August 18, 2026 Our Sixty-fifth Wedding Anniversary...a Lifetime of Beautiful Memories

     A few years ago, on one of my music CDs, I recorded my version of a Frank Sinatra ballad, “September of my Year.” It was an acknowledgement that I was rapidly becoming (and now I definitely have become!) a genuine senior citizen and was beginning to look back instead of looking forward. Today, I guess if I were to record the same song, I would have to entitle it “Christmas Season of my Year” since at the age of eighty-three I have become acutely aware of my mortality. 

      The difficulty in looking back is sometimes we become more aware of our past mistakes than we do of our accomplishments. I have had a good life; I was born into a solid, close-knit family which offered the security and comfort that children of today so seldom experience. My parents were church-going people, and we children learned early on the importance of establishing a personal relationship with God. That relationship has sustained me through more than one crisis in my life, and the eternal rewards of a relationship with our Creator cannot be overestimated. 

      However, it is in life decisions…those decisions which affect the quality of our lifetimes and yet not have a spiritual context…which sometimes become the tipping point toward happiness or strife. Over a period of nearly 70 years (since my early teens) I have made dozens of decisions, many of which I made on impulse…decisions made in an instant which have had lifetime implications. This little essay, however, is not a review of my brilliant or dumb decisions. It is an acknowledgement of the one event (other than my eternal relationship to God) which has made my life a testament of happiness and accomplishment. By the time I was ten years old, my parents had joined the Pentecostal church in Baytown, Texas, and were living solid Christian lives. As a youngster, my main reason for attending church was to see my friends there and create some sort of fun activity. 

      However, there was this girl…. her name was Shirley Creel, the daughter of the assistant pastor, who somehow kept capturing my attention, and, though I was not particularly interested in girls in general, somehow, she managed to sneak into my thoughts on a somewhat regular basis. But we were just kids, and the association was more on-again/off-again than anything serious. (How serious can you get at ten years of age.?) Things changed, however, once we reached the mid-teens, and our relationship rose to a new level…but the relationship was tenuous. For months we would be “going steady,” (mid-fifties terminology for boyfriend/girlfriend,) only to break up the relationship for some adolescent reason. The separation period would last a few months, and then some event or change of mind would take place, and we would be back to “going steady.” The last time we “made up” and became “steady” again was in the eleventh grade. 

      My homeroom class at Robert E. Lee High School was just before lunch, and I would stash my lunch bag from home in my locker there when I first arrived at school and then pick it up on the way to the cafeteria. On this one memorable day, when I unpacked my lunch in the cafeteria, there was a note which said, “Hi, Bobby! I’ve been told that the way to a boy’s heart is through his stomach, so I’m going to try!” And there in my lunch bag were some cookies Shirley had made. I fell like a ton of bricks…I had been missing her, anyway. Within two years, on August 18, 1961, we were married and meeting the world’s challenges together.

     During those first six years of marriage, we could put everything we owned in our car. We traveled light from Baytown to the United States Air Force (Bloomington, Indiana; San Angelo, Texas; West Berlin, Germany, San Antonio, Texas; back to Baytown.) By the time we arrived back in Baytown from the USAF, we had the first addition to our family, our son, which naturally changed the normal routine of our lives. We were suddenly burdened with…parenthood...responsibility. 

      Shirley’s mother had passed away from cancer when Shirley was in her teens, and she became a substitute mom for her three younger siblings. She took to the duties with the skill of a veteran. If anyone was born to be a mother, it was Shirley, so when our son came along, she was up for the motherly duties. To this day, she has a special way with infants, and they somehow sense that she is their friend. She can calm the most tempestuous child. 

      After we left the Air Force, I managed to graduate from the University of Houston and went to work for Sears, Roebuck and Company. This was back when Sear was the big dog in retailing and offered a promising career. However, circumstances changed when we gained the opportunity to move to Casper, Wyoming, and help her dad, Rev. James Creel, as he pastored a small Pentecostal church. 

      For seventeen years, we enjoyed Wyoming and the winter sports, fresh air, and laid-back atmosphere. However, even as we became more established, we still maintained our nomadic nature. In fact, in our first thirty years of marriage, we lived in twenty-seven different locations, primarily due to the military and in addition, I had gotten into real estate marketing in Casper and bought and sold houses when it was profitable or attractive. Since 1991, however, we have slowed down the movement considerably. We migrated back to Baytown in 1991, and since then we have lived in four homes, our present home being in Tomball, Texas. 

      During this now unbelievable sixty-five-year span, in times of financial struggle, health emergencies, losses of loved ones, and job changes, my beloved wife has always been at my side, loyal and unmoving. I have spent many days in the hospital in the last fifteen years, but I have never been in a hospital room alone. Shirley has always been there. During my darkest days and while in pain, I could always look over to the chair or sofa in the room and see the shadow of Shirley there. She was a very comforting sight. 

      As we have now entered our twilight years, Shirley and I have accumulated a wealth of memories. We have shared and enjoyed the blessings of a merciful God. August 18, 2026, marks our 65th year of marriage. We’ve seen children and grandchildren grow into responsible, successful adults. Our family has always been caring and close. Although Shirley and I have slowed down considerably, what has remained strong is our love and dependence on one another. 

      During my lifetime, I have been honored to serve in many capacities, and I have received honor from those I served, but the greatest honor of them all was when a beautiful young girl named Shirley Renee Creel said she would be my wife. All other honors pale when compared to that one, life changing moment when she said, “Yes.”

Chernobyl, "Wormwood", and Prophecy

      Within Christianity, and especially amongst Pentecostals, there has always been an intense interest in any present or future event which could be identified as a marker or clue that we are approaching the climax of the human age as we know it. Naturally, the primary source for prophetic utterances for the church community is the Bible. Within the Bible are several Old Testament books which deal heavily in prophecy, much of it geared toward Israel and its centuries-old struggle for survival. Many of these prophecies we have lived to see fulfilled even in this modern age. 

      What piques the interest of many church goers these days are prophecies concerning what we euphemistically call “the end of the world,” although it is far from that. Most of the clues concerning this time frame are found in the last book of the Bible, Revelation. Interestingly, when we think of Revelation, we think its primary purpose is to reveal the events of the end time, but John the Revelator, the author of the book, entitled his tome “The Revelation of Jesus Christ” in the first verse, indicating that the experiences he would described, although they would offer a chronology of events leading toward the end, were designed primarily to reveal to the world the true power and majesty of Jesus Christ. 

       Replete with imageries, metaphors, analogies, similes, visions, and colorful descriptions of cataclysmic events, the book of Revelation has been a source of intense discussion, controversy, and argument for centuries. Nowhere else in the Scriptures has interpretation of verses been so varied, and conclusions so jumbled as has been in the hosts of analyses of Revelation. I must confess to you…usually when the subject turns to prophecy and future events, I tend to get a little bored. It’s not that I have no concern, it’s just that I have found that people who are really into the study of prophecy tend to be like Republicans and Democrats, conservative and liberals, or Keynesian and Smith economists. They are dead set in their opinions, and to them, every scripture of prophecy is crystal clear in its meaning and there is neither negotiation nor compromise. My personal contention (and of course I won’t compromise, either) is that there is very little that is crystal clear in politics or economics…and especially prophecy. An additional reason I tend to breeze through prophecy is that I feel if a person maintains an active relationship with God, He has promised He will see us though every problem. So, whatever may come in the future, He has already said, “I am with you always, even to the end of the earth.” 

      The late Rev. Ervin Baxter was a renowned student of prophecy. Rev. Baxter had delved into Revelation for the better part of forty years and had developed a tremendous following because of his astute analyses of the events of biblical prophecy. He was analytical, thorough, articulate, and made his presentations in a manner that grabbed your attention and yet drove home the primary point that our first priority as living souls is to ensure that we have a relationship with God. Not just knowledge or awareness, but true personal communion with the Almighty. His subject for one of his seminars was “The Seven Trumpets” as described in Revelations 8-11. Another confession on my part: I had not read too much about the seven trumpets, so being a good servant, I decided to do a little homework in preparation for the lesson. I was surprised when, after looking at several reference discussions of Revelation, the consensus was the seven trumpets, each signifying a catastrophic event, were expected to occur sometime after the tribulation period, but no commentator was willing to hazard what each one meant. The plot thickened when Brother Baxter offered his take on the subject. 

      Rev. Baxter was a somewhat familiar face as he approached the podium. Especially since I subscribed to his weekly online newsletter where he gave analyses of current news which were a lot more astute than some I heard on CNN and FOX. Quickly getting into the subject at hand, the Seven Trumpets, he began to offer evidence that perhaps the seven trumpets as described in Revelations would not occur in rapid succession at the end time, but perhaps had already begun, starting with the first trumpet prophesying the events of the First World War, and the second trumpet describing the Second World War. I thought these were novel ideals, but he was able to offer some backup evidence, such as the second trumpet describing a conflict where one-third of the ships were sunk. Coincidentally, in WWII, out of over 100,000 ships from all the nations involved in the conflict, almost exactly one-third were sunk in combat. Interesting, I thought. But it was the third trumpet which caught my attention in earnest. Revelation 8: 10… “And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from Heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon a third part of the rivers and upon the fountain of waters. And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood, and many men died from the waters because they were made bitter.” 

      Brother Baxter then made the statement, “In the Russian language ‘chernobyl’ means ‘wormwood.’” This scripture, he said, was describing the nuclear disaster which occurred in Chernobyl, Ukraine, in 1986. At that time the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (Russia) was the dominant power and our Cold War enemy and was the controlling force in the area which is now independent Ukraine. On that day in 1986, a titanic explosion ripped through the Number Four reactor of the Chernobyl Nuclear Plant, blowing a 100-ton roof completely off and sending radioactive debris over a mile into the air and instantly contaminating everything within a thirty-mile radius, including the city of Chernobyl. The Soviet Union, with its security paranoia, did not announce the disaster to the world until the contamination began to drift over Europe. Hundreds of thousands of people were evacuated from the Chernobyl area, but death and sickness from radiation prevailed. The Soviets dubbed the area the “Zone of Alienation,” sealing the area off from anyone except those who were required to attempt the cleanup, thus sealing their own fates to radiation sickness. 

      On my cell phone I have a language application which can translate several different languages to any of several other languages. Since I have an interest and some experience in the Russian language, I quickly began to try to verify that “chernobyl” did in fact mean “wormwood.” No luck. I tried English-Russian, Russian-English, English-Ukranian, etc. with no success. I also have an application on my phone that has 26 versions of the Bible convertible into 25 different languages, including three Russian-produced versions of the Bible. I went to the Russian versions and found that полынь, or “polin” with an accent on the last syllable was the word for “wormwood.” Brother Baxter continued with his viewpoints on the other trumpets, but to be honest, I was researching everywhere I could find on my phone trying to find a chernobyl-wormwood connection. That afternoon I spent time on my computer trying to find the connection, and I was successful. “Chernobyl” is the Russian word for artemesia vulgaris, which refers to a plant which grows to a height of 3-4 feet in the area of Chernobyl. In English the plant is known as mugwort or “common wormwood.” 

      Prior to 1986 both Russian and Ukranian dictionaries included wormwood as a secondary definition for chernobyl, but since that year, coincidentally the year of the disaster, the secondary definition of wormwood for chernobyl has been expunged from Russian and Ukrainian dictionaries. Additionally, Revelation refers to a star falling from the sky. The Greek word for star also refers to “strewn over the sky” as in radiating. Could what John have described as a star actually been a radiating explosion? In 1992, a Russian research center, the Kurchatov Institute, issued a “manifest” (statement) describing the official version of events surrounding the explosion of 1986 and the subsequent relocation of citizens. In it the statement is made that “polin” is a Russian word and means “chernobyl.” Since “polin” translates to “wormwood” in English, the connection can be loosely made that “chernobyl” means “wormwood.” Connecting Chernobyl to wormwood is noteworthy, but something else I discovered is much more amazing. 

      In 1986 after the explosion, the Soviets embarked on a massive cleanup operation of the Chernobyl area. The city of Chernobyl became a ghost town and thousands of inhabitants had to be relocated to safe areas. For years after the disaster the “Zone of Alienation” was restricted with no access allowed. Due to the magnitude of the buildup and the knowledge that the process would take years, the Soviets gave the cleanup an all-encompassing name…Проект Полынь…Project Polin, or Project Wormwood. I find that fact to be astounding. The Soviets and their military in those days were our adversaries, and yet like all military machines, there were many remarkable similarities in operations. Even today, the U.S. military gives each of its activities a special name, such as “Operation Overlord” and “Operation Freedom.” However, during the years of the Cold War, if the operation was somewhat secretive and not to be publicized, operative names were usually dictionary words which were not used in normal conversation to avoid compromising the activity. “Wormwood” was not a commonly used word and sufficed to identify an operation which the Soviets did not wish to publicize. 

      We know that there have been Pentecostals in Russia since the early 20th century. With the Communist Party firmly in charge after the October Revolution of 1917, most Christians went underground but managed to survive even during the Stalinist Purges. Somewhere in the heart of the Russian military or scientific command after the explosion at Chernobyl, there was a committee which made the decisions concerning the cleanup of Chernobyl. That committee made a decision to name their work “Project Wormwood.” Think about this…only one of the 21 apocalyptic events described in Revelation was given a proper noun as a name by John the Revelator, and it was an unusual, obscure name at that…Wormwood. What are the odds that the name associated with the single worst disaster ever created by man just coincidentally carries that same name as its dictionary definition and is the same name as mentioned in Revelation 8:11? Could there have been on that Soviet science committee in charge of cleaning up the disaster a “closet” Christian who understood the book of Revelation and recognized the enormity of the Chernobyl disaster? Or was the committee an unknowing pawn in the progression of God’s will and were merely fulfilling the prophecy written two thousand years before? This prophecy thing may be more interesting than I thought! 

      P.S. Fascinating facts about Chernobyl: Today, 40 years after the explosion, the area around Chernobyl has become the largest wildlife sanctuary in Europe. It is a flourishing and sometimes unearthly wilderness teeming with large animals and birds, many of them members of rare and endangered species. Many people, elderly and sick from radiation and homesickness, have moved back into their abandoned homes and are continuing to live. The forests, fields, water, people, and animals are all radioactive. Cesium-137 is packed in their muscles and strontium-90 is packed in their bones, and yet all are not just surviving, but are thriving. Tourists and scientists visit the area on a regular basis, securely covered in radiation-proof clothing and carrying radiation meters. Chernobyl has become a testament to Earth’s ability to withstand the most devastating calamity.

Into The Batter's Box...

      To those people who love baseball, I have heard the analogy that stepping into the batter’s box to face a pitcher is a microcosm of life.  The pitcher, like life itself, is determined to throw a pitch that you cannot hit and thus defeat you by striking you out.  The batter is determined, at the same time, to take the challenge thrown to him, hit a homerun, and enjoy the fruits of victory and the accolades of the crowd...in other words, to be successful against life’s challenges. One thing we can be certain of, life (the opposing pitcher) will be throwing us curveballs and unexpected pitches as long as we live.  How we face life’s adversities will determine the level of success we enjoy.  I have stepped into the batter’s box on numerous occasions and have had a measure of success due to the support and prayers of family, friends, church, and God.

   In the fall of 2008, I began my ignominious relationship with the “Big C,” cancer.  You haven’t really lived until you have a doctor look you in the eye and say, “You have cancer.”  It definitely changes your perspective and priorities.  The diagnosis was hairy cell leukemia…oddly named due to the leukemia cells appearing under a microscope to have a light, hairy surface.  It is a disease where the white blood cells drop to near zero.  White blood cells are those which offer resistance to outside diseases and germs.  But with God’s help and the skilled crew at MD Anderson Cancer Clinic, I was able to beat the disease and look forward to a remaining life of health and happiness.  

     Until 2010 that is, when I noticed this irritating spot on my arm that would not heal.  I decided to visit my friendly doctor who suggested a biopsy which returned with the C-word again…a melanoma.  A little surgery, from which I still bear the scar, took care of the problem, and I was on my way again.

    The next four years saw a smooth health cycle, but by mid-2014, my white blood count was going through the roof.  Sure enough, further testing determined I had contracted Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia.  With CLL, the white blood cells do the opposite of what happens with hairy cell leukemia…the count goes through the roof.  This time, the doctor said, I would not have to come in for infusions but rather take a pill a day.  I decided that was great, until I went to the MD Anderson pharmacy.  As the pharmacist was preparing my ticket, I noticed the price…$11,100.00 for 28 pills!  I nearly bolted out of the pharmacy, but she said, “Your co-pay is $50.00!”  Thank God for good insurance!

     Within a few months, the CLL came under control, the expensive pills were cancelled, and life went on, but in the summer of 2015, I noticed an irritating spot above my right eye.  By this time, with my history of cancer, any blemish was biopsied, and, sure enough, I needed to have surgery for basil cell carcinoma.

    Fast forward to 2020, and a new challenge popped up.  In my routine annual exam, my PSA count was discovered to be high.  With examination and biopsies, it was determined I had prostate cancer. By now I was using Willowbrook Methodist as my primary medical resource because of our move from Baytown to Spring.  The prostate treatment consisted primarily of radiation, which was successful after about six months.

    In the fall of 2024, I had been experiencing an irritation on my left temple...a sensitive spot that would just not go away.  My friendly dermatologist diagnosed it as a squamous cell carcinoma which was biopsied and determined to be cancerous.  So within a couple weeks of diagnosis, I received fourteen tiny stitches on the spot where the carcinoma had been removed.  The stitches were so small the incision couldn't be seen a year later.

   Now we come to the fall of 2025.  In my annual physical, it was discovered my white count was indeed going south again (hairy cell leukemia.)  At first, my blood count was just slightly receding, so with blood tests monthly, the direction of the count was monitored.  However, by January 2026, the danger point had been reached, and the result was I began chemotherapy treatments for hairy cell leukemia on Monday, February 10, 2026.  Interestingly, I was taking the same type of chemo…Cladribine and Retuximab, as I took in 2008.  I had been down this road before, so I expected a good outcome. After weeks of infusions and constant blood monitoring, on August 22, 2026, I received the medical report I was praying for: "No trace of leukemia noted."

   To get back to the original analogy at the beginning of this essay, Old Man Cancer has pitched six pitches toward me.  I have now been successful with all six challenges, thanks I believe in a great part to the prayers and support of family, many wonderful friends, and the blessings of a merciful God. The facts are…at the age of 83, I am still mobile, fairly alert (depends on who you ask,) and of reasonably right mind.  In spite of all the “bumps in the road of life,” with the help of God, His people, an incredible wife, a loving family, and supportive friends, I can truly say that I am a highly blessed man.

The Passages (Stages) of Life

 

     In Gail Sheehy’s classic textbook of human development, “Passages,” she discusses the various periods of life (“passages”) one experiences as life evolves from infancy to advanced maturity.  Youth, with its excitement of exploration and discovery, inevitably leads to the highly productive middle years in which we exercise with maximum energy our greatest creativity.  It is during these middle passages (there are various stages even within this middle period) that we create families, fortune, and fame, and the challenges of creating drives us and keeps us at a peak operating efficiency due primarily because we are young enough to be healthy and physically able to handle the tasks of 24-hour parenting, planning, and producing.

   Coupled with this drive to create is a certain feeling of indestructibility. Although an incomprehension of our mortality is evident from the early days of youth, the compelling evidence which we observe on a regular basis…deaths and illnesses of friends and loved ones combined with life-changing accidents and events, has little impact on our personal conviction that “none of these things will ever happen to me,” or “this thing may happen to me, but it will be sometime far into the future.”  This personal concept of indestructibility can sometimes work toward a positive outcome and is why younger generations are usually more willing risk takers.  It is the reason they don’t hesitate to attempt to beat the odds in physical activities, business, or personal relations no matter how stacked against them the odds may be.

    Inevitably…and in the passages of life the word “inevitably” is sprinkled throughout the entire life process, once we have survived our years of maximum production and activity, the period of deactivation begins.  It is during this period that working overtime no longer has great appeal regardless of the extra pay, and, where an uneventful evening was once considered lost time, a quiet evening at home is now highly anticipated.  The children have long since left the nest, and now there are grandchildren visiting.  The grandchildren are loved dearly, and when they visit it is an exciting, joyous time, but once children and grandchildren have said goodbye and gone back to their home, we heave a big sigh of relief and collapse on the sofa. 

    The most anticipated event of this period of life passage, however, is probably retirement from full-time work.  Having worked fifty or more years on average and hopefully been fortunate enough to have a retirement plan, the freedom from a full time work obligation creates endless opportunities for activities which have been put on the back burner for years due to work restraints.  Travel, recreation, hobbies, and various other enjoyable activities are now within reach, and the anticipation of this “free time” is what motivates many experienced workers as they see their retirement day approaching.

    One of the beauties of retirement is the clock ceases to be your master.  No longer burdened with the time requirements of employment, use of the clock’s alarm pleasantly diminishes.  Leisurely breakfasts can be enjoyed at will, and each day becomes a blank schedule which can be filled in at the whim of the retiree.  Want to be busy?  Fill in the schedule.  Want to lay low?  Keep it blank.  It is a lifestyle almost incomprehensible to the middle passage person with a full schedule of parenting, working, and managing a home.  Mention retirement to a middle passage person and that same glazed-eye look appears on his/her face as when we try to talk to children about finding jobs when they grow up.

    At the same time, the challenge of parenting, working, and managing a home, though we wistfully look forward to the day when these obligations are passed, satisfies for the middle passage person a critical requirement…a fulfillment of dependency.  The drive for success during the middle passages is fueled by the knowledge that others are dependent upon our productivity.  Parents are driven to provide for their children.  An employee’s production affects the success of his manager, and a manager affects the working environment of his/her employees.  In short, we want someone to need us.  We strive to be good parents, employees, or managers because we would like to think that someone needs us to do well.

   Retirement, with all its free time, takes away this fulfillment.  Since we are no longer productive members of the workforce, there are no employees anxiously awaiting our management decisions.  There are no bosses anywhere impatiently waiting for us to show up so the big problem of the day can be solved   Even at home, there are no lunches to prepare for workers or students.  We can leave our schedules open for the day because no one needs us.  That perception can extend to family.  With children now grown and faced with fighting their own parenting wars with our grandchildren, we feel that, though we may be concerned observers, we are not required as our children carve out their own destinies.

    The result of this perceived lack of need can be a nagging depression, especially if the perception of uselessness is within the home.  Faced with a lack of obligations, retirees can easily retreat within themselves to the point that though a husband and wife have fought the parenting and working wars for years together, once the battles have been survived, each one enters a personal cocoon replete with his/her own personal activities, preferences, and interests.  Seldom sharing moments of common interest, they intensify the isolation to the point that in time they become strangers sharing only a roof over their heads.

    In most cases, of course, this perceived lack of need is just that…a perception.  Husbands and wives still love, children and grandchildren still love, and friends are still friends. Psychologists, however, will attest that many of our thoughts and actions are based on perceptions and not actual facts.  With that in mind, retirees must initiate active attempts to deflect any signs of depression encountered upon retirement by any member of the household.   During the middle passage years, there is a feeling of camaraderie while a couple works together to raise a family and provide for its general welfare, but upon entering the later passages when retirement has come and the children have gone, that feeling of working together for a common cause can vanish.  The truth is, that feeling needs to morph into a realization that close personal support and companionship are needed more than ever.  Their personal bonds of love and need, cultivated years before during courtship and enriched during a life of sharing, need to be strengthened, not weakened.

    I penned the following poem the year I turned sixty years old.  Although it was written pre-retirement, the gist of the message still applies today.

Nothing Rhymes with Sixty!

Nothing rhymes with sixty as one turns the annual page.

Nothing rhymes with sixty.  It’s an awkward, frustrating age!

Too young to be old; too old to be young,

Obsessed with the fear your song’s already been sung.

The memories of the past grow stronger, yet fade,

While the future once dreamed seems fainter in life’s shade.

Helpless and hapless, trapped in time’s ceaseless tide,

Then saved from the gloom by, “Hey Papaw!  Come outside!”

The message becomes clear; it’s not the future or past

But the present is where our legacy is cast.

Children and grandchildren, the love of a wife,

The closeness of a family…therein lies life.

With His hand to guide us as we travel along

Everything rhymes with sixty…if you play the right song. 

Tempelhof Central Airport, West Berlin, Tour of Head Building East, Sixth Floor, 1965

     On March 3, 1965, I landed in West Berlin to begin my stint with the 6912th Security Squadron.  I had finished my Russian language training at Indiana University and intelligence training at Goodfellow AFB in San Angelo, Texas and was now ready to put my training to work as a Russian linguist. 

   The 6912^th was based at Tempelhof Central Airport, a civilian airport dating from the early 1900s.  Tempelhof consisted of one massive building nearly nine/tenths of a mile long in a incomplete circular shape.  The 6912^th was situated in the easternmost section of the building, referred to as Head Building East. The operations center was located on the sixth floor, with the other floors dedicated to personnel, logistics, storage, and gym.

    On the first day of arrival at the 6912^th, a new linguist was given a tour of the sixth floor with brief explanations of the tasks each section performed.  The following paragraphs are a review of what the new arrival would have heard from his tour guide.  This information is excerpted from Cold War Warrior: A Memoir written by Retired MSGT Warren “Molly” Knight.  When I read it for the first time, I was flooded with memories of those days long past.

    Airman Jim approaches you and begins:

    “Hi, my name's Jim. Call me Tank. Before you ask, I am a Dash-A.   Again, before you ask, that means German linguist.   Let's start back at the entry door to this floor.  Here is the security box to the door…remember the code…don't write it down.  The code will change from time to time.  If you forget it or miss out on the change, you can use the phone located right there near the box, and someone inside will come and open the door for you.   The only problem with that approach is if they are busy and no one comes along to hear the phone ringing… well, you know how that goes.  When that happened to me once, I just reached in there and punched all the buttons with a properly irritated smack.  Then some nice air policeman came up to the elevator and another up the stairs and let me in.  They were not pleased, so I don't recommend that approach.  Remember the code.

     “The door over to your left is our Armory.  If there is an alert and your assignment causes you to need to be armed, there's where you'll pick up your weapon and any required communication device.  Otherwise, you might be assigned to destruction or burning or maybe even trying to figure out what is going on by means of your regular job.

    “Back through the main door and to the right is the part of our crew who works in the dark and writes with grease pencils (Radar.)  They have fascinating equipment.  You could end up working in there.  If you don't, sometime when you and they are not busy, get them to show you the things they can see and do with their equipment.  It is indeed fascinating.

    “Further down the hallway here is the inside phone I was telling you about.  It is a non-secure line.  If you hear it ringing, answer it by repeating the phone number and that's it.  Say no more; you might be asked to go get someone here on the floor.  Do so.

   “Through this door straight ahead is where you'll be working...at least initially.  Over here to the right is the ditty-bop (Morse Code) position, and that fellow there is an analyst.  He can read what the ditty-bop types and write what it means backwards.

   “Directly behind that position is the Search position.  You will be trained to work there as a short-term rotating task.  I'll likely be the person who shows you how to do that when it comes up.  Over there further to the right is the I/A (Intelligence/ Analysis) Coordinator's desk.  They don't relieve (change shifts) when everyone else does, and they talk on the intercom.  Every now and then, they'll jump up, type up a short teletype tape, and send a message off to someone elsewhere.

   “The room behind them is where you'll store your headsets and pick up a patch cord from one of the pegs there on the wall.  Make sure your operator number is on your headsets. Never use someone else's headset…it's not healthy and it erases the frequencies the headset is good for. (joke)

   “You will learn how to operate those tape players in that row while holding one of your headset speakers to your ear with your shoulder, making the tape go forward with your foot and backwards with your finger…all the while typing.   You'll get so good at it that you can do it without thinking, but you do need to be sober.

   “And this device is a degausser.  It erases tapes.  You put the tape on this way, flip this switch, turn the tape in this direction slowly with your finger…hear that buzzing growl? Turn your body in this direction.  If you don't do it just like I told you, the machine will sterilize you.  You will have no children.  You do not decide which tapes are to be degaussed.  Sergeant XXXXXX makes that decision for the dash A’s (German linguists.)

    “See that wall of audio tapes?  If anyone asks you where we should store them, don't say the basement.  We did that one winter.  It got so cold down there that the oxide fell off the tapes.

    “Here in the center of the big room is the Mission Supervisor’s desk.  His job is to worry. Don't irritate him…he's got enough to worry about.

   “The fellow over there wearing the headsets with a microphone and leashed to the thing that looks like a dog run cable is the Voice Controller.   He'll be your immediate boss.  He'll know what you're working on at all times…that's his job.

   “You'll note that there is an air conditioner in every blacked-out window over behind those receiver consoles.  In fact, they're all along the wall and into the adjacent rooms.  It surely causes the German nationals who might be out around the hangar to wonder about all those air conditioners running at full blast in the middle of winter when it's freezing out.  They keep the smoke down in here, too.  It's not part of your job to adjust the air conditioners, but you will note a number of people working in their T-shirts.

   “On the other side of the ditty-bop room is the door to the Communication Center.  Don't try to go in there.  The people who work there have different badges.  They are trained to glare at you if you try to go in there.  In this doorway here to the left is where the Reporters work. They look at the information the Analyst writes backwards on the other side of that translucent wall so the Reporter can see it forward.  Then the Reporters write little reports and hand them through that window to someone in the Communication Center for further communication.  As we keep going through this door, we'll see where the Flight Commander's desk is located.  He spends a lot of time in the Reporters’ area when not otherwise commanding.  Beyond that is where the Voice Analysts work.  They separate 6-ply pads into one-ply stacks and package up the stacks for the Courier.  You might be assigned to this section after a while.  Otherwise, expect to work a few hours on some midshifts helping with the stacking and packing.

   “Back out to the main room and further back through the door at the end is the Blue Room (Electronic Surveillance.) These people work in the dark, too, but there's always an eerie light from their gear.  I cross-trained back there for a few months when they were running a little short.  Great job!

   “The burn room is back here in the corner.  Flip that switch on for the exhaust, put a burning paper in there on the hearth, turn that valve, and pray.  Don't blow the place up.  Turn it off in the reverse order.  My roommate will likely be the one to train you in burn-bag burning.  He loves to have burn duty because we do that on midshifts, and if you get the hang of it you can get the job done in a couple of hours, tidy up the room, and head back for a needed shower as you do sweat in the burn room.  That metal ladder is a way you get to the roof and our gear (antennas) up there.  Maybe I can show you around there someday.

   “In this little room is where we store the floor mopping and waxing equipment.  Until you get a little rank or some time in grade, you’ll become familiar with this equipment when our Flight has midshift on a Sunday.  You'll agree that’s a fine looking, heavy-duty mop and mop-wringer bucket.  There's no finer mop-ringer bucket anywhere.  Learn to use it right.  Don't even think about running the buffer until you have been properly trained.  A buffer operator cannot be bouncing off our people or our equipment.  That's it.

   “I'll turn you back over to Sergeant XXXXXXX who will probably get you some side-saddle time with one of the old timers today.  Be advised…that in no training anywhere have they prepared you for the massive explosion you're going to hear in your headsets here at Tempelhof.”

                                                      End of Tour

    My first impression upon listening was the incredibly poor quality of the Russian transmissions, and I began to realize that I was about to embark on the most challenging mission of my life.  Over the next two years, technology helped improve voice quality, but, even at best, listening, comprehending, translating, and deciphering communications required every ounce of concentration one could muster. 

    In September of 2011, many of us who served in West Berlin during those exciting years of the Cold War reunited in Berlin for a last reunion.  Time had done to us what the Soviets could not do.  But even Father Time cannot diminish the patriotic pride felt by those who were the Silent Warriors of the Cold War.  We did our job.

 

 

Memorial Day, 2025

      To many, Memorial Day is the unofficial beginning of summer. Memorial Weekend is a time of relaxation with family gatherings, barbecue on the grill, civic parades, and celebrations, and, if one is a race fan…the running of the Indianapolis 500, which has been run during every Memorial Day weekend since 1911. 

      However, the true purpose of Memorial Day is much more somber. It is a day and a moment in which a grateful nation pauses to remember the men and women who have died while serving in the U.S. military defending our country against those who would do us harm. The holiday is not to be confused with Veterans’ Day held in November, which is meant to honor all military personnel, both living and dead. On Memorial Day, we give special honor to those who have paid the supreme sacrifice that we may enjoy the freedoms we hold dear today. 

      Memorial Day first began as Decoration Day in 1868 after the American Civil War. It was first commemorated at Arlington National Cemetery when 5,000 volunteers decorated the graves of 20,000 Union and Confederate soldiers who are buried there. At that time, the nation was still reeling from the effects of four years of civil war, which to this day is the most devastating war in our history. There were more casualties in the Civil War than all other wars the U.S. has fought from that time to the present, and tragically, in many instances, it was brother against brother. Of the 1.1 million military casualties the U.S. has suffered since 1862, 600,000 were lost in the civil war alone.  As the twentieth century wars took their toll with WWI and WWII, the Korean Conflict, the Vietnam War, and now our present struggle against terrorism, Memorial Day, as it has come to be known, has evolved into our honoring all military personnel who have died while in service of their country. 

     For the first 100 years, Memorial Day was observed on May 30, but in 1968 Congress changed the date to the last Monday in May to allow for the public to enjoy a three-day holiday. Many states resisted the changing of the date at the time because they felt it would undermine the meaning of the day, and time has proven that the three-day holiday has contributed to the public’s somewhat nonchalant observance of the day’s purpose. 

     There are still some traditional observances which occur on Memorial Day. 

    (1) At most military cemeteries and federal office buildings on Memorial Day, the flag of the United States is briskly raised to its topmost position on the flagpole, then slowly and solemnly lowered to the half-staff position only until noon, at which time it is again raised to full staff the remainder of the day. The half-staff position is to honor the more than one million heroes who have given their lives in service to their country. At noon, the flag is raised to honor the living who have resolved not to let the sacrifices of the fallen be in vain, but to rise in their stead to continue the fight for liberty. 

    (2) In the shadows of the nation’s capital in Washington, D.C., the National Memorial Day Concert takes place, and… 

   (3) At exactly 3:00 p.m. local time across the nation, citizens are encouraged to pause for a moment of silence and remembrance for our fallen soldiers. 

     On May 3, 1915, Colonel John McCrae, an officer with the Canadian army in the Flanders area of Belgium during the First World War, observed after months of fighting that the poppy flower seemed to grow well around the graves of young fallen soldiers. He was inspired to write this poem which is written from the viewpoint of the dead and speaks of their sacrifice and serves as their command to the living to press on: 

                                                          In Flanders Fields. 

 In Flanders field the poppies grow 

 Between the crosses, row on row 

 That mark our place, and in the sky 

 The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Robert Downing  1967   2017

 Scarcely heard amid the guns below. 

 We are the Dead.  Short days ago 

 We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow 

 Loved, and were loved, and now we lie 

 In Flanders field 

 Take up our quarrel with the foe 

 To you from failing hand we throw 

 The torch, be yours to hold it high. 

 If ye break faith with us who die 

 We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

 In Flanders fields. 

 In 1918, inspired by the poem, a woman named Moina Michael attended a memorial wearing a silk poppy pinned to her coat and distributed over two dozen to others present. Within two years the poppy had become the official symbol of remembrance. 

 Today we enjoy spiritual freedom because of the supreme sacrifice of our savior. As we enjoy our families and celebrate over this holiday period, may we also give honor to those who also made the supreme sacrifice to make our country’s freedom possible. In the words of Abraham Lincoln…” May we resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain---that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom---and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” 

 May God bless the United States of America.

An Unusual Church Service

      This little essay is meant primarily for those church-going folk of the Pentecostal ilk; however, if you consider yourself to be a believer who enjoys a somewhat spontaneous church service and thinks that God can actually take an active, personal interest in your wellbeing, you’re welcome to read on. It is a description of a recent church service I had the privilege to attend and a few personal observations about what it tells me about the church in general and the direction it is going. The Pentecostal faith in general is blessed with pastors and evangelists who are dedicated, passionate, and truly concerned about the souls in whom they come in contact. Their messages to the various congregations are usually intense, uplifting, and designed to help their followers to walk the straight and narrow in our quest for salvation. Services are usually concluded with the congregation feeling encouraged, blessed, and forgiven. Occasionally, services end differently…not badly, but differently. 

      It was an evening service not too long ago. The minister, an evangelist, stepped to the pulpit and delivered a soul-searching message to the listeners. This time however, at the end of his message there was not the usual loud praising and shouting accompanied by the obligatory cacophonic music. Rather, while preaching of dedication, commitment, and sacrifice, he broached on the concept of “travailing” in one’s search for God’s will. “Travail” can be a noun or verb, but its primary meaning is “very hard work.” The Scriptures use the word “travail” when describing a woman giving birth or when a soul is experiencing a period of extreme adversity. It also uses the same term when describing the “travailing” church as it gives birth to new souls born into the Kingdom. As the evangelist begin to reach the end of his sermon, there was an interesting process of events. Listeners from all over the congregation began to walk to the front altar area to kneel and pray. No music…no order or plea from the pulpit to come forward…just an instantaneous response from those who wished to draw closer to their God. Within a few moments a strange sound began to rise from those in the altar area. It was not the sound of loud praise or joyous shouting, but more of a low moaning or a loud groaning. It reached a crescendo that filled the large auditorium. 

      At this point, I have a confession…I did not go to the front. I was anticipating surgery in a few weeks, and I was in such pain I could barely walk, so I was sitting in the back row of the church, praying as fervently as I could. As I was sitting there, I looked up just as a woman sat down next to me. This lady, middle aged, had been a respected member of the church for a few years, but compared to us grizzled old veterans, was still relatively new (anything under 15 years is new) to the church. I was stunned at the question she asked me. “Brother Downing,” she asked intensely, “what is happening? Are we in mourning for something? Why are so many crying? I have never been in a service like this.” It was clear she did not recognize the soul searching that many people were experiencing at the moment. In a few words, I attempted to explain to her that those who were weeping or appeared distraught were not expressing grief but were simply reaching out to God in a spirit of sacrifice and deeper worship. She seemed relieved and expressed again that she had never been in such a service. 

       In talking with some of my fellow oldsters later, the service and its impact was the topic of discussion, and the general consensus was that this kind of service which calls a person to go beyond the standard level of praise was occurring less and less often with the unfortunate result being we have church goers who have never progressed beyond the infancy stage in their spiritual maturity. Why are we experiencing fewer services and sermons which call the members to a higher level of dedication and service? 

      I think the reason is very clear, and, to put it into a somewhat youthful vernacular…these types of services are not “fun.” Think about these facts: The primary demographic target of any sort of church outreach is the 18–25-year-old age bracket. Most church music is written by 20-somethings for 20-somethings. Most church services are choreographed to be high energy, high active, pulsating periods of praise. And why not? The youth live for excitement and activity, and the best way to draw them to church is to offer the same level of energy. Besides, joyous praise is inherent in a Christian’s walk with God anyway. It would be hard to experience “joy unspeakable” as described in the Scriptures without some sort of active praise. This essay is not to denigrate nor minimize the need for enthusiastic praise in any way. The song says it clearly, “When I think of the goodness of Jesus and all He has done for me, my soul cries out ‘hallelujah!’ Praise God for saving me!” A sinner saved by the grace of God cannot help but praise. But the service which calls us to offer sacrifice, travail, or greater spiritual dedication does not cause us to shout, dance, scream, yell, or praise, and therein lies the problem. A call to sacrifice is not a popular sermon for a minister and it does not appeal to our normal human instinct of self-preservation. It is not popular because it requires both minister and member to go beyond praise and into the realm of worship. The process of worship goes far beyond what we refer to as praise, and the words are not interchangeable. 

       A recent Pentecostal Herald magazine had as its primary subject the need for praise and worship in our churches, and I was astounded to discover that in most of the articles the writers didn’t have the foggiest idea that there was any difference in the two. Writers emphasized the need for worship while quoting scriptures which discussed praise and vice versa. And yet the two concepts are worlds apart. Praise is the enthusiastic recognition of God’s blessings and is evidenced in practically every book in the Bible. Psalm 150:6 “Praise Him with the psaltery…harp…timbrel…dance…stringed instruments…organ…loud cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!” It’s hard to praise quietly. Worship involves an active dedication to God. It is not a measurement of decibels but a measurement of your actions. I Chronicles 16:29 “Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.” Psalm 95:6 “Oh come, let us worship and bow down. Let us kneel.” Matthew 2:11 “And when they were come into the house, they…fell down and worshipped him.” 

      Every instance of worship mentioned in the Bible involved some combination of altar, bowing, and dedication. It was a reverential act of commitment. Worship is much more intense, personal, and introspective, and occurs only when we have gone beyond the level of simple praise. It is through the communion of worship that we both gain strength to face adversity and truly communicate with our God. Praise alone will not sustain a soul bent on being faithful to God. In Ecclesiastes 3:1, the preacher eloquently tells us “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” He lists a litany of events which each of us faces during our human existence on this earth. Being careful not to add to the scriptures, I would like to offer this also: There is a time to praise and a time to worship. We need both.

Confessions of a Car Junkie

 

 

    Many men (well, maybe most) have some sort of weakness which, should a temptation approach them that appeals to their innate psychological Achilles tendon, causes them to turn into weak-kneed bowls of jelly totally unable to offer any resistance.  To some it may be the evil vices of booze, or smoking, or gambling…maybe even the irresistible attraction of the opposite gender.  But for me and a generation of kids who grew up in my era of youth, namely the fifties and sixties, it was the magnetic attraction of the American automobile.  It’s possible that I inherited my addiction from my dad who loved cars and was a “Mercury man” for nearly thirty years, but whatever the source, by the time I turned twelve I knew the engine size, horsepower, weight, length, width, height, and color choices for every automobile manufactured for the current year by the Big Three (Ford Motor Company, General Motors, and Chrysler Corporation.)  Back in those days, most new model cars were introduced to the public around the first of every October.  Shiny new models were well kept secrets, delivered to dealers while under heavy canvas hidden from prying eyes until the Holy Day of Revelation.  On the Blessed Day there would be hundreds of people at the showrooms to see the latest offerings from the manufacturers.   I have seen police at local dealerships directing traffic because of the demand to see the new models of various cars.  Most dads took their sons to football games; my dad took me to every new car showing in Baytown.  I was there the day the first 1958 Edsel was uncovered at the dealership on Commerce Street and heard a couple hundred people gasp at its radical styling.  On the day the 1964 Ford Mustang debuted, I had to park blocks away from the dealership and had to wait several minutes before I could even get inside the dealership due to the crowd of gawkers.  I had stacks of brochures and studied them thoroughly.  I knew more about the cars than the salespeople did.

    The 1950s were the golden age of the American automobile.  Unrestricted by oil limitations, gas prices, EPA mileage requirements, or federal guidelines, and blessed with highly imaginative stylists with carte blanche to design the dream car for the masses, the American automotive industry created some of the most distinctive, outlandish, and memorable automobiles in the history of transportation.  Each major brand of automobile boasted a distinctive profile (’59 Cadillac fins!) that made each model recognizable from any reasonable distance and generated an owner loyalty to the marques which is distinctly absent in today’s market.  Automobile manufacturers of today, encumbered by EPA mileage requirements, high energy prices, safety regulations, international competition, and globalization of the markets are forced to create generic cars, predictable in design, uninspiring in appeal, and indistinguishable from competitive brands.  Ninety percent of automobiles on the road today would be unidentifiable if viewed from a shadow profile.

    Please note that up until this point I haven’t mentioned quality of product.  Whereas the fifties set of wheels glittered with miles of shiny chrome, glass, and rainbows of colors, the standard warranty was 90 days or 3,000 miles, and extended warranties were unheard of.  When an automobile hit 70,000-80,000 miles, it was usually time for a major engine overhaul, and brakes and tires were worn out in well under 40,000 miles.  The American auto industry had not yet discovered the value of building a quality product; their specialty was building a car which would blind you with its styling and make you not even care about the expensive upkeep.  Today’s cars, however bland and styling-deficient they may be, far outshine their ancestors in durability and safety.  Unfortunately for today’s manufacturers, the first reaction to practically anything comes from a visual impression, and the cars of today just don’t get the blood churning like their predecessors.  Even the so-called SUVs so prevalent today have degenerated into an indistinguishable pile of mediocrity with each manufacturer unashamedly copying their perceived competitors’ products.  The creative, bar-raising, boundary-busting automotive model is nowhere in sight.  I had high hopes for the Tesla, the all-electric luxury vehicle created by an individual (wealthy) genius unrestricted by the closed culture of the automotive giants, but the Tesla’s styling is, at best, mundane and unexciting.

     However I may moan and groan about the state of the modern automobile, it hasn’t stopped me from buying them.  Since I drove my first 1954 Mercury off the lot in 1959, I have been privileged to own 140 different vehicles…a total of 33 different brands, foreign and domestic.  Granted, I have slowed down recently to about a car or two per year, but back in the earlier days, I apparently was seeking the Holy Grail of automobiledom and therefore had a tendency to look longingly at a different models on a somewhat regular basis.

  I have always liked two-seater sports cars, preferably with convertible tops.  I’ve never been much of a truck person.  I recently read that of all the trucks sold in the United States today, over 60% of them are never used as trucks for hauling. Truck manufacturers have done a masterful job of relating truck ownership to manhood, so “drivin’ mah one-ton dooley” satisfies the macho male ego more than anything else.  I realize that some trucks are used for work, but otherwise, why someone would drive a bulbous, wallowing, thirsty, bouncy, non-stylish vehicle around is beyond me.  I was hooked on sports cars after I bought my first one…a 1961 Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce.  It was a red, high-revving Italian job with double overhead cams and Weber carbs back when most American iron was just discovering overhead valves.  It could turn on a dime and give you a nickel change.  I taped a microphone back near the rear wheel, turned on the recorder, and went screaming around corners while going up through the gears and listening to the tires screech.  Afterward, I played that tape over and over at home.  Cheap thrills.  In later times came eight MGs, a couple of Triumphs, and even a Fiat X/19 (the only car I would not drive anywhere without my toolbox.)  I traded the Fiat for a Lincoln Town Car…sort of one extreme to another.

   One of the coolest cars I ever owned was a 1981 Gazelle, a 1929 Mercedes SSK fiberglass kit car built on a Ford chassis.  I didn’t build it…it was professionally built and beautiful.  Used to have girls follow me in their cars wanting to go for a ride.  Since I wasn’t in the mood for any marital stress, I eventually sold the Gazelle.  One of the quickest cars I ever owned was a 1968 American Motors AMX, a two-seat sports car built by AMC for a few years.  Small, light, with a 390 V8 and four-speed, it would scream through the gears.  It wasn’t much on stopping though…this was before disc brakes came along.  One of the prettiest cars I ever bought was a new 1979 Chevy Monte Carlo…one of the first models with glass T-tops.  It was a beautiful car, but in summer the glass roof let in way too much heat, and you baked even with the AC on full blast.  Looked good with the glass roof off, though. 

    I got interested in Saabs for a few years and owned four.  Saabs were built by weird Swedish engineers and were a little quirky. The ignition key was in the middle of the console between the front seats.  But a Saab drove and handled like a sports car, and it was one of the first manufacturers to offer turbocharged engines.  They were very quick for the time.  However, they were a little problem prone.  Son Bobby drove one from Wyoming to the University of Houston and had car trouble driving south, while he was in Houston going to school, and on his way back north to Wyoming.  It was so expensive to fix, I once flew down to Houston, fixed the car myself, and flew back to Wyoming…all cheaper than it would have cost us at a Saab dealer in Houston.  When he got back home, I bought him a new Honda…end of car troubles.

   I’ve owned some cars that I thought were ahead of their times…a 1968 Renault 10 and a 1980 Nissan 310GX.  Small but comfortable, both cars consistently obtained 40-45 mpg…but nobody cared because gas was $0.30 per gallon.  Then I’ve also owned vehicles that were at the end of their lifetimes, namely six Jeep Wagoneers.  Not the baby ones you see today, but the large, Suburban-style, full-time four-wheel drive behemoths that were the workhorses of Wyoming.  It was impossible to stick one in the snow.  They went everywhere.  

    When the Chrysler PT Cruiser was introduced, it was such a throwback design and innovative, I had to have one, and it was a very enjoyable and economical driver for a couple of years…but it wasn’t a

convertible, so in time I was driving a ’97 Ford Mustang GT convertible.  Nice, comfortable car. One car, however, I had never owned had always interested me.  Therefore, having entered my declining years of senility and common sense, I had an opportunity to trade my 97 Mustang GT convertible for a car I had always admired from a distance.  It wasn’t new by any stretch…a 1996 Chevrolet Corvette.  In auto sales parlance it would have been described as “honest.”  Very clean, very original, no body work, good leather, 89,000 miles, removable roof panel, and ran like nothing I’d had since the AMX.  I looked for reasons to take it for a drive.

    At about this same time, Shirley and I were driving as our family car a 2011 Kia Sorento, our second foray into the SUV market, having traded in a 2003 Buick Rendezvous.  Both cars were roomy, comfortable, and very utilitarian…and as exciting as a shovel. Unfortunately, after owning the 'Vette for a couple of years, I had to let it go because of a hip replacement.  'Vettes are not that easy to enter, anyway, and with a bum hip it became untenable to own.  I traded it for a new Kia Soul. You know you have reached old age when you trade a Corvette for a Kia Soul, but the Soul was an

amazing little car.... roomy, comfortable, efficient, and dependable as a Maytag appliance.  It was the perfect suburban car, although about as exciting as that Maytag appliance I mentioned.  I drove it for a couple of years and sold it.  Tired of car payments.      

   I then bought a car I would describe as "interesting."  The Volkswagen EOS was manufactured in Portugal and imported into the United States by VW from 2008-2017.  It was basically a VW Jetta with a retractable hardtop.  Beyond the retractable roof, which was a

marvel of German design, it had the same 200 hp turbocharged 2.0-liter engine that was in the VW Golf GTI, and as a result, it was very quick.  For an old guy like me, I had the security of a sedan with the top up, but when I felt adventurous on those mild spring and fall days we have in Houston, in 50 seconds I could have a fun wind-in-your-face sports car to drive and enjoy.  It was the best of both worlds.

      But it wasn't a Corvette.  Just something about 'Vettes.  I traded the EOS for a 1993 C4 Corvette.  87,000 miles and very clean.  My good friend and neighbor summed up the purchase succinctly, "Well, Bob, you just proved you're never too old to do something foolish!"  He

may have been right, because I drove the Vette for a year and traded it for a 2015 VW CC, which is a VW Passat which has been upgraded on the exterior, in the interior, and with the roof shaved down about two inches for a more streamline look.  It has the same 200 hp turbocharged 2.0 engine as the EOS, so it runs very well. Being twenty-two years newer than the Vette, it is much more contemporary in its furnishing with GPS, power assists, MP3 music, Sirius radio, etc.  

    Recently, Shirley and I said goodby to our faithful 2011 Kia Sorento and traded for a 2021 Buick Encore GX Select, a smaller SUV packed with enough electronics to pilot a spaceship.   It will warn you, advise you, guide you, listen to you...all the while keeping you in comfort. 

    On some future day I’m sure that I will hang up my keys and
reserve the Senior Citizen bus for my travels.  But until then, I’ll still be collecting auto brochures and reading car magazines.  And who knows?  Maybe another Corvette.