I Had A Tree

In 1965, kids didn’t stay inside. In Columbus, GA, living in a small rental with no air conditioner was part of the reason. Other reasons included the fact that video games had not been invented and the only thing remotely close to video was our Zenith black and white TV that played soap operas all day long. Why would you want to stay inside? 

Directly behind our house in the St. Mary’s Community was ‘the woods’. Most kids in The South still have a place called ‘the woods’ and almost all of these familiar thickets have a creek. Some of these creeks are the idyllic picture one gets in his or her mind; other times ‘the creek’ is a glorified puddle. 

When I was 4 and we were stationed at Ft. Eustis, a kid in our bunch disappeared, so we ran home and told his mom that John-John had fallen in the Stink-hole. Mothers from all over were scouring ‘the woods’ squalling and hollering his name. John-John popped out from behind a tree. Seems he had created his own little stink-hole. 

‘The woods’ behind our house in Columbus had it all. A really nice creek, a few open meadows, two brothers tromping with pump BB guns—and trees. Lots of trees. Our backyard was really just an extension of ‘the woods’.  Very little grass, plenty of pines, and one enormous hardwood. I climbed that tree almost everyday. There was a certain sweeping limb that grew a few feet horizontal from the trunk and then turned vertical. It was truly like a wooden horse. The horizontal section was large enough to strap on a saddle. The vertical up-turn resembled his neck. It was the perfect limb. 

But there was a slight problem. During the early courtship weeks, my tree played hard to get. Actually, I was too afraid to make the climb to this special limb on this special tree. It was  higher than I had ever been; there were no branches to ‘help’ me get to it, but dang, what a great limb! I admired it from an arm’s length and a light year away. 

One day I decided to go out on a limb. Actually the only way to get to my destination was the trunk. I embraced  it as tightly as I could with everything on a human body that could hug, including my cheek. I inched up the mighty tree’s trunk until I reached my destination. Straddling the horse, grabbing his neck, my heart pounded with delight. 

The weeks led into months. I had straddled my favorite limb on my favorite tree so many times, I no longer had to hug the trunk. I simply made a jump from the lower limb. I remember actually closing my eyes on the ground and climbing to my spot. It was all muscle memory at that point. 

While the climb was always fun, it was the destination that made it worthwhile.  My dad had embarked on his first tour in Vietnam; I was at a new school going through the motions (again) of making new friends. My new teacher was an old bag who took pleasure in calling her fourth grade students ‘little heathens’ with every other breath all the while washing her hands at least 5 times an hour. 

But I had this tree. It gave me comfort and peace. We attended a small Baptist church in 1965 and my ten year old eyes started opening to spiritual things. I guess you could say my tree was my first prayer closet. I’d ask the Lord to bring my dad home safely. Sometimes I’d just sit and ponder about important things—-How I could be a heathen when I went to Training Union? And what in the Sam Hill was Mrs. Dunn doing that got her hands so dirty? My hands got a good washing at least once a day during bath time. 

But a majority of the time, I just straddled my wooden steed and thought about nothing at all. I still have that skill; and yes it is a skill to stop the hamster wheel in your head. 

I had a tree. Notice I never said I owned a tree. It was mine for a while. It treated me well. And I hope a few other kids came along after me and received the same.

Lessons From the First Love

Ft Rucker AL had an amazing Elementary School. It was a large 1st-6th grade school, built in 1963, modern for its time. I attended 5th and 6th grade in the years 1966-1968. Unbeknown to me at the time, a little brunette 2nd grader, a few wings and a lifetime away from me, would say 'I do' in 1978 and become my life time partner.

The thing that was so unique about Ft. Rucker Elementary was that it served all children living on Post; there was no segregation in my school, a political football for the ‘outside’ world (not just in the Deep South, mind you) but not on Ft. Rucker Elementary. My dad told me one time that we see people in O.D. (Olive Drab) Green.
Cedric Nakajo was one of my best buddies in Mrs. Crawford’s 5th grade class. His dad, Nick Nakajo and my dad were both Majors at the time and were also good friends. In recent years, my dad told me that Major Nakajo came from a very wealthy California family. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, a young Nick and his family were all sent to a Japanese Internment Camp. They lost everything: Property, investments, business. Think about that. It didn’t matter to Nick Nakajo. He joined the U.S. Army, about the time my dad did in the early 50’s.
Cedric was this whiz kid. Smart as a whip. He could perform mathematical problems in his head. Nobody could beat him when Mrs. Crawford did ‘one-on- one’ 3 digit multiplication contests on the board. (Yes, we actually competed back then; there was a winner and a loser.) I must say, Mrs. Crawford was a 5th grade boy’s dream. Recent college graduate, great 60’s dresses, bouffant hair, and she loved me. I could tell.
Enter Faith Ann Farmer, middle of the school year. This was far from unusual at an Army Post school, coming and going was a way of life. But it was unusual for THIS boy. She was the ‘little red haired girl’ that Charlie Brown dreamed about. I was instantly in love, but that was admitted to nobody, ever. I cannot tell you how many times I rode my trusty Schwinn by her house hoping I could catch a glimpse of that Irish red hair and freckled face...even then I would have probably been too chicken to stop.
One day, Mrs. Crawford had Faith Ann and Cedric compete against each other, one of those really difficult problems---347 X 42 or something like that. Mrs. Crawford said ‘GO!’ and the chalk started clacking on that well-worn blackboard. Faith Ann flew through that problem like she knew the answer before they started and beat Cedric by a country mile. I hollered out with great gusto, “SHE BEAT YOU SO BAD CEDRIC!! Hahahaha!”
It was meant to be an awkward compliment to this new little red haired girl. Then I looked at my good friend Cedric. His head was down and he had tears in his eyes. Mrs. Crawford, while a recent college graduate, had the ability to size up this situation, looked at me with eyes lit like a bonfire, and asked, “Would you like to come up here and challenge Faith Ann?” I shook my head and lowered it in shame.
The things I look back on in my life that I consider real ‘sins’ are the things that haunt me…and they aren’t these dumb, human foibles that so many Southerners consider sins like getting drunk on Saturday night and embarrassing MamaNdem. If that is your barometer of whether St Peter is gong to let you in, the you might want to ponder the scriptures a bit more. There is is a higher spirituality than this. The things that haunt me are those incidents where I intentionally hurt someone. Cedric, crying with his head down, stays with me. In a way, I’m glad it stays with me. I’m glad it haunts me.
I told Cedric I was sorry at recess. He asked if I wanted to play dodge ball. Faith Ann and I parted ways in the 6th Grade. We were only together in my mind anyway. Interestingly, I saw her cheer-leading a couple years later in Leavenworth, Kansas. She was a cheerleader for the Ft. Leavenworth Jr. High basketball team and I was a student at East Jr. High in the town of Leavenworth. I saw her after the game in an intimate conversation with one of the boys on the Ft. Leavenworth team. It was over.

Life Along the Way--Kansas Gypsies

Military families are a special breed.
.My dad got orders to Command and General Staff College at Ft. Leavenworth in 1969. We moved cross country in a Ford 150 with a camper and a 1963 VW and discovered our off-post government housing was a converted basement about a mile from 'the projects'. Directly in front of our new abode was a KFC and a Taco Grande, a toxic combo that compounded with the Leavenworth City Dump, which was across the busy highway. It was a slice of heaven to me--chicken and tacos in the front yard.
Pop ordered a big bait of tacos from the Taco Grande, which my brother, sister, and I tore into with reckless abandon. These were the real deal; good greasy double tortillas that are all the rage now. (My favorite menu item became their famous 'taco burger' basically taco meat on a hamburger bun. Yeah I've always eaten junky food.) I just couldn't understand why my mom was crying as we were eating these tacos in our camper. My dad was fresh off a tour from Vietnam, we were beginning an 11 month tour in a new strange land, Leavenworth KS, living in a basement, and we were eating greasy tacos! What could be better than this? While I didn't get her demeanor, I did get that something wasn't right.
I attended 8th grade in a large city school where the students met in mass after school at a burger joint or in an alley to watch fights. These were old fashioned fist fights. Guns and knives were not the rage...at least not in 1969. My red Schwinn Typhoon bike was stolen and recovered a few times, so we decided it was best for me to take the city bus to school. I have never forgotten the bitter Kansas winds in the winter and the involuntary shaking I had waiting on that bus. Not whining, believe me, the sledding down snow covered hills on Post were well worth the chill. I loved showing off to Faith Ann Farmer, whose dad was also attending the school at Ft. Leavenworth.
The year went by quickly. I ran track in the spring and became close friends with my relay team, guys that lived in the projects just above our home. A self proclaimed tough guy tried to pick a fight with me in art class one day and my boys from the projects near 'bout killed him. Clint, Jerome, and Willie were my boys. The art teacher, Mr. Wattenburg, sent the perpetrator to the office for his protection and we all went back to drawing futuristic cars.
I remember this kid from Columbia named Carlos, who in broken English, let my 3 black friends know that he liked them from 'best to worst' due to the pigment of their skin. Clint the lightest was first, Jerome was second, and Willie was third. All 3 of my friends laughed out loud, and Clint and Jerome teased Willie unmercifully. I laughed too, because I thought just how stupid this kid was. I asked Willie later if Carlos had hurt his feelings. He just shrugged and rolled his eyes. I thought Carlos was a spoiled, flabby, soft, little jerk.
It seemed we left as we arrived; like the wind. I said my goodbyes to the guys in the hood, the kids from foreign countries (even that jerk Carlos) living nearby whose dads were liaison officers at the school, and we headed back to Ft. Rucker AL., the home of Army Aviation, the final destination of my dad's career that started as a MASH pilot in Korea. The small town of New Brockton, AL where my 86 year old parents still live, eventually became my folks' permanent homestead after decades of living like gypsies across the landscape of America.
Life as a military family is a challenge, to say the least. My mom had a particularly hard year in Kansas. I didn't know it at the time; I was simply rolling with the punches and enjoying life as a 13 year old kid eating tacos and exploring the city dump. I was constantly bringing home jars of critters, mostly tadpoles and crawdads, that I found in the pools of water. But my mom on the verge of a breakdown, pined to be back at Ft. Rucker. Somehow my dad, the great man that he is, made it happen.
We returned to the Army Post of my birth (I am the only Alabama native in my family, born at Ft. Rucker in 1956) in 1970 and I was able to attend Enterprise City Schools from 9th-12th grades. The local kids embraced me as one of their own. It is my adopted hometown. My folks live about 8 miles from Enterprise and do all their shopping, banking, and business there. My dad is no longer Col. Vosel, he is Mr. Don. And at 60 years old, I am an adopted son of Enterprise AL. It is as close to a hometown as an Army Brat can ever hope to have. The local kids loved me like I had been there all my life. And many of them still provide a solidity to my life and for that, I am very thankful.

Places Along the Way----Super Bowl 4

I was privileged to have attended Enterprise Jr High during my 7th grade year. My dad was in Vietnam and we were made to leave Ft. Rucker (families couldn’t stay in Post housing if the service member was in a war zone, imagine that) and moved to Enterprise. EJHS is lovingly remembered as ‘Old Junior’ after the emergence of a newer Jr High across town, Dauphin Jr High.
I remember that Christmas I received a bugle as a gift. My best friend in 7th grade, Mike Tindol lived about a 3/4 mile away, up College St. I remember calling him on the phone, asking him to go out in his front yard and listen for my bugle. I blew, he heard, he called me on the phone and told me. Life was good.
Pop served his second tour in Vietnam, came home, and as Army life would have it, orders came. Ft Leavenworth, KS was his next assignment, Command and General Staff College, a one year assignment. So off we went, again I would adjust to a new environment, new school, but adjust I would. 8th Grade would be an inner city school in 1969.
Army families also adjust to the place that Uncle Sam places them. We were not far from Kansas City, MO, home of the KC Chiefs. So we became instant Chiefs fans as they completed an 11-3 season, beating the hated Oakland Raiders in the AFC Championship. The Chiefs, earning a spot in Super Bowl IV, were 13 points underdogs to the mighty 12-2 Minnesota Vikings. KC surprised the Vikings and America by defeating the Vikes 23-7.
I still remember the names: Coach Hank Stram, QB Lennie Dawson, Kicker Jan Stenerud, Mike Garett, Buck Buchanan, Curly Culp---every time things went the Chiefs way, I blew the bugle. We lived in an Army issue duplex, with another family living on top of us. I blew the bugle; they banged on their floor (our ceiling) with broom/mop handles. They were instant Chief fans too. It was all great fun. Cinder block living at its best.
We were fortunate to return to Ft Rucker and Enterprise schools after that year. I was even more fortunate to be able to attend a great school system for my 9-12 grade years in a community that I love to this day. The teachers, students, always made me feel welcome---I never recall being looked down for being an ‘army brat’.
During my year as a Kansas City Chiefs fan, ‘Old Junior’ burned to the ground. The local folks said the flames could be seen from miles away. I have read accounts of many citizens of Enterprise standing silently, watching the flames and crying; ‘Old Junior’ was formerly Coffee County/Enterprise High School and it seems everyone in the small southern community had a connection to that building.
Being an ‘Army kid’, I picked up where I left off. Classes were held in the National Guard Armory, The Boy Scout Hut, wherever we could assemble until a new building could be completed. I’m sure some kids never even realized I was gone for a year.
The bugle was relegated to a closet for many years. Tarnished and old, I pulled it out from time to time and blew it until my lips puckered. It still sounded great. I always thought about my ‘experiment’ with Mike Tindol, Christmas, 1968. The air was right, the humidity was low, the sound of the bugle traveled well. Much like the bugles over the years at Ft. Rucker, AL and Ft. Leavenworth, KS.

Life Along the Way--- DC Metro, August 2015

Observations from the Metro: (DC's subway)

People cram on the trains and immediately disappear into a black hole of silence. They read, play some kind of game akin to Candy Crush, but rarely talk to one another. Most will look away if you establish eye contact. I'm sure it is a defense mechanism from the hard knocks and weird people in a big city.

Their faces simply say, 'I'm tired. I'm beat'. Their faces are blank, stoney, drab.

Today, I noticed a young black professional woman offer her seat to and older black woman. And immediately, a white man about my age got up and offered his seat to the young woman. The two women, seated beside one another, conversed freely and the man stood beside them holding on to the top rail, smiling at times, as his act made him part of this small cell of compassion and kindness too.
Eph 4:32---Be kind to one another.

Life Along the Way----Cross-dressing Bathrobes

Another Christmas Story/Observation , 2015

As many of you know, Annie and I have one son. Everything in his 'raisin' revolved around male dominated sports, or activities like hunting and fishing (I know a lot of ladies like these activities too, but just giving some perspective here. We weren't going to American Girl parties or cheerleader tryouts.) I wonder how I would have done with a girl. Especially a teen aged girl. I'm thinking we were given a boy for a reason and the reason might have might been me!

I usually take a few hours before Christmas to do a little shopping, just me, to purchase a few things of my own choosing for family members. I think it is important for my family to have a few surprises, even if they are small.

I walked in Belks today, bombarded by the sites and sounds of Christmas: the upbeat 'Sleigh Ride Together With You' music, Christmas trees, garlands, all the glitter. I am not going to decry these things; in fact, they usually take me back in time and I remember the glorious days of holidays past at Ft. Rucker AL, driving around in a faded blue '62 Ford station wagon in awe of all the Christmas lights on all the normally mundane Post Quarters.

Observing life around me is a hobby, as many know.
This happened several steps into the large department store. The music, the garlands, the trees disappeared and I zeroed in on a dad around 40, and his tweener daughter in the women's section. The dad was wearing a woman's white terrycloth bathrobe, right there in front of Plastic Santa and everybody else. He was doing his best, helping his daughter decide in reasons known only to them, if it would be a good fit for Mama.

The whole thing was comical and sweet; he slumped over trying to mimic his wife's size, tied it at the waist, obedient to his daughter's wishes. He was grinning, she was laughing, and of course I broke out in a smile. It created a Christmas memory for them and just another fun observation of human behavior for me.
I wonder if I would have done it. Not having experienced a daughter, I just can't say. But I can say I wished that particular dad a Merry Christmas in my mind and I melted back to the December Christmas lights, Ft Rucker, 1967.

People Along the Way----Jack's and WW2

I have been a fan of Jack's Hamburgers since I was a kid. It is the anti- McDonalds and Burger King. All fast food burgers are pretty much the same, but the big red circle with the Jack's logo seems to still draw me. I wore the Jack's paper hat in Grad school, as a grill cook in Auburn. Annie and I were newlywed students and while I was flipping burgers, she was cleaning rat cages in the Biology Dept. Life was good in the Married Student Projects, as we called it, in 1978. $103/month rent and the Langdon Hall Free Show. Everything we ever needed.
Jack's drew me in, somewhere around the Calera exit on I-65, on the way to the Magic City today. I ordered my standard small burger with fries---ok, two small burgers with fries. I sat down in a booth and lost myself in my phone, like so many people do now. Surrounded by a number of truck drivers and a sweet senior citizen in a Jack's uniform roaming the dining area asking, "Need anything, hon?", I was in hamburger heaven.
The booth behind me was suddenly occupied. I heard an elderly female voice:
"I'm going to the restroom, don't let anyone sit in my seat and eat my food!", she said playfully.
"Wash my hands while you are there!" was the reply from the man. The lady laughed.
I finished my burger(s), let the sweet senior in the Jack's uniform bus my tray and got up to refill my Diet Dr Pepper for the rest of the trip to Bham. As I turned back around, I saw the gentleman, a trim, healthy man wearing a WW2 Vet baseball cap. My love of American History compelled me to talk to him.
"Sir, could you tell me where you served?"
"Sure, I was in the Pacific. It wasn't that bad."
I knew I was talking to one of the Greatest Generation, knowing 'the Pacific' in WW2 was a tough slog for all. He was being humble. I am well acquainted with the horrors that all branches of service endured fighting the Imperial Army and Navy of Japan. Yet, like many boys of that day, they kept their horrors secret and dealt with their pain internally.
"Were you in Vietnam?" he asked.
"No sir, I was too young by a few years, but my dad served two tours there."
"Glad I didn't have to go there. Your dad didn't get Agent Orange, did he?"
"No sir, he and my mom are doing good."
He noticed my name badge and asked what I did for a living and I told him. At that point his wife returned from the restroom. I knew I was talking to a couple who were full of sweet southern charm, so I joked, "I asked your husband if I could steal your food!" She laughed, sat down, and said, "Just don't take my fries!"
"He works for Rehab, helps people find jobs."
"Well, at least you know where to send me when my mind is gone!" she replied laughing.
"You know, he's going to be 92 soon", she said to me proudly.
"You are kidding me!", I replied, yet in my mind I had already done the math. Anyone wearing a WW2 baseball cap is in their late 80's or 90's. He actually looked like a man in his 70's.
"Y'all get on with your lunch, and thanks for sharing your story, sir. Pleasure talking to y'all!"
"You be careful out there, and thanks for helping folks," he said. A voice disappearing from the landscape of America at the rate of 430 a day. (I lost my good friend Jim Rice last week, a WW2 Navy vet who survived kamikazes and the worst typhoon that the Navy ever endured.)
This is life in Alabama. My encounter may seem like small talk to many, but it as deep and thick as a wet red-clay dirt road to me. Our people, all races, all ages, become permanently stained in your soul like that same red clay on a white tee shirt. These chance encounters are not shallow in my life. They are part of my fabric, part of why I am proud to be an Alabamian.