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Mike Chason gets credit for consecutive column topics. Inspiration for today’s musings came as he was trying to tear apart a cardboard box for the trash. Even the athletic hands of an accomplished pickleball player couldn’t rip the industrial-strength tape.

Hedge clippers were nearby but didn’t help. Nor did the smaller hand snips he tried next. Scissors, though, easily sliced the tape, causing him to ponder the importance of having the right tools. 

That cutting-edge experience reminded me of my wife’s late father. Jane’s parents had a wholesale candy and tobacco company in Thomasville. Her mother handled the office work as her dad filled orders and restocked shelves. 

Mr. Horne kept a three-inch, metal box cutter in his pants pocket. Its single razor blade was easy to extend and retract. We have one in our kitchen drawer, the Horne Candy Company imprint long gone from its gold finish. It’s quite useful, especially for unpacking memories.  

Having the right tools is important for all sorts of undertakings. Growing up on the farm our cabless tractors each had a small toolbox mounted on the side. Necessities included a hammer, pliers, screwdriver, and adjustable wrench. Haywire was also helpful. For most situations that would get you by, at least temporarily.

Repairs were more easily accomplished with ratchet sets and appropriate wrenches. In our tiny farm shop, Julius Bembry could fix just about anything with a torch and welder. I don’t have those talents, which leads to a related point. The best tools are only as effective as a person’s ability to use them.  

Carpentry is another area that came to mind while writing this. My earliest recollections of a carpenter are of I. B. Barnes, a friend of our family and many others. He was a senior citizen during my childhood but still busy. He worked alone, so we’d lend a hand when he was doing something for us and needed unskilled labor.

Mr. B. had an electric skill saw and drill, but used a hammer for nailing. I’m not sure if nail guns had been invented. Like all carpenters of that era, he kept a pencil perched over one ear and used a wooden ruler with folding sections.

He was a pleasant man with a perpetual smile, soft spoken and easy to like. An early memory that has stayed with me is of him putting away his extension cord. Rather than wrapping it around his hand and elbow, as I was prone to do, he’d patiently make small interlocking loops.

When he needed the cord again, he’d slowly pull on one end and the loops would readily fall out. It was a simple process, but left an impression on the young boy watching. I realized he was making sure his equipment would be in order when needed.

Dealing with steroid-laced tape prompted Mike to consider a much broader lesson too, the importance of having the right tools for life. There are multiple angles worth exploring, but I’ll just touch on one with eternal implications – faith.

In Ephesians 6:11-16 Paul said, “Put on the whole armor of God.” Countless theologians have elaborated on the areas he mentioned, so I’ll just add one observation. It’s tempting to ignore the word “whole” and choose what suits us. If we’re missing any pieces of armor, however, our set is incomplete.

Love is perhaps the most essential element of faith. Jesus said the only thing needed to keep the entire law was to love God and love others. To reach our Christian potential, our toolbox has to be overflowing with love. It’s not optional.

King David in Psalms 51:10 mentions another vital aspect of faith. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.” I didn’t know until my father’s funeral in 2007 that he regularly incorporated that scripture into his prayers. As I was writing this column, that verse reminded me that vibrant faith is incompatible with an unclean heart. It’s like having a chink in our armor.        

I don’t have any new revelations, nothing that’s not been said by others. But here’s what I am confident is true. If we want to have the right tools for life, the best place to begin is by having the right tools for faith. And I know without asking, there’s a pickleball player in Tifton who feels the same way. 

On the Monday after Easter, Mike Chason received a call  from a Tifton number. He answered, “Hello,” and the man responded likewise but added nothing more. Mike said, “Hello,” again. 

“Do I have the right number?” the fellow asked. Mike said, “I don’t know if you do or not.” “I’m sorry,” the caller replied, “I must have the wrong number.” That prompted my friend to suggest a column: “Do I have the right number?”

Mike’s brief exchange reminded me of a call made by my Uncle Emmett from Joiner’s Store. My uncle talked slowly, plus would pause to take the cigar out of his mouth. Sometimes he’d momentarily stare at his Tampa Nugget, perhaps allowing time to further consider his words.

Uncle Emmett dialed Mr. Tom Sangster’s house one day, a neighbor who lived within sight of the store. Mr. Tom’s teenage son, Joe, answered the phone. Joe said, “Hello,” three times without getting a response. “Alright,” Joe warned, “I’m going to hello one more time!”

That was in the early 1960s, the era of party lines in our rural community. Our house was connected with nine of our neighbors. The only way to know if the party line was in use was to pick up and listen. It was easy to hear when a receiver was lifted, but there was no way of knowing who it was.

“Someone is listening in,” my mother would say if the unidentified person tarried more than she deemed appropriate. “Maybe they’ll hang up. If not, I’ll call you back.” It was the standard protocol for unwanted eavesdropping.

Conversations were sometimes interrupted for acceptable purposes. Mama could quickly identify who was talking so occasionally would join in, perhaps to decide who was taking what to the covered dish dinner on Sunday. It was an early form of social media.

At other times Mama might tell the callers she was looking for my father and ask if they’d seen him. Sometimes she’d inquire if they would let her make an urgent call, like ordering fuel for an empty diesel tank.

One memorable phone incident involved Daddy’s unorthodox manner of resolving a problem. A young girl kept calling our house asking, “Is Mama Hester there?” Each time my mother would politely explain she had the wrong number. This went on for several weeks.

Daddy answered the phone one night during supper, correctly assuming it was the same caller. “Is Mama Hester there?” she asked. Daddy summoned his deepest voice and replied sternly with considerable volume, “This is Mama Hester!” That was the last time we heard from her. I hope she survived the scare.

A totally unexpected call came to me in March from my late brother. The display showed “Jimmy Joiner,” so I didn’t answer. Then I got a text asking, “Who is this?” I assumed it was a scam, but Seth, our favorite son, suggested Jimmy’s number may have been reassigned.

It turned out I had pocket dialed Jimmy’s number without knowing it, prompting a return call and then a text. I explained what happened to a man who lives in Hawkinsville. He was very polite and even told me he was sorry about my brother. 

I drifted off topic with these ramblings, but will close with something that seems more on track. Fifty or so years ago, while working with my cousin at Bowen-Everett Funeral Home, I saw an especially unique floral arrangement. Among the hundreds of flowers seen during my  five-year period of employment, it’s the only one I could still identify in a lineup.

A dark red rotary-dial phone was attached to a circular wreath of flowers. Across the open center was a banner emblazoned with gold letters that read, “JESUS CALLS.” Although the occasion was somber, I’ll admit to stifling a laugh. All during the service I wished I could make that phone ring.    

In John 10:27 Jesus said, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them.” In Matthew 7:24 he offers a contrasting scenario: “I never knew you; depart from me.” We each should consider without delay, what would Jesus say if he called today? 

Would he speak my name joyfully and welcome me into his open arms? Or would he ask a sobering question that has already been answered. “Do I have the right number?”  

I’m an unlikely source for book recommendations. My list of perused titles is pitifully short. At Christmas, however, Jane gave me one I had mentioned earlier and forgotten about. It’s an old story which I should have read years ago.

The Hiding Place was originally published in 1971. Corrie ten Boom, with assistance from John and Elizabeth Sherrill, gave a personal account of Nazi Germany’s invasion of her Dutch homeland. Holland was neutral in World War II, hoping such politics would provide them a degree of protection. Neutrality, however, is often lacking in reward.

It only took five days for Hitler’s forces to take control of the peace-seeking country. Holland’s substantial Jewish population suffered tremendously. They were crammed into trucks and trains then taken to prisons and labor camps. Some were killed without delay while others died slowly from sadistic brutality and inhumane conditions.

Corrie ten Boom’s family wasn’t Jewish by birth or religion. They were Christians who led an unassuming life guided by their steadfast faith. Days were spent running their small shop where they sold and repaired clocks and watches. On Sundays they worshiped the One whose guidance they trusted.

The ten Boom family could have maintained a tolerable lifestyle under German occupation. The only thing required was to look the other way, to ignore the atrocities being committed against Holland’s Jews. Instead they took a risky path, knowing it would likely cost them dearly. They helped their suffering countrymen in multiple ways, most famously by providing a hiding place in their home for people who had no other options.

Their refusal to ignore the plight of others led to unspeakable tragedies in the ten Boom family. Corrie miraculously survived confinement, but her elderly father and sister Betsy did not. Yet despite the cruelties she endured and witnessed, Corrie thanked God for using her to minister to others.

That’s all I’ll share about The Hiding Place. If you’ve read it you already know the story. If you haven’t, please don’t settle for my brief overview. Details of her experience are not what I want to elaborate on today. It’s Corrie ten Boom’s decision, along with other family members, to remain faithful during times of relentless persecution. 

Sometimes I wonder how moral people, especially Christians, could have allowed such horrific abuses. But what I find most troubling is thinking I might have been among them. When safety is assured by doing nothing, the easy path is tempting. Fear of repercussions can take us further down that road. Concern for loved ones adds another dimension.

Most of us probably won’t face anything akin to the dire circumstances of the ten Boom family. Yet each of us makes regular decisions of who to put first, Christ and those in need, or ourselves. Such choices begin in childhood and never end.

There’s always a kid who doesn’t fit in, one who sits alone in the cafeteria or waits awkwardly on the playground, hoping for an invitation that never comes. Some are bullied while others are made unwelcome. Decisions on taking a stand or staying quiet begin early and are no less challenging when we become adults.

The Christian response to injustice has often been silence. Examples are abundant, but I don’t know if it’s productive to recount our imperfect past. Instead I’ll close by suggesting that each of us consider more intentionally how God can use us today.

Mr. Heard George, son of U.S. Senator Walter F George, was an elderly gentleman when I first met him in 1975. He was a member of Vienna First Baptist and belonged to the men’s Sunday School class taught by Mr. John Bonner.

I’ve been told that in Mr. Heard’s prayers he often said, “Help me do something for someone who can’t do anything for me.” That strikes me as a perfect request, one God would appreciate hearing and likely answer without delay. 

So, I’ll end today’s musiings with that borrowed prayer and a recommendation of a good book. The Hiding Place has many lessons, all of them best learned by reading Corrie ten Boom’s account. 

Perhaps the most important lesson is to focus on love instead of hate. But as I reflect on my tendency to linger in the safety of the sidelines, another point comes to mind. Neutrality is often lacking in reward. 

Traditional wedding vows include pledges of love and support for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. The optimism of young love keeps us from dwelling on unthinkable challenges, but sometimes youthful dreams clash with harsh realities.  

I went to Carrollton in April to visit two friends I met in 1970, my first quarter at Valdosta State College. Ronnie Williams had graduated in the spring and was teaching in Albany. He made frequent trips to Valdosta that fall, however, to see his fiancee, Claire Culpepper. They both grew up in Crisp County, which adjoins Dooly, so we had instant conversation material. 

Ronnie was a charter member and former president of Delta Chi fraternity, an organization I soon joined. His mischievous cheerfulness was contagious. He could light up a room with good-natured joviality. I was especially impressed that his sweetheart was the chapter’s sweetheart too.

Claire, a senior, was gorgeous with a warm gracefulness that endeared her to all of us young pledges. We were further enamored when she offered to help us find dates. 

Ronnie retired as Superintendent of Carrollton City Schools in 2001. Claire had stopped teaching in 1997 to care for her mother, who moved to Carrollton after her husband’s death. An unfinished basement was converted to a small apartment for Mrs. Culpepper. 

Next to occupy that space was their son, who stayed until a grease fire got out of hand. In the renovation that followed, several walls were removed and the kitchen, eating area, and small den became one room. The back door had always been at ground level, something that would become increasingly important.   

Fires are not usually considered a blessing, but perhaps this one was. An aggressive form of Parkinson’s Disease has taken a heavy toll on Claire. In September of 2022 she and Ronnie moved from their spacious upstairs to the compact lower quarters.   

From late afternoon to midmorning Ronnie takes care of his wife. Helpers come during the day. That’s when he buys groceries, runs errands, and takes three-mile walks.  

At lunchtime he gently lifted Claire from her recliner and placed her into a wheelchair. He rolled her to the table, cut her food into bite-sized pieces, and patiently fed her, saying he’d eat later. When a panic attack came without warning, he consoled her with soft words and warm touches. “Sometimes they only last a few minutes,” he said. “At other times it goes on for a couple of hours.”

Dealing with Claire’s illness has taken them on a journey Ronnie sees as parallel to the five stages of grief. The late psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross suggested that after the loss of a loved one we transition through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. I don’t know many details of Ronnie and Claire’s situation, but it’s easy to envision that progression.

Acceptance, however, comes in many flavors. It can be tinged with resentment or pity, repeatedly asking, “Why me Lord?”  Or it can be seasoned with gratitude as Ronnie and Claire have done, thankful for wonderful years together and an abiding faith in God.

My brief time with them only offered a glimpse of their challenges. It seems inadequate to say I love you and I’ll pray for you, and it probably is. Ronnie mentioned a friend who joins him for morning walks, coffee, and short drives. A change of pace helps. 

Putting feet to our prayers is perhaps where the focus of friends should be for Ronnie and Claire and many others. He took several pictures during our visit, saying Claire would enjoy them multiple times while reminiscing. It struck me that too often I neglect to make small efforts, waiting instead for perfect opportunities which rarely materialize.  

Wedding vows usually come with stellar expectations, which is no doubt a blessing. But when a storybook tale veers onto a rocky path, our fortitude can be severely tested. 

In the fall of 1970 I was smitten with Claire’s loveliness. Now I realize she has a beautiful husband too. Ronnie probably won’t get any modeling offers, but the tender care with which he meets his wife’s every need gives perfect evidence of a beautiful heart.   

My wishes won’t improve Claire’s health nor lighten Ronnie’s load, but if admiration could bring healing, all would be well. Ronnie made a promise to his sweetheart 52 years ago and he’s lovingly kept it, both in sickness and in health.  

James Robert Taylor was killed in Vietnam on January 28, 1966. In 2020 his niece, Kim Taylor Farris, found 33 handwritten letters he had sent home. Here are a few excerpts.  

9/25/65 – “Last week I was promoted to PFC. That’s $20.00 a month more. If something happens and I am killed, I’ve got $30,000.00 insurance on myself. The government gave me $10,000 for nothing. Or rather for coming over here.”

“The first couple days here we just pulled little details like guard and building bunkers. Then they put us Pathfinders as door gunners for helicopters. The first mission I was on was to pick up the 101st Division. About 3 companies had let the Viet Cong slaughter them. The 117th Airborne Company had put them in and had 4 downed helicopters and all the others hit at least once. We picked them up the day after they were put in and only got 3 helicopters hit, none downed. It’s getting dark so I’ll close for today.” 

10/5/65 – “Sometimes I wish I was back so bad, just to be with Martha, but I know things will be better if I wait.”

10/11/65 – “I’ve just about put the Army out of my mind. I’m going to get my high school and some other training then get out.”

10/16/65 – “What you heard on T.V. was right and members of my team were there. A couple were shot at but weren’t hit. The Army better get on the stick with my money. I told Martha she could buy a set of rings if she saw what she wanted.”

10/28/65 – “I guess things are getting pretty bad over here. I dunno. The people get all the news. We get all the noise.”

11/1/65 – “The other day some Vietnamese girl tried to get me to marry her sister while we were operating in a drop zone. The little girl’s sister was 18 years old but looked like she might have been older.”

11/9/65 – “Got in about 16 hours door gunning in the last three days. Tell people not to send me anything for Christmas. I won’t be able to send them anything.”

11/12/65 – “I’m starting to have my doubts about Martha. She is going out with some other guy. I like being free and just don’t want to get married. Maybe I’m just afraid of it. I dunno.”

11/27/65 – “They’re starting to let people go on R&R to Hong Kong. Maybe I’ll go soon. I hope. I dropped Martha. I’m tired of war. Maybe I’ll buy a Harley when I get back.”

12/4/65 – “I won’t be home for Christmas or New Years for the first time in twenty years. Please tell everyone that I miss everybody back home, and no matter where I am Christmas I’ll be thinking of you all, as always.”

12/7/65 – “Two guys got Malaria in Pathfinders. One of them slept next to me. He sure was a good guy.”

12/10/65 – “I gave the Bible to a fellow named Bill Scholl. He’s from Jacksonville.”

12/17/65 – “Just got back off a mission today. It was the first time I spent the night on the top of a mountain. It was both cold and wet. Tomorrow starts another 30 day mission.”

12/21/65 – “My team Sergeant was seriously wounded and another Pathfinder killed that went out with myself and another man. I’ve got a little artifact for Kim if they ever give me enough time to mail it. By that time it will be too small for her if it isn’t already.”

12/24/65 – ”I’m thinking of you and love you very much. I’ve got a thousand things to be thankful for.”

12/31/65 – “Darwin is sitting in here writing letters too. I think he just wrote you all one. Right now all I’m doing is waiting for next year. It’s about 10:30 p.m. Hope you all had a Happy New Year.”

1/2/66 – “I’m going to the memorial services for Louis today.”

1/4/66 – “Most everyone else has gone to Pleiku, but I got to stay back. They think I’ve done too much lately. At times it feels that way. I’m sending a couple of pictures so you can remember what I look like.”

“You all be good. Love, Bobby.”

On March 23rd I attended a Pathfinders’ reunion at Fort Benning as a guest of Clete Sinyard. I had no idea the base is home to a 240 foot replica of the Vietnam Wall. It was a traveling memorial for 23 years until its 2014 dedication.

Five of us paused to pay respects to James Robert Taylor. The group included Clete and Deborah Sinyard, plus Kim Taylor Farris and her husband Greg. Kim was only four when her Uncle Bobby was killed in action, but tender memories remain.   

Darwin, Clete’s middle name, is how he was known growing up. That’s what his best friend Bobby Taylor called him in letters he wrote home. December 31, 1965, was one of the last. “Darwin is sitting in here writing letters too. I think he just wrote you all one. If you get a chance please answer it. He would really like to hear from you all.”

Clete and Bobby met at the Army’s reception station in Fort Jackson during processing. Both had quit school to partner with Uncle Sam. Clete was 17 and looking for adventure. Bobby was bored and wanted a change. 

As they stood in line for shots, dog tags, and uniforms, the alphabetized system placed them near each other. Two kids sporting flattops were amused as long-haired boys lost their locks to enthusiastic barbers. 

They rode a bus to Fort Gordon for basic training where they began hanging out together. One of Clete’s brothers, Jimmy, lived in Augusta with his wife JoAnne, so Clete and Bobby used weekend passes to visit them.  

Bill Taylor, Kim’s father, took his wife and two daughters to Augusta to see Bobby. They rented an extra hotel room for Bobby and Clete. The friendship of two young soldiers kept expanding to other family members. Cookies in care packages were gladly shared.  

Parallel paths took Clete and Bobby through Advanced Infantry Training, Jump School, and Pathfinders School. Then they boarded a ship bound for Vietnam. Rappel ropes were used to tie cooking oil cans to the back of the U.S.S. Darby. Bouncing targets were ideal for M16 rifle practice.

A typhoon offered unplanned excitement. The bow and stern were like a giant seesaw in the storm. Soldiers were instructed to stay put, but Clete couldn’t resist opening a door to sneak a look. 

The spot where he’d been standing while shooting cans was pointing upward at an angry sky. Clete slammed the door, locked it, got in his cot, and stayed there.

Clete’s onboard assignment was to guard the food cooler. He was stationed beside it with keys. Bobby was a runner, fetching whatever the cooks requested. That providential pairing is how they managed to reallocate two cafeteria-size cherry pies. Sharing sweet bounty with fellow Pathfinders made the risk of getting caught acceptable.

Bobby Taylor seemed okay for a while in Vietnam, until he came back from one of the missions with a somber assessment. “I’m not going to survive this,” he said to his friend. Clete told him to stop that crazy talk, then showed him a picture of a Volkswagen Beetle he planned to buy when he returned home. They stayed up all night talking.    

On January 28, 1966, the helicopter Bobby was aboard unknowingly landed on a Viet Cong bunker. A bullet grazed his forehead and knocked his helmet off. He was airlifted out by another chopper. Bobby reached up to touch the wound, saw blood on his hand and died. Clete believes shock, not the bullet, killed him. 

Bill Taylor died November 15, 2020. Kim discovered a stash of letters from Bobby which her father had quietly kept. Most were to his parents with some to siblings. The mention of his friend Darwin led to a search. She found Clete and asked if he would tell her more.

Kim and Clete knelt by the Vietnam Wall at Fort Benning, each pointing to a name that’s important in much different ways. To Kim he was the gregarious uncle she loved as a toddler and wishes she could have known longer. To Clete he’s the best friend who thought he wouldn’t survive and was tragically proven right. But to most of us, he’s one of 58,000 casualties we only know through the reflections of others.  

James Robert Taylor was 20 years old when he died in Vietnam. To those who knew him best and loved him the most, I suppose he always will be.  

The battle against Chinaberry trees in my favorite woods began several months ago. I felt a tad guilty cutting big ones which were perfect for climbing, but I had little choice. Chinaberries are exceptionally prolific. They are the rabbits of the tree world. 

I’ve probably cut 50 or more. Many were small enough that my minimal chainsaw skills didn’t matter. Some, however, tested the limits of my ability.

“Cut and run” best describes my technique. Some people can point precisely to where they will lay a tree. My pointing would just be downward, so I rely on escape routes.

There were a couple of incidents that made me nervous. One stubborn Chinaberry sent me scampering for safety. I had no problem getting out of the way, but in my haste the rotating chain caught my pants leg and ripped an L-shaped cut about ten inches long. Carelessness can be brutally rewarded.

That near mishap reminded me of a conversation years ago with a former neighbor, Ronald Everett. Jane and I built a house in 1977 just down the street from the Everett family. Our lot was filled with pine trees which we heartily embraced. A million pine cones later, however, we decided to heavily thin the stand.

Ronald cut trees as a sideline business and took out a hundred or so from our yard. One day when I mentioned his adeptness with a saw, he pulled up his pants leg to reveal a jagged scar from a wound that required 40 stitches.  

Ronald’s scar occasionally comes to mind and helps keep me from biting off more than I can chew. He knew what he was doing, yet still had some accidents which could have ended tragically. One deep cut narrowly missed his spleen.

After my little scare, I revised my safety plan to be especially careful if working alone. Jane’s presence might not prevent an injury, but she could call 911.

The tallest Chinaberries on the property are about 40 years old. I know that because my brother and I cleared a small area for a pond back then. There weren’t any when we finished but now there are plenty.

While trying to get rid of them, I recalled a story that Mike Joiner, a distant relative, shared with me. Mike had some unwanted pines in his yard, so he sought advice from someone with extensive knowledge in such matters.

Mr. Fred Moore spent decades in the woods with his logging crews and had a sawmill operation in Vienna at one point. He knew every aspect of the timber business.

“Mr. Fred,” inquired Mike, “when is the best time to cut pine trees in my yard?” Mr. Fred always chose his words carefully. He paused for a moment and said, “Mike, the best time to cut a pine tree in your yard is when you can hold it down with your foot and chop it with an ax.”

When that first Chinaberry tree appeared decades ago, it would have only taken a minute to chop it down. Left alone, however, it kept growing and producing berries. Then some of those berries became trees and had children of their own.

Besides reproducing in mass, Chinaberry trees are extremely resilient. Cutting them down doesn’t kill them. New branches will sprout from what’s left. To get rid of them the stump has to be killed or dug up.

Barney Fife’s law enforcement approach is the best way to deal with them – “Nip it in the bud.” If we ignore them they’ll keep growing and multiplying, becoming increasingly harder to get rid of.

Sin works in a similar fashion. King David is a good example. He saw Bathsheba bathing on her rooftop and sent for her. He slept with Bathesheba, knowing her husband was away from home, fighting with the king’s troops. After learning she was pregnant, David hid their secret by having Uriah killed. David could have stopped looking and longing, instead one sin led to another.  

Barring something unforeseen, I’ll win the battle against the Chinaberry trees. It may take two or three years, but eventually they’ll all be gone. 

Other seeds, though, will surely sprout. If ignored, they’ll grow until perfect for climbing then beg to be spared. When something takes root in a place it shouldn’t be, it’s best to deal with it promptly. Invasive trees and sin share a common trait. When one finds a spot of fertile ground, it always invites company.    

Clete and Deborah Sinyard invited me to a Pathfinders’ Reunion held in late March. I joined them for a day at Fort Benning and wished I could have stayed for that night’s barbeque. Informal reflections are often the most compelling.

Arriving a half hour early for our 9 a.m. rendezvous, I was surprised by a rapidly expanding line of visitors near The National Infantry Museum. More than a thousand people were headed to graduation ceremonies for the 197th Infantry Brigade.

We took The Heritage Walk to the viewing stands at Inouye Field. Lined with flags from every state and territory, each side features inscribed pavers and upright granite markers.

One marker I noticed referenced the 9th Infantry Division – “Old Reliables” Vietnam 1967-1970. Two soldiers were listed along with a tender note for one: “We are so proud of you. Love, Your Family.” His family’s small gesture was no doubt greatly appreciated. Affirmation was  sparse for the soldiers of Vietnam.  

Fifteen Pathfinders, plus wives and guests, sat in a reserved section. Their introduction evoked hearty applause, perhaps inspiring new graduates to follow their example of doing more than required.  

Several attendees wore caps bearing the group’s motto: “First In – Last Out.” For most of us that would be hard to embrace, yet these men volunteered to find the safest paths for our troops. Their own welfare was a secondary concern.

Stadium-type seating overlooked a grass field with historic Harmony Church in the background. As 450 graduates marched past, Deborah said what I was thinking: “They look so young.” The reality of teenage soldiers was a bit unsettling.

Some didn’t look old enough or big enough to become warriors, but the same could have been said of Clete in 1965. Courage is perhaps more easily summoned during youth, before experience dilutes bullet-proof mindsets.

After graduation came The Memorial Walk of Honor. The serene setting is ideal for its multiple monuments, including one uniquely special to the reunion group: “Dedicated to the Pathfinders of the 11th Air Assault Division 1963-1965 and the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) 1965-1972. First In – Last Out.”

Colonel Richard Gillem reminded us we were there to honor those who are gone. A prayer of gratitude was offered then the names of the deceased were called. Someday they may be forgotten, but not yet.  

The men assembled for pictures on the Colonel’s command. He was Captain Gillem in 1965 and Commander of the 11th Pathfinder Company when it formed. After leading them through training at Ft. Benning, he deployed with the Company to Vietnam. They still follow his orders but salutes now partner with joviality. Retirement has diminished his authority but not their respect.

After lunch we paused by the Dignity Memorial Vietnam Wall to find the name of Robert Taylor. He was a close friend of Clete’s, one of 58,000 plus casualties listed. The wall is eight feet high and 240 feet long, a poignant reminder of war’s heavy toll.      

Our next stop was to see the world’s largest collection of tanks. The oldest, from 1916, is small and simple, nothing like the sophisticated equipment of today. A few had side panels cut out for interior viewing. The space is painfully confining, hardly allowing room for a deep breath.    

Most of the Pathfinders have good mobility, and all seem to have a sense of humor. As we were leaving the tank display, one of them opened the door and held it for the rest of us. “I’m sorry you got stuck with door duty,” I said lightheartedly. “First in, last out,” he replied with a big smile. 

I don’t really know those men, and I’ve only spent a few hours with Clete. My impression, though, is that their motto is inscribed in their hearts. It seems to have outlasted war and helped define their lives.

Someday I hope to visit with them again and stay for the barbeque, not for the fare but to listen and learn. Those who served our country with a “First In – Last Out” approach deserve to be heard if they choose to speak. 

“They look so young,” said Deborah, saying what I was thinking. Her comment became more sobering as I recalled a picture of the 18-year-old Pathfinder now sitting beside her. And when we paused by a long wall filled with names, the cost of war seemed more tragic than before. For I realized those 58,000 soldiers were young once too.          

Cletis “Babysan” Sinyard married a longtime friend of mine, Deborah Fullington. She was one grade behind me in school, plus we were neighbors. Our paths seldom crossed in recent years. When they did, it was usually at Harmony-Smyrna Cemetery. 

That’s where Deborah introduced me to Clete. It only took a handshake and a smile to decide he’s a nice guy. Modest stature and quiet manner offered no hint of a valorous past. I learned more of his story on an afternoon visit by my favorite stream. 

Clete’s father was a Baptist preacher, an evangelist who also farmed in north Alabama. At 75, Clete is the youngest person I know with mule expertise. “I’ve done everything that can be done with a mule,” he said,” mentioning Kate and Aida by name.   

Maybe that’s why he partnered with Uncle Sam at age 17. His father wouldn’t sign but his mother agreed. When I asked why he enlisted, he said, “I was talking with a buddy and decided I wanted to join the Army and jump out of planes.”

Patriotism was probably an influence. That gene runs strong in the Sinyard family. Clete and his three brothers served a combined 48 years in the military.

Fort Gordon is where he underwent Basic Training then Advanced Infantry Training. He was five feet six inches and weighed 120 pounds when he went into the Army, certainly not an imposing figure. An incident in the barracks, however, shows there’s more to Clete than meets the eye.    

A fellow in the bunk above him was playing a radio after mandatory lights out, unconcerned about an early-morning five-mile run. Clete asked him three times to turn the music off but was ignored, so he grabbed the radio and slammed it onto the floor.

The barracks shook when the big guy’s feet landed, but the Platoon Sergeant intervened. I don’t know who would have won that fight. What impresses me is Clete didn’t know either.

Jump school at Ft. Benning is where the 11th Pathfinders Company interviewed volunteers. About 40 were chosen for special training for an elite group with a sobering motto: “First In – Last Out.” 

On Clete’s 18th birthday, July 28, 1965, Lyndon Baines Johnson announced the 11th Pathfinders Company would be going to Vietnam. The USS Darby left Charleston in August for a 30-day cruise with ocean views. Helicopters transported the Pathfinders to a jungle site. Their assignment was to secure the landing zone, mark obstacles, and guide helicopters safely by radio communications as infantry troops were inserted and extracted on combat operations.  

When Major Bruce Crandall, a decorated helicopter pilot in Vietnam, came under fire he requested someone sit in the open door to shoot back. Clete preferred adventure to digging stumps, so he volunteered. An M60 machine gun was tied to the chopper’s roof with parachute cord, a temporary innovation for a developing style of warfare.

Clete, a Green Beret, was in the Special Operations Group and did two tours in Vietnam. He has enough honors and awards to fill a column, but one he especially values is unofficial. 

The Montagnard, indigenous mountain people of Vietnam, partnered with our soldiers. A group of them walked into Clete’s camp to make a request. “Babysan,” said one, “we want you to lead our team.” Babysan means young one. The Montagnard had been quietly watching before making their choice. They saw through the camouflage of a youthful appearance.  

At a Special Operations Group reunion a few years ago, an older Vietnamese gentleman saw Clete in a hotel hallway. “Babysan!” exclaimed the man, “You saved my life!”

“Who was he?” I asked. “I have no idea,” Clete wistfully replied. As the two men embraced, Deborah said she burst into tears. Soldiers rarely meet the people they save.   

I don’t know much about Vietnam, but I’ve been reminded that we are surrounded by humble heroes. Their sacrifices are mostly unknown or forgotten. 

When Clete smashed that radio, he no doubt earned the respect of every man in the barracks, even the boisterous fellow on the top bunk. During 20 years of service he kept earning respect. Courage and honor make a good pairing.

It only took a handshake and a smile to decide he’s a nice guy, but there’s more to Clete Sinyard than first meets the eye. I learned that on an afternoon visit by my favorite stream.

May God bless our men and women in uniform, both past and present. Thank you for your service and your sacrifice.     

We have a small John Deere tractor, a 3038E, that was bought a few years ago. It’s similar to the cute ones on display at nearly every dealership of all brands. When dressed up with a front-end loader they are highly irresistible.   

Jimmy, my late brother, kept our little tractor busy. Since his death last July, however, it had been largely neglected. Lately, though, the green machine and I have been spending quality time together. 

The tractor has been great for moving freshly-sawed chinaberry limbs and sections of their trunks. Plus it has helped in pulling up old fence wire and hauling scrap metal out of the woods. Everything was copasetic until the warning lights came on.

“Parked DPF Regen Required” was the instrument panel’s message. There was also a lighted symbol I didn’t understand, plus an exclamation point indicating something needed urgent attention.

Unsure what to do, I switched the tractor off. That night I looked through the manual and did some online research. I learned DPF stands for diesel particulate filter and regen is short for regeneration.

My mechanical skills are nil, a shortened version of my name, so I read the operating instructions and watched several YouTube videos. One fellow explained the regen feature ensures that tractors comply with government emission regulations. 

He said regeneration burns up particulates which are 700 times smaller than a human hair. That may be right, but I’d love to send a personal sample for testing.  

Engine heat cleans soot from the filter during the parked regen process. A clogged filter would diminish the tractor’s performance, so regeneration keeps it up to par.

A couple of things about this procedure seem counterproductive. One video said tractors need the parked regen process more often if operated at a low rpm, revolutions per minute. Run it faster and load it down, the man said, and the cleansings are done automatically.

I was trying to do the motor a favor by not using more rpm than the work required, which was about idle speed. In human terms it would be like walking at three miles per hour compared to running at 15. Most of us would rather walk unless something was chasing us. 

When a tractor idles, however, the engine doesn’t get hot enough to burn the particulates, so a parked regen is required. Apparently the best way to keep the filter clean is to run the engine faster than the work may sometimes require.

The other aspect that’s a bit disconcerting is the fuel required for a parked regen. It takes 30 to 40 minutes, during which time the tractor can’t be used for anything else. So cleaning the filter requires a half hour’s worth of fuel while not accomplishing anything. 

Once again I’m explaining something I don’t really understand, so accuracy is not guaranteed. It just strikes me as odd that air quality standards are being met by burning extra fuel. But that’s not why I’m telling more than you wanted to know about regeneration.

It occurred to me that a similar warning system could be helpful in the area of faith to alert us if we’re getting clogged up with pollutants. We can’t operate our spiritual engines at maximum capacity all the time, but it’s tempting to idle them for extended periods. When we do that, particulates tend to accumulate rather than being cleaned on the go.

Spiritual regeneration comes in many ways. Three of the most common are corporate worship, personal Bible study, and prayer. But showing up is not enough. Attitude and effort are essential. 

Malachi, a prophet who lived about 400 years before Christ, told how God would refine his people just as fire refines silver and gold. I don’t know what all that might entail, but what I do know is that my sometimes sluggish approach toward faith needs improvement.

I probably can’t run 15 miles per hour, not even for an embarrassingly short distance. But I can do better than three. It’s the same with faith. Without flashing lights and exclamation points, God’s warning system is easily overlooked or ignored. But there’s no doubt what my internal sensors are telling me. It’s past time for regeneration.