Meals

His name was George Mason, and his family lived “up on the bayou.” That would have been Bayou Bartholomew, which, at that time, received raw sewage from the city of Pine Bluff, Arkansas. It was a breeding ground for snakes and mosquitoes during the dry months and a flood plain for the bayou during the rainy ones. In the dead of summer, the smell of sewage mixed with that of “cotton poison” made the air unbearable.

The poorest of the poor rented that house. That’s where the Masons lived.

Our school bus stopped each day to pick up George and his brothers and sisters, all sallow-complexioned kids with shaggy, greasy hair and swollen stomachs caused by poor diets. For some reason, we started sitting together, George and I. It may have been because he was older and kept the Fletcher boys from tormenting me. At any rate, I got to know him well enough that we talked openly.

One morning, the other Mason kids climbed the incline to the highway, loaded on the bus, and told the driver that George would be along. The driver honked until a figure ran from the door of the house, clutching a book and pulling on his coat. In a moment, he was sitting beside me. Breathing hard, he looked over.

“I’m sorry Jimmie,” he said. “I know I made y’all wait.” He settled back and regained his breath. Then he looked at me again and spoke.

“Momma told us this morning that she only had enough to fix us breakfast or dinner (Note: lunch in those rural days). The other kids said make them some dinner, but I said, “Mamma, I just have to have my breakfast’ and that’s what I was doing.” He stopped, then said, “Eatin’ my breakfast.” He couldn’t help looking at the paper sack holding my sandwich.

It has been a dream of mine since, and one that seems to be fading, that no child in America, or the world for that matter, would ever again have to make that choice.

Oh, and he had “dinner” that day, at least he had half of one.

Fort Lauderdale

I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It’s not only because Travis McGee’s mythical boat, The Busted Flush, was anchored there in Slip F18 of the Bahia Mar Resort. No, that strengthened my affection, but its source goes all the way back to 1970 when I was a seaman aboard the USS Hunley, AS-31 out of Charleston, South Carolina.

A little over a year before, I had returned from a year with the Naval Security Forces in Da Nang. Around that time—1968—may have been the least popular time to have ever served in the United States Armed Forces while wearing the two ribbons denoting service in Vietnam. It seemed as if the entire nation was divided into those who hated us and those who resented us.

There were the big things, like the angry crowd awaiting us at the airport when we landed from our tour. There were the little things, like segregated seating in airport lounges and our sea bags being thrown down three floors to a basement cage in the San Francisco airport to separate it from the baggage of regular passengers. Airline stewardesses weren't even cordial to us, more than necessary.

My own shipmates aboard the Hunley weren’t above needling us, “We always assign you Vietnam guys to the crappiest job aboard ship so you’ll learn your place." Of course, other military personnel weren’t treated much better when they went “on the beach.”

No, the people of Charleston provided no balm. They hated, in decreasing order of severity, people of color, military personnel, and anyone who had moved into the city since the 1700s. I made two of the three. Some of my shipmates covered them all.

By 1970, I could get dispirited with little encouragement. Then, our ship’s captain, a Captain Anders serving his last cruise and feeling charitable, decided the crew deserved some R and R, thus scheduling a three-day stop in Fort Lauderdale.

That’s when it happened.

After a smooth passage, we reached the city. The harbor pilot took us through the harbor and the ship began moving down a canal, lined with multi-story condos, to our berth. Those of us not on duty were expected to line the main deck in our best “dress whites,” and look as military as possible. We complied, standing at “parade rest” and hiding our desire to get ashore.

At first, nothing happened. Then, it was if something, like the ripple of an ebb tide, was moving along the balconies and windows of the condominiums. There sounded an almost audible buzz. Ahead of us, flags appeared. People materialized on the balconies and began to wave. Old men, so close we could make out their features, saluted. Some groups even clapped.

It was the first time in over a year that anyone, other than family, close friends, and fellow vets of that unfortunate war, had offered a kind gesture for my military service. Tears ran down my face then, as they do now when I think about that moment.

Yes. I’ll always think highly of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Best wishes, dear city.

Memories of a Drive

As I mentioned, I drove south on I-30 this week to Texarkana AR, past Malvern, Arkadelphia, Gurdon, and Hope, all other cities I have worked for over the years. There were times I made the trip weekly. There’s a spot between Malvern and Arkadelphia where the lanes split and form an interesting view. It always reminds me of the trip I made on my first day of work after my mother died. I recall the feeling I had that day. Why did all this running around trying to be successful seem so important when it really wasn’t? I still don’t have the answer but the question itself brings peace at times.

I also remember some of those with whom I had the pleasure of working with over the years. One of the most memorable was Mike Kelly, who owned a dress shop in Hope and ran the local housing authority. He was a man of short stature offset by a huge heart. He and his wife Marguerite never had children, but sort of adopted the city as their child.

Mike was a devout Catholic and his wife an equally devout Methodist. How did that work out? “On Sunday mornings, we went our separate ways, she hers and me mine. And we never spoke of it.”

Until Marguerite died, and later when Mike took sick, they had not missed a Razorback football game since 1947—anywhere. I picked up her brother in Little Rock and drove him to Hope for her funeral and he disclosed the most amazing thing, Marguerite didn’t like football at all. She followed because she loved Mike.

I pity our country when we stop producing people like that.

Rolling Home

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            This time all three men wondered if she would make it. The old girl rolled over until, holding to the rail, the men stared directly in to the dark green water of the Atlantic Ocean. “This time,” Hinson thought, “she might just keep rolling.”

            Then came the familiar shudder, the roll stopped and for maybe thirty seconds the ship moved ahead with her deck elevated at a sickening angle. Then she began to right herself. When Hinson looked at the other two, he saw faces white with a mixture of fear and relief.

            “I’m going in,” a Mechanics Mate named Rudder said. “I’ve served on everything from cruisers to carriers, and I’ve never seen anything like this old top-heavy bucket. One of these times, she’s going to keep going.”

            “Hell,” said a Gunner’s Mate named Simpson, “I’ve served on an LST and they ain’t nothing but a bouncing cake pan. But this tub scares the hell out of me. Never thought I’d get spooked on a Tender.”

            They were standing on the ship’s starboard side abaft the missile bay. This was a large flat area amidships where the huge cranes lowered the missiles removed from the nuclear submarines that the ship tended. The cranes made the ship top-heavy and would have been removed and stowed on deck if the cruise hand been longer. And too, they hadn’t really expected to run into this storm, but the sea has always been bad about announcing her intentions. The worst of the blow had passed and they were now in an almost oily sea of billowing waves. Inside, every head on the ship had a sailor draped over it. Some were calling for their mothers, Chief Zelmer had joked. The three sailors had come outside for fresh air when the ship began rolling in earnest. Now two of them had experienced all the outdoors they wanted. “Have fun,” Simpson said to Hinson. Then they went inside.

            They left Hinson standing alone as the ship came level and then began her roll to port. He held the rail as the dark sky began to fill his vision. The movement seemed endless before the shudder came and the angle of the deck stabilized.

            “As long as she shudders, she won’t roll over,” a voice from behind Hinson said. “If she don’t shudder before green water touches the main deck, you’d better jump.”

            Hinson turned. The voice belonged to Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate Lionel Pettigrew. The sailors loved him and called him “Old Lionsides.” No one knew for sure how long he had been in the Navy. There were those that were sure it had been forever. Someone said that he got drunk one night and told a group about riding out the Normandy Invasion on a destroyer as a young seaman. He was a “sailor’s sailor.”

            Hinson nodded. “Chief,” he said.

            Chief Pettigrew patted him on the back with one hand and grabbed the rail with the other. “Boats,” he said, “you trying to get a feel for what the real Navy is like?”

            “Just got tired of smelling vomit,” Hinson said.

            “Would you believe there is even a bit of an odor in the chief’s quarters?” Pettigrew said. “I hate to think what it smells like topside in the officers’ quarters.”

            “Why did we sail right into the middle of this mess, Chief?”

            “Don’t know for sure. It’s the Old Man’s last cruise, you know. He ain’t gonna make admiral and scuttlebutt has it that he wanted to see green water over the foc’sle one last time. He’s an Annapolis Man, you know.”

            “I didn’t. Aren’t they supposed to make admiral?”

            “Not the way West Point men make general,” Pettigrew said. “The Navy sets a higher standard. They really don’t have a slot that corresponds to a Brigadier General any more. You have to go straight to two-star. Want to know the sad part?”

            “I’m all ears.”

            “When he and the missus get to the retired officers’ home, he’ll put ‘Lieutenant Commander’ on his calling card.”

            Hinson looked doubtful. “Why is that? He’s a Captain.”

            “So folks won’t get him confused with a captain in the army,” Pettigrew said with that grin sailors have when they don’t want someone to know if they are yarning or not.

            The rail began its downward trajectory and Hinson eyed the Chief with a frown. “But,” he said, “you didn’t come out here to teach me Naval lore.”

            “Nope. Came to see if you had changed your mind.” They began staring into the dark green water.

            “I’m afraid not,” Hinson said. The angled deck rose behind them. “Are you sure about this ‘shudder’ thing?”

            The Chief ignored him. “Did I ever tell you why I stayed in the Navy?”

            Hinson didn’t answer, just used his arms to push away from the rail. At what seemed like the last possible moment, the shudder came and the roll stopped. He turned to the Chief. “What did you say?”

            “I chose to stay in the Navy when I was just past 21. Did I ever tell you why?”

            “I’m sure you did, but I’ve forgotten it,” Hinson said, staring at the water.

            “Because I love this country.”

            “Don’t we all?”

            “Some more than others.”
            “I don’t understand,” Hinson said.
            “We’re going through this … this… thing right now,” the Chief said, “where she doesn’t seem to love us in return.”

            Hinson nodded. The Chief continued. “But that ain’t no reason to quit on her. Things change. You should have heard the old timers talk about how bad things were in the service before World War Two.”

            “That’s not the reason I won’t ship over,” Hinson said.

            “Then what is it?”

            “I want to try something different.”

            “Is there any use in me talkin’ anymore?”

            “Chief, I’ve got to go see for myself what might be out there.”

            “There’s more assholes per square inch out there than in the Navy. Trust me on that one. Less fun. Less stability. Did I ever tell you that I got out for a while?”

            Hinson turned sharply. “No.”

            “Yep. I thought I might try something new. My heart ached every day for a month and I came back.”

            “You must really love the sea.”

            “I do. I’ve done things that normal people would call crazy. I’ve climbed up masts in worse storms than this to tighten rigging. I’ve stood watch in nothing but a stocking cap and pea coat when snow was so thick you couldn’t see the railing. I’ve stood in the rain, the blistering sun, and the howling wind, and all the time I never complained because I was a proud damned Bosun’s Mate doing my job and serving my country. How many bank presidents can say that?”

            “Probably not many,” Hinson said. He changed course. “Is the Old Man on the bridge?”

            “He was,” Pettigrew said, “the last time I saw him. I’d say he was having the time of his life yelling at the helmsman.”

            “I’ll bet it’ hard to steer her in seas like this,” Hinson said.

            “There are sure times that the old girl appreciates a steady hand. The trick is,” the Chief said, “to not over-steer. You can’t go too far one way or the other. Hit her over too hard to port , or too hard to starboard and you’ll have a nautical nightmare on your hands. This old girl will last a long time if her helm is in good hands, hands that want the best for her, hands that don’t overreact, panic, or think they know better than everybody else.”

            Hinson nodded. The ship came level and began to plow directly into the waves. Spray flew along the deck as her bow dove into a mountain of water. The two watched in awe for several minutes. Then Chief Pettigrew turned to leave. “Damned shame,” he said. “You’re a fine sailor and that’s a compliment I’ve never given many people. It would be a better Navy with more men like you in it. Men like you could keep this old ship trimmed and upright.”

            “Thanks Chief,” Hinson said. “Can I tell you something?”

            “Sure.” The Chief waited.

            “If anybody could have made me ship over, it would have been you.”

            Pettigrew smiled. “Can I tell you something?”

            Hinson laughed. “Go ahead.”

            “It’s better to have been a proud damned Bosun’s Mate for a short time than to never have been one at all.” He saluted Hinson, walked to the fantail, turned, and disappeared.

            Hinson went back to watching the sea as the proud old ship plowed into another wave.

Morning Thoughts: Carnage

On this day in 1968—let’s see, that will be 50 years ago next year—I was standing gate duty as part of the Naval Security Forces at a former French base outside Da Nang, Vietnam when orders came that we were on full alert.

It seems all hell had broken loose. That’s all we knew at the time.

Our unit immediately moved to “six on and six off.” Every six hours we stood guard somewhere and every six hours we slept, fortified our areas of responsibility, went on patrols, or observed “other duties as required.” We were to stand that duty for the next 26 days.

Since I had been on gate duty, my armament consisted of a 45-caliber semi-automatic pistol, called “the weapon responsible for more accidents than any in the history of our military,” despite having three separate safety devices. I treated it with respect and was happy the day the Federal Government confiscated it from me. My other armament was a sawed-off pump 12-gauge shotgun that stayed at the post. It tended to command a lot of attention. But I carried no other weapon than the pistol.

Directed I was, therefore, to report to the armory to be issued an M-16 rifle for the duration. I had carried it for three days when a gunner’s mate decided that, instead of sleep, we need to fill a six-hour respite with some target practice. There had been some reports of poor marksmanship during this dust up, forever to be known as “The Tet Offensive.”

At a makeshift range, I proceeded to miss every target, to the hoots of my shipmates and the consternation of the gunner’s mate. “Give me that goddam thing,” he requested of me. Then he proceeded to miss every target.

Seems something had caused the barrel to bend, no telling what. We often received our weaponry second-hand from infantry units. They, the Navy, issued me another weapon that shot straight, and, because I was a strapping six-footer, made me an “M-60 man.” Well shucks. I was to carry both the M-16 and the additional responsibility for the remainder of my tour, as I later left for a mountaintop base on Monkey Mountain, a 3,000-foot landmark on the south side of Da Nang Bay.

I have many more memories of that hellish period, but this one involved no carnage and serves the current purpose. But, to this day, when I hear someone use that word—carnage—flippantly, I’m tempted to say, “Jocko, you have no idea what carnage is.”

If you feel you must vote for a
candidate who proposes a land war
in a foreign country. Don't.

Morning Thoughts: Gravity

Sitting in the living room at our farm, I’m watching the sunrise illuminate a spot I’ve only heard referred to as “The Grove.” It’s a quiet place. Ancient farm implements lie scattered around, of no use in the modern world save being used, on occasion, as lawn ornaments. It's fun to imagine what their users would have thought of that. Intrusive gum trees now compete here with the young oaks, adding a sort of tension to the peaceful setting.

History hangs over the spot like the morning fog that covers it this morning. Tax records of the late 1850s show the owners at that time owned eight slaves. Their hands may have made the ancient bricks just below the surface of the ground. Who knows?

They say the county Extension Service taught “canning classes” under the huge oaks that once shaded the ground here. They taught local women the skills of preserving food for their families, as well as preserving traditions. B’s grandpa made molasses in The Grove. Parts of his apparatus still linger as gateways to the past. They say he made stronger stuff here, a legend supported by the existence of a home-made still hidden away in the attic.

A branch of the “Trail of Tears” passed a quarter mile from The Grove. Did some of those unfortunates take a moment’s rest here? One can only speculate.

I’d had heard tales that Union Troops once camped in The Grove. I had dismissed them as rumors until I read about Doc Rayburn. He was a diminutive Rebel guerrilla who roamed this countryside. Legend has it, would dress as a woman and sneak into the parties held by Federal Officers. Supposedly, troops tracked him to this farm, having heard the owners were hiding him. In reprisal, cattle and mules were taken and slaves freed. Doc Rayburn’s grave has never been located.

The mighty oaks have died. One massive skeleton remains, leaning to the east as if waiting for The Second Coming. One can only guess the date on which gravity, or storms, will bring it down.

Someday, I’d like to clean the grove and make it into a park, if gravity doesn’t get me first. 

When this tree's companion fell,
I quit counting growth rings at 150.

Cold

Can weather conditions induce memories? Oh yes. The chilly weather of the past week incited a flood of remembrances of things past to course through my mind. None, however, topped my recalling of the winter of 1980. Here’s what happened.

I had gotten into a fitness program at the Downtown YMCA in Little Rock, AR in 1975. Excessive body fat and high blood pressure limited me to one waddle followed by one walk nine times around a 30-laps per mile indoor track. I followed the program, and by 1979 I was up to jogging several miles a day. Then, a new neighbor moved next door. As fate would have it, we hit it off and began running together.

That’s when it happened.

One morning, from out of the blue, he said, “The Arkansas Marathon in Booneville is March First, why don’t we train and run it?”

“Okay,” I said, thinking more about negotiation the coming hill than forming any soundly logical reply. But train we did, getting up to nearly ten miles a day as the day approached. Then we did a couple of 20-mile Sundays. Things seemed good.

The day before the race, a winter storm moved in and two of the TV stations predicted a blanket of snow and freezing temps overnight. The third station allowed a slight possibility of simply freezing weather. We decided to take I-40 to Little Rock and spend the night in Russellville, AR. That way, if the snow stayed away, we could cross the river and make Booneville by race time. Otherwise, we trusted the interstate to get us home. Okay. We kissed our wives goodbye. No, we didn’t. I made that part up. We actually tried one last time to convince them we weren’t totally crazy, but long-held beliefs aren’t easily displaced, particularly with counter-evidence staring them in the face.

We just left them shaking their heads.

As a precaution, we stopped at a big-box and purchased headgear, gloves, and pantyhose. Yes, pantyhose, not uncommon for runners in those more innocent times. He bought the regular kind. I bought “Big Momma” heavyweights. Later, in the motel, we tried them on. In the middle of that exercise, I suddenly imagined a police raid and statewide headlines announcing that two prominent Little Rock professionals (he was at least) had been apprehended in a central Arkansas motel up to some big-time mischief.

Well, to put a point on it, we made the race. The temperature was 15 degrees above zero and the wind was strong enough to shred the edges of flags along the route. By midway, when the wind was at our backs, I felt good. By this time, my friend had left me behind and I was in the company of another running pal, the late John Woodruff, then a reporter for the Arkansas Gazette. We laughed, joked, and observed that we had met the marathon standard that one should feel pretty strong at the ten-mile mark. We met the man who had led me into the fun already coming back and he looked good as well, except for a couple of runs in his pantyhose.

Then we started back. I can only describe that portion of the race as having an automatic cannon firing ice into you at each step. Runners with beards passed us with them totally encased in ice, looking more like Yeti than humans. Totally exhausted, I finally settled on running to one light pole and waddling to the next. I cursed my friend, the YMCA, Bill Rogers, the day I was born, and fate in general.

After a century or so, I heard the sound of a loud speaker. It came from the finish line in downtown Booneville. Suddenly, I was beautiful again. Pulling my face into a smile required the very last of my strength, but I, in my Big Mommas, crossed the finish line to the applause of the crowd of maybe 20 that were still there. My time? Four hours and six minutes. I still have the proof if anyone should disbelieve me.

I never ran another. There are some bucket list things that don’t bear repeating.

I've seen lots of down towns, but
not one ever looked better than this.