Young Love

 

     My first love turned out to be my second grade teacher, she was fresh out of college, blonde and beautiful and had the nicest smile. I think I was her favorite as she often let me operate the phonograph while the other kids slept on their pallets. She was my teacher for only one year then we moved to another school district and my third grade teacher turned out to be Mrs. Webb who by chance had been one of dad's teachers back in the late 1930's. From then until I hit my teenage years girls were more of a pain than anything else.

      About the time I was turning 13 I started noticing girls and it wasn't long till I was falling in love with girls on a frequent basis. I wasn't able to date, didn't have a car or money but none of that stopped me. I went "steady" with several girls in school even giving them my class ring to wear but it was a school day romance, all the same it didn't stop me from falling in love on a regular basis. It was called young love by some puppy love by others, whatever it was I had it.

     In 1960 I turned 13 and went to work part time in a grocery store where my dad was the butcher. It was about this time that we started spending a lot of family time at the lake on Sundays and quite often one or more of dad's friends would join us. There was this one couple George and Nancy that became regulars, they were in their 30's, the guy was a vendor dad dealt with at work, I knew him and got along with him alright but the day he and his wife came out to the lake was a day I fell in love with an older woman. Nancy walked up wearing a two piece bathing suit, she was beautiful, tall and slender with short dark hair and I couldn't keep my eyes off of her, to my 13 year old mind she was a goddess and all of the rest were just girls, of course she didn't pay any mind to me but that didn't stop me from doing stupid things to get her attention.

     As it happened, Nancy worked behind the lunch counter at Woolworths in Donelson Plaza about a half mile from where I worked. At least twice a week I would walk to Woolworths for lunch just to be near her and hope that she would be at the lake that weekend. I was infatuated but of course if she had any idea as to my feelings she never let on, she always greeted me with a smile and never lead me on.

     When summer was over and school started back I didn't see Nancy as often but my love life didn't suffered as there was no shortage of teenage girls to fall in love with. Meanwhile my affair with Nancy was put on the back burner as I only worked weekends through the school year but come summertime I was trekking back to Woolworths and waiting for the weekends. 

     My puppy love with the younger girls and infatuation for Nancy ran their course until I turned 18. Adult responsibilities overtook my teenage lifestyle, Uncle Sam was calling so I joined the Navy and left home for the next four years. It wasn't long after arriving at my first duty station in Florida that I met Linda, what started as young love soon turned into true love that lasted for 47 years.

     I'm into younger women now, Kay and I have been married for six years (Kay is eight years younger than me) and I love her very much. My infatuation with older women seems to have started and ended with Nancy, that young boy's infatuation with a beautiful older woman is a distant memory in an old man's mind as he struggles to hold on to his youth.

Accident Prone

 

     I recently had a slight run in with a table saw that has caused me some pain and agony and will for some time yet. The index finger on my left hand has about eight stitches, a 3/8 " long gouge that couldn't be stitched, the bone was chipped twice and the nail will eventually fall off. I suppose it could have been worse, I could have lost all or part of the finger but thankfully it was a dull blade.

      I have many scars covering my hands, so many that I can no longer remember how most of them got there, the oldest was incurred when I was maybe two years old, they were all due to neglect on my part, self-inflicted because I wasn't watching where I was going or I was in a hurry. It's true, I was usually doing something the wrong way, too fast, not paying attention or doing something I shouldn't have been doing at all, thus is the calamity of most men who wear scars across various parts of their body.

     So, as I sit here rubbing a swollen knuckle, I look at all the scars on my hands and reminisce as to how each of them occurred all those many years ago. The oldest scar is still visible on the back of my right hand, I was barely walking, maybe two years old, my dad's parents took me home with them for a few days and like most young boys I followed my grandfather everywhere. Grandpa went out into the barnyard to feed the animals and I followed, there was a pen where a mother pig was feeding her brood and I reached in to touch one of the cute little pigs, momma pig became upset and bit me. Now I can't say that the details I have just described are accurate because it was a long time ago and I was very young, I do remember sticking my hand in the pen and do remember laying on an exam table in the doctor's office, everything else is a guess.

     I'm sure there were other injuries before the age of six but they must not have been monumental because I can't seem to remember anything of consequence. The next scar occurred when a bunch of us kids were out after dark catching lightning bugs and needed a jar to put them in. Mom always had an empty jar with a screw on lid laying around the kitchen and I went in the house to get one. You couldn't just grab a jar and run; the lid needed holes so the bugs could breathe. I grabbed the lid and looked for something to poke holes in the lid, the best thing was a large butcher knife, so there I was with the lid laying on the kitchen table held firmly in place with my thumb and index finger of my left hand, my right hand is holding the knife as if I were about to stab something which I was doing vigorously to the lid. I probably should have stopped with three or four holes but I didn't stop until I felt the knife poke a hole in my thumb. After that incident there seemed to be no end to the cuts, scrapes and bruises that were caused by hammers, knives, rusty nails and such and those were only the injuries to my hands. From time to time I wonder how I made it past puberty, later I wondered how I made into adulthood and lately I wonder how I managed to reach old age.

     My right hand has had a few injuries like the pig incident or a pocketknife folding closed on my finger or thumb but the left hand has been the recipient of all kinds of the injuries in particular, it is a wonder I still have an index finger on my left hand. The latest run in with a table saw was not the first. In fact there have been several minor instances with that piece of equipment one of which also involved a trip to the emergency room and stitches to the left index finger. I cut my right thumb on a band saw and twice when a nail, from a finish nail gun, hit a hard grain of wood a two inch finish nail wound up in the web between the thumb and index finger of the left hand and another time clean through the index finger and nail. 

     In all the years I have been fishing the worst thing to happen was when I grabbed a flopping fish and was stuck with a fin, catfish fins were the worst as they were sore for days. A few years ago, I was out fishing alone in my boat when I caught a small bass, once out of the water it was flopping and jiggling all over the place and I wound up with a treble hook in my left thumb. There I was with a hook in my thumb that was still attached to the lure which was still attached to the rod on one end and a flopping fish on the other, did I say the pain was excruciating? The hook was buried up past the barb and any attempt to remove the fish or hook shot stabs of pain up my arm. The first thing I was able to do was grab the fish with the remaining fingers of my left hand and hold him still so I could cut the line to the rod with scissors then grab the hook in the fishes' mouth with pliers and carefully shake it loose. After a short break I thought of my options the first being to secure everything in the boat, go back to the ramp and load the boat on the trailer with one hand then drive to a clinic and pay a $100 + to have the hook removed, option two was remove the hook myself. Being the tightwad, I chose option two. When the hook went in it was fast, easy and almost painless so in my mind the best thing to do was just push that sucker on through to expose the barb and cut it - problem solved. Well, it didn't turn out that easy as either the point dulled going through my skin or my skin got thicker on the inside, it hurt like hell but I finally gritted my teeth gave it a good push and the barb was out then I continued fishing for a few more hours. Two years later the same thing happened again with the same problems, it was solved in the same manner but then I solved this problem with the purchase of fish pliers to grab the fish.

     Linda always kept a supply of Band-Aids handy along with rolls of gauze and ace bandages for the occasional more intensive injuries, over 47 years she washed away dirt and blood, applied mercurochrome, ointments and salves then kissed the injury to make it better. Kay being ever proactive has continued to maintain the stash of medical supplies I brought to our marriage and although somewhat skittish at the sight of blood she has become quite adept at applying Band-Aids and driving me to the emergency room if needed. 

     So here I am two months later, my latest injury from the table saw is looking good. The stitches are gone, the nail is off and starting to grow back but the finger has a slight curve to the right and won't lay flat. It's still swollen and stiff but I have been back in the shop working with the saws and other tools. I can still operate a fishing reel which is important. It's still going to be a while, maybe months, before all is well again, I may not be able to bend it as far as I used to but there are three more fingers to take up the slack.

     There are spots of blood on the shop floor to remind me to be careful and Kay has bought me a new device to hopefully keep my fingers out of harms way. But let's be realistic, this latest "accident" was not my first rodeo and regrettably it probably won't be my last I can only hope it's the worst and the last one for some time to come.

     

     

     

The Counterfeiter

 

     After the war Dad worked at several jobs before he found his calling. He worked on the ore ships that sailed the Great Lakes until Mom made him come home. Once he was back home he drove a cab in Gallatin and at some point he became an apprentice butcher. Being a butcher turned out to be his calling and he became very good at the trade so much so that as the years passed he developed a reputation and was in demand. He trained under several older butchers and worked for a local chain called Logans.

     By the late 1950's Dad was the butcher / meat manager for a small independently owned  grocery store called C&S Foods, the store was located in an older group of buildings along Lebanon Rd. in Donelson. I don't know how old the building was but it was small with wooden floors, the stock room and butcher shop were located in the basement and a conveyor was used to get products upstairs. The store was part of a long group of store fronts connected by common walls. 

     All of the stores had basements but not all of them utilized them for product storage so there were businesses located in a couple of the basements that were accessible from the rear. As best I remember there was a repair shop of some sort and a print shop. The print shop produced fliers / handbills and odd sized signage for local businesses. Dad would see the workers now and again when off loading trucks but he didn't know them enough to call them friends, they sort of kept to themselves. 

     One day there was quite a commotion at the print shop, police cars were every where along with a few unmarked cars which turned out to be from the FBI. The print shop workers were handcuffed and put in the back seats of the patrol cars and a truck was being loaded up with boxes from the shop. Dad found out later that the print shop had been raided because they were printing counterfeit money.

     I wasn't a teenager yet but I heard Dad tell this story several times, he always ended it with "there I was working a hard forty hours a week for a few dollars and these guys were right next door printing two months salary with every turn of the handle". I sometimes wondered if maybe he wasn't just a bit jealous.

Hand Me Downs

 

     By todays standards we might have been considered low income or even poor, we were a family of seven living on one income in the 1950's but we kids had no idea of our financial status and we really didn't care. We had food on the table, a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs and we have good memories of those times. 

     Being the oldest boy on either side of the cousins there was no one to hand their used clothes down to me so I got the new jeans, shoes and shirts. Being the tallest of the family my clothes were handed down to brother Pat if they were still in serviceable condition.

     Here now is the theme of this story with the key words being "serviceable condition". Unlike todays kids who seem to get everything their little hearts desire, back in the fifties folks were a little more thrifty and had millions of ways to extend the life of just about anything, in this case clothing.

     Kids, especially boys are hard on clothes, what they don't outgrow they rip, tear, poke, and generally wear thin any material known to man or mothers. My mom was a master at repairing jeans. She started out by buying them extra long, back then you could buy jeans about six inches longer than you would ever need. There are many pictures of me in new jeans with a 4 - 5 inch cuff, as it turns out deep cuffs were a fashion statement and then again they were havens for for mud, dirt, leaves anything that might be looking for a home.

     Then comes wear and tear issues. These are issues that occur normally in a day of a boys life as we are always in some sort of scuffle, crawling into some place we should not have been or it was just a matter of accidents happen. Usually it was the legs that incurred the most damage especially the knees. The knees got ripped, torn and worn thin before any other part other than the seat, but mom had a fix for that too. At first the fix involved a needle and thread but it was not long lasting but then mom found the "iron on" patch which came in various sizes and was suitable for adjusting to smaller sizes with a pair of scissors. It was really easy, just cut a piece to overlap the offending area then heat up the iron and slide it across the patch, the attached glue would bind the two pieces together and add at least another season to the jeans. Some of the more inventive moms would even put a matching patch on the other leg just for appearance sake.

     Shoes were the next big thing that kids tore up or outgrew on a regular basis. I think it is a well know fact that a kids feet grow at the same rate and possibly faster than the rest of their body, either out or up. In our case it didn't matter as mom's dad was a manager for General Shoe (cowboy boot division), at least twice a year we would go to their house and grandpa would bring out a grocery bag of boots that he just turned up in the floor, whatever fit was ours. I think I was about 15 before I bought my first pair of shoes.

      It would have been nice to have grandpa around when Danny was a young boy, Linda looked up one day and saw that a brand new pair of tennis shoes had the toe worn out on both shoes. Turns out Danny had a skateboard that he would get down on one knee to ride, the only means to stop it were to drag his feet.

     The other thing was that mom was a master with a needle and thread, she was always sewing shirts for us boys and dresses for sister Vicky, one year the whole family matched at Christmas. Another time I needed a new jacket for school so she pulled out dad's Navy dress blues uniform which I wore for Halloween (it was a tight fit and I was about 15) afterwards she turned the "blouse" into a jacket for me, unfortunately it was only good for one year then I outgrew it.

     Money may have been tight for us, I don't know, we often ran around in old clothes that had patches or hand me downs from a neighbor who had older kids but so did a lot of other kids. You have to understand that our parents grew up in the "Great Depression", they learned to make do with what they had. A lot of parents today want their kids to have the things they never had so they shower them with the latest toys, games, clothes, cars what ever their little hearts desire and that is never a good thing.

The Heartbreak

 

     For two years we dreamed of a future where things would be better, for two years we lived on the hope of a life free of Drs. and hospitals. We made plans for next month and next year all the while in our hearts we knew it was futile but we had hope. Over the forty seven years we were married I had seen Linda happy, thrilled, upset and mad and now I was going to see another emotion, one that I never knew existed in her.

     When I brought her home from the hospital, in July of 2014, it was to be the last time, we both knew this but the Dr. had said months but never how many, he said this as he always said it - with an air of hope. Linda's outlook immediately grabbed hold of this hope and ran with it, she was always happy and upbeat with whoever came to see her. She craved laughter and gaiety, tears and sorrowful talk were not allowed. Friends and family came to see her, they talked of old times, they thanked her for all she had done for them - they said their goodbye's in different ways. She knew her fate but she denied it, she never gave up hope, she held her head high as she had always done. They said she was brave.

     Not long before she passed I returned from an errand one day, Linda was sitting in a chair while her friend made the bed for her. Linda was upset, she had overheard a conversation on the back deck, a statement was made " All I know is Mike said that if I wanted to say goodbye I better come soon". I had never seen Linda scared of anything but now I saw fear in her eyes. All of a sudden I was faced with the most difficult task of my life.

     I bent over and put my arms around Linda and pulled her up to me holding her close as her friend told me what had happened, her eyes were looking at me with a longing for me to make things better. Sometimes Linda had problems with depression and during those dark times I was able to pull her through but this time I just didn't know if I could. With her face buried in my shoulder, I held her tight, ran my fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head, I told her that I didn't know how much time she had left but however much there was I was going to do my best to make that time the best that I could. Her arms squeezed me and she cried with her face on my shoulder. We stood there for a while holding each other as we had done on many occasions, I kissed her many times, told her I loved her and held her tight. I wanted to cry with her but I had decided I would not cry in front of her, she had been my rock for many years it was my turn to be her rock and I was determined not to let her down.

     By this time even I could see the end was near, the words of the Drs. and hospice nurses no longer carried an air of hope but every day we hoped for another tomorrow. 

     It wasn't long after this day that Linda passed, I have not forgotten this day and doubt I ever will. I have held off writing about this episode because it involved someone close to her, that someone passed away sometime back so they can no longer be hurt by reading this. This is a part of my memories of Linda that I can't escape from even if I wanted to, it is another memory I want to share with my children, grandchildren and future generations.

                                                                                        

 

     

Tidbits of Thoughts and Memories

 

     Grandpa Riggan was a farmer of the old school, he plowed his fields walking behind a team of mules, sowed his grains walking the plowed field and with a flip of his wrist scattered the seeds of a new crop. Small plants grown from seeds over the winter were called slips and had to be carefully planted by hand, this required him to walk bent over and individually place the slip in the ground.

     He raised pigs that were born from his sow, the pigs foraged in the pasture and woods. To keep the pigs from tearing up the fields too bad in their quest for roots he would put a ring in their nose. To do this he first lured them in to a feeding pen by putting feed in a trough. As the pigs were busy eating Grandpa would walk over and grab one by the ear and lift it up on it's hind legs, he had a special pair of pliers that held an open ring, he would quickly insert the ring into the pigs nose and squeeze the ring against the cartilage of the nose then pull the pig to the gate and push it out of the pen. This ring didn't really hurt the pig until it started rooting with his nose but you would think they had been shot from all of the squealing they were doing. 

     I would watch this process from afar because when I was barely walking I wandered out in the paddock where a sow was feeding a bunch of young piglets, I reached down to touch one and the sow bit me. More than seventy years later I still carry an inch long scar on the back of my right hand.

     Grandpa also had two cows that he milked by hand everyday. Even though the cows had been foraging on grass in the pasture all day they would return to the barn at night and walk in to their stall where Grandpa would have corn waiting in their feed troughs. While the cow ate Grandpa sat on a stool and pulled on their tits as milk streamed  in to a pail, when he was done he poured the milk into a special "milk jug" that was picked up by the local creamery for processing.

     Being an farmer of the old school was hard work, Grandpa was up before dawn feeding the live stock and after breakfast he hitched up the mules and headed out to the fields. He was lean yet muscular, he walked from the time he got out of bed till he climbed back in it. If he was lucky it would rain every now and then  giving him a day off. Regardless of the weather Sunday was his day of rest after he milked the cows and fed the livestock, it was a day when he went to church and enjoyed his family who visited every Sunday as long as he lived. I never knew him to be sick with so much as a cold, he had a double hernia and couldn't hear very well but that was it. In the end he retired in his late 70's, one day not long after retiring his heart just gave out.

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     I often find myself comparing the times I grew up in with the times I live in now, the difference is  stark in my opinion. For instance the welfare system was put in place in 1935 and it has helped many poor families but it has also been riddled with graft and corruption, it was never meant to be a way of living but there are those who thought otherwise and found way to cheat the system.

     Now I can't say that we were poor, maybe we didn't have a lot of money and for sure we weren't on welfare. Dad was the bread winner, Mom was a housewife and we five kids had to be fed everyday, had to have a roof over our heads and clean clothes on our backs and new shoes at the beginning of every school year. Dad balked at the expense of sending us to school, new shoes, new clothes ( what mom didn't sew ). School supplies consisted of writing tablets or notebook paper, pencils, erasers, crayons all the standard fare for staring school and everything we needed Dad supplied. As for lunch we had PBJ or baloney sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a couple of cookies for desert then wrapped up in a brown paper bag. When we didn't have the makings for lunch Dad begrudgingly gave us the 25 cents to buy lunch in the school cafeteria. We had everything we needed and never went hungry.

     So fast forward to today, school systems feed kids a free lunch and sometimes a breakfast because they can't get it at home, they even continue the program in the summer months when school is out. As for school supplies the local TV stations support a program called "stuff the bus" where people are encouraged to purchase backpacks and stock them with all sorts of school supplies and after all of this teachers have to dig into their own pockets to purchase class room supplies.

     From time to time I wonder just what has changed, I understand there are less people on welfare than ever before, wages are up, jobs are plentiful so why are their so many in need ? It used to be "pride before the fall", maybe today some don't mind the fall because they have no pride ?

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     There is a poem written by a A.E. Housemen "When I was one and twenty" it's a short poem that deals with naivety of youth. Naivety of youth is something every older person sees everyday in the youth of the day that reminds them that somethings never change.

     I can honestly say that when I was one and twenty I thought I was ready to tackle life head on, there was nothing else to learn because I knew it all and there was no sense in anybody trying to tell me otherwise because I wouldn't have listened. I think this is true about most young people although there are some that are wise for their age.

     I turned 21 during my third year in the Navy, I had recently returned from my first tour in Vietnam, Linda and I had not yet been married for a year and had been separated for half of that. Three months later I would volunteer to go back to Vietnam because we couldn't afford to live in San Diego. There was a war on, I and thousands of other young people were involved in it, sadly many of them would not survive to see one and twenty even though they were as cocksure as me.

     We all make mistakes on our way through life, turning twenty one is often no help and many people don't seem to find that out till years later, looking back I can say I was a bit of a slow learner. I'm an old man now and I see young people full of spit and vinegar and I have to wonder how long it will take them to realize they're not as smart as they think.  

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     My two grandfathers were as different as night and day. Their only similarity is that they were my grandfathers. Grandpa Riggan was older than Grandpa Wade, he was also smaller in stature, Grandpa Wade was louder and more vociferous while Grandpa Riggan was quiet and laid back ( I inherited that trait ).

     Earlier today Kay and I were driving around rural Georgia and as we passed through a small town, I saw a sign advertising "live wrestling" every Friday night, the sign brought back a memory or two. Back in the early or mid fifties my uncle Sam bought a small black and white TV for Grandpa Riggan, up until then they had only heard of TV and had very little idea of all the programs available to them. Granny found the soap operas pretty quick and it wasn't long until they found live wrestling.

     Live wrestling was not new but it was new to TV and for some reason Granny and Grandpa were both hooked on live wrestling. Every Friday or maybe it was Saturday night "Live" wrestling from the Hippodrome in Nashville was shown on TV and come that night they waited impatiently till the program came on about ten o'clock at night which was way past their bedtime. Just before the fight started a couple who were friends with them would come in to watch wrestling with them. 

     This is where things got a little weird at least to a young six or seven year old grandson. Up to this point I had never seen my Grandfather upset or excited about anything, Granny was a different story but even she got excited to say the least. There I was standing beside my Grand parents when all of a sudden one of them would jump up, shake their fist at the screen and loudly yell out "hit him again" or "kick him, kick him". I think the first time I ran and hid scared to death. 

     Grandpa Wade on the other hand was a sports addict particularly for baseball and football. He was so intense at watching a ballgame on TV that he could watch it with his eyes closed, a trait that we kids quickly learned about. A Sunday visit usually found Grandpa holding court in front of the TV, telling his stories to all who cared to listen, at certain points in the story laughter would break out even from Grandpa although uncle Harold always laughed the loudest and hardest.

     When the ballgame came on brother Pat and I would watch a little and after a while Grandpa and uncle Harold would start to dose off. Once the snores became louder than the TV we would change the channel, within moments Grandpa would snap awake "who changed the channel, turn that game back on I was watching that". 

     I looked up to my Grandfathers, regardless of their stature they were both instrumental in the formation of my life. I have inherited traits from both of them, I have Grandpa Riggan's laid back personality and Grandpa Wade's gift of storytelling but when it came to TV they were giants in their own rights.

                                                         

      

Coming Home

 

     When I went to Vietnam the first time Linda and I had been married for less than a six months. She had decided to stay with my parents while I was away, staying with my family had it's ups and downs but Linda settled in to her new life. She got a job at Becker's Bakery just down the street from where Dad worked and they often rode together.

     Getting to know my siblings was ok especially getting to know Clint and Ronnie, when things got a little overwhelming they seemed to know when she needed to get away. Getting to know Vicky had it's ups and downs, I think their relationship didn't really mature until much later, Vicky was just starting into her teenage years and could be a handful at times. Mom helped Linda enhance her cooking skills and taught her a lot about sewing an art she excelled in for the rest of her life. Dad was proud of his daughter in law and took opportunities to show her off.

     All was not always cheerful and bright, Mom could be testy at times and Dad had a drinking problem. Linda wrote to me about how she would be scared of Dad's driving when he had been drinking. Being the man I was at the time I immediately fired off a letter to Dad and chewed him out for driving Linda around when he was drinking, in retrospect I should have calmed down before writing the letter but I didn't. This created some hard times for Linda.

     When I finally got back to the states I was anxious to get back home and bring Linda to California but the Navy wanted me to start six weeks of KP before going on leave. It took some arguing but I won out and got leave. During all of this I would call home and say I was getting leave then call back and say I wasn't then call back and say I was, in the mean time things were getting a little testy at home so Linda decided to take things in to her own hands.

     I finally got leave and called home to say I was on my way, Mom answered the phone and told me Linda had loaded the car and was own her way to California. Mom got on the phone with the highway patrol and they found Linda somewhere west of Nashville. The story Linda told me was that she was so upset and mad that when the trooper stopped her she rolled down the window and defiantly said "what". The trooper was understanding and gave her my flight number, she turned around and met me at the airport.

     We probably should have headed straight out for California but we went home instead, I returned to a cool reception. The next day we headed out, halfway to Memphis we heard on the radio that Dr. Martin Luther King had been killed in Memphis and riots were starting to form. We made it through Memphis an hour before the curfew started, then we headed on to Little rock where again we beat out the curfew. We didn't stop that night until somewhere in Oklahoma. 

     Day's later we arrived in California and went looking for a place to stay. We found a place and the realtor started filling out the paperwork then he asked us for a $100 for the first months rent and another $200 for deposit. We didn't have all of the money, Linda was devastated and started to cry the realtor took pity on us and let us move in with out any deposit.

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     The second time I returned from Vietnam was in the spring of 1969, Linda had gone back to Florida while I was overseas and was working for the local newspaper.

     I caught a flight from San Diego to Orlando, it was a night flight and believe it or not there were few passengers. During this time there had, for years, been several high jackings of passenger planes to Cuba. Several passengers were of obvious Spanish decent and the thought crossed my mind that I just spent seven months in Vietnam and now I could be on my way to Cuba. As it turned out we landed in Orlando with out a hitch, Linda was waiting for me and we spent the night in a local motel. A couple of days later we started our drive back to San Diego.

     Several months later I was discharged from the Navy in San Diego and was faced with a long drive back to Tennessee. Linda had been ill and had a surgical procedure she wasn't able to drive as yet. We had a 1962 Chevy which we loaded up with all our worldly possessions including a large trunk strapped to the roof.

     I had a friend from Tennessee who had broken his arm and was going home on leave, he opted to ride with us and help with the driving. Back then I was more interested in getting from point "A" to point "B" than stopping to look at anything in between, Linda on the other hand was interested in the view and the places we could see.

     Our first issue was crossing the lower Sierra mountains out of California. the climb was too much for the car and it overheated, fortunately for us a friendly state trooper came along and helped us out, overheating plagued us the entire trip. 

     When we got into Arizona Linda insisted we see the Grand Canyon so I relented and we made the detour. I planned on spending  a couple of hours but we wound up spending the whole day, after spending the night in a local motel it was a race back to Tennessee.

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     I was 18 when I went in the Navy, I was the first to leave home, my youngest sibling was my brother Ronnie he was seven when I left. Returning on leave was usually a big deal especially for Ronnie. On one of my returns from Vietnam it was quite late when Linda and I got in Mom was up and waiting for us Dad had not gotten home as yet, Ronnie had fallen asleep waiting for us. I went into Ronnie's bedroom and sat on the side of his bed and woke him up, he rubbed his eyes saw it was me then he gave me the biggest hug, that night I was a proud brother.

     There have been many homecomings over the years each with it's own joys and sorrows. Kay and I have been back several times now, it's different from years ago. Home as I remember is no longer there, my family has gotten smaller the places I remember have changed or disappeared. Time has taken it's toll or progress has moved things along - take your choice. The important thing is that even though I have a home in Georgia now Tennessee is my real home every where I have been has been an adventure in the scheme of life.