My daily three mile walk takes me along Dairy Road in Sneads, beginning at my home, proceeding in a southerly direction to U.S. 90, then returning on a reciprocal of this course until I reach the gate that marks state property, or a barking dog, whichever occurs first, and then back home. I have walked a mile on each lap, and I often come up with ideas for my next week’s column as I pace myself. Seldom, however, has an idea been handed to me as was the one last Monday.
The gate is the access to the old Apalachee dairy, which is now a cattle feeding operation. There is a warning sign there, but it is not needed, for most cars have given up long before because of potholes. The street is named “Dairy Road” in honor of its location. One of my neighbors thinks that it should be named “Cow Flap Lane”, but that has even less appeal than Dairy Road. I am certain that along about July of each year a case could be made for changing it to “Gnat Boulevard”.
I had begun my third mile that day and was heading north, straight and true, according to my built-in directional compass. This has nothing to do with my built-in moral compass, which strays quite often. A SUV passed me at a fair clip, then reached the gate and turned around. As it approached me it slowed and stopped. The passenger side window lowered, and a nice looking lady, holding a piece of paper in one hand, asked: “Could you direct me to the West Unit of Apalachee Correctional Institution?” I gave her the directions: return to U. S. 90, turn east, go one half mile and take the left fork at the sign. She thanked me and then said, looking at the paper one more time: “MapQuest says turn on Dairy Road”, and I nodded and pointed south and she left.
And I had my story.
I have been called by some Great Power to give my readers a lecture on navigation. I must turn the world away from MapQuest and OnStar and other faulty systems. This has to be done quickly, before we have a massive traffic jam on Dairy Road, which will frighten the cattle and cause me to quit walking and to get obese and big boned again.
I am not surprised that there is a problem. This “happening” pops up with regularity on Dairy Road. Usually there are two folks in the automobile; a man driving and his wife sitting in the passenger seat. The man is grouchy looking, and often is thumping the GPS with one hand while he is motioning with his other hand for his wife to shut up. She is probably chiding him for not asking directions back at the Visitors’ Center when they crossed the state line near Pensacola.
I can understand frustration with these instruments. I do not own a GPS, but my son has one in each of his cars. Last year I went to Sunrise, his hometown, while he was traveling for his agency, so that I could spend time with my fifteen year old grandson. Stuart wanted us to go to a barbeque spot one evening; I believe it was named “Upchuck’s Ribs and Such”. He programmed the GPS, and it informed us that we must get on the Turnpike, turn north and go 735 miles until we reached the city limits of Savannah. It seems that city also has an “Upchuck’s”, and we were ordered to go there. I disregarded the directions, got out the city map and plotted my course. Each time I made a turn the voice on the machine complained.
We must return to the tried and true methods of navigation. I have been misled only once by celestial navigation and that was really my fault. If you are not familiar with celestial, it is the system, developed chiefly by Arabs, where a seaman looks through a sextant at a star, checks the angle between it and the horizon and finds his position on the globe. Bill Pennewill, who was probably one of the Navy’s finest navigators, insisted that the other officers of the USS TWEEDY occasionally do a “day’s work” in navigation, determining the position of the ship both morning and evening, plotting courses and making marks on charts. Once off the Atlantic coast I shot Venus, marked the time and gave Bill the coordinates. Bill checked them out and then said: “Holmes, take off your hat”. I asked him why, and he informed me that according to my calculations we were in the nave of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City.
We owe a great deal of thanks to the those nomads of the deserts, who found out that the road signs between oases were not always accurate and began naming the stars so that they could follow them from spot to spot. Aldebaran, one of the Hyades, still is up there somewhere. So is Betelgeuse. I like Betelgeuse because some Hollywood type picked the name up, changed it to Beetlejuice and made a scary movie using it. Scary movies are about as good for cuddling as watching submarine races. A person can also use Ursa Major, also known as the Big Dipper, to find the north. Below the equator the Big Dipper does not have as many stars, and is known as the Southern Cross. I believe that this is because the Australians have too many marsupials. Kangaroos, koalas, and wombats abound. We only have ‘possums, so we get an extra star.
The Arabs also gave us the Arabic numerals, the numbers that we use every day. These begin with 0 and end with 9, or maybe 10, or 20 if you aren’t wearing shoes. Arabic numerals are easy to use. If we didn’t have them we would be trying to use Roman numerals. Have you ever tried to add XVII to CXXI without changing them to 17 and 121? Can’t be done, can it? That’s why Emperor Nero burned so many Christians. He was a moderately good man as Roman emperors went. I believe that he simply lost count. If he had used Arabic numbers he would have stopped at ten Christians, or maybe twenty, since he wore sandals and would probably have used his toes to add them up. We Church folks might even be celebrating St. Nero’s Day if he had not been trying to tally using Roman numerals.
When the good ship TWEEDY was activated in 1961 we were sent to Guantanamo Bay for Underway Training. As with many old ships, though, she immediately lost all electronic navigation capabilities upon departing Pensacola. Bill simply took star sights, plotted our course using dead reckoning and we entered the Windward Passage straight down the middle. Our arrival inspectors marveled at this, and complimented Bill for finding the Passage with no electronic aid. Bill looked at them and retorted: “Columbus found it without any!”
And this brings up comedian Flip Wilson’s famous monologue on Christopher Columbus and the discovery of America. According to Flip, Columbus set out to discover America because that was where Ray Charles was from. Flip described the voyage in detail, even having ol’ Chris telling his crew to “stop”, “back up” and “watch out for the edge”.
All of this is quite hilarious, until you find out that the Naval Academy does not teach celestial navigation any more. Some day, possibly next week, a young navigator will turn on his GPS and find that it doesn’t work because some six year old is playing games on a computer and has blacked out the satellite that sends the beams down to the ship, and he will not know what to do. When this happens, I hope he will “watch out for the edge”…..and for St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
So You Want to Write a Column!
Some months ago my Sid Riley, Managing Editor of the *Jackson County Times*, persuaded me to write an occasional column for his newspaper. He has been very lenient in allowing me to vary the content, especially since I encountered a fraternity brother of his at one of my waterways meetings, and learned that he is in debt to several of his buddies from college days. This doesn’t mean that he owes them dollars that he had borrowed; far from it. It means that he owes them “hush” money for not telling about some of the shenanigans that he pulled after lights out in the fraternity house.
As I gained fame with my writings I also garnered comments about the quantity and the quality. I am unable to change the quality; this was ingrained in me by various English teachers throughout the years. I will continue to use proper punctuation and syntax in spite of what the Spelling and Grammar icon tells me when I scan for correctness.
My guru for this is the late William F. Buckley, Jr., author of God and Man at Yale and founding editor of the Weekly Review. Anyone that reads Mr. Buckley’s writings does so with a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary close at hand. The Collegiate Webster’s edition is not sufficient for this purpose. It also pays to have a list of Latin phrases and French words that seem to have been in common use in the Buckley family. I once had the opportunity to chat with Mr. Buckley. He had branched out into writing fiction and had penned a series of books about a detective named Blackford Oakes.
One day as I was riding to New Orleans in my *Ford Explorer* I tuned into a *National Public Radio* station just as he was being interviewed on *All Things Considered*. After several statements that seemed to stun the host, who obviously did not have a dictionary at hand, the lines were opened for call-ins. Mr. Buckley, being conservative politically, received none from the largely liberal listening audience. I listened as the two made small talk. Finally I called and was put through to the great man. He was very nice and did not make fun of my Southern accent. My question was: “Why has there not been any good novels written about the Korean War?” We chatted about tales from other wars, and we agreed that The Bridges at Toko-Ri came the closest to greatness, but did not quite come up to the level expected. We finally concluded that it was because the “police action” that was declared by the United Nations was not over yet, and there had been no time for retrospection.
On occasion I am asked what it takes to get into the business of column writing. I offer suggestions, but when the questioner finds out that I do not make money from my efforts, there is a sudden silence and a loss of interest. When someone compliments me on something I have written, I often say “That is all the pay I want”. What I really mean is that “That is all the pay I get”. But in case you wish to venture into this profession, here’s what I recommend.
Get a “nom de plume”. (If you don’t know what this means, look it up. This will do you good, and you can use that Webster‘s Unabridged that I mentioned). Mark Twain operated under a nom de plume. His real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemmons, but he changed his name since his mother obviously did not love him very much or she would have given him a much shorter name. With a short name you can get more words in your column, particularly if your editor is picky about lengths.
The way Clemmons got his name is interesting. He was a cub river pilot as a young man, and once got a steamboat in extremis (look this up, too). He avoided running it aground when the man in the bow with the sounding pole yelled back “mark twain”, which meant safe water. He adopted this as his nom de plume (you haven’t looked this up yet, have you?). This would be like my adopting “Drive in the right lane on the Interstate, unless there is an emergency vehicle ahead” as my pen name. Darn, now I have told you what “nom de plume” means.
So when you have the right name, and you have found an editor, you must decide on subjects. I handled my first three easily. Sid wanted river articles, and I am familiar with three rivers, the Apalachicola, the Chattahoochee and the Flint. After that I ran out of rivers, just like Atlanta runs out of drinking water in a drought.
I spent quite a bit of time in the U. S. Navy. When I added it up recently, I came up with 106 years service, man and boy. Actually it was only six years’ duty on ships, but I was seasick for three days once and this made it seem like 106. And as an aside, if you ever even think you will be seasick, eat several bananas. This will not keep you from upchucking, but bananas are the only food that I know of that taste the same coming up as they do going down.
So nautical experiences have contributed greatly to my columns, and this is primarily because of my “wheel” book. A wheel book is a small bound book that every young officer assigned to an oceangoing command maintains. In it he keeps pertinent data that will assist him in everyday life aboard, and it may also supply him with good information for the future, as mine has.
My wheel book’s very first entry was simple: “When you are facing forward on the ship, the port side is on your left”. The second entry was “red, right, returning” and this relates to the position of buoys that mark channels. In other words, red buoys are on the right of the channel when you are returning from the sea. See how simple it is? These are the only two things that you need to know to be a naval officer. The next one did not pertain to ship handling, but was very important. It stated “Mary Lil (the short brunette) at the DesSub Pub Officers Club has gingivitis. The medic says that I will be able to eat normally within a few days and my gums will heal”.
If you keep such a book be careful of what you enter. I did not write about the time I enticed my soon-to-be wife to go to Key West for vacation when my ship would be there. This intimated intimacy, but I would never let my children read this. Children do not want to believe that their parents ever did more than shake hands, and even then for only a brief period of time, and with gloves on. My three probably believe that the reason they were adopted by Theresa and me was that we had never figured out the “real” way to have children. In other things they are quite intelligent and alert.
Back to Mark Twain: he wrote what is called the “First American Masterpiece” : Huckleberry Finn. In it he used the now politically incorrect “n” word. He wrote this story on paper that was called foolscap, with a quill and probably homemade ink. The reason he did not use his computer was that using the “word” would have caused a virus and it would have locked his monitor up, much as mine was locked up when I stayed too long on the “Victoria’s Secret Angels” website.
Now you know all of my methods. You select a nom de plume, you pick interesting subjects (leave the Rivers alone, I may have to return to them and they are mine, all mine!) but be careful that they do not incriminate living persons, particularly yourself, and be sure that you make friends with an editor who will not put your column in among the want ads and try to charge you his “by the inch” fee.
Happy columns to you!
As I gained fame with my writings I also garnered comments about the quantity and the quality. I am unable to change the quality; this was ingrained in me by various English teachers throughout the years. I will continue to use proper punctuation and syntax in spite of what the Spelling and Grammar icon tells me when I scan for correctness.
My guru for this is the late William F. Buckley, Jr., author of God and Man at Yale and founding editor of the Weekly Review. Anyone that reads Mr. Buckley’s writings does so with a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary close at hand. The Collegiate Webster’s edition is not sufficient for this purpose. It also pays to have a list of Latin phrases and French words that seem to have been in common use in the Buckley family. I once had the opportunity to chat with Mr. Buckley. He had branched out into writing fiction and had penned a series of books about a detective named Blackford Oakes.
One day as I was riding to New Orleans in my *Ford Explorer* I tuned into a *National Public Radio* station just as he was being interviewed on *All Things Considered*. After several statements that seemed to stun the host, who obviously did not have a dictionary at hand, the lines were opened for call-ins. Mr. Buckley, being conservative politically, received none from the largely liberal listening audience. I listened as the two made small talk. Finally I called and was put through to the great man. He was very nice and did not make fun of my Southern accent. My question was: “Why has there not been any good novels written about the Korean War?” We chatted about tales from other wars, and we agreed that The Bridges at Toko-Ri came the closest to greatness, but did not quite come up to the level expected. We finally concluded that it was because the “police action” that was declared by the United Nations was not over yet, and there had been no time for retrospection.
On occasion I am asked what it takes to get into the business of column writing. I offer suggestions, but when the questioner finds out that I do not make money from my efforts, there is a sudden silence and a loss of interest. When someone compliments me on something I have written, I often say “That is all the pay I want”. What I really mean is that “That is all the pay I get”. But in case you wish to venture into this profession, here’s what I recommend.
Get a “nom de plume”. (If you don’t know what this means, look it up. This will do you good, and you can use that Webster‘s Unabridged that I mentioned). Mark Twain operated under a nom de plume. His real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemmons, but he changed his name since his mother obviously did not love him very much or she would have given him a much shorter name. With a short name you can get more words in your column, particularly if your editor is picky about lengths.
The way Clemmons got his name is interesting. He was a cub river pilot as a young man, and once got a steamboat in extremis (look this up, too). He avoided running it aground when the man in the bow with the sounding pole yelled back “mark twain”, which meant safe water. He adopted this as his nom de plume (you haven’t looked this up yet, have you?). This would be like my adopting “Drive in the right lane on the Interstate, unless there is an emergency vehicle ahead” as my pen name. Darn, now I have told you what “nom de plume” means.
So when you have the right name, and you have found an editor, you must decide on subjects. I handled my first three easily. Sid wanted river articles, and I am familiar with three rivers, the Apalachicola, the Chattahoochee and the Flint. After that I ran out of rivers, just like Atlanta runs out of drinking water in a drought.
I spent quite a bit of time in the U. S. Navy. When I added it up recently, I came up with 106 years service, man and boy. Actually it was only six years’ duty on ships, but I was seasick for three days once and this made it seem like 106. And as an aside, if you ever even think you will be seasick, eat several bananas. This will not keep you from upchucking, but bananas are the only food that I know of that taste the same coming up as they do going down.
So nautical experiences have contributed greatly to my columns, and this is primarily because of my “wheel” book. A wheel book is a small bound book that every young officer assigned to an oceangoing command maintains. In it he keeps pertinent data that will assist him in everyday life aboard, and it may also supply him with good information for the future, as mine has.
My wheel book’s very first entry was simple: “When you are facing forward on the ship, the port side is on your left”. The second entry was “red, right, returning” and this relates to the position of buoys that mark channels. In other words, red buoys are on the right of the channel when you are returning from the sea. See how simple it is? These are the only two things that you need to know to be a naval officer. The next one did not pertain to ship handling, but was very important. It stated “Mary Lil (the short brunette) at the DesSub Pub Officers Club has gingivitis. The medic says that I will be able to eat normally within a few days and my gums will heal”.
If you keep such a book be careful of what you enter. I did not write about the time I enticed my soon-to-be wife to go to Key West for vacation when my ship would be there. This intimated intimacy, but I would never let my children read this. Children do not want to believe that their parents ever did more than shake hands, and even then for only a brief period of time, and with gloves on. My three probably believe that the reason they were adopted by Theresa and me was that we had never figured out the “real” way to have children. In other things they are quite intelligent and alert.
Back to Mark Twain: he wrote what is called the “First American Masterpiece” : Huckleberry Finn. In it he used the now politically incorrect “n” word. He wrote this story on paper that was called foolscap, with a quill and probably homemade ink. The reason he did not use his computer was that using the “word” would have caused a virus and it would have locked his monitor up, much as mine was locked up when I stayed too long on the “Victoria’s Secret Angels” website.
Now you know all of my methods. You select a nom de plume, you pick interesting subjects (leave the Rivers alone, I may have to return to them and they are mine, all mine!) but be careful that they do not incriminate living persons, particularly yourself, and be sure that you make friends with an editor who will not put your column in among the want ads and try to charge you his “by the inch” fee.
Happy columns to you!
The Ash Wednesday Storm at Sea
What the map will not tell you is the strength and fury of that ocean, its moods, its violence, its gentle balm, its treachery; what men can do with it and what it can do with men. (From THE CRUEL SEA by Nicholas Monsarrat, Alfred A. Knopf, New York; 1951)
The Ash Wednesday Storm of 1962 is rated by some experts as the ninth biggest storm of the Twentieth Century to hit the continental United States. This storm stayed put for three days along the Eastern coastline instead of going out to sea. Ashore the three days of continuous rain and high wind caused rising water levels, abetted by a perigean tide. Winds were recorded at 76 miles per hour. The rising waters and the winds caused over $200 million dollars in damage and eroded shorelines 100 meters in places.
At sea it was much worse.
I was a young lieutenant in USS TWEEDY, a destroyer escort that had been activated for the Berlin Crisis, an event that is not even a blip in the history books. TWEEDY, along with forty other similar ships, had become a part of the active fleet of the U. S. Navy, and was home ported in Norfolk, Virginia.
On that Monday morning we went to sea, joining with four other escorts and an aircraft carrier to patrol our designated area near Cape Hatteras in a fleet exercise. It was “destroyer weather”; choppy and rough with heavy gusts of winds as we made our way through Thimble Shoals channel and past the new Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel complex. Without the modern satellite weather forecasts of today, we did not know what lay ahead.
The next day Lieutenant Jack Jolly was watch officer on the bridge of the ship. He was standing the “four to eight”, and as daylight approached he noted that the barometric pressure was falling. He immediately called the captain and then ordered the engineering watch standers to light off the other boiler so that we could have full power. In minutes the Captain was on the bridge. The seas were worsening. The winds kicked up and the waves grew.
By evening we were in the midst of the Ash Wednesday Storm. Decks were made secure, and hatches were closed, to be opened only when absolutely necessary. Crashing waves broke over the 305 foot long ship. Winds were gaining in intensity. Soon the ship was rolling from side to side. Later we were to find out that a cyclonic storm from the south had run head on into a northeaster out of the Arctic regions. By the time the Navy had given the order to “maneuver independently and follow the dictates of good seamanship”, TWEEDY’S radar and navigation equipment had been rendered inoperable, with antennas smashed by the intensity of the wind and water.
At the height of the storm the wind speed indicator showed storm forces at over 100 knots (about 110 land miles per hour). At this reading the indicator broke. We were powering into the waves, now occasionally cresting at thirty to thirty five feet in height from trough to top. The bridge, or pilot house, of the ship was normally twenty seven feet above water level. The narrow ship would ride over a crest and then plunge into the trough, shake itself and rise again to meet the next wave. In the midst of the weather those of us in the bridge area watched as a monster wave of over sixty feet bore down on the stout ship. Depth charges, set on safe and chained down, were swept out to sea. Forged launchers were bent backwards. Only in port did we fully assess the damages, but TWEEDY did not leak a drop into the hull.
Along with the pitch caused by the waves and the force of the wind, the ship was rolling side to side. There is some debate as to how far a ship such as TWEEDY could roll from the perpendicular and recover. Generally accepted is 58 degrees. We observed roll after roll exceeding 52 degrees. She would hang on the maximum roll for a moment that seemed like an hour, and then would slowly roll back, only to go again into that near limit.
Those of us that had access to the visual activity from the bridge were in awe of this demonstrated force of nature. Men below decks were frightened as they were banged about by the violent rolls, pitches and yaws. But the engines kept up their steady beat, and always when a need arose a sailor was there to handle it. Jim Burton, the lieutenant who relieved Jack Jolly at the beginning of the storm, fell and gashed his forehead. He was unconscious as we carried him down to the officers’ wardroom, but he awakened when Nichols, the leading hospital corpsman, began sewing him up. We held Jim down, and held Nichols up close so he could use both hands.
There was some humor. On board for two weeks training duty was a young officer, Jim Hardy, from Philadelphia who became deathly seasick as soon as we gained open water. At the height of the storm he was convinced that he should stand a bridge watch. He dragged himself to the pilot house, observed the conditions and turned to Ned Mayo, saluted and gave him the time-honored words: “Sir, I am ready to relieve you”. Ned, always a wag, returned the salute and said “Good, you are just in time to abandon ship.” Hardy fainted dead away, and we had another officer to carry below. After reaching port we never saw Hardy again.
I am sometimes asked where I had my most memorable meal and what it was. Most folks expect me to name a New Orleans or New York restaurant, but I often reply that my meal was two pieces of stale bread with a slice of bologna between them, and it was eaten while I was holding on to a vertical pipe on a small ship in the midst of the worst storm that I could ever imagine.
After some time the storm moved out and we were able to maneuver, to recover our communications with other ships and to assess our damage. The five ships, less the carrier, that had sallied forth early that week fell into formation. The commodore, who had overall command, suggested a race into port, with the winning ship being feted at a party by the other four. Off we went. Captain Moore called down to the firerooms and asked Willie, a boiler man, to come up. He told Willie that a little more speed would be appreciated. Willie turned, muttering “don’t nobody come down”. Soon we were felt an increase in speed. Captain Moore ordered a series of turns and we completely encircled one of our sister ships and then regained the lead. The party was great!
The Ash Wednesday Storm was the talk of the Eastern seaboard. Thirty folks were killed; many more injured. We were accorded a small mention on the editorial page of the Norfolk newspaper. It was titled “Five Old Ships Defeat the Sea”.
We did not defeat the sea. She picked us up and toyed with us as a spaniel would his favorite toy, and then released us. We had a good captain, good officers and a good crew. When we get together we toast each other and then we lift a glass to the good ship TWEEDY, and the men and women that built her so long ago.
But the men are the stars of this story. The only heroines are the ships, and the only villain is the cruel sea itself. (From THE CRUEL SEA, by Nicolas Montserrat)
The Ash Wednesday Storm of 1962 is rated by some experts as the ninth biggest storm of the Twentieth Century to hit the continental United States. This storm stayed put for three days along the Eastern coastline instead of going out to sea. Ashore the three days of continuous rain and high wind caused rising water levels, abetted by a perigean tide. Winds were recorded at 76 miles per hour. The rising waters and the winds caused over $200 million dollars in damage and eroded shorelines 100 meters in places.
At sea it was much worse.
I was a young lieutenant in USS TWEEDY, a destroyer escort that had been activated for the Berlin Crisis, an event that is not even a blip in the history books. TWEEDY, along with forty other similar ships, had become a part of the active fleet of the U. S. Navy, and was home ported in Norfolk, Virginia.
On that Monday morning we went to sea, joining with four other escorts and an aircraft carrier to patrol our designated area near Cape Hatteras in a fleet exercise. It was “destroyer weather”; choppy and rough with heavy gusts of winds as we made our way through Thimble Shoals channel and past the new Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel complex. Without the modern satellite weather forecasts of today, we did not know what lay ahead.
The next day Lieutenant Jack Jolly was watch officer on the bridge of the ship. He was standing the “four to eight”, and as daylight approached he noted that the barometric pressure was falling. He immediately called the captain and then ordered the engineering watch standers to light off the other boiler so that we could have full power. In minutes the Captain was on the bridge. The seas were worsening. The winds kicked up and the waves grew.
By evening we were in the midst of the Ash Wednesday Storm. Decks were made secure, and hatches were closed, to be opened only when absolutely necessary. Crashing waves broke over the 305 foot long ship. Winds were gaining in intensity. Soon the ship was rolling from side to side. Later we were to find out that a cyclonic storm from the south had run head on into a northeaster out of the Arctic regions. By the time the Navy had given the order to “maneuver independently and follow the dictates of good seamanship”, TWEEDY’S radar and navigation equipment had been rendered inoperable, with antennas smashed by the intensity of the wind and water.
At the height of the storm the wind speed indicator showed storm forces at over 100 knots (about 110 land miles per hour). At this reading the indicator broke. We were powering into the waves, now occasionally cresting at thirty to thirty five feet in height from trough to top. The bridge, or pilot house, of the ship was normally twenty seven feet above water level. The narrow ship would ride over a crest and then plunge into the trough, shake itself and rise again to meet the next wave. In the midst of the weather those of us in the bridge area watched as a monster wave of over sixty feet bore down on the stout ship. Depth charges, set on safe and chained down, were swept out to sea. Forged launchers were bent backwards. Only in port did we fully assess the damages, but TWEEDY did not leak a drop into the hull.
Along with the pitch caused by the waves and the force of the wind, the ship was rolling side to side. There is some debate as to how far a ship such as TWEEDY could roll from the perpendicular and recover. Generally accepted is 58 degrees. We observed roll after roll exceeding 52 degrees. She would hang on the maximum roll for a moment that seemed like an hour, and then would slowly roll back, only to go again into that near limit.
Those of us that had access to the visual activity from the bridge were in awe of this demonstrated force of nature. Men below decks were frightened as they were banged about by the violent rolls, pitches and yaws. But the engines kept up their steady beat, and always when a need arose a sailor was there to handle it. Jim Burton, the lieutenant who relieved Jack Jolly at the beginning of the storm, fell and gashed his forehead. He was unconscious as we carried him down to the officers’ wardroom, but he awakened when Nichols, the leading hospital corpsman, began sewing him up. We held Jim down, and held Nichols up close so he could use both hands.
There was some humor. On board for two weeks training duty was a young officer, Jim Hardy, from Philadelphia who became deathly seasick as soon as we gained open water. At the height of the storm he was convinced that he should stand a bridge watch. He dragged himself to the pilot house, observed the conditions and turned to Ned Mayo, saluted and gave him the time-honored words: “Sir, I am ready to relieve you”. Ned, always a wag, returned the salute and said “Good, you are just in time to abandon ship.” Hardy fainted dead away, and we had another officer to carry below. After reaching port we never saw Hardy again.
I am sometimes asked where I had my most memorable meal and what it was. Most folks expect me to name a New Orleans or New York restaurant, but I often reply that my meal was two pieces of stale bread with a slice of bologna between them, and it was eaten while I was holding on to a vertical pipe on a small ship in the midst of the worst storm that I could ever imagine.
After some time the storm moved out and we were able to maneuver, to recover our communications with other ships and to assess our damage. The five ships, less the carrier, that had sallied forth early that week fell into formation. The commodore, who had overall command, suggested a race into port, with the winning ship being feted at a party by the other four. Off we went. Captain Moore called down to the firerooms and asked Willie, a boiler man, to come up. He told Willie that a little more speed would be appreciated. Willie turned, muttering “don’t nobody come down”. Soon we were felt an increase in speed. Captain Moore ordered a series of turns and we completely encircled one of our sister ships and then regained the lead. The party was great!
The Ash Wednesday Storm was the talk of the Eastern seaboard. Thirty folks were killed; many more injured. We were accorded a small mention on the editorial page of the Norfolk newspaper. It was titled “Five Old Ships Defeat the Sea”.
We did not defeat the sea. She picked us up and toyed with us as a spaniel would his favorite toy, and then released us. We had a good captain, good officers and a good crew. When we get together we toast each other and then we lift a glass to the good ship TWEEDY, and the men and women that built her so long ago.
But the men are the stars of this story. The only heroines are the ships, and the only villain is the cruel sea itself. (From THE CRUEL SEA, by Nicolas Montserrat)
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Please Mr. Gore, Let Me Have a Little “Global Warming”!
I was born of the South. I glory in being a resident of Florida. I got here in December, probably during a cold snap, but I was spared the memory. South means “warm” and that is what I crave.
Although there are rumors of cold times during my growing-up years, I recall few days of downright discomfort. The ground would occasionally freeze after a winter storm, but most of us could handle this day or two of ice. We had to cope with open fireplaces where we warmed our backsides before we jumped into bed and burrowed down into several quilts for a solid night’s sleep. On occasion I spent time on my uncle’s farm and had the adventure of using outdoor privies, and these were truly tough on your bare skin, but this was short term.
I went to college in Lakeland, where oranges grew on trees and the trees were scattered about a beautiful campus that fronted on a fine lake with water skiers flitting about.
And at first the Navy was kind to me, with boot camp in San Diego, followed by school in Jacksonville and then seven months duty on Guam. There was no cold weather there. Heavy rains three or four times a day, yes, but it was warm rain. We even experienced a long dry spell. It lasted three days, and was the longest on record.
Then my orders to Officer Candidate School caught up with me, and in mid January I arrived in Rhode Island. I was twenty three, and I saw snow for the first time. I saw snow, and then some more snow, and as if that was not enough, some snow on top of all of that snow. It was cold, and damp and the cold went through my peacoat to my bones and even memories of coconut trees did not help.
After Graduation I went to a ship. We were in and out of cold climes. You can believe me that five degrees below the Arctic Circle doesn’t make too much difference in the way that cold affects you. Standing on the bridge of a destroyer, clad in heavy clothes and watching salt water freeze on the foredeck is not attractive to a Southerner. It did teach me something. In the midst of my first encounter, I promised my Methodist Lord that if he would let me get back to port I would never return to Bluenose territory. The next month I found that our captain had overruled God, and we were back for more ice and snow.
When I returned to Florida my father decided I should attend Ford Motor Company’s Merchandising School, which was set up to train prospective dealers. I agreed to go if I could go in warm weather. Of course, with the luck of the Germans (you remember the Germans…. they lost two wars to us, and had the Italians for allies in the last one) that is built into me, I landed in Detroit on January 5, and was followed immediately by the worst blizzard in twenty five years. There was but one pleasant experience. I had a weekend date with a real “snow bunny”, but she had so many outer garments on that we could only hold hands and kiss. I suppose we kissed, but my lips may have been touching ice cubes. After three weeks I returned to Florida.
Recently I have been subjected to some very intense cold. When I began walking my daily three miles I decided that I would go rain or shine, warm or cold, except in thunderstorms. But several times lately the cold has been unconscionable. I am still walking but I am not happy. I have been told that I should “layer” my clothes for warmth. I do this. I begin with skivvies, add cargo pants below, a special *Nike* shirt above and then I top it off with a red, white and blue windbreaker, complete with high collar and an attached hood. If the day is bright, I don sunshades. I have a beard. I wear a ball cap. My running gloves complete my ensemble. I am fearful that if I fall down I will lie there on my back, waving my arms and legs like an abandoned turtle.
The problem is that I look like a Unibomber. With wraparound shades, beard, ball cap and hood there is little there that resembles me. I have quit walking along U. S. 90 because drivers were running into ditches when they saw me. I now confine my three miles to the street in front of my home, but dogs bark at me, and my neighbors are reluctant to leave their homes.
I understand why we are fearful of Global Warming. We have been cautioned that the ice will melt and the oceans will rise and we will have a different shoreline, maybe even as far inland as Compass Lake in the Hills, …which should increase the desirability of that property. Our manatees are already having problems. If you recall, one ended up in New York Harbor last year. He had a stubborn but befuddled look on his face. His mate had told him when they left the St. Johns River to turn south but he turned north. This is normal for all males. We do not listen to our mates or ask directions. Anyone between Florida and Cape May, New Jersey, would have given him directions, but he would not ask.
If the manatees go north I suspect that they will be replaced by South American penguins. This is okay with me. Penguins are cute, and they dress well. Their eyes are a little close together, though, which indicates little intelligence. When we get penguins up here we can quit asking the question: “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and start saying: “Where did all these funny birds with tuxedos come from, and what makes them think they can waddle across Interstate 10?”
We really don’t want Global Warming. We know that it is happening and that *Al Gore* is in charge of the entire process, both foreign and domestic. I will be starting a petition soon, begging him to let a little sunshine through onto Dairy Road, so that I can walk and lose weight, and someday fit into my Navy uniform, and not be mistaken for the Unibomber. I will give each of you an opportunity to sign on.
In the meantime, go on line to *Jackson County Times* and click on “Homer Hirt” and become a “Follower”. I have nine now, and I understand from *Stephanie*, The REALEDITOR, that there is a room for more. This will give you practice in retrieving my *Al Gore* petition.
Although there are rumors of cold times during my growing-up years, I recall few days of downright discomfort. The ground would occasionally freeze after a winter storm, but most of us could handle this day or two of ice. We had to cope with open fireplaces where we warmed our backsides before we jumped into bed and burrowed down into several quilts for a solid night’s sleep. On occasion I spent time on my uncle’s farm and had the adventure of using outdoor privies, and these were truly tough on your bare skin, but this was short term.
I went to college in Lakeland, where oranges grew on trees and the trees were scattered about a beautiful campus that fronted on a fine lake with water skiers flitting about.
And at first the Navy was kind to me, with boot camp in San Diego, followed by school in Jacksonville and then seven months duty on Guam. There was no cold weather there. Heavy rains three or four times a day, yes, but it was warm rain. We even experienced a long dry spell. It lasted three days, and was the longest on record.
Then my orders to Officer Candidate School caught up with me, and in mid January I arrived in Rhode Island. I was twenty three, and I saw snow for the first time. I saw snow, and then some more snow, and as if that was not enough, some snow on top of all of that snow. It was cold, and damp and the cold went through my peacoat to my bones and even memories of coconut trees did not help.
After Graduation I went to a ship. We were in and out of cold climes. You can believe me that five degrees below the Arctic Circle doesn’t make too much difference in the way that cold affects you. Standing on the bridge of a destroyer, clad in heavy clothes and watching salt water freeze on the foredeck is not attractive to a Southerner. It did teach me something. In the midst of my first encounter, I promised my Methodist Lord that if he would let me get back to port I would never return to Bluenose territory. The next month I found that our captain had overruled God, and we were back for more ice and snow.
When I returned to Florida my father decided I should attend Ford Motor Company’s Merchandising School, which was set up to train prospective dealers. I agreed to go if I could go in warm weather. Of course, with the luck of the Germans (you remember the Germans…. they lost two wars to us, and had the Italians for allies in the last one) that is built into me, I landed in Detroit on January 5, and was followed immediately by the worst blizzard in twenty five years. There was but one pleasant experience. I had a weekend date with a real “snow bunny”, but she had so many outer garments on that we could only hold hands and kiss. I suppose we kissed, but my lips may have been touching ice cubes. After three weeks I returned to Florida.
Recently I have been subjected to some very intense cold. When I began walking my daily three miles I decided that I would go rain or shine, warm or cold, except in thunderstorms. But several times lately the cold has been unconscionable. I am still walking but I am not happy. I have been told that I should “layer” my clothes for warmth. I do this. I begin with skivvies, add cargo pants below, a special *Nike* shirt above and then I top it off with a red, white and blue windbreaker, complete with high collar and an attached hood. If the day is bright, I don sunshades. I have a beard. I wear a ball cap. My running gloves complete my ensemble. I am fearful that if I fall down I will lie there on my back, waving my arms and legs like an abandoned turtle.
The problem is that I look like a Unibomber. With wraparound shades, beard, ball cap and hood there is little there that resembles me. I have quit walking along U. S. 90 because drivers were running into ditches when they saw me. I now confine my three miles to the street in front of my home, but dogs bark at me, and my neighbors are reluctant to leave their homes.
I understand why we are fearful of Global Warming. We have been cautioned that the ice will melt and the oceans will rise and we will have a different shoreline, maybe even as far inland as Compass Lake in the Hills, …which should increase the desirability of that property. Our manatees are already having problems. If you recall, one ended up in New York Harbor last year. He had a stubborn but befuddled look on his face. His mate had told him when they left the St. Johns River to turn south but he turned north. This is normal for all males. We do not listen to our mates or ask directions. Anyone between Florida and Cape May, New Jersey, would have given him directions, but he would not ask.
If the manatees go north I suspect that they will be replaced by South American penguins. This is okay with me. Penguins are cute, and they dress well. Their eyes are a little close together, though, which indicates little intelligence. When we get penguins up here we can quit asking the question: “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and start saying: “Where did all these funny birds with tuxedos come from, and what makes them think they can waddle across Interstate 10?”
We really don’t want Global Warming. We know that it is happening and that *Al Gore* is in charge of the entire process, both foreign and domestic. I will be starting a petition soon, begging him to let a little sunshine through onto Dairy Road, so that I can walk and lose weight, and someday fit into my Navy uniform, and not be mistaken for the Unibomber. I will give each of you an opportunity to sign on.
In the meantime, go on line to *Jackson County Times* and click on “Homer Hirt” and become a “Follower”. I have nine now, and I understand from *Stephanie*, The REALEDITOR, that there is a room for more. This will give you practice in retrieving my *Al Gore* petition.
We Have Signed The Check
The Great War ended on November 11, 1918. American soldiers, sailors and marines came home singing “How you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree”.
Fifty three years earlier the War Between the States ended in the drawing room of the McLane home in the hamlet of Appamattox Courthouse. Not until our young men followed General John J. “Blackjack” Pershing into battle did sectionalism near an end. With the onset of WWI, our country had finally come together in a common purpose. It was difficult for a Southerner to hold a grudge against a Northerner when they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the muddy trenches of the “Front”.
From this came the American Legion. Posts were formed across the nation. The men of The Great War soon welcomed those of World War II, who then took into their ranks veterans of Korea, Viet Nam and other combat actions.
Post 241 of Sneads was one of these Posts. In recent years it has had a membership of between seventy five and a hundred, with a strong Auxiliary that complements its work. It is often the patriotic conscience of the area. The Post awards scholarships to worthy high school seniors. It provides for sending juniors to Boys’ State. On appropriate days American flags are placed along U. S. 90 in mounts installed by Legion members. The flags are supplied by the Post, and Dillon Kilpatrick, with some assistance from others, sees to it that they are put up and taken down with respect and care. Dillon also was the “mover and shaker” who led the charge to construct the monument to our county’s fallen heroes that stands on our courthouse lawn.
Dillon’s image is engraved on the Korean War Wall in Washington. I was standing in line one day at the Wall: We were all quiet and… there he was! There was no doubt! I laughed out loud, and got some strange stares.
Post 241 has an Honors Detail. Throughout our part of Florida and in Alabama and Georgia, about a hundred times a year, the Detail renders the final salute to a veteran, usually at graveside, on occasion in a memorial setting. We stand in a single file facing the casket, each man armed with the Ml Garand rifle. A leader reads appropriate words and prays. He then folds the Flag and presents it to a survivor. We fire three volleys. A bugle sounds Taps. We have rendered the final salute to a comrade. Our pay is the honor that we receive by doing this.
Sometimes the salute is referred to as a “21 Gun” salute. Only a President is entitled to twenty one volleys. All veterans are entitled to receive three volleys. One interpretation for this is that the firing signifies that the guns are empty, and peace, at least for this veteran, is here.
Taps is played electronically. We would like to have a regular bugler. The notes ring out and fade into silence, much as it has been played since the Civil War: at the end of the day and at the end of an earthly life. Guy Edwards holds the bugle, and afterwards he may be complimented for his skill. Usually he just thanks the person.
The volleys ring out. Sometimes we are coordinated; often the sound is ragged. The Garand is much heavier to us than it was fifty years ago when we first made acquaintance with this instrument of war that is now a reminder of peace.
One day stands out in my memory. Early morning found us at a small country church. It was nestled among old trees, and the cemetery was typical: tree roots pushing against grave markers and grass overgrowing plots. Inside we heard singing: Just a Closer Walk, When the Saints Go Marching In, I‘ll Fly Away. The pallbearers carried the casket to the grave and we did our part. We then drove to Tallahassee to a well kept memory garden setting. A large canopy protected the family. A motorcycle group, carrying flags, arrived. A piper played Going Home and Amazing Grace. Again we honored the dead. Two settings, different but very much alike.
We have had a couple of World War II members. C. A. Dickson and Fauline Wester are of that generation, but no longer participate. Adell Miles was with us until a short time before his death.
George Segrest, a career Army NCO who served in Korea and Viet Nam, is often there. He places his cane on the ground and fires the Garand, and then retrieves the cane.
One of our newer members is Gene Lanier, owner of the Lanier Andler Funeral Home. We rag him about his participation, and accuse him of spying on his competition.
Reverend David Pipping of Victory Christian Academy wields his rifle well, even though he could by profession be standing by the graveside.
Jerry Alexander, Max Basford, Doug Neal, Bobby McDaniel, Ralph Camp, Clark Riddle and others are there.
The flag is folded, and presented “on behalf of a grateful Nation”. I have heard that each fold has a significance, but I do not know. When we fold it we want it done right, and tight, and smooth, so that it will be a remembrance for the family. And we salute the folded ensign one last time.
Glenn Edwards is our presenter. He does the job beautifully, from memory. He tells of the feeling we have for our comrade, even though we do not always know his name. He prays, expressing the certainty of the Resurrection. When Glenn is not present the task falls to me. I have not yet memorized the words, so I must read them. But I do add something that I feel tells what all veterans offer to our country. It is simple.
“Each member of the Armed Forces has signed a check made payable to our Country. The amount is left blank, for it is good up to and including the member’s life.”
That says everything that needs to be said.
Fifty three years earlier the War Between the States ended in the drawing room of the McLane home in the hamlet of Appamattox Courthouse. Not until our young men followed General John J. “Blackjack” Pershing into battle did sectionalism near an end. With the onset of WWI, our country had finally come together in a common purpose. It was difficult for a Southerner to hold a grudge against a Northerner when they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the muddy trenches of the “Front”.
From this came the American Legion. Posts were formed across the nation. The men of The Great War soon welcomed those of World War II, who then took into their ranks veterans of Korea, Viet Nam and other combat actions.
Post 241 of Sneads was one of these Posts. In recent years it has had a membership of between seventy five and a hundred, with a strong Auxiliary that complements its work. It is often the patriotic conscience of the area. The Post awards scholarships to worthy high school seniors. It provides for sending juniors to Boys’ State. On appropriate days American flags are placed along U. S. 90 in mounts installed by Legion members. The flags are supplied by the Post, and Dillon Kilpatrick, with some assistance from others, sees to it that they are put up and taken down with respect and care. Dillon also was the “mover and shaker” who led the charge to construct the monument to our county’s fallen heroes that stands on our courthouse lawn.
Dillon’s image is engraved on the Korean War Wall in Washington. I was standing in line one day at the Wall: We were all quiet and… there he was! There was no doubt! I laughed out loud, and got some strange stares.
Post 241 has an Honors Detail. Throughout our part of Florida and in Alabama and Georgia, about a hundred times a year, the Detail renders the final salute to a veteran, usually at graveside, on occasion in a memorial setting. We stand in a single file facing the casket, each man armed with the Ml Garand rifle. A leader reads appropriate words and prays. He then folds the Flag and presents it to a survivor. We fire three volleys. A bugle sounds Taps. We have rendered the final salute to a comrade. Our pay is the honor that we receive by doing this.
Sometimes the salute is referred to as a “21 Gun” salute. Only a President is entitled to twenty one volleys. All veterans are entitled to receive three volleys. One interpretation for this is that the firing signifies that the guns are empty, and peace, at least for this veteran, is here.
Taps is played electronically. We would like to have a regular bugler. The notes ring out and fade into silence, much as it has been played since the Civil War: at the end of the day and at the end of an earthly life. Guy Edwards holds the bugle, and afterwards he may be complimented for his skill. Usually he just thanks the person.
The volleys ring out. Sometimes we are coordinated; often the sound is ragged. The Garand is much heavier to us than it was fifty years ago when we first made acquaintance with this instrument of war that is now a reminder of peace.
One day stands out in my memory. Early morning found us at a small country church. It was nestled among old trees, and the cemetery was typical: tree roots pushing against grave markers and grass overgrowing plots. Inside we heard singing: Just a Closer Walk, When the Saints Go Marching In, I‘ll Fly Away. The pallbearers carried the casket to the grave and we did our part. We then drove to Tallahassee to a well kept memory garden setting. A large canopy protected the family. A motorcycle group, carrying flags, arrived. A piper played Going Home and Amazing Grace. Again we honored the dead. Two settings, different but very much alike.
We have had a couple of World War II members. C. A. Dickson and Fauline Wester are of that generation, but no longer participate. Adell Miles was with us until a short time before his death.
George Segrest, a career Army NCO who served in Korea and Viet Nam, is often there. He places his cane on the ground and fires the Garand, and then retrieves the cane.
One of our newer members is Gene Lanier, owner of the Lanier Andler Funeral Home. We rag him about his participation, and accuse him of spying on his competition.
Reverend David Pipping of Victory Christian Academy wields his rifle well, even though he could by profession be standing by the graveside.
Jerry Alexander, Max Basford, Doug Neal, Bobby McDaniel, Ralph Camp, Clark Riddle and others are there.
The flag is folded, and presented “on behalf of a grateful Nation”. I have heard that each fold has a significance, but I do not know. When we fold it we want it done right, and tight, and smooth, so that it will be a remembrance for the family. And we salute the folded ensign one last time.
Glenn Edwards is our presenter. He does the job beautifully, from memory. He tells of the feeling we have for our comrade, even though we do not always know his name. He prays, expressing the certainty of the Resurrection. When Glenn is not present the task falls to me. I have not yet memorized the words, so I must read them. But I do add something that I feel tells what all veterans offer to our country. It is simple.
“Each member of the Armed Forces has signed a check made payable to our Country. The amount is left blank, for it is good up to and including the member’s life.”
That says everything that needs to be said.
I’ll Have Some Lagnaippe with that Fish Sandwich…
The First Friday Power Breakfast this month was held on the second Friday. Art Kimbrough had an excuse for this, but I simply believe that he lost count. I take Art to lunch on occasion and he always pays me back by inviting me to the First Friday Breakfast. Meal for meal we are even. Dollar for dollar……….
The program went well. Jamie Streetman gave up the gavel with good grace and a big smile to incoming Chair Sarah Clemmons. Sarah spoke with enthusiasm about the future. Art passed on to her, surreptitiously, a note that I was never to be allowed more than three minutes to pose a question from the floor. Everything was shipshape and 4.0.
And then the Sue Harrison of the Southeast Community Blood Center made an appeal for donors. Everyone avoided looking at her, but I felt especially guilty. I had not contributed blood for over forty years. I assumed that the older I got the less likely I would be acceptable as a donor. And I have a thing against volunteering.
I came by this because my father, in his great wisdom, sent me to Florida Southern College in Lakeland when I was seventeen. I could have easily attended the newly-coed Florida State University in nearby Tallahassee, where the ratio of female to male students was about 20 to one. Florida Southern was affiliated with the Methodist Church and required each student to take courses in religion. FSU has often been acclaimed as one of the foremost party campuses in the country. The ratio at Southern was about six to one against me, and I was bashful to boot. So I was mixed in with a heap of returning ex GIs, men who had fought through the dark days of World War II. They gave me a lot of advice. The best was never volunteer for anything.
This was well received, but on occasion during my time in the U. S. Navy I went against it. I survived my initial five years, though, and returned to Chattahoochee in 1956. My father outlined his expectations. Of course I would be expected to take over his Ford dealership some day, so that he could travel with Mother to all of those places he had carefully avoided in their years of married life. He expected me to have a lot to do in and for the community: Rotary Club as soon as there was an opening for me; High School boosters club, even though I had never set foot on an sports field or basketball court; the Methodist Church.
I immediately became active in the Boosters’ Club, and when there was a classification opening I was inducted into Rotary. Then he sent me to the Church. He told me that I was to go down to see Don Padgett, the pastor, and tell him to give me a job. He said: “When he recovers from the shock, he will give you a good position“. Don did as he was expected, and I ended up as the first male chair of the local Commission on Missions.
But what is the connection between this and the Blood Center? Simply this: as I headed back to Sneads on Friday, I thought that I might check to see if I was really too old. I went in, hoping that I would be turned down. I asked if eighty was not too old. I was shocked. Age has nothing to do with it. Medication? I was good there, too. What about my time in the Navy, and all of the foreign seaports I had visited? All of this was before 1980, so I was clear. Rhonda, the nurse, hinted that if I had caught any of the diseases common to those places I would not likely be walking around today. I filled out the forms and a pretty young lady named Audrey held my hand and took my blood pressure and stuck my finger with a needle, and escorted me into THE ROOM. Comfortable couches awaited me. There was some discussion about my veins, but Jimmy, who could find a vein in a flea‘s front leg, handled that. Audrey brought me a bottle of Lagniappe. I was hoping for Wild Turkey, since I am a bird watcher, but I got orange juice. And today I learned that the Center will contribute five dollars for every pint of blood to “Doctors Without Borders” for their use in Haiti. The orange juice was good, but this is even better.
So I had volunteered, and the only bad thing that has happened since then is that my computer quit, but I don’t really think that this was due to my volunteering.
And now you need to understand Lagnaippe, pronounced something like “laun-yap”. It means “a little something extra”.
To better explain Lagnaippe, I offer this example. I go into *Suitman of Florida*, and Gene Smith fits me with one of his fine Navy blue blazers, replete with proper width lapels and gold buttons. In a fit of generosity, Gene selects a necktie from the $2.95 rack and presents it to me. That is Lagnaippe, in the truest sense of the word, as I defined it. It is “a little something extra”. Gene did not even pause in front of the $25 neckties.
I often have lunch or dinner in *Madison’s*, and Mark the Proprietor is always pleased to see me. I order a fish sandwich, and it is brought to me as I am accustomed to having it: no bread, no potatoes, no salad, and no “sides” of any kind. It is has a slice of lemon and a small container of sauce, and it is laid on the table as though it is the finest dish in the house. I pay full price, and I am pleased to do so. But on occasion the chef, or Mark, or one of the waitresses, adds a scoop of vegetables to the platter so that it won’t look so bare. This is “Lagnaippe”. It would also please my dear departed mother, who always kept after me to eat my vegetables.
Please notice a couple of things about this rather rambling article. I have introduced you to another Cajun term. I have explained that I was taught never to volunteer. And I have recently volunteered and it didn’t hurt at all. I met some nice people by doing this, people that seemed impressed with my goals for my next decade, with my newspaper column and with my repertoire of Viagra jokes.
Out in our community there are many opportunities for volunteers, opportunities for you to give some lagnaippe. Here are a few.
The Chamber has a need for Ambassadors, for volunteers to man the desk at the Russ House and a particular need for someone to assist Art in keeping track of which day is the First Friday and which is the Second.
Partners for Pets is impressive, and serves our community well. One lady that went there for years and cleaned pens and washed the inhabitants became unable to do this kind of work and I commiserated with her. “Oh, no” she said. “I still go, and I sit in a chair and I hold cats in my lap”. The organization will also take cash, old towels and cat and dog food.
I got a message from Cynthia Watkins at Seacrest Wolf Preserve informing me that work days would start in February and continue each Saturday through May. I, along with some twenty active duty Air Force personnel and civilians will be building an enclosure for another wolf couple that have need to live together in sin, and will be picking up wolf poop. I haven’t checked the weather forecast yet, but I can assure you that every other work day will be either extremely cold or extremely hot, with Force 8 storms.
So what is the connection between lagniappe and your volunteering? Just this: your community of Jackson County has given much to you. It is time for you to volunteer your services, to give Lagniappe. You will feel good, as I did (after the blood folks got the needle out of my arm). And you will probably meet some very nice people.
The program went well. Jamie Streetman gave up the gavel with good grace and a big smile to incoming Chair Sarah Clemmons. Sarah spoke with enthusiasm about the future. Art passed on to her, surreptitiously, a note that I was never to be allowed more than three minutes to pose a question from the floor. Everything was shipshape and 4.0.
And then the Sue Harrison of the Southeast Community Blood Center made an appeal for donors. Everyone avoided looking at her, but I felt especially guilty. I had not contributed blood for over forty years. I assumed that the older I got the less likely I would be acceptable as a donor. And I have a thing against volunteering.
I came by this because my father, in his great wisdom, sent me to Florida Southern College in Lakeland when I was seventeen. I could have easily attended the newly-coed Florida State University in nearby Tallahassee, where the ratio of female to male students was about 20 to one. Florida Southern was affiliated with the Methodist Church and required each student to take courses in religion. FSU has often been acclaimed as one of the foremost party campuses in the country. The ratio at Southern was about six to one against me, and I was bashful to boot. So I was mixed in with a heap of returning ex GIs, men who had fought through the dark days of World War II. They gave me a lot of advice. The best was never volunteer for anything.
This was well received, but on occasion during my time in the U. S. Navy I went against it. I survived my initial five years, though, and returned to Chattahoochee in 1956. My father outlined his expectations. Of course I would be expected to take over his Ford dealership some day, so that he could travel with Mother to all of those places he had carefully avoided in their years of married life. He expected me to have a lot to do in and for the community: Rotary Club as soon as there was an opening for me; High School boosters club, even though I had never set foot on an sports field or basketball court; the Methodist Church.
I immediately became active in the Boosters’ Club, and when there was a classification opening I was inducted into Rotary. Then he sent me to the Church. He told me that I was to go down to see Don Padgett, the pastor, and tell him to give me a job. He said: “When he recovers from the shock, he will give you a good position“. Don did as he was expected, and I ended up as the first male chair of the local Commission on Missions.
But what is the connection between this and the Blood Center? Simply this: as I headed back to Sneads on Friday, I thought that I might check to see if I was really too old. I went in, hoping that I would be turned down. I asked if eighty was not too old. I was shocked. Age has nothing to do with it. Medication? I was good there, too. What about my time in the Navy, and all of the foreign seaports I had visited? All of this was before 1980, so I was clear. Rhonda, the nurse, hinted that if I had caught any of the diseases common to those places I would not likely be walking around today. I filled out the forms and a pretty young lady named Audrey held my hand and took my blood pressure and stuck my finger with a needle, and escorted me into THE ROOM. Comfortable couches awaited me. There was some discussion about my veins, but Jimmy, who could find a vein in a flea‘s front leg, handled that. Audrey brought me a bottle of Lagniappe. I was hoping for Wild Turkey, since I am a bird watcher, but I got orange juice. And today I learned that the Center will contribute five dollars for every pint of blood to “Doctors Without Borders” for their use in Haiti. The orange juice was good, but this is even better.
So I had volunteered, and the only bad thing that has happened since then is that my computer quit, but I don’t really think that this was due to my volunteering.
And now you need to understand Lagnaippe, pronounced something like “laun-yap”. It means “a little something extra”.
To better explain Lagnaippe, I offer this example. I go into *Suitman of Florida*, and Gene Smith fits me with one of his fine Navy blue blazers, replete with proper width lapels and gold buttons. In a fit of generosity, Gene selects a necktie from the $2.95 rack and presents it to me. That is Lagnaippe, in the truest sense of the word, as I defined it. It is “a little something extra”. Gene did not even pause in front of the $25 neckties.
I often have lunch or dinner in *Madison’s*, and Mark the Proprietor is always pleased to see me. I order a fish sandwich, and it is brought to me as I am accustomed to having it: no bread, no potatoes, no salad, and no “sides” of any kind. It is has a slice of lemon and a small container of sauce, and it is laid on the table as though it is the finest dish in the house. I pay full price, and I am pleased to do so. But on occasion the chef, or Mark, or one of the waitresses, adds a scoop of vegetables to the platter so that it won’t look so bare. This is “Lagnaippe”. It would also please my dear departed mother, who always kept after me to eat my vegetables.
Please notice a couple of things about this rather rambling article. I have introduced you to another Cajun term. I have explained that I was taught never to volunteer. And I have recently volunteered and it didn’t hurt at all. I met some nice people by doing this, people that seemed impressed with my goals for my next decade, with my newspaper column and with my repertoire of Viagra jokes.
Out in our community there are many opportunities for volunteers, opportunities for you to give some lagnaippe. Here are a few.
The Chamber has a need for Ambassadors, for volunteers to man the desk at the Russ House and a particular need for someone to assist Art in keeping track of which day is the First Friday and which is the Second.
Partners for Pets is impressive, and serves our community well. One lady that went there for years and cleaned pens and washed the inhabitants became unable to do this kind of work and I commiserated with her. “Oh, no” she said. “I still go, and I sit in a chair and I hold cats in my lap”. The organization will also take cash, old towels and cat and dog food.
I got a message from Cynthia Watkins at Seacrest Wolf Preserve informing me that work days would start in February and continue each Saturday through May. I, along with some twenty active duty Air Force personnel and civilians will be building an enclosure for another wolf couple that have need to live together in sin, and will be picking up wolf poop. I haven’t checked the weather forecast yet, but I can assure you that every other work day will be either extremely cold or extremely hot, with Force 8 storms.
So what is the connection between lagniappe and your volunteering? Just this: your community of Jackson County has given much to you. It is time for you to volunteer your services, to give Lagniappe. You will feel good, as I did (after the blood folks got the needle out of my arm). And you will probably meet some very nice people.
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