UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4453

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

 

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

 

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

 

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

 

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

 

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

 

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

 

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

 

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

 

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

 

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

 

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

 

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

 

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

 

They gave their tomorrows for our today.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

A FEW MEMORIES RELATING TO MY LATE RELATIVES & OTHER MISCELLANEOUS PEOPLE

 4452

**My mother in law was a quiet person. However, we she felt strongly about something, she spoke up every time. And, she was the master of witty, (though always non-abrasive) remarks.

One day she received a spam call from the local Arthur Murray Studio. The lady on the other end of the line began her "pitch."

"Hello, Mrs. Vaughn. I have a wonderful offer for you today. We can give you three dance lessons at half price!"

To which my mother in law responded,

"Uhmmm, I'm sorry, Honey... I only have one leg!"

The disembodied voice of the solicitor was caught off guard. A few seconds later, she said,

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ma'am. Thank you for your time."

(Click)

*************************************************************

**Shortly before my father went on to his reward, he was hospitalized after a major stroke.

During the couple of weeks that he was in the hospital various tests were performed, and some initial rehab was begun.

One day my father, mother, and I were meeting with the speech therapist. And totally "out of the blue," my dad, looking directly at the female therapist, said,

"Honey, I want you to come see me when I get out of here! I'll show you a real good time!"

(Oh me)

*************************************************************

My wife's former sister in law, and her daughter stopped by to see us one day.

It so happened that our hallway toilet wasn't working properly, and we have taped the lid down. Shortly after they arrived, the little girl walked into the bathroom to answer "the call of nature," and she couldn't lift the toilet lid.

Now, she walked back into the living room with a puzzled look on her face, and exclaimed...

"Ya'll don't pee?"

**************************************************************

Today, I was driving home from a visit to the pet supply store, and my cell phone rang. Thinking it was my wife, I answered,

"Hello?"

Too late I realized it was a solicitor.

"Sir, I want to offer you a fabulous medical alert resource."

Without taking a breath, she continued.

"Could you tell me how old you are?"

Evidently, I momentarily "channeled" my mother's in-law's wit.

I responded.

"I'm old as dirt. But, I'm not interested! Thank you."

(Click)

by Bill McDonald, PhD

JILL OF ALL TRADES

 4451

My wife and I recently returned from a trip to West Virginia to see my daughters. As it fell together our credit card mileage club required us to fly from Orlando to Chicago, and catch a plane back to Charleston. On the way home we boarded in Charleston, flew to Chicago, and then back to Orlando.

 

All that being said, as we prepared to fly back to Florida, and was ready to board in Charleston, we stepped up to the United Airlines counter, and a middle aged lady named Anna greeted us. She processed our bags, and issued a boarding pass. My wife thanked her, and we proceeded to the security window where the agent checked our ID’s and boarding passes, put our carry on’s upon the conveyor belt, and we walked through the metal detector.

 

Now we headed towards the gate and having arrived there, we sat down, and I engaged in conversation with a man named Steve who was a licensed marriage and family therapist, and who was also flying to O’Hare International Airport. Interestingly enough, Steve had an internet girlfriend in the Philippines whom he had never met in person, and he was planning to spend three weeks with her.

 

Suddenly, I looked up and saw the afore mentioned Anna again. She was behind the United Airlines gate counter. As the time ticked closer to our departure, Anna circulated among the passengers, tagged some of the heavier bags, and made the customers aware that these items would have to go in the belly of the plane. Now, Anna got on the microphone and summoned us to the gate.

 

Having walked through the moveable boarding hallway, we walked through the airplane doorway, and (you guessed it) Anna greeted us, and subsequently could be seen chatting with the stewardesses and the pilot.

 

With this, my wife and I walked down the aisle, found our seats, and stowed our carry on’s in the overhead storage bins. I was fortunate enough to sit by the window, as I have always enjoyed a window seat. While take off’s and landings cause me a certain amount of anxiety, I love to look at the fluffy cumulus clouds, and the tiny roadways and tinier cars six miles below me.

 

As we were preparing for takeoff, I glanced out over the tarmac, and noticed someone was seated in the cab of the moveable boarding hallway, and who had already moved it away from the aircraft. And then I realized who that someone was. You guessed it again. Anna had just stood up, and turned to assume her place at the United Airlines baggage counter!

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THOSE WEARY DAYS AND DREARY NIGHTS

 4450

I have interacted with a multitude of people on my Facebook page over the past fifteen years. But, I think I have never experienced any person, or any circumstance like the following account which occurred a couple of years ago.

Among my foreign social media friends, I somehow met and messaged a twenty something Ukrainian woman several times.

As I recall now, Anna lived in the capital city of Kiev; a location which, though not in the very thick of the land battles which plagued Ukraine, it has, at times, suffered air assaults by cruise and ballistic missiles, and drones. 

And during the weary days and dreary nights the city was under attack, Anna and I continued to correspond, (though I have, admittedly, forgotten the topics of our exchanges). However, I am by nature an encourager, and I presume we discussed any number of things, including the war, and the fear which permeated her life.

Ultimately, Anna managed to migrate to Poland, and from there to Great Britain.

At some point she messaged me again from London, (or some other city in England), and began to reminisce about those deadly encounters with missiles and drones, as she sat cowering in the local subway, or municipal building basement on a recurring basis.

"Dr. Bill, you have no idea how much your words encouraged me during those long and lonely nights when missiles were falling all around us, and when my neighbors and I might have died at any moment. You were there with me when fear and anxiety threatened to overwhelm me!"

(and)

"Thank you, my friend."

If my entire life had been mundane and uneventful, if I had somehow failed to make a difference in a solitary life 'til then, it would be enough to have "merely" encouraged my friend, Anna, and helped bring her safely through that awful war which raged around her.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A GOOD SERGEANT AND A LITTLE MONK

 4449

*The following story is based on limited information, but is, given the absence of complete details, generally factual in nature. Some incidentals in the story line are included to provide dramatic effect. The characters in the story, except for Sergeant Otis Vaughn, have been assigned fictional names, since the actual names of these characters are unknown.

During the early 60’s, Le Duc Nguyen, a nine year old apprentice monk was walking through a thicket of bamboo on his way to fetch a bucket of water from a nearby stream. It was mid-morning and the air had begun to heat up a bit, and now and then he felt a vine or small branch brush against his sandaled feet.

However, what he felt next was anything but a vine or branch. For suddenly, he sensed a piercing wound to his right ankle. Looking down Le found himself looking at the largest snake he had ever seen in the short decade he had lived in this Vietnamese hamlet. His parents had often warned him about the multitude of poison snakes which inhabited their little corner of the world.

Le immediately recognized it. He had been bitten by a Chinese Cobra, one of the most venomous snakes on the planet. The little monk watched as the Cobra slithered away into the bamboo thicket, dropped his bucket, and immediately turned, and retraced his steps back to the Buddhist monastery. The compound was about two hundred yards distant, and by the time he arrived there, he was struggling to catch his breath.

Phen Doc Toe, one of the older monks, saw Le limp up to the compound, and knew something was very wrong. He had sent the boy for water, but he noticed there was no bucket in his hands now, and that Le’s cheeks were red, and that one of his ankles was badly swollen.

Phen asked Le an almost rhetorical question.

“What has happened to you, Le?”

Le struggled to speak.

“I was walking through the bamboo thicket near the river, and I was bitten by a Cobra.”

Pt. 2

Phen Doc was absolutely mortified. He knew that such a bite was almost certain death. He was also all too aware that the monastery was poorly equipped to treat anything, but the most minor of maladies and injuries.

Phen grabbed the boy up in his arms, and rushed him to the small Buddhist temple. As he walked into the sanctuary, he noticed that the chief priest and a few of his fellow monks were chanting their morning prayers.

As Phen barged through the door, six or eight priests turned from their prayers; with a momentary look of consternation on their faces. However, their consternation quickly disappeared in favor of shock and empathy.

The priest who held the suffering little apprentice shouted.

“Le went to get water and stepped on a Cobra. He is certain to die.”

The priests attending the altar turned from their prayers, and ran to the duo. Do Van Tien, the chief priest, took Le from Phen’s arms, and set him down on a bamboo mat. By now, Le’s breathing was shallow, and his neck and face were red and swollen.

The chief priest laid hands on the boy, and began praying. There was simply nothing else to be done. The priest’s subordinates hovered around the little boy, and did much the same thing.

Hundreds of South Vietnamese men, women and children were bitten by the thirty-seven varieties of venomous snakes which frequented the area on a yearly basis. And since much of the countryside lacked proper medical facilities, the snake bites were almost always fatal.

Pt. 3

Sergeant Otis Vaughn was a member of an Army surveying team in South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. He and his team members were tasked with the preliminary work which went into laying in roads for the American forces to travel from one hamlet to another.

As they were “going about their business” one day, and had pulled their jeeps off the road for a smoke or water break, as the case may be, the young sergeant heard voices on a nearby hillside. While the survey team’s primary mission was surveying, they were equipped with M-16 rifles, and knew how to use them. They were, after all, soldiers first, and surveyors second. He knew the entirety of South Vietnam was rife with Viet Cong, and North Vietnamese regulars, and that they would just as soon shoot your head off, as look at you.

Otis yelled to the six privates who accompanied him.

“Get down!”

Everyone hit the dirt, and lay there pondering their next move.

It was then that Sergeant Vaughn realized what the sound was that permeated the jungle foliage surrounding them.

Prayers

As someone who knew him, I can tell you no one ever accused Otis of what might be referred to as a “depleted sense of curiosity.” He was going to find discover what the commotion was all about.

“Okay men, false alarm. Get up. Stay here, and keep your eyes open. I’m going to climb that hill, and have a little peek.”

With this, Sergeant Vaughn walked to the base of the hill, about fifty yards distant, and trudged up the five hundred feet which separated him from his quest.

Pt. 4

As the winded military man arrived at the summit of the hill, he lay on his stomach, and peered into the Buddhist compound. The voices were louder now, and they were obviously coming from a small bamboo temple a couple hundred feet away.

And while the young sergeant’s courage had waned a bit, and he felt a sense of dread rising in his chest, he stood, and began to walk slowly towards the temple. Of course, Otis still cradled his M-16 in his arms, and was wary of any sound or movement from the small huts on his left and right.

Now, Sergeant Vaughn strode through the door of the little sanctuary, and witnessed several Buddhist priests surrounding what appeared to be a prostrate boy. At this juncture, the priests stopped their chanting, and greeted the foreigner with wary eyes.

Otis did his best to put the priests at ease. He smiled the friendliest smile he knew how to conjure up, and raised his arms in somewhat of a quasi-surrender.

Now, looking down at the man whom he surmised was in charge of this motley crew, and speaking slowly, he asked,

“I heard your voices. Can I help you?”

The American looked innocent enough to the chief priest, and it just so happened that Do Van Tien knew some rudimentary English. He responded,

“The boy. He been bitten by, by Cobra. He dying.”

Pt. 5

The good sergeant’s mind raced, and he thought,

“Well, not if I have anything to do with it. Not on my watch.”

And he said much the same thing to the chief priest.

Indicating he was a whole lot more than words, and intended to take action, Sergeant Vaughn nearly shouted at Do Van Tien.

“Trust me. Let me have the boy. I’ll take him to an Army field hospital.”

By now, Le was drifting in and out of consciousness, and the chief priest realized that there was absolutely nothing to lose. He slowly nodded his head, and the would-be savior stooped down, picked up the little monk, and gently placed him over his left shoulder.

“There now. It’s going to be okay.”

And all the while he must have been thinking,

“At least, I hope it’s going to be okay.”

Now, retracing his steps, Le’s rescuer hurried down the hill to where his six team members and two jeeps were waiting. Sergeant Vaughn laid the almost comatose little monk in the back of the nearest vehicle, and informed his crew that their mission had been temporarily suspended.

“The boy has been bitten by a Cobra. There’s a field hospital a few miles from here. Let’s go!”

Pt. 6

I will allow my niece to finish this wonderful story for you.

“After my dad carried the little monk down the mountain, and managed to get him to a field hospital, the Army doctors administered an antidote for the Cobra bite, and the young man began showing signs that the chief priest’ prognosis was a little hasty.

 “After he told me this story, I exclaimed,

‘Dad, you saved that boy’s life!’”

Suddenly, my dad’s eyes misted up a little, and he replied,

“No. No, I just got into a jeep with him and took him to a hospital.”

“My dad could have chosen not to help. He could have made a decision to do his military duty, and continue the mundane task of surveying a forlorn little jungle road in Vietnam. But he got involved. My father carried a 50 pound little boy, plus his own gear down a jungled mountain, and drove him to a field hospital.

But, instead of doing his good deed, and leaving the little guy, he remained by his side. He knew the boy didn’t know English, and that he would be scared when he woke up, and would need someone to look after him.

“You would have to know my dad. His mission was simply not over ‘til it was over. Daddy sat next to that little monk ‘til he recovered, and then drove him back home.”

I am happy to tell you that the little monk made a full recovery. I am equally happy to inform you that Sergeant Otis Vaughn was my brother in law, and that finished his tour in Vietnam, and returned home to the United States where he went on to live out the remainder of his life.

Otis impacted hundreds of family, friends and co-workers with a sense of humor and empathetic spirit as big as all outdoors. He was a man’s man, and one of those characters who when they are gone, it is as if they should have always been with us. The vacuum he left behind can almost be touched.

We were all born to fulfill a task bigger than ourselves. Sergeant Otis Vaughn was no exception. An old Vietnamese monk lives and moves and breathes today because a good man momentarily set aside his military duties, and took time to express love, and compassion towards a hurting little boy in a hamlet far off the beaten trail.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

GOD IS AWARE OF EVERY TEAR YOU SHED

 4448

How beautiful does this make our God? That He is telling us He is aware of every tear we cry? And every tear we suppress because of foolish cultural standards, sinful understanding of masculinity, or the thousands of other reasons we do not allow tears to fall.

Friends, God is not unaware of our struggles. He is not apathetic to our pain that the life we have is not the life we want. Whether it’s with sin, anxiety, depression, loneliness, confusion, loss, doubt, or any other type of pain you face. He understands, because Jesus felt the burdens we feel. (Hebrews 4:13-16) Wasn't Jesus lonely? Didn't He taste abandonment from God on the cross? Didn't He sense anxiety in the garden when he was sweating blood? Didn't He live day after day with people who doubted who He was, constantly misunderstood? Didn’t He weep at the loss of his friend, Lazarus?

Rebecca Arif

Truth And Life Ministry

Pakistan

TINNITUS & LIPO FLAVONOID

 4447

It's an odd title for an over the counter nutritional supplement. It is designed for, among perhaps over things, the treatment of Tinnitus, (ringing in the ears). Believe me, it can be mind bending.

I used it in the past in hopes that it would reduce or abolish my Tinnitus. I experienced no positive results. The ringing was as loud and invasive as ever. I stopped using Lipo Flavonoid.

In the past six or eight days, I decided to give it another try. (I'm glad I did). My hellacious (sorry, that's the correct word) symptoms of Tinnitus are virtually gone now. The ringing is much reduced, and sometimes totally absent.

If you experience Tinnitus, you have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Give Lipo Flavonoid a try. (Of course, I would encourage you to read the label, and Google any possible side effects, if you are taking prescription medication for other medical issues).

YA'LL DON'T PEE?

 4446

We had company one weekend, and we had taped up the toilet in one of our two bathrooms, since it wasn't working properly.

Our friend's little girl walked into the hallway bathroom to answer "the call of nature," and saw the toilet taped up.

She walked back into the living room with a puzzled look on her face, and exclaimed...

"Ya'll don't pee?"

MY COUSIN FRANCES

 4445

I have written about this topic before, but I’m not altogether sure where I filed the story.

 

Frances Langford, the WWII era movie actress and USO performer, was my dad’s second cousin. Their grandparents were half-brother and half-sister. (I have visited my gg Aunt Rhoenia’s gravesite in Mulberry, Florida). My dad once told me that John, Rhoenia’s brother, rode from southern Georgia to central Florida on horseback in the second half of the 19^th century to see his sister.

 

When I was in Valdosta, visiting with my Aunt Olline, my dad’s 1^st cousin, Sonny McDonald, came by her house, and I struck up a conversation with him.

“Sonny, I understand Frances Langford was your second cousin;” (which he affirmed with a nod).

 

And I continued,

 

“My dad told me that he once saw her perform in Hawaii during WWII, but didn’t bother to introduce himself.”

 

Sonny piped up. 

 

“Well, I didn’t exactly meet her either, but I saw her. I was in the same room with her. You see, my dad drove me down to Lakeland once since he got a hankering to see his first cousin, Vasco, Frances’ father.

 

I was maybe five or six, and while I was playing, or simply being bored in the living room, a young lady walked through, and almost immediately out the front door. I learned later that this was cousin Frances. By this time she had already made a few movies, and was a star. Later, during WWII, she did lots of USO shows for the military, and was Bob Hope’s female ‘side kick.’”

 

I had always wanted to talk to a family member who had actually spoken to, or seen Frances. I’m glad I had that unexpected opportunity. It would not present itself again.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

SPEAKING OF DRAGLINES

 4444

During the summer of 1966, just after my junior year of high school, I procured a temporary job with one of the phosphate mining companies. (It may have been Agrico or U.S. Steel-Mining Division. I don't recall now). At any rate, our work location was just west of Spirit Lake Road, Winter Haven, and just north of the Bartow Airbase.

I was assigned to what was characterized as the Pit Car. The entire operation consisted of yours truly and another fellow seated in an open air trailer of sorts, and aiming hydraulic guns at the phosphate "feed" which our dragline operator regularly deposited in front of an open grate. The extreme water pressure allowed what amounted to phosphate ore to rush through a pipe towards the processing plant in the distance.

Whenever the dragline operator took a break from his duties, or there were mechanical issues with the big machine, the ten ton bucket would cease to do what it did best; temporarily, or for an extended time period.

Well, for some unknown reason, on a given night, I decided to pay a visit to Charlie, our friendly dragline operator. However, as I reflect on it now, I must have been experiencing teenaged dementia at that moment, since I proceeded to walk across the invisible sweep between the dragline and pit car, which the bucket had been following that particular evening; (and which it was energetically following it at the time).

By now, I had reached a point about halfway across the muddy field which separated my primitive little workhouse from the massive dragline. Suddenly, I realized what appeared to be my almost irrevocable error.

The unyielding steel bucket filled with phosphate feed was sweeping my way at an alarming rate of speed. I had absolutely no time to react. My next breath would almost certainly be my last.

Thankfully, with no more than two seconds to spare, Charlie saw a dim figure, shaped like a human being, in the midst of the mud and darkness of an environment that he knew so well.

Two seconds, one second before...IMPACT.

Now, the dragline operator slammed his hand down on a lever which controlled the altitude of the heavy steel bucket. BAM! The dragline bucket, massive enough to hold a large pickup truck, slammed against the top ten feet of the pit Charlie had been excavating over the past several weeks.

The dragline was quiet now. The only sound which permeated the blackness of the night around us was the sound of crickets, and the almost imperceptible hum of mosquito wings.

I would like to tell you that Charlie was very understanding, and that he took my age and innocence into account. I would like to tell you that. (He didn't).

I lost my dignity that evening. Charlie showered me with a multitude of choice four letter words, and gave me a verbal whipping (which still stings a little). But, for all of the verbal tirade I suffered that evening, I was still standing upright, and not lying prostrate on the muddy field of my labor.

I may have sacrificed a little of my dignity on that dark summer's night in 1966, (and though my fellow miners never let me live it down), I maintained my life, and at 77 I have outlived half of my classmates.

I owe you Charlie.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

OLD TOM

 4443

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

 

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

 

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

 

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

 

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.  

by Bill McDonald, PhD