I hadn't reflected on Arkansas in that context but I clearly remember some outstanding individuals from Arkansas that were part of that inaugural four year class of 1977. As Memphis was just across the Mississippi from Arkansas, Governor Dunn wanted to help our neighbor to the west who had no dental school , much less a world class facility, created with the restoration of full accreditation of UT's program. The best and brightest from Arkansas were selected as dental school candidates. Governor Dunn was influential in many decisions that not only affected Tennessee but was beneficial for the South. About 8% of the 160 + class were from Arkansas. As stated previously, Dr. Jolly, a UTCHS recruiter, shared with me at UTC that only 1 in 32 applicants were being accepted for this class. With only 8% of that class reserved for the Arkansas candidates, the competition must have been fierce; our class was greatly enriched by their presence. That large class size dictated seating in the brand new General Education Building, with its huge lecture halls, in alphabetical order. This enabled our instructors to more quickly learn who we were as individuals. All assignments were made alphabetically. As an example, Gross Anatomy lab had two weekly sessions, as the class was divided in half. Each lab team had four members; again, whoever they might be was determined by alphabetical order. 

 23 Nov 2023 - Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on what we have so much to be thankful for, despite the chaos in our cities and the world. I am thankful I was born in the greatest country in the history of God's Earth. Even more so, being raised in the South by two Christian parents in a rural North Carolina (when it was conservative) environment gave me the foundation to know right from wrong and to practice the Golden Rule. I agree with one thing the Demoncrat Crooked Hillary has said: it takes a village. My sisters and I were so blessed to have an incredible extended family with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. One could never forget the dinners at Granny Gurley's; the retired community there provided a safe and wholesome place for the cousins to play. A great swing set, one of those tall ones with a long slide attached and where I did my first PLF's (parachute landing fall) while trying to outdo my cousins Jerry, Eddie and Robbie, was beckoning in the back yard. 

 Those memories are strong as those visits were so infrequent, in retrospect. As my father's distinguished military career began with transitioning to active duty, his assignments ensured we were never close to home. It was a rare trip, indeed, to visit North Carolina. When we were in CONUS, an annual Christmas trip provided so much expectation and excitement. I couldn't wait to see my cousins Jerry, Janet, Judy (Jimmie came later) as well as Eddie and Robbie. My Uncles Buddy, Bill and Bobby (we had some alliteration in the family) and Gene, like my father, were manly men. They were strong role models with southern manners and always ready to take the time to interact with me. Our visits to each of their homes presented its own funscape. 

 Speaking of beautiful, the youngest of my aunts was a high school majorette at Goldsboro High School. Her flowing blonde hair and white boots presented quite an image; it was fair to say I had a crush on my aunt. Aunt Faye was more than a pretty face; she possessed the traits we all cherish. She, like her older brother Uncle Gene, were excellent students and athletes. They were also responsible, helping Granny Gurley with providing hospice for their grandfather, Papa. I remember sitting with him, mostly in silence, as I had never been with someone so close to death. My grandmother and aunt were constantly checking on Papa to ensure he was comfortable in every way possible. I saw my grandmother, using skills that she passed on to my mother, making or mending garments with an old Singer treadle sewing machine while she kept a watchful eye on her father as he lay in bed. I distinctly remember the sense of somber sadness when I was with Papa on those few occasions and my profound anguish when I attended his funeral. Even as a child, I felt a connection with this fine man.  

 My grandfather Gurley was especially dear to me. How proud I was of my grandfather who was a North Carolina state prison guard and a man among men. I remember on one of those cherished Christmas visits to Goldsboro, he presented me with a brand new wallet made by a prisoner. She was a beauty: leather, shiny and just the right fit for my right rear pocket. My first wallet and yet another indication of my passage to manhood, I will never forget my grandfather's broad smile, standing tall in his grey prison guard uniform behind his parked beautiful 1952 Chevy (with one of those curb finders attached) as he handed it to me. God has another warrior with my granddaddy Gurley.
 

 Aunt Faye's brother, Gene, was the youngest of my uncles and felt more like a cousin, as we were much closer in age. He took me under his wing with my father's absence during his first combat tour in Vietnam. He always had pretty girlfriends and kept that string intact with his wife, Becky. I fondly remember his taking me to the local Boy's Club where they had an awesome 1:24 slot car track! So much fun and a distraction from the dread of the combat footage I would see later with the six o'clock news. Uncle Gene won a number of awards for his oratory endeavors; I enjoyed his skills on the baseball field, also. 

He delivered a beautiful eulogy at my mother's funeral; Lisa remarked later, with a tear in her eye, on its eloquence. Uncle Gene can be justifiably proud of his efforts on behalf of Guilford College. Two firsts for me on one of those visits to NC: Uncle Gene was the first male cheerleader I had ever seen; I was impressed with his integration into their routines. Yes, Karen, guys are stronger than girls. I remember Guilford on top, breaking ninety points. Prior to the game another first was a visit to the International House Of Pancakes in Greensboro. Oh my! So much syrup...
 

 Uncle Bill Pittman and Aunt Sister (real name Emma Lee - a lot of aliases in our family - Aunt Faye is actually Marlene and Uncle Buddy is Jesse. My father was called Junior simply because he was the youngest...) had a train track in their back yard!  Wow, trains provided a lot of entertainment for young boys in those days. We thought we were special forces soldiers while huddled under a railroad track trestle. Hundreds of tons of steel roaring just inches over our head surely required exceptional bravery. Cousin Jerry was eleven and I was ten; we were on the threshold of manhood and weren't afraid of anything. However, it takes a while to get used to that rumbling train at night while sleeping; the tracks were about fifty yards behind the house.  As Uncle Bill and Aunt Sister lived in Belfast, a rural community, the train horn was generally used only when we asked for one as we traversed the countryside alongside the tracks. We certainly flattened a few pennies along the way. 

Aunt Sister was an exceptional cook; we made sure during our carousing adventures that we weren't late for supper. At night, I marvelled at the racing equipment Uncle Bill had in his garage. As a Micro Sprint racer (in addition to being a manager at the local Honda and Schwinn bicycle dealership, he provided Jerry and me with discounts to movies as a manager at the Paramount Theater in downtown Goldsboro on weekends), he always had a racer I could admire. Further, a brilliant mechanic, Uncle Bill always had a motorcycle or two that he had repaired for his shop; they provided hours of fun, as Jerry and I honed our riding skills. I learned to ride a motorcycle on a Ducati 125 with a nearly flat rear tire. Round and round in a large circle - it was a great departure from pedalling. Jerry with his father's DNA pursued competitive racing. I can still smell that castor oil at one of his Honda 125 events. My first bike was a gold Triumph Bonneville 650 in 1973 and moving up to the Honda 750F in 1976. As I was on a full scholarship and had a great full time job, I could afford living off campus without burdening my parents; it was also possible to replace the Triumph with a Honda CB750F, pleasing Uncle Bill. One of the first with factory headers, the CB750F's beefed up cousin, the 900cc version, would win the 24 hour French endurance race several times. My last Honda was in an effort to upgrade before President Reagan's looming tariff on imported motorcycles 700cc and above. Imports, particularly Japanese, were putting pressure on the only US manufacturer, Harley-Davidson, requiring some protective measures by the president. A 50% tariff spurred me to upgrade to the 1100cc version. The 1100F supersport bike went from a 4-into-1 header to a 4-into-2 configuration and had the latest TRAC (Torque Reactive Anti-Dive Control).

 Yet another benefit of my assignment to Fort Rucker, thanks to the prescience of my father, was access to a hot fueling pad located in a remote part of the post. Monday through Saturday saw air traffic land, keeping their blades turning, while specially trained crews in protective gear performed refuelling. Sundays found nothing but a chain across the limited access road to the facility; I cleared it with TOC (Tactical Operations Center) to allow a few of us motorcyclists to race on the two and a half mile "track" containing long and short straightaways, an S curve, a hairpin and a chicane. Well maintained, the asphalt roads associated with the various hot fueling pads had no vagrant pebbles or oil spots. There were certainly no Winnebagos on your side of the road, another welcome departure from street riding. The twin shock design on the 1100 didn't fare nearly as well as the guys with the monoshocked 500-550cc bikes in the curves; the real fun was the power that rocketed it in the straightaways. The well known power production of this superbike could easily lift the front wheel at 90 mph. 

Significantly, those twin shocks allowed for a big seat which provided comfortable seating for both my wife and myself on our trips to the Florida beach; the sissy bar ensured more comfort as well as not being thrown off the rear when unexpected acceleration occurred.  Further, I was thankful for that sissy bar when I went to the Highway Patrol Station in order upgrade my driver's license. Upon leaving active duty and returning to Chattanooga, I obtained a new Tennessee driver's license, as I still had my old green (no picture) version from six years previously; renewal was unnecessary if serving on active duty. As summer requires taking advantage of beautiful Tennessee and southern beauty with excursions on the bike, a class 5 code for motorcycles was required. Anticipating those cones set up in a parking lot or similar, I was surprised the attractive Highway Patrol officer wanted me to take her for a ride, to "better demonstrate my abilities on this motorcycle...". Protocol had sure changed during my military service. The last time an officer rode with me was when I was sixteen years old. I had a passenger helmet strapped to my bike, so I unlocked the seat, thinking she would stop me, as she was just kidding. Nope. Glad I didn't wreck. But I digress.