THE PASSING OF A HERO



The PASSING OF A HERO

     It was Monday, July 16, 2012. The mid-day temperature was around ninety seven degrees, with little or no breeze. The flag hung listlessly in the stagnant humid air, as close friends and family gathered in the Rotunda of the Veterans Cemetery to honor the passing of a hero.

     As the military chaplain spoke of the heroic actions, contributions and sacrifices this man had acquired through his military career and even enumerating his many contributions to his country, family and friends after the military, the room took on a solemn quietude. There was an occasional sniffle, sometimes an occasional shifting within one’s seat; an attempt to suppress the enormous grief one felt for the loss of their friend or their family member.

     Outside the Rotunda, a full military color guard stood at parade rest as the Military Chaplain described each of the medals that had been awarded to this man during his military career. The Chaplain said the hero’s name was ‘Troy’.

     He would complete his basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia and in 1943 was deployed to the South Pacific where he participated in the liberation of New Guinea and the Philippines. As part of the Army’s infantry, Troy made several beach assaults, especially noted was his participation in the assault at Luzon, Phlippines. These particular military operations are remembered as some of the most bloody, as the Japanese refused to surrender and would simply fight to their deaths. Troy was awarded five medals for his military actions during World War II:

Army Good Conduct Medal
Awarded to any enlisted member of the United States Army who completes three consecutive years of “honorable and faithful service.”

Two Bronze Star Medals (One for his effort in New Guinea and one for the Philippines)
A U.S. Armed Forces individual military decoration and the fourth-highest award for bravery, heroism or meritorious service.

Asiatic Pacific Campaign Medal - WWII
Awarded to any member of the United States military who served in the Pacific Theater from 1941 to 1945. The arrowhead device is authorized for those campaigns involving amphibious assaults.

Silver Star Medal
Awarded for gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States.

     There was an uncomfortable silence as the Chaplain paused in his rhetoric. There were still the occasional sniffle and the soft creak of a chair as one moved about, but the silence was too loud. I at first thought the elderly Chaplain had simply forgotten what he was to say, but I soon realized, as the Chaplain studied the morose faces before him; he was simply allowing his words to coalesce with our mournful emotions. After what seemed to be several minutes, the Chaplain continued, “Outside you see ten soldiers…….another lengthy pause…They are here to impart one of the highest honors for a fallen comrade…….This tradition is done for those that have distinguished themselves in their service……..There are seven riflemen……. And they will fire three volleys…..a tradition which signifies the passing of a hero.” Again the Chaplain paused as if gathering his thoughts and then with a voice that sounded almost fatherly said, “Even though they stand outside the doors of this Rotunda….The first volley fired will be rather loud…. I say this so no one will be too startled…”

     The Chaplain nodded toward the glass walls that surrounded the Rotunda and we gazed to the paved courtyard where the ten soldiers stood at parade rest. There was a moment of complete silence then the Sergeant of Arms commanded in a loud military bark, “Firing Party……Ready……..Aim……….Fire!” a two second pause then… “Fire”….another two second pause….. “Fire!”

     Even having been warned, we all jumped as the first volley was fired. The sounds of the volleys echoed across the hillsides of the vast, green, lawn of the cemetery. The soldiers moved with precision, their movements snapping in sequence as the Sergeant of Arms barked out his commands with conviction. As the last volley’s echo faded and the stillness returned there was the woeful sound of a lone bugle. It was a beautiful, yet mournful sound as Taps was played. The weeping of the bugle’s sound dwelled within the thousands of white grave markers that marked the passing of so many.

     Troy was given this honor for his heroic actions and sacrifice during his service to his country during World War II and even in the beginning of the Korean War. He was a hero to many.

     To me his heroic actions were much different. It was the long hours he spent on community baseball fields teaching me and many other young boys how to play the sport of baseball. Even after a hard day at work, he would spend the next few hours driving around town picking up friends of mine, giving them a ride to the ball park for practice. The baseball fields were not much more than sandlots. The team’s gear consisted of taped bats, a ripped and taped catcher’s vest, and a catcher’s mitt that had been chewed by neighborhood canines to the point of unrecognizable purpose. I and the other young boys were dressed in t-shirts, jeans, and high top sneakers. We all proudly wore baseball caps with our team’s insignia as well as did Troy, our coach. Troy spent his afternoons teaching us the rules of the game of baseball, the proper technique to field a ground ball and the proper hitting stance, but most importantly, he taught us that winning was not everything. Play the best you can, he realized that not everyone had the talent, give everyone the opportunity to play, and have fun. I would be well into my thirties before I fully realized how important Troy was not only to me, but to many other young boys in the community.

     Troy would take the kids fishing, baiting the hooks, and watched as we would attempt to catch the ‘big one’. He never cared to fish himself. I never saw him stand with a fishing rod in his hand once. He simply wanted to give the kids the opportunity to have fun.

     As I grew older, nearing high school, I became interested in the sport of track and field. I would spend many afternoons training, practicing, wanting to be that next famous long distance runner. Troy would take me to many of the track and field events around town, encouraging me to be the best I could be, although, I think he knew all along that I was too slow. He always seemed to find a way to praise me, even when I came in last.
    Troy would be the driver when I first began to date. Usually it would be me and my date and another couple and the four of us would sit in the back seat as he would sit in the driver’s seat, glancing periodically in the rear view mirror, grinning, as I attempted to steal my first kiss. I was even slow at that!

     Troy was at my wedding and admitted to me later that he shed a few tears during the ceremony, realizing that I had become an adult. He did not attempt to give me advice on how to be a good husband or a good father, he simply taught me by example. I now have been married over thirty years and everyday I attempt to be as good as husband and father as he was, although I feel I fall way short.

     Troy never graduated from high school. He spent much of his youth delivering groceries with his brother Mose, to help support their family. Troy’s father abandoned the family when Troy was a toddler, leaving Troy’s mother to take care of the four children. They were poor. To Troy’s credit, he somehow overcame the odds and even though he never was rich, he managed to provide a comfortable life for he and his family.

     Over the last ten years I became much closer to Troy. It could be because I saw his health deteriorating and I simply wanted to share what time he had left. In truth, I believe that as I grew older, I began to realize how smart, how genuine, and how giving he truly was. I in someway, wanted to repay him. I had the opportunity to take Troy to his favorite breakfast hang-out on several occasions. It would change over the years, from Krystal to Hardee’s, but he would always meet his buddies there for breakfast, drinking coffee, talking sports, politics and many other topics that would strike their fancy. His friends were of all ages; college kids to many much older than himself. Having met many of them, they would always find a way to tell me how much Troy had meant to them and how good a friend he was. What I began to regret was that even though I knew how much Troy had meant to me, I could never find a way to tell him. I wanted to thank him, to hug him, to tell him I loved him but I could never find the words or the right moment. I sometimes felt our conversations were somewhat strained. I looking for the right words to express my gratitude and love, he humble enough to let it pass unspoken.
     I stood, starring at the simple, white marble headstone and wept. It marked the final resting place of a man that had influenced so many; a man that sacrificed so much, just so that so many could have.

     The headstone’s inscription said:

WWII

SSgt. Troy M. Morgan

Jan.11, 1925 – Jul. 11, 2012

Always Loyal to His Country, Family and Friends

     I could not help but reflect on the days that I had spent with him. The days that I never quite understood him and then later in life as I matured, realizing how much I did love and admire him. Understanding the lessons, the coaching, he had given me, just by how honorably he had lived his life. He was a hero……My Friend….. My Dad.

     On July 6th, 2012, I was fortunate to be by my father’s bedside, in the hospital, as he fought to survive. He was conscious and smiling weakly as he realized I was there with him. I held his hand and patted his shoulder much as he would do me on the baseball field, giving me encouragement and support. I searched within myself for the words that might give him some comfort. With a voice, quivering with restrained grief, I met his gaze and said, “I love you Dad.” He gave me a weak squeeze with his hand and nodded a weak acknowledgement. He knew………….

Troy M.Morgan, my hero, died on July 11, 2012. He will be missed.

























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The Not So Good 'Good Old Days'

I was one of the 3.9 million babies born in the United States in 1952. We were the products of what would eventually be termed the Baby Boom.

The Baby Boom actually began in 1946 and continued to increase until 1964 when it began to taper. There have been several theories attempting to explain the reason for the birth rate increase. Some say that it was people trying to reach some normalcy after sixteen years of depression and war. Some say that it was part of a Cold War campaign to fight communism by simply outnumbering the communists. I think it was simply a sense of optimism and hope that eventually emerged following the depression and the war that brought not only young, married, twenty year olds to the maternity wards, but also older married couples in their late thirties, who had postponed having children due to war and hard times. Many people during the postwar era began to look forward to having children because they were confident that the future would be one of comfort and prosperity, and in many ways they were right.

In 1952, Harry Truman was President but by year end, Dwight Eisenhower was elected by a wide margin over Adlai Stevenson. It should be noted that during 1952, the United States detonated it’s first Hydrogen Bomb and Britain developed their on Atomic bomb. The arms race was booming just as the population. With the Soviet Union entering the race there was a standoff, each country daring the other to strike first. This became known as the Cold War. Even though most adults had a sense of optimism for the future during this postwar era, I remember as a child something very different. There seemed to be a type of nuclear war hysteria that permeated most levels of society. Most every public building had posted the yellow and black triangle signs designating where the nearest fall out shelter was located. I also remember in elementary school having bomb drills, where we would be instructed to get beneath our desks and tuck ourselves into a ball. We also had what was termed walk out’s. I’m not sure if these were done everywhere, but with our proximity to Oak Ridge, Tennessee, where most of the actual construction of the nuclear weapons was being done, made east Tennessee a possible and likely target for a nuclear strike. Walk-outs were simply a drill performed at public schools where the students were made to walk home and were timed. Somehow the people in charge seemed to think that if a student could walk home within a half-hour, then they would somehow be safer during a nuclear attack. I had also been instructed by my parents that in case of an attack, and I walked home, that I was to seek shelter in our next door neighbors basement, which was somewhat a bomb shelter. It may have been the Good Old Days to some, but as a child, I was terrified.

During the year of 1952, the average life expectancy was sixty-eight years. Given the increases in the cases of cancer, and the inability to curb such diseases as polio, measles and whooping cough, sixty-eight years may have been more optimistic than it should. There were 57,000 children paralyzed by polio in 1952 and 3,300 people died from this terrible disease before Jonas Salt developed the first experimentally safe dead-virus vaccine for Polio the same year.

Tobacco smoking was so prevalent that as a child we felt almost obligated to smoke. I remember my friend and I buying Swisher Sweet Cigars when we were eleven years old and smoking them routinely. In high school there were designated smoking areas, where students (freshmen through seniors) and frequently teachers would take a ten minute break and smoke their Camels. Advertisements that ran regularly on television would proclaim, “Winstons taste good like a cigarette should,” or “I’d walk a mile for a camel,” and the macho cowboy would come riding up and light up, inhaling deeply and displaying such pleasure that who wouldn’t want to be like the ‘Marlboro Man?’ It should also be noted that even though we had television, it was only in black and white. In my hometown, there were only three channels and only one of those was clear. We had to twist rabbit ears that sat atop the large, wooden box that housed the conglomeration of tubes and wires that somehow magically produced a somewhat recognizable image. Television shows such as Dragnet, Arthur Godfrey and Friends, Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts, I Love Lucy, and children’s shows such as Sky King, My Friend Flicka , Howdy Doody, and The Lone Ranger were just a few. In most every episode the characters would perform, providing entertainment for the young and old, and doing so with a cigarette dangling from their lips, blowing smoke rings as they rode off into the sunset.

People talk about the Good Old Days and say things such as, “I remember when gas was 19 cents a gallon,” or “brand new car in 1952 cost only $1700,” and the average cost of a new home was only $16,800.” This sounds almost unbelievable until you realize that the average annual income in 1952 was only $3,890 and the federal minimum wage was 75 cents per hour. The first microwave oven was produced during 1952 and was the size of a refrigerator and cost a mere $1200, almost as much as a new car.

Seat belts were first introduced to the automobile industry in 1952. That fact actually amazes me, because I don’t ever remember seeing one until the late 60’s. Even when seatbelts became a routine accessory on an auto, they were not used. If I remember right the theory was something like this, “What if you wreck and your car catches on fire? By the time you get your seat belt off you’ll burn up!” Yeah…. right. Yep no seatbelt for me, I’ll just shove it down between the creases of the seat, where all of the lost french fries, Goobers, and 3 cent postage stamps are….no one will ever see them.”

Infant car seats were unheard of in 1952 and for at least a decade after that. I don’t remember seeing my first car seat until I was thirty and that was when I purchased one for my first child. As a child with a brother and sister, our seat was always the backseat. The parents would always ride in the front, bench seat. On hot days you could only hope that you were lucky enough to capture one of the seats by the window, because there was no air conditioner on the car. If you were lucky enough to capture a window seat, it was your job and duty to crank, no power windows then, the windows down and push the small vent window out to direct as much refreshing air to the rest of the vehicle as possible. On long trips it became unbearable to be confined in the back seat of a 1958 Buick with your brother and sister. Inevitably they would touch you, which would start a series of whining to the parents, “Momma……. Ronnie touched me……tell him to stop…. Momma…….” If you were lucky they would let you sit, or actually lay, in the prime seat of the car……. the back window ledge above the back seat. I could almost stretch out completely up until I was ten years old in that back window. The sun scorching your back side and your head bouncing against the felt covered board that housed a couple of tiny speakers blaring static music from the mono, Am, radio. But at least Ronnie wasn’t touching me.

I received my first bicycle at the age of seven. It was a red, twenty-four inch bike with fat tires and enough steel in it’s construction to build two Sherman tanks. I dressed it with some red and black streamers that dangled from the handgrips and by using clothespins and a couple of playing cards the bike roared to life as I sped down a hill. I would attach the cards to the frame of the bike with the clothespins and the cards protruded into the spokes of the front and rear wheels. As I coasted down the hill at break neck speed, the cards would clap and chatter, producing a sound that to me resembled a roaring engine. The bike was so heavy I usually just walked it up a hill, the cards still clapping, but sounding more like the tick tock of the grandfather clock at home. But once at the top of hill, off I would go, streamers flying, no shirt, no shoes, no helmet and no hands……..clap..clap…clap…. ROAR! I never wore a helmet when riding a bicycle until I was in my late twenties.

We as children played much differently than the children of today. We were outdoors much more often, climbing trees and sometimes falling out of them, scouting the woods playing army or cowboys and Indians. There were no cell phones to stay in touch with our parents. We simply knew when lunch and supper was and would mosey toward the house at that time. Sometimes the time would catch us by surprise and we would hear off in the distance our mother yelling at the top of her lungs, “Jeff…… Ronnie….. Jeff…..Lunch.” We would usually get a short reprimand from our mother for making her yell for us, but my playmates and I would sit on the back porch eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches with ice cold lemonade, woofing it down in a few bites to hurry back to our games in the woods. There were no electronic games to keep us entertained. There were board games such as Monopoly, Checkers, Chinese Checkers, and we would routinely play tic tack toe, drawing the boxes, x’s and o’s in the dirt and erasing each game with the sweep of our foot. There were of course team sports that we played, such as baseball, football, and basketball which we would play in small patches of somewhat flat land. Baseball was played with wooden bats and we wore no helmets or protective gear. We would configure the diamond using logs or large rocks as bases. The field was so small that there were numerous broken windows from foul balls or erroneous throws to the neighboring houses. Soccer was hardly even heard of and the closest we ever came to playing soccer was participating in a game called Kick Ball. This was played much like baseball but was done with a soccer size ball and kicked into play. Games such as Hide and Seek, playing Tag, and Simon Sez, were just a few more that we played routinely. After dark we could be found catching lightening bugs, seeing who could catch the most, sometimes pinching off their glowing ends and placing them on our finger for a glorious glowing ring. Hula hoops, Cork ball, roller skates with keys, Kick the Can, Jacks, and Pick up Stix all kept us busy and entertained.

Where I grew up in East Tennessee, there was very little illicit drug use. Drugs in general did not seem to be a problem in society, except in large urban areas such as New York City, until the 1970’s. ‘Flower Children’, Hippies, Vietnam, and all of the anti-war hype seemed to have spurred the drug revolution that eventually branched into most every part of society by the mid 70’s. Even though illicit drug use did not appear to be a problem in high school, the drinking of alcohol was. Drinking Schlitz Beer from quart bottles was a Friday night past time. With windows down and the radio blasting out tunes such as Herman’s Hermits, “I’m Into Something Good” or Gerry and The Pacemakers, “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying,” and The Beatles, Dave Clark Five, and The Beach Boys, we cruised the streets. Cars with four or five guys, all in their teens, cruising the drive-in diners, passing the quart bottle of Schlitz around the car, smoking Marlboro’s, attempting to be like our favorite heroes such as Sean Connery, John Wayne, Frank Sinatra, and Steve McQueen. Teen girls would also frequent the drive-in diners and this provided a great venue for teens to show off their cars and do a little flirting.

Drive-in theatres were also popular during my teen years. It was a great place to take a date, because all you paid was 75 cents each to get in and then you would find a parking spot toward the back of the lot and make-out, we called in necking back then, for the length of the movie. Guys would sometimes go as a group. The driver and one passenger would drive through the ticket booth, paying for only two, while three or four guys would be shut in the trunk of the car, successfully avoiding the cost. Once inside and parked, the driver would unlock the trunk and the four or five guys would enjoy the movie, sipping on their quarts of Schlitz.

I have a lot of good memories of the 50’s and 60’s and in some ways I too feel like those were the ‘Good Old Days’, but looking back, it was a wonder we survived. Unfortunately, many of my friends did not. Some were lost in Vietnam, some to drugs in the 70’s, some to cancer, liver disease and tragic accidents. I feel fortunate to have experienced those days that are sometimes referred to as the ‘Good Old Days’ but I am also glad that things are better now. I believe children which are being raised in the present, have many more advantages than we had in the 50’s. With the advances in medicine, safer automobiles, more stringent laws to curb drunk driving and underage drinking, laws prohibiting tobacco sales to minors and the use of seatbelts, bicycle helmets and cell phones for emergencies, the world is much safer now and if approached with the right attitude, it can be rewarding and provide a lot of good memories for years into the future.

I have fond memories of many of my friends and I am saddened that so many have passed on. I feel the loss at the strangest times. When I eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich, see a quart bottle of beer in a convenient store, or a pack of Swisher Sweet Cigars, hear an old tune of the Beatles or the Beach Boys. The memories I have for these I loved as friends will be with me forever, warming my heart and making me so thankful I had the opportunity to call them a friend. To the friends that have passed on, I thank you for the wonderful memories:

Barry Anfinson, Dennis Armstrong, Garry Berrier, Danny Coker, Ben Foust, Gary Gilbert, Beth Maples, Joel Pike, Randy Seals, Chris Settle, Kenny Smiddy, and Henry Thomas, James Davis, Brenda Dyer, Gene Galford, Michael Hurst, Linda Kidwell, Mary Murman, Patti Walker, Teddy Welch and Mary Williams.

Mt. Tallac's "The Nut Cracker"

Mt. Tallac’s “The Nut Cracker”

It was July 19^th, 2011. I had spent the last four days hiking and climbing small peaks around South Lake Tahoe in California. I planned to spend seven days around Lake Tahoe, climbing and hiking pieces of the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail) and the Tahoe Rim Trail and take one day to climb the tallest peak in the area, Mt. Tallac. The eighth day I would drive south to Yosemite and hook up with a few buddies to do some hiking and climbing there for a week.

Mt. Tallac stands 9,735 ft and almost anywhere you stand in Tahoe, this mountain dominates the southwestern sky. This particular winter provided record snow falls for Yosemite as well as Tahoe, and even in mid July, many of the peaks were still heavily laden with snow. Wild flowers of every color dotted the rocky slopes and grassy meadows only missing noticeably in snow fields that could be four feet deep in places. The skies all week had been cloudless; the temperatures in the seventies during the day but dropping to the forties at night even in the lower elevations. It provided perfect weather for my agenda.

The trails and peaks I attempted this first week were relatively tame. The only one that I would have considered difficult was Mt. Tallac. I consulted the rangers at one of the many ranger stations as to the trail conditions, amount of snow I would encounter and up to date weather forecast before I took off for the trail head of Mt. Tallac. The rangers informed me that even though there was still plenty of snow on Mt. Tallac, especially above 8,000 ft., it was passable and I shouldn’t encounter any problems. Hiking and climbing by myself, I feel more comfortable when trail conditions and weather are in my favor.

It took me a full day of strenuous hiking and climbing to reach the summit and to work my way back down the snow and scree fields on the eastern slope. It turned out to be one of the most difficult climbs I had ever done. Once I had reached 8,000 ft elevation the trail would disappear, being covered by four foot deep snow fields the size of football fields. I would cross the snow fields then have to zig zag on the other side till I found the trail. Then I would find myself facing a series of scree fields which I would have to negotiate my way across, doing bouldering across the larger rocks and then find myself scrambling up steep slopes of loose scree, which flowed down the steep slopes below my feet as if it was lava.

Once I reached the upper most ridgeline, about a mile south of the summit, the hiking and climb became much easier. There were grand views to the east and west and the snow fields became almost non-existent, giving way instead to huge alpine meadows filled with wild flowers. It was about this part of the hike that I realized that somewhere on the way up I must have sprained my left hand. My left index finger and knuckle was swollen substantially and throbbed with pain. There had been a very precarious traverse across the face of a bowl on the eastern slope of the mountain. The slope was close to a 45 degree pitch and the snow was very unstable. Where there was not snow, there was loose scree. I had fallen several times during this section and eventually found myself mostly on my hands and knees as I inched my way across the difficult section. It was probably during this traverse where I had injured my hand. I figured it was probably just a bad sprain and continued toward the summit.

Once on the summit of Mt. Tallac there were tremendous views of Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake to the northeast. The two huge lakes appeared to be two small drops of royal blue amongst a range of snow peaked mountains layered across the topography below. The view gave no hint of any civilization. I knew from my angle of view where South Lake Tahoe was, and with its many high rise Casinos, one would have thought these would have been visible, but as hard as I tried, I could only imagine.

I sat there amongst the jagged rock outcroppings at 9,735 ft. looking down, imagining the sidewalks of South Lake Tahoe, busy with tourists, gamblers, honeymooners and families stopping and staring at the huge, snowcapped peak to their southwest, looking so close yet so inaccessible. They no doubt stared at the peak and stood amazed at the grandeur and the beauty that Mt. Tallac portrayed, yet as I sat on the very top and looked down, the massiveness, the grandeur and beauty was even more impressive. The actual size and the personality of the mountain becomes evident only when one climbs it, immersing oneself into the actual parts of the mountain, the individual rocks, standing knee deep in it’s snow, crossing it’s many streams, and resting in a meadow of wild flowers that appears to dance to the silent song of a soft breeze. So as I looked out to where the casinos were, I couldn’t see them, and as hard as they might try, they couldn’t even begin to see the real Mt. Tallac.

The climb back down Mt. Tallac was not any easier than the climb up. The difficult traverse across the eastern slope full of soft snow and scree was not any easier and maybe even more difficult as the snow became softer as the day’s heat worked at melting. My left hand continued to swell and nothing seemed to give relief from the throbbing pain. I fell many more times on the way down, scraping my arms and legs. Bruises began to appear on my thighs and forearms from falls that I could not identify because there had been so many. I steadily worked my way back down to the bottom, slipping, sliding, and falling most of the way till I finally reached the end of the trail, which had been the beginning ten hours before.

By the time I drove back to the hotel where I was staying, my body was aching all over. Every joint pained with the slightest motion and I was tired beyond belief. I limped into my room, throwing my pack onto the bed and grabbed an ice cold beer from the mini fridge. I circled my left hand around the ice cold can, attempting to use it as a cold compress, treating the swelling and pain of the sprained left hand. I started the shower, allowing the room to steam as I took off all my clothes. I stood looking into the mirror examining the surfaces of my body, noticing the numerous scrapes and bruises that appeared in places that I couldn’t imagine how they occurred. As the mirror began to become opaque with the warm steam from the shower, I noticed that not only my left hand was significantly swollen but also my left scrotum.

As I studied the swollen sack, I was relieved to realize there was no pain, nor any discoloration to the area. I wondered to myself what may be the cause for the significant swelling. Could it have been caused by one of the falls? Could it be the result of over exertion resulting in some form of a hernia? No answers came to me immediately and since there were no other symptoms, I simply gulped down my cold compress (my beer) in two lengthy gulps and climbed into the shower.

After the shower I felt somewhat better and continued to use cans of beer as a cold compress for my left hand and taking the beer internally for my swollen nut, brings new meaning to beer nuts!. Even though the swelling in both my left hand and left nut did not seem to be reduced by the effort, I did begin to feel better.

Over the next ten days, I continued to ice my left hand and to monitor the swelling of my family jewels. Actually it was only the left jewel that seemed to have a problem. I continued to hike and climb, eventually hooking up with several buddies and spending a week in Yosemite. None of my injuries seemed to be debilitating in any way and I continued the trip as I would have done if no injury had occurred. Once at Yosemite I did briefly consider seeking medical attention for my left hand, but I didn’t want it to interfere with my trip and I knew I already had a scheduled physical exam with my family doctor the week after I returned home. I decided to ignore the injuries and once back home; I would address the issues with my family physician.

Thirteen days after the climb of Mt. Tallac, I was home and on my way to my appointment with my family physician for my annual physical exam. I must admit that I was a little anxious about bringing up the issue of my swollen left nut. I realize that I should not be embarrassed. I should simply explain what happened, let the exam progress and listen to his findings and possible treatment. My left hand had finally returned to normal and I had decided not to even mention that injury. Once at the physician’s office the receptionist informed me that my regular family physician was out, but Ann, the physician’s assistant would see me. “Have a seat and she’ll be with you shortly.” The receptionist said as she went back to schedule book and answering the phone.

I sat in the waiting room with a whole new level of anxiety. Not only was I going to have to drop my drawers, show my manhood, have them poke and prod what I consider my privates but it would be done by a female that I hardly knew. I don’t want you to think that I’m some sort of prude, because I’m not. I have no inhibitions when it comes to nudity. I’ve gone skinny dipping, frequented hot tubs and routinely parade around the house nude and I have no concerns doing so. Somehow, in a clinical setting it’s different. I began to formulate the verbiage I was to use when I discussed the swollen appendage with Ann.

“Hello Mr. Morgan…… let’s see….. last physical exam about a year ago. Blood pressure good, pulse good, we’ve taken some blood for the lab, and we’ll get those results in a few days. Any problems?” Ann said as she looked up from the chart.

“Well kind of……….” I stopped as she stood and put her stethoscope to her ears and told me to take a deep breath as she moved the device across my back.

“Lungs clear….. what’s been going on?” Ann said.

I began to explain the last three weeks, where I had been, what I had been doing and began describing Mt Tallac in detail. I explained how difficult the climb had been, how many times I had fallen and the severe swelling that occurred to my left hand due to an apparent sprain. She grabbed my hand and I waved it off saying that the swelling had eventually gone away and the pain was almost gone.

“What did you do for the sprain?” She questioned as she began to feel my neck, probing for unseen glands and other things I assume.

“I found that an ice cold can of beer worked perfectly as a cold compress. I simply held it in my left hand. Seemed to help.” I said almost proud of myself for thinking of the ingenuity of the treatment.

“Hmmm…. that works.” Ann said as she stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth and told me to say ahhhh. “Any other problems?”

“Yeah…… After I came off the mountain I noticed I had a significant swelling to my…..” and I just simply looked down to my crotch, hoping that she could read my mind, preventing me from having to say, “My left nut magically grew to the size of a baseball, you want to see?”

“A swelling to the groin?” She questioned. “Any pain or discoloration? Let’s take a look.” She said as she sat back down on her little round stool and asked me to stand.

I realize that these professionals, these physicians, physician assistants and nurses, routinely see the different parts of the human body; parts from female, male, old and young. To them these examinations of the anatomy are probably not much different than an automobile mechanics viewing a blown head gasket or a leaky carburetor. They simply look at our parts as just that, parts of a system that they have to make work correctly. While waiting in the waiting room, I gave this much thought, and I rationalized that my problem was just another part, on another patient, that must be fixed, but as I stood in front of the physician assistant, I was sweating and shaking with embarrassment as I prepared to reveal my blown head gasket. At least it wasn’t a broken crank shaft!

I dropped my drawers and stood facing her as she adjusted her eyeglasses and stared at the area of appendages, that hung unresponsive to the coolness of the room or even to the attention they were receiving.

“My…… there is a lot of swelling to the left side. Is there any pain or discomfort?” As she gently felt the surrounding area searching for I don’t know what.

“No…. not at all. As a matter of fact I thought about letting it stay as it is… I’ve never looked better in Speedos!” I said in an attempt to lighten the stress I was feeling.

Ann, the physician gave a little chuckle at my attempt at humor and continued feeling the area of my lower abdomen. “Can you have sex?” She questioned as she continued to probe.

This question took me off guard, and looking back I probably should have expected it, but for a brief moment I was speechless. Let me say that like most men, I am very uncomfortable in any type of clinical setting, especially when I’m the patient. It becomes very uncomfortable when there becomes discussion as to my ability to perform. Not that I’ve ever felt that I’ve had problem, but when questions are asked about performance there is no easy answer. If you say…… “Oh no not at all.” Then you become a braggart. If you say “Sometimes..” Then you become a wimp of sorts. There is no easy answer.

Enough silence occurred to cause Ann, to question me once again, “Sex…….. can you have sex?”

“Well…… I’m happily married to a wonderful woman that I love very much, so I better not…. But thanks for asking.” I said this on the fly, another attempt at humor and it worked for me, because I was beginning to feel for once at ease. Ann glanced at me as if to say “What?” Not able to fully understand my remark while at the same time holding my swollen left nut in her right hand.

“I mean…… can you……you know….. perform……. With your wife?” Ann said as she grinned, albeit was almost to herself, wanting to maintain some amount of professionalism.

“Yeah…. No problem.”

“Have you taken anything for the problem….any cold compresses….Advil or Motrin?” She questioned.

“I used the cold compresses on my hand….. you know the ice cold beer cans…. Then I would drink the beer…. Seemed to help that some.” As I pointed to the issue still in her hand.

“Well…. Probably wouldn’t hurt any…but I doubt it would help either. Let’s set you up with an urologist. Make sure nothing else is going on there. They’ll probably set you up for an ultra-sound. Ok?” She said as she rolled herself on the little round stool back to the counter and started writing notes in the chart.

“Ok.” I said as I began to pull my pants back up to a point of respect.

The next couple of weeks went by with me seeing a variety of physicians, and ultra- sound technicians and the same scenario ensued with embarrassment and concern on my part and concern, interest and embarrassment to a degree on their part as they decided my fate.

Surgery! That was the final prognosis. The details were explained in vivid detail but I elected to ignore the details then reluctantly signed for the necessary procedure. They explained that what had occurred was merely due to trauma and that the only way to correct the problem was surgery, controlled trauma?

I was lying in surgery pre-op when everyone who was the least remotely employed by the hospital seemed to show up and come in, introduce themselves, and begin asking me questions. What’s your name, what’s your date of birth, Why am I here, Which side…. Left or right and it went on and on. The anesthesiologist, an Indian lady, came in and began asking a series of questions. Date of birth? Any allergies? Any problems with anesthesia in the past? Then she asked, “Mr. Morgan any heart problems?”

“No.”

“Any history of heart attacks in the family?”

“No.”

“Any history of Tachycardia or Bradycardia?”

“No.”

“So no issues with the heart?”

I stopped, and once again I could not help myself, “Once……..” and I waited to measure the physician’s response.

Nothing was said; the physician simply brought my chart closer to herself as she prepared to make the necessary notes for her protection.

“My heart was broken once in high school….. Still have the scar….. you want to see?” I said this so matter of factly that for a moment I thought she was going to expect me to pull my gown up for her to view the grotesque scar.

Instead she made a few notes in the chart and briskly walked out of the room, apparently pissed at something.

If she had looked….. noticed the enlarged appendage…. And understood how it had happened….maybe she would not have been so pissed. Maybe she would have understood how I felt. Embarrassed, worried, and apprehensive, but she was gone in a flash, on to the next patient with their own concerns and insecurities.

The surgery went well. No problems. And after several days had passed, I was back to normal. The swelling was magically gone. There were a few stitches and a little pain, but thinking back on how I felt on Mt. Tallac, the pain, the concern, and the worry; this was minuscule. It made me think about the view from the summit, looking down on the valley below. The tourists, the families below were unable to see the full grandeur of Mt. Tallac before them. I on the other hand became a part of the mountain, struggling and pushing myself to its limits. I was able to fully realize the beauty, the grandeur of the mountain. I find it strange that the only way to view a mountain is from a distance, but one must climb it, suffering, feeling the aches and pains, dealing with the exhaustion, to be able to see the mountain in its entirety. I think that’s why I and many others do what we do, to see the mountains in their entirety. They brought a wheel chair to wheel me to my waiting car, and I stood, took a few tentative steps, and thanked God that I was going to be able to climb the next Mt. Tallac.

The Valentine Letters

The Valentine Letters

Here it was February 6th and I still hadn’t decided on what to get my wife and daughter for Valentine’s. I had been shopping for that special present, which would portray my deep feelings for the two most special women in my life. This year I was having an extremely difficult time with this task.

In years past, I would simply buy an expensive red sweater, a gold bracelet or necklace, combine it with a sweet valentine card and I would be done. The cards would most always be poetic, penned by an unknown author. This unknown writer was paid by Hallmark to crank out a multitude of sweet messages, offering a bit of variety in the messages, so that all the insensitive and non-talented, husbands and boyfriends, like myself, would have a choice of sweet sayings and heart felt lines of poetic words, to hopefully impress and possibly convince their loved one that they were sensitive and emotionally endearing. My wife and my daughter were always pleased with these tokens of affection, but I knew they fell way short as to what I really felt and even though my wife and daughter feigned being surprised and pleased, I knew my attempt failed miserably.

I remember signing my very first Valentine card when I was in the second grade. My Mother had purchased a box of the cheap, cartoon type, children’s valentines and informed me that if I wanted to give one classmate a card, I would have to give every classmate a card. She explained that if I only gave one person a card, that it would hurt the other classmate’s feelings and to make me further understand she gave me an example. She questioned me as to whom did I want to give a card to. I answered without hesitation, “Diane Gwen and Ricky Gallaher.”

She looked at me with a slight smile on her face and said, “Now what if Diane gave Ricky a valentine card but did not give you one?”

She waited a moment, studying my face as I wrestled with the idea myself, trying to find a way to argue the point, but finally realizing that like always, she was right. I bowed my head as if ashamed and began thumbing through the meaningless cards before me, saying under my breath, “Yeah….. I guess your right.” As I began to shuffle through the cards, studying them in detail I looked at my Mother and asked, “But can I give Diane the one with the bear on it and Ricky the one with the dog? They would like those.”

“Sure you can. You see if they realize you know them as well as you do, by picking out the bear and the dog for them, then they will know you think their special.” My mom said this with a hint of pride, hugging me, realizing that I had begun to understand the concept of friendship and love.

Here I am fifty years later and struggling with the same concept, and this time I can’t give one the bear and the other the dog! So I pull into Jared’s Jewelry store determined to find those special trinkets that captures the feelings I have for these two special people in my life.

There was a middle-aged lady, standing behind the jewelry counter, and as I entered the store she smiled and asked if I needed any help. I could not help but think she saw the desperation on my face as I entered but I tried to be cool and simply said I was “just looking.” I walked around the jewelry cases, studying the necklaces and bracelets, trying to picture what they would look like on my wife and daughter. Most of the pieces of jewelry had their prices hidden; the tag turned upside down, or coded such that I could only guess at the price. Eventually the nice lady approached me once again and simply said that if I had any questions, she would attempt to answer them for me. Giving in to her offer, I explained to her that I was looking for something very special for my wife and daughter for Valentines. I continued explaining to her that I wanted it to mean something. It had to be special.

She questioned me as to their ages. Did they prefer white or yellow gold, necklaces or bracelets, diamonds or gemstones. After answering all of her questions to the best of my ability, she took me to the far end of the counter and opened the case beneath. She selected a LeVian, 14k Gold, Diamond & Raspberry Rhodolite necklace. It was a teardrop pendant of raspberry Rhodolite, surrounded by intense round chocolate and white diamonds, suspended on an 18 inch cable chain. It was pretty…………................. It was nice………......................... It was $799.99.

The nice lady handed it to me to hold and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it. Was I to bite the diamonds to make sure they were real or spit on the gold cable chain to see if it turned blue? Maybe I would shock her and ask her to clasp it around my neck. I studied the workmanship in the piece of jewelry and it truly was beautiful. The lady then said, “This particular piece has been extremely popular this Valentines. We’ve sold ten this week. Your wife would love it.”

“I’m sure she would.” At least till she realized that the neighbor down the street had the same necklace given to her by her dorky husband! “Thank-you so much for helping me, this necklace is really pretty, but I need to find something………..

“Special?” She finished my sentence for me, and I simply nodded and handed her the $799.99 necklace back. I started to ask her if she had a necklace that had a bear on it and one that had a dog on it but I don’t think she would have understood. I walked out empty handed once again.

By the time I was in junior highschool and I had reached puberty, Valentine’s Day had a whole different meaning to me. It was much different than what my Mother had taught me back in the second grade. With hormones raging in both the boys and the girls, Valentine’s Day was the day of ‘Reckoning’ for most. The strategy was simple. You picked the best looking girl which you felt you might have a chance with, and put all your efforts into that one girl. You saved every dime from your allowance and you’re mowing of lawns to buy her the most grandiloquent card and gaudy piece of jewelry you could afford. You would present it to her and then sit back and enjoy the hugs and kisses that came your way. In a way this was exactly the opposite of what my Mother had taught me back in the second grade. Now you didn’t worry about the other peoples feelings, because in reality there were no feelings at all. You simply gave a gift, an acknowledgement of sorts to someone you thought was attractive, and if your strategy worked you got paid back in the form of attention and possibly a little affection. Life was simple.

College days were even better. I don’t know if it was the result of all the education or simply gained experience in relationships but by the time I reached college, I realized that going steady, dating, and showing extreme affection toward a girl was the best thing I could do to keep life interesting and subdue the stress of studies, although it was important to realize that for three months, December, January and February, one had to stay out of a relationship. I discovered that if you were not in a relationship during those three months then there would be no Christmas presents to buy and I would not have to worry about the Valentine’s Day gift or card at all. All the expectations that surrounded these two special holidays were eliminated, simply by avoiding a relationship during this time. I don’t want you to think that I was being cheap or cold hearted, because in reality the relationships I speak of were rather shallow to begin with. One of the relationships was based primarily on the fact that she and I drank the same kind of beer, and we could easily share a pitcher at the neighborhood watering hole without much discussion or debate. In my eyes, we were very much compatible and in an entrusting relationship. Even though this immature strategy worked for me in college, I don’t think my Wife or daughter would like the idea of me breaking it off with them for three months out of the year, and to tell you the truth, I would not like it either, because our relationship is meaningful, it is deep and heartfelt. That is why I have to find that special gift for both of them. You’re probably wondering how I’ve managed to find the perfect gifts for them in the past. I have been married thirty years now and my daughter is twenty-four, and I don’t think I have ever given them what they deserved. I can give them my love, my devotion, my respect and trust, but to find that present, that gift, or that card that expresses all this seems to be beyond my capabilities. So I continue to search, debating all the options, how best to show my love.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on-line searching for romantic weekend getaway destinations such as the Bahamas, Virgin Islands and even considered a Bed & Breakfast in Hot Springs, North Carolina for my Wife and I. I studied several Adventure weekend getaways for my daughter and I. Several of these appeared to be promising and I decided that, yes, I would have to do some of these but not for Valentine’s Day. There was no way I could whisk my Wife or my daughter off for a long weekend, without some in depth planning on my part and also had to have their input for their schedules. It would not be a surprise.

After several days of frustration, visits to the mall, more jewelry stores, and on-line searching I gave up. I decided that once again I would buy one of those cheesy Hallmark Valentine cards, throw in a sweater and a box of chocolates and be done with it; after all they had to know how much I loved them.

That’s when it hit me. The second grade when my mother said, “If you know them that well, they will realize what you chose was special for them.” I knew then what I would do for my wife and daughter. I would simply write them, in my own words a letter, expressing how I felt for each of them. How much they each meant to me. I was on a mission now, not to find a card, a necklace, or a box of candy but rather the right words that mirrored my heart. This was not going to be easy!




The letter I wrote to my wife is as follows:




To Rhonda, My Dear Wife,

Let me first say that I am so sorry that I don’t tell you how much I love you more than I do. It’s not because I don’t feel the love, it’s simply because I run out of ways to say it in a meaningful way. The way it deserves to be said to you.

I don’t pretend to know what love is to everyone, but I know what it is for me: Love is knowing all about someone, and still wanting to be with them more than any other person, love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things that you might be ashamed of, love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into the room and smile at you. I guess in a way, love is just a word, until someone like you comes along and gives it meaning.

I spent many years looking for the right woman. The woman I could live with the rest of my life, instead I found you, the woman I could not live without.

I thank God everyday for bringing you into my life. You inspire me to be a better than I would have been on my own, teaching me to laugh and see the joy in life. You have given me your unconditional love and demanded nothing in return. You have been an unselfish mother to our daughter, sacrificing your time and energy to give her a better life and even after a hard day at work, an afternoon full of running errands and car pools you still find time for me. You give me that smile, you have my undivided attention, you give me that laugh, you have my urge to laugh with you, when you cry, you have my urge to hold you, but when you tell me you love me, you have my heart forever.

Thank-you so much for being you.

Love you
Jeff



The letter to my daughter followed:




To My Daughter Haley,

If I had been asked twenty-four years ago, what more could a man like me want, I would not have known how to answer. I had everything. I had a beautiful wife that I loved dearly and she apparently loved me. I had a good job, good health, a nice house and a bright future. I was happy.

Even though I did not know what I was missing, God did, and soon you were born.

From the very first time I laid eyes on you, I felt love like I had never felt before. I had never held a baby before in my life, and immediately after you were born you were thrust into my apprehensive arms. My heart raced, trying to remember the things I had read on how to properly hold an infant, but then a funny thing happened. My heart took over and the love I felt somehow guided me to do the right things.

I watched as you grew, and I shouted with joy as we together took your first steps. I shared in the joy of your discoveries of the world around you and felt your pain as much if not more than you, when things did not go just right.

I watched as you became a woman, reminding me of your beautiful mom, when she was your age and even though I consider you lucky not to have acquired my looks, I still see part of myself in you everyday. I am glad you have learned to see the humor in life, the joys, the trials and the rewards that come with living and I thank God everyday that I am there to share it with you as I was when I held you that very first time.

I know I don’t tell you I love you as much as I should, but I simply run out of ways to express it in a meaningful way. Sometimes I wish I could just simply turn my heart inside-out, and simply let you see for yourself, but we know this is not possible, so I will continue to attempt to show you how much you truly mean to your Mother and I. Hopefully as I did the day I first held you, I will let the heart take over, and let the love guide me to do the right things.

Thank-you for being such a loving daughter

Love You,
Dad


Once the letters were written, I read them over and over, changing a word here and there and even though I knew it would never win a Pulitzer Prize or even draw accolades from Hallmark, I knew it was written from my heart, and somehow I knew that both my wife and daughter would see these letters much the same as Diane Gwen and Ricky Gallaher viewed the ‘Bear’ and ‘Dog’ cards, they would understand that they were special.

I sealed each letter in their respective envelopes and addressed each, and stopped by the FedEx store to send the precious documents to my wife and daughter. I was assured they would be delivered on Valentine’s Day. I walked away feeling satisfied with my effort.

Valentine’s Day arrived. I, myself, received a touching and sweet Hallmark card from my wife and I got a beautiful red sweater from my daughter. I anxiously waited for the girl’s letters to be delivered.

Mid-afternoon there was a knock at the door, my wife and daughter, glancing my way as if to encourage me to answer the door. They both were watching television and seemingly did not want to be disturbed, but I did not budge. I picked up the newspaper, pretending to read, seemingly oblivious to the knock at the door. Rhonda, my wife, begrudgingly walked to the front door, retrieving the two FedEx envelopes addressed to her and my daughter. The expression on their faces was priceless as they both wondered what the two envelopes could contain. As they tore open the envelopes and began to read, their expressions turned from inquisitive, to surprise, to heartfelt emotions as tears trickled down each of their cheeks as they read the contents. As they both finished their letters they both came to hug me, tears on their cheeks dampening my beard, both expressing their surprise and appreciation for such thoughtfulness. My wife hugged me and still with tears running down her cheek and a smile gracing her lips, she explained, “That was the sweetest thing I have ever received from anyone. The only thing that could have made it better was if I had gotten my letter and Haley had gotten hers.” She gave a little laugh under her breath and reached up and kissed me on my cheek. I glanced at her and my daughter and they explained that the envelope addressed to my wife had actually contained the letter to my daughter and my daughter’s envelope contained my wife’s letter. They exchanged the letters and each read the correct one as I sat dumfounded, amazed at my stupid mistake.

After reading the correct letters they both were even more impressed and assured me that actually it was kind of neat to have read the wrong letter first. They talked about each other’s letter and how sweet certain lines were and how they could not believe I was so thoughtful as to reveal these heartfelt emotions in the way I did. I then excused myself and went to my desk and retrieved two small envelopes. One simply said ‘Rhonda’ the other said ‘Haley’. They tore open the envelopes only to reveal two, child like, Valentine cards. One was a bear that said “Be my Valentine” the other was a dog that said “Be my Valentine”. Both my daughter and my Wife looked at me as if questioning my sanity. I simply said, “Let me tell you the story.”

EVENING STAR

Evening Star


Two days after my mother had passed, I found myself sorting through old photos in her now vacant room at the nursing home. I felt overwhelmed, not by the quantity of items, for there was not much to go through, but it was the emotions that were attached to certain items and in particular certain photographs. These I found to be heart wrenching. Every nook and cranny in my Mother’s room seemed to have photos of our family’s past. There were old black and white photos, yellowing with age, images of what once was. A photo of my Mother and Father as a young married couple, their happiness apparent in their smiles and their eyes gazing into the lens of the camera with a sense of anticipation and hope, full of dreams of what the future might bring. There were recent photos also intermingled throughout the agglomeration of prints. My Mother wrinkled from age, hair thin and gray, a slight smile gracing her pursed lips and the twinkle in her eyes dimmed to just a glimmer of what it had been in years past. All the hope, dreams and anticipation she once had seemingly vanquished from her soul. I thumbed through a stack of old photos, stopping at one of me and my Mother when I was only about six years old. I was smiling broadly, probably laughing at something the photographer had said and my Mother smiling the same, as if there were no worries and her dreams fulfilled. A tear slowly trickled down my cheek as more memories came to mind.

“Morning Glory.” That was what my mom used as a greeting to most everyone and in time everyone began to associate this simple and unique greeting to Garnet, my Mom. She would always insist they give the proper response which was “and Evening Star.” I never understood the meaning behind the greeting, and I’m not sure she did either, but it became a part of my Mom as much as her blue-gray eyes and her comedic personality. It’s been said that the Morning Glory flower symbolizes ‘Love in Vain’ and the Evening Star, which is actually the planet Venus appearing on the Western horizon just after sunset, has been used for centuries by ancient civilizations to give direction to lost sailors and to aid in navigation. What-ever the real meaning behind the greeting and response, I like to think it was something my Mom had a clear understanding of and to her it was special.

Three days ago I was called and told my Mother was taken from the nursing home to the hospital. The attending physician sadly informed me that she was not expected to live through the night. I notified my brother and sister and we all made the necessary arrangements to travel and be by her side. Hopefully we would all arrive before she succumbed. My Mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s three years previous and the disease had taken most of her mental faculties, leaving only a worn and sickened shell of a body. As the disease progressed and we saw our mother regress we began to realize the end was near, it still left us in disbelief; unable to accept and comprehend the simple finality of life.

The hospital room was small, my mother lying in her bed, appearing to be unconscious; struggling with every breath was what we watched. We found ourselves trying to breathe deeper ourselves, subconsciously trying to take her next breath for her, only to see her once again grab another gasp of air. The only sound was an occasional beep from the monitors that disturbed the slow, shallow whispers of breathing as we sat in silence. Each of us lost in our own thoughts, struggling with what we knew was inevitable. I found myself dwelling on memories of time past with my Mom. Back to when she was healthy and young, always there to hug me when I was hurt, always giving me encouragement when I struggled, and seemingly absorbing all the pain and sorrow of each of her children with no regret or hesitation. She was the backbone of our family, the cohesion that held the different personalities and souls of our family together.

Looking back to when I was young, I realize now that even though I can only remember a couple of times that my mother actually spanked me, she was our family’s disciplinarian. She kept order by casting a warning glance or quoting a bible verse to make a point, making us feel ashamed and guilty for causing her so much disappointment. She would often say, “Just wait till your father gets home,” a warning that would always put fear in us, but never did it ever come to be. By the time my father arrived from work, the punishment had always been administered in her motherly way, leaving us alone in our room having to deal with the shame that we felt having disappointed our mother.

I remember once being punished in a very unique way. What’s strange is I can’t remember what I did wrong now, but I can vividly remember her punishment. Giving me that glare of motherly disappointment she instructed me to go out to the yard and retrieve a switch. She further instructed it had better be a substantial one. Sobbing and feeling terribly guilty, I slowly did as I was told, bringing her a long, flexible, whip of a stick. As I quivered and sobbed, begging her not to whip me, she simply knelt and instructed me to whip her instead. I stood there confused and bewildered as to her command. With sobs of her own she explained how much it hurt her to spank or discipline me and that she wanted me to feel the same pain and hurt she always felt when administering any form of discipline. I stood there shaking and crying, begging her not to make me whip her. At nine years old, I learned a life long lesson that day about love, life and pain that runs much deeper than I had realized before.

Sitting on her hospital bed, with the smells of antiseptic cleaners and solutions filling the tiny room in the nursing home my mother had spent her last days, I once again began thumbing through the old photos. My emotions were darting from past to present with a confused mingling of thoughts. I came across a photo of my brother and me, posing with our mother on the front steps of our house. I was about thirteen, my brother sixteen and we all appeared happy and content. It reminded me of the time our family was sitting around the dinner table, which was almost always an informal event. Five of us crowded around a small dinette, plates filled from the stove, each describing their individual events of the day. Fish sticks and ketchup, macaroni and cheese and black-eyed peas filled our plates and we each held our glasses out for our mother to fill with her pitcher of sweet tea. When it came my turn for my glass to be filled, there was an urge deep within me to suddenly yank the glass away from the slow pouring pitcher my mother held in her hand. I’m not sure if I thought that it would be funny or maybe just some adolescent prank that was willed into me by some unknown force, but just at the time she began to fill my glass, I yanked it away. The tea went splashing onto the table. For a brief second there was total quiet as what I did slowly began to register in everyone’s mind. I was waiting for everyone to start laughing, and they eventually did, but not until my Mother, the master of discipline, took the full pitcher of tea and poured it over my head. I sat there aghast, drenched in the cold, sweet beverage amongst the roaring laughter of my siblings and my father. This was one of the few times I ever heard my mother use profane language. As she emptied the pitcher over my head she said, “You little piss-ant.” I wasn’t sure what that meant at the time but I figured it wasn’t good.

Sometimes there was no need for punishment because she was adept at giving sufficient warning and explaining what consequences may occur. One of her favorite sayings was “I’ll cut you down to size,” or another one was “I’ll paint your breeches red.” As a parent myself I have tried these simple phrases on my own daughter, but for some reason they never seemed to have the same affect on her as they did on me.

Profanity was seldom used within our family and this may be why that to this day I still feel uncomfortable using profanity in public. With the exception of sh..t, usually pronounced shhheeee, never completing the sound with the final ‘t’ seemed to make it ok to use in a mixed family setting. When riding with my mother in heavy traffic, showing frustration at some inept driver, I would sometimes hear her say, under her breath, “either shhhheeee or get off the pot.” I do remember on a couple of occasions, her ‘flipping off’, ‘giving the finger’ to an unsuspecting driver that either cut her off or made one of many other driving faux pas. I always found this humorous, because it never seemed very natural for her to do. She always appeared to struggle with the necessary dexterity to maneuver her fingers in such a way as to display the necessary finger in a timely manner.

My mother was extremely religious, dedicated to her church and her deep faith in God. She insisted the family attend and participate in the church as well, and I feel deeply indebted to her for these values. Some of my best friends and many of my mentors that I still try to emulate came from these church settings. She would often speak of the relationship she had with God, describing her conversations with God as if it was done with a friend over a cup of coffee. She always seemed to be closer to God than most, and this now brings me a peace of mind, knowing that she will be in heaven soon, without pain and with God whom she knew so well in life.

After much thought I once again began sorting the photos. I found myself putting family photos in one pile, friends and acquaintances in another, attempting to have them in somewhat chronological order. I study another photo, this one recent, of my worn, tired, and sick Mom posing with her new Great-Grandchild Henry. This photo had just been taken a few weeks before and her happiness overcame the pain and sickness of her physical self. Smiling broadly, she looked at the new soul, the small infant Henry in her arms and seemed to briefly be at peace. I imagined her to be saying, “Morning Glory” as she cradled little Henry in her weakened arms.

Mom passed January 7th, 2011, one day before her eighty-third birthday. My brother Ron, my sister Jodie and I were by her side as she breathed her last breath. It’s comforting to know that she passed peacefully and without pain, with her children by her side seeking comfort and understanding from each other, something Mom had always wanted to be. Everything was silent; there was no sound of shallow breaths or beeping monitors, a moment of reckoning for each child as we gazed at her departed soul. I listened for a sound of life, a comforting word from God, but there was only a whisper within myself that simply said, “Good-bye Evening Star.”

Everyone will deal with the death of a loved one sometime in their life, this is inevitable. No matter how well we prepare ourselves for this, it still will remain difficult and overwhelming emotionally for most. Some will try to lay blame for the taking away of their loved one, sometimes blaming God. Some may blame the physicians that treated their loved ones saying it was their fault, their inability to save them from the illness that took their life. Sometimes one will claim that it is not fair, as if there is an option to death. Kahlil Gibran, a famous Lebanese poet, philosopher and artist once wrote, “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

Thanks Mom for everything, you will be missed.

Strangers and Even Stranger Friends

Strangers and Even Stranger Friends

(Thanks to Rick Harding for supplying the photo)

I’ve been hiking close to forty-five years and have seen and experienced all types of terrain, weather and trail conditions, and an unbelievable hodge-podge of humanity. I have hiked and backpacked in almost every state and many other countries around the world. I’ve met Latins, Germans, Swedish, French, Italians, Russians, Japanese, Canadians, Africans and others that I could not determine their country of origin. I’ve heard almost every major foreign language on the trail at some time or other and my ability to converse, albeit sparse, in Spanish, French, and Swahili, has enabled me to meet and befriend many of these people. Even though English is my major language, my ability to speak the language ‘Southern Redneck’ has benefited me the most. I know most of you are saying to yourself that ‘Southern Redneck’ is not a language but a dialect. I disagree. Try to find some of the words a southern redneck says in an English dictionary and you will discover that perhaps it is another language altogether. Words such as ‘hawngree’ for hungry, ‘mater’ for tomato, ‘tater’ for potato, ‘vittles’ for food, ‘dreckly’ for directly or right-away, ‘crick’ for creek, ‘deech’ for ditch, ‘ya’ll’ is short for all, ‘aint’ for not and the list goes on and on. Also Southern Rednecks will use phrases that at times can not be ‘dreckly’, sorry, directly translated into the more common English language, such as ‘I crossed the crick up yonder a ways’ (I crossed the creek further back). ‘I’m bout to pop’ (I am so full), ‘I’ve a mind to’ (I’m thinking about doing something), ‘Cain’t never could’ (means you will never do it if you don’t try), and ‘hit the bushes’ (go to the bathroom).

There are also colorful remarks or exclamations that are commonly used by the Southern Redneck that separates their language from the more commonly spoken English, such as:

He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket

He squeezes a quarter so tight the eagle screams

He doesn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of

He’s about as useful as a pogo stick in quicksand

If brains were leather, he wouldn’t have enough to saddle a Junebug

Well don’t you look prettier than a glob of butter melting on a stack of wheat cakes

You could start an argument in an empty house

These are just a few examples of the differences I’ve noticed between Southern Redneck and the English language. The reason I even bring this topic up is to try to illustrate the difficulty of conversing with the varied group and-or groups of people one meets on the trail.

I have met people of all ages, from infants to seniors in their ninety’s. There have been yuppies from suburbia, old hippies from the days of Woodstock, ministers, swingers, moonshine toting hillbillies, ex-convicts and I think even some present convicts. I’ve met women; at least they claimed to be women, that could carry a pack twice the size of mine, scale rock walls with more balls than I would ever have. They could eat, drink and cuss as well as any man I’ve known. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I have made the acquaintance of tiny, petite, debutant types that whined, moaned and screamed at every spider or insect that made an appearance. It has become quite evident to me that hikers or backpackers that frequent the wilderness is as much varied as the general population of the world, the only difference being is that at times they are few and far between.

When one encounters these assorted souls on the trail, you almost always take the opportunity and exchange pleasantries, some small talk, and sometimes if taking a rest from the hike, one can have long discussions on a variety of topics from A to Z. Even though these random encounters are at times between people that are as different as night and day, the unspoken brotherhood of hikers and backpackers seem to take precedence, and this provides a path for friendly banter.

This past weekend, my buddy Rick and I headed off to Panthertown Valley in North Carolina for a three day, two night backpack trip. We had originally planned to find Dismal Falls, which we had failed to locate on several attempts in the past, but once we got settled into camp, we decided to kick back and relax for three days instead. The only thing we did during the three days, besides hiking to the campsite and back to the trail-head the last day, was to gather a little firewood, eat, drink, read and sleep. Sometimes it’s nice just to relax and enjoy nature and not have an agenda or destination to accomplish. So we chilled!

The first afternoon (Friday) that I arrived, I set up camp beside the Tuckasege River, in the valley between Little Green Mountain and Black Rock Mountain. It’s a large, flat area, surrounded by tall pines and a few hardwoods. The forest floor is thick with years of fallen pine straw and this makes for perfect sleeping, almost as good as a ‘sleep number’ mattress. There was a group of six to eight, young adults camping across the trail from us and at first I thought I recognized the group from a few months back. They were wearing orange vests; similar to those worn by road crews, and most of them also had orange hooded sweatshirts. As I was gathering firewood, I realized that this was not the same people that I had met previously, but were of the same organization. The group consisted of at least three counselors, ranging in age from the early twenties to late twenties and the rest of the group was in their teens. They were not overly friendly, the counselors merely nodding at me to say hello, and the group continued about their business almost oblivious to everything else around them. I thought this was rather odd. One of the female teens, strolled down the path in front of our campsite and every three seconds yelled, “Monica”. She repeatedly yelled this every three seconds the whole time she was away from her campsite, which was about ten minutes. I assumed she had gone off into the woods ‘to hit the bushes’ (redneck for going to the bathroom) but was clueless as to why she would continue to yell Monica. Each time she yelled she did so as “Monnnn---nica,……….Monnnn---nica,……..Monnnn---nica.”
Weird!

Later, after dark, Rick and I was sitting around our campfire, when once again, one of the girls strolled up the trail past our campsite, with headlamp on, yelling “Monnnn---nica” every three seconds till she returned from her excursion into the bushes. Rick and I discussed this strange behavior, attempting to arrive at some explanation. Rick mentioned that their orange outfits resembled some of North Carolina’s State prisoner’s clothes, which began to make us think that maybe this group was possibly juvenile delinquents from the State’s Prison system out for some wilderness rehabilitation. That was the best explanation that we could come up with. The counselors exhibited very disciplinary behavior and we heard them give a series of orders to each of the younger teens throughout the evening and the next morning. They definitely were not your normal group of friends out for a backpack adventure. As Rick and I extinguished our campfire and each of us retired to our tents we heard in the distance, “Monnnn---nica,……….Monnnn---nica,……..Monnnn---nica.”

The next morning, as Rick and I sat around our morning campfire, eating our breakfast and drinking coffee, rubbing sleep from our dream filled eyes, the juveniles once again captured our attention. We watched as they systematically disassembled their campsite. Tents, tarps, and gear packed per precise orders from the counselors and eventually, each member shouldered their packs and single file disappeared ‘Up yonder trail.’ (Redneck for further up the trail). I started to yell, “Hey Monnnn---nica wer you’ins goin?”
Rick talked me out of it.

During the day, we napped, read, gathered a little more firewood and prepared for another bone chilling night. It was going to be a full moon and the skies were crystal clear.

Mid afternoon a group of sixteen to eighteen adults, carrying large backpacks, strolled into the campsite across from us. They were a mixture of male and female, some appearing to be friends but most appeared to be merely acquaintances. They ranged in age from early twenties to fifty. Some were couples, some appeared to be alone, and they began setting their tents for the night. After about thirty minutes the campsite across from us looked like a tent city. There were probably twelve to thirteen tents, ranging in size from a small one man bivy tent to a large four to five person tent in a varied pallet of colors. It was a strange site.

This group was much friendlier. One guy from the group, Nick, came over and introduced himself to me. He explained the group was an organization from Charlotte, N.C. called CHOA, which stands for Charlotte Outdoor Adventures. This is an organization for young professionals that enjoy hiking, backpacking and camping.

After Rick got back from ‘hitting the bushes’, I explained to him where the group was from and who they were. We watched them as they hurried, gathering firewood, for the cold night ahead. They apparently had no means of cutting the wood they gathered so I offered a bow saw that I always carry. With eighteen bodies scouring the forest’s floor for dead wood and the bow saw, they had a nice pile of wood stacked and ready to burn before dark.

The sun seemed to plummet behind Big Green Mountain to the west and the temperature began to plummet as well, as night fell upon us. The moon, which was to be full, did not rise above the eastern horizon till two to three hours after dark, allowing us to enjoy the multitude of stars, winking from the heavens above. Rick and I sat around our campfire and watched as the moon slowly rose in the eastern sky, eventually casting melancholy moon shadows through the forests. The soft glow of the moon was illuminating the tall, straight, trunks of the yellow birch trees, causing them to have an eerie glow against the backdrop of the dense stand of conifers. We listened to the cacophony from the large group across the way as they sat around their fire, eating and apparently drinking their way to bliss.
As I poked at the fire, stirring it just enough to heighten the flames I said to Rick, “I’m Hawngree!” Rick gave me a blank look, trying to interpret what I had said, but before he could figure it out or simply ask “What?” I restated, “What’sha gonna have for vittles?”
Another blank stare…… then almost by divine intervention he said, “Don’t know, how about you?”

I took a sip of my Maker’s Mark Whisky, and said; “Only thing I got left in my bag…it’s called Beef Broccoli Stir Fry.” I began preparing my stove, arranging my utensils around me realizing that it had been at least two to three hours since I last ate.

We ate our supper discussing world affairs, differing opinions on the major religions, whether true love really exists or not and then onto other important topics such as what makes farts smell different and what makes women so bitchy. We just about had everything figured out when two or three ambassadors from the large group across the way, strolled over carrying plates of food. They explained they had way too much food left over and a good deed deserves a good deed, I guess they were referring to me loaning them my saw. They had huge chunks of Chicken, doused in a variety of spices and herbs, grilled to perfection. Although neither Rick nor I was the least bit hawngree, we thanked the goodwill ambassadors and consumed the parcels with great speed.

The large CHOA group continued to get more boisterous as their adult beverages began to take affect, causing the group to be in a state of constant giggling and laughter. The leader, which I think was named Carlos, initially spoke relatively good English, leading the group in their activities, but by this time, with the alcohol apparently flowing rather freely, he was speaking in a language which was beyond my language abilities. Actually I think he was speaking in ‘tongues’. Maybe this was what the group was giggling and laughing about, who knows?

Two more headlamps, more goodwill ambassadors approached our camp, carrying more plates of food. “Did you guys save room for dessert?” The first guy asked.

Rick and I glanced at each other, rubbing our bellies and I said, “I’m bout to pop!” (Redneck for I’m completely full).

“Got hot pumpkin pie covered in Cool Whip”, the guy said.

“Thanks, guys…..how’n the hell do you get pumpkin pie and Cool Whip out here in the boonies?” I questioned as I grabbed the plate and shoveled a spoonful into my mouth.

The goodwill ambassadors were pleased that they had impressed us with their food. They could tell we were greatly appreciative and I considered sharing with them what Rick and I had concluded earlier in the evening about what causes farts to smell different, but I decided loaning my saw had been enough.

Rick and I stayed up late, watching the moon begin it’s descent to the west, the moon shadows casting ghostly images across the pine straw floor; embers from our fire floating skyward, eventually dying and fading into the blackened sky. With full stomachs and unstressed minds we retired to our tents. As I buried myself into my sleeping bag to thwart the chilled air, I could hear the group across the way, still laughing, talking, some still speaking in tongues and I realized that even though they had been strangers in the beginning, we eventually connected and now I could consider these not strangers but stranger friends.

Rick Harding and I took this trip to Panthertown Valley on November 19th thru the 21st. Great weather, great friends and a great time. Special thanks to Rick for letting me use the photo of the 'tent city'.