Some of Our Past Ramblings - Enjoy!

 

---

 

 

 

You Had to Be There

 

They called for rain—not a drop fell. 

 

My favorite parts of the evening were

1. Beannie and Jimmie Anne counting the money.
2. The band—Ricky & Beannie, you did well.
3. Walking out on the dock, my cup falling off the dock, and Greg Simmons and Bruce Knowles fishing with a net until they caught it.
4. Most of all, Kris Metzger calling me (she was not there, although she lives in Ft. Pierce and I drives 12 hours to get there) and asking, “Were there only old people?”
5. I enjoyed watching the old flames relight for a little while.

 

 

Good Time Was Had by All

 

Bobby at his favorite sport – the Bar

 

Touch to Find an Upside Down Smile

 

Jimmie Anne Ordered a Tent—Oh, Ye, of Little Faith

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive

---

Who Says You Can’t Go Home?

Happy 65^th Birthday to Classes of 1969 and 1970

 

As the years flow by like the receding tide from the Indian River Lagoon through the jetty-lined Ft. Pierce inlet, I am struck by how our lives boil down to a series of moments—some good, some not so, some special, and some forgotten shortly after they occur. This series of separate and oh-so-different moments weave to form the tapestry of our lives.

Thinking back on my life and the many things I’ve done right, and not so, I recall the catchy little tune for recent HP laser printer commercial: “It ain’t what you do . . ., it’s the way that you do it.” Some of us, me included, have really done it.

Before I go on stage for one of my speaking gigs, I psych myself up with my personal mix of “fire-up” music blaring through the ear buds of my iPod. I am sure I look quite the sight—a possessed, gray-bearded, senior citizen, bobbing my head and pumping my fist, as I high-step throught the green room getting more fired up by the song.

Richard’s Fired-Up playlist, as I labeled it, is composed of about twenty tracks, some as old as I am, and others a mixture of songs garnered from today’s pop and country genres. This playlist is designed to fire up one, and only one, person on the planet—me.

I chose most songs for their upbeat tempo and some for the way they strum my heart’s memory strings. A few—very few—for both. The first song on my playlist is the foot-tapping, blood-pumping, “Who Says You Can’t Go Home,” sung by Bon Jovi and Jennifer Nettles of Sugarland—two of my favorite artists. This song hits the bull’s-eye for me.

 

 

Who Says You Can’t Go Home?

There’s Only One Place They Call Me One of Their Own

We have made it easy for you to come home.

You asked for it, and now, you have it—a joint birthday party with the Classes of ‘69 and ‘70. Those who missed the Class of ‘70’s 60^th Birthday Party—shame on you. You will never know what you missed. It was the closest to a joint party between the Classes of ‘69 and ‘70. There was almost as many for the Class of ‘69 as there were for the Class of ‘70.    

And who can forget the cops shutting us down? What a sight to behold—kicking Cal out of his own backyard.

I’m talking to those who didn’t go to the 60^th party, because those who were there will never miss another birthday party. All those who were not in attendance—please register now.

If you want a perfect place for the party, we will be right on the river at the home of Rick and Jimmie Anne Haisley at 3600 North Milton Rd.

 

You could not ask for a better host. Dinner will be served by our own Jim Huck. If you have not registered, do so now.

And if you can afford it, make the $30, $50, or $100 contribution to the scholarship fund, the only way some of your classmates can attend.

 

Keeping the Spirit Alive, 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

A Sailor’s Soul & The Heart of a Romantic

Oliver Wendell Holmes said on his ninetieth birthday, “Oh, to be eighty again!”

Life is more about how we look at things than what happens to us. Ollie had that figured out. I will lay even money that when we get to the end of our life, we’ll all understand that it was really about the journey. It would be good to remember that now. I bet better would have been learning that, say, fifty years ago. Then again, that would have taken a lot of the fun out of life’s zigs and zags. I learned a bit about myself over the past sixty or so years—some good, some not so good.

 

I learned

That at my core, I am a decent person. It took me a while to admit that aloud, but today, I’m cool with that semi-bold statement. I hope that at least a few of you agree.  To quote Eric Burdon, “I'm just a soul whose intentions are good; oh, Lord, don't let me be misunderstood.”

 

I learned

That sometimes the difference between what we want and what we fear is no more than the width of an eyelash. The way to put either into action is left foot first; right foot next; repeat the process.

 

I learned

To not take myself too seriously. I am living proof of what a group of people can accomplish if we all march in the same direction. It began with great parents who, in my early years, kept me on the straight and narrow. As I entered my mid-teens, they began to give me enough rope to either make a ladder or hang myself. As I recall, there was a fair amount of hangin’ in my teens and twenties.

 

By the grace of God, a group of helpers has continued to expand through the years to include a loving spouse and an eclectic group of friends who seem to always have my best interest at heart. Some of you are included in that group. Each can be counted on to prop me up, dust me off, and on occasion, resemble the cavalry coming to my rescue.

 

I even have an editor who has accepted the unenviable task of making me look good, no matter what it takes. She is the reason I could write eleven books without being able to spell “cat.” Thanks, Susan Andres. When she was on vacation, I found a second Susan to help make me look good—our classmate Susan Wood-Clasby. Thanks to Susan².

 

I learned

That there is no way I can please everyone, so when in doubt, pleasing myself (and those whom I love) becomes my plan, but above all, to strive to not hurt anyone. Because  life can be a bit messy, I have failed in the hurting arena more than once, but I can assure you that today, I work harder to avoid hurting anyone more than ever.

 

I learned

That after four years in the Coast Guard that I have a sailor’s soul attached to a romantic’s heart, two wanderlust feet, a glass-is-half-full attitude, and an appetite to take a bigger bite of life than is usually recommendable. I’ve spent a lifetime growing older, but not up.

 

I learned

That wrinkles only appear where many smiles have been. I’ve noticed that people in general are inherently good, and I will never let the few bad ones sprinkled about here and there make me cynical. If you want to smile—I mean really smile—just listen to a child’s laughter. May God help us if we ever get too old ourselves to be “barefoot children in the rain.”

 

 

 

I learned

I'm not difficult to define—I love women. From that first look in elementary school, I swallowed the hook, and from that point forward, I have had a special place in my heart for women. I owe that to my mother. She taught me how to respect and honor women—young and old, skinny and not so, nice and not so. They are all to be respected and put on a pedestal . . . yes, I’m not so PC with all this “pedestal putting.” (Remember the part about not being able to please everyone, so I’m pleasing myself on this one.)

Even a few women out there will like the view from that pedestal. I still open the door for women and girls alike because I want to and because my mom instilled in me that most are or will be someone’s mother. Further, I like intelligent women. And if that smart woman comes in a real short skirt . . . well, that is just a grand slam. Wouldn’t Mom be proud?

 

 

I learned

Not to focus on looking back unless that is the way you want to go. I, as many of you, have tasted heartache and tasted tears. But I know that time oversees all things. As with the weather in Florida, my birth state, if you don’t like something in your life, just give it a little time, and it will change.

 

I learned

That we grew up with the best music every written. Our music changed the world, because we changed the world. We, as a generation, stopped a war, and that empowered us to change many other things along our long and winding journey. Although watching the induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame recently, I noticed some of those guys got old, unlike most of us who look more or less as we did graduation night.I learned

Things said and unsaid can stay with us for a lifetime, but wrongs can be righted with a phone call. You will be glad you did.

 

I learned

That in America, we have all but lost our sense of community. Attached garages allow us to enter and exit our homes without communicating with neighbors. Answering phones and voicemail prevent us from speaking to each other. Our friendships on Facebook have replaced real friendships. Air conditioning takes us off our front porch and out of our front yard, and video games have hijacked an entire generation. We need more front-door friends—those who feel comfortable with opening the door and saying, “Hello, is anyone home?”

 

A community supports one another. So does a class. I’ve made it my goal to call one classmate each month to just ask them about his or her life. Try it; you might be surprised at the “new old” friends you’ll make.

 

Although I have no corner on knowledge, I have learned these few things in the past sixty-four years. I hope you enjoyed this Rambling. Let me encourage you to post your thoughts on our Coconut Telegraph—Forum. Until next month, . . . 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive

 

 

 

---

As we approach Mother’s Day, I can’t help but think back on the love of my Mom.  I hope you enjoy the reprint of this tribute to my Mom.  If your Mom is still with you, hug her for those of us left without ours.

An Orphan Remembers Mother’s Day

She is within—although I am without. She played basketball, applied bandages and love, and for 64 years, loved one man. She was a GRITS (girl raised in the South) with a delightful sense of humor offered through a smooth Southern drawl. She had an unmatched ability to forgive even the most boneheaded mistakes two precocious little boys could make, concealed by a smile of understanding.

 

She was a mama bear in every sense of the word, whose lifework was trying to protect my brother Roger and me, even on her deathbed. She was prepared to love us whether we became a governor, gangster, or anything between.

She squeezed $1.38 from each dollar that came through our family’s all too small pastor’s paycheck, distributing each greenback as a general allocates troops for a battle she knows is grossly outmanned. In the financial arena, she did such a good job that it never occurred to me that we were poor until I left my high school’s hallowed halls.

Part angel of mercy, part tutor, and full-time referee, she moved with grace, spoke with charm, and never had a bad word to say about anyone. I sometimes felt, growing up as a pastor’s son, that there was a spotlight, if not microscope, on our family. She took it all in stride, whether consoling the girl with nowhere else to turn, offering quiet support to our Southern Baptist preacher father after an anything but holy deacons meeting, or when offering some not so quiet “suggestions” about the choices facing my brother and me growing up.

She taught me to always treat a lady as one, to walk on the outside of the lady on a sidewalk (to keep mud from splashing from the nonexistent passing carriages, she explained), and to not take myself too seriously.

Yes, this godly woman taught Roger and me much about living. So, I do not know why it came as such a surprise that she would also teach me much about dying. As she lay in the hospital bed, too weak to raise her arm from the crisp, clean sheets, the doctor explained that without an operation, she would die within days. When he left, I took her hand and asked her what she wanted to do. She smiled the smile I had always counted on and announced, “I’m ready to go home.” That sentence hit me like a ton of bricks. Yes, I understood why. After all, she had been in pain and declining far too long. But within seconds, every fiber of my body wanted to protest. “I’m not ready to lose you yet, Mom,” I stammered, unable to produce any words commensurate with my feelings, or should I say, my fears?

She smiled again as she lightly squeezed my hand and announced, “You’ll be fine. This is the way it should be. I’ve had a good life; I’m certain of my salvation. I’m so very tired, and I’m ready to go home.” Yes, the woman who had been the principal architect of the man I am today taught me one more lesson—how to accept the inevitable—death—with grace and dignity. I’d never been prouder, yet more fearful.

My father was already deep in the throes of what Nancy Reagan described as “the long goodbye,”  or the accursed disease known as Alzheimer’s. My mother had watched for more than a decade as my dad’s misplacing the car keys transitioned into misplacing the memories of his life, of their life.

After my wife Joan so graciously offered our home to my parents so we could better care for them in what would be their final year, I was amazed to see firsthand how well this amazing woman I called Mom helped guide my father, while silently affording him as much dignity as that horrendous disease allowed. She never lost her temper, never huffed in irritation or frustration, but quietly and patiently answered whatever question he asked repeatedly with a love that should be the standard for sainthood.

Although I will at least discuss the improbable possibility that my mother might have not been perfect, I will not give up the notion that without her love and guidance, I would not be the man I am today. Without her, I would not have been raised to believe that almost anything is possible, many a young lady would have, I am sure, been splashed with carriage mud, and I would not have a roadmap, for not only life, but also death. I do not profess to know why in God’s infinite wisdom I was blessed with a woman such as this as my mother, but I am more grateful than words allow me to proclaim.

A year after her death, my father joined her in heaven. Although I have no proof, I instinctively know that she was the first person to meet him. I’m sure she straightened his coat, brushed back his now replenished and perfect head of hair he so hated losing on Earth, and arm-in-arm walked with him into eternity.

Shortly after my father’s passing, my brother Roger mentioned that at 60, I was an orphan. I thought about it and then smiled, knowing that my mother’s glass-is-half-full outlook would’ve been, “Yes, but for 60 years, you were not.”

Although I am unsure of the specifics of an earthly transition into eternal life, I somehow feel certain that my mother will be the first person I see when my day comes. And yes, she will probably say, “I told you that you could do it.”

I miss you, Mom.

Your Loving Son,

 

 

 

---

 

Am I Gaining Ground Am I Losing Face?

 

It is April 2016 and time for a new Rambling. Here I sit at my computer as I usually do trying to come up with words that will outlast me, which is the way most of my Ramblings start. I begin with nothing, and by the time I’m finished, I realize that I need to cut half these words of wisdom to keep you from falling asleep or needing a haircut by the time you finish reading.

I have had many classmates tell me that they enjoyed our 45^th Reunion as much, if not more, than any of our reunions. As I ponder that, I think that had little to do with the planning and much to do with the mindset with which we arrived.

By our mid-60s, most of us know where we are in life and accept that this is where we will be when the fat lady sings. Not many of us still focus on building our first, or another, empire. Most of us are happy with our spouse, comfortable in our skin, and above all, grateful—if for no other reason than we are still here.

In our 20s, 30s, 40s, and even 50s, many of us were laser-focused on saving face. We cared more about what others thought than reality. Today, most us just want comfortable shoes.

 

At our 45^th, there was an air of peaceful and easy feeling afoot both nights. No cliques, no arrogances, no one looking down their noses—we were all just glad to be there among our oldest friends on the planet.

I have made more new friends from our class since our 40^th reunion than I have renewed old friendships. Even though our class was a big class—more than 400—most of us seemed to fly in a tight orbit around just a handful of close friends and a few more friendly acquaintances. By the time we got to the end of our limited social solar system—Pluto (yes, I know it is no longer a planet, but this baby boomer has made a thought-out decision to keep it as my ninth planet, no matter what others say)—we knew the names of our other classmates, but little else.

Today, I am fascinated to discover the path my classmates have taken to get to this place and time. Some have chosen the easy path, whereas others, not so much. Some have accumulated more wealth than others have, whereas other have amassed riches much more valuable than gold.

But the one thing most of us have learned is that life has less to do with wealth and more to do with relationships. After all what value would you place on your grandbaby? Notice I did not use your kids in that thought-provoking question. With our kids, our emotions and expectations can ebb and flow, but not so with a grandbaby. They are nearly perfect most of the time.

Is there one of us who would not gladly give everything we own to save that precious gift from God. I remember when David shared the challenges his granddaughter, little Anne Marie, was having. We all lifted the family in prayer, and I know I could not stop thinking about her. Having lost a grandson, my heart went out to David and his family. It was a wonderful day when the feeding tube came out. All this emotion, and I’ve never met Anne Marie.

Think back to our 20s and 30s. Is there anything we loved enough at that stage in our life to be willing to give everything we owned to save it? Most would answer no. Those days were about accumulation, and until that accumulation reached the point we thought was reasonable, it was about not losing face. God forbid the people down the street had a newer car than we did.

In our McCarty High days, we were indestructible, or so we thought. The quality of our life was measured by the deepness of our tan, how long our shirttail was, and whether you still had your fairy loop. Time seemed to flow like a lazy river, and we celebrated the simplest things, enduring the challenges, and made a ton of compromises along the way.

Our dreams mostly centered on drive-in theaters, Victory dances, and whether we had a date on Friday night and $5 in our pocket. For if we were that lucky, we could buy enough gas to be seen making 35 trips around Bill’s Burger with enough scratch left over to buy a couple of those tasty burgers while telling our date du jour about how great it would be to get out of school and begin to conquer the world. Why were we in such a hurry?

In those days, none of us was difficult to define. Our attention span was about 30 seconds long and little did we know that the simplest things both said and unsaid could stay with us for a lifetime.

I think that once we learned what Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery—gravity—could do to our youthful bodies, the rest, as they say, was downhill. Once we discovered we, too, are mortal, wealth and possessions found their rightful place in our life.

Today, I care less about saving face than much more about gaining ground in the areas I deem important—family, friends, loving and being loved, and leaving something that will outlast this frail body.

I am blessed to have never been sick more than a few days and never spent the night in the hospital. That blessing was underscored over the past two weeks, for that was when a simple cold turned into viral pneumonia in this slightly rotund chest of mine. I was in bed (as much as I could bear it) for about 10 days. I wondered how would I handle being very sick? My thoughts turned to the classmates who had serious health issues and now are on our Memory Board. I could not help but feel blessed that my health issue was short-term.

The day I started feeling a bit better, Merle Haggard died. And how did he die, you ask—pneumonia. That will make your toes curl.

Don’t start writing my obituary yet. I am back on my feet. If you do not count a voice that is anything but perfect, I’m at 90+ percent. My wife Joan thinks this version 2.0 of me, the one with a weaker voice, is new and improved—but that is a Rambling for another day.

The next time we are tempted to focus on not losing face—maybe we should all look for a way to gain more ground in the areas of our life that are truly important.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

 

 

---

 

Back Where I Come From

Mac McAnally wrote a song in 1990 called “Back Where I Come From.” Whenever I hear that song, it magically transports me back to a different time and place—one that was much simpler. Come with me, back to where I come from.

My dad was a pastor, and we moved from my birth state of Florida to Alabama and then back to Ft. Pierce, Florida, during my junior high days. I do not recall with much clarity dates and times; that was always my Mom’s duty. Boy, do I miss her! I jokingly say that much of that lack of clarity surely stems from growing up in the 60s, but that is a Rambling for a different time.

The earliest memories I have of back where I come from were about the seventh grade. The junior high was on the same road as the high school, with only a few hundred yards separating them, but they were light-years apart. At one school in that plot of land, big yellow school buses brought junior high students to school each morning. At the other, if you worked for two full summers and with help from your father, you could afford to pay cash for a $300 Rambler Classic and drive yourself to school. My first real freedom came with the keys to that Rambler.

If my dad had known that front seat reclined all the way to the backseat, he would have never allowed me to buy that car. That Rambler was as much part of my “education” as Dan McCarty High was. Fond memories, for sure.

Back where I come from, you never questioned an adult, and you were just as likely to get a spanking from your parents’ friends as those who gave you birth. Lawyers were only used to buy real estate and write wills. You never thought about suing someone. If you had a problem, you sat down and talked it out. Maybe Congress should be taken back where I come from.

Part of the right of passage for young men was going behind the church across the street from the junior high to settle disagreements the old fashion way—until one of the young scrappers was forced to say the dreaded word uncle. Then, it was over, and both left respecting each other, if not friends.

There were no drive-by shootings or terrorists or fear of letting your kid explore their small, yet expanding, world. No one thought of hurting a kid, and it was inconceivable that someone would take a gun into school intent on shooting children.

Kids regularly ran around in the backseat of 1950s and 60s cars or, better yet, crawled in the back window. Smoking was allowed on all airplanes – so you see some things have improved. Potato chips were made by Charles and delivered in cans back where I came from.

Each night on the 6:00 News, Huntley and Brinkley gave us the  body count from Vietnam and always made it sound as though we were winning—us, 21; them, 68. We as a generation saw the world through rose-colored glasses, but we instinctively understood that we had no business fighting in a civil war halfway around the world. So, we as a generation promptly and collectively stopped that war. Amazingly, our primary reason for fighting that war was to stop the spread of Communism. Newsflash: Communism died because it was a bad idea, but not before 1.3 million died in Vietnam, including 58,151 Americans. Stopping Vietnam gave us such a sense of power, and we promptly began to change everything we met from that day forward.

Our generation made millionaires for the owners of Schwinn Bikes and the inventor of the Hula-Hoop, gave a reason to create muscle cars, exploded the growth of college campuses and starter homes, changed the way the world invested, and in the process, went to the moon.

I still remember on July 21, 1969, watching intently the only TV (black-and-white) in our home, rabbit ears and all, as Neil Armstrong stepped onto the Sea of Tranquility at 02:56 GMT. The 20 long minutes after the opening of the hatch opened the Eagle landing craft, but before Armstrong emerged, seemed to last years. We all remember his words to the world: “That is one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

When I learned that they had Tang on the trip to the moon, I could not get enough. It was as though I hoped NASA would learn of my high daily consumption and call me for the space program.

Back where I come from, we went to church on Sunday; morning and evening, and Wednesday nights, hung out at the Little League ball field, and walked our bare feet down sandy washboard roads, unless we peddled our spider bikes, complete with banana seat and handlebar streamers. When we got thirsty from all that walking, there was always a garden hose available to quench that thirst.

I spent many hours on the beach. Surfing was the excuse, but girls were the primary focus. Bright blue eyes and long tan legs—well, folks, it just doesn’t get any better than that for a teenaged boy. Not sure why I am not eaten with skin cancer; Lord knows, I deserve to be.

Girls ironed their hair and stood still, allowing exercise machines to jiggle their butts. Every girl had a pair of pedal pushers, and their nylons came in two pieces.

 

Boys were cool if they wore their shirttails out and their “fairy loops” were missing—the trophy of some teenage girl. (Remember those long tan legs.) A fairy loop was a small price to pay for a smile from those blue eyes. Of course, the National Shirt Shop was the only place to buy shirts.

Both boys and girls looked better with low-rider bell-bottoms and love beads. On Fridays, everyone had to have a Jinx doll before the pep rally.

Back where I come from, there was nothing west of I-95, except cows, palmettos, and rattlesnakes. Orange Avenue was the main area of commerce, but a whole world was at your beck and call through your View-Master, and we knew everyone worth knowing back where I come from.

Above all, back where I come from made me who I am today. And you know, even if I could, I would never change “back where I come from.”

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

---

 

 

My New Year’s Resolution Is. . .

 

Well, how are you doing on your New Year’s resolutions? Have you dropped the unwanted pounds, been nicer to others, traveled more, or suddenly become oh so organized?

It has always amazed me that there is so much focus given to resolutions in January, but by February, they are usually long gone. In actuality, each day is a new beginning. Yes, each dawn, we awake to a new day—one filled with promise and oh so many wonderful opportunities. Some of these opportunities are life-changing; some, not so much.

David Feibelman had a life-changing day in 2015 when he received a new heart. I talked to my friend of 50 years shortly thereafter, and he was so excited about his new lease on life. He told me, and I paraphrase, that he was going to make his life count, because the prayers we, his fellow classmates, had prayed for him had been answered. He realized that God had given him a chance to make a difference.

Dave, that is one great resolution—to make a difference. We all are proud of you. By the way, David, you have already made a difference in my life. To see the grace and acceptance with which you handled that ordeal makes me choke up still.

Cindie and Kenny, seeing how you have handled your heath issues has been an inspiration to us all.

Then, there are Doc, Debra, and Audrey, all three now cancer-free. I love you guys, and we all are so thankful for your cancer-free diagnosis. By the way, Audrey, you will never know how good you made me feel, telling me at the reunion that you have considered me a good enough friend that during your treatment, you shared with me what you were going through—in depth, I might add. I must admit that at the time, it made me flinch, but I kept thinking you were going through a double mastectomy, and all I had to do was listen. You, too, changed lives. You taught me a lot about friendship.

You know, that resolution is one of the best any of us can make for 2016—that we will have a positive impact on at least one life. It does not have to be something earthshattering, and I hope that it will not be life-threatening, but we all can change a life so easily. It might be a grandchild you point in the right direction who, like a pebble tossed in a pond, will send ripples to every corner. Maybe you will decide to be a friend to a kid without a father. Sharing some time with him or her and passing on the wisdom you have learned over a lifetime.

It could be taking a young family to dinner or, better yet, inviting them over to your home for a meal. Just listening to them can mean a lot. Maybe you have been blessed enough to help at least one person financially in his or her time of need. We all think that we do not have the financial resources to help anyone meaningfully. I remember seeing a two-minute clip during Christmas of a man who went through discount stores giving away a stack of hundred-dollar bills. What astonished me was the response so many recipients had. Many broke down crying and hugged his neck for a single $100 bill. For some, it was the difference between Christmas and no Christmas. In fact, this morning I saw on the news that 63% of American families cannot cover an unexpected $500 expense. Most of us could afford one hundred dollars at some time in 2016. I would do that just to see those responses.

Maybe it is just giving a big tip to someone you know needs it, or anonymously paying a lawn service to mow a sick neighbor’s lawn. Maybe you are more hands-on, and you would feel more comfortable using a Saturday morning to plant some flowers or a tree for someone you know cannot afford to do that for himself. It has been said, “Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

If everyone in this great country committed to do something nice for someone each week, it would make such a difference. Think about it—300 million people doing 52 good deeds in 2016. OK, so some jerks will never do something nice for anyone. They would rather gripe, complain, and Monday morning quarterback through life pointing out what you said or did wrong.

I have another good deed for you to consider. Adopt a jerk in 2016. Yes, just think of someone you know who will never do anything nice for anyone and decide that you are going to do 52 good deeds for him or her. Do you believe in karma? Try doing something nice for that jerk; now, that ought to wobble the universe a bit.

So, you see, it does not matter that January 2016 is rapidly ending, because tomorrow morning is a new day—one ripe with good deeds just waiting to be done, a smile waiting to be freed from a scowl, kids to point in the right direction, and secret things no one will ever know you did. . . except you.

So, what will you do with this trip around the sun?

 

Happy 2016!

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

---

Christmas 2015

 

For the last few years, I have been drawn more and more to old reruns of Andy of Mayberry. It airs at 6:30 CT here in Gulf Shores, Alabama; after the 5:00 news and before the primetime shows. It is at the end of the workday, and it helps me unwind. I am unsure why that show with its corny plotlines and, at best, average acting affects me as it does, but the older I get, the more it comforts me as I watch Andy, Opie, Aunt Bea, and Barney tackle everyday problems.

Driving home from the Gulf Shores Christmas Boat Parade last night, I heard a recording by Charlie Monk called “Andy and Opie Christmas,” and it caused me to pull over, put it in park, close my eyes, and just listen. Soon, a warm smile slowly spread across my face as I was magically transported back to my own Mayberry RFD—the one of my childhood.

You see; all my life, I’ve lived in small towns. Yes, even the Ft. Pierce of our youth was a small town. We, too, celebrated Christmas the same way they did in Mayberry. Nativity scenes dotted our community. No one would even think of uttering the phrase Happy Holidays. It was always Merry Christmas.

Even one of my first employers, Arthur Rubin, a wonderful man who owned Rubin’s clothing store in the old downtown area, wished a heartfelt Merry Christmas to this Southern Baptist minister’s son. But more important, he allowed me to date his daughter Pam Rubin. You know, I can’t remember ever giving it a second thought that she was Jewish, and I was a Baptist minister’s son. We just didn’t think that way in those young and innocent years. I think we both had our parents to thank for that.

Arthur was not just a good man and a smart businessman, he was an intelligent man. Looking back, I know he was intelligent because he waited until after Thanksgiving to decorate the store for Christmas. Now, imagine that!

You know, with all those Merry Christmases thrown around by all those people, to the best of my knowledge, no one was permanently damaged by those two words. We lived and let live in our seaside Mayberry.

I remember when I was about 14, I wrote X-Mas in a note my mom read. I will never forget the lecture she gave me about taking Christ out of Christmas. That was not my intention. I was a kid, and I had seen others write it that way and had never thought much of it.

I have written often about how we all won the cosmic lottery being born where, when, and to whom we were born. Mom’s little lecture must have worked because here I am 50 years later telling you about that little life lesson, and I have never again referred to Christmas in its abbreviated form.

We are not born knowing much of anything. We are taught almost everything. I, as you, have been blessed with many wonderful teachers, including our traditional teachers, friends, pastors, and, of course, our parents. (In my case, I was able to combine the last two.)

As in Charlie Monk’s recording, I can attest that in most small towns, the church is a second home for most folks. I know it was when my dad pastored Westside Baptist on 25^th and Orange Ave. But during the Christmas season, we spent more time at church than at home, and we had a Christmas play each year. I remember my thespian debut as one of the three wise men. I remember that IQ was not considered in that casting decision; otherwise, I might have been cast as a camel, instead.

Now, take a minute to listen to Charlie’s “Andy and Opie Christmas,” and I’ll meet you in downtown Mayberry . . . I mean Ft. Pierce.

One last thing—after our reunion, I felt so more blessed to be part of this class than I can put in words. So, I decided to give you each a gift—my 12 days of Christmas. Starting on the 13^th and going through the 25^th, I will post one or more Christmas songs—some rather unique if I do say so myself—as my gift to you. I hope you will return to the website each day. The posting will be done on the Forum. Please post your thoughts on the Forum and give your classmates your Merry Christmas wishes. If someone has been special in your life, let us know.

I’ll go first.

 

from…

Andy, Opie, Charlie, and Me

 

 

---

 

November - December  2015

What Do I Have to Be Thankful About?

After all, I’m getting old, I have aches and pains in more places than I even knew I had, and being a millionaire at 35 . . .  well, I guess I can forget 65 as well. Yes, life can be anything but easy.

Although all those things might be true, in the interest of fairness, let’s look back honestly on the last 60-something year.

Although I have not traveled each step of your journey, I have shadowed you all the way. So, the only thing I can speak to is my journey. And to say the least, it has been one heck of a ride.

To be grateful, one must approach life with a grateful heart. The longer I live, the more I am certain that attitude plays a major role in our happiness. If you expect to be happy . . .  for the most part, you are happy. The same goes for being thankful. For this Rambling, I will interchange thankful and grateful. If you expect to be grateful, then by golly, you usually are.

As you approach the good and not so good that life can throw at you like a Roger Clemens fastball, how you perceive both good and bad determines how you handle it.

Then, there is the domino effect. Have you ever heard that “bad” things come in three? Well, guess what. So do good things. I am sure that a glass-is-half-empty type coined the bad things saying. A thankful heart causes more good things to happen, and after a while, you are on a roll. One good thing leads to another, and before you know it, you are happy . . .  and by the way, whether you like it, that happiness brings more gratefulness.

If you look back 10 or 20 years, your primary memories will be good, not bad. Somehow, we forget the bad, retaining the good. As I wrote in previous Ramblings, I lost a grandson Josh at age 2½. Now, folks, let me tell you that it does not get much worse than losing a grandbaby. Little Josh went on to heaven 18 years ago. When I think back, I know there was pain. I know it hurt worse than I can put in words. But today, I can only remember the good things, not the overwhelming pain. I think our brains are blessed with selective memory to prevent the bad mounting and crushing us.

Positive grateful people glow, if you will. They don’t walk around emitting a light like a 100-watt light bulb, but they have warmth about them that others want to be around, that others seek. I remember the children’s song I learned six decades ago in Sunday school.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

I’m reminded that the darker it is, the brighter even a dim light seems. So, I have an idea; let’s shine, Class of ‘70, because if you have not noticed, this ol’ world has grown a bit darker than it was when we spent those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer in good ol’ Ft. Pierce’s South Beach. Can you remember the summer of ‘70? Boy, I will never forget that summer . . .  not as long as I live.

 

What we keep in our heart is what others see. I am reminded that our kids and grandkids learn more from what we do, than what we say. If your heart is dark, if you are ungrateful, it works its way into your persona. Everyone sees what you hold inside.

I was amazed when I heard this week about the young minister whose pregnant wife was raped and killed while he was at the gym. The 18-year-old boy who shot her left their one-year-old baby with his dead mother as they fled. If there was ever a reason to hate, that young minister had that reason. Within days, he made a statement: While every fiber of my body cries out for me to hate this boy, I will not allow him to also ruin my life and the life of our baby. I choose to forgive him. I know that I will have to continue forgiving him every morning, for the rest of my life.

What a powerful message he gave. He knew that what is inside a man is what that man becomes. He replaced hate with forgiveness, not for that boy who killed his wife, but for himself and his child. Forgiveness is a powerful tool to achieve a grateful heart.

If he can do that, can’t we drop petty problems, which we may have harbored for years? Can’t we drop them by the wayside, if for no other reason than to make room for our own gratefulness? I, for one, will try. How about you?

When I add the plusses and minuses in my life, it is difficult to be anything but grateful. After all, I was born to wonderful Christian parents in the Leave-It-To-Beaver world of the 1950s, listening to the best music ever created. Although I have watched us lose some things—Bill’s Burger, drive-in theaters, and Trick-or-Treating at Halloween—we have also gained a lot. Would you have ever thought that on your birthday, you would get 200+ happy birthday wishes before noon? Technology can be so cool . . .  when it works.

For the most part, I have been healthy, happy, and honed in on enjoying a great life. I have a wonderful family and three great grandkids, and I have lived long enough for them to think I don’t know anything.

Then, there are you—the great Class of 1970. I began my journey with you, and eventually, I will end it with you. Many of you have been friends for a lifetime. Others who were mere acquaintances in high school have become close friends today. A week seldom goes by that I do not get a call from a 50-year friend. Now, that is cool.

This week, the phone rang, and it was Dana Longino. He was in Mississippi, more than two hours away. He just called to see if we could get together. I was thrilled. How many never have a friend from across the street call? Dana drove a half-day round trip just to spend a few hours with a 50-year friend. Thanks, Dana. BTW, moving the day so Kim could come was the right choice, brother.

As a class, we rejoice when something good happens and cry when pain or sadness visits a classmate. I cried tears of joy when David Feibelman got his new heart and cried again, when David Perdue’s granddaughter Anne Marie had her feeding tube removed. I worried when Doc and Debra told me they had cancer; I rejoiced when they were pronounced cancer-free. I was sad when Jimmie Ann, Ricky, and Cindy lost their moms, and I was happy with each photo of a new grandbaby shared by one of our classmates. I ask you how many classes can say that.

I am sure that if you will take a minute to compare all the things you have to be thankful for, they will greatly outweigh any pain.

Happy Thanksgiving, Class.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive, With a Grateful Heart,

 

 

 

 

---

 

---

September 2015

 

 

What a Crybaby

 

You know a writer cannot write without emotion. To write, you must feel. The deeper those feelings, the better your writing can be. Sometimes, I wish that was not the case, but alas, it is. The writer’s writing is not worth the paper it is written on unless he or she is truthful—the truthfulness that comes with bearing your soul for all to see.

Sometimes, soul bearing is anything but comfortable. It requires you to drop your guard, and any boxer knows that dropping your guard means you can be hurt. By letting others see the real you, you become vulnerable to what others think and say, and the deeper you allow others to peer into your soul, the more vulnerable you are.

In my life things that did not matter much at 30 or 40 years old, matter a great deal at 63. Today, so many things can choke me up; more so than at any point in my life. And yes, sometimes I can find myself swelling up and fighting back tears. What is with that?

Boys don’t cry. That was our mantra growing up in the 60s. Any of we guys would be laughed out of McCarty High if caught with tears in our eyes. Can you imagine what would have happened if you sat on your board at the North Jetties waiting for the next set of swells with tears rolling down your cheeks? God forbid!

But just as fine wine mellows with age, it appears that we men do also. As our age advances, our rollercoaster of emotions can rival the ups and downs of Wall Street. And as each year passes, these emotions seem to be more unpredictable.

There is a Subaru Forester TV commercial showing a dad cleaning out his old Subaru to give to his 16-year-old daughter just before he tosses her the keys.

Gregory Alan sings the background music Making Memories. Each item he cleans out of the car—a crayon, a gum wrapper, a corsage from her prom—brings back another fond memory of his daughter and him. The last statement on the commercial is “You can pass down a Subaru . . .  but you get to keep the memories.”

Whenever I see that commercial, I choke up. I remember my granddaughter and the car I bought her at 17. I remember the way she cried when she saw the big bow on it Christmas Day and how I cried when she drove off alone leaving her Wow and me arm in arm, watching her taillights disappear along with her childhood. Again, I cried.

This year, my friend Danny Curl died of a heart attack. I was so emotional that I could hardly talk. I had just talked to him, and then, he was gone, leaving me with so many things I still wanted to say to him.

I decided to call Danny’s wife Sharon and give her my condolences. I dialed their number, and a woman answered. Assuming it was Sharon, I began to introduce myself and then broke into tears, crying uncontrollably. When I finally brought myself under control, the woman I called said, “I’m so sorry for your loss, but I am afraid you have the wrong number.” I’m sure Danny would have gotten a kick out of the whole incident.

Then, we have Mr. Feibleman. When I got the call from Bobby that David’s transplant had happened, and he was doing fine, you guessed it; I cried. I did not cry just once. For the next two days, whenever I told someone about my high school friend who had a successful transplant, I swelled up and had to fight tears. Mostly, that fight was unsuccessful.

So, let’s recap. As of late, I cry thinking about memories of grandkids, watching TV, when friends die, when they live, and I should add watching any 3-year-old, at the movies, seeing puppies play, in church, and when I stop long enough to realize how dad gum blessed I’ve been.

So, if at the reunion, you see a slightly rotund gray-haired man sitting in the corner crying, come on over and say hello.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive (while crying profusely),

Richard 

 

Keepin' the Spirit Alive,

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

August 2015

 

 

 

Madison Avenue and Baby Boomers

 

We’ve all seen the Madison Avenue image of a baby boomer—those of us born between 1946 and 1964. We’re usually portrayed in the  media as 70-year-old men, leaned back in an aging recliner, trying to make heads or tails of three remote controls or a grandmother-types looking up at a kindly, 30-something, cutesy nurse.

 

While bad imagery in advertising, like the above, can kill your message, good advertising can knock the ball out of the ballpark. Take the ad that appeared in the Atlanta Journal:

 

Black female seeks a long-term relationship with a warm and caring man. Ethnicity not important. I look forward to spending long winter nights cuddled by the fire sharing meals, and I promise to welcome you home each night dressed only in what I was born with.

 

The simple ad was responsible for fifteen thousand calls to the Atlanta Humane Society for a black Lab puppy.

 

As ten thousand baby boomers a day slide into retirement for the next fourteen years, ultimately totaling more than 70MM graying flower children, we can be counted on to do what we boomers have always done . . . change things. 

 

Yes, we baby boomers have done this through every stage of our lives. From birth to elementary school, we exploded sales of everything from cribs to dippers and made household names of companies such as Schwinn Bikes, Mattel Toys, and Ovaltine.

 

After World War II, we boomers ignited one of the longest housing booms in our country’s history, moved music from crooners to rock, stopped a war, and grew up a bit along the way . . .  at least, some of us.

 

Now, back to the image of those three remotes and the recliner . . . Although it’s true that a few of us seem to have become predisposed to the occasional afternoon naps, but it is untrue that we, as a group, are afraid of technology. Madison Avenue would have America think that boomers have a type of tech-phobia. The opposite is true. Most of us became at least somewhat tech-savvy as the PC landed smack in the middle of our working careers. Oh, yeah, we changed that too.

 

We saw in our working years how technology helped us accomplish more in a shorter period with fewer people. In retirement, boomers continue to embrace thousands of helpful apps, Facebook, smartphones, and the Internet wholeheartedly. We might be more cautious in implementing new technology (can you say Twitter), but we certainly do not fear it. After all, we are the generation that moved from 45s to 33 1/3 LPs to 8-tracks to cassettes to CDs to iTunes; thank you very much. If we were afraid, we would still be sitting in the corner with a box of old Credence Clearwater Revival 8-track tapes, babbling something about a broken 8-track player. 

We Boomers devour and post the most online content of all generations—more than 25%, as we spend more than 20 hours weekly surfing the web and interacting on social media.

 

As for Madison Avenue, they would do well to understand that we boomers collectively cannot stand being considered useless or old. I guess we remember how society at-large treated our parents and grandparents; they were patronized or disregarded.

 

We boomers have a strong yearning to remain relevant, for others to know we have value . . . still. We want to hear nothing about being old, about who takes what prescriptions, or about limitations on our lives—be those limitations real or perceived.

 

If Madison Avenue wants my business, they need to look at me as established, with influence and experience, not as some old guy, because as the T-shirts say, “Old Guys Simply Do Not Rule.”

 

Boomers want to be seen and heard in a world that mostly prefers its seniors to be seen and not heard, and oh, yes, if we could work on that being seen part, that would be even better.

 

Another few things as I Ramble along here: If a company wants my business, they should increase their font size, hire true English-speaking service techs, and it would not hurt their ad budget to have optimistic and positive verbiage about how wonderful and fulfilling life can be after 60.

 

Now that I think about it, we boomers want what everyone else wants; we want to matter. We want to be taken seriously. We want to contribute. After all, there’s much hard-earned knowledge under these curly gray locks. The smart marketing companies understand that we are people first, and then we are boomers, and the others . . . well, they just don’t get “it” or my money. 

 

Yes, I know the Millennials and GenXers think they know better than this graying tsunami of boomers crashing on the shores of retirement, but let’s not forget all the things we did right.

 

1.You’re still here, right? Gen X and Gen Y didn’t live through the Cold War with its military strategy of Mutually Assured Destruction, its fallout shelters, and a doomsday clock set at two minutes to midnight.

2. No more polio. No more fear of smallpox, measles, mumps, rubella, or whooping cough, either because of vaccinations.  There’s something for which to thank God and the boomers.

3. Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and the Beach Boys. Popular music will never be the same after the sixties. These musicians left an undying legacy with their lyrics, experimentation, and harmonies.

 

4. Mobile phones. Are not just for Gen Y to use as a texting toy. Mobile phones are making a huge difference in accelerating economic development in the Third World; and they are a product of the boomer generation.

5. Shattering the glass ceiling. What employment opportunities were there for talented women before, during, and after World War II? Now, they can spread their wings and fly. Smash that ceiling, girls!

6. Communism is kaput. It was on the boomer watch that the Berlin Wall fell in 1989.

7. Living with disability. Paraplegics and quadriplegics are well cared for, can live relatively normal lives, and can be part of the workforce.

8. Voyager 1. Launched in 1977, the space probe Voyager 1 is the first human-made object to leave the solar system. Pretty cool if you ask me.

9. The Internet. Instant communication. Fingertip knowledge. Can you imagine life without the Net? Brough to you by boomers (but not Al Gore).

10. Locking in civil rights. Life for blacks in the US still is not perfect, but the Jim Crow laws are gone and racism, formal or informal, is dead or dying. This was a signature cause of the baby boomers. "We shall overcome" has become "we overcame." 

11. The democratization of computing. The power of computers has changed the world, and boomer innovators such as Bill Gates and Steve Jobs put that power in our hands with personal computers, smartphones, and tablets.

12. We wear seat belts. The seat belt was invented in 1885, but the world’s first mandatory buckle-up law wasn’t passed until 1970. Since then, hundreds of thousands of lives have been saved as a result.

13. We can work past 60. Nowadays, turning 60 is no longer a professional death sentence. People can work as long as they like, keeping their experience and skills alive.

14. At least, we didn’t do tattoos. Admittedly, some baby boomers have felt the need to become inked, but most are standing firm against this hideous habit.

 

15. You’ve still got an environment. The baby boomer generation rang alarm bells about the destruction of natural habitats, endangered species, and pollution of waterways.

16. And let’s not forget. Muscle cars, online trading, Wikipedia, downloadable everything, healthy eating habits, longevity, online colleges, 500-channel TVs, and the list goes on.

 

So, you see, Madison Avenue, if you want these boomer bucks, you had better listen, straighten up, and treat us right.

 

Keeping the Spirit Alive,

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

---

 

 

WDMH Radio And The Class Of 70 

Would Like To

Welcome The Class Of 69 To Our

January 2015 WDMH Radio Show 

Featuring

The Dave Clark Five

And our special guest From Your Own Class Of 69 Tommy Schwartz 

Enjoy Our First Show For 2015

 

 

____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

January 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

December 2014

 

 

You Gotta Believe

I remember when my younger brother Roger began to question the authenticity of Santa Claus and his eight tiny flying reindeer. At first, I tried to carry the party line “Of course, there’s a Santa Claus; how else would we get all these presents?” Once it became clear that this logic was not working any longer, I became more pragmatic. “Listen, Roger, when you stop believing, the presents will stop”.

With that brilliant stroke of logic, Roger and we managed to stretch Santa’s annual visits and the gifts another few years. So it is in life—stop believing, and the gifts stop.

Whether you believe you can or you can’t, you are right. Napoleon Hill, when writing Think and Grow Rich, put it this way, “Anything the mind of man can conceive and believe it can achieve.” The operative word here is believe. We can all think of some crazy half-baked plan, but the question is whether we believe, deep in our gut, that we can accomplish it.

Hill’s simple conceive/believe/achieve formula can be seen in every aspect of our lives, whether in believing that you will get that promotion, believing you can raise kids, or believing that you will receive love in return for the love you give. All these begin with the belief that you can accomplish whatever you set your mind to.

Having spent a lifetime in business, I’ve seen many smart, well-educated, and certainly well-equipped people fail miserably. On the other hand, I have seen those that none of us would take even odds on succeed at every turn. In most cases, the belief in themselves, and by extension, their ideas, was their secret sauce for success.

Over the last six decades, I have come to some cornerstone beliefs.

I believe that people are inherently good. Yes, there’s a bad apple here and there, but for the most part, we live in a world full of good people just looking for ways to demonstrate their goodness. People who will lend a helping hand when needed. And there seems to be some unwritten cosmic rule that those who give help, for the most part, benefit from helping others.

I believe that none of us is an island and that we are best when collaborating with others. For me, this was easy. Because I was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, I learned early to depend on others to fill in the potholes of my shortcomings. Go, team, has become one of my favorite mantras.

I believe that the person we choose to share our life with is one of the most critical decisions any of us make. Although it might have taken some of us a time or two (or three) to find our soulmate, once found, the relationship is worth its weight in gold.

I believe that memories, like a fine wine, improve over time. It is difficult for me to remember with any clarity the bad things that have happened in my life. But my memory is chock full of good memories—memories of wonderful people, exciting places, and events that helped make me who I am today.

I believe that travel beats possessions. When I scanned the recesses of my memory, I don’t remember my possessions—a car, a house, or a toy—rather a trip or vacation to a distant location brings a smile. And when you share travel with someone special, it prevents those memories from tarnishing. I believe that Alzheimer’s is one of the most devastating diseases known to humankind because it steals those special memories created over a lifetime.

I believe that the adage that “no good deed goes unpunished” is 180° out. I believe it is just the opposite, and for the most part, most of us reap what we sow. If we are good people, focused on helping others, others seem more inclined to help us. That is not to say that we will not experience our share of challenges and heartaches, but a helping hand usually creates the same in return—to the power of 10.

I believe that things usually work out. It was Mark Twain that said, “Of the things I fear the most in my life, every now and then, one of them actually happened.” I believe that focusing on fear will make you a fearful person. And that a “glass is half-full” attitude is at the cornerstone of being happy.

I believe that we were designed to work… not retire. I might change my mind about this sometime in the future, but as long as God blesses me with good health, I intend to work. I must say that the money produced from work is only a small part of my reason. For me, it is more about the excitement of what is to come. Over my career, I’ve seen so many who retired to a rocking chair that became a short layover before the graveyard. I believe that we are success-oriented and that we must be excited about what’s coming next to feel fulfilled. We each need a reason that drives us to suit up and show up each day.

I believe that anyone who hurts a child or a dog should be shot. Both only want food, shelter, and love. A Greek proverb says, “A society grows when old men plant trees whose shade they will never sit in.” If you want to create something that will last, help a child realize his or her potential.

I believe that Christmas is easily the best time of the year. I will never be heard wishing you that politically correct, yet oh so benign, “Happy Holidays.” I think we can all wish and be wished a Merry Christmas without doing lasting damage to anyone. For me, it is all but impossible to remember the reason for the season when you remove the word Christmas.

I believe that it’s OK to disagree without hating. I believe that this country is great enough that we can overcome the huge divides that today seem to separate our political parties, religions, and races. I believe that most of us are all trying to make the right decisions based on the data we have. I believe that tolerance should be practiced because it is the right thing to do, not because it is in vogue. Maybe I should send this belief to Washington, DC.

I believe the existence of God is overwhelming, and it can be seen in every sunrise, the flowers in a thousand fields, the waves that crash on the sandy beach, and in the smile of a child. I believe those who work overtime intent on disproving His existence are missing one of the greatest joys of our time on this Earth. And I believe that within this belief lies the assurance of eternity.

I believe that I have been blessed in my life beyond measure, for I had the good fortune to grow up in a small beach community at a time that life resembled an Andy of Mayberry rerun. A time when our doors were unlocked with our hearts. When it was cool to have school spirit. And to have been taught by two loving parents to usually do the right thing while being allowed to be just a little bit bad from time to time—I seem to have survived them both.

And I believe that I enjoy sharing these Ramblings with you each month about as much as anything in my life.

Merry Christmas and Keep on Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

 

 

Richard

---

July 2014

Maybe You've Read This - It Is Worth Reading Again

 

The 56 Who Risked Everything

It was a glorious morning. The sun was shining and the wind was from the southeast. The temperature was 72.5 degrees and the horseflies weren't nearly so bad at that hour. It was a large room, with gleaming white walls. The chairs were comfortable. Facing the single door were two brass fireplaces, but they would not be used today.

The moment the door was shut, and locked, the room became an oven. The tall windows were shut, so that loud quarreling voices could not be heard by passersby. Small openings atop the windows allowed a slight stir of air, and also a large number of horseflies. Jefferson records that "the horseflies were dexterous in finding necks, and the silk of stockings was nothing to them." All discussing was punctuated by the slap of hands on necks.

On the wall at the back, facing the president's desk was a panoply -- consisting of a drum, swords, and banners seized from Fort Ticonderoga the previous year. Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold had captured the place, shouting that they were taking it "in the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!"

Here in this hall Patrick Henry had once thundered: "I am no longer a Virginian, sir, but an American." But today the loud, sometimes bitter argument stilled, and without fanfare the vote was taken from north to south by colonies, as was the custom. On July 4, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was adopted.

There were no trumpets blown. No one stood on his chair and cheered. The afternoon was waning and Congress had no thought of delaying the full calendar of routine business on its hands. For several hours they worked on many other problems before adjourning for the day.

Much To Lose

What kind of men were the 56 signers who adopted the Declaration of Independence and who, by their signing, committed an act of treason against the crown? To each of you, the names Franklin, Adams, Hancock and Jefferson are almost as familiar as household words. Most of us, however, know nothing of the other signers. Who were they? What happened to them?

I imagine that many of you are somewhat surprised at the names not there: George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, Patrick Henry. All were elsewhere.

Ben Franklin was the only really old man. Eighteen were under 40; three were in their 20s. Of the 56 almost half - 24 - were judges and lawyers. Eleven were merchants, nine were landowners and farmers, and the remaining 12 were doctors, ministers, and politicians.

With only a few exceptions, such as Samuel Adams of Massachusetts, these were men of substantial property. All but two had families. The vast majority were men of education and standing in their communities. They had economic security as few men had in the 18th Century.

Each had more to lose from revolution than he had to gain by it. John Hancock, one of the richest men in America, already had a price of 500 pounds on his head. He signed in enormous letters so that his Majesty could now read his name without glasses and could now double the reward. Ben Franklin wryly noted: "Indeed we must all hang together, otherwise we shall most assuredly hang separately."

These men knew what they risked. The penalty for treason was death by hanging. And remember, a great British fleet was already at anchor in New York Harbor.

It was principle, not property, that had brought these men to Philadelphia. Two of them became presidents of the United States. Seven of them became state governors. One died in office as vice president of the United States. Several would go on to be U.S. Senators. One, the richest man in America, in 1828 founded the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. One, a delegate from Philadelphia, was the only real poet, musician and philosopher of the signers. (It was he, Francis Hopkinson not Betsy Ross who designed the United States flag.)

Though the resolution was formally adopted July 4, it was not until July 8 that two of the states authorized their delegates to sign, and it was not until August 2 that the signers met at Philadelphia to actually put their names to the Declaration.

William Ellery, delegate from Rhode Island, was curious to see the signers' faces as they committed this supreme act of personal courage. He saw some men sign quickly, "but in no face was he able to discern real fear." Stephan Hopkins, Ellery's colleague from Rhode Island, was a man past 60. As he signed with a shaking pen, he declared: "My hand trembles, but my heart does not."

"Most Glorious Service"

Even before the list was published, the British marked down every member of Congress suspected of having put his name to treason. All of them became the objects of vicious manhunts. Some were taken. Some, like Jefferson, had narrow escapes. All who had property or families near British strongholds suffered.

· Francis Lewis, New York delegate saw his home plundered -- and his estates in what is now Harlem -- completely destroyed by British Soldiers. Mrs. Lewis was captured and treated with great brutality. Though she was later exchanged for two British prisoners through the efforts of Congress, she died from the effects of her abuse.

· William Floyd, another New York delegate, was able to escape with his wife and children across Long Island Sound to Connecticut, where they lived as refugees without income for seven years. Coming home they found a devastated ruin.

· Philips Livingstone had all his great holdings in New York confiscated and his family driven out of their home. 

· Louis Morris, the fourth New York delegate, saw all his timber, crops, and livestock taken. For seven years he was barred from his home and family.

· John Hart of Trenton, New Jersey, risked his life to return home to see his dying wife. Hessian soldiers rode after him, and he escaped in the woods. While his wife lay on her deathbed, the soldiers ruined his farm and wrecked his homestead. Hart, 65, slept in caves and woods as he was hunted across the countryside. When at long last, emaciated by hardship, he was able to sneak home, he found his wife had already been buried, and his 13 children taken away. He never saw them again. He died a broken man in 1779, without ever finding his family.

· Dr. John Witherspoon, signer, was president of the College of New Jersey, later called Princeton. The British occupied the town of Princeton, and billeted troops in the college. They trampled and burned the finest college library in the country.

· Judge Richard Stockton, another New Jersey delegate signer, had rushed back to his estate in an effort to evacuate his wife and children. The family found refuge with friends, but a Tory sympathizer betrayed them. Judge Stockton was pulled from bed in the night and brutally beaten by the arresting soldiers. In jail he was deliberately starved.

· Robert Morris, merchant prince of Philadelphia, delegate and signer, met Washington's appeals and pleas for money year after year. He made and raised arms and provisions which made it possible for Washington to cross the Delaware at Trenton. In the process he lost 150 ships at sea, bleeding his own fortune and credit almost dry.

· George Clymer, Pennsylvania signer, escaped with his family from their home, but their property was completely destroyed by the British.

· Dr. Benjamin Rush, also from Pennsylvania, was forced to flee to Maryland. As a heroic surgeon with the army, Rush had several narrow escapes.

· John Martin, a Tory in his views, lived in a strongly loyalist area of Pennsylvania. When he came out for independence, most of his neighbors and even some of his relatives ostracized him. He was a sensitive and troubled man, and many believed this action killed him. When he died in 1777, his last words to his tormentors were: "Tell them that they will live to see the hour when they shall acknowledge it [the signing] to have been the most glorious service that I have ever rendered to my country."

· William Ellery, Rhode Island delegate, saw his property and home burned to the ground.

· Thomas Lynch, Jr., South Carolina delegate, had his health broken from privation and exposures while serving as a company commander in the military. His doctors ordered him to seek a cure in the West Indies and on the voyage, he and his young bride were drowned at sea.

· Edward Rutledge, Arthur Middleton, and Thomas Heyward, Jr., the other three South Carolina signers, were taken by the British in the siege of Charleston. They were carried as prisoners of war to St. Augustine, Florida, where they were singled out for indignities. 

· Thomas Nelson, signer of Virginia, was at the front in command of the Virginia military forces. With British General Charles Cornwallis in Yorktown, fire from 70 heavy American guns began to destroy Yorktown piece by piece. Lord Cornwallis and his staff moved their headquarters into Nelson's home. While American cannonballs were making a shambles of the town, the house of Governor Nelson remained untouched. Nelson turned in rage to the American gunners and asked, "Why do you spare my home?" They replied, "Sir, out of respect to you." Nelson cried, "Give me the cannon!" and fired on his magnificent home himself, smashing it to bits. But Nelson's sacrifice was not quite over. He had raised $2 million for the Revolutionary cause by pledging his own estates. When the loans came due, a newer peacetime Congress refused to honor them, and Nelson's property was forfeited. He was never reimbursed. He died, impoverished, a few years later at the age of 50.

Lives, Fortunes, Honor

Of those 56 who signed the Declaration of Independence, nine died of wounds or hardships during the war. Five were captured and imprisoned, in each case with brutal treatment. Several lost wives, sons or entire families. One lost his 13 children. Two wives were brutally treated. All were victims of manhunts and driven from their homes. Twelve signers had their homes completely burned. Seventeen lost everything they owned. Yet not one defected or went back on his pledged word. Their honor, and the nation they sacrificed so much to create is still intact.

And, finally, there is the New Jersey signer, Abraham Clark.

He gave two sons to the officer corps in the Revolutionary Army. They were captured and sent to that infamous British prison hulk afloat in New York Harbor known as the hell ship Jersey, where 11,000 American captives were to die. The younger Clarks were treated with a special brutality because of their father. One was put in solitary and given no food. With the end almost in sight, with the war almost won, no one could have blamed Abraham Clark for acceding to the British request when they offered him his sons' lives if he would recant and come out for the King and Parliament. The utter despair in this man's heart, the anguish in his very soul, must reach out to each one of us down through 200 years with his answer: "No."

The 56 signers of the Declaration Of Independence proved by their every deed that they made no idle boast when they composed the most magnificent curtain line in history. "And for the support of this Declaration with a firm reliance on the protection of divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."

There is no more profound sentence than this: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness..."

This 4^th while enjoying the fireworks take a minute to remember the 56.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard

 

---

June 2014

Bonus Man's Day Rambling

(Re-Post From Father's Day 2011)

 

Hope You (or Your Man) Had a Bad Father’s Day

But I do hope you (or your Mr. Special) had a great Man’s Day. Now, before I start, let me say to you ladies that we men love and respect you. And 364 days a year, our focus is to put you on a pedestal. But I must say, as the self-appointed spokesperson for all men worldwide, it is sometimes difficult to give you what you say you want. If you ask most women what kind of man they would like to have, they reply, one who is nurturing, kind, caring, and who will listen without trying to fix every problem. Pardon me, ladies, but that sounds a bit like you are really looking for… another woman.

Don’t Fix It—Just Listen 

Hey, guys, by viewing that video, we just might discover why women outlive men, on average, by six years. It just might have something to do with the fact that they don’t have to marry women—just kidding, ladies; settle down, there is a reason these words of wit and wisdom are called Ramblings.

That said, Man’s Day is our only day of the year, but somewhere along the way, most likely with a little help from Hallmark, we stopped celebrating men and started celebrating fathers. My question is do we stop being men when we become fathers? And my follow-up to this thought-provoking probe of the innermost recesses of the mind is how many fathers were not first men? So, isn’t Father’s Day a bit exclusionary? And of course our trusty PC dictionary tells us that to exclude is a no-no.

After all, the entire basis of Father’s Day is for the family to say thanks to dear old Dad. So, that brings me to my third question—thank you for what? Would it be for working hard, caring for others, providing emotional and financial support, and generally just being a good guy? How many plain old men (as opposed to fathers) do you know who have these same attributes?

So, here it is. I am off on a one-man mission to change Father’s Day to the more inclusive Man’s Day. After all, it seems that, in many cases, the line of demarcation between a simple man and an all-American dad has more to do with a case of Fallopian Russian roulette than any deliberate act—at least that was the case in high school—can I get an amen, guys? It’s seems more about how fast your little guys swim and their dogged determination to reach their goal. Therefore, good swimmers equal Happy Father’s Day. Lazy backstrokers, Happy Man’s Day.

The point is simple. Both men and fathers have affected all our lives positively. So, now that this year’s Man’s Day is over, I would like you to take a moment to think back on all the men who have positively influenced your life. And on this, their only day of the year, why not cast a wider net and wish all men Happy Man’s Day?

By the way, if you want to make my Man’s Day wish come true, go to the Message Forum on our class website and tell us about one man who has made your life a bit better. It is easy to do, just click on Post Reply, and start typing.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard

 

 

---

May 2014

An Orphan Remembers Mother’s Day

She is within—although I am without. She played basketball, applied bandages and love, and for 64 years, loved one man. She was a GRITS (girl raised in the South) who had a delightful sense of humor offered through a smooth Southern drawl and an unmatched ability to forgive even the most boneheaded mistakes two precocious little boys could make, concealed by a smile of understanding. 

 

 

She was a mama bear in every sense of the word whose lifework was trying to protect my brother Roger and me, even on her deathbed. She was prepared to love us whether we became a governor, gangster, or anything between. 

She squeezed $1.38 from each dollar that came through our family’s all too small pastor’s paycheck as she distributed each greenback as a general allocating troops for a battle in which he knew he was grossly outmanned. In the financial arena, she did such a good job that it never occurred to me that we were poor until I left the hallowed halls of Dan McCarty High.

Part angel of mercy, part tutor, and full-time referee, she moved with grace, spoke with charm, and never had a bad word to say about anyone. I sometimes felt, growing up as a pastor’s son, that there was a spotlight, if not microscope, on our family. She took it all in stride, whether consoling a girl with nowhere else to turn, offering quiet support to our Southern Baptist preacher father after an anything but holy deacons meeting, or when offering some not so quiet “suggestions” about the choices facing my brother and me growing up.

She taught me to always treat a lady as one, to walk on the outside of the lady on a sidewalk (to keep mud from splashing from the nonexistent passing carriages, she explained), and to not take myself too seriously.

Yes, this Godly woman taught Roger and me much about living. So, I do not know why it came assuch a surprise that she would also teach me much about dying. As she lay in the hospital bed, too weak to raise her arm from the crisp clean sheets, the doctor explained that without an operation she would die within days. When he left, I took her hand and asked her what she wanted to do. She smiled the smile I had always counted on and announced, “I’m ready to go home.” That sentence hit me like a ton of bricks. Yes, I understood why. After all, she had been in pain and declining far too long. But within seconds, every fiber of my body wanted to protest. “I’m not ready to lose you yet, Mom,” I stammered, unable to produce any words commensurate with my feelings, or should I say, my fears?

She smiled again as she lightly squeezed my hand and announced, “You’ll be fine. This is the way it should be. I’ve had a good life; I’m certain of my salvation. I’m so very tired, and I’m ready to go home.” Yes, the woman who had been the principal architect of the man I am today was teaching me one more lesson—how to accept the inevitable—death—with grace and dignity. I’d never been prouder, yet more afraid.

My father was already deep in the throes of what Nancy Reagan described as “the long goodbye,”  or the accursed disease known as Alzheimer’s. My mother had watched for more than a decade as my dad’s misplacing the car keys transitioned into misplacing the memories of his life, of their life. 

After my wife Joan so graciously offered our home to my parents so we could better take care of them in what would be their final year, I was amazed to see firsthand how well this amazing woman I called Mom helped guide my father while silently affording him as much dignity as that horrendous disease allowed. She never lost her temper, never huffed in irritation or frustration, but quietly and patiently answered whatever question he asked repeatedly with a love that should be the standard for sainthood.

 

 

 

Although I am willing at least to discuss the improbable possibility that my mother might have not been perfect, I am unwilling to give up the notion that without her love and guidance, I would not be the man I am today. Without her, I would not have been raised to believe that almost anything is possible, many a young lady would have, I am sure, been splashed with carriage mud, and I would not have a roadmap, for not only life, but also death. I do not profess to know why in God’s infinite wisdom I was blessed with a woman like this as my mother, but I am more grateful than words will allow me to proclaim.

A year after her death, my father joined her in heaven. Although I have no proof, I instinctivelyknow that she was the first person to meet him. I’m sure she straightened his coat, brushed back his now replenished and perfect head of hair he had so hated losing on Earth, and arm in arm walked with him into eternity.

Shortly after my father’s passing, my brother Roger mentioned that at 60, I was an orphan. I thought about it and then smiled knowing that my mother’s glass-is-half-full outlook would’ve been, “Yes, but for 60 years, you were not.”

Although I am also certain of my salvation, I am unsure of all the specifics of our earthly transition into eternal life. But, I somehow feel certain that my mother will be the first person I see when my day comes. And yes, she will probably say, “I told you that you could do it son.”

 

 

I miss you, Mom.

Your Loving Son,

Richard Parker (Class of 70)

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

April 2014

 

 

Random Acts of Kindness

Every day, life’s hustle and bustle happens all around us, usually at hyper-speed and certainly in a flash of living Technicolor™. Dozens, if not hundreds, of times weekly, we are presented many opportunities, with just small effort, to make someone’s life a bit better. A helping hand, a kind word, or just a smile can change the trajectory of another’s day—maybe even his or her life.

If most of us found ourselves exposed to a major life-changing event such as witnessing a car wreck, a burning building, or someone being mugged, we would certainly help, maybe by getting involved hands-on or maybe it would be by something as simple as calling 911. But we would help; that is just how we good ol’Southern boys and girls were raised.

This month’s Rambling is not about those life-changing moments. Today, I want to ramble a bit about the thousands of random acts of kindness that can be witnessed around us daily.

This short video explains graphically how a single act of kindness can begin a domino effect—a tsunami of kindness, if you will. And like the ripples from a single stone tossed into a pond, you never know where or whom the ripples of that random act of kindness might reach. 

Before you continue this Rambling, please click on the following video.

 

 

I have a challenge for the Classes of 1967, ‘69, ’70, and ‘71. Collectively, we have more than 650 active classmates on our four websites. Just imagine if we each found just a few ways each month to perform a random act of kindness toward another. That would be almost 12,000 acts of kindness in the last nine months of 2014.

But, wait a minute. Remember the video—the construction worker who helped the young skateboarder? His single random act of kindness set in motion a chain reaction of kindness. Can you remember how many?

1. The construction worker helped a skateboarder.
2. The skateboarder carried a woman’s packages across the street.
3. She gave a girl a coin for the parking meter.
4. The girl returned the wallet to the man who dropped it.
5. That man then helped unload a suitcase.
6. The suitcase owner bought an extra hotdog.
7. The hotdog vendor offered the bottle of water, also for the homeless man.
8. The homeless man returned a girl’s phone.
9. The girl bought flowers for the woman eating alone.
10. The flower vendor gave a flower to the girl.
11. The woman left the server a $100 tip.
12. The server gave a glass of water to the same construction worker who began this chain reaction of kindness. 

Eleven acts of kindness followed an initial random act of kindness. 

If our four classes are capable of 12,000 acts of kindness this year, 

is it impossible to believe that we, too, could see eleven additional acts to follow ours? Why, that would be more than 130,000 acts of kindness this year. What if the number is only half that amo

unt? What if it is double?

In my younger days, I was quick to blow the horn when I found myself behind one of our Yankee snowbird guests clogging up our beach roads. With each horn honk of the horn, I told them to get out of my way. I was busy, and I reminded them that some of us were

not

on vacation. Three years ago, I lost my mother, and two years ago, my father. Now, when I see someone else’s mother or father doing 30 miles an hour in a 40-mile-an-hour zone, I instinctively think, would I want someone tailgating and beeping at my mother?

Maybe that is the way we should approach our random acts of kindness. How would I feel if someone took the time to walk my mother across the street, return her wallet, or buy her flowers? When I look at a random act of kindness through those eyes, it does not feel qu

ite so random. 

So, you see, the same baby boomer generation that has changed everything it has touched from cradle to grave can again change the world… one random act of kindness at a time. And remember,your act of kindness does not have to be life-changing. A simple gesture of kindness can unleash an avalanche of kindness that sweeps up everyone in its path, enveloping each it touches with an unexpected, but sometimes desperately needed, random act of kindness.

 

I dare you to be kind to someone today. 

 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

 

Richard Parker

 

 

 

 

 

One Day

Matisyahu

Sometimes I lay

Under the moon

And thank God I'm breathing

Then I pray

Don't take me soon

Cause I'm here for a reason

 

Sometimes in my tears I drown

But I never let it get me down

So when negativity surrounds

I know some day it'll all turn around

 

Because

All my life I've been waiting for

I've been praying for

For the people to say

That we don't wanna fight no more

They'll be no more wars

And our children will play

 

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

It's not about

Win or lose

Because we all lose

When they feed on the souls of the innocent

Blood drenched pavement

Keep on moving, though the waters stay raging

In this maze you can lose your way (your way)

It might drive you crazy but don't let it faze you no way (no way)

 

Sometimes in my tears I drown (I drown)

But I never let it get me down (get me down)

So my negativity surrounds (surrounds)

I know some day it'll all turn around

 

Because

All my life I've been waiting for

I've been praying for

For the people to say

That we don't wanna fight no more

 

They'll be no more war

And our children will play

 

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

One day this all will change

Treat people the same

Stop with the violence

Down with the hate

One day we'll all be free

And proud to be

Under the same sun

Singing songs of freedom like

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

All my life I've been waiting for

I've been praying for

For the people to say

That we don't wanna fight no more

They'll be no more wars

And our children will play

 

One day, One day, One day, One day, One day, One day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

March 2014

 

 

 

This month Richard Rambles about

 

 

“The Friends of Our Youth”

 

 

The friends of your youth, some would say, are your only true friends. For they knew you before the world had its way with you… before the discovery of your imperfections wrought by or at least chosen through your journey. 

 

They were a friend before you knew limitations… before your vocabulary included no or can’t and certainly before careful or slow. 

 

For these friends of your youth, you will always have a smile that lights a room, a twinkle of expectation in your eye, a throw-caution-to-the-wind attitude… and a 28-inch waist.

 

For most of us, in those sun-soaked beach days of the sixties, our primary wish was simple—to be older. And it is with good reason we wasted our wishes on this dream of shifting our life into a chronological hyperdrive. Because once we were older, we would have the freedom that only a driver’s license could bring. Once older, we could do all those other things adults could do. And yes, that included love. Oh, yes, we could love. 

 

Now that we are older, wouldn’t you know it… our wish is to be younger. The irony of it all—first, we want to add years and then to shed those years and more. Truthfully, youth is certainly wasted on the young. 

 

I guess in our fictitious, just out-of-reach perfect world, we would somehow be both young and old… at the same time. But alas, we now know that is not how it works. 

 

Now that our childhood wish has been granted (be careful what you wish for, you just might get it), we see that it comes with an unforeseen byproduct, the silver lining to our cloud, if you will—a great gift really. We have so painfully acquired this gift, the gift of knowledge. Yes, these six decades have provided us with boatloads of knowledge about people, places, and things—knowledge about life and, of course, about love, that lump-in-the-throat jump from the high dive, near-drowning experience that changes everything. The love that allows you to remember vividly, a half century later, that red dress she wore on your first date or what song was playing on WQAM as he made his 11th trip around Bill’s Burger, showing you off.

 

Our earliest version of love was referred to as puppy love, meaning that we, the puppies, were too young to understand real love, much less be in love. But all you have to do is flip through the Santa Lucian to see the host of paired pups who still share their lives and love to disprove that theory in spades.

 

You only get a few moments that can change your life. One of those life-changing moments is falling in love. Love can change you quickly and forever because it is so powerful and all encompassing. 

 

There is the man and woman love that often can determine whether your life will be happy or sad, sharing or selfish, bright and half-full, or dark and half-empty. 

 

Many of us had to swing at that pitch a few times before we were safely on base, whereas others knocked that first pitch out of the park as a puppy.

 

Then, there is the love of a friend. In the days of our youth, it was more difficult, much more difficult, to use the word love when talking about a friend. It seemed out of place. Or maybe it was our adolescent minds, still bombarded with a truckload of raging hormones causing girls to develop curves and boys to notice, that prevented us from calling something as simple and pure as a dear friendship, love. But today, we can recognize that old friendship for what it is—love.

 

In any case, our unwillingness to use the “L” word as a juvenile seems to have spurred us to overcompensate in our sixties if a recent gathering of twenty-two poker pals is any indication. The phrase “love you, brother” was used so often that any self-respecting hippie would have thought he was at a Haight-Ashbury love-in.

 

 

Yes, there was an abundance of lovin’ and huggin’ going on, but none was as strong as when one of our old friends emerged from death’s doorway. Clearly, we all loved our old friend David Feibelman.

 

One could argue that this love of a friend, especially a lifelong friend, is as strong and enduring as the man and woman variety. If you want an example of that, you only have to look at the way so many have rallied around Feibs. 

 

Bobby, I promised you that I would not make you and Tammy feel the heat of the spotlight, and I am a man of my word. But what I will say is that the grumpy persona you have so carefully honed throughout the years is pretty much shot… you old softie. 

Mitch, only a few of us know your heartfelt offer, and it will stay that way. You are and have been a friend to so many—must be why you were “blessed” with four deuces after a straight flush… or maybe it was just a bad shuffle. 

 

Or you, Janie, who dropped what you were doing to make sure Bobby wasn’t alone during surgery. 

 

These old friendships are not germane to just our class. Lynn, Dan, Mary Jo, and so many more demonstrated it. I just realized I have dug myself into a hole of guaranteeing that I will forget someone. So just remember you did not do what you did for recognition, which makes your actions and even your quiet prayers so loving. 

 

These life-defining moments are fleeting, oh so fleeting, and then they are gone. Often, they are not recognized until viewed in the rearview mirror of life. 

But one thing we all know is that falling in love with someone can begin with something oh so simple—a kind 

word, a helping hand, a red dress, or just sitting quietly when someone is in need. 

 

So, I have an idea. Why don’t we commit this next year, 2014, to being a friend? To making it all but impossible for someone not to fall in love with us. If it is one of your classmates, that is fine, but maybe it will be the friend at work, down the street, or at your church. 

 

With no expectation of reciprocation, with no ulterior motives, give them no choice but to fall head over heels… in love with you.

 

And you know, with all this love flowing, I predict a good 2014.

 

Keepin' the Spirit Alive

 

Richard Parker

 

 

Welcome back gang, to our February 2014 WDMH Radio show.  So sit back, relax and get ready for a rock and roll stroll down memory lane as we together… Keep The Spirit Alive!

 

 

 

FYI - Part of the YouTube business model is to drop in ads at the bottom of videos like ours (see the Legal Nurse Consulting example below).  

To Remove the Ads justclick the X at the top right of the Ad

 

Also the Open Brackets at the bottom right, just to the right of the YouTube logo will allow you to view the show in Full Screen - the best way to view it.

 

Ready, Set, Click the Play Button

 

(Don’t forget to take the WDMH Radio Survey on the Navigation Bar to the left) 

 

 

 

View More Ramblings by Clicking the "Past Rambling" Button at the Top of Any Page

 

View Previous WDMH Radio Shows by Clicking the "Past WDMH Radio Shows" Button in the Left Navigation Bar

 

 

 

 

 

---

As we welcome 2014 full of its unlimited possibilities, we want to give all Eagles from all classes a New Year’s gift—the keys to their very own

radio station. 

 

 

 

 

We hope you enjoy this, our first installment on our ongoing musical walk down memory lane. So, turn up your speakers loud enough to make your grandkids think you have really lost it this time. Punch the Play Button on the Paul Revere and the Radiers video below and try to now scream Groovy too many time, as you settle back and enjoy.  But be sure to keep your eyes wide open, because you just might see some familiar faces.

 

 

FYI - Part of the YouTube business model is to drop in ads at the bottom of videos like ours (see below example).  

To Remove the Ads just click the X at the top right of the Ad

 

Also the Open Brackets at the bottom right, just to the right of the YouTube logo will allow you to view the show in Full Screen - the best way to view it.

 

Ready, Set, Click the Play Button

 

 

 

Happy New Year Eagles

 

---

Ready or Not Here Comes 1990, 2000, 2010, 2014

 

Do you hear that roaring sound? It’s not a runaway freight train, but 2014  coming in like a bull in a china shop. So, ready, or not, another lap around the Sun is about to begin. 

How is that even possible? Wasn’t it just a few years ago that we were all buying big cans of pork and beans and the Sam’s Club size of double-A battery packs, preparing for the impending Armageddon with the catchy name Y2K. That reminds me of a quote from Will Rogers: “Of the things I’ve feared the most in my life, every now and then, one of them actually occurred.” Oh, well, moving on.

So what are your New Year’s resolutions? I mean, besides being skinny and rich by June. FYI, I gave up on both those resolutions long ago, but that does not mean I’ve given up on all New Year’s resolutions. So, here is a peek into a few of my 2014 resolutions.

 I resolve to remember that work is what I do, not who I am.

I resolve to let my kids and grandkids make their own decisions, no matter how they seem through a pair of 62-year-old eyes.

I resolve to be emotional—crying when I feel sad, laughing when I’m happy, and becoming easy with bear hugs, leaving little doubt about my feeling for the huggee. And I further resolve to take a nap when all this emotion ties me out.

I resolve to be quick to say, “I love you.” I find the older I get, the easier it is to love and tell others when it applies to them. This goes for both men and women. Flashback: Can you imagine one of us guys calling out between third and fourth period, “Hey, Bobby, I love you”? So, to all the husbands of my Class of ‘70 female classmates, just chill out; I’m harmless. And it’s likely that I do love your wife, maybe even before you did.

I resolve to pay special attention to old friendships, understanding that you can always make a new friend, but not an old one.

I resolve to use my talents to make others’ lives just a little brighter. I have learned over 60+ years that we get better at the things we do, each day—a honing of our talents, if you will. Although I might not be able to run, jump, or surf as I did at 17, my mind is still “tarp as a shack.” And giving credit where credit is due, I recognize what talents I do have come from God. He gave them to me or allowed me to develop them, and therefore, it makes sense that He wants me to share those talents with you, my classmates, my neighbors, family, and church. Actually, this website began as my feeble attempt to do just that.

I resolve to help at least one young person significantly in 2014, controlling my urge to tell him that his hat is on backward and his pants are falling down in favor of listening to him and offering encouragement, when possible.

I resolve to help foster communications between people with whom I do not agree and myself. I remember a time in our country when Democrats and Republicans could speak to each other. When our elected officials could stick to their principles but still search for a middle ground on which to compromise and in the process lead our country. It is said that all politics are local. If that is the case, then it makes sense that the way to begin to fix these big political problems should also begin locally. So, I volunteer to get that ball rollin’.

I resolve to help Jimmie Anne find new and creative ways to keep you, the great Class of 1969, coming back to this website. It amazes me when I realize that in the last three years, we have had 42,000 logins to the website, almost 6,000 e-mails sent among classmates through the website.

But, the most impressive part is that 44 years after graduation, if one member of the Class of 69 is in need, you can count on the rest to rally to their aid. 

 

So, with life happening everywhere you look, how can 200 old friends be expected to make time to visit the Class of ‘69 site every month? Glad you asked. What if I gave the Class of '69 the keys to your own radio station? 

Eagles, I give you…

 

And although you won’t hear our WDMH DJ with a smooth silky baritone voice whispering

 

This is Mrs. Barr’s little baby boy,

195 lb. of jiving joy,

Saying be ye round 

Or be ye square,

We got sooooound 

To rock a bear.

 

But I can tell you that you should enjoy this, our first installment in our musical walk down memory lane airing soon. And, keep your eyes open; you just might see some familiar faces. I’ll post the show in a few days.

 

Oh, yeah, and for those of you who just cannot help yourselves from making those old standbys, the top 10 most popular New Year’s resolutions, I offer you this Parade Magazine article that comes with a corresponding app for each resolution, proving once and for all that those 20-something smarties were right when they said, “There is an app for that.”

http://www.parade.com/243793/viannguyen/10-most-popular-new-years-resolutions-with-apps-to-help-achieve-them/

Happy 2014, Class of '69, and don’t waste it.

 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Rchard

 

 

 

 

---

 

It Is Not About the Turkey-You Turkey

 

Well, here it comes—Thanksgiving 2013. Maybe I’m mistaken, but wasn’t it Thanksgiving 1988 just a couple of years ago? As difficult as it is for me to believe, 1988 Turkey Day was a quarter of a century ago. OMG, what is happing to us?  It is like we’ve collectively “fallen and we can’t get up”.  No, that is another TV commercial.  Yet I digress.  But then again, why do you think I call these Ramblings? 

This is the first year that my wife Joan and I will not the center of our family’s holiday festivities. Having sold our Melbourne Beach home of 23 years a mere 3 months ago, we are now “off to see the Wizard,” motor coach and all. After talking it through, we have decided not to go back to… uh… home. Wait a minute, isn’t home now where we park it? So, this year, I know our turkey might be a bit smaller, but that does not mean that I have any less thankfulness. Come to think about it, I have much to be thankful for.

I am thankful that I have family to miss during the holidays; many do not.

I am thankful that I have a wonderful wife to share my life with, whereas so many are alone.

I am thankful that I can gripe and complain about the craziness going on in Washington (both sides of the aisle); in many countries, that can cost you your freedom or more.

I am thankful for my health, whereas so many live in constant pain.

I am thankful that I have a long list of new churches to visit, as we search for a new church home in our new South Alabama home; I know millions live without that option.

I am thankful that we have all the things we could want and so much of what we don’t need that it takes two storage units to hold it all—a bit embarrassing knowing so many have so little.

I am thankful for a brain that still works well and the humility to know I’m not that smart; many have lost or are losing the wonderful memories that make their life a thing to cherish.

I’m thankful that I have the sight to see the sunrise and the vision to cherish what possibilities that day might bring; so many cannot or will not.

I am thankful I can hear the bird outside my window, the wind rustling through the trees, an old dog barking, a young child laughing, whereas so many live in a silent world.

I’m thankful for the disappointments life has given me so, by contrast, it helps me more enjoy life’s delights.

I am thankful that in my lifetime, I was fortunate enough to experience trick-or-treating without fear, neighbors who cared about me almost as much as my parents did, doors that were never locked, drive-in movies, Lums steamed-in-beer hot dogs, and an Indian that was burned every year.

I’m thankful that I’ve learned how important it is to be positive and think differently.

I am reminded of a story that makes my point better than I could say it:

One thing I am most thankful for is that 43 years after we left the hallowed halls of McCarty High, I have more classmates that I call friend than I did then. For that, I am truly thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving My Friends

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive

 

Richard Parker (Class of 1970)

 

---

Every Generation Has Its Innocence Assassinated

I remember November 22, 1963. Just two days earlier, I celebrated my 12th birthday. We lived in New Orleans as my father attended the Baptist Bible Institute, preparing for the pastorate. We lived with the families of many other pastors-to-be in student housing. I will never forget the look on my mom’s face: red swollen eyes, furrowed brow, and handkerchief in hand, as she came to retrieve me from my sandlot football game with my fellow PKs in waiting. She pulled her sweater tight against the rapidly dropping temperature and damp north wind that clipped across Lake Pontchartrain. I instinctively knew something was wrong. I could have never fathomed how wrong.

Her face and the faces of the other adults I saw over the next few days is what I remember the most. Those hollow stares gave gravity to the events that would ultimately change the direction of a nation, yea a world, for the rest of my life.

Before that fateful November day, our country seemed somehow younger and more optimistic. This charming and articulate young president elected at only 43 seemed the right man to lead the WWII generation into the prosperity for which postwar America was destined. But, as three rapid shots rang out in Dallas, that man became frozen in time at the age of 46.

Our parents’ generation seemed to age before our eyes, unable or unwilling to move forward with the zeal and excitement they processed in the days of Camelot. Like a car shifted into neutral, they collectively lost their forward motion, their bright-eyed assurance of a positive improving future, and at least for a moment, settled back with a long sigh and rested. Their optimism was replaced with cynicism. Their dreams of what could be were dashed on the jagged rock of what was.

We boomers in our youth, as youth always seem to do, began to look to our future with a bit less trust for the world that our parents and grandparents prepared to hand to us. Stained at least somewhat by the fact that a single man with a $20 mail-order rifle could change our world forever, we lost at least a bit of trust, and we rebelled.

We rebelled against much of what our parents’ world came packaged with—against their morals, their wars, their clothes and music, and even their values. We felt we somehow knew better and learned “not to trust anyone over 30.” As we chanted defiantly, “Hell, no, we won’t go,” our hair grew longer and our patience shorter. Ozzie and Harriet were packed away with Camelot, as we stepped into the love-the-one-you’re-with era, clad in our generation’s uniform of the day: bellbottom jeans, beads, and flowers in our hair. We had it all figured out.

That innocence remained intact until the JFK assassination for our generation—9/11—stole the same optimistic excitement that Oswald’s three quick shots stole from our parents.

All this happened in only 50 very short years.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

 

Richard Parker

 

---

 

 

  

 

 Your Butterfly Effect

We never know the impact the little things we do or don’t do may have on the lives of other; even the unborn.

In 1963, Edward Lorenz, an American mathematician, offered a hypothesis to the esteemed New York Academy of Sciences, which he later named “The Butterfly Effect.” The effect related to the theoretical example of a single butterfly flapping its wings, which moved molecules in the air, and like one billiard ball hitting another, these molecules began a chain reaction that ultimately led to a typhoon forming on another continent. Granted, on the surface, this sounds esoteric and most unlikely. So unlikely that Lorenz was promptly laughed off the Academy stage.

The Butterfly effect in chaos theory is the “sensitive dependence on initial conditions.” More simply stated, this means that even very small moves or changes at one location or time can result in great differences at another location or time. Further, these future results are unpredictable. Today, these results are called deterministic chaos, or simply chaos.

The butterfly effect spawned a science-fiction psychological thriller by the same name released in 2004 and starring Ashton Kutcher and Amy Smart. It also inspired my fellow author/speaker Andy Andrews to write the New York Times bestseller, The Butterfly Effect: How Your Life Matters, which is a short read. In less than an hour, Andy shows, using two powerful examples, how everything we do in our life, every move we make, every action we take, matters.

For this Rambling, I share one of Andy’s examples. In 2004, ABC News named Norman Borlaug, then 91, “Person of the Week.” Although you might be unfamiliar with the name, it is reported that he is responsible for saving more than two billion lives through his work to hybridize high-yield, disease-resistant corn and wheat to grow well in dry climates. Borlaug’s hybridized crops soon were growing worldwide; Western Africa to the plains of Siberia and everywhere saw these amazing seeds thrive and regenerate.

However, if you take a closer look at the butterfly effect on Norman’s life, and you might think that someone else deserved the “Person of the Week” moniker—someone such as Henry Wallace. Although I’m certain that few of us recognize Wallace’s name, he was Vice President of the United States under Franklin Roosevelt. Yes, I understand that because of the atomic bomb, we immediately think of the Vice President who followed Roosevelt into the Oval Office—Harry Truman.

However, let’s look at a little American history here. Roosevelt had three vice presidents. The second vice president who served from 1941 to 1945 was Henry Wallace whom was named Secretary of Agriculture after he was dropped from the reelection ticket for Truman.

During his tenure at the Department of Agriculture, he opened a facility in Mexico whose goal was the hybridization of corn and wheat for arid climates. Secretary Wallace was solely responsible for hiring young Norman Borlaug to run this Mexican research facility in the 1940s.

Although history remembers Norman Borlaug, an eventual Nobel Prize winner, because his life’s work was the catalyst for saving the lives of two-billion people, maybe Henry Wallace deserved the credit… Or could it have been George Washington Carver?

Yes, we each know about Carver’s work with peanuts, but what you might be unaware of is that when Carver was 19 studying at Iowa State University, one of his professors allowed his 6-year-old son to go on what they described as “weekend botanical expeditions” with his brightest student, George Washington Carver. The 6-year-old boy’s name was Henry Wallace. Wallace later wrote that while he was still a boy, Carver installed in him his lifelong love of plants and a vision that plants could change the planet.

Think of George Washington Carver’s butterfly effect as he so profoundly affected the life of the young Wallace and along the way developed more than 260 uses for the peanut and almost 90 uses of the sweet potato. Maybe George Washington Carver deserved to be named Person of the Week. Again, it might have been that Missouri farmer…

The farmer’s name was Moses, and although he lived in the South, he was very much opposed to the concept of slavery, not a popular stance for a Southerner during the Civil War. His vocal condemnation of slavery made him a target for Quantrill’s Raiders, the sadistic group of criminals who cloaked themselves in the gray uniforms of the Confederacy as they terrorized Yankee soldiers and Southerners alike.

In 1864, Quantrill and his Raiders rode through Moses’ farm, burning several buildings and killing several of the farm’s inhabitants. George’s mother Mary Washington was kidnapped by the Raiders but refused to let go of her newborn son; both were taken.

There’s a strong friendship between Mary Washington and Moses’ wife Susan. She was distraught over losing her friend Mary and began a letter-writing campaign to area farms asking for information about Mary and her infant son. Eventually, she succeeded in setting up a meeting with Quantrill.

Moses rode the farm's last horse into Kansas for the late-night meeting. The white Southern farmer offered Quantrill the only thing he had of value—his horse. They took his horse, and in return, the bandits tossed on the ground a filthy wet burlap sack. As the thunder of hooves became fainter and fainter, Moses pulled from the bag a naked, cold, and almost dead black baby boy.

The only way to keep the baby warm was by placing him inside his shirt skin to skin, as he walked a full day back to his farm. Moses and Susan committed that they would do all in their power to see that this tiny boy was cared for and educated to honor the memory of his loving mother Mary. On that first evening, Moses and Susan gave the boy their last name Carver.

So, you could say that Moses saved the two-billion people, or are maybe it was Susan. Unless it was…

Yes, if we could go back and drill into each of these people’s lives, we would learn even more details—details that shaped their lives. I believe we can all agree there were many people responsible for saving those two billion lives, to either a large or a small extent.

How about you? How far forward would we have to look to find someone who, because of you, made a difference? How many people yet unborn will live a better life because you were here? As Andy says in his book, "Every single thing that you do does in fact matter."

You are a unique person created by God to differ from anyone else who ever lived. You have your unique way of looking at things, of taking action, of making a difference. You have always had, and you still have, the seeds of greatness deep inside you. The question is how you will use those seeds. Will your seeds save two billion as the seeds developed by Borlaug did? Or will you make someone else’s life just a little bit better.  So I encourage each of the Class of 1969 to flap their butterfly wings and create your own typhoon.

I close this Rambling with the same words Andy used to close his book. “Your life… and what you do with it today… matter forever.”

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard Parker

I encourage you to read Andy’s book The Butterfly Effect.

http://www.andyandrews.com/ms/the-butterfly-effect/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bonus Man's Day Rambling

 

Hope You (or Your Man) Had a Bad Father’s Day

But I do hope you (or your Mr. Special) had a great Man’s Day. Now, before I start, let me say to you ladies that we men love and respect you. And 364 days a year, our focus is to put you on a pedestal. But I must say, as the self-appointed spokesperson for all men worldwide, it is sometimes difficult to give you what you say you want. If you ask most women what kind of man they would like to have, they reply, one who is nurturing, kind, caring, and who will listen without trying to fix every problem. Pardon me, ladies, but that sounds a bit like you are really looking for… another woman.

Don’t Fix It—Just Listen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4EDhdAHrOg

Hey, guys, by viewing that video, we just might discover why women outlive men, on average, by six years. It just might have something to do with the fact that they don’t have to marry women—just kidding, ladies; settle down, there is a reason these words of wit and wisdom are called Ramblings.

That said, Man’s Day is our only day of the year, but somewhere along the way, most likely with a little help from Hallmark, we stopped celebrating men and started celebrating fathers. My question is do we stop being men when we become fathers? And my follow-up to this thought-provoking probe of the innermost recesses of the mind is how many fathers were not first men? So, isn’t Father’s Day a bit exclusionary? And of course our trusty PC dictionary tells us that to exclude is a no-no.

After all, the entire basis of Father’s Day is for the family to say thanks to dear old Dad. So, that brings me to my third question—thank you for what? Would it be for working hard, caring for others, providing emotional and financial support, and generally just being a good guy? How many plain old men (as opposed to fathers) do you know who have these same attributes?

So, here it is. I am off on a one-man mission to change Father’s Day to the more inclusive Man’s Day. After all, it seems that, in many cases, the line of demarcation between a simple man and an all-American dad has more to do with a case of Fallopian Russian roulette than any deliberate act—at least that was the case in high school—can I get an amen, guys? It’s seems more about how fast your little guys swim and their dogged determination to reach their goal. Therefore, good swimmers equal Happy Father’s Day. Lazy backstrokers, Happy Man’s Day.

The point is simple. Both men and fathers have affected all our lives positively. So, now that this year’s Man’s Day is over, I would like you to take a moment to think back on all the men who have positively influenced your life. And on this, their only day of the year, why not cast a wider net and wish all men Happy Man’s Day?

By the way, if you want to make my Man’s Day wish come true, go to the Message Forum on our class website and tell us about one man who has made your life a bit better. It is easy to do, just click on Post Reply, and start typing.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard

 

 

 

 

    Let's Hang On To What We've Got

Let's hang on to what we've got
Don't let go girl, we've got a lot
Got a lot o' love between us
hang on, hang on, hang on to what we've got

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GEzSQOhS40\

 

I know I am a fortunate man. In fact, a bit more than fortunate, some would say. Blessed might be a better word choice for this slightly rotund wordsmith. For as I’ve managed to hang on by my fingernails to this big blue marble as its made now sixty-one very quick trips around the sun, I recognize that I’ve been able to hang on to more than just my grip. And of course, 50 percent of the challenge is, as Frankie Valli said, hanging on to what you’ve already got in this ever-changing world.

I’ve managed to hang on to so much that, at times, I feel a bit like a pack rat. I’ve held on to a wonderful woman who has shared my life for now thirty-two years, although sometimes, I am sure she has questioned her decision in that little arrangement. Until this year, I was able to hang on to two loving parents who always cheered me from the sidelines of my life, postponing the category of orphan for more than six decades. I’ve held on and, at times, held my breath as I’ve watched my two boys become men, and three grandkids follow that trek toward adulthood. As for the boys, it could not happen fast enough, and the grandkids somehow made that leap from cradle to college in somewhere around eleven days.

 

Then, there’s you. Yes, somehow, I have managed to hang on to all of you—more than two hundred graying kids I grew up with. A bunch of kids who still think it is cool just to hang out as we hang on. To pick up the phone and call just to say, “What’s shakin’, dude?” One of those kids gave me a jingle and swung by my motor coach on his way to New Orleans. Doc, you were a great thirty-second anniversary gift for Joan and I. Weren’t the Oysters Fenton great?

 

My good fortune has stretched over a lifetime.  Not only have I been able to hang on to all these great people in my life, I was even lucky in my geographic destiny.  Imagine my surprise when three score ago, I emerged from my comfy nine-month incubator stay to discover that I had won the birthplace lottery—born in America, and better yet, to find this bouncing baby boy was Southern to boot. Well, it just don’t get no better than that, ya’ll.  And you can count on the fact that my Southern roots are at the top of the list of things I intend to hang on to.

After spending my career in the financial industry, the last decade has been spent in and around the luxury RV resort business. And because RVers travel, I have met thousands, mostly snowbirds fleeing the frozen tundra for a few months in the sunny South, or so they say. But, are they really after the sun? I hypothesize it might be more than just those warm rays on a cold winter day. I think, maybe, they just want to spend time with God’s folk—Southerners.

You see, it’s not difficult to argue that we Southerners are just downright good people. Not perfect, mind you, but as a group, pretty much at the top of the heap of the seven billion inhabitants of this crazy mixed-up world we share.

I think part of the reason is that, as a group, we were simply raised better. We were taught to recognize what is truly important in life. To recognize the little things and be thankful for them. To add at least a dash of the Golden Rule when dealing with others, something you might find in short supply on the streets of New York or Philadelphia.

We Southerners are partial to a cool breeze on a summer night as it wafts through Spanish moss swaying from a live oak, fast horses, mint juleps, rockers on front porches, and peaches. Some would say we have our own language. If you get a mess of Southerners in one place, you can be pretty sure you’re going to hear, “Well, I never,” “Hey to your mamma and daddy,” “I reckon so,” We’re fixin’ to,” “I might could of,” “mean as a snake,” or the cornerstone statement of Southern pity, “Well, bless his little heart.”

Speaking from a man’s viewpoint, there are of course those Southern girls. Yes, I must admit it. I love G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised in the South). You see, these Southern girls know from their raisin’ that macaroni and cheese is really a vegetable, that they are the cutest when they are just a little bit sassy, they like their okra fried, their BBQ prepared by Jim Huck, and they always reply with a respectful “Yes, ma’am,” no matter how stupid they think that Yankee is. They prefer daisies in a Mason jar to roses in Waterford crystal, love their mama, and they are sure their daddy hung the moon in his spare time. And the only thing sweeter than their iced tea is their smile.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74rOqQL402Y

Southern girls make things so easy to understand. Yes, you never have to wonder where you stand with a Southern girl. I overheard two sixty-something Southern belles talking the other day and could not help smiling as one said, “Since food replaced sex in my life, I can’t even get into my own pants.” After a short chuckle, the other replied, “Well, honey, I figure the Lord don’t want me to have a waistline anymore, so in seeking His will, I have changed my prayer. Now, it is “Lord, if you won’t make me skinny, so be it, but will You please make my friends fat?” Amen, sister!

Then, there is that good, old-fashioned, Southern cookin’. It is said that you are what you eat. If that is true, when I wandered the halls of DMHS, I must have been fast, cheap, and easy, and on a side note, I’m sure I smelled like a Lum’s hot dog steamed in beer. Today, carrying forward that “you are what you eat” thought would defiantly make me as Southern as biscuits and gravy.

You see, to be real Southern food, it takes more than taste and texture; it also must have location. In most Southern homes, everyone seems to gather in the kitchen. And the Southern kitchen is a special place where the bacon is sizzlin’, the grits are simmerin’, fried chicken is a-poppin’, green beans are boilin’, biscuits are bakin’, collards are stewin’, nana puddin’ is sittin’, and a pecan pie is coolin’ on an open windowsill. And all this activity is laced together with a heapin’ helpin’ of love.

Now, all that Southern food tends to add a midge of girth to many Southern boys and girls. My Southern doctor, Doc Beauregard, has for years “recommended” that I “trim a few pounds.” Now, Southerners pretty much shoot straight, and Doc Beauregard is no different. I remember his most recent prescription when, with a sigh, he moved his glasses atop his head and pronounced, “Well, Richard, I’ve done all I can do to get your weight down. Now, all I can suggest is for you to learn to be jolly.” But I do have an excuse; with the way my memory has slipped, I just sometimes plum forget that I already ate. Lately, I’m just happy when I find my glasses before I forget what I wanted to read.

In the South, everyone has a dog. And how can you trust anyone who doesn’t like something that laughs with its tail?http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eiEPb36mSq0

 

In the South, we are known for our small towns dotted throughout Dixie. There’s a lot to say for small towns. Where your neighbors know you from the cradle to the grave and where you were just as likely to get a spanking from the momma next door if she caught you misbehavin’ as from your own. In a small town, if you don’t know what you are doing, you can count on the fact that someone else always does. For all these reasons and more, I’m hanging on to my Southern roots.

So, in closing, let me state the obvious. If you, as I do, love Southern women, raise your glass, and to the rest of you, raise your standards.

 

 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive,

Richard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

This Rambling is Dedicate to the Rev. Richard L. Parker Sr.

10/23/28 to 3/15/13

 

Camaraderie… blazed like a match tossed into a pile of dried palm fronds.

Backs were slapped, hands were shaken, hugs were exchanged, and laughter rang loud as a dozen friends of almost a half-century gathered to share a meal, laced with old stories, current news with more than a dash of exaggerations all tied neatly with a couple of downright lies.

This group might have resembled, from outward appearance, a meeting of the local chapter of AARP, complete with receding gray hair and more than one bulging waistline. But, in actuality, it was a gathering of Eagles, decades-long friends from the DMHS Class of 1970 with two ‘69ers, Greg Simmons and Joel Swain, thrown in as our token adult supervision—a job all will agree they failed miserably.

The reason for the gathering was simple and unpretentious. It was because this is what friends do; they get together, and they enjoy one another’s company. Maybe this enjoyment was “greased” with a bit less “lubricant” than in the old days, but the enjoyment was apparent nonetheless.

It started innocently enough. I’ve been traveling with no opportunity to spend even one night in my Melbourne Beach home since January 5. Because most of these guys and I talk much more frequently now than we did forty-plus years ago, we all seem to know what’s going on in the ebb and flow of one another’s lives today more than we did in our busier years, I wanted to see a few of my old buds and spread my share of exaggerations and little white lies. Simply put, I needed a recharge, and anyone of them is good for a quick pick-me-up and certainly a quick smile.

Speaking separately to Jim Lester and Bobby Harrell, both offered the invitation issued from friend to friend for centuries—“let’s do lunch.” A date was quickly set, and each told a couple of others, and before you knew it, our ranks had swelled to nineteen with twelve actually making it. By the way, Cal, Buckwheat, Rob, Ronnie, Eddy, Mike, and Stephen, we missed you all, but never fear, each of your names was taken in vain more than once.

By high noon, Doc and the hearty unmistakable laugh of Jim Huck joined Kenny, Ricky, Mitch, and Pete. But the highlight of my day was seeing, for the first time in more than thirty years, an old friend, Warren Crittenden.

For the next hour and a half, I reveled in the warmth and comfort of these time-tested friendships. Although I enjoyed the lunch, I think I enjoyed the trip home even more. I never turned on the radio or touched my cell phone. Instead, I rambled down that long dusty road of memories we all keep tucked away in that special place, reserved for those few friendships who have become forever woven into the tapestry of our life. One by one, I thought of these guys who have become not just friends, but more important, old friends. I couldn’t stop smiling.

I thought about the fact that, throughout my sixty-one years on this big blue marble, I’ve called a number of people my friend. Some, it turned out, justified that special designation, while others, no. As the Irish writer and poet, Oscar Wilde, said, “A true friend is one that will stab you in the front.” Although I’ve probably disagreed and, yes, even argued with nearly every man sitting at this table, not one has ever left a scar between my shoulder blades.

I realize that these guys understand me, and I understand them. When we are together, there is little pretense but a certain joy that comes from knowing our friendships have withstood the test of time. Many times in the last half-century, we each could’ve found a reason to end our friendship, yet each one, for his reasons, has chosen to do just the opposite. The ability to put aside misunderstandings and disagreements and even the occasional competition for the fairer sex to guard jealously a friendship is the mortar that holds the old friendships together.

Even that evening, after receiving half a dozen follow-up phone calls from my “lunchmates,” I still felt a warm and comfortable glow from the day, much like the feeling of quietly rocking in front of a blazing fire on a cold winter night.

 

I pondered why this group seems to be much closer today than we were forty years ago. I think our friendships, like each of us, have matured. Gone is the fear of what others might think, replaced with gratefulness that we each have somehow managed to sidestep the Grim Reaper for the past six decades. Most of us know full well that, on more than one occasion, had God not guided us to zig instead of zag, we could’ve (and should’ve) been prominently featured in the In Memory section of our website.

Thinking back on that day, it occurred to me that, as each arrived at the restaurant, handshakes were mostly replaced with bear hugs. And as we left, I heard one after another of these aging baby boomers issue the parting phrase “I love you, brother.” On my drive home, I could not help smiling, thinking about how that phrase would’ve been interpreted by our peers, if as the third period bell rang, I had turned Bobby Harrell and said, “I love you, Bobby,” and he replied, “I love you, too, Richard.”

Yes, our friendships have matured along with our receding hairlines and expanding waistlines. But it’s a good maturity, a comfortable one—one that wears like an old shoe, one that allows us to continue, after forty years, to want to share in each other’s triumphs and tragedies, accomplishments and failures, joy and pain.

These guys have taught me that a friend is one who walks beside you, never getting in your way, unless, of course, it is to keep you from falling flat on your face. Someone who can say just the right thing, without saying a word, someone who makes you understand that you are understood. And from time to time, when that inner fire flickers in danger of being extinguished, and it can in all of us, a true friend is there to rekindle it, without fanfare or recognition, but simply for the joy of seeing his friend’s spirit renewed.

I realize that one benefit of old friends is that they have had an opportunity to witness your stupidity… repeatedly. So, a friend is not surprised when you do something stupid; quite to the contrary, he knows you well enough to be surprised when you don’t. Yet through it all, he is still your friend.

Without saying it, I believe we each work to keep these friendships alive because we each understand just how quickly things can change. We know that each time another is added to the In Memory section, a small piece of fabric is abruptly torn from our life’s tapestry. Torn and lost forever.

Little did I know this would be brought home to me in a very real and personal way less than twenty-four hours after our final luncheon farewell. The next morning, I found myself speeding to the hospital as the doctors worked on bringing my eighty-four-year-old father through yet another heart attack. Having lost his wife of sixty-four years less than a year ago, the rate in which he continued to slide deeper into the dark recesses of the horrible disease known as Alzheimer’s had quickened.

Nancy Reagan described this accursed disease well when she referred to it as “the long goodbye.” I feel we have been saying goodbye to Dad for a decade. Like helplessly watching a man just out of reach sink slowly into quicksand, we have watched this wonderful man, father, husband, and pastor slowly slide into darkness, being not with us or gone, but hanging somewhere between.

As his second bypass failed, leaving him with less than 10 percent blood flow through a single artery, I found the joy of the reunion abruptly and callously replaced with a sense of renewed helplessness as I watched this next chapter in his and my lives begin, not by choice, but by destiny.

As a writer, I find solace in putting pen to paper. As I sat alone Wednesday night in a dark hospital room watching the flickering number on the heart monitor change to the soft cadence of beeps and alarms, I penned my e-mail to you as if talking to an old friend.

Almost three years ago, Inspired by Jimmie Anne and the Class of 69's site I decided to build our Class of 70 website and to write this monthly Rambling. For me, it has become therapeutic, a way to tell my feelings, some of which you might share, and some, not so. Other times, it feels as if I am laying bare my soul. It is not always comfortable, but the only way I know how to write is from my heart. But I understand I cannot do this halfway, and having embarked on the journey, I have committed to myself to do it to the best of my ability.

To my great surprise, the response to this decision has been such an outpouring of love from both old and new friends that it has humbled me. You, as a group, have become one of the great blessings of my life. Classmates I passed in the breezeways of DMHS with little more than a nod, today, mean more to me than I can put in words. It is said that everyone has a story, and that so many of you have allowed me to become aware, and in many cases, a part, of so many of these wonderful stories is more gratifying than I can put in words.  I'ver even gotten a chance to become friends with some of the "big kids" from the Class of 69.

I speak often in these Ramblings of the friendships and love I have for this growing group of a few dozen guy pals. I guess the Southern gentleman in me makes it a bit more difficult to profess outwardly my love for so many of you ladies. But rest assured that you, too, are deeply loved and your friendship appreciated more than you will ever know. You each know who you are.

Over the past few days, I have received a torrent of prayers and kind words, helping so much. My wish is that the same tsunami of support will be given to each of our classmates as he or she travels the long and winding road of life.

“As I hasten to close” was a phrase my Southern Baptist preacher father often used as he wrapped up a long-winded Sunday sermon. It never ceased to amaze me how he could stand in the house of the Lord and tell a bald-faced lie without being struck by lightning—he was not hastening to close; he was only warming up.

So let me be a bit of a chip off the old block when I now say, “As I hasten to close,” remembering a quote from that great American philosopher, Mitch Hilburn, memorized in my June 2011 Rambling/Spotlight of Tradition’s Children.

http://www.danmccarty70.com/class_custom2.cfm (scroll down about three-quarters of the way)

I asked him whether, when looking back over his life, he had any regrets. Mitch floored me with his insight and wisdom as he replied:

“Dick, as a bail bondsman, I see people at their lowest point—in jail, desperately wanting to get out. I always ask them for a name of someone who can vouch for them. It is so sad to see how many people have no friends. No one has their back. Not a single person to count on in times of trouble. We do.” He went on. If you Dick, or Doc, Silverstein, Lester, one of my band mates, or a dozen other friends from the Class of ’70 called one of us needing help, we would all come. No hour would be too late, no distance too far, because we are friends, we are brothers, and we’ve shared a time in our lives that will always keep us close. My only regret is that everyone in our class could not feel what we feel.”

Mitch, my brother, reading back over your words of wisdom from almost two years ago, I still do not know how could I add anything to that.

So, today, as I hang on with white knuckles to this emotional rollercoaster I find myself riding, my mind keeps drifting back to a growing group of friends for whom I would not take anything.

Many of you have asked whether you can do anything to help. I have thought about that, and my answer is yes, you can. You can pick up the phone or type an e-mail to someone in this great Class of 1970 and tell him or her that you are grateful for his or her friendship. Do this today, for none of us knows what tomorrow might bring.

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive (with a little help from my friends),

Richard Parker

Thank you Dad for giving me an example of what a truly wonderful father, husband and man looks like. I will strive to emulate you and your life in all I do.

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

Technology Sucks… and I’m Thankful!

As is normally the case, my Ramblings are just that—ramblings. Like a Ping-Pong ball dancing down a staircase, I seldom have predetermined crystal-clear thoughts or a defined direction for them. Rather, the inspiration might begin with a fleeting thought, an image, TV commercial, or even a single word. Then, my God-given imagination unceremoniously blends with a dash of my unique warped outlook. Voilà, my newest Rambling emerges like a chick cracking through the warmth and safety of its shell, so do my thoughts leave the dark, yet safe, recesses of my mind, appearing for all to see and judge.

Yes, this creative process can be a bit unnerving but, in the end, worth the risk when a single word of praise or passing thank-you underpins the effort. This month, these Ramblings seems to have the velocity of Niagara Falls after an upstream monsoon. An avalanche of these thoughts just keeps tumbling to my awaiting keyboard, much to the delight of some and the dismay of others. Anyway, for better or worse, here is another—enjoy.

This month, four November events caught my attention: Veterans Day on November 11, which produced my last Rambling; my 61^st birthday (can that be true?) on the 20^th; and, this year, a rare sharing of Thanksgiving and the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination, conjuring two diametrically opposed thought processes nestled snugly on the 22^nd day of the Topaz month.

As for the first part of this Rambling’s title—Technology Sucks—I should finish my thought… Technology Sucks, until it works. I, like you, was born pre-e-mail. Ah, those were the good old days when talking to others or writing them a note was the only acceptable method of communication. I did hear tell of some Vero Beach Indians using smoke signals, but that is a thought for a different Rambling. Go, Eagles!

Then enters the cyber-fast, ever-intrusive e-mail, stacking like cordwood in our inbox—a never-ceasing inflow of sometimes useful, but usually not, information that someone feels we must have. Ways for us to lose weight, for men to gain inches (remember that would have made you blush), to find the love of your life (in Russia), and a foolproof way to claim $11,843,832.77 in unclaimed funds waiting for you in Uganda. Oh, yes, such very valuable bits of data flow into your always waiting inbox. Whatever did we do pre-e-mail?

Couple this with the minute-by-minute updates by Twitter and Facebook sharing such important information as what you are having for lunch and what you watched on TV the night before, and the Information Age has fully enveloped the Boomer generation—for better or worse.

On Tuesday morning, the 20^th, with little more on my mind than a java jolt from slumber, I stumbled to the coffeepot. As I eased my well-padded butt into my well-padded home-office chair, awaking my computer screen from its hibernation mode, I was greeted by my ever-present Gmail inbox. Even through sleep-laden eyes, I could see my inbox indeed runneth over.

Oh, yes, it was my birthday, how could I have forgotten. This graying, plumper version of that skinny 17-year-old kid who roamed the breezeways of DMHS, had just completed his sixty-first lap around the sun—without as much as a sunburn.

I could not repress a smile as it started in the corner of my mouth and slowly spread to an ear-to-ear grin. I had mail! And, boy, did I have a lot of it. Today, technology was my friend, as friend after friend sent me his or her birthday wishes.

Now, I am a Christmas guy. I’ve never been much for birthdays, even as a kid. But I am here to tell you there is something cool about more than forty friends remembering your birthday. OK, I know that most were not crossing off the days on their wall calendar, waiting to pop the champagne corks and throw the confetti. But dad-gum-it, they remembered my dad-gum birthday and they were hoping that it was a good birthday—how cool is that? My best buds, casual acquaintances, old girlfriends, cheerleaders, jocks, band members, Key Clubbers, Interact dudes, SLC, Keyettes gals (back when ettes was not sexist), the Campus Life gang, and even a horde of friends who did not know the glory days of the last graduating class of DMHS.

Through the class websites of ‘70, ‘69, ’68, and ’71, the birthday wishes rolled in, intertwined with postings on Mark Zuckerberg’s billion-person playpen—Facebook. It seemed that everyone wanted me to have a great birthday. OK, maybe I am reading a bit more into this than I should, but after all, for fifty plus years, I was fortunate if more than a half-dozen nonfamily members even knew it was my birthday. Now, enough people to fill four football teams took the time to say Happy Birthday to a Christmas guy.

It made me think. How many people could I have brought joy to by just wishing them happy birthday? As Snoopy would say as he was again shot down by the Bloody Red Baron, “cursed, foiled again.” Well, that mistake is easy to correct, and I strongly encourage you to do the same. All you have to do is go to the Class website home page, and on the right-hand side, you will see the upcoming birthdays. Click the name, and type a message. It is that simple.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctMDbCM5nZA

 

 

Now, for the second half of the title of this Rambling—“and I’m Thankful.” Do I really need to explain? Our little group of Boomers has so much to be thankful for. I was thinking today as I sat to write this Rambling that I really won the cosmic crapshoot. These are a few things I am thankful for today.

• First, I am thankful I am not in the “In Memory” section of the class site. I’m still alive and kickin’ and that is pretty cool within itself. Yea Class of 69!

 

• I am thankful that I was born in America—free and able to do anything I choose and, sometimes, things I should not have chosen. The freedom to vote as I want and worship as I please without fear of precaution.

 

• I am thankful I had to shovel very little snow growing up in Florida. (Remember 1977, hence, the “very little” part of this sentence.)

• I am thankful for growing up with the best music of the century. (Thank God, pre-rap).

 

• I am thankful for a group of friends like you who, “It only takes a phone call to bring an army of friends ready to help.” I am also thankful I have not had to make that call… as of yet.

 

• I am thankful for both old friends I’ve known and loved for fifty years and my new friends whom I maybe did not know well in school but today treasure more than they know.

 

• I am thankful for a wife of more than thirty years who has chosen, for some reason yet to be explained to me, to spend her life with a throwback to the sixties like me. Thank you, Joan.

 

• I am always thankful for three wonderful grandkids and I am mostly thankful for my grown sons—just kidding, Wayne and Shane. I am also thankful for the 2 ½ years I had with little Josh before he was called home – I will see you there son. And that makes me thankful for my salvation that assures me that the best is to come.

 

• I am thankful for my oldest granddaughter Brittney who, by enrolling this fall at FSU, taught this long-time Gator fan that during this Saturday’s Florida/Florida State game, there are two teams on the field and the short distance from a chomp to a chop it really is. I love you Kiddo

 

• I am thankful for a country that can, as we just saw, elect leaders without tanks in the streets or one drop of bloodshed. In any case, thank God, the TV ads are over.

 

• I am thankful for all the little things I have been able to experience in my lifetime: rock and roll; bellbottom jeans; space shots going up; the Berlin Wall coming down; light shows (can you say Chester’s Left Leg); the burning of the Indian; victory dances, even when we lost; the birth of digital everything; the Internet, cast nets and of course fishnet stockings; the Civil Rights Act of ‘64 and Woodstock of ‘69; the burning of bras (I really liked this one); the creation of Earth Day; muscle cars, and VW Bugs; flower power and power to the people; WQAM, Jimmy Barr, satellite radio (and Cousin Brucie); the DMHS Band playing “Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey-ey, good-bye“ after a win; Mr. Larsen, Mr. Diggs, and George Bass; Stunt Nights, Rat Day, All-School Parties, and Pep Rallies; driving around Bill’s Burger while smelling frying onions, driving over Tickle Tummy Hill while smelling the bakery, surfing on North Beach, parking on South Beach, and paddling the inlet; Mad Magazine, the Santa Lucian, Halsey and Griffith, Simonsen’s Restaurant, Joyce Motors, and Rubin’s(the store and the girl). I am thankful for first cars, first dates, and first kisses, first best friends, and even first broken hearts—all of which happened in dear old Ft. Pierce.

 

Thanks for the Origional Artwork Doc McKinney Class of 70, you missed your calling Doc :-)

 

• I am actually thankful for technology because, without it, we as a class would not have gotten back together. We have more than 225 on our website, and I am certain that, without it, there would be fewer of us in touch, and I would get only a fraction of the birthday wishes I now get. By the way, I feel myself moving slowing from only a Christmas guy to a birthday/Christmas guy… Happy Birthday to me… Happy Birthday to me… etc. etc.

So, on this Thanksgiving Day, maybe we should all stop and think of all we have to be thankful for. And if that something turns out to be a someone, why not pick up your high-tech smart phone and call them to let him or her know. Or you could always help fill his or her inbox – then “They’ve Got Mail”.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.

Keeping the Spirit Alive

Richard Parker

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

---

 

 

It was 8:24 Monday morning November 12^th, 2012.  I was atop the Melbourne Causeway Bridge surveying the expanse of shimmering water, sun-bathed shoreline and array of bobbing blow boats at anchor.  I was thinking just how blessed I was to live in this wonderful place known as the Space Coast of Florida.  Nestled just south of the nook of land which houses the Kennedy Space Center, the place America has turned its eyes and hopes to for decades as we lead and subsequently won the race to explore the cosmos.  It has been exciting to see first-hand the  plumes of smoke and yes to even feel the ground shake and the windows rattle in our beach front home as the launch of each Space Shuttle and rocket streaked out of the clutches of earth’s gravitational pull as they streaked towards the black cold nothingness of space.  Those days of course have now been replaced with budget cuts and a war on terrorism that has stolen the focus and dollars of this great country.  Those were the days when mere mortal men with names like Grissom, Slayton; Glenn, Schirra, and Shepard became almost immortal as they raced their small fleet of corvettes on the sandy beaches of Cocoa and then their rockets into the history books.

It was then that the chirp of my cell phone drew me back to the reality of 2012.  Upon my standard “Good Morning” greeting I heard eight simple words; “I thank you for your service, Richard Parker.  The words of my childhood friend, Bobby Harrell, instantaneously and magically transported me to a similar time and place.  I was in a fraction of a second, back in the summer of 1970 sitting and sunning myself in a lifeguard tower on the South Beach of Ft. Piece Florida.  My 9-volt powered transistor radio was tuned to WQAM who after every third song by groups like the Doobie Brothers, Deep Purple and Derek & the Dominos, announced another 10 numbers for this country’s first draft lottery.  I guess I was born under a lucky star because I won; snagging the lucky number of 98, well below 195 skinny, wide-eyed boys that was actually called up. 

The thoughts of taking a year off between my graduation from DMHS, and starting college (complete with its college deferment) seem at that moment a tad less solid of a plan than it seemed the day before.  This was my first great lesson in thinking things completely through before taking action.  Until that day my deep thinking had been confined to who I would ask to the victory dance.

I like every young man leaving the radical 60s and heading into the Disco charged 70’s (how did that happen) I had given more than a passing a thought to my alternatives should my number be drawn.  There were but three; 1) be drafted into a two year stint in the army, with virtual certainty of sloshing through my tour of duty doing the rice patty tango 2) high-tail it to Canada and 3) join another branch of the military, usually requiring putting my life on hold for four years verses the Army’s two year demand.  It wasn’t a hard decision.  Thinking of the beating my momma would give me had I even thought about a reverse-migration to the frozen tundra of our northern neighbors coupled with a deep love of this great country, option #2 was quickly off the table.  Besides there was no surf in Canuck-land and the thought of standing for O Canada before a ball game instead of The Star Spangled Banner was more than I could have stomached.  So, remaining American and learning to say “Yes Sir” with vigor in Uncle Sam’s military was to be how 1970 would end for young Richard.

So it was with my draft notice which required me to report to a Army’s Miami induction center on Tuesday October 20^th, 1970, tucked safely in the back pocket of my faded bellbottom jeans, that this young 18-year old found himself raising his right hand and taking the Oath of Enlistment… "I, Richard Parker, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."  Yes, and I am sure I looked just this young as I began my first chapter into adulthood.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JnEY6eC2Ig

.... As the newest member of the United States Coast Guard – Semper Paratus (Always Ready)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rC9WxzBPKw

I was off to boot camp and a fine new haircut paid for in full by my rich uncle “Sam”.

The haircut; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsLveuJ5nxI

While I did anything but embrace military life; you see I was Richard Parker from Ft. Pierce Florida and I had come to help them with their efficacy problem, they had other ideas.  Want to guess who won that one?  I must admit, I learned much from my military service and would not trade those experiences for anything… well maybe I would trade the experience of tackling 3 hurricanes in 4 years  at sea, but not much else.

It is funny but for a number of years after my discharge I never saw myself as a veteran.  But as time moved on and I saw with more mature eyes what it took to “support and defend…  the United States”  I began to appreciate the roll that all branches of the service play in keeping this country safe, and so much more.

So after 61 laps around the sun this veteran has come to peace with my “military years” and as hard as it is for me to state in front of God and you; I am grateful for those years.  Yes, I may have been anything but a willing inductee but today I am a truly proud and thankful veteran.  I too am proud to all those who have served before me and after.  As I look into the faces of a 12 year old boy playing Pop Warner football I wonder is this a veteran-to-be that one day so many will be thankful for?

I am also grateful for all you my McCarty High classmates that also served and equally for those that may not have had the opportunity to serve, but you have supported those that did.  I must admit that I too sometimes forget to say thank you for all you that have done so much for our country – to try and rectify that little oversight – Thank you all.

They say that we never really know how your actions affect those around you; be those actions thoughtful and kind or not so.  I say to each of you that if my actions or words have ever caused any of you pain, I am sorry.  If my actions have made you day even a little brighter, for that I am humbly happy. 

And for you Bobby Harrell; you were they only one that day that thanked me for my service, and for that I thank you.  Your pebble tossed into the pool of my life has sent ripples into a corner not touched by others and for that my friend you should be proud. 

I urge all of you to take a minute to send an email or make a call to those in our class who have served. 

 

I my friends salute each of you. 

Keepin’ the Spirit Alive

Richard Parker

---

TheBest Years of Our Lives

You say your aches are increasing while your get-up-and go just got up and went. Well, this month’s Rambling might be just what the doctor ordered. In this article, my goal is to prove to you that success is not exclusively reserved for the young. You do not have to dig very deep into the annals of those successful in business, politics, and the arts to find examples of those who were past the commonly viewed “productive years” before they snagged the golden ring of success.

As we find ourselves passing the magic six-zero, maybe we should look differently at what is perceived as normal. In my life, I have found that striving to be normal is just not all it is cracked up to be. And that, my friend, is good if you graduated with the DMHS Class of 1970, the class some would say wrote the book on abnormal. But that is a story for a different Rambling.

I remember when my grandfather died, the pastor at his funeral talked about his living a “long, long life” (he was sixty-eight). Today, many of our parents live into their eighties and nineties, yet we Americans look at sixty to sixty-five as the typical retirement age. If life expectancy is increasing, should not our productive years also increase? I think this Rambling will prove this.

Many longevity experts point out that the ages between fifty and eighty are and should become a time for reinventing ourselves and pursuing our true dreams. Around fifty, many begin to realize a renewed creativity. The graying boomer generation, those once longhaired adolescents who in days past touted the virtues of tuning in, turning on, and dropping out, is now empowered through their many live experiences. They have realized an inner freedom, laced with more than just a dash of confidence they might have lacked in their thirties, forties, or fifties.

Today is when we can blossom, spread our wings, and not just fly, but truly soar like eagles. The years have enabled us to turn our long delayed seeds of ideas into a garden of dreams that can now be realized. If you ever think it is too late for you to add a few coins to your coffers, maybe you should consider some of the following geezers who started late and still finished strong.

McDonald's and Ray Kroc

Ray Kroc started McDonald’s when most people his age were preparing to retire; he was fifty-two. He was barely making ends meet as a milkshake-machine salesman. One day, he happened on a hamburger stand in San Bernardino, California, and instead of selling the McDonald brothers his machine, he bought the business. The rest is one of the greatest business success stories of our time.

We all know Ray Kroc became a pioneer in the fast-food industry developing a uniform system of production for hamburgers, milkshakes, and French fries, so the food tasted the same in each franchise countrywide and, eventually, worldwide. The real story is that, in 1960, Kroc had more than 200 McDonald’s franchises in the U.S., but he barely earned a profit.

Many younger business owners would have quit, citing a flawed business model, but not this sixty-year-old. He had come too far and learned too much to quit. He started to prosper only when he started the Franchise Realty Corporation that bought property and leased it to franchisees. Kroc went on to accumulate $500 million in assets. Today, McDonald’s has 33,000 locations, employing more than 400,000, and serving 68 million daily in 119 countries. Not a bad alternative to early retirement, wouldn’t you agree?

Like Ray Kroc, we have learned so much more from the bumps and grinds of life than any textbook could ever teach. And yes, I know that many of us, like these success stories, might have begun our march to success with a thought process just a bit off center, a bit outside the acceptable normal zone. I know that I have spent most of my life in the mostly gray area just outside what is normal—guilty. Consider how much you would be willing to bet on a guy who thinks like this.

If I find myself needing to borrow money, my experience has taught me to seek a loan first from pessimists—after all, they don't expect it back. I know at this ripe old age that success is not that difficult; after all, I’ve learned that a full 50% of all I meet are below average. In my youth, I respected lawyers until I found that 99% of them give the rest a bad name.

I know that the best way to convince others that my plan is the right direction is by fortifying it with statistics, knowing full well that 82.7% of all statistics are made up on the spot. I’ve learned that a clear conscience usually indicates a poor memory. I know that however much I search for a rainbow, I find one only after a good hard rain.

Colonel Sanders

Speaking of rain, look at Harlan Sanders, known worldwide as Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame. We all know he was a success, but what most don’t know is that he bounced from job to job until, at forty, he started a service station selling chicken dinners out a side window to his patrons. As the demand for his special pressure-cooked chicken grew, he sank his life savings into opening a full restaurant on the adjoining property.

As fate would have it, a major interstate was built, which diverted traffic away, all but bankrupting the restaurant and dear old Harlan. In a last-ditch effort to save his business and at sixty-five, Sanders decided to franchise his business, and Kentucky Fried Chicken was born. Harland was five years older than we are today when he started franchising.

As for this writer, I’ve learned that the hours I work have little to do with the success I achieve and that I do not have to get up earlier than all my competitors do to succeed, having long since seen the folly in that “early bird gets the worm” stuff. But today, I am convinced that usually the second mouse gets the cheese.

So, while others focus on moving at the speed of light, a healthy dose of the contrarian view makes me ponder the age-old question of what is the speed of dark. I try to avoid depressed people, convinced that they usually house a fair dose of anger but without enthusiasm.

Consider These Late-Blooming Writers and Painters

No matter what card game you play, it is due to Edmond Hoyle. He was the first to write down and copyright the details of the rules of many card games, chess, backgammon, and other games of his time. His claim to fame in card game rules came about when he was seventy, a decade older than we are today.

Laura Ingalls Wilder became a journalist in her forties, and she was sixty-five when she started to write The Little House on the Prairie series. Wallace Stevens won a Pulitzer Prize for his Collected Poems when he was seventh-six. Raymond Chandler was forty-five when his detective story “Blackmailers Don’t Shoot” was first published in a magazine. He was fifty-one when his first novel The Big Sleep was published, and Grandma Moses began to paint at seventy-five.

Just think, you could take a fifteen-year nap and start dead even with Grandma Moses or Wallace Stevens. I will guarantee you that things did not always go right in the lives of these writers and painters. Neither do I expect everything always to go right in my life. Age has taught me that when everything is coming your way, it usually means you are in the wrong lane.

I’ve learned that if I have a good idea, I need to act on it—quickly. I have never subscribed to the pessimistic view of “If that is such a good idea, someone else would have already thought of it.” If so, wouldn’t it have been true when that “other guy” thought of it? I’ve learned that 93.73% (again with the statistics, Richard?) of success is about simply suiting up and showing up. It might be in the future that hard work pays off, but I’ll guarantee you that laziness pays its dividends right now.

In today’s tough financial times, we could all use a little extra money—right? Thirty years in the financial industry has taught me to break down complicated matters in easy to understand bites. For example, what do a $100-a-week, part-time job and a $100,000 investment portfolio have in common? Answer: They represent the same amount of income. $100 a week X 50 weeks = $5,000 and $100,000 X 5% return = $5,000. The question is, if you need more retirement income, which is easier to do—amass an additional $100K or land a part-time job?

It is important to believe that, at our age, life is not over; quite to the contrary, it can be just beginning. Consider the following late bloomers.

Other Late Bloomers

Lew Wallace was fifty-three when his book became the best-selling novel of the nineteenth century. That book, Ben Hur, has never been out of print. Now, consider, at fifty-one, he became the New Mexico Territory governor from 1878–1881, and it was while serving as governor that he wrote Ben Hur.

Sam Walton was forty-four when he started WalMart and died the richest man in the world with $23 billion.

Lest you think that I connect all success with the thickness of your wallet, let me solidly state that wealth alone does not make a person successful. Money is certainly not the most important thing in life, but from zero to rent, let me assure you that it ranks up there at the top. And money has proved quite useful throughout our life.

And as for my slightly slanted view of life, I know that I will not live forever... but, so far, so good. Age has also changed the way I view popularity. In my youth, I cared more about being popular than I do today. Popularity became much less important when I had granddaughters and realized that even Barbie had to buy her friends. And it seems normal to find the “age-enhanced” at the reins of political power.

Leaders of Countries and Politics—Success at Any Age

At seventy, Golda Meir became the fourth prime minister of Israel. The average age of the men who have been president of the United States is fifty-four years and eleven months. The youngest was Teddy Roosevelt, forty-two, and the oldest was Ronald Reagan, who became president sixteen days before his seventieth birthday. Carolyn McCarthy became a U.S. congresswoman for the first time at fifty-six to advocate gun control after her husband was killed and her son injured in a random train shooting.

Nelson Mandela became the oldest elected president of South Africa in 1994 when he was seventy-four. Before this, he was imprisoned for life for antiapartheid activity. He was released after twenty-seven years in 1990, and he led his party toward a multiracial democracy.

I’m sure it takes soul searching and deep thought to lead a country. I, too, find it helpful to get by myself from time to time and just think. The problem is that when I am deep in thought, I never can predict where my mind might wander. For example, I wonder how you tell when sour cream has expired. I ponder what would be the result of being scared half to death… twice. I ask myself why psychics have to ask you your name. I contemplate why experience is something you get only after you need it. I consider if my car could travel at the speed of light, would my headlights work? Then there is that age-old question, what is the opposite of antibacterial soap?

Yet, I again digress… which seems to happen more and more these days. Now, back on track, Richard. Now, what was I talking about? Statistics? No, that was not it… Oh, yes, late bloomers. I’ll bet you never considered Franklin and Ford late bloomers, did you? Well, read on, my friend.

Ben Franklin and Henry Ford

Ben Franklin could also be considered a late bloomer. Although he had done much in his youth, he continued to expand his genius throughout his life. He was forty-six when he experimented with electricity, and he invented bifocals at forty-seven and the catheter at forty-nine. He was elected to the Continental Congress at sixty-nine. At seventy, he signed the Declaration of Independence, making him the oldest signer. When he was seventy-seven, he negotiated the Treaty of Paris, which ended the Revolutionary War. At eighty-one, he signed the U.S. Constitution.

Henry Ford introduced the Model T automobile when he was forty-five, but he was our age, sixty, when he created the first car assembly line.

After you get a few hard-fought decades under your belt, the obvious is a bit easier to spot. For example, the more people I meet, the more I think the gene pool needs a lifeguard. It’s clear to me I can’t make every deadline.  I’ve learned that if I am going to fall behind, it is best to do it early, so I have as much time as possible to catch up. I believe that we are all born with a photographic memory, but some of us just have fewer rolls of film than others do.

Yes, these are but a sampling of the slightly off-center thoughts that cascade mostly unchecked just below the surface of my full head of graying hair. In closing, I’d like to leave you with quotations that might hit a bit closer to home than is comfortable.

• Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. ~Mark Twain
• A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams. ~John Barrymore
• At 20 years of age, the will reigns; at 30, the wit; at 40, the judgment. ~Benjamin Franklin
• Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing. ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

·Listen to Your Heart—Your Passions and Dreams Await You ~Anonymous

So, don’t think it is too late to pursue your dreams. If you listen to others, you can easily fall for the “You are too old to start your own business, to be a writer, or to invent the next great thing” lie. The truth is that those people don't know a thing about you, and if you wait for their permission, you could easily miss opportunities. A little fear is fine. The goal is not to remove the butterflies from your stomach; it is to get all those little suckers to fly in unison. Neither the ordinary nor the great among us need be bound by the barrier of age. With the right determination, attitude, and some luck, you can see these successful people are no different from any one of us.

So, after seeing these examples of how so many others reached their stride only after the world considered them past their prime, you might be inspired to get fired up and focused… then again, maybe you will find it time for a nap.

Keeping the Spirit Alive,

Richard Parker

P.S.  Don’t Forget the “All Class Party” at Cobb’s Landing Saturday October 27, 2012, at 6:00 p.m. The Classes of ‘69, ’70, and ‘71 will have a combined class party (but all classes are invited) at Cobb’s Landing in old downtown Ft. Pierce at 200 North Indian River Drive, Fort Pierce, FL 34950.

For the details go to http://www.danmccarty70.com/class_reunion.cfm?ReunionID=12109

While this is Dutch Treat we do need a head count so please register at the bottom of the that linked page.

 

 

---

Milestones

Last week, I passed another of those milestones in life as I dropped my granddaughter off at FSU to begin her freshman year. The three days prior, I drove alone, nearly two thousand miles on a business trip, armed with only my memories and Cousin Brucie of the Sirius satellite radio sixties channel. This combination is guaranteed to conjure an eclectic range of emotions from a warm smile that can instantly turn to a belly laugh and then trigger a single tear disappearing into an increasingly graying beard, all in the span of a single Beach Boys love song chorus. Yes, the boomer generation has morphed from the “don’t trust anyone over thirty” generation to a bunch of crybabies craning their necks for one more glimpse of the golden days of their youth.

This month’s Rambling is the by-product of the convergence of a quartet of thought-provoking ingredients that came together on that “perfect storm” of a drive: a hefty chunk of alone time, the fond memories of days gone by, the best music ever created, and another milestone of life fading in the rearview mirror. Yes, indeed, time marches on as we each pass the milestones of our life.

In the early years, our milestones passed with the blazing velocity of a Florida Softshell Turtle, waddling under the blaze of the Treasure Coast subtropic sun, and with a lack of fanfare that could easily induce a much-needed afternoon nap for an aging boomer. These milestones did not seem like much of a happening as they passed; they just happened, as we continued to plod though our life. That first day in the first grade, Jr. and Sr. High, and graduation all come to mind interlaced with other memorable milestones.

The milestone of that first all-by-yourself bike ride around your home block was eventually replaced with the grand theft of that first awkward, yet long-awaited, kiss. Today, it is impossible for me to hear Tommy James sing “I Think We're Alone Now,” without sparking an inner glow as I remember that wooded area behind the 25^th Street Little League ballpark. The small patch of trees was strategically located just outside the floodlight-bathed area that was our pre-Internet social gathering place. This place whose lack of direct lighting, proximity to a required periodic accountability check for the ever vigilant eyes of parents, was shrouded in low-hanging scrub oak branches and a comfy foliage-covered ground, combining to make the perfect place to recline into the newfound bliss of adolescent experimentation.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIeRqPFJvXM&feature=related

Children behave
that's what they say when we're together
and watch how you play
they don't understand
and so we're running just as fast we can
holding onto one another's hand
trying to get away into the night
and then you put your arms around me
as we tumble to the ground
and then we say

Chorus:
I think we're alone now
There doesn’t seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound

Look at the way
We gotta hide what we're doing
Cause what would they say
If they ever knew
and so we're running just as fast as we can
holding onto one another's hand
trying to get away into the night
and then you put your arms around me
as we tumble to the ground
and then we say

Chorus

Children behave
that's what they say when we're together
and watch how you play
they don't understand
and so we're running just as fast we can
holding onto one another's hand
trying to get away into the night
and then you put your arms around me
as we tumble to the ground
and then we say

I think we're alone now
There doesn’t seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound

 

Next, it was the milestones of college for some, the military for others, with both the prelude to a lifetime of hard work for all. Some of us zigged while others zagged, thinking little of milestones, as we entered and exited matrimonial amalgamations, some at a frightening pace. The ebb and flow of these unions littered the landscape of our lives with offspring and step-kids that would cause us to bite our nails, hold our breath, and on occasion, beam with pride as we pinned a bit of our dreams to their lapels. As the younger generation began to pass their milestones, we were slowly, yet steadily, relegated to the unholy trinity of spectator, cheerleader, and, sometimes, safety net for their journeys, which ambles on with an eerie resemblance of our own less than perfect passage. Yes, indeed, time marches on.

 

With a mishmash of battle-hardened experience, a splash of pride for remaining upright and out of jail, mixed with maybe just a dash of regret, we march toward more of life’s milestones, some of which we willingly seek, and some we would have given anything to avoid. The passing of a parent is by far one of the worst. The event is accompanied with a rush of memories, of words left unsaid or deeds undone, and an undeniable emptiness of being alone for the first time in our life. So many times since my wonderful mother left for her heavenly home, leaving my brother and me only one fragile life away from becoming an orphan, I have thought of something I wanted to share with her or a question I wish I had asked. But, indeed, that milestone, now passed, makes both impossible, adding just another small regret of life.

 

But through this all, we all still have many exciting and bright moments to look forward to. In my case, nothing shines more brightly than the love I have for and the excitement I feel, as I watch the lives of my grandkids blossom.

 

Because of falling in love, now more than three decades ago, with a woman a few years older than I, whose family seems blessed with the “I can’t wait for kids” gene, I find myself, at age 60, blessed with three wonderful grandkids: Brittney, 18, the catalyst for this Rambling and the state’s newest FSU Seminole; 15-year-old McKenna, who would bleed Gator Blue and Orange if cut; and my namesake, 12-year-old Beau (how is that for a Southern name) Parker Cole, whom we might need to send to UCF or Miami just to make sure the state is covered and that there is never peace in the family during Thanksgiving dinner.

 

 

Let me warn you, the word step has never been nor will it ever be a prefix to any of this group. As Sister Sledge put it, “We Are Family.” That sense of family has this lifelong Gator fan willingly trading in his decades-long and perfected Gator chomp for a Seminole chop.

 

This past week at 8:30, “the family” converged on the south parking lot of Kellum Hall at Florida State University. We looked to be a cross between a supply-laden wagon train beginning its journey west and a band of gypsies heading to the carnival. Our unstated, yet universally, understood twofold missions: 1) to move Brittney into her dorm and 2) to, one last time, embarrass the hell out of her. I believe that most viewing our well-orchestrated operation from the sidelines would agree that we kicked the ball through the uprights on both counts.

 

We all brought our level of skill, expertise, and resources to the party. While Britt and her mother followed the rules, patiently waiting in the long line of students signing in and retrieving their dorm room key, I greased the palm of a maintenance man at the back door of the dorm to gain early access through the bowels of the almost fifty-year-old building. It was worth the well-placed cash to see Brittney’s face when she arrived at her doom door to find the 700 cubic feet of “absolute necessities” lining the hall on both sides of her door ready for the Keystone cop-type act that would follow, as she, her mom, and her Wow (Parker-speak for grandmother) attempted to stack, store, and eventually cram it all into 50 percent of the 150-square-foot dorm room.

 

Well, after the microsized microwave, coffeepot, and octopus bedspread had been properly installed, and all closets, drawers, and desk had been stuffed to just past capacity, I began the less than exciting task of taking the 500 cubic feet of “not-so-absolute necessities” back to the half dozen vehicles that had arrived at the 161-year-old campus a mere three hours earlier.

                                                                                                                          

Too soon, it was time for us to leave and allow Brittney to begin her new life, one in which she will set her hours, choose what and when she eats, and succeed or fail on her merit. As I pressed the accelerator and gained speed heading east on I-10, I thought back on the past eighteen years, years in which my primary concern was to keep her safe and protected, the many business trips that it took to earn the money to make this day possible. Now, I was just driving off and leaving her to fend for herself. I could not help thinking that the on-ramp in my rearview mirror was another milestone passed.

 

Good luck with your milestones, Brittney. Pa loves you… more than you will ever know.

                                                                                                                     

Keeping the Spirit Alive,

Richard Parker

P.S. Don’t forget to register for the "All Class Party" hosted by the Classes of 69, 70 and 71 being held on Saturday October 27th at Cobb's Landing - No cover charge and Dutch Treat tabs.  Register today on the left Navigation bar near the top.  The room only holds just over 100 and today, still two months out, we are over 60 reservations. Don't be left on the curb watching us have a blast - register today.

 

---

 

 

We Can All Make a Difference

I love to write. It is odd because, until my first book written in my early forties, I had never considered writing even a short story. I did not know whether I could write; for sure, I knew I could not spell, and who ever heard of a writer that could not spell? I just assumed that writers were all brilliant brainy-acks who read six newspapers each morning and never had a comma out of place. Let me assure you; I’m not one. The fact that I caused not a sliver of worry for the spelling bee kids was only one of my many literary shortcomings. For years, I’ve kept my editor Susan Andres quite busy. In fact, she just finished editing my tenth book, Don’t Trust Anyone over 60—The Life and Times of the Last Eagles, a tribute to you, the final graduating class of Dan McCarty High. Thanks, Susan; you do make me look good.

I assure you that, with my abundant weaknesses, not the least of which are those of a literary nature, plus sixty years to become acquainted with each of you on a first-name basis, it is easy for me to remain humble. If that were not enough, I am married.

But I do look forward to writing this Rambling for you each month. Whatever enjoyment I have been told you have received pales in comparison to the joy this gives me. But I also seem to have unexpectedly become the class depository for every Internet story and neat piece of trivia that a couple hundred of graying baby boomers can lay their hands on. Rest assured, I read every one and enjoy most, so keep those cards and letters coming.

So, you can be sure that when I surrender the space allotted for my Rambling to one of those shared pieces, I think it is pretty cool. That’s the case for the below. This story touched me on several levels, being a patriotic vet who loves dogs. For me, few things are sadder than a faithful pup who cannot understand where his dead master has gone, longing only to run with him and fetch a thrown ball. I hope you enjoy it.

 

Subject: Best Dog Story Ever

 

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

 

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news.

The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

 

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.

 

See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust too. Maybe we were too much alike.

 

I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice”

 

To Whomever Gets My Dog:

Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. He knew something was different. So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after them, so be careful. Don't do it by any roads.

Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones—"sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals too: He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.

He's up on his shots. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time. It's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people and me most especially.

And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you... His name's not Reggie. He's a smart dog; he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. But if someone is reading this... well, it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is "Tank.” Because that is what I drive.

I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my CO is a dog-guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.

Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now, I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US, I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight—every night—from me.

Thank you,

Paul Mallory

 

I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure, I had heard of Paul Mallory; everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

 

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly. The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. "C'mere, boy." He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months. "Tank," I whispered. His tail swished. I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff, and hugged him.

 

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So whatdaya say we play some ball?" His ears perked again. "Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?"

 

Tank tore from my hands and disappeared into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

 

If you can read this without getting a lump in your throat or a tear in your eye, you just ain't right. In our cynical world ruled by the 24/7 news cycles, we seem intent on shining the spotlight on everything and everybody, trying to discover the blemishes and warts that we all possess. Maybe we should all just give it a rest. While the above might be fictional, similar situations happen daily. Yes, we have all had some low points in our lives and things we wish we could have changed. But placing our lives on a balance scale—the good and the bad—we would all be hard pressed not to agree that our lives have been blessed.

 

I view a veteran as someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to “We the People” for an amount of “up to and including my life.” Since the great Class of ‘70 left the hallowed halls of DMHS, the attitude in America toward vets has seen a roller coaster ride. From a low in the way many returning Vietnam vets were treated to the height of patriotisms displayed just after 9/11. The best I’ve ever heard it put is "The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."

 

Whether Paul and Tank actually lived is not the point. I believe it is that we all can make a difference in the lives of those we share our brief stay on Earth with, be they human or of the four-legged persuasion. Try this month to look for someone whose life you can touch in a positive way, and if you do your month will soar.  And after all, that is what Eagles do; they soar.

 

Keeping the Spirit Alive,

Richard Parker