My Life Between the Dimensions

     Back to School at Sears 1980's   The year was 1980. I had not been in South Florida long.  I was working on my second checklist (salaried) job in the Cutler Ridge SEARS store, one of many in the Miami Zone, only a few miles North of Homestead, Florida and Key Largo.  It was a long way from my West Kentucky roots. Cutler was classified as a company “A” store, one of the largest in terms of assortment, square footage, and volume, and the culture both in the workplace and general population was a substantial departure from the laidback lifestyle and rural environment of West Kentucky.  Spanish, from a large population of Puerto Rican and Cuban immigrants, was spoken as often as English.  Demographics for the marketplace also included a substantial mix of a Black and also South American customer base, along with a slim majority of White native Floridians  and the snowbird retirees of all ethnic backgrounds living their dream of spending thei...

  THE ROCK Photo by the author 2023 It’s just a rock.  Or is it?  When does an inanimate object breach the precise laws of nature and the universe and become something more? Perhaps some of the time it intersects with some life form--an animal--a bird--or a child-- in a way that elevates it to a vault of memories-- or alters the course of a life. I first came to sit on this rock--this limestone composite here beside the swirling waters below Kentucky Dam on the Tennessee River--at possibly no more than 12 years of age.  Anyone that has ever chanced a heart attack and made the descent to fish the periphery of the swift waters below Kentucky Dam on the Tennessee River knows the location of the pile of boulders at the bottom left of their journey down the steep stairway from the parking lot.  My mother, God bless her, drove to Grand Rivers from our Meacham Lane home in McCracken County, KY every couple of weeks in the summer beginning around 1958 to have her hair d...

 Jelly Donuts IF IT TAKES YOU THREE BITES AND YOU STILL HAVEN’T FOUND THE DOT OF JELLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANGED THING, IT AIN’T NO JELLY DONUT! I don’t like what’s happening in my world. Things are looking bad.  We have one crisis after another.  We focus too much on military arsenals, technologies, politics, whether we are wearing the right stuff, and what other people think of us on social media.  We have forgotten how to correctly do the simple stuff that makes life worth living. Like making a decent jelly donut. Or knowing a decent jelly donut when we see it. College isn’t for everyone.  Trade school isn’t either.  Apprenticeship is hard and bosses are annoying anyway.  So it seems many become entrepreneurs. They become bakers of donuts.  Or rather they become owners of places that employ people who don’t require sleep to bake donuts. How hard can that be?  You hire some people to show up just when the bars are closing, and I submit ma...

 REMEMBERING A KINDNESS I write this while remembering the sensitivity of a family member.  It is not about the artifact, though, in itself it is a remarkable collector piece.  It measures 4 ⅝” by 3” at its widest point.  Made of hematite, it is as heavy as lead.  This ax head was a valued commodity and a real prize in its day.  It was heavily used by its owner, a right-handed individual, and served as an instrument of war, as well as a utilitarian function. About 1954, for those who can recall the time, on the Poplar Bluff side of the Highway 67 bridge above Old Greenville in Wayne County, Missouri stood an old trading post.  The owner worked diligently collecting artifacts to sell, and on the sly, chipped arrowheads of his own to pass off to unwary tourists passing through.  His collection of the real stuff was impressive though.  Mother and Dad always stopped to let me look and on one occasion, allowed me to buy a couple of arrowheads....

A couple of months before my time elapsed in Vietnam, Colonel John Terrell Carley left as Brigade Commander and he was promoted to a position in Saigon as Brigadier General. I remember him as tough as nails, methodical, and tremendously dedicated. A master tactician. Yet he noticed me, recognized my contributions and made me feel important and I will always feel honored to have served under him. His departure culminated in the dissolution of our Brigade  Headquarters Recon Team and reassignment of its remaining members to other units. The new Brigade Commander was a Lieutenant Colonel, younger, and though very committed, he did not bond with many of the NCO’s.  His commitment to the war effort was clear, though his seemingly unwillingness to communicate did not make the NCO’s feel as integral to the success of the Operations team. I will not mention his name, as I do not wish to go on record as being less than respectful to my commanding officer. The new Brigade Commander (L) ...

However physically demanding my brief time as a LRRP had been, the responsibilities of holding so many lives in my hands in Headquarters Command Operations--- dependent upon me and my ability to process situations quickly and accurately and to direct the needed tactical support every minute of every night---  demanded a whole other level of commitment and sacrifice.. It took everything, absolutely everything of which I am capable . The brigade operation team.  A duty shift in 1969 with from L-R: Major Austin, Operations Officer; Specialist 5th Class Terry Brown, Operations Artillery Forward Observer; Sergeant Keith Wayne Ragan, Tactical Operations NCO. My last months in Vietnam as the Brigade Night Duty NCO were as first described in my duties as Day Duty NCO. The big difference was there were no convoys moving, ambushes were positioned for the night and were not advancing, and the curfew for civilians was in effect making all locals instant Viet Cong if they were active past ...

  Somewhere between 0900 and 1000 hours I was walking into the Headquarters mess hall hooch, and the cooks would feed me whatever and however much of anything I wanted for breakfast...pancakes, eggs any way I wanted them, bacon, sausage, biscuits, toast, and S.O.S (chipped beef and gravy would be the polite translation).  I began to gain some weight back to my emaciated frame. Decompressing with some hoops. 1969. I usually would let a little time pass to decompress, often de-stressing on the makeshift basketball court, before lifting the mosquito netting and crawling into my bunk in my room at the back of the barracks. With my work now from 2300 hrs to 0900 hrs, more if required for debriefing completing sitreps, ect., daytime sleep was an adjustment, and I was always restless from the stresses of the previous night, drenched with sweat and on edge. My brain could never let go of the sounds, the voices, the urgencies of the night before. My nest. 1968-1969. Nam, our hooch “Mo...