BASEBALL MEMORIES


As a young boy, I loved my cocker spaniel, Skipper. The dog was mellow and a great companion until a Landlord made us get rid of her. I loved riding my bike. The outdoors and the freedom of riding about was much fun, but more than anything, I loved baseball. I was never very good at it but I loved it anyway. My brothers and I would head for the nearest school yard or park and play "Three Flys Up." One of us would grab a baseball and a bat and toss it into the air and then hit flys or grounders to the others. If you caught three fly balls, without dropping them, you were up to bat and the former batter went out to field balls and took your place.

Sometimes, if you were having a hard time catching the ball, you could throw a grounder from where you stopped the ball and if you could hit the baseball bat, that was laying on the ground, in front of the batter, without bouncing over it, you could come up to be the batter. My younger brother Bob had a far better throwing arm than me and would often get to be batter that way.

As we got to be older, we qualified to join the Little League baseball teams and my team was sponsored by "Sunshine Laundry" and so we wore their name across our uniforms. Their colors were green and white and I remember how proud I was to be in that uniform for the first time. My Dad was stationed at an Air Force base and we practiced and played on one of the their baseball diamonds. I had a grand time but would get pretty leery at baseball practice because the coach would line us all up, about 25 feet opposite each other, and about four feet from the person on our right and left, give us each a baseball and have us play catch to warm up.

That sounds OK but none of our aims were that good and someone was always getting hit with a baseball. You had to watch the person you were throwing to as well as the people on your right and left, to keep from getting hit with the ball. A fast ball, coming at you from a junior leaguer, even though only going about 50 miles an hour or so, can hurt like the dickens, especially if it hits a vital part of the body. I'll let the reader determine what is meant by vital.

Often these little "accidents" were not so accidental. "Oops," they'd say and then snicker. It was a sly way to get back at an enemy. Still the game itself was loads of fun, although sometimes in could get a little boring, especially if you weren't the best player. You might have heard the following song before. I'll only supply the words below:

PETER, PAUL AND MARY lyrics - "Right Field"
http://www.oldielyrics.com/ (Willy Welch)

Saturday summers, when I was a kid. We'd run to the schoolyard and here's what we did. We'd pick out the captains and we'd choose up the teams. It was always a measure of my self esteem. Cuz the fastest, the strongest, played shortstop and first. The last ones they picked were the worst. I never needed to ask, it was sealed, I just took up my place in right field.

Playing...[Chorus:] Right field, it's easy, you know. You can be awkward and you can be slow. That's why I'm here in right field; Just watching the dandelions grow.

Playing right field can be lonely and dull. Little Leagues never have lefties that pull. I'd dream of the day, they'd hit one my way. They never did, but still I would pray. That I'd make a fantastic catch on the run. And not lose the ball in the sun. And then I'd awake from this long reverie. And pray that the ball never came out to me. Here in right field, it's easy you know...

[Chorus] Off in the distance, the game's dragging on. There's strikes on the batter, some runners are on. I don't know the inning, I've forgotten the score. The whole team is yelling and I don't know what for. Then suddenly everyone's looking at me. My mind has been wandering; what could it be? They point at the sky and I look up above. And a baseball falls into my glove!

Here in right field, it's important you know.You gotta know how to catch, you gotta know how to throw. That's why I'm here in right field, just watching the dandelions grow!
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A great message, with a lot of truth. My vision wasn't the best and I definitely knew what it was like to lose the ball in the sun or lights, if it was a night game. Very embarrassing, especially if your family is watching from the stands. As a young man, I learned to hit the ball much farther but enjoyed softball more because the ball was bigger and easier to see. I recall at family reunions and picnics, the feeling of connecting with the ball and knowing it was going over the fence.

When I joined the military and my brother was out of the Marines, he and I would volunteer to be Little League coaches and relive those days all over. Then when I had my own kids, I would volunteer to be a "T-ball" coach. Sort of like baseball, without the danger of being hit by the pitcher.

I never really got into being a big fan of professional baseball. It used to be about the teams but then they let individual players be "free agents" and baseball lost its intrigue for me. Even so, today, when I'm watching some kids at a diamond, play baseball, it brings back those days when baseball was the only sport that made me smile.

OUT OF THE ORDINARY


Most of us are just average people. We live average lives, with average jobs and average problems. Perhaps that is why stories or movies of people that live lives way beyond the average, impress us so much. Scott was never average. When the nurse first handed me a baby, wrapped in nothing but a blanket, the nurse said, "Oh, she is so adorable." I thought, wow, she's gonna a be a big girl, but I parted the blanket, just to make sure. The nurse got it wrong, after all, the hospital probably delivered hundreds of babies a month. "She" was really a he.


Enthusiasm was his trademark. Enthusiasm about everything. He didn't just crawl as a baby, he scrambled. At my sister-in-law's wedding, I still picture him, at about two or three years, dressed in a little blue leisure suit, thoroughly fascinated, in front of the band at the reception and rocking back and forth to the music. When we lived in Japan, and he was a cub scout, he wanted to make every scouting rank and got so excited about the pinewood derby, that he stayed up with me late, until we finished it. He then sat up with me talking about it until an unexpected phone call took my attention. By the time I finished the call, he had fallen asleep on my lap.

As an adolescent, when we were transferred to Germany, the other kids would run off to play but he wanted to stay by me to help me fix the car. Not that I had any charm. I am as average as they get. His siblings sure noticed that. But Scott saw beyond the task, to what he could learn, to how he could excel in that particular thing. One day his mother and the rest of the kids were gone shopping and he donned one of my old pair of coveralls. We rolled up the sleeves and trousers so that they would fit and we changed a tire. When his mother came home she asked. "So what have you two been doing?" Scott spoke up, "I've been changing a tire on the car! Dad helped." His challenge was bridling his ego, which was eventually replaced by confidence. He knew that, no matter what anybody else said, if he gave it his all, he could do it. How many of us really believe that about ourselves?

With some kids, you have to work so hard to get them to listen or obey. You teach and teach and sometimes you get seemingly nowhere. Then again, with other kids, you sort of wind them up and get out of the way. Scott was certainly the latter. As a teenager, he joined the Air Force sponsored, Civil Air Patrol. He wasn't just contented with rising quickly in rank; he wanted to be the youth Commander or Commandant and did so. He then led his group to achieve at the national level. He would have then served a mission for his Church, but his father was so financially upside down by then, that he joined the U.S. Navy at 17 to avoid being a "burden." A fact that I learned years after he had joined.

Following basic training and torpedo man's mate school, he applied and was accepted in the Navy's Dive School as the youngest member of his class. He was hounded and hazed repeatedly by a Master Chief Petty Officer who told him that it would be impossible for him to succeed in the constant rigors of the physical training let alone the academic demands. During the school, he seriously cut his heel while in the dive tube. He knew that if he reported it to the Doc, he would be disqualified from graduating with his class. His instructors knew he had cut his heel. When they saw his determination to continue anyway, they put him through extra physical training drills, to see if he would limp or show pain. He acted as if it did not bother him at all and yet when he changed his sock, it would be soaked with blood.

Over 50 men began the Dive School, less than 20 graduated and Scott was the honor graduate, the top student of his class. An absolutely amazing accomplishment!! That alone would have been enough of a remembrance for the average, but to him it was just a stepping stone. Soon after he was sent to the Mediterranean, off the coast of Italy as a Navy diver. He later married a Utah girl in the Logan Temple and she joined him there. How they met & were married is a story in itself. They now have two wonderful children.

Later on, thru a series of schools and many accomplishments he got his formal education and was commissioned as a Naval Officer. He also went back to Dive School and received his Master Diver qualification. He achieved the honor grad once again but deferred to another student so that another might be recognized. He further went thru the U.S. Navy's EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal School or Bomb School) which is much more advanced than any of the other services EOD. He has served in the Middle East and works closely with Navy Seal components.

Not long ago, while stationed Stateside, he wrote the following:

"It was one of those weekends you never forget. On 29 August 2005 hurricane Katrina hit the gulf coast area, leading to billions of dollars worth of damage and almost wiping parts of New Orleans off the map. The church sent an emergency response team with truckloads of tools and gear to the site and the local area authorities called for the priesthood to "man the shovels'. For the last two months, over two hundred men from within a few hundred miles, have given of their time to meet that priesthood responsibility. Starting with the members of the church and moving on to first responders, such as police, medical and other public servants, the assistance is prioritized. I was privileged to "put my shoulder to the wheel' last weekend.

It was tough to keep our eyes open at 0145 when we met last Saturday morning, though a box of doughnuts and a coke helped. We drove the four and a half hours to downtown New Orleans and had just enough time to pitch our tent on the Stake Center lawn before the invocation. We were briefed on safety, given gloves, tools, disposable suits, tape, wheelbarrows, chainsaws and shovels. We were reminded of the need for our energy and spiritual support and broken into ten-man teams. My team was lead by my stake President and consisted of two Bishops and one Branch President. What wonderful company to serve with. How could you doubt you are doing the Lord's work in such company? We headed out to our first 'work order', not yet realizing what we were headed into.

The destruction is hard to describe. Everything below four feet was under water in many areas and residents were not allowed to return to their homes for two months. Car lots with hundreds of ruined cars and homes with caved in roofs and collapsed walls (were there). Every piece of furniture, TVs, tables and beds are junk. Carpet, drywall and family heirlooms alike are stacked six feet high along both sides of the road. Many families have little except what they packed in their suitcases when they left. All their clothes were either under water or so severely attacked by the mold that they are unhealthy. The electricity was off to refrigerators and freezers full of food and meat. They were filled with flood waters and left to sit for two months. The smell of that 'fridge juice' ( as it is called by local workers) challenges some grown men to make it outside the residence before regurgitating their last meal. Cars are stacked upside down on each other in all the wrong places and require the Brethren to physically push and pull them out of the way before assisting some residents.

We went to the first house of a local policeman on Saturday morning and removed EVERYTHING from his house. Appliances, carpet. furniture and even drywall and insulation. I think it was difficult for someone who spends his life in the service of his community to receive that amount of assistance with his personal life. Both that gentleman and many others used tear-filled words and embraced us with thanks.

At the next house we removed all appliances. Then we got rid of a tree off some one's house. All furniture from the next. The last house we removed everything. 12 hours later we returned to the Stake Center through areas of the city that still didn't have streetlights, gasoline, fast food or running water. The Stake set up outside showers with tarps and a hose ran from the kitchen sink. We showered and ate the food out of coolers that our families had provided. We read our nightly scriptures and climbed into our tents exhausted.

Sunday morning we held a sacrament meeting before returning to work for a few more hours. Over two hundred men singing 'Elders of Israel' and 'Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel' was enough to put goose pimples on your arms and the Spirit in your heart. Two Stake Presidents each gave tearful, ten-minute impromptu talks about the holy nature of our efforts. Sitting in the chapel with the local leadership of the church, wearing jeans, an LDS shirt and boots, grasping a pair of stained leather gloves, I enjoyed one of the most memorable meetings of my life. All of those fathers, brothers and sons felt the Spirit and were reminded of what was important in life. The eternal perspective that my wife and I strive so hard to maintain in our home (was felt).

I have gotten to return to New Orleans a few more times over the months and it is always humbling and satisfying. A few years ago, at a church leadership training, a General Authority told us that we could gauge our spiritual progression by our attitude. When 'sacrifices' become privileges' we are headed in the right direction. Is you Home Teaching, Visiting Teaching, service or calling, a sacrifice or a privilege? I am thankful for the service and the opportunity I had to grow. I am thankful to our Heavenly Father for all that He has given me. I will continue to try and live worthily."

Scott was never average and we are grateful for it.

A TEMPORARY JOB

I had always planned to stay in the Air Force until I became disqualified for some reason, that is: too old, physically unfit or whatever. The military wasn't the greatest in all respects and the thing I disliked most was being separated from my family at a moments notice. Still the thought of being a civilian, always kind of scared me. After I began my 18th year in the Air Force, my wife, Jean, began asking me what I planned to do after I retired at 20 years of service.

I didn't want to get out but she indicated that to stay past twenty years meant working for only half of my basic pay, since retirement pay was computed at one half of base pay. I had acquired a bachelor's degree in psychology and a master's degree in human relations, but these were more eye wash than anything else. The degrees helped me to think but I had no practical experience in either degree. I had never really used them.

Our family was still relatively young. The oldest of our five children would be 15 if I got out in January of 1986 and took, what was called, terminal leave. They all still very much depended upon me for support. I toyed with several ideas, including: going overseas as a civilian to work for the Saudi Arabian Air Force as a fighter aircraft technical advisor (2) working on a doctorate in Education or Psychology (3) getting a teaching certificate for instructing in elementary education.

These all sounded fine but required a huge amount of corresponding sacrifice. We had been overseas for seven years by the time I reached twenty years of military service. Seven with my family and about two more by myself not to mention temporary duty. (TDY) I was sick of overseas and being away. I could make a lot of money but was that time away really worth it? I didn't think so. Working on a doctorate would pay dividends only after at least two more years of school. What I had left of the GI Bill would help but how was I supposed to support my family in to the meantime?

Getting a job as a school teacher didn't pay much but the hours should be flexible so that I could get a temporary job while going to school. Besides, how hard could it be to teach a few second graders? We had bought and paid for land before getting out so we could put the land as a down payment and get a VA Loan and build a house while I was going to school and working at temporary job. Our credit had always been very good, so I would have no trouble applying for and getting a loan to fund all that. Sweat equity and doing the simple house building jobs ourselves should also save us some money and since I only had a temporary job, I'd have a little extra time. In no time at all, by the time I threw in family duties, Church responsibilities and a never ending line of bills, not to mention building a house that was way too big for our budget, we were in way over our heads.

Jean began looking for a job as well and began saying things like, "You know, you should have never gotten out of the Air Force!" But it was too late, we had made our bed and now we had to suffocate in it. So what kind of part time job could we get? I tried everything I could think of including, mental health worker, social worker, substitute school teacher, selling soap, running through the classifieds every day to the point of panic. Nothing seemed to work. Jean had gotten a clerical job at a meat packing plant in their administrative section. She said they were hiring at the plant and paying very good wages, although the work was physically demanding.

I checked into it and decided to give it a try. I had no idea what an ordeal I was about to go through. The term "meat packing plant" was a fancy word for beef slaughter house. I don't know why, but I had imagined that hamburger just sort of appeared at the local grocer or McDonald's. My first day on the job was a total gut wrencher. I was seriously nauseated by the smell when I got within one hundred yards of the plant. It was like something out your worst horror movie. Cattle were herded from storage pens and came out in neat, packaged little pieces we call roasts, steaks, ribs, stew meat and yes, hamburger.

I was given a tour so that I could choose which area I wanted to work in first. I was aghast. Did such places really exist? Was this legal? From the killing floor to the meat hooks, from the horns to the hoofs, it went on and on in an assembly line that systematically dismembered the entire cow. After I got rid of my breakfast, I was asked where would I like to start first? The foreman saw my shocked expression and said, "I probably shouldn't say this pardner, but I don't think you'll last a week here. You just ain't the type."

I am not proud to say that eight long years later, I was still there. I simply could not find work that paid as well in the clean environment world. And what "type" of person works at a slaughter house? I suppose all types but mostly those that are desperate, like I was. Crooks and thieves and illiterates and foreign born's with a few over their head in mortgage debt owners like me.

Never before in my life had I worked so hard physically. One day, about midway thru my stay at the plant, after peddling my bike the nine miles home, I began to take off my clothes to get into the shower, when my teenage son walked in on me and said, "Dad, what has happened to your back and arms and legs! You look like a body builder! I then looked at myself in the mirror and realized I had become physically strong in ways I had not imagined. I had been unbelievably sore when I began that job, but after a few months, when they would hire young men, half my age for me to train, the young men would quit after a few days and wonder how an "old man" like me could keep up the pace.

Not only that, but I was fixing 4,000 sq. foot house and going to school on a full time schedule. I was lucky to get four hours of sleep a night and worried about expenses and obligations from waking to sleeping. I worked in many areas of the plant, from the blood pits to refrigeration. From disemboweling to air knives. I wore so much safety gear and equipment that I would bathe in my own sweat and drink what seemed like gallons of water. I had steel mesh gloves on both hands and saw many a worker cut themselves on the razor knives because they would not wear the safety equipment.

I had a hard hat and a visor that fogged up if I got too far from the ventilating fan. I wore boots that came up to my knees. A full metal mesh apron covered my mid section and it was covered by a water proof apron. I was ever leery to make friends or enemies. There is something very disquieting about giving a felon, having done hard time, a knife to cut up beef and he is working right behind you. I trusted few and kept my distance. There were those that I respected but they were far outnumbered by the maniacs and druggies.

I spent much of my time in the basement. It paid more because it was one of the most disgusting places to work in the entire plant. Myself and only one other person worked inside what was called, "the cage." It consisted of a large chute where all secondary cow body parts came down. These "parts" were cut up and put thru a grinder and the oil that was extracted was used in the making of women's make-up. The other "parts" were used for animal food. I could go into stark description of the detail of what went on in that basement but it is too gross for me to want to describe. If the reader would like a more graphic description, the encyclopedias and internet have their explanations under the topic, "slaughter house."

The picture of what it was like, really, was so horrific that, even to this day, I wake up with terrible nightmares. Nevertheless, I had a duty to provide for my family and I knew not what else to do. Many times I applied for other jobs but they paid far less than my obligations. During the first of this era, our contractor's wife contracted cancer. He was obligated to leave the building of our home to others and our sons and I, with the expertise of an electric tech and my wife, drilled and wired the entire house, making all sorts of mistakes along the way. We got an extension from the bank on our construction loan and were able to finish that job, along with all the sub flooring, the priming, the painting and some of the fixtures.

This entire job forced me to drop out of school and I never went back, still possessing the bachelors and masters with a few education courses thrown in. I have purposely left out many of the details of what working at the plant was like to avoid dragging the reader through the same slime I went thru. Suffice it to say that I hope others will not make the same mistakes I did. The house loan was fixed at 10% and was an enormous burden. It was only by selling the house and moving into a much more modest dwelling that we were able to set ourselves free of the burden of debt. I was then able to quit working at the plant and got a more reasonable job working as a hospital orderly.

I remember the last day at the plant, saying goodbye and watching the plant disappear in my rear view window. I loathed the place so much, I have never been back, even when I needed something from that part of town, I would go well out of my way to avoid the area. Poor planning combined with unreasonable expenditures resulted in misery. Looking back at it now, that temporary job, though agonizing, made me stronger physically and emotionally.

FIREWORKS

Life at Phan Rang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam, had been relatively peaceful since I'd arrived two months before, in August of 1967. We had not been seriously attacked by the enemy and my job, as a mechanic at the jet engine test cell, though exhausting and dangerous, became routine. I was far from enjoying myself, but at least my life was not directly threatened. That was about to change.


It all began with a wristwatch that decided to quit working. Instead of just stopping, it suddenly began to run seriously slow. This caused me to be late for work twice, a grave mistake in a combat zone, especially. The military is a dubious master. It sometimes grants great concessions in time off and benefits and on other occasions it can be extremely harsh and unforgiving. The latter was exercised on me in this instance. Headquarters had requested two mechanics of my specialty be transferred to Da Nang Air Base, up north, near the enemy.

Supervisors always look for "problem" airman to transfer away, sort of passing the buck. I was new, I was late twice and I was chosen. I'll never forget the smashing sound of that old wrist watch as I threw it, with a rage, into an empty metal garbage can.

The next day, after a hasty C-130 flight, found me lugging a 100 pound tool box and a military B-4 bag suitcase along a road on the way to the 366th Field Maintenance Squadron (FMS) jet engine maintenance shop at Da Nang. The adjacent flight line and main road I walked along were among the busiest thoroughfares in the world, with traffic and noise and exhaust fumes in abundance.

The temperature and humidity of the day were, as usual, about the same number, 100. It was there that I learned the true meaning of sweat. I spent the next 11 months at that location. My life in Phan Rang had been rough but bearable. It turned out to be a leaping luxury compared to Da Nang days. I had been trained for a month, prior to coming to Vietnam, at Clovis AFB, New Mexico. There, I had learned how to maintain and repair the F-100 aircraft & J-57 jet engine. Abruptly, I found myself at Da Nang, working on the F-4 aircraft and the J-79 jet engine, for which I had no training. Not only were the conditions at Da Nang much worse, but I had not a clue of what I was doing. I became an instant hit with my boss. Nevertheless, I began to learn what I could about my work assignments through on the job training.

Working conditions were crude. We were usually filthy and unkempt because of the serious shortage of such things as shaving gear and bar soap, easily accessible on the black market at many times the regular price but almost non existent at the base exchange store. To wash up our hands and arms from the oil and grease, at the end of a day, we used garbage cans filled with rain water. Sand & dirt from the ground was our soap. We picked up a handful of dirt, rubbed it on our wet hands and then plunged it into the rain barrel water. The water was black colored in short order.

In those days there were no camouflaged green T-shirts to wear under our utilities but white T-shirts, instead. They became gray & black from the oil and sweat. Our hands were cut and marred from busted knuckles and scrapes that engine mechanics get and it was during these conditions that we were taking our ten minute afternoon break, when a window of opportunity opened in my direction. I had scored much higher in administrative duties than in mechanics but the Air Force needed mechanics in Vietnam, worse than they needed clerks so that's what I had been trained to do.

I was an E-4 Airman First Class and I happened to hear a Chief Master Sergeant, E-9, talking to a Technical Sergeant, E-6, about the serious problem they were having since their clerk typist had been transferred back to the States. I spoke up and said I'd be glad to take his place. "Can you type?" was the query. "You bet Chief!" was my reply. "Report to my office at 0600 tomorrow morning!" And that was that. For the remaining ten months, I never turned a wrench until I returned Stateside myself. I worked alongside the Chief, a second lieutenant, an E-6 and an E-5 in an air conditioned office, when the power from the generators was working. The grease faded from beneath my fingernails, hands and arms. I had my own key to the office and when the night temperatures and humidity were particularly unbearable, I would bring my pillow and sleep in the office, quiet and cool.

Still, we were working six, sometimes seven days a week, twelve hours a day. There was little time for anything but eat, sleep and work. At the close of a long day, after about a month in Da Nang, I drifted off into deep slumber but was awakened by a loud "woompff" sound at about midnight. This noise was followed by the base warning siren which was supposed to sound before the attack, but never did. A thousand bare feet from all directions could be heard running for the sandbag bunkers, buried beneath the ground. The barracks were located right across that main road where I'd carried my toolbox a few days before.

The enemy would shoot 122 mm rockets from the foothills, six miles away. Often they would overshoot, hitting our barracks or Quonset hut latrines. The open bay configuration of our barracks made them conducive to attack and more airmen were hurt from accidents in running to their bunker, than from bombs.

Mishaps included running headlong into the middle of floor beam posts that supported the upper level, smashing into five gallon potable water glass jugs, that spread broken glass and water everywhere, (making traction a joke), colliding with someone in the dark, running or being knocked off the second floor staircase, tripping over personal belongings left in the aisle and half suffocating from too many people crowding into a hot, sticky bunker, while several lit up cigarettes for all to choke on. After awhile, it became safer to lie in your bunk during an attack than get maimed trying to get to the bunker.

However, on this particular night, I remember panicking to find my glasses and then making my way past the obstacles toward the bunker. As I rounded the staircase, I could see the sky all lit up with rockets, search flares and explosions. It was like fireworks on the fourth of July. Two fools were sitting on the railing in a drunken stupor yelling at the enemy. No big deal, just a few folks out celebrating. Right. After about 30 minutes, the all clear siren sounded and we all returned to our bunks, save a few that were so scared that they slept in the bunker the rest of the night.

The smell of "fireworks" was everywhere and mosquitoes were enjoying a feast. In all my glorious 13 months in Nam, three things stand out in my memory: sweating, scratching mosquito bites and running to the latrine with diarrhea. We had 32 rocket attacks while I was in Vietnam but none were more memorable than that first one because I didn't know what to expect. I'd heard stories but the unknown always plays havoc with the imagination.

The next morning I surveyed the extent of damage from the night before on my way to work. One aircraft had been totally destroyed while parked in its revetment. (A revetment was a steel casing wall, 12 feet high and two feet wide, filled with sand, surrounding the aircraft on three sides. Such protective walls lessened the chances of one aircraft explosion spreading to another aircraft.) A barracks had caught fire and been leveled and our own jet engine shop had been peppered with shrapnel. As I went to work that day, looking at the holes through our shop walls, I thought to myself, not only are living conditions lousy here but, you know, a guy could get killed.

THE MISADVENTURES OF JETHRO P. SUGGINS, SSGT, USAF


Episode 4 (Wherein our hero and his wife improve their attitude as well as their altitude)

June of 1973 found Suggins, his wife Jean and their daughter Suzy, at the 62nd Field Maintenance Squadron (FMS) picnic. Lunchtime Saturday was sunny and bright at the base park. The Pacific Northwest provided huge evergreen trees that dotted the landscape with spots of shade for the children, while men and women visited and played. The squadron had passed the latest Operational Readiness Inspection (ORI) and it was cause to celebrate. J.P. thought it was always kind of strange how FMS would work so hard to clean and prepare for an inspection and then, when it was over, throw a party, get drunk and make a mess of what they just had fixed.

Suggins and his family always left early, because of this, before things got sloppy.
"J.P.!" yelled Coleman. "You and I haven't been on an engine run together in a couple months. Still think we should have taken off in that last one while we had the chance to fly? Speaking of flying, did you hear what SMSgt Mower is about to announce before the outfit today? The squadron commander has made Mower the one to draw out of the hat and pick the name of the winner of the FMS prize!"

"What FMS prize?" J.P. said, while running to get toddler Suzy from eating a piece of hot dog that had dropped in the dirt.

"Ooh a prize!" Jean cooed, never short on enthusiasm for anything free and spontaneous. She didn't care much what the prize was, just as long as she had a chance to win it. Suggins didn't tell Jean that there were over 800 men in the squadron and their chances of winning were slim at best.

"You don't know about the chance of a lifetime!" Coleman bellowed, as if he were privy to classified information that was about to be made public. "Well, wait no longer to find out J.P. There's Sgt Mower approaching the stand now!"

"Listen everyone, please!" SMSgt Mower spoke in his most consoling voice. The sound was foreign, J.P. hardly recognized it. Funny how leaders knew when to put their military bark away when circumstance called for it. Mower was a nice guy, fair yet firm. He stood tall and handsome in his civilian clothes. Here was a man who knew how to look sharp, neat, authoritative, whether in uniform or not.

"Every year we try to come up with a squadron prize that will be worthy of our troops." Mower went on. "Something that will lift and inspire. This year, it will definitely lift & we will shy away from standard gifts like a free meal for two at your favorite restaurant or a trip for two to Canada. This year, with the permission of the commander, we've decided to do something daring."

"This year the winner and his wife or girlfriend, will enjoy the chance to parachute from a small aircraft at an altitude of over 5,000 feet! They will be safely instructed on the procedure and then dropped over the open countryside, east of here!"

At this announcement, the crowd oohed and ahhed and Suggins wondered if they had all lost their minds. "What in blazes are they thinking of? A guy could get killed! Is he supposed to bring his wife along to die with him? Who thought of this dumb idea?"

"I think it would be fun!" Jean said, quick to lend her support. "I've always wanted to do something like that! Besides, what could be safer? They give you an extra chute, in case the first one doesn't open. Imagine...falling thru the air, the wind against your face, completely free, what a thrill!"

The spice of danger is part of what made Jean enthusiastic about the possibility. Where J.P. was cautious, she was carefree. When he desired deliberation, she charged ahead. It was perhaps, in part, this very difference that made the relationship work. They respected one an other's judgement and would often concede, in turn. When neither would concede, sparks flew. Jean's was the stronger personality, however, so sparks flew rarely.

The magic spell Suggin's wife had over him was really something more. Something corny and romantic that pseudo macho guys like Jethro didn't like to talk about. It was something called love. He would get so incredibly mad at her for hours, but never more than a day. He just couldn't take opposing her on things that really didn't matter. It wasn't worth it. He cared for her too much.

Jean had a beauty mark just above the right side of her lip. She had a broad grin that could melt his heart. Her eyes were bright green, dancing, alert and wide with vitality. Standard equipment from the neck down was curled in all the right places. She was the only girl for him and he hated to disappoint her.

Someone brought a big cardboard box full of names to Mower. He stirred them up with his hand, reached down deep and drew out one, lonely slip of paper. Mower looked at the name and smiled. Suggins crossed his fingers, hoping no. Jean crossed hers, hoping yes. "And the lucky winner is...Sgt and Mrs. Jay Eseltine!" J.P. sighed relief. Jean pouted and then went over and congratulated Jay and his wife Kathy. Suggins said something about better you than me and soon had Jean and Suzy in tow, headed toward home, with another crisis averted.

After Church, the next day and Jean's delicious roast beef dinner, Suggins drifted off to sleep with his usual Sunday nap. His dreams danced with visions of airplanes that never broke, days off that never quit and perhaps, someday, a baby brother for Suzy. We could name him Scotty, he thought. Maybe he might even join the Air Force.

His thoughts were soon sharply stabbed by the sound of ringing off in the distance. "Hello," Jean said from the livingroom. "What? Yes. Oh, yes! Oh, are you sure? Thanks, thanks ever so much! Have a safe trip. Okay. Bye!"

She wasted no time bursting into the bedroom to J.P. "Darling, darling, something wonderful has happened!" Suggins was suspicious immediately, for her inflection was the same as when she went to the store and bought $500.00 extra in furniture that she hadn't told him about and then explained how she saved them so much money because it was on sale. "Jay Eseltine was just on the phone and explained how he and his wife must go home on emergency leave because of a death in the family. Out of all the members in the whole squadron, he has chosen US to give his parachuting tickets to!"

"What!" J.P. was abruptly very awake. "Well, you can just call him back and say we don't want them!"

"Oh, I can't honey! He called from the airport. Their flight is just leaving. We'll have to take the free tickets so they don't go to waste. He put them in your mailbox on base."

"Yeah, well you can just go pick them up and burn them or at best give them to someone else! I want no part of them! I get dizzy standing on a one step ladder!"

"Gee, that's a shame," Jean said, pushing up her lip and acting hurt. "Since you don't want to go, guess that means I'll have to find some other man to come up there with me!"

"What!"

"That's right. Jay told me that if you didn't want to go along that there were plenty of young, brave, single men in the squadron to keep me company up there."

"Jay, said that! I'll break his neck! I'll jack him up so high, he'll get nose bleeds! Besides, you are NOT going if I'm not!"

Jean was sweet, kind, thoughtful, caring, tender and loving, except when she was roughly told she was NOT allowed to do something. Then it was like Barbra Striesand's song, "Don't Rain on My Parade." Something snapped. She assumed the demeanor of a tigress guarding her cubs and heaven help the man that got in her way. She let J.P. have both barrels in the gut. They argued and counterargued, but in the end, Jethro was no match for her wits. She had the ability to see the solution to a problem at once and talk her way out of the proverbial paper bag, clearly, without stammering or stuttering. She was not always right, but she sure had a way of often convincing Suggins that she was.

Three weeks later, on the appointed day and time, guess where we find our hero? Very good guess. At over 5,000 feet in a small airplane with Jean and a pilot. The day was clear and warm, ideal for dying, parachuting or would be skydivers. The aircraft was in a circular course that surrounded wide grassy fields and a huge harbor at one end. Suggins and Jean were given a safety briefing by the pilot. Among the things he told them was to pull the emergency chute, should the first not open, but that it was seldom required. Also he mentioned an emergency knife, to cut their parachute straps, should a gust of wind blow them into the top of a tree. They were told that they flew adjacent to water should some sort of unforseen circumstance require it. Lastly, he told them not to panic, they would only be in the air a short time and to enjoy the ride.

The pilot wanted to know if there were any questions. There were none. Jean was more excited than Suggins had ever seen her; like a five year old with new puppies. A truck was waiting to pick them up when they got to the ground. J.P. was green, nauseous and scared so badly that he was glad he had not eaten all day and had used the restroom just before takeoff. The hair on his head would have all fallen out from fright, but he was mostly bald already. He thought he might be having a heart attack, it was pounding so hard. The noise from his heart and the aircraft combined was deafening.

At the appointed time, Jean grasped the outer edge of the open door, gave a mighty lunge and was out. Jethro watched the mother of Suzy fly gracefully for a few hundred feet and then blossom into a multi-colored red, white and blue parachute, like a caterpillar transforming into a large and lovely butterfly. The chute was steerable and she moved the risers this way and that, experimenting with direction control. Suggins thought he heard her yell a loud "Ya WHO!" of exhilaration on the way down. He watched till she safely touched the earth and then, with dread, realized is was his turn.

J.P. had toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing now that Jean was out. She had her jump and he wanted no part of his, but he decided to go thru with it for two reasons. One, not to, would break Jean's heart and two, he was feeling so terrible anyway, he didn't think it could get any worse. He was wrong. It will be over in a couple minutes, he thought. Also wrong.

Instructions were to push off hard from the plane and then, when well away, tug on the chord to open the chute. Unfortunately J.P. was too weak to push off hard and had not the presence of mind to wait to open his chute. He wanted to get this over with quickly. It was this combination of misjudgments that made Suggins's ride a bit longer than normal.

Jethro closed his eyes, bit his lip and did not jump out, but rather, fell out. As soon as he felt himself free of the door, he pulled his chord, just to assure that it had plenty of time to open. A big mistake.

Because he was so close to the aircraft when the chute released, it did not open, but instead caught on the fixed landing gear of the small plane. As J.P. fell, his eyes still closed, he felt a sudden tug, the feeling of the chute opening, he imagined. It will pull me up for awhile, but then it will begin to descend. He waited and waited. Still pulling me up, in fact, I feel horizontal, that's odd, he thought. Do I dare take a peek and open my eyes to see what's going on, he pondered. Maybe just one eye. As he glanced around, it was then that he noticed that he qualified as an airplane streamer. If he would have been bigger, he could have had, "Shop a Joe's Bar & Grill" or "Happy Birthday Aunt Helen," stenciled along his length. He thought of the words of the pilot, "don't panic, you'll only be in the air for a short time and enjoy the ride." At this point he realized the gravity of his situation and unleashed a blood curdling yell that surely must have been heard back at the base.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The pickup truck was already to Jean's location and the driver and Jean watched in horror, with the help of binoculars, as Suggins played his version of follow the leader. They were helpless to offer any assistance and Jean feared she would watch her husband go to his death. "Oh, I never should have made him do this! How can he possibly escape alive?"she said out loud.

J.P. should have been so terrified that he passed out. He certainly was weak enough, but the turbulence was too strong to allow that. He knew he could not think clearly if all he did was panic. No one on earth can help me now, he reasoned. "I've got myself into this mess, Oh, God, will you please get me out of it?" he prayed. All he could hear was the terrible roar of the wind turbulence and the plane motor struggling to pull him along. The aircraft will eventually run out of fuel and he will have to land or crash and that will mean certain death. The small plane was barely keeping aloft now with the drag created by towing Jethro through the air. "Heavenly Father, isn't there anything I can do?"

It was then that he remembered the emergency knife. If I can cut through the straps and get free of the aircraft, then I can pull my reserve chute. It was his only hope. He again uttered a prayer for help and began to hack away at the straps. Work was difficult because of his weakened state and the stiff turbulence. He had trouble hanging on to the knife as the air whipped him around and around.

There were four straps. J.P. cut thru the first, the second and halfway thru the third and then a gust of wind tore the knife from his hands and it fell to the earth. Meanwhile he flapped along still connected by a strap and a half. Groan, what am I to do now, he thought...wait to die? Perhaps, just perhaps, if I pulled my reserve chute now, the sudden jerk would pull on the remaining strap and a half and break them and then I could get free. He had few other options.

Mustering what courage he had left, he pulled the reserve chute. It worked as advertised, however, the remaining straps held. The little aircraft engine could not support the strain of flying with a drag chute and it immediately shutdown. Soon the group headed downward, the pilot, the airplane, Suggins and the chute. What if the strap and a half breaks now, he worried. They were descending over the ground but J.P. was able to use the chute's risers to steer his group over to the side of the harbor, where he figured, he had a much better chance of surviving. This is really dumb, he thought, I can't even swim, but then again, I don't bounce very well either.

Down, down, down they plunged, at a somewhat faster rate than normal. That the reserve chute was even able to carry such an ungainly load was surprising, but on it went anyway, until, with a mighty splash, in went the plane and pilot, followed by our hero. Several passenger boats were in the harbor and watched the plane and company go in. Jean and the driver were at the scene in a passenger boat. The pilot and Suggins were able to hang on to aircraft wreckage, long enough to be pulled into the boat to safety. The pilot was badly bruised and shaken up, but Jethro was just exhausted. J.P. had not the strength to utter a word, but instead passed out on the floor of the boat.

Hours later, he woke up in a hospital bed, staring at the tear stained face of Jean. "Oh, J.P., I'm so sorry!" she moaned. "I almost killed you! Thank God. He kept you alive!"

"Just wait till I get my hands on Jay Eseltine!" Suggins rasped. "I'll tear him apart! I'll make him wish he never heard of any FMS prize! J.P. went on like that for several minutes.

Oh, good, Jean thought, I can see he's getting better already.

AN ADOPTION TO REMEMBER

We had enough children. Surely four was enough. My wife's prolapsed uterus had required a hysterectomy four years previous. Wasn't that a sign that our family had reached it's limit? As an enlisted man, serving in the military, overseas, I was barely able to support my family now. Shouldn't all things be done in wisdom? Despite this, my wife continued to plead with me to adopt a child.

We were living in Okinawa, Japan. Adoption of Japanese or Caucasian children was highly restrictive, especially when we already had four of our own natural children. Friends informed us that possibilities for adoption of a Filipino child, however, were very good. My wife, Jean, said she had prayed about it and knew there was another child meant to be in our family. She had tried, repeatedly, lovingly, to convince me of this, but I would not be swayed. We had two girls and two boys and our last one was out of diapers. We've sacrificed plenty, I thought. Kids are very expensive. Some of my peers had no children and extra money to do special things.

Such was my resolve until a church sacrament meeting in the Futenma Japanese Chapel. The sister that was speaking told of a cute, healthy, oriental Chinese boy that she was adopting near Clark Air Base in the Republic of the Philippines. She explained how the wonderful child was worth all the sacrifice and trouble. Her description included the countless hours of joy the baby had already given them and as she spoke, I felt a warm flush spread over me, as if to say, this would be right for us. I argued with the feeling, for I felt it was an emotional rather than a spiritual plea and would not hold up to reason. The more I struggled, however, the stronger the feeling became.

I looked over at Jean to see if she was feeling the same tug of war but she looked merely attentive, with a tender longing she had always felt during times like this, wondering if I would ever soften. The wave of warmth I sensed was strong and I felt that, despite my misgivings against it, that it was the right choice. I could not believe my reaction and after a few minutes, I leaned over to Jean and said the words that would put into motion many expenses, sacrifices, pains, changes, joys and adjustments. "I think it is right that we adopt, after all." Jean stared into my eyes and instantly began to weep.

We had arrived at Kadena Air Base, Japan in 1979 and Jean had begun saving, almost at the onset, for all sorts of exotic furniture. Things like Korean Chests, roll top desks, secretary desks and the like, were high on her list. It was now April of 1982 and suddenly these plans to buy furniture were scrapped and she was diverting savings toward travel arrangements, separate living expenses and adoption costs. She took Metta, five years old and Danny, four, with her and they left for Clark Air Force Base. I stayed in Japan with Suzy, ten and Scott, seven. They spent the day at babysitters, after school, until I got home from work. Our family life was already in turmoil and yet we had just begun.

Jean had never worked outside the home since we had been married. She was always there for all of us. We, therefore, began to feel, keenly, the agony and loneliness of separation. Expenses of two separate households began to wear on us right away. If I had been sent on temporary duty, TDY, to the Philippines, Jean would have been able to shop at the base exchange, BX, and Commissary on Clark, but since she was only there on leave, she had to shop off base, which was much more expensive. We began to realize the depth of sacrifice this adoption would inflict. She also had nowhere to live but was able to appeal to the Filipino LDS Church Ward, just off base, in Angeles City. Bishop Tecson was the leader there and fortunately, he was also a landlord and rented half of his unfurnished duplex to Jean and the kids.

The weather in the Philippines is subtropical, hot and humid, except during the winter or monsoon season when the temperature is the same, but heavy rain is added. Insects flourish well in this environment and the foliage is lush and green. Clark Air Base had a large landing strip to accommodate super size aircraft and the base itself was massive and spread out all over. Jean and the kids had no car in that country and they were forced to rely on lifts from passersby or depend on the slow bus system. Off base they would ride "jeepneys" which were old jeeps, decorated and painted by the locals and loaded beyond belief with extra passengers that sat on the hood, roof or anywhere else that could hold them. They were incredibly unsafe by our standards.

There were very few enforced traffic rules and if you could get behind the wheel and reach the pedals, you could drive. No normal sewer system existed and that smell, combined with unusual cooking odors wafting out of open doorways made for some nauseating smells. The noise of traffic was deafening and confusion reigned as everyone tried to get to their destination. Jean had been to Angeles City before and felt all these things, but then it had meant shopping and spending extra money, which she loved to do. Now her mission was entirely different and she was seeing sights not meant for shopper's eyes. All this added to her frustration. We would communicate on the phone when we could and many prayers were said, pleading for each others welfare.

Bishop Tecson explained to Jean the adoption proceedings and she began to look for an infant in earnest. I had only given written permission to adopt one child, for I knew that if I did not so specify, she would bring home at least two. Jean had been told that it was imperative that she adopt thru official government channels, since there were many unscrupulous pretenders who would take the money of the unwary, with the promise of an adoption that would really never be.

One of the first people she met upon arrival in the Philippines, was a man who said, for a small fee, he could get her an adopted baby fast, thru a series of "shortcuts." Jean had already been warned, however, and paid this man no heed. Unfortunately, this was the type of man who was helping the sister who gave the ward members that original talk about adoption at the sacrament meeting.

Jean was instead led, by a friend of Bishop Tecson's, to an orphanage. The facility was overcrowded with young children from newborns to late adolescents. When the children knew she was there for a possible adoption, many surrounded her and begged her to pick them. It was considered fortunate indeed to be adopted by an American family. When Jean hesitated, the children screamed all the louder, but she did not feel that any of them were the right one. It tore at her heartstrings when she left the orphanage with no child.

My wife was told of other children, but nothing seemed to work out until she was led into the barrios or slums. She found a baby, lying on a recessed table, on the inside of a hut, that had no electricity or running water. The tiny girl was seven months old and yet weighed only seven pounds. Her mother had kept the child barely alive by feeding her one part of condensed milk to seven parts of water. The infant was left up against a wall for so often that she could only move her head in one direction, toward her mother and the open room. The baby had a bruise on her tailbone from being left to lay on a hard surface, day after day.

We later learned that the name of the child was Anna. She had little strength to cry or move but had developed a scratching technique, wherein she could also move her fingers and arms to fend off insects. She lay naked on the table and it was later discovered that she suffered from head lice, scabies, round worm and malnutrition. The hair of her head stuck out in stringy chunks and smelled horrible. Her eyes were sunken in a round face, devoid of fat. Anna's look was placid and apathetic, as if somehow consigned to her fate. Doctors later reported that, left in her current condition, she would only live a few more weeks at most. Her ribs were clearly visible, along with the bones in her arms and legs.

Anna possessed none of the vitality normally found in youngsters her age. She was withdrawn and listless and yet it was to this young, starving baby that my, by now, crying wife, was drawn to, feeling a confirming spirit saying that this is the right one. Jean had seen so many children, with far less problems and wondered why they had not been more right for our family than this one. Why, this one? Even so, she did not attempt to discern why this was the special child for us, she simply began working thru the State to adopt Anna and proceedings were begun.

After a few days, my wife was able to take possession of the baby. A priesthood blessing was immediately given. Jean would have to meet a four month residency requirement, living in the Philippines for that amount of time. It was the longest four months I ever remember. A court date was set, wherein I had to appear, pledging my support of the baby, both financially and emotionally. At that time we also had the baby's name officially changed from Anna to Melony Crystal Ray. Before the Filipino judge, I further promised I would do everything for Melony that I would do for any of my natural born children. This included that she would be one with them when it came to rights, to privileges, possessions or heirs as a beneficiary, should her adopted parents die. The natural mother released all rights to the child.

Having met the court and being on a few days leave, we all returned to the duplex that Jean had rented. It was very good to be briefly together again but living conditions, although somewhat luxurious for a Filipino, were primitive to us. The two most distressing concerns were fighting off the rats and the absence of basic furniture, especially beds. Sleeping on the floor with rats the size of small dogs was one scary adventure.

As far as I could determine, there was no regular garbage pickup. Trash just accumulated in the corner of the property designated for its disposal. Rats and enormous bugs feasted and disease was rampant. The heat and humidity were oppressive. We constantly thirsted. Fans helped, however, electricity was available but unreliable. "Brownouts," or long periods when the electricity was off, was a daily occurrence. At night, the sound of rats scurrying about for food or fighting was very common, but the worst came during heavy rainstorms. Water would fill up the rodent holes and the rats would head, in a panic, for high ground. Their true numbers could be seen crawling up buildings or onto screens, by the hundreds. It was like some awful horror movie. The biggest cockroaches I have ever seen live there. They swim and even fly during some stages of their lives. They are even bigger than the ones in the U.S. southern states, like Florida water bugs.

We set large rat traps at night, but they did little to reduce the population. Sort of like emptying the ash trays on a 747 jumbo jet to reduce the take off weight. They made little difference, but instead provided more food for the cannibalistic rats.

I was only able to take leave for about two weeks of the four months that Jean and the children were away, so I knew that my attempts to make life easier for them, after I left, would be feeble. My military unit consisted of 15 men trying to do the work of 25. We were grossly undermanned and so my leave time was limited. Still, while I was there, I tried to do what I could to keep insects and rats outside. On the first night that we all stayed together in the duplex, we had only paper thin straw mats to lie on. These served as our beds. They were placed on the concrete slab floors and afforded us almost no comfort. However, I quickly learned why houses of quality, in that country, were made from concrete. Rain, monsoon wind and rats have a tough time getting thru. The general population had homes of wood or leftover cardboard boxes.

We were all so tired, that first night together, as a family of seven, we slept anyway, despite the intense heat and humidity. All of us except Jean. She had lived in that house for some days before I got there. She knew of the intruders that tried to get in. Jean slept fitfully, sitting up in a wicker rocking chair, next to Melony's baby crib. Those were two pieces of furniture we did have. Jean could hear the rats trying to gnaw under the wooden back door. They had already tore away some of the wood, so she got a heavy, wooden plank supported by two full, gallon size paint cans and propped them against the door. There Jean sat, facing the door, guarding her baby, night after night, all night long. On Okinawa, in base housing, we had central air conditioning and soft beds. She gave that all up, temporarily, to adopt. The rats could smell the milk in the house and were after it. Gruesome things could happen if the rats followed the smell of milk to a baby's lips.

Jean was ready to do combat, if necessary, to protect her new baby. During the next few nights, we all took turns guarding, but Jean was most vigilant. We lived with only the basics. There was no TV, stereo, or video to entertain us, or rather, distract us. Getting acquainted again, we began to read from story books we brought along. We read from the classic, "Heidi," a little each night, before retiring. The story was inspiring and we laughed and cried together, stopping to explain or clarify this or that passage. Night after night, the words of that book brought us together in a spirit of love and companionship. Notwithstanding our hardship, we relished our time, reading of a little girl and her grandfather in the Swiss Alps, while we sweltered in the poverty of the Philippines. Never had we suffered so and never had we been so close. Sometimes terrible conditions can actually bring about good.

Shortly after Jean had arrived, she was able to make off base travel arrangements a little easier by employing a certain Jeepney driver and his vehicle. Benie, only a nick name, offered to wait and bring Jean and the kids to appointments for a reasonable flat rate. He would meet her at the duplex at prearranged times.

Benie's rides benefited both of us. He always knew he had a fare at certain times of the day and we could get the vehicle to ourselves without haggling over price, with a new driver each time. The taxi was not owned by Benie and he had to pay daily rent for its use and therefore, was never able to get financially ahead. Benie was fair and protective and more than once made sure we were not cheated when shopping. We became good friends and two days before I was due to return to Japan, I bought Benie a pair of high quality, G.I. sunglasses. It was a bonus gift that I wanted him to have, in appreciation for superior service. His reaction amazed me. He openly wept. He'd squinted for so long in the sun and never imagined the luxury of shades to protect his tired eyes. Over his bronze baked, leather skin, he wore tattered jeans, an old, faded T-shirt, a straw hat, sandals and sunglasses that cost more than all the rest of his attire combined. He was overcome with gratitude and showed the shades off to everyone.

On 4 June 1982, I was preparing to return to Okinawa when I again spotted Benie, this time without the sunglasses. I asked him what happened to them and he became sheepish and embarrassed. He finally confessed that he sold them to buy two of his children enrollment into elementary school. He said he knew they could do better than to grow up and be Jeepney drivers the rest of their lives. He worked seven days a week, sunup to sundown, no benefits, no holidays off. If he didn't work, his family didn't eat. If his kids could get some education, he reasoned, maybe they wouldn't have to live like him, from hand to mouth every day. Such was his resolve and my heart went out to him.

I dreaded leaving and being split as a family again, but I had no choice. I left Suzy & Danny with their Mom and took Metta and Scotty back with me. We said our tearful goodbyes and then Scotty, our seven year old climber, decided it would be more daring to scale the rusty, iron fence, outside our rented duplex, rather than using the gate. Upon doing so, he caught his wrist on some protruding metal. It cut him deep and long and he sobbed miserably, but we bandaged him up and departed. By the time we got home, his wrist was infected and a trip to the emergency room at Kadena repaired his wound but left a permanent imprint in his memory of an unpleasant experience.

Our time away from each other lasted just over a month more and on 17 July 82, we were again reunited amongst tears of joy. A strange turn of events occured to the woman who had first told us of adoption possibilities in the Philippines, however. She had listened to a man who said he knew "shortcuts" to an easy adoption and had given the man money. The police became involved and the baby was taken away from this woman because the child had been a black market baby. Oh, how we ached for that sister but there was little we could do.

I had pleaded with the Air Force and my unit to send me TDY to Clark, to receive my next assignment's C-130 training, since we were on our way to Frankfurt, Germany for a three year tour there. My unit dragged it's feet. Had they sent me for four months training at Clark during the adoption, we could have all been together and lived on base. Instead, they waited till after the adoption was over. Our time together in 1982 was disrupted, yet again, in September, when they sent me to Clark till just before Christmas.

I lived in a one bedroom base apartment, where I was pestered by Filipino prostitutes day and night, pornography rampant everywhere, and Filipino girls dancing on top of tables to loud music as we ate our meals at the NCO Club. I got heavily involved in the local military LDS ward, wore music headsets, listening to church music and talks, ate at the chow halls instead and avoided anything that sought to compromise my marriage vows. Many military men begged to be sent to Clark TDY, for it was the Sodom and Gomorrah of the orient. For me, it was yet another pain to be endured. I refused to take the bus and walked everywhere I needed to go, to keep me physically fit. When the volcano eruption caused the closure of Clark, years later, I often wondered if it was by divine edict.

In March of 1983, we all left for Germany and had many choice experiences there, but because we had not been in the States long enough, Melony was still on a Filipino passport. When I retired from the military and returned to Utah, our first concern, amidst and unstable Filipino government, was to get Melony her U.S. citizenship. The wait and the paperwork to get her citizenship approved was staggering. But, "after much tribulation, cometh the blessings," and finally, on a windy 4th of July of 1986, at Rice Stadium, in the University of Utah, Melony became a naturalized citizen of the United States. Jean stood proudly by her side for the oath and when it was over, Melony, almost five years old, looked at her Mom and said, "Now Mommy, I America." She certainly was.

"She just needs alot of love and food," the military doctor who first saw her had said. This we had worked to provide. Melony's biggest hurdles had been climbed but she still had many small jumps to make. She had come from fixating her eyes on her hands and then rolling her eyeballs back into her head, when someone talked to her, to complete socialization, brought on by playing and living with our other children. She had come from being hysterical and absolutely terrified of baths and washing, to showering everyday and playing in the pool. Still, malnourishment at such an early stage of development has made it difficult for her to learn new things. She was almost 12 before she learned to ride a bike, for instance. Sometimes she needs extra help, but once she learns, it's there to stay.

As of this date, September 2007, Melony is 26 years old, with a 14 month baby girl of her own. Melony plays the piano and enjoys exercising and reading. She is shorter, physically, than most girls her age, but not much different in height from most Filipinos. To us, she is a walking miracle and brings us joy in our advancing years. May we never forget how she came into our lives.