====================== Toppers by Darrell Bain and Willard Stafford ====================== Copyright (c)2004 by Darrell Bain and Willard Stafford Fictionwise www.fictionwise.com Humor --------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. --------------------------------- Writers Exchange E-Publishing www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/ PO Box 372 ATHERTON QLD 4883 AUSTRALIA Cover design by: Gin May Published Online by Writers Exchange E-Publishing www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/ ISBN 1876962801 All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author are purely coincidental. -------- Forward By Darrell Bain I met Will Stafford over the Internet a couple of months after the publication of my first novel, Medics Wild, a fictitious, humorous rendition of behind the lines escapades by a bunch of zany medics during the Vietnam war. Vietnam was such a traumatic national experience and is still such a touchy subject today that I wasn't sure how Medics Wild would be received, especially from Vietnam Vets -- many of them I've talked to see no humor at all in the subject. On the other hand, it's been many years since the war and I decided that maybe it was time to lighten up a little. Medics Wild was well received and sales were going great until the publisher ran into troubles. Before this happened, though, I began to search the Internet for some Vietnam Veteran's groups who might like to read about some of the funnier sides of the war -- and that's when Will came along. Will Stafford is a natural comic, one of those people who can turn even the most mundane subject into a hilarious skit. My agent got me into writing humor, with some small success, but I have to sort of force it. Not Will. He writes as if he were a stand-up comic performing for an audience already primed by Jay Leno. Personally, I think he missed his calling. His stories are so funny, his humor so natural that regardless of what I write, he always comes back with a rejoinder of outrageous humor, which I can only admire. Hence the title of this book, Toppers. I look forward to the day it is published and we're invited to appear on The Tonight Show. Will can start another career then, because Jay Leno will be out of a job and Will Stafford will be inaugurated as the new host. As our electronic conversations progressed, my wife Betty began reading them and soon she was hanging over my shoulder, waiting on Will's next missive with pent-up anticipation, just as I was doing whenever his name popped up on the screen. Eventually, she suggested that our correspondence ought to be turned into a book so others could share Will's unique brand of humor. He even looks funny. No, wait, I didn't mean it that way. He looks jolly, sort like an off duty Santa without the beard. And his wife, Karin is pretty, with a twinkle in her eyes suggesting that anyone who takes Will seriously ought to have their head examined. As Will and I corresponded, a few coincidences popped up. It turns out that he's from Arkansas, the same state where all my folks originated. We both have some Cherokee ancestry. His cousins played intramural basketball with my cousins. We both spent a good deal of time in Vietnam, and both chose Hong Kong for R&R. We both like to read, and neither of us have much respect for politicians. Will tends to make fun of himself, his job, his childhood and especially his exploits in Vietnam. Don't let that fool you, though. He is really an authentic hero, a former sergeant who went to helicopter school, got a Warrant Officer's rating and then a battlefield commission, though the way he describes that event it is more like Sgt. Bilko getting run out of the NCO club for palming an ace during a poker game. Will has told me so many stories that sometimes I have trouble deciding which are tall tales and which are true. You will have to decide for yourself. Personally, I believe almost everything he has said, with the possible exception of proclaiming himself to be lazy. Anyone who's done all the things described in this book couldn't possibly be lazy -- other than a tendency to avoid exercise, which he equates with medieval torture chambers occupied by muscle-bound hulks just smart enough to come in out of the rain. When we exchanged pictures over the Internet, it was easy to see why. The disparity in our relative sizes caused him to claim I was undernourished and he was underheight. Will doesn't just tell war stories. Any subject I bring up reminds him of some escapade or another, so many, in fact that just editing and picking the ones to relate starts me laughing all over again. It's a wonder I ever got this book edited. Someday I want to meet Will in person, split a bottle of good rum, and just spend the evening laughing with him and at him until my ribs are too sore to continue -- which wouldn't take all that long! And now, here's the best of Will Stafford (and a bit of me). Enjoy! -------- Chapter One ON NAM The Elusive Combat Infantryman's Badge It wasn't until later that I asked Will what he was doing listed under Vietnam Veterans, Humor on the deja news site. Maybe the ghosts of Red Skelton, Milton Berle and The Kingfisher surreptitiously planted his name there for me to find. Actually, it was pretty easy since there weren't many listings under that category. I plucked his e-mail address from the site and wrote: Will -- If you are interested in some real humor from Vietnam, try "Medics Wild" by Darrell Bain (that's me). As mentioned, I was trying to drum up interest in my first published novel, like a kid showing off a new puppy that's not quite housebroken. Will wrote back almost immediately, pretending like he had never seen a puppy before and was inordinately curious about its pedigree. Darrell -- -- Where did that come from? Yes, I'm interested in humor. I doubt there could be anything more comical than the United States Army sending me to Vietnam and thinking I would be able to help win anything. The NVA and VC always knew where I was during my tours because I left a trail of snot and tears everywhere I went. I'll look in the local bookstore at lunch. Send me more info about your writing -- Wow! Someone was interested, unlike the many unappreciative editors I dealt with before finally finding a publisher. Where did he come from? I wrote back immediately. Will -- -- I was a medic for two years in Vietnam. The book is based on some germs of truth but I'm not about to admit which is fiction and which fact. Not until I check on the statute of limitations and put a lot of distance between me and combat veterans of the war, anyway. What do you do now? Tell me more about yourself. Well, you can't say I didn't ask for it! Will replied: Darrell -- -- Since I am basically a lazy outfit I will send you the bio I wrote when I joined the Vietnam Helicopter Flight Crew Network. It is a little long so if the urge hits you just reach up and hit the delete key. It is a pretty summarized version of my 57 years, leaving out only the formative grade school and juvenile delinquent high school years. I started playing Army back in the late fifties. In 1966 I was a Staff Sergeant in Germany teaching small arms subjects there. A specialist who worked for me was trying to get into flight school and asked me if I would drive him to Augsburg to take the written test. A couple of joes who were supposed to take the test didn't show up, and the Sergeant there asked me if I wanted to take it or just sit there and bullshit with him. I said sure, it was a better time killer than trying to top the stories he was telling. My guess factor must have been working overtime that day because I passed the test, and the kid I brought up didn't. When I got back I told my wife I was going to submit an application for flight school and what did she think about it? She said if it would make me happy to go right ahead and what was flight school anyway? Somehow I got the feeling she was patting me on the head and telling me to run outside and play. So, with that I put in my application and when I left Germany I went to Fort Wolters to learn how to fly. Primary flight training at Ft. Wolters proved what Abraham Lincoln said is true: "You can fool all the people some of the time." Thank heavens Wolters wasn't longer because I'm sure they were beginning to catch on to the fact that I kept the helicopter aloft with luck, voodoo, blue smoke and mirrors. I got a leave after Wolters because my son has cerebral palsy and was scheduled for surgery, which went fine, then I reported for advanced flight training at Ft. Rucker. Again, I held the wolves at bay and managed to graduate without a pink slip until my last dual flight. This was serious stuff because now I was supposed to be a pilot. Not only did I have aviator wings on my chest, but I was beginning to really believe I could fly a helicopter. Untrue, because on my first assignment in Vietnam at Ninh Woa they found out I couldn't really fly, and stuck me in the gun platoon where pilot technique wasn't necessary. Well, only during takeoff and landing, and if you dump most of your ordinance, landing is no problem. I bored lots of holes in the sky and shot at people and things but probably didn't hit much except the ground. The people shot at me boring holes in the sky and were better shots ... twice ... I think the Warrant Officer Protective Association held a meeting and decided I was giving Warrant officers a bad name. They arranged for me to get a battlefield commission to 2nd Lieutenant, Armor branch and that way when I screwed up it was perfectly acceptable. My second tour in Vietnam was as a commissioned officer and to stop me from sniveling so much about going back so soon they gave me a Chinook transition in route. Now I've got something really big I can't fly and I'm going to have to do it for the 101st Airborne in Phu Bai. I discover I don't like Chinooks. They're big, they leak, they smell bad and they don't have rocket pods, and they want you to fly until your buns ache. Their only socially redeeming quality is now you can steal big things like jeeps, 20,000-gallon water storage tanks, kitchen equipment and such. So, in the grand scheme of things, being a hook pilot wasn't all THAT bad after all. After the second tour I did the normal commissioned officer stuff. Commanded a couple of companies, was a battalion exec, went to the advanced officer's course and then off to college to finish a degree in mechanical engineering, which I had been working on it seemed like since the beginning of time. More staff assignments, some promotions and more schools. In 1980 I could no longer pass the flight physical even with glasses so I hung up my wings. Army Aviation and FAA breathed a collective sigh of relief, and I went off to Germany to be a Brigade Operations officer. In 1985 at Ft. Knox, General Electric came looking for armor officers who could spell engineer to work on their Army simulation programs. GE made a good offer, it was a great work place and the Army was near to figuring out I had no earthly idea what I had been doing the last 26 years. So, I retired and became a GE subsystems engineer. My first program was a very successful precision gunnery simulator. I stayed with GE until 1992 when it finally dawned on them that the only way to get rid of me was to sell the entire aerospace and simulation business to Martin Marietta. I continued with Martin Marietta until they moved operations from Daytona to Orlando. We planted roots deep here and, short of a hurricane, my wife of 33 years said we're staying put. The company I'm working for now was started in 1988 by three retired GE engineers who I worked with in the old days. I do exactly the same thing now I was doing for GE, and then Martin Marietta, so I guess I've only had two real jobs in my life. I am just about to figure out what I am doing so it must be time to retire. I never have quite figured out what I'm doing at any given time so there was no way I could top Will's Horatio-like biography. I just gave him the basic facts. I wrote: Will -- -- Sounds like you had an interesting career. Of course getting shot at and missed (mostly) always makes a body appreciate waking up the next day. I skipped most of school past the seventh grade by playing hooky in the public library, telling the librarians I was there doing school reports. I guess I was a good fibber because the truant officer only nabbed me twice until I dropped out of school completely, having almost got to the ninth grade. The Air Force must have been impressed at all my knowledge about libraries because they made me a medic, a surgical technician first, then drafted me into helping deliver babies. The little demons always peed on me first thing after they were born, causing me to quit the Air Force and join the Army after a short stint of chopping cotton in California. Alas, the Army connived with the Air Force and I found myself still a medic, this time passing out pills as a pharmacy tech. Not all bad: I learned all about the curative powers of penicillin for those dread social diseases, but it was boring as hell. One day a friend let me look through his microscope and it gave me delusions of becoming a second Louis Pasteur so I re-enlisted for Laboratory training, and in the meantime managed to pass the High School GED test. My guessing factor must have been on a par with your flight school test because the Army was so impressed they sent me off to college after lab school. Unfortunately, my old hooky-playing habits resurfaced and I flunked out. It made me so mad I volunteered for Vietnam so I could shoot somebody. I did, too -- with hypodermic syringes. Anyway, I spent two years in Vietnam running dispensaries and laboratories, and stayed out of trouble because there weren't any libraries over there. When my wife ran off with a millionaire, I got out and went back to college and got a BS Degree in Medical Technology by closing my eyes every time I passed the library. I bumped into a lot of things but finally did graduate (I think I was too drunk at the time to realize what was going on, got out of line and messed up the whole ceremony. I think they gave me my degree just to get me out of the way so the rest of the candidates could proceed with the graduation exercises). Being a medical technologist involves handling a lot of yucky body fluids, so naturally I immediately nosed my way into the administrative end where all I had to do was shuffle papers and pretend I was running things. That got boring, too, except for a year in Saudi Arabia shortly after marrying my present wife, so I changed professions again, becoming a Christmas tree farmer, an occupation I recommend only for those who can live on wages of approximately ten cents an hour. Fortunately, my wife continued working, supporting both me and the Christmas tree farm and all my bad habits, including the delusion that one day I would get rich by becoming a writer. Will -- -- I may have to start a collection of your missives, just to give me something amusing to read on these rainy days. Once upon a time I did this with my slightly eccentric nephew, Big Bucks Burnett, founder and president of the Mr. Ed Fan Club. In fact, the collection grew into a book, which enthused my agent but underwhelmed all editors. It was finally published in electronic format under the title "God, Hangovers And Getting Published" and is available on disk. I'll send you a free copy since no one is buying it anyway -- Will rewarded my enthusiasm with a story that left Betty and I both laughing so hard our ribs hurt for a week. It's probably true, too. He wrote: Darrell -- -- I don't know if it's raining there or not but here is a TINS (means: this is no shit) that is typical of the bravery that I displayed throughout my two tours in Vietnam. Actually, I believe that if there had been two more like me over there we would probably have won the war. I've pulled some less than brilliant stunts during my military career but an attempt to get the Combat Infantry Badge has got to be an all time blunder. During my first tour I was a Warrant Officer flying helicopter gunships for the 48th Assault Helicopter Company (Joker 51) out of Ninh Hoa. We were in direct support of the 9th Korean (White Horse) Division. Quite often I had a Korean liaison/interpreter flying in the lead ship if we were working in support of troops on the ground. For three months I had the same interpreter almost daily (Captain Pak) and we became pretty good friends. One day Captain Pak told me that it was to be his last mission with us. He was going to take command of one of the infantry companies in the regiment, which was also headquartered at Ninh Hoa. I immediately began to form a plan to get a Combat Infrantryman's Badge. What does a pilot need with a CIB you ask? I don't know; it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. So off I go half-cocked. No need to check the requirements for a CIB.... Right? All I needed to do to get a CIB was to be in combat with a line infantry unit I thought ... right? I should have known better. I had been in the army for almost nine years when I decided to go on this rampage. I waited several weeks for Captain Pak to get his feet on the ground and then went to see him. I told him I wanted to go out on patrol with one of his platoons (or preferably the entire company because if I'm going on the hostile side of the wire I want lots of company) but that I had some stipulations. First, I would be limited to three days, all the time I could get out of flying. Second, I needed to get into a firefight but nothing really serious, and third, would he write up a statement to the effect that I had been out on patrol and that we had been in contact (if we really had ... I do have some integrity) after it was over. No problem on his end, he said. Again, a wait for almost three weeks before Captain Pak came to the tent we called the Officer's Club and said he was sending out a reinforced platoon and was I still interested in going? Sure I was interested, but the patrol was scheduled to start at night (I wasn't too happy to hear that). I had sort of forgotten that a multi-day patrol meant that we would also be out at night. I had two days to put my stuff together. My platoon leader said it was OK with him since I was near the 30 day, 140 hour automatic grounding rule anyway (you guys remember the rule, the one that could be waived for almost anything or extended on a whim). The patrol was to be a two-day and two-night affair. Captain Pak said they had reasonably good information that there was VC activity where the patrol was going. Reality suddenly slapped me in the face, but I was committed ... or at least I probably should have been. I went to the supply room and, with the assistance of several of the pilots and crewmen from the gun platoon, began to put together what we thought was the correct outfit for a patrol. At the conclusion of this wardrobe and accessories affair I looked like a cross between John Wayne, Roy Rogers and Attila the Hun. When I showed up at Captain Pak's you should have seen him roll his eyes, but he was courteous enough not to laugh, at least while I was there. He took away almost everything I had on except my jungle fatigues. Gone was my trusty and always rusty .45 pistol. In its place he gave me an M2 Carbine, two more regular canteens and a plastic one, enough ammunition to start WWIII, five fragmentation grenades, Korean rations which looked like C-Rations (I had completely forgotten about anything to eat), three smoke grenades and two Koreans who spoke pretty good English; or at least one of them did. I think they were with me more for the protection of the rest of the platoon than they were for my protection; you know, kind of keep me from doing something stupid or at least not any more stupid than what I was already doing. Actually, the patrol was made up of almost two platoons plus three mortars. It took four two and a half ton trucks to take us to where we actually started the patrol. We got to the area just at dusk and started the patrol. Talk about a keen sense of hearing and smell and the hair standing straight up on the back of my neck! After a while, and after miles, though, I began to lose that keen edge except that I was still so shit scared. _For the reader's sanity I'll condense it down and not go into all the details of the patrol. Let me say something here about Korean rations, though. They may look like American c-rations because they were packaged in the same light brown cardboard box and OD tin cans but they aren't like the American C's! The similarity stops, in fact comes, to a screeching halt as soon as the P38 sinks into the first tin can. I didn't know I could go without food for two days and nights. I've heard it said that if you get hungry enough you'd eat anything. It isn't true. There ain't that much hungry in the world!!_ So now back to the condensed version of the patrol. Well, there were a lot of things that happened, like seeing the biggest damned snake in the world, and being scared and constantly adjusting the ruck to try to keep it from rubbing all the hide off of just one place, and being scared, wondering when or if we'd ever stop to rest, and being scared, running out of water, and being scared, crossing rice paddies, and being scared, seeing an air strike several miles away, and being scared, finding two booby traps (I didn't find them), and oh, yes, did I mention being scared? To cut this short, we did shoot up a couple of what were probably abandoned huts but Sergeant Lee (one of my two protectors) said we were shot at first. I threw a hand grenade when the firing started, but Sgt. Lee gave me a look that said, don't do that again, and I didn't. I did lighten my ammunition load though. When we got back I got my statement from Captain Pak, went in to see Captain White who handled the company's awards stuff and told him I wanted to be put in for a CIB. He stared at me for a few seconds like I had a third eye in the middle of my forehead, read the statement from Captain Pak, then started laughing. He asked me if I knew what the requirements were for the award of the CIB? I said to have been in combat with a line infantry unit, I guessed. He pulled out the AR and read me some of the requirements. The first one sank my ship. I had to be assigned to a TO&E slot in a unit that was authorized to award the CIB. There were other requirements, too but I didn't meet any of those either. The bottom line was, I had been out in the bush perpetually scared for two days and nights and all I was going to get out of it was a bunch of pilots laughing their asses off at me. So I didn't get the Combat Infantryman's Badge. But then what the heck ... Badges? I don't need no stinking badges. Now, Darrell, you see why we lost the war? I responded: Will -- Betty heard me cackling about your CIB misadventure. She read it, then began hanging over my shoulder waiting for more. Your CIB misadventures reminded me of my first tour. I was out in the boonies. Not really deep boonies. It was near Long Binh but a separate compound, surrounded by enough barbed wire to stop the whole North Vietnamese Army should they come that way. The wire was surrounded by solid jungle. We supported an oil tanker battalion. They were all gone during the day transporting jet fuel and after morning sick call we didn't have much to do. If we had the money we caroused in Binh Hoa but even that got boring after a while. Me and one of my buddies both had pretensions of being doctors. To put our pretensions into practice we stole a bunch of medicine, borrowed an ambulance and jeep and a few guards who were glad to get off KP, and once a week took off here and there to isolated villages and treated the people for whatever ailed them. I'm pretty sure we medicated more VC than loyalists, which was probably why we weren't ambushed ten times over. Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs? This all ended when the VC apparently got tired of us for some reason or other and blew up the village chief's house (along with the chief) as a warning for us to stop making friends with the villagers. We were ordered to stop. Period. I think my finest moment in Vietnam came when I nearly shot my foot off with an "unloaded" forty-five pistol when I was checking the action before going out on a Medcap mission. It worked fine but I had to change my pants before leaving. Actually, I was never in much danger (other than from root wine and formaldehyde beer) while in Nam. Well, there were lots of snipers but they never came out except after dark and were lousy shots. Remind me to tell you about the soap that went along on those unauthorized Medcap missions. Time to go murder some aphids on my Christmas trees. Aphids look like ticks and customers think they are ticks if I leave any of them crawling. Total war, even in my old age. Will wrote back: Darrell -- You rat, don't stop there. Tell me about the soap! I was glad to be able to tell a story myself, for a change. I wrote: Hi Will -- You asked for it. What happened was that as we went out on these renegade MedCap missions, we discovered that a lot of the illnesses we were seeing could be solved with simple hygiene, i.e., soap and water. However, these were poor villagers and Viet Cong who were busy sniping at our compound instead of out earning a living so they couldn't afford to buy soap. And, of course, we didn't have the money to buy any either. A quandary, and I happened to mention the fact to my mother in a letter. Remember, this was in 1966 when civilian support of the war was still pretty strong. My mother called the local newspaper and told them of how us patriotic medics were trying to win the heart and soul of the Vietnamese people by getting them cleaned up. The paper, whose editor evidently supported the war, wrote up the story (I didn't mention that what we were doing was completely unauthorized and that we had stolen a conex full of medicine to operate with). The editor really did it up nice. The paper really did do a good article and PUT MY APO ADDRESS IN IT. A few weeks later, I began receiving packages of soap from patriotic Americans. Lots of soap. Tons and tons of soap of every brand imaginable, liquid, powder, bars and quite a bit of home-made stuff from old farmers' wives, brown and gooey and also several batches of granny's old lye soap (did you ever hear that song back in the 50's?). We had to steal some more conexes to store the stuff in, and the mail service had to add an extra deuce and a half to their mail run to our compound. It went on and on and on. By golly, after that every MedCap mission we went on we handed out soap to every villager, young, old and middle-aged and threw in enough to keep their Viet Cong cadres clean enough so the grunts didn't mind doing their body counts. When times got tough (like not having any beer money) we sold soap -- though we had to go into Binh Hoa as the price in the local market was sort of depressed by this time. There were a few days when we were shut up tight and couldn't get beer, then we sent boxes of soap home with mama-san in exchange for some booze. One day she brought back Root Wine for God's sake, guaranteed to peel the hair off your scalp (in case you never ran across root wine, it is simply wine made from a big root in a jar, fermented there and dispensed with all the sediment, impurities, etc. left right in the bottle. Only desperate soldiers ever drank the stuff. I did. Once.) We traded soap for souvenirs, gave it to kids in exchange for washing our jeep, and ambulance, and deuce and a half. We disposed of it every way we could think of and still couldn't get rid of it as fast as it was coming in. This went on for months. Where there were return addresses, I wrote to thank the kindly souls and assured them that we now had enough soap and please don't tell their friends and neighbors to send any more. And when I rotated home, that soap was still arriving and spilling out the conexes. I have no idea what ever happened to it after I left. And then he had another story for me: Darrell -- Vietnam is one of those places in the world where an air conditioner is just plain important. In December 1970 I was back for another tour and had been assigned as a pilot in a Chinook Company, C/159, 101st Airborne (Airmobile) Division. I thought I had landed in the lap of luxury when I arrived at the company. They had real wooden two-man hootches for the officers, four-man hootches for SSGs and above (well, the First Sergeant and CO had private hootches), and SGTs and below were in eight to ten men wooden barracks. My previous tour had been as a gunship pilot down in II Corp and for practically the entire tour, when we weren't sleeping in the aircraft, we lived in some really rag-patched tents. So, as far as I was concerned, these two-man hootches at Phu Bai were as close as you get to the tap of luxury in a combat zone. They put me in a hootch with a guy named John McGraw. Old John was an interesting character. He was on his third six-month extension in-country and had the paper work in for a fourth. This told me right away that either I was rooming with some kind of hero or he was a flaming nut. It turned out, the latter was the case. John was really a good guy to room with, though. He had a world-class collection of Playboy magazines, a great tape deck with four speakers, hated Ike and Tina Turner's version of Proud Mary almost as much as I did, and had a well-developed sense of humor. John also didn't mind sharing his booze, and he kept his two thirds of the shack clean (since I was the new guy, I only got a third of the place). John had only two faults. Every night before we turned in, he would recite the things of his I could have when he didn't come back the next day. John was convinced he was going to get shot down every time he went out. We'd even go through the ritual when he and I were going to fly together the next day. I asked him once why he kept extending and his answer was that the money was great, he liked flying, he didn't have any family, and every time he extended he got thirty days R&R. For his R&R, he always picked places where there were lots of hookers. John didn't just like hookers. He LOVED hookers. The part about hookers is not, in my opinion, a fault. Perhaps some may say it is a character flaw and, if pressed, I'll grudgingly agree, but it certainly isn't a fault for, as John explained it, he was simply renting until he was ready to buy. The fault was his constant talk about crashing. John's second fault was his obsession with air-conditioning the hootch. His waking hours were spent talking about air conditioners and trying to find one. I learned from some of the other pilots that this obsession started after he and his crew were bringing a new aircraft up from Saigon and got weathered in at an Air Force airfield down in II Corps. The Air Force, true to form, put John and his crew up in an air-conditioned Quonset hut for the night. That was it for John. He was now convinced the meaning of life involved having an air conditioner. He was no longer satisfied with our simple oscillating fans. I tried to help by designing and building a Rube Goldberg looking cooling humidifier for the hootch. Leave it to a pilot to come up with the bright idea of a humidifier in a place with 98% humidity. It took us less than a week to figure out that I had actually invented a mildew factory. Look, I said I was a pilot, not a rocket scientist. I had been in the company for about two months when John asked me to go with him to battalion headquarters. He had located an air conditioner and was going to buy it. Actually you hardly ever bought stuff like that. You traded for it. In this case, John gave up a highly prized flight jacket, which some people may find surprising, but during the rainy season in I Corps it gets cold. OK, relatively cold for Vietnam and a flight jacket is a good thing to have. Now you're going to ask why John needed an air conditioner if it gets cold enough for a flight jacket, right? Well, when it isn't the cold, rainy season it is the hot as blazes humid season. The hot as blazes humid season lasts longer than the cold, rainy season. Please don't interrupt anymore because it breaks the continuity of the story. Anyway, in addition to the flight jacket, John also had to come up with three cases of LRRP rations. It shouldn't surprise anyone, especially the guys on fire bases, where some of their rations went. Pilots, after all, are thieves at heart and driving a Chinook gives you the ability to steal big. For these items, John was to become the proud owner of an air conditioner. When I say "air conditioner," I use it in the broadest terms. It was, in fact, a metal box with a motor, squirrel-cage fan, some condensing coils and wires that at one time during its life had been an air conditioner. This thing probably hadn't seen any freon in the past two or three years. It was shown to us in an air-conditioned medical facility (the battalion flight surgeon's NCOIC was selling it). I tried to convince John it was just blowing the cool air around that was already in the building. It was no use! John felt the caress of cool air blowing in his face and when his eyes glazed over I knew John was in love with the metal box. Naturally, when we got it back to the hootch, it just blew hot air. This caused a great wailing and gnashing of teeth and there followed a short period of trying to get the bartered flight jacket back. No use going after the LRRP rations because we could easily replace those. It should come as no surprise, but the flight surgeon's NCOIC had become as elusive as the VC, so we finally just gave up the hunt. For most normal people, a failure of this magnitude would have been the end of the quest. For John however, it was only a minor obstacle. Actually, his next air conditioner idea sounded much more promising. He said for his extension R&R, which was coming up in a couple of weeks, he would go to Taipei where he'd heard there were some really great hookers and while he was there he would buy an air conditioner. He figured a few bribes here and there and he could get it back to the company and we would have an air-conditioned hootch. At this point I guess I had been in country long enough for the heat to have fried any of my remaining brain cells because I was starting to believe it might work. After announcing this newest air conditioning plan, he settled down and I didn't hear anything more about the air conditioner. No, he didn't stop giving me all his stuff before he'd go fly, but I was pretty used to that by now and, what the heck, if he did go down I stood to inherited the best Playboy collection I had ever seen. Finally, McGraw was off on his tour extension R&R, and life settled down to the daily routine of trying to stay alive. It seemed like John was gone forever, which wasn't all that bad. It gave me a chance to perform a little "land grab" operation and get closer to an equal share of the hootch. It is amazing how quickly I adjusted to John's absence. Now, for a sidebar observation. For those of you who have not had an undisturbed period of time to leisurely leaf through a world-class collection of Playboy magazines, let me say, there are articles you can actually read in those magazines. Don't get me wrong, I didn't read any so I can't tell you if they're worth a hoot, but they are actually in there, taking up space that could be used for pictures of naked women. Anyway, one day after being out there in Indian country, risking my life (actually I think I had been delivering timbers, pierced steel planking, and corrugated culvert material most of the day to a road building crew), I came back to the hootch and there was John, grinning from ear to ear. Sitting in the middle of the floor was a big box with the picture of a Whirlpool 8,000 BTU air conditioner on the side. He'd done it! He had a real live air conditioner. We worked it out so he didn't have to fly for three days, which was really easy since in addition to being one of the pilots, I was also the company operations officer and scheduled all the flights. This gave John time to work on getting the beauty installed. Watching old McGraw work was a real inspiration. He had figured out that he needed a separate line off the electric pole before it went to the hootches. He made a small cross arm out of a two-by-four, put two big spikes on it and then made insulators out of the necks of glass bottles. He also rigged a separate pole and cross arm with insulators to bring the electric cables down to the hole we cut and framed in the side of the hootch. He tried to find some real electrical wire but couldn't come up with any so he substituted the Gl's wire of choice, commo wire. This stuff may not have been intended to carry 110 volts alternating current but who was I to tell John it wouldn't work? I thought it probably would and what the heck, he had a plan and so far it had worked. We got a roll of plastic, some ponchos, and a ton of cardboard and sealed the inside of the hootch. By the end of the second day, all that was left to do was splice into the main electrical wires and then wire up the air conditioner. John was so excited about the air conditioner he hadn't even noticed I now owned a little over half of the hootch. I was flying re-supply to fire base Bastogne the next day and then doing some fogas drops out in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn't be there for the maiden voyage or whatever the first gust of cold air from an air conditioner is called. My copilot the next day was one of the funniest guys I ever met in Vietnam. His name was Sterling Beauregard Karmer III and he was from Biloxi Mississippi. Sterling had the most pronounced Southern drawl I've ever heard and talked so slow that by the time he'd get a call in to GLA for an artillery activity report, we'd already be flying under it. OK, I admit, flying under artillery isn't all that funny but other things Sterling did were. It never seemed to matter to Sterling what was going on around him. If we were taking fire, or the weather was really bad, or we were in some God forsaken hover hole in the middle of the jungle, he maintained the same slow pace. Sterling talked and acted pretty much like the cartoon character Fog Horn Leghorn. At any rate, we knocked out the re-supply of fire base Bastogne but during the last delivery we kicked up some cardboard, empty sandbags, ponchos and who knows what else. Several pieces went into the forward rotor and we picked up a pretty good lateral vibration. The Flight Engineer said we needed to take a look at the damage, but the fire base commander told me in no uncertain terms, "land that ugly bastard on my fire base and I'll shoot your balls off." Chinooks shut down on a fire base were mortar magnets. At first I thought I would show that fire base commander what Army helicopter pilots are made of. Then I remembered that since I still have to sleep with a Teddy Bear and a night-light, it might be better not to test his resolve. We took her back home to look things over. This postponed the fogas missions, which didn't make us the least bit sad. None of us liked to drop that stuff. We weren't squeamish about dropping it on the bad folks, it was just that, seeing the fire it caused after the Cobras rolled in and set it off with WP rockets reminded us we had been carrying sixteen 55 gallon drums of the stuff in a sling beneath the aircraft. The bad guys knew what it was too, so they tried to shoot holes in it. It was just one of those types of missions that takes the fun out of war. We landed at Liftmaster pad and, sure enough, not only have we got some pretty good blade dings, we've thrown a tip cap, too. We're down for the rest of the day and lucky us, no replacement aircraft. Happy faces all around. Take the stuff out of the aircraft and sneak back to the hootch. You sneak back because you're going to get your ass chewed over the blade strike. If, however, you can postpone it long enough, maybe something worse will happen to someone else, which takes the XO's mind off the dinged up blades. As we slink past the backside of the operations shack we can easily hear the company's generator going (it's a big monster). Sterling's hootch is the first one we come to and he goes inside but comes right back out and says the power is off. Well, we know the generator is running because we can hear it. Sterling looks over at the electric pole and sure enough, the knife switch is off. The logical thing to do is go turn it on. As soon as Sterling turned the switch on there was a terrible racket in the direction of my hootch. It sounded like someone was beating the dickens out of the corrugated metal roof. Sterling quickly yanked the switch off. There was a loud crash and then some thumps followed by a thud as something hit the ground. Sterling and I stood there looking at each other, not sure if we should go look. It's one of those quick combat decisions pilots make when they're on the ground. Do we pull out our rust-covered pistols and go beat whatever it is to death or just run away. While were trying to make up our minds as to "fight or flight," McGraw comes around the side of the hootch. John's lips were moving like he was trying to say something but he was just making sort of screeching, hissing noises. It was kind of funny because you knew he was working real hard trying to speak, but couldn't quite get his lips, teeth, and tongue to line up. There was one other problem, too. Smoke was coming from the back of his pants. He was on fire. It took us a while to figure out exactly what happened but we finally managed to piece it together. As near as we were able to reconstruct the events, they went like this: John was doing some last minute fiddling with the wiring and was on the roof of the hootch. Now, old John was smart enough to turn the electricity off but not smart enough to mark the box so no one would turn it on before he was ready. He was having some trouble controlling the commo wire (that stuff does have a mind of its own at times) so he coiled the loose ends and stuck them in his back pocket. When Sterling turned the juice on, John began his Fred Astaire impersonation and, judging only from the sounds we heard, he was doing a pretty good tap dance until the electricity was cut off, then old McGraw collapsed and rolled down the roof, which accounts for the loud crash and thumping noises we heard. When he hit the ground that was the thud. The smoke coming from his hind side was from the still smoldering back pocket. John didn't even know he was on fire until we went over and put him out. Now, for a guy who had just been electrocuted, well not completely, John came through it pretty well. I'll admit, he was having a little trouble focusing and tended to walk one step sideways for each three or four forward, he kept making funny little low volume screeching sounds, and he would occasionally tighten up all over like he was constipated. He also said that when he spit it tasted like he had been sucking on a tin can. His only other symptom was when he took a leak, he said it burned like when he had contracted one of those nasty little social type problems. Most of these things went away in time. John's memory of the incident never did return completely or at least when he finally left the country six months later it hadn't come back. He could only recall being on the roof working on the wiring and then he remembered things that happened three days later. That's a little scary since he was flying as AC two days after the incident. The flight surgeon looked John over and cleared him to fly but then that isn't saying much. If I remember correctly, an in-country flight physical was to open your mouth, the flight surgeon looked in and if he couldn't see daylight out the other end you were termed "fit-to-fight." If there was a question about your ability, he'd also check to see if you could hear thunder and see lightning. If you could, then you passed, so "get out there, kick the tire, light the fire, and put it in the air". The air conditioner? Oh, we finally managed to get it working, though not with commo wire, and I've got to admit, life sure got a lot better with air conditioning. We also noticed that we had a lot more friends. To be more accurate, I should say we now had SOME friends. The weekly poker game (I think it was weekly, but then it was hard to keep track of the days over there) moved from the First Sergeant's hootch to ours. I never heard anything from or about John after he left country. I've always wondered if those little screeching sounds he'd occasionally make ever went away. Well, I guess on balance though, semi-electrocution is a small price to pay for the comforts of air conditioning. And yet another. I told you this guy was good! Darrell -- COMPANY COMMANDER Here is another bit of humor in uniform. This one taught me a lesson about watching what I said in front of impressionable young Privates. I was the Company Commander and we were bivouacking near the tank range so we wouldn't have to road march back and forth. The Brigade Commander had sent word that he was going to visit us that evening and have dinner. During the early afternoon we had a tremendous rain, and the bivouac site turned into a swamp. I decided to move the company to higher ground. Later, the Field First reminded me the Brigade Commander didn't know we had switched locations. The Field First took a young Private and put him at the entrance to the old site and told him to direct the Brigade Commander to our new bivouac. We waited and waited. I was holding the mess truck, and holding up dinne, for some very hungry troops. Everyone was getting a little irritated, me most of all. I had been up to the old bivouac site several times with the Field First and each time, after confirming with the Private that no one had stopped, I would make some comments about how upset I was and that I was going to let the Colonel know about it. Of course, that was a Captain blowing off steam to an SFC who knows the Captain is full of shit about telling the Colonel anything but yes sir and no sir. Finally the Old Man showed and the first thing he does is put my heels together and starts blistering my ass. I couldn't figure out exactly what it was that I had done or hadn't done. After explaining to me in very specific terms who was in-charge (even before he told me I was pretty certain I already knew), he stomped off to inspect the bivouac site. The XO pulled me back and said, "Let Sergeant Pauley take him." He then explained what put a burr under the Old Man's saddle. When they drove up to the Private, the Private did a very sharp salute and asked if this was the Brigade Commander. With that out of the way, the Private then proceeded to tell him that, "You better get your ass up to the new bivouac site and you better do it NOW. Captain Stafford is pissed and if you know what's good for you, you'll apologize for pissing over the troops dinner." The XO said the Old Man roared with laughter after they got out of sight of the Private. He said he hadn't had his ass chewed like that since he left the Academy. I've often wondered if the Private knew what a Brigade Commander was or if he figured this might be as good an opportunity as he'd ever get to nail a Colonel and a Captain with one shot. At any rate, I watched the words I used around Privates after that for about six months. After all, Armor Captains, even older than the average bear Captains, are not known for long memories, great tact, or map reading abilities. So that is, I think, what probably put my name on some list that had the word humor in it. I think Will won a prize of some sort with this next story, which he swears is 100% true. There was nothing I could ever write to top it. Besides, President Clinton was in the news just then. Darrell -- HOMECOMING The other night my wife and I were setting on the couch, me watching television and she looking at some magazine. She folded the magazine over to a page and shoved it under my nose. There was a three quarter page, full color advertisement for satin sheets. What a flashback those satin sheets caused! December 28,1971 and I'm leaving Vietnam for what I hope will be my last tour. In order to make this a memorable home coming I've diligently shopped the AAFES catalog to come up with just the right stuff. In this case, the right stuff was a set of satin sheets and pillowcases for our king size bed, which I had mail ordered home two months before. Not only have I sent these sheets and pillowcases ahead, I've also ordered a white silk nightgown for my wife and a pair of red silk pajamas for myself. Now to really dazzle my young farm girl when I get home, I've raided every PX within a single refueling stop from Camp Eagle for pearls. I bought so many pearls they had to put the oysters on a third shift and overtime to keep up with the demand. Getting out of the country was simply a pain in the ass of paperwork and standing around in line for everything that had to be done. I don't remember much about the flight home except it was long, and I got the distinct impression the pilot needed practice with his landing skills. It seemed like every time he put that bucket of bolts on a runway (we refueled in Japan and Alaska plus the final landing at Seattle), he tried to bury the wheels in the asphalt. Maybe I was just a little too sensitive. The plane trips to St. Louis and then on to Louisville, Kentucky seemed like they would never end. Karin was waiting for me at the airport along with our two boys. Rick, my youngest, was only 19 months old and was a bundle of energy. I'd forgotten what it was like to hold a little one like that. He had my left side stripped of Captain's bars, unit crest, flight wings and jump wings before I could react. So much for those quick combat reflexes I'd developed. With hand speed like that, someday he'd make a great scout pilot or pick pocket. Well, I guess that's saying the same thing, but he was fast. Karin said she had standing orders to call our parents as soon as we got home and they would take care of notifying the rest of the clan. That was fine with me because I really had other things on my mind, and I sure hoped she did, too. Slipping behind the wheel of the station wagon felt as easy and natural as if I had been driving a car every day for the past year. It was easy and natural until I hit the Watterson Expressway traffic, that is. God, what I would have given for a little gun cover out there. Vietnam was a snap; this was dangerous. We managed to make it home without incident, but I got a couple of disapproving looks from Karin over my language. When Mike, my six-yea-old, piped up and repeated a couple of the words, I knew I'd probably stepped over the line. Well, with a B-4 bag loaded with pearls, and seven months since I'd been home on R&R, I figured I could recover. Boy, the house looked great. Bedford stone, a shingle roof, hot and cold running water, indoor plumbing and not a bunker in sight. Yes, sir, life just don't get much better, or at least not until we get the kids to bed. That turned out to take a little longer than I'd planned. They were really wound up and the toys I'd brought them didn't help. It took forever before they began to nod off. After we got the boys tucked in, Karin said she was off to take a shower and for me to turn down the bed. When I turned the bedspread back, there were the satin sheets. They looked good -- cool, soft, and shiny. There wasn't a wrinkle anywhere, not even on the pillowcases. I found out later Karin had actually ironed them before putting them on the bed. The bottom fitted sheet was jet black. The top sheet was solid cherry red with a pencil thin, black accent stripe about four inches from the top. The two king size pillowcases were also cherry red except for a pencil thin black accent stripe about three inches from the opening. Looking back on it I guess the bed pretty much resembled something you'd find in a "cat house." I'm only supposing here since I've never been in one of those places. I have heard the big boys talk about them though. Man, oh, man, did I turn back the covers! I pulled everything back and laid it over the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. I folded and tucked and smoothed so there was nothing but flat surface on that big old king size bed. I figured it was a good idea to get the extra material out of the way. If we did this right, we were going to use the entire available flat surface, some of the rounded parts too, and if that wasn't enough, the floor was certainly an option. When Karin showed up at the bedroom door, she looked gorgeous. The short, white silk nightgown showed just enough leg to get the remainder of my blood pumping and headed in the right direction. I said what the heck, I really didn't need a shower. After all, I'd showered some 20 odd hours earlier, so by Vietnam standards I was squeaky clean. I got the wave-off, and was told to hit the shower I was not about to argue at this point and risk bringing on a headache, so off to the shower. Karin had laid out my silk pajamas on one of the towel racks. It was nice to know that I had practically unlimited hot water, but I've got to admit, I didn't waste a lot of time standing there soaking. It was a thorough, but quick, shower. I took a little longer shaving. No need to risk a cutthroat at this point. Finally, I slipped on the pajamas. Wow, that silk felt cool but I didn't plan to have them on that long. A quick check across the hall. Mike was sound asleep. Tip-toe into the baby's room. Rick was sound asleep too. When I reached the bedroom door, it was the scene I'd played out in my mind a thousand times during the past year. Karin was seated with the pillows pulled up behind her and was leaning against the headboard. She was sitting with one leg pulled up under her and she'd let her hair down. She'd dropped one shoulder strap and let the nightgown fall a little to reveal just a hint of ... She looked up and crooked her finger in the "come here" gesture. Ah, yes, the little girl's in a playful mood and so am I. I back up about four steps into the hallway and made a running approach to the bed. About a step away from the bed I did my best imitation of a rocket attack, bunker entrance dive. The moment I hit the bed I realized I'd made a terrible tactical blunder, but it was too late. When those silk pajamas hit the satin sheets I discover what slick was all about. Fresh snot on wet PSP isn't even close to the slick of silk sliding across satin. There just isn't any friction. Magnetic Levitation trains, my ass; if they want something frictionless they need to investigate the silk and satin combination. I caught a momentary glimpse of surprise on Karin's face as I whizzed by. As I went speeding across the bed I also discover there was absolutely nothing to grab hold of. That damned fitted bottom sheet was as tight as a banjo string and I'd done such a thorough job of clearing the decks there was nothing but an unobstructed path across the bed. Yep, I'm about to set the world's land speed record. I probably would have if the bed had been a tad longer, and the opposite wall and night stand not so close. I had no idea the human body would crumple like aluminum foil but it will when slammed into a solid object with enough force. Wow, what a ride. I staggered upright, did a quick body check for form and function and found most of my parts still attached and operational. My jaw was a little tender from smacking into the nightstand, so I wobbled it from side to side to make sure it was still hinged. When I brought my hand away it was bloody. I'd opened a gash that required a trip to Ireland Army Hospital and four stitches to close. When we finally got back to the house it was almost four in the morning. Nick and Ellie, our next-door neighbors, who we woke up to watch the kids, were dying of curiosity. After telling them what happened I couldn't get Nick to stop laughing. Karin took the sheets off the bed, put them back in the box, and we didn't take them out again for twelve years. When we did it was to give them to a Captain and his wife along with a few words of caution. Twenty-six years later, I still have no idea what it's like to sleep on satin sheets and don't really care if I ever learn. I don't have any pictures but I still have the scar on my chin and the knowledge that I probably missed the best ... well, you know what I missed that night. -------- Chapter Two On Brothers The Human Hairball Yes, Darrell -- I have one brother. He wasn't much way back when but is now the vice president of the largest Insurance company in Arkansas. Who would have thought he would ever amount to anything except perhaps a human hairball. I remember... There are some moments in life that are just better than others. For me, it is Saturday, August 22, 1954 which ranks right up there as an all time great. Even after forty years, the faces, the sounds, the smells all remain vivid. The events leading up to that Saturday actually started on May 16th, 1954. It was the first day of summer vacation and at age 13, I'd made some marvelous discoveries during the school year. First, I'd learned how to smoke. I still wasn't good at it but I had finally managed to inhale and blow smoke out my nose. That accomplishment alone, for a short time, made me the envy of the other four guys of the group we simply called "The Guys". We'd also discovered after each of us had drunk an entire beer that there was no way we would ever become alcoholics. We simply didn't like the taste of warm beer and figured that even cold it wouldn't be much better (we were wrong, but never mind). I had also made a personal discovery: I concluded that I would never be a rocket scientist. This discovery was something that didn't just come on me all at once. It had been sneaking up on me for several years and now I was certain. I just couldn't seem to get the hang of geometry and a D- on my final report card proved it. There was one more discovery of such gigantic dimensions that by itself made getting through the 7th grade worthwhile (though I had yet to show my parents my report card). My discovery? Well, in a stroke of divine revelation I had finally discovered a way to get rid of my hairball brother and not go to prison and maybe not even get a whipping. I was going to do him in with a birthday present. Now, as brothers go, the human hairball, who was seven, was just about like the rest of the sibling species. To put it simply, he wasn't worth a pound of dried snot. Sisters of course, don't count unless they are older sisters; then you have to be careful what you say about them if their brothers are around. A slip-up could get your face punched in. My younger brother, and thank heavens my only brother, is named Carlton Andrew Noble Stafford (see, the pompous little squid even had four names). He possessed two glaring errors: First, he was always there. Whenever I turned around he was there. If I went to the bathroom, he was there. When me and the guys tried to sneak a smoke he was there. If I wanted to take a leak behind the garage he was there, threatening to tell Mom. When me and the guys got into a deep philosophical discussion about girls he was there, saying he was going to tell. He seemed to be constantly in the way. His second and most glaring shortcoming, however, was that he was good at nearly everything he did. Even at seven years old it was obvious that the little toilet bowl had tremendous coordination and was smart as a whip in school. Actually, I found out later that he wasn't smart, he just applied himself but that's not important, especially when you stack it up against his faults. The straw that finally broke the camel's back for me and set me on the path to his destruction was when Andrew (he hated that name) began an all out attack on my Special Place. Every Saturday morning mom would run us out of the house early so she could get the housework done. Watching TV was not an option in 1954 because in our little Arkansas town it only came on at six in the evening weekdays and on Saturdays and Sundays. It really didn't make any difference because to watch TV you had to have one and we didn't. Mom always said, "I don't want you kids tracking dirt through the house while I'm trying to clean," so out we went. We had one of those Ozzie and Harriett homes or as close as you can get to it. At any rate it was like the Nelsons except that where I was like David Nelson, my cow patty hairball was like something that had recently crawled out of the primal ooze. Oh, boy, that's a great line! At any rate, with Andrew and me run out of the house, the human hairball began a systematic encroachment on my Special Place. Now, this wasn't just any normal place and it wasn't like there wasn't any other place for him to play and if my place had been just your ordinary run-of-the-mill place I would probably have let it go, but it wasn't. The Place was a patch of really thick green grass in our back yard behind the garage and an attached building we called the rock house. Dad said the grass stayed green because it was over a septic tank lateral. Whatever that was. It was far enough from the house to give me plenty of privacy but close enough so I could hear if anything interesting was happening. There was a big apple tree with gigantic branches providing plenty of shade from the hot Arkansas sun. The limbs were full of large Granny Smith apples and while you were lying flat on your back all you had to do was reach up and pick one. I could eat apples and look like I was reading a comic book, which in reality camouflaged the little eight page sex comics we called Tijuana Bibles. I could look up through the branches and see all the different shaped clouds and think of how if I had been old enough for WWII, me and the guys would have cleaned that mess up pretty quick. It was the perfect place to take naps and dream about girls. When the guys were over, we sat or laid around the tree eating apples and talking about lots of things but mostly about girls. We had developed quite an expertise about girls by now. None of us had much experience but we talked a good game. I knew I was lying about my experiences because I hadn't had any, but I believed every word the other guys said. We all did. The guys, just like me, had discovered the meaning of life during that school year and it was summarized in one word -- GIRLS. It was amazing that the year before a girl had been just some person with long hair who couldn't throw a baseball worth crap, cried at the least little thing and couldn't spit with any volume or velocity and, in fact, I can't ever remember seeing a girl spit at all. I wonder what they did with all that spit? Most of the ones I knew had teeth that were just about perfect for spitting. You know, they had that small gap in the two front teeth. Well, some had larger gaps than others but they simply let nature's gift go to waste. Anyway, the summer before when I'd actually discovered The Place, Mom had given me an old quilt to take outside and lay under the tree. That first year the hairball hadn't learned that he could bug me by hanging around. Now, however, he'd figured it out. He would move around the edge of the quilt and constantly annoy me by trying to stand or sit on the edge. He knew he wasn't allowed on the quilt. Those were my rules! Mom said it was okay for him to be on the quilt because she only had one quilt that we could take outside and there was room enough for him, too. However, that was Mom's rule and it applied only when she was within sight. The "Get your bony ass off this quilt" rule applied when she was in the house. I knew exactly what Hitler was talking about when he said a person needs 'living room". Andrew's favorite attack was to sit in the grass and inch his foot further and further onto the quilt while I wasn't looking. There were always times when I'd get distracted, like when me and the guys got into a heated conversation about Bonnie "Twin Peaks" Martin, a 10th grader who it was rumored had balled every guy in school. OK, every guy except the five of us. I had managed once in the hallway during a class change to brush my arm against those gigantic twin peaks and she didn't seem to mind. She even looked at me and smiled. Naturally, I expanded the incident a little when I told the guys so the story would sound better. Well, during conversations like that you tend to forget about the hairball inching his way onto the quilt. Sometimes it would take him an entire hour to get his leg on the quilt but he had plenty of time and patience and in the end he knew his efforts would really make me mad. He knew he was going to get thumped if I caught him. Catching him wasn't a dead certain solid fact though. He was fast as greased lightning, could change directions like a scared rabbit and was slicker than wet snot. Once the chase was on I think he could have run for days where I sort of lost interest after ten minutes or so. If I hadn't caught him by then I had to get back to the guys and try to save face. The chase and the fact that I didn't always catch him probably made him think it was worth the risk. He also knew I wasn't allowed to kill him completely. We had sort of a Geneva Convention, brother versus brother, domestic violence treaty at our house. Its major tenant was that you could do just about anything as long as Mom or Dad didn't see it happen. You did, however, have the right to bring even an unseen case before the family court. In any event, whether the incident was seen or unseen you got a chance to plead your case or defend yourself depending on what side you were on. Dad always sat as the judge, jury and executioner. A case had to be brought to court on the same day it happened and Dad decided which cases he heard. It sounds a little like the Supreme Court except Dad had more power. If Mom brought a case to court it was usually a done deal before arguments started. Arguments in those cases usually took on more of a begging, sniveling, pleading tone rather than any real arguments of fact or mitigating circumstance. A Mom-initialed case ultimately concluded with a trip to the bathroom for me or the cow patty or both of us. The bathroom, the only bathroom in the house, and I think it was originally selected as the place of execution because the condemned couldn't move very far. Movement, on the other hand wasn't really that important anyway because another of Dad's rules was that you took punishment like a man. Again, Hairball was better at it than me. I usually started hollering as the belt was coming down for the first blow. It didn't do any good, though. Dad would yell above my hollering, "stop that yelling or I'm going to keep it up until you stop," which wasn't true. He had a predetermined number of whacks you were going to get and that was the number you got. I just never knew the number and it varied. The Human hairball, on the other hand, didn't like the belt any more than I did but he had a different approach to punishment. He refused to cry or yell, which was intended to show how tough he was. Dad would let him have one expecting to hear him yell or cry and when neither happened he'd say, "I'm going to keep it up until you say stop." What a marvelous concept. It would have been nice if Dad had offered me that option! Anyway, knowing I didn't want a trip to the bathroom, or at least that sort of trip, I needed a way to get even with the hairball for his encroachments. There were two very important requirements for getting even, though. First, I had to do it in such a way that, as they say, I kept my skirts clean and, second I had to fulfill one other requirement. The hairball had to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I had gotten him and that he couldn't do anything about it. There is a saying that "God watches over fools and children". Notice it says nothing about human hairballs. I believe God was trying to keep the scales balanced in this case, otherwise he'd never have shown me the birthday present. If there has ever been a divine revelation this was it. This toy practically glowed with it -- it had to be; I wasn't smart enough back then to have seen the possibility so quickly and with such crystal clarity otherwise. As soon as I saw it in Stewart's General Store I knew its full potential. It was a marvelous contraption. It had everything necessary to drop the kid in his tracks. The only thing missing was a written guarantee that it would do away with the little snot and I wouldn't get sent to prison or to the bathroom. The cost was a mere $8.65 plus I'd need an extra bottle of bubble soap, which cost 28 cents. That brought the grand total to $9.30 plus tax for a grand total of $9.50. So what if I didn't have the money? It was only May and Hairball's birthday wasn't until late August. I could certainly raise the money by then. I already knew how to get the money. In the back of almost every comic book back then was an advertisement where you could send off and get flower and vegetable seeds to sell. Once the seeds were sold it was a simple matter to order one of the really great selections from the catalog that came with the seeds or just keep the profit. The catalog had items like model airplane kits, boomerangs, chemistry sets, real army walky-talkies, binoculars, erector sets, and tons of other stuff. It even had X-Ray glasses for looking through things like the south wall of the boy's locker room, which was on the other side the girl's shower. I would have given minor chunks of my body for a set of those glasses so I could see Miss Rice, the typing teacher, taking a shower. Miss Rice, in addition to being the typing teacher, was also the girls' basketball coach. She was also on top of every thirteen-year-old boy's list of women they'd die for just to see naked. For that matter, every woman except our mothers and Mrs. Bailey, the 122-year-old English teacher was on the list. Me and the guys had voted and Miss Rice, who rumor had it was 24 or maybe even 25, was the unanimous choice for the older woman we most lusted after. Many years later President Carter gave "lusting in your heart" its rightful public recognition but he didn't invent it. As you can see, we invented it back in 1954. The woman I most lusted after, even before Miss Rice, was Julie London. Boy, she had the greatest voice in the world plus a lot of other attributes, which showed nicely on the cover of the album I had. Actually, it was the only record I owned. There was a problem with Julie London, though. She was married to jack Webb. Jack Webb was Dragnet so messing with Julie London was a sure way to go to prison. OK, I had to stay focused on getting rid of the cow patty. Instead of ordering one of the catalog selections, I'd just keep the profit. $9.50 was what I needed and all I had to do was sell 40 boxes of seeds, 25 packages per box, two cents a package. A thousand packages of seeds sounds like a lot when you just say the number but it isn't that many when you have lots of relatives and your parents are well known and respected in the community. It doesn't hurt either if you can think up a really great story for why you need the money. This couldn't be an every day story, either. It had to have an emotional pull on the heartstrings like, "I've developed diabetes and need daily insulin shots," or even better, "My brother is dying and his last wish is to put a model airplane kit together." There was, I hoped, some truth in the last scenario. Well, with a sales pitch like that, the seeds should go quickly. With the plan all thought through the time was right to hit Dad up for ten dollars so I could order the seeds. That was the one drawback in my plan. I had to have the seed money up front. So now some wise guy is out there saying why don't you just ask your dad for the ten dollars and not have to fool with the seeds? Look, it just didn't work like that back then and certainly not around our house. You had to have a really good reason like maybe you were going to use the money to run away from home with or that you could show that you had a better than even chance to turn a profit. Anyway, Dad was sure to ask what I wanted the money for and I couldn't just say, "Well Dad, I've got this great plan to do away with the Human Hairball", and expect him to hand over ten bucks. Looking back on it, I'm not sure now that approach might not have worked. He and mom were young back then and once I put the Hairball to sleep they could try again. They might even get it right this time. It worked right the first time. I'm living proof. I had to work fast though because the request for the money had to come before dad remembered he hadn't seen my report card. That report card was sort of like the Black Plague. It just sort of hung around out there and you knew eventually it was going to get you. I mean with a B-, four C's and a D- I'd be lucky not to get a trip to the bathroom, much less talking Dad into coming up with ten dollars no matter how good the reason. Anyhow, he hadn't asked about the report card yet so now was the time to act. I picked an appropriate time and put my case forward. Like I said before, Hairball was good at aggravating people and somehow he had even gotten Dad mad at him, too. It had to be divine intervention again because I got the money with only an hour and a half lecture on the value of a dollar and that this ten bucks would feed all the children in India for a week, but that he was impressed with this first display of initiative and fiscal responsibility. I didn't know what that meant but it wasn't important. I had the money! I seemed to be constantly in need of money and never had any. Lizard face, on the other hand, always seemed to have money and he never appeared to use it for anything. The way you got money around our house was by doing either really exhausting manual labor, which I tried to stay away from, or with a report card. Each A on a report card was worth a quarter and the Hairball brought home enough A's to keep his money box stuffed all the time. He had a really annoying habit of taking his quarters out and making stacks of varying heights while he counted out loud. I, unfortunately, got A's only on conduct which didn't count in the money department, the theory behind this stupid rule being, "You're expected to get A's on conduct and anything less is unacceptable." Once in a great while the law of averages would catch up with me and I'd guess right on enough test questions to pull an A. It was usually on something like civics or American History. My most memorable A though was one I got in English. That A was treated like a Pulitzer Prize in literature around the house. Don't get me wrong. I was happy with the quarter and milked the high spirits for all it was worth and promised I was turning over a new leaf and this was only the first of many A's to come. I really think Mrs. Bailey had gotten me mixed up with someone else and given me their grade. Boy, I hope they didn't get mine. Anyway, these were exceptions to the rule. In most cases I did the minimum or less to squeeze by, then got real religious at report card time. Sometimes it worked and sometimes I got a trip to the bathroom. The important thing now, however was that I had the necessary funds to put my plan in motion. The Snot-of the-South's days were numbered. Yes, indeed, there are some moments in life that just seem better than others. It took almost three weeks for the seeds to arrive. I hadn't planned on that but it did give me some time to recover from the report card. As I suspected, when the subject finally came up and the report card came out, so did Dad's belt. Like I said, sometimes the prayers work and sometimes they don't. By the way, let me pause here and mention something about report cards. If you're a schoolteacher reading this story think about what you write on those report cards. Parents do read things you scribble on a report card, and they have tremendous consequences. I'm serious. These are not just idle, meaningless words you're scribbling down. They have impact. I could have ducked the trip to the bathroom, even with the D- if it hadn't been for the report card comment saying, "If Will just applied himself, he is capable of being an A student." Sure! I had about as much chance of being an A student as Hairball did seeing the next Christmas if my plan worked. You guys ought to watch what you write on those report cards. Remember what Thumper's mother said in the movie Bambi, "If you can't say something nice, just keep your mouth shut", or something like that. It was more difficult to sell those stinking seeds than I anticipated. The first thirty boxes went in a month but I couldn't seem to get rid of the rest. I had paid Dad back for the ten bucks he advanced me for the seeds but I was getting desperate to find a buyer for the other ten boxes. I had saturated the grandparents, local aunts and uncles and neighbors who felt sort of obligated to buy them. I felt sort of sorry for my grandmother because she was my best customer and as such, was an unwitting accomplice in what was about to happen. She sort of liked that brain-dead little weasel. I can think of only one logical reason why she felt anything at all for the Human Hairball. She was, through no fault of her own, his grandmother and a grandmother's role in life is to never say anything bad about a grandchild. This probably includes bony-ass cow patty grandchildren like the hairball, too. Just to illustrate what a great grandmother she was, even after learning what I had gotten on that last report card, she put a positive spin on it. I overheard her tell mom, "Well, he did bring his geometry grade up to a D-, didn't he?" Grandmothers are great people and should have reserved parking spaces! These were desperate times. It was the last of July and I had to get the other five dollars or miss the chance of a lifetime. Suddenly it hit me. Again, divine revelation -- out of the blue, the perfect solution popped up, in the middle of a conversation with the guys about Betty Jean Armstrong, who was a senior. Well, she's to be a senior when school started again. Betty Jean had really developed a chest during the school year, and Paul was relating how he had nearly seen her naked. He was helping his dad paint the Armstrong house and had gotten up on a ladder to paint around Betty Jean's bedroom window and there he was. He said she had her back to him but was down to her panties and was just turning around when he fell off the ladder. It was probably Paul's fate in life never to see a naked girl. He had blown two other chances, which was more than most 13 year-old kids get during their life; well, life up that point anyway. I can't bring myself to go into all the details of his other two chances because it still makes me sick to think about it. One of the chances, however, was Miss Rice. We threatened to beat the crap out of him when he told us that one. I know he wouldn't make up something like that. No one would make up a story about Miss Rice, especially a story about blowing maybe the only chance ever of seeing her naked. Guys just didn't make up stories like that. There are some things in life simply too sacred to lie about. Anyway, we're well into the Betty Jean Armstrong story when it hits me. I'll sell the other ten boxes to the Cow Patty. He knows I've been selling the seeds for two cents a package. I'll sell them to him for a penny a piece and he can resell them for the going two cents a package. It would still leave me with only $7.50 but I could get the other two bucks from the guys. By this late in the summer, they were just as tired of Worm Face as I was. When I told them what I had in mind everyone scattered and, within half an hour, I had the two bucks I needed. Now, it was time to see if the Cow Patty would go for the deal. If I could pull this off it would be sort of like something out of Greek mythology where the gods are all the time fooling around in normal people's business or stories like that Shakespeare guy wrote where all kinds of weird twists of fate happen. I didn't really know the specific about those stories because I wasn't paying that much attention during class. In fact, during those classes I was trying a new approach on the Yates twins. I was focusing all my mental powers to hypnotize them so they would meet me down by the railroad trestle. It hadn't worked yet but then I'd only been trying it for the last eight weeks of school. It was more difficult too, because they sat in front and to the right of my desk and I couldn't make direct eye contact. With the proper seating arrangement next school year it was bound to work. Anyway, this kind of divine intervention does sort of have that Greek mythology or Shakespeare flavor. Think about it, the Human Hairball was going to provide me with the money to buy a birthday present that was going to be used to get rid of him. It was so easy. He took the deal on the first pass. I could see the little dollar signs in his eyes as he went over the financial numbers in his mind. It didn't take very long either because he was a whiz at math. I finally had the required $9.50. I'd really wanted the whole ten bucks because I was going to use the extra fifty cents to celebrate with after his funeral. Well, $9.50 on the nose was OK, too. I was off to buy a birthday present. I can't remember much about the trip to Stewart's general store because my mind was occupied with all the possibilities. It was a good thing my bicycle had a flat tire and I had to walk because I needed time to plan. I had to plan for the extra bedroom space I'd have once Cow Patty was gone; there was his money box which, as his brother, I would inherit; two boxes of comic books, most with their covers still on; a better bicycle, at least both tires held air; the biggest collection of marbles in school; eight real Indian arrow heads; and the crystal radio set. I'd almost forgotten about the radio. Also, I'd finally have privacy in case Miss Rice found it necessary to stop in and tutor me in typing. I planned to take typing when I hit the 10th grade. We all did! Or, if Julie London got my letters and she decided to visit, we could go to my room. Actually, I hadn't written the letters yet, but now I really could since things were about to fall into place. When I got to Stewart's I must have walked with purpose because Mr. Tilley didn't even ask if he could help me. I went straight to the toy counter. It was still there. There had never really been any doubt in my mind that it wouldn't be there. First, a toy that cost $8.85 wouldn't go fast and they had two of them; plus, God was working with me on this. It's hard to describe the toy because you can't adequately describe how something seems to shine with an almost Holy light and how it practically speaks to you, but it was wondrous. I've never seen a toy like it or even nearly like it since. It could be that the manufacture decided to pull it off the market when they found out how it could be used. In its most basic term, it was called "The Bubble Hat" which doesn't do it justice. Really, it was a bubble helmet because the part that sat on your head was made of aluminum. The aluminum was curved to fit the head and it had a real leather strap with a brass buckle on the left side and on the right side was the other part of the strap that slipped into the buckle. On top of the helmet there was a round plastic cup. A black rubber tube, which formed a Y ran to the left and right side of the cup and slipped into a hole on each side of the cup. The leg of the Y part of the rubber tube ran down the back of the helmet and over the shoulder and you used this part to blow in. There was a propeller on a stiff wire, which was welded to the aluminum just in front of the cup. The propeller had small ball bearings because it turned for half an hour when you just gave it even a little push. Finally, it had a crest made out of brass showing a mermaid sitting on a large rock. She was holding a bubble soap bottle in one hand and a bubble-blowing ring in the other. She was blowing on the ring and three little bubbles had come out. The crest was raised slightly above the background so the detail was very good. The crest was welded real tight to the front of the helmet. What you did was strap the helmet on and then fill the cup about one third full with bubble soap. One small bottle of bubble soap came with the bubble hat. I knew, for my purposes, I needed more so I bought the extra large 36-ounce bottle, too. Once the cup was full, you put the rubber tube in your mouth and took off running and blowing like crazy. The propeller would turn, the bubbles would flow and you'd leave a trail of soap bubbles out behind you. After buying the Bubble Hat I had to wait for eight more days before Cow Patty's birthday. I thought the day would never come. It was really hard to wait because he seemed to be working especially hard at being a horse's ass during those last few days leading up to the 22nd. Finally the day came. It was a Saturday, which meant that Mom and Dad would be at home in the afternoon since Dad closed the shop at noon on Saturdays. I waited, and right after lunch I brought out the present. Mom and Dad were, to say the least, a little surprised that I'd bought him a present but the Hairball suspected nothing. He dove in with both hands. He couldn't believe that he'd gotten a present. Birthdays around home normally consisted of a few cards and a cake. This time he had a present, and what a present! There had been times, after buying it that I'd almost crumbled and decided to keep it myself but this was, after all, a Holy Quest. I waited an appropriate length of time and then suggested that he go outside and give it a try. He was out the back door like a flash. I waited for what seemed like hours before he came back in with the fatal request. "Come out here and pour bubble soap in for me," he said. When I heard the request it almost brought tears of joy to my eyes. I was only too happy to assist. I spent a lot of time preparing a runway, which would take him from the back yard, past the back door, out the driveway, and down the strip of grass we called a sidewalk, to Thompson's house and back. I never intended for him to get five yards down the runway but it helped build his excitement and get him all the more ready to go. I reached down, pulled out a handfull of brown, sun-scorched grass and threw it up into the air to see which way the wind was blowing. As if I didn't know which way it was blowing. It was blowing directly in our face. Perfect! I had him strap on the helmet, give the tube a couple of practice blows, and I twirled the propeller. I opened the small bottle of bubble soap first and began pouring it in the cup and told the Hairball to blow. The bubbles began to roll out immediately but with the wind in our face he couldn't see them. As he blew I steadily poured more bubble soap in and it began to overflow. All the time I was giving him more encouragement saying that a few bubbles were starting to come out. Half the pasture behind us was covered in soap bubbles by now, but he didn't know it. With the speed and quantity of bubble soap I was pouring in, it was beginning to overflow the cup and run down his forehead straight for his eyes. Yes, God, you're still with me. The small bottle was empty now and I immediately went for the big bottle. I had opened it earlier and it was sitting on an old fence post within easy reach. I started pouring and telling Cow Patty to blow harder, that the bubbles were just about to start. The bubble soap had now reached his eyes and he tried to brush it away but it was running too fast and I was still pouring like crazy. I said the bubbles were just starting pretty good now so blow harder, and he did which caused even more of the bubble soap to overflow. He was still trying to wipe and blow at the same time when he said, "Is it working, I can't see?" These were the words I'd been waiting for. I told him it was really starting now and I turned him a little to his left and said, "Run, Carl, run, it's bubbling!" He took off like a sprinter out of the blocks even though he couldn't see squat. When he hit the side of the house he was at a dead run. It moved the house almost an inch off the foundation and I've never before, or since, seen a human body bounce that far. The Cow Patty ricocheted like a BB off a steel plate. Dad was the first to reach the scene but Mom was a close second. I was laughing so hard inside I could hardly hold it and still display an outwardly look of shock and concern. Of course, I was laughing inside. I still stood a good chance of going to prison or the bathroom. But what a sight -- there he was, the Human Hairball, Mr. Greased Lightning, Old Quick-As-A-Bunny, lying on the ground. Both his lips were beginning to swell, his nose was bleeding out of both sides, one eye was almost swollen shut, the front of the aluminum helmet smashed flat as a pancake and he's still got that stupid rubber tube in his mouth and he's blowing. Dad leaned over to see if Cow Patty was still alive and the idiot's first words to Dad are, "Is it bubbling?" Truly unbelievable. Mom finally got around Dad, sees the mess, lets out a shriek and starts mumbling, "my baby, my baby" over and over. After cleaning some of the bubble soap off the Hairball's face and checking to see if all his teeth were still in place, Dad hauled Cow Patty to his feet and led him off to the house with Mom following behind still mumbling, "my baby, my baby." He had to be led because he couldn't seem to get his eyes to focus very well and he kept walking sideways. On the way in, Dad said he wanted to talk to me as soon as he finished assessing the damage to Hairball and the house. I could hardly wait. At this point it was obvious the Human Hairball was going to live so prison was probably out, and since God was with me on this one, I suspected I'd manage to talk my way out of a trip to the bathroom. Dad always appreciated a good plan even if the execution left something to be desired. I still had initiative and fiscal responsibility going for me, and it had been a long time since the report card. The plan to get rid of him had been a good one. I guess the Human Hairball just wasn't quite as fast as I thought or perhaps the side of the house wasn't hard enough. Years later Mom had vinyl siding put on the house but if you peel that stuff off and go down through a few layers of paint, you can still see the faint impression of a mermaid setting on a rock holding a bottle of bubble soap in one hand and a bubble blowing ring in the other. Mom says the house is still vibrating ever so slightly even after all these years. Yes, some moments in life are just better than others and though I didn't know it then, I'd get another chance to do away with Andrew the next year. It was an episode that came to be known locally as the parachute and electric hog fence incident. Well, Darrell, if you guys got this far, you have my admiration for staying power. One of these days you are going to learn to quit giving me encouragement to send this stuff -- Dear Will -- Please don't do that to me again for at least the next 24 hours. I laughed so hard at the Human Hairball that Betty thought I was going into convulsions. And Betty did the same. She said, "He reminds me of Gordon". She also just said, "Girls don't manufacture as much spit as boys, and besides, mother would have slapped what spit I had right out of my head if I had ever tried spitting between my teeth or any other way." Gordon, BTW, is my eccentric, weird, genius-level friend who has a degree in Nursing and Engineering and uses his computer to make a living at dog races since he retired. Same age as me. He retired three years ago and hasn't cut his hair since, although he does shave every few months. We met him and his wife Marsha in Saudi Arabia. He was already there and had his whole house rigged up with a still to make White Lightning, and had set up antennas and warning devices everywhere since alcohol is illegal over there. Something went wrong with the antennas one day while he was at work and Marsha was home by herself. Somehow, the microwaves or radio waves or whatever in hell Gordon had rigged up, got mixed in with the reception/receiving of the security communications at the military base we were working at. Poor Marsha. One minute she was peacefully cooking dinner and the next a whole company of Saudi security guards were swarming over her house, roof and walls, tearing down antennas, telephone lines and any piece of wire that looked suspicious, including her clothesline (we didn't have clothes dryers). She tried calling Gordon at work, sure that at any moment the security detail was going to break in and discover the illegal still. They had cut the telephone lines, though and she couldn't get through. She met the security officers at the door and, shivering inside but speaking innocently, asked them what in hell they were doing. Since none of them spoke English, she just spoke louder and finally started screaming at them. Since she's a big blond woman, I guess she scared them off, trailing their wires and her clothesline, and no more was heard of it. However, after that Gordon and I conspired to "requisition" 10 imperial gallons of 95% ethyl alcohol in two five-gallon metal drums, which when mixed with juice wasn't all that bad, though it did have sort of a metallic flavor. That lasted us the rest of the time I was there, but some of my misadventures since then can probably be blamed on metal poisoning of what few brain cells I still possessed. I know I don't have many or I would never have tried making a living growing Christmas trees or earn money from writing. Darrell -- OK. No more humor for a while. Gordon sounds like a good guy with at least two honest professions: Nursing and dog racing. As a working engineer I know this profession skirts the fringes of honest labor, ranking only half a rung above lawyering and two rungs below hooking. It was, however, the only profession after retiring from the Army where I could use my terrific mathematical skills. Skills that I had bribed a number of professors to say I had. Do you have Hairball brothers, too? Hi Will -- Nope, neither of my brothers turned out to be hairballs. At least, not very big ones, and not at all after we were grown. They remain my best friends and confidants and their lives have provided me with a wealth of material for writing. Soon as I have time, I'll tell you about my brother's last (and final, I'm sure -- they're happy) marriage where I told his new wife, Barbara, that living with Gary might be many things but it would never be dull. I had occasion to remind her of that later. Gary (my next younger brother) and Barb met on a diving boat he was captaining in the Caymans. A year or so after they were married, Gary got a contract to take a brand new diving boat to Truk in the Pacific and operate it for a year. They got halfway there and the rudder fell off, leaving them stranded in the middle of the Pacific. When Barb asked him what he was going to do he said, "Well, can't go anywhere. May as well fish for a while." A day or so later sharks started circling the drifting boat and Barb finally convinced Gary that she was scared to death (I don't think anything ever scares Gary -- he's so filled with shithouse luck that he's convinced by now that he's going to live forever). So, he gave up his fishing and somehow rigged the boat so that he could drive it -- but only backwards. They headed back home like that, very slow as you can imagine. Eventually he made contact with the coast guard and got a tow the last thousand miles. The first thing Barb said the next I talked to her was, "You said life with Gary wouldn't be dull, but this is ridiculous!" Little did she know she was in for another life-threatening adventure in British Columbia in the near future. Gary was hardly any trouble at all -- until I turned 12 or 13 and he was two years younger. However, he had a husky build, was a handsome devil even then, with a shit-eating grin and a line of blarney I could only envy. That's the age when he started stealing my girlfriends and we had a falling out. I could always whip him up until I went into the service and was gone two years. He was bigger than me when I came home and feeling his oats, and suggested that we have a real boxing match instead of just sparring around like we used to. I tried to talk him out of it but he wouldn't listen. Little did he know that I had joined the boxing team in Bermuda. He took his black eye and swollen ear with good grace I have to admit. We've been the best of friends ever since, especially after he went into the marines and we started arranging our leaves together when we could -- though Shreveport was a little the worse for wear afterwards, especially after our youngest brother joined the Navy and all three of us started carousing together. I got together twice with my brother Gary (the marine) in Vietnam. The first time I went up to Chu Lai where he was, the excuse for me being granted a three-day pass to go was being designated as a special courier for the Colonel. I carried a bunch of letters to various officials up there and collected the answers. Unfortunately, we got so drunk and happy those three days that I lost all the replies somewhere -- heck, I may have used them for toilet paper for all I remember. Right after that I cried on the Chaplain's shoulder and got a five-day leave to Hong Kong to see Michael, my other brother, whose ship was docking there. Unfortunately, by the time I got there, he had jumped ship in the Philippines. Having nothing else to do for five days, I received a very special education from the Hong Kong bar girls. I was broke in two days with not even a penny to eat on. One of the girls was a real angel, though. She told me to send for a hundred dollars and she would take care of me, hoping it would arrive before my plane left. It did, just barely. The CO didn't have much use for me after that and granted my request for a transfer to Da Nang to be near Gary soon afterward. When my brothers and I were home on leave at the same time and went out carousing, we actually did pull the old switcheroo described in Medics Wild on girls and guys and bartenders, just for laughs. It's a wonder we didn't get the snot beat out of us a time or two. -------- Chapter Three On Family At this point I suddenly remembered that Will had mentioned he was from Arkansas, a state my forebears occupied and where I had lived for a while. Curious, I wrote back, Will -- Arkansas? From where? All my folks are from Mena, about halfway up and near the Oklahoma border. Betty says you write like a combination of Gordon and Mark Twain, though she says you write sneakier than Gordon -- he's more direct, though just as rib-tickling. And Will said, Darrell -- Tell Betty I appreciate the comment about Gordon, especially the sneaky part. I was closer to the Oklahoma border. We used to play Basketball against Mena -- That was pretty close to home. I told him so. Will -- You probably played basketball against a lot of my cousins if you played, or saw them if you watched. My first and only experience with school sports occurred in the eighth grade as a member of the relay team. It was in the big gym with the whole school watching. I was so concerned about catching the baton from the guy behind me that I didn't watch where I was going. I got off the track and plowed into spectators, coaches and opposing teams, leaving us all in a tangled mess of legs, arms and heads. By the time we sorted out who belonged to which appendage, the race was over. I'm sure glad we moved away soon afterwards. The embarrassment was terrible -- Darrell -- Oh, how well I know the feeling. My athletic misadventure was also in front of a packed house. We were at the State basketball tournament and had managed to get about a zillion points ahead of the other team. Coach decided to put the scrubs in. Well, the other team began to immediately put points on the board but with a zillion-point lead and less than two minutes to go there was no worry. Things were going pretty good until some idiot threw me the ball. At first I was confused but managed to gather my wits and drove for the basket but got fouled. I stepped to the foul line and my first attempt fell about three feet short of the goal. There was a smattering of laughter and a few boos. I decided that wasn't going to happen again. So, I really let loose with the next shot. Not only did I get it there, I got it clear over the backboard and it stuck in the framework. It took the referee a couple of minutes throwing other balls at it until he finally got the ball down. Everyone was laughing now. OK, the other team brings the ball in, they tromp down the court and score. Instead of going into a full court press, the other team runs back to a zone defense at the other end of the court. The same idiot that threw me the ball before does it again. Now, I've got to dribble the ball almost the length of the court. There is absolutely no one around me, I start down the court and out of nowhere, trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face. Coach has had enough and yanks me. I get a standing ovation but lose my cheerleader girlfriend, my one true love, actually my only love at that point, which I have been cultivating for over eight months. Love may be an overstatement since we'd just gotten to the level of swapping spit regularly ... she'd actually put her tongue in my mouth once. That was pretty neat but it also nearly scared the crap out of me since I wasn't expecting it. I mean up to now, kissing was just sort of banging lips together and rubbing around. I'd tried to put my hand on her breast and she nearly broke one of my fingers, so yea, I guess you could say it was true love. Will -- Your talk of introducing Karin as your first wife reminded me. We were still working at a hospital in Marshall, Texas, only a few days before leaving for Saudi Arabia. My first wife was passing through and decided to stop and see me, and my second wife decided to drop my son off for a day or two before we left. Betty was home but I was still working. The pathologist came into the lab and began telling me about some problem or another and about this time Betty called and told me who was in our house. I told him, "You think you got problems! Betty just called and told me she's home alone with my two ex-wives and I don't know what in hell they're saying about me!" I never have found out, either. Betty has always remained remarkably silent on that subject. Moral: keep your stories straight if you ever marry again. You never know when one of the ex's will pop in unexpectedly!! I heard back pretty quick: Darrell -- You rascal. You must have been sweating buckets and wondering if you would have ANY wife to come home to. Hi Will -- Second letter this morning. One was all I could handle when I first got up. That was really thoughtful of you to send the pictures. I printed them both out. Now, all that's left is to go buy a new color cartridge since they were so big they used up all the one that came with this super duper color printer Betty gave me for Christmas. I would send you one except for two reasons. One, I only got an IOU from Betty for the scanner gizmo that attaches to the printer, and two, every time I've tried to send a file with e-mail, it either goes to Timbuktu, Saudi Arabia or disappears into the bowels of the hard drive and pops up a year or two later in the middle of the final draft of a novel that I don't notice until my agent calls and asks me what in hell I think I'm doing. Taking that into consideration, I think I'll just mail you a few pictures and let you scan them and send them back. The first is of me in Bangkoht, the second is Betty and I, and the third is what I normally look like. BTW, you don't need to lose any weight. All you need is a bigger necktie with vertical stripes! Karin is pretty. If you ever think of sending her home to mother, have her detour by this way. Please do it on Monday while Betty is working. Thanks. Darrell, When I got home from work last night your letter had arrived with the pictures. Betty, what kind of medication do you have him on? Whatever it is you need to increase the strength or frequency. The boy looks plum emaciated. Darrell, you got to eat more greasy food and get some weight on and by the way, opera capes went out of style around 1906. It looks good on you though (Betty, you let him get dressed by himself again didn't you?). I know you are not skinny but I am a little suspicious of any guy who weighs less than 250. It probably means that you have been working the fat off and it might be catching. Good Morning Will -- I'm not skinny or undernourished. That's the way I always look right after the selling season on the Christmas tree farm (the picture of me and Betty, not the one in the cape with fangs and blood dripping from my mouth-that one is how I used to dress every Halloween so I could scare the kids away and keep all the candy for myself). Thanks for the scanned pics. I must be doing something wrong because they came out full size and used up my color ink cartridge. I don't mind the expense, but Fedex has called the last two days asking directions to our house, claiming they have a bunch of stuff I ordered for the printer, but so far they haven't showed up. I suspect they think we're kidding when we tell them we really and truly do live on Santa Claus Lane. I'll call them today and threaten to sic my Chihuahua on them if they don't get my replacement cartridges on out here. We didn't name him Tiger for nothing. -------- Chapter Four ON WORKING I didn't hear anything from Will for a few days. Well, shucks. Having to break communications with Will left Betty and me feeling as if we had been watching a TV Series that was to be continued right as it was getting really, really good. Time does pass, though. First thing Monday, I e-mailed Will again, taking time off when I should have been working. Thanksgiving Day was the following Thursday, opening day of the selling season at our Christmas tree farm and we were really pressing to be ready. Nevertheless, I wrote, Hi Will -- Hope you're recovered from your weekend. I don't think we have yet. We've been cranking out wreaths, and wrestling with trees the last few days. Wreaths are tedious and time consuming to make and not the least bit stimulating, intellectually. I don't know what two great brains like Betty and I are doing manual labor for. Maybe we aren't as smart as we think we are. Haven't heard a funny from you lately. Any problems? We miss your cheerful chatter. Darrell -- Funny you should ask. Karin and I are both dying of the flu. I came down with it on New Years Eve, and came down hard. I couldn't get out of bed for four days. Just as Karin manages to nurse me back among the living, she comes down with it. I've managed to get her to stay in bed and have been playing doctor. Additionally, when I got back to work yesterday (I'm still pretty unsteady on my feet) I found that we had decided to go to a second shift to produce some cables. The cables had originally been out sourced and the job was screwed up. It is a real horror story with cables the wrong length, pins incorrectly aligned, broken connectors, substandard wires used, etc., etc. Naturally we're behind the power curve for system deliveries. I'm not a cable builder but Clay Rash, another of the engineers and I have been pressed into service to quality inspect the new cables as they come off the production line. So one of us takes the day shift (7:00 -- 3:30) for a week while the other takes the second shift (3:00 -- 11:30) for a week and then we switch. This will probably go on for a couple of months at least. Hi Will -- Will, since you're thinking of leaving your job, you can always go to work for me anytime you want to. I start my help at five dollars an hour, but I believe in advancement. I give them a 25 cents raise each year. Just think, in only 20 years you could be making ten dollars an hour!! I feed them, too, if they've worked real hard. And I provide ponchos when it's raining so they don't get wet and have to stop work. Last but not least, I give them a leftover tree each year. Please send your application immediately. For some reason I have trouble keeping help. I quit smoking once and decided I'd rather just die young. My grandmother was part Cherokee. She chewed those old twists of tobacco. It always fascinated us as kids. I tried some of that evil weed once or twice, and yes, I did inhale. All it did was make me sleepy and sexy. Unfortunately, it was in that order. I've heard that a good way to look like you're working is to always carry a clipboard around. Have you tried that? Or start smoking. That way you get to go outside and loaf a lot. Take care. Will answered quickly: Darrell -- I think I'll pass on your advise about taking up smoking again since I'm coughing anyway. I turned into such a horses behind for several months when I quit that Karin told me if I ever started again she'd leave me. I really had a rough time quitting, and for years would still get the hankering for a smoke. I know if I ever lit one up I'd be right back to three pack a day in no time. Now, if I could just get Karin to quit dipping snuff we'd be completely tobacco free. If she knew I'd said that she'd kick my tail. She's so proper she wouldn't even take a chew of Red Man, Days Work, or my favorite, Brown Mule. My grandmother Stafford (a Cherokee Indian) dipped snuff, well, actually she would bite on the back end of one of the old kitchen matches until it was soft and then dip that in the snuff and put it in her mouth. She did that almost to the day she died. I tried snuff a couple of times when I was a kid but could never get the hang of it, and gave it up as a lost cause. Boy, I don't know what it is about talking to you but I get to talking about some of the strangest stuff. I can almost hear the Twilight Zone music playing in the background The place is closing early tonight so we're out of here in about half an hour. You folks take care. I'm on the day shift all next week and that means there will be a lot of people around. I have to work extra hard trying to make it look like I'm working and that simply wears me out. Tell me more about your employee benefits. I was glad to oblige. Dear Will -- If you were serious about wanting a job with me, I don't care that you've told me you were lazy since I don't pay enough to get anyone but layabouts to work for me anyway. As noted, I start my help at $5.00 an hour, but don't turn me down until you hear the good part again, which is that I give all my hands a raise of twenty five cents an hour each year. Besides, I don't expect my hands to work really hard. I give them a five-minute break twice a day unless we're busy. Also, I furnish meals occasionally when I have leftovers that I've cooked, which the dog and cats and chickens won't eat. And the work isn't that strenuous. Most trees don't weigh more than a hundred pounds or so, and I supply benches six inches high so the hands don't have to lift them so high when tying them onto cars. As an added benefit, I supply a red hat to wear and ponchos when its raining, though the hands do have to share -- I only have two of them, but a little water never hurt anyone. The duties aren't onerous, either. Cleaning and netting a couple of hundred trees a day and loading them on vehicles is really easy if you spend the whole day at a dead run. So, you see, I'm a real good, fair employer and I would really like for you to come to work for me. I know you would enjoy it, especially my cooking. Let me know when to send the application to you. Will wrote back: Thank you for the job offer. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it and I have given it much thought. I am going to have to decline, though the idea of not getting to wear the red hat and poncho hurts tremendously. And didn't Lincoln free the slaves a while back? Since Karin won't let me come to work for you, have you thought about that guy in Washington, D.C.? He'll be out of a job pretty soon. Of course, you would have to write up a really good sexual harassment policy. I had a hard time with a comeback for that, but I tried. Will -- Did Lincoln really free the slaves? Here all this time I thought the South won the war. What am I going to do for help now? I've been drawing government money for the last 15 years for "replanting". It's only a hundred or so a year, though. When we first moved out here, the government paid half of our fence building and half of what it took to have a pond dug. Farms are one of the last bastions of good deductions. Lucky for me, because I don't have any money to pay taxes. I leave that to you working types. Thanks. Now, I wouldn't hire that guy in Washington. I would have to spend too much time watching my granddaughters. Besides, I doubt if he knows anything useful. He hasn't done a lick of real work his whole life. Furthermore, I don't pay my help to hit golf balls. Actually, I don't hardly pay them at all, but never mind. About two more weeks of work then I should have a month or two of mostly doing nothing, which I manage to do very well. It's a good thing Betty likes to work or we would be further in debt than we already are. Actually, she just doesn't like housekeeping chores that much and uses any excuse to get out of the house. Can't say I blame her. I've never liked pushing a broom or swamping pots and pans myself. Have you ever thought of building a simulator to simulate work? Sounds to me like that would be right up your alley. Have a good week. Darrell -- By the way, we use a fake Christmas tree. Hope that doesn't offend you. It didn't offend me. At this point in the year I'm usually wishing I had never heard of Christmas trees, real, fake or otherwise. Will -- Don't feel bad about the fake tree. I would get one myself if I had enough mechanical ability to recognize which end of a screwdriver to use. I've tried putting together enough things to know I could never get the branches back on once they came off for storage. I doubt that Betty would mind a fake tree because every year when she picks out our tree, I sell it out from under her, sometimes three or four times. Dollar signs do something to me this time of year. I'm not really sane until January. You and Karin have a great Thanksgiving. Think of us while we're out in the rain selling trees to our nutty customers who think that sort of thing is fun. We don't. We're fair-weather farmers -- Darrell -- I'm afraid we are having some stinking weather right now. Not cold but it has been raining for two days. The weatherman says it will rain through the weekend, and Karin said rain or no rain, I'm getting my fat butt up on the roof to put up more Christmas decorations Saturday. That means she's increased the life insurance policy again. This is the second time she's done that. The last time was when she found out I was eighty pounds overweight and entered me in the Boston marathon with a back to back bicycle road race. The only thing I was able to finish was the shoelace-tying event. I have no idea where you live in relation to Ft. Worth but Karin and I will be in Ft. Worth the 4th of July week for the helicopter pilot's reunion. We'd love to meet you folks. I probably shouldn't have told you when we'd be there because it gives you way too much time to come up with a plausible excuse for not being around. Hope you folks are making money hand over fist. I can't believe in all that manual labor though. Isn't there some other way? I sent Will a long message as soon as I got that letter. Hi Will -- Manual labor? I sure do miss all those privates I used to have handy to do that sort of thing. To make a point, before we had our sales building, we worked from under a canopy. My son-in-law, a former army sergeant and I were putting it up the first time. He crippled me with the maul and I have a bad knee to this day and the blasted thing blew down so many times we lost count. Goes to show we both had employed privates too long and had forgotten the basics of tent erection. Back when I still thought I wanted to be a cowboy and we were running cattle here I had a hired hand helping me. We were waist deep in a cypress swamp, extending a fence to keep the cattle from going around it. Mosquitoes were chewing us to pieces, we were sweating and exhausted and he was trying desperately to hold on to a strand of wire while I hammered. As he struggled to hold the wire tight he gasped with exhaustion and said, "Where's the Hulk when you really need him?" Ever since, we tell people that the Hulk lives back behind us in the Cypress break, amongst the alligators, water moccasins, etc. -- Will was surprised. Darrell -- I didn't know you guys had alligators over your way. Well, I guess it's only fair that you have Florida alligators since you sent us those damned armadillos. It's getting to the point, we're thinking of taking the armadillo on as the state mascot in place of the Canadian "snow bird". At least the Canadians bring money -- Still on the subject of Florida, I wrote, Will -- Sorry, I'm we're not responsible for your armadillos. We're not that old!! Since no one would see them but us, we don't do Christmas decorations, especially on the roof. Karin must have you well trained. I don't climb roofs for anything. My excuse is that it makes me dizzy and so far no one has discovered my mendacity. Hey, you want to lose weight? Come work for me one season. I routinely lose 15-20 pounds in only 3-4 weeks during selling season. The best diet in the world. Unfortunately, I don't need to diet and look somewhat akin to a skeleton by the time I remember that it takes food to keep a body alive. We're about 250 miles from Ft. Worth and I avoid that city since I lived there briefly as a youngster. They may still have warrants out for me. However, we do go to Dallas occasionally to visit my sister. Maybe we could arrange a trip the week of the 4th of July. Shucks, I might even introduce you to my eccentric nephew, the famous Big Bucks Burnett. I'm dreaming of Monday. We're closing the farm to further sales as of Sunday night. After that, only ten days of being thought of as a scrooge when I won't let anyone cut trees. I'm usually pretty strong about it, but a sucker for kids when they start crying, thinking Santa won't come see them if they don't get a tree right then. Time to add up some money and see whether my banker is going to be friendly to me this next year. Take care. Wear a parachute when you're on the roof. Avoid reindeers. Don't fall down the chimney. Karin obviously didn't collect on Will's life insurance because I heard right back from him. Hey Darrell -- Well, with the Christmas tree season over the life of leisure kicks in ... Right? I managed to get the Christmas decorations up in the rain, wind, and cold (50 degrees is cold for Daytona Beach) and cheated Karin out of collecting on my life insurance. If I had not procrastinated the previous weekend I was told, I would have been able to screw off ... but I didn't. I'll do better next year. What am I talking about? By this time next year I will be retired. Your offer to help me lose weight is appreciated (sure, right) but the cure sounds worse than the affliction. Remember, I'm the guy who thinks Manual Labor is the president of Mexico. Anyway, I'm not fat, just too short for my weight. If I were 9'11" my weight would be perfect. I know what you mean about the outstanding warrants. I started my college career at TCU in Ft. Worth but only did a year before I decided to join the Army and let my brother take over the academics. Anyway, the only traffic ticket I ever got in my life I got in Ft. Worth for an improper U turn. Since I was headed for the Army I didn't pay it. I wonder if I'm passed the statute of limitations? I know I wouldn't look good in handcuffs. What was an Arkansas boy doing at a university in Texas? Well, I had an aunt and uncle in Ft. Worth and Mother and Dad were getting concerned that I was becoming much to friendly with one of the local girls. Actually the girl's mother was making noises about us getting married. I don't think the girl or I were thinking about marriage. At least I certainly wasn't. I did have carnal knowledge on my mind, but in those days that's about all I had on my mind. It had been a long dry spell since my first experience at 13. Anyway, my folks decided a long distance romance was in order and I was shipped off to live with the aunt and uncle and go to college. If they had only known! This little old country boy from Greenwood, Arkansas is suddenly in the midst of big city sin. I had never seen things like this and had only read about it in Mickey Spillane novels. To hell with academics! Bring on the world-class honky tonking, cheap whiskey, and wild women or was it cheap women and wild whiskey? Well, that's what an Arkansas boy was doing in Texas. I need to cool down a bit. Even the memories get the blood pressure up. Thank goodness Karin didn't know me during those days. I guess more appropriately, thank goodness her father didn't know me during those days or I would never have received his grudging blessings -- -------- Chapter Five ON CHRISTMAS AND GIFTS Hi Will -- Way back when I first started this silly business, a tradition got started. Betty would pick out her tree on Thanksgiving Day. I would promise to cut it "pretty soon", but inevitably, it would get sold before I got around to cutting it. Sometimes this would happen several times a year. Each time Betty would spend an hour or two picking a new one and I would promise to cut it "pretty soon". You know what a "pretty soon' promise is worth, and I just never could resist the dollar signs. Several times I did actually get her tree cut but sold it before getting around to transporting it to the house. Once, I did get it to the house, but sold it from the pickup before unloading. That's what happened last night. I was too tired to go back to the field when someone came to the door after we were closed. Now Betty is getting her revenge. She is demanding that I get her a potted Leyland Cypress Christmas tree like the ones I was selling to customers. Unfortunately, I sold all of them. Now, I have to travel 60 miles to the nursery today and get her tree. Isn't that ridiculous? A Christmas tree farmer going somewhere else for his Christmas tree? I guess it serves me right. I bet I have learned my lesson. Life of leisure? I haven't managed to get closed down yet. People just ignore the signs I put up and it's either go find them a tree, or send them to a competitor. Horrors! However, only a week to go, if I live that long. Yup, I'm glad Betty didn't know me during my younger days, too. I'm afraid it would have been a disaster. I still subscribe to Playboy but don't know why. Nothing in it excites me the way Betty does. In fact, nothing much excites me any more except dollar signs and playing Santa Claus. Since we both have everything we need, we don't buy each other large gifts, but 20 or 30 small ones and spend a couple of hours Christmas morning un-stuffing the stockings and seeing how ingenious the other person was in selections. I do have to admit that I hint around for a new pickup every year at this time but, so far, no luck. That derned Toyota makes their trucks too good. I got one in 1985 and can't wear the thing out, and Betty says I can't get a new one until I do. Any suggestions that won't be obvious or get me in trouble? Time to go count some money. A dreary task, but someone has to do it. Were the lights worth it? Will answered back. Apparently I tickled him good. Darrell -- You know, you rascal, you have not learned. I'll bet next year you sell her tree again, if you can get it out of the house, that is. I thought I was the only one using that "pretty soon" excuse. Must be a male thing. I learned it from my Dad who was a master at it. So you made the trip and got the tree. Ok, now you deserve your reward. However, the way women seem to look at these things, their rational goes, "If you had done what I said to start with you would not have had to make the trip" or "This is pay back for this year, how about the other years?" There is no winning. The closest I have ever come is when I introduce Karin to someone. I introduce her as my first wife. It sort of keeps her on her toes. That is obviously a joke and neither it nor I would live long if Karin knew I had said it. Betty you may not use that as blackmail because I will declare ignorance if you do and there isn't a court in the land that wouldn't believe me. My youngest son and a friend of his stopped by the office (so I would take them to lunch) today. I asked where they would like to go and they selected Hooters. I thought I had forgotten why guys go to that restaurant until we got there. I do remember! I do remember! Thank heaven Karin and I had sons. I must admit, there were some lovely children (at my age anyone between 20 and 30 is a child. Younger than that and they're babies) as waitresses. Now where the heck did I put that blood pressure medicine? I've asked Karin to bury me in my GMC pick'um up truck, but made a stipulation ~ that she waits until I'm dead. I get tired of having to be so specific about those things. I started to say I know the feeling about counting the money but I believe we have a truthful relationship going here so I guess I've got to admit I wouldn't know what a dreary task it is. If you need help, I will be more than willing to lend a hand. You've got the address, just sent it in a plain brown wrapped package. I'll count it and send it back. Were the lights worth it? You bet! Karin was very, very appreciative. You never did say what you got for Christmas or what you got Betty except for a stinking tree. Betty, don't let him get away with that. The tree can't be considered a Christmas present because he was replacing the one he sold which should have been yours in the first place. Will -- Betty's Christmas present? I got her some scissors, I think, because she's always swiping mine from my desk. I got her a gift subscription to Playboy. A deck of cards so she can play solitaire whenever she's lost her glasses (she wins more then). A spare back-scratcher, because she has been carrying the same one back and forth from the bedroom to her chair for years; a coca-cola souvenir spoon for her collection; a box of candy that she doesn't like but I do; a wooden spoon for stirring her jelly (the old one was leaving splinters in the stuff we sell). Just all kinds of stuff, including a book telling women how to spoil their husbands. That was the preliminaries. For the finale, I had commissioned my youngest son who is handy at crafts to build her a pretty bathroom organizer with various sized open compartments to put her bathroom stuff in so it doesn't wander onto my side of the bathroom counter. I mean, I really went all out and I know she appreciated all that stuff, don't you? What did Karin get you for Christmas? I should have known better than to ask that! Darrell -- Karin bought me a new torture device for Christmas. She gets me this stuff all the time. Karin is one of those people who will buy any fitness device advertised on television. I feel sorry for her because she honestly believes they work. Her hope is that I will once again look like I did 33 years ago. There is a slim chance I would but I'm sure I have to use the devices more than twice to have any effect. The problem I have is that each one of the contraptions she has bought to date has either maimed me or made me look totally ridiculous. Her first excursion into the world of the fitness device market was a number of years ago. It was back when my youngest son was a sophomore in high school and still living at home. The device was called a "belly buster" or something like that. It was made of blue molded plastic on the seat and had some hand position holes in the sides. The theory behind this torture device was that you sat in it, sort of put your hands through the hand holes which were a little behind you, and then rocked back and forth like sit-ups. Well, I got all situated in the device and everyone is standing around waiting for me to finish the routine and come up looking like Gorgeous George. When I rocked back the first time the damned thing collapsed and trapped my hands between the carpet and the hand holes. I tried for several minutes to extract myself but couldn't get free. My loved ones are standing around watching me and making helpful comments like, "Look at the upside down turtle," "Dad, your hands are turning purple," and "Why don't you just sit up?" My youngest then decided since I really can't get free, now is the time to pay me back for every grounding he's endured to this point in his worthless life. He grabs me by the feet and begins to drag me around the living room. This really amuses the rest of the family who are rolling with laughter. I didn't lose an ounce with that device and the carpet burns healed in about three weeks. This year's effort at getting me ready to run the Boston Marathon is a motorized treadmill. The sucker looks intimidating, and it is. It has every bell and whistle known to the fitness world; it will measure heart rate, calories burned, angle of attack, elapsed time, time remaining and probably the space between my eyes. It is also capable of going from zero to Mach 2. Again, everyone wants to watch while I climb on the device. All I really want to do now is take a nap. I mean the presents have been opened and it isn't time to butcher the turkey so why do I have to exercise? The treadmill is set up in the downstairs family room in front of the bathroom, so everyone tromps down there to watch. I stepped on the monster and turned it on. Nothing happened, which delighted me to no end. It obviously didn't work. I was about to step off when my son, the same child who I nurtured through 23 years of life and who dragged me around the living room several years earlier, came up and turned the speed control up a notch (next year I am buying him children drums and a 5,000 piece Lego block set for Christmas). The thing began to move and I did, too. Everyone was thrilled to see the old man exercising. Now the calls for more speed began. I went through several notches until I was at a dead run on this revolving mat from hell. I guess Karin finally saw that I was in a little distress since the color of my face matched the red of Rudolph's nose, or she'd finally remembered the increased life insurance policy wasn't in effect yet. She hollered something but I couldn't hear over the roar of the motor and everyone chanting, "more speed," "more speed," so I stopped to hear better. Let me tell you right now. Never stop on a treadmill while the mat is running. A treadmill is an unforgiving instrument. Without so much as a by-your-leave, it threw me all the way to the back of the bathroom wall, and I wound up crumpled in a large pile beside the commode. I'll wait until the dust is about a half inch thick on the thing, and then I'll give it to AMVETS unless one of you guys wants it. It has only been used once and, other than the skid marks where I made my takeoff, it looks brand new. After I finished rolling on the floor with Betty and wiped the tears from my eyes I wrote back, Will -- The last exercise device I bought was a machine that purportedly would shear a thousand trees a day with no learning, experience or effort and it only cost two thousand dollars. It made hash of my trees, permanently bowed my back, wore me out just getting the thing rigged up and started, and on my back, at which point it would quit running and I would have to take it off and start all over again. I think it's gathering dust out in the barn with the other useless devices I've bought with the intention of avoiding work. Meanwhile, I'm still using a shearing knife, which isn't all bad because I feel like I'm armed to the teeth while carrying it. By the way, we could always self-publish then have an excuse to run around the country trying to sell the book in bars, cabarets, girlie joints and other places where deranged veterans congregate, who would probably be the only ones who would buy it. Even if they didn't, we could claim it as a business expense. That's no worse than some of the ones I claim. -------- Chapter Six ON WRITING AND THIS BOOK Darrell&Betty -- I've been reading Medics Wild. I'm not going to try and get fancy in this book report other than to say I thoroughly enjoyed the book. Please let me know when the next one is available. Sergeant Willard reminded me a lot of the Phil Silvers' television character Sergeant Bilko. He was an honest thief and chiseler who really looked out for his men. If he happened to prosper or life got a little easier for him as a consequence, well those were just side benefits. A likable character! I could not relate as well with the doctors in the book because for the most part, the flight surgeons I came in contact with were really good guys. That loosely translates that they were in just about as much mischief as the rest of us. As far as impersonating officers goes, you guys probably did a better job than we did sometimes. At least better than the Cav officers who were having a hard time impersonating humans. There is no way officers would have been able to figure out the ID card swapping caper you wrote about while sober, much less drunk. That really was a funny section. Will -- Word of mouth on my book is getting around in this area. A good number of people are coming out to the farm to get autographed copies, mostly as Christmas presents to veterans. Sooner or later one of my old cohorts will read it and sue hell out of me! Darrell -- It's amazing that of the vast number of guys I have known during a 26 year Army career, I have met very few of them since I retired. Even at our annual helicopter pilot's reunion, I have run across exactly two guys I flew with during my tours and have not seen even one guy out of the 46 guys from my flight school. So, you may get to skate on someone you wrote about reading and taking offense. Even if they do you can say you were off your meds when you wrote it. Hell, I'll vouch for you. There's no way they can argue with the logic of two liars. Hi Will -- Have you ever thought seriously of writing? Betty suggested this morning that we compile this e-mail, take the best parts of it and turn it into a book, somewhat like I did with my nephew, James "Big Bucks" Burnett several years ago to make "God, Hangovers and Getting Published". My agent was enthusiastic about it. Editors somewhat less, obviously because it's still available only in disk format. Tell me what you think. Seriously. Darrell -- The last time I thought about writing something serious was a note I authored in eleventh grade to Marianne McConnell. It got intercepted by Mrs. Bean, and I got sent to the Principal's office. Fortunately, I had not actually offered any money so the charge of solicitation was dropped. I think I'd have scored if that note hadn't been waylaid. Marianne was new in school and didn't know me yet plus she was about as smart as a doorknob. Seriously though, it sounds like a fine idea to me. You got to remember though, I also bought an Edsel which I thought was a fine idea at the time too. BTW turkey, I have saved all of your posts to me so you don't get off the hook that easily. Hi Factory Drudge -- How late do you folks work in Florida? It must be 3:30 there by now. Glad I don't have those bosses and regular hours to contend with. The last real boss I had fired me for telling him what an idiot he was, so I made certain on my last job that I was indispensable. A neat trick, too. I just bought machines, learned to use them then threw away the manuals so no one else knew how to turn them on without blowing up the lab. I had a note started to you several hours ago about the first hot breakfast I was going to enjoy in a month. A customer showed up and amidst my cussing and trying to finish while they were pounding on the door and over the kids crying for a tree I gummed up the computer so bad the mouse froze and I lost everything. Including my breakfast. It got so cold the dog ate it before I got back. This madness has to end sometime. And then, my best computer pal tells me he has saved all the nonsense I've sent him after I spent two hours looking it up in lost files and printing it this morning. We've damn near got a book already. That can be a chapter in it. Darrell -- 1. In "The Arkansas Titanic", a group of 11&12 year old boys find a piece of corrugated roofing tin and set out to make a boat, albeit a very unstable craft. The one-man boat is used to paddle across a small lake that has formed in the bottom of a rock quarry. The object of getting across the lake is pretty simple. Actually it is much too simple for the boys, so they decide to make it a little more sporting and throw rocks from the top of the quarry and try to make waves that will tip the rower over. It becomes a fine sport and things go well until I attempt to row across one Sunday after church and the "hair ball" comes into the picture. 2. In "Fresh Milk and Carbide Light", I was a little guy (probably around five or six) and my father was a coal miner at the time. My only real job in life other than just trying to stay alive was to provide the light for my Dad as he milked the two cows we had. Dad had an old cloth miner's cap that he had put a really gigantic safety pin in the back of so it would fit my head. On the cap Dad put a carbide lamp. My job was to just hold my head still so there was enough light for Dad could milk the cows. I was a little curious and began to wonder what would happen if the cow would remain still while I was holding onto the cow's leg. Why I wondered that is still one of life's greatest mysteries. I didn't have a great deal of experience with carbide lamps back then and didn't realize that when I clamped my arms around the cow's leg, the flame from the lamp would come in contact with the cow's leg too. Several disasters and one world distance record "kid kick" followed. 3. Since I have not even started "The Parachute and Electric Hog Fence Caper" the summary is pretty loose but it concerns a parachute which we got from a guy who had been in the Army and when he got out he did an exhibition jump in our home town and then gave the parachute (which he probably stole from the Army) to the boy scouts. I talked the Hairball into putting it on and jumping off the barn, which loosened several of his teeth, split both lips, and sprained one ankle. I got an incredible hide tanning. I was terribly offended when I got the whipping because I thought I had given Hairball some real excitement. To get even I devised a plan to get him to compete with me in a pissing contest. Knowing I could not get anywhere near the distance he could, the competition was set up to see who could pee over a certain fence. The fence just so happened to be an electrified hog fence. I still get a chuckle out of that one. He couldn't tell anyone, so I was safe. TO BE CONTINUED This correspondence all took place in the winter of 1997-98. Since then Will and I have filled volumes of files with our notes back and forth. Now, here is the interesting point: it turned out that I had a crooked publisher and even crookeder agent. Medics Wild went out of print even while I was still lining up book signings -- because the publisher had absconded with funds, which should have gone to printing books. My "agent" had been charging me for submitting my work to publishers but not doing it. I felt as if my writing career was in ruins -- and it was. I quit writing completely, other than to Will. But, as our correspondence continued I began writing four and five page stories similar to the ones Will had been sending me, trying unsuccessfully to top his war stories. I gave that up after reading about the satin sheets, about the funniest story I've ever come across. The stories I wrote went to Will and I began sending them to family and friends, too. Eventually, my stepdaughter suggested that I collect my stories into a book. I did just that, and eventually an electronic publisher bought it -- to my great surprise! From there I went on to have most of my work published in electronic format and some in print. And I really think I owe it all to Will. He's the one who inadvertently got me to writing again. There is enough material in our correspondence to make a number of books if anyone is interested -- and I hope they are, especially editors and publishers! And one final note: I mentioned that so far Will and I have never met. However, Will happened to be going on a business trip to Oklahoma City where my brother Gary lives and did manage to have a long lunch with him and his wife Barbara. Which just goes to show that life isn't fair and one of these days I'm going to write a book on that subject. -------- About The Authors WILL STAFFORD Darrell Bain and Will Stafford both served two years in Vietnam, though not together. They have never met in person but their correspondence has delighted them and their families and friends for more than three years now. Darrell is a former medic and Will a former helicopter pilot. They like to write and this book is the result of each of them trying to top the other with some of the funniest and most unusual stories you've ever read. Will is retired from the Army and from an engineering career in Florida. Darrell still works on his Christmas tree farm in East Texas and uses his spare time to write books and novels, a number of which have been published. Someday they intend to meet -- and that should be another story! You can keep track of Will on his author page: www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/willard.htm DARRELL BAIN Darrell Bain has been writing most of his life though he didn't get really serious about it until the purchase of his first computer which made correcting his typing so much easier. In the last ten years he has had a total of twelve books either published or currently under contract to be published. Two of his works were finalists for the EPIC 2000 Awards and another nominated for the Frankfurt e-Book awards. His writing ranges the gamut of genres from Science Fiction to Romance, from Non-fiction to Suspense and from Children's books to Humorous Adventure and humorous non-fiction. Darrell served a number of years in the military, including two years in Vietnam. His first published novel, Medics Wild was based in part on his time in Vietnam. After leaving the military Darrell obtained a B.S. in Medical Technology and managed medical laboratories in Louisiana, Texas and Saudi Arabia. He trapped his wife Betty under a mistletoe sprig in one of his labs and they married a year later. Eventually he and Betty settled in East Texas where they own a Christmas tree farm located -- where else? -- on a real road named Santa Claus Lane. Two of his non-fiction works deal with crazy adventures on a Christmas tree farm. Other members of the family include Black Spot and Black Dot, the tomcats. You can keep track of Darrell's work at: www.writers-exchange.com/epublishing/darrell.htm OTHER BOOKS AVAILABLE THROUGH WRITERS EXCHANGE: LIFE ON SANTA CLAUS LANE (HUMOR) Only in America could we find an official Post Office address of Santa Claus Lane -- with a Christmas tree farm on the road! Darrell is a lazy, inefficient and ten-thumbed farmer. Betty is a hard-working, competent farmer's wife. Darrell loves her dearly, but it is a wonder she hangs in there with him considering all misadventures, escapades and hair-brained schemes he gets them both into. Darrell Bain has one redeeming feature, he loves to write about these misadventures. Darrell's first collection of stories range from, ravenous Bed&Breakfast guests who eat them out of house and home, to Runaway mowers and tillers, then comes the attack of the killer kittens, couch testing, mattress madness, the three legged iron scorpion, and the lost Viagra pill, plus so much more. "Life On Santa Clause Lane" is a humorous "side splitting" novel not to be missed! HOTLINE TO HEAVEN (CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE) Violet is the nearest thing to an angel that Ed Tanner has met in his seamy life as a scam artist. And Violet is so unworldly she's never even been kissed. Will Ed corrupt Violet? Will Violet make an honest man of him? Or can they somehow reach a compromise when their lives and fortunes become entangled? One thing is certain: neither of them, in their wildest dreams, would ever have thought they might fall in love. A sensual romance by Darrell Bain, author of the best selling novel, _The Sex Gates_. ----------------------- Visit www.fictionwise.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.