MY FIRST EXPERIENCE WITH A COMPUTER

Just about everyone has a computer nowadays, in fact, more than one in many cases. Heck, the iPhone/Smart Phones are mini-computers, more powerful than the computers that took man to the moon and back. I remember when I first heard of computers. I think it was called ENIAC and filled a room. Now they are miniature in comparison, with far more computing power than could have been imagined at the time.

Do you remember your first exposure to a computer? For me, it was in 1969. I was in my last quarter of college and taking my final Real Estate course, which was required for my Real Estate Major as a BBA (Bachelor of Business Administration) Degree. I don’t remember the course number, but it was called Appraisal something or other. My professor was Dr. William M. Shenkel, who was a professor in the Real Estate Department at UGA. He was a tough old bird. He was recognized as the toughest professor in the Department, and you usually avoided his classes, except that this was the last required course I had to take to meet the Degree requirements.

As it turns out, it was probably the best real estate course I took at UGA. I got more out of it than any of the multiple courses I took. I was not a great student, grade wise, while in college. The only A’s I ever received were in my real estate courses, primarily because they were the only ones I really had any interest in.

Dr. Shenkel introduced us to computers. The purpose of the course was to show us how a computer could be used to appraise real estate, as one application. You have to remember that this was before the PC or laptop we know now. In fact, the way we input information into the computer was through these stiff cardboard/paper cards with multiple holes punched into them. Sorta like the election vote counting cards used today and were memorialized by the “hanging chads” in the Presidential election between Bush the 2^nd and Al Gore. But I digress. Hopefully you know what I’m talking about. Sophisticated for the time, but antiquated today.

Anyway, we each had to choose what type of real estate we wanted to develop an appraisal program for. I chose small commercial sites, i.e., service stations, banks, fast food, retail stores, etc. I primarily chose that type real estate because that is what my dad, Bill Reed, specialized in at the family firm of Reed Realty. I was able to interview dad and get actual site information on most every site he had sold in the last five years. There were a bunch.

The concept was to input various bits of information/data about individual like-kind properties, identifying the details about a site that gave it value, or at least identified the particulars about it. Things like: Sales price; size (square footage/acreage); dimensions (200’x200’ for example); frontage on a street or streets; ingress/egress access points, i.e., curb cuts or cross easements; zoning classification; elevations (flat, cut, filled, needing fill, etc.); visibility; on a corner; access to another street if not fronting on more than one; a pad site in front of a shopping center, or a free-standing site; cleared/graded or with trees, etc., that need to be cleared; available utilities, or distance from and estimated cost to bring to the site; restrictions to the site, i.e., easements across or unbuildable portions; I could go on, but you get the drift. The more information you input about a site, and the more sites you included in your database, the more value that information had in regard helping you determine the value of a subject property.

Once you had all this information input (on the little cards with holes), you then had your control information. You would always be adding to the base of properties included, which only gave the program more applicability. Of course, the older the info of properties input, i.e., the date of sale, the less value it had because of inflation, etc.

Then the magic starts. You would identify a specific property you wanted to appraise and input all the information about it that included the various identifying factors. Then the program would spit out the value. Amazing, really. My program rated out to be accurate to 98%, according to the parameters established by Dr. Shenkel. Not sure how that was done, but that was a good thing for my program.

All that being said, I’ve actively been in the commercial real estate business since 1971…forty-four years. The one thing I’ve learned is that as far as value goes, appraised value or not, a piece of property is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.

CHIGGER RANCH

Oh there was a little chigger

And he wasn’t any bigger

Than the wee small point of a pin

But the bump that he raises

Itches like the blazes

And that’s where the scratch comes in

Fare thee well,

Fare thee well,

Fare the well my fairy fay

For I’m going to Lou’siana

For to see my Suzy-anna

Singing Polly wolly doodle all the day

If you were a Cub Scout or Boy Scout, you probably are familiar with these verses. Actually, they are what are referred to as “Camp Fire Songs.” These two above are actually from different songs, but were sung together when taught to me as a Scout.

I remember well when I learned them. It was summer and our Boy Scout Troop was going on an overnight camping trip to a place called Chigger Ranch. Little did we know that it came by its name honestly. To the best of my recollection, Chigger Ranch was located somewhere west of Smyrna, probably still in Cobb County, but definitely out of town. Things were much different in the late 50’s to early 60’s as far as how much rural land there was. The big development boom didn’t come until later. So Chigger Ranch was not far away.

My best buddy, Ronnie Puckett, was one of the Scouts. I think Melvin Posey was our Scout Master, but maybe he came a little later. We sat around a campfire and sang silly songs like the one above. It may sound hokey, but it was fun. The fact that I still remember the words today, almost sixty years later is a testament of the impact it had on me. But what really had the impact were the chiggers.

Do you know what a chigger is? It is a tick looking sorta insect, but tiny. So small that unless you look closely you will not even notice them. Oh, but you will know they were there, believe me. They bite you. The bite is no big deal. You don’t even know you were bitten until later. While chiggers can bite you on any part of the body they have access to, usually your ankles, they have a penchant for warm, dark, moist areas of the body. Are you with me?

Upon returning from Chigger Ranch, a couple of days later I began to almost unconsciously start scratching around my ankles working my way up to my crotch. Then it became a fully conscious scratching. It was then that an examination was in order. I was astounded to see what turned out to be more than 100 red welt bites. And every one itched like crazy. For the sake of propriety I will only say that they were mostly clustered in a relatively small area in my crotch. Enough said. I told my mom what was going on and she wanted to look at them. I declined her request to gaze at my crotch. I did show her some of the bites on my ankles not so close to the major attacked area. Mom confirmed they were chigger bites.

At that time, there were not numerous drug stores with every off the shelf treatment for most any malady. Instead, there were home remedies that had been developed over the years. The accepted treatment for chigger bites in those days was to paint finger nail polish over each bite. The conventional wisdom was that the finger nail polish, when it dried, would starve the bite from getting oxygen. Not so sure about that as I think about it now, but you must understand that at the point of my infestation, I was game for anything if it would stop the itching. Heck, I was starting to bleed from all the scratching. Sorry for the graphic.

After I declined her offer to paint my bites, mom handed me her bottle of finger nail polish. Mom sported bright red nails. After the application, my crotch area had the appearance of a red polka dot fabric. And the stuff stung almost as bad as the bites. I doubt there was much of benefit accomplished except that mom bought new nail polish after I used hers up. The worst was yet to come. OK, maybe not the worst, but it was no picnic. I eventually had to peal the red polish spots off my lower middle extremity. Yeah, that stung. I found it was best if you could peel an edge big enough to give it a quick yank and get it all in one pull. Unfortunately there was usually some left. It was quite an ordeal, believe me.

None of us ever went back to Chigger Ranch. I had the dubious honor, if you can call it an honor at all, of having more bites in my nether regions than any of the other boys. Ronnie was closest, with only half as many as I had. I was not proud.

Nowadays you can buy all sorts of insect repellent for critters like ticks and chiggers. No mother today would even consider sending their little prince to a place called Chigger Ranch. Excuse me, gotta run. After writing this, I’m starting to feel a telltale itch coming on.

BEST COKE EVER

I’m an Atlanta boy, born and bred. A son of the South. I was born on Peachtree Street, for goodness sake, at Crawford Long Hospital. I hate to use a trite saying, but it is true…you can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the boy.

There are many indications of who is a Southerner and who is not, but probably the one that causes the most discussion is…Coke or Pepsi? Hell, any true Southerner, especially a native Atlantan, will tell you…COKE!

Anyway, growing up, Coke products were the only ones in our home.

A friend, Jim Boy, who is a past Coca Cola employee, and my resident expert on all things Coke, posted a touching YouTube video this morning put out by Coke, titled “Best Coke Ever.” It actually brought a tear to my eye. It also reminded me of my best coke ever.

On June 26, 1969, I was inducted into the U.S. Army, courtesy of the Cobb County Draft Board and a special invitation starting out “Greetings.” Wow, first time I ever got a letter from the President of the United States. I ended up going through Basic Training at Fort Knox, Kentucky in D-19-5. I will not explain what D-19-5 stands for, but any Army recruit will figure it out. I was a member of the 5^th Platoon. As it turns out I was “Platoon Guide.” That is an “Acting SGT” position, which put me in charge of the Platoon, under the guidance of the Drill SGT. My Drill SGT was SSG Reed (no relation). SSG Reed was a big black man who had just returned from a tour in Vietnam. He was one tough dude. He did not like me very much, probably because I was a white boy from Atlanta, but I was a good “Guide” so he kept me in the position.

The first two weeks of Basic Training are probably the most difficult of your life up to that point. Lots going on and your world as you knew it no longer exists. Those two weeks were full to the brim with activity and under total control and almost a lock-down type situation. I found out later that the reason for such tight control over us troopers was because it was during those first two weeks that most AWOL’s occurred. Absent Without Leave. A Courts-martial offense.

I had not had a Coke in over two weeks. Probably the longest stretch of time in my life for that to have happened. I would have killed for a Coke. There was a Coke Machine in Day Room of one of the nearby buildings, but it was off-limits to us. I know that some of the guys would sneak out and make a run to the machines after dark, but as Guide, I did not take the chance.

I’ll never forget the day. It was a steaming hot July day. We had just returned from a march from some training exercise. We were standing in formation, five platoons square in the Company area. As Guide, I was in front of my Platoon facing the First SGT. As he spoke, he complimented us (the first time ever) on a good training exercise and said that we were to be rewarded. He announced that the restriction on access to the Coke machine was hereby lifted. There was a cheer from the entire Company. We were all standing at Parade Rest. He called us to Attention. He then called out Dismissed.

In my younger years, I was a pretty fast runner. At this particular point in my life, I was in arguably the best shape of my life and I could run all day. From my position at the head of 5^th Platoon, I had the angle on everyone to the Day Room building where the Coke machine was located. I beat the crowd there by several paces. I was almost crushed by the crowd coming up behind me, everyone yelling to hurry up and get your Coke and get out of the way.

I got myself two bottles of Coke. Freezing cold to the touch. I ran out of the room clutching my two Cokes to my chest, guarding them with my life. I ran over to the only tree in the Company area, found the shady spot and plopped down onto the ground, back against the tree trunk. I sat there for a moment just gazing at the two glistening Cokes, beads of condensation dropping off the bottom of each onto my fatigue pants. I remember thinking you could not see the water drops on my pants because they were sweat soaked.

I finally took my first swig from the one in my right hand. I remember, because not only was I right handed, but the Drill SGT’s said to do everything important with your dominant hand. They were talking about it being used for thrusting a knife, shooting a pistol, chopping with your extended hand and fingers or using your fist to club someone. In this case, it was taking my first taste of Coke in over two weeks. Heavenly. I then alternated back and forth until I emptied the one in my right hand and then sat and gazed at the remaining sip in the bottle in my left hand.

I don’t know how long I sat there looking at the last sip. Probably not long, but I do remember thinking, as I sat there, that these were the best Cokes I had ever had in my life. Nothing since matches that moment, except maybe the Limonade in Haiti after the earthquake.

GEORGE WASHINGTON WAS HERE

In 1993, I represented Transco Power, an international firm building natural gas electric generating facilities. At the time, we were looking for a site in southern Maryland, south of Baltimore. I was accompanied by one of Transco’s engineers, Bruce, who was helping me with identifying possible power plant sites. A criteria for a power plan site was to be close to a natural gas pipeline, so we looked at land bordering a corridor of natural gas pipelines.

We had been driving all over this particular area south of Baltimore looking at real estate. A couple of time we saw signs that indicated the direction to the previous site of the historic Red Horse Tavern. Bruce wondered out loud what its historic significance could be. I didn’t hesitate to tell him that the Red Horse Tavern was where President George Washington would stop on his horseback trips from Washington. D.C. to Annapolis, Maryland, in the 1790’s, where he would drink beer with his buddies. Bruce rolled his eyes at me, indicating he thought I just made that up. He was correct, but I didn’t say so.

It was late afternoon and we had crisscrossed this particular section of Maryland searching for what we thought might be a good candidate for a power plant site. As we drove up a back road to a rise, we pulled off at a natural turnaround to stop and look at our maps. As we parked the car and got out to stretch our legs, we noticed a metal historical marker beside a big oak tree next to the road. We had not noticed it as we pulled in. We walked over to it to read what it had to say.

“You are standing on the site of the historic Red Horse Tavern. During the late 1700’s, the Red Horse Tavern was a way station for horseback and wagon travelers in the region. During the 1790’s, its claim to fame was it being a favorite stop for President George Washington on his trips from the new U.S. Capitol to Baltimore and back. He would stop with his traveling companions and drink the local ale brewed nearby. The structure was destroyed by fire in 1800 and never rebuilt.”

Bruce turned and looked at me with his jaw hanging open. I just smiled back at him, saying nothing. Bruce had new found respect for me as a historian as well as being a good real estate acquisition professional.

(Disclaimer: The above event occurred over twenty-two years ago, and I swear is true. Except…for the life of me I can’t remember the exact name of the Tavern. My best guess is the Red Horse Tavern. I Googled every site I could think of to try and find the historic marker documented. Alas, you will just have to take my word for this.)

My $800.00 Hat

I have a lot of hats. I don’t wear them as much as I used to. Sometimes you need to wear one, for example while hunting. When I was in the Army, you had to wear a hat, or cover as it was referred to, whenever in uniform and outside. Over the years I have bought many and many were given to me.

My oldest hat, and one of my sentimental favorites is “Mr. Cherry’s Hat.” When I was four or five years old, one of dad’s best friends was an older gentleman named Mr. Cherry. He was a Texas transplant. He always wore a for real Texas Ten Gallon Cowboy hat. I remember dad taking me to visit Mr. Cherry. He would always sit me on his knee, place his hat on my head and bounce me like I was riding a horse. I loved Mr. Cherry and I think he loved me. He had no children. I think he thought of dad as the son he never had, and ergo, I was his stand-in grandson. I remember he lived on Powder Springs Street near Ward Park in Smyrna. Mr. Cherry passing away is my very first memory of losing a loved one. I cried. Are you ready for this? Mr. Cherry left me his hat. I have worn it off and on for the last sixty-five years. Originally I had to insert cardboard around the inside sweat band so it would stay on my head. I grew into it. At some point, I reshaped it from the Ten Gallon shape to the Roy Rogers type with a flat top and peaked front. It is hung in my office and I see it almost every day.

Another favorite is my dad’s American Legion hat. We spent a lot of time at the Smyrna American Legion when I was growing up. The vets there wore their hats for meetings and special occasions. When I got out of the Army in 1971, dad took me to the Legion and bought me a beer and had me join. I am now an over fifty-year continuous member. When dad died, I claimed his hat. It is packed away somewhere from our last move.

These two hats did not cost me anything, and as far as value, they are priceless. But my current favorite hat is also my most expensive. It cost $800.00, therefore I call it my $800.00 Hat.

OK, I did not pay $800.00 for it. In fact, I didn’t pay anything for it. It was a gift. Here is the story.

Michelle and I were invited by old friends to spend New Years Eve 2009 with them at their mountaintop home in Blairsville, Georgia. They also invited another good buddy couple. It was suggested that we bring our hunting gear and we would deer hunt over the several days there.

As we were getting ready to go out on our first hunt late afternoon on New Years Eve, my host tossed me an orange hunting cap and said to give this one a try. Since it matched my lovely orange vest, I said sure. I wore the hat over the next few days as we hunted a few times. When the visit was over, I told him I had left the hat on the bed and thanked him for letting me wear it. He said, no, it is now mine. I thanked him and took the hat.

Not long after, I asked him about the hat, since it had a patch on the front advertising Wynfield Plantation. I asked if that’s where he got it. He said not exactly. He said it was given to him by his son. This is where the story gets interesting. It seems that his son and five other buddies, one the groom and the rest of them groomsmen, held their bachelor party at Wynfield Plantation in Albany, Georgia, shooting quail. Wynfield Plantation is a 2,000 acre hunting club in south Georgia. It is a little pricy to hunt, today costing around $350.00 to $450.00 per person, plus the cost of accommodations. There are other costs that are add-ons, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

The son and his buddies were having a great time shooting quail. They were dropping them left and right. The six of them shot hundreds of quail. When it came time to check out of Wynfield Plantation, they were in for a surprise. It turns out that the original hunting fee included up to 20 or so quail each. Any extra quail over that number, were at an additional cost of about $9.00 per bird. The fine print also pointed out that there was a $.95 cost for cleaning each bird, with additional costs for coolers, etc. It turned out that the additional cost was $800.00 over and above what they had already paid. Needless to say, they were not expecting this additional cost. The son called his dad, who came up with the $800.00. When he got home, he presented dad with the hat. You probably remember the old saying on T-Shirts that said, “They went to Disney World and all they brought me was this crummy T-shirt.” In this case, he got this beautiful orange hat.

So, I am now the proud owner of an $800.00 hat. Sorry, it is not for sale. It is worth far more to me than that. Being able to wear the hat, share the fact that it is my $800.00 hat, get to tell the story over and over, and now write this story is priceless.

100 KILOMETERS OF BAD ROAD

At the end of September 2004, while making plans for my second mission trip to Haiti at the end of October, Haiti was hit by Hurricane Jean. Portions of the northern tip of the island nation were devastated. The City of Gonaives was reported to have had much of it washed away by a fast rising floodwall of water eight to ten feet high.

Because of the extensive deforestation throughout Haiti, the mountains and hills can’t slow the run-off from heavy rains, so flash floods are often the result, particularly when a hurricane is involved. Thousands were reported dead and missing in Gonaives, washed away by floodwaters. Many of the dead were thought to be buried under a cover of mud many feet deep across much of the area. Communications from the hardest hit areas were sketchy at best. A Christian mission on higher ground on the outskirts of Gonaives, Mission Eglise Evangelique Eben-Ezer (Ebenezer for you Biblical scholars), was able to get word out that survivors needed food, water and medical care.

The phone call came to me from my Haiti partner, Crawford Hitt (who I affectionately refer to as Crawdad – and who the Haitians call Gran Blanc, or Big White, because of his large size and the fact he is white). Crawdad told me that he was putting together an Emergency Relief Team through his then parent ministry, New Directions, International. I asked how many were going to be on the team. He said I would make it two, just he and I, if I agreed to go. He said he needed me to have his back. We would be traveling fast with support from a team of locals in Port au Prince. I said yes, of course.

Fortunately, all my shots were up to date and I had already started my malaria pills. I did go get a cholera shot just in case. On October 1, 2004, we were able to catch an early morning flight to Miami with a connection to Port au Prince. We were picked up at the airport by our driver, Paul Fortune, a short Haitian man with a bodybuilder physique. Paul doubled as our driver and protection.

We were also joined by two of our “NDI Boys,” Kalipso and Achka, who had been adopted, in a manner of speaking, and their interpreter skills were vital to a couple of blancs traveling in Haiti. Pastor Clerzius was with Paul and would accompany us to Gonaives to deliver relief supplies, mainly food, to Mission Eben-Ezer and the people being sheltered there.

We spent a couple of hours making various stops at food warehouses in Port au Prince and were able to purchase supplies, mostly bags of rice and beans, and load them in the back of NDI’s deuce and a half truck. Crawdad and I, along with Kalipso, Achka and Pastor Clerzius, climbed into the rear of the truck, basically standing on top of the food supplies we were transporting to Gonaives, and off we went.

We had been warned that there were stretches of the road to Gonaives that were reported to be under the threat of bandits who hijacked trucks and supplies on their way to the ravaged area. We were doing God’s work and decided we would leave the protection to Him. Nobody was riding shotgun on our stagecoach into the badlands.

The only route to Gonaives was called the Cote Des Arcadins, a coastal road officially called National Highway 1. It ran north out of Port au Prince winding 100 kilometers along the coast through the village of Saint-Marc and on to Gonaives. National Highway 1 was a two lane “paved” road which had seen little to no sustained maintenance for many years, probably dating back to the end of the Papa Doc (Dictator ’57-’71) and Baby Doc (Dictator ’71-’86) Duvalier years. The potholes were deep and frequent, and in some cases the pavement was washed away completely.

The trip, which would have taken a couple of hours at most here, took us a brutal eight hours. The shocks on Paul’s truck were non-existent from having driven the Haitian roads constantly. I have had back problems since the Army, and I must tell you that the constant jarring and bouncing took its toll on my back and legs. You had to hold onto the sides of the truck with both hands and flex your knees, or else you would have been thrown down.

As darkness neared, we approached the last leg of the trip. We discovered that several kilometers of road were still under a few feet of flood water nearing the outskirts of Gonaives. Thankfully, the bottom of the truck engine was about three feet above ground level, so with luck we should be able to ford the waters.

The biggest problem was that you could not see the road – more specifically, the edge of the road. Posts with reflectors had recently been placed marking the road edge, but some vehicles still fell off.

There were vehicles laying on their sides on both sides of the road where drivers had inadvertently ventured off the roadway into the ditch, and over they went. The overturned trucks had been emptied of their goods. These vehicles would likely never run again and would be scavenged for parts and probably remain as rusting hulks to mark the flood.

About half way across, almost pitch dark, with water in front and back of us as far as we could see, the truck engine started coughing and sputtering and almost died several times. Paul masterfully throttled the engine and kept it alive. It still sputtered and bellowed white smoke, but it kept running. If we had been stranded there, the bandits would have surely targeted us.

That crossing took a while as we inched our way down the flooded highway.

By the time we finally reached a high point in the road and left the water, it was late.

Mission Eben-Ezer had been expecting us all day. When we pulled into the fenced ministry compound, there were few lights besides our headlights, other than some flashlights held by those greeting us. Electricity was scarce and only provided by gasoline powered generators. As we pulled to a stop, we were surrounded by a crowd of happy Haitians, many of whom were children.

They were waving, cheering and welcoming us. Pretty cool. Everyone immediately joined in to unload the food supplies into a makeshift food warehouse.

We were then escorted to their worship center, where some of the denizens of Mission Eben-Ezer awaited us. By the illumination of a couple of light bulbs they welcomed and serenaded us, singing in French Creole. It was magical.

We were exhausted and hungry, and they took us into a dining room where we were fed. The room was dark, except for a couple of candles on the walls, but the food was delicious. It was rice and peas with some sort of meat. Kalipso pulled out a lighter to see what we were eating and discovered it was Vienna Sausage cut up into small pieces.

Before you turn your nose up, remember that they had little to nothing to eat, and as custom dictates in Haiti, the guests get the best you have. It doesn’t get any better than the best someone has.

That night Crawdad and I were put up in a little cinderblock building behind the mission. It was close to a hundred degrees inside the building, with only a small window slit at the top of the wall for ventilation. The sweat poured off of us, soaking the sheets covering the beds. We would have gone outside onto the porch to sleep, braving the mosquitos, but that is where Kalipso, Achka and Pastor Clerzius were sleeping. Paul slept in the cab of his truck. There was a young goat that cried all night long somewhere nearby. Crawdad and I tried to pay the other to slip out and kill the goat, to no avail. Not much sleep that night.

The next day was an experience I’ll never forget. We were partnering with the International Red Cross, C.A.R.E., and U.N. Peacekeeping troops from Argentina for security, for one of the first organized food and water distributions to the citizens of Gonaives.

Two thousand people were expected. Ten thousand showed up. That is for another story.

After the food distribution we took a tour through the devastated remains of Gonaives.

We then started the trip back to Port au Prince only 15 hours after we had arrived.

We had the 100 kilometers of bad road to look forward to. The road leaving Gonaives was still flooded.

Seeing it in daylight, I could hardly believe we had made it across in the dark.

It was treacherous, especially trying to pass by vehicles coming in the opposite direction.

The trip coming had been bad, but the trip back was worse.

We had no cushion of food to stand on, instead standing on the steel plate of the truck bed.

It beat us to death.

After a rain shower that soaked us, we arrived in Port au Prince after dark and checked into a local guesthouse compound where missionaries stayed while on mission trips in Port au Prince. Crawdad and I put on shorts and headed to the swimming pool where we allowed our bodies to relax and be comforted by the cool water. We became instant mini-celebrities once the missionaries realized we had just come from Gonaives. They all wanted to hear about what we had seen. It was worse than they had heard. When I climbed out of the pool, my legs no longer worked. A nice young man helped me walk back to the sleeping room, which I shared with a half dozen other missionaries. I slept like a baby. One side note – this guesthouse was completely destroyed in the 2010 earthquake, killing many missionaries staying there.

That night I had dreams of 100 kilometers of bad road. I still have those dreams.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL…SORTA

The Christmas season always brings back memories from Christmas past for me. Memories unbidden will flow into my mind, and sometime bring a tear of joy for loved ones no longer with us. Sometimes it will be a memory of a specific event or person, but is almost always a memory that brings a smile to my face.

I never know what triggers a specific memory. It can be a comment, a sign, a commercial on TV or maybe just out of the blue. This is an out of the blue story.

I can’t remember the exact year of this particular Christmas, but it was probably in the 70’s. I tend to remember time frames from the past by the automobile I drove at the time, but as I get older and the number of automobiles I have owned increases, the dates tend to get a little jumbled. I know it had to be in the 70’s, though, because at this particular time, I was driving a Fiat Spyder convertible. Great little car. Michelle and I owned several of them over the years.

This particular day, a few days before Christmas, was cold and blustery, threatening snow, or more likely sleet and ice. I had driven to Atlanta Airport to pick up my brother-in-law, Michelle’s kid brother Sammy. He was going to spend Christmas with us. We were headed back from the airport on I-285 when my engine light indicator showed overheating. That was one of the idiosyncrasies of the Fiat Spyder. I exited at Cascade Road on the west side of Atlanta and pulled into the only gas station at that exit. I was hopeful that I just needed some anti-freeze coolant. I pulled into the station and the attendant had me pull into an open bay for the engine to cool down so they could check the fluid levels.

For those of you who are familiar with Atlanta, you know that Cascade was then, and is still today, an area that had gone through a transition from one of the nicest areas of Atlanta to live in, to a poorer area where crime was more of a concern. I was not concerned from that standpoint, because there were a lot of people at the station. But Sammy and I were the only white faces there. Here again, not a problem, for everyone was very nice, especially the attendant who was looking at my car.

As Sammy and I waited for the Fiat to cool down, we alternated between waiting in the hot crowded office and stepping outside to walk around and cool off. I couldn’t help but overhear a gentleman talking to the attendant about his car trouble. He had a big old Cadillac up on the lift. I say old, but it could have been a newer model. It was dirty from the road, so it was hard to tell the model and year. I was not trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but pick up bits and snatches of his conversation with the mechanic. It was obvious that there was a problem with his Cadillac that would not be an easy fix, as opposed to what I expected for my Fiat.

As Sammy and I waited, we talked about how difficult it was to have car trouble a few days before Christmas, or any time for that matter, but especially so on a cold day just before Christmas. You can never tell about someone’s financial situation from just looking at them, but Sammy and I both surmised that the Cadillac owner was short on funds. This was based on just pieces of his conversation we overheard.

I don’t know, maybe it was just the Christmas spirit that hit me, but I decided to do something. I didn’t have much cash, but I pulled a twenty dollar bill from my pocket and walked over to the man and said, “It’s not much, but Merry Christmas” as I held out the twenty. He smiled a big one at me, took my twenty, said thanks, and stuck it in his pocket. I walked back over to Sammy and we both stood there for a minute feeling all warm and toasty inside, no matter the cold outside. It didn’t last long.

A minute later, a big black limo pulls into the station, and a group of dressed to the nines men and women piled out of the limo and warmly greeted the Cadillac Man (as I would always remember him). They had a bottle of champagne and glasses, handed him one, and they all climbed back into the limo. As he stepped into the limo, Cadillac Man turned and winked at me. As they drove off, although my warm and toasty feeling inside was cooling off pretty quickly, Sammy and I turned and looked at each other, and then burst into laughter. We been had. But you know, I still remember how good it made me feel to give that twenty to a guy I thought needed it. I don’t regret it at all. I would do it again. Besides, it gave me this story to share some forty years later.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

WAGONS HO

My grandfather, Benjamin Franklin Reed, Sr. (June 17, 1873 – December 8, 1962), known as Frank to his friends, Big Papa to his kids and grandkids, and Mr. Reed to everyone else, was quite a man. The stories that have been passed down about him were interesting, to say the least.

He was the first licensed real estate broker in Cobb County, Georgia, operating B.F Reed Real Estate and Land, for many years, with my dad, Bill, carrying on the business as Reed Realty in 1949. I joined as a partner after getting out of the Army in 1971.

Dad told me one of the earliest memories he had of his father was going with him in the 1920’s, riding in the back of a mule drawn wagon to auction real estate. Big Papa would stand in the back of his wagon and carry on an auction. He basically dealt in farmland. Over the years, Big Papa became a wealthy man, at least from the standpoint of owning land. He was land rich, but never had a great deal of cash on hand because he would buy another farm whenever he was flush with cash. He had tenant farmers who paid him rent. Unfortunately, during the depression of the 1930’s, he lost most of his land for delinquent taxes because his tenants couldn’t pay their rent, instead giving him food and crops. He couldn’t pay taxes with a smoked ham. Dad said they always had plenty of food at the Reed home to feed the 10 kids, dad being the baby, born in 1921.

The story goes that Frank, as a young man, headed west to Texas in the early 1890’s. It is not entirely clear what he did there, although one of the tales was that he used to hunt jackrabbits from horseback using a long stick as a club. Sorta like polo, I guess. Anyway, he came back to Smyrna, Georgia where he was born and raised, and in the mid 1890’s or so, he became a traveling salesman for a cast iron stove manufacturer, the name of which I do not know. The Atlanta Stove Works was in business during this time frame, so maybe it was them.

His territory was Georgia and South Carolina. That much we know for sure. He had this big cast iron stove on the back of a mule drawn wagon which he drove through his territory in a big circular route from Georgia over to South Carolina and back. He would make the circuit once, maybe twice a year. It pretty much took a number of months on the road to cover the territory. Too bad there are no photos of Frank on his wagon.

He lived in the wagon while on the road. He would pull up to a farmstead and park his wagon and proceed to demonstrate his stove by cooking meals for the farmers, their families and their workers. He sold a lot of cast iron stoves. He never stayed at one place too long, unless he found a friendly farmer surrounded by farmer neighbors in the area, and then he would set up shop and have the neighbors come visit and witness his fine culinary skills on the big iron stove. Most everybody had to have one. He would take their order, take a cash deposit, send the order in to the manufacturer and the stove would be delivered by freight sometime later.

Frank was a big man, a couple of inches over six foot. He was a handsome devil, I am told, and the earliest picture of him from 1900 confirms it. I imagine he was a ladies man. Maybe some of the old traveling salesman jokes originated with him. I don’t know, but I like to imagine what his life was like on the road.

On one of his circuits in 1899, he set up shop at the Christopher Columbus Webber (October 5, 1852 – October 15, 1905) farm in Blacksburg, South Carolina. Christopher and his wife, Salina Alice Bird Webber (August 15, 1860 – September 12, 1910), had twelve children – eight daughters and four sons. Palm Etta Webber (July 7, 1880 – July 23, 1949) was the oldest daughter, and at age nineteen was six foot tall and could look Frank Reed straight in the eyes. We don’t know any of the details except that Frank sold the Webber farm a stove and left after having sold a number of stoves to the other farmers in the area.

A year later, he came back through on his circuit and stayed at the Webber farm again. When he left, this time he took a wife with him. He and Palm were married on November 14, 1900. She became Big Mama to his Big Papa as they had ten kids over the next twenty years. After Frank returned to Smyrna with his new wife, they decided he would give up the stove business and that’s when he opened Reed Realty.

He built Big Mama a big home in the middle of Smyrna right on the railroad tracks. It was reported to be the first home in Smyrna with an indoor toilet. That stately old home is still standing today and looks much the same as it has for the past 125 years. If you go to downtown Smyrna today, you can see it directly across the tracks from the new City of Smyrna government center. A two-story gingerbread house, some call it. I don’t know if that is an accurate description of its type of design, but it is a very attractive older home. I mentioned that the ten Reed kids were born there. It was my home, too, when I was born in 1946. I was born in Crawford Long Hospital in downtown Atlanta, but at one day old, I moved in with Big Papa, Big Mama, mom and dad.

The funny thing was that although Big Papa rode horseback and drove a wagon around, he never owned an automobile, saying he didn’t trust them. His kids all had cars, of course, and I remember we drove Big Papa from place to place. In his latter years, after Big Mama passed away, and he had lost most of his land and was no longer active in the real estate business, you could see him walking up and down main-street Atlanta Road. He always wore a black suit with a white stiff collar shirt and tie. He carried a cane. My Big Papa, the mule wagon traveling stove salesman.

 

FIVE FINGERS

I remember something my dad told me many years ago when I was just a youngster. I think it had something to do with me saying how many friends I had. I like to think I’m a friendly guy, and the truth is that I like people in general. I’m what you would call a people person. But don’t cross me…hah.

Dad was not rebuking me with what he told me. He was trying to share a life lesson. What he more or less said to me was, “When you die, if you can count off a full five fingers on your hand representing your true friends, you are a lucky man.” I remember at the time taking exception with him. He didn’t try to argue with me. He just looked at me with eyes that said, “You’ll see.”

With the benefit of sixty-nine years of life, and hopefully a little more wisdom than I had as a kid, I see more clearly what dad was trying to share with me. Don’t get me wrong, I still feel abundantly blessed from the standpoint of friends. I know a lot of people. I am on friendly terms with most of them. But, of course, there are some where that is not so much the case. Hey, that is life.

I guess if you live long enough, there will be opportunities for friends to disappoint you, and vice versa. Hopefully you will have the opportunity to overcome a disappointment by working things out with the offending or offended party. I’ve been able to do that a time or three. There are other situations where there will be no desire to work things out. That can particularly be the case when there is malice or ill will involved. Unfortunately, I have experienced that, as well. I have felt a great sense of betrayal and loss in a few situations. Not just the loss of a friend, but the loss of trust in someone you thought was a better friend than they were. They probably were never really your friend at all. I think that was part of what dad was trying to tell me.

This past year was unusual in some ways. Not only did I develop new relationships that evolved fairly rapidly into real friendships, I also had the opportunity to see some long-term casual relationships develop into a deeper level of friendship. Talk about a win-win. At the same time, the worst part of this past year was that in one instance, a long-term friendship was irretrievably broken. In addition, some casual friendships turned out not to be friendships at all. In fact, they were enemies – sheep in wolves clothing. Shame on them. The good news is that some relationships that were damaged were able to be healed. I’m thankful for that. One note here that may serve you well, and that is – never underestimate the power of an apology.

I don’t mean for this tale to be negative, only to put into perspective the nature of friendships and how there can be an ebb and flow and sometimes loss. I grieve the losses.

I had a recent conversation with one of my “hand friends,” which is what prompted me to write this story. We talked about a couple of his losses of life long friends. Heartbreaking, when it happens. The really sad part is that the breaking of these friendships was based on a lie by someone else. I know it was a lie because I was in a position to know. My “hand friend” did not know that I had attempted to intervene on his behalf with his friends to let them know it was a lie that precipitated the break-up. The really sad part is that they chose not to believe me, and held onto the lie as their reason for breaking the friendship. Tragic.

One recommendation to all of us – when you hear something really bad about someone, friend or not, consider the source or the motivation. Some people want to hurt others, for whatever their reason. Maybe the person spreading the lie had been hurt. That does not condone a lie, especially when its purpose is to hurt someone.

I am still blessed beyond the “one hand/five finger” rule that dad said means you are a lucky man. On the other hand (excuse the attempt at humor), I am an extremely lucky man.