Meet Me at the Rocket and Other Stories

By Neuman Connor

His short stories demonstrate his sense of humor and his sensitivity to the sometimes difficult lives of the individuals in his community. You will begin to understand the joy they took in simple things. If you lived during this time period or have heard stories from others about it, you will appreciate Neuman Connor's style of bringing these tales to life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Dec 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781489739230

Neuman Connor

Neuman Connor grew up on a farm in rural Barnwell county, SC in the post depression era. He ultimately worked for NASA and taught at the University of South Carolina. His stories reflect his memories of growing up on a farm and his experiences as a university engineering professor.

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Copyright © 2021 Neuman Connor.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-3924-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3923-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021923064

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 11/08/2021

Contents

An Introduction to Neuman Connor

LIFE IN A SMALL RURAL TOWN

Coach Maybelle

The Bomb Plant

Firewood

The Runaway Projector

SPECIAL ATTRACTIONS

It Don’t Cost No Admission

Got the Guts to Strut?

Meet Me at the Rocket

CHRISTMAS STORIES

Three Boxes of Oranges

Christmas of ’41

A Little Christmas Money

Gene Autry Comes to the Big Screen

The Christmas Dog

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

Ned Allen’s Christmas of 1948

The ’51 Studebaker

LIFE ON A FARM

The Day the Lights Went Out

My Mother’s Oldsmobile

The Tall Grass of Summer

P. J. Broadfoot and the Hawgfeed Caper

A Dry June

The Price of Cotton

Red Glow After Sunset

Tin Roof, No Problem

BEYOND FARM STORIES

The Flag

Let Your Mind Do The Running

A Carolina Sandlapper in the Grand Palace

Lady Godiva Rides Again

Alternatives to Clap Push-Ups

References

An Introduction to Neuman Connor

(December 8, 1936 – March 12, 2016)

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Laurence Neuman Connor, Jr.

Neuman Connor was born on a farm near Barnwell, SC on December 8,1936. He grew up in a community nested with family farms. He loved being a farm boy living just outside a small town; being the boy to pick out the Christmas tree for his school class from the woods by his home. His home was filled with love and learning, from his father Neuman, Sr. teaching him to grow watermelons and care for the animals on the farm to his teacher mother Alice schooling him in geometry and trigonometry. He and his siblings grew up caring deeply for each other and they remained close friends throughout their adult lives. His baby brother loved the farm and community so much, he lived there the rest of his life. His sister discovered that the old farmhouse was her refuge even as she maintained a home in another state.

As Neuman grew up, he expanded his horizons by pursuing Mechanical Engineering, earning a bachelor’s degree from Clemson University, Master’s, and PhD from NC State University. He worked on the country’s space program in the early days of NASA, specifically dealing with reentry problems, while at the same time serving a tour of duty in the Air Force. This eventually was followed by his returning to his home state and teaching Mechanical Engineering at the University of South Carolina; but he never stopped looking forward to his visits back home, to that farm where he grew up.

During his career at USC, he added new adventures such as summer classes at Stanford University in combination with research at Ames Research Center. This involved traveling from one coast to another with a wife, a 3-year-old and a two-month-old. In 1979-80 he spent a sabbatical year teaching at Von Karman Institute of Fluid Dynamics in Rhodes Saint Genese, Belgium. This required crossing the Atlantic Ocean with a wife and a couple of teenagers in tow. St. John’s International School in Waterloo provided employment for his wife and an education for his teenagers.

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The highlight of the St. John’s school trip was to visit the Matterhorn in Switzerland.

Upon arrival in Belgium, cultural shock came as no surprise for the family; especially for one that had never traveled abroad. St. John’s International School had students from 34 countries. Everyone in the family experienced changes in their interest and outlook. Larry, the 15-year-old, participated in cross-country events with his classmates. He continues running today both as exercise and mental relaxation. Larry and Cheryl learned from their classmates to broaden their outlook on the world. They learned to view others’ ideas and opinions as reasonable and important as theirs. A real appreciation of other cultures was gradually absorbed by all members of the family.

But the real surprise came after the months in Belgium ended and the family returned home to South Carolina. Another cultural shock was experienced as the family attempted to fit back into their old community. The real lesson learned is that it is not easy to understand other people until you have spent sufficient time with them to understand their views.

The effects on Larry and Cheryl of those months in Belgium have been realized over the years. Larry earned a degree from Clemson in Physics and his PhD in Electrical Engineering at University of Colorado and now works with NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration). He and his colleagues routinely confer about climate change with scientists in other countries.

Cheryl received a degree in English from Davidson College and an MD from USC Medical School and has become a practicing psychiatrist and medical director for a hospital in NC. She sometimes consults with another psychiatrist in NC, originally from Sweden, who was her brother’s classmate at St. John’s International School.

In 1987 Neuman suffered a heart attack which kept him away from teaching for one semester. Slowly he got back into his exercise routine and was able to resume full teaching and advising responsibilities. About six years later Neuman, who was a person who normally believed in safety first, fell from the roof of his house to the deck below, after measuring for a chimney cap. The fall resulted in a fractured fifth cervical vertebra and paralysis from the neck down. The fracture was corrected by surgery. One month in the hospital plus two months in a rehabilitation hospital, enduring painful physical therapy, and using sheer determination, Neuman relearned to feed himself, dress himself, and walk with a cane. One year later he returned to his engineering classroom. To further strengthen his hand muscles, he began taking art lessons. Copies of several of his art works are included in this book.

All those experiences Neuman Connor pulled together into a collection of short stories culled from his memories of growing up and reaching out beyond his humble beginnings. His short stories range from events exactly as he remembers them, stories that are somewhat embellished, stories that are greatly exaggerated to stories that are complete fiction. It is up to the reader to determine which stories fall into each category.

This book is dedicated to:

Laurence Neuman Connor, Jr.

Laurence Neuman Connor, Jr., better known to his extended family as Neuman, to his children as Dad, to his grandchildren as Grandpa, and to his students as Dr. Connor. As his wife, I am dedicating this book of short stories which he wrote mostly in the 1970s and 1980s to his memory.

Neuman was passionate about many things, first and foremost was his family. We celebrated 56 years of marriage and the love of our children, Larry and Cheryl. Although our children had their own professional accomplishments, which made us very proud, it was the birth of our five grandchildren, Kaitlin (Kars), Patrick, and Keira Dodds and Evelyn and Gwyneth (Gwyn) Connor which brought us extended happiness.

Each year Neuman’s engineering students quickly discovered his open-door policy. He was always willing to help his students academically or to give advice on personal problems. Many student groups gave him awards for his dedication to his students. The University of South Carolina awarded him The Samuel Litman Distinguished Professor Award in Engineering and named him a Lily Teaching Fellow.

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Dressed as SC Gamecock baseball player, Dr. Connor gave his annual Satchell Paige lecture on the fluid dynamics of a curve ball.

Story writing and story telling, were real delights for Neuman which he enjoyed sharing with friends, especially those in our Sunday School class.

May his sense of humor, his love of family, concern for all humanity, his passion for learning and his strong belief that everyone deserves humane treatment continue to influence those who read these stories.

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LIFE IN A SMALL RURAL TOWN

Every small town has its own personality, its own heroes, and its own political opinions. Neighbors help neighbors and colleagues assist colleagues.

Coach Maybelle

In the South, some housekeepers’ responsibilities extend outside the home.

(Published in THE STATE MAGAZINE)

The Bomb Plant

Decisions made by politicians do not affect all citizens the same.

Firewood

Neighbors are expected to look after one another. But sometimes the help may not be wanted or needed.

The Runaway Projector

Who knows what might happen in a workday of a high school principal?

Coach Maybelle

The third base coach touched his cap twice. The 12-year-old batter nodded and stepped up to the plate. Pull in, he’s gonna bunt the ball. The female voice rang across the field.

We can’t beat them! The batter threw down his bat and fought back the tears. She knows what we are going to do before we do it.

Such was the reputation of Maybelle Mitchell in the years surrounding 1950. And her team, if not entirely unbeatable, was certainly unforgettable. Clad in white T-shirts, blue jeans rolled up exactly two cuffs and red baseball caps ordered from Sears, Roebuck and Co., they provided formidable opposition to any team that rose up from the dusty vacant lots of nearby towns to meet their challenge.

The State Magazine called the team Maybelle’s Marauders — their official name was Barnwell Braves—and referred to their practice sessions as Maybelle’s Academy of Applied Baseball Fundamentals.

My introduction to Miss Mitchell came on an early April afternoon shortly after my 12th birthday. It was that kind of day when the smell of freshly cut grass and the feel of good leather softened with neatsfoot oil make a young man’s thoughts turn to baseball. Miss Mitchell was directing an afternoon practice game on the playground behind the old Barnwell elementary school. A member of the team had invited me to participate. I had hopes of joining the team.

I remember Miss Mitchell as I saw her then, standing beside the plate in saddle oxfords, flowered shirt, and red cap — a ball in one hand, a bat in the other — hitting flies to the outfield, yelling instructions and keeping ever young catchers busy supplying the balls. She was the field general, the player-coach, the baseball encyclopedia all rolled into one.

Miss Mitchell had happened along at the right place and at the right time with the right qualifications. Little League had not yet made its way into the small towns of the South. But there were boys so there was a place for baseball. The radio brought in the major league variety, the high school boys played it and the sandlot games needed just a touch of organization.

That was where Miss Mitchell had stepped in. In the neighborhood where she worked as a cook and maid, there were always plenty of kids around. Her team was the product of years of backyard practice and pickup games. At the time I met Miss Mitchell, her team and the guidelines under which it operated were well-established.

Miss Mitchell’s practice field tolerated only those with a total commitment to. baseball. One dedicated young man who lived in Atlanta spent every June and July visiting his grandmother in Barnwell in order to play on the team. Boys who came out just for the frolic did not last long. Age limits of 8 to 14 years were strictly enforced.

All members of Miss Mitchell’s team were under contract. Although other teams might be formed and disbanded during the season, her boys obligated themselves to play exclusively for the Braves. The contract became binding when they signed the book she hung from the tree during the first practice session.

The contract required regular practice, total dedication to baseball and the occasional assist with household chores needed to free the coach for practice. It also included a promise not to fuss or use bad language on the playing field.

Miss Mitchell could observe a boy in practice for two days and predict how he’d perform in a game. And she knew how to capitalize on a fellow’s assets. The baggy pants first baseman with the slow lumbering gait was instructed to swing for the long ball. He became good at it. The left fielder, fast as greased lightning on the base path but slow at getting the bat around mastered the bunt.

I suspect that Miss Mitchell might have even made a ballplayer out of me. Unfortunately, that first practice game convinced me I would never be a hitter. Perhaps what I really lacked was dedication to baseball. The coaching was available.

I learned about a guy whom Miss Mitchell nicknamed Woodchopper. Given a bat, he always swung it straight down. Miss Mitchell worked with him for more than a year before he learned to take a level cut at a pitch.

She had a knack for assigning the right man to the right position. One overweight prospect began his tryout for the team, with the statement, My daddy says I can do anything but catch behind the bat.

Miss Mitchell got right to the point. What your daddy think I can do with you then? You too big to chase fly balls. You can’t get down for ground balls in the infield. Ask your daddy that.

The next practice he brought back the answer. "My daddy says it’ll be OK for me to catch.

The outfield of the Braves probably had no more natural talent than the teams they played. But they listened when Miss Mitchell said, "Don’t be sittin’ round out there with your glove on your head, spinnin’ round or pickin’ grass. When there is a batter at that plate, you ready to go where that ball is hit. And when it’s hit, you go! I don’t care if you in left field and it’s hit to right, you go! Back up every man you can.

She told her pitchers, You go home, get an old water bucket and nail it to the side of the garage. Try to throw the ball in every chance you get.

Honesty was demanded of all the boys. Any pocket change found on the field was turned over to Miss Mitchell until the owner could be found. And honesty was to be observed in playing the game. Miss Mitchell’s dedication to that ideal became clear shortly after the game with Ellenton.

The game had been close all the way. With the winning run on third base, the Braves’ second baseman had made a shoestring catch of a looping fly ball into short right field to ensure the victory. On the way home two brothers were discussing the play.

The truth came out.

Bubba, you tell Maybelle the truth, or I’m gonna tell Daddy when we get home.

Tears streaked the dirt on his face as Bubba looked her in the eye and admitted I trapped the ball.

You trapped the ball? Her response was a firecracker with a short fuse. You mean I got to call that coach and tell him you trapped the ball, and we forfeit the game?

She made the call.

To Miss Mitchell, there was only one kind of baseball, the kind played in the big leagues. Games were meant to be played with nine boys on a full-size diamond for nine innings. Any coach who wanted to shorten the game or the basepath was quickly set straight.

Miss Mitchell’s dedication to regulation baseball was not totally appreciated by some members of her team. Perhaps they remembered what it had cost them in the Estill game.The centerfield fence at Estill was very close in, perhaps because the field had originally been laid out as a cow pasture rather a baseball diamond. Once in hot pursuit of a long flyball, Miss Mitchell’s centerfielder cleared the fence with an easy leap, caught the ball on first bounce and pegged it to the plate ahead of the runner. The umpire pronounced the man out.

That was a natural homerun, over the fence, Miss Mitchell protested. Let it count. Despite the objections of her own team, it did. There was no room for bush league rules in her game of baseball.

Baseball was not Miss Mitchell’s only sport. Basketball and backyard football had their seasons. And there was no such thing as touch football. It was hard down tackle or nothing.

Sometimes that approach proved painful. Like the time the boys had Sunday