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The Word Murph Taught Me (Holding on and Letting Go in a Post 9-11 World)

Thursday, September 22nd, 2011

The Word Murph Taught Me.  Holding on and Letting Go in a Post 9-11 World.

I was waiting for the traffic light on Route 9 to turn green on a sizzling day, earlier this summer. I had taken shelter in my truck, the windows closed, cold air blasting from the dashboard. To my right, Lake Pohatcong was motionless; an nforgiving sun scalded its glassy surface. People walking or jogging often frequent the boardwalk along the lake, but that hot day it was almost desolate… almost, but not quite.

Not far from my truck window, a group of 4 kids stood in a tight circle. They were all holding separate fishing rods straight up in the air with all their lines knotted into one. At the epicenter of this tangled mess was one older gentleman with a short white beard, he was probably the grandfather, I assumed.

Even in the heat and even in the face of a knotted tangle, the grandfather’s expression was calm. And his eyes were sharp, his fingers nimble, he tackled the tangle one line at a time. Before my light turned green, the older man untangled the first line. A broad smile spread across a young boy’s face, he broke free of the group, checked his bait, then tugged his orange float and cast his hook into the lake.

In my mind, I could hear the “Ker plunk” sound of a fishing rig hitting water and I could see ripples spread in widening circles around the orange float. Wider and wider, the circles grew across still water. I felt a smile growing on my face and then I remembered a young man I met some years ago. Long time ago, I thought, but it didn’t seem that way…

His father called me at home one evening in late spring and told me his son had bought a beach home and needed advice on the home inspector’s report. And he said his son may need some help with a few things. This was back when I was building. I had worked for his father in the past and the man was good as they come. I arranged to be there the following day.

With good directions, there was little difficulty finding the modest home on a quiet street in Beach Haven. A young man stood on the gravel driveway, his head turned when he heard my truck. Then he walked up the driveway. No socks, brown loafers crunched through stones, his right hand extended. Then we introduced ourselves with a quick handshake. His name was Murph.

“Sorry I’m late… the traffic lights”, I said.  “Don’t sweat it”, Murph replied. “Come on”, he said. Murph wanted to show me some work he had completed himself “Let me show you what the home inspector told me to do”.  Murph was pointing at a foundation vent, “The home inspector told me to add these”. I examined the vent. “I’ve installed them around the foundation perimeter”, Murph continued.

The vent seemed properly installed and it was neatly caulked. “I think the inspector was right. Ventilation is important”, I told him, “But you need to remember to open them in warmer months”.

Murph pointed to a coil and louvers, “They sense the temperature and operate automatically”, he said. “I never saw those before”, I told him, “Automatic is good, if you don’t have to remember something, then there’s no way you can forget it”.  Murph cocked his head, then made a smile, “I suppose that’s true”.

“Come on”, Murph said. We moved to the back of the house and stopped at a large pile of rubble mounded near the crawl space hatch. Some of it was recognizable as old building material and all of it was ancient. “The home inspector told me to pull this garbage out of the crawlspace”, Murph said, “I guess it makes sense, but it’s not fun work”.  I was glad Murph did this part of the job himself. “Its nasty work” I replied, “but it’s never good to feed the termites”.

Murph’s eyes fixed on the pile of debris, then his eyes darted quick around the base of a set of stairs leading to a second floor deck. “Where’s the conch shell?” he said, speaking to himself.  Murph was clearly annoyed by a missing seashell. “I put the upstairs key in the conch shell next to the steps…” Murph pushed some debris and sighed in relief when the shell appeared.  He pulled the key from the shell. “Let’s go”, Murph said and he bounded up the staircase to the second floor deck. I followed.

Murph put the key in the lockset, turned the door knob and opened the door, “Come in”, he said. I stepped inside and Murph moved his arm in a slow sweep across the second floor. “Here it is”, Murph said, “But my wife and I have a five year plan”.

“Five years?” I said, but it wasn’t really a question.
“Well, yes. Five years… maybe six, but we think we can do it in five”, Murph replied.
“Do what?” I asked.

“This home is a two family home… it’s a duplex”, Murph told me.

“Yes it is”, I answered.

“But we want a single family home”, Murph said.

“Then why did you buy a duplex?”

“For the rental income” Murph quickly answered. I scratched my head. Murph elaborated, “We need the rental income now, but in five years we are planning to be in a better position” I nodded my head.

“It’s not about money”, Murph continued, “It’s about that”. Murph was pointing to a half dozen assorted fishing rods and reels stacked in the corner of the living room.

 “It’s about storage space for fishing rods?” I asked.

“No, it’s about fishing.”

“Fishing?” I said.

“Well, yeah… fishing… and crabbing too. Maybe catching a few clams. But fishing… mostly… It’s about taking my kids fishing… when they’re old enough. It’s a wholesome thing to do. There are a lot of wholesome activities here”, Murph replied. The word “wholesome” sounded funny coming from Murph and I was beginning to grin. Murph sensed my reaction, “What’s funny?” he asked.

“Wholesome…” I said, “I guess the word sounds funny coming from a young guy”.

Murph had a puzzled gaze so I continued digging the hole I was already in, “It sounds like a word used to describe old television shows. Or it’s like a health food word. Something I’d hear on a Quaker Oats commercial”, I told him.

Murph smiled, “I suppose I have been using the word a lot lately”, he said, “I’ve been thinking about things differently, it came with the kids”.

He paused for a moment, “Wholesome food, like Quaker Oats is good for physical health. But people are more than physical beings. There’s social and mental health to be considered. There is moral and spiritual health too.  Wholesome activities promote good health for all the components of a person. Wholesome memories give adults something to fall back on”.  Murph was on a roll and I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

“Wholesome memories are memories worth remembering”, Murph continued, “I remember my dad taking us fishing when we were kids and I lost my rig on the first cast… I felt helpless watching that hook sail out of sight and I felt like crying. But dad had another hook and sinker tied to my line in no time… And he had a hand on my shoulder and some fatherly advice on proper casting.”   

“Yeah, I remember fishing with my dad too”,
I said, “Good memories”.

“Yes they are”, Murph replied, “Wholesome memories are very much like Quaker Oats, they’re good for you”.

“Do you remember how your father’s shirts seemed warmer than your own when you were a kid?” Murph asked.

“Yeah” I said and I was surprised Murph knew that about my dad’s shirts, “When I wasn’t feeling well, my dad’s shirts were always much warmer than my own…and my kid sometimes uses my shirts.”

“Exactly”, Murph replied, “That’s what wholesome is”.

 “Murph, you’re right”, I told him; “The word ‘wholesome’ is not a funny word at all.” Murph just answered with a smile and a nod, and then opened a small door to his right. “What can you do with this bathroom”, he said, “I don’t want anything fancy; it just needs to last…” 

“Five years?” I interrupted.

Murph chuckled, “You’re getting the idea”.

I walked away with a nice job that morning, but I also walked away with a new word to use in my vocabulary and maybe even a different way of looking at things. And I walked away with an appreciation for this new customer. How could you not admire a young father who dreamed and planned for the day he would take his kids fishing? I made sure Murph’s bathroom was ready for summer.

That summer went as summers go. Planning and preparation… all focused on a few short weeks of long warm days. Warm days in warm sand pass quickly… with September lurking like a thief that no one wants to see. But September always comes and takes summer when she goes.

Some summers vanish on a blustery day of northwest wind and other summers linger, slowly fading, like leaves in late October. But one summer was ripped from our chests like our own beating hearts and thrown at our feet while we stared in disbelief.

Consumed in smoldering ruins, summer was slain before our eyes. Smoke rose like a summer’s pyre, rising to an unforgiving sky. Many people wouldn’t be seen after that day. And Murph was one of those people.

Pain always comes first and pain came that day. But pain turns to anger. And anger turns to rage. And rage… like dust and smoke, rage will settle too… and leave us with a tarnished sense of calm. The years pass. Anniversaries make their way around the sun and memorials have their place.

And maybe for a while, five year plans seemed futile to me. And maybe I lost the words from my vocabulary. Words like “hope” and “humanity”. Words like “wholesome”. And more so than the words, maybe I lost their meaning in my life.

It seems those things are changing, now. Like the winds and the tides, things always change. But one thing stuck with me and I hope it always will…

I think of Murph every time I see a kid fishing.

…then I heard a horn blast behind me and realized the light turned green on Route 9. The grandfather continued working on the tangle, still surrounded by three kids. The other kid was leaning on the boardwalk rail, watching his bobber floating on the lake. I stepped on the gas to appease the horn blower. “Wholesome”, I said quietly to myself and smiled, “You’re damn right, Murph”.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

This article originally appeared in the September 7, 2011 issue of The SandPaper. Karl F. Held is a lifelong resident of Southern Ocean County.

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Johnnie from Church Street, One of Tuckerton’s Heroes

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

by Karl F. Held

It was the early hours of April 28, 1944, and the diesel engines groaned as the Navy ship slowly lurched forward, then slapped against a hard wave. Johnnie could only hold on and try not to bump into soldiers packed on either side of him. The farther from shore they got, the more hard waves slapped the ship and rocked the men inside.

Guns and knapsack buckles, men and equipment bounced and whipped and rattled against each other, making a noise sometimes drowning out the diesels and the sea.

Next to Johnnie, a large man moaned while the ship hammered through some more choppy waves. “Training here, training there! How much training do we need to have a war?”

With the men packed together, it had been getting warm and the webbing in Johnnie’s helmet was irritating his forehead. He pulled the chin strap and lifted the helmet from his head. Johnnie felt a welcome breeze kissing his face and washing through his hair. It was a cool, damp breeze that reminded him of early morning at his home. It felt like early morning on the bay.

Johnnie closed his eyes and tried to imagine his old rowboat seat beneath him. It was a wooden seat, and in each hand he grasped a wooden oar, and each oar extended out to either side of the boat. With his arm and back muscles pulling them through the water, the wooden boat skimmed forward. His motions were in rhythm, everything fell into rhythm.

Johnnie remembered going duck hunting early one morning. A double barreled shotgun leaned against the rowboat’s wooden seat. A dozen cedar black duck decoys lay piled in the stern, their ropes neatly coiled around sash weight anchors. Pulling the oars and rounding the sod point, Johnnie tossed the cedar decoys into the water, spreading them out just so. Then he pulled the boat ashore and waited for the cool autumn sunrise. It was autumn then, Johnnie thought to himself. It seemed so long ago.

Its spring now, Johnnie thought to himself. It was spring in England and it was spring back home. But home was months and months ago… it could have been a lifetime. The jostling in the ship caused the scabbard of Johnnie’s bayonet to press into his side. Johnnie readjusted the weapon and closed his eyes again. The day before his hunting trip, he remembered carving a large jack-o-lantern for his little sister, Barbara.  They had watched those pumpkins grow all summer long in their garden and Barbara picked the big pumpkin on Johnnie’s 18th birthday. She told him it was his birthday present. The little girl glowed all Halloween night while the pumpkin flickered on the front porch in a soft autumn breeze.

Johnnie smiled at the memory but then lurched forward and rocked back hard. It felt like the vessel was turning. Its engines groaned louder than the men who growled inside her. Something wooden fell and slammed inside the ship. It sounded like the wooden screen door back home. Johnnie pulled his eyes closed tight and remembered yet again.

He stood in the kitchen and his mother, Hattie packed fresh baked bread in a sack for his journey to boot camp. Johnnie felt the warmth of the oven on his hands and face and the warmth in his soul, sparked by the aroma of his mother’s homemade bread.

Hattie told him, “Make sure you come home,” and Johnnie promised he would. Hattie was strong and she didn’t cry out loud… she did this for her son’s sake. But when they hugged goodbye, Johnnie felt the moistness of his mother’s silent  tears. He pretended not to notice. He did that for Hattie’s sake.

Johnnie turned and opened the screen door. His shoes clapped down the wooden steps and passed the old jack-o-lantern which was falling in on itself from time. The wooden door creaked and slammed behind him. Young Barbara was waiting at the bottom of the steps and grabbed Johnnie’s hand. They walked down the gravel drive, swinging their hands in unison as they went.

Johnnie turned and saw his mother watching through the screen door. He smiled and waved as he walked; Hattie waved back and then Johnnie turned away. The girl stopped short at the street edge and their hands slipped from one another’s grasp. Johnnie hugged young Barbara and told her to be good. And as they parted, Johnnie winked his eye to tell the little girl things would be all right. He turned and waved again, and then his shoes crunched through autumn leaves as he walked down Church Street toward his waiting ride.

Everything happened so fast after that. His time in boot camp and Johnnie’s voyage to England and endless training exercises whirled together in the secrecy that engulfed his mission. Johnnie did not know which part of England he was in. And he was often ordered to move to another unknown location. Johnnie knew only one thing for certain: They were preparing for an invasion that would end the war, and Johnnie knew that was a good thing… which had to remain a secret too.

The secrecy even extended to his home. Johnnie had written a letter to his mother earlier that day and the return address simply read: “Somewhere in England”.  He hadn’t been informed of this seaborne mission until he was ordered to pack
his things and leave at once. It was a lot for an 18 year old boy to handle. His eyes were gently closed and he drifted in his memories.

The ship lurched again and Johnnie’s eyes snapped open. The sound of something loud rattled across the vessel’s steel hull. Then the sound of rapid gunfire could be heard above the droning engines. Johnnie plunked the helmet on his head and began to stand and pull the rifle sling from his shoulder. But an older man spoke up, “Calm down, son”, the older man said, “It’s just a training mission. Just an exercise, is all”. So Johnnie began to sit down, but the ship seemed to lift from the sea and lurched to one side, tossing the young man to the hard, cold deck.

Next there came a noise louder than anything Johnnie had ever heard before. The deafening sound of explosions and steel being torn apart and men shouting, growing louder and louder and all of the noises melted together into a shrill screaming siren.

A brief, blinding, bright light, pulsing in a few quick seconds, illuminated the tangled confusion of men and machines. And there was heat, terrific heat, quickly extinguished by a rush of cool water and darkness.

Cool darkness and welcomed silence. Silence settled over Johnnie like a large, soft quilt.  But then Johnnie remembered his promise to his mother, Hattie. He had promised to come home. Johnnie pushed away debris and tried to stand, but water and darkness held him down. It was pure darkness and the soldier knew not if his eyes were closed or open and tremendous sadness overcame his spirit.

But then Johnnie felt himself moving. Johnnie opened his eyes and saw wispy white clouds against a brilliant sky. He was lying in the bed of a ’33 Ford Pick-Up and he jumped up and braced both arms on the back of the square box cab. Air streamed through his hair as the truck rumbled through his hometown, finally stopping at Church  Street. Johnnie hopped off, yelling, “Thanks”, to the unseen driver. Johnnie’s eyes danced past the short stone wall of the old cemetery and fixed upon his pathway home.

It was spring and the grass was green and the aroma of fresh plowed fields and hyacinths and wild onions filled the air. Johnnie marched swiftly down Church Street. He could see Barbara picking daffodils by the porch and upon seeing him, she ran down the drive and threw her arms around him and wouldn’t let go. Johnnie’s mother met him at the porch and all three hugged and didn’t let go and somehow squeezed inside, past the old screen door. It was warm inside the kitchen and the wooden screen door creaked and slammed shut behind them. Johnnie felt his mother’s smile as she embraced him, and he sensed the aroma of his mother’s homemade bread.

And Johnnie saw thick, warm slices of freshly baked bread on the table. Hattie drizzled them with honey. A tall pitcher of milk rested there too, and they ate and they laughed and there were no loud or quiet tears. After the meal, Johnnie felt sleep coming on. His bedroom had not changed. The warm quilt was folded down and Johnnie stretched out on his bed. Hattie pulled the quilt up to Johnnie’s chin and she kissed his forehead, she gently kissed him like a blessing. As her lips parted from his skin, Johnnie drifted off to sleep. Johnnie kept his promise and so he was at peace.

Above, where large waves crested in the cold darkness of predawn, a quick and desperate battle raged between surviving allied forces and the deadly pack of Nazi attack boats. The ruthless Nazis were driven off and Allied ships began the grim search for survivors in the blackness of the rolling waters. More ships arrived in daylight to retrieve the wounded and the dead. More than 700 perished in the ambush. Johnnie’s body was never found.

On April 29, 1944, survivors of the attack were sworn to secrecy by their commanders. The shroud of silence was meant to keep Nazi spies from learning of the coming invasion.

On April 30, 1944, Allied commanders attended secret meetings. The training exercise had been code named “Tiger” and was held in preparation for the planned D-Day invasion. The heavy losses experienced during the training mission caused Allied commanders to launch immediate investigations aimed at uncovering problems and finding solutions. Although the dead were lost forever, crucial information could be gathered for the battle yet to come.

On May 16, 1944, a Western Union telegraph arrived in Tuckerton addressed to Hattie. It reported with deep regret that her son, Johnnie, had been reported missing since April 28 in the European area.

On June 6, 1944, a great armada of Allied ships made its way across the same waters Johnnie sailed during Operation Tiger. But this was not a training exercise and this time British and American radios were tuned to the same frequencies to allow communications between all forces, which was a lesson learned from Operation Tiger.

This time a number of rescue boats were intermingled with ships and troops had been well trained in the use of emergency floatation devices, more hard-earned lessons from Operation Tiger. And this time adequate measures had been taken to defend against Nazi attack boats and other Axis predators, another lesson paid for in blood and men during Operation Tiger.

But thanks to those lessons learned and the continuing bravery of the Allied troops, and in spite of the terrible fighting that ensued when they hit the beach at Normandy, a foothold was gained on the European mainland. Within a year, the Nazi aggressors were driven back to their fatherland where they were soundly defeated.

In August, 1944, Hattie received a letter from the president that clearly stated her son, Johnnie was dead. In the months and years that followed, all events of the war and the approaching victory and even its aftermath created nothing more than a background din to the heartbeat of a grieving mother. Johnnie was gone, leaving only questions and Hattie understood no answer could ever fill the void. But in the years that followed, Hattie searched for those answers nonetheless.

On June 14, 1946, two years had passed and a man named Arthur Gills sat down at his desk. Like Johnnie, Gills had been a soldier in the war, but he tried never to speak of it. Not any of it. Gills felt the terror and pain would do no one any good. But sometimes he had to speak of it. Sometimes it was unavoidable. Gills took a deep breath and began to pen these words:

“Dear Hattie, I am very sorry I did not receive your letter before, as I am living in Miami now and the letter went to Little Rock first. I was not surprised to receive your letter, as I have had letter before from the boys’ relatives asking me if I could give them information about the boys.

“In regards to your son, John, I can give you the real facts and sincerely hope it will set your mind more at ease. We left Plymouth, England on a practice invasion in a convoy of seven LST ships. Approximately 6 miles off French Soil on April 28 we were attacked by German E boats. Four LST ships were hit and sunk. One of them was the one half our company was on and 43 of our men were killed. Only 3 men’s bodies of our company were identified.

“I was on the ship directly in front of the ship that John was on and I saw everything that took place. It all happened so quickly I know John and the boys did not have time to suffer.

“This is a hard letter to write as the boys were my buddies and a grand company. I feel very badly about what happened and I know how you must suffer with the loss of John. With all my sympathy, Arthur Gills.”

On January 26, 2009, a woman named Barbara looked out across her yard in wintertime and her mind wandered back across the years. Then she looked down at her own hand. Sixty five years had passed since she felt Johnnie’s strong, gentle grasp slip away.  “Like yesterday”, she said softly to herself. Her son, Bill looked up, “What, Mom?” he asked.

Barbara turned towards her son, “I want you to see about getting funds to place a plaque on our family cemetery plot to remember my brother, your uncle, who was lost in the war”, she said.

And so Bill looked into the life and death of the uncle he never knew and shared what he could learn with me. And I decided to write this story about the 18 year old boy, the man, the soldier, not because he was a sad figure or because I pitied his fate, but rather because he humbles me. The same story has been lived thousands of times, far too many times by our service men and women and their loved ones. And they humble me. They humble us all.

As President Franklin Roosevelt wrote in his letter to Hattie, “He stands in the unbroken line of patriots who dared to die so that freedom might live and grow and increase its blessings. Freedom lives, and through it, he lives- in a way that humbles the undertakings of most men.”

A bronze plaque can be found in a Tuckerton cemetery nestled in the shade of Jersey cedars. The plaque reads, “In Memory of John E. Wyckoff, PFC US Army World War II. 1926-1944, Purple Heart, Lost at Sea, English Channel”.

********************************************************

If you love your freedom, please feel free to thank a veteran…Special thanks to William Marshall and his mother, Barbara Wyckoff Marshall for sharing Johnnie’s story. This piece was originally published in The SandPaper, May 20, 2009 edition and is reprinted with their permission.

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Winning Seasons

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011

It happened so quickly. One moment I was scanning the local Leader and a story caught my attention. It was about Tuckerton’s new mayor and before I knew it, my mind slid back 12 years and stuck on a single Sunday morning in late October.  I felt my blood pressure rise and my neck muscles tighten as the images replayed:

We had guests for breakfast and my wife, Laura tripped over our son’s dirt bike boots while setting the table. Besides the hazard they posed, those muddy boots caked with layers of black slimy crud did little for the ambiance of our Sunday morning meal. “For the third time, please get these boots”, Laura called to the 13 year old.

“I SAID I WOULD!” Jon hollered at his mother. Laura turned with her infamous glare that is known to cut steel, but Jon turned his back and walked away… leaving the cruddy boots where they stood. I got up to go after him, but Laura stopped me, then took the boots and tossed them out the door. Jon had won his little gamble that I would not initiate World War 3 in the company of guests.

After breakfast, our guests departed and Laura and I busied ourselves with chores. We only had an hour or so. Back then, our time was always limited on autumn Sundays by Pop Warner Football… which was going to be part of Jon’s next childish gamble.

Jon came out of his room and saw his boots lying on the patio. “WHO THREW MY BOOTS OUTSIDE?” he hollered. “I asked you three times…” Laura began to say, but Jon interrupted her, “STUPID IDIOT!” he said.

That was it! “GET IN YOUR ROOM!” I hollered, “YOU’RE GROUNDED!” The 13 year old boy moved towards his room while yelling at me that he would not go to his room.

“AND SLAM YOUR BEDROOM DOOR!” I added.  I always told the kids to slam their bedroom doors in situations like that because then they would feel compelled to disobey and close the door gently as they could… It saved on wear and tear.

Jon carefully closed his bedroom door, then he revealed the substance of his second gamble, “YOU CAN”T GROUND ME… I HAVE A POP WARNER GAME TODAY”, he hollered through the bedroom door, “THE TEAM NEEDS ME!”

“WATCH ME”, I hollered back. “Laura, call the coach and tell him we won’t be coming” I said to my wife, shifting out of holler mode to spare myself from Laura’s death ray glare. A few moments later, Laura informed me the coach had not answered but she left a message.

With an entire Sunday afternoon to myself, I set about some yard work. They weren’t pressing chores, but it would help burn off the anger energy. A little while later, my wife appeared with the phone. “It’s the coach”, she said, “I  told him what happened”. I took the handset, “Hello”, I said.

“Hello, Mr. Held?” 

“Yes”, I answered.

“This is Buck Evans”, the coach said, “I understand Jon has been acting up?”

“To put it mildly, Coach and Jon thinks he is so important  he can get away with anything”, I said, “And now I can’t take him to the game because he’ll think he is above the law”. 

There was silence on the other end for a short moment as the coach gathered his words, “I don’t get in the middle of family matters and I respect how you chose to handle this, but let me say this: If you bring Jon to the game today, trust me, he will do some running and he will do some standing and he will learn what a team is all about”. Coach Buck paused for my reply. “Buck, I just can’t let Jon think he won this thing”.

“I understand your position and it’s not an easy one, but maybe you don’t want to use football as the punishment. Football is not the problem and you may find out it’s really the solution. I’m just asking you to think about that if you would. That’s all I ask, OK?” said the coach.

Even though my mind was made up, I thanked the Coach and gave the handset back to my wife and continued my yard work. But as I worked, the coach’s words continued to resonate in my mind. When emotions receded, I knew Coach Buck made sense and soon Laura, Jon and I were on the Garden State Parkway North, making the one hour ride to an away game.

Our team’s game started late due to some delays in earlier games and Jon hustled to join his team mates. Then I noticed Jon trudging laps around the field and when the game began, Jon stood on the sidelines, watching. Through the first quarter and second quarter, Jon stood there watching his team play. After half time, Jon stood on the side lines again for an entire third quarter as well. Each play the coach sent another player in, but Jon was never one of them. And to make matters worse for Jon, the team was winning without him. Finally in the last minutes of the game, Coach Buck tapped Jon and the boy ran to the field for a couple plays and then the game was over.

There would be many more Pop Warner games for Jon after that and in the years that followed, he would go on to play in high school and college games as well. But Jon never again thought he was exempt from acceptable human behavior on game day. The boy learned about the word “team”. And looking back, football and sports in general were never the problem and did turn out to be the solution.

That old memory flooded back because the article I was reading included an interview with Tuckerton’s new Mayor, George Buck Evans. Buck spoke to the reporter about his governmental team in terms of a football team and team is the keyword which caught my eye.  I can’t help thinking; if Buck Evans is as good at being Mayor as he was at being Coach, then Tuckerton Borough is in for some winning seasons. 

Post by Karl Held

Posted in Tuckerton | 1 Comment »

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