HORSEBACK

I think my earliest exposure to being on horseback came one summer in 1952 when I was five years old. We were visiting my grandparents, mom’s parents, Ma and Pa Pep (Pepper), in Bloomfield, Missouri. Bloomfield has the distinction of being where my mother grew up…oh yeah, it was also the birthplace of the Stars and Stripes Newspaper, a publication every veteran since the Civil War will remember.

My sister, Cynthia and my cousin J.L. (Jay) Pepper, were taken to ride a pony. We had our picture taken wearing Indian headdresses, in honor of our Shawnee Indian heritage. Our great great grandfather on my mother’s side was Hand Tucker, a full blooded Shawnee Indian medicine man. You may have read my story about Hand saving the life of Jessie James back in the day.

I learned how to ride a real horse when I was ten years old at summer camp at High Valley Ranch in north Georgia. We actually learned how to put the saddle on and everything. Of course the instructors would always double check our saddles, since it was not uncommon for a kid to find himself on the ground looking up at the belly of the horse which happened to have a saddle on facing the ground.

My most vivid memories of High Valley Ranch Summer Camp (two summers in a row) were the horseback camping trips we would take. I’ll never forget the last trip when we were riding our horses up a mountain trail single-file, when the horse in front of me disturbed a yellow jacket nest in the ground. My horse and I were swarmed by the little devils. I was stung a few times, but the horse was stung numerous times. My horse did not take kindly to the stings, and took off at a full gallop off the trail sideways across the mountain, through trees and foliage, me holding on for dear life. Fortunately I was able to stay on and only suffered minor cuts and scrapes on my face and arms from the branches.

That night we slept in an old abandoned farmhouse on top of the mountain. The window frames had no glass, and there was no furniture except all our sleeping bags spread around the floor of the big room. I was next to a window looking out to where the horses were tied up for the night.

About dawn I was awakened by the horses making what I thought were nervous noises and stamping their hooves. In the early dawn misty light I could have sworn there was a bear wandering around near the horses. I woke the counselor, who told me there was no bear, and told to go back to sleep. Sure.

My next adventure in equestrian endeavors came in 1964. I was a Senior at Campbell High School in Smyrna. I was dating a young lady named Ellen who went to Westminster High School in Atlanta. Her family lived on a horse farm on Hurt Road west of Smyrna near the Covered Bridge, which still stands today. I drive through it every chance I get.

Ellen was a horse girl. She had her own favorite filly and another gelding. She had invited me out to her place to ride horses. She asked me if I knew how to ride, and of course I told her I had been riding since I was a child. True, but naturally I wanted to impress her, so I did not tell her that I was really a novice. I showed up and impressed her with my ability to saddle a horse. I even remembered to put the saddle blanket on first. She was particularly impressed by how I knew to cinch the saddle good and tight (having looked up at a horse’s belly once before).

We both climbed on our horses, and here again I impressed her by knowing which side and what foot to use. As we sat there on our mighty steeds, her mother snapped a photo of us right before Ellen wheeled her horse around and galloped off at full speed across the pasture. Let me be candid here…other than hanging onto the back of a yellow jacket stung horse galloping through a wooded forest, I had never ridden a horse at full gallop. It is a far cry from the pony ride, I can tell you. I turned my horse and off we went chasing Ellen. I can honestly say that I did not bring my horse to full gallop on my own. The horse was just doing what the other horse was doing. I hung on for dear life.

Ellen looked back over her shoulder to see me in fast pursuit and let out a yell. I yelled, too, but for a different reason…terror. In the middle of this big open pasture was one area of low growing thistle grass about belly high to the horse. Ellen had skirted the thistle and came to a stop to wait for me, but my horse cut straight across it toward Ellen on the other side. The thistle probably did not feel too good to my horse and the gallop was off a bit, but still at full speed. As we cleared the thistle, my horse came to an abrupt stop right beside Ellen and her horse.

I would like to be able to tell you that I calmly said something witty and debonair, like, “Exhilarating ride, my dear.” That is not what happened. When my horse came to a screeching halt, I did not. Still holding the reins in both hands, I was projected out of the saddle into the air above the horse’s head, legs stretched out fully. I relive that moment, as I have other life threatening instances, in slow motion. Over I went, reins pulled tight, and stuck a 10-point landing on my two feet directly facing the horse. The impact of landing on my feet could have broken bones, but fortunately I was able to bend my knees slightly as I hit terra firma. If I had been an Olympic gymnast, it would have won me the Gold Medal. I calmly looked up at Ellen, sitting there with a look of horror on her face, fully expecting me to have been injured.

I said, “I always dismount that way. Want to see it again?” She almost fell off her horse laughing. I declined to get back on the horse, instead walking him back to the barn by the reins, with Ellen riding her horse beside me.

I have not been on a horse since.

BILL AND JENNIE REED – THE CLIFF NOTES VERSION

 

Bill was the youngest of 10 children of Benjamin Franklin Reed and Palm Weber Reed.

He was born in the Reed home located on the East side of the railroad tracks directly across from what is now City Hall in the new downtown Smyrna, Georgia. The two story home is on the corner of the street that used to cross the tracks there, but was closed many years ago.

Bill graduated from Smyrna High School in 1940. Smyrna High School became Smyrna Elementary in 1952 with the opening of Campbell High School.

With the outbreak of WWII, he, like most young men joined the armed services. He wanted to be a pilot so he joined the Army Air Corp. He reported to the induction center in Atlanta and was put on a bus to Ft. Belvoir, VA and found himself in a combat engineer unit. Try as he may, he could not convince them that a mistake had been made and that he was supposed to be a flight cadet. He said the winter of 1942-43 was particularly harsh and he spent it building bridges over frozen rivers in Virginia, breaking the ice, building the bridge, tearing it down and starting all over again, dozens of times. He was promoted to Corporal and had decided that he was going to spend the war getting shot at as he built bridges somewhere in Europe or the Pacific.

In early 1943 his orders finally caught up with him and he was told to report to Washington, DC for further orders. He said the two weeks in the Capitol were wonderful compared to the months of building bridges. By the time he left D.C, he said he knew the name of every bar tender in the District and they knew his. He caught a train to Missouri to start his Air Cadet Training and learn how to fly.

While there, at a U.S.O. dance, he met a pretty little gal from Bloomfield, Missouri named Virginia Lee Pepper, Jennie to her friends. She would ultimately become his wife after the war.

Upon graduation from Air Cadet training and getting his commission as a 2LT officer and a gentleman, he was assigned to B-17 Bomber training at Malden Army Air Field in Missouri, and then for his B-17 combat air training was sent to Alexandria, Louisiana spending time in Arkansas, Utah and a few other places perfecting his flying skills, training with the crew he would go into combat with. After receiving his orders to fly his B-17 to England, he was engaged to Miss Virginia Lee Pepper.

He arrived in England in May of 1944 as a member of the 8^th Air Force. He and his crew were assigned to the 544^th Bombardment Squadron (Heavy), 384^th Bomb Group, Station 106, at Grafton Underwood in Northamptonshire, England, north of London. “Heavy” means heavy bombers, in case you were wondering. As he had promised his fiancée, he named his B-17 after her – Miss Jennie.

Over the summer and fall of 1944 he and his crew flew 35 combat missions over Europe, primarily Germany. There are many stories he shared about his combat tour, too many to share here. He did receive the Distinguished Flying Cross for a 12 hour mission over Germany, during which his co-pilot had a nervous break-down upon take-off, and he had to fly the entire mission by himself. They had to carry him off the aircraft when they returned, but he got the Miss Jennie and his crew back safely.

One other mission he took a piece of flack shrapnel in the butt, not serious enough to stop him from flying the mission, although he sat in a pool of his own blood. He refused to take a Purple Heart for “getting shot in the ass” as he put it. He received numerous awards, battle stars and citations.

He and his crew stood down from a mission one time to allow his best friend and his crew to take the Miss Jennie on a “Milk Run” (a so called easy mission) because their B-17 had been shot up and under repair. It was to be the final mission of that crew, and besides, the pilot friend had just been notified that his wife had given birth to his first child, a son. Over Germany, the Miss Jennie took a direct hit in the bomb bay from a flack burst and disappeared in an explosion of fire and smoke. He decided not to rename his next B-17 the Miss Jennie II, thinking it might be unlucky. He lost his second B-17 on D-Day, June 6, 1944, crash landing it in England with a full load of bombs, where he and his entire crew escaped before it exploded. His third B-17 was the charm that saw them through their combat tour.

Upon the completion of his combat tour in B-17 Bombers, he was assigned as test pilot at the Fourth Strategic Air Depot, Maintenance Division, AAF Station 470 – known to all as The Depot. The Depot was where shot-up fighters were put back together and sent back into combat. Before they were released back to combat, 1LT Reed would take them up…mostly P-51 Mustangs, although he also flew P-47’s and P-38’s…shake them out and put them through their paces to make sure they would hold together in combat.

He said half jokingly that he came closer to being killed as a test pilot than he did as a B-17 pilot, belly landing a few. He was told he should have bailed out each time that happened, but he said, “Why would anyone jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” He walked away from each one.

He would periodically catch a shuttle flight over to the continent to pick up a shot-up fighter which had been made flyable to get back to England. On one such trip, 16 December 1944, he was at a little pasture airstrip in Belgium waiting for the sun to come up so he and three other pilots could ferry four P-51’s back to England to The Depot to be rebuilt. As he told it, he was napping on a cot in a barn beside the airstrip, when he was awakened by explosions and machinegun fire. He ran out to see German fighters strafing and bombing the airfield. He ran to the closest P-51, got her started and taxied out and took off with German fighters on his tail. He made it, but the other three pilots did not. Their P-51’s were destroyed, and those pilots, if they survived that attack, were handed a rifle and they became infantrymen in what was to be known as The Battle of the Bulge.

There were stories of surviving V-2 rockets hitting London by seeking refuge in the subway system known as the Tube, and another time asleep in his hotel room in London, waking up in the middle of the street still in his bed, covered with debris and glass, after a V-2 blew up his hotel. He said that was why he slept under a heavy comforter the rest of his life. That comforter in London saved him, he said.

In February of 1945 he finally got his orders for return to the States. Instead of flying back in his B-17, as he did going over in 1944, this time he took a boat back. He said it was an interesting trip, submarine drills and all, but he said he spent most of his time in the 24 hour craps game in the officers’ quarters. He said when he arrived in New York, all he had was his uniform and his .45 pistol.

He got to Bloomfield, Missouri as soon as he could and on February 16, 1945, he married Miss Jennie. They were stationed in Miami, where he was flying B-17’s, until he got his discharge in the summer of 1945.

They moved to Smyrna and into the Reed home with his parents, where he was born, and where they lived until after their first child, William Marcus “Mark” Reed II was born in 1946. Daughter Cynthia followed in 1948 and son Bruce in 1954.

He founded Reed Realty in 1949 and for the rest of his life he worked and played in and around Smyrna, Georgia, joining Smyrna American Legion Post 160 along with all his buddies who had survived the war. Bill Reed was a part of that Greatest Generation that saved the world for all us who followed.

MOLON LABE

“MOLON LABE!” This is the defiant response, according to Herodotus, attributed to King Leonidas I, King of Sparta in 480 B.C., to Xerxes I of Persia. It was reported to have been said by Leonidas to Xerxes at the onset of the Battle of Thermopylae, when it was demanded by Xerxes that the three hundred Spartan warriors lay down their weapons and surrender. The literal translation from the Greek is, “Come and take them.”

Most of us from the older generations are familiar with the story from our study of ancient world history as school children, and of course the most recent retelling of this story was in the cinematic movie “300,” which reminded the world of the brave heroic stand by outnumbered and doomed men.

There is something about the concept that appeals to us all, especially when it is in the context of standing up to evil or wrong. Many of us young boys grew up with visions of taking the same stand if need be. Some of us did, in different ways, be it in battle, or standing up to a bully in the schoolyard.

We are all familiar with the outcome of the Battle of Thermopylae. The Spartans were defeated and all three hundred warriors died in their valiant fight. While it was a tactical defeat, it was a strategic and moral victory, according to the history books. Leonidas and his men inflicted great losses upon the Persian army. The battle delayed the Persian advance to Athens long enough to allow the Spartans time to evacuate the City of Athens. The Greeks were inspired by the heroic stand at Thermopylae to crush and defeat the Persians at the Battle of Salamis later that year and again at the Battle of Plataea a year later.

“MOLON LABE!” These could have been the words uttered at the Alamo by COL William B. Travis to General Santa Anna in February of 1836.

Instead, the some two hundred sixty “Texians” refused to surrender and held out for thirteen days against Santa Anna’s overwhelming army of two thousand soldiers, finally being overwhelmed on March 6, 1836.

It was a heroic struggle against impossible odds, where men made the ultimate sacrifice for freedom. This tactical defeat at the Alamo turned into the same strategic victory as at Thermopylae, and the defeat was the inspiration for the cry, “Remember the Alamo” which ultimately led to the final defeat of the Mexican Army on April 21, 1836 at the Battle of San Jacinto (the historic battle site and monument is located just east of present day downtown Houston, Texas, which I visited last fall).

“MOLON LABE!” These could have been the words of U.S. Army Brigadier General Anthony C. McAuliffe, acting Division Commander of the 101^st Airborne troops defending Bastogne, Belgium at the Battle of the Bulge during WWII on December 22, 1944.

The German commander gave the Americans the ultimatum of laying down their weapons and surrendering, or face annihilation. We are all aware of General McAuliffe’s reply – “Nuts!” When the German commander wanted to know what this meant, he was told it meant, “Hell no!” He could have easily said, “Molon Labe!” Of course, we won that battle.

There are numerous examples of similar such stands and expressions of defiance. Today in America, while not a battle in a war, per se, there is something similar going on in regard the defense of the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which says, “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

There are those who say this needs to be changed, that there are too many guns, and that too many guns have caused too much death in our country. There are basically two sides of this issue, which I will characterize as the “Left” who are for gun control, and the “Right” that take the opposite position. In case you have not figured out where I stand on the issue to this point, let me make it abundantly clear that as a God fearing Christian, conservative voter and patriot veteran of the U.S. Army and American citizen who loves my country, I am a strong supporter of the Second Amendment.

There are many issues to argue in this regard, but I think the best counter to those who want to take away or limit our access to weapons, is the simple admonition that, “A good guy with a gun is the best way to stop a bad guy with a gun.” There are far too many examples here and elsewhere in the world, where this simple fact could have saved countless lives, and I feel no need to illustrate them here, for we all know what I am talking about.

I do not plan to tackle here a further component intended by the original framers of the Second Amendment, that another reason for being well armed was to counter any possible despotic move by our own government to take our freedom and subjugate us through disarming us. While I am not saying that is the intention of any in power, or who want to be in power, I think that the Second Amendment keeps them honest.

Fellow Americans, the Second Amendment was NEVER about hunting and target practice. Remember, for just a moment, what the Japanese General said about an invasion of the United States being impossible, after bombing us at Pearl Harbor. He basically said that because there was an American with a gun behind every blade of grass, any invasion would be defeated. That was in 1941, folks. There are more weapons now. Thank God.

One final illustration:

“MOLON LABE!” These could have been the words of my son, Lew Reed, two years ago when after midnight he was walking home to his apartment in the Little Five Points area of Atlanta from the Kroger just up the street. As he neared home, two armed criminal thugs jumped out at him with knives brandished and attempted to rob him, demanding, “Your wallet or your life!” Instead, because Lew was armed with a personal sidearm that my other son, Bill, and I had given him for Christmas just weeks before, he was able to defend himself. In an instant, athlete that Lew is, adrenalin flowing, he was able to react immediately by leaping backwards and away from his attackers, at the same time drawing his weapon from his hip pocket, and pointing it directly at them, saying, “My wallet, or your lives!” They immediately crapped themselves and turned and ran away. Lew did not shoot them, and I am glad he did not, although to be honest, I would have shot them both.

After talking to Lew about the incident, we agreed that it was highly likely that he would have been not only robbed, but also probably stabbed and maybe killed, because his wallet was empty of money and he had no valuables on him. I imagine they would have left him bleeding to die on that street. Instead, my son is alive today because he was armed and was trained to defend himself.

My family, including Michelle, Bill, Lew and myself, are all legally licensed by the State of Georgia to CC (conceal carry) our weapons, and we do, wherever it is legal, which I believe should be everywhere.

So do not talk to me about gun control or playing around with our Second Amendment. I am sure you are familiar with the phrase, “I’ll give you my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

TOPPING TREES

I just wrote a Blog story called Climb The Ladder, a stolen album and song title from Jamaican Reggae artist Bob Marley & The Wailers.

That story, having nothing to do with the song title except that it referenced climbing a ladder, was about my adventure in lopping limbs off of a tree from the top of a twenty-foot extension ladder. Writing that story brought to mind another adventure of mine as a child.

Growing up on Bank Street in Smyrna, I spent a great deal of my youth playing in the woods behind our house and behind the Colquitt’s and Miller’s houses, my two next door neighbors down the street. Behind the Miller house in the woods, there was a path to a small pond, really a relatively shallow wet place where water would gather from an underground spring when there was a lot of rain. Along the path to the bank above the pond was a small grove of young sapling pine trees, maybe 20 feet tall at the most. The trees grew fairly close together, maybe four to five feet apart at most.

Growing up on a staple of old Tarzan movies, I had watched Johnny Weissmuller, as Tarzan, not only swim faster than anyone else, including crocodiles, and swing through the trees from vines and from limb to limb like an ape. I discovered that when you climbed a young pine sapling, especially in the summer when it was warm and the sap was flowing, the pine trees could be made to sway back and forth with the proper body motion, so much so that you could get the top of your tree to lean over to touch or at least be very near an adjoining tree so that you could actually reach out and grab the top of the next tree. By doing this over and over, you could actually traverse the small grove from end to end in the treetops and back again, screaming all the time your best Tarzan yell.

It was great fun and exhilarating. Of course, if mom had known what I was doing, she would have had a heart attack, sure that I would fall and break my neck. Needless to say, I did not tell her that her son was part monkey.

I mentioned above about doing this in the summer when it was warm and the sap was flowing and the trees trunks would bend back and forth intoxicatingly. Let me share with you that I found out that colder weather had a profoundly different effect on the bendable properties of soft wood pine saplings. They become a little more rigid, but you can still get them to sling you back and forth with just a little more effort.

I remember this day like it was yesterday. It was a cold winter day, but a bright and sunny one that begged a young boy to go out into his jungle and play Tarzan. I hiked through the Colquitt backyard into the field behind the Miller house and down the path into the woods to the small grove of pine saplings where I had traversed the treetops a countless number of times. I scrambled up one at the edge of the grove and in no time flat I was at the top of the spindly pine. Whether it was twenty-feet tall or not, I’m not sure, because exact heights at that point in my life were relative and irrelevant for the most part, mainly because I was ten years old and would live forever.

I started my body moving back and forth, getting my tree to swing closer and closer to the nearest tree, all the while the pine making crackling noises whose sound effects only added to the fun. I think it was on my third or forth transfer to another tree when it happened. I leaned backwards to start the tree moving back and forth. After three or four sways, on the last sway backwards, which would finally swing me in reach of the next tree, there was a louder cracking sound than before.

The young sapling snapped right in two a few feet below where I was perched. I immediately found myself airborne plummeting toward the ground still clutching four or five feet of the top of a pine tree in both hands. It was more or less a slow motion experience, as those things tend to be when they are happening, while actually only taking seconds in real time.

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but if that was so, it was a short flash since I was so young, and obviously I did not die. I only remember letting out a squeal only a kid can make when he is in the midst of flying through the air with the top of a pine tree in his hands.

The next sound that was heard in that quiet forest was not of a tree falling, per se, but that of a young boy landing flat on his back with all the air forced out of his lungs with a mighty whoosh. I never lost consciousness, I don’t think, but I sure felt the pain and wished I had been knocked out. I lay there in agony, sure that I would never walk again, not afraid I would die, but instead afraid I would live, the pain was so bad.

I am not sure how long I lay there looking up through the green tops of the pines into the clear cold blue sky of winter. Probably not too long, because I wanted to go home and let mommy take care of me and make it all better. Mommies can do that, don’t you know.

I finally realized that I could still move my legs and arms, and figured out that nothing appeared to be broken, at least apparently no major bones or nothing visible on the outside of my body. By a stroke of luck, if you can find anything lucky about this situation, I landed flat on my back right beside a deadfall tree trunk. By good fortune I had managed to fall parallel to it instead of across it. If I had fallen across it, my back would have surely been broken and I would have died on the spot or have been paralyzed for the rest of my life. As it was, God must have had other plans for me. He just taught me a great lesson in gravity and the properties of cold sap in young pine saplings that I’ll never forget, my other story about cutting limbs notwithstanding.

I was able to slowly make my way home where mom checked me from head to toe and determined that nothing was broken and then she ran a hot tub of water with Epsom Salt dissolved in it to soak my aching body. I still don’t understand how the Epsom Salt helps, but I guess it did.

I decided that being Tarzan was not for me, although I did continue to climb trees the rest of my life, and still do at age sixty-nine, but only those with easy foot and hand holds on evenly spaced tree trunks. I still like the view. No swaying, though.

CLIMB THE LADDER

Here is my ladder story. I actually have several, but this is the one that almost precluded there being ANY stories from me.

Reedmont has a row of a dozen or more mature blueberry bushes growing in a line on the “Upper Forty.” When we first bought Reedmont, the bushes were very productive bearing fruit. But over the next few years, the fruit production diminished substantially. After doing research on Google and asking my horticulturally inclined friends what the problem might be, one asked me if certain bushes produced more berries than others. I had to admit that, yes, the ones further into the yard from the trees in full sun were the most productive. Duh! Too much shade.

There is a big hardwood tree that grows at the edge of the yard where the blueberry bushes start projecting in a row out into an open sunny area. Over the years, the limbs on the tree have grown further out shading over half my blueberry bushes. Time to prune.

I am a handy DIY kinda guy when it comes to things like lopping off a limb and even swinging a hammer. I just happened to have a twenty-foot extension ladder, which I used to clean out the gutters. The ladder, full extended, reached all the way up to the highest limb that needed to be removed.

I am smart enough to know which end of a limb to sit on or lean against when cutting off a limb. I leaned the ladder up against the inside part of the limb that was to be left as support for the ladder. No problem as I worked myself up to the final limb, which fortuitously happened to be nineteen-feet off the ground where the cut needed to take place. Eureka! I had an extra foot to lean the ladder against and above the offending last limb. With it gone, there would be at least twenty-five feet of unimpaired sunlight for my blueberries.

I was really stoked as I leaned the ladder up against the last limb just inside where I had determined to make the cut. I carefully climbed the ladder to the appropriate rung where I could stand and hold onto the inside portion of the limb while I sawed away with my handy three-foot bow saw. It did not take long with the new blade I had attached to the bow saw. It was almost like a hot knife going through butter. I was so pleased with myself and glad to be finishing with this project that turned out to be more work than first imagined, but now I was only moments away from finishing, with the cleanup to follow, of course.

As the saw blade made the final cut through the massive limb, it broke away with a crash and loud snap. That was not all that happened. I had forgotten to take into account the weight of the limb, which was pulling the entire limb down at a slight angle. That slight angle just happened to be a couple of feet below the top of the ladder.

As the limb crashed down, I felt this sickening lurch in my stomach as I felt the ladder fall away from my feet. For a millisecond, I was suspended in space with my left hand (my weakest) holding the limb balancing myself on the ladder that was no longer supporting me, my right hand still firmly gripping my trusty bow saw, and the rest of me frozen in space as if floating in the sky nineteen feet above the ground. Below me on the ground were the limbs I had previously cut, with pointy stobs pointing upwards where I had cut off offending branches so I could readily saw the main branch off. There they were waiting on me on the ground as my very own Punji stake impaling center. Even if I did not get impaled, I would likely break my neck, back or some other important part of my anatomy, if indeed, I did not kill myself in the fall.

I am not what you would call an athlete, although I was in pretty good shape for an old guy of sixty-plus-years old. But I have severe left shoulder issues from two previous events in my life, which made not only my left hand the weakest, but the left arm as well. Once from testing a tire swing I put up for Bill and Lew in the back yard at Camp Reed I in Mountain Park in Roswell. It did not hold and I crashed to the ground on my left shoulder. The second time was the result of a total AC separation in the same left shoulder from a skiing accident in Utah, never surgically repaired.

Friends and neighbors let me tell you about the wonderful properties of adrenalin surging through your body in times of extreme danger, duress and stress. With every power of my being, I immediately gripped that limb with my left hand as I started to fall. If only there was video of this event, I would be famous for my impersonation of Tarzan swinging through the trees. I never let go of the saw in the initial process of falling and swinging by one hand, but of course I finally had the sense to drop it (right below where I would fall, of course). I swung my right hand up and grabbed the spot where an instant before the ladder had rested.

I hung there for only a moment or two, trying to determine if I had soiled myself, which much to my relief I had not. It was then that I looked around at exactly where I was situated in regard being able to find footings and hand holds to be able to make a descent from the tree. Thank goodness my Army basic training had included numerous exercises on the monkey bars, which every veteran will remember with a grimace, but which school kids love.

I was able to make my way inch-by-inch over to the trunk of the tree where I could finally rest my feet on the remains of the previous limb stobs where I had cut the limbs from the tree. I slowly and carefully made my way down, finally dropping the final six feet to the ground, where I collapsed in exhaustion, the adrenalin having done its job and now immediately dissipated. I lay there on my back, among the cut limbs, staring up at the clear blue sky above me, which would give my blueberries the needed sunlight to bear much fruit. In a way, I lived to hopefully bear much fruit and gained a little wisdom in regard ladder placement and the laws of gravity.

FROSTY

As children growing up on Bank Street in Smyrna, Cynthia, Bruce and I had three dogs at one time or another. Our first, mine really, was Old Moe. I just called him Moe. We moved to 284 Bank Street in 1948 or so when I was barely two years old. Moe became a part of our family shortly thereafter. I write about Moe elsewhere.

Our second dog, which we got in 1950 (not long after Moe was gone) was actually my sister Cynthia’s. She named her Frosty, after Frosty the Snowman, I guess. Frosty was a female Spitz, snow white with a curled tail typical of the breed. As Frosty got older, she became quite plump, but because of her full coat of hair, her plumpness was not evident until she got her summer haircut each year. Her haircut was pretty radical, I guess you could say, since she basically got a full body crew cut, except for her face and tail. She really appreciated the trim because she would overheat in the summertime.

Frosty was our only pet for a few years until dad got me Big Red, as I named him. Red was a pure bred Irish Setter. He was a beautiful dog, tall and lanky, and he could run forever, as opposed to Frosty’s waddle. While Red was twice as big as Frosty, he knew his place as second in charge to Frosty’s Queen Bee status in the dog hierarchy at the Reed house. Frosty ruled the roost with Red. It’s funny how dogs have a pecking order that is not necessarily dictated by size. Her attitude made her the boss, and Red accepted it with no apparent bad attitude on his part. They were quite good friends. When Red wasn’t ranging far and wide, as he was apt to do all over Smyrna, he stayed with Frosty in the immediate neighborhood near our house.

Frosty stayed close to home except for one weekly adventure. For the longest time, we never knew exactly where she got them, but frosty would be gone for most of a day, but show up later with a huge thighbone of what looked like it belonged to a cow. We finally figured out by accident where she was getting them. My Aunt, Uncle and cousins, the B.F. Reed family, lived at the head of Bank Street almost to Atlanta Street, Smyrna’s main street. Diagonally across from the Reed home fronting on the corner of Atlanta Street was the Smyrna Police Department and jail. Almost directly across the street from B.F.’s house was the local grocery store, which I think was a Colonial, but I’m not sure.

B.F. was sitting on his front porch one day and happened to see Frosty waddle out from behind the grocery dragging in her mouth a bone almost as long as she was. This intrigued B.F., so he walked over to the rear of the grocery to see where Frosty had gotten the bone. As he rounded the rear corner, he happened to see the butcher carting out a supply of denuded beef bones having all the usable meat cut from them, and being thrown into a trash bin. B.F., who knew the butcher well, asked him about Frosty and the big bone. It turns out that the butcher and Frosty had made friends some time before, and each Wednesday, or whatever day it was he threw out the useless bones, he always held out an appropriately sized bone that Frosty could handle, and would present it to her. He said it never failed that when Wednesday rolled around, he could count on Frosty sitting patiently by the rear door waiting, hours if need be, for her bone to be delivered.

I remember those big bones around our house until Frosty got too old and unable to make the round trip anymore. When that finally happened, mom or dad would sometimes make a trip up to the grocery and get her a bone. The grocery finally closed at that location anyway, and the Red Dot, owned by J.D. Daniel, opened over across main street and finally down to Jonquil Plaza, a little far for a fat Spitz to drag a bone.

After Frosty would gnaw on that bone for a few days, getting every last bit of beef meat and gristle off of it, and sometimes actually cracking it open for the marrow inside, only then would she let Red get near it. At some point, Frosty would drag what was left of the bone to the rear corner of our back yard where she would bury it. I guess if there were ever an archaeological dig back there, they would puzzle over the cow thigh graveyard.

Our dogs were not overly fond of the garbage men who would come each week and “steal” our garbage from behind our carport. Red was particularly resentful of the garbage men, and dad would have me take Red into the fenced backyard and hold his collar to keep him from jumping the fence and biting the hapless garbage man. Red never got one, but not for a lack of trying. This one particular day, as I was holding onto Red for dear life, Frosty snuck around the corner of the carport, ran up and bit the garbage man on the ankle as I watched in horror. Frosty had never bitten anyone or anything that I was aware of. The garbage man let out a howl, left the trash scattered on the ground, and dashed back up to the garbage truck.

We were visited by the police and animal control, i.e., the dogcatcher, as we called them. Rather than take Frosty away, dad convinced them that we would keep Frosty closed up in the basement for the prescribed time frame for quarantine in case of rabies. Dad had to go to civil court in Smyrna and pay a fine, and of course he paid for the garbage man’s doctor bill. Who knew? Sweet little frosty who never even growled unless you tried to take her big bone.

In her old age, during colder weather, she was more apt as not to lie on the concrete sidewalk or driveway, and sometimes on the asphalt street in front of the house to soak up any residual heat from the day. We joked about how cars would have to drive around her or honk to get her to move. We tried, to no avail, to get her to stop lying in the street. She was going to get her warmth, no matter what.

I remember coming home from school that day in 1961, and as I got off the bus, Frosty was lying there on the sidewalk in front of the house, where I had seen her a hundred times before. I didn’t give it any thought, even when she didn’t hop up and waddle over with that curly hair tail wagging. In her old age she was more likely to glance at me, give a little wag of the tail, but otherwise, not move.

When I got inside, mom met me at the door with a sad expression on her face. Other than having lost Old Moe and my dad’s good friend Mr. Cherry, who both had died some years before, I had not lost anyone recently. Mom informed me that Frosty’s luck had run out and that a car had run over her as she napped on the road earlier that morning after we had gone to school. Cynthia was crying in her room and dad was not home from work yet. I rushed out to Frosty. She looked like she was asleep there on the sidewalk. Mom had moved her there off the road.

Crying like a baby, I picked up Frosty and carried her to the backyard to be buried. Mom and Cynthia said I should wait for dad to come home and dig the grave, but I said I wanted to do it by myself. Cynthia and mom sat on the rear steps of the carport, near the site of the infamous Frosty the Garbage Man Biter event, and watched me dig the grave and bury her. We did not have a shovel, so I used one of mom’s garden hand trowels. I don’t know how long it took, but it was quite a while considering what tool I had, and I remember wearing blisters on both hands. I cried throughout the entire dig. It was my first burial. I said a prayer and sat on top of the fresh pile of dirt over Frosty. I made a rudimentary cross of sticks and stuck it in the dirt. It was only fitting that she was buried in the cow thighbone cemetery. It may have been my first burial, but alas, not my last. I can honestly say that I never cried like this again for any pet I buried.

DON’T WORRY DARLIN

Many married couples have probably had this or a similar conversation. My wife, Michelle, and I are no exception, especially since we have been married over forty-two years (Whoda thunk it?).

The conversation revolves around the possibility of something happened to one or the other of the couple, specifically if one were to pass away, leaving the other without their mate. Michelle and I can’t remember the specifics of the conversation. We are not sure if it was because one of our couple friends experienced this, and they have, or if for some reason the topic came up in some related conversation. It matters not. We had the conversation.

Michelle and I love each other, as witnessed partly by the fact that after forty-two years we are still together. When you have been married as long as we have, there is a certain comfort and unchangeable rightness about being together, so much so that it is hard to imagine ever not being together. Of course we both realize that at some point one of us will likely experience this, unless of course we experience the unlikely event of departing on the same occasion. It happens, sometimes, tragically so.

During this specific conversation I’m writing about here, Michelle turns to me and sincerely tells me, “Honey, I don’t know how I could go on living without you.” That is a very loving and heartfelt thing to share with your loved one. I believe that all of us would choose and hope, if anything did happen to one of us, that the remaining partner would grieve, of course, and miss their departed loved one deeply, but we would want them to go on with their life in a productive way. None of us would want the other to have their remaining life destroyed or tainted by unresolved and debilitating grief. We would want there to be happiness and joy, while missing and fondly remembering the other. We all know of cases where a widowed spouse will meet and fall in love with another, and sometimes remarry. This is good.

When Michelle shared her feelings with me, I immediately responded, “Don’t worry, Darlin, maybe you will die first.” Those of you who know me, and that includes Michelle, who knows me best, know that I was just trying to throw in a little humor to diffuse a potentially sad conversation. Obviously, I could have returned the favor, be telling her I felt the same, which I do. But, noooooo…I said what I said.

I would like to say that Michelle immediately got my joke and laughed out loud. That is not the case. She was shocked. Maybe even a little mad or hurt, at first, until she very quickly realized what I was doing, for we did have a good laugh over it. In fact, she repeated the same to me. You have to admit, it was a pretty witty thing to come up with off the cuff, and like it or not, was pretty funny.

Over the years, I have told this story many times, and Michelle invariably rolls her eyes at me when I tell it, but she will admit it is funny. I have always said I plan to outlive her, usually remarking that I plan to live to be a hundred years old. She usually says she is not so sure she wants to live that long. I guess it really depends on what shape you are in at that advanced age. If you are relatively healthy and have a good quality of life, then by all means, sticking around is preferred. Michelle’s mom, Cecil, will be ninety-three this year, so Michelle’s genes indicate she may give me a run for my money (my insurance is paid up).

We have both made it clear to each other, and to our sons, that neither of us wants to be kept alive by extraordinary means requiring all sorts of tubes and wires, as long as there is no hope of recovery. Quality of life is the issue. Let me go, in that case, and in fact we both have living wills to make sure our wishes are honored by any medical staff wherever or whenever.

I have a buddy, un-named here for legal reasons, and we have made a pact together, that if one of us finds ourselves in that circumstance, and for whatever reason, our wishes to be allowed to leave are not honored, that the other will slip in a gun or pills to help us on our way. We are sorta kidding in a serious way.

At any rate, after Michelle is gone, Lord forbid (remember, I plan to outlive her), I plan to go on with my life and make sure that my remaining life is well lived and would make her happy. I truly doubt I would remarry, since it would certainly be difficult for an old piece of work like myself to ever find another special woman who would put up with me. I hope no one reading this thinks this is a morbid story, for it definitely is not, at least not in Michelle’s mind or mine.

By the way, I have downgraded my goal of living to the age of one hundred. I have now set my sights on living to age ninety-eight. The reason for giving up those final two years is that I now have my eyes focused on the more reasonable goal of beating the longest living Reed family member in history. My uncle Raymond Reed, who passed away last year at age ninety-seven, just a few weeks shy of his ninety-eighth birthday, has give me my new goal. He lived a life well lived right up to the end, and I could ask for no better for myself, except for those final few weeks that put me over the top of his record.

Before I end this story, let me relay one last tidbit about Raymond. As many of you know, I was very close with Raymond, and visited him monthly for the last ten years of his life, having far ranging conversations about life in general. One such conversation touched on friendships, and I mentioned that he must have a lot of friends. He replied, “No, they are just about all dead now. You are one of my only friend left.” We both laughed over that one. Good one, Raymond.

And thanks, Michelle, for being a good sport.

THE CAT LADY or THAT SLICK TALKING BALD HEADED MAN

Many years ago, back in the late 70’s, I was hired as a consultant to do real estate acquisition for a client, who shall remain un-named. Some of you who read this will be familiar with this story, and will immediately know the who, where, when and whatever. But I ask you not to divulge the pertinent details.

The client directed me to contact a property owner whose property was strategically located where my client required an easement across part of her property. I was familiar with the area, having successfully acquired other real estate rights from other property owners in the area, and subsequently was aware of who this particular lady was, by reputation, at least. She was known by one and all as “The Cat Lady.” I was told that she had a certain idiosyncrasy – that being that she was a cat lover to a fault. That in and of itself did not bother me in the least, since I, too, was a cat lover, having owned and currently owned a cat. I felt we would have that in common when we met.

In those days, for this particular client, they supplied me with a draft book with checks from out of which I could write checks for substantial amounts of funds. Of course I would never have abused that trust, and whenever an amount I negotiated was, in my mind at least, reaching a point beyond what I felt justifiable, I would get authorization from higher up. I rarely had to do that, though.

On this particular day, I drove up into the driveway of “The Cat Lady,” parked my car, got out with my trusty draft book and easement form, and approached the door where I proceeded to knock. I saw no evidence of cats at all, although it was cold out, and thought that perhaps people were exaggerating or just being mean talking about her in such a way. When she opened the door, I knew immediately that no one had exaggerated. I was hit directly in my olfactory senses with the overpowering odor, nay, let me amend that to stink, of an overly ripe cat box. In this case, the inside of her home was the cat box.

I controlled my gag reflex and introduced myself, handing her my card. She was actually a lovely lady, smiling at me like she never had a visitor before (which was likely the case) and she immediately took my arm and ushered me inside, before I could ask her to join me outside to see the area of her property in question. She ushered me into her living room over to a seat on her couch, having to carefully watch where I stepped for the literally hundreds of cats that rubbed around my feet and legs. She shooed off a space on the couch for me to sit on and pulled her chair up in front of me, effectively blocking any sudden escape bolt by me. She was so happy to talk to me.

Friends and neighbors, I will try to be humble here, but I am actually a pretty good real estate negotiator. At this particular moment, all my negotiation skills came into play in a fateful few minutes. It was probably my shining moment of exhibiting my expertise in negotiation, although honesty compels me to state that I had extreme motivation.

I went through my explanation of who I was, who I represented, why I was there, and what I needed, all the while spreading out on my knees (after gently pushing cats off my lap and knees) the site plan survey and the easement form. I had previously done my homework on determining property values, up to the high end. I knew that I had leeway from my client to pay more than the normal 50% of fee value for a portion of property, all the way up to full fee value, if the situation dictated it. This situation dictated it, spelled CATS. I wanted out of there as quickly as possible before I spewed on her knees and mine.

I made my proposal, she accepted, I wrote the check, presented it to her upon getting her signature, and vacated the premises as quickly as possible without actually running for the door and possibly stomping one of her cats. She waved goodbye to me as I backed out of her driveway, windows down, regardless of the thirty-degree outside temperature.

By the time I got back to the client’s office to turn the paperwork in, my clothes had shed most of the cat odor, although the receptionist at the office did ask me if I had stepped in something. I met with my boss and shared the story, and in fact he invited the other staff people in, including the other acquisition specialist there to hear my story. I received a standing ovation.

I shared the story with my wife, Michelle, when I got home, but she did make me take off my clothes in the garage and throw them in the trash before allowing me in the house.

The next morning, upon arriving at the client’s office, I was greeted by the receptionist with a big smile and informed that everyone was waiting for me in the conference room for a staff meeting. She actually left the front desk unattended and accompanied me to the meeting. Upon walking in, I was met with another standing ovation. It was then that the Director of the Real Estate Department, my boss, made an announcement. He started by relaying a short version of what I had done the day before, but of course everyone already knew the whole story. I guess I was expecting to receive some sort of Dubious Award at this point, maybe a trophy with a cat on it or something, but no, it was something else entirely.

The Director informed us all that he had received a telephone call the evening before after most everyone had left the office. The call was from “The Cat Lady.” She proceeded to tell him about my visit with her, and that after I had left, the more she thought about it, she had decided that she was not sure she had done the right thing. She did not come out and say that I had taken advantage of her, because I had in fact paid her 100% of fee value for the easement across her property, and she still owned the property. And I swear that the easement had no adverse impact on her property at all, since it was along the edge of road right of way.

Even though the easement I had her sign was a fully enforceable legal document, she demanded that he send someone else back out to see her and renegotiate the deal. The Director agreed to do so. As she hung up, her last words were, “And don’t send that slick talking bald headed man.”

The entire conference room burst into uproarious laughter and everyone gathered around me and patted me on the back. Everyone except, Rudy (not his real name), the acquisition person who was tasked with going to see “The Cat Lady.” Even today, from time to time when I happen to cross paths with one of my cohorts from that time, they will call me, “That Slick Talking Bald Headed Man.”

THE HANDS AND FEET

I have shared before how my wife, Michelle, going on a mission trip to Haiti was the catalyst for my involvement there. The Cliff Notes version was that she told me she felt led to accompany Crawford Hitt and his team from our Fellowship Bible Church in Roswell on a mission trip to Haiti from December 27, 2003 to January 5, 2004. I was flabbergasted that she would do this and even asked, “Why in the world would you go to a hell hole like Haiti?” Once she convinced me she was committed to going, I jumped in and supported her whole-heartedly, to the point of becoming an unofficial lay member of her team, attending all their pre-trip meetings. I wanted to know everything I could about where she was going and what she would be doing.

I had been on various mission trips, but none had really grabbed me so as to make me want to do that particular mission trip again. Haiti would have been far down the list of places I would consider. It is arguably the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, which definitely makes it a viable candidate for a mission trip, but it is also rife with disease and is a very dangerous place, both of which are check marks on the negative side of the ledger. But Michelle was convinced the Lord was leading her there for some reason not yet clear to her. She decided to be faithful to the call. I decided to support her faithfulness, regardless of how nervous it made me.

She and her team left Atlanta two days after Christmas in 2003. We did not communicate during her trip, although I had been able to get word that the team was doing well through communications by Crawford with our church. Dave Pridemore, our Missions Pastor, was also on the trip. Although I knew that Crawford had been to Haiti dozens of times, I was comforted by knowing that a Haitian couple from Port au Prince, who attended our Church, Jean Fede and his wife Yanick, were also on the team. Yanick was the sister of Robers Dolcine, a Missionary in Haiti our church supported. At least I knew she would be in good company. I greeted her and her team at the airport nine days later.

After her return, looking at all her photos, hearing her tales of the trip and attending the team debriefing, I was feeling more and more drawn to Haiti. There was one story from the trip, which captured the essence of what a mission trip was all about for me, and that happened on a mountain top in Cabaret.

On the third day of their trip, the team visited the town of Cabaret, located on the coastal road north of Port au Prince. Cabaret probably had a population of several thousand people spread out around the highway and into the hills overlooking the town. The team visited a small Christian school on top of a small mountain looking down into the valley by a small stream that ran to the ocean. The school was the only structure on top of the mountain, and the students and teachers all lived at the bottom of the mountain. There was only a dirt path to the top. There was no water supply or electricity to the school. Water had to be carried up each day from the stream below.

The visit to the school was two fold. First was to let the people know that they were loved and supported by the team. Secondly, goodie bags were presented to each child. In the bag there might be a doll for a girl and some other toy for a boy, but also there were toiletries, and assorted school supplies. The children were thrilled. Michelle set up her paints and did face painting of children and adults alike, with primarily images of a cross.

Their parents and some older brothers and sisters accompanied the young school children. Jean Fede struck up a conversation with a young man there. Jean could not help but notice that his footwear was totally falling apart, with the sole of his shoes flapping with every step. The fact that he had climbed the small mountain in those shoes was hard to grasp. Having grown up in similar circumstances as these people, Jean understood them and identified with them more than anyone except for perhaps Yanick.

As Jean talked to the young man, he was able to determine, without embarrassing him, that the shoes he wore were the only pair he had. Jean did not hesitate. He removed his own new tennis shoes and gave them to the young man. They wore the same size. I can only imagine how grateful the young man was to receive this wonderful gift from Jean.

After the face painting was done and all the gift bags distributed, the team walked back down the dirt path from the mountain to the cars. Jean walked down wearing only his socks. God bless Jean Fede.

Truly, this is what it means to be the hands and feet of Christ. This one story alone was enough to lead me to go to Haiti a few months later on my first of many trips there. Michelle and I are able to look back and are convinced that the reason she was called to go to Haiti was in order to draw me there. I feel blessed.

GUARD DUTY AT THE MISSION

Just about everybody who was in the military pulled guard duty at one time or another. When I was in the Army going through Basic Training, as Platoon Guide, I stood my first Guard Duty as Captain of the Guard on July 20, 1969, as my 5^th Platoon stood guard duty at Fort Knox, Kentucky. My job was to have my jeep driver take me around the base to the various guard posts where one of my platoon mates was standing guard with their M-14. I had a .45 on my hip. At each guard post I was supposed to take each soldier through the various “orders of the day.” Of course the most important thing they were supposed to say was, “Halt! Who goes there?”

The most memorable thing about that night was that as Captain of the Guard, my duty station between drives around the Fort was in the Company orderly room where we had a big pot of very strong coffee. Today I still drink my coffee overly strong. I like my spoon to stand up straight in my cup without touching the sides. There was an old black and white TV there, on which we watched the broadcast of Apollo 11 astronaut Neil Armstrong taking the first step on the moon. “One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Standing guard in the continental U.S. at an Army base in 1969 was a lot different than doing so overseas. Overseas, especially in S.E. Asia, it took on a little more importance, especially since at some duty stations there were people who wanted to kill you. You might actually have to use your weapon. Today, we realize that it is dangerous wherever you are stationed.

I was able to avoid guard duty until January 1970, when I was assigned to the U.S. Embassy Diplomatic Medical Mission in Bangkok, Thailand. The Mission was located separately from the Embassy itself. I guess you could refer to it as an Annex. Career Foreign Service personnel – diplomats, doctors and nurses, staffed us, for the most part. We Army guys were the support people. As a SP4 Medical Records Specialist, I was assigned to the Administration office on the ground floor.

As administration personnel, we were the first contact when someone visited the Medical Mission. Our primary mission was to supply medical treatment to all active duty military in the Bangkok area, as well as to all civilian employees of the DOD (Department of Defense). This included the dependents (wives and children of the military and civilians stationed in Bangkok). We also gave medical treatment to these guys who did not wear uniforms, but we knew were somehow government or military connected, because they did have a government ID. They were the spooks – CIA and the like.

Oh, don’t forget we also gave medical attention to GIs of all branches of service who took R&R in Bangkok from Vietnam. The Mission was famous (or infamous, if you will) for giving more inoculations for gonorrhea than any other military duty station in the world. There must have been something in the water. Actually there was, and it would give you a nasty case of the runs. We all had standing prescriptions for Lomotil. I arrived in-country weighing 165 and left a year and a half later weighing 140.

Anyway, while we were not in a combat zone, and the Medical Mission was primarily a civilian staffed unit, we Army guys did stand guard duty. I’ll never forget my first guard duty at the Mission, less than a week after arriving in-country. I was given a .45 to wear on my hip, and I was to make the rounds of the ground floor interior of the building to each entrance and exit, front and rear, on a 30-minute schedule all night long. I was inside, which beat being out in the humid heat, but there was no sleep for the night. As everyone left at the end of the day, all the military guys made sure to come by and give me a big smile and wish me luck. Odd, I thought.

As soon as it got dark, it started. Someone would tap on a glass window. It sounded like tapping a coin on the glass. Very distinct and loud. Then I would hear someone say, “F—k You!” Sometimes they would say it several times in succession. I can tell you, it is disconcerting, to say the least, to have someone tapping on the glass and telling you to get “F—-d.” I basically spent the night going from room to room on the ground floor as whomever it was outside continued to harass me all night long. Did I mention I was armed? I had my .45 in my hand, loaded and cocked. I kept waiting for someone to break in and a gunfight to ensue. I was a nervous wreck.

As daylight broke, my tormentors left. When I was relieved of duty when the Mission opened that morning, I have never been so happy for something to be over. My First SGT and most of the Army guys gathered around me to hear of my night standing guard duty. It started out with everyone listening with serious expressions of concern on their faces, as I relayed my ordeal, but finally a smile would break out here and there, until they were all laughing out loud. What the hell was going on?

It was then that I was let in on the little joke. It turns out that your first Guard Duty was like an initiation or right of passage for the new guy. Some of you reading this are S.E. Asia veterans and know what I’m getting ready to share. It turns out that there are two nocturnal lizards that make distinctive sounds. One is called the Chingchok (Chin Chok) Lizard, at least in Thailand, and its distinctive mating call is a sound not unlike that of a coin tapping on a window. Soldiers who served in Vietnam and Thailand universally refer to the other lizard, with the official name of Tokay Gecko, as the “F—k You Lizard.” I swear to God they sound just like someone uttering those words in a high-pitched voice. OK, I got the joke, and was actually able to see the humor of allowing the new guy to experience this.

But Lord help the poor soul who might have appeared at the glass door or window as I dashed from room to room all night long. I probably would have expended a round from my .45 in their general direction. Some months later, the Embassy hired local Thai Police to guard the Mission. They stood guard outside, though. And they did not pay any attention to the lizards.

One side note here – in December of 1970, the Medical Mission was destroyed by some mysterious explosion and subsequent raging fire. As I relay in another of my Blog stories, I was the first soldier from my unit on the scene and led a team into the burning building to save the medical records and classified documents from the upper floor Foreign Service offices.

The official story was that an explosion of unknown origin caused the fire and destruction of the Medical Mission. Those of us there heard a different story. It was an explosive device of some kind brought in by parties unknown (we all knew it was Communist terrorist). I guess it was politically incorrect to give credence to some sort of military type attack in Bangkok, which was not in the war zone. That could have caused much alarm among the Americans living there. Perhaps, though, if the Army had still been pulling nightly guard duty, lizards and all, the attack could have been thwarted.

By the way, those lizards? They were actually your friends. I had a couple of Chingchoks that lived in my hotel room and they ate mosquitos.