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 directing traffic in front of dealerships due to the demand to see the new 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 25,000 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.  A prospective buyer in the market for a new car today has precious few choices if he/she is looking for a car with distinctive styling.  A budget Toyota Corolla or luxurious Infiniti look the same from a hundred feet away.  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 new all-electric luxury vehicle created by an individual (wealthy) genius unrestricted by the closed culture of the automotive giants, but the finished products of his creation have all the styling excitement of a bar of Ivory soap.

     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 139 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 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.  Why anyone would drive a bloated, ungainly, inefficient, tank of a vehicle that handles like a tugboat and weighs about the same is beyond me.  You need it to carry stuff, you say?  I read recently that of all the trucks sold in the United States today, over 60% of them are never used for hauling anything. 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 own one?   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  X1/9 (the only car I would not drive anywhere without my tool box.)

     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 wanted to avoid 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 even in Wyoming during the summer the glass roof let in way too much heat.  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 company was purchased by Chinese interests in 2012, and the cars lost their individuality.  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. 

There was one car I had never owned but had always interested me.  So, having entered my declining years of senility and common sense, I had an opportunity to trade my 97 Mustang GT convertible for a Corvette.  It wasn't new by any stretch…a 1996 model.  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 had owned since the AMX.  I hunted for reasons to take it for a drive.  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 because 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!"

    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.



The Concert

    We entered the large auditorium well before the time the special events were to begin, but the musicians were already preparing for the evening’s activities.  The dimly lit stage was prepared as one would expect…heavy dark curtains accented with blue backlighting.  Electronic gear was everywhere, dominated by the sound system featuring speakers with blue lighting accents and the capacity to split an eardrum at 200 yards.  In anticipation of the coming live music presentation, a soundtrack was playing featuring the popular music of the day, replete with canned enthusiastic roars from some appreciative audience from a concert gone past.  In a few minutes, the musicians themselves began firing up their basses, keyboards, and drums in anticipation of the night’s work, and the singers began to assemble and review the procedures for their performances.

    By zero hour, most ticket holders had taken their seats, and the musicians had found their places, At the stroke of the appointed time, the master of ceremonies blasted the audience with a confusing blend of a welcome to the show and a call to arms…all at maximum decibels.  According to him, this was not an evening to sit back and enjoy the show but a time to jump, shout, yell, clap, and show unbridled enthusiasm for the message about to be delivered.

    For the next 40 minutes, our ears were assaulted with a cacophony of deafening thunder blended with various unintelligible voices, accompanied by the master of ceremonies constantly bantering the audience to get more actively involved.  These were the “warm-up” performers…those whose job is to get the audience into a festive mood before the headline performer comes on stage.  The music ranged from hard rock, to heavy metal, to blues, to soul, to ghetto rap, with the crowning achievement occurring when a young African-American, dressed stylishly casual and wearing either shades or highly reflective glasses, began rapping in both Spanish and English. By the time the young rapper had wrapped up, the crowd had been deemed properly primed for the main event.  And up to the microphone the main attraction strode….a minister.

    What I have described up to this point is not what you may have imagined the event was.  I have not recently gone to any concerts featuring the great musical groups of the day.  The event which I described above was an officially sanctioned church conference sponsored by the United Pentecostal Church, International.  I purposely chose not to identify the location of the “conference” nor the main participants because it is not my intention to throw rocks at or embarrass (if that’s possible) any particular persons or churches.  What I have described above is probably representative of hundreds of assemblies, services, and conferences which are becoming highly prevalent in modern society and in our churches, and so what I am reacting to is a movement, a direction, which I see the UPCI heading.

    Pentecostals for decades have followed the biblical mantra for the church of “be ye separate.”  I will be the first to admit that we have in the past sometimes taken that philosophy to the extreme, and alienated people unnecessarily with our separatist, “holier than thou” attitude.  However, I am willing to argue the point that the pendulum has now swung far to the opposite side, and we as a church have now adopted the strategy of  “to save them, you’ve got to be like them.”  It does not mesh with the message that we thankfully still hear from our pulpits.  Our ministers hammer away with the message that when a person is saved he/she becomes separate from the world and a “new creature in Christ.”  However to entice the unsuspecting souls into our church, we show them that we can be just as cosmopolitan as they in our choices of music, just as disrespectfully casual as they in our choices of church clothing, and just as worldly as they in our level of conversation.   

    Today, when listening to allegedly Christian music via radio, television, CD, or, regretfully, churches, someone with the ability to filter out the words and listen only to the music would be unable to distinguish the sound…and the spirit… from any other rock, country, popular, alternative music source available, and yet, music itself projects an attitude and can be a stimulus for physical action.  Accomplished musicians know this and use this tool to excite an audience…and the spirit of God can be a million miles away from the action.  But the people are moving around, and that’s what the objective is…get them moving.  There is a growing group of churches and musicians who confuse this musical stimulus as “worship.” 

     There was a time when a church…or as we pompously like to say occasionally, “the house of God”…was more than a simple building but was considered a place of respect and shown such through our entrance of its doors with a quiet, reverent attitude and in our manner of dress.  We spoke quietly and entered prayerfully, while dressing modestly in our most dignified and reverential clothing.  The building, after all, was “the house of God,” a place of spiritual refreshing and encouragement.  Today ministers and saints take great pride in casual, “down to earth” attire.  Ministers preach from the pulpit and musicians strut across the rostrum in jeans, tee shirts, and sneakers, all in an effort to “make the church more accessible to the masses.”  Yet, our manner of dress reflects our level of respect for ourselves and for others, including the church.

    Want to know what the latest NFL or MLB scores are?  Want to know how the local Little League team is doing?  Most frighteningly…want to know what the latest Hollywood blockbuster movie (probably R-rated) is like?  Just hang around the vestibule of one of our churches just before church time and you’ll probably get your answers.  You will hear very little discussion of the upcoming church service.  Churches have learned the lingo of the lost…and through their embrace of conversations not relative to salvation, have given church visitors the message that a church membership does not require a change of spiritual heart…nor speech.

    Sadly, this “be like them” strategy is promulgated by the very people who preach against it…the pastors, and it is done so with the most selfish of reasons…simply to build church numbers.  Pastoral competition is alive and well in the 21^st century, and the top dog is the guy with the biggest church.  As it has been since the beginning, we equate success with numbers.  The next morning after the above mentioned service, I happen to be at a table enjoying breakfast when I overheard two pastors talking at the next table from me.  These two men are probably considered “bright stars” in the UPCI realms, having started churches fairly recently and shown a tremendous level of success (numbers, again.)  What caught my ear was what one said to the other, “Everything we do in our outreach is geared for the ages 17-25.  It’s the group you can have the greatest success with.”  In two sentences, the pastor explained the entire strategy for church growth which appears to be nearly universally adopted by UPCI churches.  It explains the music, dress, and attitude of new converts. It also explains why mature, older, devoutly Pentecostal adults leave church services unfulfilled and frustrated, having received no spiritual food for the soul, and perhaps also why older members have a tendency to drift from church to church, seeking a level of worship which is on a somewhat higher plane than a Taylor Swift concert.

Reflections on a New Decade

                                         Seventy  (May 5, 2013)

   By Bob Downing                                                

“Three score and ten” the Scriptures do say

Are the days of our years; we then “fly away.” *

An endless time…through the eyes of the young…

Becomes hauntingly brief when life’s song is near sung.

The horizons once faced are now memories long past.

The victories and triumphs so cherished did not last.

The failures, the heartaches, the losses, and schemes

Of a life poorly spent bring nights’ tortured dreams.

The curtains of our minds in the dark of the night

Draw open to reveal a troubling sight…

Unlimited youth with its promise and fun

Has vanished away like the dew in the sun.

The desires, the passions, the zest for the day

Are like snowflakes that fall and soon melt away.

The finish, once distant, looms alarmingly near

And the memories of life become ever so dear.

The goals, once assumed, are now elusively caught,

And the emotion of love becomes merely a thought. 

Deeds once accomplished with hardly a strain

Are now deeds but dreamed and seldom without pain.

But continue we must, and through effort and strength

The days of our lives may be increased in length.*

With happiness and love and good deeds to lend

“Three score and ten” could be when we begin.

*Psalm 90:10

                       “Nothing Rhymes with ‘Sixty’”  (May 5, 2003)

By Bob Downing

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

Concerned your life’s song has already been sung.

The memories of the past grow longer…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 caress 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!

                   Muses and Meditations upon Reaching the

              Fiftieth Rung on the Ladder of Life   (May 5, 1993) 

By Bob Downing

Methinks it be not super nifty

When one turns the magic fifty.

Forsooth, it seems both bod’ and mind

Hath nature ravaged, most unkind!

Unbeknownst, time took its toll,

And now, though willing in heart and soul,

I call to my feet, “I’m in a running mood!”

They answer back, “Forget it, Dude!

The only thing we want to feel

Is a cushioned footstool under the heel!”

Durst I not know?  I anguish and weep

That now I choose an afternoon’s sleep

Instead of football, baseball, or track.

And incentive to work?  I totally lack!

“To be or not to be!” The question rages.

The answer ballyhooed down through the ages.

But as for me, my response is thrifty,

“Don’t ask me, Bub, I just turned fifty!”

_____________________________________________________________

September 26, 1983...Fifteen Minutes from Apocalypse

    Post-World War II history documents the rise of two major world powers, complete opposites in political philosophy and ambition.  After 1945, the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR, or the Soviet Union, or commonly, Russia), once nervous allies in the battle against Nazi Germany, quickly became fierce competitors on the world stage for global influence.  The struggle became war-like in intensity, albeit without the usual firing of weapons, although there were many skirmishes along the way involving firepower.  The struggle became known as the Cold War, since actual combat between the two great adversaries seldom occurred.  Yet the underlying punching, counter-punching, feinting, and intrigue continued worldwide on a daily basis.  Although there was no combat, armies were in place, aircraft were loaded and ready for takeoff, and ships were armed and ready to fire.  Additionally, within a few short years after 1945, thousands of nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) were aimed toward each combatant by the other nation…all in the name of defense.  All that was needed was the command to attack.

     In a twisted sort of logic, this mutual military standoff brought a measure of stability. There was a general philosophy referred to as "mutually assured destruction" (MAD) which preached the logic that, with the guaranteed assurance that both countries would be totally destroyed in the case of nuclear conflict, neither country’s leader would ever consider giving the “attack” command, and thus, to save one’s own country, one would not attack the other. This stable philosophy worked well except whenever one side perceived, either factually or otherwise, that the other side was gaining some sort of advantage which might tip the balance of power one way or the other. The results were the production of more weapons and more men in uniform.

     When we review nuclear near-catastrophes during the Cold War Era, we normally think of the Cuban Missile Crisis of the 1960’s. However, it was in 1983 that the world teetered most precariously on the edge of nuclear holocaust. The fact that most of the events took place inside the Soviet Union has resulted in there being very little known about the events leading up to September 26, 1983. Much of the following information has been made available only since the fall of the Soviet Union and the declassification of CIA documents relating to the event.

     In January 1981, Ronald Reagan was sworn in as president, and within two months, having run for election on a platform of “Peace through Strength,” he began his plan to strengthen the U.S. military. According to recent declassified CIA documents, in March 1981 Reagan authorized an expansive psychological program (PSYOP) for the military to “operate and exercise near maritime approaches to the USSR where U.S. warships have never gone before.” The operations continued into 1983 in what CIA documents called a “full court press,” using a basketball analogy.  In public, Reagan heightened his anti-Soviet rhetoric saying the Soviets “reserved the right to commit any crime, to lie, and to cheat” to promote world revolution.

     As early as May 1981 at a secret KGB conference in Moscow, Soviet KGB head Yuri Andropov announced his view that the United States under Reagan's leadership had abandoned the concept of MAD and was actively pursuing a strategy of first strike against the USSR. As a result, Andropov formed a new collaboration between the KGB and the GRU (USSR military intelligence). This new arm, called RYAN, an acronym for Raketno Yadernoye Napadenia (Nuclear Rocket Attack), required agents to be sent worldwide to monitor U.S. military activities and report any signs of an impending attack.

     On November 10, 1982, Leonid Breshnev died, and Yuri Andropov became General Secretary of the Communist Party. Andropov was a career KGB agent and one of the most virulent anti-western, anti-U.S. leaders in the USSR. He did not trust the outside world and was extremely suspicious of Reagan. Reagan’s continued military buildup reinforced Andropov’s conviction that the United States was planning a first strike against the USSR.

     The tension was noticeably ramped up when in the spring of 1983, Reagan announced his Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI, soon to be called Star Wars.) Reagan himself had stated his revulsion for the general concept of MAD because it relied on trusting an enemy whom he knew in his heart he could not trust. The Soviets were thunderstruck, and four days later, Andropov publicly announced that the United States was actively planning a nuclear strike against the USSR and warned of the consequences.

     Early in the morning of September 1, 1983, Korean Air Lines Flight 007, left Anchorage, Alaska, en route to Tokyo and, for unknown reasons, flew over the Kamchatka Peninsula, USSR territory. Soviet MiGs were scrambled but had difficulty locating the Boeing 747 because Arctic storms had knocked out part of the Soviet radar system. KAL007 passed over the Sea of Okhotsk and over Sakhalin Island where it was finally intercepted by Soviet MiGs. Major Gennady Osipovich, pilot of the lead intercepting plane, identified the aircraft as having “blinking lights.” Interestingly, he stated later in his report that he “knew it was a Boeing aircraft because it had two rows of lights and it was a civilian aircraft.” Asked why he did not relay this information to the ground, he said simply, “They didn’t ask, and it didn’t matter. It would have been easy to convert a civilian aircraft to a military one” Osipovich fired two proximity-fused missiles, one of which exploded fifty meters from the tail, damaging the hydraulic system and penetrating the fuselage.   KAL007 began a 12 minute slow, no doubt terrifying, descent, eventually crashing in the Sea of Japan.

     The shootdown of KAL007 brought worldwide condemnation to the Soviets, who made the mistake of stonewalling the event for four days. The Soviets finally claimed it was a military provocation, although the real reason for their quick trigger was probably because shortly before the KAL flight had passed over the region, a U.S. reconnaissance plane had flown over the same area, and the Soviets had been unsuccessful in intercepting it. To make matters worse, the Soviets had been planning a missile launch in the same general area for that same day and were already on high alert.

     And then...on September 26, 1983, the United States attacked.  Just after midnight, Colonel Stanislov Petrov was sitting in the central defense bunker where the Soviet Union monitored its nuclear early warning satellites high above the United States. One of the alarms suddenly sounded and the red button on his console flashed “Start.” There was a report of one, then two, then three, then four, then five ICBM’s being launched from their positions in the United States toward the USSR. In an interview in 1999, Petrov reported, “For fifteen seconds, we were frozen. We could not believe our eyes.” At that point they were required to notify the warning system headquarters which would then have alerted Soviet Secretary Yuri Andropov. Petrov knew how Andropov would respond. Already highly suspicious of U.S. intentions, he would give the order to counterattack. In fifteen minutes from that time, the world would be destroyed.

     Petrov made his decision concerning forwarding the information based on what he had been taught by his own military training. The concept of MAD had been thoroughly instilled in the military staff, with the expectation that any nuclear confrontation would be a total response with all weapons.  He observed, “When people start a war, they don’t use only five missiles.” Additionally, Soviet ground-based radar showed no signs of missiles on the horizon. He stated, “I had a funny feeling in my gut. I didn’t want to make a mistake. I made the decision (not to forward the information), and that was it.” In the end, the alleged missile launches were traced to a computer glitch. If Petrov had made the call, the world today would probably be far different from what it is.

     Interestingly, years before this event, in 1966, to be exact, I was witness to a similar alarm. In my case, the tables were turned. I was at my post in West Berlin when radar reports came in of waves of aircraft flying toward our location. Coming from deep in the Soviet Union, the blips were identified as aircraft flying in formation headed straight for our border. Alarms sounded, messages were sent to headquarters in West Germany, and decisions were feverishly debated whether to contact Washington. We Russian linguists frantically attempted to locate any sort of Russian communications which would confirm the aircraft locations, but all normal Russian communication channels were silent.  The command was made...to wait.  In a matter of minutes, the planes reached us, hit the border…and disappeared from our radar screens. Within a short time came the answer…the radar system had somehow picked up some sort of signal “echoing” and multiplied the blips. False alarm, much to our relief.

     On October 10, 1983, Reagan sat through a movie “The Day After,” a dramatic account of nuclear war graphically depicting the destruction of American cities.  In his memoirs he stated it left him “very depressed.” “I wonder,” he wrote in his memoirs, “how much reasoning can take place in six minutes in response to a blip on a screen?” The beginning of 1984 saw a softening of the Reagan rhetoric, and a Soviet official stated that it was “not necessary to over-dramatize a situation.” The U.S. and the USSR reopened talks concerning opening more diplomatic consulates and de-escalating the points of contention between the two countries.

     And the world breathed a sigh of relief.

Guns, the CHL, and the Second Amendment

     For most of my adult life I have owned some sort of weapon…i.e... a rifle or a pistol. Not that I ever felt a need security-wise for one; it was more a matter of “well, you never know…,” or perhaps it was just a sort of neat thing to possess. About the only time I ever had a use for a weapon (at least during my non-military years) was when we lived in Wyoming and did a lot of hunting. My brother-in-law, Buddy, and I bought Remington BDL 7mm magnum rifles with scopes and used them for several years in our quests for deer, antelope, and elk. Additionally, for all the years we traveled in our campers and motorhomes, I always carried next to my seat a twelve gauge shotgun with a pistol grip and shortened to a comfy length. Not sure why, I just seemed to feel safer with it there because “well, you never know.”

     Along the way, I have collected a few pistols, small calibers like .22s and .25s, primarily from my parents and other opportunities which presented themselves. Having moved to Texas in the early nineties, the opportunity to shoot, recreationally or otherwise, has not presented itself very often because, in the final analysis, I’m not a dedicated gun aficionado and do not look for reasons to whip out a weapon, flash it, fire it, or brandish it. I know, I know, I’m in Texas now, and I need to become a little more ornery and trigger-happy.

     Not only am I in Texas, but I am also now in Houston, which presents a somewhat different kettle of fish. During the seventeen years we lived in Baytown, I never felt an uneasy sense of an imminent threat, but now that we are living in Northwest Houston, we are surrounded by over four million people, and, if you watch the ten o’clock news, it appears that a good percentage of them are attempting to break into various neighborhood homes anytime during the day or night. We are fortunate to be living in a fairly quiet neighborhood, but it seems that once one pulls out of our neighborhood onto FM1960, it’s every man for himself. Every time some of those quality citizens rumble up next to me at a traffic light in their $2,000 car with the $4,000 set of 24” custom wheels and a hammering stereo blasting, it make me want to click off my safety on my….I mean, if I was packing, that’s what I would feel like doing.

     So, to cut to the chase, for the last year or so, I have been considering applying for a Texas Concealed Handgun License. I have been encouraged along the way by a pack of guys with whom I have breakfast every Friday at 9:00 a.m. sharp at a certain respectable establishment noted for good breakfasts. When Shirley and I moved to Spring we began attending Bethel Tabernacle, and these men are all (amazingly) respected members of the church. In a short time, they all have become very valued friends, and as I told them a few weeks ago, I feel like I have known them for years and have every confidence in their character, spirituality, and loyalty. I like them because they are quick-witted with a sharp sense of humor and can dish out the verbal good-natured jabs as well as take them. They are my kind of people.

     They are also….well, let me put it this way, when I am with them for breakfast, I feel VERY safe. They are hunters and gun aficionados to the max, and at an early age (I think) they memorized the entire Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and can smell a threat to their right to bear arms from a very great distance. I, too, am a fan of the Second Amendment; however, I have learned that even such phrases as “But, you know, something needs to be done” can raise a red flag in their eyes, so I limit my comments concerning the issue to such intelligent responses as “Ain’t it the truth!” and “Yep, he’s gonna try to take 'em!” Anyway, they encouraged me to get my license.

     The first problem was I didn’t have a heavy enough weapon to do my shooting with. One must qualify with at least a .32 caliber, and my heaviest was a .25 semi-automatic. Apparently you can’t qualify with a sawed-off 12 gauge. (Tears up the targets.) My good friend, who shall remain nameless…we’ll just call him Jerry, graciously offered to let me use his Sig Sauer 9mm Model P226 semi-automatic, to which I just as graciously accepted. He even threw in a box of shells. At the same time all this was transpiring, my daughter, Kim, had also expressed an interest in obtaining her CHL, so with her reserving for us a Saturday date for classes at a local gun establishment, we decided to go to Gander Mountain and take a few practice shots in preparation for the upcoming qualifying and testing.

     That was where I began to realize that this endeavor was not going to be particularly inexpensive. At this point in our nation’s history, those who fear for their gun rights are creating a run on the market, and weapons are selling for twice their suggested retail prices, and ammunition is hard to find. Personally, I think the flames of the whole buying panic are being fanned by the gun manufacturers and dealers themselves to generate incredible profits. No government official has yet mentioned gun confiscation, yet even the mention of the word “registration” can drive the prices of guns up another ten percent. Somebody is making a lot of money out of this artificial hysteria.

     Be that as it may, Kim and I, after sitting through an obligatory gun safety video (Do not play with loaded weapons!), finally got our chance at the firing range (at $25/hour.) Not being familiar with the 9mm, I will admit (don’t tell Jerry) that I loaded the shells in backwards on my first attempt, but quickly realized my mistake when the clip wouldn’t go into the grip. Hopefully, no one noticed. We only had 50 rounds of ammo between us, so we shot carefully. I’ll say this…that Sig Sauer P226 9mm is a sweet shootin’ pistol. I had also brought two of my other pistols to fire, and Kim had brought her Beretta. We fired them when we ran out of 9mm shells. My little .25 would not load, however, and I asked the monitor for assistance. When he looked at my Czechoslovakian Z Aut 6.35mm Pistole, he said, “Wow! That is a rare gun!” Which it is.  Manufactured in Brno in 1950, the pistol is about half the size of my hand and was very popular during the Cold War as an assassination weapon of choice. The trouble with the gun is it may be small, but you can’t hide the noise…it is deafening when fired. He couldn’t get it to fire, either, but a few days later I gave it to my friend, Jerry, to examine, and within 24 hours he had it looking and working like new.

     So on a recent Saturday, Kim and I were at Tactical Firearms in Katy, Texas, bright and early at 8:00 a.m. to begin our classes. As we walked into their showroom, there sat some sort of monster machine gun on display and ready to fire…at $140.00 per 30 minutes plus a dollar a shell (40 shell minimum.) Let’s see, what do they say about big boys’ toys? There were about 50 people in our class, and therein lay the first surprise. I expected a room full of red necks drooling chewing tobacco and wearing hunting vests; in actuality, there was a substantial percentage of women and even men who looked like they might have had the intelligence to read. All in all, it was a cross section of Middle America. I wondered how many were there out of an instinct for self-preservation or simply a love for firearms.

     The instructor was a cool guy. He came into the classroom carrying a rifle of some kind (my ignorance is showing again,) and proceeded to tell us this was his 320th weapon to buy, and in his home he had 190,000 rounds of ammunition. “Am I paranoid?” he asked. I kept my answer to myself. Apparently in his eyes, any crime committed within a 20 mile radius of his home was justification to buy another weapon. I just hope his home never catches on fire…if it happens at night, it will be July 4th fireworks in the neighborhood. Knowledgeable, however, the instructor was about gun safety, gun law, and my rights as a gun owner.

     Right off the bat, it was time to go fire our weapons for qualifying. In Texas for a CHL, a candidate must fire fifty rounds at three targets and score at least 175 out of 250 possible points. The process was very regulated and well monitored. The last time I was on a firing range was in Berlin in 1967, at which time I received my “Expert Marksman” ribbon. 46 years later, I didn’t do too badly as I scored 247 out of 250. What really impressed me, though, was Kim made the very same score. Must be hereditary. The firing took nearly two hours, primarily because there were 50 of us candidates and only fifteen alleys to fire in, so we fired…and waited. Afterward, we sat through about three hours of instruction; however, that three hours of instruction took nearly 6 hours as we took breaks, lunch, etc. We also had a representative from an organization called Texas Law Shield who gave us a combination lesson/sales pitch concerning the use of deadly force in Texas. At the conclusion he offered an insurance package which offered to us a bank of lawyers skilled in gun laws who would step in to defend us in the event we had to use deadly force to protect our properties. It was reasonably priced, so I bought it. So now, be VERY careful when you step on my property.
     The last event was the Official State Test for Concealed Handgun License. Fifty questions and not too hard. My kudos again to the instructor who had practically given us every question and answer in advance. Kim and I both made perfect scores. It’s hard to be humble when you’re….never mind. We finally made in back home about 5:30…a full Saturday shot, but hopefully a goal accomplished. A couple of days later, I went on line and initiated my application for my CHL to the Texas Department of Public Safety. Since I am a senior it only cost me $70 (!). Kim’s will be $140. I had to pay in advance also for my fingerprinting…another $10.

     The following Monday I went to a local fingerprinting office and was officially verified as being clean as a whistle and not an escaped convict from Georgia. The next day I sent my fingerprint verification, my CHL class attendance verification, and my registration checklist to Austin so they can reaffirm that I’m on the up and up. Apparently, I can expect my real license to arrive in about four weeks. So we wait.

     Hopefully this whole effort of obtaining my CHL will be an exercise in futility, in the sense that I hope and pray I will never have to raise a gun in anger or defense. But I also realize that we are no longer living in the 1950’s when homes were seldom locked and cars were parked with the windows down. Random violence is evident not just in the big cities, but even in the village hamlets scattered across our nation…witness Sandy Hook. Violence is no longer a geographical phenomenon, it is a reflection of a nation and a world besotted with movie violence, video violence, and television violence. Those who argue in favor of these forms of media say they simply reflect the trends of society. I am convinced that it is the opposite…the media influence society, and, regrettably, society establishes its standard of behavior from the media. A child will witness 58,000 killings via movies, television, and video games by the time he/she reaches 18 years of age. If a moment of anger or conflict is suddenly thrust upon that child, the first impulse will be to violence. In today’s world, parents face a formidable task in teaching their children…as the scriptures say…”in the way they should go.”

The 1954 Mercury

     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 vice 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. I had stacks of brochures and studied them thoroughly. I knew more about the cars than the salespeople did. Needless to say, I lived for the day when I could hear my own car keys jangling in my pocket.

    That watershed moment occurred in the summer of 1959. I had just recently turned sixteen years old and, with the wisdom that comes to a young teenager, had been pressuring my dad for months to allow me to buy my own car. Looking back, I think I used many of the same sales closing techniques that in later life would help me to make a living as a professional sales person. Closing points like, “Dad, if I have a car, I can take my sisters to school, and they won’t have to get up so early to catch the bus!” and                                                                                     “Dad, if I have my own

car, I won’t have to borrow your car when I go out on a date…and I’ll use my own gas!” Oh, I was good….and successful. When I had closed the deal and Dad had acquiesced, there was only one place to go…to the Mercury dealership. Dad had recently bought a 1959 Mercury ParkLane, one of the new “baby Lincolns” that Mercury was then offering (length 222.9 inches, wheelbase 128 inches, width 79.9 inches, weight 4550, engine 430 cubic inches, 345 horsepower…observed top speed 125 mph), and it never occurred to him or me to go anywhere else to look for a car.

    There on the lot was a gorgeous yellow and black 1954 Mercury Monterey. Although it was a four door sedan and not a two door coupe, I didn’t mind. In a matter of minutes I was following Dad home in my very own car. My world had expanded to unlimited horizons as I took the giant leap toward independence. The fact that Dad had made me go to the bank and borrow the money and I was now saddled with a heavy car payment of $39.41 didn’t faze me. After all, I was working at Weingarten’s Grocery making $25.00 per week, so I had PLENTY of money!

    The only thing wrong with the Mercury was it didn’t sound good, and the sound of a car was very important during the Stone Age. I took the car to Creel’s Auto Parts in Highlands (future extended family member) and had dual exhausts installed with Smitty glass packed mufflers. There is NO sound like the deep (not loud) rumble of a four-barreled V8 American engine. Well, maybe a little loud is OK. There was a strip of North Main Street in Baytown, just north of Texas Avenue, where for about three blocks the sidewalks were narrow and the buildings were close to the road. Late at night if the coast was clear (you know…no cops, no traffic) I would turn onto that strip of road, floor the accelerator, and revel in the echoing thunder of those Smitties as the sound reverberated off the buildings. Cheap thrills. Of course, the Mercury did not have air conditioning and also had only an AM radio. So I did what a lot of young guys did in those days…I kept a bottle of Aqua-Velva in the glove compartment, and just before I went to the door to get my date (99.9% of the time it was Shirley), I would splash on a little dab to clear away some of the summer…um…heat. But actually, I did not miss the AC all that much. After all, no one had AC and as a result, most of us were much more acclimated to warm weather than we are now. My dad’s new ’59 Parklane was the first car my family owned with factory air conditioning, and I will admit that there were a few special occasions when I borrowed Dad’s big Mercury just so I could stay a little cooler. The ’59 Mercury was a world apart from my ’54…two feet longer, radically styled, and with TWICE the horsepower. Boy, that thing would run!…I mean…that’s what it said in the brochure, anyway.

     I was able to upgrade my radio with the first major improvement to radio sound during that era…the “reverberater.” This was a rear speaker with a sound delay that caused the sound from the rear speaker to emit just a split second after the front speaker. It created a cool, almost stereophonic sound sensation and was, in fact, the precursor to true stereophonic sound that was to come later. Trouble was, the reverb speaker had a mechanical device sensitive to road bumps, and once in a while I would hit a bump and the rear speaker would pop like a gun shot. It would wake you up if you were daydreaming while driving. Maybe it was a safety device.

     The absolute greatest feature about the ’54 Merc has become practically extinct in today’s mundane, cookie-cutter vehicles, and yet it was one of the most appreciated…the front bench seat. Even the ’54 Chevrolet Corvette had a bench seat in those days, and the idea of splitting the front seat into buckets was still a radical idea. There is no greater feeling of happiness and accomplishment to a young guy than to be cruising down the road with the glass packed mufflers rumbling quietly, at the same time getting the occasional whiff of your girlfriend’s cologne, and feeling her presence as she snuggles up next to you holding your right hand while you drive with your left. And of course, if the car happens to come to a stop on a bluff overlooking Galveston Bay, and the moon happens to be rising, and a gentle bay breeze happens to freshen the air…well, all the better. I felt that rush of happiness about 67 years ago with a young lady…and today I’m still happily married to her. In fact, I’d buy another car with a bench seat today if I could find one.

GED...A Second Chance

      In 1931, during the Great Depression, my dad, though only in the seventh grade, dropped out of school. In spite of his aptitude toward math and in spite of his teacher visiting his parents’ home and begging them to allow him to stay in school, the decision was a forgone conclusion. Dad was the fourteenth of fifteen children living with parents in the farmland of Western Oklahoma, and for the family to stay afloat financially it was necessary for the children to contribute their fair share of labor for the family good. So dad went to work farming at the age of fourteen.

     His story is not an uncommon one from those depression years. Families lived from hand to mouth, and food on the table today was much more valued than an education in the future. And yet the children of those years survived, and learned valuable lessons concerning hard work and thrift. To many, the hard times did not end until the beginning of the United States involvement in the Second World War in 1941. Overnight the men went off to war, and the women went off to the factories to manufacture the tools of combat. And education for many was put on the back burner “for the duration.”

     With the war’s end, disarmament of the armed forces rapidly flooded the job market with young men and women who had only a few months earlier been in the thick of combat. Older, wiser, perhaps more jaded in their outlooks about life, they nevertheless recognized the value of further education and what it could contribute to a more financially comfortable future. However, they were trapped by their own maturity. Unable to return to the high schools from which many had dropped out to enlist, and unable to enroll in colleges because of the missing high school diplomas, these veterans were trapped in educational limbo until the federal government came to the rescue with the creation of the certificate of General Education Development…more commonly known today as the GED. The GED battery of tests was actually developed in 1942 to help the early returning World War II veterans, but the demand for the tests skyrocketed when the war ended in 1945. In 1947, the GED exams became available for civilians which effectively gave anyone who had left public school for any reason an opportunity for a second chance to complete or continue their education.

     With the opportunity for continuing education, many young people developed their professional skills and were successful in obtaining well paying, desirable jobs in the open market. Others, however, chose more traditional jobs which did not require an education but simply strong backs and willing minds. And in the America of the 1940s, 1950s, and early 60s there were plenty of those kinds of jobs available. In the area of Texas where I live which is heavily populated with oil refineries, chemical plants, and manufacturing facilities, many a young man, tired of the drudgeries of high school with homework and boring classes, opted to drop out and go to work for the local refinery, and many of these young men put in their forty years and retired, having lived successful lives.

     As America moved into the 70s and 80s, however, the job market experienced a dramatic metamorphosis. Computers, electronics, and sophisticated machinery were developed which required, not strong backs, but strong minds to operate, and as a result America witnessed a decrease in the labor-intensive jobs of the past. Many were exported to countries where manual labor is much more cheaply purchased, and as a result, many young people today, though willing in heart, mind, and body to work, are having great difficulty locating gainful employment if they do not have the educational clout on their application. Sometimes this hard lesson of life is learned after they have already dropped out of school due to various personal reasons. The trend toward more educationally demanding, technical jobs continues to this day. In addition, even those who were happily employed at an early age because they dropped out of school are finding that they are now bumping up against a promotional ceiling because the position they desire requires a certificate of further education.

      Twenty-three years ago, I began teaching for Harris County Department of Education, Adult Education Division as a GED instructor. It was a part-time, evening job which complemented my day position as a professional teacher in the Pasadena ISD.  To be perfectly honest, when I began work, I knew very little about the workings of GED; I only knew that I was familiar with the material which needed to be taught, which was primarily high school level math, language, and reading. Besides being a public-school teacher, I have taught such courses for real estate and insurance licensing schools since the early 80s, so I knew I was familiar with the product. I quickly learned, however, that the GED student was a different challenge compared to the former students I had experienced. All the students studying for their insurance or real estate licenses were excited about reaching for new goals. With the gleam of a new profession in their eyes, they sat attentively with an impatience to get their classes over so they could take off to new horizons.

     The GED student, however, first walks into the classroom acknowledging that he/she has already made one mistake in life…namely dropping out of school. With that acknowledgement comes a touch of embarrassment and perhaps a reduction in self-esteem. In my mind, it is the mission of the GED teacher to accomplish two tasks: first is simply to give the student the educational wherewithal to pass the GED test, but secondly, and perhaps more importantly, to offer to the student the opportunity to recapture the enthusiasm for life, to forget the mistakes of the past, and to anticipate the challenges of the future.

     There is no “typical” GED student. Coming from all walks of life, ethnicity, economic status, and region, they are a cross section of America, representing sometimes the best and sometimes the worst. But out of their diversity comes a common goal, and that is to better themselves. The objective may be purely a monetary goal through a job promotion, or it may be the first step toward college and a profession, or it may be simply a matter of self-esteem.

     One of my most memorable experiences since becoming a GED teacher involved my oldest student. She said she was sixty-two years old and did not need the GED. Her husband was a successful businessman, her children and grandchildren were grown, and they had no financial worries. But she told me she had married young and always regretted not getting her high school diploma. She worked hard in my class, and I will always remember the day when I picked up my ringing phone and heard a voice screaming, “I got it! I got it!” She had passed her GED exams. These are the moments teachers live for.

     The Adult Education Department of Harris County Department of Education has grown exponentially in the last few years. I have been privileged to be a small part of its outreach. Though we teachers classify ourselves as “GED” or “ESL,” the fact of the matter is our true mission is to be second chance facilitators for those who truly need a second chance.