12. The Fly ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

Robert was The Fly.

Not the unfortunate fly in the 1958 movie with Vincent Price.

Robert was a hero such as Batman and Robin, who appeared in a series that had recently aired on television. Joe’s cousin Jay had given Joe his Navy Peacoat from World War II, which Jay had outgrown, and Joe passed it along to Robert. At the auction of Flora Farden’s belongings, Robert had acquired a pair of amber dark glasses that were big and round with ivory-colored Bakelite frames. Wearing the black coat and the round glasses with the deep amber lenses, Robert was The Fly.

When Robert helped his father with the evening chores, he flew over gates. Well, he had to scale the gates’ horizontal panels and hop down on the other side, but he did it really fast, as if he were flying! On the other side of the gates, Robert fought crime. Often, he did so by cracking ears of corn in two or by spreading hay in the mangers of the barn.

Even though he missed games on the playground, Robert was enjoying his time in the seventh grade. He enjoyed jumping up when the bell rang and scurrying to his next class in another room. He enjoyed the lessons and the teachers and his classmates. He enjoyed having a locker instead of a desk.

And he enjoyed becoming The Fly after school.

For many generations, students from Rainsville had transferred to Pine Village for their final years of schooling. When Robert entered the seventh grade, a reorganizing brought Rainsville students into his class. A few of the teachers who had devoted their careers to Rainsville’s classes permanently transferred to Pine Village. One of them was the beloved Mr. Charles Lloyd Cavanaugh.

He stepped from a story by Washington Irving. A thin gentleman, he parted his gray hair in the middle. His reading glasses slid down his long nose. To see him on a windy day striding between the school building and the gymnasium was to see a scholar of skin and bones barely able to keep his footing while his trousers and coat flapped as if they might lift him into the sky.

Mr. Cavanaugh was named the sponsor of Robert’s class, and Mr. Cavanaugh remained the class sponsor all the way through the class’ senior year.

He taught English and mathematics. While Mr. Cavanaugh was of the old school that memorized everything and seldom (if ever) erred about a fact, he occasionally lapsed into an extraordinary pronunciation.

Once, Robert’s class was learning a mathematical principle when Mr. Cavanaugh thought an example might prove helpful.

“Let us say you have four cassaws,” Mr. Cavanaugh said. He went on to describe a mathematical equation involving the four “cassaws.” Then he called on one of the sharpest students—probably because he wanted the class to hear the correct answer—but the student blushed and apologized, saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.” Mr. Cavanaugh said, “That’s quite alright,” and he called on another student good at math. Fidgeting, the student said, “I don’t know, either.” Now Mr. Cavanaugh wondered what to do. He had hoped to demonstrate the mathematical principle so clearly that the class would see how very simple it was, but he had called on two students who should have known the answer and they had been unable to respond.

Meanwhile, Alan, with knitted brows, had been staring at his desktop. Suddenly, a smile flashed across his face, and he raised his hand.

“Yes, Alan,” Mr. Cavanaugh acknowledged.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” Alan began, clearing his throat, “by your word ‘cassaws,’ might you mean cashews?”

“I mean those delightful nuts that can be found along with peanuts in a can of mixed nuts,” Mr. Cavanaugh replied innocently, not taking any offense at Alan’s question. The idea of taking offense at anything never could cross Mr. Cavanaugh’s wonderful mind.

At that moment, the student on whom Mr. Cavanaugh had first called, raised a hand, was acknowledged, and said, “Now that I know we are dealing with cashews, I can give the answer.” And the answer was correct! Mr. Cavanaugh beamed, and he went on to say how simple the principle was, after all.

From that day forward, Robert always thought of cashews as “cassaws.”

Robert liked every one of his classmates—and had since first grade. He was delighted that he liked all the new classmates that came from the Rainsville School, too. Among them was his cousin Pam. They were complementary in many ways. Pam’s hair was as dark as Robert’s was blond. Her complexion was olive, but Robert’s was pale. When Robert was serious, Pam would laugh, and, when Pam was serious, Robert would laugh. They initiated a mutually pleasant academic rivalry that, six years later, would bring Robert to be the Valedictorian and Pam to be the Salutatorian—with the two separated by hardly a difference.

In seventh grade, Robert relied upon Pam’s customary response to any of his ideas that she considered outrageous; “Now, Robert!” she would admonish him with her genuine smile. He continuously amused her, and, as she was so intellectual herself, she always kept him on his intellectual toes.

For Mr. Cavanaugh’s English class, Robert drafted a letter to Aunt Della in Georgia: "Several events have been happening on the farm. Pigs have been coming, chickens hatched, young calves have been born, and a zillion other creatures have entered into our life. I enjoy it all except for one thing—work! It takes energy to feed a mess of squealing pigs and squawking chickens. It’s work to get clean again; although I suppose it’s worth it."

To Robert, the year felt as if a long-awaited future had arrived to pay homage to the past. The fall was distinguished by a futuristic television series named Star Trek that acknowledged its roots in Old World myth and fable. The hallmark of the spring was the CBS telecast of Hal Holbrook’s stunning performance as Mark Twain. (In the distant future, Robert would meet Hal Holbrook and would tour the eastern half of the United States as Edgar A. Poe for over two hundred performances, and Robert would spend two days with—and sketch—Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek.)

Meanwhile, Joe called out, “Robert, it’s time to do the chores.”

“Robert?” Robert called back. “Who’s Robert? Don’t you mean The Fly?”

       

When I Met Gene Roddenberry ...

When I learned that I would have the opportunity to sketch Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek, I was overjoyed. I was a university student and a freelance artist tasked with the pleasant responsibility of drawing portraits of celebrities visiting the campus. My illustrations appeared in various newspapers and other publications. Roddenberry would be introducing a movie featuring bloopers from the wildly popular television series.

My First Sketch of Gene Roddenberry

Two of my fellow students and I met Roddenberry at the airport. On the automobile trip to the university, I got busy with my pad of paper and my pen. Roddenberry was difficult to draw. He was so animated that I had difficulty capturing the movements of his face. He smiled brilliantly and often. He tossed his head to laugh. He quickly turned to peer through a car window and rapidly spun back to speak to a student in the front seat. He would not hold still! I could see that I had my work cut out for me.

I tried not to pay attention to what he was saying, but his stories were so doggone funny that I could not resist being caught up in the aura of Roddenberry’s good nature. He shared anecdote after anecdote about the practical jokes that he played on his wife Majel, who was Nurse Chapel on the Enterprise, and the pranks she played on him as payback. Some were on the set; others, off.

In the seconds between stories, I kept thinking, “How do I put this guy on paper?” His face was too mobile, too protean. Well, I did a lousy job of it!

My first sketch, made during the hour-long journey to the campus, was so poor a representation of the countenance before me that I would not show it to Roddenberry until he had begged me repeatedly. When he finally viewed it, he laughed, “You got my double chin!”

Just prior to Roddenberry’s talk before a standing-room-only crowd, my brother, a true Trekkie, used fishing line to hang his model of the Enterprise from the podium where Roddenberry would stand. This was in the days before models were fancy, and my brother had rigged up custom LED lights that flashed around the starship. Nice!

Roddenberry had the audience in the palm of his hand, and the bloopers were uproarious.

After the show, Rodenberry invited his three student hosts to have dinner with him. We drove him to a plush restaurant. The server took his drink order then carded us students. I was the only one under the legal drinking age. She asked me to leave the restaurant. Roddenberry’s face fell.

“You mean he can’t have dinner with us?” Roddenberry asked.

“No, he has to leave,” the server replied.

“If he doesn’t have a drink, he can stay here. Right?” Roddenberry continued the line of questioning.

The server gave Roddenberry a stern look. “No, he has to leave,” she repeated.

“Do you know who I am?” Roddenberry inquired.

“No,” the server admitted.

“I’m Gene Roddenberry. Have you ever seen Star Trek?”

“Yes, I love it!” the server broke into a smile. “I recognize your name.”

“Then can he stay?” Roddenberry leaned forward.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Roddenberry. I’m afraid he has to leave. It’s the law.”

In a gesture of exasperation, Roddenberry thrust his hands outward and exclaimed, “But he’s my son!”

“Well, if he’s your son, then he can stay,” the server said.

I was dazzled! I don’t even remember what I ate, but I recall the evening as one of the most exciting and most amusing events of my life. I tried to sketch Roddenberry, but the subdued lighting made the task too difficult. Besides, I was having too good a time to work at an illustration. I never finished the sketch, but I can see that it was far better than the portrait that I did complete. Roddenberry’s mischief flashes in the merry eyes of the unfinished work!

 

Unfinished Mirthful Portrait of Gene Roddenberry by Robert T. Rhode

We students dropped off Roddenberry at his hotel. On our way back to the campus, we conspired. At midnight, we met again and headed back to Roddenberry’s hotel. As quiet as the proverbial church mice, we taped newspapers across his door, so that, when he would attempt to emerge in the morning, he would confront a wall of newsprint. He loved practical jokes, didn’t he?

The next morning, we were anxious to learn what he thought of our escapade. When we reached his door, there was no trace of the newspaper or tape. Roddenberry greeted us with the same radiant smile and happy-go-lucky demeanor that we had come to love about him.

We chauffeured him to the airport, said our goodbyes, and returned to the university. We were sad to see him go. A week or so later, we attended a regular meeting of the board that sponsored guest speakers. The college official that ran the meetings began by saying that he had wonderful surprises for us students. He then distributed Enterprise flight deck officer certificates to the three of us. Roddenberry had signed them personally and had sent them to the campus.

Next, the official looked slowly around the table at each of us before he said, “Mr. Roddenberry also mailed this.” He displayed a large envelope from which he withdrew a thick sheaf of newspaper with tell-tale pieces of tape protruding here and there. “He included this note, which explains that he discovered these newspapers attached to his door. He thought they might belong to you, and he thought you might want them back, as he had no use for them.”

We wanted to crawl under our chairs. We could hear Roddenberry’s distant laughter echoing. I still do.