Fifty-two years ago, this very day, I was rudely awakened in the middle of the night and dragged out into the snow. I learned in an instant that, as a private in the U.S. Army, soundly sleeping in a pup-tent on the snow covered Rocky Mountains of Colorado is apparently a luxury that is not guaranteed.
February’s 15 degree temperature demanded I crawl back into my sleeping bag but the obstacle to that desired intent was formidable. My First Sergeant had other plans for me that very cold winter day.
For the next 24 hours I was placed on perimeter guard; restricted to a frozen hole in the ground that was about 3 or 4 feet deep and a roughly 4 foot egg shaped circumference. Whereas I was mad as a hornet and frozen to the core, I had to admit (after the fact) the view was awesome. The only thing better than being in the snow covered Rocky Mountains is being in the snow covered Rocky Mountains surrounded by a fireplace heated cabin. There really was no comparison to the view before me. Regardless, at that particular moment anger ruled supreme.
I could hear activity in the AO but most of the visibility was obscured by trees and boulders. The longer I sat there, the angrier I got. Not sure there has been since, a man I’ve hated more than that First Sergeant at that time. About every hour or so my Squad Leader or Platoon Sergeant (and even on one occasion the First Sergeant) came to check on me, bringing me hot drinks, snacks and meals as required. They would always chat for a minute or two; I figured they hung around for a bit to relish in my anguish. However, with time I grew to believe they chatted with me to ensure I had not faltered into a frozen stupor.
First Sergeants control the lives of everyone in the unit. You would have to have spent time in the military to fully understand that harsh reality. I’ll not waste words here trying to explain it; it’s one of those things you have to live through to understand. His intent to torture me on that day had no training value, it had no value in honing my skills, it certainly did not enhance my morale; so what was the purpose?
To this day I cannot say for sure what his purpose was, but the fact of the matter is, had he not done that, my 18th birthday in 1973 would have come and gone with little to no fanfare. As it is, I look back on that day with a fondness that I keep hidden away, a recollection that pops up every year around this time.
Today is my birthday, I turned 70 years old. I have many such memories that span my lifetime, some are good memories, some are bad memories, some are regrets of what I did and regrets of what I should have done. I’ll not wax philosophically and say that day taught me to be strong and gave me stamina that served me my entire life. It was just another day in the life of a Private in the U.S. Army; a day like any other that contains a memory. This particular one was a hard day to live through at the time, but has changed into a memory that brings a smile to my face.
Here, as they say, is the rest of the story. A few days after this incident, while still in the training scenario, I received a package in the mail. Letters for me during my early years in the military were few and far between, so a package was a spectacular surprise that helped ease the tension brought on by “the incident” of a few days prior.
The package, in the hands of the First Sergeant, hereto referred to as my nemesis, was in bad shape; obviously crushed during shipment by the USPS. As it turned out it was a cake sent to me by my girlfriend. Sadly, the cake had also been crushed. It wasn’t until after he gave me the package and I had opened it that I noticed he had with him a pick-axe. He retrieved the package, gave me the pick-axe as well as my next task. I dug a 3X3 foot hole in the frozen ground and we buried that cake with a 21 gun salute and taps sounded out by kazoo. According to the First Sergeant, my cake had died in action yet continued to struggle and with it’s dying breath got back to the unit; and for that, it deserved a military funeral. I don’t recall how I actually felt that day. I think “stunned” would be a partial description of how I felt.
Thus was my 18th birthday and the memories that surrounded it. Full disclosure, when we concluded the field exercise a week or so later my First Sergeant gave me a 3 day pass, a freshly baked birthday cake and a six-pack of beer. Guess he wasn’t so bad after all.
Born in Central IL in 1955 I grew up with 4 brothers and two sisters. I joined the Army in 1972 and, barring a short stretch between ’76 and ’82, I have been in the U.S. Army my entire life; first as a soldier then as a DA Civilian for the Department of Defense. I cannot say I have always had a motorcycle. But, for the most part, a ride was always within arm’s reach and utilized on any given opportunity. There was a time, in that stretch between ’76 & ’82, I associated with riders from the “outlaw” side and, after a couple of near miss events, decided to turn 90 degrees and ride away. For years I steered clear of riding groups; regardless of genre.
In 2008 I came across a group called Rescue Riders and, during that encounter, met some of the finest people I have ever met. People who give of themselves and ask nothing in return. This was the type of person I wanted to be. In 2010 I came in contact with information about a long distance endurance ride from Key West Florida to Homer Alaska. At the time I could not fathom such a ride, but got my chance to participate in the Hoka Hey Motorcycle Challenge in 2013. To say it changed my life would be a gross understatement. The impact was so great I was compelled to narrate the event in book form. The ride showed me that I was not the person I thought I was and showed me a glimmer of what I needed to do to strive to become who I wanted and needed to be. Hoka Hey has taught me much and is still instructing me on a daily basis. To put a life in two paragraphs is an impossible task. A personal bio is a narrative of who we are. I learned, through the Challenge, that who I thought I was and who I really was differed greatly. I believe a true metric of a person is best measured by what they do to become someone people deserve. So, who am I? Not sure yet, but my prayer is that with each passing day I will get closer to that person I am supposed to be.
A friend of mine posted a blog titled, “American Genocide and the New World Order.” I call him a friend but we have never actually met. My first introduction to his writing was when I purchased his book, “The Three Meter Zone” which became my “go-to” manual when I was a First Sergeant serving in the U.S. Army. Shortly thereafter I started following his Blog and have garnered a plethora of wisdom from his narratives.
I enjoy reading his posts. This particular post got me to thinking; sometimes my thinking is a good thing, sometimes not so much. Every word in his post is truth. The kind of truth nobody wants to hear. The kind of truth that, if taken to heart, would bring to light the fact that delusion has taken the place of reason and common sense, that compassion has been overrun by arrogance, and a truth that demonstrates, in no uncertain terms, that integrity and honor have been pushed aside for the sake of expediency and a self-serving agenda.
I commented on his post stating in part, “…and I have to wonder if we are not just banging our heads against the sidewalk.” I was referring to the daily demonstrated fact that very few want to hear the truth, so why speak it.
We live in a country that has turned its back on God, has pushed God out of our schools, our homes, our government, our lives, and even out of some of our churches. We live in a country that has willfully, expeditiously, and with a not so hidden sense of glee taken, the lives of millions upon millions of unborn children every year; this is done with no remorse, no sorrow, no regret, and is called “a god given right” to do so. We have taken steps to ensure single parent households are the norm and same sex marriage is not only acceptable but proper and encouraged. The mindset that embraces these callused attributes has been around since Cain and Able but I think in recent decades it has flourished and is driving us headfirst (with eyes wide open) into perdition. In fact it is being taught in our schools as a curriculum, either directly or indirectly.
Many will ridicule the Christian faith and claim it infringes on the U.S. Constitution and call it hate speech but at the same time hold Islam up as a bastion of hope. Many claim gun control is the answer and call guns and the people who own them evil… until the time comes when someone breaks into their house and they have no gun to protect themselves. They might have time to call 911 but they would be better served calling a crime scene cleanup crew; that’s all the police will be able to do once they get there, but nobody wants to believe that. Many want open borders and claim there is nothing wrong with illegals… until an illegal injures or kills one of their own. Many believe it is their right to murder an unborn child, but on those occasions when the parent changes their mind their life is enriched by the child, but nobody wants to believe that. Many wish to push aside our Republic and replace it with Socialism knowing full well that socialism, as a government, has never worked; how stupid is that?
So, what good does it do to tell the truth to people who do not want the truth and who will go so far as to lash out and attack when the truth is spoken. We see the attacks daily. A conservative is shouted down and buildings burned to keep them from speaking in public places, but the left (the progressive, the liberal, the socialist democrat, whatever you want to call them today) is appalled and claim the 1st Amendment as a law that MUST be upheld when they speak. A double standard that only a few enlightened people actually see. Actually, everyone sees it, many just choose to not “see” it.
So, again, why do we continue to speak truth to those who care not? We do it because there is a hope that some will listen. We do it for that mother who changed her mind. We do it for the families that realize they have been lied to for years and they want (and need) a Godly truth. We do it for that person who grows weary of being spoon feed someone’s agenda and realize they have a mind of their own and they need a renewable energy source for that new thought process. We do it for a teacher in the classroom who is inundated with twisted social experiments from the Department of Education. We do it for those who do not know they are being lied to and are being manipulated and played the fool by the puppet master. We do it for that soldier and police officer who defend the lives of the delusional masses and are hated for it.
I know very few read my words and that’s OK, some do. Our world is in a spiral dive and I will do all I can for those who seek the truth. I’m not saying every word I say is truth. Sometimes I will fail, sometimes I will get caught up in the foolishness, sometimes I will lash out as well… I am thankful that my salvation is based on God’s grace and is not based on a performance based requirement. A performance based requirement would certainly place me in the pit with the puppet master. When I stand before God I will have to answer for lots of mistakes, both intentional and unintentional. What I do not want to answer for are those things I should have done but chose not to.
It has been said that the tongue is sharper than the sword. Words can cut deep and cause more damage than a sword and whereas a cut from a sword will heal the 2nd and 3rd order effects of words linger on and on, often a lifetime. But words can also bring light and warmth.
During an interview with Ken Burns, the creator of some of the best documentaries ever, it was said many of the narrations used during the making of the epic “Civil War” documentary came from journals written by soldiers who actually participated in the battles. Letters written to family members and actual journals maintained by soldiers and by-standers from both sides of the conflict. Two things come to mind here. The first is that the soldier thought it important to write their story and the second, the families that saved these letters and journals.
Today we are quick to read a note or letter (or email) and then discard or delete it as trash. We read it, so no need to clutter our existence with the paper it was written on or waste the storage space on our hard drives. Right?
Perhaps not. Words carry weight and words written have a place, often a cherished place if we use the proper words with the proper intent. We just don’t realize it. Today at work I was looking for an OPORD. I’ll not get into what an OPORD is because it really has no merit with regard to this thought. While looking I found a letter sent to me by my sister and inside was a copy of a story written by my Aunt Lora about my Aunt Nita when they were young. I set aside the search for the illusive OPORD and again read the story written by my Aunt Lora. It was a letter telling of memories of her younger sister (my Aunt Nita) while they were growing up.
It is a toss-up on which of these two wonderful ladies is the most precious to me. They both display a grace and generosity that is hard to find in so many other people I associate with. My Aunt Nita recently passed away and I believe it is that passing that precipitated the writing of that collection of memories; memories that would have been lost were it not for a desire to share them by my Aunt Lora. The memories included snippets about Nita, Bris (my Dad), and the arrival of baby brother Joe and little sister Vivi. It was a great read.
We are quick to bad mouth each other, even those we love, but seldom will we take the time to share a good memory. We need to fix that. I often question my resolve to write and I always decide to continue regardless of the fact that very few read my words.
Take time to write a story. We often remember things from our past and that thought might linger for a moment then is swept away by other thoughts of less importance or the ringing of the evil and ever-present cell phone. Rather than let these memories dissolve in the mist of thought, write them down. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar. Spelling and grammar take a back seat to the actual memory.
Perhaps someday Ken’s great-grandson will do a documentary and he will need those words. We’ll let him edit for spelling and proper grammar.
Not long ago I got thoroughly disgusted with Facebook. I got so tired of the hate and divide and I decided no longer wanted to be a part of it; at the very least I needed a break. I was good, for the most part, at ignoring the “white privilege” crap and the “I hate Trump” posts and the “if you don’t think like me you’re evil” posts. I also got burned out on all the pictures of what people were having for dinner. But I found myself commenting on the really ignorant memes and that never ends well. So, rather than let the Puppet Master use me I suspended my account.
I’m not saying the Puppet Master is an actual person or a cabal of sinister minded board of directors but I do believe the Puppet Master is real. I see the Puppet Master as a compilation of “group think” types who, for some reason, entertain themselves or are entertained by division and hate. Regardless of who or what the Puppet Master is, I find the concept repulsive.
Contrary to social thought there are no Facebook withdrawal shakes or tremors when you pull the plug. These past two weeks have been rather productive. But will admit I missed some of my friends and family.
Facebook has some good points. I got reconnected with old friends, found new ones and certainly Facebook is a great tool to use if you need help, want to help, want to share insight, or share pictures of loved ones who have accomplished great or small things. I even got my high school class ring returned after being lost for over 15 years; how cool is that? Anyway, after two weeks of being off of Facebook I ponder on the wisdom of my action.
I miss the interaction with those I cherish and will admit I miss the pictures that accompany many of the comments made by those I cherish. I resolved to return but return with a new set of rules. Rules that, if followed, will return me to what I have always hoped was the original intent of Facebook. Well, actually the original intent of Facebook can be traced to the currently taboo practice of body-shaming. The original Facebook (called Facemash) was shut down a few days after it went on line by Harvard executives and Zuckerberg faced expulsion from Harvard University for breach of security, violating copyrights, and individual privacy. He, Zuckerberg, launched a new site called TheFacebook but found himself again in trouble when some Harvard seniors claimed he had stolen their idea for a social networking site. That claim was settled out of court. There’s more to the story but suspect if you want to know more you will dig into it on your own, you don’t need me for that.
OK, where was I? Bit of a rabbit hole there. I’ll crawl out of the “rabbit hole” with a final comment on this sidebar subject; Zuckerberg dropped out of Harvard.
So, the ”original” original intent is not my intent, not interested in body-shaming. In my mind I see the original intent as bringing people closer together. It has failed at that but only because we have allowed it to fail at that.
I will endeavor to abide by my new set of rules and hopefully will not suffer an abundance of setbacks. Feel free to call me out if you see my strings tugged by the Puppet Master. But do it nicely, sometimes I don’t play well with others. We all have good days and bad days. I won’t make light of your bad days if you don’t make light of mine.
This picture of a Nun standing next to a horse in a barn was found in a box of old negatives at my Mom’s house. I have no background on the picture at all, no idea why it was taken, who the Nun was or who owned the horse or barn, or the circumstances that came to pass that brought this horse and Nun together. Regardless, the picture holds great interest to me. At present I find it interesting because, based on today’s mainstream society, it cannot be explained using 140 characters or less. Indulge me for just a moment (or however long it takes to read the following 1467 characters).
I’m wondering if social media has hampered our attention spam. Memes are the main form of communication and even that, more often than not, are the words of others. You saw it on Facebook, liked what it said and decided it said what you wanted to say. Back in the day when people actually read books the headlines on a newspaper was meant to grab your attention. The follow-up article gave you all the details. We now limit ourselves to the headlines and care not for the details. The headlines tell us all we want to know. Details provided by cable news outlets are based on the opinion of others and we have relied on the opinion of others for so long we are no longer able to form our own. We claim our opinion is our own but it really is not… record your opinion and play it back, then listen to your favorite news outlet—you may be surprised at what you hear.
We have also lost our ability to debate. We’ve all heard the old adage, “Never discuss politics or religion.” Two of the most important topics and we are unable to discuss them because we can no longer allow our ears to hear an opinion that might demonstrate that one of us is wrong. We see it daily—family members turning their backs on other family members because they disagree with a political view. Lines are drawn in the sand, words are said, and neither side will back down because both are convinced they are right and the other is dead wrong; so wrong in fact we will cut all ties.
We have reduced our attention span to 140 characters or less, and of course we need a picture to catch anyone’s attention. We are giving control over to a puppet master. At what point are we going to realize we are both right and we are both wrong, and we both have something the other needs—a realization the puppet master wishes kept in the dark.
Tomorrow (February 27th) I turn 60 years old. I’m told that is a milestone. A milestone tells you where you are in relation to where you want to be or where you have come from. At the age of 20 (just prior to another milestone, which I’m told is age 21) I had already spent 3 years in the military and had no clue what I would do with my life. I never expected, based on how my life was at the time, to reach the next milestone—that being the age of 30.
Obviously I reach the 30 year mark and must say the span of the 30 years between then and now went way too fast. Given the facts I know now I would have to admit I have wasted much of my 60 years on things that were important at the time, but now mean little if anything. It’s a shame we are not born with wisdom.
A few days ago I was at a restaurant and learned our waitress had just turned 18 years old. I complemented her (and envied her) that her adventure was just beginning. Her response was, “yea, that’s what I’ve been told” and her tone led me to believe her attitude toward my comment was dubious at best. I thought of trying to enlighten her with the wisdom I had learned that life as a high school teenager is no comparison to what life will be and what your life will be is based on what you do and how you go about doing it—truly her adventure is just beginning. I decided to keep quiet as I recall as a teenager other super old people telling me the same thing and it did nothing but irritate me—how could they possibly know anything about it. I’m not so sure wisdom can be shared. You can try and share it and perhaps some take root, but I think it depends on the recipient. The vast majority of acquired wisdom comes from experience. What’s that old saying” “Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment” or something like that.
Mistakes, regrets, errors and missed opportunities plague my past. All these infractions are what gives us wisdom—so long as we realize our mistake and learn from them so that the next time the opportunity presents itself you do not add to your list of regrets.
Tomorrow I turn 60. Not sure what that means because it is not like there is a significant change in who I am. However, if, on the day I turn 60 I am able to adequately apply some of the wisdom I have gained over the past 59 years then it will be a good day.
I’ve gained all this wisdom, but too tired to use it.
Not sure I can isolate my first memory of my grandparents. I can say all the memories I have of them bring a warmth to my heart that can only be described as… well, I’m not sure there is a word that can describe it. Any bad memory I have, that is associated with my grandparents, stem from my own actions; certainly not theirs. I am ashamed to admit I lost the opportunity to create memories with them on a regular basis. As I got older (by “older” I refer to the expanse of my teen years) I thought time spent with them was a waste and better spent doing childish things. It did not become clear to me how wrong I was until much later and sadly after they had left this life. There was so very much I could have learned from them had I been mature enough to realize what stood before me.
My Grandparents – Lilly & Dale Butt
As a child my Mother would take us to visit her parents on a regular basis—often times spending the whole weekend with them. Also, during the summer, each of us would stay a week alone with them. During all of those visits I do not remember my grandparents saying anything bad about anyone. My grandmother’s favorite saying (or at least I believe it was her favorite) was, “If you can’t say anything good about someone then don’t say anything at all.” I can remember only one time when my grandmother was angry with me and she had every right to be angry—maybe more on that. Or maybe not as I am still ashamed of what I did.
My grandparents were in constant motion. My grandmother had a small garden in the front yard and if she was not in the kitchen canning fruit or in the living room sewing she was in that garden. My grandfather was the same way. I do not recall how many acres he had, but he worked them all daily and did so with an old tractor. He had cows to milk and pigs to tend to and more chickens than one child could count—I tried a number of times but could never get them to line up properly.
I recall a batch of piglets my grandma had and assume they were a litter from one of the sows in the large pig pen behind the house. I do not recall how many there were but do recall at night they would wake me up as their tiny feet pattered across the wood floor to get closer to the heat stove in the living room—yes, she kept them in the house due to the harsh winter cold of the midwest.
This wood stove heated the majority of the house.
On one particular morning I walked from the living room toward the kitchen and saw grandma carrying one of the piglets out and it was obvious to me the pig had died during the night. I asked her, “Is it dead?” She nodded her head and said “yes.” I recall feeling bad for the little pig but do not recall it making me feel so bad that I cried—not sure how old I was, but I was quite young. The cold hard facts did not become clear to me until much later in life as I recalled that incident. The death of that little pig probably equated to a month’s worth of income. Certainly had that pig lived then life that year would have been at least a bit better. Life on that farm was hard I’m sure.
I think my grandfather tolerated me as I followed him around the farm—watching and wanting to help. I’m sure I was more trouble than I was worth. I recall helping him replace a corner post on the fence that surrounded my grandmother’s garden. I don’t recall who, but someone backed into it then sped off. Actually, I think I do remember, I just don’t want to throw anyone under the bus. I helped him set it up straight and recall pounding in the nails to get the pig fence back in an acceptably secure position. That memory stuck with me for a long time. All the while thinking I had been a big help that day. Many years later, perhaps in the late ‘90s I was driving down Route 121 between Sullivan and Bethany and decided to stop by the old property. Of course the house, shed and barns were long since gone. I walked around a bit and reminisced and envisioned where the shed was, how the house was angled on the property and where the barns were. I tried to find the fresh water spring that seeped from the side of the hill that was a perpetual supply of fresh water for the horse trough—but I never found it. I also plotted where grandma’s garden had been. It was then I spied the remnants of a broken down old pig fence and there, in the corner of that remembered piece of ground, was a post laying on its side. I walked over and picked it up and saw an assortment of old nails half pounded in and all crooked—so much for being a great help that day. With my mind’s eye I envisioned the look on my grandfather’s face as I pounded those nails in. I’m sure he was amused and in fact I was amused with what my mind conjured up as the expression on his face. I dislodged the post from the rusted remnants of the pig fence and threw it in the trunk of my car. That post still holds a prominent space at my house. As a continued to walk around the property I found an old rusted horse shoe—which resides today with that post.
I recall waking up early one morning and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair—but will hold onto that memory for a bit. Perhaps I will divulge that memory later, but more likely than not if you want to hear this particular memory you’ll have to read my book, “Solitary—Without the Confinement.” I also recall the 6:00am train that woke us up almost every morning with the smell of coal. Even today when I smell coal burning I feel a sense of security and safe haven; as if nothing can harm me.
When privileged enough to spend the week with them during the summer I recall going with my grandmother to the market. Someone would come by and pick us up because grandma didn’t drive. We would hit the grocery store then the meat market and maybe one or two other shops—this was before the days of the Super-Wal-Mart. I knew, before we headed home, we would stop and she would buy me an ice-cream cone. Again, it did not dawn on me until much later that she could not afford to buy me an ice-cream cone, but she did anyway.
I recall two oval pictures hanging in the living room and I believe they were of my grandfather’s parents. I often wonder what happened to those pictures. I do have a picture that I believe is a portrait of either my grandmother’s parents or perhaps my grandfather’s; not sure which. Who we are, at least in part, is molded by those who pass before us. By their actions my grandparents tried to show me the right way to live my life. I thank them for that and one of my regrets is I did not thank them in person when I had the chance.
My grandfather with my oldest sister and not sure who the other baby is.
The more I think on this the more recollections break free of my obscured memory. Memories of my grandparents filter through my mind like a mist. Some memories are very clear and others are faint and hard to discern. I suspect some memories are patched together based on multiple memories mixed together. My grandparent’s farm was a perfect example of a menagerie and included pigs, horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and pretty much any other animal that might be associated with a farm.
As children we would go to the pasture and stand on the end of the wagon and wait. After a bit ol’ Red would wonder by and stop at the end of the wagon and let one of us climb on. Red would walk around the pasture once or twice then return to the corner of the wagon to let the next child ride. Red would continue to do this as long as there was a kid waiting on the corner of the wagon.
Anyone who knew my Grandparents knew who Ol’ Red was.
I recall a particularly rainy Saturday afternoon when grandpa led one of his ponies into the enclosed front entry of the house. Of course we kids were ecstatic about having a horse in the house but grandma was not amused. Exasperated or not grandma allowed it because it brought such joy to the grandkids. Grandma may have given grandpa an ear full after we left but I really doubt that happened. I think grandpa enjoyed the fact that he excited the grandkids and I suspect grandma felt the same way.
I tihnk there was a side to my Grandpa I was too young to understand. He apparently enjoyed the little things of life as seen by this picture when grandpa put a dog in the saddle.
As a very small child I was climbing around on an old rusted combine in the pasture. I suspect in my mind I was scaling a large mountain trying to reach the cold rigid peak. Being so enthralled with my adventure I did not see the multitude of cows who decided to congregate around the base of the combine. As a small child I was rather frightened of cows—I saw them as mean animals. Sometime prior to this I saw one of the cows in the barn step back and squash the head of a small feral cat … that head was squashed as flat as a penny. The cow could not have cared less about that poor little cat or the artistic design of a flattened kitty-cat head. If a cow could squash the head of a cat then go about eating as if nothing was wrong it made perfect sense to me that a cow would take great pleasure in squashing my little head. Long story short—I was afraid to come down from the combine. I’m not real sure, but I think I may have conjured up enough courage to pee on one of them from my secure position—I might have made that part up but my memory tells me it happened. I do not recall the exact amount of time but memory tells me I spent three or four days up on that combine waiting for those cows to leave. Perhaps my memory is not all that clear about this particular bit of the story—might have been up there for an hour or so before grandpa saw my predicament and climbed the great mountain to rescue me.
Pigs and chickens were a different story. We would chase the chickens and try to ride the pigs—emphasis on try. We would stand on the fence and wait for a pig to venture into our trap and once they were close enough we would jump off the fence, pounce onto the back of the unfortunate pig, and ride it for as long as we could. I do not think we ever reached the rumored eight second requirement prevalent in rodeos, but we tried many, many times. Grandpa would stand by the fence, gesture with his hand and shout, “you darn fool kids are gonna break your neck” but laugh out loud and pound on the fence as he watched the mayhem.
I recall grandpa hitching up the wagon to the horse and allow us to lead the horse around just like those cowboys on TV. I do not believe we ever got the talent of leading a horse to any level of efficiency. In fact I recall my youngest brother Tim being flipped out the right side of the wagon as the wagon wheel hit a large tractor tire at the edge of the lane. Not sure which one of us got a spanking over that one but I suspect someone did and it would be anyone’s guess if the recipient of the administered punishment was actually the one steering the wagon. I guess, if the truth were told, we all got a quick swat after which we all scurried off to enter into other forms of mischief.
My grandpa’s skill at ringing the neck of a chicken was legendary in the region. He would reach down, snatch up a chicken, and in less than two shakes of his hand the chicken was dancing headless on the ground—that chicken didn’t see it coming. On the flip side of that story we see me chasing a chicken for what seemed like hours and once I had one in my grip I would shake that poor chicken by the head like a mad man putting out a fire. The chicken would always get away and run off never knowing what it had done to deserve such treatment. I’m sure my attempts at imitating Colonel Sanders were an amusement to both grandma and grandpa.
My grandma or my mom would take the headless body of the chicken—the product of my grandfather’s execution—and dip it into boiling water. It was the job of any adolesent in the area to pluck all the feathers and get the convicted chicken ready for dismemberment. Execute a defenseless chicken, watch it dance headless until all the blood spurted out, dunk it in scalding water, pluck the poor thing of its feathers, hack and dismember it into pieces and … well, what better way to get ready for a nice Sunday afternoon family dinner.
A little ways down the road was a creek that winded its way east and west through their farm. I’m sure it has a name but it eludes me. It had on old rickety bridge that announced anyone approaching from the north. I would go there to skip stones and try my hand at cane pole fishing—I don’t think I ever caught anything. Back then a child could wander around the country side and not have to worry about that car approaching. The occupants of the car were likely gracious and wonderful people just like my grandparents.
On farther down the road and west a mile or so was an old cemetery—Mitchell Cemetery I think it was called. I found wonder in looking at the old stones and trying to make out the dates. Many of the stones marked the passing of people over a hundred years prior. I wondered who they were at the time but lacking the ability at that young age I did not ponder who they were. All those people buried there were sons, daughters, parents and probably grandparents as well. Perhaps in a hundred years or so some child will stumble across the Oak Grove Cemetery and wonder who those two were with the stone depicting a white and black horse pulling a plow. I’m here to tell you they were wonderful people who toiled through life to sustain their family. They suffered loss and basked in the joy of God’s grace. They felt the pride as well as the sorrow of sending a son to fight a war in Europe and thanked God for his return—a war hero in the eyes of many. Who raised their children during the depression of the ‘30s and lived the life of a grandparent—a grandparent any grandchild would be honored to love.
My Mom as a young girl stand in the center of her Brothers
If you read “The Object of My Dejection” posted a few days ago you discovered it was a two part narrative. I have been told that, as a way to bring readers back, to leave the audience hanging. Not sure who said it and not sure if it works. Regardless, here is part 2.
I purchased my ’46 Dodge from my cousin this past summer and transported it to my house. My brother helped me with the move and I will mention here he put himself out while doing it because he was pressed for time; so was I for that matter. In effect we moved the truck from one garage to another. I do not regret making the purchase nor will I regret any amount of money or time expended on the project. However, the fact is I have little to no room in my garage to do this project any justice.
I have about 18 inches of available space on either side while in the garage
To do this right requires the body to be removed from the frame; essentially stripping this truck down to the bones and then some. Several scenarios went through my mind in an attempt to plan this out using a methodical approach.
I am mechanically inclined to a point. I am not, however, so mechanically inclined to do this right but I could not let the opportunity pass to rekindle the life of this precious truck. So, after a couple of months of thinking I came up with what I thought to be the perfect plan. So long as the truck stays in the family and is rebuilt to showroom condition I will have met my goal. So I decided to give the truck to my younger brother as I knew he would give the project the attention it deserved; plus he had the room and the tools to make it happen. Along with this I would be willing to expend most of the funds needed throughout the project.
Within a few days of purchase Tim was tearing into his Dodge.
I decided I would call him the next day and work a plan to get the truck to his place in Virginia. Alas, within an hour of making this decision I got a text message from him stating he had just purchased a ’46 (or maybe it was a ’47) Dodge truck as a project. I was floored. Had I made the decision the instant the thought came to mind all would have been well; but I waiting too long. Story of my life.
I still do not regret buying this truck and I still plan to bring it back to life. But I am saddened by the fact that it will set for an unknown amount of time before I do anything with it. I will never sell this truck. One way or another, this truck will always be in this family in honor of my Grandfather who, by his actions, taught me much.
At present I have no plans set in stone to start this project. I refuse to start until I am assured I can complete it. My initial goal is to get the truck running. I do not see that as a major accomplishment because the engine was re-built about a year or so before it went into storage at my cousin’s house. It will require a bit I’m sure, but do not, at present, see a need to tear the engine apart. The problem is the wiring and the body.
The engine was rebuilt a couple years before going into storage in my cousin’s garage; about 20 years ago.
The body is in very excellent shape considering the life it led. Back in the day all county roads were tarred and rocked each year so every car that drive those roads had a thick undercoating of tar which kept corrosion to a minimum. My first step, which I hope to accomplish this winter, is to replace tires, brakes, wheel and master cylinders, brake lines and brake linings; might also replace the drums if needed. As mentioned the body is solid but the rust around the windshield is extensive and will need some serious attention to reinstate some functionality—a body man I’m not.
The wring is the real problem. By that I mean I am not an electrical guy. The electrical components on a ’46 Dodge are not particularly complicated but all will certainly need to be replaced. Have yet to decide if I will convert to a 12 volt system or maintain the 6 volt configuration. I’m not wise enough to outline the pros and cons of 12 volt verses 6 volt.
Virtually every part is present, but not all work. All gauges need replaced and the floorboard will need replaced.
So, back to my original premise of, “The Object of My Dejection.” I have a classic truck to rebuild; plus #1. I have my grandfather’s truck; plus (major plus) #2. I have a place to store the truck without too much inconvenience; plus #3. I do not have sufficient space to work on the truck; minus #1. Most tools needed to accomplish my tasks are on hand; plus #4. I really do not have the time to give this project the dedicated time it deserves; minus #2. The original parts for this truck may be hard to find and very expensive; minus #3.
Of all of these plus and minus comments we can actually remove a couple from the list. For example I can remove the expense comment because I have always known a project like this would be expensive. I have also always known this would be a time consuming project so that one can go away as well. This leaves me with 4 pluses and 1 minus; so where is the dejection?
Maybe there’s not one. By definition “dejection” means sadness, and lack of hope due to great disappointment. If we use that as a foundation then I am good to go because I am not sad, nor do I lack hope. I am disappointed that I missed an opportunity to pass this truck to someone who would give it the attention needed, but in the grand scheme of things there are more significant acts from my past that are truly disappointing.
I think I will re -title this from “The Object of My Dejection” to “The Object of My Optimism.”
Considering the life of the truck it is in very good shape. We can only guess as to why one turn signal is higher than the other.
I’m also thinking this is part 2 of a very long series on my blog. I’ll need to give the series a new title. I like “The Object of My Optimism” but I don’t ring. I’ll need to work on that. Any suggestions for a title that is befitting the refurbishment of my Grandfather’s ’46 Dodge would be most appreciated.What do you think?
