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Jackie Crowe (Finch)
I'm back!!!! Vacation was great and being with my family even greater!!
Happy Birthday to all our June BD folks! BroBeau hope you had a good one and Jimmie Lee enjoy your day!
Congrats to Gary Keith!
Per Teddie -
"On a much more positive note, congratulations to classmate Gary Keith who has been recognized again this year with awards from the Arkansas Press Association for two of his weekly newspaper articles."
View From The Mountain
“Letters From Home”
Gary Keith
I remember as a young boy, after my Mom and Dad moved from Georgia to Texas back in ‘49, we use to get letters from my Grandmother. I was the Apple of Grandma’s eye, and she was the “Greatest Person on Earth” as far as I was concerned. Matter of fact I named one of my dog’s from the Stone County Humane Society, “Fannie Belle” after that Grand Ol’ Southern lady. My Grandmother, Fannie Belle, wrote some really funny letters about our family members. Not that she was telling a tale mind you, she was just keeping us abreast of the goings on back home.
A brief history about grandmother. She owned a café with a boarding house next door. The Tennessee Valley Authority was in eastern Georgia building lakes and damns to generate Electricity which explains the rapid development of that part of the country after we left.
Anyway, I remember one particular letter about her father who was in his 90's, and already slipping a bit. Fannie Belle told us she had been having trouble with her septic system and called in a plumber. (now remember we're talking back in the 40's and 50's, way before there was such a thing as instructions for handling hazardous products) So, while great grandpa was off doing whatever he did, a plumber showed up, went to the outhouse that was located on the edge of the cornfield, and after a brief analysis of the situation poured a bunch of Benzene into the waste system and then left.
Grandma was busy in the café with lunch. A while later great grandpa returned home. After finishing his lunch he did what he always did next and made his way down the path about fifty yards to the outhouse, for his afternoon constitutional. Grandma said she heard him go out the back door and the next thing she and the whole town heard, was when great grandpa lit his pipe, and then threw the match into the septic system right below his behind. The explosion was huge. Grandma and several of the diners ran out to see what had happened. They saw a black cloud of smoke out in the cornfield, and dashed out there only to find the outhouse was blown to smithereens and great grandpa was missing!
After looking around for a few minutes, one of the diners hollered out of the cornfield, “Is this him?” Grandma said she wasn’t sure at first but it had to be. There was a blackened body laying out about 40 feet from where the outhouse use to stand. He was lying on his back, unconscious, with his pants around his ankles in the middle of the cornfield, She went on to say, his shoes were missing, and he didn’t have a hair on him anywhere! Even his eyebrows were singed off. It took awhile she said, but when they threw a bucket of water on him he came to. They put him in a truck and hauled him off to the doctor. He was gone a day or two, but came back wanting to know what his daughter Fannie Belle had put in the beans? Other than that he couldn’t remember much, but asked grandma about his eyebrows. She said he walked away mumbling something about quittin smoking. You know, I still hear people say that all the time, and to think my great grandpa started that saying about sixty years ago down in Georgia.
There, see all things don’t start in California. That expression, ”I’m gonna stop smokin”, started down in Georgia back in ‘52. Just a lesson to you smokers out there, you gotta be careful where you put your butts.
That’s my View from the Mountain this week. Take care of each other. See ya in town.
View From The Mountain
“Troubles Common Thread”
Gary Keith
Looking back over my days, I’ve had some good ones and some really good one’s.
I also recall the times, when I was in way over my head. That is, when trouble was on the horizon, Yes, I’ve had my share of those days as well. On each of those troubled days, without exception, there was a common thread. I had imbibed the spirits of some form of grain or another. It’s amazing how bullet proof you can feel under the influence. As you may or may not know, I am a combat veteran of the U. S. Marine persuasion. I came back from my war high spirited and happy to have survived.
I recall a most beautiful spring night back in the late 70’s. I was walking home from a lovely little Irish Pub, just minding my own business, when I came upon a man at the corner of a very busy intersection. He was staggering in a wheelchair, and commenced to tell me how long he’d been trying to get across that street to another pub. “I’ll buy you a drink if you can get me down there” he slurred. My Marine Corps training and combat experience, told me this was no problem for a pair of guys that shared in the pleasure of a few good spirits. We could easily maneuver the traffic, the road hazards, the lights,’ bout anything that came up. I had a plan. I figured, he hadn’t been running in a good long while, seeing as he couldn’t even walk. So, I grabbed hold of the wheelchair and instructed him, “Hang on we’re going for a run!”. With that we leaped out into the flow of traffic heading West towards the sunset. I was young and my legs were strong and if there was anything I had learned in the Corps, it was how to run.
We were on Montrose Boulevard. The light turned green, and run we did! We took a left and immediately I could feel the air blow past my ears as I accelerated. Horns were honking and we were cruising down the middle of a four-lane street called Westheimer. Traffic was rejoicing in our play, honking and rooting us on. My passenger was having the time of his life laughing and hollering with wild abandon. We ran about a mile before stopping, him bellowing all the way. When we stopped we were on the corner of Dunlavy over a mile away from where we started. I laughed as I caught my breath. “That was a blast, huh. Just a minute and we’ll go again. Are you up for it?” He sat there swaying in his seat, (obviously the effects of his drinking had not subsided) he was looking at me in disbelief. “What’s the matter” I asked, you wanta keep going? “Hell no, Let’s go back!” he stammered. “Okay, you wanta go back a different way?” I asked. “No!” he retorted sharply. “Okay, Okay what’s wrong?” I asked. “I thought we were having fun.” “We were” he said, “til I dropped my leg.” “What leg?” I asked. “My wooden leg” he replied. “Hell, that’s what I been hollering about!” He’d dropped his leg in the intersection of Montrose and Westheimer, where our run began. “Hang on,” I yelled as I grabbed the chair, spinning it around and heading back up the four-lane, dead center. We double-timed all the way back, and found the leg down the street about a half a block away. I remember standing there in the semi-dark and shadows cast by the street lights and tree branches. The black tire marks could be sanded out and with a fresh coat of varathane, the leg could pass for new, I thought. We parted company at the intersection where it all began and our paths never crossed again.
About six years after my war, I attended the University of Houston on the G.I. bill. It was common knowledge, my being somewhat older than my peers. Out of that knowledge, came invitations to some of the staff and faculty impromptu get-togethers and parties.
Suffice it to say my Marine Corps experience prepared me to consume with the best of them. My hard charging ego refused anyone to out-drink me, particularly women. It was at one of those faculty/staff functions that I got involved with a woman who lived for happy hour. She could more than hold her own, and hastily accepted my challenge. That situation turned out to be a harsh lesson in reality, accompanied with considerable pain. I had met this tall red-headed staff member at a Friday night after school get-together. After a good long stint (several years), I realized, not only was I unable to keep up, but if I continued drinking with this woman, it would probably kill me. Finally, I was forced to holler “Calf-Rope” and surrender. I had to admit defeat. Alas! I could not out-drink all women.
Life is constantly giving us feedback. “On course!, off course!, off course! . . OFF COURSE!” The question becomes- How many of us are paying attention? I found out recently from her husband that that woman died four years ago at 56 years of age. I guess my getting the lesson in time was the important thing. And that’s the way it went after the War. I sought the peace and tranquility I’d known as a child prior to my involvement in destruction and killing. I looked at the bottom of a lot of bottles trying to remember who I was and what I wanted. I’m not gonna tell you to stop drinking, but I will tell you in given time, you will finally figure it out all by yourself. How stubborn you want to be about it is up to you.
One day, in my thirty-seventh year, God said, “Gary, you’ve drunk your share, there’s nothing left of your ration, it’s all gone.” Oh, I fussed a bit and tried to prove it wasn’t so, but the aches and pains were convincing and I finally succumbed. It’s been almost 26 years now. Oh, I’ll have a single beer once or twice a year, on a hot summer day. But, I gotta say, I don’t miss it, and “Life is Good!”
That’s my View from the Mountain this week. Take care of each other. I’ll see ya in town.
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