It is a shame that Charlie Dillon is dead. In grade school, he was probably the poorest boy in the school. One time we made him the Class Treasurer, voted for him for Treasurer, as a joke. The teacher said she hoped we voted for him in good faith, but feared we had voted for him as a joke. When Charlie was told he was Treasurer, he said, "Give me the money." We all laughed. At that time the nuns ran a candy store during recess and lunch, where I could buy five pieces of licorice for five cents. That was my daily budget, five cents. With that licorice in my pocket, I could sit and eat licorice the rest of the school day, breaking a small piece off from each stick in my pocket, one at a time. We were not supposed to eat in class, but I did, and never got caught.
I met Charlie Dillon years later, at a library, probably in Dunbar, WV, as we had moved from St. Albans about 1965. I guess I did not graduate from St. Francis as I went to Blessed Sacrament in 8th grade. Charlie was the same soft spoken charlie I had known in grade school, but one thing was different, he was getting around by hitchhiking, on the interstate! He said to me, in confidence, "One thing you know for sure when you get on an entrance ramp on the interstate, is that they are going to the next town." (not just around the corner).
I used that fact, later, to hitchhike all the way from WV to Austin, Texas, and Lawton, Oklahoma and back. All you need is a list of towns between you and your destination. When a driver stops, he has to be going to one of the towns on your list. I heard that one man had hitchhiked from Washington State to New York in 72 hours, wearing an army uniform. (At one time, anyone wearing a uniform of the US armed services could get a ride.)
I am surprised to hear that Charlie is dead. On the other hand, again, poverty is a prison and he was poor. Death doth often make prisoners of the living. They don't remember us, but we remember them. I will always remember Charlie as I last saw him, wearing a lumberjacks flannel shirt, and long pants, in a library. Whenever I didn't know what to do, I went to a library. I always found something there, a book, a person, something I needed to see, a video, a dvd, something good. Again, may Charlie Dillon's soul be rested. Charlie, I can't believe you are dead! In Africa, a man is not dead until the last person who remembers him is dead. Charlie will always be alive, (and very, very soft-spoken), in the hearts and minds of those who knew him.
Dan Russo
It is a shame that Charlie Dillon is dead. In grade school, he was probably the poorest boy in the school. One time we made him the Class Treasurer, voted for him for Treasurer, as a joke. The teacher said she hoped we voted for him in good faith, but feared we had voted for him as a joke. When Charlie was told he was Treasurer, he said, "Give me the money." We all laughed. At that time the nuns ran a candy store during recess and lunch, where I could buy five pieces of licorice for five cents. That was my daily budget, five cents. With that licorice in my pocket, I could sit and eat licorice the rest of the school day, breaking a small piece off from each stick in my pocket, one at a time. We were not supposed to eat in class, but I did, and never got caught.
I met Charlie Dillon years later, at a library, probably in Dunbar, WV, as we had moved from St. Albans about 1965. I guess I did not graduate from St. Francis as I went to Blessed Sacrament in 8th grade. Charlie was the same soft spoken charlie I had known in grade school, but one thing was different, he was getting around by hitchhiking, on the interstate! He said to me, in confidence, "One thing you know for sure when you get on an entrance ramp on the interstate, is that they are going to the next town." (not just around the corner).
I used that fact, later, to hitchhike all the way from WV to Austin, Texas, and Lawton, Oklahoma and back. All you need is a list of towns between you and your destination. When a driver stops, he has to be going to one of the towns on your list. I heard that one man had hitchhiked from Washington State to New York in 72 hours, wearing an army uniform. (At one time, anyone wearing a uniform of the US armed services could get a ride.)
I am surprised to hear that Charlie is dead. On the other hand, again, poverty is a prison and he was poor. Death doth often make prisoners of the living. They don't remember us, but we remember them. I will always remember Charlie as I last saw him, wearing a lumberjacks flannel shirt, and long pants, in a library. Whenever I didn't know what to do, I went to a library. I always found something there, a book, a person, something I needed to see, a video, a dvd, something good. Again, may Charlie Dillon's soul be rested. Charlie, I can't believe you are dead! In Africa, a man is not dead until the last person who remembers him is dead. Charlie will always be alive, (and very, very soft-spoken), in the hearts and minds of those who knew him.