Get Motivated!

The motivation seminar advertised above came to our town this week, and, having attended a previous session a few years ago, I decided I wanted to attend again. Although I am now retired and hopelessly out of work (and enjoying it), I was anxious to see how the Power People had progressed in the years since I last visited them. If you have never been to a “motivational seminar,” it is a mixture of exceptionally useful information concerning leadership, salesmanship, motivation, goal setting, business skills, and finances blended with homilies concerning patriotism, religion, and family delivered by speakers possessing the dedication and passion of a Pentecostal preacher. In other words, it’s really entertaining. The speakers, as in this case, are usually the tops in their particular fields and with their wealth of acumen and experience demand a certain amount of respect and admiration and serve as suitable role models for us commoners who aspire to greatness. These people are the movers and shakers in their professions and have left an indelible mark on the fabric of the nation…and some continue to do so. These people also tend to be fairly conservative and Republican, since the bottom line of just about every message is that you can make it with perseverance, hard work, and God’s help. That message pretty well excludes any middle of the road to liberal Democrats serving as motivation speakers, because the concept of individuals pulling themselves up by their bootstraps conflicts with their philosophy of putting anyone who needs help on the government dole.

Two of the speakers were gentlemen whom I had heard before: General Colin Powell and Mr. Zig Ziglar. Others were notable, but having never heard them in person, I wanted to get my own reaction to their message, primarily Rudi Giuliani and Sarah Palin. So, bright and early on a cool Monday morning, I left home and headed to the Toyota Center in downtown Houston. As usual, I wanted to get there early, so I left home about 5:55 am, arriving at the Toyota Center parking garage about 45 minutes later. I realized my expenses for the day were just beginning when I had to pay $20.00 to park my car. But park it I did, and entered the center about 35 minutes before the service was to begin. I was in the “Premier” seating area as compared to the “Executive” seating area, both of which were not to be confused with the “Exclusive” seating area down in front of the stage. If it had been a football stadium, I could say I was in the end zone, but it actually was good, because when Sarah Palin used a podium, she faced us, and she wasn’t too far away to make it distracting. Getting a cup of coffee (small) for $3.00, I made my way to my seat.

At 8:00 the lights dimmed and a young guy came on the stage and sang a really beautiful Star Spangled Banner, followed by our master of ceremonies for the day welcoming us. The Toyota Center was absolutely packed, and I hear there were overflow attendees at the Reliant Center and even a nearby church. I would guess the Toyota Center seats 8,000-10,000 people, so one can say without too much controversy that the turnout for this gig was good. The master of ceremonies was a person you would expect at a seminar for business people, a young, blond (dark roots) photogenic lady with a dazzling smile who could probably sell icemakers to Eskimos. With a gush of praise and introduction, she brought to us the former governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin.

When Palin appeared and walked onto the platform, the place went wild. I wanted to see and hear Sarah Palin in person because whether you like her or not, she is going to make an impact of American politics for at least a while into the future. Ridiculed and judged by the liberal media as a political lightweight, I wanted to get a feel for her commitment. This was her very first speech given in the venue of a motivational seminar, and it was obvious she was a little nervous. Stylishly dressed in a red double breasted jacket, black skirt and high heels (probably left over from the presidential campaign,) she was the only one of all the speakers who spoke from a podium and used notes. She spoke with the peculiar speech pattern that is apparently very Alaskan in nature, very similar to a Yankee from Minnesota (sorry.) It wasn’t irritating; it just doesn’t soothe a southerner’s ears. Her message was pretty generic…put family first and be inspired. She mentioned husband Todd and children and used Bible inferences to illustrate points, such as the story of Esther. Her most quotable quote was, “You have to do today what others won’t, so that you can do tomorrow what others can’t.” She endeared herself to us Texans when she said Alaskans considered Texas their “little sister state.” All in all, it was a rather tame Sarah Palin we heard without a single political stab at anyone.

The next speaker was Rick Belluzzo, former President of Microsoft and previous to that a 23 year veteran of Hewlett Packard. He spoke of the tremendous challenges and opportunities of the information age. He did not get the excited response of Sarah Palin, but his message was much more substantive.

The third speaker was a fellow named Krish Dahnam. Born into poverty in Southern India, he immigrated to the United States and achieved the American dream. He was probably the most powerful speaker of the day and could step into many church pulpits and preach a fine sermon. Openly and proudly Christian, he invited us to repeat a prayer to the Lord Jesus Christ asking for divine guidance and leadership in our lives. Besides that, he had a sharp wit that made you laugh while it pounded home his points. He had two quotable quotes: (1) “Political correctness will be the death of this country.” (Big applause) (2) “At the end of your life, will you say, ‘I wish I had…or… I’m glad I did…?’” I would pay to hear this guy again.

The fourth speaker wasn’t on the advertised list of speakers, either. Phil Town is a best selling author of a book advertised as “demystifying the stock market.” All I can tell you is that this guy talked fast and solid for 50 minutes about the stock market, and I sat there wishing I understood half of what he said. He made it sound so easy to make money on the stock market in the worst of times. He was the first speaker to be there for a reason, however, besides motivating us. He was also selling his own stock market training course. His course is a several day event coming up soon in Houston. Selling for nearly $3,000, he offered the course to attendees of our motivational seminar for…$99.00! When he said sign up in the hall, I am not exaggerating when I say that nearly half of the audience stampeded for the exits. I don’t know, but it seems to me that the sticker price of $3,000 might be inflated just a bit. Since he has a web site, I think I’ll check it out first. But I will admit the stock tracking program he has developed is pretty impressive. He had five volunteers from the audience use his program to follow an example stock shown on the large screens. Over a six month charted period in which there were highs and lows, the volunteers had to choose when to buy and when to sell. Using his program, in a period of overall stock market down turn, they more than doubled their investment. Thought-provoking, anyway.

The next speaker was half of the duo who brought to us this seminar. Tamara Lowe, along with her husband Peter, created the Get Motivated! Seminars 25 years ago and now exude the confidence that a successful endeavor can create. We never saw Peter, but Tamara spoke smoothly about the strategies for motivation. Growing up in New Orleans (she mentioned the Saints) she was a drug addict, pusher and eighth grade dropout who is now working on her doctorate. Her quotable quote was, “I went from LSD to PHD!” If I were still a salesman, I would have taken extensive notes about her closing techniques. Her pet term was “motivational DNA.” Though her voice and word inflection irritated me a bit, her presentation was substantive.

By then it was time for lunch, and therein existed the biggest problem of the day at Toyota Center. We were given 65 minutes for lunch, so imagine 8,000-10,000 people exiting the seating area and all pushing at the same time to the encircling walkways for lunch. The snack serving areas were overwhelmed instantly. The entire walking area was shoulder to shoulder with 150 people in every food line. The menus on the walls were disregarded and all that was available were snack stuff like cheese and chips, hot dogs, and chili. I pushed my way through people for about 20 minutes and found a guy selling popcorn and Diet Cokes with only 20 or so people in line. I waited 15 minutes and then paid $9.00 for a box of popcorn and a 20 ounce Coke. I figured that would hold me till I got home. Back to my seat to await the next speaker. Promptly 65 minutes from dismissal for lunch our lovely master of ceremonies bounced back on the stage to introduce General Colin Powell.

I have the deepest respect for General Powell. Born in the darkest regions of New York City, he brought himself to the top through work, dedication, and the influence of his parents. His message was that true leadership comes when a leader is able to convey a sense of purpose to his/her followers. To do that, a leader must treat his followers with respect and honesty. I enjoyed his anecdotes concerning him and President George Bush (41) and was surprised that he spoke very highly of the president. During his service with the president, the media made great issue that he and the president did not always see eye to eye about policies, but General Powell made no mention of any past conflict. In his retirement, he has loosened up a bit. The last time I heard him he was pretty straightforward and did not crack may jokes. This time he was much more laid back and relaxed. That’s what retirement will do for you.

The next guy up to plate was somebody named James Smith, and when he had finished everyone was asking, “Who is this guy?” Where Krish Dhanam was evangelical and powerful in his presentation, James Smith was just as powerful, but funnier and far more irreverent. The subject of his diatribe was money mistakes common people make, but his underlying message was how to make money in real estate without spending any money. His pet peeves were parents who do not teach their children how to be successful and adults who wallow in self-pity over their situations but make no effort to change. His quotable quote was, “Turn on the GPS in your soul and ask God to guide you.” His name was not in the “training book” we received upon entry and I still don’t know how to reach him or his organization. I would pay to hear him again, though.

Zig Zigler, the Grand Guru of Motivation, was next and it was heartbreaking to see him. I watched Zigler videos back in the seventies when I was in real estate and in the eighties when I was in automobile sales. He was an absolute master at motivation and could give the most depressed salesperson a glimmer of hope to keep pressing on, but now he was a shell of his former self. He was introduced by his daughter, who announced that her daddy had fallen a couple of years ago and suffered a severe brain injury. As a result, he had difficulty staying on task and in maintaining his balance. She would “guide him along.” Zig shuffled onto the platform with assistance and began to speak. 84 years old and with a shaky voice he began to speak, and he did pretty well for about 5-6 minutes. The familiar arm waving, the slow methodical speech, and the pattern of delivery were all very Zigleresque, but then he began to wander and repeat, and his daughter would remind him, “Now, Daddy, we’ve already talked about that, how about let’s mention…” As he talked, he walked (or, more accurately, shuffled) and I believe if his daughter had not turned him occasionally, he would have walked right off the edge of the stage. Perhaps because they expected this may happen, the daughter suddenly said, “Daddy, let’s let the people see some videos of your past presentations.” To which he replied simply, “Okay.” He and his daughter left the stage, the lights darkened, and we watched about fifteen minutes of Zig Zigler in his prime. The whole episode was depressing. He should have not been there; he should have been home on his back porch sipping an iced tea. He has paid his dues; he deserves a rest. I hope he is not being exploited by those who make money on the Zig Zigler name.

Lou Holtz, the legendary football coach of Notre Dame University (and the University of Arkansas) was the next speaker and spoke of the Four Things Every Person Needs: (1) Something to do, (2) Someone to love, (3) Something to believe in, and (4) Something to hope for. He confessed to not being an intellectual. In fact, he joked that he was probably the only person there who had written as many books as he had read (3). He cracked a joke that he said he told the University of Texas coach while he himself was coaching the University of Arkansas Razorback football team. He said UT fans can wear orange all week because Saturday is game day, Sunday they wear orange to go hunting, and Monday through Friday they wear orange while they pick up trash on their jobs. There were a few groans in the audience.

And then came Rudi. Rudi Giuliani, the former mayor of New York City, became a household name after the events of September 11, 2001. His face was everywhere in the days and weeks after 9/11, so much so that he made an unsuccessful run for the Republican Presidential nomination. He served eight years and helped change the image of New York City. His message was the importance of keeping up in the information age. Under his leadership, the crime rate dropped dramatically, and he credited this to computerizing and networking the police stations to pinpoint areas of high crime and concentrate policemen in those spots. The welfare system was computerized, and welfare workers who previously were paid based on the numbers of new welfare recipients they signed up, were now rewarded for the number of recipients they were able to find jobs for. Welfare recipients dropped from 1,400,000 to 900,000. The genius of America, he proposed, was our emphasis on the individual, rather than the group.

He told a couple of anecdotes concerning 9/11. His office had received an alarm that a twin engine plane had crashed into the North Tower, and his group had rushed to the building. He said he got out of his car, and the first thing he saw was someone jump from the 109^th floor of the Trade Center. He realized then that this was not a normal emergency. He then told how President Bush, having arrived and given a speech at the site of Ground Zero, was scheduled to leave the city in an hour, but instead stayed for six hours speaking to victims and encouraging city workers. At the end of the six hours, Giuliani was invited to ride with the president in his limousine. As they drove down the dusty streets of New York, thousands of people waved and yelled, “God bless you, Mr. President!” He asked the president, “Mr. President, do you see all these adoring people?” The president replied he did. “Well,” said Rudi, “Probably not a one of them voted for you!” He said President Bush laughed.

By this time it was 5:00 pm. Unbelievably, another speaker was introduced, but it was an unknown, and I felt sorry for whoever it was because there was a mass exodus from the arena, including myself. I knew the traffic going home would be bad, and I had heard the people I wanted to hear. Getting out of the downtown area was a bit of a chore, but I made it smoothly to about the Hardy Toll Road and Beltway 8 when the monsoon rains came. It was a wet drive the remainder of the way home. For me, the day was well spent. Although I have sort of stepped back from the mainstream of business and sales, the instruction and advice I heard today is just as applicable toward daily life and family interaction. It reminds me again for how much I have to be thankful for. Many of the goals and aspiration that the speakers talked about and gave advice for attaining, I began to realize that I already have. God has been especially good to me.

Wonder Woman, Part 1

As Shirley and I have entered into our Golden Years, we have discovered that our bodies have startling similarities to automobiles with high mileage…things that worked for years without a thought or consideration have suddenly begun to fail at the most unexpected and inopportune times. For years we considered our bodies to be as dependable as a Maytag washer or a Honda Accord, only to discover that we may be running around now in the physical equivalent of a ’54 Buick. Of course, we have long since passed the Age of Indestructibility, that period of time in one’s life when one feel impervious to disease and hardship, but it is a sobering adventure to realize just how delicate the mechanisms of the human body are and how the wish that one had “taken better care of him/herself” can become a nagging condemnation.

A few years ago, humans were cursed to live with nagging physical afflictions sort of in the same way that a person in a tight financial squeeze handles an old car that needs a tune-up…you just lived with it and drove it anyway. People with bad teeth, bad hearing, bad eyesight, bad hair, bad backs, bad knees, or bad shoulders carried their afflictions with a certain dignity and pride, and sometimes turned their problems to advantage by claiming all sorts of derived talents, such as predicting weather changes based on how much their hip hurt. However, we have now entered the Body Repair Era. This has no relationship to Gonzales’s Body Shop that you may see on a local street. We have been doing repairs to automobiles since the first fender bender took place in Chicago in 1896. We have also been doing repairs to human bodies for many years, but usually because some damage had taken place and a life was at stake. Broken bones, injuries, and severe sicknesses required medical repairs to be done, and we were fortunate that skilled medical practitioners were available to save life and limb. But now we have taken the next logical step which is to attempt repairs to a relatively healthy body simply because we just don’t like it the way it is. “Cosmetic” surgery is all the rage today as we attempt to keep a death grip on that youthful physique we all possessed when we were in our twenties. The results of our Quest for Eternal Youth are marginal at best. For every sixty year old who looks forty thanks to cosmetic surgery there are nineteen others who look like they got great deals at the local mortuary and were pre-embalmed.

This brings us (albeit in a somewhat circuitous route and only indirectly related) to the subject of this essay. For the last few years Shirley has been nagged with an increasingly irritating right knee problem. A touch of arthritis and vanishing cartilage in a knee joint is a recipe for pain and suffering, and Shirley finally reached the point that about a year ago she visited an orthopedic doctor and asked for his analysis. After some examination, he performed a “cleanup” surgery where he went in and looked at the joint and removed some bone chips, but his prognosis after surgery was that in the not too distant future a knee replacement would be in order. In the next few months we made our move to our new home area, but her knee continued to irritate, and finally about a month ago she visited another orthopedic surgeon, and knee replacement surgery was scheduled for January 20. On January 19, she visited a cardiologist for a stress test and was pronounced good to go for the knee surgery the next day.

Wednesday morning, January 20, she checked in to Willowbrook Methodist Hospital, and by 9:00 she was on her way to surgery. We were told that the surgery would last around three hours with an hour in recovery, and then she would be wheeled to a private room. Surgery was on the second floor, but we were told to go wait on the third floor because that was where she would be brought. About noon we were told she was out of surgery and would be up on the third floor shortly. We waited…and waited…and waited. 1:00 pm…2:00 pm…3:00 pm. One of us went back to the second floor and the nurse said she was still in recovery. 4:00 pm…Finally we saw her being wheeled into her room and her first words were, “Where were you? I’ve been awake since 1:00 pm” She had been told that we apparently had left the building because we were not outside in the second floor waiting area, even though we had been told to wait on the third floor. Though we were a little irritated at the miscommunication, we were glad enough to see her that it was soon forgotten. She was in no pain because they had placed an epidural into her back for a quick and regular injection of pain killers, so she was feeling pretty well. I knew, however, that epidurals are wonderful…until they pull the needle out and your body tries to handle the pain on its own. I was given an epidural when I had my heart surgery in 2008, and three days after the surgery I was ready to come home because I had no pain and felt really great. But then on the fourth day the epidural came out and my days five and six were awful. I hurt so that I could barely breathe. So I knew that Shirley was going to have a rough day in 48 hours or so.

On Thursday morning she had her first physical therapy and was able to get out of bed and shuffle around the room a bit. Having some experiences with Methodist hospitals (San Jacinto, Baytown, and Downtown,) we noticed a couple of quirks about Willowbrook. The nurses would bring Shirley her medications in a cup and just leave them on the tray while they went about their business. At the other hospitals, they watched you like a hawk to make sure you swallowed what was given you. If Shirley rang the bell for a request, the response time was a little…um…relaxed. Eventually, someone would show up. The nurses were all very nice and professional, but the management seemed a little less efficient than what is expected in a Methodist hospital.

Toward noon, I began to notice that Shirley was beginning to slur her words a little. An hour later she began falling asleep in mid-sentence. About 3:00 pm her therapist came in to do his activities, and she was practically comatose. He gave up and reported it to the desk (we had already done so) and a nurse and her anesthesiologist came in the room. He looked at the metering device on her epidural and asked the nurse, “Has it been this high all day?” He turned Shirley over and removed the epidural immediately. Nothing else was said, but I think she was given too much painkiller and was nearly unconscious because of it. She slept for the next four hours and barely moved. She awoke about 7:00 pm and was finally conscious of her surroundings again. Amazingly, however, Shirley made it through the night quite well without the epidural. She had some pain, but she was given sedatives in capsule form and the pain never became severe. The next day (Friday) she had only moderate pain and survived her physical therapy sessions with hardly a strain. I was very thankful she did not have to endure a great deal of discomfort. Friday night was a quiet night for her.

Saturday morning, however, she began to complain of chest pains. She had been laying on her back for three days and eaten very little, so she attributed it to that, but the pains became more pronounced. When the nurse came in about noon and asked how she was, she said he knee hurt a little but her chest hurt a lot. Needless to say, that raised a red flag to the nurse. They checked her vital signs and her pulse rate was 140 and she had a fever. Within a matter of minutes, an EKG was done, and suddenly the room was a beehive of activity with nurses and doctors flitting around. Shirley was whisked to the Intensive Care Unit (a precaution, they said.) A heart echo was done (like sonar) and then a CATscan. There was a flurry of professional opinions of what could have caused the heart pains, but even as the doctors conferred, the pains had already begun to diminish. By Saturday evening late, the pains were only occasional and fleeting. For the first time since Wednesday, I went home and Kimberly stayed with Shirley for the night.

On Sunday, Shirley had only a couple of twinges in her chest during the day, but she was kept in ICU to be closely monitored. She had a restful day and seemed to relax. The knee was practically a none-issue. She had only very moderate pain and it was doing very well. On Monday, as a precaution (you hear that word very often in a hospital) she had an angiogram (heart catharization) and the cardiologist came to us afterward smiling broadly and announced that Shirley’s heart was “beautiful.” So whatever the source of the chest pains was, it remained a mystery, but at least we knew it was not heart related. That in itself was a certain amount of relief. Additional tests were done to identify any potential blood clots, but they were all negative. Monday evening she was transferred back to a regular room and the focus of activity went back to the knee and therapy. Tuesday was another quiet, non-eventful day.

On Wednesday, January 27, a week after she entered Willowbrook, Shirley was transferred to Tomball Rehab Center for a few days of physical and occupational therapy. For those who do not know (and I didn’t, either) physical therapy involves various exercises to strengthen the knee and leg muscles, whereas occupational therapy involves practice in doing the everyday activities that everyone does, but now has to be done with a handicapped knee or whatever. It was very interesting to observe. There was a kitchen with various kitchen arrangements that the patient had to prepare a meal, use appliances, etc. There was a bath with various styles of showers and baths for a person to practice entering and exiting. In one room was a part of a car with the passenger compartment complete with a door, passenger seat, and dashboard so that a patient could practice getting in and out of a car. There were several kinds of steps and ramps for patients to practice walking. It was all very useful to someone who had to adjust to a different way of living.

Tomball Rehab reminded us a little of Willowbrook. The medications were distributed without much monitoring, and a ring for assistance brought an eventual response. Supposedly, there was a schedule for daily therapy, but we never knew what it was, and Shirley would be wheeled away to O.T. or P.T. (Occupational Therapy or Physical Therapy) sometime between 8:30 and 10:30 a.m. The staff was friendly but pretty laid back, if that’s the term to use. Each day that Shirley was in rehab, however, she improved, and on Thursday, February 4, fifteen days after leaving home, she came home with a new right knee. She still has about four weeks of in-home therapy, but…at least she’s home. There’s something therapeutic about being home. Thursday night we both slept like logs. Why nurses in hospitals feel obligated to wake patients up every morning at 4:00 a.m. to take their blood pressures is beyond me.

I had mentioned on my Facebook page that the plan was that Shirley would get a new body part every six months for about ten years, and then I would be married to WonderWoman! Having gone through getting this first new part, I’ve decided I’m going to be happy with just the way she is. After all, as someone reminded me a few days ago, I’m ALREADY married to WonderWoman!

The Nomadic Lives of Bob and Shirley Downing

This little essay is probably written for my own benefit as much as anybody’s, since as I get older, many events of the early years seem to fade from memory. So, for the sake of my memory and posterity, I would like to give a brief Readers’ Digest account of where we have been for the last 49 years just in case you are wondering. As this is being written we are in the process of buying another home, and when we move in, it will be the thirtieth (30th) residence in which Shirley and I have lived since we married 48 years ago. We probably qualify for some sort of “nomad” designation and some sort of federal aid from our government, but I’ve never applied because there’s too much paperwork anyway. In our defense, in the last twenty years of so, we have settled down rather dramatically. In fact, most of our moves were in the first thirty years of marriage. In those first thirty years we moved 27 times, but in the last 19 years, we are about to make our third move. We’re practically domesticated!

Shirley and I married on August 18, 1961, and spent a lovely honeymoon in the world famous resort town of Noel, Missouri. The most notable thing...well, second most notable thing I remember about our honeymoon was while we were in the middle of a lake on a paddleboat. I decided to take a dive in the water. I came up to the surface, but my glasses didn’t. I wouldn’t say I’m blind without my glasses; it’s just that all I can see is light and dark and shapes, that’s it. Anyway, Shirley led me around by the hand for the rest of the honeymoon, but I drove home from Missouri. In those days it would have been scandalous for the husband not to drive, so in my 1954 Mercury with the front bench seat, Shirley sat really close to me while I drove (not all bad) and watched the traffic and told me when I could pass a car and what lane I was in. We had no trouble staying awake on the drive back to Baytown.

We moved into our first apartment at 309 North Jones, Baytown. One apartment in a four-plex, it had no air conditioning and was small. $55.00 a month. The main memory here was Shirley dropping her wedding ring down the sink drain. After about fifteen minutes of nightmare, I was able to pull the water trap off underneath the sink, and there the ring was, nice and safe.
In February, 1962, we moved to 505 Aron, Baytown, because it was a real house and only $10.00 more per month. My macho cousins, David Philips (wife Karen) and Vernon Downing (wife Virginia) were constant visitors. David, Vernon, and I called ourselves the “BVDs” (Get it?…Bob, Vernon, David.) We all loved softball and played on our church team. I was a better catcher than pitcher, but Vernon had four different pitches he could control. David tried to pitch and could do so with a blazing fastball…until he got rattled. After that, no one was safe anywhere around the plate, batter, catcher, or umpire. I was into long distance, short wave radio back then and used to listen to Radio Moscow and many of the short wave broadcasts that most countries used to broadcast. One day I was in the attic of the house installing a short wave antenna for better reception when Vernon came by to visit. He crawled up in the attic and stood there chatting. I turned my back to do something and at that instant heard a crash and a loud thud. Vernon had stepped between the ceiling joists and went through the sheetrock winding up on his back on the floor below. He got up like a wounded bull and said he was OK, and that was that. We moved out of that house in July 1963, with the hole still in the ceiling. Before you think poorly of me, I made a deal with the landlord and left a barbeque grill I had built there in compensation for the ceiling.

We then moved to 704 East Gulf where, after living there for a month, I joined the United States Air Force. Don’t ask me why, I just did. A few months later the military draft was reinstated, and, who knows?…maybe if I had not joined I would have been drafted and wound up in Viet Nam. I honor those guys who went to the Asian Theater; as it turned out I would be involved in a different kind of struggle. From August, 1963, to December, 1963, my address was 3726th BMTS, Flt 982, San Antonio, Texas, while Shirley’s was Route 1, Box 336, Baytown, with my parents, although if the truth were known, she spent a lot of time at her parents’ home, also. Basic training was…um…unique. After basic I was sent to Detachment 3, 3345th Technical School, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana. Apparently the Air Force had determined I had some sort of aptitude for languages, so at Indiana U. I studied Russian. From December, 1963 to September, 1964, I took 30 college credit hours of Russian. The Air Force had a separate building of classrooms with our own native Russian teachers. It was very intense and after the first six weeks, we were not allowed to speak English in the building. One of our teachers was a former Russian colonel who had led his troops against the Tzar in Moscow during the 1917 Russian Revolution. Once a fierce communist, he said he saw the light after he was captured in 1945 by the Germans and then freed by the Americans. He immigrated to the United States instead of return to the USSR because his family had all been killed by the Germans in the war. He hammered us with the Russian language, but when we got tired of it, someone would ask him about the war, and he was launch into a long story of an experience he had. It was fascinating and at the same time gave us weary students a language break. During this time, Shirley and I made our home at 1513 South Walnut, Bloomington, Indiana, in an upstairs apartment of a family residence. A bedroom with a kitchen, plus a bath across the hall, that was it. We stayed there three months, and in March, 1964, moved to Route 10, Unit 4, which was half of a duplex located about three miles out of Bloomington in a beautiful location not far from a lake. There was more privacy. I was glad I was able to see the spectacle of the Indianapolis 500 that year, and I was sorry that while we were there I sold my rare Gibson Les Paul gold solid body guitar to someone in our church because we needed the money. Today that guitar is worth a fortune. Shirley got her first experience at waitressing in Bloomington at the Howard Johnson Restaurant. Fact is, we would have starved without her work; she made more money than I did.

In February, 1964, we transferred to Goodfellow Air Force Base, San Angelo, Texas, to an apartment at 903 South Abe Street…again an upstairs apartment in a residence. It was here that I learned why I had learned Russian and was introduced to the Security Service branch of the USAF. I was sworn to secrecy and threatened with dire consequences should I blab something sensitive to anyone. What I remember about Goodfellow was that we had interminable hours of slide shows and movies about what the Bad Guys were doing and how we were combating communism. These things were so boring it was a form of torture, so what the brilliant teachers did was about every 45 minutes to an hour a picture of a nude woman would flash on the screen for about five seconds. This was done intermittently with the theory that the airmen would be waiting expectantly for the next photo and therefore stay awake and pay attention. The first time it happened and I realized what was going on, I know I started praying because I was sure that we were about to get lightning struck any second. I was so innocent…and, yes, I closed my eyes every time. After my security indoctrination had completed, I sat at Goodfellow for nearly three months awaiting orders, and all I did during that time was play racketball for eight hours per day. I was lean and mean and did not lose very often.

Finally, in February, 1965, I received my orders and headed for the 6912th Security Squadron, West Berlin, Germany. There I would be doing what I was trained to do while involved in a non-shooting war, more commonly referred to as the Cold War. We were on the front lines what with Berlin being situated 120 miles inside Communist East Germany, and the Russians did not like us being there. It was sort of a macho “I dare you!” game with us and the Russians played with real guns. Occasionally, we had hot activity, but normally it was sort of a dull, stressful tedium. For a glorified description, read my blog “Assignment, Berlin.” With Shirley in Texas, I stayed in the barracks until she arrived in August, 1965, and we moved into an apartment situated out in the city at 4 Massmann Street, Steglitz. We became Germans, and Shirley learned enough German to go to the markets and buy food. We made friends with our German neighbors (who defended Hitler, by the way) and enjoyed adjusting to this new culture. Berlin, even during this Cold War period, was an exciting city, and to us small town kids was a treasure trove of new adventures.

In May of 1966 the big event happened; Shirley discovered she was pregnant. Small apartments do that to you. By this time we had been married for five years, and we were ready to become parents. It was an exciting time for us as we planned for the future while trying to stay financially afloat in the present. Shirley had a job at the military commissary, and again, her income was vital. In October, 1966, with Shirley five months pregnant, we managed to take a few days and visit Paris. It was a memorable time, but we walked seemingly many miles as we wandered the city (couldn’t afford a taxi or bus.) Shirley handled it like a trooper, though, and one of my favorite photos is of her standing in from of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Because of her pregnancy and military rules, Shirley had to return to the states before the end of her seventh month, so in December, 1966, she flew back home and I moved back into the barracks. On February 28, 1967, four days before I was to return from Berlin, our son was born. On March 4, 1967, I walked into my parents-in-law’s home and saw my wife and, for the first time, Robert L. Downing, III. I remember it like it was yesterday.

After a month’s military leave, Shirley and I with our new son transferred to Kelly Air Force Base in San Antonio. We moved into a small home at 118 Tampa Avenue. It was close to the base and quiet, however, since the grass is always greener elsewhere, three months later we moved to 122 Tampa Ave because the house was a little bigger. You have to remember that at that time everything we owned would fit into the trunk of a car, with the exception of a new washer and dryer we had purchased (new baby, cloth diapers,) so a move was not too complicated. Since I was nearing the end of my enlistment, it was during this period that the Air Force offered me a healthy bonus to reenlist, plus promised that for at least a year I would be attending Syracuse University in New York for advanced Russian studies. I accepted the offer, although we did not tell anyone at home.

Just as we were about to drop the reenlistment bomb on the home folk, the 1967 Arab-Israeli War broke out, and rumors of the United States and Russia being pulled into the conflict raged like wildfire. People were stocking up on supplies and fearing atomic Armageddon. Churches fanned the flames, and revelations and visions of impending rapture and the Lord’s return to Earth abounded. To make a long story short, the whole affair spooked Shirley and I a bit, and we decided if anything was going to happen, we wanted to be at home when it did. I walked into my squadron office and canceled my reenlistment.

So on August 4, 1967, I was released from active duty and we went back to Baytown, Texas. I had no job and very little money, but at least we were home. With the help of my father-in-law, we were able to buy a new 12’ by 60’ mobile home and place it on my parents’ property on Cedar Bayou-Crosby Road. We lived there for three years until August, 1970. During this time I worked at Sears in appliance sales and went to college on the Viet Nam Era GI Bill, which paid my tuition and books. I graduated in August, 1970, and at that time entered the Sears Executive Management Program. It was a special program for future top executives that was limited to 40 applicants from across the nation. The training was in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The store in Tulsa, believe it or not, was the most profitable and largest store in the Sears chain. We moved into 2007 East 49th Street North, Tulsa, Oklahoma in August of 1970 and remained until I finished my training in March, 1971. In Tulsa we learned what a real conservative church was like. I heard a minister preach that to have daisies in your yard was a sin because they were associated with the hippie movement in San Franscisco (that den of iniquity.) The Sears training was excellent, however, in preparing one for management.

Once we finished our management training, Sears was like the service…we waited to see where we would be assigned. Fortunately, my former manager in Baytown had kept tabs on me and requested that I be assigned back in Baytown. Shirley and I happily accepted an assignment back at my old Baytown store. We also decided to buy a house upon returning to Baytown, and, in March, 1971, we moved into our brand new home at 3105 New Meadow. To us, it was beautiful…three bedroom, two bath, double garage, central heat and air. We were concerned that it was pretty expensive ($18,000) and the payments were really high ($158.00,) but we figured we could make it. I bought it with my VA benefits financing and paid $1.00 down.

The next couple of years were busy, what with my learning the management ropes of Sears. In the latter months of 1971, Shirley’s parents moved to Casper, Wyoming to pastor a church and start a new life. We visited them for the first time in the summer of 1972, not realizing that we were touring our future home. In May of 1973, I was offered a higher management position with Sears in the Pasadena, Texas store. It was a substantial jump for a relatively new manager and I was happy with the opportunity. Bear in mind that at this period of the seventies, Sears was the Cadillac of retailers, by far the largest in gross sales and profit. Walmart and Kmart were incidental little entities that were seldom mentioned in management meetings. Sears was in the process of building the tallest building in the world in Chicago to put an exclamation point on their position in the retail industry. To be a top manager with Sears was a feather in your cap.
In May of 1973 we sold our home on New Meadow and moved to Pasadena, after a brief stop at 1301 Beaumont, Apt 35, Baytown, since we had to get out of our house in a hurry and it took us a while to find a spot in Pasadena. In October, 1973, we moved to 2210 View Avenue, Pasadena, just a mile or so from the large Sears store on Southmore. Three months earlier, in July, we had gone to Wyoming again to visit in-laws, and it was at this time that they first threw out the idea of our moving to Wyoming. It had some appeal, but we dismissed it at the time. But we agreed that Wyoming was beautiful in so many ways. By this time more family members had migrated to Wyoming, particularly Shirley’s brother and wife, plus an uncle and aunt.

I worked through the year of 1973 and into 1974 at Sears, Pasadena, but the draw of Wyoming became stronger and stronger. In March my father-in-law called me with an offer of employment. He and my brother-in-law were operating a couple of companies and needed a little more help. By June of 1974 we had made our decision, and I resigned Sears, we packed our belongings (now we needed a U-Haul truck) and headed for Casper, Wyoming. When we told my mom and dad goodbye for the last time with our U-Haul parked in their driveway and their only grandson seated in the truck, my dad cried, and I was shocked. I think the impact of our moving did not hit me until that moment. But we drove away.

We made the long trek to Casper (in the U-Haul, a three day affair) and moved into 1544 Cody Avenue, a small 640 square foot rental in July, 1974. We were there one month when I came home from work one day and there was a “For Sale” sign in the front yard with a “Sold” sticker on it. I called my landlord, and sure enough, he had sold the house and we had to vacate the premises, the sooner the better. So in August, 1974, we moved to the next street over in Fort Casper Subdivision to 1501 Kit Carson, just across the street from my brother- and sister-in-law. This house was just as small, but at least it had a garage. In May, 1975, we were in the position to buy a house again, and we moved into 2120 Glendale. It was a “bi-level” home, very popular in the west where you enter the home on a middle level and then walk up a half flight of stairs to the upper level or down a half flight of stairs to the basement. The basement is only four feet into the ground which allows windows to be on the lower level also. The lower level came in varying degrees of finish. Our home was fairly basic, with two bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen and bath upstairs and a family room occupying about half of the lower level and the rest unfinished.

These were good years. Bobby (son) was growing and we got into dirt motorcycles. I bought him a Honda 50 dirt bike and me a Yamaha 400. In front of our home was open country clear to Casper Mountain and we spent many an hour riding dirt trails up and down the hills. We both loved jumping the bikes over small hills. My brother-in-law and I got into hunting during this time, bought Remington 700BDL 7mm rifles and went after deer and antelope. To read of one of our experiences, read my blog “Hunting in a Jeep.” The winters were fun, also, as we learned to downhill ski and spent many Saturdays zipping down the slopes at Hogadon Ski Resort on Casper Mountain. The most notable thing I remember about 2120 Glendale, however, was the day I came home, walked up the stairs, and Shirley told me she was pregnant. Our son was nearly 10 years old and we had been wanting another child, but nothing seemed to work. Until now. In October, 1977, our daughter, Kimberly came to us and all was complete.

By December, 1978, I had migrated to real estate sales as a Realtor, and we purchased a home at 421 South Beverly, a larger four bedroom, two bath, double garage model. We moved in just in time for Christmas. The next couple of years were good, with good real estate sales. We bought a motor home and traveled in a caravan with my in-laws to various scenic spots in Wyoming. But by Spring, 1981, an energy crisis had hit Wyoming, which lives and breathes according to the price of oil. The real estate market went to pot, and our finances suffered. When the in-laws moved out of the church parsonage into their new home, I asked if we could rent it and in December, 1981, we moved into 1127 East 12th, and rented our home on Beverly. Christmas, 1981, was the most depressing Christmas I ever experienced, and I can remember sitting in from of the Christmas tree on East 12th that year in that cramped little living room with tears in my eyes. It was the first time in my life I ever had migraine headaches or had been unemployed for any length of time, and in a few months we would lose our home on Beverly. In December, 1982, my dad had his first major heart attack in Texas, and we had to fly to Baytown to be with him for a week. By that time I had gone to work for Max Honda and RV in Casper and things were starting to look up a bit.

In February on 1983, we vacated the parsonage thankfully and moved into 904 Bonnie Brae, a very comfortable three bedroom, two bath home. We were still renting, but at least the home was presentable. My work at Max’s was going well and sales were good. I was able to buy a wholesale car from Max’s occasionally for extra money. I felt myself getting older as Bobby began driving, and we bought him a car, a Pinto station wagon (I’m so embarrassed.) Fortunately he didn’t have it too long and we were able to get him into a Toyota sport coupe. We were doing well enough that we did not want to continue renting so we began looking for another home.

In February, 1984, we moved into 909 Stafford in Eastgate III, Casper, a very nice subdivision. We took over payments from these people with hardly anything down, but the payments were over $900 per month, and this was 1984. But we made it. The home was very nice with a place for our Winnebago motorhome. What I remember most about this home were the basketball games played by my son and myself in the driveway and the day he drove away to go to college at the University of Houston. The day he left I cried and I was depressed for a week. The house seemed vacant and I missed my boy. Of course, we stayed in touch and he came home on a regular basis, but it was a tough adjustment. By now I had fallen in love with MGBs, and drove several different models for several years. I liked them well enough that when we moved back to Texas later, I had one stuffed inside our U-Haul truck.

In February, 1986, we found someone crazy enough to assume the $900 payments on the home on Stafford and bought a less expensive home on 31 Riverbend Road in River West Subdivision, strangely enough, situated along the North Platte River. It was a tri-level home. Than meant that you walked in on the middle level where the living room, dining room, and kitchen were, but went up a half flight of stairs to the three bedrooms and bath or a half flight down stairs to the family room, bedroom, and another bath. We were close to the beautiful North Platte River, and occasionally the family would take a float trip around River Bend. That was usually during the summer when Bobby was home from college. By now I had become the Sales Manager for Max Honda and RV, and things were going pretty well. We used our motorhome for weekend trips, and my brother-in-law, Buddy, and I still enjoyed fishing the North Platte River for rainbow and brown trout.

But in July, 1988, after deciding we needed a larger home, we sold the Riverbend home and bought another on the east side of Casper at 4014 Somerset. It was by far the nicest and largest home we had owned, and is to this day our favorite place we have lived. I hope when we make our next move in a few days we will have a new favorite home, but it will be hard to beat Somerset. It was in a nice location with a view of Casper Mountain and had plenty of room. By this time I was really in to MGBs and occasionally owned two at a time. There was just something about the little British rag tops that I liked. Of course, in Casper, with its normally sunny days and mild temperatures, it was an ideal place to own a convertible, anyway. In our three years on Somerset we experienced high times and low times. My father-in-law passed away in 1989, Shirley and I gained a new daughter-in-law, and finally on December 31,1990, my own father died. We were in Texas at the time visiting as we usually did over the Christmas Holidays, and the morning we were to leave for Wyoming, he suffered a fatal heart attack.
After we returned to Casper Shirley and I began to consider our situation. Several friends we had known in Casper had moved away. With the passing of my father-in-law, who had been the pastor of our local church, the experiences with our new pastors had not been very satisfactory. The first pastor we chose lasted about 18 months and abruptly resigned, and the replacement pastor had created a lot of uncertainty with the members to the point that some were leaving. Coupled with this was the fact that our son and daughter-in-law were settling into the Baytown area, and, also, my mother was in an uncertain position with the family home, since we kids did not want her to live alone. To make a long story short, we worked out a deal with my mother to purchase the family home from her, allowing us to live there with her so that she would not have to move to a strange place.

So in July, 1991, we pulled stakes from Casper, Wyoming, in the clear mountain west after seventeen years and came back to Baytown, our ancestral home, more or less. It was good to be home and with family, but I’ll have to confess that to this day I have twinges of remorse for Wyoming. When we moved into the old homestead at 405 West Archer, it was not in good shape. Dad had been in weakened health for a few years, and it needed a lot of repair. Over the next fifteen years every room was remodeled and central heat and air installed, but as it is with old houses, there was always something that needed to be fixed. But we made it into a nice, comfortable home. The old house saw its fourth generation of Downings with our two grandchildren, and provided a home for my mother until she went into a rest home in 2001. She passed away in 2004.

By 2009, Shirley and I were contemplating retirement. Baytown had changed dramatically from our early years and we decided that when the time came for retirement, we would consider selling the old home and moving elsewhere. I had been through a bout with heart surgery and cancer, and the consensus was I needed to get away from the yard work and maintenance required by the old homestead. We thought of many places (Hawaii) but in the end, family ties were too strong, and we decided we would consider the Northwest Houston area around Spring….coincidentally around our kids and grandkids.

By the spring of 2009, the economy was already going south, but we decided to try to sell the old house anyway, if for no other reason than to see if there was a market for a rural home. We put a sign in the yard and sold it in a week. We were stunned. The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activity as we retired from our jobs, mine as a teacher and Shirley’s as a hospital unit coordinator. In May of 2009, we moved from our home of eighteen years, the home that Downings had lived in for 55 years, and moved to the Spring area of Houston. Because we had to scramble out of Baytown in such a hurry, we decided to lease for a year and then buy. We figured after living in our new area for about a year we would be more familiar with the area and more knowledgeable about where we wanted to settle. And such is the case as we will be shortly closing on a home in Oak Creek Village, an established subdivision between FM1960 and Cypresswood Drive in Spring. We are anxious to move out of a leased home and into “our” home. Since June of 2009 we have been fully retired and have enjoyed every minute of it. We have settled into a new church (read my blog “The Ideal Church,”) and have enjoyed being closer to our kids and grandkids. We are much closer also to my mother-in-law and two of Shirley’s sisters and a brother. So the family has sort of migrated to this area.

Whether this will be our last house remains to be seen. Packing and moving is not near as exciting as it was twenty five years ago. But at the same time, a new move is a new adventure!

Artists...and Other Odd Creatures

Considering myself to be the only real normal, sane person on Earth, I accept the fact that I have a tendency (as every other person on the planet has if he/she were to honestly admit) to compare everyone I come in contact with to what I engender in my mind as being “normal.” There was a time in America when “normal” really meant “normal”, but I’m here to defend the proposition that in today’s world “abnormal” is probably more “normal” than “normal” is. You older folk probably remember those “normal” times when husbands worked, wives stayed home, kids behaved, boys got haircuts, girls didn’t, all our cars were American made, and at school students said a prayer over the intercom before lunch. We have now entered the Age of Enlightenment, however, and officially there is no more “abnormal.” Some folks may be “challenged” a bit, but through the lenses of the rose colored glasses we see everyone as “normal.” It is truly a wonderful world!

Or not! I have been privileged from time to time in my extended lifetime to occasionally escape my All-American, apple pie, down home, flag waving roots and hobnob with the upper crust, the elusive elite, the bourgeoisie, if you will. Many times it was a very humbling experience which engendered from me a great deal of awe and respect for that person who honestly deserved to be amongst the elite. I am thinking in particular of a lecture I heard from a very prominent scientist describing his anthropological exploits and conclusions concerning evolution arrived at after thirty years of study. Although I did not agree with some of his conclusions, the depth of his knowledge concerning anthropology and science left me feeling educationally inadequate.

Whatever success we mere mortals may enjoy on this earth pales, however, when compared to the crème de la crème of society…the artist. Particularly, the painter or musician, and, even more particularly, the painter…the person who can take buckets of basic color and create a Mona Lisa, a Rembrandt, or a Monet. Painters engender more envy from me than any other type of artist. We who claim some measure of musical talent can listen to Van Cliburn, Chet Atkins, or Jimmy Hendrix, and think to ourselves, “Man, with just a little practice, I could do that.” But when we look at the works of Monet, Rembrandt, or, yes, even Anniedeen Creel, we can only ask, “How do they DO that?” For the non-artist, artistry with a brush is an unattainable dream. You either have it, or you don’t.

So when my mother-in-law, who had recently joined the Watercolor Art Society of Houston after years of making a name for herself as a premier watercolorist in the American Northwest, asked Shirley and I to give her a lift to the society’s meeting on January 15, I happily volunteered. After all, it’s not often we common folk get to brush elbows with the elite, and even though we are not artists ourselves, we could claim to be relatives of a true artist and in doing so claim a measure of respectability whilst nibbling on an hor d’oeuvre during the presentations. My mother-in-law had won a ribbon in her first shot at competition in Houston, so we knew that instant respectability would be ours.

The show and presentation was to be held at the society’s showroom and workplace on West Alabama in the nouveau artsy district of Houston. It is the main nesting area of the avant garte artist, and within its undefined borders dwells every imaginable species which would come under the general brand of “artist,” from true professional to rank amateur. From the evidence at hand, it appears the amateur artists far outnumber the professionals, and the job status for most would be “in between and not looking.” The show was to begin at 6:00 p.m. on a Friday evening (a wonderful time to be traveling Houston freeways…weekend traffic and all.) As luck would have it, the weather was miserable, chilly and raining. Mixing the chill, rain, darkness, and traffic together does not a pleasant drive make, but make it we did, from our humble abode in Spring to The Woodlands to pick up Mother-in-law and then the forty mile trek to West Alabama and the show.

The society’s center of activity is in a free standing building, nicely finished with a showroom downstairs and a workshop/classroom up. Considering the fact that Houston has over four million inhabitants, the size of the building and number of members of the society is relatively small, but then again, we are talking elite, so that’s part of the definition of elite, being relatively few in number. Entering the building, we found the activity bustling around the hor d’oeuvres, which consisted of the obligatory mini-sandwiches, cheese, crackers, chips, dips, cookies, and drinks….primarily wine. One cannot be an artist unless one can hold an hor d’oeuvre in one hand, a dash of wine in the other, and be able to gaze intently at a painting while nodding one’s head up and down slowly, as if communicating with the spirit of the painting’s creator. My mother-in-law would not touch an alcoholic beverage if someone put a gun to her head, so apparently she has some sort of “religiously exempt” card which allows her to walk by the wine. I didn’t have any wine either because it makes me sleepy, and then when I sleep, I sleep like a baby, but when I awake I have a headache. WAIT A MINUTE! What I meant to say was if I did drink some I bet that’s what would happen.

In the showroom were approximately fifty paintings of every imaginable subject, and, to the eyes of an amateur as myself, each one brought the same response…”How do they DO that?” Regardless of the impression you may get in this essay about my feelings toward artists, what I really feel is envy. Their skill in creating an image and invoking an emotional response is incredible. But I must confess, what I enjoyed doing most of the evening was watching not the paintings, but the people. Artists, by the very nature of their craft, are an individualistic lot. Every painting reflects its creator in style and substance, and, once the artist’s general style is recognized, his/her paintings can be spotted in any crowd instantly. This individualism extends to every facet of the artist’s persona, and that’s what makes artist-watching a very entertaining sport.

Take for instance one of the first guys to stroll into the showroom about 6:15. Tall guy, slim, fifties maybe, kind of craggily handsome in a rugged sort of way, he wore a French beret tilted jauntily over his right ear, a suede jacket, and a wool scarf wrapped around his neck. He wore these items the entire time of the show, nearly two hours, and the room was probably a toasty 74-75 degrees. If you had to draw a caricature of a French artist, his image is what you would have come up with. I expected him to say, “Wiz plezhaire I am een ze room!” He was expansive when he talked, throwing his arms and hands around to emphasize his remarks. I think he imagined he cut quite a dashing figure.

Following him came the Nouveau Riche woman, wearing a full length heavy fur coat, hair that was not styled at Walmart, and diamonds glistening around the neck. She was very friendly in a condescending way that rich people are friendly to poor folks, but she did eventually take off the fur coat and mingle with the commoners.

In complete contrast to the fur coat lady was a fellow who from his actions was a familiar face around the society. He spoke to several members and chatted amicably with many of the artists. I’m sure he was a wonderful guy, but beyond his talent, whatever it is in the art world, he never learned how to dress. Unless you were close enough to hear his interaction and note his acceptance by others, you would have guessed he was homeless and had been wearing his clothes for a few days. Pudgy, wrinkled, non-matching, non-coordinating, sloppy dressing and unconcerned, he flitted about the room totally comfortable within his aura and unconcerned that he rather contrasted with the relative prim neatness of his peers. He reflected the unique characteristic of many of the gifted elite, the ability to focus one’s energy and attention on one’s most obvious talent and totally disregard anything else. Social interaction and personal appearance are optional concerns as long as the painting is complete.

This leads to the second sloppy guy I saw at the meeting, and I am convinced he was a gate crasher. This fellow walked in, looked around, and instantly headed for the snack tables. He was coiffured in sneakers, ragged jeans, tee shirt, a full length dress topcoat, and baseball cap…and all of it needed cleaning. He could have used a haircut and shave, too. Anyway, he sailed through the hor d’oeuve line and filled a plate, and proceeded to walk around the showroom, looking intently at the paintings. He covered all fifty paintings in less than one minute, by which time his plate was empty also. Throwing his plate in the trashcan, he marched out the door, never to be seen again. For him, it was a cheap supper. He was a good actor, though; at least he went through the showroom and looked at the paintings. The artists probably thought that he was Pudgy’s (previous guy) brother.

Intermingled through the audience were several examples of the young elite, those who frequent art shows to see and be seen. Impeccably dressed, carrying the obligatory dash of wine, they wandered from painting to painting offering insightful observations like, “That’s nice!” Some of the young women were wearing hats that probably cost more than my suits. I could not help thinking, “I bet there’s not a man in the room who knows how to change the oil in a car, or a woman (mother-in-law and wife excluded) who knows how to bake a cake from scratch.” The elite live on a different planet. Again, I am not being critical, just objective.

On a positive note, there were also the People Who Get Things Done. They are the ones who make meetings, jobs, and activities succeed and are the backbone of every organization. In this case they were several ladies of thirties and forties bracket, neatly dressed, personable, who charmed visitors, passed on information, and kept things progressing to a scheduled conclusion. People Who Get Things Done always make you feel welcome and treat you as an old friend.

Toward the end of the meeting, the awards, ribbons, and even money were passed out to the winners, along with the comments of the judge who, well, judged the paintings. The judge was supposed to be at the meeting but did not show up, and listening to her comments as read by the master of ceremonies, it’s just as well. Her comments reflected a grasp of watercolor about as deep as mine. Her comments were shallow, not detailed or descriptive, and indicated she disregarded technique, complexity, and style of the artists and just chose the paintings she liked personally. We agreed (Shirley, Mother-in-law, and myself) that the winning choices were not the best in the room and (naturally) that Mother-in-law’s painting should have been higher than fourth place.

Just when I have finished reinforcing my opinion that all artists are…um…different, a couple walked up to Mother-in-law and introduce themselves as the Baileys. Very friendly couple, the woman especially was very chatty while the man introduced himself but sort of stood quietly. I recognized the name from a couple of beautiful paintings of calla lilies that were hanging, and I thought to myself that the lady was a very talented artist. Mr. Bailey, however, appeared amazingly…normal. He was neatly dressed in slacks, shirt, and jacket, shaven, and hair neatly combed. If fact, his hair was combed in the same style as mine! Instantly I liked him, and decided we were both blessed with being married to very talented women (I hope SHE reads this.) I decided that this guy could probably change the oil in his car if needed. Finally, a fellow normal person!

But the shocker came a few seconds later! It turned out that the painter in the family was him, not her! He had painted the calla lilies at the prodding of his wife, and I can tell you, although they did not win ribbons, they should have. And I’m not a flower painting person. So the upshot of all this is I’ve had to revise my opinion of gifted people a little and give grudging credence to the proposition that it is possible to be gifted, elite, and, yes, normal. Kelly Bailey has demonstrated that it is possible, and has encouraged me to believe someday I may ascend from the normal class into the gifted elite. But when I get there, I promise that I will remain friendly with my old, normal friends and occasionally borrow money from them to maintain a relationship.

It was a rainy, treacherous drive back to The Woodlands, but we safely deposited Mother-in-law at her apartment and splashed our way back to our own home. I was relieved when we passed through our gate. One hundred miles of rain, darkness, freeway, and traffic can create tension. But it was an enjoyable evening.

Watch Night

For a person who is religion-challenged, religion-resistant, agnostic, or atheistic, this little essay will probably have no interest to you, because I am going to discuss a subject, or an event if you will, which affects many persons who do have an affinity toward spiritual concepts and who do have an interest in somehow having a connection with their Creator, whoever or however they may imagine he may be. Of course, when a new year makes its entrance, it’s not just those of a religious persuasion who become reflective toward the year past and anticipatory of the new year, but it’s we down home, Southern Gospel, fundamentalist, Bible-thumping Christian believers (and more specifically, Pentecostals) who believe that the only way to welcome in a new year is with a Watch Night service.

Now I am aware that there are many religious organizations which observe the New Year entrance while conducting a church service right up to the midnight hour of New Year’s Eve, and I give honor to each one, but since I wave the Pentecostal flag whenever possible, it is a Watch Night service in a Pentecostal church that I wish to describe. Since our retirement last June (2009), Shirley (wife) and I have been attending Bethel Tabernacle, Houston, Texas, pastored by Rev. David Fauss and his father, Rev. O.R. Fauss. We had moved to the Spring, Texas, area after retirement to be closer to our children and other beloved (I had to say that) relatives. “Bethel,” as the church is affectionately called by its members, is an incredible church led by incredible people. However, the incredibility of Bethel Tabernacle is not the subject of this essay. I can only tell you that if you would like to know more about “Bethel,” read my blog entitled “The Ideal Church.”

Anyway, a few weeks ago, Pastor David Fauss announced that Bethel Tabernacle would be scheduling its eightieth…that’s 80th New Year’s Eve Watch Night service, and that it would be a special time of reflection and recommitment. He mentioned several things we would be doing that night in service, but when he mentioned the service would last from 8:00 pm until after midnight, after which time we would be having breakfast and relaxing…well, I didn’t hear very much after that. I don’t know about you, but I have been in some intensely powerful church services, but once the clock on the service passes two and a half or three hours, my brain begins to become a little numb as well as some other parts of me.
Shirley and I, being lifelong Pentecostals, have attended many Watch Night services, but generally, these past services got cranked up around 10:00 p.m. so that the participants still had a pretty good head of steam when we saw the New Year come in. I can’t remember a service that ever started even at 9:00, so when Pastor Fauss announced the 8:00 starting time, I was floored. However, looking back, I should not have been. We have now been attending Bethel for seven months, and one thing (among many) I have learned is that Pastor David Fauss does not hurry through a service. One might even say…..well, even I won’t say it. But I will throw this consideration out for your thoughts. Could it be that it is the fact that our pastor does not rush through a service which contributes to the powerful spiritual effects that we in the congregation experience? Perhaps it is because our pastor attempts to sense the leading of God in a service and pass that inspiration to us that has made Bethel the church that it is. It is my belief that is the case.

But regardless of that fact, I thought to myself, it’s still four hours! Over the next couple of weeks I very gently brought up the subject of the four hour service with several valued friends and acquaintances who shall remain unnamed for their protection. To a person, almost, each declared that four hours was just way too long, and of course, on top of that, New Year’s Eve is not the best time to be out and about in Houston. Many made the decision to just lie low at home New Year’s Eve and pass on the Watch Night service. Shirley and I discussed it, and I must admit we did not look forward to the long ordeal and had just about decided to stay home.

But, you know, Shirley and I have a serious problem…God has abundantly blessed us in the year 2009. In December of 2008 I was still receiving chemotherapy treatments from M. D. Anderson Cancer Clinic and recovering from open heart surgery at the same time. Although we had anticipated retirement from our jobs, the uncertainty of the medical problems and finances made retirement seem less likely. We were living in a sixty year old home in Baytown, Texas, and the real estate market seemed to be crumbling, and we knew that we would need to sell the old home in order to retire and make our move to Spring. The economy looked awful, and gloom and doom was prophesied by every economist and most politicians.

In January of this year (2009), however, my tests at M.D. Anderson came back clean as a whistle, and I was cancer-free! I was feeling stronger by the day and my heart was solid as a rock. I returned to work after missing twenty six weeks and quickly got back into my teaching routine. Things were looking up, but we were still concerned about selling the old house. We had decided that we would like to sell the house in the summer after we retired so we could be patient and take however long it would take to sell it. Many houses in Baytown were sitting for months, and, with our home being rural property out of the city limits we weren’t sure how long it would take. In early April, however, I talked to a Realtor friend of mine who suggested that, in light of the length of time it might take the house to sell coupled with our anxiousness to move, why not just stick a “for sale” sign in the front yard right away and see what interest there may be. In doing so, we would get a jump on our time frame for moving and maybe get out of town by Fall.
So on April 6, 2009, I put up a “For Sale By Owner” sign in my front yard. No ad in a paper, no nothing but a sign and a phone number. I am not exaggerating when I say that my phone started ringing within thirty minutes. The next day we showed the home and a family said they wanted the home, but had no money to leave for a deposit. I gently suggested they go get some money and come back. We showed the home twice more in the next two days, but on Friday another family came back for the second time, and wrote a check for a hefty deposit. No haggling on the price, just “We’ll take it!” That same afternoon, the first people came back and said they had their money, but it was too late. It had taken us five days to get a contract on our home, and by April 26, the deal was closed and done. By May 15, we had moved to a beautiful home in Spring, Texas, and for the last three weeks of school I had to drive from Spring to Pasadena each day…but I didn’t complain. Also by May 15 I had been checked by M.D. Anderson again and was still cancer free, I was feeling great, and our house had been sold. Everything was going BETTER than planned. Because we were able to sell our home for what I thought was a good price, I was able to use some of the extra money to buy more retirement time through the Texas Teacher Retirement System, so in June when my retirement began, our monthly annuity from TRS was higher than we had expected. I could go on about how things have worked out for Shirley and myself as we closed out 2009, but I would only bore you. I have now (January 2010) been checked by M.D. Anderson four times and passed with flying colors to the point now that I will only be going back for checkups every six months. 2009 has turned out to be just the opposite of 2008.

So then we had to consider the Watch Night service. I have thanked God many, many time over the past year for what has transpired in our lives. But for the Watch Night service, Pastor Fauss had announced that we in the congregation would be given the opportunity to offer testimonies of praise if we desired and felt that God had been especially kind to us. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was imperative for me for my own sake that I publicly honor and thank my God for extending his merciful hand to my family during this year. I mentioned it to Shirley, and she indicated that she had been feeling the same way, so, come 7:45 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, we were on FM1960 headed east toward Bethel Tabernacle. Traffic was already buzzing on FM1960 (what’s new?), but I was still cautious since I knew the partiers were already getting geared up.

Sure enough, we were speeding up from a green light when I heard a pop! to my left and a crack! on our windshield that sounded like a boulder hitting the glass. We both ducked but continued driving. We saw no cracks in the windshield, only some scrapes on the lower part. Whatever hit the glass must have been a glancing blow. For an instant, we considered heading back to the house. We made it the rest of the way to church without incident.
Arriving at Bethel, we were a little concerned about the sparse attendance at the 8:00 starting time, but actually, within about 30 minutes, there was the equivalent of a healthy Sunday night crowd. To be honest, I was surprised. But I shouldn’t be, it seems that many Pentecostals enjoy being stylishly late. If we had started at 11:00, some would have drug in at 11:30.

Anyway the service began with our choir (flashing their snazzy new robes) singing some hip, contemporary, noisy music designed to get the youth up and hopping. I really do not want to be negative…it’s just that, as an…um…older person who appreciates good music skillfully presented with emotion and sincerity, the frothy, rhythmic, spiritual Pablum of the youthful set doesn’t do much for me. (See my blog “The Rise and Fall of Christian Music.”) But many youth do like the music, so…well…God bless ‘em.
After about an hour of contemporary cacophony during which time I kept my eyes closed and tried to think happy and hopefully spiritual thoughts, Pastor Fauss gave the congregation the opportunity to testify, and I, along with several others, walked to the front. My testimony was not long nor was it eloquent, but I said what I wanted to say and I was satisfied. I had spoken publicly of the blessings of God in my family and I felt complete. After a few more testimonies, Pastor Fauss let the choir have another go at singing.

Oh, but this time, the choir SANG! Sister Misty Hargrave started singing the first verse of “What a Day That Will Be,” and let me tell you, this young lady has a voice that will cut through concrete, and, when she is given a song to sing that has quality, sincerity, and feeling, she can belt it out like she means what she’s singing about. She is not a performer, as many of our singers try to be, but she delivers the message of a song very powerfully. Anyway, she had me out of my seat and helped set the tone for the rest of the service. The choir then moved into “Won’t We Have A Time,” an ancient Pentecostal chorus and concluded with “I’ll Fly Away,” another Pentecostal anthem from years gone by. All we oldsters in the audience enjoyed this choir session thoroughly, although I could tell that the musicians were not comfortable with the old rhythms of the classic songs. Apparently 4/4 musical timing is a difficult thing to get a grip on for the younger set.

To cap off a good time of music, there happened to be a Reverend Needham (spelling?) visiting the service, and apparently he was well know by Pastor Fauss and the congregation. Our pastor asked him to come to the platform to greet the congregation and also to sing “Wait’ll You See My Brand New Home!” a Teddy Huffam classic from the seventies. He proceeded to enlist the choir to give him backup, and they responded like they had been singing with him for years. Maybe they had, I don’t know. But it was foot stomping, hand clapping good. He was almost as good as Misty Hargrave, but then Sister Hargrave’s song had much more depth of meaning while Reverend Needham’s song was more invigorating. He had the congregation jumping, though.
After all had settled down a bit, a few more of the congregation were given the opportunity to testify. I have always regretted the lack of opportunities for testimony in contemporary churches. Ministers, I think, feel they somehow lose control by giving the opportunity to speak to an unknown entity, or maybe it throws off their schedules. Whatever the reason, to hear simple testimonies of God’s effects in the lives of ordinary people can be very uplifting and inspirational.

After the testimonies had ended, Pastor David’s father, Reverend O.R. Fauss, 83 years old and frail, pulled his electric cart to the front of the congregation and spoke eloquently of his love and appreciation for the people of Bethel Tabernacle. I was impressed with the respect and attention given to this towering champion of the Gospel. I will state flat out that Reverend O.R. Fauss was the best camp meeting preacher I ever heard, and when I see or hear him, I remember those glorious Rocky Mountain District Camp Meetings of the late seventies.

The time then came for Pastor Fauss to deliver his New Year’s Eve Sermon. By this time it was approaching 11:00 p.m., but somehow the evening has slipped by swiftly and enjoyably. He took his text from Genesis 31:13, when God states to Jacob, “I am the God of Bethel.” He entitled his sermon “Three Nickels and a Dream.” Leading up to Bethel’s eightieth anniversary celebrations in March of this new year, Pastor Fauss told of the experiences and sacrifices that his grandfather, Reverend O.F. Fauss endured to begin the church in Houston eighty years ago, and how his grandfather had arrived in Houston with only fifteen cents (three nickels) and a dream of founding a church. Whatever I told you about the sermon would sound shallow compared to the power and emotion with which it was delivered, but the message that our church has a legacy and, yes, even a tradition to uphold and continue was brought to us ever so forcefully. One cannot sit through a sermon like that and not be moved to a deeper dedication to God.

After a time of prayer and supplication, the process of communion was initiated. A communion service is always a time to reflect inwardly to one’s own soul and rededicate oneself to a closer relationship with the Creator. Considering the large crowd of people, the communion portion of the service was efficiently and smoothly completed, and, about three minutes after the magic moment…i.e. the stroke of midnight and the coming of 2010, our service ended. Everyone was invited to our fellowship hall where an amazingly tasty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits, gravy, milk, coffee, and some kind of chocolaty toast was served. It tasted good!
Pentecostals sometime gripe about how long services go, but when it comes to eating, nobody gets in a hurry, and it was after 1:00 a.m. before things started to sort of taper off. Even then, just outside the back door of the church, they were blasting off enough fireworks to sound like an invading army, but, as they say, a good time was had by all. Shirley and I enjoyed having breakfast and visiting with our new friends we have made since coming to Bethel Tabernacle. Our months at Bethel have been the happiest church experience we have had in a long time. We have been spiritually blessed and renewed.

Man! If things continue like this, I’m going to be forced to come back NEXT New Year’s Eve! But, please, not 7:00!

Paradise Revisited

Looking back on my childhood, I can draw the conclusion that my three sisters and I grew up in an almost Norman Rockwellian atmosphere. Not in the sense that we lived in an area where the geography or the scenery was postcard perfect, but in the sense of the aura of peace and tranquility that a painting by Norman Rockwell inevitably presents. In the eyes of Norman Rockwell the view was always comfortable, quiet, serene, and safe, and he had an uncanny skill in capturing the essence of the best of the human spirit.

Throughout his adult life, my father worked hard to provide for his family. The tradition of the husband provider and the wife home keeper was embedded in the culture of the time, and my father was successful in providing his family a comfortable home. My mother took her home duties seriously, and none of us ever missed a home cooked meal or went to school wearing torn clothes.
Though my father worked hard practically fifty weeks out of the year, he determinedly set aside at least two weeks every summer for our family to take a Vacation. I capitalize that word because to us kids it was more that just a trip; we were to travel to our version of Paradise on Earth…namely, Noel, Missouri. We had discovered this haven of happiness when Dad decided about 1950 to go back to his roots…at least as far as he could go. Though Dad was born in western Oklahoma, many of his older brothers and sisters had been born in southwestern Missouri and northwestern Arkansas. He had learned that many of his uncles and aunts still lived in that region of the Ozark Mountains, so, about 1950, we took our first vacation to the area to see how many old relatives he could find. He knew that his grandfather Thomas Findlay Downing had been a circuit riding preacher who traveled from town to town in the area on horseback preaching the gospel and saving sinners. Reverend Downing had also hauled logs on wagons pulled by horses to earn a little more money to keep body and spirit together and eventually established a church just outside Southwest City, Missouri, where he pastored for several years. Years later, Dad ran across an old character in Pineville, Missouri, who remembered Preacher Downing and stated that he had admired Preacher Downing because “he was the only preacher who would walk into a bar through the front door…all the rest of the preachers snuck in the back.” Apparently the ministerial expectations were somewhat more relaxed back then.

Anyway, on this summer day in 1950, we cruised into Noel, Missouri, in our black 1949 Mercury. Noel was then, and is probably now, a sleepy town of about 800 inhabitants. Its main claim to fame is Elk River, which passes through Noel on its way to Lake of the Cherokees in Oklahoma. In this far northwestern edge of the Ozarks, the rivers are fed by clears springs, and the water, moving with a current that can be slow to near-rapids, is cool and clear. Because a dam had been built across the river just downstream from Noel back in the twenties in an attempt to generate electricity, the river had backed up and deepened so that the waters through Noel were fairly deep. In fact, the two mile or so stretch through Noel is called Shadow Lake. In the thirties and forties, the Noel townspeople begin to exploit this natural treasure, and, by the time we arrived there in the summer of 1950, Noel was a beehive of activity. (See photo) To add to the scenic nature, there were majestic bluffs which overhung the river, and when several roads were cut through these bluffs, tourists came from far and near to drive their cars underneath these hanging bluffs and marvel at the engineering feats.
We drove through the little town, and we kids got more excited by the minute as we saw swimmers, boaters, and other kids running and screaming like wild banshees. It had taken us nearly two days to get there from Baytown, so my sister and I were ready to take off like rockets. But Dad insisted we find a place of lodging to unpack and unwind, so we drove along U.S. Highway 71 looking for a place to light. We drove along the river for about a mile until we came to a place that would become a part of our lives for probably as long as any of us children live: Green Valley Courts.

Now, I realize that the name is not very impressive. Today, to impress someone with your vacation plans, you have to mention Disneyworld, Hawaii, St. John, Fiji, or some other exotic spot. But things were not quite the same a half century ago. When we kids rolled into the driveway of Green Valley Courts, it was as if we had died and gone straight to heaven. The courts themselves were individual log cabins, each with a swing. There was an actual modest valley, shaded with oaks and other tall trees, through which passed the most gorgeous stream or creek, whatever you wanted to call it, we had ever seen. Before we even went to register, our whole family bailed out of the car, and rushed down to the stream (our name for it) and stuck, first our hands, and then our feet into the water. The water was coming from a spring barely three miles away and was icy cold, rushing rapidly over smooth, round rocks with a burbling sound that was sublimely soothing. Many times in our later visits we would put a watermelon in the water overnight and it would be wonderfully cold by the next morning. On this first visit, Dad barely had time to register and unpack before we were all back down to the water’s edge. For the next two weeks, Dad would drag us away from “our stream” while we visited his relatives, but we counted the minutes until we were back to our adopted home. In the years to follow, Dad would throw out suggestions for some other place for our vacation, but we always wound up in Noel. In 1959, Dad and Mom decided to go to Virginia instead (more relatives.) We drove three hard days and finally stopped in Bristol, Virginia (barely into Virginia), but we kids had moaned and groaned so much, that Dad finally asked us, “What do you want to do?” In unison, we yelled, “Noel!” We turned around and went back to Noel.

Needless to say, over the years we’ve had many memorable times in Noel, but in 1957, and event took place that at the time didn’t seem like much, but it is actually the basis on which this little essay is established. It was June of 1957, and as usual we were all in the stream’s water having a glorious time. Just about a hundred feet upstream from where we played was a bridge over which ran the road to Southwest City. On this particular day Dad and I wandered upstream to where we were beneath the concrete bridge. The stream with its bed of smooth, round rocks was a perfect resource for rock throwing, and we were constantly bouncing rocks off the water’s surface or at some target. For some reason, I picked up a rock and scraped the concrete support of the bridge. I found I could write as if I were holding a pencil!

My mother always had a mantra she believed in: “Fools’ names and fools’ faces always appear in public places!” For some reason both Dad and I forgot Mom’s observation and we scraped our names and the date on the side of the bridge. “Bobby Downing 6/27/57” “R L Downing 6/27/57” In a few minutes we lost interest and returned downstream to the rest of the family and enjoyed the rest of the day. In time we forgot about our actions. I was 14 years old and Dad was 39.
Starting in 1950 and for nearly 30 years, Noel was a summer gathering place for our family. Eventually I had three sisters to compete with, and believe it or not, my wife and I spent our honeymoon at Green Valley Courts in 1961. In time our children came along and both of them have made pilgrimages to Noel. Although Green Valley Courts disappeared in the seventies after being converted to small apartments, we continued to visit Noel, although we had to stay in “less satisfactory” accommodation…i.e. no stream to play in.

In the mid seventies, my family moved to Wyoming and lived there seventeen years. My dad died in 1990, and during the eighties and nineties Noel took a turn for the worse because Tyson Foods built a huge chicken processing plant in Noel which ruined the river and attracted transients and illegals from miles afar to work for minimum wage in the chicken plant. Noel was no longer the safe haven of peace as before. We had our memories, but no desire to revisit.
In 2007, my wife and I visited Branson, Missouri, which, of course, anyone over the age of sixty is required to visit sooner or later. After our visit, however, we scheduled ourselves to travel to Grove, Oklahoma, to visit my sister Kathy and her husband. To travel from Branson to Grove is a westerly trip, and, as luck would have it, we were to travel to within about ten miles of Noel. A pang of nostalgia struck me as I got closer to Noel, and, finally, at the last minute, I made a turn and drove the familiar road along the river to Noel. In fifty years the road had changed little, except it was no longer U.S. Highway 71, but a county highway. Highway 71 had long since been rerouted to bypass Noel, which destroyed the tourism business. Eventually we drove into Noel, and, whatever glamour was there earlier had long been washed away. Noel was a ghost of its lively past. After being depressed for ten minutes or so, we decided to drive on to Grove. As we were leaving, I suddenly realized that we were going to pass the site of the old Green Valley Courts, and then I remembered the bridge.

After we drove over the bridge, I pulled the car off the road and stopped. I’m sure Shirley thought I had lost my mind when I told her what I was going to do. I took my camera and tried to find a path down to the stream. By this time the stream was barely visible through the bushes, grass, and shrubbery. I also thought about water moccasins because they are plentiful in that area of the hills. Gingerly I climbed down the embankment to the water, and, finding no place to walk along the edge, I put my nice, white sneakers into the water and waded out. The water was just as cold and clear as I remembered. I was a little upstream of the bridge, so I waded down toward the concrete embankment, keeping a sharp eye for land or water varmints. I reached the bridge and, walking underneath, looked up.

Fifty years later, the names were still clearly visible (see photo.) I placed my hand on the letters and suddenly my eyes filled with tears. For a moment I longed to return to those innocent days of youth, and my heart ached to see my mom and dad. Only one other time in my life have I ever felt as lonely as I felt under that bridge that day. It almost felt like judgment day when I realized that the words on the bridge were written when I was only fourteen and my future was ahead of me, and now I was sixty four and the majority of my life had passed, ever so quickly it seemed. I made a quick summary of my life’s accomplishments, and the list seemed so embarrassingly short. Looking further down the stream, the little area where we children and parents used to play and laugh was choked with vines and weeds, but in my mind I saw it as it once was. I was reminded of the scripture, ”For what is your life? It is but a vapour that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

Eventually, after taking a few photos, I came to the realization that I have been very fortunate. My childhood was the stuff of dreams….not wealth and riches, but rather a home with caring parents and loving sisters. We have gone our separate ways and now have our own families and dreams. I have been blessed with a wonderful wife, children, grandchildren, and even in-laws. We have created our own special places and memories. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in his story The Great Gatsby, “You can’t go home again.” I have had a good life.

A Pleasant Day on Galveston Bay

On Saturday, the 28th of November, I was reminded again why my wife and I attend the church to which we currently pledge allegiance. Not only does it offer the serious things like a caring, spiritual leader, a loving, concerned congregation, and a place where one can truly feel a communication with one’s Creator, but it also offers fun stuff to do, even for us…um…Golden Agers. The upcoming Christmas season is going to be a blizzard of activities which will offer a high degree of spiritual satisfaction along with a high reading on the fun meter at the same time.

This last week end, however, it was an opportunity to satisfy that most basic instinct of man, that of the gatherer. You know, the mighty man who goes out and brings in the meat for the grateful family back at the cave. Except in this case it wasn’t a hunt for forest game, but rather game in water. Yes, I am talking about fishing. What the more sporting leaders of the church had done was obtain tickets to go on a charter fishing boat out of Galveston for four hours on Saturday morning. The price was $25.00, which was a bargain, because the boat people offered fishing gear, bait, transportation to the fishing spot, and expert guidance for that small price. The plan was to exit Galveston harbor and sail out to the jetties, then re-enter the bay and sail over to the Bolivar Peninsula, and then wander around the bay as the ship sonar sought out the schools of fish for us to capture. Visions of monster redfish, speckled trout, flounder, even sharks danced in our heads as we looked forward to Saturday morning. Concerns about how big of an icebox do we need to take to insure we get all our fish back home floated around in conversations. All of us experienced fishermen contemplated taking our own gear because we have our own special way to fish. It was all very exciting. The ship was to pull out at 8:00 a.m., so we knew we would need to leave the church by about 6:00 or so to make sure we got there in time to register and board the vessel. All of us (at least I did) excitedly went to bed early Friday night to be sure we got up in time to make the deadline.

I awoke before my alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. to the sound of pitter-patter outside our window. No, it really wasn’t pitter-patter, more like the sound of water gushing off the roof and down the down spout. I went to the door, cracked it open, and saw that it was pouring down rain, and colder than…well, it was chilly. And the wind was blowing. My mouth said, “Boy, the fish ought to be biting in this weather,” but my heart said, “I bet they’re going to cancel the trip.” I checked my super sophisticated Blackberry Curve internet capable cell phone for any emails with fishing news, and there was nothing. So I decided to go to the church and get the bad news there. After having my usual healthy breakfast of Pop-Tarts and milk, I threw on my clothes, found a rain protective hat and a water repellent jacket, hopped in my truck and headed to the church.

The trip gave me a new revelation. I have decided we need to have Sunday Service at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday. Anyone who travels FM 1960 any distance knows it is a frustrating blend of suffocating traffic and constant red lights. This morning I drove the eight miles from my house to the church and never slowed down. Not a stop light and not a single doddering old dude cruising at 25 miles per hour the whole distance. I made it to the church in less than 12 minutes. It was so nice. But at the church, arriving about 20 minutes before we were to leave, I realized there was no one there. Where were the 35 or so brothers that were to make the pilgrimage? It was still raining, by the way, with a damp wind that was chilling. Finally I saw a car over in a corner, but it did not appear to have anyone inside. So it appeared that I was alone, which, without being an alarmist, still makes me nervous anywhere in the Houston area, especially when all my weaponry is at home and not in my truck.

Finally a Hummer rolled in and I realized that Pastor Fauss was there, so I was now safe from harm and danger. As he got out of his vehicle, the other fellow got out of his, and I realized that it was Brother Mike Mabry, so I joined them. Needless to say, the primary focus of conversation was the weather, with the general consensus that it was supposed to be better “down toward Galveston.” In fishermen, hope springs eternal. Shortly later, Brothers Leonard Wiggins, Shawn Everhart, and others trickled in, and as we approached the departure deadline, there arose some concern about where everyone was. But about that time Brother Joe Hargrave cruised up and said that many had decided to drive straight from their homes to Galveston instead of gathering at the church, so we all felt a little better, and, about 6:00 a.m., we loaded up and headed to Galveston. I was privileged to ride with Brothers Mike and Leonard in Brother Mike’s 2008 Hyundai Santa Fe. I mention the Santa Fe only because as a person formerly involved in the car business, I can’t help but check out a vehicle if I’m anywhere near an interesting one. The Hyundai was a very impressive small SUV with good power, a smooth ride, and good finish.

It is always a privilege and a pleasure to travel, associate, or visit with men of like Christian faith. The conversation is always friendly, honest, respectable, and clean….and usually fun. I could tell that Mike and Leonard had known each other for a long time because the banter between the two men was easy, relaxed, and humorous as befits long time friends. I appreciated how they welcomed me into their conversation, and by the time we reached Galveston I felt at ease, as if I had become an instant long time friend. Relationships like this are extremely rare in human interactions, and they cannot be overvalued.

The weather did at least seem to abate a bit as we headed to salt water country. Though the winds and chill remained, the rain reduced to just a slight mist. Galveston, however, was a little depressing. The scars of Hurricane Ike of 2008 were very evident. As we passed the ending of IH45 and cruised along Broadway, scores of empty and damaged homes and business were still evident. Vacant land and lots were every where, and even the marshland prior to the Galveston Bridge that sits to the right of IH45 which usually is covered by tall grass over its watery bed is now mostly just water with all the marsh grass washed away. Turning left on 25th and approaching the Strand, the buildings looked simply older and more weathered and the whole area looked, well, sort of not very salvageable. We turned right on Harbor, rolled down to Pier 19, and there we were with the 70 foot catamaran "Cavalier" sitting expectantly at mooring. Sure enough, there were several men of the church already there and waiting, and by the time we loaded, our total was around 23-24. Considering the weather, not a bad turnout. There were also about 20 or so other people joining us for the cruise, but, since the boat is geared for about 80 fishermen, we had plenty of room. If you’ve never been on a charter fishing boat, they usually are models of efficiency. From amidship on the starboard side, back to the stern, and around to amidship on the port side, there are numbers painted on the railing about two feet apart from zero to 80. Next to each number is a loaded up rod and reel and a bucket of bait, in this case chopped up squid. When you get your ticket, it has a number, and that number is your assigned fishing spot. Mine was 67, so I located spot 67 at the rail and I was ready to go.

We cranked up and headed out of the harbor. The wind was cutting, and the waves very choppy, sending a spray of icy water to those trying to hang over the edge. I was amazed at the number of dolphins playing in the bay waters. There would be five to seven in a pod, and they would beautifully jump out of the water in unison or cruise just below the surface. When they cruised under the surface, their dorsal fins would be visible. If I had seen them at a beach somewhere, I would have headed to the shore because they looked very shark-like. As we left the harbor area and entered the open bay, the waves got higher with foamy whitecaps. The water looked like chocolate, and I was surprised at the amount of debris floating around. Wooden panels, two-by-fours, logs, and bottles floated by and made me glad we weren’t in a sixteen foot skiff trying to motor through all this.

Our first stop was at a sunken concrete freighter that has been in Galveston Bay since World War II. It’s usually a good fishing spot for flounder and whatever (I’ve been there before,) but this time the outbound current was so strong that the boat’s anchors would not hold and we kept breaking free, making it impossible to toss out our lines. After 20 minutes or so, we headed across the bay to athwart the Bolivar Peninsula. Here we dropped anchor, baited our hooks with the tasty bits of squid, and heaved to (cast out our rods.) The current was still frustrating. Casting straight out from the boat would result in your line swinging instantly to the stern of the boat. When you have 45 lines doing that, needless to say, tangled lines were inevitable.

Now I don’t consider myself an expert fisherman, but I do have a little bit of experience. A sensitive hand on a rod can feel the weight sliding along the bottom and you have a sort of sixth sense that tells you when it’s time to reel in and avoid calamity. You learn also when a line bump is a weight bouncing on a rock on the bottom and when a bump is a fish nabbing your bait, and when to jerk your line and when to wait. The fishing gear on most boats like the "Cavalier" is heavy duty, heavier than you need, and to the amateur fisherman is a nightmare to handle. It takes a delicate feel to cast without turning your open face reel into what is called a “bird’s nest” of tangled string. I saw more than one reel that would have tempted a bird to lay an egg.

But with the wind, cold, current, and chocolate water, the fishing was terrible. All that was caught were gafftop and hardheads, and not too many of them. I was able to catch four, but threw them all back. To be honest, we spent most of our time fishing smack in the area of the Houston Ship Channel, and there have been so many reports of all the powerful chemicals awash in the area that I decided I would not eat anything that came out of those waters. If we had been able to go up into East Bay or Trinity Bay, I may have kept a fish, but not there. We were not able to head out to the Galveston jetties, which are two stone and concrete barriers that extend out into the Gulf of Mexico on either side of the entrance to Galveston Bay. They are there to protect the dredged channel of the seaport from being damaged by shifting sand and currents. Along these jetties the fishing is usually pretty good, but today the waves were topping nine feet in height, so we had to cancel our trip there. We were condemned to wander around the mouth of the bay, and at the next point of anchor drop, just off from Sea Wolf Park, we tried it for awhile, but no one caught anything.

So about 10:30, we weighed anchor with a total of one fish, a four pound or so gafftop catfish to show for the work of 45 men. As we neared shore, the crew passed a can for tips, into which most of us tossed $5.00 bills, which was probably too much, since the deck hands had a pretty easy go of it, what with no fish to unhook or clean. Oh, well. I have said before that a bad day fishing is better than a good day working, and this was a good example. The weather was lousy and the fishing was worse, but it was still a lot of fun. We who wanted to fish got to do so, and those who did not were able to stay inside and….eat. Inside the boat were a small grill and a deck hand who grilled sandwiches, micro waved nachos and cheese, and sold soft drinks. I heard that there was a certain pastor who had breakfast on the way to Galveston, then had two sandwiches and two plates of nachos on board the boat, and then had lunch on the way home. It’s just a rumor and I haven’t substantiated the report. I can report that Brothers Mike and Leonard and I did stop at Popeye’s Chicken in Texas City. We were hungry, however, because we had spent most of our time on board working on our mission…trying to catch fish. To each his own.

Sure enough, as we left Texas City and headed back to the church, it began to sprinkle again. But now we were in the warm confines of a little Hyundai Santa Fe SUV. Three friends, full of fried chicken, who had just enjoyed a four hour fishing trip. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Assignment: Berlin

Any similarities between actual events or persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Chapter One

Airman First Class Link Stevens walked quietly in the darkness along the cobblestone sidewalk of Schonefelder Strasse toward the ugly scar that was the Berlin Wall. “This is not what I signed up for,” he thought to himself as he scanned the shadows looking for a particular spot. Since he had arrived in West Berlin eighteen months ago, in the early spring of 1965, his duty had been pretty routine with occasional moments of high tension. But as a Russian language specialist with training in intelligence procedures, at least even in the moments of tension he had been in places of relative safety with plenty of weaponry nearby. But now he was alone, walking a dark street, armed with only a military issue .45, and not really sure what he was looking for.

Since the Soviets had erected the now-infamous Berlin Wall in August of 1961, the stress and tension of living in West Berlin had ebbed and flowed at the whim of the Soviets and the East Germans. After the 1966 crash of one of Russia’s brand new generation Suhoi ground attack jets into Lake Wansee in West Berlin and the subsequent intelligence coup by the British and Americans who were able to photograph and analyze every square inch of the new aircraft while it was still underwater, the Russians had been very irritable and spoiling for a confrontation. What really irritated them was our mysterious ability to know what they were going to do before they did it and have countermeasures active even before they started. That was due in part to a network of spies and operatives who worked behind the Berlin Wall in East Berlin monitoring the activities of the armies and air forces of both the USSR and the GDR (German Democratic Republic.) Although the GDR boasted a formidable military force, it was under the heavy thumb of the USSR. GDR aircraft pilots were closely monitored to prohibit any temptation by them to defect to the west, and their families were closely watched and used as leverage to insure that the GDR pilots were not tempted to fly west. Much of the information gathered from the East came to the West in the same method as tonight’s package was delivered. Once the intelligence was collected in the East, it was smuggled around, through, under, or over the wall to a predetermined drop spot, at which time it was picked up by the western operative and delivered to the ICC (Intelligence Clearing Center) for processing. Each day, a Pending Espionage and Intelligence Activities Report (PEIAR) was transmitted through secure communications to Frankfort and then to Washington for analysis.

Such was Link’s assignment for this night. Two months earlier, his sergeant had come to him and asked if he would like to do something a little different for a change. Without thinking Link had jumped at the chance, and now here he was. This would be his fourth assignment he had successfully completed, but it had been stressful, to say the least. As he neared the Wall, the buildings reflected neglect from their uncertain future and violent past. Though it had been twenty years since the end of World War II, many buildings still reflected their heavy damage from Allied bombing, and one walked with a certain amount of caution, since unexploded bombs were still being discovered in the twenty-year-old rubble. Looking further up the sidewalk, Link spotted a rusty park bench. He approached it carefully and sat down. From that position he was to look at the building directly in front of him, count three windows up and two to the left, and look for a small white marker. If it was not there he was to return to his base, but it was there.

He entered the empty, bombed out apartment building. The stairs were splintered, but he was able to slowly traverse the stairs with minimum noise. Each level of the building was more destroyed than the one below it, and by the time he reached the third floor, he could see from one side of the building to another through the blown out walls. There, on the ledge of the second window from the left, was a small, leather packet. He listened for at least five minutes for any sound that might betray another visitor, and, hearing none, he picked up the packet, stuffed it into his jacket, and retraced his steps down the stairs. His eyes strained to decipher every shadow as he made his way back to the U-Bahn (subway) station at Rudow Platz. As he walked into the brightly lit station, he breathed a sigh of relief and boarded the train. Twenty five minutes later he was at the entrance to Templehof Central Airport, the home of the 6914^th USAF Security Squadron. The 6914^th was ostensibly on base to provide security for the airport, but in actuality was the easternmost intelligence gathering arm of the United States and the only group operating behind the Iron Curtain. Following instructions, he went to his room and changed out of his worn civilian clothes and into his uniform, then walked to the 6914^th check in station to finish his night’s work. He checked in his .45, which raised the curiosity of the weapons clerk, who wondered out loud how Link had ever gotten authority to carry one. Link then showed his badge to the Air Police, signed his name, and pressed the fingerprint monitor. The AP pressed the switch on the heavy door, which with a click opened and Link entered the secure area. Going up five flights in the elevator, he exited the elevator and entered the gleaming lights of the intelligence command center.

“Well, Link, how did it go?” asked Technical Sergeant Earnest Sotomeyer. “Any trouble?”

“Strictly routine…at least as routine as it can get, anyway,” replied Link.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” the sergeant ordered, and he and Link went to a nearby table, opened the leather packet, and spread out the contents. On the table were photos of aircraft taking off from a field, and lists of aircraft models and their locations along with the names of the pilots assigned to each aircraft. “Look at this ‘21!’” yelled Sotomeyer. “This is the newest MiG-21F…their latest version with variable frequency radar and heavier artillery! And the Soviets are bringing a whole squadron of the babies to the Forward Area! They’re upping the ante in the arms game, that’s for sure! We’ve got to get this to Washington. By the way, nice job, Link.”

“Thanks, Sarge. Say, would it be possible for me to get out of here a little early? This evening has been a bit of a strain, and it’s only a couple of hours till shift change anyway.” With the sergeants blessing, Link checked out and headed for his room overlooking Columbiadamm (street). He flopped onto his bed trying to wind down a little before showering and going to bed, but the more he tried to relax the more he thought about the events of the evening. If something had gone wrong it could have been very serious indeed. He thought of his wife, Renee, who was expecting their first child and had only a couple of months before left Berlin to go back home. He was counting the days until he could head home himself, and he worried that the baby may come before he got home. It was going to be close.

He decided to go for a cup of coffee to maybe settle his nerves. Just outside the air base, there was a bar called Ristaurante La Gendela operated by an old woman who seemed to feel sorry for soldiers who did not drink or smoke. As a result she had an area in a corner of the bar where the non-imbibers could drink a soft drink, coffee, or tea, have a good steaming bowl of sauerkraut with sausage, and listen to live German folk music.. Link walked in, said hello to the kindly old lady and found his favorite spot in the corner. The waitress brought his customary cup of coffee and a chunk of hard bread and cheese, and Link began to relax. He understood the significance of the intelligence he had delivered today, but at the same time maintained a certain detachment because, being only an Airman First Class, he was a few notches below the upper officers who were able to see the big picture of intelligence operations in Eastern Germany. He was happy he had done his job successfully again, but more happy that nothing had gone wrong.

When the German behind the guitar began to sing “I’m 500 Miles Away From Home” in a heavy German accent, Link decided it was time to head home. It was near 3:00 a.m. and only thirteen hours to the next work shift. Leaving a five mark tip, Link stepped out the door into the chilly air of the darkened street. Walking about ten paces to the left, he passed a narrow alley. There was a flash of movement and he heard the whistle of air as someone swung a heavy object toward the back of his head. That’s all he remembered.

Chapter Two

He awoke to a thundering headache. Without opening his eyes, he gingerly felt the painful lump behind his left ear and decided that at least there was no blood or fractured skull. He lay still and listened. A faint dripping of water and a faraway fan of some sort were the only two sounds discernible. He could see light through his eyelids, so he slowly opened his eyes and moved his head slightly to survey the situation. He was lying on a narrow cot in the corner of a bare room approximately ten feet by ten. In the center of the room standing on the gray concrete floor was a small well-worn wooden table with four chairs. Overhead a single light bulb hung from a crooked wire. A framed mirror was placed in the middle of the opposite wall, and a single door with a small center window was beyond his feet. A small white porcelain sink with a single faucet was hanging in a corner opposite his cot. Interestingly, he thought, there was a large three foot by five foot flag tacked to the wall above his head. It was the flag of the East German government, the German Democratic Republic.

He wondered why anyone in West Berlin would fly the flag of the Communist East Germans so boldly, and decided he must be in some sort of hospital receiving treatment for his head wound. Stiffly, he pulled himself up from the bed and toward the door. The door was locked. Peering through the small window, he saw a narrow hallway which matched the bare décor of his room. No one seemed to be around. He unsuccessfully tried the door again, and then gave it a couple of quick pounds and yelled. Instantly he heard low voices and within a couple of minutes sharp footsteps heading toward him. He sat behind the desk and waited for his visitor. A key rattled, the latch turned, and in walked two guards fully armed with automatic weapons and grim expressions. They stepped in the room, quickly closed the door, sharply came to attention with weapons at the ready, and stared straight ahead. They were wearing the uniforms of the East German infantry soldier.

“Who are you and what is going on! Where am I?” demanded Link, rising from his chair, but the guards stared straight ahead. He repeated his questions, and one of the guards diverted his eyes to him and quietly said, “Ein moment, bitte.” Just as Link was about to head for the door to attempt to leave, he heard more steps walking his way. He sat back down at the desk, just as the third East German soldier entered the room. He was very tall with muscular shoulders and piercing eyes, though the eyes softened upon seeing Link. He wore the uniform of an officer, Link thought, probably a captain or major.

“Good evening, Link, how is your head? And may I introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Major Reinholtz Kleppinger of the army of the Free German Democratic Republic.” Link observed that the major spoke in perfect English. “We are sorry for the somewhat unorthodox method of bringing you to us, but you must understand it was best that we be as discreet as possible under the circumstances. The circumstances being that you have been a bit of an embarrassment to our government in that you have been the avenue for some very delicate and sensitive information concerning our Soviet friends and comrades being treasonously forwarded to your capitalist governments in the West, who will no doubt use the information to further threaten the sovereignty and safety of the Free Democratic Republic of Germany, not to mention our loyal Soviet allies.

“I demand, as a member of the armed forces of the United Stares, to see a representative of the United States government immediately and to be treated in accordance with the international agreement of the Geneva Convention as accepted by both the United States and the GDR."

.”

“Tell me, Link,” said Major Kleppinger quietly, “How do we know you are a soldier? And if you are, why aren’t you in uniform? And don’t you know that a soldier out of uniform carrying out acts of war against another country has no protection from the Geneva Convention and can be instantly shot as a spy?”

Taken aback, Link stuttered, “I have…I have my military Identification Card.”

“Useless,” said the major, “I can go onto any street in West Berlin and buy them by the box for twenty marks apiece.”

“In that case, my name is Link J. Stevens, Airman First Class, United States Air Force, Service Number AF 18684175. That all I have to say under the rules of the Geneva Convention.”

“Sit down, Airman Stevens,” ordered the major. He opened a small manila folder and began reading from a paper. “Yes, you are Airman Stevens. You have been in West Berlin since March 4, 1965. You were born on May 5, 1943, in Goose Creek, Texas…Is that the real name?? You joined the military on August 4, 1963 and received your indoctrination and language training at Bloomington, Indiana, and San Angelo, Texas. You have been married to your childhood sweetheart for five years, six months, and…let’s see…seven days. She went back to your home two months ago because she is expecting your first child. You hope to be home to see your first child born. Shall I go on??.......oh, yes, by the way, you are now being held by the Free Democratic Republic of Germany to face the charges of spying and espionage, the sentence for which is usually death. And yes, you are a prisoner in the Free Democratic Republic. We are actually rather proud how we were able to spirit you across the border. Your border guards are really quite sloppy in their work. We will, of course, have a very public trial, and an attorney will be appointed to you, but the evidence is quite condemning; I see only one outcome of a trial.”

Link, shocked at the quick turn of events, sat at the desk and stared blankly at the major. This was not what he had signed up for. Just do a little listening and translating for a couple of years and then go home, they had said. Nothing like this. “I still demand to see a representative of the United States government.”

“In due time,” said the major. He stood up and with a quick nod to the guards who then jerked the door open, walked out of the room.

Chapter Three

Link awoke to the chill of the damp room. The night had been spent sleeping fitfully after a cold supper of hard bread, cheese, and weak soup. He tried to retrace the events of the last 24 hours but still had no clue as to how he had wound up in the hands of the enemy. Beyond remembering stepping out of the bar, taking a few steps, and then the head blow, he remembered nothing. He searched his pockets and found that his wallet with his military ID was missing. He still had his pocket comb, handkerchief, and twenty seven German marks of currency, but that was it. His two friends, the guards were gone, apparently having decided that there wasn’t much chance for his escape. The door was still locked, however, and there seemed to be no activity in the hall. In a few moments he heard footsteps, a click of the door, and then observed a tall, rather elderly man wearing a well-worn brown double-breasted brown striped suit and carrying the usual German style baggy leather briefcase. His long gray hair lung over his collar, his eyebrows were long and bushy, and he sported a two day old beard and a weary expression. Link thought to himself that this guy looks like he’s been up for two days.

“Guten tag,” said the man with a gravelly voice, “My name is Gerhardt Schroeder, and I am your attorney to represent you in your trial for espionage against the German Democratic Republic. Do you with to plead guilty for your crimes and hope for leniency from the state?”

Link was stunned at the bluntness of the question. “Of course I do not wish to plead guilty, and I demand to see a representative of the United States! How can you defend me in court if you assume I am guilty?”

“Herr Stevens, I am not going to defend you in court…I am going to represent you in court. There is not a question of your guilt. We have photos of you accepting and delivering classified military secrets of the GDR to our enemies. You did this while not wearing the uniform of your military. Even according to the ridiculous requirements of the Geneva Convention, you are a spy with no protection from your government, and, as such, there is no question of the outcome of a trial. In fact, a trial is not even necessary, but the GDR, in the spirit of fairness, will allow you to explain why you chose to commit these acts of war against our country. Of course, after you explain your motives for these acts of aggression, you will summarily be taken out and shot. I’m afraid things look rather bleak for you. Too bad about your wife and unborn child, but you chose to commit these acts and now must face the consequences.”

Schroder continued, “There is one avenue that may be taken which may cause the court to look mercifully upon your fate and may possibly bring an end to this unfortunate event. And that is if you describe to a representative of our government the mission, procedures, and policies of the 6914^th Security Squadron. It is no secret to us that the mission of the 6914^thSS is not the security of Flughafen Tempelhof, but rather the operation of a massive spy and espionage network against the GDR and its closest ally, the USSR. Nye Pravda li?” Schroder spoke the Russian phrase and then said, “Yes, we know that you and your comrades in espionage are fluent in Russian, Polish, and German. Did you spend all those months at Indiana University learning these languages so that you could provide security for a military base? I think not. As your appointed attorney, I strongly suggest that you cooperate with our government in order to insure the greatest leniency on its part and perhaps offer you a chance to someday see your wife and child."

“You do not understand.” replied Link, “My mission at the 6914^th is to monitor USAF aircraft communications to insure that our military aircraft are abiding by the flight control agreements governing inbound and outbound flights between Berlin and the Allied countries to the west. Because of the narrow flight corridors and the severe consequences which come from aircraft straying of these flight paths, all air transportation has to be closely monitored to insure the safety of our crews and passengers. Our mission does not include operations against the GDR or USSR.”

Schroder stood to his feet and brushed his hair back with his hand. In a resigned voice he said quietly, “I am sorry you have decided to stick with that story. I am afraid it will prove to be a fatal mistake. Good day.” Without shaking Link’s hand, he turned and walked out of the room. As he closed the door and walked down the hall, Link heard him say to someone, “The prisoner will not cooperate; there is nothing I can do.” Strangely, he spoke in English to the unseen person.

Within minutes, he heard multiple footsteps approaching, and upon the door opening, in walked Major Kleppinger with the two armed guards. They did not look happy. The two guards did not stand by the door but walked over and stood next to Link, one on each side. Said the major in a stern, loud voice, “Airman Stevens, are you sure this is the avenue that you wish to take? That you are going to deny spying against the GDR and that the mission of the 6914^th is to conduct a war of espionage against the GDR and its loyal ally, the USSR?"

“I only monitor US military aircraft, and I still demand to see…” The blow from the rifle butt came crashing to his right eyebrow like a bolt of thunder, and Link crumpled to the floor, dazed with blood pouring from the gash above his eye. The other guard threw a small towel over Link’s face. Trying to collect his thoughts, Link wiped the blood from his head and slowly stood back up.

The major said firmly, “Our government has decided that a trial is not necessary and that execution for your crimes should be immediate.” His voice then unexpectedly softened, “Would you like to talk with your wife before you face your execution?”

“My…my wife? At home? How?” stammered Link, still reeling from the pain in his head.

“We know where your wife is. She is with her parents at their home in Goose Creek, Texas. It is located at 505 Aron Street. It is a rather large white home with a garage for two cars. Typical American overindulgence. We can dial her number and you will have five minutes to speak with her and say goodby.” At a nod of Major Kleppinger, one of the guards steeped out of the room and returned with a phone attached to a very long cord and set it on the table in from of Link. “You have fifteen minutes of life left…do you wish to talk to her?” Link silently nodded his head, his thoughts racing.

The major picked up the phone and said simply, “Complete the call.” Faintly, Link could hear the clicks of the phone relays as the call made its way across Europe, the Atlantic Ocean, the United States, to his wife’s temporary home. Link heard a faint “hello” and the major spoke, “Hello. Is this Mrs. Lisa Stevens?” Link heard his wife reply, and then the major said, “Please hold for your husband, Airman First Class Link Stevens.” Link heard his wife gasp, and the major gave Link the phone.

“Link! Link! Is it really you? Link?” gushed his wife excitedly.

“Hi, Honey, yes, it’s me. I…um…just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Link! How are you making this call? Isn’t it costing a lot? Is something wrong?”

“Honey, I just want you to know that….” CLICK! The major suddenly slammed his hand on the phone, disconnecting the call.

“Why did you do that! You told me I had five minutes!” yelled Link.

Major Kleppinger spoke quietly but firmly, “Shut up and listen. I am going to give you one last chance for your life, or it will end in ten minutes. You do not have to tell us what the mission of the 6914^th is because we already know. However there are certain activities carried out on a daily basis the knowledge of which would be very useful to us. We know that a daily summary of pending espionage and intelligence activities against the GDR and USSR is sent to the U.S. regional headquarters in Frankfort, and we also know that you have access to this document. It will be your responsibility to obtain a copy of that document each day and deliver it to us. Naturally you will receive instructions as to the procedure for delivering this information. In doing so, you will not be endangering the lives of your comrades in the 6914^th. Consider it more of an act of leveling the playing field, to use an American football analogy.”

“Before you make a rash decision concerning this matter,” continued the major, “please be aware that the purpose of the phone call was to let you know that we know exactly where your wife, unborn child, and family are at this very moment, and that we have agents in your country, just as you have in ours. Just so you’ll know, your father-in-law bought another car yesterday, a Buick, yet another example of American overindulgence. Any treachery on your part, any refusal to cooperate with the GDR on the matter I described, will result in harm coming to those you love. Believe me, we can reach them in America easier than we can reach someone in West Berlin. Americans do not understand what security means. So I ask again…will you cooperate with us, or do you choose death for yourself and your lived ones?”

Quietly Link spoke, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Chapter 4

“You have made a very wise and practical decision,” said Major Kleppinger. “Of course, you will receive a very satisfactory compensation from our government as you work to blunt the forces of western capitalism. We will work out the details of payment a little later. In the meantime, we will return you to West Berlin to go back to your station. You have been missing for over twenty four hours, and you know what the regulations are in your military for missing personnel who have high level security clearances like yourself. Under their regulations, you are now considered a deserter, so we will need to place you in a circumstance in West Berlin that will seem to justify your failure to report for your duty yesterday.”

“How will you do that? I can’t just dream up a story to tell them. They’ll put me through interrogation and tear my story to shreds,” groaned Link.

“You will not have to create a story; the story will present itself. Remember, your mission is to collect a copy of the PEIAR document (Pending Espionage and Intelligence Activities Report.) You will receive instructions for delivery in 72 hours.” Link saw a fleeting movement behind his right shoulder, and, for the second time in two days, everything went black.

Also for the second time in two days, he awoke to a splitting headache. He slowly opened his eyes and realized upon looking around that it appeared he was in a hospital room. His head was heavily bandaged, as well as his left arm, and he ached from head to foot, as if he were heavily bruised. As he was about to call for help, a woman walked into the room. To Link’s great relief, she was wearing the uniform of a U.S. Army nurse. When she saw that Link was conscious, she turned to him and smiled.

“Well, Airman Stevens,” she said pleasantly, “you are a very lucky person. You could have been killed by that car! Fortunately, the person who found you knew you were military and had the German Polisei call for a military ambulance.

“I…I don’t understand…where…where am I?” Link stammered. He tried to move but the soreness in his body resisted.

The nurse continued, “You are in the United States Military Hospital-Berlin. I am Lieutenant Connie

Calas. Apparently when you left Ristaurante La Gendela yesterday morning, you stepped into the path of a car, which knocked you into the alley next to the building. When you came to rest, several wooden crates fell on you, and you lay there unconscious for more than a day. You’re lucky you didn’t experience hypothermia overnight. Anyway, about three hours ago, a passerby heard you groan and found you and called police. Other than a gash on the back of your head, one over your eye, and a pretty good scrape on your left forearm, you’re in pretty good shape. You’ll be out of here in a few hours. You’ll need some aspirin for the soreness, though. And by the way, there are a couple of sergeants waiting outside to talk to you. I’ll send them in.”

As the nurse exited the hospital room, the two sergeants entered, one carrying a folder. Link noticed that both were carrying sidearms, although neither had the insignia of military police.

“Airman Stevens? I’m Master Sergeant Gibbons and this is Technical Sergeant Amos. We are from Investigations, and we just need to ask you a couple of questions about the last couple of nights. We understand you were exiting the Ristaurante La Gendela about 0100 yesterday morning. Do you remember anything after you left the bar?”

Link’s mind raced as he tried to organize his thoughts and control his words, “I stepped out the door and walked to the curb. I was looking down because it was so dark. Suddenly I heard a ‘whoosh!’ and then next thing I knew, I was here in this bed. You say that was yesterday?

“Yep,” said the sergeant, “You must have really slammed into that building to be unconscious for a full day. You’re lucky to be alive. So, you’re saying the last 30 hours or so are pretty much a blank in your memory?”

“Yeah, Sarge, I’m sorry, but that’s about it, replied Link.

“Well, everything seems to check out OK. We have the statement from the citizen who found you, so we’ll

turn in our report. I understand you may be released here in a couple of hours, so you’ll be able to go back to your duty tomorrow. I will clear it with your Flight Commander. He already knows you have been found and has canceled the deserter alert, so you won’t get shot.” And he laughed. The two sergeants shook hands with Link and left the room.

Link lay back in his bed somewhat shocked at the turn of events. “Major Kleppinger was right…the Americans DON”T know anything about security! I disappear for 30 hours and they ask me only one question and never question my response. No wonder the Russians know what we’re doing! How did they get me through the Wall and back to La Gendela’s?”

Two hours later, the army nurse returned to change Link’s bandages to his head and arm, gave him a bottle of aspirin for pain, and walked him down to the front door where a U.S. Army personnel bus was waiting to take him back to Tempelhof Central Airport and his room. Link exited the bus at Tempelhof and walked up to his room. Throwing his jacket on the chair, he collapsed onto the bed and drifted into a fitful sleep. He dreamed the same dream over and over. He dreamed he was passing a row of desks. On each one was a stack of papers with a big, red “Top Secret” stamp on the top. He picked up each stack of papers and headed to a closed door. As he opened the door and entered he saw a row of soldiers. Their rifles were drawn and aimed directly at him….a firing squad.

Chapter Five

Link awoke from his stupor and forced himself to prepare for his evening’s shift. A hot shower helped awaken him further, and he was surprised to see that his wounds didn’t look quite so bad after a thorough cleaning…not to mention the fact that he felt one hundred percent better. He put on his fatigues, cap, and jacket, and decided he was starving, since it seemed it had been days since he had eaten. He walked down the long barracks hall, jumped on the paternoster, the continuously moving elevator, and went to the lower level to the chow hall. He entered the chow line and ordered breakfast, as many of the evening shift workers did, and marveled again at the cook behind the counter who could crack three eggs in each hand simultaneously and expertly spread them on the griddle and cook them exactly the way you wanted them in two minutes flat. Walking with his tray he headed to a table, he spotted his immediate supervisor, Sergeant Sotomeyer, and started to duck to another table…but, too late.

“Hey, Stevens, come over and have a seat!” yelled Sotomeyer. “How was your vacation? You don’t look too the worse for wear!”

Link sat down and started on his eggs and bacon, “I think I’m going to make it. I actually don’t remember too much about the last two days.”

“Yeah, that’s what the investigator told me…that you had spent most of a day taking a long nap outside of La Gendela’s. You should be well rested!” he laughed. Then he turned serious, “Listen, son, you need to be careful. These German drivers are crazy; you could have been killed.”

“I know I was pretty lucky,” replied Link, “but I’m ready to get back to work.”

“Good!” said the sergeant, “Listen, I got to run…see you at the office in a few minutes.”

The “office” was Head Building East, more commonly referred to as HBE, the residence of the 6914^th

Security Squadron and the nerve center for intelligence activities at Tempelhof. Although it was

actually part of the same building as the chow hall and the barracks, it was nearly a half mile walk to get to its entrance. Tempelhof at one time was the second largest building in the world, and would have been the largest if Hitler had been able to complete his dream. Rather than being tall, it was scattered over nearly a mile of real estate surrounding the airstrip. Link decided to walk the exterior perimeter of the building on his way to HBE even though there was a decided snap to the November air with

slight snow flurries, and darkness was already settling in for the evening even though it was only 1600 hours (4:00 p.m.) The walk would give him a chance to think. Already the task before him was causing his stomach to twist, and he decided he would have to be extra cautious to avoid appearing nervous. Walking along the stone parapet in front of the building, he noticed that there was a long line of airmen in front of the Columbia Theater across Columbiadamm, and he remembered that it was tonight that Sean Connery’s latest James Bond movie, “Thunderball” was premiering. Because it was a hot new movie, the theater had raised the usual movie ticket price from 35 cents to 50 cents, and Link had earlier decided that no movie was worth that much money. Link arrived at the front entrance to the 6914^th, walked through the jail-like steel barred door, picked up his badge at the check in desk, caught the elevator to the fifth floor, and entered the brightly lit command center. The room was humming with dozens of small internal fans cooling the electronic gear while men chatted, yelled, and listened intently, all the while shuffling papers of unknown importance back and forth while attempting to make sense of what was happening out in the darkness far beyond the borders of West Berlin.

Knowing that the PEIAR report was not usually transmitted to Frankfort until zero hours (midnight,) he decided he would have to wander back to Analysis, the department where all intelligence for the day was coordinated, around 2300 (11:00 p.m.) His job assignment was “on the line,” the room that bristled with radio equipment which monitored every radio transmission, be it on land or in the air, within a 200 mile radius of Tempelhof. Because the command center operated 24 hours per day, there were four “flights’” or shifts, of airmen who worked various hours to insure that the center never slept. These shifts were identified as “Able,” “Baker,” “Charlie,” and “Dog” Flights. Link was a member of Able Flight which tonight would be relieving Dog Flight. As Link entered the operations, or “OPS,” area, Buster, one of Dog Flight’s language specialists yelled, “All right! The Able boys are coming in! Link! Come relieve me! Man, it has been wild tonight!” Link sat down, put on the headsets, clicked on the reel to reel recorder, and grabbed a pencil and paper while noticing that Buster had a stack of communications copy to organize and unravel before he could be released. He felt a stab of pain as the earpiece of the headset rubbed the side of his head where he had been clobbered nearly two days before. He decided it was going to be a long night.

Perhaps because his mind was still pondering the strategy he would need to execute in getting his hands on the PEIAR report and the accompanying tension of the task, it seemed to Link that every speaker that he listened to through the headsets had marbles in his mouth, and he struggled mightily to understand the language that he had been trained to intercept and translate. He found himself catching only the gist of some communications, and he worried that he may be missing some critical information that would save the world if he could just decipher what that communist idiot was trying to say.

A few hours later, however, the communications traffic has settled down to routine nightly radio checks, and the language boys had gotten a chance to take a breather from the intense earlier activities. Link shut his recorder down, removed his headsets, turned in his paperwork, and decided a cup of coffee was in order. As he left his desk, he imagined that every airman in the room was watching his movements, and though his outward appearance was still calm, he felt a slight tremor in his hands. “I am about to commit treason against my own country!” he screamed to himself in his mind. “But I have no choice…my family….” Walking to the coffee pot in the hall separating the OPS room from Analysis, he helped himself to the strong, black drink, deliberately pouring only half a cup for fear his nervous hands may spill some of it at a most inopportune moment. Looking furtively to the left and right, he entered the Analysis room. There were three airmen in the room, each one with his head down typing furiously on a typewriter. Stacks of paper were strewn everywhere with no appearance of order. The airmen never raised their eyes as Link slowly walked around the room. It was not uncommon for an intercept operator to come into the room and look over his notes and make corrections if he deemed it necessary, so Link attracted no particular attention, but he could feel the beads of sweat forming on his brow even though the room was cool. As he passed the end table, there, it its usual place was the wire “out” basket labeled “PEIAR,” and in the basket neatly stacked and stapled laid six copies of today’s Pending Espionage and Intelligence Activities Report. The bright red “Top Secret Codeword” was stamped warningly on each cover. With a quick glance at the airmen in the room to make sure they had not heard the pounding of his heart, Link deftly picked up a copy of the report, folded it rapidly, and stuffed it into his pocket. Quietly he left the Analysis room, went to the bathroom, and threw up.

Chapter Six

Throwing water on his pale face, Link stood in front of the mirror and attempted to collect himself before he went back to his work station. The panic in his mind intensified, while the PEIAR document seemed to burn a hole in his pocket. He put his hand in his pocket, felt the condemning paper, and thought of all the consequences, none good, which would befall him and perhaps the intelligence operations in Berlin if he followed through with the assignment given him by the GDR agents. The risk to his wife and family was evident, but his concern primarily was with his sworn military commitment to defend the interests of the United States at any cost. Taking a deep, resigning breath, he attempted to walk calmly back down the hall to the Analysis room where, just as before, the airmen were blazing away on their typewriters lost in their concentration to the task at hand. Controlling his anxieties, Link eased around to where the PEIAR basket sat with the other copies of the report. Stealing a furtive glance at the airmen again, Link quickly removed the document from his pocket and placed it back in the basket. As he slipped out of the room, the communications technician who transmitted the PEIAR to Frankfurt entered the room, picked up the reports, and went to the communications room to transmit the data to Central Command and Washington. Realizing that he had replaced the document just in the nick of time, Link exhaled a sigh of relief and thought to himself, “That was close!”

Sergeant Sotomeyer was at his desk reviewing paperwork when Link sat down. “Hey, Stevens, how are you feeling? You look a little better, anyway.”

“Sarge, I need to talk to you about something really serious. Can we go somewhere more private?” asked Link with a concerned look that the sergeant had not seen before from Link

Sotomeyer, sensing that Link was indeed worried about something said, “Sure, come on.” The sergeant and Link walked down the hall a short way and turned left into a small briefing room where the department heads sometime met to coordinate activities. “Sit down, Link. What’s on your mind?”

Once Link started talking, it was as if a dam had burst in his mind and the flood of events of the last 48 hours came rushing out. He started with walking out of Restaurante La Gendela and covered every detail until the moment he sat down with the sergeant, covering even the fact that he had taken the PEIAR and returned it to the basket. When he finished, he put his head in his hands on the desk and groaned, “What’s going to happen to me, Sarge?”

“Link, the first thing you need to know is that you’ve done the right thing. You’ve told them nothing and have given them nothing. What I need to do now is notify our flight commander, Lieutenant Drew, along with Investigation and Security. You’ll probably need to tell your story again to them, and then they will decide the course to take. Go back to your desk, and I’ll make some calls. We’ll work this out. This is pretty hot, so I would not be surprised if we did not see all of them before we get off shift.”

The sergeant’s prediction proved accurate. Link was working at his desk about 2300 hours, an hour before midnight, when an airman approached him and said, “Lieutenant Drew wants you in the briefing room.” Link took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the small conference room. Therein sat Sergeant Sotomeyer, Lieutenant Drew, the Flight Commander, Colonel Parks, the Squadron Commander, and an unknown major and captain. Link was not accustomed to being around so much brass in a small room. He walked in, stood attention, saluted, and barked, “Sirs, Airman First Class Link J. Stevens reporting as ordered.”

“At ease, Airman Stevens. In fact, why don’t you just have a seat,” said Colonel Parks. Link sat in the chair at the head of the table. “Airman Stevens,” continued the colonel, “Sergeant Sotomeyer has told us of your encounter with the boys on the other side, but we’d like to hear your story again. Please start at the beginning and include every detail you can possibly remember.”

Link relived the past two days again for the rapt listeners and tried desperately to remember every tidbit of minutia. The listeners did not interrupt, but took copious notes. When he finished, there was a moment of silence. The unknown major spoke: “Airman Stevens, I am Major John Kiernan of Air Force Counterintelligence. Tell me, knowing that you had sworn allegiance to the United States Air Force and its mission, why did you take the PEIAR from the basket?”

A cold fear raced through Link as he desperately tried to give a plausible reason. “I…I first thought of my wife and family and their safety, but once I picked up the document, I realized that no matter what happened, I could not go through with betraying my sworn duty. I realized then that I had to tell my sergeant what had happened.”

Continued the major, “Have you ever had any other opportunities in the past to gather intelligence from this operation and pass it to the enemy?”

“Sir,” answered Link, “Every day I come to work I have that opportunity. Information is freely shared within these walls, but we are all sworn to secrecy and the security of all classified documents. I have never been tempted to take any kind of sensitive document out of this area.”

“That,” said the major, “was a good answer. Okay, Airman Stevens, you’re free to go.” Link stood to attention, snapped off a sharp salute, swung around and left the room.

At midnight, about the time Baker Flight was coming in to relieve Able Flight, Lieutenant Drew walked by Link’s desk and said, “Airman Stevens, we need you to stick around for a few minutes. We want to talk to you again.” Link felt an uneasy foreboding creep over himself and wondered if this was prelude to some sort of punishment. Nervously, he poured a cup of coffee while he awaited his judgment to be passed. He contemplated what would happen if he was court martialed, or shipped to a remote site in Pakistan.

About 0130 hours, Sergeant Sotomeyer came by and said, “Okay, Link, let’s do it again.” They walked down the hall once more to the briefing room, and there sat all the officers from the first meeting. Link made his approach, salute, and announcement as before and was instructed to again have a seat. Major Kiernan spoke first. “Airman Stevens, we have reviewed your actions over the last 36 hours and have come to the conclusion that you acted in a manner which reflects your professional training. We appreciate your openness concerning your ordeal and compliment you on your handling of a situation which could have had dire consequences to the completion of the mission which has been assigned the 6914^th Security Squadron. We would like to give you an additional assignment to complete.”

“Yes, Sir!” snapped Link, so relieved that he could barely keep from jumping out of the chair. “I’ll be honored to follow through with any task you have in mind for me.”

The major continued, “We want you to deliver the PEIAR to the East Germans.”

This time he did jump out of his chair, “You what!?” he yelled, and then catching himself and reverting to military decorum, he sat down and continued, “Excuse me, Sir. I don’t think I understand.”

Major Kiernan repeated, “We want you to deliver the PEIAR to the other side. However the PEIAR you deliver to them will not be exactly…um…accurate. There are daily items in the PEIAR which even you, Airman Stevens, with your security clearance do not see or are aware of simply because you do not have a need to know. We are going to alter the facts of some of these internal memos in order to subtly confuse their intelligence people as much as possible. As I understand the facts, you have not yet been contacted by them for delivery of the document, it that correct?”

“Yes, Sir, they said simply I would be contacted.”

“Very well, continue your work on station and carry out your off duty activities in a normal fashion. When you are contacted, notify your flight commanding officer, Lieutenant Drew, immediately for instructions. You are dismissed.”

Link stood to attention, smartly saluted, turned, and exited the room. He thought to himself that it was easy for them to say “act normal” but a lot harder to do when you get the sensation that every passing person was a GDR operative watching your every move. However, the work shift came to a merciful end, and Link headed back to his barracks, stopping briefly at the chow hall for a late supper.

Since tonight was his last swing shift to work, which meant he had 24 hours before he had to report to work at midnight, Link decided to go back to the scene of the crime, more or less, at Ristaurante La Gendela and sort of hang out and see what would happen. Walking in to the restaurant, he was greeted by the kindly old proprietor who warmly said, “Guten abend, Herr Link! You are better, yes?” She guided him to his usual table in the corner.

“I am better, thank you,” replied Link. He sat and order coffee and a sweet roll. Looking around the room, it was as if time had stood still from the last time he was in the room. The poor German singer was still trying to belt out American country and western songs with his heavy German accent, and the usual clientele seemed to be sitting in their customary places. These were not the party goers and rowdy noise makers. Ristaurante La Gendela seemed to attract a more somber group who seemed to simply want a place to dine, rest, and relax. Consequently, it was not a favorite destination for most military personnel, but that fact was one of the major attractions for Link. He leaned back in his chair and casually read the latest version of “Stars and Stripes” newspaper while trying to digest the events of the last 24 hours.

He gritted his teeth as the singer butchered “I’ve Got a Tiger by the Tail,” a popular country song at the time, and he watched idly as customers came and went, waitresses hustled back and forth with orders, and an elderly custodian slowly swept the floor while fighting a losing battle against floor grime and debris. The custodian swept around each table in a monotonous ritual and eventually approached Link’s table. As he reached Link’s table, he reached to the floor and picked up a small envelope and placed it on Link’s table. “You drop paper,” he said, and turned and walked quickly way.

“No, I….,” Link started to say, but the old custodian disappeared into a back room. Link looked at the paper. It appeared clean and had not been on the floor long. He opened the envelope and inside was a card with the inscription neatly written, “Breitenbach Platz, Friday, 0900, PEIAR.”

Link looked up quickly from the note to look around the room. Every customer seemed preoccupied with his or her own situation except one figure at the end of the counter near the entrance. It seemed to Link that the stranger with the long gray coat and dark fedora pulled low over his eyes had turned his face rather quickly away as Link had looked up from the note. Link rose to approach the man, but the stranger instantly tossed some money on the counter and disappeared out the door. Link followed suit, but in the seconds it took him to get through the door, the man vanished into the darkness. Link decided it was time to get back to the base. The A12 bus was at that moment making its stop nearby on its way to Tempelhof, so Link hopped aboard.

Safely back at Tempelhof, Link went directly to Sergeant Sotomeyer’s room and tapped on the door. The sergeant answered the knock, and Link said quietly, “I’ve been contacted.”

“Sit down, Link, and let me make a call.” Sotomeyer dialed a number and said, “Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Sotomeyer. Airman Stevens has been contacted…………Yes, sir, right away.”

“Link,” continued the sergeant after hanging up the phone, “We need to go to the briefing room at HBE immediately. Go change into your fatigues and be there in 15 minutes.”

Fourteen minutes later, the same parties to the first briefing meeting, the sergeant, the lieutenant, the colonel and the two counterintelligence officers, plus Link, were sitting around the briefing table on the fifth floor of HBE. Major Kiernan spoke first, “Airman Stevens, please report on what has taken place.” Link described the encounter including the suspicious character that disappeared into the night. He showed them the note and envelope, which the officer perused closely as if trying to read between the lines.

“You did well, Airman Stevens,” said the major, “Here’s what we want you to deliver. It is the PEIARs for the last week with a few items left out and a few items more added. We want to see what effect these tidbits of information will have on our friends on the other side.” He handed Link a package which almost looked gift wrapped, except it was brown with a plain ribbon tied unceremoniously. “Our next goal is to find out how often they wish to see you and exactly how the exchange will take place at Breitenbach Platz. We need to know the EXACT procedure. This will determine our strategy. And, Airman Stevens, be careful, but also be aware that we will have people watching the transaction. You’re not alone in this activity. Also, you are to wear a hat with a wide brim, a coat with a broad collar pulled up around your neck, and a scarf. We’ll explain later.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best,” said Link, and with that, the meeting dismissed.

Chapter Seven

Link finished his midnight shift about 0700 Friday morning and, after a quick breakfast at the chow hall on the way to his barracks, quickly showered and changed into his civilian clothes, not forgetting his hat, coat, and scarf. He felt like a cheap detective out of a dime novel. He decided for the sake of time to drive his old VW Beetle to Breitenbach Platz rather than take the bus. Though it was after 0800, the sky was still dark this late November morning. As autumn gave way to winter the nights were growing increasingly longer, and the morning chill was beginning to have a much sharper bite. Turning left out of the base gate onto Columbia Damm, he drove defensively as the locals passed him at breakneck speeds. Continuing past Kolonnen Strasse, he turned left onto Haupt Strasse, and after a ten minute drive, he turned right on Massmann Strasse. Driving past the apartment where he and his wife had lived for sixteen months before she returned to the states, he impulsively whipped his VW into his old parking place. He had decided to walk the final two blocks along Kreaznacher Strasse to Breitenbach Platz and the square in the middle of the traffic circle. He remembered there was a walkway that went below ground to the U-Bahn station there. He decided to wait near the stairs for his contact. He nervously fingered the little brown package in his right coat pocket and tried to be as casual as possible as he observed every person who passed him. The minutes passed.

“Herr Stevens, follow me please,” Link jumped as the voice suddenly spoke behind him. He turned, and there were the same gray coat and fedora as in the restaurant. The coat began to walk away as Link attempted to follow. Link tried to get a look at the man, but other than a weathered neck with thin gray hair with rather big ears attached, Link could see nothing. They walked to a nearby park bench, and the man spoke again. “Please sit down.” This time Link was able to see the man’s face under the fedora, though partially hidden by a thick scarf. His face was thin and gaunt, with tired eyes peering though worn, scratched glasses. His nose was hawk-like with a thin moustache underneath, accenting the thin, pale lips drawn back over the yellowed teeth. He lit a German cigarette and took a long draw, then coughed uncontrollably for thirty seconds, and then unfolded a newspaper.

“Herr Stevens, do not look at me, simply listen. Do you have the merchandise?” asked the man as he stared blankly at the newapaper.

“I do,” replied Link.

“Do you see the refuse collector over there by the large oak tree?

“I do,” replied Link again, noting the white trash can.

“Each Friday,” continued the man with a quavering voice, “you will drop your package with a week’s collection of PEIARs in the collector at exactly 0900 hours and will immediately leave the area. If you stay, your safety may be compromised. You will arrive no earlier than 0858 and be gone by 0902. These times must be followed. Do you understand?”

Link decided to be combative, “Where’s my money? They said there would be money!”

“You must first prove your reliability, and then the rewards will come. We do not pay for promises. Now, stand up, look at your watch, walk over to the collector, drop in the package, and leave. Link did as he was told and continued walking back down Kreaznacher Strasse toward his car. Reaching his car in front of the Lebensmittel neighborhood grocery store, he took another wistful glance at the ground floor apartment he and his wife has so recently inhabited. He wondered if his German neighbors, Josef and Helga, were home, but decided now was not the time to visit. He breathed a sigh of relief as his old VW cranked to life, and he drove the busy streets back to Tempelhof . The sun was beginning to brighten the day, and he could tell that today the sky was going to be the vivid blue that made a clear, cloudless day in Berlin special. Nonetheless, he could not help but fret over these activities he had been forced into, and he wished that somehow this recurring nightmare might go away.

As he drove through the gates of the base, the Air Police guard waved him to a stop. The guard was a friend of Link’s. “Hey, Link!” said the AP, “your lieutenant wants you at HBE ASAP! Man, you must be in deep trouble!”

Link waved, smiled, and drove to his parking spot. Making his way to his barracks, he changed into uniform and walked to HBE, checked in, and went to the now-familiar fifth floor briefing room. Sure enough, all the brass was there, impatiently awaiting his arrival. Link gave a detailed account of the description of the messenger and what he had said concerning instructions for future delivery. He even mentioned his question about the money. Major Kiernan smiled and began to speak.

“Airman Stevens, let me pass on to you, just for your classified information, that you are not the first airman who has be subjected to this experience. The other side is constantly attempting to bribe, threaten, or coerce our soldiers and airmen into surrendering classified information about our mission and activities here in Berlin. It is a rare instance, but unfortunately, there have been occurrences when a misguided airman or soldier is attracted by a promise of money and is of the opinion that what he knows about our mission is not important. But his greed coupled with his ignorance of the gravity of our situation here inevitably ends on a rather sour note with the soldier behind bars for an extended period with no money to show for it. I can tell you for a fact that in my experience, the GDR has never actually paid anyone for anything. They would much rather have you perform your clandestine duties under the threat of harm to yourself or family. In their minds, it makes their victim much more “dependable.” We have not forgotten that you did at the start pick up the PEIARs in the analysis room and put them in your pocket. What saved your bacon from prosecution was that you quickly came to your senses and alerted your superiors before any harm could be done. And you have carried out your duties so far in this situation very well. Your report of this morning’s events corresponds with what our men who observed you and the agent had to report. The procedures which have been assigned to you are ideal for our strategies, and, in fact, will give you an avenue of escape. I know these kinds of activities are not exactly what you were trained for.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Link, “that is very true. I do not like these cloak and dagger activities. So what is the plan, sir?”

“Well, for one thing,” said the major, “you are being reassigned immediately to Kelly Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas.”

“What!” yelled Link, and for the second time in the briefing room, he had to recapture his composure and sit back down.

The major continued, “I understand you are from Texas, so this is probably good news. As far as our plans here are concerned, let it suffice to say that you will continue to deliver PEIAR’s to your contact every Friday. It’s just that it will not be you; it will be someone who appears to be you. The fact that you were not going to be contacting someone face to face, but rather dropping the package in a drop container, makes it easier to run in a decoy for you with the same general appearance. And as luck would have it, we have an agent who would pass for you with proper clothing and adjustments. He is trained in these activities and knows what to do if a transaction goes south.

“We will have people in Texas who will monitor you and your family and provide very hands off security for a few months. However, I will tell you, again in the light of experience, that once you leave Berlin, and even if they discover that you are no longer here, their interest in you will vanish. It is not in their best interests to carry out vendettas against airmen or family members once the possibility of gaining intelligence has disappeared. After all, they are keenly aware that the shoe can be very easily placed on the other foot with our agents against their people if they decide to raise the stakes.”

The major concluded, “So your assignment is as follows: You are to go back to your barracks and pack your gear. Your orders have already been written for reassignment. At 1400 this afternoon a military police representative will arrive at your room and escort you to a waiting Jeep where you will be taken to the flight line and boarded on a transport to Frankfort. Further instructions await you in Frankfort, but there you will board the weekly dependent flight stateside to Charleston, South Carolina. From there you will fly commercial to San Antonio. Any questions?”

Link was stunned at suddenness of the events but giddy about going home. “Kelly AFB!” he thought to himself. “That’s four hours from home!” Then he replied, “No questions, sir.”

“One last thing,” said the major. “You know that Kelly AFB is a recipient of much of the intelligence we gather in Europe. There, much of it is analyzed more in depth before being disseminated to various governmental agencies. You will still be using your security clearance. As a result, keep your eyes open, and you may see reports concerning activities here which reflect the effects of our dummy PEIARs. We are hoping to really mess with the minds of the boys across the wall.” Major Kiernan closed with a friendly statement, “You’ve done a good job, Airman First Class Link Stevens. We thank you.”

Epilogue

Four months later, Link was sitting at an analyst’s desk in the inner confines of the intelligence building at Kelly Air Force Base. He was now spending his days reading an endless stream of intelligence reports gathered from a world wide network of sources. His wife and two month old infant son were safely tucked away in a small, comfortable home not far from the base. His major problem now was boredom; reading reports of activities was not nearly as exciting as being part of the activity. Occasionally, the information would involve Berlin, and Link’s attention would spike accordingly, but most of the reports were fairly routine and predictable.

On this day, however, a headline to an intel briefing caught his eye. “GDR Agent Found Dead.” The story continued: “Suspected GDR agent Helmut Zimmerman was found dead today from undisclosed reasons near Breitenbach Platz in the American Sector of West Berlin. Long considered to be an important conduit for the GDR of intelligence gathered by East German agents in the West, he had come under considerable pressure from his superiors in the last few weeks after delivering information that was of questionable value. The East German government denied any complicity and claimed that Zimmerman was a low level diplomat who had been murdered by the West Berlin police. The GDR demanded an apology from West Berlin mayor Willy Brandt and a full investigation into the ‘criminal activities’ of the West Berlin police.” Link remembered the tired eyes and haggard face of the agent he had met that day in Breitenbach Platz. He definitely had not projected the arrogant swagger portrayed by the glamorous agent James Bond. To Link, he was convinced that a more accurate portrayal of the standard issue intelligence agent was the movie “The Spy Who Came In From The Cold” with Richard Burton starring as a man who had lost all zeal for life after years of devious activities. The little taste of intrigue that Link had experienced in Berlin had convinced him that his future would not involve shadowy figures in trench coats.

That evening he drove home from work along Military Drive. He observed the bright summer sun setting in the fiery western sky. The roar of a USAF C-141 Starlifter screamed overhead as it approached touchdown on the long stretch of runway. The heat of the day was beginning to give way to the cool of the evening, and with the windows rolled down in his 1964 Ford Fairlane, he enjoyed the fresh air in his face. Driving into his driveway and shutting off the car’s engine, he could smell supper cooking even as he closed the car’s door and walked to the entrance of his home. Entering the home, he walked to the small crib in their bedroom as his wife called from the kitchen, “Hi. Honey! It’s almost ready!” Picking up his beautiful new son who immediately grabbed his glasses, he gently hugged the little package and, turning, received the gentle arms of his wife as she greeted him with “Welcome home, Darling!”

“This,” he thought, “is MY kind of life.”

It's Not My Fault!

It is clear to anyone who reads a newspaper or magazine or, for that matter, bothers to walk down the street and observe humanity, that the United States has a new disease du jour…obesity. Heart problems, cancer, muscular dystrophy…all these life threatening diseases pale in comparison to obesity when we observe how the various professional medical associations react when they observe a… um… weight-challenged individual lumbering into McDonalds. I must confess, I am one of those poor creatures who has for the major portion of my life struggled with a weight problem. With the hysteria generated by the obesity issue, we are seeing society being divided into two camps: the politically correct, medically acceptable, weight optimum, happy person and the out-of-touch, health hazard, gross-weight-maxed-out porker. I say this with all the gentleness and delicacy I can muster, since I, too, fit into the second category. I have argued for years, however, that I am not overweight; I am just really dense. No, not that kind of dense…I mean like you can have a block of styrofoam and an equal sized block of steel, and the steel will be much heavier than the styrofoam because its matter (particles, molecules) are much more compressed (dense.) That’s my situation…I am just very firmly packed together. Not many people are like my beloved daughter-in-law’s father, who is around six foot five and about as fat as a toothpick. Eddie can eat like a starved horse and never gain an ounce, whereas I can smell a cake baking in the oven and I start to gain a few ounces in anticipation.

But I can’t help but feel self conscious and a little guilty when I’m around the Eddies of the world. In fact, probably the only reason some weight-challenged relative or friend hasn’t done Eddie in somehow is because he is so friendly, helpful, and down-to-earth that the jealous relative or friend has decided he can put up with Eddie’s disgusting good health because he might need his help some day. It’s just a good thing Eddie is a really nice guy.

I am here to announce however, that I have found a solution to the problem that all of us normal weight-challenged people face. And I want to thank my new hero, none other than President Barack Obama, for helping me come up with the answer to our unfortunate circumstances. Actually, it was his inspiration along with a news article I read this past week that gave me, like a revelation from on high, the road I need to take to assuage my dilemma. The article referred to a Texas court case of a few years ago that won millions (maybe billions, I can’t remember) of dollars from the tobacco companies because of all the pain and suffering they had caused to all those poor, innocent people who insisted, even after constant warnings, on smoking cigarettes to their dying days. The inspiration from the President came from a speech I heard him give a few days ago. He was discussing the plights of various poor, unfortunate groups, some of whom had not held a steady job in four generations. Can you imagine a son telling his dad he wants to get a job, and his dad saying, “Don’t do that, kid, they’ll reduce my welfare!” Anyway, in his infinite wisdom, our beloved President revealed to me the answer to my situation….It’s not my fault!! Yes, friends, society in its meanness has made me the weight-challenged (but proud of my heritage) person I am today.

But it’s time for payback!! Today I am announcing the beginning of a class-action suit against anyone and anything that makes anything good to eat. Using the tobacco settlement as a precedent, it will be a slam dunk court case, and we’ll get millions. Because we all know, if it’s good to eat, it’s not good to eat (obesity-wise.) I am inviting all my friends and relatives to jump on the bandwagon in order to share the piles of money that will be dumped on us when we win our case. Pillsbury, Betty Crocker, Duncan Hines, Dunkin Donuts, KFC, Outback Steakhouse, Wendys, you name it, we’ll go after them all. Mothers and wives who contribute to our sad situation will be looked at on an individual basis. After all, we have to live with them…I mean, get real. Peace in the family is worth a few million, and besides, have you every tried to get money from a wife or mother?

The millions we receive, just like in the tobacco settlement, will go toward educating us about what to eat and to compensate us for being forced to eat all those German chocolate cakes, double meat, double cheese hamburgers with extra grease, and gooey donuts. Those perpetrators of these unspeakable crimes cannot go unpunished! We can only hope, through education and our examples, that our children will be protected from these culinary predators. Personally, when I get my millions, I going to talk the talk and walk the walk. “If it tastes good, don’t eat it” will be my mantra, and in just a very short time I’ll be able to walk down the street and hear little kids say to their dads, “Daddy, why aren’t you healthy and slim like that man?” In fact, I could get started right now eating just healthy things, but, at this time of year? Are you serious? Think about it…Thanksgiving…turkey, dressing, potatoes, rolls, cranberries, cakes, pies, and then…Christmas…more turkey, dressing, divinity candy, fudge, more pies, cakes, parties, cookies.

Yes, I will soon be the poster boy for good health and anti-obesity….starting in January.

Finally, A Peaceful Sleep

A short story by Bob Downing

I fell into my bed with the heaviness that only comes from complete exhaustion. The day’s struggles had drained the resources of my mind and body, and now the only thing I craved was sleep…limitless, dreamless, wonderful sleep. I closed my eyes and tried to erase the events of the day, but I found myself reliving the terror of the past twenty four hours. The attack by the rebels on the convoy had come without warning, and the unsuspecting little band of travelers were helplessly outnumbered and outgunned. The resulting carnage was a nightmare of blood, fire, and death, and only I had been able to escape the sword and bullet before the arrival of the militia.

With the army’s arrival, the rebels had vanished into the jungle, and all that was left was the scene of tragedy. The captain in charge had graciously given me an escort to my cabin, a modest dwelling high in the mountains overlooking the dense rain forest. It was after midnight before I unlocked my front door, and, with the escorting soldier making a quick safety check of the premises and departing, I was quickly left in the loneliness of my home.

The moon was slowly rising over the ridge to the east, and the evening breeze was gently brushing the curtains of the windows as they waved a greeting to my arrival. The heat from the day’s summer sun lingered and was still nearly unbearable, but a touch of coolness in the breeze hinted of a more comfortable night. The fire from the wood burning kitchen stove had long since gone out. Occasionally I heard the screech or yelp from the nocturnal jungle creatures as they played their nightly music. I clicked on the lone light in the kitchen and told myself I should eat something because it had been twelve hours since lunch, but my exhaustion took command. I decided that preparing any kind of meal was far too much trouble. I threw some water on my face, changed into my sleeping clothes, and collapsed into the bed. In the darkness, I saw the attackers again, and the events seemed to replay over and over. I struggled to erase the images, and, in time, as the weariness and exhaustion took a firmer grip, I began to drift into a fitful sleep.

I subconsciously heard the noise even before I was fully awake. It was a very quiet, brushing sound, as if someone had rubbed his hand over a bit of cloth. The unfamiliarity of the sound brought me out of my stupor, and my eyes unwillingly cracked open just a bit. At first, I wondered if I had dreamed the sound, and I lay there listening for any repeat noise. The slight ticking of the clock and the rustling curtains seemed to assure me that all was well. It was quite dark; the moon had slipped behind a cloud, and I could only very slightly see the ghostly outlines of the furniture in the room. I began to drift back into unconsciousness.

This time the sound was a little louder and seemed closer, and it definitely had a brushing, sliding sound, as if something was moving. Due to the warmth of the night, I had been sleeping under a light cover. The moon had reappeared and cast a pale dimness to the room. Instantly my senses were in high alert as my eyes strained to see, and I listened with the intensity that comes with the foreboding of danger. The clock and curtains were ignored now as I surveyed the room…and then I saw it. My eyes had finally settled on the foot of the bed, and as I was peering with narrowed eyes, a few inches from my feet… the bed cover moved. At first I thought my foot had involuntarily twitched, but a few seconds later I heard the brushing sound along with a movement of the cover, and I realized there’s something under the cover! My first reaction was to jump and run, but before I could even react, I felt a cold clamminess touch the side of my right foot, and watched in horror as the cover moved again, and I felt the invader slide over my foot and rest up against my ankle. I froze, petrified, unable to move, and aware that I was probably now sharing my bed with a snake.

Here in the jungle, there are very few nonpoisonous reptiles, and those which inhabit this area of the world are known for their deadly venom and their speed of attack. I knew my chance for escape had been lost; it would be impossible for me to leap from the bed before I was struck by the deadly fangs. I could feel the cool skin of the serpent as it contentedly rested next to the warmth of my foot. Fearing any movement, I breathed in short, shallow gasps and tried to will my limbs to stay still. As my anxiety rose, I began to perspire profusely, and in my exhausted panic I imagined I was dreaming a nightmare. I told myself all I had to do was wake up and get out of bed to relieve this torture, but the cool sensation next to my foot brought me back to my senses before I moved. Afraid to make a sound, I silently wept and prayed that the agony might end, but the antagonist at my feet seemed to be contentedly at rest. My heart pounded with the ferocity of a long distance runner, and I feared the sound of my heartbeat would disturb my unwelcome guest. My arms and legs began to ache and cramp, and I fought with my own muscles to force them to remain motionless.

Suddenly without warning, the serpent moved, and I felt the icy, rough skin as it crept along the calf of my leg toward my knee. I screamed silently and strained to resist movement. The creature seemed to sense something was astir, and stopped, as if listening for a warning sound and attempting to get a sense of its own surroundings. I held my breath and stared at the dim ceiling with panic-stricken eyes attempting to force myself to lie still. And then it moved again. I watched in fascinated horror as the cover moved, and the serpent slithered from my right calf, crossed over my left leg, and coiled into a lump just below my left hip. Now within a few inches of my paralyzed hand, the snake seemed to be considering its options. It appeared to be unable to get comfortable and squirmed and rustled around as if trying to find a good position.

I was paralyzed with pain, desperate for oxygen, and suffocating with heat. I felt my limbs were being torn from me even as I lay there motionless. Anything is better than this torture, I decided. I will leap from the bed and take my chances, because it is only a matter of time before the serpent realizes it is in the company of an enemy and strikes. On the count of three, I will jump……one…….two…….and the serpent moved again.

The cover began to move, and I joyously watched as the lump moved to the edge of the bed, and I heard a soft thump as the serpent landed on the floor. I exhaled as if I had been underwater for too long, and I lay there for what seemed hours trying to hear the movement of my enemy. I heard no more sounds. Finally, to be safe, I sprang quickly out of bed and ran to the light. The brightness at first was blinding, and I scrambled for my gun and machete. I searched the entire room with gun and knife at the ready, slowly and methodically…every corner, closet, drawer, cubicle, and nook, but to no avail. And now the weariness of the night began to weigh even more heavily, and like a drunken sailor, I stumbled back to my bed, and after checking every layer of mattress, sheet, pillow, and cover, fell into a deep comatose sleep.

The morning came far too quickly, and though the hour was far past sunrise, I arose still exhausted. My body ached from the evening’s tensions, my head pounded, and I still walked as one who was sorely inebriated. What I needed was a strong cup of coffee. After drawing the water and locating the coffee, I went outside to the woodpile to pick up some kindling to start a morning fire. As I lifted the chunk of firewood, I saw the eyes of the cobra.

His six foot body was curled in the traditional attack position, and his red piercing eyes were hypnotically tracking my hand. In a flash of movement, he struck. I jerked my hand, but it was too late, and I felt the fangs penetrate and the venom injected in my hand. I screamed in alarm and watched in fascination as the cobra calmly recoiled and rose up to watch his victim. I started to run, but the strangest thing happened. My pain began to fade away, and the most wonderful calm began to settle over me. I looked at the cobra, and admired his beautiful color and proud demeanor. The weariness of the last twenty four hours vanished like fog, and a great peace surrounded me. I sat down on the grass and looked at the bright morning sun and felt the warm morning breezes. The trees had never appeared so green nor had the birds ever sounded so beautiful. I wanted to rest and enjoy this moment, so I lay back on the carpet of green. My vision began to dim, and I breathed a deep gulp of wonderful, fresh air as I felt myself drifting away to a place of peaceful, permanent sleep.

The cobra, satisfied his enemy would bother him no more, slipped silently into the jungle.

Nip/Tuck

Shirley and I have enjoyed vacationing in Hawai’i. We have been there four times and have learned that the proper spelling for “Hawaii” is “Hawai’i.” There are many parts of the world which are touted as a place of paradise (and we haven’t seen them all), but the Hawai’ian Islands are our benchmark until something better comes along. This short essay will not be a travelogue, but rather a recounting of an incident which happened in “paradise” which is a little funny now, but at the time created a few tense moments.

On our third trip to Hawai’i, our base of operations was our timeshare condo on the island of Maui. On our first trip to the islands, we were captured outside our hotel in Honolulu one evening by a slick talking salesman, given the timeshare condo sales pitch, and fell for it hook, line, and sinker. It actually worked out pretty well. We used the condo on our next three trips and in the years we did not travel to Maui, we were able to easily rent the condo to someone else. Anyway, one thing that Shirley and I enjoy doing is snorkeling, and Hawai’i is a snorkeler’s dream. The water is clear, the coral is magnificent, and there’s an abundance of marine life. One of our favorite places to go was Molokini, which is a crescent shaped uninhabited island about fifteen miles off the Ka’anapali coast. Charter boats take loads of water soaked tourists to this island, where they drop anchor, and the tourist jump in and snorkel and dive to their hearts’ content. It is a gorgeous spot.

On this particular Molokini trip, we rode to the site in a forty foot cruiser sponsored by the Pacific Whale Foundation. These people are extreme conservationists to the point that their boat runs on used cooking oil instead of diesel or gasoline. They make regular visits to all the restaurants on Maui to collect their used oil and use it to power their boats. Probably explains why everything smelled of fried fish (not really.) The guides on these trips are very knowledgeable, and by the time you get to the dive site, you want to go hug a shark. They are very dedicated to the ecological well being of the ocean. These Molokini trips usually begin about 8:00 a.m. with arrival at the dive site usually around 9:30 to 10:00 with a little meandering around to look at dolphin and other ocean life. A couple of hours of diving there, then it’s another excursion around the backside of the Molokini volcano to a place on the southwest coast on Maui called Turtle Bay, for obvious reasons once you get there. Lunch is cooked and served while at anchor, then it’s another couple of hours of diving before heading back to port.

So, on this particular morning while we were snorkeling at Molokini, Shirley and I had been in the water for an hour or so looking at the clouds of fish. Shirley likes to meander along just under the surface with her breathing tube safely out of the water, while I like to dive down to the coral in the 15-25 foot deep water to investigate whatever might catch my eye. Moray eels and other varmints like to hide in the coral, and it’s neat to see these creatures in their natural habitats. Anyway, I would do my thing, diving down here and there, while Shirley would paddle along on the surface. When I decided to surface I would look up and could usually spot her bathing suit so I could get back to where she was.

This one time I went down because someone had yelled there was a small shark cruising around some of the coral, and I spent fifteen minutes or so seeing lots of creatures but no shark. No, I did not stay underwater for 15 continuous minutes. A snorkler dives, stays down as long as possible, surfaces, gulp some more air, and re-dives. When I gave up on the shark and decided to surface, I looked up, and sure enough, there was Shirley paddling along, and I guess since a shark was on my mind, I decided to do my shark imitation as I cruised up toward her. I floated up underneath and behind her, reached up and gave her a …um….pinch. She jumped and turned, but I dove instantly and got away. I snorkeled elsewhere for about five minutes and then surfaced to look for Shirley. No Shirley anywhere. I swam around for a few more minutes, and then I spotted her back up in the boat. Well, by this time I was getting tired, so I climbed aboard and sat down next to her. “Did I scare you?” I asked with an apologetic look on my face.

“What are you talking about?” she replied with a puzzled look.
“When I came up behind you and pinched you.” She looked at me with a blank look.
Suddenly a great horror flashed in my mind. “How long have you been back on the boat,” I asked her.
“About 30 minutes…I got cold!”

At that moment the realization that I had pinched the wrong woman hit me like a bucket of cold water. I could envision the next scenario. A flustered lady would come out of the water, point at me and yell, “There’s the sick pervert! Somebody shoot him!” And next to her would be her husband, a former World Wrestling Federation champion, six feet, five inches and 290 pounds, walking toward me and growling, “I’ll handle this, Baby!”

For the next few minutes as everyone reboarded the boat in preparation for leaving, I spent a lot of time looking in the opposite direction of the boarding ladder and studying the boat deck. Any second I expected someone grab my shoulder and make all sorts of accusations. I kept a VERY low profile the remainder of the trip.

But, you know, I got to thinking about it later, and who knows? I may have made some woman’s day a special day. I can just imagine some lady getting on the boat, looking around, seeing me trying to be invisible in a corner, and then graciously walking by, and thinking to herself, “I’ll always wonder what his name is!”

James Lemuel Creel 1920-1989

It’s been twenty years since James Lemuel Creel, my father-in-law, passed away, and I still think of him quite often. I was married to his daughter for the last twenty eight years of his life, and with our marriage now creeping up on the fifty year mark, I find I am not too far away from being the same age as he was when he left us. It’s a sobering realization because somehow in my mind I don’t feel my age, and yet when I looked at my parents and father-in-law when they were the age I am now they seemed so…ancient. Let me tell you, growing old is not for the weak of heart…no pun intended.

My first contact with Lemuel Creel (hardly anyone called him James) was when my mom and dad began attending Peace Tabernacle United Pentecostal Church in about 1950. “Brother Lemuel” was the assistant pastor of the church pastored by Reverend V.A. Guidroz in Baytown, Texas. In those early years Pastor Guidroz was also the District Superintendent for the Texas District of the UPC and due to that fact had to take an occasional trip around the district doing church business. During those short absences, Brother Lemuel would ably conduct the local church services. Even as a kid I can remember that I always enjoyed his sermons because he told good stories and analogies to back up the points he was trying to make.

My relationship with the Creel family got ratcheted up several notches when as a teenager I realized that he had a daughter who, with just a smile or a frown, could make or ruin my day. Fortunately, the spark seemed to be mutually encouraged, and in our teen years, Shirley and I were usually “dating,” “going steady,” or “good friends,” with only an occasional “don’t call me, I’ll call you” thrown in.

There were bumps along the road for Lemuel. Buadda, his wife and Shirley’s mother, died of cancer in 1957 when Shirley was 16. Shirley dropped out of the teenage romance game and assumed the role of substitute mother for her younger siblings. Later, Lemuel married Geraldine Lewis, a widow with a teenage daughter a year younger than Shirley. With a new mother and a new sister, Shirley was relieved of some of the motherly responsibilities and reentered the dating scene, and of course I was there to help her get started again. By that time I owned a car and could come a-calling whenever I thought it safe. It was at that time I began to realize that Lemuel had certain rules and guidelines for the home and for guys taking his daughter various places. At the time Shirley and I thought we were being severely persecuted, but, looking back now as a parent and grandparent, he was pretty easy with us. I could never be really sure if he liked me or not, although I will admit that in those days I was shy enough that I could hardly carry on a conversation with anyone, so he and I never really had any extended discussions until years later.

But one thing I will never forget was the night I asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. This charmingly quaint tradition, long since forgotten in these modern times, goes back hundreds of years, and I, the dutiful suitor, did as I was expected. Shirley and I along with Lemuel and Geraldine sat in their family room chatting about some inane subject while my mind raced about what I was going to say and my shirt got increasingly wet from a nervous sweat. Finally, during a pregnant pause, I blurted out, ”Brother Lemuel, may I marry your daughter?” I really think during the next fifteen seconds my heart did not take a beat. Finally he responded with the words that would ring in my head for years, “Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do to stop it!” I was so happy he did not say no that I totally missed the complete lack of enthusiasm on his part. Anyway, on August 18, 1961, Shirley and I were united in holy matrimony.

Now, before you begin to think that my personal self esteem was permanently damaged by my father-in-law’s lack of enthusiasm about our marriage, let me say it’s true my relationship with my in-laws was sort of arms length for those first few years, but as I have become more educated and mature and watched my own children grow, learn, and prosper, I can now look back through time and see myself through my father-in-law’s eyes as we sat in that family room in 1961. And when I see what I was in 1961, I realize that if I had been Brother Lemuel in that room, I would have thrown me out the door. There I sat, all of eighteen years old, no education, working basically as a laborer for my dad’s company, and didn’t have a hundred dollars to my name. Even scarier, my mom and dad had taken me to Austin, Texas, and enrolled me in the University of Texas in May of that year to begin my college career…and I canceled the whole thing because I wanted to stay home and get married. My parents and Shirley’s parents should have gotten us all together and said something to the effect that if you love each other get your education and then get married. But they didn’t, and you know what? It worked out anyway. And for that I thank God and the fact that we both had good families. Of course, there was another reason…in our religious culture of that time, divorce was not an option. Couples worked out their problems. And we were so young and naïve we had a lot of growing up to do after we married.

A couple of years after we married, Lemuel suffered a second shock when Geraldine was diagnosed with cancer, and I can remember being in the hospital room when the diagnosis was announced to the family. Lemuel leaned his head against the wall and began to weep, and the rest of us bowed our heads and stood there like statues. It never occurred to me to put a hand on his shoulder or try to comfort in any way. I still feel guilty about that. A few months later, Geraldine was sent home to spend her final days. During one of the evenings Shirley and I were spending the night with them, suddenly there was a commotion in Geraldine’s room. We all rushed in to see her taking her final breaths. The gasps for air came farther and farther apart until they ceased. Lemuel said quietly, “Well, she fought a good fight.” He covered her head with the sheet and calmly dialed the funeral home and asked them to send a hearse. He hung up the phone, lowered his head, and wept. And again, I stood there.

Lemuel suffered financially as well as emotionally with his two cancer experiences, but the next few years were much more favorable. He married Anniedeen Bateman, a long time family friend who brought stability to the family. She is practically the only mother the younger siblings have ever known. In 1972 the family moved to Casper, Wyoming, where Lemuel accepted the pastorship of a small church, and began to teach welding in the vocational department of Casper College. In 1973, Buddy and Jeannie, his son and daughter-in-law, followed them to Wyoming, and in 1974, Shirley and I joined the family. It was during these years from 1974 to 1989 in Wyoming that my respect and esteem for my father-in-law grew dramatically. He was a man of character who also possessed a temper which could flare at the most unlikely time. He was highly suspicious of government at any level, and watched his money like a hawk. He was not “tight,” the term we used to use for people who begrudged spending a penny. He did not mind spending money for something for the family; it was just that he kept track of where it all went. Speaking candidly, I never subscribed to that policy and am paying the price for my sloppy financial management even as I write this. I finally learned my lesson a few years ago, but when I think of all the money we frittered away, I get depressed.

About the time we moved to Wyoming, I wrote a letter to Lemuel and Anniedeen, telling them that I would like to get beyond the “Brother Lemuel” and “Sister Anniedeen” and call them “Dad” and “Mom.” By that time the arms length relationship of our youthful years seemed somehow inappropriate and didn’t reflect the current bonding we had with them. Needless to say, they graciously consented, and they have been “Dad” and “Mom” ever since, and I will use those terms for the rest of this paper.

The fact that I can now talk for a fairly long time about practically anything is partly Dad’s fault. In the small church we attended, everyone had a job to do, and many times when Dad was out of service because of his health problems, I was forced to fill in. In Wyoming, if your preacher is out of action, you don’t call for a sub. There is no one else. You make do with what you have. So I was forced to learn how to speak, and in doing so found out that I sort of enjoyed presenting my ideas. At the time, I also had taken a selling job which forced me to think and speak on my feet, so I was able to finally escape from my mummy-like trance of my first thirty years.

As I’ve said earlier, Dad taught welding at Casper College for years, and one semester I decided to take a course from him. I figured it couldn’t be too hard and would be fun. Boy, I found out that you need the delicate hands of a surgeon to keep that welding rod from sticking. Dad would tell the class, “Now, do it just like this,” and he would run a welding bead so perfect you would think someone had used their finger to just smear the metal in place. And it didn’t matter what the position…horizontal, vertical, upside down, his welding was a work of art. On my best day, my welding looked like someone had used chunks of bubble gum to seal the crack.

During the last few years of our Wyoming tenure when I worked at an auto dealership in Casper, I would go to work about eight in the morning, but I would first swing by my in-laws house for coffee and breakfast along the way. It was a most enjoyable tradition, and we had many wonderful conversations as we began our day. Dad was most happiest when he was talking about motorhoming and traveling. He loved winter, and when we had our few dog days of summer, he was quick to say, “Man, I’m ready for the snow to fly!” And he meant it.

On August 28, 1989, after being diagnosed with another heart aneurysm, Dad’s heart problems finally caught up with him and during a simple heart catharization procedure something went terribly wrong. The results were that Dad passed away the next day, August 29. Ministers and friends from around the Rocky Mountain District came to pay their respects. Little did Shirley and I realize how his passing would affect us and that within two years we would move back to Texas and begin new careers. The thing I remember most vividly about the next day or so was when, after all the well-wishers had gone back to their homes, the family gathered at Dad and Mom’s place for our first dinner after the funeral. Dad always had his favorite spot to sit at the dining room table, just as we all did. This time, however, when everyone went to sit, Dad’s chair at the end of the table remained empty, as if no one really wanted to sit in Dad’s place. There was about a minute or two of sort of milling about, and finally Buddy sat down in Dad’s chair, and everyone else followed suit and found our places. The torch had been passed.

Internet Scam

It all started a few days ago when I decided to sell my prized 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser. The old horse has served me well for the past three years as a driver to school, but now that Shirley and I have retired, our need for an extra mode of transportation has diminished somewhat. Actually, that’s only partially true; the main reason I decided to sell it was so I could buy another car and sell it…and then buy another car and…well, you get the picture. It’s just hard to get all the gasoline out your blood when you’ve made a living for a few years selling cars, even if it’s been a few years ago.

Since we are living in a (for us) new area, I wasn’t aware of any local newspapers to advertise in, so I decided to place an ad with Autotrader.com. I took the usual pictures, wrote a glowing description of the vehicle, emailed the ad in, and sat back to await the phone to ring or my Yahoo email box to fill up.

A week went by. No phone calls. No emails. Nada. I reduced the price a bit, but still not a single contact…until yesterday. Now, here is my routine every morning since I have retired: I awake at 5:00 a.m. By 5:30 I am bicycling briskly around the neighborhood in a rectangular route for exactly 3.2 miles. I then park my bike, and begin running a circuit which covers about 1.5 miles. I then come back into the house, cool down a bit, and have a light breakfast of dry wheat toast, fat free jelly, and black coffee. Afterward, I kick on the WiiFit hardware and shadow box and jog in place for 30 minutes. A quick shower follows these exercises, after which I settle down with the Houston Chronicle to keep track of all the local murders, robberies, and political scandals. I finish my morning with some time on the computer as I check my friends on FaceBook and monitor my blog.

If you have just read the previous paragraph and believed what you read, boy, do I have a car deal for you! The truth is, I get up, read the paper, eat two Pop Tarts with a big glass of milk, and that’s my morning. The previous paragraph sounds good, however, and sometimes we writers describe things with a little…um…flourish. We call it artistic license.

Anyway, yesterday morning (9/24), when I opened my Yahoo email, there was a message about my car. It was very brief and said he/she was very excited about the car, and would I please send them some photos and the price. Well, that seemed a little strange, since the only place my car is advertised is with Autotrader, and the ad has photos, description, and price. But, thinking happy thoughts, I sent all the car info to the email address. Within ten minutes I had a response. To wit:

“Thanks for your email. The car is good. I’m ready to buy it immediately. I will be paying through PayPal. All I need is your email address, name and address, so I can arrange payment and pickup.” He went on to say that he could not talk to me directly because he was a sailor, and he would have an agent pick up the car. Well, I have used PayPal often to pay for items through eBay, but never in an independent sale, so I emailed him back saying I would check with PayPal to confirm the procedures. He said no problem and would await my instructions. I emailed a question to PayPal about the transaction, and, sure enough, a person can use PayPal for practically anything now days, including independent car deals. All I needed to give the buyer was my email address, and he could deposit payment directly into my PayPal account. PayPal said I didn’t even need to give him my name and address until the funds were deposited in my account and we were ready to arrange pickup of the car. PayPal gave me one bit of advice: if I received a PayPal email confirming that funds had been deposited in my account, do not believe it…confirm it. There had been incidences of fake but official-looking PayPal notices of fund deposits being sent to unsuspecting sellers.

I emailed my buyer the PayPal procedures, and he responded, “I’ll make the deposit as soon as possible.” And sure enough, about an hour later, I received an email from PayPalpickup@mail2world.com confirming deposit of all funds….even the funds for the shipping charges. The shipping charges amounted to $735.00, which in my vast experience with automobiles tells me the car was going to be shipped about 1300 miles away from Houston. That seemed a little strange, also, since although I love my little PT Cruiser, if I wanted to buy one, I would not need to have one shipped to me. I’d just go down to the nearest car lot. PT Cruisers are not exactly a rare breed.

So, I did what PayPal (God bless ‘em) suggested I do. I went on line to confirm the money, and, sure enough, no money. So then I stopped to read all the fine print in this two page “official” PayPal email. Here’s what it told me I had to do “prior to confirmation of full funding.” Since the funds allegedly coming to me included the shipping charges, I had to send a Western Union money order to the shipper for payment of shipping charges. When the shipper received the money order, the funds for the car would be released into my PayPal account. The person to whom I was to send the money was an individual who lived on a highway on the outskirts of Flowery Branch, Georgia (no doubt a major trucking terminal.)

So the scam is the poor victim, namely me, is supposed to send $735.00 in certified, non-recoverable funds to this address in Georgia and then wait for the deposit into his PayPal account, which of course never happens. Instead, I emailed my “buyer” and told him that if you can PayPal payment to one person, you can do it to two, namely me and the shipper. Send me my money and send the shipper his, and we’ll all be happy. That was the last I heard of my hot-to-buy sailor. I didn't sell my car, but I didn't lose $735.00, either. I have been in contact with PayPal and sent them all the information and copies of the emails. I do have a name and address in Georgia, but it’s probably an empty mobile home. I wonder how often people like this are successful in scamming a victim. At $735.00 a scam, it wouldn’t take long to make some real good money. I know that on eBay thousands of cars are sold every year to buyers who do not see their vehicles before they are delivered to their doorsteps, but when someone tells me he’ll buy my car sight unseen with no price negotiation, my old used car salesman instincts rise up. Car salesmen (and there are many honest ones) will tell you that there is only one group of people who can lie even more boldly than car salesmen…and that’s car buyers.

One more thing. If you need a good, economical, sporty, stylish car that’s priced right and dependable as a mother’s love….I have a car for you! There I go again.

The Visit

I awoke from the sound of a slight bump in the darkness. It was well after 3:00 a.m., and not a time when one should be hearing bumps in ones home. I lay there listening for a couple of minutes, and I heard the sound again. It seemed to be coming from the living room or kitchen. Sliding quietly out of bed, I slipped on my robe and began to ease gently and vigilantly toward the source of the sound. My wife was sleeping soundly, and as I passed our daughter’s room, all seems normal there, also. Although the lights were off throughout the house, I could see well enough due to the bright, nearly-full moon. I slipped through the living room, peeking into my den as I passed by, and walked into the kitchen. Nothing. For a few seconds I stood there just listening, and while doing so, I noticed a shadow move across the kitchen window overlooking the back yard. I moved to the back door, opened it carefully, and walked out onto my deck. There I observed a man sitting quietly in one of our deck chairs. He seemed to be looking over the back yard, as if inspecting the premises. Our back yard is spacious, with large cottonwood, pine, and fruit trees and foliage. The moon was shining brightly, and a slight breeze was blowing. It was a beautiful spring May, 2008, night with the temperature on the cool side, but very refreshing. The man was my father.

Dad looked as he always looks when I see him: short sleeve sport shirt, casual pants, and a cap of some sort. I wasn’t alarmed or surprised when I recognized who he was; I just sat down in a chair next to him and said, “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Bob,” Dad said, and then after a few more words of greeting, he finished with “I just wanted to come by and see how things were going.”

In May of 2008 I was still recovering from my heart surgery two months previously. I was becoming stronger, but still had a long ways to go. I had been away from school nearly 10 weeks, and, with school’s end fast approaching in June, I wanted to get back to my classroom to wrap up the school year. At the same time my recovery was not proceeding as fast as scheduled, and I continued to recover my strength at a very slow pace. Shirley and I had begun to contemplate retirement, yet we were unsure how my illness would affect our plans for the future. Additionally, Shirley and Kimberly both wanted to move away from Baytown, and I was having difficulty envisioning our leaving a home that a Downing family had lived in for fifty five years. I described all these concerns to Dad in probably greater detail that I am describing here, and once I had finished, he said simply, “It will all work out, Bob. By the way, how are the kids?”

I proudly described to him how Kimberly was living with us while she continued her college education but was now working for Memorial Hermann Hospital System and being very successful. I added that Bobby had been very successful with Hewlett-Packard, and he and Shanna had now been married nineteen years and had two beautiful children, our prized grandson and granddaughter. “I wish you could meet your great grandchildren…you would be so proud,” I told him. We continued for almost an hour discussing events that had occurred in our family over the last few years. I even described all the remodeling I had done to the inside of the old Downing home. Later, I realized we had never mentioned Mother, who died in 2004, and I never asked him where he had been or how he found himself on my backyard deck at 3:00 in the morning. Eventually I told him that soon it would be getting light and that I guessed I had better go back inside. “That’s OK,” he said. “Remember, everything will be all right.”

With that, I turned and stepped back into the house, made my way quietly back to our bedroom, and laid down...and woke up.

I lay there for a couple of minutes wondering what had just happened. Did I have a dream? I had just had a conversation with my father, but Dad had passed away on December 30, 1990. Yet the experience seemed so real that I got back out of bed, threw on my robe, and went back into the kitchen, through the back door onto the deck, half expecting to see Dad still sitting there. There was nothing but the moonlight, trees, and the cool breeze just as it had been minutes earlier. I stood there, wishing he would reappear. Finally I went back to bed, still confused and pondering what I had experienced.

I told Shirley about my “dream” the next morning but did not go into great detail, and we didn’t spend much time discussing it. I still think about it from time to time and especially now that we have reached retirement. In the fall of 2008 about two months after the dream, I was diagnosed with leukemia and went through a series of chemotherapy treatments at M.D. Anderson Cancer Clinic. In January of this year (2009) I was declared cancer free. In April we put the old Downing home up for sale and sold it in a week. We moved to a new area close to the grandkids and are thoroughly enjoying our free time. The year 2009 is turning out to be just as good as 2008 was bad. And I occasionally wonder if I did not get a visit from my dad so that I would have the strength to survive a major life transition.

Charles Darwin Bicentenniel 1809-2009

I was listening to a minister preach a few months ago, and in the process of his sermon he happened to drift onto the subject of evolution. It hadn’t been the topic of his sermon, but in passing he made a couple of remarks concerning evolution that left me in a state of amazement. “The theory of evolution was a creation of the devil through the minds of godless men, and no true Christian would believe in such heresy,” he said, and then he continued, “When I was a kid a frog was a frog, and today a frog is still a frog. I’m going to teach a couple of lessons soon that will prove that evolution is false.”

Before I get too deep into this subject, let me state that I am not an expert on the subject of evolution. Just as I have already mentioned in the introduction to my blog, what I offer in my discourses are simply my observations and opinions based on my experiences. If I am wrong in your eyes you are welcome to offer evidence to show my error, and, if your evidence is conclusive, I will alter my perspective. But until then I will write what I think is accurate.

Shortly after I heard the minister slam evolution, I was privileged to attend a convention of science teachers. The convention offered the usual list of speakers offering their insights into the many strategies for teaching science to school children, but one speaker’s subject caught my attention immediately. “Teaching Evolution---Tips of the Trade” said the headline, and although it was far above my grade level as far as target audience was concerned, it was a “must visit” class for me. The speaker was a science professor from the University of Houston where by coincidence the convention was being held. He opened the session with a simple question, “Who of you feel that evolution is a theory, and who of you think evolution is a fact?” The results were pretty interesting; the room of approximately 30 listeners was just about evenly divided, and this was a group of people who all had a certain amount of science knowledge. He also made a statement which I found very interesting, “There are those who feel that religion and evolution science are incompatible, but I am a Christian, and I have found nothing in my study of evolution that contradicts the existence of a God. I believe in the existence of God.” I had to wonder how that statement went down with his professorial collegues.

Just a brief, layman’s definition of evolution should be introduced here. Evolution is the term we give to the process by which organisms (living things), in their struggle for survival, react over time to changes in their environments. It does not refer to a single generation of organisms, but changes and adaptations which occur through the processes of both natural and man-made interferences over many years, perhaps thousands or millions. In nature, changing conditions of life and environment create adaptations in organisms which give them a better chance of preservation. Consider the Islands of Hawaii…the birds and plants which were introduced to the islands only three hundred years ago by the Europeans have adapted both in color and size to their more temperate and colorful environment. Many Hawaiian birds and plants of today only vaguely resemble their ancestors of three centuries before. Many of the early organisms introduced to Hawaii suffered in the early years due to weakness in camouflage and adaptability, but those organisms which did survive begat stronger offspring more suitable to the new environment. Charles Darwin called this phenomenon the law of natural selection…the term we more readily recognize is “survival of the fittest.”

I went to the Museum of Natural History in Houston about a year ago to hear a lecture from famed anthropologist Donald Johanson. Johanson has been a superstar in the anthropological circles for over 35 years. In 1975 he discovered the remains of the first humanoid to allegedly walk erect on two legs. The three million year old fossilized bones, affectionately called “Lucy” by the educated gentry were on display at the museum. It was the first time they had ever been out of Ethiopia, and they were guarded more tightly than the incredible jewelry exhibit that the museum proudly displays. As I walked around the display, which was sort of a glass casket, the bones appeared to be that of a child no more than four feet tall. The skeleton was missing some bones, but there was enough for the curators to claim “a complete skeleton.” There was an artist’s rendition of what someone imagined “Lucy” may have looked like when she was alive. Later, at the lecture, Johanson made the statement that what has solidified conclusively the argument about the facts of evolution has been the discovery and development of DNA sampling. DNA sampling is so incontrovertible that it is now being used routinely in crime solving and court trials, and with DNA sampling anthropologists can readily trace the linage of various species backwards in history over a million years. However, interestingly enough, I was able to ask him a question that drew a small admission from him. I reviewed with him the fact that “Lucy’s” bones were now actually fossilized stone, and as stone could not have a DNA presence. He replied that the way they date fossils is by determining the age of the materials found around the specimen, and not the fossil itself. Score one for the doubters. Johanson is one of those I call “pure” evolutionists. “There’s no God, never was one, and never will be. There is a scientific answer for every question. “

We see examples of man-induced evolution practically everywhere. The next time you’re in your favorite grocery store, go to the produce department and pick up just about any piece of fruit or vegetable you prefer. That big fat juicy strawberry the size of a tennis ball was not created by nature alone, and that ripe, lovely half-pound tomato is a creation of man’s ingenuity, also. Most major seed companies use the process of artificial selection to insure that the seeds that are in the seed packet you buy are reasonably guaranteed to be healthy and productive. They do this by growing acres of “parent” plants. These plants are observed as they grow, and, although, they may be all planted in the same soil and receive the same dosages of water and minerals, some of them will be healthier and stronger that others. It is from the healthy plants that the seeds are taken to go into your seed packet, and the smaller, weaker plants are destroyed. Thus with each new generation of seed, the plant becomes even stronger and more productive. It is Darwin’s “survival of the fittest” with man himself being the judge of which plants survive to reproduce.

I read of another example of natural selection, or “survival of the fittest” just a few months ago in a magazine concerning pest control. The story did not look at the events in the context of evolution, but it reinforced the adaptability of organisms to their environment. In the Midwest a few years ago there was an invasion of insects in a farming area which was intense enough that it was threatening the crops of the farmers. Normal insecticides seemed to be ineffective, and finally a new powerful chemical was created to use against the invaders. Sure enough, 95% of the insects were killed and the crops were saved. The farmers were happy, needless to say, and order was restored to the farming community.

Until three years later. As if on schedule, the insects returned, but this time the farmers did not worry because they had their proven weapon against their enemies. The powerful chemical was sprayed again, but to the farmers’ horror, the deterrent had no effect on the insects. Some of the insects were captured and analyzed, and the pesticide experts came to the shocking conclusion that these new insects were offspring of the 5% of insects which had survived the chemical three years earlier. Those earlier insects, with some sort of stronger resistance to the chemical, had passed this resistance on to their offspring, and now the whole population of insects was immune to the insecticide. Through a man-cause selection, the insects had evolved into a species better able to resist a destructive force.

I could give many more examples of natural and man-induced natural selection in nature which has caused adaptive changes in organisms, but the examples given are adequate, and that is really not the point of this discussion anyway. The question that arises is how does someone who accepts the above examples reconcile them to what we know in the Bible. If we are in fact Bible-believing Christians seeking communion with an omnipresent God, what do we do when science can prove without a doubt that the earth is over four billion years old? It is not enough to yell, “That’s heresy!”

Here’s what I feel. My take on how old the earth is and how scientific evidence relates to the Bible goes along with my feelings and opinions about what’s going to happen when the earth comes to its end. Learned theologians have argued for centuries about what’s going to happen “when time shall be no more,” and the rock bottom fact is no one really knows for sure. Even as I write this, our church is having a series of Bible studies with a very, very dear loved one of mine who is explaining to our congregation the mysteries of Revelations in the Bible. We’re learning about the Tribulation, Daniel’s 70 Weeks, the Millenium, the Rapture, and all sorts of interesting stuff. But even as I read along in the scriptures as they are being discussed, I ask myself, “How did we arrive at this conclusion by reading that scripture?” I think the clues given in the Bible concerning the endtime are purposely vague, just as the clues concerning the beginning of our earth are vague. We are not meant to worry about the future and we are not meant to be concerned about the past. Our relationship with God is based on the communion we have with Him today.

One of my good brothers-in-law, Don Trumps, (actually they’re all good) and I were having a discussion about the creation a few weeks ago, and he offered an idea that was astounding in its simplicity and reason. His idea was this: If we believe literally the Bible's statement that the earth is only 6,000 years old, but science tells us that the earth is over 4 billion years old, and if we really believe that God created the heavens and the earth in six days, why could He not have created the earth as if it were four billion years old. If He can create an earth, He could create an earth with a history just as easily. In doing so, the geologist could announce discovery of a rock that is a billion years old, an anthropologist could announce the discovery of a three million year old humanoid, and the Christian could say the earth is six thousand years old and they would all be correct.

In closing, I would like to quote from Charles Darwin’s amazing book, The Origin of Species. Published in 1854, the book presented in incredible detail the argument for evolution. To some Christian ministers, it is the devil’s bible; to evolutionists it is the definition of life itself. But many of the ministers and evolutionists have not bothered to read the entire content of the book. To an open minded reader it is a beautifully written, incredibly detailed document, and it acknowledges the existence of God. To wit:
“Authors of the highest eminence seem to be fully satisfied with the view that each species has been independently created. To my mind, it accords (agrees) better with what we know of the laws impressed on matter by the Creator. It is interesting to contemplate a tangled creek bank, clothed with many plants of many kinds, with birds singing in the bushes, with various insects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth, and to reflect that these elaborately constructed forms, so different from each other, and dependent upon each other in so complex a manner, have all been produced by laws acting around us. These laws, taken in the largest sense, are Growth with Reproduction; Inheritance, which is almost implied by Reproduction; Variability from the direct and indirect action of the conditions of life and from use and disuse; A Ratio of Life so high as to lead to a Struggle for Life, and as a consequence to Natural Selection, involving Divergence of Character and the Extinction of less improved forms. Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely the production of the higher animals, directly follows. There is a grandeur in this view of life with its several powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one, and that, while this planet has gone cycling according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved.”

In Memory of September 11, 2001

The year was 1987, and Congress was holding hearings investigating the alleged shenanigans of the Ronald Reagan administration concerning the Iran-Contra affair. Congress had called Lt. Colonel Oliver North to be a witness at the hearings in an attempt to determine if he had any involvement in the events which had led to the hearings being called by Congress.

The senator who was questioning Colonel North was attempting to squeeze from the colonel an admission of excessive expenditures that would seem to be beyond the means of a midlevel officer in the military. The senator, after spotting one item on the colonel’s financial record, begin to interrogate:

“Did you not recently spend close to $60,000.00 for a security system for your home?”

The colonel replied, “Yes, I did.”

Trying to get a laugh from the audience, the senator retorted, “Don’t you think that amount of money is just a LITTLE excessive?”

No, I do not,” replied the colonel, “because the lives of my family and me were threatened.”

“Threatened? By whom?” questioned the senator.

“By a terrorist, Sir.”

“Terrorist? What terrorist could possibly scare you that much?”

“His name is Osama bin Laden,” replied Colonel North.

The senator tried to repeat the name, but stumbled a couple of times, causing some laughter in the audience. Then the senator continued, “Why are you so worried about this man?”

“Because, Sir, he is the most evil person alive that I know of.”

“And what do you recommend we do about him?” pressed the senator.

“Well, Sir, if it was up to me, I would recommend that an assassination team be formed to eliminate him and his men from the face of the earth.”

The senator expressed his offence at such a suggestion, then dropped his line of questioning and moved to other matters. The senator was Tennessee Senator Al Gore, who later became Vice President alongside President Bill Clinton.

In 1986, a year before the Iran-Contra hearings on Capitol Hill, a terrorist blew up a bus in Israel, killing several Israelis. The Israelis tracked him down, captured him, and imprisoned him for life.

Fast forward to 1993, the American President, Bill Clinton, who was attempting to negotiate an Israeli-Palestinian peace treaty, pressured Israel to release all political prisoners. Israel resisted, claiming that the imprisoned terrorist had committed mass murder and should not be released. Clinton’s Secretary of State Warren Christopher “insisted’ that all prisoners be released, and Israel acquiesced.

Thus the terrorist was released, and on September 11, 2001, the terrorist, Mohammad Atta, flew a commercial aircraft into Tower One of the World Trade Center.

Today, in 2009, we hear cries to release or to transfer the terrorists being held at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, because they have “rights.” Those who helped capture and interrogate the terrorists are being criticized and threaten with criminal charges for their actions. You have to wonder…when the time comes that the terrorists are transferred out of their prison cells, which prisoner who is now at Guantanamo Bay will come back to do damage to the United States of America, and which governmental official will we be able to look at and know that he was the one who was instrumental in unleashing another terrorist on our land.

The Epiphany

If you have read some of the essays in this blog, you will have correctly determined that attending church is a regular duty in my schedule of events, and I am privileged to be able to call myself a Christian and, more specifically, a Pentecostal. If you have read further, you will know how I feel about contemporary “Christian” music and about my current church which my wife and I have attended for the past four months. I put the term “Christian” within quotation marks because in referring to music, it is “Christian” only within the context of the words being sung, not within the sound, rhythm, or instruments with which it is presented. Disregarding the words and grooving with eyes closed to just the music, a listener would swear he was at a rock concert at the Toyota Center or, in extreme cases, at Joe’s Bar and Grill. But I digress…this essay is not another rant about the music. Well, mostly not, anyway.

My pastor of four months demonstrated again last night (Sunday, September 6) why he has won my heart and loyalty in such a brief time. His sermon concerning drifting away from the church was such an impassioned plea of concern that it would have taken a truly unconcerned soul not to have been touched by it. I have been told by pastors of the past how they cared for their churches and the members thereof, but this time I actually believe it. The reason I believe it is his actions follow his statements. I have seen his concern demonstrated to various members of our congregation in the short time we have been members, and I have confidence that when my time of need comes, he will be there to offer whatever spiritual support I need. If you are in need of a caring church with a supportive pastor, let me offer this address. http://www.betheltabhouston.org

I woke this Labor Day morning at 5:00 a.m. and could not get back to sleep. There were two events which occurred in our church service last night which I could not get out of my mind and which left me with a feeling of urgency and maybe a little depression when I finally arose about 8:00 a.m.

My new pastor is an old, old man of about 55-56 years. Well, that’s the way he kind of feels about it. Being about ten years his senior, I could tell him a thing or two about aging, but at the same time, my heart goes out to him, because it’s in the fifties when a person…okay, a man, anyway….begins to feel his mortality. In my fifties I began to realize that I couldn’t do the things I did when I was even in my forties. At the same time, just like in the case with my pastor, I began to see my parents decline physically before my very eyes, and there was nothing I could do for them. And seeing them decline reminded me that what I saw happening to them was reserved for me, also, just a few years hence. It is an experience reserved for every living creature, a cycle of life that began with creation.

Anyway, my pastor, now in his Golden Years, has been tapped on the shoulder by the national leadership of the United Pentecostal Church, International, to be a mentor to young, aspiring ministers and to offer them guidance and encouragement while they are gaining experience in their maturation as ministers and pastors. As he was mentioning this to us in the introduction to his sermon last night, he threw out a statistic that made alarm bells go off in my mind. I had heard similar statistics from other church organizations, but I guess since I am somewhat focused on Pentecostal affairs, they had never caused me much concern. His statement was simply this: Within the United Pentecostal Church organization, eighty percent of the licensed ministers are above the age of 45 with only twenty percent under that age.

Taking that statistic and projecting into the future, the prognosis for the church appears bleak. In another twenty years, when the current crop of seasoned, experienced ministers begins to slip into retirement, the church will face a critical shortage of spiritual leaders. Could the UPC be faced with the same situation many religious organizations are already facing? That is, local church congregations with no spiritual leaders? The prospect is frightening, because within Pentecostal organizations, the pastor is more than just a hired manager, he is placed in his position with a certain amount of divine guidance; even though the local congregation does vote on his selection, the prayer is always that God will guide the wisdom of the local voters to make the right decision. But just as the Children of Israel in the Old Testament made wrong decisions in the desire for a leader, local congregations in the future may feel forced due to limited choices to make leaderships decisions which could prove to be unwise and destructive. There will always be plenty of zealots who claim to be ministers from God who are just charlatans with their own agendas, but if there is a shortage of sincere ministers who aspire to lead a local flock in accordance with God’s guidance, the results will be traumatic. I fear for my children and grandchildren.

There is one solution, and in the context of the situation, perhaps the upcoming ministerial shortage is but another sign that this solution is the only possible outcome. Should the church be (in biblical terms) caught away or caught up…i.e. taken out of this world or raptured…during the Second Return of Jesus Christ as taught in the scriptures, then the predicted shortage will never occur. You have to wonder…do we not have to worry about a shortage of ministers in 25 years because….we won’t be needing them anyway?

The second event that occurred in our church service last night was probably not even noticed by the majority of the congregation. During his sermon about drifting away from the church, our pastor used the analogy of a drifting boat and an anchor that would not hold the boat in position. He then asked us to sing the old hymnal “I’ve Anchored My Soul in the Haven of Rest.” I knew there would be many in the audience who would not know the song, but I was stunned when I began to realize that neither did the musicians know how to play it! Our primary musicians are in their mid twenties and have grown up in the church…and they did not know the song. At that moment I had a most distressing epiphany and came to the conclusion that the old songs are officially lost to history. That common thread that bound a congregation together regardless of position or musical skill and created an atmosphere of great spiritual consecration…namely, congregational singing of the spiritual classics…was gone forever. I am convinced the loss of this common thread is a contributing factor to our shortage of young ministers. Young men and women are not called to the ministry by dancing to the crashing sounds of drums, thumping bass guitars, and wailing keyboards. But in the spiritual depth and quietness of a simple song of worship, the still, small voice of the Master is able to speak and call the soul to higher service.

After the congregation had gathered around the altars at the front of our church for a moment of final consecration and the dismissal had been given, my wife told me,“I wanted to go up there and play that song so bad!” I thought to myself that she and my mother-in-law who was in attendance were probably the only two people in the church who could play “I’ve Anchored My Soul in the Haven of Rest” on the piano from memory. How tragic.

A Day in the Life of Student 555-272-0894 in the year 2029

5:30 a.m…The alarm gently nudges the hand of Student 555-272-0894, awakening him to the rigors of another day. Knowing that his future in his Assigned Profession is dependent upon his performing at certain minimum levels of expectation, he quickly rises from slumber and slips on his school uniform and prepares for school. He is anxious to get to school because breakfast is there. Breakfast is a closely regulated ritual with each student’s diet closely monitored based on his/her physiology and metabolic requirements in order to stay within the weight limits required for Optimum Career Success. The stringent physical requirements for Optimum Success are a result of the wholesale failure of U.S. students in the early 2010s, when fifty percent of American students suffered from obesity and related respiratory and heart diseases. Physical activity at that time had degenerated in intensity due to the popularity of computer generated virtual activities, and the lack of caloric consumption coupled with greater food input created havoc with physical conditioning.

6:30 a.m….The School Transportation Module arrives, and as the student enters the vehicle, the Identity Verifier greets him in its monotone synthetic voice, reads the imprinted number implanted in the top of his hand, and prepares a review of the previous day’s studies on the vehicle’s student-specific Assignment Reinforcement Program.

7:00 a.m….Student 555-272-0894 leaves the Transmodule and is whisked into the Energy Accessorium via the conveyor-walk. There he sees his first fellow human, the Energy Dispensation Manager, dutifully handing out the energy packets in accordance with federal guidelines. Before he is given his food, he steps on a scale to determine his weight this morning and finds to his dismay that he has gained eight ounces above the Federal Acceptable Maturation and Mass Acquisition Standards for ten year old males. The EDM gleefully snatches back one five ounce packet of concentrated energy from his usual allotment of three packets.

7:20 a.m….The conveyor-walk transports him to the Physical Conditioning Area, where he and other early arrivals begin their morning conditioning rituals. He checks his Performance Chart on the large monitor to compare his performance to the rest of his class. Maintaining a success level in the top twenty percent of his class means he need not worry about a dreaded Mandatory Career Reassignment. Career assignments for early childhood began during the teen years of the 21st century when the United States economy came to a standstill due to a crippling lack of professional engineers, technicians, doctors, and mathematicians. The government began offering parents and their children financial stipends and hefty bonuses if children were steered into the professional careers that were in critically short supply. Each child was extensively tested, and if the potential for academic success appeared promising, parents were quick to sign a Professional Commitment Contract with the government. Their financial windfall assured, the parents worked closely with the Federal Emotional Counselor to instill in their child the will to succeed that was above the Federal Minimum Standards of Career Commitment. The parents’ enthusiasm was fueled by the knowledge that should their child be reassigned to a noncritical profession due to lack of commitment and failure to reach Minimum Standards, their financial windfall would have to be returned to the government.

9:00 a.m….From the Physical Conditioning Area, the student moves to the Data Access Area. There he finds his customary Cranial Interface Device, straps it onto his head, lies back in his Data Reception Recliner, and reads the menu for his first assignment. Social Studies is his first Learning Module, so he quietly speaks, “Activate,” and in a few seconds he is in a virtual world in the year 1836, listening to the shouts of General Sam Houston of the Texas Army of the Republic as he leads his men into battle at San Jacinto. Ahead, he sees the Mexican army sleepily awakening into instant panic as Houston’s men take them completely by surprise. The roar of cannon and musketry is deafening, but quickly dispelled with a monotonous voice from the Cranial Interface Device speaking, “End of lesson. State summary of events observed.”

10:00 a.m. -4:00 p.m…With the exception of a lunch period, at which Student 555-272-0894 is weighed again and issued an appropriate level of energy, he continues his work, observing virtual displays of science and natural laws, from walking on the surface of Mars and exploring the American mission there, to traveling through the bloodstream of a human being. He is asked to give his impressions of excerpts of poetry and to display his thoughts using the Cranial Evaluation Monitor. With his thoughts set to print, the CID matter-of-factly announces, “End of session…dismissed.”

5:00 p.m. -7:00 p.m…Aboard the Transmodule, the student arrives at his Assigned Dwelling. On the Virtual Display, his mother greets him, thought she will not be back from her assignment on the moon until next Thursday. Until then, her image will stay with him. He gets his assigned energy rations from the Energy Storage and Allotment Device and waves his hand under the Assignment Reassessment and Review Display. The room flashes with a review of the data presented to the student this school day.

7:00 p.m. -8:30 p.m…Having satisfied the Assignment Reassessment Program that he had retained above the Minimum Acceptable Level of Data Retention for the day, he receives permission from his Virtual Mom to engage the Simulated Personal Interacting Program. He asks the Dwelling Interface Coordinator Module to access the Superman program from the late 20th century. Popping on his own Cranial Interface, he lowers the face screen over his eyes, and for the next thirty minutes he is flying high in the sky as Superman’s right hand man.

8:30 p.m. Too soon, it’s time for bath and bed.

The Dash

"The Dash" originally was an essay written by Alton Maiden, a former Notre Dame student and football player under famed coach Lou Holtz. Coach Holtz first read the composition to his players in 1996 at a team meeting. I have taken the liberty to revise and rewrite the composition as an iambic pentametric poem. It has a very thought-provoking message.



I've seen death’s stare in a way that many cannot know.
I've seen death claim and others take but still left me below.
I've heard the wails of mothers’ cries but death refused to hear.
I've seen a face contort with grief and eyes great wells of tears.

Once death has come and pain has gone a tombstone sits to see.
But it’s no more than a symbol of a person's memory.
I've seen my share of tombstones but took not the time to heed
The meaning behind what is there for everyone to read.

The person's name is clearly shown and the date of birth we see.
Past the dash we read the date the soul met eternity.
The date of birth and the date of death we read in but a flash.
What tells us most about a life is what’s within the dash.

A person’s name, the face, the eyes, in time we cease to see.
Even the dates of birth and death from our recollections flee.
But in the dash, the simple dash, are the memories that last.
The life, the loves, the joys and aches of a soul so quickly passed.

When you begin to chart your life avoid the path most rash.
Your birth and death will quickly dim, but forever lives your
dash.

Another Broken Link: A Tribute to Bonnie Downing

In one of my essays I recently wrote, I bemoaned the fact that one of the reasons I did not like growing older (among many) was seeing the number of members of the generation that came before me rapidly diminish, and that the deep resource of their experiences and wisdom was disappearing as well. Somehow my parents and older uncles and aunts always seemed to have the right answer coupled with the wisdom of Solomon, and I have drawn on the resource of their lives many times over the years.

But that rich resource of life is rapidly vanishing. My father had fourteen brothers and sisters, and only one, whom I will talk about momentarily, remains alive today. My mother’s family, which in looking at her siblings was a relatively younger lot, has in the last few years begun to see the dwindling of their flock as time takes its toll.

Today the fallen soldier was Bonnie Laverne Williams Downing…”Aunt Bonnie” to me. She was the wife of Dad’s last surviving brother, Thurl E. Downing. Her story is very similar to my own mother’s story. Both were born into modest families in small towns, and both married poor Oklahoma farm boys who happened to be brothers. Both couples lived in the same Houston area and over a nearly 65 year period managed to create homes, enjoy measures of success, raise children and grandchildren, and create legacies that hangs heavily over the descendents of these two marriages.

Bonnie was born in 1926. She and her family moved to Baytown, Texas, in 1940, where she met a young man and gave him her heart on October 10, 1941. She was fifteen years old and he was twenty one. Her age at marriage sounds shocking in today’s society, but during the Great Depression of the twenties and thirties, young people by necessity grew up faster than now. Many even in their early teens left home and attempted to earn their living because there was no work at home with the family. Today we have twenty-five year olds who have the maturity of twelve year olds because they’ve never had to want for anything. (But that’s another story, and I digress.)

What with marrying brothers, Aunt Bonnie became good friends with my mother, Ethel, who was married to R.L. Downing. My mom and dad had married only a couple of years before Thurl and Bonnie, and all soon became close friends. In late 1942, Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Thurl had their first child, Carletta, and Mom was there to help Aunt Bonnie adjust to motherhood. She was the ripe old age of sixteen. Aunt Bonnie was able to return the motherhood favor in May, 1943, when I was born. Mother had a few problems after I was born, not the least which was a high blood pressure condition which she would live with for the rest of her life. But Aunt Bonnie was there for her on a daily basis, and, in fact, was the first to point out to my mother a peculiar characteristic of her young infant son.

My mother told me this story many times, and it goes like this: Bonnie came to her one day and said, “Ethel, have you ever noticed what your baby does when he’s sleeping?”
Mom said, “Well, no, not really. What is it?”
Bonnie said, “Most babies when they get ready to turn over just sort of roll over to one side or another and they’re happy. Bobby uses his hands to flip himself up and then spins his body around to get to his new position. He shakes the whole bed!”

I have a confession to make: I still do that. During many a restless night I have awakened for some reason and found my wife gone, only to discover she was in the living room recliner or on the sofa asleep. She has said on my restless nights it was like she was sleeping on a trampoline. We have solved the problem with a bed that doesn’t transmit movement, but I’m still a spinner to this day.

In the early years the two Downing families lived on the same street, and as far as us kids were concerned, we practically weren’t sure which house was ours; we felt comfortable in either one. The rules were the same in either house, and we kids knew that respect, courtesy, and good behavior were expected in either home. Though our fathers played critical roles in our upbringing, in those days it was the mother who set the tone for the home. Like my mother, Aunt Bonnie established a legacy of honesty, character, and integrity in dealing with her husband, children, and relatives. Our homes offered to us kids foundations of solid rock where we knew where we stood and offered us places on which to build.

We, the offspring of T.E. and Bonnie Downing, Robert L. and Ethel Downing, Lawrence and Blanche Downing, and Orville and Reba Downing and the other siblings of that generation, are bound with a responsibility to pass to our children the redeeming qualities which were taught to us…and which are so lacking in many families today. Our children need to know they have a tradition and a legacy that must be treasured and practiced.

Today, August 28, 2009, in a simple, elegant ceremony very similar to my own mother’s service on December 24, 2004, we laid Bonnie Laverne Williams Downing to rest in a small country cemetery. Surrounded by a loving family and friends we bade farewell to a stalwart of faith and love. She had survived the Great Depression, World War II, sixty-seven years of marriage, five children, fourteen grandchildren, nineteen great-grandchildren, seven great-great-grandchildren, and eighty three years of life. One more link to the past had been broken.
Finally, she can rest.