Respect for our Military is Deserved

Ronnie Dale doesn't talk much. He talks more to me than anyone else, but he really doesn't talk much to me. I reconciled with this fact long ago, though I still razz him about it. There are many things about him that make up for his inability to communicate, and I have learned to be content. If I chide him for not talking, he will respond, "When I have something to say, I'll say it."

Ron's friends can get him to talk, but he is so introverted and shy that he is exceptionally averse to talking to strangers. When he stepped up to be a greeter at our church door I was astounded. But I began to understand when I saw that part of his responsibilities, of which he took upon himself, was to help the older people in and out of their cars. Ron loves old people. He loves to wheel the infirm in their wheelchairs, valet for them, and give his arm to the older ladies. But this job included greeting visitors as well, you know, strangers, and he told me one morning on our way to church that he has to pray for help from the Lord all the way to church to be able to do it.

Today is Memorial Day, our day to honor our veterans. Ronnie Dale served voluntarily in Viet Nam as a gunnery sergeant for a year and a half and spent his remaining six months in Alaska. He has spoken very little about his service. I know a few things that he endured, but most of what I know is about what his family put him through because of it and a few other odds and ends. I also know that when people call veterans heroes, Ronnie Dale says that the last thing he is, is a hero. He was just a soldier doing his job.

This morning we left the house early to do some grocery shopping. Ronnie Dale wore his cap that reads Viet Nam Veteran, US Army, which is his favorite. I have mentioned to him in the past that I think he wears it to get attention. Wherever we go when he wears it, people are always stopping to shake his hand and thank him for his service. He swears that he only likes it if the people are also veterans. But, he doesn't like to talk to strangers.

As I rounded the end of the juice aisle I saw him down by the checkout counters talking animatedly with an older couple about our age. He was smiling and really enjoying this conversation. When I got him to myself I smiled and needled him.

"No. You sure don't like talking to strangers." I laughed.

The gentleman was a veteran, and they were talking army talk, he told me. Then he stopped, put his hand on my arm and opened up in a way he hadn't before.

"I wear this cap because I deserve to be spoken to. I deserve to be thanked. I don't deserve to be spat on and called a baby killer. That's why I wear this cap."

I'm so glad that I, too, stop to thank every veteran and soldier that I see. I'm so glad that people have realized the error of their thinking and their behavior toward Viet Nam era vets coming home. Today's warriors come home to a more thankful and grateful America.  What is sad is that even after all these years the cruel words still stick in Ronnie Dale's mind, and it still hurts. Yes, he deserved much better.

Those Little Corn Cob Holders

"Where are the corn cob holders?"

I was searching every drawer in the kitchen, tearing through everything, trying to find them. Ever since Ronnie Dale has retired and I have been having too many surgeries that keep me down, he has taken over much of the house work, and consequently I must dig and poke and scramble to find the things that I need. I have forbidden him to do my laundry, but I still find things missing when he is "just trying to help" by taking my things from the dryer. He folds things I want on hangers, and he hangs the things I want folded. His retirement is emotionally killing me.

Since he is the one who can't seem to eat corn on the cob without holders, Ronnie Dale jumped out of his recliner to dash into the kitchen. He began rifling through the drawers I had just perused.

"I just went through that drawer," I announced. "They're not there. What did you do with them? You didn't put them in the dishwasher, did you, because little things like that can get dislodged and ruin the machine." 

I was really getting miffed now, just thinking about replacing the dishwasher, which I knew for a fact would be breaking down soon.

"They're here somewhere," he said with his head inside the lower cupboard.

"What? You think you put them down with the pots and pans?" What did he think he was doing?

"You're just going to have to eat corn with your bare hands."

"But I'll get butter all over my hands, and it's burns." 

"Whine to me later. And get out of my kitchen when I'm cooking!"

So, this morning when I awoke I heard the strangest sounds coming from the kitchen. I usually awake to a quiet, peaceful setting with the wonderful aroma of fresh brewed hazelnut coffee. He's so good to me. When I strolled out to the kitchen I found my peaceful morning interrupted by Susie Homemaker sitting on the floor humming. Strewn all around her were the pots and pans from one of the cupboards. In one hand, Susie had a spray bottle of cleaner, and in the other was an old T-shirt from the rag bag.

"What are you doing?"

I asked this question quite calmly, even though it was obvious what he was doing, and also why.

"I'm cleaning."

"Indeed you are. You're looking for the corn cob holders, aren't you, and you think you will find them down there?" I was incredulous! "It's not even nine o'clock! Could we please put a little sanity back into our morning, have some coffee, and quiet down?"

"Not till I'm done here," he answered calmly, and kept right on cleaning. And humming. He was still humming. It wasn't a song. It was just notes, humming notes.

I poured my coffee and returned to my room. I think I may have shut the door a little too hard, I'm not sure. I did have to straighten the plaque on the wall; the 1 Corinthians 13 plaque about love. I stayed there for about an hour, until I was ready to have another cup. 

As I ventured down the hall before entering the kitchen I heard it. I couldn't believe it! He was still in there! Nothing in my kitchen was dirty enough for him to be still cleaning there! That's it, I thought. He is constantly cleaning and losing my stuff! He files every little piece of paper that comes in this house! He knows all my doctors' appointments before I do, and he keeps a running list on the board in the laundry room. He takes all my receipts and checks them with the bank statements. He's totally organized and driving me up the wall! I knew I had to do something about this before I had lost every item in the house. I burst into the kitchen, ready for a fight.

"Hey, Babe. Look what I found in the back of the silverware drawer." He smiled at me from the top of the ladder set up by the sink. He pointed to the small pile of corn cob holders on the counter. "And I found your wedding ring keeper up here on top of the cupboard with the ruby ring you couldn't find. How in the world did it get up here?"

I knew how. I set it there the last time I was cleaning the top of the cupboards. Yes. The time I fell from the counter top I was standing on and broke my wrist. Maybe I could let him clean if he wanted to. I should be thankful and not nag at him about it. 

I looked up at him and, again, he smiled at me as he sprayed and wiped, sprayed and wiped. And hummed. I went back to my room and shut the door.

The Dog That Should Have Gotten Away

Yesterday the neighborhood pit bull got loose from his owner, free to bound from one house to another, and making no stir whatsoever. We all know this sweetheart is friendly, so there is no fear. One thing this dog is not is co-operative. Obedient. Easy to handle. Compliant. How's that for one thing? He is none of these, and when a large and speedy dog like that gets loose, well, you can just sit back and wait, or run your silly self into the ground trying to catch him. Up steps the Silly Self(s).

Ronnie Dale had gone out to run errands, meaning I have no idea where he went. And as he returned home and pulled into our drive he saw Silly Self #1, the owner of the pit bull charging and darting here and there, with lofty visions of tackling said dog before he got completely out of the sub-division. The guy was panting harder than the dog and as red as the morning sun. (I'm just repeating what I was told. You wouldn't catch me out there, so I saw nothing personally. Besides, it was 90*! So, I will relate to you the story the way it was related to me by the neighbor man across the street who watched it all from his living room window. Smart man.)

Silly Self #1 had parked his hind side on the turf for a much-needed breather, and now the fun begins. Ronnie Dale emerges from our beautiful, white Equinox and takes in the situation. I can mentally see him rubbing his palms together with that dangerous twinkle in his eyes and his feet are beginning to dance in place. Yes. Those same feet whose ankles are covered in titanium from a horrible fall he took a few years back when he smashed his ankle bones into thousands of pieces. 

It's almost as if Clark Kent had been in the phone booth (the Chevy), but instead, came out of the phone booth as Ronnie Dale in a Superman costume about three sizes too small. He had always been very fast, but at age 68 with titanium feet, being fast is just a pffffft of a memory. But, in his mind, here he is; the neighborhood savior, the answer to all prayers about dogs, the go-to guy from the bench, the great dog catcher! Silly Self #2 steps up to the plate, and the first swing was far from a hit. The pit bull charged past as Ronnie Dale lunged and fell face down in the dirt. Silly Self #1 chuckled to himself, then they both struggled to their feet. 

We used to play dodge ball when we were in grade school. Rough game, because the object is to smash someone with the ball. But, this dog had no ideas of even touching anyone or tagging them in any way. The big men ran and lunged. They tell me that Ronnie Dale even got on his hands and knees to imitate a dog, female I suppose, to lure in the runaway. But, no deal.

drawing by Shirley Schmuck

Then I heard it. The camaraderie of two grown up and successful men ravaging my house. I heard mine say, "There's a leash here somewhere." And the one who wasn't mine saying, "Man! That was genius, putting your dogs in the back yard to get mine to go check them out. Great job catching him, by the way. Nice dive." 

I take it back. It was just two little boys making friends in the neighborhood and admiring their muddy faces and torn shirts. Two sweet little munchkins whose mamas would be so proud because the pit bull was home where he was safe, and the boys were, well, the boys were just being boys.

Attack of the Reptiles

We are still plugging away at painting the deck. It's been a rainy week here, giving the painter a little reprieve.

Yesterday Ronnie Dale barged into the house to ask, "Are you going anywhere today?" 

I said I didn't think so, why? 

It seems he was lying on his side, painting the underside of one of the benches, and he was visited rather closely, next to his head actually, by a cute little green lizard. His request was for me to quickly get to the hardware store to purchase some lizard killer. He announced there are millions out there, and he wants them all dead! 

"But llizards kill bugs," I reminded him. 

"Then get something that kills bugs too! Anything!" 

"But they won't hurt you!"  They're cute little creatures about 5 inches in length.

Ronnie Dale doesn't care. I'm afraid that he wants everything in the general vicinity that slithers or crawls on four legs to be pretty much dead. I reminded him that we have three dogs that would be affected by this lethal potion. That little reminder managed to change his focus, and I was able to talk him back into sanity. But, with the deck only half done, I have this fear that I may be the new painter in the house. I'm beginning to hate lizards.

It's a Rainy Day in Georgia

We live in north Georgia, where the Chattahoochie meanders, and the kudzu devours small buildings and cars parked in overnight parking lots. Our water source is Lake Lanier, but last I read it was at least 10 feet below full pool. It's been quite some time that we have had a water ban on,  

Now, let's just be right up front here and tell you that Ronnie Dale was a sergeant in the Army. Specifically, he was a gunnery sergeant in Viet Nam. What this really means is that Ronnie Dale is "by the book". So, if he wants to wash the car he goes to a special car wash that uses recycled rainwater. Ronnie Dale would never, ever break a rule. This fact is absolutely, positively an alien notion for me, and consequently, he and I lock horns often about it. 

Ronnie Dale insists on a  clean car. So, this morning, while I was breaking rules and sleeping in until 10 a.m., it began to rain.  And he, who usually complains about the rain because it gets his car dirty, especially when it rains when he "just washed the car yesterday", pulled the car from the garage out into the elements. The rain usually lasts about two minutes here, But, wait! It'll rain again in fifteen or so.

When I got up, Mr. Clean was strutting and smiling and so very proud of himself. Seems that when it stopped raining, Ronnie Dale pulled the car back into the garage, got out his cherished chamois, and wiped down the car. Smugly he reported that, due to his genius, the car was washed for the week. And at no cost to us.

All I could do was shake my head at this man who could squeeze three cents out of a penny. I had to admit, though only to myself, that it was a reasonably smart thing to do, if you care about having a clean car, that is. But, who are we kidding? Only a nut would believe that car wouldn't get washed at least another time before the week was over.

Pay Attention, Man!

Our Ronnie Dale has been such an outdoor fellow since he retired. In all our married years, forty-two so far, he hibernated indoors because of his allergies and asthma, and I did all the outdoor work which was absolutely fine with me. I loved mowing and gardening. Now, in our retirement, I'm no longer physically able to do the work, and his asthma seems to be history and his allergies seem to be better. Wouldn't you know that God would work that out for us?

We have a huge deck at the back of the house, complete with screen room, and it has needed some attention. Tired of the treatment oils that didn't seem to be working, (I really don't know what they call that stuff), we decided that painting it would be just the thing. We picked out some very good paint, two colors, one for the rails and one for the deck and benches. The Spring rains finally stopped, and we were ready to begin. Hubby and I spent the first day successfully doing much of the tedious work of painting the rails. There are a lot of rails.

So, bless his heart, Ronnie Dale went out to continue the painting process on the deck yesterday. He got quite a bit done on the railing right outside the kitchen window. He was out there quite a while, and I had things inside to do. He really likes to paint, and I knew it would be good therapy for him out there by himself. When he came through the back door he was muttering and I thought I saw smoke coming out of his ears. 

"Have you been painting?" I had to ask something, and that's all I could think of to say. 

"Yes," he said with disappointment. "But the result was a little disappointing when I stepped back to take a look."

When he explained what he meant we both had a good laugh. But the scene we saw this morning was even funnier.

You see, just last week he had finished painting our guest room. When Ronnie Dale grabbed a paint can from the garage to paint the deck rails he did what he always does, he didn't read the label. And this morning, with the new day's sun shining on it, we had to laugh to see the pretty BLUE railing. He's not color blind. He just wasn't paying attention.

🤣