Passing The Torch

                    

    Grandpa Wade was born Roy Clinton Wade on April 1, 1902 in Kentucky.  He was # 4 of 5 kids born to Rufus and Ellen Wade. I can't tell you anything about his youth .  I have only seen a few pictures and someone else had to point him out to me. I did, over the years, meet his three sisters and remember two of them well.
    Granny Wade was born Ruth Hunt in December 25, 1899 in Tennessee. If I am reading correctly, she was # 3 of  8 kids and though I surely have met many of her siblings I can only remember her youngest sister Sarah.
    Now Granny and Grandpa were in their mid 40's when I came along.  I was the first grand child born to their third child - Floye. As far back as I can remember they were like Mr and Mrs Clause. Grandpa was 6'2" - 6'4" tall and was pushing a good 400 lbs. Granny on the other hand probably didn't  make 5'2" and weighed no more than 115 lbs. They both had gray hair and if they had dressed in red you have thought the North Pole had come to Tennessee.  We used to tell our kids we were going to see Santa Clause.
    Back in the 1950's Dad was a butcher and Sunday was his day off.  It was spent visiting the grand parents.  Seems like we always went to see his parents and then about once or twice a month we would put our life into the hands of the Lord and cross the river on a rickety ferry so we could visit Granny and Grandpa Wade in Gallatin. Before Old Hickory lake was created you crossed from Wilson county into Sumner county via ferry boats.  The Cumberland river was swift and the road leading to the waters edge was steep and unpaved - good brakes were important.
     I may have been the first born grand child but I was treated no different than the last born.  If they had a favorite they kept it to themselves. When I was young they lived out of state for several years. Grandpa was in a leadership capacity in the shoe / boot making business. The point being is that I spent most of my informative years with Granny and Pa Riggan.  My younger brother Pat was closer to Granny and Pa Wade, but I still have some stories to tell.
     When visiting Granny Wade it was best to remember to go hungry, it mattered not that you had just completed a five course meal, she was going to feed you and you were going to eat. This didn't bother us kids because we were always hungry and Granny made lemon meringue pies and cakes.
     Quite often we would get to Granny's house and she would be in the process of fixing lunch ( note: we in the south don't cook meals we fix them ). Granny would realize that she was short some ingredient to complete the meal. " Roy, go to the store and get me bread or milk  and hurry back so we can eat ". Grandpa, being the dutiful husband, would climb into the car and head for town.  Brother Pat and I would go along for the ride.
    Now Grandpa could never hurry back, he knew too many people and he was an explorer. There were no convenience stores in the 1950's but there were small mom & pop grocery stores.  Depending on where Grandpa lived the nearest store could be as close as 2 miles or as far as 5 miles. Once we reached the store Grandpa would have to say hello to everyone - and he did know everyone.   This would take up the first 1/2 hr and then we would be headed back. Grandpa would be driving along and all of a sudden he would make a turn - " wonder where this road goes ".   A few miles down the road and another turn -  " wonder where this road goes ". A trip to the store which should have taken about 20 minutes winds up to as much as 2 hrs. We went thru Bethpage , Portland , Red Boiling Springs and one trip took us into Kentucky. By the time we returned lunch had been served  and Granny was pissed. Grandpa's trips to the store added a whole new meaning to the phrase "Out For A Sunday Drive".
    Grandpa was a big man.  His hands were twice the size mine are today.  He didn't have layers of fat hanging down and he wasn't big because he was lazy or ate the wrong foods. Grandpa was just naturally big and strong. I heard that he was not fast but quick, and if he got a hand on you there was no escaping his grip. He used to walk into a room where brother Pat and I would be watching TV.  He would lean over and grab us by the knee with his fingers and squeeze.  It took a lot of rubbing to work the pain down to a manageable level.
    Grandpa loved to eat and there was nothing he wouldn't eat, meat , vegetables , fruits or desserts and it didn't matter how it was cooked. His plate was a serving platter which he would fill to overflowing and when Granny made pies she made at least four - three for the guest and one for Grandpa. I once saw him eat a full meal for dinner and sit down to watch a ball game on TV.  Somewhere around the 6th inning he got up and went to the freezer.   He came back with a 1/2 gallon carton of ice cream opened at one end and a serving spoon. That 1/2 gallon didn't last the 7th inning and he didn't share.
    Grandpa had a rocking chair that had to have been built for him.  It was the only chair he would sit in -  probably the only one that would support him. The chair was a simple design and made of oak that had to have been 1" thick.   It was his throne and from it he would hold his grand babies, watch ball games on TV and tell stories to whoever was listening. Us kids used to play in the chair, at least two of us could sit in it at a time and get it to rocking.  We didn't have to worry about turning it over, it was to big. I don't know what happened to the chair.  I hope someone from the family still has it in their possession. Note: the chair was lost in a house fire at cousin Sally's house.
     I have forgotten most of the stories he told.  A lot of them were about things that happened at work.  He could twist  a common place episode into a chapter from the Arabian Nights.  I do remember a story about him but I think it was told to me by Uncle Paul.  It has been a long time. Grandpa had a Hudson automobile.  It was a long sleek heavy car that rode and handled well.  I don't remember the year but I do remember he had a maroon colored one. Back in those days, when you bought a new car you would return it to the dealer after a 500 mile break in period and they would service it. The service would cover oil, filter , air filter and a general check of different components one of which was the head bolts. The service required that all head bolts be re - torqued and to do this the valve covers had to be removed. Well, Grandpa dropped his car off at the dealer and returned later that afternoon, not that he was skeptical but he did check under the hood and promptly called the service manager over ( a man he knew ). He asked the service manager about the various aspects of the work performed and he was assured that all work was done according to factory specs. Grandpa looked down at the manager and told him he was lying. The manager swore to him the work had been performed properly. Grandpa told him the mechanic didn't exist who could torque head bolts without chipping the paint on the valve cover bolts, but if the manager could show him how it could be done Grandpa would kiss his butt on the court house steps and give him a week to draw a crowd. Knowing Grandpa, I would think he was a little more colorful than that.
    Some time during the late fifties they moved to a small farm in Bethpage.  Why I don't know because Grandpa was no farmer. He had relinquished the Hudson and for reasons only he would know and  bought a Simca. Now a Simca was a French made sub compact, four door, four speed transmission in the floor and a four cylinder engine.  I think a VW Beetle was bigger. This added a whole new dimension to trips to the grocery on Sundays. Watching him get in or out of the Simca was sort of like watching the circus clown climb into a car only big enough to hold a midget. The Simca didn't last long and his next car was a 59 or 60 Ford.
    While I spent most of my away time with Grandpa Riggan,  there were a couple of times I went with Granny and Pa Wade. The first time I can remember they lived in Casey , IL.  I wasn't yet 5 years old . I remember walking into town with Granny and getting lost.  A nice policeman found me and reunited  me with Granny. Granny would tell the story later and laugh because when the policeman asked me where I lived I told him Bledsoe St. which was where we lived back in Gallatin. During that stay I met a young friend and was out playing at his house when the mischief bug struck . I don't know why so don't ask , but I threw a rock at a dump truck running down the road and busted the windshield. I ran home but was soon followed by the driver ( my friend gave me up ). This later became one of the stories Granny would tell about me in later years and when she told it there would be a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. I don't ever remember seeing Granny upset about anything but if she was she would quickly turn around and laugh softly.  To her, our punishment was to know how disappointed she was even when she had to suppress a smile.
    The next time I spent the summer with them they lived in Missouri  ( can't remember where ).  They had driven down (  in a Hudson ) and the goal was to take brother Pat back with them for the summer and pick up cousin Madeline Ruth in Kentucky. Brother Pat threw a wrench into the works by coming down with appendicitis, in the 1950's that meant 1 week in the hospital and a lengthy recovery period at home. Once again brother Pat threw another wrench in the works by catching chicken pox while in the hospital and was sent home in a cast rather than spread the disease.  Within a week brother Clint and sister Vickie had the chicken pox but not me. Grandpa insisted that he was going back to Missouri with a grand child and it didn't matter who even though Mom tried to argue with him, I was packed into the Hudson and off we went to Missouri. This was before interstate highways and air conditioned cars. I was 9 or 10 at the time and once we arrived in Missouri Madeline Ruth got home sick and her mother came for her. A few days later I developed the chicken pox.
    Grandpa's sister May was staying with them and she took on the task of keeping me quiet, busy and out of the way.  She taught me how to play 500 rummy.  Aunt May was a great teacher and I learned well.  We played game after game for days and I won my share.
    The house they lived in was a large two story house in a nice neighborhood with large trees lining the streets and sidewalks. One of the trees was hollow though still alive until I got to it. This tree had big black ants crawling over and around it  and I decided to chase them with lit matches ( and no I don't know why I did it).  I must have gone thru a couple of boxes of Grandpa's matches before I noticed that smoke was coming out of the top of the tree and I must have gone thru several cups of water before Granny figured I was up to something, she soon realized that more than a garden hose was needed so the fire dept was called in.  As the fireman chastised me for playing with matches Granny turned away, I know now she was trying to keep a straight face. This was yet another story she told with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.
    Granny used to tell a story about Grandpa.  I don't know the time frame of the story but you can see it was early in their marriage and I don't know if there were any kids at that time. The story goes that Grandpa came home from work one day and Granny needed him to go to the market and buy a head of cabbage and a pound of beans for supper. She gave Grandpa 8 or 9 cents and that was all of the money they had until payday. When he returned he had the cabbage and beans and TWO newspapers and no change.  She said she wanted to shoot him. I think about this story when I hear Linda complain about prices at the grocery.
    Granny was very hyper.  She would give the Ever Ready bunny a run for the money.  Once she got up and going she didn't stop. I remember them living on N. Water St in Gallatin - it was several blocks into town.  Most of the stores were on the town square. Granny often walked into town to do some shopping.  Her legs were not that long but she could move and it was hard for me to keep up with her.   When she got back she went right into preparing supper or ironing clothes or whatever needed to be done, all the time she sang a tune . The tune was an Irish lullaby made famous when crooner Bing Crosby sang it to Barry Fitzgerald in the movie Going My Way. The song was TOO - RA - LOO - RA - LOO - RAH ,.  For no reason at all the song will slip into my head and take me back to a simpler age . It's not Bing Crosby that I hear,  it's Granny as she moves from room to room or sews a button on a shirt while singing that song.
    About 1959 or 60, Grandpa decided to run for the office of sheriff of Sumner county and he won . Dad grew up around Gallatin and drove a cab there for several years so he would get out and talk to the people he knew and I would go with him on occasion.   I remember standing in the crowd in front of the building where they posted the election results as they came in. Grandpa remained sheriff for many years on into the 1970's.  He had a tan 1960 Ford car with a red light on top - that was referred to as a bubble gum machine.
     I came home on Xmas leave in 1965 and had brought him a couple of fat green cigars encased in clear plastic tubes. Besides eating, Grandpa loved to smoke cigars and pipes.  He must have had 20 pipes in various places and boxes of cigars. Anyway, when I gave him the cigars he thanks me and asked if I smoked cigars and being the big shot of the moment I told him about sitting in the barracks watching ball games and playing cards and puffing on cigars. He told me to go into the coat closet and pull out a box or two to take back with me.  His " friends " showered him at Xmas with boxes of cigars of all description - two stacks to the ceiling. The ones I pulled out turned out to be some of the most foul smelling cigars .
    The Navy had me busy for the next few years,  Linda and I married in 1967 and then I had to make a life for myself after being discharged, but through it all we would visit with them from time to time . When Linda was introduced she was welcomed with open arms and Granny filled her with stories of me that have been long forgotten and she always had a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her face when she told them.
    Linda and I moved to Florida in 1979 and our sons were born there.  After a short stint in California in 1983 we moved to Georgia and were lucky enough get back to Tennessee occasionally. When we did, a visit to Granny and Pa was a given. Danny barely remembers them and I doubt that Clay remembers them at all but I remember Grandpa setting in that big rocking chair with Danny on his lap and Clay in Granny's arms.
    Grandpa died in late August 1985 just a few days after my Dad passed away. It was rare for him to be sick but he spent his last days in a hospital. Mom told me that she and Aunt Sarah asked the doctor what he died of.   The doctor said there was nothing you could put a finger on.  He felt that Grandpa's heart had just gotten tired of pumping all that blood through his big body for all of those years and it just stopped . His grandsons were his pallbearers.
    Granny went on for another two years.  In my eyes she never aged but in the end she was tired,  her glasses were a little thicker,  her back a little bent over, but her mind remained clear and sharp. She no longer sang Irish lullaby's but I have no doubt she sings them in heaven.
    Granny's death marked the passing of an era the likes of which will never be seen again.  The torch passed from one generation to another. Years later the torch was passed again with the death of Mom.
     It is hard to imagine future generations of the family.  Will they be male or female?  What place will they hold in their world?  What mark will they leave on society?  Will their memories be as good as mine?
    

Me , Myself and I

                                      


     I think I was born with an adventurous heart and a mischievous character.   As a young boy I would wander off by myself and explore the surroundings at hand:  woodlands , fields, streams and lakes. While I craved companionship, I was just as happy to wander by myself for hours and there were times the solitude was as problematic as though I were in a riotous crowd . Like many young boys, I had no problem getting into some sort of trouble, although I prefer to call it mischief.
    My earliest memory was when I was maybe 2 or 3 years old and I was staying with Granny and Grandpa Riggan. Grandpa raised pigs and being a young kid baby pigs were fascinating, cute and cuddly and I wanted to touch them. There was a special pen out by the barn where a sow with a litter of pigs was kept and one day I followed Grandpa into the paddock. While he was feeding the other animals I wandered over to check on the sow and her piglets. The piglets were basically newborns and as they were sucking on mamma pig I reached out to touch one of them, the next thing I remember, I was laying on an examining table with my hand wrapped in gauze. I am now 65 years old and still carry a 3/4" scar on the back of my right hand and I have a healthy respect for pigs.
    Over the coming years my yearning to see what was on the other side of the road got me into several jams, nothing so serious as to warrant hospitalization or jail time. Many times my adventures resulted in a good whipping and at the very least my memory banks were emblazoned with a healthy respect for some critter or object ( note to self -  do not walk barefoot along the creek bank as snakes do not like to be stepped on ).
    I think a lot of my mischief was perpetrated when I was left in the care of my Grandparents, especially up to about the age of 11 or 12. This is probably due to the fact that they were old and I was fast, or more likely because Grandpa Riggan considered my escapades as just being a boy. I am certain that he felt differently when I set several acres  of hay on fire while playing with matches. Like most boys  I was fascinated with matches or fire, so when Grandpa sent me to the house to get him some matches and drinking water I had to stop and light a few matches. How was I supposed to know that dry grass would burn so quickly?   You would think that a quart mason jar full of water would be enough to extinguish a small fire.
    I know that Grandpa and Granny were both really pissed off about that, they were both in their early 70's and there was no fire dept. so they had to soak feed sacks in rain barrels and beat the fire down. This was the only time I can remember Grandpa moving fast. You would think this would warrant a major beating of life threatening caliber but nothing ever came of it.   According to Grandpa, I was just being a boy.
    My next bit of mischief was when I was staying with Granny and Pa Wade in Casey , Illinois.  I was down the street playing with some other kids and I threw a rock which happened land in the front seat of a dump truck after passing through the windshield. Don't ask me why I did it.  Granny asked me why and I couldn't tell her the reason. I gotta tell you, that was one pissed off truck driver!  Those windshields cost a lot of money back then. I think I got a whipping but it was nothing compared to Dads whippings.  Granny was more interested in putting the fear in me than inflicting pain.
    You would think I would learn from my mistakes but then Mom always said I was hard headed. While spending the summer with Granny and Pa Wade in Missouri. I watched in wonder as big black ants crawled around and in a hollowed out oak tree . I don't know why but I started chasing those ants with lighted matches.  Soon the smoke started coming out of the top of the tree. Seems that the tree was hollow in the center and reacted like a chimney. I grabbed a garden hose and was trying to put it out when Granny saw me and determined that a fire truck was needed.  Again no whipping, but then the stern look on the fireman's faces sufficed. That was thankfully my last escapade with matches.Years later these incidents were a fond memory to an aging grandmother, when she told the story she would have a smile on her face.
    When we lived on Colonial Circle, Pat and I got a 3 speed English racer bicycles for Xmas. They were the neatest things because you had 3 speeds and hand brakes and we were the only kids who had them. They were fast and could out run everybody else, but there was a slight flaw. First gear was for starting off nice and easy or going up hill without working so hard.  Second gear was the build up between first and third, sitting down pedaling and gaining speed fast. Third gear was for flat out hauling on flat stretches.  I could stand up and pump my legs faster and faster.  I would have to squint my eyes to keep the bugs out and then it would happen - just as I was leaning over the handle bars really pumping ,the chain would slip off the sprocket and having no resistance my feet would spin out of control ,come off the pedals and my crotch would slam hard on the cross bar ( emphasis on hard ). Pain, like I could never imagine, started in the testicles and shot up through the body, all I could do was lay on the ground  and wither in excruciating agony. The really dumb thing is, that as soon as could stand, I would put the chain back on the sprocket and climb back on. Mom always said I was hard headed. Till this day I swear that was the reason I didn't have kids until after I was thirty.   It  took that long for the swelling to go down.
    Now I was maybe 10 when Dad came home for lunch one day in a particularly good mood. Dad had a maroon 49 Chevy with the stick shift on the column.  For some strange reason he decided it was time I learned to drive. Mom didn't even know how to drive but Dad was going to teach me. We climbed into the car and I listened intently as  he explained the operation of the clutch, gear shift, gas and brake pedals.Now I got the car started, my toes were holding the clutch down and applying pressure to the gas pedal and then it happened. My left foot slipped off the clutch as my right foot pushed against the gas pedal.  The car bucked and jolted and the engine raced. Dad yelled for me to hit the brake but by this time I had slipped down under the stirring wheel and turned to the left at the same time. The car went , in reverse, up the hill and crashed into Mr. Walker's prized privet hedge nearly ripping one of them out of the ground. Dad had to get back to work and left Mom to deal with Mr. Walker who silently used foul language while repairing the hedge. I was almost 17 before I got behind the wheel of Dad's car again.
    One weekend while visiting Grandpa Riggan, Pat, myself, and cousin Charlie saw a couple of apple trees that were in a field and they were full of apples. The main problem was that the trees were surrounded by rough furrows of freshly plowed earth and it had been raining the day before. I think that I was the one who determined that the field and trees were hidden by a huge privet hedge so we would not be seen and if we stepped on the grassy side of the turned earth then we would not get our shoes muddy. There we were sitting up in the apple trees gorging ourselves when we heard Dad and Uncle Ray calling for us, we were doomed. Hoping to sneak back thru the hedge, we jumped down from the tree and ran thru the field trying our best to step on the grass. When we showed up with muddy shoes there was no excuse.  Dad grabbed Pat and Uncle Ray grabbed Charlie and the beatings began. When Dad was through with Pat he reached out for me but Granny already had me on her lap and wouldn't let go, so Dad said he would get me when we got home. Granny told me to let her know if I got spanked at home as she would take care of Dad later if need be. I think that was the only time I got out of a spanking.
    We lived at this one house in Donaldson that had a steep back yard and at the bottom of the hill was a dry creek bed maybe four feet across. My younger brothers and friends were playing in the creek bed one day when I got a wild hair growing on my butt, and decided to scare them a little. One of my brothers had a small bicycle which I climbed on and went like a bat outa hell down the hill towards them. The general idea was to race up to the edge of the creek bed and then slam on the brakes, spin the rear wheel around and spray them with dirt ( Granny was right, idle hands are the Devil's work shop ).  Don't ask because I don't know what went wrong, but when I got to the bottom I didn't hit the brakes but kept going and wound up jumping the creek and wrecking on the far side. My right hand swelled to about twice it's normal size, it wasn't broken, just sprained. For two weeks I got the best grades in school, I would bring all of my homework to the kitchen table and Mom would write the answers for me but only the correct answers regardless of how long it took me to come up with them.

     All of this (and more) by the time I was 11 years old.
    When we moved to Mt. Juliet, my adventurous soul almost burst with all of the possibilities. We were in a country setting surrounded by fields with cedar trees, hills filled with big trees and brush, Cedar Creek, and Old Hickory Lake.
     I found out that if you crawled under the low hanging branches of a cedar tree on a cold day you would be warm because the foliage was so thick and low to the ground the cold was kept out. This was good to know as it was better to hang out under the cedar tree than go back to a house with four siblings getting on Mom's nerves.
    I had a bicycle that was made up of several bikes and I rode it everywhere, down to the main highway or out to Whisit's boat dock and even around to Langfords Cove. I rode thru the woods on old logging trails and made a few trails of my own. One of the neighbors told Mom he had been out hunting and thought a bear was coming thru the brush and just as he was taking aim I whizzed by him on my bike.
    I did my own repairs on the bike and that turned out to be hazardous. After working on the brakes, I was roaring down a hill on the blacktop road when a car pulled out in front of me forcing me to hit the brakes but they didn't work. When I got home and changed shorts I figured out where those leftover pieces fit ( note to self, if you take a part off it has to go back on ).  As I said before, my bike was made up of several bikes but it worked fine. We boys used to go to an area in the subdivision where they dug out fill dirt for construction, there were mounds of dirt that made great ramps for jumping the bikes. We would pedal like hell and hit the dirt mounds with such speed that we could get 2-3 feet in the air. While performing one of these daring feats I was surprised to see my front wheel had never left the ground and was rolling to one side - didn't need brakes this time because when the front forks of the bike dug in to the dirt I came to an instant stop. This was another reason I didn't have kids until after I was thirty.
    One night when Dad and I were on our way home from work, he pulled in to a small store at the bottom of Scott's Hollow Hill and got a coke. As he pulled out he put the automatic transmission in low and floored  the gas pedal.  The little 283 in the '58 Chevy screamed all the way to the top of the hill. When Dad finally shoved the lever to drive we were doing 75 mph, he looked at me and said he was going to teach me to drive but if he ever caught me doing anything stupid like he just did he would kick my ass. Thus began my driving lessons.
    Dad had a john boat built and purchased a 12 hp motor for it.  I was going fishing early one morning with my friend Donnie Odum. Dad let me use the car to carry the motor and gas can and fishing rods to the boat. Everything would have been alright if I had stuck to the plan but I had the car all to myself and nobody was on the road.  This was too irresistible. I went for a joy ride, out to the main highway down to Langford's Cove and over to Donnie's house - then the car died. Donnie's dad took me home and took Dad back to the car. Dad was pissed .  I was grounded - no fishing nor ball game that night. Probably the only thing that saved me from a whipping was that Dad had to go to work and that night he chose to go see his bootlegger friend before coming home. Seems the fuel gauge would not register less than 1/4 tank and as Dad was the only one who drove the car he didn't tell anyone about the gauge. Sure would have made a big difference had I known.
    Over the next couple of years I was typical teenager straining at the bit for the day I turned 18 and could do anything I wanted. I rebelled to some degree and got whipped for things like not cutting the grass, getting caught smoking or getting bad grades. One night Dad let me walk down the road to visit with a friend and Pat went to see a girl who lived across the street from my friend, " be home by 10:00". When the time came to go home , I went to get Pat who was not ready and we wound up being late.  On the way home Dad pulled up in the car and told us to get home. Dad was waiting and Pat was the first thru the garage door.  Then Dad grabbed me and slung me against the brick wall of the house.  He reared back with his fist and threatened to beat hell out of me. Dad backed off when I told him I would be gone by morning, from that time on there were no more whippings or threats to be sent to reform school.  That seemed to be my rite of passage into manhood.  I was 17.
    To be honest, I was a lousy student and barely got thru school.  Actually I did not graduate from high school - I missed it by 2 points in Physics. I did pass my GED with flying colors a couple of years later.  Linda insisted that I get my diploma before we were married and if getting my diploma was what it took to make Linda happy it was a small price to pay.
    Fast forward another year. I turned 18 - the world was at my feet and I could do anything I wanted as long as Dad said OK. The times were changing daily in 1965 but my future was limited to :
     1. Go to college - I had enough of school, besides no diploma and no money for tuition.
     2. Run away and become a hippy - that just wasn't me.
     3. Run away to Canada to avoid the draft - that was not for me either.
     4. Wait to be drafted - that meant being a ground pounder in the army, no thanks.
     5. Join the service of choice.
    I chose # 5. The Air Force had been around school and I had performed very well on their aptitude test so they wanted me bad, but dad wanted me in the Navy. His wisdom was put in the form of a question " If you are flying along and the plane quits, how far can you fly ?  Now if your ship starts to sink how far can you swim ? ". His logic was sound - no matter how hard I flapped my arms I couldn't get off the ground but I could tread water and swim for miles. I joined the Navy and although it worked out fine I have always thought the Air Force would have been better. After my first night in boot camp I determined that this was not what I had in mind when I turned 18.
    The Navy was fun and exciting and it took me to four foreign countries and twice to the Vietnam War. While it was interesting to visit places I will never see again, the best part of the Navy was meeting Linda.
    Linda was 17 when we met, I was 19 and drunk, neither of us knew then that we would be blind dates a few days later. I showed up sober and proceeded to charm her and her Mom ( her Dad took the next 40 years). We married a year later.
    Just because I was considered a grown man and married did not mean my troubles were over. Seems as though I had a hard time developing roots, always looking for the pot of gold. My quest for something better took us around the country . Four times we lived in California, twice in Florida and Georgia, once in Kansas and Tennessee. Looking back now, I think we would have been better off taking a pass on a couple of the offers to relocate, but then I did promise Linda she would not get bored.
    The last 45 years have had their ups and downs, but Linda and I weathered the storms and bathed in the sunshine. Thru it all we produced two handsome boys who are now grown.  I couldn't be more proud of them or love her more.
    The past is now a series of memories flowing in and out of my mind at the whim of a sound , smell or recollection of a simpler time. Do I have any regrets?  I think everyone has regrets of the past and I am no different.  I should have been a better husband , father, son and brother, I should have gotten a better education and been a better provider. Shudda, wudda, cudda, it's all water under the bridge now but if I could would I do it all over again? Only if the remake occurred in the same era as the first time around.  Keeping up with the changing times of today is exhausting, I long for the " good ol' days."
   
   
   
    
   

OOPS !!!!

                        


    Over the past couple of years I acquired an interest in my heritage, where did I come from, who were my ancestors. My sister put the bug on me and I helped her to do some leg work on a few things but Linda was the one who did the major portion of the work  ( she's smarter than I am with a computer ). In the past whenever I was asked about my ancestry I would jokingly say they were Tennessee hillbilly's and some were probably hung as horse thieves. Now I know that the Riggan family is Irish on Dad's side and English on Mom's, if I counted right I am 13th generation American and while I can say there are some distant relations with a shady past none are horse thieves - so far.
    The point to all of this is that knowing who all of these people were by name is one thing but knowing them is quite another, there is very little known about them personally or their daily lives. This is why I started a blog, I want whatever I can remember about family to be passed on. My sons arrived later in life and missed out or were too young to remember those who came before them, hopefully I can paint them a picture of their extended family and maybe some day their kids will want to know their ancestors. I have heard of a quotation that sort of goes like " as long as they are remembered they will never die ", immortality even though you may be dead is a good thing for the living, for it is the stories passed from generation to generation that tell us who we are and where we came from and maybe why we do some of the things we do.
    Being a Blogger is something I had thought about since keeping up with little sister's worldly escapades required reading her Blog-- Horizon Seeker. I decided that I had things to say and asked sis to get me started, I wanted to call my blog Rantings of an old Fart but when she created the blog it came out Holding On To The Past, there are other old farts out there already ranting. Sis and I had already talked about our heritage and close relatives now deceased so why not tell the stories of our family as I remember them.
    I have already posted several articles and was in the process of writing more when for some strange reason I screwed up, I " thought " ( this is a key word - thought ) I was doing something that needed to be done and erased everything thus far published. My " old school " brain doesn't handle technology very well and I need to remember to focus only on the task at hand when working on a computer.
    Evidently all of my work so far is now floating around somewhere in cyber space and will never come back, so the task at hand is " re-write, re-write, re-write ". The good thing is that I have found that I remembered more of the past to put into the stories I have to tell, they say every thing happens for a reason, we'll see.