Monday, August 31, 2009

Come Monday...Amarillo

“Come Monday…” is a weekly series that will involve a review of, or commentary about, websites, movies, documentaries, television shows, sports, music, and whatever else may tickle my fancy at the time. Be assured that these reviews will be generally positive, as in accordance to the Jimmy Buffett song “Come Monday.” This is subject to change, however. In fact, I would be most derelict in my duties to neglect going on a rant every once in a while. For rants promote change, and change can be good—right? Therefore, since good is generally considered as being a positive force in 99.3% of the parallel universes that I am aware of, even a rant could be considered as being something positive, and a genuine hissy-fit would be even better (so I’m told).

I am still in no position to resume normal posting. So, here is another chapter from the rewrite of The Crackerhead Chronicles, which is an abbreviated account of my life so far. Any and all comments will be greatly appreciated, but please be kind. For I will find where you are after the appreciation wears off.


The Thirteenth Crumb
(Amarillo)

I don’t remember just how it came about, but it was because of having an interest in enrolling in the saddle-making program at TSTI (Texas State Technical Institute) that I thought that the panhandle of Texas might be a good place for me to be for at least a little while. For Amarillo was a location for one of the TSTI campuses.

No, I never got around to enrolling. For after my brother dropped me off on Amarillo Boulevard, I did some research on the craft, and I did not like what I discovered. For the truth of the matter was that even those who had received a degree in saddle-making had to complete an apprenticeship under an established master, which could take up to 20 years, if they hoped to ever make a living from their work. For a cowboy doesn’t make a lot of money, and if they are going to invest over a thousand dollars on a custom-made saddle, surely they are going to get one that is made by someone they can brag about.

I still wanted to stay in Amarillo, however. For I was absolutely fascinated with the area, and even having to live out of the $300 car that I bought the day I arrived for the first few weeks could not dampen my enthusiasm.

Yes, I suppose that I was “homeless” at the time, but I was totally unaware of it. For that was before the term came into fashion.

No, that is not to say that I was totally unaware of my circumstances. For every night brought another adventure in finding a safe place (the boulevard was like a war zone at times) to sleep where the cops would let me alone, and with me being so sweet, an abundance of mosquitoes where always around.

No, being homeless did not mean that I was unemployed. For I had secured a job as a floor-stocker at the Levi-Strauss plant a mile or so east of the Amarillo City Limits on U.S. 60 (old Route 66) within a week of my arrival, and a week or so later, I got a night job as a delivery driver/dishwasher for a Pizza Inn on the north-side access road to I-40 (around 7 miles southwest of Levi's).

From time to time, I also supplemented my income with some daywork on different ranchs and feedlots in the area. Those jobs would involve anything from fixing fence to help with a round-up.

I even tried my hand at small association rodeoing a bit. For all it took was a $30 entry fee per event and some borrowed equipment, which would include a horse when competing in steer wrestling, calf roping and team roping.

No, I never made it into the money, which required placing in the top three in a particular event, but I was told on a number of occasions that I sure was entertaining (or something similar) when entered in saddle bronc riding. Some even went as far as to say that the way I was often bucked off reminded them of some of the stuff that they had seen while watching televised coverage of the springboard diving competition at the Olympics the summer before. To be honest, I did not always appreciate their appreciation as much as I probably should have.

So, why was I still living out of my car? Well, it came down to a matter of priorities. For instead of spending my hard-earned money on rent and utility bills, I could spend it on beer, and with enough beer in me, I did not really care where I was.

Besides, things were gradually getting a little easier for me. For the owners of the car lot where I bought my “mobile home” invited me to stay in their office and look after the place after-hours, and I helped pay them back some by effecting a citizen's arrest upon a man who had defrauded them out of several thousand dollars.

Evidently, he was an old hand at defrauding people. For the detective that took my statement told me that the Amarillo Police Department referred to him as being the Rubber Stamp Bandit.

It was not all good, however. For despite holding down two full-time jobs and all of those part-time gigs, I was still not always able to buy enough beer, and it was during those times when even the added amenities that the car lot office had to offer became most intolerable.

Therefore, I set about to find better accomodations, and I did not have to look far. For at $75 a week, the Wagon Wheel Motel just down the boulevard a few blocks seemed like the place to be.

Hey, how could I have chosen otherwise? For the room came with several neighbors, and what a group they were. For I was surrounded by hookers, drug dealers, dope fiends, ax-murderers, cannibals, sexual deviants and serial killers in training.

In other words, I was right in my element at the time, and with the Cattleman's Club being just a couple of blocks west, I could not ask for more. For the Cattleman's reminded me of the Branding Iron, and it was not long before I was recognized as being a regular there.

Be assured that being a regular at the Cattleman's also had its benefits. Nothing like I enjoyed at the Branding Iron, but being a familiar face did give me advantage, come closing time. For bar-flies will often look for a safe place to land. Hey, when you adhere to a standard of eight to eighty…crippled or crazy…if they can’t walk…I’ll drag ‘em, there is not much left to just say no to.

Cheering me on was a bartender by the name of Sylvia, whom I never got to first-base with. For she was just too focused upon making as good of a living as she could for her children (bartending was her night job) to make time for any romantic escapades with the likes of me.

Oh yes, she knew me well, and that is what makes what happened one night at the the Cattleman’s so interesting. For when Sylvia saw me, she complimented me on looking so sharp in a western-styled suit, bolo tie, and a brand-new light gray Resistol cowboy hat the night before.

Now, I was about as vain as anyone I knew of back then, but I was still quite shocked to hear what she had to say. For I had signed up to do some day work for a ranch north of town, and I was around 30 miles away the night in question!

Much to my disappointment, that was all there was to it. For the other me was never seen around the place again.

Since then, I have learned a thing or two about doppleganger twins, who are supposedly two identical-looking people without a speck of related blood between them, and a few years after the Cattleman’s incident, I met a lady at a truck stop in Ozona, TX who swore up and down that she thought that I was her brother when she first saw me. In fact, she admitted that it had taken her a bit to think otherwise, and she was still looking at me funny when we parted company.

Whether or not her brother was the sharp-dressed man at the Cattleman’s that night, I do not know. For when I asked her if he ever got up to Amarillo looking like that, she said that she did not have a clue. Considering the fact that her brother had been born and raised in the Phoenix, AZ area, and was driving a dump truck down there at the time, I had my doubts.

Anyway, let us get back to me living in Amarillo, and just how special the Cattleman’s Club was. For aside from being a place where I could fulfill my wanton desires, it was also where I first met Margie.

Talk about His mysterious ways—such was our getting together. For she swore up and down that she NEVER gives out her home phone number to anyone she has just met, and yet, that was exactly what she did with me.

Oh no, Margie was most definitely not a barfly. Perish the thought—I tell you!

Perish the thought, indeed. For she was a lady in every sense of the word, and what she wanted me for was a little brother, of sorts.

Okay, I must admit that I was looking for something more—especially at first. For she was a mighty fine lookin’ lady.

Nonetheless, I quickly became very satisfied with the kind of relationship that we had. For she provided me with a sense of stability that was sorely missing in my life at the time.

No, it was not that my friends and family back east were out of sight and out of mind. For they were still there for me, but there is a big difference between getting a personal letter, or even hearing a familiar voice over the phone, and actually seeing the look of understanding in the eyes of someone who really cares about you. Well, at least there is to me.

Anyway, the timing was perfect. For I needed to have some stability in order to secure a much better paying job at IBP (Iowa Beef Processors).

Oh yes, working at the “The Beef” was a lot better than working at Levi's, or even Pizza Inn. For I was hired as a non-union night manager of the maintenance and clean-up supply department, and I really enjoyed being around most of the people who would come down to my dungeon to checkout specialty tools and parts.

Just before Thanksgiving Day (1985), one of the day-shift mechanics gave me the phone number of a lady from his church (who also worked at IBP in an area that I had no contact with) whom he thought would be good for me. After getting a look at Becky, I was very hopeful he was right.

From the beginning, I had a “feeling” that she was as hopeful about me as I was about her, and after spending Thanksgiving Day with her and her children, there was no doubt about it. For she had become more and more affectionate as the day progressed, and by the time for her kids to go to bed, the stage was set for us to do the same.

That is, except for something that she had said earlier. For she had told me that she was trying really hard to be holy in the sight of the Lord, and that it was because of that goal that she had run-off previous boyfriends after having sex with them.

Therefore, I did something that should have gotten me kicked-out of UMM (Union of Manly Men). For when she grabbed my hand to lead me to her promised land, I told her that I wanted her for more than one night.

Talk about being pathetic, and what made it even more so was that it was all for naught. For when I came by her place the next day, she did not want to let me in the front door (let alone into her arms), and after it became clear to me that wanting to have sex was the same as actually having sex to her, I could see that there was no hope for us.

A couple of weeks later, I called to ask Becky what happened (just to make sure), and the answer she gave me was truly hard to take. For she said that she felt like we were going in opposite directions.

Hence, another scar upon my heart. For I was on my best behavior around her, and I was plumb serious about wanting to stay that way 'til death do us part.

On the other hand, maybe she was right. For in March (I think) of 1986, I got fired from IBP because of being suspected of drinking on the job.

No, it was not at all true. For I had not had a drink since going to bed at 9AM that morning. Granted, my usual breakfast of beer at The Hoolihan (a small bar and grill on the south-side of town) also included a couple of shots of Bacardi 151 rum, but even that was not really anything extraordinary for me at the time.

Nonetheless, poor personal hygiene proved my undoing. For I had failed to brush my teeth before reporting to work at 5PM, and it was the smell of beer on my breath that was what was got me into trouble.

Oh, but that was not the only thing messed-up about the situation. For the one who first said something about it was a union steward I had let smoke marijuana in my office at times—even without any benefit to myself! For I never touched the stuff.

All in all, it was an educational experience. For when they asked me to blow into a breathalizer, I registered a .026 (.008 will get you a drunk-driving charge in many states now), and no one in the room (including myself) had any thought of me being even the least bit drunk.

After that, I went to work as a dishwasher at a Carrows Restaurant (talk about having self-esteem issues), but then a couple of months later a miracle (at least to me) transpired. For one of the electricians I had worked with at IBP came by to ask me if I would like to join him on a harvest crew for the summer.

YAHOO! The kid was back in the saddle again, and there appeared to be some destiny involved. For like dominoes positioned to knock-over the next in line, so where the steps taken to get to that point. For if I had not of went to work at IBP, I may have never met Jack, and if that had of never happened, I may have never had an opportunity to go all the way up to Roundup, MT and back behind the wheel of a GMC Brigadier with a 24’ dump-bed while towing a John Deere combine!

No, I did not get to do much driving of a combine. For I was hired to be one of the truck drivers on the crew, and part of that was hauling the combines from job-site to job-site. Other duties involved fixing flats and performing minor servicing on the trucks, such as changing the oil and filters, greasing, etc., etc.

Those hired to drive the combines in the fields drove our service rigs and towed the mobile homes that we lived in when we moved from place to place. They also helped with the maintainence of the trucks while we were out on a job, but their primary duties revolved around the combines. For there is a lot to maintaining a combine out in the fields—especially in regards to the 28’ headers that we were running in the wheat fields that season. For that is the part of the combine where the grain first enters, and the truck drivers were often drafted into helping with the servicing of them, as well.

Our season began in Seymour, TX, and we stayed there for about a month because of rainy weather. Then we went back to Amarillo to do some jobs around there, which lasted a couple of weeks. The next stop was Lakin, KS, and after a couple of weeks there, we scooted on up to Burlington, CO.

Since I had never had any experience with row-crop farming, I had no idea that production levels could vary so greatly. For a bushel of wheat by volume should weight 40 pounds when brought to a grain elevator, but some that we ran into was down in the twenties, while others were way over the standard.

It was in Lakin where we ran into the heaviest wheat, and I was at the center of quite a stir at the grain elevator when I pulled onto the scales weighting in at over 72,000 pounds gross. For I had on a load of over 700 bushels of wheat that averaged over 68 pounds per bushel.

Years later I came to realize just how grossly overweight that truck-load was in the eyes of the law. For it was, after all, just a 10-wheeler.

It was sometime around the first of August when we drove into Hardin, MT, and we stayed there around a month. For aside from the hundreds of acres planted by our host, we had several other customers in the area.

One of them was in Lodge Grass, MT, which we called Homegrown. No, we did not know of any pot growing operations in the area, but we thought it was funny, anyway.

If you don’t get it, I guess you would have had to have been there with as much beer and bloody marys in you as we usually had. For working from before the sun came up until after it went down did not slacken our thirst a bit, but we did refrain from actually drinking on the job.

On the other hand, we had a couple of hands who swore that they did their best work while high. Hence, the inside joke behind our nickname for Lodge Grass.

Even though I had been around marijuana before, I had never actually lived with someone who smoked A LOT, and I am here to tell you that it can have a very addictive effect upon certain individuals. For one of the hands even resorted to scraping stems and refiring the tar-like residue that had collected in the bottom of his pipe bowl when he could not find any to buy in the area that we would be in.

Oh yeah, we had our share of fun that summer, and working out of Hardin was no exception. For on days when we could not go out into the field for some reason, we were allowed to go on sight-seeing expeditions.

On one of those expeditions, we visiting the Little Big Horn Battlefield, which was not very far at all from Hardin. Just in case you missed that lesson in school, the Little Big Horn was where the very astute (being sarcastic here) Brigadier General George Armstrong Custer got himself and over 250 under his command slaughtered by a force of several thousand Sioux and Northern Cheyenne warriors being led by Sitting Bull.

On another expedition, the owner of the ranch where we were staying loaded us all up and took us to The Grainery in Billings, MT. Now, I don’t know if it is on any lists of fine-dining establishments, but I would certainly eat there anytime I was given an opportunity to do so. For I don’t know which was better—the prime rib that we had for the main course or the Mississippi mud pie that was served as desert.

Even as good as the eating was at The Grainery, the highlight of being in Hardin was when we went to Yellowstone on a scheduled vacation for the whole crew. For on the way there, we stopped at the Buffalo Bill Museum in Cody, WY, which was a wonder in and of itself, but Yellowstone was…well…YELLOWSTONE!!!

No, I do not have the words to describe what I saw at Yellowstone, nor am I willing to even try. For it has to be seen to be believed.

When all was done in Hardin, we headed to Roundup to hurriedly finish a couple of jobs before winter got serious about coming. For that sort of thing can happen in September in northern Montana, and the nights were getting decidedly chillier.

Speaking of such, I only thought I knew what the dead of night was like before I made it up to Roundup. For on one particular moonless light, I turned out all of the lights around to see if it really was as dark out as it felt like it was, and I found that I could not see my hand in front of my face! It was plumb spooky, I tell you.

Besides being plumb spooky, the added darkness added another peril to harvesting the wheat up there. For the stalks were not very tall, which meant that the headers on the combines had to be lowered to where they were just skimming the ground. Subsequently, that made it very easy to scoop up rocks that littered the fields, and aside from the damage that they could do to the combines, those rocks were not welcome at the grain elevators.

Thankfully, none of our loads were rejected, but we sure heard about it when someone at the elevator saw a rock that we had missed. Some people in Montana really need to work on their senses-of-homor is all I have to say about it.

Others do not, and one of the best examples of that was a local truck driver who was hired to haul some of the grain that our combines harvested longer distances. For when he showed the picture of a couple of really good looking young ladies that he had in his wallet, I thought he was going to bust a gut from laughing when I told him that he had some mighty fine looking daughters.

After he finished wiping the tears from his eyes, he explained to me that they were actually his wives. For he was a Hooterite, which was sect that had split off from the Mormon church years ago over wanting to stay true to the teaching of Joseph Smith about it being in accordance to the will of God that men should marry as many women as they could provide for.

I was absolutely shocked, and for the sake of honesty, I was also rather jealous. For his young wives were absolutely gorgeous.

No, wheat was not the only thing we harvested that season. For after finishing the jobs up in Montana around the first of September, we headed back to Amarillo to get geared-up for the second half, which involved the harvesting of corn, maize (grain sorghum), soybeans and even a patch or two of millet.

Getting ready for those other crops required changing headers on the combines. For a row-crop headers was used to harvest corn and maize, and a flex header worked best on soybeans because of having to put the headers right on the ground. Yes, it would have been nice to have had some of them along for the wheat when we reached Montana, but being so far from home did not afford us such a luxury.

To be honest about it, I find it rather curious that I am unable to remember all that much about the details of the second part of the season. For I remember a lot about where we went in the first half, but all I remember about the second is just being around Tulia, TX (around 40 miles south of Amarillo), Kress, TX (around 20 miles south of Tulia), Plainview, TX (around 13 miles south of Kress), Hale Center, TX (around 15 miles south of Plainview), Slaton, TX (around 10 miles southeast of Lubbock and 130 miles south of Amarillo), Friona, TX (around 60 miles southwest of Amarillo), Hub, TX (around 8 miles south of Friona), Muleshoe, TX (around 20 miles south of Hub) and Lazbuddie, TX (around 15 miles southeast of Friona). For in regards to what we harvested where is almost a complete blank.

Okay, I do remember a few details. For how could I forget about the owner of the place where we were harvesting millet around Slaton, TX almost having a heart attack from laughing so hard when my prized Resistol cowboy hat got spit out the back of a combine after it fell off of my head while I was trying to help make an adjustment on the machine. Thankfully, both the owner and my hat made a full recovery.

I also remember that it was while working out of Friona, TX (around 70 miles southwest of Amarillo) that I ran into some trouble with a Allsups Convenience Store manager by name of Terri. For she slapped the smirk right off of my face after I smarted-off something that she did not appreciate as much as I thought she should.

Much to my surprise and delight, all was forgiven by the next Saturday night. For we ran into each other at the Copper Penny in Clovis, NM (around 30 miles southwest of Friona), and for a month afterward, a torrid romance ensued between us.

Alas, it was over before it had hardly begun, but it was for the best. For if Terri and I had of stayed a couple, I would have probably had to settle for hauling cattle feed for a local company (which promised very long hours at very low wages) because of her kids.

Please, don’t misunderstand. For staying in Friona would have been a small price to pay for being a part of their lives, but I was destined to wander far and wide for a while longer. In fact, the next step in my progression did not end until I had driven well over 2 million miles while visiting all of the continuous 48 American states and 5 provinces in Canada.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

A Sunday Drive

Back during my childhood, our parents would often load up my brother and I after Sunday morning church services for a leisurely drive around where we lived. Even though we were seeing mostly familiar sights, it was still good to see them, and this is why “A Sunday Drive” sounded about right for the name of a weekly series revisiting familiar sites that are well worth seeing again and again.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Sites To See

This is the new version of FIVE FOR FRIDAY. As with the former, it is the SOLE purpose of this weekly series to call attention to sites that I think many would find most interesting—in one way or another. Please, go see for yourself.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

WhiteHeart Wednesday

Link: [Inside]



MP3 Audio Player From: [BlogDumps Video]

You Can’t Take What You Don’t Have
WhiteHeart

Shaun, would you bring my slippers?
My dancin’ slippers.


Strip it clean
Chain my hands
And take my land

Cut my hair
Try to shut my mouth
I’ll still speak-out

Tie me up
Close my eyes
You can hypnotize

You can tear me apart
But you’ll never touch my heart
‘Cause you can’t take what you don’t have

Hear the whispered warnings
Down the corridor of time
Crack the whip
Pull the chains
But the story will unwind

See the drawn-out faces
Live the history
Look into the children’s eyes
This is what you’ll reap

Strip it clean
Chain my hands
And take my land

Cut my hair
Try to shut my mouth
I’ll still speak-out

Tie me up
And close my eyes
You can hypnotize

You can tear me apart
But you’ll never touch my heart
‘Cause you can’t take what you don’t have
You can’t take what you don’t have
You can’t take what you don’t have
Oh, you don’t have me

Here comes the government
Knockin’ at my door
They’ve tried to take it all
Now they’re back for more

I know what they’re after
But there’s nothin’ they can do
‘Cause the heart and the soul of the ages
Is somethin’ I won’t lose

Strip it clean
Chain my hands
And take my land

Cut my hair
Try to shut my mouth
I’ll still speak-out

Tie me up
Close my eyes
You can even hypnotize

You can tear me apart
But you’ll never touch my heart
‘Cause you can’t take what you don’t have
You can’t take what you don’t have
You can’t take what you don’t have
You can’t take what you don’t have

You don’t have me

Strip it clean
Chain my hands

Cut my hair
Try to shut my mouth

Tie me up
Close my eyes

You can tear me apart
But you’ll never touch my heart

‘Cause you can’t take what you don’t have

You can’t take what you don’t have

You can’t take what you don’t have

You can’t take what you don’t have

You can’t take what you don’t have

You can’t take what you don’t have

Link: [WhiteHeart]

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

TWO FOR TUESDAY {REDO}


Not every song that will be featured here will be what is generally considered as being “Christian” in the eyes of this world. For some will be anguished cries from the pit of despair, and others will be quite obviously ferverent rants of rebellion. Nonetheless, be assured that they will all be of our Heavenly Father (in one way or another) and I hope that you have been given ears to hear the message.

***WARNING***
Some may find the lyrics of the songs, and the imagery of the videos, quite disturbing. So, be prepared to close your eyes and ears at any moment, but please keep your heart and mind open.



Link: [On YouTube]

Livin’ On A Thin Line
The Kinks

All the stories
Have been told
Of kings
And days of old
But there’s no England now
There’s no England now

All the wars there were won or lost
Somehow don’t seem to matter
Very much anymore

All the lies we were told
All the lies we were told
All the lies of the people running around
Their castles have burned

Now I see change
But inside
We’re the same
As we ever were

Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What are we
Supposed to do

Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What we are
Supposed to do

Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ this way
Each day is a dream
What am I
What are we
Supposed to do

Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What are we
Supposed to do

Now another century nearly gone
What are we gonna leave for the young
What we couldn’t do
What we wouldn’t do
It’s a crime
But does it matter
Does it matter much
Does it matter much to you
Does it ever really matter
Yes it really really matters

Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What are we
Supposed to do

Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What are we
Supposed to do

Now another leader says
Break their hearts
And break some heads
Is there nothing
We can say or do

Blame the future on the past
Always lost in blood and guts
And when they’re gone
It’s me and you

Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What are we
Supposed to do

Livin’ on a thin line
Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh
Tell me now
What are we
Supposed to do

Livin’ on a thin line
Ooh ooh


Link: [On YouTube]

I’m Not Like Everybody Else
The Kinks

I won’t take all that they hand me down
And make out a smile
Though I wear a frown
‘Cause I’m not goin’ to take it all lyin’ down
‘Cause once I get started
I go to town

‘Cause I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else

And I don’t want to ball about
Like everybody else
And I don’t want to live my life
Like everybody else
And I won’t say that I feel fine
Like everybody else

‘Cause I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else

But darlin’ you know that I live you true
Do anything that you want me to
Confess all my sins like you want me to
There’s one thing that I will say to you

I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else

And I don’t want to ball about
Like everybody else
And I don’t want to live my life
Like everybody else
And I won’t say that I feel fine
Like everybody else

‘Cause I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else

Like everybody else
Like everybody else
Like everybody else
Like everybody else

If you all want me to settle down
Slow up and stop all my runnin’ around
Do everything like you want me to
There’s one thing that I will say to you

I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else

And I don’t want to ball about
Like everybody else
And I don’t want to live my life
Like everybody else
And I won’t say I feel fine
Like everybody else

‘Cause I’m not like everybody else
I’m not like everybody else

Like everybody else
Like everybody else
Live everybody else
Like everybody else
Like everybody else
Like everybody else
Like everybody else

I won’t take all that they hand me down
And make out a smile
Though I wear a frown
‘Cause I’m not goin’ to take it all lyin’ down
‘Cause once I get started
I go to town

‘Cause I’m not…

Link: [KindaKinks.net]

Lyrics From: [A-Z Lyrics Universe]

Monday, August 24, 2009

Come Monday...Life After Martial Death

“Come Monday…” is a weekly series that will involve a review of, or commentary about, websites, movies, documentaries, television shows, sports, music, and whatever else may tickle my fancy at the time. Be assured that these reviews will be generally positive, as in accordance to the Jimmy Buffett song “Come Monday.” This is subject to change, however. In fact, I would be most derelict in my duties to neglect going on a rant every once in a while. For rants promote change, and change can be good—right? Therefore, since good is generally considered as being a positive force in 99.3% of the parallel universes that I am aware of, even a rant could be considered as being something positive, and a genuine hissy-fit would be even better (so I’m told).

I am still in no position to resume normal posting. So, here is another chapter from the rewrite of The Crackerhead Chronicles, which is an abbreviated account of my life so far. Any and all comments will be greatly appreciated, but please be kind. For I will find where you are after the appreciation wears off.


The Twelfth Crumb
(Life After Marital Death)

Many years ago, Alfred Lord Tennyson borrowed a line from Saint Augustine and waxed poetic, “Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” Methinks that what I consider to be love must be completely different that what they did. For I cannot imagine what could be worse than having your heart torn all asunder from the loss of it.

I could be wrong, of course. I just know that I wanted the pain to stop, and I reached for the best medicine that I knew of at the time.

Yes, many are of the opinion that crawling into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s will not solve anything, but I believed that there was something to say about the experience. For if a person stays down long enough, oxygen deprivation sets in, and then comes a sense of euphoria before everything goes black.

No, none of that was meant to just promote the benefit of drinking lots of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey to heal a broken heart (even though it was my favorite). For Jim Beam, Wild Turkey 101, Southern Comfort, and gallons upon gallons of Busch Beer also contributed greatly to the cause.

Needless to say, I was not in my right-mind—nor did I want to be. For when the fog started to clear, nothingness was the only thing on the horizon from point-of view, and that was not a sight that I was eager to see.

Much to my delight, what I was eager to see (other than Sam wanting me back, of course) came along just 10 days after I was shown the door. For a sweet young thing made me feel much better about myself. Well, at least for an hour or so, she did.

Evidently, I must have failed to return the favor. For she committed suicide a few weeks later.

No, I do not mean that to sound as cold-hearted as it probably does. For I considered the news of her death to be a great tragedy, but I never felt like I had anything to do with her decision.

Considering the fact that her brother followed her example of few years later, it became fairly obvious to me that I was correct to feel as I did. I still felt for the family, nonetheless.

Next in line (I think) was a fine looking young lady, who was rather interesting—to say the least. A good example of that happened late one night (or very early one morning) when I woke up being eaten alive by chiggers (tiny bugs that feed on blood) and soaking wet from a fairly heavy mist hanging in the air above the field where I had evidently decided to take a nap. For when I sat up to take a look around, I could just make out some movement a few yards away.

No, it was not a vicious creature fixing to attack, but my first thought was of a nymph from Greek mythology after the fog inside my head lifted a little. For what I was seeing was a naked woman leaping about like she did not have a care in this world.

Yeah, we had some fun, and despite her obvious quirks, I thought she showed a lot of potential. For she helped give me enough confidence to go see my girls almost every day, but before the relationship got too serious, I sabotaged it by going after a girl who was almost as completely out of my league as Sam was.

Oh my, talk about being something special, that girl had it all. For she looked a lot like a much younger version of Lynn Anderson (a great Country/Western singer who recorded, I never promised you a “Rose Garden”) to me, and she could sing just like Patsy Cline (Country/Western Music Hall Of Famer).

No, Patsy’s music was not what I would normally listen to on the radio (AM/FM, not CB), but to hear that other girl sing her songs was truly something to behold. For with eyes closed, I was hard-pressed to tell a difference, and I was not the only one who felt that way.

Yes, I could see that she would be going places, but I decided to make a play for her anyway. For it was not like I had a lot to lose, and since I had drawn nary a sober breath for several weeks, I was also feeling rather bulletproof.

Surprisingly, she did not laugh in my face. In fact, she was actually rather apologetic in her response. For she told me that she could not really go-out with anyone (let alone get serious about them) because of her father being a numbers-runner for the Kansas City mob. For that would give them another thing to use against her father in order to keep him firmly under their control.

Suffice to say, I was rather taken aback by her answer, but upon second-thought, I started to give her the benefit of my doubts. For there were at least a hundred other things that she could have said, and after she showed me the chrome-plated, pearl-handled, snub-nosed Smith & Wesson 38 Special revolver that she carried in her purse wherever she went, I became fairly convinced. (No, it was not cocked and pointed at me at the time, neither.)

Despite the disappointment over having to settle for just being fairly good friends with her, a little color was starting to appear on my horizon. For I had been welcomed into the inner circle of the Branding Iron (a Country/Western bar on the south side of Joplin, MO), and that had its benefits. Hey, I was even invited to go to a very exclusive skinny-dipping party in Shoal Creek (COLD!!!) involving around 20 from the bar after it closed one night!

Oh no, there was no slowing me down now. If anything, I was speeding up. For on a sunny Thursday morning I started drinking quite heavily at my mom’s house outside of Cassville, and it did not stop until Saturday night.

There is much about that time that I have no memory of. For it was the first time I experienced what it was like to keep doing stuff while blacked-out, but there are a few things that I do recall.

One of them is about coming-to just before driving my big black Chevy 4-wheel drive pick-up truck through someone’s fence on purpose(?). After going ahead and doing so, I fell out of the cab (close to 3 feet off the ground). A lady then came out of the house about fifty yards away and yelled, “What are you doing?” To that I replied, “Fixing fence, I guess”. Her response was to scream quite loudly and run back into her house.

She was not the only one going out of her mind at the time. For I had loaded up an 18 year old waitress after her overnight shift had ended around 7 AM that Saturday morning, and she was insisting quite forcefully that I had better leave the fence-fixing to later.

Yeah, she must have been just worried about not getting any good lovin’ from me before the cops showed up. For just as soon as that was over with, she informed that it was time to take her back home.

No, the deed was not done right then and there. For she also insisted upon us getting far away from that lady’s fence.

Taking her back home required driving through a part of Cassville, and it was while doing so that I received a huge break from someone my parents had considered to be a mortal enemy, who was a Cassville City Policeman at the time. For I am quite sure that I would have melted a breathalyzer if he had of wanted me to blow into one.

Obviously, my parents had it wrong about him. For he was only interested in what I had to say about my earlier fight with that lady’s fence, and after I promised to fix it as soon as possible, along with promising to go straight home after taking the fair lass with me to her home, he let me go with a knowing look in his eye.

Believe or not, I did just exactly what I promised, but unbeknownst to the nice policeman, what I considered to be my home at the time was around 60 miles away at the Branding Iron, and being there on a busy Saturday night constitutes the last memories that I have of my infamous 3-day drunk. For I remember starting to play pool, and then being told that I had run the table 3 games in a row (never done before, nor since) before I just quit playing, and then being carried out of the door by the manager and a part-time bartender while protesting that I did not want to go to bed.

When I woke up just after dawn that Sunday morning, I knew that my rampage was over. For I did not want to drink anymore. For I just wanted to die. Again.

I experienced what it felt like to feel utterly alone for the first time when Sam tried to break free from my grasp while I was still attending school at Mizzou, and I experienced it for a second time when she succeeded in removing me from her life a couple of months before that Sunday morning. What I was feeling then, however, was worse—much, much worse. For I had reached a whole new level of emptiness.

I also felt like I was freezing to death, despite it still being in August (I think). For they had put me to bed in the cab of my truck, and my clothes felt wet enough to wring-out.

No, I do not believe that the moister could have been from the early stages of detoxification. For I would think that a person would have to be a lot more “dried-out” than I was before the diabolical detox-sweats set in.

Yes, I suppose it is true that I did not really want to die all that bad. For instead of seeking to end my misery, I sought a soft shoulder to cry on.

No, there was never anything sexual (let alone romantic) between us (not from any lack of trying on my part—be assured). For Annette did not want that kind of relationship.

Nonetheless, I loved her as much as I have ever loved anyone, and when she suggested that a change of scenery might be in the best interest of all concerned, I took it to heart. For it was like pouring salt in an open wound every time I saw Sam and my girls.

Yes, a stronger man would have stood like a rock and let the travails of life break about him. I was not that sort of man, however, and I was all too painfully aware of how damaging it could be to my girls if they were not sheltered from the storm that had engulfed me.

No, it was not enough for them to just have a stable home with another father. For the winds that were howling about me at the time could have torn the roof right off of their relatively happy home, and I still had hope that the day would come when they would understand.

Besides, I did not go all that far away. Just around 120 miles north-northwest of Joplin, in fact. Garnett, KS was still like a foreign country to me—even though I had been in the area many times when I was younger with it being just 15 or so miles from my dad’s hometown of Blue Mound.

Yes, visiting an area and actually living there are two very different things. Thankfully, there were a couple of familiar faces around. For I had went up there with a friend from Washburn, MO (around 8 miles south of Cassville) to work for a former boss of mine at Wells Aluminum in Cassville.

Talk about having a time. For we lived out of the back of Bill's (the friend from Washburn) pick-up truck from the first of September (I think) until the end of October, and since I had took up drinking again about 30 minutes after I swore off it in the parking lot of the Branding Iron that fateful Sunday morning, the beer flowed at a steady stream—even at a 3.2% rate at times.

Just in case you did not get that, the beer sold in Kansas back then was 3.2% alcohol by volume. Whereas the beer sold in Missouri was 5%. Needless to say, we “bootlegged” a lot across the border and prayed that the authorities did not get serious about finding out why we always appeared to be enjoying living out of the back of a pick-up truck so much.

Around the first of November, we finally abandoned the pick-up in favor of a motel room at a weekly rate. For the weather was starting to act like it would be winter soon, and Bill had hooked up with a mighty fine looking lady who liked his sense of style a lot more than anyone else did. For he would sometimes wear a purple leisure-suit with a yellow ruffled shirt to work, and he did not work in an office, neither!

No, Bill was not the only one who would entertain a guest at our motel room on occasion. For I was finding myself more and more in the company of a very petite, blonde-haired wildcat (in every sense of the word) by the name of Robin.

We first met on the floor of the aluminum window and door factory where we worked, and for the first few weeks, I was just a shoulder for her to cry on after her live-in boyfriend got through beating the snot out of her. I would have liked to have played the part of her knight in shining armor the very first time she told me what was going on, but she would not tell me where she lived, nor anywhere else that might help me find her tormentor. Therefore, I had to settle for just doing what I had been doing, and that seemed to be enough for her for the time being.

Quite suddenly, however, all of that changed after being knocked-out during a particularly savage beating. Well, at least in regards to the status of our relationship. For she did not give me an opportunity to teach her feller some manners, but the day before Bill and I left to go down to Cassville to visit our respective families over Thanksgiving, she asked if she could tag along, and we became a couple at that time.

Now to say that my mom and brother were somewhat less than impressed with Robin would be another understatement. For they did not know what to think about someone only 5’ 2” and a hundred pounds soaking wet who could drink almost as much as I could, and a not so subtle dislike for her developed into open animosity virtually over-night.

No, they were not the only ones who felt that way. For after Robin and I decided to stay in Cassville, a number of my friends got to know her fairly well, and many of them confided in me that she gave them a very bad feeling.

None of that really mattered to me at the time, however. For she was quite dedicated to satisfying all of my “needs” in ways that I did not know were even possible, and on the 21st day of December in the year of our Lord 1984, Robin and I were married in a small ceremony in my mother's living room.

Yes, it was very nice of my mom to let us get married there. For she was certainly not under any sort of obligation to do so, not even a strictly moral one in accordance to the rules of engagement governing family interaction after I failed to be there for her when my father died, and I am quite sure that her extreme dislike for Robin did not make it any easier.

At least she got the last laugh. For I finally started listening to what was being said about Robin. Some even went as far as to express concern over there being something rather unholy about her—and this was coming from people who could take our Heavenly Father’s name in vain while swallowing a mouthful of beer!

No, I did not want to believe it. For I knew that she really did love me, but after I came to better understand how her old boyfriend could feel compelled to beat on her so much, I succumbed to the pressure and left for the greener pastures of Amarillo, TX while leaving Robin far behind in Cassville.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

A Sunday Drive

Back during my childhood, our parents would often load up my brother and I after Sunday morning church services for a leisurely drive around where we lived. Even though we were seeing mostly familiar sights, it was still good to see them, and this is why “A Sunday Drive” sounded about right for the name of a weekly series revisiting familiar sites that are well worth seeing again and again.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

WhiteHeart Wednesday

Link: [Don’t Wait For The Movie]



MP3 Audio Player From: [BlogDumps Video]

Maybe Today
WhiteHeart
I watched the news today in silence
Looks like the world is spinnin’ out of control
Reality seems so hard
Do I hear echoes of Isaiah
All the prophecies are come to one place
Maybe it’s time the end’s in sight
Why search the sky
They should be searchin’ inside

Maybe today
Maybe tomorrow
That’s not the question for me
No matter what time
I’m gonna follow
Keeper of all eternity

Heaven will always be there waitin’
Drama flows
Our Lord will return
You know that time will surely come
Until it does
So much work must be done

Maybe today
Maybe tomorrow
That’s not the question for me
No matter what time
I’m gonna follow
Keeper of all eternity

Maybe today
Maybe tomorrow
That’s not the question for me
No matter what cost
I’m gonna follow
Keeper of all eternity

Maybe today
Maybe tomorrow
That’s not the question for me
No matter what cost
I’m gonna follow
Keeper of all eternity

Maybe today
Maybe tomorrow

No matter what cost
I’m gonna follow

Maybe today
Maybe tomorrow

Link: [WhiteHeart]

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

TWO FOR TUESDAY {REDO}


Not every song that will be featured here will be what is generally considered as being “Christian” in the eyes of this world. For some will be anguished cries from the pit of despair, and others will be quite obviously ferverent rants of rebellion. Nonetheless, be assured that they will all be of our Heavenly Father (in one way or another) and I hope that you have been given ears to hear the message.




Blame
Collective Soul
You pushed
Me down
For all
The world to see

I guess
That’s your
Price for
My loyalty

So while you’re tasting sin
And swallowing pain
Don’t look at me
To take your blame

When you’re willing to render
To the guilt you concede
When truth is your reason
Then lay that blame on me

When you unveil a conscience
And with peace you agree
When love is your constant
Lay that blame on me

You lay
Me out
In hopes
That I’d wilt away

But strength
Rained down
And love
Provided shade

So while the pageant of lies
Still flows from your tongue
Don’t blame me for
Your kingdom come

When you’re willing to render
To the guilt you concede
When truth is your reason
Then lay that blame on me

When you unveil a conscience
And with peace you agree
When love is your constant
Lay that blame on me

When you’re willing to render
To the guilt you concede
When truth is your reason
Then lay that blame on me

When you unveil a conscience
And with peace you agree
When love is your constant
Lay that blame on me

Question your answers
The truth has no anger
Gather up your words
Redemption now offered

Question your answers
The truch has no anger
Gather up your words
Redemption now offered



Shine
Collective Soul

Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find

What will I find

Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find

What will I find

Yeah

Yeah

Yeah

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to look
Tell me will love be there

Will love be there

Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me will love be there

Will love be there

Yeah

Yeah

Yeah

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Yeah

Yeah

Yeah

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

Whoa
Heaven let Your Light shine down

I’m gonna let it shine
I’m gonna let it shine

I’m gonna gonna
Let the Light
Shine on me

Oh Yeah
Yeah

I’m gonna let
The Light
Shine on me

Shine
Shine on me
Yeah

Shine
Let it shine

Link: [Collective Soul]

Lyrics From: [A-Z Lyrics Universe]

Monday, August 17, 2009

Come Monday...The Best and Worst of Times

“Come Monday…” is a weekly series that will involve a review of, or commentary about, websites, movies, documentaries, television shows, sports, music, and whatever else may tickle my fancy at the time. Be assured that these reviews will be generally positive, as in accordance to the Jimmy Buffett song “Come Monday.” This is subject to change, however. In fact, I would be most derelict in my duties to neglect going on a rant every once in a while. For rants promote change, and change can be good—right? Therefore, since good is generally considered as being a positive force in 99.3% of the parallel universes that I am aware of, even a rant could be considered as being something positive, and a genuine hissy-fit would be even better (so I’m told).

I am still in no position to resume normal posting. So, here is another chapter from the rewrite of The Crackerhead Chronicles, which is an abbreviated account of my life so far. Any and all comments will be greatly appreciated, but please be kind. For I will find where you are after the appreciation wears off.


The Eleventh Crumb
(The Best and Worst of Times)

Perhaps it is tantamount to plagiarism, but the opening line of Dickens’ A Tale Of Two Cities is a perfect description of what I felt in the fall of 1976. For it really was the best of times and the worst of times for me back then.

Yes, I was absolutely ecstatic about Sam's decision to take me back into her heart, but it came at a terrible price. For I had to choose between what was and what could be.

No, none of this account is meant to portray Sam as being rather selfish, nor quite demanding. For it would have been grossly unfair to expect her to have virtually no social life to speak of until Jerry came a-marchin’ home again—especially not with her growing popularity from being a member of Cassville High Schools Pep Squad, which performed choreographed dance routines at their football and basketball games.

Nonetheless, I was still left between the proverbial rock and a hard place. For I knew that our lives together would greatly suffer if I did not return to school, but since my parents would not allow me to drive my pick-up truck back and forth, I could not return to school without losing Sam.

Yes, I suppose that the smart thing to do would have been to forget about love until I could really afford it. For my future was looking very bright indeed, but my heart would not be denied at the time.

So, I did what needed to be done to survive on my own, and all was going fairly well until I made a very serious error in judgment. For I went to my old Scoutmaster to ask him for some advice on how to deal with my parents, and he then betrayed me to them.

No, I should not have blamed him. For he did what he truly believed was in the best interest of all concerned.

Nonetheless, I had trusted him with the knowledge of me no longer being at school in Columbia, and the fallout from his decision turned out to be devastating to all of the parties involved. For my parents demanded that I choose between them and Sam, and I chose her, which resulted in me becoming an orphan (for all intents and purposes) for quite awhile.

Since so much damage had been already done, I did not see much of a downside to “repossessing” MY pick-up truck. For it was not like my parents could get me arrested for Grand Theft Auto of a vehicle with my name on its title.

Yes, it could be said that it was a hostile take-over of sorts. For I snuck up to their place under the cover of darkness, and my parents considered my audacity to be quite outrageous (not to mention a great insult).

On the other hand, it sure made my life a lot easier. For I no longer had to depend upon the kindness of others to get around.

A case of having my cake and being able to eat it too? For having my truck meant that I could go back to school AND see Sam often enough to keep her appeased—right?

Hardly. For I could not afford to drive back and forth from Columbia without getting a job, and there were not enough hours in a day to pull it all off.

Besides, my passion for formal learning had gone into hibernation, and all efforts to revive it were proving quite unsuccessful. For I got a C in Introductory Electrical Engineering, and an F in Introductory Accounting, out of enrolling in a couple of night courses at SMS (Southwest Missouri State, which is now Missouri State) in Springfield (around 60 miles northeast of Cassville) for the Spring Semester of 1977.

Ultimately, some good did come out of my futile attempt to continue my education. For my parents were encouraged, but we remained somewhat estranged for the time being.

Talk about being in an uncomfortable position. For crossing paths with my parents was unavoidable in a town with a population of 1,910, and the level of discomfort increased dramatically when I went back to work for Kenneth and Lucille Johnson.

No, I do not doubt that it was just as bad for my parents—especially for my mother. For she was the head of the Sporting Goods Department at Johnson's, and I often challenged her judgment, as well as her authority.

Yes, it was particularly wrong of me to treat her so disrespectfully. For she was still my mother, and she really did know what she was doing at Johnson's—as generations of customers would readily attest.

Whether justified or not, I was angry. For I blamed my parents for me being there at work in Cassville instead of being at school in Columbia, and my mother presented me with a rather easy target to hit (verbally—not physically).

Yes, all the ugliness took much away from the place, but working at Johnson's was still an experience that I have many fond memories of. For the store offered as much merchandise as a standard-sized (not a Supercenter) Wal-Mart did in less than a third of the floor-space.

Moreover, Johnson's was famous for having an unusually wide variety of items in inventory. In fact, the slogan of the store was If We Don't Have It, You Don't Need It.

A good example of that was the inventory of Sporting Good Department. For hundreds of different fishing lures hung on the walls, and aside from having all of the most popular types and styles of rifles, pistols and shotguns in all of the most popular calibers, there were also 218 Bees, 22 Hornets, 22 Magnum rifle/20 Gauge shotgun over/unders, Winchester Centennial 30-30's, 30-40 Krags, 45-70's, along with plenty of ammunition for each, of course.

Needless to say, the store was packed to the rafters, and there was a running joke about not wanting to be in the store when the time for the New Madrid (which is correctly pronounced New Madree) Fault in the bootheel region of Southeastern Missouri to generate another mammoth earthquake came to pass. For with ceilings well over 20 feet tall in some sections, it would take days (maybe even weeks) to dig out.

Ever so slowly, the relationship between my parents and I improved, but then a situation involving my brother threatened to negate all of the progress that had been made. For Terry decided to run away from home, and I got blamed for his short-lived dash for daylight.

No, I had nothing to do with it, and I tried to be as helpful as I could be to my parents after he made his escape. For I could have just kept it to myself that I had a feeling about Terry probably being at one of his friend's house in Butterfield (around 5 miles north of Cassville) if I had wanted to cause trouble. Instead, I did what any good older son would do, and I ratted-out my little brother.

Yes, Terry was found in Butterfield, but my parents were not in a mood to be grateful for my help. For they had it in their heads that he would have never even thought of doing anything like that if I had not of set such a bad example for him to follow.

No, all was not soon forgiven—let alone forgotten. For holding grudges comes quite naturally to my family, but when the time for the wedding came around, my family came around enough to attend.

The date was the 28th of April, 1977. For Sam had turned 18 on the 8th of April.

Yes, most would think that it was all so very sudden, but they would have no idea of just how long I had waited. For according to my internal clock at the time, a day felt like a lot longer than a thousand years, and I honestly believed that we were ready.

Well, I was half right. For Sam was a great wife from the very beginning, but I, on the other hand, could not do much of anything right.

Alas, the magic appeared to be gone. For almost everything I touched would turn into....fertilizer.

Even though she did not say much, it must have been a nightmare for Sam. For instead of getting a man who would quickly make her life in Gaddis Holler seem like a distant memory, she got a drowning boy who had no idea where the shore was.

An early example of the madness that Sam faced was my decision to join the Army less than a month after we got married. For the only advantage that I gained from my ROTC experience at Mizzou was being able to start-out as an E-2 instead of an E-1.

Oh yes, it was a sad situation. For I believed the recruiter in Monett (around 20 miles north of Cassville) when he assured me that Sam would be allowed to join me on base at Ft. Jackson in Columbia, SC after Basic Training was complete. For Ft. Jackson was where I would also receive my Advanced Individual Training (AIT).

No, what he assured me of was not necessarily a lie. For I really could have had my wife join me on base after Basic was over.

On the other hand, he did fail to mention a few details. For it all depended upon the availability of on-base housing, and at the time, none would be available for almost a year at best guess.

I also believed the recruiter when he told me that I did not need to specify which unit I would like to join after Basic and AIT was completed since I would surely be granted permission to stay at Ft. Jackson until I completed my degree from the University of South Carolina, BUT WAIT—THERE’S MORE! For he also assured me that the Army would pay for my bachelor's degree, and would then send me to any law school that would accept me.

Yes, I swallowed the bait—hook, line and sinker. In fact, I even spent some time in serious thought about whether I wanted to attend law school at Duke (in Durham, NC), Virginia (in Charlottesville, VA) or at Harvard (in Cambridge, MA).

Much to my chagrin, those thoughts of law schools went by the wayside when I was ordered to attend a meeting of those in the current training cycle who did not have a pre-approved unit to join after Basic and AIT was completed, and that was also when I decided that I no longer wanted to be a soldier. For the choice that I was given to make was between joining the 2nd Infantry Division (in South Korea) or the 82nd Airborne Division (in Ft. Bragg, NC), and neither location would have any on-base housing available for quite some time.

Be assured that I was way beyond mere devastation. For I felt like a rat in a discarded 4” sewer pipe with traps set at both ends.

Much to my surprise, it was my father who came to my rescue. For he was the one who informed the U.S. Congressman for the 7th District of Missouri about my recruiters assurances, and about 2 weeks later, I found myself stepping off of an airplane at the Lambert International Airport in St. Louis, MO with an Honorable Discharge in my suitcase.

Sadly, I was more appreciative of Congressman Gene Taylor's efforts on my behalf than those of my father's at the time. For like what was said before, holding grudges comes quite naturally to my family.

No, I am not at all proud of my appalling behavior back then. Neither am I proud of getting out of the Army after only 6 weeks of being in. In fact, I have felt a deep sense of shame ever since, but at the time, I just could not see the benefit of setting myself up to receive a “Dear Jerry” letter before I even had a chance to experience what it was really like to be married.

On the other hand, there were some bright spots to my brief stint in the military. For I recorded the second fastest time in my training company in the 2-Mile Run Test with a time of just over 11 minutes (16 minutes was the cut-off, I think), and I placed second in my training company with 51 knees bent knees/hands behind the head sit-ups in a minute. I was also one of two who qualified for a Military Driver's License out of 70 who applied.

It was, however, that Military Driver's License that got me into some very scary situations. For there was one night (after he was informed of my desire to leave his kind of life behind) that my main Drill Sergeant had me drive him out past where the crickets dared to tread—all the while talking about how much he learned about killing from his Special Forces training, and with that insignia on his sleeves, I had no reason to doubt what he was telling me.

There was also another night when I was assigned as the driver for the NCOD (Non-Commissioned Officer of the Day after being kept awake for over 3 days that had the potential to become problematic. For I fell asleep at my post, which was a desk in front of the door to where the NCOD was sleeping, and I awakened by someone asking me if I was asleep. My answer was, of course, “NO, DRILL SERGEANT!” Thankfully, that was all there was to it. For the person who asked me such a silly question was a Major.

Oh yeah, I was just reminded of a couple of other things about my time at Ft. Jackson that are worth mentioning. For I had the great honor and privilege of meeting the Command Sergeant Major of the Army at the time while I was down there, and I also “found” Jesus “again” while out there on that dusty road with my main Drill Sergeant.

Skeptical? Well, how could I have survived such an encounter without Him?

Yes, it was a reunion of sorts. For at the tender age of seven, I went forward to announce my acceptance of the Lord Jesus Christ as being my own personal Savior at the First (Southern) Baptist Church of Shell Knob, and I was subsequently baptized in Table Rock Lake around a hundred yards (I think) from our house near the Central Crossing Bridge.

Just as a side-note, I used to joke about Terry being a better Christian than me. For I was baptized in the fairly warm waters of the lake during the month of September. Whereas, Terry was baptized in the 45-degree (Fahrenheit) waters of Roaring River during the month of March.

Perhaps it was not that much of a joke. For after attending church on an extremely regular basis for almost 19 years, I rarely attended services after I left for Mizzou.

No, my stellar attendance record was not just the result of my parents dragging me to church kicking and screaming. For church was another place where I really shined, and I thoroughly enjoyed the attention.

Yes, it could be said that I was very religious for the most part, and that served me well at Ft. Jackson—be assured. For what I felt down there was all too painfully familiar to me. For I had “heard” His call to the ministry before.

No, I cannot remember just how many times I had felt like I was being called to serve, and I do not have a good reason for why I was always so reluctant to answer those calls. For I had read the Bible completely through five times before I turned 18, and I had taught a Sunday School class for years.

I suppose it was mostly about personal financial gain. For I knew of Oral Roberts, but I had no idea just how much money there really was out there for a charismatic minister of the Gospel to gather unto himself (all in the name of the Lord, of course). Therefore, the legal profession looked a whole lot more inviting.

My circumstances at Ft. Jackson were different, however. For I could not see where I was in any position to bargain.

My oh my, is it not funny how a change of scenery can often change the way we look at our circumstances? Maybe not for all, but it has worked like that for me occasionally.

One of those occasions occurred when I stepped off of that airplane in St. Louis. For instead of being engulfed in a dark cloud full of doom and gloom, I could see the sun shining ever so brightly.

Subsequently, I felt like I really did have some options to explore, and I wound up enrolling for the 1977 Fall Semester at Southwest Baptist in Bolivar, MO (around 75 miles northeast of Cassville). For I had heard that preachers with appropriate degrees made more money than those without any papers.

Alas, such are the plans of the foolish. For I only lasted about three months at Bolivar, and my very supportive wife had to suffer through another failure of mine.

One good thing did come out of the summer/fall of 1977 for us. For Vicki Lynn was conceived, and on the 18th of May, 1978, our daughter was born at St. John's Hospital in Springfield, MO.

No, the birth of our daughter was not as joyous of an occasion as it should have been. For Sam's doctor did not show up until it was time to cut the umbilical cord, and this resulted in her having to endure a very unwanted natural child-birth. For the nurses in attendance said that they were not allowed to administer any drugs until the doctor told them to, and what made a bad situation even worse was that Vicki weighed-in at 10 pounds 4 ounces!

Yes, Sam suffered greatly from fourth degree lacerations, and St. John's did not do much to make it feel all-better. For after I thought I had met the most sadistic somebody to ever work in a hospital, another nurse would then come in and make the other one look like the epitome of kindness.

On the other hand, the problem may have been all in my way of looking at things. For I had not received any sort of medical training, except for some advanced first-aid classes while in the Boy Scouts. Therefore, it would not be all that unreasonable to think that I must not have any idea what Do No Harm really means.

Nonetheless, one look at Vicki's full head of very dark brown hair (3-4” long) made it all worthwhile, and there was something about holding her in my arms that made time stand still. For she was such a good baby.

Then complications arose. For it was discovered that Vicki's hips had been dislocated during her birth, and she would have to stay in a double-brace for a while in order to insure that they would stay in their proper place as she grew up.

The news was devastating, but it turned out to be just another brush with disaster. For Vicki came out of the brace with a clean bill of health, and in what seemed like no time at all, she was walking and running all over the place with youthful abandon.

As expected, Sam was a wonderful mother. For she had already had a lot of experience in that area from helping to raise her younger siblings.

What was not expected was how much I was able to help her. For Sam already knew about me being thoroughly domesticated by my parents, but what she did not know was that my extensive home-training also included changing diapers and feeding babies.

Neither did I, to be quite honest about it. For I was too young to be of any help to my parents with that sort of stuff while Terry was a baby, but it all came quite naturally to me. That is, except for always being afraid of sticking Vicki with a diaper pin.

Speaking of my parents, the birth of their first grandchild smoothed a lot of ruffled feathers, and Sam had a lot to do with that. For she made it crystal clear that they were more than welcome to spend as much time with Vicki as they wanted to, and that touched them deeply.

Yes, some things were most definitely looking up. Others were not. For I was of a lot of help in a lot of areas, but in the area of providing for my family, I was generally a miserable failure.

No, it was not for lack of trying. For I never went more than eight days without a dependable source of income, but I would not stay anywhere long enough to maintain a reasonable level of financial stability.

Oh what a foolish boy was I. For my inability to hold a job for longer than just a few weeks came from thinking that it was beneath me to do certain menial things.

On the other hand, having 30 some jobs in the first four years of our marriage allowed me to gain knowledge about an awful lot of things. For I worked as a machine shop worker, welding inspector, precision flange lay-out designer, cowboy, pork producer, cab driver, advertising sales representative, saw-miller, hay hauler, brush cutter, firewood producer, convenience store attendant, truck stop attendant, tire repairer, mobile home sales manager, chicken plant worker, electrical motor factory worker and inspector, fishing fly-tier, feed mill worker and the pastor of a Southern Baptist Church.

Yes, I kept my promise to the Lord by becoming a permanently-licensed minister through the sponsorship of the First (Southern) Baptist Church of Cassville in 1978 (I think), and I even saw some success in the two years that I served as the pastor of the Twin Valley (Southern) Baptist Church, which was located at the top of the hill going down into Gaddis Holler in sight of Lohmar Tower, which was a seasonally-manned forest fire watch tower of the MO Department of Forestry. For the average Sunday morning attendance rose from 5 to 35—even in the middle of a Pentecostal stronghold!

No, I did not accept ordination. For I felt unworthy of such a charge.

Besides, it did not appear to be a hindrance. For as a permanently-licensed minister, I could legally perform marriage ceremonies, and business was fairly good for a period of time.

All in all, I presided over 14 ceremonies. For I was willing to marry people whom other ministers would not touch.

No, it was not that I had little respect for the institution of marriage. Neither was it an act of rebellion. For I just did not consider myself as being qualified to pass judgment upon the intentions of others.

One of the marriage ceremonies that I performed involved two couples (with the youngest of them being 70 years old) who wanted to be married out in the sunshine at the Monett City Park. In stark contrast, another one was held in the mouth of Rockhouse Cave.

Speaking of Rockhouse Cave, Darrel Greenstreet lived a mile or so down the road to the east from it. In fact, he was the one who introduced me to Larry Tyler and his blushing bride.

Now to say that Darrel was an interesting character would be quite an understatement. For his I.Q. (Intelligence Quotient) had to have been over 200, and he was well versed on a number of subjects—including religion and philosophy.

He was also a Marine Corps Vietnam Vet, and this contributed greatly to an evening that I do not believe that I will ever forget. For while we were walking back to his house to get his tractor to pull my pick-up truck (not the same one that I had in high school) out of a snow-bank, Darrel told me that the most valuable thing that he learned in Vietnam was how to hate.

In response, I informed him that I also knew how to hate. To which he retorted that I was sorely mistaken, and then he proceeded to make his point by asking me what I would do if my worst enemy was drowning in full view of his wife and four small children, who were begging me to save him, which could be accomplished by simply reaching down and pulling him out of the water.

Talk about being surreal. For the surrounding landscape was blanketed with a foot of pure white snow, and a very bright full moon was shining down. This made it look much more like day than night, and there I was with this fairly small man (around 5'8", I think), with a foot-long beard and a pipe full of tobacco, jumping about 3 feet off the ground while screaming, “I would stomp on his head,” after hearing me admit that I would I reach down to pull my worst enemy out of the water—albeit only for the sake of his family. If I remember right, I wet myself when he did that, which gave us both a good laugh (eventually).

A little later on, Darrel asked me another question, and the mood turned decidedly more somber. For what he asked was about why a loving God would let a bus-load of little children die in an accident if He could do anything about it.

I was absolutely stumped, but I had to say something. For I was, after all, the pastor of a church.

Therefore, I fell back on a patented response that is often given when one is asked to explain what appears to be inexplicable. This was, of course, “Well, I am sure that He has His reasons.”

Is it not brilliant? For it neither concedes that God must not be able to really do much, nor denies that He is indeed full of lovingkindness. It also alludes to His mysterious ways, and that should be enough for anyone with at least some religious indoctrination—right?

Such was not the case with Darrell, however, and that really haunted me. For I felt like such a failure, but before I could devote more time to the salvation of his soul, I had much more pressing matters to attend to.

Yes, life had been going on, and things had been going from bad to worse. For we were drowning in debt, and the only lifeboat in sight at the time was bankruptcy.

The year was 1981, and we initially tried to file under Chapter 13 Bankruptcy Protection. For that would allow Sam and I to keep what we had, and pay far less per month for it (in theory).

The lawyer that we hired to handle our case was corrupt, however. For he did not disclose to us that he was also on retainer for a number of our creditors, and by the time “they” got through with us, we were required to pay over $400 per month MORE!

So, that left us with only one option, and that was to re-file under Chapter 7, which constitutes a liquidation of assets. For if we could not afford to make our payments before, we certainly could not do so after we got ambushed.

1981 was also the year when Terry graduated from Cassville High School, and soon after that our father died. For he had been given only a few weeks to live in November of 1980 because of the kind of cancer that had ravaged his lungs (14 years after quitting smoking), but he was granted his wish to stay alive long enough to see Terry's diploma.

Yes, my father and I had put a lot of our past problems behind us by the fall of 1980. In fact, I would often drive him to and from his appointments at the VA Hospitals in Fayetteville, AR and Kansas City, MO, but when he wanted me around the most, I was off with Sam on a float trip down the Buffalo River in Arkansas.

No, I was not there when my father passed away in that state hospital in Mt. Vernon, MO (around 40 miles north of Cassville and around 8 miles south of Miller). For I just could not face that look of deep disappointment upon his face while he lay on his deathbed.

Hence, another thing about my past that I am deeply ashamed of. For I was simply too gutless to be there for my family when I could have been of at least some comfort to them.

As with 1977, one good thing did come out of 1981 for Sam and I. For Amanda Marie was conceived in that year, and on the 21st of May in 1982, our second daughter was born at the Cox Medical Center on the northside of Springfield, MO.

Thankfully, Amanda's birth was nothing like Vicki's. For she “only” weighed 8 pounds flat, and Sam was given all sorts of good drugs because of her doctor being there when he should have been.

Nonetheless, I would have still liked to have had some good drugs of my own. For unlike before, I was allowed in the delivery room this time.

Yes, I truly believed that I could handle it. For I had assisted with the births of calves, pigs and even rabbits, but I quickly discovered that I was not at all prepared for Amanda coming out blue with a bunch of really icky-looking stuff smeared all over her.

No, I did not faint, and I began to feel so much better after being told that Amanda would not have to endure what Vicki did after her birth. For everything about Amanda was right where it was supposed to be.

The subsequent hospital stay was also a lot better this time, and that included care for another procedure—to boot. For Sam had her tubes tied after Amanda was born.

Finally, a legitimate reason to celebrate. For the birth of Amanda really was a joyous occasion, and what made it even better was that we had thought that we had lost her during the sixth month of the pregnancy.

It all started with blood gushing out of Sam for no apparent reason, and by the time I got her to the hospital in Springfield, at least a half of an inch of it covered the floorboard of the car beneath her feet. Needless to say, I was terrified, and I have no doubt that it was only by the grace of God that we made it to the hospital in Springfield.

Since I had called her doctor before we left home, he was waiting for us at the hospital, and after a preliminary examination, he confirmed our fears by telling us that Sam had indeed suffered a miscarriage. He then directed a nurse to do a sonogram on her as part of standard procedure before performing a DNC (Dilation & Curettage, which is the procedure that cleans out the womb) and lo and behold, there Amanda was.

No, I did not see her at first. For my attention was focused upon another image in the picture, but after she was pointed out to me, it became clear that Amanda was very much still alive.

I have often joked that Amanda must have been literally hanging on for dear life as all of that blood rushed past her, but then there was also the matter of that image of a man's face in the sonogram picture of her while she was still in the womb to consider. For was it the face of Jesus, her guardian angel or just a figment of my fertile imagination?

It was enough to drive a Southern Baptist preacher to drink, and I felt like it was only right for me to do that very thing—despite no longer being active as a Southern Baptist preacher. For there is nothing like being in a drunken stupor to mellow a person out.

Yes, common sense would dictate that the last thing that I should have been doing was getting drunk. For I was well aware of how that kind of conduct can lead to disaster in a number of ways. I was, after all, raised to be a GOOD Southern Baptist, but since I only got drunk on the weekends, I saw no reason for concern.

Besides, Sam really enjoyed going out on the weekends to dance and forget about what a mess I had made of her life for a few hours, and after we got hooked up with some others from the Cassville area, the fun did not have to end when the band called it a night. For we then started to observe the universal tradition of eating breakfast before going home, and this was usually good for a few more laughs.

Alas, good times do have a habit of coming to an end, and such was the fate of our merry band of weekend warriors. For after Pulaskiville (a honky-tonk outside of Pierce City, MO) had to close for a while, there was no other place to go within a reasonable distance to travel.

No, we did not stay home for long. For we hooked up with another group, and this one was even more fun. For instead of going dancing, we would go rambling through the backwoods in 4-wheel drive and off-road vehicles while consuming massive quantities of beer and other adult beverages.

Yes, I am quit sure that most of us would have qualified for a MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) Top Ten Most Wanted List if such a thing existed back then, but none of us would have really cared. For we were all charter members of DAMM (Drunks Against Mad Mothers) in our area, and since we did not get into any trouble to speak of, we believed that we were doing just fine.

Some better than others, of course. For I lost my family to one of the members of our group.

No, I could not really blame her. For with all things considered, I was miserable failure as a good husband.

Nonetheless, the timing of our break-up really messed with my head. For I had been working at the same job for about three years, and we were doing fairly good financially in comparison to how it had been the first four years of our marriage.

Could it be that the Seven Year Itch Syndrome also affects women? For Sam and I had been married seven years and seven days when the end came.

On the other hand, maybe where we lived at the time had something to do with it? For it was called the Heartbreak Hotel by those who knew about the history of the house.

Oh, and what a history it was. For no couple who actually lived there had ever left the place still a couple—including the original owners. For the husband (I think) died while they lived there, and I truly wanted to join him after it became all too painfully clear to me that life (as I wanted to know it) was over on the 5th of May in 1984.