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“I’ve been in a lot of accidents’”
the cut and bleeding man on the
stretcher said, “but this is the sor
est I’ve been yet.” It was easy to
understand why. His right eye was
all but closed by a severfe lacera
tion just above it. His body, strip
ped to the waist, had ugly gashes
on it.
At the moment he was in the
hall of a New Bern hospital, wait
ing his turn in the emergency
room and the X-ray room. His com
panions, more seriously injured,
were getting first attention. They
were pretty badly broken up, and
in shock.
A friend of the man, hearing his
remark about “a lot of accidents”
revealed that he had indeed been
in at least a dozen accidents in
the past. Through the kindness of
Fate he had survived them 'all, but
obviously they didn’t teach him
much in the way of traffic safety.
On this latest occasion he wasn’t
driving—at least not when the
crash occurred. It was one of those
uncalled for, one-vehicle wrecks,
with speed and half empty whis
key bottles mixed up in it.
The car didn’t make a curve,
and crashed into an embankment.
Fortunately, no other automobile
was involved. Had a car come along
about that time, the carnage might
have been terrible.
To a newspaper man—long sick
of viewing mutilated mortals, dead
or alive, it was a thing to ponder.
. How, we wondered, could a human
; being cheat death repeatedly in a
dozen or more wrecks, anieh^ill
take- them strictty-in stride?
Apparently, there is little thet
anyone can do to alter the view
point like that. What can be done
to educate a man, or frighten him,
for the sake of highway safety,
when shattered glass, twisted met
al, and spilled blood, don’t con
front him with grim warning
signs?
_ We are reconciled to the fact
that this man, and others like him,
can’t be bothered with figures and
statistics. However, if you’re less
complacent, these calculations—ar
rived at by experts—might interest
you.
It takes just seven-tenths of a
second, according to the Washing
ton, D. C., Star, for a man to die
in an automobile crash, when he
crashes into a tree while travelling
55 miles an hour. Cornell and Yale
universities figured that out, after
years of accurate study.
It takes one-tenth of a second
for the bumper and grill work to
collapse. Steel slivers penetrate
the tree to depths of one and one-
half inches.
It takes two-tenths of a second
from the instant of impact for the
hood to crumble as it rises, smash
ing into the windshield. Grillwork
disintegrates. The fenders contact
the tree, forcing the rear parts
to splay out over the front doors.
At three-tenths of a second, the
driver rises from his seat, torso
upright, his broken knees pressing
against the dashboard. The steering
wheel begins to bend under his
death grip.
At four-tenths of a second, the
car’s front two-feet has been com
pletely demolished, but the rear
end is still travelling at 55 miles
an hour. The half-ton motorblock
crunches into the tree. The rear of
the car, like a bucking horse, rises
High enough to scrape the bark off
the low branches.
At five-tenths of a second, the
driver’s fear-frozen hands bend the
steering column into an almost ver
tical position. The force of gravity
impales him on the steering wheel
shaft. Jagged steel punctures his
lungs and arteries. Blood spurts
into his lungs.
At six-tenths of a second, the
force of the impact rips the driv
er’s feet from his tightly-laced
(Continued on back page)
The NEW BERN
'nMED WEEKLY
'•T OF
" C.
VOLUME 2
NEW BERN, N. C., FRIDAY, MAY 22, 1959
NUMBER b
..oyiXE A Civithij CluB 'Was only one
of 76 represented at the North Carolina Convention in Ashe--
ville, but other clubs from the mountains to the sea could
n’t compete with the accomplishments of the local organiza-
tipn^this year. New Bern copped all of the most coveted
aw^ards, landed the convention for next year, and got its
president, D. Livingstone Stallings, unanimously elected
Lieutenant Governor.—Photo by Billy Benners.
Town's Teen Agers Revive
Barber Shop Singing Style
When you get right down to it,
there may not have been too much
really good about New Bern’s good
old days. *
Sentiment notwithstanding. Time
plays tricks on you, and a lot of the
things we look back to with fond
ness were actually more of an in
convenience than pleasurable, -liv
However, allow us to step forth
and assert that something pretty
wonderful went by the boards
when those barbershop quartets of
old faded into oblivion.
Four boys standing on a corner,
after their dates sent them on
their way, could do a grand job
with the harmony invested in a
song like “Sweet Adeline”, “Dear
Old Girl”, or “You Wore A Tulip.”
They were at their best with a
tune that had lingering high notes,
and an abundance of drippy pa
thos. The high tenor, if he was a
good one, sent chills up and down
your spine. It made you sad, but
sadness loosened up your heart
and made you feel noble clear
down to your gizzard.
Although the old-time quartet
was at its best in the enchanting
glow of a street lamp, such a
group was also able to acquit it
self most favorably on a Sunday
school picnic, cruising in the moon
light down Neuse river on the
Steamer S. J. Phillips, or around a
piano in somebody’s parlor.
For the information of young
whipper-snappers who revel today
in the discordant savage chants of
rock and roll, we hasten to add
that the barbershop quartet that
thrilled Grandma and Grandpa
shouldn’t be confused with modern-
day drunks who launch into “Sweet
Adeline” after complete alcoholic
saturation.
You didn’t have to get tight to
sing harmony in the old days. Most
definitely, you didn’t have to get
tight to enjoy it.
As a matter of fact, the lad who
could sing invariably had the in
side track with the maidens of his
choice. Even if he was pigeon-
breasted and had a face that would
frighten a ghost in broad open day
light, a melodic set of pipes was
all he needed to .start feminine
tickers palpitating wildly.
Hence, it gives us no little satis
faction to view with pride the rec
ognition that barbershop singing
is getting at New Bern High school
as of now. Instead of a quartet,
Donald Smith—that versatile Tiny
Tim of the school’s music depart
ment—has come up with a barber
shop octet.
In all candor, we are not con
vinced that a barbershop octet is
NBHS BARBERSHOP OCTET
twice as good as a barbershop
quartet. Yet, these youngsters at
New Bern High are not only talent
ed, but thanks to the Little Profes
sor, have been able to catch the
mood of authentic barbershop sing
ing.
Close your eyes, when they blend
their voices together, and you can
ramble back through the years to
the golden days that exist now
only on Memory Lane. If they don’t
feel for all the world like Grandpa
used to feel, they’re pulling a con
vincing bluff and we love them
for it.
Most of all we’re grateful to
Smith himself for his wide appreci
ation of all types of music. Un
like some musicians well versed
in the classics, he is blessed with
enough common sense to recognize
that music doesn’t necessarily have
to be highbrow to deserve a place
in the realm of American melody.
In this connection, it can also
be said that Dave Walters—the
band director at New Bern High
school—shares Smith’s attitude.
Like Donald, Dave is on speaking
terms with the classics, but anyone
who has heard the arrangements
he cooks up for the high school’s
Dixieland combo is convinced that
Walters is no stranger among the
hep cats.
Who knows, if the pendulum
swings far enough, the new gene
ration and their parents and grand
parents may end up patting their
feet to the same songs. After all,
Tom Dooley has been buried at
long last. Maybe Stagger Lee and
Slow Talking George will depart
in due time top.
That, Indeed, will be the day!
.4
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