In the middle of a battle -zone.

Memories of my frantic experience trying to release lookout #3 from his precarious position on the catwalk still remain vivid, more than six decades later.

“Bridge, from, Lookout 3, over.”  I could barely hear his voice.

“Lookout 3, go ahead,” I replied.

Lookout 3, requests permission to secure station.  Planes, coming loose above my position.  Over.”

“Gotcha #3.  Stand by.”

I leaned into the OD’s protected area out of the wind in order to relay the request.  “Sir, Lookout 3 reports planes loosening dangerously close to him.  Looks like they’re about to drop down onto the catwalk where he’s located.  Requests permission to secure his station.”

Without so much as a glance in the direction of lookout 3, he shouted, “Not granted!  We’re in the middle of a battle zone! How could anybody be so dumb to not realize that?” was the OD’s nonsensical response.

A Mother's Love...

As I recalled, Mom introduced me to her friends around town as her “baby,” far from amusing to a teenaged boy.  A pang of sorrow hit me as I recalled how disrespectful and disobedient I had been at times.  Despite my misbehavior, Mom kept me covered with clean clothes and full of good food while I attended school and worked as flunky for two grocery stores. I accumulated a shameful list of swear words from both grocery store managers.  During summer vacations, I worked on farms driving teams of horses, pitching hay, mowing lawns, whatever jobs I could find. 

One of the grocery store managers, a bulky six-feet-plus, sounded like a Sunday school teacher as he chatted with customers who asked to leave their purchases in the store after closing so they could finish their shopping in town.