In Cahoots

Soldiers would stuff a note with their APO address in an used cartridge and toss them at young women. This practice was called "yoo-hooing" and led to numerous friendships and romances during the war years.

Ben heard the approaching footsteps and shoved the bullet under his pillow and began innocently singing:

“Do your ears hang low, do they flop, do they flop?

 Can you tie ‘em in a bow, can you tie ‘em in a knot?”

He sat on the edge of the bed as the doorknob turned.

“Can you throw them o’er your shoulder,

 Like a regimental soldier . . .”

His mother and twin sisters marched into the room as he slowly finished, “Do your . . . ears hang . . . low.”

His mother solemnly spread the money on the bed. “Thirty-eight dollars and twenty cents. Ben Reed, I cannot believe it.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I robbed a bank.” Peg winked at Ben, rubbing her hands together as if she was counting money.

Their mother raked a pile of the contraband to one side. “Twenty dollars of this is going to the Lottie Moon offering at church.”

“Twenty dollars! Leave me some.”

Author’s Note:  The Lottie Moon offering is an annual mission offering made by Southern Baptists.  It underwrites foreign missions and is collected at Christmas.  Learn more at www.imb.org

“Oh, I’m just getting started.” She held up the five-dollar bill. “You’re taking this to Widow Young after supper.” She stuffed three dollars in her apron pocket. “And that’s mine for washing your clothes this month.” She raked the rest of the money into a manila envelope. “You’ll be getting three dollars and eighty cents later. That’s ten percent—and it’s all yours.”

Ben put his hands on his forehead. “Momma, that’s not how they figured it in the Bible. I believe that tithe was the other way around.”

“Not in your Momma’s math, and in this house, Momma’s math is the only kind that matters. Besides, all but fifty cents of that is going into a savings account at the bank.”

Ben’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve been robbed.”

“No. You robbed, making those poor soldiers pay a dollar for a coke.”

“Please, let me keep a little more.” He turned to his sisters. “Y’all are in cahoots with her.”

His mother’s fist slammed down like a gavel. “Case closed.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Appeal denied.” Satisfied that justice had been served, she turned on her heel. His sisters, still snickering behind their hands, followed in her wake.

Ben counted to five-Mississippi, listening for returning footsteps. Pulling the brass cartridge from under his pillow, he removed the folded note from the shell, re-reading the four lines of numbers and words slowly. He inhaled the faint smell of gunpowder in the cartridge and slid it into his pocket. He now had a plan and headed into the kitchen. “Momma, can I go over to Ma’s house?”

She eyed him carefully. “If you promise not to ruin your supper, and be back ‘fore dusk-dark.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

He sprinted out the door as her parting words echoed, “And watch for rattlesnake pilots in those leaves.” Blue joined him at the gate, loping along as they crossed the creek bottom. It was a quarter-mile through the woods to the home of his grandmother, Doshie Reed. Her family called her “Ma” and Ben loved her more than anybody in the whole world.

I picture "Blue" as a glass-eyed Catahoula Cur. What do you know about this unique Louisiana breed?

Arriving, he slammed the screen door to announce his arrival. “Got anything for a country boy to eat?” She was working in the kitchen, dressed in the only way he’d ever seen her: long, flowing dress, gray hair up in a bun, skinny arms working hard. In her sing-songey voice, she said, “Well, we don’t usually feed hoboes, but today I’ll make an exception.”

He began their ritual. “Ain’t your name Ma? What kind of name is that?”

“Oh, it’s an old Attakapa Indian word.” She gave him a big hug. “For the person who spoils you and pours a big dose of love all over you.”

Ben had gotten one of her flour hugs. “Ma, you’re making that Indian stuff up, ain’t you?”

She rubbed his head. “It sounds like me, don’t it?”

“Sure does.” As she hugged him again, he inhaled the smells that marked his grandmother: lye soap, talcum powder, and the faint odor of Garrett’s Sweet Snuff. These were mixed with the kitchen aromas of frying bacon and baking bread. He’d timed his arrival right.

“You’re just in time for a snack. Would you like Ma to get you a hot peach tart?”

“Momma told me not to ruin my supper.”

“Well, what your momma don’t know won’t hurt her, will it?”

“Not one bit.”

She took out a pan of hot tarts from the cook stove. “While they’re cooling, you use the fly-swap to keep the flies off.” After about a minute, she winked. “All right, a hot tart deserves a cold glass of milk. Go out to the well and bring in the milk.” As he raced outside, she warned, “Be careful and don’t break the jug.” He pulled the rope up from the well and untied the burlap sack that held the gallon of fresh milk, holding the cold jug against his face.

She poured him a pint jelly jar full of creamy milk and set it beside two steaming peach tarts. Between bites and gulps, he said, “How’s PawPaw today?”

She nodded toward the bedroom. “He’s been in there jabbering all morning.”

Ben chuckled. “Ma, he ain’t said a word since his stroke.”

“Honey, there’s lots of ways of talking that don’t take words.”

“What do you talk to him about all day?”

“Everything and nothing. He’s a captive audience, and I try to take advantage of it.” She lifted a pan of sizzling bacon. “Run in there and tell him hello.”

Ben eased into the room where his grandfather was sleeping. He’d never gotten used to seeing how this strong man—his hero—had withered down to what he was now. “Morning, PawPaw.”

His grandfather’s eyes opened and were joined by a crooked smile. He tried to form words, but what came out was gibberish, followed by a tear rolling down his left cheek. Ben kissed the tear and pulled up a chair bedside. “It’s good seeing you, Pa.” Ben rubbed his grandfather’s hand, filling him in about recent events in his life. When he saw Ma in the doorway, he said, “How do you and him talk?”

“We tell each other all day how much we love each other.”

“How’s that?”

“With our eyes, and with gestures, and our hearts.”

“Show me.”

Ma walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. She placed her flour-covered hand on his cheek, tenderly stroking his face and turned to Ben. “See what I mean?”

“Yes Ma’am, I do.”

She turned to Pa. “Spencer, do you wish you’d married Deborah Granger instead of me?”

He vigorously shook his head, a scowl spreading over his long face. She winked at him, “If you had it to do all over, would you marry me again?”

He dipped his head up and down, a lop-sided grin evicting the frown. Ma said, “He’s bobbing that head like a woodpecker on a wormy willow oak tree.”

“Ma, what’d he try to say?”

“It was ‘I love you.’”

“How do you know?”

She walked Ben to the kitchen. “I just know.” Dusting the flour off her apron, she said, “I hear-tell they’re dropping flour-sack bombs from them Army planes. Sounds like a real waste to me. Flour’s for making biscuits and tarts.”

“Especially tarts.” He finished his second tart, then pulled the bullet from his pocket and tossed it on the counter where it rattled against a pot. “Look at that.”

“What’s that?” She walked to the counter.

“It’s a bullet a soldier tossed at me and Elizabeth in town.”

See the note with Harry's address. Blue Army (3rd Army) soldiers received their mail at a Ragley address. The photos representing Elizabeth and Harry are my mother, Mary Plott Iles and Sgt. Leroy Johnson representing Harry Miller.

She picked it up and removed the note. “Baby, go get Ma’s bifocals off the settee.”

He returned with the glasses. “Lizzie said he hollered, ‘You’re beautiful. Write me.’ I’m not sure if he was yelling at me or Lizzie.”

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you,” She adjusted the glasses on her nose.

“What’s that note mean, Ma?”

She unfolded it and read slowly,

Write me!

Private Harold M. Miller

36630862

Company K, 127th Infantry 32nd Division

Ragley, Louisiana

Ben looked over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“Looks like a soldier’s address.”

He stood on his tiptoes. “So that’s why the soldier threw the bullet at us?”

“Not at us, but at your sister. You know she is one good-looking woman.” She held the bullet in her long fingers. “Did Elizabeth pick this up?”

“Not that I saw. She told me to leave it alone.” He finished the milk with a big swig. “But you can see I didn’t.”

“I can see that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who else knows about this?”

“Not a soul—nobody but me, you, and the Lord above.”

“Not even Peg?”

“She was gone when it happened.”

“Why’d you bring it to me?”

“’Cause you’re the smartest person I know.”

“I am?”

“Yes’m, and you make the best peach tarts in the whole world.”

“So that’s why you came.”

“Well, that and the bullet.”

She held the cartridge up to the light from the kitchen window. Ben studied her wrinkled hand and how the purple veins stood out on her hand. In the light from the window, he could nearly see through her thin fingers.

She addressed the bullet as if it was in cahoots with them. “Mr. Bullet, I’ve been worried about my granddaughter and her boring life.” She winked at Ben. “You might just be the answer I been praying for.”

“Ma, are you talking to me or the bullet?”

She said, “Both. This bullet might help us help her.” She carefully placed it in a pastel stationery box. “Every tub sits on its own bottom.”

“Ma, why do you always say that?”

“Because I like the way it sounds. I’m gonna keep this bullet. The three of us might just go into cahoots together and help Lizzie get some romance in her life.”

“But what about Peg?”

“Son, I’m most concerned with keeping her out of romance. That girl likes anything wearing pants. But your sister Elizabeth, she’s just too serious. We’re gonna try to help her.”

She peered out the window. “What time’d your momma tell you to be home by?”

“By dusk-dark.”

Framing his face with her hands, she kissed his forehead. “You best be going.” As he trotted off, she hollered, “And watch for snakes—especially those ground rattlers in the leaves.”

Ben was running as fast as he could. He turned to his faithful companion, Blue. “It’d take a mighty quick snake to bite us.” The dog barked twice and they picked up speed as they entered the swamp, seeing the lights of home through the trees.

Author’s notes:

“Every tub” sits on its own bottom” is a self-responsibility statement still used among old-timers in our piney woods.  How would you explain its meaning to an outsider?

What were the sayings and proverbs of your ancestors?

Well, children’s means one and we definitely want more than one child reading our books.

What’s your call?

Wednesday, January 25, 2012.

My Life Plan is made up of 10 components. Yours can and will be unique to you.

On Wednesday’s I’m trying to write about my Life Plan.  I’ve discovered that I need this written plan to keep me focused and on task. I hope you enjoy and are challenged by my thoughts on this.

I’d love to hear your ideas and comments.

I place my “6 Words to Live By” on Pin 1: my walk with Jesus. These are the current words that I’m passionate about.  I’m currently gleaning my final six for 2012 from these great words:

Commitment:  my keyword for 2012.

Focus

Passion

Hunger

Balance

Hospitality

Compassion

Gratitude

Prayer

Missional Living

I’ll be expounding on what I’m learning on each word in the coming days.

Still walking. Still growing.

Curt Iles

“We exist to bring glory to God by making disciples who treasure Christ &carry His name to the ends of the earth.”

This is our church (Dry Creek Baptist) Life Statement.

Scribblings from the home page of Journal #56, my current journal. I highly recommend keeping a Life Journal.

A life statement is simply a declaration of what you’re about… where you stand… why you exist.

It says,  “I’ve driven a stake in the ground and this is where I stand.”

A life statement helps us stay focused on what’s really important.

As “Curly” said in “City Slickers”,  “Boys, there’s just one thing that matters.”

Our Life Statement is a visible expression of that “one thing.”

My personal Life Statement is “I want to be a man God can use and be respected by wife, sons, and their families– especially my six grandchildren.”

As we say in the Piney Woods,  “Nuff Said.”

This is a RSS feed button. It allows easy subscription to blogs. RSS stands for "Really Simple Syndication."

I follow about ten blogs and Google Reader allows me to easily read and keep up.

My daily goal is adding ten new subscribers to my blog as well as ten to my newsletter signup list.  Please help me by clicking the RSS feed and Newsletter button on our home page.

Friday, Jan. 19

I’ve been blogging this week about my 2012 Life Plan.  It’s not a matter of thinking I have some great knowledge or insight.  I’m sharing because it forces me to implement and follow through.

If it helps you, that’s great.

I call my plan  “Ten Pins Life Planning.”  I used the outline of 10 bowling pins to help me remember.

My Life Plan is made up of 10 components. Yours can and will be unique to you.

Because my life verse is “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God …” and my life statement includes,  “Being a man God can use” I must have a clear first priority.  I call it “my daily walk with Jesus.”   I have surrendered my life and future to Jesus because I’m convinced He is God’s Son, bought my salvation with His death on the cross, and is worthy of my commitment.

In bowling, you cannot roll a strike if you miss the head pin.  Conversely, if I miss out on my Jesus-Walk,  nothing else will fall into place. So I must make it a daily priority.  Daily priorities must be done first thing.

As my friend Dore Langley says, “You know that you will always do what you want to.”

Therefore I seek to start my day with Jesus in prayer, Bible study, journalling, and meditation.  That is the foundation of my walk. I seek the guidance and counsel of Jesus in daily decisions,  actions, and my words.

I can do better on all of these.  It is the desire of my heart and prayer that I will grow in this area in 2012.

Still growing.  Still hungry.

Curt Iles

Home page of my current journal, #56

Keeping a life journal has been a rewarding spiritual exercise in my life.

I’d love to hear from you on your life goals, dreams, plan, and verse.

I also welcome your questions on my journal Home Page.

Curt

Yesterday I shared my Life Statement:

“I seek to be a man God can use and be respected by my wife DeDe, our sons and their families.”

"Sad Sack Curt" Cartoon If you can't laugh at yourself . . .

A second foundational stone in my life plan is my Life Verse.  This is the Bible verse that most closely resonates with my heart. For the last two decades,  Matthew 6:33 has been that verse for me:

Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you.

These are the very words of Jesus and serve as a blueprint for my life. It leads to the first of my “life ten pins” as “walking closely to Jesus daily.”

As you develop your own life plan, I’d encourage you to have a life verse.*

What is your favorite/life verse?  I’d love to hear from you.

Curt Iles

*One of the most important habits in my life is starting the day in prayer and Bible study.  I’m currently reading the Gospel of Mark, Proverbs, and the life of Elijah.

In the coming days, I’ll share about the Ten Pins that define my life plan.

We’re blogging this week about having a Life Plan for 2012.

A Life Plan is simply a short written document expressing what matters most in your life.  It serves for a compass on the journey of each day.

My life plan is 12 pages long and covers the ten areas of my life I deem as priorities. Later in the week I’ll make my plan available to interested readers.  My purpose in being transparent is that I want every friend I have to grow into the best person they can be.  For me, this involves having a plan that keeps me focused and from wandering off the narrow path.

Today, I’d like to share about my Life Statement.  This is what I seek to live by daily:

“I seek to be a man God can use and be respected by my sons, my daughter-in-laws, and my six grandchildren.”

That’s it but that’s enough!  If I take care of these two:  1. growing into the type of man God wishes me to be and 2. having the respect of those who know me best, everything else is “lagniappe.”

I “borrowed” my Life Statement from Dr. John Avant, pastor of First Baptist-West Monroe, La.  He gave me permission to use it and I believe it covers lots of ground in one sentence.

You can borrow it and make it yours or you can craft your own.

I’d love to hear from you.

Curt Iles

Where you end up is determined by your map and your goals.

This week I’ll be blogging about having a Life Plan.

I’m a firm believer that if you fail to plan, you plan to fail.  I also believe that when we write down our dreams, they become achievable goals.

Emmit Smith said,  “If it’s in your head, it’s only a dream, but when you write it down, it becomes a goal.”

At the same time, I’m aware that God is the ultimate planner and it is His prerogative to change my plans and life.

NBC newscaster John Chancellor retired and had great plans for the rest of his life.  When he was diagnosed with a terminal illness, he quoted a famous maxim,  “If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans.”

So there is a necessary tension between walking by faith and planning like crazy.  I think it’s summed up in the words of William Carey:

“Attempt great things for God.

Expect great things from God.”

Stay tuned to our blog for more on a life verse, life statement, and 6 words to live by.

Curt Iles

Chapter 5

Melted Ice Cream

WEATHER ADVISORY

CAMP POLK, LOUISIANA

13 AUGUST 1941

EXTREME HEAT AND HUMIDITY WILL BE IN EFFECT FOR BLUE ARMY AREAS. ALL PERSONNEL SHOULD MAKE MAXIMUM USE OF SALT TABLETS AND WATER.

Harry looked at Shorty Johnson in the light of dawn. “Why in the world would anyone volunteer for this Army?” Their pine-knot fire blazed up when Shorty piled bitterweeds on it, causing Harry to ask, “Does that really keep mosquitoes away?”

Shorty held both palms up. “See any?”

“No, I don’t. You actually enjoy being in the field, don’t you?”

Shorty shrugged. “It ain’t much different from a Louisiana logging camp, ‘cept the pay’s better and the army’s a lot safer. Figured it’d extend my life expectancy.”

“If lumbering is worse than this, remind me never to sign up.”

“Don’t worry buddy, you wouldn’t last two days. You got too many citified ways.”

The 32nd Division from Michigan/Wisconsin hated Louisiana's humidity and heat when they arrived in 1940-41.

Shorty was proud to be a third generation woodsman. This seemed strange since both a brother and grandfather had died in logging accidents.

As a pot of coffee brewed over the fire, a bugle blew “chow call.” Shorty stood. “The ice cream boys are back.” He brushed past Harry. “Come on, how ‘bout an ice cream sandwich for breakfast?” Dozens of soldiers grappled around an old car from which two teenagers busily exchanged ice cream for coins and bills. The feeding frenzy was soon over, and Shorty came out of the pile holding up two sandwiches, tossing one to Harry. Grasping his treat, Harry strolled to the teens. “It looks like the Great Depression isn’t as great as it used to be for you boys.”

The taller of the two, folding a wad of money into his wallet, answered. “The Army has sure helped us.”

Harry took a bite of his sandwich. “Where’d you get the ice cream?”

“Borden’s in Lake Charles.”

Suddenly, the circle of happy ice cream eaters parted as a jeep skidded to a halt and a second lieutenant scampered out. “Who blew that bugle?” The younger teen tried to hide the bugle behind his back, which only further infuriated the officer. “No one blows a bugle around here without my official clearance. If I see you again, I’ll have the MPs impound your vehicle.”

The boys climbed into the car and, as soon as it sputtered to life, roared off in a cloud of dust. Harry walked over to the jeep where a corporal sat in the driver’s seat. Harry held out his ice cream. “Want a bite?”

The driver laughed. “No thanks.” Harry quickly finished his dust-covered, melting ice cream sandwich, scanning the cloudless sky. As cool ice cream ran down his arm, he shook his head. “Any place hot enough at daylight to melt ice cream isn’t fit for human habitation.”

The driver laughed. “It’s sure different than Illinois. Where’re you from?”

“Milwaukee.” Harry nodded toward the still-fuming officer. “You carry around idiots like him?”

“I see it all in my job.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Lawrence.”

“Harry Miller.” He studied the jeep. “You like driving this thing?”

“It sure beats marching.”

The Lieutenant climbed in. “Let’s go, Corporal.”

Lawrence winked at Harry. “Hi-Yo, Silver, away!”

The jeep spun out coating Harry with more dust as the driver called over his shoulder, “See you later, Kemo-Sabe.”

Another bugle call sounded, and it was chow call. Another day began for Company K in their temporary home at Fulton, Louisiana. Harry walked toward the mess tent as soldiers were jostling for the few shady spots. Carrying his meal toward their tent, he was followed by the three Company K soldiers who loved tormenting him as much as any biting insect. To his dismay, these three—Halverson, Nickels, and Shep—sat beside him.

Company K was primarily comprised of National Guard soldiers from the central Wisconsin town of Monitowoc. All of them, as well as Sarge and their officers, had grown up together and formed a tight-knit clan that excluded outsiders like Shorty, Cohen, and Harry. Especially Harry.

“Well, how’s old lover boy doing this morning?” Shep said.

When Harry didn’t answer, Shep continued, “Listen. You’re going to have to give up this sad-sack business and get on with life. There’s plenty of beautiful women in these Louisiana woods prettier than that gal Harriet.”

Harry winced. “Her name’s Helen.”

“Well, either way, the best way of getting over her is finding you a Louisiana woman, hey?”

Harry scoffed, “The last thing I’d ever want is a Louisiana woman.”

“Well, we have been working on getting you a Louisiana broad.”

“Thanks, but no tha—”

Shep cut him off. “It may be a little late for you to say no. We’ve been working hard to help you, haven’t we, Hal?”

Halverson pulled out an empty M-1 cartridge. “On our way down here, we threw out a bunch of these.”

Harry shot back quickly. “I already heard about it. Tossing bullets—yoo-hooing—is prohibited. Captain read the new regulation to us last week—something about an MP being hit in the eye by a tossed rock.”

Halverson rubbed his head. “Ouch, did the MP write that soldier back?” Everyone but Harry found this hilarious.

Sarge passed by and stopped, putting his hands on his hips. “Miller, the front of your tent is leaning. Get it straight before roll call.”

Harry nodded. “Yes Sir.”

Once Sarge was out of earshot, Shep said, “He hates you even worse than me, and that’s saying a lot.” He lowered his voice. “On our ride down here from Camp Livingston, we tossed out a bunch of those bullets. Miller, your name was on a bunch of them.”

“If I get in trouble because of you guys . . . .”

“It’ll be worth it, if you get a woman, hey?”

“How many had my name?”

“Oh, I don’t remember—five, maybe six.” Shep made a throwing motion. “I threw three of them myself. First one was to a bucktoothed-bowlegged farm-girl outside Leesville. The second one was near Rosepine, but she wasn’t buck-toothed; as far as I could see, she didn’t have any teeth at all.”

Nickels corrected him. “No, the second girl was the one with the moustache.”

Shep slapped his forehead. “How could I ever forget her?” He put his hand by his mouth. “Now, the last bullet I threw was to a real beaut—a fine-looking long-legged gal near the tracks in DeRidder. I don’t think she picked it up, but if she writes, send her my way.”

“Fat chance.”

“Fat chance of what—you not turning her over to a real man?”

“No, fat chance of her writing. I’m sure you scared her off.”

“Well, I did yell that she was beautiful, and every woman loves hearing that. She was a dark-haired looker. If she writes, I want her address.”

Harry glanced away. “The way my luck’s been, it’ll be the bucktooth or the toothless one.”

These tormenters, who called themselves “The Three Musketeers,” snickered as Shep said, “Oh, I forgot about the fat, old-maid schoolteacher I saw in front of the DeRidder Schoolhouse. I threw one to her, too.”

Harry’d heard enough. “Well, thanks a lot, guys. I really do appreciate your help.”

“No problem. We’d do anything for a friend and fellow soldier.” Shep patted Harry on the shoulder. “One day you’ll probably thank me for this.” He handed him an empty cartridge. “This souvenir is for you.”

Harry bit his tongue. I doubt if I’ll ever thank you for anything, Shep. With that, he flung the cartridge into the weeds. He visualized the old-maid schoolteacher and wasn’t sure if she was buck-toothed or toothless—but she definitely had a moustache.

He nearly gagged on his next bite of scrambled eggs. It would be just his luck.

By

S.C. ILES

Son, I notice you’re scowling at my scuffed boots.  Like me, they’ve been around a while and have quite a story to tell.  You’ll understand why I wear them proudly when I finish their tale.

These boots are six years older than me, and I’m almost seventy. Their history goes back to the years after the Civil War.  That war was hard on my hometown of Alexandria, Louisiana.  General Banks and his retreating Union army left behind smoldering ruins in the spring of 1864.

My grandfather, Abram B. Terry, wasn’t there then. He was a prisoner of war in a New York Union prison.  When the war ended, he returned to Alexandria and the destruction he encountered deepened the bitterness he felt toward all things Yankee.

We called Grandpa Terry “Pops.”   His only son, my father, was seven when Pops limped home from the war. He’d lost his left leg and replaced it with a stout dogwood crutch, and a heart that was harder than the hickory peg leg he now had.

Pop’s full name was Abraham B. Terry. His first act on returning from the war was going to the courthouse and changing it to Abram B. Terry.   He didn’t want any name that linked him with Lincoln, whom he personally blamed for the war.

 *                             *                          *

 Seventeen years after the end of the war—in the year 1882—Pops was still angry about it and the disaster it’d brought to the Red River cotton country. He disdainfully referred to the previous Reconstruction years as “Deconstruction.”

However, an event happened in the cold weeks before Christmas that year that changed his heart as well as our family’s destiny.

In the midst of this post-war economic vacuum, several Unionists bravely came to Alexandria.  These so-called “carpetbaggers” were treated with scorn and suspicion.

Pop’s only son—my daddy—was now twenty-three and still single.  Father and son operated a sawmill south of town.  On this fateful day in December 1882, the two of them were going to the bank.

When Pops saw a man wearing a faded Union greatcoat, he said, “Hey Bluecoat, have you come back to see if there’s anything you didn’t burn the first time?”

The man, who was sitting at a checkerboard balanced on a whiskey keg, looked up with a disarming smile. “I don’t want to burn nothing. I might catch fire too.”  He lifted his right pants leg, revealing a wooden peg.

Pops squinted. “Where’d you lose that?”

“One of your snipers got it on the last day at Vicksburg. I was the final casualty. ”

Pops leaned on his crutch revealing his own wooden leg.  “Lost mine in ‘Pencil-vain-ya.’ “  He hobbled closer.  “How far’s yours gone?”

“To the hip.”

Pops grimaced. “I guess I ought to be thankful for below the knee.”

“Mine started below the knee too, but Ol’ Sawbones just kept cutting.”   Bluecoat winked.  “Told him I’d shoot him if he went any higher.”

“Bluecoat, you lost your right laig.”

The man moved his checkerboard. “And I see you left your left one somewhere up north, Reb.”

“Yep, they said they buried it in a stump hole at Gettysburg. Pickett’s Charge. July 3^rd, 1863.”

Bluecoat grinned. “I guess we’re even then. He scratched his long beard.  “July 3^rd. Was that a Friday?”

”It was.”  Pops stared down the street.  “A Friday that changed my life.”

Bluecoat said, “Friday, July 3^rd.  Same day I lost mine.  If I remember—“

Pops interrupted him. “I was crawling away from the stone wall when they captured me and sent me to one of y’all’s prison camps near Elmira, New York.   That’s where I cooled my heels—or rather heel—for the rest of the dang war. “

“Like I said, we’re even.”

Pops’ face reddened.  “I lost a lot more than a laig up there.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Pops placed his right foot beside the Yankee’s left one.  “What size do you wear?”

“9-E.”

“Me, too.”

Bluecoat extended his hand.  “My name’s Plott.  Hiram Plott from Illinois. Just arrived down here with my wife and four daughters.”

Pops studied the open hand.  “I don’t shake hands with the enemy.”

Bluecoat shrugged.  “No hard feelings. It’s over on my end.”

Pops turned away.  “It won’t ever be over on mine.”

That exchange should have ended any chance for friendship between the two one-legged Civil War veterans. But my father said in the coming weeks, Pops would faithfully stop by and harass Hiram Plott at the Yankee’s makeshift whiskey barrel office from where he watched the river traffic while buying and selling cotton.

My father remembered Christmas Eve of ‘82 as unusually cold for Louisiana.  He said with the hard times our family was having, nobody expected any presents that year.   He didn’t know how his mother—my grandmother—did it, but she scraped up enough money to buy a Christmas present for Pops:  a brand new pair of riding boots to replace the patched and resoled one he’d been wearing since the war.

When Pops opened the box and saw the boots, he began crying, realizing the personal sacrifice that was behind this gift. Slipping the left boot on, he said,  “Fits perfect.”   Glancing down at the spare right boot, he tapped his wooden leg.  “I‘ll keep that one in case my hickory stump sprouts a foot.”

What happened next is why this story is memorable.  Pops called to my daddy,  “Son, let’s go downtown.”   Pops, carrying a tote sack over his shoulder, kept looking down at his new boot. “I can’t believe Elsie  got me a new boot.”

In spite of the cold, Hiram Plott was at his usual spot, drinking coffee and staring across the checkerboard and the empty chair in front of it.

Pops unshouldered his sack, “Got something for you, Bluecoat.”

Plott glanced up as he moved a red checker. “Crown me.”

My grandfather pulled the new leather boot out of the sack, tossing it against the barrel and scattering the checkers. “See’uns, I can’t use the right one, thought you might could.”

Plott picked up the boot.  “9-E huh?”

“Yep.”

He slipped off his own muddy boot and replaced it with the new one. “Fits perfect.  That’s right nice of you.”

Pops nodded at his own matching boot. “Christmas gift.”

Hiram Plott extended his hand.   “I appreciate it.”

Pops didn’t hesitate in grasping the outstretched hand. “You’re welcome.”

Plott motioned to the empty chair. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee, Reb.”

Pops hobbled over. “You like playing checkers?”

“Like the air I breathe.”

Pops moved a black checker. “Loser pays for the next cup of coffee.”

On that Christmas Eve in 1882, the two veterans began their weekly Friday checker match that continued until the first one died in 1921. They never called each other by their given names: it was always ‘Bluecoat’ and “Reb.”

They shared boots for the remainder of their lives, but that’s not all they shared. Eventually, they shared grandchildren. Hiram Plott’s oldest daughter eventually met my father, and as you can guess, Bluecoat’s daughter and Reb’s son fell in love. They’re my mother and father.

The two checker players were my two grandpas—Abram Terry and Hiram Plott.  To me ,they were Pops and Gramps.

I’m their oldest grandchild, born three years after that first checker game.

I sat with them on many future Friday and learned a great deal. They taught me much more than defending against double jumps and protecting your corner. I learned the valuable truth that two men with opposite views and backgrounds can find friendship if they have at least one thing in common.

In this case, A boot for the left and a boot for the right.

My parents named me after my two grandpas.  I’m Abram Hiram Terry II.  Everyone calls me Abe, but when signing court documents or autographing a book, I sign my full name.  I’m often asked, “Why is it Abram and not Abraham?”

I explain that Lincoln thing and it usually brings a good laugh. Then I follow up about the Roman numeral “II” in my name:  Abram Hiram Terry the second. It’s a reminder about two boots for two men.

Pops was the first of the two to die. I’ll always remember how Gramps cried at his funeral. Four years later, Gramps answered his own final roll call.  They’re side by side in our family cemetery on high ground overlooking the Red River in Pineville.

Gramps willed me both boots and I’ve been wearing them for thirty years.  I became a writer and only recently retired from LSU. I’d often share this story with students and then quote Emerson,   “The only true gift is giving of one’s self.”

That’s so true.  All I have to do is look down at my two worn boots. My Grandpas’ boots.