Tribute to Eddie
Posted: Feb. 16, 2012
“Eddie possessed a magnetic personality that drew the young athletes to him, and it was a common occasion to see him in the midst of 10 or 15 young people laughing, talking, and imparting wisdom . . .”
— Jerry Kelican, assistant football coach to Eddie Siebert at Handley High
Soupy Hillyard saw the obituary last month, and immediately felt he had to do something.
On Jan. 13, Virginia Siebert, widow of former Handley football coach Eddie Siebert, passed away. Mrs. Siebert’s death prompted thoughts of Eddie, under whom Soupy had served as an assistant coach back in the early ’60s.
Perhaps surmising that Eddie — jovial, ebullient, good-natured, and funny — has been largely forgotten over the passage of time, Soupy, in his own inimitable way, decided to rectify that situation. He wants to see his old friend recognized as the coach and empathetic human being that he was.
Siebert is, if anything, a curious case study. Some coaches, by dint of circumstance, follow in the footsteps of legends. Not Eddie, whose gridiron tenure atop Handley Hill as fate would have it, was sandwiched between those of two larger-than-life figures, Hunter Maddex and Ron Rice. As a result — and forgive the use of a time-worn cliché here — he has fallen through the proverbial cracks, all but overlooked.
Soupy wants to change all that — and so do many of Eddie’s former players at Handley.
“There is a gap,” says Dennis Hinkle, a pile-driving fullback and ’64 grad considered by many as the greatest ever to don the Maroon and White. “I’ve always felt he deserved more recognition.”
Likewise, says Took Kern, a halfback from the Class of ’65: “Eddie has always gotten his due from the people who played for him. People really wanted to play for him ... (and) he absolutely gained the respect of any player who played for him.”
But, for Soupy, a question persisted: Where should Eddie be recognized — here in Winchester or at Shepherd University where he was a standout two-way lineman in football and a catcher in baseball? In the end, after much “consideration and thought,” he opted for the latter, where a memorial endowment is in the works.
Siebert — as “compassionate” as he was “straightforward,” Soupy says — taught phys ed and coached at Handley (track as well as football) for a dozen years, leaving in 1966. His record on the gridiron was modest by Judges’ standards — 23-24-3 over five years — though his first team, in ’61, claimed the old District 10 title with an 8-1-1 mark.
So, whether in Winchester or Shepherdstown, it matters little where Siebert is memorialized. For wherever Eddie went — says Soupy, himself a Shepherd grad — he “touched a lot of lives.”
Next Wednesday — Funny stories and sharp one-liners: Eddie, as remembered by his players.
For information on making a gift in memory of coach Eddie Seibert to support Shepherd University student-athletes and programs, please contact Aaron Ryan, director of athletic development, at 304-876-5527 (office) or 304-671-1985 (cell), or email Aryan@shepherd.edu.
Contribution checks may be made payable to the Shepherd University Foundation, P.O. Box 5000, Shepherdstown, W.Va., 25443. For assistance in making a credit card gift, please contact Meg Peterson by phone at 304-876-5021, or email mpeterso@shepherd.edu.
Scoop! Belestre in Winchester
Posted: Feb. 8, 2012
As editor of The Star’s opinion page, I seldom, if ever, experience the joy of a “scoop.” Commentary, not “breaking news,” is my thing.
Still, I’ll take a scoop when I can get one — even if it’s 255 years old. Which this one, courtesy of retired history professor Carl Ekberg, is.
Carl, who resides on Jefferson Street, emailed me late last year, with news, largely unreported over time, of one Francois-Louis Picoté de Belestre, ensign in the French Marines and scion of a storied French-Canadian military family.
Belestre, as Carl, who taught French history at Illinois State, discovered while researching a book on the early history of St. Louis, spent upwards of 15 months as a prisoner at Fort Loudoun.
Hmmm. St. Louis and Winchester are miles apart geographically, and light years removed in terms of history — or so it would seem. But in scouring the papers of Sir William Johnson, the British superintendent of Indian affairs in the Northern colonies, Carl, also a devoted member of the local French & Indian War Foundation, scanned the index for any mention of Winchester. There he found Belestre — and a great story.
Though a freshly minted ensign, Belestre, as Carl told me last month, was “just a kid” when he and a party of 12 French soldiers and 40 Indians sallied forth in mid-May 1757 from Fort Duquesne, site of present-day Pittsburgh, on a mission of early “terrorism.”
Their destination: Fort Cumberland in what is now western Maryland. Their intent: to reconnoiter, set ambushes, take prisoners, and, in short, make general nuisances of themselves along the sparsely settled Virginia frontier.
He never made it back to Fort Duquesne. Somewhere between Fort Cumberland and the Forks of the Ohio, as Belestre later told inquisitors, the tables turned on him and his party, by then sans Indians who had left the column to seek “scalps and prisoners.”
Reading through the lines of Belestre’s account when questioned, he and his men walked into an ambush on May 30, in which five of their number (including two officers) died. Belestre himself was taken prisoner and sent to Fort Loudoun here in Winchester.
As Carl interjected (though not in these words), the kiddish Belestre sang like a bird on June 20, telling his interrogators — Edmund Atkyn, superintendent of Indian affairs in the South; George Croghan, Johnson’s deputy; and Col. George Washington, post commander — all they wanted to know. No John McCain was he, said Carl with a laugh.
And what did he say? Among other things, that Fort Duquesne boasted but 300 in its garrison, only half of whom were regulars; that reinforcements had long been expected from Montreal, and that the French’s Indian allies, numbering roughly 1,500, hailed from “more distant Nations” rather than those, by then neutral, who had previously engaged in such activities. It was a mother lode of information.
In time, which Carl pegs at more than a year since this “examination,” Belestre left Fort Loudoun following a prisoner exchange and apparently re-joined his unit. In March 1762, he married Joachine Coulon de Villiers, also of a renowned military family. Her uncle — Joseph Coulon de Villiers, Sieur de Jumonville — as Carl noted, was the French officer slain at the hands of Washington’s party in the engagement that ignited the French & Indian War.
By the late 1760s, Belestre and his wife were living in St. Louis where, Carl said, they are considered among the “first aristocracy” of the city that became the gateway to the American West.
There’s the rub, you see. Carl knew of Belestre prior to that impromptu scan of the index to Johnson’s papers. There he uncovered the French officer’s unlikely, and little-known, link to Winchester. And therein lay my “scoop,” some 255 years in the making.
Beyond her pale
Posted: Feb. 1, 2012
“Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes . . .”
— Tom T. Hall, “Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine”
The phone rang shortly before noon last Friday, and the voice at the other end surprised me.
It was our next-door neighbor, Carol Kula. She had called to inform me that one of my children was out gamboling on Valley Pike.
Now, those of you familiar with our familial situation know that our “children” have four legs rather than two. But “children” they are — or at least members of the family — and the elder one was frolicking where she had no business to frolic. Especially at her advanced age.
Heidi, our black lab-border collie mix, turns 14 next month. And though her spirit remains forever willing, her body, still lean and lithe, is betraying her somewhat.
Her muzzle has turned to gray. Her legs are wracked by arthritis, but she still insists on chasing her ball, and sprawling in the dewy grass for hours on end, even on the chilliest of days. She is, plainly and simply, the proverbial “old dog.”
And because she is I dropped whatever it was I was doing and raced to the car for what proved to be an anxious — very anxious — 15-minute drive to Stephens City.
As I pulled onto the Pike across from The Alamo, the trepidation heightened. And when I crested the long hill just beyond Shenandoah Valley Baptist Church, I fully expected to see a still black form along the side of the road.
Instead when I pulled up to our driveway, all I saw was Carol, standing outside our stone wall. I didn’t know what to think.
Carol’s news was encouraging — Heidi was last seen ambling through one of the back yards on our side of the Pike — though not promising of quick resolution.
Time was, when we lived in Winchester on Allison Avenue, that Heidi escaping the surly bonds of captivity darned near required mobilization of the National Guard to catch her. No matter our efforts, she never returned to her fenced-in confines until she was good and ready. Or very tired.
When we moved to the Pike 10 years ago, we realized the only way to corral her waywardness was by virtue of an Invisible Fence. But, as Heidi’s high-spiritedness waned, we grew complacent.
This past December, we took off her fence collar in favor of what Toni calls “her Christmas clothes” — a new holiday-themed collar — and allowed her to roam our expansive yard as usual. After all, she knew her bounds, knew where she couldn’t go. Or so we thought.
When I got out of the car, Carol told me she was alarmed by the sound of dogs barking and, upon going to a window, saw Heidi out on the Pike, dodging traffic.
She apparently had responded to the sight of another dog, and curiosity had gotten the better of her.
Well, even though Heidi’s growing ever more deaf, I called out, and then started walking north, slipping in the mud in my “city shoes” as I did. Lo and behold, Heidi came strolling out of a yard two houses down. She trotted up to me. I reached. Her old ways kicked in.
Next thing I knew, I was chasing her up the Pike, toward our house (thankfully). I caught her just as the first in a long line of cars rounded a blind curve. The driver was greeted by the sight of me holding Heidi with one hand and signaling “Stop” with the other.
I then started dragging a reluctant albeit tired dog back to the house, as Carol rushed inside to get a leash. My first order of business: find that fence collar . . . and a fresh battery to keep her in line.
It was a wistful drive back to The Star, as I reflected on the fact that, for our entire married life thus far — 13-plus years — it’s been the four of us: Toni, me, the sweet and excitable black dog, and the snooty and reserved orange cat. On Friday, that tight little circle had nearly been broken, prematurely.
Touchstone
Posted: Jan. 25, 2012
It was my intent to devote this week’s column to a “scoop,” albeit one more than 250 years old, that came my way courtesy of historian Carl Ekberg about an all-but-forgotten prisoner at Fort Loudoun.
But that will have to wait as I struggle with this realization: I cannot envision a world — my world, at least — without Joe Paterno.
Melodramatic? Maybe. Over-the-top? Perhaps. But I suspect I’m not alone. The Penn State football coach, who died Sunday at the age of 85, was as constant as Ol’ Man River. He was the gridiron game’s Rock of Ages and, for me, a touchstone. I’ve been a Nittany Lion fan since I was 11. I am 57 now.
Funny, but I’m neither a Penn State grad, nor have I ever resided in the Keystone State. But sports-mad kids like me growing up in New Jersey back in the ’60s had no big-time state team to root for, so the Nittany Lions filled that void — especially when everybody who was anybody, football-wise, up there was recruited by Penn State, or wanted to be.
And then there was a fella named Jimbo Manning. Jim coached Little League baseball with my dad, and I remember him telling us, back around 1966, that a buddy from, I believe, his Brooklyn Prep days had just been named to succeed Rip Engle as coach in Happy Valley. That man? Joe Paterno, and Jim said he was a great guy.
So my dad and I became fervent Penn State fans on Jim’s advice. It sure didn’t hurt that Paterno’s teams were populated by kids with names that had a familiar ring to anyone who lived in the ethnic enclaves of the Northeast — Onkotz, O’Neill, Laslavic, Hufnagel, Parlavecchio, Zapiec, Kwalick, Cappelletti, Cefalo. Even in remote State College, Joe’s teams had a neighborhood feel.
Plus, as soon we would learn, Joe was doing it the right way. His players graduated, many in real academic specialties. What’s more, he seemed content to stay put, spurning the offers of many NFL teams to remain at Penn State. My dad really liked that.
And so our fervor, if possible, grew with each passing year. Mine reached its apex in the ’80s — just as I was starting what I thought would be a long sportswriting career — with Joe’s first national championship in ’82 and then with his second, in ’86, that was largely unexpected because the defensive-minded Lions, led by linebacker Shane Conlan (my all-time favorite Nit), were so undervalued.
But in what (in my opinion) was one of college football’s greatest upsets, the Lions topped mighty Miami. The Sports Illustrated headline — “Guts, Brains, and Glory” — remains etched in memory, but in the O’Connor household, the game is recalled with a different cascade of G-words: “Giftopoulos at the Goal-line,” for linebacker Pete Giftopoulos’ game-saving interception as Miami knocked on the door in the waning seconds.
As the years passed and Penn State joined the Big Ten, I came to see JoePa as the enigma that he was — the former college quarterback who often could not settle on a starting signal-caller, the supposed offensive strategist whose teams more often than not won with defense, the English scholar whose speech never lost the trademark “dees, dems, and dos” of his Brooklyn heritage.
But I marveled at his steadfastness. He was no slave to fashion. His game-day attire (black cleats, rolled-up khakis, tie, windbreaker) never changed, nor did his team’s elegantly simple blue-and-white uniforms. And, most importantly, neither did his approach: Even into his eighties, he still believed he could reach kids, and connect with them.
Now he is gone, his last days shrouded in grief, sickness, and scandal he could not fathom. In his wake, I am left with a question: Am I a Penn State fan, or a JoePa fan?
Tough to say, but this much is for certain: I no longer have a stone to touch. Rest in peace, JoePa.
Gene White: New store, changed concept
Posted: Jan. 18, 2012
“He put people, not his title or his pharmacy, at the center of his universe.”
— Dr. Alan McKay, on the late
Eugene White
Shortly after Gene White, Berryville’s “revolutionary” pharmacist, wrote a letter, dated Nov. 11, 1960, informing patrons that change was coming to the drug store he had just purchased at the corner of Main and Church streets, he delivered on that pledge.
He gutted the interior of his store.
Gone were the lunch counter and its stools. Gone were the shelves filled with Russell Stover candy and Hallmark greeting cards. In their stead, White fashioned a pharmacy that, in no small way, resembled a doctor’s office, complete with a consultation room and files of prescription records.
It was an “office-based pharmacy,” and Gene White, in a small Virginia town, was its pioneer.
The response of the clientele ran the gamut from somewhat perplexed to outright upset. After all, the store was an “institution,” notes Alan McKay, founding dean of Shenandoah University’s Bernard J. Dunn School of Pharmacy and eulogist at White’s funeral last month.
It was not just a drug store; it was where they went to fraternize over a BLT and a Coke.
If White’s patrons were moderately irate, then his disciplinary colleagues, as Alan suggested during an interview last week, were absolutely livid. How dare he, they sputtered, pretend to be a doctor.
“But he wasn’t pretending,” Alan told me. “He was saying, ‘Ditch the old way, and start something new.’”
And that “something” was indeed revolutionary at a time when a certain inertia gripped the industry. Truth be told, as Alan said, pharmacists may have desired a new business model, but they also wanted to hold on, often for dear life, to the “product” — that of the traditional drug store — they had.
It was Gene White who dared to be different and, as his widow Laura told Alan, he took “took a lot of grief” for it. But the Cape Charles native was well-suited to endure the proverbial slings and arrows. His genial demeanor, accentuated by a “soft (Virginia) accent . . . belied a backbone of steel,” Alan said. Those verbal brickbats? Well, “he did let it all get to him.”
White’s concept of the “office-based pharmacy” evolved over time, Alan added, but he instinctively knew that transforming a “self-serving” profession into a “consumer-oriented” one would require “one bold move.” Hence the letter and the complete overhaul of his storefront.
So, if White, who died six weeks ago at the age of 87, wasn’t “pretending” to be a doctor, he also wasn’t pretending to be the traditional pharmacist/entrepreneur. His intent was not merely to “push pills,” but to be more “forceful” in seeing that the medicines he “dispensed were actually working.” Thus, he would engage his customers, seek input, ask questions.
“Gene was always willing to talk,” Alan says, “and have heartfelt conversations. He put people, not his title or his pharmacy, at the center of his universe. And they appreciated that, and reciprocated. He overcame people not wanting to open up.”
And so, over the course of 38 years in Berryville — or since the day he sent that letter to an initially querulous clientele — White changed not only a profession, but also people’s concept of what that profession should be.
A true pioneer, he may have taken away folks’ grilled cheese sandwiches and vanilla shakes, but he gave them, as Alan says, “something of far greater value” — his time as well as his expertise. And by so doing, he engendered a measure of trust in his profession.
For Gene White knew, as Alan concluded, that “we must have time for them, or they won’t have time for us.”
Gene White, pharmacy pioneer
Posted: Jan. 11, 2012
“Gene had faith in a future that very few individuals at the time could see.”
— Dr. Alan McKay, eulogy of
Eugene White (Dec. 17, 2011)
Alan McKay clearly recalls the first time he spoke with Gene White. It was back in 1995. Alan had already accepted the position of founding dean at Shenandoah University’s Bernard J. Dunn School of Pharmacy, but was still residing and working in Arkansas when the phone rang.
A “soft Virginia voice” at the other end of the line said, “Hello, I’m Gene White, you’ve probably never heard of me . . .” The voice’s owner then went on to say he owned a pharmacy “seven miles away” from where Alan would be playing a major role in starting a pharmacy school from scratch.
Never heard of him? Alan remembers responding rather effusively that White was “mandatory reading” for anyone wishing to enter the field of pharmacy.
And so he was, this kindly man from Berryville who, one day in November 1960, changed that field forever — and for the better. Testimony to his pioneering, transformative role can be seen today on the first floor of the Dunn School where his “office-based pharmacy” has been meticulously preserved as both a museum and classroom.
So what did Gene White do? As Alan says, he “revolutionized” the concept of what a pharmacy — and a pharmacist — should be.
Time was, when those very words conjured images not of pharmaceutical care offered, but of soda fountains and grilled-cheese sandwiches prepared by the same person — think Mr. Gower in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” or Ellie Walker on “The Andy Griffith Show” — who dispensed the prescriptions for what ailed you. In other words, the pharmacist of yesteryear was, in many venues, equal parts “pill-pusher,” soda jerk, and entrepreneurial small businessman.
Gene White changed all that — and how. And because he did, Alan says, he was less a “reflection” of his times, but a “vision” of what the future might hold — and now does. He introduced minute records-keeping and what is known as “office-based care” to his profession.
His “vision,” bold as it was, evolved through experience. Born in Cape Charles on the Eastern Shore — hence the “soft” accent — White fought in World War II with the Army and Army Air Corps and then entered pharmacy school at the Medical College of Virginia.
Alan hastens to point out that his friend, who died on Dec. 9, did not have all the “pre-requisites” for admission, so it must be inferred that the folks at MCV saw something special in the young man from across the Chesapeake Bay. If so, how prescient they were.
At some point after graduating from MCV, White, a newly minted registered pharmacist, headed north — to positions in Luray, Front Royal, and then Winchester, where he worked at Miller’s, the oldest continuously owned family pharmacy in the United States. Opened as an apothecary by Godfrey Miller in 1764, it was a Loudoun Street mainstay for decades on end. The building (107 N. Loudoun) is now home to the Village Square Restaurant’s piano bar.
From there, it was on to Berryville, to another traditional corner pharmacy — at Main and Church — whose pharmacist, in poor health, eventually asked White to take over the business.
On Nov. 11, 1960, White wrote a letter to his new customers, saying: “In order to devote virtually full time to the profession (of pharmacy), we are eliminating most of the commercial activities of our pharmacy, namely: the fountain, candy, stationery, billfolds, milk glass, toys and all gift items.”
The “vision” offered in this elongated sentence would alter the landscape of pharmacy, forever. Initially, it did not go over well.
Next week: How Gene White “revolutionized” his profession.
Roy, Bill and Kenneth
Posted: Jan. 4, 2012
Columns can fall together in odd and mysterious ways. Take this one, for example: The three men you’ll read about below share — or, in two cases, shared — nothing in common save their appearance together in this Valley Pike.
And it becomes odder still when you consider I know, or knew, none of them well — neither Roy Nester, radio voice and Town Crier; Bill Devries, onetime “Washingtonian of the Year”; nor Kenneth Seldon, beloved small businessman.
Nonetheless, serendipity and coincidence, not to mention a certain tardiness on my part, have conspired in such a way that this column is devoted to all three.
Roy
Back in the fall, Jim Wilkins Jr. stopped by with a note — and a gentle request. Jim had just heard from Roy, with whom his family — starting with his dad, Jim Sr. — had enjoyed a long relationship. For years, Roy had cut the radio ads for Wilkins ShoeCenter.
Even after moving to Chambersburg, Pa., Roy would come to Winchester to carry on the tradition. Hence the content of this note that Jim shared with me:
“I’m sorry about the lateness of the bill — but I’ve been sick off and on (mostly on) since last Thanksgiving [2010].
The first client I met in Winchester was your father — and the last one is you. In between we had the kids. It was pleasant working with the Wilkins, and I hope you feel the same about me. I’ll try to stop by every now and then.
Goodbye,
Roy
The note so moved Jimmy that, knowing my proclivity for highlighting the “good old days,” he suggested I consider Roy as a possible column topic. ’Tis better, he said, to acknowledge a man’s contributions while he’s still living than to do so in memoriam.
I agreed, only to let the subject of Roy uncharacteristically sit on the so-called back burner until now. But with a new year comes fresh resolve, and so let it be said that, to that post-war generation of Winchester youngsters, Roy Nester was the voice that livened up the night on WINC, where he spun the latest rock sounds.
Later, he became a fixture at myriad community events — most notably Apple Blossom — as the Town Crier. And, for one local business, the voice of its radio spots.
Roy, you’re not forgotten, and we hope you’re doing well.
Bill
For the better part of a year, I received regular emails — robustly conservative, with all the latest Tea Party doings — from a certain Bill Devries of Berryville. And then they suddenly stopped.
Not until last week, when his son Tom stopped by with a suitcase full of clippings noting his dad’s accomplishments, did I know why. Bill died on Dec. 14.
A human resources executive, Bill was named “Washingtonian of the Year” in 1985 by the Downtown Jaycees after spearheading a grassroots fundraising effort to provide bullet-proof vests for D.C. area law enforcement. After moving to the Valley in 1989, he lent his skills to the Help with Housing organization in Berryville.
Kenneth
In May 2002, I ventured to Yellow Spring, W.Va., for Kenneth Seldon Day, on which an entire community turned out to honor a kind and simple man who, for more than 50 years, ran its general store, aptly named “Riverside Service.” Later, the bridge over the Cacapon River, hard by this local gathering place, was named in his honor.
On New Year’s Eve, Kenneth Seldon passed away at the age of 95. He will be greatly missed.
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