Home Body

 I have been accused of being a homebody, and that's probably true. I do like to travel to see and do new things, but my favorite place to be is at home. I like to work in my shop and around our 40 acre property. I like making or repairing things. 

I do everything from cutting firewood to building furniture. I repair antique furniture, mostly chairs and tables. I repair small engines from chainsaw and line trimmer size up to riding mower engines. I do woodwork and metalwork and nearly anything that breaks or needs to be built.

I'm not sure I know why I like working around home, but maybe it's because I was born at home. My Mom couldn't make it to the hospital, because my Dad had our only car. Luckily, my Grandma Hadley was a self-taught mid-wife, and we were living about 1/4 mile from her home. Neither home had a telephone and cell phones were about 40 years away, so Mom and Grandma dealt with the situation, and here I am. Somehow or another, they finally got word to the family doctor, in Nowata, and Doctor Flora stopped by hours or days later, depending on whose telling the story.

My Life And Welcome To It

 Being born in a small town is a multifaceted blessing and maybe a bit of a curse. 

I consider it a blessing in many ways because I was fortunate to grow up in an Oklahoma version of Mayberry, minus Andy Taylor and Barney Fife. In fact, we didn't have any full time law enforcement of any kind. 

We did have Charlie Hoffman, at Hoffman's Grocery. Charlie saw most of the kids in Wann every day or so, and he always quizzed them on their recent activities. Charlie was always quick with a "You know your mom or dad wouldn't like it if they knew that you were doing that."  That admonishment always seemed to put the kids on notice, worried that their parents would find out.

I had two, sometimes three aunts that worked in the school cafeteria, one aunt that ran the local phone company switchboard, an uncle that was the mayor and also worked in the school bus barn, another uncle that was the school janitor and one that ran a county motor grader, maintaining the unpaved roads in the very small town.

I grew up feeling very safe and secure, but with eyes on my every movement and action. Living that Andy Griffith Show Mayberry life gave me and my abundance of cousins a bubble of a comfort zone, but also isolated us from some of the drama of the world around us. 

Our small school was integrated years before we saw the news reports of the integration controversy in Little Rock, Arkansas and other Southern states.  It sounds cliche', but one of my best friends was Jake Austin, a black student that had an older brother and sister in our school.  As a first grader, in 1963, I assumed that black kids in school was normal, not something that would require a court order or calling out the National Guard. 

I and my 3 siblings walked about a mile to and from school everyday, weather permitting, and we were usually joined at the corner by the neighbor kids, one of which was my good friend, Larry Schlape. Larry's father had been in the Air Force, in Germany, so Larry spoke fluent German. He did his best to teach me German phrases, but I wasn't a good student. Extra lessons just interfered with play time.

Most of my close friends were related to me. Not a luxury that most kids have today. In our tiny school, with an average enrollment of 200, nearly 25% of the students were related to me. In my 1st grade class, and all the way to the 8th grade, when my family moved from Wann to Pawnee, I had 3 cousins and 1 double cousin, out of a class of 10-12. I always assumed that was normal, so I was in for a rather rude awakening when my Dad's job took us 90 miles away. It was a hard adjustment, and one that I must admit that I never fully made. Joe Ryan, my double cousin in the class, was also my best friend. We were nearly inseparable. I called him my Cousin-Brother or my Twin Cousin since many people mistook us for twins. I was older than Joe, by a few months. I was born on April 28 and Joe didn't make his first appearance until September 11, both of us in 1954.

Joe and I spent hours and days hunting, fishing and exploring the countryside around our homes. The great outdoors was our true home. We worked hard and we played even harder. I have heard some old timers say that the street lights were their alarm clock, to send them indoors. But we didn't have street lights, so we stayed out past sundown. Sometimes way past sundown. After all, that was the best time to catch fireflies or hunt bullfrogs. 

Roadrunner, That Biker's After You!

 All of us were young and dumb at one time. Most of us grew out of it. Some sooner than others. Back in 1968, I bought my first motorcycle. I worked hauling hay for $.03 per bale and we could haul 300-400 bales per day. That was back when a bale of hay weighed around 60-70 pounds. 

I saved up enough money to buy a Mojave motorcycle. I rode that thing everywhere. It had a 125cc 2-cycle engine, so I had to borrow a friends 90cc motorcycle to take my driving test at 14 years old. 

On many if my trips down the gravel road, about a mile from home, I would see Roadrunners sprinting along the edge of the road. I would race with them and when that got boring, I would ride as close as possible and try to reach out and grab one. 

It's one of God's miracles that I didn't crash in the process. They would let me get about 4' from them, just out of reach, and then dart into the tall grass on the roadside. I don't know if they were having fun, but they gave me some good memories.

As an update, now in 2023, I have a Roadrunner that has taken up residence near our house. Every time I go outside, it shows up. It goes where I go and even follows me to the house or into my shop. Maybe it knows my history and thinks it found a fellow runner, even if my speed has been reduced over the years.

Free Treehouse

 Our father, and a couple of our uncles, worked together occassionally to demolish old houses. I have no idea whether they were paid, but I do know they ended up with a lot of lumber, bricks and other building materials. As an 8 year old boy, I thought it was fun to watch the process and even a few mishaps. Like the time they stripped off all of the interior walls and clapboard siding. My uncle Harry was on the roof as the house slowly leaned to one side and ended up in a heap on the ground. Harry road the roof like a surfboard, all the way down. The experience probably scared Harry, but I thought it was awesome.

My two brothers and I were tasked with cleaning the bricks from the chimney, removing the nails and stacking the boards. We would use a hammer and a block of wood to straighten each nail and toss the nails into an empty coffee can. 

In my free time, I would take short sections of 2"x4" and pretend that they were cars or trucks, driving them around in our backyard. It wasn't long before my imagination took over and took me to bigger things. 

I "borrowed" a few short sections of 2X4 and some nails. I nailed the boards on the big Elm tree. I spaced the boards about the right distance apart to make steps up the tree to the first fork. Those haphazard steps allowed access to a good place to stack longer boards. I carried enough 2X4's and planks to build a frame and platform large enough for myself and my two brothers. And all for free. 

Poor? Says Who?

I know some people that I consider to be poor. Poor financially, but usually rich in other areas. Areas that a millionaire would never consider as a source of wealth. In my youth, in the small Oklahoma town of Wann, my family was near the bottom of the financial scale.

Our neighbors, and I use that term loosely because they lived about a half mile away, lived on public assistance, aka Welfare. Despite their financial status, they always wore better clothes than we did. Our father worked and would never consider applying for Welfare. Their father was disabled, so apparently they had no other options.

My siblings and I would walk the mile to school, with the neighbor kids. We were aware that they wore new shoes on the first day of school, but we were not jealous or spiteful. In fact, we really didn't make anything of it. They were our neighbors and our friends.

One of my classmates came back to school, after the Christmas break, carrying his new 20 gauge shotgun for show & tell. I went home, after school, and asked my Mom if I could have a shotgun. She said, "When you work and save enough money, I think that would be fine." I never mentioned it again until I had done just as Mom had said. That philosophy has stayed with me for all these years. I guess I was poor, but who knew? I had more love and support than 99% of the other kids and with nearly 50 cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents all within a 20 minute trip, I was a millionaire in many areas. Who knew a kid could be so rich?

Fort Beginning (aka Fort Benning, Georgia)

I enlisted in the Army when I was 31 years old.  Some people thought I was stupid, the rest just thought I was crazy.  Basic Training is for people between the ages of 18 and 25, so I was considered an old man.  Most of the guys in my basic training company called me Dad, Old Man or Pops.  I didn't mind, as long as I pulled my weight, and kept up with the younger troops.

I took my ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) and had my initial physical examination at MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) in Oklahoma City.  No big deal, just answer some questions, turn your head and cough, lift some weights, and normal physical exam stuff.  Not much different than the physical most people take before they can compete in school sports.  One thing that struck me as either humorous was the sign at the weight lifting station.  It had a mark, about 6'-7' high, that said "Army/Marines", and another mark at about 4'-5' that said "Navy/Air Force".  I don't know if there was any truth to the markings, or just someone's idea of a joke.  Maybe the navy and air force recruits only have to lift the weight to the 5' line.  I didn't ask, so it's just a guess on my part.

After all the questions, poking and prodding, I had to decide what I wanted to do.  The sergeant at the desk asked what I wanted for an MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) I had already made up my mind that I wanted to enlist in the Infantry, since I thought any other job would be boring.  Despite having my mind made up, I asked him what he had to offer.  He looked at the results of my ASVAB and laid a book in front of me.  He said, "There are 190 MOS's in the Army, so take your pick".  I stuck with my original idea, and enlisted in the US Army Infantry.  Signing on the line got me a free ride on an airplane to Atlanta, Georgia, and a bus ride to Fort Benning, Georgia.

When I arrived at Fort Benning, we were met at the bus terminal by several Drill Sergeants, and they all seemed to have stayed up too late and maybe even missed breakfast.  We arrived at around 2300.  Some of the recruits were asleep on the bus, but it didn't take long to wake up.  One of the Drill Sergeants stepped onto the bus and started screaming at us to "Un-Ass his bus".  Everyone jumped up and hurried off of the bus to find more Drill Sergeants screaming that we should lay down all of our "Shit" and get in a straight line beside the bus.  As soon as they could take a head count, they had us pick up all our stuff and run to the nearest building, which I later found out to be the Fort Benning Reception Center (Johnson Hall).  Johnson Hall wasn't even close to what I expected.  Everyone was really nice.  They wanted us to be comfortable and fed.  The only weird moment was when each recruit had to take a turn stepping into the "Amnesty Room".  That was our last chance to get rid of any contraband with no repercussions.  Contraband could be anything from Aspirin to cough syrup, radios to pocket knives and candy for sure.  If it wasn't Army issue, you weren't supposed to have it.

Certain things still had to be done, so it wasn't all comfy cozy.  I was assigned KP (Kitchen Police) duty.  I had to scrub the DFAC (Dining Facility) floor and wash dishes until about 0200, and I finally made it to bed around 0300.  Wake up was 0500, so I guess 2 hours of sleep should be enough for anyone.

While at Johnson Hall, all of the new recruits have to get a complete physical to include vaccinations, hearing and vision tests.  It's an assembly line process and it runs amazingly smooth, when you consider that they process 200-400 new soldiers every day.  When I got to the final station, the soldier behind the desk was double checking each 201 file (Army speak for medical file).  Before he handed me my file, he took a big rubber stamp and slammed it on the cover sheet.  When he lifted the stamp, I read "Occupational Hearing Loss".  I said "Wait a minute!  The guy back there said my hearing was perfect."  The soldier never looked up.  I'm sure he had heard the same response a thousand times.  Still looking at the next folder, he calmly said "It won't be perfect in 13 weeks."  I think he was right.  I have had an awful ringing in my ears ever since.  It's so loud that I can hear it even when I'm talking.

I loved the time I spent serving my country.  I don't think any of us, other than those that have made the supreme sacrifice, can ever repay what this country has given us.  You don't have to look very far (just South of the border) to see how great it is to live in America.  Duty, Honor, Country!      

My Little Soldier

I spent a grand total of 10 years in the Army, on active duty, in the Army Reserves and in the Oklahoma Army National Guard.  I have good memories from each of them, but one of my all time favorites is from my time in the Guard.

National Guard drill is normally one weekend a month, sometimes starting on Friday evening, and usually two weeks of annual training.  Some of the soldiers call the annual training "Summer Camp." One of my Summer Camps was spent in Camp Ripley, Minnesota, in February.  That camp was for Winter Operations Training, so it was NOT a Summer Camp. The average temperature was around 40 below zero, and being infantry soldiers, we had the privilege of sleeping in tents and conducting training exercises in wind chills that got as low as 60 below.

Anyway, back to My Little Soldier.  Each drill begins with a formation, to get a head count by taking roll call.  The First Sergeant calls the name of each soldier assigned to the unit.  When their name is called, they must respond with "Here!", "Present", or acknowledge in a military manner that they are present and ready for duty.

On one of these occasions, I took my 6 year old son, Jerod, to drill with me.  I dressed him in his own little Battle Dress Utility (BDU) uniform.  He stood in formation beside me in a perfect position of attention.  When the First Sergeant called "Ryan", there was only silence.  I leaned over and told Jerod, "That's you".  The First Sergeant repeated "Ryan!", this time a bit more sternly.  In his high pitched, six year old voice, Jerod shouted "HERE!".  Every soldier in the formation turned, looked at Jerod, and laughed for several minutes before regaining their military bearing.  Even the tough old, battle hardened, First Sergeant joined in and laughed, if only a little.

Jerod just beamed like he had been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.  Jerod is now 32 years old, but a small part of him is still in my memory as My Little Soldier.

As a side note, the photos show Jerod holding his Grandpa Jim Long's M1 Garrand, complete with the bayonet.  Grandpa Long carried the M1 while serving in the Pacific as a SeaBee (Member of a Construction Battalion) in the Navy.  Jim helped build runways for bombers and fighter planes after the islands were captured by the Army or Marines.  One might think that a Navy CB would not even need a weapon. After all, a dozer operator isn't a target.  Not true. the Japanese left snipers behind to harass and disrupt. Jim told me that while operating his dozer, he always heard sporadic gunfire and had bullets bouncing off of his armor plating.  Sometimes the harassment escalated into a firefight and the CB's became combatants.  Wish I could remember on which Pacific islands he worked, but sadly I just don't remember.  Anyway, the M1 has seen things that most weapons don't usually see.