"YIPPEE CALLE!" --WYLIE CAME BY TODAY!

THAT CHS CLASS OF '53!!!
*****************************
Wylie ( CHS '53) came by again today! He's Noel's
(CHS '51) little brother. We have hit it off since I met
him about two years ago. Several of his incredibly
talented mother's stories appear on MIL'S PLACE.

He drops by every two or three weeks, and we have 
a nice talk. It has been a good week! Art (and Carmen)
came by Wednesday and I don't know when I've had
so many laughs!

Wylie is smart. He knows stuff. We come from that
great bunch of Clovis kids. We both drove tractors and
wheat trucks. And any Clovis kid from that time loves
the good old USA!

After a good talk, and he left, I was sitting here and 
musing about that great class of CHS '53. They are 
special to me, just like my own class! They were a 
good bunch! I was up against five or so of them when
I was trying to win the heart of JM. I don't know who 
won---I went off to college.

Now and then I pull out the CHS '51 Yearbook. I was
a senior and the '53 kids were sophomores. They
looked like little kids! Why there was Wylie! He 
couldn't have been fourteen. And little Gary W.--
they say he flew C130's. Wow! There were Bobby
Joe, Richard, Marcia, Betty, Doris,  Lyle, and A.J. I 
can't name 'em all.

I saw a photo of A.J. taken at their 2013 reunion. 
What an impressive gentleman!

When Wylie arrived, I had just received an email
from a South Texas friend, who lives on a farm
(with a neat pond) near Wild Peach, Texas.
Loving words as I do, I was quite taken by "Wild
Peach." I had names "on my mind" this morning!

So after my guest settled down with his coffee,
we began to discuss---names. You see, my wife and 
I had always, when we made our big step up, as 
they say, wanted to live on a street with a beautiful,
flowing-off-the-tongue, poetically impressive and 
meaningful street name.

House-shopping in the eighties found us looking 
at houses in Albuquerque with wonderful street
names, like---Bluecorn Maiden Trail, Cielito Lindo,
Arroyo Seco, Lagrima de Oro, Avenida de la Luna,
Arroyo del Oso, Avenida del Oso, and on and on.

These beautiful street names were at the foot of 
the Sandia and Manzano Mountains just uphill
east of the Rio Grande!

After all, one's street name is important because
you use it over and over.

Wylie and I were discussing this and he said: "Well,
I've got one for you that you'll love! Have you heard
of the street down in Corrales named 'YIPPEE
CALLE?'" (Now this one broke me up!) I said: "As
in the song 'yippee-yi-yo-kah-yeh?'" Then we both
laughed! (There IS such a street.)

Well, the upshot of this--that you have been waiting 
for---the street where we finally settled is named---
"GUTIERREZ."

Then, of course, we had to talk about the streets in
our beloved home town; streets named after the
state's governors...even Lou Wallace, who wrote
"Ben Hur."

I gave it a shot beginning from the west: Hull,
Edwards, Davis, Reid, Thornton, Calhoun,
Connelly, Hinkle, Merriwether, Mitchell, Main, Pile,
Gidding, Axtell, Wallace, Sheldon, Ross, Prince. The
far west and far east ones, I never mastered.

Wylie didn't try it, perhaps too considerate to 
show me up.

He was an aircraft mechanic in the NM Air
National Guard. When a mechanic fixed an 
F100, the pilot insisted that he go along in
the back seat on the test flight. This somehow
assured him that the job was well-done.

Thus Wylie was often subjected to G stresses
as the pilot showed off his skills. He once
was taken rabbit hunting by an F100 pilot...
we're talking low-flying here.

He has promised me a story on this---"Rabbit
Hunting In An F100."

If you want a fun, happy, uplifting talk, invite
Wylie over for coffee sometime. He takes it

with cream.

******30*****
BY MIL
5/16/14





Sent from my iPad

MEMORIAL DAY 2014: CLOVIS HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF '51

CHS CLASS OF '51

"Something has spoken to me in the night,
burning  the tapers of the waning year;
Something has spoken to me in the night,
and told me I shall die.
I know not where,

Saying,
to lose the earth you know, for greater knowing;
to lose the life you have, for greater life;
to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving;
to find a land more kind than home,
more large than earth---

wherein the pillars of the earth are founded,
toward which the
conscience of the world is tending....
a wind is rising, and the rivers flow.

"YOU CAN'T GO HOME AGAIN"
-------THOMAS WOLFE
****************************

IN MEMORIAM----CLOVIS HIGH SCHOOL,
                  CLASS OF 1951

Jimmy Abernathy
Jimmy Blair
Don Campbell
Zeno Crosswhite
Bruce Davis
Geraldine Edwards
Billy Harwell
Billy Hasty
Thomasina Murrell Ingram
Charlotte Kelley
Marlene Lancaster
Donald Mardis
Robert Roberts
Jerry Roberts
R.G. Snipes
Pat Thompson
James Timmons
Jimmy Whatley
Bobby Wilhite
JoAnn Williams
Sherman Williams
Noel Dougherty
Vera Lou Priddy
Engle Southard
Dorothy Trigg
Dixie Sanderson
Teddy Blair
Jerry Crook
Wanda King Snipes
John Thorn Marshall
Rita Gayle Delaney
Charles Mason
Marcia Stebbins
**************************
"EVERY ONE OF THEM WAS 
       DEAR TO MY HEART."
          ----Jimmy Blair
**************************
"I returned and saw under the sun, that
the race is not to the swift, nor the battle
to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise.
nor yet riches to men of understanding,
nor yet favor to men of skill, but time and
chance happeneth to them all."

ECCLESIASTES 9:11 
--------------------------------
BY MIL
MEMORIAL DAY, 2014

I FLEW A B-24

by Bobby Joe Snipes

"Many died, and we are free"
*********************
MEMORIAL DAY 2014

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

An email to Mil from Robert S. triggered a couple of thoughts concerning B-17s, B-24s and B29s.   I won’t say for positive but I seem to remember B-17s  at Clovis Air Force Base before the B-29s came in.   They could have come from other bases also.   I do know that the Roswell Air Base was a B-29 base.   I remember watching those B-29s when we went to Roswell to visit our grandmother.    She lived on the south side of town and right under the landing pattern.   When those 29s came over it would rattle the dishes in the cabinet.   I guess the people in Roswell got used to it…….you know, the sound of victory.  

Anyway, my favorite of the big three was the B-24 Liberator.    About 10 years ago my son was living in Savannah, GA, and was the program director for a radio station.   He was approached to do some free public service announcements for an organization that was coming to Savannah.   This organization toured the east coast featuring their two old WWII bombers.   They were going to fly in a B-24 and a B17.   Well Scotty agreed to do some PSAs and they said “Oh, by the way, if you want to come down to Valdosta, we will let you fly back with us.”   Well it just so happened that was when Betty and I were going to be in Savannah. 

When the time arrived, all the arrangements were made and we got up early Saturday morning with our wives and headed for Valdosta.   It was about 150 miles and the planes were scheduled take off around 11:00.   We arrived in plenty of time and as we were preparing for the boarding, the question was  “which one do you want to ride in?”   Scotty says “Dad,  which one do you want to fly in?”  There was no doubt in my mind…..I wanted the B-24.   At that time there were only two B-24s still flying in the world and this was one of them.  

Since this 24 was a “show model”, they had built some benches with seat and shoulder belts for use in take-off and landing.  There were only about 4 other  people on board beside the pilot and co-pilot.  The roar of those 4 giant engines was deafening but it gave you a thrill that is unexplainable.  The take off was so exciting….to think we were in this monster of a plane and it would actually fly in the air.   I was like a kid living in dream land.  Of course all of the guns had been removed, but they opened the doors where the side gunners were.  We could just walk around and stand there and look at the farmers and cars and trucks because we were only flying about 500 yards above the ground.   We flew tandem with the B-17 and at times they seemed so close you could hit them with a rock(well, not really). 

Robert mentioned the tunnel in the B-29.   The B-24 did not have that.  They cautioned us when walking to the front of the plane to stay on the little side- walk area.   DO  NOT STEP ON THE BOMBAY DOORS or you will not stop until you hit the ground.  That will get your attention.  We could go all over the plane, tail gunner to pilot area.   We were up talking to the pilot and he says" Here, do you want to fly it for a while?”   Well yes, of course……..they set me in the pilot's seat, put my ear phones on (the noise was deafening) and gave me instructions-----keep the nose down----pick a point in the distance and fly to that point….. what a thrill!   Of course, there was very little that I could do and they were right by my side, but it was really fun for an old man that, as a boy, could only dream about flying while he played marbles with Mil under the shade tree.  

   

They let Scotty fly also.   He flew for a good while…..he had his small plane pilot's license and had some savvy about flying.   We flew to the west of Savannah and over South Carolina  and came down the coast at Hilton Head.   There were hundreds of vacationers on the beach and the pilot took her down low and flew right along the water just away from the beach.   It seemed like we were so low that you could tell the shade of lipstick the girls had on (well…..not really, but we were low) and the people were running and waving and saluting that old WWII plane.  The planes that helped win the war!    Pride and patriotism just gushed from their faces.   It was a wonderful experience and one that I will never forget.   

I actually gained an appreciation for all of the airmen that flew in those planes and fought in WWII.    The air traveled through the inside of the plane like the air through a barn with the doors open.  It brought back all of the stories that we have read about how our airmen survived some of those missions and the losses that we had in the war.  I thank God for every one of them-------many died and we are free.     Bob

For Mil's Place
Bobby Joe Snipes
CHS, Class of '53

REMEMBERING THE USMC AT IWO JIMA

MEMORIAL DAY, 2014

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

by Robert Stebbins, USMC, guest writer

       I was on Iwo Jima on maneuvers nine years after the World War II landing, which began on February 19, 1945.  After the cease fire in the so-called "Forgotten War" in Korea in June of 1953, the Marine Corps began to rotate the First Marine Division out of Korea and back to the United States.  The Third Marine Division was sent from Camp Pendleton, California, to Japan by ship.  We were supposed to spend seven months in Japan and another seven months in Korea, filling in the vacancies left by the departure of the First Marine Division.  I had almost completed my seven months in Japan, but had to return to the United States on emergency leave due to my father's illness.  But, that is another story.

      To commemorate the original World War II landing, the Marine Corps in February of 1954 decided we would have an exercise on Iwo Jima.  We drove from North Camp Fuji to Numazu beach, where we loaded ship for the four day journey to Iwo Jima.  My company embarked on a flat-bottomed World War II  Landing Ship Tank (LST).  If you have never ridden through the tail end of a typhoon in such a vessel, you have missed an experience.  We shook, rattled, and rolled for a couple of days.  In addition, the ship was captained by a very senior naval officer, but had a newly-graduated ROTC ensign fresh out of university and officer's training serving as the ship's engineering officer.  He was responsible to ensure that everything mechanical on the ship worked.

During the voyage accompanied by numerous other ships, our evaporators. which made fresh water, stopped working.  And, while the rest of the convoy was laying down a smoke screen, our smoke machine malfunctioned.  As there was a radio blackout, the other ships were signaling to our ship by flag, inquiring as to the problem, and apparently chiding the ship's captain, who by this time was furious.  He told the engineering officer that he should not appear again at the officer's mess to eat until we had water and smoke.  After a couple of days, the engineering officer eventually produced both smoke and water just before we landed on the beach at Iwo.  I don't know if the ensign lost any weight, but our Marines had a lot of fun joking about the difficulties that our sister service was having in transporting us to Iwo.

        Traveling by troopship was not like traveling on a Carnival Cruise although some might have likened it to a circus.  Berthing areas for the troops were crowded.  The bunks were stacked five high with approximately sixteen inches between each bunk, which consisted of a piece of canvas suspended by rope inside a pipe frame.  There was no air conditioning, but even in the tropics you only needed one "cruise" to learn to try to get the top bunk.  It may have been hotter up there, but nothing got dropped on you.  And, believe me, being on top is much better than being below a seasick Marine.  Even Marines from the "Old Corps" were sometimes subject to a queasy stomach.

      We played war games for a couple of days and were then told that we had won.  So, we had a day or so to relax before the voyage back to Japan, and I had the opportunity to explore the island a little and also to climb Mt. Suribachi.  There was a path to the top, but it was steep and rocky.  On the way up, it was easy to spot entrances to old caves, and scrap concrete and rusty steel fortifications from the battle.

  Once on top, I could see the extinct volcano on the south end of the island, and also see both beaches the whole way to the northern tip of Iwo.  My first and indelible impression was, "how in the world did those Marines ever take this island?" From the top of Suribachi, the Japanese could clearly see the relatively wide volcanic ash beaches that lined the east and west sides of the island.  And, the ash provided no place to hide.  It was impossible to dig into it.  This was long before the days of Kevlar vests and other body protection that are available today.  The only thing between a Marine and a Japanese bullet was a steel helmet and a thin cotton utility uniform.  No fox holes for those Marines.  The Japanese on Suribachi could look right down the Marines' throats. 

  The odor of sulphur was still pretty strong, and we were able to bury our canned C-rations under the warm ash to heat them before we ate them.  Believe me, every Marine whose boondockers hit that beach in 1945, and every sailor who was a coxswain driving those Higgins boats delivering those Marines to the beach were truly heroes.

     The trip back to Japan was uneventful.  However, I still have a couple of photographs that I took from the top of Mt. Suribachi.  They don't compare with the original Rosenthal photograph, but one is of the small monument on top.  Since I was there, a larger Marine monument has been erected.  The other photo is a view looking down the black ash beaches where so many Marines lost their lives.

       I was in boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego for nine weeks in early 1952.  If I remember correctly we got paid about $38.00 or $39.00 every two weeks.  On at least two occasions while we stood in line to be paid, our drill instructors "offered us the opportunity" to contribute to a fund being collected to construct an Iwo Jima statue.  Drill Instructors never had to explain anything to a recruit.  Their suggestions were always sufficient to elicit a positive response.  I can't recall how much I contributed, but at least a few dollars of mine are in the Iwo Jima Memorial which now stands in Arlington, Virginia.  I couldn't be prouder.  Hopefully, it will be there forever.  God bless those men and may they never be forgotten. 

1.  Iwo Jima Memorial   2.  (on right)  Marines and US flag atop Mt. Suribachi
3.  Stars and stripes on Mt. Suribachi   4.  Original volcanic ash assault beach

Sgt. Robert Stebbins atop Mt. Suribachi, 1954

for Mil's Place, 

Robert Stebbins, class of '51, CHS

POP'S ROCK FENCE...IS GONE

In 2005…all that was left of Pop's rock fence 

The rock fence at Pop's Place...
    A fence built with colorful reddish-
         brown rocks--- is gone.

Oh how that hurts!

So much depends on a fence.
    It sets forth boundaries, others
         must not cross...

Like the old castles, it defines safety
    security, and one's property,
if only symbolically.

That fence enclosed Pop's new white
    clapboard house with the
      black trim, built in 1938

after a lifetime of walking miles---
   plowing behind kicking mules,
        planting, milking, killing
           hogs, building barns,

                  hoeing weeds,

             and picking cotton...

He and Mom, finally got their dream
    house, after years of living in
         uninsulated, gray wood,
                    drafty
           old farm houses.

The beautifully-masoned rock fence
    enclosed the entire main
         living area---the garage,

the rose garden, grape arbor (with
    the stainless milk buckets
       swaying and airing in the wind),
         the lawn,  and the elm trees...

On the west  side of the fence, from
    whence the winds came,
       the sand piled to the top
         of the fence...

Beautiful, clean pure-looking golden
    tan sand...if that made any difference...
It had to be plowed away, periodically.

A sad tale to tell: Pop's house is not
    the same

as it was seventy-six years ago...
    Oh, the house itself has been
bricked...a new roof put on...

But the marvelous fence (like few
    farms had in 1938)
is gone...as cleanly as if a bad sand
    storm, still waiting in the wings

from dust bowl times...finally made up
    its mind and came roaring thru...

and took POP'S fence...leveled it---
     better'n a bulldozer could have.
        (or did a culprit otherwise

          level it somehow, or did it

          simply crumble with age?)

It was gone with the wind...
    at some time.
Just as life as it was in

       those times...
         has departed....

Gone with the wind are

      delightful farm  days....

Family times, Thanksgiving, Christmas,
    summers, watermelons, making
      ice cream in the old crank freezer...

turkey and dressing, black-eye peas and
    corn bread, milk in Mom's big
       mug glasses---

the old red barn, gathering eggs, hog
     killing time, the clung-clung of
       the windmill, the garden (full
        of all kinds of vegetables)

the healthy green elms, under which Pop
    parked his new Farmall in 1939---
      (Joy! no more walking behind
        mules to plow---ever again
             while on this earth!)

Yes, and gone with the wind are---
    Mom's rose garden, that she waited
a lifetime for---and then was disabled
    with arthritis...

The windmill's gone, replaced by an
     unpoetic pump, made of steel.

An important, unforgettable slice of
    America is  gone, memorable
      to those who remember:

Saturday afternoons in town, around
    the square, if your town had one.

The people quit work, went to town,
    the women stocked up on
                 groceries

The men got shoe shines, haircuts,
    filled the sidewalks, sitting on
      cars, talking---they slipped away
        to shoot a game of pool.

Pop in his J.C. Penney's blue bib
             overalls is gone...

Those times, so incredibly hard, were
    still loved, somehow, by the people.
After all, it was the only life they had---

       this life, that was so characteristic

  of the American South.
 

It's all gone with the fence,
    and the wind....
never to be brought back.

*******30******
BY MIL
02/16/14

 In 1939, Pop backed his new Farmall right beside the house by the two white windows

2013 - The old windmill is gone, but the pump house is visible.

2013 - Pop's fence is entirely gone.

THAT POT OF RED FLOWERS

That pot of red flowers
    we found on our
front porch table...
    the day before Easter...

What kind of flowers
    are they?

My wife didn't know---
    I didn't know.

Does it really matter
    what kind they are?
They're nice!

That pot of red flowers
    we found on our
front porch table...
    the day before Easter...

Who put them there?
    There was no card,
no name...on them.

Does it really matter?

After all, we have maybe
    a hundred friends...

So...

In our minds, it's like
    getting flowers

from a hundred friends!

*******30*******
BY MIL
4/21/14

DELILAH

"A BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN NAVAL

       ADVENTURE"

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

The story about this book has several

interesting side tales, which book lovers 

will enjoy. Here is "side tale" #1---

Along about 1980 Time-Life Books made

available a set of re-published out-of-print

books. There were about twenty-five of these,

beautifully bound in nice hard maroon bindings,

with gold-printed spines.

Included among these incredible rare books,

(available again!) were Eastern Approaches,

Cider With Rosie, A Bell For Adano, As 

Summers Die, All Quiet On The Western

Front, Better Times Than These and the

title book above---Delilah.

I bought the whole set, a book at a time, and 

never regretted it. 

It may be that few people have ever heard of or 

read Delilah. I read it and loved it.

Its first fifty or sixty pages are a bit slow, but

as one reviewer has said: "The book in its

last seventy pages is so unputdownable!"

(I did see it once in paperback at a used book-

store, and bought it to give away.)

It is available from Amazon; here is an excerpt

of their review:

"The novel is in all ways extraordinary. The story,

which occurs on the eve of the first World War is that 

of a U.S. Navy destroyer on detached duty in the 

South Seas and of the men who serve in her.

In the tiny world of a destroyer, in a vast universe of

the sea, the officers and men of Delilah carry out their

orders heroically, according to the code of the fighting

man, to patrol their assigned area, to inspect remote 

islands, to show the flag, to carry out diplomatic missions,

and to prepare for the impending war."

And: "The book must be read slowly, for much of its

purpose is to describe the subtle relationships between

men at work, and considerable effort is given to character

and motivation. A solemn, strange, sometimes weirdly 

funny novel. Beautiful."

The author, Marcus Goodrich, was educated at Columbia.

He served in two wars. In World War One, he was assigned

to the U.S.S. Chauncey, a destroyer, which was sunk. Much 

of his background for Delilah, originally published in 1941, 

came from his experiences aboard Chauncey.

Goodrich was a Hollywood writer and married to Olivia de

Havilland for five years. He wrote the original story for the

well-known movie, It's a Wonderful Life.

Weary from two wars and tired of Hollywood, he moved

to Richmond and began working on the second half of 

Delilah, which would be book two, for the first ended with

the U.S. declaring war on Germany in 1917. 

He seemed to always feel pressured to finish book two, and

in fact, never did. He said he would burn the manuscript if

he didn't complete it. He died at age 93 in 1991.

Wrapping up this review---the final "side tale"---

I, in my second career, dealt with teachers and educators.

I had a book-knowledgeable junior high teacher who went

to the annual Albuquerque Library book sale where he 

bought books at fifty cents each, and a dollar for a whole

sack full. Note--as many sacks as he wanted! (On the

final day.)

           He added book shelves all across the back of his room,

           and filled them with good books, bought at bargain prices,

          for  his kids to borrow. He was hoping they would 

          become readers. George, we will call him, often

          brought me copies of books to keep for he had 

          accumulated multiple copies at cheap prices.

One day, George and I were talking, and he surprised 

me. "Have you ever read Delilah?" "Twice," I answered. 

"Well, it is a great book, and I have several copies; I was 

going to bring you one”, he said. 

He is the only person I ever knew who read 

Delilah.

"One of the most powerful American sea stories

since Moby Dick." (Amazon)

*******30******

BY MIL

5/08/14

DANCING! DANCING! DANCING!

dancing        dancing        dancing
        for it is May.       and
the tomatoes           are planted.  

anticipating       yum yum
    ripe tomato slices       
                    on bologna sandwiches
red ripe juicy     tomato slices
       covered with cottage chess
salt and pepper

anticipating       yum. yum
  homemade tomato soup
        salsa          with jalapenos
healthful veggie soup
          and corn bread

O, I nearly weep      to think
       I lived twenty years
on this earth.    with no tomato plants

that is.     until I discovered
                          Earth Boxes

O ripe tomatoes
             O the lycopene
                       O the energy
O the sharpness of mind
            O the creativity
                        O the quick step
O the love of life
             O the ability to write
                         O the rosy look

tomatoes.    one of the five best foods

yes.       my tomatoes are in
       ten plants to reach six feet tall
               and I can read poetry
in their shade 
         all the while.  wearing my 
Willie Nelson straw hat     and smelling
               the tomatoes

dancing        dancing.       dancing
   (albeit with a cane....)
the neighbors will see me
            and not thinking of tomatoes
will say

"wonder what he is drinking...."

ah, life is good
                dancing.    dancing


********30******
BY MIL
4/29/14




Sent from my iPad

CONVAIR B-36 PEACEMAKER

by Richard Drake, Guest Writer

Convair B-36 Peacemaker

The B-36 was the airplane that impressed me the most in my early years.  It was built by Convair Aircraft originally intended for long range usage against Nazi Germany, but did not make it into that war.  It was an very large airplane with a wing span of almost 230 feet, as I remember.  It was powered by six Pratt and Whitney engines mounted so the propellers pushed the plane.  On one vacation Marcia and I stayed at a motel in the flight path of Carswell Air Force Base.  Sitting by the pool we could see these large planes very low directly overhead.  The sound from the engines was awe inspiring.  The bomber was phased out shortly after this time.  We may have seen some of the last ones taking off from this field.

One of my early stories from the late 1950's involved a B-36 landing at Kirkland Air Force Base. My job required me to fly to Los Alamos frequently.  This was always an exciting trip in small twin engine planes. The Los Alamos air strip was very short in length and had been built on top of a mesa.  With the extremely high thermal updrafts during the summer months, the pilot had to aim the aircraft directly at a point about 50 to 60 feet below the mesa rim and use the air currents to lift the plane over the edge.  If the pilot attempted a normal approach, updrafts would make the landing approach too high for the limited stopping distance.  On my first trip, I sat in the co-pilots seat so I had a front row view of the landing.  I must confess it scared the "willies" out of me.  On the take off the plane would be catapulted into the air as if it were on a rocket. The saying at the time was that it 
would be a good idea to check your underwear upon entering the terminal. 

On one windy day, in late March, my return flight to Albuquerque was very bumpy with the high winds. As we approached our pilot was instructed to go into a holding pattern while a B-36 in front of us made a landing.  We circled in a holding pattern and watched the graceful turn of the big bomber as it made its way slowly to the landing point.  It was a beautiful thing to watch and then all of a sudden it appeared that something fell off the bottom of the aircraft.  There was a big puff of dirt on the lower slope of the mountains to the east of Sandia Base.  The B-36 continued its graceful landing and taxied off to its hanger location. We speculated that part of a landing gear had fallen off.

We finally landed and I caught my ride to work at the Sandia Laboratory.  As I walked in to my office building, the Health Physics Building, I found a state of feverish activity.   I quickly learned that a bomber, while landing at Kirkland, had accidently dropped a nuclear weapon. Search parties were being organized and the Health Physic staff would have the lead role in finding the weapon. I immediately realized what we had seen during our landing and told my boss that I knew where  weapon had landed.  I was directed to lead the search teams to the location.  We quickly found the site and determined that the weapon was intact and no radioactive material had escaped the weapon housing.

Later we were told that the cause of the accidental release of the weapon was the result of a human engineering design flaw in the aircraft control systems.  The lever that locked the bomb release mechanism was located next to the bomb release lever.   The officer in charge had pushed the wrong lever.  An emergency retrofit of all of the B-36 aircraft was immediately preformed.  

We were also told that the air force officer who had dropped the weapon was a civilian at the end of that day.

Richard Drake, guest writer
for Mil's Place
5/10/14

MY FIRST BREAKFAST STEAK

WHO HAD EVER HEARD OF...
   A BREAKFAST STEAK?
*********************************

The year was circa 1963. I was in a revival
with Dr. John Parrott at FBC, Silver City, N.M.
At the time, I was director of Church Music
for the Baptist Convention of New Mexico,
and Dr. Parrott was pastor at FBC, Roswell,
N.M.

I had already worked with Dr. Parrott
in a cowboy camp meeting at Elk, N.M. and in a
revival at Socorro. (Three more were to follow,
making a total of six, and he was pastor at a music
camp.)

Over the years, in sixty-three revivals, I worked
with many fine preachers. John Parrott was one
of my favorites. He was brilliant, succinct, had a
good delivery, and was a deeply spiritual man.

An interesting experience occurred there at the
Silver City revival. Revivals can vary in their
schedules, etc. but they almost all had morning
services. Many folks do not realize the wear and
tear they present to the revival team, who are
"performing" in a sense twice a day.

At this revival, the morning service was at eight a.m.
so some working people could come. That was
pretty early to get the old singing and preaching
voices unlimbered, so to speak.

Early in the week, maybe on Monday morning,
John said he was going to preach his "When
The Wall Crumbles" sermon, about the upsets
and vicissitudes of life. I had heard it before---
a good sermon!

So I selected for a solo:
"When the storms of life are raging,
Stand by me...
When the world is tossing me
Like a ship upon the sea...
Thou who rulest wind and water
Stand by me."

After the early morning services, we were
starved and hurting for that first cup of coffee,
(unless we were able to grab one cup some-
where along the way.)

A fine older widower had asked for the
job of taking John and me every morning to
this little nice little cafe on Main Street for
breakfast, at his expense. I can't recall his
name. He was a fine, gentle Christian man.

We three sat at a table, and the waitress brought the
menus. I saw the "two eggs, bacon, ham, or
sausage," at $1.65 per plate. According to my
spending habits back in those days, that seemed
plenty to spend.

Our host said: "Now you guys, get anything you
want on the menu." John studied it a moment
and asked: "Anything, you mean it?" "Yes,"
said our host.

In a few moments John said (and surprised me):
"I think I'll have the steak and eggs!" (It was about
$3.95 as I recall. Remember, this was 50 years
ago.)

I said something like: "Well, John, I hate to admit it
but I have NEVER had steak and eggs for breakfast.
I think I might try it. Make mine the same."

John said: "Not a Sunday morning goes by, that I
don't eat steak and eggs when getting ready to
preach at my Roswell church. I need the strength."

Well, my reader, I can't remember for sure, but
I think we had steak and eggs several mornings
that week. An interesting experience...

Food wasn't our main purpose there however.

It was our job to tell of the matchless love of
Jesus Christ in sermon and in song...hoping
someone in our audience would pray:
"Yes...forgive me Jesus, and let it be recorded
in heaven and earth."

(Dr.John Parrott went on to become a seminary
professor.)

*******30*******
BY MIL
5/06/14

THE PIANO TUNER

Bong....bong....bong...ping....ping

Dong....dong......bing bing bing...

The piano tuner is here
    I am drinking coffee
at my writing desk
    and listening.

After forty-five minutes...
    ding...ding......ding
He's still at it.

The tones all sound just alike
    to me, tho' I'm a musician--
(I did think I heard an A-flat
    awhile ago.)

I'm not sure what all this repetition
    tells him
but he is getting the piano
    back in tune.

Now I read a lot of poetry
    since I got older and wiser (?)

I read Emily Dickenson
    I read Marianne Moore
         I read William Carlos Williams.

and it might be said that I am a
    voracious reader of books.

but these poets, with the exception
    of Williams are almost impossible
to understand.

There is a truth I have learned---

The brilliant metaphors of poetry
    the alliterations
the onomatopoeic sounds
    new, unknown words
words not often heard
    unusual speech patterns.

and even meanings not grasped
    or perceived---

like the sounds of the piano tuner---

all these things smooth out
     the wrinkles and bumps
in my thoughts...

and they tune my mind.

*******30******
BY MIL
5/02/14