My Redacted LIfe

Out earning today. Tune back in tomorrow for more thrilling adventures.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 38

Life rocked on. Brenda began teaching her second year of school, carpooling with a colleague. I was working on projects and continuing to study. Once a month, Tom and I would motor from Little Rock to Blytheville, Arkansas to attend the planning commission. Author John Grisham had been born there in 1955. By then 17 years of age and living in Mississippi, he was no doubt trying to decide whether to starve as a writer or grow rich from studying the law.

I had settled on urban planning, and was learning a lot about it. For example, cities in Arkansas weren’t required to plan at all. Those who chose to, however, all followed the same process as defined by state statutes. Arkansas existed as a so-called “Dillon’s Rule” state, a descriptor named after an old judge somewhere, named, aptly enough, Dillon. He opined that cities were creatures of the state and had no inherent powers, only those granted by the state. That was news to me, and it complicated things.

The secret was in the plan. If cities chose to make plans, they were to protect the health, safety, welfare and morals of the community. The plans set policy rather than law. In order to carry them out, the cities could enact zoning and subdivision regulations which did constitute municipal law.

Most people didn’t, and many still don’t, understand the difference. In reality, many cities simply adopted plans, then went about business as if those plans didn’t exist. Planning was important primarily (to many cities) because it made them eligible for certain grants.

It closely resembled the way our new household was forming. As the husband, and, by the power granted by no less than the Apostle Paul himself, I was head of the household. As such, I set both policy and law. The wife, in this case my new bride Brenda, was to adore me quietly and diligently while setting about to help me carry out my policies and enact my rules. Smooth is as smooth does, so to speak. I think that may be in the Scriptures somewhere.

Here’s how it really worked. I could set all the plans and policies I chose. No problem. Then it departed from standard doctrine. The rules we lived by had nothing to do with my plans or policies. A set of rules, rules that Herself enacted and enforced, governed our day-to-day activities.

It worked more peacefully that way. In similarity to the benefits of urban planning, compliance qualified me for benefits not available to the recalcitrant. As with any fledgling form of government, it took a number of years for the doctrine fully to establish itself as governing methodology, but it would finally settle into a standard process of “plan and ignore.”

That’s urban planning in a nutshell. Marriage is, after all, a metaphor for many aspects of modern life. That’s why it is fitting and proper that it be available to all.

Oh wow! This marriage thing
 isn't so bad, after all. Is it?
Women can rule. Neat.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37 (Cont._4)

Not much out of the ordinary occurred during our first month of marriage, except the near annihilation of a Sears salesman. It’s true.

It happened this way.

I only had an ancient TV set my sister had lent me. It worked sometimes, in some manner, but we decided that a young couple, both professionals, needed a modern, working television that befit our new place in society. There were only three commercial stations and PBS available, so installation would be simple. We could retire the heavy metal thing that had served me, when it chose to, until that point.

So off to Sears we went. Why Sears? It was the “in” place to shop back then, It carried everything. Besides, Brenda, during her first year of teaching, had acquired a Sears credit card. We were saving all our spare cash for the purchase of a home, so paying a TV off over a few months didn’t seem like a bad idea. Despite our good intentions, though, the plan almost went to hell.

A middle-aged salesperson showed us the choices, beginning with the most expensive, of course. As he babbled, I foresaw storm clouds gathering on the distant horizon. As far as the salesman was concerned, Brenda was invisible. This was a transaction between two men. This particular set would be great for watching those Razorback games or the popular local fishing show hosted by Jerry McKinnis. Just look at those colors. “Sir, you can’t go wrong with this one.” I heard the unmistakable sound of steam beginning to rise. The man just kept talking, his face only a few inches from mine.

Just for the pure fun of it, I suggested that he might ask her what she thought since she was the one paying for it.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I thought you were married.”

“Oh, we are,” I said. “But it’s her credit card.”

A curtain of clouds spread over the salesman’s eyes. I might as well have told him that we were arranging a loan from a far-away planet in a distant galaxy. “You mean,” he said, “that she has her own credit card? And you want to buy a television set for the both of you with it? With her credit card? She really has one? I’ll have to check about that.”

Brenda began to move toward him. A voice from behind us saved his life. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Jim von Tungeln,” it said. “Whatever they want, let them have it.”

I turned to see a face I hadn’t seen in years. It was young Woody Bohannon, son of the elder Woodrow Bohannon, one of the true eccentric southern characters produced in such abundance by our state. I hadn’t seen young Woody since my high-school graduation. He was a couple of years behind me and had always struck me as one of the nicest young men on the planet. I would learn that he had attended college, graduated, and gone to work for the retailing giant, already reaching the role of senior manager.

We had a nice visit. The salesman sold Brenda a television set, thus assuring his continued life in the corporate world. Brenda maintained equilibrium, but it took a while for the steam to dissipate. Everyone finished the evening happy.

That Saturday night, we watched a show that had started airing the year before, one called All in the Family. It was about, as we saw it, a bigot forced to live in an increasingly diverse and tolerant world. We thought it pretty funny at the time.

Do me a favor and don't
talk to me for a while. Okay?

Sunday Break

Another short story, this one as close to reality as an aged mind could manage.

A Bag of Marshmallows

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            This is hardly a southern morality tale. It has no nubile farmer’s daughter. It has no beloved dog. It has no eccentric relative. It doesn’t mention a snake. Even once. But it circles around the seven deadly sins, all of them: envy, gluttony, pride, lust, greed, sloth, and even anger, like atoms around an electron. Or in this case, a marshmallow.

            Yes. I once loved marshmallow like the Savior loves a sinner. Because of them, I

-        Silently cursed those kids who could afford a ten-cent bag while I was stuck with nickel one,

-        Ate more than my share at any opportunity,

-        Boasted that I could eat more of them than any kid at Lakeside Elementary,

-        Dreamed of immersing myself in a soft, yielding, embracing pile of them,

-        Stole one or more of them at ever opportunity, and

-        Once pushed my little brother to the ground because he wouldn’t give me one of his after I had devoured all of mine.

This gave rise to my great plot and subsequent adventure. I was eight years old, a fact that placed me at school all day without the attendant good sense to control my impulses. These were more innocent and peaceful times, so when a kid reached the third grade and was sentenced to schooling for an entire day, the taking of lunch presented a veritable plethora of choices.

            One could bring lunch in a brown paper bag and enjoy it with others in a designated lunchroom, a choice generally reserved for the poor and the untrustworthy. One could take a quarter and walk four blocks north to the Pine Bluff High School campus and dine there at the cafeteria. One could walk the same distance due west on 15^th Street until one reached a diner called “The Little Chef” and have a hamburger or chili dog with drink for the same amount. One could walk one block farther and dine at a corner drug store lunch bar, expensive but classy.

            The rich kids, most of whom lived within walking distance, dined at home. They included some of the prettiest girls in town.

            Being an adventurous sort, and when I wasn’t on probation and sentenced to the lunchroom with a bologna sandwich, I opted for the western sites. I think it was because I silently dreamed that someday, when I had been particularly mistreated, I would just continue walking until I reached California where I would become a rich movie star. More likely it was because if I skipped a drink with a meal, I could purchase a five-cent bag of marshmallows at the drug store.

            Neither drugs for the dope fiend or solitude for the poet had a greater pull on one than the thought of a bag of marshmallows for desert.

            Therein sprang the plot.

            You see, they didn’t just sell nickel bags at the drug store. They sold ten-cent bags and these were tempting. But the piece de resistance, the Treasure of South Cherry Street, the Holy of Holies, was a 25-cent bag of marshmallows the size of a small pillow. They hung from clips on tall display stand like talisman on a totem pole. By the time I began concocting my plan, the image of those bags had invaded my mind until I thought of little else but the day I would buy one and devour its entire contents.

            But how? I only received a quarter a day for lunch, tightly tied with a knot in a lady’s handkerchief and placed in my left pocket each morning by my mother, one who knew too well that to advance a boy of my age funds for more than a day’s food was to telegraph an open invitation to Satan to make room for another soul.

            No, I would have to operate within the perimeters set for me. I had to skip the normal meal. It was that simple. Besides, a meal of marshmallows had to be at least as healthy, probably more so, than a chili dog. Tastier too. Yeah, that was it: a good plan made more sound by the reasoning.

            So one late autumn day found me walking west along 15^th Street with a jaunty air as if the world existed solely for my pleasure. My left hand clutched a quarter. (I always untied it while I was walking to lunch to avoid teasing.) As I passed the diner, I could feel the eyes upon me for I hardly ever opted for the drug store. I whistled and concentrated on a repair shop across the street. I turned casually south on Cherry and slid into the drug store sideways. Phase One was successful.

Once inside, I relaxed. Assuming a practiced nonchalance, I eased to the candy area and took what seemed like an hour, but could only have been a few seconds, to peruse the candy offerings as if I had the prerogatives of a Rockefeller.

Quite without warning, synapses tuned by billions of years of evolution registered a danger warning. An adult appeared, staring down upon me as if I were the least of creatures crawling upon the earth. “May I help you?” it said.

“Just want some marshmallows,” I said. “I have money.” I retrieved the largest prize on the totem pole. I stood without moving, feeling its weight against my chest, and waiting for the apparition to disappear.

“Having a party at school?” it said.

Now I was in a jam. Lying, my mother had warned me more than once, was a terrible sin, one of the worst. She petrified me telling about its deadly consequences and those of similar vile habits. A liar who allowed the allurements of sin to rule his actions was destined for a cruel fate, even blindness, or a partial state thereof. I pondered. I felt sweat forming on my brow. The potential consequences of my actions swirled about me like debris around a funnel cloud. My heart began to pump furiously at the thought of continuing this sinful escapade: regrets, nightmares, pimples, full or partial blindness…

The spectacles upon the bridge of my nose bear mute testimony to my next act.

“Yessir,” I said. “I’m supposed to bring the marshmallows.”

Surprised that I could still see, I stood patiently while it patted my head and moved to help another customer. I paid my quarter like a gambler paying his debt, executed an “about face” and left the drug store, Phase Two completed.

            I felt that a young dandy walking down Cherry Street snacking on a knee-high bag of marshmallows must have been a remarkable sight, even in a city as large as Pine Bluff. I assumed a swagger as I slowly tasted the first fat victim from the bag. I allowed the flavor to roam my mouth like a frightened pony circling a corral. The process took an entire block.

            On the next block, I crammed pair after pair into my mouth at once, just for the fun of it. As I chewed, I turned back to the east, deciding to flaunt my wealth by returning through one of the richest neighborhoods in town.

            Four more victims, now I was the Cyclops tasting the crew of Ulysses. I let out a soft roar and devoured another pair. I continued east, passing the homes of any number of pretty girls who must have been watching from their lunch with amazement. When I finished the crew, I slowly devoured the captain, grinning all the while.

            Then I released my inner gymnast and began pitching the soft white balls into the air and catching them in my mouth. Another block passed in this manner. I missed the fifth and it rolled into the gutter by the sidewalk. I didn’t bother to pick it up, for I had plenty. Besides, I was beginning to feel a little odd.

            Lest what follows strike the reader only as burlesque, allow me to produce empirical statistics that should be recorded in some vast reservoir of knowledge somewhere on the planet to serve as an object lesson to the logic-challenged.

            Statistic One: The difference between wanting another marshmallow and beginning to think you have had all you want is approximately four marshmallows.

            Statistic Two: The difference between thinking you have had all the marshmallows you want and not really wishing to eat anymore is approximately three marshmallows.

            Statistic Three: The difference between not really wishing to eat any more marshmallows and vomiting a white stream of projectile foam into a fence in an alley behind a house is two marshmallows.

            Statistic Four: The length of time an eight-year old boy must sit with his head in his hand lurching with drive heaves from eating too many marshmallows is somewhere between ten and 15 minutes.

            No cars came through the alley as I suffered alone. The only thing that passed in front of me was my life, and my regrets. I hadn’t apologized to my sister for reading her diary. I hadn’t looked after my little brother properly. (There was this matter of the “dirt sandwich.”) I hadn’t asked Nell Phillips to be my girlfriend. Hell, I hadn’t even made out a will.

            When I had quit retching, I folded top of the bag of marshmallows—it still appeared, somehow, to be full—and slowly gained my feet. I used alleys to escape the prying eyes of the fancy homes and found my way at last back to 15^th street where I placed the remainder of the bag of marshmallows in the hollow of a tree, although I knew I wouldn’t return for them. Back at school, I avoided classmates as I eased into the classroom and began the worst afternoon of my life.

            This was more than 65 years ago and I have never willingly eaten a marshmallow since. In fact, I become nauseated to this day at the very thought of one. While contemplating this account of the incident, I happened to be in my hometown and with my business in the city completed, I drove the route from the old elementary school, now closed and boarded after yielding to one of those mega-campuses wherein they incarcerate students for eight hours a day to prevent episodes such as mine. I also passed the corner where the drug store stood.

            The neighborhood is no longer affluent. Nell Phillip’s home has disappeared, all that remains is a slab that looks too small for a real house. Cheap “For Rent” signs struck the cadence as I drove along. Parked cars had destroyed all the lawns. I slowed when I came to the corner where stood the tree in which I had stored the remnants of my unholy adventure. All that remained was a withered stump, the remainder having fallen, as have so many of our dreams, to age and reality.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37: (Cont._3)

It all ended soon, the wedding that is. We enjoyed a nice reception and met most of the folks in Lonoke County who knew my new bride. That was nearly all of them, as Hazel had worked in the local doctor’s office for years. Also, the two families had been around for a spell, well-known if not infamous. Most inquired as to what I did for a living or what church I attended. A few wanted to know, indirectly, if I had completed high school or college. I could tell I had landed amongst people who liked to stay informed.

Uncle Roy took pictures. Vernell and her sister looked gorgeous in the gowns Brenda had sewed for them. The parents got to know one another, and I had a chance to visit Leland Bassett, down from Fayetteville. A lady who worked with Hazel had made a splendid wedding cake. We cut it and did the full routine. I do believe I behaved satisfactorily. At least I never received censure from the three harpies who had been retained to supervise my pre-wedding training.

It was a good sendoff. We flew to Denver the next day, then to Aspen, where I fulfilled my brief assignment. We rented a car and drove farther into the mountains. We shopped and ate well. So far this marriage thing was going well. Before we knew it, we were on the last leg of the flight to Little Rock, ready to face the reality of life as a married couple.

I soon discovered that she didn’t roll a tube of toothpaste correctly: from the bottom up, choosing, simply to squeeze arbitrarily.

She discovered that I didn’t always pick discarded clothes from the floor immediately upon dressing.

I discovered we didn’t have enough vertical storage area for all her makeup.

She discovered that I snored.

And so on. Maybe marriage wasn’t as simple as some imagined. Maybe one only masters its intricacies in a bleak classroom labeled “experience.” Unlike some other of life’s trials that must be overcome, though, it was a hell of a lot of fun trying.

I went back to work the next week and discovered that the company’s subdivision was progressing. We weren’t allowed to sell lots until the improvements were completed, or some sort of payment assured for their completion. Despite this, early interest bloomed and there were already “dibs” on some of the lots. We talked enthusiastically of selling the thing, enjoying the profit, and beginning another. What could possibly to wrong?

Have you ever gone to a skating rink and watched the tall, thin fellow with oily black hair, sideburns, form-fitting jeans, and a tight black tee-shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes folded into one sleeve? Yeah, the one who glides around the floor with unbelievable ease and grace, making turns and moves so breathtaking that the girls gasp. Recall how easy he made it look? Anybody could do it.

That’s the way we felt about land development.

As I was trained to do.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37: (Cont._2)

Robert Julius Cole, survivor of the Battle of the Bulge and the invasion of Germany, walked his only child to the alter for marriage. The look on his face suggested that surviving an artillery barrage may have been easier. But, he left her with me, and the preacher took over. Julius joined Hazel in the audience. Vernell was standing to our side and, I’m sure, took a deep breath and held it. My brother, on the other side, probably looked as if he might faint any second. I prepared to follow instructions. Brenda smiled. She was the only one who looked happy. Everyone else waited. For me, there was no turning back. The die was cast.

I had spent a year and a half of my new civilian life studying urban planning and, after I started earning a bit of money, seeking the ladies, all sorts of them. I had felt as thought a bright new world had opened for me and I was ready for a life of working, gaining respect, and chasing women. But, the latter was over now, no more looking for women.

I had found me one.

We went through the words flawlessly, I placed the ring on her finger and the preacher announced us “man and wife.” Whew. Time to flee the scene. Then Brenda reached up and kissed me full in the mouth, in front of that whole church full of people. I declare.

Have I mentioned that I had never been to a church wedding before? The Navy certainly never taught you about them. The service was your beloved spouse. Anyway, we kissed and it was over.

Then Brenda folded her wings, took my arm, and walked me down the aisle and out of the church. I think maybe the congregation applauded. I’m not sure. Maybe they were just laughing at my shoes. I didn’t care. The ceremony was over and I was living a dream.

Trust me. I was stepping lightly.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37

The time came for me to get dressed, drive to Lonoke, and marry the woman who had sashayed by and grabbed my heart not 200 feet from where I stood, long ago in a bachelorhood now nearing its useful end. I set my mind and managed everything, ready in plenty of time. All was set. There was no backing out now.

I folded my suit coat over the passenger seat of the Green Angel, checked once more to make sure I had the rings, and set off. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic in those days. With plenty of time, I drove carefully, taking old Highway 70, where we, Brenda and I, had taken so many late-afternoon drives back when we were courting. I wondered to myself if I had ever thought it would come to this. Was I a lucky man or what?

Or what?

Folks had already started gathering at the Methodist church just south of the main business corner of Downtown Lonoke. I went around and parked across the street, heading north for a fast getaway. I locked the doors and walked across the street. Once inside the church, I was happy do see my brother, Ricky, who was to be my best man. Others stayed stashed away somewhere. They directed us to a room just off the front of the church. I could see the crowd beginning to gather. Then I saw Leland Bassett sitting alone on one side of the church. The ushers, one my brother’s friends and a couple of Brenda’s neighbors from her childhood, were busy. They were placing everyone away from Leland, on the other side of the aisle. What was that all about?

Have I mentioned that I had never been to a church wedding before?

Several hundred years later, the church was full and the ushers escorted Hazel and Sainted Mother down the aisle. By this time, there were a few family and friends on my side and the ushers had begun to guide the overflow toward them. I panicked at a wandering thought. What if I needed to attend the men’s room before things got started?

Then the piano hit a chord and a voice of wondrous beauty filled the air. I have no memory of the song, except that it was quite beautiful and expertly delivered. When the singer finished it was so quiet that I could hear my blood flowing. Someone told my brother and me to walk out and stand, side by side, facing the audience.

Oh my goodness. I looked out at all those faces and just wanted to take off running. We could still elope later. The piano started again, with a familiar tune. At the far end of the church, She walked in with her daddy, and I forgot all about running.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 36 (Cont._4)

Woke up early the day of my marriage, still wondering what I had gotten myself into this time. I had 12 hours to figure it out. I went back to sleep. When I finally did get up, I called my folks to make sure they were set. I called the office to check on things. I went over my modest wardrobe for the event. I checked on all the details for the honeymoon trip. I put my new purchase of Will the Circle Be Unbroken on my phonograph and sat on the couch thinking. It still didn’t make sense.

How had I moved from a lowly Naval Bosun's Mate, driving an admiral's wife and friends around Charleston Harbor to a developing professional about to marry the prettiest girl in Arkansas in the space of less than two years? I tried to think. That wasn't what I did best, but it helped pass the time. The effort proved too great, and I fell asleep again.

Later, I tried to pick the guitar like Doc Watson. That didn’t work. Then I tried to write down my thoughts like John Steinbeck might. That didn’t work either. I tried some calisthenics but that made my head hurt. Was I a failure at everything? Why would anyone want to marry me, especially such an “aggravating beauty” as I had landed—or was about to land? What if she changed her mind at the last minute? It would just show that she had come to her senses at last. Nobody would blame her.

Was there hope for me? That freeway, I thought, that ran to Lonoke would lead straight on to the east coast if one didn’t stop. From there, a man could escape to France, where I heard they had wine with breakfast. And here I was, fixing to be stuck in Arkansas the rest of my life. Or was I? One simple missed turn and the whole world awaited me. Maybe Brenda's mother, Hazel, was correct in worrying that I might not show.

Then the vision engulfed me: the smell of her full and flowing hair after she had washed it, the taste of that first kiss, the faint freckles under her eyes, the feel of hands when they held my arm, and the excitement in her voice when she told about going out on a snowy morning with her daddy, pretending to be rabbit hunting.

Oh, what the hell?

You might better be
getting your mind right.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 36 (Cont._3)

Marriage Day Minus One: After addressing the effects of my so-called bachelor party with a couple of beers, I felt better. I cleaned up and drove to the farm so I could take Brenda to the airport to pick up her aunt. The aunt’s given name was Mildred, I think. I knew her, as everyone did, as “Pill.” Why? The stock answer was that she was one, a "pill." I soon discovered the truth in that.

What can I say?

“She’s the one who taught me to fish,” Brenda explained, “and how to dig bait for fishing.” I thought perhaps I was going to meet an interesting character. I was so right.

I learned that she was the human resources director at a large corporation in the Chicago metro area. She had a nice office and a wall festooned with her college diploma and an assortment of credentials. They had all flowed from an inventive and creative mind. I’m not sure she ever finished high school. I would learn more, first hand, about the marches she made through life to a number of different drummers. My education started at the airport.

By the time we arrived, Pill and her adopted daughter Jennifer, who was to be the flower girl, had retrieved their baggage and were waiting for us. An array of baggage lay around them and they pointed me to the largest. I expected a normal load, but when I grabbed the handle, the bag didn’t move. What? With some effort, I carried it to the waiting car. Having secured Pill and Jennifer in the back seat of Brenda’s car, we loaded the bags in the trunk.

“What’s in there?” I whispered to Brenda as the two of us loaded the monster suitcase into the trunk.

“Liquor,” she said.

I nodded a complete lack of understanding.

“She knows there won’t be any at our house,” Brenda said. “She came prepared.”

“She brought her own liquor all the way from Chicago?”

“Lonoke is in dry county, don’t you know?”

I suppose it made sense. It sure made me wonder what was inside the suitcase. It also made me wonder just what kind of family I was getting myself into. Over the coming years, I would continue to wonder, though there was one thing I would become completely sure of as time passed.

Aunt Pill deserved her name, no doubt. She and I would become good friends, no doubt about that as well.

I left Brenda at her folks’ house after we had unloaded the ladies, their clothes, and the liquor. They all stood in the yard and waved me off. I was going to Little Rock to contemplate my future. They were going to catch Pill and Jennifer up on the news. As I waved, I knew I would only see Brenda Cole for a few more brief minutes, ever again. After that, she would be “Brenda von Tungeln.”

Now that was a sobering thought. I imagined that Aunt Pill would address it in proper fashion as the day wore on.

Aunt Pill, in a photo
she would have liked.

Sunday Break

Dear Readers: It's the day I take a break and watch the services at Pulaski Heights Methodist Church. That inspired me to post for you a short story I wrote some time ago based on an incident my Sainted Mother told me. She swore it was true. Decide for yourself.

Memories

By Jimmie von Tungeln

Mama used to say us girls picked on Eula Faye or else egged her on, but I can tell you that she gave about as good as she got. Like the time we stole her Bible verse. We all had a good laugh out of it at the time but we didn’t get ahead of her. No sir. Not at all.

Now there are those who wouldn’t think this little episode was important. They have never lived out at the end of the world where everybody you knew was either direct-kin or step-kin, or sometimes both. It didn’t take much to create a story that would last forever. Particularly if you were as poor as we were.

After Daddy died, Mama raised us as best she could. While she didn’t hold out much for preaching, or churches in general—I think it had something to do with the hardness of her life—she did send us off to church when we got to aggravating her.

Ever third Sunday Brother Elmer Tisdale would ride out from the Pansy community with his old mare pulling his wagon and hold services in Pleasant Grove Church. I guess this must have been about 1930. I couldn’t have been over twelve or thirteen, I reckon since I was married and gone by the time I was sixteen.

The church was nothing but a little frame building set off from a cemetery that went way back past the civil war. My granddaddy had been a charter member but he had died young so Mama could barely remember him. The church building rested under the shade of three enormous oak trees. We kids called them “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” but not around any grown-ups for they had no sense of humor whatsoever about religion.

We would gather up around nine-thirty in the morning and have an hour of Sunday School before the services began. So, Mama made us leave early to get there to serve the complete sentence. Naturally she didn’t trust us as far as she could spit and I can still see her on the porch as we took off, threatening to cut a switch and wear us out if we didn’t get there in time. We always did, mostly.

The older ones were gone by then and it was just Sister and Jim and me had to go. Mama made us because she said it wouldn’t do us any harm and might do us some good. She was welcome to her opinion. We had our own, but we went just like she told us to.

We dawdled around as much as we could. Jim would usually cut us off some grapevines to smoke on the way and we would make up all sorts of imaginary trips that we were really going on. None of them included a church house. Hog Eye Ben Creek would be the River Nile and a clump of oak trees would be a pyramid. We used clouds for the Alps and the road we were on was the main street through Paris. For a bunch of country kids, we weren’t bad at making things up.

Anyway, Hattie Ruth Turner taught school at Woodlawn so they had her teach Sunday School to the girls on preaching day. There were about seven or eight of us. Eula Faye was distant kin and her daddy had a pension from World War One. They also owned a grocery store out on the state highway, so they was about the richest family in the community. She was a round-faced thing with freckles ever place they had a spot to be in. Her mamma kept her hair done up in curls so tight I bet you could have played music on them. She kind of had this little bounce when she walked and we would giggle that someday she might just bounce off like a rubber ball. She would hear us and say that rich women in the city walked like that. We liked her okay, I reckon. We didn’t mistreat her. It was just that she would sometimes create the opportunity for a laugh or two.

All the girls had to have a Bible verse memorized to recite first thing in Sunday School. This was supposed to help us into Heaven in some way, but it wasn’t real clear to us how. Anyway, we didn’t care much for it. It might have been due to the lack of scriptural resources available to a bunch of little country kids. Some of those girls were from families that couldn’t even afford a Bible. We had one but our step-daddy wouldn’t hardly let us touch it. We were in a constant of agitation about it. It sure wasn’t our favorite part of this whole salvation thing.

Miss Hattie, since she was a regular school teacher too, had to remember what side her bread was buttered on so she would always let Eula Faye go first. We would start to snicker even before she stood up. We met in the back of the church house and the boys in front. Eula Faye would make sure the boys were watching her and then when the room got real quiet, she would brush a hand across her hair and say it just like some movie actress.

“Jesus wept, John 11:35”

She got away with it ever Sunday.

Then we would have to stand up and quote some regular verse. And you weren’t allowed to repeat someone else’s choice. It got to where it played on our nerves.

Well this one Sunday, we fixed it up so Sister held Eula Faye up outside the door on some pretense and she hadn’t come in when we started. So Eloise Covington jumped up and asked if she could go first. What could Miss Hattie say?

Eloise was in on it, see? She stumbled around until she saw Eula Faye come in then Eloise shouted out loud enough for the whole church to hear: “Jesus wept, John 11:35”

You could just about see the color drain out of Eula Faye’s face when she took her seat. We swallowed our giggles until our stomachs started to swell, expecting to see Eula Faye have a nervous breakdown. But she didn’t miss a beat when Miss Hattie called on her. She stood up and took a deep breath. The boys knew something was up and had all stopped talking and were watching like a bunch of hounds at hog dressing time. She nodded to them as if they were her audience and then gave us her best “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet” look. Then she announced to the world, as if she might be telling the Red Sea to part.

“Moses crept, John 3:15.”

She said it real loud and then just set back and smiled the same as if she had just recited some long-winded psalm. We all broke up laughing until Miss Hattie stared it out of us. The boys didn’t know a Bible verse from horse-collar so they mostly just stared with their mouths all open. Then it was all over and we re-commenced our recitation period. Miss Hattie never let on like anything unusual happened at all.

That was the day we knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get something by Eula Faye. But Sister and I laughed all the way home over it anyway. Jim just smoked a grapevine and stayed puzzled over the whole thing.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 36 (Cont._2)

I opened one eye when someone hurled a bolt of fiery lightening through it. Then they did the other. Despite piercing pain, I opened both eyes wide. What I saw scared and confused me. I saw bright curtains of a flaming yellow background covered with pink flowers. A noxious serpent slid from my mouth, felt the heat, and crawled in again. I was on a bed, best I could figure, a short one. My foot hung over a foot from the end. Moving my head, I saw a dresser with a Southern Belle doll spread atop it. Was this Heaven or Hell?

Confusion reigned. A loud thundering in my head had awakened me as it slammed against nerve endings in what had to be what was left of my brain. I looked and saw that I was fully dressed. Then the thunder roared again and a voice echoed loudly enough to shatter my thoughts. “Hey lover boy. Coffee’s on.” I blinked and the movement shot pain through me like an electric shock. I had to figure this all out and it wasn’t going to be easy.

Rolling as gently as I could, I gained the edge of the bed and threw my legs over a spread festooned with clown heads. Normally, that would have frightened me, but I was beyond all that.

Then the door open and I saw Tom’s face. “Are we up?” it said.

I nodded, more from an attempt to escape further interrogation than to provide an informed reply.

“Are we okay?”

I said nothing.

“We thought you might ought not to drive, so I brought you home. I moved the girls into one room and let you have your own bunk for the night. Let’s have coffee and get you home.”

Home. Memory oozed into my mind like sewage flowing into a pond. Home. That’s where I had left from the night before, before I had met Tom and the others somewhere. Somewhere. That must be where my car was. That’s all I could recall.

“Remember? We played a game and you won,” Tom said.

“A game?”

“Yeah, one called, ‘weirder things I have ever done than getting married.’ Winner had to chug a beer each time. You tromped us, all of us, by fair voting.”

I said nothing. He said, “Was that one about setting your guard tower on fire really true?”

“The fireworks show?”

“Yeah. How much gunpowder did that take?”

“A bunch, but we had six hours to prepare,” I said, omitting the fact that it was actually Rick Beaton, and not I, who had overplayed his hand that night on the midwatch. I had performed well, albeit without the unfortunate after effects. But what’s a little prevarication from a condemned man? That’s what they kept calling me, “a condemned man.” A thought floated to the surface of my brain like a bit of matter rising in a septic tank. Wasn’t it John Steinbeck who said, “… a thing isn't necessarily a lie even if it didn't necessarily happen?”

“Come on, Champ,” Tom said.

He led me to a hall bathroom and waited. When I came out, he took me into his dining room and bade me sit for coffee. From there I could see into the kitchen where two young girls, all dressed for a day of excitement and fun at the country club pool sat at a breakfast table eating cereal. One was about seven years of age, and she looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain that only those born for the manor can express so well. The other girl was younger, maybe five. Her look communicated pure disgust. It must have been her bedroom that I polluted. Tom’s wife never came out to greet us and I never asked why.

The ordeal didn’t last long. I refused a sweet roll and, as coffee began to roil in my stomach, I nodded that I was ready to leave. Tom drove me to my car. I rode in silence, concentrating on taming my stomach until we reached “the scene of the crime.” There sat the Green Angel with a disapproving look on her grill. As I emerged from his car, Tom said. “You only get married once … maybe twice … oh hell, who knows how many times? It’s good to have one good time before the shackles snap.” With that, he closed his window and off he drove. I stood on the parking lot with the rest of my life spread out before me, like a clown laughing from on a bedspread.

Good times? Multiple marriages? Multiple bachelor parties? Not for me. Anything requiring an event that made me feel the way I felt that morning was for one time and one time only.

What am I going to tell the girls?
Nothing, That's what.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 36

The week of the wedding finally arrived. I retrieved our wedding rings from layaway and double-checked the honeymoon reservations. Brenda finished her gown as well as the dresses for her mother and her two friends. I washed and waxed the Green Angel, then put out the warning against any disfigurement as part of the ceremony. I made sure my folks knew the way to Lonoke and the church. The girls checked the invitation list, but … what the hell … anybody in Arkansas assumed they were welcome. Things were as complete as we could make them.

The bosses had planned the “bachelor party” for Tuesday. It wasn’t to be as much a party as a gagfest designed to send me off in proper fashion. I can’t even remember the proposed location. It was somewhere in what we would now call “midtown” although it was considered “out west” at the time. I remained a bit dubious, not knowing exactly what was expected of me. But cavorting with one’s bosses was never a bad idea if one minded one’s manners. I decided to make the best of it, succumbing to tradition and all.

My wedding attire lay in readiness. I had bought a new suit for the affair. I might have considered tying the knot in my full Naval regalia, complete with my service ribbons and my beloved bosun’s pipe on a bright white lanyard. Alas, I had given most of my attire away upon separation, assuming that, in the case of a “call back,” it would be Canada for me and no use for uniforms. Anyway, I had also purchased, in a fit of apparent insanity, the ugliest pair of shoes ever placed on the open market. Men wore neckties that matched their clothing in those days, so I checked and determined that I was ready. Bring it on.

We covered the final details. Brenda notified her old boyfriend(s) about what was going to transpire. I had no old girlfriends to notify. I did let some college buddies know and a couple planned to attend. Brenda had her hair styled. I didn’t. I’d had enough of haircuts over the past few years. The girls ran me through the details again. I should have a gift ready for the minister and they specified the exact amount. They designated me to drive, in her car, Brenda to the airport to pick up her Aunt “Pill” and daughter, expected from Chicago the day before the wedding. That about covered it.

Taking the week off I busied myself with chores to keep my mind away from the coming change to my life. I even cleaned the apartment. That’s where we would spend the wedding night before departing for Aspen the next day. Then I made sure I had packed for the trip. The destination rested at 8,000 feet elevation, so attire suitable for August in Arkansas might not suffice. My beloved Pentax Spotmatic camera lay waiting, loaded with film. That still left me with me long days to brood. What had I gotten myself into? I found myself running out of things to keep me busy, so I struggled to maintain equilibrium.

Seeking to redirect my thinking, I began to read a copy Flaubert’s Madam Bovary that I found in a closet. Before long, I decided that wasn’t a good idea so I just stared at the ceiling and thought. I was about to get married and my life was going to change. Oh my.

Then there was this thing coming up on Tuesday evening.

Oh well. We'll
always have Aspen.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 35 (Con._4)

A growing movement started in Little Rock as I waited for my wedding date. A small but dedicated group of young couples, crazy by most standards, were buying homes, in of all places, the old section of Little Rock known as the Quapaw Quarter. They could buy one of the old mansions for a cheap price. Who wanted them, after all? Many served as apartments, having been divided by their estates to provide some income while the structures deteriorated. Couples with some cash and lots of energy saw something. What?

I learned much about it from working with our architect-on-loan, Charles Witsell. He had become a part of the pioneering group of couples who descended on the area, purchasing historic structures and dedicating a portion of their lives to saving those structures. He and his artist wife, Becky, owned the so-called “Hanger House” on Scott Street and filled their spare time loving and restoring it. He became a legendary expert on the history of the area.

It wasn’t always easy for those dedicated to historic preservation. Many lending institutions had “redlined” the historic area, along with minority neighborhoods, as not the best places to lend their depositors’ money. Also, powerful forces in the real estate community had decided, for example, that South Broadway no longer served the most useful purpose as residential and should convert to a commercial corridor. In most cities in Arkansas, that would have spelled the end of the fledgling movement. This time, though, the young pioneers stood their ground.

The case that brought things to the attention of the public involved plans to remove a grand old historic home at 18^th and Broadway and replace it with a 7-11 Store. A group calling itself the Broadway Neighborhood Association formed a resistance movement. In order to destroy the home for commercial development, the developers had to convince the city to change the zoning. The young folks came to the planning commission hearing with their Battle Flags hoisted. Why destroy the heritage of a city, disrupt an improving neighborhood, and lose a beautiful structure to satisfy the commercial needs of the traveling public? The case made good newspaper copy.

The BNA lost the battle, but started a movement that would lead to partial victory in a war that still rages at times. Old, monied interests assured the planning commission, and later the city board, that there was no historic value to the neighborhood and that commercial development always translated directly into progress for a city. If these young fools wanted to waste their time, energy, and money, that was fine, but don’t encourage them by stopping progress. The young folks spoke their minds, argued, lost, and went home.

By that time, the phone calls had started. A family, enjoying an evening in their beloved old home would receive a phone call. The mortgage company didn’t appreciate their actions. More attempts at interfering with economic development might cause a re-evaluation of their loan, just some information they should know. It was time for his historic preservation silliness to stop. Don’t make them call again.

It proved too late, though. The publicity had awakened a dormant dream. More young couples considered a life of historic involvement and sweat-equity. More older couples decided to stay where they were, despite the despicable efforts by thugs to initiate a tactic known as “block-busting. The public began driving through Little Rock’s Quapaw Quarter District to see what the fuss was all about. A group started a real estate company designed specifically to promote the sale and rehabilitation of historic home in Little Rock. The bullies retreated, as bullies often do.

Weekends, Brenda and I would join the sightseers. We wondered what it might be like to tackle the job of restoring one of these old classics.

Little did we know.

South Broadway before the Arkansas
Highway Department noticed.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 35 (Cont._3)

Things were moving along in the summer of 1972. Work had started on our firm’s first development project, a small but elegant subdivision in south-central Arkansas. Numerous delays had slowed its start, but it was now progressing smoothly. The bosses and local realtors were taking bets on how long it would take to sell it out. Folks recalled legendary subdivisions in Little Rock in which demand was so great that the developers held lotteries to spread the sale of lots equally. Those were heady times.

We were about to unleash the fury of modern urban planning on the unsuspecting City of Hope. A project similar to the one we proposed there had gotten underway in Downtown Little Rock. Segments of Main Street and Capitol Avenue were disappearing, bulldozed to make way for a mall-like area in which pedestrians were free to roam and shop unmolested by vehicles. It was one of the most popular planning ideas of the time. Across the country, urban designers extolled the genius of the approach to addressing the loss of downtown retail to suburban malls. Americans could fix things, right? That’s what we were best at.

The girls about had the wedding planned. The church was set. A local woman with an exceptionally beautiful voice agreed to sing Brenda and me into the world of holy matrimony. Young cousins of the bride-to-be prepared to spread flowers and deliver the ring. Older men stood ready to escort guests and chaperone the mothers. Vernell would serve as Maid of Honor while her sister would manage the reception line. Vernell agreed to perform the additional task of inspecting her sister prior to the festivities for any misplaced articles of clothing, unsecured snaps or buttons, and untoward revelations resulting from thin or missing apparel. It was to be a model of a tasteful, modest, and modern public wedding.

I tingled in anticipation. The girls only suggested again and again that I’d best not screw up. On occasion, after a couple of glasses of wine, they weren’t above expressing the admonition in more earthy terms. At any rate, I got the message. Arrive sober. Stay focused. Leave in apparent ecstasy. Those represented the simplest of tasks, after all. The thought of it kept me awake at night.

Oh, and the bachelor party. It really wasn’t to be a party, was it? No, just a few beers with the bosses before I signed on to marital subjugation as had they. No strippers? No what? You know, strippers, women that remover their clothes for men in a suggestive fashion. Really? Strippers? They have such people in Little Rock? Oh, be serious. If we hear of strippers, you will account for it. Did men really do such things before they married some sweet young thing? I hadn’t seen a stripper since the USO shows they used to bring into the enlisted men’s club at Camp Tien Sha. Those shows certainly didn’t represent a proper introduction into the world of matrimony. Strippers? Really? No, just a few beers among friends

So it went as the day drew close.

The past slowly disappears.
The future is cloudy.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 35 (Cont._2)

What does a young man who is to be married in a few weeks think about? Oh yeah, there’s that, but I don’t remember much else about those days. I do remember that my old friend George Owen, a native of Crossett, Arkansas called one night to see if was busy. “I have something to show you,’ he said. “Does your record player work?”

I assured him that it did, and he showed up some 30 minutes later with a double phonograph album with a busy black and white cover. He showed it to me and asked if I had heard it? No.

It was an album put together by a group called “The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.” The cover read “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” and promised performances by a wide range of famous musicians, including Merle Travis, Jimmy Martin, and Mother Maybelle Carter. Yep, it was Bluegrass-oriented, not the kind of music Brenda liked at all. Maybe this would pay her back for A Clockwork Orange. I was all ears. I knew the “Dirt Band” from a couple of popular hits. Some names I had heard of. For others, a profound surprise awaited me.

I heard, for the first time (I’m ashamed to say) Doc Watson and his son Merle. Oh my. Then the magic kept coming. The producers kept the mikes running during the recordings and the listener enjoyed gems of dialogue like the first meeting between Don Watson and Merle Travis. Merle played and sang “IAm A Pilgrim,” and I almost fainted. Doc and his son did “Way Downtown,” and I began to consider places where I could burn my guitars. Earle Scruggs performed and I resolved someday to learn to play the banjo. Then Roy Acuff sang. We sat and listened, as we enjoyed a beer, to the old, the new, and the curiously arranged.

We sat, not moving, for what seemed like hours and grew more mellow by the minute. The experience would change my life. I finally turned to George with something like “Whatever this is, it’s the most of it ever made.” He agreed. We reached the final ensemble production of the title song, written in 1907 by Ada R. Habershon with music by Charles H. Gabriel. The Carter Family immortalized it later and it still stands as a beacon in Bluegrass gospel circles. It had previously stirred some psychic fear in me due to a woman who used to corner me after church services and, pointing out that my parents weren’t there, hoped aloud that our family circle in Heaven would be unbroken. That all changed that night George played the album for me. It was just music, after all, and music should soothe, not cause despair.

And what did that have to do with me? Maybe it sounds trivial, but for one evening I forgot that in a few weeks I was going to have to stand in front of a church full of people and say “With this ring, I thee wed,” to an angel I had known for less than a year, who was upstairs at the moment sewing her wedding dress. Feeling more relaxed than I had in weeks, I went to bed singing to myself

“I am a pilgrim and a stranger

Traveling through this wearisome land

And I've got a home in that yonder city, good Lord

And it's not (good Lordy it's not) not made by hand.”

Still a classic
after all these years.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 35

As I was about to be married and settle into a career as an urban planner, I had no doubts of success in either endeavor. Marriage was an accepted social mainstay. Likewise, my career involved an old and interesting field of study.

Learning about marriage was easy. All I had to do was look around and see how happy couples dealt with it. Most of them seemed happy. They owned new cars, had produced children, and were buying or building houses. I knew many of them from college and remembered when they had started dating. All I had to do was pick up points and note what led to a satisfied union. Emulation was the key to success.

My fiancée seemed to respond well to this approach. As long as I emulated her father and respected her mother, our union would be sound. She shared my distaste for social pressure, country clubs, parties, and the thought of most sports, save fishing. Sometimes we sat on my apartment patio and talked of the future. We agreed on almost everything except the quality of her favorite book and movie, A Clockwork Orange. I remembered that happy couples embraced mutual idiosyncrasies and we never quarreled about it. This marriage thing was going to be easy.

I learned, along the way, more basic principles about urban planning. My bosses had learned them in graduate school and they taught them to me. The most prevalent was that neighborhood schools were the foundation building block of urban development. They were to exist within easy access to surrounding residential development and would serve as the magnet for community life. There was no principle more important.

Armed with this priceless guidance, I pressed on against whatever currents that might appear in my river of life.

Many strong ones lay in wait. Consider for example, the married couples I had chosen to emulate because of their apparent happiness and contentment. Within five years more than half would find themselves divorced and sharing custody of the young children produced by the apparent happy union. It would prove a shock.

Oh, and neighborhood schools? What about them? Well, given the systemic cultural basis on which our country had settled, one fact had hidden from consideration. Neighborhood schools tended to be segregated. They also suffered from unequal funding and attention. A federal court ruling waited on the horizon, a ruling that would shape urban development in America as no other phenomenon ever had. The concept of neighborhood schools would be the first victim of a wrenching realization that cities, like individuals, often experience what psychologists call the “flight or fight response.”

This ain't gonna be no big deal.

My Redacted Life; Sunday Break

As a young man, well relatively young, in the summer of 1972, waiting to be married, I thought of lots of things. I imagined trials, conflicts, disputes, differences of opinions, mutual aggravations, the effects of being “just plain sorry” on my part, and the general trials of living with someone who was basically a stranger. There would be major trials, like finances. There would be day to day trials like what food we liked. There would be trivial trials, like how to squeeze a tube of toothpaste. Most couples know of these.

And they all came to pass, as I had imagined them.

One thing happened, that I neither imagined nor resolved about my bride-to-be. That was just how much I would miss her when we were apart.

Thinking the same things?

My Redacted Life: Chapter 34 (Cont._4)

Things moved smoothly in the summer of 1972. I was to be married soon. Brenda was working on her wedding gown. I couldn't see it, though. No problem. I would see it soon enough.

I was learning new things every day, like if we just built enough traffic arteries, and they were wide enough, one day there would be no traffic congestion. Population projections proved our existing cities would grow forever. They all possessed the same opportunity. The federal government would maintain a fiduciary relationship with cities and counties in order to make sure that the important inner workings of our country would remain strong. The head and body would function in harmony. Reason would rule if we only planned carefully enough.

Well, yeah, not everything I was learning would prove out to be true. What would prove true was that our country’s role in the Vietnam War would end eventually, not “with a bang, but a whimper,” along with the bodies of students on the campus of Kent State University. Had war not proven so profitable to some, it might have ended our forays into civil wars halfway around the world. That was all in the future, though. For the time being, I was safe away from it all.

Right now, I had to get ready for the wedding. I knew my role by heart, and I had the money to get our wedding rings out of layaway. My bride-to-be was growing more beautiful every day, although she seemed to spend a great deal of time with her two co-conspirators. Sometimes, before knocking on her door, I could hear them inside laughing. They always stopped when I came and never let me in on the jokes. They were being nicer to me, though. I suppose they had come to realize that they couldn’t have this wedding without me. They even let me in on some of the planning.

Things were looking great. We would stay in my apartment until we had enough money to purchase a house. I would be able to get financing through the GI bill. Currently, that meant no down payment and a 7.5 percent interest rate, lower than the market. Our combined incomes suggested a home in the $20,000 to $25,000 range. (I found out later that housing purchases were best based on a single income, but that was in the future.) That seemed fairly grandiose and was enough to attract the interest of real estate sales people, all men. Later, women would come to dominate the profession. We weren’t ready yet, but give us time to study things. Things were running on a fast track. All we had to do was to hang on.

The bosses at work were already looking at a purchase of land for our next private development. It lay in the southwestern part of the county, just outside the city limits at the time. They had set the boundaries and Jack was already on the job, flourishing his magic markers over thin, semi-transparent sheets of thin paper known as “yellow-flimsy.” This development would include a community center, tennis courts, and a swimming pool. We planned for it to be the pride of central Arkansas. Who better to plan future developments than a group of talented urban planners? Indeed. It mattered little that the oldest of us was about to turn 30. All things would come to pass as planned.

 Those were glorious days. I’m glad we had them, Brenda and I. We would have others, many others, but there is something about the joy of living during times when you haven’t yet had to face reality.

I'd come a long ways.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 34 (Cont._3)

Somewhere about this time, I had the honor to meet Brenda’s Uncle Roy Bennett from Saint Louis, a bachelor and fascinating human. He actually lived in University City, a place well known to urban planners. It had passed the first “rental inspection” program in the state, maybe the country. It aimed at stopping the spread of blight as families sold their homes to slum landlords before moving away from the city core. Other cities have enacted similar programs that are still strongly resisted by a real estate profession that adopts the adage “if it’ll rent, it’s good enough.”

Roy was the youngest of two sons. Brenda’s mother Hazel had insisted that he leave the hardscrabble farm on which he was raised. After a stint in the Navy, he had hitched a ride to St. Louis after word got out that McDonald-Douglass, the aero-space giant was hiring. He got a job, slept in a friend’s car for a while, and entered into a long and fascinating career.

We hit it off immediately. We shared an interest in photography. He proudly showed me his Nikon F, the Holy Grail of amateur photography. Actually, he was interested in everything, from electronics to music. I would say that he was the most fascinated person I’ve ever known. Brenda adored him. The feeling was mutual.

His father had bequeathed the family farm to him in order that it would remain intact. His lifelong plan included returning there after retirement and perfecting the profession of piddling. To that end, he, over the years, hauled countless items of possible or potential value in piddling. Some of it still remains. I would never figure out how one man was able to haul it.

He shared the bass voice typical of that side of Brenda’s family, one she didn’t share. Like me, he loved to pick a guitar but never got very good at it. That didn’t dampen his enthusiasm a bit. That’s an attribute of perpetually fascinated people, or so I have found. They don’t have to be good at something as long as it fascinates them.

I quickly decided that I wouldn’t regret marrying into a family that produced a man like Roy.

Late in his career, he was assigned to the United States Space Program. There he worked on top-secret things, witnessed many historic events, and came to know, personally, some of the astronauts. Sometimes I can still recall his deep voice reciting some of their personal quirks.

For now, he had his trusty Nikon ready to photograph the wedding. We talked about it. I always thought he liked me. I surely hope so. As I say, he looked so forward to entering a second career of idle tinkering on the “postage stamp of native soil” where he grew up. I’m sure he would have entered the Piddling Hall of Fame.

It wasn’t to be. He would die from a massive heart attack just months away from retirement. At his funeral, a long-time neighbor described him as “always walking around whistling, with a tool in his hand, thinking of some project he was planning.”

That’s about as good a statement on a person’s life as I have ever heard.

We still miss him, a lot.