HEROES

We all have heroes. People we look up to. Special people. They come in all different packages. I grew up in a time when heroes were, for the most part, those brave souls who put their lives on the line for others, usually in the military. Nowadays, the term is sometimes hijacked and applied to individuals who do not meet the old standard of heroism. But this story is not about that. This story is about a couple of my personal heroes.

When I was a kid, and even more so now as a grown man, my first and most enduring hero was my dad. He has been gone 35 years. But he is not diminished in my eyes as a hero. I’m a Baby Boomer – a member of that generation that my father’s and mother’s generation begat. Their generation had more than their share of heroes. The Greatest Generation they have been called. They grew up in the Great Depression and fought the most horrible war in history, and in my view, saved the world.

My dad, 1LT Bill Reed, was in the Army Air Corp with the 8^th Air Force in England as a B-17 bomber pilot. He flew 35 combat missions over enemy territory in Europe, primarily over Germany. He saw and experienced horrors few of us have. He did it, all the while, not because he was a hero, although he was, but because it was his duty. I think those are the most pure heroes. They do it for God, country, fellow man and for something bigger than themselves. Dad would never refer to himself or even think of himself as a hero. One of my favorite photos is of him being awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for valor in 1944. You only got that award if you were a hero.

In his latter years, I was finally able to get him to share with me some of his stories. I have written some of them. He was the real deal. After finishing his combat tour in B-17’s, he became a test pilot flying fighters, mainly the P-51 Mustang. These fighters had been shot up or damaged, but salvaged, repaired and rebuilt to go back into combat. His job was to take them up and put them through all the paces and rigors that a combat dogfight would inflict upon them. If they held together, he released them to combat. If they didn’t hold up, and some didn’t, they usually crashed. He belly landed two that he said he should have bailed out of, but he had that supreme confidence that some pilots have that they can fly anything, and that included a malfunctioning, sometimes burning and falling apart P-51. He used to joke about how he came closer to dying as a test pilot than he ever did as a B-17 pilot. They were both deadly activities.

So, dad was my first hero. I sure miss him. He was bigger than life and a role model of manliness for a young guy like myself. I’ve tried to live my life measuring up to that standard. Other heroes come upon us after we are all grown up. Those heroes can have just as much impact as those we were fortunate enough to have as youngsters. Sometimes our age, and hopefully some maturity, will help us see them with eyes that appreciate them even more.

Think about those brave first responders who died on 9-11. Think about the fireman who runs into the burning building to save someone. Think about that man or woman who saves another by sometimes giving up their own life. Whether or not they survive, we sometimes get the opportunity to celebrate them. In the case of my latest hero, he survived. Let me tell the story.

I have buddies who were, and still are if you ask them, Marines. Once a Marine, always a Marine, they say. I knew some who were friends of my dad at the American Legion, mostly serving during WWII and some during Korea. They were tough men, but to a young kid like myself, all the ex-military men were tough. I looked up to them all, but the Marines had a mystical air about them. That does not take away from those other men who served in different branches. My best friend, Ronnie Puckett, was an Army Green Beret who died serving his country. Another buddy I went to High School with, David Payne, was a Marine killed in Vietnam. And my fraternity brother, Rembert Wyatt, was a Marine Helicopter pilot shot down and killed in Vietnam. Rembert was responsible for helping me join the Marines in their officer flight program when I got my draft notice in 1968, keeping my college deferment and allowing me to actually graduate. It’s another story about my eyes being borderline for landing a jet on a carrier deck at night. That got me my discharge from the Marines in 1969, after which I was immediately drafted into the Army.

Back to the story of my most recent personal hero. I had heard of him, primarily through a mention here and there by my Marine buddies from Vietnam, but also from reading about him in the papers and maybe even on TV, but that was a long time ago and some memories fade. He was a south Georgia native from a small community in Telfair County called Towns. He was just a name to me, though – a name of a Marine who had been presented the Medal of Honor in 1970 for his gallantry and bravery in battle in Vietnam in 1968. I did not know him. I never met him or heard him speak. I read his Medal of Honor citation in some books about Medal of Honor recipients, but here again, he was one magnificent hero in a group of magnificent heroes.

Fast-forward thirty-four years to 2014. I was appointed as Chairman of the Sigma Pi Fraternity Veterans Committee. I was given the task of designing, raising the money to construct and then build a Veterans Memorial at the fraternity HQ in Lebanon, TN. Our goal was to honor all the veterans of Sigma Pi Fraternity – starting from our founding in 1897, when one of our founders became an officer in the Spanish American War, and continuing over the years to now and to those years to come – Past, present and future. I appointed a committee of fraternity brothers who were veterans, to help me move the project forward. Guess who is a fraternity brother, who happens to be alive and kicking. None other than the name from the past – the Marine who was presented the Medal of Honor.

Maj. Gen. James E. Livingston, USMC (Ret.), a Sigma Pi brother from Auburn.

It was a no-brainer for me to contact the General and ask him to honor us by serving on the Veterans Committee. He graciously agreed to serve. His name alone gave added prominence to an already stellar group of Sigma Pi alumni veterans, some of which were still serving on active duty. We had a Navy Ensign, a Navy Captain, a Navy LCDR and astronaut, an Army Major, a Marine Colonel, an Air Force Lt. Col., and now a Marine General. The funny part is that I am the Chairman of the Committee, and I was just a lowly Army SGT.

Something interesting happened during the course of the next year as our committee worked together to bring our Veterans Memorial to its dedication on July 18, 2015. Some of the members of the committee, I already knew, and others I grew to know and we became fast friends. One of the more rewarding outcomes of the project was getting to know General Livingston and ending up as real friends. Generally, friends will call each other by their first names, but I can’t bring myself to call Maj. Gen. James E. Livingston anything other than Sir. Somehow, it just doesn’t feel right for me to call him Jim, which his fellow Auburn Sigma Pi brothers call him.

I am in awe of him. Here is why. I read his book, Noble Warrior, written with Colin D. Heaton and Anne-Marie Lewis, published in 2010. The book is basically an autobiography of his life and career in the Marine Corp. The primary focus of the book is on those fateful days in Vietnam during the Battle of Dai Do in May of 1968. He, as a young Marine Captain CO of Echo Company of the 2^nd Battalion, 4^th Marine Regiment, and some 800 Marines, fought back 10,000 North Vietnamese Army regulars. Wounded a number of times, he continued to fight and lead his men during the battle. It is a riveting read. I was almost breathless at times. The bottom line for me is that after reading the full account of the battle, my already great respect for him is now immeasurable.

I am proud to call him brother, friend and Sir. One of my heroes. Semper Fi.

30 DAYS OF MICHELLE

This should have been a sweet little story about a nice gesture by Michelle. Instead, it is a story of selfishness, entitlement, self-centeredness, an attitude of it’s all about me, and a disregard for others. The people I will be writing about are in their upper twenties, lower thirties. Millennials, I guess you would call them, or maybe Generation Y. Some say they are the most narcissistic generation yet.

Our son’s are in this age group, but I do not see these same characteristics exhibited. They both tell me they see it in their age group. I run into it a bit, since I am involved in volunteer advisory situations with young men, primarily, college age fraternity men, and have been for the past 45 years, so I have witnessed a conglomeration of generations. But by and large, these have been fine young men who have grown into productive members of society, most of them family men.

That previous paragraph was my disclaimer. But now I get into my story, or more accurately, Michelle’s story.

Michelle’s birthday was three days ago on November 10th. We jokingly say that we celebrate each other’s birthday all month long. November is Michelle’s month. It is an innocent way to give loving attention to each other. Michelle mentioned to me in passing today that she was celebrating the 30 Days of Michelle. We both got a chuckle.

On her birthday, she treated herself to a massage at the physical therapy and rehab center she frequents for therapy for various ailments. As a little treat for the staff of eight or nine, she went to the Kroger bakery and bought a birthday cake and had it decorated with the words 30 Days of Michelle. She took it with her to her massage. When she entered the center at the front desk, the director and two staff were there. She held out the cake and said, “I brought us a cake.” As she went into the facility, another staff person saw the cake and asked, “What’s the cake for?” to which Michelle said, “It’s my birthday and I brought us a cake to enjoy.” One of the staff from the front desk came back and said, “Here, let me take the cake into the kitchen while you get your massage.”

While Michelle is getting her massage, she hears a group of people singing happy birthday. She immediately thought, “Darn, they are going without me.” After the massage, Michelle dressed and went to the kitchen. The cake had been partially eaten and the director and the birthday boy were there cutting themselves a piece of cake. Michelle was floored.

She said, “I can’t believe y’all sang happy birthday to someone else and cut the cake without me. It does say 30 Days of Michelle.” The director grudgingly said, “Well, we can sing happy birthday to you if you want us to.” The woman totally did not get it. Michelle turned and left.

On the way home, Michelle decided she needed to talk to the director to get it off her chest. She called and asked to speak to the director. The person who answered the phone asked who was calling and knew Michelle. She went to get her, but returned to say she was busy. Michelle told her why she was calling. The girl told her that the decision had already been made to buy her another cake. Michelle said, “That is not necessary.” The girl insisted, and Michelle had to decline several times.

In the grand scope of things, this is not a big deal. It is not an earth-shaking event, and it certainly did not ruin Michelle’s birthday, although it was an unwanted unpleasant experience. In fact, I am more incensed over it than she is. Think about it. They all knew it was Michelle’s cake, her birthday, even though she said she brought it in for all of them to enjoy together. It had her name on it. And they decided to use it to wish one of their staff happy birthday. Without her. I think they were way out of line. Nothing to do but let it go. And for me to write about it.

EVIL?

Something has been bothering me for a long time. It has to do with the nature of evil. It is much more complicated than being characterized by a single word, but evil is what I decided to tag it for now. I guess you could just as easily call what I am talking about, in various degrees, by any number of names or combination of names. Evil. Hate. Dislike. Meanness. Cruelty. Disdain. Immoral. Hurtful. Depraved. Wicked. Vicious. Malicious. Malignant. Vile. All you have to do is Google synonyms for Evil. It can be an adjective or a noun. But I think you get my drift.

Where am I going with this? I’m not really sure, other than I truly struggle with the why and wherefore of it. I don’t want to be too simplistic or paint with too broad a brush, but that may be impossible to avoid.

Why am I writing this now? Several reasons.

First, I have a Blog. Missing The Mark on WordPress. That is probably how you are reading this right now. I am a writer, or at least I write from time to time. I write primarily autobiographical stuff. Or share stories that have been shared with me. I am not a writer than can turn on the computer or pick up a pen and paper at the drop of a hat and write something profound or entertaining. I have to be inspired in some way. Everything I write has a kick-start in some sort of memory or prompting by events. I have nothing but respect for those writers who can sit down and churn out prose or poetry on an almost daily basis. No way I can do that. I have to have some sort of inner push, or else I can’t do it. I can’t force it. And just so you don’t think I am full of myself, I know that not everything I write is profound or entertaining. But it is something I want to share. You can read it or not. – like it or not. So the fact that I have a conduit for sharing my thoughts and musings, i.e., my Blog, is the first reason I am writing this now.

Second is because of something my wife, Michelle, and I are doing more or less together. Michelle has of late become a big fan of a series of what I will call “Cop Shows” on TV. There are probably a half dozen shows that are on a good deal of the time at our home, when the TV is on. Of course that does not include while college football is being broadcast, especially if the Dawgs are playing. Shows such as – Law & Order, Law & Order SVU, Criminal Minds, and Blue Bloods to name a few. Each of these shows deal with, for the most part, man’s inhumanity to his/her fellow human being. I’m talking some pretty bad stuff that people do to each other. The shows are about how the cops try to solve crimes and catch the perpetrators. Sometimes they save victims at the end. But these stories, entertaining as they are, share the evil that I am talking about here. They try to sometimes explain why a criminal does what he or she does, but sometimes there is no explanation, at least no simple one.

Third, like most of you, unless you are extraordinarily lucky, I have either experienced or been close to, or at least have heard of someone I know, brushing up against some of what I am talking about. Unless you live on another planet, you are aware of some of the horror that is going on in the world – from the murder’s of the Manson Family, to the serial killers we hear about on the news, to the atrocities being committed in the name of “religion” or the random acts of violence or meanness that happen around us all the time. A couple of recent events concerning Michelle and I are what finally prompted me to put this to words.

My event, which I shared recently here on my Blog, is the story titled “Danger Behind The Mausoleum” about my encounter with a man who was, if not evil, surely angry and capable, in my mind, particularly looking back on it after the fact, of doing violence to me for no good reason. Read the story if you want more details.

The second event concerns Michelle and a simple occurrence most of us who drive have experienced or witnessed. Simply put, Michelle pulls out of our drive-way onto the narrow private street that circles our subdivision, and encounters another car headed toward her. Neither she nor the other car are going fast. In our private road neighborhood, the pavement is wide enough for two cars to pass each other with both able to keep their tires on the pavement, but this only happens if both move to their respective half of the road. It may be close, but no problem. In this case, the other car did not move over far enough and Michelle decided to go ahead and move over off the pavement onto the edge of the yard of the neighbor across the street. This is normal.

Now this all happened in a matter of seconds and was not any big deal. Michelle decided it was no big deal for her to move over and give the right of way to the other car. She was not mad or upset at having to move over, for it is pretty common for us, as good neighbors and polite drivers, to just be a nice person and give the other driver plenty of room, which is what Michelle did. What she did not expect, after moving over to accommodate the other driver, is what the other driver did as she drove past. The woman driving the other car, no one that Michelle recognized as a neighbor and having never seen them before, glared at Michelle with malevolence as she drove by. Michelle swears that she did nothing to anger the other person other than having encountered her at that particular moment pulling out of our driveway. In Michelle’s case, as it would have been in mine, she expected, if not a thank you for moving over, at least no reaction. But instead, Michelle received a look she told me was pretty close to hate. For. No. Good. Reason. Go figure.

Now this is probably a stretch as being characterized as evil, but hopefully you see what I am getting at here. Nothing bad happened to either of us as shared in these two occurrences, except the unpleasantness of having to experience them. No question that things could have been a lot worse in both instances.

In my case, Michelle told me that the man I encountered behind the mausoleum could have attacked me, especially when I turned my back on him to get in my car, and hurt me or even killed me and stuffed me in the dumpster. In her case, we all know what road rage is, and I suppose it is possible that the woman Michelle encountered could have pulled a gun and shot her dead as she drove by. Both would be extreme happenings, I know, but I also know they happen.

It is a dangerous world we live in. I personally believe, because of my life experience, and the fact I am pretty well read, that you have to be on your toes all the time. Always be aware of your surroundings. Do not be one of those victims who are oblivious to what is going on around you. My first lesson, if you will, was from an old drill instructor when I was in the Army going through basic training. He had served a couple of combat tours in Vietnam, and had some experience in the matter. He stressed to me and the other soldiers going through training, that you never let your guard down. You did not walk the trail watching your feet only. You kept your ears open, head on a swivel and were forever looking down, up, side-to-side, forever vigilant. I know many of you will say that is no way to go through life, that maybe in combat it made sense, but surely not in our civilized day-to-day life. Sorry, but that is a naïve point of view. If you think that way, you are a victim that hopefully will not pay a price. I’ll get off that soapbox, now.

I’m an old guy now, having lived many years. I have been in danger many times, some of my own adrenalin rush making. I’ve done some risky things, all in the name of adventure. But some of the risky things were done in service to others, such as in the Army or on certain ministry mission trips into dangerous places, to list a couple. There are many others, which I may write about, but for now I hope you have a handle on the type thing I’m talking about.

So, I come back to my initial query to myself about the nature of evil. Why? Why is it there? Why do some people do horrible things to others? I don’t have the answer. At lease not the full answer. I know that evil exists. We live in a fallen world. That’s as far as I will go right here in regard religion or faith, but regardless of your beliefs, there is one thing we can all agree on, and that is that there is a lot of man’s inhumanity to man going on out there. We can not ignore it. We can hope it never touches us, and we here in America, at least in most of America, are insulated from the worst of it, as compared to the rest of the world. Then, of course, there is the violence that exists in certain inner cities, no names necessary. But believe me when I tell you, none of us are immune or safe from it. We are all exposed and at risk at one point or another in our lives. Maybe it will never touch us. Great, that is my wish for you, those I love and care about and for myself. But I am going to be careful and I hope you will, too.

If you figure it out, let me know. If you disagree with me, so be it.

DANGER BEHIND THE MAUSOLEUM

I’m still a little weirded out about what happened this afternoon. It was one of those situations that leaves you shaken. Just call me Mr. Leaf. Let me begin at the beginning.

I decided to make a Veterans Day wreath. I wanted something a little different from your standard flowered, greened and ribboned wreath that is pretty much standard. I decided that something a little more rustic and rough would fit what I was looking for. So, I settled on a woven vine wreath as a base and bought bunting and red, white and blue bow and ribbon. Add some small flags, and Michelle will paint Veterans on a ribbon to stretch across side to side. All I needed was one of those 4’ to 5’ tall wire stands that florists use to hang it on.

I went to a local florist and told them I wanted to buy a tripod stand to display my wreath. The florist was very helpful and said he could sell me one of his stands, but if I wanted to drive a mile down the road to a local cemetery and mausoleum, they disposed of these stands by the dozens following funerals and all I had to do was go to their dumpster. He told me to tell the cemetery office manager that he sent me, and they would surely give me a couple for free. Such a deal.

I drove to the cemetery, parked by the office and went in. I introduced myself and said the florist had sent me, and this lovely lady said she was more than happy to accommodate me if I didn’t mind doing some dumpster diving. Hey, I live for that. She walked over to the mausoleum next door and talked to several of their workers standing around outside and verified that they had recently disposed of wreath stands. She directed me to drive behind the mausoleum and take a right on the dirt drive and go a short distance through the woods to where the dumpster was kept.

As I turned behind the mausoleum into this green tunnel of trees and shrubs, visions of Sleepy Hollow flashed through my mind, and just around the corner there it was. I could see numerous wire legs sticking out of the dumpster. The final resting place of wire men. There were rows of burial vaults just across a small clearing, and there was a wooden shed that appeared to have old coffins stacked inside. I half expected to see Count Dracula stick his head out. It was a little spooky, but I was tickled to be getting the wreath stands. I pulled one out, and as the manager had warned me, I had to unwire and pull old flowers off. I wondered whose funeral it had graced, and for a moment felt a little funny about taking them. I tossed it in the back of my vehicle, and grabbed a second stand that was a little shorter than the first.

As I was finishing unwiring it and putting it with the first, a strange looking man came walking across the clearing toward me. He was a rough looking character and I assumed he was one of their laborers, maybe a grave digger or maintenance man. I looked over at him as he walked up to me and I smiled, waved and greeted him, telling him that the nice lady in the office had told me I could come get some stands out of the dumpster. This guy had what you could only characterize as an angry face. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Warning Will Robinson. Danger. Danger. He was looking at me like he had just caught a thief in the process of stealing private property, and for an instant I almost felt guilty. But I was dumpster diving, for goodness sake.

Walking up to within a couple of feet of me, giving me his best face to face stink eye, he asked me in a very confrontational voice what the name of the lady I talked to was. Huh? I was surprised. I said I didn’t know what her name was, just that she was the nice lady in the office. He said which lady, there are two, said like he had caught me in a lie. I said no, there was only one lady there when I stopped to ask permission to get the stands. He repeated that there were two women in the office. I swear I could hear the Twilight Zone theme music playing in the background. I calmly said, once again, that no, there was only one woman there. You would have thought I just called him a liar. He got up in my face and asked what she looked like. This was going nowhere good. In fact the toilet was draining in a downward spiral. He looked like he was going to slug me at any moment. His threatening body language, angry voice and face, and the invasion of my personal space, got my adrenalin pumping into the fight or flight mode. I’m not a fighter, but I stood my ground, preparing myself for whatever bizarre turn in this confrontation came next. I did not answer his question about what the lady looked like. Quite frankly, I was flabbergasted that this was happening.

He asked me again what she looked like. It was almost like he was trying to catch me in a lie. At this point, I just stared back at him and held out my hands shaking my head. I turned and said I was leaving. He stepped after me and said he had to ask me to leave the property. What? I had just told him I was leaving. As I turned my back on him and got in my car, I half expected him to grab me or sucker punch me from behind. Believe me, I couldn’t get out of there quick enough. The whole situation was ludicrous. Hell, I go get permission to grab some disposed items from a dumpster and here this thug was busting my chops like I was a thief. This guy was looking for a fight. I have no idea why.

As I started my car, I rolled down the window and told the guy once again that this very nice lady in the office had given me permission to come back here. He just glared at me with venom. Drugs? Alcohol? Who knows? I slowly drove past the rear of the mausoleum, half expecting to see the guy from the horror movies, the one at the funeral home with all the needles stuck in his head, step out the door and wave me down demanding to know what the lady in the office looked like. I mean really.

I stopped at the office to thank the lady for the stands and she came outside smiling and pleasant as can be, asking if I found what I wanted. I told her I did and thanked her for being so nice. Then I told her that she needed to know what happened with the man at the dumpster. She was shocked. She apologized, gave me her card and said if I ever needed anything again, to please call her. As I drove off, the sheer craziness of what I experienced hit me. And yes, I was carrying.

Ignore this post. It is for Science

FOR SCIENCE!

DO THE DOG

In October of 1966, Fall Quarter at the start of my first Junior year, I was Social Chairman of Sigma Pi Fraternity at the University of Georgia. It was definitely the best “job” in the fraternity. Not only did I get to plan and arrange all the socials with sororities on campus, I was the guy who booked all the bands for our parties. Back in the day, we were an over 100-member fraternity, and we had plenty of money in our party budget. Sigma Pi was famous for booking big name bands for our parties. We had Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs (Stay), The Original Drifters (Under the Board Walk) and Percy Sledge (When A Man Loves A Woman), to name a few.

The University of Georgia and the Interfraternity Council (IFC) had sponsored a concert on campus earlier in the Fall where Rufus Thomas (Do The Dog) was the featured entertainer. One of my fraternity brothers, Bruce Bateman, President of the IFC (and all around BMOC – Big Man On Campus), introduced Rufus at the concert. I was there. Rufus put on a great show. I remember Rufus calling Bruce up on stage and thanking him for bringing him to UGA, and telling a corny story about he and Bruce doing something silly together. The concert was a big hit.

Homecoming at UGA was when most fraternities put on their biggest band party of the year, next to their yearly formal. I decided to book Rufus for our Homecoming party. I don’t remember how much we paid him, but I do remember some of the specifics of the contract I signed on behalf of Sigma Pi. I was to pick Rufus up at Atlanta Airport the day of the party, supply him with a bottle of Jack Daniel Black for him to drink on the way to Athens, and upon arrival give him another bottle to drink during his show. After the party, I was to drive him back to Atlanta for his flight back to wherever.

I picked him up at the airport that Saturday morning in my 1965 GTO convertible. Rufus insisted that I put the top down as he sat in the back seat slugging down the Jack. I delivered Rufus to where we were having the party, I think at a place called Charlie William’s Lodge on the outskirts of Athens. I made sure he was all settled in and gave him his second bottle of Jack, which he and I shared a few slugs from.

I left to go get cleaned up and ready for the party, then picked up my date. She was a cute coed from Shorter College in Rome, Georgia, down for the Homecoming festivities.

Did I say Rufus put on a great show? He did. He probably did a half-dozen renditions of Do The Dog, but no complaints from the crowd who, for the most part, like myself, were feeling no pain. Rufus called me up on the stage, introduced me to my fraternity brothers, gave me a drink out of his bottle of Jack, which got big cheers from my brothers, and then proceeded to tell the same corny story about he and I that he had told the month before with Bruce Bateman at the UGA concert. I guess it was part of his routine for every concert gig.

The end of the party is very hazy in my mind, but I know that I did not drive Rufus back to Atlanta. In fact, I did not remember much of anything after Rufus introduced me and told his story. The only reason I know some of what happened is because the party photographer we had hired to take photos supplied me with a number of photographs.

One quick postscript to this story: The girl I had started dating that Fall, a pretty little Freshman named Paula, who just pledged Tri-Delt with my sister Cyn, had been asked by me to be my date for Homecoming. She had declined, telling me that she already had a date with a boy who she had been dating who went to Auburn and was a fraternity brother of her brother, and she had to go to their Homecoming and break up with him to his face. Good girl. She told me she knew I had to get a date for Homecoming, but to behave myself, which we both got a chuckle over.

A month after Homecoming, the photographer delivered the party photos, and Paula, who I was dating exclusively at this point, was with me at the Sigma Pi house when I received them. She and I sat there sorting through them, and when we got to the last photo, she jumped up and rushed out of the room in a huff. I had no idea what was going on. Then I looked at that last photo once more, at first not recognizing who the couple in the car was. Then I recognized myself and my car – the top was up and I was in a lip-lock with my Shorter coed. Believe me, I had some apologizing to do. Thankfully, Paula was a forgiving sort, but she would never listen to Rufus Thomas after that.