Seek And Ye Shall Find Him

My intent here is not to irritate anyone.  This is just to highlight the holy struggles of a mountain boy.

When I was growing up, most of the folks in Loudon were either Baptists or Methodist.  There were Presbyterians, Church of Christ, Seventh Day Adventists and Pentecostals also, but the Baptists and Methodists outnumbered them all.

We were Baptists;   Missionary Baptists to be specific.  You have to be specific because there were Southern Baptist, Primitive Baptist, Missionary Baptists, and just plain Baptists.  I’m not sure what the official definition of a Missionary Baptist is, but it seemed to be fairly loose.  When someone didn’t like something or someone at a particular church, they either moved to another church or started one of their own.  Now, that may sound a bit facetious, but that’s the way it seemed to me.

I started at Riverview Baptist Church on Main Street, and went there for most of my childhood.  When I was 15 or so, we moved to Calvary Baptist Church up on Old 72.  I’m really not sure why we moved, it must have been one of those disagreement things.  While at Riverview, I was baptized at the boat ramp just below the old Chair Factory.

The first preacher I remember was Preacher Davis.  I don’t recall his first name.  And I’m probably not far off when I say the first sermon I heard was something along the lines of ‘Jesus is coming, and boy is he pissed’.  Okay, that time I was being facetious.

But that did seem to be the topic most of the time.   For almost 60 years I’ve heard we are in the “Last Days” before the second coming of Christ, and since I know my birth isn’t one of the so called ‘signs’, I’m betting that topic has been used a whole host of Sundays.   Actually, I read something once that said the Apostles fully expected Christ to return during their lifetime, so His return has been a topic for centuries.

Again, I’m not trying to belittle or berate anyone’s faith.  You are what you are for reasons that are good enough for you and that pretty much ends the discussion. 

I remember one Sunday; some of the men were hanging out in front of the church smoking their last cigarette before the service started, just as another fella walked up the street in front of the church.  One of the men actually said something like “He’s okay, he’s just Catholic.”  I had known the man they were talking about all my life and he didn’t look any different to me, but in my limited experience, I wasn’t overly sure what being Catholic meant, let alone what it was supposed to look like.

Now, fast forward to basic training after I had joined the Air Force -- to say I was a little bewildered and confused would not be overstating it.  I was very bewildered and confused, and more than a touch scared.  I think the idea of military basic training is to scare the bejesus out of you so they can find out if you are going to cooperated or be a problem child.  They don’t have time to individualize the training, so they get in your face hard and fast.

Anyway, in what was a very hostile environment, you turn to things that are familiar.  The only one I could think of was church, and the first weekend I could leave the immediate area of the barracks, that is where I went.  Okay, so call me backward or ignorant or whatever you want, but it honestly never occurred to me that there would be anyone else at that church but good ol’ Baptists.  There was even a sign out front that displayed the service schedule and I didn’t bother to read it.  So what did I do?    I walked right into a Catholic mass. 

I knew immediately I was in the wrong place, but I wasn’t about to make a fool out of myself by getting up and walking out.  So, I stayed.  It was a learning experience.  We sat, we stood, we kneeled, we stood again.  When we get to the sermon part, do you know what happened?  He didn’t raise his voice.  Not one promise of hell fire and damnation.   I was stunned.  Whoever heard of church without yelling, shouting, hand clapping and at least a few amens?   I’ve known people who felt it was a wasted sermon if the preacher didn’t ‘get right’.

I realize I’m talking about 2 small churches in a small southern town, but that was the only world I knew to this point, so it was the only comparison I could make.

Let’s fast forward again, this time to August 1971, when I met the girl of my dreams.  We were so far into each other we were talking marriage of all things.  But she was Catholic, and I had something else to worry about.  How would she be accepted back home?  I had no doubt that a few of the people I knew would look at me and shake their heads.  How could I do such a thing?

As it turned out, a few years later, there wasn’t any problem, or at least not any long range problems.  We did get married, but it didn’t take, so that was that.

Several years later, I met another lady and decided to get married again.  Guess what?  She was Catholic too.  Again, I received several warnings from well-meaning people.  Things like, “You’ll have to sign a paper that you will raise your kids Catholic.”  Maybe some folks did, but I didn’t.  I haven’t seen that form yet.  

If you wanted to get married in the military, you and your intended had to take counseling that basically covered every aspect of married life.  They didn’t want any surprises to pop up later.  Part of that was with a chaplain.  He was a good ol’ Baptist boy and agreed during our first meeting that he would be happy to perform the ceremony when the time came.  Unfortunately, he had second thoughts later.

Later on, he asked us in which religion would the kids be raised.  We told him we weren’t planning on any more kids, so that was a non-issue to us.  (Funny how that works, there would be two more).  Anyway, he let it slide but occasionally would bring it up again, and we would say the same things, we weren’t planning on any other kids.

Finally, on Tuesday before we were to be married on Saturday, he called me at work and said something to the effect of, “I am so sorry, but I just realized I won’t be in town on Saturday.”  You could have knocked me over with a feather.  So, here was this officer and gentleman who suddenly realized he wouldn’t be in town and we had been planning this wedding for at least a couple of months.  Yeah.  Right.  I’ll go to my grave believing he baled because we wouldn’t commit to raising the kids Baptists.

But, as they say, all’s well that ends well.  I even converted to Catholicism myself after a couple of years, with absolutely zero input from my wife, and didn’t give one thought to what anybody else, including my family, would think about it.   It’s none of their business.

There’s something else I have come to realize.  I am no theologian, but to me religion is man-made, not God made.   When I clash with a religion, I’m clashing with other men, since all religions are ran the way those who run it dictate it should be ran.  So I don’ t have to please anyone but myself… and God.

Why Must I Be A Teenager In Love

I told somebody once that between the time I was 12 and 15, I think I had a crush on almost every girl I went to school with.  Sometimes I think I either grew out of it or just gave up on it.

I had no idea that things like social class or connections could play a part in whether someone would find me the least bit interesting, they were girls and that’s all that mattered then.

It also never occurred to me that they might not find me interesting at all, which was usually the case, because as the old saying goes “God looks after fools and children”, and I was a lot of one and a little of the other.

But as I look back, undoubtedly the oddest thing is that most of them never knew.  I would sit and doodle on notebook paper by writing their names over and over, while I should have been paying attention in class.  But I never said a word to anybody.  I can remember once I used an ink pen to write the girl du jour's name on the leg of my pants, just above the knee.  Good thing they were dark pants.

And although I’d sit and stare at them sometimes, and not get any attention directed back at me, it wasn’t really a big deal.  I would just start mooning over another one.

Plus, if they did show me any attention, BANG!  I went from "what’s your name" to "let’s go steady" in about 5 seconds.

Ladies, if you’re reading this now, please forgive me for being so foolish.  I didn’t mean to be such a pain in the keister, I was just fighting off major hormone attacks.

That Sad Little Peyton Place

My second home away from home was Blytheville AFB, Arkansas.  I’m not counting Alaska since I was only there one year.  Blytheville (pronounced Bli-vul, and affectionately called Hooterville) is in the northeast corner of the state, just below the Missouri boot heel.   An hour and a half south is Memphis and a couple of hours north is St. Louis, but in between, and especially around Blytheville, there wasn’t very much to do or see.  I’m being a little optimistic with that assessment, because actually, there was nothing to do or see.

The first few months I was there, I was getting over issues of my own.  Things fell apart marriage wise, so I found myself alone again.  Then, after about 6 months, I went off to forecasting school in Illinois.  After I came back to Blytheville, my oldest son came to live with me.  He was not quite six years old.  It was the only assignment of my career where I lived on base.  The Air Force worked on a first come, first serve basis so since the only thing open was a 4 bedroom condo type place, that’s what the two of us moved into.

There was a lake nearby where you could fish, but it was a wooded lake so there was no swimming or boating; just fishing.  That’s usually fine with me since I like to fish, but not exclusively.

The county was dry and the base wasn’t, which irritated the county a lot.  They didn’t like it that GIs could buy booze on base and take it to their home off base.   ABC Sports had a roast for Fred Akers, a former University of Texas football coach and Blytheville native, but had to have it on base because no businesses in town served alcohol.

So, what did the folks there do to entertain themselves?  There was a lot of fooling around, that’s what.  At one point, the Wing Commander was caught with the Base Commander’s wife, or was it the other way around?  So everybody was doing it.  It seemed like everywhere you looked someone was doing someone else’s someone.  Friends of mine, people in my neighborhood, folks I worked with; it was almost like a competition. 

 

All that aside, I also encountered the saddest story in my career.  It didn’t happen to me, but to a guy I worked with.  He and his wife were in Germany when they had a little baby.  The baby was still an infant and was sick enough one evening that they took it to the hospital.  The doctors looked the baby over and couldn’t find anything wrong so they sent them back home.  The next morning the baby was dead.

That was bad enough, but then Uncle Sam misplaced the baby’s coffin before it could be shipped back to the states and it took quite some time to find it.  By then the couple of was very distraught and who could blame them?  Long story short, they ended up being reassigned to Blytheville.  I can’t remember where she was from, but he was from Halls, TN, near Knoxville and he worked with me.

Over time, they had another little one, just about the time their marriage was going belly up from all the pent up pain and frustration from losing the first one.  He messed up and smacked her around a couple of times and the powers that be on base split them up.  She got their house and he, after getting permission, moved in with me and Doug, since he was eventually going back to Germany anyway.

She played him like an instrument after that.  She would call and invite him to go to church with her and the baby and then turn around and call the cops because he wasn’t supposed to be there without someone else being there, so the cops arrived there just after he did and wound up throwing him in jail for a few hours.

One night I was at work (Doug was at the sitter’s) when I got a call that said he had barricaded himself in my place and wouldn’t come out.  The cops said he was armed and they wanted me to come try to talk him out, to which I said that sounds more like your job than mine.  They won the argument and by the time I got there he was in the Police car. 

 

They put him in jail after that and only let him out when he was supervised.  One day our boss had gotten him out of jail to go back to my place and get some clean clothes.  While there, he came up with a gun from somewhere and took my boss hostage.  He took him to his wife’s house on base where he let my boss go and held the baby and the sitter hostage until his wife came home.  He then let the sitter go and held his wife and baby.

We were all over the news by this point.  The local Air Force police had no idea how to handle a hostage situation like that, so they were calling LA and New York to get advice from SWAT teams and hostage negotiators.

He eventually gave himself up again and they threw him back in jail.  At the trial they declared him mentally unbalanced and discharged him from the Air Force.  In the late 90s I noticed in the Knoxville paper where he had passed away.  I hope he finally got the peace he deserved.

But that was Hooterville, where you had to take your excitement however you could get it.

Another RIP

RIP Sharon Crawley

As most of you know, we lost another classmate recently.  I don't recall have  any classes with Sharon, but I remember she was also smiling.  Maybe it was because of something Donna did, since they were almost inseparable, but that smile always seemed to be there.  And I remember she was also good and friendly to me, never aloof or moody.

I think that describes most of our class, but Sharon was one of the more consistent.

Baby Love

Last night our youngest grandson, Logan spent the night with us.  He is such a hoot.  He will be 3 in a couple of weeks and he tends to think his grandmother walks on water.  He and I get along great too, but I know he leans a little more in her direction most times, and I’m okay with that.

He has his own bedroom in our house.  It’s not really, it’s the guest room but he calls it his, but that doesn’t mean he will sleep there all night.  He does some, but usually about 3 or 4 in the morning he will end up between Sue and I.

I love that part.  He usually lies against me.  I sleep on my side most of the time so he presses against my back.  I guess I’m the biggest heat source in the bed, so he ends up on my side of the bed.  I know all the dangers of letting little ones sleep with you and believe me, I am conscious of every move he makes.  Besides, he’s not so little anymore.

But I love the feeling of him being there.  He has to be comfortable or he wouldn’t be there, so to know he feels that way just makes me so proud and so happy.  You can’t buy that feeling, that little fuzzy feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, when you know they are where they want to be, and it’s being with you.

I read somewhere before my first son was born that one of the things that comforts a newborn when their mothers hold them is the sound of their heartbeat, that heartbeat the baby has heard their whole life to that point.  So, I decided that my little ones were going to get used to my heartbeat early two.  I held every one of them as close as I could, as often as I could.  In fact, Christopher and Sarah spent their first 3 nights at home sleeping on my chest.

I know, I know.  That sleeping with babies thing again.  I know it’s dangerous, but believe me, I never moved, and I know it helped with the bonding.  Just like I’m bonding with Logan now.

My biggest wish is that somehow, someway, I can get all the kids and grandkids together in the same town, just like how I grew up, with most of the family within shouting distance of each other, so that I can share all those precious moments with all of them.

That would make me the happiest I could be.

Hodge Podge

I thought it was about time for an update.  I'm like everyone else, I end up doing things I want to do before I do things I have to do.  I guess in this case the best way to fix that is to not feel like this is something I have to do. 

One thing that would help is if I could update at work like I used to, but as good as my company can be they are so slow to upgrade from Internet Explorer 7.  I understand all the wherefores and whys, they have to be sure all their web apps can run on it, but by the time we update to IE8 we'll be behind again.  Oh well, not my headache but it could be better.

I've had several topics swimming in my head the past couple of weeks, but sometimes I think you guys get tired of hearing about me.  Oh, and I don't want to do just an update about Sharon, or more precisely I don't want to have only sad news when I update. 

For the record, there is no update on Sharon that I know of, other than what I've already said either here or in an email.  Things are not looking good.  Hopefully it will be a long, long time before I post an update that is more bad news.  I would love to post good news about her making a recovery.

My sister told me there was some sort of river festival this past week and it went very well.  She said there was a lot of people attending.  Glad to hear it.

I would love to be there this weekend.  I think the Fiddler's Convention is scheduled.  I would like to see Tom Brantley again.  He was a good friend many years ago.  I've mentioned his brother Tim on here a few times, he was a classmate during grade school.

It was also a hoot to watch the Redskins playing football over the net.  Okay, so they lost to LC.  It was still good to see them.

Well, that's about it, and like I told my Mom once, I promise I'll write more often.

My First Home After Leaving Home

Recently, I saw that San Bernardino, California had declared bankruptcy.

San Bernardino holds a special place in my memories.  I lived there from January 1971 to January 1977, and visited many more times up through the mid 90s.

In a way, I grew up there.  I was only 19 when I got there and it introduced me to a lot of the world I had never experienced growing up in Tennessee.  I was married there and my first two kids were born there.

I was there almost 2 months before I realized it butted up against the San Bernardino Mountains.  There was forest fire burning in the mountains and the smog blew in from LA each day and made it hard to see anything.  I had heard the mountains mentioned several times but had no idea how close they were.  Then, one morning I walked out of the barracks and there they were.  They were so close you could almost touch them.  It was like, “Where in the hell did those things come from?” 

 

So that was the down side.  The smog was a terrible, especially during the summer.  Jed Clampett remarked once that the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and then you had to wipe off the knife.  But when the smog cleared, it was a very pretty place.

 

It took some time to get used to the desert, especially after growing up where everything was so green most of the time, but I did.  In fact, the desert can be a very beautiful place in its own way.  At times, the nights were full of even more stars than I could see in Tennessee; literally millions and millions of them.

 

The heat really didn’t take that much to get used to.  Yes, it got hot every day during the summer, in most cases much hotter than in Tennessee, but it was drier, and usually shade was enough to make it comfortable.  Also, they used “swamp coolers” which added moisture to the air instead of taking it out like an air conditioner does, but it did the job.  Some people knew how to take advantage of the limitations the area had to offer, too.  A guy I worked with had two side jobs that paid him almost as much money as his salary from the government.  He sold earthworms and lion poop.   He sold the worms to people who wanted to landscape their yards.  The sun baked the ground so hard and the worms would loosen it up, sort of a natural aerator.  He got the lion’s poop an outdoor zoo nearby and sold it to the people in the mountains to keep deer out of their gardens.

 

The people were different, and there was so many of them.  Again, literally millions.  Every road you drove on, every sidewalk you walked on, every store or business you went to, was full of people.  I have always had a thing about being in crowds, so that was a big adjustment, but I made it.  Besides, it helped me learn more about other people, a host of other races, their foods and cultures.  I like to think I became a better person for the experience.

I didn’t much care for all the concrete, I will say that much.  Even back then, it was 80% concrete from San Diego to Santa Barbara and inland as far as San Bernardino and Riverside.  That’s way too much concrete but it could have its advantages sometimes too.  You could take the little ones up to a pull out on the mountain on New Year’s Eve and watch firework displays from LA to Palm Springs and to the south past Riverside.  Dozens of displays, and part of the fun was trying to guess which city was doing which display.

There were basically two seasons; the dry, hot summer and the moderate, rainy periods through the winter and early spring.  The winter was also the time for the Santa Ana winds to pick up, and they could make things change dramatically.  I recall one night shift with a lot of fog and visibility was getting worse and worse.  I was just about to report the visibility dipping below a half mile when out of the corner of my eye I saw a light I shouldn’t have been able to see.  To the northwest, I could see cars coming through the Cajon Pass, which was roughly about 12 miles away.  It was the Santa Ana wind coming through the pass.  Within 15 minutes, there was literally no fog and visibility in all directions was approaching 40 miles, the wind had picked up to 25-30 knots, the temperature shot up 10 degrees and the dew point dropped 20+ degrees.  Instant clear.  

The beach was as close as 45 minutes if you went toward Newport, there was snow skiing in the mountains (the one and only time in my life I tried snow skiing), LA with all its glitz and glamor was an hour west, along with the Lakers, the Dodgers, the Rams and the Angels.  Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, Magic Mountain, Busch Gardens and countless other parks and amusements were nearby. 

Yep, it was a good place to be back then.  I’m sure some things have changed, not the least of which is economical, and I probably wouldn’t approve of a lot of them, but it was my second home for a number of years, and it will always be special to me.

Where Does It All Go

I recently got a pay raise, one of those cost of living things of 2-3%.   I’m not sure about your cost of living, but mine sure feels like it’s increasing by more than 2-3%.

One of the interesting things about our generation is that salaries have skyrocketed since we entered the workforce and now it seems like we are making exorbitant amounts of money, compared to what we started out making, but we still have to scratch our heads and wonder where it’s all going.

I guess it is human nature to live on what you make.  When your salary goes up you get a few new things or make a change or two to your life style, but either way, you continue to live on what you make.  Of course, I have a savings plan, a 401K and some stock, so I’m trying to build as big of a nest egg as I can, but I always wonder how much is enough?

I now make more than I’ve ever made before in my life.  I’m not as close to 6 figures as I’d like to be, but maybe one of these days I’ll get there.  I do know this much, I probably make more in a year than my Dad saw in his life. 

 

When I look at that, it looks odd.  It looks like I’m bragging about making a ton of money, but I don’t.  Dad was a farmer.  He raised almost everything they ate, so he didn’t need to buy most of the food they needed.  If he didn’t grow it, he would trade something he grew for it.  Plus, he owned the farm so there was no mortgage to worry about.  So money, at least to my father, was necessary but not of the importance it is now.  He was used to not having much, if any, for long stretches of time.

If I lost my job, there is no way I’d get by.  I would adjust obviously, as I’m sure we all would, but I don’t know that I could adjust to using a minimal amount of money.  I don’t know beans about farming (pardon the pun), so I would need some cash flow.

When I started working for a wage at 14, the minimum wage (if I remember right) was $1.25, or thereabouts.   A 40 hour week earned me a whopping 50 bucks, before taxes. I drop more than that now just taking the family out to dinner.

When I started work at Maremont right after graduation, I think I made $1.40 to $1.50 an hour - a little bit more, but no gold mine.  In comparison, my youngest son worked a summer job the past two years and at times, depending on where they worked, he could get as much as $22 an hour.  He thinks he’s broke if he has no folding money.  If he cashed in all the coins in his room and car, he could get $10-$15, but all he sees is coins.  My, how times have changed.

Then in November of 1970, I joined the AF.  I made a staggering $62.00 every two weeks.  I made more at 14 than I did at 19.  And, if that wasn’t bad enough, I got married with that salary.  Talk about tough times!  But, you know how it is when you’re 19 and think you know everything.

Then in September of 1972, Tricky Dick signed a bill that gave me a 100% pay raise.  We ballooned up to $125.00 every two weeks.  That helped, but our life style adjusted to our new windfall in no time.

But in all fairness a coke was 10 cents, a pack of cigarettes was 27 cents and a gallon of gas was about 25 cents.  I could take $10 on payday, fill the car with gas, and buy a carton of cigarettes and a case of beer.  Oh, those nasty, costly habits.

Actually, looking at it that way, I make more in a year now than I made in the first 10 working years combined.  So, I out earning me in a way too, just like I did my Dad.

I think Dad was more at peace with the world, though.

What Do You Do With the Bad Ones?

We all have our favorite memories. The good ones. They usually bring a smile and concern someone, some place or some time special to us. In fact, we sometimes treat them like a favorite toy; taking them out and playing with them, rolling them around in our mind so we can feel the warmth they bring back to our being.

But what do you do with the bad memories? We all have them also, but instead of making us feel warm, they have sharp and jagged edges that can bother us as much now as when they happened.

It might be something that someone did to us, or something we did that we would like to take back, but the memory is just as strong as a good memory, and stays right there, teetering on the edge of our consciousness, ready to spring on us at a moment’s notice. And when they do spring on us, they tend to deflate any good mood we might be in.

Actually, sometimes we intentionally yank one open. Maybe it’s to review it against some new information we’ve discovered, or we simply can’t believe something like that happened to us. Whatever the reason though, rarely does a bad memory become anything other than a bad memory. It will haunt us until we die, and at times will even seem like it will be around long after that.

Can you still face the person, place or thing that created the bad memories? Some people try. They want to slay those dragons and believe the only way they can is to deal with them directly.

Maybe that’s true, but I’m not so sure I can do it. I deal with them by trying to forget them, or I dwell on the good ones, hoping they will eventually smother the bad ones.

No wonder we get wrinkles and grey hair as we age.

Older and Fuzzier Memories

I tried the other year to remember something about every year in school, and I could only remember snippets of some years. My high school memories are scattered throughout this blog, but what about before that?

The first grade I remember because we were directly over the cafeteria at the grammar school and when they baked peanut butter cookies, it smelled so darn good. I also remember the “back” playground, the one down by Church Street. Mrs. Ross was my teacher.

The only thing I remember about the second grade is that it was on the 3rd floor of the school, right above the first grade. I honestly can’t remember who the teacher was.

The third grade a blank, except for being on the top floor at the front of the school. I think my teacher was Mrs. Isbell. Or was that 4th grade?

The 4th grade was on the first floor at the front of the school. Please don’t tell me I have the 3rd and 4th grade locations confused. Oh, and I remember getting sick all over my desk one day. Yuck.

For 5th grade, we moved to the Junior High. My class room was on the south end of the building, first door on the right and Mrs. Lawson was my teacher. I remember reading from the color coded books. As you got better at reading, the color of the books changed. Of course, I don’t remember the colors. That would be asking too much. It was also the year of my first, and only, spelling bee. I missed the first word.

In 6th grade, my teacher was Mrs. Williams, an extremely nice woman and a good teacher. It was also the fateful year the Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan show and everybody went gaga over them. Oh, and when President Kennedy was killed.

Seventh grade was when we first started changing classes. We were “teenagers”. We were on the north side of the building. The teachers were Mrs. Millamacki (?), Miss Maples and another teacher I don’t remember. Miss Maples was the wrong teacher to have around when puberty kicks in at full speed. She was also the last teacher to paddle me, and man could she hit hard!

Eighth grade was Mrs. White, Mrs. Galyon and another teacher I don’t remember. It was also the first year of segregated school.

There are obviously memories that I can't positively connect with a particular year, especially in grammar school, but I guess that's another post.

Memorial Day - 2012

We haven’t added anyone to this list this year and I’m happy about that. It’s still tough looking at some of them and being reminded of a store house of memories.

Wayne McNabb is the best friend I’ve ever had. Even now. I sat behind him in first grade and he put up with my crap for a long time. I can remember once in 7th or 8th grade we decided on the spur of the moment to skip school, so we jumped the fence behind the Junior High School and spent the day exploring the woods from Lover’s Leap to Matlock Bend. We couldn’t have picked a worse day. It was cloudy and cold and not the best day to be hiking in the woods. But at least it wasn’t school.

Right behind him then would be Allen McNabb. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Wayne. Allen was the one who talked me into coming back from Atlanta after the ’68 year, and I’m glad he did.

I’ve known Pat Lowe most of my life too. When we were kids, we all knew that Pat had some medical issues, a hole in his heart or something like that, but he was still just as physical as the rest of us. I lost track of him at one point and didn’t run into him again until high school. He hadn’t changed much. He was one of the kindest, friendliest people I’ve ever known.

So was Larry Langford. He was another one of those lifelong friends. He had a red VW during high school and I remember one morning when we had 7 or 8 of us in that little car. The theme from Good, Bad and Ugly was playing on the radio. Somehow, it seemed appropriate at the time.

Freddy Lindsey was another longtime friend. His passing hit fairly hard, for two reasons. First, he wasn’t living that far away from me at the time (just below Memphis), and I didn’t know it; and then for being no older than he was.

Mike Delaney went way too young. He was always a bit of a dare devil, but a great guy. I knew him from the first grade. We had our differences, but I always thought him to be a good friend.

I knew Jimmy Brantley before high school, even though he lived in Philadelphia. The most vivid memory was a wooded hill behind his house, where he cleared a path down that hill and through those trees, and would jump in his wagon and take off down that hill. It was a wild ride, because the hill was steep and the trees were big and mature, but he did it over and over and wrecked his wagon all to hell.

At one of the reunions, someone made a comment about Patty Hicks, Sherry McMahan and Betty Scott, that they were always together. And it’s true. It’s just sad they’re together in this picture.

I didn’t know Lynn, Bobbie Jo, Doyle, Janie, Estes or Pat Rucker until high school, and while I didn’t know them that well, they were good folks.

We continue to miss them all.