I was taking my young wife to meet my extended family Back Home for the first time. On the way it began to snow so heavily that vision was soon reduced to just a short distance - far less than required for safety on the freeway.

So we pulled off and parked at the first rest area we came to. Leaving our new baby (our first) in the car with my Mother, I took my bride for a short walk among the bare trees of an adjacent wooded area.

She’d never experienced snow before, and certainly not snow like this. In an old picture she had of her early childhood in California, there was snow in the background, as her mother stood beside her father, holding her in her arms. But she a new arrival herself at the time, of course she had no memory of it.

I’d watched her now, as we’d stopped and now stood still in place. At 23, as excited as a child. Head thrown back with a delighted smile of wonderment. Eyes closed so that flakes of snow fell on her face and began to cling to the inky blackness of her long hair.

I stood transfixed, quietly watching her. Enjoying with her this new experience of hers. Thinking, not for the first time, that she was the most glorious creature I’d ever seen.

When we got to our new assignment in California, there was more snow during our three years there. And the high desert nights could be cold.

I bought her a new coat. Gray cloth, with a warm lining. Forty years later, she still has it, and it’s still almost like new. She takes care of her things.

Our daughters bought her a new one a few years back; long and black, of heavy wool. But she still prefers her old one.

Because it’s the one I gave her back when We were new, and still learning who we were.

When my girls were in grade school hubby had a bad fall. He had a hairline fracture of his spine (mm away from being paralyzed) and pulled every muscle and connective tissue. He’s been on disability since then. Suddenly we had no money for Christmas presents. We gave them each a book and a dvd and that was it for for many Christmases.

One year ( the girls were both under 9yo) we went to my brother’s house for a Christmas Eve get together. We walked home (he lives across the street) around 10:00 and we found 3 large garbage bags on our deck. I looked in one just to see what it was. Inside were wrapped gifts so we took the bags inside the apartment. There were 5 gifts for each girl, 3 each for hubby and me. The 3rd bag held a ham and the makings of Christmas dinner, dessert and snacks.

There was no note or anything letting us know who did this. To this day it’s a mystery. What started out a depressing holiday turned into one of the best.

The only thing we could think of was it came from the girls’ school or church although I prefer to think it was Santa

Momma and I were talking the other day about maybe getting away again to San Antonio; stay the weekend, like we used to. We’ve had some good times there. It’s been a while.

We went there not too long after our son Bud died. It’d always been one of our favorite places, and one of his, as well.

We’d needed the trip. A distance had been growing between us that we were becoming afraid of. Rough time, and not much seemed important anymore. We needed to try to fix it before it was too late.

We’d splurged and gotten a suite in one of the better old hotels across a narrow side street from the Alamo grounds. Because why the hell not?

It was at about the same time of year that what had happened there had happened all those years ago, and a cold rain was falling.

Standing at the third floor window of where we were, I stood silently staring across the street and down over the stone wall at the Long Barracks and that part of the compound in front of them. At thick drifting ground mists that moved and turned slowly, seeming to take on shape and form before breaking apart again.

Sipping from a glass containing what was in the heavy glass bottle that I’d bought. Soft and sweet and burning as it went down. It’s spreading warmth trying to dilute the growing coldness I’d been feeling inside.

Momma lying in the bed behind me, watching silently. Waiting. Patient as always. Understanding.

My own thoughts wandering where they wished. Thinking strange things. Wondering if some long distant kin of hers had been there at that long past time, and on which side. Her family name and that of some of those who’d been there different versions of the same. Her grandfather had come from Spain, but others could have preceeded him. Idle thoughts.

Which side would Bud have been on? But I guess I knew. He’d always favored the underdog, and he and too overbearing Authority had never gotten along.

“Let’s just go” the next morning.

“Go where?”

“Doesn’t matter. Pick a direction, and let’s go. We don’t have to go back.”

We could make some phone calls, make whatever arrangements we needed to.

“…..West.”

“All right.”

Time to hit the road again like we used to. The world could do without the two of us for a little while.

Needed to make a store run earlier. Some of the grandchildren are with us, like to eat, lol, and we needed to replenish some things. Milk, bread, and eggs don’t last long here. Got some rice and evaporated milk for Momma’s sweet rice - a favorite of Sugar and Pennywise.

Littlest is home with his mother, but we have mac&cheese for the next time he’s over - one of His favorites. He’ll usually go through four helpings.

That and Momma’s potato and egg tacos made with her fresh home-made tortillas. Or just the still-hot tortillas themselves smeared with butter.

Kid’s a miniature tank, and Momma cuts him off after four or five of those, lol.

Earlier, Jack, Sugar, and I went for a long walk, at Sugar’s request, and before getting groceries, I took them and Pen to the park to see the Christmas lights.

Got off fairly light as to extras at the store:

A bag of gummies for Jack. He initially grabbed a whole box of the things, but I informed him that, as much as I admired the attempt, a single bag would have to do. He was cool with that, and you can’t blame the kid for trying.

A box of brownie mix for Sugar.

Chocolates for Pennywise. ONE variety of chocolates.

Her I have to watch out for. She’ll promise “only one thing” with a straight face, and not mean a word of it. Instead begin to renegotiate once we get there. Left the place with her with five different things once, and I’d only gone for milk. A future in politics, no doubt.

I overheard her on speakerphone with her best buddy (a boy) earlier, and he let slip “So you saw your presents?”

Apparently a previous clandestine infiltration to gather intelligence had been successfully completed on her part.

“Not now not now not now!” she urgently whispered back, cutting him off. Looking my way to see if I’d overheard.

I had.

“Who’s that laughing in the background?” from her pal.

I’ll keep her secret, of course. Won’t be the first time.

I miss snow sometimes. Then remind myself of the sometimes difficulties associated with it, after the initial novelty of a good snowfall wears off.

We’ve had only two snowfalls here in all the time I’ve been here. One just heavy flurries for a while that barely stuck to the ground.

The one before that a pretty good snow. As to that one, it was literally the first time it had snowed here in a hundred years. Many people here had never actually Seen snow in person. So, predictably, few if any knew how to drive in it. We on the FD were kept quite busy for a couple of days.

Back Home was an entirely different matter when I was a boy. The occasional heavy snowfall was expected. Living in the back of beyond, with the nearest neighbor two miles away, it was a different world.

When a heavy storm hit, Gram and Gramp and we would listen in anticipation to the tv news or the radio for the lists of school closings to begin to be announced. Eureka!, and jubilation on our parts when ours was called.

In truth, though, with a Good fall of the white stuff, the entire region would sometimes pretty much shut down for the time being.

When it was deep enough, there was no driving out in it, and except in dire need, you weren’t going to try to walk out.

The weight of snow on the power lines would bring them down, so no electricity for days, or sometimes as long as two weeks, until the county crews could correct the situation.

This was no hardship for us. We had natural gas for heat and cooking, and there were many nights when our supper table was lit with coal oil lamps. Always plenty of game, meat, and fish in the freezer. The power outage not really a concern, since we kept the chest freezer outside on the kitchen porch - let the outside temperatures do the job.

Shelves and shelves of canned goods in the cellar, laid up by Gram, and our own milk cow. Eggs from our chickens, and fresh chicken when we wanted it.

And, with no school, nowhere we really needed to go anyway until the roads were open again. Holiday time, and we made the most of it.

Of course, the lost days would be made up at the end of the school year, but it was worth it.

If a heavy snowfall came late in the season, on the cusp of warmer weather, we’d sometimes be stuck in place again. If the weather took a turn for the warmer, which it sometimes did, snowmelt would swell mild streams into deep raging torrents that couldn’t be waded or driven through.

A problem for us, since the one rough dirt road out required crossing a substantial stream in several places, and some sections of the road were the stream bed itself. So again - not going anywhere for a bit until the waters subsided. We’d stand on the bank sometimes and watch thick slabs of ice four or five feet across being carried on the roiling surface of the water from break-up further upstream.

As to those stream crossings in tolerable snow but more severe lower temperatures, another problem would present itself. The streams would freeze over.

This might sound an actual good thing, except for the ice being always thinner in the center, away from the banks. You could drive out onto it and suddenly drop through halfway across.

To prevent this, it was usually my job, at each substantial crossing, to get out and grab the sledge hammer or axe out of the bed of the pickup and break up the ice at the edge and out a ways. The front of the truck would then act like an icebreaker for the rest - worked well.

The grade school we attended was a small one; six classrooms, one for each primary grade, with the sixth grade teacher doing double duty as the Principal. None of the classes large, with two local women employed to cook lunch for the entire school.

We’d commonly walk out early in the dark two and a half miles from our place to meet the school bus where the paved road ended. Then miles more to ride to school.

Gramp would drive us and wait with us when the temperatures were especially brutal, or it was cold and raining.

In truth, we loved it - it was an adventure for us. Stream crossings were more manageable on foot, when you didn’t have to stick to the road. We knew where a fallen tree bridged the creek at one spot. At another, we climbed along a hillside to avoid yet another crossing.

For others, we knew the spots where the water ran shallower over a shoal bed and could be waded if the water was low enough. We wore good boots, and Gramp had showed us how to grease them well for water-proofing.

Sometimes just walk across on top of the ice, if it had been cold enough. The ice would bear a person’s weight if not a vehicle’s.

There were some who lived higher up in the mountains, and had further than did we to walk out to catch the school bus, by their own route. For them, inclement weather made their trek even more of an undertaking. A small scattered community of folks who lived on holdings higher up.

To remedy this, I remember when a special schoolhouse was built for them on the site of an old homestead among them; much a shorter distance to walk, and much easier to get to.

This was sponsored and brought about by a woman of great wealth who had built a sprawling home for herself there high in the hills, and chose to live out her remaining years there.

Comfortable living quarters were built on a second floor above the one large room of the schoolhouse, and three young Catholic Sisters lived there during the school year to teach the students. Never more than 12 to 18 of those in any given year, and of all ages; primary through high school.

Incidentally, those particular students tested well above the state average in their studies, and more than a few went on to higher education. Some of those sponsored in that by the same woman, whose generosity seemed to know no bounds.

She was much beloved and respected, as were the Sisters. When she eventually passed, she was mourned by many in the surrounding areas.

She was great friends of Gram and Gramp. Had seen much of the world in her time, and, recognizing my own wanderlust and curiosity, encouraged me to do the same.

She had an expansive and eclectic library in her home that she encouraged me to make use of any time I wished. Shelves upon shelves of books on just about any subject one might wish, some somewhat obscure.

A large fieldstone hearth in one wall among the shelves, whose fire gave off a pleasant warmth on cold days; with a comfortably battered couch with a Navajo blanket to lounge on and read. I spent some pleasant times there, and remember her with great fondness still.

When the time came that there was no further need for it, the school was repurposed, under her aegis, as an environmental learning center and nature conservatory, open to all. It still exists to this day in that function, and is a preferred destination for school learning trips from throughout the region.

Much more accessible now, with improvements to the area made over the passage of time. The sometimes nearly impassable road down which those children past that she had shown such benevolent concern for had had to walk to meet the distant school bus traversed, in my boyhood, some of the roughest, emptiest, and most tangled real estate in the county.

The entire area of it is a residential neighborhood now, with well-paved roads with street signs (if meandering and turning and winding, and ever climbing). Bridges over the occasional stream crossing.

I marveled at it all the last time I was there, and then realized how much time had actually passed since those earlier days.

Other things have changed, as well. The small school my brothers and I attended is much larger now, new building taking up most of what had once been a playing field.

The old clapboard country store that once sat nearby is long gone. As is the old two-pump gas station and one-bay garage that once sat across the road from it. Run by an old man who habitually went shirtless in warm weather, and would pump your gas for you with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Both replaced now by a large modern gas station and convenience store.

The road that runs past it all has been paved for a long time now. I can remember when it was still dirt.

Dad was never much for school. Didn’t like it, and went only because he was given no choice. Did as little as possible, of course.

Which came back to haunt one year in high school. A particular teacher had given a failing grade for the year to him and a few of his friends who were just as poor students as he was, and just as disorderly. And they therefore could not advance. They’d have to repeat the year.

Pleading did no good. The man was of the unaccountable opinion that if the work wasn’t done, there could be no passing grade. The decision was final.

This must be addressed, and they knew how. The teacher in question was elderly and white of hair. Administering a beating would be no difficult affair.

And so they hid in the bushes at the far edge of the school parking lot, beside the spot where Teach was in the habit of parking. He was known to often linger and work quite late, so there would be no witnesses.

“We waited, and by an’ by here he come”, Dad told me.

“We waited ‘til he set his briefcase down and went to unlock his car. That’s when I jumped ‘im. And my Friends run off an’ left me”, he replied. “Chickened out, the chickenshits.”

“What happened then?”

“That old man beat me ‘bout half to death is what happened.”

I had 4 uncles who served in WW2; one in the Navy in the Pacific theatre, and three in the Army in Europe. All four made it home unscathed, though they didn’t like to talk about it much; especially the Navy man.

He spoke of it to me only once, at my request. The ship being under attack, and the issue in doubt at least once. More than that he wouldn’t say, and never spoke of it again.

An uncle and two older cousins in Vietnam. One cousin an officer, one enlisted. The former weathered it well.

The latter did not. He came home an angry and bitter young man, and eventually died too young from drugs and alcohol.

Uncle Cal had been in the Army in Vietnam. He was a big, robust, wild man given to easy laughter. His experiences didn’t seem to have left a lasting impression on him, though he’d come through some rough on more than one occasion.

He was married to Dad’s younger sister (he had a Lot of sisters). That one was a diminutive, blond-haired, blue-eyed firebrand as mercurial as Cal was boisterous.

She’d chased Cal through their home with a butcher knife on one occasion. He confessed to Dad and me once, (when he thought she was out of earshot), that the Cong had tried to kill him for a year, and had nearly succeeded more than once, but they’d never scared him as much as she did sometimes.

“The life thing, though - I wasn’t really scared.”

“Is that why you were screamin’ like a little bitch, Cal?” from the other room. She had apparently heard after all. 😂😂

Cal had a white steak through his thick, black hair in one side where a part would have been. In the occasion of Dad’s mother’s passing, I asked him about it, and he laughed and told me the story:

Aftermath of a vicious firefight, and Cal had been sitting with other walking wounded with a bloodstained bandage around his head.

His Captain, walking past had stopped:

“What happened to you, hillbilly?”

“Took a round, Sir” Cal had cheerfully replied. “Just kinda bounced off.”

“Lucky it hit you in the head. Anywhere else might’ve killed you. You weren’t wearing your helmet again, were you?”

“I was not.”

“Gonna wear it now?”

“I might consider it.” 😂😂

Cal and my aunt remained together until he preceded her many years later. He’d take her for rides through the countryside on the back of the old Harley he was forever tinkering with.

Out of curiosity, I once endeavored to trace my family back as far as I could. The furthest I got was finding the name of a distant relative in the payroll records of the Virginia Mounted Infantry during the Civil War.

Dad himself was in the Army for a while, though not by choice. He himself admitted that he was the most reluctant of Soldiers, with a propensity for constant insubordination and a regrettable habit of going AWOL repeatedly. Always found, though, and escorted back in cuffs.

Courtmartialed and released with a Dishonorable Discharge eventually, and he couldn’t have been happier. I found copies of those records in a worn leather valise in the closet once. They made for interesting reading. He’d kept them as a keepsake.

Dad had a raised scar between his eyebrows that I once asked him about. He’d laughed and proclaimed it a souvenir from his Platoon Sergeant - the man had been wearing a heavy gold ring, lol.

I had one of my own just like it, much faded and reduced now, in exactly the same spot, and obtained the same way, and likewise was in Service. A man with a large heavy ring on his hand. When I was younger, prouder, and more foolish and less discerning. Someone I shouldn’t have started trouble with in the first place. I’d almost gone down that time, but I didn’t.

You live and learn, and the lessons can be painful sometimes. I remembered that one for years every time I looked in the mirror.

I’d see Dad a few times over the years, after he’d left, and we’d have occasion to talk. When we Were still talking. He had some stories.

“I’ll make a Soldier out of you yet, Private”, from a superior.

“No you will not”, the reply.

“Oh yes I will.”

“We’ll see.”

The Soldier Who Wouldn’t Be.

Dad and the Platoon Sergeant he had the dustup with inexplicably became good friends.

Or maybe not so surprising. Birds of a feather, perhaps. The man had been in for quite a while, and had not advanced as far in rank as he should have given his years of Service - occasionally trouble-prone himself.

On one occasion, having returned to Base the next morning after a wild night out on the town, they were met with a peculiar sight that neither could explain:

A young Captain in uniform walking down the middle of a Company street. Calling to his dog:

“Here, Spotty! Here, boy! That’s a Good boy!”

But when the dog got close enough, a swift kick aimed in his direction; “You sonofabitch!”

Instant contriteness immediately following: “I’m sorry, Spotty! I’m sorry, boy!”, with tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it! Here, Spotty! Here, boy!” ……”You sonofabitch!”, and another kick.

Dad and Sarge standing watching in shock as the tableau played out and repeated itself down the middle of the street.

There wasn’t any dog.

“Please”, remarked Sarge, “tell me you seen it, too. You don’t, I think I might be losin’ my mind.”

“I seen it. You ain’t, but I think he done lost his.”

“I swear”, from Sarge. “This man’s Army!” Referring, it was understood, how it could drive a good man over the edge. “I shoulda joined the Marines. At least Them poor bastards Expect to be treated like shit.”

Talking about outhouses reminds me with a smile of the three-seated my Great Grandmother Granny Em had, lol (she’d raised a large family).

It was our by the woodpile she kept. She still cooked on an old iron range, and used wood for that. Coal in a potbellied stove in the main room was used for heat (burns hotter).

I’d help chop wood sometimes, when visiting. It was a long walk back over the mountain to get back to Gram and Gramp’s place, so we boys would often spend the night and head back the next day rather than make the trek home in the dark.

Uncle Ab, the son who lived with her and looked after her, kept a large coal pile handy near the house for use. He’d replenish it at need from a large open seam in a hillside on the property.

Ab was an old-time mountain man. Like Gramp, not much he couldn’t do. Self-taught blacksmith, he had his own forge and anvil.

He’d craft many of his tools to his own design, and was widely known for the quality of the knives he’d create to order; to spec and design. Those he was well-paid for, and there was always a waiting list. He’d work on them as he felt like it, and as time permitted - you got it when you got it. Pester him or try to rush him, you might not get it at all, lol.

Some curious familial relationships were in play there. Granny M was dad’s grandmother, and therefore our great grandmother. But to complicate matters, Granny M and Gramp (our Mother’s father), were step siblings.

So dad’s mother was, technically, Mother’s aunt before she was her mother-in-law, though no blood was crossed.

Dad’s mother never liked our Mother much - had not approved of their union. And made no secret of it. Didn’t seem to care much for us children, either. Presumably for the same reason.

She was a hard woman, somewhat cold, stern, and forbidding. We saw her only rarely, and we children were frankly afraid of her when we were young.

But we had Gram and Gramp.

I sat vigil with her when she passed, in the company of Dad. She’d been laid out in her open coffin in the parlor of the house, as was still the custom then: three days and nights of vigilance, someone always sitting with her during that time.

They was a long night, interrupted by the occasional heavily-laden coal train passing by close to that house. Dad and I didn’t talk much; just sat in hard-backed chairs in the dark and waited for the hours to pass.

I was 5 at the time, in the first suit I’d ever owned. Blue, with a clip-on tie. Very uncomfortable, and the collar of the shirt was too tight.

We buried her the next day beside her late husband. Cold, gray day with an overcast, in a drizzling rain. I would have liked to have known her better.

Z liked to goad X sometimes. And sometimes he took it a little too far.

Time to run then - only sensible course of action when X lost his temper.

And so it was upon one summer’s eve. Z bolted for the stairs, with X close upon his heels.

The bathroom was on the second floor, and the door could be locked from the inside, you see.

Made it, lowered the lid on the toilet seat, and settled down to wait - give X time to cool down.

Time passes slowly in such situations, but X eventually stopped trying to force the door, and quiet reigned.

Give it a little more time.

But silence now. Maybe he’d given up and left.

But best make sure.

There was a decent gap between the bottom of the bathroom door and the floor. Z got down on all fours and placed the side of his face against the floor - see if there were a pair of shoes visible there.

And recoiled with a shriek, clutching his face. X had been in his own crouch, waiting patiently with his own face against the floor. And in his hand the wooden broom he’d fetched, the end of the handle held ready and waiting.

Bulls-eye!

Z’s eye was a mess for a while, but he didn’t lose it.

Those two were the best of friends most of the time, lol.

Gramp was to me, all my life, who I aspired to be. Some of my earliest memories are of him. One of the first early photos taken of my young self still in diapers is of me sitting in his knee looking up at him as he was looking down at me and laughing. The person taking the picture might have been laughing, too - it’s quite blurry.

I loved him unconditionally. Still do.

He was by the time I came along a Deacon in his church. No longer smoked, drank, or gambled.

No longer made moonshine. As boys, we knew the spot where he’d once had his still. A pleasant tree-shaded holler with a clear stream of water running through it.

He’d still let slip some mild profanity now and then, though (when out of earshot of Gram), and he was still a man others took care not to rile. Gram once told me, searching for the right word, in answer to a question of mine, that folks had always been “careful” around him, especially when he’d been younger and wilder.

One bone of contention between him and Gram was that he’d sometimes take off and go fishing or hunting for a while on a Sunday, after morning services; be back in time for church again in the evening.

She didn’t approve, and let him know it. Reminding him that Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest.

His take on it was that that applied to work, and that there were few things more restful anyway than fishing. He would, therefore, fish whenever he pleased.

Some of us of a certain age will be familiar with the term “The Amen corner.” That was an actual thing. In our small Baptist country church, as in others, the Deacons were privileged to sit in a special pew reserved for them at the very front of the church against the outer wall, facing the pulpit from the side rather than facing toward the front. Right front corner of the church.

From here they would frequently intone “Amen!”, in agreement with and support of a point the Preacher had just made. Thus “The Amen Corner.” We had our wit.

Then there were the Baptist Conventions. Now, Rodney Carrington (country cowboy comedian) once said “If you ever have to go to a Baptist Convention, instead just jump off a cliff. And make sure there’s rocks at the bottom - you don’t want to walk away from it.”

He wasn’t far wrong. Those things could go on for two or three days, one invited speaker after another. Running time for each less than two hours and the speaker would lose all respect for himself.

Torment for an active boy of a certain age to have to quietly sit through in uncomfortable church clothes.

On the occasion of one of those, I hatched myself a plan. I was even then an avid reader, and had discovered Jack London. So I smuggled a slim paperback of some of his stories into church with me, and found an empty pew in the very back.

And was soon engrossed. “To Build a Fire”, the story was. As the Preacher preaching raged on about fire and brimstone, I was thinking that excess heat was the least of the man in the story’s immediate concerns. If he didn’t get a fire going pretty quick with stiff fingers on half-frozen hands, he was plumb gonna freeze to death.

A little Too engrossed:

“What’re you doin’, OP?” quietly.

I looked up, and there was Gramp. Stone cold busted. No talking my way out of this one. So I flipped the book and showed him the cover, expecting to be taken outside for a talking-to or worse.

To my surprise, instead: “It any good?”

“Yessir.”

“How’d you git it in?”

“Under my shirt.”

“Well, this ain’t the place for it. Make sure nobody else sees it. Your Gram finds out, there’s gonna be trouble.”

Our secret; I guess he understood, lol.

That particular Preacher he had little use for anyway. I’d heard him remark to Gram that the man was a blowhard with too high an opinion of himself, lol.

Good evening everyone! A lovely night to let you know we have a new Moderator in our midst, u/theJonJohn. If you see him about, give him a pat on the back!

Please give him a hearty congratulations!

When Z, X, and I were living with Gram and Gramp, we one day found ourselves standing to in a line in front of Gramp as smartly as any errant troopies in front of a Sergeant Major.

Gramp wasn’t happy, which meant that we probably soon wouldn’t be, either.

A prize young bull was on the loose, and would have to be caught and corralled again. Someone had neglected to relatch the gate of his enclosure, and Gramp wanted to know who.

In true brotherly fashion, we all pointed at each other, and in chorus declared “It was them.”

He correctly deduced that we were all at fault.

I think that may have been the time we spent days taking manure wheelbarrowfull by wheelbarrow full and spreading and raking it all out evenly over a dormant cornfield for fertilizer. There was a sizeable small hill of it in one spot from mucking out stalls.

Usually, though, when we’d overstepped certain established and understood boundaries, we’d get a switching, in suitable moderation, depending on the severity of the offense.

As in “I Told you boys not to be throwin’ rocks at each other! Somebody bound to get hurt.” X was all right, though - just kind of bounced off. He had a hard head - didn’t even bleed much.

When Gramp would take out his pocket knife and silently hand it to one or more of us, we knew what that meant. Another visit to the willow tree that grew down by the creek. Cut off a small limb for a switch and bring it back and hand it over.

There was a science to it. Selection was a serious matter. You didn’t want one too thick and sturdy, of course.

But you didn’t want one too thin that would break too easy, either. Then he’d go and get one himself. You definitely didn’t want that. Those would be thicker and sturdier than was really desirable or necessary.

Being if a certain mindset, I once thought it might be funny to bring back what amounted to little more than a twig.

I regretted that shortly, and was never tempted to do it again.

“There’s nothing new under the sun”, and events tend to repeat. My dad once told me of a time when he, as a boy, had found himself in a similar situation. He and his younger brother Bobby had been using each other for target practice in similar fashion, and had been advised to desist:

“I waited ‘til Pop was walkin’ away and not lookin’, then picked up one last rock and winged it. Bobby ducked, the little shit, and it hit the old man square in the back. I took off runnin’, but Pop was common’ right after me and gainin’. He had that long stride, you know.”

“What happened?”

“I turned uphill and lost ‘im. I was younger and had better wind.”

But in the urgency of the moment, he’d forgotten one important thing - he had to go home sometime.

“I had trouble sittin’ down fer ‘bout a week.”

Christmas time approaching, so time to roll out an old Christmas story once again.

Gramp and Gram had two lovely large evergreen trees spaced equally in the front yard of their house. Gramp had planted them as saplings after he’d completed building Gram her house many years ago. Along with a climbing wild rose bush in a small fenced enclosure equidistant between the two.

As the house had aged, both the trees had grown quite tall and stately, and the rose bush had thrived year after year.

A now long past Christmas had approached one year, and Gramp had instructed one of his sons (my Uncle Bob) to go into the surrounding hillsides and find a suitable tree and bring it home.

Bob said he didn’t care to - it was cold outside, and would be getting dark soon. Gramp heard him out, then advised “Do it anyway.”

Bob came dragging a nice 6 or 7 footer into the house presently. Gramp allowed that it would do, and expressed surprise that Bob had found one so quickly. Bob replied that it had been quite close by.

Gramp discovered just How close by the next morning when he stepped outside with a cup of coffee and happened to glance up. Then went looking for Bob.

One tree was now shorter than the other by 6 or 7 feet, lol.

The last time I was Back Home, I visited the old home place that held so many good memories. Gram and Gramp were long gone by then. Fire had taken the empty house; nothing but foundation stones and the fieldstone walls of the old cellar left. The barn was long gone, too.

But the two trees were still there. They’d been singed, but had recovered. One still shorter than the other. That made me smile.

Bob was long gone by then, too. As in the song “Reuben James”, one day they’d carried him in from the field he was working for Gramp. Where he had collapsed. His heart had finally failed his massive frame.

Bob was what we called “a big’un.” He towered over Gramp, who was no small man himself.

Momma was in awe of him the first time she met him. She hadn’t seen a man quite that tall and large before.

He in turn was delighted by her. He hadn’t seen a grown woman quite that small before - would smile down at her in passing and pat her on the top of her head.

His heart, of course. He lingered for a short time afterward, but there was really little to be done. I drove Mother to see him in the hospital one last time. He said that he was ready, had had a good life, and had no regrets. Time to meet his Maker.

It pained me to see brought down the giant who’d delighted in catching me and giving me rough knuckle rubs when I was a small boy.

And the Family had never let him forget about the time he’d topped one of Gramp’s prize trees to celebrate the Christmas season, lol.

That had been the second home Gramp had built for gram with his own hands. The first, when they were newly married, would have been 1915, was in a pleasant small valley with a clear stream running through it higher up in the hills.

A simple log cabin, traces of which still remained when I was a boy, though all signs of it are gone now - long since turned to dust. But it’s still a pleasant spot. Wildflowers grow there, and the stream still runs clear.

But that Christmas had been a good one, once Gramp had calmed down, lol. And there were many more like it afterward, one blending into another.

I remember the first time Z and I were given the task of going into the woods and finding a tree of our own. Under Gramp’s watchful eye, of course. In any event, the other tree remained unmolested. There was snow on the ground, it was cold and would soon be dark, and the three of us had a great time.

Worked on a pen for our younger daughter’s dogs yesterday for times when she needs to keep ‘em confined for the time being. Old one was pretty much beyond repair. Have suggested she just let me fence off a portion of their yard for future use instead. Too much cost to fence the entire two acres. We’ll see.

Two of the grandsons (Chance and Jack) who spent the weekend with us had another good time today.

I knew something was up when I found Jack in the garage. Said he was looking for a shovel. Mud all over him.

Me: “What for?”

“So we can dig a hole.” Looked at me as if that should’ve been obvious.

Oh, no.

Went outside and found they already had a good start on one. Ground was hard, so they’d made use of the water hose to soften it up for easier digging. Mud all over both of ‘em.

And all over the dog. They’d been rubbing handfuls of it into her fur. Lab - used to be white.

Muddy clothes and shoes into the washer, and two muddy urchins into the tub. Deal with the dog later.

Got ‘em cleaned up and into clean clothes, then caught ‘em both trying to slip outside again. Said “Not a chance.” They were crestfallen. I didn’t care, and Momma had started mumbling to herself again - never a good sign.

Took ‘em both home in time. School tomorrow - thank God.

Fun to reminisce sometimes about things of long ago. The immediacy of past moments for a long time no longer immediate, it’s easy to find the humor in things.

“Report to Top, OP.”

Ok, here we go. I’d thought I’d gotten away with it, not having heard anything more from the Lt after the incident in the field. He’d seemed to go out of his way to avoid me, in fact.

“Come on in, OP. Close the door.”

Gonna be that way, looked like.

“Have a seat…….candy?”, and he slid the heavy cut glass ashtray with an assortment of hard candies across his desk. I selected one and popped it in my mouth. He slid it back toward him and did the same.

“A certain Lieutenant says you disobeyed a lawful order during the recent field op. Says you were disrespectful and insubordinate, in fact. Care to explain?”

It had gone like this:

“I want you to set up your gun position right here, OP.”

“Not advisable, Sir.”

“Well, why not?”

“Our own troops are in front of us, Sir.”

Set in defensive positions a tad downslope. More further out.

“So? Can’t you just fire over their heads?”

He can’t be serious. But be patient, and try to explain:

“No, I can’t, Lieutenant. Nothing downrange of this thing is safe. It’s why we don’t use it like that.
And if the guidance wire snaps (which it sometimes did), No one is safe. The round goes wherever it wants to.”

This was true. I once saw one turn around midflight in that particular circumstance and come back in the direction it’d just been fired from.

“Well, this is where you’ll set up.”

“No.”

“What did you just say?”

“I won’t do it.”

“I’m giving you an order.”

“Not gonna happen, Lieutenant. I know my job, and it looks like you don’t, so why don’t you just let me do it?”

Prompting a yelling tirade. Something about respect due an officer and superior.

I’d explained my side of it, and concluded with: “He doesn’t know what he’s doing, Top.”

“I’m aquainted with the man in question, and between you and me, I agree. And I never said that, you understand?……..but tell me, son; I just gotta know. Did you really shit yourself while he was talking? He says you did. Says you did it on purpose.”

I hadn’t meant to. The idea had been to just cut a loud one to express my opinion. Maybe that’d shut him up. But I’d earlier eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with me, and in the heat of the moment, hadn’t taken that into account. I’d offloaded a few passengers.

Worked like a charm, though. He’d stopped speaking mid sentence as a look of horror came over his face. The stench was awful.

He looked at me, I looked at him, and I didn’t break eye contact once. He left quickly. He had to. And afterward stayed away from me. So did everyone else.

“……Little bit”, I replied to Top’s question.

“You nasty bastard” he replied in wonder and could it be……admiration? And slid the candy dish back my way.

Talking about Jake reminded me of someone else who created some difficulty for himself. But he of a higher rank.

A new First Sergeant joined our Company at one point. Replacing the previous one who’d been promoted and reassigned. Our former Top had been very highly regarded, and highly respected, and we were all sorry to see him go.

Our new one got off on the wrong foot with his troops right away.

The incidence of it involved Kerschner. In truth, the young man was a constant troublemaker of a certain type, and wasn’t well liked by most.

But the manner of his leaving us was underhanded, and didn’t sit well with any of the rank and file.

Kerschner had screwed up again - don’t now remember what. And Top was really laying into him in front of some of the rest of us. Faces nearly touching as he screamed at him. Kersch, not liking spittle flying in his face, tried to turn away from it.

As he did so, Top leaned forward intentionally so that Kerschner’s shoulder bumped him. And Boom! Charges filed for physically assaulting a superior.

Those of us witness to it knew the charge was bogus, and went to our Platoon Sergeant to reveal what had really happened. Offered to sign witness statements to that effect in support of K.

All to no avail. Command saw an opportunity to get rid of a problem, and took it. The charges stuck. The last we saw of Kerschner, he was in cuffs being escorted to the brig.

The incident didn’t sit well with the rest of the troops. If one of us could be railroaded in such a manner, any of us could.

And so began a campaign of passive-aggressive non-compliance. I’d seen this happen before. It was a method available to the rank and file of hopefully getting reassigned a leader they didn’t trust, for whatever reasons, To lead them. And it could be effective.

Performance, in the barracks, and especially in the field, began to suffer to a surprising degree. If it went on long enough, Command would begin attempting to discern the reason why.

Top eventually realized that he’d abused his authority, as far as his troops were concerned, and began to take measures to try to win back their trust and respect. That had to go both ways for things to function as they should.

Things began to improve again. A point had been made. It could be hard to lead if those being led chose not to be.

A hard line was expected and accepted. You took your lumps. Being Unjustly abused was not.

That extended to the everyday. Corporal punishment, administered on the spot, was a common thing. Usually dealing with public disrespect of a superior, refusal to follow an order, or the like. I’d been guilty of the latter myself, and had suffered a severe concussion for it. That can happen if your Platoon Sergeant slams you upside the head with a steel helmet.

But I’d had it coming, knew it, and afterward made no complaint.

I’d seen Marines punched, slapped, thrown down stairs, pistol whipped, knocked unconscious by NCOs and higher Enlisted. Command would, sometimes literally, look the other way. It was a part of it all.

If you’d done something to deserve it, you were expected to take it and keep your mouth shut. Control and order had to be maintained, and it was better than official on-the-books punishment to mar your permanent record. That could negatively affect promotion and a career, depending on the offense.

But if a superior put their hands on you undeservedly, it was understood that all bets were then off. I saw, on different occasions, lower ranking Marines fight it out with Corporals, Sergeants, and Staff Sergeants. With the superior clearly in the wrong each time.

In those occasions, that was recognized, the matter was afterward considered settled, and no charges were brought to either party, win or lose.

It may all seem odd to someone looking in from the outside, but it worked. No hard feelings afterward, no repercussions, and no diminishment of authority or respect.

I’ve attempted to explain that particular culture to Momma, but she still doesn’t understand it - sees it as unnecessary brutality. But to us, it wasn’t seen as such - just the way things were done. Many of us weren’t choirboys by any means, or we wouldn’t have been where we were, doing what we were doing. And a firm hand was sometimes needed.

As a First Sergeant I liked and respected had once told me, after I’d witnessed an incident in which he’d administered some on-the-spot correction of his own: “For some, it’s the only thing they understand, OP. You’ll see that for yourself.”

On a lighter side, I was once let go with a warning and ultimatum by Gunny when I’d once again been running my mouth when wisdom would have dictated keeping it shut. He’d taken me aside, and:

“One more word out of you, OP, and I will mop the floor with your young ass. What’s it gonna be?”

We’d contemplated each other silently as he waited calmly for a reply.

Would he? Most definitely.

COULD he?……Have to say yes again.

Sometimes discretion Is the better part of valor.

“Gunny, I foresee a remarkable improvement in my attitude. Beginning pretty much immediately, in fact.”

A smile and a clap on the shoulder: “Good man. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

😂😂

Many moons ago, there was a young Marine named Jake. I liked Jake.

We all transgressed from time to time, but Jake had transgressed to the point that the Corps felt it best that they parted ways. Just a matter now of waiting for the paperwork to go through.

And so, in the meantime, he was confined to barracks and things were found for him to do.

We were housed in one of the old squad bays. One long open space with rows of upper and lower racks along each side. A line of safety yellow was painted on the concrete floor along each side by means of which to align the rows of racks in a uniform fashion. It was decided that the lines needed repainted.

“Get started painting” SSgt Wheeler directed Jake. Then he added what he in hindsight might have later realized he shouldn’t have: “And you don’t stop until I come back and tell you to.”

I came back a little while later myself. The lines looked good. Jake had done a great job.

But the double wooden doors leading from the squadbay to the central passageway of the building were no longer institutional green. They were now a cheerful bright yellow, too. Both sides.

As was the Coke machine in the passageway.

And the snack machine.

And the drinking fountain.

And Jake was now working on the stairs leading up to the second story.

“Jake,” said I, “What have you done?”

“Hey, OP! “Follow the yellow brick road, just follow the yellow brick road”, he sang happily. “Just doin’ what I was told……Damn it! I’m gettin’ low on paint.”

“SSgt’s gonna be mad.”

“I know”, he smiled. “But OP?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s he gonna do?”

Ok, he had a point. And SSgt Wheeler Had told him not to stop until he told him to.

Sister calls last week to see if I could watch my niece little T all day. Sure, I have some stuff to 3D print but its kinda a fire and forget operation. So the mini person gets dropped off around 11 and as soon has her Mom pulls out of the driveway "J...can we go to build a bear...it will be really fun" The only build a bear I know of is in the mall and oh, hell no, we are not going to the mall this close to Christmas, I shoot that noise down in a hurry. "But there's one in the Wal-Mart in Guthrie, we can go there" Guthrie is a 30 mile one way trip to a small, country town, no way in hell are they going to have a fancy bear store inside and I'm not driving that far so I shoot that down. I am 100% convinced corporate wally world has no such thing in any of their stores because that junk is expensive and she in convinced she can talk me into going on a wild goose chase for overpriced stuffed animals.

My dumbass pops of and says " If you can find a build a bear in a wal mart we will go". I know I'm safe, no way its going to happen, I hand her my phone. WRONG, this little turd has not only found one IN a wal mart but also a close 15 minute drive from my house. Dammit.

This child acted like she's never been to a toy store before, I heard "are we there yet" and " how much farther" about every other mile. We arrive and there's a poor soul dressed up as a Christmas bear handing out paper reindeer antlers and then we start the process of getting a stuffed critter. An hour later and a pile of cash gone we leave with a bunny in full Christmas outfit and a niece in full "ITS SOOOO FLUFFY!" mode. T -1 / J-0

Now, I had already planned on seeing a movie and we agreed on Moana 2. We get there a bit early, "you want a snack?...no thanks.....ok" and grab our seats. She tried to give the new rabbit its own chair but I pointed out the chairs are big enough for her and the rabbit. We sit through aaaaaaaall the commercials then aaaaaaaaall of the previews and the movie starts.

Jaaaaaaaaay.....can we get some popcorn? I look at her like she grew a third eye "Are you crazy?" " But everyone else got popcorn and it smells REALLY good" (she wasn't lying). I was then on my way to get popcorn and a red icee.....they did have pizza up there too.

Little T -2 / J - 0

The story about Daisy the AI granny reminded me of something from about 35 years ago. It was before cell phones were common and before we had a national Do Not Call registry.

My grandfather was in the hospital and I was worried, so rather than let the machine answer the call I would run to pick it up. During this time we were also being bombarded by telemarketing calls. You name it, they were trying to sell it via phone. This would have been marginally tolerable if my husband and I weren't working night shift. We weren’t getting much sleep.

As a bonus, AT&T and MCI were bordering on harassment with how often we were being called to use their phone service. We worked for a manufacturing division of AT&T at the time, so you can probably guess who our chosen land line service was.

Monday morning started with a roofer calling to see if we needed them. The house was 2 years old, so put us on your do not call list. Next came a meat business trying to sell us a beef subscription. Hard no. Do not call. MCI was next. No, put us on your do not call list. In all, five telemarketers called between 9 AM and noon, with four more in the afternoon. We called the hospital to check on my grandfather around supper and he was still holding on.

Tuesday brought more of the same. MCI apparently did not put us on their do not call list, even though we requested it the two times they called that day. Tuesday's total brought at least 9 telemarketing calls. We called the hospital around supper and my grandfather was improving.

Wednesday the beef folks called again, and I got pretty sharp with them. We. Are. Not. Interested. Do not call. MCI called - again. I blew up at the poor guy who was hired to make that call. What part of "put me on your do not call list is so hard to understand?" He continued to press so I summoned up my monster voice. (It uses throat muscles, rather than vocal cords, to generate sound. It sounds horrible.) The monster voice threatened to come for his soul. He hung up on me and that was the last call we ever got from MCI.

Not even a minute after the MCI call we got a call from someone selling magazine subscriptions to raise money for some charity. I was still fuming from the previous calls. This poor guy got the fallout from that. I was fully awake and very irritated about all of these sleep disruptions, so I decided to play with him. I had him on the line for about an hour. I picked several popular titles (with no intention to buy them). He asked if there were any other titles I wanted that he didn't mention. I asked about Soldier of Fortune (a mercenary magazine), Easyriders (a biker magazine), and Readers Digest in German. I could hear his wheels turning with that combination. I also asked about a well-known p0rn publication. None of my requests were available. (I think his wheels were starting to smoke at that point.)

Time to "pay." This guy's mouth was watering because I had tallied up somewhere over $250 in new subscriptions. For credit card info I gave them the last 4 digits of my parents' phone number and hung up. He called back. I gave him those 4 digits, then added the last 4 digits of my in-laws' phone number before hanging up again. He called back. I answered in German (with a sad U.S. accent). This time he hung up.

The next call was from the hospital. My grandfather was ready to come home. After that we let the machine pick up our calls.

Penny wise has taken up the violin. Had a concert not long ago. She was practicing here at the house the other day. Getting pretty good already.

Turns out, though, that some others do or do not appreciate her music as much.

It was a fair day, and I had the windows in back open wide for the freshness. She started up, and within a couple of minutes every dog in the neighborhood, including our own, were howling along in accompaniment, lol.

Thinking about Momma and the passel of puppies (Little People) who often shared her bed at night reminds me of Gramp, Z, X, and me on one memorable occasion.

We had a full house that time, various Family in for a visit. All beds full.

Normally, of course, Gramp slept with Gram. But on that occasion Gram found it necessary to share her bed with one of her daughters. Leaving Gramp to bunk with X, X, and myself in the bed red three of us shared.

And thus arose the problem. Gramp claimed place of honor at the outside edge of the bed, the other side being flush against the wall. This was usually My spot, by virtue of being oldest. It was close to the gas heat stove - rank had some privileges.

The problem was that X was a restless sleeper - would toss and turn through the night. And he ended up next to Gramp.

Normally, it wasn’t as much of an issue, the bed being big enough, with three boys, to afford a little room. But now space between was at a minimum, with Gramp sleeping (or trying to), at the very edge. And X, as usual, would occasionally toss and turn violently.

The first time Gramp was shoved off the edge of the mattress and hit the floor, he chocked it up to happenstance.

The second time it happened, he began to get annoyed.

The third time, he gave up and stretched out sideways across the foot of the bed. Couldn’t have been very comfortable with his feet sticking out over the edge of the mattress, but better than the alternative. Had it been me, I’d have made X be the odd man out.

I was talking to Z recently, we reminiscing about Gramp. The subject of Gramp’s fishing trips came up. Sometimes he and I would go together, and sometimes he’d take us all along. Occasionally, though……

“You remember, OP”, Z laughed, “that sometimes he’d sneak away early, while we were still asleep.”

“He needed a break from us now and then, Z. Can’t blame him - we could be a handful.”

“Yeah, I guess we were.”