| The Family
Photos |
From his earliest days of
self-awareness, Ron loved the military. In two boot boxes, my mom
and dad have stored all the black and white photographs from the
days of our childhood. A recent examination of these pictures
stunned me. The Bible is prophetic. So, too, are the family
photos.
The Nocona boot box houses a
likeness of Ronny at age three. He is riding on of those carnival
airplanes that are suspended by chains and fly low in a circle.
His big brown eyes reveal a sense of mission.
The Justin boot box treasures
several more such revelations. Here, at attention, rigidly stands
that young aspirant with a toy Army rifle. Here, he struts with a
toy airplane held high in the air by extended arm. In this one,
Douglas MacArthur could not have looked more arrogant than my
brother decked out in an Army helmet. For those with an eye to
see, the photographs foretold his future.
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| A Pilot Is
Born |
| A proficient pilot must plan
for any contingency. Parachute training is one such requirement
for an Air Force flyer. That's common knowledge. My brother
comprehended this when he was a mere five years old. He feared
nothing as he readied himself for his own initial jump.
Ron had crafted what he
considered an extremely reliable jumping mechanism. His logic
informed him how to construct it. A bed sheet would drag enough
atmosphere to slow his descent. Nylon ropes would serve nicely as
a harness. Tie the four corned of the sheet on one end of the
ropes. The aviator attached his person to the other. You didn't
have to be a genius to figure that out.
The twin brother scoffed aloud
when Ron, at what he called "a pilot's briefing," mapped the
scenario for him. Don reckoned that his brother was either a
moron or he was joking. The idea did cause him to cackle. He
laughed only until he saw the self proclaimed trainee begin his
ascent of the elm tree. This was no joke. His brother was a
moron. A young boy could gain access to the top of our house by
so climbing, and Ron was toting his apparatus.
Don foiled this exercise in
military preparedness. He flew a beeline to the commander. He
charged into the house. With a sense of urgency, he shouted
rapidly, "Sir, Ronny is fixing to jump off the house. You'd
better hurry."
My dad flung the sports page of
the Odessa American across the room. He sprang off the couch like
a champion boxer springs up when he unexpectedly finds his back
against the canvas. He hustles outside with Neva shadowing
him.
New orders were issued. "Get
off that house, and now. You'll break your leg or
something."
Rarely was Ron guilty of
insubordination, nor was he on this occasion. What goes up must
come down. He ascended via the elm tree. The descent was via the
same.
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| My Brother, The
General |
| My brother frequently
organized many of the boys in the neighborhood. He structured us
into a lean, mean fighting machine for military games. No one
ever questions why he was always the self-appointed general. A
neighbor, David Moss, was invariably the second in command. David
lived three houses east of us. If Don played, he captained the
battalion. Jimmy Wilson was out sergeant. He lived three houses
west of us.
The general knew the make-up of
a strong army. Not all the Indians could be chief. A stout
defense required "grunts." Ron chose the youngest of us to
perform this task. My cousin Gary and I felt honored to be dubbed
"Private First Class."
Timely motivation invigorates
the troops. My parent's firstborn was proficient in this area of
leadership. When my brother perceived that Gary and I wearied of
our lowly stature, he promoted us before we went AWOL. Pride
enveloped us upon promotion to corporal. We played as long as he
wanted afterwards.
A successful army must be
properly equipped. The general understood this facet of
soldiering. He encouraged his underlings to purchase needed
supplies. He, himself, willingly spent a large portion of his
fifty cents a week allowance at the Army Surplus
store.
We had helmets, canteens,
packs, pilot oxygen masks, and diverse other essential items of
combat. The toy rifle was standard issue at Christmas. Later, BB
guns authenticated our status as GI Joes.
Anybody who ever watched a war
flick understands the need for officers to have a base of
operations. Spartacus had one. William Barrett Travis at the
Alamo had one. General Robert E. Lee had one. General Patton had
one. Ronny had one.
Under his supervision, it was
constructed of an old bedspread and worn-out blankets. These were
draped over the clothesline. Clothes pins were utilized as
fasteners. An ancient quilt provided adequate
flooring.
Maneuvers were conducted
regularly as befits a conquering force. When time was limited, we
marched up and down the block in formation. At other times, we
embarked on marathon hikes. Our moms packed out lunches. We
filled our canteens. We followed our leader on an ardous journey
of several miles. A trip in the country up the Carne Highway
tested our resolve. Our return was marked by fatigue and a sense
of accomplishment.
We had no real planes or actual
sailing vessels. Transportation to the war-zone came by means of
imagination. Mud substituted for blood.
A gallant hero died in every
conflict. The side of the U.S.A. triumphed not in every battle,
but in every war. Ron explained the necessity of this outcome.
"The American soldier saluted with his palm facing his eyes. That
signifies that our country has never lost a war. No other country
salutes in like fashion. Every country but us has lost a war.
They have to salute with palm turned outward."
...
Ronny loved to play soldier. He
never stopped, not even after graduation from high
school.
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| His
Purpose |
| Ron was less effected by our
geographical location on the Southside than was Don or I. Early
in life, he had something that neither of us had acquired. My big
brother had purpose. He had no time for self-doubt. A one legged
man in a rear kicking contest could have been no busier. He
stayed occupied trying to learn all he could about airplanes and
about the Air Force. Uncle Sam's blood flowed through his
veins.
Destiny called him.
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