“Rolfsrud! Private Rolfsrud,” the mess sergeant bellowed. I had been in basic training for six weeks in a bewildering routine, which included a dreaded stint as KP in the massive consolidated mess hall. Report at 5 a.m.
Breakfast dishes were being cleaned and stacked in a steamy backroom and my fellow recruits were stumbling through the chaos, harangued by the cook staff who delighted in pushing them.
“Here! Rolfsrud here!” I shouted back to the distant voice somewhere beyond this noisy hell.
It was my savior.
“Report to the chaplain’s office now,” the mess sergeant commanded in softer tones.
Totally befuddled, all I could do was meekly follow the chaplain’s messenger outside and down the street, wondering what ever was going on. “Did somebody die? Was there an accident?” No one knew, of course, and didn’t care. Don’t ask, private.
I dutifully reported to the clerk in the chaplain’s waiting room, abuzz with dozens of draftees and volunteers, minding their own business.
“Rolfsrud reporting,” I said in my best military voice.
“Hmmm.” the clerk looked over his schedule. “Take a seat.”
I did. I found a comfortable spot in the corner of the air-conditioned waiting room. Aah. Missouri sounds like misery, and it had been for the past six weeks at Ft. Leonard Wood. This was wonderful. Bad news will wait, I decided. I had already been forgotten by the busy clerk. I sat there for a half hour. I should have prompted him, but didn’t. I decided to milk it and take on the role of the obedient draftee, doing what he was told and no more.
I sat almost motionless, wondering what misery I was missing back at the mess hall kitchen. The minutes passed deliciously.
I lost all track of time. Four hours? Five?
The chaplain finally noticed me and asked who I was. “I was told to report to the chaplain’s office and wait,” I explained. A stream of apologies came from the neglectful chaplain as he ushered me in to his spacious office. Then he explained that he was just a shirttail relative to me, had seen my name on a roster, and wanted to meet me. I had no idea who he was, but did everything I could to engage him and extend our meeting. We chatted amiably. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for me.
There wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t override any of the demands of my conscription. He’d already maxed his powers, getting me off KP. I thanked him anyway. He wrote me a pass back to the mess hall. I walked slowly back to my duty.
They were just finishing up when I reported in to the new shift mess sergeant, who pretty much ignored me.
I returned to the barracks, refreshed after my day off, not questioning what had just happened, or bragging to bunkmates.
To this day, I can’t figure out the identity of this fine young southern chaplain. A whirlwind of subsequent activity left him in its wake.
But now I still wonder: Who was that man? I’d like to thank him.
No. She's not selling her house.....although she could.
Oh my, the energy of rain, a little warmth—and spring is lively with romance! I’m not talking about mosquitoes trying to kiss my nose, no. Yes, although the Ladybug Invasion is over, I did spot two ladybugs, one riding the other, on a leisurely walk in the greens. And then there was a pair of scrawny-looking dragonfly-like insects clutching each other in the honeysuckle vine climbing on the deer netting fence.
But I’m going up another level. There’s a mourning dove couple now hanging around the lower gardens who demonstrated for me it’s possible a cat and birds might get along, so this pair is making my garden their home:
The ascendancy of basketball phenom Caitlin Clark to the Indiana Fever for a paltry $76,000, brought me back to the basement of a one-room schoolhouse. I had four classmates back then, I believe, and the most athletic and competitive was Lorlee.
We had seen a few games and now dueled in a basket-less concrete space, with a half-sized basketball, stuffing it into the hole over the center supporting pillar, to score two points. She ably guarded me under the seven-foot ceiling. Having no guidance, we wondered about the rules regarding dribbling. Was it okay to put your hand under the ball when dribbling? We would later learn that was called “palming” and a definite no-no.
As a boy, I would go on to play varsity basketball and experience the thrills, cheers and support from noisy crowds in a huge modern gymnasium. Lorlee would not.
_____
The baby boom forced the country school board to hire a part-time teacher to help the stretched full-timer instructing the eight grades. Simultaneous instruction took place mornings in that same basement, on a picnic table. For convenience, Mrs. Raap kept all her materials in an unlocked corner cabinet, then left us for the afternoon. Very efficient.
Word got out that persons unknown had peeked into that forbidden cabinet and surreptitiously looked at test answers or something equally scandalous. Brought to her attention one morning by her partner, Mrs. Raap swiftly dealt with the matter.
“Would everyone who went into my cabinet, please stand and apologize?” she said calmly.
That was that. In an act of courage and honesty brought on by an overwhelming conscience and need for relief, three miscreants, I believe, stood and took full responsibility for their actions.
Nothing further was said or done.
It was the worst of times, and yet the best of times.
