The Original ?

The Old Man spent a few days in Georgia. We had some really quality "bonding time" with The Termi-Nater. He's a joy. As I watched him ramble and roam......zig and zag....flip and flop, there was a strange familiarity. Perhaps there is such a thing as that genetic memory that we read about. It's probably how animals have the instinctive knowledge to fly south in winter, to make their nest in a certain way, and all those other traits that they just seem to know without having to be taught. Our actions are more governed by our genes than I think we realize.



I sensed a connection on a level that's unexplainable to me. Maybe Nater and I share genetic memory that compels him to adopt many of the actions and characteristics that I, and all those before me in our genetic lineage, share. Things like a ready smile, a penchant for exploration, a task oriented stubbornness, the willingness to stand up for himself, and the ability to decide quickly who merits further attention, are all traits that mark my personality. The odd thing is that I have noted these same characteristics in other family members that preceded me.



Not that I can claim credit for his personality; I am but a genetic conduit from the past. On a conscious level, we perform as we have learned, but on a much deeper level, we perform as we are made. At any rate, may I present who just might have been the original Termi-Nater?

Zoom Zoom Zoom

The Old Man loves his airplanes. I think I can trace my love of flight back to two distinct events. There was a young chap who lived up the street from me named Tommy. He was a number of years older than me, and he built beautiful balsa and tissue model airplanes. I would traipse across a couple of back yards and stand in the shrubbery just to watch him fly them. They were all powered by rubber bands and flew silently but majestically. Tommy paid me little attention....I was just that snot-nose from down the street. After I got older, I took up the hobby with some degree of success. Much more about that period of my life in subsequent posts. The main point is that I came to love flight.

The other event happened shortly after the war ended. The quietness of a Bedford Sunday afternoon was explosively disrupted on that August day. From out of nowhere (seemingly) a Corsair fighter came over the town at tree-top level. The pilot climbed, rolled, and dove repeatedly. Had we not all known the war was over, we would have thought we most surely were under attack. For the uninitiated, the Corsair (pictured above) was the gull wing Navy fighter popularized by the exploits of Greg "Pappy" Boyington, both in real life and again in the TV show "Baa Baa Black Sheep". For what seemed like forever, all 2000 horses of the big Pratt & Whitney engine roared. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand at rigid attention. We later learned that the pilot was a fellow named Bill Catlin; a Bedford boy recently returned from combat. He buzzed his momma's house, his girlfriend's house, and the county courthouse. He looped, he whirled, he spun, he mocked a strafing run. Then....he was gone.

I don't know what sort of unmitigated hell his commanding officer made his life when he returned to base, and maybe the incident didn't get reported, but he sure made an impression on this 5 year old. If I live to be 100, I will never forget the raw power that airplane shared with us all. I can look at a picture of a Corsair and still hear it in my mind.

I have nothing but respect and admiration for those who defend our country in the sleek jet fighters of today. I salute and cheer them. I offer my heart-felt thanks to them. But it seems somehow different when I see a jet go over. There's a lot of noise and thunder and it's hard to describe, but it's just not the same. The engine on a Corsair just sang rather than boomed.

Oh, Tommy re-entered my life just a few years ago. When my mother had her auction to close up shop as she called it, Tommy was working for the auction company. He came up to me after all was done and handed me an item. "I'll bet you forgot about this", he said. With that he handed me a little brass plate with my father's name on it. It had been mounted on our front door and he was right, I had forgotten it. Thanks to him, it's now in it's new home. Full circle.

Pete's Last Ride

The Old Man doesn't do much body surfing these days. That "wave" has already broken on the shore. Not so in days gone by. My brother-in-law, Pete, and I have boogie boarded, body surfed, and generally raised hell by the ocean in our time. Pete caught his best wave ever a couple of days ago.

I had just started to date Miss Martha when I first was introduced to her brother, Pete. His first words to me after, "Nice to meetcha" was "Have you got a cigarette?" He was 15 then and I was 19. Both of us full of vinegar and that other stuff. Pete never ran out of vinegar while all I could keep was only that other stuff.

To say Pete was a "character" is vast understatement.....sort of like saying Mt Everest is a "hill".

He was 0 for 3 in the marriage department, but curiously, all of his "Exes" as the song goes, bore him no ill will. I think they just all figured it didn't work out because it was just the wrong time, wrong place, or some such.

Pete and I shared a lot of beach trips when our children were small. He was a brilliantly funny guy; able to keep all ages in stitches. His dry wit and his ability to clown in any given situation made him a host of friends. He never met a stranger and didn't suffer idiots at all. Even when he wasn't at the beach, he maintained a beach attitude. He was, I suppose, a combination of Willie Nelson and Jimmy Buffett. Some of the best partying I have ever done in my salad days was with Pete.

Unfortunately, there were tentacles attached to Pete that he seemed simply unable to extricate himself from. He would have times when they relaxed their grip a bit, but then they grew tighter and tighter until finally they achieved victory and Pete's body simply said "uncle".

We took his ashes to his beloved Outer Banks this past week and his 3 sons and his sisters set him asail on the final wave ride. Unlike all those we took together, this one will last forever and he will never have to go home from vacation. He's already there.

His oldest son summed up the day beautifully. As Pete surfed away, the sun broke through a little hole in the clouds, and he said, "Look, Dad just smiled on us."

So, Pete, thanks for all the fun memories, thanks for your friendship and love, and thanks for the brightness you brought into so many lives. Enjoy your "bitchin' wave" and take that ride...you've earned it!

The Old Man's Hero

The Old Man has a hero. You don't know him yet, but when you finish this posting, I hope you will. Were he still bodily with us, he would be 105 tomorrow, Oct. 11. He was born of sharecropper parents in Pittsylvania County, Va. He grew up in a hard-scrabble way on a small tobacco farm. His parents instilled in him and his siblings (all younger) the values of American virtue and patriotism. I've heard tell that his grandfather was a preacher. I can't vouch for that, but as I began to grow and be aware, I saw evidence that the apple truly didn't fall too far from the tree.

He left home early and began to make his way in the world. A self-taught photographer, he became proficient enough to earn a living. He also learned lithographic printing and began to integrate himself into the world of graphics. Uncle Sam needed him and around 1929 or so, he joined the Army. Attached to an Engineer Battalion, he spent time in Nicaragua assisting in rescue and recovery efforts after a devastating earthquake. On my wall is his citation; The Soldiers Medal for Heroism, given for his efforts and his going 3 days without food or water while digging out survivors.

Fresh from the Army, he met Miss Alma. She ran a little sandwich shop (she called it in the parlance of the day, "Luncheonette"). They married in 1934 and 7 years later, The Old Man appeared. There would be no more. Perhaps I was the original "Termi-Nater". After all, you've already learned about the cherry bomb, the slingshot, and the life of crime in the watermelon patch. As I grew and began to go out for activities with my friends, he would always say, "See you later, Bud." In his own way, he was acknowledging my growth and the different plane our relationship had reached.

Dad could preach a sermon with the best of 'em. In the early '50's a circuit preacher in the county was badly burned in a fire. Dad "rode" his circuit for 2 years, preaching at one of 4 different churches each Sunday. All this in addition to his regular job at a label printing plant, and active participation in our own church. One of my prized possessions is the secretary where Dad kept his books and prepared his sermons. The surface is scratched and marred from his note taking. The scratches remain as a point of contact for me, and sometimes I walk by and just lightly touch them. It brings me peace.

My hero had a marvelous sense of humor. You've read about the "protective hat" and the disastrous attempt at skunk removal. Dad would laugh until tears came into his eyes over some of his mishaps. He was ever the clown, even when his health began to decline. He suffered from stomach ulcers in a day when there was no Zantac, Nexium, or Prilosec. There was only milk, eggs, and cream, all of which conspired to clog his arteries to the point they surrendered and he suffered his third and final heart attack while recovering in the hospital from his second.

We buried Dad on New Year's Day, 1964. He was only 60 years old. He never got to hold his two wonderful granddaughters that he would have been totally captivated by. He never knew that, coincidentally, I spent a career in the printing business. Even after all these years, I still sometimes catch myself with the fleeting thought, "Wait 'til I tell dad".

He taught me to love the Lord, life, and laughter, and they are lessons that I treasure to this day.

Because of his teachings I know I can say with all confidence, "See you later, Bud."

Look Out Goliath, Here Comes Little David

The Old Man has always loved the story of David & Goliath. It's been a metaphor for the way my life has been managed, particularly the career part. There's most always been some rather formidable challenge staring me down. Most of the time, I've managed a victory to some extent. Twasn't always that way.

The first time I remember hearing the Bible story of how the little kid took out the giant, I had to ask my dad about that slingshot. He did his best to explain the dynamics and I suppose he could tell from my glazed over eyes that his mission wasn't going well, so he decided to show me. Uh Oh......questionable wisdom. We went out into the back yard down near where the back lot started and Dad took out his handkerchief. He sort of rolled it up and held it by the two ends. "Hand me one of those rocks, son", he said. I picked up one from the recently plowed garden spot. It was about the size of a tennis ball. Dad carefully placed the rock in the folds of his handkerchief and began to spin it around over his head. At just the right moment, he let go of one end of the "sling" and the rock launched at least half way down the back lot. "You see, bud, that's how David killed Goliath".

Of course, since my dad was my absolute hero, I had to try this myself. With a little coaching, I got to the point that I was not a danger to those standing behind me, beside me, or in the garage where I kept mis-hitting the side of the building.

Enter my favorite partner in crime, Kenny. Anxious to show off my new found knowledge, I called Kenny up from his house down the street. Kenny was a quick study and soon we were flinging rocks all over the place.

The next day, Kenny and I decided to have a contest. We wanted to see how far across the street we could "sling". Now, we lived across from the cemetery, so the tombstones became our targets. "I got all the way to Jones" I said. "That's nothing" said Kenny, "I bet I can get up to Lawrence". This went on for an hour.

There was a man living down the street who most folks thought a bit strange. My mother referred to him as, "Old Turkey Neck". As I recall, he was a long tall string-bean kind of man. He drove a nice shiny Buick. With great gusto, I launched a rock at the tombstone marked, Watson. Unfortunately, the fates had chosen this moment for that shiny Buick to be meandering up the street. Maybe my arm was tired, or my aim was off, or I was over confident, but my rock went almost straight up in the air and when it came down found the exact center of Turkey Neck's hood. A horrible noise followed by the screech of brakes and the slam of a car door followed.

Turkey Neck started ranting at us and dancing around like Ichabod Crane on caffeine overload. By this time Mom had come out to see what all the commotion was about. Turkey finally calmed down when she agreed that we would certainly be responsible for all damages. She held me by one ear until I apologized profusely.

Kenny and I were grounded for a while, and we never went back to the slingshot. Turkey Neck's car was made whole again, and life moved on. Kenny and I discovered new adventures and all was right with the world.....and then.... we discovered BB guns.