911: MY PERSONAL "WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"

 4560

Who among us can forget what we were doing on that fateful morning of September 11, 2001. Much like the Kennedy Assassination, or the Challenger Disaster. Such events are seared into the fabric of our very souls.

My wife and I were home, and I was doing something which I had never done before. I was helping her dye her hair. (Don't tell her I told you). At any rate, suddenly there was a news break during whatever morning program we were watching. An aircraft had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. I don't recall any particular conjecture at that moment that it might have been related to terrorism. Of course, when the second airplane hit the other tower, there was NO doubt whatsoever. Terrorists had managed to pull off a dastardly deed unlike anything, (other than perhaps Pearl Harbor), that had ever been perpetrated on America before.

Before the morning was over, of course, another aircraft was hijacked and crashed in Pennsylvania, and a fourth airplane slammed into the Pentagon. Speaking of the Pentagon, I have a personal connection, albeit it rather brief, related to that massive building. 

You see, back in 1973, after my tour in the Air Force was finished, we moved to Virginia. Shortly thereafter, I procured a job with a contractor which was putting in underground utilities for the upcoming Washington D.C. subway system. Our pipe shop, in which I worked at times, was located a hundred yards from the Pentagon. I often marveled at its size, and couldn't imagine working there. However, the following year, I took the Civil Service test at the Pentagon. As it fell together, I scored well, and I was offered a Civil Service position in the U.S. Air Force Finance and Payments Office; in that very building.

Of course, I was excited about my new opportunity, and was given an appointment to "meet and greet" my future supervisor, and tour the office; which I subsequently did. I recall walking down one of those long hallways, and marveled at the immense size of the building. I cannot begin to tell you the name of my prospective supervisor at this point. (Did I say "prospective?" That particular word gives you some idea of how temporary the position was). You see, after I got home, and began to think about it, I realized that I faced a 100 mile round trip drive on a daily basis. And I just couldn't "see my way clear" to follow through with what had seemed like a marvelous plan. As a result, I called, apologized, and made them aware that whereas someone would, no doubt, be working for them, it wouldn't be me. I can truthfully say, "I was employed by the Pentagon," (but I never worked there).

However, I have surmised that had I accepted this prestigious position, and worked in that position from that moment 'til the turn of the new century, I might have been working in that great five-sided military complex when that aircraft slammed into it. And continuing to pursue hypotheticals, in this case the total K.I.A. from that horrendous attack would have been 2, 997, (rather than 2,996).

Just one personal consideration each year, as we approach the anniversary of that fateful day.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

FORGIVENESS VS. RECONCILIATION

 4559

As a former, (and now retired), pastoral counselor, I tended to do something that most counselors don't do. I taught. I required my clients to bring a notebook to their counseling sessions. And I would often say, "Okay, let's stop for a moment. I want to share a teaching with you."

And one teaching I provided my clients, especially those who came alone, and whose spouses had recently committed adultery, sounded like this:

"Reconciliation ALWAYS includes Forgiveness. However, Forgiveness DOES NOT ALWAYS include Reconciliation."

I can only remember virtually insisting one client, among thousands of clients, divorce their spouse. And that particular client's wife was a serial adulterer. The foregoing to say, I respected my clients' right to both forgive and reconcile, as I didn't have anything at stake. However, I felt it was my duty to share the two presenting factors, one which our Lord mentioned, and one which the Apostle Paul mentioned, in which forgiveness was the order of the day, but not necessarily reconciliation.

In Matthew Chapter 5 Jesus speaks about God's allowance for divorce in the case of adultery. In 1st Corinthians Chapter 7 Paul speaks about God's allowance for divorce in the case of desertion. In both cases, adultery and desertion, these passages speak of conditions and not commands; based on the innate grace the innocent party is still willing, and able to invest in the marriage.

But in a larger sense the dynamics of forgiveness and reconciliation applies to ANY relationship and ANY offense committed by one person against another person.

Reconciliation ALWAYS includes Forgiveness. However, Forgiveness DOES NOT ALWAYS include Reconciliation.

And perhaps the overriding variable by which the innocent person decides to both forgive and reconcile is frequency. That is, has the offending party CHOSEN to say, or do something which emotionally, verbally, or physically harms the innocent party on a recurring basis.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

A MOMENTARY MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

 4558

My wife and I experienced the vacation of a lifetime almost a decade ago. We visited Ireland, N. Ireland and Scotland.

While we were staying in a hotel in Glasgow, Scotland, I had taken the elevator from our third floor room to the lobby for one reason or the other. As I stepped into the elevator to go back to our room, a middle-aged man stepped in with me.

As the elevator ascended, we engaged in a brief conversation. 

"Are you an American?"

His accent betrayed him, and I knew he was a Scotsman.

I responded.

"Yes, yes I am."

My newfound friend continued.

"Ah, we owe so much to those brave lads who left your country, and came over during the last world war, and helped us fight."

His words caught me off guard. However, I know there are many in Europe, especially the older ones, who haven't forgotten our sacrifice there.

I nodded, and said something appropriate. And now the elevator door opened, and I bid the fellow a good evening.

As brief as my experience was, I think I will never forget my conversation with that stranger in a small elevator in Scotland.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4557

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 todays.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 4556

(Those perilous 8 steps)

I served as a counselor in a local ministry called House of Hope, a residential ministry to women, for about three years.

 

One day a new House Mother reported for duty, and I volunteered to take her duffle bag to her second floor bedroom. However, in doing so, I made a crucial mistake. I threw the bag over my RIGHT shoulder, and began climbing the first flight of stairs; (leaving me without a free hand to hold onto the banister). Step 1, Step 2, Step 3, Step 4.

 

Now, I reached the landing, turned and began to mount the longer flight of stairs. Step 5, Step 6, Step 7, Step 8... And now... I suddenly lost my balance, and dropped the duffle bag; in a futile attempt to grab the banister to arrest my all but certain fall.

 

And now, I felt myself falling backwards. Like a vehicle in reverse. Step 7, Step 6, Step 5. Shoulders, arms, legs, and rumpus bouncing down the unforgiving wooden stairs.

 

My momentum was, by this time, so dynamic that, when I hit the landing, I navigated the 90 degree angle with ease, and continued my short, but unforgettable journey down the staircase.

 

Step 4, Step 3, Step 2, Step 1. And now, I bounced onto the hard wooden floor from whence I came.

 

As I lay there attempting to regain my focus, and ascertain the damage to my body, I heard footsteps. Jana, the House Administrator, ran up to me, and screamed,

 

"Don't get up! Don't get up!"

 

(But, I did).

 

As far as I could tell, no broken bones, and, at least for the moment, no significant pain. (The bruises and somewhat less than moderate pain would become apparent in the next few days). I realized how blessed I was to have avoided paralysis, or death.

 

The new House Mother told me later that she had seen the whole grizzly thing. She said it was the most violent fall she had ever witnessed in her entire life.

 

I learned a very difficult, I mean HARD lesson that day.

 

Throughout my life, I have been prone to accidents, most, sadly, of my own making. (However, as I reflect on it now, at least I have rarely made the same stupid mistake more than once. It seems I find new, more innovative, and more dangerous ways to get myself in trouble)!

 

Somehow, I have reached the grand old age of the lucky double digits (77). God has been gracious... (in spite of my knack for falling down stairs, sailing head first off my bike, running through a glass door, falling off a ladder, finding myself in the middle of a crime scene, nearly being wiped out by a ten ton dragline bucket, flipping my car, etc. etc.) 

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE HAND ON MY SHOULDER

 4555

My wife and I attended a local church several years ago, and I also happened to serve as the staff counselor there.

A few years into my tenure, our pastor contacted an evangelist friend and invited him to conduct a one week series of revival meetings; which he summarily did. On the final night of his series, “Pastor Lynch” invited whomever would to join “Rev. Jensen” at the front of the church for a final prayer; to send him on his way.

With this, Jean and I strolled to the area just below the pulpit, and joined perhaps fifty others as they surrounded the good minister. And as is the case in such evangelistic environments, each person, in turn, placed a hand on the shoulder of the person closest to the next person closest to the “identified individual.”

And since I was among numerous others which comprised one of the concentric rings which surrounded the evangelist, I was not surprised when someone behind me placed his or her hand on my right shoulder.

However…

As the communal prayer ended, and people began filing back to their pews, I realized the hand …was still on my shoulder. The realization that the hand remained unmoved struck me so strange that I found myself reticent to look around. But since it was time to make my exit from the front of the auditorium I had little choice, but to “do a 180” and head back to my seat.

As I turned and cast my eyes on the space from whence the arm and adjoining hand were extended, it was all too apparent that

…there was no one there!

And yet, and yet, the weight of the hand remained on my shoulder.

And it was at this point that I realized I had either transcended the laws of gravity, (as the weight of the atmosphere exerts the same relative pressure on an entire body at sea level) or I had unknowingly sustained nerve damage on or about my deltoid muscle which accounted for the unusual sensation. (By this time I was racking my brain for any rationale for such a one of a kind experience).

And as I walked back down the aisle, and reclaimed my seat, the weight of the hand remained. As the service was dismissed, we made our way out the front door, I slid into the passenger seat, and we drove the 1.5 miles to our home, the extra pound of flesh and blood sat heavy on my shoulder. It was only after I flopped down in my recliner, and a few minutes elapsed that the strange sensation finally dissipated.

Although I can’t be altogether certain why our Lord afforded me this unique affirmation of His love and leading, I have never doubted that His hand has rested upon my life and ministry. As it fell together, the years ahead would be fraught with many trials and troubles, as well as triumphs.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

THE WEAVER'S TAPESTRY

The tapestry He weaves in me is twined in many hues

The pattern of the thread He works is not mine to choose

And though too close to focus on the weaving that He sees

And too far from His purposes to see His plan for me

 

The constant shuffle of the loom, the heavy threads now fall in place

And in the shadows that they cast, I sometimes fail to see His face

But when the finer thread is laid, and drifts across the airy span

Tis then the light comes gleaming through, tis then I see the Weaver’s Hand

 

His weaving grows with each new joy, each trial adds still more  thread

The colors of the rainbow blend with each new hope and dread

The loom slides on with ceaseless speed, each thread drops in its place

The fringes of this cloth are sewn with silk and pretty lace

 

The Weaver’s Hand is sure and tried, and nail scars grace His palm

And as He works His work in me, my soul knows peace and calm

The cloth He works is precious, and, the loom He works is sure

The tapestry He weaves in me is rich and very pure

 

And though the darker colors shade -the few, but brighter threads beside

I know He works all things for good, His colors true, His pattern tried

And when the Master’s Hand is still, and the cloth of life is spun

Tis then His image shall appear, His tapestry is done

 by Bill McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ROSE MOST FRAGRANT WHEN ITS CRUSHED

My times are in Your hands, and I

Would hardly hope to choose

This walk You walk with me, Oh God

My tender heart, now soft and bruised

 

And Thou dost know my way, Oh Lord

And follow You, I must

And with the breeze, still, comes Thy Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 

“Tis through thy pain I add my grace,

And though thy flower is crushed,

With tender Hand, I’ll dry thy face,

And comfort you, I must”

 

“For even in this barren place

My blessings do not fail,

The manna of My peace will fall,

At turns along your trail”

 

“And I won’t leave you comfortless,

and I will come to you

to smooth the petals back again,

and ointment for thy bruise”

“When twilight falls, and darkness hides

your grief from all on earth, but Me

Remember child, I linger close

Your silent tears, my angels see”

 

“For even this, your troubled place

will surely come, to pass

And surely I will walk with you

If you will but ask”

 

“Your rose will bloom, aye, yet again

your tender bruise will fade

For I will surely carry you

From out this lonely shade”

 

“So cling to Me, Oh little one

‘til flowers bloom again

Oh walk with Me, come talk with Me

Sweet showers I will send”

 

“For I best know your way, Oh child

and follow Me, you must”

And with the breeze, still comes His Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2005

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOLLOW ME - Lyrics

 4552

"Follow Me" Music & Lyrics: Ira F Stamphill, 1953 I traveled down a lonely road And no one seemed to care, The burden on my weary back Had bowed me to despair, I oft complained to Jesus How folks were treating me, And then I heard Him say so tenderly. "My feet were also weary,  Upon the Calvary road; The cross became so heavy, I fell beneath the load, Be faithful, weary pilgrim, The morning I can see, Just lift your cross and follow close to me." "I work so hard for Jesus,"  I often boast and say, "I've sacrificed a lot of things To walk the narrow way, I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to Thee," And then I hear Him gently say to me, "I left the throne of glory And counted it but loss, My hands were nailed in anger Upon a cruel cross,  But now we'll make the journey With your hand safe in Mine, So lift your cross and follow close to Me." O, Jesus if I die upon A foreign field someday, 'Twould be no more than love demands, No less could I repay, "No greater love hath mortal man Than for a friend to die" These are the words He gently spoke to me, "If just a cup of water I place within your hand Then just a cup of water Is all that I demand." But if by death to living They can Thy glory see, I'll take my cross and follow close to Thee.

SO CLOSE TO LEAVING. TOO FOND OF STAYING

 4551

I missed one day of school during my entire 1963-1964 school year. As the day dawned clear and a bit cool, I wasn’t feeling well, and I asked my mother if she would allow me to stay home. It seemed a shame to ruin my perfect attendance, but my mom realized I wasn’t a “sluff-off,” (as we referred to a slacker) and she nodded her approval. (By this time, re. last chapter, we were on better “footing” again).

I happened to be watching television about the lunch hour, comfortably situated in our family’s business office, sitting in my mother’s typing chair, and with my feet propped up on her desk.

Suddenly, there was a news break; something which rarely happened in those days. In recent years, we may see two or three so-called “news breaks” a day on networks like CNN or MS-NBC, but fifty years ago the old television cameras had to be warmed up prior to a coming on the air with a live broadcast. Thus, (as I recall), on this particular day a photo of Walter Cronkite was posted on the screen with live audio feed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Walter Cronkite. I’m coming to you with what appears to have been a shooting in Dallas, Texas. We’re in the process of validating the following information, but it appears President Kennedy has been shot by an unknown assailant in the City of Dallas. There are also reports that Governor Connelly of Texas was also hit as their vehicle drove past the Texas School Book Depository. We will be joining you in a live, extended report momentarily.”

After a few minutes, live footage of the world famous newsman flickered on the screen. The veteran anchor was obviously anxious, and he stumbled over a few of his words. And every half minute or so, he pulled his glasses off his face and spoke directly into the camera. Cronkite repeated his previous remarks a couple of times with minor variations. It was definite now. The president had been gravely wounded, and his limo had just arrived at Parkland Memorial Hospital.

The minutes ticked by and sometime after 1PM Eastern Time, old Walter confirmed what, based on the news reports, Americans expected to hear.

“It has been substantiated now,” and taking off his glasses, and looking up at the clock on the wall, “President Kennedy died,” his voice faltered, and tears appeared in his eyes, …“President Kennedy died at approximately 1PM, CT.”

The date was November 22, 1963, not unlike an equally traumatic day which transpired two decades earlier, “A Day that will live in Infamy.”

Over the next 72 hours, America witnessed Lee Harvey Oswald arrested and accused of the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, we watched fascinated as our beautiful, cultured first lady stepped off Air Force One, her beloved husband’s blood obscuring the natural color of her legs, we watched the accused assassin  gunned down on live television, the funeral of our beloved president was televised, and while millions lingered in a state of shock, his mortal remains were interred on a hillside in Arlington National Cemetery.

Whereas, all of America endured the foregoing tragedy and resulting trauma, the following event, though local in nature, proved more impactful in terms of its influence on me, as well as on hundreds of my fellow students and their families.

It was Friday, December 4^th, 1963, (almost 2 weeks after President Kennedy was assassinated).

Our school day ended at 3:15PM; always did throughout my junior and senior high school years. While in recent times our local high schools are released at 2PM, the school day begins much earlier now than when I was in school. 

As it had for literally dozens and dozens of years, the old Summerlin Institute school bell rang out its daily blessing, (and believe me the end of the day was considered a blessing to all but the most studious of students).

My friend, David, and I hurried out of the classroom, stuffed a couple of textbooks and other miscellaneous papers and pencils in our lockers, and hurried down the covered, outside hallway to catch Bus 149. We’d rode that bus for as long as I remember, though I would be hard pressed at this juncture, to tell you the driver’s name, or even his or her gender. But I expect that particular individual has long since gone on to their reward; (or lack thereof).

Our buses parked adjacent with Broadway, one of Bartow’s major streets. There was a stretch of asphalt, perhaps thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long, which paralleled the street. Every weekday, twelve or fifteen buses rolled up about 3PM and parked in perfect rows, empty for the moment, but ready to receive the teaming masses of loud, and sometimes obnoxious students, eager to get home.

Just as David and I reached the end of the covered walkway

… it happened.

Suddenly, slightly diagonal and to my left, I witnessed a car leaving the road. The front end slammed against the back bumper of a school bus, hitting it a glancing blow. I stood there transfixed, having just stepped onto the bus tarmac. So like those nightmares in which one feels incapable of moving, I stood there speechless. David stood as immobile as I.

And rather than stopping, the car accelerated and gathered speed. As the late model automobile neared my friend and me, one option presented itself. And while what was occurring around me was far from humorous, I knew I had to “get out of Dodge.”  But I wasn’t going alone. Not by a long shot. When the vehicle was eight or ten feet away, I grabbed David’s right arm and jerked him away from the trajectory of the automobile. The vehicle passed so close, I sensed the change in air pressure, and I might easily have touched it. We might have been its first victims.

I immediately turned to follow the car’s progress. It had transcended the pavement, now, and was rushing headlong through a long strip of grass which bordered the tarmac.  What I saw now both amazed and confounded me. The front end of the vehicle plowed into a fellow student, and he almost seemed suspended in midair a moment, before crashing against its windshield.

 If I live to be 103, I shall NEVER forget the events of that day. I witnessed everything, at least everything I had any intention of witnessing, since in the space of a few seconds, I had reached a momentary, though very conscious decision to avert my eyes from those things which were happening around me.

The entire affair was over in less than a minute, but it may as well have been a year in terms of its cruel impact on countless human beings. As I discovered later, 17 students were struck, plowed under, and/or dragged by the wayward vehicle. One young man pushed a couple of girls out of the path of the car, was somehow impaled by a concrete post, subsequently dragged across another stretch of pavement.

 As it the facts played out, an elderly lady had been driving her husband home from a doctor’s visit. He had contracted a terminal illness, and no doubt, she was naturally distracted from the task at hand. As she lost control and slammed into the rear of the school bus, one mistake compounded into another, and instead of braking and bringing the vehicle to rest, she engaged the accelerator.

Ronnie was the only fatality. The other students sustained varying degrees of injuries, including broken arms and legs, but all experienced full recoveries. Yet I think the psychological and emotional impact of that event was geometrically greater than any physical trauma my classmates endured, and resides with them a half century later.

My mother has told me that as I walked into the house that day, my normally dark complexion seemed several shades lighter, and without so much as a word, she knew something terrible had occurred.

As a substitute teacher, I had the opportunity to serve in numerous primary and secondary schools in our district, and I occasionally taught at my alma mater. Sometimes I shared the events of that long-lost day with my students. Sometimes I didn’t. But when I did, I was so often met with the sense that it had been too long, and my pupils were altogether unable to relate to my story, and I think it simply passed over their heads. And I think they’d rather employ their time with cell phones and I-pods and pop magazines, and all that other peripheral stuff that fills up an adolescent life, than consider anything so ancient as a story that has no relevance to them, though it occurred within feet of where they now sit.

But there are those among us who will never forget, and there are those among us who will recite the story again, and I like to think there are still those among us who have taken time to memorialize that day in a genre, (such as the written word) which endures.

Nonetheless, I can only wonder whether this account might be the last surviving, full account of that terrible day, and if by chance it is, I am glad I am given the opportunity to entrust it to you, and leave it to your care.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

(from "Snapshots of a Life")

THE GOOD SERGEANT AND THE LITTLE MONK

 4550

*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.

Pt. 1

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 

 

 

 

MY MONKEY & ME

 4549

I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed thousand piece puzzle. 

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

 By Bill McDonald, PhD

*Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage, I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

 

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”

(Kim Frye)

“I and two other guys, all around 15 in approx. 1970 out of Bartow hired on for the Summer at that Caladium Farm w/ Mr. Frye, pulling weeds and cutting bulbs. There was a mischievous Spider Monkey (actually a squirrel monkey) there and if I recollect correctly, a sort of tropical forest or the sorts, back behind the Main Shed. Also if correct, there was a fairly old Lady who dipped snuff and had worked there for many years who could out do us youngsters. I think her son was there too.

(Stephen McWhorter)