The following column was taken from the July 29, 1976 edition of The News, written by Mr. Charlie Walker.

Ever since man invented the wheel, it seems like he spends most of his time trying to be one, or at least convincing people he is one. So I shined my spokes up last week to attend the South Carolina Broadcasters Convention in Charleston. It’s only 77 miles from the butter beans and rice of Sandy Bay to the she-crab soup of the Mills Hyatt House. Geographically, only 77 miles. Socially, it’s a thousand light years. Man, they’ve got a fountain inside the Mills Hyatt House big enough to baptize everybody in Sandy Bay. So while I attended such breathtaking seminars as “A woman’s place in broadcasting,” Mrs. Reklaw was gallivanting around the cobblestone streets inhaling culture through every pore. I should have gone with her. If I want to know something about women’s role in broadcasting, I just ask Mrs. Reklaw, who could write a book on the subject that would make Elizabeth Ray’s literary bombshell read like Tom Swift and his Electric Hamhock. And since I have the rather dubious distinction of being dubbed the Mickey Spillane of broadcasting, I was sort of surprised I got invited at all. The most enjoyable part of the trip was having supper on the aircraft carrier Yorktown in Mt. Pleasant. The last time I broke bread on a ship was in 1953 along with 3,000 other GIs on the way to Korea. I say I broke bread, but I didn’t eat it. I was too seasick.  I became involved in a mission of mercy when Peggy forgot her slip to wear with her formal attire for the dance and banquet. So there I am, trudging up King Street on the hottest day of the year. When I tried to explain to the clerk in the store what I wanted, the look in her eyes translated said, “Turkey, I’ll sell you a size 32 slip, but you will look only semi-debonair wearing it.” So we headed back to the butter bean patch, where the kamikaze mosquitoes are practicing their divebombing. Some smart alec from Cedar Swamp said his butter beans reminded him of the girls in Greeleyville. They’re only half filled out. I would mention the party’s name responsible for the remark, but it might damage an otherwise promising diplomatic career. He has high hopes of being name ambassador to Greeleyville if Mr. Peanut is elected. Peggy and I had made the trip under the assumption that a 14-year-old boy and a five-year-old tomcat could look out for themselves. The truth is, you could put both of them in a submarine on the bottom of Black River and both would wind up with a sunburn. So while we were gone, Chuck got a broken collarbone and Hound T comes up with an injured paw. So our house at the moment looks like M.A.S.H. of TV fame. Although Peggy doesn’t resemble Maj. Hoolihan, Hound T does favor Radar a little. After hauling that cat to the vet, I know how Custer felt at Little Big Horn. Since Dr. Cottingham so seldom gets to treat royalty, he was understandably shook up. He blew his cool and curtsied. For a vet, that’s the ultimate boo-boo: Not being able to distinguish a tomcat from a tabby. So after rolling out the red carpet and putting on his cleanest dirty smock, the veterinary Junior Samples went to work on my cat. I think everything would have gone smoothly if Dr. Cottingham hadn’t reached for the square needle about half the size of a Little League baseball bat. But alas, the best laid plans of veterinarians and tomcats sometimes go awry. Dr. Cottingham reached for the needle, Hound T reached for Dr. Cottingham, and there hasn’t been anything like it since Hurricane Hazel. That cat broke the old Olympic record for climbing a veterinarian by four-tenths of a second. Howard Cosell would have been overcome with emotion. So everything is back to normal at Sandy Bay. Hound T is hopping around on three paws, Chuck is still wearing his shoulder strap, Peggy’s still picking butter beans. Dr. Cottingham says if I ever bring that cat back to his office, my posterior will be in a sling.