A recent post on our Scotty Fan Club page of friend Carey Barfield meeting an original member of the AVG (Frank Losonsky) reminded me of a story involving Carey and us three boys from a millennium ago. I would like to share it with you…

 

Background and Preface: The Robert Scott Fan Club, having begun in late 1974, has been taken from its hallowed halls of McKibben Lane Elementary School and relocated into Miller A Junior High School in the heart of Macon, Ga., a mere four blocks from the boyhood home of one Robert L. Scott, Jr. The boys have been “discovered” by the Junior High Newspaper, which ultimately leads them to the Sunday edition of the Macon Telegraph and News, whose pixelated coverage of us was in ‘living color’----But on this day, Thursday, October 14^th, 1976, Gerald Ford was President; Elvis had been to Macon just two months previous, and unbeknownst to the boys, Scotty was in town….

 

There was one time that I won’t ever forget. A man named Billy Adams was running for Congress one time, and somehow talked General Scott into making a speech for him at a fundraiser.

A fellow schoolmate and friend, Carey Barfield, informed us that his Dad was going and that it was a political fundraiser costing a whopping fifty American samolians to attend. After Guerry and Dave picked me up off of the floor, our joy and hopes of getting to see the General vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

We still had an outside chance to see him at one of our houses or maybe receive a phone call, but if he was going to be in Macon scrubbing toilets, the Robert L. Scott Fan Club needed to be there too! I mean, we were bonafied and fully credentialed. It was in the Macon paper, for crying out loud! Why Billy Adams “people” had not gotten in contact with us would remain a mystery forever. Did they not know that where Scotty goest, so goest the Fan Club?

Well, we all went home that afternoon mighty disappointed, knowing  good and well had we even the time to scour the entire neighborhood, there wasn’t $150 worth of Coca-Cola bottles under the porch, let alone yards to mow, to come up with that kind of scratch. None of us were having a Birthday, and Christmas was nowhere in sight. And while report cards were known to earn some spending money, straight A’s wouldn’t have netted that kind of money; as for me, I had better chances of being struck by lightning.

Back to Carey Barfield, a Great American Patriot. Carey had stood by most of that day at Central-Miller A Jr. High, watching as well as listening to our lament (my lament equated to whining). It was he who had told us of the General coming to town but he naturally assumed we would be there at the fundraiser. Like Carey said, “You guys are connected, where goest Scotty so goest you guys.”

 Well, he must have felt bad about our situation because as I understood it from Guerry later he went to his dad and asked if there was a way to come up with some tickets. I never did find out what Carey’s dad did for a living, and we sure hope he hadn’t shelled out 50 bucks a ticket for us to attend, but as fate had done several times before, Guerry would soon be calling me that afternoon (Guerry was always the one who got the call) and told me what had transpired with Carey and his dads assistance. Carey had called Guerry and said he had tickets for all of us! By unanimous vote, Carey Barfield was immediately awarded a lifetime membership into the R.L.S.F.C.A.

One little logistical problem was Transportation. At 14, we didn’t have learners’ licenses nor did we ride bicycles. We were in Junior High.

I was charged with coordinating transportation.

In my case, as in every other instance there was an emergency transportation requirement, it meant calling my granddad, “BIG” George. The man I was so appropriately named after. He was Big George, and I was Little George. He was always ready, willing, and able to carry us boys anywhere we needed to go. Although blind in one eye, nobody ever loved driving more than he did. The ongoing joke in the family was that the only thing he liked more than driving was attending funerals, so naturally when he got to drive to attend a funeral, he was beside himself. His car during most of my childhood was a 1962 Plymouth Valiant, which must have had 300,000 miles on it when he bought it, and I’m certain he put that many more on it. He taught us grandkids how to drive in that car, which had a push-button transmission. Riding with him, even if just to the store and back, was a life altering experience that would make a Christian out of the most destitute. But when you need transportation, beggars can’t be choosers, so one had to assume risk.

And so it came to pass that by 6:30 that evening, 4 ‘almost learners permit’ teenagers and Big George went to their first political fundraiser with the help of fate Carey and Mr. Barfield, his dad.

 We saw General Scott at the reception before the event started, and once he began his speech acknowledged our presence, calling us by name and having us stand up in front of a packed Grand Opera House, (the venue that previously premiered “God is my Co-Pilot”). All the “old folks” at the fundraiser politely applauded patted us on the backs and told us what find young men we were. What a night! They also has a special showing of “God is my co-pilot’, which was a lot better than having to stay up and watch it on late night cable.

I really don’t remember much after that. Billy Adams lost his bid for Congress during the election, and our heads were spinning for days afterwards. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was how our friend CAREY BARFIELD saved the day!

Happy Birthday to my Grandma, Rennie Amanda Tucker Fisher

 

 

Once upon a time, way back on December 3rd, 1904, in the small hamlet of Funston, a community just a stones throw from Moultrie, Georgia, the Reverend Ansel P. Tucker, pastor of Bridge Creek Baptist Church, awaited the birth of his  seventh of eight children. His Wife -Mary Josephine (Sellers), sometime during this day delivered the new daughter by traditional means--at home. She would be named Rennie Amanda.

Rennie Amanda Tucker grew up, raised in a fine southern Baptist home, and one day while on the streets of Moultrie, walked by a man (she had never seen before) who loudly proclaimed to the other fellows he was standing with, "I'm going to marry that girl one day.." She immediately thought him crazy (He was, but that's another story).

It just so happened that the crazy mans prediction was spot on. Rennie Amanda and this crazy man (his name was George ) got married, and just a couple of years later gave birth to a son. The son grew up, got married, and his wife bore him three kids, one of whom would be named "George". 

He was referred to as "Little George" so as to distinguish himself from his Grandfather. Little George was born premature, and spent some time in an incubator. Rennie, the new Grandmother, held vigil outside the maternity ward there at the hospital in Albany, Georgia, and one day another lady, peering into the nursery, commented within earshot of new Grandmother Rennie that the one little baby looked like a "wet rat"---an accurate description if the truth be told--and while there are no witnesses to what transpired immediately afterwards, the Fisher family legend has recorded this incident as possibly the only time in her entire life that new Grandmother Rennie may have forgotten she was a preachers daughter and a fine Southern Christian lady. Her Son later said "That's as close as I ever came to seeing My Momma whip someone's ass!"
 

Little George absolutely worshipped his new Grandmother Rennie, who by now was just called "Grandma"...Little George spent nearly every weekend of his young life at her house, loving every minute of his time there. Upon seeing his parents car pull into the driveway to take him back home, he would cry. He sooned learned, however, that when he became too sick to go to school, he would be sent usually to two places--the doctor’s office and his Grandmas--so George was sick----a lot. His parents KNEW, as little George did, that he would get well faster at Grandmas house. There was something in the water. On one occasion, Little George contracted the mumps and each time his jaws began to hurt he would run into his Grandmas arms so she could hug the pain away.

It worked.

So did the fried chicken she made him, and the pound cakes, where he was allowed to lick the spoon--because he was a wormy little kid who would have lived off of bread and milk if left to his own devices, and wormy little kids should naturally be allowed to lick the spoon—unless, of course, they were sick from the measles, and Grandma just “happened” to show up with an entire bowlful of batter.

As time passed, Little George stopped being a sickly little runt, and became a ‘mostly’ normal young man. He still visited his Grandmas house often, and even took his dates there before taking them home to meet his own parents.

Eventually, his Grandma passed away. Little George, by now not so little anymore, felt as though his best friend in the world had died. In fact, she had.

George eventually came to understand that precious memories, like that song goes, linger. One day George would get married and have a little girl. He would give her his Grandmas’ middle name, Amanda.

George still thinks about his Grandma twice a day. When he is awake and when he is asleep. He thinks about her so much that even TODAY, her BIRTHDAY, won’t be much different than yesterday or tomorrow.

George is even a grandparent himself, even though everyone knows he isn’t nearly old enough for that type of job. He hopes to be just half as good a Grandpa as he had a Grandma. He thinks his Grandma would be pleased to know that he learned from the best.

 

 

THE PICTURE........

Back in 2006 when I returned from Iraq, I was fortunate enough to have a life defining moment in the Life of George captured not only for my Family, but quite possibly for the ages. I will preface it all by saying it has nothing to do with me in the grand scheme, but as it happens for once in my life I happened to be in the right place at the right time. IT.....the photograph...got splattered all over creation, and since 2006 has even had some recurrences through social media, most recently this past Sunday morning while chilling with Wifey. The Veterans Site on Facebook posted the picture and next thing you know there are 75,000 likes, 7,968 shares, and 1,709 comments.

The picture is referred to as "Amanda's butt picture" at our house, because, well, as you can see, there it is....meanwhile, son Joe and my little Lyndsay obscured by the full moon.

In ten years, the picture has taken a life of its own, with many assuming that is the "Wife and Kids", that the Soldier got in trouble, punished, etc., which isn't the case. A small percentage of the comments were negative, citing lack of discipline, breaking the "rules", and all of that. The truth is that my Wife tried harnessing the kids, but it was not to be. They stormed the bastille. IT was nothing more than kids missing their Daddy. It was spontaneous, it happened, and when I take my last breath that's what I am going to see.

I go back to my journal entry from May, 2006:

What ACTUALLY happened—At the conclusion of the Generals’ comments—  he said “That’s all I have…”

At precisely that moment, these three kids— all of whom belong to me—BOLTED from the confines of the throng of families and distinguished guests, as if they had been shot out of a cannon.

In a flash I could see all three—eyes wide open, with grins on their faces as big as mine—hauling ass toward me—Joe, followed by Lyndsay, followed by Amanda…I attempted to wave them off but in that fraction of a second I had to decide what was more important—wave them off or prepare for the impending train wreck. Their combined weight exceeded mine by a good hundred pounds and had I not braced myself accordingly, I may have been a casualty right there on the parade field.

I heard someone in the rank behind me say “Here they come” and that’s when I got it full blast—-WHUMP….WHUMP……WHUMP….as each of my kids plowed into me-Joe having launched himself in the air a good eight feet prior….

I had my arms full of Fisher kids, and all we could do was cry…

I may have even told them to go back into the stands until the Army song was finished..IT was all a blur and If I had only one word to describe it:
Indescribable.

Long Story a tad longer—The news media saw my little heathens break ranks and followed suit, the end result of which--- the defining moment of my career-- captured in pictures and splattered on the front pages of several newspapers—even in my Grandfathers hometown of Moultrie, Georgia.

The family and I all drove home, where the neighbors had hung a “WELCOME HOME GEORGE” banner across the front porch and the front yard was festooned with 145 American Flags—my cup runneth over.

The next afternoon I was lying on my back deck in the hammock looking at the bluest sky I ever saw, contrasted by the wonderful green grass and trees of Middle Georgia. This was unreal. I must have died and went to heaven—-and If I only had one word to describe how it felt: Indescribable.

I glanced down at my watch and noticed I still had it set 9 hours ahead—Iraqi time.

I pulled the stem out and reset my watch. In the background I could hear Sue knocking around in the kitchen preparing supper. I felt my eyelids getting heavy and drifted off to sleep.

I was home.

NO RIFLEMAN??? BARBARIANS!!

Dear AMC;
I like your network. A lot. It is saved to my 'favorites'....for what its worth, AMC is a big part of my weekends-- here's why:
1) awake NLT 0700
2) take a whiz
3) go downstairs and get coffee started
4) tune in to AMC in HD
5) ease into my morning with back to back episodes of "The Rifleman" (pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow) starring Chuck Connors.......

Imagine my chagrin when I tuned in this morning and Children of the Corn was on... Chagrin in this context is interchangeable with profanity. Thus, I completed steps 1-4, and as a result of my incompleteness, I am not content. It is of little wonder that while shopping with Wifey later on this day I got a buggy with a bad wheel. I also dropped the sauerkraut (having brats for supper) in the driveway when unloading the car. I am incomplete, AMC, and I have you to thank for it. You and those damn kids in the corn.
George Fisher

THE POTTAMUS IS SEVEN!

Dear Pottamus Rex;

 ARE YOU SEVEN YEARS OLD! Holy Cow!

 You have had a great year, pal…you have graduated from Kindergarten to First Grade! You’re having difficulty with lunch, though, and I don't blame you seeing as how your Momma keeps filling your lunch box with wheat bread, carrots and stuff --I mean, seriously? There's a time and place for that kind of food, but it’s not in the school lunch box. You can tell Mom that's in the Bible—(Deuteronomy).

But the biggest thing that happened since last year? Oh my, you have a SISTER! More on that in a second…..

 You and I still have that “issue”….Mom and Grandma still think something is wrong with both of us when it comes time to leave. They both thought by this time you and I would have gotten a grip on ourselves and manned up. It hasn't happened. As for me, it's not likely going to, either. I hope it does for you, though, because it may be a bit hard to explain to your friends when your 18 years old, HA HA!

Seven Years old, Rex...Time is flying, buddy—it makes this old man think too much, and that's why a lot of the time I call you Joe, so forgive me.  I know you're the Pottamus Rex. I even called your sister “Winnie” the other day.

You have been the best Brother to ‘Miss Priss’ (Georgia Rose)—the grown-ups didn't know exactly how you would take to her, but you have done great, and we are very proud of you! You don't notice but every time you walk in the room Priss will not take her eyes off of you---just remember to help look out for her and show her the way---you two are the only kids in the house, and you can't expect Mom and Dad to show her how it's supposed to be done---they are too old and have forgotten what it's like to be a kid. It’s what happens when you are a Parent. When you are a Grandparent, it changes back. Anyhow, Rex, I am counting on you to show her and explain to her as time goes by the rules---

 1)  Eliminate  bureaucracy---Ask Grandma and George first.

2)  Try to eat your supper, but if you don't, it's ok. There's always cereal, and Mom and Dad aren't about to let you go to bed hungry.

3)  She calls me George. Not anything else.

 

Happy Birthday, Reximus. I love you to the moon and back. I still have your note that says “George is my best Frend”. Here’s hoping that my best “frend” has the best Birthday ever. You sure make every day the best for me.

George

Our way of life…compliments of those who didn’t make it back-

I have spent many Memorial Days attending remembrance ceremonies over the years.

I think it is important.

I have also spent many Memorial Days enjoying what we call the American way of life-cooking out, swimming, and enjoying time with family.

I think that is important, too.

Some others may disagree with me, but I think there is no better way to honor our Fallen Comrades than by enjoying Memorial Day by all those things–cookouts, ball games, recreational activities, and being with family— Why? Even if you take advantage of that Memorial Day sale–whatever the day encompasses, as long as we understand HOW we got here–by the  blood of Americans, past and present–and as long as we are acutely aware that if we are to preserve our way of life–then not only must we remember but we must be prepared.

In today’s time, Memorial Day, Veterans Day, and Independence Day are virtually the same–and now more than ever our nation tips its cap to our Military everyday. You can’t go out to eat, walk into a store, or even pump gas in a uniform without someone thanking you.  It is extremely humbling and for me almost embarrassing because I’m nobody. Then you realize it’s not about you as much as it is the uniform and what you represent. My normal response besides “Thank You” is that “I’m just glad they allowed me the privilege to serve.”

REMEMBER–Memorial Day is about those that paid the ultimate price, those that didn’t make it back.

 We MUST remember–not just on Memorial Day, but EVERY day we wake up as Americans–and then we can enjoy our way of life.

Speaking of the American way of life, on Monday, May 26th, I will be honorary team captain for the Atlanta Braves/Boston Red Sox game at Turner Field. My “duty” is to take the lineup card to the umpire. To say I’m excited for the opportunity is a gross understatement. I love baseball and the Atlanta Braves.   My good friend, fellow Soldier, and Chaplain, Captain Leslie Nelson, offered my name. She knows I am a baseball fanatic. She is a wonderful Chaplain and brings great comfort to our Soldiers–she also helps us to remember.

So, on Memorial Day 2014, with my family in tow, we will enjoy our American way of life. It will be a great day, but I will remember it came at a high price — some of whom I studied, some I heard about, some I knew and hundreds of thousands who I never heard of but still garner the same respect. I will remember that I am only a representative to all the others, and that when someone thanks me they are thanking ALL who serve and have served…and I will thank God that I am an American.

CUTESY CUTS AND CLIPS

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

I couldn't get to my regular Barber. She closes at 5. She's the best in the business, but I got my butt in a bind and my window of opportunity for a haircut came down to this afternoon.
I realize in 3 weeks I will require another haircut and I promise to tip my REAL barber (she's the best in the business) even more due to the fact I had to forsake her loyalty. I feel like I cheated on her. Her shop is a red, white, and By-God blue barber shop. Her Uncle Billy passed and she's carrying on his legacy and starting one of her own. A haircut in a real barber shop is almost like going to church. She's the best in the business, and when she uses a combination of buzzing clippers, straight razor, hot lather, and that tingly green "man smell" on the back of my gourd, you walk out of there born again.

Alas, and woe be unto my head, this is one of those themed franchises, you know, one of those  cutesy places. Unisex, they call it. I didn't know what unisex meant, I thought it had something to do with those late night infomercials, but it means boys, girls, kids, old people--everyone but dogs-- can get a "clip" here.
Unisex is a metrosexual term that means  "I don't give a damn who cuts my hair as long as we can be cutesy."

It smells more beauty parlor-ish than barber shop. It looks like a place where one might purchase some electronics. The cutesy stadium seats, the shelf of hair care products named after some herbal plant or some character from Greek mythology do not impress me. I will give them an "OK" on the flat screen TVs, though no one in the place appeared to be watching them.
There isn't a Field and Stream or Georgia Sportsman within 10 miles of here. It's cutesy every dang thing, and had I a large ripe lemon my butt would have sucked it. In fact, typing the word "cutesy" begins the process.

The pictures on the wall are smiling young people who look like they need a haircut---and I bet my hat and ass both someone in one of the chairs back in the cutting area are using scissors that most everyone else uses to trim unsightly nostril hair. (Pause while we all wretch).

I had to sign in, like they do at the doctors offices. Unreal. I haven't smelled talcum or heard one pump of a barber chair handle or a pop of a towel.

It's all wrong, it's against the laws of nature, and when its all over I'm gonna go home and shower the cutesy off of me and become a man again.
I hate myself for getting in a predicament not getting to my real tonsorial parlor--(but the fish were biting last weekend).

I got the hairs cut. Looks like I'm going to live, but it came with a price. No talcum, no green "man smell" on the back of your head to make it tingle, just a weird beauty parlor smell and a bunch of unisex gum smacking nose hair trimmers.

As I was checking out, a dad was bringing his little boy in--he introduced his timid child to the haircutter girl as "this is Miss_____ , and she's a friend....." He then sat down in the chair, and ( bear with me I need a cleansing breath) he placed the kid IN HIS LAP while the kid got cutesyfied.

So help me, and with The Lord as my witness, my skin crawled.

John Wayne, Joe Fisher, or Pottamus Rex never ever sat in anyone's lap at a barber shop. I guess its acceptable in cutesy unisex hair emporiums.

I paid my bill post haste and skedaddled, wondering how things have gotten to this point. No talcum, no green stuff on the back of your head to make it tingle, just a weird smell and a bunch of unisex gum smacking nose hair trimmers.

We are going to hell in a cutesy handbag.