It Was a Good Road All the Way: An Autobiography: Volume I

By Elvin C. Bell

Not everyone can say that Frank Sinatra’s cigarette burned a hole in their coat, that they dined twice with Marilyn Monroe in one day, or that they were invited to a party at the home of John “Duke” Wayne.

In a memoir consisting of more than one hundred short anecdotes, Elvin C. Bell provides a fascinating glimpse into his journey through life as he crossed paths with several iconic personalities that included presidents Kennedy, Nixon, Johnson, and Carter; Elvis Presley; the father of the hydrogen bomb, Dr. Edward Teller; John Lennon; Gregory Peck; four Medal of Honor recipients; Walt Disney; and General Alexander Haig.

It Was a Good Road All the Way is a collection of heartfelt personal stories from a retired USAF Colonel and public official that reveal his encounters with superstars, detail his victories and losses on the battlefield, and pay tribute to those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480885479

Elvin C. Bell

Elvin C. Bell served sixteen years as an elected public office in California. He is a former correspondent for Time Magazine, and a retired USAF Colonel. He lives in Fresno.

Book preview

Call Me Fred

The tall young man leaned into the cold misty breeze as he maintained a steady determined south-bound pace toward the train station in Calgary. He had only two more miles to wade through the icy goo that stuck to the road’s surface.

He wore a duffel coat and a rakish cap and kept a cheroot jammed into the left side of his mouth. As his steps quickened, a billowy cloud of cold breath and stogie smoke trailed behind him. He had already hitch-hiked and trekked more than three hours since his father kicked him out of their home in Jasper and ordered him to leave Canada or die.

Everything the young man could scramble and grab was in the leather satchel that hung by a strap over his shoulder, and as his steady gait continued the bag slapped against his back.

A smile slowly split his face. He knew each slap of the bag meant he was closer to America; closer to sunny Los Angeles and farther from Canadian snow. Closer to the freedom he needed to raise and sell fighting cocks; a competing, thriving business he secretly operated that drove his father’s business into bankruptcy, caused his parents’ divorce, and his father’s promise to kill him if he didn’t leave Canada.

The flat-bed train ride from Calgary to Vancouver took two days to cover 610 miles, and when he reached the western side of Canada on Wednesday morning, the depot café provided his first meal since Monday noon.

He rested, gained his strength and planned his future during the 1,214 mile Pullman rail journey destined for Los Angeles.

His plan was simple: Rent an end-unit three bedroom apartment in a slum neighborhood, open bank accounts for savings and checking, rent an extra-large deposit box, find a job, start college as an accounting major, begin the process to become a naturalized, law-abiding citizen of the United States, and re-new his business acumen in the sporting game of raising and selling fighting cocks, a semi-prohibited but lucrative enterprise.

The nearly $20,000 in Canadian money he saved from raising, training and selling cocks was in the false bottom of his satchel; money he got by stealing his father’s customers and driving his parents into bankruptcy. It was the seed money he needed to become a wealthy businessman so he could purchase the family’s now bank-owned foreclosed grain farm in Jasper, fence it, post it, and make sure no one in the Fred J. Russell, Sr., family ever sets foot on the land again.

The young man, 18, who was named Fred J. Russell, Jr., before he was old enough to protest, would make sure of that!

Rail repair south of Bakersfield caused Fred to give up his Pullman compartment and ride into Los Angeles on a Greyhound Bus.

During his first two days in sunny southern California he enrolled as a freshman accounting major at UCLA, signed a lease on an end-unit three-bedroom apartment in East Compton, an upper crust slum area compared to the real slums across the aqueduct in Watts, quit smoking, and found a night janitor’s job at the Weiser Lock Company in South Gate.

He felt safer living with fighting cocks in a slum area because most of the neighbors were felons, morning drinkers, afternoon gamblers, midnight bookies, constant junkies, stoned rockers, camp followers, multi-colored and many splendored hookers, and the ever-present neon fuchsia-pastel pimps and their stables who spent their children’s welfare money tossing dice and counting to twelve.

Most folks, Fred knew, who lived in the projects or other slums had a history of always betting against the house. And none of them were snitchers. It was just against their criminal up-bringing to even think of dialing 9-1-1 and reporting something shady. They knew how to keep their mouths shut when something illegal was going down; especially when they had betted against the odds with a bill that had Andy Jackson’s picture on it.

Fred settled into his new abode by sleeping in the kitchen of his end-unit apartment and using every available square foot of space in the other rooms for rows after rows of cooped gaming cocks. Food bags, water bowls, waste cans, bags of sharp, razor pointed spurs, cleaning rags, mops and large butcher knives were scattered around. The linoleum floored end-unit kitchen was ideal for cock fighting and the clean-up afterward.

The sound of country western music blaring from radios in each room helped diminish occasional uproars from the cocks, especially during training sessions when spurs were attached.

The knives were used to terminate mortally wounded birds.

After his first semester, Fred qualified scholastically for membership in Mensa International Ltd., and the Phi Beta Kappa Society, but he declined the kind and gracious offers.

He never joined a fraternity, hung around the student union or had a social life. During early mornings he fed and watered his brood, and put some of them through sparring matches. Days were spent in class, and his late afternoons and evenings were at Weiser Lock Company over in South Gate cleaning toilets, sweeping, mopping and dusting.

He was a perfectionist, and the scars he wore were from his father’s beatings by blunt instruments and fists whenever a job was not done to his dad’s expectations. The beatings left numerous abrasions, lacerations and contusions on Fred’s head, back, shoulders, sides, legs, arms and stomach. Scars over scars were common.

Fred had the same hateful heart for his mother as he had for his father.

It was his mother who mocked Fred and called him a weakling and a failure when he pleaded for his father to stop the beatings.

It was his mother who refused to let him go to his room and treat his bleeding wounds until he had cleaned all of his own blood off the floor and furniture. Then, and only then, could he try and stop his own bleeding.

And it was his mother, each night, who left the master bedroom door open so Fred could hear the moans and groans from his parents as they vocalized their passionate foreplay acrobatics.

In Fred’s mind, no two persons deserved bankruptcy and property foreclosure more than his parents.

He prayed daily for what was once theirs, but now the bank’s, would one day be his.

He had already asked God to will it. He felt deeply inside his heart and soul that God would answer his prayers. He believed it. He knew it would happen. And soon.

Fred learned the hard way from his father’s screams, shouts and beatings that there was a place for everything and everything had to be in its place.

So Fred, the perfectionist, always circled the huge shop floor after his nightly janitorial cleaning routine to make sure everything was neat and in its place. And then, only then, when he was satisfied, did he take a few hours to tinker with locks, examine their intricate interlocking mechanisms, and experiment with alterative fastening devices, locking combinations and security posts.

He took notes of each experiment, each alternate improvement, each incremental locking device, and the different shapes he configured for specific security measures. He catalogued his own system for colored combinations that he felt best suited the retail and wholesale markets in national and international sales for residential, commercial, industrial, military, security firms and public safety agencies.

Afterward, usually about 4 a.m., he locked up, walked across Century Boulevard and caught the West bound LA bus for the 50 minute stop-and-go ride to Compton.

During his sophomore year at UCLA, Fred’s nightly tinkering at Weiser led to a new dynamic, versatile industrial lock for heavy machinery that impressed the owner of the company.

Fred was immediately promoted to Lock Technician.

His mops, brooms and dust rags were given to the new guy.

And he had his first patent.

Fred quickly developed a reputation among his Weiser factory colleagues for his think global, live local, optimism, and his phenomenal efficiency that gave no hint of his imagination, marketing or engineering skills. He had a smooth way of spitting in someone’s eye, convincing them it’s raining and they believed it.

All his co-workers knew was that the bottom of Fred’s inbox was always visible.

Mid-way through his junior year at UCLA, Fred became Mr. Russell and a significantly well respected and admired customer to everyone at the Wilshire Branch of Bank of America, including a university co-ed intern.

Fred also had eight patents that added new colors, shapes and sizes to locks sold on the worldwide non-durable market, a waiting list of cash customers for his fighting cocks, and a girlfriend, Pricilla, the bank intern.

She was not some low-hanging fruit. She was the daughter of the Provost of the University of Southern California, and a senior business administration and management major at USC.

But a new, unforeseen problem, or perhaps a risky opportunity, erupted over-night at the lock company, and Fred’s mind was totally absorbed by the strange turn of events.

It was a message Mr. Weiser, the owner, sent to each of his eight employees. The memo read: I am very sorry to report that I have suffered huge losses through bad investments. I filed for bankruptcy protection yesterday in federal court, and will try and find a buyer for the company. I’ll keep you posted. Good luck.

Fred spent most of the afternoon in meetings with the president of his bank and the vice presidents of the bank’s venture capital, credit lines and business loan divisions.

That night, Fred entertained an apartment full of cash-rich investment entrepreneurs such as bookies, backers and sponsors of various Los Angeles hedge fund promoters and journeymen in the crafts and skills of pimping, hooking, pushing, pulling and the gays’ sport of pitching and catching.

Fred sold to the highest cash only bidders, one item at a time, his inventory of fighting cocks and every piece of property associated with the business. Within four hours, the eager buyers were able to produce $73,575.93 for their purchases.

The next morning, Fred withdrew from UCLA and shopped on Beverly Hills’ Rodeo Drive with Pricilla.

They picked out Lapis friendship rings at Gearys Jewelry, and selected enough fashionably elegant, but not swanky, furniture at Pierre Deux to adequately turn Fred’s new 3,000 square foot abode into a comfortable bachelor’s pad.

After a delightful luncheon on Wilshire Boulevard at the center field platform table in Brown Derby’s circular dining room, Fred and Pricilla parted with a warm, wet kiss.

They had important, separate chores to do.

Pricilla and three of her Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority sisters scrubbed and cleaned chicken waste, blood and feathers off floors, walls and ceilings of Fred’s former apartment, supervised the loading of his furniture and clothes on a Salvation Army truck, returned his keys to the landlord and got a signed receipt marked Moved. Vacated. Cleaned. Paid In Full.

Meanwhile, Fred and his bankers, accountants and lawyers sat around Bank of America’s conference table with Mr. Elmer Jedbo Weiser, the bankrupt seller of Weiser Lock Company, and his advisor, cousin Bugs Slapsaw Gutrow, a notary public, free-lance Hollywood stunt man, duck call entrepreneur and creative hacksaw carving hip-art enthusiast.

That evening, Pricilla, her sorority sisters and their boyfriends, helped Fred, the new owner of Weiser Lock Company with an unheard of line of credit at a sinfully low rate, arrange his Brooks Bros. acquired wardrobe and his Rodeo Drive trendy French provincial furniture into his spacious, upscale condo two blocks from Sunset Boulevard in the high-end community of Brentwood.

It did not take Fred very long to develop maneuvers to manipulate, and his methods of testing one’s perseverance, the depth of gray matter, the size of the heart, the firmness of opinions, the strength of a backbone and the merit of one’s heritage were well beyond equal. He also appreciated someone who was ready to rumble with the good ol’ boys; the movers and the shakers.

And there was one other asset Fred appreciated above all others: The ability to exercise rigid flexibility.

How did Fred make a difference?

While Fred owned Weiser, he contributed more than $7 million to Canadian colleges and universities in the provinces of Alberta and British Columbia. The scholarships were for worthy and deserving high school seniors who wanted professions in civil, mechanical or electrical engineering.

Fred also contributed a similar amount of funds, and for the same purpose, to California’s UCLA and USC.

During the time I worked for Fred, he served the United States in the following Presidential appointments: Deputy Director, Federal Office of Emergency Preparedness (now FEMA), Secretary of the Department of Interior and United States Ambassador to Denmark.

He was 90 when Parkinson’s disease took his life on January 9, 2007.

The Doolittle Raid

Background: The Doolittle Raid over Tokyo during WWII began with training exercises at what is now called Eglin Air Force Base near Destin, Florida. The last reunion of the four surviving Doolittle patriots was held at Eglin in April 2013. I was honored to be one of the hosts.

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Many publications do a grand job with articles that re-cap the historic Doolittle Raid over Tokyo during WWII, and report on the small fraternity of surviving Doolittle patriots who hold their reunions where they trained; at Eglin Air Force Base in the Florida Panhandle’s Okaloosa County.

However, those articles consistently fail to mention the originator of that raid—Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz. His behind-the-scenes role in that mission should be told, as it was told to me by his daughter, Sister Mary Aquinas Nimitz, who had her bachelor’s, master’s and doctorate degrees in biology from Stanford University, was President of the Dominican University in northern California and the leader of her Catholic order.

To tell the Nimitz story, as Sister Mary told me when I was doing research work for my current book, we need to go back to the era when Nimitz was a young lieutenant commander and served on the faculty of the University of California, Berkeley. While at Cal, Nimitz headed the Navy ROTC program, and also served as an assistant football coach. It didn’t take long during two years of coaching for Nimitz to learn the value of team morale, student body esprit de corps, faculty involvement and alumni support. Above all, it was morale—personal, team and school morale that stuck with Nimitz and became an indelible part of his future command persona.

Admiral Nimitz was in a New York theater watching a play when President Franklin Roosevelt called Nimitz, informed him of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and appointed him commander of the Pacific Theater of Operations.

At that time, the United States was coming out of The Great Depression when Pearl Harbor pulled us into World War II.

Although the US suffered massive naval damage and lost the lives of 3,800 personnel during the Japanese attack, Nimitz found reasons to be optimistic when he arrived in Hawaii and surveyed the destruction. To his surprise, he discovered that the Japanese were so concerned about sinking our battleships that they never bombed our dry docks that were opposite those ships. By having the dry docks intact, Nimitz was able to have most of the ships repaired and at sea by the time he could have towed them to the west coast.

Another reason for Nimitz’s optimism was almost beyond belief. Every drop of fuel in the Pacific theater of war was on top of the ground in storage tanks some five miles away on a hill. One attack plane could have strafed those tanks and destroyed our military’s entire Pacific fuel supply.

In the meantime, Nimitz properly sensed that America’s morale was at low ebb, as was the nation’s military fighting spirit. For the first time, Americans were depressed.

Roosevelt’s the day which will live in infamy, speech further saddened Americans and with unemployment hovering in double digits throughout the country, the spirit of the body politic was lower than anyone could ever remember.

Nimitz was faced with civilian despair among the populace, low morale among his military personnel, and an enemy that out-numbered and out-staffed his damaged naval fleet.

Nimitz decided to be a coach one more time. He needed a battle plan that included some aggressive, proactive sea and air strikes against the Japanese; decisive and consistent offensive actions to reverse the tide of battle and regain America’s spirit and our military’s morale.

He devised a triad plan with three legs.

After consulting with his comrade-in-arms General Henry Hap Arnold, who commanded the US Army Air Corps, Nimitz, with Arnold’s endorsement and logistical support, started the planning and training for a sea-launched air bombing attack on Tokyo and its abutting cities.

General Arnold chose the exceptionally talented Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle, who had a doctorate in aeronautical engineering from MIT, to lead the highly secret mission.

The Nimitz originated Doolittle raid on April 18, 1942, was the first leg of the triad.

Banner headlines awakened Americans and reinstated a can-do spirit.

That spirit swelled the civilian work force and thousands upon thousands of armored personnel carriers, tanks, guns, airplanes and ships were built in American plants ahead of schedule and went into battle.

The second leg of the Nimitz triad started a month later on May 4, 1942, when the U. S. Navy used Nimitz’s strategy and Admiral William Bull Halsey’s tactics and won a decisive sea victory at the Battle of Coral Sea; a massive combat arena that saw air attacks for the first time in naval history.

The Japanese defeat at Coral Sea forced that country to bring its military assets closer to home ports and that left a much larger share of the Pacific to Nimitz’s ships.

More morale-boosting headlines followed.

The triad’s crushing blow occurred 30 days later during early June in 1942 when Nimitz’s navy scored the first full-scale spectacular air battle at Midway, sunk the enemy’s carrier fleet, and forced what was left of its naval force back closer to their homeland.

Nimitz, the former Cal football coach, had thrown three successful Hail-Mary touchdown passes that routed the enemy and reinstalled grit, grace and glory in the hearts of Americans and her fighting forces.

Yes, Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz originated the Doolittle Raid and he was also the architect of the Coral Sea and Midway victories. Nimitz, more than any leader, saw widespread morose among his fellow citizens, took proactive leadership steps while commanding nearly two million troops, changed the American mode into a can do spirit, and managed the entire Pacific as if it were his backyard.

If we have another Chester Nimitz among us, will he or she please step forward?

Kevin D. Greene, the Bell Sheep of the National Football League

See that big guy over there examining the apples? Stephanie asked, nodding her head in the direction of the fruits and vegetables. That’s Kevin Greene, she said with a broad all-knowing smile. The one and only Kevin Greene, I might add.

Stephanie paused and looked again at the big guy, and then at me. He’s in here shopping all the time during the off season.

Stephanie Henson was one of the first persons I met when I moved to Destin, Florida and started shopping at Publix’s Supermarket. She was the assistant produce manager and told me during an earlier discussion that she enjoyed her job because her boss encouraged her to have casual conversations with shoppers. That was to my benefit because I was lucky enough to enjoy her attractive features that were always carefully accentuated with her favorite colors of blue, red, green and gold. She once referred to her enjoyment of living with colors, As true as earth tones, deep as crushed berries and pale as rain.

I liked her free-spirited originality and her engaging, conversational manner.

Her skin was smooth and copper colored, with the faintest blush of pink that accented high cheekbones that denoted her heritage. She was forty percent eyes, and they were deep set under extra-long, thick lashes.

It was impossible to tell her age.

I had known her just long enough to tell by the look on her face that she knew her comments about Kevin Greene had aroused my quizzical nature.

It was hard not to see the big guy examining the apples. He was more than just a huge hulk. He was at least 6-3 at about 240 pounds, light complexioned with long blondish hair that had grown to about the middle of his torso.

His muscular frame made him a significant focal attraction that was attested to, Stephanie and I noticed, by some women who had stopped their produce shopping and were just gawking at the hulk.

I had no idea what the big guy did for a living, why he was in Destin during the off season, what he did during the on season, or why Stephanie spoke so fondly, if not reverently, of him.

There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever that he was, in fact, interesting to watch.

He maneuvered around the displays of fruits and vegetable in a fluid mode as he carefully selected items that he placed in plastic bags.

I could only imagine that there were no more than a half-dozen superstars in whatever business the big guy was in, and I figured he had to be one of them.

He was also like no other man I had ever seen. He looked and walked like a Tarzan with clothes on; a persona easy to imagine as having a smoldering, threatening quality that fit the role of a prison warden, a criminal prosecutor or a battle scared Army Infantry Drill Instructor.

Who is he? I heard myself ask, without any thought about being diplomatic in inquiring about some guy who might, indeed, be a warden or perhaps the Governor of the state.

Kevin Greene is the greatest defensive linebacker in the history of the National Football League, Stephanie said without hesitation or mental reservation. He’s the best player the game ever had, and that’s the truth, she said. Then she quickly added, He played in more Pro Bowl games than I can remember, he leads the league in intercepted passes that he returned for touchdowns, and he had almost as many quarterback sacks as the two best defensive linebackers in the history of the sport.

Stephanie shook her head in agreement with the words she had just spoken.

And that all started when he was a walk-on at Auburn University, she said.

She paused, stretched her neck to catch another glance of the big guy, and then turned toward me. Her expression changed from awestruck to compassion as she inhaled deeply.

Kevin is not only the greatest defensive player to ever put on shoulder pads, but he is also the only NFL player who served his country in a military uniform. He’s a true role model for his kids and other kids, and he also serves as a lay leader in his Methodist church.

She then told me about Kevin’s military service at Fort Knox, Kentucky where his extended active duty included the successful completion of the Army’s intensive and rigorous Armor School for commissioned officers.

After Fort Knox, she mentioned, he was stationed at two other installations before returning to his Alabama Army National Guard unit, and his professional career in the National Football League.

Stephanie’s eyes watered as she explained, He’s just about too good to be true. And he lives here in Destin during the off season when he’s not coaching outside linebackers for the Green Bay Packers.

She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and looked at me. He’s the bell sheep of the National Football League.

Stephanie looked searchingly at me with a display of discern growing on her face.

You do like football don’t you? she asked pointedly.

I sure do, I responded quickly to the no-brainer question.

Before Kevin Greene started coaching, what team did he play for? I asked. I don’t remember ever seeing him on TV.

Stephanie rolled her eyes in disbelief. Ever hear of the Los Angeles Rams, Pittsburgh Steelers, Carolina Panthers or the San Francisco 49ers?

Why, yes, I said. Of course I’ve heard of those teams.

She nodded and a look of satisfaction finally crossed her face.

I decided to reveal what little knowledge I had about football and tell her some history of my favorite NFL player.

Well, Stephanie, I said, my favorite professional football player was Elroy Crazy Legs Hirsch, the greatest offensive pass receiver and touchdown scorer who ever played in the coliseum.

Stephanie’s facial expression was a pronounced wide-eyed blank stare.

In the coliseum? she finally asked. Was this crazy guy with legs a Greek who played in some of the early Olympic Games in Athens?

No, I said with a smile, Elroy Crazy Legs Hirsch played for the Los Angeles Rams. When he retired from playing and after he was admitted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, he became the Athletic Director at his alma mater, the University of Wisconsin.

Never heard of him, Stephanie said. Was he a United States military veteran and a Christian believer like Kevin?

I smiled with pleasure and responded, Crazy Legs was a United States Marine Corps Commissioned Officer, a lay leader and Bible study teacher in the Presbyterian Churches he attended in Anaheim in southern California and in Madison, Wisconsin.

I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts on Crazy Legs’ military career.

And, you’ll be pleased to learn that after he graduated from the University of Wisconsin with academic honors and a host of athletic records in track, baseball, basketball and football, Crazy Legs started his active duty training in the Marine Corps at Quantico, Virginia. After completing the Marine Corps Warfighting School, he was sent to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina for advanced infantry training. When his soldiering work was done, he reported to the Los Angeles Rams just in time to start spring training in Thousand Oaks. The rest is NFL history.

Then it hit me. It appears to me, I said, that your man Kevin and my man Crazy Legs have a lot in common, and I would be pleased to meet your friend, Kevin.

It was not long after our introduction when I discovered that beneath Kevin’s Lincolnesque features, booming voice and boyish grin was a skillful and articulate speaker, a tireless and inspired word mechanic, and a steel-willed achiever.

His socially warm, congenial manner invited friendship, and his blue-blood Schenectady, New York heritage gave him a rich-casual air of sophistication but he exhibited a charisma void of ostentation.

Our introduction and lengthy discussion in the produce department was entertaining and enjoyable, but what really caught my attention was the sight of Kevin’s purse that hung at his side from a long silver chain necklace.

After we said our good-byes, I went about my shopping, checked out and headed to my car. Another pleasant surprise occurred when I saw Kevin getting into his Cadillac SUV which was parked next to my Ford.

Elvin, it was very nice to meet and chat with you, Kevin said.

Same here. Look luck next season with the Packers.

Thanks, he said. God bless you.

The words, God bless you, were warm memories that bounced around in my heart and mind as I drove home.

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A few weeks later while sitting in a pew in the sanctuary of the Destin United Methodist Church and waiting for Dr. Ken Taylor, our minister, to start the Sunday service, Kevin came by, recognized me and introduced his wife Tara and kids, son Gavin and daughter Gabi.

You’ll hear some beautiful singing from the choir this morning, Kevin said in a half whisper as he leaned over.

Are you a singer, too? I asked, almost expecting a positive reply.

He laughed and shook his head. Tara is the singer in the family.

And quite a singer, indeed! Her first solo selection was John Newton’s Christian hymn, Amazing Grace.

My inner-self was transformed to a beautiful and peaceful oasis by being in the presence of Tara, the divine creature of God who had the most glorious voice I had ever heard.

Tara’s soprano sound, with its volume and range, displayed a variety of vocal acrobatics I had never heard before, or since.

And she saved the frosting on the cake to the closing song of the service, when she was joined in a duet by Penny Parmer, another expressionist soprano with an angelic voice, like Tara’s, that bathed the pews in God’s warmth and carried hymnal sounds above and beyond the horizon.

Their selection was It is well with my soul, a Christian hymn that was written by Horatio Spafford, a prominent American lawyer best known for penning the song following a family tragedy in which his four daughters died, and he lost his only son shortly afterward.

How Tara and Penny performed the duet before a SRO congregation was worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster movie production.

It began as the lights dimmed and Tara and Penny stood behind the curtains on each end of the platform. Slowly, ever so slowly, a hush fell over the parishioners as the curtains parted.

Kim Cannon, the church’s minister of music and worship, stepped forward and tapped his baton twice on his music stand. The orchestra responded in unison to the maestro, as Tara and Penny emerged from each side of the stage and their distinct soprano voices filled the sanctuary with heaven-sent harmony.

Their vocal chords were in perfect sync and pitch to the gospel song It is well with my soul, as they turned and walked toward each other with their arms skyward, passed each other in perfect cadence, exited down the side steps, walked to the front of the sanctuary and started swaying and side-stepping to the words and rhythm of the spiritual up-lifting refrain.

They moved like weightless angels in long gowns as they walked down the center aisle as their united voices penetrated deep into the souls of the attentive Christian believers.

Tara’s and Penny’s intense passion that was displayed throughout the song drew frequent gasps and murmurs from the congregation as the ending neared. No one wanted them to stop.

Then, near the conclusion, their paired sounds became a mellow, purposeful alto creation that was immediately echoed by a higher first tier soprano sound.

Their finale was a voluminous high soprano stanza that awed everyone with a renewed spiritual awakening that brought the throng as a single unit to their feet in a rousing ovation.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the sanctuary.

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After watching her performances over the years, I discovered that many congregants viewed Tara as the diva of the millennium because of her technique, evocative and moving interpretations.

That evaluation is shared by many altos and sopranos who have participated with Tara on gospel hymns. They said they were pained to sing on cue because it seemed rude to interrupt Tara’s exquisite performance.

To me, Tara’s voice of unmatched beauty and skill never faded because she maintained, and some say even strengthened, her stage dominance by sustaining her middle range conquering abilities.

One of Tara’s strongest supporters is Kim Cannon, the church’s minister of music and worship. He says Tara completely captures the soul of the moment in her voice and delivery.

Her radiant personality and sheer beauty shines through during her stage appearances, he said. She also has a unique voice and the feelings she convey while singing are simply stunning and unbeatable. She has a God-given talent and communicates with intense passion.

Tara shares a substantial amount of admiration and affection from her many ardent fans with her close friend and frequent choir member and duet partner, Penny Parmer, who is in a league of her own.

Penny’s elaborate embellishment in vocalizing a wide range of musical formats give a new definition to gospel-style opera coloratura, especially when coupled with perfect technique, consistent timbre and soul-source stage presence. Her depth and range of voice are so effortless only a stone heart is unmovable, and there are no such organs when Penny mesmerizers an audience.

Penny, says the Rev. Cannon, not only possesses beauty, voice, talent and kindness, but she also provides a bucket list dream-come-true for any fan of gospel music who has the opportunity to see and hear her perform.

Penny, some church members have remarked, created her own art-form; a highly successful emotional blend of colossal talent, family happiness, gracious humbleness, the thrill and tranquility that comes from gospel music and the abiding, unwavering love she has for her Lord.

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As years melted away, my need for fresh produce grew in proportion to the pleasure I had in shopping at Publix’s, chatting with Stephanie and getting the latest low-down on Kevin Greene.

Early winter was always the hardest time for Stephanie because that’s when the Pro Football Hall of Fame ballot procedure started, and Kevin, as Stephanie had often reminded me, Has not make the final cut in 11 consecutive years.

So each mid-period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I expected to be brought up to speed on Kevin’s status as soon as I walked into the produce department.

It’s the usual, same old process this year, Stephanie said as she rearranged a display shelf of kumquats. We never get any progress reports. All we know is that Kevin is on the list of 26 semi-finalists again this year.

She looked worried as she stared at the rearrangement.

I glanced at the kumquats and they looked fresh and ripe to me.

No need to worry, I said. The kumquats look just fine.

Elvin, it’s not the blooming kumquats, she said. It’s Kevin I’m worried about. Desperation was obvious in her tone of voice.

We know from past years that the list of 26 will be whittled to 15. Kevin has got to make that list, she said. He’s already been there five or six times.

I looked at her. I could tell her worries were multiplying as she mentioned each list.

We really don’t have anything to crow about if Kevin makes the list of 15 again, but we sure would be happy if he makes the next cut and gets on the list of five because that list will be elected into the Hall of Fame. Wow!

I saw some happiness on her face.

You know, she said as she grinned at me, only two players in the history of the National Football League have gotten more quarterback sacks in a career than Kevin’s 160. Both of them have been elected to the hall. And the guy behind Kevin, who had ten sacks less than Kevin, is in the hall. Go figure!

Stephanie, I said, I truly admire your support for Kevin.

Thanks, but there’s more information that the selection committee should consider, she said. For example, Kevin is wearing a Super Bowl ring he got as a Green Bay linebackers coach, and he had five Pro Bowl selections along with being honored by his selection on the All-Decade Team for the 1990s.

Here, I said, handing her a plastic bag, give me three of those kumquats.

She grabbed the bag and said, You’re hopeless.

We laughed together.

When will we know the final five who get into the Hall of Fame? I asked.

The night before the Super Bowl, she said. I can’t wait.

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The history of the bell sheep:

According to researcher and author Elizabeth George, a shepherd always knows his sheep, and he will notice the one who naturally follows him; the one special sheep that will keep an eye on the shepherd and stay close by.

On that one, he puts the bell. It is the bell sheep. The other sheep will then begin to follow the sound of the bell, even if they are not intently watching, they intentionally follow the bell sheep and, thus, the shepherd.

And, yes, Kevin finally made the Hall of Fame in 2016.

Youth Responsibility Today

A lecture to combined political science classes at

California State University, Fresno.

The true test of civilization is not the census nor the size of the cities nor the crops, but the kind of man and woman that the country turns out. This is as true today as when Emerson first said it.

And it is up to the leaders of a nation to see that it turns out the kind of man and woman that will help it grow. This is true on all levels of leadership—national, state and especially local. Effective local government demands the involvement of the population’s most dynamic forces.

The social, economic and political atmosphere of American society today is, in the final analysis, being shaped by young people, such as yourselves, who are just beginning your productive lives.

The growing tide of involvement by America’s youth in all strata of social, economic and political development necessitates a louder voice, a stronger voice, a more persuasive voice, and I might add, a younger voice—in federal, state and local leadership positions.

This past decade has shown more rapid and expansive changes of public needs and attitudes than any in the history of our nation. In the early 1960s we had no hippies, no mass rioting and looting and no large scale dissention from governmental policies.

Today, these are common items in the daily news.

What has brought about this change? The answer is obvious. Youth is on the move. America’s young people have suddenly become acutely aware of the country’s problems and have set about trying to solve them with a fervor and determination never shown by their predecessors. However, without effective leadership this massive reservoir of energy is being wasted.

This is where we, as responsible community members, must step in.

And this is just as true in Fresno as it is in San Francisco, Chicago or New York. Our young people are looking for a channel for their energy. They are looking for young leaders with young