St. Bonaventure University Exhibit in March!

 

Mardi Gras

 

Mardi Gras

by Wil Bosbyshell

I was about to march in a parade. Not just any parade, mind you, it was the mystic Krewe of Iris parade at Mardi Gras in 1980. Standing in formation in New Orlean’s French Quarter on Saturday morning before Mardi Gras, I could feel the craziness building.

Mardi Gras is not just crazy, it's planet crazy!

As a freshman in Army ROTC on the University of Georgia Pershing Rifles Drill Team, I was ill prepared for Mardi Gras.  

The Drill Team consisted of 30 cadets both men and woman. We marched in a platoon formation with four cadets across and seven rows deep. Our uniforms were dark green Class A pants tucked into highly polished boots, a white short-sleeve shirt with two vertical creases, yellow ascot and chrome plated helmets. We carried the M1A1 rifle with wooden stock weighing 13 pounds. The rifle was augmented by a flat black bayonet. Our team advisors were a regular Army Major and Sergeant Major.

As a precision rifle drill team, a key part of our parade routine was twirling our rifles in circles in front of us and to both sides. The rifle moves required roughly 3-feet clearance in front and to each side of platoon members.

In most parades, the marching units are buffered from the crowd on either side by several feet of space. Right now, the crowd was already close, too close. We were still in the staging area on a side street and the crowd was pressed into the point of physical contact. Pawing me is more accurate.

Carl, the senior commanding cadet, gave the order, “Forward … March.” We stepped off in unison, our rifles at port arms. I was on the right flank of the platoon. In just three steps a child ran into my legs, and a man brushed my shoulder. I began to worry. We twirled our rifles as part of our drill routines, and the rifles had bayonets attached to the end of the barrel. Sharp bayonets on very heavy rifles. 

Carl gave the first routine command, which meant swinging the bayonet-tipped rifles in a circle in front of each of us. It was a basic move where I swung my rifle causing it to extend two feet past my right shoulder, into the normally empty space between me and the crowd. This time that space was not empty.

As I swung my rifle in a quick circle an old lady darted in between me and the cadet in front of me. There was no room for any person to physically occupy that space, but this little old lady somehow dodged my razor-sharp bayonet.

At that point the Major called a halt from the rear. The lady ran hell bent for leather through our formation and out the other side. Clearly, she wanted to cross the road. She was nearly skewered by several bayonets. As we stopped, three more people ran through our closely packed ranks. These people bumped into us without noticing or acknowledging us in any way. The Major was having a heart attack, imagining a bayonet spearing a civilian.

The scene was complete insanity. Several trumpet-heavy high school bands played with all their might, speakers on floats blared loud staticky sounding music, Iris Krewe members (all women) screamed at the top of their lungs from their perches atop floats, and the audience screamed back for Krewe members to throw beads. It was nuts and we were only five minutes into the parade.

Cadet Commander Carl called for us to stow our bayonets. We had scabbards to hold a bayonet on our belts, however, our team Sergeant Major feared that revelers would grab the bayonets from us while we marched. It was certainly possible and more than likely. So, our Sergeant Major carried all our bayonets for the duration of the parade. 

While we reorganized ourselves, I politely repeated, “Excuse me ma'am, please stay on the side of the road,” several times. We stepped off again. There was absolutely no space between the parade spectators and the floats and marching units. We weaved our way through a sea of humanity that was walking and darting through our formation. We couldn't do any fancy drill as we planned, we were just trying not to hurt people twirling our 13-pound M1A1 rifles as we marched.

We were constantly being pelted by strings of beads that everyone was throwing seemingly at us. The worthless colorful beads coated the street making footing precarious. All the cadets were slipping on the sea of beads.

Wow, I thought “It can't get much worse.” Just then it began to sleet.

Just an hour ago, I was sweating in the Louisiana morning heat wearing my short sleeve summer uniform. Now ice and freezing rain pelted my face in a blustery winter storm. “Great,” I thought.

We were able to do some of our planned drill routines at designated street intersections when police on horseback held back the crowd. Huge horses.

Amazingly we made it through the parade without hurting ourselves or any drunk old ladies. Cold, soaked and tired we returned to the USS Lexington aircraft carrier docked in the port of New Orleans. USS Lexington was there to support all the military units during the Mardi Gras season. It was an older carrier, diesel not nuclear, but it was a super cool place to stay. The only problem I encountered was that I kept hitting my head on the solid steel Navy water-tight doors. So, I decided to wear my helmet everywhere.

In the carrier mess hall, I ran into a fellow Camp Cheerio counselor. He was a Navy ROTC cadet at Chapel Hill.

We rested and got ready for the party on Bourbon Street. The Major established a few rules. We had to stay in groups of four, and we needed to watch out for each other. The Team was co-ed, and we were all 18 and legally able to drink. “Be back on the Lexington by 8:00 AM,” shouted the major. I was surprised, surely, we would be back before that. I thought, “Don’t the bars close at mid-night?” Little did I know.

Bourbon Street was crowded at 6:00 PM and only slightly unusual. Most people were going to dinner in nice clothes or formal attire with just a few people in costumes. When we emerged back on Bourbon Street after dinner, the formal attire was gone, and most people were in elaborate costumes. These were typical Halloween costumes, such as vampires, fairies, werewolves, monsters, wizards, etcetera. There were a lot of vampires even though this was several years before Anne Rice wrote her famous New Orleans vampire novel Interview with a Vampire.

Everyone wanted to see a Drag Queen show, so we did. The show was OK, nothing great. I was from Florida and unimpressed, men in drag were nothing new to me.

We emerged from the show around 10 PM onto the Bourbon Street bedlam. We saw wall to wall people, many openly doing drugs right in front of police officers. By this time of night, the costumes were all sexual. For example, buck naked cowboys and cowgirls in chaps with nothing underneath. There were many topless women and just plain naked men running, dancing, and partying. I marveled at all the nearly naked people; I was wearing a winter coat. There was a lot of body paint masking as clothing.

The police were there in full force but only intervened in case of serious injury. If an injury was not going to result in death, the police didn’t intervene.

It was 1 AM and I realized there was no way out of Bourbon Street, we were trapped in the crowd that went for blocks and blocks. We were in the Twilight Zone; I mean Mardi Gras Zone. Returning to the aircraft carrier was not an option anytime soon.

We were stuck for the duration. So, we made the best of it. My group decided to find a place on the street that we could stand without being run over by the crowds.

We each got a giant-sized signature hurricane drink and moved to a T-intersection. We stood on the sidewalk under the balconies that ran along both sides of every street. My shoes and pants were already ruined, and I was trying to keep my wallet out of pickpocket’s hands; they were everywhere. ‘Heaven help you if you fall on Bourbon Street tonight,’ I thought.

In front of me women bared their breasts so that people above on the balconies would throw them beads. Have I mentioned that Marti Gras provides excellent people watching?

My attention was drawn to a large second story balcony at the end of the street. Two French doors flew open, waltz music blared and two couples in tuxedos and hoop skirts danced out onto the balcony.

The couples spun wildly with the music as the crowd cheered. Each dancer waved in turn at the crowd as they came close to the balcony railing. I kept thinking that something was strange about the dancing. My mind said, “This is weird,” but I suspended my disbelief and enjoyed the spectacle. 

As they danced the couples began to undress, throwing off pieces of clothing. The clothing would float down to the street, the crowd surging in that direction. I held onto a nearby pole for dear life. 

In minutes it became clear that there were not four people dancing, but two people and two mannequins. The male and the female humans were operating their respective mannequins like life-sized puppets!

Soon both humans and mannequins were naked. I thought mistakenly this marked the end of the show. Yet, the human and mannequin couples continued to dance, and the crowd cheered even louder.

“What would they do next?” My question was answered as the human half of each couple began dissembling the mannequins.

The man and woman each removed a hand on their respective mannequins, tossing it to the crowd below without missing a beat of the waltz. The enthusiastic crowd flowed towards the discarded mannequin parts; I am not sure why. I wrapped my entire arm around the pole to keep my place as the crowd churned and people crushed around me.

When the mannequin heads and torsos landed in the crowd I was forced to let go of my drink and hold onto the pole with both hands.

This continued, and as the mannequin’s limbs slowly dwindled the humans used the mannequin parts sexually before throwing them into the crowd. Now I really didn’t want a mannequin part to hit me. Eventually the mannequins were gone, and the two naked humans began to dance together as one couple. I believe the two humans were a man and a woman, however there was some lively debate to that point on the ride home the next day.

As the human combo danced, they engaged in sex or came very close. Maybe they simply simulated having sex. Take your pick. It was a crowd-pleasing show in any case.

The music ended and the couple bowed deeply as if they were in a Broadway play, then retreated through the French doors. “This is Mardi Gras,” I thought. The act was repeated on the half hour. I watched a few rounds.

Towards 4:00 AM the crowd slackened ever so slightly, and we made our way to a café, drank coffee, and ate a beignet. We made it back to the carrier around 5:30 AM and got two hours rack-time before heading home to Athens.

If you want a crazy spring break, Marti Gras in New Orleans is the place.  

Cabo Fish Taco in NODA

Cabo Fish Taco in NODA

This original painting will be part of the charity auction for La Escuelita School. The auction is part for the celebration on Friday, February 21st from 6 to 9 PM at Holy Comforter Episcopal Church. This is a mono-print with watercolor and color pencil, 8 x 10 inches at $190. NODA Yoga used to have classes on the 2nd floor. 

Learn more: holycomfortercharlotte.org/children-youth/la-escuelita

Ice Storm!

Ice Storm

by Wil Bosbyshell

We went to bed with snow falling outside. Our son, Allen, was five years old and loved playing in the snow. But he was asleep and had been asleep for hours.

I considered, for a nanosecond, waking him up. Nope. Never wake up a sleeping child.

I woke with a start and sat up in bed. “What woke me up,” I thought. The answer came in the sound of something hitting the outside of our house hard. The sound was coming from the other side of the wall behind our bed. As I jumped out of the bed, what sounded like a giant claw struck the house and slid down grinding and scraping.

I threw up the window blind. My backyard was bright, brilliant snow reflecting the moon light like a mirror. Everything glittered and glistened. “What the heck was going on,” I thought. The wind howled and I saw the honey locust tree next to our house hit the side of our house again. Squinting into the night, I saw something was wrong with the tree. It was white and shiny at the same time. I watched the top of the tree bend toward the ground. The branches of the tree clawed the side of the house again, but this time the tree didn't recover. The top of the tree kept moving down slowly instead of bouncing back to its normal height. Down and down until the trunk snapped with a crack, breaking in half. Shards of ice flew in all directions as the tree top collided with the ice-covered ground. It was 6:00 AM.

In the silence after the tree snapping, I heard a sound behind me. “Papa, did it snow,” Allen asked. He was an early riser like all kids. “It sure did, let's go outside and look,” I said. Allen turned running back into his room to get dressed. I did the same. My wife Maura slept through the whole thing.

I helped Allen into his winter boots, gloves, and hat. To put on a jacket, I sang a silly song based on DEVO’s Whip it, “When a jacket comes along, you must zip it. Let's explore the backyard first.” “OK, Papa.”

As we walked through the icy winter landscape, I realized what had happened. First it snowed about two inches and then the temperature rose above freezing, with the snow turning to sleet. The snow began to melt, it rained and then the temperature fell below freezing again. Now about 1/2 inch of ice coated the two inches of snow.

An ice storm!

The ice crunched under our feet as we broke through the top crust. The trees were surreal. A layer of ice coated every small branch and leaf. It looked heavy as everything drooped and bent, straining against the weight of the ice. It was now deadly calm and quiet. All sound except Allen’s muffled voice, “Papa, look the tree broke!” “Yes, it hit the house on the way down,” I added. “The ice killed the tree,” Allen summed up the situation. “Let's go play in the field and build a snowman.”

We crossed the street in front of our house slipping and sliding. We made snow angels and threw snowballs. We tried to make a snowman, and we succeeded in making a very small one. It was the wrong kind of snow for snowmen. Allen giggled with delight for no reason other than pure joy.

The snow began falling again in big flakes spiraling through the air. Allen whirled around and around with his arms outstretched, face turned up mouth open and tongue out laughing. He chased snowflakes catching them on his tongue lapping them up.

“Snowflakes are stars that fall from heaven onto your tongue,” he exclaimed. I laughed just watching his silly game. Kids are so fun. Snow brings out joy and the kid in us all.

Plus, as Allen knew, snow meant fun and adventure all day. No school for him, even though he loved it and no work for his parents. There was no such thing as working from home in those days. He would have our attention all day. Not to mention playing in the snow with all his neighborhood friends, Hadley Young and Sean McGillicuddy.

Our neighborhood had no power lines as they were all buried underground. But our neighborhood was an exception, all the neighborhoods around us had power lines stretched on poles.

“Allen, did you hear that explosion,” I asked. “Explosion!” “Yes,” listen.

In the distance I heard a bang. It was a muffled bang. But a bang, nonetheless. It was a particular kind of bang: the sound of an electric transformer exploding when the power cable running into it is violently pulled out. I unfortunately knew that sound too well.

He stopped in his tracks, nothing like an explosion to get a 5-year old's attention. A second explosion. Then in rapid succession 3, 4, 5 loud bangs. Some close and others farther away. The ice was too heavy for the tree limbs and power cables. They all started to break and fall. Suddenly there were about 15 minutes of steady explosions all around us.

“Papa is that dynamite,” Allen watched cartoons where dynamite was a common theme. “No, that is the sound of a blackout,” I said glancing back at the houses across the street. The porch lights were dark. Allen and I played in the snow for an hour or more. Kids ran out and joined us in the fun.

Allen got his adventure. Almost the entire city of Charlotte lost power in the ice storm. Charlotte’s mayor Pat McCory’s, house was dark for two weeks. We lost our power for four days. The junior college where I taught never lost power, so on the third day we spent the day in a classroom being warm. On the afternoon of the 4th day our friends the Halls joined us at Ed's Tavern with their daughter Madison.

Ed’s Tavern had regained power. The server came up to get our drink order. “Bring beer until the power comes back on at our house,” I laughed out my order. I was laughing but not joking. The temperature hovered in the high 20s, and our home was very cold. We had a gas fireplace and hot water heater, so we could take hot showers and warm the house a little. I began to understand how the pioneers in the 18th century felt. I understand the value of a bed warmer now.

We stayed at Ed's Tavern until the kids were exhausted. As we turned into our neighborhood the first house’s outside porch light shone like a beacon! “We have power,” Maura yelled. We cheered and clapped. The Hall’s had to wait one more day in the cold.

We all went to sleep. A warm bed never felt so good! 

Merry Christmas from the Bosbyshells!

MERRY CHRISTMAS

from Wil & Maura Bosbyshell

Dear Family and Friends:

2024 was an exciting year for the Bosbyshells. To quote Charles Dickens from A Tale of Two Cities, “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”

Let's begin with the best! Our son, Allen, married Ember Aiken on November 16th! They became engaged on Tybee Island near Savannah in January at the same place where Ember's parents were engaged. It was wonderfully good fortune that Ember was able to spend Christmas of 2023 with Allen’s grandmother Caroline Bosbyshell.

Ember and Allen live in Midtown, Atlanta. Ember is a yoga influencer; you can take one of her yoga challenges by following her on Instagram @JourneytoLeisure. Allen works for the State of Georgia financing public housing and manages several Airbnbs. They love to travel and honeymooned in Hawaii, after a small marriage ceremony in Todos Santos, Mexico. Their wedding registry is at Registry/williamandchantel2024. Cheers to our new daughter-in-law!

Maura and I are now full-time professional artists. I concluded a 20+ year career of teaching Art & Design at local junior colleges. Maura wrapped up her data science contracts to concentrate on textile design for fabric and wallpaper. Visit her design site: Bosbyshell Art and Home. Maura and I both have studios in the North Davidson Arts District of Charlotte. 

This past spring, my Climate Conversation: the Language of Trees solo exhibition of drawings was a great success despite hurtles including the collapse of the Charlotte Art League, the exhibit venue and my studio. You can see the Memory Tree poster on his website: Bosbyshell Art Studio. The Climate Conversation exhibit will travel to New Yok state in 2025 for an installation and exhibit at St. Bonaventure College.

We spent most of May in Provence, France. I took an art class in the small town of San Raphael on the Mediterranean Sea while Maura explored Provence. We then traveled to Gordes, Nice, Arles, Avignon, and Nimes. Our favorite town was Vaison-la-Romaine with its extensive Roman ruins and museum.

Sadly, in April, my mother Caroline Thomas Bosbyshell died of a stroke at the age of 90. She lived an incredible life. She was one of Jack Bogles’ secretaries at Vanguard and grew up on Indian Rocks Beach during World War II when German submarines lurked offshore. She was a gregarious guiding light to all who encountered her. She will be buried at Bonaventure Cemetery in January of 2025. We all missed her terribly. Maura and I have now lost all our parents. My father, Bill Bosbyshell, died in 2019. Maura’s parents, John and Helen Kelly, died in 2018 and 2019, respectively at ages 91 and 93.

We were so fortunate and blessed to have our parents in our lives for so long. They all had wonderful relationships with their grandchildren, including our son Allen.

We loved all the visitors we hosted in Charlotte over the year. All are welcome at the Bosbyshell home.

May the love of God shine upon you and your family this Christmas and into 2025.

With love, yours:

Wil & Maura Bosbyshell

Caroline Bosbyshell

Caroline on her wedding day.

Climate Conversation Exhibit, note ceilings are 25 feet tall. 

Maura walks the Coliseum in Arles, France.

Midnight Sun Series of prints will be on display in 2025. 

Plaza in Todos Santo, Baha Mexico, the city was the site of Allen's and Ember's wedding. 

Wil in the Roman Museum in Vaison la Romaine, France. 

Drawing 20 in Wil's Tree series on the climate.

Both families gather before the wedding!

Pre-wedding yoga relaxation session. We needed it! 

Desert Beauty

Maura and Wil before the wedding. 

Cousins. 

Allen and his life long friend from day care. 

Wedding at the golden hour! 

Below are three of Maura's Wallpaper designs! 

Some are based on Wil's art; others are her unique creations. 

Crab Scatter - Tropical Pink

 Blossoms - Dark Teal

Hibiscus - Cameo Sage

 

 

 

Check Point Charlie – Berlin 1986

 

Check Point Charlie – Berlin 1986

By Wil Bosbyshell

It was three in the morning in Berlin Germany. I was in my full U.S. Army Class A uniform, medals and all; it was a bit rumpled. It had been a long, exciting and interesting day in both East and West Berlin. 

I was in the US equivalent of Dunkin' Donuts, a ‘Berliner’ shop. That is what they called donuts in Berlin. I am charitable in comparing a Berliner to a donut. Both are pastries at least, but donuts taste good. I needed coffee, lots of coffee. I was worried that I was really drunk. I didn't think I was drunk, but it was Berlin on New Year’s Eve, and the other possibility was that I hallucinating.

The donut shop was a clean and well-lit place, just like an Ernst Hemingway story. It was on a major square in downtown West Berlin. On the sidewalk outside thousands of people jostled on the street because everyone was partying or heading to a party. I had just left a disco dance club to get a bit of fresh air and spied this donut / Berliner shop. The shop was crowded with people who needed some caffeine to continue partying. I was contemplating all I had done that day watching the crowds on the street, people coming and going …. wait, was that a vampire? A couple, dressed in all black, walked into and through the shop. Straight from the front door to the bathroom (water closet). “OK,” I thought… vampires. I ordered a second cup of coffee. 

I was on a three month leave while on active duty in U S Army and between duty stations. I travelled to Europe on an Air Force plane to visit my sister in Germany. I flew from South Carolina to Frankfurt then back to Canada through DC to South Carolina roundtrip halfway around the world for $1.15. I'm not sure what the $1.15 cents paid for, but it had to be paid in cash, in exact change. That's the US military way. 

In Bamberg Germany, I joined four Army officers who wanted to spend New Year's Eve in Berlin. Why not, I thought. On the way to Berlin, we drove through the less famous checkpoints: Alpha and Bravo. Once in Berlin we checked into the bachelors’ officers’ quarters, donned our Class A uniforms and headed for the infamous Checkpoint Charlie. This was 1986 and half of Berlin and Germany were communist under the influence of the Soviet Union (USSR). The US Army had an agreement that soldiers could spend the day in communist East Berlin if they were out by midnight. On the dot, or you were shot…. dead. 

We walked through Checkpoint Charlie into no man's land. Cameras and machine guns trained on us! Many of each. Scary to have that many loaded weapons pointed at you. We endured many inspections, a great deal of ID and passport presenting, and uniform inspections on both sides. Through the Berlin Wall inside East Berlin we went straight to the Soviet Officers Club. The USSR Officers’ Club met all our décor expectations: they even had several very large statutes of Lenin and Stalin in the foyer. We bought everyone in the bar a round of drinks and toasted to our respective countries and services.

The exchange rate between the communist east and capitalistic west was twenty to one (GDR East German Deutsche Marks to U.S. dollars). We were received warmly by the people in East Berlin, especially if we were buying the drinks. 

On we went to dinner. We were turned away from five fine dining establishments. They were full and required reservations. There was no way to make a reservation, much less a phone call between East and West Berlin. 

My buddies and I huddled. 

Meanwhile back in the donut shop, another group came into the donut shop in all black clothing, white skin, and black hair. One of the women turned to say something to the group… did I see fangs? Straight to the bathroom they went. No one in the group stopped to get any coffee. Strange coincidence? Two groups of vampires? No one else in the donut shop seemed to notice. 

Back in East Berlin, I said, “Guys the exchange rate is twenty to one, that means if we give the maître-d' a $20 dollar bill that’s worth 400DM (Deutsche Marks).” “No way that will work,” one of the other junior officers said, “look at that line, they'll never let us cut in front of that line even for 400DM.” “What do we have to lose? Let's try it.” I walked up to the maître-d' who had just turned us away saying the restaurant was too crowded, (in broken German) “A table for five, bitter.” and slipped him $40 U.S. dollars folded. He looked down, no hesitation: “Wait please.” Moments later a table was carried over everyone’s head and placed in the aisle. We were in! The seven course meal lasted three hours, the final two courses being cigars and brandy. Smoking was allowed everywhere in the world at this time. Barbaric, I know! Each man paid $20 US for the meal including a generous tip. 

We proceeded to a communist disco until eleven when we left to return across the border wall through Checkpoint Charlie. We didn’t want to be late and shot after all. 

I interrupt this story to notice a third group of vampires walk through the donut shop directly to the bathroom. 

After crossing back into West Berlin and into the US zone we went straight to another disco. The US Army class A hat was hell to keep up with in a dance club, but I managed. The round saucer hat got kicked and stepped on a few times. Oh well. 

Not a single vampire had emerged from the bathroom at this point. I had observed at least ten go in. What was going on? Inquiring minds had to know! Maybe the donut shop had a really large bathroom? I finished my Berliner and coffee, paid, and went into the hall to the men’s room. Expecting a full house of vampires in the men’s bathroom, I yanked the door open … nothing. I stood there for a moment. 

I went back out in the hallway, four doors: Damen, Herren, Kuche (kitchen), and a door with no sign. The blank door beckoned, so I pushed it open. Wow! Crazy lights, deafening Goth dark-wave music, all black walls, chain link fence décor… a full-blown dance club. A vampire disco! No sign, no bouncer, but lots of fangs, pale skin, black jeans and black hair. “Fun,” I thought. My uniform was definitely not meeting the vampire disco dress code. It was Berlin on New Year's Eve after all….the vampires didn’t mind. 

Ultimate Haunted House a story by Wil Bosbyshell

I grew up as the preacher's kid. Everyone knew my father was an Episcopal priest at Church of the Ascension in Clearwater Florida.

When kids were introduced at school or in a game it went something like this: this is Tom, Mike, Bob, Will - his father is a priest- Sally, Mark, etc. No one, except me, had their father's occupation mentioned in these introductions. This drove me crazy.

There were good and bad aspects of being the preacher's kid. The bad: I had to be at church a lot. And I mean a lot. Especially during Lent. To this day, I absolutely hate Lenten suppers on Wednesday night. The good: some girls could only go out with me, the saintly preacher’s son. Sorry, no more details on that. 

Once, something unexpectedly good happened because I was the preacher's kid; I was given a two-story office building to host a Halloween haunted house. Yes, you read that correctly, the church gave me the use of an entire building for a haunted house. More on that in a minute.

I love Halloween. I believe that everyone should be a vampire or werewolf at least one day a year. As a kid I built haunted houses in my garage. In junior high I graduated to leading the church youth group building haunted houses in adjacent Sunday school rooms. We charged a quarter to raise money for UNICEF. 

One September I was stuck at church … again. One constant at my father's or any Florida church was lots of old men hanging around. Being 16, I thought the old men were a pain in the ass. They wanted to talk all the time. I would humor them by halfheartedly conversing with them. 

One old man proved his worth. He overheard several boys discussing the vital need for more make-out or kissing time at youth group. We were brainstorming how to get more of this activity on the schedule. “Why not have a road rally?” he suggested. “What's a road rally?” me and the other boys asked. “Well,” he explained, “You create clues leading all over town. Teams of four kids per car follow the clues, the last clue ends the rally at your favorite pizza joint. The car with the lowest mileage wins.” 

We were momentarily confused and a little slow on the uptake. “It sounds fun,” we ventured “but that doesn't leave much make-out time if you’re driving all over town.” He explained, “You boys will know the amount of time the rally will take since you know the clues. All the other cars follow the clues, meanwhile your car goes straight to Sand Key to make-out with your girlfriends, then at the pre-arranged time you meet the other teams, and the adults, at the end point. The adults and parents are none the wiser. Your car …. just got lost.” Wink wink, nod nod. 

My friends and I were rendered momentarily speechless. This was a make-out masterstroke delivered by an 80-year-old man that we had previously considered boring at best. Genius!

My buddy recovered first, “That is an awesome plan. You don't know anyone who has a road rally map by chance?” he asked hoping for the guess-at answer. “I do, and I can bring them next week,” replied our new favorite old man. “You're on!” we exclaimed. 80-year-old men may be old, but they are still men. Manly men at that. 

Back to the haunted house.

One day my favorite old man was blathering along about something when I picked up an item from the conversation: the church office was being demolished. I couldn’t care less normally, but they said the day of demolition was November 1st. Red alert sounded in my head. 

I was already planning this year's haunted classroom, but a house would be so much better. A house would be awesome in fact. I ran to my father's office; confirmed the demolition of the building and asked if the youth group could have use of the soon-to-be-demolished building, for its haunted house. My father asked the rector, “Sure,” he agreed. The house was being vacated on October 15th. The ultimate haunted house was in business! 

We had a problem though. We only had props for the classroom and this house was big: two stories, stairs and two porches. We would have to up our haunted house game considerably. 

Team Old Men to the rescue yet again! Sitting around the church waiting for my father to finish some meeting, I was explaining my haunted house problem to the ubiquitous old men. “Well,” he said “Me and Bob do a lot of woodworking. Do you need us to make something for you?” No hesitation on my part, “We need a coffin, an old-timey coffin with a slanted top, like the one in Dracula starring Christopher Lee. We need an electric chair with a big Frankenstein switch and a mad scientist table.” He was impressed by my list. And I could tell … thrilled to have a project to work on. He and Bob would be building props for the preacher’s kid’s haunted house! An old man’s dream come true. 

“Can you draw up rough plans?” he asked. I think he may have thought that I would go home to do this. He didn’t know me very well. I ran to my dad's office got three sheets printer paper, returned, and drew him detailed plans on the spot. I had the vision in my head already. 

Team Old Men were true to their word and all three props were delivered by October 1st. I recruited some of my high school buddies to augment the youth group Bill Mize, Mike DeYoung, Tom Oster and Bob Perry. Having participated in the now legendary Road Rally, they were up for anything I suggested involving church youth group. 

We made announcements at church several Sundays in advance of Halloween, in the Sunday bulletin and in the mailed bulletin. We put up flyers and told all our friends. The haunted house PR machine was in full swing. 

Haunted House plans were drawn and redrawn. Supplies were purchased. Tombstones were constructed out of cardboard; costumes were made; makeup was practiced; cow femurs were bought from the local butcher shop; fake blood was mixed. We knocked holes in the walls enabling disembodied limbs to grab victims as they walked by! We spray painted the walls with grass, scary trees, moons, clouds, crows, owls, scary eyes, etc. We knocked holes in the ceiling, so Tom Oster’s arms hung down, dropping things like wet spaghetti on victims. When wet spaghetti lands on a girls arm the screams are to die for! 

In one room a mad scientist chopped Lea Brady's blood covered skeleton leg (technically a huge cow femur bone) with a machete. She screamed so loudly it even scared us! 

Another room became a graveyard where a dead Mike DeYoung with a real knife in his chest popped up and chased victims. Nearby a vampire (me) and the OG werewolf Bill Mize battled to the death … or undeath. In another room Bob Perry was electrocuted, convulsing when Igor threw the super large Frankenstein switch that was connected to the tin foil skullcap fitting over his head. 

If our “guests” made it through to the end of the haunted house, a happy clown greeted them on the back porch. We did this to cheer up younger kids who got too scared. Unfortunately, that backfired, the clown scared them worse than the haunted house and this was even before Stephen King's “It.” Kathy Gibson Taylor swears to this day that she was not scared by the clown or anything. She claims now that she was not even at the haunted house. I know better. 

The haunted house took place the Sunday evening prior to Halloween. People lined up around the block; it was a tremendous success never to be topped in my time in high school. The best thing was that at the end of the event we walked away … no cleanup! 

The coffin came home with me as part of my bargain with Team Old Men. My parents allowed me to store it under our house next to the air conditioner. It scared the shit out of HVAC repairman over the years. My sister claimed she once saw an air-conditioner technician run from under the house to his truck … never to return.

It was definitely the ultimate Haunted House! Being the preacher’s son was OK after all.