by T. C. Driver
I had my girl Josie back in Brazil. We had grown close. I had paid her rent ahead for a year thinking she might come with me on the Ark, but alas, I was on my own once again. Another “ex” to send Christmas cards to, I guess. No woman in her right mind longs to be a lonely sailor’s wife and no one can blame them. Ask my lovely ex-wife Patty, back in Virginia. She has always been the true love of my life. I missed her so much. I called Patty that night, a few days away from or first port of call in South Africa. We talked our usual fifteen minutes. I was close to being late with my monthly payment to her. She seemed glad to hear my voice. Patty and I back together again one day? I wondered if that could be. It's odd; often in this life one just doesn't know! Most people who do claim to know are fakers. Really, they're just as dumb as the rest of us. You and I, my friend, you and I!
The South Atlantic Ocean was unusually calm and cool for this time of year and land was on the far horizon. I sat in on a college lecture lured by the title, “The Cost of Freedom”. This professor quoted Bill Ayers often and talked about “the good of the many outweighing the rights of the few”. The greater good for mankind, he called it. I got so mad that my greater good was to leave early. I stormed out and the anti-professor was born. The ship's young college students listened closely. They were content to soak up the poison poetry and the abject stupidity of their idiot teacher's classroom remarks. Someone has to tell these kids the truth. Tell them the truth of God's word. Shut up, Cornelius, I heard myself say. Mind your own business. But no, I would not listen. God was calling me to act. Why would God use a person like me? Why not a minister? Sometimes you just don't know.
Chapter 2 Gumbo Station The bombing of Africa
In South Africa we docked again and took on even more supplies. Some change in personnel also; about two hundred men added. They looked like military types, but without the uniforms. The ship's top six student pilots finished up their first two hundred hours of flight training in B44s at an airstrip nearby with very poor conditions; not like our beautiful base in Brazil. We instructors got more flight hours also and our first live firing range practice. Our cannons were very impressive. These new, larger caliber cannons were very destructive and affective weapons; tiny smart bombs really. I judged the cannons to be triple effective and triple range compared to the old U.S. Navy. Shore leave was rare during this stay at port. We pilots took advantage of our B44 training to grab some R&R, but official shore leave was cut off. So was all horseplay out of the back of the ship; no jet skis, swamp boats, etc. Our twelve single engine sea planes did operate in heavy service taking grad students into the interior of Africa. Two professors had mapping projects which included the dropping of sensors; this was all funded by a US government grant. Very odd; America had shut down her military bases and operations. Washington was broke. The old U.S. Navy was shut down. These professors must have top priority; this “save Africa from the world” pipe dream. One trip, which required camping and refueling on a remote fresh water Lake was much talked about by our energetic and excited students to anyone on ship who would listen. And of course, all of us “old timers” wanted to tell stories of “back in the day”.
All pilots had five long weeks of training in South Africa. This was now thirteen months on the Ark for me and soon to be my second Christmas; only six students had qualified to do solo ship landing and takeoff. One of these six students named Michael Lang, a “quiet type” (he looked like Harry Potter), fell to his death off a catwalk in the interior of the ship. There was no real funeral or investigation. All the boy got was a quick burial at sea very near the harbor. “This is wrong” I said out loud. “No flight home for the body!” Somebody, or some country, was paying his college tuition aboard the Ark, plus flight training. But this one didn't count. After a short, cold ceremony on the starboard flight deck, splash! Lang was gone. Michael Lang had been a suitor, or close friend to both the Coe sisters and was soon to be a son-in-law I had thought. I watched the Lang service from the railing outside of Medical. At this cold, windy, five minute service, none of the Coe family attended. I slept uneasy late into the next day. The ship was “on hold” for days just outside the port in South Africa.
Early the next afternoon, I got a rare call from Rosie back in St. Augustine.
“What time is it there?” Rosie said shouting in her rough, Cajun smoker's voice. (Rosie is no spring chicken)
“You can call me anytime, Rosie. What's up at the office?” I shouted back, even though the phone connection was clear. She said I had financial “exit” paperwork that had to be turned into the IRS. Two men wearing “ACORN” pins had stopped by the office asking questions. Rosie then asked if I was Mexican or maybe part black as she was. Rosie said that both my Mother and Grandmother were named Juanita and that I had family on the Mississippi Delta just like her.
“Rosie, are you serious? This all sounds crazy. We've only got twenty-six people placed; mostly in food-service aboard ships. We are too small for the feds or Osoma to worry about.” Exit paperwork?
“No, Cornelius. Wee's got over two hundreds peoples now” said Rosie. “I dooes better without you, Cornelius (ha-ha). What about your Mother's maiden name? It sounds Jewish, Cornelius.”
“Yes, I suppose it does, Rosie. We're Baptist, you know that! Rosie, just fill in something before the financial freeze thing goes into effect. What difference could it possibly make? Ok, Rosie? Yes, I will text you each week! I promise! Goodbye. Miss you, too.”
Wow, it sounds like things are getting a little weird back in the states. Rosie said a lot had changed. That police were searching people everywhere they went. Some of my relatives did look kind of dark in those old metal photos taken at the turn of the century. Wouldn't it be funny if I was black and didn't even know it? Dad didn't say? But my brother is darker than me. So often in life we don't even know the basics. Yes, one often just does not know.
The next afternoon, the Great Ark was still marking time. We were parked just outside the harbor. I was in the ship's big snack bar with an old Navy friend named Gary Litton. Gary was the manager and sometimes bartender. He only worked the bar himself at slow times and when he did not have any help. Gary had his dozen TV screens which were usually on sports, set to “Ice Road Truckers” while two professors’ wives were all about putting up the snack bar Christmas decorations. These wives wanted to “give back” to students for being good and caring about Mother Nature, for “going green” and all of that B.S. Both were wearing “First Lady” t-shirts. Gary poured me some red wine. He was smiling and saying nothing, as was his nature; just nodding his head. Gary pretended to be listening to the women as they stacked boxes around the room. Both women were pumped up and fired up with “estrogen filled energy”; much needed while making all those complicated decorating decisions that only female “do-gooders” can.
Oh, yes, these will look great over here” Linda said in a high-pitched tone. This “cow talk” was mind numbing. We two old bulls looked on in amazement, thanking God we didn't have to mess with all that crap. Of course, the two old cows tried to sucker us into breaking ranks and joining their decorating madness by needing a ladder or asking “Can you hold this for a minute?” We two men, being wise old bulls, didn't bite. Gary and I just looked at each other and grinned. These two women both wore out and frustrated, sat down near us men to discuss the all important position of their tree. We were told which tables had to be moved; which ones to take out. These gals soon figured out that we two men were worthless as male beasts of burden and started looking around for younger saps to do the “heavy lifting”. Jean, also called Peanut, listened to Linda as Julie, their friend from housekeeping, walked in to help. All three of these women also volunteered at The Gospel Cafe only one hundred feet across the breezeway deck.
“The Gospel Cafe is not putting up a tree this year” said Julie.
“That's awful” said Peanut. “Where's their Christmas spirit?”
“The Christmas spirit will be in here” said Linda as she held
up the small, very top piece of the tree high over her head.
“People forget the real meaning of Christmas” Peanut said as she pulled a giant Coca Cola Santa from a box.
“Maybe the people in the Cafe are just Christians” I said. “Maybe they believe in the Bible. Try to live by Bible teachings and that's why they don't put up a tree.”
Linda rolled her eyes at me.
“Yes, Christians.” Those who live by God's Holy Word would never in a million years put up a 'Christmas Tree', because the Word of God speaks clearly and directly against doing so. In fact, one of the main reasons people settled in America was for Godly Christian believers to escape the then new, evil holiday of Christmas. Christmas was being forced upon them. They considered it pagan, an abomination to God. Neither the Puritans or the Quakers celebrated this pagan Christmas”
“Cornelius, that story sounds crazy” cried Linda. “If America was founded by Christians, why would they be against Christmas?”
“Beware, my good friends” I spoke up, “worldly and/or conventional wisdom is always the opposite of God's truth. Most people are always fooled. The Bible tells us so. Wide is the way to destruction; narrow is the way to God. The Angel is very good at deceiving. A pro at what he does. Popular culture, worldliness or mainstream is often backward to God.”
“Look at that television show” I said. “It’s all about Ice Road Truckers. Those trucks run only this time of year. That's where Santa Claus and the Christmas tree both come from. My ancestors are from Northern Europe; we made this Christmas stuff up. Christmas is our tribal history. Now, sit down and listen”
“So, it's truckers, Cornelius? Give me a break” snarled Peanut.
“For thousands of years, long before the time of Christ's birth, older men would travel far and wide during this, the coldest, part of the year. They were the Grandfathers of family groups. These older men often trained the youngest boys, or 'elves' (ha-ha). This time of year is when travel was easy or even possible. Also, men didn't have crop work to do. Nothing has changed much in the great north. Our travel season goes on the same today”
The ladies took a break to listen to my Christmas story only because my old friend Gary made them all hot chocolate, his famous Katrina drink, made with Chocolate kisses, marshmallows, chunks of banana, and coco mix. The banana chunks are flooded school buses of course.
“Just like today, muddy, soft ground made travel difficult. As soon as the ground, rivers and lakes froze over, the older men were off and running. Yes, on their way. Men would tie up wild and domestic reindeer to big sleighs, because their little wagons couldn't hold very much. These mature men were off to visit and trade with family and friends. Often this was the only time of year they could make the trip. The vast Euro-Asia landmass was huge, seemingly endless. Men traveled as far as they dared. Back home, his wife put candles in the windows, she kept candles burning all night. All the other women did also. These trips were dangerous; also very important for trading purposes. This was a life and death matter to many families. These candles were the only beacon old winter travelers had. The heavens or stars were changing during this time; the longest night was now over. A celebration of the New Year; another earth cycle was here.”
“For many centuries, many ancient years, men built houses with one wall against a natural, or cut, rock face. Often even a small cave, if possible. This was used for a wind break, a sturdy wall and a place for his fireplace. Often travelers could park on top of a rock face cliff and come down a ladder into the dwelling. This was convenient in heavy snow. Their chimney was most often a big hole in the roof lined with skins and fur. Mushrooms were hung and dried on a string in front of the fireplace. They were worth a lot of money in trade. These mushrooms were bright red or white balls with red spots. They were used in medicine or to 'get high' or in the winter spirit.”
“These old men would, prior to leaving and during their trip, look for small evergreen trees and scrape out the snow and pine needles from around its roots looking for mushrooms. These mushrooms have a symbiotic relationship with pine trees. This means simply that they need and like each other. The smaller pine trees, with branches close to the ground, helped protect the mushrooms from being eaten by reindeer. These mushrooms were very powerful; even deadly. When given to reindeer, they would pull the sleigh faster and faster; even to the point of death by exhaustion, if given enough. Yes, they would fly! Families often drank reindeer urine to get a safe dose of the drug instead of making tea directly. To many, this watered-down urine method was more agreeable. Often, urine was put in eggnog. This is also where the gold chord and the name Goldwater came from (ha-ha). Men would place furs and animal hides around a good mushroom producing pine and hang wind chimes on it with gold colored rope to mark it. Any man coming by would add his own marker chime. The chimes helped scare away reindeer. He would then lift up the tree skirt and check for mushrooms before continuing on his travels. These Grandfathers would often come down the chimney, leave trades, get warm, eat something and talk to family members without the younger children waking up. Wow, were they surprised in the morning. These mushroom trees as part of the pagan winter festival, were over the years, moved inside, nailed to the floor, hung with mushrooms and later colored balls with gold chords. This was a very old tradition. Way back in the prophet Jeremiah's day. Eight hundred years before the birth of Christ. Read what God says about these trees in Jeremiah 1:10.”
“Learn not the way of the heathen; and be not dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them. For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, the work of the hands of the workman, with the axe. They deck it with silver and gold; they fasten it with nails and hammers; that it moves not”
“The Lord says in the next verse; be not afraid of them, and that they can do no good! Early Christians, when the Roman Church “made Christian” the old heathen winter festival, fought against defiling their faith. They considered combining Christian beliefs with the old pagan system a reproach to God. Christmas was a perversion; an attempt by the Angel to corrupt and destroy the Church of Jesus Christ with pagan, worldly and ancient tradition. So they moved to America to worship without the new, pagan, church mandated, government ordained, commercial Christmas.”
The three women went straight back to decorating. I was not their favorite person. Isn't it sad that most people flow to the opposite of truth? Always following the broad way, the easy way the popular! Let the Word of God be true and every man a liar!
That next night, during a cool evening, we finally pulled out to the open sea. The Ark was underway once again. This is always a great feeling for us sailors; this hitting of the ocean waves. The sea was rough; choppy; with large rolling swells. It felt good; exhilarating. No dark night could dampen our spirit of enthusiasm. Late that same night, really very early the next morning, I decided that with an hour to go before our flight briefing, and the second story breezeway being shut off by bosons mates (janitors for you landlubbers), to catch a shower in the flight school head or shower. No big deal. We fancy officers often “slum it” around ship (ha-ha). But I do remember this shower; this night. As I stepped into the showers, I met a buck naked Sarah Coe as she was coming out. We squeezed sideways through the door, her and me, pausing only momentarily in passing.
“Nice ears, Sarah” I said, not thinking.
Why did you say that? I thought. I then silently scolded myself as I soaped up in the shower. I was embarrassed not by my nakedness, but by my own stupid statement. She had caught me off guard. The girl could give a man a heart attack, popping out at him like that. Through the shower door opening, I noticed I could still see her at the lockers, drying off; still “Doe” naked. She was doing that towel thing on her head that no man has ever been able to figure out. She's not bashful, I thought. But I was. So I turned my back to her as she walked out and I washed off.
At our flight briefing, Sarah was there. She was a qualified pilot, though not
full-time on the ship's duty rotation. Joe did not let her sign-up on our flight board. He had to approve her each and every assignment. This briefing was the 'same old/same old', but they are important. Briefings always restricted our behavior; the rules of modern warfare: how low, how high, nobody cares if you die (ha-ha), where to drop fuel tanks or what type of fuel can be burned where; i.e. pollution. The environmentalists wanted to save Africa from people; nobody cared about people. For the needs of the many (the greater good), many must die (mostly Africans). This meeting was heart sickening. Sarah's long, red hair was dry now, so again she had 'no ears'. Twice during the briefing, she pulled back her hair and smiled a cute, dirty little smile my way, as if to say, “you ear gazer, you”. She was playing with my head and enjoying every minute. Shut up, Cornelius I said. Don't play the old fool.