I Killed a Baby Bunny Today...

I have a huge backyard and it takes a while for me to mow. It has been the location of many great memories with two little girls growing up; backyard birthday parties, slip-n-slide get-togethers, chasing and playing with dogs. Since our last German Shepherd died in 2009, it has become the perfect habitat for all manner of creatures that walk, jump, run, and even crawl.

Our rabbit population has also increased with babies running to and fro all day long. I look out for them, even throwing out lettuce and a carrot or two. When I saw what I had done today, I thought back to a time when I was 8 or 9. We had a bad Blue Jay population that stole our pecans. Dad told me he would pay me a quarter for each Blue Jay I killed and brought to him. I do not know if Dad actually thought a young boy with a BB gun was going to impact the Blue Jay population by any measurable amount, but it gave me something to do. A few days later, after a lot of misses, I killed my first bird. Not long after, I got my second. By then I noticed a bird kept returning to the same tree. I decided to climb the tree to see if there was a nest. It was a tall pecan tree on the back two acres—too far away for anyone to hear me if I called for help. I remember getting some rope from the barn and attaching one end to my BB gun and the other end to my waist. After climbing the tree, I found a nest with three or four baby birds. Until I saw them, I had not thought of what I would do if I actually found any birds. The momma bird kept flying towards me attempting to scare me off. God made the females of the species very protective and endowed them with a special trait to nurture and care for their young. She was no different. After a few moments of mental debate, I either let them live or thought I should do as my dad asked because these would grow up and “steal” our pecans. I finally decided to drop them. Later that evening, I took my Piggly Wiggly "game bag" to the house to show Dad my kills and get my money. He seemed impressed when I went into the bag for the third time to remove another bird. When he saw what I had it was easy to see the disappointment on his face. He asked how I got them. I recounted the events. He could have been angry, or worse he could have been proud. I am glad he was neither. He told me you have to give animals a fighting chance. Taking a life is a solemn event. He counted out the quarters, one for each bird, then told me to bury the birds. I found a nice place under the tree they lived in. I took the quarters from my pocket and threw them in the little grave before covering them with dirt. The dirt that covered the dead bodies was symbolic of me hiding the feelings of my actions.

Please do not misunderstand; I am not a card-carrying PETA fanatic. I grew up hunting and fishing and we ate what we caught and killed. We had cows, goats, and all breeds of dogs we cared for and provided for. We did what generations of mankind have done going back to the Garden of Eden. God made “male and female” telling them to “be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground”. We are charged by our Creator to protect and manage all living things on this earth. Just do a word study (etymological) of the words “man”, “husbandry”, and “management”—they all come from the same root word. For a long time, agricultural colleges offered degrees in “animal husbandry”. It is now called “animal science”. We are to protect life and manage all Earth’s resources.

Aborted fetuses being shipped to an incinerator.

Preserved aborted fetuses for research.

After a few moments of remembering the Blue Jay event, I thought about the people who invest time and money in protecting animals. There are many people who spend their entire lives protecting and defending endangered animals like the Mexican Walking Fish or Chinese Giant Salamander. Then there are some that want to protect all animals all the time from all bi-pedal predators—man. They would give their lives to protect an animal. I guess this is admirable in a way, but then many of these same defenders have no problem with the murder of innocent babies. Oh, they have nice names for it: “manual vacuum aspiration” and “Intact D&X” (Dilation and Extraction), but they all have a singular purpose: kill the unborn child growing in a woman’s body. These aborted babies are then backed in red biological bags or placed in glass containers filled with preservatives. The red bags are then incinerated. Sometimes they are just thrown in the trash. No funerals. No memorials. People should care for animals, but having greater concern for animals than unborn humans is wrong.

All these thoughts flooded my consciousness while I stood watching. You see, I walk the backyard, make a lot of noise, and have an idea of most of the rabbit hole locations. It is kind of like a Seinfeld episode—“The Merv Griffin Show”—where George first hits a pigeon while driving, then steps on another. Finally, he swerves the car to miss a pigeon only to hit a squirrel. He continues to argue that man and pigeons “had a deal”. They do their thing (pooping on everyone and statue defecation) and in return, they move out of the way for humans. The big John Deere makes a lot of noise and I drive slow enough to give ample warning in the event there are even slower rabbits. However, today, they were not in a hole in the open yard. Instead, they were under a tree that had snapped years ago from a tornado. The limbs began to grow towards the bottom and became a huge 12-foot tall tree-bush. I was using my push mower to get under the limbs when I saw an adolescent rabbit running away. Movement caught my attention and noticed several very small bunnies crawling/walking way. They were maybe 4-inches. It was then I noticed one that was just kind of writhing in place. There was no blood and I was hoping that the blades had missed him (the actual hole was under the tire track and not the blades). I walk away in an attempt to allow the momma to return and care for her young. I decided to not finish mowing under the bush. A few moments later after mowing around another tree, I finished and knocked on the back door to get my wife’s attention. She came out on the deck and I told her what had happened. She was sad. I recounted the Blue Jay story and how I felt about that event. Moments later, after cleaning both mowers and stowing them in “Ed’s Shed”, I walk back to the tree-bush. There he was. He was not moving. Thankfully, all the others were gone. I walk to the garage to get a shovel. Since the first grave for birds, I have dug many graves for animals. It is never an easy task. I decided to bury him between my two German Shepherds, Jacoba and Nikko. Perhaps this way, he will always have someone to play with. The dogs loved to lie under the tree-bush and ironically, the bunny is only 20 feet from where he was born.

Bunny Burial.

I finished filling, covering, and tamping down the moist soil. I killed a baby bunny today; it reminded me of all the aborted babies and it made me sad. At least this baby had a funeral.

(Note: During the 40 minutes it took to write this, 80 babies were aborted.)

What Freedom Means to Me

“Humanity has won its battle. Liberty now has a country”.

Marquis de LaFayette, 1781

Before I can answer what freedom means to me, we must first understand what freedom is and how we get or achieve freedom. What is freedom? Dictionaries define it multiple ways but essentially they offer the following. Freedom (noun): (1) the power or right to act, speak or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. (2) absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government. (3) the power of self-determination attributed to the will; the quality of being independent of fate or necessity. Synonyms include independence, self-determination, self-rule. How do we achieve freedom? To me, this is an easy answer. Freedom comes from God, but it is up to man to keep and preserve it.

Man was made in the image of its—our—Creator. He gave us “free will”. This phrase simply means we were created with the ability to think, analyze, draw conclusions and finally make decisions and choices. Because we were made in His image we possess the ability of reason and decision making. The scripture is clear: “Then God said, ‘Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness; let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’ So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.” Genesis 1:26-27.

We, man and woman, male and female, may look different, but all over this created planet in a created universe, the whole of humanity was created with both the ability and responsibility to manage and exert authority over our own lives and all of creation. It was upon this principle of being free our Founding Fathers authored the Declaration of Independence. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their powers from the consent of the governed.”

This Nation was founded upon the very principle God gave to all mankind—to be free. Years after the Revolutionary War, the writers of the Constitution enumerate some of these rights that come from our Creator—not by man and not by government—they are called the “Bill of Rights”.

We are free to choose what we believe, where we travel, where we live, what we eat, if, how and who we worship. We are free to voice our opinions or remain silent. We are free to gather publicly in both support of or opposition to our elected officials. We are free to criticize. We are free to praise. We are free to start and conduct business. We are free to enter contracts. We are free to do just about anything we want, even denouncing how wonderful this Nation is. This means we are free to burn, stomp, and disrespect the flag of this great Nation. We are free to draw cartoons and create art of religious figures. We are free.

While I have tried to explain what freedom is, I find it difficult. Freedom is hard to explain while you live free, but becomes extremely easy when you lose it. To me, freedom is more about the conscious choice to become and remain free. It is about our daily decision to either accept encroachments on freedoms or question their validity. It is about exercising our rights or losing them.

We have all heard the expression, “Home of the free because of the brave”. We then associate “the brave” with the men and women serving in our military. This is a true and an apt applicable association—our military is all volunteer and they will serve and “fight for right and freedom” “in ev'ry clime and place”. However, I assert the responsibility belongs to all that live free. We must choose to remain free, for we can either live free in our lives, or in our memories.

When we look back to the Revolutionary War, the men that gathered, took up arms, and battled a superpower, they were your neighbors, not some trained military. They were craftsman, noblemen, store clerks, farmers, backwoodsmen, authors and doctors, and lawyers. They represented three percent of the Colonists. A mere three percent changed the course of a nation and lead the world to a monumental change in philosophy and government. They fought from Lexington to Yorktown in small towns, countrysides, and valleys, with names like Ticonderoga and Saratoga, Boston and Bunker Hill, Camden, and Cowpens. These brave men were veterans of a war, yet not professional soldiers. They agreed with John Adams. Shortly before he signed the Declaration of Independence he said, “I am well aware of the toil and blood and treasure that it will cost us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet through all the gloom, I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory. I can see that the end is more than worth all the means and that posterity will triumph”. These three percent in tattered uniforms, using rags for boots stood proudly as they watched Cornwallis and his British Army adorned in colorful uniforms march in and surrender to Washington.

The Declaration of Independence John Trumbull

The spirit of the three percent resides in each of us. We know the importance of living free. Living in the manner God intended. We have seen this spirit multiple times. From all the battlefields on foreign soil to a seat on a Montgomery bus. We must be willing to take a stand and lift up our voice to stop anyone that attempts to limit our freedom.

Thomas Paine challenged, nay charged us to do just that, “Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.”

Declaration of Independence

What freedom means to me is choosing to and doing all in my power to make all people free and most importantly, keeping this Nation as the “home of the free”. The cost of freedom is high. It is never paid in full. The costs are worth it and the means justify the end.

Enjoy your weekend but please take a moment to reflect on the 56 signatures affixed to a parchment titled “The unanimous Declaration of the united Thirteen States”. These men knew and willingly accepted the risk of death by signing their name in a Philadelphia, PA meeting hall. What are you willing to risk?

May God continue to bless these United States of America.

LabCorp Comedy Club

This morning I had to have blood drawn for some labs. I joined three ladies in the waiting room. There were many open seats, but I chose the row with only two seats. It was closer to the door, and there was a woman in her late 30s in the other chair. That had no bearing on my decision.😉 However, this is not about her. Instead, it is about the Lady, in her mid-60s. Let's call her Miss WTH. She was explaining to the other women how bad Obamacare was, and they shook their heads in agreement, much like a bobblehead doll on the dash of an F-250 Fx4 muddin' in the woods. She then shifted gears and started with how Obama was going to stop the 2016 election. "He is using all these racial shootings to stir up 'the blacks' and will enact 'The' Martial Law. He will use this to confiscate all the guns." The truck must have stopped because their heads were no longer bobbing.

She explained Obama was going to use Jade Helm as a way to get people used to seeing the military in their city. Okay, this goes on and I am waiting for my 0845 appointment. I interrupted asking where she was getting her information, acting like I had never heard such. She replied, "The internet. Go to 'the' YouTube."

Other comments included (1) Obama has a clone--you know they have that technology--and if you take him out, his clone will take over. (2) Less than 1% of the world controls all world events--"them Bilderbergs". They control the world. "Well, I’ll be." I said just loud enough for the lady--call her Miss America--beside me to hear, "I thought they were a nice store where you could take your kids and build-a-bear. I'll be." Miss America laughed.

I then chimed in, saying, "I think they are actually Reptilians from Rigel 7."  Miss America pinched my arm and winked at me. Miss WTH just looked at me like I was some conspiracy kook. How ironic.

Miss WTH's phone started ringing while two black families entered. Miss WTH announces that it is her sister in Atlanta and had to answer. She explains she is having blood work--"but nothing serious". (Miss Third Lady was then called back and had a look of both relief for herself and pity for us that remained.) Miss WTH asked her sister if she had heard of the shooting, then asked all of us the same. Without waiting for replies, Miss WTH explained she visited that very church years ago and probably sat in what today is a blood-stained pew. Incidentally, we could also hear her sister from Atlanta because of the volume. For a while, I thought we were on a conference call. She mostly said "Nooo" and "I'll be". Miss WTH then told her sister how her 66th birthday went.

"'My man' was angry. I did not get to the restaurant until 6:15. We had planned to meet at 5:30, but I was running late."--"How many dates 'had' you been on with him?" her Atlanta sister inquired.--"This would have been our third. He told me he had to leave and apologized, then got up and left. I was appalled at his behavior. Why would he do that to me? He did not give a single reason. I was talking to my daughter at 10 while watching the news, and she was asking about the date. I told her, no dinner, no card, no present, and the next thing I know she showed up with a flower she picked from her garden and a tin of cookies".

A black lady sitting beside Miss WTH was directly across from me. She was smiling at me while rolling her eyes and shaking her head. The collective waiting room looked as if all were doing their best to contain their laughter. One fart and the laughter would have sounded like a Jerry Seinfeld joke at a comedy club on Saturday night.

The door opened, EDDY GILLEY? -- "That's me!" I have not sprung to my feet that fast since one of my German Shepherds placed his cold nose on my bare butt. Once standing, Miss America mouthed "I hate you". Might I add--and this is important--Miss America has cerulean blue eyes, red lipstick, and her black sunglasses were perched upon her stylish blonde hair. She wore a light blue sleeveless scalloped neck shirt, white shorts, and tan leather thong sandals. Her nicely pedicured toenails were accentuated by red nail polish, and for the record, her fingernails were real and French-tipped. Anyway, Miss America was a bit envious of my winning the lottery, I mean, being called back to get stuck with a HUGE needle. I placed my hand across my heart and feigned a look of disbelief.

Jerry Seinfeld.

I turned to Miss WTH and said, "Excuse me. Ma'am, I do not mean to interrupt. I just wanted to wish you a belated Happy Birthday and offer my apologies for the events you described. I agree, it is hard for me to think of a single reason why your man would not want to spend an evening with you."

Someone must have farted as I turned to go because the room erupted in laughter.

Now I know how Jerry Seinfeld feels on a Saturday night at the (LabCorp) Comedy Club.

National Donut Day

Whether you spell it Doughnut or Donut, the first Friday in June is the day set aside to honor these sinfully delectable, delightful diet busters. I prefer ‘donut’ by taking the “ugh” out of something so sweet. This Friday, 05 JUN 2015 marks the 77^th annual “official” National Donut Day, the first occurring on 07 JUN 1938.

Milton Quality Bakery Donuts

It was on this day that a young US Army doctor, Morgan Pett, stopped at a local bakery to purchase 8 dozen donuts to distribute to patients at a military hospital. One of the patients was Lieutenant General Samuel Geary, who was so moved by the act of kindness, he wanted to fund a program that would provide a free donut to every serviceman. The Salvation Army, having provided donuts to our fighting men in Europe in World War I from their “huts”, quickly joined the cause.

WWI Poster

During WWI, our fighting men longed for something that was freshly baked such as breads and rolls. Something fresh and sweet was even better. The fighting men also enjoyed the “sweet” young ladies serving the desserts in the “donut huts”. These ladies were affectingly known as “Donut Dollies”. In WWII, the ladies of the American Red Cross also distributed donuts and they too were lovingly called Donut Dollies.

Everyone enjoys biting into a soft, warm donut. Whether it is the familiar round (toroidal-shaped) or filled (injected with cream, custard, or fruit preserves), we all know a good donut when we bite into one. I have eaten at all the national chains—Krispy Kreme, Dunkin’ Donuts, and even Spudnuts (made with potato flour) and several local bakeries from the East to the West Coast but none compare to Milton, Florida’s own Milton Quality Bakery.

Dropping by the bakery on the way to school, no matter how late I might be, was always worth it. Cheese Danish, Boston Crème, Lemon filled…ummmm, tasting these treats was a party for the palate. Milton Quality Bakery (MQB) set the standard for all pastries. I have many wonderful memories from high school, birthdays, to introducing MQB to my children. Those who grew up or lived in Milton and then moved away always make it a priority to stop in to get a donut. Whenever NW Florida friends visit me in North Alabama, they ask for my donut order and bring it to me. One of my first stops and definitely my last when I visit Milton is always MQB.

Kenneth Norman "Mitch" Michener
09 FEB 45 - 03 OCT 14

For many Milton and Santa Rosa County residents, MQB is a fixture. It has been in the same location as far back as I can remember. Another fixture was co-owner Kenneth “Mitch” Michener. After a tour in the US Navy, he remained in Milton to marry a sweet, pretty young girl, Frances Malone. Mitch joined the family business and was our real-life “Fred the Baker”. On many a late night, we would be on our way home while Mitch would be leaving his home because it was “time to make the donuts”. Mitch loved fast cars. He was known to all the young guys, kind of like a modern-day James Dean bad boy. I am sure some of Milton’s Finest would have preferred he not drive so fast, but he could always say he was late getting to the bakery. We all know of the affinity to donuts that LEOs have.

Sadly, this National Donut Day is the first without Mitch. He passed last October. While there are no words to lessen the family’s pain of loss, I hope they take some comfort in the knowledge many of us think of him whenever we bite into one of their donuts. They are simply the best donuts I have ever eaten.

LtCol Orson Swindel, USMC

There seems to be a common thread weaving together the US military and donuts. From WWI through WWII to Mitch serving in the US Navy and yours truly, a US Marine, donuts are ever-present. With that in mind, I leave you with a funny anecdote from Vietnam. In SEP 1969, LtCol Orson Swindel, USMC, was a “guest” at a North Vietnamese POW camp. LtCol Swindel was piloting his F-8E Crusader on Veterans Day, 11 NOV 66, when he was shot down. He would be shuffled between various POW camps, including the infamous Hanoi Hilton, in which he shared a cell with John McCain, and the horrendous Son Tay camp. You might remember the failed rescue attempt at this prison camp. Anyway, in OCT 1969, Swindel's interrogator was making fun of and belittling the USA and how it was a young country without many traditions or holidays. Swindel, ever the Marine, was not willing to let the enemy win any battle, even if it was about holidays. He knew the Marine Corps' birthday was in a few weeks (10 NOV) and wanted to celebrate it, but could not tip his hand. Instead, he made up ‘National Donut Day’ (unofficial), a day all Americans dress up in festive attire, schools are let out, businesses are closed, and all Americans eat at least one donut. He continued to spin the yarn, explaining that donuts are similar to the French “sweet bread” (the French had a long history in Vietnam, so the Vietnamese were familiar with the dessert). He got the other POWs involved to continue the ruse with the guards.

Milton Quality Bakery | Milton, FL

As the day drew near, no one knew what would happen. If the ruse was discovered, the POWs could be beaten or worse. Finally, the day arrived. On the 194^th Marine Corps Birthday, and the day before Veterans Day, the POW camp known for its harsh conditions with little food, served the American servicemen “donuts”. A Marine-led Pastry Mission was successful against the Vietnamese captors. For one day, at least one meal, POWs had a taste from home, much like the American fighting men half a century earlier in European trenches of WWI.

So on this “official” National Donut Day, I hope you enjoy your favorite fried flour treat and reflect back on memories you shared with friends eating them, our military men and women, and more importantly, the people who made and served them, like the Donut Dollies and Mitch and Frances Michener. I just wish I were close enough to Milton to stop in MQB for a Boston Crème and perhaps hear the roar of Mitch starting one of his hot rods.

Note: For additional information on LtCol Swindel, please visit:
Interview by Gene Pell's show "Veterans Chronicles" on Radio America (audio)

I'll Fix You Right Up

Rufus "Doc" Thames, Jr., MD

Growing up in Milton, living “way out in the Country” with two younger brothers provided me with ample opportunities to injure myself. Most times we just “rubbed some dirt on it” and “walked it off”, but there were other times we had to seek "professional" medical attention. From the time I could remember until moving away from Milton after graduating from Pensacola State College (then PJC) to finish my education, I saw three doctors: Dr. E. V. Sutton, Dr. H. M. (Max) Meredith, and Dr. Rufus Thames, Jr. I was a patient of only the first two. It was a chance meeting that Dr. Thames treated me. More on that later.

Shortly after graduating with my fellow Class of ’79 MHS Panthers in MAY, I started working for Boo Weekley’s daddy, Tom. Tom purchased the Milton location of Fortune’s Rexall Drugs from Ed Fortune. For many years, the store was located in Gateway Plaza (beside Waffle House) before moving to the Berryhill Road location in the 1980s. I was originally hired to work the cash register, stock shelves, sweep, etc. That was not enough for me. I soon was checking in orders for sundries and OTC medications. Better, but not where I wanted to be. I wanted to work alongside Tom. He allowed me to do so, and I soon learned to read prescriptions, pull the meds, type the labels (yes, on a typewriter), and basically do everything required to work alongside a pharmacist. It was a wonderful experience, and I learned a lot while working there. But before all this happened, I had a lot of learning to do.

One of the first things every employee in the store learned was to properly answer the telephone: “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I HELP you?” If it was a doctor’s office, we immediately “hollered” to Tom so he knew to pick up the phone. Normally, nurses call in prescriptions or inquire about a patient’s prescription history. That is, all but Dr. Rufus “Doc” Thames, Jr. He preferred to do this himself. Sometime within the first week or so, I answered the phone, “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I help YOU?”—I was a fast learner—I heard what can only be described as a loud vocalization of a man that could not utter any words in any known language. It sounded like Uh-huhhhh. Say this aloud to yourself, as if you are agreeing with something someone told you in conversation, but hold on to that “h”. Go ahead. We will wait. Got the sound in your head? That is all I heard, so I once again replied, in a somewhat more professional voice attempting to express authority, “This is Fortune’s Drugs, HOW.MAY.I.HELP.YOU?” The reply was the same single grunt I heard earlier, but a bit more emphatic. I am now lost. I was not taught this in training. What if this was a mental patient—what are the protocols for talking someone down? What if it was a patient suffering an “adverse drug reaction” and I hung up on them, could the store be held liable? I then continued trying to explain this was a business and attempted to develop some common communication skills. Perhaps monosyllabic words were necessary. It was then I heard Tom start hollering, “That’s Doc Thames! That’s Doc Thames!” as he dropped what he was doing to pick up the phone. You might have noticed we did a lot of hollering. Hollering, pronounced hollerin’ (drop the ‘g’), was acceptable when trying to communicate from front to rear of the store. It is different from “yelling”, pronounced yellin’. Yelling is when you increase your volume and are shouting at someone while engaged in an angry conversation. For example, “Mom holler’d for us kids to come in. When we showed up late, she yell’d at us for not coming when she holler’d”.

Tom attempted to explain that I was new, still learning, and that it would never happen again. This, he said while looking down at me from his perch in the pharmacy above the store level. Most of us are old enough to remember when “drug stores” had a compartmentalized pharmacy area that was elevated two or three feet above the floor level. This was to instill trust (fear?) in what the pharmacist told you. They were authoritative and were in a position superior to you. They were “above” you, and you must reach “up” to take the medicine they were handing “down” to you. Kind of like when Moses had to reach “up” to take the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments God was handing “down" to man.

After the call, Tom explained Doc Thames always calls in his own prescriptions and only says, “Uh-huhhhh.” I learned to understand his signature single-word greeting rather quickly. Again, I am a fast learner. I also soon learned to read prescriptions (scripts) and was taking calls from doctors’ offices. One day the phone rang, and after my now professional yet congenial greeting of “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I ASSIST YOU?” I received the unmistakable greeting from Doc Thames. I quickly explained I could take the script. Without any pause, he asked, “Son, do you hunt?” – Yes, sir. — “Do you take a shot if you cannot make sure the area beyond the deer is clear?”— No, sir.— “If you do not have a clear shot but still think you can kill the deer, do you take the shot? ”— No, sir.— “Do you understand why I am asking you these questions? ”—Yes, sir.— “Why?” — "You want to make sure I understand the importance of taking a prescription correctly and not try to do so just to prove I can. I must be 100% confident my actions will not endanger anyone." In other words, Doc Thames was ensuring I had no doubt in my mind about taking this script. I am not sure a teenager in a drug store could take the Hippocratic Oath, but I certainly understood the “Primum non nocere” portion, and he wanted to make sure he fulfilled the “First, do no harm” clause of the oath. Satisfied I could handle it, he then rattled off the script. I am not sure if I jumped for joy, but there was a smile on Tom’s face when I turned to face him. He took the scripts from my hand and then compared them to his. He was listening to the conversation on the extension. I guess he too wanted to “Primum non nocere.”

Sometime later, Tom had me take something to Doc Thames at his office. I was walking with a pronounced limp because I had twisted my ankle. It was swollen and all shades of colors in the G BIV portion of ROY’s name. At the time, Max Meredith was my doctor, and I could have seen him; all I had to do was walk in the back door, and Sharon (his RN) would have put me in a room. Dr. Thames told me to “sit down in this chair, and I’ll fix you right up.” He untied my shoe, pulled off my sock, then examined my ankle and foot. He wrapped it in an elastic bandage and told me to take it easy. If it was not any better in 10 days, come back. He had a room full of patients, but he took the time to tend to my ankle. On the way back to the drug store, I remembered meeting Doc Thames on New Year’s Eve 1978. His son Ricky hosted a party on their property, and we would gather around a huge bonfire. We listened to music, told lies, made memories, and tried to find a girl to kiss at midnight. While counting down the minutes, Doc Thames walked up and asked how we were all doing. He was just coming home. He hung out with us for a bit and told us all to be careful.

A year or so later, Fortune’s Drugs won the contract to provide prescription and OTC medications to Santa Rosa County Sheriff's Office (SRCSO) jail inmates. On Saturday mornings, after opening the pharmacy for the relief pharmacist, I met Doc Thames at the jail. I sat beside him as he examined each patient; he recorded his own notes and rattled off the scripts. I wrote the scripts on Fortune’s Drugs prescription pads, then took them back to the pharmacy. Once filled, I delivered the prescriptions back to SRCSO jail after I locked and secured the pharmacy. Between patients, Doc and I would have a few moments to talk. He always encouraged me to stay in school. No matter what I do, enjoy it. Asked if I had a girlfriend and whether I was treating her right. Asked how my tennis playing was going and how many times I had beaten Dr. Matthews. He always talked about making my time count. One of his many pearls of wisdom, one I will never forget, was, “It’s just as easy to ask out a pretty girl as it is an ugly girl”. So true.

Rufus Thames, MD
19 NOV 26 - 20 APR 90

Working in the drug store afforded me many opportunities. I was able to learn a lot about medicine, being responsible for opening/closing a business, and generally matured a lot. It also afforded me the opportunity to meet a lot of wonderful people, some of them pillars of the community from judges to school board members, as well as some on the opposite end of the social spectrum. I learned to look past their circumstances and see them as people. I also heard countless stories about Doc Thames. Regardless of the social stratum, tax bracket, or even which side of the river you lived, everyone had a kind word to say about Doc Thames. He was always just a phone call away. Whether they saw him at his office in the middle of the night or at the ER, he did what was necessary to treat them. For payment, he took either a few bills of crumpled, sweat-laden cash, a post-dated check, a pot o’ collards, a basket o’ chicken, or even a bushel of fresh corn. He was not a physician for the money or social standing. He did it because he cared about the people, regardless of their situation. When he looked at my ankle, I was a bit uncomfortable. Here was a grown man kneeling before me, taking off my sock and shoe. I was nobody; a teenage boy. The whole event sort of had a “foot washing” vibe to it. The salient point of washing another’s feet is servitude. Doc Thames was a servant. He took care of his fellow man. He was a man larger than life. Yet, he was a just man. He was a good man. Many around Milton only have to look at family portraits to see their “memories” of him. He delivered many babies and, in so doing, gave those families many lifelong memories. Most of my memories were made sitting beside him, watching him in his element, in an exam room with a patient. Even if the exam room was a small room at the county jail. Each of us had our own spit cup, passing the time while seeing one patient after the other. He treated them no differently than any other.

Like all other patients, he “fixed ‘em right up”.

Gold Star Wife

Gold Star Service Banner.

I remember the time I first saw a Gold Star. It was hanging in a large picture window of an "old" house. Growing up in the Florida Panhandle, the "Cradle of Naval Aviation", I might have seen a "Star" previously but did not understand the significance of its meaning. However, it was this occasion in Southern California that left a life-long impression.

I was a young Marine on TAD (Temporary Additional Duty) orders to 29 Palms MCAGCC, CA. During a "96" (a 4-day weekend; 24 x 4), a few of us drove to San Diego. Late Saturday afternoon, we were looking for a place a few streets off the Beach and wound up in a residential area. While driving through, I saw a "middle-aged" woman walking back to her house from the mailbox. I then noticed something hanging in the window. It stopped me in my tracks. I bailed out of the car, quickly crossed the street while the other Marines "dismounted with military precision". They had no idea what was going on, but they had my "Six". I cautiously approached the woman, hoping not to alarm her. She looked good for "middle-aged". (To a young Marine, my idea of "old" and "middle-aged" was vastly different than what it is now.) She was wearing jeans, a pastel yellow collared button-down shirt, and what we now readily identify as "deck shoes". Her hair, long and beautiful. She noticed us and asked if she could help. I stammered something about being Marines and why we were in San Diego. She smiled. I then said, "That is the first one I've ever seen," as I pointed with a nod of my head towards her large window.

Vietnam Veterans War Memorial -- aka The Wall.

The guys saw it, instantly knowing why I stopped. Framed perfectly in the picture window hung a Gold Star Service Banner. 

I don't know about them, but the whole 'join the Corps and kill the bad guys' just got real for me. (Note: This was before the Beirut bombing and losing some guys we knew.) Suddenly, my heart was beating faster, and my breathing increased. Somehow, the saliva normally in my mouth had migrated to my eyes while undergoing metamorphosis, changing from saliva to tears. My mouth was dry, but my eyes more than made up for the lack of moisture. After a few moments of silence, she explained her husband "was a Navy Corpsman attached to Marines out of Pendleton". Marines love their HMs. (Note: The US Marine Corps does not staff Clergy or Medical personnel; instead, they rely on the US Navy. HM or Hospital Corpsman, are US Navy "medics" attached to Marine units.) Each Corpsman has the same name: Doc. Her "Doc" was killed in the early '70s fighting in Vietnam. After his death, she decided to remain in the house they purchased to raise their two young children.

We made small talk. She was extremely gracious and offered to fix us something to drink, "I have lemonade". There was a part of me that wanted to accept her offer, if for no other reason than to lubricate my mouth dehydrated from the adrenaline racing through my body. We managed awkward responses declining her sincere invitation.

At the last moment, as the guys turned to walk back to the car, I summoned my courage and told her I was thankful for her husband's service, honored to have met her, and offered my condolences for her loss. She closed the few feet between us, took me in her arms, and hugged me, while saying "Thank you". After a brief but emotionally charged embrace she dropped one arm, turned me towards the guys while still embracing me with her other arm, and told us something like, "I know you are Marines but you are not invincible. Take care of yourself and look after each other. You do not want your mommas or wives ever getting one of those" as she pointed with a nod of her head towards the Gold Star Service Banner.

The adrenaline dump was nearly over, and emotions were beginning to take control. Marines Do Not Cry—I guess we were the inspiration for Major League Baseball's saying, "There's no cryin' in BASEBALL!"—but I could not stop the emotion filling my entire being. At that moment, I did not want to think about any of this and regretted opening my mouth. All I had to do was just turn and walk to the car with the guys. As I listened to her words, I became more aware of her hair. It was brunette with natural auburn highlights, but what caught my attention was the fragrance. Her hair smelled like a prairie of wildflowers. Peaceful. Tranquil. Serene.

Suddenly, I felt better. I was not going to embarrass myself in front of other Marines, and especially this sweet woman. I told her I was glad I met her and would forever look at Gold Stars differently.

She was still standing in the driveway as we pulled away, waving goodbye. We ended up not going where we had originally planned. Somehow, the girls in a strip club just could not compare with the beautiful woman we had just met.

That night, as I lay in my cheap hotel double rack, I thought back over the moments I spent with her. I thought of her husband dying in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Did she stop him in his tracks the first time he saw her? How many times had he heard "I have lemonade"? Did he have a similar memory of seeing her standing in the driveway waving goodbye? Perhaps a toddler at her side while holding a baby? Did the fragrance of her hair bring a smile to his face as he lay in his rack at night thinking of her? I envisioned the last moments before his death; writhing in pain, the coppery, iron-rich, acrid aroma of blood mixed with gunpowder filling his nostrils while screaming out in pain. Then perhaps God, in His infinite mercy, blew the scent of a prairie of wildflowers onto the breeze. Lavender, Honeysuckle, Jasmine, Lilac—every sweet fragrant chasing away the acrid, stale scent of death. Wafting to and fro, dancing to the slowing rhythm of his beating heart. Peaceful. Tranquil. Serene.

Arlington National Cemetery, Memorial Day.

Often, I wish I had taken a photo of the meeting or simply asked her name. I quickly dismissed that because my feelings of both immense gratitude and remorse could not be more genuine had I known all her personal details. Strangely, this is how we should feel towards all Gold Star families. We do not need to know them to appreciate their sacrifices and losses.

I shall never forget the sacrifices and loss of this Gold Star Wife and all Gold Star families. For them, every day is Memorial Day.

To God, Country, and Corps I shall remain,

SEMPER FIDELIS

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

John 15:13

Author's Note

The Service Banner tradition began in World War I as a means of honoring families that had loved ones serving during the war.  They were standardized and codified during World War II. A Blue Star Service Banner was given to the family of a Soldier, Sailor, or Marine serving at home or abroad. Additional Blue Stars were added to the same flag for multiple family members in service. Upon the heartbreaking news their loved one had paid the ultimate price, a Blue Star was removed and a Gold Star sewn in its stead. Each banner is limited to four stars, 

Blue and Gold Star Service Banners

Jerk a Knot in Their Head

Last night I, like many of my friends, watched the news coverage of the #BaltimoreRiots. With all the thoughts and emotions I experienced, I kept thinking of one question: How long do you allow a child to throw a hissy fit? (That is a temper tantrum for my friends North of Mason-Dixon line.)

Sometimes, you let the child have a moment but then you step in. No child of mine ever had a prolonged fit. What I saw last night was an adult version of a hissy fit but had far worse repercussions.

Rioters. (Photo: Chip Somodevilla/Getty)

First, the Mayor says she allowed those that wanted to express themselves by destroying property "space" to do so. She later denied making any such statement even when video evidence proved her wrong. Second, she did not act fast enough (setting a curfew, putting more police on the street, and calling Governor to ask for help, i.e. National Guard). Third, the mayor told the Police Chief (and some reports indicate President Obama even sent word) to exercise restraint. That is just ridiculous. You must not allow one person to commit one crime. Do not allow them to throw one rock or brick, break one window, or make any type of assault on innocent citizens and certainly the Police.

Baltimore Mayor, Stephanie Rawlings-Blake.

She made the argument that any police involvement/intervention would escalate the situation. Why then even deploy police? Why have riot squads? The actions (reactions) mirror the response of the Obama administration on the world stage. We do not combat fanatical Islamist extremists with force. Rather, we give them "space". We see how Putin, al-Assad, and now the Iranian leaders are exploiting Obama's inactions to force their will on others. Obama believes if we leave them alone, they will leave us alone.

Another word for this is appeasement. You should never give in to the lawless and certainly those actively engaged in violent behavior. Just see how well this worked out for Europe in the late 1930s led by Neville Chamberlain and his appeasement of Hitler.

No, you do not allow your child to throw a hissy fit. You "jerk a knot in their head" and they "straighten right up". Again, to translate for y'all Yankees, this means you use age-appropriate corrective discipline to change the attitude and BEHAVIOR of your child.