HASTA LA VISTA, BABY

By Mark Reed

I just read a piece about people’s celebrity encounters. This is one of mine.

Back in the early 90’s I was in Washington, DC, Georgetown actually, visiting my sister Cynthia.

As many of you know, I like to take photographs. I have been to DC many times and taken lots of photos, including the expected Capitol and monument images. This also included lots of photos of the Georgetown area. But most all of my previous photos of Georgetown had been taken with lots of people around, usually in the frame. I decided to get up early on a Sunday morning and take snapshots of Georgetown sans people.

Cynthia’s townhouse was located on N Street, just around the corner from the Georgetown Inn on Wisconsin Avenue. It was a beautiful early morning with the sun just having risen and the light was beautiful for photographs. I walked out of her townhouse and walked the couple of hundred feet down to the corner next to the Georgetown Inn.

As I walked up the empty street beside the hotel taking photographs as I went, I stopped near the entrance to compose a shot. As I stood there facing the door, it swung open and a couple walked out.  Because I was trying to take photos without people in them, I did not take the shot. It was then that I realized that the couple was Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver.

 This famous couple had to contend with paparazzi almost nonstop whenever they went out in public. Here they were early on a Sunday morning, the streets empty, and they must have thought they would be free of the pesky and obnoxious paparazzi for some treasured time for a stroll together.

Our eyes locked. I could see that they were not particularly pleased to see a photographer standing in front of the hotel with a camera, ready to snap photos of them. I had to make an instantaneous decision. Do I take advantage of this unexpected opportunity to get up close and personal photos of them? Remember, this all was happening in the blink of an eye, or the click of a shutter, so to speak.

I made my decision. I smiled, pointing my camera down, and said, in my best Das Anald voice, “I’ll be back. Hasta la vista, baby.”

They both gave me great big smiles, waved, turned and walked up the street hand in hand. I hope I helped them enjoy a little respite from their normally hectic public life.

I would not have made a good paparazzi.

REMEMBERING JAY

By Mark Reed

Growing up in Smyrna in the 50’s and 60’s, one of my classmates was Susan Barnwell. She had a little brother named Jay. I didn’t really know him since he was a couple of years younger than us. During our time at Campbell High School, Susan and Jay’s family moved from Smyrna to Marietta where they attended Sprayberry High School.

Fast forward to the University of Georgia and the Sigma Pi house in 1966. Jay came through fraternity rush, and us Smyrna men remembered Susan. Jay was a sharp guy and was issued a unanimous bid to pledge. He accepted. At that time, we had a system in place that each pledge was to have a “Big Brother” who would shepherd him through his pledgeship and help ease his transition to brotherhood in the fraternity. Jay chose me. I had a number of “Little Brothers” over my years in Sigma Pi at UGA. They were all good men, but Jay and I developed a special bond, maybe partly because of our Smyrna connection and Susan, but I think it was more than that. We genuinely liked each other. He was a good man and a better friend. I still have the Pledge Paddle he made for me when he was initiated.

I had a gold ’65 GTO convertible in school. It had great looking wire wheel hubcaps that were greatly admired by hubcap thieves. They kept being stolen. Every time they went missing, Jay would invariably “find” me another set. Just about every fraternity man had a nickname. Jay’s was “Hubcap.”

I remember a story Jay told me about when he was a member of the Civil Air Patrol (CAP). He was on a flight with one of his flight leaders as pilot and Jay was sitting in the co-pilot seat. The pilot looked over at Jay and asked him if he would like to take the controls and fly it a bit. Of course he did. He took the controls and after a few moments of steady level flight, Jay pushed down on the yolk and did a rolling dive and then back up to level flight. Jay looked over at his instructor with a big grin. The man’s chin was still on his chest, his eyes frozen open and perhaps he made a little mess in his panties. What the pilot did not know was that Jay had taken flight lessons and was a proficient pilot. I don’t remember if Jay told me there were any repercussions for his aerial maneuver, but if he knew there would be some, I have no doubt he would have done exactly the same.

As fate would have it, I graduated, went in the Army and we lost touch. Over the years, his name would come up in discussions between us Sigma Pi brothers, but no one had heard from him, other than to say he was thought to be living in California. I tried to search him out a number of times, but to no avail. Then, ten years or so ago, out of the blue, Jay contacted me. It was old home week and we enjoyed catching up with each other about our missing years. We shared our Army memories and marveled that we were still here. This started a steady stream of e-mail, text, phone calls and Facebook communications.

Finally, in 2016, we met up for lunch when he flew in for his Sprayberry High School 50^th Reunion. It had been almost fifty years since we had seen each other. It was as if no time had passed at all. He was not well and told me that this would likely be his last trip here. We both realized we would never see each other again. We gave each other the fraternity handshake and a big hug and parted ways.

I found out he died after a month or so of sending him e-mails, texts, etc., with no response. I was afraid I knew the reason for no response. I was right.

This brings me to a recent event. When I was in the Army, I was issued the standard Field Jacket. I was not issued a button in liner for cold weather, since I was going someplace HOT. I was smoking cigars with some old buddies of mine recently, in fact some of those Smyrna guys who were Sigma Pi brothers with Jay. Somehow the subject of Field Jackets came up, as we had all been in the Army. One of them mentioned, upon learning I did not have a liner, that I should drop by Hodge Army Navy Store in Marietta near The Big Chicken next time I was in town, and see if they had one.

I went by Hodge and asked the manager if they had the old Field Jacket liner. He said they were rare, but if they had one, his old vet employee would know, and he asked him to take me to the back of the store to search. The “old” guy said that if they had one, it would be old and used, and I laughed, saying my Field Jacket was old and used, too. He asked when I served…’69-’71…same as him. The “old” guy was my age.

He said I looked familiar and asked my name. I told him and said that I was a native to the area and went to CHS. He then asked me if I knew Jay Barnwell. When I told him Jay was a friend and fraternity brother, he said he had met me before back in 2016. I had been in Hodge back then and he had helped me find something, and in our conversation we established the Jay connection. In fact, I had pulled out my cell phone and called Jay in California and the three of us had a great conversation. It all came back to me.

He was very excited to see me again. He said that he and Jay, along with seven other buddies from Marietta, had all enlisted together and gone through Basic Training as a group. They all survived their Army service and had a nine-man reunion every five years for the last fifty years. Their last reunion this year had three of the nine missing. Two had died and Jay was a no show. I sadly told him that Jay had died this past year. He was visibly shaken. He said he would let their fellow soldiers know.

I recently made a Facebook post about the Field Jacket and running into Jay’s old Army buddy, and his granddaughter saw it and contacted me and thanked me for keeping his memory alive. That prompted this Blog story.

I miss “Hubcap.”

FYI: Hodge is moving from their long time location on Hwy 41 in Marietta to East Lake Shopping Center behind Williamson Brothers BBQ on Roswell Road. My Field Jacket will become my hunting jacket in cold weather with the liner…and I will think of Jay whenever I put it on.

A REMEMBRANCE OF DOCTOR PAT

By Mark Reed

(This story was written just days after Doctor Pat died on April 15, 2001)

I picked up the paper today and read that William Connell Patterson Jr. passed away after a valiant fight with cancer.  He was Bill to many, but to some of us he was “Pat” – Doctor Pat to me.  Even though I had seen him a week or so ago, and knew that the end was near, reading about it in the paper was still like a fist in the gut.  The air went out of me.

The first time I met Doctor Pat was in September of 1964 when my dad delivered me to the University of Georgia as an incoming freshman.  When we got to the parking lot next to Reed Hall and Payne Hall (where I was to room), we ran into Pat and his son, Bobby, who turned out to be rooming next door to me in the dorm.  I had heard dad talk about “Doctor Pat” but this was my first time meeting him face to face.  As it turned out, Bobby and I became friends and I remember him talking in glowing terms about his father.  While Bobby didn’t say it outright, you could tell he hero-worshipped his dad.  I now know why.

When Michelle and I got married in 1973, our first home was across the street from Pat and his wife Iwee on Ridge Road in Smyrna. We visited with them frequently. You can’t think about Pat without thinking about Iwee.  What a class act she is!  A lovely little lady with a great big heart.  Pat one time joked to me that he didn’t deserve her.  I don’t know about that, but she is one special lady.

Pat was one of my dad’s best friends. Dr. Pat was also a renowned surgeon. He probably saved dad’s life in 1969 when he performed an emergency surgery on him to repair a perforated colon.  He was our family doctor for many years until his retirement.  But he was much more than that to me.  Since dad passed away twenty years ago, Pat had become more of a surrogate father for me than anything else.  He and dad were the same age, born a few weeks apart.  My periodic visits to see he and his wife Iwee were a joy.  With Pat I developed rapport, a friendship, a relationship I wish I had developed with my dad – a relationship that comes with age and maturity.  We would sit and talk of old times, swap stories, share feelings, discuss our losses, our triumphs and our pains and joys.  But no matter the topic, when I left our visits, I always had a “warm fuzzy” from being with someone I loved and who loved me in return.

It was a special day when Pat and I sat on his back patio, him enjoying his cigarette, me just enjoying being in his presence, when he shared with me that he felt toward me like a son.  I cried and told him he was like a father to me, and we two grown men felt all mushy together.  God it was great.

Of the many stories he shared with me, the one I cherish most was from his childhood.  We were talking about God, faith and prayer – specifically the answer to prayers.  As he relayed it to me, when he was just a boy living at home on the farm, his father had a special pocketknife.  As with many men, this knife was a prized possession he carried everywhere in his pocket.  He sharpened it, cleaned it and took care of it.  As sons do, Pat watched his father use the knife, and wanted to use it also.  One day, half expecting to be turned down, he asked his father if he could borrow the knife.  To his glee, his father reached into his pocket, pulled out the knife and handed it to him.  It was unsaid, but Pat knew that he must take special care of his father’s knife.  He knew a special trust had been bestowed upon him.

Pat spent the day whittling; cutting twigs from trees, putting his initials on the barn wall – all the things a young boy does with a knife.  He said it was a wonderful day.  As the afternoon came to a close and it was time for him to return to the house and give his father back his knife, he reached into his pocket to feel its hard shape.  A moment of panic ensued when he realized that the knife was no longer in the pocket of his overalls.  He was mortified that he had lost his father’s prized knife.  He frantically tried to retrace his steps during the day, all the while scanning the ground, the straw in the barn, the fields around the farm.  He realized the almost futile effort of finding this “needle in a haystack.”  It was then, there in the barn, that he decided that while he was not big on prayer, he didn’t know what else to do but go to God.  He said he didn’t remember the actual words of the prayer, but the gist of it was, “God, help me find my father’s knife.”  As he stood there in the barn, head bowed at the finish of his prayer, he opened his eyes and looking down at the straw covered barn floor, there was the knife at his feet.

Pat told me, with a twinkle in his eyes, that finding that knife at his feet after his prayer was “just about enough to convert me right there on the spot.”  And he and I laughed out loud.  I think he was converted right then.

Another story Pat relayed to me was about the time he was stationed at Okinawa after the war.  He was the USAF medical officer for the base on the island.  He had his family stationed with him and he said it was a great time as far as military service went.  He said that they had a diving platform anchored off the shore over a reef where he used to scuba dive.  He shared the events of his last dive with me.  He said he was down about twenty or thirty feet along the side of the reef where he had found a giant clam attached to the coral.  With visions of a valuable pearl inside (although it is oysters that make pearls, I believe), he struggled to pry the huge clam free.  As he was working on the clam, a dark shadow passed over him.  He looked up toward the surface to see a monstrous shark passing back and forth through his air bubbles from the scuba tank.  Obviously the shark was interested in these strange bubbles in his environment.  As the shark passed through the bubbles, it descended deeper and deeper towards Pat.  There is not much more terrifying for a man than to be out of his element in close proximity to a creature that is higher on the food chain (at least in this venue).

An intelligent man, and good under pressure, Pat realized that the bubbles were drawing the shark closer.  He took several deep breaths, and then turned off the airflow and hugged the side of the reef and stayed perfectly still.  The shark swam away and at the limit of holding his breath, Pat turned back on the airflow.  No sooner were the bubbles making their way to the surface, did the shark return.  Pat went through this procedure several times, and each time the shark returned, each time a little closer.  One last time he turned off the air and as the shark once more glided off into the darkness, Pat swam with all his might to the surface and to the safety of the diving platform not looking back to see if the shark had turned back toward him.  As he pulled himself from the ocean, he decided that he could do without that clam.  He left the reef to the shark from then on.

One story that was told on Pat by my father is one that Pat and I laughed about many times.  Pat and dad owned an airplane together.  A Piper Comanche – a sweet little single engine four-seat plane.  Dad, who was a combat pilot from WWII, was a pretty good pilot, but he said that Pat was one of the best he ever saw, particularly from a technical standpoint.  As he did with everything he did, flying was something he attacked with a quest for perfection.  As the story goes, Pat was coming in for a landing at McCollum Airport in Kennesaw, where he and dad kept the plane.  As usual, he was coming in for his normal perfect textbook landing.  This time was no exception, except for one little thing – he forgot to put the gear down.  Those who witnessed it, and from the investigation that followed, it was determined that it was the “best” belly landing ever.  The plane landed flat on its belly without either wingtip touching the ground. A perfect “one point” landing (as opposed to the more normally associated “three point” landing). Dad, who belly-landed two P-51 fighters during the war, said that his landing was no mean feat.  I believe Pat would forgive me for sharing this story.

In one of our last conversations, we were discussing the trials and tribulations of being a father, and how the relationship with one’s sons can be hard, especially when they are teenagers and young men.  Having two teenage sons, I am experiencing some of that, although I am blessed with two wonderful boys (as were Pat and Iwee).  Pat shared with me that it is almost inevitable that there be a splitting apart of the relationship, but that the good news was that with time it came back together, better than before.  He said that he and Bill had become closer than ever through his final illness.  He said that made the illness worth it.  Pat talked of his love for Iwee, Bill and Bobby.  I feel honored and truly blessed to have had him share some of his love with me.

During my last visit with Pat, his brother Gene was there.  I don’t know if it was Gene’s presence that did it, but Pat looked better, seemed to feel better and seemed to be in better spirits than usual (although Pat was never “down” about his condition).  He said he had received his “three score and ten” and more.  He said he had a wonderful life and was OK about leaving this world.  I wish I could say the same about him leaving.  I’m glad the way he was the last time I saw him will be my final vision of him.  But it sure will not be my final thoughts of him.

I remember a line from an old movie, “How Green My Valley.”  It was a statement from a son upon the death of his father, and it went like this:  “Men like my father never die.  He is with me still, real in memory as he was in life.  Beloving and beloved forever.”  That’s how I will remember Pat.

SIGMA PI RUSH BROCHURE

By Mark Reed

For those of you who were fraternity men in the 60’s at UGA, the height of the Greek system on campus, you will remember rush brochures. Most every fraternity would publish one and distribute to potential pledge members who came through formal rush or pledged later.

In 1967-1968, I was Vice President of Sigma Pi Fraternity at UGA. As VP, one of my roles was as Rush Chairman. The lifeblood of a fraternity is rush. You have to rush and gain new members to pledge in order to sustain your membership. We had about 100 men, which meant we needed at least 25-30 pledges initiated each year for that to happen.

As the new Rush Chairman, I put together the new rush brochure and got it to our printer. Below is the final result.

The cover

The Creed

One of the great fraternity houses at UGA

The photo at the bottom left is of me having just presented the Outstanding Pledge Award to Buddy Murrow.

My sister, Cynthia, was Pledge Sweetheart along with Sweetheart Ann Delong

Letter from the President/Sage

Officers

Collage centerfold left side

Collage centerfold right side

Assorted Brotherhood photos

Letter from the Rush Chairman

Alumni

Our Jocks

Our Composit

Why Sigma Pi

The back cover with our crest

THE DAWG WALK

By Mark Reed

Most of us Dawg fans have witnessed a Dawg Walk at one of our home games at UGA. How many of you have actually participated in one? I’m not talking about any of you players, coaches or team assistants – I’m talking about a standard issue run of the mill fan.

For the uninitiated among you, let me define what a Dawg Walk is: The team is delivered by buses down Lumpkin Street to where access to Sanford Stadium starts. The team will exit the buses and walk the gauntlet, a hundred yards or so, between screaming fans on both sides, into the stadium to get ready for the game. This usually occurs a couple of hours before the game. This is about as close to one of the players most of us will get.

In 2004, I think it was, I took my Bible study buddy and his son, Basil and Dean Marais, immigrants from Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, to their first American football game. I wanted them to capture the entire experience, so naturally I took them to the Dawg Walk.

As we entered the crush of fans along the Dawg Walk, I told them to stay close to me as I weaved through the crowd to get us as close to the ropes that divided the throng from the players. I could see the players threading down the opening between the fans and I pushed closer. I have no idea how it happened, certainly not on purpose, but I somehow found myself walking beside David Green, the starting QB for the Dawgs. I looked up at him and he looked down at me with a big smile. I instantly realized that somehow I had gotten through the security barrier rope. I looked behind me and there were Basil and Dean scurrying along trying to keep up with me. The three of us were the only “civilians” walking with the team.

There was nothing I could do but continue on with the team, fully expecting to be grabbed by a police officer at any moment, along with my south African friends, and arrested. Basil and Dean had no idea that we were doing something not allowed. They were thinking that Mark sure does know how to show us a good time, going so far as to actually walk into the stadium with the team. All the while, David Green, David Pollack and all the other Dawg player we were marching in with just gave us big smiles.

As soon as we entered the stadium, I extricated myself and my friends from the team and made our way to our seats. Basil and Dean were ebullient and exhilarated from the experience. I decided not to tell them right then how close we came to spending the weekend in jail.

By the way, the Dawgs won…WOOF!

BLIND SHOT

By Mark Reed

I have done a lot of duck hunting over the years, with dad taking me on my first duck hunt in 1957 as an 11 year-old boy – over sixty years ago. Our family was visiting my grandparents, Ma and Pa Pepper, mom’s parents in Bloomfield Missouri over Thanksgiving. We hunted a place called Duck Creek WMA, next to the Mingo National Wildlife Refuge near Puxico, Missouri. Got my first two green head Mallards on that long ago hunt – the first of many. I have a big green head from another hunt mounted and hung on my office wall.

My last duck hunt was in Stuttgart, Arkansas with lifelong friends. It was January of 2018, almost exactly sixty years since my first hunt with dad. That leads me to the real purpose of this story – specifically about one particular shot during that hunt. Anyone who has hunted a great deal will have their “one particular shot” story. This is mine.

It was freezing, as is often the case, in fact the water in much of the pond in front of our blind was frozen, except for a perimeter around our decoys. Our guide had installed a “water crusher” in the center of the decoys, which was run by a generator in the woods. Basically, the crusher circulated the water to keep it from freezing, so the ducks would have somewhere to land among the decoys. Our blind was in a great spot and it turned out to be a great hunt, with us six guys knocking down seventeen or so that morning.

Anyway, as we sat in our blind, this overhead formation of ducks turned and came flying in to our decoys, having been called in by our guide. As they flared to land, we jumped up and opened fire. Several went down, but this one particular duck flew directly toward me and over my head to escape into the woods behind our blind.

Now you have to remember that this all happened in a matter of seconds and those little boogers are fast. As the one passed over me, heading out of sight, I couldn’t really sight in on him. I leaned forward and twisted my body while swinging my shotgun (dad’s trusty Remington Sportsman 48) backwards over my shoulder. As the duck flew out of vision, I shot.

The odds of hitting a blind shot like that are very small, and since you could not even see the bird, you might not even know if you hit it, or just scared it to death. In this case, I knew I hit  – there appeared a burst of feathers in my peripheral vision, which softly drifted down as a snow of feathers in the air. A one in a thousand shot. Our dog retrieved the bird.

I don’t claim to be a marksman, and obviously there was a lot of luck in a shot like that, but I like to think that sixty years of practice prepared me in some small way for that “Blind Shot.”

As an aside, I have shot many Wood Ducks over the years. I think they are the prettiest of the ducks. I never had one mounted until one from this trip. He joined my Green Head Mallard on my office wall.

CYNTHIA’S FRENCH 101 COURSE

By Mark Reed

In December of 1969, I came home on leave from the Army, with orders to ship out for parts unknown for the next year. As I usually did, I drove over to UGA and visited my Sigma Pi fraternity brothers and saw my sister, Cynthia.

I went by and picked up Cyn at the Tri Delt house and took her to lunch. Finals were over and she was finished for the quarter, heading home for the Christmas holidays in a few days. While we were eating, she broke down crying. I was finally able to calm her down and learn why she was so upset. She had just received her final grade in French 101 – a D, which meant she would have to retake the course. She said that she had been very sick the two days prior to the final exam and had done terrible on it. She had gone to her professor and asked to be able to retake the final. He had turned her down. It was common practice among professors at UGA to have the latitude to allow a student to retake an exam. There was no hard and fast rule, but certainly in Cyn’s case, an exception was justified.

I told Cyn we would go visit the professor and I would reason with him and get him to allow her to retake the exam. She said it was hopeless because he was a real jerk. I said “Leave it to me.” We arrived at his office and walked straight in without knocking. As soon as we entered, he stood up, looked at Cyn and said, “I already told you I was not going to allow you to retake the exam. Leave my office now.” I smiled at him, showing all my teeth, all the while wearing my best “smile as you kill them” face, and took a step toward him. He took an alarmed step back. I introduced myself, “I’m Mark Reed, I’m a UGA grad, I’m in the Army getting ready to ship out overseas, and Cynthia is my sister. I can’t leave without this situation being resolved. I am asking you very nicely to allow my sister to retake her final exam.” He stammered and said, “Are you threatening me?” Still smiling, I said, “You are very perceptive, Mon Cher.” He said, with a catch in his voice, “Get out now.”

I took another step toward him, inches away, face to face, and said, “I’m not even going to ask you to allow her to retake the final. There is no reason for you to have to go to all the trouble of giving her the final again. We’re going to save you that trouble. I’m just asking you to pull out your little grade book and change Cynthia’s grade from a D to a B. Now get out your grade book and make the change right now. If you don’t, I’m going to beat your ass to a bloody pulp and boot stomp you into a puddle right here on your office floor.”

Cyn stood at the door with her mouth open, watching all this transpire.

He started to protest, but I stopped him right there. I said, “I have nothing to lose.” This time, there was no smile on my face. I said it calmly and quietly. He knew I was not kidding. He unsteadily walked to his desk, sat down, pulled out his grade book, with me looking over his shoulder, as I watched him change the grade to a B.

I smiled again, patted him on the shoulder and said, “Thanks, Mon Cher.” As we walked out, I gave him one last parting comment. “That grade better stand, or else.”

As we walked out of his office, Cyn was sorta hyperventilating. She looked at me with wide eyes and said, with a trembling voice, “Thanks, Mark.” I gave her my friendly smile, as we walked away. BTW, the grade stood.

One last postscript:  Some fifteen years later, Michelle and I accompanied Cyn to Paris. We went to a fancy French restaurant. The waiters spoke only French and the menu was in French. Cyn could not speak to the waiter or read the menu. We looked at each other and laughed, saying simultaneously, “Thanks, Mon Cher.”

ALICE’S WILL

By Mark Reed

Some of you will have known my aunt Alice Reed. She was an interesting woman for sure. She was one of the first women commercial real estate brokers to open her own real estate company in the Atlanta area in the early 60’s – Alamar Realty. She was successful. She and I talked real estate on many occasions. We would pick each other’s brains. My dad had warned me not to discuss real estate with her, because the conversation invariably crashed and burned, with Alice hanging up on you. I must admit that I experienced this more than once. But she and I always “kissed” and made up. She really loved me very much, and since she did not have any children of her own, she viewed me, and the other of her eighteen nieces and nephews as her children. I guess I was closer with her than most because she was just a year or so older than my dad Bill, the baby of the family, and of the eight Reed siblings, she was closest with him. She pretty much spent every Christmas and other special times with our family.

In her final years, especially after her stroke, which put her in a nursing home for the rest of her life, she and I had many conversations. My brother Bruce was the Executor of her Will. When she went into the nursing home, he and I were the ones to take care of her. We decided that Bruce would take care of the financial end of things, paying her bills and handling her finances. I, on the other hand, would be the visitor as often as possible. I visited her two or three times a week. While the visits were a blessing for she and I, it took a toll on me. It broke my heart to see this once vibrant woman waste away and finally die. The up side for me was the many stories and memories she shared with me. And most marvelous of all, I was able to share Christ with her and she accepted Him. The only time in my life I was a part of that.

A few months before she died, when I visited one day, she was crying when I walked into her room. I asked her what was wrong. She said she just wanted to die. She was so miserable lying in her bed. Then she told me, “Jesus came to see me last night. I told Him I wanted Him to take me with Him, that I was ready to die.” I asked her what He said. “No, Alice, it is not time yet.” She was heart broken. Some say it was a dream. I choose to believe it happened.

She finally got her wish, and went home with Jesus.

Bruce showed me her Will. I mentioned her eighteen nieces and nephews. They were her beneficiaries, listed in her Will. Well, they used to be. You see, obviously every time she had an argument with one of her nieces or nephews, she would take a pen and mark through their name. By the time she died, there were only five of us left. We got a big laugh out of that. Bruce and I, along with three other cousins, made the cut. The funny thing is that once she drew a line through the first name, the Will was void. It was not done properly. We decided that no one would contest her wishes. We were right. Everyone thought it was so like Alice and got a big laugh out of it.

Now we are not talking about a huge estate here. But there was a nice little chunk left. One of the things she told me she was most proud of was that no one ever had to support her financially. She had enough money to take care of herself until she died, with some left over.

We went through her personal items to determine what of value was left. After her condo was sold, I bought her old Buick sedan for my sons to drive. Neither one of my boys wanted anything to do with it. I drove it as my second car for years. After the cash was distributed to the five of us, there was a big jewelry box full of costume jewelry. There were several rings from Thailand I had given her. I took them back. The five heirs decided to have a jewelry party, where we drew numbers to see who picked first and in what order. Then we proceeded to take turns choosing a piece. I had Michelle choose for me.

I remember all this with a smile on my face. I miss those arguments about real estate.

POLITICAL SCIENCE 101

By Mark Reed

In the Fall Quarter of 1964 at UGA, I was a freshman. As an incoming freshman, along with the majority of my fellow classmates, I took English 101. English was always one of my best subjects in school, and I believed that I would make a good grade. I did very well in the course, making A’s and B’s on all tests and assignments.

At the end of that fall quarter taking finals, we were informed that our freshman class was going to be the first to ever take the new English exam, which consisted of “basic” English sentence structure, diagraming, proper tense, conjugation of verbs, etc., etc., etc. All the things in the test were items none of us had studied or thought about since grammar school, and none of which had been touched on during our English 101 class. In fact, we were told that our grade for the course would be determined solely on our test score on this final exam, and our grades over the quarter would have no bearing on our final grade. Say what? What could possibly go wrong with this idea?

As you have probably guessed from my lead up here, I flunked that test, along with 75% of the freshman class taking English 101 that quarter. It was a shock to everyone involved, including the English Department and school administration. But rather than throw out the obviously bogus exam results, we all received an F. Let that sink in. 75% of the freshman class in the fall quarter 1964 failed English 101.

What exactly did that mean? It meant that 75% of the freshman class found themselves on academic probation. That meant that the next quarter, winter 1965, all of us on probation had to successfully get off probation by passing all courses with a grade of C or higher. If you did not do so, you remained on probation and were kicked out of school. For those of us male students, this had dire consequences. Not only had our Draft Board been notified we were on probation, which was a red flag for keeping our student deferment from the draft, but if you did not get off probation that next quarter, you were out of school and the draft board was notified. Your 2-S student deferment automatically became 1-A, which meant you would be drafted into the Army.

Winter quarter 1965, I took a normal load of three courses of five hours each, one of which was Political Science 101. I have to confess that the prospect of being drafted was not motivation enough for me to bear down and actually apply myself to my courses. I had never really struggled in school, having always made pretty good grades without knocking myself out studying.

This quarter, I focused most of my energies and attention on this pretty little freshman sorority girl named Kay. To say I neglected my studies would be an understatement. I don’t remember what my other two courses were, but I do remember Political Science 101. The first day of class we were instructed to purchase a particular book on which our studies would be based. We were also told that there would be no exams during the quarter. The only exam would be the final. Our grade would be solely based upon our final exam result. Uh Oh. Where had I heard this before?  The book required for the course was exorbitantly expensive. I did not buy it. My attendance in class was sketchy at best. Lord knows where my mind was during this time, but it certainly was not on Political Science 101.

At the end of the quarter, it was finals. I had the other two courses under control, more or less, as I expected to make at least a C in each of them. That meant that all the cards were being played in Political Science 101. I had already prepared my girlfriend to the fact that this would likely be my last quarter in college, because I was probably going to fail Political Science 101 and be kicked out of school and be drafted into the Army.

I arrived at the final. I had my blue books. The final was to consist of one question, to which we were to write a narrative answer.

As I sat in the classroom, the professor came in and wrote on the chalk board the question that we were to answer.

The question was, “Explain French political philosopher Montesquieu’s principal work on political theory, The Spirit of Laws (1748 and 1750).”

As I read what he wrote, I knew I was dead meat. I had absolutely no idea who Montesquieu was or what The Spirit of Laws was about.

While I have never been a great student, I have pretty much always had an ability to, excuse the term, “bullshit” my way through anything. I cast fate to the wind. I picked up my pen, opened my Bluebook and commenced to write a masterpiece of concocted theories of  political thought based upon Montesquieu’s education and life experiences leading up to his publication of his masterpiece of political theory. Oh, how I went on. It was marvelous. The words flowed through my pen onto the pages of the Bluebook. I filled the entire Bluebook in thirty minutes. I ended my epistle by writing that Montesquieu’s theory was the basis for our form of government.

I stood up, carried my Bluebook to the front desk where the Professor looked up at me in great surprise. We had two hours for the exam. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to leave a hour and a half on the clock without spending more time on my exam question. I told him, with a confidence only a true bullshitter can muster, that I had aced the exam and was totally satisfied with my response, commenting, “Montesquieu is my hero.” I walked out with head held high that only the truly confident can carry off.

My girl and I went out that evening, convinced that it would be one of our last evenings together while we were both students.

Those of you who went to school during this time will remember that our final grades would be posted on the office door some several days after the final, and maybe it is still done that way today. My girl drove me to the Political Science building where my classroom was located. The grades were to be posted at noon. Sure enough, they were posted, and I had to join in the crowd pushing up to the door to finally run my finger down the alphabetical list to “Reed, William” and then across to the next column where there in bold highlights was an A. I ran my finger across the line several times to make sure I was looking at the correct grade. Sure enough, it was mine. There was a small notation to the side of my A…“Admiration” with the professor’s initials.

I walked out through the crowd of fellow students still trying to get to the door. I walked out of the Political Science building. Like a man who has just received a reprieve from his execution, I walked into a spring day, with the sun shining in a beautiful blue sky with birds singing and my girlfriend sitting in her convertible with the top down, waiting for me. I did not open the door. I jumped into the passenger seat, gave her my biggest smile and then kissed her. We drove off across campus. Life was good.

THE GLENN MILLER STORY: War Stories or Stories My Father Told Me

By:  Mark Reed 

On December 15, 1944, Major Glenn Miller, leader of The Glenn Miller Orchestra, disappeared over the English Channel on his way to Paris, France to give a performance for American soldiers who had recently liberated Paris from the Germans. There is mystery surrounding his disappearance, and therefore there are numerous legends that have sprung up about what actually happened.

Here is what is supposedly known: His plane departed from the RAF airfield at Twinwood Farm in Clapham, Bedfordshire (no flight plan was actually filed and there were no authorized orders for any such flight) in a single-engine UC-64. The flight disappeared over the English Channel and was never found. It is theorized that inclement weather over the Channel caused the aircraft to crash.

Here is Dad’s story:  In the Fall of 1944, after his tour of 35 combat missions in B-17’s, he was assigned as a test pilot at The Depot in England. Here aircraft, mainly P-51 fighters that had been shot up, were repaired. The test pilots would take them up and make sure they held together before being released back for combat duty.

On the night of December 14^th, the Chief Test Pilot at the Depot, one of Dad’s superior officers, was involved in a long night of drinking with Glenn Miller which carried over into the early morning hours of December 15^th. Miller was scheduled to fly out to Paris in a day or so to meet up with the members of his band to put on a show for the troops there. The decision was made to squeeze in a couple of extra days in Paris by firing up the UC-64 and heading on over for a party. They were pretty drunk and should not have been flying. But they took off into the fog of that early English morning and were never heard from again. A few days later, Dad was assigned as Chief Test Pilot to take over for the missing officer.

Dad on right…next to the Depot’s UC-64

When it became apparent that Miller was missing and the facts of the drinking and party plans in Paris came to light, it was decided that it would be better to let the story be told, in as little detail as possible, that Miller was lost on his way to perform for the troops. An element of truth, but not the whole story.

Anyway, that’s Dad’s story and he stood by it.