If you go to the website LetsSayThanks.com you can pick out a thank you card that Xerox will print and send to a soldier that is currently serving in Iraq. You can’t choose who gets it, but postcards sent through LetsSayThanks.com will be delivered to men and women from all military branches deployed on active duty. If you would like to mail a postcard to a relative or personal friend, downloadable files are available for each design once a card is selected off the homepage of this Web site.

Another site worth looking at is Give2TheTroops® which is comprised of military troops, family members, companies, organizations, schools, volunteers and donors who all who want to show their support for our troops. Since December 2002, they’ve supported HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS of deployed U.S. troops with care packages and letters from all over the nation. This was made possible with the help of tens of thousands of generous and patriotic friends in the U.S. and abroad.

The least we can do to show our troops how much we care about them. Our troops need to know that we support and appreciate the sacrifices they make for us, our families, and our future.

The buildings were placed in pairs, each with four entrances on the side that faced its mirror-image across the courtyard. A sidewalk ran parallel to each building with shorter sidewalks leading up to the concrete stoop at each front door. A twenty-foot wide strip of grass lay between the sidewalks, revealing which occupants had friends in the facing building by the paths that crisscrossed in the grass.

Our parents watched us play games in that courtyard, as they relaxed and talked, sitting on their front stoops in the early evening. We also enjoyed playing in the large grassy area between the ends of our buildings and the railroad yard fence. It bordered most of the back of the apartment complex and we enjoyed the noisy exhalations of the steam engines as they moved back and forth, coupling and uncoupling cars as the engineers built their trains. We waved at the engineers, they would blow the whistle and wave back, and sometimes throw fat chunks of yellow chalk to us. I never wondered why they had chalk in the engine cab, but would just rush to get my share. The chalk was big, each piece a handful compared to the pencil-thin pieces we bought in the five and dime store. It was much better than store-bought chalk to mark out games, messages and pictures on the sidewalks.

Our mothers weren’t as fond of the trains as we were. The big yard also contained the clothes lines used to hang out laundry to dry. I remember my mother rushing to rescue her laundry when she heard a train coming into the rail yard. The soot from the engine as it puffed back and forth, shuttling the rail cars to build new trains, stained the clothes she had worked so hard to clean. I believe she didn’t think the chalk was even compensation.

We had other visitors to our neighborhood beside the trains. Every few days a large truck, the size of today’s largest U-Haul trucks, parked on the street. The black men inside the back tied the canvas curtain out of their way, jumped down, and taking a huge pair of tongs, caught and carried the huge blocks of ice shoved across the wooden floor to them. Anyone needing ice for their icebox placed a cardboard card with “ICE” written on it in their window, and as the men came down the sidewalk, they knew where to knock, and then place the block of ice in the icebox. In summer, my friends and I would hang around the truck, hoping to get one of the pieces that chipped off as the man in the back separated the transparent blocks for delivery.

“Can we have some ice?” we’d beg, and sometimes the iceman would scoop up a handful of the perfectly clear chunks and offer them to us. We each grabbed a piece, and began to bobble them from one hand to another, not just because of the cold, but because as it melted, the water running off washed away any dirt that the ice had picked up from the truck floor. When we thought it was clean enough, we sucked the ice water from our piece until it was small enough to put entirely into our mouth. We didn’t believe in the germ theory, having never heard of it.

About once a week, a smaller truck came through selling vegetables. Our mothers came out and bought what they needed, after haggling over the price. We did not hang around this truck.

The fish man also came around weekly, selling fresh fish that was stored on crushed ice, displayed in basket-like containers hanging from the sides of his truck. The ice was within easy reach, but after one boy scooped some up and found it tasted just like fish, we had no more interest in it than we did in the vegetable truck.

One truck vendor we loved to see was the candy man. He had a pickup truck with a home-made wooden cab on the back. He pulled up, blew the horn a couple of times and then climbed into the back to conduct business. I remember the different candies I used to buy: wax lips, first a toy, and then you could chew them until their sweetness was gone; little wax bottles shaped like Coke bottles, but full of different colored sugar water; jaw breakers, hard balls of candy that changed color as each layer eroded away; fire balls, like jawbreakers, but hot; miniature ice cream cones, topped with fluffy Easter chick-like candy; and my favorite, candy cigarettes.

Lucky Strike was the brand I wanted, and I’d open the pack, carefully separate each of the four fragile pairs of candy cigarettes, then place them back into the package, unless they broke. In that case I just popped the broken butts in my mouth and crunched them right down. The good ones I “smoked,” imitating adults I had seen. Like Pop, I’d pinch it between my forefinger and thumb after taking a drag, and then shift it so I could tap the accumulated ash from the end. It was hard to resist biting off the end as I smoked, talking with it dangling from my lips like Bogart.

I don’t remember all of the different truck vendors who sold their wares along our street. There always seemed to be one kind or another nearly every day. Back then, my mother couldn’t drive a car, and unless the store came to her, she would have to wait for my father to be available to drive her into town. As far activities went, if we weren’t in school and wanted something to do, we played in our neighborhood, and always outside, unless it was raining. This was life for me in the early 1950s.

I signaled as I made the last turn, using my hand instead of the turn signal. I liked doing that, using the old arm signals. It seemed to get other driver’s attention more than a blinking light, and was more pleasant, feeling the wind and not hearing the “dunk-a, dunk-a, dunk-a” of the Opel’s blinker. Hand signals also saved wear and tear on the light and battery. A small saving, but every bit counted.

Now it was downhill all of the way to my house, and I eased off the gas and put the car into neutral. I coasted along and then the thought came to me that I should roll up my window and reduce the car’s drag even more. Then I could make it all of the way home without having to engage the gears and use more gas. I rolled up the window, regretting that I couldn’t feel the breeze any longer. The low afternoon sun shining through the car’s windows quickly heated up the car.

“No problem” I thought. It would only be a minute or so and I’d be parked and out of the car. A small sacrifice, but ecologically sound.

I glanced at the speedometer. “20 miles per hour,” I thought, “and just two more blocks to go. I can turn off the engine and save even more gas.” Click, off went the ignition, and then I automatically completed the motion and pulled the key from the ignition, shoving it into my pants’ pocket.

The Opel now rolled silently along, gaining speed, while I made slight steering corrections as it drifted toward the right-hand curb.

“Hmm, getting close now, better straighten it out.” Click. The ignition lock engaged. I tried to jerk the steering wheel to the left, but the lock held, and my hands just slipped on the wheel.

The car continued on its way, coasting along, gaining speed. Now I was really concentrating on my driving, and looking ahead I realized I was not only going to jump the curb soon, but I was aimed directly at my mailbox. I began to sweat, and not just from the sun’s heat.

“Still time to unlock the column,” I thought, and reached for the keys. I discovered it was easier to put them in my pocket than get them out, as the seat belt became a one-way valve for my pocket. I let go of the wheel and reached for the buckle. Click. The belt jumped back into its holder. I nearly stood as I reached deep into my pocket, with my head bent low to monitor my progress toward the curb.

As I dug into my pocket, I noticed my next door neighbor, Romaine, standing on her doorstep. She was going through her mail and looked up as she turned to go into her house. Seeing my car approaching, Romaine raised her arm and waved. I did not wave back, but continued my quest for the key. I began to panic. Only two more houses to go until I ran over the curb and then my mailbox. I pushed my fingers deep into my pocket and wrapped around the keys. Pulling them free, I shoved one into the ignition switch. Oops, wrong key. More time passed, both slowly and quickly at the same time. I was in accident mode.

Romaine stopped waving, and stood there with her hand suspended in the air. I think she had noticed that I waving back and was approaching my usual parking space at a faster pace than normal. Or maybe she noticed that my right side tires had climbed the curb as I passed my other neighbor’s driveway and I was now driving tilted over like a carnival thrill-driver about to go up on two wheels.

“Ah-ha, the right key.” In one smooth motion I unlocked the wheel, steered the car back onto the street, hit the brakes and stopped dead in my parking space.

I had a problem removing the key from the ignition, until I remembered to turn the steering wheel a little to the right. Click. I got out of the car, and carefully locking the door, I walked up my front steps. I was much cooler now that I was out of the car. I finally waved hello to Romaine, who was standing, with her arm still in the air. I pretended nothing abnormal had happened, and went into the house.

“My mistake,” I thought. “was taking the key out.”

Or maybe it was not using the brakes.

The contents were packed with varying degrees of care, with some looking like a trashcan was dumped in and accidentally moved instead of being thrown out. I was rescuing important papers from one of these when I pulled out a little blue folder with “My Life” stenciled on the cover with this picture glued to the front:

MY

Inside was my first memoir, written in the 4th grade. I had forgotten it even existed, and reading it has brought memories of that time back to me. Here it is in all its glory.

I was born in a small town, Washington, North Carolina. The time was 8:15 a.m. Friday, August 27th, 1948. I weighed nine pounds five ounces. I had my first picture made when I was six weeks old and weighed twelve and one half pounds.
When I was four months old, I sat alone and crawled at five months old. Then I began walking when I was eight months old.

When I was two months old, I went to Baltimore, Maryland to see my Daddy. My Mother and I stayed with my Aunt. I went back to Baltimore for a visit when I was two years old. We went to a large zoo in Washington, D.C. I also went to see my first circus. I saw elephants.

We moved to Norfolk, Virginia when I was four months old. I could spell my name and a few other words when I was three years old. I used to catch crabs on a line, too.

My first year of school I went to a school in Norfolk, Virginia. My teacher’s name was Mrs. Glenn. She was also my second grade teacher. I started third grade in Elmhurst Elementary School in Greenville, North Carolina. We only lived there eight months. I came to Florida in January 7th, 1957. Since I have lived here, I have learned to swim. I joined the Cub Scouts last year. Our Scout Master took us to the Serpentarium. This past summer I joined the Summer Reading Club at the public library.

I like to see interesting places. Once I saw an old fort in North Carolina also one in Virginia.

My hobbies are: collecting foreign coins, studying insects and stamp collecting. My recent hobby is raising fish.

Please excuse the multiple topic paragraphs, maybe the attention span of a ten year old causes it, or the desire to cover everything that happened to me in my first decade.

I told him about something I used to do that bugged Pop no end. He’d be soldering and when he would put down the iron to make some adjustment, and I’d pick it up and take the hot tip of the iron and dip it into the flux. I’d move it around until the entire surface was molten, and once it cooled it was as smooth as a new can.

As soon as I started to describe what I did, my brother interrupted and said “You used to melt the flux so it would be smooth, didn’t you? I did that, too.” We are twelve years apart, and until last night I never knew he did that same childish prank. The difference in our ages most of our lives was so great that when I returned from Vietnam, the comment he made was, “That man’s back.”

It was strange to peek into his childhood, and see myself.

Wish me luck.

The information above was researched, the memories I have about this car mostly involve the long trips we took in it, with me in the back seat, trying to pass the time as we traveled to Greenville, NC to visit our relatives. I was an early reader, and Mom would make sure I plenty to read, either story books or puzzle books. Coloring books were tried, too, but eventually I tired of them all. Then the sandwiches came out, peanut butter and jelly, or sometimes chicken salad if the trip wasn’t too long. We didn’t have a cooler back then and Mom was always afraid the mayonnaise would go bad and give us food poisoning. As it turned out, this wasn’t the real threat to me at all.

We discovered that I was susceptible to motion sickness during these trips. We would be riding along, and when I said, “I’m sick,” Pop had about three seconds to pull over and get me out of the car before I got rid of everything I had eaten since breakfast. After a few episodes where he wasn’t fast enough, or traffic intervened, I was put on a liquid diet while traveling. I also had a small pail as my traveling companion.

My parents tried several remedies; making me lie down so I couldn’t see the scenery going by; making me sit up, so I could see the scenery going by; letting me stay up so I’d sleep during the drive; and my favorite, putting a suitcase in the back seat with me sitting on it so I was at eye-level with my parents. Sitting on the suitcase gave me a terrific view not only out the side windows, but through the windshield, and the back window as well. None of these had any noticeable effect on my illness.

By the way, I wasn’t in a child seat, those were only used for convenience back then, not as safety devices. They were for babies, made of sewn plastic cloth, for easy cleanup, and had a flimsy aluminum tubing frame that just hooked over the seat back. In an accident, a baby in one would have sailed through the windshield just as fast as I would have from my perch on the back seat suitcase. No one had child seat belts. Why would you, when the adult’s didn’t have any?
I grew out of being car sick, to the relief of us all.

This wind was different, blowing all day and night. It knocked over toys, blew down our sheet tents as we tried to make them on the back stoop, and interfered with our baseball games. Everything was harder to do: walking, riding a bike, opening and closing screen doors. Even handing a comic book to someone could lead to a Keystone Cops chase, which often ended with a crushed comic as a desperate pursuer stomped the book to a stop.

I was returning from the local grocery store, and noticed that the wind I had pedaled so hard against to get to the store was now at my back; I hardly had to pedal at all as I headed home. I carried groceries in my bike’s front basket, and was griping a six-pack of Pepsi with each hand. Holding the Pepsi’s and the bike’s handle-grips at the same time made the bike difficult to steer, so as I sailed along I was glad to have the boost. Then it came to me, a new invention – the Bicycle Sail.

After dropping off the groceries, I convinced Gary Rebb, who was allowed to use his father’s tools unsupervised, to help me collect the materials I needed, as long as he got ride number two. We went across the street where some new houses were being built and picked out several 2×4s from the scrap pile. On the way to Gary’s backyard, we stopped at a couple of the houses and collected nails and screws to complete our project.

Since it was my idea, we used my bike as the test vehicle. I remember it was a beautiful bike, a 26-inch Firestone. It was all white with a red Firestone logo on the panels of the crossbars, and red pin-striping on the fenders and chain guard. It had a wire basket mounted over the front wheel, a buddy seat over the back one, and red grips on the handle bars. It originally had red and white streamers hanging from the grips, but I had taken them off before my first public ride as I thought they were too girly.

It took us all morning to measure and cut the mast and boom. We hadn’t heard of the adage “Measure twice and cut once,” and after a lunch break and several trips for replacement parts, we finally had our rigging ready for mounting. For a sail, we used the same sheet we used as a tent.

I had learned everything I knew about sail rigging from The Boys of the Western Sea, a serial shown on the Mickey Mouse Club, and from watching old pirate movies. Gary and I nailed two of the 2×4s around the crossbars and sandwiched in another for the mast. We had already nailed a top boom to the mast before placing it, and to finish up we laid the bottom boom across the handlebars, lashing it on with lots of twine. The reasoning here was that the bike’s steering would take the place of a rudder.

The wind had kept up during construction, and had caused delays when it blew over the bike, then the mast, then the bike again, then both together once they were joined. After making repairs, we were ready for the first test run.

We pushed the Firestone Sail-Bike around to the front sidewalk, going the long way around to obey the wind; as even without a sail it was a handful. We turned the front wheel sideways and laid the bike down to tie the sheet to the ends of the two booms. I straddled the Sail-Bike and held the sail closed as Gary helped me stand it upright.

A square rigged sail is one of the most efficient sails, but one of the hardest to manage. As soon as I was seated on the upright bike, the wind ripped the sail from my grip, and away I sailed. I quickly settled into the seat; with both hands on the handle bars, I sat back to enjoy the ride. Almost instantly I saw a flaw with my rigging choice: you couldn’t see where you were going. I tried turning the handle bars to get a better view, but the wind nearly tipped me over. I tried steering it like a normal bike, by leaning from side to side, but didn’t improve my view. I looked down and kept the bike centered in the sidewalk. I felt the bike tip forward on the front wheel as the wind increased in speed. I leaned back to keep the rear wheel on the ground.

Bump, clack, and I nearly fell off as I went over the curb at the end of the block. No sidewalk below me now, I was in the street. Soon I would reach the canal at the end of the road. I had to stop. I back-pedaled, engaging the coaster brake. The rear tire locked up and began to shriek. Maybe I should jump off, but that would scratch up my bike. And me. No, I’ll ride it out. I let off the brake.

I judged by what I was passing that the canal was coming up pretty soon. I decided I would just ride it into the water. No problem, I could swim. And the water was only a few feet deep. Then I remembered the guard-rail. I hit the guard rail, the mast, the sail and then the water.

It wasn’t so bad, just a few scrapes and bruises for me, and a bent front wheel for my bike. I had to get my father to help me pull it out of the canal, and had to explain what that wooden thing that it was stuck in was. Hardest of all was explaining to Mom how that sheet had gotten so dirty.