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.”

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.

 

 

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.



 

   

The Bear Facts

     After my parents-in-law moved to Wyoming in 1971, it seemed only fitting and proper that Shirley and I visit them the following summer of 1972.  Having never visited the Cowboy State and after listening to the glowing descriptions phoned back to us by my in-laws, we decided to see for ourselves this natural wonderland…never dreaming it would soon become our home for seventeen years. Wyoming conjures up images of rugged, hardy pioneers settling the wild, untamed west, and since we couldn’t ride in a covered wagon to the new land, we decided the next best option would be to travel by car and camp along the way, thus going more or less back to the basics which would allow us to really tune in with nature when the opportunity arose.

   I had just purchased a 1971 Chevrolet Kingswood Estate station wagon, a behemoth of a vehicle powered by a 454 V8 that I learned on the trip would average 10.5 miles per gallon…and that was at a steady cruising speed before we hit the mountains.  But it laughed at mountains, took the steepest incline without a complaint, and had room for all our camping gear.  We bought an 8’x10’ standard tent, bedrolls, lantern, cooking utensils, hatchet, propane stove…you name it.  By the time we pulled out of Baytown, we were self-sufficient and probably could have lived out of our car for a couple of weeks without ever approaching civilization.

   The first day we drove all the way to Clayton, New Mexico, and our first opportunity

to break out all the camping gear was that evening at Clayton Lake State Park (See photo).  It wasn’t the most scenic place we would camp on our trip, but being the first night, it was memorable.  At least everything went smoothly.  The second day we traveled into Colorado and turned west toward Durango, where we camped near Silverton just past Molas Pass next to a ski resort that was closed for the summer.  When we awoke the next morning there was a trace of snow on our tent and the portable heater we brought felt really good. Packing up, we drove north and then east along Highway 50 out of Montrose, stopping at a scenic camping area along the Arkansas River not far from Canyon City.  On our fourth day, we viewed the Royal Gorge Bridge and then headed north into Wyoming to a joyful reunion with the family late that evening in Casper, Wyoming.

   We visited for several days, exploring the surrounding scenic beauty, but eventually we continued our traveling.  Being as close as we were to Yellowstone National Park, it seemed only natural that we take in the entire ambiance of Wyoming and tour our nation’s first national park.  We traveled west from Casper on Highway 26, and about 285 miles later found ourselves at the South Entrance to Yellowstone National Park.  Actually, we had taken a short detour to Jackson Hole to marvel at this quaint western town and then retraced out steps to the entrance to Yellowstone.

   There’s something exciting about entering Yellowstone. The incredible scenery with snowcapped mountains and the promise of viewing wildlife in their natural habitats, along with the official looking park rangers, all contribute to a feeling that something invigorating is about to happen.  As we passed the ranger check station, we paid our park entrance fee and received all the park information, which along with all the obligatory maps and notations of scenic beauty, included a warning about feeding the wildlife.  The opportunity to feed animals had not entered our minds, and we didn’t really think much about it.  There was something in the brochure about keeping your food put away when camping, but we gave it only a passing glance.  Our son, Bobby, who was five years old at the time, was all eyes, however, as he scanned the sides of the road for any kind of unusual wild animal.

 The day was quickly slipping away, and upon locating a campground just north of the park entrance, we ducked in, found a spot, and set up camp for the night.  By this time, we were pretty efficient in our camping techniques and within a few minutes the tent was up, cots and bedrolls ready, and supper was being prepared.  To be honest, I have forgotten what we had for supper, but our normal evening meal when camping was sandwiches, or some kind of soup or chili. As the sun set and darkness fell, the evening became cool as it usually does in the mountains, and we stirred up a lovely campfire and enjoyed cups of coffee.  By this time, Bobby was running out of gas and decided he was ready to hit the sack, so he crawled into his bedroll and was soon sound asleep.

   In time the fire began to die out and Shirley and I decided to find our own bedrolls.  You must remember that our tent was 8’ by 10’…with three beds packed inside there was not a lot of space.  It was…um…cozy, but comfortable.  Shirley, of course, cannot go to sleep without reading two to three books, whereas I go lights out when my head hits the pillow.  So, the last thing I remembered was Shirley reading by lantern light as I drifted into a lovely sleep…until I woke up to someone banging me on the shoulder and saying in an excited whisper, “There’s something out there!”   With my usual alertness, I rose and said, “Huh?” and Shirley repeated, “Something’s out by the picnic table!”

   The “door” of the tent was drawn shut, but I cracked the fold of the tent just enough to peer out toward the picnic table…and saw it.  The bear was black, about ten feet tall with yellow, vicious eyes, three-inch claws and fangs hanging out of his drooling mouth.  Okay, okay…that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but at first glance, that’s how it appeared.  The second thing I saw was our food box and ice chest sitting on the picnic table, and suddenly like a revelation, the warning from the Yellowstone brochure flashed like a large neon sign in my mind.  “Make sure all food is placed in a secure area for the night!”  In the ensuing few minutes the bear ate every scrap of food we had.  The fact that it was wrapped in baggies or whatever made no difference.  He used his claws to unzip every bag as cleanly as a teenage boy going through a refrigerator after school.  The most amazing thing I saw was when he got to the Tupperware container of cold milk.  This is the absolute, honest, saw-it-with-my-own-eyes truth…he put the half gallon container under his…er..arm (front leg?) and with the other paw used a claw to grasp the top and pop it off as smoothly as you ever saw in your life.  Then with both hands (paws?) he raised the container to his lips and glub, glub, glub…drank the entire half gallon of milk.  When he finished, he set the Tupperware container down, wiped his mouth, and continued to dig in the ice chest.  If you don’t believe this story, I still have the Tupperware container with two claw punctures in the lid for your inspection.

    During all this activity, we were sitting in our tent protected by a very thin sheet of canvas and trying to plan an escape.  The table, our tent, and our car formed sort of a triangle, and we decided that our best escape would be to make a break for the car while the bear was occupied.  At this point, silence was golden, and we were barely breathing.  It was also then that I learned I had been too cheap in buying Bobby’s sleeping bag.  Our two bags were heavy cloth and well insulated, but Bobby’s was made out of some kind of polyester and vinyl.  When we tried to pull him out of his sleeping bag it sounded like we were crushing tin cans.  We feared the noise would attract the bear, not to mention that at that same moment we realized there was coffee, sugar, and cream in the tent, and everybody knows that a bear can smell sugar at a distance of about three miles!

    Then I realized…I have my gun!  If I have to, I’ll….no, it wasn’t a very big caliber and will just enrage him.  I decided to take another look at the bear…and he’s gone!  Or at least he’s not at the table.  Suddenly there were more shuffling sounds outside and they’re closer to us!  I heard in the silence of the tent, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…” and realized that my wife had repented of all her sins and rededicated her life to God four times over, so she was ahead of me since I was only on my third repentance.  We continued to sit in panicked silence for what seemed an eternity.  Suddenly with a loud scraping sound, the tent shuddered, and the bear brushed the sidewall of the tent nearest my head.  The lantern rocked from its hanging position (long since turned off), and I don’t know if we screamed, yelled, or passed out silently, but we froze in horror, expecting the bear to rip open the wall at any moment.

    We sat…and sat…and sat.  Afraid to speak or even breathe.  Slowly I peeked out the door again and saw no bear.  Only darkness and silence.  We probably sat as statues for the good part of thirty minutes.  And then we heard the crash of a trash can…but it was away from us!  Without a word we grabbed Bobby, ripped open the tent door, and ran for the safety of the car, piling in and slamming the doors.  Only then did we begin to breathe but still shaking from our frightening experience.  I’m not sure if we slept in the car, but we spent the rest of the night there anyway.

   When the morning came, we surveyed the damage, and, other than the fact that we were foodless, we were in good shape.  I picked up the now-empty Tupperware container and decided to keep it as a memento of a frightful time.  Other campers mentioned that they had heard that there was a bear in camp last night, to which we agreed that, yes indeed there was.  We spent the day touring Yellowstone, but we did no more camping.  I don’t mind telling you, the thought of a repeat performance of that night did not appeal to any of us.  We drove back to Casper to visit with the folks again, and we camped one night in Nebraska on the way home (far from the threat of bears).  But since that last camping night in Nebraska, my family has never spent another night in a tent.  Shirley made it clear that the only camping she would ever do in the future would be with a solid wall between her and nature. In all the years we lived in Wyoming, we always camped in a trailer or motorhome.  One encounter with a bear was enough for us.

   

Paradise Revisited: Noel, Missouri

    Looking back on my childhood, I draw the conclusion that my three sisters and I grew up in an almost Norman Rockwellian atmosphere.  Not in the sense that we lived in an area where the geography or the scenery was postcard perfect, but in the sense of the aura of peace and tranquility that a painting by Norman Rockwell inevitably presents.  In the eyes of Norman Rockwell the view was always comfortable, quiet, serene, and safe, and he had an uncanny skill in capturing the essence of the best of the human spirit.

    Throughout his adult life, my father worked hard to provide for his family.  The tradition of the husband provider and the wife home keeper was embedded in the culture of the time, and my father was successful in providing his family a comfortable home.  My mother took her home duties seriously, and none of us ever missed a home cooked meal or went to school wearing torn clothes.

    Though my father worked hard practically fifty weeks out of the year, he determinedly set aside at least two weeks every summer for our family to take a Vacation.  I capitalize that word because to us kids it was more than just a trip; we were to travel to our version of Paradise on Earth…namely, Noel, Missouri.  We had discovered this haven of happiness when Dad decided about 1950 to go back to his roots…at least as far as he could go.  Though Dad was born in western Oklahoma, many of his older brothers and sisters had been born in southwestern Missouri and northwestern Arkansas.  He had learned that many of his uncles and aunts still lived in that region of the Ozark Mountains, so, about 1950, we took our first vacation to the area to see how many old relatives he could find.  He knew that his grandfather Thomas Findlay Downing had been a circuit riding preacher who traveled from town to town in the area on horseback preaching the gospel and saving sinners.  Reverend Downing had also hauled logs on wagons pulled by horses to earn a little more money to keep body and spirit together and eventually established a church just outside Southwest City, Missouri, where he pastored for several years.  Years later, Dad ran across an old character in Pineville, Missouri, who remembered Preacher Downing and stated that he had admired Preacher Downing because “he was the only preacher who would walk into a bar through the front door…all the rest of the preachers snuck in the back.”  Apparently, the ministerial expectations were somewhat more relaxed back then.

    Anyway, on this summer day in 1950, we cruised into Noel, Missouri, in our black 1949 Mercury.  Noel was then, and is probably now, a sleepy town of about 800 inhabitants.  Its main claim to fame is Elk River, which passes through Noel on its way to Lake of the Cherokees in Oklahoma.  In this far northwestern edge of the Ozarks, the rivers are fed by clears springs, and the water, moving with a current that can be slow to near-rapids, is cool and clear.  Because a dam had been built across the river just downstream from Noel back in the twenties to generate electricity, the river had backed up and deepened so that the waters through Noel were fairly deep.  In fact, the two mile or so stretch through Noel is called Shadow Lake.  In the thirties and forties, the Noel townspeople begin to exploit this natural treasure, and, by the time we arrived there in the summer of 1950, Noel was a beehive of activity.  (See photo) To add to the scenic nature, there were majestic bluffs which overhung the river, and when several roads were cut through these bluffs, tourists came from far and near to drive their cars underneath these hanging bluffs and marvel at the engineering feats.

    We drove through the little town, and we kids got more excited by the minute as we saw swimmers, boaters, and other kids running and screaming like wild banshees.  It had taken us nearly two days to get there from Baytown, so my sister and I were ready to take off like rockets.  But Dad insisted we find a place of lodging to unpack and unwind, so we drove along U.S. Highway 71 looking for a place to light.  We drove along the river for about a mile until we came to a place that would become a part of our lives for probably as long as any of us children live:  Green Valley Courts.

     

    Now, I realize that the name is not very impressive.  Today, to impress someone with your vacation plans, you must mention Disneyworld, Hawaii, St. John, Fiji, or some other exotic spot.  But things were not quite the same 60+ years ago.  When we kids rolled into the driveway of Green Valley Courts, it was as if we had died and gone straight to heaven. The courts themselves were individual log cabins, each with a swing.  There was an actual modest valley, shaded with oaks and other tall trees, through which passed the most gorgeous stream or creek, whatever you wanted to call it, we had ever seen.  Before we even went to register, our whole family bailed out of the car, and rushed down to the stream (our name for it) and stuck, first our hands, and then our feet into the water.  The water was coming from a spring barely three miles away and was icy cold, rushing rapidly over smooth, round rocks with a burbling sound that was sublimely soothing.  Many times in our visits we would put a watermelon in the water overnight and it would be wonderfully cold by the next morning.  On this first visit, Dad barely had time to register and unpack before we were all back down to the water’s edge.  For the next two weeks, Dad would drag us away from “our stream” while we visited his relatives, but we counted the minutes until we were back to adopted home.  In the years to follow, Dad would throw out suggestions for some other place for our vacation, but we always wound up in Noel.  In 1959, Dad and Mom decided to go to Virginia instead (more relatives.)  We drove three hard days and finally stopped in Bristol, Virginia (barely into Virginia), but we kids had moaned and groaned so much, that Dad finally asked us, “What do you want to do?”  In unison, we yelled, “Noel!”  We turned around and went back to Noel. 

     Needless to say, over the years we’ve had many memorable times in Noel, but in 1957, and event took place that at the time didn’t seem like much, but it is actually the basis on which this little essay is established.  It was June of 1957, and as usual we were all in the stream’s water having a glorious time.  Just about a hundred feet upstream from where we played was a bridge over which ran the road to Southwest City.  On this particular day Dad and I wandered upstream to where we were beneath the concrete bridge.  The stream with its bed of smooth, round rocks was a perfect resource for rock throwing, and we were constantly bouncing rocks off the water’s surface or at some target.  For some reason, I picked up a rock and scraped the concrete support of the bridge.  I found I could write as if I were holding a pencil!

     My mother always had a mantra she believed in: “Fools’ names and fools’ faces always appear in public places!”   For some reason both Dad and I forgot Mom’s observation and we scraped our names and the date on the side of the bridge.  “Bobby Downing 6/27/57” “R L Downing 6/27/57” In a few minutes we lost interest and returned downstream to the rest of the family and enjoyed the rest of the day.  In time we forgot about our actions.  I was 14 years old and Dad was 39.

  Starting in 1950 and for nearly 30 years, Noel was a summer gathering place for our family.  Eventually I had three sisters to compete with, and believe it or not, my wife and I spent our honeymoon at Green Valley Courts in 1961.  In time our children came along and both of them have made pilgrimages to Noel.  Although Green Valley Courts disappeared in the seventies after being converted to small apartments, we continued to visit Noel, although we had to stay in “less satisfactory” accommodation…i.e., no stream to play in.

   In the mid-seventies, my family moved to Wyoming and lived there seventeen years.  My dad died in the nineties, during which time Noel took a turn for the worse because Tyson Foods built a huge chicken processing plant in Noel which ruined the river and attracted transients and illegals from miles afar to work for minimum wage in the chicken plant.  Noel was no longer the haven of peace as before.  The last time I visited Noel, three years ago, there were heavily shrouded, masked women walking the sidewalks, cafes advertising "Genuine African Cuisine!" and suspicious sorts wearing hoodies in ninety-degree weather watching your moves.  We have our memories, but Noel is no more.

   In 2007, my wife and I visited Branson, Missouri, which, of course, anyone over the age of sixty is required to visit sooner or later.  After our visit, however, we scheduled ourselves to travel to Grove, Oklahoma, to visit my sister Kathy and her husband.  To travel from Branson to Grove is a westerly trip, and, as luck would have it, we were to travel to within about ten miles of Noel.  A pang of nostalgia struck me as I got closer to Noel, and, finally, at the last minute, I made a turn and drove the familiar road along the river to Noel.  In fifty years, the road had changed little, except it was no longer U.S. Highway 71, but a county highway.  Highway 71 had long since been rerouted to bypass Noel, which destroyed the tourism business.  Eventually we drove into Noel, and whatever glamour was there earlier had long been washed away.  Noel was a ghost of its lively past.  After being depressed for ten minutes or so, we decided to drive on to Grove. As we were leaving, I suddenly realized that we were going to pass the site of the old Green Valley Courts, and then I remembered the bridge.

     After we drove over the bridge, I pulled the car off the road and stopped.  I’m sure Shirley thought I had lost my mind when I told her what I was going to do.  I took my camera and tried to find a path down to the stream.  By this time the stream was barely visible through the bushes, grass, and shrubbery.  I also thought about water moccasins because they are plentiful in that area of the hills.  Gingerly I climbed down the embankment to the water, and, finding no place to walk along the edge, I put my nice, white sneakers into the water and waded out.  The water was just as cold and clear as I remembered.  I was a little upstream of the bridge, so I waded down toward the concrete embankment, keeping a sharp eye for land or water varmints.  I reached the bridge and, walking underneath, looked up.

    Fifty years later, the names were still clearly visible (see photo.)  I placed my hand on the letters and suddenly my eyes filled with tears.  For a moment I longed to return to those innocent days of youth, and my heart ached to see my mom and dad.  Only one other time in my life have I ever felt as lonely as I felt under that bridge that day. It almost felt like judgment day when I realized that the words on the bridge were written when I was only fourteen and my future was ahead of me, and now I was sixty-four and the majority of my life had passed, ever so quickly it seemed.  I made a quick summary of my life’s accomplishments, and the list seemed so embarrassingly short.  Looking further down the stream, the little area where we children and parents used to play and laugh was choked with vines and weeds, but in my mind, I saw it as it once was.  I was reminded of the scripture, ” For what is your life?  It is but a vapour that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

    Eventually, after taking a few photos, I came to the realization that I have been very fortunate.  My childhood was the stuff of dreams…. not wealth and riches, but rather a home with caring parents and loving sisters.  We have gone our separate ways and now have our own families and dreams.  I have been blessed with a wonderful wife, children, grandchildren, and even in-laws.  We have created our own special places and memories. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in his story The Great Gatsby, “You can’t go home again.”  In 2012 I returned to the bridge; my name and my dad's name were still there...fifty-five years after the event.  I have had a good life.