My all-time favorite headlines

     This weekend marks the seventh anniversary of my all-time favorite headline. Not that one. This one: 

     That's how the Charlotte Observer captured the moment in 2007 when our little Appalachian State football team conquered Michigan.
 Sports Illustrated declared it "Alltime Upset" on a cover suitable for framing. But leave it to the old-time headline writers in Charlotte to make it majestic, just for us. Just like local newspapers used to do. 

 Never has more been said in just 10 counts.
 Of course, App-elation! was the way we felt up here in the mountains after the unbelievable drama and the unimaginable triumph. Mary and I held hands as we listened to the final heart-wrenching moments on radio. That's the only time I can ever remember a football game bringing tears to my eyes.
 App-elation! declared the seismic shock to the rest of the state in a way that no one could miss nor misunderstand. 
 App-elation! was also a pun mocking the way the TV announcers mispronounced Appa-latch-un, a Yankee indignity that only heightened our accomplishment. 
 App-elation! even got the hyphen right, which is more than I can say for Sports Illustrated.
 Maybe best of all, App-elation! was a newspaper loosening its necktie and coming down from its ivory tower to join the party—bringing along a 96-point exclamation point just for fun. Newspapers aren't supposed to take sides, which makes it all the more memorable when they do. (Lest we forget, the Detroit Free Press headlined that game APPALLING.)
 Appellation, appropriately, means a name, or the act of naming. That's what great headlines do. In moments like these, newspapers write history, the front page becomes a keepsake, and a great headline deserves to be autographed.
 Great headlines stick in your mind like a song. The best ones orchestrate multiple messages and nuanced puns.
 I wish I had kept a file of the best headlines I've seen over the years. I've been blessed to be there for the birth of a few of them. One moment, a fine bylined story is lying headless on the page. Deadline is only moments away. Then inspiration bursts out of nowhere, sort of like Armanti Edwards, and suddenly an anonymous ink-stained editor has the opportunity to make memories and express history in one-tenth of a tweet.

 Here are some of my favorites from my Civil War newspaper:

 And from my sportswriting days, here are a few more unforgettable headlines:

Shaw, Shank: Redemption 
 Lots of headlines borrow from movie and book titles. Too often, it's a stretch, like one I wrote about a Georgia comeback: "Dog Day After Swoon." But this headline in The State condensed all the key elements of last year's Missouri-South Carolina football game: a jailbreak performance by wounded quarterback Connor Shaw, a shanked kick that would have won the game for Missouri, and the championship implications for the Gamecocks. 

Madonna and the babe truth story

 My aunt Viola Griffin played in the girls' professional baseball league that inspired the movie, "A League of Their Own." While our sports editor Dan Foster was on vacation, I wrote a column about her experiences on the movie set and in Cooperstown. The headline is a play on "The Babe Ruth Story," a 1948 biopic that some critics call the worst movie ever made.

E Pluribus Union
 Monte Dutton once wrote an essay for The Greenville News about high school football in Union County, S.C. Two of the county's three schools were state champions, and the third program was on life support. That headline turned prophetic just a few years later when Union, Jonesville, and Lockhart consolidated into one school. Then they truly became the Latin we all know from the penny, E Pluribus Unum—Out of many, one.  

Tigers are 10-8-cious

 The Greenville News immortalized the score of Clemson's tenacious victory against Lawrence Taylor and North Carolina, the pivotal game on the way to the 1981 national championship. 
 And speaking of LT … 

Plunkett Plucks Theismann's Heisman

 Thanks to this headline, I remember the results of the Heisman Trophy voting from 1970 better than 2013. I've always attributed this one to Phil Batson at the Anderson Independent, but now that I think about it, in 1970 Phil was probably still down in Due West serving as manager for Red Myers, Elmer "Skip" Goley, and the Erskine College Flying Fleet. (There's some raw material for headlines.)
 Phil wrote some fine headlines and talked me into staying in the newspaper business when I was thinking about becoming a computer programmer. 
 One rule Phil taught me: If it's a good headline, it fits. Rearrange the page if you have to, but always make room for a good headline. 
 Times sure have changed. No matter how much we pull for the underdogs, newspapers and headline writers have no better chances anymore than Appalachian State does in Saturday's rematch with Michigan. But this remains true:
 Good headlines always fit.
 They always will. 

#LASTPRINTISSUE
     It's not so often that the news guys get to sprinkle sarcasm as liberally as we did in sports. Newsweek's last cover was like a bloody note scrawled by a murder victim, hash-tagging the villain.

Miracle: 327 survive
      A plane in Spain fell mainly into the cliched clutches of old-school headline writers, who dwelt on the death toll: "55 die in Spain crash."
      But on the day USA TODAY was born, an editor there had the wisdom to headline the real story: "327 survive."
      That headline set the tone for the early years of USA TODAY, when it revolutionized journalism. Now, the company has laid off almost all its headline writers.

The Elephant in the Room

     This was TIME magazine's epithet for Gov. Chris Christie, weeks before he blew his E-ZPass for the Republican presidential nomination. Even his own pachydermic party treats him like a fat kid. Nobody likes him but voters. 

Pardon these puns

     You've heard of the fellow who entered a pun contest, sending in ten of his best, hoping that at least one would win. Alas, no pun in ten did. 
     Sometimes I wonder what puns were on his "list of likely losers" (as Leonard Post-Toasties used to say). 
     What if he squeezed and tortured the disclaimer "no pun intended" for all ten?
     His couldn't have been any worse than mine, right? 
     Pardon me while I get these out of my system:

Asking for trouble in Washington Square

     10. My daughter Marta often lunches in Manhattan near Washington Square Park, where the chess players hang out. There are some slick cheaters in that crowd, and if you're not careful, they'll swipe your pieces in a New York minute. Leave no pawn untended. 
     9. The street vendor at the fish-and-chips cart tells Marta to ignore any stray shrimp she may find in her basket. No prawn intended. And what if she wants a fish sandwich instead? Fuhgeddaboutit! No bun intended. 
     8. Your dollar bill declares that it is legal tender for all debts, public and private. But nobody wants your pennies anymore. No penny tendered.

     7. A pun walks into a Caribbean bar. The bartender shakes his head and points to a sign that says: "No puns in Trinidad." (or) A pun walked into a bar and shot 10 groan-ups. Pun in, ten dead.
     6. Noah's favorite animals on the ark were two small horses. He made his family take care of all the other animals, while Noah pony-tended.
     5. Puns are a lot like ponies. You can only ride them so far, and you have to put up with an occasional stinker. No pungency did.

     4. Theodore Roosevelt wanted to keep a journal on his safari, but Tarzan neglected to pack one vital item. No pen in tent, Ted. 
     3. TV political commentators trip over themselves trying to get in the last word. Too often, these debates end pathetically. No pundit ended.
     2. (Rerun alert) I once wrote a blog about a clever billboard in Columbia that used bricks to tell puns. I lamented the phrase "no pun intended," which should never be used by any writer with a functioning backspace key. In conversation, it's an acceptable apology. But in publication, it's as vain as this post. I have only a few readers, and it has never been intent of my blog to pun-ish you. Nope, unintended. 
     1. Think you can do better? Do you know punchy endings? Or do you have no pun incentive?     

The Old Ball Coach's old man

I first posted this blog in the summer of 2014, but it is timely in light of Steve Spurrier's latest rant about his age. He said he feels 55 and has declared the media to be the enemy because they insist on reporting that he is 490 in Dawg years. And don't you dare call him the Old Ball Coach, like he used to describe himself in his youth. 

Personally, I hope he coaches as long as John McKissick (who won a championship at Williams-Brice Stadium at age 72, by the way). Spurrier is worth his weight in goad.

If you've been sequestered on the Howard's Rock jury and are wondering what the heck this is all about, click here.


   

'Absent from the body, present with the Lord'

 Listening to Steve Spurrier warming up in recent days, I was reminded of these quotes I meant to post back on June 16, 2014, which would have been his dad's 100th birthday. 

     Rev. J. Graham Spurrier served as a Presbyterian pastor in Arkansas, West Virginia, Florida, South Carolina, and Tennessee, where young Steve emerged as a football star at Science Hill High School in Johnson City. 
     Spurrier was still the Head Ball Coach at Florida when his dad died in 2000. Here are some of his remembrances, which I found on a blog by another Presbyterian minister known as the Christian Curmudgeon. Most of the material originated in an interview with the Florida Times-Union.
      As a 145-pound guard on the football team at Erskine College: He liked to tell people he wasn't very good, but he did get two letters in one season. The first letter was from the coach in midseason asking him, very politely, to please quit the team. The second came from the athletic director, saying he was going to get kicked out of school if he didn't return all the socks and T-shirts.
     As a Tennis Player: Uncle Bob used to tell me that when Dad missed an easy shot, he'd have a tendency to sometimes fling that racquet into the net or against the fence. So when I throw things….
     As a Moving Minister: He moved around a bit. Ministers, sometimes when it's not going really well in a church, you have got to move around. Just like coaches do.
     As a Preacher: My dad was the most uncomplicated person I've ever known in the world. He believed the Bible from the front to the back. If the Bible said Jonah was in the belly of the whale for three days then you know what? Jonah was in the belly of the whale for three days. There was none of this stuff about how the story might have been exaggerated or interpreted differently over the years. My dad believed it exactly the way it was written. He kept things very simple. 
     As the youngest of three children (Speaking at the 2016 American Football Coaches Association convention, Spurrier said that his parents planned to have only two children, and his mom once told him he was an accident): Thank the Lord that preachers get horny, too. That was my first divine appointment. 
     As a Babe Ruth Coach: He told us, "How many of you boys believe that it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game? Well, you can all put your hands down because I don't believe in that statement. I believe it does matter if you win or lose, and we're going to try and win. Anytime you keep score, you're supposed to try and win." 
     As a Father: He was one of those dads who always thought I could do better, and he was right. He didn't flatter me and pamper me and tell me how great I was as a kid. I could score 35 points in a youth league basketball game, and he'd talk about the free throw I missed or the careless foul I committed. 
     As a Christian: The way he approached life, there was never a chance of him ever being depressed. Because he was such a sincere Christian, his faith kept him happy. The last 15 or 20 years of his life, he would talk excitedly about dying and going to heaven. He'd always say, "I can't wait to get to heaven." I can't help but thinking that when he had trouble breathing that night a few weeks ago, he said to himself, "It's time for me to move on out of here and get to a better place." He was the most prepared person to leave this earth I have ever known. He looked forward to this day. He was looking forward to going to heaven, to going to a better place.
     As a Dad: I just thank God that I was lucky enough to have a dad like my dad.
     On Losing Him: You sort of prepare for this day. When it happens, I guess, 50 years of memories flash by. I certainly feel very fortunate that I had my dad. He fought a good fight, ran a good race. Now, his mission on earth is done.

In the big inning, God created baseball

     Congratulations to Coach Tim Corbin and the Vanderbilt University baseball team for winning the 2014 College World Series out in Omaha. 
     I was fortunate enough to cover that event three times during my sportswriting career: 1975 with South Carolina and 1995 and 1996 with Clemson (where Corbin was an assistant coach). On one of those trips, the Omaha World Herald produced a special edition that included the following piece by George Sisler—not the Hall of Fame first baseman but a war correspondent for the Memphis Commercial Appeal who became an preacher in the 1960s. 
     It's a game story cut and pasted from the King James Version of the Bible. It's quaint in its cliches, apocalyptic in its description of a double play, and prophetic in the reference to pitching around Aaron. (Hank Aaron, who recently turned 80, would have been a 16-year-old kid in Mobile when this was written in 1950.) This is old-school, old-testament baseball—there is no mention of a savior at the end. Of course, it was 1-1 in the ninth, so it wasn't a "save situation," either. 
     If you read closely, you'll find some irregularities. Israel got four outs in the first inning, including a two-out sacrifice. That can happen when you take scripture out of context. Philistines can go ask St. Peter for a review. On the other hand, this would not have been the first time Israel got an extra out—see Joshua 10:13! 
     I could not find this anywhere else on the Web, so I posted it here just for you: 

      The people gathered ^{Ex 32:1} to see the battle, ^{1 Sam 17:28} and the people sat down to eat and drink ^{Ex 32:6} sweet water ^{James 3:11}  and parched corn. ^{Josh 5:11}

     Eli sat upon a seat by the wayside, ^{1 Sam 4:13}  and he stretched himself ^{1 Ki 17:21} that he may see good. ^{Ps 34:12}

       So the people shouted: ^{Josh 6:20} Where are the nine? ^{Luke 17:17} Let the young men now arise and play before us. ^{2 Sam 2:14}.

     The first came out ^{Gen 25:25} and went into the field ^{Num 22:23} and they stood every man in his place. ^{Judg 7:21}

     And Peter called ^{Mark 14:72} whether it be good or bad, ^{Lev 27:12} as one mocketh another ^{Job 13:9} with loud voices: ^{Luke 23:23} His watchmen are blind. ^{Isa 56:10} And he stooped to ^{1 Sam 24:8} make clean the platter. ^{Luke 11:39}

     And the trumpeters sounded: ^{2 Chr 29:28} Kohath shall pitch. ^{Num 3:29} And Samson went and caught. ^{Judg 15:4}

     David was up ^{2 Sam 24:11} on the left side ^{Ez 1:10} and he struck it into the pan ^{1 Sam 2:14} foul.  ^{Matt 16:3} The second was offered. ^{Judg 6:28} He striketh.^{. Job 34:26} On the third ^{Gen 22:4} he struck ^{1 Sam 2:14} him out. ^{Gen 22:11}

     So the Levite went in. ^{Judg 17:10} He stood, and measured the earth; he beheld and drove ^{Hab 3:6} for an homer. ^{Hos 3:2} And all the people shouted with a great shout. ^{Josh 6:20}

     And Noah went in ^{Gen 7:7} and did fly ^{2 Sam 22:11} into the field. ^{Num 22:23} And Jothan ran away ^{Judg 9:21} and looking back ^{Luke 9:62} gathered it. ^{Isa 62:9}.

     And Aaron went in ^{Ex 5:1} and worketh it ^{Isa 44:12} two and two. ^{Gen 7:9} And Samson said: ^{Judg 15:3} Strike it! ^{Ex 12:7} And Aaron spake: ^{Ex 4:30} Be not one of them that strike. ^{Prov 22:26} And the man refused to smite. ^{1 Ki 20:35} And Aaron took ^{NUM 16:47} and he walked. ^{1 KI 15:3}

     Amon sacrificed ^{2 CHR 33:22} and Aaron ran ^{Num 16:47} into the second ^{Heb 9:7} and overran, ^{2 Sam 18:23} and with the bag ^{Mic 6:11} afar off, ^{Gen 22:4} a good man out. ^{Matt 12:35.}

     Now Jeremiah came in and went out ^{Jer 37:4} being caused to fly. ^{Dan 9:21} And the men of Israel retired. ^{Judg 20:39}

     Then the Philistines went up. ^{Judg 15:9} And Joseph was captain ^{Gen 39:1} of the Philistines. ^{Judg 3:31} And Absalom pitched. ^{2 Sam 17:26}

     Then Joseph commanded to fill their sacks. ^{Gen 42:25} Shimei came forth, ^{2 Sam 16:5} stood, and walked. ^{Acts 3:8} The pitcher ^{Ecc 12:6} looked this way and that way. ^{Ex 2:12} He stretched out ^{Hos 7:5} and threw. ^{Acts 22:23} And Archers hit. ^{1 Sam 31:3} And it came to pass on the second, ^{Luke 6:1} Joab caught ^{1 Ki 2:28} the line ^{Job 38:5} and threw ^{2 Sam 16:13} at the first. ^{Gen 13:4} Therefore, David ran and stood upon ^{1 Sam 17:51} the first, ^{Gen 13:4} put forth his hand and caught ^{Ex 4:4} the toss. ^{Jer 5:22}  This is the second death. ^{Rev 20:14}

     Then Joseph could not restrain himself, and he cried: ^{Gen 45:1} Goodness, if thou continue in ^{Rom 11:22} going down, ^{Gen 15:12}, our bones are dried, and our hope is lost ^{Ez 37:11} and my garments ^{Isa 63:3} and job. ^{Ex 14:20.}

     And Abram went up. ^{Gen 13:1} And Abram drove ^{Gen 15:11} into the air. ^{Acts 22:23} Judah came in ^{Gen 38:8} under it. ^{Dan 4:14} And through the idleness of hands ^{Ecc 10:18} the fly ^{Is 7:18} droppeth through, ^{Ecc 10:18} giving him a double. ^{Deut 21:17}

     Abraham took the wood and ^{Gen 22:6} caught hold of ^{2 Sam 18:9} an hard ^{Matt 25:24} and high ^{Rev 21:12}  delivery ^{Is 26:17} and smote it ^{Judg 7:13}  that thou mayest go home. ^{Judg 19:9}

     Thus and thus ^{Judg 18:4} Israel fought ^{Josh 10:42} and the Philistines fought ^{1 Sam 4:10} until the ninth. ^{Lev 25:22} For each, one ^{Num 7:3} in the first, ^{Gen 8:13} and seven times ^{Lev 25:8} after that they ^{Ecc 9:3} gathereth eggs. ^{Is 10:14}

     In the ninth ^{Lev 23:32} Israel went out ^{1 Ki 20:21} in a row, ^{1 Ki 7:3} and none came in. ^{Josh 6:1} He sent divers sorts of flies among them, ^{Ps 78:45} and they caught every one. ^{2 Sam 2:16}

     The first man ^{1 Cor 15:45} for the Philistines ^{1 Sam 28:15} drew the third, ^{Rev 12:4} and the fourth ^{Ex 28:20} came unto the outside. ^{Judg 7:19} He walketh. ^{Job 22:14} The pitcher ^{Ecc 12:6} climbed up ^{1 Sam 14:13} and pitched. ^{Gen 12:8} And Moses put it upon a pole ^{Num 21:9} for an homer. ^{Hos 3:2}

     And there was a very sore battle that day; and Abner was beaten, and the men of Israel. ^{2 Sam 2:17}

     And behold, the man clothed with linen, which had the inkhorn by his side, reported the matter, ^{Ez 9:11} and wrote it in a book. ^{1 Sam 10:25}

Dwight and the golden Mustang

     Thursday, April 17, marked two milestone birthdays. My father Dwight turned 86, and the Ford Mustang hit 50.
     One of them is officially an antique.
     In my life, their paths crossed in the late 1960s, when Daddy promised me a Mustang … IF I made it through high school without smoking or drinking.
     Well, I made it—not because of great self-discipline or incentive but more likely because the Lord spared me from temptation. After all, I didn't get my driver's license until I was 18. The fact that I spent almost half my life as a sportswriter tells you I was in no hurry to grow up. 
     Honestly, I wasn't even thinking of a Mustang the day I graduated from T.L. Hanna High School. No reward is greater than hearing your Daddy say he's proud of you. 

Who could resist? 

     Soon afterwards, we visited White Motors, a used-car lot on South Main Street that had a Bible on the office table and two gold sports cars out front: a 1967 Camaro for $1500 and a 1968 Mustang for $1600. I paid the difference and never regretted it. 
     As far as I'm concerned, the 1967 and 1968 models were the best-looking Mustangs ever. Those were the years Ford rounded and sculpted the original slab-sided bodies but before they really bulked up into muscle cars. Mine was a twin with the one in this Ford promotional photo, featuring a classy white vinyl roof, chrome rocker panels, and amber turn-signal indicators mounted in little scoops out on the hood. Cool!
      Underneath, the Mustang was really just a dressed-up Ford Falcon—hardly a high-performance car. But I didn't know any better. Late one night on Canterbury Road, I decided to see how fast I could drive around a corner. I wound up in somebody's front yard with the passenger door crinkled against the trunk of an oak. I was able to drive it home, dreading what my daddy would say the next morning when he discovered what I had done. He must have sensed that I had already learned my lesson, because he let me off easy. Once I came up with $360 for Shirley Huitt's body shop, my Mustang was almost as good as new. 
     That Mustang carried me through five years of college and eight trips between South Carolina and Missouri. When Daddy turned 50, I hardly noticed, since I was just a couple of weeks from graduation at Mizzou.
     On the way home from college, my faithful Mustang broke down in Newport, Tennessee. I soon handed it down to my brothers and bought another Mustang, a big 1971 coupe, from my uncle. It lost its charm after I bent a fender in a collision that could have been much worse. 
     Meanwhile, Daddy was driving a station wagon and working long shifts in the metallurgy shop at Owens-Corning Fiberglas to put five kids through college. At 51, he had two heart attacks and had to retire.
     That was also when he quit smoking—which gave me a newfound appreciation for the deal he made with me years before. As usual, Daddy was doing whatever he could to take care of his family. 
     The day he got out of the hospital following his second heart attack, I bought a green 1979 Triumph Spitfire convertible that rivaled my first Mustang in style if not dependability. That night, Mary and I went for a ride up to Whitewater Falls. Right there in front of God and everybody, I asked her to marry me. 
     As we've raised our family, my cars have gotten more practical, of course. Today I'm driving a fine 16-year-old Accord that carried my daughter Katy through college and has nearly a quarter million miles. 

When we asked my Daddy what kind of cake he wanted, he answered with
characteristic whimsy: "Green!" So my sisters made it his way, and brother
John drove all the way up from Orlando to share the occasion with us.

     Daddy also has gone way past his warranty, living 35 years after his heart attacks. We celebrated his 86th birthday in a rehab hospital, where he is recovering from a stroke. 
     Macular degeneration and arthritis have slowed him down, but his mind is still sharp. He remains a student of the news, the Braves, and audio books. When his insatiable curiosity gets the best of him, he will ask my sister, "Look it up on your Google machine."
     In the rehab gym, he laps the field. He's always worked hard, and he is still determined to take care of Mama and our family. Undaunted by his years, father Dwight is doing the right thing, the best that he can, preparing for whatever comes next.
     If he could still drive, I'd get him a Mustang. Happy birthday, Daddy. 

Calling a Dead Man ... Collect

     I just read the news that a 78-year-old Mississippi farmer named Walter Williams has died for the second time in two weeks. The first time, he miraculously woke up in a body bag as he was about to be embalmed. The second time, his nephew said, "I think he's gone this time." 

Our immortal Walter Williams:
Founder of the Missouri
 School of Journalism

     He's not the first Walter Williams to flirt with immortality. When I was in college, I regularly made long-distance calls to another Walter Williams who died 20 years before I was born. He was the founder of the Missouri School of Journalism, and his academic heirs taught us not only AP style and press law but also how to use the good name of our patriarch to scam the phone company.

     My senior-year assignment was to cover the Mizzou basketball team for the Missourian, the morning newspaper produced by the journalism school for the town of Columbia. This was before cell phones and portable computers, so I would type out my game stories and send them by dictation or telecopier—a crude fax that took six minutes per page. Either way, I had to make half-hour long-distance calls from places like Lawrence, Kansas; and Stillwater, Oklahoma.

     Long distance was prohibitively expensive back then, especially when you had to go through the operator to make a third-party billing. So we improvised. In our dorm, for example, it was possible to pick the lock into the utility closet and jump wires so that your call would be billed to a vacant room. (Not that any aspiring journalist in the Woodward-Bernstein era would ever pull such a stunt!) Long-distance charges were such a deterrent that instead of calling home, we actually wrote letters. 
     When reporters needed to call the Missourian from the road, we were instructed to make a person-to-person collect call to Walter Williams. If Walter answered, he could choose whether to accept the long-distance charges. 
     Of course, Walter died back in 1935.
     So the phone would ring at the Missourian, and the operator would announce that she had a collect call for Walter Williams. "Mr. Williams is not in the office," someone in the newsroom would reply. "May I have the number so he can return the call?"

     The operator never wised up to that fib, and she would obligingly recite the number I was calling from. Then we would hang up, and the Missourian would promptly call me back on the university's outbound WATS line, avoiding the cost of the collect call.

     We were so clever, or so we thought. None of us could have imagined that within 30 years, our careers would be undone by our readers using their phones to get the news for free.

———

     So where is old Walter Williams now that journalists really need him? Not only is our patron saint out of the office, but his beloved newspapers are going out of business. Even the venerable Missourian may be vulnerable—bleeding thousands of university dollars every week as it struggles to compete in one of America's last two-paper towns. 
     At The Greenville News, where I worked for nearly 20 years, the iconic Main Street office is for sale, and they will soon stop the presses forever. (See Ron Barnett's video: Oh, the stories this machine has told.) For the dying generation of devoted readers, they can print the paper in Gastonia (which might as well be Estonia) and fold it into USA TODAY. Developers plan to tear down the newspaper building and replace it with an "entertainment district" that will include high-rise condos, high-end shops, and a dine-in movie theater. 
     I understand, but I grieve. Even Walter Williams can't live forever. And this time, I'm afraid that he's really gone. 

 ———

FOOTNOTE: I've encountered yet another Walter Williams who found fame in death. Walter Washington Green Williams's death 1959 was an occasion for national mourning, acccording to none other than Ulysses S. Grant III, grandson of the 18th President. Williams claimed to be the last survivor of the Civil War and said he was born in 1842, which would have made him 119, but census records indicate he was actually born in 1855 and was far too young to have served in the war. 

In more optimistic times, the Peace family who owned The Greenville News designed this building with reinforced foundations to support a 25-story skyscraper (below). They envisioned Greenville becoming a boomtown, and their investment in the Peace Center across the street was the first step in transforming South Main into a swank destination. But times and owners changed, and the newspaper building turned out to be expendable rather than expandable.