MEETING MS. FIGMO

March 12, 1966 was almost ending as the Pan Am pilot announced our steep approach to Tan Son Nhut Airbase just outside Saigon, South Vietnam. We had completed the last leg of the journey after a brief layover in Guam. The civilian “champagne flight” was held there due to an earlier Viet-Cong mortar and “sapper” attack on the large airbase. Laughter from the last round of drinks quickly ended as the engines throttled back and the flaps dropped and slowed the planes descent. What was it all about? We were fresh from the comforts of America, and most of all, the peace and security. We had no idea what to expect.

A shiver ran up my spine as uncertainty tightened its grip on me. Anxiety quickly turned to fear as the base came into view off the right wing. Black columns of smoke rose from burning JP4 jet-fuel tanks and a few aircraft along a flight line. This is war, and it ain’t a movie? This was real and I was about to step foot into it! This was the reality and the reality was that I had just begun a yearlong tour. This was only day one.

“When you depart, go quickly to the wall of the terminal building, and stay close to it until safely inside,” the pilot announced, “Don’t let anyone take your baggage. Carry it yourself.” These “comforting words” introduced us to Vietnam.

As we all looked out at the rising ground below, we all wished we could be children once more and just hold someone’s supporting hand - but no! We were America’s finest fighting men and we had to act our age and show none of the fear inside. We did pretty well at showing an age older than our years, but fear was staring back at us in every civilian face.

With the muggy air in my face and pilot’s words repeating themselves in my head, I headed for the terminal wall. No sooner than I had touched the tarmac, than a strange accented voice shouted above the noise of the flight line, “Carry you bag mista?” I felt a tug and looked down. A strangely dressed little dark skinned, dark haired, slant-eyed, boy was attempting to take my bag.

“NO!” I shouted out of fear, and jerked the bag away. He looked puzzled at me for a short moment and then passed on by and repeated the words to the next troop. I kept hearing “no” as I hurried on for the sanctuary of the terminal.

The place was like an old Bogart movie, dimly light, very old, very dirty, and worst of all, very foreign. Even though most of the arriving troops were in civilian clothes, you could spot us a mile away, with our short haircuts and green, black, and blue duffel bags closely guarded by our sides. We out numbered the little locals running around shouting things we could not understand, in some ugly sounding language, but somehow they seemed to have the upper hand. I felt vulnerable. They stared right though you. Almost in hate, it seemed. Didn’t they know I didn’t want to be there...and not just the terminal - Vietnam!

That night I lay awake in my “transit hut” bunk listening to the sounds of Tan Son Nhut running. I could hear the jets, choppers, and planes taking off and landing, and voices that seemed to know their place in the distance. How do they know what to do? Who is running all this? When will someone tell me what to do? The anxiety prevailed for 3 days until my military flight left for Da Nang.

During one of these long nights an older troop, at least he looked older, it could have been from his experience and not his chronological age, came in from a night of reveling in celebration of his going home, and woke me from a light sleep. “SHORT! SHORT! FIGMO! FIGMO, you poor sons-of-bitches!”

Three of his rebel rousing confederates rather sloppily helped him into his bunk and left him to mumble himself off to sleep. “I’m short by God...FIGMO...hmmmmmm...”, and soon he was out.

I awoke the next morning to the word “short” again. “What’s this ‘short’ and ‘figmo’ crap we heard last night,” one of the new guys was asking the older troop? The obviously excited Airman looked up from the duffel bag he was packing and opened his locker.

“Green weenies...meet Miss FIGMO!” Stuck to the door was a fairly well drawn naked woman. “Ain’t she beautiful? ‘Course she’s more beautiful colored in than she is like this,” he said, handing out copies of the drawing. “FIGMO means ‘fuck it, I got my orders’!”

Miss FIGMO was sectioned off into 100 little numbered squares, with the last and smallest numbers ending up...well, you know where number 1 ended up. “Each day, after you get down to 100 days left, you shade in a number and then you know how many days you got left in this hell-hole!” he explained. “That’s gettin’ short, weenies! And I’m very short,” he said leaning over and coloring in numeral Uno. “I’m goin’ home today fellows, so good luck, ‘cause I’M SHORT,” he bellowed!

Later as I sat alone on my bunk, I looked over the calendar and thought how nice it would be just to have 100 days left, but the harsh reality rushed over me that I had 264 left, before I could color my first square! “My God, have mercy on me...there’s so many left!” I folded Miss FIGMO and put her in my bag, and forgot about her for almost 9 months. However, we would become very close one day from my daily visits to her alter.

MONDAY, MONDAY

You never know when you will find someone. It seems to happen when you are not really looking. So it was with Corey’s mom.

Woody just happened to be home on leave the same time I was there waiting for my deployment date to roll around. It was a good thing too – I needed someone to talk to about the real possibility of not coming home. That is just something you do not talk to your mom or even you dad about.

Woody and I hit the old spots, but especially the little “quick stops” that would sell us beer in high school. Our favorite was a little grocery/gas station in a remote area called Bitter Creek. The store is still there today and only a few miles from where I live today.

It is strange how boys are always old enough to fight and die for their country, but not old enough to drink or vote. Makes no freakin’ sense whatsoever!

One evening Woody asked me to accompany him to Connie’s. I did not know her but I knew her best friend Betty Anne, and Woody’s sister. I do not remember if Woody was trying to date Connie, or if they were just best friends, but after that first night, Connie and I spent almost every waking moment together.

She was fun loving and seemed to enjoy my wicked sense of humor. We also shared a love for music, but it was a much more tranquil taste in music than I developed in later years. We loved Dylan, the Mamas & Papas, The Righteous Brothers, Johnny Rivers, Bob Lind, Percy Sledge, Simon and Garfunkel, Ray Charles, Temptations, Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass, Aretha Franklin, and of course, the Beatles and Elvis.

I think it was the mood that set the tone for the songs we liked. We both knew I was leaving and that a “sad goodbye” day was coming soon. So, we did not listen to the Stones, the Byrds or the Yardbirds, Paul Revere & the Raiders, or groups like the Beau Brummels – much too upbeat.

But one stupid song still resounds in my head, but it says more about the time than I could ever write. The chorus from Bob Lind’s “Elusive Butterfly of Love” goes:

Don't be concerned, it will not harm you

It's only me pursuing somethin' I'm not sure of

Across my dreams with nets of wonder

I chase the bright elusive butterfly of love

In any other state of mind, I would have hated that song, but it reflected my inner feelings at the time. I did not know if I was falling in love or if I was just holding on to someone because I was afraid I was about to die. She comforted me in my hour of need. The other question that puzzled me was it her, or just because she was there.

Nonetheless, we filled up each of the thirty days I had with dimly lit quiet times in each other’s arms, listening to soft moody music.

Another song that still rattles in my brain from that uncertain time was “Monday, Monday” from the Mamas & Papas. It seemed to hauntingly remind us each time that there was a Monday coming that we dreaded:

Monday Monday, can't trust that day,

Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be

Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave and not take me.


Monday finally came and it was time to go. I had said my goodbye to Connie the evening before, and now it was time to tell my mom and dad not to worry. “I’ll be okay…I’ll be back before you know it!”

My dad and I posed for a shot the day they took me to Knoxville. It was one of the few times he and I actually hugged. Most of our affection was displayed through wrestling matches in the living room floor, where he usually pinned me and tickled me until I almost cried!

On the way we stopped at Shoney’s in Oak Ridge and had a last meal together. The concern they had for me was obvious in their eyes, but we actually said little to each other that morning.

All the time I was offering these words of brave support, I knew inside why I could never dream forward in my life. This was the reason I could never imagine myself with a nice car, a pretty wife, and children. It was destiny playing out, and so I left for Vietnam with the thought in my mind that I was never coming back.

A month after arriving The Stones released their “Paint It Black,” which to me was prophetic:

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black

With flowers and my love both never to come back

I see people turn their heads and quickly look away

Like a new born baby it just happens ev'ry day

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door and it has been painted black

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts

It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black

Obviously I made it, but until I arrived home a year later you could not have convinced me otherwise. I lived one day short of a full year under this mental anguish. Monday has always had a bad connotation for me, and even today when I hear the word, I think back to that Monday in March of 1966, and how hard it was to walk away and toward my perceived destiny.

ROAD TRIP

Judy and I took a day trip to Lexington, KY last Wednesday just to get away. The house cleaners come every other Wednesday and it usually takes them about three hours, so we were gone about ten…which was more than enough time!

Once on a business trip I visited the fabulous Liquor Barn there and since she needed adult beverage for her cruise and I needed something for the “wild weekend,” we took advantage of the time.

The Liquor Barn is about the size of a Food City or any other medium size grocery store is dedicated to a wonderful array of deli meats, condiments, cheeses, breads and crackers, spices, but most importantly, beers, wines, liquors, and cigars! A real manly man store if ever there was one.

There are aisles specific for beers of every imaginable variety, whiskeys, bourbons, scotches, tequilas, vodkas, wines, and everything in between. We made a few purchases and then perused the humidor room. I picked up a few Macanudos for Corey and me, and we were off.

We then proceeded to the beautiful Keeneland Race Track and walked the grounds and shops. There was no racing on the track that day, but the betting was hot and heavy in the TV feed areas. We’ll have to go back one day for a race!

The trip back was preempted by a short stop at the local T.G.I. Friday’s, where we met Teri, our pretty waitress. Teri was lots of fun and when I asked if I could take her picture, she proceeded to hop up on the booth seat across from us and proudly showed her “we’re number one” pose for her Dallas Cowboys!

She even took the camera into the bar and snapped a shot there for me. Great gal!

On the way back I took a shot of the huge cross that announces the up coming Adult World complex at the 141 exit off I-75 near Huntsville, TN (Does Howard Baker ring a bell?)! I’m not sure who is trying to out do who there!

It was a nice little 400 mile day trip!

TIME TO MOVE ON

One thing about being in the military, you do get to change scenery quite often, and I was accustomed to moving around from the years my dad followed electrical construction work with TVA.

By the Christmas season in 1965, rumors began about a large number of orders coming down in early ’66. The orders were all to be for that strange and distant place we had began hearing about on TV – Vietnam. However, at this point, none of us knew enough to be afraid, but I knew enough to know I needed to try to make it home for Christmas that year, but I was running short of funds.

Just two weeks earlier, I had phoned home late one night from outside the “back gate,” sobbing like a little boy (in part, because I ran out of beer money), telling my dad how broke and lonely I was. He felt sorry for me and wired me twenty bucks, which, in those days, was a whole paycheck! However, now I was nearly broke again and did not have the money for a bus ticket home. I had to find another means.

Strangely enough, David Hillberry and I were talking about the up coming holiday on the next shift. He began telling me about how he was going to load up his VW and head to West Virginia just as soon as he worked his last shift before the 12-hour shifts began. One thing led to another, and before long, he had invited me to ride along with him and his family.

“Heck, we’ll go right through Harriman on the way up man, why not?”

I was so homesick, and worried about the upcoming orders that I did not even give it any thought. Had I thought it over much I would have realized how long and cramped the trip would be in a VW. I just wanted to get home and see my momma!

The day we left was the first real thought I had given the circumstances. Hillberry stopped by the barracks where I stood with bag in hand. There, taking up over half the backseat was a bassinette! I considered backing out right then, but Hillberry had already grabbed my bag and somehow found room for it under the hood (If you aren’t familiar with VWs of the day, the trunk was under the hood and the engine was in the trunk!). His wife got out, I got in and squeezed into what was left of the backseat, and we were off!

I do not remember what the speed limits were in those days, but I do know that we did whatever speed the particular semi we were following did! David was proud of the fact that he could save gas and go faster longer if he “drafted” a tractor-trailer! Why he was worried about saving gas in a VW, I do not know, but he must have practiced the procedure many times.

At seventy or eight miles per hour, tucked up within twelve to eighteen inches of the back of a truck, the pucker factor is off the scale! I kept thinking if the trucker hits his brakes we are goners!

Therefore, there we were all the way to Harriman and back, or so it seemed, literally being sucked along the highway, saving gas, with the VW pushed into neutral!

And me? I had to learn to change diapers occasionally so Hillberry did not lose the draft! “We’re on a schedule,” he kept reminding us.

Having survived the holiday trip, I returned to Keesler to receive my new orders. I was to become part of America’s plan (formulated in November of 1965) to increase U.S. troop levels in South Vietnam from 120,000 to 400,000, in order to escalate operations to neutralize North Vietnamese and the NLF (Viet Cong) forces.

I returned to Harriman sometime near the middle of February to begin a 30-day leave before reporting to my new duty station called DaNang, South Vietnam. Where it was, what it was, what was ahead was completely unknown. I probably knew more about the dark side of the moon!

What I did know was that there was a growing knot and emptiness deep within me, and a strange tightness in my chest and throat, but I knew I had to hide those feelings from my parents, and especially my little brother.

Anyway, I end this by posting a photo of Wayne Spainhour and Frank Boyce, and one of me, on the day we waited in the barracks for our ride to the commercial airport in Gulfport. We were all going home to say goodbye to our families before embarking on the experience of our life times.

Frank and I would see each other again at DaNang, but this was the last time I ever saw Wayne. It was time to lose what remained of that “little boy innocence” and to move on to the unknown!

TAKING THINGS INTO HIS OWN HANDS

Part of the fun of being on base patrol, especially on night shift, was that you could visit some of the “parking”, or “sparking” (as my dad used to call them in his day) spots around the base. Young lovers are quite ingenious at finding little hidden or less traveled areas of an Air Force Base where they can be alone. If you have ever been a “young lover,” and you did not have your own place yet, then you know exactly how ingenious!

However, sometimes a “would be lover” can be down right unimaginative!

Early one Sunday morning, around 2 or 3 AM, I made a routine check through a parking lot at the rear of several student barracks. I knew that girls sometimes brought Airmen back to base and some tended to take a little too long to say goodnight! I was on the prowl and up to no good!

As I made a turn at the end of a row of vehicles, my headlights lit up something familiar – feet, feet sticking up from the back seat over the front seat. This, or the top of a head, or someone’s backside mooning me, was what I was hoping to find!

I quickly pushed the lights to their parking position and dismounted the truck with flashlight in hand. A quick flash of the light and I could tell that whoever it was had apparently missed or ignored the lights of my vehicle. The feet remained still, hanging over the front seat as I approached. “Perhaps they are staying still thinking I will not see them,” I thought to myself.

Standing just a couple of feet from the rear window, I smiled with anticipation at what I was about to see.

FLICK! The flashlight was full on, yet the Airman did not move. “Ah, he’s asleep, but what is in his lap?” I asked myself.

As I moved up the window and shined the light fully on him, my jaw dropped and my eyes bugged out! There he was, fast asleep, pants pushed down, and he was holding firmly to his manhood with his right hand! Yep, the “little Airman” was at full attention, but his commander had long since stopped commanding the situation!

I took giant steps backward, wheeled around, and ran back to the side of my truck, where I burst out laughing! “Keesler Police, Unit 2.”

“Go ahead Unit 2.”

“Keesler Police, please have Unit 3 rendezvous with this unit at…” I said giving my location and doing a good job of hiding my excitement!

Unit 3, that night, was David Hillberry, a good ol’ boy from West “by god” Virginia. He seemed about a foot taller than I was and weighed almost as much as Sgt. Webb, and therefore was a much more imposing figure than I could have been at the time. He was a fun loving troop who had a lovely wife and baby and was the only “married personnel” on A Flight. From time to time, I used to visit him and his family in their home in base housing.

Hillberry rolled into the rear of the parking lot and as he approached, he too extinguished his lights and got out. “What’s up?”

“Follow me…you ain’t go’na believe this.”

It was the cool time of year in Biloxi and so the Airman had left the windows up to keep out the night air, so there was no real danger of him hearing us walk up to the car.

I turned on my flashlight and lit up the backseat, and almost instantly, Hillberry covered his mouth to stifle his laughter and backed up a few steps. As soon as we composed ourselves, he asked me what I wanted to do.

I explained that I did not want to get the guy in any trouble, but we did need to teach him a lesson.

Hillberry said, watch this. He walked up to the window and loudly tapped on the window with the butt of his flashlight.

Immediately the surprised Airman rose straight up, banging his head hard against the roof of the car, making a loud metallic popping sound, as if someone had run headlong into the side of a car door headfirst!

Simultaneously, the Airman began scrambling and fumbling with his pants, and with the “little Airman” at “parade rest”, he finally managed to get them up and fastened. However, he sat there with his arms across his lap as if nothing had happened.

Hillberry tapped the window again and hollered for him to get out.

I was standing to the side and just behind David, trying my best not to laugh and not to let the young Airman see my face.

“What the hell are you doing?” Hillberry said, screaming like a drill sergeant right into the troop’s right ear.

“I…I…I went to town (sniff),” he began, starting to cry and whipping snot on his sleeve, “…and, and I couldn’t find a girl, and I was so horny (sniff)…and I miss my girl…my girl back home.” At this point, he was bawling like a baby with more snot coming out of his nose, mixing with saliva coming from his open mouth, and he was sucking in short breaths of air.

“Well, why in the hell are you out here in public Airman?” Hillberry pressed.

“I…I…I don’t know, I…I just got…drunk, and couldn’t help it! Awh man…I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

“Why didn’t you go inside…go in the latrine or some place man?”

Hillberry did all the talking because I just could not get out a word that sounded anywhere close to authority!

“I know…I know I should have…I’m sorry.”

“Go on troop, get your ass in that building and don’t ever let us catch you out here like that gain. YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Yessir!”

“Get!”

With that, David and I turned and walked back to the trucks and then burst out laughing again. However, we soon ended our little entertainment break with David saying, “You know, I kinda felt sorry for the poor guy.”

“Yeah,” I said, “there but for the grace of God…”

“I know what ch’a mean man,” David agreed with a big smile on his face.

That was a lesson two Airman, well, maybe three, never forgot!

WE GOT HER CHERRY

Yep, just moments after this shot Steve exclaimed, “We busted her cherry! Hundred miles an hour!”

It was the first time he has had his new Mustang GT convertible over 100 MPH, and man, did it ever sound good. It brought back the sixties and seventies oh so clearly! I loved it.

The last time I was over a hundred was when I had my ’93 Cobra, quickest little thing I ever owned. Got rubber in four of its five gears, and I had a witness!

Before that it was in a ’89 Mustang GT and a ‘69 Mustang, but the fastest top-ender I ever owned was a ’78 Trans Am, and we pegged her at 140! Click back in time to see them all HERE!

Friday was a beautiful day with clear blue skies, a late setting full moon, and a low-lying fog that crept off Walden Ridge to die a slow death in the morning sun down in the Harriman valley.

Steve and I met early, had breakfast at the Common Ground, egg croissant and coffee, before doing some manly shopping at Pep Boys, CompUSA, and Gander Mountain.

By then it was time to hit Wild Wings Café, which was his first time. The wings and Bass Ale was great sitting outside feeling the early fall breeze that carried our cigar smoke off to another county.

I passed this field, just about a half a mile from my house, and caught the color of Ironweed and Goldenrod beaming in the afternoon sun. All we need now is a frosty night and the trees will quickly jump on the fall color bandwagon. Come on fall!

DON’T DO AS I DO, DO AS I SAY!

The Christmas and New Year’s Holidays brought shift changes to Keesler AFB for many permanent party groups. The Air Police normally operated with four Flights rotating the midnight, evening, days, and off shifts, with 24 hours off between shift changes (so I was reminded by PRH recently). The shifts were normally broken into 3 days of each shift, with the last shift being 3 days off.

However, during Christmas and New Years two Flights alternated 12-hour shifts while the other two Flights took “leave” and usually went home for five days. Then two Flights returned while the first group took their short leave.

The best present you could get for the holiday was to work the first 12 on 12 off shifts, so that when you returned you went back into the normal routine. Otherwise, a week of relaxing with family was ruined by having to work the grueling 12-hour shifts!

Only one of the holiday rotations is clear in my memory, or it could a combination of the two holiday seasons I had a Keesler.

We prepared for the 12-hour Christmas Day or New Year’s Day shifts by gathering three clean garbage cans from our friends at the chow halls. We then requisitioned enough ice to fill them. Before topping the garbage cans off with the ice, we filled them about half way with canned beer!

One of the cans was placed at each of the three off-site radar facilities that we routinely checked several times each shift. The inspections were normally performed by the patrol that rode the area surrounding the back gate, where a highway from Gulfport came directly into the back of the base. Off this highway were the three dirt roads that lead to the radar sites.

However, during these festive times, each patrol got their turn to leave their normal areas, exiting the base through the back gate (Gate 7 if memory serves), and headed for the radar site/s. Once at the sight the unit went 10-6 (busy) and checked the fence and locks, and then grabbed themselves a beer – or two!

This was how we celebrated the holiday and forgot about not being at home. The beer trips rotated during the shifts, and by mid-shift, most Air Policemen were pretty happy. Even the gate guards got their turns, with the patrolman standing their duty while they were gone. However, we were sworn to uphold the law, and uphold it we did.

I remember driving along, feeling good, not drunk, but with a mid-level buzz, and seeing some Airman weaving along a base street in front of me. “He’s drunk,” I said out loud as I reached for the toggle switch that turned on the huge chrome-clad combo red light and siren atop the Ford Econoline.

“AWWWAHHH,” it bellowed, while at the same time sucking all the electrical power from the electrical system, causing the engine to bog and slow the truck by at least 10 MPH! You soon learned to flick the toggle back and forth quickly in order to keep your truck from stalling!

The Airman pulled to the side of the street and stopped. I could see him digging from his ID card and license as I walked up the rear of the driver side window.

“Step out of the vehicle sir.” It was our custom to be polite and courteous of everyone; at least until we found out if they were an officer.

“Yeeaah…shur,” he slurred as he opened the door and braced himself, carefully using the car door and the top of the car.

I do not remember the routine we used in those days to determine sobriety, but I am sure it was more a judgment call in those days, and I was calling this guy “drunk!” He could barely form sentences, and if he were not holding the car, he would almost go down.

Now mind you, at this point, I too was feeling no pain, and the least little thing would set me to laughing almost uncontrollably. I got the cuffs on the guy, helped him up into the passenger seat of the truck, and we both laughed all the way to AP HQ!

There we stood, both of us weaving back and forth, actually using each other to steady ourselves, in front of the Desk Sergeant. The only difference between us was that I knew the other guy was drunk.

I voiced the circumstances and charges to the Desk Sergeant, who grinned, and took down the information. The apprehended Airman was taken to a holding cell in the stockade, and I mounted up and resumed my patrol.

As soon as I entered my patrol area, I informed the Desk Sergeant that I was 10-8 (back in service), and promptly requested permission to check one of the off-site facilities. I was getting a little dry!

“Uh, that’s a negative Unit 4, I believe you have done your service to the off-sites for this shift,” the Desk Sergeant announced. I remember hearing laughter in the background as his transmission ended. Was it Webb? Can’t remember.

While it is not commendable that a law enforcement officer would drive drunk while on duty, I ask you to remember that they are human, and when off duty, will do many, if not all, of the things you do when you are off. If you happen to catch one of them in the act, they would simply say, “Don’t do as I do, do as I say!”

ENJOYING ANOTHER LONG WEEKEND

What, another long weekend? Oh, I forget you all aren’t retired…all my weekends are seven days long! Sorry.

Well, here is a “FatHairyBastard” style weekend round up:

Anyway, started out Friday at Wild Wings with part of the Knights and Dragons, enjoying the “all you can eat” wing bar and cold beer. The Sierra Nevada pump was dry, so I went for the Bass, while Ron had another Skip Jack pulled, and Gary got his usual Miller Lite. The Dragons had a ball out on the deck while the Knights enjoyed a CAO cigar at the bar.

Saturday began at Neena and Ron’s for banana bread and coffee. Ron then took Terri to the lake for the promised short canoe and kayak trip. Getting in the canoe was somewhat rough on her bottom though. The algae slick boat ramp didn’t bode well with the Crocks she was wearing! I missed the first shot because I thought she had really hurt herself, but when I saw her laughing, I knew she only hurt her pride!

Her husband (Steve) sat in the back and did the stirring. You’ll also notice Gary in the Kayak…he had a shoulder and neck muscle that would spasm on him every few minutes and almost bring him to his knees. He figured the exercise would work that out, but he soon realized the paddling was doing him no good. They soon left and went straight to the emergency room where they gave him a shot to relax the muscle. I think he spent the rest of the day in bed!

Later, we met another Knight and Dragon at the local Mexican restaurant for beer, fun, and food. Steve and I took his Mustang and let the wind mess up our hair – right!

I included shots around the table, Terri/Steve, Linda/Noel, Ron/Neena, and finally Judy and me. Notice, she has her eyes open, but I think her mouth was full!

We later ended up on your back porch listening to tunes, smoking cigars, and drinking more beer! Everyone stayed until after nine, so we had a long fun day together.

Sunday, we had a biscuit from Hardees, and our granddaughter (Katie Bug) had pancakes. Katie used to spend every Friday night with us, but she has too many girl and boyfriends know to stay that often. This was an increasingly rare treat!

After lunch, I visited with my brother, who came in from Charlotte to visit our mother. One of his daughters came by with her husband and two daughters. It was a great weekend.