FMST Graduation

The air was chilly, no, cold, as we left the motel in Jacksonville, NC for the short drive to Camp Johnson. Although we had entered the destination into the car’s navigation system we followed Mark, who was driving Jen’s Lexus. There was light traffic on the Jacksonville Parkway as we approached Camp Johnson. We parked at the Veterans Park, which is at the entrance to the military installation’s gate. Between the two cars we had only one vehicle pass, but we had a plan. Mark would drive Jennifer, James and Michael through the gate and then return to get Claudette and me.  

The uniformed guard in fatigues checked Mark’s credentials as we entered the camp.  Soon we were standing in the cold morning air with a sometimes stiff frigid eastern North Carolina breeze buffeting our faces. We were standing there  or warming the very cold seats of metal folding chairs for about one half hour before the troops arrived. It was Nathan’s graduation from Field Medical Service Technician and Marine Corps Expeditionary and Combat Skills Training. Nathan is a Hospital Corpsman in the Navy but chooses to serve with the Marine Corps.  The Navy supplies corpsmen for the Marine Corps since the Marine Corps is a part of the Department of the Navy.   Appropriately, the ceremony was being held in front of Doc Bradley Hall. The building is named for John “Doc” Bradley, Navy corpsman who helped the marines raise the flag atop Mt. Suribachi on Iwo Jima during WWII.  Corpsmen are commonly referred as “Doc”.

Soon we heard the sound of marching feet and the guidons calling cadence. The 187 corpsmen came into view with their platoon flags fluttering in the breeze. Soon the national anthem was played, and I restrained myself from physical contact with the young woman in front of me who chose not to stand during the playing of said anthem. If you enjoy the freedoms afford to you while living in the greatest nation in the world, you should honor that country’s anthem.

There were comments by the program commanding officer, followed by the keynote speech by Rear Admiral Brent W. Scott, Chaplain, USN. He was a very inspiring speaker. He told the story of a Medal of Honor winner from the Battle of Belleau Wood in 1918 who was a US Navy dentist attached to the Marine Corps. The Congressional Medal of Honor is the highest medal awarded to an American armed service member.  The admiral told the assembled that they had the skills needed to perform their assigned tasks during their training at FMST. But, one other component was needed for them to be the complete Hospital Corpsman: courage. Each man must reach inside himself to find that courage.

Awards were given. Pledges recited. Shields pinned. Songs sung.

After the ceremony we enjoyed taking photos of our favorite graduate before leaving Camp Johnson for a warmer place and later some lunch.

Tony Young, Nathan Herrington, Mark Herrington
three generations of sailors

Altun Ha and Other Things Mayan

We were on a bus bouncing along the road on the way to the ruins. The big cruise ship had entered port earlier in the day, and we were quick down the gangway to get on the bus. Our guide dressed in o. d. Bermuda shorts and khaki shirt proclaimed how the new prime minister of Belize had improved the country’s roads. I nudged Claudette. “Not quite as bad as the road from Barahama to the batays,” I said, referring to our time in the Dominican Republic. “We take so much for granted in our country, “ she said, reminding me of our country’s infrastructure.  

It was warm on the bus even though the air conditioning was on. According to our short and somewhat rotund  Belizean guide, the air conditioning was either on or off, with no adjustments.  I was willing to sweat a bit for dependable transportation. The bus negotiated the narrow streets as our guide continued to talk about her country. She exclaimed that Belize was the only English speaking country in Central America. I asked why did the British Commonwealth country drive their motor vehicles on the right  side of the road. “I’m glad you asked that,” she responded. “The Pan-American Highway once came through Belize, and for that reason we changed to driving on the right side of the road. It would have been quite confusing for drivers to be required to change lanes when entering our borders. However, we had a huge hurricane and the Pan-American highway was relocated, but we did not change back to driving on the left.”  She was indeed a fountain of knowledge and pointed our why there seemed to be so many unfinished houses in the country. “In our country,” she said, “people do not borrow money to build a house. They save their money and begin building their house.  They may only build a few rooms before they give out of money.  They man have to save many more years to have enough money to finish the house.”

She continued to talk as the bus slowed and pulled over to the side of the road to allow a large truck to pass. We were now in rural Belize.  Colorful shacks and derelict automobiles were common among the dense tropical foliage. Some of the members of our tour group spied an iguana. These vicious appearing vegetarians always capture an audience.  The “Oohs and “Aahs” of the group prompted an explanation from our guide, Lee. “Iguanas, like other meat eaten by Belizeans, tastes like chicken, but not  this iguana!”

“And why not?” I wanted to know.

“‘Cause they’re scavengers. They’ll eat anything. Stuff like garbage!”

I turned to Claudette. “They’re like the catfish of the lizard family,” I said.

“You won’t find me cooking one anytime soon!” she said. Her response was no surprise to me.

We soon reached the archaeological site. The tour bus number 569 was parked in line with three others. Opposite the buses were a few low buildings which appeared to had been hastily constructed. Garish signs advertised beer, food, and of course, tee shirts.

We gathered around our guide and entered the site.

I was unprepared for what I saw.  One of the reasons we were here was because I had always wanted to see some pyramids. Claudette had expressed her opinion that Egypt was unsafe, and that she would not go there. It did not tax my limited amount of native wisdom to realize that I might be able to walk like an Egyption, but would never walk with one. However, I did persuade her to visit the four-sided conical structures of the western hemisphere. We were at Altun Ha.

Altun Ha is about an hour’s drive from Belize City and about seven miles from the Caribbean Sea. During Mayan occupation it was a trading center. The location was actually discovered in 1963 by a bush pilot. I think that perhaps he thought the green hills looked too perfect to be natural. One day local men were seeking to quarry some stone when they found the first pyramid.  The most prolific

archaeologist  was a Canadian, Dr. David Pemdergast. Later, while supervising the digging, one of the diggers fell through the roof of a 1300 year old tomb. Imagine his surprise when he found himself beside a reclining centuries old skeleton. Under the boney arm of an elderly man was an object most interesting: a green sphere scarcely six inches in diameter.  With crossed eyes and a mouth with fangs, it represented the head of the sun god, Kinich Ahu. (There are experts that disagree with this assessment  of the skull.) The head and other relics were stored in a safe place. A legend arose about the jade head suggesting that it had disappeared and moved as if spirited away to different locations.  In reality it is stored in a number of secure locations on an ever changing schedule. It is a national treasure. There is nothing else like it in Mesoamerica. The dig continues today.

“Smell this!” a uniformed guide told me as he pressed a small fragment of a leaf into my palm. I obeyed his command and immediately traveled back in time to my grandmother’s kitchen. She was baking a fruitcake and the room was filled with the odor of allspice. In my hand was a piece of a leaf of the allspice tree, or rather shrub. The guide brought me back to reality by explaining how the Mayans used the plant to hide the odor of the decomposing bodies of the dead. Also, it was as an anesthetic when chewed, which was no doubt useful during Mayan dental work. (There is archaeological evidence they performed dental procedures!) With a somewhat leery smile he suggested it also had the same effect as a certain blue pill taken by older men.

The site is comprised of over ten excavated structures with more obviously still covered by vegetation. I estimated the entire area excavated to be about ten acres or less, but the total area would have been about 25 square miles and had 10,000 inhabitants in its heyday.  The largest pyramid is the Temple of Masonry Altars, which is located on a central square. This particular structure is where the jade head was found. Unlike other pyramids in Mesoamerica, you are allowed to climb to the top of these pyramids.  Some of these structures reach heights of over sixty feet.

As we left the site we walked close to the base of one of the pyramids and the guide was telling us about how the structures were made of local limestone. With his left hand the muscular young man of obvious Mayan ancestry grabbed some crumbled pebbles of limestone. He held it in his hand telling us how soft yet durable it was. I asked him to crumble it in his hand and then blow on it before smelling it. He looked at me like I was crazy but complied with my wishes.  Once he sniffed the limestone dust a smile spread over his face.  The carbon dioxide in your breath reacts to the calcium carbonate in the limestone to create a unique odor. We exited Ahun Ha after hearing three different guides extol the features of the ancient city.

Near the entrance to the ruins were several open air cafes. We needed to relax a bit and get a bite to eat. Since we follow a vegan dietary plan, food is not always easy to find. The folks at the cafe were very accommodating in providing vegan burritos with fried plantains.  The local beer Belikin, with a picture of the Temple of the Masonry Altars on its label, was the perfect accompaniment.

I will probably never see the pyramids of Egypt, but I thoroughly enjoyed those of Belize.

I Think I'm A Vegan...

"We have to do something," she said.

"What?" I asked, lifting my head from watching a video on the ty2u channel on Youtube.

"Well, we have to change our eating habits." There was conviction in her voice. "Remember the military diet? The South Beach diet? And all those other things we've tried for weight loss?"

"I do," I said hesitantly, not knowing what was coming next.

"We're going on a plant-based diet.  Vegan," she said emphatically.

I was speechless. After a few minutes I managed to mouth the word, "Why?"

"Because we've tried all these other diets and nothing worked completely for weight loss.  But this change is about our health. I just watched this movie, What the Health, on Netflix about the health benefits of a plant-based diet. Not only did the people interviewed lose weight, but their health problems were solved. One lady's sleep apnea disappeared. We have to do it!" She was still standing looking down at me relaxing on the sofa.

I knew very little about vegans. Images of skinny old people in jeans and Birkenstocks picking berries or doing Tai Chi came to mind. I had heard once that vegetarians smelled different from omnivores, so I assumed vegans did also. And there was that image of Mr. Spock on the bridge of the Enterprise saying, " It looks like the Vegans, Captain!"  Maybe that was Vulcans? However, according to those unwritten words in the marriage contract I would comply with her wishes. 

On July 31, 2017, we began our dietary adventure. My dear wife entered the adventure with the assurance and zeal of a sixteenth century explorer.  I, on the other hand, took a more cautious approach. It became my job, or dare I say duty, to rid our refrigerator and pantry of all foodstuffs that were non-plant-based. Those were memorable days of ice cream, bacon, eggs, sausages, burgers and all the foods I now dream of.  But, the last of the animal and  dairy food products were properly disposed of by yours truly. 

Changing one's diet requires a lot of education on food and nutrition. Developing a keen eye for the tiny print on food labels is of paramount importance as well. My wife is a good shopper and cook when it comes to preparing tasty vegan meals. I believe scientists can create a reasonable facsimile of virtually any animal product from either soybeans or chick peas. I dare not ask what additives are used to produce the textures and flavors for this facade, but I am curious how soybeans can be processed to present a very good substitute for chicken in color, texture and taste. 

While finding the proper foods in the grocery store or market is not extremely difficult, eating out is another matter, because vegan menus are rather rare. Some vegetarian restaurants, such as the Laughing Seed in Asheville, NC, have great vegan options on their menus. Regular restaurants have very little vegan fare. Usually they have a salad, and that is about it. Sometimes after you have them hold the cheese, bacon, sour cream and such there is very little left. You also have to be aware that many baked goods have eggs in them.  That is a "no-no" in a vegan diet. 

I don't know why, but I find it difficult to confess that I am a vegan. After all, it is simply a matter of what I choose to eat. Why should I be apologizing for my choice of food? I've gotten used to being stared at when I order my meal.  I expect any time to hear someone say, "If you aren't going to eat that cheese, can I have it?"

I don't think we have received the full benefits of a plant-based diet yet. I do know that my digestion system no longer needs prodding medicinally to work properly, and that I have lost over fifteen pounds. I feel better.  But, my overall objective is to decrease the number of medications I take. And I am confident I will reach that goal.

Yes, I am a vegan!

Living with CHF

It was about fifteen years ago when I saw my doctor, a general practitioner, about my shortness of breath.  I was in my late fifties. I didn't think it was anything serious. After all, Mom and Dad had both lived to the ripe old age of ninety-three. Daddy's major medication when he passed away was a baby aspirin.  But after tests and hospitalization I was diagnosed.  I will always remember when my height challenged Italian doctor spoke in a calm almost undertaker voice and said, "Mr. Tony, many people that gave the same condition as you live long lives with proper medication." I was diagnosed with congestive heart failure.  All I knew about the disease was that I saw in the obituaries that people died from it.  Claudette, my wife was more upset than I was. She had consulted "Mr. Google".  According to this electronic fount of knowledge people with CHF only had a life expectancy of three years after diagnosis. She had lost one husband to a heart attack and did not fancy losing another to heart problems. By the way, she was not immediately forthcoming with the knowledge obtained from "Mr. Google." It was several years before I found this out.    How did I react? I thought about my situation while I was looking at the ceiling of a hospital room. (I was hospitalized a few days during my diagnosis.) I took a close look at my mortality. I had a "come to Jesus" moment much like I had once before when I awoke with a cockroach crawling across my face while lying flat of my back on the floor of a somewhat untidy apartment.  But that is another story. I evaluated my relationship with the Almighty and decided I could be a better follower. I decided that Christianity was not a spectator endeavor and became more involved. Secular wise I followed my doctors' instructions explicitly. I exercise daily and try to eliminate stress. Although my heart is very weak, I don't want to do anything to weaken it further. Managing my medications is one of my goals.  I don't like pills. Taking flaxseed and fish oil capsules have eliminated the need for cholesterol medication. Recently, we have converted to a plant-based diet which I believe will improve my health further. 

I think living with a deadly disease  is a combination of spiritual and physical care. About death,  I think the great general of the American Civil War, Thomas J. Jackson, put it best when he said:"My religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to be always ready, no matter when it may overtake me. That is the way all men should live, and then all would be equally brave."

art work by me, a computer mono print 

The Origin of the Snowshark Preservation Society

It was winter in Glens Falls, NY. The year was 1989, and snow was piled high outside Peter’s Pub on Maple Street. It was a sparse crowd. A couple of lumberjacks were playing pool, the click of the balls hitting each other accented by loud and boisterous cursing in French.  A few regulars at the bar were watching the hockey game on the television  being adjusted by the tattooed bartender. It was a house rule at Peter’s that only hockey and wrestling were to be viewed on the establishment's small television.  It was primarily a working class drinking establishment,but it became the pub of choice for me and my friends who were fellow members of management at Native Textiles, merely a few blocks away on Warren Street. Those of us who wore neckties immediately doffed them before entering the door.

We were on our third round of Gennies, or Genesee beer, as we recounted the day at the factory. As I had recently joined the company they were interested in my reaction to the snow.  It was not unusual for me to be treated as some kind of novelty. My Southern drawl would sometimes mesmerize them. Where I had come from in the south if one inch of snow stayed on the ground overnight it was a big deal, a true natural phenomena.  I told them I had a great deal of admiration for the folks that seemed to have no difficult driving in the deep snow.

It was then that I asked them if they had seen any snowsharks. John, the textile designer, said, "No, I have never heard of such an animal.” The others said nothing. I did not know if they were familiar with the cryptozoological  beasts or did not want to display their lack of knowledge. I gave a brief explanation of how they lived under the snow and only appeared when they were hungry. “Once, Watterson put a reference to a snowshark in his Calvin & Hobbs comic strip,” I said. No one expressed any interest in snowsharks, and the evening ended with everyone with their own beer induced buzz.

Later that week, I asked several people whether they had seen any of the beasts. Everyone showed great interest, but there were no sightings. However, about two weeks after I had first mentioned them to my friends, a factory employee reported having seen one in Fort Ann. Fort Ann was a small village near Glens Falls. Sometimes sightings come from some unusual sources. In this case a material allocator working for me told me his grandmother had seen a snowshark. When this happened, I wondered how many other people would see them if I let people know they existed.

I left Native the next spring and came back south but not before I had come up with the name Snowshark Preservation Society and a logo. My friends in the design shop were great help in the logo design. In the late nineties I was in the South Carolina Lowcountry and had bought a Gateway computer. I created my first website.  I built it from scratch, no templates or “drag and drop”.  The Snowshark Preservation Society was my first website. Although I was a true neophyte on the internet, I wanted the site to be interesting and informative, but my main objective was to get people searching for the cryptozoological creatures and reporting their results to me. I created the pages on the origin of the species and their initial discovery in the Adirondack  Mountains of New York state. I published

photos of a pottery shard emblazoned with the image of a snowshark. Soon I was getting emails detailing sightings. These were published and the location of the sighting posted on a map. Academic papers published by experts in the field of cryptozoology journals were posted on the SPS website. One day I received actual photographic evidence of a snowshark. The creatures rarely are visible but their dorsal fin kicks up a “roostertail” which could be clearly seen in the photograph. I gave away refrigerator magnets to people who responded, and I created snowshark chum. Snowshark chum would attract the wiley beasts for observation. There were t-shirts and thong underwear available emblazoned with the SPS logo also.

I continued the SPS website for about three years, during which time I received dozens of reports of sightings. When the company hosting the website decided to charge a fee for their services, I reluctantly shut the website down. And that is how I became an authority on snowsharks by creating the Society for the Preservation of Snowsharks.

Promo products and page 1 of the site.

It Was Hot

It was my first full time job, working in a woolen mill. As a new employee and only seventeen years old, I had to work the night shift. For some reason it was called the”graveyard shift”. As I remember, it was In the month of August. It gets pretty hot in South Carolina in the summer. I guess the temperature was about 100 degrees in midday. We lived in an old farm house without air conditioning. Course I didn't know anybody that had air conditioning then. ‘Bout the closest I had ever come to it was walking in front of Smith's Five & Dime on main street in McCormick when they had their doors open, and that cool air would come out.  A passerby would feel that cool air and go inside. It always got me to go in. But then my first true love, Charlene, worked there. She'd flash those big brown eyes at me, and I'd be useless the rest of the day. Five days a week I did not see her, but this was Friday and I would see her when she got off work today. But first I had to get some sleep.

I got home about a quarter 'til nine.  Mama had breakfast for me, and I was in bed by ten. About two o’clock I heard this terrible racket. It sounded like somebody was hammering on the house. I had every window open, of course, since the summer temperature was reaching 100 degrees. I was lying on the bed in my boxer shorts but still hot, sweating. I stuck my head under my pillow to cut out the noise. It didn’t work. I jumped out of bed.  I had to find out what was making that noise. I didn’t stop to put on my pants.  Hey, we lived in the country, the closest house was a mile away. The door to my room opened onto the back porch. I bounded out the door and down the back porch steps. Then I brought my body to a screeching halt!  

Coming around the corner of the house were two women! One was my mother (That was alright, Mamma had seen me in my underwear many times.), and the other was Mrs. Crosby, Charlene’s mama. I turned, made it to the top of the steps in two giant steps, and was back in my room in a fraction of a second.  I was starting to put my pants on when I realized the the hammering sound had stopped. I didn’t finish putting on my pants and instead dove back into bed. In minutes I was sound asleep again. But, it was for naught. The noise woke me

again. This time I put on my pants before investigating.  I went around the house to where my room was.  There, up above my window was a woodpecker. I don’t know why he decided to look for bugs there, and I didn’t care. I did know that he was keeping me awake. He saw me and quickly took refuge in a chinaberry tree close by.  I turned to go back into the house, but I had just gone around the corner of the house when he started hammering again. I had to find a way to stop this bird.  I turned around slowly, thinking. I felt something underfoot. Looking down, I saw a rock about the size of a baseball. If I could clobber that woodpecker with that rock I would no longer be sleep deprived. I crept along the side of the house getting closer to the bird. My granddaddy could drop a running rabbit at 100 feet, but I wasn’t granddaddy. I got as close as I could without spooking him. He stopped hammering for an instant, and I threw that rock with all I had. I didn’t hit him, but I did hit a window. The bird flew away. I’d tell Mama what happened and I would fix the window tomorrow, but now I needed sleep.

Back to bed I went and was soon sound asleep and dreaming of me and Charlene walking hand in hand down a country road.  I was about to say something to her when...Rat-tat-tat-tat.. Yep, the woodpecker again! I slowly got out of the bed and realized this would require some extreme action. From the corner of the room I pulled out my old Iver-Johnson 16 gauge single shot shotgun I had gotten for my eighth birthday.  From the top drawer of my chest of drawers I found a shotgun shell with #8 birdshot. I knew that would do the trick. I got back in my jeans and loaded the gun when I got into the backyard. (Never have a loaded gun in the house--Daddy’s rule.)  Once again I slowly crept around the corner of the house. I was fairly close and had a bead on him. As I squeezed the trigger the family cat, Whiskers, ran between my legs. The cat caused me to jump and that spoiled my perfect shot. It also saved Mr. Woodpecker’s life, but I winged him.  I was gonna finish him off when my little brother came at me screaming, “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”

I finally did get four hours of sleep that day. But had to put the woodpecker in a cage for rehab, and that’s another story.

A Special Day With Ma

I have never been a fisherman.  There was a time when I wanted to be, but it never happened.  My Uncle Alvin was a fisherman.  He always caught fish; bass, bream, crappie or catfish. He caught ‘em all. He would tell me tales of waterhorses.  Those were big largemouth bass, big enough to put both your fists into their mouths. He would tell what it was like to watch them come up and strike a topwater lure. The still water would erupt as the fish would begin to fight. He would pull hard, taking yard after yard of fishing line off the reel. He would leave the water in great leaps.  But the most spectacular thing he would do was to leap to the surface of the water and then sort of  walk across the water on his tail. Sometimes with a violent jerk of his head the lure would fly right out of his mouth. My uncle had named some of these fish. But these really big fish, he never brought them home.  They lived only in his stories.

I well remember my first fishing trip.  It was the summer of my sixth year. I was to start to school in the fall. At that time my dad was a tenant farmer in the Piedmont area of South Carolina. We lived in a small three room house on a red dirt road. Summers were full of fun for a six-year-old boy. (I was too young to work in the fields.)There were butterflies to catch and maypops to pop. In the late evenings there were lightning bugs to catch, too. It was on one of these warm summer days that I had my first fishing adventure. My grandmother, Ma, lived about two miles away. She did not drive or have an automobile and would walk to our house.  Sometimes she would appear unannounced at our front door.  Of course she always appeared unannounced since it was before we got a telephone. I can see  her now with a kerchief on her head and wearing an old feed sack dress. She would have one of Pa’s old chambray shirts on and an apron tied around her waist.  I don’t ever remember seeing her without her eyeglasses. She spoke to Mama a few minutes. I heard Mama say, “That boy has been drivin’ me crazy to take him fishing. Jack doesn’t have time and I don’t know anything about fishing!”

“Well, I don’t know…,” Ma said.

“I sure would appreciate it if you could,” Mama pleaded.

“Awe right.  But  I didn’t bring no fishing stuff.”

“I don’t have anything and Jack doesn’t fish. But I’ll help if I can,”

Ma scratched her chin and said, “Maybe you could get me a couple of straight pins and a spool of heavy thread from your sewing basket…”

“Okay. Let me dry this last dish and I’ll get those things for you.”

Mama finished drying the plate and disappeared for a few minutes. She returned a few minutes later with the things Ma wanted.

“Got pliers?” Ma wanted to know.

“I think you’ll find a pair in that toolbox on the back porch by the kitchen door,” Mama said.  

I followed Ma to the back porch where she found the pliers. She used the pliers to shape the straight pins into two fish hooks. She then attached a length of heavy thread to each hook. I used my Hopalong Cassidy pocket knife to cut the thread.

Ma said, “Now you need to go and get us some fishing poles. Making ‘em about  this long.”

She held her hands about three feet apart.  I ran out the back of the house and found what I needed beside the barn. I was so excited that I ran back to the house where Ma quickly tied the fishing line to the poles.

“Don’t we need some bait, Ma?”

“We sure do.  Why don’t you go down by the barn and see if you can find some worms?”

I ran to the barn and got a garden trowel of Mama’s  from where the garden tools were kept.  I dug and dug and dug some more. But I did not find any worms. Frustrated I walked back to the house with my head hung low.

“I couldn’t find no worms!”

“Looks like you couldn’t wipe your feet either!” Mama scolded.

Still with my head hung low I went back out and wiped my feet. I heard Ma say, “Gimme a

li’l bit o’ flour amd I’ll make us some doughballs.”

When I got back inside, Ma said,  “Let’s go. I got  a li’l bit o’ flour from your mama. We can make doughballs for bait.”

We said goodbye to Mama. She wished us luck. We started walking down the dirt road toward the

branch.  I was feeling great. The warm sun was beaming down and the sky was that brilliant blue. There was a slight breeze. I could smell the pine trees that were on the right hand side of the road. We crossed the fence of rusty barbed wire into the pasture. “You ain’t seen that old male cow in here, have you?” Ma wanted to know.

“No, ma’am. I think he’s in one of the other pastures,” I said.

“That’s good. He might’ve chased you with that red shirt on.”

Soon we had crossed the pasture and were in a wooded area. After walking down a slight grade we were beside the branch in a grove of hardwood trees.  The branch to me was a place of adventure and mystery.   Who could tell what was under the water? What was hidden under the quartz bearing rocks?  Although it was only about three feet wide, it was a wild river to me.

“Gimme my fishin’ pole! I’m ready to fish!” I was excited.

“ Didn’t yo mama teach you how to say ‘please’?” said Ma.

“Yes, ma’am...please,” I answered.

“Here’s yo pole.”

“Where’s the bait?” I demanded.

“You just hold you hosses, young man! Come over here an’ I’ll show you how to make a doughball,” Ma said.

I walked over to where she was and watched as she spit in her hand. She added a Iittle bit of flour from a match box she had in her apron. Ma’s apron held many things. I once saw her pull a pair of scissors from her apron and stab a snapping turtle through the neck. But today she made  a small ball of dough with her thumb and pointer finger. She then put the tiny doughball on her fish hook.

“That’s how you do it,” she said.

I tried but couldn’t quite get it.  Ma made me a doughball from the last little bit of flour and put it on my hook.

Soon we both had our hooks in the water. I was disappointed. I did not catch a fish. I did not understand why not. I asked Ma.  She said that maybe it was because I did not spit on the bait once it was on the hook. I quickly pulled my hook from the water and spit on it twice. That did not seem to work either. I asked Ma what to do next. I simply had to catch a fish. She said,”You gotta hold your mouth right.”

I asked her to show me but she said it was different for everybody. I tried a frown. Then a scowl. I smiled. I tried facial expressions that don’t have a name. But nothing seemed to work. I was disheartened.  I believed I would never catch a fish. And then, after seemingly a millennium had passed, I felt a slight tug on my line. I had caught a fish!   It was the most beautiful fish I had ever seen. It had a brown back and a silver belly and all three inches were magnificent. I could not wait to get home and show it to Mama. Ma showed me how to make a stringer out of a small--very small stick.

When we got back to the house I told Mama we could have my fish for supper. She stared at Ma. I don’t know why.  Mama fried my fish for me. It was delicious. But I’m not sure whether I was tasting fish or just cornmeal breading.

And that was my first fishing adventure.

I would go fishing many more times with very little luck. In later years I have been invited to go fishing with friends. But they only invited me once. After careful analysis of the situation I found that when I went fishing with someone they would catch few fish if any. Yes I believe that I am bad luck for fishermen. I don’t just have bad luck, I share it!

Afterthought

My grandmother who was born in 1898 had a long life and happy life. At her funeral I mentioned to a cousin how she had made the fishing tackle and bait for my first fishing trip and how special it was to me. He said, “ Yeah, she did the same for me!”

Another Ride

Not so long ago I wrote in this blog about driving a NASCAR race car and about what an exciting ride it was. That was an exciting ride, but perhaps a more excitng ride was the one I took in the 1950s. Of course then I was a farm boy living on a two mule farm. It was a small farm. My father told me stories of working on 12 mule farms when he was young.  The house we were living in was built by my great grandfather on my mother's side of the family.  He descended  from German immigrants who settled in South Carolina in 1762.

It was the summer of my twelveth year when I took my ride. My grandmother and grandfather
lived about a mile away down the red dirt road. They were old. Grandma was born in 1898 and grandpa was older, so I had volunteered to plow up their garden spot. It wasn't a big deal; I could handle driving or plowing one mule and could handle a team hooked up to a wagon. Sometimes I would get in trouble when I would get the mules to run. I reckon I was a pretty good plowboy.  I could handle a mule better than a tractor. At 4-H Club camp we would get a chance to drive the newest tractors. The 4-H was operated under the U. S.  Departmemt of Agriculture to help rural youth. But, I would not be driving a tractor on that day.  No, indeed.  That day I would be plowing a mule; a gray mule.

It was early morning, about half past daybreak, when I slipped into the mule's stable with the bridle in my hand. The air was cool on this April morning, and I had had a breakfast of biscuits and white sop and salt cured ham (I was a growing boy!) and I was ready to work. I was always a little skittish when putting the bit in the mule's mouth. They had big teeth. I could imagine losing a finger.  Because of my height I had to wait until the mule lowered his head. Then I would slip the bit in the mule's mouth while putting the bridle over his ears and head, all in one smooth motion. I would lead the animal from the barn lot to a small building right outside the gate to the lot. That was the gear house. We called harness for the draft animals gears.  I don't know why, and I never knew it was harness until reading Zane Grey novels. The collar was the first thing that was put on the mule, followed by the gears. Later in life I found out that the proper name for the gears were hames. The last thing added were the plow lines, ropes attached to each side of the bridle at the bit. With voice commands and the plow lines you controlled the mule.

The sun was making an appearance when we began walking to my grandma's house. I looked for maypops on the edges of the road to pop, but it would be later in the summer before they appeared. I'm pretty sure that was not the correct botanical name. They looked like a small  elongated lime and grew on a ground hugging vine. The flower was kinda purple and sorta pretty.
Sure wished there had''ve been some to pop.

The old gray mule and I got grandma's garden plowed, and it was time to go home. Gramdma gave me a tall glass of sweet milk and two big warm sugar cookies before I left.  I was tired. I was sun burned. I didn't want to walk home. Why should I have to walk home when the mule could carry me?  That's when I got the idea. I could ride back!  Yep, I could ride that gray mule back!  But I was too short to jump up on its back. I  tried three times and gave up. I was always big for my age. I wore Red Camel jeans, husky size.  There had to be another way to get on that mule's back.  I was thinking on it as I started walking down the road leading the mule. It was an old road and the border between Greenwood and McCormick counties. Only a few yards down the road I heard a car coming. The mule did not want to get out of the road, but with some persuasion it did get into the deep ditch.  Mules are strong and withstand the scorching summer heat well, but they are very stubborn. I think they get that from their daddies, the jackass. 

We, the mule and me, were covered with red dust after the car went by. It was the rural mail carrier. His nickname was Bones.  They say he was in a Japamese prison camp during WWII. I just wished he had slowed down a bit when passing us. My spit was red, and it took a few minutes to clean the dirt out of my mouth.  I got over it, and started to climb out of the ditch and back into the road, when an idea hit me. I could  let the mule stand in the ditch while I mounted it from the high ditch bank. Riding would sure beat walking all the way home!

With the mule in the ditch, I climbed the embankment. I grabbed the reins and jumped astride the mule.   My knuckles were white as I held on when the mule jumped up out of the ditch. Once the gray one was in the middle of the road it reared up on its hind legs. I tightened my grip and held on. Next the mule kicked its hind legs high and launched me. Yep, over the mule's head. For a few microseconds I was airborne.  And then I wasn't. I remember nothing of my slide on my side down the middle of the road. The sandy surface ripped the skin from my semi-naked body.  I felt nothing and had a vague memory of celestial constellationa floating through my mind upon awakening.  Struggling to my feet  and brushing myself off I noticed that the mule was nowhere to be seen. I was a wee bit stiff from the sudden impact with the earth and had stopped bleeding when I continued my journey home.

Upon my arrival home the mule was waiting for me at the gear house making that "hee-haw" sound that mules make.  As I removed the gears from the mule I mumbled some things under my breath, that if my mama had heard, would have surely resulted im punishment. I knew that I was already going to get a tongue lashing for being all bloody and all.  Later in life I did drive a NASCAR racecar  at over 130 mph and that was exciting. But that wasn't the same being launched from the rear end of a mule on a country road.That was  my first exciting ride.

119 Gordon Row

I was listening to the slow summer rain fall on the roof as I read the story.  It  was a warm afternoon in Savannah, and we had just checked into Savannah's Bed and Breakfast Inn. The Inn is housed in joined houses which form Gordon Row and was built 1853-54. It features wrought iron banisters leading to the parlor floor of the four story structure. On this shady street off Chatham Square, the inn exudes the charm of the old South with treelined streets, hanging Spanish moss, and blooming flowers. We had enjoyed lunch with friends soon after arriving in this city, on the banks of the river for which it was named, before checking into the Inn. The drumming of the rain on the roof gave more life to the story I was reading about the war in Afghanistan. It echoed the gunfire from the war zone. Claudette was catching up with her Facebook friends on her iPad at a nearby table. The overhead fans moved the warm humid air in a futile effort to cool things off. The story I was reading about American soldiers collecting the corpses of Afghani war victims was in stark contrast to my surroundings. A semi-calico cat brushed against my leg and brought me back to reality, as a young couple entered the porch from the parlor. Both were dressed in shorts and flip-flops. She wore the shorter shorts, but both had on long-sleeved shirts, untucked. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and he had the fashionable facial stubble.  I would have put their age at mid to late twenties. They were very much engrossed in each other.  Newlyweds?  Perhaps. I finished reading the story

before Claudette was ready for tea, and I busied myself looking at the patio gardens below.  From my second story porch vantage point I got a good view. Several had fountains.  One particular fountain of note was an ugly creature spewing water from its mouth. Ceramic or stone stone animals were quite common too. I took a few photos including some of angels or "garden angels", as I referred to them. 
Soon she had finished catching up with her daily emails, and we ventured inside for tea. For some reason, after visiting the British Isles several times, afternoon tea has become a part or our daily lives. There was a variety of teas available, but I usually prefer a standard English breakfast tea with two lumps of sugar. I let others enjoy the various and sundry flavors. The necessary items for tea were on an elegantly carved sideboard with tiny pastries under glass. The parlor extended from the front to the back of the house and had matching carved black marble fireplaces along one side. Art framed in carved gilded frames hung on the walls. Some were botanical prints and others original oils or watercolors, and there were some reproductions on canvas also. All were very tastily hung on an off-white wall.  Of course everything was well illuminated by overhead chandeliers. 

We retired to our room to relax a bit before dinner. Our ground level room was spacious with private bath. There were two queen-size beds with matching carved headboards and were truly beautiful pieces of furniture. There was an upholstered chair by the window with end table. The flat screen TV was on a chest of drawers beside the fireplace. I kicked back on the bed and was going to watch television when I spied a stack of books on a shelf behind the room door. I selected a book reviewing a recent film festival in the city. 

We walked a few blocks to the Crystal Beer Parlor to dine. As you would imagine it had a storied past dating back to the early 1900s. I had the shrimp scampi pita pizza and it was delicious. It was a white pizza and the shrimp were surprisingly tender. Claudette had the bison burger which she enjoyed. 

Breakfast was all you could ask for. We had the classic breakfasts of eggs, bacon, toast and fresh fruit. I ordered strawberry jam for my toast. Yogurt parfaits, and waffles were also available. We had placed our orders for breakfast when we checked in. The parlor had spaces at the tables for 20 guests, but we did not see that many there at once. The waitress was very courteous and efficient.

But alas it was time to check out and leave to travel north to our home. I hope that the next time we visit Savannah it doesn't rain every day. We did find a nice place to stay even though it rained. 

Memorial Day

It's another Memorial Day.  I've seen seventy-three, but that doesn't make me exactly an expert. I seriously doubt if many college students today could tell you much about it. From my childhood, I don't remember much except that my father on Memorial Day would put on his American Legion cap and sell paper poppies for boutonnières. He would have the day off from work too. In the south where I grew up it wasn't much of a celebration like I heard there was in the north and mid-west with parades and such. 

The actual origin of Memorial Day is unknown.  For centuries folks have placed flowers on the graves of the fallen in battle on certain days. It seems that after the War Between the States, in 1868, May 30 became the quasi official Memorial Day. It did not mean a lot to me as a schoolboy since it occurred after school was out for the summer. In 1966 President Lyndon B. Johnson with approval of Congress made it an official federal holiday. Almost all official holidays are now celebrated on the Monday nearest the original date. 

I, like many others, remember those family members who died in military service to our country. My uncle, John Young, died in WWI.  Each Memorial Day I post a short video I made about him on Facebook. He, like so many over the years and presently, left the security of their home to set foot on foreign battlegrounds never to return. There is hardly any battleground whose earth is not stained with the blood of an American fighting man. And a sea not tinged with the blood of an American sailor does not exist. Those who've been in harm's way know the peril of battle and the honor of fighting for the liberty we love. Those who choose not to be in harm's way should endure the scourge of free men everywhere. 

I served my country's military and I'm proud I did.