Dickie Reilly, perhaps my best friend from the 9th grade through high school, head faked me and scored the first bucket in our ongoing battle for Top Dog in the neighborhood.  Dickie and I were typically team captains on the basketball court and in those backyard games of tackle football in Columbia, TN.  

After the bucket, he asked me why the FBI was asking him questions about yours truly.  I wasn't aware that a background check was being conducted; it was my application for an Army ROTC scholarship that triggered this routine check.

A Manly Man, Dickie Reilly was the man of the house, as it were.  His father had abandoned him and his two siblings years ago.  Dickie's little brother was a special needs child, the youngest of the three children.  

Dickie and I were like most southern boys:  love your family and your dogs.  I can distinctly remember his freckled face, blond hair and misty blue eyes as I recounted my 'Old Yeller' experience with my sweet dog, Lucky.  In those days, immunizations were primarily for rabies, with appropriate medications also for parasitic gastrointestinal critters.

Lucky was not protected from  Morbillivirus canis.

Lucky's mother, Li'l Bit, was killed on a busy thoroughfare locally known as 'Carsmack Blvd.' (actually Carmack Blvd...) a couple of miles from home.  Lucky became even more of a family fixture in the ensuing months.

Tragically, distemper ravaged this sweet 8 pound beagle mix; my father, recognizing the gravity of the situation, gently:  "Son, you know what you have to do...".

I look forward to that Rainbow Bridge veterinarians have described.  (Not Rainbow in any other context, as the left has hijacked the English language...)

Dickie and I often discussed the challenges he faced in support of his family.  One day, he informed me he was going to quit high school and join the United States Army.  

A great student and athlete, his sole reason to deny himself that high school diploma was to better support his family.  The Army waived a diploma requirement, as his grades were excellent and he performed well on the ASVAB test.

I have thought of Private First Class Dickie Reilly many, many times.  I will never forget the zeal in Dickie's eyes as he asked me to guess where he was going to be assigned after basic training.  As an Army brat, he knew this would be welcome news to me, but before I could render a guess, Dickie blurted "...the 101st Airborne Division at Fort Campbell, Ky!".

Well, Dickie left Columbia as a junior at Central High School, did basic training and AIT at Fort Knox, and did, in fact, become a soldier with some of the most elite warriors on the planet.  I hadn't seen Dickie in months and was looking forward to his coming home for leave.  Johnny Kilgore, one of the gang, and I were planning some football and basketball with PFC Reilly.  

One morning at Central High, some hours after the daily announcements, I recall hearing the intercom being cued.  I suspected this was an impromptu fire drill, not an uncommon occurrence.  No, I was stunned at the announcement:

Dickie Reilly was killed in a car accident.

Scant details were available; lack of use of the seatbelt was contributory.  His sister later related to us that Dickie was reclined a bit in his passenger seat, with his arm resting on his open window, when they were struck by another vehicle.

Just a few miles from home, anxious to see his family on his first leave, God took another warrior for His army. PFC Reilly's mother and siblings had no chance to say goodbye...

God Bless you, Dickie Reilly, as well as your family.  I will always be thankful for your friendship.  You inspired everyone around you.

Thank you for your service.  The Screaming Eagles lost a great warrior that day in 1972.

Unlike anyone in the Biden administration, Kara was being vetted for a position in the Regions Bank system.  Kara has a remarkable mind, excellent in math and reasoning skills, and is already authorized to submit large sums of money from the US to Mexico, as part of her management of a retail facility in Alabama.

This has been a lengthy process, but one that will serve her well in the coming economic crisis. 

Recently married, Kara and her Manly Man Kevin, recently promoted to a high level position in his company, responsible for the provision of components for electrical substations, reside outside of Birmingham.  Kevin is a hard worker and a firm believer in the Second Amendment.

It concerned me my precious little girl excused herself from the monthly drills her brother, Dylan, and I  conducted - what are your actions when someone kicks in the door?.

Dylan instinctively chambered a round, leaving the safety engaged, and assumed a defensive stance. 

 Crime is so rampant, I thank God Kevin is taking care of my little girl; he is an excellent marksman.

Congratulations from a proud daddy; yeah, it's Banty Rooster time again.

17 May 2024   

Kara is progressing well, as she becomes familiar with the sophisticated system provided for operation of this complex financial institution.  I am thankful to God in Heaven interwoven layers of security protect my Second Lady.  Further, Kara is blessed with great coworkers and a manager who is engaged and appreciates efforts my beautiful daughter brings to the table, including her typing ability.

It seems only yesterday she was taking her first 'keyboarding' class at Berean Academy.  Unsurprisingly, it was not long before her typing skills developed at lightning speed, resulting in  her capability for speeds substantially more than 100 wpm.

Gotta admit, she can type faster than yours truly.  

Putting that in perspective, I was able to put those typing skills acquired in high school to good use when I was accepted for a job at Overnite Transportation during  my sophomore year at UTC.

Thanks, again, Sergeant Major, for the advice to take typing class in high school, as most males eschewed such.

Much as they did Home Economics...  

I was blessed to have a somewhat stern, yet motherly in many ways, teacher who ensured we were given every opportunity to learn this invaluable skill.  As I recall, this wonderful lady (cannot recall her name) was one of only three black teachers at Central High School in Columbia.  Her skin color didn't matter to any of us.  Racism, despite the screeching from Demoncrats, was not an issue in any school I attended.  And there were quite a few.

Given the technology available today, and in retrospect, it is hard to imagine starting my engagement with this quite remarkable product of engineering - the typewriter - on a Royal manual.  The first six weeks, until we graduated to an electric typewriter, was the 'boot camp' of typing class.  The fine motor skills required to place precisely positioned force on those manual keys, prone to getting jammed, coupled with our teacher watching us like a mother hen (all thirty or so of us), presented quite the stressful environment.  

That one hour of typing class, early on, produced more cortisol than the rest of the day combined.  I will always remember our teacher, ruler in hand in order to discourage our resting the heels of our palms on the typewriter, and reminding us of our posture, etc.  She was, indeed, a blessing in my educational life.

That was 1972.  Fast forward to 1974.

Arriving at Overnite Transportation Company (Shallowford and I-75) in a coat and tie, I was greeted by the office manager who gave me an employment application, with a typing test to follow.  Reflecting great instruction from a couple of years earlier, I breezed through the test.  I thanked him and looked forward to giving my notice at Jobber's Warehouse.

That didn't go well, as when I attempted to be a good employee by offering a two week notice, my boss went on a rant.  "If you think you're going to use us as a stepping stone in your job searches...", he bellowed.  I saw how the other warehouse employees were intimidated by this good sized man, used to bullying his subordinates around.  

My upbringing and military training made intimidation a rare occurrence for me.  Before this asshole could finish his sentence, I did an about face and walked away from this hellhole place to work.  Overnite, here I come.

Typing over 500 bills of lading every night, my typing speed on the IBM Selectric, utilizing only caps, numbers and, of course, tab keys, was blistering.  I don't know how many wpm, as the nature of my bills of lading typing didn't lend itself to standard testing.  What I can relate to you is a distinct, clear-as-day memory I have from one afternoon alone in my office, preparing my bills of lading.

The rating and billing office had only one entrance, a door to my left; directly behind me was an open window, providing transfer between dispatch and myself.  It had been only a few minutes since I had arrived from my classes at UTC that day and was fully engaged with cranking out a few hundred bills of lading.  Slowly, my Spidey sense started tingling, increasing to the point of that feeling - "Is someone watching me?".

Glancing over my left shoulder, there was no one in the doorway.  As I resumed my typing, my Spidey sense did not dissipate.  Then I heard an unfamiliar voice:

"So you're the fastest billing clerk in the company..." from someone directly behind me, through the open dispatch window.  And another voice, this time from Mr. Bill Waters, terminal manager for the Chattanooga terminal, and a voice I did recognize:  "Yes, Mr. Cochrane, that's him...".

I spun around in my chair, and there he was.  Mr. Harwood Cochrane, everyone's boss in the Overnite Transportation Company, as he was the founder.

This was one of those rare instances when some intimidation was, indeed, present.  I quickly stood up, strode across the room and extended my hand which he accepted.  Nice firm grip...

He indicated that he had heard through the grapevine that this kid in Chattanooga could really burn that typewriter.  "I see they are right...".  I thanked him for his never-to-be-forgotten recognition that day.  I also indicated to Mr. Cochrane the guy I replaced, Mike Hawk, was faster.

My position at Overnite was because of Mike's incredible deftness on the typewriter; I had never witnessed such speed.  I was reminded of a Browning Automatic Rifle.  Mike left Overnite for a union carrier, Roadway, at twice the pay.  

I reiterate that Kara is faster.  I fondly remember the young Second Lady sitting in the First Lady's chair, honing her typing skills on the keyboard.  Sitting on the couch and admiring her efforts as a young lady at Berean Academy, it was readily apparent she had her mother's genes.  They were being expressed as evidenced by Kara's seemingly effortless ability to maneuver on that keyboard.  Further, words that my typing teacher said came true:  "When you can type your thoughts, without visual input, you have become a typist."

Kara quickly acquired those skills.  I'm sure her mom was looking down with approval...

Coincidentally, her brother, Dylan, uses his own ten-finger typing style, unlike the conventional ASDF... or QWERTY technique.  His intense video game play requires incredible dexterity on the keyboard with all the communication and active fire delivered in his aerial warfare. 

That's why the Cobra has a copilot; rotary wing gunship battles require a team effort.