A bit about Bo

Laura Day

Some years merit holiday cards; some don’t. After way too many seasons of lazily enjoying other people’s greetings, I decided this past December to finally mail out some of my own. Easier said than done. We’re such a mobile society that missing even a year or two of sending cards can throw an address book into hopeless disarray.

One person I especially wanted to find was Bill “Bo” Cadle. I had telephoned him 15 years ago but had since misplaced the number. And a Google address search showed he had moved, but I knew not where. Many years ago he had played a very important role in my life, and before he—and I—passed on, I wanted to tell him so.

If Bill were alive, I calculated that by now he would be in his 80s. After a lifetime of adventures, he might not remember me well. But I remembered that he had mentioned growing up in Emmitsburg and later doing something with the local newspaper. Long story short, a quick email to the editor confirmed that Bill was indeed alive and kicking, and we soon reconnected by phone.

We spent some time reminiscing; it was wonderful. But as enjoyable as that conversation was, much remained unsaid. For one thing, both of us are rather shy. And after all these years it was hard to talk comfortably without a face directly in front or the leisure to carefully sort out and select my thoughts. So I promised Bill I would write sometime, and then we hung up.

Cue back 40 years. It’s August 1976, a sweltering afternoon in downtown Atlanta. I walk into the Georgian Terrace Hotel, known in its glory days as a celebrity venue for attendees of the Gone with the Wind premiere at the nearby Loew’s Theater. Decades later it’s a bit shabby and run-down, a fitting spot for who and what it’s now hosting. Milling about in a non-descript conference room are nearly a hundred Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA) recruits, sent there from around the nation for a week of training. VISTA, one of the federal government’s early anti-poverty programs, attracts highly optimistic, usually young, and often naïve citizens to serve a year, sometimes two, aiding poor communities and earning poverty wages. I’m one of them. In a twist of fate painfully recognizable to those familiar with the vagaries of government work, there’s been some last-minute confusion. Instead of continuing after training to my original assignment in Lowndes County, AL, I have a choice: either go home to wait several weeks for a different assignment or report to Robeson County, NC.

Bo Cadle is in center. Author is directly behind him

Enter a tall, gangly, quasi-hippy throwback of a man, with a friendly smile and a ready laugh. In the midst of the bureaucratic chaos, he radiates calm. He introduces himself as Bill Cadle, VISTA supervisor at the Robeson County Church and Community Center in Lumberton, NC. He explains that he is helping develop reading centers for illiterate adults and that he could use more workers. I quickly choose Robeson County, and it will become one of the best decisions I ever make.
A few days later I arrive in Lumberton. Bill begins to familiarize me and the other new VISTA recruits with the area and our mission. Robeson, in eastern North Carolina, is one of the poorest counties in the state. It’s also one of the most unusual. The populace is almost equally divided among African-Americans, Whites, and Native Americans, specifically the Lumbees, who have been linked to Sir Walter Raleigh’s Lost Colony. Lumberton, the county seat, boasts many fine homes and beautiful, tree-lined streets, as well as a fine public library. Unfortunately, too many of the residents are incapable of reading those books or too poor to even dream of those neighborhoods.

Bill, in consultation with Laubach Literacy International, the renowned adult literacy organization, has already trained several VISTAs. They are tutoring adult learners in their homes. The goal for the new VISTA recruits is to expand this—to work with local citizens to develop additional reading opportunities in churches, community centers, libraries, and technical schools. Budget? We have none. Experience? Not one of us has ever done anything of this sort. Enthusiasm? We have that in abundance. We’ll need it, for we are a motley crew. There’s Ken, a White 19-year-old amateur photographer; Patsy and Anita, African-Americans who have grown up in the area, faced poverty and discrimination, but chosen not to let their hearts grow bitter; Laura, a White fellow Southerner who has never known need or prejudice; Sally and Lois, kind-hearted and energetic New Jerseyites; Debbie, an L.A. - area native with a strong penchant for organization; and Alex, a New Yorker with the gift of gab and a newly minted Harvard M.Ed.

Bill sets us loose. We read and ruminate and brainstorm about how to accomplish the goals. We talk to the locals. We listen. We talk some more. We bounce ideas off of Bill. He listens. He encourages. He gently steers us away from some of our crazier ideas. He listens some more. As the weeks and months pass, we discover strengths we didn’t know we had, and we develop confidence. We begin to see results.

At the end of two years, there’s not only a county-wide but a counties-wide system of reading centers in eastern North Carolina. We’ve forged alliances with churches, the technical college, and the library system. We’ve recruited many more tutors and students. People know about the reading programs through regular radio spots and newspaper columns. We’ve written and received grants for books and tutor training. We’ve even written some books of our own. Most importantly, after years of shame, adult learners such as Christine and Juanita and Mr. Hawkins are proudly learning to read.

Through it all Bill is there—wisely mentoring, calmly counseling, steadfastly teaching, and always listening, carefully and keenly listening, even when we make mistakes. And yes, there are mistakes.

Such as the time we set up a county-wide Literacy Sunday, secured several public and private sponsors, invited a nationally known speaker, mailed out flyers touting his experience (including time as a union organizer), and watched in dismay as Literacy Sunday was rapidly cancelled. Soon after Bill sat us down. Instead of a chew-out (as I’m sure his superiors gave him), he gave us a quick tutorial in the do’s and don’ts of life in a non-union state—our youthful naivety quickly, but gently dispelled.

Or the time yours truly, with Bill in my passenger seat, backed my car into his. Yes, his ride was a beat-up Karmann Ghia with an already proud history of dents, and mine was a newer Buick that suffered not a scratch. Still, it was a classic Volkswagen, and its latest dent was my fault. He knew I didn’t have money to cover the deductible for repairs, so he came up with an innovative alternative. “Payback” would be my writing a newspaper story to promote his wife’s dance company. I wrote the piece, complete with photos. His wife was happy. The company thrived. Bill was satisfied. And that, as they say, was the end of the story.

Except that it’s not.

Flash forward 40 years. I’m now a gray-haired, nearsighted 60-something (who still occasionally backs into things). In the aftermath of our contentious recent election I’ve found myself thinking a lot about the peacemakers in our lives, those wonderful souls who uplift instead of pull down, who try to find the good in people, who listen, who support, who make us better than we ever think we could be. I think of Bill.

Bill - wise counselor, patient teacher, dear giving--and forgiving-- long-lost friend—this is my belated holiday card to you.

Do you know of an individual who helped shape Emmitsburg?
If so, send their story to us at: history@emmitsburg.net

Back to Previous Page >