By: Jerry Barksdale

Judge Richard L. “Dick” Hundley was smart, colorful, and a bit eccentric. He was one of my favorite judges. I tried many cases before him until he retired in 1994. Shortly after I returned to Athens in November 1968 to practice law, Hundley, who was District Attorney at the time, was appointed Circuit Judge by Governor Albert Brewer.

Athens lawyer, Jere Trent was Hundley’s first and only Deputy D.A. back in 1966, when he was 28 years old and wearing a flat top. Judge Bloodworth called Trent “Deputy Dog.” Trent and Hundley became fast friends and went on at least 30 elk hunting trips to the Rockies over the years.

When Hundley was D.A. and prosecuting a rapist, the defendant’s lawyer brought to court the back seat of the car where the rape occurred. His intention was to persuade the jury there wasn’t enough room for the rape to occur. Hundley pounced. “The defendant has the audacity to bring his work bench into this solemn hall of justice,” he told the jury. The defendant was convicted. When a lawyer was making a stupid argument to the court, Judge Hundley would say, “Counselor, you gonna hav’ta pour that whiskey back in the jug.” Hundley had no patience for b. s. arguments. He would interrupt, “Counselor, just show me to the hole where the bluebird flies.” In other words, stop the b. s. and get to your point.

One hot summer day back in the early 1970s, Judge Hundley was hearing a contentious divorce case in the old Limestone County Courthouse before it was remodeled with central air. Ancient ceiling fans whirred monotonously, stirring the heat in the courtroom. The day was growing long. Neither party would budge an inch. They argued over every stick of furniture, the wheelbarrow, yard rake, hoe, and even the hammer. Finally, they got down to who would get the coffee pot. The husband said he loved good coffee, and he not only wanted the pot, he needed it. The wife wouldn’t agree. “I bought it and I want it and that’s that!” The husband claimed it was purchased from a joint bank account.

Hundley, who was ready to go home, leaned over the bench toward the wife in the witness box and asked, “Ma’am, how much did that coffee pot cost?”

“Twenty dollars!” she said. Hundley summoned the bailiff to the bench and lifted a twenty from his wallet. “Bailiff go across the street to U.G. White’s and buy this good lady a damn coffee pot. We’re going home.”

One morning, I was attending docket call where Judge Hundley was setting criminal cases for trial. He called the defendant’s name, “John Brown” (not real name). A lawyer stood. “Yo Honor, I represent Mister Brown. He can’t be in court,” he whined. “He’s in the hospital. I move for a continuance of his case.”

Hundley reviewed the court file then looked over his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Counselor, it appears that your client wasn’t in court the last time – and the time before that,” said Hundley.

“Yes, yo Honor.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Yo Honor, I don’t know for shore,” said the lawyer. “His family says he’s in Athens-Limestone Hospital.”

Hundley was suspicious. He picked up the phone and called Athens-Limestone Hospital to determine if the defendant was actually in the hospital. “Bring him to the third floor of the courthouse,” Hundley said. No way was I going to miss this show. I watched out a west window. Pretty soon an ambulance rolled up. Two EMTs got out, opened the back door, and pulled out a gurney. A nurse exited holding an IV bottle connected to the patient. The defendant was rolled into the courtroom before Judge Hundley.

Hundley looked down at the poor fellow. “What’s wrong with you this time, Mr. Brown?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Jedge,” he mumbled weakly. Satisfied that the poor fellow was actually ill, Hundley said, “Well, I wish you a speedy recovery. Case continued.”

Hundley was a Civil War scholar and could recount minute details of long ago battles. Perhaps his interest was spurred by reading about the exploits of his great grandfather’s brother, Daniel Robertson Hundley, a Harvard educated lawyer, who commanded the 31st Alabama Infantry and escaped from a Yankee prison. According to Jere Trent, when Hundley was in high school, he and his buddies decided to build a cannon. Having completed it, they were curious to know if it would fire. They mixed up a batch of gunpowder and loaded the cannon and pointed it toward the Tennessee River. “Fire!” They did and it did. The ball struck the Decatur railroad bridge causing damage. The boys fled the scene. An FBI investigation turned up no saboteurs and no suspects.

Hundley, a 32nd degree Mason, was a radio operator gunner on a B-25 during WWII. After the war he attended Auburn on the G.I. Bill where he received a B.S., then on to Alabama for a law degree.

Following the construction of the new Morgan County Courthouse, and long before there were security checkpoints, Judge Hundley designed his own bullet proof bunker in the courtroom. He stacked thick law books, two rows deep, behind his court bench. If a shooter opened up, his plan was to drop to the floor behind the books, then crawl military style through a rear door to his office where a gun was located.

A lawyer with a nervous tick that often appeared before Judge Hundley would rub his neck and twist his head. I asked Hundley about it. “Yeah, in his former life, he was a house thief or hanged.”

“He loved the Rocky Mountains,” Trent said. He purchased a log house near Pagosa Springs, Colorado, and had it dismantled and moved to his 40-acre farm in Morgan County. Before he died, he requested that his ashes be scattered in the Rockies. Trent, who delivered the eulogy at Hundley’s funeral in September 2007, carried a zip lock plastic sandwich bag filled with Hundley’s ashes to the Rockies and scattered them in the beautiful San Juan Mountains of Southern Colorado.

Even in death, Judge Hundley was a bit different.
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry Barksdale

The summer of 1989 I read Skinwalkers by New Mexico author, Tony Hillerman. In Navajo culture, a skinwalker is a harmful witch that can turn into, possess, or disguise themselves as a coyote or dog. I wanted to meet a skinwalker. It was on my bucket list. I was 47 years old and recently married to “Arkansas Pat” (not to be confused with my good friend and sometimes red-head, “Tanner Pat”). This was long before Arkansas Pat would declare me persona non grata (that’s Latin – and sock me with alimony).

I engaged Largo (not real name), a Navajo guide in Chinle, Arizona, to take us down into Canyon de Chelly (pronounced da shay) by horseback. I reserved a rental car for later, and we flew to Albuquerque. It was a pleasant flight with wine to soothe the nerves and lift the spirits.

Pat waited outside the terminal perched atop our two duffel bags of camping gear, smoking Virginia Slims, while I headed off to pick up our rental car. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a gnat’s tail,” I said, confident we’d be in Chinle by nightfall. I marched up to the front desk and gave my name. “Yes sir, Mr. Barksdale we have your car reserved. May I see your driver’s license and credit card?”

“I don’t have a credit card – don’t need one,” I said proudly and produced a small wad of cash.

“Sir, we can’t rent you a car without a credit card.”

“What’de ya mean?” I whipped out a twenty. “See here, it says ‘legal tender for all debts.’ Have you ever seen that written on plastic?”

“Sorry, sir,” she said.

“I’ll take my business elsewhere,” I said and stormed out. I received the same treatment at other rental agencies. An hour later, I was at Rent-a-Wreck begging. “Please mister, my wife will think I’ve abandoned her.” After calling his home office and conducting a credit check, I was finally given a car.

Pat was still sitting on our duffle bags, pumping her foot, twisting long tendrils of her black hair, and hot-boxing a Virginia Slim. A pile of cigarette butts lay at her feet. She was nerved up.

That night we stayed at the El Rancho Hotel on Route 66 in Gallup. It’s where John Wayne and the Hollywood crowd use to stay while filming westerns in the area. The next morning, we headed across the Navajo Reservation to Chinle, Arizona. Largo and his younger brother, Juan, met us with horses, and we packed down into Canyon de Chelly, a 38,000-square-mile hole in the ground. Finally, the hunt for skinwalkers was on.

We rode past ancient Anasazi ruins and cliff dwellings and saw what appeared to be bear tracks in the dust. The horses were skittish. Could they be skinwalker tracks? I wondered. Juan never spoke a word unless spoken to.

That evening when the sun dropped behind the canyon wall, the horses were hobbled and a fire was stoked. Largo’s wife drove up in a pick-up and started supper. She squatted near the fire and boiled lard in a black kettle, then dropped flat patty cakes of white dough into the sizzling grease. Ahh, yes fry bread—the Navajo version of cornbread. Inside the fold of bread, she stuffed fried mutton, onion, etc., called Navajo tacos. Bad for the heart, but pleasing to the pallet.

“Ever see any skinwalkers?” I casually asked Largo.

“Last week on canyon ledge,” he said, and pointed above us. The hair on my neck stiffened. Later, I left Pat and Juan sitting in front of our tent, her sipping red wine and burning Virginia Slims, while I burrowed deep inside my sleeping bag. The next morning I crawled out and saw Juan flat on his back and sound asleep, right where he sat when I went to bed. He obviously passed out and fell backward.

“How much did he drink? I asked Pat.

“Half a cup.”

No doubt, Juan would require a lot of practice before becoming a seasoned drinker.

On our ride to Spider Rock, an 800-foot sandstone spiral and home of Spider Woman, who possesses supernatural power, I asked Juan about skinwalker sightings.

“Grandfather saw one,” he said. “He was walking in canyon when an old man offered him a piece of fry bread. If grandfather had eaten it, he would’ve turned into a skinwalker, may become a dog.”

“How does one know if a person is a skinwalker?” I asked.


I pondered that and thought about Largo’s wife giving me fry bread. “I’m not eating anymore fry bread,” I announced to Pat. “From here on out, it’s pork’n’beans and crackers for me.”

The thought of becoming a skinwalker and turning into a dog gave me the creeps. Imagine, chasing cats, cars, and fetching sticks, not to mention scratching fleas and licking myself. Ugh! On the other hand, there are benefits from living a dog’s life. They don’t pay alimony, child support, college tuition, or income taxes; make mortgage payments; tithe to the church; or worry about going to hell since, for some unexplained reason, sin doesn’t apply to them. As an added benefit, they can chase female dogs and fornicate with impunity, take naps when they want to, fart in public, and ride around in air-conditioned cars with their heads poked out the window. Hmmm, a dog’s life isn’t all that bad.

On second thought, pass the fry bread, please.
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry Barksdale
Summer, 1983, Beirut, Lebanon.

Captain William E. “Bill” Winter, age 32, had departed his peaceful home in North Carolina on Mother’s Day leaving behind his wife, Melia, and two children, Michael, age 6, and Amanda, age 2 ½. It was a Marine’s life – the price of freedom. Now he was in a war zone, part of a multinational peace-keeping force caught up in a civil war. He missed his wife and children terribly, and counted the days until he could go home.

The Marines were sitting ducks with their hands tied. They were ordered not to carry loaded weapons. “The natives are getting restless,” he wrote on August 10. “What is frustrating is we have their firing positions located with radar and could easily blow them away if we could shoot back.”

August 12: “Everybody busy filling sand bags and building bunkers… this place is going to come apart…”

August 24: “I’ve been in the Marine Corps over 10 years now. Seems like yesterday. I pray this will be our last separation.”

By September 14, they had been steadily shelled for two weeks. “… 4 KIA, 30 WIA. 82 more days to go.” He was pining for his family. “I realize how horribly lonesome I am for you. You fill a great emptiness in me… I sleep with my helmet and flak jacket right beside my bed… incoming about 3:45 p.m.; went on all night… 4 WIA…went to church Sunday…” Then, he listened to a Dolly Parton tape Melia had sent him.

September 28: He wrote that when he got home he would be assigned duty in Atlanta, and they would go looking for a house. Life would be normal again.

October 9: “I feel like a spring getting wound up tighter and tighter. I just hope I get home before something gives…Marines killed last night on way to shower… I feel better writing you… I just feel all knotted up inside with no release valve.”

October 15: “Sniper killed a Marine and wounded another.” Again, he wrote, “I feel like a spring wound up inside me that just keeps getting tighter.”

October 16: “51 days to go… went to church this morning. That half hour helps a lot… I looked at your 3 beautiful faces in my picture and hurt from missing you.”

October 17: “Mike Ohler was killed by sniper last night… got him in the head. He died instantly. It’s frustrating to see armed terrorists move around in front of us and not being able to shoot until they do…”

October 18: “Mike Ohler’s death really bothers me. It makes me realize I should have said and done a lot of things I haven’t. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart. I’m so thankful I found you.”

October 19: “One of our convoys got hit by a car bomb this afternoon… wish I could hold you for just a few minutes.”

On Saturday night, October 22, Bill wrote a short letter to Melia and the children. “Another day down, everything’s been quiet today… I guess everyone is busy getting ready for Halloween. Wish I could be there. I just wish I could be there period! I still miss you each day and love you very much. You are and always will be very special to me… All my love Bill.” He mailed the letter and went to bed. His bunk was located on the first floor of the four-story concrete, Marine barracks. Tomorrow was Sunday. He could sleep late if he wanted to, then perhaps, attend church.

On Sunday morning, October 23, at 6:22 a.m., while Bill and fellow Marines slept, a yellow Mercedes-Benz truck barreled own the road at high speed heading toward the four-story Marine barracks. It was loaded with the equivalent of 12,000 lbs. of TNT. The driver was smiling. The truck ran over a concertina wire barrier and sped between sentry post 6 and 7 where both guards carried unloaded weapons. The truck came to rest beneath where Bill slept. A massive explosion lifted the building upward, then it collapsed into rubble.
On Fripp Island, near Beaufort, South Carolina, where Melia and the children were temporarily residing with her parents, the phone rang on Sunday morning. It was a lady who worked with her father at the Federal Credit Union.

“Are you watching the news?” she asked. “They just bombed the Marine barracks.” Melia turned on the TV and watched in horror. She immediately called Lt. Col. James Livingston who had been Bill’s CO in England. “Colonel, do you have the news on?” she asked. “They just bombed the Marine barracks.”

“I’m calling Marine Headquarters right now,” he replied and hung up.

“I didn’t know if he was alive or dead,” says Melia. “Nobody knew anything at that point. We were all watching TV, including the kids. Michael was 6 years old and understood the severity of the news. They just kept scrolling the names of the dead, and all we could do was watch.”

Wind had blown sand from the beach onto the walkway, and Melia busied herself clearing it off. “I went out and shoveled, shoveled, shoveled sand. It was nervous energy.” Meanwhile, she received Bill’s October 22 letter – his last one. Could he be alive? On November 6, Lt. Col. Livingston called Melia. “Just making sure you’re home. I’m coming out.”

She knew why. “No, you can tell me on the phone.”

“No, I’m coming out.”

Lt. Col. Livingston arrived and gave her the bad news: 220 Marines, 18 sailors, and 3 soldiers were dead, along with 128 wounded Americans. It was the worst one day loss of life in the Marine Corps since the Battle of Iwo Jima during WWII.

“They didn’t find Bill’s body,” Colonel Livingston said. “He was supposed to be in the building at the time, but they found no remains.”
No trace of Bill was found; no wedding ring, no nothing, only an empty wallet that once belonged to him. When he departed home on Mother’s Day, it was the last time she saw him. “I didn’t fall apart,” she told me. “I had to take care of the kids and my mom and dad. We didn’t have Valium and Ambien back then. I didn’t go to counseling. Back then you didn’t do that. You do now, but not back then.”
On November 4, Melia attended a memorial service at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, and met President Reagan and the First Lady. Bill was posthumously promoted to major the same day. The following evening she was officially notified that Bill was dead. “It was the hardest 13 days of my life,” she told me.

The next day a flag-draped, empty coffin arrived at Dover Air Force Base, Maryland. It contained only the memory of Major Winter. The empty coffin was escorted to Athens. On November 8, a beautiful fall day, Melia, her two children, flanked by Colonel Livingston, family members, several Marines and a large crowd gathered around the open grave at Athens Cemetery.

“Mommy, is Daddy gone?” asked Amanda, age 3, as Marines folded a flag over his coffin.

“Yes honey, he’s gone,” Melia replied.

A Marine Honor Guard fired 3 volleys, piercing the solitude of an otherwise beautiful and tranquil day. A bugler blew the mournful notes of Taps, then the crowd melted away. Melia, like any good Marine, knew she must move forward.

“I didn’t have a first date until a year and half after his death,” she says. “And not a kiss until two years. Since I had no closure, I felt very guilty.”

Melia married Athens pharmacist, Tim Collier, on December 30, 1988. “He has loved me unconditionally. He knows I have a dead husband and a live husband. The kids have a dead dad and a live dad.”

They reside just off Menefee Road in East Limestone on a farm teeming with life – horses, goats, dogs, geese, chickens, mules, peacocks and grandchildren. An American flag flies in the front yard. Below it a Marine Corps flag flutters in the breeze. Semper Fi – always faithful.

A memorial monument erected near the entrance to Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, lists the names of the 214 Americans who died in the Marine barracks. On the opposite side is chiseled, “They came in peace.”

In Teheran, Iran, a memorial commemorates the “martyr” who murdered those Americans.
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry Barksdale
May 7, 1983. Camp LeJeune, N.C.

His sea bags were packed. Tomorrow morning – Mother’s Day – he would depart home. Captain William E. “Bill” Winter, age 32, loved the Marine Corps, but leaving home and family was never easy. After all, he never knew if he would return. His two children, Michael, age 6, and Amanda, age 2 ½, were in bed. He reached up and pulled Melia, his wife of 7 years, onto his lap and held her. He turned serious. “If anything happens to me, I want you to remarry,” he said. She made light of it. “Nope, once is enough for me.”

“No, I’m serious. The kids need a daddy and you need a husband.”

Mother’s Day morning, Winter backed out of his driveway, paused, took a final look at his home, then drove off into a fine North Carolina spring morning.

This would be his second trip to the Mediterranean, this time with the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, part of a multinational peacekeeping force stationed in Beirut, Lebanon. Once known as “Paris of the Middle East” because of its cultural and intellectual life, the once beautiful city jutted out like a thumb into the blue Mediterranean Sea. Now, it was a deadly battleground between warring Christians and Muslims with bombed out buildings, shell-pocked streets and frightened citizens caught up in the violence. Iran and Syria were stirring the turmoil. The Marines would act as peacekeepers. They would go there in peace.

Captain Winter, the only child of Ellis and Virginia (Balch) Winter (retired Montesano scientist and school teacher respectively, of Capshaw, Alabama) was a Marine to his core. Following graduation from Auburn University in 1973 with a Bachelor of Science Degree, he joined the Marine Corps and was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant. After completing Parachute and Ranger Training at Ft. Benning, Georgia, he was assigned to the 3rd Marine Division in Okinawa. Later, he was stationed at Parris Island, South Carolina.

That’s where he met Melia Redding, the pretty, brown-eyed daughter of Major H.L. Redding, a tall, poker straight retired Marine. Major Redding was managing the Navy Federal Credit Union following 23 years in the Corps. A highly decorated Marine, Redding had enlisted following high school in 1950 and sent to Korea where a war was raging. A land mine darn near killed him, sending him to a hospital for 18 months. Afterwards, he served in President Eisenhower’s Honor Guard and made trips to Camp David, the presidential retreat. Later, he served in Vietnam.

The youngest of his two daughters, Melia didn’t wear Marine olive green nor the eagle, globe and anchor on her collar tab, but she was born and bred a Marine. In fact, she was born in 1957, in Alexandria, Virginia, not far from Marine Headquarters where her father worked.
Melia met the handsome, young Lt. Captain Winter on a blind date in January, 1976. A friend who worked for her father at the Credit Union set it up. Melia, half joking said, “I want a single officer that doesn’t smoke, drink or curse…and has lots of money.” She recently told me, “I was just messing around. What are the odds of getting all that?” Prior to asking her out, Winter went to the Credit Union, met her father and asked his permission to take her out. “Who does that?” Melia asked me as we sat in her living room not far off Menefee Road.
“Nobody! He did.”

He picked her up in a fairly new Cutlass Supreme and took her to see Three Days of the Condor. “It turns out,” says Melia, “he had gone to the movies the night before to see it and make sure it was presentable to take me to see it.” She adds, “He was a wonderful Southern gentleman.”

Winter called her, but not regularly because of his job. They dated in January, went out in February, once in March and then began dating steady in April.

“In May, 1976, he asked me to marry him, but he asked my dad first.”

America celebrated its 200th Birthday on July 4, 1976. Six days later, Melia and Captain Winter married at the Base Chapel on Parris Island. “It was a bicentennial wedding,” she calls it. She wore a white Southern belle gown with hoops and held a bouquet of red and white flowers that matched her husband’s dress blues and white cover. They exited the Chapel happy and in love beneath two rows of Marines holding sabers over their head.

One year and a day later, Michael was born at the Naval Hospital in Beaufort. In 1978, they went to Cornwall, England for 2 years where Bill served at a nuclear facility. Amanda was born while there.

It seemed only yesterday they exited the wedding chapel, happy and laughing with no worries. Now Bill was 6,000 miles away in Beirut. Melia wouldn’t see him again until Thanksgiving. She missed him terribly. And she worried. But she had two young children to raise and that filled a big void in her soul. She drove down to Beaufort, South Carolina, and visited her parents and that was good. Not only could she assist them, they could help her with the children.

Bill wrote regularly, sometimes daily, always addressing his letter to “Melia Michael, and Mandy” and never failing to ask about the children. It was hot in Beirut, and he didn’t sleep well on his narrow cot with no mattress. He was lonely and counting the days. “I wish time would go faster… I miss you terribly…….142 days to go. I love you with all my heart,” he wrote. When off duty he built model military vehicles and read. He’d just finished Follow the River and was starting another book. Then bad luck came calling on the morning of July 22. Eight, 120mm mortar rounds slammed into the Marine compound. One Marine caught shrapnel. “Glad you’re not here,” he wrote. “But sure wish I was there.”

Bad luck travels in pairs. On the same day in Beaufort, South Carolina, at around 9:30 p.m., lightning struck the Redding residence and it burned to the ground. Melia, the children, her parents and 3 dogs barely escaped with their lives. Everything was destroyed, including Melia’s wedding ring. Aside from his own safety, Bill now had something else to worry about – his family back home.

Her father rented a beach house on nearby Fripp Island and Melia and the children stayed with them. “I did a lot of walking on the beach,” she says. “I would look across the Atlantic Ocean and think, he’s straight across there somewhere.” And Winter was missing her and the children, and counting the days until he could go home. If everything went well, he’d be home for Thanksgiving. He had recently sent roses to Melia.

“If I could afford it,” he wrote her, “I’d send roses everyday of our life because you are the rose of my life. He promised her they would go shopping for a wedding ring when he got home. The nearby Beirut Airport came under attack and Pan Am stopped flying. Mail slowed to a trickle. On July 23, he wrote Melia that he had finished reading Centennial and had started Hawaii… “lot of shooting up in the hills… 137 days left.” To add more misery to his life, Winter got “really sick” with food poisoning. “Beirut Boogie,” he called it, “stomach cramps and diarrhea 12-13 times a day.” “I need you to hold on to,” he wrote. Attending church was helpful. “The mosquitoes eating me up tonight… It won’t be long until we’re together again.”

Winter always asked about his children. “Tell Michael, he’s doing real well with his writing. I’m proud of him and of you teaching him. I know Mandy will do as well when she gets older.”

Islamic terrorists turned up the heat on Sunday, August 31, at 3 p.m. “Things started to fall apart…we took incoming for several hours…Monday it got much worse,” he wrote. “One round hit outside the mess tent and one hit the tent of Lt. Losey and S/Sgt. Ortega, the former killed instantly. Ortega died in route to the ship. We ended with 14 WIA and 2 KIA.”

Winter’s letters told of more attacks, shelling, wounded and dead Marines. His Auburn friends hadn’t forgotten him. Becky Arrington, one of Bill’s former classmates and President of the Houston Area Auburn Club, sent him an American flag. He hoisted it atop the Lebanese University Library where a company of Marines were stationed.

On September 7, Winter wrote, “2 more Marines killed in Company A…round blew them to pieces…we are getting hit every day and night. We keep hearing that the majority of folks in the U.S. want us to pull out. Wrong answer. We can’t quit and go home because of a bunch of terrorists. We have to stand up and be counted sooner or later. Better here than at home 20 years from now.” His prophesy was off by only two years. Terrorists brought down the Twin Towers 18 years later, almost to the day.
To be Continued….

By: Jerry Barksdale
South Vietnam, 1968. No one had to tell Major Clarence R. Little that Vietnam was a dangerous place. He had survived two thunderous mortar attacks and been shot by a Viet Cong sniper. Would his luck hold? Would he live to see his wife Diane and their two young sons again back in Sunnyvale, California? They never missed watching the nightly news, hoping to see him.

He was riding shotgun in a Jeep through “Mine Alley,” a stretch of road heavily mined by Viet Cong. Unknown to Little, they had buried explosives in the road with wires running to a tree line. A VC waited to set it off electrically by touching two wires together when an American vehicle passed over it. Standard policy, when seeing a mine hole, was to go fast and stop short or go slow, then speed up.

The driver spotted a mine hole and slammed on his brakes. The VC touched the wires together, but his timing was off. The blast occurred in front of the Jeep. Little’s luck was holding. “I got hit in the right hand with shrapnel.” No big sweat.

While on patrol, a booby trap with trip wires connected to a hand grenade was discovered. They marked the spot by laying two palm leaves over the trip wire, about a foot off the ground, so that his soldiers could see it. One man didn’t see the leaves and trip wire. A sergeant ran up to Little and yelled, “Mine!” Little turned around and looked at him just as it went off. “His back protected me. He had eleven holes in his back.”

Little, with shrapnel in his left leg, picked up his sergeant and carried him to a chopper. Both were evacuated to a hospital in Saigon.

After his leg was sutured, Little limped over to the officers club and ordered two drinks, drank one and carried the other back to his wounded sergeant. “You’d better down it now,” he said and went outside and sat down.

“I’m mad at you,” a woman’s voice said. He turned and saw his nurse. “Why are you mad at me?”

“You brought one of your men a drink, but didn’t bring one to me.”

The next morning Little awoke in the hospital and saw a medic outside cutting up sand bags and putting them on the grass to make it grow. The combat veteran nearly lost his cool. “I’d been begging for sand bags for months to protect lives and here they were using them to make grass grow in Saigon.” Little had enough of the hospital. He asked his nurse for permission to go purchase a new uniform. “You can’t leave the hospital,” she said. “You have another six days before you heal.” Finally she relented. Little purchased a new uniform, dressed and hightailed it to the airport where a Caribou aircraft was revving up. “Where you guys going?” he asked the Australian crew. “To the Mekong Delta, Yank.”

“Can I hop a ride?”

“Climb aboard Yank.”

Little landed in Vinh Long Province, spent the night in a fancy four story military building and was having chow in the mess hall when his old friend, Col. Rausch walked up. He invited Little up to the fourth floor for a drink. “When I walked in, it was a dance floor with orchestra pit and a bar,” says Little. “Very unwarlike.”

He sat down at the bar and ordered a Coke. “Have you had many of these?” he asked Rausch, referring to the dance. “Oh yeah, this is about the 5th or 6th dance we’ve had, every Friday night about 9 p.m. till midnight!” Little’s alarm bell went off. Pattern! Never, never establish a pattern. He excused himself, went downstairs, grabbed his .45 pistol, shoved it in his back waist band and returned to the bar. Little’s instinct was correct. “Sure as hell at midnight I heard a machine gun.” He ran over to a windowed door that lead to a balcony, looked down and saw the muzzle blast of a machine gun near the front gate. Knowing that a .45 pistol was no match for a machine gun, he ran back inside looking for a rifle; Little went down to the first floor and saw a soldier holding a carbine with a banana clip. “Give it to me!” Then he asked, “Are there any “friendlies” across the street?” The solder was hesitant. “My God man, I’m going to kill them! Do you have any friendlies across the street?”

“No sir! I’m not that drunk,” replied the soldier.

Little hurried back to the fourth floor, jumped over a man lying on the floor, and went to the balcony. He chambered a round and opened fire at the muzzle blast. Machine gun bullets stitched the wall within a foot of where Little stood. He emptied the carbine at the muzzle blast. “I ran back inside and had to jump over this same guy again. He was the colonel in charge of the whole damn thing.” Little ran downstairs looking for ammo. The soldier didn’t have any more, so he returned the carbine, pulled out his .45 pistol and went out the back door and over to the corner of the building. He saw the duty officer standing by the gate pillar. The duty NCO was behind the other one. Little ran over to the duty officer who asked him, “What do we do?” Little asked if a guard was inside the outpost by the gate. “Yessir, I heard him moan.” Little told him to open the gate, that he would draw enemy fire while they rescued the wounded man. “He opened the gate and I ran out and knelt down next to a dead VC and waited for the VC to fire again so I knew where the hell they were.”

The wounded guard was taken for treatment. Little and the duty officer ran down the street between the buildings and saw two mines the VC had set. They sandbagged both so that no one would activate them, then went down to the canal where the VC had come from. They were gone. When they returned to the entrance gate, Little stopped. He sensed danger. “Wait a minute!” That’s when he got scared. The buildings were full of Americans with weapons. “They don’t know us. They liable to shoot us,” he said. The duty officer yelled, “Hold your fire!”

They walked across the street and saw Col. Rausch and several soldiers. Rausch had two drinks in his hands. “I thought you could use one of these,” he said. “I sure can,” replied Little and downed one. The colonel in charge – the one lying on the floor rushed up. “Now, he was combat ready,” says Little. “He said the airfield was under attack and headed off in that direction. “Stop him!” said Little. “The VC have a machine gun set up to cover the road. They‘ll cut him to pieces. “

The colonel reconsidered and, instead, sent another officer and four men in a jeep. Says Little, “I later heard the VC cut them down.”

Little went to bed. The next morning the colonel in charge and his staff came marching into the mess hall where Little was having breakfast. “Now they are combat ready; got on flak jackets, helmets and have weapons,” says Little. “He asked if I was Major Little from Cang Long. Little stood. “Yes sir.”

“Don’t you ever come back. The VC followed you here.”

“Sir, I’m from the hospital in Saigon,” replied Little.

“Don’t ever come back.”

“I sat back down and away he went,” says Little, who soon departed Saigon and returned to Cang Long.

Two weeks later Col. Rausch flew in and dropped off a case of beer. “The colonel has put the duty officer and NCO in for a Silver Star,” he told Little. “He’s not putting you in because he says the VC followed you up there.”

“I killed a lot of VC that night,” replied Little, who knew the VC lived among them and could exact revenge anytime they wanted to. “I’d just as soon go home alive,” said Little. “Forget the Silver Star. Don’t tell anyone I did all those killings.”

The VC moved among the population and American soldiers were always at risk. “Sometimes you could tell who they were by the way they looked at you – hate in their eyes,” says Little. “They would put Agent Orange in water pistols and spray Americans. Once I was sprayed across the mouth when I passed a bunch of people.”

Shortly before departing Vietnam, Little picked up a piece of cheese on Sgt. Custer’s radio operations desk and ate it on the way to the team house. A rat awoke him gnawing on his finger. “It must have smelled the cheese. I had to go to Saigon and get a rabies shot.” Meanwhile, President Johnson visited Saigon. “I was supposed to get an award from him, but my team didn’t know where I was. I didn’t learn about it until after the President left.” Little never inquired about the proposed award. His mind was on more important things – going home.

January, 1969, Major Little boarded a plane at Tan Son Knut Airbase and flew home. Thank God he wasn’t in a body bag, but neither was he whole. He carried scars and shrapnel to prove it. In California, he picked up Diane and his two sons and they drove across country to New York. “We rode on a 4-lane free as a bird. When we got to a toll booth at the New York State line, they had their hand out – gimme.” Little didn’t like that.

Later, Little volunteered for the Green Beret, an elite Army group of select volunteers. This unique band of soldiers is summed up by a verse from S/Sgt. Barry Sadler’s song, “Ballad of the Green Berets”: “One hundred men will test today but only three will wear the Green Beret.” After a tour of duty with the 1st Special Forces in Indonesia and Okinawa, Little was eventually stationed at Redstone in Huntsville.

“When I came to Alabama, they put out their hands, but unlike New York, it was to welcome us.” He retired as a Lt. Col. in January, 1981, and he and Diane have lived in Limestone County on the Tennessee River since then. Both sons are Auburn ROTC graduates and served in the military. Douglas spent 10 years in the Army Corps of Engineers and lives in South Carolina. Jeffery, a rocket scientist who lives in Madison, Alabama, spent 20 years in the Air Force. Colonel and Mrs. Little have 5 grandchildren and 5 great grandchildren. Col. Little, age 85, still has a clear mind, but his body doesn’t respond as quickly as it did when he was an Army skydiver with 150 jumps that earned him a broken leg.

A shadow box on Little’s wall filled with medals and ribbons tells the story of a brave American who did his duty and did it well. He holds 3 Purple Hearts, Bronze Star for valor, Parachutist Badge, Combat Infantry Badge, National Defense Services Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster, Meritorious Service Medal, Army Commendation Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Vietnam Campaign Medal and, the Vietnam Cross of Gallantry with Silver Star and Palm awarded for valor and heroic conduct while fighting the enemy. He is a Mason and a Shriner.

Having been challenged by bullets, booby traps, land mines, and mortar attacks in the past, this old warrior has taken up a new challenge – learning to play the organ. “That’s my passion now,” Little said and nodded toward an organ across the room. “Would you like to hear Guy Lombardo?” he asked me, and struck up “Auld Lang Syne.” Good job. “Here is my favorite,” he said, and played “Your Cheating Heart.”
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry R. Barksdale
February, 1968. Somewhere over the South China Sea, Major Clarence R. Little, age 36, closed his eyes, listened to the drone of the engines and thought about what lay ahead of him. He was headed to harm’s way, that much he knew. Politicians in Washington called it “Vietnam Conflict.” The 58,318 whose names would eventually be chiseled in black granite would have told them it was a war – and a hellish one at that! It was in its 9th year. Little would soon experience it firsthand.

The flight was long and tiring, giving Major Little much time to think – maybe too much. And his head was full of thoughts. A soldier returned from Nam one of three ways: happy and whole after a year of service, wounded, or inside a body bag. Over 16,000 Americans had been killed to date. By year’s end 30,000 would be dead. In January, the TET Offensive had been launched and the U.S. Embassy in Saigon attacked. And, yes, he thought about his sweet wife, Diane, and their two boys, Douglas, age 10, and Jeffery, age 8, back in Sunnyvale, California. He had met pretty blue-eyed, Diane Elizabeth Kilsey the first day of school in the 8th grade at Corfu, a small village in upstate New York. “Someday, I’m going to marry you,” he told her. She wasn’t so sure. Both graduated from Pembroke during the Korean War. Little couldn’t get a job so he joined the Army. His father, a tool and die maker, was asleep on the couch when he walked in and proudly announced his enlistment. His father jumped up. “Good God Almighty! They are using live bullets over there!”

After serving two years, Little went to work for Chevrolet, earned an engineering degree, and re-enlisted in the Army as a 2nd Lieutenant. In 1954, he fulfilled his promise – he married Diane. He had recently spent 6 months at Ft. Bliss, Texas, learning to speak Vietnamese. His orders were specific. He would be a military advisor to South Vietnam forces fighting Viet Cong – called VC for short. The blue South China Sea eventually gave way to land, rice paddies, and deep green – Vietnam. His plane bumped down the runway at Tan Son Nhut Air Base outside Saigon. Little had arrived.

Little reported for duty and was ordered to the Mekong Delta, a vast wetland no more than 10 feet above sea level, and longtime base for Viet Cong. A buddy had previously told him not to take Cang Long district.

“Why not?”
His buddy explained, “It’s well known that no advisor has ever lived to rotate off that team.”

Little reported at Cang Long and asked the Colonel, “Is this the place I heard that no Americans ever rotated alive?” It was. “It seems to me you need an infantry man instead of an engineer,” said Little.

“No, your background is mines and booby traps. That’s why I want you here.”

Little’s team consisted of 8 Americans, living in a rural village, also named Cang Long, working alongside South Vietnamese soldiers. One mile south of Cang Long, the team was constructing a school for children. Winning the hearts and minds of locals was America’s best weapon against the Communist. The South Vietnamese captain didn’t want to send out combat patrols and engage the VC.

Little thought otherwise. “We need to go on operations and chase the VC, so they won’t have time to attack us,” he advised. And he laid down a firm rule: Never-never establish a pattern. Do something three times, then change. The deputy commander was former VC. After the VC had entered his village, killed his wife and children and was about to kill him, he joined them. Later, he switched allegiance to the South Vietnamese. “He was a good man,” says Little. “And wanted to go on combat operations. We caught two VC in the tree line and got a lot of information from them.” Thereafter, the captain took the patrol out. “Shotgun” was an Air Force pilot assigned to Little’s higher headquarters and coordinated when they needed support on the ground. “I’d ask for a flyover and he would always tell me, ‘I can’t do that.’ About 10 minutes later, a jet would come over at rooftop level, turn, and go straight up and blow the roof off a couple of buildings. It put the scare on the VC.”

It was a midnight when Little heard “thunk-thunk-thunk.” Incoming mortar rounds! Little guessed the VC was hitting nearby headquarters. He radioed. “You getting hit?” he asked. Negative. It was the hamlet between them, Little concluded. He hurried over to the aid station and told the men to put on helmets and flak jackets. “I think we’re going to get hit,” he told them. Little scouted near the head of a nearby canal, walking between a Jeep and statue of Mary and baby Jesus. A mortar round hit, demolishing the statue and Jeep. He ran to the team house and got his flak jacket. A medic ran in and exclaimed, “I just saw the major get blown up!” Sgt. Custer, the radio operator replied, “He couldn’t, he just dove in the bunker.” Little was lucky. “God was with me,” he says. “I didn’t get a scratch.”

Little radioed headquarters and requested an L-19 spotter plane to locate the mortar fire. Negative. The General wanted to keep the plane for himself in case they got hit. Five minutes later, the radio crackled. “Three-five-six, this is Spooky.” Spooky was a C-130 aircraft armed with multiple guns on the side that looked like a hose of fire when it fired.

“This is three-five-six. Come in,” replied Little. “We’re in your area,” said Spooky. “Understand you need a little help down there.”

“Roger that,” said Little.

“Got a friend of yours on board. Can’t tell you his name,” said Spooky. “But he owes you a case of beer.”

“Yep, I know who he is,” said Little. “The VC are on the other side of the canal. Hose’em down.” And Spooky did, belching out a stream of deadly fire.

Little knew the man that owed him a case of beer. It was Col. Rausch. Earlier, Raush’s personnel carrier team came through Cang Long Village. “They had been out in the boonies three weeks and were tired, dirty, and thirsty,” says Little. We gave them all the beer we had, fed them, gave them showers. We took care of them.”

The attack ended – everything was calm for a while.

Little lay down on his bunk. “Thunk-thunk-thunk. Mortar fire! The team jumped into the bunker. The first three rounds hit the team house and shredded the room where the NCOs slept. “This was the VC’s way of telling us we didn’t get them,” says Little. They often left their calling card. “Once a sniper shot a hole in our roof. Sgt. Custer spent 3 days repairing it with new tile – did a beautiful job. As soon as he climbed down the ladder and was admiring it, the sniper took it out.” Little is convinced it was the same sniper that shot him in the side while he was inspecting a mortar emplacement. “It was during the TET Offensive, and the VC said they were going to kill an American,” says Little. “I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want the sniper to know he got me.” Headquarters was buzzing about it. Little decided he should file a report. His boss concluded it was a violation of regulation for not reporting and asked the general what to do. “Give him a medal,” the General replied.

The school in the nearby village was finally completed. The Vietnamese captain told Little to take a couple of his team members to the opening. Little headed down the road in a Jeep. An old man ran out of his hooch and into the middle of the road waving his arms. “No go! You no go.” Four women appeared with hoes and dug up a 40 pound land mine and set it aside. “Now, you go,” said the old man. “That’s why we needed the support of the people,” says Little. Building the school probably saved Little’s life.

…to be continued

By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry R. Barksdale
The girls were excited. We were going to the 1989 Cotton Bowl in Dallas where the Arkansas Razorbacks would rub the noses of the UCLA Bruins in a mud hole. I’d never attended an out-of-state football game. And I’d never been trapped in a car for 667 miles with three women who were rabid Razorback fans. The bloom of my 15-month marriage to “Arkansas Pat” (not to be confused with my good friend and sometime redhead, “Tanner Pat”) was still on the rose. Pat’s two daughters, Audra, 21 and Leesa, 17, were two of the finest and prettiest little hellions I ever met. Both had been born in Auburn to parents from Marked Tree, Arkansas, the center of the universe and the largest and most cultured wide speck in the road. In other words, the Paris of Arkansas. They loved Auburn and they loved Arkansas. My point in this: Crossing a rabid Auburn fan with a rabid Arkansas fan is like mating a wild hog with a feral tomcat. Nature never meant it to be.

My experience with girls was limited to my sweet little Shannon who use to climb onto my lap and says things like: “My Daddy is my hero.” I didn’t know that little girls grew up, drank beer, smoked cigarettes and wrecked cars. Audra and Leesa are the reason Pat developed her immutable law, “Never give a teenager an equal break.” They are always up to something, you bet.

It was decided that we would travel to Dallas in my modest little Ford Escort, a runt of a car I drove from Huntsville to my law office in Athens. “It’s gas efficient,” I said.

The plan was to drive from Huntsville to Memphis, spend the night with “Nana Sue,” the girls’ grandmother, then proceed to Dallas. We hadn’t gone a block before Audra began slandering my car. “I don’t want to ride in a ‘box on wheels.’” That’s what she called my little car!

The girls hatched a plan to borrow Nana Sue’s big land yacht Lincoln Town Car so we could ride to Dallas in style. I smelled trouble. Nana Sue wasn’t the grandmotherly type who wore her hair in a bun and baked cookies for neighborhood kids. In earlier years she had partied at Elvis’ mansion, operated a liquor store, and had firm opinions about every subject and wasn’t hesitant to express them. I was afraid of Nana Sue and answered yes’um and no’mam. She was very particular about her Town Car. When a kitten crawled beneath the hood and took a nap on the fan blade, Nana Sue complained loudly about the blood and cat hair slung on her car.

We departed for Dallas in Nana Sue’s 18-foot, two-ton, 8-cylinder behemoth, blowing out gas, the stereo surround sound blasting, and the girls calling their hogs.

“Wooooeee pig! Soooey!
Wooooeee pig! Soooey!
Razorbacks – Razorbacks

In Dallas, we stayed at Loews Anatole, the same hotel where the Razorback team and fans were lodged. An atrium ran from the ground floor to the top. When someone tooted in the lobby, we could hear it on the 15th floor. We all piled into one room. Our single bathroom quickly looked like a Bed, Bath & Beyond. It was crammed with oils, lotions, ointments, sprays, cosmetics, powders, perfume, emollients, rubs, combs, brushes, dryer, tweezers, curlers – a veritable nightmarish hell for a man. I couldn’t find space for a toothbrush! And another thing, I discovered women don’t use three towels when six are available. They use every one of them and right away.

Leesa saw a candy bar inside a drawer that was fastened with a plastic tie. She threaded her hand inside and pulled out a chocolate bar. “Look what I found,” she said and reached for another one.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Audra said.

“It’s complimentary,” Leesa said. Then she pulled out cheese. We ate all of the candy and cheese. It sure was delicious. The hotel even provided complimentary wine. We helped ourselves to that, too. Nothing like staying in a classy hotel.

The girls wanted to attend a big New Year’s Eve party at the hotel. Leesa was underage, but determined to attend. Pat hatched a plan. I would pretend to be an old, oil-rich Texan escorting his young wife. “Rich Texans have young wives,”

Pat said. “They won’t even notice.” Leesa wore a black velvet dress and Pat’s mink, and we were ushered in like celebrities. No I.D. check. Even though it has been 28 years, I hope that information never becomes public. A 48-year-old man with a 17-year-old on his arm! Gloria Allred will sue my socks off. I’ll be kicked out of the Senior Center.

It was past midnight when we finally got to bed. Then the Razorback fans in the lobby began calling the hogs. “Wooooeee pig! Soooey!” It sounded like they were in bed with us. I finally dozed off around 5 a.m. The Razorbacks got their noses rubbed in a mud hole, a 17-3 loss. I figured they didn’t sleep any better than I did. We checked out and that’s when I learned the candy, cheese, and wine weren’t complimentary. About $175, as I remember. I learned that you pay to stay in a classy hotel.

We departed for Memphis in Nana Sue’s land yacht; a quiet bunch we were, no blasting stereo and no calling the hogs. I pulled in for gas. “Look! We get a free car wash,” Pat said.
“Something tells me we shouldn’t do that,” Audra said.

“Why not? It’s free,” Pat said.

“I wouldn’t do it, Mama.”

The car came out of the wash tunnel, and we tore out for Memphis. “Oh my God!” Audra exclaimed.

The antenna had been pulled out by the roots and it was dragging behind the car and sparking on the pavement.

“Nana Sue isn’t going to like this,” Leesa said.

And she didn’t, she really didn’t. I bought a new antenna and had it installed. All in all, including “free” chocolate bars, cheese, wine, and a new antenna, the 1989 Cotton Bowl trip was expensive. We should have gone in my box on wheels. I never borrowed Nana Sue’s land yacht again. Years later, when they invited me to accompany them to the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans, I declined.
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry R. Barksdale
It was Wednesday, January 11, 1967.

Specialist 4 Paul A. Lauziere, age 20, a cryptographer/messenger with 121st Signal Company, 1st Infantry Division, hunkered inside his tent at base camp in Dian, South Vietnam, and wrote a letter to a total stranger 9,000 miles away in Athens, Alabama. He was lonely and needed a pen pal.

Earlier, after receiving a “Dear John letter,” he had gone to Red Cross in Siagon where there was a pen-pal box. He pulled out a name. It was Miss Sally Johnson, a 16-year-old sophomore at Athens High School.

“I would like very much to be pen pals with you,” he wrote. “Believe me I need the mail. You never get enough in this place. I have 17,280 hours left in Vietnam which makes it 104 days before I leave the country and go back to the world, as they say.”

Lauziere, a native of Lewiston, Maine, had been in Vietnam 9 months living dangerously and counting the days. When atmospheric conditions prevented him from sending coded messages, he had to personally deliver them. His worst days were during the first time. He landed at an LZ, delivered the message, and asked the Commander about a return ride. “That’s your problem, son. I’ve got 200 other men to worry about.” Paul set out on a one week walking and hitch-hiking journey through dangerous country, armed with an M-14 and three clips of ammo.

He longed for home, the sweetest word in the English language … “Well Sally, when I get a letter from a girl,” he wrote, “it makes me happy. Make me happy, okay?” He requested her photo, asked her age and what she liked to do.
Sally, the daughter of Philip and June Bowers Johnson was a busy young lady. Her life was filled with sorority activities, band practice, singing, running track, sports, and her favorite love – marching with the Golden Eagles Band as a Majorette.
Patriotism and love of country also tugged at her heart strings. “I tear up when I hear the National Anthem,” she recently told me. Someone wrote long ago about soldiers, “You can lock him out of your house but not out of your heart. You can take him off your mailing list but not off your mind.”

Just ten days earlier, Athens became the first high school in the nation to sponsor a blood drive for troops in Vietnam. They collected 557 pints. Sally answered Paul’s letter, told him about her singing, and in particular the blood drive. She also included her photo.

Two weeks later Paul replied. “I must say that you are a very attractive blonde and I know you must have a wonderful personality or you wouldn’t be writing me,” he said. “They call me Frenchy because I speak French. Please send more pictures. Oh, I am glad your school is trying to raise blood for us over here but I tell you a little secret, they would rather have beer and liquor than blood.” And “good food,” he added.

Sally replied in early February, telling him that miniskirts were in style. Paul immediately wrote back. “One day after college, I’ll get married. At least I hope so. So the fad around the states are [sic] miniskirts. Boy, I can’t wait to get back there and see for myself.” He said he was going to Japan on February 26 for R & R. “I can’t wait to get there and take my first hot shower and hot shave in 11 months and also not to be worried about being shot at all the time. Please write back as soon as you can. Love, Paul.” Again, Sally replied and Paul answered. “I’m leaving for Japan in three days.” he wrote. “I’d love to have a letter from you when I get back on the 26th of February. I can’t hardly wait to be there. There is only one thing wrong about the whole thing. I have to come back to this place. I will have about 52 days left in Vietnam when I do get back. That’s not too bad I guess.” He concluded, “You make me feel special. Keep on writing. Love, Paul

Paul returned from Japan and was happy to find Sally’s letter waiting for him. On March 5 at 2 a.m. he replied telling her about the beauty of Japan and friendly people. “Next month I will be home by the end of the month. I hope that you will still write me because I like to keep you as a pen pal.” He told her he might drive to Alabama and see her once he is stationed at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina.

The letters were written 50 years ago, the last one on April 15, when Paul was leaving Vietnam. “I will be waiting for your letter,” he wrote. “It felt good this morning when I turned in my flak vest, ammo and M-16. And it will feel good getting on that plane home. I hate to leave my buddies… but I can’t wait to see my family and drive my own car. I think I could really get to like you.” Then he added, “I already like you.”

Sally had no further contact with Paul. She didn’t know if he was dead or alive. Her life went on. She graduated from Athens High in 1969, was a Majorette at Florence State and received her Master’s degree at Memphis State. Following marriage and divorce, she returned to Athens, became active in the community and retired as Limestone County Victim Service Officer in 2013. She hadn’t thought of Paul in years. Then one day while cleaning her closet she found her Athens High scrapbook along with nine letters in a box. “They were all in the closet together,” she said. Old memories, clouded by 50 years, rushed in. Was Paul alive? she wondered. Finally, she sent a message to Paul Lauziere in Maine. “Are you the Paul that had a pen pal from Athens, Alabama, in 1967? If so, I’m that person.” He replied. “I only had one.” Sally called him. A soft-spoken man, he said when he got home he was a “real mess” and couldn’t find a job.

After swapping missed calls, I finally got Paul on my black, flip top cell phone. He had enlisted in the Army at age 18, went through basic training at Ft. Dix, New Jersey; Advanced Infantry Training at Ft. Gordon; then to Vietnam. After leaving Vietnam, he was ordered to Special Forces at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He was transferred to 3rd Army at 333 Signal Company and assigned to the communication center for the 18th Airborne Division as a cryptographer.

Following the Army, Paul went to work at the Goddard Space Flight Center in Maryland for approximately 8 months as a cryptographer. He never ventured down to Alabama to meet his pen pal. “I came back to Maine and was a hermit for three years. Did nothing,” he told me. “I got up in the morning and went to the woods. Just walked around. It felt comfortable.” While working on his B.S. at Thomas College, he met Helene – “the love of my life.” They married 42 years ago and have a daughter, Anne Sauceir (36) and John Lauziere (39).

Paul retired from the post office after 35 years. “I have PTSD and still under treatment,” he said. He is also taking treatment for cancer.

Sally, married to David Marks for 29 years, chuckles when she thinks about some of the things she wrote as a sophomore. She doesn’t remember who put her name and address in the Red Cross pen-pal box. Too many years have passed. Sally is a member of the Alabama Veterans Museum and continues to show her patriotism and community spirit. She is a former board member of the Chamber of Commerce and Athens-Limestone Tourism Association and Spirit of Athens volunteer. She was an actress in Poke Sallet for years and can always be counted on where veterans are concerned.

Back in the “Sixties” when some young people were burning our flag, others were fighting under its banner in Vietnam. And, on the homefront, there were Sally Johnsons offering them hope and encouragement. Sally purchased a memorial brick for Paul and is gifting his letters to the Alabama Veterans Museum.

Sally and David decided to take a fall trip to Maine, see the foliage, and visit Paul. She talked to Paul. “He didn’t say come up. I think he may have been a little skeptical,” she said. They flew to Boston, rented a car and drove to Lewiston, Maine, and stayed at the Hilton Garden Inn where they agreed to meet. Sally was nervous. How would his wife, Helene react? What would they talk about? “Out stepped Paul, we hugged. Helene got out of the car and we hugged.” So far so good. Paul invited them to lunch; David and Sally followed behind in their car. At lunch, Paul, who is a man of few words said, “I didn’t have any idea what you looked like.” Later, he took them to their War Memorial where his name is chiseled on the monument, his Shriner’s Temple, and gave her a Vietnam Challenge Coin. Paul also took them to dinner. As Sally and David were preparing to depart the next morning, Paul walked over to Sally’s side of the car and said, “You don’t know what you’ve done for me.” Everyone got out of their car and hugged goodbye. “I’m coming to Alabama,” Paul said. “Come ahead,” Sally replied.
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry Barksdale
I’ve had a lot to worry about this year. Horn worms attacked my tomato plants, Japanese beetles ate my grapevines and groundhogs stole my okra. Messing with a Southerner’s okra and tomatoes is worse than someone cuss’n his dog or telling him he can’t date his cousin. Then there is global warming, paying my alimony on time, and resisting Russian mind control. It’s been a stressful year.

Now I have another worry – getting busted for culture theft. It’s a new offense hatched up by a pinhead college professor who can’t park his bicycle straight and, to quote Jerry Clower, whose education exceeds his intelligence.

It’s also called cultural misappropriation and occurs when someone of one culture adopts or uses elements of another culture. For example, a cornbread eating Southerner like myself eating a Mexican tortilla is considered cultural theft. It’s claimed to be a violation of the collective intellectual property rights of the originating culture. White folks calling their football team “Redskins” is definitely culture theft. Another example is mascot Oceola riding a horse at Florida State Seminoles football games or a non-Indian wearing a Mohawk haircut and white folks wearing dreadlocks and cornrow hairdos. Non-aboriginal people piercing their body and wearing what I call “booger catchers” (nose rings) is definitely cultural theft. Tattoos of Chinese or Japanese characters is also misappropriation.

In 2011, Prince William and Kate were busted in Canada for wearing cowboy hats and western shirts. “Tasteless,” said culture cops. Recently in Portland, Oregon, two white women were forced to shut down their burrito cart after traveling to Mexico and learning how to make a good burrito. They were accused of culture misappropriation. (Note to self: Portland is vying to become the wacko capital of the United States. Too much wacky- backy, I think).

In 2012, during the annual Victoria Secret Fashion Show where salivating men watched nearly naked women parade down the runway in skimpy underwear, a model wore an Indian headdress. She was accused of misappropriation by the culture cops and forced to apologize. I agree. It was inappropriate. Spike heels would have been ideal. Many men love to go shopping at Victoria Secret with their woman. Imagine this? “Darl’n, do you like this negligee?” she coos.

“Shucks no! I’d prefer, an Indian war bonnet.”

Ridiculous! I don’t want my woman looking like an Indian Chief in those situations. I’m biblical. I want her looking like Eve running around the Garden of Eden wearing a fig leaf.

In 2013, pop singer Katy Perry was busted by culture cops for wearing a geisha style outfit at the American Music Awards. “I didn’t know I did wrong,” she whimpered. Boohoo. Wimp. She’s probably from Portland.

There are well recognized customs, traditions, habits and foods that identify us as Southerners, and I don’t want outsiders stealing them. Already spineless, feckless, panty-waist politicians, who will soon be offering over their daughters in order to remain in office, are taking down our statues and destroying our Southern culture. We must remain vigilant and protect our culture.

If you see someone dressed in black with a $75.00 haircut and speaking in complete sentences and using two-syllable words while eating fried catfish and hushpuppies, they are probably from a foreign country like New York engaged in stealing our culture. We don’t talk that way.

If someone says “youse guys” while eating goat stew, poke sallet, fried okra, turnip greens, chitlins, scrambled hog brains, bologna on a cracker or moon pie and R.C. Cola, they are from New Jersey stealing our culture. That’s our food!

Someone wearing a brand new John Deere cap with no grease on the bill, sucking their teeth after a meal or mining ear wax with a toothpick is an imposter stealing our culture. (Warning! Mining ear wax with a toothpick is dangerous and shouldn’t be attempted by a non-Southerner). Saying “cotton pick’n right,” “doggone it” or “shucks” is even more offensive. That’s our lingo. Keep your mouth off it.

If they attempt to blow their nose with two fingers, they are misappropriating our culture. That is a highly technical maneuver perfected by Southerners over generations. It’s ours. Leave it alone.

Sometimes it’s difficult to identify an authentic Southerner from a pretender. Here are a few markers. If a man opens the door for a woman and says, “Morn’n, Ma’am,” he’s a genuine Southern redneck who hasn’t been told his behavior is considered sexist. If he calls you “hon,” he considers it a term of endearment. If a hound’s tooth hat is in the rear window of his car and a “Roll Tide” plate is on the front, he’s the real deal. If he says “yessum and no ma’am” to his elders, he is a Southerner, all right. If a woman attends church three times a week while packing a pistol in her purse, she is a Southern gal. If a woman gets diarrhea the night before the Iron Bowl, she’s a born and bred Auburn fan for sure. Southerners eat cornbread instead of “light” bread, and will ask a total stranger, “How you?” on the street, he’s Southern. If a person stands and places hand over heart when the National Anthem is playing, he’s definitely Southern. Wackos claim it’s racist to ask, “Where you from?” Southerners think they are just being friendly.

If you are unsure about their origin, ask a trick question: “Will a Alice Chandler (Allis Chalmer) outpull a John Deere? A real Southerners know that a John Deer can do anything better.

The acid test to determine if a man is authentic Southern is call him a redneck. He will laugh and say, “Yeah buddy, I got it honestly by working all day in the field chopping and picking cotton. It’s a mark of hard work.” Southerners have a sense of humor. It’s what sustained us during Reconstruction and the Great Depression. A non-Southerner will be offended and threaten to sue.

Call me redneck – it’s a mark of honor – make fun of my pickup or tractor, but don’t cuss my dog or tell me that my female cousin is ugly. And don’t tell me that cornbread crumbled in sweet milk isn’t good. That’s where the humor ends. Doggone it, get your cotton-picking hands off my culture.
By: Jerry Barksdale

By: Jerry R. Barksdale
I became aware of my unusual interest in having a beautiful lawn shortly after my marriage ended and I moved from Huntsville back to Athens in 1999. At first, I didn’t recognize the symptoms. Little did I suspect that I would soon become afflicted with “Lawn Warrior Syndrome/Compulsive Disorder Overlay.” It’s a malady that targets mostly middle-age men, but can affect women.

Mama died in 1998 and I inherited a small house on Market Street. The front yard was mostly crab grass and weeds.

Miss Mable Romine, a spinster, lived across the street in a fine brick house surrounded by the most beautiful Zoysia grass lawn in Athens. It looked like a green carpet. Miss Mabel took great pride in her lawn. She was always inspecting it, sweeping it with a house broom, and picking up debris. If a leaf floated down, she would run over and remove it. I would wave at Miss Mabel, but she ignored me. She didn’t approve of my lawn. I wanted to have a pretty lawn, too, and be accepted by Miss Mabel and my neighbors. I didn’t have a wife ordering me to vacuum, carry out garbage, wash windows, and scrub the bathrooms. I was free to work in the yard. That was the beginning of my psychology problem. I sprayed my yard with Round Up and killed existing grass, tilled up the soil, and raked up a ton of rocks. Miss Mable kept a watchful eye on my activity but didn’t say anything. I hadn’t considered how to dispose of the rocks. The City furnished a large, green plastic garbage can. Just what I needed. I filled it with a ton of rocks.

I was still in bed one morning when I heard the strangest sound—“Er-Er-Er-Er,” like an elephant trying to have a bowel movement. Then a crashing noise like a rock slide colliding with a tin building. I peeked out just as a cloud of dust rose above the rocking garbage truck. The rocks were gone, but I did receive a visit from a representative of the Department of Sanitation. He asked if I put rocks in my garbage can. “I allegedly did,” I said.

Next, I laid Zoysia sod, the same variety that Miss Mable had. A couple of weeks later, the sod turned green and beautiful. Miss Mabel was out in her front yard picking up debris when she yelled across the road, “Your lawn sure is pretty.” Finally she approved of me.

We all have a need to be accepted. I get a warm feeling when I insert my credit card and the screen flashes “approved.”

Later, I sold my little house on Market Street and moved to 407 Washington Street. I hired my cousin’s husband, Chuck Farmer, to landscape and sod my front yard with fescue. It took a while. Chuck was a popular landscaper, and there was crappie fishing and then deer hunting, but when Chuck showed up, he did a magnificent job. My front lawn was beautiful. I hired Pure Green to spray monthly, pulled stray grass and mowed it in one direction, then crossways and caught the clippings. People would stop and compliment me on my yard. I was happy and loved my lawn, never realizing that it was my sickness at work. I just thought I was having fun.

After retirement, I moved to a 9-acre farm on Elk River with about 6 acres of grass. I also purchased the seller’s riding mower. My plan was to mow a strip on the inside of the pasture fence and keep it weed free, then bush hog the remainder.
I mowed one round along the fence and it looked so neat that I mowed another one. It looked even prettier. I kept mowing. At the end of the day I had mowed the entire pasture – and busted most of the rocks and whacked up fallen walnuts and limbs. My neighbors called my mower the “rock crusher.” I tore up the mower – many times – so many, in fact, that I had to buy a trailer to haul it to a repair shop weekly. It finally died. Then I purchased a Craftsman from Sears. Same story.
My neighbors Buddy Stokes and Ken Hill have zero turn mowers. While I was bumping along at snail speed, they were flying by at warp speed. Show offs! The Craftsman began smoking, a little at first, then really bad.

My good friend (and sometimes red head) Pat urged me to buy a zero turn. I think she was embarrassed by my unmanly smoking mower. Which do you think a woman will fall for — a guy bumping along in a jalopy or in a fast, sleek T-bird? You get the picture.

We went to H & R Agri-Power on Highway 31 South andlooked at mowers. Daniel Bates showed me an Exmark zero turn with a 52” cut. He insisted that I drive it. I’d never seen a lawnmower that looked like a pre- historic beast. I cautiously climbed aboard and headed out. Wow! I felt like King Tut at the controls of a D-6 Caterpillar. It was fast — two-barrel carburetor, seat belt, and roll bar. I would be the Cale Yarbrough of lawnmowers on Dement Road and the envy of my neighbors. I bought it.

An employee drove the new mower forward on my 56” wide trailer. I thought nothing of it until I arrived home and tried to back it off. The wheels wedged on the side. The mower was stuck. I read the owner manual. “Back up ramp and drive forward down.” Now they tell me. I powered up and threw it in reverse. I almost took the tires off, but I unloaded – fast! I was going backward and headed toward the woods. I shoved the control bar forward, slammed into a metal fence post, backed up, then hit two dogwood trees in succession, went beneath another tree, and the mower reared straight up. “Whoa! Down Trigger! Down you fool!” The roll bar had caught on a limb. The mower was dangerous, with a mind of its own. I started talking to myself. “I’d better get in the middle of the pasture before it kills me.” There is no steering wheel, only two control bars, sort of like flying a B-17 on a bombing mission – and just as dangerous. It took off at warp speed. That’s when I knew why there are roll bars and seat belt. I was going in every direction at the same time, cutting a 52” swatch and slinging grass clipping and fire ants. The pasture looked like a UFO landing zone. Oh, I forgot to mention, the mower went rogue again and crashed through a patch of poke sallet.

My symptoms are worse, I know they are. Recently, someone stopped and asked a neighbor directions to my house, “You mean that nut that mows his cow pasture with a riding mower?”

That’s me folks – lawn warrior.
By: Jerry R Barksdale