Vanished

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With only the barrel of my gun poking out from under the leaves of my hiding place, I aimed at the head of my target. I moved the gun just enough to allow the crosshairs of my scope to center over his heart. I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet.

I had spent considerable time preparing for this moment. The previous day I scouted the area, first finding were the herd bedded down at night and the trail that the elk made as they moved to and from that secluded place. The same afternoon I spent some quiet time sitting and observing the surroundings. I wanted to determine the general direction of the wind so that I could position myself downwind of the incoming animals because elk have a keen sense of smell. Being positioned downwind of these wild creatures was essential for a successful takedown. Today I didn’t want the slightest movement to be noticed so I camouflaged my gun barrel with mud because it was shiny and made of stainless steel. Elk do not distinguish color but they are easily alerted by movement. I found a fallen tree about fifty yards from the trail. Lying prone behind that tree, I covered myself with a blanket of leaves as though the wind had blown them against the log. Now it was time for the hardest part . . . patiently wait and remain as still as possible.

This would be my third elk to take home if I proved successful in my hunt. The first was a cow elk that my son shot proxy for me. Proxy means to stand in for or to take the place of. I know it is illegal to shoot a game animal by proxy but it was the last day of the hunt and I injured my back lifting snowmobiles for the trip into the woods. I was in so much pain I could not raise my rifle and hold it still long enough to take a shot. I’m not trying to justify my behavior of having my son shoot the elk. I am just explaining what led up to that decision. I named that first elk Ethyl. You might think it odd to give a name to an animal that you were going to kill and eat. I have always valued life and the sacrifice that is made by an animal that gives its live for my benefit. This tradition of naming the animals I personally shoot started when I shot a hog in the back woods of South Georgia. I named that hog Dexter and we recognized him for his sacrifice each time he showed up on our dinner plates.

The second elk to be served at our table was Nate. His real name was Nathaniel but I shortened it to Nate. Today I employed the same technique I used when I successfully tracked and shot Nate. Nate followed textbook behavioral patterns just like the guide on my first hunt, Cal Haskell, taught me. Nate, the bull elk waited for all the cow elk to cross the clearing before he ventured into the open. For a few moments I was upset at myself for not going ahead and taking an available shot at the largest cow. I was mentally kicking myself for all the time I had laid in the snow behind a fallen tree in the mountains of Southwest Wyoming and now I would probably go home empty handed. Snow was falling and light was fading. As I was about to stand and brush the snow from my clothing, the bull elk stepped into the edge of the clearing. Sniffing the air for danger and sensing no alarm, he eased out into the meadow and followed the path that the cows had previously walked. A bull elk is always willing to sacrifice the cow elk for his own safety. The bull lets the lead cow saunter out into the unprotected open area. The remaining cows follow her and if they experience no danger crossing the clearing, about two minutes later the bull elk makes his way across the clearing. That certainly doesn’t sound very chivalrous but I didn’t write the rules of nature. I just studied them to try and use them to my advantage. If a hunter shoots one of the cows as they cross the open meadow, the bull reverses course and heads into the safety of the dense vegetation. The hunter never even knows that a bull was present.

Today my hunting permit was a combination permit that allowed me to shoot either a bull or a cow elk. I decided that I would hunt for a young bull. He would be larger than the cows and provide more meat but he wouldn’t be tough to eat like the old larger bulls of the forest. These younger bulls usually had only eight to ten cows that they had successfully stolen from a larger heard. I wasn’t worried about the survival of the herd if I shot the bull. There were always young bulls lingering beyond the tree line waiting for an opportunity to move in and take over. As you can see, the bull elk doesn’t provide protection for his harem. He uses them for his own protection and is willing to sacrifice them to preserve his own life. He will desert them once they were heavy with calf and he will spend the winter months either alone or with other bulls. It is like joining a bachelor club with other bull elk who were your arch enemies just a few months ago. In some ways these bulls are like men; they get along great together until they fall in love with the same female and then the swords are drawn. Or in the case of bull elk, the antlers begin to clash.

Today things looked perfect. I moved into position in the mid afternoon so that I would be in place well ahead of the herd’s return to the secluded bedding place. That is provided that the elk made the decision to return to this same place they had used for sleeping for several nights. If it is a moonlit night the elk will often feed through the night and sleep during the day. Tonight would be dark and they would bed down until dawn. There was a light breeze in the air that worked to my advantage for two reasons. First the wind was in the direction that carried my sent away from the trail and second, the rustling of the leaves in the wind helped muffle any rustling of leaves I might make as I adjusted in my hiding place behind the log. The time spent waiting wasn’t nearly as bad as I sometimes make it sound. I love the solitude of the forest. It brings peace to my heart as I hold perfectly still, only moving my eyes as I observe nature in all its glory. I use this quiet time to engage my mind and reflect upon pleasant memories of my yesterdays. Keeping my mind active reliving old memories also helps me not focus on how cold or wet or uncomfortable I might be at the moment.

This elk hunt was taking place in the Canadian Rockies so I decided to name my bull elk something that started with a “C” for Canada. I chose the name Clayton and I could already imagine the family referring to Clayton when we sat around the dinner table. At least I hoped that I would be successful and that Clayton would be invited to dinner on many future occasions. But what happened next changed all that. Sitting around the table enjoying a home cooked meal with family and friends was part of my past, not my future. I would not be going home and Clayton would not even be a name known by my family.

As the sun began to set the elk herd did return to the secluded bedding place just like I hoped. The cows all followed the lead cow in single file like dairy cows headed for the barn to be milked. They were a beautiful site and I could have easily shot one of them but I was waiting for Clayton to come along. If my plan worked, the bull elk would soon follow them up the trail. One minute passed then two minutes and Clayton didn’t show. Maybe something had spooked him. I decided to give him more time. I knew that I could easily wait until just before dark and work my way down to were the cows were grouped together and possibly get a shot at one of them before they startled and fled all directions. Down deep inside I was mentally begging for Clayton to come into my view. All the preparation, all the planning was for this one minute . . . and it looked like Clayton was going to be a no-show.

Then above the rustling of the leaves I could hear a noise that I did not recognize at first. To my surprise it was a group of men talking in hushed tones as they walked along the tree line of the clearing. Eyeing them through my scope I could see that they all carried guns but the guns were not hunting rifles. They were automatic military combat style weapons. No wonder Clayton hadn’t shown. He was probably two miles away by now with all the noise this group was making even though they were speaking in muffled tones.

With all this noise my plans were collapsing around me. Clayton would not be coming this way. He would probably not come back all season unless it was to gather up his harem. And he would only do that if some of the cows had not conceived yet. It was certain that my bull elk Clayton would not be paying us a visit at the dinner table this season. There would be no stories of how I outsmarted the young bull. I never really understood this macho business anyway. Take a creature of the forest who can easily travel forty miles a day or stand perfectly still for an hour to evade detection and pit him against a rifle bullet that travels in excess of thirty-one hundred feet per second with a knock down force of a hundred pound sledge hammer and where is the macho in all that.

Suddenly everything was reversed; I felt like the one being hunted. Although these men didn’t know that I was even there, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck as I realized that these men were of Middle Eastern descent. I was afraid. Lying by the fallen tree trunk under the cover of leaves I was so focused on what was taking place that I forgot to breathe. Suddenly my lungs were about to burst for lack of oxygen and I had to force myself to breathe steady and slow. This was no time to panic and reveal my hiding place.

What were these men doing out in the mountains of the Canadian Rockies? The small packs on their backs revealed that they were not prepared for long term camping but were most likely just moving through the area. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying although they were only fifty yards from me. With a sickening feeling it occurred to me that these men may be attempting to travel through the country undetected? If this were the case they would kill me on sight. I had to remain unseen and somehow get back to civilization and warn the authorities of what I had discovered. Hunting was no longer on my mind. In fact, hunting for that bull elk Clayton seemed like an event that occurred days ago instead of just moments in the past. Surviving to warn someone about what was going on was my only concern. I now wished that the barrel of my gun was not even poking out of the leaves of my hiding place. I wanted to be invisible, to disappear into the ground until danger passed.

The large sniper’s scope mounted on my rifle only added to the possibility that I would be spotted. My sons had chided me about having a sniper’s scope on my rifle. The scope was a present from a friend who thought I needed every advantage possible. Not wanting to move anymore than necessary I decided to leave my rifle in place although it was visible if someone looked directly at it. Through the powerful light-gathering sniper’s scope I slowly scanned the faces of the men. I was stabbed with fear and my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were seeing. I recognized one of the men in the middle of the group as Bin Laden, the most hunted terrorist in modern history. I recognized him from having seen him on TV. My heart raced. I brought his face into sharp focus just to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. Yes, this was the man I had grown to despise. Not because of anything he did to me personally but for his open declaration to destroy us as a nation. The government and news media judged him guilty and now I had the chance to eliminate him. I knew that killing him would mean forfeiting my own life. I continued to shift the view in my scope back and forth between his heart and his head. A battle was raging inside of me. I knew that if I did not act soon I might be discovered and any chance of eliminating the world of this terrorist would be gone. I thought of my family. I thought how insignificant my sacrifice would be compared to the alternative of letting him live and continue to wage war against my country.

As I lay there under the cover of leaves behind the fallen tree I wondered what had brought me here. Why was I here at this moment in time with a high powered rifle equipped with a sniper’s scope? In the chamber was a 140 grain Boat-Tail Special-Performance bullet. The safety was off and the most hunted fugitive in the world was unaware that he was in the crosshairs of my scope? I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel lucky. I only felt duty. I wished that someone who wanted to be a hero was here in my place. I wish that someone who had trained for years and years for this very moment was here to realize the fulfillment of his lifelong training. But it was me. I was the one lying behind this tree covered in leaves with a gun pointed at this fugitive.

I knew that whether I was successful in taking this terrorist’s life or not, I would not be heard from again. My family would never know what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. My situation reminded me of the story of my great great grandfather. One morning after breakfast he put on his hat and went out to plow the field. When he didn’t return at suppertime a family member was sent to find him. The old mule was standing in the middle of the field still harnessed to the plow. And my great great grandfather’s hat was lying on the ground nearby. That was all that was ever found of him. He was never seen or heard from again. He just vanished. After days pasted and he did not return, the family decided that their father and husband just grew weary of his responsibilities and walked away. Will my loved ones have similar thoughts about me when they never heard from me again? That thought pained my heart even more than the thought of dying.

Whether anyone ever knew what happed to me or not, if I took this terrorist’s life I understood that his legacy might live on for years with the world continuing to believe that he was alive. There would probably be news reports and sightings of him to make the public think that he was still leading his followers. But one American would know that blood no longer flowed through his veins. And this little Remington 270 bolt-action rifle would instantly become the most famous rifle in the world. But it would never be auctioned off to the highest bidder. It would be lost to history; left to rust away in a high mountain Canadian meadow next to me, buried in a hastily dug shallow grave to hide the evidence of what occurred this day.

I thought of my wallet inside my hip pocket and what personal information it might contain that could lead to retribution on my family. I desired to destroy all items of personal identification that I didn’t want found by these men. If I hid the whole wallet they would probably look for it. I scraped out a shallow area of dirt beneath the fallen tree and hid my identification information. I left a copy of a poem in my wallet I had written some years earlier. The poem was about love and I wanted these men who seemed so full of hate to know that I knew what love was. Even though I would be despised by them for what I was about to do, I now understood what it meant to give your life for what you believe.

I thought of the families who had lost loved ones during the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center Towers. I reflected on other acts of violence around the world such as the attack on the USS Cole in Yemen and the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. I not only thought of the Americans who had lost their lives through these terrorist attacks but the tragedy and heartache on the other side of this battle as well. What about all the young men and women being recruited by these terrorist organizations who are teaching them to hate and to kill? What about the families of the suicide bombers? They were often unwilling participants to this tragedy as they lost loved ones also. Was this terrorist positioned in the crosshairs of my sniper’s scope the personification of evil hidden under the costume of human skin? Were all these questions and thoughts bombarding my mind merely my self-justification for taking a human life?

I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet. Instantly all heads turned toward the direction of my rifle fire. There was an explosion of noise from the sound of their automatic weapons and my world went dark.

Epilogue:

The beauty of a dream is that your mind doesn’t require the insertion of a lot of background information. A dream starts and a dream ends and you take it for what it is. Sometimes it is worth nothing more than a passing thought. And other times it lingers with you and won’t let go. In a dream and in awaking life, a personal sacrifice is sometimes required for a greater good. In this dream my personal sacrifice seemed small compared to the sacrifice I brought upon my loved ones . . . never knowing what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. But I was not the first member of my family to vanish. I wonder what story my great great grandfather will tell us some future day when the past collides with the present. I’m interested to know what happened that day more than a hundred years ago when he went to plow the field and never came home. He just vanished.

Hopefully Forgiven, Never Forgotten

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On December 3rd it was warm and sunny in Longview, Texas. I had returned to my home town to celebrate my mother's birthday. That afternoon I slipped away to visit some of the old familiar places of my youth. The next few hours were spent in a whirlwind of emotion and memories of days gone by. My stops included 614 Idlewood Drive where I spent three years of my grade-school life. The front yard looked smaller than I remembered. The tree I fell out of and broke my arm was no longer there. But that didn't stop the memories from rushing forward and engulfing me as though it were yesterday. I only wish I could take you by the hand and carry you back in time with me and let you see what I saw, feel what I felt. But you have your own memories, the things that molded you into who you are today. I have many happy memories of when I lived on Idlewood Drive but it was also the birthplace of one of my most painful learning experiences. And so the story goes . . . .

"I will run away if you make me do that," I said. It was my last ditch effort to control my mother's behavior. She had become more and more resistive to my tactics. During the eight short years of my life, mom had come to know and anticipate my moves almost before I played them. If she played chess, I would have never won a game. When I said I would run away, she just looked at me and without so much as a hesitation; asked if I wanted to eat dinner first. Well, if she didn't believe me I would show her. We'll see how calm she is when I never come back. Mom would regret that she forced me to run away from home.

I didn't wait for dinner. With my luck it would probably be my night to do dishes. I never could keep the schedule straight. I thought of all the things I would miss: my family, visits to Granny's, TV. But there were also things I wouldn't miss: doing dishes and other chores around the house, not to mention always being told what to do. For certain there would be no TV out in the woods or in a hobo camp where I would have to live the rest of my life. No matter what I would miss, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep from being labeled a thief, humiliated in front of my classmates and probably spending the rest of my life in jail.

Mother didn't seem bothered in the least that I could be sent to jail. I have no recollection of her exact words but it was probably something like "You knew what you did was wrong when you did it and now you have to make it right." Where was the mercy and charity she would later teach me about? Was there nothing but the cold hard steel of justice in my future? I saw no option except to run away and start a new life far away where no one knew about me and my crime. As I passed through the kitchen I grabbed two slices of Wonder Bread, stuck them inside my shirt and headed out the front door. I made sure that the door slammed so that mom would know that I had left for good. Normally I would hear her say, "Don't slam the door." But I heard no response from her as I passed through that door for the last time in my life.

I was out the door and walking down the road with only my thoughts for company. I began to reflect on the events that brought me to this point in my short life. School had been in session for two weeks. As third graders we were still getting acquainted with our classmates. The boy sitting in front of me (name-long-forgotten) brought a collection of foreign money to school from several different countries. Name-Long-Forgotten sounds like an Indian name but he wasn't Indian, I just can't remember his name. His father served in World War II and collected the money as he marched from place to place.

I wanted that folder of money more that anything I could think of. A scheme started to develop in my mind how I could become the new owner of that treasure. The final bell rang signaling the end of the school day. I waited around until the school was almost empty before I slipped back into the classroom. I moved quickly to Name-Long-Forgotten's desk and to my delight, the folder containing the foreign money was right where it had been when we left the room. My plan was working perfectly. I slipped the folder inside my notebook and made my way out of the school as quickly as possible. As I crossed Mobberly Avenue in front of the school I knew that I had gotten away clean.

As I walked home I was surprised at how easy getting the folder had been. Now the second part of my plan began to take shape. I would dig a hole under the house and bury the folder for a few days. On the weekend I would play as usual under the house and pretend that I discovered the buried money. It was damp under the house so I had to be careful to keep the money collection from getting damaged. This stealing business was so easy. No wonder people stole what they wanted. No one saw anything and no one questioned me. I would now wait and let things cool down.

A great stir swept over the classroom the next morning when Name-Long-Forgotten discovered that his money collection was missing. Someone was a thief. The teacher said that she knew it was someone from the class and the money better be returned by the next day or the police would be called. Police! Thief! I knew I was a thief but being labeled a thief was almost worse than being one, I thought. Police? It never occurred to me that the police would be called. I panicked. I didn't panic and confess; I just panicked on the inside. There was no reason to panic on the outside and do something stupid because no one knew that I was the thief who had taken the money. Well, no one knew except me and God. Others couldn't possibly know because I hadn't made my great discovery from under the house where the money was hidden. I could just leave it there and no one would ever know. Well, no one but me and God. I considered digging up the money and quietly returning it early the next morning but I decided that would be too risky. What if I were to get caught returning the folder? It wasn't worth the chance. Besides, there had to be some way of working out these unforeseen problems and still be able to keep the money collection.

My conscience was doing battle with my brain. I knew what I had done was wrong. I also knew that I would not want Name-Long-Forgotten or anyone else to steal something from me. Mother had been trying to teach me that golden rule stuff as long as I could remember but I guess her words hadn't stuck in my heart. Your brain can talk to your heart all day long but if your heart doesn't want to listen it doesn't do any good. When no one's looking, you'll follow your heart. I knew that there must be some way to save the day and get the money back without being caught. But the biggest problem I faced wasn't the police or getting caught returning the money. The problem was that I still wanted to keep the money collection. A wrestling match between my heart and my brain was still going on. In the end my heart won. I wanted the money more than I wanted to do the right thing. The right thing was to have never become a thief in the first place but it was too late for that. This stealing business was getting in my blood and my blood had to pass right through my heart. With stealing in my heart I wasn't just a thief on the outside; I was a thief on the inside. I had never stolen anything before with the exception of Halloween candy from my cousins and I wasn't sure that was really stealing. But that was all part of the past. I was a thief for sure now. I knew it and Heavenly Father knew it but He didn't seem to mind one way or the other. He didn't shock my fingers or give me some other sign to try and stop me when I first touched the money folder. I knew that one day I would face Heavenly Father but I didn't think too much about my future visit with Him. I wasn't going to see Him anytime soon because I was only eight years old. Besides, I could repent someday and then I wouldn't have to worry one way or the other, all would be forgiven.  

The decision was made; I would keep the money and proceed with my original plan. I would just wait a little longer and let things cool down before digging up the money from under the house and becoming a modern day pirate discovering buried treasure. There would be a little excitement, my brother would be insanely jealous of my good luck and most important, I would have my very on foreign money collection. My very own collection of foreign money . . . man those words sounded nice. How lucky can a guy be? In this world you can make your own luck.

I couldn't wait to dig up my money and show it to mother. The waiting was driving me nuts. Each afternoon as I came home from school I would slip under the house and dig up the corner of my treasure just to make sure it was still there and hadn't been stolen. See, once you become a thief you naturally begin to think that everyone is a thief just waiting for an opportunity to take what is yours. I don't remember ever worrying about someone stealing my stuff before I stole the money collection but now I was obsessed with protecting what was mine. I carried an image in my mind of the money collection just sitting under that desk waiting for someone to steal it. If I hadn't gotten to it first surely someone else would have taken it. But now it was mine, all mine.

I guess the teacher decided that whoever took the money collection wasn't going to bring it back because she stopped threatening us and to my relief the police never came. I was sure glad I hadn't caved in to her pressure and confessed. If I had panicked and confessed, all the other thieves in school would be laughing at me, my classmates would never speak to me again and I might even have to go to jail. But for now life couldn't be better. I had gotten away with stealing the money and no one would ever know. It's the dumb ones who get caught or the weak ones who loose their nerve and spill their guts. I didn't have to worry about any of that because so far my plan had been perfect. In fact, things were going so well I decided I didn't need to wait any longer before making my great discovery of the buried treasure. I asked mother if I could go out and play under the house. I had never asked mother if I could play under the house before but this time I wanted to make sure there would be no question in mother's mind where the money came from.

Crawling under the house next to the back stairs, I quickly dug up the money collection and set it aside. I needed to wait a few minutes before declaring my new discovery. I'm sure it was only minutes but it seemed like hours and soon I could wait no longer. Climbing out from under the house, I painted a look of surprised delight on my face and went running into the house to show mother what I found. That was my last happy moment. Mother took one look at the folder of money and said, "You didn't find that under the house." How could she know? Fear stuck to me like molasses but I quickly caught myself and said, "How do you know?" "Because if it had been under the house like you said, it would be wet from the damp ground." I had sprinkled a little dirt through the pages so it would appear older than it was. Rats, I hadn't thought of that. I continued to proclaim my innocence all that afternoon. Mother bombarded me with questions and accusations and refused to believe my story. My own mother had turned on me and was making my life miserable.

Over and over mother said, "I don't believe you Mack. Where did the money come from?" I stuck to my story but she was melting me down like a hot sun glaring on an ice cream cone. It couldn't have been worse if she had tied me to a chair and turned a spotlight on me. Mother had not laid a hand on me but anyone will break under severe pressure. I broke. I confessed. Oh, at that moment, how I wished I had never seen that money collection. How I wished I had never taken it or at least taken the gamble to return it even if it meant getting caught. This was the darkest day of my life. I thought it couldn't get any worse but then it did. Mother told me that I would have to return the collection, tell the teacher I stole it and apologize to Name-Long-Forgotten. I begged for her to let me just sneak the money back into the classroom but she said, "No." "Mom, I can't do it; I won't do I," I said. "Oh yes you will Mack and you are going to do it tomorrow," mother said.

I didn't want tomorrow to ever come. That's why I ran away. If mom couldn't find me she couldn't make me take the money back and face all that humiliation. The street in front of our house was unique to the neighborhood. There was an island of grass and shrubs running the full length of the street dividing the east and west traffic. Months earlier I discovered that the center of one of those shrubs had died out and I could crawl right up inside and be totally concealed from view. Twice I had hidden there to keep from having to take my piano lesson from Mrs. Schaffer who lived at the end of the street. I disliked Mrs. Schaffer and her mouse-infested piano almost as much as I hated piano lessons but I wasn't worried about a piano lesson today. I crawled into the shrub and prepared to wait until I could come up with my next plan of action. I didn't eat my slices of Wonder Bread.  I was feeling too miserable to be hungry.

I was hoping that mother would collapse in hysterical sobs over the loss of her son, come find me and tell me that she would not make me return the money and be humiliated in front of the whole class. I wanted mom to step in and sweep my pain away like she was sweeping dirt off the front porch. But she did not come. It began to get dark and she still didn't come. It wasn't the darkness of night that bothered me. I learned when we lived in the country to overcome my fear of the dark. Gradually it became clear that my plan wasn't going to work . . . I had played my last card and lost. Mother wasn't going to give in to the wishes of a misguided little boy whose heart had been wrong from the moment he thought about stealing that money collection. Looking back on it now, to give in to my demands would have been the worst thing she could have done. I would have to return the money collection and face whatever punishment I had coming to me. I crawled out from the safety of the hollowed out hedge and slowly headed for home. My heart was heavy and my brain was numb. I felt like both my heart and my brain had let me down. But I knew the truth.

I had left home by defiantly slamming the front door and now I was sneaking in the back door like a skinny mouse with its tail between its legs. My brother and I slept on the screened-in porch at the back of our house. The room was dark and there was no one home when I came in the back door. Bill and I had bunk beds and each year we traded off who got to be on the top bunk. This was my year to be on the bottom. I slipped into bed and covered my head. I wanted to just disappear but I was all out of magic tricks. After a while I heard the screen door open and mother quietly came through the door. I reached out in the darkness and touched her leg as she went past me. I wanted her to know that I was home. Neither one of us spoke. There would be plenty of time for us to talk tomorrow. Oh how I wanted tomorrow to never come.

But tomorrow did come and I was soon on my way to school with the folder of foreign money to return to Name-Long-Forgotten. I hated this mess I was in. If I had paid closer attention to the Bible story about David and Bathsheba that my Sunday school teacher taught me I wouldn't be in this mess. My teacher was Sister Nimtz. It didn't make sense that Mrs. Nimtz could be my sister but when you are eight there are a lot of things that don't make sense. One thing in particular that didn't make sense was why I couldn't just quietly slip the money collection back into the classroom. Anyway, what happened next might have never taken place if I had learned from Sister Nimtz's bible story that things can go from bad to worse when you try to cover up the stink of being a thief. Remember, David knew Bathsheba and she was found with child (that's the way they say it in the Bible) . . . sort of like she stumbled, fell down and when she got up, discovered she was going to have a baby. But David had another problem. Bathsheba was already married to someone else. David didn't want Bathsheba's husband to find out what he had done to Bathsheba so he had her husband killed. That's what I mean when I say things can go from bad to worse when you try to cover up what you did wrong.

Just like David, this morning I was filled with dread for having gotten myself in such a pickle. At least I wasn't as bad as David. I hadn't resorted to having anyone killed over this little money problem. That's how the mind of a thief operates; they compare themselves to someone who did something worse, then they don't feel so bad about their own mistakes. Last night I had been defeated, worn down, smeared with the agony of worldly sorrow. But my sorrow was not for what I had done. It was for having been caught. With this fresh new day, my brain began to scheme my way out of this unfortunate situation. See how a thief begins to think when he gets in a jam . . . he starts distancing himself from the foul act by referring to it as an unfortunate situation.

The problem in this unfortunate situation was the evidence. I needed to get rid of the evidence. David in the bible couldn't get rid of his evidence; he loved Bathsheba too much to let her go. I no longer loved or wanted this money collection, I hated it. Four days ago I thought I couldn't live without the money and now I couldn't stand the sight of it. When you think about something night and day your mind goes crazy wanting it. That foreign money was worthless because I couldn't even spend it. You couldn't buy a hamburger with the whole lot of it. Mother would have said something like, "There isn't enough money there to buy a pot to pee in." I would never spend my money on a pot; a boy can always find a bush to go behind. If I could get rid of this evidence no one could ever prove I was the one who took the money. I made my decision. I wasn't going to confess and I wasn't going to ask Name-Long-Forgotten to forgive me for stealing his money collection and no one could make me.

To get rid of the evidence by just burying it wouldn't be good enough. With the way my luck was going, someone would find the money collection and I would be dead meat. I had to destroy the evidence. After school I ran home as fast as I could. I already had a box of matches hidden under the house for lighting small forbidden fires. I lit the folder of foreign money on fire but just the edges of the pages burned. I soon realized that I would have to burn one page at a time. I watched as the fire first blackened each page with the money taped to it and then it turned to ashes. I felt like I was watching something take place that I would regret all my life but that feeling did not stop me. Once all the pages were burned I stirred the ashes into the dirt to destroy the evidence of the fire. The money was gone. I couldn't give back what didn't exist. I was free! But it was just another lie I told myself. I didn't believe the lie but I wanted to. When you begin to believe your on lies you are really in trouble.

I was in trouble but I wasn't a goner. I hadn't started to believe my own lies yet. I knew what I was doing was wrong. It was wrong to steal the money collection. I could say the devil made me do it but that would just be another lie. He may have tempted me but he didn't put my hand on the money. I stole the money because I wanted it more than I wanted to be honest. Destroying the evidence by burning the money was worse than the original theft. I burned the money to cover my wrongdoing.

I was acting just like David in the bible. When David discovered that Bathsheba was found with child, his solution to the problem was to have her husband killed. It didn't matter to him that he had taken another man's wife.  David, the king sent the husband of Bathsheba into the heat of a terrible battle and commanded his men to withdraw from him leaving him alone to be surrounded and killed. I imagine that when David first received the news that Bathsheba's husband Uriah had been slain in battle, he exclaimed, "I'm free." His happiness probably lasted about as long as mine did.

Like David, I had slain my Uriah so to speak by eliminating the money collection but I wasn't free. Mother would be in the house waiting for a report on how my day of confession and restitution had gone. I crawled out from under the house where the evidence had been burned and buried. I painted on my sad face and went inside. To my surprise mother did not immediately descend upon me with a bunch of questions. Eventually she did ask how my day went and I told her it was the worst day of my life. I had become a liar as well as a thief. I now understood the saying, "Show me a thief and I'll show you a liar. Show me a liar and I'll show you a thief." Once again I lied to myself when I thought, "I'm home free." I felt free because mother never checked with the school to see if I had followed through with her demands that I confess, make restitution by returning the stolen money collection and asking Name-Long-Forgotten to forgive me.

But I was not free. Through the years there have been many times that if I could, I would have pushed the rewind button and made different choices those days long ago in the third grade. But you can't change the past, you can only learn from it. The decisions I made back then were wrong but there was a rainbow at the end of that third grader's sad story. Throughout my life each time I have been tempted to take something that did not belong to me, I have immediately thought of the feelings I experienced in that damp crawl space under our house on 614 Idlewood Drive. There, I experienced worldly sorrow for having been caught and chose to burn the evidence of my wrong choices.

I have learned the difference between worldly sorrow and Godly sorrow. Worldly sorrow causes you to try to hide your mistakes. Godly sorrow prompts you to do everything you can to undo the damage you have caused and wish with all your heart it had never happened. This experience I have shared with you became a benchmark in my life. As I gradually became truly sorry for my actions or in other words experienced Godly sorrow, I knew that I would have to find Name-Long-Forgotten and express my heart felt regret for having taken something that did not belong to me.

The Untouchables

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The acceptable kill rate was four to one. I could fulfill my obligation to my country if I killed four of the enemy before I got killed. After that, my body could be shipped back to the states draped publicly in an American flag and delivered home for my family to mourn privately. My government would provide three hundred dollars for my burial expenses and my name would appear on the wall of the Vietnam Memorial. But there would be no future, no wife, and no children to bounce on my knee.

It would be years before I realized how discriminating the war was. Poor blacks and whites not in college were hit the hardest. The poor were targeted as though they were the most dispensable. I guess that is the way it has always been. The poor filled the ranks of the bulging surge of humanity being shipped to South East Asia. Fifty-eight thousand would not return alive. Many more would come home with serious wounds both physical and emotional. This was the destiny of many men during the Vietnam years.  For those who lived, what they saw and what they endured changed them forever.

But war would not be my destiny, my future. The knowledge of my destiny was not derived from the ability to see into the future. It came from a priesthood blessing I received in which I was promised that I would be sealed up against the war. I have never understood why I should be sealed up against that war while so many others were not. But I have an outpouring of gratitude that I was spared the experiences that transpired in that foreign land.

For us here at home the message was clear. You want to stay out of Vietnam? Go to college. That wasn't a problem for me because I always planned to go to college. Upon high school graduation I registered for the draft as required by law. I also turned in all the necessary papers showing my college acceptance and received a 2-S deferment. I became one of the untouchables. I could not be drafted so long as I held a 2-S deferment. I didn't go to college to dodge the draft although I didn't want to go to war.  However, regardless of my circumstances I would not have fled to Canada or Mexico to evade the hungry war machine gobbling up young me by the thousands. Although I was temporarily protected from war with my deferment, I was not in sympathy with the demonstrations taking place on campuses across the nation. I felt it would have been a betrayal of the servicemen already caught in a crushing vice between the Viet Cong and politics.

Our country was being torn apart. The irony of it all was that in Vietnam the military leaders were hovering above the firefight high enough to stay clear of enemy fire while others suffered and died on both sides. On college campuses and in the city streets the principal instigators of the demonstrations would stir up the populace and when the threat of police interaction was present, they would conveniently slink away, leaving the stirred-up students to take the brunt of the fight. No matter where you were, here at home or in South East Asia, the rhetoric was the same: propaganda, propaganda, and more propaganda. I struggled to understand the truth and where it was hiding.

After my freshman year of college I planned to serve a mission for the LDS Church. A problem arose almost immediately. My local draft board refused to issue me a 4-F deferment for missionary service. Without that deferment I could not serve a mission. The draft board accused me of requesting to serve a mission to avoid the draft. I reminded the draft board that I already had a college deferment and could retain that 2-S status for four years by staying in school. I desired to serve a mission because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives. On appeal, the draft board agreed to grant me a 4-F deferment on the condition that I would voluntarily extend my draft eligibility by ten years.

The draft board expected me to choke on that stipulation and withdraw my appeal. But I knew something they did not know.  I had a blessing that sealed me up against the war. I signed the draft extension papers and within three months I was saying goodbye to my family and heading to the language training center to learn Spanish. I had been called to serve in the West Spanish American Mission. After three months of language training, I boarded a night train with seven other missionaries headed for the mission headquarters in East Los Angeles. Los Angeles had the second largest Spanish speaking population on this continent next to Mexico City. When I filled out my missionary papers there was a place to list my requested area of service. I requested an English speaking mission outside of the United States. I received a mission call to serve Spanish speaking people in California, Arizona and Nevada. Someone had more faith in me than I had in myself by sending me to a Spanish speaking mission. I had two years of high school Spanish and I wasn't a star pupil.

On that night train to Los Angeles as I sorted through my papers it occurred to me that my 4-F deferment would expire three months before the completion of my mission. I had been granted a two year deferment and not one day more. When requesting the missionary deferment I did not know that I would be called to serve a foreign speaking mission. The three months spent in the language training center did not count toward my two years of missionary service. I gulped and my throat went dry as cotton. I would be reclassified 1-A for the draft three months before I completed my mission. What this meant was that there was a high probability that I would be drafted before I was able to get reenrolled in college. Then I remembered the blessing I received and my heart was quieted. I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself that it would all work out.

True to their word the draft board reclassified me 1-A September 7th, 1967, three months before returning home from my mission. Within a week after my arrival I was ordered to report to the Gregg County Draft Board. As I opened the letter and read the instructions, I momentarily wavered in my faith of the blessing I received several years earlier. Had I misinterpreted the meaning of "sealed up against the war"? Maybe sealed up meant sealed up in a coffin, or maybe it meant sealed up against death but I would still be required to go to South East Asia. Then I remembered an old familiar saying about life, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Although I didn't fully understand why at the time, that little saying calmed me. My blessing was not from a shallow source and the noise of fear I was hearing in my mind wasn't from still waters. I remember telling myself, "Be still, be calm, I can do this, whatever comes."

It was difficult to be still and calm. My life was a tangle of emotions. My old girlfriend was engaged to marry Pat Cunningham. My mind knew that this was the right thing for her but my heart wasn't playing a different tune. I also had to report to the draft board in just a few days. I was shuffling around the house, just home from my mission with nothing to keep me busy. Mark, an old high school friend who heard that I was home called and asked if I wanted to go to a rally. "What kind of rally?" I asked. "An anti-war demonstration," Mark said.  I thought it was strange that Mark would be interested in an anti-war demonstration since he just returned from Vietnam. But we were bored and decided we would go check it out. The crowd was peaceful but disorganized. They were milling around on the steps of the courthouse. I wondered what good a demonstration would do at eight o'clock in the evening in front the courthouse. The only people who would be in there at this time of evening would be the janitors.

I approached a shaggy haired young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was wear bell-bottom knit pants with an orange tie-dyed tee shirt a couple of sizes too small. I no longer remember what was printed on the back of his shirt. I asked him why they were demonstrating after the courthouse was closed. He looked at me as if he was staring right through me and said, "Peace, brother and free love." I didn't know very much about love but I was smart enough to know that love wasn't free. Mark and I stood around on the outer fringe of the crowd for a few minutes but most of what I was hearing were trite sayings like "make love, not war," and all manner of degrading names for the president and the government. I turned to Mark and said, "I've seen enough and heard enough, let's go get a shake at the Golden Point drive-in." With a shrug of his shoulders Mark and I headed across the courthouse lawn toward his dad's pickup. He was quiet. We glanced back one more time to look at the small crowd that had gathered. I said, "They sounded like a bunch of broken records just saying the same thing over and over, repeating each other." Mark said, "Those kids are loaded on pot and their brains are in neutral. That's why they call it spaced out. I've seen a lot of it in the military."

As Mark and I enjoyed our ice cream shakes he spoke of his experiences in Vietnam and said that he hoped I'd never have to see what he had seen. Much of what he described was unimaginable to me. Our mood turned somber and after a while he took me home. As we said our goodbyes Mark looked at me and said, "Jerry, I'm not a hero and I didn't volunteer for duty in Vietnam. I hated every minute of every day I spent there. I was scared the entire year but what I see here at home scares me in a different way. I witnessed an anti-war demonstration outside the military gates of Fort Benning, Georgia before being sent home on leave. I'm not an expert on the Peace and Free Love Movement, but I haven't seen one person at those demonstrations I'd want to share a foxhole with. There was sadness in his countenance as he turned, got in the pickup and drove away.       

Two days later as I prepared to report to the draft board I was still thinking about the demonstrators on the courthouse steps a few nights earlier. In the Old Testament when Cain slew Abel it wasn't difficult to determine who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. The demonstrators referred to the president as a baby killer and all sorts of other degrading names. They didn't have one good thing to say about this country; the greatest country on earth. I wanted to be on the right side and I didn't want to give my life for an unjust cause but what was the right side? Then that same little saying came back to my mind, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Once again I told myself, "Be still, be calm, you can do this, whatever comes."

Looking back it seems odd that I was surprised to discover that I wasn't the only young man reporting to the draft board that day. We stood in a line and waited for our names to be called. As each person's name was called he stepped up to the front of the enlistment desk. When I heard my name called I moved forward to the desk as directed. An older woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her hair was seated at the desk. I waited for the list of questions that I had been hearing directed at each young man who had gone before me. Studying my papers for a moment she looked up at me and said, "Are you the Jerry Grubbs that dated Karen Young?" Surprised by her comment and while still trying to remember how I knew this lady, I said, "I am."   "Well young man, Karen's mother thinks very highly of you. Do you want to go to Vietnam?" she asked. "No, I want to go back to college but I got called up before I could get back into school." I explained. Without taking her eyes off me she took my draft papers, slid them into the top drawer of her desk and instructed me to turn around, walk out of the office without saying a word to anyone and send her verification of my readmission to college when it was official.

I did exactly as she instructed. I didn't even know her name until I was outside the courthouse and looked down at the small card she handed me that read, "Edie Brown, Secretary, Gregg County Draft Board." After learning her name, I still didn't know who she was. At that time all I knew was that she was a friend of Karen's mother and because of that association I had become one of the untouchables once more.

The country was still deeply divided concerning the war as I returned to college in the spring of 1968. Edie Brown had been true to her word. My 2-S deferment declaring me untouchable arrived in the mail as promised. That demonstration I went to was the only one I ever attended. Ironically, I never witnessed more words of hate than I heard at that peace demonstration on those courthouse steps in December 1967. I wasn't envious of the soldiers in harm's way nor was I willing to join forces with the demonstrators. Both soldiers and demonstrators seemed to be caught up in the propaganda of the moment . . . while some were following orders to kill, others were being incited to riot. I would have been wounded by the actions of the demonstrators if I had been a draftee crawling my way through a dangerous jungle trying to stay alive, fighting a war I did not understand but choosing to fight rather than slither across the border and hide.

After Karen's mother passed away, I found Edie Brown and we spent an afternoon together. She was confined to a wheelchair and living alone. Edie was experiencing the challenges and debilitating effects of sugar diabetes. It was the first time I had seen her or talked to her since that day long ago when I stood in front of her desk at the county draft board. She shared her life story with me and how she became acquainted with Karen's mother. The two of them attended high school together in Ohio. With another mutual friend they moved to Longview, Texas in 1940 and remained close friends all their lives, meeting regularly to play bridge. It was at those bridge games that Edie Brown came to know who Jerry Grubbs was and what he meant to her lifelong friend. Karen's mother shared with Edie the feelings she had for this boy whom she referred to as the son she always wanted.   

Karen's mother had touched my life in a way that I never imagined. When I began dating her daughter in 1960, I could not have guessed that she would be the influence that brought about the fulfilled my blessing of being sealed up against the war. By my promise, I never discussed with Karen's mother Edie Brown's involvement in my draft deferment. But I had experienced a miracle in my life and I have discovered that not all miracles are performed by unseen hands. Karen's mother's influence had spared me from the draft. What did I do to deserve that? I do not know. There were many men far better than I who suffered and died in that foreign land.

I had the opportunity to thank Edie Brown in person. One day, beyond this earth, I will thank Karen's mother; not just for her influence in keeping me untouchable from the draft but for all she taught me and her unconditional acceptance of me. I continue to be grateful for a blessing that sealed me up against the war that divided our nation forty years ago and as I look back, what a treat it was to have Karen's mom a part of the fulfillment of that blessing. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong in that war, the lesson I learned was to be still, be calm, there are forces at work that I may not understand at the moment.

The Senior Prom

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The events leading up to this date started months earlier. I actually didn't ask Karen to the senior prom. We had been dating exclusively since the beginning of our sophomore year and some things were just understood between us. At least that's the way it was until the summer of 1963.

That summer the Cobb family moved into the house next door to Karen's home on Avalon Drive. Their son Glenn was a year younger than us. As Karen and I dated through the summer, Glenn's name surfaced more and more. I became agitated at the mere mention of his name. I knew that it was jealousy on my part that Glenn had daily access to my girlfriend.  My feelings of jealousy were not so much directed against Glenn, I didn't even know him other than by sight. The ups and downs of my relationship with Karen had always been out in the open.  But I lived across town and our time together was limited to a couple of times a week during the summer.  The only reason I was excited for school to start was because I would get to see her more often.

Summer ended and the new school year began. School activities and football games were in full swing. Life at Longview High School seemed normal on the outside but inwardly I knew something had changed. Our lives were on autopilot which included plans for the senior prom. We laughed and joked with classmates and friends. The laughing and joking was only skin deep for me. There was an unseen enemy invading the calm of my life but I couldn't identify it much less put a name on it. I could only wait and let life unfold.

My life didn't unfold, it unraveled. You could say that my train derailed.  My train ride began in biology class my sophomore year when a skinny little blonde traded places with my lab partner and began sitting next to me the first week of school. If it was a setup I didn't resist. You have to know you are being setup before you can resist or go along with a plan. I was actually too naive to even realize what was going on. A couple of weeks after the skinny blonde became my lab partner I still wasn't getting the picture.

My future wasn't in the hands of fate; Karen was leading this military maneuver and I wasn't even aware that I had been drafted although her mother would one day save me from the real draft.  Plans were put in place to insure that I would get a clear picture of the battlefield. My friend Charles Hineman was dating Karen's best friend Leslie Duffel. Leslie asked Charles to tell me that my biology lab partner would say yes if I asked her out on a date. I remember asking Charles, "How do you know that?" His response was typical, "Are you stupid. She sits by you in biology and English plus she has traded lockers so her locker is right across the hall from yours." It now made sense why I had been running into her so much. I finally mustered the courage to ask her on a date and our emotional train pulled out of the station, picked up speed, and Karen and I traveled together along the curves and straight stretches of high school life. We had traveled a long way since those early sophomore days but Karen decided to change trains soon after the beginning of our senior year.

For her it was like stepping off one train and onto another. The train she boarded was ridden by her next door neighbor, Glenn Cobb.  From hindsight it was easy to understand what had happened. She said all the right things; even shed a few tears of sadness that our journey was over. It is easier to be gracious when you aren't the one left at the train station. Karen assured me that we would always be good friends but our life together had become boring. I didn't ask any questions, I just listened. She said that I was also too predictable, I didn't appreciate her and I often chose to be with my friends instead of her. I'm sure all those things were true. By the time she was through I wondered why she had ever gone out with me in the first place. Even if my brain had been encased in cement, I would have gotten the picture this time. I didn't need to hear anymore. Like an injured animal, I licked my wounds in the privacy of my own mind and dropped a curtain over my heart to protect it.  It took me a while before I realized that some people need to build a case against you so their actions are your fault.

I had no conversations with Karen until several weeks later. With the casualness of a princess addressing one of her subjects she said, "Jerry, I thought I should let you know the color of my prom dress." I didn't answer her. I was too surprised to utter a response. It had never entered my mind that we were still going to the senior prom. "You're still taking me to the prom aren't you?" she asked. "You can drop dead if you think I am going anywhere with you," I said. "You know I have always planned to go to the prom with you," she replied. "When we talked about the prom you were dating me, not someone else. Get Glenn to take you if you want to go to the prom," I said. "I can't go with Glenn. He had already asked someone else before we started going steady," she said as her voice raised a few notches. "Raise your voice if you want, I'm not going to the senior prom with you or anyone else," I said. I walked away, shaking my head and wondering if my pain would ever end.

Well, my pain wasn't going to end soon. After school I went to work at the Salad Bowl Restaurant located in the Holiday Inn Motel on Highway 80. The restaurant closed at eleven but it took us until midnight to get everything cleaned up and ready for the next day. It only took about twenty minutes to walk home. I resisted having mother pick me up after work because I was fearful that she would eventually make me quit because of the inconvenience of the hour. She was always up when I came in the door and would have something for me to eat although I had already eaten at the restaurant. Mother said that she had something to discuss with me. It had not occurred to me that Karen or her mom would call and discuss the prom with my mother.

I no longer remember who placed the call to mom but it didn't matter. Mother thought it was my duty to take Karen to the prom. It wasn't right for a senior to not be able to attend her last prom of high school, besides she was one of the ladies in waiting, whatever that meant. I told mother that I didn't care if Karen was a lady in waiting or how long Karen had to wait. She could ground me, punish me any way she could dream up, I was not taking Karen to the prom. I think I was enjoying some sadistic pleasure in this dilemma that my old girlfriend had wedged herself into. She got herself in the crack. She could get herself out. It wasn't my problem.

Wasn't my problem? My problems were just beginning. I thought my train derailment when she gave me all the reasons why she was bringing our relationship to an end was the last scene, the closing act of this painful play. The next call was from Karen's mother. She wanted me to drop by her insurance office for a chat. I knew what that meant. We met at her office when we were going to discuss the skinny little blonde without her being present. I knew Karen had put her up to this little discussion and I wasn't happy but I thought too much of this lady to say no. Was this pain ever going to end?

Apparently not yet. Karen's mom and my mother shared the same name. They also shared the same opinion that I should take Karen to the prom. I could understand Karen's mother siding with her but I was puzzled why my own mother would want to subject me to the pain and humiliation of doing this.  It was asking too much to take someone whom I deeply cared for to the prom while all along she would be wishing that she could be with her new Mister Right. The more these two women pressed me the more stubborn I became. If Karen was panicking, I didn't care. If she was embarrassed by all the discussion of her missing the senior prom, it was not my problem. I was nursing a wounded heart and that heart just needed to be left alone. My friend Charles Hineman thought it was the funniest thing. His girlfriend Leslie Duffel had stiffed him months earlier and he was now over the hump and able to take a deep breath without feeling like he was going to break in half. I knew I would get over the hump too if people would just leave me alone.

But mom knew that leaving me alone wouldn't get Karen to the prom. She had a long talk with me about whether I was going to be a boy or a man. She pulled several cards out of the deck: the shame card, the guilt card, etc. I didn't budge. Mother knew where my stubborn streak originated and some of it was coursing through her own veins. She spoke of doing the right thing even when it was hard. I battled her over the subject of what the right thing was. When all else had failed mother asked me to pray about it and promised that she would not bother me anymore about the subject if I would agree to follow the promptings I felt. I agreed. I didn't have to worry. I knew I was in the right.

But I still had a problem. Being right doesn't make you good. Being right doesn't place you above the responsibility to extend charity. If you withhold charity when it is within your power to extend it, don't count on charity when you are in need of it. Mother knew me better than I knew myself. She taught me these things from my youth. I just buried them somewhere down deep and mom knew in the quiet moments of my mind I would rediscover them.

Karen's mother called and asked for a second meeting with me. She could usually point out things in a way that I hadn't thought of before. She explained that she wasn't siding with Karen. She said, "I love you like a son and I love my daughter. I don't want to see either one of you hurt. Karen is just following her heart. What are you following, Jerry?" Her question was like a revelation to me. I had already decided to take Karen to the prom because it was what my heart told me to do. But now I would take her as a man, not a boy. I would take her out of love, not out of duty, not because it was the right thing to do but because it was a good thing to do.

Karen looked beautiful that night. I treated her with tenderness. I opened the car door for her but she didn't slide over next to me as I got in. That part of our lives had changed. At the prom we danced cordially and traded partners with other couples. I'm sure that Glenn found her and they danced some but I didn't watch for her or require anything special of her. My arrangement was to take her to the prom itself, not to the rest of the all night activities. Leaving the dance, as we approached her home Karen asked if I would like to go somewhere and talk for a while. I declined. I thought about saying something catty like, "I don't think Glenn would like that," but I didn't. "Would you do it for me?" she asked. "Do what?" I asked. "Go somewhere so that we can talk for a few minutes," she said. "Yes," I said.

I drove to a spot near her home that we had visited often at the close of a date. It was awkward at first. All we had shared over the years seemed to be walled off from us like it had been two other people and we were just watching memories of them from a distance. She leaned over to give me a kiss but I touched my hand to her lips. She said that she had something serious to discuss with me. "I've heard that you have been seeing Susie. You know what kind of reputation she has. I'm not interested in second-hand merchandise. If you expect us to ever get married you better stop spending time with her," she said. I hadn't been out with Susie or anyone else. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to say, "I'll date whomever I please, but I didn't. I just looked at her, cranked the car and drove her home.

I gave her mom a hug as we entered the house. We visited for a few minutes and talked about the events of the dance. The look her mother gave me as I turned to leave was worth every minute of that evening I had spent with the skinny little blonde I met in biology long ago. I excused myself and headed home. I was glad that I did it and I was glad it was over. Looking back on it, both my mom and Karen's mom were right. . .taking her to the prom was the right thing to do but it wasn't easy. And sometimes we make things harder than they need to be. Maybe I was slowly and painfully becoming a man.

Snapshots

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

A book I read suggested that there are three major dates in our recent history that caused Americans to pause and take stock of themselves. These dates were the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, the assassination of President Kennedy, November 22, 1963, and the attack on the World Trade Center, September 11, 2001. When I read that statement I was instantly drawn back into the past like there was a snapshot of November 22, 1963. I didn't remember the specific date but I certainly remembered the events of that day as they unfolded. Here is what I saw as I opened the pages of that old mental photo album.   

"Jerry Grubbs please report to the principal's office immediately!" said a voice over the intercom. The guys sitting at the table with me in the high school cafeteria roared with laughter. I had been warned that the call was coming but I was surprised that Mr. Fields was going to give me an adjustment during my lunch break.  By adjustment I'm not suggesting that the principal was a chiropractor in a prior profession. "Why couldn't he call for me during Spanish or English class? Just my luck to have my lunch time gobbled up. What was left of my meal would probably be gone when I got back to the cafeteria. If it was still sitting on the table no telling what my friends would have done to it. I resigned myself to the fact that lunch break was over for me. I pushed my chair back, rose to my feet and headed up the stairs to Mr. Fields' office that was located on the floor above the cafeteria.

Casually walking into the office I found no one there. The secretary was gone and from the open door to the principal's office, I could see that no one was there either. There was a radio tuned to a news station on the secretary's desk. As I sat waiting for someone to return, I heard on the radio that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas and was being rushed to the hospital. I decided this was headline news and I was going to be the Paul Revere who announced it to the cafeteria crowd.

Running down the stairs taking two or three steps at a time, I came into the Cafeteria and shouted that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. No one believed me until Mr. Fields came on the intercom system and confirmed the truth about what I had said. My excitement of being the first to announce this news was short lived. The principal instructed us to return to our classrooms where we would be given the details of this tragedy. A hush fell over the students and a somber mood prevailed throughout the entire school. We were shocked and saddened that such an event had occurred and we were collectively embarrassed that it had taken place in our native state of Texas.

That afternoon in my study hall class I was busy playing tic-tac-toe with Ronnie Brown. Ronnie and I had previous history together. I still carry a scar on my lip from when he smacked me in the mouth, cutting my lip on my own teeth. The fight had occurred the previous year when we were on our way to band practice. He was trying to pick a fight with my brother Bill who chose to turn and walk away from him. Furious that he couldn't agitate Bill into a fight Ronnie picked up a broken brick and hit Bill in the back. Seeing what had taken place I thought that if Ronnie wanted a piece of a Grubbs I would give him one. I plowed into him with fists flailing. If Ronnie had any lasting scars from the fight I would point them out to boast of my prowess. I later figured out that Bill had no need to fight with Ronnie. Ronnie wanted to date my brother's girlfriend Patsy Walker and Bill had no need to fight for what he already had. But the day President Kennedy was shot, Ronnie and I were passing the time playing tic-tac-toe. That's how guys are; they can be mortal enemies one day and sit together and play a game on another day.

Ronnie and I were busy with our game in study hall when my old girlfriend Karen Young started walking toward our table. "Here comes trouble," Ronnie said. I looked up and saw Karen looking at me and heading straight for our table. She and I used to sit together in study hall but we had been separated for talking too much. That was long before she decided I was too boring to go steady with. She said it was like we had become an old married couple; same disagreements, same reconciliations, same weekend dates and so on and so on plus I was always working when she wanted to do something. That is why I referred to her as my old girlfriend although she was eight days older than me. I still cared about her but a two thousand pound bull sitting on my chest wouldn't be able to get me to admit it. She and I hadn't spoken in months. She was busy parading around in Glenn Cobb's football jacket that was six sizes too big for her. The tips of her fingers barely protruded out of the coat sleeves. Besides, it wasn't even cold enough to wear a coat yet. I was a senior and Glenn was a junior. It was humiliating that a junior had stolen my girlfriend. Isn't it interesting how some of us blame others for our problems. Glenn didn't steal Karen. She just changed trains.

But now Karen was walking straight toward our table. At first I thought she was just passing by but that didn't make sense. She had avoided me completely since the last time she tried to make light conversation with me and I told her to drop dead. I wish I could say that those words popped out of my mouth before I had time to think, sort of like being startled by a mouse in your lunch sack. But that wasn't the case. My mother taught me to guard another person's feelings as I would my own and to never intentionally hurt someone using the lame excuse that I was just getting even. Getting even when it is meant to hurt someone else only exposes how small you are. I was a small person that day, I knew it and Karen suffered because of how immature I acted. You don't treat someone you really care about that way. In spite of my previous behavior and to my surprise, Karen stopped right by my chair. I thought she must be going to make a comment about the death of President Kennedy. See, by now we had been informed that it wasn't just an assassination attempt; the president had died at the hospital.

Standing next to my chair, Karen simply said, "Would you like to go to a Cowboys football game with me in Dallas next weekend?"  I hadn't been that close to her in months much less looked into those sky-blue eyes. During that time I had been very careful to not let our eyes meet in case she could read what was in my heart. At least she wasn't wearing Glenn Cobb's jacket when she came to visit. My heart raced as I thought about the implications of her question. Before my brain was fully engaged and I could think of something hurtful or sarcastic to say, my tongue revealed my heart and I said, "Sure I would like to see a Cowboys' game." "But do you want to go with me?" she asked. I hesitated. Before I could answer, Ronnie Brown said, "If he doesn't want to go, I will." I wanted to punch his lights out right there in study hall but from previous experience I knew he was a scrapper and I remembered the scar on my lip from his knuckle sandwich last year. The last thing I needed at that moment was a fist fight in study hall.

I could tell that Karen was nervous. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue and her eyelids blinked irregular. She was waiting for my answer. A part of me wanted to stand up and give her a hug but my pride wouldn't allow me to go down that easy. I knew it took a lot of courage for her to talk to me, especially after that last time she tried to have a conversation and I told her to drop dead. How do you tell someone with your lips that you will have to think about it but your eyes are saying, "Yes, yes, yes"? I resolved to say nothing that would wound this special person in my life. She never looked away, never took her eyes off me from the time she started speaking to me. She reminded me of an innocent lamb waiting to either be pardoned or executed. I have never forgotten that tender look on her face that day.

There is an old Indian saying that within each of us lives two wolves, a vicious one and a kind one. The one that prevails within us is the one we feed. I had tried feeding the vicious wolf and it only brought me pain. Today I would feed the kind wolf. Trying to appear calm on the outside while erupting with excitement on the inside, I couldn't afford to get too excited about the prospects of spending the weekend in Dallas with Karen. I was still grounded at home for the same reason I had been called to Principal Fields' office for an adjustment. I was grounded from everything except school, work and church. I suggested that mom ground me from church also but she just stood there with that stern look of disappointment. I knew that look and it meant "not in your wildest dreams, buckwheat."

The bell rang and study hall was over. I had been saved by the bell so I thought. The bad wolf part of me wanted to keep Karen in suspense for a while but I was honest with her. I told her that I was grounded and couldn't give her an answer until I spoke to my mother. When I explained my situation to Karen she suggested that we leave that problem up to her mom. "Answer my question. Do you want to be with me?" she asked. My eyes told her yes and I left it at that as I gathered my books and moved toward the door.

School was over and it was time for me to head to the restaurant at the Holiday Inn Motel were I worked as a dishwasher and busboy from four until midnight. The talk at every table that evening was about the assassination of the president. As I walked home after work that night, I thought of the events of the day and wondered if my world would ever be the same again. Few days are burned into my memory as vividly as the snapshot of that day when the shutter clicked; a picture was taken and stored in my mind over forty years ago. Where were you and what where you doing on November 22, 1963 when a president died in Texas?

If you are too young to remember the death of President Kennedy, you can share a remembrance of 9-11 or another snapshot of your life. My mother said that April 12, 1945 created a snapshot in her life. It was the day President Roosevelt died in Warm Springs, Georgia.

The Little Red Wagon

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was the 21st day of December and I had spent a few moments at the cemetery remembering a close friend and visiting old memories. It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear with a gentle breeze blowing. I tucked my neck down into the collar of my coat as I finished writing a few thoughts, closed my notebook and headed back to the car.

I turned left as I exited the cemetery and headed for a Christmas visit with another friend from my past. I see her only once each year now and yet twenty years ago we were together every working day. I knew a little of her hopes and dreams and some of her disappointments. But today she and I will reflect on days gone by, catch up on the events of the current year and after a brief hug, say our goodbyes for another year. Oh, we will promise to get together more often; go to lunch and have Mexican food, but it will not happen.

It will not happen because life gets busy with obligations and routine commitments. But mostly it will not happen because our lives become intertwined for a season and then a pruning separates the old from the new. This year she will once again say, "I wondered if you would come this year." And I will think, "We prune, gather, stack and burn but no one can prune away my memories." We lived and laughed and worked and played. We even shared that friend who is now silent that I visited in the cemetery. She will ask if I know what day this is and we will both know it is the anniversary of his passing.

While sitting at a red light and thinking about the upcoming visit with her, I noticed a black BMW sedan pass by in front of me. It was spotless, so spotless it caught my eye. But what really caught my attention was a red wagon full of Christmas presents in the back seat of that car. When the light changed I impulsively decided to follow the BMW. Pulling in close behind the black car I noticed that it was a 530xi. That didn't mean anything to me but I was sure it meant something to the owner. I wanted to jot down the license plate number but I didn't. The BMW was headed east on Fourth South Street and I decided to pull up beside it to get a closer look at the red wagon in the back seat. But my attention was drawn to the occupants of the car.

It is interesting what you can see in a person if you look close enough. I'm not talking about receding hairlines on men and turtleneck sweaters on women to hide what cosmetic surgery can't roll back the clock on. I'm talking about the look of happiness, contentment, worry or grief. Today I saw worry and grief chiseled in stone on the faces of the couple in the spotless black BMW sedan. They were well dressed. The lady passenger didn't have a single blond hair out of place and the morning sun danced on her golden necklace. The driver wore a heavy starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. They each had an unopened water bottle cradled in the console cup holders. They appeared to be in their mid thirties but the strain on their faces gave them the appearance of statues devoid of life or manikins in a department store window.

They did not speak. They did not look at each other or toward me but stared straight ahead as though in a trance. I wanted to know their story. I wanted to know who the little red wagon full of Christmas presents was for. As I continued to follow the BMW, it turned toward the University of Utah Hospital. I began to imagine that this couple had a young son or daughter gravely ill and that they were filled with despair. I lost them in the hospital parking terrace but I wasn't too concerned. How many couples would be pulling a red wagon full of Christmas presents through the corridor of the hospital? To my dismay the couple was just entering the elevator when I reached the main foyer. All I knew was that they were headed up. I was blocked by a sea of people. Something was wrong. There had been a "Code Pink" issued just as I entered the hospital. Code Pink meant there had been an infant abduction and every exit to the hospital was being closed off. It took several minutes before everyone knew that it was just a security drill.

Security drill or not, I had lost the couple with the red wagon full of Christmas presents. But what I could not forget was that look of despair on their faces. There are some things that money cannot buy. It cannot buy health and it cannot buy happiness. The look on the faces of that couple told me that they would trade anything for what they did not have, a healthy child. A spotless black BMW sedan, starched white shirts and gold necklaces become nothing more than pruned limbs, gathered, stacked and prepared for burning if that sacrifice would restore what that couple had lost.

While wandering the halls of the hospital in search of the little red wagon full of Christmas presents, I came across another friend from the past. What a pleasant yet unexpected reunion we enjoyed. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch one day. I left the hospital with a lighter step because of a friendship renewed coupled with a pain in my heart for a couple I did not know. I returned to my car and continued on my journey to visit that friend with whom I had laughed and worked and played so many years ago. I didn't have a little red wagon full of Christmas presents for her but I did have memories to share and moments to remember. I heard her voice. I enjoyed her smile. Our friendship has survived the pruning, gathering, stacking and burning that separates the old from the new.  After the pruning comes the tender new growth. Oh, how good it is to be alive and pull my little red wagon along the road of my mind and fill it with memories, hopes and dreams and friendships renewed.

The Look of Christmas

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.

My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.

Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.

I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.

I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.

As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.

With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.

Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.

Gone From My View

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I lost a friend this week. I didn’t loose him like you loose a shiny penny that drops out of your pocket. I didn’t loose him like a favorite book that is temporarily misplaced. I lost him in life. He is gone from my view but not from my heart. His name is James Marvin Moore but everyone called him Jimmy. He had rough edges just like the rest of us but his personal battle with cancer began to smooth and polish his imperfections.

I felt fortunate to be counted as one of his many friends. He was always anxious to help anyone in need. His voice still rings in my ears. “Mister Jerry, I can get that old dump truck running for you,” he said. And fountains of memories gush forth and flood that day we worked on the old truck together. “Mister Jerry, I’ll help you rebuild that washed out dam if my boss will give me a few days off,” he said. And the next six days were filled with hard work and pleasant conversation.

From our first introduction I asked Jimmy to not call me Mister Jerry. I’m just plain Jerry I told him. “You’re not plain to me,” he said. “When you do something to loose my respect I’ll stop calling you Mister Jerry.” That is how Jimmy was . . . once he set his mind on something there was no changing him. For the most part that attitude about life served him well.

Jimmy didn’t amass the treasures of the earth but he gathered about himself a multitude of friends. Those who judge a man by the cost of his coat would take no notice of Jimmy. While those who view a man from where he started and where he finished the day found a warm friendship in this man who always offered a strong handshake and a soft countenance. I can hear in my mind Jimmy saying, “That man is doing the best he can.”

How grateful I am that I was able to visit Jimmy one last time. During his struggle he lost his life but he didn’t loose his positive attitude. He lost his fight with cancer but he didn’t loose the love and caring concern of his companion and wife. Jimmy lost his beloved pickup to the creditors but on one could repossess his friends. They had been purchased and paid for in full. That price was his loyalty. That price was his love. That price was his gentle open acceptance of others. I will miss him and I will not forget him.

We were friends in life and we are friends in death. Some things are not lost even in death. James Marvin Moore, you may be gone from my view but you are not gone from my heart. I am a better person today because of the tenderness you pointed out in me. In reality, it was through your eyes that you saw that tenderness. It is my responsibility to strive to live up to what you saw in me. I’m still trying.

Going Home

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.

I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.

I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.

But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.

I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.

Memory Lane

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.

Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.

As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane.  The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.

In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.

Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart.  When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.

Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.

I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.

I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.

We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.

My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?

But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.