Masonic Roundtable: The Men Who Warped Space and Time

I love the Masonic Roundtable. It's a part of my weekly viewing fare, right behind The Curse of Oak Island, where we learn how Freemasons buried a treasure that isn't there and how the discovery of a broken mug caked in mud proves the Knights Templar founded Freemasonry. Between commercials.

I rarely watch live for two reasons. First, they never read my online chat comments on the air. I'm really put off when they can't see when I sign on and say, "I'm sorry I'm late. I had to let the cat in," doesn't add to the show; but mainly, it's because it airs past my bedtime.

So, back in the day (not too far back, though), the show aired on Tuesday evenings. Since I don't listen live, my habit was to get up early Wednesday morning and watch or listen with my morning cup (make that morning pot) of coffee. Now they've moved the show to Thursday and I have to wait until Friday for my mid-week dose of Masonic elixir. Somehow, by doing this, the Roundtablers have extended the time I have to wait for the show. They have, in effect, warped space and time, a feat that might seem impossible to the profane, but these guys are, you know… special. Freemasons can do that kind of thing, but only when they're not too busy running the world. That's our primary responsibility. Noblesse oblige, vous savez.

Those of us who are Squires and Knights can get a quick Roundtable fix during the week, but the extra wait for the big Thursday show can be excruciating.

You might argue that I'm wrong since the time between shows is still seven days. That is faulty logic. We slog our way through the workweek until we finally reach that pinnacle of existence, the weekend. There, we enjoy two glorious days of freedom from the slings and arrows of our more mundane existence during the week. That enables us to completely refresh our minds as we experience the joy and freedom of being with our families and doing the things we want. In other words, the weekend serves as a sort of cosmic reset.

Then, we start the week all over again and we have two extra days to wait for the Roundtable.  Therefore, we now have what amounts to a nine-day week! If that doesn't prove the hosts of the Masonic Roundtable are super-human, I don't know what does.

I just wish I could use that extra time more effectively.

Disclaimer: No one from the show in any way prompted me to do this episode and the members of the Roundtable were unaware it was being planned or produced. So mote it be.

The Coolest Guy I've Ever Known

My cousin Bob Davis was likely the coolest guy I've ever known. From my earliest memory of him, he was tinkering with cars that were junky heaps of metal and turning them into automotive masterpieces. I was amazed at his drawing abilities – the sketches he drew, to me, belonged in some art gallery. He was an Eagle Scout and a member of Veritas Masonic Lodge 608 in Indianapolis. A product of the 1950s, he could out-jitterbug any of the kids on the old American Bandstand show. He loved all things Marilyn Monroe and all things James Dean. He turned his basement into a museum of 1950s memorabilia. He took me for rides in his dune-buggy.

Bob was also an accomplished jazz drummer. I'm told he played for many famous acts as they toured

through Indianapolis, including playing alongside one of the greatest drummers ever, Buddy Rich. On a couple of occasions, he took me to the smoke-filled nightclubs where he was working. I was way too young to be there, legally or otherwise, but I sure had fun.

If all that wasn't enough, Bob had a job working with Indianapolis 500 race drivers Eddie Sachs and Bobby Marshman, helping them to promote whatever products their celebrity could help sell. The fact he worked with Indy race drivers was alone enough to brand him as the coolest guy in town as far as I was concerned – because if you're a kid growing up in Indianapolis, you're probably a race fan. I certainly was.

As race day dawned in 1964, I'm sure Bob was there not only to cheer on his work-buddies but also to see some of the all-time greats: Jack Brabham, Jimmy Clark, Dan Gurney, Parnelli Jones, and the incomparable A.J. Foyt. All the buzz was about a new guy, Dave MacDonald, who was driving a low-slung "car of the future."

The race began, and as the cars crossed the start/finish line at the end of the first lap Bob watched Jimmy Clark in the lead followed by one of his favorites, Bobby Marshman. The cars came around again and Bob followed the two leaders into the first turn.  When he turned to see the rest of the field he saw something his mind really couldn't process.

Black smoke. Fire. Chaos.

The entire north end of the track was on fire. The ENTIRE north end. Thick smoke billowed up several stories above the track like the mushroom cloud from a nuclear test.

Coming out of turn four, Dave MacDonald in the "car of the future" had spun. His car skidded across the track, hit the inside wall and exploded in a fireball. He ricocheted back across the track where Eddie Sachs plowed into him, his car also exploding.

Eddie Sachs, Bob's friend and arguably the most popular driver at the Speedway at the time, died. Later came word that Dave MacDonald had also been killed.

After the disaster, Bob continued to work with Bobby Marshman, but things understandably weren't the same. Then, later that year, the unthinkable happened. Marshman died in yet another fiery crash at the Phoenix Raceway. The events of 1964 stunned Bob to the core.

Bob found other ways to make a living. He was a jack-of-all-trades. He could fix anything. He continued to build custom cars and was a co-founder of the Indianapolis Custom-Car Show held in the huge parking lot next to, what else,  a 1950s-style drive-in.  The last car he built was a customized 1952 Chevy that was the subject of several magazine articles and won many awards. In later years his business card touted the fact that he and his wife Peggy were "the world's oldest teenagers."

Bob passed away in 2016. His gleaming black custom Chevy sat outside during the services and carried his ashes to his final resting place.

With all his talent and all the things he could do and do well, there was one thing Bob Davis couldn't do. He never went to another race.

The Day I Pissed Off A Big Shot

Fresh out of graduate school armed with a bright, shiny MBA degree, I landed a job with  Gemini Corporation in the Detroit metro area. Gemini was a progressive, innovative company that manufactured the interior of the stylish motor homes General Motors built in the '70s. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but I snagged a job in the accounting department. The company was allegedly grooming me for bigger things, but I was young, impatient, and inexperienced and had to pay my dues as a lower-level peon.

There were a few of us on that level and, on occasion, we had to trade off phone answering duties while the big shots were at lunch. I hated that responsibility. After all, I was an MBA. I figured I should be out to lunch with the top brass.

Delano de Windt II

One of those upper-echelon people was a guy named Del de Windt. He was a young, energetic guy who was the head of Gemini's marketing division.  Del was only a few years older than me and I envied his position as one of the key-players. We kind of got to know each other and on one of the occasions when we had lunch in the employee lounge he told me, "I can sell refrigerators to Eskimos." It was the first time I ever heard that phrase and I figured an attitude like that was why he got so high in the organization at such a young age. Well, there was another reason, but I'll get to that later.

So, one day Del and the big boys were out for one of their lunches and I got stuck with phone duty. I sat fuming at my insignificant place in the bullpen (I was so low I didn't even rate a cube). No sooner did I start eating my lunch than I heard the phone in Del's office start to ring. I ignored it. His phone kept ringing... and ringing... and ringing. Grinding my teeth, I got up and walked over to the Secretary's desk (where I was really supposed to be sitting for my important assignment). I picked up the phone and dutifully said, "Gemini Corporation."

A voice on the line asked, "Is Del DeWindt in?"

"Yes," I said, "He's been sitting in his office watching the phone ring." Then I hung up.

Well, the other reason Del had such a high position at Gemini turns out he was the son of the Chairman of the Board of Eaton Corporation, a Fortune 500 powerhouse. It also turns out the guy I hung up on was none other than E. Mandell (Del) de Windt, Sr., the big guy himself. Oops.

E. Mandell de Windt

Of course, at the time I had no idea who was on that line. Things came to light a few days later. I was sitting at my station grinding away with my mundane job when a guy named Don Burris, the Comptroller (the guy my boss reported to), stepped out of his office and boomed, "WHO WAS HANDLING THE PHONES AT LUNCH LAST FRIDAY?"

Thankfully, nobody remembered; and I certainly didn't feel it was my place to shed any light on the matter. Burris strutted through the bullpen ranting about the fact that someone had pissed off the Chairman of one of the biggest and most important companies in the country and he was, by God, going to find out who did it if it was the last thing he ever did.

Fortunately, the whole thing died down and he never learned the identity of the insolent renegade.

The ensuing 70s gas crisis led to Gemini's demise. I moved on to greener pastures and, afterward, was always a little more careful about my demeanor on the phone.

The Jewel

Midnight Freemason founder Todd Creason recently wrote a piece about a Brother who had objected to being called "Bro." (https://tinyurl.com/y73zfl4t) It brought to mind a somewhat similar experience I had when I was editor of the Missouri Freemason magazine.

As do many Masonic magazines, ours included a section in the back containing news and events from Lodges around the state. Many of these were stories about Lodges which had recognized Brothers for 50 years of service.

On one occasion I got a rather scathing letter from a Brother with an intense objection to the fact I had called the award a "50-year pin." In his letter, he was adamant about the significance of the award and insisted it should always be called a "50-year jewel." He made impassioned points about how Brothers receiving that award had served the fraternity for nearly a lifetime and deserved more respect than having the award called a "pin."

The fact is I agreed with everything he said about the 50-year members. They were, in fact, among our most esteemed Brothers and they had served the fraternity well. They deserved every bit of the respect the author of the letter called for.

So I wrote him back and told him that; but I added that I didn't see the word "pin" as derogatory, and said I didn't think it detracted from the significance of the award. I noted it is the term Brothers commonly use when they talk about or present it. I also pointed out I didn't write those articles. Rather, the members of the Lodges themselves wrote them and sent them in. The articles almost always referred to the award as a "50-year pin," confirming how common that terminology was. I might also note Ray Denslow, one of our most prolific and respected Masonic authors, called it a "50-year button."

So, in the magazine, I continued to allow authors to use the terminology, "50-year pin;" but that isn’t the end of the story.

Todd's article eloquently talked about respect within the Craft. While I still believe calling the award a "50-year pin" is not disrespectful, I can't help thinking about that Brother's letter almost every time I see the award presented. I am persuaded that the word "jewel" may elevate its status, or the meaning behind it, just a bit. That pin and the Brother who wears it certainly deserve respect for his service to this fraternity. So, I find myself more and more referring to it as a jewel. That letter I received years ago was caustic in tone, but I am increasingly grateful to the Brother who wrote it. He gave me something to think about.

I might add, this coming April I am eligible to receive my 20-year… jewel.

The Secret Masonic Code

Dad and I were out fishing at our favorite spot. We were both sitting on top of a clod of dirt covering the roots of a massive tree that had fallen and uprooted. It started to rain, sprinkling at first, then drizzling, and then the deluge hit. Intrepid outdoorsmen that we were, Dad thought it would be best if we called things off. "I think we could stand a little rain," he said, "but if we catch any, we don't want those poor fish to get wet."

With that, we packed up our gear. Dad stood up to get down off our perch, which by now had become muddy and slick. A mountain goat couldn't have held his footing on that slime and Dad went down, sliding through the mud and landing with both feet in the lake. Trying not to laugh too much, I decided to try a more graceful approach to getting down. I grabbed a series of roots that were sticking out and slid down the mudball. We washed off as much mud as we could using the "clean" lake water, then got into our car and headed home.

In the course of our traumatic ordeal we had worked up an appetite, so we decided to stop for lunch. After our lake water mud bath, we figured it wasn't a good idea to go inside a diner, so Dad stopped at a place that had curb service.

I had the short attention span of most kids that age – I was about ten – and as we were waiting for our order, I got bored and decided to do a little exploring. I flipped open the glove compartment and saw a book. The cover said something about "Masonic Ceremonies." I pulled it out and started to examine it.

How cool – everything was written in code!

I settled on a page and studied it. Then I realized I could kind of make out what the coded words said… so I started to read out loud.

Dad whipped around and looked at me, "What are you doing?"

I beamed with pride, "I'm reading this secret book."

Dad grabbed the secret treasure from me, "You're not supposed to see that."

We sat in silence. Dad stared at the page I had been reading. "My God," he said, "what you read is exactly what it says."

Let's face it, some parts of our "secret" Masonic monitors aren't all that tough to figure out. Nevertheless, at the tender age of ten I could claim to have cracked the top secret Masonic code.

The New Road

Dad's new car was in for service in Noblesville, a town about 25 miles North of Indianapolis, where he had bought it. He had left it overnight, so Mom drove him up there to pick it up. I was about 6 or 7, and my brother Jim was a toddler, so we had to go along for the ride. State Road 37 was the main route between Noblesville and Indy. They were building a new section of the road, and Dad told Mom he thought it was open, "Let's take the new road back home," he suggested. We picked up the car and Mom took off ahead of us with Jim and I in the car with Dad.

We reached the new section of road and there were barriers across it, but they were kind of pushed off to the side. Mom stopped her car and Dad pulled up behind her. She came back to our car and asked if he still wanted to try the new road. "It looks finished to me," said Dad, "If the road was closed I think they'd have those barriers completely blocking it."  They made the decision to press on.

Mom drove onto the new section with Dad following. We got about a mile down the new road when we heard the sound of a siren. Flashing red lights appeared behind us. Mom pulled over and Dad pulled up behind her. The cop parked his car in front of Mom, got out and walked back to her car. They talked for a while, then Mom made a U-turn and headed back the other way. Then the cop came back to our car.

"Sir," he said, "this road isn't open."

"I'm terribly sorry, officer," said Dad, "but I was just following that woman ahead of me."

My Near-Brush With Elvis

I was in Noblesville, Indiana, a quiet little town about 25 miles north of Indianapolis. My mother and grandmother took me into a drugstore. We sat down in a booth and ordered drinks. While we were waiting for our orders, a man came into the store holding something and went over to see another man sitting near the front window. He was excited about whatever treasure he had. He and the other man talked for a few minutes, then the first man left.

As we sat there with our drinks the story floated through the place. This was big-time stuff for little ole Noblesville. According to what we heard, none other than Elvis Presley had come through town and had a problem with his car. The guy we had seen come in the front made the repair on Elvis' car and kept the old part he had replaced.

That was my near-brush with Elvis. I was in the same room with a defective part from his car. This was very early in Elvis' career, but I still like to think it was the pink Cadillac.

Dinner

Back in the late '60s, early '70s I was young and idealistic and participated in marches and rallies for civil rights. Nothing I ever took part in was ever violent, but I wasn't shy about expressing my opinions about the issues of the day.

Home for the summer after graduating from college I worked at Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis. One day I got off my shift and on my way home saw a large group gathered with a sign that said "SCLC" – Southern Christian Leadership Conference, a group dedicated to non-violence and founded by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I wasn't certain what the event was but I felt compelled to stop. It turned out to be an action promoting naming some sort of park or memorial to Dr. King. In fact, as I later discovered it was more of a social event than a rally. I thought I saw a line where they were handing out signs or leaflets or some such thing, so I got in it. Young, enthusiastic and somewhat clueless, I struck up a conversation with an older black man in front of me.

Finally, I asked him, "What are we here for?" Expecting him to tell me what the rally was all about, I hadn't yet looked forward to the head of our line or I would have discovered they were handing out paper plates filled with food.

The man smiled and said, "Dinner."

Not exactly what I expected. That evening instead of carrying a sign, I ate a hot dog in the name of civil rights.