Time and Paddle Balls

Time and Paddle Balls
By Jay

Every fall for the past seven years (except one when I was seriously ill), I go away for two nights and three days to a camp in the Appalachians on the North Carolina / Virginia line.  It is a good two hour ride from Charlotte  --  scenic and pretty along the way as you near your destination on windy, hilly roads.  Situated and secluded at a high elevation, the view from camp can be breathtaking at various times of the day, especially in the morning when the clouds settle on the trees in the valley below and at night when the setting sun assumes various reddish and orange hues on the horizon.  It is the perfect place for a painter to rest his easel and set about delineating the picturesque views that the area has to offer. 

I attend this camp with nearly fifty middle schoolers as well as my colleagues where we participate in various activities from hiking to canoeing to zip-lining.  The camp has been there many years, and of course, my curious eye is always eager to catch something to spark my imagination.  Usually, it is the majestic views of the foothills during the day or perhaps the dark star filled sky at night unhindered by the bothersome lights and noise of the city.  Sometimes, it is the many deer I see grazing in a distant field.  And other times, it might be watching some tiny piece of driftwood glide smoothly down the Neuse river until it disappears completely from my view.  Mostly, it is nature which gets me to thinking and reflecting and appreciating the tiny and precious amount of time available in this sad but beautiful world.  But this time it was different.  This time it was a small plaque that was hanging in the gym beside the stage which set my imagination whirring. 

I had seen this plaque every year since I first started coming to the camp six years before.  I suppose I read it the first year and gazed upon it every succeeding year I came; however, this year I did more than just give it a passing nod.  I stood before it and wondered just what it was all about and why it was in the gym where  dozens of exuberant and energetic middle schoolers were shooting baskets, tossing footballs, and kicking soccer balls, some screaming at the top of their lungs and others just laughing and running around. 

The plaque read:

 

James Emory Gibson Jr.

1920-1963

Y.M.C.A. Camp Council 1960-1963

“A Friend of Youth”

 

I suppose what really struck me at first was the short life span of Mr. Gibson.  Forty-three is not very old.  I wondered what could have possibly happened to him.  He had hardly entered middle age, and was a year younger than my present number.  I thought of myself and my own cancer of three years, and of course, realized that no one was guaranteed their three score and ten.  I don’t know what caused Mr. Gibson’s early death, but I do realize that I’m fortunate to have cancer in 2012 rather than 1963.  With all the advances in research and technology, what would have been a certain death sentence to me a mere fifteen years ago, has extended my life by at least three years!  Hopefully, as long as my body continues to accept the medication that I’m on, I will live another three years  --  perhaps longer.  As I looked upon the plaque, I could not help but empathize with the late Mr. Gibson, and I soon found myself just wondering what kind of a man he was.  Obviously, I knew nothing about him except for what was on the plaque.  I didn’t even think of asking any of the camp counselors, for they were only kids themselves, most of them born over a quarter of a century after Mr. Gibson breathed his last.  Even the older staff at the camp…  Surely, no one would remember him…  Forty-nine years had elapsed since Mr. Gibson had been declared “A Friend of Youth”.  The youth then would now be senior citizens.  And even if I did ask someone, what kind of a look would I get?  Why do you want to know?  Not too many people would understand my curiosity concerning a long forgotten plaque in an isolated gymnasium deep in the Appalachians. 

So I did the next best thing…  I transported myself back in time  --  to the early 1960’s.  But I wondered if even the gym was that old.  So as I looked out at the sprawling hills and grass and cabins which made up the camp, I could almost see a man: tall and fit, with shorts and white tennis shoes,  a blond crew cut and cotton collared shirt with a whistle around his neck…  Could this be James Emory Gibson Jr.?  Of course, I had no idea what he looked like.  For all I knew, he was short, plump and dark-haired with a scraggly beard.  But this was not how I saw him.  There were several children surrounding him – 1960’s style dress – boys in dress shorts and tennis shoes with short crew cuts  --  girls in dresses and pig-tails, and they all seemed to be in the process of playing kick ball or dodge ball or some ball game  --  the image was not clear.

I was awakened by the sound of “Duck, Mr. Hipkins!”  And I squinted and cringed, hunching my shoulders as a basketball came inches from striking me in the back of the head.  This brought me back to reality, and before I knew it, I was in amongst the kids, shooting sky hooks and jump shots and having a grand old time.  “The Friend of Youth” was forgotten, but not for long.

I decided to do a quick Google search when I got home a few days later, not expecting to find anything in regards to Mr. Gibson.  What I did find surprised me, though perhaps it should not have.  Apparently, Mr. Gibson’s father, Gibson Sr. started a company (Fliback) in the early 1930’s based out of, I believe, High Point, North Carolina, specializing in the production of “simple toys such as spinning tops, yo-yo’s, balloons, rubber balls, etc…”  according to Gibson Sr.’s grandson, Gibson III.  When Gibson Sr. retired, Gibson Jr. took over the company and expanded production adding many other toys.  Apparently, Gibson Jr. was on his way to doubling the size of the company by creating a second plant when he unfortunately passed away.  Their greatest achievement though seemed to be the invention, or at least modification, of the paddle ball.  How many times did I play with one of these as a child in the school yard, Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!   I also remember one featured prominently in the Vincent Price movie The House of Wax  -- a fellow standing outside the museum using one to startle the audience of the time, who would have viewed the original movie in 3-D in 1953.  What fun and enjoyment have millions of children had with these over the eighty odd years they’ve been in existence!  A string, a ball, and a piece of wood…  “simple”…  nothing fancy…  nothing complicated or gadget-like about them…  Do children even play with these anymore?  I haven’t seen one in years, but then, have I really been looking?  It seems that all children like playing with these days have to do with computers or game systems  --  electronics and things that go beep, crash and explode. They even watch movies now when they get in the car and go on trips… Of course, they still like to throw balls around and such, but that seems to be only when the electronic gadgets are not available to them…    

The paddle ball…  a different time…  a different era…  a simpler age…  an age where Gibson Sr. and Jr., father and son, like old St. Nick, set about making all kinds of toys in their factory…  simple…  innocent…  imaginative, and fun! 

I can now see the sun going down on the horizon at the camp.  In the twilight, a dim figure emerges from a path in the woods.  He is tall and fit, and a whistle is around his neck.  Yet, lo!  What is in his hand?  I strain my eyes in the distance…  Is it a paddle ball?...  Yes, it is!   Dozens of children are now following him from the path and onto the field where they surround him in a large circle, each holding his and her paddle ball.  He blows his whistle and alas!...  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!  The deafening sound echoes into the valley below, perhaps just for the evening…  perhaps for all time, or at least as long as this forgotten plaque has a prominent place in this remote gymnasium within the wild of the Appalachians.   James Emory Gibson Jr.: Truly, “A Friend of Youth”.