Chapter 1: Training to Kill. Chapter 2: Cooling My Heels Chapter 3: I Saw Elvis Chapter 4: Cotton Pickin' Monroe County Miss Chapter 5: Silvertone, Down, But Not Out Chapter 6: In The Game & 1580, WAMY Chapter 7: That's Alright (Mama) Elvis Chapter 8: Top Dawn Radio, Tupelo Chapter 9: Rockin' in Elvis' Hometown Chapter 10: Wings to Wilmington Chapter 11: Losing My Wings Chapter 12: Ft. Benjamin Harrison Chapter 13: Goodbye Sweetheart, Hello Vietnam Chapter 14: A Break From Vietnam Chapter 15: Into Cowboy Country Chapter 16: Bong Son Chapter 17: The Bravest of Them All Chapter 18: Saved by the Stream Chapter 19: AFVN, An Khe Chapter 20: Back to the World Chapter 21: Home & Marriage; Ft. McArthur Chapter 22: Medal Of Honor II Chapter 23: How We Could Won In Vietnam Chapter 24: 1st Team In Vietnam Chapter 25: Twins & Trouble Chapter 26: Destination In Deutschland Chapter 27: Deceit In Deutschland Chapter 28: Be All You Can Be Chapter 29: Kansas City, Here We Come Chapter 30: My Diagnosis & KLAK Colorado Country Chapter 31: Adoration of the Fairer Sex Chapter 32: Elvis Is Dead & and Rocking in the Rockies Chapter 33: The Twins to Colorado Chapter 34: The Great Salt Lake & the Good Mormons Chapter 35: Where the Wright's Really Learned to Fly Chapter 36: The Spill Heard Across the Country Chapter 37: Aliens, Anyone? Chapter 38: Lisa & Laura, When I Lost my Ass & My Job Chapter 39: California Dreaming Chapter 40: Sponsors: I Race You Win Chapter 41: Racing to the Finish Chapter 42: Worst Job Ever Chapter 43: Transforming My Little Piece of Paradise Chapter 44: Another Decade Slips Away Chapter 45: The End is Near Chapter 46: Saying Goodbye Epilogue Book II Chapter I Don's Greatest Hits 1955-1977 Book II Chapter II Don's Greatest Hits 1978-1991 Book II Chapter III The Battle of the Bulge and Beyond Book II Chapter IV With Deep Regret Book II Chapter V Bad Night at LZ Bird Book II Chapter VI In the Event Of My Death Book II Chapter VII Dying Is Easy,Living is what's Difficult Book II Chapter VIII Patriots Or Traitors? Book II Chapter IX What I've Learned
Chapter 1: Training to Kill
Deadly salvos of flaming steel thundered down on us faster than the speed of sound, like all the NVA in Vietnam were out for us and not relenting until no American invader remained. We would be overrun, our throats cut, our weapons seized, our bodies desecrated, and our blood used to enrich the red on their NVA flag.
A carpet of luxuriant rye grass snaked through the forest floor around dogwood, peach, cherry, magnolia, and azalea. Pearly white sand and small coruscating ponds surrounded greens of bent grass, manicured to perfection. This was Augusta National, a Garden of Eden for golfers.
A few miles away, I stood at attention, a guest of Uncle Sam, sweat pouring off my brow. I wasn’t here for the golf.
I was counting on the heat, humidity, and farm labor I endured in Mississippi to give me an edge in U. S. Army Basic Combat Training (BCT), in the especially hot summer of 1966, at Ft. Gordon, near Augusta, Georgia.
During the eight weeks of intense training at the 56,000-acre post, some GIs were seriously injured, and two recruits from our Battalion, of about 1,000, died from heatstroke. Around the time of these deaths (July 25, 1966), the officially recorded temperature in Augusta was 98 degrees, and the humidity — 100 percent! There was absolutely no pause in our training, no break from the stifling heat and humidity.
Our training company was made up of draftees and volunteers. About half of our group were so-called minorities, from the poorer areas in and around New York City. The rest of the recruits were mostly Caucasian and came from rural and poor regions of the South. A few from both groups had chosen the Army over jail after a Judge had given the two options.
In the best of circumstances, this aggregation wasn’t apt to blend very well; in the pressure cooker of BCT — it was volatile. There were taunts and insults, pushing and shoving aplenty. When it elevated to fists and blood, most were not within sight of a Drill Sergeant. Even the lamest in the groups knew they could end up in the stockade with the possibility of a Bad Conduct or worse, Dishonorable Discharge.
In the Mid-1960s, U. S. Army Drill Sergeants (DSs) could and did treat trainees virtually any way they pleased: Loud, Vulgar, and occasionally Physical. Although I was in good shape, I quickly learned that BCT required more than brawn. I also had to appease and maneuver in the virtual minefield around Staff Sgt. Hicks, one of my snarky and callous Drill Sergeants.
The Vietnam veteran, so designated by the large and distinctive yellow and black 1st Cavalry Division patch at shoulder level on his right sleeve, appeared to be in his late twenties. He stood wiry and weathered at about 5’ 7.” His heavily starched fatigues sported perfectly ironed creases, and the tips of his spit-shined jump boots sparkled black in the bright Georgia sun. Hicks wore his Smoky Bear hat slightly tilted — just above his right eye.
He stood with conviction and authority, and the sergeant’s raspy voice spit out invectives faster than a jacked-up Carnival Barker. “When I get done with you sorry sissies, y’all wished you’d took the Marines,”* Hicks shouted, “cause’ I’m as tough as any Drill Instructor in [Marine] Boot Camp. No, I’ll be tougher cause’ turning you pathetic sons’ of bitches into soldiers gonna take a God Damn miracle!”
Calling Staff Sgt. Hicks’s management style In Your Face would be an understated insult to the man once you saw him in action. He intimidated the candidates of war up close, personal, vulgar, and unrelenting. If we didn’t perform to his satisfaction, which was the usual, Hicks would hurl his favorite insult, “You fucking worthless trainees look like the aftermath of a Chinese gang bang.”
One didn’t have to screw up to feel the heat; we ran everywhere, dropped for seemingly endless push-ups, and repeatedly double-timed with our ten-pound M-14s, stiff-armed high over our heads, taunted by Drill Sergeants.
There was marching, lots of marching to cadences like:
Ain’t no use in calling home
Jody’s got your girl and gone
Your left, Your left,
Your left right left;
Ain’t no use in going back
Jody’s got your Cadillac
Sound off; one-two
Ain’t no use in going home
Jody’s got your girl and gone
Sound off; one-two
Ain’t no use in feeling blue
Jody’s got your sister too
Sound off; on-two
Ain’t no use in looking down
Ain’t no discharge on the ground
Your left, Your left.
Your left right left.
Sound off . . .
The Base of my misery in the Summer of ’66.
We were fond of calling it Ft. Garbage. (Courtesy Wiki Commons)
A typical day began with a rude awakening at 4:30 in the morning, with a band of Drill Sergeants banging garbage can lids while ordering us to “shit, shave and shower.” Then we fell into formation for inspection, followed by rigorous physical training (PT) that included running, calisthenics, and close order drills until breakfast at 0600.** Then it was more PT followed by marksmanship training with live ammo naturally, hand-to-hand, and combat tactics until the noon meal. By now, we had a fresh set of DSs.
But there was no chow until we satisfactorily executed the low crawl, monkey bars, and recitation of the 11 General Orders, totaling 65 words about Guard Duty that no soldier was likely to repeat or remember after BCT.
By the book military low crawl is designed for stealthy movement in battlefield conditions. The purpose: Make your body a smaller target for the enemy while moving swiftly, flat on the ground. A 40-foot-long three-foot-wide course with a three-inch furrow dug into the hard Georgia dirt was the low crawl obstacle we had to surmount in a timely manner.
The mercury lingered in the high 90s. We had been humping since 0430, and now there was the added pressure of a rarely seen officer observing us; our platoon leader, 2nd Lt. Harris. He stood like a recruiting poster, about six feet, square jaw and solid build, with gold bars on his collar and cap. His olive drab fatigues were starched and creased to the point that I believe his uniform would stand erect without him (in it). The tips of his Cochran® jump boots glistened like black water reflecting from a Georgia swamp.
The Lieutenant wanted to see how his men were progressing. So, naturally, the first recruit in line for the low-crawl was the biggest screw-up in our company, a tall-skinny buzz-cut recruit from West Virginia. He laid down in the dirt and began to advance, but his belly was not flat to the ground, and he was too slow. The Drill Sergeants were yelling, “Get your butt down soldier, you gonna get it shot off.” Our Platoon Leader was not amused.
Harris waved our boy out of the dirt, spun off his cap, and dropped into the pit hard. Then, while perfectly flat, he pulled himself forward with quick twists of his arms and elbows and pushed with swift kicks of his knees and feet. He plowed through the soil like an International-Harvester,® and he slithered 13-yards faster than an alligator in Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp. When Lt. Harris stood, gathered his cap from the dirt, and brushed himself off, three buttons hung by a single thread from his fatigue shirt.
Drop and give me 20 and get back in the dirt is what we were expecting. Instead, Harris, about two inches from the recruit’s face, unleashed in a low growl, “Five good men die in Vietnam every day,” then he let loose with his loud commanding voice, “because of fuck-ups like you, get outta my sight, you worthless piece of shit.”
Without any prompting, I and the remainder of our platoon immediately fell in line, dropped into the dirt, and low crawled with sufficient motivation.
After the low crawl wake-up call from our platoon leader, Lieutenant, there were still miles to go before we slept. We marched eight miles in full gear, then trained in mortars, hand grenades, and again with our M-14s. Daily indoctrination continued until 1900 — longer during night maneuvers — and one was subject to details until 2200 when lights-out was called.
As desperate as the U.S. Army was for soldiers, a few days later, we saw “Goober” (smart like a fox?) boarding a Greyhound™ back to West Virginia wearing his GI Khakis and black low quarters.
I’m thinking, oh boy, one less screw-up in the company, making it likely that the DSs would have more time to harass us average trainees. Now, some recruits were saying, “I can screw up real good; let them bus me out.” But what about those who had been told, “Jail or the Army?” Others were saying, “Go ahead and ship me to Vietnam now, away from the sadistic Drill Sergeants.” For many, the U. S. Army had managed to turn Georgia U. S. A. into their own combat zone.
The hammer over our heads was the real threat of Vietnam. If we could withstand the rigors of Basic and hone some combat tactics, we would have a better chance of survival in the jungles of Southeast Asia. The intent of BCT is to break down the recruit to the lowest form of life, then slowly build him back up while indoctrinating the candidate to obey orders — immediately and unquestionably.
BCT taught the skills the U.S. Army had determined would best serve the soldier in combat; it was intense, rote, and rigorous. If the soldier’s skills were sufficient and so ingrained, his training would kick in automatically in a combat scenario — practically without thinking. That’s the theory, and there is some evidence to support it.
This is how we trained; the sergeant’s pushed us to exhaustion, tried to make it unbearable, and wanted to find our breaking point. Our training may not have been Green Beret or Ranger tough, but our Drill Sergeants were no pussies. They pushed us hard enough that a few men did break and were recycled, sent to the shrink, or in rare cases back home. Better to have a meltdown in BCT than in the regular Army, or worse yet — in combat. The theory: “The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in battle.”
There was a brief rest period when we got mail call, during field exercises, late in the afternoon. After the command to fall out, our Drill Sergeant’s announced in a loud but friendly voice: Smoke ’em if you got ’em.***
The frequent letters from Marty (my girl in NC)and Momma were a great morale boost. During one of the smoke breaks, a Drill Sergeant asked where I was from. When I replied “Mississippi,” he said to a fellow DS, “He’s a 20-year man . . . never had two pairs of shoes.” During the same respite, a trainee was laughing loudly. The same DS asked him, what was so damn funny? Then the sergeant, without waiting for a reply from the soldier, quipped for everyone to hear, “I’ve been in the Army 20 years, and I haven’t heard one damn thing that was funny.”
With a fresh set of Drill Sergeants, we headed to chow at 1800; the same rules applied as with the noon meal; a recruit couldn’t get to the mess table until successful completion of the low crawl, monkey bars, and recitation of General Orders. If a trainee failed any of these exercises, he had to start over by going to the back of the line. Undoubtedly, some never mastered all the tasks in time to get fed. When we feasted on C-Rations in the field, those rules were waived, but there were less “food” and calories in those cans.
After the early evening feed, we “rested” in classrooms with lectures on tactics and reviewing combat films from Vietnam; anyone falling asleep would get 20 push-ups or more. Finally, we remained in the buildings where we began taking apart, cleaning, and re-assembling our M-14s. In the final evaluation, we were required to perform those tasks while blindfolded. Failing any major exercises like this would get the trainee recycled, or as the Drill Sergeants said: “Start basic all over again.”
Our next stop was at the chemical compound, where we were locked in chambers filled with tear gas and remained there for a minute or more to gauge our reaction. Now with masks around our waists, we were sent in the gas again and got no relief until our protective gear was fitted correctly.
Then we double-timed to the range for a special live-fire exercise all were required to experience during BCT. Conducted under darkness, coincidentally, while low crawling under razor wire, M-60 machine-gun bullets blazed 10-12 inches over our heads at Mach 2.5. Panic during this exercise, and you’re unlikely to worry about any more training or Vietnam. As bad as the Drill Sergeants were and as hard as the training was, heat prostration notwithstanding, one was unlikely to die from it. Getting burned with a 7.62-mm projectile traveling 2,750 feet per second was a decidedly different matter.
Swan in 1966 after U.S. Army Basic Combat Training, Ft. Gordon,
Georgia. ( Swan archives)
By about 2100, we had marched or double-timed back to the barracks or tents for an inspection of our footlockers, latrine, and living areas. If we passed, lights were out by 2200.
We trained for 60 straight days and nights, and those of us lucky enough to avoid injury, recycle, or worse had finally met all the requirements and completed U. S. Army Basic Combat Training. Despite Sgt. Hicks, I graduated BCT in the upper third of my company of 150, or maybe it was because of him.
Had my Mississippi experience given men an edge? Maybe, but the real test would inaugurate some 9,200 miles from Georgia.
Next move: Advanced Individual Training (AIT) several weeks or even months, depending upon one’s Military Occupationally Specialty (MOS) like Infantry, Special Forces, Artillery, Aviation, Engineer, Cook, Chaplain Assistant, Native Language Speaker, Diver, Veterinary Food Inspector, Cryptologic Linguist, and many others, most headed to Vietnam.
Most of us would get leave before our advanced training began. Then, after successfully completing AIT, we would be prepared — and hopefully ready — for WAR.
*Some were drafted into the Marines (or allowed to opt for the Corps).
**Many writers list military time as 0600 “hours,” this is redundant and incorrect. 2400 (midnight) begins a new day. 0600 is the sixth hour of a new day, eliminating the need for “AM or PM or hours.”
***Typical military meaning: Take a break, you earned it, you might not get another for a while, and don’t forget to field strip your cigarettes.
Swan’s BIO end of Chapter 23Chapter 2: Cooling My Heels
My barefoot sprint from the backyard, through the Johnson grass, was paying dividends. No farmer or fisherman in sight; but a big-blue Cadillac, a baby-blue convertible, passing on the gravel road just 20 feet in front of me. The Caddy sported white tags like those from Tennessee.
My eyes focused on the two men in the front seat, and with the top down, I got a good look. The driver had slicked-backed-black hair and long sideburns. I ran after them on the banks of the road until they disappeared in a cloud of dust, at about 20 mph.
I had seen enough. At age eight, my world had just changed. Because the driver of that Caddy, with the slick-backed-black hair and long sideburns, was ELVIS! You know, Elvis Presley. I’d seen pictures of him, of course, and they sure looked like the man behind the steering wheel of the convertible that had just roared by our house kicking up gravel. Everyone knew that Elvis owned Cadillac’s.
Naturally, I was anxious to tell everybody, and on that first day there was just one: my Momma.
As I looked for her, a warm summer shower moistened the dusty-dry-dirt and filled the air with that pleasant and unmistakable earthy smell.
I found Momma walking toward the back porch, raindrops rolling off her bonnet, and a hoe resting on her shoulder like she was carrying a rifle. She’d been working and sweating in the large truck-patch, down a slight grade, behind a grove of trees about 15 yards behind our house.
Momma said she had heard nothing, let alone seen a Cadillac. She thought it was best we keep the story just between ourselves.
Caddy, similar to the one I saw Elvis driving by our house in 1955. (Courtesy GM)
So, there was no use in pressing my Elvis sighting story, I had lots of chores to tend to, like feeding the chickens and bringing in “stowood.” (Stove wood used to heat the stove Mamma cooked on.) If I wanted any dinner, that is. (Noon meal in the South is dinner, not lunch, and the evening meal is supper.) And don’t forget to add those crab apples to the hog slop, Momma reminded me.
It wasn’t inconceivable, though, that Elvis had driven by our house.* Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, less than an hour’s drive north of us, in a shotgun house; a narrow rectangular structure about 15 feet wide and 30 feet long with rooms arranged one behind the other with doors at each end. It was a symbol of how the poor lived in the mid-20th Century South, and although painted, their house was no better than ours. By now (1955) he had been living in Memphis for seven years.
There was a rumor, that in a few months, he would do a show at the National Guard Armory in Amory, Mississippi, less than a half-hour’s drive from where I was standing.** On car radios, I had heard Elvis’ music on WHBQ in Memphis, the station that first played his records, and rightly got the credit for introducing him to the public.
“I went into Sun Records, and there was a guy in there took down my name told me he might call me sometime. So he called me about a year and a half later, and I went in and recorded my first record, That’s Alright,” Elvis said in early 1953. (First commercial release by Elvis, a regional hit, 1954.)
The leader of a popular Memphis band, where Elvis had failed an audition, told him he should “stick to driving a truck,” (his job at the time). A year later, in 1956, Elvis had four #1 songs on Billboard’s Top 40, two of which were the top two songs of the year!
Big dreamer that I was, I wasn’t thinking of being like Elvis, although we had a few things in common. We were born nearby, very close to our Mother’s who thought we might be preachers, had a deceased sibling, made early visits to a radio station, grew up poor in substandard housing, influenced by church attendance, and were searching for more exciting employment. Our mother’s middle name started with the letter L, and we both went on to serve in the US Army in Germany and wear a size 11 shoe. Finally, we were both unpopular in high school until we started performing.
I just wanted a job like those disc jockeys on WAMY in Amory, “working” in an air-conditioned studio. I could do that, introduce Elvis, play his records. Momma told me that I was a good performer. I had practiced-preached for her many times, using two empty five-gallon lard cans stacked one atop another as my pulpit. Momma, a very religious woman, was pleased by my “sermons” and hoped that one day I might be a minister for the Lord.
My eight year older brother Dale had a makeshift oil change rack just across the road (from our house) at the crest of a knoll; he secured blocks on the ground and then placed two narrow boards atop them for a car to drive onto. I would stand on the rack looking down a gentle slope, toward a small apple orchard just before dusk.
I imagined an amphitheater filled with lost souls. I stood tall, for a six-year-old. Some of my best sermons, I believe, were delivered with no one listening. After just a few nights of preaching, I switched to a parody of introducing artists and singers, as I hoped to one day do, to a large gathering, or on the radio.
Maybe Momma was on to something. Spreading the word might work for me with music, instead of preaching. I was sincere in my plan because I loved music beyond the dream that it would get me off the farm.
Interestingly, one of my favorite songs was Rock Around The Clock by Bill Haley & His Comets; it would become the Nation’s first Rock ‘n’ Roll hit. Guess who once opened for Bill Haley? Yep, Elvis. I was also drawn to The Four Lads, Dean Martin, Fats Domino, and others. I wanted to introduce those stars and their music to the masses via radio. Deep down, though, I dreaded the day when someone would tell me to stick to farming.
*I would learn later, the day before he passed our house, Elvis did a show in Belden, Miss., just 37 miles northwest of where I stood.
**That momentous show with Elvis, Johnny Cash and Carl Perkins was Dec. 12, 1955 in Amory, where Perkins wrote and performed Blue Suede Shoes, a hit for both he and Elvis. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t make the show. Virginia Waynette Pugh (Tammy Waynette) was born in Itawamba County, near Elvis’ birthplace in Tupelo, adjacent to Lee County. She like Elvis, eventually moved to Memphis to pursue her singing career.
There would plenty of time for me to daydream, in the coming years, about my aspirations, while working on the farm, while in church, school, or when riding the bus to and from Hatley 90 minutes a day.
When school started in August, students were dismissed early the first few weeks for the cotton harvest. Great, out of school early — to pick cotton!
The cotton stalk is around three feet tall, with about 50 bolls open when ready for harvest. At the first picking in mid-August it’s still hot, dry, and dirty, and in late September or early October, for the second harvest, it’s chilly and wet in the morning.
In the mid to late 1950s, one could earn $2.00 for picking 150 pounds of cotton. The very best pickers were good for about 200 pounds, bustling from “can to can’t or sun to sun,” (sun-up to sun-down). Fingers hurt from constant contact with the prickly stems, you had an aching back, and your knees were sore. At the end of the day, though, you might have two dollars in your pocket. The minimum wage of $1.00 an hour (in the late 1950s) was not paid to casual farmworkers.
I had little time, though, to earn money picking because we had our own farm. On our 58 acres, about six were tillable land. In the fertile soil, we grew an acre of cotton, four times as much corn, a patch of Saccharum cane, and on a quarter-acre, known as the new ground, we grew fruit and vegetables.
Sometimes we had enough watermelons, cantaloupes, tomatoes, corn, peas, and beans leftover for Daddy to take to Amory, where he sold them from the bed of his pickup. Except for those vegetables and our acre of cotton, we were subsistence farmers.
We also nurtured a couple of milk cows, a few Aberdeen Angus beef cattle, several hogs, scores of chickens, and a couple of colorful guineas. Our hand-me-down dog, Old Jim and Fuzzy Sue, the cat, were our domesticated animals.
On the remainder of our spread, where crops once grew, stood oak, poplar, cedar, spruce pine, holly, pecan, walnut and sweet gum trees. Ten-foot wide Weaver’s creek flowed year-round through our proverbial back forty and yielded small fish and water moccasin. It also had some good swimming holes, especially when the beavers had been at work.
Two aging mules, Momma, Daddy, my older brother Dale and me provided all the labor for our enterprise. Walking behind Sam and Kate, who pulled the plow attached to wooden stocks, was done by Dale and Daddy.
Sam was undoubtedly the dumbest and laziest mule in the state of Mississippi, or smart like a fox. About twice a day, Sam would stop in the midst of pulling the plow — several minutes for no apparent reason — and there he would stay until he was good and ready to move. Tilling the soil with two mules when many farmers had tractors or at least horses seemed ridiculous. But we had a small allotment for planting cotton and therefore a small margin for profit.
My contribution to the crops included picking up cotton squares that contain boll-weevil eggs, hoeing (and the aforementioned) picking. For the corn crop, I was hoeing, harvesting, shucking, and finally, pulling fodder from the dried up stalks.
I cut, split, stacked, and delivered wood to the stove and fireplace. I weeded the garden, picked fruits and vegetables, and shelled beans and peas. There’s more: I pulled up, cleaned, and shelled dry peanuts, churned butter, removed deposits from the outhouse, and so on. Momma helped me with many of these chores when she was not otherwise occupied with her countless domestic duties, including the hours it took to prepare three meals daily.
My daily chores included herding the cattle for feeding, milking the cows, attending to the mules, and slopping the hogs. Then there was feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, and drawing water. I was also responsible for the kerosene lamps — making sure they were filled, and the wicks were trimmed and in good working order.
Not daily, but frequently I had other responsibilities that included cleaning out stables and mending barbwire fences that enclosed about ten acres of pasture.
During the school year, in addition to the chores, I had homework. Some of my fellow students complained of having to finish their after school work before they could watch Gunsmoke, the wildly popular western. I didn’t have that problem. No electricity, No TV!**
Despite having plenty to keep me occupied work wise, I had to be careful of the rattlesnake, eastern diamondback, copper head, cottonmouth, water moccasin, coral snake and the poison ivy vine. Mississippi is home to almost a thousand different insects, and I was frequently harassed by wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, spiders, ticks, red ants, chiggers, and mosquitoes. Nevertheless, I was bored and restless, anxious even. (Insect data from Mississippi State University.)
Only occasionally were there children my age to play with, and none lived within walking distance or a reasonable bicycle ride, not that I had one. When I complained to Momma, as I frequently did about being bored, she would suggest I try to perfect the playing and singing of Rock Of Ages on the old organ or better yet learn another gospel tune. If you’re bored, Momma said, get the chores you have for later in the day, done early, and we’ll have more time for studying the Bible.
A dystopian existence? Not exactly, I had plenty of good food and a loving family. Nevertheless, I was dreaming of a way to get out of Here.
Authors note: My writings about fleeing the farm is in no way meant to disparage the profession of Farming. They are necessary for our very survival.
*I was occasionally allowed to visit an elderly friend of the family, who lived about a mile from us, “Miss Trudy” Hathcock, who had a TV. (TV ownership, circa 1957, was a rarity in this part of the world.) The only station available, WCBI, (from nearby) Columbus aired shows from all the networks, but primarily it was a CBS affiliate that broadcast Gunsmoke, and I saw it in on her TV for the first time. Momma finally realized why I was always begging to visit her.