AIR MAIL (An Ancient Military Memory of my Mother)

The year was 1943 or possibly, 1944, and the wars in Europe and the Pacific were raging. Multiplied millions of young men heeded the call to military service, and millions more civilians, men and women, labored in thousands of factories, research laboratories, and ship building facilities across the land.

My grandparents, Earnest and Lillie Ring, and future mother, Erma Ring, and her siblings lived in south Georgia at the time, and were traveling somewhere on some road in some non-descript automobile one day when they chanced upon a car by the side of the road. As a result, my grandfather pulled over to see if he could help. (A similar scenario once managed to get him arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, but that is an entirely different story, and one which will have to wait).

I can just imagine the conversation between the older and younger man.

“Well, hello there, stranger. Anything I can do to help?”

To which the Army Air Corps officer responded,

“Hi. Mighty nice of you to pull over,” (and he seemed to be searching for a moniker with which to end his sentence).

“Oh, sorry. I’m Earnest Ring. And you are?”

“Lieutenant Lewis. Earl Lewis, Sir.”

“Good to meet you, Lieutenant.”

“My pleasure, Sir. Actually, I could use a lift into town to buy a spare tire for this rim.”

My granddad indicated that the Air Corps officer might ride up front with him, while my grandmother, mother and aunts waited with the airman’s wife and son. And just before leaving, introductions were made all around. The duo returned a half hour later with a new tire, and promptly installed it.

“Well, Lieutenant that should get you going again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ring. Sorry, you told me to call you ‘Earnest.’”

As they prepared to depart the two men exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and determined to stay in touch; which I’m glad to say, they did.

The location of Lt. Lewis’ duty station has been lost to posterity, but he was apparently a flight training officer or trainee at the time; most likely, the latter. At any rate, the two men were true to their word, and the families occasionally dined together in my grandparent’s home. And as Paul Harvey might well have said, 

“And now the rest of the story.” (For there is a “rest of the story.”)

It seems Lt. Lewis broke with protocol on a recurring basis; for he would sometimes pilot his aircraft towards my granddad’s home, suddenly dip low, waggle his wings, and drop something from the plane, tied to a tiny parachute, or a rock.

Of course, the lieutenant’s arrival was all too apparent, as the drone of those mighty engines might have easily woke the dead. (Well, almost). And it seems Lt. Lewis’ aim never failed. The falling object landed perfectly in the field behind the old frame house, and was quickly retrieved by my mother, or one of her sisters.

And upon opening the little box, or paper sack, Erma, (or Nita or Olline) would discover a message; which they hastily delivered to their father. Of course, with numerous fly overs there were any number of “air mail” messages which fell from that South Georgia sky.

“Earnest, we won’t be able to have dinner with you, and your family Friday evening. Sorry. I just found out we’ll be doing night training every evening this week.”

(or)

“Mr. Ring. I mean, ‘Earnest,’ is there anything you want Natalie to cook for the picnic we’ve planned Sunday?”

(or)

“Well, hello again! Brent just got his first tooth in, so we’ve been kinda excited about that. Hope things are good with you and yours today.”

The two families enjoyed many happy hours together, until the word came down that the lieutenant had received orders to ship out to France, (or Italy or Hawaii, or some such place). And as the story has been told to me, it was about this time that all contact was lost between Earl and Earnest, their wives, and children.

And I think my mother was forever impacted by this chance meeting, and the relationships which sprang out of it, since not only did she name her youngest son after that military officer’s baby boy, but my mother has never ceased to reflect on the gravity of that friendship, and has done everything humanly possible to renew contact with Earl and/or his now grown son, Brent.

Why, only today I posted an ad in one of those reminisce-type magazines with a few succinct details; of which I have just described at length here. 

I think there are some people in this life whom we are meant to meet, and, no doubt, people who we should avoid at all costs. And then again, there are folks who come into our lives, and with whom we lose contact, and we regret it the entire rest of our lives.

There’s a poignant scene in the novel “Jane Eyre” in which the main character’s employer and friend speaks of their upcoming departure from one another.

“Jane, I fear when you leave, and travel across that great body of water some invisible string which joins us will be stretched, and will snap, and we shall both begin to bleed inwardly.”

I think it’s that way when valued relationships come to a conclusion, as the result of time, geographics or emotions. And sadly, there seems to be nothing we can do about it. And yet perhaps in the minority of these circumstances that invisible string that joins us one to another has only been stretched, and has never snapped at all; since it was Providence which strengthened the cords, and it was Providence which knit us together in the first place.

Interestingly enough, even in her old age my mother never relinquished the hope that she might renew contact with either Earl, or his son, Brent. I placed a couple of ads in veteran's and reminiscence type magazines, but received no response. My mom passed away this week without ever having received any word of the lieutenant's whereabouts or wherewithal. 

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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BURY ME WITH A FORK

I heard a marvelous story recently that I thought I would share with you.

It seems Betty had been in a state of decline the past year, and she contacted her pastor, and asked him to stop by her house. Of course, he was happy to do this, and he made arrangements to see her at his earliest opportunity.

Ringing the doorbell, Betty’s caretaker opened it, greeted him and led Pastor Benson into the elderly lady’s bedroom. With this, the younger woman excused herself and left them alone.

Pastor Benson spoke.

“Well, hello Betty. And how are you feeling today?”

Betty managed a slight smile, and responded,

“Not too good, pastor.”

(and)

“I don’t think I am long for this old world.”

The pastor never liked conversations such as this, and he did his best to divert Betty to something a bit more pleasant.

“Now, now, Betty. You’ll still be with us long after I’m a fading memory.”

His little parishioner would not be deterred.

“Preacher, God has been speaking to me, and I think he intends to take me home very soon.”

She continued.

“Now I have something to say, and please don’t ‘shush’ me. I need to share something with you that I need you to remember.”

Pastor Benson realized that he had few, if any options and he replied,

“Okay, Betty. I’m listening.”

The elderly woman looked the good minister directly in the eyes, and began to tell him a story.

“Preacher, when I die, I want the funeral director to put a fork in my hand.”

You could have knocked the pastor over with a pillow!

“What? Did I hear you correctly, Betty?”

Betty could not help but giggle, and she continued her monologue.

“Pastor, you know when the ladies host a meal after the morning worship service, and after we have eaten all of that fried chicken, and mashed potatoes and turnip greens?”

The minister nodded his head.

“And you know how Sister Brown always says something like,

‘Ya’ll hold onto your forks, ‘cause the best is yet to come. We’ll be bringing each of you a nice big slice of deep-dish apple pie!’”

Now, a twinkle appeared in the pastor’s eyes.

Betty finished her instructions.

“When my relatives and friends file past my poor little body lying in the casket, and they ask you, ‘why is Sister Betty holding that fork in her hand?’ I want you to tell them, it’s because she wanted to remind you,

...‘Save your fork. The best is yet to come!’”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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EMILY'S BULLDOG a.k.a. The Passing of Emily Bronte, English Author

Charlotte Bronte, the author of the Victorian-era novel, “Jane Eyre,” left many letters, reminiscences and biographical sketches behind.

In “The Life of Charlotte Bronte” by Elizabeth Gaskell, Charlotte speaks about the illness, (tuberculosis) and subsequent death of her sister Emily. (And, indeed, she had lost several young siblings before her).

“But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape which to anticipate is dread; to look back on is grief. In the very heat and burden of the day the laborers failed over their work. My sister Emily declined. Never in her life had she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. Day by day, when I saw with what a brave front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it. But, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone.

“The awful point was that, while full of compassion for others, on herself she had no pity. The spirit was inexorable to the flesh. From the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the fading eyes, the same service was exacted as they first rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate was a pain no words can render.”

However, for whatever reason, in all of her suffering it seems Emily refused to see a doctor, or to take medication.

Emily grew worse, and now she could only whisper in gasps. Now, when it was far too late, she said to her sister, Charlotte,

“If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now.”

She died at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

Pt. 2

Charlotte continues her reminiscence of her beloved sister.

“Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer more in this world. She is gone after a hard, short conflict. She died on a Tuesday. I thought it very possible that she would still be with us for weeks. But a few hours afterwards, she was in eternity. There is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over. The spectacle of the pains of death is gone by. The funeral is past. We feel she is at peace. No need to tremble for the hard frost and the fierce wind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime. But, it is God’s will and the place where she has gone is better than that she has left.”

Now, Charlotte’s friend and biographer enlightens us on the dynamics of Emily’s final arrangements.

“As the old, bereaved father and his two surviving children followed the coffin to the grave, they were joined by ‘Keeper,’ Emily’s fierce, faithful bulldog. He walked alongside the mourners, and into the church, and stayed quietly there all the time the burial service was being read. When he came home, he lay at Emily’s bedroom door, and howled pitifully for many days.”

It might be said here that I am keenly aware of other animals which mourned the passing of their masters. When my young nephew passed away, his little pooch refused food, and ultimately starved himself to death. And, of course, many of my readers are familiar with a dog which has been referred to as “Grayfriars Bobby” which lay on his master’s gravesite for multiplied years until the specter of death claimed his own little mortal body. Bobby was interred in the same cemetery as his beloved owner, and a beautiful pink granite headstone graces this sacred spot today. My wife and I visited Edinburgh, Scotland earlier this year, and I stood and paid my respects at Bobby’s final resting place.

Afterward

I have little or no agenda here other than to describe the singular courage of a memorable little lady who selflessly surrendered her young life to the God who made her, though she most assuredly struggled with a huge dearth of understanding, to reflect on her sister’s tribute to her tenacity, and the hole which was forever carved into her own proverbial heart, and to honor the stout undying love which God instilled in the beloved pooch which would mourn her passing.

Excerpt from "The Life of Charlotte Bronte" by Elizabeth Gaskell 

Blog by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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A PATCH OF WILD VIOLETS

As I was preparing to write this story, (and as I often do) I went to the internet, and brought up a series of articles related to my topic.

In this case wild violets.

And as I googled the subject of my quest, the first item at the top of the list was,

“How to get rid of wild violets in your yard.”

And I thought,

“Why would I want to get rid of them?”

(and)

“I happen to like them.”

(and)

“I happen to like them a lot.”

I mean, I purposely mow around a 2x2 foot clump of the little things in my back yard.

Of course, as you might expect, there’s more to the story, and for anyone who is a fan of my blogs, you may remember my having written about the topic before.

Yesterday, as I stepped outside to survey my woodsy quarter acre, I glanced to my right and noticed a tiny clump of lovely wild violets were in bloom. Twelve or fifteen of the small purple blossoms greeted my eyes; held up by rich green leafy shoots.

And, as always, I paused to reflect on a precious little Shih Tzu named, ‘Buddy’ which I was privileged to know and love for the space of a decade.

And as I have inferred in the past, when she left us, (Yes, ‘Buddy’ was a her) I installed a circular decorative tile on this spot to commemorate her.

For it was here that our precious pooch so often resorted to “take in the rays.”

Pt. 2

Perhaps I have chosen to “read more into it,” but I am convinced that the proximity of the wild violets to the place Buddy loved the best is no coincidence or mistake. I believe it was an “on purpose” sorta thing which has its roots with Providence, and was (drum roll) planned before the earth was breathed into being.

I know that’s “saying a lot” and I realize it’s a lot to take in, but I’m convinced that Buddy was simply worth it, and that our Lord was thinking of her

…before He made the worlds.

I mean, I’ve written about my little Buddy before, and without going into great detail again suffice it to say that I think my precious pooch fulfilled her mission on this earth; whereas many human beings never do.

There was a time when her incessant barking caused a would-be burglar to flee. There was a time when she refused to leave my daughter’s side when she was grieving the loss of a marriage. There was a time when she followed my wife around the house, ‘til she submitted to a physical exam by which a malignant tumor was detected early, and she has been allowed to live out a long and productive life.

Yes, my Buddy was worth it, and I think our Lord agreed with me before I ever knew the bless-ed creature.

There is a particular verse in the Book of Psalms which provides some evidence of the Creator’s love and affirmation for both his human and animal creations, and His promise that I will see my Buddy again one day.

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, your justice like the great deep. You, LORD, preserve both people and animals. (Psalm 36:6)

Afterward

No, I don’t believe the presence of those lovely wild violets, next to that circular decorative tile in my backyard, is a coincidence or mistake. I will always think of this place as a Providential tribute to one of His wonderful little creations named Buddy.

I like to think of that wild, uncultivated patch of purple blossoms as God’s own memorial for a life well lived, and for a creature He loved more than I ever could.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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BB KING & A PERSONAL ALLUSION

As I sit here watching a television documentary on the life and music of B.B. King, the late great R&B singer said something with which, as a child of southern segregation, I can, at some level, relate.

“When I was a boy I worked in the fields from ‘can to can’t;’ (from the time we can see to the time we can’t see.”)

(and)

“Way back when, when they were lynching black folks, there was a saying among white folks.

‘If you can kill a mule, you can buy another one. If you kill a n _ _ _ _ _, you can hire another one.”

Tonight’s documentary reminds me of something I previously wrote.

I was just listening to an old radio broadcast from 1996 on National Public Radio. Terri Gross was involved in an interview with the famous blues singer and guitarist, B.B. (“Blues Boy”) King. The occasion for the re-broadcast was yesterday’s death of the great musician.

Since I have an especial interest in sharecropping, and since BB grew up in this environment, I thought I would attempt to paraphrase one particular segment of the interview, related to Mr. King’s childhood years; minus Ms. Gross’ questions.

To provide a small disclaimer it is important for me to say that my father and mother grew up around sharecroppers, and as I recall my grandfather not only owned his own farm, but sharecropped at one time, himself.

To make the subject of sharecropping even more “there there” for me, I am in possession of a photograph taken in the early 20th century which depicts my great grandparents, John & Carolyn McDonald standing in front of William’s Georgia homestead, along with several of their adolescent children, including my own grandfather, Webster McDonald. 

Well over to the right we immediately notice a small black man standing under a tree. It has been thought by the family that the anonymous Negro was a former slave of William McDonald, John’s father, and my great great grandfather. And since the photo was snapped a good fifty years after the end of the institution of slavery, it has been conjectured that the black man chose to remain on the property as a sharecropper.

But to return to our interview with BB King...

“I grew up on the Mississippi Delta in the town of Indianola. By the age of 7, I was planting and harvesting cotton. It wasn’t unusual for children of that age who lived on the plantation to do adult work. We all had to pitch in, and do our part.

My parents were sharecroppers. I had a lot of experience with cotton, and went on to work peanuts, and eventually soybeans. You ask what sharecropping is. Well, it is what it sounds like it is. Share Cropping. We shared the crops we worked. Mr. ________, the owner, was the CPA. He did all the paperwork. Around December of each year, we ‘settled up,’ as we called it. 

The property owner would sit down with my daddy, and he might say something like, 'Well, Mr. King, you managed to make 25 bales of cotton this year. Each bale brought $200. That’s $5,000. I advanced you $3,200 this year for rent and groceries, and other miscellaneous stuff. I owe you $1,800.'

And at this point, Mr. _________ would hand my father the money. And so the cycle would begin all over again.

(In regard to a question about whether BB wanted to get off the plantation as quickly as possible), "No, it wasn't like that at all. The plantation was home; with a capital H. It was what we knew and loved. It was all we knew. It was our life.

However, one day it began to change for me. You see, I was driving the plantation owner’s tractor one day, and suddenly the tailpipe backfired, and fell off. Well, you can imagine my consternation! You have to understand, the trouble with the tractor was like cutting a slice out of your mother’s newly baked chocolate cake, only to have it fall on the floor, and finding yourself in the dreadful position to try to explain it to her.

Well, I wasn’t all that keen about explaining the broken tailpipe to my parent’s benefactor, so I cut outta there. Headed off to Memphis. It was a 'whole nother country.' A different place. I ran into my cousin in the big city, and he told me I needed to go back to Indianola, and explain myself to Mr. __________; that I’d never be able to go forward ‘til I took care of the past. So I went back home, and 'paid the piper.'

As stern as I had remembered the man, he was actually very decent about it all; actually very kind, and all that was soon put behind us.”

BB King lived an interesting, and rather amorous life, it seems, since he admits having fathered 15 children by 15 women! His unsavory morals aside, he was an icon of the Blues music industry, and no one would ever deny it.

My father was an amateur genealogist, and a few decades before his death he decided to visit what remained of his great Grandfather William’s goldmine in Dahlonega, Georgia. The defunct mine is on the present site of a carpet mill. The manager of the mill agreed to walk my dad back to what was left of it. 

While my father was in the area, he met some black men who happened to possess the “McDonald” surname. Comparing notes, my dad discovered that they were descendants of the slaves once “owned” by William, and who worked in the very gold mine my dad visited earlier that day. (Freed slaves often took the last name of their former owners as their own).

And so it comes “full circle,” for you see, these present day African-American men are, without doubt, the grandchildren of that shy little black sharecropper in that old black & white picture; standing by himself under a tree.

Yes, and now it’s plain why I’m a bit keen on the topic of sharecropping. It’s more than a random radio interview featuring BB King. 

Much more than that

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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MY LITTLE BUDDY RETURNS

As a child and as a young and older adult, (well, throughout my natural life, for as long as I remember) I have enjoyed watching “The Twilight Zone.” And though Rod Serling, (like Elvis) has long since “left the building,” millions of people are still fascinated by the syndicated re-runs of this marvelous program.

For anyone who has ever ‘partaken’ of this half-hour broadcast, he or she is all too familiar with the quirky nature of the old series; which might loosely be characterized as belonging to the genre of science fiction. Of course, none of ‘the stuff’ of what was formerly a weekly television offing was based on reality.

Nonetheless, someone once made a statement which goes something like, “There are (strange and wonderful) things in heaven and earth which have yet to be found out; and some are the stuff of fiction.”

(Come to think of it, I kinda like my rendition of the phrase).

Lately, I have come across two examples in scripture, one in the Old Testament, and one in the New Testament, which bear out this perspective.

“You (meaning God) preserve both man and animals, alike.” (Psalm 36:6)

(and)

“Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying: 

‘To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praise and honor and glory and power, for ever and ever!’" (Rev. 5:13)

After my pet Shih Tzu passed away, I wrote a small volume in her memory entitled, “My Little Buddy.”

(Yes, her name was ‘Buddy.’)

The dear creature first wandered up to our house with another dog of the same variety; apparently her brother; as they were obviously still puppies. And since Shih Tzu’s are rather expensive, it seemed obvious that these were no ‘throw away’ pets. Sadly, the male pooch died shortly thereafter, and as a result, Buddy displayed some significant anxiety, but it is not my purpose to give much time to that sad occurrence.

However, I will allude to the passing of our dear little Buddy; a full decade later.

Buddy, (as is the case with many Shih Tzu’s) suffered from severe allergies, and the only recourse was the administration of steroidal medication. Otherwise, she at best would have been uncomfortable, and at worst, might have scratched out her eyes.

However, the use of this medication over the course of ten years took its toll, and Buddy’s liver values continued to rise, and ultimately to dangerous levels. I always referred to this seeming medicinal contradiction as, “Taking poison to stay alive.”

I will spare you the worst, (though I was quite specific in my volume by the same title as this story) but suffice it to say our little Buddy left us in the course of a night, though her leaving was not without significant suffering. She lay close against me that night, as she had all of the 3,000 plus days I’d called her mine. And as the dark of night gave way to the light of dawn, Buddy took her leave, and traveled to wherever household pets go …when they go.

On a rather light, or morbid note, (depending on your particular mindset) having considered ‘permatizing’ my pooch, I once looked over at Buddy, and asked,

“Buddy, would you like to be freeze dried when you die?”

And I kid you not, my furry friend responded with the most contentious look I had ever witnessed on her canine countenance. But to be sure, I’m convinced that we will see our pets again. At least, I have asked our heavenly Father for the favor of their eternal presence next to me.

Can it be sixty years since that black & white Cocker Spaniel, Princess, graced my life? And with the passing of decades, Buddy, and Lucy, and Queenie filled the successive emptiness left by the one before.

And of course, as each went “the way of all flesh” I expected the obligatory wait ‘til I would see any, or all of them again.

But, have you heard the old adage,

…“There’s always an exception to the rule.” (?)

I was heartbroken.

I was nearing 60, and I found myself coping with a loss with which I hadn’t contended in half a century. The demise of a beloved pet. The tears came, and continued to come hot and heavy, as they had when my little Princess had gone on to her reward.

I don’t exactly know what I believe about “visitations from the great beyond;” (except the admonition of scripture that we refrain from ‘following after’ such things). I can only bear witness to the unique experiences which were mine, (and mine alone) after my little Buddy left the scene, and the resulting perspective that God can do anything He “jolly well chooses” to do.

It had been, at the most, a few days since Buddy “gave up the ghost” and my emotions were as raw as the day she left us. My furry friend and I had slept in the same bed for years, and there was no one to complain about the arrangement, as my wife had long since “taken up residence” in her own bedroom; due to her work as a shift nurse.

My little Buddy had her own pillow at the foot of the bed. (And I’m not ashamed to admit that after her demise I have kept a token pillow at the end of my bed).

At any rate, after I resorted to my bedroom one night, and the combination of weariness and grief overcame my wakefulness, I experienced something completely unexpected, and unbidden.

…Breathing

Or at least the sensation of something up against my right shoulder, and that something was

…Respiring.

To be sure, no audible sound escaped the lungs of whatever lay next to me. Only the physical sensation of something breathing in and out, in and out as this non-descript thing lay hard against my shoulder.

And as you might well imagine, several seconds transpired before I conjured up the wherewithal to look. I mean, by this time I was all too aware that I, and I, alone should be the only entity filling up the 65 square foot rectangular surface upon which I resided.

Ultimately, I turned to look.

And what greeted my eyes was,

… absolutely nothing.

That same night I sensed the sensation of weight against my right foot, as if this same unseen entity was seeking the comfort of the pillow which was lying there.

I can assure you I was wide awake, and that there was nothing about these unseen manifestations kin to the dreams of which I, (and every other inhabitant of the earth) are all too familiar.

The late Jimmy Stewart, one of my favorite old-time movie stars, once appeared on “The Tonight Show” (with Johnny Carson) and shared one of his ‘home grown’ poems, titled, “My Dog, Beau.”

What he apparently experienced, and upon which he based the following excerpt seems akin to my own experience.

“And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.
And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.
Oh, how I wish that wasn't so.
I'll always love a dog named Beau.”

And I suppose if that had been the end of it, a decade later I might still be questioning the reality of what transpired that night.

However…

As I was walking in my neighborhood one evening, perhaps a month after the loss of my beloved Buddy, and I found myself reminiscing about the old girl,

…I saw it,

(or should I use a different pronoun)?

…I saw her.

Suddenly, not thirty feet ahead of me, what seemed to be a little white pooch appeared out of nothingness, slowly walked across my path way, and entered my neighbor’s front yard.

And as quickly as she appeared, she immediately relinquished her physicality.

I can’t account for why the great actor and I were blessed to realize such momentary manifestations of our precious pooches. But at least for me there remains that quiet reassurance that our pets are alive and well, and reside in a land where the roses never fade, and no tear dims the eye.

There’s a poignant cartoon which depicts St. Peter standing at the pearly gates. Next to him is a dog thoroughly overcome with excitement. In the foreground we see an old man approaching the duo.

St. Peter bends his head towards ‘Rover’ and exclaims,

“So this is your friend, Bobby, who you’ve been ‘going on about’ for the past 50 years!”

I think by now Jimmy and Beau have been reunited, and I like to believe my own little Buddy eagerly awaits my arrival.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2017

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DISCOVERING OUR ROOTS

I have several of my dad's paintings on my walls. He loved to paint barns, and swamps, and trees and such things on large canvasses. And once he completed a work, he would either frame it with a two-tone, store bought frame of natural wood, and gold trim, or he’d envelope the painting with his own hand made frame of pecky cypress. To my knowledge, he never painted from “real life,” but copied existing paintings in art magazines.

In his 50’s, my Father got involved in genealogy. At the time there was no internet, or ancestry.com, since Al Gore hadn’t yet thought of the idea. (The last sentence should merit a smile). Everything daddy did in the area of genealogy was done using actual source documents. Over the course of several years, Henry Jr. compiled an exquisite volume which contained data on all the descendants of Isham McDonald, his great great Grandfather, through John McDonald, his grandson. That volume has been distributed to numerous extended family members.

Speaking of Isham McDonald, my dad and I once took a trip together, in the late 90’s, or early 2000’s, to the old Orangeburgh District of South Carolina. Isham had settled in this area prior to the time of the American Revolution on, (as I recall) the Little Pee Dee Creek. Daddy and I hoped to find the approximate location of our Scottish grandfather’s original homestead.

Having arrived in that part of South Carolina, since my dad was an exterminator, he looked up a local man who was involved with the same vocation, and we sat down with him. My Father explained our purpose for being in the area, and Mr. Carter informed us that he knew an old man who he felt sure could assist us.

The local exterminator led the way, and after about fifteen minutes, we rolled up in the old fella’s yard. Mr. Brown was 90 years of age, (and no doubt he has passed from the scene by now).

He was a lively old guy, and obviously enjoyed having company. My dad, Mr. Carter and I sat in the living room with the kindly old man, and his wife for thirty minutes or more, as we discussed Isham McDonald, his Revolutionary War service, and his South Carolina homestead.

Daddy had long known that he would never find the exact site of Isham’s property, since Gen. Sherman had burned nearby Southern courthouses during the Civil War, and records such as land deeds, and last wills and testaments had been lost forever.

However, Mr. Brown proceeded to tell us that when he was a young man, he hunted raccoon along the Pee Dee Creek, and at one time it was easily 40 feet wide. His eyes twinkled, as he reminisced that on one particular hunt, he and his dogs were tracking a coon, when he stumbled and fell into that creek. Of course, we all laughed with him as he shared that poignant memory.

As he approached the end of his story, the old fella mused, “You know, I can tell you where that creek is, the one your Granddaddy Isham lived on. It’s not the fast moving river it used to be though. It’s nothing more than a culvert under the road today.”

And so Mr. Brown told us how to find our way to what remained of the creek, and thanking him, we took our leave. As we walked into the front yard, Mr. Carter “left us to our own devices” as he, no doubt, realized that this was a father and son moment. Daddy also thanked this fine man, and so we boarded our separate vehicles and went our way.

 (If I recalled the name of his business and the city where it was located, I’d enjoy chatting with Mr. Carter again. I would update him on our visit to what was left of that creek, and share with him the details of my dad’s passing).

Well, my readers, as I alluded above, we found the creek, or as Mr. Brown and I have previously implied, what was left of it. And indeed, it was no more than a culvert which ran under that old country road; perhaps three feet wide and only a trickle of brown water. Daddy and I got out, and walked down the embankment. I suppose we took a few pictures, but if so, ten or twelve years later, I have no idea where they’re located, and I regret it.

We may have lingered there all of six or eight minutes, and my dad mused that Isham’s homestead would have been within a mile or two from where we stood. The trees and undergrowth in this area prevented us from following the path of the creek, and I doubt we would have discovered anything of further significance, had we been able to do so.

Nevertheless, the bond between my dad and I was strengthened that day, and the time we spent together that week allowed us to reconcile any unspoken differences which may have existed between us. 

I will be eternally grateful that my Father and I were given the opportunity to say some things to one another we’d never said before, to spend the quality time together that we’d never spent before, and to go where we’d never gone in pursuit of those whose very flesh and blood we shared.

by William McDonald. Excerpt from "Snapshots." Copyright Pending

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THE IMPACT OF AN ANONYMOUS, SOLITARY YOUNG MAN

“I think I decided I wanted to be a writer one summer afternoon in my childhood, when the neighborhood pool I was swimming in was temporarily closed due to lightning. I snatched up my towel and huddled on a big porch with the other kids; waiting out the storm.

The lifeguard sat down on a plastic lawn chair near me, brought out an illustrated copy of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and offered to read it. Most of the kids left, but two or three of us stayed to listen, sitting cross-legged on the floor around him. As he read, I fell so deeply into the narrative that the thunderstorm around me seemed to be rushing out of the words themselves.

My head was ringing with those words as I walked home. I never knew the name of this young man or anything about him, but I never really got over that day, and his momentary influence had everything to do with the career I ultimately chose to pursue. "

(Paraphrase of an interview of Laura Hillenbrand, author of "Seabiscuit")

A LESS THAN HUMOROUS HONEYMOON JOKE

**Following is an excerpt from my autobiography which describes an incident which took place on our honeymoon.

We rented a nice hotel room on the beach, and enjoyed ourselves a great deal. There was, however, one particular incident at Vero which momentarily concerned her parents, when we returned home.

As we were body surfing, a larger than average wave caught my wife unawares, and she found herself tumbling, head over heels, beneath the water. As she surfaced near the beach, both of her cheeks were pretty beat up.

My first thought… "No one is going to believe I didn’t whup on on her on our honeymoon."

As I recall, the next time Jean saw her parents, she was alone. And of course they were “shocked out of their gourd,” as we say in the South, when they saw the marks on her face. By now the previously pink areas had darkened in color, and looked, for all the world, like we’d been in a “knock down, drag out” fight, (and she had lost).

Well, of course her dad and mom asked about the marks on her face, and Jean decided to play it for all it was worth.

“Royce beat me up! I talked back to him, and he punched me a couple of times.”

I can only imagine what my in-laws thought of me at that moment, especially since they had previously thought I was “the cat’s meow,” and they obviously liked me.

Her dad did all he could to show a little restraint, as his voice rose several decibels,

“What? Royce beat you up?” And his cheeks must have turned almost as red, as the marks on my wife’s face.

Jean knew her father, and she knew when it was time to bring “the little ha ha” to a speedy conclusion.

“No Daddy. Royce would NEVER hurt me. I just got pummeled by a big wave. It drove me straight into the bottom, and messed up my face.”

I can only wonder if her parents were immediately convinced, or whether a bit of doubt remained. But I think, before their youngest daughter stepped out their front door that day, she had convinced them it was all a big joke; (but perhaps in her parents’ eyes, not a very good one).

by William McDonald, PhD. "Snapshots." Copyright 2008

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VOICES FROM THE PAST

I wrote an earlier story about having once visited my great Uncle Gordon. I had just turned 13, and my family and I were vacationing at my grandparent’s house in southern Georgia. 

As my mother, brother and I sat in my uncle’s parlor, he stood up, walked over to an unusual wooden box, lifted the lid, and proceeded to turn a crank on the side; (which reminded me of the old timey handle on the front of those Henry Ford Model T’s).

Suddenly, a black cylinder mounted on the inside top of the box began spinning, and the strangest music I’d ever heard filled up the room. I’d seen those old black and white films of Al Jolsen singing, and what I was hearing reminded me of his style of music and vocal characteristics. 

For all I knew my exposure to my great uncle’s Victrola (Amberola) was a one-time experience; at least in terms of ever seeing and hearing his personal music box again. He was in his late 60’s or early 70’s, and I never expected to see him again. (And as it fell together, I never did).

However…

(One can always tell something unexpected is about to be revealed when this word appears on the written page).

However, a full half century later this former adolescent is easily as old as my dearly departed relative was at the time, and (strangely enough) I was recently afforded the opportunity to not only see and hear my uncle’s ancient Victrola again, 

…but to purchase it, and provide it a place of honor in my very own home.

Did I mention my great Uncle’s entire collection of audio cylinders came with that old music box? (Well, they did). It seems these cylinders have a Plaster of Paris base, with the standard black plastic record coating on the outside. And of perhaps a hundred audios, the inner core of perhaps 2/3 of them are beginning to crumble; (which leaves me wondering if there is any hope of repair).

 

But as for the thirty or so cylinders which are still usable, once again I have been given the opportunity to listen to the strains of that ethereal old music coming out of the internal horn; tucked just behind a framework of metal and what I refer to as ‘speaker cloth.’

My uncle evidently enjoyed religious music, as thus far I have discovered more than a ‘handful’ contain this particular genre of hymns and spiritual melodies. 

Yesterday, having pushed the audio cylinder onto the roller, I turned the crank 8 or 10 times, and flipped the switch. Suddenly, the familiar old hymn, “Rock of Ages” wafted through the speaker. At first, several male and female voices blended; ultimately metamorphosing into one female voice finishing the verse.

Strange, the Edison Amberola 30 player was patented in 1903, and according to a notecard which my uncle wrote out by hand, my particular version of the machine was originally purchased in 1917. 

The owners of the surreally poignant voices have easily been dead and gone for three quarters of a century. No more will they walk their native soil, but rather have become part of it.

…However,

(there’s that word again)

they have left something of themselves behind.

And, would you believe it? In spite of the tiny cracks and pops which are part and parcel of such an ancient recording, and in spite of the decidedly English tilt of their repertoire, the tenor of their voices struck something deep inside of me. 

Deep calling out to deep. A rather apt way of putting it, I think. They were here and I was not. I am here and they are not. And yet, they have lent me their voices, and have instilled something grand and lasting within me. 

They have simply left something of themselves behind.

And for this I am grateful, (and intend to do as they have done before me).


Post-script - Since I purchased the ancient record player and the audio cylinders I discovered there was a tool to 'ream out' the inside of the cylinders; which I subsequently purchased. As a result virtually 100 percent of the audios can be played, and provide excellent sound. 


Also, since I purchased the Amberola both my aunts informed me that it was originally owned by my grandfather Ring, my great uncle Gordon's brother. Of course, it was an added bonus for me to discover this information.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 35. Copyright pending 
 

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