And again, shhh...

Every Christmas and Birthday I would ask the same question.

“Can I have a BB gun this year?”

To which my dad would answer, “No son.”  He would always end that sentence with, repeat after me, “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

Even knowing that, I would ask each year and receive the same refrain.

It always seemed silly to me because BB guns were all over.  I could shoot a friend’s any time I wanted by simply asking, “Can I shoot some?”

Clyde always had a BB gun.  He liked to walk around the golf course plinking at anything that caught his eye.  I would always follow along behind hoping to have a shot.

“Do you have BB’s,” I asked.  I wanted him to know I was along.  

His exasperated look never registered with me as I ran to keep up.

“Shhh…  Keep quiet.  I’m gonna get us a squirrel.”

He waved me still.

I stopped.

Clyde’s Toy Collie, ever with us,   bumped into me.  He looked up, tongue lolling,   as if to say, “What the…?”  Then he licked his muzzle and smiled as dogs do for children.

“Sorry Rex.  I didn’t mean…”

“SHHH!”  Clyde looked at me sternly.  He looked his four years older in those moments.

I slapped my hand over my mouth.

He nodded pointing.  I followed the gesture to a silhouette balanced on a pine branch ten feet above us.  He took his finger from in front of his mouth and placed it on the trigger as he settled the rifle butt to his shoulder.

Poof!  Air popped from the barrel.

“Dang it! No BB’s!”

“I asked…”

“Tuttut… don’t,” he said leaning the gun against his leg.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cardboard barrel.  He rattled it as he reached for the top.  A sharp pop was heard as he pulled the top off.  Up ending it, he poured the contents into his mouth.   Cheeks puffed full of copper BB’s, he lifted the gun, opening the entry point for the little orbs.  This he placed to his mouth and sprayed BB’s into the barrel.  PFFFST…

I heard them rattle down into the bottom of the chamber.

He rolled his tongue around his mouth then spit a couple more into the opening.

“There,” he said.  “Full in no time.”

He shook the rifle smiling as the copper rattled around inside the gun.  A swift cock of the lever and he was ready, bringing the sites up to the branch once more.  The branch was empty.

Rex panted at his feet.  He stood ready to move on as he knew we would.

“If you hadn’t made so much noise,” said Clyde.

“But you didn’t have any BB’s in the gun.  How was it my fault?”

“Shhh… Don’t bother me with questions while we’re hunting.”

The trees at the edge of the golf course grew thinner as we approached the creek behind the 15^th green.

Rex ran ahead to the path at the side of   the waterway leading to the Stono River.  Clyde pushed through the chest high Marsh grass looking for the path.  Finding it he waved me on.  I rushed through the reeds that reached over my head losing sight of him.

“Wait for me!”

“Shhh… Nef, how many times I gotta say shhh?”

I reached the path.  He was a few feet ahead walking straight for the Stono which was about a quarter mile in front of us.  It seemed longer for my short legs as I ran to catch up.

Half way there was a path that forked ninety degrees to the right.  It was a line of dirt a foot and a half above the plough mud.  It meandered crookedly toward Maybank Highway.  Clyde turned to walk its natural path.  Rex was a few feet in front.  I was a few feet behind.  I watched the ground as I hurried my steps .I ran into Clyde who had stopped at Rex’s first bark.

 Getting up off my duff, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“Shh...  Rex has spotted something.”

I peered around him.  I saw Rex moving stealthily forward.  He broke into a run growling loudly.  Stopping short, his face went into the dirt and up.  His growl grew louder all the while his head whipping rapidly back and forth.  In his teeth flailing to and fro was what looked like a piece of rope.

“What is …”

“Shhh…  Rex is killing a snake.  It coulda got us.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“If it is it ain’t no more,” said Clyde with a smile.

Rex dropped the three foot snake on the ground.   He watched it for movement.  It lay flopped across the path.

“Good boy,” said Clyde walking up to him.  Rex was sitting now.  “You took care of that thing,   didn’t you boy?”

“Is it poisonous?” I asked.

“Heck, I don’t know,  nef.  It’s a snake.  It coulda been.  Rex saved us if it was.”

He aimed his gun and pumped a BB into the dead thing’s head. Clicking the lever, he pumped another one into the lifeless form.

“He’s dead.  Musta broke his back.  Atta boy, Rex.”

Rex sat, tongue draped over his lower jaw, heaving summer air.  He looked up at Clyde with a dog grin.

Looking around for another snake I said, “Maybe we should head home.”

“Don’t you want to shoot?”

“Yeah!”

“Still think we should go home?”

“Maybe a little longer,” I said reaching for the gun.

“Come on then,” he said, cradling the air rifle in the crook of his arm.

I trotted along behind, Rex beside me.

Me too

"Is that all there is?"

"Well, whadya want?"

"I thought there would be more."

A worm's life

I followed along behind, my cane pole over my shoulder. The line was looped around the end I was holding with the hook embedded in the round cork stabbed through with a small wooden red shaft. I had to run every few steps my granddad made just to keep up. He was carrying the bait bucket in one hand and two more cane poles bobbling horizontally in the other. He wore faded overalls that looped up over his shoulders under which was a faded blue shirt with the collar askew. Draped at an angle was a shabby straw hat with a broken spot splaying straw strands in all directions the brim bouncing ever so gently with each step forward. I looked down at the ground to watch the worn heel leave a cat's paw imprint in the sand along the shore. "Are we going to get a boat, granddaddy?" I asked looking at the rowboats lined along the shore. They rose and fell slightly with each ripple coming towards us. "No, Rickey. We're going to find a stump over in that direction to sit on the bank and drown our worms quietly." Disappointment flashed across my face. "Now don't give us that look. I don't like being on the lake. We don't have any life preservers and I can't swim and I know you don't swim being such a little fella." "I'm a big boy! I started school this year." "They teach you to swim?" he asked smiling at me. "No sir. But I can write letters good." "That's fine. Maybe you can show me in the sand while we watch our corks." I smiled and nodded my head. The stump was right where he had pointed. It was just at the edge of the pond under a tall oak which gave shelter from the sun. The shade was cool and the water was warm. I knew because I had slipped off my Keds and was wiggling my toes under the wavelets. "You're gonna have to sit and not disturb the water, Rickey. Those fish are skittish and anything unusual will make them stay away from our worms." I backed out of the water and sat in the sand. He lowered the bait bucket to the ground next to the stump. He sat and began to untie the lines on the poles. The shortest one he untangled. He reached into the pile of loam in the bucket. Digging around he found one pulling it out. It wriggled in his hand as he stuck it on the hook. "Here you go, son. Now let it swing out into the water over there," he said pointing away from him. I tried several times but the line dragged in the sand. "Hmm, guess you need to grow a bit." He took the pole and lifted the line up and over. With a plop it settled on the water and bobbed in the tiny waves. I sat and took the pole from him. "Keep a watch on that cork. If you feel a tug and it goes under that means you got a fish on your line." "OK, granddaddy. I'll watch real close." He went about baiting his two poles which were much longer than mine. One he flipped out in the opposite direction from mine then placed the butt of it into the sand so that it stood on its own. The other he tossed between the two. He pushed the brim of his hat back settling on the stump to wait for the fish to bite. I watched him pull a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket beneath the left strap of his coveralls. He shook it so that the cigarettes stood like stairs from the opening. He placed the tallest between his lips pulled the pack away in one smooth movement placing it back into his pocket. I heard the click of the Zippo and the scratch of the tiny wheel. A flame lept up to his Camel. He pulled it into the tobacco then let out a cone of smoke into the summer air. His smile told me all. "Can I have one, granddaddy?" I asked knowing the answer. "No. It'll stunt your growth. Besides this is a grown up pleasure. You got plenty of time to grow up. Oh, watch your cork. I think I... Yup. There it goes." It dipped below the surface and I felt a tug as the cane bent down toward the pond. "What do I do? Granddaddy, what do I do now?" I shouted. "No need to get so excited. Just stand up and pull up on the pole. That's it" I was on my feet yanking the cane pole upward. The cork rose dripping water. Up further the line beneath the pole rose higher and there struggling to loose itslef was a small bream." "Oh, hold it steady and bring it over so I can pull it off the hook." He looked at me then said, "Unless you want to do it." "Yes sir, I do!" "Alright then. When you grab it grab over his eyes and slide you hand back." He had grabbed the line and was holding the shaking squirming body towards me. I reached but it flicked and I snatched my hand back. "It's OK. Try again. Like I told you. Wait til it calms a bit." It slowed its frantic slashing body. I reached again closing my hand. "OW!" I screamed. "You didn't do what I told you, son. You tried to grab his body. Those fins on his back come up and jab hands. That's why you have to cover the eyes and slide back. Like this. See? Ok. Want to try now?" I held my hand which was smarting from the jab of the spiked fin. "No sir. You do it." He unhooked the fish. "That's a nice size. About the size of my hand. Always keep them when they're like this. Always throw them back if they are smaller. That'll be about right for the pan when we get him home." "Are we going?" "No. Not yet. I'd like to catch one or two myself." He threaded a cord through the fish's mouth and out its gill. The threading end was tied to a metal bar which he dug into the sand. The end with the fish attached he tossed into the pond. Meanwhile his pole to the left had begun to bow down the cork having disappeared. "Granddaddy! Your cork! It's gone. His pole was bending further and coming loose from its base in the sand. He grabbed it as his catch began to tug it out toward the middle. The line was taut at a long angle into the water. He pulled back. "Whoa Nellie! He's got some strength to him that one." "Look at your pole! It's gonna snap!" I yelled. "Hold on to your britches, son. We'll get 'im." He stood up from the stump and braced himself on his feet. He pulled back and the line zigged to the right. Another pull. The line whipped to the left. "This boy's gonna be a big one. You want to help?" "No sir. Looks to big to me. You're gonna need a bigger frying pan." He laughed. "You might be right." He held on to the pole as the line whizzed from one side to the other. He began to back up holding tight. "OK. Get ready," he said. With that he yanked the pole backward. He fell over. The sound was like a sack of flour hitting the ground. The line whistled past me. My granddaddy was sitting on his rump, a look of surprise on his face. The line smacked him across the cheek. The hook was gone, the line dribbled pond water down his face. "John Browned black sea buzzard got away." "Where's the hook?" I asked, pointing. "That sorry Caspar took my hook. Felt like it could have fed us for a week. Guess my line's too light. Didn't know they had something that size in here." "Whatcha gonna do now. The hook's gone." "Oh, no worries there my boy. I always have an extra hook with me." That was a life lesson I obvioulsly never learned. He placed a new hook on the broken line and unravelled more line from the tip of the pole. Another worm, another lazy toss and another plop as the cork hit water. We sat there for a while after that with no more bites. Then each pole bobbed its cork. I pulled mine in like he showed me earlier and he took each of his up and out. Three more about handsized. "Well it's a little after noon now. Reckon we can go. We'll get these home, fix 'em up, and cook 'em for our dinner. Just enough for you and me, eh?" "Yes sir," I said with a grin. We got our poles out and tied the strings and embedded the hooks into the corks. I put mine across my shoulder while my granddad finished gathering everything. "Want to carry these?" he asked pulling the strung fish out of the water. "Yes sir!" "Don't drag 'em in the sand now." I picked them up. "They're heavy. Maybe you better carry 'em. I'm too short." He smiled and took them. We followed the sandy path back to the car. He placed the fish in the back inside the bucket he had brought. The worms he'd dumped at the water's edge and dipped pond water which he now poured over the fish. I climbed onto the running board of the old black Chevy then stepped up and climbed into the drab tan suede covering of the front seat. I slid over then leaned out to grab the door handle. I pulled as hard as I could. The door slammed. My granddad reached across me, opened it again and slammed it with a solid click. "You are a little 'un, huh?" He smiled and put the keys into the ignition. His foot pressed on the starter on the floor board. The engine came alive with a roar as he pressed the excelerator. "Next time we'll get that big one." He grinned. "Yes sir!" I said looking forward to it. Our trek took us to the Cooper River Bridge. As we began the incline upward the radio announcer said, "Here is Marty Robbins." "A white sport coat and a pink carnation..." I looked out over the guardrails at a precipitous drop and closed my eyes as we crested the first hump and didn't open them until we had begun our horizontal drive at the end. "Thanks, Granddaddy. I like fishing with you." His grin lifted the Camel between his lips. He inhaled, lightly clamped his fingers over the cigarette and removing it said, "Next time maybe I'll use you for bait. Maybe we can get that big fish." He looked ahead. Two columns of smoke poured from his nostrils. He looked at me again, saw the look of fear in my face and chuckled. "I was kidding, Rickey." He tussled my hair and continued driving. "I knew that," I said voice atremble.

I gotta go...

It was bloody hot that day I pulled into Shoney's parking lot.  As I turned off the engine and opened the door the cool inside air was sucked from the car and the heat of the sun, at twelve o'clock in a cloudless sky, bore down oppressively.  Sweat was immediate.  The tar in the parking lot sank beneath my weight.  It was an oven.  I motioned for my son to hurry along.  I pulled open the front door of Shoney's.  A rush of cool air hit my reddened face.
"Oh, does that feel good," I said to my son who followed me in.
"It's so hot," he said.  "Could I get one of those big slushy drinks?"
"Yes, you can, but first we have to locate my date."
"Date?  You didn't say anything about a date."
"Yeah, I know.  Just a figure of speech.  I told your aunt's next door neighbor we could meet here for coffee and some lunch.  She said she would bring her little girl along.  So you'll have company."
"Oh no.  Not some old girl."
"It'll be OK.  Just for a half hour or so."
"Yeah, I remember the last time you took Kyndall and me to some girl's house for just a half hour or so.  You said it would be OK then because she had kids our age."  He rolled his eyes as he said it.
"Yeah.  Yeah."
He was right.  I'd dragged them both over to an old flame's house to see her and see how my kids got along with hers.  It was a disaster.  Her kids were on their home turf.  They resented my two right away.  Their mother had told them to be nice to mine and to play in their rooms for a while.  In about ten minutes mine came back to where I was and sat beside me.
"What's up?" I asked.
"They were ignoring us like we weren't there.  They wouldn't play or share."
We were going to have lunch which my friend was in the process of bringing to the table.
"There we go," she said putting the plates on the table.  Then she noticed my two were sitting beside me looking bored.
"Oh, didn't you want to play?" she asked them.
"No ma'am.  We got hungry," said my daughter.  She always tried to mollify.
I clapped my hand over my son's mouth as he began to tell the true reason.
"Mmmph, mmph," came his mumble beneath my hand.
"Well, let's eat then," I said.  My face for my son was stern as I slowly released his mouth.  He looked miffed but kept his tongue. He has always been one to tell it like it like it is but I caught him in time.  He would spout off at me later I knew.
As we ate I watched her children who were very silent.  When they did talk it was to each other completely ignoring Derek and Kyndall. I crunched on chips thinking what a bad idea this had been.  My kids were miserable.  Her kids were miserable.  I was smoldering.  My kids were being ignored because I wanted to rekindle an old flame.  Needless to say, I never called her again.  Her kids could have her all to themselves.  My kids never missed going back there.
"Oh, there she is," I said touching his shoulder and guiding him down the aisle toward the red upholstered booth.
She was facing the door.  Her daughter was beside her on the inside.  I waved walking in her direction.  Her hand came up and dropped quickly back to the tabletop.
"Hi," she said.  "I tried to call you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, I..."
She doubled over as she began to speak.
"Are you alright?" I asked.  She appeared to be in some distress.
"UH...I...Gotta go!  I...got...DIARRHEA!" she blurted out as she took her daughter's hand.  She slid out of the booth, daughter in tow and ran out of Shoney's.  It was so fast I was still standing as all good Southern gentlemen do when a lady stands, or shouts DIARRHEA!  and runs past.
I looked at Derek.  He looked at me and burst out laughing.
I signaled the waitress who brought over menus. As I pulled Derek up from beneath the table where he slid while laughing so hard, she placed two before us.  Every head in the place was turned to see the two left behind by the woman and daughter.  I smiled sheepishly as Derek began to calm down.
I handed him a menu and a jab.
"Well, son, what'll you have.  We might as well eat since we are here for lunch."
He had calmed down enough to read the menu.
"I'll have a burger, fries and a big coke, er, do you have slushies?"
The waitress said no but they did have ice cold cokes.
"OK, ice cold coke.  The big one."
She turned to me.
"I'll have the same except with coffee and no coke."
She wrote it up then walked off.
"You can really pick 'em, dad," said my son who was grinning at me.
"Yeah, I guess I can."
"I got diarrhea," he said in another fit of laughter.  "Best excuse to get away I ever heard for breaking a date. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"OK. OK. Let it go"
"Do you suppose she just thought that one up on the spur of the moment?" he asked.  "She couldn't have run any faster after seeing you."
"She's seen me before,"  I said.
"You gotta admit that's the fastest you've ever been dumped," he said cackling some more.
"I think I've heard enough now."  Yeah, that's the fastest and the most unique excuse I'd ever been told.  I doubted it could be beat.
We ate our lunch silently.  Derek choked on his coke a couple of times while laughing.
I kind of avoided my aunt's house for a long time afterward.  It was an unusual date but there were newer dating adventures to come in the computer dating scene.  But those are in the another story category.

Merita makes a good cinnamon bun...

"You can stay with your daddy while I shop," said my mother.  She was leading me by the hand as she stepped off the bus.  I jumped from the bottom step to the curb holding her hand tightly.
"Daddy's at work," I piped back. The bus driver waved and pulled the door shut.
"Yes, I know," she said, "but he won't mind.  It'll be lunch time soon.  You two can eat the lunch I packed.  I won't be long."
We started across the street from Edwards five and dime.  The street changed names, as we got to the curb, from Morris St to Mary St.
"Look!  There's the place we ate lunch last time with daddy," I said pointing at the cafe two doors down on King St.
"Yes, it is.  You have a good memory."
Yes I did.  Who wouldn't remember that place? We walked in with dad and the lady behind the counter smiled and said hello to us.  We sat at one of the tables just across from the counter.  She came out with a pad in her hand.  As I was climbing into my wooden chair she stopped beside me offering her hand to help.
"No thank you," I said.  "I can do it myself."  It was an effort but I was able to climb and right myself to the table.  "There.'
"Who is this handsome boy?" she asked my dad.  "He's one for doing things himself, ain't he?"
"This is my son, Mary, and this is my wife, Helen," he said pointing to each of us.
"Hello, nice to meet you both.  He's a fine looking fellow, Al," she said looking at me holding a menu as if I could read.
Dad's smile brightened my day as he looked at me nodding.
"Yes, he's a good boy alright."
"What'll you have.  The lunch special?"  She took the pencil from behind her ear and held it poised over the pad.
Dad ordered for us all.  She nodded filling up the page.
"Would you like some Cocola, Rickey?"  She looked at me smiling.
"No ma'am.  Cuppa tea please."
"The regular little Englishman," she said grinning over me.
"He'll have a coke, Mary."
She nodded and walked behind the counter.
"But we always have tea with our meals," I said to dad.
"Not in restaurants, son.  No restaurant in America makes tea you can drink.  It just doesn't taste right.  Coffee is the hot drink of choice here.  There's no way it can be messed up."
"Oh," I said.  "We have to go to England for a good cuppa tea?"
"Yes we do, son."
"Can we go now?  I want a good cuppa tea."
"It's too long a trip.  We'd never make it for me to get back to work."
"Alright, I'll drink the coke."
Mary brought our lunch. She sat mine near the edge of the table so I could reach it.  The glass was so large I had to hold it with two hands.  My dad squirmed a bit each time I grabbed it.  My mother smiled at him seeing his unease.
"He's alright, dear," she'd say.  "He's been holding on to glasses larger than that without spilling anything.  Just enjoy your meal."  She bit into her sandwich.  She smiled as she ate watching my dad's tiny grimaces.
When I finished eating Mary came over.
"Big appetite for a small man.  even so, I bet you have room for butterscotch pudding."
She looked at me.  I looked at my dad. He smiled and nodded.  I smiled  wide in answer to her question.
"Alright, be right back."
"What's butterscotch  pudding?" I asked dad.
"Oh, you'll like it.  Wait and see."
She came out holding a glass goblet filled with a golden glob of swirl.  She placed it in front of me and handed me a spoon.
"There you go little man.  Dig in."
I took the spoon and grabbed the stem with my other hand.  I looked at my parents who were smiling back at me.  I dipped the spoon into the pudding.  The smell was new to me and intoxicating.
I tasted it.  The flavor flooded my tongue.  It wasn't vanilla, nor chocolate, the two flavors most familiar to me.  Though I couldn't describe it I could thoroughly enjoy it.  I dug my spoon deep and opened wide to accept a huge portion.  It was even better than the first bite.    When I finished I ran my finger around the goblet to gather the rest clinging to the side.  When I had finished licking my fingers my mother took her napkin, dipped it into her water and cleaned my sticky hands.
"MM, that was good.  Can I have more?"  My eager face made my dad smile again.
"That's enough for one day, my boy.  We'll get some more next time we come."
"That better be soon," said Mary who was standing beside me smiling down.  "It was a pleasure seeing you enjoy that so much.  And your check, Al.  Bring your family in any time."
"Thank you," he said taking the check.  He handed her two dollars as he rose from his seat.  "Keep the change, Mary.  See you soon."
"Thanks.  Be sure and bring that cute fella in again now."
"Thank you, dad.  That was really good."  We walked out into the sunlight.  He returned to work, we returned home.
"Do you think dad will come up here and I can get butterscotch pudding again?" I was jumping cracks in the sidewalk.
"I don't know.  He may be too busy to walk that far."
"I hope we do.  That was good."
Mom began to slow down as we approached the loading docks at Armour Star.  Dad worked here in the meat distribution center.  It sat across the street from the main national rival, Swift's meat packing plant.
A truck was backing into the bay so we stopped waiting for the sidewalk to be clear enough to continue.  The truck stopped and we walked a little farther to the entrance.  Dad saw us as we entered and came over.
"Hello, dear," he said to my mother kissing her cheek.
"I brought Rickey so he could have lunch with you while I pick up a few things." He said that would be alright.  She left by the door we had entered.
"I'll be right with you, son.  Stand over there until I'm finished."
"Yes sir."  I walked over to the door he had pointed out.
When he had signed a piece of paper on a clipboard held by the driver, he came over.
"Alright then.  Are you hungry?"
"Yes sir.  Can we go to see Mary and get some of that pudding?"
"Sorry, son.  I don't have time today.  Come with me and I'll give you something else you'll enjoy."
I followed him into a narrow room.  There was a board used for a bench in front of metal lockers.  He walked over to one and took the lock off.  inside he reached for a paper bag.  He sat down with the bench between his knees placing the bag in front of him. I climbed onto the wooden bench and straddled it like my dad but my feet swung free above the floor.
He opened the bag and pulled out a thermos.  Then he rose and pulled out a flat cellophane wrapped package.  Under the wrapping sat icing covered cinnamon buns.  He split the wrap and pulled out one of the buns ripping it out in such a way that five more lay in the package.  He tore another off and took a bite.  I copied him.  The icing was sweet and the bread was full of cinnamon and raisons.  A smile spread across my face as I chewed the sweet cinnamon bun.
"Mm, this is good," I said spitting bits onto the board.
"It is, isn't it.  Here, take this to wash it down."  He handed me the cap from the thermos then poured a steaming hot liquid into it.
I sipped it.
"It's tea!"
"Yes it is.  A proper cup of English tea made at home and brought here in my thermos."
"It's really good with this bun."
"Yes, it is.  Don't tell your mother I didn't eat the sandwich.  I'm going to have to tell her I don't like tomato sandwiches one  day."
"Why don't you like them?'
"I'll tell you, son.  When I first came home from the Navy I found out your mother knew nothing about cooking.  She fixed tomato sandwiches for two weeks.  I couldn't even go into the garden to pick a tomato after that.  And I haven't been ale to eat a sandwich made of them since.  I just have to tell her I guess.  I don't want to hurt her feelings, though.  So let's keep it between ourselves.  Alright?"
'Yes sir," I said cramming more Merita cinnamon bun into my mouth.  I sipped some tea at the same time and the sweetness swam through my mouth.
We polished off the entire tray of buns and our tea at about the time my mother came back for me.
Dad gave me a kiss then he gave my mother a lingering kiss.  He said goodbye to us.  His hand patted my head.  I looked up.  He winked and said, "Remember."
My mother took my hand.  We walked out, turned left and walked back to Edwards and the bus stop.
"Did you enjoy your lunch?" she asked.
"Yes ma'am.  Dad brought a proper cuppa tea from home in a thermos.  We didn't have time to go to Mary's.  I like eating lunch with daddy."  I struggled to keep dad's secret and I won.
"Maybe you can do it again soon."
We walked up Mary St. On the other side of King St was the bus stop.  We waited until it arrived.  It took us to another one which was a couple of streets over from our place.  We walked home and into the land of memory.

Write your congressman...

"I hate it," I said.
"You just need to take one day at the time," said my dad.  He was half way across the continent in Charleston.  I was in San Antonio wallowing in self pity.  It was my third week in boot camp and I was gigged in over the weekend.  The "captain" had given me my slip showing enough demerits to keep me barrack's bound through Saturday and Sunday.  I'd tried to explain that my shoes being scuffed was due to some clod running across them in his hurry to formation.  I had them shining brilliantly only to have the sole of his chuckas grind into them in his haste.  He didn't care, so I sat on the pone moaning to my dad about the unfairness of life in basic training.
"There's three more weeks.  I guess I can do that," was my answer.
"Of course you can," said my dad.  "When you look back in six weeks it will seem like it didn't happen at all.  Other than being confined to barracks, how is it?"
"It's not so hard.  Lots of marching.  Lots of studies about the history of the Air Force and military bearing.  It's the PT that is most difficult for me.  They want us to run a mile in under six minutes.  In combat boots.  I usually save my energy for that running.  The TI has questioned me about the calisthenics asking why I only do the minimum required.  I told him I wasn't concerned about the things I knew I could do it was the running that worried me.  He just shakes his head."
"Well, sounds like you have it under control."
"I guess.  I miss all of you.  And home.  How's Myra?"
"We're all fine.  Myra's eager for you to return."
"It might be a while," I said.
"Oh?  Why's that?"  asked dad.
"I was called into the Captain's office today.  I was told that there was a position open in Officer's Training School.  Since I had a college degree he was offering it to me."
"That's good.  Are you going to take it?"
"Well, I did become a naturalized citizen so that I could if the opportunity arose."
"Well, then," said my dad.  "You should say yes."
"I did.  That's why I may not be home after basic.  There is a spot open in the next class.  I will have to stay on base in a section called OT Hold.  It'll be through June including the class."
"That's alright, son.  You do the best you can do while you are there.  The wait will be worth it to you and to Myra."
"I know you are right.  If I get in."
"I don't think there will be a problem with your getting in.  you just do your best."
"Yes sir.  I will.  Have you seen any cars on the market for a newly graduated officer?"  I asked every time I called.
"I'm still looking," he said.  "I'll have something for you when you get out."
"Remember to use the $300 I left you for a down payment."  I had saved all my paychecks earned at Charleston Rubber Company during my last summer home.
"I have it.  You better give Myra a call before the night's over."  His reminder was well taken.  We said our goodbyes.  I turned the phone over to the next guy in line and trudged back to the barracks for the night.
The next three weeks flew by.  I had received orders to attend OTS.  My next few months were filled with a job in the discharge section.  I stamped the paperwork of all the newly entered airmen who, for one reason or another, received  their discharge papers.  These were usually youngsters who were not considered fit for duty in the USAF.  They were happy as larks to get their papers releasing them for active duty in the Air Force.  I don't know how much they smiled when they received their letters of greetings from the President welcoming them into the Army.  The Army was willing to take anyone who fogged a mirror when it was held beneath their noses.  I'm sure they regretted the antics they pulled to get out of the Air Force on that day.
My time in OTS was a twelve week stretch.  More basic training, more PT upon which was added lessons to teach us how to behave as officers.  At the end of twelve weeks we tossed our caps in the air at graduation.  After sifting through all the hats on the ground for an hour or so I found mine and ran to the barracks to ready myself for my trip home.
The flight to Charleston was uneventful as I smoked my cigars in flight accompanied by the mini-bottles of scotch.  At the airport I was met by my parents.
Dad had a smile on his face as he greeted me.  It seemed to be more than just a smile of greeting.  I'd asked each time I called about a car, had he found one.  His answer had always been evasive.  I just figured he hadn't found anything but was still checking the ads.
"Boy am I glad to be home," I said.
"We're glad you're back," my parents said.
Dad drove letting my mother talk.  We joked about my time in "prison" and how I was eager to get my orders and begin the next four years.
"Did your pay increase as an officer?" asked my mother.
She looked over the front seat at me.  She had a big smile on her face as well.
"Yes," I said.  "Much more than the $90 a month of the enlisted man.  It's almost two-hundred dollars a month. Over twice as much."
"That's good," said dad.  "You might need it."  He was looking at me in the rear view.  I noticed his grin.
The trip home from the airport was full of breezy talk about Charleston.
As we drew near home dad asked me, "How about close your eyes for a minute or two until we park."
"OK," I said.  It was a puzzling request but I did it.
He turned into the drive, stopped and cut the engine off.
"Alright.  You can open them," I heard him say.
When I did I looked around and to my left on the lawn was a 1969 MGB, British Racing Green.
"Uh...," I was speechless.
"I found it a couple of days ago.  The ad in the paper said an officer had just bought it when his orders came for overseas.  He had it shipped to the states but couldn't keep it since he would be gone for a while.  It was at a good price and I thought you would like it."
"LIKE IT!  I love it," I yelled jumping out of the car.  I ran my hand along the fender and up over the windscreen onto the canvas top. "It's beautiful!"
"I thought you would like it.  Here,"  he said, offering me keys.  "After you are settled you should take it out."
"I'm settled," I said.  I opened the door and sank into the seat.  I was about four inches above ground sitting in the soft seats covered in lamb skin.  The hood stretched before me in its lush green.  I pressed the clutch and wiggled the short gear into neutral.  When I turned the key the engine throbbed into life.
"She has a four piston engine with dual carbs and runs nice.  Quite a bit of pick up for such a small engine. And the payment is only $89.89 a month.  Good thing you get an officer's pay now, isn't it?"
I looked at my dad who was smiling his broad grin of satisfaction at seeing the thrill of ownership in my face.
"Oh yeah," I said. "It sure is. She's a beaut, dad.  Thank you so much."
"I know you said you wanted a Gremlin but when I saw this I decided that you'd be more pleased with it."
Running my hand over the rich leather on the passenger side I responded, "Oh yeah, so much better.  My first car.  An MGB.  I couldn't be happier.  Thank you so much, dad."
"You're welcome, son.  I'm glad you like it."  He was beaming.  His grin was the happiest I'd ever seen him.  My grin matched his.
"Well, go on, then.  Take it for a run. We'll get your things inside."
"Thanks again, dad.  I have to show Myra."  I zipped out of the drive and wheeled it forward hitting the gas pedal.  I waved out the window as I sped off leaving the MG roar in the air.

It was so many years later that I learned my dad had written L. Mendell Rivers about me.  He was our congressman who was Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee.   He'd written a long letter explaining to him that I was an only child who was the last to carry on the family name.  He explained that I had become a naturalized citizen who wanted to serve this country in my best capacity which he knew would be as an officer utilizing the college degree obtained before joining.  The captain had mentioned that day that he had been sent a letter from a congressman from SC about me and my desire to serve as an officer.  I didn't know what he was talking about at the time but said nothing since I just wanted the chance.  I never received orders to Viet Nam either.  My dad's letter was a persuasive one for my welfare.  He worked behind the scenes without telling me.  It was his way.

Three-score-ten minus four...

Sitting and pondering.  Life is so short when you look back. With my three score and ten coming up in four years the time to look forward is gone and there is only looking backward at a life flown so fast.  When I was young it was not a contemplation that came up often.   The future was ahead in endless years.  I could do whatever I wished.  But time has a way of entangling the feet causing one to fall directly into the wall that separates here from there.  It approaches making itself known by those around you who have disappeared and those who are slowing to avoid the head on collision.
Taking stock, I wonder of what significance was this life?  Whom have I helped?  Whom have I ignored/?  Did I feed the hungry?  Did I provide water to the thirsty?  Or did I simply allow the years to spill through my fingers like sand without providing anyone with relief?
Are there accomplishments?  I worked.  I earned a living.  I allowed my son to raise himself.  I contributed as much as I could to my daughter's journey into adulthood.  Did my time at my job offer any improvement to the  hospital or profession?  I can think of nothing.  I fought being in my profession the entire time.  I never gave myself to it.  All I can say about it is it provided a good living for me and mine.  But I never allowed it in.  There was always a wall between that and me.  It wasn't me and I wasn't it.  There are some who are quite happy to allow themselves to be their profession.  I wasn't one of them.
The Air Force was my first step into the world.  My only comment for four years was "Who do I have to kill to get out of this mess?"  I never gave into it either.  It was a rite of passage that everyone my age, at that time, had to pass through.  It had to be borne in order to get on with one's life.
The next rite of passage was marriage.  I never gave into that either.  As I look back I see that I never properly engaged my life with any of the life affirming activities I had to go through as "rites."
So that's why I ponder, now, with four years left in my three-score-ten.  There is tomorrow, the good Lord willing.  Perhaps it will become evident then.
 I'm adrift.  The ocean is vast.  My vessel is small, insignificant, and quite vulnerable.