his fiancee, Florence. A budding artist, John drew a little picture on the outside of each envelope, and Florence saved all of them. When the drawings were featured on a Public Television broadcast, John asked me to tape the segment for him, which I was glad to do. When I delivered the tape to his house, he gave me a lithographed copy of one of his paintings. Of course I framed it, and it hangs above the head of our bed now.
Some of John’s paintings may also be found in St. Luke’s Hospital, and he regularly supplied paintings, two for each season, for the NC Welcome Center on I-26 near Columbus. Some were scenes, others were abstract. But always well executed, with exciting use of color.
John also enjoyed carving decoy ducks. His paintings and his decoys are available at his daughter’s Dish Barn near Hendersonville. I was always going over to see John in his studio and workshop, but never did make time to do so. That appears to be a common failing, as my friend Don Pattie wrote about that in one of his many poems. There are six stanzas, but I will quote only the last two in my limited space:
It’s natural to procrastinate,
Yet the moral here is clear.
We need to set aside more time
For those we hold so dear.

In life and dreams I lost my friend
For it seemed I had no time.
We take for granted those we love,
Then weep for Auld Lang Syne.*

Of course it is good to call or write or exchange e-mails, but they are not as good for the souls as a visit. When we go in person we can share a hug, warm smiles, perhaps some laughter. Yes, you have read of this idea before in my columns, but I have to advise that you do as I write, not as I do. This is not a contest, but when we do as I suggest, everyone involved wins. Let’s resolve to make more time for our friends as well as our families. The rewards are both immediate and lasting.
*From "A Lost Dream," (c)1994 by D. A. Pattie. Used by permission.

Bob Witty: An Appreciation

When I began to appreciate Bob Witty’s inspired writing for the Bulletin I had no idea that I might one day become a colleague. When I did, Bob was one of the first people to welcome me to the ranks of creative writers. We quickly formed our little mutual admiration society, but I am mindful that he was the senior member in every way.
I have felt very keenly the loss of his manifold contributions to local lore, found first on these pages and later more permanently enshrined in his books.
Bob abandoned his typewriter and blue pencil for a half century to go fly airplanes in WWII and later establish himself in the business world. It is our good fortune that in casting about for "something to do" in retirement, he "inquired within" at the Bulletin office and was invited to contribute something.
Something became several hundred columns filled with his insightful tributes to the people "From Here" and "From Away" who populate "Our Area" to make it the special place it certainly is.
The above "Witty-cisms" were a small part of what made Bob’s writing sparkle and lifted it above the ordinary. We talked about how we drove our computers’ spell checkers crazy with words we created for their effect, and the effect they had on our editors. For reasons completely unknown to us, they wanted to be editors, and do what editors do, to make our writing readable.
In all things that Bob and I had in common, he was the real thing and I am the wannabe. To say that he flew airplanes in WWII is an understatement, for the plane he flew most had a reputation for eliminating pilots who failed to master it right away. The Martin B-26 "Marauder" had two very powerful engines and relatively short, small wings. The pilot had to maintain control of the beast at all times, for if lost, control likely could not be regained. As a group commander, Bob flew the lead airplane on combat missions that earned him some prestigious medals for valor.
I would have loved to be a part of "The Helmet and Goggles and Scarf Escadrille – Frost Flight" that Bob formed with 28 local military pilots that included and honored Col. Norme Frost, the only one of them who flew and fought in both WWI and WWII. But alas, I am only a civilian pilot with a few hundred hours in what they call "puddle jumpers."
Bob seemed to relish becoming an octogenarian. Instead of cutting back, he continued to promote the Octogenarian Golf Tournament and to play in it, and to follow his other pursuits that got him into the Second Wind Hall of Fame (it was Bob who initiated the paper work to induct me into Second Wind). I read with only mild interest Bob’s take on becoming 80 years old in 1995, but now that I am almost there, a second reading resonates.
As a Korean War veteran (Air Force), I always appreciated Bob’s "Military Chronicles" that are almost as numerous as his now-famous "Foothills Chronicles." Without them I would not have realized how many of my fellow inhabitants had served, and in what significant ways. Bob wrote with an understanding and empathy as only a fellow veteran can — been there, done that, if you will. For many of these largely unsung heroes, he sang their song. We can all be grateful for that.
Bob was a practicing Friend (we called them Quakers when I was a kid), which colored his perceptions of our world and its people.
I don’t know how he adapted his nonviolent nature to wage a war of necessity, but he did.
Also in character, he never wrote ill of anyone, but brought out the virtues of the many people he memorialized in his thoughtful Chronicles.
Rest in peace, friend.