A Christmas Story (Remembering Al Rousso)

This story was written a few years back but the "tradition" of shopping at the last minute continues.... 

My parents have been married now for more decades than I can count and every Christmas my father does “his” Christmas shopping at the last minute. 

Times may have changed; he has even embraced online shopping with packages arriving throughout the year via the Brown UPS Truck. 

But Christmas for Dad has always meant a last-minute dash to the jewelry store.

Several years have passed but for the longest time there was the annual Christmas Eve trip to Brownlee Jewelers in the Johnston Building on South Tryon Street in Uptown Charlotte. 

One year, I was privileged enough to witness an event that had been occurring every Christmas Eve since at least the early 70’s. 

The familiar jingle of a bell held over the door announced our entrance. Despite several customers crowded into the small store, the owner Al Rousso immediately spotted my father. 

Calling him by name: “Good to see you, I’ve been expecting you.” 

A warm smile sprang to his face. “Come on in I got something I want to show you.” Al offered, as he opened the small half swing door that separated the customers from the other side of the glass counters and the jewelry salesmen. As we were quickly swept into the back office, Al looked around, obviously checking for anyone within earshot. 

“I’ve been saving this just for you, something I know your wife (he knew her name as well) will really enjoy.” My mother would have been happy with red and white Christmas potholders, the one’s with a reindeer on one side and a sleigh on the other. 

But my father always gave her something that sparkled and came in a small box. Mr. Rousso reached down, opened a safe and withdrew a small six-inch-long box covered in navy blue velvet. He looked around again playing his role with exaggerated movements and came closer to my father and me. He opened the box just for the briefest of moments and immediately closed it. 

“Well, what do you think?” Al asked. “Wow! …. Oh My! …. honey you shouldn’t have?” he questions. 

My father nods in agreement. 

With a faux look of suspicion and glancing past us toward the other employees busy with customers, he tells my father: “I’ve been fighting them off for weeks but this I told them is for someone special.” 

Nervously he looks around and opens the box again. You would have thought we were about to buy a stolen gem the size of your fist. A back alley deal so good we should be arrested on the spot. 

“And the price?” My father asks. 

Al looks at the bottom of the box and hands it to my father, who shows it to me. Al interrupts by asking us to keep it out of sight for what he is about to do the other customers will most likely riot and all his employees might just quit without notice. 

“The price is blank but for you …. (a lingering pause) blank” My father looks like a deer in the headlights, no doubt the price is well beyond what he had in mind. After a long painful pause Al concedes “But since its Christmas blank less blank”… and adds “please I beg you don’t tell anyone what a good deal I’m giving you.” 

My father smiles and with a quick signature on a small 3-part carbon sales bill it is added to my father’s account. The yellow customer copy neatly folded and placed into his wallet and the gift slipped into his suit coat pocket. We all shake hands then the jingle above the door announces our departure, as Mr. Rousso and my father shout Merry Christmas to each other. 

Down the glimmering marble lobby and through the heavy brass doors we step back out onto the street, a brisk wind at our backs. 

And that was it, in less than ten minutes our Christmas Eve mission was accomplished. 

And so, I was left to assume that the interchange between the Jewish jewelry store owner and my father the Christian buying a gift for his wife on Christmas Eve had repeated itself many times before and perhaps years after that. A simplistic ritual, nearly as old as time itself, merchant, and client. 

Al Rousso passed away in 2001 at the age of 76, and the small store at 212 South Tryon Street relocated to the Overstreet Mall but closed in 2020 due to riots, COVID and Uptown crime.

But elsewhere around Charlotte the Rousso family continues the tradition of Brownlee Jewelers. Though I truly doubt it is with the level of theater and salesmanship I witnessed on Christmas Eve so long ago.

Merry Christmas, and thank you Al Rousso

A Christmas Manger

My wife is a Christmas addict, the 12 step program and the long road to recovery, at least so far has failed. 

Experts say to correct any disorder you must first determine the cause. Last year, I accidentally discovered the source of my wife’s lifelong obsession with all things Christmas.  

She is a person with Christmas boxes. Ornaments and lights, Santas and nativities, angels and stars, teddy bears and stockings all reside in boxes during the off season. One rather large box has been around since our first Christmas together. 

Over the years the box had become what my grandmother would call “dog eared” meaning the flaps to the box were so worn that they were no longer stiff but floppy like the ears on my Labrador Retrievers. 

So last year well into January and with much discussion we agreed to replace the worn out box with a couple of plastic tubs. It was my task to make the orderly transition, out of the old box and into the new tubs. Deep Inside, at the very bottom of the old and tattered box, among crumpled old newspapers was a small wad of tissue. 

So small, that it was almost thrown away.

In a split second of clarity my hand quickly backed away from the trash bag. The paper had just enough weight to cause suspicion. I carefully unwrapped the tissue to reveal a tiny paper box, no larger than an inch wide and two inches across. 

A price of 10 Cents was stamped in ink on the top of the box with that symbol of a “C” with a line through it that somehow vanished during the transition of typewriter keyboard to computer keyboard decades ago. 

The drawing on the outside of the box, depicted a manger scene complete with 3 lambs and a shepherd, a donkey, a cow, three wise men, Joseph and Mary and baby Jesus with an angel overhead. Inside a plastic full color replica of the western world’s perception of the birth of Jesus. 

The micro sized nativity scene complete with a manger was my wife’s first Christmas decoration purchase and the first hint of a lifelong love of all things involving her favorite winter holiday. 

Her explanation was simple. In her Catholic elementary school they had a bake and toy sale right before Christmas. Donated items were laid out on a table for students to peruse all morning, then during the 45 minute lunch break students would buy things that ranged from ten cents to a dollar. Comic books, and silly putty are things she remembers, in addition to cookies and cupcakes. It seems the manger was a one of a kind. 

The only one offered and during lunch while boys jostled for airplane models and the girls turned the pages of Nancy Drew story books my wife scored the tiny manger scene for 10 Cents. 

Now nearly four decades later it is dwarfed by all that we possess, yet it is indeed one of the most valuable items in the home we share. 

It is a part of her past, and finding it has allowed me to touch a part of her childhood and in the process to begin to understand her love of all things Christmas, and perhaps the cause of her addiction.

Merry Christmas Mrs. Cedar!

A Trailer Palace Christmas

I admit it; at one time I actually dated a girl who lived in what she loved to call her "trailer palace". 

Since my idea of dating has always been a total head first, all in commitment, that means I lived in a mobile home for a time. 

This is not something I'm particularly proud of, but over the years it has given me perspective and a profound sense of what Christmas means to so many who have so little.

   

Christmas Eve and on this cold star filled night the temperatures are hovering just below freezing. Aside from a tent, you can't get more outside while living inside, than in a mobile home.

The wind blows and with each gust, the wood and steel frame home groans and creaks. The trailer shudders with each shift in direction of the wind. The cold doesn't just creep in when the wind blows, is barrels through the walls, pushing the furnace into overdrive on frigid nights like this.

When you are young, certain things don't matter, like the thickness of the walls or the sturdiness of a home's foundation. The quality of the accommodations were the last thing on my mind, all I knew was that sex on a water bed was amazingly fun. Though I have to say that I often questioned the ability of the small single wide mobile home to support the weight of the water and our combined sexual enthusiasm.

Somewhere south of Charlotte, off a wandering ribbon of asphalt called Potter Road, there is a trailer park that I remember like it was yesterday:

Pine trees looming overhead, their fallen needles carpeting the gravel drive that circles around the small group of aluminum clad flat roofed homes, all set at odd angles from the rut filled road.

The layout is simple, garbage cans to the right, parking to the left. A clothes line along the front and junk in the back. The unmistakable sound of Carolina Pines standing against the winter wind echoes across the cold expanse of Carolina red clay. The trees bend and flex in the frozen air as they rain pine needles that fall gently like snowflakes across the ground. The sound of the wind on this winter's night whistling through the trees is amazing.

Not long after midnight the rumble of diesel engines steady in the night, reminds me that the CSX railroad tracks run behind the property. The low and steady distant sound is a warning that all hell is about to engulf her small trailer palace.

There's a large "W" on a creosote soaked post that sits less than 50 yards behind the trailer. When Angela moved into the "new to her" mobile home she failed to notice the proximity of the railroad tracks or understand the significance of the "W".

But to railroad enthusiasts and train engineers the W is as common as mile posts on an interstate highway. The W marks the approach to the "grade crossing" just down the tracks from the trailer park. The W is for whistle and its placement requires sounding of the massive three tone air horn on the diesel engine, regardless of time of day or night whenever passed.

We lay in her bed, listening to the ever increasing pulsing sounds as the four diesel electric engines grow closer. When the trailer begins to vibrate, we know the horn is about to open up. The sound so deafening that it isn't something you sleep through. It is so loud and so close that it has startled many a drunk, passed out on her couch.

A minute later the fading sound of the last freight car passes and the sound of the winter wind returns. The cold echoes of steel wheels chasing the last freight car down the tracks south towards Monroe, a reminder that the night is clear, and crisp.

In order to save money Angela turns down the heat at midnight and fights the temptation to nudge the pointer past 50 on the analog thermostat until at least 6am. Her ability to stretch out her tank of LP gas I find a little concerning, since one of her ideas is to run her laundry in the dryer during the coldest hours and unhook the gas dryer exhaust so that it vents directly to the inside of her trailer. During the winter this provides additional heat. I offer my advice that it’s not safe, but even so it’s still money, she says. On this night she accepts my advice and so a couple of frozen bath towels hang outside in the winter moon light.

The back window of her minivan is covered in plastic. A sad reminder of a mistake made only a week before. It was a brief lapse in thinking, for an otherwise crazy smart young single mother of two.

The trip to Target by herself was a success. She had had arranged for the kids to spend the night with their Nana and PawPaw, She spent nearly all of her $300 bonus from the trucking company where she works, on toys and stocking suffers for her children. The two for one coupon offer on the family size lasagna at the grocery store was all she needed to complete her Christmas shopping list. She hadn't planned to be in the store for more than a few minutes. But that was all the time the thieves needed.

In the parking lot outside of the BiLo, she didn't give a second thought to the two women nearby loading a car full of groceries She didn't notice that they spotted the stash of toys in the back of her minivan as she closed the rear door. But they watched their mark enter the grocery store and it took them less than a minute to brazenly smash the rear window and empty all but the smallest of gifts from inside Angela’s Honda Odyssey and vanish into the night.

There were no tears shed, she didn't even bother to call the police. She knew there would be nothing more than a report filed, the insurance deductible she knew was higher than the cost of the stolen presents. Thinking about it, she noted she could either be angry at herself or go on, and go on is what she did.

I imagine it was a cold lonely drive home by herself with that back window busted out, but she never complained. Living in a trailer palace, tempers your emotions, she has told me on more than one occasion.

Its around 3 am when she quietly moves the carefully wrapped packages out of hiding an into place around the small Christmas tree. It is too cold to linger and inspect her handy work. She stops only briefly to admire the one Christmas decoration that means the most to her. A baby's first Christmas ornament purchased for her son. The math surprises her, could it really be four years? The thought comes and goes and as it does she smiles. She glances in the mirror at the scar on her forehead, faded over time and it makes her laugh out loud and shake her head in disbelief.

She had bought the Hallmark ornament with the last 15 dollars she had in her checking account or so she thought. But she had forgotten the bank service charge and the debit left her account with only a $1.50, the NSF charge of 35 dollars then caused two other checks to bounce even after her paycheck was deposited. The end result was that the ornament cost her more than 100 dollars. The scar on her forehead was a gift from her then (now ex) husband after he opened the mail somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. The following year was a blur of police, and courts. The fights were just a haze of screaming rage directed her way not just from her ex but from his family as well.

The name calling and sworn testimony by her ex mother in law about her infidelity and drug use hurt the most, those lies and fabricated documents were the last straw. Thankfully the judge saw though that, and gave Angela full custody of her son and 18 month old daughter.

Now two years later she seldom receives the monthly child support payments. The father hasn’t been heard from in over a year. She checks the second bedroom out of habit, both little angels are sound asleep. Neither child stirs as she gently lays another blanket on each twin bed.

It took me four stops and three hours to replace the stolen toys. 

I distracted her kids with popcorn and a DVD of A Charlie Brown Christmas while she carefully wrapped the gifts in the back of her minivan outside.

Now nearly 30 minutes after she whispered "Its time for Santa to come down the chimney", she returns to bed, her warmth is overwhelming and welcomed. Her soft voice, a quiet but breathy "Thank You" are the only words spoken during the next two hours.....

More years have passed than I can count. Angela long ago remarried, her kids have grown into young adults and even though the years have gone by we still talk from time to time. The trailer palace a distant place in her past as well.

But looking back I don't think you can really appreciate life or fully embrace the wonder of Christmas Eve until you have spent at least one in a “Trailer Palace”.

Note: Time changes us, it changes our perception and our memory. Some things however are as vivid today as they were during the time it happened. Some things build others tear down. This I can say was a little of both. Yes, time changes us, it is though time that we understand. 

The Salvation Army and Christmas

Ding, ting, ting, ding, ting, the sound echoes across the cold, wet parking lot pavement. A sound as familiar as Silent Night or Joy to the World, it’s the sound of the Salvation Army during Christmas.

The night air is full of dampness, and the cold wind jumps around the north side of the building threatening to knock over the Salvation Army tripod and sign that supports a red bucket, known for the past 100 years as the kettle.

During the past dozen or so years this has been my place for at least one night during the weeks that lead up to Christmas.

A Christmas tradition began years ago, with an unattended kettle on another cold and rainy night. The bell ringer had walked off the job, perhaps his shift had ended and his replacement a “no show”. Whatever the reason the sight of the bell on the sidewalk and the apron hanging on the back side of the sign was a call to action, and ever since that day my family has rung “the bell” for the Salvation Army.

And so it goes that on this cold night, I and Mrs. Cedar are in front of a South Charlotte Wal-Mart ringing the night away.

A vast majority of bell ringers are paid by the Army to ring the bell. They work the part-time temporary job, from Thanksgiving til the 23rd of December. For many it is the only work they can find.

The hired ringers have varied styles, some that sing, some that have a little dance; many are as happy as St. Nick himself, but others act as if they are mimes and say or do nothing at all.

But we are of a different sort.

We take only a few days or nights each year and spilt the work among almost a dozen family members who often ring the bell together.

I suspect the boom box which plays the soundtrack from Vince Guaraldi’s “A Charlie Brown Christmas” endlessly puts a smile on most everyone’s face, and perhaps encourages folks to open their wallet just a little wider.

We all wear the Salvation Army "red aprons" a sign of service and some of the family wear Santa hats, red scarfs and even red sweaters.

The job is both sobering and amazingly fun; honestly it’s a lot more fun than you would think.

In front of the local Wal-Mart this past Saturday we rang “the bell” from 10 am -8 pm providing Christmas music for all, and drinking plenty of hot chocolate and coffee to stay warm.

What amazes me most, are the people.

Keep in mind the Salvation Army is a Church, so we say Merry Christmas a lot, no “Happy PC Holiday” greeting from us. By the way if you ask me, saying Merry Christmas is one of the biggest joys of the holiday season.

Salvation Army bell ringers are often the same people the Army benefits during the winter. So people are sometimes confused when they walk by and see a couple wearing Barbour Jackets and Timberland Boots.

One year a man who attends of our church did a double take, shocked to find my father a member of the church vestry ringing a bell for the Salvation Army.

The man stood there with his mouth open and then in a surprised voice asked “What happened, what are you doing here?”

My father always quick with a joke offered that he was doing community service. The man pulled a twenty out of his wallet pressed it into my father hand with "I will pray for you" then walked away shaking his head, it took another six months to squelch the rumor that my dad had been convicted of some crime that required many hours of community service

Throughout the night, there are those who shrug, or say they are sorry that they don’t have any change. Others walk by and won’t even look at us, and many will go out of their way to avoid using the door next to us.

To some we ARE the homeless, they won’t make eye contact as they walk by, afraid to speak to us for fear we might begin preaching about Christ.

Others actually take pity on us.

A light mist was falling across the parking lot, when an older women approached. She carefully placed 5 dollars in the kettle and in a heartfelt voice she tells me: I pray that things get better for you and your wife.

"Bless you" I politely replied.

Often it is those who have the least, that dig down the deepest. A single mother carefully takes a dollar out of her purse, into the kettle it goes. A bus driver waves us over and hands us two tens.

I watch as a Wal-Mart employee helps a customer load up a large LCD television into his car, the customer tips the employee with a $20.00. As the employee walks back into the store he turns to the kettle and in goes the two photos of Andrew Jackson.

Prada boots and a fur coat briskly walks by with her nose in the air avoid eye contact and, nearly tripping over a couple in t-shirts with five kids in tow. Each of the children is handed a small amount of change and one by one the coins trickle into the kettle.

Later the same women with the fur coat exits the store and slides into the black Mercedes that has been idling in the fire lane for nearly twenty minutes.

Then there are the Latinos, who place money in the kettle coming and going. They smile when we say MERRY CHRISTMAS, and I wonder if they understand my English, maybe I should say Feliz Navidad? I know they don’t have the money to spend so why do they do it? I’m cold and nearly asking the question out loud.

By 7:40 the van rolls up, the young black man a full time Salvation Army employee is cheerful and friendly. He unlocks the kettle and places it in the van where six men will take the long ride back to the men's shelter for tonight.

The Salvation Army’s work goes on, but my work is done until next year. After ringing the bell for 3 and ½ hours my feet are numb, my face cold and the bell is still ringing in my ears……. Ding, Ding, Ding….

I'm fortunate that I don't need a ride to the shelter. Blessed that my wife and I can stop at Five Guys for a hamburger and coke, where the girl behind the counter says Merry Christmas! as we walk out the door.

Yes, Merry Christmas indeed!

Christmas Birds

 I'm burdened with a very Audubon fascination with birds. Blessed with an abundance of feathered songbirds that flutter across my yard all year long. Nuthatch, Chickadee, Bluebird, and Jay. There's even a Mockingbird who has mastered both the sound of a golf cart backing up and the Apple Air Tag attached to my Labrador Retrievers.

There are Woodpeckers of all sizes and Mourning Doves, Cardinal, and Carolina Wrens.

Beyond the property line and into the 16 acres of wetlands that follow along Four Mile Creek there are Redtail and Cooper's hawks, Great Horned Owls, and Barred Owls. Black and Turkey Vultures and should I brave the cold today a nesting pair of Bald Eagles just 300 yards from a four lane that drivers race along at better than 60 miles an hour.

Perhaps my fascination is that of Wilbur and Orville Wright watching Osprey soar along the dunes at North Carolina's Outer Banks. I've even spent a weekend hang gliding off Jockey's Ridge when I was young foolish and believed that I was bullet proof. 

But today a long winter walk will have to suffice, and my wife and two Labrador Retrievers are willing companions and an excellent Eagle spotters. We follow the creek and encounter a Great Blue Heron, and then a Kingfisher as a Hawk springs into flight overhead.  

The Hawk banks right then to the left and circles, having found warmth in the afternoon sun and a strong thermal lift. Within a minute he's more than 800 feet above us. 

Robert Redford's line from the film Jeremiah Johnson: "Hawk. Goin' for the Musselshell. Take me a week's ridin', and he'll be there in... hell, he's there already." reminds me of my earth-bound status.

I'm envious of Redford and of the Hawk.

It's Christmas and unusually cold so cold the main pond in our golf course community is mostly frozen over and the Eagles are nowhere to be seen. But we are rewarded with a dozen sea gulls and more than 70 Double Crested Cormorants who have taken refuge in the smaller pond behind my neighbor's house. This pond is spring fed and enjoys a wide southern exposure and the combination of underground water and sunlight heats the pond just enough.

While the Canada Geese will brave the larger near frozen pond the warmth of the smaller pond seems to have attracted the normally solitary Cormorants. 

The afternoon winds down, and our Labs have internal clocks that know it's "time for food" so they give up exploring for a more purposeful trot towards the house. They need no encouragement as the sun begins a rapid descent into darkness.

The Bald Eagles will have to wait for another day, and then as if on some clue from God himself a reminder that it is indeed Christmas appears overhead.

A White Dove winging its way towards the heavens? I think so and a fitting reward for a Christmas walk in the woods. 

100 Years ago, perhaps on a day like this Robert Frost penned the words to "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."

The final lines are:

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

and those words are not lost on me. 

The Christmas Box

Years ago my father, the manager of Paine Webber’s Charlotte office had an office prankster and a running joke that started on the 1st of December lasted until Christmas Eve.

Just after Thanksgiving the staff put up the a Christmas tree. Not bad for a 12-foot fake tree, but somehow without presents it just looked bare. So dad sent an email to everyone suggesting that should someone feel the holiday spirit and want to wrap up a box or two, he’d be happy to approve the nominal expense.

Two days passed with no replies or offers, and the tree remained giftless.

Then on the 1st of December a very small package, no more than a six inch cube wrapped in gold and red paper, with a perfect red bow, showed up under the tree. It was without a tag and after each available employee checked out the gift box, it was determined it was just a nice wrapped but empty box, as Dad had suggested.

But the box was so small that it was dwarfed by the tree. 

Hoping to encourage the responsible party to perhaps make another box or two, Dad hit the reply to all button and thanked the mystery gift provider for their work and the holiday cheer it brought to the office.

A few days passed and as Dad was walking the tree, he noticed the package had grown. He nearly stumbled into a co-worker also looking at the package that had ever so slightly expanded overnight.

The six-inch-by-six-inch square box was now eight or maybe nine inches, same holiday wrapping paper different color different bow and just a little bit bigger and only one. 

From then on, every day the package would grow, the wrapping paper and the bow would change but it was always placed in the exact same place as it was the night before, just a little bigger and only the one lone package.

Soon the mystery package became the talk of the office. How big will it get, who is behind this mischief, and what is the purpose and where did the smaller boxes go?

Two weeks before Christmas the package had grown into a box that was 2 feet square. The package that once was overshadowed by the 12-foot tree now looked pretty good but the package continued to grow. The weekend before Christmas, they had the company Christmas party and sometime during the party the package increased to nearly 3 feet square. On the 21st it was bigger yet, and on the 22nd and 23rd it grew again.

Then on the morning of the 24th much to Dad’s surprise the lobby was filled with 24 packages all square and in ever increasing sizes. Each of those wrapped boxes that had made an appearance on one of the preceding days now surrounded the company tree. All perfectly wrapped in reds, greens and golds, and the original one, the smallest, had a small envelope attached. 

The tiny card inside the envelope read: 

“One alone does not make a team, but together we put on quite a show. Merry Christmas”.

To this day no one knows who was behind the fun and the Christmas “team” message. But I have my suspicions. 

Merry Christmas!

St. Nick and Coco

Things have turned quiet at the Charleston City Marina. Gone are the mega yachts, those gleaming white ships made of spotless fiberglass, bright shiny chrome and their perfectly tanned crew members.

The cruising crowd has gone south as well, retired couples, enjoying their life aboard fuel efficient trawlers that have become the floating equivalent of motor homes. 

On the vast and now mostly empty mega dock, a straggler of the snowbird procession arrives in a sailboat with a faded yellow hull. A hull, that chalks away in a yellow and white cloud of dust should you happen to brush up against. The boat is a 1977 Erwin sloop, just 28 feet long and named Elizabeth. 

A boat that has been floating since what appears to be, when time began. 

One week before Christmas and I'd swear that his name might as well be St. Nicolas or even Santa Claus. Nick or at least his near likeness is really named George, complete with a pipe whose smoke encircles his head like a wreath, a full neatly trimmed white beard and a head full of thick hair tucked up under a red wool cap. 

I guess that George is nearly 80 though he could be 100, he is an attractive man for his age, with strong weathered features and a crooked smile like that of Harrison Ford. 

Photo of Coco by the Author

His only passenger is Coco, an overly excitable Chocolate Lab that bounds off the boat the moment the first dock line touches the cleats. Coco has spotted a dolphin and wants everyone to know about it. Running back and forth along the dock and barking endlessly, with George yelling Coco, Coco, CooooooCooooo! 

Finally Coco obeys and wanders with his head hung low back to the sailboat, but still his tail wags nonstop. 

I suspect that George has traveled a lot with Coco as they both seem well suited to each other. Coco knows his job is to be the dolphin spotter, and George over looks Coco's inability to truly fulfill his role as first mate. 

George doesn't offer many answers, not even a last name, not that he's unfriendly more so just private. His wife Elizabeth I learn, passed away nearly 15 years ago, he has a daughter in Texas and a son in Florida, neither I decide he has seen or spoken to in a number of years. 

To the question of where is home? George simply points to the boat. 

Where are you heading? And he points south. 

Coco needs a little private time on some green terra-firma and so George and Coco head down the dock. 

I glance at the boat and discreetly try to appraise the boat’s seaworthiness. 

Yellow, Red and Blue Plastic jugs are lashed to the life lines running along both sides. The hull hasn’t seen soapy water, a brush or wax in at least a decade but it seems sound, except where the deck is cracked in three places. 

Elsewhere rust abounds, duct tape holds a port light closed and I determine that I'd not sleep on this boat even if I was wearing a life jacket and cradling a fire extinguisher. 

But I should not judge, for one man's love of the sea and a life of travel is not always what another would wish for nor tolerate. 

It's not long and George is back, “too expensive for me to stay here” he says. “They (the dock office) gave me an hour”. “I'll do some shopping and I'll be on my way”. 

“Might just anchor over yonder”, George continues while pointing to the mooring area just off the mega dock. 

He repacks his pipe as Coco spots another dolphin and of course he’s off on a run barking with George in pursuit, a noticeable stiffness in his stride. 

The last of the winter light has faded by the time George and Coco have moved off the mega dock and anchored on the other side of the Ashley River Channel. 

After night fall, by the dim light of a Coleman lantern I can make out the silhouette of Coco and George and I imagine them enjoying a fine dinner of the beanie weenies and Miller Lite I helped them load aboard upon their return from shopping. 

I wish to join them and simply listen to all the tales George would offer. 

And all I can think of is Captain Jack Sparrow singing quietly… "Yo Ho Haul Together Hoist the Colors High - Heave Ho Thieves and Beggars Never Shall We Die" 

His imaginary voice echoes across the stillness of a cold winter night. 

Dawn and George and Coco have already pulled up anchor. 

The sea birds circle overhead and though the morning mist I can make out the two of them motoring slowly towards the connector, and on to a destination not yet known, but heading south nonetheless. 

I suspect that Christmas Eve aboard Elizabeth will be spent like most every night, watching the stars and enjoying the quiet except when Coco hears a dolphin break the surface 100 yards distant. 

I fear that should something happen to George and Coco, no one will ever know, much less care. 

But then the song returns..... 

"Yo Ho Haul Together Hoist the Colors High - Heave Ho Thieves and Beggars Never Shall We Die" 

And I believe in my heart that Dogs, Pirates and St. Nick do indeed live on forever.

This story first ran in Charleston's Post and Courier in 2007. But I like it and this is my show so I'm posting it again!

Same Old Lang Syne

It is the time of year that radio stations feel the need to play Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne" about twice an hour.

The other night driving back from Charleston on a dark stretch of I-77 I hit the scan button 3 times in a row and each time there it was pushing painfully through my speakers.

I can't help but think they like wearing this song out. Yes, I'm one of those who hate the song, maybe more than "Santa Baby" and I expect there are thousands like me who think it comes too close to home.

Yes, I have been there and it does bring about an "old familiar pain" one that I enjoy to some extent, but not over and over again.

A love long past, and a relationship that was so strong that even a casual meeting sparks those feelings again.

But we as so many others know it wasn't to be and never can be. But still there's that what if? And the acknowledgement that life continues to slip quietly by.

Given the first person narrative of the song, you may have wondered if it is reflective of Fogelberg's own experience.

Fogelberg confirmed the song is indeed autobiographical:

"In 1975 or 76 I was home in Peoria, Illinois visiting my family for Christmas. I went to a convenience store to pick up some whipping cream to make Irish coffees with, and quite unexpectedly ran into an old high school girlfriend. The rest of the song tells the story."

After Fogelberg's death in 2007, the Peoria Journal-Star reported that the old lover referred to was Jill Greulich (formerly Jill Anderson) who attended Woodruff High School with Fogelberg.

Maybe the fact Dan Fogelberg died in 2007 surprised you as much as it did me. He was only 56, and died after a 3 year battle with prostate cancer.

Lyrics:

Met my old lover in the grocery store

The snow was falling Christmas Eve

I stole behind her in the frozen foods

And I touched her on the sleeve

She didn't recognize the face at first

But then her eyes flew open wide

She went to hug me and she spilled her purse

And we laughed until we cried

We took her groceries to the checkout stand

The food was totalled up and bagged

We stood there lost in our embarrassment

As the conversation dragged

We went to have ourselves a drink or two

But couldn't find an open bar

We bought a six-pack at the liquor store

And we drank it in her car

We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness but neither one knew how

She said she'd married her an architect

Who kept her warm and safe and dry

She would have liked to say she loved the man

But she didn't like to lie

I said the years had been a friend to her

And that her eyes were still as blue

But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I saw doubt or gratitude

She said she saw me in the record stores

And that I must be doing well

I said the audience was heavenly but the traveling was hell

We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to now

And tried to reach beyond the emptiness but neither one knew how

We drank a toast to innocence, we drank a toast to time

Reliving in our eloquence, another 'auld lang syne'

The beer was empty and our tongues were tired

And running out of things to say

She gave a kiss to me as I got out and I watched her drive away

Just for a moment I was back at school

And felt that old familiar pain

And as I turned to make my way back home

The snow turned into rain...

One girl, my senior year in High School there's been others but that girl takes the prize thanks to a chance encounter years later. But I just Like Willie Nelson I loved them all.

Peace. 

Cedar

Christmas Eve With Percy Craven from 2007

If your family is like mine, Christmas begins a week before Thanksgiving and runs well past New Year’s Day. 

The weeks roar by, in a calliope of sights and sounds. A never-ending visual delight of Christmas trees, holiday movies, parties and children rampaging through the house. 

It is truly a joyous time of year.

The far reaches of the North Carolina mountains, nearly to the Georgia state line in the most distant corner of our state, is Percy's Christmas.

The gravel road to Percy's cabin is covered with pine needles and a light dusting of freshly fallen snow.

The morning sun has already started to melt the new snow in patches along the south facing side of the valley, but in the shadows of the mountain along the north side, the accumulation of the recent snow events still stands.

Resilient Mountain Laurel leaves are drooping, a sign that the temperature outside the comfort of my SUV's heated leather seats is cold. In many spots the gravel road is iced over.

The look and feel of a winter camp is everywhere along the narrow road, for it is a place few have ventured since Thanksgiving. In the summer, Percy's lake is filled with the sounds of bass boats zipping past the point with their motors racing at full throttle and the shouts and screams of Boy Scouts at the nearby National Forest campground.

In winter the sound is pure silence, yet today the air is heavy with the smell of burning wood. A sign that someone is here.

Percy has a fine home in nearby Franklin, just off the main street the two story traditional has a generous porch, bright white columns and a well-kept lawn. But his small cabin is really where Percy lives, far from town, farther from people.

The lack of people at the lake in winter means it is a somber place, and void of youth. The endless quiet to me, and that silence is a deafening roar, and it is somewhat heartbreaking.

Now the only sounds are the gusts of wind that send the yellow pines swaying as they sing though the chill winter air, a chorus of cold and ice.

I drive over the crest of the hill and round the long sweeping turn that dips towards the lake. Percy is always up before dawn, so I'm not surprised that a raised hand greets me, as Percy's cabin comes into view. His dog, a brown Boykin Spaniel named Boone obediently stands by his side. Boone is bursting with excitement. He knows my SUV and that I'm always good for a handout.

I shut down the engine and open the driver’s door and on Percy's command the Boykin bounds off the porch and heads toward me, his short tail in full happy mode. The Chick Fil A bag is a giveaway that I brought food. The biscuits are cold after the forty-minute ride from Franklin. Boykins don't care if the food is cold and neither does Percy.

Percy Craven has made himself busy already, but his walk this morning is stiff, and he moves with trepidation and care. It takes a little prodding, but he confesses he took a tumble on the dock. "Of all the people, I slip on the frost down on the dock morning before last." Explains Percy, as he pours two cups of black coffee.

Percy speaks a different language than I do. Most everything is either down, over, yonder, up or a far piece. It also takes me a while to figure out that the "morning before last" was Saturday.

Percy continues; "I didn't break nothing, didn't get wet and nobody saw it happen but Boone there."  Boone looks away as if to say, "I see nothing, I hear nothing and I know nothing". 

Percy adds, "So I'll figure it was you who had a blabber mouth if anyone calls to ask if I'm OK."

Despite his stiffness he's pacing the porch as he wants to walk in the woods a "while" so he can check a couple of rabbit traps. My coffee has just gotten to the temperature where it’s drinkable. But I leave it on the table and we both head down the path around the lake.

Percy doesn't lock his doors and looks cross eyed at me when I hit the remote lock on my SUV. The "chirp chirp" sound echoes across the silent lake and Percy rolls his eyes. "Ain't no one out here to steal your car." Percy sounds off.

I explain that; "I ain't worried about no one, I'm worried about the bears." Percy laughs out loud, and tells me; "No matter, bear is gonna get in anyway."

Percy is right, as the half-eaten chicken biscuit I left in the car is just about all a bear needs as incentive to break into what the bear thinks is just a fancy steel food box.

"I thought bears hibernated?" I ask.

Percy pretends he doesn't hear me.

The air is brisk around 28 and the ground cold, doesn't matter Percy is talking a "blue streak" he has a lot on his mind. Normally when I walk with Percy we are hunting, and the talk is short and quiet. Today is different, his topics range from the President, to the NRA, about liberals and communists. Tall tales and small lies, his choice of topics is wide, deep and varied. 

Yet he never talks about his wife. Her photo on the nightstand is his comfort and I suspect he doesn't spend much time is town because the house is too big and too empty.

Six traps and nothing, each trap is carefully baited again, a mixture of peanut butter and cornmeal. Boone is kept away from the traps so that he doesn't "stink up" the rabbit runs.

An hour and 45 minutes later we're back and the sun is melting snow everywhere, the sound of water dripping off the trees in the bright sunlight makes the day seem like spring, yet winter has just begun.

I stop at my SUV and hit the remote again. Chirp, chirp and open the door, removing a small gift-wrapped box. Announcing to Percy; "I got you a Christmas present."

"What the hell!" says Percy, "It ain't right for a man to give another man a Christmas present. People will talk, even worst that you wrapped the damn thing."

I offer to unwrap the gift, but Percy will have nothing of it.

"Do I look like a cripple?" He jokes.

The beauty about eBay is finding something in the way of a Christmas gift that you can't get anywhere else. In this case a 1966 Shakespeare "Featherweight" Trout reel in a black nickel finish.

Percy rips into the box and I make another pot of coffee.

Over my shoulder I hear "Well I'll be damned" and I look to see the eyes of a 5-year-old on Christmas morning. Percy is enthralled.

He spins the reel, pushes over the take up button and spins it again. He smiles. You know they don't make them like this anymore? The ivory knob on the spool and leather case are signs of something made decades ago. Percy points to the engraved plate on the bottom.

Made in the U.S.A.

In the silence we both admire his gift, and my eBay find.

Suddenly Percy is talking a mile a minute again; "I didn't get you nothing... his voice trails off to an inaudible babble as he bolts up out of his chair and heads to a small room and into a closet. He's still talking but I can’t hear a word he is saying for the solid oak plank door he is trying to talk through.

After a minute or so he returns and presents me with a well-used white tobacco pipe.

"I'd been meaning to get rid of this for years. Now it’s yours." Percy states as he waves the pipe in the air. "It belonged to my father, it’s Meerschaum. I think it’s worth about a dollar."

He starts to hand it to me and then pulls it back.  "Hold on" barks Percy.

He carefully places the pipe on the Christmas paper that moments ago held a fly reel. Percy folds it neatly over the pipe and then rolls the whole thing into a wad of crumpled paper. Handing the mess to me he says: "There I wrapped it up for ya."

We both laugh, Percy spins the reel again and before long the sun begins to fall behind the mountain and the shadows grow long and reach nearly to the east side of the lake.

We talk another hour; he'll go to church then call it an early night. Some folks in town invited him for dinner Christmas Day; he says if he "wakes up", he expects he'll go as the Mrs. makes a good pecan pie. He needs to go to the post office on Thursday and the doctor on "Wednesday a week."

I've come to learn that older folks need order, and I have found that Percy looks forward to just about anything you can put on a calendar. It gives him something to look forward to even if it means a trip to the dentist.

The lighted Merry Christmas banner stretches over the street at the edge of town. Telephone poles have decorations that date to the 1970's as cars rush by and people come and go. This is small town North Carolina, untouched by time or progress. Flurries race across the road and slide up my windshield, on the other side of the mountain the snow fades and the sky clears, the three-quarter moon shines down on the glimmering lights of the Carolina countryside below where I-26 reaches into South Carolina.

It is Christmas Eve.

Christmas 2024

We are rounding the corner towards another Christmas Eve. 

In my family Christmas Eve is more of a celebration than Christmas Day, for it is in the chill of the Carolina night that we gather, at Charlotte's Little Church on the Lane, as we have done for 50 plus years to worship God and the birth of his son.

While the celebrations and decorations continue through Epiphany (January 6th) it is the night of Christmas Eve that I enjoy the most. 

Most years like many of our family I've found a way to be home for Christmas, yes there are those where deployment or work required my personal presence elsewhere but in a certain way I've always been home for Christmas. 

Sadly within some of our family the requirement of their profession as nurse, fireman, police officer, doctor, Marine, and Sailor will call for that we have a glass in their honor, but their presence will be felt. 

Our family reaches from Maine to Florida and the Carolinas to California and while some will not make it for dinner after church the runs to the airport will be frequent over the next several days.

I've made many a trip on Christmas Day finding myself heading in never the same direction one year to the next. So for those traveling Godspeed, Fair Winds and Following Seas. 

I'm going to enjoy the next 10 ten days, disconnect from the madness of my liberal run city and let the woke socialist looney birds go on about how Christmas movies are racist and misogynistic without me.

And Yes, Die Hard is a Christmas Movie!

Ten days of Christmas starts now, so stay tuned for 10 stories in 10 days and by the way.... 

MERRY CHRISTMAS Y'ALL!

Sambo's 903 Drive-In Congressman Norman Invitation

This morning I’m sitting inside Sambo’s 903 Drive-In. 

Yes, that’s the name of this business in 2024 and I swear to God Almighty I’m not making this up.

Sambo’s has been around for more years than I’ve known time.

This morning it’s 25 degrees outside and in these parts that’s cold.

The breakfast crowd is a mixture of South Carolina State Highway workers, Sheriff Deputies, Fire and Rescue personnel, some construction workers and one out of place guy from Charlotte who is a retired investment manager who once ran more than 800 million in pension fund assets at one time. Needless to say, I’m not wearing a suit this morning.

Wrangler Jeans, Carhartt long sleeve t-shirt, fitted Operation Hat Trick hat, two days growth on my face and flannel lined vest and still, I stand out.

An attractive 30 something girl steps inside and yells “Hey Lancaster Fire move your pick-up trucks out of my parking spaces now!”

Two guys jump up and head to the door. Now this might seem odd, fire department guys don’t take lightly to being told to move their trucks. While this baddie is clearly no pushover, she’s got a mother of 3 boys voice, they don’t give her any BS. The inside story is that she’s a deputy’s wife that owns the hair salon next door. Oh, and her customer is Mrs. Cedar. 

The boys apologize to her: “Sorry we didn’t know you opened so early”. She gives them a melt their soul smile and says, “I start at 7:00 every day”. To which they reply, “Yes Ma’am”.

I return to my coffee and cellphone. Smile to myself and laugh.

There’s an electrical contractor giving two guys a taking to, because last night they left two work ladders on a job site. There are now in the owner’s pickup truck and not their work truck and he tells them if they don’t mind picking up the breakfast check he’ll forget all about their oversight. Then he pays the entire bill and tip anyways.

Breakfast is soon over the fire guys head out, deputies settle up and move on as well. 

I leave a twenty for my coffee and say thank you. 

Outside it’s still cold. Carolinas in December shouldn't be like this!

And I think to myself by God this is America and those self-absorbed idiots in Washington don’t have a clue. These are the hard-working American’s congress is supposed to be looking out for, but they are busy debating who the brain-dead president should pardon next, arguing about transgender surgeries for children and giving billions to Africa. 

The new administration is proud of themselves because they have identified $500 million that they can save right away while the acting head of the secret service is having a live on national television mental breakdown over 911. Are they even listening to their fellow Americans?

Clearly, Congress has lost touch with America. 

Ralph Norman is South Carolina's 5th Congressional District Representative, and I’d bet you he’s never had breakfast at Sambo’s 903 Drive-In.

Well, here’s his invitation. Come around 7 but don’t park in the Salon parking spaces. I'll buy.

Dr. Roger W. McIntire Columbia Maryland - A Life Well Lived

Dr. Roger W. McIntire, my uncle passed on Saturday night he was 89. There of course will be a long and thoughtful obituary. It will likely even appear in the Washington Post for he was a part of Washington DC fabric for more than half a century.

Born in Auburn New York of Southern parents. Uncle Roger occupied the opposite side of the political spectrum as my father but was deeply loved by all.

Besides being my father's brother he was a graduate of LSU where he obtained a PhD in Psychology, was a professor and dean at the University of Maryland for more than 30 years. 

He was a published author, frequent talk show guest and public speaker, hosted a podcast, was widely considered an expert on parenting, the father of 3 girls which should earn any man sainthood. He was also a sailor, and an experienced pilot as well as a world traveler.

Known within our family for an invention that changed our lives for the better, the television remote control mute button. Sadly he failed to pursue a US patent and made nothing from this stunningly useful invention a device that he perfected in the early 1970s years before it became standard on all televisions.

I'm blessed to have known my three uncles so very well, Dick, Charlie and now Roger are gone, but they were all inspiring and thoughtful, never lacked for a good story and each offered a tremendous example of a life well lived.

And so it is that the final lines of Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It is a fitting statement as to how I see things this morning especially the last two paragraphs that echo the Bible and the true American idiom:

“Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 

    I am haunted by waters.”

Update

I've updated the blog roll and in doing so discovered that many of those I followed but who have passed away their blogs live on. Others have vanished for no apparent reason. 

Those of you who read this on a mobile device are missing out because the sidebar doesn't appear. Which is a good thing since it was sadly outdated. My bad.

Some blogs that remain like libturd Tommy Tomlinson's are inactive but remain just because I need a good laugh from time to time. 

Funny there are CP stories set to run through 2030 at this point should I suddenly kick the bucket and end up as fertilizer. It helps there are a number of people who have access to this blog. 

I had to relocate the CMPD and Charlotte Crime aspect off CP because everytime I detailed someone's criminal past or unethical doings I was getting threatened with having the blog taken down. (See Vicki Foster).

So know most of the stories are interesting things I notice. The next post of Meckburbia is about Garry McFadden and I'd expect the comments to be on fire.

That is all. Carry On!

Veterans Day 2024

Today is Veterans Day.

One of our lesser holidays that we note each year, but always seem to forget the real purpose behind as it is often confused with Memorial Day. 

This year Veterans Day is Monday November 11th.

Veterans Day is "Officially" a Federal Holiday, one of eleven in 2024, with Thanksgiving and Christmas (Friday Before This Year) to follow. It is observed in all 50 states except Wisconsin all US Territories and the District of Columbia. 

So here's the refresher:

Memorial Day honors those members of the armed forces who died in the service of our country, whereas Veterans Day is a U.S. legal holiday dedicated to American veterans of all wars. In 1918, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, an armistice, or temporary cessation of hostilities, was declared between the Allied nations and Germany in World War I, then known as “the Great War.” Commemorated in many countries as Armistice Day the following year, November 11th became a federal holiday in the United States in 1938. In the aftermath of World War II and the Korean War, Armistice Day became legally known as Veterans Day.

Mrs. Cedar and I are proud of our family of veterans:

John MacEntyre, Continental Army 1776-1778

Samuel Studdard South Carolina Militia 1812-1814 Horseshoe Bend, Battle of New Orleans 

Nathan Edmonds, US Army Georgia Volunteers Seminole Indian Wars 1818

Samuel MacEntyre, US Army KIA 1863 Battle of Kennesaw Mountain

John Edmonds, CSA 26th Alabama Captured Battle of Gettysburg US Army 1861-1864

Ernest Lynn Duty, US Navy WW I 1914-1916

William O. Durham, US Army WW I  68th Infantry Division 1914-1918

Donald Dufalt, US Marine Corps KIA 1942 Iwo Jima Battle of Midway WW II

Teman Wilhite, US Marine Corps WW II, Navy Cross, Distinguished Flying Cross, Purple Heart Battle of Midway 1942

Wallace Edmonds, US Army 1941-1943 Germany WWII

Simon Henry, US Army WW II and Korea

John Geiger, III, US Army Air Corps Germany, WW II

Milton Carney, US Marine Corps WW II, Korea

Richard W. Brown, MD  US Army MASH 1951-1952 Korea

Charles W. Kinnaird, Jr. US Air Force  1950 - 1953

Robert Brown, USAF Panama 

Un-Named Family, US Army Cold War 1968-1972

Peter Carney, US Navy Iraq and Afghanistan

Un-Named Family, US Navy US Air Force Reserves Iraq Afghanistan 

Context:

Cedar's uncle, Dr. Richard Brown was one of many veterans in our family. Dr. Brown served in a MASH Unit during the Korean war. He shipped out in 1952 within weeks of marrying my aunt and graduating from medical school. His photo is below.

After the war he returned to the states and continued his medical career as the only doctor in the small town of Spencer West Virginia. Dr. Brown is a West Virginia native who graduated from University of West Virginia and was a fraternity brother of actor comedian Don Knotts.

Richard W. Brown, MD Circa 1951 Korea

Dr. Brown retired to Florida in 1990 but will always remained a Mountaineer, Dr. Brown and his wife Lois celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary in 2017.

Dr. Brown passed away on May 23, 2018 aged 93.He was buried with full military honors in his hometown of Princeton West Virginia. 

And so we say thank you to all the thousands of men and women who like Dr. Brown who have served in our armed forces.

The following is an outtake from the book "MASH - An Army Surgeon in Korea" by Otto F. Apel, Jr. MD, a follow medical doctor who served during the same time as my uncle. 

Just a reminder than its never too late to say thank you to a veteran or in this case a fellow veteran. His book was published 2 years before his death on November 9, 2000.

Korea was a long time ago.

Korea was a mountainous country far away and the war there happened a long time ago. Even now, time and distance separate us. Korea was far from my mind on a recent autumn evening as I drove from my office in the Ohio River town of Portsmouth, out the rural roads into the hills and farms and communities, to my house back up a country road away from everything.

In the Appalachian foothills of southern Ohio in the fall, when the leaves turn colors and the weather cools and the geese flock south, the mushrooms are out in the fields. As I turned up the country road toward home, I was followed by a man and a woman in a pickup truck. My wife Joan, saw them too. Neither of us said anything.

We left the gravel road and eased into our own lane, and the truck followed us. The lane nearly a half of mile of new gravel, rolled over the hills and up to the house. We stopped and the truck stopped about fifty yards behind us. I watched cautiously in the rear view mirror. The man got out, grasped a strand of barbed wire fence, pushed it down, and stepped through into the field. He was a tall, slender, clean cut man with thin threads of graying hair slicked straight back, and he wore a faded old army field jacket. He sauntered into the field. He stopped and searched the ground, strolled on, stopped and searched some more. He looked up at us. We looked at him. He dropped his gaze to the ground and continued his slow, deliberate about the field.

"Who is that?" Joan asked.

"I don't know," I said.

I put my car in reverse and eased back towards him. Several yards away, I stopped and stepped out. The man glanced up, unsurprised. He was a handsome man who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, I looked at the truck and saw the woman starting at us. The man's clear eyes searched the ground as he ambled on over to the fence. He clutched something in his clean lean fingered hand.

"Can I help you?" I said. While standing cautiously on the other side of the fence.

"Naw, I don't need no help. I'm just out here looking for mushrooms.
 
"I don't know whether there are any mushrooms out there", I said. I glanced involuntarily to the fading green pasture.

"This your property?" he asked.

I said it was. Joan watched from our car.

He came a little closer until he stood several yards from me but still on the other side of the fence. Beneath the old, torn army field jacket he wore a plaid shirt and overalls.

"You Dr. Apel?" he asked.

I said I was.

"You the surgeon?"

I nodded. "Can I help you with anything?" I asked.

"You the one I read about in the paper a couple of months ago? The one who was in the MASH unit in Korea?"

I nodded.

He looked over his shoulder and quickly back to me. He smiled "You remember me?"

I searched his face. "I don't think I do."

He said his name and it did not ring a bell.

"I lived on Fourth Street all my life. Grew up there, went to high school four of five years behind you. I lived there all my life.

I could see that he held a mushroom in this hand; he pulled it up close to his face and studied it. He turned it, pinched it open as if he were dissecting it. Without looking up from his mushroom, he told me when he worked.

"I worked there ever since I got back from Korea," he said proudly.

In the silence of the evening , a tractor engine roared slowly over the field. A distant car with its lights on pushed down the country road.

You still don't remember me?"

For the life of me, I could not place him.

"I was in your MASH unit back in 1951. I was with the 17th Infantry, 7th Division. Was hit in the should near the Hwachon Reservoir. They brought me in and I seen you working there and asked if it was you. I said to the nurse, Is that man from Ohio?" And the nurse, she looked and said you was."

He lobbed the mushroom underhand out into the field.

"I was there in 1951 and '52," I said.

"I know you was," he said quickly. "You worked on me and next thing I knew I was back in Japan in one of them hospitals. I never got to say thanks, to you. Hadn't been for you, they tell me I woudla been dead."

I had to smile.

He scrunched his face. "Yeah, ever since I got back, I been meaning to come out here and say 'thanks' to you."

"That was fifty years ago," I said.

"Yeah," he said with a sheepish grin. I guess time just gets away for you, don't it? I been meaning to come out here and just never got around to it. Kept meaning to come out sooner or later. I thought today's as good a time as any."

I laughed warmly. "I appreciate it."

"Anyway," he said, "thanks for all you done."

We stood for a moment in silence. The cicadas screeching in the trees.

"Well," he said, "can't keep the wife waiting."

And with that, he turned and sauntered back toward his truck. I watch as he walked slowly, grasped the barbed wire, opened a place and crawled through. He hopped across the gully to the pickup and stepped in. The engine started with the roar of the rusted-out muffler, and he went on down the road. In a moment her was out of sight.

"You're welcome," I said.

Korea and the MASH were a long time ago. I have not been back since 1952 - except frequently when I have involuntarily jerked at a loud noise that sounded like artillery or when I have cried out in the darkness from a deep and vivid dream. Now even the thoughts and the dreams are less frequent. But all this time I have intended to go back. I have wondered what that was about and what we were doing there. I know it is a part of us and a part of me, and all these years I have intended to go back.

You can purchase Dr. Apel's book on Amazon in both hardback and electronic editions here.