Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist

My friend and fellow professional, Dr. Richard Elgin, has written a book. A memoir of his "hitch" in the Army. The title of the book, "Shoulda Played The Flute", speaks to a choice that Dick was given; Fly helicopters in Vietnam or play the flute in the Fort Polk Army Band. I believe the title speaks for itself.

I have stated that my Dad, Leamon H. Riggs, was a "Jack of all trades, and Master of most of them". Whatever he put his hand to, he usually was successful at. So... Since Ralph and I were accomplices in most of these endeavors, it just follows that we could have turned out to be most anything! A carpenter, a real estate agent, a tax preparer, an auctioneer (I think I still have the training records), an auction clerk, maybe a "horse trader". He ran a successful "Moving and Storage" business and a "Second Hand" store. He bought, repaired and sold tractors and farm equipment, built and sold trailers and various other kinds of mechanic work. By working with my Dad, I acquired a myriad of skills, that have stood me in good stead throughout my life.

We had a shop full of tools. Wrenches (box-end, open-end and pipe), screwdrivers (straight and phillips), sockets (standard - no metric), hacksaws, hammers, mauls, a welder and... a cutting torch. For the mechanically challenged, this is a "cliff-notes" explanation of how a cutting torch works. The handle, like the one in the picture above is connected to bottles of Acetylene Gas and Oxygen by two hoses with knobs to control the amount of Acetylene and oxygen delivered to the torch tip. The Acetylene is ignited at the tip by a striker (sparks) and then oxygen is slowly introduced to make a blue/white flame at the tip. This flame is held to a piece of thick metal you want to "cut" and will heat the spot where you want to start the cut. When the "spot" is red hot, a lever on the torch handle is pressed which introduces a rush of oxygen at the tip, which superheats the "spot" and basically melts the metal and blows it away. You keep the oxygen lever pressed and as you move along the line you want to cut, it continues to superheat and blow the metal away in a line approximately 1/8" to 1/4" wide. Pretty neat huh?!? I watched my Dad do this hundreds of times and observed how he adjusted the knobs, heated the metal, when he pressed the lever... And... the very first time I ever picked up the torch, I knew what to do and did a decent job of it!

The job of metal cutting was not without its hazards. Dad wore safety goggles and leather gloves but with superhot pieces of molten metal (we called it slag) being blown around, things were bound to happen. Such as... One day a piece of slag fell into my Dad's open (Andy Griffith style) boot top. Wowser! That was ONE time I saw my Dad get excited!

I have never really figured out how it happened but one day, Dad had a serious encounter with some slag. As he was cutting, something got in his eye.

What followed is not a mystery - I was there...

Dad worked around for a while with his eye watering and hurting. I guess he figured that eventually, whatever it was would just wash out. He would pull out his hanky, wipe the tears out and try to keep working.

Finally, he had had enough. "Ray, I've got to get whatever this is, out of my eye."

My thought was "Good, good! Let's go to old Doc Hayes and git'er'dun!"

That's not what Dad had in mind...

He pulled an old chair out of the shop into the sunshine and sat down in it. Then he leaned his head back, held the affected eye open with his fingers, and said... "See if you can tell what it is in my eye."

In the bright sunlight I examined his eyeball and in a few seconds, I saw the problem. As he was using the cutting torch, a small piece of the slag got behind the safety goggles, burned onto and stuck to his EYEBALL! Dad ALWAYS wore the safety goggles so to this day, it is a mystery how this happened.

I told Dad what the problem was and I'm thinking "For sure now, we are going to the doctor." Didn't happen...

Dad merely reached into his pocket, pulled out his Case pocket knife with the razor sharp blades, handed it to me, and said... "Get that off of my eye."

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist.....

My Dad was not mean and even though he would get frustrated at us boys, I never heard him raise his voice. He was stern, somewhat taciturn but could and did find humor in life.

But... It never crossed my mind to refuse to do what he told me to do.

With trembling hands, I opened the long, sharp blade on his pocket knife.

With the fingers on my left hand, I held the eyelids back from his eyeball, exposing the tiny piece of slag burned onto the eyeball.

I forced my right hand with the knife to be steady...

And carefully scraped the offending little piece of slag off of Dad's eyeball....

In a few seconds, Dad sat up, blinked his eye a few times, wiped the tears out of the eye with his hanky and said "Well, I think you got it. Now we can go back to work."

Shoulda Been An Ophthalmologist.....

I have told this story numerous times and it still seems almost unbelievable. My Dad basically entrusted the eyesight in one of his eyes to a gangly, pimply, immature teenager! However, as I look back at it through the lens of thirty-five plus years, I realize that Dad had more confidence in me than I had in myself and he knew me better than I knew myself...

Ralph lost the key to the lock on his storage unit so he used Dad's old cutting torch to cut the lock off! (I just noticed his "Andy Griffith" boot style!!)

When All You Can See (Are Cowboy Boots)

My Dad, Leamon Harold Riggs, had a standing rule. "You get into trouble at school, you get into trouble at home." In my day, this was probably the norm for most of the kids in my class. This was the impetus for myself and my schoolmates, that kept us out of more trouble than we could have gotten into. However, On a certain bright, sunny, warm spring afternoon.......

At Junction Hill C-12 School, we had recess. Morning, Noon and Afternoon. A full thirty minutes or so of wild, sometimes reckless, basically unsupervised, Pandemonium! From what I hear, recess nowadays is short, sanitary and highly supervised. I pity today's children...

On this particular afternoon, Roger Underwood and I were playing in the civilized part of the playground near the school. We were in third grade and they had relocated most of the playground equipment to the west side of the school. They had moved a lot of the old playground stuff like the monkey bars and swings, but they had also installed some new equipment that was pretty neat. There was a big, tall, metal climbing frame with a rope to slide down (or climb up.) A couple of new tether ball poles. A chin-up bar. And they had paved a large area with asphalt and installed basketball goals. The "marble playing" part of the playground was up close to the school, right near the fifth grade class windows. And that's where we were playing on this fateful day.

Since it was spring and a warm day to boot, all the windows were open in the classrooms. While we were playing near the fifth grade window, we happened to notice some of our fifth grade friends standing at the back of the class, near the open windows. So... Being the friendly persons that we were, we walked over and struck up a conversation with them through the open window. Somehow it never registered that there was a reason we were talking through the window. While WE were out to recess, THEY were still (supposed to be) studying. We carried on our conversation for a few minutes and then....

All of a sudden I felt a big, rough, hard, hand grab the back of my neck and shove my head forward, where I was looking directly down at my feet! Now... I happen to know that Roger was in the same predicament, because our heads banged together as they were shoved forward. We were both in an iron grip, looking at our feet... And right in the gap between our pairs of feet... A pair of big, scuffed up, pointy toed, Cowboy Boots!!

When all I could see was the cowboy boots, I knew we were in deep trouble.

Our principal that year was rugged and rawboned cowboy, who hailed from Texas, with the moniker of Horace T. McGuffin. Mr. McGuffin had a mustache, always wore a cowboy hat, round wire-rimmed glasses,... And Cowboy Boots... He brooked no nonsense and put the fear of God into all of the would-be tough guys in the upper grades. Oh... One more thing. He and my Dad were very good friends.

"What do you boys think you're doing?!? Can't you TELL that we're having CLASS?!?!" While I was busy trying to keep from wetting my britches, Mr. McGuffin gave us the final word. "Git inside to your class, recess is over for you!"

When the grip on our necks was released; Roger and I skedaddled inside, went to our seats, and were both in tears while we waited for the executioner.

When recess was over and everyone came back in, our teacher, Mrs. Nondes Good, addressed the class. "I heard there were a couple of boys that got into trouble at recess. I hope you've learned your lesson and won't be doing that aaany more." Well... It seems I had a stay of execution at school but I still had to face the music at home. (remember Dad's standing rule?)

When school let out, I trudged home. We lived around the corner on the dirt road so it wasn't that far to the place of reckoning. But my Dad wasn't home yet and judgment was stayed, so I did what any sensible person would do... I went to bed and covered my head!

In my young boy's mind, I figured that as soon as Mr. McGuffin got to his office, he had called my Dad and told him the whole story. Looking back, I know he probably forgot about it before he got back inside the school. But Boy I Sure Didn't Forget!!

Mom came into my bedroom and finally wrangled the whole story out of me. And bless my dear old Mothers heart; she assured me that she would talk to Dad and fix it with him. When Dad got home from work, they talked it over and then Dad came to my bedroom. I don't remember all he said but in a nutshell, he told me he thought I had been punished enough and I needed to get up and get ready for supper. And that's all there was to it.

Even as I write this, I get tears in my eyes thinking about my old Dad. He was stern but he was also compassionate and fair. From that day forward, he never brought this incident up again. But believe you me, I never forgot THAT day... The day... When All I Could See Was Cowboy Boots!

The only picture I could find of Mr. Horace Talley McGuffin (from findagrave.com)

Happy Valentine's Day Tami!

So... I really planned ahead this Valentines Day. A week or so ago, I bought Tami a real nice card. (Fellers... A Tip: When you buy early, there is a real good selection. Unlike February 13th at 11PM in the crowded Wal-Mart card aisle... and Yes, I've been there!)

I was up pretty early this morning and after my devotions, I decided to retrieve my card. Tami had already surprised me with a card at my shaving mirror so I was just going to return the favor and surprise her. She was still in bed, but knowing how light a sleeper she is, I very carefully unlocked the deadbolt and knob on the front door. I eased the door open without so much as a squeak and then just left it open to save the noise of shutting and opening again.

I padded across the yard to carport, opened the driver's side door and reached under the seat to get the Wal-Mart bag with the card inside. Hmmm... no bag. I opened the driver's side back door and checked to see if it had slid back... no sack, no card.

I had to carefully and quietly "slam" the doors to shut them and then went back inside to think. "Had I really put it under the seat?" or "Did I put it under the passenger side seat?" Maybe I put it under my truck seat. Surely, Surely.... Tami didn't find it and hide it as a joke.... She wouldn't do that... Would she?

I repeated the drill. Unlock the door, carefully open it, leave it ajar, pad across the yard to the carport, open the doors and check under the driver side seat, under the passenger side seat, behind the back seats. NO CARD!

I go to my truck. I check under the seats. Lots of empty Ginger Ale bottles, water bottles, Butterfinger wrappers, Little Debbie cake wrappers... But no card.

So, I goes back inside, finish getting ready for work, and wake Tami up to kiss her goodbye. Then I ask this question: "Do you know anything about a Wal-Mart bag under the front seat of the car?"

I see a grin and then hear a chuckle... Ah ha!

ME: Where is it?
TAMI: Under the seat.
ME: No, it's not under the seat.
TAMI: Oh yes, it's there. I saw it the other day, didn't know what it was, so I looked in it. I saw what it was so I put it right back.
ME: It's not under the seat.
TAMI: (blank stare) Where did I put it?
ME: I'm sure I don't know!
TAMI: I put it right back under the seat.
ME: It's not there.
TAMI: Maybe it slid under the back floor mat.
ME: It's not there.
TAMI: WHERE DID I PUT IT???
ME: Ummm... I don't know.... It's not there...

While she put on her thinking cap, I decided to make one more foray to the car to see if I had just over-looked it. Nothing Found! But just as I as climbing out from behind the back seat, I spotted something.... Shoved down between the driver's seat and the console... Beside the seat belt latch... A Wal-Mart Bag! With a card inside!

In a few minutes, Tami has her card (for the second time!!) She did not remember putting it where I found it but we share a laugh and all is well!

I love you Tami Ruth! Happy Valentine's Day!

And here's a little song by Doc and Dawg just for you!

"All About You"

The Great Whizzer Rat Race!

I always like to be early. To church, to work, to appointments... I have always said "If I'm ten minutes early, I'm ten minutes late". My family is well aware of my proclivity for promptness. And one time at least, it provided some great entertainment.

In the spring of my sixth grade year, we moved from the country, to the big metropolis of West Plains. I finished out the year at the rural school, Junction Hill Elementary and then began my seventh grade year at the West Plains Junior High. It was quite a change. I went from knowing everybody in the whole school at Junction Hill to knowing one person in the Junior High. And, since we weren't considered full fledged "High Schoolers" and therefore could not claim the mighty "West Plains Zizzer" as our mascot... I went from being a "Junction Hill Hornet" to being a "West Plains Whizzer!" (And no, that is not a misprint...)

It seems I always got to school early. I didn't ride the bus because I caught a ride with my brother Ralph as he went to the High School. But there were always other "early arrivals" at the Junior High, waiting at the security gate that kept us from crossing the "overhead walkway" and getting to our lockers.

On one particular morning, I arrived and found one of my friends, Frank Caldwell, waiting for the gate to open.. Trouble was never too far from Frank. He had a hair trigger temper, would not back down from anything and when he got into a fight, he had the most peculiar way of making a fist I have ever seen. Things were quiet this morning and we just shot the breeze until the principal came out and opened the gate.

We walked over the walkway, past the Coke machine and turned left down the ninth grade hallway. Now, why we went down the upperclassmen's hall and not directly down the stairs to the seventh and eighth grade hall, I'll never know. It must have been destiny.

We were about halfway down the hall, near the water fountain at Mr. Majors classroom, when I stepped to the side and glanced into a trash can. Why I did this, I'll never know. But boy did I ever get a surprise!

The trash can was completely empty... Except for a huge, gray, long-tailed, and very terrified RAT!

I have since contemplated how the rat got into the trash can. Did he jump into the trash can from the floor? Did he climb the wall or locker and jump into the trash can? How bout jumping from above the ceiling tile?... Geronimo!!! Or... Maybe he climbed up and jumped from... the water fountain. Not a good thought...

We didn't take the time to consider these things because I think an idea hit us both at once.

Rounding the corner behind us, at the end of the hallway, was a large group of girls... Girls that were talking, giggling, whispering and weren't paying a bit of attention to anything happening farther down the hallway. They should have been.

Frank and I grabbed the "Rat-can", one on each side, stepped to the center of the hallway, drew back and gave the ole rat the heave-ho down the hallway right toward the unsuspecting young ladies!

It took Mr. Rat a few feet to stop spinning around and get his feet under him. But when he did! He took off like a... a... scared rat! Running right toward the clump of girls filling the hallway...

I would loved to have been there when Moses parted the Red Sea. Or, when the Jordan River rolled back at Joshua's command. But Brother!, That morning in the ninth grade hall, when the young ladies saw a rat the size of a small dog heading toward them... I saw a parting that was almost as dramatic!!!

Not only did the "waters part" but there were sound effects... Screaming - shrill hysterical screaming, books and purses hitting the floor, the sound of hands and feet beating on locker trying to climb them!! It was complete pandemonium!!

In the meanwhile, Mr. Rat galloped between the sea of girls and continued on down the hallway toward the library. By this time, Frank and I had thrown the trashcan down and were in hot pursuit! We rounded the corner just in time to see the rat's tail disappear into the heater right across from the Coke machine! 

And thus ended the "Great Whizzer Rat Race!!"

"Can I Borrow Your Pocket Knife?"

I never tired of hearing my Dad tell humorous stories about his work. Most of them were not the knee-slapping, ROFL (rolling on the floor laughing) type of stories that you would expect. Usually, they were just simple incidents involving, simple people, that had a wealth of uncommon sense and homespun humor.

In the 1960's, Elmer Riggs Construction built the concrete base for the new water tower on "Standpipe Hill" in West Plains. Elmer (Popo) was my Grandpa and at this time, Dad was part of the crew that worked for him. If you go south on Aid Avenue from Court Square in West Plains, climb the big hill past the "High Rise", you can't miss the big blue water tower at the top, on the west side of the street. It sits in "Gene Jones Park" on the highest point in West Plains.

Dad always carried a pocket knife. A sharp pocket knife. I can still picture him sitting at the kitchen table, legs crossed at the knee, with his pocket knife and little whet stone, sharpening in his peculiar circular fashion. His whet stone always had the center wore out like a dish because of how he sharpened his knife.

Dad's fellow workers came to know that he always had a sharp knife. So... Occasionally, during the course of a day, one of them would ask to borrow his knife for some task. Dad would oblige but many times, the knife would come back in worse shape than it left... Dull and dirty.

One morning before he arrived at "Standpipe Hill" for work, Dad found an old pocket knife. From his description, I really can't figure out why he would pick it up. It was rusted, the handles were missing, the blades were broken... something best left just lying where you found it! But... for some reason, he picked it up and put it in his pocket.

While they were working, it so happened that one of Dad's co-workers asked "Leamon, can I borrow your pocket knife?" Now... I'm not too sure but this could have been the reason Dad picked up the old knife in the first place. And this was the moment he had been waiting for!

Dad reached into his pocket, pulled out the old wreck of a pocket knife and handed it to the fellow...

From my recollection, this is how Dad recounted the man's reaction: "He stared at the knife for a little bit and without saying a word, started to dig around in the coins in his pocket. He pulled out a penny, stuck it into the slot where the blades go and then rared back and threw it off down the hill into the brush!"

Dad was a little shocked at the man's reaction but at the same time, curious. He could understand throwing the knife off down the hill but why put a penny in it first? Good luck? Tradition? Prevent bad luck? So, Dad proceeded to ask him, "Why did you put a penny in it before you threw it away?" The man's answer was classic...

"I put a penny in it because I wanted to say I was throwing something away!"

So... If you ever get down to where you don't have "A Penny To Your Name", you might want to start looking in this patch of woods for and old decrepit pocket knife... with a penny stuck in it....

"Blackedeyed Peas And Hawg Jaw"

I am just a day late on my traditional New Years meal. I stopped by Cash Saver this morning and bought some Hawg Jaw (hog jowl) and a couple of cans of blackeyed peas.

I fried up all of the hawg jaw and put some of the drippings in the blackeyed peas for flavor.

Tami had bought a bottle of Blueberry Grape Bubbly (non-alcoholic) for Christmas but somehow, we didn't have an opportunity to partake. This seemed like the perfect time for "Culture, with a side order of Grits"! 

We devoured all of the Hawg Jaw, Blackeyed Peas and Bubbly! So... Our luck is secured for 2017 and my dear old Mother would be right proud!

A New Years Eve Memory

Really and truly, I am not a fan of New Years Eve. I do not party. I do not dance. I do not drink. I do sleep... I like to sleep. So I plan to herald in 2017 with some hearty snoring! However... I do remember one New Year's Eve.

I could be off on the year but it was somewhere in the vicinity of 1978 and New Year's Eve was an old blue cold night. There was a little skiff of snow on and the temperature was hovering around in the single digits. It was a good night to sit inside, sip coffee and placidly watch the New Year come in.

Wrong! Somewhere around 10 PM, we decided this was entirely too tame!

First, I guess I need to explain who the "we" was. It was myself and my brother, Ralph and our pastor's two boys (who were about our ages), Gary Parks (my age) and Bill Parks (Ralph's age). And second, "we" finally decided that the best way to celebrate was to go varmint hunting.

For those not familiar with the term, let me briefly explain "varmint hunting". A varmint (in the Ozark sense of the word) is a wild animal that destroys helpless domestic or wild animals such as chickens, sheep, fawns, baby turkeys etc. Coyotes, Foxes, Bobcats and Panthers fall into the "varmint" category. Our mode of hunting varmints was pretty simple. Get situated in an area (after dark) where varmints are suspected of being. Start "calling" them with a varmint call that sounds like a dying rabbit. Every few minutes, shine a red-shaded flashlight around to see if there are any "eyes" visible. If not, shut the light off and keep calling. If eyes are seen, a split second decision is made as to what type of animal the eyes belong to and the person with the rifle tries to shoot the varmint between the eyes or pass because it is not a desirable target such as a rabbit or a deer.

A little explanation and edification: If you want to hear what a dying rabbit sounds like just click here. The call that we used way back then was a wooden mouth call that you blew into and made the dying rabbit sound.

The flashlight with a red lens wouldn't spook the varmints like a bright white light would. And let me also explain that this mode of hunting was highly illegal.....

We loaded up in one of the trucks, either Bill's or Ralph's, I disremember, and headed east down 160 highway toward Oregon County. We crossed over the county line and turned off north on JJ highway. When the highway curved to the west, we turned off east on a dirt trail and headed into the "Big Woods". This was also known as the "East Woods" and was a large tract of wild timber land that stretched from JJ highway east, almost to Thomasville.

We drove for a couple of miles on the trail until we dropped off into Mount Prairie Hollow. When we got to the bottom of the hollow, we shut off the truck and got ready to call up some varmints. This involved all of us climbing into the back of the truck, designating the "shooter", the "caller" and the "flashlight holder". After this was all settled, we got down to the business of "varmint hunting".

We called for a minute or so and then shined the light around for a minute or so. This was repeated several times until... a pair of ghostly white eyes appeared in the beam of light! The whispered consensus was that it was a fox and take a shot! But alas... before a sight could be put between the eyes and the trigger pulled, the eyes disappeared!

We were encouraged by this close "call" and kept on calling. A little while later, another set of eyes appeared and again it was determined they were fox eyes. This time, they stayed in place until the rifle was sighted and the shot was made. But the eyes stayed in place... Oops! When another shot was taken the eyes disappeared. We waited, listened and looked but it appeared that a kill had been made. We piled out of the truck and went to where the fox eyes had shone from and... found nothing. No blood. No hair. Nothing to indicate we had even got close to old foxey!

By this time, We were cold, tired and sleepy, and had lost all interest in varmint hunting so we loaded up and headed home. And besides... it was already January the 1st and we had to celebrate Bill's Birthday!