Mr. Write's Page

A memoir of Christmas 1966.

Chapter 3 – “Hi, Mom. It’s Me.”

My jet from Langley AFB in Virginia to McDill AFB in Tampa was a KC-135, a tanker used to refuel big bombers in midair. That’s one version, anyway. Some models are outfitted to haul supplies, and others are modified for passengers. Ours was a non-modified refueler carrying passengers.

The flight was really crowded, full of Army guys on their way to survival training in the swamp near McDill. I ended up riding in the refueling turret in the rear of the plane.

Which was certainly okay with me. I had a great view, gently swaying in a padded harness, looking down through the glass bubble. My strongest memory of that flight is of the reflections on the water of the Okeefenokee Swamp as dawn approached. Very cool.

We arrived at McDill a bit after 6 a.m. Saturday. Miraculously, within minutes I got another hop, this time aboard a Navy transport heading from Miami to my final destination, Dobbins AFB in Marietta, Georgia.

The flight was cold, cramped and noisy. It seemed endless. But it got me to Dobbins quite speedily, and I was able to call and wake up my parents in Suwanee before 730 a.m. Dad asked if perhaps I could take the bus from Marietta to Suwanee; Mom promptly dispatched him to pick me up.

While I waited on the flight line, it occurred to me that between sundown and sunup, I not only flew from New Mexico to Virginia to Florida to Georgia, but also got a good night’s sleep, in a bed.

Chapter 4 – Old College Pals

Life was good. I was home for Christmas, away from the Air Force for a while, and enjoying shirtsleeves weather. Relatives came from all over to hug, visit and eat. The spirit of the season abounded.

A few days after I arrived, my brother Lee finished his exams at UGA, and Mom sent me to Athens in her new Camaro to fetch him. Picture me in that fine red car, cruising the UGA campus. Yes, life was good.

Over the next week, I hooked up several times with old college pals who also were home for Christmas. The Red Dog Saloon in Buckhead was the usual meeting place. I spent several evenings there with assorted couples and singles from the old days – the old days, at that time, being about two years earlier.

I spent one evening at the Red Dog with my friend Bill, who had graduated from UGA with an economics degree, then found his niche as a computer programmer at Cape Canaveral. Bill was 5’4” tall. He had a 1932 Ford pickup truck and a black belt in karate. He was somewhat, shall I say, given to bravado.

Bill’s success at dating was not good. He got married a few years later, but was divorced within the year. I always liked Bill. He was fundamentally a good-hearted fellow, in spite of his best efforts.

One of the bartenders at the Red Dog sat down to explain to Bill and me about her problems with anemia. Grace was her name. Grace knew more about red and white corpuscles and related matters than anyone I’ve ever known. Bill wasn’t listening very closely to the details. He was too busy falling in love. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much, you know?

My roommate John called on Christmas Eve, and Mom answered. John identified himself as my analyst, calling to check on me during a time of holiday stress. Mom handed me the phone. “It’s John,” she said.

Actually, he called to say he was thinking about getting a dog. I said I wouldn’t mind, as long as it wasn’t small and yappy or a poodle.

To be continued…