“You should never be proud of doing what’s right. You should just do what’s right.” Coach Dean E. Smith

We’re Tar Heels.

We work hard.

We play hard.

We play smart.

And we always play together.

That was Coach Smith’s credo as remembered by Erskine Bowles during the public celebration of Coach Smith’s life held under the dome of the UNC Student Athletic Center. Bowles, a former UNC system president, is the son of Skipper Bowles and Smith family friend. Skipper chaired the charge for building the basketball arena working alongside with Smith.

It was a very moving day of storytelling, personal and fond memories shared, all to make sure that people now knew as much about their great coach, friend, mentor and father, as possible.

IMG_8755Many have remembered our legendary jewel of a coach, both before and after he passed away this month. He’s a coach who drew attention from the moment he stepped into the hot spotlight that was Carolina basketball. He took over a team that was in trouble not long after winning a national championship. Frank McGuire, his head coach, had left for the NBA. With his hands tied by self imposed restrictions by the university, Smith, as head coach, began to build what became the “Family of Carolina Basketball.”

Fittingly, one of the first to speak was Mickey Bell, a former walk-on player. Bell said that Coach Smith “was the most positive man I ever met. In game defining moments, Coach said things like ‘When we make the free throw, not “if.”‘ He never talked about winning. He only talked about improving.

“Preparation leads to calmness,” continued Bell. “When the Heels were down eight points with 17 seconds to go against Duke, Coach Smith called a timeout. In the team huddle he said, ‘We’re in great shape. Isn’t this fun.'”

I want to share an important part of the Dean Smith story from an article written by John Feinstein and published last year on February 28th to honor Smith’s 83rd birthday. Knowing Dean’s declining health and diminished memory, John recalled and retold a 1981 interview with Smith in which he learned even more about the coach’s character and principals in the game of life. John, an alumnus of Duke, tells it like this:

There’s one story that — to me — defines him. I’ve told it in the past, but it bears re-telling. In 1981, Smith very grudgingly agreed to cooperate with me on a profile for this newspaper. He kept insisting I should write about his players, but I said I had written about them. I wanted to write about him. He finally agreed.

One of the people I interviewed for the story was Rev. Robert Seymour, who had been Smith’s pastor at the Binkley Baptist Church since 1958, when he first arrived in Chapel Hill. Seymour told me a story about how upset Smith was to learn that Chapel Hill’s restaurants were still segregated. He and Seymour came up with an idea: Smith would walk into a restaurant with a black member of the church.

“You have to remember,” Reverend Seymour said. “Back then, he wasn’t Dean Smith. He was an assistant coach. Nothing more.”

Smith agreed and went to a restaurant where management knew him. He and his companion sat down and were served. That was the beginning of desegregation in Chapel Hill.

When I circled back to Smith and asked him to tell me more about that night, he shot me an angry look. “Who told you about that?” he asked.

“Reverend Seymour,” I said.

“I wish he hadn’t done that.”

“Why? You should be proud of doing something like that.”

He leaned forward in his chair and in a very quiet voice said something I’ve never forgotten: “You should never be proud of doing what’s right. You should just do what’s right.”

In their first home game after Coach Smith’s passing , Carolina took on Georgia Tech. Julie and I were standing six feet from the TV expecting something special to happen. It did.

Coach Roy Williams honored his coach and mentor in the best way he knew how. On the first Carolina possession, he raised his hand calling the play. Four fingers signaling Smith’s famous “Four Corners” offense. Play by play announcer Wes Durham, son of legendary Tar Heel sports broadcaster, Woody Durham, caught on quickly as the camera cut to a shot of Roy with his four fingers held up high. I looked over at Julie, smiling through tears and said, “He’s calling for Four Corners!” I choked up as I said in all honesty, “I hated the Four Corners! I hated it. But I love this moment.”

Then Marcus Paige, playing Phil Ford’s position in the center, spotted Brice Johnson cutting to the hoop, threaded a pass to him for a reverse layout. It was one shining moment on the court and a fitting tribute for the coach and to the crowd.  

And I did hate the Four Corners. See, I grew up in a family of die-hard NC State Wolfpack fans who shared their love of the Pack with their kids. We shared the common thrill of gathering around the black and white TV to watch the one camera, silent telecast of NC State games on UNC public television. We’d listen to play by play on the NC State radio broadcast. Yes, we loved the Big Red. So, naturally, we hated Duke and Carolina. Especially Carolina. It seemed like the whole state worshipped Carolina Blue except for the Rileys. And anyone except for UNC fans hated the Four Corners. It controlled the tempo, protected leads, and slowed the game to a snail’s pace. The shot clock took care of that. And yet, Coach Smith’s teams continued to win, year in and year out because he continued to innovate with his players and the game. 

Even while attending UNC from 1971-75, it took me some time to warm up to my own school team. Hard to fathom probably for many of my friends today since I’ve swung full tilt to Carolina Blue over the years. But I still love NC State. It meant family to me growing up, joined in a passion and love for something special. It still means that today. I turned around and gave my kids the same unifying experience of yelling at the TV as my Tar Heels played and we cheered hard together for every victory and loss we could watch while living in Pittsburgh and Atlanta. Cheering for the Heels meant home. Home in North Carolina.

I want to share my own Dean story about when and how I actually met him. I didn’t meet him until I suffered through an embarrassing moment in my career as a fan.

I was working for WPXI-TV in Pittsburgh. Dean’s tradition of putting an early road game on the schedule against a school in or nearby his seniors’ home towns brought the National Champions to Pittsburgh in December of ’93. Kevin Salvadori, was the senior player and native Pittsburgher I had to thank for the Heels’ visit. We had been living in Pittsburgh for eight years. I can only say that a combination of homesickness and an overabundance of championship pride drove me to the depths of “fandamonium.” I secured tickets for the four of us way in advance. As the day drew near, I developed an almost desperate need to score team autographs from this opportunity. After all, they were the reigning National Champions.

Julie bought one of those little commemorative Tar Heels basketballs for me and I took it to the game. We got over to the Civic Arena early enough to see the shootaround. I took my ball and Sharpie courtside and went to the end where the team was warming up. It was me and about 10 kids under 12 years old, hanging around the basket shuffling for attention with our sharpies in our hands. A security guard came over, looked at me with sad acknowledgement before shooing us away. I moved around the corner to behind the team bench and recognized Phil Ford on the floor talking to some folks who obviously belonged on the floor. I yelled, in a whispered voice, “Phil! Phil!” I didn’t catch Phil’s attention, but I did raise the guard’s attention again. He moved over my way and with a look of “Are you serious?” and dismissed me with a wave that strongly suggested that he’d better not see me again. 

We enjoyed watching our team play and defeat Pittsburgh that night, but being so close to the team and not getting many autographs drove me crazy. After the game, as we were leaving the arena, I saw the team bus in the loading dock area. I ushered Julie and the kids to the car in the upper parking lot and went back down near to the bus. There were a few other people standing there where a chain link type gate kept us out of the huge passageway. As I waited, I recognized Eric Montross’s father standing in the small crowd. I had seen him numerous times on TV, watching Eric play. He, like his son, was quite tall. I spoke to him for a minute and he said that the kids would be coming out shortly. Finally, the gate rose and out walked the team. I did get a few autographs which have faded to be almost unreadable. I remember Pat Sullivan took the time to write his name on the ball as did Montross. When I finally got back to the car I met a very unhappy family. How could I leave them to be the last car in the lot? And, it was December and cold. How could I? Only one explanation. I’d become pretty darned invested in my Carolina Tar Heels while living away from home for so long.

Next time up came two years later. Dante Calabria, a sharp-shooting kid from Beaver Falls, PA was the senior. This time, I worked the inside route, asking Sam Nover, our sports director, for advice. He told me to show up at the press entrance. He knew the team was practicing in the early afternoon. He’d leave word at the security gate to let me in.

Although it was not without a moment of pause when the security guard wasn’t so accommodating. This was pre-cell phone days so I couldn’t raise Sam’s attention. He was inside. I was facing an unbelieving guard who didn’t seem to want to go out of his way to verify my story. Thankfully, a more customer service oriented employee stopped by, and took me in. I walked through a long dark hallway that came out right on the Igloo’s floor. It’s an amazing way to enter a building like that. The rows of chairs were laid out filling up the end zone area. I walked down the aisle leading to court from behind the backboard. I came up on a few folks talking in the aisle. One man turned my way, saw me, smiled and said, “Why hello. I’m Bill Guthridge.” I had recognized him in the instant I saw his face and before he spoke. And now it was my turn to explain myself. “Nice to meet you, Coach Guthridge. I’m Steve Riley, class of ’75. I work here in Pittsburgh for WPXI-TV, the NBC affiliate.” Guthridge gave me a very warm handshake. “Well how about that. That’s great. Hey Coach!” he said turning and walking me right up to Coach Smith who was standing nearer to the court where the team was scrimmaging. “This is Steve Riley, class of 75. He works for WPXI-TV here in Pittsburgh!”

“Why hello Steve. It’s great to meet you. Thanks for coming down.” That’s what I remember Coach Smith saying as he gave me a warm handshake. “Hey fellas,” he shouted to guys as they were walking off the court. “Come over here and say hi to Steve Riley, class of ’75. He lives up here in Pittsburgh working for the local TV station, WPXI-TV.” And that’s how I met Coach. And Antawn Jamison, Vince Carter and, of course, Dante Calabria. I had a Sports Illustrated with me that had the Tar Heels on the cover and a Sharpie. Those guys gave me their autographs. Dean gave me something that meant so much more, his hand and recognition.

All through his life Coach SmIMG_8764ith did what was right. He honored the game, our school, our team and the boys who became men all at the same time.

He did win ball games. But he also won hearts.

Rest in peace, DES.


Remembering Hutch


Dad's Best Marine Buddy
Dad’s Best Marine Buddy, Hutch Hutchins


I am so fortunate never to have lost a friend or relative to war. Today, though, as we remember the many who have fallen, I must honor the memory of Lewis Hutchins. “Hutch” was Dad’s best friend in the Marine Corps in which they served during WWII. If you study the headstone above you’ll see that Hutch died on February 19, 1945, just shy of his 23rd birthday.

I first posted this story in 2010. Now, four years later, this piece of history rings as true a bell of American fortitude and courage as anything with which I’ve been personally associated. I’m reposting the full story, now 69 years after the invasion on that little island, 650 important miles away from Tokyo. Even if you have read it before, read it again. Not because I wrote it, but because of the debt we owe today to those men and women who saved our country for us and reading and imagining this real account in honor of those who served, lived and died. They are dwindling in number. My dad lives on to carry on the flag. It will be raised today at 16 Aldersgate Court, in Durham, NC. Of that I am sure. And of that I am surely proud. Thank you Mom and Dad.  

     Steve, Memorial Day, May 26, 2014

FIRST PUBLISHED February 20, 2010

65 Years Ago He Was Staring at Iwo

I was upstairs last night in between a late Friday night dinner and a movie that Julie and I were about to start up. I hadn’t checked my personal email all day and did a quick scan on my iPhone. I saw the message from “Homer Riley” with an scanned attachment. 

Now, Mom and Dad live in a retirement community in Durham, NC. The whole place has been under quarantine for weeks after an outbreak of a virus hit 85 or so of the residents, including Mom and Dad. So an email from them grabbed my attention even more than usual. 

The email subject line read, in all lower case, “iwo jima”. I opened it, thinking the old marine and Iwo veteran had passed on someone else’s pass-along about that historic battle. So I opened it. Written in all caps were these words:

Corporal Homer Riley, USMC
Corporal Homer Riley, USMC






No attribution. No explanation. Just a scanned document from Dad.

I had little sense of Homer’s narrative writing style since he rarely writes more than a few paragraphs at a time, but I felt in my bones that he had written this. 

I stood in the bedroom, stuck in place, reading it over again. I was struck with the immensity of meaning lying in wait inside of each short sentence. The opening put me standing on the side of that ship in his place. I felt the incredible sense of mission and duty which he stated in such a matter of fact manner. Its poignant but clipped ending summed up the force, courage, fear, death, survival, and victory, almost as if to say, “That’s all there is to say about that.” 

Almost as if on queue, my phone rang. It was Dad. I told him that I had, at that moment, just finished reading his email. 

“Well,” he said, “Today is the 65th Anniversary of Iwo. No one has mentioned it anywhere; not on the TV, not in the papers or radio, so I just decided that I would write about it.

“There are more details that I could put in there but I decided to leave them out. It might be too much for most to read.” And then he went on to tell me more.

“One thing I remember was what the captain said that morning before the assault. ‘Men, we’re serving you steak and eggs for breakfast today. You might wonder why steak and eggs. Well, for many of you it will be your last breakfast. We want it to be a good one.’ 

“How’s that for optimism?,” Dad chuckled. 

“Dad, I can’t tell you how glad we are that it wasn’t your last breakfast,” I countered. 

“Well, I just wanted to make sure that you got it because I was getting a kickback on your email address. I tried your .mac account, then your gmail, then Julie’s.”

“I didn’t know you could scan stuff,” I said. 

“Never have, but I wasn’t sure how to get the document into the email, so I printed it and scanned it. It seemed to work.”

That’s my dad in a nutshell. When he needs to, he figures stuff out because he’s just built that way.

I told him how much I loved him and appreciated what he and his fellow soldiers did to save the world. He said, “Well, I just thought someone should write something and maybe it was my turn.” That’s a marine for you. They don’t wait around for others to act. They “do”.

We hung up. I couldn’t move. For years Dad would not raise the subject of the war. He talked only about the Corp, the unity of mission, the boot camp hard lessons learned that he’s lived by for the rest of his life. But not about the war, not until he’d been retired for a while and was given more to reflection and storytelling. That’s when I heard about his friend, Hutch, who died on Iwo, shot in a foxhole a 100 yards away from him. 

And now, he’s writing about things. And I thank God and Country for him every moment, and for the 65 years of sunrises he’s witnessed since then. Maybe it’s that appreciation of living that gets him up so early every morning. Or maybe he’s just built that way. Whatever. History tells the rest of the story. 

Then, the night that I posted this story, the phone rang. It was our Atlanta friend, Vicki Lockhart. She’d just finished reading it. She knew who Hutch was!

The Coincidence of Living and Dying

It was one word  in the very last part of the Saturday, February 20, 2010 posting about the 65th anniversary of Iwo Jima that sparked a connection that raised Dad’s remembrance of the day to a new level of “small world inside of the biggest of wars”.

That’s when I heard about Dad’s friend, Hutch, who died on Iwo, shot in his foxhole 100 yards away from him. 

I sent out the email link to my posting at 5:59 p.m. on a self-imposed deadline to get it out that day, one day after Dad reminded me of the anniversary. Julie and I were rushing to leave for a charity event in town, but I kept working the effort it takes to publish to the website in between showering and shaving. 

I verified that it was up and all square even while Julie waited with a slight amount of impatience, sent the link to my blog list of semi-subscribers/conscripted list of friends and colleagues, and off we went. 

Two hours later Julie saw that she had received a voice mail from our friend, Vicki Lockhart. Julie listened to it as we walked to the car on our way to the second event of the night, Val Ashton’s surprise birthday party. 

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “You’re not going to believe this but Vicki read your blog and says that Hutch was Dave’s uncle! We’ve got to call them.” We jumped into the car and I quickly checked my email before we pulled out. There were two from Vicki. 

7:58 p.m. Hutch is David’s Uncle (his Mom’s brother)!  His last name was Hutchins.  All the marines called him Hutch.  He died at Iwo.  His brother (another Hutchins) was on the ship as well.  He survived.  The family is from Hillsborough, NC – they had 10 children.  Betty Sue Hutchins is David’s Mom. 

7:59 p.m. David’s Dad was on USS Fayette.  They have been trying to find out what ship Hutch was on.  See if your Dad knows.

I can’t begin to describe how excited the prospect of this connection made us all. If it turned out to be true, it would make Dad’s remembrance even more special. We called the Lockharts. Vicki’s husband, Dave, got on the phone and retold the small fragment of information that has become the family lore of Hutch’s death in combat. 

Hutch and his brother were both Marines and in the attack on Iwo. All the family knew about how Hutch died was that “he got it” on Iwo. Dave couldn’t wait to call his mother to tell her. He said that we needed to get her and Dad together. 

After I got home I checked a newspaper article from Veterans Day 2008 in which Dad told of the loss of his buddy, Lewis Hutchinson, not “Hutchins”. And the article said that Hutchinson was from Durham, not  Hillsborough. Too close not to be the same young man, but still, I wasn’t completely convinced. Not yet.

With some mild feeling of disappointment I sent an email to Vicki copying the information from the article with the seeds of doubt.

Sunday morning I found more emails from Vicki. She had been working it already. 

7:44 a.m. His first name WAS Lewis – the other brother was Herbie.  At first I was writing Hutchinson as Betty Sue’s last name – then David reminded me it was Hutchins so that is an easy mistake to make.

A call to Dad erased any doubt. First, I told him that I had shared his memory in my blog and that it taken quite an interesting turn. I asked him if Hutch’s name was “Hutchinson” or “Hutchins”. Dad said that the newspaper got the name confused. His buddy was Lewis “Hutch” Hutchins. That’s when I told him about the direct link to Hutch’s family and our friends, the Lockharts. He remembered that Hutch had a little brother serving as well who was in the battle but Dad couldn’t recall his name. I asked if “Herbie” rang a bell. “Yep! That’s it all right. Herbie Hutchins.” 

“Well,” he said. “My little story has unraveled something hasn’t it.” 

“Yep, it sure has,” I replied. “Dave wants you and his mother, Hutch’s sister, Betty Sue Hutchins, to get together.”

“We’ll have to do that,” he replied. 

“I’ll let you know what develops next,” I said. “Meanwhile, check your email and read the blog.”

We hung up and I started to write this update to, as we call it at Channel 2, a developing story. 

Then, the phone rang and it was Vicki.

“You are not going to believe what I just found out!” she said. 

Shink, Joe, Hervey, Hutch & Homer

“Remember that Dave’s mother, Betty Sue, is one of ten children in the Hutchins family,” said Vicki. “She and Hutch have a sister who lives here in Atlanta and I just got off the most amazing phone call with her. Her given name is Ophelia, but everyone has always called her ‘Shink’.

“I phoned her this morning and before I could  begin to tell her about your father’s story and Hutch, she told me that she was watching Clint Eastwood’s film, ‘Letters from Iwo Jima’, on AMC. She always watched anything that was about Iwo Jima because of her two brothers, Hutch and Hervey, even something from the Japanese point of view. 

“She said that watching that movie made her remember her brother, Hutch, and, are you ready for this? His best buddy in the service, Homer Riley!

“I about flipped when she said that,” Vicki exclaimed, so totally caught up in how this whole story continued wrapping around our families. “I was writing down everything Shink said on scraps of paper, napkins, anything I could find, just to keep up with her conversation. I’ll type it up shortly and send it to you, but I just had to call,” Vicki said like a full pot of coffee.

And now I was the one scribbling down everything Vicki was telling me. I was also fighting back the tears that welled up the instant she said that Shink was thinking of my father. It was like a cosmic connection between people going on without any of them knowing…until now. All that I could muster was a sobby, “You’re kidding me.”

“And,” Vicki continued, “Shink said that hearing about this old friendship so many years later was just a treasure. She repeated it, ‘Just a treasure’ as if she was saying it to herself deep in thought. She often wondered how Homer and Martha were doing. 

“Steve, Shink is just so sweet, so calm, so Southern, with so much to share,” Vicki reflected. “I just loved listening to her talk. Your dad must call her. She remembers your mom and worked with her at Duke Hospital in Durham during the war.”

From what Vicki said, Shink clearly remembered that Dad had returned to his hometown of Durham after the war to his wife and childhood sweetheart, Martha. They had married before he shipped out.

Then Vicki told her all about the story that Dad had written to recognize Iwo on its 65th anniversary and how the brief mention of Homer’s friend “Hutch” who “got it” on Iwo caught her attention, how she and Dave knew Julie and me, of our friendship over the last decade, and that I was Homer’s son. Vicki read the information from the 2008 Durham newspaper article detailing Dad’s life to Shink. 

“That’s so nice,” she told Vicki, “So nice to know that he was able to go on and live such a wonderful life, and to know that he’s still alive and well.”

She said that she had always worried that Homer would not have forgiven her for an act of a teenager. The reason boiled down to a change of heart.

“After my brothers had left for the Marines, I started dating a young man named Joe Cassidy,” Shink explained to Vicki. “Joe was from New England. He was a medic in the Marines and our paths crossed at Duke Hospital. He was very interesting. I liked him but I was too young to really know my feelings. All of those boys wanted a sweetheart or someone back home who would care. We dated until Joe shipped out to serve in the Pacific. 

“One day in the Philippines, during R&R, Joe was showing some service buddies the photograph that I had given him to carry and remember me by. Someone said, ‘Hey, what are you doing with a picture of my sister!’ Joe, who was all of five foot seven inches tall, looked up and met my brother Hutch for the first time. Hutch, a strikingly handsome fellow, 6’ 2” tall, towered over Joe and I don’t think Joe was quite sure what would happen next.

“‘Well, your sister is my girlfriend,’ Joe said. Hutch flashed that smiled that we all loved so dearly and said, ‘Well now, if you’re my sister’s boyfriend, you’re now one of my best buddies.’

“From then on, Hutch included Joe in his circle of friends and that’s how my Joe met Homer Riley,” Shink continued, reaching back into the story she had thought about so many times over the years, remembering just how small a world at war could be. “Those boys watched out for each and did everything together.”

“And that’s why Homer comes to mind when I think of Iwo. He and my brother were such good friends.”

So why would Homer harbor a grudge against Ophelia? 

“We were just kids,” she told Vicki. “Teenagers. And while Joe was overseas I broke up with him. I sent him a “Dear John” letter. I don’t think Homer appreciated the fact that I would treat his buddy that way. I still have a little charm bracelet tucked away in my jewelry box that Joe sent to me from Iwo Jima. I see it each time that I open up that box.

Lewis “Hutch” Hutchins was 19 when he signed up.  He was 6’ 2”, kind of thin and very handsome. He was known as an exceptional young man. The family expected great things of him because he was so highly regarded.  

Shink remembers him as seeming to never make a mistake. He was always caring and thoughtful. Hutch performed a lot of military service before he went into combat. He was chosen to represent the Marines in recruiting and at funerals.  

The family remembers with pride that he was one of the men raising the American flag on Saipan. He was 23 when he died on that first day on Iwo Jima.

Hervey, Hutch’s younger brother, signed up for the Marines when he was only 17. At first his father refused to sign the papers since Hervey was underage. Eventually he relented to his son’s insistence that he was going to serve with Lewis. 

So Hutch, Homer, Hervey and Joe became tight friends as they served in some of the roughest battles in the Pacific together, until Iwo took their strapping brother and brother in arms from them. 

“As the story goes, Hervey was wounded that first day on Iwo,” Shink recounted. “Recovering on a hospital ship just off of the island, the word got back to him that ‘Hutch got it.’ Hervey immediately left his ship against protocol and went back to the island to find his brother.  While he was wandering amid all of the chaos of battle looking for his brother he ran into Joe Cassidy. Joe convinced him to let the medics take care of things and that he needed to get back to the hospital ship.  Hervey’s original ship was headed back to the States with the wounded but he missed that one. He later boarded another hospital ship that stayed in the Pacific until it eventually sailed home to California. 

The Marines offered to give him a medical discharge and he refused it.  The family is not sure of any wounds but believe it was shellshock/trauma.  Hervey stayed in the Marines and was in the reserves when he died.”

This was the only account of what happened to Hutch that the family ever knew. It was all by which they were given to remember their son and brother; a lifetime boiled down to three words that have lasted 65 years. “Hutch got it.” 

It was years later, but the men reunited briefly after the war when Hutch’s remains came home to North Carolina. 

“It meant a lot to my family,” Shink remembered to Vicki, “that Homer and Martha, Joe Cassidy, and another friend in the service, Billy Dickerson, all attended the memorial service at Pleasant Green.” It meant enough for her to carry that memory for 60 some years.

I called my dad again later that Sunday afternoon and told him about Vicki’s conversation with Shink. He remembered meeting her at the funeral. He thought it sweet that she remembered him and Mom. After a quiet moment on the phone he broke the pause, “Hey, I’ve got a funny story about Hutch. We were on liberty in Honolulu, and a bunch of us went out to have lunch. The little girl at the soda shop said they had really good apple pie.

“So I ordered the apple pie a la Mode. All of the other guys said they wanted the same. Hutch was the last to order and he said, ‘I would like that apple pie too but would you add some vanilla ice cream on top of mine?’” 

I thought, what a bunch of cut ups, out for a burger in a diner in Hawaii. All just being the young men that they were. All thinking about something as American as apple pie, and laughing at a silly joke a la Mode. None knowing what was to come, but each one knowing that hell lay 45 days away from Honolulu on a seemingly insignificant island call Iwo Jima.

As Vicki suggested, Homer and Martha put in a call to Shink. Dad called me afterwards to say that he’d completed the circle. “She was very sweet,” said Dad. “We enjoyed a pleasant conversation remembering old times. 

“Hey, I just might write something else,” he said and chuckled. “That first one worked out pretty well.”