My father, who was born in the early years of the Great Depression, was never able to truly keep up with the times. I always thought that he yearned for the simpler, less complicated days of yesteryear. He simply had no use for any of the electronic gadgets of the 1970's and 80's. His philosophy was very basic. "The more crap like that they put on a car these days, the more headaches you have," he would say time and time again. He uttered those words after looking at the neighbor's new car or perhaps after an ad that bragged about the new technology offered on the latest Ford sedan. We were the last humans to own a car with automatic windows as far as I know. In fact, we were the last humans to own ANYTHING automatic as far as I know.
Vehicles weren't the only advances my dad shied away from. In 1976, my parents took the huge leap and bought a parcel of land and built a new home. I still remember the first night in our new abode. My dad was exceedingly anxious to try out one of the two new showers. The old home they had rented prior to our move was equipped with only one claw foot bathtub, which offered nothing resembling a shower. "I can't wait to try out the new shower!" dad said, after coming in from raking the rock filled area around our new home. "I'm filthy and a good, hot shower is going to really hit the spot," he continued, while digging through a box looking for a towel.
It should be noted that my father was accustomed to the typical faucet, which consisted of one valve for hot water, and one valve for cold water. The faucets in the new house consisted of the more modern water mixer, which only required one lever. This apparatus required the user to turn the handle clockwise with the water becoming warmer as the lever continued it's journey around the little dial which was color coded blue for cold to red for hot. Dad didn't get it. In his excitement, he neglected to close the hall bathroom door, and as we passed by, we could see our nude father attempting to master the new faucet. Apparently, he wasn't aware that the user must also flip a little level on the spigot to reroute the water to the overhead shower head. I'd never seen my dad dance, but 140 degree water up to his ankles made him look like a very awkward and very naked Fred Astaire. So, the water came on, the water went off. The water went on, the water went off. He still didn't realize that he was in complete control of the water temperature based on how far he turned the handle. Finally, in his frustration, he yelled for my mom. "Carolyn, this shower ain't working right. I can't get anything but boiling water! I knew they screwed the plumbing up in this house!" he barked, as my mom scurried to the rescue.
"I think if you just turn the handle to the halfway mark, it will be fine," she said, as my father surveyed his reddened feet and ankles.
"I hate this modern junk. Why can't they just leave well enough alone?!!" he answered, with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Once again the shower commenced. Almost immediately, a cloud of steam and a barrage of language unfit for this story filled the hallway. Apparently, my mother's instructions on how to operate the shower had gone unheeded and my dad was proceeding to cook himself once again. He had somehow managed to reroute the water to the shower head, but had repeated his mistake from earlier and blasted himself with boiling hot water. At some point in his very brief shower, he had managed to lather himself with a bar of soap.
In my seven years I had never seen a more pitiful, yet hilarious sight. Dad had excited the still running shower, with soap suds slowly sliding off his body, while slipping and sliding across the ceramic tile floor. Finally, he steadied himself by grabbing the towel bar with one hand and holding firmly to the sink vanity. By that time, he had created such a spectacle, that the whole family stood, snickering in the hallway just out of his sight. I'm not sure if he ever finished his shower, but he did eventually learn to operate the new mixer.
Another technological advance my dad didn't immediately warm up to is the remote control. When our old and worn out dial television finally went on the electronics heaven, my mother arrived home one evening with a brand new model from Montgomery Ward. "Now, this is a very expensive TV, so lets be careful," she said to my older brother and I. We were in charge of carrying everything and to my amazement, she let us carry our latest purchase into the house.
We removed the television from the box, and noticed that sure enough, there was a remote control. "Why are you putting the remote in your pocket?" I asked Jarrett, who surely had some sinister plan up his sleeve.
"We're going to have a little fun with dad later," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye.
With the new TV in it's place and the cable hooked up, we plugged it in and pushed the power button. A beautiful and colorful picture appeared on the screen. Promptly, dad switched the channel to the evening news, which was our cue to disappear for at least a half an hour.
We allowed dad to spend a few blissful minutes with his new TV when my older brother's plan was hatched. "Watch this," he said, as he aimed the shiny remote toward the television from the safety of the hallway, which kept us out of sight. He squeezed the volume button and in an instant, it sounded as if dad was making an effort to let the rest of our town enjoy the news with him. We could barely hear his old rocking chair creak as he rose to lower the volume. Once again, he eased back into the comfort of his rocker.
We gave him a minute or so and switched the channel. One minute he was watching Walter Cronkite deliver the news, and the next, he was watching a rerun of Gun Smoke. "What the he..." he said, rising once again to switch the channel back to the news.
Again, we let him enjoy the news for a few minutes and then we simply switched the television off. Silence dominated the house for a few seconds and then he spoke, "Carolyn!!! Come in here! This blasted TV is already on the blink! It keeps going to a different channel and the volume changes by itself! Now, it's cut off and I haven't even toughed it! I knew we should have taken the old one to Mr. Fitzgerald!"
Mr. Fitzgerald was an older fellow who operated a small television repair shop out of his basement. He generally would take a customer's television and keep it for a month, and then call to tell them there was nothing he could do and they should buy a new one.
"What on Earth is wrong with the TV? It's brand new!" mom answered, while wondering why her two mischievous sons were snickering in the hallway.
Mom let dad in on our little secret, but not before allowing us a few more minutes of fun. Dad came to actually appreciate the remote control, but a new microwave was on the horizon.
For the sake of keeping this story fairly brief, let me just say that dad had a rather rocky start with the joys of microwave cooking. Three strips of bacon will surely turn into tiny, rectangular charcoal briquettes if allowed to cook for say, fifteen minutes.
My father continues to loathe modern advances, but now he's heading for eighty-one-years-old. I guess it doesn't matter, and I often wonder if it is he who is living the better life.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Monday, January 19, 2015
YES SON, YOU ARE AN ALIEN
My brother-in-law and I have been having a recurring conversation lately that involves his 11-year-old son and my daughter of nearly the same age. "I'm going to kill him," he stated, while staring at me like Clint Eastwood during his Dirty Harry days.
"Why?!! What's up?" I answered with a fake surprised tone to my voice. I knew what was up. I had endured the change that children go through around that age with my own son, who was now safely on the other side of that particular stage of puberty at fourteen years old. My wife and I were also deeply entrenched in the wild mood swings of our own daughter.
"He's like he's Jekyll and Hyde! One minute he's our sweet, mannerly son, and the next he's ready to rip someone's head from their shoulders! I can't take much more," he said with wide eyes.
"Oh, he'll be back. His hormones are raging, and he's developing both mentally and physically. He'll be fine, you'll see," I finished. I had just recited my wife's latest speech to me verbatim. There's no way I could have come up with that wisdom on my own. My solution was to threaten severe discipline. But, I too, was ready to move to an asylum after dealing with my son a couple years before, and am currently in the throws of various highs and lows concerning my own daughter.
The very knowledgeable and experienced pediatrician had warned us years before. "Your kids are only two years apart in age. That means that it's very likely that they'll begin puberty around the same time. So, you'll need nerves of steel and the patience of Job. Good luck," he said, like a prophet, and then promptly exited the room.
Once, while trout fishing, I glanced over at my son, who was watching his little, fuzzy lure dangle from an overhead tree branch. This would be the first of many instances that made me consider having his head examined to be sure that he was surely alright. "Oh man, I hate when that happens," I said, with a grin on my face.
"Well, if you'd take me someplace that wasn't so brushy and thorny, maybe I wouldn't keep losing lures in the trees!!!"
I wasn't quite sure how to properly address that particular outburst, but honestly at that point I would have been willing to spend the night in jail for throwing my son into the freezing river. "We've fished here many times, and you've never said anything about the brush and thorns. It's not my fault you can't cast," I barked. Immediately, I felt bad about the comment.
"Let's go. I always knew you were disappointed in me. I've always known," he finished with his head hanging low.
We walked the short distance to my truck in silence, he with tears in his eyes, and me wondering what had just happened. I climbed into the cab of the truck and he slid into the passenger's side and we sat without uttering a word. Finally, I spoke. "Son, I've always been proud of you and you've never let me down."
"It's not you dad, it's just that I'm ugly," he said, while staring at the floor of the truck. I wasn't sure how to handle that little oddity that had flown in from left field, and I chuckled under my breath, so I decided to lighten the mood a bit.
"Well, you are a tad on the ugly side. Your mom and I haven't told you, but yes son, you are an alien. A strange looking young fellow. The Discovery Channel wanted to run a feature on you because they thought that you were proof of extraterrestrial life, but we wouldn't have it," I quipped.
Immediately, I knew that my humor had hit the proverbial brick wall.
We dealt with this and other very strange behavior for at least two years. I even asked a friend who had raised three sons what the heck was happening to our once sweet son. "Well, kids don't come with owners manuals," he replied. I stared at him in wonderment, and surmised that he'd either forgotten, or simply didn't want to relive those unsettling years. Either way, he didn't offer much to chew on. Thankfully, before long, it was as if God himself decided that we had endured enough and simply cut if off. Now, our son has returned to normal.
Sidney, our daughter, seems to have decided to carry the torch, whether by choice or not. She has begun to make the transition from little girl into young woman, by way of turning us into raving lunatics. "I'm a vegetarian, I'm not eating this," she stated plainly one recent evening at the dinner table. "If you guys want to eat this stuff, then go ahead. But I'm not," she said, while staring at a finely cooked pork chop.
"This isn't a restaurant, you eat what I cook, if not, then go hungry," Kristi barked at the child, who had taken to searching the refrigerator for vegetarian fare. The kid loved pork chops as far as I knew.
Occasionally, our loving little daughter peeks out from the dark cloud that seems to hover over her most of the time. We have experience now, which doesn't make the transition easier, but we do understand it. I guess we'll have to buckle up and brace for the ride. It will also come to an abrupt end for my sister and brother-in-law, but alas, they have another, younger son. So, they will surely get another dose of hormonitis. If I have learned anything, it's that during this difficult time in a child's life, it's imperative to never, ever call them an alien.
"Why?!! What's up?" I answered with a fake surprised tone to my voice. I knew what was up. I had endured the change that children go through around that age with my own son, who was now safely on the other side of that particular stage of puberty at fourteen years old. My wife and I were also deeply entrenched in the wild mood swings of our own daughter.
"He's like he's Jekyll and Hyde! One minute he's our sweet, mannerly son, and the next he's ready to rip someone's head from their shoulders! I can't take much more," he said with wide eyes.
"Oh, he'll be back. His hormones are raging, and he's developing both mentally and physically. He'll be fine, you'll see," I finished. I had just recited my wife's latest speech to me verbatim. There's no way I could have come up with that wisdom on my own. My solution was to threaten severe discipline. But, I too, was ready to move to an asylum after dealing with my son a couple years before, and am currently in the throws of various highs and lows concerning my own daughter.
The very knowledgeable and experienced pediatrician had warned us years before. "Your kids are only two years apart in age. That means that it's very likely that they'll begin puberty around the same time. So, you'll need nerves of steel and the patience of Job. Good luck," he said, like a prophet, and then promptly exited the room.
Once, while trout fishing, I glanced over at my son, who was watching his little, fuzzy lure dangle from an overhead tree branch. This would be the first of many instances that made me consider having his head examined to be sure that he was surely alright. "Oh man, I hate when that happens," I said, with a grin on my face.
"Well, if you'd take me someplace that wasn't so brushy and thorny, maybe I wouldn't keep losing lures in the trees!!!"
I wasn't quite sure how to properly address that particular outburst, but honestly at that point I would have been willing to spend the night in jail for throwing my son into the freezing river. "We've fished here many times, and you've never said anything about the brush and thorns. It's not my fault you can't cast," I barked. Immediately, I felt bad about the comment.
"Let's go. I always knew you were disappointed in me. I've always known," he finished with his head hanging low.
We walked the short distance to my truck in silence, he with tears in his eyes, and me wondering what had just happened. I climbed into the cab of the truck and he slid into the passenger's side and we sat without uttering a word. Finally, I spoke. "Son, I've always been proud of you and you've never let me down."
"It's not you dad, it's just that I'm ugly," he said, while staring at the floor of the truck. I wasn't sure how to handle that little oddity that had flown in from left field, and I chuckled under my breath, so I decided to lighten the mood a bit.
"Well, you are a tad on the ugly side. Your mom and I haven't told you, but yes son, you are an alien. A strange looking young fellow. The Discovery Channel wanted to run a feature on you because they thought that you were proof of extraterrestrial life, but we wouldn't have it," I quipped.
Immediately, I knew that my humor had hit the proverbial brick wall.
We dealt with this and other very strange behavior for at least two years. I even asked a friend who had raised three sons what the heck was happening to our once sweet son. "Well, kids don't come with owners manuals," he replied. I stared at him in wonderment, and surmised that he'd either forgotten, or simply didn't want to relive those unsettling years. Either way, he didn't offer much to chew on. Thankfully, before long, it was as if God himself decided that we had endured enough and simply cut if off. Now, our son has returned to normal.
Sidney, our daughter, seems to have decided to carry the torch, whether by choice or not. She has begun to make the transition from little girl into young woman, by way of turning us into raving lunatics. "I'm a vegetarian, I'm not eating this," she stated plainly one recent evening at the dinner table. "If you guys want to eat this stuff, then go ahead. But I'm not," she said, while staring at a finely cooked pork chop.
"This isn't a restaurant, you eat what I cook, if not, then go hungry," Kristi barked at the child, who had taken to searching the refrigerator for vegetarian fare. The kid loved pork chops as far as I knew.
Occasionally, our loving little daughter peeks out from the dark cloud that seems to hover over her most of the time. We have experience now, which doesn't make the transition easier, but we do understand it. I guess we'll have to buckle up and brace for the ride. It will also come to an abrupt end for my sister and brother-in-law, but alas, they have another, younger son. So, they will surely get another dose of hormonitis. If I have learned anything, it's that during this difficult time in a child's life, it's imperative to never, ever call them an alien.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
OLD TIMES
Oh how I love the internet. I love the fact that so much information is right at my fingertips and I really love that I can still remember how to type. I also love the fact that the internet provides me with the opportunity to reconnect with people I haven't laid eyes on, let alone spoken to, in many years. Thus is the case with good 'ol Wes Johnson.
A few days ago, I decided to delve into the world of Facebook and check out who was eating what for dinner, whose kid made the honor roll, or perhaps even be enlightened to the fact that it's cold outside. I'm always mildly annoyed by those little red numbers at the top of the screen as I get an inordinate amount of game requests, etc. and most of the time I simply ignore them. As usual, I noticed the red numbers, but this time, someone wanted to be my friend. Stop laughing, what's so funny about that? I moved the the mouse as to place the arrow over the number to find out who the mystery person was and clicked. To say that I was blown away would be somewhat of an understatement. I had gotten a friend request from none other than Wesley Johnson.
Wes and I entered the US Air Force in May of 1989 together. Well, almost together. He was from Florida and I was from Virginia of course. But, we arrived at Lackland Air Force Base on the same miserable night. Actually, miserable doesn't properly describe what we going through at the time, but I do know that it was just shy of torture. Nothing is fun when you're wearing the same underwear for the second straight day, your deodorant gave out in Atlanta, and a very large and menacing fellow is yelling profanities in your face at two o'clock in the morning. Strangling my recruiter was at the very top of my list if I ever got out of Basic Training. "Oh, it's not very rough. In fact, lots of people enjoy it, you'll see," he said with a sarcastic grin creeping across his face. Yep, he was definitely in for a strangulation upon my arrival back in Virginia.
We were herded onto an old bus and driven to a cavernous dining hall across the base. "Get your asses in there, eat, and get back out here in five minutes!" sergeant Hodge screamed as we hurried off the bus. For some strange reason, we were required to guzzle three glasses of warm water before we could begin eating. Maybe they were trying to keep us hydrated, or perhaps we looked so pitiful they figured they'd go ahead and poison us and put us out of our misery and theirs. Either way, after the guzzling, I wasn't hungry for the mess of pork and beans that had been splattered onto my tray. I ate anyway.
After we returned to our barracks, we were assigned a bunk, wall locker and told to go to sleep. By then in was early. Really early. Like three-thirty in the morning early. I was never so glad to lie down in all of my eighteen years. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep. "Get up numb nuts!!! I'm your mama now!!! This ain't the Holiday Inn, get moving you pieces of s**t!!!" Sergeant Hodge bellowed from the center isle of the barracks. I still had my watch on, and carefully glanced down and took note of the time. Five o'clock. Strangulation was way to lenient for my recruiter. I would most certainly insert bamboo shoots under his fingernails instead.
In the days to follow, we began to develop a routine, had our heads shaved, which made us look like round lollipops that had been dropped on shag carpet, given uniforms and instructed on how to properly shave. It was then that I first became friends with Wes Johnson. "Now that you no count piss ants know how to shave, I don't EVER want to catch you with as much as a strand of hair on your face! Got it?!!! the overgrown drill instructor growled.
"Sir, yes sir!" we screamed in unison.
It should be noted that even during the so called down times, we were a collection of nervous wrecks. Thankfully, we were able to keep our nerves in check, and function well enough to carry out most of the tasks required by the Air Force. Shaving would prove to be a time of utmost necessity in keeping calm. On our first 'official' attempt at shaving our tender faces, I found myself staring into a latrine mirror and the guy staring back appeared to be a bald headed shell of my former self. To my right was Airman Heigle. To his right stood Wesley Johnson. I didn't know either of their names, but would soon know them very well. Quickly and without hesitation, we lathered our faces and began the shaving sequence that Sgt. Hodge had demonstrated earlier that day. "Ouch, oh..." came a series of sounds emanating from my immediate right side. Heigle had apparently removed a pimple or had simply cut himself as a stream of blood slowly ran down his cheek and splashed into the sink. Apparently, the other side of his face hadn't fared much better based on the look on Wesley's face as I could see him occasionally grimace at the sight of poor Heigle. By the time we'd finished shaving, the pitiful soul looked as though he had the lead role in the latest Friday the 13th installment. He was a bloody mess. "Man, did you see that guy's face?" I asked the guy to Heigle's right as we exited the latrine.
"Yeah, he's all tore up. I feel sorry for him honestly. I'm Wes Johnson by the way," he answered as we headed back to the bunk area to don our uniforms.
"I'm Neil Fix, glad to meet you."
When we were satisfied that our uniforms were on correctly, we scurried down the steps, and out the door to line up in formation. Suddenly, everyone began chuckling, although they were trying their level best not to. I wondered what was so funny. Then I saw him. Heigle.
Poor Heigle had tiny, blood soaked squares of toilet paper dotting almost every square inch of his face. I had only been in the Air Force for a few days, but I was sure that toilet paper stuck to your face simply wasn't going to please Sgt. Hodge. It didn't. Before that day, I had heard of a human conniption, but had never seen one. Honestly, I don't ever want so see another one. Sgt. Hodge went into a complete and utter rampage. Poor Heigle had been reduced to a puddle of mush
on the concrete drill pad. Our bloody comrade disappeared from our flight a short while later, never to be seen again. I had hoped that they mercifully sent him home, but part of me wondered if Sgt. Hodge and all his anger had killed the poor soul.
The shaving incident was my first encounter with Wes. We became fast friends and to be honest, I think the fact that we became such good friends made life a little easier and tolerable. We finally graduated from basic training and he went to Texas, and I went north to Illinois. We kept in touch briefly after that, but as most people do, we lost touch. I looked for him several times over the years, but never had any luck. Do you know how many Wesley Johnsons there are in the world? Plenty. Thankfully, good 'ol Wes found me on Facebook and I'm truly happy about that. It's a wonderful feeling to be in touch with my friend after nearly twenty-six years. Maybe I'll call him and find out if he's been addressed as numb nuts lately.
But first, I wonder if I can find my recruiter? I've got a little unfinished business with him.
A few days ago, I decided to delve into the world of Facebook and check out who was eating what for dinner, whose kid made the honor roll, or perhaps even be enlightened to the fact that it's cold outside. I'm always mildly annoyed by those little red numbers at the top of the screen as I get an inordinate amount of game requests, etc. and most of the time I simply ignore them. As usual, I noticed the red numbers, but this time, someone wanted to be my friend. Stop laughing, what's so funny about that? I moved the the mouse as to place the arrow over the number to find out who the mystery person was and clicked. To say that I was blown away would be somewhat of an understatement. I had gotten a friend request from none other than Wesley Johnson.
Wes and I entered the US Air Force in May of 1989 together. Well, almost together. He was from Florida and I was from Virginia of course. But, we arrived at Lackland Air Force Base on the same miserable night. Actually, miserable doesn't properly describe what we going through at the time, but I do know that it was just shy of torture. Nothing is fun when you're wearing the same underwear for the second straight day, your deodorant gave out in Atlanta, and a very large and menacing fellow is yelling profanities in your face at two o'clock in the morning. Strangling my recruiter was at the very top of my list if I ever got out of Basic Training. "Oh, it's not very rough. In fact, lots of people enjoy it, you'll see," he said with a sarcastic grin creeping across his face. Yep, he was definitely in for a strangulation upon my arrival back in Virginia.
We were herded onto an old bus and driven to a cavernous dining hall across the base. "Get your asses in there, eat, and get back out here in five minutes!" sergeant Hodge screamed as we hurried off the bus. For some strange reason, we were required to guzzle three glasses of warm water before we could begin eating. Maybe they were trying to keep us hydrated, or perhaps we looked so pitiful they figured they'd go ahead and poison us and put us out of our misery and theirs. Either way, after the guzzling, I wasn't hungry for the mess of pork and beans that had been splattered onto my tray. I ate anyway.
After we returned to our barracks, we were assigned a bunk, wall locker and told to go to sleep. By then in was early. Really early. Like three-thirty in the morning early. I was never so glad to lie down in all of my eighteen years. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep. "Get up numb nuts!!! I'm your mama now!!! This ain't the Holiday Inn, get moving you pieces of s**t!!!" Sergeant Hodge bellowed from the center isle of the barracks. I still had my watch on, and carefully glanced down and took note of the time. Five o'clock. Strangulation was way to lenient for my recruiter. I would most certainly insert bamboo shoots under his fingernails instead.
In the days to follow, we began to develop a routine, had our heads shaved, which made us look like round lollipops that had been dropped on shag carpet, given uniforms and instructed on how to properly shave. It was then that I first became friends with Wes Johnson. "Now that you no count piss ants know how to shave, I don't EVER want to catch you with as much as a strand of hair on your face! Got it?!!! the overgrown drill instructor growled.
"Sir, yes sir!" we screamed in unison.
It should be noted that even during the so called down times, we were a collection of nervous wrecks. Thankfully, we were able to keep our nerves in check, and function well enough to carry out most of the tasks required by the Air Force. Shaving would prove to be a time of utmost necessity in keeping calm. On our first 'official' attempt at shaving our tender faces, I found myself staring into a latrine mirror and the guy staring back appeared to be a bald headed shell of my former self. To my right was Airman Heigle. To his right stood Wesley Johnson. I didn't know either of their names, but would soon know them very well. Quickly and without hesitation, we lathered our faces and began the shaving sequence that Sgt. Hodge had demonstrated earlier that day. "Ouch, oh..." came a series of sounds emanating from my immediate right side. Heigle had apparently removed a pimple or had simply cut himself as a stream of blood slowly ran down his cheek and splashed into the sink. Apparently, the other side of his face hadn't fared much better based on the look on Wesley's face as I could see him occasionally grimace at the sight of poor Heigle. By the time we'd finished shaving, the pitiful soul looked as though he had the lead role in the latest Friday the 13th installment. He was a bloody mess. "Man, did you see that guy's face?" I asked the guy to Heigle's right as we exited the latrine.
"Yeah, he's all tore up. I feel sorry for him honestly. I'm Wes Johnson by the way," he answered as we headed back to the bunk area to don our uniforms.
"I'm Neil Fix, glad to meet you."
When we were satisfied that our uniforms were on correctly, we scurried down the steps, and out the door to line up in formation. Suddenly, everyone began chuckling, although they were trying their level best not to. I wondered what was so funny. Then I saw him. Heigle.
Poor Heigle had tiny, blood soaked squares of toilet paper dotting almost every square inch of his face. I had only been in the Air Force for a few days, but I was sure that toilet paper stuck to your face simply wasn't going to please Sgt. Hodge. It didn't. Before that day, I had heard of a human conniption, but had never seen one. Honestly, I don't ever want so see another one. Sgt. Hodge went into a complete and utter rampage. Poor Heigle had been reduced to a puddle of mush
on the concrete drill pad. Our bloody comrade disappeared from our flight a short while later, never to be seen again. I had hoped that they mercifully sent him home, but part of me wondered if Sgt. Hodge and all his anger had killed the poor soul.
The shaving incident was my first encounter with Wes. We became fast friends and to be honest, I think the fact that we became such good friends made life a little easier and tolerable. We finally graduated from basic training and he went to Texas, and I went north to Illinois. We kept in touch briefly after that, but as most people do, we lost touch. I looked for him several times over the years, but never had any luck. Do you know how many Wesley Johnsons there are in the world? Plenty. Thankfully, good 'ol Wes found me on Facebook and I'm truly happy about that. It's a wonderful feeling to be in touch with my friend after nearly twenty-six years. Maybe I'll call him and find out if he's been addressed as numb nuts lately.
But first, I wonder if I can find my recruiter? I've got a little unfinished business with him.
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