Airplanes in the Attic #T

Stack of books in the attic.  Corner of a yellowed pamphlet showing between two red books.  Pulled it out.

And my postprandial walk is taking me along a narrow street in what is clearly a small town.  To the west and to the south sunlight reflects from the granite of the mountains which darken to blue in the distance.  Nice little patch of sweet corn to my left.  Someone will have some good eating in a few weeks.

Two small boys, eight, perhaps nine years old are standing at the edge of the corn patch.  They look to the sky, one of them points.  The other riffles through the pages of a pamphlet.  I look up to see what has riveted them.  An airplane, clearly a military aircraft.  This village is at least forty air miles from any military base, remote one might say, nestled next to the mountains as it is.  Not many airplanes of any kind fly over this burg.

"What's going on, Son?"

"We are spotters, Mister. We are watching out for enemy airplanes.  We can't be too careful, you know."

Yes, I know.  The world is in total chaos, what with the Axis pushing across Europe and North Africa, tearing up the South Pacific and our Naval forces. Indeed it is an ugly world, and the Allies are hard-pressed to repel the evil ones. We have so immersed ourselves into the patriotic fervor that two small boys in a remote village, fifteen hundred miles from any ocean and those oceans between us and the action are involved in the "war effort."  They are doing their part.

"It's not a Nazi plane, is it, Sir?"

"No.  Look!  You can see the stars on the wings.  She's all-American.  I think it is a B-25.  I've not seen one of those over here before.  Check that in your book."

"I think you got it right!" The boy shows me the silhouette drawings of the B-25.  "We saw a P-38 yesterday, and a P-51 last week."

Then I hear the roar of a single-engine prop plane as it banks away to the left above me.  There are no little boys, no cornfield.  There is no World War at the moment, but there shall always be conflict somewhere.  I am back in the twenty-first century, and the days of my juvenile, "war efforts" return to their nook in the attic of my memory.

My neighbor's restored P-51 starts its climb into the eastern sky.  Bill does a fly-over about once a month.  That's how he keeps his memories alive.

©2015 David W. Lacy

Holey Socks, Batman! #T

 It's time for new hosiery.

My daughter and her husband, Ann and Mike, gave me the gift of new socks!  They were generous, too, for they not only presented me with the pair pictured above, they gave me a second pair just like them!

  

Batman was introduced to the world on March 30, 1939 in Detective Comics #27.  Batman was created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger.  His first appearance was as a full-grown man, and the Caped Crusader has been fighting crime ever since!

Vexing and dastardly deeds occurring in Gotham?  Flash the Bat Signal into the night sky!  The Dark Knight and his faithful sidekick, Robin, will surely appear quickly to vanquish the crooks and resolve your problems.

My first introduction to Batman was in the mid-40s.  He had not been around that many years.  The comic book was not considered the greatest of literature in our household, and yet somehow I managed to get acquainted with this fearless crime fighter.

Many years later with children of my own, I watched Adam West and Burt Ward in the "Batman" series on TV.  This program was true to comic book style and I liked it better than I did the subsequent films made for the big screen.  This is what the daughter remembered.  A very thoughtful gift and reminder of another time in my life.

I liked Batman because, unlike other comic-book superheroes, Batman had no special superhuman powers.  He utilized his wealth, ingenuity, physical prowess, wits and skill in his war on criminal activity.  That is, he used the same sort of tools used by his nemeses, and by crooks and politicians everywhere.  Yet he turned his assets to accomplishment of good. 

Mark Chapter Eleven

Spring Will Come

I know I am jumping the gun, but it just does not seem right

that we have to wait.  We do have to wait, though.  All good

things come in due time.  Patience.

Pretty Little Liar #T

Fourteen-year-old Rosie was perhaps an inch taller than I.  It would be yet several months before the growth spurt that would put me over six foot three.  The first time I saw Rosie walk past the concession stand, my head spun around, and it was still spinning  five days later when camp was over for the year.  She may or may not have been the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, but she was without doubt the most intriguing.

Rosie wore her auburn hair in two long plaits.  I knew just how long from just one glimpse, for after she braided her hair, she coiled it and pinned it atop her head, which of course made her seem even taller than she actually was.  It was my day to work as camp messenger.  Just before lights out the camp counselor handed me an envelope and told me to deliver it pronto to Cabin C.  That was Rosie’s cabin!  Well, Rosie’s and seven other girls, but they didn’t matter.  

I knocked on the door.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Missi--  the door swung open and there stood Rosie in a robe, hairbrush in her right hand and her hair hanging free.  There is no doubt that she could sit on her hair if she chose to do so.  I mean, oh, man!  I did not sleep for thirty hours.

So just how did Rosie lie to me?  Let me count the ways.  One, she told me I was “cute.”  I was too inexperienced at fourteen to understand the real meaning of the expression in girl language.  Two, she told me she would write back when I wrote to her.  I wrote, she didn’t.  Three, she told me she would “never forget me.”  On second thought, that may have been the truth, for she did call out to me just now, didn’t she?

We reminisced a bit, caught up a bit with talk of spouses, and children and grandchildren, and so forth.  I ribbed her about her dishonesty with me, all in good fun, because what did it matter now?  “Oh,” she exclaimed, “I am a very deceitful person.  I try to be truthful in word, but in deed it is a different story.”  Here she reached up, twisted the hair arrangement a bit, and removed her hairpiece from her head.  Bald.  Totally bald.

Then and only then did she tell me about the cancer, the chemo, the prognosis.

I cried.

She swatted my arm with her magazine.  “Go on.  Get outta here.  You always were a sentimental old fool, even when you were a kid.”

©2015 David W. Lacy

Rosie in the Attic #T

Climbed the ladder, pushed back the hatch and crawled into the attic again.  As I turned to my left, I bumped my noggin on a rafter.  I looked up, of course, to cast a scowl at the offending timber.  My eye fell on the five letters crudely cut into the wood, “ROSIE.”  “Oh, wow," I thought.  "How old was I when I carved that there?  Fourteen."

The summer I turned fourteen Rosie came up from Iowa for summer camp.  No, let’s not go there; shake it off.  I am walking along a sidewalk in a shaded residential area, a northern suburb of my mind.  Curiously the houses are of the cookie-cutter variety, remarkably similar in architecture and construction.  They are all single-story affairs, all with a front porch, roof cantilevered from the main structure and supported in front by two cylindrical pillars.  Twelve- to sixteen hundred square feet living space, I am guessing.  

Interesting is the fact that every house is painted a pastel shade, blue, yellow, green, aqua, orange, nothing glaring, tastefully selected colors, not a white one on the block.  I start to whistle  as I stroll, “In the corner of my mind stands a jukebox. . .”  Wait a minute.  I see no jukebox; just this row of homey little houses.

I am in front of a residence now which is a muted magenta/pink in color, pastel rose, in fact.  As I am reaching down for the low note. the elderly lady sitting in a rocker on her porch speaks.  “Hey, Red.”  I turn and look behind me to see who is there.   It has been sixty-five years since anyone called me “Red.”  She spoke again, “Red,” and appended my last name.  I look toward Grandma.  She laughs.  “It’s me, she says, “Rosie.  Don’t you remember your Rosie?”  

She had at least the good grace to eschew the “It is I” affectation.  I know, I know; that is the grammatically correct form, but for some reason it is off-putting to me.  Probably my plebeian roots.  I stopped, of course, turned up the walk and stood at the foot of the steps.  It was Rosie.  There was little doubt that this was the same person I had met during that summer long ago.  “Rosie!  This is wonderful!  But how did you recognize me?”

“Recognize you?  Why, you haven’t changed a bit!”

That clinched it.  No doubt this was Rosie, for Rosie was, and clearly still is, an inveterate liar. 

©2015 David W. Lacy

Pastries in the Early Morning

It started at 3:08 a.m.  It is not unusual for me to make a trip to the small room around this time of day.  Unfortunately getting cozy back under the covers did not lead to the immediate resumption of sleep.  Which my body craved.  But the mind.  Ah, the mind, she has a mind of her own.

I started thinking about stuff, or rather I started mentally roaming the small realm which is my universe.  Unbidden and with no recall of the trail that led me there, I was thinking of croquignoles. Now I have eaten this delicacy at least once, perhaps twice in my lifetime.  In order to properly order my thinking, I attempted the spelling of the word.  (The time may now be about 3:42.)  I came quite close, dropping the "g" and endowing the word with a second "l" to make up for it.  Not too bad for morning's wee hours, but still sleep eluded me.

This part I have to relate, because it is true, and after you read a bit further you may think I made this up.  But no, it actually happened this way. I was thinking about the restaurant in which Maizie is employed, and decided, in the state I was in, to have the chef, or cook, or whoever controlled the kitchen, to make croquignoles.  When we enjoyed this gustatory creation, I found it to be wonderful beyond my memory of any other such confections.  Louie, I had named him "Louie" by this time, explained that the deep frying process was done in his French fry oil, thus imparting a vague potato flavor to the goodies. By now, I have decided that I can make my own little Frenchy donut thingies.

So there I am in my bathrobe, coffee brewing, I seat myself at the computer at 4:45. Search: "croquignole."  Now we account for the first picture.  The first couple of pages of results were all about hair styling.  Say what?  Hair styling?  There were even articles directed to wannabe cosmetologists on prepping for their state boards.  It seems that a croquignole is a certain type of wave, or the technique used in setting such curls in which the hair is wound on a rod from the tip toward the scalp.  Who knew?  Well, BBBH, for one, but she was still sound asleep at six in the morning.  And seven o'clock, and . . .

And finally! Voila! Recipes for croquignoles of the delicious variety.  The first one I clicked on was by Emeril Lagasse, which I chose mostly because I had heard of him.  And guess what he used as a primary ingredient?  Potatoes.  I kid you not.  Now connect that back to what I told you above.  I am a genius and did not know it.

Reading further, I found a critic, a lady who apparently is the world's authority on croquignoles, and she asserted that Emeril's recipe was unlike any she had ever encountered, and the product, she averred, should rightly be called a beignet rather than a croquignole.  Then she launched into an essay on the origin of the pastries in question.  When I tell you I found it interesting, you need to put things into context: the sun was not yet up.  So now I know the difference between Cajun cooking and Creole cuisine, and so on and so forth.

And I went back to bed, having decided that the manufacture of croquignoles, no matter how delicious, is beyond my pay grade.

And I slept!

Spring, springs, and spring

These early signs of Spring in the yard combined with a sunny seventy degrees in the air tended to get me all excited within the range of possible excitement for a jaded old man such as myself.

Seriously, I do feel excitement at the promise of the coming of Spring and a new growing season.  I can still feel, I am just less able to be expressive about it.  I mean, there is no dancing in the streets.




In reading from the Bible,  I find the term "spring" as I am using it here to be pretty much absent although the word "spring" appears numerous times.  In I Samuel 9:26 we find an injunction to rise in "the spring of the day" which might be interpreted as a Spring such as we are soon to have, but I think more likely the phrase could as well have been interpreted "daybreak."

The only other use of the term which might reference a season is in Ezekial 17:9 wherein there is mentioned "leaves of her spring."  All other uses of the term refer either to spring (n.) as a source of water, a very important thing in that semiarid geographic locale, or to spring (vt.) meaning to leap, or to leap forth.  In any event, I find the Spring time of the year to be most exhilarating.

The first picture shows the springing of the naked ladies, or resurrection lilies about which I almost always write at the end of July.  The second picture shows the lilac, the leaves of which are near to bursting open!

About three years ago I wrote about Achsah, Caleb's daughter, and the springs which were the object of her attention in the Book of Joshua.  If you wish a short Sunday morning devotional, revisit the account here.

"Give me . . . springs of water."  Joshua 15:19
.
The readings are from the King James Version

Puzzle Season Wind Down

This puzzle was fun,  Appeared daunting, was challenging, yet doable.

Reading the geography was a hoot, too. From Callyer Bluffs to the Alp Yourself Mountains in the Electric Range.  The Tinker's Dam forming Looney Lake on the Crymia River.  Weekend in the Wilden Crazy State Park or the Runamok Wildlife Preserve.  Pass Hog Heaven as you take the Uptown Excessway back home.

And lots of other equally silly stuff.

Fun.

Arlo #T

Louie set a plate on our table.  "Bon appetit!" he said, and walked back to the kitchen.  

"Ooh," crooned Maizie, "it's not every day that Louie shares his croquignoles with the help."  As we nibbled on the most amazing pastries, Maizie continued her account of her life.

"He’s not a big man in a physical sense. Arlo stood five-six at 135.  When I wore heels, we were eyeball to eyeball.  But Arlo was a big man in every other way.  Anatole Broussard, Frenchman, New Orleans native, rich daddy.  Too complicated to go into.  Anatole hated his name for numerous reasons, so he called himself Arlo.  Changed his last name, too, after he and his daddy had a fallin’-out.  Arlo Bruce; so I am Mrs. Bruce.  Oh, yes, he suckered everyone he met, and I was no exception.

"Well, Arlo came in here once, twice a week at first, started sweet-talking me.  Soon coming in four, five nights a week and before long we were a thing.  Charm? The man shoulda named himself Charm.  Suave? oh, yeah, and slick, too.  Talked me right out of any good sense I might have had.  Long story short, I am forty-five, no raving beauty and middle-age crazy.  We were married in a beautiful little chapel over in St. Martinville, Louisiana.

Now the thing is, Arlo really loved me.  Truly he did, and I loved him.  It didn't hurt that he had money.  I didn’t ask.

"Arlo had a little fifty-six foot Princess cruiser, kept a crew of two on board.  Come October, we sailed for Cozumel.  Wonderful trip, three greatest weeks of my life.

"Then the Federales came, then came the extradition.  I know you have read about the trial, lasted five weeks, it did.  Convicted on a list of fraud charges longer than your left leg.  Sent to Federal Camp at Pensacola.  And I was forty-eight and broke as the pitcher that slipped from my hands yesterday."

“Weren’t any of your children in a position to help you?”

“Position to?  Yes, indeed.  A mind to?  No way.  They were against the marriage in the first place, and they too much had ‘I told you so’ on their minds.  Here we are a decade later, and I've made it on my own.  If only it weren't for this darn bunion."

©2015 David W. Lacy

How Very Puzzling

Another puzzle completed and now reboxed.  These are the five children of BBBH

In order, left to right, youngest to eldest.

Kent, Ricky, Shari, Curt, JoLynn

Picture taken by yours truly, puzzle manufactured locally by Package Right Corporation.  If you have a great picture that you would like made into a puzzle, check them out.  You will find them online at mypersonalpuzzle.com

Not a paid advertisement.  I buy, I like, I promote.

Maizie, Maizie #T

" Pssst.  Hey, looka this.”  No more had I brushed away the cobwebs and crawled through the attic door than Skinny Man stepped from the mouth of the alley onto the sidewalk directly in front of me. Startled?  Not that the man had stepped from the alley but by his appearance.  He was wearing a wheat-colored three-piece linen suit.  The Shelby-knotted white tie laid in stark contrast against the plum-colored shirt.  He shot his cuffs to display the pearl links and extended his right hand toward me.

“I want to thank you, Captain,” he said.  “You saved my life.”

No longer startled, now I am stunned.  “How did you go from that to this in only a week?  Don’t tell me.  You bought a scratch-off ticket with the dollar, won five-hundred bucks and blew it all on clothes.”

“You are not only a gentleman, Captain; you are a card!  No, no, nothing like that.  I took your advice to clean up, pitched my inventory into that trash barrel there beside you, went over to the mission above Pier 18.  Got scrubbed up, cleaned up, and the preacher over there introduced me to Jesus.  I am a new man!’'

“I can see the difference, but how did you get rich in seven days, short of robbing a bank.  Don’t tell me you robbed a bank?”

“There you go with the jokes again.  No, Captain, I told you I met Jesus, and he has changed my life.  I have some skills and a spot of education, was just sunk too deep into myself to do anything useful for the past five years.  Mission cleaned me up, suited me up, and I got a job with GulfTel.  I am working, Man, and I owe it all to you.  And to Jesus, of course.”

“Well, look.  I am thrilled for you and all, but I’ve got to be around the corner before eight-thirty.  Good luck to you.”

I stepped around Skinny and headed on toward the café.  “Thanks again, Captain!”  I heard him say to my back.

I grabbed the door pull.  No dice; the door was locked.  Missed her by moments.  I turned, but as I did, I caught a glimpse of the yellow dress out the corner of my eye as Maizie moved toward the entryway.  She hit the panic bar and said, “Come on in here.  I thought you weren’t going to come.”  We sat in the back booth next the kitchen and sipped our coffee.

“So,” I said, “you were forty, broke, jobless, and alone except for a kid wanting to go to college.  Then what?”

Maizie lit a  cigarette, took a long draught, exhaled through her nose, twin streams of smoke rebounding in billows from the table top.  “Then what?  That is the question, isn’t it?  Well, I got a good gig in a swell restaurant in Biloxi.  Clientele was good people, not rich people, but people who could afford to eat out once, twice a week; people who had earned their own way.  They knew that good work should be rewarded, and they tipped well.  I was rolling in dough, so to speak, and never had to make a single loaf of bread!  The kid went up to Jackson State, and you might think I had it made.

"Well, it did look like I had it made.  Between my work and his, Will, that 's my boy, Will got through school, good job in Memphis now.  But then Arlo walked into the restaurant one night, twenty minutes before closing time.  Say, that was just what you did here the other day.  I sure hope you are no Arlo.

©2015 David W. Lacy

History Test

The only person elected by popular vote to serve as governor in two different states, as well as having served  twice as the President of a foreign nation.

Name the man.  (5 points)

Name the states. (1 point each)

Name the country. (2 points)

Essay:  In fewer than 25 words, tell what he refused to do that forced his resignation from the last of those three  posts.  Or go ahead and look at the answers!

Psalm 1

1 Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly nor standeth in the way of sinners nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful

2 But his delight is in the law of the Lord and in his law doth he meditate day and night

3 And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water that bringeth forth his fruit in his season his leaf also shall not wither and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper

4 The ungodly are not so but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away

5 Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous

6 For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous but the way of the ungodly shall perish 

Psalm 1 (KJV)

Wide Open Spaces

Two years ago I wrote a short story, "Intersections," the primary setting of which was Dalhart, Texas.  Doing some research for another project, I came across this tidbit,

Dalhart, Texas is a small town of about 7500 population on the High Plains.  It is closer to six other state capitals than it is to its own capital,  Austin.

In the Nooks and Crannies of the Mind #T

The lady had taken off her cap and snood, had thrown a grey knit stole around her shoulders.  She slid into the booth opposite me, had a coffee for herself.  “Name’s Maizie, as you know.  What’s yours?”

“Don,” I said.  My name is Don.”

“Well,” laughed Maizie, “that should be easy to remember. Is it short for Donald?”

“No, it is just plain Don.  Mother said Dad took one look at me at birth, scarlet, scrawny, and screaming.  ‘You’ve got to be putting me on,’ he said.  ‘Don.  It’s Don.’  And I have been Don ever since.”

“Well. any man digging around in his own mind, looking for a story is surely entitled to it if he finds it.  Here it is.”

Maizie lit a GPC, snapped her lighter shut, dropped it in her purse.  “You don’t mind if I smoke?”  Actually, I do mind. It is, after all, my mind, but I just nod my head to indicate that she should continue with her tale.

 "I was born in Gautier, Miss’ippi like I say, fifty-nine years ago.  Daddy worked in the shipyards, good provider he was.  Had no siblings and Mama doted on me.  Anything I wanted was mine for the asking.  Grew up thinkin’ I was a princess, I guess.  Went to Ole Miss when I was seventeen.  That’s up to Oxford, you know.  Was gonna be a librarian, always loved books.  So I met this Wilfred up there, an’ he convinced me he thought I made the sun come up in the morning.  Wouldn’t do but that I be his wife, so I dropped out of school, married him.  An’ start poppin’ out kids, one a year for four years. Put up a new calendar, have another kid.  Three girls and a boy.

"Well, Will, I always called him Will, was good to us, handed me his paycheck every week, and never missed a day’s work.  But Will had a wild hair.  I knew this, but he remained steady, always headed to work in the morning, came home at night, turned over the paycheck.  The first two girls graduated high school, got married.  The third girl and Will, Jr graduated together since they were Irish twins less than a year apart and in the same class.  Commencement ceremony over, party at our house to celebrate.  Their Daddy came in, hugged each one of them, told them he loves them dearly.  Turned to me and said, 'Thank you, Ma’am.  You did good, gave me four wonderful children.'  And he walked out the door, took nothing but the clothes he wore, and I’ve not seen him nor heard from him to this day.

"So there I am.  Forty years old, no job, no income, savings enough to last a couple weeks, and a boy that wanted to go to college.  And me in coastal Miss’ippi.

“Now not being rude, but you’ll have to excuse me now.  I need to get on home.  This bunion is killing me.”.

“But, but. . .”  I stammered.  “What on earth happened to you?”

“Well, Silly Don.  Here I am.  What you see is what you get.”

“No more story, then?”

“Unless you show up in the same corner of your mind next Tuesday evening.  ‘Night now!”

©2015 David W. Lacy

  

High Time, Too

One of the numerous puzzles we have done this winter.  This one, a reminder that winter shall not always endure.  This is the appropriate day for that reminder, too, for the temperature may well reach 60^o!  Maybe this everlasting snow won't be so everlasting, after all.

If you find that missing piece under your table, send it on over.

Poking Around in the Attic #T

I have taken some time away from writing to search through my attic, hoping to find another story or two.  I strolled at twilight along a deserted urban street in the northwest corner of my mind.  As I approached the middle of the block, a skinny little man, unkempt and ragged, stepped from the alley and accosted me.  “Pssst,” he hissed, “you like some  dirty pictures, some filthy stories?” 

“Not interested,” I said. “Here,” I handed him a dollar bill, “go buy yourself some soap. And get your mind out of the gutter while you are at it.  Scram.”

The café on the next corner was still open.  I stepped inside, took a stool at the counter.  A buxom woman well past life’s midpoint ambled along behind the counter, slopped a glass of water and a setup in front of me.  “Whadda ya want?”  she asked.  I noted her mustard-colored, not to mention mustard-stained dress, her name tag on her left breast, “Maizie.”

Looking into her clear, pale blue eyes, I replied, “I want stories; or even one story.  But you look a little weary.  Guess I’d settle for a cuppa joe and that last slice of apple pie there.”

“Mister, you don’t know from stories.  Look at me.  No, really.  Look at me.  I am fifty-nine years old last week, and here I am after eight o’clock on Tuesday night  sloppin’ coffee ‘n slingin’ hash.  You think I don’t know from stories?  Well, sir, you ain’t lived long, then.”

“Do tell.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “I ain’t into no funny business, Mister.  I work hard, I go home.  That’s it. You want stories, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

I was disappointed because I really thought she might have a tale to tell.  I took the last bite of pie, swallowed the last swig of java.  I swung off the stool, laid a ten spot on the counter and said, “The change is yours, Maizie.  Have a nice night.”  

As I tripped the panic bar to open the door, Maizie spoke to me again. “Wait.”  I stopped, let the door drift closed.  “I get off work in ten minutes.  We can sit right here in a booth and talk a bit if a story is really all you want.”

“All right, then.  A story is exactly what I am looking for, and the only thing I am looking for.  Why else would a man be rummaging around in the recesses of his mind at this time of life?”  I slipped into the vacant booth nearest the kitchen.  Maizie put another cup of coffee in front of me.  

I waited while she finished her shift.

©2015 David W. Lacy

Huh?

Thaw!

The heat pump is running!  Snow is melting!

The courageous old people ventured out for

an evening on the town.

Beloved had the salad.  I snapped pix while 

awaiting the entree.

It was well worth the wait!

I had the seafood ravioli, marinara.

She chose spaghetti and meatballs.

We concluded the evening with a visit to Atlanta Music Hall.  Pasta for the palate, music for the soul.  A truly great night out.

The band segued into a waltz.  92-year old gentleman wearing a brown derby stood, bowed to his 89-year old wife, extended his hand.  She accepted, stood, and they waltzed across the front of the room, danced up the aisle!  I can only hope that when I am 92. . .

High School Terror

Senior year.  The end of a long twelve-year trail of terror.

What?  My big achievement?  Advertising model with Jeanetta Miller for the transit company.  We met at the bus barn, photog made the shot.  We did not get so much as a bus ride.

422 Terrors graduated in June.

Left: Classmate Wes Reiff.  He and I were best friends from age five until has death in 2009.

Right:  Roland Paegle from Latvia by way of Texas. There were a number of chess players in our class, but Roland was the only one who was consistently as strong as I.  We had many good matches. 

In an ironic twist, I discovered many years after I moved from the area that for six years Roland practiced medicine within a dozen miles of my home.  He passed away in 2011 before I was able to make contact with him.

Jeanetta is no longer with us, either.

Woe

"The devil is trying to kill me."  BBBH looks the picture of health, given her age and all, but she is not exempt from physical woes.  She bears them stoically for the most part, but she made this statement yesterday.

My response was, "The devil cannot do that.  He may indeed create many woes for mankind, and for us individually, but he can't kill us."

"Why would you think that?"

"The Book of Job. The Lord allowed Satan to mess with Job but forbade him to take his life."

"That was Job,:" she said.

"That was a righteous person who was known of God who knew that Job was faithful.  He extends the same grace and protection to you.  Job's story is not just a story.  There is a message in it."

"Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: but I will maintain mine own ways before him.  He also shall be my salvation: for an hypocrite shall not come before him."  --Job 13:15,16  KJV