I Remember

                              I Remember



    They were William Luther and Floye Jean Riggan.  They were my parents as well as the parents of my four siblings. They were brought up during one of the darkest hours in the history of our nation," Th e Great Depression ".  They were members of the " Greatest Generation That Ever Lived " and fought the war to end all wars.
    For several years now I have had difficulty with my feelings for my parents. They brought me into this world and because of them I am the person I am today. I was proud to be their son but there were times I was embarrassed by them.  I wanted to run away but couldn't wait to get home. There were good times and not so good times and I remember them all. 
    Dad was born June 30,1923.  He came from a farming family in Wilson County, Tn.  Lagardo was nothing more than a spot on a dirt road back then - today it is a spot on a paved road.  Other than the fact that a few city slickers have moved in, not much has changed.
    Mom was born August 8,1926.  Her father was in management for the manufacturing of shoes. Grandpa Wade worked in several states but lived a large part of the time in Gallatin, Tn.
     Times were hard then - money and jobs were in short supply. If you had anything you took care of it.  If you had nothing you worked to get what you wanted - nobody gave you anything.  Back then families were tight knit.  Everyone did their part for the betterment of the family.  Discipline could be hard but that was the way things were done then.
    Mom, as the story goes, had eyes for one of Dad's older brothers but the fickled finger of fate had a different idea. The whole world went crazy and erupted into WWII. At the age of 19, Dad quit school and joined the Navy in 1942.  Before he shipped out he and Mom were married - August 16, 1942, nine days after she turned 16. ( Sister Vickie recently found their marriage license in Kentucky.  They lied about their ages - Mom's lie was bigger than Dad's as they both claimed to be 21 ).
    When Dad came back from the war he was like many of the time.  He had dropped out of school to enlist so now he's considered uneducated, unskilled and unemployed, and he had picked up a new habit - he drank. Mom or Granny Wade ( they were both there ) told me of the time Dad came home drunk and Mom had locked him out so he kicked the door in and told Mom there would never be locked doors in his house. Dad was not what I call a mean drunk he was actually very mellow.  He would just get easily irritated.
    Dad found work on the Great Lakes.  The pay was good, the future was bright, and he only worked about 6 months out of the year. Mom evidently didn't want to move north away from family so sometime after Pat was born Dad came back home to drive a cab until he learned the butcher trade. He found his spot in life as a butcher - and a damn good one too.
    Over an eleven year period ( 1947 - 1958 ) Mom gave birth to four boys and one girl. Little brother Ronnie brought up the rear when we lived in a four room house on Colonial Circle. I think at this point Dad was still trying to prove himself as a butcher and Mom was struggling to be a house wife of the time. We kids had no idea how tough things were.  We were kids who played, ate and slept but being the oldest I can remember some of the problems.
    Mom suffered from pleurisy a medical condition she acquired giving birth to me ( so I was told ) so she spent time in bed and brother Pat and myself learned to cook, iron clothes and help with the washing and cleaning ( we never could make biscuits ). Dad was the bread winner and the reining thought of the time was that he deserved to relax with a few cold ones and a couple of buddies when he felt like it. This lead to marriage problems between Mom and Dad. When I was 10 or 11, Mom sat us kids down and talked with us about how we needed to be good and not upset Dad or he might not want to come home anymore. At the time none of us really understood the situation.  We didn't know that heavy drinking was a problem because most of the people that our parents knew had a drinking problem.   We must have improved because Dad stayed.
    In spite of the problems we had good times. Dad would spend a Sunday taking us swimming in the river beneath Stones River bridge or he would check Pat and I out of school on his half day off to take us fishing at Stones River. I have no idea what he told the school we were going to do, it was hard to hide the fact that we were going fishing because the car had several long cane poles sticking out the rear windows. Mom would make matching clothes for the whole family and we would wear them to see the grand parents on Sunday.  Everybody marveled at Moms handy work.
    Life changed for me about the age of 13.  I was no longer a child but rather a teenager.  I was still a mamma's boy but I was also growing into someone that Dad could have fun with. Dad was the one who got me the job at C&S and for a long time I relished in the fact that I was Bill's son and was introduced to people as such. I got to hang out with Dad after work when he would go see Grady, his bootlegger. Though some things changed, some things stayed the same.  I was the oldest and I was supposed to set the example for the other kids to follow.
     I guess that at times I was a disappointment, or so it seemed.   I got whippings for bad grades, not cutting the grass on time, stepping in a mud puddle, smoking, or talking back, I even got whipped for telling the truth. Usually Dad would use a belt but would, on occasion, grab whatever happened to be handy, yard sticks, lawn mower starter cords, and switches. A couple of times Mom had to pull Dad off of me but then the next day or two later we were running a trot line or he is showing me how to drive - all is forgotten. The last time we had a confrontation I was about 17.  I was late coming home from a friends house and he threw me against the brick siding of the house and pulled back his fist and threatened to beat hell out of me, I told him to go ahead but I would not be there in the morning.
    Mom was the typical 50's housewife.  She didn't know how to drive and I doubt she knew how much money Dad made. Bra burning was still years away and birth control was something called the rhythm method or condoms. Her job was to stay at home and take care of the kids, clean the house, do the laundry, and have food on the table regardless what time Dad came home ---  barefoot and pregnant, no arguing. Mom did things with us on a daily basis.  She was the first thing we saw when we woke up and quite often the last thing we saw at bedtime.  She made clothes for us and taught us how to cook, wash /iron and even sew buttons on a shirt.
    When we lived in Mt Juliet, she and I pulled a toy wagon up the hill and loaded it with concrete blocks from the foundation of a burned house.  We lined the drive with them, filled the cavity with dirt and planted flower seeds in them. Come Mothers Day, Dad would stop on the way home so I could buy Mom a 1 day fishing permit and 2-3 doz minnows.  The next morning we walked to the creek and fished until the minnows were gone.
     Back then boys could, and quite often did, have issues with their dad but never with their Mom. This was the situation with me. Mom was fun and after I left home again in my thirties and started working all over the country we would have her visit with us in California, Florida and Georgia. Linda and I took her to Disney World, the beach, and the mountains and we had fun. I over looked the issues that she had for years and were now starting to grow larger as she got older.  She was my mother and I was her oldest son - her first born. I am told that she cared more for me than my brothers or sister, it was often hard for me to feel that love,I would have traded that position for hug.
    Mom's biggest problem was that she had to always keep things stirred up among her kids.  One week she would be down on Ronnie, the next Vickie or Clint. She never knew what I was up to because I lived in another state but when she came home from visiting with us we became the target for a short time. It all came to a head when she developed a hatred for Clint's girl friend.  I defended Clint's right love the woman of his choice.  I defended that right so vehemently that I didn't speak to Mom for almost 5 years - until shortly before her death.
     Ironically, Mom had always complained about Granny Riggan always keeping things stirred up and said on several occasions that if she ever got like Granny Riggan we could just shoot her. The problem with Granny was that she was old and lonely, shuffled from son to daughter to son and back again, wandering aimlessly in a world that had little time or use for her.
    The saddest thing of all was that Mom had five kids who wanted to take care of her and love her and make her last days happy ones.  Instead she distanced herself from most of us and robbed herself and us of what should have been the best days of her life. Maybe this was due to some malady of the aging process that could have been controlled.  Maybe she was just ticked off with her life because things didn't turn out as she had hoped for.  I don't know but I miss the old Mom.
    Dad on the other hand turned things around as he got older. When he was in his early fifties his drinking had reached the place where it was all he thought about.  He always kept a bottle at home, in the car, and in the cooler at work and every night he would stop and pick up a fresh one because one of his bottles was going to go empty. Now he had switched from bourbon to vodka and when I would come over to take him fishing on Sunday morning the first thing he would do was take a long swig to clear his head.  Fishing didn't last long because I was afraid he might fall out of the boat.
    One night he came home three sheets in the wind and threw Vickie and her boyfriend out and hurt Mom in the process.  I was called and went to check on Mom, Vickie and Clint and that was when things got nasty. To make a long story short I called Dad every name I had ever heard of and chewed him up one side and down the other, my words were vicious and meant to cut deep. In the long run, it was a doctor that got Dad off the bottle, he told him if he wanted to bounce grand kids on his knee he would need to quit drinking.
    Dad joined AA and was mentored, as he said, by guys he had known for years but didn't know they had a problem. He had to be sober for a certain period of time before he acknowledged his problem and when the day came Mom called me to say that Dad wanted me go with him to his meeting. I watched as he stood at the podium and announced to the world " Hi, my name is Bill and I am an alcoholic ". He regaled his audience with stories of his drinking days, it was both funny and sad to listen to.  He finished his presentation by saying " people used to say there goes Bill the ol' drunk, now they say there goes Bill the alcoholic ".  He said it with pride and I was proud of him.
    Sadly I could only enjoy his sobriety for a few years as I felt the grass tickling the bottom of my feet and the urge to reach out for a better life was overwhelming.  Linda and I moved to Florida then California and Kansas.
     During a trip home I discovered that Dad was drinking again.  He said he had an irritation in his throat and the liquor soothed the pain.  He was afraid to go to the doctor for fear of what he might find. I told him the doctor might be able to fix the problem but he had to go see him first. A few months later I stood at his bedside and closed his eye lids, then I sat on the floor and cried like a baby.  The cancer that started in his throat had spread through out his body.  He was 62 and looked 90.
    Something that bothers me till this day is that I can't remember being told " I love you or you did good or I'm proud of you ".  Sentiment was not freely expressed. There were times when I knew they cared, I watched Dad cry as the bus pulled away taking me to my first duty station.  He sobbed when I brought him a watch for Xmas, and Mom said he cried in his beer the night before Linda and I moved into our first house across town.  Family members and people who were not family would tell me that Mom and Dad loved me more because I was the first born.  It bothers me to think they may have loved my siblings less because of their birth order, I would have given up the first position for a hug.
    I said in the beginning that it was only recently that I have started to understand my parents. Over the last few years when I get together with my brothers and sister the subject of Mom and Dad will come up and conjectures will bounce around the room. Some think it was WWII or that they married so young.  Maybe it was their up bringing or the changing times of the late forties and  fifties.  I doubt that we will ever know the reasons they turned out as they did. What I do know is that they raised four sons and a daughter and we all turned out pretty good.  They can be proud of us.
    They did the best they could, I miss them and love them.
   
   

    

For Dad

                                For Dad

    Today is Father's Day, it has been a good day for me. My son Clay and his girl friend Maggie spent several hours with Linda and I, seeing the two of them together makes me feel good, it is obvious that they love each other and Linda and I can only hope for a more permanent relationship, Maggie will be welcome in our family. Danny and Marie came in while Clay and Maggie were here, the noticeable swell of Marie's belly indicates that yet another generation of the family will soon be here, boy or girl I promise to love and cherish the child. It is not often that we get together as a whole family, Danny and Clay although close have varied interest and work schedules clash.
    As the day wound down and the kids had to leave I thought of the times when I went home on those special occasions when my Dad was the center of attention especially later in his life. Dad was not one to show much emotion but his eyes would light up when the family was all together and he had grand kids to bounce on his knees. My sons were 3 & 5 yrs old when Dad died and we lived out of state so they didn't really know their grandfather but I am sure he would be as proud of them as I am.
    I believe that every father wants his children to have a better life than he did and to be a better person, this is what I believe and this is what I think my father wanted for me and my siblings. I think Dad would be proud of his family and their offspring.
    Lately my mind has returned to the past many times as I re-visit my life, one of the issues has been my father. Dad wasn't perfect, he had his problems, there were times I turned my back on him, I don't think I understood him and until recently never bothered to try. Dad never told me he was proud of me or that he loved me, men of his generation didn't express sentiment it was one of those things you understood. I am afflicted with the same problem but today I tried to break the habit, as my sons were leaving I told them to be careful and that I loved them. I don't know if they heard me or not but I said it and promise to say it more often.
    As this Father's Day draws to a close I am thinking of my father, because of him I am here, because of him I am me, despite your faults Dad I think you did your best.
    I love you Dad.

Imagine That

                            Imagine That


    Growing up in the 50's was quite different from today. TV was in black and white, only had three channels and was on the air from about 6:30 am til midnight, except for the Million Dollar Movie on Saturday nights. Saturday mornings would find us sitting in front of the TV starring at the "test pattern " anxiously awaiting the start of cartoons. We didn't have hand held game boys or cell phones and bunches of toys.  Neither did we have air conditioning - it was generally cooler outside than in.
    What we did have was friends who we saw ( in person ) on a daily basis, trees to climb, board games and cards to play on rainy days. We used sticks that had blown off trees or pieces of 2x4 in place of toys, but most of all we had " imagination ".
    Boys seemed to play at war an awful lot whether it be cowboys and Indians or soldiers fighting hordes of Huns. We used sticks for rifles if we didn't have toy guns and hard dirt clods for hand grenades. We would choose up sides and argue over who would be the good guys, sometimes we would build forts but mostly we would just run around from tree to bush to ditch. When enough players were killed off the war was won and another would be started.  The good guys always seemed to win and no mercy was given to the enemy.
    When there was money available, we were given dimes to buy ice cream from a guy who pushed a cart thru the neighborhood or we collected coke bottles and redeemed them at the grocery store for three cents apiece which we used to buy candy.
     We didn't sleep in during the summer, we were up early and out the door running around like banshees all day long. Sweat would run off our bodies in rivulets, the dust and dirt would look as if we had been in a mud fight and some times we had been. Our play would go long into the night with a game of " hide and seek " or collecting fireflies in glass jars. We had to be told it was bedtime.
    The lawn we had on Colonial Circle was full of clover.  We would pick the white flowers and tie the thin stalks together to form a chain to make bracelets, necklaces , crowns and ropes that would stretch 15 ft or more. We caught June bugs and tied thread to their legs and let them fly around like a dog on a leash.  When they tired they would land on our shoulders as we walked around. Mr Walker's house next door set up higher than ours so there was a hill where we played king of the hill.
    We were drawn to water like a moth to flame on those hot summer days.  There always seemed to be a small stream somewhere and we would find it. This was why we went barefoot during the summer.  Water and shoe leather didn't go together.  Besides, there was nothing like the feeling of stepping in a puddle of fresh rain water on the road. The summer storms would interrupt our play time but as soon as the rain stopped we would be back out stomping our feet in the puddles and building dams in the ditches.
     Trees were an attraction we seldom passed up, the bigger the tree the better. Brother Pat and I were involved in the construction of a couple of tree houses. It would be a neighborhood affair with everyone chipping in whatever they could find, we would go great distances for material to build a tree house. The ladder to get up the tree would be pieces of 2x4's nailed into the tree trunk and if we were lucky we had a rope to help climb up. Pieces of wood of all lengths and thickness would be nailed carefully in to place to form a platform.  We never had walls as it was hard enough to come up with the wood to build the platform. The nails were collected from our homes.  No one threw away bent nails back then they were too expensive.  Bent nails were carefully hammered straight  and re-used.
     Where we lived on Colonial Circle there was a large Hackberry tree in the back yard. At times I would play by myself in the exposed roots, breaking sticks into small pieces and strategically placing them around the roots to form two army's which I would destroy in great battles of the mind. When the wind was blowing I would climb to the top of the tree and wrap my arms and legs around the main trunk and start swaying back and forth. Why the tree didn't snap is beyond me but the sensation I got blotted out any fear of falling
.    Rolling transportation was another means of fun.  We had tricycles, bicycles, wagons and go-carts.  Anything that would go fast we would ride it, wreck it and get on for another round. We or a friend had the bikes and wagons but the go-carts we had to build. When we lived on Tyler Dr brother Pat and I got together with several boys and built a go-cart.  We accomplished this feat with out any welded parts.
     Building a go-cart in the 1950s required not only skill but lots of imagination. The wheels and axles came from rusted out wagons,  or not rusted out wagons depending on how bad you wanted a go-cart. The frame was made 2x4s and the steering wheel was a piece of rope. Once all of the components where acquired the assembly started by first using the longest 2x4 as the main frame. Usually it was 3-4 ft long. The rear axle ( another 2x4 ) was attached to the main frame with at least 4 nails.  Be sure to put the main frame on top of the axle when nailing them together. It is also a good idea to hammer over any nail points that might poke thru the 2x4s, you wouldn't want to come into contact with nail points in a crash. Next you attached the front axle to the main frame, here a nut, bolt and at least 3 washers were required, this would allow the cart to turn. A piece of rope is now ready to be nailed in place, the nails are driven about halfway into the wood and then bent over and hammered down over the rope pinching it into position.
    Finally the wheels are attached to the wooden axles.  To do this you can use the metal axle from the wagon or tricycle the wheels came from,  or use long bolts which are attached, like the rope, by bending nails over the metal axle. Now nail a couple of 2x4s across the main frame to create a seat and you are ready to go.
    The driver of the cart sits on the seat and places his feet on the front axle and holds the rope in both hands. It is important to note that you steer with your feet  Push forward with your right foot while easing off on the left foot and you will turn left.  To go right, work your feet in the opposite direction. The rope is used like a power assist in case your foot slips off the axle and for towing the cart up hills. Now all you need is a hill to ride down and a buddy to push.  The driver is responsible for getting the cart back up the hill.
    Building and riding a go-cart was fun but it wasn't long before it became boring but we had an idea. One of the boys who lived the next street over could get a motor, his Dad worked on lawn mowers. We wound up mounting a 5hp motor from a self propelled reel type mower to the back of the cart and ran a throttle cable to the main frame between our legs.  It worked.
    We are now able to run on flat surfaces without having to push - and it was fast. I can't remember all that rode the cart, or the name of the boy who supplied the motor, I do know that I got a short ride. The friend who supplied the motor took off down the road like a bat out of hell, he came back towing the cart because the throttle came loose and he couldn't slow down, he wound up dragging his feet on the pavement and running up a hill until the engine stalled. Our friends dad got pissed because we used his motor without asking and because he was going to have to buy a new pair of shoes for his son. That was the end of the go-cart but for a short while we had a ball building and riding the cart.
     I'm sure that the kids of today would find it hard to believe that a plain piece of pine 2x4 could be a bulldozer or scrap of lumber could turn into a go-cart. None of what we did was rocket science and it was all done on a whim without prior thought.  We just wanted to have fun. We had to use our minds to explore the world we lived in.  A world that now seems a lot simpler, safer and more fun - imagine that.

Home Again

                              Home Again

    Have you ever heard the expression - " you can never go home again " ?  Have you any idea what it means?  I have heard the saying many times from different sources and it has taken years for me to understand why I can't go home again. For many, home is your birthplace, the place where you grew up and family lives but with our ever-changing world, our "mobile" society, home has become a place most often found in the heart and mind of the beholder. The expression "home is where the heart is" now holds a truer meaning of home to many - myself included.
    My earliest memories ( they say you can remember farther back the older you get ) are of living in a house on Bledsoe St. in Gallatin, Tn.  There was Mom, brother Pat and me.  Dad was working the ships on the Great Lakes so he wasn't around much.  Aunt Addie and Uncle Harold were there a lot because Mom was sick a good bit.  I have been told that my first word was " Harold ".
    I also spent a good deal of time with Dad's parents on their farm across the river.  It was there that I tried to befriend a pig and was bitten for the effort.  I was about 2 - 3 at the time and still carry a large scar on my right hand.  It made no matter where we lived for the next few years, I spent most of my vacation time on the farm until I was 11 or 12.
    The farm wasn't much to look at but it was the life blood for Granny and Grandpa Riggan. The house was an old wood frame house with a sheet metal roof and it sat on small boulders at the corners for a foundation. The barn was no better but it protected the animals from the worst of the elements. The best thing about the farm was that my imagination could run to overflowing.  I played well by myself and could envision wild Indians behind every bush or feel as though I were flying while I hung on to a tree limb blowing in the wind. I did a lot of growing up on that farm and there are memories forever forged in the depths of my mind.  It was the only place from my youth that holds nothing but good memories.
    Dad came home from the lakes and drove a cab in Gallatin and at some point learned the butcher trade and we left Gallatin. The next place I recall was a block house built into the side of hill in Donelson.  It was like they built the basement and forgot to build the upstairs. The roof was flat and covered in tar paper and I played on it when it wasn't too hot. The house sat back off the road where Briley Pkwy and Lebanon Rd. meet today. Dad drove a little foreign car that we called a "doodlebug".
    When I started school we were living in Lagardo, Tn in an old wood frame house.  It was modern in that you could operate the well from the back porch. This was especially nice in wet weather as you wouldn't track mud in the house. There was an out house down a path in the back, a wood stove for cooking / heat,  and an ice box to keep the milk and butter cool if Dad remembered to bring home the block of ice.
    Pat and I played in fields that also grazed cows and we cooled off in the shallow creek during the summer. Bath time generally was every other day as it took quite the effort to draw buckets of water from the well and heat them on the stove so we could bathe in a wash tub. Needless to say Pat and I bathed in the same water.  I think Mom and Dad had sponge baths as they didn't fit in the wash tub.
     School was exciting.  It was held in a new brick school house that had three rooms.  One room held grades 1 - 6, another had grades 7 & 8, and then there was the auditorium / lunch room.  I was one of four students in the first grade and we shared our teacher with the other five grades. The playground had a swing set and a pile of dirt.  For toys we had pieces of 2x4's cut to different lengths and a 45 degree angle at the ends. The pieces of wood were used as bulldozers, trucks, cars ,etc. - imagination was essential to mental growth.
    The next year found us living in West Nashville.  Dad was now a full blown butcher and working for a local chain called Logans. The best thing about the house we lived in was the long hallway with wooden floors.  Pat and I wore out a few socks sliding from one end to the other.  I had a beautiful young teacher in the second grade and was head over heels in love with her.  I got my first bike for Xmas, it was used, repainted, and too big for me but I figured out how to ride it.  Brother Clint was just a baby and brother Pat was starting school.
     I started third grade at Donelson Elem.  My teacher, Mrs Webb,  had been one of Dad's teachers. We lived in a four room house on Colonial Circle ( actually there were five rooms if you counted the bathroom ).  A couple of times a week Mom would push the kitchen table aside and roll out the wringer washer and do laundry.  I learned to fold and iron clothes and put the pants stretchers in Dad's pants. I never understood why Dad had to have ironed handkerchiefs- he was going to stick them in his back pocket until he blew his nose in them and return them to the back pocket- made no sense to me. Sister Vickie has now entered the picture and brother Clint was old enough to be a pest and then along came brother Ronnie.  We were stacked in there like cord wood.
    I had some good times on Colonial Circle.  Friends and memories were in abundance but the house had become too small so we moved again to Tyler Dr. in Donelson. We now lived in a three bedroom brick house on the side of a hill.  Dad was the meat manager for C&S foods and I am starting Jr High.  This turns out to be my last year spending time on the farm with Granny and Pa Riggan .
     It wasn't long before one of Dad's drinking buddies ( Don Baker ) who happened to be in real estate sold Dad his first mortgage on a new home in Mt. Juliet,Tn.
     I was initially heart broken as I had a crush on a girl in school, but the fresh air of the rural setting of Mt Juliet took care of the heart ache.  It was almost as good as being on the farm - woods, fields, Cedar Creek and Old Hickory lake.  I soon became familiar with all aspects of the terrain. I would wander alone for hours and sometimes cover miles of woods and waterways. In the summer we ran barefoot and about half naked.  I was usually dressed in gym shorts and sometimes a T- shirt. My big toe seemed to have a perpetual scab from stubbing it on the rough tar and gravel road .  Here I went from boyhood to teenager and along the way experienced many of the trials and tribulations that life had to offer.  Some were good and some were not so good.
    I went to work as a sack boy at C&S, working weekends, holidays and summers.  For my labors I received 50 cents an hour.  About six months before I went into the Navy I was raised to 55 cents.
    We lived in Mt. Juliet for four years before Dad moved us to Hermitage Hills.  I finished my last year of high school at Mt Juliet but I did it riding back and forth to school with a teacher.
    May 5, 1965 I turned 18- that awkward age where you are no longer a kid and not yet an adult. In 1965, 18 year olds had to grow up fast.  There was a war on in a far away land called Vietnam and there was a need for young men who were ready to spread their wings. I joined the Navy.  They paid me a whopping $ 80 per month plus room and board. My world broadened, sometimes scary , sometimes exciting but I always had a place called home to come back to - or so I thought.
    I did come home on leaves and when Linda and I were married we spent our honeymoon meeting the family.  It was on these visits that little changes began to make themselves apparent.  Many of my friends had flown the nest and were scattered around the world.  Even when I came home after the Navy it wasn't the same.  Granny Riggan died and Pat, Clint and Vickie had their own lives.
    Eventually my career path took me to Fla., Calif., Ks. and Ga. and every  time I came home it seemed less like home. The family was still there but they were different - older, other interest, pressed for time and I was no different. The farm was now part of the Boy Scouts Camp Boxwell ( the only thing left is the out house and wellhead ).  The house in Mt Juliet burned and an A- frame stands in it's place. The houses where we lived in Donelson have new families in them creating their own memories. C&S is an auto parts store.
    Funerals became the venue for family gatherings. Dad died in 1985 and that started a cascade of funerals.  Two generations of Wades and Riggans are gone now except for Uncle Paul.  Clint and Ronnie still live in the Nashville area but the rest of us are scattered - Pat in Arizona, Vickie here in Ga. for the moment.  My home is now in Ga. because this is where my sons live. Their memories of the past mingle with mine to form a new generation.
    It took me years to truly understand why I could never go home again. I finally realized that life is a constant series of change,  subtle day to day changes.  Things you thought in your youth would never change are now distant memories of the past and the present becomes history in the blink of an eye. That big tree where I used to play in it's roots turns out to not be so tall to an old man, the hill in Donelson that was hard to pump the pedals of my bike to climb it is a mere bump in the road of my mind. The things my mind remembers are not as big or small as they used to be, the eyes of age see the truth of youth. 

     Home as I knew it is no more and never will be again except in my memories. This is why memories are so important, this is why it is so important to hold on to the past.  All it takes is a scent of honeysuckle, the sound of a distant train, or the smell of clean air after a cleansing rain and you will remember, you will know that home is where the heart is.
   
   

Fairytales And Sea Stories

                 Fairytales and Sea Stories

    According to U.S. Naval jargon, the difference between a fairy tale and a sea story is one starts out " once upon a time " and the other starts with " this is no sh-t ".
 
    Dad was in the Navy during WWII.  He never talked too much about the war but he did have a few stories he would tell. I think they should be remembered.  You decide how they should start.
    Dad was part of an all volunteer group called the Naval Armed Guard.  He was a Gunners Mate and was stationed aboard several Liberty / Victory ships. During war time only military personnel can fire weapons and if caught would be treated as prisoners of war, civilians would be shot, so the Navy supplied Gunners Mates to the cargo ships who carried equipment and supplies worldwide.
    Dad was headquartered out of Treasure Island in San Francisco, Calif.  When waiting for an assignment the men would be taken aboard large Naval ships and spend time off shore performing gunnery practice. The guns they practiced on were breach loaders and when the breach was opened to reload, the shell inside would be ejected.  Evidently, members of the ship's company used the breach to hide their booze.  Dad said several times they would open the breach and a fifth of whiskey would fly through the air.  The bottle never hit the deck.

    Once while crossing a part of the Pacific Ocean, a member of the crew developed rather large boil on his backside.  The pain from the boil was incapacitating but there was no doctor aboard. After several days they passed a U.S. Navy ship going the opposite direction, they had a doctor capable of removing the boil. Now in war time it was against the rules for ships to stop in mid ocean as there might be enemy submarines around. Both ships had to keep moving in circles while the doctor was transferred and performed the operation - which normally should take no more than about 20 - 30 minutes.
    When the doctor arrived, the ships captain had things set up on one of the hatch covers on deck. The affected sailor was laid out with his pants pulled down and his butt in the air. The doctor looked at the boil and pulled out a large needle to knock the sailor out as this was more serious than first thought.  The boil was said to be as big as your thumb and the core had to come out. This is when they found out the sailor was more scared of the needle than the pain of the boil.  It took five men to hold the sailor down so the doctor could stick him with the needle.
    Normally the shot would take effect within a few minutes but the aforementioned sailor was not about to go down easy - he was one scared sailor. When the doctor realized the sailor was still kicking, he prepared and administered another shot to put him under.  Again the sailor fought the five guys holding him down.
    As Dad told the story,  the doctor gave the sailor four shots and the sailor was still kicking and screaming. The two ship's captains were getting antsy so the doctor had to get on with the operation. He told the five guys to hold sailor down -  he had already injected enough drugs to knock out four guys and the sailor was still fighting. The sailor was held down, the doctor lanced the boil and dug in and removed the large core. With the core removed the pain was gone and the sailor promptly passed out.  He was carried to his bunk where he slept for two days.


    While returning from some faraway place across the Pacific, a sailor enters the ship's bridge and asked the time of the man on watch.  After being informed of the time, the sailor, fully dressed and in a life jacket, said thanks, turned and walked out on the flying bridge and jumped into the sea. This was war time and ships were not to stop for any reason but the captain stopped, lowered a boat and rescued the sailor. When asked why he jumped the sailor claimed he had to get home and the ship was not going fast enough. The sailor was reprimanded and sent to his cabin.
    Two days later the sailor again jumped ship and tried to swim back to San Francisco.  Again the captain stopped, lowered a boat and brought the sailor aboard. The sailor again claimed he needed to get home fast ( Liberty ships had a top speed of around 15 knots  or 17 mph). The captain ordered him restricted to his cabin.
    The next day the sailor sneaked out of his cabin and jumped ship.  The captain begrudgingly rescued him. After chewing the sailors butt the captain ordered that he be placed under 24 hour guard in his cabin and if he were to jump ship again he would be allowed swim for home if he thought he could out swim the ship.
    Dad happened to be guarding the sailor when the ship finally hit port in San Francisco.  Mail was brought to the both of them. Dad was trying to decide which letter he would read first when the sailor stopped sorting his mail and handed a letter to Dad and asked him to read it. The letter informed the sailor that his mother and younger brother had died in a fire.  The date and time of the fire was the exact date and time when the sailor first jumped ship. He told Dad he felt something was wrong that night and he had to get home right away.


    After the war Dad got a job working on the ore boats on the great lakes.  He had his able bodied seaman papers and I think he was 2nd or 3rd mate.  After the war there were lots of men looking for work and the ore boats paid pretty good - plus it was seasonal as the lakes would freeze over in the winter so he would come home to Tennessee.


    Every crew of workers whether on a ship or in a factory has a smart ass / practical joker and they all have one guy who is maybe a little slow and winds up being the butt of the jokes. This story starts with such  a crew of men working on the bow of the ship as it was underway.
    The joker, we'll call him Al, decided to play a joke on Johnny who was the target of most of Al's jokes. Johnny was a couple of slices short of a full loaf but he was a good worker and good natured. Al told Johnny that the crew needed a bucket of nuts and bolts to finish the job and Johnny was to go to the engine room and get a bucket full of nuts and bolts. Johnny said " sure thing" and headed off to the engine room some about 1000 ft aft and down several decks. While Johnny was on his way to the engine room,  Al called the chief engineer and told him what was going on. The chief went along with joke and had a bucket full of old rusted, bent, and worn nuts and bolts waiting for Johnny.
    According to Dad, the bucket must have weighed around 40 - 50 lbs but Johnny hauled it up several flights of steel stairs to the main deck and then a 1000 ft to the bow of the ship. Tired and out of breath Johnny set the bucket down and told Al there it was. Al proceeds to tell Johnny that they had solved the problem while he was gone so they didn't need the nuts and bolts anymore and with that he picks up the bucket, throws it overboard and turns and walks away. Johnny was somewhat beside himself but shrugged his shoulders and followed the crew to the next job.
     Several weeks later the crew was again working on the bow and they needed a large 5ft monkey wrench. Back in the late 1940's monkey wrenches were made of cast iron and a 5ft one probably weighed 50 - 60 lbs. and cost about $100  or more. Al sends Johnny to the engine room to get a left handed monkey wrench ( for those who do not know, there are no right or left handed monkey wrenches ).
    Johnny goes to the engine room and asked the chief for a left handed monkey wrench, the chief, not being in on the joke,  just pointed to several wrenches hanging on the bulkhead and said pick one. Soon Johnny huffing and puffing walks up to the crew with the wrench on his shoulder and said here it is. Al continues with the joke and exclaims to Johnny that he had brought them a right handed wrench when they needed a left handed one. As Al fussed and stomped the deck Johnny had a confused look on his face and he asked Al if he was sure he couldn't use the wrench he was holding. Al kept up the charade to the point that Johnny said OK he would go get the correct wrench. With that Johnny turns and tosses the wrench overboard and went back to the engine room.
    Dad said it was some time before they played jokes on Johnny.


    Dad never talked about his time in the war except these few stories, I suspect he was more involved in the battles of the Pacific than we know. On his deathbed, when he was delirious he would shout out to shipmates of his past "watch out it's gonna blow".